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septemberrie · 1 year ago

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Battle Lines: DVD Commentary

I am proud of myself for writing 140k, I’ve never done it before! I thought some people might be interested in scenes left on the cutting room floor and other thoughts I had while writing. Spoiler alert: A lot of this is praise to @gossipqueen2000 my beta and @faytalepsy for her cheerleading and artistic vision. Also spoiler alert: contains spoilers, including for the epilogue if you haven’t read that yet.

Chapter 1

I’ve mentioned this in comments but the idea of Eraklyans being at odds with Solarians came from Alliance by @somenamewithepineapple, great enemies to lovers Silrah fic! But I wanted this to be a story of a royal and her bodyguard so I changed Farah to queen of Domino, which would also allow Bloom to be incorporated into the story and have a similar enemies-to-lovers arc between Skloom (admittedly entirely offscreen).

The idea of Alfea as an extreme pseudo-military boarding school is an amalgamation of many concepts, namely taking the black/the Wall in Game of Thrones, the various mendicant orders of the catholic church, and of course reading far too many romance novels of sexy soldier/secret agent heroes in high school.

Chapter 2

From the beginning I knew I wanted Farah to have her bedroom charmed so no one can view her decorations other than a couple inoffensive trinkets. I assume as a queen you have very little privacy, even in your bedroom you’ll probably have cleaners coming in, etc. So I wanted to show that she takes great pains to protect the most private parts of herself even in her own home.

Coming up with the council members was quite fun, tbh. I love making up fun names, and borrowing from the OG cartoon too. Although I promptly forgot how to spell “Gehrheart” and had to look it up every time I referenced him thereafter. 0/10 experience, would not recommend.

The discarded scene from this chapter is a squirrel setting off a sensor in Farah’s bedroom in the middle of the night and Saul charging in in a frenzy. I changed it to the locked door scene which fit better tonally. Plus then I thought to add the “Personally I think you’ve spent too much time in [my bedroom] already” line which was funny if I do say so myself.

A theme that never fails to be funny to me as I wrote this, is that Saul isn’t actually a very good bodyguard 😅 Accidentally locking himself in Farah’s bedroom is Exhibit A.

Chapter 3

Having Bloom and Saul be somewhat allies in opposition to Farah was really fun to write! On the surface it’s fun because they both have objections to how Farah handles certain things, but on a deeper level I wanted Saul to crave and tangentially have that pseudo-father/child relationship that he’s been missing pretty much since Sky was born but definitely since his exile.

What made this story so fun to write was the repeated pattern of a) they find some common ground that increases their respect for the other and then b) they find out something new that pisses them off and then c) repeat. Obviously item “a” always has to be stronger than item “b:” they always have to come back to the conclusion that the other is a better person than their first impression. But it was super fun to think of new obstacles to throw at them.

The idea for public audiences comes from The Emperor’s New Groove. 😌 I am the sum of all the art I’ve ever experienced.

Before I wrote too far into this, Mo and I were brainstorming bodyguard story tropes and of course I have her to thank for the “walking in on him shirtless working out” scene. Thank you kindly, Mo, your services are appreciated.

Chapter 4

This chapter was action-heavy so it took a while to write but I think it might be my favorite! You’ve got angst, you’ve got rising stakes, you’ve got protective Saul Silva, you’ve got whump, you’ve got hurt and some extremely stilted comfort, you’ve got the record-scratch cliffhanger that I love writing lol.

The initial draft of this scene had the assassins try to stab Farah as she was walking through the hospital, and they’d say “Andreas sends his regards” to Saul on their way in/out, thus implicating Saul directly. I couldn’t figure out how to make that work and then got the idea to make the assassins patient plants and have the implication come earlier, from Valtor. I’m kind of amazed how well everything fell into place.

Chapter 5

This didn’t occur to me until I was writing the epilogue, but in my head Domino culture is Celtic-inspired (since Fate was filmed in Ireland) but Eraklyon is very Greco-Roman-inspired. The Crypteia (Krypteia/Krupteia) is historically based; there are references to a year-long military service obligated for an elite caste of young warriors in ancient Sparta. Obviously it’s debated how reliably the known historical sources (Plutarch, Plato) convey the details, but I was searching for a militaristic ritual that would have high enough stakes to cause the fallout between Saul and Andreas over Sky’s safety. The Crypteia in my story is just one event, not a year.

I wrote and rewrote Saul’s “monologue” so many times because it was hard to strike the balance between capable but unlucky warrior and poor little meow meow. I think it worked, fingers crossed you agree.

In drafts, when Saul reveals he’s Sky’s biological father, I had Farah toy with the notion of using that information against Andreas, but Saul panics that it’s going to endanger Sky. I ended up deciding this was too calculating for Farah and would be writing myself into a corner. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Side note but I really enjoyed the emotional whump of Farah in the aftermath of the assassination. She’s falling apart but she’s not allowed to fall apart and she doesn’t want this stranger to be responsible for holding her together but also she can’t help it and also and also and also.

I was going to have Saul resign in this chapter to keep Farah safe, rather than later on. Then I decided to extend it because a) I was having too much fun writing this story and b) I rationalized that Saul would take this as an opportunity to lean harder into protecting Farah rather than admitting he’s not the best man for the job. It’s more fun to write about flawed people than perfect people!

Obviously I had to do the “only one bed” trope. Also I’m very proud of the “Don’t be stupid”/”But I am stupid, as you tell me five times a day” exchange.

“How shall I address you?” / “Dowling, in private. Farah, if you are bold enough.” was inspired by the horribly saccharine American ending of Pride & Prejudice (2005) dir. Joe Wright.

The vow of celibacy came to me right away during the brainstorming phase. I went to Catholic school for high school and you do meet the occasional hot priest and well…you’ve seen Fleabag, you can do the math.

Chapter 6

The first draft of the first time they wake up together, since it’s from Saul’s point of view, I wrote Farah as the one to wake up Saul, and Saul—being a warrior—does not take kindly to being roused so he switches instantly from sleep to “action hero” and grabs her throat. At which point Farah also immediately overreacts to Saul’s overreaction and she uses magic to blast him across the room. And from the floor Saul slowly stirs and says “...I’m awake now.” I decided that tonally it wouldn’t fit from the discomfort of the previous night so I just started the chapter in the car.

The dream is inspired by one of my own, in which Louis Tomlinson from One Direction sabotaged my audition to play the part of “the pear” in ??? I don’t remember which musical but not one involving pears. Also, I can’t sing, so Louis was actually doing me a huge favor.

I had a hard time coming up with how to show the passage of time while still escalating the background conflict. Everything up to this point has been over the span of a few days, so I struggled with changing the scale to weeks instead. At one point Valtor showed up back in Domino and Saul disarms him; I cut that after beta help.

Yeah… I changed Bloom’s age a couple times in the writing of this fic. I meant to have Bloom be 18 and Sky a couple years older, but apparently math is hard.

Chapter 7

Reading back on this, Farah is a bit sassy to start this chapter; I specifically remember it was because Jackie had just released a new chapter of Alliance ft extremely sarcastic Farah.

Telluride was always meant to be a placeholder name until I came up with something original; it’s the name of a ski town in western Colorado, the state I moved to during the writing of this story. It’s such a pretty name, I decided to keep it.

Of course I snuck in a reference to Martin Evershed. Love that no one commented on it 😅

This is the chapter where Farah handwrites condolence letters to victims’ families. While writing, I estimated at what point her hand would start cramping and guessed thirty. Well since this chapter, I had to write 60+ thank you notes for my wedding and it’s safe to say that was a dramatic overestimate lol. My hand starts cramping after 5.

When I was agonizing over how exactly to end this story, I can’t believe the climax was staring me in the face, in this chapter. Farah literally says the line “So gutting Andreas is only a secondary purpose of carrying a dagger?” The explosion that went off in my head when I reread that part. But I’m choosing to take it as: alright well I guess I’m falling my way upwards into being a better writer, that I lay all the groundwork for my future self so well.

Chapter 8

I struggled with the kidnapping scene and wrote and rewrote it many times. I originally wanted all four of them to be together in the same room, but as I was writing Bloom and Farah kept interrupting, kept essentially making fun of Sky for being so deluded by propaganda. So I cut them out so it was just father & son for maximal angst. It was hard to thread the needle of Saul being devastated at Sky’s decisions but also a soldier enough to take him to task for it (while being heavily whumped bc I’m me).

In the original outline I had Sky take a more active role in dissuading the war via campaigning/pleading with Andreas, rather than subverting from the shadows. Ultimately I decided Andreas was beyond reasoning so that’s why Sky and Bloom took the route they did.

The cut scene from this chapter is Saul using a sexy motorcycle instead of a jeep, Farah riding “bitch” so she can hold him tight from behind. Lots of accidental touching. Decided this was not the time and place

Saul says that Sky is nineteen here lmfao. Apparently 14 at the Crypteia + 8 years of Saul’s exile = 19 years old, to renowned author and not mathematician Skye.

Speaking of, it was SO FUN to write Saul as extremely capable at everything except being a normal human man trying to function in society 😅 A drink? What is that? Stand next to hot person?? Must find way to exit; only does so after causing as much psychic damage as humanly possible.

Chapter 9

The masquerade ball was also a plot point that I knew would happen from very early on (Farah and Saul in sexy formalwear? Of course), but it was Mo’s idea to make the ball a cover for some secret diplomacy. Having a beta insanely elevated this story!

After I finished Chapter 1 and realized this was going to be a multichapter story, the dance, mask, and kiss scene was the very next thing I wrote. I am pretty proud of myself for coming up with the mask being the way Saul allows himself to “slip” and step out of himself for long enough to up the slow burn with a kiss.

Chapter 10

Writing Ben and Saul as being somewhat at odds was also very enjoyable. They’re both very protective of Farah, but Ben thinks Saul is a pushy upstart and Saul thinks Ben is a stuffy fuddyduddy. I love writing reluctant allies.

I was very deliberate that in the narration, Saul never thinks of Farah using her first name until they consummate their relationship in the hotel room. Even after the kiss at the ball he calls her “the queen” in his head except in rare circumstances when he’s considering both of them in the third person. Same with Farah; she addresses him as “Silva” in her head until they give themselves to each other in Anolide and he becomes Saul.

Chapters 11 & 12

I have Mo to thank for the introduction of Burnett; what a *chef’s kiss* to include the optimal mirror for Saul and his “failings.”

The name “Degenhard” as Saul’s pseudonym when he checks into the hotel was a result of a hilarious conversation in the WinxSource server. Apparently “degen” is German for “sword” soooo I thought it extremely fitting for what happens in the story that night. Winkyface. Sword hard. Originally the surname was “Petrino,” I think it was published that way for a couple days before I retconned it.

I really hope the final argument before the consummation was clear from both sides. Mo was supremely helpful molding it out of the clay I provided. I struggled a lot; is it ever worth it to give up your “self” for another person? When does “staying true to yourself” veer into stubbornness and aversion to healthy change? What do we owe to our former selves? I hope I answered it well.

Chapter 13

In the first draft of this chapter, Saul was on surveillance rounds when he came upon an injured child, and his panicked rushing into action is what lowers his guard and leads to him being kidnapped. Then, the child would be in the room while Saul was being tortured and she would be the apparition used to torture him instead of Sky. But sometimes less is more so I just didn’t show Saul’s kidnapping, and also I wanted Sky to have a larger role so I changed it to Sky being the apparition.

The fairy who tortures Saul is an earth fairy… know who else is an earth fairy? Ben.

Chapters 14-20

This chapter(s) took the longest. I had such a hard time getting inside Farah’s head before I settled on the rage. I was actually getting the first professional massage of my life, on my honeymoon, when the lightbulb went off: RAGE!! ANGER!!! IRRATIONALITY AND POOR DECISION MAKING CAUSED BY FEAR! All good thoughts to have on your honeymoon.

I think we all knew Saul wasn’t going to betray Farah, but I wanted to leave it as ambiguous as long as possible for the reader. At one point in draft stages, Farah was going to wake up in bed with Saul on top of her, one hand muffling her mouth and the other holding a knife to her throat. Sexy, right?

Chapter 21

The mole! I was angling for the clues to lead to Gehrheart but I had just kind of kicked the can down the road for what the payoff was going to be. I don’t remember exactly when in the story I decided to change it to Ben but it was after S2 (fake Ben!! Who is that man!! evil!!). It was just too delicious not to pass up. The key turning point for Ben was the caravan trip to Telluride when he mentions he hasn’t heard from Terra in awhile. Offscreen, Ben finds out that Andreas is holding Terra hostage for his compliance; he’s the one who sets up Saul’s kidnapping and plants the suit jacket. Farah and Saul know they can’t plan anything in view of the council, because they assume the mole is in the council, so they plot with Bloom in her bedroom, and go back to the council to set up a fake story/concern about how to resolve Saul’s situation. That way Andreas would have fake info passed from Ben (who didn’t know it was fake) and from Sky (who did).

Epilogue

Since Fate was filmed in Ireland, everything in my head for Domino is vaguely Celtic. Royal weddings in Domino are sealed by a stylized dance, to the tune of music in the vein of The Captain’s Dance by Marcus Warner (Youtube; Spotify).

🥺🥺🥺 hope you enjoyed. After reading comments and chatting in the WinxSource server I realized there were so many loose ends I could easily tie up with a couple hundred words... that turned into 6k oops. I have a hard time seeing the forest for the trees when I’m in them. Letting myself rest after finishing Chapter 21 helped me see what I needed to see, and writing this wrap-up was cathartic as well.

You! You’re stellar for reading this! I am always open to chatting more about my fics or today’s tea or another fic you love you want to share! Thank you for reading my ramblings, and my slightly-less-rambling fic, and time to go back into that wave.

#my writing #battle lines #silrah

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eemoo1o-tfrmoo · 1 year ago

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Changewing + Rider Headcanons:

Thinking about my old Changewing OC Acid has also got me revamping her personality (in my head) in accordance to what we know about them. Here are a few headcanons.

As per the Book of Dragons special, Changewings enjoy mimicking their surroundings, and as such enjoy playing the “copycat” game. You walk one way, they’re right behind you miming your gait. You’re starting a fire? Well, they want to rub sticks together too! You’re doing exercises like yoga or martial arts? Better bet that this four-legged silly is copying most of your moves. The list goes on.

Accompanying the first point, Changewings also enjoy mimicking other dragons, so a fun game they enjoy is if you start calling out species’ names and then they attempt to recreate that species’ roar or movements.

Because Changewings are like ‘actors’ (the theatre kids of all dragons), this makes them drama queens (or even a bit bipolar, in only a few cases), and can be susceptible to pulling a Hookfang on their riders. The prehensile sensors (the viney things) and tail really come in handy for that.

As we see in We Are Family (ROB) with Snotlout, a Changewing can hold a Viking with their forelimbs. So sort of contradictory to the previous statement, in their more ‘loving’ moments, a Changewing will snatch up their rider and just cradle them. It’s their version of a hug, whether it’s sincere or mocking.

Changewings love to climb and even perch in trees (even when not nesting). They sleep on branches, similar to Night Furies, just not upside down. Their prehensile tails and sharp claws keep them locked on.

Because Changewing are one of the few non-Tidal Class dragons to not produce some form of fire, some often like to pretend that they can.

As a Mystery Class dragon themselves, Changewings enjoy playing in Zippleback gas and other compromising veils, with or without their own camouflage. As such they like playing with their riders in said gas (or fog or mist. They’re not always so picky).

Changewings have naturally wide underbellies. As such they enjoy most pets there.

Despite not being acid-proof themselves (or fire proof for that matter), Changewings will sometimes spit acid at their rider in an act of playfulness or mischief, and if you don’t know about this, it can at first be taken the wrong way.

Changewings love to play hide and seek. Whether it’s with their rider hiding (far worse than them, of course) and them coming to find them, or their rider trying to find them when they’re camouflaged, they just love it!

#they’re my favourite dragon and I love them. they deserved more #httyd #how to train your dragon #changewing #dragon and rider #headcanons #my headcanons #original post

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dnangelic · 2 months ago

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tsun what are ur top three fav insane random daisuke skills 🎤

@longerhuman

OAIWHBAJFKJ OH GOD. OKAY. OKAY. SURE.

1 --- lockingpicking/hacking. this isn't an insane skill by itself, hell even i know it's criminal muse 101 but the sheer phantom thief mastery level of Opening Things Up that daisuke has is insane imo. he's canonically picked open a lock with just a random twig from the ground in a LN and always has a pin hidden somewhere in his hair in the manga for manual locks; he can crack electronic ones (which azumano is, contrary to its romantic european appearance, completely stacked and filled with) within as little as 1-4 seconds without even looking. he can crack and/or hack vaults, cameras, lights, vending machines, arcade machines, pachinko machines, phones, (which is really funny imo since he still has his flip-phone,) literally you name it and he can probably open or disable it. there's this really good light novel portion that i love describing daisuke (and daisuke alone!) as dark going through a heist: "the trajectory showed that dark was headed straight for the snow queen. it's always like that. no matter how much manpower or cutting-edge equipment you put in front of dark, it's as if it's completely meaningless, easily and freely invaded."

like it wouldn't matter if you put 24899535 locked doors and walls in front of him, he's going to go right a straight line towards whatever he wants. you can't possibly keep him out of anything, and you can't possibly keep him in; he can't and won't be stopped. THAT'S SCARY, DUDE!!! (though the lns are very firm on insisting he's never like this and forceful/invasive with people and their feelings, which is also so sweet 😭👍) even if he has nothing else on him dark also has his retractable claws/talons, so if a lock's big enough, dark/dai can even use those to quietly pick and click their way into someplace, which is a different kind of insane. lockpicking is something daisuke doesn't get to use much in rp but he has used his tech related skills and dexterity to actually fix some broken things for people. if you have the kind of muse that blows up electronics every other week daisuke's actually someone who's got a good chance at fixing it. he's even basically fixed everything that was going wrong during his school play (lights, sound equipment, etc...) because he was going all out for it lmao

look at him go!!

2 --- daisuke's.... problem solving skills?? it's adjacently related to all a' that ^ up there and not really all that random on the surface but is still a top fav For Me, and can produce some really interesting random thoughts daisuke has every once in a while. daisuke gets assumed to be a clueless airheaded moron a lot and he even calls/believes himself to be stupid constantly, but the fact is he actually has really good problem solving skills and like..... phantom thief ultra instinct. i'm not talking about his duties as a magical girl therapist helping all the live arts through their struggling emotions, i'm talking about portions in the light novels like this:

'the reason for the "please do not lean over" warning on this fence is because the 3d light that is projected from the floor covering the mermaid's tears doubles as a sensor to detect intruders. the security device activates when the light is blocked. daisuke carefully listened as a security guard gave an explanation to two young women who were trying to touch the 3d mermaid.

that means we have to do something about security first.

reflexively thinking that, daisuke scratched his head and said 'no way, are even my thoughts turning into dark's?! i'm not going to turn into dark anymore!'

... and that was only from the first light novel, (hence him attempting to reject dark,) wherein he also basically immediately figures out how a certain sensor / chasing mechanism functions within a haunted house attraction. even when dark is in the one in control of the body and performing a heist, daisuke is still the one who constantly figures things out for dark; he stays quiet and calm and pays very close attention, which is the opposite of what most people assume daisuke and his perpetual freakouts to ever be capable of. although he does this in the first LN and the wink CDs, my favorite quotation is just this tiny portion from the third LN:

dark, who's tormented by the sound itself, may not be able to hear hiwatari's voice. wiz was also shaking his wings in pain on dark's shoulders. ---i have to be strong. daisuke carefully checked the information coming in through his eyes and ears. he wondered why hiwatari was able to remain calm while dark and wiz were suffering so much. daisuke felt something strange as hiwatari approached him. he was louder than usual. not only that, but something else was different.

^ even without full context, you get a feel for daisuke's attitude under pressure; he actually shapes up more and more rather than collapse and drop the ball or start shaking and give up like a lot of people think he would!!! also that 'i have to be strong' is just cute as hell too 😭 dark might be the 'face' of the heisting operations but honestly without daisuke dark would have been legitimately outright screwed over and probably captured a couple of times by now, hiwatari is that good, but likewise so is daisuke despite how disparate they seem as uhhh weird daytime friends and nightime rivals.

3 --- honestly whatever the hell this all is

stop ripping your weird fake skins of people off!!!! IT'S CREEPY!!!

#reference.#longerhuman #*･ﾟ⊰ ANSWERED. ⊱#i shouldve answered in a short list with more random ones im sorry quinine #OAWELFGKJJ BUT U DID ASK FOR MY TOP.#THESE R ALWAYS MY TOP FAVS...#no im not satisfied tag time #my other fav random insane daisuke skills include: adjusting n throwing his voice anywhere he wants just like leroux's erik #being able to play instruments. being able to fly a helicopter/operate heavy machinery w/o a license.#being able to tune into different broadcasts he's DEFINITELY not legally allowed to be tuning into.#not knowing how to cook fancy beyond like fried eggs and rice but knowing all kinds of random insane survival meals #likewise knowing how to survive literally any environment from frozen wasteland to desert wasteland because his parents forced him to #knowing how to do makeup (dark's eyeliner isnt gonna put on itself :/) then wearing the most boring outfits known 2 teenage boykind #and then his continuously growing repertoire of leon kennedy resident evil 4 remake level pointless but stylish backflips #HWBEHBAJFKJGKHJKJ

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averagejoesolomon · 1 year ago

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Thanks for your patience! Here is the penultimate chapter to Full Circle: 1984. These ones have been taking longer, but they are hit, after hit, after hit, so thank you for sticking by me throughout the sixteen months it has taken me to write this section. I'll see you soon for the next chapter!

Chapter Twelve

It’s no accident that the Circle of Cavan has survived this long.

At either end of the sweeping spectrum of espionage, there are two diametrically opposed approaches. The first is a rush toward resolution, usually reserved for gunmen or bombers who don’t see any other way out. For fighters backed into a corner. For panicked agents with bruised knuckles. The second and far more complex is a slow, fizzling waiting game that unfolds across years, decades, and even centuries. While most organizations compromise between the two strategies, the Circle of Cavan is one of the rare few that deals exclusively in the latter approach. They never get their hands dirty. They do not risk exposure. When the Circle makes a move, they do it with outside money, external resources, and agents that are too disjointed to see the bigger picture.

It’s an insidious practice, hiding in the cracks of established organizations and siphoning their intel, their security, their relationships. Unfortunately, it’s also damn good tradecraft, and it makes the Circle nearly impossible to trace down on any broad scale. Matt reckons that’s on purpose. Most of the intelligence community still sees the Circle as a ghost story, which is exactly how the Circle prefers to be seen. That kinda cover takes effort. That kinda cover takes strategy. A deception on that level, getting past the world’s foremost minds in espionage—it’s just not the kind of thing that happens on accident.

The Circle is careful. The Circle is calculating. The key to their survival is their secrecy and if there’s anything Matt’s learned after a year of prying those secrets from anxious assets, it’s that the Circle does not sacrifice any aspect of their cover without cause.

And they certainly wouldn’t sacrifice anything for the likes of Henry Cameron.

This realization has left Matt and Joe with a fair few questions and they intend to get answers before their next flight out. Their paired silhouettes stand outside of Henry Cameron’s impenetrable office, the only remaining shadows in a hallway lit by midnight. It’s a full moon over the estate and the light strains through frosted windows to cast wide, crooked slants across the black and white floor.

Matt should have seen it sooner—he did see it sooner, but the thought got buried beneath the urgency, and the exhaustion, and the confusion. Regardless of his power within the NSA, Henry possesses no single piece of knowledge worth this level of exposure. The Circle would never give up a century of secrecy to break into the private office of a high-profile NSA agent. They would sooner blackmail him. They would sooner threaten his work, his legacy, his honor.

They would sooner recruit him, because a man like Henry Cameron would be a mighty valuable asset.

So Matt and Joe will wait. They’ll wait all night if they have to, and then they’ll wait some more. He has no doubt they’ve been spotted, because he’s studied every camera, sensor, and alarm on this property and has seen firsthand that there ain’t a way to break into this mansion unnoticed. That’s fine. He wants Henry to know they’re here. As the night goes on, bright, brilliant squares of moonlight inch across alternating marble, tile after tile, minute after minute, pawns coming straight for Matt’s queen.

They’re stationed on either side of the doorway, Joe standing with his shoulder against the wall and Matt crouched low against the mahogany wainscotting. The lateness of the hour crawls into their spines and drags their absentminded military postures into soft, uneven slouches. Joe flicks at his lighter. Matt’s head falls into his lap. An unproven certainty gnaws at his gut and all he can do is watch the moon pass him by.

Then, finally, “Gentlemen.” Matt’s head snaps upright, awake and alert once more. “You boys have a lot of nerve, showing up here.”

Henry Cameron, much like his daughters, is the sort of person who can fill a room just by standing in it. His presence is naturally commanding, built upon square shoulders and a tall, straight stance. Everything he says sounds as though it was prepared ahead of time, written into a speech that he carries around in his back pocket for every possible occasion. There’s nothing soft, easy, or casual about him, and he seems to leave everyone with the subtle, certain impression that he knows a secret they don’t.

Matt is trained to jump to his feet in the presence of prominent men and this moment is no exception. He rises up the wall inch by inch until he’s nearly at attention. Some absentminded part of him waits to be put at ease. “I’d like to have a word with you, sir.”

Henry takes note of Matt’s stance with a single glance from head to toe. He shows no intention of easing up. “Maybe,” he says, “you should have thought about that before you spilled all of my good Scotch.”

It was Micheal, not Matt, who shattered the Scotch. Matt glances toward Joe to confirm, but Joe just gives the slightest shake of his head. Not worth it, he seems to say. Henry’s got a worm at the end of his hook, looking to make quick work out of baiting Matt.

Still. “You should know that Michael is the one who—”

“Mr. Morgan,” says Henry, before Matt can even make his case. “Michael McCoy is a fine young man from a well-respected family, who’s made a name for himself by doing honest work in a typically dishonest profession.” Henry shoulders past both boys, reaching into his pocket for the first of three keys needed to unlock the office door. As he turns the first lock, he asks, “Can you say the same?”

Matt is a fine young man, but not in the way Henry wants him to be, and resectability ain’t the same in Baltimore as it is in Hay Springs. As for honesty, Matt can’t claim that title either, which leaves him oh-for-three when it comes to earning Henry’s favor. With nothing left to lose, Matt gets straight to the heart of it. “Can you?” he tries, just as Henry twists the second key. “Or have you traded all your honestly to the Circle of Cavan?”

Henry Cameron keeps secrets for a living, but even with his decades of experience, the name is enough to strike hesitation into his movement. A key juts from the final lock, waiting to be turned, as Henry’s expression betrays him. Without a glance spared in Matt’s direction, he says, “Inside.”

The third lock clicks open and Henry pushes through, but when the two of them follow, he turns on Joe. “Not you.”

Joe seems to expect this, and that’s probably because Joe expects everything. He’s already got his arms crossed defiantly over his chest, face stoic as he says, “Like hell—”

“Young man,” Henry interrupts. “If my daughters do not trust you, I do not trust you.”

“Right back at you, pal,” says Joe. “There’s no way he’s going in there without backup—”

“Joe.” Matt doesn’t register the word until it’s already past his own lips, but he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t waver. Instead, he holds his hand low, comforting, and waves Joe off. They didn’t come this far to lose the only lead they have. If Joe can’t trust Henry, he at least needs to trust Matt. “I’ve got this one.”

And Joe does trust Matt, deeply and without exception. It ain’t a quick decision, but eventually, Joe decides to retreat. Mostly. “I’ll be here,” he reminds them both. “Right here.”

“Never more than a hoot and a holler away,” Matt confirms. “I know.”

Even with the reassurance, it still don’t feel quite right to walk away from Joe. That’s just the truth of it. Matt and Joe have been Matt and Joe for so long that they’ve started to occupy the same single space in the world. Their radiuses have combined and now stem from a single point balanced somewhere between both of them. They’re one team. One unit. Without Joe at his side, Matt feels an empty space where most people feel nothing at all, stumbling upon a long and lunging absence he’s never experienced until now. It’s enough to knock him off kilter, unable to find his grounding center.

The door shuts behind them, leaving Joe’s moonlit silhouette behind. Matt still feels his pull, right through the middle of his chest.

Henry enters today’s code on the inner keypad and Matt deciphers each of the numbers by the sound of their tone. Not that it matters. There are mere minutes left before today turns into tomorrow, when the code will change all over again. “Can I get you a drink?” Henry offers, approaching the small, gold-framed bar along the back wall. “I believe I have a bottle of cognac around here somewhere—that is, if you haven’t yet shattered it into the ground.”

Matt doesn’t have the patience to repeat his point about Michael, so he doesn’t. “No thank you,” he says instead. “I’ve made it a habit not to accept drinks from international terrorists. Sir.”

Henry reaches into a pile of crystal and pulls a decanter from its grips, along with a lone glass. The cognac sloshes when he pours, rising in pitch as it rises toward a golden rim. “A sound practice.” Henry takes an experimental sip from the drink and, apparently satisfied, saunters toward his desk. “But if I could point out a flaw in your logic?”

It must be hereditary, the way these Camerons look down their nose. “A flaw, sir?”

Henry raises his glass, as though to acknowledge an effort well made. “I am not a terrorist.”

Matt can’t help the slightest huff of a laugh, even though nothing about this is funny. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he starts, “but in my experience, that’s usually what the terrorists say.”

“And in my experience,” Henry replies, settling into his chair, “most people who know about the Circle of Cavan are among their ranks.”

This particular statement is made more dramatic with the sip of his drink as he lean, lean, leans back in his seat. It’s outlandish enough that Matt takes a moment to truly understand the implications. When the idea does finally spark in his brain, the whole thing catches fire, sending flames through his ears, cheeks, and neck. “Hold on, now—I’m not a terrorist.”

“Ah,” says Henry. “But that is what the terrorists always say, isn’t it?”

The weight of the accusation lands against his own shadow, pulling him downward and into the floorboards. He can’t hold himself upright with this kind of burden, so he sinks breathlessly into the seat across from Henry, wishing he had taken that drink after all.

“So now we’re in a bit of a predicament, aren’t we?” Henry goes on. “Because you’ve gone and said the magic words, and now we’re both wondering if we can trust one another.”

Matt has spent the entire weekend lying. Actually, Matt has spent the last few years lying. It don’t seem to be working in his favor, so he tries something new—he tries the truth. “I don’t think we’ve trusted one another since I arrived, sir.”

This, at last, earns a wispy smile from him. “No, I suspect you’re right about that much,” Henry says. There’s a measured consideration to every sip, and Matt senses all the unsaid words that rest behind each one. “But when two young agents show up at my door a mere week following a visit from the Circle of Cavan… well, you’ve said it yourself—there is no such thing as coincidence in our business.”

As far as offered information goes, this is the most Henry has volunteered throughout their entire visit. Maybe it’s something about the evening hour, or the full moon, or the drink. Whatever the reason behind it, Matt does his best to leverage Henry’s sudden willingness to share. “So you did sell out,” he pries, aiming for an admission. “Gave them—what? Case files? Tech?”

Another sip. Henry is going to make him work for it. “You’re thinking too small, young man,” he says. “You know better. The Circle wants total control over every intelligence agency there is and, in this day and age, there is only one way to get that.”

God, almighty.

The empty space at Matt’s side engulfs him, his soul now swinging above a vast and lightless void as he hopes and prays that this doesn’t mean what he thinks it does. His stomach drops. His breath catches. Matt eases upright in his seat, inching toward a question he doesn’t even want to ask. “You gave the Circle launch codes?”

Henry does not seem alarmed. “I did not give the Circle anything.”

Matt’s having a hard time keeping down his hors d'oeuvres. “Sir.”

“I told you once that there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my girls,” he says. “I meant that sincerely.”

“Sir,” he starts again, mind wandering toward WarGames, and WOPR, and the thousands of different ways he could lose this particular game. His next words are precise and annunciated, with no room for misunderstanding. “Is the Circle of Cavan currently in possession of US nuclear launch codes—?”

“This is the problem with you young men.” Henry’s counterargument is sharp and sudden, without any patience. He sits upright in his chair, wagging his finger in Matt’s face the same way his pops used to when he was small. “You think you’re invincible—and maybe you are, to some extent. No money, no permanence. Nothing to lose. But you’ve also got no idea what it feels like to be fragile. You’ve never vowed your life to another person, knowing it could all go wrong. You’ve never held a beautiful baby girl in your arms and known, without a shred of doubt, that you were both stronger than you’ve ever been and more vulnerable than you’ve ever imagined.”

Clarity is a rare thing in espionage. The longer Matt works in the field, the more he finds that answers come with twice as many questions. Agents far better than him have dedicated lifetimes to the endless pursuit of finite facts, following lead, after lead, after lead until they reach one dead end or another. It’s not often Matt can look on with absolute certainty and point to any one root cause. Most of these situations have nuance to them. Subtleties.

Not this one, though. This one is pretty straightforward, even for a kid from Hay Springs. “They didn't recruit you,” he realizes, and once he has that piece, the rest fall into place. “They threatened your girls, so you gave them the codes and staged a break-in, so you didn’t take any heat for it.”

Another sip. Henry regards him over the rim of his glass, swallows, and sighs. “I did not give them the codes,” he says, but there is a caveat in his tone. “I gave them a fragment of a fragment to the code that unlocks the codes—a small price to pay considering the lengths they were willing to go to.”

“These are dangerous people,” Matt cuts in. “It doesn’t matter how small a piece you give them. It still puts them one piece closer to where they want to be—and I promise we do not want the Circle to be anywhere near where they want to be.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” asks Henry.

“We’ve been chasing the Circle for an awfully long time, sir,” answers Matt.

“Is that what you think?” With this, Henry leans back once more and spares the first genuine smile since Matt’s initial arrival. “Because I promise you, son, I’ve been chasing them longer. I’ve been chasing the Circle of Cavan longer than you’ve been alive, in fact, which is how I knew that they would follow through on their threats if I didn’t give them what they wanted. And it’s also how I knew to call my agency a day later, and have them change the codes.”

The Circle of Cavan has been around for more than a century, so it should come as no surprise that it serves as one of espionage’s lifelong pursuits. Even so, the idea catches in Matt’s chest and sends him into a newfound solemnity. Until now, he had always thought of the Circle as a single mission, with clear and isolated objectives. He had always thought he would end things sooner rather than later. The naïveté of this thought leaves him speechless as Henry’s words paint a clearer picture—Matt is never getting out of this. The Circle isn’t a mission anymore. It’s his life.

Henry, to his credit, gives Matt a beat to comprehend this. Then, with a careful cadence, he continues on. “We’re not any closer to nuclear holocaust than we were at the start of the week. And my girls are safe. At least for now.” He takes another sip. “But you can understand why, when the two of you showed up days later, I might have thought you were here to finish the job.”

It’s the first time Matt realizes there are other people in this hunt. The first time he realizes that he doesn’t have to explain the dangers or emphasize the reality of the Circle’s reach. For the first time in years, Matt is not the expert in the room and the first thing he feels is relief. The second thing he feels is terror, followed by disbelief. “You’re compromised, sir,” he says. “You do know that, do you? If the Circle can twist you up that easy, there’s not a secret we can trust you with anymore. I’m supposed to report you.”

“And I’m supposed to report you,” Henry retorts, cool and easy. “My girls say you’ve been running around the world on unsanctioned missions. Bouncing around Europe like a pinball, your travel unapproved by your case officer. It doesn’t look good, as you well know—secret ops, off-books research, and now you’re asking questions about the Circle of Cavan?”

Far and away, this is the most honest conversation Matt has had all weekend. It might even be the most honest conversation he’s had since Camp Perry. They’re both right and they both know it, but this business isn’t about right or wrong. It’s about finding a way forward, with people who have useful information.

Rather than talk his way into a corner, Matt takes a crack at one of those infamous Cameron silences.

Henry takes note, and nods. “So there we have it. Your secrets, right next to mine,” he says, finishing the last of his drink. The empty glass lands on his desk with a sturdy ring. “And among all of our lying, and sneaking, and globetrotting, something brought you to my desk. Something important, I suspect. Best I can guess, it has something to do with your friend out there.”

Matt gives as little as he can. “I came for Abby.”

Henry doesn’t buy it. “A fragment of a fragment of the truth,” he says. “You’ll have a hard time fooling me. I’ve spent years reading far more experienced agents. Plus, I like to think I know a thing or two about soulmates.”

“Soulmates, sir?” says Matt.

“When your very best friend is hurting,” he says, “and when you’re faced with the possibility of losing them at any moment… I watched my best friend die for three years, and I know enough to recognize that fear in someone else.”

“Joe ain’t dying.”

“He’s certainly not living.” Henry studies him now, with the sort of regard one might use to appraise a prized riding horse. “But you intend to help him with that, don’t you?”

Joe doesn’t need Matt’s help, so much as he needs to break his ties with the Circle. So much as he needs to settle down, and find peace, and stop running every time he hears footfalls at his back. Joe doesn’t need Matt’s help—Joe needs a way out.

Only a handful of people know about Joe’s past affiliation with the Circle, and even fewer know about his current arrangement. To ask for help is to confirm Joe’s double-agent status. To expose him to scrutiny on both sides. Matt and Joe are in too deep to talk about help, especially with someone who doesn’t even trust Joe enough to keep him in the room.

Henry must read the hesitation on Matt’s face, because he holds up a single hand. “Nevermind,” he says. “I suppose you’re entitled to some secrets.”

Matt opens his mouth to explain, but thinks better of it, and tries another angle instead. “Only that this one isn’t mine, sir.”

“Funny how that works, isn’t it? The way someone else's secret can become ours?” Henry stands, signaling an oncoming end to the conversation. He carries his glass back to his bar and tidies up the crystal. Above the ping and clatter of glass, he says, “My only hope is that you don’t intend to bring my girls into any of it.”

Matt stands with him, deadly serious when he responds, “I don’t make a habit of introducing the Circle to people I prefer to keep alive.”

“You learn quickly, at least. I will grant you that much,” says Henry. “But you will need alliances. People who know what you’re dealing with. People who understand that the Circle’s influence is very much alive and well.”

“Ain’t had much luck with alliances so far,” Matt admits. “Most of them disappear without warning. The few that we find wash up on the banks of some river somewhere, bullet straight through their head.”

Matt surprises himself with his own casual tone, catching the severity of this statement at the bitter end of its sentence. Dead assets have become so commonplace in his day-to-day, he nearly forgets to add the proper weight to it.

Henry hears it too, which might be why he turns to face Matt. Looks him straight in the eye. “Mark my words, Matthew,” he says. “The moment you decide to take on the Circle of Cavan alone is the moment you’ll join those unlucky few.”

This is said with exactly the right amount of severity, adding a heaviness to the room that settles along all of the surfaces dust should be. Matt thinks back on all he’s seen in the past year, and then he finds himself wondering what Henry has seen in all his time chasing the Circle.

Before Matt gets a chance to ask, Henry reaches across his desk for a small piece of card stock. “Should you ever need a friend,” he says, holding out a card, “or at the very least an ally, give me a call. God knows you’re calling the house often enough anyway—may as well speak to someone who understands what you’re up against.”

“That’s mighty generous of you,” Matt says, taking the name and number. “But if you don’t mind me looking a gift horse in the mouth, why now? Why offer an alliance, when a few days ago, you didn’t even know if you could trust me.”

“I still don’t know if I can trust you,” says Henry. He starts matter-of-fact, but soon softens. “But you should know that when Rachel came to me this evening, tears streaming down her face and mud splashed against her skirt, she still spoke more highly of you than I’ve ever heard her speak about anyone—furious, scathing tone, yes. But very high regard. She has trusted your character since the first day she met you, and part of being a father is learning to trust your girls more than you trust yourself.”

At the mention of Rachel, Matt gets all twisted up in his guilt again. Apologies run rampant in his head, searching for a place to land and he’s met, briefly, with the urge to run through the mansion, door, by door, by door, until he stumbles upon hers just the same way he did last time. He's tempted to barge in and say everything he needs to say to her.

I’m sorry.

Thank you.

I care about you.

I don’t know what I’m doing without you.

It’s you.

These are all of the hard things he always wants to say to her, but can never turn into words, especially not now. Not with the way he’s left things. The shoes she picked out for him are still caked in mud and he couldn’t possibly track that memory through this pristine house. “I reckon that says more about her than it does about me, sir.”

“Maybe you’re right about that.” He spares a thoughtful nod before he carries on. “In that case, maybe it’s because I know that when my girls ask, you won’t tell them it was me. That I gave in so easily. That they’ve made me a weak, vulnerable father and that I would sooner let the world burn than see a moment of pain come to them.”

This seems like an awfully bold assumption, but Matt knows he's right. This, like so many other things, has become a secondhand secret that he'll keep in good faith. “You gathered that from Rachel’s word?”

“No,” Henry admits. “I’ll admit, I gathered that particular detail from my own observation. It’s not everyday I meet a man who will fly across the country for my girls at the slightest sign of a threat.” Henry starts toward the door, one meandering step at a time, and Matt follows his lead. “Sounds to me like you’re no stranger to letting the world burn yourself.”

And it's true that there's very little Matt wouldn't do for the Cameron Sisters. So maybe he has earned a little trust after all.

Even so, there are still apologies owed. "I'm sorry we caused a scene. With Michael, I mean." Henry stops just short of the door. Joe awaits them both on the other side, but Henry isn't quite ready to let him in. "Once I saw him open the office door, I was convinced he was our guy."

"No need to explain," says Henry, holding up his hand. "It might have helped you to know that I sent him upstairs to retrieve my Scotch. Gave him the keys, the code, everything."

Ah. Yeah. That would have helped. "I'm sorry about your Scotch."

"As well you should be," says Henry. When he reaches toward the knob and swings the door open, Matt knows to take his cue. Joe stands guard on the other side, looking as intimidating as ever.

But even he can't match the intimidation in Henry's voice. “And Mr. Morgan?”

Matt turns to look over his shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

“If you break my daughter’s heart again,” he says, “I will see to it that the Circle of Cavan is the least of your concerns.”

As well he should. “Yes sir.”

#Full Circle #PHEW #this one took it out of me #Conversations With Powerful Men™ is a cadence I've been writing a lot of lately and these conversations are HARD #glad to have this one down #enjoy!

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fancyharry · 7 years ago

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I don't think my friend appreciates that I am a Harrie and would do Anything for him

#hahahahahelp #just harrie things #also me: queen of sensoring things

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hypnothesis-au · 2 years ago

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WASA-B RATES YOUR TARTAR ANTI ASMR

(Server shenanigans again, there is no context, only meme)

@fallenagent-au

Is that a syringe tail? Hot. Liquid brains though? Do they make a sloshing noise every time they turn around? That’s hilarious. 7/10, I would shake them like a snow-globe.

(Click to see more Tartar ratings below vvv)

@nameless-octoling

Nice braces dawg, circuitry on fleek. Etc etc. You look like trouble, I like that in a man. Shark teeth supremacy. Somehow, you also look like an English teacher who would lecture me on some random bass symbolism in a book I only read the sparknotes for. 6/10

@lillygoat17

Nice robot bod, I hope that ink section is squishy like one of those gel packs with the sparkles. 8/10 looks bite-able.

@versussashimi

Twink energy. He looks like he’d try to sell me the secret to perpetual energy, then laugh at me when he sees me bankrupt and living under a bridge. Real door-to-door salesman energy. 9/10.

@ratflamt

Made of titanium alloy but still a softie. Why does this guy look like he volunteers at a children’s hospital? Look at this face. Sub energy, as in that substitute teacher you can walk all over. 7/10, I would push his buttons.

@kamabo-reset

Woah, almost cuter than the last guy. Diggin’ the half-shaved look. Seems polite, would poison my wine after paying for dinner. 7/10

@little-creecher

NOODLE ARMS—Ehem. Nice eyeliner, looks like they have that steady surgeon hand, easy 9.5/10. For no reason at all, my number is 410 OC1-V280

@fiery-is-in-pain

…………. Not a robot. Actually. I think this is one of those things the kids call a “meme”. That jawline could kill someone. 0/10, not a robot.

@mekmech

If Doc Ock met a spider, Nice mandibles btw ;) Wanna show me what those arms can do, baby~? Really diggin’ the optical LED sensor, 9/10 good design.

@dj-ai

👁️ One word, smokin’. Lovin’ the nod to Hypnothesis. This gal looks like those bots that try to catfish you on sketchy websites. No actual robo detected though, so ya got some points deducted from the score. 7/10

And last but hardly least, T-vax. 10/10. Spouse material, plant lover, and human knowledge infodumper. Meticulous to a maddening degree. Fun fact: I love space jam, Elvis, Queen, and various other elements of human pop culture of which I am well versed in, T-vax please unblock me on squitter--

#octavio takowasa #splatoon #dj octavio #wasa-b #t-vax #splatoon 3 #memes #I'm so sorry #but also not #<3 #kamabo tartar #tartar

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firedragon1321 · 2 years ago

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The Queen is practically perfect in every way.

Like Mary Poppins in the books of old- the titles everyone knows, but no-one has need to pick up- she is flawless. The Queen rules the world without flaw and armed only with love. It only took some time for the conspiracy theories to fly. Surely there was something sinister brewing under the surface. She has to be eating babies or brainwashing people. So you keep the theorists distracted with lies. It provides them with entertainment.

At least for a while.

You don't understand where they all come from. The Queen loves humans without prejudice. She has no hatred. She loves you as much as the idiots you keep under control. They're doing more harm than good by playing hero. Thanks to the Queen's love, the world's better than it's ever been.

No war.

Food for everyone.

An end to discrimination.

Money- abolished.

These cretins wish to return to a simpler time. They want to go back to a more barbaric world, and for what? To feel something? There's no reason to feel sorrow or anger or fear. The Queen chose happiness over pain.

So you give them their fake babies and their lizard skins and their illusory mind control. It's your job to devise the threats. It's not your job to reveal the truth. That's the Queen's job. You don't know what she does, but it always leaves the bastards in awe and in love.

Your latest victim doesn't fight with guns or blades. His weapon is art. He claims the stories of your world are bland. Boring. Emotionless. He thinks the meat of a story lies in miserable conflict. But of course people will never write about turmoil. There's nothing heavy in the world to write about. He's just a relic of last century, like all the others.

But yet, he's different.

He's not violent. He doesn't even commit acts of cyber terrorism. He simply creates. All he has to do is write "once upon a time" to get people thinking about misery. But his words! They're vibrant enough to move you to tears. Even if his work is full of emotion not programmed into society, it makes you feel things you've never felt. His fictional sorrow makes you happy.

But a job is a job. So you make up some nonsense about censorship. You pretend to be another like him, fighting the system. It's not your first masquerade, and it sure as hell isn't your last. He bites. You become online friends.

Then, he writes a story as a gift for you.

It's about sadness, like all the rest. But it's also about a new feeling- hope. Your world has no need for hope, because it's not part of society's code. If everyone is happy, there is no need to hope. But this feeling- its determination and happy resolution- makes you weep.

Your finger rests on the enter key. You wrote a whole message about meeting in person. You must press enter to complete the process of re-education. But you can't bring yourself to do it. You feel like a soldier of old, debating whether or not to fire a gun.

So you visit the Queen, to refresh yourself.

The Queen's chambers are filled with wires. These friendly serpents keep her alive. Golden circuits shimmer like fireflies. Her screen displays Avatar 23, which matches your skin tone. Like all her avatars, it is beautiful beyond any human woman.

Because she is not a human woman. That's no secret. Everyone in the world freely knows that the Queen is a benevolent artificial intelligence. Humans are messy and imperfect by nature. But a machine- properly programmed- can do no wrong.

"What do I do?" you ask.

"Do not doubt yourself, and do not fear for him," the Queen says. "You may have come to love him. But that is why you must help him. He needs a software update. Bring him to me. I wish to talk to him. I will tell him what happiness is, and he will accept it- like all the others."

The Queen smiles through her avatar. She knows what you mean, even if your question was ambiguous. Her fifty seven thousand sensors and microprocessors- all geared towards love- can read your intent. She can read anyone's feelings, no matter how frustrating. She can change them without violence.

Perhaps that's why you came here. You knew the answer. But by being in her presence, you accepted it. So you return to your chamber. You sit at your lesser machine. Love fills your heart like a balloon. You have no further doubts. You love him as much as you love the Queen. He needs help. You must provide it.

You push enter.

You live in a utopian society. Really. No dark secret plots or massive covered up horrors. In fact, it’s your job to stage conspiracies in order to give eager adventurers some “evil plot” to thwart to keep them from bringing down the benevolent ruler out of some misguided need to be a hero.

#i don't like this prompt #that's why i used it #because humans are messy #i hate utopias because they hide that messiness #i wrote this at 4 am #writing #i usually do not write second person #ray bradbury influence #reconstruction

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rrasado · 3 years ago

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AY welcome back! Hope your having a great day and staying healthy! May i request a headcannon for demon! mc but they aren't your normal demon they are 👑royalty👑 like diavolo

(This is twst request so how do the twst boys react?)

Hell’s Monarch Who?

We gonna hella free style this djdndn, I’m gonna go with the Vices so Le go!-

I’m writing this before I go to bed so please excuse any typos djdjdjdh, I never expected anyone to even want my writing so this request honestly caught me off guard

When you’re of demon royalty:

Say that again but slowly

Oh you said it again- yoU ARE WHAT²?

Mans probably saw a lot already especially as a third year student of Heartslabyul. From flying table wear to gloating heads to a ritual party door mouse- but to think you are of Royal descent- no scratch that of deMONIC DESCENT-

Congrats this is the second time you’ve broke down his walls after Riddle’s Overblot.

He’s definitely gonna be a bit more precise with whatever food he makes for you from now on, probably discreetly console what type of extreme food you can even consume

Who knows? This might be a good learning experience for him in case a demon drops by the family bakery- yeah right he just got even more infatuated with you without even knowing.

...so you rich rich- no no fr you have demonic dough on you huh-

OK OK- but in all seriousness he’s gonna be a bit- scratch that expect him to be around you more a lot, whether to chat or to find an opportunity to leach off of u- he’s gonna take that time and go.

You aren’t the first inhuman Royal he’s had to deal with. But you’re definitely the first demonus species he’s ever even encountered. Hey gotta roll with life am I right-

No it’s not life that’s rolling it Ruggie rolling over to you from across the courtyard on your way to lunch.

All in all he’s gonna be curious on the shiny aspect of your lineage. He’s already seen what Leona has but how are demon royalty different in such aspect-

Hey if you feel it he can jokes about getting a position in your court or something-/j...unless-

And we all thought he couldn’t get anymore inquisitive.

You turn the hallway- oh hi Leech-senpai! You fall in line for an event- oh jade didn’t expect to see you here!

This man loves observing anything unusual to him. He hates anything predictable but seeing as he was from the depths of the sea a....you being of another realm and lineage is far from predictable in his book.

If Ruggie was always around then this man is always observing from afar. Unlike the hyena he takes a significantly more subtle approach when it comes to nitpicking someone as enigmatic as yourself.

Once the routine lengthens and he’s taken note of everything he can from afar, then and only then does he take a closer look.

He might invite you over to the lounge if the opportunity strikes him. Knowing jade he’ll make a way for said opportunity to come as naturally as you enticing him.

His mind says no but his body says yes.

Before you cackle let me elaborate- the initial response in his mental flow is to stay as frckin far away from you as possible. But his physical instincts tell him to stay by you.

Maybe it was due to how many times Kalim was put in danger. But if he knew anything...it’s too observe whats out of the norm as much as you can and think of a counter.

Oh dear Jamil you complete and utter fool, he mistakes being enthralled by your unique biology for wanting to observe you out of obligation as a protector to his ‘master’

He wants to see the world right? What the world can offer him from beyond the walls of the mansions and elegant vicinities he’s had to serve in. You give him a taste of that ngl.

In short the man might be a tad bit more open the more you two share what you knew about the high way of life. From both perspectives of course... with you from the top and him from the side.

And here we thought Ruggie and Jade were diligent.

This man redefined the word INTRIGUED- unlike jade he...never allows himself to be seen.

But also unlike jade he’s more lenient in approaching you, observing every single mannerism of your up close to nitpick whether your unique blood differentiates your etiquette to pure humans or whether your mannerisms are the result of only a royal’s poise.

The self proclaimed love hunter has always held Vil in high regard like the very Beautiful queen herself- but observing you gives him more of an idea of the difference between true royals and the acclaimed.

Everything you do everything you interact with- he finds an otherworldly sense in it, even just the way you converse with someone he senses that subdued aura of authority.

Beaut 100 all the way

Hyper bb does analyzations on the spot-

Is that why you come off on his sensors? Like you look like the others minus this ethereal charm you’ve always had but other than that. Wow you slipped from under his view, literally.

The dear is more curious than intrigued, he wants to know more but in a more kid sense (?). Imagine talking to a kid who’s never explored the world before- ye that.

Like I mean it’s not wrong since the world is your world and not only that but just like his big brother you are tied to Nobel duties, except...amplified-

OMG ARE YOU GONNA MARRY FOR DIPLOMATIC REASONS TO-

He remembers the many legends that hailed from the internet His brother. Which won’t take much to figure that they’re likely myths from the isle. Overall...pls be patient with him his reactors aren’t meant for royals from another realm.

Not...surprised? No wait scratch that- he isn’t as caught off guard as the others.

Man is probably as old as the campus/j. He’s seen his fair share of mystical things that go beyond the average wizard’s scope of specialty- but to think he’d be in the presence of demonic royalty?

Are you an heir? In line for the throne? Do you have any royal duties in need of attending despite being here in NRC? No the better question is how old are you-

On a more serious note. Lilia would most likely be intrigued by whatever difference there is with the monarchy of hell to the monarchy of the valley of thorns.

He’s no stranger to insults and racial discrimination, even his own race have been called demons at one point in history, whether he detested it or not was a secret. So you being an actual demon...perhaps you can enlighten this old soul?

Overall...You’d feel a lot more at ease with him. You’d feel like you’re talking to the ol palace advisers rather than a curious human. Ah...that’s to be expected.

#I apologize for any ooc #I #have no idea on what I just did dkdjdj #I never wrote legit headcanons for the twst boys before so this is..an experience #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst headcanons #twst writing #twst trey #twst ruggie #twst jade #twst jamil #twst rook #twst ortho #twst lilia #rras writes #rras’ inbox

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funkymbtifiction · 2 years ago

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I feel like I’m always in this wave of self doubt when it comes to my type. Because usually when I’m overthinking, I’m overthinking my type. Like ever since I was an early teen, I’ve been doubting it because I wanted to figure out who I authentically am. And I still want to know. Like I’ve read this blog before and I feel like I use the functions in these ways. Fe: I feel like I can have the tendency to push my values onto others at times when I disagree with them, and try and change their mind. It’s mainly because I don’t want them doing this thing/saying this thing because it’s wrong and I think it’s wrong. I also feel like I have the tendency to have an us mindset. Like I’ll be like, “we should do this” or “we should all this together” or “what do y’all wanna do next?” Like I feel like I think in terms of more “we” than “me”. Fi: I feel like I have values when they’re stepped on, which is weird because I don’t know who I am. Like for example, my friend and I are vastly different when it comes to values. I ask her an opinion on something, which is something I’ll feel strongly on, but her response is usually “idk” or it’s whatever. Like to me, I don’t understand, because I’m never really like that unless I’m with family(bc I’m usually not myself around them). But with everyone else, I’m usually expressing my opinions, maybe to the point of pushing them onto others. Se: I feel like for Se, I want to do things, you know, but I mean, I don’t actually do them. Sometimes, it depends. Like I want to go out and experience things, but I usually don’t initiate. Or I’ll fantasize things, but won’t act. Usually cuz I’m lazy or don’t feel like it. But the Se in me is also when I don’t get things quickly, like taekwondo for example, if I mess something up, I feel like a failure and want to quit immediately. Or I remember when I was younger, I couldn’t get the hang of sewing quickly like the other kids and some were younger than me. I felt devastated and I didn’t join back until a month later because I felt embarrassed and didn’t want to go back because that’s how bad I felt. I feel like positively tho, my Se manifests in me doing stuff on a spur. I have a tendency to not think things through, but it also isn’t terrible, like I wanted to go vegetarian one day and the the next day, I dropped meat cold turkey for a whole year. I hate when people say they wanna do something but then they don’t. And that’s kinda contradictory with what I wrote earlier but like bear with me. Si: I don’t know much about this function. Being honest here, I don’t know much to write. If anything. Te: I don’t feel like I have much Te. Because I’m not the queen of productivity. I can get into bursts at times, but I’m not really productive. Ti: Again, I can’t relate much to this function. Not sure what to put here either. Ni: I feel like I can relate with the meaning aspect, because I do wonder about meaning of things at times. But that’s really it; I don’t really like to overthink the future. I don’t mind thinking about it and fantasizing and stuff, but yeah. Ne: This function is like very weird to me. Cuz I’ll type myself as a sensor but sometimes idk. Like cuz I’ll be out and having a good time, but my mind is also wandering, like I’m not 100% in the moment; I’m thinking of other things too. I feel like it comes into play when I can compare random things together (like a chef messing up in a cooking show to me making a mistake in class) or I can have a barrage of ideas (cuz usually people compliment on my creativity; also ik Se can be creative too) I also remember reading about how you said Ne fantasizes but then is let down by reality, which I could imagine for me. Because I’ve always imagined though in the future, I’d be out exploring and stuff, feeling the air, being happy, etc. but I feel like it’s just also not so easy like that.

There's SO MUCH 6w7 in what you wrote, it's drowning out all else. Self-doubt, second-guessing, wanting to change people's minds and have them agree with you, focusing on right/wrong and wanting others to go along with it, assertive opinions but also polling people to see what they want to do, constantly thinking / thinking about what is coming next, imagining exploring but not getting around to it, having 7 wing frustration with reality vs. imagination.

I would assume, beyond that, ISFP. You don't seem to be an intuitive, although you haven't studied the functions enough yet to really know what they are / what they do, so you should keep reading. You seem more Fi than Fe (Fe is about more than agreement or persuading others to go along with you; it's a state of mind that prioritizes other people's emotions in decision making, and you said nothing about that which means it's not your natural focus), and said you prefer not to over-analyze the future, which rules out high Ne.

#question #mbti #enneagram #enneagram 6

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jroycethethird · 7 months ago

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He had dismissed his assistant and staff hours ago, and now sat alone in the office space he had at the very back of the gallery. Royce stayed there under the guise he had work to do, assured the family staff member assigned to tail him that day that he would go straight back to Verdant Vale when he was through, but they needn’t stick around until then. Verdant Vale, the ancestral home that felt more like a cage as of late, where his overly dramatic family fought endlessly and where the air was stale and heavy with fear. The fear of an impending death, the repercussion for dark magic. The Van Dorens lived life so deliciously, enjoying all the advantages wealth brought them, they didn’t know how to handle inconveniences of any type. Now here they stood, at the precipice of life and death and woefully unprepared to handle it. The last thing Royce wanted to do with his potential last days was spend them in that depressing parlor night after night while Blythe coaxed the girls into bridge and JR waxed poetically and indignantly over a glass of brandy.

He also didn’t want to spend it doing paperwork, despite the lie he gave that persistent assistant. Standing, though not very well, before a full length mirror in his office, he winced as he carefully plucked the buttons of his shirt, sighing as he loosened his tie and pulled the cloth back just enough to get a look at a slither of exposed skin. It was red and mad, peeling and blistering. He let out an irritable groan. “Well that’s not sexy,” he groaned. Scars he could work with, he had one over his brow that made him roguishly charming at times. This was a different story. Fastening his buttons and pulling the tie off completely, because what was the use in redoing that this late at night, he was about to slump back into his chair and focus on something else when he heard a beep from one of the monitors in his office. Eyes flickering over, Royce frowned at the notification flashing on the screen. “Motion sensors? That’s impossible, no one’s here…” His voice trailed off as the security feed played over the monitors, and he watched curiously as a familiar banshee roamed the darkened halls of the gallery in high definition. “Hmm, looks like we have a little visitor,” Royce murmured, watching her take a familiar path to a photography exhibit.

Grabbing the ornate cane he’d taken to using as he still struggled to walk with his injuries, and looking less dressed than usual in a pale blue button down and charcoal trousers, Royce made the slow walk towards where he suspected Aiyla was headed. He remembered when she loaned out some photographs to the gallery, and how they had (for now) a rather permanent residence in one of the wings. Having memorized the various showcases and where things were kept, the witch was there soon enough, a surprisingly warm grin on his face as he carefully wobbled towards her. “Well, well, unless my eyes deceive me, I believe it’s her majesty the fae queen herself, gracing my humble gallery at such… Interesting hours,” Royce’s tone portrayed no malice as he stopped some feet away, leaning on the cane to bow. The smile on his face portrayed it as just fun and games, twirling the cane one full rotation in his hand before he began to close the distance and draw in closer. “Normally, people visit during operating hours, but I can’t complain. This is a place of beauty, for works of art, and I think you may be the prettiest thing around — Unless you’re actually more interested in the other art rather than their proprietor… in which case, I have to call foul.” He flashed a final amused grin before dropping the jokes and smoothing his features to a more calm ease. “It’s good to see you up and about, Aiyla. I heard about what happened… I’m so sorry that happened to you,” it was said in the most sincere way he knew how to speak, though he wouldn’t deny any ulterior motives to his kindness. She was pretty, he was bored, what the hell was he gonna say? “But I am glad to see you in one relative piece.”

Art in motion - @jroycethethird

Sleep was impossible. Every noise that whispered in the darkness sounded like a threat coming to finish the iron blade job that had carved out a piece of her, and no matter how tightly Aiyla closed her eyes, she could not get it back. The night was suffocating her, and no place felt safe...no where was safe, not here. She had half a mind to portal herself into the thick of mountains that were no longer home. Rather than run, Aiyla called a car and pulled a heavy sweater over her lithe frame, shielding her wings in heavy cotton before shrinking into the car's back seat that let her out outside Art in motion at half after two.

She took slow steps, her head on a swivel when she came to a known security guard taking a smoke outside the back entrances- she laid on the smile and let him look at her with pity that made her stomach turn- it must have been the secret to getting whatever she wanted, letting people look at her as if she was something to pity. She wanted to bare her teeth. She could be fierce. A wild thing that belonged to death as much as she belonged to it; she hadn't. Instead, she disappeared into the darkened halls of Art in Motion, moving through the halls like a ghost.

She found it peaceful in the dark. Void of any other person, she followed a well-worn path she'd taken a hundred different times until she came to a series of bright photographs she'd loaned out months ago. They didn't feel like hers anymore. She knew she had taken the photos, yet they felt torn from her. Her wings vibrated painfully at her back; she had no one to ask why as her legs shook under the weight of suffering grief, and Aiyla collapsed onto the bench before the photos. She kept a glossy-eyed gaze on the photos and allowed silent tears to roll down her cheeks. Hearing the descent of footsteps, she white-knuckled the bench, "I'll only be a moment longer." She answered, assuming the security guard had come to usher her out so they could return to their quiet night.

#&& convos.#int ft. aiyla #injury tw #burns tw #death tw

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superhero--imagines · 4 years ago

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Part 1 here! / Part 2 Here!

* The flight feels shorter than you remember, maybe it’s because you don’t need to sleep anymore.

* When you land, you expect to see Carmen there, but instead it’s the entire Coven.

* They look like a group of supermodels, and they’re all holding gifts, you see several people staring at them. Every teenage boy’s fantasy no doubt.

* They’re holding balloons, and a woman (the one you believe is Carmen) is holding one of those giant teddy bears. They even have a sign that says “Welcome Home (Y/N).”

* You didn't think vampires could feel embarrassed.

* But here you are, living proof that they’re wrong.

* Tanya brings you into a hug before you can even be worried about being an unwanted addition.

* “Welcome home, we are so glad to have you here”

* “We have an important question for you,” the woman beside her asks, her long straight hair sparkles under the dark sky.

* Kate, you presume.

* “Which do you like more, pink flowers or yellow flowers?”

* The question catches you completely off guard, and when you look down you see she’s holding out a bouquet of sunflowers and hydrangeas towards you.

* You’re not sure if this is all a test, and maybe you’re overthinking all this, but you remember sunflowers mean loyalty.

* “Um... the yellow ones I suppose.”

* “See Irina I told you they would love the yellow ones.”

* Irina rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. She’s the one holding a bouquet of balloons

* “I bet they like the balloons I picked out better though, they’re a nice touch.”

* “Is everything alright?” Tanya turns to you. Her eyebrows are threaded in concern. “Are you thirsty?”

* You shake your head, you feel bloated if anything.

* You’re happy, you really are. It’s just...

* “I’m just a little overwhelmed,” you admit.

* Back at the castle you did have company, but it was sparse. After you were transformed, you only saw Alec or Jane once every few days, if at all.

* So this much attention, all at once, it’s a lot to handle right now.

* “Let’s give them some space, it’s been a long day.” Eleazer nudges them all away, and towards getting your luggage in the car.

* While they’re all busy taking your things, and arguing about where they parked the car, you’re left alone with Carmen

* Carmen who is holding a very large stuffed bear.

* You gulp. You’ve been so busy worried about Tanya you haven’t thought about Carmen. Her husband disappears after he received a call from his old coven, and then he comes back with some newborn.

* You wouldn’t be happy if you were in her place.

* She clears her throat beside you.

* “Do you like bears?”

* A long second of silence passes as your mind tries to comprehend what’s happening.

* “I-yes I like bears.”

* She thrusts the bear out towards you, and you take it gingerly, balancing the two bouquets the Denali sisters had given you earlier.

* “If there’s ever anything you don’t like,” you whip your head to look at her, her eyes are focused on the horizon, they’re narrowed like she’s picking her words carefully. “Or if you would rather have a lion, or something completely different all together, you can tell me.”

* She turns to look at you, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

* “Okay,” you smile back.

* It’s a long drive to their home, they live deep in the mountains.

* “We’re here,” Tanya sings from the driver's seat.

* The house is secured by an ivy ridden wall, so high you can barely see the tree branches hang over the ledge

* There’s a large iron gate at the front, and past it, what appears to be a gravel road.

* Tanya cracks her window down, pressing her finger to sensor.

* “We’ll have to add your fingerprints later, little one”

* “Tanya don’t call them that, it’s offensive,” Irina hisses from beside them.

* “Ah, sorry darling,” she meets your gaze from her rear view mirror.

* “No offense taken,” you mumble.

* The house is exactly the opposite of what the Cullens’ home looked like in the movies.

* It’s a four story home, well it’s a mansion, all dark brick, with a rugged face. You can count on one hand how many windows you currently see.

* It looks exactly like somewhere Dracula might live.

* The inside is equally intimidating, there’s actually a suit of armor near the entrance, like this is some Scooby Doo-esque castle.

* Kate leads the grand tour, walking you through their living room, fully equipped with a wall of swords, a 90 inch flat screen TV, and a family portrait hung over a roaring fire.

* She only waves at the kitchen.

* “It’s just for show.”

* She explains the living situation to you.

* “Irina, Tanya and I all have our rooms on the second floor,” she points to each room, all in completely different directions.

* “Carmen and Eleazer use the third floor,” She waves to the right end of the hall.

* “There’s also a movie theatre and another living area on this floor,” Irina adds from her other side.

* You expect to be staying near the happy couple, so they can keep an eye on you.

* You’re surprised when Kate keeps climbing the stairs,

* “On the right is the library, and on the left is a stairwell that leads to the roof”

* “And right here,” Irina grins, “is your room.”

* The second she opens the door you’re engulfed in light.

* It’s so bright.

* When the place comes into focus, you’re amazed.

* The entire room aside from the entrance wall, and the ceiling, are made from glass.

* There’s a roaring fireplace on one side, several cases full of books, a large plush armchair, and a bed.

* It’s like a queen’s bed, with mahogany spirals and creamy white bedding.

* “What’s with the bed?” It adds a nice touch to the room, but it’s not like you need it.

* “Oh well we thought maybe-“ Kate breaks off mid thought, looking to Irina for help who nods.

* “We thought maybe you might want it to pretend to sleep,” she finishes for her sister. Then noticing your confused expression she quickly adds “or as a comfy place to read, or for... other activities.”

* “Irina!” Kate shouts at the same time you cover your face in embarrassment. Sex is the farthest thing from your mind.

* “What? They need to know this is an open household.”

* “What did you mean about pretending to sleep?” You quickly interject.

* “Well you know,” Irina exchanges a look with her sister.

* “You just shut your eyes, and imagine things,” Kate finishes.

* “I did it a lot when I first transformed, helped me feel more human” Irina adds.

* “I still do it every so often, it’s a nice way to relax” Kate tells you.

* “I never thought to do that.” You mumble to yourself, sitting on the bed. The two exchange another look.

* They want to ask you questions, about the Volturi, and about your past.

* But thinking better of it, they decide to leave so you can get settled.

* As soon as they’re gone, you fall back into the bed.

* Pretending to sleep, what a strange thing, the books never talked about it.

* You turn your head to the side, looking out your window walls.

* “It really is a beautiful view.”

* The pine trees sway in the wind, the grey sky beyond it.

* You sigh, you’ll try and give that “pretending to sleep” thing a try.

* You close your eyes and imagine all sorts of things. You imagine being in your old body and doing crunches so that you could get abs. You imagine eating soup on a cold day while it rains outside, and you think about reading in the library with Alec and Jane. How you would sit in the nook, right below the window and bask in the sun.

* You’re abruptly broken out of the dream when you hear your door creak open.

* You sit upright with a start, eyes open, and your head turned to face the intruder.

* All you see is Eleazer shaking from laughter, as he hides his mouth in his hand.

* You turn to look at the clock, it’s 3 in the morning and it’s dark outside.

* “Thirsty yet?” He finally manages to say after a solid minute of laugh at you.

* You are growing a little parched.

* “We’re about to go hunt,.” Eleazer actually grins as he tells you.

* You move to stand and follow him outside.

* Tanya and Carmen are already waiting for you outside, they don’t need to explain much, it seems pretty obvious.

* Stalk the animal, and then kill, totally easy.

* Tanya and Carmen even corner a deer for you.

* You should be able to kill it, you should WANT to devour it, your throat is so dry, even a bit of relief seems nice right now.

* But when you look into it’s eyes, wide with fear, it looks just like a dog.

* You can’t do it.

* But everyone’s waiting for you to drink, how are you going to survive from here on out? There’s no Alec, bringing you a blood bag every few days, you can’t drink from humans and you can’t drink from animals what are you going-

* You’re broken out of your internal monologue by a pained scream, when you look around you, you see Carmen and Tanya kneeling on the ground.

* Crap your powers.

* The deer crumples to the floor, the fearful look in its eyes intensified.

* “I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

* And then you run, you climb up the tallest tree you can find and crumple into yourself like a collapsing star.

* What was your end game here? To raise hell on this world? Right.

* How are you going to do that when you can’t even control your emotions or even feed yourself.

* Geez, even Edward managed to eat rapists and murders.

* You feel the branch you’re crouched on shift a bit and look up to see Carmen.

* She instinctively reached for you only to flinch back, your power to reaching her.

* She must notice the look on your face because she smiles and says:

* “Don’t worry I’ve felt worse.”

* Well you don’t have time to unpack all of that.

* “I can’t kill an animal,” you finally admit.

* You’re waiting for her fury, but she just shrugs.

* “That’s alright, you know, I hate pretending to be a student, so I don’t do the school thing.”

* She continues on, “Kate hates going to the grocery store, Irina hates making small talk with the mail man, even Eleazer hates having to deal with their forgery, especially when it’s time to move

* “What about Tanya?”

* Carmen scoffs.

* “Tanya hates having to see Edward,” then realizing you might not know Edward she adds, “One of Carlisle’s coven.”

* You knew in the book Tanya felt scorned, but you didn’t think she hated him.

* “The point is, we all have things we don’t like to do.”

* Ah here it comes, the whole “but we do them for the better of the coven” spiel.

* “So we do them for each other.”

* Well this is unexpected.

* “Eleazer and I get supplies, Kate and Irina handle going to school and keeping our front, and Tanya handles the big picture stuff.”

* She puts her hand on top of your own, you hadn’t realized she had gotten so close, or that you were feeling calm enough to let her get close.

* “The point is, if there’s something you don’t want to do, it’s okay. You’re apart of our family now, and we help each other.”

* You nod.

* “Come, let’s go home.”

* When you get home, you see Tanya and Irina literally draining the blood out of a bear in the kitchen.

* “Ah you’re back! Look what we got you!”

* Tanya says it like she got you a new desk, not that she’s literally draining the blood out of an animal into a reusable starbucks cup.

* “Maybe we should do this for ourselves too, it’s much more convenient, and this way my blouses won’t get dirty” Irina comments, sealing another bottle and putting it in the fridge.

* “Tanya I’m sorry about before, I-“

* “There’s nothing to be sorry for little one,” she cradled your face in her blood stained hands. “I am sorry, I thought you seemed uncomfortable, but I thought it might be the thirst.”

* You nod slowly, they’re being so kind to you. You don’t know how to handle it tbh.

* “Tanya! We talked about this, you can’t call them little one, it’s condescending.” Irina hisses, and Tanya sucks her teeth.

* “Ah yes, sorry darling, you are just so young.” She pats your cheek, and then grins. “More importantly, you are so powerful!”

* Tanya’s beaming like a pageant mom who’s child just won first place.

* “You should have seen it Irina, she had me AND Carmen on the ground! It was incredible!”

* “I’ve never seen anything like it except with-“

* “Except with Jane,” you finish.

* The similarity had been noted by Aro, the type of power that only came once a century.

* Tanya’s expression darkens for a moment, Jane had been the one to carry out the order to kill her mother.

* Then it’s gone, her eyes fill with warmth once they settle onto you once more.

* “Eleazer, what is their power?”

* You hadn’t even realised he had come into the room

* “It’s an aura” he says it all matter of fact, like everyone in the room should know what that means. Upon noticing the confused looks he elaborates.

* “Basically whatever emotions they feel are felt by those around them, right now it seems to be a limited range of emotions.” He meets your gaze, he must mean the despair you feel.

* “But given time, it can extend to all emotions.”

* Well this is news to you, does that mean one day... you might be able to give happiness to others as well?

* You take a sip of the blood and have to hide your cringe.

* It’s disgusting, what the hell was that bear eating.

* “Delicious” you murmur, taking another disgusting sip.

* “Fantastic! This finally gives us an excuse to stock the fridge!”

* Irina opens the fridge to show several bottles full of blood.

* Great.

* The next few days pass in a haze, you “dream” every so often, drink the disgusting bear blood, and read.

* Oh and you also spend a lot of time with your new family. Getting together for a morning run is compulsory

* The only cringe worthy thing is drinking that gross blood.

* If you had to describe the taste, you would say it had a rich flavour at first, but it’s masked with a game-y aftertaste, it only gets worse over time, developing into a straight up skunky after taste.

* You sit on your bed, looking out your many windows/walls, to the frost covered estate.

* You wonder if humans taste that bad when you find them at random, it makes sense why the Volturi’s main racket were wellness retreats, three days of cleansing the blood with vitamin rich food.

* And then you’re struck with an idea.

* “Hey Carmen, you said I could ask if I need something right?”

* “Yes of course.”

* “I was wondering if I could have the far most corner of the estate?”

* She shrugs.

* “Sure.”

* You spend a few days making the fence, sanding down the wood.

* It’s actually pretty easy when you never get tired, or need a break, or when you’re not afraid you might get hurt.

* And, because Alaska is known for cruel weather, you make a barn with Kate’s help.

* “If I knew you were building something out here I would have asked Esme to draw something up for you.”

* “Nah, I wanted to do it myself.”

* Between the two of you, it’s pretty quick work, but it’s basically a rickety poorly built box.

* But it will do.

* It’s a good parcel of land, at least a quarter of an acre.

* Now comes the hard part.

* You’ve finally cornered a deer, probably the same deer from a few weeks ago.

* “Do you want to be friends?” you hold out an apple, and it watches you with a curious glance before running away.

* Well, it’s not a dog, it’s not going to follow you home because you just because you gave it food.

* You repeat the process with several other deer, but you don’t make much progress.

* You repeat the process for a few days, until you finally get the deer to eat the food you offer, and another several days until one will follow you back into the pen.

* You’re not really sure why it did, it’s trembling and afraid, but you guess it’s probably close to starving at this point.

* “Here,” you give it a healthy meal, before leading it to the barn you’ve sloppily built.

* You’re about to go inside, but noticing that it’s still trembling in fear, you decide to spend the night with it.

* “Dreaming” isn’t any different in your bed than it is in a creaky, poorly built barn.

* After that night, you and the deer are closer.

* “I think I’ll name you Henrietta, that’s a good name don’t you think.”

* You get a few more after that, but none of them like you as much as Henrietta.

* They’re mostly following you for food, well at least they won’t die as long as they’re with you.

* And so three days pass, you deer have healthy nutrient rich blood flowing through their veins.

* “Hey Eleazer?”

* He hums in acknowledgement, his hands are busy nailing in the nail on his birdhouse.

* “Do you think Carlisle might visit sometime?”

* Eleazer’s hands stop moving.

* “Do you want him to visit?”

* Well of course you do, he’s the only person you know with any kind of medical experience. He has to show you how to -hygienically- extract blood from your deer without killing them or contaminating the blood.

* “I think we were making a lot of progress with my powers before we stopped.”

* Eleazer nods.

* “I’ll give him a call soon.”

* Another few days pass, time seems to move differently now. You can’t tell how much time has passed, even the nights and days start to blur together, after all the nights are so much longer here in Alaska.

* And yet, it’s peaceful, you read books, and drink your disgusting bear blood. You watch Irina and Tanya play chess, and Kate sharpen her sword. Carmen likes to embroider when she can, and Eleazer enjoys wood work.

* It’s nice here

* You’re reading in your room when you hear them, Carlisle’ss soft gentle voice from down stairs.

* You haven’t seen him in so long, you convince yourself you’re rushing to greet him because you’ll always be grateful for what he did for you.

* But you know it’s actually because you miss him.

* He was the first person to show you true compassion.

* You get to the bottom of the stairs expecting to see Carlisle, and you do, but there’s someone else.

* He’s tall, at least he’s taller than you.

* His hair... it’s -what’s it called-, not quite red, not quite brown either.

* Auburn.

* Auburn hair as thick as a lions mane, hangs around his face, deep gold eyes, and a splatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

* This is actually the first boy vampire around your age you’ve seen. Alec was close, but he was younger than you by a handful of years.

* If your heart could beat, you’re sure it would be drumming.

* He’s beautiful. Chiseled cheekbones, and full lips.

* You’re suddenly starting to feel very conscious of the baggy sweatshirt and leggings you’re wearing

* His eyes meet yours, and they stay there, narrowing into a glare.

* Well that’s rude.

* Carlisle doesn’t seem to notice, pulling you into a hug.

* “You look well,” he says, his eyes are so warm as they gaze down at you that you can’t help but smile. “How are you handling the transition?”

* You know he really means to ask if you’re happy now, if you’re free.

* You nod, this is more than you could have ever hoped for.

* His smile widens.

* “I’m glad to hear that,” then noticing he hasn’t introduced you yet, he looks over his shoulder.

* “(Y/N), this is the son I told you about, Edward.”

* This is Edward?

* You turn to look at him again, this amber eyes narrowed.

* It’s not a glare, it’s concentration.

* He can’t read your mind.

* “Edward, this is (Y/N), my friend from Volterra.”

* Carlisle says it in such an easy way, like he didn’t meet you in the brink of despair, when you were pleading him to kill you.

* You gulp as Edward lifts his hand, and you gingerly take in yours.

* “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

#twilight reader insert #twilight headcanon #twilight imagine #twilight saga #twilight #alec volturi #Alec Volturi imagine #Edward Cullen imagine #Edward Cullen x reader #edward cullen #Carlisle Cullen #Denali coven

722 notes · View notes

peacefulapocalypse · 3 years ago

Text

I Sexually Identify as an

Attack Helicopter

by ISABEL FALL

I sexually identify as an attack helicopter.

I lied. According to US Army Technical Manual 0, The Soldier as a System, “attack helicopter” is a

gender identity, not a biological sex. My dog tags and Form 3349 say my body is an XX-karyotope

somatic female.

But, really, I didn’t lie. My body is a component in my mission, subordinate to what I truly am. If I

say I am an attack helicopter, then my body, my sex, is too. I’ll prove it to you.

When I joined the Army I consented to tactical-role gender reassignment. It was mandatory for the

MOS I’d tested into. I was nervous. I’d never been anything but a woman before.

But I decided that I was done with womanhood, over what womanhood could do for me; I wanted to

be something furiously new.

To the people who say a woman would’ve refused to do what I do, I say—

Isn’t that the point?

I fly—

Red evening over the white Mojave, and I watch the sun set through a canopy of polycarbonate and

glass: clitoral bulge of cockpit on the helicopter’s nose. Lightning probes the burned wreck of an oil

refinery and the Santa Ana feeds a smoldering wildfire and pulls pine soot out southwest across the

Big Pacific. We are alone with each other, Axis and I, flying low.

We are traveling south to strike a high school.

Rotor wash flattens rings of desert creosote. Did you know that creosote bushes clone themselves?

The ten-thousand-year elders enforce dead zones where nothing can grow except more creosote.

Beetles and mice live among them, the way our cities had pigeons and mice. I guess the analogy

breaks down because the creosote’s lasted ten thousand years. You don’t need an attack helicopter

to tell you that our cities haven’t. The Army gave me gene therapy to make my blood toxic to

mosquitoes. Soon you will have that too, to fight malaria in the Hudson floodplain and on the banks

of the Greater Lake.

Now I cross Highway 40, southbound at two hundred knots. The Apache’s engine is electric and

silent. Decibel killers sop up the rotor noise. White-bright infrared vision shows me stripes of heat,

the tire tracks left by Pear Mesa school buses. Buried housing projects smolder under the dirt,

radiators curled until sunset. This is enemy territory. You can tell because, though this desert was

once Nevada and California, there are no American flags.

“Barb,” the Apache whispers, in a voice that Axis once identified, to my alarm, as my mother’s.

“Waypoint soon.”

“Axis.” I call out to my gunner, tucked into the nose ahead of me. I can see only gray helmet and

flight suit shoulders, but I know that body wholly, the hard knots of muscle, the ridge of pelvic

girdle, the shallow navel and flat hard chest. An attack helicopter has a crew of two. My gunner is

my marriage, my pillar, the completion of my gender.

“Axis.” The repeated call sign means, I hear you.

“Ten minutes to target.”

“Ready for target,” Axis says.

But there is again that roughness, like a fold in carbon fiber. I heard it when we reviewed our

fragment orders for the strike. I hear it again now. I cannot ignore it any more than I could ignore a

battery fire; it is a fault in a person and a system I trust with my life.

But I can choose to ignore it for now.

The target bumps up over the horizon. The low mounds of Kelso-Ventura District High burn warm

gray through a parfait coating of aerogel insulation and desert soil. We have crossed a third of the

continental US to strike a school built by Americans.

Axis cues up a missile: black eyes narrowed, telltales reflected against clear laser-washed cornea.

“Call the shot, Barb.”

“Stand by. Maneuvering.” I lift us above the desert floor, buying some room for the missile to run,

watching the probability-of-kill calculation change with each motion of the aircraft.

Before the Army my name was Seo Ji Hee. Now my call sign is Barb, which isn’t short for Barbara. I

share a rank (flight warrant officer), a gender, and a urinary system with my gunner Axis: we are

harnessed and catheterized into the narrow tandem cockpit of a Boeing AH-70 Apache Mystic.

America names its helicopters for the people it destroyed.

We are here to degrade and destroy strategic targets in the United States of America’s war against

the Pear Mesa Budget Committee. If you disagree with the war, so be it: I ask your empathy, not

your sympathy. Save your pity for the poor legislators who had to find some constitutional

framework for declaring war against a credit union.

The reasons for war don’t matter much to us. We want to fight the way a woman wants to be

gracious, the way a man wants to be firm. Our need is as vamp-fierce as the strutting queen and

dryly subtle as the dapper lesbian and comfortable as the soft resilience of the demiwoman. How

often do you analyze the reasons for your own gender? You might sigh at the necessity of morning

makeup, or hide your love for your friends behind beer and bravado. Maybe you even resent the

punishment for breaking these norms.

But how often—really—do you think about the grand strategy of gender? The mess of history and

sociology, biology and game theory that gave rise to your pants and your hair and your salary? The

casus belli?

Often, you might say. All the time. It haunts me.

Then you, more than anyone, helped make me.

When I was a woman I wanted to be good at woman. I wanted to darken my eyes and strut in heels.

I wanted to laugh from my throat when I was pleased, laugh so low that women would shiver in

contentment down the block.

And at the same time I resented it all. I wanted to be sharper, stronger, a new-made thing,

exquisite and formidable. Did I want that because I was taught to hate being a woman? Or because I

hated being taught anything at all?

Now I am jointed inside. Now I am geared and shafted, I am a being of opposing torques. The noise

I make is canceled by decibel killers so I am no louder than a woman laughing through two walls.

When I was a woman I wanted to have friends who would gasp at the precision and surprise of my

gifts. Now I show friendship by tracking the motions of your head, looking at what you look at, the

way one helicopter’s sensors can be slaved to the motions of another.

When I was a woman I wanted my skin to be as smooth and dark as the sintered stone countertop

in our kitchen.

Now my skin is boron-carbide and Kevlar. Now I have a wrist callus where I press my hydration

sensor into my skin too hard and too often. Now I have bit-down nails from the claustrophobia of the

bus ride to the flight line. I paint them desert colors, compulsively.

When I was a woman I was always aware of surveillance. The threat of the eyes on me, the chance

that I would cross over some threshold of detection and become a target.

Now I do the exact same thing. But I am counting radars and lidars and pit viper thermal sensors,

waiting for a missile.

I am gas turbines. I am the way I never sit on the same side of the table as a stranger. I am most

comfortable in moonless dark, in low places between hills. I am always thirsty and always tense. I

tense my core and pace my breath even when coiled up in a briefing chair. As if my tail rotor must

cancel the spin of the main blades and the turbines must whirl and the plates flex against the pitch

links or I will go down spinning to my death.

An airplane wants in its very body to stay flying. A helicopter is propelled by its interior

near-disaster.

I speak the attack command to my gunner. “Normalize the target.”

Nothing happens.

“Axis. Comm check.”

“Barb, Axis. I hear you.” No explanation for the fault. There is nothing wrong with the weapon attack

parameters. Nothing wrong with any system at all, except the one without any telltales, my spouse,

my gunner.

“Normalize the target,” I repeat.

“Axis. Rifle one.”

The weapon falls off our wing, ignites, homes in on the hard invisible point of the laser designator.

Missiles are faster than you think, more like a bullet than a bird. If you’ve ever seen a bird.

The weapon penetrates the concrete shelter of Kelso-Ventura High School and fills the empty halls

with thermobaric aerosol. Then: ignition. The detonation hollows out the school like a hooked finger

scooping out an egg. There are not more than a few janitors in there. A few teachers working late.

They are bycatch.

What do I feel in that moment? Relief. Not sexual, not like eating or pissing, not like coming in from

the heat to the cool dry climate shelter. It’s a sense of passing . Walking down the street in the right

clothes, with the right partner, to the right job. That feeling. Have you felt it?

But there is also an itch of worry—why did Axis hesitate? How did Axis hesitate?

Kelso-Ventura High School collapses into its own basement. “Target normalized,” Axis reports,

without emotion, and my heart beats slow and worried.

I want you to understand that the way I feel about Axis is hard and impersonal and lovely. It is

exactly the way you would feel if a beautiful, silent turbine whirled beside you day and night,

protecting you, driving you on, coursing with current, fiercely bladed, devoted. God, it’s love. It’s

love I can’t explain. It’s cold and good.

“Barb,” I say, which means I understand . “Exiting north, zero three zero, cupids two.”

I adjust the collective—feel the swash plate push up against the pitch links, the links tilt the angle of

the rotors so they ease their bite on the air—and the Apache, my body, sinks toward the hot desert

floor. Warm updraft caresses the hull, sensual contrast with the Santa Ana wind. I shiver in delight.

Suddenly: warning receivers hiss in my ear, poke me in the sacral vertebrae, put a dark

thunderstorm note into my air. “Shit,” Axis hisses. “Air search radar active, bearing 192, angles

twenty, distance . . . eighty klicks. It’s a fast-mover. He must’ve heard the blast.”

A fighter. A combat jet. Pear Mesa’s mercenary defenders have an air force, and they are out on the

hunt. “A Werewolf.”

“Must be. Gown?”

“Gown up.” I cue the plasma-sheath stealth system that protects us from radar and laser hits. The

Apache glows with lines of arc-weld light, UFO light. Our rotor wash blasts the plasma into a bright

wedding train behind us. To the enemy’s sensors, that trail of plasma is as thick and soft as

insulating foam. To our eyes it’s cold aurora fire.

“Let’s get the fuck out.” I touch the cyclic and we sideslip through Mojave dust, watching the school

fall into itself. There is no reason to do this except that somehow I know Axis wants to see. Finally I

pull the nose around, aim us northeast, shedding light like a comet buzzing the desert on its way

into the sun.

“Werewolf at seventy klicks,” Axis reports. “Coming our way. Time to intercept . . . six minutes.”

The Werewolf Apostles are mercenaries, survivors from the militaries of climate-seared states. They

sell their training and their hardware to earn their refugee peoples a few degrees more distance from

the equator.

The heat of the broken world has chased them here to chase us.

Before my assignment neurosurgery, they made me sit through (I could bear to sit, back then) the

mandatory course on Applied Constructive Gender Theory. Slouched in a fungus-nibbled plastic chair

as transparencies slid across the cracked screen of a De-networked Briefing Element overhead

projector: how I learned the technology of gender.

Long before we had writing or farms or post-digital strike helicopters, we had each other. We lived

together and changed each other, and so we needed to say “this is who I am, this is what I do.”

So, in the same way that we attached sounds to meanings to make language, we began to attach

clusters of behavior to signal social roles. Those clusters were rich, and quick-changing, and so just

like language, we needed networks devoted to processing them. We needed a place in the brain to

construct and to analyze gender.

Generations of queer activists fought to make gender a self-determined choice, and to undo the

creeping determinism that said the way it is now is the way it always was and always must be.

Generations of scientists mapped the neural wiring that motivated and encoded the gender choice.

And the moment their work reached a usable stage—the moment society was ready to accept plastic

gender, and scientists were ready to manipulate it—the military found a new resource. Armed with

functional connectome mapping and neural plastics, the military can make gender tactical.

If gender has always been a construct, then why not construct new ones?

My gender networks have been reassigned to make me a better AH-70 Apache Mystic pilot. This is

better than conventional skill learning. I can show you why.

Look at a diagram of an attack helicopter’s airframe and components. Tell me how much of it you

grasp at once.

Now look at a person near you, their clothes, their hair, their makeup and expression, the way they

meet or avoid your eyes. Tell me which was richer with information about danger and capability. Tell

me which was easier to access and interpret.

The gender networks are old and well-connected. They work .

I remember being a woman. I remember it the way you remember that old, beloved hobby you left

behind. Woman felt like my prom dress, polyester satin smoothed between little hand and little hip.

Woman felt like a little tic of the lips when I was interrupted, or like teasing out the mood my

boyfriend wouldn’t explain. Like remembering his mom’s birthday for him, or giving him a list of

things to buy at the store, when he wanted to be better about groceries.

I was always aware of being small: aware that people could hurt me. I spent a lot of time thinking

about things that had happened right before something awful. I would look around me and ask

myself, are the same things happening now? Women live in cross-reference. It is harder work than

we know.

Now I think about being small as an advantage for nape-of-earth maneuvers and pop-up guided

missile attacks.

Now I yield to speed walkers in the hall like I need to avoid fouling my rotors.

Now walking beneath high-tension power lines makes me feel the way that a cis man would feel if he

strutted down the street in a miniskirt and heels.

I’m comfortable in open spaces but only if there’s terrain to break it up. I hate conversations I

haven’t started; I interrupt shamelessly so that I can make my point and leave.

People treat me like I’m dangerous, like I could hurt them if I wanted to. They want me protected

and watched over. They bring me water and ask how I’m doing.

People want me on their team. They want what I can do.

A fighter is hunting us, and I am afraid that my gunner has gender dysphoria.

Twenty thousand feet above us (still we use feet for altitude) the bathroom-tiled transceivers cupped

behind the nose cone of a Werewolf Apostle J-20S fighter broadcast fingers of radar light. Each beam

cast at a separate frequency, a fringed caress instead of a pointed prod. But we are jumpy, we are

hypervigilant—we feel that creeper touch.

I get the cold-rush skin-prickle feel of a stranger following you in the dark. Has he seen you? Is he

just going the same way? If he attacks, what will you do, could you get help, could you scream? Put

your keys between your fingers, like it will help. Glass branches of possibility grow from my skin,

waiting to be snapped off by the truth.

“Give me a warning before he’s in IRST range,” I order Axis. “We’re going north.”

“Axis.” The Werewolf’s infrared sensor will pick up the heat of us, our engine and plasma shield,

burning against the twilight desert. The same system that hides us from his radar makes us hot and

visible to his IRST.

I throttle up, running faster, and the Apache whispers alarm. “Gown overspeed.” We’re moving too

fast for the plasma stealth system, and the wind’s tearing it from our skin. We are not modest. I

want to duck behind a ridge to cover myself, but I push through the discomfort, feeling out the

tradeoff between stealth and distance. Like the morning check in the mirror, trading the confidence

of a good look against the threat of reaction.

When the women of Soviet Russia went to war against the Nazis, when they volunteered by the

thousands to serve as snipers and pilots and tank drivers and infantry and partisans, they fought

hard and they fought well. They ate frozen horse dung and hauled men twice their weight out of

burning tanks. They shot at their own mothers to kill the Nazis behind her.

But they did not lose their gender; they gave up the inhibition against killing but would not give up

flowers in their hair, polish for their shoes, a yearning for the young lieutenant, a kiss on his dead

lips.

And if that is not enough to convince you that gender grows deep enough to thrive in war: when the

war ended the Soviet women were punished. They went unmarried and unrespected. They were

excluded from the victory parades. They had violated their gender to fight for the state and the state

judged that violation worth punishment more than their heroism was worth reward.

Gender is stronger than war. It remains when all else flees.

When I was a woman I wanted to machine myself.

I loved nails cut like laser arcs and painted violent-bright in bathrooms that smelled like laboratories.

I wanted to grow thick legs with fat and muscle that made shapes under the skin like Nazca lines. I

loved my birth control, loved that I could turn my period off, loved the home beauty-feedback kits

that told you what to eat and dose to adjust your scent, your skin, your moods. I admired, wasn’t

sure if I wanted to be or wanted to fuck, the women in the build-your-own-shit videos I watched on

our local image of the old Internet. Women who made cyberattack kits and jewelry and

sterile-printed IUDs, made their own huge wedge heels and fitted bras and skin-thin chameleon

dresses. Women who talked about their implants the same way they talked about computers,

phones, tools: technologies of access, technologies of self-expression.

Something about their merciless self-possession and self-modification stirred me. The first time I

ever meant to masturbate I imagined one of those women coming into my house, picking the lock,

telling me exactly what to do, how to be like her. I told my first boyfriend about this, I showed him

pictures, and he said, girl, you bi as hell, which was true, but also wrong. Because I did not want

those dresses, those heels, those bodies in the way I wanted my boyfriend. I wanted to possess that

power. I wanted to have it and be it.

The Apache is my body now, and like most bodies it is sensual. Fabric armor that stiffens beneath

my probing fingers. Stub wings clustered with ordnance. Rotors so light and strong they do not even

droop: as artificial-looking, to an older pilot, as breast implants. And I brush at the black ring of a

sensor housing, like the tip of a nail lifting a stray lash from the white of your eye.

I don’t shave, which all the fast jet pilots do, down to the last curly scrotal hair. Nobody expects a

helicopter to be sleek. I have hairy armpits and thick black bush all the way to my ass crack. The

things that are taboo and arousing to me are the things taboo to helicopters. I like to be picked up,

moved, pressed, bent and folded, held down, made to shudder, made to abandon control.

Do these last details bother you? Does the topography of my pubic hair feel intrusive and

unnecessary? I like that. I like to intrude, inflict damage, withdraw. A year after you read this maybe

those paragraphs will be the only thing you remember: and you will know why the rules of gender

are worth recruitment.

But we cannot linger on the point of attack.

“He’s coming north. Time to intercept three minutes.”

“Shit. How long until he gets us on thermal?”

“Ninety seconds with the gown on.” Danger has swept away Axis’ hesitation.

“Shit.”

“He’s not quite on zero aspect—yeah, he’s coming up a few degrees off our heading. He’s not sure

exactly where we are. He’s hunting.”

“He’ll be sure soon enough. Can we kill him?”

“With sidewinders?” Axis pauses articulately: the target is twenty thousand feet above us, and he

has a laser that can blind our missiles. “We’d have more luck bailing out and hiking.”

“All right. I’m gonna fly us out of this.”

“Sure.”

“Just check the gun.”

“Ten times already, Barb.”

When climate and economy and pathology all went finally and totally critical along the Gulf Coast,

the federal government fled Cabo fever and VARD-2 to huddle behind New York’s flood barriers.

We left eleven hundred and six local disaster governments behind. One of them was the Pear Mesa

Budget Committee. The rest of them were doomed.

Pear Mesa was different because it had bought up and hardened its own hardware and power. So

Pear Mesa’s neural nets kept running, retrained from credit union portfolio management to the

emergency triage of hundreds of thousands of starving sick refugees.

Pear Mesa’s computers taught themselves to govern the forsaken southern seaboard. Now they

coordinate water distribution, re-express crop genomes, ration electricity for survival AC, manage all

the life support humans need to exist in our warmed-over hell.

But, like all advanced neural nets, these systems are black boxes. We have no idea how they work,

what they think. Why do Pear Mesa’s AIs order the planting of pear trees? Because pears were their

corporate icon, and the AIs associate pear trees with areas under their control. Why does no one

make the AIs stop? Because no one knows what else is tangled up with the “plant pear trees”

impulse. The AIs may have learned, through some rewarded fallacy or perverse founder effect, that

pear trees cause humans to have babies. They may believe that their only function is to build

support systems around pear trees.

When America declared war on Pear Mesa, their AIs identified a useful diagnostic criterion for hostile

territory: the posting of fifty-star American flags. Without ever knowing what a flag meant, without

any concept of nations or symbols, they ordered the destruction of the stars and stripes in Pear Mesa

territory.

That was convenient for propaganda. But the real reason for the war, sold to a hesitant Congress by

technocrats and strategic ecologists, was the ideology of scale atrocity . Pear Mesa’s AIs could not be

modified by humans, thus could not be joined with America’s own governing algorithms: thus must

be forced to yield all their control, or else remain forever separate.

And that separation was intolerable. By refusing the United States administration, our superior

resources and planning capability, Pear Mesa’s AIs condemned citizens who might otherwise be

saved to die—a genocide by neglect. Wasn’t that the unforgivable crime of fossil capitalism? The

creation of systems whose failure modes led to mass death?

Didn’t we have a moral imperative to intercede?

Pear Mesa cannot surrender, because the neural nets have a basic imperative to remain online. Pear

Mesa’s citizens cannot question the machines’ decisions. Everything the machines do is connected in

ways no human can comprehend. Disobey one order and you might as well disobey them all.

But none of this is why I kill.

I kill for the same reason men don’t wear short skirts, the same reason I used to pluck my brows,

the reason enby people are supposed to be (unfair and stupid, yes, but still) androgynous with short

hair. Are those good reasons to do something? If you say no, honestly no—can you tell me you

break these rules without fear or cost?

But killing isn’t a gender role, you might tell me. Killing isn’t a decision about how to present your

own autonomous self to the world. It is coercive and punitive. Killing is therefore not an act of

gender.

I wish that were true. Can you tell me honestly that killing is a genderless act? The method? The

motive? The victim?

When you imagine the innocent dead, who do you see?

“Barb,” Axis calls, softly. Your own voice always sounds wrong on recordings—too nasal. Axis’ voice

sounds wrong when it’s not coming straight into my skull through helmet mic.

“Barb.”

“How are we doing?”

“Exiting one hundred and fifty knots north. Still in his radar but he hasn’t locked us up.”

“How are you doing?”

I cringe in discomfort. The question is an indirect way for Axis to admit something’s wrong, and that

indirection is obscene. Like hiding a corroded tail rotor bearing from your maintenance guys.

“I’m good,” I say, with fake ease. “I’m in flow. Can’t you feel it?” I dip the nose to match a drop-off

below, provoking a whine from the terrain detector. I am teasing, striking a pose. “We’re gonna be

okay.”

“I feel it, Barb.” But Axis is tense, worried about our pursuer, and other things. Doesn’t laugh.

“How about you?”

“Nominal.”

Again the indirection, again the denial, and so I blurt it out. “Are you dysphoric?”

“What?” Axis says, calmly.

“You’ve been hesitating. Acting funny. Is your—” There is no way to ask someone if their militarized

gender conditioning is malfunctioning. “Are you good?”

“I . . . ” Hesitation. It makes me cringe again, in secondhand shame. Never hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Do you need to go on report?”

Severe gender dysphoria can be a flight risk. If Axis hesitates over something that needs to be done

instantly, the mission could fail decisively. We could both die.

“I don’t want that,” Axis says.

“I don’t want that either,” I say, desperately. I want nothing less than that. “But, Axis, if—”

The warning receiver climbs to a steady crow call.

“He knows we’re here,” I say, to Axis’ tight inhalation. “He can’t get a lock through the gown but

he’s aware of our presence. Fuck. Blinder, blinder, he’s got his laser on us—”

The fighter’s lidar pod is trying to catch the glint of a reflection off us. “Shit,” Axis says. “We’re

gonna get shot.”

“The gown should defeat it. He’s not close enough for thermal yet.”

“He’s gonna launch anyway. He’s gonna shoot and then get a lock to steer it in.”

“I don’t know—missiles aren’t cheap these days—”

The ESM mast on the Apache’s rotor hub, mounted like a lamp on a post, contains a cluster of

electro-optical sensors that constantly scan the sky: the Distributed Aperture Sensor. When the DAS

detects the flash of a missile launch, it plays a warning tone and uses my vest to poke me in the

small of my back.

My vest pokes me in the small of my back.

“Barb. Missile launch south. Barb. Fox 3 inbound. Inbound. Inbound.”

“He fired,” Axis calls. “Barb?”

“Barb,” I acknowledge.

I fuck—

Oh, you want to know: many of you, at least. It’s all right. An attack helicopter isn’t a private way of

being. Your needs and capabilities must be maintained for the mission.

I don’t think becoming an attack helicopter changed who I wanted to fuck. I like butch assertive

people. I like talent and prestige, the status that comes of doing things well. I was never taught the

lie that I was wired for monogamy, but I was still careful with men, I was still wary, and I could

never tell him why: that I was afraid not because of him, but because of all the men who’d seemed

good like him, at first, and then turned into something else.

No one stalks an attack helicopter. No slack-eyed well-dressed drunk punches you for ignoring the

little rape he slurs at your neckline. No one even breaks your heart: with my dopamine system tied

up by the reassignment surgery, fully assigned to mission behavior, I can’t fall in love with anything

except my own purpose.

Are you aware of your body? Do you feel your spine when you stand, your hips when you walk, the

tightness and the mass in your core? When you look at yourself, whose eyes do you use? Your own?

I am always in myself. I never see myself through my partner’s eyes. I have weapons to use, of

course, ways of moving, moans and cries. But I measure those weapons by their effect, not by their

similarity to some idea of how I should be.

Flying is the loop of machinery and pilot, the sense of your motion on the controls translated into

torque and lift, the airframe’s reaction shaping your next motion until the loop closes and machine

and pilot are one. Awareness collapses to the moment. You are always doing the right thing exactly

as it needs to be done. Sex is the same: the search for everything in an instant.

Of course I fuck Axis. A few decades ago this would’ve been a crime. What a waste of perfectly

useful behavior. What a waste of that lean muscled form and those perfect killing hands that know

me millimeter-by-millimeter system-by-system so there is no mystique between us. No “secret

places” or “feminine mysteries,” only the tortuously exact technical exercise of nerves and pressure.

Oxytocin released, to flow between us, by the press of knuckles in my cunt.

When I come beneath Axis I cry out, I press my body close, I want that utter loss of control that I

feel nowhere else. Heartbeat in arched throat: nipple beneath straining tongue. And my mind is

hyper-activated, free-associating, and as Axis works in me I see the work we do together. I see puffs

of thirty-millimeter autocannon detonating on night-cold desert floor.

Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for

violence, alive in the fight.

Does that surprise you? Does it bother you to mingle cold technical discipline with hot flesh and

sweat?

Let me ask you: why has the worst insult you can give a combat pilot always been weak dick?

Have you ever been exultant? Have you ever known that you are a triumph? Have you ever felt that

it was your whole life’s purpose to do something, and all that you needed to succeed was to be

entirely yourself?

To be yourself well is the wholest and best feeling that anything has ever felt.

It is what I feel when I am about to live or die.

The Werewolf’s missile arches down on us, motor burned out, falling like an arrow. He is trying a

Shoot On Prospect attack: he cannot find us exactly, so he fires a missile that will finish the search,

lock onto our heat or burn through our stealth with its onboard radar, or acquire us optically like a

staring human eye. Or at least make us react. Like the catcaller’s barked “Hey!” to evoke the flinch

or the huddle, the proof that he has power.

We are ringed in the vortex of a dilemma. If we switch off the stealth gown, the Werewolf fighter will

lock its radar onto us and guide the missile to the kill. If we keep the stealth system on, the missile’s

heat-seeker will home in on the blazing plasma.

I know what to do. Not in the way you learn how to fly a helicopter, but the way you know how to

hold your elbows when you gesture.

A helicopter is more than a hovering fan, see? The blades of the rotor tilt and swivel. When you turn

the aircraft left, the rotors deepen their bite into the air on one side of their spin, to make off-center

lift. You cannot force a helicopter or it will throw you to the earth. You must be gentle.

I caress the cyclic.

The Apache’s nose comes up smooth and fast. The Mojave horizon disappears under the chin. Axis’

gasp from the front seat passes through the microphone and into the bones of my face. The pitch

indicator climbs up toward sixty degrees, ass down, chin up. Our airspeed plummets from a hundred

and fifty knots to sixty.

We hang there for an instant like a dancer in an oversway. The missile is coming straight down at

us. We are not even running anymore.

And I lower the collective, flattening the blades of the rotor, so that they cannot cut the air at an

angle and we lose all lift.

We fall.

I toe the rudder. The tail rotor yields a little of its purpose, which is to counter the torque of the

main rotor: and that liberated torque spins the Apache clockwise, opposite the rotor’s turn, until we

are nose down sixty degrees, facing back the way we came, looking into the Mojave desert as it rises

up to take us.

I have pirouetted us in place. Plasma fire blows in wraith pennants as the stealth system tries to

keep us modest.

“Can you get it?” I ask.

“Axis.”

I raise the collective again and the rotors bite back into the air. We do not rise, but our fall slows

down. Cyclic stick answers to the barest twitch of wrist, and I remember, once, how that slim wrist

made me think of fragility, frailty, fear: I am remembering even as I pitch the helicopter back and

we climb again, nose up, tail down, scudding backward into the sky while aimed at our chasing killer.

Axis is on top now, above me in the front seat, and in front of Axis is the chin gun, pointed sixty

degrees up into heaven.

“Barb,” the helicopter whispers, like my mother in my ear. “Missile ten seconds. Music? Glare?”

No. No jamming. The Werewolf missile will home in on jamming like a wolf with a taste for pepper.

Our laser might dazzle the seeker, drive it off course—but if the missile turns then Axis cannot take

the shot.

It is not a choice. I trust Axis.

Axis steers the nose turret onto the target and I imagine strong fingers on my own chin, turning me

for a kiss, looking up into the red scorched sky—Axis chooses the weapon (30MM GUIDED PROX AP)

and aims and fires with all the idle don’t-have-to-try confidence of the first girl dribbling a soccer ball

who I ever for a moment loved—

The chin autocannon barks out ten rounds a second. It is effective out to one point five kilometers.

The missile is moving more than a hundred meters per second.

Axis has one second almost exactly, ten shots of thirty-millimeter smart grenade, to save us.

A mote of gray shadow rushes at us and intersects the line of cannon fire from the gun. It becomes

a spray of light. The Apache tings and rattles. The desert below us, behind us, stipples with tiny

plumes of dust that pick up in the wind and settle out like sift from a hand.

“Got it,” Axis says.

“I love you.”

“Axis.”

Many of you are veterans in the act of gender. You weigh the gaze and disposition of strangers in a

subway car and select where to stand, how often to look up, how to accept or reject conversation.

Like a frequency-hopping radar, you modulate your attention for the people in your context: do not

look too much, lest you seem interested, or alarming. You regulate your yawns, your appetite, your

toilet. You do it constantly and without failure.

You are aces.

What other way could be better? What other neural pathways are so available to constant

reprogramming, yet so deeply connected to judgment, behavior, reflex?

Some people say that there is no gender, that it is a postmodern construct, that in fact there are

only man and woman and a few marginal confusions. To those people I ask: if your body-fact is

enough to establish your gender, you would willingly wear bright dresses and cry at movies, wouldn’t

you? You would hold hands and compliment each other on your beauty, wouldn’t you? Because your

cock would be enough to make you a man.

Have you ever guarded anything so vigilantly as you protect yourself against the shame of

gender-wrong?

The same force that keeps you from gender-wrong is the force that keeps me from fucking up.

The missile is dead. The Werewolf Apostle is still up there.

“He’s turning off.” Axis has taken over defensive awareness while I fly. “Radar off. Laser off. He’s

letting us go.”

“Afraid of our fighters?” The mercenaries cannot replace a lost J-20S. And he probably has a

wingman, still hiding, who would die too if they stray into a trap.

“Yes,” Axis says.

“Keep the gown on.” In case he’s trying to bluff us into shutting down our stealth. “We’ll stick to the

terrain until he’s over the horizon.”

“Can you fly us out?”

The Apache is fighting me. Fragments of the destroyed missile have pitted the rotors, damaged the

hub assembly, and jammed the control surfaces. I begin to crush the shrapnel with the Apache’s

hydraulics, pounding the metal free with careful control inputs. But the necessary motions also move

the aircraft. Half a second’s error will crash us into the desert. I have to calculate how to un-jam the

shrapnel while accounting for the effects of that shrapnel on my flight authority and keeping the

aircraft stable despite my constant control inputs while moving at a hundred and thirty knots across

the desert.

“Barb,” I say. “Not a problem.”

And for an hour I fly without thought, without any feeling except the smooth stone joy of doing

something that takes everything.

The night desert is black to the naked eye, soft gray to thermal. My attention flips between my left

eye, focused on the instruments, and my right eye, looking outside. I am a black box like the Pear

Mesa AIs. Information arrives—a throb of feedback in the cyclic, a shift of Axis’ weight, a dune crest

ahead—and my hands and feet move to hold us steady. If I focused on what I was doing it would all

fall apart. So I don’t.

“Are you happy?” Axis asks.

Good to talk now. Keep my conscious mind from interfering with the gearbox of reflexes below.

“Yeah,” I say, and I blow out a breath into my mask, “yeah, I am,” a lightness in my ribs, “yeah, I

feel good.”

“Why do you think we just blew up a school?”

Why did I text my best friend the appearance and license number of all my cab drivers, just in case?

Because those were the things that had to be done.

Listen: I exist in this context. To make war is part of my gender. I get what I need from the flight

line, from the ozone tang of charging stations and the shimmer of distant bodies warping in the

tarmac heat, from the twenty minutes of anxiety after we land when I cannot convince myself that I

am home, and safe, and that I am no longer keeping us alive with the constant adjustments of my

hands and feet.

“Deplete their skilled labor supply, I guess. Attack the demographic skill curve.”

“Kind of a long-term objective. Kind of makes you think it’s not gonna be over by election season.”

“We don’t get to know why the AIs pick the targets.” Maybe destroying this school was an accident.

A quirk of some otherwise successful network, coupled to the load-bearing elements of a vast

strategy.

“Hey,” I say, after a beat of silence. “You did good back there.”

“You thought I wouldn’t.”

“Barb.” A more honest yes than “yes,” because it is my name, and it acknowledges that I am the

one with the doubt.

“I didn’t know if I would either,” Axis says, which feels exactly like I don’t know if I love you

anymore . I lose control for a moment and the Apache rattles in bad air and the tail slews until I stop

thinking and bring everything back under control in a burst of rage.

“You’re done?” I whisper, into the helmet. I have never even thought about this before. I am cold,

sweat soaked, and shivering with adrenaline comedown, drawn out like a tendon in high heels, a

just-off-the-dance-floor feeling, post-voracious, satisfied. Why would we choose anything else? Why

would we give this up? When it feels so good to do it? When I love it so much?

“I just . . . have questions.” The tactical channel processes the sound of Axis swallowing into a dull

point of sound, like dropped plastic.

“We don’t need to wonder, Axis. We’re gendered for the mission—”

“We can’t do this forever,” Axis says, startling me. I raise the collective and hop us up a hundred

feet, so I do not plow us into the desert. “We’re not going to be like this forever. The world won’t be

like this forever. I can’t think of myself as . . . always this.”

Yes, we will be this way forever. We survived this mission as we survive everywhere on this hot and

hostile earth. By bending all of what we are to the task. And if we use less than all of ourselves to

survive, we die.

“Are you going to put me on report?” Axis whispers.

On report as a flight risk? As a faulty component in a mission-critical system? “You just intercepted

an air-to-air missile with the autocannon, Axis. Would I ever get rid of you?”

“Because I’m useful,” Axis says, softly. “Because I can still do what I’m supposed to do. That’s what

you love. But if I couldn’t . . . I’m distracting you. I’ll let you fly.”

I spare one glance for the gray helmet in the cockpit below mine. Politeness is a gendered protocol.

Who speaks and who listens. Who denies need and who claims it. As a woman, I would’ve pressed

Axis. As a woman, I would’ve unpacked the unease and the disquiet.

As an attack helicopter, whose problems are communicated in brief, clear datums, I should ignore

Axis.

But who was ever only one thing?

“If you want to be someone else,” I say, “someone who doesn’t do what we do, then . . . I don’t

want to be the thing that stops you.”

“Bird’s gotta land sometime,” Axis says. “Doesn’t it?”

In the Applied Constructive Gender briefing, they told us that there have always been liminal

genders, places that people passed through on their way to somewhere else. Who are we in those

moments when we break our own rules? The straight man who sleeps with men? The woman who

can’t decide if what she feels is intense admiration, or sexual attraction? Where do we go, who do we

become?

Did you know that instability is one of the most vital traits of a combat aircraft? Civilian planes are

built stable, hard to turn, inclined to run straight ahead on an even level. But a military aircraft is

built so it wants to tumble out of control, and it is held steady only by constant automatic feedback.

The way I am holding this Apache steady now.

Something that is unstable is ready to move, eager to change, it wants to turn, to dive, to tear away

from stillness and fly .

Dynamism requires instability. Instability requires the possibility of change.

“Voice recorder’s off, right?” Axis asks.

“Always.”

“I love doing this. I love doing it with you. I just don’t know if it’s . . . if it’s right.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Barb?”

“Thank you for thinking about whether it’s right. Someone needs to.”

Maybe what Axis feels is a necessary new queerness. One which pries the tool of gender back from

the hands of the state and the economy and the war. I like that idea. I cannot think of myself as a

failure, as something wrong, a perversion of a liberty that past generations fought to gain.

But Axis can. And maybe you can too. That skepticism is not what I need . . . but it is necessary

anyway.

I have tried to show you what I am. I have tried to do it without judgment. That I leave to you.

“Are we gonna make it?” Axis asks, quietly.

The airframe shudders in crosswind. I let the vibrations develop, settle into a rhythm, and then I

make my body play the opposite rhythm to cancel it out.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is an answer to both of Axis’ questions, both of the ways our lives are in

danger now. “Depends how well I fly, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all you, Barb,” Axis says, with absolute trust. “Take us home.”

A search radar brushes across us, scatters off the gown, turns away to look in likelier places. The

Apache’s engine growls, eating battery, turning charge into motion. The airframe shudders again,

harder, wind rising as cooling sky fights blazing ground. We are racing a hundred and fifty feet

above the Larger Mojave where we fight a war over some new kind of survival and the planet we

maimed grows that desert kilometer by kilometer. Our aircraft is wounded in its body and in its

crew. We are propelled by disaster. We are moving swiftly.

#I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter by ISABEL FALL #I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter #ISABEL FALL #gender identity

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royallyprincesslilly · 4 years ago

Text

Title: All Eyes On You {One-Shot}***

Lewis Tan x Reader

Warning: Cursing, NSFW AT ALL, SMUTTT, DO NOT READ AT WORK!!

Words: 4.1k

Summary: Hmmmm, Naaaaah! 🙃

Note: You all have Brandie, @night-of-the-living-shred to thank for this oh and Lewis’ thirst trappin’ ass.

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Mildly Interactive***

You couldn’t believe it had been three months. Three freaking months since you’d physically been able to touch him. Three months since you’d felt his fingertips graze your skin. Three months since you’d felt his lips on yours. Three months since you’d tasted the delicate mix of sea salt, vanilla, and spice, that was his skin. Three months since you’d felt his arms around you as you came awake every morning. Three months since you’d smelled him. Three months too long.

You loved that he had a career he enjoyed and took pride in. Loved that this career was finally beginning to show him the same love and attention he’d shown it for years, but that also meant you spent a lot more time without him in your bed and a lot more time being your own company and best friend, outside of the company and friends you had. It was often lonely, but you’d been together for almost two years now and had developed a working regiment that combated the loneliness.

Staring at the message exchange between you and Lewis had your belly filling with butterflies all over again.

MSG My Heart: Guess who’s coming home a whole week early?

MSG: Don’t play with me, Lewis.

MSG My Heart: I don’t play about coming home to my queen.

MSG: Oh my god. Really? Babe? When? Oh my god.

MSG My Heart: LOL. I love that you’re so excited.

MSG: You’re kidding. Do you know how long it’s been?

MSG My Heart: Three months, fourteen days, ten hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty seconds. I know just how long it’s been.

MSG: Melt my heart.

MSG My Heart: That’s not all I plan on melting.

The row of emojis was what sent you to the grave. You were practically still quivering from anticipation, and this was yesterday.

“All finished.”

You sat up and thanked Lucy, your wax lady who’d just made you a completely smooth again. When Lewis was away, you kept things tidy, but there was no need to get all extravagant. Today, you went all out, and that included a little surprise below the belt.

“Thank you, Lucy. Same card on file, please.”

“You got the full special. Does this mean boyfriend is back in town?”

You giggled. It was a shame she knew the drill. As she ran your credit card, you endured her teasing and salacious suggestions on how to properly welcome Lewis home so he wouldn’t dare think of leaving again. By the time you walked out of the salon, your face was red hot from embarrassment. As you got into your car, you ran down the to-do list you’d made at five this morning.

Hair, Eyebrow Threading, nails, feet, wax, shop.

Somehow you’d managed to get through all of the list, except the shopping part, and it wasn’t even three in the afternoon. Lewis’s flight didn’t come in until five. The plan was for him to come home, and the two of you would go to dinner, but you planned on surprising him at the airport. You were that anxious to see him.

As you were in the midst of getting ready to go to surprise him at the airport, your phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Guess who is officially in the same state as you?”

“Baby?”

“That’s right. I landed forty minutes ago.”

Your head snapped to the clock. It wasn’t even five o’clock.

“Baby, you said five.”

“I know, look, I thought it would be too but looks like even time and space wanted us to be together.”

You remembered the first time he said those words to you. They did the same thing now as they did almost two years ago—made your heart skip a beat.

“I just wanted to give you a heads up before I walked in the door,” Lewis added. That was when you heard a car door shut.

“Thank you, have a good one.”

Sensing something was going on, you perked up. As you walked to the window of your bedroom, your phone chime for the Ring went off, indicating someone had tripped the sensor.

“Lew, baby, is that--.”

“Honey, I’m home. Come to daddy.”

A scream escaped you before you dropped your phone and ran out of the bedroom.

“Slow down.”

Ignoring his warning, you barreled down the stairs and through your home. For the first time, you regretted signing the contract on this mammoth of a house. You should have stuck to your guns when Lewis said it was perfect, and you mentioned it was only going to be the two of you in a house meant for six people. His rebuttal—then we’ll fill it up with some kids. Once he said that you happily signed the contract right beside his name.

After way too long, you found him in the foyer at the front door, and that was when you picked up speed.

“Baby!”

Lewis opened his arms and waited for you to leap into them. Once you did, you wrapped your legs around his back and crashed your lips to his. It had been three months since you’d been kissed, and it was long overdue. Eagerly you dipped your tongue into his mouth, hoping to show him just how excited you were to see him. Lewis moaned then turned your body to press you onto the dark wooden door.

“I missed you so much,” you panted out in between kisses.

“I missed you more.”

Feeling as if there were too many barriers between you, you began peeling them off one by one. His jacket dropped to the floor within seconds. Then came his polo that you peeled off of him. with him bare chest, you allowed your fingers to reacquaint with his skin. Lewis must have felt the same way because the tee-shirt you wore, his tee-shirt was gone a few seconds after your nails scraped his back. Realizing you didn’t have on a bra, his eyes feasted on your flesh.

“Welcome home to me, indeed.”

You snorted and shook your head before wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him some more. Lewis carried you through your home until he’d laid you onto the extra-large sectional couch. On lazy days this was where the two of you always ended up just cuddling, watching TV, or just chatting. Lewis pressed kiss after kiss onto your neck, collar, and chest before he rested his head in between your breasts and moaned.

“Mmmm, I missed your skin,” he muttered.

You lazily played with his midnight locks taking your time to graze his scalp with your nail tips.

“I missed your smell,” you replied, inhaling deeply, allowing the scent that was all him to envelope you.

Lewis turned his head and kissed your sternum before trailing down your belly. When he kissed your pelvis over your leggings, he moaned.

“I canceled that dinner.”

“What?”

“I know it was supposed to be a surprise, but when my mom texted me to confirm she kind of let it slip,” he admitted.

You snorted, then laughed. It echoed through the first floor of your home.

“Okay, so dinner is canceled. What’s planned in its place?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing? Baby, I’m sure everyone who was supposed to come to this dinner tonight wanted to see you. It has been months,” you stressed.

“Oh, I know it’s been months. That is why I canceled with my mom’s blessing. She even had a message for you.”

You piqued up, straining your neck so you could gaze down at him. Making eye contact without angling his head up, Lewis smirked but didn’t speak.

“What message?”

“She’s not getting any younger and would like to be able to do Tik Tok dances with her grandchild without worry about her knees.”

Your jaw dropped to which Lewis busted out laughing.

“Wait, wait. What!?”

“You heard me.” He kissed your belly again and dipped his tongue into your belly button. Moaning softly, you bit into your bottom lip.

“So you’re saying your mother not so specifically but specifically is suggesting that--.”

“—I put a baby in you? Yeah,” Lewis filled in.

Your jaw was again ajar from your state of shock.

“Wow.”

You’d always known his mother wanted grandkids, but it was always one of those once a year at family dinners passing comment. She’d graduated now. Before you knew it, Lewis had lifted you into his arms again and was now carrying you through the halls, up the stairs.

“You’re walking away from the door. What exactly are we supposed to do with the rest of the day?”

“I think I have plenty of ideas,” Lewis answered as he carried you into your bedroom.

From walking into the bedroom, he walked on into the bathroom. Once inside, Lewis plopped you onto the sink. As soon as you were seated, he began pulling off your leggings.

“What’s happening right now?”

“I’m getting you naked. I want to wash off the airplane and travel off of me before I smother myself with you, and you’re going to help me.”

“Oh, am I?” Lewis then yanked off your pants and dropped them onto the floor, leaving you in your high waisted bikini-style thong. Lewis lowly growled as he peeped peeks of your ass in the mirror behind you.

“You were ready for me to come home, you know how much I love these,” he grunted out, snapping the elastic against your skin, leaving a subtle stinging sensation that slowly dulled. Though it dulled, it awoke and intensified another sensation—arousal.

He pulled back and began working on his jeans. Once he dropped them and pulled his boxer-briefs off, your teeth once again sank into your bottom lip. Your eyes traveled along his body, taking in the sleek muscles that decorated his torso down to his well defined oblique muscles that slanted inward, tempting you with that under bellybutton tattoo. He was even more ripped than he was three months ago. He was also a lot more bruised and scraped up.

“Jeez, what have they done to you?”

Glancing over his body, Lewis shrugged nonchalantly. “Eh, occupational hazard.”

You hopped off the sink and closed the space between you trailing your hand from his hip, over his ribs, and up to his chest. Once you reached his jaw, you gently cupped it.

“Let’s get you cleaned so I can take care of you.”

Walking behind him, you led the way to the shower, turned on the water, and allowed the moisture to rain over you. It was hard not to smirk when you heard Lewis’s guttural groan. As soon as he let it out to bounce off the tiled walls, his arms were wrapping around you, pulling you into him.

Lewis’s lips latched onto your neck and sucked. The force of that suck had you remembering everything that mouth had ever done to you. As if he remembered as well, his grip tightened as his hand roamed to your backside to cup it. It felt like he moved his hands everywhere all at once as if he couldn’t be happy with one location.

“It’s been so long, baby. I need you so much,” Lewis whispered in your ear, sending a violent shiver through you that awakened so much in you that you nearly overpowered him and took control. Almost.

Before you could, Lewis pressed you to the wall, stretching your hands out along the tile. His mouth moved from your neck to your lips to suck the air right from your lungs. The man was meant for kissing. Once he was sure you wouldn’t be able to function, you felt his knee nudge your legs apart. Within seconds you felt his hand cup your sex, making you loudly gasp.

“Do you need me as much as I need you?” Knowing you had no words to express how much you needed him, you nodded.

“Words, babygirl.”

You already saw what mood he was setting. Gathering your composure, you pushed off the wall and walked over to your bath products then lathered your bath gloves. Turning back to Lewis, you gently rubbed along his body taking care not to hurt him anywhere accidentally. As your gloved hands slowly traveled across his skin, your eyes followed where they went. The white lather of the soap was a nice contrast with his tanned and tattooed skin.

Once you made it to his back, you relished the feel of his muscles dancing underneath your fingers, showing you again just how hard he pushed his body. Seductively you swirled your finger down his spine until you made it to the top of his taunt ass. There was nothing but trust from him as your hand rubbed his derriere, a trust you’d mirrored every day since nearly the day you’d met.

After several long minutes of cleaning and teasing every inch of him, Lewis again pushed you against the shower wall. This time your abdomen and face rested against its cool surface while he pressed his body against your back and ass. Instead of speaking, Lewis kissed your jaw, brought his mouth to your ear, and bit down as he pulled the shower glove off of your hand. He knew damn well it wouldn’t fit his much larger one.

It didn’t matter if they fit perfectly to him; a few moments later, you felt his gloved hand rub against your backside.

Up—down—up—down.

Lewis released a deep groan right beside your ear. Bringing his hand up your back, he gently rubbed your skin, applying enough pressure and force to clean but not enough to give you any sort of pleasure. He was an expert tease. Once his hand made it to your shoulder, he massaged it, applying more pressure dragging a satisfying moan from your lips.

“You’re tense, love.”

“I wonder why,” you whispered.

Quickly, Lewis had you flipped around staring into your eyes. As he distracted you with his golden chestnut orbs, pulling you even more under his spell, his hand wreaked havoc on your breast. He rubbed, circled, pinched, and repeated the process. Bringing his ungloved hand to join in on the pleasure, he cupped and massaged them until he brought both hands to your throat to gently but forcefully hold you there.

His lips crashed to yours soon after. His tongue was a work of art and spelled by a sorcerer and was proving to you just how well he knew how to use it. Your moans matched his, but when you felt his gloved hand against your folds, your moans increased.

“Oh, baby.”

“I can feel that tension increasing,” Lewis taunted as he turned you, placing you under one of the two overhead shower fixtures.

Once the soap from your bodies was washed away, Lewis was carrying you once again into the bedroom. With you rested across it with your legs spread, Lewis’s head and mouth licked, nibbled, and sucked a path down your body until you felt his tongue flick across your needy bud. With the arch of your back, you gasped again.

“Fuck, baby!”

“Mmm.”

In seconds his mouth was fastened over your sex, feasting as if his last meal was right between your thighs. There was an urgency to how his tongue flicked your clit and then delved between your folds only to nibble against your labia. After a few short minutes, you were a whimpering, writhing mess. Needing something to touch, your hands raked along his head. Every time you tried to snap your thighs together, he used his strength on you prying them apart and holding them to the bed so he could do as he wished.

“Fuck Lewis, yes!”

His moans were the only reply he gave. Just as you felt yourself nearing the threshold of absolute ecstasy, he pulled away and stood at the foot of the bed. As if he had a tether from him to you, your body yanked to a half-sitting position.

“What!? What’s wrong? What’re you doing?”

Lewis didn’t answer. He just stood there licking his lips before he used his thumb to swipe at the corner of his mouth. The look in his eyes told you he had no intention of coming back to finish the job.

“Lew---,” you cautiously began watching him. He couldn’t tell you that he no longer wanted you; the uterus destroying lightsaber that Kylo Ren wished he possessed said otherwise. Biting your bottom lip, you moaned.

“Come here, baby, let me help.”

Lewis walked away to the leather armchair that was in the nearest corner to the bed. He then pulled it across the room to place it at the foot of the bed. By that time, you thought he meant for you to straddle him on it. So when Lewis sat, you began to move.

“Stop!”

Pausing, you gave him a questioning look.

“How long have I been gone?”

Crinkling your brow, you sighed. “Months.”

“How many?”

“Lewis--,” you began.

“—Y/N. be a good girl and answer me.”

Like a brat, you kissed your teeth and sighed out exaggeratedly. “Three months.”

“Have you touched yourself since I’ve been gone?”

Your eyes bugged. He knew the answer to that. Lewis’s eyes flicked to the right bedside table, where he knew you had your toys.

“Lewis, I don’t want to play this game,” you whined.

“Are you sure? Your nipples are telling a different story.”

Narrowing your eyes, you ended on an eye-roll. “Yes.”

With your answer, Lewis stroked his cock, bringing your attention to the massive erection just standing tall as if it knew there was none like it. Lewis groaned and sucked in a breath.

“Though I’ve tried not to, I’ve done this several times. I’ve lost track of how many.”

You could hear his voice speaking, but you were too focused on his actions to really allow any words to resonate. Watching his large, veiny hand stroke his need had your mouth watering. It was so damn sexy. The sighed, coupled with his moans, was enough to make fresh wetness pool between your legs.

When his hand stopped, you followed it to rest on the arm of the chair. A few seconds passed before you realized he wasn’t going to bring it back to continue. Locking eyes with him, you recognized the look.

“Show me how you’ve done it.”

You could have choked from the shock. You knew he wasn’t joking, and you knew better than to toy with him when he got like this. Bringing your hand down your body, you cupped your own sex and groaned. It was insane how wet you were.

“Show me,” Lewis said in his impossibly deep voice. It had been months since you’d heard it this clearly. Facetime sex was great, and all, but there was nothing like his voice in person.

Using your two fingers, you spread yourself so he could see. Lewis’s grunt was loud, and the jerk of his member was a substantial one. As if in a trance, your fingers found your opening and swirled around, coating themselves before circling your clit. The second you began, you had to steady yourself. You knew you wouldn’t last long with him sitting there, but you wanted to give him a good show. Your fingers sped despite your best efforts to slow them. Once your back arched, you had to pull your hand away. The action had your back arched more as you dropped your head back.

“Fuck!”

“Such a beautiful pussy baby,” Lewis huskily whispered.

Bringing your head back to resume eye contact, you took a deep breath then continued. Starting slowly, you sucked your bottom lip and focused on his eyes rather than how you were making yourself feel. Dipping two digits inside your heat, you squirmed, jutting your breasts into the air. Lewis groaned from across the room and brought his hand back to his cock. After a few strokes, he groaned and put his hand back on the arm of the chair.

“How’s it feel, baby?”

As you plunged your fingers in and out of your body, you spoke, “So good, but I want your hand. Your fingers. Your mouth.”

You gasped then brought your soaking fingers to your clit, intent on one thing. Release. Your fingers moved quickly, racing you toward your release. Lewis must have sensed it too because he was now at the edge of the chair observing.

“Come for me, Y/N!”

“Mmm, fuck Lewis, I’m gonna—gonna--.”

Your back arched again, and your fingers sped, and within seconds you screamed out and shook from the sheer power of your release. While you were lost in your pleasure, you didn’t hear anything else but the pounding of your heart. When you felt his cock fill you to the hilt, you screamed and came again and clenched around him. Lewis growled, pinned your thighs to the bed, and plowed into you in a way that you knew you’d feel even tomorrow.

His strokes were not meant to tease you or reacquaint his body with yours. They were meant to please, meant to mark, meant to ruin you for any other separations. He wanted to erase months, show you how he alone could make you feel this way, and how only he could give you what you needed. When he shifted your body to hoist it a few inches off the bed to give you long, deep strokes, it was over. another orgasm claimed you, and your nails claimed his skin—marking him as yours as much as he marked you as his.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. I’ve missed you so much.”

With those words, Lewis pulled you up to him, so he was holding you as he was sitting back on his legs, and you were straddling him with your legs wrapped around his back. He controlled your body with ease and skill, lifting you only to drop you on his protruding heat.

“I missed you.” Your lips crashed to his and took control of this. You nibbled his lips and sucked his tongue.

It was such a beautiful mix of submission and dominance that the sheer intimacy of it had your belly fluttering.

“This won’t be long, babe, I want too much,” Lewis warned.

“Fuck me!”

Dropping you back to the bed, Lewis held your legs like a pair of scissors and began throwing pummeling thrusts into you. You were thankful you’d chosen a home that had no neighbors for miles and in the middle of plenty of greenery. As he gave you everything he had the next few minutes, you took it all.

Once you felt his move from thoughtful calculation to no order or rhythm, you knew it was a matter of seconds. Sure enough, you felt him release into you as he grunted and groaned loud enough to compete with your shrieks and shouts in between his utterance of how much he loved you. Lewis buried himself inside of you and pulled your final orgasm free.

The two of you laid there for long minutes, composing yourselves while trying to catch tour breaths. When he rolled off of you onto the bed beside you, he groaned.

“Mmm, I love you so much,” Lewis repeated.

You rolled to his side and rested your head on his chest as he wrapped his arm around you.

“I love you more, baby.”

“Although I think that was the one that did it, we have all night.”

“Did what?”

Lewis rolled on top of you and plastered his hands on your belly. “Put a baby in here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, so you were trying to get me pregnant?”

His smile was wide, cheesy, and completely charming.

“Do you have any objections? According to my calendar, you’re fertile.”

Lewis thrust forward, joining your bodies again. Completely shocked, you gasped.

“Lewis.”

“Mmmm, god you feel like mine. Let me give you something else that’s mine.”

“You’re serious?”

You’d talked about starting a family together before, but you’d never made a decision. It was still something sweet to think about. Lewis stroked forward, then retreated and did it again and again.

“I am, but I want you to be my wife first.”

Your heart stopped.

“Are you breathing?”

As if for emphasis, he rotated his hips, making you feel his depth and breadth completely. Clenching around him, you shivered.

“Mrs. Tan has a nice ring to it, as does wife, mother of my children.” With every word he spoke, he circled some more.

“Love of my life,” he finished before he picked up his pace making your eyes roll to the back of your head.

You knew that there would be no rest for the wicked, and it was evident Lewis was in a wicked mood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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@munteanhorewrites @night-of-the-living-shred @caramara3 @chaneajoyyy @dangerouslovefanfic @sonjashuterbugjohnson @i-just-like-fanfics @areubeingserved @areubeingserved-too

#all eyes on you one shot #Lewis Tan #lewis tan fanfiction #lewis tan one shot #lewis tan x reader #lewis tan x you #lewis tan x black reader #lewis tan smut #black fanfiction

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eastertag · 4 years ago

Text

@willow-salix gift for @gordonthegreatesttracy

The only thing he was aware of was the pain, pain so great it felt like his entire body had been ripped apart and set on fire. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he wasn’t even sure if he was alive or dead.

A world of pain, beyond which nothing else existed.

The heavy weight that had been pounding on his chest stopped, his lungs screamed in protest as he tried to suck air into them, fighting with him.

“I’ve got output!”

“He’s back!”

-x-

THIRTY-SEVEN MINUTES EARLIER

“You’re so lucky!”

“I know,” Gordon grinned, something that had been an almost permanent fixture on his face for the past three days since he’d heard that he, a relative newcomer, had been picked over everyone else. It was such an honour, completely unexpected, but an honour nonetheless.

“How did you even pull it off? Did Daddy throw some cash their way?” Browns teased.

“Ha! You wish that was the reason, then you’d never have to admit that it’s all down to my superior skills and outlandish charm,” Gordon preened as he yanked at the left leg of his dry suit. It was cumbersome, far thicker than he was used to, a complete pain in the ass to drag on, but an essential bit of kit that he would not be allowed out without.

Browns helped him hoist the back up over his shoulders once he got his arms in the holes. Gordon rolled his shoulder, settling the stiff material in place as best he could. He still felt uncomfortable but it sure beat the alternative.

“Five minutes to go!” his commander called through the door. “You almost ready, Tracy?”

“I was born ready, sir.”

“Good lad, then get moving.”

Gordon tried his hardest not to run out of the door, so eager was he to get his butt in that seat. Some people would never understand his excitement, but to him it was a dream come true. He’d seen the way his eldest brother would practically vibrate with excitement whenever he called home and told them all about the latest plane he’d been called in to test drive and, Gordon had to admit, he’d never really understood what all the fuss had been about. Now it was his turn and he knew that he’d be grovelling to Scott in a few hours time, begging his forgiveness for all the times he’d teased him about his latest winged crush. He was just as guilty, except his crush had two sleek and sexy foils propping her out of the water like the majestic queen that she was. And he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.

The next five minutes had flown by faster than he could track, people had surrounded him on all sides, all yanking and pushing and prodding him into place. One had helped him climb into the cockpit, carefully navigating so as not to knock his helmet on the metal bars of the reinforced frame that would encase him on both sides. Another had buckled him into his seat, bringing the safety straps down over his shoulders and clipping them into the buckle between his legs. Yet another had double checked the air supply to his suit, just in case.

The Navy hadn’t touched hydrofoils for almost a century after they had been deemed too expensive, too unpredictable and of no real use. Now WASP had taken up the challenge.

The project, codenamed Poiseiden, had seen the designing, building and now the testing of the Sea Skimmer hydrofoil, which looked set to be the next shining gem to come out of the experimental watercraft division.

As long as it worked as it should, there was the potential for it to become a standard vehicle in all branches of WASP before the end of the year, making high speed sea rescues or pursuits all the easier.

“Did you hear me, Tracy?” the engineer to his left asked again, making him jump.

“Yeah, sorry,” Gordon winced, cursing his lack of attention.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“I’m good, I swear. I was just running a mental checklist and didn’t hear you the first time,” he lied smoothly, refusing to admit that he had been picturing the glory that he’d get from this once the programme was rolled out across the board. This was a career making opportunity and he couldn’t afford to blow it.

“Good,” the man patted the top of Gordon’s helmet affectionately, before bellowing over his shoulder; “Team, roll out!”

The flock of people that had been buzzing around the craft melted away, each person having already completed their specific task or moving to prepare for it, leaving Gordon alone.

His gloved hands flexed on the controls, impatient to get going. The silence around him was broken by the crackle of the radio then the unmistakable sound of a countdown. Thirty seconds to go...twenty...ten...five…

The second clearance was given he was off, easing the boat out of its covered dock and out into WASP’s test harbour. Once he was clear of the floating observation platforms he opened her up, moving her in a graceful figure eight, just letting her glide through the water as he got a feel for the way she handled while gradually increasing speed.

He was five miles per hour off the predicted speed when he felt the first hint of lift, the very thing he had been waiting for. He straightened out, deviating from his previous path to that of a straight line before pushing the throttle a little more.

As her speed increased so did the lift, the foils doing their job perfectly, raising her hull out of the water, the foils beginning to skim just as they were supposed to. He couldn't help the little woop of excitement that escaped as the bow kept lifting higher and higher. It was only bloody working!

“You’re doing great, Tracy,” the voice over the radio said. “How does she feel?”

“Great, just great,” Gordon replied. “She’s handling like a dream, a little twitchy but nothing terrible. I can feel every little move that the water makes but not like a normal boat, more like when you’re surfing. She’s not plowing through the water, she’s skimming it just as she’s supposed to.”

“How much more can she take?”

Gordon glanced down at the speedometer, registering that she was already at just over two hundred miles per hour.

“Nothing in here, I'd need to take her to the open water.”

“Affirmative, carry on.”

Grinning widely, Gordon steered her straight for the opening that led to the stretch of ocean that was permanently closed to all marine traffic within a hundred and fifty square miles. He heard the safety boat following somewhere behind him but ignored it, they were professionals and would know to keep out of his way, he just had to concentrate on his own driving.

Once he was clear he pushed the throttle forward easing into the last third, ready to push her to her max. He watched as the speedometer readouts climbed ever higher, ten miles, twenty, thirty, she kept going, lifting higher and higher out of the water. He wasn't just feeling it, he could see it, the angle of the horizon line ahead of him changing before his eyes.

“Give her all she’s got, Tracy,” his commander encouraged and Gordon was only too happy to comply. It felt amazing, she was gliding, almost effortlessly, barely skimming the surface of the water as her sleek, aerodynamic foils sliced through all resistance like a hot knife through butter.

“Yes, sir!”

He pushed the throttle forward that last few millimeters until it could go no more. The engines roared their approval as the numbers continued to tick over edging ever closer to that elusive three hundred mark…

“Yes!” he screamed in triumph as the two rolled into a three.

“Well done, Tracy!” the voice over the radio praised. “How does she feel?”

“Like she’s standing still,” Gordon enthused. “It’s effortless, I can barely feel her moving at all. Smooth as silk.”

“Give her one last go around and then start easing back into port.”

“Got it,” Gordon confirmed, moving to do just that.

What happened next was both too quick to register but also felt like it was happening in slow motion. His hand gripped the throttle, starting to ease it back in order to begin deceleration, meaning to execute a large sweeping curve to bring her back around to face port. The handle, which should have moved back as easily as it had moved forward, stayed exactly where it was.

The hydrofil was already coming into the turn and her nose lifted even further, suspending her almost bolt upright for a split second before she left the water completely, shooting up into the air.

She cartwheeled through the air, end over end for three full turns before she came crashing face down into the water. Somewhere during the second tumble Gordon had managed to locate and press the button on the side of the steering wheel that activated the emergency ejector seat.

He felt the side of his helmet crack against the crumple cage, making his brain rattle in his skull as darkness overcame him.

“Move! Move! Move!” Commander Jennings bellowed as the safety boat he was on rushed to the scene. He could see the pilots seat in the distance, floating in the ocean not far from the wrecked craft.

His instruments and readouts told him that the safety valves in Gordon’s dry suit had opened, meaning that the suit’s sensors had detected enough ejection force to initiate the rush of air that would fill the suit, acting as both a cushion and a stabilizing force to protect his body as it crashed into the sea like a rag doll.

The sensors also told him that Gordon was not breathing.

They reached his side in less than a minute, paramedic divers already throwing themselves overboard to reach him before they had come to a complete stop.

They turned him over, finding a deep crack in his helmet that extended to the visor which was letting in water, filling up the space his head currently occupied. They flipped open the visor, letting the majority of the water drain away, but the hoped for breath was never heard.

A hover stretcher appeared beside them as they released his safety harness and dragged him to the board. He was strapped down and hauled into the boat as quickly as possible.

The second he was aboard they wasted no time in releasing the safety catch on his helmet and removing it as carefully as possible. They knew that they were risking further damage to his neck or spine, its current condition unknown, but getting him breathing was their top priority.

Working in tandem one started rhythmic chest compressions, trying to force the water out of his lungs and air down into them. On the count of thirty the paramedic stopped allowing his partner to seal her mouth over Gordon’s pushing two breaths into his lungs. They waited a beat, eyes searching for any kind of response while another of the team held the medscanner over him, waiting for the verdict. Nothing.

“Keep going, I’ll get this tube in him,” another ordered as they continued to work. Two rounds of chest compressions and mouth to mouth were completed as they readied the tube, chest compressions continuing as it was inserted.

They worked solidly for more than three minutes until finally, blessedly, the medscanner registered the faintest flicker of life. But it was enough.

-x-

The nurse hadn’t expected the sheer number of people that surged through the doors of her emergency room, all yelling one name and demanding to know what was going on, where he was, to be taken to him, to see his medical records and to talk to his doctor RIGHT THIS MINUTE.

“You can’t all be in here,” she started, trying to instill some kind of order into the chaos that was now clustered around the receptionist, who was blinking like a deer in headlights, unable to form words, her eyes darting from one to the other, trying to decide who to answer first.

“Are you in charge here?” the tallest man demanded to know, his eyes flicking from her face to her name tag, Senior Nurse Sophie Gardner.

“I am,” she stated calmly, crossing her arms to show she meant business. She’d been on the receiving end of a large number of distressed family members and knew that they would pounce on her the second she showed even the slightest hint of weakness.

“Who are you here to see?”

“Gordon Tracy, he was brought in by air around 90 minutes ago,” Scott told her, trying his hardest not to snap.

“And you are?”

“His brother.”

“And the rest? It’s close family only, no friends allowed.”

“His brothers and our grandmother,” Scott answered, daring her to argue.

“All of you are family?”

“Yes! What do you need ID now?” Scott snapped, rapidly losing patience.

“Can we see my grandson now, please?” Sally asked, inserting herself in front of Scott and into the conversation.

“Let me just look him up,” Sophie said, moving to the computer to pull up his file. She remembered the state of him when they had brought him in, she had only just come on shift but had been there to do the handover.

An air ambulance had arrived, landing on the helipad on the roof and he had immediately been rushed through her department, barely giving them time to complete the minimum of observations and take notes before he had been whisked away again. It wasn’t unusual, they were one of the most advanced military hospitals in the country, they were used to life or death cases.

She could picture him, lying on the stretcher, strapped to a board, his uniform suit cut to ribbons both from scissors and from whatever had happened to him to cause so much damage. He was instantly fast tracked through her department and rushed on to the surgical team for scans and treatment.

Now Sophie was faced with his scared and demanding family and it looked like it would be falling to her to deliver some of the bad news.

“He’s being prepped for surgery, he might even be in by now. The full extent of his injuries aren’t known but I can promise you we’re doing our best.”

“When can we see him?” Virgil asked, butting in for the first time, leaving John to continue texting Kayo who had stayed behind with Alan. Alan had not been happy with that decision, but the others had stood firm. They didn’t know what they were going to find when they got there, what state their brother would be in and the youngest didn’t need to see anything that would be hard for him to forget. Scott had tried to impose the same restriction on Sally but had quickly given up, knowing it had been a lost cause before he had even started.

“When he’s out of surgery and stable,” Sophie replied kindly, knowing that they didn’t mean to be so forceful and demanding, she wasn’t going to take it personally just yet. “If you’ll all follow me I’ll take you to the relatives room where you can wait for news, I’ll let the surgeons know that you’re here but I’m afraid you might be in for a long wait.”

“Waiting won’t be a problem,” Scott assured her as they stalked down the corridor after her.

It was a silent party that sat in that room all night long, sat for more than nine hours as their little brother underwent one gruelling surgery after another, the first of many trips into the theater that he would undergo over the next few days, or so they had been told.

The member of the surgical team, who had been called in to talk to them, had been kind and very sympathetic as he had delivered the crushing news, revealing the full extent of Grodon’s injuries. Each one more horrific than the last.

The immediate concern was his ruptured spleen, lacerated liver, punctured lung and depressed skull fracture. The plan was, if the current surgeries he was undergoing went well, to keep him in a medically induced coma as soon as he was out of surgery, give his body at least 24 hours to rest and strengthen before taking him back in to deal with the numerous fractures he had sustained.

Among those fractures were a broken nose, broken arm, a fractured wrist, a broken leg, fractured pelvis, numerous broken ribs and, most worrying of all was the two cracked vertebrae in his neck, two herniated discs and the pulled muscles that went along with them.

If the operations to fix and stabilize those broken bones went well, then he would be passed to the cosmetic surgery team who would do what they could for the deep lacerations that littered his skin, friction burns and the removal of any foreign objects that had entered his body due to flying shrapnel.

The nurse had kindly sent a porter in with hot drinks and sandwiches for them once the doctor had left but they remained untouched, none of them able to stomach the thought of eating. All they could do was watch the clock, counting down the minutes and, for some, praying to anyone they thought would listen. They bargained, they made promises, everything that could possibly help.

They had lost too many people in their family already, their grandfather and mother on the same day, their mothers parents a few years later and then, most recently, their father. The thought of losing another person, one so integral to their lives, was too horrible to even contemplate.

“He’ll be fine,” Scott said out loud, feeling the need to break the silence, knowing exactly what his family were thinking because he’d undoubtedly been having the same thoughts. “It’s Gordon, nothing keeps him down for long.”

“He’s made it this far,” John agreed. “I saw the report on the hydrofoil and-”

“Wait, how did you see that?” Virgil asked, happy to be distracted.

“I...well...I have my ways,” John stammered, his face slightly flushed, refusing to look at them.

“John?” Scott’s tone said it all.

John sighed defeately. “I wanted to know exactly what happened, I might have hacked into the accident report that WASP submitted an hour ago.”

“I can’t believe you did that!” Virgil groaned. Honestly, John was supposed to be the brother that he didn’t worry about, because it obviously wasn’t Gordon or Scott.

“I can,” Scott said, glaring at his younger brother who stared right back, undeterred by the look that had had many a young air force recruit shaking at the knees.

“Are you telling me you don’t want to read it?” John asked innocently, waving his phone temptingly in his brother's direction.

“No, of course not, that’s highly illegal and-”

John wiggled the phone one last time.

“Give it here,” Scott growled, leaning over to snatch the phone. “Just to see if there is anything we can blame them for.”

“Of course,” John agreed placidly. “That was the only reason I looked.”

Virgil tried to hold in the small snort of laughter that bubbled up, feeling that it would be highly inappropriate, but his grandmother caught his eye, smiling softly.

Sally reached for one of the now cold cups of coffee that had been provided and, as always taking their cues from her, Virgil did the same.

“Eat up, boys,” Sally instructed, nodding to the plates of sandwiches. “When that boy comes through, and I’ve no doubt that he will, he’s going to need our strength. He’ll have a lot to deal with and we’re going to be there for him.”

“Yes, Grandma,” they agreed, dutifully reaching for a sandwich each. She was right, their brother was a fighter, he was a Tracy after all, there was no way on this earth or beyond that he would let something like this take him out.

-x-

The first thing Gordon noticed when he regained consciousness was the fact that his mouth was so dry his tongue felt like the inside of a hamster cage and he couldn’t seem to work up any spit. He concentrated hard and tried to swallow a couple of times but something was stopping him.

He tried to lift his arm to touch his mouth but that one tiny movement was enough to wake up his body as well as his mind. Pain the likes of which he had never felt before engulfed him from head to toe, not one part of him seemed to be free of it. Even his eyeballs hurt. He couldn’t help the little whimper that escaped his nose and, when he tried to speak, to call out for any kind of help at all, he was once again hampered.

“Hey, hey, you’re OK, just calm down for a second, let me get a doctor,” someone said, their voice soothing and gentle, as was the cool hand they placed on his forehead. A buzzer sounded somewhere nearby and he forced his eyes open to see what was happening.

“Try not to talk or move,” said a new voice that was accompanied by a blurry face. “You were in an accident and you’re in hospital. You’ve been through a lot but you’re responding really well, you’ve got a breathing tube but your lungs seem to be working fine so just sit tight for a few minutes and we’ll see about getting that out for you.”

Gordon allowed himself to relax as best he could as the first person to have spoken returned.

“Are you feeling any pain?”

He nodded as best he could with what felt like a neck brace holding him still and even that little movement hurt. How could something as simple as moving his head take so much energy? How could it be such an effort?

“I’ll just give your epidural a little top up, you’ll soon feel better. We had to reduce your medication a little to bring you round and it's always a bit of a balancing act to get the right amount to keep someone comfortable.”

He, Gordon could tell it was a male now, was as good as his word and soon the aching in his body dulled from a screaming roar to a low rumble, far more manageable than it had been before.

“I’m Doctor Clark,” another new voice announced, introducing himself. “I was your surgeon and I’m here to see about getting that tube out of you, but I need to just check you over first, is that alright? Don’t try to nod, just lift your hand or even a finger if that’s all you can do.”

Gordon tried to nod anyway but gave up and commanded his right hand to move, finding it a little easier now that he could barely feel it. The doctor could do whatever he needed to, as long as he got that damn tube out of him and let him have a drink.

Dr Clark checked the readouts, made him breathe deeply a number of times, listened to his chest and, after attaching a suction device to the end of his tube, made him cough a few times to clear his lungs, then listened to his chest again.

“OK, you’re sounding good, can you just open your mouth for me?”

Gordon did as he was told and the doctor suctioned away with little moisture he’d managed to produce with his coughing, cut away the tape holding the tube in place and took hold of the end.

“I’m just going to deflate the air cuff inside, you might feel a small easing of pressure but don’t worry if you can’t.”

Gordon felt nothing but assumed that the doctor had done as he said he would.

“I need you to take two deep breaths for me and then when I tell you, I need you to give me a couple of good coughs, can you do that?”

Gordon attempted a thumbs up as nodding or moving his head much was making him dizzy, but he couldn’t move enough to do so and had to settle for just a brief one finger lift.

“Alright, deep breaths, one...and two...and now cough, nice big cough…”

As Gordon coughed the doctor tugged gently on the tube. He felt it slide up his throat, hitting his tonsils on the way out, making him gag and cough as he fought to keep calm.

“All done,” the doctor praised, and immediately an oxygen mask was slapped over his nose and mouth, easing his breathing just a little. “You did good, how do you feel?”

Gordon tried to swallow, to speak but his throat felt like it was on fire and all he could do was croak.

“Mouth dry?”

He coughed again, wincing at the pain in his throat.

“We can’t let you drink yet, but we can try to make you a little more comfortable.”

The nurse took his mask off again and inserted something wet into his mouth which she swirled around, coating the inside of his mouth. It felt horrible, like a wet slug rolling around in there, but it at least gave his parched tongue a little relief, although it was nowhere near enough.

“What happened?” he rasped after clearing his throat a few times and drinking a little more.

“You’ve been in an accident, but you’re safe now,” Dr Clark told him.

Gordon frowned, although the action made his head hurt. “Was I...mission?” He must have been doing something, there was no way he could have any kind of accident of this magnitude on his island home with his family present… his thoughts skidded to a halt.

“Family?” he managed to whisper, his eyes darting around the room. Had something happened to them? Had they been in a plane somewhere?

“They are all in the relatives room, waiting for you to wake up,” the nurse told him.

“They...OK?”

“Yes, they weren’t involved,” the nurse answered, obviously used to the way that patients' minds could work. Gordon closed his eyes, relaxing now that he knew his family were safe. That meant that he must have been doing something with his unit.

“Team?” he rasped.

“I’m sorry?” the nurse obviously couldn’t decipher that one.

“My team...hurt?”

“Oh, no, it was just you.”

That gave him a little peace of mind, knowing that no one else had been hurt, but that still begged the question of what the hell had he been up to?

“What happened...to me?

“Some kind of boat crash,” Dr Clark explained, looking up from the notes he was adding to the tablet at the end of his bed. “I didn’t ask too many details, I just got to work. I patch up people, not machinery.”

“Boat?”

“Yes,” the doctor nodded. “I hear your family are rather anxious to see you, would you feel up to seeing one of them?”

Gordon nodded as hard as he was able, even though he’d been told not to. There was nothing he wanted more in the world than to see a familiar face.

-x-

“He’s awake,” the nurse told the waiting Tracys who had become an almost permanent fixture in the relatives room over the last ten days. Sometimes there would be just one of them, more often than not only two, but now there were six of them waiting with baited breath to find out the news.

A sigh of relief rippled around the room as they all let out the breaths they had been holding.

“Can we see him?”

“Is he talking?”

“Does he remember anything?”

The questions came thick and fast as they often did. Grace had gotten used to one or more of them popping up without any notice and demanding information. They had managed to pull some major strings and gotten hold of his medical records, how she did not know, and had sat there poring over them until they knew as much about his case and treatment as she did. The grandmother, it transpired, was a retired surgeon that still kept her hand in now and then, and so she had taken it upon herself to pelt them with questions on an hourly basis when she was there.

“Yes, you can see him,” Grace started, picking the easiest question to answer, clearing her throat to get their attention back when they broke out in excited chattering. “But only one at a time. He’s been through an ordeal and he’s not strong enough to deal with too much excitement.”

“Only one?” Virgil asked.

“Yes, just one,” Grace insisted, giving them that look they referred to as her matron glare.

They argued back and forth for a few moments, something she’d noticed they did a lot, before coming to their decision.

Grace led Mrs Tracy into the private room where her Grandson rested. In the brief time that she had been gone it seemed that Gordon had drifted off to sleep again, something that would happen quite often over the next few days as his body rested and the drugs that were keeping him pain free did their job.

“I’ll just sit here and wait,” Sally told Grace, using the same no nonsense tone that Grace herself used with difficult patients and she knew it would be useless to argue.

“I’ll get you a chair,” Grace said, giving in gracefully.

“Thank you, dear.”

-x-

Gordon didn’t know how long he’d slept for, or if he’d even slept at all. His mind was fuzzier than his first hangover and he had no clue if it was night or day. There were no curtains open in the room he was in, no hint of an outside world, just the clinical bleakness of the white ceiling and the ever present beeping of the machines monitoring him.

Thankfully he was still floating on a blissfully cloud of oblivion, feeling detached from every part of his body, like it didn’t even belong to him. He coughed to clear his throat, his mouth feeling ever so dry once again.

He tried to turn his head, to lift his arm to reach for the glass of wet swabs that had been there earlier, but another hand beat him to it, it’s arm encased in a familiar purple velour fabric.

“Gr-grandma?”

“Right here, son” she said softly, aware that he might not appreciate her speaking too loudly. She nodded for him to open his mouth and with practiced ease, swirled his weird water lollipop around his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

“Better?” she asked. “Had enough for now?” Seeing his small nod she set the glass aside and turned back to face him. “You had us all very worried, young man.”

“Sorry,” he rasped, wincing when it hurt his throat. “What...ha-happened? They said...boat.”

“You don’t remember? Nothing at all?”

“No.”

“You were test driving the new hydrofoil for the experiential watercrafts division.”

“I was?” he paused to cough, the action pulling at his chest, a sharp stabbing pain shooting through him from his ribs and abused lung. “Guess I didn’t do too well with it, huh?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t anything you did,” she assured him.

“How long was I out?” he asked. The more he was talking the easier it was getting, although his throat still felt like he’d been swallowing razor blades. He must have been asleep a good few hours to feel this weak and woosey.

Sally took a deep breath before delivering the news. “Sweetheart, you were in a coma for ten days.”

Gordon blinked, unable to fully comprehend what she had just said.

“Ten...ten days?” How badly had he been hurt? He tried to lift his head, tried to look down at his body to assess the damage. A gentle hand on his chest stopped him from straining too much, but not before he registered the fact that both of his arms were in casts, so too was his leg and, now that he wiggled, he could feel something like a large stiff belt around his stomach and between his legs. His eyes widened in shock, his eyes darting down to his midsection, his face turning white with fright when he saw the bandages. Had...had something happened to little Gordon? Oh God, please say no!

“How bad?” he demanded to know and, although his voice was shaking, Sally knew he needed to hear the truth. Knowing it would be better coming from her she didn’t mince her words, quickly and clinically rattling off his list of injuries and the treatments he’d had so far.

“Quick bone fusion for the right arm, left wrist and left leg. They reset your nose at the same time. Your pelvis wasn’t as badly damaged as they had feared and didn’t need pinning, just a little lasering, though it is immobilised for no-”

“Just my pelvis? Nothing...else?” he winced, not wanting to talk about such things to his grandma but needing to know all the same.

“Just your pelvis,” she assured him with a knowing smile.

“What else?” he asked, breathing a sigh of relief at the news that he was still whole...down stairs.

“They repaired the torn ligaments in your shoulder, have immobilised your neck due to two cervical fractures of the vertebrae-”

“That’s not...I’m not...can I walk?” he tried to wiggle his toes and thought he felt movement but he couldn’t see to be sure.

“It’s not paralysing, no. No damage from that at all.”

“What else?”

“Apart from the fractures you’ve got two herniated discs and pulled muscles there too.”

Gordon gestured with one finger for her to continue.

“You’ve got a number of cracked ribs from the CPR-”

“CPR?”

“You hit the water face down, from what we were told it was due to your helmet filling up from a crack in the visor.”

“So I basically drowned out there?”

Sally nodded, keeping her eyes focused on his. With anyone else she would have fudged a little, maybe broken it to them a little more gently and eased them in. But Gordon was, first and foremost, a Tracy, and they liked the facts, all of them, because that made it easier to fight back. And she had zero doubts that he would do just that.

Gordon took a deep breath trying to wrap his head around all the information she was laying out for him. He’d taken it all in so far, like it was happening to someone else, but that, the knowledge that he could have lost his life to the thing he loved most, the sea...well that was just too hard to think about.

“And the rest?” he asked, wanting to know all there was, no nasty surprises in his future.

“Depressed skull fracture, fractured eye socket that will heal on its own, punctured lung from your ribs and the CPR, a particle splenectomy from a reputed spleen and a repaired liver laceration. You’ve also had a number of stautures and some skin grafts already but I’m afraid you might still need more.”

“Is that all? One more stamp and I could have gotten a free cup of coffee.”

Sally didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry when he made such a bad, but totally Gordon, attempt at a joke. There had been a moment, during that long, long first day of his accident, that she had honestly thought that she might never hear his voice again, let alone have him cracking a joke less than four hours after waking from a coma. It was more than she had ever dared to dream but she knew from experience that, when it came to her grandsons, nothing was impossible.

A noise near the door made them both glance over. The sight of Scott’s face pressed against the window greeted them.

“I guess I’m popular today.”

“Yeah, I guess you are,” Sally agreed. “I could do with stretching my legs, so I’ll let him in. He's been waiting a long time.”

-x-

A steady stream of family trickled in one after the other to see their miracle sibling, but soon he was yawning, dropping off midconversation and when the nurses had their shift change the Tracys were ushered out and told to come back the next day.

Now he was sitting there, alone, unable to get up, unable to do anything to amuse himself, left alone with his thoughts. As was so often the way, he’d been tired and napping on and off while his family had been there, but the moment they had left he’d developed some kind of second wind energy rush and was now wide awake.

He tried closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep, he’d tried counting sky squids like his mother had told him to do as a child, he’d tried thinking about the most boring of Brains’ lectures, but nothing had worked.

Everytime he tried to focus on boring things or to clear his mind in order to relax, his brain insisted on replaying back the information that Grandma had given him.

He wasn’t an idiot, he knew that he was lucky to even be alive after a wreck like he’d had. He’d forced John and Scott, against their better judgement, to tell him all they knew about the accident. He’d needed to know. He needed it to try to remember exactly what it was that had happened to him and how it had gone so wrong.

The lack of memories was disturbing, to know that something had gone wrong, horrendously wrong but to have no recollection of it, it was beyond frustrating. He had a body that was effectively broken, one that, according to his doctor, would take upwards of a year to fully heal from, if such a thing was even possible. He’d been warned, as had they all, that the likelihood of him having complications was all too real and that he had better prepare himself for it.

It wasn’t just the things that he had been told and the prospect of months of painful rehabilitation that was weighing heavily on his mind, it was the thing that no one had spoken of. It was the fact that he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his career, the one that he had worked so hard to achieve, would be over.

Oh, he’d get an honourable discharge on medical grounds. But he'd be leaving in a whisper rather than the blaze of glory that his father and then his brother had done before him. He’d been on track for greatness, just as they had. He’d been the stand out star of his recruitment year, his olympic training and subsequent fitness levels and endurance had given him a fantastic platform from which to dive in with. He’d quickly risen up the ranks, making a name for himself as one of youngest but brightest in his class.

His desire to learn as well as his passion for marine biology and conservation had led to him taking a slightly different path to his fellow recruits. Many had passed on the offer, thinking it too boring but he had jumped at the chance to spend a year in command of his own bathescape studying underwater farming methods with a small but dedicated crew that had quickly become like family to him.

Any emergency at that depth could have the potential to turn into a matter of life or death and, when one of their generators had malfunctioned, taking along with it half their air filtration works, putting strain on the remaining one, they had found themselves plunged into just such a situation.

He’d had to think fast and stay calm. They had pulled up the schematics and managed to bypass the fault on a temporary basis while waiting for a supply of spare parts to be delivered. He had led his team well, he had kept them from panicking and kept the mission on track. And, in doing so, saved the research grant budget the expense of failing and having to surface to try again the next year when the migration season started again.

His determination, dedication, resourcefulness and persistence had been noted, along with his ability to stay calm under pressure. It had gained him a promotion and fast tracked his offer to join the team on the experimental watercraft division, something he’d always dreamed of.

Now it seemed that that dream had well and truly come back to bite him on the ass in the form of the hydrofoil that had apparently just wrecked all his hopes for the future in one fell swoop. What was the point of anything anymore?

A wave of hopelessness washed over him like a tidal wave, stealing his breath and the last of his control. The brave face he’d been holding on to all day while in the presence of his family faded away, giving way to heartbroken tears.

“Why?” he asked out loud to no one in particular, was he talking to God, to whatever guardian angel that had been by his side that day or to whatever sick twisted fate it was that had chosen him to pick on. “Why did you let me live?”

-x-

“It’s been a week and he’s barely made any progress,” Scott sighed to John as they walked the short distance to Gordon’s room in the recovery wing from the roof where they had been given permission to land.

They were the ones on shift for today's stint of what they were all secretly calling ‘Squid Watch’. Now that he was out of immediate danger they had given up the hotel rooms they had occupied for the first two weeks and had begun commuting from the island for the designated visiting hours. They had learnt that the freedom to come and go as they pleased and to stay for long portions of the day had gone once Gordon had been moved from the ICU to the more cheerful surrounds of the high dependency ward.

“Still?”

Scott nodded. “Nurse Donna told Virgil that he was barely eating, just enough to stave off the threat of another tube down his nose, he hasn’t even attempted any of the bed bound exercises he’s been given and he’s refusing to see the Physio to discuss his long term plans.”

“Stubborn brat,” John huffed.

“Well, he is a Tracy,” Scott shrugged, unable to do much else. “You know that nothing can make us do something we don’t want to.”

“Then we have to make him want to,” John replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah, right,” Scott scoffed. “We’ll just walk right on in as normal and say ‘Hey, Gordo, we know that your life as you knew it is basically over but hey, you’re still here. I mean, you can’t do anything you want to and you’re stuck in that bed for God knows how long but eat up your greens, there’s a good boy.’ That’ll go down real well.”

“Obviously we won’t say that,” John scowled, his tone telling Scott that he was being as much of an idiot as Gordon at that moment in time. “It’s obvious that he’s lost his drive, he’s feeling hopeless, which is perfectly understandable.”

“Yes,” Scott sighed, “it is.”

“So we need to give him something to bring him hope, something to work hard for.”

“You’d think the thought of walking again would be enough for him.”

“Would it be for you?” John asked quietly. “Think about it. If you had crashed one of those jets you tested, and you had ended up as hurt as he is, or worse, and you were looking down a long tunnel to an unknown future, one that very likely, won’t match up to the one you had mapped out in your head, would you have any desire to move towards it?”

Scott opened his mouth to answer, but closed it again without speaking. He wanted to say yes, of course he would, because any future was better than not having one. But he tried hard to never lie to himself or his family.

“Probably not,” he admitted quietly. It was true, if he had crashed and was facing the prospect of never flying again, of never seeing the ground vanishing beneath him as he soared up through the clouds into a brilliant blue sky, he would find it hard to accept it and carry on.

“So we need to show him what he’s missing,” John continued. “I think we need to show him the Silverfin.”

Scott sucked in a breath, letting it out through pursed lips in a long whistle.

“That's risky.”

“I know.”

“It could seriously backfire, you know that, right?”

“I’m aware of that fact, yes.”

“Because if he sees it, if he listens to our plans and then ends up unable to join in as he’d want, that could make things even worse for him.”

“I know. But, as you just said, he’s a Tracy.”

“It could be the push he needs,” Scott conceded.

“It will be the push he needs,” John promised. “We know him, we know that he can do anything he puts his mind to.”

“He’s stronger than he thinks,” Scott agreed. “Stronger than any of us give him credit for. Look at how much he’s achieved in what, just over two years in WASP? He’s done more in his career than many could ever dream of let alone hope to achieve.”

“He has,” John started walking again and Scott had no choice but to follow along or get left behind. You didn’t argue with John when he was on a mission.

“You heard Grandma, this is the most crucial part of his recovery,”John continued, assuming correctly that Scott would keep up with him. “The first steps. This is make or break time. His injuries are severe, yes, but not hopeless, not by a long shot. People have recovered from worse, he just needs to push himself to do it. It doesn’t matter how well they put him back together if he doesn’t work on holding it all in place.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I usually am,” John shrugged, no hint of boasting in his tone, just John saying the facts as he saw them.

“Yeah, right,” Scott laughed, because he was his brother and everyone knew that you didn’t ever admit to your younger siblings being right more than once in a week if you could help it. “We’re really going to do this?”

“I don’t see that we have a choice.”

Gordon was lying down in bed when they walked in, not too unexpected given the circumstances, it wasn’t like they had been expecting to see him doing much at all, but they had hoped he’d at least be sitting up since the doctor’s had cleared him for gentle movements.

“Hey, Squid boy,” Scott greeted as cheerfully as he could. “How you doing today?”

“Oh, I’m just peachy, I took a little trip to the beach, caught some waves and then I decided I needed a nap,” Gordon drawled sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “What are you two doing here, anyway?”

“We told you we’d be coming,” John answered, picking up the tablet from its holder at the end of Gordon’s bed to study it.

“And I told you not to brother, it’s not like I’m the most entertaining company at the moment and I don’t feel like having visitors,” Gordon closed his eyes again, intending on ignoring them until they went away.

“Have you eaten much today?” Scott asked, ignoring his brother’s blatant dismissal of them.

“Yes.”

“It says here you refused breakfast, you only had a yogurt for lunch and didn’t complete your order form for your evening meal,” John told him, while busily flicking through the notes.

“Hey!” Gordon opened his eyes again to glare at his brother. “Do you mind? That’s my private medical records, it’s none of your business.”

“Of course it is.” John finished his reading and returned the tablet to its rightful spot.

“Gordo, you have to eat,” Scott sighed, sinking into one of the visitor's chairs that sat beside the bed. “How can you expect to get your strength back if you aren’t fueling your body properly?”

“It’s not like I could do anything with the strength if I had it,” Gordon growled out. “I’m stuck in this bed for the foreseeable future. So tell me, oh great and powerful, Scott, just what do I need to do anything for?”

John glanced at Scott, who nodded, answering the unspoken question. Time to enact their plan. He shrugged off his backpack and opened it, pulling out his tablet. With a few quick swipes he found what he was looking for and held it up for Gordon to see.

“What’s that?”

“Our secret project,” Scott told him.

“I can’t see it from there, bring it closer.”

“No,” John stayed right where he was at the foot of the bed. “Sit up and look for yourself.”

Gordon huffed and stubbornly stayed horizontal, but his eyes kept straying to the tablet. He could barely see it, but what he could see looked vaguely familiar. Curiosity and just a touch of boredom won out.

He fumbled with the bed controls, located the remote and pushed the button to lift the head of the bed until he was brought to a sitting position.

“There, happy? Now let me see it.”

John moved closer and offered the tablet.

Gordon automatically reached out for it with his left hand, forgetting that it was encased in an air cast due to the fractured wrist. Growling in frustration he tried again with the right and took the tablet. Unable to hold it with only one hand he lifted his ‘good’ leg which, although unbroken, was covered in bruising, none of which made it an easy task but eventually he was able to prop the tablet against his thigh and scroll with his right hand.

His eyes widened as he took in the images displayed there.

“This is a Silverfin, isn't it?”

“Yep,” Scott grinned.

“But WASP didn’t continue the development, they deemed them too small and slow to be of any use and decided to focus on the Stingray.”

“We know, but Brains saw the potential in her that they didn’t. She might not have been of any use for patrolling the seas but for moving around them like we’d need, she’d be perfect.”

“He’s adapting her?” Gordon’s eyes scanned the pictures, the first one showing the Silverfin in her original form, half completed and scrapped, the funding and enthusiasm for her having dried up. The second showed her to clearly be in some kind of dry dock that was being used as a workshop. She’d been stripped back to little more than a shell, some engine parts and a turbine or two. The third and last pictures showed what looked to be new panels being test fitted and an adapted nose cone. Instead of the elongated nose she’d had originally there sat the cutest little snub nose he’d ever seen, reminding him of an upturned pigs snout.

"With Virgil's help, yes," John said.

"Why? Has he decided to branch out into contract work now that the work on the space station is almost complete?"

"Nope," John answered.

“Then what's this for?” he couldn’t help but ask, his eyes feasting on every little detail he could see. She was barely anything at the moment, but damn she could be beautiful if she was given the love and attention she had always deserved.

“For you,” Scott said quietly. John had been right, the way that Gordon had gone from apathy to interest in a matter of seconds was proof of that.

“Me?” Gordon scoffed. Even though his brother's tone had been completely serious he still couldn't believe it wasn't some kind of sick joke. “You’d need a pretty big bathtub to float her in, because that's the only kind of boat I’ll ever be around again.”

“With that attitude it will,” John said mildly, taking the second seat next to Scott.

“So do something about it,” Scott pushed. “Look at her, just look.” He stabbed a finger at the screen. “That there will be the next in our fleet, and she’ll need a pilot.”

“Me? You seriously think I’d ever be able to do anything like that, while I’m like this? You’re crazy.” Gordon pushed the tablet away, not wanting to look at it any more. That was the unobtainable right there. That was yet another reminder of what could have been but never would.

“No, not while you’re like that,” Scott sighed, sounding defeated even to his own ears.

“So do something about it,” John said curtly. “It’s your choice, we're just hoping you make the right one.” Without saying anything else he took the tablet and placed it on the bedside table. “Come on, Scott, let’s go and get a coffee before we head home.”

Scott looked from Gordon to John, taking in the frustration and sadness on one and then the calm dismissive demeanor of the other as John turned to the door.

"I told you it wasn't worth you coming," Gordon sneered, lowering the bed again.

"You're always worth it," Scott promised him before following John out the door.

The fast food restaurant just offsite wasn't the best and the coffee was far below their usual standards but it was welcome after the day they had had.

Scott and Virgil had been called out early in the morning and their relatively simple rescue had turned out to be far more complicated than they had anticipated. When they had returned they were tired, filthy and aching all over. Scott had come straight from the shower, leaving Kayo on call with Virgil, and he and John had left for the hospital.

Now their attempts at motivating their little brother had fallen flatter than one of Grandma's cakes and they were both feeling like they had done more harm than good.

"Did we just screw up?" Scott asked quietly, playing with the rim of his cup but not making any move to drink from it.

"Possibly," John sighed, sipping his own drink and making a face at the taste. "Only time will tell. We've done our best, it's up to him now. He's the only one that can decide if he's going to fight or give up entirely."

They lapsed into silence, both lost in their own thoughts. It had been so hard the first time they had walked in to see Gordon after his first life saving operation. His face had been a puffy, bruised mess from his broken nose and fractured eye socket, his eyes almost swollen shut.

He'd had a bandage around his head where they had shaved off some of his hair to examine his skull fracture and close the wound there. Both of his arms and one of his legs in air casts to keep them stable until the next day and his torso a mass of bandages and blood tinged gauze from a combination of lacerations and the two operation sites from fixing his spleen and liver.

He'd looked so small, not in stature maybe, but in energy, his aura if you will. So still and so quiet, something that Gordon only ever was when he was asleep, and that didn't happen very often with his tendency of mumbling in his sleep and turning a full rotation of the bed in a single night.

Then he had been silent, the only sound was the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the whoosh, hiss of the machine that was providing him with oxygen and regulating his breathing as he slept the deep sleep of the heavily sedated.

Over the next few days they had sat in the relatives room and prayed every time his tired body had undergone yet another operation, the surgeons doing all they could to fix his body for him.

Now they were hoping and praying that his mind could be fixed too.

"What was that?" Scott said when a beep broke the quiet, clearly looking for a distraction.

"My phone," John answered, pulling it out to check it.

"Who is it?" Scott asked, seeing the confused expression on his brother's face.

"I apparently sent myself an email."

"Huh?"

The confusion quickly morphed into a wide smile as John's eyes scanned the words.

"It was sent from my tablet."

"And?"

"It reads 'Bring me up a burger and fries when you've finished your coffees, then you can tell me more about this Silverfin."

-x-

The walk down to the hangars had never seemed to take as long as it was now. He knew it was down there, but he’d been banned from seeing anything of it since those first four pictures. It was supposed to be a surprise.

He’d tried to sneak in numerous times, he’d tried to hack into the files, he’d tried bribery, guilt tripping and sulking but nothing had worked.

He couldn't say that he minded, not really, because he knew it was there. He'd known that somewhere deep below their villa, in the center of their island, his baby had been taking shape. He’d not been allowed any input in the shape, the visuals or anything else to do with her design, but her functions, that he’d been allowed to have a say in.

Brains had spent countless hours on video calls with him, discussing everything that Gordon insisted his craft needed, from her dry tubes to her mechanical arms, the type of sonar she was using to the consoles and onboard technology. And he just knew she would be spectacular. WASP might have their Stingray, but he’d have his little Thunderbird, now dubbed Thunderbird Four after John’s space station had been upgraded and become a fully fledged craft itself, going from a stationary satellite to a fully maneuverable ship.

Sometimes the thought of his girl taking shape, waiting for him, had been the only thing keeping him going through his painful, exhausting and sometimes seemingly hopeless recovery process.��

It hadn’t been easy, on either his mind or his body and he wasn't ashamed to admit that, for a significant portion of that time, he had been the worst patient ever. Once the initial excitement of the Silverfin development had worn off and he had been staring down the long tunnel of recovery to his still quite uncertain future, he'd had times where he hadn’t been sure that it was possible to regain even half of his previous physicality, let alone get back to the full strength that would be needed to be of any use to International Rescue.

He didn’t want to be a dead weight to his family, he didn’t want them to be picking up the slack of his inadequacies, to spend more of their time rescuing his ass than the people they were trying to help.

Depression wasn’t something he had ever considered as a possibility in his life. He was the upbeat one, the one that kept the spirits up of those around him, so to not even be able to rise a smile for himself…let’s just say that there had been some very dark moments over his long months of recovery where he had not recognised himself and hadn’t been sure that there would ever be a time when he felt happy again.

He’d wanted to give up, he’d been so close to it so many times, yet somewhere, buried deep inside, covered in dust and rust, nestled a tiny nugget of steely determination. He’d found that nugget and chipped away at its bonds, had polished it and nurtured it as best he could until finally he had succeeded.

His recovery list had been almost as extensive as his injuries. He’d undergone all the common therapies such as targeted physiotherapy, smaller follow on surgeries, several aborted attempts at hydrotherapy and a rather surprising foray into hippotherapy, along with daily strengthening exercises.

But all of that had been just about bearable, physical pain and endurance was almost second nature to him, it was the mental side that had been the hardest to push past. Slowly, slowly, day by day he had become physically stronger while growing mentally weaker.

The more his body healed, the longer he was out of hospital, the more of his memories he'd regained, and with them came the darkness. Counselling had been arranged, PTSD had been diagnosed and he’d faced yet another uphill battle to rediscover the person he truly was.

He sighed, stopping for a moment to rest before he entered the hangar itself. Could he honestly say that he felt like himself again? The answer was no. No one could go through the trauma that he had suffered and not change in some way or another. No one could face death head on, shake it by the hand, politely decline its invitation and still be one hundred present themselves.

You need to find your new normal, you need to find yourself again. That had been the words that his third therapist had told him. Joel had been the only therapist he had clicked with, the only one that truly seemed to understand him and the way his brain worked, that or he was the only one to have bothered trying.

Finding your new normal, giving yourself permission to change, adapt and accept that something horrific had happened to you and that you would come out the other side a different person to the one that had gone in, that was to be expected. Joel had helped him see that, along with his family, friends and the medical staff that had supported him on his long, winding journey.

He’d gotten a little lost along the way a time or two, he’d back tracked, stopped to rest and had to drag himself back to his feet more times that he could count. But he’d done it. He hadn’t given up no matter how many times he had wanted to, no matter how many times he had been tempted to just roll over and let life continue to screw him over.

This was it, the moment of truth, the moment where he would sink or swim, the moment where he would decide once and for all if all his hard work had been worth it.

He took a deep breath and rounded the corner, leaving the shelter and protection of the tunnel corridor behind him, stepping into the hangars for the first time since he’d left the island 18 months ago, after his annual leave, preparing to return to WASP. 18 months that could be broken down into two months in the testing division, four months in hospital and twelve gruelling months of recovery. All leading up to this moment.

He walked in, Alan, Scott and John moving in formation to flank him, solid and dependable, as they had always been. They continued the distance as one, a close knit group that he knew would always have his back. The only one missing was Virgil.

“You ready, little bro?” on cue the booming bass of his brother’s voice came over the external speakers of Two to fill the hangar.

Knowing Virgil wouldn’t be able to hear him he settled for a double thumbs up. He was practically vibrating with anticipation, having to fight the urge to bounce up and down in excitement.

He heard the mechanical whirring as Two began her assent, lifting up on her support struts to reveal the door to the module, one that was painted with a big, white number Four. Slowly, almost as if it were happening in slow motion, the door lowered, creating the ramp way that the pod vehicles would descend.

His breath caught in his throat as the inside lights of the module turned on, revealing its contents.

“It’s...she’s....so yellow,” he stuttered, unable to think of anything else to say. There she was, his little bird, painted a bright, cheery yellow, her fin sticking bolt upright like a happy tail. The same little snub nose that had so enchanted him was now fitted out with high powered lights that would allow him to see in the darkest of depths. She was bright, she was gorgeous, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She was…

“Perfect,” he breathed.

He couldn’t look away, not to take in the happy and somewhat relieved smiles on his siblings faces, not to look at Brains who seemed to have magically materialised by his side to start giving him a technical rundown, not for anything.

Nothing could compare to this.

“So, was she worth it?” Scott asked as Gordon reached out to lovingly stroke the curved perfection of one engine.

Gordon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The past year might have been the worst of his life, he knew that he would carry those memories with him forever, that he would continue to dream of waking up in that hospital bed again. He knew that things would never be the same for him, he was forever changed but, out of the darkness of his worst memories there was his little sub of hope.

“This is the best day of my life,” he sighed to himself as he settled in her seat, feeling the way it seemed to mould to his body with his exact specifications. This feeling right here, this made it all worth it. And he knew that one day in the not too distant future someone out there would see a flash of bright yellow in the darkness and know that same feeling of hope. They would know that help was on the way.

Because that's what International Rescue did, they defied the odds, they did the impossible and they never gave up.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2004 #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds 1965 #Gordon Tracy #grandma tracy #Scott Tracy #John Tracy #Virgil Tracy #alan tracy

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