#also would love to see him provide the evidence to the dynasty and watch it not change a damn thing

[chronurgy]

might be alone in this, but I actually prefer essek being totally correct about the luxon not being a god more than any other theory. there's something so delicious in knowing you've proved evethying you'd always striven to prove, and then realizing that what you did to get there wasn't worth it. that you shouldn't have done it. to be totally vindicated, and have it not matter. to claim the title of the world's bestest, most smartest, rightest boy and realize it doesn't mean a damn thing

[unpeumacabre]

my kingdom for a horse: chapter 1

the year is 1601, a messenger has been sent to dongnae, and he has not returned. lord cho-hak-ju advises the joseon king to send crown prince lee chang to dongnae to investigate, but the plot he unravels there threatens the safety of the entire kingdom, and the stability of the dynasty.

a rewriting of kingdom, and lee chang finds love.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Lee Chang/Yeong-shin

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr might mess up the formatting)

Count: 7k

next -->

A/N: ummmmm so basically i wanted to rewrite kingdom... with a yeong-shin/lee chang twist... and it turned out as a massive lee chang character study lol. the plot borrows elements from the drama but is quite different - i wanted to bring out certain aspects of the characters and tone down on some of them a little more. the story is mostly complete, i'm just in the midst of editing, so updates will be weekly. enjoy~

Survive.

Lee Chang gathers the reins of his horse in his hands, and looks out towards the horizon. The sun is waning, and Mu-yeong is complaining about the flies, and Lee Chang still feels the heat of anger and injustice scorching his skin.

He had been there when the King had sent the messenger to Dongnae – a routine check it had been, nothing more. Apparently, Cho Hak-ju and his spies had heard murmurs of a rebellion in the South, and he had whispered his foul poison into the King’s ear, convincing him to send a messenger to Dongnae to put the magistrate on his guard.

Lee Chang had also been there when the messenger’s horse had returned, bereft of its rider, and bereft of its message.

“Why not send the Prince to investigate?” had been Cho Hak-ju’s answer. “We must send someone reliable this time, someone who will not shirk his mission. And the Prince must have been so bored of late. There is little to occupy his scholarly mind in recent days, what with everyone being occupied preparing for the new prince’s birth.”

“Why not send Beom-il? Surely your son is more experienced than I am at these matters,” Lee Chang had answered, and he had felt the strain of his smile stretch tight against his cheekbones.

“Of course, but Beom-il is indisposed at the moment. He has been sent to oversee the setting up of the new regiment at Haeju, and will not return for a few days more.”

He was an odious snake, he was, Lee Chang thought bitterly, but still the King had acquiesced.

His only modicum of hope lay in the words the King had said to him that night, as they took their private dinner together – a rarity, now that most of his time was occupied with the queen and her increasingly-rounded belly.

“It pains me to say this, but…” the King had picked at his food. “There is something brewing in the south, although I do not believe it to be the rebellion that Lord Cho is suggesting.”

Lee Chang personally thought there was nothing in it, but then again, he didn’t have the extensive network of spies the King and Cho Hak-ju seemed to have. He could not – and probably never will – understand how one can trust men who live in the shadows and trade secrets – and lives – for their livelihood. Perhaps it would not make him a good king, but Lee Chang wanted to believe that it would make him a better one instead.

“I want you to investigate what the Haewon Cho clan is up to in the south,” the King had then said, and Lee Chang had almost fallen from his seat.

“Father, why?” he had asked, a perfectly reasonable question. He well remembered the times in his youth when Cho Hak-ju had said something insulting to him or done something to side-line him, something so serious that he had felt the need to go to the King for recompense. Every single time, he could recall being brushed off and told “Lord Cho thinks only of the good of the nation” and “you would do well to heed his teachings”. Never had the King shown even a hint of resentment or suspicion of the Haewon Cho clan’s leader, and Lee Chang had always thought his trust in Cho Hak-ju unshakeable.

Not so unshakeable, it seemed. A shadow had crossed the King's face then, and he had turned away as if to hide his face.

“I did not believe it when first the Head of the Royal Commandery brought it to my attention,” the King had said then, “but Cho Beom-il has been implicated in several – well, shall we say, unsavoury deals, and Lord Min’s investigations point to Lord Cho at their head. But he has been very careful to cover his tracks, and the evidence is, while convincing, mostly circumstantial.”

Lee Chang had taken a sip of his wine, his throat suddenly dry. “And of my role in all this?” he had managed. “Why send me? Surely by doing so we are playing precisely into Lord Cho’s hands.”

“I do not yet know what he plans,” the King had replied, shaking his head. “All I have are ominous tidings from my spies in Sangju and Dongnae that there is something nefarious being planned, but Lord Cho – if it is indeed he behind it – is an intelligent man. He has not yet let anything slip. If we must play into his hands, at least for now, just know that you go as my envoy, my emissary, and not the messenger boy of the Haewon Cho clan. I trust only my son to carry this through for me.”

“I wish to see my son, and I miss my wife,” Mu-yeong complains, and it snaps Lee Chang back to reality. He huffs out an exasperated laugh at the familiar refrain.

“At least she will be well-taken care of while you are gone,” he says, letting the amusement thread through his voice. “Where did you say she was staying while you are with me?”

“With her aunt, in Naesonjae. Her brother has found work in the queen’s palace, so they have enough money to put her up at least until I return,” Mu-yeong answers, and punctuates his answer with an enormous, put-upon sigh.

“That is good,” Lee Chang says absently. “At least you need not steal desserts from my table any longer to feed her.”

“Your Highness – you said you wouldn’t - ” splutters Mu-yeong, his face turning beet red, as he spins around in his horse to check on the entourage of three guards following them. Thankfully for him, they are bickering among themselves about something inconsequential, and Lee Chang dismisses them as not having heard anything.

“We must find somewhere to make camp soon,” he decides, looking back towards the horizon, and the sun’s fading rays colouring it red.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong replies, and he slows his horse to tell the guards.

Very quickly, they find a clearing in which to make camp, and Lee Chang grooms his horse while the guards and Mu-yeong start the fire. When the fire is sufficiently large, he sits by it and unwraps the jangguk mandu prepared for him that morning by his chefs. The smell of pork and kimchi wafts like sweet perfume from the wrappings, and he catches the guards looking at him enviously from the corner of their eyes, as they dig into their mieum. The gruel splatters over the grass as they eat.

One of the guards’ voices drifts over to him on the wind. “Royals are lucky,” he says, a thread of envy in his voice. “Jangguk mandu and tteokguk for dinner. What I would do for some meat.”

“Hush,” Mu-yeong says, glancing over at Lee Chang, but he pretends not to hear their conversation, and Mu-yeong returns his attention to the guards, reassured. “You know meat is a luxury us peasants cannot afford, especially in these trying times.”

“Yeah? You’d think the royals and the lords don’t know of the ongoing famine. The other day, I was on guard for Lord Park, and he left a whole dish of goldongban untouched. Untouched!” There is a collective groan from the group.

“What I wouldn’t do for some beef and eggs,” agrees one of the others, fervently.

“My mother died of illness last month. She wasted away,” comes the quiet voice of the last guard. “And when you think of all the food that’s left on the royals’ tables…” He shakes his head, and fumbles in his pockets. “I only have my daughter and my dear wife left, and the little girl’s so much like her grandmother. Worries about me all the time. She made me this talisman to keep me safe.” He displays the charm, and Lee Chang can vaguely see the childish drawings on the blue fabric, accompanied by words he is too far away to read.

He looks down at his mandu. Suddenly, the dumplings no longer seem as inviting.

Lee Chang thinks of offering them his food, then. Thinks of unwrapping the rest of the packages tethered to his horse, and sharing the food among the guards, because, if he’s honest, there was far too much food packed for him alone.

But something holds him back. Pride, perhaps, or irrational fear, that they will hate him even more for what they might construe as his pity.

And now it is too late. Before he could come to a a decision, the guards had finished their food, and now they are standing up, stretching, and sorting out the watch schedule. Mu-yeong comes over to him and notices his untouched meal.

“You must eat, Your Highness,” he urges, his tone teasing.

But when Lee Chang turns his face up to face him, Mu-yeong must see something in his face, for he squats down, his eyes turning liquid and understanding.

“Your Highness is different from the rest of the nobles,” he murmurs, under his breath so the other guards do not hear. “You did not execute my family when you caught me stealing from your table to provide for my wife. You did not execute the maid when she ruined your second-best coat with her shoddy washing skills. You did not execute the chef when he cooked you kongguksu for dinner, forgetting soy beans give you sleepless nights. That mercy is far above what any other noble is capable of – ah, now, don’t blush, Your Highness – you know it to be true! Don’t be embarrassed.”

Lee Chang scoffs and turns away. “Be quiet, or I shall execute your whole family,” he mutters under his breath.

“Isn’t it about time you stopped joking about that?” Mu-yeong cries, aghast. “Such a threat from the Crown Prince holds more weight than you think!”

Lee Chang glares at him out of the corner of his eye, then sighs, and turns his attention away. He begins unpacking the linens with which he is to make his bed, and tries not to smile; but he is sure the way his lips twitch, gives him away.

Satisfied that he has restored his prince’s spirits, Mu-yeong returns to the rest of the guards, who have been watching their exchange with some curiosity. Lee Chang strains to hear their conversation as they welcome his guard back to their side with a comradely clap to the back, but it is late, and the hard riding of the morning has driven all the energy from his bones.

The ground is hard against his back, and it is with the unhappy feeling of rocks digging pinpricks of pain into his skin, that he finally drifts into a restless slumber.

***

He is in the King’s study, staring at the irworobongdo behind the King’s desk and thinking to himself, “I will never be king.”

The King’s great-grandfather, his great-great-grandfather, had had the folding screens installed behind his desk in his room in Gyeongbokgung Palace during his reign, to emulate the irworobongdo behind the royal throne where he held court. Lee Chang had been told by his nurse as a boy that the former King, his great-great-grandfather, had used the paintings to intimidate whoever was unlucky enough to be called to his study for an audience. After the Second War of Jeong-yu, three years ago, Gyeongbokgung had been razed to ashes, they had moved here into Changdeokgung as the main palace, and the current King had decided to adopt the same practice as his great-grandfather.

It makes a majestic sight for sure, the five peaks rising above the head of the King, flanked by the two moons, conifers, and streams running down from the mountains. Lee Chang had often been called here in his youth, and one of his earliest – and most vivid – memories is of standing before the King, only nine years old, on his knees and crying. He remembers having been summoned for some small prank he had played on one of the guards. He remembers the King’s back, tall and stately, looming above him, his arms crossed behind him, and his voice: “You are the Crown Prince, Lee Chang. Such childish frivolities are beneath you. You must always act with the maturity and dignity required of your station.”

Yet he cannot remember the King’s face.

So now, he fixes his gaze blankly on the third and middle peak of the irworobongdo, as the King strides leisurely across the room, watching him.

“Did you hear me, Chang?” he says, and his voice is quiet.

“Yes,” Lee Chang manages. “That is wonderful news. You have informed the ministers, then? That Her Highness is with child?”

“Yes, yes,” the King replies, waving his hand airily. “They have given their best wishes, of course. I am sure he will be a beautiful baby boy.”

Or a girl, Lee Chang’s mind whispers, but somehow he knows in his bones that it will be a boy. Cho Hak-ju is not known for his errors.

The King is still watching him. Lee Chang does not know what he is expecting to see.

Then he turns his head away, sighs, and gestures imperiously towards Lee Chang, beckoning him forward. Lee Chang steps forward and kneels at the King's feet. He feels like that nine-year-old child all over again; but the difference is that, in the years between then and now, he has learned not to cry.

“Chang,” the King says, and Lee Chang feels a hand in his hair, a gentle touch which catches him by surprise. “You have survived, as I commanded you to. And you are all that a father can ever ask for. All that a nation can ask for in its prince. When this child comes, you will no longer be destined to be king. But you will still be a prince, and that is all that matters.”

“Is it?” Lee Chang whispers. “I have been brought up to be a king, with the expectation that one day, it was to be I who would sit on the Phoenix Throne and command the kingdom of Joseon. And now I realise that all that will have been for nothing.”

The King sighs again. “Not for nothing,” he amends. “Your brother will need you as he grows. You are experienced both in scholarship and military command. Do not dismiss yourself so easily.” The hand in his hair disappears, and Lee Chang finds himself strangely bereft.

When next he looks up again, the King is sitting at his desk, reading. The third peak glimmers in the light of his lamp, directly above his head. Lee Chang takes it as a dismissal.

“Chang,” the King says, as Lee Chang turns to leave. He turns back to face him, and the King’s eyes are molten gold.

“Remember,” he says. “Survive.” And he opens his mouth, and emits a piercing scream.

Lee Chang is jolted from his slumber and scrambles for the handle of his sword. He whips around and the blade points directly at Mu-yeong’s throat.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong gasps, his hand still on Lee Chang’s shoulder, where he has clearly been trying to rouse Lee Chang from his sleep. “We are under attack!”

Lee Chang’s mind immediately flies to Cho Hak-ju’s miserable face, but he quickly dismisses the notion. There is hardly any legitimate reason Cho can find to hunt him down, after all – Lee Chang’s plans had not been ready to set in motion before he had left the capital.

“By who?” he roars, instead. “Who dares attack – “ He is cut off by another piercing yell, this time of pain, and he turns in time to see one of the guards fall to the ground, a man covered in bloody rags clinging to his throat.

Immediately he leaps forward and buries his blade in the back of the attacker. The blow is harsh, and carves a deep line to the bone. The man jerks and convulses, falling off the guard and rolling onto the ground. Lee Chang is repulsed to see that his face is covered in blood, and that his teeth had been buried in the guard’s throat.

Quickly he bends down and shakes the guard. “Are you alright?” he asks roughly, scanning the wound. It is a bad bite, it is, and the attacker had torn out a good chunk of flesh when he had fallen off the body. It needs bandaging, and so Lee Chang rips off a piece of cloth from the hem of his coat. He pulls the fabric around the guard’s neck, making sure not to pull it too tight and obstruct his breathing, then he ties it off with a quick bow.

It is only Mu-yeong’s reflexes which save him from certain death, in those next few moments.

The man who had been lying on the ground – who had clearly been dead, no one could survive such a blow and live – had sprung up from his supine position and leapt for Lee Chang’s throat. He is too slow to react, and when he turns, the man’s breath is hot on his neck, in the instant before Mu-yeong’s blade whistles past him and separates the attacker’s head from his body.

Lee Chang falls back in disbelief, his bottom hitting the ground, and stares unseeingly at the head on the ground, its teeth bared in a foul approximation of a smile.

“How?” he asks, blankly. “He was dead. I buried my blade in his back myself. I severed his spinal cord. He should be dead.”

Another scream of pain attracts his attention, and he looks away in time to see the other two guards fall, and descended upon by more raggedy attackers. Lee Chang feels his stomach roil as he realises one of the smaller figures among the pack, is that of a child. His hand flies to the handle of his sword, and he is about to rise to his feet and run to the rescue, when he feels the body under his other hand begin to tremble.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong says warningly, but Lee Chang hardly needs his words to recognise the mottled colour spreading across the downed guard’s face, and the milky film descending over his eyes. He recognises that face, for he has seen it just moments before – on the head that is now sitting, eyes unseeing, among the blood-stained blades of grass.

Purely on instinct, his body leaps back from the guard, and he watches in horror as the guard begins to writhe and shake, as if caught in a fit. His neck arches backwards, beyond what is humanely possible, and his mouth falls open, froth drooling from his jowls. It is the most terrible thing Lee Chang has ever seen.

“Are you alright?” he calls, urgently. No answer, as the man continues to fit.

Then, suddenly, eerily, he stops moving.

“We must get medical help for him,” Lee Chang says urgently, glancing up at Mu-yeong. “He is on the brink of death!”

But Mu-yeong is not looking at him. Lee Chang follows his gaze, and although his body is screaming at him to run, he finds he cannot move. The sight before him is so horrific, it is beyond anything in his worst nightmares.

The other two guards, with their throats torn out and blood gushing from numerous wounds all over their body, are also convulsing on the ground. One of them – the one who had been, only just last night, bemoaning his lack of meat and the royals’ frivolity – has had his eye torn out. The eyeball dangles, almost comically, from the empty cavity of his eye socket, except that there is nothing laughable about this situation at all. Lee Chang turns his head to the side and retches.

As he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, he hears Mu-yeong suck in a sharp breath. “Your Highness,” he says, and his voice is small. “Your Highness!” he repeats, this time louder, and with more urgency. Lee Chang lifts his head, and the group of attackers is looking straight at them.

“They see us,” hisses Mu-yeong frantically. “Your Highness, we must run!”

Lee Chang springs to his feet, but something catches his ankle in a vice-like grip, and he almost falls. He turns, and the body of the third guard – who he had thought stone-cold dead, after his fits! – has roused itself. He is leering up at him, teeth bared grotesquely, and its claws digging into the skin of his ankle.

He is no longer human, some primal instinct of his tells him, and so he does not hesitate.

Again, his blade strikes honest and true, and cuts deep into the body’s abdomen – a blow that would fell any normal man. But the body does not falter, and rears upwards, sword still buried in his stomach, intestines spewing out, his jaws gnashing and aiming straight towards Lee Chang’s face.

Lee Chang yanks the blade from its stomach with a motion that jars his shoulder, for how deep it is buried in the other man’s abdomen. The movement hoists the creature up towards him, and Lee Chang feels its fetid breath against his nose for one terrifying moment – makes contact with its sightless eyes for barely a second – before he swings and takes the body’s head off.

He can’t hear the thud of the head as it hits the ground, and belatedly he realises that the ground is shaking.

“Your Highness, we must flee! Now!” Mu-yeong yells, and grabs his shoulder. Lee Chang springs up and grabs his pack from the ground, where it is lying next to him.

And so they fly, the pursuers hot on their heels. Lee Chang has never run so fast in his life. He feels his heart beating a thousand miles an hour, thrumming through his ears, counting out the beat of his steps as they sprint over the dry grass and across the plain.

They are running too fast to stop, however, when they reach the cliff. There is barely a split second as they see the water loom before them, Mu-yeong looks at him, and his mouth forms an ‘o’ – Lee Chang would laugh, at the surrealism of the entire situation, if he weren’t working so hard to keep from breaking down. He says some words his wet nurse would have shook him upside down for.

And then they hit the water. The impact is like hitting a wall, and it drives all the air out of his lungs. He feels himself begin to sink, his heavy silk clothes quickly absorbing the water and lending him the weight of a stone, and the water bites cold frost into his skin.

Desperately, he kicks towards the surface, feeling his head throb with the pain of his lack of air. The moonlight is bright above the water’s surface, so near yet so far, as if the moon itself is taunting him. His limbs are a leaden weight, and he barely feels himself move. He cannot breathe.

Then suddenly he breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, and air – blessed air – rushes into his lungs. The cold air stings his reddened cheeks, and he already feels the ache of bruises beginning to form, from his intimate contact with the hard surface of the water.

“Mu-yeong!” he yells hoarsely, when he does not see the guard’s head. Moments later, the man breaks the surface, gasping and flailing, his sodden hair and clothes clinging miserably to his skin. Lee Chang knows he looks no better.

“They are too afraid to jump!” Mu-yeong calls to him, his voice bright with relief, pointing at the cliff’s edge. Indeed, the attackers are gathered above them, staring sombrely down at the two of them paddling in the water. There is one unlucky man who evidently was unable to slow his run, and is now clinging to the cliff face.

As they watch, he slips and plunges into the water. He does not come back up.

“It is a miracle,” Lee Chang says in disbelief. “They are afraid of the water.”

“Probably afraid of freezing to – well, death, if that’s even an appropriate word for them,” Mu-yeong says grimly. “And so will we, if we stay here much longer. The sun is rising, and I can see lights over there – there must be a village, or a camp of some sort. We must make for it before we freeze to death.”

With a nod of assent on Lee Chang’s part, they paddle dolefully to the opposite shore and haul themselves up. The wind is cruel and relentless, and Lee Chang feels his teeth begin to chatter. They lie prone on the ground, chests heaving in tune, arms spread akimbo, and staring unseeingly up at the beautiful night sky.

“C-c-c-curse this autumn wind,” cries Mu-yeong. “I am only thankful that it is not winter. We w-w-would be dead by now, if t-that were the case.”

Lee Chang laughs. But halfway through, it devolves into a sob, and he somehow finds the energy to sit up.

He barely makes it up before he feels his stomach revolt, and he throws up all over the ground. The remnants of meat in his vomit remind him of the chunks of flesh the creatures had torn off the guards’ bodies, and the memory makes him heave again. This time nothing comes up.

He turns, and Mu-yeong is shaking with quiet sobs, his jaw clenched and  his eyes blinking furiously as he tries to hold back tears. It is the first time Lee Chang has ever seen Mu-yeong cry.

“Mu-yeong.” Lee Chang calls his name, and the gentleness of his voice surprises even him. The guard turns to him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, and his fist stuffed in his mouth to block his sobs. Lee Chang tries to find the right things to say.

“They were good, honest men,” he says, at last. “I did not know them very long, but I could tell that they were good men. We will honour their memories and their bravery in the face of unholy evil.”

Mu-yeong chokes out a laugh, and it is an ugly sound. “They were bloody awful at times,” he says, casting his eyes away. “We always quarrelled. They begrudged me my role as your guard, and always teased me for only passing the exam in my forties, when they had done so in their youth.” He pauses to wipe at the sides of his eyes, and when he continues, his voice is quiet.

“But they were good men,” he says, and his voice is full of affection. “You are right, Your Highness. They were honest, and hardworking, and brave. They did not deserve the death they received.”

The sun is rising, and the heat of its rays takes the edge off the cold. Lee Chang tries to ignore the sour stench of his own vomit, and stares off into the horizon. Their attackers are no longer gathered at the cliff’s edge, from what he can make out.

“They were ungodly abominations,” he says lowly, recalling the dark patterns that had been spread across their faces and exposed skin, and the rotting flesh that had been falling off their bodies. “I do not know how it is that they were able to sustain blows that would kill any normal man, nor why they were feeding on human flesh. But they are still on the other side of the river, and I fear for the villages we passed on our way.”

“What will we do, Your Highness?” asks Mu-yeong, and some semblance of normality has been restored to his voice. “Do we still ride – well, walk to Dongnae?”

“Yes,” Lee Chang says decisively. “We must go to Dongnae, and light the signal fires to warn the other cities in the region. We do not know how many of these people are out there, nor what they want. It will be good to prepare everyone for an attack.

“And Mu-yeong?” he says, almost as an afterthought, but as quite an important one. He manages a small smile when the guard turns to face him.

“We will return for your friends’ bodies,” he murmurs softly. “Their bodies will not be left to rot, alone and with only the crows for company. We will return them to Hanyang, for an honourable burial, and for the peace of mind of their family.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong says quietly, and he is about to say something else, when they are interrupted by a loud cacophony of clattering.

“Who are you, and what have you come for?” comes a voice from their right, and when Lee Chang turns, he comes face to face with the barrel of a musket.

It is a rough-looking man, smaller in stature but no less fierce for it. His hair is carelessly tossed into a bun, and sweaty strands of it stick to his tan skin. The bags under his eyes speak of countless sleepless nights, but still the hand that is holding the gun is steady and true. A pile of bamboo poles lies by him, the origin of the clattering sound.

“Put down your weapon!” Mu-yeong cries, and hefts his sword. The man spares him a glance out of the corner of his eyes. “Do you know who you dare lift your weapon against? This is the Crown Prince of the Joseon kingdom!”

The stranger’s brows shoot up, but apart from that, he does not move an inch, and the barrel of the musket is still pointed straight at Lee Chang’s face. Lee Chang feels himself begin to sweat.

“You did not answer the question,” he says quietly. “Why have the Crown Prince and his guard emerged from the banks of the Nakdong River, soaking wet and covered in gore?”

“We were attacked,” Lee Chang finds his voice. “By men who ate human flesh and did not balk at our blades in their back. Three of my other guards were felled by the attackers, and we had to flee into the river, which they dared not enter.”

There is a moment of silence, as the man stares at them, his eyes wide, and Lee Chang thinks he does not believe him. Honestly, were he the opposing party, he does not think he would believe his story either, outlandish as it seems – but every word of it is, unfortunately, the cold, hard truth.

“Then they did survive,” the man says abruptly, and his arm drops back to his side. Mu-yeong’s stance relaxes minutely, his blade still drawn, but the man pays him no mind and turns to the river.

“We must return to the other side,” he says urgently. “You must show me where the monsters descended on you.”

“Monsters?” splutters Mu-yeong. “What the hell – beg pardon, Your Highness – what do you mean by that?”

“Those men were dead,” the stranger says ruthlessly. “They frothed at the mouth and fitted to death, but at night they rise again and crave human flesh. They cannot be killed by normal means – only by fire, deep water, or beheading. And if we do not dispose of their bodies by tonight, they will return to kill once more.” He turns to them again, his eyes ablaze. “You must show me where they found you. They will be hiding from the sun, somewhere nearby, as they fear the daylight. We must burn their bodies as soon as possible.”

“We were on our way to Dongnae – “ starts Mu-yeong mulishly, but then he stops as Lee Chang holds up a hand to stop him. If, indeed, these men will rise again tonight to attack more unsuspecting folk… Lee Chang thinks, again, of the villages they had passed on the way, and the playful cries of children that had arisen from those settlements. He cannot let the innocent people in those villages die, not when he can prevent it.

“We will show you the way. Dongnae can wait.”

“Your Highness – “ Mu-yeong says sharply. “What reason do we have to trust this – this stranger? He could be lying. The story he tells – of the dead rising and killing for human flesh? It is a tale that is nigh on impossible.”

“You saw what we saw last night, Mu-yeong,” Lee Chang says quietly. “I do not believe those men were human. Besides,” he says, with a weak smile, “I did promise you we would return to retrieve your friends’ bodies – although I did not expect that we would do it as soon as we are choosing to now. Dongnae can wait. If we find these bodies and destroy them, it will greatly thin the number of monsters out there.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Mu-yeong accedes. Although it is not without a final glare towards the back of the man, who is standing by the riverside a little ways away, glancing restlessly back at them as they make their decision.

He brings them to a bridge further down the road, where they cross to the other side of the river, and they retrace their steps in silence till they reach the remains of the campsite.

The ashes of the fire Mu-yeong had lit are still smoking, and the bodies – even those of the guards – are nowhere to be found.

“They must have carried their bodies off,” Mu-yeong mutters, in disgust. Lee Chang watches as the man squats down and examines the ground.

“Do you see any tracks?” he calls, as the man picks up a piece of dirt off the ground and sniffs at it. He spares Lee Chang a glance, then stands up and brushes his hands off on his trousers.

“They went northward,” he says shortly. “Into the forest. There must be some abandoned homes or buildings among the trees in which they can hide from the sun.”

Lee Chang nods, and gestures forward. “Lead the way then.”

They walk into the woods. The trees have shed their leaves and are bare and stark against the crisp autumn sunlight. Frost crunches under their feet as they walk, and the air is eerily still, undisturbed by the sounds of any animals. Lee Chang gathers his coat tighter around him, and subconsciously tightens his grip on the handle of his sword.

“There,” the man says, stopping suddenly, and he points at a ruined shack that lies a distance from them. They make their way over to it, and Mu-yeong tentatively opens the door. It creaks as it opens, and releases a cloud of dust that makes all of them cough.

Lee Chang steps in first, squinting into the darkness. He draws his sword, and the blade gleams dully. The floorboards groan under his feet as he walks, craning his neck to see further than one chok in front of his face.

There – there is a glimmer of something in the corner of the room, he thinks, and readies his sword for battle – then there is an almighty crash as the complaining floorboards finally give way, and he sinks downwards with a shout of surprise.

The landing is unexpectedly soft, and there is a sinking feeling in his stomach as he turns his head downwards to gaze at what has broken his fall.

Faces upon faces upon faces, bodies upon bodies upon bodies, curled up in grotesque positions under the boards. Their eyes are shut in a gross parody of sleep, but their chests do not move with breath. They are dead.

Mu-yeong hoists him from the ground, and utters a hoarse cry as he sees what Lee Chang has happened upon. The stranger is unfazed, however, and begins pulling up the floorboards.

“We must get all of them out, and make sure their heads are cut off before we bury them, so they do not rise again,” he orders. Lee Chang has a very brief argument with a voice in his head – one that sounds very much like the King’s voice - about the merits of following the orders of someone of a lesser station than himself, before he sternly tells himself off and squats down to help.

They manage to pull out all twenty-one bodies of their attackers, and Lee Chang is horrified to find out that he had been right – one of them had been a child, no older than ten years of age, with the same mottled pattern on his skin, and mouth painted with gore. He almost throws up again, then, but his stomach is protesting the lack of food, and thankfully he manages to push down the urge.

Mu-yeong finds the bodies of the guards, one headless and two others still intact. He drags the bodies and the head out and lays them sombrely in front of the porch, aside from the other bodies.

“I apologise, my friends,” he says, under his breath, so softly that Lee Chang knows the words are not meant for others to hear. “I would give you now a burial worthy of the most honourable of men, but alas, I cannot do so. I promise, I will retrieve your bodies and bring them back to your honourable families, so they can pay their respects to you as you deserve.”

The man comes up to him and stands by his side, looking at the bodies of the guards. Then, in a stern but kind voice, completely at odds with his manner so far, he says, “We must cut off their heads as well. Any man the monsters bite will turn into one of their kind.”

Mu-yeong looks torn, and splutters. “That is absurd. Whoever heard of such a thing? Your Highness,” he turns to Lee Chang, and while his voice is accusatory, his eyes are soft with anguish. “You do not believe him, do you?”

Lee Chang sighs, and inadvertently locks eyes with the man. His eyes are fierce, and hooded, but Lee Chang thinks they hold no lies – at least, with regards to his matter. He shakes his head in answer to Mu-yeong.

“We saw it for ourselves last night, Mu-yeong,” he says patiently. “One of them returned to life and attacked me, and the only way of ensuring he did not rise again, was by taking off his head. Think of this,” and he manages what he hopes is a comforting smile, “it would be the kindest thing to do, to stop them casting a blemish on their honourable record by killing more innocent people. They would have wanted you to do it.”

In answer, Mu-yeong bows his head, and nods. And later, when they are done beheading the rest of the monsters, he takes the heads off the guards himself.

“We must dig a pit to bury the bodies in,” the man says, coming out of the shack with tools in hand. He passes one shovel to Mu-yeong, then he looks at Lee Chang out of the corner of his eye, a question written clearly in his face. Mu-yeong’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to interject; but Lee Chang silences him with a look, and takes the shovel from the man.

About an hour passes as they dig into the frozen ground to create a large shallow pit – shallow because they can go no deeper with the rudimentary tools they have, and the hardness of the soil. It is backbreaking work, and even in the cold biting air, Lee Chang feels sweat beading on his brow. The numbness in his fingers and the weariness in his bones does not help.

When they are finished, they haul most of the bodies over to the pit and try, as carefully as possible, to arrange them inside. They were once human, after all, and every human, no matter how small in stature or station, deserved an honourable burial.

When it comes to the three guards, however, the stranger squats down by the bodies and rifles through their clothing. In a swift movement, Lee Chang strides over and has his blade at the man’s throat.

The man pauses in his movements, and looks up at Lee Chang. A swallow bobs his throat, but his eyes hold no fear, and the twist of his mouth belies his impatience.

“How dare you attempt to desecrate these men by looting from them,” Lee Chang whispers. “Is it not enough that their bodies have been so profanely defiled? Do you intend to rob them as well?”

“Your Highness,” the man replies, very calmly – too calmly, for all that he had a blade at his throat – “while you have been sitting in your golden palace, eating the food of the gods, we have been starving.” Very slowly, his hand comes up and grips the pommel of the sword, right next to Lee Chang’s hand. His eyes are dark, and full of resolve.

“The sick at Jiyulheon need food, or they will die by morning,” he says quietly. “Our stocks had already been depleted before the monsters appeared, and now, more than ever, we need food. Will you let the sick and injured at Jiyulheon starve to death, for your honour and morality? This is reality, Your Highness – the reality of us peasants’ lives. This is not the first time I have stolen from a dead body to live, and it will not be the last.”

Mu-yeong is oddly silent, Lee Chang thinks, dazedly. He is able to hold the man’s gaze for a moment – just a moment more - then he can bear it no longer, and has to avert his eyes.

The man coolly levers the sword away from his throat, and returns to searching quickly through the guards’ clothes. He finds a few packets of dried meat and other trail foods, and these he packs them away in his bag.

When he is done, he makes to drag the bodies into the pit, and a small blue square of fabric falls from one of the guards’ pockets. As Mu-yeong and the stranger lug the bodies away, Lee Chang bends over and retrieves the item.

The guard’s daughter has written on it, in shaky writing; Papa, it reads, pleas keep your self safe and pleas bring back some mandu for mommy. We love you! There is a doodle of a girl sitting on what appears to be some vaguely-four-legged animal, brandishing a sword, with her father seated behind her. Lee Chang finds he suddenly has to steady himself against the walls of the shack, as a lump finds its way to his throat.

“Your Highness,” Mu-yeong calls, and Lee Chang looks up with a start to realise that the other two have already hurried some way up the slight incline that had led to the shed, and are now looking back at him – Mu-yeong with puzzlement, the stranger with badly-concealed impatience.

“The sun is setting,” says the man. “I must return to Jiyulheon – they will need help with defence against whatever monsters are left from this pack.”

“We will come with you,” calls Lee Chang, on some impulse, as the man turns to leave. Lee Chang’s words makes him spin round, his faint brows riding high in surprise.

“Why?” he says, and the twist of his mouth reads of his suspicion. “I thought you were on your way to Dongnae?”

“Staying in Jiyulheon cannot be your permanent solution against an attack,” Lee Chang argues, walking quickly up to them; and from the way the man’s eyes darken, Lee Chang knows he has hit his mark. He steps closer to the man, and they lock gazes.

“We can help with your defence through the night, and when morning comes, we will find a way to bring the people of Jiyulheon to safety. I swear this upon my crown,” he says, solemnly, for the look in those burning eyes holds him to nothing but the truth.

“Can a prince run as fast as is needed?” says the man at last, tossing his head scornfully. A sudden flock of crows ascends above their heads, bringing with them a cacophony of cawing, and their shadow runs long. The sun is setting, and night is drawing near.

Lee Chang feels his resolve set. He tucks the talisman into his pocket, and gives the man a firm nod.

[elopez7228]

Scenic Route 12/47

Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268208/chapters/43229774  

Start over : https://elopez7228.tumblr.com/post/620919089893933056/scenic-route-0147

***

Leia swallowed. For a moment, Amilyn Holdo wondered if she would cry, but that would be underestimating the veteran. She had fought bigger battles.  

“Amilyn,” Leia began, “Ben has made a series of bad decisions, no doubt under the influence of none other than Armitage Hux. They were partners in crime during their devil-may-care college years. He became arrogant and self-centered, thinking himself untouchable under Snoke’s protection. Snoke was the ever-powerful presence that gave him everything he desired, while filling his head with the unthinkable. It’s been a long time since I’ve lost all influence over him. And if a brief stint in prison is what finally wakes him up, so be it.” She sighed, “Look, he’s still my son and I love him more than anything, but I think this might be the beating that finally makes him get his act together.”

Amilyn smiled at the mental image of Leia’s small frame spanking the imposing Ben Solo—or rather, his troublemaker rockstar alter ego, Kylo Ren. A helluva spanking, for sure.

“Good. Well, if you’re ready now we have a meeting with the Governor in five,” Amilyn offered.

The tip of Leia’s cane slipped on one of the many papers littering the floor as she tried to get up. She had been using it to support most of her weight, but luckily she was able to catch herself, bracing her body against the desk.

Amilyn rushed to her side, noticing a slight tremor in her hands and infinite sadness in her eyes. She was strong, but her heart had been broken.

“Are you alright? Amilyn asked, “Should I postpone the meeting?”

“No, I’m fine, let’s go,” Leia sighed as she got to her feet again. She turned to Amilyn with tired eyes. “You know, the contents of this dossier have ruined three generations of my family,” she said gravely.

“I know. And I admire you for bearing this burden alone, despite everything, for all these years.”

“We’re so close. This is our last move—it’s us or them. If we fail, there won’t be a second chance. It’s time to finish this.”

She closed her eyes as the car made its across Sacramento to the state capitol building. She had spoken about her son with a detached tone, if only to hide her chagrin. She wasn’t kidding when she said that the contents of that dossier would destroy her family. It was the stuff of novels—The Grandeur and Decadence of the Skywalker Dynasty. The tale of how her parents Anakin and Padme Skywalker, fresh out of Harvard, had started the eco-conscious mining and water treatment company Resistance & Advancement Co. A new hope for the planet that would provide “a better future for all”. How Anakin had foreseen a massive profit margin, had signed contracts with suspicious clients against his wife’s advice.

How their son Luke, their Harvard legacy, had found his way to the top of the R&A administration in order to clean house. He wanted to cut ties with shady business partners and see his mother’s vision through. Leia, however, was always more behind the scenes, though guided by the same ideals of peace and justice that seemed impossible today.

And then there was Snoke, the Chief Financial Officer who had come to power under corrupt circumstances. He had plotted to take command of the Board of Directors and IPO the company by putting his cronies in power at R&A.

Leia had imagined that her son would side with her, to restore the family enterprise to its former glory. Never in a thousand years did she think that Ben would turn on her. He fell right into Snoke’s outstretched hands—worse—he declared that the new agenda was Anakin Skywalker’s legacy, his ancestor’s lasting vision for R&A. Snoke and Hux had brainwashed him.

She was jolted from her thoughts as the car abruptly stopped in front of the capitol building. Going around the mob of tourists partaking in guided tours, they made their way to the administrative entrance, where they were greeted by a debonair hostess in a black suit. After double-checking their IDs, she pointed out the corridor that led to the parliamentary wing. They found themselves in a waiting room where they helped themselves to two scalding cups of flavorless coffee.

Amilyn didn’t even need to check her watch. “We’re going to get stood up,” she declared. “That’s their strategy, tie us up in red tape, waste all our time in this massive waiting room and never get to the bottom of that dossier.”

Leia placed a reassuring hand on her friend’s forearm in response. She had regained her peace of mind, her eyes no longer filled with sadness or uncertainty. Instead they were brimming with a scathing sort of determination. Here, in the heart of the Californian capital, she was in the eye of the storm. And she was ready to confront it.

He came through the waiting room door right then—a fifty-something man with a craggy face and salt-and-pepper hair. He was sharply dressed in all white and he wore a suit jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape.

“Representative Krennic,” he introduced himself, “Yours truly on behalf of Governor Valorum. This way to my office,”

“We have a meeting with the governor himself, Mr. Krennic,” Amilyn objected.

“The governor sends his apologies, he was summoned regarding a rather urgent matter, but don’t you worry—I know the dossier quite well.”

“I see,” Amilyn managed behind the tightly gritted teeth of her fake smile, “Very well, then. We should set up another meeting right away.” She said as they followed him.

Representative Krennic pursed his lips in what could only be called a paltry, hypocritical attempt at an expression of sympathy. He took his place behind his desk and invited them to sit down.  Suddenly his eyes were hard and cold. He folded his hands together on the tabletop.

“The governor had a very time-sensitive errand to run. I assure you I’m entirely capable of representing him today. So let’s cut to the chase: the enterprise charter brought forth by FORCE which you object to so vehemently, is perfectly legally authorized. I have here the results of some studies done by the Environmental Protection Agency that contradict your claim.” He flicked through the dossier nonchalantly. Leia was about to make an impolite gesture but Amilyn stopped her.

“The state of California,” he continued, “represented by Governor Valorum—and I, in equal measure—has expressed consent to both FORCE and their CEO Mr. Snoke regarding the mining of the Humboldt sector. I should also add,” he continued with a cruel smile, “that on behalf of the thousands of workers that we collectively employ, that FORCE and the state of California are considering to jointly sue you for obstruction of public progress,  defamation, and violation of workers’ and unions’ rights,” he grinned wickedly, “and, if I recall correctly, we might even be able to sue for terror-adjacent activities. Any questions?”

Armitage Hux turned on the flat screen television embedded into his office wall. The highlight of the evening broadcast on ABC7News was the very public debacle in Sacramento.

Leia Skywalker, unmistakable in her long grey wrap dress, was crossing the street to get to her car. She was so small that Amilyn Holdo appeared tall beside her. A group of activists clad in Earth Soldiers t-shirts was waiting for them. Many of them were carrying signs with protest slogans including No to the Hoopa Valley mine!, Say No to Poison, FORCE must PAY, and Valorum is Complicit.

Among them Hux recognized Rose Tico, who was holding a megaphone and addressing the journalists who had scurried to the scene directly. The fire in her voice was palpable, to the point where he thought she would nearly be out of breath.

“We have just heard that the EPA approved the construction of a new mine in North Hoopa Valley! This is absolutely unacceptable, and we stand against it! All evidence points to Governor Valorum being a puppet of FORCE, which has funded his re-election campaign to a great extent! This man has been corrupted and he’s trying to—“ Hux slammed the mute button just as his phone began to vibrate. He raised it to his ear, annoyed.

“Hux.”

“Sir, I’ve lost track of the Tico sisters, they flew to California via Reno, and I lost them right as the approached Tahoe.”

“Don’t you worry, I know exactly where they are,” he said, managing to keep most of the rage out of his voice. Phasma on the other hand, had the gall to sound relieved.

“Really? What is their location?”

“In the Capitol, you idiot, on national goddamn television! The Ticos, Antilles, Connix—the whole damn lot of them!”

Now she began to hesitate.

“Sir, I.. I’ll get there right away I’m—“

“Useless, you’re absolutely pathetic.”

No sooner had he hung up that he noticed a second incoming call. Snoke.

Hux took a deep breath as he smoothed his hair. Once he left his office, he navigated a dark corridor and knocked on an unmarked door that opened by silently receding into the wall. The inside of the room was similarly dark, with black lacquer floors and crimson drapery. Snoke was known to suffer from violent migraines and thus he detested the light.

“You may approach, Hux,” he declared, his voice audibly tired. “I heard that our friends put on quite a protest for the television?”

“Indeed. They’re reacting to the EPA’s decision making, and it’s trending on social platforms. They simultaneously hit YouTube, Twitter, and Instagram. The story has been shared millions of times, they’re viral.”

“And above all, they are organized. The scene they caused today was painstakingly staged. They knew what the results of the vote would be beforehand.”

“It doesn’t really matter though,” Hux scoffed with a disdainful wave of his hand, “that they’re internet famous and amassing thumb-ups on YouTube. It’s a blip in the grand scheme of things, the mine is fully approved and ready for operation. We’ve won.”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself, Armitage. The hearing is in two weeks, and Valorum has plummeted in popularity.”

Hux scoffed indignantly yet again.

“We have Valorum eating out of our very hands. We make up no less than 20 percent of his campaign financing—he got re-elected because of our means. We employ, directly or indirectly, thousands within his administration.”

“And the judge, Mitaka?”

“His daughter was delighted that we bought her way into Yale, not to mention that we’re so generously funding his partner’s chemotherapy...with absolute discretion, of course. It’s all being handled through NGO charities. We’re talking millions of dollars here, but I’ve been assured that the books are bulletproof.”

Snoke said nothing for a moment. His skin was jaundiced like most heavy smokers, and his shoulders were permanently slumped. He chewed on his thumbnail, a nervous tick when he was deep in thought.

“No, this won’t do,” he said finally. “The Skywalkers are persistent, they fight unto the death for what they consider a family legacy, the very dignity of a name. This time it’s personal, they have nothing left to lose. And those who have nothing left to lose are particularly dangerous.”

Hux acquiesced in silence as Snoke’s gaze settled on him. The whites of his eyes were also tinged with jaundice, and his pupils appeared glazed over.

“This whole ordeal with these hippies in overalls feels like a ruse to me,” he began, ”there has to be something else at play. They knew we were going to buy out the EPA’s vote...and therein lies the key. Perhaps we have a spy in our midst. Find it, and neutralize it.”

“Understood.” Hux responded with aplomb. Then he added in a more hesitant voice, “And Ren? Where is he?”  

“Kylo Ren is exactly where I need him to be, carrying our orders on the field. Surely you don’t find that you miss him, do you?”

“No, of course not.” Hux chuckled lightly, “Evidently he’s very busy on the field.”

The madman had managed to go on tour with his crew of rabid rockers while persuading leadership that it would be an economically beneficial disguise. Meanwhile Hux had to pilot the ship from his desk and face Snoke’s wrath in person. It was typical Kylo. Even at Harvard he managed to garner the adoration of the faculty without lifting a finger.

One day he would have to explain how he was always seemingly in the right place at the right time.

Leaving Snoke’s office for his own at a brisk pace, he found the re-emerging  sunlight pleasant. There was something suffocating about the darkness that the president kept himself in all day. Hux was certainly not claustrophobic but he was glad to see the light of day again. He dialed a number on his phone and she responded immediately:

“Phasma.”

“Come to my office at once, I have a new case for you. We think there’s been an inside job. You need to get on this immediately.”

“I’m coming.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He hung up.

It still gnawed at him. Where was Kylo? What possible mission could he be attending while the entirety of Earth Soldiers, including his own mother, were in Sacramento?

[rose-of-pollux]

If Wishes Were Cats (Napollya oneshot)

Title: If Wishes Were Cats Rating: PG13-ish Summary: According to an ancient legend, Napoleon has been granted three wishes from the cat goddess, Bastet.  As he deals with his feelings for his partner, Napoleon must decide just how to use those wishes as he hopes for a way for Illya and him to be together. Notes: Slash.  This fic takes place during various points in the first year of Napoleon and Illya’s partnership, and references several other fics of mine, namely the “Regret Saga,” “Serenade of Water,” “Nocturne of Shadow,” “Requiem of Spirit,” and “The Fundamental Things Apply.”

Again, please note that this is slash, and there is no gen version this time because the plot doesn’t really translate to gen this time...

Also fulfills the prompt “Pining” for my MFU Bingo card.

If you prefer reading on AO3, you can read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10746420

Napoleon was on alert as his guide—a local U.N.C.L.E. agent named Karim—led him around the ancient Egyptian ruins near Luxor.  It was a large temple built by the Pharaoh Sethos I near the beginning of the 19th Dynasty.  Napoleon only wished he didn’t have to be here without his partner; Illya, having only just returned to active status after recovering from a long torture session with THRUSH, had just completed his first mission since his return, and Medical had absolutely refused to let him go on a second so soon without adequate rest.  And so, Napoleon had flown solo, hoping to find some leads that would help his quest to bring in the Baron of THRUSH.

“It was right around here,” Karim said.  “Some tourists found several paralyzed cats—it looked as though that they had been given some sort of paralytic.  When I reported it to my section head, he informed me some time later that your Mr. Waverly was sending you here to look in on it.”

“Ah, yes, it’s pertinent to a case that I’m on right now,” Napoleon said.  His quest to stop the Baron of THRUSH and his paralytic gas plot was a secret from most of U.N.C.L.E.—but he was grateful that Waverly was doing what he could to provide him with any new information.  “When was this?”

“Couldn’t have been more than three days ago,” Karim said.  He sighed as cats of all colors and shapes—most of them Egyptian Maus—watched them from all over the ruins.  A few kittens came out in front of them and mewed, looking at them expectantly. “These little ones have no fear of people—most of the tourists play with them and give them food.  Everyone loves them and cares for them, so it was most distressing to learn that THRUSH had been using them as guinea pigs.”

“Are they okay?” Napoleon asked, as one particular kitten, smoky black, batted at his shoe as he walked.

“Yes; I have been looking after them since the paralysis wore off,” Karim assured him.  “Once I am satisfied that they aren’t suffering any ill aftereffects, I will release them here once more.”

“That’s very admirable,” Napoleon said.  “Sounds like something my partner would have done.”

“I felt it was my duty,” Karim said.  “This temple was built for the ancient cat goddess, Bastet.  Local legends say that the cats who dwell here today are her children.”

“People still believe in the ancient gods?” Napoleon asked, interested.

“Well, perhaps not in that sense,” Karim admitted.  “But the legends still persist; they always provide a bit of intrigue, and some will swear there is evidence to support them.  For example, they say that, somewhere in these ruins, there is a large, black cat—it is said that it is Bastet herself, and those who see her can request three wishes from her by phrasing your wish with ‘O, Bastet, I beseech thee…’ and then speak the wish.”

“Really?” Napoleon asked.

“It’s how the legend goes,” Karim shrugged.  “Of course, there is a disclaimer that Bastet decides whether or not the wishes are worthy of being granted.”

Napoleon chuckled.

“That’s clever,” he said.

Karim laughed, as well, but then sobered as they reached a roped-off part of the temple.

“This is where the paralyzed cats were found,” he said.  “We have sealed this place off for investigation and have closed the temple to tourists until we are certain we have combed every inch of it.”

Napoleon nodded, and he and Karim began to search.  There wasn’t much of anything; THRUSH had been good at covering their tracks, but Napoleon finally did find something as the smoky kitten that had been following him now arched her tiny back at something wedged between a small rock and part of the temple wall.

“There’s something back here!” he called to Karim.

It was an empty canister that had once held the paralytic gas.

“There might be a little bit left in there—perhaps enough to analyze and prepare an antidote,” Napoleon said.

“If there is, I will see to it that word gets back to you as soon as possible,” Karim promised.

“Thanks,” Napoleon said. “You can go head on back; I think that’s all we’re going to find, but I’ll do another quick sweep now, rest for a bit, and then head home to New York tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Karim said. “We’ll have our men do one more additional sweep before we reopen the temple to the public.”

“Good idea.”

“You are sure you don’t mind searching alone?  I can stay longer…”

“I’m sure,” Napoleon said. “Those cats are probably hungry.”

“Very likely,” Karim agreed, with a smile.  “Take care, Mr. Solo.  And give my regards to Mr. Kuryakin.  …He has recovered from his ordeal?  I heard he had been a prisoner of THRUSH for some time…”

Napoleon’s heart gave a slight twist, but he nodded.

“Yeah, he’s made a full recovery, but Medical still wants him to take it easy; we just had a mission in Hawaii, and they were adamant about not letting him go again so soon after that.”

“Oh.  Poor man.”

“I’ll try to see if we can both make it next time; I know he’d have loved seeing all these cats,” Napoleon added, gently petting the smoky kitten, who purred in response.

“It’s very inspiring to all of us U.N.C.L.E agents worldwide, seeing the two of you working together so well,” Karim said.  “Some of the other section heads are considering other transfer programs to promote international ties now.  Your partnership is getting along flawlessly—it’s quite admirable.”

Napoleon managed a grin.

“Glad we’re setting an example,” he said.

He said his goodbyes to Karim, who left after that.  Napoleon sighed.  Karim hadn’t been wrong about Napoleon and Illya’s partnership getting along flawlessly—they were truly getting along flawlessly indeed.  So flawlessly, in fact, that Napoleon’s feelings towards his partner were getting very muddled and confused indeed.

At first, Napoleon had thought the butterflies in his stomach had been something that would pass, but as months passed and they became closer, the butterflies never left.

And then Illya had been taken by THRUSH.  As horrific as the experience had been, Illya’s recovery had caused the Russian to open up to Napoleon all the more, causing Napoleon to fall for him all the more; the realization had hit him like a ton of bricks during their last mission together in Hawaii—he was in love with his partner.

He hadn’t said anything; he had no way of knowing how Illya felt or how he would react to such a revelation.  But that was why Napoleon was yearning for Illya to be with him in Egypt now—so that he could look at the joy on the Russian’s face upon seeing so many cats. Illya didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, so such displays of emotion were incredibly rare—but Napoleon loved to see his partner’s face light up.  Truly, there was nothing more beautiful than Illya’s smile…

Napoleon exhaled and drew out his communicator; he was feeling lonely for Illya again, and proceeded to call him on Channel D.

“How’s it going, Tovarisch?”

“How else does paperwork go, Napoleon?” Illya responded.  “It is incredibly boring.  Despite the summer heat, I really do wish I was in Egypt with you.”

“Oh, you’d love it here,” Napoleon said.  As if to prove his point, the smoky Mau kitten started batting at his communicator, meowing.

“…Is that a cat?”

“Plural,” Napoleon said. “These old ruins are crawling with them.”  He paused, and his voice darkened.  “The Baron has been using some of them as guinea pigs for his paralytic.  They’re okay, but…”  He trailed off as Illya swore in Russian.  “…My sentiments exactly.”

“We must stop him, Napoleon.”

“Well, hang in here, Illya. I should be home sometime tomorrow, if all goes well.”  He paused. “…You got any plans for tonight?”

“Plans?  Me?” Illya scoffed.  “Were I but braver, I would probably attend the office party that Agent Avalon is throwing.  But I am not. No, Napoleon; it is a nice evening at my flat for me.”

Napoleon had to confess to himself that he was glad that Illya didn’t have a date; even if he didn’t have the nerve to admit his feelings.  He then immediately chided himself for being so selfish; if he couldn’t find the courage to speak, then he had no right to think about Illya’s love life one way or the other… did he?  Was it fair to want Illya to be alone each time Napoleon was on a solo mission?

Napoleon sighed.

“Chin up, Tovarisch,” Napoleon said.  “With any luck, Medical will clear you for missions without breaks soon.”

“I certainly hope so,” Illya said.  “Take care, Napoleon.”

“You too,” Napoleon said, and he closed the channel with a sigh.  He glanced at the smoky kitten.  “…I should tell him, shouldn’t I?”

The kitten mewed and then, suddenly, followed some of the other kittens to a small set of steps nearby, where a large Mau, smoky black like the kitten that had been playing with Napoleon, sat, glancing at Napoleon with a regal expression as the kittens meowed around her.

Napoleon stared back at the large cat in amazement, recalling Karim’s words from earlier—

“They say that, somewhere in these ruins, there is a large, black cat—it is said that it is Bastet herself, and those who see her can request three wishes from her…”

Napoleon let out a quiet “Hmm.”  The legend was probably just that—an old story.  But how tempting it would be to wish for Illya to fall in love with him!

He shook his head. No…  Even if the wishes were real, he had no right to make such a selfish wish. And they probably weren’t even real. But, still… it couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Oh, why not?” Napoleon said, glancing at the cat.  “O, Bastet, I beseech thee, I wish that my partner doesn’t have to spend all his time alone whenever I’m not there.”  Hopefully not a date, but at least a way for him to keep his mind off of being alone…

The large cat continued to stare at Napoleon for a while before meowing loudly.  She picked up the smoky black kitten by the scruff of the neck and then bounded off somewhere.

“…Oh well,” Napoleon said, with a shrug.  “Didn’t help, but it didn’t hurt…”

His sweep of the area turned up nothing else, and Napoleon returned to his hotel room and left for New York the next day after checking in with Karim one last time.

It was evening by the time he had reached; a rainstorm in New York had delayed the landing, and it was still pouring as he left the airport.  Deciding not to have Illya drive out in the rain to pick him up, Napoleon took a taxi back to their apartment building.

Ever since Illya’s time as a prisoner of THRUSH, they had keys to each other’s apartment; Napoleon used the key to let himself in to Illya’s apartment to check up on him.

“Hey, I’m back…” he began, but then trailed off as he saw Illya sitting on his couch, cradling a small bundle wrapped in a baby blanket.  His mouth dropped open.  “What happened while I was gone!?”

Illya let out a quiet “tsk.”

“Napoleon, you’ve gone and woken her!”

Anything Napoleon was about to say was cut off by a small “mew” coming from the bundle.  He facepalmed.

“Napoleon, you didn’t think--?”

“Shush, you,” Napoleon said, his heart beating normally again.

Illya smirked at him.

“I found this little one abandoned in a small basket.  The rain was coming down; I could not let her suffer…”

Napoleon walked over to see the kitten—and froze again.  The kitten was a smoky black Egyptian Mau—looking exactly like the one he had seen in Egypt, before her mother, allegedly Bastet, had carried her off…

…Just after Napoleon had made his wish that Illya didn’t have to be alone when he wasn’t there.

“Her name is Baba Yaga,” Illya said, proudly.

Napoleon let the kitten play with his finger as he gently gave her skritches.  She was purring away, and Illya was absolutely captivated. Napoleon chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Congratulations on your new daughter,” he said.  “I’m going to go unpack, and then I’ll whip up a dinner for all three of us.”

“That would be wonderful, Napoleon,” Illya said.

Napoleon just smiled and moved to head back to his apartment next door; he paused as he headed out, watching the rare look of genuine happiness on Illya’s face as he doted over the little kitten.

He wasn’t sure how that kitten had gotten from Luxor to New York before him; whether it was a coincidentally similar kitten or it really was the same kitten, he would never know. And, he supposed, it didn’t matter; Illya was happy, and seeing that smile on his face was stirring up those muddled feelings in Napoleon once more.

…Well, assuming it was the wish, I’ve got two left, he silently said.  Maybe I’ll try them out if I still can’t sort things out…

                                       **************************************

Napoleon soon found himself on the opposite side of being separated from his partner due to an order from Medical.  After a run-in with the Baron in Germany and being subjected to the paralytic gas firsthand, Medical had refused to let Napoleon go on another mission until they were certain that he would be suffering no aftereffects.  And so Illya was off to gather intelligence on where the Baron’s grand demonstration of the gas was to be.

There were numerous things on Napoleon’s mind as he remained at home, looking after Baba Yaga while he waited to hear back from Illya.  The first was that Illya had been slightly reserved ever since their last mission; he had been under the impression that he was no longer a useful asset to Napoleon’s endeavor.  It had taken a lot of convincing to get Illya to agree to one more mission together. Napoleon had to worry that if Illya settled back into his routine of working alone on this case, it might not be enough to convince him to stay longer.

Baba Yaga was more concerned with playing, and was happily using Napoleon as a play mat as he lay there on his couch, thinking about what to do.

“So, let’s say that I do have two wishes left…” said, speaking to Baba Yaga.  “I suppose I could wish for Illya to stay…  Think your old Ma Bastet would go for that?”

Baba Yaga mewed at him in response.

“…Well, look at it from my side, huh?” Napoleon defended.  “I’m not really asking for that much--”

He was cut off as his communicator whistled.

“Illya?” he asked.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Solo,” Waverly responded over the channel.  “I do regret being the bearer of bad news--”

“Did something happen to Illya?” Napoleon asked, now sitting at attention.

“Hopefully not,” Waverly said.  “But we’ve lost contact with him; he was on his way back to New York on a freighter, but we lost contact with him when the freighter was attacked by a THRUSH submarine. His last communication was that they were going to try to outrun the submarine.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Approximately three hours ago,” Waverly informed him.  “I’ll keep you informed of any change in Mr. Kuryakin’s status.”

“Thank you, Sir…”

Napoleon put the communicator away, trying to ignore the familiar grip of fear upon his heart. Anything could have happened to Illya in three hours…!  And the thought of Illya dying horrified him—it always had.  But for Illya to die now, when they were so close to achieving their goal of stopping the Baron…  …When Napoleon had now realized that he was in love with him…

…That thought was too much to bear.  And there was nothing he could do, confined to rest, unable to go out and search for his partner…

“Okay, a wish won’t hurt,” he murmured.  Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he concentrated.  “O, Bastet, I beseech thee, I wish that Illya will return to New York safely.”

There was silence.

“…Do you think she can hear me?” he asked Baba Yaga.

The kitten meowed.

“…I hope so, too.”

Neither he nor the kitten moved; it was another hour before the communicator whistled again.

“Solo here,” he said, immediately.

“Napoleon?”

Napoleon slumped over in relief.

“You’re alright,” he said.

“Da—but barely,” Illya said.  “It was starting to look very bad for a while.”

“What happened?”

“THRUSH very nearly sunk us,” Illya said.  “The captain of the freighter got our boat moving as fast as humanly possible enough to pull away from the submarine.  It was almost a fluke, Napoleon—this freighter shouldn’t have been able to reach the speed it had.  But, nevertheless, it did.”

“Where are you now?”

“Very nearly home, Napoleon; I can see the lights of the city from here.  You can prepare dinner if you like; with any luck, I shall be home immediately after my debriefing with Mr. Waverly.”

“Right.”

“I hope my daughter behaved herself…”

“Oh, she did,” Napoleon assured him.  “She is a perfect angel.”

“Of course she is. Tell her I shall be home soon.”

Baba Yaga mewed, and Napoleon grinned.

“She heard,” he said. “I’ll see you soon, then, Tovarisch.”

“Da.”

Napoleon put his communicator away and reflected on what had just happened.  Had it been a fluke, as Illya had said?  Or had his second wish just come true?

He still wasn’t sure.

                                               ************************

Napoleon wasn’t one who blindly believed in things, yet the coincidences of his first two “wishes” seemed impossible to ignore.  And as the weeks went on with Illya seemingly preparing to return to Europe after their final clash with the Baron, Napoleon was considering the use of his final alleged wish.

He did not want Illya to go.  He wanted Illya to stay—to fall in love with him, as he had fallen for Illya.  And as they headed to Niagara (Baba Yaga being cared for by George Dennell in Section IV) and had another disagreement about whether or not Illya was better off going back, Napoleon was seriously considering making that his final wish—that Illya would fall in love with him, unable to tear himself away to return to Berlin.

Two of my three wishes were selfless, Napoleon rationalized.  Assuming this whole thing is true, then let my final wish be something for me—what I want most…

But, again, guilt stopped him.  It wasn’t right, assuming it was real.  It wasn’t right to effectively control someone’s thoughts for something like love. Even if it was granted by a wish that Illya would love him, it would never be pure, true love; it would be always tinged with deceit.

As much as Napoleon pined for him, if Illya loved him back, Napoleon wanted it to be because that was how he truly felt—not what a wish’s magic was making him think he felt.

Fine, then; perhaps I can just wish for him to stay here…

But his mind chided him for that, as well.  If he made that wish, how different was he from someone trying to keep Illya captive?

He couldn’t do that—not to someone he loved.  Trying to summon the courage to beg him to stay because of love wasn’t happening, clearly. If he didn’t say anything, then he had no right to force Illya to stay.

He would have to let him go, if that was what Illya decided in the end.  It was the right thing to do.

Napoleon sighed, deciding that his final wish would, like the others, be selfless.  There really wasn’t anything else he had wanted, anyway…

“O, Bastet, I beseech thee, I wish for Illya to find the happiness and love he so rightfully deserves.”

That was it, then. His three wishes were gone.  And Illya…  Illya would likely be out of his reach soon.

One thing was for certain, though; Napoleon would never, ever forget him—the partner who had stolen his heart.

                                            **********************************

It had seemed at first, however, that Napoleon’s final wish wasn’t going to come true.  In a struggle against the Baron, Napoleon and the Baron had fallen off of the Horseshoe Falls.; the Baron had been killed by the fall, while Napoleon had been rendered to a catatonic state of shock from it. He had been in a bizarre state between awareness and unresponsiveness, but he could still hear a grief-stricken Illya pleading with him to come out of his stupor—even vowing to stay with him in New York if Napoleon did so.

And then, to Napoleon’s utter amazement, Illya had confessed that he had loved him, and then had kissed him.

It was as though it had been magic—a curse breaking by true love’s kiss.  But Napoleon had come out of the stupor and had returned to awareness, much to the relief of Illya.  And Napoleon had been encouraged slightly after hearing Illya’s confession—despite the fact that Illya hadn’t specified what kind of love it was that he felt for Napoleon.

A shared duet some weeks later led them to opening up their feelings for each other—and a post-mission dinner that turned into their first official date.  The weeks turned to months, and as their relationship grew, things changed—for the better.

Illya and Baba Yaga had moved out of his apartment to live in Napoleon’s—they had given the excuse of U.N.C.L.E. budget cuts, vowing that the real reason would have to remain a secret from everyone—at least for the time being.

And it was early one morning, as Napoleon held his still-sleeping partner close to him, waiting for him to awaken, that Napoleon took note of the contented, happy expression on Illya’s face as he slept.

Gently, he brushed some wayward hairs out of Illya’s face.  Though still asleep, Illya smiled in response to his touch, nestling even closer against him, and smiling again as the scent of the bay rum cologne that Napoleon wore reached him.  …And Illya claimed that Napoleon used too much of it?  Ha!  Napoleon knew the truth now—caught him red-handed, enjoying it!

Napoleon merely chuckled to himself and kept his hand on his partner’s back, acting as a silent sentry against nightmares or any real threat that might come their way.  But, at that moment, he wasn’t thinking about threats; Napoleon was thinking about how lucky he truly was.

His final wish to Bastet had come true, after all—Illya had found the happiness and love he deserved—with him, which was something that Napoleon had thought too good to be true.  Despite the temptation, Napoleon had not used any of the wishes on himself directly, yet had ended up getting what he had wanted most—his true love by his side, and even a “daughter,” Baba Yaga, for them to raise together.

Napoleon couldn’t have asked for anything more.  And he would forever cherish what he had now—the blessings and gifts of Bastet.

[shinichirosbabymama]

Elliot x Reader - Betrayal

A/N: SO I haven’t posted in a while but I’ve decided to try something new. This was extremely difficult to write as it goes against my principles on a number of things so don’t expect to find yourself in agreement with the reader. But basically she betrays Elliot. This fic is also extremely sad and angsty but as always enjoy! xo

You hated hacking. You hated it with every fibre of your being.

Prior to meeting Elliot Alderson, you didn’t know very much about hacking. You knew it was becoming an increasingly popular way to expose corrupt activities that were happening in the world so with a distinct sense of naivety you supported it.

However, it wasn’t hacking that had enthralled you – it was Elliot who had done that. He’d entered your life timidly but with a mind bursting with ideas. Ideas that you used to murmur to one another in the dark, shielded from the assumptions of the outside world. You wanted to change the world – with him. But not like this.

Darting around the streets of New York with Elliot and his entourage had been, at first, exhilarating. You felt as though you were a foot soldier – one of the people actually doing something.

But as you marched on with the plan – with Elliot’s big, convoluted idea of starting over – you realised you were rapidly losing your comrades.

Men and women who used to bring down digital dynasties from their bedrooms evaporated rapidly. They were taken without a word – presumably by the FBI. Elliot went undetected, he said it was because he was the best but you thought he was just lucky.

The seed of doubt in your mind started sprouting in the immediate aftermath of 5/9. Everyone was free now but they didn’t seem very free as they hid inside their apartments, eyes occasionally peering through tightly closed blinds. The ATMs ran out fast and the streets filled up with litter. On more than one occasion you saw a brawl break out at the food bank but it wasn’t bankers or their cronies or any of the other people you saw as the enemy – just mothers trying to feed their hungry kids.

Elliot had escaped the initial shockwave and was nowhere to be seen. By the time he returned, in his usual confusion, you were numbed to everything.

‘What happened?’ He mumbled to you one afternoon, stood next to you as you stared out of the window onto the street.

‘The hack happened Elliot. Your hack.’ Your words were full of venom as stalked away from him.

The hours you spent sprawled out attempting sleep on Elliot’s sofa (you’d long vacated his bed) gave your thoughts time to dash back and forth between moral and immoral, resist and conform, one and zero.

Of course, the horrible conditions you’d witnessed on the streets had existed long before the hack, at the hands of the people running this country no less. Yet nobody’s situation seemed improved now. It reminded you of Icarus and you worried that fsociety’s wings had already melted. How nonsensical was it of you all to believe you could unstitch society without consequence. Safely deliver the ruins into the hands of the people. People were not to be trusted.

The situation escalated as did Elliot – or Mr Robot – you weren’t quite sure anymore. You remained catatonic. The damage had been done and an irreversible wound opened.

The moment that came for you to act was unexpected. If you were being honest to yourself, your breaking point came at the exact moment Cisco’s head exploded in that diner which left you picking bits of his brain matter out of your clothes for days after since you couldn’t afford to get rid of them. You didn’t care who had done it – Cisco was already dead and blaming people wouldn’t bring him back. This wasn’t code that could be written or permissions that could be changed. And as a result you spilt your guts to the FBI, a sickening relief washing over you as the words flowed freely.

Dominique, the agent who had been following you all for months, was extremely warm to you after she’d received the haul of information. You didn’t return her attitude but her smile still reached her eyes as he leaned forward, arms flat against the table as though she might reach out to brush yours. You were glad that she didn’t – if someone touched you right now you would scream.

‘Y/N I understand this hasn’t been easy for you but you’ve been incredibly brave. It might not feel like it now but you have done the right thing.’

Your eyes avoided hers as you stared at the cup half-filled with lukewarm coffee in front of you. Dominique was either the worst or the best FBI agent ever as she ignored almost all social graces, carrying on her speech completely unabashed by your frosty audience.

‘I also understand that Mr Alderson – Elliot – is very important to you. Your story has been corroborated with the other evidence that we’ve gathered and it checks out completely. As a result, I am going to allow you to return to yours and Elliot’s residence tonight on the condition that we seize all electronic devices. An agent will be stationed outside to stop either of you disappearing but nobody will enter. How do you feel about that?’

All you could do was offer a small nod in acknowledgement as the tell-tale bitterness in your mouth informed you that you would almost definitely vomit if you tried to speak.

Dominique – Dom as she preferred to be called and which you refused to call her –  gave you a tight-lipped smile and directed her head towards the recorder on the table.

‘Miss Y/L/N has indicated her approval of this offer non-verbally. Y/N can you please confirm that you understand what will happen following your meeting with Mr Alderson. As in – he will be brought into custody for questioning.’

‘I understand.’ You rasped in response, still thirsty even though Dominique had provided you with coffee throughout the interview.

After another two hours of staring at the grey walls of the holding cell you were being escorted to Elliot’s apartment. He would know what was happening by now as each electronic device he owned was wrenched out of his grasp by the authorities. You didn’t know what to expect - you weren’t scared of Elliot but not knowing terrified you.

‘Don’t let him leave, we’ll be watching.’ One of the men in the car told you curtly before you stepped out. All you could offer in response was a stiff nod as you opened the door, bile rising in your throat which you had to swallow down.

You let yourself into the apartment using your key after a few tries due to your shaking hands. The first thing you spotted was Elliot pacing, his hands moving erratically as he spoke.

‘Stop say that I’m not going to fucking –‘

Elliot paused, turning to face you with a look of fear and genuine confusion on his face.

‘Elliot…’ You began, your dry throat trying to find the words. ‘Who are you talking to?’

‘What?’ Elliot snapped quickly in reply, starting towards you so quickly you nearly stepped all the way out of the apartment. You were afraid of him for the first time. Elliot noticed your movement and stopped short, hurt crossing his features.

‘He keeps telling me to do all these things.’ Elliot hissed in a whisper to you. You look over his shoulder but saw nothing and Elliot clenched his jaw in agitation.

‘I don’t understand-‘

‘-You told them everything then?’

The previous conversation was now forgotten as he cut you off, his brow set deep as he stared at you. You nearly bailed right there – you wanted to get back in the car that was waiting outside but you couldn’t. You had to say this.

‘Elliot I had to. I couldn’t go on like this.’ You wished that the words didn’t sound so weak coming from your lips but you were flailing desperately despite the many hours you’d spent pouring over your various explanations.

‘You never had to do anything. Way to go kill the dream.’ His voice sounded monotone and you briefly wondered if it really was Elliot you were speaking to right now. His response triggered a flash of anger which made its way up from your throat.

‘What dream?’ You spat but it sounded more like a sneer. ‘This is fucked but you won’t stop.’

‘Forgive me for actually doing something. I can see that you’re happier being sedated.’ Elliot replies were far too fast for your liking and you could do little more than bristle in response.

‘You love me so how sedated can I really be?’

‘You think I would ever buy into such a ridiculous concept? You think because we fucked each other exclusively numerous time we’re in love? I thought you were intelligent Y/N.’

His words cut you like a knife. This was the Elliot you’d watched destroy a man at steel mountain. You remember listening in horror from the van as he had methodically broke the man piece by piece in front of him. He was strategizing now, aiming to hit you where it hurt most.

‘Fuck you.’ For a few seconds these were the only words spoken from you. You needed a way to release the build of emotions inside of you somehow and that seemed to do the trick. Elliot’s expression didn’t change as his eyes continued to bore into you – the mask he was wearing was rock solid.

‘You’re not a hero Elliot, or a god, or martyr. People are suffering now because of your project. You’re nothing more than a – than a – troll.’

Elliot reached forward and took you by the elbow. For a second you thought he really was about to strike you – something that you’d never even entertained the idea of him doing. Instead he brought his lips close to your ear as his fingers dug painfully into your arm. You wanted to struggle but you stubbornly refused.

‘He told me to kill you. He said it was the easiest way to make things right.’ Elliot’s voice was barely above a whisper sounding unusually smooth in your ear as he spoke without his usual fizzle of anxious energy. ‘But it wasn’t love that stopped me. It was pity. So remember that.’

Your face flushed as you wrenched your arm away from him. The motion seemed to shock Elliot as his eyes went wide and his gaze turned to look at the hand that had grabbed you.

‘Y/N…’ He began – and there was the anxiety in his voice that you guiltily craved.

You made your way out of the apartment swiftly, not quick enough to miss the ‘Wait…I’m sorry!’ of Elliot’s voice drifting down the stairwell. You didn’t stop sprinting until you were back inside the car, one of the agents turning to give you nothing less than a murderous look.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Just drive just fucking drive.’ You snapped, the emotion in your voice twisting angrily around the words.

The agents took a moment to look at one another, trying to read each other’s thoughts until one finally pulled out a walkie talkie.

‘Please send a unit to apprehend Mr Alderson at his residence. We are taking Miss Y/L/N back into custody.’

As the car pulled away from the apartment – away from Elliot – you tried to pinpoint the moment where you knew the two of you were doomed. But it never came. Visions of his ridiculous half smile, his eyes creasing in amusement filled your memory and you struggled to squash them down. You had betrayed him but at what cost?

[buddyrabrahams]

10 biggest storylines for first round of NCAA Tournament

College basketball fans are salivating. March Madness has arrived, and two of the best days on the sports calendar are coming up. There are 16 games taking place on Thursday and 16 more on Friday for the first round of the NCAA Tournament.

The first two days of March Madness never disappoint, bringing buzzer-beaters, upsets, and shocking drama.

The narratives that will unfold over the two wildest days in sports may not be evident right now, but there is still a treasure of trove of things to watch for as the tournament heats up.

Here’s a look at the 10 biggest storylines entering the first round of the NCAA Tournament, which will be played at various venues across the country on Thursday and Friday.

1. Can Oregon adjust without Chris Boucher?

The Ducks accomplished enough in the meat of the season to earn a 3 seed, despite Chris Boucher’s torn ACL suffered in the Pac-12 Tournament. The versatile big man brought length, rim protection, and outside shooting to the Oregon lineup, and his production will be sorely missed. He was averaging 11.8 points, 6.1 rebounds, and a conference best 2.5 blocks per game.

Because they earned that seed, the Ducks are likely safe in round one, though in this tournament that can be a dangerous thing to say. Even without Boucher, Iona is travelling 3,000 miles to Sacramento to face the Ducks, and Oregon is still far more talented than the Gaels. Yet if and when Oregon wins this game, it will be interesting to see how they replaced Boucher in the lineup and if his absence was detrimental.

The winner of Creighton and Rhode Island provides no cakewalk to the Sweet 16, so Oregon needs to figure out life without Chris Boucher sooner than later.

2. Under-seeded Wichita State faces big challenge

The seeding of Wichita State has taken over as the prevailing narrative of the week.

Advanced metrics love the Shockers because they not only won a ton of games in the Missouri Valley Conference, but also because they did so by wide margins. The RPI, still the preferred metric of the committee despite its flaws, does not account for margin of victory or defeat. In a perfect world, Wichita State would have been seeded higher, but in today’s system, they earned a 10 seed.

None of this, by the way, changes the fact that the Dayton Flyers are really good.

Dayton is a legitimate 7 seed and capable of winning games in this tournament. Just because Wichita State deserved a less difficult opponent doesn’t mean the Flyers are doomed.

This may be the best game of the round, and penciling the Shockers forward would be a mistake. Archie Miller and his Flyers deserve your attention. Dayton has six wins over teams in this tournament, while Wichita State managed only one such win this season (against 16 seed South Dakota State).

3. Michigan-Oklahoma State a clash of styles

Speaking of great first-round games, this one should be a battle.

According to Ken Pomeroy’s rankings, this game features two top 25 teams squaring off as a 7 and 10 seed. More importantly for the viewing audience, it features two wildly different styles.

Michigan plays the patient, drawn out offense of coach John Beilein. The Wolverines play the 12th-slowest pace in Division I, and it pays off. They’ve posted the 5th-lowest turnover rate and the 8th-best effective field goal percentage. Michigan will work your defense until they get the shot they want, every time down the floor.

Oklahoma State head coach Brad Underwood wants to press and run the ball all night long. You may remember his teams at Stephen F. Austin the past three years causing all kinds of trouble in the NCAA Tournament. Now he has power conference athletes in his system, and it’s led to Oklahoma State being the top ranked offense in the nation.

Slow meets fast. Frantic meets deliberate. Sounds like a fun way to start Friday’s slate (at 12:15 pm ET in Indianapolis).

4. Northwestern is finally in and has good chance to win!

After decades of torture and teasing, the Northwestern Wildcats are finally dancing in March. Coach Chris Collins has built a program capable of competing in the Big Ten and this year’s team can win in this tournament.

The Wildcats will face a Vanderbilt team with 15 losses this season, including home losses to Bucknell, Ole Miss, and Tennessee. The Commodores earned their way into the tournament, but Northwestern will have a golden opportunity to take home their first NCAA Tournament win in their first year of play.

Junior guard Bryant McIntosh will run the show for the Wildcats. In the Big Ten Tournament, he and Northwestern showed the ability to dominate games for stretches. Even though it happened against lowly Rutgers, Northwestern ripped of a 31-0 run. That doesn’t happen easily or without skill.

5. Winthrop’s Keon Johnson is your new favorite player

Looking for a guy to fall in love with this weekend, even if it is just for one game? Winthrop’s Keon Johnson is your man.

The 5-foot-7 guard does everything for the Eagles, scoring 22.5 points per game. Johnson shot more free throws than any other player in the Big South Conference and took the 2nd most 3-point attempts. The little guy finds ways to score. He topped 30 points seven times this season, which doesn’t even include a spectacular 27 point, 7 assist, 5 rebound game against Charleston Southern.

Butler will be a tough test, though the Bulldogs don’t feature any guards with the right tools to lock in on Johnson. Tyler Lewis will likely spend most of the day chasing Johnson around, likely with limited success.

6. 12 seeds looking to pull upsets

Every year the bracket prognosticators have their eyes on 12 seeds in the first round, with upsets in mind. Historically, that is a good call. 46 teams seeded 12th have pulled the upset, amazingly matching the same number and percentage of 11 seeds to pull the same feat. Statistically, that works out to about 35 percent, meaning at least one of four should win this weekend, if not more.

This season’s crop is ripe for the picking. Middle Tennessee will be the most popular pick, after a great season in Conference USA and a reputation for giant killing, with last year’s upset of Michigan State under its belt. The Blue Raiders are no joke, with multiple wins over power conference foes and multiple wins over tournament teams. JaCorey Williams, an Arkansas transfer, is the real deal, and Giddy Potts is as hot a shooter as you’ll find.

Elsewhere, UNC-Wilmington will be able to challenge Virginia. Big man Devontae Cacok leads the entire nation in offensive rating, true shooting, effective field goal, and 2-point shooting percentages. He is wildly efficient inside, opening up tons of driving lanes for his teammates. The Seahawks offense is a relentless attack, ready for the vaunted Virginia defense.

Princeton rolled through the Ivy League without a loss, and will now be meeting Notre Dame on Thursday. Throw away every stereotype about a Princeton team you’ve got. Sure, they play smart on offense, but the Tigers have the athletes to compete with anyone.

Finally, Nevada will travel east with a real shot to beat Big XII Tournament champ Iowa State. A one-two punch of Marcus Marshall and Cameron Oliver is as scary a duo as you could expect from a 12th seeded mid-major. Those two Nevada stars average a combined 36 points, 11 rebounds, and 5 assists. Keeping them fenced in will be a tall task for the Cyclones.

7. The Lonzo Ball Show

The stand-out freshman guard may have played his worst game of the season for UCLA in the Pac-12 championship. The broadcast crew harped on a jammed thumb he suffered in the first half as a reason or excuse for his poor play.

Since then, Lonzo’s dad has continued to talk about shoe contracts and building a family dynasty (Lonzo’s two younger brothers are also headed to UCLA). It has all added up to distractions and more pressure than needed for a freshman in his first tournament.

Presumably, UCLA will beat Kent State easily, though it will be worthwhile to keep an eye on Lonzo Ball throughout the game. If his hand features even the slightest splint, tape, or band-aid, we’re certain to hear about it for the rest of the weekend. If he looks sluggish or disengaged, people will jump on his mental mindset.

For UCLA to make a Final Four run, Lonzo Ball needs to play like an All-American, without the mess potentially surrounding him.

8. What will we see from Wisconsin and Michigan State?

The two Big Ten standbys both went through incredibly rocky and unpredictable regular seasons. Any guess as to their performance in this tournament is a total shot in the dark.

Wisconsin looked like a Final Four team in early February. The Badgers were 21-3, with big wins and a stable of stars to rely on in the clutch. Over their next six games, however, the Badgers lost five times. Three came on the road, and the fourth was a home loss to tourney team Northwestern. The fifth loss was a last second heartbreaker against Iowa.

No matter the explanation, Wisconsin was in a bona-fide funk. The Badgers bounced back to an extent, topping Minnesota to close the regular season and then reaching the Big Ten Tournament final. Now Wisconsin is faced with a solid Virginia Tech team, and the roller coaster of a season could end or take another turn.

Michigan State, meanwhile, has been even sloppier. After starting the season highly ranked, the Spartans fell to 12-9 in late January. Some bounce back wins earn Sparty a tournament bid, but Tom Izzo’s team has felt like an odd mix of freshman youth and veteran stalwarts all season. Even though the pieces have yet to fall into place, the Spartans are talented enough to beat anyone, and Tom Izzo is a March miracle man.

9. Gonzaga vs. Mike Daum

The best player in this tournament whom you’ve never heard of is South Dakota State sophomore Mike Daum.

The big man has been dominant in his second year on campus, averaging 25.3 points and 8.2 rebounds per contest. If you don’t believe me, ask Fort Wayne. In two meetings with the Mastodons, Daum averaged 46.5 points and 12.5 rebounds. He’s got the body to pound inside and a shooting stroke that’s good for 41 percent from outside the arc.

Now he’ll face his toughest test this season, by far: Gonzaga’s frontline.

Mark Few has three big men who will all likely tangle with Daum at some point on Thursday. Przemek Karnoswki is a 7-foot-1 giant polar bear who can physically challenge Daum in the paint. Johnathan Williams is an athletic freak, with a wingspan and vertical leap that will bother any opponent. Zach Collins is a 7-foot future first-round pick, with a perfect combo of athleticism and fundamentals.

If you need a good reason to watch a one seed battle a 16, this is your answer. Those three bigs will attack and battle Mike Daum for 40 minutes. His efforts to still put points on the board will be a sight to see.

10. An intriguing Florida showdown

When the brackets are revealed, casual fans and the media love to jump out and claim conspiracy theories when two rivals or nearby foes are paired. In reality, the committee is driven by geographic decisions; every team is placed at the nearest possible site location from their campus.

The perfect example this year comes with Florida State meeting Florida Gulf Coast in Orlando, Florida.

Though the two schools haven’t developed a rivalry of any kind in the years since the “Dunk City” days, the two schools are located 315 miles apart. They will meet in the middle for a game that will feature flashes of athleticism, speed, and high flying finishes.

The Eagles likely don’t have the talent to top the Seminoles, though they will put forth quite the effort.

Shane McNichol covers college basketball for Larry Brown Sports. He also blogs about college basketball and the NBA at Palestra Back and has contributed to Rush The Court, ESPN.com, and USA Today Sports Weekly. Follow him on Twitter @OnTheShaneTrain.

from Larry Brown Sports http://ift.tt/2nnEciT