#and Eliot's the midway point

[lehdenlaulu]

Okay, one more OT3-focused rambling post before I jump into S3.

I got to thinking about the dynamics and the ways each of their "love languages" is expressed thus far because it's really quite fascinating. I mean, not only do we have the dynamic combination of Nice Normal Guy (relatively speaking, of course), Not So Nice Not So Normal Guy, and Very Strange Girl, we also have the individual dynamics of:

Nice Normal Guy + Not So Nice Not So Normal Guy

Nice Normal Guy + Very Strange Girl

Not So Nice Not So Normal Guy + Very Strange Girl

Hardison, as our Nice Normal Guy, naturally tries to express affection to the other two the way any Nice Normal Guy would. And sometimes it lands, but other times... it doesn't. He's in many ways quite extraordinary, but when it comes to being emotionally stable, properly socialized, and trauma-free, I feel like he's been handed the best cards out of the three.

Parker, our beloved Very Strange Girl, is full-on cat-coded on the other hand, so at this point, I feel like the best she knows how to do when it comes to Hardison is try not to run away from a scenario and feelings that are new and unfamiliar to her as a means to express her willingness to give him a chance. And he might not realize it yet, but it's actually big. Very big. Just by sticking around and not shutting down his tentative attempts to court her, she's saying "I like you and I want to try".

And like I said, it's easier with Eliot. Eliot is not Normal™ either, not really. Eliot is Safe. Eliot doesn't have vaguely terrifying expectations. So she will sit on his armrest, and lean on him and poke and jab at him, to let him know she finds him safe and knows he would never hurt her even if she pushes his boundaries.

And because Eliot is also a little bit cat-coded, he does get it. So he allows her into his personal bubble -- and even carefully invades hers right back -- to in turn let her know that he wants her to feel safe and that he likes it that she finds him safe. (Plus, you know, as there's clearly some level of mutual attraction involved, close contact feels nice.) Of course, since Eliot as a polyglot is also able to express this with words... he does: not only does he find a way to verbally say "I would do anything for you" once, but twice. The earnest offer to kill Rand for her is of course the big one, but I keep thinking of "Parker made me do it". You know?

Manly Emotionally Constipated Bro-ness (and late 00's toxic masculinity-laden cultural mores) demands such things to remain unexpressed verbally between two Bros, though, so for now at least Eliot will let his actions speak for him when it comes to Hardison. He'll bitch, he'll grumble, he'll bicker, he'll vehemently deny any mushy feelings (again, "Parker made me do it"), but he'll be there. Hardison's a dude, right? He'll get it.

(...Poor Hardison.)

Anyway, I probably didn't say anything that hasn't been said before a thousand times by now, but eh. Onwards!

[eliotqueliot]

Stealing a Book Titled Quentin Coldwater

This art and story are for the Day 4 prompt, "The Library," of Where the Magic Happens: Magicians Settings Week. I completed the basic drawing but will paint and finish the art after Settings Week. The story is finished. (Though I may want to write a sequel!)

Stealing a Book Titled Quentin Coldwater (1704 words) by EliotQueliot Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magicians (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson Characters: Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater, Margo Hanson, Julia Wicker, 40th Timeline William "Penny"Adiyodi, 23rd Timeline William "Penny" Adiyodi, Alice Quinn (The Magicians), Kady Orloff-Diaz Additional Tags: queliot, The Library of the Neitherlands (The Magicians), Theft, Books, True Love, Grief/Mourning, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death Fix, Quentin Coldwater Lives

Summary: Eliot—hadn't been able to bear it one more day. One afternoon at three p.m. when Bambi asked him if he wanted to speak to her about Quentin—he just broke. Finally.

Notes:

This is canon divergent from midway through 5x01, "Do Something Crazy." The point of divergence is the scene in which Margo says, "On that note, it's three o'clock, when I usually ask you if you'd like to talk about Quentin."

The story is a meditation by Eliot on the experience of stealing Quentin's book. There's a fix-it element inasmuch as Eliot's reason for doing so is to bring Q back. If one were to assume, based on my mission as a Queliot writer, that this piece has a happy ending off-screen, one would not be wrong :)

[stateofsport211]

📸 ATP official website

Meanwhile, in Champaign...

Closing the US indoor hard-court Challenger swing was closed with the Champaign Challenger final, where fifth seed Nishesh Basavareddy punched his 2025 Australian Open wild card after winning his semifinal match against Eliot Spizzirri 6-1, 6-1, the same scoreline with the Tiburon Challenger final, taking on Ethan Quinn, who also knocked out wild card and University of Illinois junior Kenta Miyoshi 6-3, 6-2 in a straightforward showing. As dynamic as this match prospected to be, this became a one-way traffic considering all the tennis Nishesh played, but he tried his best to stay afloat in this match.

After 2 consecutive holds, Ethan tried to capitalize on Nishesh's previous errors through his volleys, which contributed to one of the deuces, as well as generating one of his later break points. Another error from the fifth seed caused Ethan to break early 2-1, followed by a swift consolidation to 3-1. Nishesh then kept in touch with a service game hold to 3-2, but there were several slips of errors from Ethan that created the former's break points, but the latter saved them with an unreturned serve and his working volley, from which Nishesh slipped (but turned out to be okay) before scoring another massive hold to 4-2.

By the next game, Nishesh held his serves to 4-3 and he even started the next game with a successful volley. He then had a fair chance to break, including his second or third one of the game through another volley, but Ethan still secured a gigantic hold to 5-3. However, an erratic service game from Nishesh, which included the +1 backhand error midway, caused Ethan to break for the first set 6-3 for his strong start into this match.

[denimbex1986]

'In his 1987 Nobel lecture, Joseph Brodsky said, anthropologically speaking, a human being is primarily a creature of aesthetics, and only after, an ethical one.

This assertion sounds true in the case of J. Robert Oppenheimer. The scientific leaps in the field of quantum physics fascinated Oppenheimer. He was driven to follow the path of Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg. Returning from Cambridge to expand his research in Berkeley, he fell into the arms of the American state and became part of the Manhattan Project to develop an atomic bomb.

It is comic irony that Lewis Strauss, who secretly plotted against Oppenheimer, was forced to work as a shoe salesman during the recession, while Oppenheimer achieved the distinction of Edward Teller calling him, “the great salesman of science.” This explains the moral turn in the life of Oppenheimer. Christopher Nolan likened his character to the titan Prometheus, though midway he seemed to metamorphose into Frankenstein. The hamartia of Oppenheimer’s life, Aristotle’s term for the Greek tragic hero’s fatal flaw, turned into a modern horror story.

The poet Joseph Brodsky’s distinction becomes relevant at this point: Oppenheimer abandoned the moral for the aesthetic. My scholar friend (who wishes to remain unnamed) shared the opinion that Oppenheimer, initially lost in the beauty of pure theory, transforms that aesthetic obsession into a monstrous one. She added the sharp insight: “Oppenheimer tells himself a lie. That the bomb has a moral end.” The act of lying to oneself produced a psychic wound within Oppenheimer. He lost sight of the moral aspect within his aesthetic pursuit. The lie made the transformation possible. The sublime beauty of studying quantum physics was ruined the moment Oppenheimer decided to use his expertise for a detrimental cause.

The sale of his scientific skills to the American state for making the bomb had a clear political objective for Oppenheimer: to finish off Hitler. This logic led him to overcome the moral dilemma behind his job. Any force that can destroy evil is legitimate. The destructive power of science was a seductive option to nullify the power of fascism. The Jewish Oppenheimer did not have his revenge over the Nazis (who were already defeated when the bomb was ready). The American state used it against a weakened Japan to declare its omnipotence.

Young Oppenheimer’s interest in T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Wasteland’ and the Gita has a deep connection: Eliot’s poem ends by evoking the Upanishad, “Shantih shantih shantih”, a peace of the grave that fell upon a world torn apart by the end of World War I and the flu epidemic. Oppenheimer’s translation of the line from the Gita, “I am become Death, destroyer of worlds” was what Krishna said about his divinity being time itself that destroys the world at will. It was meant to exhort a weak-kneed Arjuna (who did not want to kill his cousins, seniors and kinsmen), reminding him of his duty as a warrior to prepare him for battle. The figure of divine incarnation and warrior-prince got fused into the scientist who invented a weapon that could kill millions.

Oppenheimer’s interest in the evocative moments in the two texts shows a certain death wish he carried within himself. When you are hell-bent to destroy the enemy, you are also out to kill a part of yourself through the act of retributive justice.

Oppenheimer was not able to distinguish between the ethical difference between annihilating a system of power and annihilating people. This failure, however, is an intimate part of the modern West’s history. It produced ideas of the state – fascism, communism and imperial democracies – where the other within and outside one’s ideological fold was demonised as the absolute enemy and was meant to be exterminated. Making the bomb to be used for war, Oppenheimer not just used science as a tool for destruction, but created an ideology of science as divine power that could kill uncountable numbers of people as much as it could heal the world.

It has been acknowledged that Nolan did not glorify war by not showing the bomb being dropped on the two Japanese cities. Still, as my scholar friend pointed out, Nolan could not prevent himself from indulging in Hollywood’s fetish for spectacle. There was a clear lack of self-restraint. The slow-motion explosion of the bomb that filled the screen numbed the audience, and engulfed it into the terror of its silence.

Contrast it with Abbas Kiarostami, who did not display the earthquakes that rocked Iran in Koker Trilogy in order to portray its psycho-social repercussion on the lives of residents who suffered its impact. Kiarostami’s art of filmmaking is deeply informed by his ethical hesitation.

Nolan had more reasons to hold back from depicting the technological grandeur of an instrument of death. The temptation to recreate the spectacle is not simply an aesthetic flaw.

The euphoria of the scientific feat was viscerally exhibited by bodies of people stomping the floor of the hall celebrating Oppenheimer. It announced the coming of a new crowd in world history that took nationalist pride in mass destruction of other people. Oppenheimer looked conflicted, remorseful and eaten by guilt. But there were no indications to suggest he completely regretted his success. Truman, embodying the masculine pragmatism of the American state, lampooned Oppenheimer as “crybaby”. No one cared about the real babies in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Such is the moral indifference of war. It causes deafness of the soul.'

[smallblueandloud]

some leverage: redemption reactions

i finished leverage redemption today! and i don't have anyone to talk to about it so, here we have my reactions for all eight episodes, both positive and negative. please feel free to reblog/comment -- discussions are what i'm here for! (under a cut because spoilers and also this ended up being 2k. whoops!)

EPISODE 1: the too many rembrandts job

the "aww, this guy is trying to pull his first heist! how cute" job

what they chose to do with nate was... interesting. it might just be that i read too many of those cracky "here's how they should explain nate's absence" posts, but i was expecting something funny. the grief permeating this episode -- it makes SENSE, but it was still weird. leverage doesn't usually have sadness like this. pain, yes, rage, certainly, but sadness? not usually

the way sophie immediately spots the signs of a con and slips into a character? phenomenal. i'm here for EXPERTS BEING EXPERTS and this show does NOT disappoint

harry wilson is a really solid character! most impressively, he's not flynn, which is impressive enough that i'm making a whole bullet point about it. i was worried that noah wyle was kinda a one-trick pony, but it appears not! good for him tbh

i'm LIVING for the ot3 moments in this episode. "what happened?" "we happened" YESSSSS!!! i wish we'd had more domesticity, but i know they did what they could

"he gets it from his father" FUCK!!!!!

the discussion about redemption in this episode is FANTASTIC but personally i am still delirious with excitement about "my nana leads a multi-denominational household" so expect those thoughts in 3-5 business days

EPISODE 2: the panamanian monkey job

the "flash electropop concert" job

BREANNA INTRODUCTION! i love her so MUCH, y'all. we only got to see her dynamic with hardison in this one episode, but man, it manages to be one of her best dynamics anyway. i just! i love her! i love the way the team works with her!

"in our field, you're one of the best. but there, you're the only one." god we have ELIOT/HARDISON rights and i am NOT OKAY. just!! them!!!!!! being supportive!!!!!! they have learned how to be sweet with each other! they work together so much better (in part because we're seeing them from harry's outsider pov instead of nate's insider pov, but STILL)

midway through this episode, i thought "huh, leverage always focuses on specific people, when really the problem is systematic, and pretending it's anything different is just an excuse to not fight for change". and then at the end harry talks about how the system itself is broken! i love knowing that john rogers and i were reading the same tweets last summer. it's a good feeling to trust the people making a piece of media

who let noah wyle speak spanish. whoever it was, they need to rescind their permission

god, the parker/hardison in this episode. THE PARKER/HARDISON IN THIS EPISODE! they KILL me friends they KILL ME!

also just like, hardison in this episode in general. he made a star trek reference! he made a doctor who reference! he decides there are other people who need him more! the way they wrote around gina bellman's maternity leave in s2 was good but this was phenomenal.

also i'm here for ot3 crumbs so "is this like the time when eliot wanted us to say no" is going on my ot3-is-canon conspiracy board

this is a tiny detail but eliot taking out the drone with a goddamn ORANGE was so good. he's so good at his job!! they're all so good at their jobs!! i know i literally just talked about this but AAA

EPISODE 3: the rollin' on the river job

the "sometimes you just want to rob a vault wearing a floofy dress, and that's valid" job

i did... not. like. how the villain in this one was an immigrant whose exploitable weakness was a "desperation" to be included in the upper crust. and the fact that they beat him with a literal southern belle who explicitly beats him BECAUSE her family has been in the area for "hundreds of years"? it just feels Iffy.

also iffy about this episode was breanna's characterization. it felt inconsistent. she feels inconsistent across the whole season, but this episode in particular... she tells harry she's only with the team because she's desperate, that she doesn't believe in hope, and then at the end of the episode she tells parker she wants to be there to change the world. and like, even in the first place, she's not here out of desperation! SHE asked to join the team! like, i can see how it all kinda fits together, but it just feels... inconsistent. idk. i think these scripts all could've benefited from an extra round or two of editing.

anyway! i loved the way they tied hardison into these episodes, even though aldis hodge couldn't be there. he has binders! breanna doesn't want to read them! parker did! he put in big letters, "when in doubt, trust the person in the van". i'm just so !!! about how much i love him and how much he loves his team and how much his team loves him. FOUND FAMILY, BABY!

all inconsistencies in breanna's characterization aside, i really liked her speech at the end. i know how she feels! it's really nice to have someone on the team who's from -- not my world, really, but a lot closer than any of the others. it's a nice feeling! i love her a lot. i hope her writing gets more consistent

lol, parker ate eliot's carrot cake. i love the parker/eliot rights we get in this show, they're so domestic and it's wonderful.

EPISODE 4: the tower job

the "hardison made his partners learn klingon" job

watching this episode was what made me go "they're not going to make us sit through a harry/sophie romance... right? right?"

i'm still not sure they're gonna let us avoid it but it COULD work so... i've decided to just not worry about it for now

i liked the number of ways the con goes wrong! it was fun to watch them work on the fly like that. i think them not having a dedicated Mastermind(tm) is a good watsonian explanation for their plans being pretty haphazard in general, but it's good, they think well on their feet

nate was a chessmaster. he had the whole situation in his mind from the beginning, accounting for every possible outcome. parker and sophie are much more adaptive, and it's cool to see. they can rely on their respective skillsets a lot more than nate could

a really solid episode! probably one of the strongest ones in the season. i liked it a lot.

(ALSO as mentioned above the klingon lines were fantastic and not just because they were a star trek reference -- every time eliot and parker both mentioned hardison, together, it added a year to my lifespan)

EPISODE 5: the paranormal hacktivity job

the "sophie was worryingly prepared to fake her death" job

i know why they characterized the client as a skeptic, i really do, and i loved the format of this episode, but also. But Also. she should've been a love interest for breanna and I'm Right.

having a girl's episode was the CORRECT choice. they do crimes in their free time! they fleece newbie, cruel criminals! it's so good!

it would've been cool to have eliot around for the assassin guy, but it was also cool to see the others take him out without having eliot to rely on. it's like getting to see how they'd take out eliot, if they were ever on opposing sides.

PARKER CANONICALLY USES SCRIPTS IT'S THE BEST THING EVER

breanna bristling about letting the criminal into the theater's electric system was so good god i love her so much. she knows hardware! i bet she likes to work with her hands. i bet she stims. i bet she has adhd

actually, sidenote, but i LOVE these headquarters. they look so nice! the stage is so nice! i loved having an episode set in and around it, it was such a good choice.

EPISODE 6: the card game job

the "FINALLY AN EXPLICITLY QUEER LEVERAGE CHARACTER" job

QUEER BREANNA QUEER BREANNA QUEER BREANNA QUEER BR

UNFOLLOW ME NOW THIS IS GONNA BE THE ONLY THING I POST ABOUT FOR THE REST OF TIME

GOD, what a good way to reveal it. it's fully about her! i love queer romances, of course i do, but i don't think i've ever seen a character come out without a romance being their reason for doing so (however indirectly). i still think she should've gotten a date with the client from 1x05, but i really liked this too.

this episode just felt like a love letter to fandom, and i love that. i love how much it shone through. i'm used to writers specifically going out of their way to make fun of fans and laugh at them, so it was just. really nice to have someone stand up and go, no, this is important for a reason! people love this for a reason! it MEANS something!

very fun to watch eliot swordfight. very fun to watch sophie recite a sonnet in her classic fashion. very fun to watch parker work at being a good mentor. breanna was so excited about the card game! they're all so good!

oh, and i guess harry's here too.

EPISODE 7: the double-edged sword job

the "harry is addicted to mobile games, which is a mood" job

hot take alert! i think this is the weakest episode of the season by a LOT. it needed so much more editing. it felt so disjointed, so all over the place. the plot was haphazard but in a muffled way, where you had no idea why they were doing what they were doing. the climax was sudden and didn't make any sense. it was just weird.

i'm not the person to comment on this but it feels kind of lazy to cast an east asian guy to play a socially-awkward tech genius. just a thought.

oh, of course jonathan frakes directed this episode. sometimes his stuff is really good but other times (ahem, ds9 3x02) it's disjointed and all over the place. i'm not even surprised it was him.

idk if i have anything else to say about this. oh! some of the team moments were great -- mostly involving eliot. i loved the moment of him recognizing the headshot, i LOVED the ten seconds of everyone teasing him. he and parker talked about the wellbeing of their friend, the woman whose ex tracked her down!

separate bulletpoint to say how much i LOVED his conversation with breanna outside the house. he's so good at reassuring! he could go deeper there, talking about being better than your worst day, but he knew when not to push! it was so good.

"first off, this guy can't TOUCH hardison" deserves its own bulletpoint because like. y'all. Y'ALL.

EPISODE 8: the mastermind job

the "eliot is more than just a pretty face" job

oh man this post is so much longer than i thought it would be. okay just one more episode and then i'm done.

the callbacks to original leverage were SO well done and made me feel emotions without feeling overbearing.

i didn't like the central premise -- that nate would share so many details with a random insurance agent -- in the first place, but i did like how it allowed them to bring back nate without actually hiring timerty mcasshole.

i liked eliot's insistence that he's more than just the muscle! he is, and it's really good to know, textually, that the writers do too!

me, watching the resolution of the episode: ah, yeah, insurance fraud. a classic!

harry bonding with his guard had "they don't even have dental!" energy and i am SUCH a fan. i know it was all for the con but also give me harry, unable to stop advising people, even when they're actively holding him hostage

parker! on the phone with hardison!!!! ADORABLE

is it just me or was someone else expecting the accountant's name to be something significant? with the way they led up to it, i was waiting for a "sterling" or something else. my sensors were pinging for another tara reveal. i'm still convinced we're gonna get this guy dramatically revealed in the season finale.

a really nice episode! i had a lot of fun with it. and now i want to rewatch the rashamon job, but tbh i ALWAYS want to rewatch the rashamon job.

and that's a wrap! overall, a fun season, i enjoyed it a lot. not as solid as original leverage, but it's the very beginning, and it was put together during a global pandemic, so i'm cutting them some slack. also levar burton is gonna show up at some point. that's a big reason of why i'm cutting them so much slack.

my personal ranking of the episodes is 1x04, 1x06, 1x08, 1x01, 1x02, 1x03, and finally last (and least), 1x07.

what did you guys think of the new season? what was your favorite episode? do you agree with any of my opinions? disagree with any? let me know, please, i'd love to discuss!

[themagiciansreccenter]

Author Spotlight: @under-the-shady-tree

Every week we are going to be interviewing a writer from The Magicians fandom. If you would like to be interviewed or you want to nominate a writer, get in touch via our ask box.

First things first, tell us a little about yourself.

Well, my name is Lauren, I live in Indianapolis and groom dogs for a living. I have a very tight-knit family so I spend pretty much all my time hanging out with them and having fun being the “cool” aunt.

How long have you been writing for?

Since I learned how to write. My parents gave me a diary for my 6th birthday and from that moment on, I was writing all the time. I used to write stories about me and my friends and reading my stories during recess became a thing. I moved onto fanfiction once the internet came around and still continue to journal and write original fiction.

What inspired you to start writing for The Magicians?

A Life in the Day. I hadn’t written anything for almost two years. Life got rocky for a bit and I just couldn’t do it. I would get ideas for stuff, even The Magicians, but nothing would come of it. But that episode got whatever was blocked in my brain knocked out and it’s been non-stop since then.

Who is/are your favourite character(s) to write? What it is about them that makes them your favourite?

Quentin. I just relate to him so much and understand how that brain could work. He comes really easy to me. Eliot also is one of my favorites, I find so much emotion and love buried under his persona and that is so much fun. Writing them together is just a joy. I also really like writing Margo and that one surprised me because I am so different from her, but like Eliot I’ve found what’s underneath all of her bravado to be so interesting to write.

Do you have a preference for a particular season/point in time to write about?

I guess season 3 since it’s the most I have written about, but I’ll write where ever the inspiration takes me.

Are you working on anything right now? Care to give us an idea about it?

Right now my time is pretty much all focused on my timeline 23 fic, We Will All Be Changed, it’s kind of a monster of a story for me so it’s got most of my attention. But I have a few things brewing. More of the mosaic lifetime, kind of examining how Quentin, Eliot and Arielle worked as parenting team and how they dealt with her death. I’m also dying to write teenage Rupert!

How long is your “to do list”?

Too long!

What is your favourite fic that you’ve written for The Magicians? Why?

That’s hard, I always hate picking favorites. I lean more toward Destiny Is Bullshit I think because it was my first big one and it’s what really got me going into writing again. I really found Quentin and Eliot’s voices working on it and found that I actually could write Margo. The response I got from it was so positive as well and it really gave me a confidence boost that I never had before. It also inspired more than just that one story (now 8 in the series) and gave me a way to fill in the blanks for the rest of the season and for their mosaic lifetime.

Many writers have a fic that they are passionate about that doesn’t get the reception from the fandom that they hoped for. Do you have a fic you would like more people to read and appreciate?

I would have to say my fic All That Remains is Love. It’s a 5+1 story dealing with death so it might be too depressing, but it’s all of my favorite things. It’s missing scenes we didn’t get to see, angst and Queliot falling in love very slowly. I also worked non stop on it once the idea hit me and it drove me a little insane until it was done. It emotionally drained me writing it so I just want to shove it at everyone and be like “LOVE THIS!!!”

What is your writing process like? Do you have any traditions or superstitions that you like to stick to when you’re writing?

It depends on the length of what I’m writing. For the shorter fics I usually have more of an abstract idea and a few lines of dialogue or a surprise ending in mind. I have a few playlists for certain moods. (I’m a little obsessed about having a soundtrack to everything I do in my life, not just writing) Then I just start working it out line by line.

For longer ones, it’s a much bigger process because I like to plan. I don’t even consider starting a multi-chapter fic unless I’ve worked out the beginning, middle and end and what the conflict is. I create a playlist that goes to that particular fic and that always sets a good tone for me. Then I break it down chapter by chapter and start writing. I get the bare bones out, like the dialogue and where they are. Then I add the inner thoughts and actions and emotions and just kind iron it all out.

Sometimes it changes a lot while I write, sometimes it sticks close to what I thought.

Do you write while the seasons are airing or do you prefer to wait for hiatus? How does the ongoing development of the canon influence and inspire your writing process?

I’ve only been writing since midway through season 3 and haven’t stopped so I see myself just writing during both pretty consistently. As far as what will happen, it will only inspire more. I have a series that sticks very close to canon so I can get all my added scenes and further in-depth peek into the show. So that will only help that grow. And ideas that fit out of that bubble come along too and I just go with it.

I think it would be kind of fun to continue some of my season 4 speculation stuff right into au territory because I’m sure what I wrote won’t happen, so who knows.

What has been the most challenging fic for you to write?

Of fics that are finished, The Mess We Made. It was hard because I realized early on that I was writing a younger Quentin and Eliot than who they were in Destiny is Bullshit. I kind of struggled with getting them to fight, because I just spent months writing them with a lifetime together under their belt and a deep understanding of each other. The Mess We Made was them a few years into that lifetime so they were still learning things about each other and experiencing things for the first time. I ended up kind of leaning into that difficulty with getting them to fight and tried to amp up the fighting to a few big blow-ups.

My timeline 23 fic is quickly becoming my most challenging though, it’s basically 3 or 4 full-length fics that sometimes crossover and then all end up mashed together. It’s pretty challenging.

Are there any themes or tropes that you particularly like to explore in your writing?

Angst, angst and more angst, lol. I am also a sucker for deep connections between people, be it romantic or otherwise, and really expose the good, the bad and the ugly about those relationships. So you know, more angst. But happy endings are my favorite too.

Are there any writers that inspire your work? Fanfiction or otherwise?

I’m always inspired by all the other Magicians fanfiction writers (honestly, Magicians fanfiction is really the only fanfic I read right now)

Alice Sebold is probably my favorite writer. She has a way of writing emotion in a way that feels really real and honest to an almost uncomfortable degree. It’s almost too real. Also the authors of my youth, Ann M. Martin and Judy Blume, I wanted to write because of them.

What are you currently reading? Fanfiction or otherwise?

I am reading “Written in Blood” It’s a book looking into the death of Kathleen Peterson of Stairway fame. (I love true crime) Also, I’m actually reading The Magician King. My sister is reading the Magician’s books for the first time so I’m reading along with her so we can discuss. I also am keeping up on whatever comes up on AO3!

What is the most valuable piece of writing advice you’ve ever been given?

Keep writing, whether it’s good or bad, just get it out and you can build on it later but it needs to be out there to fix.

Cringe time:

Are there any words or phrases you worry about over using in your work?

Oh man, I don’t know, I sometimes think everything I write is just a repeat of the last thing lol. Looked, people are always looking at each other and it’s hard to come up with different ways to express that.

What was the first fanfic that you wrote? Do you still have access to it?

I wrote an American Girl fanfic. My best friend and I traveled back in time to 1774 and went on an adventure with Felicity! I still have it, in a notebook in a box in my closet. I have two boxes (not huge boxes or anything) of old diaries, journals and notebooks full of my writing. My parents didn’t want to throw that away growing up.

Rapid Fire Round:

Self-edit or Beta? Self-edit

Comments or Kudos/Reblogs or Likes? All of the above!

Smut, Fluff or Angst? angst!!

Quick & Dirty or Slow Burn? Slow burn, the slower the better

Favourite season? 3

Favourite episode? A life in the day

Favourite book(The Magicians books)? The Magician King

Three favourite words? Triskaidekaphobia, Loquacious, Fuck

Want to be interviewed for our author spotlight? Get in touch here.

[melbournenewsvine]

Forget the poet hes a real Trevor Blue

Readings from the book, published by Allen & Unwin, will be broadcast on ABC National Radio next month. Dr Clark blames British academics, possibly with the help of MI5 and the CIA, for “this organized program against Australia”. What he revealed, he said, was the literary equivalent of getting the ashes back on English soil. Currency, The Complete Book of Australian Verseincluding works by hitherto unknown poets such as Rabbi Burns, Arnold Wordsworth, Warren Keats, Amy Lou Dickinson, Walter Burley Yeats, Kahliji Bran, TS (Tabi Sirius) Eliot, Sir Don Bettjeman, DH Oding, Louis “The Lip” MacNeice, Dylan Thompson and Sylvia Plath. Dr. Clarke said that some of the authors are related to well-known international poets with similar names. Ewen Coleridge, a plumber from Annandale who lived with Arnold Wordsworth, is not represented because his works, often written while undergoing one of the early methadone treatments, have been lost. However, Dr. Clark said, it was possible that some of Ewen’s work appeared under the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who smoked opium and wrote Crusted with an old navigator. Arnold Wordsworth, now believed to have written Narcissus It represents most of the works attributed to William Wordsworth Lines formed midway across the Pyrmont Bridge: Earth has nothing to show more fairness, It will be soft, imperfectly resistant, Who would willingly give up such an opinion, For, behold, the bird breaks its wind. And this whole joint doesn’t look so unpleasant, Stand back, because when she goes, she goes bloody. Dr. Clark noted that the works of writers such as Chaucer and Shakespeare were not under challenge because white writers had only been in Australia for 200 years and blacks had no written culture. However, fragments were found around Stratford, near Horsham, Victoria, for Trevor Shakespeare’s work, beginning with: “Will there be any point in my formal some sort of comparison between you and the author of the absolute?” Why Australians emerged as the world’s greatest writers? “The depth and splendor of Australian culture, the wit and imagination of Australian writing – and perhaps the brew.” Why should the Australian revolution end in poetry? What about novels and dramas? loading “Of course. The history of Australian theater is littered with cobbled bits by less important people like Chekhov and Ibsen and other crooks from places like Scandinavia, where nothing can be verified, and Russia. Who knows what’s going on there?” “We found this guy named Gavin Tolstoy in Darwin somewhere. He wrote 87 tons in just one book. Four container trucks she brings from Darwin. Puts war and peace in the shade.” *John Clark says he completed his Ph.D. in Leipzig, and recently worked in the Department of Negative Reinforcement at Bond University, and on his own agrarian reform project. He is also known as Fred Dag, a comedian. Source link Originally published at Melbourne News Vine

[vickyvicarious]

His reaction when Eliot and Parker come back down the mountain after being incommunicado

Cowboy hacker standoff in the parking lot

His speech to Sterling/blowing up the office

Parker 3000/Hardy - that he made her, the way he talked to her, the way he stared so softly and fondly at Parker for a moment in the middle of an unremarkable conversation just because he loves her

All his other gadgets! Stigmata gun! Little EMP cannon!

TWO GOOD 'OL BOYS! BEHIND THE WHEEL! CHASIN' DOWN BAD GUYS IN LUCILLE!

His confidence. His kindness. Never ending, no one moment, just. At all times.

Making faces with that kid/giving him crime advice as they both ignore Nate's disapproving noises in the Hot Potato Job

Hacking the dam with snails

Every time he gets that smug little confident GRIN YES YOU GO

the pointed mockery towards Nate midway through the Gold Job

Sucking air out of the pneumatic pump of the chair he's handcuffed to as he drowns in a pool waiting for Eliot to save him - then he gets out on his own after the key is tossed in and walks back over to Moreau, straightening his suit, wiping his face with the handkerchief that has been in his pocket the whole time he was underwater-

His list of demands in the Bank Shot Job

etc. etc. etc.

truly there is no end

Do you have a favorite Hardison moment? Will you tell us about it?????

MANY, HERE IS A (CERTAINLY INCOMPLETE) LIST OF THEM:

That hilarious moment when Eliot hugs him and then pushes him away and tries to play like it was totally Hardison who started the hug and HARDISON GIVES HIM THE MOST AMUSED LOOK IN HISTORY and then lets him get away with it, like, dude is so kind. 

DUDE IS SO KIND. 

Let’s talk about when he taught Parker to walk that villian-of-the-week walk on a repurposed DDR board by dancing with her and humming in her ear and then HUMMING ON THE COMMS WHERE EVERYONE CAN HEAR HIM AND JUST LIKE

He is always thinking of the needs of his team and he’s so GENTLE and CAREFUL with the whole courtship of Parker thing, because it’s about what she wants, and what they might want want together, but never just about what he wants (and I’m 100% certain it’s the same with Eliot but that’s a different post)

THE VIOLIN SOLO. God like, holy shit???? Holy shit??? And don’t even come at me with the hypnotized thing because he was just hypnotized back to the height of his talent, which means he could play a violin like that at 14 years old, which HOLY SHIT SOME MORE. 

“Well, somebody’s got to fight the injured. Shoot, that’s my niche.” 

That entire sequence with the food laser. And the moment where he geeks out about the NSA truck. And actually just all of his geek out moments, I IDENTIFY WITH YOU TOO MUCH ALEC

[Various showcases of his STONE COLD GENUIS, there are literally too many to list] 

The fact that towards the middle of the series, he expresses interest in running his own crew, and Nate tells him that, basically, he isn’t cutthroat enough to do it — that the fact that he won’t manipulate his team members is what’s going to keep him from greatness. And THEN, instead of trying to make himself ~TOUGHER or more callous or whatever, Hardison accepts that about himself, ends up happy to work with Parker as the mastermind, and that’s juts like. IT’S SO IMPORTANT TO ME? Not just because it’s so rare to see a male character with that kind of arc but because Hardison’s kindness is my favorite thing about him and I love love love love that given the choice between power and holding onto that part of himself, he chooses to keep his grip on his kindness and supporting his teammates. UGH. 

The entire thing with the sandwich. THE EFFORT HE GOES TO CONVINCE ELIOT THAT HE DIDN’T EAT IT. The fact that he did in fact eat it. “BOY CAN COOK.” Hilarious and incredible. 

Of the three of them he’s the best at compromise, the most openly compassionate, the most understanding. HE IS THE SOFT CANDY CENTER INSIDE THE… HARD CANDY OUTSIDES… OF PARKER AND ELIOT, this metaphor got away from me but my point stands

The fact that he has a tell in rock-paper-scissors

“WHAT’RE YOU GONNA DO, PUNCH IT WITH YOUR PUNCHY HANDS?”

Honestly it would be easier to list my unfavorite Hardison moments which would be: all those moments when he’s trapped inside that coffin, because I am so full of horror for him while I watch it. NOBODY THROWS HARDISON OFF A ROOF AND NOBODY SHOULD PUT HIM IN A COFFIN EITHER, that’s it, case closed, the end. 

[bethanydelleman]

Summer Reading Interlude 2: One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn

Quick summary for those who have not read it: Ivan Denisovich is a prisoner in a Russian “special” gulag. He was accused of treason after escaping a German POW camp during WWII. He has served eight years already and is focused almost entirely on surviving each day and getting enough food to stay alive. He works as a mason in the camp with a crew of men and a clever crew leader. The book records a single day, from 5 a.m. to evening.

I really loved this book. I don’t think I’ve ever read a novel that took place over a single day. The midway point was lunch time. Surprisingly, most of the text concerned the actual day and wasn’t backstory. Most of the book was about finding heat in the Russian winter and acquiring food. It almost read like a survival guide for a gulag.

I think the reason the book appealed to me so much is because it showed how humans can master anything, including the extremely harsh conditions of a Stalin-era gulag. Ivan and his crew have an intimate understanding of how the camp works and they have found their little ways around the rules. They steal supplies for their own purposes; they know which guard is more sympathetic and more lax; Ivan especially has tiny ways of making money; and they all have small rituals that maintain their humanity.

Wasn’t expecting to read a book about Russian prison camps during my summer vacation! This book was lent to me by a friend, but considering I lent her The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte, I guess gulags are fair game. Next in my very un-curated list is Silas Marner by George Eliot.

[allthereclists]

queliot fic

Practice Makes Perfect by Granjolrass 295

Eliot is helping Quentin study. He's also helping him with other things.

There's A Spell For That by Granjolrass 303

"Tsk, tsk." Eliot said, sliding down the zipper. "That's what you get for complaining." He pushed Quentin against the bookshelf, letting him feel his hardness for a moment before pulling away. He pressed his lips against Quentin's hungrily, then moved his lips up the boys jawline until they were brushing against his ear. "You wanted my attention," He whispered, his breath hot on Quentin's skin. "Now you've got it."

Loophole by Granjolrass 630 

Once Eliot takes a wife he might not be able to have sex with anyone else, but damned if he can't find a loophole.

Tickle War by Granjolrass 646

Eliot finds out that Quentin is ticklish. Quentin ends up tangled in the sheets and at Eliot's mercy.

The Final Loop by Granjolrass 793

38 times Eliot had to watch Quentin die. And he was the only one who remembered. This was his final night with Quentin; his final night before they were going to fight the Beast. But after 38 lifetimes, how could Eliot have known this would be their last night together.

Autumn Symphony by LadySilviana 1,135 

A little bit of seasonal ambiance for autumn. Ever wonder what happens with dry foliage on Brakebills campus? Well this is what happens. Quentin and Eliot play around with some enchanted leaves.

Everything Vanilla by LadySilviana 1290

Quentin loves everything vanilla. Well, except for one thing...

Up on the Roof by Lexalicious70 1,857 

It’s Quentin’s 23d birthday and Eliot has pulled out all the stops for him, but underneath it all, what Quentin really wants for his special day is the bigger surprise.

Because I Am Not Myself, You See by Lexalicious70 2,135

After a long day of bottling up their emotions to learn battle magic, an unexpected mix-up reveals feelings to both Quentin and Eliot in a way they never expected.

Happy Pills by LivingInFiction 2,162

Since Quentin had established his “routine” here, at the Midtown Mental Health Clinic, everything had become a mechanism set on repeat every day. Luckily for him, his meetings with Eliot were there to break it.

Tighter by Lexalicious70 2,214

Quentin has a kink that Eliot discovers quite by accident; certain curiosities are explored.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Quentin Coldwater byLexalicious70 2,424

On Halloween, the Brakebills maze is transformed into a spooky wonderland, and there’s tricks and treats in store for Eliot and Quentin as they try to find their way out.

Interception by Lexalicious70 2,709

A plan to protect Quentin from the hedge witches goes wrong for Eliot, but how far will Quentin go to help pick up the pieces?

Pass it Around by coldfiredragon 3,054

A single item can hold a million memories, especially when it goes full cirlce as the years pass.

Taken by LadySilviana 3,448

Both Eliot and Quentin struggle with some new experiences that come along with their relationship. Eliot finds himself fighting off some unwanted attention from previous partners, which results in unfortunate misunderstandings and makes Quentin confront some jealousy issues.

Burning by ACR 3,697

Eliot is broken. But no one understands broken as well as Quentin does.

Those Magic Changes by Lexalicious70 5,182

During Quentin’s second year at Brakebills, the twin he never knew is tapped to take the exam, but he may also alter Quentin’s life in ways he never thought possible.

Stay with Me, Sway(ze) With Me by Lexalicious70 5,223

Eliot is pining, Quentin is clueless, and only the power and magic of Patrick Swayze and Dirty Dancing can bring them together.

New Beginnings by Jcapasso916 10,686

Follow Quentin Coldwater as he gets his start at a prestigious university for magic, and learns that the real magic has little to do with spells and more to do with falling in love.

AU

Prologue by Gizmo 773

There is only three things that makes Quentin smile: his Fillory and Further books, his best friend Julia and his foster brother Eliot.

I'd Like It If Someone Stayed by coldfiredragon 2,485  

A Hedge witch AU where Quentin meets Eliot on the first day of a shared class at Columbia university.

get me out of my mind (and get you out of those clothes)by oximore 2,651

It wasn't that Eliot never slept with Hedge Witches, but that he usually knew beforehand what it was about when it happened. They wanted something, he wanted something and everything was a carefully delimited transaction.

There was nothing careful or clearly delimited here.

You’re crashing but you’re no wave by oximore 8,980

Quentin didn't check positive as either a guide or a sentinel when he was a child. Not that it came as a surprise to his parents - there was no history of either in their families, and they hadn't expected it to be any different with their son.

and it would all come down to this (three points where two lines met) by oximore 15,331

Soulmarks AU where the first words the one you're soulbonded to are written on your skin.

Midway Between Gods and Beasts by Lexalicious70 21,140

Successful hedge witch Eliot Waugh finds his comfortable life in Chelsea with his best friend Margo unexpectedly interrupted when young, untrained magician Quentin Coldwater comes into his life, pursued by those who believe he is mentally ill and by a terrible beast from another world who wants to use Quentin as an unwilling pawn in its takeover of a magical world.

From The Middle, Towards the Unseen Edge bycoldfiredragon 42,596

One of them remembers and the other doesn't. Three years following his expulsion from Brakebills Quentin's missing memory and the lies Eliot told him to keep magic secret are about to leave their relationship in ruins. When Julia tries to intervene she sets a series of events in motion that puts them all in danger.

--

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies byCountlessUntruths (KaliCephirot) 2,822 [3some]

"Anyway, now-a-days, we'd just flip a coin for it," Margo says. "But we rarely like the same people anymore, like that." Or, a more detailed portrayal of the threesome.

-----------------

authors:

coldfiredragon - https://cldfiredrgn.tumblr.com

rizcriz - http://sadlittlenerdking.tumblr.com/post/160070117161/my-the-magicians-fic-masterpost

Lexalicious70 - https://all-hale-eliot.tumblr.com/tagged/fic

[quentinsquill]

The Magicians: “Midway Between Gods and Beasts” (Fic)

Midway Between Gods and Beasts

Author: Lexalicious70 (all-hale-eliot)

Fandom: The Magicians

Genre: AU, some canon events included

Word Count: 20,868

Warnings: Possible triggers for mental health treatment, some mention of sexual assault

Summary: Successful hedge witch Eliot Waugh finds his comfortable life in Chelsea with his best friend Margo unexpectedly interrupted when young, untrained magician Quentin Coldwater comes into his life, pursued by those who believe he is mentally ill and by a terrible beast from another world who wants to use Quentin as an unwilling pawn in its takeover of a magical world.

Author’s Notes: This is for the Welter’s Challenge Trials Big Bang, Tier 2! I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun and to pass the time until my next therapy session. Thanks to @kings-of-fillory, @justcallmeasmodeus, and @highqueenbambiwaugh for advice and inspiration!  Comments and kudos are magic! Enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Midway Between Gods and Beasts

By Lexalicious70

 CHAPTER ONE

 Spring in Chelsea didn’t arrive all at once.

 It wasn’t like the arrival of winter, which often came with the suddenness of a busload of tourists tumbling off a trendy, double-decker Gray Line. Spring was an ambling, wayward urban explorer more intent on finding hidden architectural gems than visiting tired tourist traps. As the last piles of dirty snow retreated under shade trees, park benches, and store alleyways, where they finally melted away, sun-warm breezes made their way into the neighborhood that promised its trees, shrubs, and flower boxes would be rioting by May, now only four weeks away.

 They were, in fact, the kind of breezes that almost made one not as sorry he had ever been conceived.

 “Christ, Eliot, close that window! It’s April, not July!”

 Eliot glanced up from the window seat and the cigarette he was enjoying to see his roommate and best friend Margo standing in front of her bedroom door in a sunflower-yellow robe, her long brown hair damp and tousled. She put her hands on her hips.

 “Come on, seriously, I just took a shower and that air feels freezing!”

 “So use a warming spell or dry your hair. You know I don’t like to smoke in here with the windows closed.” Eliot replied. His fellow hedge witch narrowed her dark eyes for a moment before crossing the high-gloss hardwood floors of the loft they shared. A slim metal carafe sat on the counter in the roomy kitchenette, and Margo filled a mug with the blonde roast they both preferred.

 “You’re lucky you’re the only person on this whole planet I can stand to be around for more than five seconds.” She groused, sipping the coffee before adding a packet of natural sweetener.

 “I’m so very flattered.”

 “You should be.” Margo took her coffee into the living room and sat on the couch, her feet tucked up under her thighs as she reached for a leather-bound notebook. Inside, dates and names were inscribed in Eliot’s slanted, elegant scrawl. “Are we seeing anyone today?”

 “Mmmh.” Eliot nodded as he crushed out his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window and into a ceramic urn that sat on the fire escape. “Two hedges from Soho. Low level and looking for introductory thermogenic spells.” He got to his feet and stretched, his tall, thin frame elegant instead of gangly, as many tall men appear to be. A glance at the window dropped it closed, but not before a final warm breeze ruffled Eliot’s dark, curly hair. He went to the kitchen and took a coffee mug down, the hem of his open satin robe flapping around the black silk lounge pants he wore. His chest was bare, but he and Margo had lived together for more than two years now, and he knew it would bother her no more than occasional glimpses of her bare breasts or panty-clad ass disturbed him.

 “Thermogenic spells.” Margo sipped her coffee. “Are we sure we want to sell those to newbies? They might accidentally set themselves on fire.”

 “You know our disclaimer. Magic is likely to maim or kill you, cast at your own risk, et cetera. We’re here to provide a service, not wet nurse a bunch of inexperienced hedges.”

 “Hey, we used to be inexperienced hedges.”

 Eliot tapped a bit of sweetener into his coffee and frowned at her.

 “Correction, Margo darling. We chose to be inexperienced hedges. One semester at Brakebills was enough to show us that learning magic formally is bullshit and that it’s much more profitable and fun to discover spells and hone our skills on our own.” He went to sit next to her and she leaned against him.

 “The cottage was all right.” She allowed, and Eliot nodded.

 “Though not terribly private.”

 “El, you entertained a different guy every night.” Margo pointed out, and Eliot glanced down at her.

 “So did you. Sometimes we both entertained the same one on the same night.” Eliot sipped his coffee. “I used to hate it when they’d gone to you first . . . smelling your perfume on them always made me flaccid.” He ducked the throw pillow Margo swung at him almost before he finished speaking, covering the rim of his mug with one hand so it didn’t spill. Margo narrowed her eyes at him.

 “A, you better go get ready to meet these hedges and B, eat me!”

 “Oh, Bambi.” Eliot sighed as he got to his feet and dropped an affectionate kiss on top of her head. “I won’t even look at sliced cold cuts at the 8th Avenue Gourmet Deli.”

 The throw pillow connected solidly with his ass as he walked toward his room and he gave a token yelp of protest before hopping up the four steps that led to his room, which was quartered off from the rest of the loft with hand-painted flexible wooden panels. The door was connected to a curved archway and featured ten rectangular frosted panels, etched with delicate Japanese cherry blossoms. Eliot shut the door behind him and shed his robe before slipping out of his lounge pants. He was under the hot spray of the glassed-in shower a moment later, letting the water and goat’s milk sandalwood soap wash away the smell of tobacco and the musk of deep sleep.

 Of course, Margo hadn’t been wrong in her estimation of how many young men he’d entertained in his room at Brakebills, the school for magical pedagogy, during their time there. His telekinesis and ability to throw a party had made him popular on campus, but as far as Eliot was concerned, he’d had his fill of rigidity and rules growing up in rural Indiana under the thumb of his father, a religious fanatic who had no patience for a son who was nothing like him.

 When Eliot’s telekinetic ability announced itself by allowing him to force-push his bully in front of an oncoming bus at the age of fourteen, his mother had packed him off to a cousin in Ohio, where he’d attended high school. A month after graduation, a dressing room in a local department store had opened up into the world of Brakebills, where he’d passed the introductory exam easily and met Margo. While they were both highly adept at learning magic, the formality of the school had urged them to strike out on their own as self-taught casters, which formally-trained magicians called hedge witches.

 Now, two years later, he and Margo were both successful, high-level hedges, and their talents were sought out by others like them, as well as Brakebills students who wanted spells that were forbidden to them by the school. Eliot’s loft, which was on the top floor of a building inhabited entirely by magical adepts under the watchful eye of their stern landlord, Henry Fogg, was the young hedge’s domain and he held meetings the way a king might hold sway over his court. He was unforgiving when he had to be, fiercely protective of Margo, and feared in the underground magical community for his power and reputation, mostly spread by those who had crossed or severely annoyed him.

 Learning what magic is and isn’t on your own has taught me more than I ever could have learned at Brakebills, Eliot thought to himself as he rinsed his hair and turned off the shower. A wall of mirrored cabinets faced the shower door, and Eliot glanced at himself as he reached for a towel. The insides of his long arms were covered with star-shaped tattoos, and each of them contained a number in its center. The ink ambled up his skin in clusters, petered out at the elbow, then regrouped on the back of his neck and shoulders. The final tattoo, resting between Eliot’s shoulder blades, was slightly larger than the rest and read a single number in stylized, wine-colored ink:

 300

 “Top bitch in Chelsea—maybe even the whole city. Why anyone would waste their time at Brakebills, I’ll never know.” Eliot murmured to himself as he went to his closet to choose an outfit. Outside the door, he could hear the soft babble of voices as Margo let the Soho hedge witches in. He dressed quickly and straightened his paisley tangerine tie. New hedges meant spending the afternoon drinking good wine, a stimulating barter session, and money in his pocket.

 All in all, it wasn’t bad way for a Brakebills dropout and a former farmer’s son to pass the time.

 CHAPTER TWO

 Dolborough Mental Health Facility

Queens Village, Queens, N.Y.

 “Quentin? Quentin, are you listening to me?”

 Quentin Coldwater glanced up across the wide wooden expanse of the desk his doctor sat behind. The pudgy man, who had thinning blond hair and wore steel-rimmed glasses, frowned at him.

 “You know deflecting my questions and trying to deliberately sabotage these therapy sessions with silence won’t help you.”

 “I do know that.” Quentin nodded, pushing back his lank, tawny hair with one hand. The roots were dark with oil—he hadn’t bothered showering that morning. Or the morning before that. “Because nothing you’ve done in the nine fucking months I’ve been here has helped me at all.”

 “Quentin, you’re eighteen. You’re quite brilliant, from what your father tells us, and you could have a happy and productive life outside these walls, but you have to want it!”

 “Happy?” Quentin’s fingers slipped into the kangaroo pocket of his grey hoodie, which was almost two sizes too big for his skinny frame. “Do you want to define that for me? Is it a set of objectives everyone should work toward, or is happiness for me different than happiness for you? And if that’s so, then how can you define what it is or isn’t for me? I think happiness is the illusion and how I feel every day, that’s the reality, Dr. Beekman.”

 “That’s the reality if you choose it to be!” Dr. Beekman pulled a prescription bottle from his desk drawer. “Now. We’re going to start you on these this evening, since the previous medications we’ve tried haven’t been very successful. They should start to elevate your mood. Once we accomplish that, these therapy sessions should become more effective.”

 Quentin gazed at the transparent orange bottle, the inside stuffed with pink and grey capsules.

 “I don’t want to take them.”

 “Quentin, your father is quite concerned that you haven’t made much progress since you’ve been here. I’m concerned as well.”

 “You should be concerned about how the meds are for shit . . . and they won’t keep Him away forever.”

 “Him—your father?”

 “No.” Quentin’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Capital Him.”

 Silence spun out for a few moments and Dr. Beekman folded his hands on the desk’s faded blotter.

 “I thought we agreed that He didn’t exist.”

 “No. I told you He did and you decided He didn’t. I think the drugs have made it harder for Him to track me, but He’s going to find me. Soon.”

 “That’s the medication working, Quentin. The more you allow us to help you, the less He will be a presence in your psyche!” The doctor’s pale blue eyes dropped to Quentin’s wrists, which became briefly visible as Quentin shifted in the chair. Vertical scars ran from the base of his palms to just past his wrists. “You will come to understand that this—this—”

 “Beast.” Quentin supplied, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie back down until only the tips of his fingers showed.

 “That this Beast you believe is pursuing you is a hallucination, brought on by anxiety, paranoia, and depression! Once you embrace your treatment fully, you may able to transition to outpatient status. Until then, it’s time for you to return to your room. I’ll inform the night nurse about the addition of the new medication.” The doctor rose and opened the door. “Gordon will escort you back.”

 Quentin stood as he eyed the long shadow of the orderly who stood just outside the door. He came into view as Dr. Beekman spoke, a beefy twentysomething with a football player’s neck and squinty green eyes. He wore a military crewcut but the front had been left slightly longer and spiked with gel, making his carrot-colored hair look like the teeth of a rusty saw. Quentin stepped into the hall and the taller man wrapped his hand around Quentin’s left bicep.

 “Come along then, Quenny.” The orderly cajoled him, and Quentin scowled without looking at him.

 “It’s Quentin.”

 “See you soon, Quentin!” Dr. Beekman called as if they’d been having tea, and the office to his door swung shut. Pain radiated up Quentin’s arm as Gordon Kozak tightened his grip.

 “Your name is what I say it is, you little sack of shit.” The orderly murmured through clenched teeth, nodding at doctors and nurses as he passed them. “Maybe you need another reminder?”

 Quentin looked away from the sweaty-smelling orderly to glance into patient rooms as they passed by. Some were open and contained a single human, either confined to a bed or drooling in a wheelchair. Others, Quentin knew, were locked all the time, like his own door. Kozak marched him into the elevator at the end of the hallway and jabbed the up button with a thick finger. The doors parted, and they stepped into together. The moment the doors slid closed, Kozak’s hand moved from Quentin’s upper arm to the back of his neck, where it squeezed until Quentin gasped.

 “What’s your name? Huh? Answer me, Pisswater!”

 “Quenny.” Quentin ground out as the man’s big fingers dug into the sides of his neck. Kozak rounded him, his hand slipping around to grip Quentin’s throat. Quentin kept his eyes on the elevator’s floor indicator lights, counting them off as the elevator rose to the 25th floor.

 4, 5, 6 . . .

 “Wrong!” Kozak’s other hand dropped down between Quentin’s legs, where it gripped him. Quentin tried to bring his legs together.

 12, 13 14 . . .

 “Try again!” Both hands tightened. Quentin could feel his Adam’s apple bob against Kozak’s big hand.

 “My name is whatever you say it is.” Quentin murmured, and the hands fell away.

 “That’s a good boy.” Kozak nodded, leaning in toward Quentin. A moment later Quentin found himself losing half his air as Kozak shoved him against the back of the elevator wall. It jerked to a stop, and Kozak yanked him forward and out. The hallway was deserted and the orderly half-dragged Quentin down to room 2505, unlocked the door, and shoved him inside. Quentin stumbled and caught himself on the metal footrest of his bed as he looked over his shoulder to see whether Kozak was going to come after him. The big man filled the doorway, his expression filled with disgust.

 “Take a fucking shower, Pisswater. You stink.”

 The door slammed shut and Kozak’s keys jingled briefly as he locked Quentin in. Relief flooded through Quentin; sometimes Kozak locked the door from the other side and gave Quentin one of his lessons, the kind that left his knees bruised and his jaw aching. He gave the door a single, sullen look, pushing down his disgust and anger as he crawled into bed and pulled the rough grey wool blanket over his head, ignoring the stale odor of his unwashed skin. The flat, thin mattress, spartan bathroom, barred windows, and the room’s single decorative item, a tattered poster of a sunrise framed with flexible material and shatter-proof plexiglass inscribed with the caption, “EVERY DAY IS A NEW BEGINNING,” were a far cry from the comfortable home he’d shared with his father since he was nine and his parents had divorced, and light years away from Yale with his best friends James and Julia, where he should be sharing a dorm room with James and squabbling boyishly over wall outlets and closet space and the best lighting.

 Instead I’m here, Quentin thought as he brought his knees to his chest.

 It had started with the dreams. At first, they seemed like common nightmares where Quentin was pursued down a garden path by a monster he couldn’t see, yet knew was there. From there, they became night terrors, and Quentin would scream himself and his father awake, thrashing in his sheets, his lap a sodden mess of hot urine. Ted Coldwater, who had always been a bit puzzled by his introverted but brilliant son, took him to a therapist. Quentin and his father left the office ninety minutes later with a Prazosin prescription and on the way home, Ted spoke up after ten minutes of silence.

 “It was the divorce, wasn’t it.”

 “The divorce?”

 “That made you this way. That caused your—your strangeness.”

 “You think I’m strange?” Quentin asked, and Ted shook his head a little.

 “I don’t know what else to call it. You’re seventeen, but you’ve never had a girlfriend or even shown an interest, you never picked up a sport, you’re obsessed with magic tricks and those damn Fillory books—and don’t think I don’t know that you still play pretend when you vanish for hours on the weekends! Imagining you’re Martin Chatwand and I don’t know what else!”

 “It’s Chatwin. And—and there’s nothing wrong with imagination, dad. It helps me cope.”

 “If you ask me, it’s hurting more than it’s helping, and it’s high time you stopped. Or do you want to go into Yale with the mindset of a schoolboy?”

 So Quentin had stopped—at least when it came to reading Fillory books in front of his father or sneaking off to cosplay with Julia, when he could talk her into it. For him, the land of Fillory and its questing, magical Chatwin children that had ruled the land and protected its magical creatures in a series of five books, had always felt more real to him than his own life in Brooklyn. Quentin’s own urban quests were mostly the last of his boyish urges to wander, but in the back of his mind, he was always hoping he’d find a way to Fillory, just as the Chatwin children did in each of the books. Then one day, while Quentin was out on his own, he’d followed a path into a community garden that led him into thick foliage and where the slant of sunlight seemed to change. A single moth, electric blue and larger than any Quentin had ever seen, appeared out of the foliage, and then another and another until the air was thick with them. A man had stepped onto the path then, his face obscured by more of the fluttering moths, their scent musty, like old clothes that had been stored away unwashed.

 “Quentin Coldwater.” This creature, this beast, had purred. “There you are!”

 Quentin had stood frozen, his throat thick with the awful smell, and a strong hand with multiple, seeking fingers had closed over his mouth, making him breathe through his nose in panicked snorts. What might have happened if a nearby factory whistle hadn’t gone off down the block and startled the thing into retreating, Quentin didn’t know, but since that day, he had felt the thing’s presence close by, malicious and deadly. It pursued him through his dreams and he caught glimpses of it wherever he went. When Quentin had tried to escape on a more permanent basis by opening up his wrists with a razor blade, mental health services had convinced his father that Dolborough was the best place for him.

 Except He’s going to find me here, sooner or later, and I won’t be able to get away from Him if He does, Quentin thought to himself. I have to find a way to get out of here.

 A muffled thump out in the hallway caught Quentin’s attention and he emerged from his blanket burrow to sit up. Footsteps sounded back and forth past his door and he crept over to peek out through the thick mesh of the small window. Orderlies were carrying large cardboard boxes and stacking them at the end of the hallway, next to Quentin’s door. He could see that they were filled with coils of computer cable, old, dusty monitors, clunky-looking 90’s-era keyboards, and hard drive towers. Some of the boxes were overstuffed and hung open, and others had been shut with their flaps folded. Quentin knew there was a storage room at the opposite end of the hallway, and the orderlies must have been recruited to clean it out.

 They’re stacking that stuff by the elevator, which means it’s probably all getting donated or chucked out. Quentin plucked at his lower lip with a thumb and forefinger for a few moments before he turned back toward his bed. A large button printed with the outline of a nurse’s cap hung from a white cord, and he thumbed it several times before throwing himself onto the floor in front of the bed. He heard the door unlock and swing open a few moments later as the young floor nurse, a pretty brunette named Monica, came to answer the call button.

 “Mr. Cold—” Quentin heard her stop just a few inches away as he began to fake a seizure, letting his limbs flail and spit run out of the corner of his mouth. Her hand touched his chest, then his face, before Quentin heard her footsteps rapping away down the hall as she went for help. Quentin knew the duty desk was out of sight of his door and that he only had a minute at best to escape. He cracked an eye open and then crept to the open door before bolting for the abandoned pile of computer equipment near the elevator. One of the boxes was larger than a coffin and about four feet deep. It contained an old monitor and a pile of cables, but the other side was empty. Quentin dove into it, hastily shoving the monitor aside before he pulled the flaps shut. He curled up, drawing his knees to his chest, his heart hammering in his ears. The elevator dinged a moment later and Quentin held his breath as the two disgruntled orderlies stacked the boxes inside.

 “Fuckall, some of these are heavy!” One of them groused, and Quentin squeezed his eyes shut as he heard footsteps approach in a hurried way from the other end of the hall. The elevator doors rumbled shut, and Quentin gave a tiny sigh of relief as he felt himself carried away from the 25th floor. It was impossible to tell how far down they were traveling, but when the car bumped to a stop and the doors opened, Quentin heard the muffled sounds of street traffic. The steady, pulsing beep of a large truck backing up rang out a moment later, and one of the orderlies spoke.

 “All of this is going to the Bowery Mission!”

 The box shook and Quentin tried not to grunt as the monitor thumped and banged against his back. The thick scent of truck exhaust filtered into the box for a moment before it settled, and then a door slammed shut. The truck lurched briefly before pulling out of the alley and Quentin clapped both hands over his mouth as he felt it carry him away from Dolborough. Tears spurted from his eyes.

 Away. I’m away!

 As the truck headed away from Queens, the motion lulled Quentin into a doze where he plunged through a darkness filled with the white noise of a thousand musty, fluttering wings.

 CHAPTER THREE

 Eliot used his telekinesis to yank down the wooden grate of his building’s converted freight elevator, a bag full of trash dangling from each hand. He rode the elevator down to the ground floor and carried the bags down the short hallway, where he hip-bumped the rear door open. A steady rain darkened the pavement and pattered against the large dumpster the residents of his building used. He hunched his shoulders against the fat drops of rain as he tossed the bags into the open side of the deep unit, where they tumbled down inside. Wine bottles clinked together, the chiming muffled, and as they settled, Eliot heard another sound, almost like the mewl of a newborn animal. He paused, his head cocked to one side, and the sound floated up from the inside of the dumpster again.

 “Oh, what fresh hell is this?” Eliot sighed to himself. The alley was a private one, so Eliot cast a spell that allowed him to levitate above the unit. Another murmured spell caused light to spill from his fingertips, and he pointed them downward.

 From the innards of the dumpster, empty all but for two discarded pizza boxes and the two bags he’d just tossed inside, a skinny teenager peered up at him in mild awe. The grey hoodie and checkered lounge pants he wore were smeared with muck and grease, his ankles dark with dirt. Worn leather slippers covered his feet. The kid pressed himself into the corner, his dark eyes hollow and hunted. Eliot used his telekinesis to open the opposite lid and close the other so he could crouch on it and look down at the kid at the same time.

 “Hello.” He said at last. The kid brought his knees to his chest as rain started to pelt into the dumpster, but he didn’t respond. Eliot frowned. “You do realize this is a private trash receptacle?”

 “M’sorry.” The kid murmured at last, and in the grey light of the rainy morning, Eliot could see that he was shaking. “Saw the pizza boxes. Climbed in but then couldn’t get out.”

 Eliot sighed. It was Tuesday, which meant it was trash day and the trucks would come to empty the dumpster no matter what was in it. And pizza boxes? Was the kid going to eat out of the dumpster? Eliot’s stomach lurched at the thought. Two blocks over, a garbage truck’s engine droned and the boom of a dumpster being lifted and emptied echoed in the alley. Eliot could almost sense tiny devil and angel versions of himself appear on each shoulder as it began to rain harder.

 Leave the kid where he is. It’s not your business or your fault he’s down there.

 You could be where he is if not for a few strokes of luck and good fortune. Give the kid a hand.

 “Karma better pay me back for this in spades.” Eliot muttered after a moment as he gazed at the kid and lifted him out of the dumpster with his telekinesis. The kid didn’t seem surprised that he was rising into the air and when Eliot set him on his feet, his legs folded under him like a wounded deer and he thumped down onto the concrete. Eliot judged that he was maybe two or three years his junior. He was also thin, filthy, and obviously a drug addict.

 “Thank you.” The kid said in a raw, croaky whisper, and Eliot nodded.

 “Sure. You better move along now, though.” He said, although he made no move to turn back toward the building’s back door. Rain dripped off the ends of the kid’s hair, which looked like it had been washed back around last Halloween or so. “You can, can’t you?”

 “If I could just sit in your doorway a minute? Then I’ll go, I swear.”

 “All right.” Eliot allowed. The kid managed to get to his feet, but even taking the few steps to the doorway seemed to exhaust him. He sat down and pulled up the filthy hood of his pullover hoodie. Eliot stepped around him. “Take care.”

 The kid sniffled in reply and Eliot let the door shut behind him. He got halfway down the hall when muffled sobbing made him pause. He shook his head, took three more steps, then stopped again.

 “You’re going to regret this. You know you will. Idiot!” He said to himself before turning back to the rear door. He opened it to the sight of the kid’s shoulders shaking, the grey hoodie dark with rain.

 “Hey.” Eliot said, and the boy’s head jerked around, the dark eyes startled.

 “I—I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll go.” He struggled to his feet and Eliot held the door open wider.

 “Wait. I thought maybe you might be hungry. I have plenty of leftovers . . . I cook as sort of a hobby, you see. I could heat something up for you.” He rolled his eyes as the kid’s gaze turned wary. “Please. If I wanted to harm you, I would have done so when I pulled you out of that dumpster. Well?” He asked after a moment of silence. “I’m not going to stand here all day.”

 The kid stood with difficulty and mopped his face with his sleeve. It did nothing to improve his appearance.

 “Thanks.” He murmured as Eliot ushered him into the hallway and walked him down to the elevator. The kid walked like a drunk with a serious case of DTs and he reeked like month-old pot roast, but there was something about how he had trusted Eliot when he’d freed him from the dumpster that roused curiosity in the hedge witch. Most people would have run screaming at such a display of magic, but the kid didn’t seem to be afraid of him.

 And Eliot was used to being feared.

 “Where are we?” The kid asked as Eliot pulled the elevator door down and it began to rise.

 “The building doesn’t have a name, but we are almost precisely in the center of Chelsea, on the west side of the glorious borough of Manhattan.”

 “What day is it?”

 “Tuesday. April 9thth.” Eliot added as an afterthought. The elevator reached his floor and Eliot opened the door as he pulled his key out. Magical wards protected the apartment, but Eliot preferred the security of a solid steel deadbolt as well. He unlocked the door and crooked a finger at the kid.

 “Come in. What’s your name?”

 “Oh. Uhm—Martin. It’s Martin.”

 “I’m Eliot.”

 “Hi.” Martin’s eyes darted around the loft. “This is yours?”

 “Mmm.” Eliot nodded, wondering if it would to do spread a towel over one of the kitchen nook chairs to keep the damp, dirty seat of Martin’s lounge pants from soiling it. His pants weren’t the only issue, though. Margo’s bathroom had a tub, maybe—

 Sure. Then you can comb out his hair and watch him shake himself off to sleep. And if Margo catches you at this, you’ll be the one taking a bath—in the toilet, when she dunks your head in it for bringing a junkie into the house!

 A thump brought Eliot out of his thoughts to see that Martin had fallen again. He looked up at Eliot as he got to his hands and knees.

 “I’m sorry. I—I haven’t eaten in a long time. I’m sorry.” He barely got the last word out before he passed out at Eliot’s feet, his cheek pressed against the hardwood floor.

 Eliot closed his eyes a moment as he weighed his growing empathy for this kid against the odds of death by Margo.

 “She can only kill me once, right?” Eliot muttered to himself as he visualized the bathtub taps turning. As the tub began to fill, Eliot force-tugged Martin to his feet and floated him toward Margo’s room. He cast a spell to mask the sound of his movements and held his breath as they passed Margo, asleep on the other side of the room. The tub was nearly full and Eliot used a simple tutting spell to strip the kid’s filthy clothes off him before settling him into the water. The jut of his ribs was visible under pale skin as Eliot propped him up. Thick scars on his wrists stood out under the bathroom’s lights.

 Kid looks like a refrigerated turkey carcass, Eliot thought to himself as he rolled up his sleeves and set down a folded towel next to the tub to kneel on. Using a bar of soap he’d collected from one of his many hotel stays, Eliot lathered up a sponge glove and washed the unconscious teen the best he could, staying well above the waist. As he lifted Martin’s right arm, Eliot noticed a sturdy white plastic bracelet on his skinny, scarred wrist, the kind you wore during a hospital stay. Eliot lifted Martin’s arm to examine it more closely. It contained three typed lines, in all caps, with a bar code underneath:

 DOLBOROUGH M.H.F.

COLDWATER, QUENTIN  SEX: M

DOB: 07/20/92

 “Dolborough?” Eliot looked down at the boy. “And not Martin, either. Kid, what the hell have you—”

 “A-HEM!”

 Eliot flinched at the sound and looked over his shoulder to see Margo in the doorway, wearing her yellow satin pajama set and fuzzy pink slippers. Her small stature made her gaze no less imperious. Eliot gave her what he thought of as his most charming smile.

 “Good morning . . .?”

 Margo put her hands on her hips as her dark eyes narrowed. Eliot read the promise of hellfire there.

 “Rub-a-dub-duck, what the actual fuck!”

 CHAPTER FOUR

 “You need to get rid of him.”

 Eliot focused on the cranberry spritzer he was making at the kitchen bar, which ran along a cherry wood counter on the far side of the sink. Bottles gleamed in a glassed-in cabinet above the shelf, and an open cabinet filled with tumblers and built-in wine glass holders sat below it.

 “Eliot!”

 “Mmm?”

 Margo’s eyes narrowed.

 “Now!” She commanded, pointing one lacquer-tipped nail at the kid sleeping on the couch. He was cleaner now, his hair more dark blond than brown once Eliot had shampooed it several times. He wore a tee shirt that Eliot found in the back of his closet, one of those garish “I ♥ New York” souvenirs, left at the apartment by one of Eliot’s guests. It had a red wine stain at the hem but it fit the kid otherwise. The sweats were much too big on him, as he was about nine inches shorter than Eliot himself, but Eliot had burned those awful lounge pants and gross slippers to ashes out on the fire escape.

 “Margo, be reasonable. It’s pouring outside and he’s obviously starved. I know we’re supposed to be arch and haughty and look down on most people, but there’s not much sport in doing that to something this pathetic!”

 “You can’t start taking in strays!” Margo glanced over at the kid. “Even if they might be somewhat reasonably cute. I don’t want the responsibility, and if word gets out, we’re going to have them on our doorstep every day! Not only that, but what do you plan to do with him? Did you even think about that before you brought him up here?”

 Eliot began to reply when a rapid pounding sounded out on the other side of the apartment’s main door. He sighed, sipped his drink, and pulled the door open to reveal the perpetually scowling face of his downstairs neighbor, Penny Adiyodi. Eliot groaned inwardly. Penny was young, handsome, and reminded Eliot of a rebel monk turned punk, but he was also touchier than a badger with punctured scrotum. He was a talented magical adept, like most people in Eliot’s building, and his ability to read minds, astral project, and travel would have made him highly attractive to Eliot if he wasn’t so Goddamned pissy all the time. And straight. And had a temperamental girlfriend who specialized in battle magic.

 “Yes, Penny?” He asked the scowling psychic, who shouldered his way into the room. “Won’t you come in?” Eliot drawled, trying not to spill his drink. Penny turned.

 “You do realize that I can hear everything you say when you start arguing like that? I don’t even have to read your minds.”

 “That’s fucking rude.” Margo pointed out.

 “What’s rude is ignoring the rules Mr. Fogg set for us when he opened this building to give magical adepts a safe place to live! You’re going to get us all kicked out!” He glanced around. “So where is it? Because if you’re not gonna get rid of it, I will!”

 “Where’s what?”

 “Don’t give me that Jack Tripper shit! I heard you! You brought a stray animal in here! It’s against the rules and I’m not gonna get kicked out because of some bleeding heart hedge! Now I’m gonna ask you one more time before I start punching you in the throat! Where is it?”

 Eliot lifted one shoulder and gestured behind Penny’s shoulder to the couch. Penny turned and his scowl melted into confusion.

 “The fuck . . . that’s a kid!”

 “Well spotted, Inspector Lestrade.”

 “Just—the way you were talking, it sounded like you were hiding some starving dog up here or something.”

 “Not that it’s any of your business, but he was trapped in the downstairs dumpster.”

 Penny watched Quentin shake in his sleep.

 “Kid’s an addict. He’s gonna rob you blind.”

 “And how would he hold us up, exactly, seeing as how he can’t even hold up his own head?”

 Penny fell silent before his usual scowl showed itself again.

 “Whatever, man.” He stared at the kid for a minute and then backed off, his eyes widening. “Whoever he is, he’s got some fucked up dreams. Shit.” Penny headed for the door. Eliot sipped his spritzer.

 “Always a pleasure!” He called as Penny left without shutting the door. Eliot stepped over to pull it closed. “Twat.”

 “Twat or not, he’s not exactly wrong about this kid being an addict, El.” Margo folded her arms across her chest. “We can’t have him here.”

 “Wait—just let me show you something.” Eliot picked up the hospital bracelet from where he’d left in on the counter. “I found this on him.”

 “Quentin Coldwater? My God, with a name like that, I’d take drugs too.”

 “When I got him out of the dumpster, he told me his name was Martin. Do you know what the Dolborough facility is?”

 “Yeah. It’s a mental health place in Queens. Mostly inpatients who have gone permanently off the deep end. What about it?”

 “That’s where this kid was, and I have a hunch that they don’t know he’s gone. Why else would he give me a fake name?”

 “Um—because he’s a nut job?” Margo replied, sounding out her words slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. Eliot frowned and went over to a glassed-in bookshelf, crooking his fingers and muttering a spell to unlock the wards that protected it. The five shelves were filled with spellbooks, and Eliot ran his fingers over the spine of each until he pulled one out. “What are you doing now, when you should be tossing this kid out?”

 “I’m pretty sure whatever he’s addicted to, it’s prescription. Dolborough is known for its use of serious psychotropic drugs.” Eliot’s long fingers flipped pages.

 “So what are you looking for?”

 “A spell that will heal him . . . get all that negative shit out of his system.”

 “In case you’ve forgotten? We make a living off casting and selling spells. And we didn’t get to where we are now by doing it for free.” Margo tapped her fingers on the countertop.

 “I haven’t forgotten any of that. But, well . . . sometimes you have to work pro bono.”

 “I’ve known you for almost four years and I’ve never seen you do anything pro bono.”

 “Excuse you!”

 “Okay, fine.” Margo held up a hand in supplication. “Almost nothing. My point is, Eliot, why do you care about some dorky-looking kid who probably ran away from home or cut himself when daddy took away his X-Box?”

 Eliot flipped another page and tapped it before glancing up at Margo.

 “For one thing, I think he’s a magical adept.”

 Margo blinked over at the skinny kid, still fast asleep and sweating under the blanket Eliot had thrown over him.

 “You think—that?” She pointed. “Is like us?”

 “I do. Except he might not know it.” Eliot went to the cabinet where he and Margo kept their spell ingredients.

 “Exactly how do you know this? And even if he is, didn’t you say just the other day that it’s not our job to wet nurse newbie hedges?”

 “He’s not a hedge, Margo. He’s not anything, he’s like—like a spell with one ingredient missing.” He held up a glass jar with a handful of dried herbs in it. “And the telekinesis gives me kind of a sixth sense about other people’s magical abilities. It’s like . . . well, almost like a shiver. And I feel it with this kid. He’s capable of something, but he’s missing one thing that makes magic work.” He sat down next to the kid with an armload of ingredients. “Are you going to help me?”

 “No. I have to go scrub out my tub for the next eight weeks for which, by the way, you. So. Owe. Me.” Margo replied.

 “Put it on my tab.” Eliot bent over the spellbook and Margo stormed back toward her room, muttering about putting tabs where they usually didn’t go and how she was going to insert them sideways. Already focused on his task, Eliot placed one big, elegant hand on Quentin’s thin chest and began to cast.

 CHAPTER FIVE

 The first thing that lured Quentin toward consciousness was the smell of frying bacon.

 It was an insistent scent, growing stronger with every passing moment, and Quentin used it as an anchor as he crawled up from a darkness that was blessedly free from dreams. He forced his eyelids open and they felt sticky, like they’d been closed with a weak glue. The surface underneath him was soft, and a high ceiling with vaulted beams met his muddled gaze.

 Not Dolborough, He thought to himself. His memory of the four days since he’d escaped the facility were fragmented, like a jigsaw puzzle with some sections missing. He’d hid much of the time after sneaking out of the truck at the Bowery Mission, fearful they would send people to look for him. Begging for change had netted him about $1.50, which bought him a plain burger at the local McDonalds the same day he’d escaped. He remembered wandering, being hungry, an empty dumpster, and—

 Quentin sat up all at once, ignoring how it caused his head to spin. The smell of bacon made his stomach clench with a powerful hunger pang. He turned his head to see someone he thought he’d dreamed: the tall stranger with the wild, dark curls and eyes like sunlit amber. He was plating the bacon next to a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs that made Quentin struggle not to drool.

 Eliot. That’s what he said his name was.

 The taller boy glanced up as the couch creaked. Quentin met his eyes for the space of a heartbeat and then lowered them to stare at his hands more out of habit than actual shyness—meeting anyone’s gaze at Dolborough was usually perceived as a challenge.

 “Well, you’re awake.” Eliot brought the plate over, along with a cup of something steaming that smelled rich and sweet. “How do you feel?”

 “Uhm . . .”

 “Weak? A little washed out?”

 “Yeah. How did you know?”

 “I’ll explain that in a moment.” He set the plate in Quentin’s lap. “Try to eat some of that.”

 Quentin stared down at the food. The bacon was delicately crisped and the eggs had tiny cubes of fresh tomato mixed in. It was light years away from what he’d been eating at Dolborough, which was mostly powdered eggs, tough biscuits, and lumpy, bland oatmeal. He picked up a slice of the bacon and took a bite, and his stomach responded with an eager gurgle. Under another circumstance Quentin might have been embarrassed, but the bacon was filling his senses and before he knew it, he was eating two and three pieces at a time.

 “Hey! Easy . . . I don’t want to have clean vomit off my suede couch!” Eliot offered the mug, and Quentin sipped from it. Caramel, whipped into something frothy and topped with cinnamon. Bliss.

 “Do you remember me?” Eliot asked as he offered Quentin a napkin. Quentin took it and wiped bacon grease from lips and chin.

 “I think so. Eliot, right?”

 “That’s right. And this is my place. Which, by the way, you passed out in the middle of almost exactly 24 hours ago.”

 “I—I’ve been asleep for a day?” Quentin asked, and Eliot reached one hand toward the kitchen. A second steaming mug of latte floated into his hand and he sipped it.

 “Asleep, unconscious . . . whichever you’d prefer. Do you remember me getting you out of that dumpster?”

 Quentin took a few bites of egg.

 “Yeah.”

 “You didn’t seem frightened.”

 “I guess I was pretty out of it, but—can I ask you something?”

 “As long as it’s not personal or professional.” Eliot replied. “That’s a joke.” He added when Quentin avoided eye contact for over thirty seconds.

 “Oh. So—are you a hedge witch?” He asked, and Eliot drew back a bit.

 “I am. And how did you know that?”

 Quentin looked down at his plate.

 “I know this is going to sound stupid, but . . . I’m really into, uhm, magic. Or I used to be. I taught myself card and coin tricks, and there’s lots of magic shops in Brooklyn—that’s where I’m from—and I used to hear things. Rumors about real magic and people who knew real spells. That’s what I heard them called. Hedge witches.”

 “Before you went into Dolborough?” Eliot asked, and this time it was Quentin’s turn to flinch.

 “Dolborough?”

 Eliot opened his hand and Quentin’s ID bracelet fluttered into it. Quentin frowned.

 “Where did you get—”

 “Off your right wrist when I cleaned you up . . . Quentin Coldwater.”

 “Oh. Oh shit.”

 Eliot waved a dismissive hand.

 “Relax. I haven’t called the police, no men in white coats are on their way here. What were you in for?”

 “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

 “Kid, you’d be surprised at what I’d believe.” He watched Quentin lick bacon grease off his fingers and handed him another napkin. Quentin set the empty plate aside.

 “This is pretty crazy, even for what a hedge witch might believe.”

 “Try me.” Eliot replied, and Quentin closed his eyes a moment before he opened them again to look out the window, where rain was still falling in a steady mid-April patter.

 “I used to be normal. I mean . . . as normal as a sixth grader who had to have his math classes outsourced to the local college could be. They always told me I was smart, but I never really felt smart, if that makes sense. My best friend Julia and I never really cared that much about all the academic things. We mostly hid out in the park or at her house and read the Fillory and Further books. I don’t know if you know them.” Quentin said, the tips of his ears going red. Eliot nodded.

 “From a very long time ago.”

 “I started studying magic because of them. Not real magic, I didn’t know it actually existed. But card and coin tricks, like I told you. Julia got over the books by the time we started high school, but I never really did. They always felt so real to me, so tangible. And they helped me cope during high school.” He pushed a lock of tawny hair behind one ear. “I know how stupid this must all sound to you.”

 “People cope with their shit in different ways.” Eliot lifted a shoulder. “Go on?”

 “I started having dreams last year. Bad dreams. At first I thought they were just stress dreams . . . you know, like the ones you have about being naked in school or having to take a test on a subject you know nothing about. But in them, something was chasing me. I never saw it, but I could feel how bad it was. Then, one day when I was—I was out walking, something happened.” As much as Quentin wanted to trust the man who had probably saved his life, there was no way he could admit that he’d been cosplaying alone as Martin Chatwin that day. “I followed this path into a community garden a few blocks from my house. I don’t know what happened. It was like the path just got longer and longer and then I saw—” Quentin paused and wiped a hand over his mouth. Eliot waited.

 “I don’t even know what I saw, really.” Quentin continued. “It was some kind of—well—monster, I guess. Like a man, but his face was obscured by these huge moths. They were blue and bigger than my hand, and they had this musty smell. But this thing, he called me by my name and put a hand over my mouth, like he wanted to smother me or maybe even break my neck. One of the warehouse whistles went off and it must have startled him because he bolted and vanished back down the path.” Quentin looked away from the window to Eliot to find the hedge listening, no trace of amusement or disbelief on his face. He paused. “You believe me.”

 “This is one world among many, Quentin. Just because people don’t or can’t believe that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. What happened after?”

 “I ran home. I didn’t tell my dad . . . I couldn’t. My mom left us when I was nine and after the divorce, he worried about me all the time. But I felt this thing’s presence all the time after that. My dreams got worse, and it was like that smell followed me wherever I went. It got really bad one night . . . I was alone in the house, uhm . . . my dad had gone to his bowling league. But it was like this thing—this Beast, it was all around me.” Quentin slid his hands up under his arms. “I tried to get away the only way I could think of.”

 Eliot thought of the thick scars he’d seen on Quentin’s wrists when he’d bathed him.

 “You tried to kill yourself.” He said, and Quentin nodded.

 “And that’s how I ended up at Dolborough. It’s funny . . . if my dad hadn’t forgotten his bowling shoes and come back for them, I’d be six feet under.” Quentin’s gaze slid away from Eliot’s again. “I’m still not sure I’m better off.”

 “How long were you at Dolborough?” Eliot asked.

 “Almost ten months. I managed to escape by getting out of my room and hiding in a cardboard box stacked with a bunch of old computer equipment that they were donating to the Bowery Mission.”

 “Clever!” Eliot nodded as he rose and gathered the empty plate and cup. “But once you got out, you had a hard time finding food, I’d assume.” He set the plates in the sink and waved a hand at them. The sink turned on and Quentin watched, round-eyed, as the dishes washed and stacked themselves in the nearby drainer.

 “Uhm, y-yeah, pretty much. The drugs they gave me at Dolborough, I think they threw the Beast off track for awhile, but He was going to find me there and I would’ve been trapped! I had to get away.”

 Eliot crossed the room to his bookshelf and pulled down two spellbooks, which he brought to the couch.

 “I performed a detox cleansing spell on you—you were coming down too hard. But don’t worry, this building is well warded, and there’s no way this Beast can get in without me knowing. Now . . . you know what I told you before, about there being more than world out there?”

 “Sure.”

 “Sometimes we open doors to them without even realizing it. You said the Fillory books always felt more real to you than your own reality and that everyone thought you were crazy because of it. But I don’t think you’re crazy at all, kid. I think you might be a magical adept and opened a door to a world that was making itself visible to you.”

 “What—what are you saying . . . that Fillory is real? And that’s where this Beast is from?”

 “Some mythical worlds have their basis in fact.” Eliot opened one of the books.

 “Fact, but—wait, did you say I’m a magical adept? What does that mean?”

 “It means you might have natural magical ability, and that’s why this creature is pursuing you. If it’s crossed over, it might be looking to gather power from whoever it can. Most of us protect ourselves with magical wards, but if you’re not aware of what you can do, you’re vulnerable.” Eliot’s long finger traced down a page and then tapped an ink sketch as he showed it to Quentin. “Look.”

 Quentin leaned over to look at the drawing and his heart leapt into his throat, where it crouched and trembled for the pace of half a dozen heartbeats before he swallowed hard. The drawing of the electric blue moth was too realistic, like it might leap off the page and flutter into his face, filling his senses with that dead, dry scent. He pointed.

 “That . . . that’s what I saw. The moths that cover the Beast’s face! Does it say what it is?” Quentin glanced at the text below and frowned when he discovered it wasn’t in English. “Does it say what this thing is or why it’s after me?”

 “It’s not like an instruction manual, Quentin. It doesn’t offer specific details.” Eliot turned a page. “You mentioned how much you love the Fillory books . . . have you collected any original memorabilia?”

 “A few things. A couple of posters, I have a collection of first edition books, and a button I bought from this guy near my favorite magic shop. He’s a homeless guy, I think, and he’s got this cart full of odds and ends. He knows how much I like Fillory and told me it was the same button that the seafaring rabbits gave Jane Chatwin so she could travel to Fillory whenever she wanted to.”

 “Did you believe that?”

 “No, of course not, but I felt sorry for the guy. I gave him fifty bucks for it.”

 “When did you buy it?”

 “About two weeks before what happened in the garden.”

 “Where is it now?” Eliot asked he closed the book.

 “It’s hidden in my room. I put away all my Fillory things because of my dad.”

 “So it’s still in your house?”

 “Yeah . . . unless my dad found it all and tossed it out.”

 “Right.” Eliot crooked a finger at him. “Come on, can you get up?”

 Quentin threw the blanket aside and got to his feet, one hand hitching at Eliot’s too-big sweats.

 “Yeah, I feel stronger. Where are we going?”

 “To play a hunch.”

 “Where?”

 “At your house. Either that button you bought was a very expensive piece of plastic, or the man you bought it from is working for whatever is chasing you.”

 “You mean, he wanted me to have it?”

 “Precisely. I think Fillory could be very real, and that this button is the key to its door.”

 CHAPTER SIX

 “So. Quentin Coldwater, hmm?” Margo watched from her bedroom doorway as Quentin tugged on the hunter-green sweater Eliot had bought him from the discount clothing store on the corner. It was no fashion statement, but better than the stained tee. “He’s not that cute.”

 “Shh!” Eliot hushed her as he tugged her back into her room and closed the door to give Quentin privacy: he’d bought a pair of serviceable jeans, a pair of clean boxers, and sneakers to go along with the sweater so the kid—who it turned out was only two years his junior, wouldn’t have to go out in those droopy sweats. “Christ, he’ll hear you!”

 “I thought you wanted me to be down with this?” Margo asked, her dark eyes tipping up to Eliot’s, the corners of her mouth quirking up. Eliot sighed; the introduction between Margo and Quentin had gone better than he’d expected, but he’d forgotten how damn perceptive her natural abilities made her.

 “I do want you to be—down—” Eliot frowned at the expression. “Because I need your help with this and so does Quentin. But you don’t have to get into my head, all right?”

 Margo reached out and squeezed his hand.

 “Don’t worry, El. Your secret is safe with me.”

 Eliot cleared his throat as he turned from the doorway to check his appearance in Margo’s full-length mirror.

 “There is no secret. So I find him attractive. So what? It means nothing.” He adjusted his shirt collar. “Are you going to help us?”

 “God knows someone has to come along on this fucking quest-cum-break in.” Margo rolled her eyes.

 “Quentin lives there, Margo! How do you break into your own home?”

 “He hasn’t lived there for almost a year. You do realize you could get arrested?”

 “I’m trying to help him. This Beast is real and it’s after him for some reason! I need to get a look at this button.”

 “Fine. But if you get us arrested, I’m making you my prison wife!”

 “That’s my Bambi.” Eliot bent down to kiss her cheek. “Always thinking about my welfare. Come on.”

 _______________________________

 The Coldwater home turned out to be a modest but stately three-story affair in a suburb about thirty minutes from downtown Brooklyn. The low-trimmed yew hedges were starting to green, dripping with rain, and Quentin stood between Eliot and Margo as they loitered on the opposite corner, looking up at the house.

 “I can make a portal. Or if you know away around back, I can float up to your bedroom window and we can get in that way. We could also use a teleportation spell, but it’s cooperative and—” Eliot broke off as he realized Margo was tugging at his sleeve and that Quentin was no longer standing next to him.

 “Where—?”

 Margo jerked her chin at the house, where Quentin was jogging up the front walk. He stopped at the front door, bent down, and retrieved a spare key from under a realistic-looking rock nestled in a nearby flowerbed. He unlocked the front door and looked over his shoulder as Margo and Eliot caught up with him.

 “You guys better stay out here. I know where everything is and I can grab it all quick, all right? Try to stay out of sight, we have a neighborhood watch here.” Quentin slipped inside before Eliot could protest. Margo glanced down the street.

 “There’s a bus stop shelter at the corner, we can watch from there. Come on.” She took Eliot’s arm and hurried him away as Eliot looked over his shoulder.

 “Are you sure we should have let him go in there alone?”

 “It’s his house, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing! Come on, we need to look inconspicuous.”

 Inside the silent house, Quentin climbed the stairs to his room. He felt like time had slipped backwards and he’d been doing nothing more than whiling away a few hours at the downtown library. He paused at his father’s closed bedroom door a moment: his father would be at work, editing the latest issue of some district textbook. He moved down the hall and opened the door diagonal from his father’s.

 The room looked like it hadn’t been touched in the nearly ten months since Quentin had been away. His bed was made, the blue quilt he’d had for years pulled up over the pillows. The closet door was closed but Quentin knew his father probably hadn’t gotten rid of anything, hoping his son could be cured enough to return home. A few high school pennants were still tacked over his bed, and a shelf across from the bed contained an impressive collection of academic trophies and ribbons. Quentin barely glanced at them as he crossed the room and moved aside an end table to reveal a small door. It was locked with a hook-and-eye combo, which Quentin pried open before he yanked the rectangular door open to reveal a crawl space. Inside were his rolled-up Fillory posters, his vintage messenger bag (identical to the one Martin Chatwin carried to Fillory with him in The World in the Walls,) his first editions of the Fillory books, carefully bagged, and the small velvet bag containing the button the homeless vendor had sold him. Quentin slipped the button into the messenger bag, along with all his Fillory books, then opened the closet to add a few shirts and several pairs of jeans in as well. He tugged open his bedroom window and lowered the bag as much as he could, dropping it into the bushes below. It shimmered and vanished a moment later—Eliot’s handiwork—and Quentin grinned.

 If Eliot is right and I am a magical adept, he can teach me what he knows! Magic . . . real magic, just like I always—

 “Hello, Curly-Q.”

 Quentin turned, his heart giving a startled thwack at the words. His father stood in the bedroom doorway, his expression somehow sad and angry at the same time.

 “Dad.”

 “I knew you’d come back here eventually.” Ted Coldwater stepped into the room. Quentin glanced around, sudden anxiety crowding his chest.

 “You—you’re supposed to—I mean, I thought you’d be at work.”

 “I took some time off when you went missing from Dolborough.” He held up both hands and approached Quentin. “Don’t you worry, son. Everything’s going to be all right. You don’t need to be scared . . . no one’s angry that you left the hospital. We’ve all been worried, that’s all. Very worried.”

 “We?”

 “Yes, son. Myself, Dr. Beekman, everyone at Dolborough. But you don’t need to worry. Once we get you back there, we’re going to try some new treatments that—”

 “No! I’m not going back there! Ever! I’m eighteen now dad, and—and I met people after I left there! Friends who are going to help me!”

 “Quentin. Ever since you harmed yourself, I’ve had power of attorney. You can’t make decisions on your own, you have no idea what’s best for you!”

 Outside, from the other end of the block, sirens began to sound. The wails grew closer, and Quentin stared at his father.

 “What did you do?”

 “What’s best for you, Curly-Q. I called them the moment I saw you downstairs. They’re here to help you and so am I—”

 Quentin bolted, pushing his father aside as he raced out the door and down the hallway. He took the steps two at a time, hit the landing, and yanked open the door to find Dr. Beekman and half a dozen policeman standing there. Dr. Beekman smiled, but it never touched the man’s eyes.

 “Quentin. We’re very glad to see you safe, very glad indeed.” He nodded to the policemen, who seized Quentin by the front of his sweater and dragged him from the doorway. Quentin fought them as they carried him bodily over to the ambulance, followed by Dr. Beekman and Quentin’s father.

 “Please, don’t hurt him, not if you can help it, he doesn’t understand what he’s doing!” Ted said, and Quentin looked around wildly.

 “Eliot!” He cried.

 At the end of the block, Margo had Quentin’s messenger bag slung across her chest as she used both hands to hang onto Eliot’s arm. Eliot was struggling in her grip as he watched the cops heft Quentin off his feet and carry him to the ambulance.

 “Eliot, don’t! You can’t just charge over there tossing battle magic around and you know that! Not only will that get you arrested, it might possibly get you dissected at the nearest government facility once they see what you can do! Damn it, El, stop!” Margo felt her grip slipping.

 “Kinnimear, a’thane azu!” She chanted it three times, in rapid succession, and felt the magic shudder down her arms and through her fingertips, freezing Eliot where he stood. Only his eyes moved, and she rounded him so he could see her. Despite his locked expression, she could see the fury there.

 “I’m sorry. Don’t hate me, El, but I’m not letting you get arrested and God knows what else because of some kid you’ve known two days! We can help him, but not like this!” Margo said, hardening her heart as Quentin called Eliot’s name, then hers.

 “Let me go! Get off me! Eliot! Margo!” Quentin shrieked as the cops hauled him into the ambulance and many strong hands buckled him into a stretcher. Thick leather restraints snaked around his wrists and ankles and he lifted his head to see his father standing by the open doors, watching. Tears stood on his unshaven cheeks.

 “It’s gonna be all right, Curly-Q. They’ll take care of you. I’ll come see you when they say I can.”

 “No! Dad please, don’t let them do this! He’ll find me there, we need to open the door before He does, you don’t understand! You have to let me—owwwww, no, please!” Quentin cried as Dr. Beekman rucked up his sweater sleeve and slipped a needle tip into his inner elbow. Quentin felt the warm sensation of liquid sedative entering his vein there and it spread rapidly, making his extremities numb and his thoughts lose their cohesion. He tried to speak, but his lips felt like as useless as those of a dying fish, gasping out its last pointless breaths at the bottom of a trawler. The sound of the siren chased him down into unconsciousness as the ambulance pulled away from the curb and headed east, toward Queens.

 CHAPTER SEVEN

 “It seems that Quentin’s issues go far beyond depression and hallucinations, Ted.”

 The words echoed in a bubbly quality that Quentin almost couldn’t make out. The faces of his father and Dr. Beekman seemed to float high above him, like untethered helium balloons. He could sense that his wrists and ankles were restrained to the bed, the same one he’d slept in for the past ten months.

 Since being returned to Dolborough, Dr. Beekman ordered that Quentin be kept moderately sedated and under physical restraint. In the 24 hours since, Quentin had done his best to keep Eliot’s face in his mind. Despite his efforts, the drugs made it fade and blur, and with every moment he didn’t show, Quentin’s certainty that he’d been abandoned by his new friend grew.

 “Is there anything that can be done?” Ted asked as he looked down at his addled son, and Dr. Beekman nodded.

 “I believe the answer is an anterior cingulotomy.”

 “What does that involve?”

 “It’s a psychosurgical treatment for schizophrenia, depression, and certain types of OCD. We place bilateral lesions in the anterior cingulate, which slows or stops certain impulses to the cingulum bundle. It should eliminate Quentin’s hallucinations about this Beast creature and ease most of his depression symptoms.”

 “What are the risks?”

 “Possible hemorrhaging, seizures . . . but those are usually rare. He might experience headaches, nausea, some vision problems, but those should fade with time. Ted . . . I know that brain surgery isn’t what you wanted for your son, but I believe it’s the best option for him. We have a surgeon over at John Hopkins that works with our facility that could perform the procedure—Quentin would be in good hands.”

 Ted reached down and touched Quentin’s face.

 “If you really think it’s the only answer.”

 “I do. Come with me to my office. I’ll make some calls and have you sign some papers.” Dr. Beekman led Ted out the door, leaving Quentin to struggle with his opium-soaked thoughts.

 Gonna crack open my skull, he realized as he moved through a fading consciousness that was filled with shifting lights and the slow mental thunder of cognitive impairment. Can’t stop them. Eliot, where . . .

 Darkness rushed up to envelop him, and Quentin fell headlong into its embrace.

 ________________________________

 “Are you ever going to talk to me again?”

 Eliot glanced up from the bar, where he was mixing a drink with more force than was probably necessary. Margo watched him from the couch, her feet tucked up under her thighs.

 “Eliot. Come on. I know what I did was wrong—”

 “Wrong?” Eliot slammed the lid down on his stainless steel ice bucket. “It was more than wrong, Margo! You used restraint magic on me! In the three and a half years we’ve known each other, you’ve never cast on me like that!”

 “I know.” Margo stood up and went to him. His slender frame stiffened but he didn’t retreat, as he’d been doing since she’d released him from the spell at the bus stop near Quentin’s house. “Because up until yesterday, I didn’t have to. You know damn well what would have happened if I’d let you go over there and blast the cops with battle magic! They would have shot you into so much big eye swiss cheese and then played Operation with your corpse at the nearest morgue! It wasn’t the answer, and the only one who would have been regretting it is me, because you’d be way too fucking dead to reconsider your poor choice!”

 “He was calling for us and we just stood there and let it happen. We let those bastards take Quentin back to that hell hole of a psycho ward! Do you know what he must be thinking, if they’re letting him think at all?” Eliot glared at her. “Do you even care about him?”

 “He’s your pet project! I didn’t realize I was required to care!”

 “You—” Eliot began in a sharp, rising tone when a knock on the front door interrupted him. His amber eyes flashed. “If it’s that menu boy from Pei Wei again, I’m going to turn him into a fucking human potsticker!” He yanked the door back. Penny stood there, along with his lover Kady, a temperamental high-level hedge with flashing eyes and wild brunette curls. Eliot scowled. “Oh, marvelous. Punch and Judgey. What?” He asked, and Penny returned the scowl in equal measure.

 “For one thing, your mental wards need serious repair. And for another? We can hear you right through the fucking ceiling! Will you just fuck or kill each other or whatever the problem is so Kady and I can get some peace?”

 “And will you mind your own business for once?”

 “Who’s this Quentin?” Kady asked, shouldering her way into the apartment. Penny followed her and Eliot’s fists clenched at the intrusion. Margo sighed.

 “Just tell her, Eliot.” Her gaze slid over to Penny. “Maybe they can help us.”

 “And why would they do that?”

 “Look.” Penny interrupted. “If what you said is true and that skinny nerd you had here really is like us, we can’t let a bunch of head peepers keep him locked up. Way too many of our kind are dying because no one helps them understand what they are, and those that do find out end up smoking themselves trying spells they aren’t ready for!”

 “That’s not the only issue. Quentin unlocked a door to another world and now some kind of Beast is chasing him. It’s how he ended up at Dolborough in the first place, because no one believes him! They think he’s hallucinating.” Eliot adjusted the collar of his shirt. “If you really want to help one of our own, then help Margo and me break Quentin out of that place before it’s too late.”

 Penny and Kady traded glances and Eliot could almost see the silent, telepathic conversation that took place before Penny nodded.

 “Fine. You’ve got a deal, Schmendrick . . . if you make me a drink before we talk about it.”

 __________________________________________

  “This sounds like a bunch of nerdy fanboy shit.”

 Eliot rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers as Penny leaned over the spellbook and peered at the image of the moth Quentin had identified. They were four whiskey sours into their meeting, and Eliot had gone over Quentin’s story twice now.

 “I know what it sounds like, but you know as well as we do that what Quentin saw was real. But no one at the hospital is going to believe it, and now that he escaped, they might Randle McMurphy him to make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble!”

 “That’s their answer for anything they can’t explain away.” Margo sipped her drink. “And the kid doesn’t deserve this . . . he’s eighteen and he hasn’t even had the chance to become a magician.”

 “The only way we’re going to get into Dolborough is by acting like we belong there.” Eliot said, and Kady shook back her curls.

 “You mean pose as patients?”

 “No. According to their website, Dolborough partners with a few medical universities in the city, and it’s a teaching hospital twice a week. With some scrubs and illusion work, we can pose as medical students and get to Quentin that way. We find his floor, Penny travels into his room to unlock it from the inside, and we portal our asses out before anyone knows we’re even there!”

 Penny knocked back the rest of his drink and grimaced at the excited light in Eliot’s amber eyes.

 “I’m gonna hate this.”

 CHAPTER EIGHT

 “Right this way, move along please, follow me.”

 Eliot, Kady, and Margo marched along with the two dozen or so other med students from Queens University, led by an attending physician and dressed in blue scrubs and dark shoes like the rest of them. The hedges each wore a lanyard with a laminated ID card clipped to it; Eliot had picked them up at a souvenir stand near Central Park and had changed the photos of the Statue of Liberty into student IDs with a bit of illusion work. They had left Penny in the lobby, shielded from sight with an invisibility spell, until they could find Quentin’s room number. It had been simple enough to slip into the crowd of students as they had gathered in the lobby: in their identical scrubs, they blended in, and the attending physician had barely glanced back since gathering them.

 “Did you bring it?” Margo asked Eliot from the corner of her mouth as they were led along, and Eliot nodded as he slipped one hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around Quentin’s plastic ID bracelet.

 “We need to get to a nurse’s station where we can scan it.” He replied quietly as the attending slid his ID card through a security pad and opened the doors to a restricted area.

 “Move quickly now!” He barked, and Eliot straightened his spine as he scanned the area beyond the door. There was a small lobby, two vending machines, and diagonal from that, a semi-circular nurse’s station. Two older women stood behind the counter, glancing at charts and murmuring to each other. Eliot cut a glance at Margo and Kady.

 “That’s where I need to be.” He hissed. “Create a diversion!”

 “What do we—”

 Crack! Kady’s open palm snapped against Margo’s cheek, cutting off her words and making the shorter hedge stagger back a few steps. Eliot stared at Kady, his mouth falling open. Kady’s green eyes glittered with challenge, and Margo recovered.

 “You bitch!” She was on Kady a moment later, her hands twisted into Kady’s curls, and the two of them went to the floor in a barrage of curses and flashing, painted nails. The other students, the attending, and the station nurses rushed over to separate them, and Eliot ducked down to slip past them and behind the counter. A scanner sat to one side of the station monitor, and Eliot pulled the bracelet from his pocket. A red light reflected against the shiny plastic, and the small readout spat back Quentin’s information at him.

 “Room 2505.” Eliot murmured as he risked a peek over the counter. Margo and Kady were still in the middle of the knot of shouting, staring crowd as the nurses and attending tried to break the girls up. Eliot dropped his mental wards and let Penny in.

 2505. I’ll meet you there in five minutes!

 Eliot hurried toward the nearest elevator, knowing Margo and Kady could extract themselves from the melee and make themselves scarce before the others realized they wouldn’t be able to say for sure who had started the fight.

 ______________________________________

 Penny felt the familiar shiver in his nerves as he traveled from the lobby to Quentin’s room. He took a moment to glance around at the surroundings: a dresser, barred windows, and a metal-frame bed. The kid Penny had come to think of as the Nerdling was strapped to the bed with thick leather buckles, both hands and feet, and it roused a sick, angry feeling in the traveler. No one of his kind deserved this, even a dork like this. He dropped the invisibility shield and leaned over to pat the kid’s cheek.

 “Hey! Hey, come on, look at me! Yo! Nerdling! Snap out of it!”

 Quentin’s eyelids twitched and then blinked open. His dark gaze was muddled, his irises blown wide with prescription dope. Penny began to work the heavy buckles open.

 “I don’t wanna have to carry your skinny ass, so come on!” He slapped Quentin smartly on one cheek, and Quentin stared up at him.

 “The hell.” He mumbled, and Penny got his hands free.

 “Hell is what these people are gonna put you in unless you try and focus on what I’m saying!” He freed Quentin’s bare feet and shoved them into a pair of sneakers from the dresser. He pulled Quentin into a sitting position when a distorted chiming sound began behind him. Penny turned, his stomach clenching as the air wavered with dark magic. A hand stretched out from the tattered framed poster on the wall, one with many extra fingers. It gestured, stretching the frame into the size of a full-length mirror, as if it was made of taffy. A figure stepped out as the plexiglass wavered like a pool of still water that had been disturbed.  The creature, dressed in a natty grey suit and polished dress shoes, was whistling. His entire face was obscured by fluttering moths. The doorknob to the room rattled and Eliot’s voice rang in Penny’s head.

 Let me in!

 “Ah ah!” The Beast chided Penny as he stepped closer to the bed. “I believe that’s mine!” He shot a hand out, deformed with many extra fingers, and Penny gasped in pain and surprise as he was flung against the opposite wall. His head struck the dresser and dark spots bloomed in front of his eyes. Agony wracked his senses a moment later and he gave a breathless gasp as he turned his head toward the door. Eliot’s shadow loomed in the small square mesh-lined window.

 Penny! Open the fucking door!

 Penny lifted a hand toward it, but the spell died on his lips as the syllables fell into a meaningless jumble within his addled consciousness. The sound of the doorknob rattling took on an echoing quality as the Beast tugged Quentin from the bed by his arms and pulled him across the room. Quentin turned his head and stared at Penny, wide-eyed and helpless, as the creature whistled a happy little tune, dragged the teen through the poster frame, and vanished.

  Part Two: One World Among Many

 CHAPTER NINE

 “He’s dead, Margo.”

 Margo glanced up from the loft’s bar at Eliot’s words. Kady sat with Penny on the couch, dabbing at a swollen, red lump on the back of his head with a damp cloth. Margo brought them each a glass of brandy and frowned when she had to push the tumbler into Eliot’s hands before he would grip it.

 “We don’t know that. Yes, the Beast took him, but it has to be for a reason! If he’d wanted to kill Quentin, he would have painted that room with his brains with the flick of his hand!”

 Eliot closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the Eames chair. The four exhausted hedges had managed to portal themselves out of Dolborough before security reached Quentin’s room, with Kady and Eliot having to almost carry Penny. The traveler was stunned and had only just begun to come around as they’d regrouped at Eliot’s loft.

 “She’s right.” Penny nodded, his voice a bit stronger than it had been a half hour ago. “The Beast said, ‘I believe that’s mine’ right before he—fuck!” Penny flinched as Kady pressed a square of gauze to his head wound. “Right before he dragged your buddy off. How the hell did he find us, anyway?”

 “Quentin told me the drugs they were giving him at Dolbrough made it hard for the Beast to track him, but it was only a matter of time before the bastard found him! I warded him when he was with me, but once they took him back to Dolborough, he was vulnerable.” Eliot pushed his dark hair back with one hand. “The door Quentin opened had to be to Fillory. It’s the only thing that makes sense! Once he had that button, Fillory presented itself to him, only the Beast was guarding the entrance. Guarding it, and waiting for him.” Eliot rubbed a hand over his chin. “He told me it happened right in his own neighborhood, in Brooklyn, but I don’t know the exact location, and there’s no guarantee that the door will open for us, even if we find it.” He drained half the brandy from his glass. “We have to find another way.”

 Margo got to her feet and left the room. Kady taped the gauze to Penny’s head and squeezed his hand, and he allowed her to touch her forehead to his before resuming his usual stoic expression. Margo returned, Quentin’s messenger bag in one hand.

 “Fuck me if I didn’t forget we brought this from Quentin’s house the day they took him back to Dolborough!”

 “And what good will that do, exactly?” Eliot sighed. “I already looked inside, there’s nothing but clothes and those Fillory books.”

 Margo opened the bag’s clasp and up-ended it over the couch. The Fillory books slid out, each one encased in a protective plastic sheath, along with a small assortment of clothing. She frowned and pulled the bag open wide, dipping one hand in and feeling around. Her fingers slid along a thin mouth of fabric, and she tugged on it. A Velcro pocket opened and Margo smiled as she pulled out a small black velvet bag.

 “Oh yeah, smart guy? What do you call this?” She pulled the drawstring open and shook a clear plastic octagonal white box into her hand. It was about the size of a half dollar and contained an eggshell-white button. Eliot and the others stared at it.

 “Is that . . .?” Eliot asked, and Margo set the case on the table before popping the lid open. Penny leaned close.

 “Fuck me! Can you feel that? Like it’s practically leaking magic!”

 Kady reached out with both hands, her slim hands working in the air above the button.

 “Wherever that kid got this from, it’s the real deal.”

 “Quentin told me he bought it from a homeless vendor in his neighborhood. Whoever that was or is must have been working for the Beast . . . He wanted Quentin to be able to open that door.”

 “But if he didn’t know he has any magical ability, what good would that have done either of them?” Penny frowned. “That’s like giving someone a key to a car that has a fucked-up motor.”

 “Except that Quentin isn’t fucked up.” Eliot’s stomach turned as his quick mind began to make connections. “He’s untapped—what’s inside him is pure, and that’s what the Beast is after. For whatever reason, He’s taken Quentin to Fillory to gain access to Quentin’s magic.” His hand tightened around the forgotten tumbler in his hand. “To drain him.”

 __________________________________

 “Wakey Wakey!”

 Quentin struggled to consciousness at the sound of that voice, the one that had filled his dreams with terror and his bed with rank fear sweat and urine for months. He forced his eyes open and a pained, surprised whimper of pain escaped his throat as he realized tough steel manacles encircled his wrists, paired with thick iron chains that suspended him from a cold stone wall. He kicked his bare feet, only to find that they were secured as well. A cold, fetid dampness against his skin made him shiver, and he realized as he came fully conscious that he was naked—the blue-checked hospital gown he’d been wearing when the Beast claimed him was laying in a nearby corner in a sad heap. The Beast himself stood in front of him, his face still obscured with the large moths. Panic gnawed at Quentin’s nerves as that musty, dry smell assaulted his nostrils.

 “Quentin Coldwater.” The voice purred, laced with a posh British accent. “I’m so pleased to have you in my company! It’s been much too long since we last met, wouldn’t you agree?”

 “Who are you? How do you know my name?” Quentin asked, trying to arch his back away from the damp stone. It was impossible to see the man’s face, but amusement laced his tone.

 “Why, I’ve known it for years!” One multi-fingered hand reached out to stroke Quentin’s cheek. “My poor lad . . . you really have no idea who you are, do you.”

 “I’m—I’m just Quentin. Please, whoever you are, you’re making a terrible mistake!”

 “There’s no mistake, dear boy. The prophecy is at hand . . . the events that are destined to bring my reign and my life to an end!” The Beast’s voice rose in pitch, cracking with anger.

 “Your reign? Fillory . . .” Quentin glanced around the cold stone room. A Fillorian crest, faded but visible, covered much of the space on the wall opposite him. “Fillory is real.” He murmured, and the Beast chuckled.

 “Of course Fillory is real! And you’ve known it your whole life, Quentin. Even as you played your silly questing games with Julia, you always looked for a way in that went far beyond fantasy. The truth slept deep within you, and now it’s awake, but it slumbered too long, it seems! I was a wily fox, you see, and I gave you a way to unlock the door, only I was waiting there to trap you, at last!”

 “The button.” Quentin yanked at the manacles that pinched and rubbed against his skin. “Eliot was right! You gave that button to the vendor to sell to me!”

 The Beast’s open palm cracked across Quentin’s cheek.

 “He can’t help you, and he can’t help Fillory! The prophecy is at an end, my sweet boy, and once I drain you of your magic and make a tasty meal of your flesh, every door into Fillory will be mine to command!” A hand with extra, seeking fingers wrapped around his throat. “I’m going to devour you, and when your would-be magician king sees what I will leave of your corpse, it will drive him mad!”

 Quentin swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the creature’s hand.

 “I don’t understand.” He said in a strained voice. “Who are you?”

 “I rule all of Fillory, past, present, and now, the future!” The hand fell away from Quentin’s throat and he screamed in terror and sense memory as the moths engulfed him, their wings landing dust-filled kisses against every inch of his skin.

 CHAPTER TEN

 A late-April shower was moving through Chelsea, drenching empty sidewalks and dripping off storefront awnings in a steady patter. Thick rivulets of rain scrawled down the glass of Eliot’s loft windows, making shadows on its occupants’ faces like tribal tattoos. Eliot, Margo, Penny, and Kady stood in a circle around the coffee table, their hands joined. The button sat in its case there, the lid open.

 “So . . . if anyone wants to bow out of this little field trip, speak now and forever reveal your cowardice.” Eliot said as he slipped one of Quentin’s Fillory books into the pocket of his camel coat, his gaze flicking to each member of the party, one by one. Penny’s eyes narrowed.

 “Fuck you, like you’re not shitting dry peach pits?”

 “Have your pissing contest later, boys.” Margo squeezed Eliot’s hand. “I don’t think Quentin has the time.” She glanced at the book. “What’s that for?”

 “It has maps in it. I was thinking that might be of help to us.”

 “Are you sure this is even going to work? If Quentin had the button all this time, why didn’t it take him to Fillory when he touched it?” Kady asked.

 “Because he hasn’t accessed his magical abilities yet. He’s untapped . . . the button might have sensed his innate powers but couldn’t make the connection with him.” Eliot looked down at the button. “Are we ready?”

 “Ready.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Just fucking touch the stupid thing!”

 Eliot opened the hand that gripped Margo’s just enough to float the button into his palm. When he closed his fingers around it, the air in the loft seemed to implode with the sound of a pile of wet laundry hitting a tile floor. Eliot felt himself being drawn inward, as if he was turning liquid and being sucked up through a very long straw. He struggled to hang onto his consciousness as his inner ear spun like a risky carnival ride. His form then solidified again and he tumbled through crisp, sweet air before falling with a heavy splash into chilly water. He fought his way to the surface, gasping like a landed fish. The others popped up all around him, struggling to get air in their lungs as well, and Eliot realized they’d fallen into the waters of an ornate fountain. A granite statue of a centaur, three times Eliot’s height, graced the center of the round fountain, and water spurted from its mouth and from the tip of the gilded spear it held. Eliot half-paddled to the fountain’s edge, climbed out, and then pocketed the button before he helped Margo onto dry land as she coughed and shuddered.

 “Fuck!”

 “Are you okay, Bambi?” Eliot asked, pushing her sodden hair from her face, and she thumped him on the chest twice with her small fists.

 “No, I’m not okay! That fucking button turned me into a human enema and squirted me up the multiverse’s motherfucking colon!” She hit him again. “You dick!”

 “All right, okay!” He took hold of her wrists. “I know it wasn’t exactly first class on Jet Blue, but it worked. It’s pretty clear we aren’t on earth anymore.” He looked up at the fountain. Kady pushed her curls back and wrung water from them.

 “How can we be sure we’re in Fillory?”

 “Children of earth!”

 The party turned as one as the deep voice spoke. A towering male centaur, his coat a mix of silver and white, stood watching them. He held a spear in one hand. His curly hair, the same color as his coat and tail, fell well past his bare shoulders. His eyes were the color of wet slate. The group stared at him as he gave a graceful bow.

 “I welcome you all to Fillory.”

 Eliot cleared his throat as his heart tried to climb up into his trachea.

 “I think that’s a pretty telling clue.”

__________________________________________

 The centaur’s name was Clabbercloud. He worked as a sentry for the Northern Meadows clan, who worked mostly in weaving and textiles. As children of earth, Eliot and the others were welcomed with solemn but sincere respect by the clan and given dry clothing, hot black currant tea, and delicate oat cakes in Clabbercloud’s rangy tent. The interior ceiling was draped with gauzy silk squares of material in varying shades of red, giving the space an Arabian Nights pastiche.

 “Long have we awaited more children of Earth to visit Fillory. Many had given up hope you would ever arrive, and we would be forever ruled by the Many-Fingered King.”

 “The Many-Fingered King?” Penny frowned. “Hang on . . . that thing I saw in Quentin’s room at the hospital! It had a bunch of extra fingers! That’s the king of Fillory?”

 Clabbercloud snorted.

 “He is more a ruthless dictator than a king. We live in fear of him! But it was not always so . . . when he came to Fillory as a boy, he and his siblings ruled wisely, but over time, our king’s quest for power grew so that he began to study the dark magic, spells that twisted his heart and mind. He learned of the prophecy of the Light Bringer, and since then, he has worked to destroy the one who would dethrone him.”

 “Wait, hold up.” Margo held up a hand. “What’s the Light Bringer, what prophecy, and who was this Squidward-looking asshole before he was a king?”

 Clabbercloud moved over to a wooden chest filled with books, their covers thick and ornate. He chose one from the pile and brought it to the group, opening it to a marked page.

 “Look upon this.”

 Eliot took the book and settled it across his knees. The others leaned over his shoulders to see. The left page featured scrawled Fillorian text, and the other, which was torn away at the upper right corner so about a quarter of the page was missing, featured two figures ascending from a fountain. One was radiating with light and reaching for an open jade crown of many colors, which was surrounded by a cloud of what appeared to be butterflies or moths, but the other figure was mostly missing from the torn page. Only the legs and feet were visible.

 “The Light Bringer.” Kady glanced up at Clabbercloud. “And who’s this?” She pointed at the incomplete figure.

 The centaur shook himself.

 “There are many who believe he is little more than a guide. Others think he is something of a page to the Light Bringer.”

 “So where is this place?” Penny asked pointing to the drawing, and Clabbercloud cocked a hind leg as he worked through a plate of oat cakes.

 “The fountain is said to be the same that can be found at Coronation Beach, where all Fillorian rulers are crowned. It lies twenty miles south of our village.”

 “When I saw the Beast, he wasn’t wearing that crown.” Penny nodded to the drawing.

 “The Many-Fingered King wears no crown, Traveler. It is power and submission, not fame and attention, that he desires most. The crown lies in a chest at Coronation Beach, and none but the Light Bringer can open it.”

 “So you believe this Light Bringer is your next king?” Margo asked, and the centaur nodded.

 “Only Children of Earth can rule here.” He replied, and Margo glanced at Eliot.

 “So technically . . . any one of you boys—you or Penny or even Quentin—could be the king they’ve been waiting for.”

 “But we don’t know where Quentin is.” Eliot said, his fingers tightening around the cup he held. Clabbercloud turned his head to reply when another sentry approached the open tent flap, his spear jabbing at the back of what looked like an oversized ferret. The thing was walking on its hind legs and it had one deformed eye that made it bulge from its socket like an infected boil. It carried a miniature version of Quentin’s messenger bag and wore a red and black leather jerkin, but nothing else. The sentry goaded the creature inside.

 “This intruder says it has a message for the children of earth!”

 Eliot rose to his feet. Although the ferret barely came to his knees, the creature didn’t cower. It withdrew a velvet bag from its jerkin.

 “The High King of Fillory and Lord of All He Surveys and Beyond offers parley for the life of the human called Quentin Coldwater! He sends this, in the hopes that it will spur you to bargain quickly.”

 Eliot took the bag, pulled the top open and shook it out. A pinky finger tumbled out into his hand and he jerked back, color draining from his cheeks. While the digit bore no identifying marks, Eliot’s heightened senses and his familiarity with Quentin’s aura told him that it belonged to the younger magical adept. The skin and meat around the first knuckle had been gnawed. Cold arrows of dread punched into Eliot’s gut and spread before the tips burst into flame and replaced it with fury. His long fingers curled around the severed thing as Margo, Penny, and Kady stared with varying expressions of shock and disgust. The ferret bared its sharp teeth.

 “His Highness will bring Quentin Coldwater to Coronation Beach at sunrise and offer you his bargain there. If you refuse or do not show . . .” The ferret licked its lips suggestively. Eliot took a deep breath and turned his back on the creature.

 “Are you supposed to return to His Majesty with my answer?”

 “No, magician. Your presence or lack of it at sunrise tomorrow is your answer!”

 “Excellent.” Eliot spat the word out before he turned and shot out his left hand, the air around it shimmering with magic. The force push knocked the ferret off its feet, drove it through the air, and impaled it on the sentry’s spear by the back of its head. The force of the push popped the deformed eye from its socket, leaving it to drip thickly off the tip while the creature twitched the last of its life out on the shaft.

 “You literally killed the messenger.” Margo said after a few moments of silence, and Eliot slipped Quentin’s finger back into the velvet bag.

 “Pity it didn’t live long enough to appreciate the irony of the message I gave it in return. The bastard used Quentin’s finger as a fucking teething toy.” Eliot said as the sentry shook his spear and sent the dead mammal flopping to the ground. “Clabbercloud, which way is it to Coronation Beach?”

 “My sentries can take you as far as the Rainbow Bridge, but we cannot venture any further. Beyond our borders, child of earth, you and your companions must face the Many-Fingered King alone.”

 CHAPTER ELEVEN

 Coronation Beach was a stark study in negative contrast: soft black sand stretched for nearly ten miles against seawaters that were foamy white instead of blue. Dawn approached, wrapped in thick swatches of fog as Eliot and his companions reached the beach and stood near the fountain Clabbercloud had mentioned. In the center of the pool, a granite king stood with his sword at the ready. Eliot squinted into the near-darkness and frowned.

 “I wonder if the sun rises in the east here. Wasn’t there something in the books about a daily eclipse?” He paused and pulled the Fillory book from his coat to flip through it. “Quentin would know.” He said, almost to himself, and Margo peered off into the horizon.

 “We can’t even be sure Fillory operates the way it does in the books. At least I don’t remember a psycho moth man in any of them.”

 “Flattery will get you nowhere, dear girl!”

 Eliot turned at the words, his heart volleying up into his throat. The Beast was approaching from the opposite direction, dressed in the same fine suit Quentin had seen him in previously. He walked with a skip in his step, the moths swirling around his face in a noxious cloud. He dragged Quentin along behind him on a length of enchanted chain, the other end clipped to a black collar that seemed to writhe and shift against his skin like an agitated snake. Quentin stumbled across the sand, dressed in a pair of ragged linen breeches and nothing else. His right hand and arm were painted with blood, and in the low light, Eliot could see the ragged stump of the pinky finger. The Beast halted a few feet from the group and glanced at the rising sun.

 “How considerate of you to be punctual!”

 “Fuck your faux manners.” Eliot replied in conversational tone. “The talking rat you sent told me you wanted to meet here.”

 “My loyal servant, who you killed in cold blood. He was unarmed. Quite cowardly of you!”

 “About as cowardly as abusing a kid you gaslighted into a mental ward!” Margo snapped, and Eliot gave her an approving glance before he stepped forward.

 “And speaking of cowards, why don’t you show me your face before we make a deal? I’d like to know who I’m speaking to.” He flicked a glance at Quentin, whose wordless plea was clear.

 Be careful.

 “Very well. I don’t suppose I have any reason to conceal myself anymore, do I?” The Beast waved a hand and the moths dispersed, seeming to dissolve as they moved away from his face. Behind his living mask, Eliot saw a man with a rather bored countenance, a man with graying hair and a weak chin—a man you wouldn’t look twice at if you passed him on the street. Only his eyes gave a clue to his power, and they glittered as he met Eliot’s gaze.

 “Dude looks like a life insurance salesman.” Penny muttered, and the Beast chucked.

 “You clueless children. You have no idea who I truly am . . . although perhaps our dear Quentin here might tell you. I’m the once and future High King of Fillory, the missing sibling of a group of children who ruled here long ago. One who found a way to remain here always, to remain and rule, as I was always destined to!”

 Quentin stared at him.

 “Martin Chatwin.” He murmured, and the Beast nodded.

 “Precisely. Now.” He turned back toward Eliot. “As to the terms of my bargain. You give me back my button, agree to forsake the prophecy, and leave Fillory forever. In return, I will allow all of you to live.”

 Eliot tipped his eyes up to the dawning sky as he considered the terms. He thought of Clabbercloud, the story of the Beast’s complete rule over Fillory, his cruelty, and the good he and the others could bring to Fillory—if he could defeat the powerful magician in one-on-one battle.

 I learned magic for my own purposes and gain, Eliot thought to himself. But if what the centaur told us is true, I may have a destiny here. And what good is having all this power if I can’t outwit and out-cast this asshole? Top bitch in Chelsea . . . time to prove that to yourself and to everyone else.

 “Here’s my counter offer.” Eliot said, removing his long camel coat and undoing the buttons on the linen shirt the centaurs had loaned him. It was ill-fitting across his shoulders and down his arms, so he stripped it off, exposing his hedge tattoos. “We battle, one on one, for the crown. The winner gets control of Fillory, and the loser goes six feet under.”

 “Eliot, no!” Quentin spoke up, and the Beast yanked on the length of chain, choking off any further complaints. He stroked his goatee.

 “An interesting wager!” He eyed Eliot’s tattoos. “I see you’re a hedge witch . . .” He led Quentin to a nearby boulder and used magic to weld the end of the chain into it, trapping him there like a disobedient dog. “Isn’t it ironic that I learned magic in much the same way!” He glanced at Margo and the others. “You realize, of course, if you lose this battle, the lives of your friends, including this delicious little dish—” He nodded to Quentin— “are all forfeit as well.”

 “Then bring it.” Penny challenged, eliciting a nod from Kady. Marg scoffed.

 “If El goes down, which I doubt, then it’s three against one, Beast Boy.”

 “You’d battle me for table scraps?” The Beast asked, glancing at Quentin. “Courageous but idiotic.”

 “Do you agree to my offer or not?” Eliot asked, and the Beast nodded, looking almost jovial.

 “Agreed—let’s end this, shall we?” The older magician raised his hands before he finished speaking, a magic missile blasting from his palm. Eliot cursed and strengthened his wards with one move of his hand. The blast rocked him backward and he murmured in Arabic. A blue glowing rope of pure energy flowed from his fingertips and entangled the Beast. Eliot jerked the rope, adding a dose of telekinetic energy to it, and yanked his enemy’s face into his closed right fist. The Beast grunted as the cartilage in his nose shattered under the impact. Eliot then force-pushed him into the air and sent him flying across the beach, where he bounced off a cluster of rocks before swaying to his feet, bleeding from his nose and chuckling.

 “Impressive, hedge witch! Now let me show you what true power is!” He raised one hand, spread his thumb and index finger apart, then began to pinch them together slowly. Eliot gasped in surprise as his air supply was cut off, and he struggled to counter it. His lungs burned in panic and he fought the sensation, using his fading energy to summon his telekinesis. He envisioned the Beast’s fingers smoking, then glowing like banked embers, before bursting into flame. The ruling king of Fillory screamed in agony as those two fingers imploded in a flash of bright orange flame and then fell to the ground in ashes. Margo pumped a fist.

 “Yes!” She hissed, and Eliot took three gulps of air before moving his right hand in rapid circles, the fingers moving precisely in repetitive motions until glowing runes flowed from them. They hissed and crackled and Eliot drew that hand toward his chest before flinging the runes outward. They slammed into the Beast, burning away some of his suit and leaving deep, bleeding groves in his chest and arms. The older magician fell to his knees, stunned, and Eliot advanced on him, gearing up for another volley.

 Take him apart piece by piece if I need to . . .

 “It seems . . . I underestimated your abilities, hedge witch!” The Beast said, deep, glowing gashes visible in his torso, the edges charred. “But Fillory is mine, and who lives or dies is at my command! Perhaps you need proof!” He turned toward Quentin and raised both hands. A white-hot whip, made of pure energy, grew from both palms and twisted into a thick braid. Quentin watched, chained to the rock and helpless. The whip hissed and writhed like downed power line, and Eliot whispered a speed spell with his ebbing magical energy. He felt his wards flicker and fail as the spell allowed him to move at five times his normal speed. He reached Quentin, shielding the boy with his body, his bare arms stretched wide, and Quentin screamed as the whip sliced into Eliot’s left shoulder and cut diagonally across his body, opening him like a flayed trout. Quentin screamed as blood sprayed upward in a crimson arc.

 “ELIOT!”

 “EL!” Margo’s cry of agony echoed Quentin’s as Eliot dropped to his knees, his expression filled with the knowledge of his death but quietly triumphant as well. He fell to one side, his amber eyes half-open, blood staining the sand in a wide, spreading pool. The Beast watched, laughing.

 “The king is dead!” He shouted in a wounded but jovial tone. “Long live the king!” He threw his arms in the air. “And now . . .” He turned to Margo, doubled over as sobs wracked her frame. Penny dropped into a defensive crouch as he and Kady moved in front of her. The Beast grinned. “Oh children . . . you mustn’t even try, there’s no point in it, it will only make your deaths more painful!” He took two steps toward the group, his hands raised, when thunder rumbled over the water. The Beast looked up, frowning, as roiling black clouds, lined with lodes of molten gold, raced over the sky. They cast the beach into near darkness, eating up the dawn, before one of the glowing molten lines split open the clouds. Rays of pure white light shot out, lined with gossamer sheets of flickering, shifting colors. They engulfed Quentin and he stiffened, his dark eyes wide, his mouth dropping open in a sudden fit of awe and ecstasy. The enchanted chain and collar melted away like warm taffy and Quentin flung his arms outward as the rays lifted him into the air.

 The others watched, stunned, as Quentin’s injured hand seemed to light up from the inside and his pinky finger reformed before the rays turned him and another of the golden lines reached out from the clouds, more delicate than a jellyfish tentacle, and vanished into his bare back. Quentin stiffened, his lean form jerking, and then golden lines began to fill up his skin. The lines formed, then connected, until they formed a hedge star. The gold filament withdrew, but not before it formed a stylized Q in the center of the star. A kind of serenity filled Quentin’s expression, replacing his usual timid, anxious countenance, as the rays faded and he dropped to his feet on the beach. He faced the Beast, who scoffed.

 “How very dramatic, that! Pity it’s come too late!” The Beast raised both hands, firing off red bolts of energy from both palms. Quentin raised his own hands, batting the bolts away as if they were spitballs as he walked toward the Fillorian king. The Beast paused, scowled, then used his remaining fingers to squeeze the air from the young hedge. He watched, his expression shifting from triumph to disbelief as Quentin kept on approaching, his dark eyes ringed with molten gold. He seized the Beast’s hand as if to give it a vigorous shake and twisted the appendage off his wrist as if opening a stubborn pickle jar. The Beast gave a high-pitched, breathy scream of agony as Quentin tossed the hand over one shoulder and buried his right hand into the man’s hair, forcing him to his knees. The Beast stared up at him.

 “Quentin. Quentin, my dear boy, listen to me, please . . .”

 “I’m done listening to you. I’m done being afraid, and I’m done running.” His eyes blazed down at the king. “You killed Eliot. You killed the only person in the whole world—any world—who ever gave a shit about me.”

 “But you have no idea what I could offer you! Power, fortune . . . allow me to rule you, and you could have all that you ever dreamed of!” The Beast countered, and Quentin closed his eyes a moment.

 “I had what I dreamed of. I had someone who was like me. Someone who could have taught me who I really am . . . who might have loved me.” Quentin gave the Beast a somber stare. “You took that away.”

 “Quen—”

 The dark magician’s words were interrupted by the cracking of his own spinal cord as Quentin twisted his head around in a complete circle, then kept twisting until the Beast’s head separated from his body. A cloud of moths roiled from the neck’s stump and fell to the sand one by one, like a musty cloudburst, until the Beast’s headless body fell backward and landed, motionless, among the insects’ twitching corpses. Quentin threw the head in the dead man’s lap and raised one hand, casting a fire spell as if he’d been doing it for years. The head and body burst into flames and burned to ashes within moments. Quentin stared at the ashes, and then Penny approached him. Quentin turned, that gold glow in his eyes fading but still noticeable. Penny raised both hands slowly, palms out.

 “Yo. I’m on your side, remember?”

 Quentin nodded and Penny flicked a glance at the pile of ashes.

 “So what the fuck happened? What unlocked your magic, and why is it so crazy strong?”

 Quentin turned his head to look at Eliot, laying motionless on his side.

 “Eliot.” He murmured, padding across the sand. As Penny, Kady, and Margo gathered around them, Quentin sat cross-legged by the body and lifted Eliot’s head into his lap. Margo wiped a shaking hand across her mouth.

 “He stepped right in front of you. I felt his wards fail . . . he must have known what would happen.” She said, and Penny nodded.

 “He knew.” He said. “But protecting Quentin was all that mattered to him.”

 “You used my real name.” Quentin said, glancing up at Penny.

 “Yeah, well. Figure I owe you one for killing that asshole Beast.”

 “How did you even do that?” Kady asked. Quentin shook his head.

 “I don’t know.” He stroked Eliot’s face. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, it’s all for nothing, it’s all for nothing!” He cried, the last words hitching on tears as he bent over and kissed Eliot’s rapidly-cooling lips. Several tears dripped onto Eliot’s long, pale throat and slid into the top of the terrible wound the Beast had made. A low thrumming sound bloomed from the gash, and it began to glow gold before a glittering sheer curtain of humming energy covered the open flesh. Quentin watched: the sound seemed to be coming from everywhere at once and contained an entire symphony of tiny chimes, all at different keys, as the gauzy netting of magic undulated over Eliot’s wound and left Eliot’s bare chest whole and unmarred.

 “Look.” Kady murmured after a few moments, pointing to Eliot’s face. Color was blooming back into the hedge witch’s high cheekbones and turning his pale blue lips pink. The chimes grew louder and then both Quentin and Eliot were rising into the air, ascending over the fountain.  Eliot’s eyes opened, his expression almost comically surprised. Out in the sea, the water began to bubble and hiss before a jade crown surfaced, its surface flashing in the sun. Golden shafts of light erupted from Quentin’s fingers, bathing Eliot in a radiant glow as the crown floated into his hands as if it belonged there. Margo, Penny, and Kady watched as the two magicians circled each other in midair before their lips met in a long, explorative kiss. They descended together a moment later, the crown in Eliot’s left hand.

 “Fuck.” Margo breathed. “The prophecy had it wrong the whole fucking time! The future king of Fillory isn’t the Light Bringer at all.”

 “Nope.” Penny sighed. “It’s Quentin.”

 CHAPTER TWELVE

 “So what Clabbercloud showed us in that old book didn’t tell us the whole story.”

 Penny paced around the area where Eliot had faced the Beast less than an hour earlier as he spoke.

 “The story of the prophecy was handed down orally. All the people had to go on was what they had been told, and that drawing.” Eliot replied. Since being resurrected, Quentin had helped him clean himself up in the water and brought him his coat. He wore it over bare skin, the centaur shirt having gone out with the tide. He stood flanked by Margo on one side and Quentin on the other, and the sensation was so comfortable he wanted to wear their presence like a second skin for the rest of his life.

 “They were wrong about the future king being the Light Bringer. And it wasn’t the crowning that unlocked Quentin’s magic . . . it was Eliot’s sacrifice.” Margo looked up at him and then he was doubling over as she elbowed him in the gut. “And that, by the way, is for getting your asshole self killed right in front of me!”

 “Noted!” Eliot wheezed, and Margo threw her arms around him.

 “You cock!” She whispered fiercely, and Eliot recovered enough to put his arms around her.

 “If you’re jealous, know that I would’ve done the same thing for you.” He said, lifting her chin and wiping away an errant tear from her left cheek. “Bambi.”

 “I don’t think you’d be standing here if you had.” She glanced over at Quentin. “Hey . . . Droopy.” She said, and Quentin glanced up, not quite meeting her imperious gaze, but then her features softened. “You did good.”

 “Thanks, Margo.” Quentin replied with a shy smile.

 “There’s still some shit that isn’t clear to me.” Penny said. “Like the Beast must have thought that Eliot was the Light Bringer, otherwise he would have killed Quentin a hell of a lot sooner. If he was so powerful, how did he get that wrong?”

 “He didn’t. He knew all along.”

 The group turned as one as the new voice spoke. By the edge of the fountain stood a young girl in what looked like a, English schoolgirl’s pinafore and skirt. A blue beret sat perched on her head. Quentin stared.

 “Holy shit.” He said, his voice cracking. “You’re . . .?”

 “Jane Chatwin.” The girl nodded. “And just as you always felt deep within your heart, Quentin, Fillory is very real and has existed for centuries.”

 “What do you mean, the Beast had it right the whole time?” Penny demanded, and Jane came closer.

 “My siblings and I once ruled Fillory. We understood that other children of earth would come eventually . . . all but Martin. That’s why he began to study dark magic. He wanted to live forever, and to rule forever. So when the seers of Whitespire foretold of the coming of a new king, it sent him into a paranoid rage. He made it his quest to find The Light Bringer and destroy him. It was my brother who ripped the page from the seer’s book.” She glanced at Eliot. “The book you carry in your coat . . . may I see it?”

“Book—oh! Forgot I had it.” He pulled the first edition book out and gave Quentin an apologetic glance. “If it’s damaged, I’ll buy you a new one. We thought it might come in handy.”

 “It’s okay.” Quentin nodded, watching as Jane opened the book. On the inside of the first page was an identical drawing of what the group had seen at Clabbercloud’s tent. Jane murmured a few words in Arabic and then teased the page open further, where it unfolded into a complete image of what they’d been unable to see before. The other figure was no page or guide—shafts of light were streaming from his fingers, surrounding the other in an ethereal glow.

 “Most people in Fillory knew about the prophecy, but thought the future king would be the one to bring the light. What they didn’t know is that the king would be brought to Fillory because of his love for the one my brother would steal from him.”

 “If your brother knew Quentin was The Light Bringer, why didn’t he just smoke him back at the looney bin?” Penny asked, and Jane smiled and shook her head.

 “My brother always had more than a touch of the theatrical to him. He loved cat-and-mouse games. He simply couldn’t resist playing one last time.” She glanced over at the pile of ash. “I always said it would be the death of him. Now . . . I think it’s time to crown the new kings and queen of Fillory.” She nodded as an ornate wood chest appeared at her feet and popped open, revealing two more crowns.

 “I call High Queen!” Margo announced, and Eliot gave her a warm, approving grin. Quentin took the crown from Eliot’s hand.

 “Kneel, Eliot Waugh.” He said, and Eliot’s smile widened. Quentin felt heat rise to his own cheeks.

 “Come on, it’ll just take a minute.”

 Eliot bowed his head. “As you wish, Light Bringer.” He said in a somber tone, but his amber eyes gleamed with humor. He knelt on the black sand, and Quentin stepped forward with the crown in his hands.

 “I know all of this was supposed to be spelled out in some kind of prophecy . . . but I think that destiny is bullshit when you’re a magician. Our futures, the kind of people we are, or turn out to be . . . it’s in our hands, no matter what the storybooks about us say.” His dark eyes filled with tears as he spoke, meeting Eliot’s bright gaze. “And I know that you are going to be a really, really good king. More than good. So—I, Quentin Coldwater, the Light Bringer, crown you High King Eliot, the Spectacular.” He placed the circlet of jade on Eliot’s head, and Eliot’s long dark lashes swept down in an expression that was close to ecstasy.

 “Thank you, Quentin.” He said after a moment. “I will do my best to live up to your expectations.” He offered his hands, and Quentin took them as he helped Eliot to his feet. Their gazes remained locked, and then Eliot leaned over to kiss the younger magician’s cheeks, then his lips. Surprise mixed with joy lit up Quentin’s face as Eliot pulled away. Margo glanced at Kady and Penny and shook her head, and Eliot grinned at them. “It’s good to be the king!” He turned to the chest and picked up a delicate crown made of gilded gold leaves. “Margo?”

 Margo went to him, her dark eyes tipping up to him.

 “I’m not kneeling.” She said in a jovial half-challenge, and Eliot nodded.

 “And I don’t expect you to.” He raised the crown and gently placed it on her head. “I hereby crown you High Queen Margo, the Destroyer.” He bent forward and cupped her face with his large, elegant hands. “I’ve known your worth since the day we met, Margo Hanson . . . and I wouldn’t want to rule Fillory without you by my side.” He said before kissing her cheeks, then her lips, as he had with Quentin, and Margo looked up at him.

 “We’re going to be legendary.” She said, and Eliot nodded.

 “And I thought being top bitch in Chelsea was a lofty position.” He picked up the last crown, silver shot through with delicate veins of gold, and turned to Quentin.

 “Kneel down, my Light Bringer.” He said, and Quentin went to one knee before him. “You bested the Beast, Quentin, but even before that, you were much braver than you ever believed, and you deserve to shape your own destiny. So, that being said, I hereby crown you King Quentin, the Courageous.” He set the crown on Quentin’s head and helped him stand. Quentin smiled.

 “No one’s ever called me courageous before.”

 “Except that you are. And not just because of what you did. You’ve been brave your whole life, Q . . . anyone else who lived the way you did without knowing they were a magician would have been dead a long time ago.”

 “Maybe.” Quentin looked up at the High King. “And if you’d allow me to be brave for a moment longer, I—I want to tell you that—uhm, I care about you, El. And you’re the only one who’s ever cared about me.” Quentin’s glance skittered away from Eliot’s as he finished speaking, and Eliot reached out to touch his chin with his thumb and index finger, stroking Quentin’s skin until the younger man looked up at him again. Eliot then claimed his lips as well as his gaze, their crowns creating a shining halo around them as their heads touched and the Fillorian sun bowed on the horizon for their joining.

 Epilogue

 Castle Whitespire

Six months later

 “Oh, My God . . . are you two at it again?”

 Eliot glanced up from the bed he, Quentin, and Margo shared. The mattress, stuffed with pegasi feathers, tilted as Quentin’s tousled head emerged from a mountain of blankets. His full, curved lips were shiny.

 “Oh! Uhmm—hey, Margo!”

 Margo sighed and put her hands on her hips.

 “The High King and the Bi King.” She drawled. Quentin sat up.

 “I guess I’m still getting used to this whole polyamorous marriage thing.” He admitted, and a small smile quirked up the corners of Margo’s mouth.

 “It’s fine, Q. I’ve actually admired your efforts over the past few months.” She took a few running steps and jumped into the roomy bed with them. Quentin slipped an arm around her as she leaned against Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot smiled down at them both as the muted sounds of life at Whitespire went on as usual outside the walls of their castle sanctuary.

 In the months since the Beast’s defeat, Fillory had transformed from a fear-filled and dreary world to one of plenty and burgeoning joy. Eliot, Quentin, and Margo all ruled equally, and at Eliot’s suggestion, the three of them entered into a polyamorous trio that only strengthened the people’s trust in them. While Eliot and Margo remained close as ever, Eliot left the physical aspect of their relationship up to their husband, who was eager to explore his newfound sexuality with both his partners.

 “Any word from Kady and Penny today?” Eliot asked, and Margo settled in between them.

 “They’ve found over half a dozen doors into Fillory so far, not counting being able to travel with the button.” Margo glanced over at a nearby glassed-in shelf, protected with multiple wards, that held their magic button. “Kady is more than happy to act as our general and gatekeeper, just to make sure no nasties get in. She and Penny are still living at their loft, but they asked about maybe keeping a room here at the castle, too.”

 “Life with Penny. Just what I always wanted.” Quentin groaned, and Eliot chuckled as he reached over to stroke Quentin’s hair, which he was growing out.

 “Don’t worry, Q. As king, you can always decree that he not speak while he’s in the castle!”

 “Something tells me he’d find other ways to annoy me.” He slipped from the bed and pulled on a red and gold silk robe before going to the window. Outside, Fillorians bustled around the nearby village and along the roads, trading, working, building. Structures the Beast had destroyed were being rebuilt, and the stain of his terrible rule was slowly being wiped clean.

 “Q?” Eliot asked after a few moments. “What is it?”

 “I was just thinking about where I was six months ago . . . and where I am now. It’s everything I wanted, but nothing like I imagined. You know?” He asked, turning back to his partners, and Eliot nodded as he got out of bed and put on a robe.

 “It’s a far cry from Chelsea, but I don’t really miss it.” He went to Quentin and touched his face with both hands before slipping an arm around Margo as she followed him to the window. “For better or worse, Fillory is my home now. There’s a lot of good we can do here—at least as good as hedge witches can be.” Eliot picked up his crown from the purple velvet pillow it rested on while he slept and put it on, artfully arranging his dark curls around the glittering points of jade. As a few of Fillory’s residents spied Margo at the window and began to cheer, Eliot looked down at Quentin.

 “My Light Bringer.” He whispered, and leaned in to capture Quentin’s lips in a long, loving kiss. As the people outside continued to chant and cheer, Quentin pulled back and let all his fears, worries, and terrible memories of the past fall away into the promise in Eliot’s bright amber eyes as he reached up to touch his face.

 “Long live the king.”

 FIN

[thisselflovecamebacktome]

Before The Storm thoughts

So before starting, I want you all to know that I went into the first two episodes spoiler free. Like I watched no trailers, saw no posts, just really knew nothing about this game to the point of thinking that it was going to be about Rachel’s downfall with Frank and Jefferson. I was then told that that wasn’t the case just before this episode came out. To be honest, and I’ll talk about this more later, in short I wish it was. I think my overall “eh” ness reaction about this game comes down to two issues. 

Firstly, by having a game with Rachel in it, they take away a lot of the mystery that made her interesting in the first place. Like the reason she was such a fan favourite in the first game was because there was a mystery to her. Like every single character in the game saw Rachel Amber in a different light so we couldn’t help but be like “What was she really like? Was she the perfect girl, a master manipulator or somewhere in between?” and left to our own conclusions. This isn’t to say that you could never have a game where they get it right with her, but it’s such a thin line and I just personally don’t think they nailed it.

On the topic of perceptions of Rachel, I do want to make a few notes before we go on. To be extremely honest, I’m super surprised that people felt this game villainised her more than the first game and made her seem “selfish and manipulative”. I won’t lie, as much as I shipped Amberprice in the first game and understood that Rachel was meant to be a troubled soul hiding under the mask of perfection, that was the overall impression I got from that game, In comparison, I feel like they did a lot better to push the “troubled” part of her in this game. I still think she had her selfish and manipulative tendencies, whether meaning to or not, but it’s clearer to me now that Chloe wasn’t just some midway point or escape for Rachel and I do think that the fandom needs to realise it can be both. Like she can care for Chloe but also have those moments just as Chloe did with Max in the original game.

Just on that note, I need to lowkey rant. I said it during the original games and I’ll say it now; this game and it’s fandom continues to villainise Max for the smallest shit. Like the way you go on about how horrible she was to Chloe for not getting in contact? She was what, 12 when she left and 14 when Chloe’s dad died? When I went to a different high school than my peers/friends in the same city, do you know how many of them I was talking to a year later? 0. Same with when I left year 12. Not to mention Max could have quite easily had just as dramatic stuff going on in her life at the time. All we ever know is Chloe’s side and Max’s guilt when she comes back. Like yeah, in a perfect world everyone would keep in contact, but shit happens and the fact that is still a thing I see in like every second post is just exhausting tbh.

Now that I’ve said that, back to Rachel. I like that Victoria didn’t like her before everything to be honest. It allows us to keep some of that ambiguity surrounding Rachel. What I didn’t like is that the one character who was alive that brought up legitimate issues surrounding Chloe’s behaviour since befriending Rachel ended up being a insanely jealous arguably abusive stalker as opposed to actual concerned friend. And before people come with me saying Chloe wasn’t exactly a saint before, I know, but she please do not act like the shit she did in those 3 (?) days wasn’t on a higher level than her actions before. Like here’s the thing, I never expected Chloe to listen to anyone telling her to stay away, and hell, they didn’t even have to be completely right. Like regardless of how he went about it, Chloe had the right to tell Eliot that he wasn’t at the meeting where she got expelled so didn’t have the full picture. But to have him go from “I’m concerned and here for you” at the hospital to flat out fuckboy mode with “I was here for you when no one was. No one loves you but me!” at Rachel’s house without having another character who was alive to also share legitimate concerns was kinda offputting to me. It also took away from that ambiguity of Rachel in my opinion.

My second issue with this game is that it just felt too disconnected to the first one. I know that they didn’t want to have it have anything to do with the first game, but honestly, I think that was a mistake. Don’t get me wrong, the idea of having Chloe and Rachel meet in the game was great. The fact they showed Rachel was troubled was great. But the truth of the matter is that some random story about Rachel’s biological mother that wasn’t even important enough to mention in the first game despite it being extremely hinted as the start of the end for Rachel just seemed too far left wing and out of the ballpark to me. And I get that two separate companies made the two different games, but to be honest, I still would have liked something a little more relevant.

And that’s where I think perhaps they should have gone with the “safe” option of Rachel’s downfall and left this as dlc. And by that, I don’t think it needed to be page by page like a full episode on Rachel and Jefferson getting closer or her fucking Frank or whatever to show she’s gone off the rails. Like I would have been happy if we had an episode ending with Jefferson walking in and introducing himself, next episode Rachel saying she joined the photography class and just mentions from there of how well she gets along with Jefferson. I mean if they were going to put that implication at the end of the game that she had gone off the rails before her death scene, they could have at least done something to lead up to it. Like at least show us how Chloe and Rachel get to the point where Chloe flat out believes Rachel left her behind. Also to be honest, as much as Frank/Rachel is creepy full stop considering he’s what 30? and she’s 16ish, I kinda expected them to be a slow grow relationship. Like idk, I expected him to actually dislike her at first and not show feelings until they hung out more, so to see him just check her out straight off made me feel even more uncomfortable at their relationship.

Alternatively, if they really wanted a Chloe focused game, one on her reaction to Rachel going missing. Show us her searching for Rachel. End it with Max coming into the picture. Idk, just something.

I also felt this game just didn’t work with the cannon of the first game very well. Like I already mentioned about the biological mother story not even being a mention, but there’s also little things like Rachel’s bracelet being found with Frank (? It was Frank right, or was it on the body) despite Sera or Chloe potentially having it at the end of this one and so on. 

Not to mention I really feel like they took away everything the first game tried to push about Nathan. Like the first game really pushed that yeah, he fucked up, did horrible things and had psychological issues, but a lot of those were a result of being severely manipulated by Jefferson. Meanwhile this game implies he beat Samantha to the point of her having broken ribs (at least that’s what I got from his father threatening her mother at the hospital) and that her leaving caused him to snap. Both of which happens long before Jefferson shows up. Like just her leaving I could get because quite frankly, loneliness leaves a person open to manipulation, but the broken ribs? Nah.

Basically what I’m saying is that the game probably could have worked okay as a standalone game, but I felt it, and specifically episode 3, was rushed and doesn’t work work in relation to the original Life Is Strange game.

[vickyvicarious]

Yeah, I hadn't really put too much thought into the years, because math. But this really doesn't make a ton of sense the more I think about it. If we think that the original show was like roughly four years long (with S3+S4 being in the same year) then that kinda makes Hardison's 12 years comment work. I mean, we see two Christmas episodes and we know S3 is about 6 months long, but other than that there isn't much timekeeping that I can recall - Nate made a comment about Hardison's age at some point, maybe?

Anyway, 12 years total would put the current show being set in 2020, assuming that the start was still 2008 when the show first aired.

Meaning that they're like a year behind us? Pandemic just starting for them? Or you know, probably just an alternate universe with some close matches/thinly veiled depictions of real people, but without the full state of the real world being depicted onscreen.

As far as Breanna goes... Assuming the show is set in 2020, then she could theoretically be just barely 21 midway through the season (born 1999), but that would put her first memory at like 2 or 3 depending on her birthday. Which can happen, I think especially if the memory is traumatic, and especially if it's a story that is retold often throughout childhood. I nearly drowned at that age, and it's my first memory. It's also possible that her "first memory" is at least halfway a construction based on stories she's been told, particularly if she was in the area nearby or family members were directly affected.

Or maybe she was born in '96 or so (making her 24), and Eliot just didn't want her to have harder liquor, or maybe he thought she was under 21 and was later corrected? If we go with him knowing her already then a fun headcanon is that despite not being biologically related she and Hardison are both lightweights; if we say onscreen was their first meeting then we can justify him as just thinking she's younger than she is.

Family game night!

There's a bowl of pretzels sitting between Parker and Eliot. Thiefsome symbolism!

A few episodes ago, Eliot took alcohol away from Breanna and gave her a scolding look, but now she gets a beer. Did she have a birthday offscreen, was he stopping her for other reasons (like lightweight expectations), or did he just decide that he won't bother to follow this law either, at least not during this celebration?

Sophie goes from complaining to super excited as soon as she wins the first hand, ahaha

[science-criticaltheory]

50 Moments That Define an Improbable Presidency by Jeffrey Goldberg

In an October 2016 editorial, The Atlantic wrote of Donald Trump: “He is a demagogue, a xenophobe, a sexist, a know-nothing, and a liar.” We argued that Trump “expresses admiration for authoritarian rulers, and evinces authoritarian tendencies himself.” Trump, we also noted, “is easily goaded, a poor quality for someone seeking control of America’s nuclear arsenal. He is an enemy of fact-based discourse; he is ignorant of, and indifferent to, the Constitution; he appears not to read.”

In retrospect, we may be guilty of understatement.

There was a hope, in the bewildering days following the 2016 election, that the office would temper the man—that Trump, in short, would change.

He has not changed.

This week marks the midway point of Trump’s term. Like many Americans, we sometimes find the velocity of chaos unmanageable. We find it hard to believe, for example, that we are engaged in a serious debate about whether the president of the United States is a Russian-intelligence asset. So we decided to pause for a moment and analyze 50 of the most improbable, norm-bending, and destructive incidents of this presidency to date.

Our 2016 editorial was a repudiation of Donald Trump’s character as much as it was an endorsement of Hillary Clinton for president. It was not meant to be partisan. The Atlantic’s founders promised their readers that we would be “of no party or clique.” This remains a core governing principle of the magazine today. What follows is a catalog of incidents, ranked—highly subjectively!—according to both their outlandishness and their importance. In most any previous presidency, Democratic or Republican, each moment on this list would have been unthinkable.

50.

Donald Trump touches the magic orb

By James Parker

49.

A Cabinet officer likes private planes too much

By Elaina Plott

48.

The president praises the congressman who body-slammed a reporter

By David French

47.

An overcompensating press secretary lies about crowd size

By Megan Garber

46.

Trump tells the Boy Scouts about a hot New York party

By Yoni Appelbaum

45.

A name-calling feud ends with the secretary of state’s ouster by tweet

By Yara Bayoumy

44.

The WikiLeaks president goes silent

By George Packer

43.

The nation loses its consoler in chief

By James Fallows

42.

The first president to complain about an election he won

By David Graham

41.

Trump waits 19 months to pick his science adviser

By Ed Yong

40.

The president’s most trusted adviser is his own gut

By Sarah Zhang

39.

A White House economist creates facts for the president

By Tom Nichols

38.

Trump holds a top secret confab on the Mar-a-Lago dining terrace

By Ian Bogost

37.

The president just wants to go home

By Vauhini Vara

36.

Trump threatens to strip security clearances from his critics

By David Frum

35.

Mueller’s “witch hunt” is good at finding witches

By Ciara Torres-Spelliscy

34.

Trump leads the country to the longest government shutdown in American history

By Saahil Desai

33.

The chief justice of the United States corrects the president

By Scott Stossel

32.

Trump disseminates Soviet propaganda

By Kori Schake

31.

The White House punishes a CNN reporter for asking questions

By Emily Bell

30.

The buck stops over there

By Kathy Gilsinan

29.

The president tries to kick transgender service members out of the military

By Matt Thompson

28.

Trump tweets the wisdom of Mussolini

By Krishnadev Calamur

27.

Turkish agents assault protesters near the White House

By Don Peck

26.

Trump helps the Saudis cover up a murder

By Lyse Doucet

25.

“We’re gonna have the cleanest air”

By Robinson Meyer

24.

The president can’t stop talking about carnage

By Rebecca J. Rosen

23.

America gets a first daughter

By Caitlin Flanagan

22.

The UN General Assembly laughs at the president

By Rachel Donadio

21.

Rain stops Trump from honoring the dead

By Eliot A. Cohen

20.

The president learns about separation of powers

By Russell Berman

19.

The president learns about the Justice Department

By Natasha Bertrand

18.

The president lies constantly

By Angie Drobnic Holan

17.

Trump threatens to press his “nuclear button”

By Uri Friedman

16.

Public humiliation comes for everyone in the White House

By Alex Wagner

15.

The CIA dead become a TV prop

By Vernon Loeb

14.

You know you’re in a constitutional crisis when...

By Quinta Jurecic

13.

Trump mocks Christine Blasey Ford to a cheering crowd

By McKay Coppins

12.

A new term enters the presidential lexicon: “shithole countries”

By Ibram X. Kendi

11.

Trump throws paper towels at Puerto Ricans

By Vann R. Newkirk II

10.

“I have the absolute right to pardon myself”

By Garrett Epps

9.

Covfefe

By Adrienne LaFrance

8.

The president calls his porn-star ex-paramour “horseface”

By Sophie Gilbert

7.

Trump picks the wrong countries for his travel ban

By Hannah Giorgis

6.

Trump declares war on black athletes

By Jemele Hill

5.

James Comey is fired

By Benjamin Wittes

4.

Putin and Trump talk without chaperones

By Franklin Foer

3.

The president still hasn’t released his tax returns

By Annie Lowrey

2.

“Very fine people on both sides”

By Adam Serwer

1.

Children are taken from their parents and incarcerated

By Ashley Fetters

[racingtoaredlight]

Opening Bell: February 15, 2019

Yesterday, less than 48 hours after congressional negotiators reached agreement on a spending bill to keep the government open past the Friday night deadline, the GOP-controlled Senate followed by the Democrat led House of Representatives overwhelmingly approved the spending bill, sending it to the Oval Office for the signature of President Donald Trump. Trump expressed dissatisfaction with the deal—which includes funding for increased border security and 55 miles of barriers, though not a concrete wall—but, after discussions with Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) and Appropriations Committee Chair Richard Shelby (R-Ala.), the president was apparently persuaded that failing to sign the bill and subsequent government shutdown would lead to Republicans receiving the brunt of the blame once again, the president signaled he would sign the spending measure. Trump, however, simultaneously indicated that he would go ahead with a national emergency declaration and use that declaration to take money already appropriate to the executive branch for other purposes and use it fund a permanent wall, using the military to construct it if necessary. Late Thursday, Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif) indicated that the House would vote to disapprove of the president’s declaration and, if the White House did not relent, lawsuits—lots of them—would follow. As has been widely predicted ever since the White House first floated the idea of an emergency declaration, the lawfulness of such a move has been widely panned and the outcome of is likely to be decided in a federal court, meaning actual construct of a border wall remains as remote as ever.

Earlier in the afternoon, the Senate, as expected confirmed William Barr as the next Attorney General, for the second time. Barr had the support of every Republican except one—Sen. Rand Paul (R-KY)—while three Democrats—Sens. Doug Jones (D-Ala), Joe Manchin (D-WV), and Kyrsten Sinema (D-Ariz.)—crossed the aisle and voted for Barr. Barr is considered a fairly doctrinaire establishment conservative who is a strong believer in the Justice Department as an institution. But, while Barr has indicated he would not interfere with the probe of Special Counsel Robert Mueller, he also stated that he would not unreservedly release to the public the entirety of any report submitted to the Department by Mueller. Barr’s predecessor, Jeff Sessions, was a firm political supporter of Donald Trump, but Trump was angered by Sessions, acting on legal principle, recused himself from overseeing the Mueller investigation and consequently Sessions found himself an outsider in the administration and his department a constant target of political attacks by the White House. Barr has said he sees no need to recuse himself as Sessions did, and Barr may experience a honeymoon period in which he escapes any criticism by Trump, but this may be as much because Trump, who has gone through cabinet heads faster than almost any modern administration, really cannot afford to publicly alienate another attorney general so soon after his confirmation, especially with the 2020 election cycle about to get under way in earnest. On the other hand, Richard Nixon went through four attorneys general—John Mitchell, Richard Kleindienst, Eliot Richardson, and William Saxbe—between January 1969 and January 1974, and Trump is among the most unpredictable occupants of the Oval Office in American history.

Several months ago, tech giant Amazon announced that it would build its second headquarters and divide it between two different locations on the east coast: Long Island City, New York and northern Virginia. Both municipalities had coaxed Amazon to build their headquarters buildings with huge financial incentive packages, including massive tax relief packages. The plan, and the incentive packages put forth, were both widely criticized across the nation, with local outrage in New York City being especially strong, despite the project—or perhaps, in some ways, because of—the support of Gov. Andrew Cuomo and Mayor Bill de Blasio. A few days ago, Amazon CEO and founder Jeff Bezos announced that he was considering pulling out of the New York location, due to the local resistance. Yesterday, Bezos confirmed that decision by officially announcing the Amazon would no longer pursue a corporate headquarters in New York, but would instead focus on northern Virginia, while also going ahead with expansion projects in Nashville. This was a major public reversal for Amazon, a corporate behemoth which is generally used to getting what it wants and being able to ignore criticism in the process.

There have been seven warships of the Continental and U.S. Navies named Hornet. By far, the most famous, and most rewarded, was the sixth ship to carry the name. It also had one of the shortest careers. This Hornet, a Yorktown-class aircraft carrier that was commissioned less than two months before Pearl Harbor was attacked in 1941, was sunk during the Battle of Santa Cruz Islands exactly one year and seven days later. But in the interim, Hornet carried the raiders of the famous Doolittle Raid, took part in the decisive Battle of Midway, where four Japanese aircraft carriers were sunk and the war’s momentum began to shift in favor of the U.S. During the Battle of Santa Cruz Islands, Hornet fought off dozens of Japanese air attacks before it was damaged beyond repair and finished off by American torpedoes and shells. Its heroic stand in the South Pacific was deified by the media and amid public outcry, the name was given to another larger Essex-class aircraft carrier already under construction. The exact location of Hornet’s wreckage, as it was abandoned in haste, was never known. This week, the Navy confirmed that an expedition financed by billionaire Paul Allen had discovered the wreckage of the Hornet in the Solomon Islands in the South Pacific, 17,500 ft. down, sitting upright on the ocean floor. Allen, who passed away in October 2018, endowed his research expeditions so that they would continue after his death, and his stated target was to locate as many historic American shipwrecks from the Second World War as possible.

Defections by U.S. military intelligence and civilian intelligence agency staff are not common, the screening process of potential applicants is rigorous and anyone who has a vulnerability which could be exploited by an outside party—such as large personal debt—is genuinely excluded from consideration. Nevertheless, America’s intelligence communities are vast and employ thousands of individuals, with thousands more in the intelligence branches of each military service; by sheer force of odds, some people with questionable judgment are bound to make it through screening. On Wednesday, a grand jury indicted former Air Force intelligence officer Monica Witt, who defected to Iran in 2013, and actively sought to expose and undermine active American intelligence operations ongoing in Iran prior to that point. While Witt did compromise several American assets and shed light on a series of ongoing intelligence collection efforts, its not clear how much damage her efforts actually did. In the process, Witt exhibited extraordinarily poor tradecraft, leaving a number of obvious indicators of her actions; Witt was even warned by the FBI early in 2013 that she was being targeted by Iranian intelligence as an effort to compromise and flip her. Witt, who had already been in contact with Iranian officials for months prior to that point, dismissed the FBI report by saying that, when she next traveled to Tehran, she would take more precautions. For her part, Witt, who publicly converted to Islam before her defection, seems to have been influenced by ideological differences with the U.S. government as much as anything else. While an indictment issued by the American criminal justice system cannot reach her in Iran—the U.S. and Iran do not have diplomatic relations, let alone any sort of agreement on extradition—it does prevent Witt from ever traveling to any nation that does have extradition treaties with the United States.

According to the United Nations, there are currently 68 million people who have been displaced from their native countries because of violence; the largest number at any time in recorded history. By the mid-century, this number is expected to balloon to over 140 million. One of the largest shifts in population and citizenry from one region of the globe to others, is taking place, and much of it is spurred by upheaval in the Middle East and North Africa. Taking this from a macro to a micro perspective, the individual experience of the migrants fleeing from their homes to Europe in particular, is harrowing. The journey is fraught with danger and many individuals adopt fake identities to make it easier to slip past official immigration channels. This, however, effectively makes these individuals stateless and, if they die somewhere along the way, they essentially disappear from the face of the planet. This story from Harper’s follows the search by one Afghan man living in asylum in Britain for his younger brother who was attempting to make it from Afghanistan to Germany, only to suddenly disappear in Greece in January 2016. This is a heartrending story which demonstrates all the myriad ways it is still possible, in a world as interconnected as this where even the poorest refugee has a smart phone and social media accounts, to vanish without a trace, and how difficult and costly attempts to find them can be.

In 1996, Tom Junod wrote for GQ about his father, in particular his father’s sense of fashion, his tips for grooming, and how these reflected his individuality within his generation. The story was about Junod connecting with his father starting as a college student all the way through his father’s waning years. Just before the Super Bowl this year, Junod wrote again about this father, but from a much younger perspective, when he feared his father, but found a means to connect with him through gambling. Junod’s father’s fashion was such that he was often confused for a mobster, with his slick suits, colorful ties, and overall persona. Junod’s father, however, was not a member of la cosa nostra, but was in fact a debtor to them; Junod’s father was an excellent salesman but an incredibly unlucky gambler. And Junod’s lack of gambling prowess essentially meant that a large, and increasing, proportion of the family’s finances went towards servicing gambling debts his father accumulated; time and again it was made clear to the Junod family that not paying, was not an attractive option. As ruinous as it was, and the Junods were eventually forced to sell their Long Island home and move to Florida, Tom Junod explores how this action, which his mother actively participated in, created a relationship which might not otherwise have ever developed.

In 2017, Democrats, for the first time in decades, successfully defended two of the state’s top three offices: governor, lieutenant governor, and attorney general. The party came, literally, within a coin-flip, of winning control of the House of Delegates, and made steady gains in the state senate. In short, Old Dominion Democrats are in the ascendant, while the Commonwealth GOP is in ruins, with many poor candidates and a suddenly empty bench of promising ones. Over the past few weeks, however, it was discovered that Gov. Ralph Northam may have donned black face or dressed as a member of the KKK for a pictures in his medical school yearbook, Lt. Gov. Justin Fairfax was accused by two women of sexual misconduct in the past, and Attorney General Mark Herring that he too had donned black face for a party in the 1980s. Despite calls from national Democrats for Northam to retire and statements by the House of Delegates that it may consider impeachment of Justin Fairfax, there is little indication that Democratic electoral hopes are in any way damaged for 2020. In fact, they made be positioned to take over both chambers of the state legislature and usher in an era of single-party control of a state that two decades ago had been firmly controlled by Republicans. Kyle Kondik of the Center for Politics analyzes this odd dichotomy.

  Welcome to the weekend.

[kim26chiu]

Cronyism on an Industrial Scale to Blame for Inflated New York Subway Costs

Photo Credit: MTA/CC

Just before year end, the New York Times dropped a bombshell report on what they term “the most expensive mile of subway on earth.”

An extensive investigation by the Times finally starts to get at the heart of why construction costs on the New York subway are vastly higher than anywhere else in the world.

The inescapable conclusion is that a major culprit is industrial scale cronyism (or featherbedding, or corruption, or whatever you want to call it) infecting nearly every aspect of the system: employees, contractors, and consultants:

Trade unions, which have closely aligned themselves with Gov. Andrew M. Cuomo and other politicians, have secured deals requiring underground construction work to be staffed by as many as four times more laborers than elsewhere in the world, documents show.

Construction companies, which have given millions of dollars in campaign donations in recent years, have increased their projected costs by up to 50 percent when bidding for work from the M.T.A., contractors say.

Consulting firms, which have hired away scores of M.T.A. employees, have persuaded the authority to spend an unusual amount on design and management, statistics indicate.

Public officials, mired in bureaucracy, have not acted to curb the costs. The M.T.A. has not adopted best practices nor worked to increase competition in contracting, and it almost never punishes vendors for spending too much or taking too long, according to inspector general reports.

Here are some further highlighted excerpts.

The budget showed that 900 workers were being paid to dig caverns for the platforms as part of a 3.5-mile tunnel connecting the historic station to the Long Island Rail Road. But the accountant could only identify about 700 jobs that needed to be done, according to three project supervisors. Officials could not find any reason for the other 200 people to be there.

“Nobody knew what those people were doing, if they were doing anything,” said Michael Horodniceanu, who was then the head of construction at the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, which runs transit in New York. The workers were laid off, Mr. Horodniceanu said, but no one figured out how long they had been employed. “All we knew is they were each being paid about $1,000 every day.”

Massive overstaffing driving by union contracts:

Mike Roach noticed it immediately upon entering the No. 7 line work site a few years ago. Mr. Roach, a California-based tunneling contractor, was not involved in the project but was invited to see it. He was stunned by how many people were operating the machine churning through soil to create the tunnel.

“I actually started counting because I was so surprised, and I counted 25 or 26 people,” he said. “That’s three times what I’m used to.”

The staffing of tunnel-boring machines came up repeatedly in interviews with contractors. The so-called T.B.M.s are massive contraptions, weighing over 1,000 tons and stretching up to 500 feet from cutting wheel to thrust system, but they largely run automatically. Other cities typically man the machine with fewer than 10 people.

It is not just tunneling machines that are overstaffed, though. A dozen New York unions work on tunnel creation, station erection and system setup. Each negotiates with the construction companies over labor conditions, without the M.T.A.’s involvement. And each has secured rules that contractors say require more workers than necessary.

The unions and vendors declined to release the labor deals, but The Times obtained them. Along with interviews with contractors, the documents reveal a dizzying maze of jobs, many of which do not exist on projects elsewhere.

There are “nippers” to watch material being moved around and “hog house tenders” to supervise the break room. Each crane must have an “oiler,” a relic of a time when they needed frequent lubrication. Standby electricians and plumbers are to be on hand at all times, as is at least one “master mechanic.” Generators and elevators must have their own operators, even though they are automatic. An extra person is required to be present for all concrete pumping, steam fitting, sheet metal work and other tasks.

In New York, “underground construction employs approximately four times the number of personnel as in similar jobs in Asia, Australia, or Europe,” according to an internal report by Arup, a consulting firm that worked on the Second Avenue subway and many similar projects around the world.

Contractors with incentives to drive up costs, with zero cost containment:

Even though the M.T.A. is paying for its capital construction with taxpayer dollars, the government does not get a seat at the table when labor conditions are determined. Instead, the task of reining in the unions falls to the construction companies — which often try to drive up costs themselves.

Typically, construction companies meet with each trade union every three years to hammer out the labor deals. The resulting agreements apply to all companies, preventing contractors from lowering their bids by proposing less generous wages or work rules. That is not a problem in the private sector, where the possibility of nonunion labor can force unions to be more competitive, or in parts of the public sector that involve more potential bidders. But in the small world of underground construction, experts say there is little cost containment.

Tim Gilchrist, a transportation adviser to Govs. Eliot L. Spitzer and David A. Paterson, noted all costs are passed on to the M.T.A. “Nobody at the negotiating table is footing the bill,” he said.

Critics pointed out that construction companies actually have an incentive to maximize costs — they earn a percentage of the project’s costs as profit, so the higher the cost, the bigger their profit.

…

The profit percentage taken by vendors also is itself a factor in the M.T.A.’s high costs.

In other parts of the world, companies bidding on transit projects typically add 10 percent to their estimated costs to account for profit, overhead and change orders, contractors in five continents said. Final profit is usually less than 5 percent of the total project cost, which is sufficient given the size of the projects, the contractors said.

Things are much different in New York. In a series of interviews, dozens of M.T.A. contractors described how vendors routinely increase their estimated costs when bidding for work.

Lack of competition in bidding:

Lack of competition is also a problem for the M.T.A. A Times analysis of roughly 150 contracts worth more than $10 million that the authority has signed in the past five years found the average project received just 3.5 bids.

“In other cities, you get eight bids for projects,” said Gary Brierley, a consultant who has worked on hundreds of projects in the last 50 years, including the No. 7 line extension and the Second Avenue subway. “In New York, you get two or three, and they know that, so they’ll inflate their bids if they think they can get away with it.”

One of the most important contracts in recent years, for the construction of the Second Avenue tunnel, got just two bids. M.T.A. engineers had estimated the contract would cost $290 million, but both bids came in well above $300 million, and the authority did not have much leverage. Ultimately, it awarded the deal for about $350 million — 20 percent above its estimate.

Massive overhead and soft costs:

On average, “soft costs” — preliminary design and engineering, plus management while construction is underway — make up about 20 percent of the cost of transit projects in America, according to a 2010 report by the Transportation Research Board. The average is similar in other countries, contractors said.

Not in New York.

The latest federal oversight report for the Second Avenue subway projected soft cost spending at $1.4 billion — one-third of the budget, not including financing expenses. M.T.A. officials said that number was high because it included some costs for design of later phases of the line. But experts said it was still shocking.

“The crazy thing is it’s so high even with everything else,” said Larry Gould, a transit consultant and former M.T.A. subway planner. “If we have three or four times as many workers, how can the percentage for soft costs be so high?”

The long-rumored “Parsons Brinckerhoff tax” and the revolving door:

Both the Second Avenue subway and East Side Access projects hired the same main engineering firm: WSP USA, formerly known as Parsons Brinckerhoff. The firm, which designed some of New York’s original subway, has donated hundreds of thousands to politicians in recent years, and has hired so many transit officials that some in the system refer to it as “the M.T.A. retirement home.”

The firm was the only vendor to bid on the engineering contract for the Second Avenue subway, records show. On East Side Access, it is sharing the contract with STV Inc., which recently hired the former M.T.A. chairman Thomas F. Prendergast. The contract was initially for $140 million, but it has grown to $481 million.

…

The M.T.A. is partly to blame. Officials have added to the soft costs by struggling to coordinate between vendors, taking a long time to approve plans, insisting on extravagant station designs and changing their minds midway through projects. In 2010, they hired a team of three consultants to work full time on East Side Access “operational readiness” — getting the tunnel ready to open — even though contractors knew construction would not end for another decade.

Janno Lieber, who joined the M.T.A. as chief development officer in April, acknowledged there were parts of the authority’s project management approach that have been “broken” and “self-defeating.” Changing plans midway through projects is a “huge issue,” as is over-customization of designs and poor management of consultants, he said.

Definitely click through to read the whole thing, which should be a strong contender for Pulitzer Prize this year.

from Aaron M. Renn http://www.urbanophile.com/2018/01/03/cronyism-on-an-industrial-scale-to-blame-for-inflated-new-york-subway-costs/