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doorsclosingslowly · 3 years ago

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They've Made of Our Bodies a Bleeding Stair

Jesper and Kaz try to retrieve Inej from Ketterdam without being recognized and murdered—and without Kaz getting ransomed back to Ravka as the the wayward Sun Summoner.

11k | Sun Summoner Kaz AU pt. 2 | Jesper/Kaz, Inej, past Kaz/Darkling content note: non-linear narrative, explicit sex, roleplay of past rape

“I want you to be him.”

“Of course,” Jesper replies. Then, articulately, once his brain’s caught up, “Uh. What?”

“The Darkling.” Kaz has turned his face away. He’s looking at the ramshackle marriage bed that takes up the bulk of this room he’s lured Jesper into. He unerringly picked the right closed door, too; he skipped the squeaky floorboards, as if he knew the exact layout of this—but it’s Kaz. He knows everything, even some dilapidated house in the Kerch countryside. The bed was probably a masterpiece of craftsmanship, when it was carved from some dark wood, a thousand years ago or whatever. The way it looks, it must’ve been old already when the previous owners of this farmhouse got it, and from the state of the house, they abandoned this place decades ago. Quite a lot of the furniture’s missing, either sold off when the place was left or stolen afterwards, but that bed was too worthless already.

The mattress is still there too. Probably fucking teeming with moth larvae and maggots and their combined accumulated shit, so it doesn’t bode too well for Jesper, how forcefully Kaz is staring at it.

“Please say it doesn’t involve the bed.”

“You said yes,” Kaz rasps, which is all the information Jesper needs to start gagging. Fake-gagging, for now, but if he sees even one wriggly little worm he’ll…

Bed. Darkling. That still doesn’t really�� Want you to be him—oh—

“Yes, Jesper.” And how the hell with his ramrod tense back still turned towards Jesper—Jesper, who’s done nothing at all, hasn’t said anything except to register his displeasure at the idea of bathing in insect faeces and their squirming little manufacturers!—how the hell Kaz has realized that Jesper’s figured out what he probably means—it must be a confidence trick. Kaz likes those. But how—yeah, it’s not the point, but trying to understand whatever magic Kaz is using on him right now is much, much better for Jesper’s sanity than dwelling on the fact that Kaz might just have insinuated that he wants Jesper to pretend to be the Darkling, specifically the Darkling from that time he told Jesper about back in the Little Palace, the time he threw up after. The time he thought he could suppress his discomfort with touch long enough to seduce the Darkling into a partnership—seduce seduce, which means he wants—to flirt with Jesper? To sleep with Jesper? Is he actually saying he—

Oh. There’s a cracked mirror on the wall above the bed. That’s how Kaz saw his face.

Jesper would chalk the hallucination up to a hangover, but he’s not even drunk. Neither is Kaz, unless this old ruin of a farmhouse they broke into this morning is hiding barrels of wine the local youth haven’t made off with yet. Also, if he was hallucinating Kaz propositioning him he would—well, Jesper at least hopes he’d have enough self-respect not to make himself a stand-in for the man who bought and imprisoned Kaz for two years, controlled him by using his fears and modifying his body and cutting him off from every other person in the whole court, taking every single object he could have used to protect himself, and whatever those weird spines in Kaz’ chest are he’s probably responsible for them too. Jesper would not, actually, like the first and probably only time he’s allowed to kiss Kaz to be some kind of revenge-by-proxy thing where he recites the Darkling’s lines while Kaz swallows back bile, and then Kaz beats him up. Or murders him. It’s pathetic, but Jesper always imagined that kiss a little sweeter. Kissing over Haskell’s corpse. Kissing over the Darkling’s corpse. Kissing over the corpse of some other piece of shit who’s stupid enough to try using Kaz as their possession.

“Just warning you, I don’t have the costume or the script, so don’t expect something worthy of the Komedie Brute,” is what Jesper says instead.

Kaz’ eyebrow quirks. “You’re acted before, haven’t you? Improvised. You can flirt your way into anything. That was the main reason I kept you around.”

“You kept me around because I’m gorgeous, funny, and an incredible shot. I just play myself, if it’s seduction! Why would I improve upon perfection?”

“This isn’t seduction. He’s already locked me in the Little Palace for months at this point. Two escape attempts have failed. This is… speeding up the process,” Kaz says, nonchalantly enough it makes Jesper want to puke.

Which won’t help anything. He’s already agreed. And Kaz doesn’t care about moral objections, only practical ones. “I need more info. I haven’t actually met the Darkling.”

“You’ve met powerful men. You’ve met men who believe their righteous cause entitles them. You’ve met men mired in greed and vengeance—you’ve met me.”

“I like you.”

“Pretend you don’t, then. You used to complain about me in the Slat—of course I know, I knew everything that went on in the Dregs. You hated the way I seemed to know everything, and held it over you—so does he. You disliked my single-minded focus, the way you all seemed like pawns to me, my mockery. The way I held myself as something far superior to you. That’s a start.” Kaz limps a slow quarter circle around Jesper, and his dark eyes are burning with loathing. Jesper would hold him if he could. “You’re not asking why?”

“Uh, now that you mention—”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

Jesper sighs. Of course. He’s never expected anything else. Then he stands up straight, assuming his best the stick in my ass is so long it’s knocked the word fun from my brain pose that hopefully may pass for authoritative and slimes out, “What business, Mr Brekker?”

“Sun Summoner. Or Sunshine. He figured out Brekker’s a fake name on the first day.”

“Kaz Brekker’s a fake name?!” Jesper should have seen that coming, really… what does he even know about Kaz Brekker, truly? Except—

“It’s a name. It’s real enough. It’s feared. It’s mine.” Kaz’s eyes travel over the cobwebbed wall of the farmhouse bedroom, as if he was searching for the next lie to spin. Except that isn’t one of Kaz’ tells—Jesper’s seen him bamboozle and convince marks of the most stupid tales, and when Kaz wants them to believe him, he looks earnest. Young, depending on the role he plays, old, eager, stupid or wise. He doesn’t bother lying to Dregs, or rather: he doesn’t bother convincing them, usually. All his words are backed by the brutality of his cane. Who could be stupid enough to question even his weirdest utterances. “It just happens not to be one I was born with.”

“So what you’re saying is, the Darkling’s just not Kerch enough to get you?” Jesper grins. “Ketterdam, really—you know, I always really liked that about the Barrel, that healthy dose of ‘You are who you want and we don’t give a fuck to correct you.’ Anyway. Got it. You’re Kaz Brekker, but he’s a dick. Mr Sunbeam, what brings you into my office this evening?”

“The fete, Aleks.” Kaz shrugs off his coat, and then the purple kefta, too. He holds out the kefta in front of him, like he’s expecting Jesper to put it on. Well. That’s as good a start as any, and so Jesper turns and lets Kaz dress him into the robe he never wanted to wear.

“Then he says, ‘You must be nervous. After all, there are few gatherings in the Ketterdam slums that involve such spectacle.’” Kaz has sanded down his rasp somewhat, sounding almost smooth and seductive. He goes into a spiel of the Ravkan court and the inferiority of the Barrel that thankfully, he carries all by himself. Jesper wouldn’t even know what to say, except ‘Stop talking shit about the Barrel, you prick’ and that’s not exactly in character.

Kaz’ eyes periodically dart down to Jesper’s hands, and he realizes he’s fidgeting with the hem of the kefta’s sleeves. He stops.

“I am ready,” Kas says in his normal voice. His normal talking to a mark voice. “I realized what this demonstration represents—that I belong to something greater. It is as you said—we can offer Grisha and Ravkans hope. We. Together.” He stands up straight. Equally on both his legs. He winces. He’s not holding his cane, Jesper realizes. He’s not wearing his gloves. “I am ready to stand by your side. We should be partners. The Sun and the Dark.”

“Uh… great. We’ll be great together. Do great things. Better partners than enemies. Some of those rumours even freaked me out, you know—that kid with the wind-up toy in his throat—”

“Think before you speak, Jesper,” Kaz hisses. “Never let me lead. Never give me control. Every word is a cue to corral your prey where you want it—whether a compliment or a barely-there hidden threat.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Sometimes.” Kaz meets Jesper’s eyes. The tense mask of his face breaks into a smirk. “To be honest, I find the subtle craft of manipulation is wasted on you. You’ll obey anyway. Let’s go back to the start, and focus.”

Jesper shrugs off the kefta again and then lets Kaz dress him, again. He does his best imitation of Kaz, of that early Kaz before Jesper learned how he takes his coffee and before he saw the brutal twist of his face, that one time when the Dime Lions had Jesper on his knees and shoved a gun in his mouth. He plays the imperious tactician in his office who told his goons to drag Jesper up four flights of stairs with a bag over his head, ready to be shot for his debts, and then sold him on the one thing that gave his life meaning.

He insults Dirtyhands’ father and mother to his face, and gets really into it, too: Ketterdam’s full of idiots who’d miss the love of their life because they were busy trying to pry cobblestones off the streets to sell for half a sausage, and the harbour’s so filthy even the fish won’t fuck in it—keeping the brothels in good fish-ness, haha. Because the fish rent rooms so they don’t get fishy sex diseases from the water. Do fish get diseases from sex?

“Kill me now,” Kaz moans, and that one’s probably deserved.

“Anyway, my Sun Summoner, I’m sure you’ll perform well,” Jesper says with just the tiniest hint of slime.

“I am ready. I realized what this demonstration represents—that I belong to something greater. It is as you said—we can offer Grisha and Ravkans hope. We. Together.”

Jesper moves slowly, idly: not caging him in against the bed yet but definitely implying he can and will.

“I am ready to stand by your side. We should be partners. The Sun and the Dark.” Kaz swallows. “‘That means a lot to me. You mean a lot,’ is what you say now.”

How come the Darkling’s not constantly slipping on his own slimy slime trail?

“That means a lot to me.” Jesper gives Kaz a deep, smouldering look. The pockmarks on his cheeks. The jumping muscle in his jaw. The hint of a pained grimace from standing unaided. The boyish grin when he’s totally fucked over another gang boss and gets to gloat. The vicious hatred when someone touches his Crows. Licking powdered sugar off his gloves. “You mean a lot.”

And that’s it. The way Kaz looks at him—this is when the Darkling makes his move.

“I have been waiting for you for so long,” Jesper purrs smarmily, closing his eyes, moving in for the kiss, and—Kaz isn’t there anymore.

It was a single step backwards, because Kaz has hit the edge of the bed already, face blotched with humiliation, and the way he looks at Jesper is—angry is the least terrible interpretation. If he backs out now, Kaz is going to kill him for pitying him or catering to a weakness that honestly—how is not wanting this weak? But Kaz is Kaz, and Jesper’s just Jesper, and—

“Focus,” Kaz hisses. “You own Ravka. You will own the Sun, too. You have waited for this triumph—take it.”

“Why don’t we take this to the—” fuck you, Brekker, for making me say this— “bed, then? Take off your clothes. Don’t be scared.”

That’s a good dig. The kind of insult that looks super caring, unless you know Kaz enough to understand he sees any crack in his image as a dangerous failure. Jesper’s getting the hang of this malicious flirting thing, finally. When this is over, he’ll need to scrub the slime off himself twice.

Kaz looks at Jesper while he disrobes. At him, Jesper hopes against hope, at the real person he’s roped into his worst scheme yet with a goal that’s still totally obscure; at Jesper and not the asshole he’s imagining in his place. Kaz’ eyes trace his cheeks, dance over his shaved head, catch on the lips.

Jesper takes off his boots and gun belt, and the kefta. He undoes the fly of his trousers, pulls his dick out, and stops. He glares at Kaz, daring him to object to the attempt at making this slightly less miserable—Jesper’s the Darkling, he’s in charge, so Kaz can fuck off with his masochism. He’s done undressing. He’s not taking off his shirt or trousers. That layer of cloth stays on.

But Kaz doesn’t object. He stands up straight, naked, brittle, wincing, and then glancing away he mutters, “Ignore the antlers. He hadn’t done that yet.”

Fucking Darkling.

The antlers stick out of Kaz’ collarbones, uneven tines of—possession, mutilation, and Jesper’s eyes catch on a tiny set of grooves on the left one. The scabbed-over cuts underneath. The bruise from the gunshot. And even despite that horror, Kaz has a nice chest. Serious muscle, a street map of scars and a smattering of dark hairs—it feels weirdly improper to stare at him, so Jesper’s eyes dance down to his knobbly left knee and the softly twisted right thigh with its knots of scars, up to the face where he’s biting his harsh pretty mouth, and down again. His dick is nice, fat but not too long, rooted in a tangle of dark curls.

It’s utterly limp.

It’s pathetic, how much that hurts. Of course he isn’t into this. Of course he doesn’t find Jesper remotely attractive. Of course this is just some weird masochistic proxy powerplay for him, some attempt to prove he’s stronger now and can bear it or whatever the fuck, and Jesper’s just the sad stupid body he’s using to enact it.

And of course not even that is enough to make Jesper bow out. Kaz asked.

“Do you want me to suck you off first? Get you in the mood, even a little?” It’s not just for Kaz, that offer, though the whole thing will probably be less painful and awkward if he manages to coax out some arousal. It’s not for younger Jesper, who fantasized about being ordered to blow his boss as penance more often than he likes to admit. No, this is so Jesper can bury his face in Kaz’ pubic hair for a minute. And cry.

Kaz raises an eyebrow. He sounds arch and ice cold when he asks, “Jesper, do you think the Darkling would suck my dick?”

“He should have. Saints, what an asshole,” Jesper shoots back before he can think. “You need a better class of lovers.”

“By which you’re of course implying that you are much better than Aleksander Morozova, the General Kirigan, the Black Heretic, eternal Conqueror and crowned Emperor of Greater Ravka, Salvation to Grishadom, Master of the Fold and He who chained the Sun, et cetera and so fucking on and so fucking forth the Darkling himself?”

“Given I just offered you a blowjob without bringing useless power shit into it, yes.”

“Wrong data, incoherent formula. Correct answer.” Kaz’ grin is crooked. Inordinately fond, and Jesper would have settled for no longer desperately hiding terror but this is—

Yeah.

“I’m going to try to make this roleplay as realistic as I can, but I don’t know if I can forget enough about how to have sex to sink to the Darkling’s level. Also, you don’t happen to have the address of that Grisha Tailor who mutilated you back there? I need them to make my dick look weird. Corkscrew, maybe. Some warts. It’s probably green. I’d peg him for advanced neurological syphilis but I am about to sleep with you, so— ”

“Did you know, Jesper, that the Darkling always wears a gag when he has sex?”

“Shutting up now, boss.”

“Don’t shut up,” Kaz replies instantly. Very, very instantly. “Just keep your disparagements somewhat plausible. And… rare.”

Only to jolt me back, he’s asking. “Got it. So I guess I’m supposed to loom over you a little? How close do you want me?”

“I’ll need to—” Kaz turns around and bends over to root around in the pockets of his coat, and it’s even weirder, worse, looking at his ass when Jesper knows Kaz doesn’t like him back. Kaz tosses over a tiny bottle. Oil. “Give that to me. Tell me to prepare myself.”

“Just saying it once more, boss. You don’t have to go through with—”

“Stop thinking about the Kaz Brekker you know,” Kaz hisses. “Stop anticipating my reactions. Stop caring. You are the Darkling. You have been waiting for the Sun Summoner for decades. You’ve formed your picture of them. This delinquent flinching little rat you bought doesn’t quite fit, not his limp, not his fear of touch, not his pathetic need to assert himself, but, well… you have time. He’ll learn how to make himself fit into the space you provide him. He’ll become your Sun Summoner.”

“Have I told you yet that I’m going to kill that piece of shit?”

“You’ve mentioned it, once or twice. In the last hour.”

Jesper bares his teeth: a grin, but not. A promise. “Good. I’ll hold his mouth open while you stuff him full of black powder and set him on fire.”

“Stop stalling, Jesper. That won’t make it any easier.”

That won’t make it not have happened.

“If you’re sure this will help.”

Kaz nods.

“Lie down on the bed, then. Is there a—no, no pillows here, roll up the coat and slide it under your hips.” Jesper turns his face away, listening to the timid, stuttering squelches of Kaz stretching his asshole. Jesper doesn’t know what would be worse: if, after everything, he can’t get it up… or if he can.

Well. He’ll have to. His dick will just have to obey the dictates of the situation, just as Kaz’ body was made into the Sun Summoner. He’s young. He’s still looking at Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, naked, who asked Jesper to sleep with him, and that’ll have to be enough. They’ve gotten this far. They’ll force their way through. That’s how you do it. That’s how you gamble. How you lose big. Kaz might have once tried to explain to him something about sunk costs and throwing good money after bad, but Jesper ignored him that night and lost a hundred and twenty kruge to Specht, and he’s never looked back.

“Okay, Mr Sunshine. Let’s consummate our fucking partnership,” he grinds out when Kaz has gone quiet, takes the bottle to slick up his own uncooperative dick, and carefully, he climbs on top of Kaz. The clothes were a good decision: Kaz barely flinches when he kneels in-between his legs and pulls the sleeve over his hand to carefully guide his right knee to rest on Jesper’s thigh.

Kaz is staring up at his face, breathing, just breathing. The antlers in his collarbone frame his bright face—brighter than the candles should allow, like maybe—and his focus is rigid and he’s breathing, breathing quickly—

“Is this teaching you anything yet?”

“Not really,” Kaz rasps, after too long. “Or—I think—maybe it was—” he glances at Jesper’s pathetic, unhappy limp dick. His face twists. “I thought you were into me.”

This is— “I love you. Kaz Brekker, whoever you are. I don’t give a fuck about this Sun Summoner bullshit. I love you. I love you,” because this is—Jesper can’t do this. He can’t. His elbows are locked: he can’t drop his body any lower. He can't go lower than this. “I love you,” until it’s finally over. “I love you. I love you.”

☼

“And I’m telling you again, I don’t know what he does Tuesday evenings,” Jesper hisses.

“You were still with the Dregs, three months ago!” Kaz is wiping his cane clean. It didn’t even really get dirty—they mostly used kitchen knives to do the deed, and in the case of a maidservant who unwisely came to work in the middle of the night, a bullet that Jesper’s already collected and reshaped into something functional, because he might not get to buy new ones. Desperation. Frugality. The Kerch are rubbing off on him. It’s good, though. The fact he’s cleaning the wood is all the confirmation Jesper will likely ever get that Kaz does like the new cane Jesper made him from a cute straight rowan sapling, reinforced with the metal scavenged from all but the most essential buttons on their hodgepodge of clothes. At least there’s one thing of Jesper’s he values. “How can you not know the behavioural patterns of your boss? Are you that brainless?”

“No-one knew what he was up to! He barely came by the Slat. He wasn’t that interested in us.”

“You worked for Per Haskell, Jesper; you worked for that man for years—for nearly as many as I did, when you ran off to Ravka—and now you attempt to convince me you barely know his name?” Kaz still doesn’t look quite as harsh as he used to, or maybe that’s just Jesper hankering for their past. Well, he didn’t used to explain his plans to Jesper as if he was an imbecile—but then, he didn’t used to need Jesper. He had more stooges back then. Now, he only has one. Ally. Friend.

If it’s as weird for him, though, as it is for Jesper being back in Ketterdam after he didn’t die on his revenge suicide plot and the city didn’t, either—well, he might still get murdered for stealing the Sun Summoner or skipping out on debts or something completely unrelated, and Ketterdam’s… well, she’s weathering having her ruling class torn apart twice in short order, once by the Darkling’s conquest and now, by the slow collapse of the Darkling’s overstretched realm after he’s lost his saint/weapon/doll.

The Barrel’s fine—as glary and miserable as it ever was, anyway, but though Kaz would probably insist most of the Mercher’s Council had their hands in gang business one way or the other, their reach was indirect, mediated and secretive enough for the chaos tearing up the Geldstraat not to trickle down as quickly into the slums. And anyway, the involvement of the merchers only ever made life worse for most people. The plight of the rich can only be a blessing.

Right now, they’re inside a nice place in the Zelver district. Close enough to power to feel the death throes, and even disregarding the political manoeuvring and debris and panic everywhere, just looking at the house from the outside made Kaz twitchy, somehow.

His energy almost matched Jesper’s trigger finger.

It’s Haskell’s house, so that unease makes sense.

Haskell’s expensive secret new house far outside the Barrel that they’re despoiling now. They looked as out of place in the beautiful Zelver district as any Barrel rats, with their heads shorn close to the bone so they’ll look different enough to not get recognized and faces wiped with dirt, dressed in a melange of Ravkan clothes they haven’t found a chance to replace yet and tawdry Barrel flash for everything else.

Kaz was wearing two coats when he entered the house, an old rose and amber paisley trench that even Jesper admitted is hideous, though now it’s splattered with blood that actually really ties the colour scheme together. Still gross though, and luckily slung over the chair. Along with the purple kefta Kaz hid underneath, the one he still hasn’t given back. Or burned, which is what they did to the other Ravkan overcoats. On the streets his two coats bulked up his frame so much he looked like a kid that Jesper’s never met, dressed up to play a gangster’s role. He looked nothing like the Sun Summoner anymore, and only somewhat like Jesper’s imagined baby Dirtyhands crawling out straight from the harbour, fifty kilos sopping wet and ready to kill a man and feast on his entrails.

Now, he’s stripped down to a ruffled red shirt over a green undershirt—he conspicuously shunned the yellow one next to it on the washing line—and light blue pinstripe trousers. The shirt is a little large in the shoulders, and he’s cuffed the trousers. They stole everything from a cottage on the edge of Ketterdam. Not quite Barrel flash, but almost—alike in style but with better fabric, something a town edge kid probably bought to look like a cool gangster. Or something Jesper would have bought to look special for a very special date. If he squints, he can almost imagine—it’s the morning after, and—

Ever since the Little Palace the idea of Kaz naked has totally lost its lustre. The idea of his muscular but scrawny, scarred chest, his wiry tattooed arms, his ambiguously demonic hands—it’s all overlaid now with a flimsy ugly sleeveless yellow paper taffeta gown. With normal hands, kept bare as humiliation.

But maybe—maybe they sat together, not on a log in a forest but on a sofa this time, and then in the morning Kaz was cold and he stole all of Jesper’s clothes to wear over his own. That’s much better. (Maybe he just wanted Jesper naked all day…)

Jesper won’t let the Darkling steal his fantasies, too. They’re—

Ouch. Fucking ouch.

Jesper really shouldn’t have added tiny spiky worms to the side of the cane, but Kaz’ indignation was just too funny.

“Let me make this clear—” Kaz rasps, once he’s regained Jesper’s full attention. Half-full. ‘Like he’s plundered Jesper’s wardrobe’ is still such a good look on him. “We are both hunted. Neither of us can afford to be caught outside on the streets of Ketterdam and let whoever saw us live. If we’re going to make Haskell’s house our temporary base of operations, we need to make his death as inconspicuous as possible. We cannot safely anticipate which of his visitors to eliminate and which to fool unless we know whether they, in turn, may be missed.”

“Well,” Jesper mutters. “Mitki might come by. If the neighbours don’t chase him off.”

Kaz raises a single, dirt-encrusted eyebrow.

“Mitki’s the newest lieutenant. Might have made it this—”

“Not Anika? I can understand why a flake like you didn’t rise in the Dregs ranks, but she—”

“Ambush. Dime Lions, five weeks after you disappeared.”

“Rotty?”

“Slit throat. Still no clue who did it.”

“Specht? Pim? Neeta? Big Bol?”

“Razorgulls, knife, last year. Bullet to the head, same day. Hellgate. Hellgate.”

“Muzzen? Ruk? Keeg?”

“Another ‘Gull stabbing, just before I left. Hellgate, again. Keeg just disappeared, though. Might still be alive somewhere over the True Sea, if he’s clever. Not that he was, he’s probably floating, poor sod.” Jesper shrugs. After a while, it just gets too much: the beginning of the Dregs’ end is seared into his brain, but there aren’t enough synapses for the tenth—or fiftieth—dead friend to hurt as much. “There’s a reason why I didn’t think twice about running when I lost those fifty thousand. Like I said, boss, it’s been a shitshow since you left. Haskell never wanted for new ones, since he got his kids fresh off the street, but he just stopped giving any shit whatsoever, and since you weren’t there to pick up the slack… well, I can see why he didn’t care, now.”

Jesper spares a bitter look for the mountain of kruge next to Haskell’s foot, the mountain he offered Kaz as soon as he saw him, long before Kaz even tried to hack off both his hands and feet with a dull meat cleaver. Long before Kaz had to settle for cutting down to the bone and then wrenching Haskell’s extremities from their sockets by sheer force of hatred, while Jesper puked into the kitchen sink. The mountain he’d never have amassed as the boss of a gang as shambolic as the last years of the Dregs.

The mountain that’s going to pay off Inej’s indenture tomorrow.

Haskell allowed her to rot there. It’s only fair he pays for her freedom with his life.

“Everyone we could use is gone. And you…” Kaz tips Jesper’s chin up with his cane. The world shimmies a little. “You, of all the old Dregs, survived.”

Jesper shrugs again. This is too much to confess to Kaz, of all cruel bastards, probably far too much, but—they’re sitting in the living room of Jesper’s former boss, the man who sold Kaz out to the Darkling and used the prize money to live in luxury, while letting his gang die on increasingly pointless ill-planned errands. The other end of the table is still flecked and puddled with slow-drying blood—not to mention the corpse, or corpse-pieces, laying there—but over here, they have a bottle of expensive whisky they found in a cabinet and they’re trading swigs from the bottle, all bitter and clean.

“I didn’t take it too well, when you and Inej just disappeared, and then my friends kept dying. Might have gone on a couple of benders. Might have lost some games. Might have lost some fights. Might have had some sexual encounters with people who turned out to be massive creeps. Consequently, I may not have been technically around to be asked to go on some of these errands, or perhaps I just didn’t notice because I was drunk.”

“Jesper.” Kaz doesn’t even sound surprised. Wow. Thanks for having faith in me, boss.

It’s not really that humiliating, though, now he’s said it out loud. He spent two years making bad decisions and occasionally braiding Inej’s hair. Kaz spent that time getting turned into a doll. Who can say what’s worse? He takes another deep gulp and grins. “You know me, boss. I need some external structure in life. I really need a commandeering asshole dragging me into his schemes to be my best self.”

“And yet, you outwitted the Darkling.”

“That wasn’t difficult, to be fair. Tell them I’m Grisha, search the Little Palace, shoot Kaz Brekker in the head, get executed…” Jesper trails off. When the silence grows teeth, he takes a pull of whisky that’s so desperate it makes him cough, but Kaz is still letting him stew.

They don’t really need to talk about it, though. No value in going over what happened in the Little Palace. No value in discussing anything. Everything is fine now. Yes, Jesper did want to kill Kaz. Yes, he’ll die for Kaz.

And they both know why.

Kaz steals the bottle. It’s incredible, actually, Jesper was just holding it—well, maybe he’s a little more drunk than he thought, but Kaz would probably like being complimented on his pickpocketing. “I didn’t even see you steal that bottle,” Jesper says.

“I’d be angry you’re drunk,” Kaz rasps. “But you’ve been completely useless at all stages of the current plan so far. And the previous one, by your planning—I always forget, in my amazement at what you accomplished, that you failed.”

He says that, but his cheeks are flushed pink with alcohol. His pupils are wide when he looks at Jesper. He raises the bottle to his lips and tips his head back, swallowing what should have easily been ten more swigs of whisky. Thieving bastard.

☼

When Jesper awakes on Haskell’s second softest chaise longue in the receiving room—neither of them was particularly eager to climb into Haskell’s bed, and, in Jesper’s case, not particularly still able to walk up the stairs either—his mouth is dry, his bladder full and the light is poking his brain even through closed curtains and eyelids. And Kaz—he searches the whole house after finishing his business, but yes, it’s true—Kaz is gone.

So are his cane and his current Barrel flash coat and the kefta, which means Kaz is probably safe. Well. As safe as the escaped Sun Summoner can be. Not kidnapped, at least. More alive than anyone stupid enough to cross Kaz’ path.

He’s taken Haskell’s kruge, and left a note.

In Kaz’ sharp hand, the note reads, “STAY.”

It’s underlined three times, and on the back side Kaz has written, “or you will die,” which to be fair is pretty ambiguous.

‘Die’ as in, ‘I mistrust your competence and assume you’ll get yourself killed if you move a finger?’ Or as in, ‘I’m warning you I won’t go out of my way to save you?’ Perhaps it’s a straightforward ‘Disobey and I am going to personally murder you and piss on your corpse?’ All are very real possibilities, knowing Kaz.

To really understand the message, Jesper needs to get into Kaz’ mood when he woke up—hungover, but how much? Enough he hates the entire world, or so much he hates Jesper more? Also, his current way of thinking. Jesper’s usefulness. A point in favour is the fact that Jesper saved him from a fate worse than death, but on the other hand, Jesper forgot to extract a deal from him and Kaz is so Kerch it hurts, which means he’s pared down solidarity and reciprocity and love into exchange, into deals, and all Jesper’s offering are the first three. They shared a bottle of whisky next to the corpse of their old boss, though, and in general Kaz looked like he was having fun more than once on their dirty, miserable long trek out of Ravka. Way more fun than he had in the majestic Little Palace. Also, Jesper’s incredibly likeable. He’s beautiful and funny and stupidly in love with Kaz without asking anything in return, so really it only makes sense that Kaz has finally succumbed to his charm.

(He dug his hand into Jesper’s hair, that night on the fallen tree and twice afterwards, but—maybe that was only to make Jesper squirm.)

Well, he enjoyed Jesper’s company while they fled from Ravka to Ketterdam, at least. That’s the crux of it.

So why would Kaz anticipate that Jesper might want to run anywhere? There’s a well-stocked kitchen here. A far more sensible assumption would be that Jesper might want to make some waffles or go on a morning jog. No, not that one. Enjoy a lavish breakfast. Have a bath, perhaps, after spending two weeks crawling through the Ravkan forest and the Shu countryside and stowed in the belly of a wine cargo ship and then countryside again, this time Kerch. Jesper’s feet hurt just thinking about it, and that Kaz managed to get here, even at the half-speed they settled on, speaks to—well, the same bull-headed masochism as always, but the fact he still refused to even consider stealing a cart or horse or approach any larger settlement before Ketterdam means he must be even more terrified of the Darkling than Jesper can imagine. He refused to leave any trace whatsoever. (And yet he’s back in Ketterdam, the one city in the world he was connected to before the Little Palace, because…?)

Ketterdam is the only city, village, collection of buildings and people they’ve been to for weeks, which means it’s the first chance Jesper has to gamble, but—even he knows not to stake anything on the possibility there’s someone left in the Barrel who doesn’t know about Jesper Fahey, he who owes Pekka Rollins fifty thousand kruge and just skipped town, kill immediately with extreme prejudice.

Well, Rollins is dead now—the only gang boss courageous or aggrieved or hungry enough to try and covertly resist the Darkling, go figure—but whoever’s head Lion now probably won’t even let Jesper try to spin an argument about how he really owes that money to ‘Pekka Rollins’ Dime Lions’, not any successor organizations. No such luck, and anyway, people stupid enough to bounce on their debts are fair game to any gang in the Barrel. They don’t cooperate on much, not even for mutual benefit, but murdering dishonest gamblers? That’s a team sport.

Jesper’s last recklessly suicidal plan worked out fantastic, so maybe he should find a card table. His luck’s turned. He could win millions.

Which Kaz definitely would anticipate, and warn him away from. Kaz is a buzzkill. Just because Jesper’s going to get murdered on sight in the Barrel…

Because Jesper’s gonna get murdered on sight in the Barrel.

If Kaz wants to rebuild his status in the Barrel, there’s no bigger liability than Jesper. And Kaz wants to, surely. He worked his way up inside the Dregs carefully and diligently, spent more time than anyone sane would inside a tiny attic office adding up numbers, and sucked up to an utter piece of shit like Haskell, just so he could one day become a Barrel boss. And now, to rise again, he has to cut off the dead weight.

Which means Jesper.

That’s why he left.

It’s not even a betrayal. They don’t have an agreement for life after reaching Ketterdam, let alone one that says Jesper can follow him forever and ever just like in the good old days. Inej—but Inej’s actually useful to a new Barrel boss, as soon as her indenture’s paid. Jesper’s the weak link here. Jesper’s screwed.

Which doesn’t mean he won’t go down fighting. He knows the way to the Menagerie—the quickest way, the scenic route, the paths least commonly trafficked by Pigeons and the ones usually avoided by staadwatch or gangsters. He knows Kaz well enough to guess which one he’s taken. If he hasn’t woken too late—and by the sun’s position, it’s still early in the morning—then he has a chance to pass Kaz off and… insult him? Beg? Cry? Sell his father’s soul for a position in the new Dregs? Maybe he’ll just have to wear a Komedie Brute mask for the rest of his life and it’ll be fine. He’ll figure it out later.

Jesper draws his shoulders up to his ears while he scurries through empty alleyways, the collar of his fancy pseudo-Barrel flash coat turned up. He’s almost glad that Kaz made him go hatless and shaved bald—thoroughly unstylish and un-Jesper enough he might survive the morning—but there are drawbacks to the disguise in the damp chill.

Also, the disguise isn’t good enough. After some minutes, Jesper notices that some clusters of metal stay at roughly the same distance to him. Eight clusters of—round, small, definitely mostly kruge with a few Ravkan coins thrown in. Thirteen guns. A rifle. Two of the coin clusters are fairly close together and move in unison. Jesper’s dealing with seven shadows, then.

That’s—a lot.

Jesper’s had a little more training being a Durast now, but what he could really use now is combat training. He hasn’t even been in a battle in over a month, unless you count handing Kaz knives while he carves up Per Haskell, and since Jesper had to puke right after, you probably shouldn’t. He’s fought rabbits. Jesper’s sure fought some rabbits in Ravka. Two deer, too.

He could probably escape his pursuers. It would take time, though, time Jesper doesn’t have when Kaz is leaving him behind without a word. He’ll just have to kill them quickly.

At least there’s one of his favourite surveillance detection routes nearby. One of the rare aboveground tunnels in Ketterdam, not used by Pigeons for obvious reasons of creepiness and also because it just leads to a big courtyard behind a factory: a courtyard that’s easy to escape, when you know the gate’s lock is broken. Kaz showed it to him, just weeks after Jesper got recruited, after the second time the ‘Gulls got the drop on him and beat him to a pulp. In the courtyard, he made Jesper shoot some sparrows and some pigeons to prove his worth. Not crows, though, and for a year Jesper believed that detail was just thrown in to test whether Jesper would obey nonsensical orders. It’s still a plausible explanation.

He’ll just have to ask Kaz, after he begs him for a role in the new Dregs. After he kills these seven pursuers.

If.

He catches the first man off-guard and blows his head off when he exits the tunnel, but after that, it’s a stand-off. Jesper, hiding behind a massive wood barrel for cover, against six men ducked into the mouth of the tunnel.

Jesper manages to pick off another man by firing into the tunnel and blindly redirecting the bullet into the first nook, but the second attempt at using that trick doesn’t hit anything, and neither does the third. He has eight bullets left now, and five enemies. Even Jesper can tell that’s bad odds.

Retreating across the courtyard, though—the first few meters are fine, there are enough wine barrels and he can just dash from one to another, slightly nudging bullets off their course so none hit him.

Those guys have far too many bullets left, though, by the time Jesper’s forty meters away from the gate. Forty meters without cover. His pursuers aren’t bad shots either—likely Dime Lions, because there’s no way a Liddy would ever get so close that Jesper has to redirect their bullet—and they’re cautious enough that only two of them are crouched behind that barrel next to the tunnel, now, while the rest are still hidden inside.

This might get a little tough—but if Jesper starts manipulating bullets more obviously, will that information travel to the Little Palace? They know the Sun Summoner escaped with a Fabrikator. Is he painting a target on Kaz’ back?

Is he—

Bloodcurdling screams and groans, and Jesper’s too far away to hear any thwacks but his senses have expanded and he knows that metal coating intimately. Knows that cane.

Kaz emerges from the tunnel opening, Inej behind him, and—

Boom.

The Dime Lion’s shot him.

Right in the chest, and Kaz stumbles, falls to his knees.

Keels over.

Jesper shoots wildly while he runs over, whirling the bullets around the barrel that the Dime Lions are hiding behind—two left, Kaz wouldn’t have let any of the ones in the tunnel escape—desperate to hit something or at least keep them distracted and scared long enough to get there, or for—Inej’s pulling Kaz back by his coat, and she’s still wearing a sheer Menagerie dress, she probably doesn’t have any knives to protect—nothing’s hit yet, nothing’s hit, and all Jesper’s bullets are in the air whizzing around but he’s not hitting anything and Kaz is down and Kaz—

Kaz pushes himself to his knees, and then he stands up.

He’s breathing hard, and in the ugly rose/amber/bloodstain trench there’s a hole above his heart, sooty and burnt, but he’s still alive, Kaz is alive, he’s—

“What are you?” a Dime Lion gasps. Jesper’s finally got a bead on her. He sinks three bullets into her head.

“I just killed…” The other one is less lucky, and Jesper only manages to hit his stomach before he runs out of airborne bullets. He’ll die, but it won’t be quick.

“I crawled out of the harbour before. I’ll do it again,” Kaz rasps, and before the Dime Lion manages more than “Dirty—” a wet squelch informs Jesper of his demise.

That’s all of them.

“Kaz, you—” Inej’s much quicker at Kaz’ side, but he moves away before she can touch him to check his injury. Moves quickly enough he’s probably not on death’s door. He is a good actor, though. She looks at Jesper, and he’s about to join her in begging Kaz to get some medical aid, at least, but then Kaz shrugs off the ruined trench coat.

“Those kefta aren’t entirely useless,” Kaz rasps, grinning like an amused fucking asshole who almost gave Jesper a heart attack.

And then, Inej wraps herself around Jesper.

“You’re alive! I was terrified,” she shouts against his chest, slapping his back and grabbing as if she can’t decide whether to kill Jesper or never let go. “I thought you got yourself killed! You just disappeared, no word, I thought—”

“I may have lost a game where the stake was fifty thousand kruge?”

“You—Jes—” Inej squeezes him harder. “I told you to stop. I’d rather have you, with me, than have you die trying to pay me off.”

“I almost won! But there was no chance I’d get out of it, without indenturing myself, and—it all worked out, didn’t it? You’re free! Which reminds me…” Jesper takes off his own coat—blue and green and purple wave patterns, very fancy, a bit on the small side for him—and lays it onto Inej’s shoulders. It suits her, too—it drowns her a little, sure, but the way the coat reaches down to her ankles looks regal, and anyway, Kaz is a good sewer. He’ll fix this. “Can’t have you catching a cold.”

Before she can reply—tell him again she wasn’t worth risking his life and freedom in every card game he could for two years, when she definitely is, she’s Inej, he’ll do anything for her—he runs away and searches the dead Dime Lions for a new coat for himself, all their money, the rifle, and picks up the used bullets too. Knowing Kaz, he’ll want them to leave this place soon, and Jesper can’t very well try to convince his boss he needs to keep his sharpshooter around when he has no bullets left.

Speaking of—Jesper saunters over to Kaz when he’s done. With his most careless grin, he says, “I want my goodbye kiss before you ditch me.”

“I left you a note,” Kaz rasps. “I should have remembered you can’t read.”

Which as good as counts as a promise that Kaz didn’t intend to leave him behind: that, and the adrenaline of an easy gunfight has Jesper grinning widely. This is the life he wanted. The life he yearned for during the last two miserable years. The Crows are back, baby. He asks, “What now, boss?”

“We leave. Before anyone comes to investigate those gunshots.”

“Novyi Zem?”

“No,” Kaz rasps, just as Inej says, “They’ll let us drown.”

“They what?”

“Move.” Kaz starts limping past the factory, and then doubles back one street over—in the general direction away from the sea. Jesper and Inej quickly flank him. “I went to the Fifth Harbour before I paid off Inej’s indenture. It’s near empty. Old man there said no boats go to Novyi Zem or Eames Chin right now, and no boats come back. Because nothing gets unloaded. Kerch ships can’t dock there. They all get stranded at sea.”

“People started running when Ravka cut us off from the continent,” Inej mutters. “Before the invasion. And now the Darkling’s gone, the Kerch Grisha are either running or dead.”

“Too many refugees, apparently. Something about culture and scroungers and economic migrants. Novya Zem’s closed its ports to Kerch.”

“But I’m Zemeni—”

“You’re just a person. Those borders don’t exist to help you. The harbour watch don’t exist for you, the government doesn’t exist for you—if there’s a choice between cementing their power and your life, every bureaucrat worth their salt will choose the former.”

Jesper wants to argue, but actually, he’d trust Kaz over Novyi Zem a million times. Kaz saved his life when Ketterdam and Kerch would have swallowed him whole. Novyi Zem isn’t any different. “So we’re stuck in Ketterdam, then, where I’ll get shot on sight and you’ll easily get tracked by the Darkling. I only remember one safehouse that’s still uncompromised, as of last month anyway, unless you think we should go back to Haskell’s, boss?”

“Inej,” Kaz rasps. “That shop over there. Buy us a cart. We’re going to Lij.”

“What’s in Lij, boss? Why Lij? Where is Lij, anyway?”

But Kaz doesn’t answer him. Even aboard the cart, directing their new donkey with a seemingly perfect grasp of the roads leading to a small southern Kerch town none of them have ever been to, he refuses to elaborate. He looks tense, though. Jesper reshapes his many new bullets while he walks alongside. If there’s a fight waiting for them in Lij, they’re going to win.

☼

Kaz paces the length of the room. Window, door, window, door—there’s not much space beside the marriage bed, and the air draft of his passing caresses Jesper’s shorn head.

He’s put back together now, dressed in his socks and his boots and his underpants and his trousers and his gloves, though his torso’s only covered by the open purple kefta. Despite the cane, he limps more heavily than before he trekked for weeks through the Ravkan forest. He’s not fully recovered yet, if he’ll ever be.

Jesper’s on the floor. He climbed off the bed—off Kaz, after he ruined Kaz’ stupid get proxy-raped by the proxy-Darkling again plan. He said what he said, and the silence that followed was all the answer he’ll get, and then he sat down on the floor. It’s as good a place to wait as any. Probably more hygienic than the bed, anyway. He watched Kaz dress, until he almost looked like the Barrel lieutenant they both wish he was still allowed to be, and now he’s watching Kaz Brekker Dirtyhands the Sun Summoner pace holes in the old dusty floor of an abandoned farmhouse an hour’s walk outside of the small Kerch town of Lij.

He’s not getting murdered, though. Not for what he almost did. Not for what he said. That’s as good as this was ever going to go.

“It was worse this time.” Kaz directs his rasp towards the floor. He doesn’t stop moving. “I froze. Why was it—it was you. I knew you were—you’d never—with you it should have been more tolerable. Not worse.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss.” Jesper still can’t decide whether he should be ashamed that he was too squeamish to go through with it. Kaz doesn’t seem as angry as he could be, that Jesper totally fucked up this whatever-it-was-supposed-to-be. Not the mocking disappointment he doles out at Jesper’s predictable failures—gambling, distractibility, lateness, no impulse control and so on—and not the seething hatred when Jesper does something he hasn’t anticipated.

“I turned it over and over in my mind. For a year. What I did wrong. How I could have turned this to my advantage. How to excise this weakness. I thought I’d found—but there’s nothing.”

Jesper would offer to brutally desecrate the Darkling’s corpse again, but it clearly doesn’t help. Kaz won’t let this go. Never mind that he was a teenage thief imprisoned in a palace. Never mind it was him against the whole entourage of the most powerful Grisha. The man who crowned himself Emperor.

Sometimes you’re just fucked. And there’s nothing you can do. Life isn’t fair.

“There is a way to beat him,” Kaz hisses. “And I will find it.”

“You did. Sort of.”

“What—”

Jesper grins a shark-grin. “You’re not in Ravka now, are you?”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Why doesn’t it? No, boss, listen—he didn’t beat you alone, either, right? He had his Tailor making you into a doll. His Fabrikators locking your cage. His soldiers. Hell, Haskell selling you out—so really, it’s your victory that I found you.” Now that Jesper’s trying to explain his gut reaction, it just seems more and more logical. “Why can’t you have your own gang? You practically rescued yourself. You took a look at a boy who’d have gotten shot in a few weeks because he couldn’t pay is debts and he couldn’t stop fucking gambling—you had me dragged up to your office. You took that chance. You saved my life so I could save yours. That’s… planning ahead. Planning years ahead. Well done.”

Kaz finally, finally stops pacing. He sinks into the mattress just slightly to the right of Jesper, so he can sprawl out his legs without making contact. He looks at Jesper, but he’s silent, and his face isn’t giving anything away.

At first, that makes it feel like he’s actually listening. Actually considering what Jesper told him, and agreeing. Kaz is a quick thinker, though. He doesn’t need this long to realize that Jesper’s correct, which means he’s coming up with counterarguments—arguments why actually, he’s still weak or whatever and needs to force himself—and Jesper really, really can’t watch him do this to himself again. Why this, anyway? Why is this the weakness he fixated on?

“Why is that creep so obsessed with making you touch people, anyway?”

“Because it’s easy. Necessary. Even a child does it. Touch is what makes us human, and the Sun Summoner is human, whatever lies he tells himself,” Kaz recites. His eyes are bright. Wet.

“Bullshit. You terrorized the Barrel for years and it didn’t matter at all that you never touched anyone. It was just you. It didn’t even really sink in for me, that you don’t touch people, until I saw the way he dressed you up, how miserable you were.” That’s probably a good place to leave it, but Jesper’s livid. Jesper could mince and mangle fifty Darklings with the pure force of his loathing, and there’s not even a single one around here. That energy has to go somewhere. “You’re trying to tell me the Ravkan fucking palace couldn’t change protocol a little and adapt? If it never mattered in the Barrel, it never mattered at all. He just picked something. If you’d been allergic to shellfish, that’s the only food he would have served you, and he would have said you’re weak for your windpipe swelling up. He wasn’t able control you because touch made you weak. When you’re in control, it doesn’t matter. Because you fucking kill whoever touches you. You don’t bow to them. They bow to you.”

Kaz doesn’t reply. He doesn’t look away from Jesper, though. He just stares down at him, with his eyes still wide and still wet. He mutters, “You’ve turned quite opinionated in my absence, Jesper.”

“In your presence. I’m quoting your words back to you—sort of, it was about the cane, and I’ve forgotten half of it. But you were right. You were always right.” Jesper laughs. “See? Now you’re teaching yourself through time and space! Your masterplan is incredibly fucking elaborate!”

“My—I’m not falling for it.” Kaz is grinning, though. “If I agree now—by this time tomorrow you’ll have done something incredibly stupid and you’ll throw the whole Everything I do is your triumph because you saved me thing in my face. I’m not responsible for your awful jokes!”

Pretending to wipe tears from his eyes, Jesper wails, “My plan! My ingenious plan! Foiled by the dastardly Dirtyhands, oh no!”

Kaz laughs at him. Kaz laughs, and laughs, and Jesper joins him.

It takes a while before Kaz stops, gasping for breath. No-one in Ravka’s ever told a good joke, Jesper decides, because he’s made way funnier jokes before that Kaz didn’t even chuckle at, but gift horses and mouths and so on. Colour’s returned to Kaz’ face: his cheeks are blotchy and red, even after his breathing’s evened out. Kaz mumbles, “You know, that’s exactly how I imagined it.”

What? Oh. Jesper’s sprawled on the floor, leaning back on his elbows, his shirt pulled out of his trousers—his trousers, which are open, and he still hasn’t tucked away his dick. He forgot. There were more far important things to do, and now… well, he probably looks more debauched than Kaz in his purple kefta, with just his prick exposed to the chilly night-time Kerch air while he lounges on the ground. He ghosts a finger over it.

“Do you want me to—do you want to watch, boss?”

“I’d—” Kaz swallows. “Saints.”

Jesper turns a little, so Kaz can get a better view. He doesn’t undress, in case that’s an integral part of the fantasy, just gently trails his fingers down his still-limp dick—though it’s definitely waking up now—and looks up at Kaz.

Kaz doesn’t meet his eyes anymore, but that’s fine: more than fine, when he’s alternately looking at Jesper’s cock and at Jesper’s lips. Jesper darts out his tongue, and Kaz’ pupils blow even wider. Jesper licks down his palm and starts jerking off in earnest. “Hey, boss,” Jesper mutters, and when the head jerks up Jesper blows him a tiny kiss.

“What do you think about?” Kaz rasps.

“I just look at you. That’s enough. I like your face.” The tiny quirk of his lips, the way his eyes dart back down. “What are you thinking about, boss?”

“I didn’t expect you to enjoy this as much.”

“Seriously, boss, I know you’re not that stupid. How many times—”

“Not me,” Kaz mumbles. He gestures obscurely at the room. Jesper. The wall. The floor. The floor again. “This. It’s—not proper. Demeaning.”

“I wasn’t feeling demeaned until you started talking—”

“I was going to make you my right hand, once I took over the Dregs. Not my whore—”

“You were?” slips out, small and breathless, before Jesper remembers that this is for Kaz. This for him to enjoy. The warmth expanding in Jesper’s ribcage can wait. “There’s nothing bad about this. You like it. I like it. I don’t see anyone else in this room, and even if—a very clever guy once told me that you don’t bow to the world. You make the world bow to you.”

☼

It’s scratching that wakes Jesper. Scratching like the sharpening of a knife, quick, impatient, desperate—but it’s Kaz who’s on watch right now, Kaz who found this shallow cave they’re spending the night in, and Kaz wouldn’t let any danger come this close unnoticed. Unfought. Kaz wouldn’t just leave Jesper to his fate—would he?

He wouldn’t. At least not yet.

Kaz is sitting at the mouth of the cave. The moon drenches his matted dirty hair in its white glory, his handmade trousers, his naked wiry chest. His chest which he hasn’t bared for a second since Jesper gave him the kefta, even pulling off the Sun Summoner chemise that they tore into threads while still wrapped up in both of his coats: but now he’s half-naked, head bending down to look at those tines sticking out of his clavicle. Those antlers, those keratinized tumours, those bone cancers. Whatever those mutations are, he wants them gone.

In the right hand, he’s holding the knife that Jesper made from buttons so they could cut the blanket into trouser-shapes. In the left hand, he’s holding one of the protrusions growing from his body.

And then, he starts hacking again.

Viciously, helplessly, like a sick rabbit mutated into its own trap. He misses, once, and the knife sinks into his collarbone: but silently he tears it out again and cuts at the cancerous bone, and the knife’s sharp but the only dents that Jesper can see are tiny, glowing, lighting up the knife that’s flecked with his own blood.

☼

Jesper stirs the potato chunks. Thankfully, the old hearth still works, at least after he and Inej fed it with firewood they brought from the market, and so he’s cooking potatoes in butter and water. He mashes them up with some heavy wooden implement he found in a cabinet, once they’re soft enough—he washed it of course; he doesn’t want to eat moth shit—and then Inej passes him a wooden board of carrots in neat small identical pieces. Show-off. Jesper loves her so fucking much.

“Careful, don’t let it burn,” she says, twirling her knife, and Jesper—well, he meant to stir the pot of what’s apparently becoming stamppot. He did. He didn’t mean to think of how he’ll get Inej and Kaz out of Ravka—

And that’s when Kaz limps into the kitchen. He wasn’t still asleep when Inej and Jesper went into town to get some food—as if the Bastard of the Barrel ever sleeps in, even when he’s far from his titular Barrel—but he begged off the trip. He told them to say they’re working for Johannus Rietveld, if they’re asked, who’s apparently inherited this farm, but—they weren’t asked a thing, anyway, and who knows what Kaz did in the meantime. Who knows what weird cover identity he’s cooked up that they haven’t yet had to invoke. And whether it’s weirder than the one Jesper just created.

Jesper gives him a tender little smile. “Had a good morning?”

“No.”

“Because of last—”

But Kaz can read Jesper at least as well as he can read himself. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he rasps. “You’re the least terrifying person I’ve ever met.” Which probably means Yes, I’m rattled, but I won’t take it out on you. Too much.

“Thanks, darling.” And obeying Inej’s sharp elbow, he goes back to stirring the potato mash, and the slices of rookworst smoked sausage she’s dumped into another pan as well. “We decided Inej needs a proper homecooked meal, now she’s free, and we both haven’t eaten anything worth eating for ages, either.”

“You cook?”

“I grew up with my Da. It was either him or me. We traded off, if you want to know, and I’m pretty good apart from when it mysteriously turns into charcoal. And we didn’t find any Zemeni spices in the Lij market—this isn’t Ketterdam, and this old trader I talked to, she said it’s because maritime traffic to Novyi Zem is down to trickles at this point there’s a real dearth of spices, she couldn’t get them at any reasonable price—”

“Don’t burn the stamppot,” Inej orders.

“Anyway, we found a recipe tacked to the wall behind the oven, so that’s what I’m making now. Something super Kerch. Stamppot—you’ve ever eaten it?”

Kaz makes a sound that’s deeply indecipherable. Jesper can’t even tell whether it’s mournful or happy.

“Anyway, we’re almost done. Spinach now, please—Inej made me stick to the recipe, you know—and then the fried sausage and some salt and… you’ll stay with us for lunch, right, even if it isn’t royal Little Palace fare?”

“We ate unseasoned burnt rabbits in the forest,” Kaz replies curtly. He’s gotten over whatever strange emotion took hold of him, then.

“Yeowtch, they were awful. Why didn’t you remind me to take them off the fire. I know how to smuggle us into Novyi Zem,” Jesper says, carrying the deep pot over to their chosen clean bit of floor. Next to the windowsill, so Kaz can sit down with a little less discomfort—the house has been cleaned out apart from the marriage bed, really, and making Kaz go in there now… Making Inej go in there now, when it’s where last night he and Kaz had sex… And it’s not like they were loud, but who knows what Inej read into them pacing around each other for an hour. This is much less awkward. Besides, Jesper’s recently had some great experiences with floors.

Inej doesn’t stop playing with her knife, even after she balances her stamppot served on woodboard on her knees and digs in with her slightly bent spoon. She hasn’t set it down all morning, even carried it into town when they went looking for something to eat, and while she’s been supervising Jesper’s cooking—making sure he’s reading the recipe, keeping him on-track, bickering with him over unclear or illegible instructions—she’s been twirling it around her fingers. A truly remarkable feat, given that it’s the piece of shit knife that Jesper cobbled together from coat buttons, and he didn’t know what he was doing at all except that it should probably be sharp. Inej really needs to talk him through the finer points of balance if she wants him to overhaul the thing.

“They’re not letting in any more refugees from Kerch, you said,” Jesper starts setting up the explanation for his ingenious plan, while he passes over Kaz’ portion and another spoon he dug out from the bottom of a cabinet and small-scienced back into shape.

“The rich Kerch started running first, when the Darkling advanced. Anyone who’d ever had a Grisha indenture… They probably got in. They had the money. As for the rest… well, we’ve all heard of what happened in Fjerda, unless we’re Jesper and too busy drinking and playing Makker’s Wheel—”

“Hey! I was trying to pay off your indenture,” Jesper complains, while nibbling on his surprisingly decent if underspiced potato mash. “I’m Zemeni. They’ll let me in.”

Kaz still hasn’t touched his food. He hasn’t put it away either though, hand cradling the board instead of throwing it at Jesper. Maybe it’s because he’s too curious about the plan. Jesper should have waited, but he was too excited, and now Kaz is frowning as he replies, “So you keep saying. How does that help us? I assume you wouldn’t leave the two of us behind, after all that trouble you took.”

It feels good, to hear him say that. Almost good enough to forgive that Kaz doesn’t like his lunch. “That’s where my plan comes in. I’ve finally figured it out. If we’re married—”

“We can’t marry each other,” Kaz rasps. Before Jesper gets too sad about that, he continues, “In case you haven’t yet learned to count, we’re three people now.”

“I know. That’s why I’ve been thinking it over for so long. But divorce exists, you know so I was thinking that our story should be—and I’ll write to Da, but I thought you should probably agree first—I married one of you and then fell in love with the other but I still loved both, so I was trying to—”

Inej coughs. Laughs. Yeah, she’s definitely laughing at him, and then she says, “You’re going to tell your father about your marriage in a letter—your multiple marriages, because not only did you get married without inviting him, you already traded in your wife for a younger, prettier model. You lothario!”

“If you think that Kaz—actually, are you younger than Inej?”

Kaz, spoon in mouth, glares down at him.

“I’m trying to save our lives here. I’d appreciate some cooperation! And Da will forgive me, when he sees how happy I am with my new bonebreaking gangster wife and my old knife-twirling gangster wife who I had to divorce for petty bureaucratic reasons. Do you like it?”

Another spoonful of stamppot disappears into Kaz’ mouth. His eyes are closed while he chews, and then he looks away. His voice is hoarser than normal when he mumbles, “It tastes exactly the way I—it’s good.”

“Better than unseasoned rabbit charcoal. Anyway, it might throw the Darkling off our scent some more, if we disguise Kaz as a woman—and don’t be sexist. Women come in all shapes and sizes, no-one’s going to suspect a thing. Also we’re from Ketterdam. If any woman like Kaz can marry anywhere, it’s here. It’ll be a scandal, if they refuse to honour our marriage. Letting a few poors drown outside Zemeni borders, sure, but breaking the mutual recognition of administrative documents?”

Jesper is actually pretty proud of his reasoning here. That makes it even more annoying when Kaz rasps, “No-one will ever believe I’m your wife. I can’t even touch you.”

“No-one’s going to believe I love you? Are you sure?” Jesper flutters his eyes up at Kaz.

“He has a point, Jesper. You won’t be the first desperate refugee forging a marriage to leave.” Inej twirls her knife again. “You’ll need to act the part.”

“We’ll just tell them the truth.”

“Which is?”

“You don’t want to be touched, and if they have a follow-up question, they’d better direct it to the barrel of my gun. I’m not letting anybody non-consensually grope my beloved Kerch wife. Never again. Not over my dead body.”

“Won’t they think it’s weird if Kaz—sorry, your beautiful Kerch wife doesn’t let you touch him?”

“I don’t care. I told you. Let the world bow to us. I love my ingenious, vicious Kerch wife, completely independent of any physical contact we may or may not ever have. I respect my stubborn loyal deadpan Kerch wife far too much to cross those boundaries just for social custom. Also, my sweet murderous Kerch wife has a mean right hook.”

“Thankyou for the demonstration of your acting skills,” Kaz rasps drily, scratching his spoon on his serving board for the last flecks of stamppot. “We’re not going to Novyi Zem, though. There are more amplifiers than just the Stag he forced into me, and we’re going to find the rest. I’m going to tear apart every miserable molecule in the Darkling’s body, cell by fucking cell.”

“And you just let me keep talking?”

“It was entertaining.” Kaz licks his spoon, and then the board. Any second now, Jesper will tell him there’s more left in the pot. “Write your Da. We’ll keep your plan as a backup, in case everything goes horribly wrong. You’ll need a ring, though, to make it official,” and Kaz starts rooting through the kefta pockets.

Jesper can’t breathe. Is Kaz really…? He can’t breathe until he looks at Kaz’ stretched-out, gloved hand, and—

“How the fuck did you steal that one?! I was just wearing it!”

#jesper fahey #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #kaz x jesper #dimtraces makes things #shadow & bone #shadow and bone

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cyclesprefectpress · 3 years ago

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[image description: a proof of a font of handset type for letterpress printing, displaying every letter, symbol, and special character in the font. it's called "Sixteenth Century Roman," 24 pt., and is a rough-edged serif font with a deliberately worn look. end description.]

hello hello i am return from a deep dive into several reference materials that assumed a little bit more knowledge about how Medieval Latin works than i actually have, but, it was all exTREMEly inch resting to me. i am absolutely not a historian but here we are, a speedrun of my pinballing around trying to ensure that I know what the fuck im storing in my type corridor:

so 16th Cent. Roman, i already knew, was a font Paul Duensing designed based on this incomplete set of old Italian punches he acquired (punches, the first step of old school typecasting, where you carve the relief letter shape into the end of a stick of steel, and you uuuh punch that into the copper matrix, which is then the negative mould-shape you use to cast multiple copies of the lead sorts with hot metal; surviving punches are precious artifacts not the least because they are. they’re hand-carved!! often by the type designer themselves. historical and also wildly cool craftsmanship). these punches were all beat up and probably water damaged, fucky and rough-edged, so he re-did and filled in the gaps in the alphabet with similarly styled letters of his own. very cool. an extremely nerdy lil passion project of a typecaster in the 1960s, very typical of type people. we all find a Thing to obsess over, and sometimes it's reviving an incomplete set of punches from the 1500s that you found in, idk, it's usually a bucket in somebody's basement.

anyway it's got a bunch of ligatures and the long s, sure sure sure, but WHAT are all these gibberish characters with tildas and lines thru the stems of ps and qs and such—

Duensing's full font is in Mac McGrew's specimen book, great, i have that, except McGrew's book has complete proofs and a little bit of history for each font but doesn't always cover what each symbol in a unique alphabet is for, and i knew just enough about Latin to guess that they were abbreviations but not what each of them stood for. a little bit of searching got me this far, which is to say, "Abbreviation in Medieval Latin Paleography," a translation of an Italian essay on the subject from 1929. It is prefaced by the translators with gems like: "Take a foreign language, write it in an unfamiliar script, abbreviating every third word, and you have the compound puzzle that is the medieval Latin manuscript." Scribes writing in medieval Latin just tossed out letters they didn't care to deal with, constantly, and had stand-in special characters and abbreviations for syllables/words/particles and there were intuitive rules but way too many variations in time and place and person to make a reasonably-sized, static lexicon. amazing. hope all u paleographers are having fun over there.

the essay has a great big glossary of truncations and abbreviations and so on which clearly cover most of the figures in Duensing's font:

[image description: screenshots of the essay, with various symbols and the Latin syllables they abbreviated. an m with a bar over it, ex., stood in for men or mun. end description.]

ok! BUT this q with a little swoop off the end kept bugging me!! for all these dead-use symbols this essay is using handwritten samples, obviously, and there's clearly variation in execution and also typographers take liberties, and i just thought, sure my piece of type looks a lot like the quod here but it does link the staff to the swoop where the handwritten sample doesn't, and it could just as well be a fanciful ligature for qn which apparently can stand in for quando, and i have no idea which is a more common-use syllable likely to be cast in the font if you're only going to pick your top 14, and i just like to be sure about things.

SO. i went to double-check with Johnson’s Typographia. Johnson made like a thousand pages of printing manuals set in tiny tiny type in the 1820s which are rad as hell and tell you all sorts of things about how to run a shop and build your own press and cast type and going rates for work and employment and also, the alphabets/type case layout for whatever language or symbol set you might have to set type in, when handsetting type was mostly the only way to get stuff printed—English, Arabic, Chinese, Hebrew, musical notation, astronomical signs, aaaand it’s got a section for "Marks & characters used in the Domesday Book & other ancient records.”

[image description: a photo of a page of the manual, with similar but not always identical symbols for abbreviated use. many of these abbreviations are described as "a Domesday contraction." end description.]

and WHAT is a Domesday contraction, WELL, it's a contraction specifically from/prevalent in the Domesday book, a deeply boring and historically important tome about property distribution in England. It’s literally a survey. who owned what, in 1086. presumably mind-numbing. enormous, handwritten in Medieval Latin, EXTREMELY cool, go look at some images of it at least, very important to historians, economists, linguists, and a complete pain in the ass to set in type when that technology became available, having to cast any significant proportion of these variant characters in an alphabet. Johnson says, (in 1824) “It is an improvement of latter years only*, to have type cast to resemble the abbreviations used in the more ancient manuscripts; they being formerly rudely imitated, either from a common fount, or else were cut in wood for the purposes of any particular work.” wow that sucks. but in 1773 the government really wanted to be able to reproduce the Domesday Book in type, so a couple people tried to cut a set of punches for Domesday abbreviations and Joseph Jackson got it done and it only took 10 years to print an edited version of the manuscript. and then apparently all the type was destroyed in a fire in 1808. WOW that sucks.

but the point is, Johnson has a great big glossary of characters as they were translated into type in the making of the printed Domesday Book, and the Domesday punches were used or refrenced in the printing of other medieval latin works, which consequences a degree of standardization in the abbreviations used in those versions of the text that handwritten manuscripts never had or needed.

notably the Domesday quod looks even more different from my piece of type here which was pretty annoying, so what are the chances this thing is a quando, and anyway that's when my sister texted me back with better computer skills and a different search engine and found me a perfect match on the first try. it’s a quod. this National Diet Library digital exhibition has several different sample fonts, both black letter and roman, with quite consistent letter forms, if not choices about which abbreviations to bother casting.

*I don’t……exactly know what he means by this, since Gutenberg and contemporaries absolutely did cast many Medieval Latin abbreviations for their fonts nearly 400 years before this. His dismissal of “from a common fount” might be fair, since i think what he means by it is that you’d have a generic set of abbreviation characters which you would have to use in conjunction with whatever font was the main body of your text, and it’s messy to mix things that weren’t designed specifically to match. he may just mean that it’s new for his contemporary foundries to be casting all these expanded alphabets of abbreviations; Gutenberg didn’t have foundries to buy from and made his own type. he could include as many characters as he had the patience for. maybe Johnson is just a guy from the 1800s that didn’t have the internet and i shouldn’t jump down his throat for not knowing something. idk!! i have homework.

anyway that was my Friday!! feel free to correct me and/or suggest further reading if early typecasting is your Thing or. again. you just have better googling than me.

#letterpress #letterpress printing #handset type #lead type #typography #long post #:(( sorry #omitted: Johnson's scathing opinions on Almanacks and the people who read them #and ask you to typeset them #'''''the credulity of the vulgar''''''' alRIGHT bud #i guess if he was willing to set that whole paragraph in 8 pt.#or pay for it #it was at least an opinion he believed in very strongly.

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bubbyleh · 4 years ago

Text

like real people do

It's not often that Dr. Bubby finds himself at a loss for knowledge.

As the perfect scientist, he has basically all the information he would ever need inside of Black Mesa. He knew the purpose of every lab, all the equations they used, a complete layout of the Black Mesa facility... It had all been programmed into his mind sometime during his development, though files from that time were something Bubby was explicitly denied access to.

So, for the first few years of his life, Bubby was incredibly well-versed in all things Black Mesa. As time went on, he picked up things about the outside world. At first it was small things, like a song or a location. But completely by chance, a scientist turned the corner from the break room too fast and ran directly into Bubby, spilling his soda all over him.

"What the hell!?" Bubby had fumed, staring down as his drenched shirt. "Watch where you're going!"

"Oh, goodness! I do apologize for that!" the other scientist stammered. "Let me go get you some napkins!"

Looking up, Bubby was struck by the man before him. He was nowhere near as tall as Bubby (who was?), but there was obvious muscle under his lab coat, and those eyes... they looked so kind. Though he didn't realize it at the time, Bubby would look back and realize the thing he felt was attraction.

He was back in the break room before Bubby could react, but true to his word, he did bring napkins with him on his return.

That was how Bubby met Dr. Coomer.

Coomer had offered to front the quarter Bubby would need for the washing machine in the Black Mesa dorms, which Bubby took as an opportunity to have all of his clothes laundered at no cost to himself. Coomer had laughed at this, and Bubby couldn't explain the surging feeling in his chest when he did. He also couldn't explain why he kept talking to Coomer, regaling him with stories that made him seem intelligent! Bubby sat on one of the unused washing machines, which Coomer was leaning onto. They only realized the passing time when the machine beeped, signalling that Bubby’s clothes were clean.

At that point, Bubby's heart had dropped. He shoved his clothes into a dryer, started it, and left with only a flimsy excuse.

They weren't happy about that one. But Coomer and Bubby kept finding excuses to skip out on work to hang with each other, so eventually they were made lab partners.

Coomer would never hesitate to share information about the surface with Bubby. During their early mornings, while they drank their coffee, Coomer would recite verbatim (as best Bubby could tell) the happenings in his favorite movies and television shows. He liked following along to the dramas Coomer would tell him about, to the point where he could hold his own in a discussion without ever having seen an episode.

It was, after all, its own form of knowledge. And like all knowledge, Bubby reveled in it.

Which is why, fifty-some odd years later, Bubby is completely out of his depth.

Bubby’s been out—free, he’s been free—for a week. Sure, he wasn’t expecting his first experience in the real world to be at Chuck E. Cheese’s, but he wasn’t complaining. Because there was something so normal about eating subpar pizza at your friend’s birthday party, Bubby was fine enough that it wasn’t “special” in any way.

But sitting across from Dr. Coomer, Bubby realized something.

They’d been together for the better part of four decades, and they had never even been on a real date before.

Which Bubby thinks is justified, all things considered! It’s not like he was allowed to leave Black Mesa property, and underground research facilities aren’t exactly known for their nice eateries. What were they supposed to do, just ask the administration if their super secret lab-grown power man could leave for a night only because he wanted to have dinner somewhere?! That would just be asking for the tube.

It’s not like they didn’t make do, though! There had been quite a few occasions where, during a late night, Coomer had snuck down a bottle of wine for the two of them to share. Bubby would push down the stinging shame he felt every time, because Coomer deserved someone he could go out with. But for some unimaginable reason, he had chosen Bubby.

So, a week after their escape from Black Mesa, Bubby does research. He finds as much media as he can about dates, mostly coming back with romcoms. He read articles and blogs online about how to have the perfect first date. A lot of these guidelines seem to make assumptions about how well people on dates knew each other. But, well, if it’s what you’re supposed to do…

It takes about two days of doing nothing but binging romcoms, but eventually Bubby decides that his notes are satisfactory. He’s managed to narrow down what he calls the Expected Questions, or, the questions that are apparently required on a date. And Coomer has to know about them, because, hello? He’s been through this all before. The man’s been married before, Jesus.

And then there’s Bubby. He’s gonna mess this all up, isn’t he?

The thought of that almost makes him snap his note-taking pencil.

Around hour forty-three, Coomer pops his head into the room Bubby has tentatively claimed as his study (he’s not used to being able to claim rooms, let alone ones as frivolous as a study). He looks worried.

“Bubby, dear,” Coomer says, his tone wavering a little. “I’m all for the advancement of scientific research, or whatever it is you’re doing.” Right. Coomer can’t know what’s going on in here. “But, perhaps you would like to come down and eat? It’s almost time for lunch.”

Oh. Lunch. And food in general. That thing people need to eat in order to live. Bubby hasn’t eaten since around hour thirty-one, when he snuck some yogurt from their kitchen. Yeah, he could eat.

“Uh, okay. Sure,” Bubby stands, trying to ignore the dizzy feeling. He’s not used to having so much free time, apparently, since he’s forgetting to eat.

Which, hey, another thing. It seems a little stupid, but Bubby thinks their whole relationship is going in the wrong order. Like, they haven’t even been on an actual first date yet, but they’re already living together? But in another sense, they’ve been together for thirty-six years, and they’re only now moving in with each other? In all the romcoms Bubby just watched, there wasn’t anything remotely close to that.

So maybe they’re doomed already?

It’s something Bubby thinks about while he eats the wonderful grilled cheese that Coomer prepared for him. Seeing the way that Coomer looks at him, though, smiling brighter than the sun felt the first time Bubby ever stepped foot outside… Well, Bubby can’t help but want to try anyway.

♡♡♡♡♡

It takes three more days for Bubby to work up the courage to actually ask Coomer to go out. Which is the dumbest thing ever, but hey! This is a big deal for him!

They’re spread out on the couch watching Rocky II, which was Coomer’s suggestion. Bubby is honestly sick of watching movies, but he’s not about to admit to what he was getting up to during his over forty-hour research binge. Besides, he gets to lay down in Coomer’s lap, which is nice.

This is another example of their relationship being completely out of order, but Bubby chooses not to think about it.

“You know what I was thinking?” Bubby asks during a lull in the action.

Coomer gives him a wry smile. “When aren’t you thinking, professor? I swear, that head of yours must go a mile a minute.”

“Doctor,” Bubby corrects automatically. “But really.”

“Okay then, Professor Bubby,” Coomer chuckles to himself. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know who Professor Bubby is, but Doctor Bubby was thinking we should go out to dinner sometime. Like somewhere fancy.”

Coomer hums. “You know, I was thinking the same thing. I've always wished we could go someplace nice together.”

"Well, they do say great minds think alike," Bubby smirks.

"But fools rarely differ," Coomer presses a kiss to Bubby's forehead. "You make me feel like a lovesick fool, did you know that?"

Oh!

"You old sap!" Bubby laughs at Coomer. But he pulls him down to kiss him anyway.

♡♡♡♡♡

Coomer catches Bubby staring at himself in the mirror just before they head out. It's the suit, really. It made sense to buy, after all, going to an upscale restaurant kind of requires one. But actually wearing it, is…

It's jarring. It's like everything he never thought he'd be.

"Are you alright, Bubby?" Coomer asks him. "You know I don't care if you dress nice tonight. You could wear one of your turtlenecks if you'd like."

Bubby shakes his head. "Harold, I absolutely love this suit."

♡♡♡♡♡

Bubby does certain things to prepare for their date. Nothing too drastic, no. He's not going to have, like, Tommy or someone feed him lines from an earpiece or anything like that. No, all Bubby does is script out everything he's going to say for the entire date. God, it's such a simple and ordinary thing to do! Okay!?

So they sit across from one another, at a candlelit table next to a window. It's romantic, more romantic than anything they ever did at Black Mesa. Which isn't saying much, but truly, Bubby can't complain.

"This is a fine establishment, Harold," Bubby notes, keeping on script. "How did you find this place?"

"Well, you see, my dear Bubby," Coomer starts but god, the word "dear" alone is making Bubby want to burn the whole restaurant down as a symbol for his love. "I used the internet! It’s quite a useful tool, don't you think?"

Ah, a question! Luckily, Bubby has accounted for just this situation, and the tactic is not something he’s unfamiliar with. “I’ve found it to be helpful, yes.”

The good old agree card. Works every time.

But! Bubby needs to get back on track. This is a very important date, and Bubby can’t just let himself forget that! Time for the most basic of lines.

“So, Harold,” Bubby finds himself saying after they’ve ordered. “How was your day?”

Nice. Good. Perfect. Amazingly spectacular.

Coomer laughs. “We were both home all day, Bubby. You tell me!”

Right shit damn it a garbage fire.

“Fuck,” Bubby says before he can stop himself. And when he realizes that he let that slip, he lets his head fall into his hands and groans. “I’m fucking this all up, aren’t I?”

“Er, Bubby dear, are you alright?” Bubby feels Coomer grab onto one of his arms. “Is… is this too much for you? Drat, I knew we should have worked up to this. We could go home, if you’d like.”

Bubby’s head shoots up. “No!” he says, forcing the word out as fast as he can. He takes a deep breath, then grabs Coomer’s hand. “No, I’m fine. I want to be here.”

“Then what is it?” Coomer asks, and damn it, he’s not supposed to be worried! Nobody is supposed to be worried for Bubby, not like this! He’s used to the medical kind of worry, where the other party’s concern was more for their career than Bubby himself, always talking about him like he couldn’t hear, ignoring his presence except for when they needed him. But Coomer…

Coomer was never like that. Even when he found out about the tube, and the prototypes, and the medical evals and everything… Coomer still loved him. Which meant the world to Bubby, who, for his whole life, thought himself unlovable. And when Coomer looked at him, he didn’t see something immoral that shouldn’t exist, or something that needs to succeed, lest it be cast out like the others, he just saw Bubby.

Bubby loves him. And he thinks he can afford to be a little less than a genius around Coomer.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Bubby admits, and damn it, why is the world suddenly blurry? He’s wearing his glasses and-

Oh.

Bubby realizes that he’s crying.

“Sorry, fuck,” Bubby chokes back a sob. Coomer squeezes his hand. He’s talking through his other hand, which is covering his entire lower face. “I’m not… Shit, I didn’t think it would go like this. I don’t know how to do a… date. I wasn’t supposed to do stuff like that, so they never programmed it into my head but… I just want to do normal person things like go on dates with you.”

“Normal?” Coomer remarks, and Bubby can see he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“Oh no, go ahead,” Bubby still manages to be snarky even while he’s breaking down. “Please make fun of me while I’m crying and being emotionally honest. It really helps.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Coomer at least has the decency to look apologetic. He reaches to hold Bubby’s other hand as well, which he is so graciously allowed. “It’s just… did you think I would be with you if I wanted normal?”

Bubby is taken aback.

Huh.

“I… suppose you’re right,” Bubby admits, and he can feel the worst of his feelings going away. It feels a little empty now, without it. “I do still want to try this date, though.”

The look Coomer gives Bubby is so wholesome and accepting that Bubby believes for a moment that he’s died and this is the face of an angel. It’s so powerful that he actually manages to forget, if heaven and hell are real, then he definitely isn’t going to heaven.

Coomer is happy to immediately launch into explanation mode. “Well, first things first, for a date, you should begin by talking.”

Bubby can’t help but smile at the man he loves. “Talking,” he repeats.

“Yes,” Coomer nods at him. “Tell me, Bubby. What do you want to talk about tonight?”

♡♡♡♡♡

It’s in the parking lot after their meal that Bubby comes to his conclusion about dating.

“I don’t see what the big deal about that was!” he rants as he and Coomer get into the car. “We could have done that at home! All the movies and stuff hyped it up.”

Coomer, thankfully, ignores his comment about movies. “Well maybe next time, we can just make some good food at home.”

Bubby rolls his eyes. “And who is going to make all that food? I don’t remember you being a chef, Harold.”

Coomer just beams at him. “We’ll order some takeout! What do you think? Perhaps next time we will order some Chinese food!”

This is the man he’s in love with, and Bubby smiles to himself. Chinese food sounds nice.

#hlvrai #half life vr but the ai is self aware #dr coomer #dr bubby #hlvrai boomer #my writing #like real people do

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dojae-huh · 4 years ago

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Merry Bossman

Vlive

First of all, if anyone knows how to access the full list of episodes via the site, please explain it to me. I can’t figure out the new layout. I know I can scroll to the next video, but that doesn’t help with the videos from previous years. And I prefer to watch vlives on my laptop and not the phone.

- Do starts the vlive with an old Boss chant, but only Mark gets on board right away. Interesting how he is able to instantly switch from his conversation with Lucas. Maybe he has a good practice with the Dream’s chant.

- Woo tried his own joke with the chant. An example of him not following Do as MC. He felt uncomfortable later, that his joke fell flat and he was ignored (the looking down and moveing of the jaw).

0:17 - Do moves in his seat, which prompts Jae to move as well. Yes, he did it to sit more comfortably and see Doyoung the comments, but he was stirred into action.

0:20 - Funny how Do heard Mark out, looking at him, but continued with his speech like nothing had happened. No deviation from his script. That’s how he subtly leads the programmes, he either allows ideas from other members to happen or dismisses them and comebacks to his own. Yeah, Mark also wasn’t happy about it (looked away to the wall, hit the armrests).

- Both Mark and Jungwoo like to be dominant/independant themselves, so sometimes they clash personalities with Doyoung. It smoothes out because he is their hyung, but stands in the way of them being very close with him.

0:42 - Everyone is doing whatever, Jaehyun nods in confirmation of “I’m listening”, when Do is looking at him.

- Jaehyun, on the other hand, is content with teasing Doyoung with “Chewing gum”. His face right after JaeMark impromptu. Ah, it one of those days...of fresh air.

1:48 - Lol, Jaehyun-ie. He actually can smooth out awkward moments and make transitions, when he pays attention and bothers. Heh, Doyoung jumped to join the singing like a wolf joins pack howling. Also see how Mark glanced at Jae, then Do to gauge how many people are singing and how loudly he can sing himself.

2:05 - Now that Doyoung had finished delivering the news about Taeyong and the spoiler about Boss performance, he can let other members change the conversation to other direction. He finally turns to pay attention to Lucas as well. I think Do slurs his words too much for Lucas and WW to follow what he is saying easily, so they drift away. Look at Do opening his mouth, making “I’m fully interested” face to encourage Lucas.

2:56 - Haha, drastic measures of silent NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME. Also, Do didn’t even notice he used Woo’s shoulder instead of the sofa’s back to push off. These small things can irritate some people. Do compensates by being otherwise very caring, but I can imagine some people having problems with this trait.

- Koreans noticed that when Do was talking about Mark ruining the surprise for Woo’s BD, he used Kim Jungwoo, Jaehyun-ie and Lee Mark. (Vid) He forgot to switch Jae’s name to a full one. Whipped culture.

3:38 - Jae softly repeats Mark’s “it’s very out of the blue” (coz you know, whipped).

Is “Just give it, give it” a joke about this moment?

- It’s funny listening to guys reminiscence about cold, frozen ears and toes, given that I grew up behind Polar circle and had to wait a few minutes for my fingers to warm up and be strong enough to turn a key and open the door, when I cameback home from school (only a 10 min walk). Warming up frozen fingers feel like they are in hot water, it’s pretty painful.

8:00 - This Jae picking his ear and looking at the dirt on his fingers reminds me of that time he picked his nose. 1% lacking

8:08 - That little twitch of Do’s lips as a reaction to Jae joking. Same as during the garlic breath joke and Jae drawing a heart on a notepad. Before Do begun to talk about WW’s stage he touched his brows and a laughed himself. It’s his “I shouldn’t bring it up, but it’s too funny to resist” expression.

Doyoung is in the room.

#anatomy of Jaedo #NCT2020 #JHDY2020 #Jungwoo is a master of memes #Lucas is Cas uri Cas #Mark is the golden child

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bythebigcoolingtower · 4 years ago

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Eye on Springfield - An Interview with Raymie Muzquiz

Since working on eighteen episodes of seasons two and three of the Simpsons, Raymie Muzquiz has enjoyed a strong, thirty plus years career in the animation industry, including directing eight episodes of Futurama’s second run. Here, Raymie talks about his spell on both shows, his other projects and the industry itself.

Let’s start at the start, how did you get into animation and end up at Klasky-Csupo?

In 1988-89, I was working for a movie trailer company. I was a production assistant and then a post coordinator for about 2 years. I learned a lot about film post production and worked on a flatbed editor, dubbing machines, etc. (all pre-digital). However, it was nonetheless a miserable, unartistic, poorly-paying job that laid bare all those awful “Swimming With Sharks”, fear-and-loathing tropes of the movie business. My boss was a horror. He’d yell at me about the dressing in his salad, or the variety of bread on the sandwich. I was his presumed personal assistant to deride. Yet he would shamelessly “lick the boots” of celebs and execs higher up the food chain. To this day, I cannot watch movie trailers. On the rare trip to a theater, I sit in the lobby and have my wife text me when the feature starts.

During this awful period I would look daily through the trades for another job. One day in the Hollywood Reporter there was an ad that included a picture of Marge (I think). Klasky-Csupo (just blocks from my apartment!) was looking to staff for Season 2 of The Simpsons. Since I storyboarded all my student films and some action sequences in live-action low-budget features at Roger Corman’s Concorde/New Horizons in the late 80’s. I applied for a storyboard position. What happened next gave me whiplash. I was given a test. Hours after turning the in the test I hired as a staff storyboard artist to start two weeks hence and immediately given a freelance assignment.

How did I get this plum position with zero experience? This requires some context. The Simpsons was an unexpected TV-animation phoenix rising from the ashes of a poverty-row industry. It is little exaggeration to say that the TV animation talent pool (as opposed to feature animation) consisted largely of old, alcoholic and broken-spirited artists doing Saturday-morning hack-work, subsuming their talent to low budgets and low cel counts. The necessary talent were simply nonexistent for this new, hip renaissance. The doors opened to the young, the students and the inexperienced like me; someone who didn’t go to art school nor drew for a living. It was a singular event for me. I was ignorant that there was even a difference between animation and live action storyboards. I was even naive about my drawing ability. Imagine my reaction when I saw trained artists draw in a professional environment. It blew my mind! My only saving grace was that as a live-action film graduate, I knew film language. I could stage without “crossing the line”. Scenes “cut” together and “hooked up” and I was staging in depth rather than in the traditional “proscenium” cartoon style. My acting was restrained, not broad or cartoony.

I did my first storyboard freelance while still at the trailer company. It was for Jim Reardon; his first directing assignment: Itchy & Scratchy & Marge in 1989.

Can you explain the work you did on the Simpsons?

Everybody probably knows what storyboarding is, so I’ll keep it short. It’s the visualisation of the script/story. It’s TV animation’s biggest step from script to screen. You are staging the characters in space and acting them out and breaking it up into separate scenes that informs the entire rest of the process. Design, layout, key posing, action and timing build off the storyboard.

When you were assigned to work on the show what were your thoughts? It was a phenomenon by that point.

The first season’s episodes of the Simpsons were being re-runned to death. I remember doubting if they’d successfully make more before the buzz died off. When I was hired I couldn’t believe my luck. The Simpsons was THE hip show of the moment. To actually be a creative team member on something fresh and original AND get paid more than beggar’s wages was like winning the lottery.

How closely did you work with the directors and writers, what kind of notes and feedback did you receive?

When I arrived for my first meeting, Mark Kirkland and Jim Reardon were crowded in a small room with folding tables, right off of reception. I believe they were both directing for the first time. Although I was already hired to work in-house, I had to give two weeks to my current, satanic employer, so I was assigned work as a freelancer. It was to board an act of Itchy & Scratchy & Marge by its director, Jim Reardon. Little did I know what I was getting into.

I never had to draw so much in my life! My drawing hand (left) was killing me in those early months. I had to develop a callous on the middle finger. They gave me the “radio-play;” an audio cassette of the recorded dialog to draw to and tons of model sheets.

I remember being overwhelmed by the volume. And you had to draw in these tiny boxes of the formatted storyboard page. I didn’t have that kind of discipline (I never did: I eventually developed a style of drawing on blank pages, then fielding and formatting them onto a page. Sometimes I scaled my drawings down on the xerox machine. I also drew on post-its (the greatest invention in animation after cels) and taped them onto the formatted sheet.

As this was freelance, I actually only met with Jim twice: Once for the hand-out and then again to show him my roughs. I vaguely remember him asking for changes that I thought were off-show (I’d seen all extant episodes multiple times on TV by then). Plus this was my first time and really had no expectations of what the process was.

But--he was the director--I addressed his notes and turned in the storyboard to the receptionist without further feedback. This almost became my undoing. In future, I would know the director should go over the storyboard and decide if it was ready, needed further revision or even just check the “bookkeeping”; the placement of dialog, notes and scene and page numbering before releasing it to the producers (all the Executives at Gracie Films across town). However--for whatever reason--this didn’t happen. It went directly from reception to Gracie. And evidently the executives didn’t react well. I was ignorant of all of this for years; until Mark Kirkland told me what happened...

The Executives were displeased with the storyboard and demanded to know what happened. Someone blamed it on the new guy (me!). So it was decided I had to be fired (before I even started my first day on staff)!

Did I get thrown under the bus? I can’t say. I wasn’t there. I am only relating events second hand.

Anyway, Mark Kirkland, who shared the room with Jim Reardon and was present during my meetings came to my rescue (again, completely unbeknownst to me). He vouched for my character and said I was worthy of rescue and rather than firing me, I could work with him.

So I have Mark to thank for my career. If I was fired, it would have been crushing and I think it’s safe to say I would never have become the artist I’ve become in the thirty plus years of my career.

What was the pressure like working on the show and at the studios during that time?

Because of my lack of experience, I found it difficult judging deadlines and the necessary labor (and just pencil mileage) to succeed. Plus I was traumatised by my previous job; I was conditioned to fear punishment and humiliation at anytime for something I did or didn’t do.

The climate at Klasky/Csupo couldn’t be more starkly different; so egalitarian! Everyone was socialising and goofing around. Gabor Csupo couldn’t be a more laid-back boss! Long lunches with side-trips for comic books and toys! Nerf guns in the hall. I shared a tiny room with two other board artists, Peter Avanzino and Steve Moore. They would both have to vacate the room for me to reach my desk in the far corner. We bantered and laughed more than worked. Celebrities would drop by (Most memorable was meeting Frank Zappa). There were events always going on; bowling, screenings and parties. And yet, a ton of thought and drawing was necessary; especially for me. I worried I couldn’t work as fast as other artists. I often had to work nights and weekends to meet my deadlines. However, there always were other artists doing the same thing; they may have been more experienced than me, but they were young and not so disciplined; so I was never alone. Plus, you never knew how off the mark your roughs could be and after a meeting with the director and Brad Bird, you might suddenly be looking at a ton of revision work. I also remember that Brad was busy weekdays and meetings could sometimes only be done on Saturdays. I simply had a lot to learn and time to put in to build my proficiency. And Brad Bird was very important influence in those days: I could be nervous and exhausted preparing for a meeting with him, but he’d so infect you with his enthusiasm and creative vision that you’d end up re-doing the whole thing but be excited about doing it. He emphasized the cinematic aspects and empowered us to be bold and push the limits of traditional animation staging.

You worked on some of the show’s early classics, could you tell from your position how the episodes would come out?

My next episode for Jim Reardon was “When Flanders Failed”. Because of the kerfuffle of the first episode I did for him, I was anxious to be as professional and impressive as possible. I thought the act I did showed improvement. However, the episode seemed to languish at some point (after animation?) and word got around that it was a bust and wouldn’t reach air. My memory is hazy about this, but I was bummed at the time; thinking my working relationship with Jim was snake-bit.

A season later, it eventually did air. I’m not giving a very good account of this, sorry.

“Flaming Moe’s” was an episode I was excited about. I remember Brad Bird suggesting some very exciting staging that turned my head around. Especially the part where Homer ends up--“Phantom of the Opera-ish”--in the rafters. I think that was a turning point for me; I was going to be a Brad disciple and determined to push the staging from then on.

“Stark Raving Dad”, is memorable to me, but not for a good reason. It was one of the last episodes I worked on; only doing an act. I remember being scandalized that Michael Jackson was the subject of the episode. Being a Simpsons purist, I believed that the show existed in a parallel universe and celebrities were parodied for laughs; it was too hip to be a shill for celebrity. There was no Arnold Swarzenegger, there was McBain. There was no Hal Fishman (our local channel 5 anchor), there was Kent Brockman. Dr. Hibbert was a parody of Bill Cosby. Mayor Quimby was a parody of Ted Kennedy. Even Nick Riviera was supposed to be Gabor Csupo! Having Michael Jackson exist in this universe and embodied in a sympathetic character (rather than a target of ridicule) was seriously “jumping the shark” in my opinion. I believed the show had done the unthinkable and it would prove fatal to the series.

Of course I was wrong. The Simpsons goes on like a perpetual motion machine. But I couldn’t abide watching this wise and subversive show trample over its principles to star-fuck. Now of course, which celebrity HASN’T been on the Simpsons. As you may well know, “Stark Raving Dad” has been pulled from the series since the premiere of the HBO documentary “Leaving Neverland”, giving some credence to my long ago objection: sometimes it bites you on the ass.

“Black Widower” was my swan song. I remember meeting Kelsey Grammer at the table read and being mesmerized by his voice. He sounded just like Orson Welles. The act I boarded included Bob and Selma’s honeymoon. I wanted to give the staging a Hitchcockian influence with deep-focus, Z-axis compositions (like looking out of the fireplace, across the gas burner to Selma and Bob) and my first-ever use of DX (double exposed) shadows to provide menace. I thought that was my best work of the series.

One of my favourite early episodes is ‘Homer at the Bat’ which you storyboarded. What are your recollections on working on it? Did you get any specific notes when it came to the players?

“Homer” was my third “at bat” (pardon the pun) with Jim. He’s a baseball fan as I am, but he also PLAYED Chicago-Style Softball (baseball with a huge, soft ball). I’m a baseball fan too, but I felt I’d be exposed a dilettante due to my terminal lack of athleticism. I was assigned all three acts of the show as well! I really had to be on my game (again, pardon) and not miss any of the references. I reluctantly took him up on his offer playing in one of the Chicago-Style games one Saturday in Burbank. It was a sacrifice as I had to work weekends to keep up with the workload of this episode. I went with a fellow board artist, who’ll remain unnamed (to remain friends).

It went terribly. At bat, I whiffed three pitches in a row, and Jim kept pitching more and more out of pity. I missed them all. He finally had to tell me to just give the bat to the next guy. In the outfield, I stunk just as badly. The piece-de-resistance was when my fellow board artist was at bat and swung hard on a pitch. He missed the ball AND dislocated his knee. I ran to him as he plopped down in agony onto home plate with his knee, shin and foot pointed in the wrong direction. “If my leg stays like this much longer, I think I’m gonna start crying,” he said through the pain. After a terribly long moment, his shin and foot rotated snapped back into place. We hobbled off the field as Jim and his pals resumed the game. Could things have gone any worse? I was certain that Jim had no faith in me by that time. If so, he never said it. He was a laconic guy.

I worked on it a hundred years ago so I don’t feel the pride I objectively should. The episode went against The Cosby Show and beat it in the ratings! There’s even an exhibit in The Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, that I wasn’t aware of until I went there. No artist other than Matt is mentioned. It’s all about the writers and the players who voiced the show.

I still have the storyboards of Jose Canseco in the bathtub with Ms. Krabappel that Jose objected to and we had to cut. I’ll post them someday.

How do you reflect on your time working on the show? Do you ever watch those seasons and episodes back?

See below for details; but no. I haven’t watched the episodes I worked on or those seasons for decades. I haven’t watched any episodes after the 3rd season at all. I did see the movie.

The relationship between Klasky-Csupo and Gracie Films finished at the end of the third season, when Gracie decided to move production to Film Roman, what was your view of that situation?

With the handwriting on the wall that Fox might pull The Simpsons from Klasky-Csupo, the in-house producer Sherry Gunther countered by getting all us artists to sign a document tying us exclusively to Klasky-Csupo in an effort to block Fox access to the crew. That gambit didn’t dissuade Fox. They pulled the show anyway and took it to Film Roman. At the time, I wanted desperately to follow the show, but naively thought I couldn’t because I was bound by Sherry’s contract. Virtually everyone left Klasky-Csupo for Film Roman anyways; contract be damned.

The studio became a ghost town. I stayed, distressed that I had to work on Rugrats. However, I eventually concluded that being torn away from The Simpsons was the best thing for my creative growth. Wherein The Simpsons was written so well, closely supervised and finding its stride, The Rugrats scripts were mediocre and the gags not funny. Rugrats was a vacuum to fill and I was empowered to add gags and exercise Gabor’s mandate to really push the staging into warped and low-angled baby POVs that defined the series. It lacked the regimentation of The Simpsons and I exposed to all the other processes in making cartoons. On the Chanukah special I directed, I timed the animation, I even helped direct the voice talent and supervise animatic and final edit.

The Simpsons, like many prime-time animated shows, are dominated by writer/producers who closely control the creative aspects and the artists are more or less staying in their lanes.

After the Simpsons you were assigned to work on ‘Duckman’ where you directed eight episodes, what was the step up to direction like?

I didn’t go directly to Duckman. There was a period of boarding on Rugrats and assistant directing on two Edith-Ann specials for ABC. It was a sad time, something like being in purgatory, but one which I believe was necessary in retrospect.

Speaking of being in purgatory, here’s an anecdote. Klasky-Csupo was a bunch of empty rooms after the Simpsons left. I was working on Edith Ann one day and Gabor was walking a tour of potential clients through. I showed them what I was doing and then Gabor directed them to the next room; opening a door to usher them in, various large and small auto parts suddenly tumbled noisily out onto the floor. A car bumper, pieces of trim, a fender and hub-caps.

You may ask why auto parts were in there? I’ll tell you: When Rich Moore worked there, his office overlooked the corner of Highland and Fountain avenues. Over time, he and his crew witnessed a lot of auto collisions on that corner. They would go and retrieve the parts left behind and hang them on the wall. Rich obviously left without taking his collection and somebody decided to hide them all in this room. Suffice to say, it didn’t look professional and I felt terrible for Gabor at that moment.

When I did become director, there was many moments of panic. I was used to storyboarding to my personal standard and quality that defined my aesthetic. Paradoxically, being a director meant losing close control. I had to depend on clearly communicating to the storyboard artists, quickly learning you can only tell artists so much before they “top-off” and forget what you said. No one took notes! It was all by memory! I always took notes as a board artist. A good board artist makes a director look good. There are far more mediocre storyboard artists than good ones; mainly because the good ones are promoted to directors (I feel the quality has improved over time). And I had to deal with freelancers for the first time. They are the guys that fill-in when there’s not enough staff artists. These people were usually moonlighting for extra money and end up storyboarding your show in the style of the show they were working on during the day. There just wasn’t enough time in the schedule to fix everything without working crazy hours. The Simpsons had layout. So storyboards didn’t have to be so precise and if something wasn’t staged right or acting out in storyboard, you could work with a layout artist in shorthand to correct it. Virtually my entire career has been absent layouts. They are very rare for TV nowadays. This makes the storyboard all the more important. The bar must be high; we call them “layout storyboards”; they need to be closer to model and the acting must be spot on.

Animation timing was also something I had to get control of; At first, Duckman didn’t have a supervising timing director, who could maintain the quality and the timing aesthetics particular to the show. It was up to the director to check timing. I had almost no experience and it was a new show. No one person had the answers. I could review the timer’s work (so often a dreaded freelancer) and I could see it wasn’t at all right and I’d wholesale erase it, but then I panicked that I might have done more damage than good; suddenly in over my head. It took time, but I got it.

I believe that the director who masters his x-sheets is true master of his show. I could add quality and personal aesthetics in a new dimension.

Does you background as a storyboard artist influence the way in which you direct?

Absolutely. In animation history, there were directors who didn’t storyboard or even draw. There were a few of these “dinosaurs” on Rugrats. They sat and read the paper when we boarded their shows. But because of the overseas process of animation and the loss of layouts here at home, if you are going to direct at all, you have to be comfortable drawing a detailed, informed layout storyboard. It is literally the blueprint of your show.

That said, I had to mature as a director who storyboarded. It was insane to try and board all my episodes personally, though directors will put some work aside for themselves, especially if its a sequence that would be too hard to delegate to another artist. If a sequence involves a new character, location or prop integral to the story, it may not be designed yet, so I’ll take it on and “feel it out;” designing as I board.

I had to learn how to be a good delegator and a clear communicator. I pitch sequences to the board artist before they begin and give them roughs of designs, poses or staging I think is important for the sequence. From my boarding experience, I don’t like directors who don’t tell you what they want until after you’ve drawn the storyboard. That wastes time and effort. And morale. I want the artists to know my take and hopefully that will inform the storyboard they do. I also know from my board experience that you should balance criticism with praise. Communicate what you like about how they do this and that before you go through critiquing the parts that aren’t working. Ultimately, you want to help the board artists be successful in storyboarding it their way, not my way. If it works, don’t change it just because it isn’t the way you’d do it. Lean into and support what they’ve done.

‘Duckman’ had a cavalcade of guest stars throughout the shows run, did you ever get to meet any of them, and if so, do you have a favourite encounter?

I was always of two minds regarding using live-action stars for animation. Yeah, it’s fun to meet them and some like Jason Alexander can knock-it-out-of-the-park, but sometimes this kind of “stunt casting” backfires. In my first episode, we used Crispin Glover in a stunt role as a crazed maniac with only one line. He showed up brandishing an eight inch hunting knife acting like a REAL maniac. Maybe it was method acting, but we were scared of him and got him in and out as fast as we could. His delivery didn’t work for the line and it spoiled the joke in my opinion, but it remained in the episode. If we used one of the legion of professional voice actors available, we could have worked with them for the perfect “voice” and delivery and nailed it.

We also used Teri Garr for an episode (not one I was directing) and I attended because I was a huge fan of hers. I got to see her behind the mike as she looked over her pages and said acidly, “This isn’t exactly Tolstoy, is it.” That is the opposite attitude you should have when you’re hired. She was soon pitching underwear afterwards...obviously not Tolstoy either.

So I’ll say it again: using celebrities can bite you on the ass.

Performances aside, I certainly did enjoy meeting legends. Carl Reiner played a priest in Noir Gang. Mind you we recorded in a small studio that was in the back of the Rugrats building that was essentially a cavernous storage room. Ed Asner looked visibly uncomfortable when we huddled around him in there. I’ll never forget the look on Marina Sirtis’ face when she arrived to record an episode. Me and a couple of other guys were laying in wait in this sketchy storage area eating our lunches. She was concerned: “is this the right place?” I felt like a lech and stopped going to records that I didn’t have to be at.

Overall, if the celebrity you’ve cast for a voice roll has theater experience, you are more likely to get a good vocal performance. Especially musical theater experience. They are more aware of their voice and have the tools. This goes for Jason and others like Tim Curry and Bebe Neuwirth; all great voice talent to have behind the mic.

You worked on the second run of Futurama, had you been a fan of the original seasons?

No. I didn’t watch the show before. I had to catch up and learn the “canon” when I was hired.

How did you get involved in working on Futurama?

The animating studio, Rough Draft, was something of a clique. They didn’t just hire “anybody” and unlike most studios, they maintain a staff of lifers who usually have the choice positions. I knew Peter Avanzino from our Simpsons days doing storyboards together, so he vouched for me. I was hired to direct on the 2nd season of Drawn Together. So they had a taste of what they could expect from me. I was no longer an unknown quantity when Futurama came around.

One of the eight episodes you directed was, ‘The Mutants are Revolting’, the shows hundredth episode. How special was it to work on such a landmark episode?

It had the most visibility of my episodes, at least internally. They made T-shirts and some publicity art and even the script had a nicer cover. But it was the episode with the most headaches. The scope of the story was huge with multiple set pieces. The opening newsreel, movie in a movie of the Land-Titanic, the asteroid delivery, the party at Planet Express, the riot in the sewers and the flood and “parting of the red sea” climax all required a ton of designs and characters; plus more hand-drawn and CG effects. That’s a lot to manage and marshall for a TV show. Most episodes don’t require the director to do this kind of heavy lifting. I find that when a show demands this much visually, the story ends up being more superficial, gag driven and episodic feeling. Such is the case for this episode. It was visually pumped up because it was representing the 100th episode; meaning I was saddled with managing lots of logistics rather than the usual character-based comedy and emotion of say, Tip of The Zoidberg, which is a relationship story that--as a director--I feel I give more time to flourish and shine with.

‘The Mutants are Revolting’ features some fantastic animation, most notably a brief sequence of Bender standing perfectly still as the Planet Express ship moves around him. Can you explain the challenges of a sequence like that?

That’s a good, insightful question. A shot like this shows off the resources Rough Draft has that aren’t available at just any other studio doing TV animation. The interior of the Planet Express Ship was built and animated in CG. At it’s gimbal point was a CG version of a stationary Bender; locked to field, but who’s feet move with the CG ship. Once the CG elements were approved, they were printed out as wire frame drawings printed onto pegged paper. My Assistant Director drew key poses of the characters on a separate layer in register with the CG print outs, old school on a light box animation disc. This all was sent to our overseas studio Rough Draft Korea for inbetweening and color of the characters only. That came back as an alpha-channeled digital file and layered over the CG animation in our digital compositing department.

Scott Vanzo runs the department and directs all the CG animation effects. I can’t remember who exactly built the interior of the PE ship and animated it, so I’ll rely on IMDb: Don Kim and Jason Plapp. But all the guys in the digital department do tremendous work and allowed us to fine tune a lot of animation (that doesn’t have CG in it); giving us the ability that raises the quality and takes the curse off of overseas animation limitations.

‘The Tip of the Zoidberg’ was nominated for a Primetime Emmy, how proud were you of that achievement and the episode itself?

The episode was one of my favorites; it was character focused and elaborating on canon so a director couldn’t ask for more. As for the Emmy nomination, it’s one of those show business awards that I realized early I can’t get emotionally vested in. The Futurama guys have a formula for figuring out which episode will be submitted. I think it has something to do with each writer getting a shot at the statue. And then from then on it’s just politics.

You’ve also done work on ‘Disenchantment’, giving you the distinction of having worked on all three of Matt Groening’s shows. What’s your relationship like with him?

I can’t help but laugh at this question. I’ve run into him twice out in public over the years and he didn’t recognize me. Once at the Moscow Cat Circus! But that humbling fact aside, he’s a genuinely nice, funny person devoid of pretence and he’s said some very complementary things about my work. However, it’s all business. Like virtually all primetime shows, he’s with the writers at their separate production office. Animation production takes place in a different geographical location. My face time is limited to usually 2-3 meeting points in a show’s schedule. Anything in between are fielded via emails routed through coordinators and assistants.

As well as short form animation you’ve been involved with several feature length productions, including ‘The Rugrats Movie’ and ‘Despicable Me’, what are the key differences between long from and short form animated projects?

I don’t think I’ve ever had a purely feature production experience. The Rugrats Movie(s) were spin-offs from TV series so some processes were grandfathered in from TV production. Despicable Me was truly off-the-wall in that the storyboard artists were working remotely from literally all over the world. No one met each other. I met with Chris Renaud once. I was not allowed to see the entire script, only pages here and there. It was called “Evil Me” at the time. I was truly working in the dark and ultimately, they didn’t use anything I drew. Which to me seemed par-for-the-course: this was one harebrained, inefficient, right-hand-doesn’t-know-what-the-left-hand-is-doing way to make a show. Again, I predicted it would fail. Again, I was wrong.

At the time I was working on Despicable Me, Gru looked like Snape from Harry Potter and there were no minions yet, just an “Igor” kind of 2nd banana that was a shorter version of the final Gru design.

So my takeaway from those experiences is that I prefer TV production. You don’t have the luxury of a feature schedule, but there is less time for executives to get replaced, sundry monkey-business and creatives pulling the rug out from under you. However, TV is catching up in those regards. See below.

Do you have a scene or episode you’re particularly proud of working on?

I feel fulfilled and proud of directing and being supervising producer on Hey Arnold: The Jungle Movie. I was empowered to work in every aspect of the process and benefit from my experience to make it the smoothest running ship and happiest crew ever. Only at the very end did the executives get into overdrive meddling. But it ran well and looked good. It may not be as funny as my prime time stuff, but I think we elevated the material across the board; writing, design, animation quality. And it was a project put in mothballs 15 years before being resurrected. So it completes me in a way.

Ultimately, I believe work is about relationships and quality of life. The shows where you were empowered and respected and not overworked due to inefficiency are the shows I’m proud to work on. As Jim Duffy would always say, “It’s only a cartoon.”

Often sequences are cut or revised before broadcast. Do you have any favourites that didn’t make it in?

If I had, I’ve forgotten them.

What are the biggest changes you’ve seen in the industry over your time and what do you think the next big change will be?

The trend seems to be as I get better and more efficient at my job, creators and writers (especially in streaming prime-time) are becoming more entitled, indecisive, mecurial and demanding. As processes have evolved in digital technology, we’ve opened the door for those in power indulging in more rewrites, revisions, reviews, etc. Despite the technical advancements, animation remains expensive and time intensive and good artists (especially in TV) have to work intelligently and diligently on tight schedules to produce funny, inspired, detail-oriented work. Rewrites and revisions burn out artists and make us feel like office machines and though our overlords pay for the last minute re-dos, they are often throwing out higher quality work for patchwork revisions that lower the overall quality of a show.

Who inspired you as a young animator and who do you look to now?

Ironically, I never saw myself becoming an animator. I did do some stop-motion on Super 8 as a kid. But that was because I didn’t have access to peers to act and help. What inspired me were live action directors with strong, individual styles: Orson Welles, Stanley Kubrick, Peter Greenaway and Terry Gilliam. I think of these guys in essence as “live-action-animation directors”. The stylization in their sequence planning, shot selection and composition as well as how production design integrates in their storytelling reminds me of how background design and art direction naturally occur in animation production.

I’m sure there are new visionaries out there, but I’ve become so disenchanted with modern cinema, I rarely see new movies anymore. I find streaming TV much more interesting. Current movies strike me as self-consciously mannered and hyperactive. I find it endlessly fascinating looking back into cinema history before movies had to begin with three or four production company logos whooshing noisily about.

What advice would you give to people looking to break into the animation industry?

I’ve seen an improvement in the college educated animation students over the years. They seem to be of a higher intellectual standard than before. They aren’t as thrown by the rigors of schedule and they ALL can draw circles around me.

Be original in your own work, but also be a craftsman (as opposed to purely an artist) who can take criticism neutrally and have the tools to fit in the grand scheme of a show that might challenge your personal aesthetics.

Denis Sanders, a directing teacher I had in college said the director’s job is to be “an expert at all things”. In animation, that translates into intellegently knowing what to draw. If a character is looking under the hood of a car, know what an internal combustion engine looks like and what reasonable pieces you can have your character toss out of said engine. The distributor, the carburettor. Find and use reference! Go that extra step and inform your work with the texture of reality.

Don’t regurgitate old tropes. A trite example of what I’m talking about: If a character is peeking at another, avoid the obvious keyhole in the door trope. Keyholes aren’t in doors anymore. It’s been a cliche from the beginning of cinema. Rather, crack the door open, slide your cellphone under the door, look through a window or punch a hole in the door and look in. Like I said, this is a trite example, but making non-obvious choices rather than knee-jerk non-choices makes cartoons fresh and funnier.

What animated shows do you currently watch and what’s your opinion on the current state of animation?

It’s a terrible admission, but I’m not watching anything in animation. There’s a lot of animation that seems to be just writer-driven, animated live-action sit-coms. There isn’t a reason for them to be animated. Those are the kind of jobs I get offered a lot. It seems like a more trouble than it’s worth.

Who are some young animators you think we should be looking out for?

Gosh, I don’t know.

What projects are you currently working on?

I’m productively unemployed at the moment.

Where can people follow you on social media?

I only do tumblr: mashymilkiesinc.tumblr.com

#The Simpsons #Futurama #Eye on Springfield #Raymie Muzquiz #Not tall or wide

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stemmmm · 5 years ago

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An Animation-Term and Keyword List For People Who Haven’t Studied Animation

I’ve decided it’s time to put my BFA in animation to use and share with you all about 40 terms I could get off the top of my head that I’ve seen confusion and misconceptions about.

If you know a term that was missed here, feel free to add a definition or ask for one!

Animation (in this context) -- The act of taking a series of images and putting them in a sequence next to each other which is then viewed in rapid succession, thus giving the images the illusion of movement.

Anime -- The Japanese word for “animation”. This term is often used to refer to the style of drawing in the west, but it literally ONLY means “animation”.

Animatic -- Unfinished visuals and audio cut together into a watchable video format. This is NOT another word for short animation. An animatic would use visuals from a storyboard rather than rough or finished animation

Anticipation -- A slower movement made by a character to lead into action. This is used to great effect in comedy animation and in games like Dark Souls. The posing and buildup makes you expect something is going to happen.

Cel -- A tool for animating. Traditionally, this is a sheet of clear plastic that a frame of animation is drawn on and painted color is applied to. These are set on top of background images and photographed so they can be used in the final animation. The term can also be applied to hand-drawn digital animation. Pre-digital nearly everything was animated in this fashion, like Bugs Bunny cartoons or classic Disney movies. Some Japanese animation is still done like this, but the move to digital has only recently begun there.

Claymation -- A branch of stop motion animation, it is when moldable clay is shaped, photographed, and reshaped in a manner that gives it the illusion of movement.

CGI -- Stands for Computer Graphics Imagery. Any image that is generated by a computer. This applies to all digital artwork, even 2D, but is most commonly used to refer to 3D images created by a computer.

2D -- Flat images such as those you would draw on paper. They have height and width but no depth.

3D -- Images with height, width, and depth. Computer generated images and physical sculptures fall under this category. 3D computer animation and stop-motion animation are 3D.

3D Computer Animation / 3D Animation -- Animation done on a computer specifically using 3D software to either give the image more depth or to make it look more lifelike. It is made by creating digital sculptures of characters which a “rig” is attached to which gives the animator the ability to move the sculpture like a puppet. If you say 3D animation, people will know you are referring to computer animation. Most American movies in the past decade are or include 3D animation.

Digital -- Any animation done on a computer. This applies to 3D animation, 2D graphic animation, and hand drawn animation done on a computer. Most animation has moved to digital formats because of computers ability to automatically in-between--thus saving large amounts of work. Computers also eliminate the need to physically store easily lost or damaged piles of paper and film, and they eliminate the need to manually photograph individual animation frames.

Flash -- Refers to the now mostly defunct Adobe Flash program which gave animators the ability to turn 2D drawings into puppets that could be animated. The similar Adobe equivalent is now called animate. It popularized a style of puppeted animation similar to paper cutouts in a digital format, but while it is known for that, it can be used for hand drawn animation as well. This puppet style of animation has improved dramatically since it’s beginning in Flash, and the same (or similar) technique is used by people who animate with programs like Toon Boom. Shows animated in flash include Johnny Test and My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic.

Frames -- A single image as part of the whole animation. A picture of a cel on a background would be one frame.

Frame rate/ Frames per second -- How quickly the frames are played back for the viewer. Film standard is 24 FPS, or 24 frames played in rapid succession for the duration of 1 second. Games often play at 30-60 FPS to aid reaction time.

1′s and 2′s -- To animate something on “1′s” means to create 24 distinct frames to play for a full second. 24:24, or, just 1. 2′s--also known as 12FPS--similarly means you do half that amount of work. 24:12. Most things are animated at 12FPS because it is less work and accomplishes approximately the same thing as animating on a full 24 frames. Animations at these rates are still played at 24FPS. Contrary to popular belief, classic Disney movies are mostly animated on 2′s.

3′s and 4′s and so on -- Like 1′s and 2′s, but less. 8 and 6 FPS respectively. These rates are used more commonly in television than movies, but even then rarely. 3′s and 4′s most often exist in conjunction with 1′s and 2′s to both save work and give the animation more expression. These are also always played at 24FPS. Studio Trigger most notably animates like this.

Hand-Drawn -- Animation that is fully drawn by hand and does not involve manipulating a puppet character. Traditional 2D animation is hand drawn, Flash animation isn’t.

Hold -- When a frame or pose lasts longer than normal. A hold can be completely still or have slight movement. They are used to break up action and very often used to create anticipation of an action.

In-between -- Frames that connect the action happening between keyframes. They change something from a set of poses to actual animation.

Keyframe -- Important frames in the animation, often major poses in an action. These are sometimes taken from storyboards but not always.

Meaningful animation -- Or animation with intent. Parts of an animation that were specifically made to do a certain thing. This comes up in discussions about higher frame rates and whether or not they matter to a work. An action that could be expressed in 8 frames played at 24 FPS does not necessarily need 24 frames, because the additional frames provide too much visual input, could be drawn more poorly, or are a waste of time to do. A computer generated tween is not always meaningful because it was not always intended to exist by the animator. The frames generated when you take an animation at 24FPS and modify it to be 60FPS are not meaningful.

Mocap/ Motion Capture -- When a person wears a silly suit with little balls or other markings on it and acts around a stage, that is for motion capture and animation reference. Motion capture tracks a persons movement and can apply it to a 3D rig, but it is not perfect so animators are still needed to correct the movements and make it work in the final product. This is used in many live action movies that feature CGI and notoriously in The Polar Express.

Mograph/ Motion Graphics -- This is the animation style used in many commercials, how-to explainer videos, and animated company logos. This is the lovechild of graphic design and animation. It is most often 2D, sleek, and heavily design focused as opposed to character focused. Most often made in Adobe After Effects.

Paper cutout -- A form of stop motion animation where pieces of paper are placed on a flat surface and photographed from above. This can be done with light from the front to see the full detail of the paper, or back lighting to give it the effect of shadow-puppetry. The first animated film was done in this style.

Pre-production -- Work that is done before something is animated. Includes character designs, environment designs and layouts, scripting, storyboards, audio recording, and anything else necessary to have done before you begin the arduous process of animation.

Post-production -- Anything that needs to be added after all pre-production and animation is finished. It includes editing everything together, adding effects, and whatever else must be done before you can call something “finished”.

Procedurally Generated Animation -- This is animation made entirely in a computer through use of algorithms. Used more often in games than anything else. Animations are generated in real time to create more variety in the movement. It allows for things that can’t be done with pre-made animations like making characters feet land and/or slip on rocks or track their head and eyes to look at something.

Puppet Rig/ Rig -- A skeleton applied to any type of puppet you want to animate. 3D and puppeted stop motion animations both use this, though in stop motion it is more likely called an armature. 2D animations like Flash animations also use these

Onion Skin -- A 2D animation term. In traditional animation, a person works on paper over a light table which shines light through the paper and lets them see the frames they’re animating between. In digital animation, you press a button and the onion skin will display in either a lighter color or different hue the frames in front of or behind where you’re working to a point you can set and adjust. It’s called onion skin because peeled onions are transparent.

Reference -- Looking at something from life to base your work on. If you are animating a flying bird, you need to know how their wings move, so you need to watch birds or maybe film them and play it back slowly so you can see the small details. Animation since Snow White has used life action reference heavily, many old animated movies were fully acted out and recorded before they were animated. Movies today don’t do that much, but animators will record themselves acting out scenes they’re working on to capture body language and lip sync. Reference is not tracing or rotoscoping, but it can be.

Rotoscope -- Animation drawn directly over life action footage. This is reference to it’s extreme, because the drawings do not take inspiration from the movements so much as they are an exact recreation. It is often easily noticed for the higher framerate it often has and for having movement unnatural to animation. Unless the character is heavily stylized, rotoscoped animation often looks strongly like real people. 2D animation traced over 3D animation is not rotoscope. Motion capture is also not rotoscope. Many classic Fleischer films had rotoscoped sequences and Anastasia is known for it’s heavy use of the technique.

Rough Animation -- Animation in it’s early stages, it may not be fully in betweened, but even if it is, it isn’t cleaned up or finished. Drawings in the rough stage are often messy and incomplete so it is easier to throw out frames and replace them.

Rough Cut -- The next step from an animatic. A rough cut contains all finished and unfinished work as a preview of what the final product can be. They can have any combination of animatic materials, rough animation, and finished work.

Stop motion -- Animation of physical objects on a set, photographed one frame at a time. Covers everything from claymation, to paper cut outs, to puppets, and more. More prominent in early film as visual effects before that became what it is known as today. The most popular form is puppet animations like those done by Laika studios.

Storyboard -- A sequence of rough drawings paired with script that dictate what will happen in an animation. These are not keyframes for animation, nor should they themselves be animated.

Timeline -- In digital animation, this is the bar that holds the individual frames in sequence so they can be played and viewed as you work. You can also stretch the frame length to last longer or shorter, hence “time”.

Traditional (Cel animation) -- Earliest form of 2D animation, the same as hand drawn animation only it’s done on physical paper. The terms are blurred together however, so when talking about traditional animation you may need to specify whether it’s on paper or digital.

Tweens -- Computer generated in-between frames. Applies to 3D animation, but most often refers to puppet rig 2D animation like flash animations. Often used as a derogatory phrase, as computer generated frames can lack the visual appeal of hand made ones. Tweens move extremely smoothly and evenly from pose to pose, which is the tell of a puppet rigged animation.

VFX -- Stands for visual effects. They are effects applied to a film in post-production that can be CGI or not, but are very often CGI. Includes aspects such as explosions, weather effects, background details, cleanup, etc.

#animation #artist tips #art #art tips #m.txt #m.edu

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flyingkiki · 4 years ago

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Curiosity, Chapter 8

Well, this got interesting. *looks around nervously*

“Mary Johnson, 46, born in Steel City, her family moved to Gotham when she was seven. Her father, Chester Johnson, was a real estate agent who was reassigned to Gotham. He died of cancer when she was 12. Her mother, Francine, eventually remarried a couple of years later to a guy name Carl Tomson. The three of them lived a pretty straightforward life. Mary has been in Gotham ever since, never moved once. She’s a veterinarian, owns a local practice in downtown Gotham and has zero bad reviews on Yelp. She likes animals, enjoys spending her weekends at the park, catching the latest movies at the cinema, and bowling,” Tim paused as he looked at the Batcomputer. Throwing both Raven and Bruce a wry grin he shrugged. “I pulled the last bit out of her Tinder profile.”

Raven crossed her arms and cocked her head to the right, and gave Tim an amused look. Bruce made a dismissive sound at the back of his throat. Switching her gaze to the smiling middle aged woman with ash-blonde hair, green eyes and horn-rimmed glasses, Raven found it hard to believe that this woman was a die-hard follower of the Church of Trigon. She looked more like a mother from a Sunday school.

“Apparently, aside from her interests in animal care and parks, Mary seemed to have a keen interest in the occult. In her junior year of college, she heard of a cult that was gaining popularity among the underground scene in Gotham. Long story short, Mary met Brother Blood, joined the church, and helped him grow the church, and prepared whatever it took to summon Trigon onto earth,”

Raven frowned and stared at the pictures of police reports that appeared on the Batcomputer. “How come she was never caught? We never saw her when the Titans took down Brother Blood,”

Tim’s brows furrowed a bit and his blue eyes swept over the huge screen in front of them. “She somehow escaped capture when the Titans took down the church. When all records were in custody, there was no record of a Mary Johnson anywhere in the church,” Tim replied. He pressed a few more keys on the computer. “Just a Lilith Morningstar.”

“Of course,” Raven pushed herself away from the railing she was leaning against with a loud huff of annoyance. Folding her arms across her chest, she walked up to the computer and looked at the grainy image of a middle aged woman dressed in a black robe looking at something off camera. Leave it to the fanatics to take on aliases related to Satan. “Wife of Lucifer,”

“She used Lilith as her alias all throughout her time with the Church of Trigon,” Bruce said. “Explains why there is no trace of her.”

Tim nodded. Typing on the computer, he pulled up pictures of Mary – Lilith – from different locations throughout Gotham and with varying timestamps throughout the span of 20 years. “I’ve run a face recognition scan through the city’s CCTV network. She’s been frequenting a couple of old bookstores and underground locations that are more popular among occultists,” explained Tim.

Raven stared at the multiple reports and images blown up on screen. She turned to Tim with a surprised look on her face. She knew that Tim was an excellent detective, but she did not know that he was that good. Didn’t he say earlier that he was up at three in the morning? “You pulled up all of this information at three in the morning? How are you even awake?”

Tim waved his coffee mug at her and grinned as he heard Raven snort softly at him. “Sleep is for the weak,”

Bruce frowned, ignoring the banter and keeping his eyes focused on the screen. “Do we know why she is trying to recreate Trigon’s summoning?”

“From what we gathered she wants to finish what Brother Blood has started,” said Raven. “The church promises that Trigon will purge the world and offer them sanctuary. His followers will live in his cleansed world with everlasting life.” She frowned and folded her arms tighter over her chest. “Or so the promise goes,”

“This is the warehouse district Frank mentioned,” said Tim as he pulled up an image of an old rundown warehouse. “I’ve been tracking movements within the district and within the last 48 hours, there’s been only one person who entered one of these warehouses,”

They watched as hooded person appeared of screen and walked up to one of the old warehouses. The figure opened one of the old rusty doors and slipped through them. “Whoever that was stayed there for a 68 minutes before leaving again but this time they got a companion heading out,” Tim sped up the video and they watched as two figures stepped out of the warehouse and walked off screen. Tim paused the video and looked over his shoulder at Raven and Bruce. “That’s one empty church, if you ask me,”

Bruce frowned and stared at the screen. “Pull up the underground layout of the district. Check if there are any underground structures or tunnels under that warehouse,”

Tim hummed and typed in a few commands. “Way ahead of you, B. Oracle and I pulled up the plans up underneath the warehouse. There’s a tunnel system that’s about a 600 meters deep and leads to a bigger hall with a couple of rooms,”

Raven frowned and stared at the blueprint. A chill ran down her spine and her fingers dug into her arms. She suppressed whatever memories that bubbled dangerously under her steely resolve. “Probably one of the older church halls from Brother Blood’s time,” she said.

Switching to the blueprint of the main warehouse, Tim pulled up details of each point of entry. “There’s a couple of windows at the east and west wing of the warehouse, if we enter from the forest side tonight. There are beams and parts of the roof that caved in, that provide good enough coverage for us,” Tim began to play through the structural details of the warehouse. “Entrance to the underground hall is somewhere to the northwest of the warehouse, we’ll have to find it – it should be likely hidden in the flooring or through a door in the back wall,”

Tim continued to pull up a few more plans and live footage of the warehouse. “I’ve programmed the system to send out an alarm for any movement in the area. Oracle is doing another structural scan so we have a better idea of the underground layout.”

Bruce nodded, satisfied with the details presented. “We’ll head out tonight during patrol,” He offered Raven and Tim a brief look. “Good job you two,”

Raven titled her head at Bruce, lips quirking slightly. “Tim was the one who barely slept,”

Tim chuckled and waved his hand absently. “Who needs sleep?”

“Someone who is going head on with a group of people who have a knack at summoning inter-dimensional demons,” Raven rolled her eyes and sent him an amused smile.

“Concerned?” Tim grinned swiveled his chair in her direction. He threw her an amused grin.

Raven made a dismissive sound and turned on her heels. She ignored the brush of his emotions against her. Sending Bruce a quick glance, she stuffed her hands into her (Tim’s) hoodie. “I’m going to do some reading and meditate. I’ll see you later tonight?”

Bruce nodded. He checked his watch and pushed himself away from the railing he was leaning against. “Right. Tim and I have a board meeting. We’ll be back before dinner and we can discuss plans before we leave for the warehouse.” Turning to Tim he eyed him expectantly. “Better get ready, we leave in 10,”

“Board meeting before we take down a church that summons inter-dimensional demons. Bruce Wayne keeps a very interesting social calendar,” Raven sent Bruce an amused smile as she passed him on her way out of the cave.

Not waiting for a reply, she slipped out of the cave and silently walked through the hidden pathway that connected the cave to the manor. Emerging through one of the hidden doors in one of the many sitting rooms in the manor (why Bruce had so many was beyond her), Raven towards the library. After the morning briefing, she didn’t feel particularly hungry for breakfast anymore. She hoped Alfred would understand.

Picking up some of the books she and Tim had been reading over the last few days, she slipped into the deeper corners of the library away from their usual reading space and settled into one of the reading corners at the back of the library. She needed some secluded alone time for herself. Settling into the plush reading chair, Raven pulled her feet under her and comfortably leaned back. Exhaling softly, she tried to release the tension that had settled around her shoulders.

Cracking open the book she had been reading, Raven tried to focus on the text in front of her. However, after rereading the same paragraph five times and still not understanding a single word from the passage, she closed it with a frustrated sigh and closed her eyes. Her head thrummed softly, a whisper of a headache crawling under her skull.

Raven was fairly certain that they’d be able to see this little ragtag church of her father’s at work tonight. From what they gathered so far, they stood a fairly good chance to put an end to this circus by tonight. A few words from the text swam in front of her eyes, sacrifice, death, gem, and she knew that there was absolutely no need for her to read anything more about the Church of Trigon – she already knew everything there was.

Folding her legs into a lotus position and placing the book into her lap, Raven’s fingers curled absently into the old tome. The edged of the book bit into her fingers, grounding her. Her mind reeled briefly as hot, stifling fire consumed her thoughts. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the chanting, Scath, Scath, Scath, and a distant strangled cry. She felt the sickeningly familiar text of Scath dance across her skin and singe her flesh. The curved script pressed into her arms and legs, and slowly burned her torso. Her lungs burned from the heat of fire all but consuming her –

“We need the gem.”

Raven inhaled sharply, allowing cool air to fill her parched lungs, and she quickly opened her eyes, eyeing her surroundings wildly for a brief second. She pushed the tome out of her lap involuntarily and sunk heavily into the plush cushions to calm herself down. A wave of irritation hit her as she thought of how easily the church got under her skin. She should have a better handle over the situation.

Closing her eyes and seeing the fire burn at the back of her eyelids, Raven sore she was going to burn the church to the ground tonight.

Getting into a comfortable lotus position, Raven exhaled softly and slipped into her meditative trance. This should help her ground herself and prepare her for later tonight.

She’ll be fucking damned before Lilith would get the best of her.

“Raven?”

Purple eyes snapped open sharply and quickly focused on Tim as he stood at a safe distance away from her. Feeling like the last dredges of Nevermore slip away from her consciousness, Raven blinked at Tim, who looked like he came fresh from work as he was still dressed in a business suit. How long had she been meditating?

“Alfred says you haven’t had breakfast or lunch,” Tim crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her curiously. “It’s past three in the afternoon,”

“Oh,” Raven breathed softly and unfolded her legs under her. Her leg muscles tingled from being kept in the same position for so long. “I didn’t notice the time,”

Tim tilted his head and watched Raven arrange some of the books in front of her on the table. “Alfred wasn’t sure if he could interrupt you for lunch,”

“Hmm,” Raven hummed softly. She threw him an amused look. “And you could?”

Tim chuckled softly and uncrossed his arms, visibly relaxing. “Well, I can dodge whatever attack you might throw at me a lot faster than Alf,”

Raven eyed Tim in his suit skeptically. It was ridiculous had good he looked in a suit – how come he did not walk around in a suit more often like Bruce did? Seriously. Bruce Wayne’s adult children could fit into a Men’s Health magazine easily – they probably did at one point. “I’m not sure you can in that suit,” she teased.

Tim snorted ungracefully, putting his public image as CEO of Wayne Enterprises to shame. He watched her stand up from the couch and pick up a book from the floor. “You’d be surprised what I can do in this suit,” he said playfully and threw her a grin. Raven released a small bark of laughter and Tim blinked as his brain finally caught up with him. “Okay, that sounded wrong.”

Raven hummed softly, trying to hide her smile as she gathered the books she had been trying to read earlier. Moving around the table with the books in hand, she joined Tim by the end of the bookcase aisle. “I’m a bit hungry. Do you think Alfred would mind if we get something to eat now before dinner?” she asked.

They began walking through the old bookshelves filled with old books. “He asked me to get you to eat something. I want you to eat something,” Tim told her. He shot her a concerned look when she did not respond. “Is everything okay?”

Raven stopped and looked at him curiously. “Everything is okay.”

Tim crossed his arms and stood in front of her, looking down at her with a calculating eye. “You missed breakfast and lunch. You at the very least would have had some tea. You’d rather not make Alfred worry by missing his meals. You walked off right after our morning briefing. And you ignored the messages I sent you today,” He raised an eyebrow at her and titled his head just a fraction of an inch. “Shall I continue?”

“Stalker much?” Raven pressed the books against her chest and raised her eyebrow in challenge.

Tim shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly. “I’m a keen observer.”

Raven rolled her eyes playfully at him. When she saw that Tim’s gaze was unrelenting and he was expecting an answer from her, she sighed softly. “Look, it’s nothing. This whole case has been getting under my skin and it’s just frustrating me,” she replied. She looked away from Tim and purposefully stared at some of the old books a couple of rows down as she felt her skin crawl unconsciously. “I thought I was done dealing with my father and his henchmen. The idea of someone else trying to do what Brother Blood did just throws me off. I told you last night, it just gives me bad memories,”

Tim’s drawn eyebrows relaxed and he looked at her with concern. “Hey,” he said and gently placed his right hand on her tense shoulder. “We’ll get this done tonight, no more Church of Trigon and no more crazy followers trying to summon inter-dimensional demons. We’ll get this done for your mother, I promise,”

Raven looked up at Tim and felt his warm emotions brush against her. She sighed softly and relaxed her shoulders. He was right, they would get everything in order tonight and this would be all over. She threw him a small smile. “Thanks,”

“Excellent,” Tim beamed and he took a small step towards her. “I for one want this over and done with so I can take you out on a date after this. You’ll go on a date with me, right?”

Tim knew that whatever was going on between him and Raven was still pretty new. And while he knew that Dick was going to beat his ass for starting a relationship with one of his teammates (because getting this close to each other was definitely not part of the mission plans), Tim absolutely knew that he wanted to spend more time with Raven, even if it meant if he had to spend time in Jump once in a while. He could at least take her one date in Gotham before she had to go back to Jump – and then they’d have to figure something out from there. Would she even –

“You think way too loudly, Tim,” Raven raised an amused eyebrow at him. The corner of her lips raised lightly in amusement.

“Oh,” Tim released a breathy chuckle, embarrassed. Of course, Raven was an empath. He chuckled sheepishly and absently ran a hand through his long hair.

“I’m a boring date,” Raven said, tilting her head just a little bit at him. She felt the familiar press of his emotions against her and she silently sought more of it.

Catching her teasing tone and easily feeling the atmosphere shift around them, Tim laughed softly and crowded her personal space. Dropping his gaze to her lips, he ducked his head just a little bit to level her gaze and he watched in satisfaction as her eyes widened a fraction of an inch and her breath caught in her throat. Gently cupping her jaw, he drew her closer and he smiled.

“You’re anything but boring, Raven,” Tim whispered softly to her.

Raven felt that familiar, satisfying purr of emotions inside of her as Tim’s warm emotions practically wrapped themselves around her. Her eyelids dropped softly and she watched as Tim hovered so close to her. “Oh?”

As Tim crowded her space, Raven felt herself get drugged by the delicious press of their emotions. The familiar smell of sandalwood overwhelmed her senses and Raven felt the all too familiar press of lips against her own. Humming softly in satisfaction, she gently leaned into the kiss, silently asking for more.

Somewhere in the back of her mind Raven wasn’t sure how she’d ever be able to explain to Dick, her team leader who had 100% faith in her that she would not fuck this mission up, that she had somehow completed the mission he had asked her to work on and come back with a potential relationship with his brother. She wasn’t sure if she was overachieving or asking for trouble. She faintly wondered what Batman would think.

But that, like her earlier worries over Lilith and her father’s church, did not seem to matter right now as Tim continued to kiss her. Raven felt the gentle swipe of his thumb against her cheek as he titled her chin to get better access. The kiss was gentle and needy, nothing like this morning’s hot and frenzied kisses. Theses kisses warmed her body and had her seeking for more.

Tim gently pulled back and inhaled softly, relishing her tantalizing scent of lavender. Staying within her personal space, he stroked her cheek once more and smiled as he watched her hooded eyes look up at him. “So?” he whispered gently. “Is that a yes?”

Raven blinked through the haze and gave Tim a confused look, which he thought looked cute. “Hmm?”

Tim chuckled and offered her a smile. “A date. Tomorrow?” Grinning triumphantly, he tucked a few stray strands of purple hair behind her ear and pulled away fully. “I take that as a yes?”

Taking in the twinkle in his blue eyes, Raven teasingly quirked the corner of her lips up at Tim. “Careful, you’re getting cocky,” she teased and slipped out of his arms. Side stepping him, she threw a small smile at him over her shoulder. “Will you wear a suit again?”

Tim’s eyes widened in amusement as he watched her walk towards their reading table and drop off the books she was carrying. Tim was sure he was imagining the light sway of her hips as she walked towards the table. He grinned brightly at her as they resumed walking out of the library. Giving her a sly grin, he leaned into her just as they were about to exit the library. “So you like the suit?” his voice held a playful tone in it.

Raven snorted and nudged him away with her shoulder. “It looks nice,”

Tim threw her another teasing grin. “You said I looked nice, I’ll remember this,” he said with a lilt in his voice.

Raven rolled her eyes at Tim in mock annoyance but secretly enjoyed the attention. “I said the suit looks nice,” she replied as they entered the kitchen. “Don’t put words into my mouth,”

“That’s what she said,” Tim grinned.

Raven narrowed her eyes at Tim in warning as they caught sight of Alfred standing dutifully over two steaming mugs and a plate of, in Raven’s opinion, the most beautiful sandwiches she had ever seen. Cyborg would be jealous. Stopping by the kitchen island, she offered Alfred a small smile.

“Miss Raven, you missed breakfast and lunch. I am glad that Master Tim was able to convince you to finally have something to eat,” Alfred sent her a stern look as he watched the two settle by the kitchen island.

Raven offered Alfred an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Alfred. I must have lost track of time,”

Alfred looked unimpressed, obviously having heard the same excuse throughout his lifetime at the Wane Manor. “I’ve prepared some light sandwiches for you, these should tide you over until dinner before you all head out. This family has a tendency to forget the essentials of partaking in meals on time before breaking up deadly crime rings,” blinking at the pair once, Alfred continued. “I expect you all for dinner later before you decide to put an end to a church that summons inter-dimensional demons. It’s a terrible idea to go out on missions on an empty stomach,”

Not waiting for their reply, Alfred stepped away from the kitchen island. After brushing off some imaginary lint from his right sleeve of his suit, he straightened and cast them a long look. “Now if you will excuse me, I will tend to our garden before starting dinner,”

Raven watched Alfred step out of the kitchen before staring at Tim with a surprised look. She watched Tim take one of the beautiful cucumber sandwiches. “Is he always like that?” she asked while watching him take a bit out of a sandwich. “That’s mine,”

“Since I was a teenager,” Tim shrugged and gave her an amused smile, completely ignoring her and picked another small sandwich. “He’s made it a mission to get Bruce and everyone else to eat on time,”

Raven plucked one of the cucumber sandwiches from the tray and took a bite. Her stomach churned painfully after finally getting something into it. She forgot how hungry she really was.

“Where’s Bruce?” she asked Tim, giving him a curious glance. She took a sip of Alfred’s special English tea which Raven had come to enjoy over the past few weeks. She faintly wondered if Alfred would be kind enough to share the recipe with her.

Tim nursed his cup of coffee and picked up another small sandwich from the platter. “Wrapping things up at the office. Our board meeting lasted a bit longer than we planned, I left as soon as I could,” he answered.

“The Wayne’s certainly keep a very interesting social calendar,” commented Raven.

Tim snorted and threw her a wry grin. “You should see us during budget season,”

Raven looked at Tim in amusement before finishing up her sandwich. “I can’t imagine what it’s like juggling crime fighting and managing a multi-million-dollar business,” she said.

Tim hummed loudly into his coffee mug as he finished the last of his coffee. Placing the mug on the kitchen island, he shrugged absently. Balancing his day job and their nightly activities was pretty tiring, especially when reporting to the office after a particularly bloody night out. After years of working with Bruce, both as Red Robin and as Senior Management at WE, Tim had gotten a handle of managing the demands of both jobs. Though, he’d love to get a day (or maybe a week) off. Perhaps Raven would be interested in going on vacation with him? Europe, maybe? He mentally shook his head; he was getting way ahead of himself.

“Scheduling can get a bit messy,” joked Tim. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the curious Raven. “Bruce was able to do it for years. When I joined, I guess I just got engrossed into everything and I haven’t slept since,”

Raven raised an eyebrow at him. “That can’t be healthy,”

Tim laughed and nudged his empty coffee mug away with his fingers. It slid across granite countertop. “Tell that to my obsessive work ethic,”

Pushing her chair back and standing up, Raven eyed him curiously. “Well then, I guess your obsessive work ethic won’t mind we go through tonight’s plans one more time?” she asked.

Chuckling, Tim followed her suit and they made their way out of the kitchen. “I was hoping you’d say that,”

Throwing a teasing look over her shoulder as they approached the old grandfather clock in the living room, one of the many hidden entrances to the cave, Raven’s purple eyes danced. “You sure?” she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice. She felt the curious press of Tim’s emotions against her. “And it’s not me hoping your obsessive work ethic won’t mind a day off tomorrow for a date?”

Reaching over her shoulder to type in the code into the hidden panel of the grandfather clock, Tim threw her a wide smile. He got a soft whiff of her lavender shampoo, and Tim was sure that he could get used to the warm scent around him. “So that’s a yes to tomorrow?”

The door to the cave opened with a soft swish. The noise barely covered Raven’s chuckle. “Let’s put an end to my father’s church, and then we can talk about tomorrow,”

“Gladly,”

The evening was muggy and warm as Raven stood hidden in the shadows of one of the warehouses. As a soft breeze hit her, she could smell the impending rain. She just hoped it wouldn’t rain while they were taking down Lilith and the church, it was always such a bother to fight in the rain. Purple eyes scanned their marked warehouse in front of her, trying to catch any movement. Batman and Red Robin were on their way with the Batmobile and Tim’s motorcycle.

Raven watched the trees by the forest rustle as another silent breeze swept past. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she considered how things may turn out tonight.

“We need the gem.”

Raven released a shuddering breath as the whispers of her dreams brushed against her mind. She had bad feeling about tonight.

She felt Batman and Red Robin approach her position and she looked over her shoulder to see both men jump onto the roof silently from out of nowhere. It always amazed her how for humans, Batman and his team moved with such graceful stealth.

“Anything?” Batman asked when they joined her at the edge of the roof.

“I don’t sense anyone inside right now,” Raven answered, her purple eyes glowing faintly as she stared at the old warehouse in front of them.

“Entrance is northwest of the warehouse. We can go in now,” Red Robin tapped a few buttons on his computer on his arm. Closing the program, he dropped his arm and looked at his companions. “Shall we?”

Raven nodded and they sprang into action, silently taking off from their hiding place on the rooftop and jumping onto the roof of the old warehouse they’ve been staking out. Flying over to the forest side of the warehouse, Raven spotted the windows Tim briefed them on and slipped through the broken window. Batman and Red Robin easily followed her.

From their vantage point on the second floor landing, the warehouse was bare save for some old wooden crates lined up in the far corner. It was dark, except for the yellow light of the lamppost that streamed through the broken windows. Raven scanned the empty warehouse warily, drawing her body into her cloak involuntarily as the silence settled around her uneasily. It smelled musty and the whole warehouse creaked softly in the soft summer evening wind.

She eyed the rusty warehouse doors up ahead of her. She faintly wondered if her mother passed through these doors years ago?

“Here,”

Tim’s voice was soft in the night and Raven turned around, surprised that Batman and Red Robin had slipped down the landing and were crowded over a trap door hidden behind a few crates.

Flying down the landing silently, Raven joined the two men. Red Robin pulled open the trap door and the smell of incense overwhelmed her senses. The uneasy feeling in her stomach churned angrily. Quickly exchanging looks with Batman and Red Robin, she nodded and instantly released her soul self, wrapping the three of them in the dark matter. This would allow some form of protection over them while they slipped through the cavern.

Quietly walking down the stairs of the trap door, Raven kept her eyes trained in front of her. The cavern was empty and sparsely lit by torches that licked the stone walls. She could hear nothing except her own breathing. How could the GCP have missed this place when they first took down Brother Blood?

After a few more minutes of walking and taking turns through the cavern, they eventually found a door up ahead. Light streamed through the cracks of the door. As they approached, Raven quickly cast a glance over her shoulder and caught Batman and Red Robin’s eyes. Nodding silently, she turned back to the door and briefly touched the basic steel door. No one seemed to be behind it.

Gingerly touching the door, Raven took a surprised step back as it slid open with a soft hiss under her fingers. The heady smell of incense assaulted her senses once more as they stepped into the large, warmly lit hall.

The hall was built like a church, several pews lined up and facing a white, marble altar. They tentatively entered the hall, their bodies tense and alert for any movements. Torches lined the stone walls that emanated an ominous glow over the church. Dark wooden beams ran over the walls and arched under the ceiling. Dark red markings ran along the cobblestone floor that lead towards the altar. Above the altar, the mark of Scath was etched into the wall. It glowed darkly down on them as they cautiously approached the large altar.

“Well, shit,” Red Robin breathed next to her.

Raven felt her insides freeze and she drew herself deeper into her cloak as her emotions bubbled under her skin. There, in the middle of the white marble altar, stood a little white picture frame and a bronze dagger next to it.

Staring up at them from the picture frame was a picture of Raven.

#TimRae #TimRae Fanfiction #Tim Drake #Raven

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the-headbop-wraith · 4 years ago

Text

1 _ 19 Brambles

Soft voices glide through the room, cutting and retuning to a new scene or tone or voice with rhythmic pauses. It was a delicate matter to set one claw to the button of the remote and press with a stiff finger, cycling through the dull white noise that made up the blubbering television theme of each channel. What was defined as ‘news’ was scarcely credible, many channels were dedicated to realty programs, infomercials that promised ‘satisfaction guaranteed or money back,’ and as always the static infused HBO special feature.

Therehad to be a better use for television. Humans just refused to find it, or the general population was content tonumb their minds into oblivion with this toxic waste of ozone. Mystery huffed into the folds of the blankethe lounged over, and pressed his paw to the button again. None of his companions had said anything, aslong as the soft background chatter remained below audible they were somewhateased by his habit. The dog halflistened as Vivi went over the next destinations marked on the map, there werea few but they had lost time after the van was put into the body shop for repairs. Mystery rolled over, sliding the telly remote along the sheet cover as he did, for ease of access and the minimal of movement required of reaching it.

The argument between Vivi and Arthur had been typical, Arthur on the opposing side wanting no pair of hands on the van aside from his own, and Vivi adamant about getting the exterior of the van patched up. Lewis had been like Mystery, huddled outside in the parking lot where it was relatively safe. In the end, Arthur had folded under the assurance that nothing within the vans metal hull would be tampered with. That had been the case of course from the beginning, even Vivi didn’t want the off chance of strange people poking through the vans back, and seeing the mess that none of them had made the effort to pick up. There was no concern shed over the ward scripts, carved stones, and endless containers of sage and salt stashed in the cuvees – all over the floor. Long ago Vivi had given up any attempt to explain these items to the inquisitive outsider.

“But the baseball stadium sounds more interesting,” Vivi said. She and Lewis had the selection narrowed down – a hospital, a maternity store, and a bed and breakfast that was on their route. Mystery personally preferred the bed and breakfast, and they might just stop in along the way since it was literally on one of their roads. “A batter ghost? Why is he there, and who is he?” She scrolled through one of the tabs she had opened on the main page, there were a few pictures but nothing clear, no definite image of a spirit aside from a gray glob that could be easily be explained as lens flares or rudimentary odd shadows.

Behind her hovered Lewis, just above the head rest of the hard chair she had claimed. Mystery had caught Arthur glancing over at Lewis a few times, from his position on the opposite side of the one bed. It was probably difficult for him to wrap his mind around the sight, with Arthur being the analytical one of the group, struggling to rationalize whatever science there was into a free floating body. To describe it, imagine bungee cords that are not visible, Lewis’ body was parallel of the floor but suspended a good two feet above the headrest and peering over Vivi’s fluff of blue hair and into the computer she held on her lap.

“What’s this activity about?” Lewis inquired. His body dips down, folded arms coming within inches of the headrest above Vivi. He spoke aloud before she could read off the page, “‘Seen after games end on the field, sometimes caught in the stadiums big screen.’ Groovy.”

“There’s speculation he, or she – we don’t know – they could be a fan,” Vivi continued. “There’s a case where one of the spectators suffered a concussion from a free flying ball, but they never went to the hospital and by the time they realized how serious the concussion had been, it was too late.” She shifted in the uncomfortable seat, and Lewis raised himself a foot more reflexively. “They could be trapped there or something. What do you think, Art?”

Mystery recoiled from his leisure sprawl when Arthur jerked on the bed. “Who- what?” Arthur sputtered. He had met eyes with Lewis, when the free suspended body had shifted so Lewis could see him better. Vivi kindly reminded Arthur the subject they were discussing, and Arthur set aside his notebook as he thought it over. “Batter ghost sounds the most low key, but what about the rumors?”

Vivi tapped at the laptop, and Lewis shifted to view the key words she searched for. “There are all the usual grainy shots, most caught when there’s a game. Lots of people, lots of cameras going off?” She rubbed her finger over the scroll pad quickly, eyes flashing behind her magenta glasses. “There are a few post game pics, but they don’t look any more better.”

“We could do with another low key investigation,” Lewis chimed in.

“You liked the ‘Owl Widow’ ghost?” Vivi accused, half a smirk on her face. The Owl Widow had been horrifying as hell, but she was all bark and no bite.

“I can sympathize with anyone who would terrorize people that would hike all the way out to my house, to wreck the furniture and break the windows,” Lewis grumbled. “But… she had such a gentle heart. After all those years, it’s a tragedy.”

Vivi sighed and sank down in the chair, she pushed the laptop higher up onto her knees for Lewis viewing ease. “She’ll be okay,” she persisted. “Decades gone by and she just keeps on protecting those owls.”

Mystery folded his wrists together and pinned the remote under his lower paw. Those that study the occult would recall a myth which went, when a person and an animal die in each other’s company the souls are bound, and if the trauma of the event was powerful enough, a spirit would return. The people of the town spoke of a young birder who had a favorite owl she took out to train. It was believed that hunters may have mistaken her for some animal and shot her, and her owl, or some variation of the scenario. Murder was suspected but due to lack of evidence ruled out, and the case was never solved. However, not long following the incident hikers and campers began to tell stories about an abandoned home in the area, where dozens of owls would congregate to roost, and at night the shrill cry of a woman or a shrieking owl was heard within. Few would dare stay in the home, and those that attempted only made it a few hours into the evening before the ear splitting shrieks would drive them out into the night.

The Mystery Skulls had no problem with the Owl Widow and even believed the rumors false, until they as a group ventured up into the unexplored attic where the owls roosted during the day. Vivi had no way of hailing the spirit, and the Owl Widow was as feral and skittish as any bird. When the Owl Widow realized she was discovered, she abruptly vanished without a trace. Later, Vivi learned that it was the local’s thrill seekers sport to stay in the home or try to draw out the Owl Widow for a good scare, and that was commonly done by vandalizing the home. This disgusted Vivi and she refused to do anything more that would negatively affect the spirit.

Arthur climbed off the motels bed and gave Mystery’s head a warm rub as he waked by. Mystery took his cue and climbed off the bed and followed his companion to the door, where Arthur pivoted and stopped him.

“Stay here,” Arthur urged, motioning the dog with his metal hand as his other hand took the door handle. Mystery sat down and tilts his head as Arthur backed out. “I’ll be back in a gif, I’m just gonna check the laundry.” Mystery raised an eyebrow as Arthur turned away and shut the door between them.

“Hurry back, then,” Vivi answered. Mystery glanced her way as she resumed scrolling. “It irks me though.” Lewis hummed in question and Vivi continued. “This would be a lot of work running around, for one ghost. Stadiums are huge, unless we find a binding object.”

“What’s the info on our subject?” Lewis asked, and pointed to the screen. “Is there anything? A name?”

“We could just use any old baseball I guess, if that’s what caused their death.” Vivi was clicking links, hunting for a newspaper article in the cities historical database. “There’s a lawsuit, but when s’there not? Mystery.” The dog looked up at Vivi when she called his name. “Arthur said he wouldn’t be gone long. Don’t worry.”

“That link there,” Lewis cut in, pointing to the un-highlighted title among the few darker cousin links on the screen. “I got a good feeling about that.”

“Keep your socks on. I got it.” She clicked it and the two read silently to themselves.

Mystery shrugged his shoulders and returned to the bed. The layout of the motel room was as basic, dry, and boring as the thousands they had the privilege to stay in before – table, armchair, lamp, vanity desk, single bed – a picture print of a pasture with deer grazing in the tall grass, a distant lake and tall trees surrounding the scenery – framed and hung on the wall above the bed. Mystery stretched out over the tussled sheets and adjusted his thin ankles over a stiff fold of the covers. He raised the volume only slightly and resumed his meditation through channel surfing.

“There was also this guy that overheated and died while in the mascot costume,” Vivi mentioned. “You’d think he’d come back as some sort of demon bonded to his costume.”

Lewis often wondered over Vivi’s unique style of thinking. “What was the costume?”

Vivi fixed her hairband, then put her hands back to the keyboard and scrolled. “A badger?”

“The stadium no longer sounds low key?” Lewis humped. He rolled sideways in mid hover and folded one arm under his neck, as if to support his head by some invisible tabletop. “None of the reports remark on any aggression, accidents?”

“No, you big chicken.”

“Bawk-bawk,” Lewis droned, void of any enthusiasm. “Is it too much to ask that we return to cases where some… angry thing doesn’t come crashing out of the shadows with a huge chip on its shoulder? Have I mentioned, I would like that?” He nods, as if agreeing over an important matter.

“Well…” Vivi let her voice trail off, and glanced up at Lewis. They had those cases too often. Failed cases she categorized them. The encounters which were too volatile for traditional techniques and it was advised by any veteran paranormal investigator, that if you have no training in that particular field, you have no right to meddle with it. In those instances it is strongly advised to pack up and book it rather risk harm, or worse. It was another topic she wanted to ask Arthur about, but she wouldn’t bring it up with Lewis since he was in that realm himself.

That place, it would have been one, it should have been a Failed case. They just didn’t recognize the danger in time. Another notch, a proud scar in their resume. They never failed a case, but often the case did fail them, and she had failed them.

Packed up and ran away. No matter what danger they left to those that came in their wake. Let the experienced, the demon hunters, deal with it.

“Huh?” Lewis asked, slanting one dark eye at her.

Vivi gave her head a shake and returned her attention to the screen. “I thought of something. Anyway,” she paused, noting she had exited out of some of the history articles. “Just a bunch of sightings. Nothing threatening.”

“Great,” Lewis chirped. “What were you thinking, then?”

“I was wondering,” Vivi mumbled and curled down into the chairs back. She looked up as Lewis peered down at her, prompting her to go on. “Well….”

“Well what?” There was something in his voice, something that had been absent until recent. Vivi had only realized it herself, but his voice was sounding more natural, vocal rather hollow. Solid as if projected, rather than suggested through the vague scratch of an outdated radio. The slight transition had been lost to her, while in constant company of her subject. She wondered what sort of voice outsiders heard when Lewis spoke with them, or were they oblivious? She could ask Arthur how much Lewis’ voice had changed. “Vi?”

“Are you aware you’re floating?” Vivi looked between Lewis and the floor, through the back of the chair she was nestled in. “Can you do that intentionally or—” She winced to the audible thud that came. “Uhh….”

“I was not aware,” Lewis’ garbled voice came, somewhere beyond the chairs back. “Thank you for notifying me.”

“Explain that to me.” Vivi set the laptop down on the seat cushion and stood up, to peer over the chairs headrest. “How can you not realize you’re free floating?” She pulled back and sat on her knees when Lewis poked his head up, skull in place of a face, and he resumed a buoyant hover above the floor.

“I’m kidding,” he said, as he fixed the jacket collar. Lewis felt his face, recognized the common distinction of solid spectral that symbolized his skull. “My concentration broke— I knew I was, but….” He fumbled, voice breaking off into scratches and he gave up. “Hard to explain.” He winced and looked up to Vivi when she set her hand on the side of his skull. The embers of his eyes brightened, most noticeably in Vivi’s glasses as she smiled at him.

“I get it,” she hummed. “I’ll try not to do that again.”

Lewis let his gleaming eyes dim and fall away from her tender gaze. He pressed his cheek into Vivi’s palm and let his ethereal essence sooth out, calming from the choppy ripples that dug through his usual insubstantial eminence. Passive waves rolled through Vivi’s aura, strong, vibrant, and cool. No wonder she had such power over the spirits; how could she not? It was compelling and desirable, more than the once strong call that had persisted on him in that early time. As the days ticked away the call became less, and less vibrant, until the draw had subsided into faint tugs; unpalatable and easily ignored. Bleu Moyen. High blue waves to dose his fires, severing his ties to the ravenous fury and blind ambition. So clear. Everything became so crystal clear when he was with Vivi.

A low shudder burned in Lewis, when Vivi leaned over the headrest to kiss the upper edge of his jaw. His eyes brightened in their dark sockets and a wisp of flame faded as Vivi drew back. Lewis didn’t want to lose her, he could scarcely recall that time of the between. He only wanted to believe his feelings were genuine.

An interesting segment was on the history channel, describing ancient magicians of centuries past. Mystery turned his ears up as the narrator described a priest of the pharaoh whom became famous for cutting the heads of various animals, and that animal would function normally, walk around, but without a head; after some time the priest would restore the head to the creature and it would resume life as normal. This spectacle was never performed on a human, never a servant, the priest would always refuse, and what matter of the illusion was never discovered, though attempts have been made to recreate it.

By the programs end, Mystery was on his side fully content to watch out the conclusion. No animals were harmed during the making of the program. A hollow promise, but it had some effect of easing him a little to see the message and be reminded that some humans did care. He rotates his head over to see Vivi more or less in the chair, she would be in the chair if Lewis wasn’t under her. They had resumed discussion of what case was more favorable, but softer, as if Mystery wasn’t there. He took a deep breath and let the air wheeze out of his nose.

Wait.

Mystery rolled over, off the bed and padded to the door. He sniffed along the edge picking up Arthur’s most recent scent, and pawed at the scuffed up white paint of the door. Mystery whined and looked up to Vivi and she peered over the computer in her lap, down at him.

“What’s up, Mystery?”

He barked and sidestepped at the door. Arthur. How long has Arthur been gone? Mystery resumed scratching at the door, and reared up on his hinds legs to take the L shaped handle between his wrists.

“He should’ve been back,” Vivi paused as she looked to the clock on the laptop. “Forever ago.” She stood up off of Lewis and crossed to the vanity desk, where the telly was stationed. She unplugged the computer, shut it, and stuffed it into her overnight bag on the desk. She fished around for the room key as Lewis raised up from the chair.

“Maybe he had to re-dry the clothes,” Lewis suggested. He stepped up beside Vivi and set his hand upon the shimmering surface of the mirror, and stared into the steady state of his skull and bright eye sockets. He had worked on this off and on, he could ‘jolt’ his state back into his more favorable appearance with a flash of a thought.

“Or he could’ve gone for a walk.” He briefly examined his face, the stubborn dark eyes, then turned to Vivi. “Clear his head. Think for a bit? He’s been really quiet lately.”

Vivi’s attention was directed past Lewis, toward Mystery standing on his rear legs. Mystery had tottered backwards with the door following his movements, and was now stepping out. The door began to slip shut, but stopped when Mystery blocked its progress and gave a bark at them to hurry. “Mystery doesn’t like to be away from Arthur for too long,” she said, as reason. “I worry about him, I have to.” Mystery ducked out of the doorway when Vivi stepped over to him.

“I know.” Lewis snatched his sunglasses off the table as he followed Vivi out the door, and into the blazing sun of midafternoon. Way past noon, the sky was getting the dusky soft purples that Lewis appreciated. He wanted to converse with Vivi about the one time when the group managed to get hopelessly lost and spread out around the motel, only because they kept following each other around the main office building, with a length of the wall distancing them apart. What messed them up was that they were just barely in ear shot, they could hear the nearest person but in all the confusion they never got it across, “Stay right there, I’m coming.” They had run around in circles all day, but the scenario was straight from a cartoon and they had great fun anyway.

He decided not to encourage the memory. It wasn’t so much for her benefit, but the thought of it pained him worse than….

“We just barely ate an hour ago,” Vivi mentioned. She and Lewis followed Mystery down the steps and through the small hallway that cut between the two halves of the motel. As per destiny, the nearest convenience mart was adjacent to the motel. Night or day, it didn’t matter to Arthur when he drank an energy drink. Hell, he’d drink one before taking a nap. Vivi would check there next. “You didn’t have to come.”

Lewis gave a sheepish smirk, missed by Vivi. “Well, you didn’t stop me.”

Vivi could smell the warm scent of the dyer heaters as they walked along the wall to the laundry room; beside the kids play area, and the gated and tarped pool. She pulled the door open and let Mystery and Lewis enter before she followed them into the cramped room. “Not here?” she spoke, as she moved into the adjoining room with the washers and laundry detergent vendor.

Mystery’s paws scratched and clacked on the cool tile as he wandered around, sniffing under a table and then at the edge of a wall. He turned to Vivi and gave some soft barks that echoed, unintentionally loud, off the walls. Arthur hadn’t been here lately, but with all the oddball scents it was a trial to discern accurately a time.

The dryer was still thumping and rumbling. Lewis examined the timer and found it had fifteen more minutes. “If you don’t think you’ll need me, can I have the room key so I can get this stuff up there?” he asks.

“Sure.” Vivi pulled the car key out of her wrist sleeve and handed it over to Lewis. “We’ll see you back in the room in’a bit.” She waved to Lewis as she returned to the glass door, Mystery scratched over the slippery linoleum to catch up with her at the door. “Chao.”

“Good luck,” Lewis answered, as the door shut. A few minutes drift by and a thought occurred to Lewis. When Arthur stepped out, Lewis wasn’t certain but he didn’t think Arthur had picked up the laundry bag. If Arthur had come to the same conclusion, Lewis might run into him on his way to or from the room.

The room was still empty of Arthur and provided no insight of a short return. Vivi shut the door and took the opposite path along the rooms, her eyes scanned about as she walked, in hopes to catch the faint blur of yellow contrasted on the open car lot below. Mystery padded at her heel as they took the route for the back stairs that ran above the main office. Below, a group of kids laugh as they race by, shoes slapping on the hard cement. Vivi tottered at the rail trying to catch sight of the jovial youths; maybe Arthur was down there lost in his own thoughts and mildly discomforted from the innocent play. It seemed like the situation he would be tossed into when he craved some seclusion. The sounds fade somewhere, and if Arthur is below she cannot see him from the angle she’s at above.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Vivi murmured. She paused on the steps to look out from the narrow arch and scanned the clear sky, the moist tinge still on the air from the recent rains. “There was a park when we rode in, wasn’t there?”

Mystery stood sideways on the steps and stares at the sky. He gave a soft yap.

“I know this deal with the van put us on a tight schedule, but we can do with a lil TLC.” She continued down the steps, and Mystery followed. “We’ve spent so many weeks cooped up together, I forget what open air feels like.”

The road that cut through this section of the city was not very busy, even throughout the day when people would be busy with errands. Vivi with Mystery crossed to the nearest shop mart with the highest gas prices she had seen in a hundred miles. Down the sidewalk from their current residence, it was only a few blocks among the stores and cafes to the open flat of the body shop where the van was being adjusted. The body shop was only going to fix up the ragged sides where the van had fallen and scraped, part of the deal was allowing Arthur to do the paint job himself. That would leave the van looking half finished and metallic until they returned to home base.

As Vivi pushed the door of the convenience store open, a blast of balmy air hit her. Immediately the clerk at the cashier counter piped up:

“I’m sorry, miss. No dog’s allowed.”

Vivi let Mystery in anyway, and Mystery went on his way examining the racks assorted foods, and the doughnut case positioned across from the cashier counter. “He’s a therapy dog,” Vivi answered.

The cashier, a tall woman with curly hair, hesitates as she looks back to the white dog free of a leash. “Do you have papers?” She seemed uneasy as Mystery sniffed along the corner of the tall doughnut case. In Mystery’s defense, the doughnuts smelled exceptional that day.

“That depends,” Vivi rebuked. She turned from the woman and looked over the near empty store, a few people drift around picking at the inventory in various sections – sweet, salty, and standard household goods. “Did you see a guy come in here? Shocked yellow hair, quail curl, orange vest.” She turned to the cashier and the blank stare the woman wore. Vivi motioned her elbow. “Metal arm?”

Indeed it was a beautiful day. Arthur was glad he had stepped out to enjoy it, get some fresh air. He hoped the van was all right, he hated the thought of strange people putting their greasy hands all over his pride and joy. Even if the van liked to break down in the harsh weather conditions, or guzzled gas like a leech did fresh blood, they didn’t pay for it. He never asked how much it was going to cost, but Vivi had been the one driving at the time and she always insisted on these matters. Arthur gave up trying to fight her about it long ago.

He sighed and leaned back into the cool wall in the stores shadow. It was cold only in the shadow, but standing in direct sunlight had warmed his chest too much and so here he stood in the shade, listening to the children in the nearby neighborhoods whoop and holler in play. He put his hand back in his pocket, pushed the pack of gum aside, and pulled up the chainless pocket watch. Four thirty-nine. The laundry should be done by now, he didn’t want a collection of his pants in bacon ripple style. Sickly yellow, bacon ripple style… whatever.

The watch went back in his pocket and Arthur brought the cigarette back to his lips for another draw. His eyes half closed and he let the sizzle work in his throat. Two more minutes. He calculated the time up in his head, two more minutes coupled with the walk back to the motel—, he forgot the bag. Get the bag, go back down and collect the freshly dried pants and shirts. Or he could forget the bag, have five more minutes to let his blood mellow.

“Arthur!”

He jumps in place and turns to Vivi’s accusing stare. “Hey. I didn’t worry you, did I?” he rasped. Arthur took another breath and looked down from Vivi, to Mystery huddled behind her legs. When Vivi began towards him, Mystery turns and bolts out of sight. Arthur backed up and hit the wall. He gets out a vague question as Vivi slaps the cigarette out of his metal hand. “Whoa now! What gives you the right—” He shut his mouth when Vivi grips the front of his shirt and heaves back a fist.

“You promised me you quit!” she snarled.

“I did! I DID!” Arthur tenses but makes no move to defend his face. He probably deserved it.

It was on the prescription, among the long list of drugs compiled into his blood to keep his kidneys from shriveling up, his heart pumping, his capillaries clear of toxins. They worried about toxins in his blood. Arthur had laughed that day, it was so out of character they had to call in a psychiatrist to evaluate whether or not his brain had suffered mental trauma that was not foreseen since his earlier evaluations. Oh what medical science was blind to; oh what they were willfully ignorant of. The only person that might’ve gotten the joke, wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. That cruel irony made looking at her twice as difficult for the remainder of the month, but he found his way out of it.

The doctors advised Arthur to quit, obstructed capillary networks was what they labeled it. It was common in amputees.

“Was this your first pack?” Vivi growled, tugging Arthur towards her.

He choked and spat out a no. “I’m gonna stop though, I will!” he stammered, leaning back. Why was Vivi so strong? Arthur was no heavyweight, but she could pick up Lewis when he was alive. “It always helped, with the… it just helped!”

“We have sage!” she hissed, face twisting, tears brimming in her eyes.

“But that’s so rude!” Arthur cringed down fully expecting the blow to connect and knock some sense back into him. He bought gum and sometimes chewed that instead, but it wasn’t the same. He’d show Vivi once she calmed down. He was hauled forward, staggering through the dark shade of his thoughts and awaiting the flash of light from her fist to cleave through his mind… but the harsh blow never comes. Instead, soft arms wrap around him. Arthur risks opening his eyes and stares down on the weed riddled pavement behind her blue heels. His muscles remained locked, he didn’t dare move even when Vivi’s shoulders quivered. Arthur clenched his fists at his sides and rested his chin on the poofy sweater around her neck.

“I should have asked,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “I should have asked you.” She squeezed tighter around Arthur’s chest, as if fortifying his presence with her embrace. “Why didn’t I?”

“You…” he began, and hesitated. Vivi said nothing, hadn’t calmed down, and Arthur went on, “already knew the answer. Nothing’s changed. This is fine.”

“No, it’s wrong.” She pressed her forehead into the collar of that stupid amber vest Arthur always insisted on wearing. “I wasn’t thinking about you, I wasn’t worried that…. Jesus, I don’t think.” How could she forget? Why had she been blind to this? For all her intuition, her flexible and quick mind, how could she overlook such simple, yet crucial details? Essential, yet fragile. Delicate, but poisonous. A balance that tipped dangerously.

Arthur brought his arms up and wrapped them around her shoulders, gently. “Vi, we’ve talked,” he insists. “I told him I was solid. I don’t have the right—” Arthur froze again when Vivi recoiled and pushed him back by his shoulders.

“That’s not an invitation!” She snapped. “That’s submission! That won’t do.” Arthur let his head hang, but Vivi cups his chin in her fingers and pushed his face up. “No, Art. Look, I’m not mad, I’m frustrated. Well, maybe that’s not the truth. I’m mad at me, not you. But— Would you look at me! I’m frustrated, that’s it.” She stares into Arthur’s face as his eyes crease and his brows stretch, into a conflicted expression she was too familiar with. “You’re not allowed to destroy yourself. Are you listening?” He nods, and tries to let his eyes drop from her steady gaze. “What did I just say?”

“Don’t wreck myself,” he mumbled, below a breath.

“That’s good enough, I guess.” Vivi sighed, and raised a thumb up to touch the lone tear that had made it past Arthur’s resistance. “How do I save you? How do I save my boys?”

“I miss Lewis,” Arthur says. He shuts his eyes and begins to slip down to the cold ground, his knees fold up under him. Vivi helps him down, pulling at his vest and trying not to grip the upper space of his left arm where metal met flesh. “I’m keeping it together, pulling myself back.” Vivi kneels in front of him and pulls him upright when he begins to sag sideways over his knees. “I’m not gonna fuck this up too. I can do this.” He shuts his eyes and presses his metal palm to his forehead in an effort to cool his fevered brow. “I can do this. Just… just give me some time, and I’ll work it out.”

“Hey.” Vivi brought her hands up and clasped Arthur around his forehead, his shocked blond hair folded under her palms as she held him. Arthur tucked his eyelids shut and winced to her touch. “Don’t push yourself so hard. It’ll… you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I know my limits,” he murmured. Arthur feels his heart being ripped in two, skewered by icy teeth and shredded across his ribs. “I can endure. I can.”

“Don’t give me that,” Vivi hissed. “You’re not impervious to— Art, wait!” Arthur had ripped himself from her hands and managed up onto his feet, stumbling a bit as he spun away from Vivi still crouched on the broken asphalt. Vivi hopped to her feet and followed his stabbing steps. “Art’ur!” She jerks back when he whirls on her.

“I’m not fragile, Vi! God, I’m not going to come apart and scatter in the wind.” Arthur screams, his body movements erratic as he gestures with his hands; the prosthetic arm is dull and awkward while he’s amid a state of distress. “My legs are strong, my mind’s still here! I’m okay! Just… chill.” He motions his arms, bringing them down to his hip level as Vivi watched. “You don’t trust me? Do you?”

Vivi searched for something else to focus on, and settled for the edge of the motels roof beyond the corner of the convenience store Arthur had hidden behind. “Sometimes you forget Art,” she says. “You’re so focused on anything else, you avoid the little things.” She shakes her head and then looks back to Arthur. “I don’t want to forget for you. I can’t drag you down.”

Arthur stuffs his hands into his pockets and toes at the crumbling cement, trying to dislodge a thick stubborn stalk of a wilting weed. He recollected on Vivi before the Cave, ambitious headstrong Vivi, always leading the way. Lewis always right there for her, to grab her and pull her back from the edge of disaster when it suddenly opened up in her path. And Arthur… him, always a step behind, the last one into the room, always lagging behind the others. The first to run, or the one somehow caught.

“Vi,” he says, “you never dragged me. If anything—” He stopped, and looked up at her. “You brought me back. You were there when I woke up.”

Vivi doesn’t meet his eyes as she moves towards Arthur. She takes him by the wrist of his metal arm and pulls the hand into hers and examines the stiff, numb digits, Arthur had carved himself. “I wasn’t always there,” she confessed. “I didn’t want to be there. Art?”

“Hmm?” The air became chilled when a cloud, or the sun, had inched behind some obstruction that blocked the strong yellow rays. He couldn’t feel Vivi’s fingers tracing the mars and etches in place of his metal palm, he could only detect the vibrations he had grown accustomed to when faint touch fell onto his false limb. When he had built his first prosthetic and attached it, Vivi had never taken a second look at it. He had always been gratified by this.

“We should look for Mystery,” she suggests, and tugs him by the wrist with no force applied. “I think he went this way.”

Arthur followed without protest. “We should talk a bit.”

“We’ll talk a bit,” Vivi echoed, leading Arthur behind her by his hand.

“It’s such a nice day, or was,” Arthur muttered, and squinted at the darkening contours of the sky.

Vivi led their way towards a dark alley behind the convenience store, chain link fences and the clay floor packed down, overgrown with trees and weeds. It looked more interesting and secluded than the open sidewalk beside a road. “I thought we could hit the park tomorrow.” Vivi’s voice brightened a bit.

As they departed the wall and Vivi’s voice twittered with the prospect of a day for just them, a dark shadow rose across the glossy paint of the brick. The shadow seeps from the walls surface and reforms itself, bright magenta illuminates along its outline and spreads across its torso and legs. A gilded heart pulses at the broad chest as the dark hue fades by degrees, until it is restored to its pacified shape.

Lewis took a step from the wall and leaned back onto it, he crossed his arms over his chest as he watched Vivi and Arthur disappear down the alley. He thought of following them and making certain Vivi was safe, but he decided that may have been a lame excuse to eavesdrop on following conversations. He’d… done enough of that.

“What happened to us? I mean, why did we let this happen?”

Vivi’s words rattled in his mind. He remembered Arthur then, catatonic, sleeping. His aura had been in its most indolent in that state, and Lewis had for a moment believed Arthur had died, if not for the shallow movement of his chest.

The questions plagued his deepest contemplations, alternating, “Why did we? What happened?” As if she were before him now asking the same question, inquiring for some form of answer he too yearned insight into. There remained the questioned he flittered away from, the ones that he could ponder over for long hours, while time held him prison to witness superficial events from afar. The locket thrummed at his chest, always steady, sometimes thunderous, and then at other times its as somber as a coo. The questions in their most basic function nibbled at him: What and Why?

It was all a ruse, he promised himself. He only intended to frighten them. Get them to abandon his mansion and force them far-FAR away, never to return. Leave him to sleep and forget, and fade away with each pulse of his heart. That was his intent, he swore it was all that he meant to do. Play up the theatrics, convince them it was not worth their time or sanity. He was incapable of killing.... unlike Arthur; it was beyond his nature, he swore it wouldn't go that far no matter how much… he suffered. The long, endless cycle of time tormenting his existence, abandoned and betrayed by someone he thought of as a dear friend. Something... somewhere… it all went wrong.

Reuniting with Arthur. The event brought something out of him, something he never genuinely contested before. Not with earnest. The unbridled horror in Arthur's features when Lewis emerged from his coffin, the unsightly attributes which cost everything he held dear and precious; his brazen perplexity upon seeing this… ghost. It pissed him off. He wanted to wipe it out, make Arthur taste some of that spite that curdled his soul. He couldn't stop, he absolutely could not stop himself. How far could he drive Arthur on before he broke? Arthur deserved the suffering, the torment and hostility unleashed by his failings. Nothing would make this right, but Lewis also couldn't elude that anger. It was as much of a part of him now as the locket affixed to his chest. Inseparable.

And then she was there. It had happened so fast and Lewis couldn’t bear it. The ache in his hollowed chest when he saw her for the first time since….

He said goodbye.

Why he remained far past his expiration was never a controversy for him. The question that stumped him when he was not careful, and it came upon him when his defenses were down: What was he now?

Lewis rounded the corner of the convenience store and walked across the parking lot. He saw Mystery on the sidewalk beyond the gas pumps waiting for Vivi, or him, he was on the sidewalk beside the crosswalk marks that bridge across to the motel. The dog perked up at Lewis’ approach, and Lewis said nothing until he reached his four legged ally. “How’s it going?” Lewis rattled, his voice near toneless.

Mystery’s answer was to tilt his head and lower one ear at an angle. He stood and pivots to cross the road, glancing around for any speeding traffic; there were no cars but Mystery was careful to look anyway. He spins about when Lewis begins to walk off, and Mystery pads up to follow at a distance.

“I’m not going back to the room yet,” Lewis explained. “Vi and Art are looking for you.”

Mystery’s steps slowed and he fell back. That didn’t make sense, any one of them knew without a fail that if he was separated from his company, he would either turn up at the van or the current place of occupation. He gave his head a shake as he resumed his quick pace, struggling to keep up with Lewis long stride. It was evident Lewis was in no hurry, but Lewis probably wanted to be alone and Mystery knew he couldn’t allow that.

They came to the busier district of the widespread city. Mystery recognized it down the road from the motel, an easy to and from for some of the better diners and the cafes. Arthur was impossible when it came to the prospect of being stranded, and the distance to a place for a worthwhile cup of coffee. Mystery woofed at Lewis’ back. Lewis didn’t need a reminder that he was out in public, and not dressed for one on one interactions. Numerous shops throughout the city block catered to tourists, featuring carved wooden animals, jewelry, or rugs and quilts. The small clumps of people they passed would give Mystery odd stares, and Mystery began to wonder what for. It wasn’t unusual for people to stroll around with a ‘pet’ off the leash, was there a city ordinance he was not aware of?

Then it dawned on him. No shadow was cast under Lewis and he had no reflection in the shop windows. Lewis was hiding.

This didn’t alarm Mystery, if it was Lewis’ wish to go unnoticed then he was entitled to that. For Mystery matters were complicated. Head up, chest puffed out, ears proud and forward facing. He had someplace to be and that was where he was headed. He observed that humans rarely bothered a dog with confidence, minding his or her own business and on their way to wherever dogs go. What humans did not trust was a timid, confused, lost creature that scuttled away from attention or drifted around. If he kept moving it would make tracking him difficult. Even so, he had his collar and tags and people would regard that and conclude he was just a regular out for a walk. He would be fine, and he had some notion of Lewis’ destination.

As predicted they arrived at the body shop where the van was left. Show Car Remake and Renew, a general garage and minor vehicle repairs. The main garage was a long gray building with a few windows along the uppermost walls, and the large shutter doors at the base drawn down and locked for the evening. The far side of the lot was overnight parking, the cars and trunks caged in by tall barbed wire fence. Mystery followed Lewis to the fence but was forced to wait, as his transparent companion slipped through the metal links and entered amongst the many vehicles.

Mystery lost sight of the ghost as his tall figure weaved around the portion of large vehicles and trunks. Mystery spun around and looked back to the road as the first streetlamps snapped on, cars sped by and after a short time of waiting the street quieted. It was getting late, the air grew colder. He sat down and gave the spot behind his ear a dedicated scratch, working to straighten out the hair bent there. He tensed when a white utility trunk drove by and seemed to slow down – at least to Mystery it looked like the vehicle was stopping – but no, the truck sped up and the dog let out a sigh. Never was the best time to run off and get lost somewhere in a strange city, with strange people, and strange beliefs.

Vivi and Arthur would be wondering where he was, if they had managed to reach the room by now. They shouldn’t worry, but Mystery admitted he was not immune to dangers, or the mild irritations offered by the few humans he could do without meeting.

The sudden awareness of a presence at his back caused Mystery to twist around. It was only Lewis, slipping through the large chain links in the fence. Mystery examined him over and noted the piece of cloth tangled in his hand. Ah.

Lewis looked at the cloth between his fingers as he untangled it. “Are you still afraid of me?” Mystery raises his snout higher and glares through his spectacles at Lewis. “Would it be enough if I apologized?” He unfolded and refolded the cloth and straightened out the creases to the best of his ability. It had been folded and pressed wrong for quite some time.

Mystery give a soft woof and steps back from Lewis. They should head back now. The dapper specter wouldn’t budge.

“You were there for Arthur,” Lewis whispered, traces of flames bud from his shoulders and hair. “But not for me. Why not? Why is it…?” He tightened his fist around the sad piece of cloth, “Why did I have to be the one abandoned?” He looked down when Mystery stepped forward and set a paw on his foot, the white face looked up at him. Before Lewis could utter a word, Mystery had whisked away and was already halfway across the parking lot, the faint tapping of his claws fade as the ghost stares after him.

He could have just haunted Arthur. Or he could have remained in his mansion, his sanctuary from the world ticking by with the tempo of the seasons cycling through, worlds moving; moon sweeping through crescent to quarter, harvest and back to the new moon. What time had passed while he had slumbered? Existing but not in a state of present, not dispersing but not fully cumulative either. A piece of himself was lost in every wedge of every day, not noticed and not missed. Small segments of his childhood, the places they frequented as kids, the warm smiles of his parents. How could he miss what he couldn’t reflect with? It may have been a process of Acceptance, or it just happened naturally. He ceased to worry, and he couldn’t care. The lethargy of simply existing drained him heavily, and he fed on the lone coal of his passion, his raison d'etre. What purpose, and what meaning had come to him, when the cycle of existence had evicted a squatter?

It was Mystery’s aura that had stirred him. That wild, untamed thing – a font of composer and class, with a writhing tangle of insanity that clawed for escape. He would know it anywhere, it was the last, and first thing he had latched onto before the fulcrum of his final volition had scattered. He didn’t remember much in that span of time between… before….

The light of the motel room was out. The curtains were drawn shut, as Vivi had left them, and the walls would be absolutely silent, if not for the dull rattle of the heater. Night was well upon the motel now, and Vivi and Arthur would not be far behind it. Without a thought Lewis pushed his palms into the cracked stucco of the wall, and allowed his unsubstantial shape to slither through the cold molecules of cheap drywall and plaster. Mystery gave a soft yap at his back as he faded, and then, the room was opened up before Lewis. The interior air warm from the buzzing heater in the wall, bags and a few essential supplies sat in grainy detail along one wall, the bed was overtaken by blues and yellows. Lewis turns back to the door and pulls the handle, but stood in the way when Mystery tried to nudge through and enter with him. Lewis picked up the piece of cloth he had dropped, but paused as Mystery searched for a way around him.

Somewhere in the parking lot below the walkway, Lewis could pick up on the soft warble of Vivi’s voice accompanied by the timid tones of Arthur’s speech. “Hold on,” Lewis murmured, as he shooed Mystery out of the threshold. “They’ll let you in, but I have something to do real quick.” Mystery stiffened when Lewis gave his scalp a comforting rub, an action Mystery was unaware of how much he missed. Mystery stepped away when Lewis straightened up and shut the door.

What… just happened?

Mystery whined. That was not fair! He scratched at the door and sniffed at the crack along the frame and listened for the muffled sounds from behind the door. He tugged at the handle, though he knew the door couldn’t be opened without a key.

“What up, Mystery?” Arthur was the first to ask. He stepped behind the dog and raised his knuckles to the door, rapping gently.

Vivi leaned down and hugged Mystery around his shoulders, plucking him up off his front feet as she rocked him. “Did Lew leave you outside?” Mystery whined and stared at Arthur, pleaded at Arthur’s back with his eyes. “I’ll talk to him about it, and we’ll fix this.” Mystery strained his whimpers, and Vivi took note of that tone in his voice. “D’you have a key, Art?”

“Hmm? Yeah, sure,” he muttered, as he began digging through his pockets. Arthur found the thin plastic card easily, and with one swipe the red light on the handle lock flicks to green. “Lew?” He asked softly as he pushed the door open, intent to enter before Vivi for once. “You left Mystery outside.” The heater of the room chattered as it stuttered off, and the dark plain before Arthur was left with the reverberations of its silence, along with the strange emptiness of the room. The scarce glow of the few streetlamps outside tumbled around his shoulders as he stood in the doorway. He was startled only briefly by his own reflection in the mirror, directly across from the doorway. “Damnit,” he gasped, and clutched at his chest as his heart pounded behind his ribs.

“Lew?” Vivi chimed in, as she and Mystery pressed in behind Arthur. She shuffled to the tall lamp stationed in one corner of the room and flipped the light on, coating the walls and floor with its pale white coat. “Are you here?” She had the impression that he was hiding for some reason. Vivi brushed past Arthur and crossed to the bathroom at the furthest side of the room. Mystery followed, sniffing along the bed and the corner of the wall.

There was nothing in the bathroom. The light blazed harshly over the white walls and plastic floor, a few bottles of shampoo sat around but mention nothing of guests. Vivi was usually comforted by the fragrant soaps, but she had only noticed them now when she was uneasy. It didn’t feel right. The bathroom heater came on with the light, but the air retained a chilled quality. The whole of the room felt reticent, inhospitable.

Vivi shut the light off and stepped out. She felt unnerved and was not certain where this sensation had crept out from, but it was there and she couldn’t shake it. She heard the door shut as Arthur entered fully, he cast his eyes over the walls and the short carpet as if anticipating Lewis to pop out from a surface at any given moment. Arthur sprang in place when Mystery poked his head up from the opposite side of the bed. Vivi shared a look with the white face, then their sight feel onto the bed.

The scent of fresh laundry overpowered the room, and Vivi with Mystery examined the shirts, skirts, and pants laid out over the bed covers where they wouldn’t wrinkle. Further evidence of Lewis’ presence was not visible, aside from the large leather jacket draped over the back of an uncomfortable armchair. On the table rests the room’s twin key card, beside a pair of dark purple sunglasses. There was nothing to suggest anyone had been in the room recently.

#msa #mystery skulls animated #msa fanfic #mystery skulls fanfic #msa fanfiction #msa lewis #msa arthur #msa mystery #msa vivi #mystery skulls fanfiction #msa ghost #mystery skulls

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fourangers · 5 years ago

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Fate and Choices (ch.03)

Summary: When Naruto discovered who was going to be his soulmate, he jumped straight at this opportunity, looking forward to spending the rest of his life with his better half. Sasuke well…he was less eager in this regard though. NaruSasu. Soulmates tattoos. M-rated.

Content: AU!Office, Romance, Comedy, Drama, it’ll get a little too philosophical in some parts talking about free will Vs fate, basically Sasuke is a cynic ass and Naruto is an idealistic moron (great amirite), Anal Sex, tattoos soulmates

Chapter 02 here

AO3 link

--.--

Itachi knocked on Sasuke’s door to catch his attention, muttering. “We have the first polyamorous client that succeeded finding her soulmates using Shinrei. Maybe we should post it on our Instagram.”

“Oh? How many?”

“Four.”

Sasuke blinked. “Four? That’s quite unusual. What’s the biggest number recorded in history?”

“Seven, if I’m not mistaken. But you’re right, at least in recent history the biggest demographic is monogamous relationships first, and then polygamy with three people.”

“I guess it is pretty complicated having to deal with that many people in your plate that even the soulmate system limits its number.” Sasuke wondered out loud.

“Maybe you’re right, but I also have a couple of friends happily married with their soulmates where they both enjoy an open relationship. Another proof that the system that you claim to despise so much, knows how to match people with similar interests together.”

Sasuke rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I’m not going to waste my time to convince you otherwise.”

“Talking about soulmates…contact Naruto-kun so he can schedule this post ok. We’ve been gaining new potential clients every day so I don’t want to lose the momentum.”

Sighing, Sasuke obeyed his older brother, also ignoring how his heart skipped a beat when Naruto answered his call.

“Aren’t you too early for a booty call, Sasuke-chan?”

“Moron, it’s nothing like that. It’s about work.”

“Mmm.” There was a long pause then Naruto’s voice was a little rough from yawning. “Lemme get some coffee first. Can I call you in the next five minutes?”

“Five minutes, nothing more.”

“Yeah yeah.”

Seven minutes and thirty seconds later, Naruto returned his call, his voice chirpier. “Alright, now I’m ready for the booty call.”

Sasuke rolled his eyes. “Usuratonkachi…”

“Oh hey, it’s been years since you used this nickname!” Naruto’s boisterous laugh made his mood lighter, and Sasuke did not notice a smile curling on his own lips. “Are we going back to pet names? What should I call you then, darling? Honey? My smooching buddy?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, no! I’ll behave, I prooomise.” Naruto singsonged on the other side of his phone. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

Sipping his coffee, Sasuke said. “One of our clients managed to find her partners using Shinrei and we’re going to post about our first successful polyamorous example.”

“Really? Congrats to them! Imagine, being able to have more than one option while I’m here stuck with an uptight, inconsiderate bastard.”

“Your observation while accurate is wholly unnecessary.”

Naruto chuckled. “At least you admitted that you’re a bastard.”

“No point denying it.” Grunting, Sasuke considered asking the next set of questions but shook his head. “Anyways, I need this post as soon as you can. Do you need any help with it?”

“Yeah, for now we’re going to post about this milestone but in the future maybe it’s better to ask if they want to talk about this experience and all…you know, to keep feeding the account. You have a contract for them to sign about allowing us to publish their story?”

“We do, but your company is more experienced, I’d prefer if you can handle it.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to Neji ‘bout it. I’ll send you the layout and the script and if everything goes well we’ll be able to post it in the next three days.”

“You can’t for tonight?” Sasuke enquired, slightly annoyed.

“Hah. Ah, that’s the biggest issue about clients, they really think that we take care of only you, and no one else. I have five other accounts aside yours, bastard, my team is crammed with other stuff to do and you just asked out of the blue, we’re gonna reorganize to fit with this request.”

“Hn.”

“And I’m not giving you special treatment just ‘cuz you’re my soulmate.”

Sasuke snorted. “Good, because I don’t want any. I’ll talk with my older brother about it, but I’d appreciate it if you guys can manage to deliver sooner. By the way…” He scrolled down his calendar and muttered. “Are you available tomorrow afternoon for a meeting? I’m going to talk with a potential investor but he’s an older generation that won’t understand much about social media, so if you could help out…”

“Tomorrow afternoon? Hm, sure, I think I can help you out. I’ll just talk to Neji ‘bout it first and I’ll give the confirmation later.” There was a noise of flapping of pages, then Naruto paused and exclaimed. “Hey, maybe we can have lunch together before we go to this meeting! How about that? Remember all the good ol’ times, catching up and so on.”

“Hm…if you manage to send me the polyamorous post today, I’ll consider it.”

“Whoa, you can’t dangle the possibility of a date right on my face just so you can bribe me to do your things!” Naruto said incredulously, even if he laughed afterwards.

“I’ll strongly consider it.”

Naruto was still laughing, Sasuke could picture him shaking his head too. “Nah, I really can’t. I’m not the only one involved ya know, so I can’t force my colleagues to drop everything just so I can have some special lunch with you. Anyways, Neji’s here, gotta talk to him. See you soon!”

“Hn.” Turning the phone off, Sasuke felt someone appearing close to him, so he raised his head, narrowing his eyes from Itachi’s knowing smile. “What?” He barked.

“Nothing, nothing at all…you look pretty happy, otouto-kun.” Itachi’s beam widened despite his younger brother’s growing suspicion. “You talked with Naruto-kun?”

“Yes, he said that he’ll only be able to send that post you talked about in the next three days.”

“Oh. While I appreciate you informing me, that wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for.”

“I know what you are expecting but I’m not going to give you the satisfaction, so beat it, nii-san.” Sasuke growled, focusing back on his laptop.

Itachi chuckled, before sobering up. “Tomorrow you’re going to talk with Takashi-sama right? She’s the chairman of Essity’s branch in Japan, so I really hope she’ll invest in us. It’ll bring us closer to our first goal.”

“I know. Don’t worry about it. Leave it to me.”

⏤.⏤

The opulent decoration in the rich marbled walls intimidated him at first, but it didn’t deter him from fulfilling this mission. Steeling his nerves, Sasuke took a deep inhale and glanced to the side, Naruto was rechecking the speech he’d give alongside the presentation. The comforting knowledge that he had Naruto by his side calmed him somehow.

The blond man was also a very pleasant addition during the trip, with his playful banter peppered in between adjustments and touch ups. It’s been so long since Sasuke had felt so relaxed around anyone, almost as if all the years without Naruto never happened in the first place. And even if he’s adjusting to seeing the teenager Naruto to now a professional adult one, at least their interaction didn’t change one bit.

Takashi was a middle-aged businesswoman that accumulated many exploits due to shrewd decisions and flexible strategies using Western offensive attacks, mixed with Japanese well-rounded management. She must have heard many starry eyed, inexperienced men trying to sell their product in the past, so in her point of view, Sasuke must be just the umpteenth one. It was rattling the look of apathy she gave while he summarized.

“Based on our clan’s background, my brother and I decided to create a new technology to help people find their respective soulmates, and we named this technology Shinrei. We first catalogued all the types of tattoos, if it’s written words, or animals, or symbols, all based with the long list of most tattoos that existed in history. Then, once we identify the type of tattoo the client has, the database will search using all social media that match with the tattoo, and then we’ll personally select and filter till we find his or her soulmate, or soulmates. Actually, we recently found a case with four people being their soulmates using Shinrei.”

“Your competitors all claim that they have similar technology, how is yours any different?” Takashi countered in a bored tone.

“We choose quality over quantity, limiting the numbers of clients we’ll help so we’ll ensure 100% successful cases. Also…” Sasuke thinned his lips, taking a deep breath. “Our clan has a long history in being able to find soulmates using our unique abilities.”

“What? Are you talking about mystical powers? This doesn’t look good on paper, how are you going to convince people to trust your technology if you don’t have scientific proof that your method works?”

Blue eyes peered Sasuke’s distressed expression, so Naruto stepped in. “Well…the soulmate system by itself is also shrouded in mystery right? All that we know is part of humanity’s nature, if it’s due to some higher power or anything else, it just exists. Scientists can’t explain how it works, only that they have successful rates in improving people’s lives. So I think that using some inexplicable abilities makes Shinrei unique.”

The old woman contemplated for a while, crossing her arms.

“Also, the Uchiha clan must have a long list of successful examples, even before the advance of technology, we can show for you Takashi-sama as proof to trust Shinrei’s technology. I’m sure that Sasuke can look for some documents stored in their headquarters, right?”

“Of course, I’ll make sure I’ll inspect thoroughly if necessary if it pleases you Takashi-sama.” Sasuke agreed.

Takashi stared and focused her eyes on the blond man. “You called Uchiha-san by his name, are you two close friends or…?”

Before Sasuke could react, Naruto grabbed his left hand to show their palms, broadening his grin.

“We’re soulmates!”

This piqued her attention, she even tilted her body closer to study their matching tattoos. “Oh, congratulations! You used Shinrei’s technology to track your soulmate?”

Sasuke opened his mouth but Naruto intervened. “Oh no, back then we were just 18. But Sasuke used Uchiha’s clairvoyant abilities to find me, so here I am.”

“Well, at least then I have a successful example right before my eyes.” She nodded, picked her name card and scribbled some numbers on it. “Here’s my personal cellphone number, I look forward to your older brother to contact me so we can continue our conversation. Send me all the statistics as soon as you can, and also send me this presentation you just gave so I can properly study later.” She stood up, and shook hands with both of them. “We’ll talk soon, I hope.”

They both bowed respectfully, thanking for her time as they exited the building, breathing a sigh of relief at the same time.

“Thanks for the save.” Sasuke muttered, Naruto grinned back. “I’m not entirely comfortable that you lied about how we realized we’re soulmates though.” He added.

The blond man rolled his eyes, shrugging. “The only people that know about our history are our close friends, there’s no harm lying a little. Plus, we were fooling around for so long that anyone would also consider that you might be the one who knew that we’re soulmates too.”

“Right…”

It felt weird that they talked about their entanglement in the past tense, like Naruto was some sort of ex that was trying to get back to him. Except that Naruto was his soulmate, so it complicated this situation even further.

Sasuke cleared his throat. “Anyways, since we’re already in the same city of the Uchiha’s shrine and I’m going to take a quick detour so I can get the documents Takashi-sama asked. You can go back to Tokyo if you’d like.”

“Huh? Oh, I don’t mind waiting a little, the trip back to Tokyo is 1 hour and a half long, man. It’s really boring going by myself so if you’re around at least you can provide some entertainment and let me tease you all the way through.”

“Do I look like I’m some kind of toy to you?” When Naruto curled a mischievous grin, Sasuke harrumphed unimpressed. “Whatever, I’m not going to rush for you, usuratonkachi. I might take the whole afternoon, so if you wait for too long it’s going to be your loss.”

⏤.⏤

No matter how many times he went, being in the Uchiha shrine always made him uneasy. He could practically feel the millenia age weighing down on his shoulders. While he was using his own hand to fan his face, Naruto excused himself for a second to buy some beverage in a nearby kiosk.

“Sasuke, hey Sasuke!”

Raising an eyebrow, Sasuke obeyed this call and approached the ditsy blond. Naruto gesticulated in excitement, next to two elderly women that appeared to be the owners of the shop.

“Those two nice ladies, Yachi-san and Kiyoko-san are married for over 50 years! Can you imagine⏤being in such a happy relationship with your soulmate for so long⏤”

Sasuke huffed, but responded politely. “Congratulations to you both for such a long and happy matrimony. Well Naruto, unfortunately the Uchiha shrine doesn’t allow strangers, even though I talked to my mother to try authorizing your entrance.”

Naruto waved his hand, untroubled. “Eh, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. I can use this opportunity to have a nice chat with those two young and jovial ladies.” He beamed and the women giggled in return. “Is that ok for you though?”

“…sure, why not?”

“Uh, it’s just that, I don’t know. You looked kinda uncomfortable somehow.” He rubbed the back of his blond head.

At this admission, Sasuke could feel his shoulders relax somehow. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it. But thanks for getting worried over me.”

Naruto snorted, and puffed his chest. “Well, of course! After all, I’m your soulm⏤”

“See you later.” Sasuke turned around and ignored the squawk of indignation.

As expected, the Uchiha clan contained a long array of documents and ancient scrolls neatly put in the huge archive. There was no point collecting all information since day one, so Sasuke concentrated getting most information from the latest decade, and photographed some old scrolls in case he needed it to impress future sponsors. He took for about half an hour or more, patting the dust away from his clothes as he went to retrieve Naruto.

However, as he was approaching the blond man, he noticed the frantic and desperate look while he chattered with the old ladies. Naruto noticed him, giving a quick bow to them and sprinted towards him.

Quirking an eyebrow, Sasuke mumbled. “You look pale. Is everything alright?”

“Uh, yeah! Sure! Everythin’ ‘s alright, they were just telling me some sad story. But we gotta go right?”

Sasuke observed in silence, but didn’t ask anything further. On the way back to Tokyo, Naruto managed to find his usual lively mood, though sometimes he still appeared to be rattled with whatever news the ladies had delivered.

⏤.⏤

Several weeks have passed without a hitch, as Sasuke and Itachi managed to accumulate more capital for further investment in developing Shinrei. So far with Naruto’s strategies, they have been the talk between youtube influencers, Itachi even gave some interviews to further explain their product.

Sasuke figured it was time for him to look for some international sponsors, at least those in the neighboring countries. After contacting and rescheduling, he called Naruto.

“Naruto, I’ll not be able to attend our meeting tomorrow. Can we change to Friday?”

“Yeah sure, no problem. Why? Is everything going alright for you?”

“Hm, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. I have to go to Beijing to show to some potential sponsors.”

“Oh? You know how to speak Chinese?” Naruto perked up, curious.

“No, we’re going to talk in English.”

“Hey, if it’s English I can help you out! You want me to go with you on this trip?” Naruto exclaimed.

Pausing in mild surprise, Sasuke said. “You can? It’s not too much trouble for you?”

“Nah. I think. Neji said that you guys are now giving a percentage of your profit to our company right? So he’s pretty onboard with anything that will help Shinrei. I think I can get some plane tickets for a good discount, we can meet at the airport.”

It was becoming increasingly disconcerting how he was getting used to having Naruto by his side, giving presentations, sharing meetings, to the point that he was looking forward to seeing the familiar grin and brilliant pair of blue eyes. Sasuke sighed.

Stop. This is nothing. Those emotions are fabricated, some lingering primitive vestiges that he’s forced to face from time to time.

And yet, he appreciated knowing that Naruto would aid him, swift response to defend their position whenever they were in a dispute with a potential sponsor. After four meetings or so, they finished their meal and took a cab to their hotel, laying tiredly on the seat.

Sasuke was first to give his name to the hotel receptionist, mirroring Naruto’s yawn as the blond man slugged over the reception desk.

“Excuse me, Mr. Sasuke Uchiha? I think there must be some kind of mistake, but we’re not finding your name in our reservation system.”

Sasuke tsked, and grumbled. “Maybe my older brother booked with his own name. Try to find Itachi Uchiha.”

There were efficient typing noises, and the receptionist mumbled embarrassed. “We’re very sorry, but we’re not finding your older brother’s name either.”

Sasuke furrowed his eyebrows.

“Yes? What’s the matter Sasuke?” Itachi answered his call.

“For some reason, the hotel you booked is not finding my name.”

“What hotel?”

“Hotel? In Beijing? I’m spending the night here nii-san.”

“Oh.” There was a pause and then. “I forgot.”

Sasuke blinked. “You forgot.”

“Yes, how foolish of me. So sorry my dearest otouto-kun.” Itachi’s amused tone raised red flags in his mind.

“Don’t bullshit me Itachi. Are you telling me that you, that can practically remember how you exited mom’s womb, forgot to book one room for me??”

“I guess I was so busy programming and talking with clients and everything…I’m just human otouto-kun.”

Sasuke wasn’t having any of this. “You’re not human, you’re an evil demon. I’m going to kill you when I get back to Japan.”

He heard Itachi’s amused chuckle in response. “Sure sure. Say hi to Naruto-kun for me ok? I got to go.”

Sasuke groaned loudly, picking Naruto’s attention while the blond man was signing the papers. “Jesus, what happened?”

Sasuke glared at the receptionist, causing him to yip in terror. Sasuke rubbed his eyebrows, and enquired in a calmer voice. “Alright, give me a single room, I’ll pay with my credit card now.”

“I’m…very sorry Mr. Sasuke, but we don’t have any vacant single room.”

“Oh?” Naruto’s face was now 90% wide grin. “Did I just hear that Uchiha Sasuke-sama doesn’t have any place to stay? What tragedy!”

This is karma, this had to be. There was no way Sasuke would be so ill-fated to be surrounded by utter sadists.

“Hey, lucky for you I booked a double bed room!”

“You and Itachi didn’t plan this stupid idea together once again, did you?”

Naruto rolled his eyes. “Obviously we didn’t, have you forgotten the fact that I offered on the last minute to go to Beijing with you, while you booked this flight last week right? Ugh, you’re so skeptical over everything.”

Sasuke wrinkled his nose, and muttered back to the receptionist. “What kind room do you have available then?”

“Well…VIP, Deluxe and presidential rooms.”

“They all sound very expensive. You sure you don’t want to share the room with lil ol’ me?” Naruto offered, impish beam stamped on his face.

Fuck this. Picking up his suitcase, Sasuke turned around towards the exit.

“Whoa, where are you going?”

“Any other hotel, so I can avoid whatever trap you’re laying on me.” Sasuke glared.

Naruto didn’t even bat an eye, cooing in a fake, shrill girlish voice. “I mean, maybe you’re right, maybe you need to go to another hotel. Poor wibble, delicate Sasuke-chan can’t defend himself against my evil clutches because I’m a very bad, bad boy.”

⏤.⏤

One day, one day, he’ll stop falling for whatever goading Naruto would do to rile him up. The blond man was practically skipping on the way to their room, doing an exceptional extra flair with his hand as he allowed Sasuke to enter first.

Graphite eyes scanned everywhere, unfortunately the room wasn’t big enough for one adult man to sleep on the floor.

“Hey Sasuke⏤”

“Just to be clear, we’re not going to have any sex.”

Naruto gawked, tilting his head to one side. “I just wanted to ask if you mind if I put my luggage over there geez. We’re just going to share a bed, not prepare for some fucking sex marathon.”

Sasuke’s eyes were still narrowed, sharp and cautious.

“I mean, unless you were thinking ‘bout it⏤” Naruto curled a sly smirk.

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, so what’s the fuss is all about. ‘M going to take a bath first, I stink.” Naruto picked up a set of clean clothes and went to the bathroom.

Naruto’s complete lackadaisical attitude, however, just increased his suspicion even further. He used his laptop with a guarded stance, steering clear from the blond man, especially after he exited fresh from the bath, all golden locks dewy, tanned skin glowing good GOD he’s not falling for this. Sasuke grabbed his pyjamas and shut the door with a loud click.

The warm droplets coming from the shower managed to calm him, savoring how it massaged his tense shoulders. Sighing contentedly, Sasuke was ready to call it a day and jump on the bed when he saw Naruto sprawled all over it, patting on the empty spot in front of him.

Sasuke growled. “You’re not spooning me.” Besides, if they really need to spoon, he’d be the bigger spoon.

“You’re always such a ray of sunshine. Just lie down here ok? It’s not like we've never done this before.”

Pursing his lips, Sasuke sat on the edge of the bed, gradually lying down his body stiff. Naruto turned off his lights, his back turned to Sasuke.

After several minutes, the brunet was getting sleepy and adjusted the covers, shutting his eyes. He felt arms enveloping around his waist. “Naruto…” He growled.

Naruto’s voice was sluggish and tired, already ready to slumber. “Mm, ‘s just som’ thing, you’re so grouchy, I swear to God…” he continued muttering until he quieted down at last.

Sasuke sighed, revelling the warm body breathing close to him. Just this once, he’d indulge himself. Next time would be different.

(little did he knew, he slept with a pleased smile)

Chapter 04

--.--

AN: Aw, I noticed how much I missed writing Naruto and Sasuke bantering. It was really entertaining.

#NaruSasu #snstext #sn fic #sns fic #drabble

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l-s-kennedy · 5 years ago

Text

Two Years, Redfield.

(I've uploaded this onto my Watpad: DolceCos. This is the first fic I've finished in a long time. Enjoy!!)

"I'm in love with you..." Chris said, shortly after most of the combined team had exited the room. The only one to hear it, and the one the older Redfield had said it to, was Leon Kennedy; who stood there, files on the new mission in hand and frozen in his tracks. The blond looked at the older BSAA agent with wide eyes. His mind stuck between the urgency of the mission and what Chris Redfield had just said to him. As his mind tried to wrap itself around the situation, Leons mouth moved on it's own accord.

"Uh... Cool." Leon said, still dumbfounded. But before either of them could add to the conversation, a BSAA agent came back to the room.

"Sirs? Is everything alright?" He questioned. Chris turned to the man and gave a nod.

"Yes, we're on our way now." He said in his 'captain voice'.

They prepared for their mission, and were quickly on a plane headed for Umbrellas most recent facility, where some inside sources had informed the BSAA of some new BOW's. The D.S.O. had been called due to their history with the strains origin, Las Plagas. It's like Spain and New York all over again, Leon thought. He glanced at Chris who wore a serious expression as he went over the layout of the facility, doing his best to remember all the nooks and crannies for when things went south. Operations like this had a reputation for going off script, often horribly so. The two had worked together a few times, the frequency increasing over the years. Missions were the longest interactions they had with each other, they never really talked much in casual settings, and were rarely ever by themselves without Claire or Jill hanging around. in that time Leon had grown fond of doing what he could to get under the older Redfields skin, and had settled with casual flirting... however somewhere in the past two and a half years he'd crossed the line between casual and serious attempts. He'd been watching Chris with earnest intent, and it was such a shame everything he said made him sound like an asshole, he couldn't turn down his sass even if he tried.

The mission went about as well as one would think when infiltrating a giant testing lab crawling with infected test subjects. The casualties never got any easier to deal with, Leon could see how much Chris was struggling with this, he'd tried so hard to get all of his team out, and only about half of them made it. Leon sighed and went up to Chris.

"Hey, Redfield" He called out to the elder. Chris turned to him, looking like he needed about 3 years of sleep, which didn't sound like a bad idea.

"Kennedy." He replied. Leon sucked on his teeth for a brief moment before giving the man a light pat on the shoulder.

"Don't blame yourself... We did our best" He said. Comforting people wasn't Leon's strength, it always came out dry and awkward. Chris let out a heavy sigh and gave Leon a nod in response.

"Thanks..." he said solemnly his eyes looking slightly wet and pained. Chris walked off with Jill, who had been waiting for him, she patted his back and he gave her a smile. Leon felt his chest tighten slightly, a mix of jealousy and anger rose within him. He swallowed it down and went to the parking garage.

Leon rode his motorcycle back to his apartment, which was small and slightly barren of personal touch, save for a few band posters on the walls and a music system which seemed to be the most used item in the living room, you don't need much when there was always a chance you were going to die within a week or two after the next phone call you received. He sat on his couch quietly, still smelling of sweat, blood, and gunpowder. He couldn't stop thinking of what Chris had said to him before they'd left, which seemed like forever ago, but realistically was only about three days maximum.

"I'm in love with you" Leon repeated in a whisper. He dropped his head into his hands defeatedly.

"I can't believe I said 'Cool'... I'm an idiot" He sighed heavily. He groaned and leaned back into his couch, the sound of leather sliding on leather was uncomfortable, causing Leon to give another, mostly annoyed groan. After a good 7 minutes of just moping, he stood and headed to the bathroom for a shower, dropping his clothes wherever they wanted to land as he walked.

As he showered he debated with himself about contacting Chris, he had his number, it was given to him by Claire for emergencies. Was this an emergency? Leaving their short conversation the way it was didn't sit right with Leon, and he could rationalize that it could interfere with their work relationship, which would interfere with their teamwork, which would interfere with their future missions... so, yes? Leon sighed heavily as he dried his hair, glancing at his jeans which peeked through the slightly ajar door. His cellphone was in his left back pocket, Chris' number was the third one in his contacts list, right above Claire, it would be so easy. Yet he hesitated, even as he was picking up his jeans with the towel around his waist. He set the phone down on the bathroom counter with a small grumble. Frustrated with himself, he snatched the phone back up and sent Chris a text.

[Come over] with Leons address right under it. Leon set his phone down and went to his room to get dressed for a night in.

Chris had just arrived home, the cab that took him had barely left his road when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He unlocked his door and looked at the number with curiosity.

"Not sure I know that one" He muttered to himself as he closed and locked the door behind him. Claire was staying at the office tonight to finish up some of her own work for TerraSave, so Chris had the house to himself. He placed his things on the floor and counter respectively as he opened the text from the unknown number.

[Come over] it read, with an address under it. Chris narrowed his eyes, getting a suspicious feeling. He texted the number back thinking that the best case scenario is that it was spam. Worst case scenario, some other corrupted S.O.B. was targeting him and was trying to lure him to his death in the least efficient way possible. He stood in his kitchen in the dark, waiting for a response. When he got one it read:

[Leon, Claire gave me your number for emergencies.] Chris raised his eyebrows, a small, hazy memory came back to him of Claire mentioning that she'd share his new number with her office and some friends.

"Oh..." Chris said out loud. He took a step further into his kitchen as he began to type a response.

[On my way.] He spent enough time at his home to change his clothes before getting in his Jeep and leaving once again.

It took Chris a little longer than expected to arrive at the address, having gotten lost and needing to stop for gas on the way. When he finally got there it was almost five in the morning. Chris sat in the parking lot, and leaned back in his seat, exhaustion finally beginning to set in. He sighed heavily, questioning why he even came, whatever Leon needed to say could have been done by a phone call... right? Unless it was a dangerous level of serious, but if that was the case, wouldn't Leon just meet him at the BSAA? It was secure and safe. Chris rubbed his face, getting out of his Jeep and locking it as he walked up the stairs.

"Apartment 4B" He mumbled, looking at the numbers on the door. 4B was the only apartment that was lit up this early in the morning, somehow Chris wasn't surprised whatsoever. He knocked on the door and waited. Things were quiet out here, save for the occasional dog barking in the distance. It was a while before he heard anything from the other side of the door, but he didn't really mind, it was peaceful.

First footsteps, then the unlocking of several locks. Leon opened the door, wearing nothing but black sweatpants. Chris gazed at him, Leon's torso was riddled with old scars, and a large fresh bruise on his side from the latest mission. Looks painful, he thought.

"Do you not have my number saved in your phone?" Leon asked, sounding a bit annoyed. Chris only shrugged apologetically. Leon shook his head and stepped aside to let him in.

"Take your shoes off at the mat Redfield." He warned. Chris did so respectively and walked into the apartment.

"Leon what's going on? Did you find something out?" Chris asked, in a business only tone. Leon sighed a little.

"No, this isn't about BOWs..." He started, causing Chris to look utterly confused. Leon sat on his couch, propping his ankle on his knee as he thought about how to word this.

"Then, what is it?" Chris now sounded concerned. Way to wear your heart on your sleeve Redfeild, Leon thought with a light chuckle.

"About earlier..." Leon began again.

"You have thoughts on the mission?" Chris interjected. Leon waved him off, furrowing his brow.

"No, Chris, this isn't about BOWs, it's not about the mission, it has nothing to do with either of our jobs, it's more personal" he said, sounding annoyed. Chris finally got the message and stopped interrupting.

"Okay..."

"BEFORE the mission. What you said, RIGHT before we left..." Leon said, blushing very slightly, hoping Chris would catch on, feelings were not Leon's forte. Chris thought, his face turning a light shade of red when he came to the realization of what Leon was getting at.

"Oh...yeah, about that..." Chris started nervously, could he weave a fib to make it seem like it had been a joke? Leon would probably catch the lie. Leon watched Chris, and stood up, walking over. Chris looked at him, feeling like he was just caught with his pants down. Before he could open his mouth to defend himself from any potential berating, Leon placed his hand on Chris' shoulder and gave him a serious look.

"Two years Redfield... I have been flirting with you... for two whole god damned years. You showed no interest, no reciprocation, and just as I figured I'd give up since the BSAA's golden boy CLEARLY wasn't interested... then you drop that bomb on me?" Chris couldn't decide if Leon was angry or relieved. They stared at each other, waiting for someone to say something.

Chris meant to apologize to Leon, he meant to show Leon that he was ecstatic that their feelings seemed to go both ways, but all that he said was:

"I'm good" loudly. Leon looked confused at first, then began to chuckle as Chris tried to explain what he meant to say, verbally tripping over himself more in the process, which only amused Leon further.

Leon patted Chris' shoulder and stepped closer leaning on the taller man, still chuckling.

"Chris, I get it. I get it, stop, my bruised ribs make it hurt to laugh." He joked. Chris settled down with an almost pouting expression. Leon patted the man's shoulder and led him to the couch. Chris sat and tried to make himself comfortable as Leon sat a cushion away from him.

"How long?" Leon asked, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Chris raised an eyebrow before giving the other a nod of understanding.

"I realized it in the past year. At first I thought I was going crazy. You and claire are closer, plus you're almost her age. It was kinda weird to think about having a crush on someone who seemed to have a better chance with my sister than me." He said, scratching the back of his head. Leon nodded a little.

"I see... but you came to terms with it, obviously" Leon muttered audibly. Chris nodded in return. Leon hummed and leaned back into the couch.

"So... Did you notice any of my flirting? like... at all?" Leon asked, holding his hand out in front of him for emphasis. Chris looked slightly ashamed.

"No, I thought it was just you being... well, you. Joking around like that seems to be part of your personality." Chris admitted. Leon sighed heavily.

"I really need to work on that" He grumbled to himself, crossing his arms. Leon looked at Chris, who'd gotten distracted by a poster on the wall. He noted the utter exhaustion that seemed to paint the man's features, the bloodshot eyes coupled with the bags under them made for a heavy looking combination. The room was quiet for another good moment before Leon spoke up again.

"You look tired Chris" He pointed out. Chris looked at Leon and gave a small smile paired with another small shrug.

"That's what happens, I should probably head on ho-"

"Spend the night" Leon interrupted. Chris looked at Leon a little surprised. Leon raised an eyebrow.

"What? It's a long drive back to your house, you look like a wreck. You'll be safe, there's a federal agent to protect you" He said with a slight smirk. Chris looked a little surprised, though thought about the tempting offer.

"You sure? I can make it home..." He started, however, Leon didn't let him finish. He got up and stood in front of Chris.

"Chris, I'm offering. Besides, There'll be a glass of bourbon waiting for you when you get out of the shower, cause you obviously didn't get the chance to yet." He offered his hand to the man and gave what looked like a slightly one sided sincere smile. Chris smiled back and took the hand offered, standing up.

"Thanks Leon." He said warmly. Leon nodded and looked Chris up and down.

"However I don't think I'll have any pajamas that'll fit you properly, so you might have to sleep in your pants" Leon joked. Chris shrugged, more casually this time.

"That's alright, won’t be the first time, won’t be the last." Chris chuckled.

Leon led chris to the bathroom, handing him a clean towel before heading to the kitchen, leaving Chris alone. Chris looked around the bathroom before starting to undress. There wasn't much to the bathroom, decor wise, much like the rest the rest of Leons apartment, but Chris grew curious and began snooping around the medicine cabinet. He found several bottles of differing pain reliever, the makings of a basic first aid kit, and a few travel toiletries.

"Hm" Chris sounded, feeling slightly disappointed. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but he still felt let down. With a shrug he stripped himself of his slightly worn clothing and got in the shower. As the water warmed up he examined the various bottles sitting on the shelves. Bleach safe shampoo and conditioner, apple body wash, a face wash, and cheap bar soap. Chris hummed slightly, feeling the warmth on his back as he picked up the bottle of shampoo.

"I knew it, he bleaches his hair" Chris mumbled to himself triumphantly, squirting some of the shampoo into his hand to lather his hair. He chuckled to himself at the thought of Leon S. Kennedy, top agent of the D.S.O. bleaching his hair in his bathroom like a highschooler. Chris laughed a bit harder as he continued his shower, washing the rest of himself with the bar of soap.

Leon riffled through his liquor cabinet pulling out a newly opened bottle of bourbon, and two small glasses. He listened to his shower run, thinking about the last time he'd had company over, which was a good while ago. He took a sip from his glass, wondering if he'd always felt this lonely, or if he just didn't have anything else to compare it to.

"Must be tiring keeping everyone at arm's length Kennedy." he muttered to himself, taking a larger sip this time.

By the time Chris left she shower, Leon had already poured himself another glass. Chris walked out to the kitchen with the towel still draped around his neck, catching the water that dripped from his hair.

"Aw, started without me?" he said with a smile. Leon gave him a shrug and pushed Chris' glass towards him as he approached the table.

"Better catch up Redfield" He said with a light chuckle. Chris grabbed the glass and made a slight toasting motion before sitting and joining the younger man. Leon watched Chris, admiring the muscles the man had gained over the years. Claire had shown him pictures of her and Chris when they were younger, there was definitely a difference in his muscle mass, especially after the Raccoon City incident. If Leon hadn't known Chris was of good character, he would have suspected steroids. He chuckled to himself at the thought, which caused Chris to look at him with a raised brow. Leon shook his head slightly.

"Nothing, just thinking... You used to be much smaller when you were younger, right? Must be one hell of a training routine." Leon commented. Chris smiled.

"One hundred percent hard work, and a lot of good hearty breakfasts." He exclaimed proudly. The two shared a chuckle and continued on with their drinking, Leon slowing down so Chris could catch up.

The two didn't mean to drink half of the bottle, but between their talking and their loose sense of time due to their tiredness, that's exactly what happened. By the time Chris noticed, leon was leaning against him, regaling him about the time that one of Adam Benford's grand-daughters lost her favorite stuffed animal in the tallest tree on the whitehouse property, causing Leon to climb the tree to retrieve it to stop her from crying. Leon reached for the bottle, readying himself to just take a swig from it, when Chris set his hand surprisingly gingerly on his wrist, easing it away from the bottle.

"Leon, the sun's rising, we've drank almost the whole thing." He pointed out. Leon looked at the bottle on the table, the bourbon illuminated by the light from the sunrise filtering in between his blinds.

"Oh..." Leon said, his tone sounding sad, still not moving his head from where it comfortably rested on Chris' shoulder.

"We need sleep." Chris commented. Leon sighed and groaned as he sat up, only now realizing that Chris' hand hadn't moved his hand from his wrist. He looked at it, examining it carefully, and looked at Chris, who's face held a red tint, though if it was from the alcohol or the physical touch, Leon didn't know. Chris looked at Leon, feeling warm and tingly. He kept his breathing slow and steady as he took what felt like a chance and slid his hand from Leons wrist to his hand, intertwining his fingers with the others. Leon kept his eyes on Chris' face, his grip on Chris' hand tightening to match as he resumed leaning against him.

"Yeah... we do." He said softly in agreement, though neither of them making an effort to stand.

They sat there and enjoyed each other's silent company for a while until Chris grunted, apparently waking himself up. Leon laughed a little and stood up.

"Come on Redfield... I have a spare room." He said, beckoning the man to move with him. Leon helped Chris up, leading him by the hand to the room, where he proceeded to guide the man down onto the bed, laying a blanket over him. He gave Chris a smile and turned to head to his own room, just across the hall. He didn't make it too far before Chris' grabbed onto his wrist once more. Leon looked at the man, who was looking at him as if he had something on his mind.

"Yes?" Leon questioned. Chris gave Leon a hesitant look.

"Just so I get this straight... this feeling is mutual. Right?" he asked softly, his voice holding an uncertain tenderness. It seemed that the exhaustion and bourbon had made its way to his brain, making him vulnerable. Precious, Leon thought as he watched Chris. Leon turned back to him and knelt down, so he was eye level with him.

"Yes Chris. I feel the same way about you as you do about me." He said with a small smile. "Now I need to get to sleep, so I need to go now" He stood up again, preparing to walk out, but with a quick but firm tug, he found himself moving in the wrong direction. He fell onto Chris and was quickly trapped under the heavy weight of his biceps. Leon looked at Chris, his eyes wide with surprise at his sudden change in position. Chris' face was hidden in the crook of Leons neck.

"Stay? Please Leon?" He said against Leon's skin. Leon worked his arm out of Chris' grasp and gently patted the man on the back.

"Okay, okay. I can't really go anywhere with you holding me like this anyway." At that, he felt Chris smile softly, the mans stubble lightly scratching against his skin.

Leon adjusted himself under the blanket and once they were comfortable, Chris quickly fell asleep, Leon securely in his arms. He watched the sleeping man, feeling sleep begin to creep up on him as well. He laid his head against Chris and smiled genuinely.

"Two years Redfeild, two long fucking years... I love you too" He said softly as he fell asleep, unaware that Chris wore a soft smile.

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