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atpaftmoom-bily · 3 years ago

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Thoughts about Erik, why Wilhelm wasn't allowed to come out, and more.

Be warned, this is long, confusing, and I'm not even sure if I made any valid points. But I had thoughts on Young Royals, with no one to talk to, so here you go.

I've seen various different takes on Erik and what people thought his reaction would have been if Willie had come out to him, most of them being positive, and some as well saying how sad it was that Willie never got to come out to his brother. I have a different take, but bear with me it's gonna take a second to get there.

Something that I found interesting in the first place was that when August found out it was Simon and not a girl, he just seemed shocked, but not in a homophobic way that I had kind of been expecting.

Additionally, let's take a look at the comments on the video, I've split them up into three different groups. General comments (disbelief, surprise, pity, etc.), comments sexualizing them, and negative comments. (I've translated these as well as I could as they were not all captioned, but if I've made a mistake feel free to let me know!)

General Comments "OMG Have you seen this?? The Prince is gay!!!!" "Who's the other guy?" "I'm dead" "Finally some news to put Sweden on the map!" "Poor boys, I feel sorry for them" "So clumsy to get caught on film" "I know where he lives!" "I think the video is fake" "Love for the boys"

Sexualizing Comments "Royal porn" "Sexy" "Love" "Sexiest video ever"

Negative Comments "How will the monarchy survive this?" "The end of the royal family, time for Sweden to become a republic!" "Never been ashamed about being Swedish until now" "Class traitor! Your mother cries for your sins"

Now, there are quite a few things I want to point out about Sweden that I feel should be taken into account here. Of course, we don't know the exact dates that the show took place, but we do know it is modern-day, and though it is a work of fiction, I am going to assume that anything that is currently true in Sweden at the moment, give or take a few years, would also be true in the Young Royals universe.

The first point I would like to make is that Sweden is one of the most LGBT-friendly countries, even being named the most friendly country in 2019. Looking back in history, 1944 was when Sweden decriminalized sexual relationships between consenting adults of the same sex, though it was still thought to be an illness. However, in 1979 it was no longer considered an illness. Fun unrelated fact, but Sweden was the first country to legalize gender change in 1979. (If you'd like to read more on LGBT rights in Sweden here are some resources. One. Two.) If Sweden is that progressive and is that LGBT-friendly, then I wondered what the problem was with Willie coming out, so I dug some more.

I'm American, so my understanding of many parts of the world is unfortunately skewed or incomplete, but I'm working on changing that. However, because of this, one thing that surprised me in my research was that the monarchy in Sweden is more of a unifying symbol than anything else. They have no political affinity or formal powers, but rather "the King’s duties are mainly of a ceremonial and representative nature." Of course in the case of Young Royals, the Queen inherited the throne, and Wilhelm would after her.

Something else I found interesting about the monarchy in Sweden is that the current Queen, Queen Silvia, did not come from a line of nobility, so when Queen Silvia and King Carl Gustaf married in 1976, it was highly unusual. (See more on the Swedish monarchy here.)

There is one last thing I want to point out about the current King and Queen. "In summer 2000, King Carl XVI Gustaf and Queen Silvia of Sweden made history when they ate under the rainbow flag at Djurgårdsterrassen, a Stockholm restaurant owned by gay owner Arto Winter. At that time, the decision was seen as controversial, and played a valuable role in moving conversations forward – while making the royals’ position abundantly clear." (Source)

Now, of course, I understand the difference between a fictional work and real-life situations, but at least in my opinion, these same ideals should carry through to the show that we see. If the King and Queen in real life have been openly supportive of the LGBT community since at least 2000, then although specifics might not be the same, some of those ideals should carry through to Young Royals, so what is the problem, right?

I'm not trying to erase the reality of homophobia altogether, because of course, that exists. We even see in the show through comments that there are some people who are worried about the state of the monarchy, are disgusted, or downright still think that not being straight is a sin, but we also see other comments as well. If Wilhelm were to come out, what would happen? Would there be some backlash? 100%. Would there be people who would support him? Also 100%. Would it make his life harder? Probably, but would he be happier? In my opinion, yes, but I guess that's a question that Wilhelm would have to gauge on his own.

Now I want to look deeper at the conversation that Wille has with his mother, the Queen, in the car on the way home so he can give a statement to the media. Below is an excerpt from their dialogue.

---

Wilhelm: Why can't I just have a relationship with him? And not say anything. Just live a normal life.

Queen: You're the crown prince. And that's a privilege, not a punishment.

Wilhelm: Yes, but I didn't ask for this!

Queen: Well, nobody has ever, ever asked for this! You are the only one who can take over the throne after Erik. Don't you understand that? You are so young. When you're young, love feels like the most important thing in the whole world. When I was your age, I too had an unfortunate romance. That was before I met your father. What I mean is, is it worth it? If you feel that the attention you've been getting so far is unacceptable, it's nothing compared to what you will endure for the rest of your life. We have a chance to cover this up, I urge you to take that chance. You may not get another."

---

Something I find interesting is how much Willie just wants to live a normal life, which I get. He is under so much pressure, from being a role model, his brother's death that he hasn't even had time to process, preparing to be king someday, and (kind of) being outed to the entire world, but at least his school. It's enough to make anyone want to live normally. I think the biggest thing we have to think about here is the Queen's question as well. Is it worth it? She is right of course, the attention he will get will always be there, but I do think that Willie would be able to find a way to be happy along with being King. It shouldn't have to be a case of either-or, and ultimately I don't think it is.

Now I'm going to move back to Erik, and really, this ties everything back to the start where I mentioned I had a different take on Erik's reaction to Willie being not straight. I think that Erik already knew. It would make sense for a variety of reasons. In the show, it is obvious that the two of them have a good relationship. We also hear Erik tell Willie, "you can trust him, he's like a brother," in episode one when speaking about August, showing that trust is something strong between them as brothers. I'm not exactly sure how old Wilhelm is meant to be in the show, but I estimate somewhere around sixteen. I would like to assume that sometime before attending Hillerska, he may have had a crush or felt some attraction to a guy. We also can see from their phone call in episode three, that they're not afraid to joke around with each other about such things, meaning that Erik would most likely be the first person that Willie would go to about such things.

Another thing that makes me believe Erik already knew has to do with people assuming that Simon is the first guy that Willie has liked. Now, I know things are not the same for everyone, but if we consider what happens when the video is posted, and Willie had to deny it is him, we can conclude that being anything other than straight in their family is not okay, simply because they are royals, and the media attention will be too much. Imagine you've known your whole life, you can't be something, the first instance you encounter that, you're probably not going to give in right away. I'm talking at least some minor internalized homophobia here or something.

So put that into the context of Simon and Willie's first kiss in episode two. Simon kisses Willie twice before Willie says "Well, I'm not... I'm not... Stop! Wait, wait, wait!" and immediately pulls Simon back towards him. Let's reflect back to episode one where Willie says "I’m not… I’m not allowed to speak about political issues." I'm not allowed. Of course, there are TONS of restrictions on what he can and can not do, kissing guys, probably being one of them. But if he was going to say I'm not gay or I'm not like that, why would he instantly pull him back in, contrasting what he was just going to say. In episode three, Willie does say, "I'm not like that," which makes sense. He's had time to think and isn't in the heat of the moment. What other explanation can he give? Sure, he could say he's not allowed to be like that but saying that would admit that he is. It's a circle, a very messy circle, but it is a... loop.

Going back to what I'm supposed to be talking about here, Erik. This isn't Willie's first rodeo, but Erik was there for the first. One last thing I want to talk about is the phone call that Erik and Willie have in episode three. Below is an excerpt from their dialogue.

---

Erik: You've met someone.

Wilhelm: I, uh... Yes, okay, but I... I don't think we're a couple or anything. I don't know what it is but can we just...

Erik: I get it. I get it. You don't have to tell me any... I don't wanna hear any details. Hey. Willie, enjoy yourself. Soon enough people will start having opinions and-

Wilhelm: They don't care about me. 'Cause you're the Crown Prince that they have opinions.

Erik: I don't get it. Why are you sitting in your room sulking when you have a crush to hang out with?

---

Firstly, Erik refers to Willie's crush as completely gender-neutral. "You've met someone" could very easily be "you've met a girl". The same goes for "you have a crush to hang out with". Very well could have been "you have a girl to hang out with". Sure, it could be completely coincidental, but we live in such a heteronormative society that it would just make sense for Erik to use female-gendered words. Unless, of course, he knew.

Secondly, "Hey. Willie, enjoy yourself. Soon enough people will start having opinions". This sounds very much to me like, enjoy your time while you can be yourself without backlash because soon you won't have that privacy. While I feel that, yes, the same may happen with anyone Willie was to date, him having a same-sex partner multiplies that, by a lot.

In conclusion, Erik knew Willie was not straight, Willie should come out, but when he is ready, and August is a really deep character that people don't give enough credit to. Gosh, I hope I covered everything, I probably forgot so much, but it's fine. Please let me know your thoughts if you've made it this far into the post.

One last thing. I hope you'll notice how in this post, I never referred specifically to Wilhelm's sexuality, and I did that for a reason. I often see gay used to label him, and though I am unsure if that's being used as an umbrella term or specifically as in he only likes men, I think it's really important to realize that they're specifically making him unlabeled. In this youtube video Edvin Ryding, the actor who plays Wilhelm, says "What we're trying to do... We're not labeling Wilhelm's sexuality. I think that's good because it's like, it portrays that it's okay that way too. You don't have to. You shouldn't have to come out. It should be allowed to be a bit fluid, a bit out there." I just think that it is important as it's another type of representation that is not seen often.

#young royals #prince wilhelm #simon eriksson #wilmon #simon x wilhelm #young royals netflix #wilhelm yr #simon yr #august yr #erik yr #netflix #edvin ryding #omar rudberg #malte gårdinger #ivar forsling

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everything-person · 3 years ago

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Then Came You

A/N: This is my contribution to @cshistfic Historical Fic Event. This is my first time diving deep, just submerging myself into research to make sure I got my time period correct and I had a blast. Sometime I had too much fun and thankfully I had @spartanguard to push me off my high horse. Thank you @shireness-says for making this event and running it. Hopefully my entree is worthy enough. This fic is based in the 70’s and is inspired by Disney Pixar’s Cars. This may have up to 3 parts.

Summary: Rookie of the Year race car driver Killian Jones finds himself lost in a forgotten Storybrooke on his way to the finale race of the season. His world and perspective on what he wants gets turned upside down in the small town.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Where the fuck am I?

was Killian Jones, famous race car driver, first thought as he woke up. Well, first thought after he got over the throbbing pain in his skull. He sat up to see he was laying in a cot. Taking in his immediate surroundings, he realized he was behind bars. His head fell into his hands.

How did I get here?

He recalled being at Pocono in the Piston Cup series finale. He was named Rookie of the Year and was set up to be the first one to win. His only real competition was Ernest “the King'' Triton, Atlantica’s golden boy, who was planning on this being his last season, and Edward Teach, the King's tail biter. They weren’t expecting Killian to come out of nowhere and take the season by storm.

He was set to win it all, ahead by half a lap, checkered flag insight when a tire blew. He struggled but was able to keep control of his car. He could feel his competitors gaining on him as he lost speed. Such events caused a three-way tie, set to be settled in a week in Daytona.

He remembered the interviews asking about him driving without a crew chief; he always had an issue taking orders. The King came walking up to him.

“My man, you are one bad racer. You got more talent in that famous smile of yours than half these dudes got in their whole body but you’re stupid. Let me give you the lowdown: this ain’t a one-man show, young blood. You need to wise up, get yourself a good crew chief and a good team. You ain’t gonna win unless you got stellar people behind you doing their jobs so you can keep being the slammin’ driver you are.”

He thanked him for the advice before they were made to get on stage for the press. That's when Edward Teach decided to try to psyche him out.

“Listen space cadet, that was some fab drifting today. By me. He he he. First one at Daytona gets Atlantica all to themselves. Catch my drift?”

Then he went looking for his team, only to find out from Smee, his truck driver, that he had to make a personal appearance over at his sponsor's tent—Arendelle Chocolates, run by sisters Elsa and Anna Arendelle, most famous for the Apollo Bar.

“A taste that’s out of this world!”

He desperately wanted to get away from his sponsor. He didn’t care for sweets and frankly found most disgusting. He entered the tent to find the other reason he didn’t care for his current sponsor: children all running around with their grubby hands. The sight made him squirm, but Smee reminded him they gave him his big break and it was in his contract. With those inspiring words, he put on a smile, made his way to his sponsor sisters, said a few words that had the tent roaring in cheers before he said goodbye.

“Killian, that was stellar! We are so proud to call you our driver!”

“And we are looking forward to another fab year!”

“Don’t drive like my sister!”

“Yeah, don't drive like my sister!”

He and his crew got on the road not long after that. His crew were in the truck along with his car while he drove just behind them. While his crew pulled off to get some rest, he kept going to be the first at Daytona. But he kept nodding off and got lost.

He remembered pulling out his map to try and find out where he was. He tried to keep his car steady while trying to make out what his map said by moonlight, when he heard sirens. Looking up, he saw the lights of a town. Before he could think about pulling over the sirens were accompanied with sounds of loud popping. He assumed it was the officer firing at him. He tried to dodge the bullets but soon lost control of his car. He ran into quite a few things before gaining control again, only to get caught on something. He gunned it to get free, only to have his car spin out once he was. The last thing he remembered was something crashing into his driver side door effectively stopping his spin out and causing his head to slam into his window; then everything went black.

Groaning, he picked up his head taking another look around. He was on a cot, in a holding cell, in a dusty office. He was taking in the desks and filing cabinets, looking for signs of life, when he heard a voice.

“Well hi,” came an excited, high-pitched voice.

His head snapped back to one of the desks to see a boy he missed sitting just behind it.

“I was wondering when you were gonna wake up.”

Killians faced scrunched up, “What's going on? Why am I here?”

The boy laughed, “Like you don’t know. For being a spaz last night.”

“What's your name, lad?”

“Henry. What's your name?”

“You don’t know my name?” Killian asked, taken aback by the question.

“No; why should I know your name?”

“I’m Killian Jones.” He waited for the moptop boy to put the pieces together

“Killian Jones!” Henry shot up out of his seat as he exclaimed the name before falling back down. “Yeah, not ringing a bell.”

Killian furrowed his eyebrows, “Where am I?”

“Where are you? You’re in Storybrooke, the most rockin’ town on the Potomac River.”

Killian sighed, dropping his head, bringing his hand up rubbing at his forehead. “Great. Just great.”

“Well if you like this place, you should see the rest of the town.”

Killian picked up his head, looking at the brown-eyed boy and spied just behind him the keys to his cage. Focusing back on the boy, he smiled and stood up from his spot on the cot.

“You know, that's a brilliant idea. I’d love to see the rest of your town. If you just let me out of here, we could go cruisin’ the town.” Killian finished his thought as he came leaning against the bars.

“Golly! Really?” Henry sat up straighter with a bright smile that slowly turned into a smirk, “You think you can psyche me out. I’m ten, not stupid.”

“Henry!” a new voice shouted out.

In walked a man sporting a perm and mustache wearing a star at his hip.

“What have you been told about being in here with criminals?”

Henry sighed, “Not without supervision. But he was sleeping.”

The man crossed his arms, letting out a huff, “Well now he’s awake. Want to help me escort him to court?”

The next thing Killian knew, he was in chains and being placed in the back of a cop car. After a short ride, he was hauled out and guided into Town Hall where he was met with shouting and very angry townspeople. He was placed in a chair.

“Oi mate,” Killian looked up at the sheriff, “I gotta skitty. How long is this gonna take?”

The sheriff, Robin read his name tag, crossed his arms, “Do you have a lawyer?”

Killian scoffed, “Aye, but he's probably in Hawaii right now.”

“If the defendant doesn’t have representation, the court will assign one to him.” Robin turned to the crowd behind him bringing his fingers to his lips, letting out a shrieking whistle. “Anyone want to be his lawyer?”

The room went silent.

“I’ll do it,” a familiar voice broke the silence.

Killian turned to see the boy from before trotting up to the gate. Robin quirked an eyebrow at him.

“What? It's not hard.”

“Hmm, alright,” Robin agreed, letting the boy take the seat next to Killian.

Killian looked between the two before landing his gaze on the sheriff.

“Are you serious?”

“Well, our normal defense is at the vet after you clipped his dog last night,” Robin informed him before speaking to the room, “All rise! Honorable Judge Nolan presiding.”

Everyone stood as the sound of a door opening and closing was heard. Heavy footsteps rang out in the silence.

“I want to know who is responsible for wrecking my town. I want his ass on a silver platter. I’m gonna put him in jail until he rots. No, until the jail rots on top of him then I’ll put him in another jail and wait until that one rots. I—”

The man's rants came to a halt as he laid his eyes on the accused. “Get him out of here, sheriff. I want him out of my courtroom and out of my town. Case dismissed; charges dropped.”

Killian let out a breathy laugh, “Woah. You were a better lawyer than I thought, youngblood.”

“Sorry I’m late, Your Honor.”

Killian turned to see a stunning blonde woman come strutting in.

“Bloody hell,” Killian whispered under his breath. He thought the sheriff must’ve found his agent's number and gave him a call. This must be who they sent from his attorney’s office.

As she was walking by, Killian spoke up, “Hello, love. Thank you for coming but we are all set. He’s dropped the charges.”

She stopped and turned to him, her eyes darting to the boy next to him. “What?”

“Aye, we got off lucky. Now all we have to do is speed on down to Florida.”

“Please.”

“I get that a lot. I create feelings in people they themselves don't understand.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right. Well I’m gonna go talk to the judge.”

“Whatever you gotta do, love. Do be careful though. These cats are a bit feral.”

She pursed her lips, nodding before turning her attention to the smiling child next to him, “Hi, Henry.”

“Hello.”

Killian looked at the boy before looking back at the blonde, who had turned to the crowd behind him.

“Morning everyone,” she called out, receiving greetings in response. She turned, eyeing Killian as she did, before she walked up to the judges stand who was intensely looking at his papers.

“David, you're looking well. Your sideburns are—”

“Forget it, Emma. I already dismissed the case,” he said, not looking up at her.

“He endangered most of the town and destroyed half of it. You can’t just let him go.”

“We are better off with him gone.”

Emma huffed, “Alright; you asked for it.”

Emma turned and addressed the room, “I move for an appeal. Robin, if you will help me escort the accused to the Mayor.”

Robin assisted Killian out of the chair. They followed the woman down the hall and up the stairs. Killian would protest but the walk was giving him a great view of the blonde’s ass.

As they came to a door labeled Mayor, Robin leaned over and whispered to Killian, “May the mayor have mercy on your soul.”

Before Killian could question or even look at the man he was being ushered into a black and white room.

“Ms. Swan, why are you barging into my office?” A woman sitting behind the desk in the middle of the office asked, not bothering to look up at the intruders.

“Judge Nolan ruled to dismiss the charges against our drunk driver—”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Killian interrupted.

“And I moved for an appeal. I thought the sooner the better,” Emma continued.

The woman finally looked up to see Emma standing in front of her desk before her eyes darted to Sheriff Robin, and Judge Nolan standing just behind her with Killian standing in between them.

“What are the charges?”

“Reckless driving, reckless endangerment, trespassing, vandalism, and destruction of property.”

“Why did you dismiss the case?” The woman directed the question to Judge Nolan.

He stepped forward standing next to Emma. “Madame Mayor, what happened last night was a terrible occurrence but I believe the longer this man stays, the more trouble will come.”

“Based on what?”

“I know the kind of man he is. I can see it in his eyes. He’s the last thing this town needs.”

“We let this guy walk, it sends a message to every delinquent in town that you can do whatever you want. The town needs to be fixed—they need this,” Emma stated.

“I think the sheriff's station’s reputation will precede this incident. We are fine without him,” Judge Nolan responds.

The mayor turned to Emma. “What do you suggest the sentence should be if I agree to your appeal?”

“Make an example of him. Give him community service, make him fix everything he can that he broke. Whatever he can’t, fine him for; by the looks of his clothes, he can afford it.”

The mayor sat back looking between the man and woman in front of her.

“Sheriff,” she called, “What say you? Should I let this man go to avoid further disturbance, or have him fix the town?”

“Well, I think the town needs renovation more than it needs to avoid trouble. In fact, I think we could benefit from some,” Robin eloquently answered.

The mayor nodded, standing from her seat, “I’m inclined to agree. The accused is sentenced to community service until everything that was damaged from last night's events is fixed and a fine of six hundred dollars for reckless driving and endangerment.”

Killian’s eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead. He went from walking away scot-free to becoming this town’s new handyman along with being fined six hundred dollars.

The mayor took her seat once again stating, “You are all dismissed.”

Emma turned around with a satisfied smile plastered on her face. “Looks like Florida is gonna have to wait.”

#ouat #once upon a time #emma swan #killian jones #cs fanfic #cs ff #cshistfic #1970s

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popculturebuffet · 4 years ago

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Ducktales Comics: Spies Like Us and Dime after Dime or Weblena: The Preschool Days (Lena Retrospective) (Comissioned by WeirdKev27)

Hello all you happy people and welcome back to Shadow Into Light, My Lena Retrospective, which fittingly has now come to Women’s History Month! I sadly do not have anything besides this arc prepared for the month. This month is pretty packed for me with two shows a week to cover, as while there’s only two weeks of Ducktales left final space starts up right after to take it’s spot, two arcs to cover, and two time specific movie reviews: animal crossing the movie and the 1990 TMNT film. I will try to get more than the currently planned top 12 superheroines list out there... but this month is very tight as is, so if I do not I deeply apologize.

Now that’s out of the way, it’s appropriate we start Women’s history month on some likely lesser known parts of Lena’s history, with some comics stories focusing on our faviorite emo lesbian duck and her 87 counterpart. Before I get started on that though Kev my patreon pointed out something intresting a few weeks back i’ve been forgetting to get to and since we’re looking into Minima, I felt this was the perfect time to do so: Lena’s Concept art.

There’s quite a few things to gleam from this. For starters as pointed out in the reddit thread I got the image as a whole from this was made in 2015, meaning Lena was one of the first new characters designed for the series and was part of it from the VERY early stages, as evidenced by the fact that despite clearly having their new personalities established, Beakly and Webby still had the old designs.

The other notable change is that her first design was way more like both Magica nad Minima, a bit more modern, but clearly far more obvious who she was related to. She also had all black feathers making the shadow twist a bit more obvious and was likely done away with both to avoid giving that twist away, the same reason for the fake lestrange name, and to avoid accidently black coding her, as while Lena being black would’ve been intersting, it also would’ve invited a firestorm of controversy given that their one black character in season 1.. woul’dve started off as a homeless, manipulative antagonist, and none of that would play well nor was it something the progressive crew of this show couldn’t spot from a mile away. And even this early on they have an almost final design ready, simply changing the shirt to fit her personality more, and her hair to be pink because it honestly looked better She also had green eyes throughout, but for whatever reason they phased them out. That part I don’t quite get as they look nice but probably they were hard to translate to the reboot style once they settled on their own. Her purple eyeshadow and haircut though have stuck since and were good calls.

One last VERY obvious note.. Webby was gay for Lena from minute one. While Dana helped it is now VERY obvious they gay coded this relationship from the design phase, and the crew was entirely aware the whole time and I gave them less credit than I should have. They clearly had this in mind, and it’s very likely ONLY subtext because Disney, while making more and more progress, is very reluctant to have queer characters as Owl House was a struggle and since they have a tighter leash on properites based on the sensational 6, that means Frank knew they had the same odds of making Webby or Della queer in anything but subtext that a pig has of suviving in a slaughterhouse. I bring this up because I fear the series getting accused of queerbaiting somewhere down the road instead of doing what they could with a bad hand and hoping they could make the show as gay as they could. Penny is as out as they posisbly could get her, and Violet and Lena’s dad’s got a full apperance, if no speaking role that made it obvious beyond a shadow of a doubt their gay and did it in a plot important episode. So they did their best and I want them to get credit for that.

But while this is all intresting stuff, join me under the cut for the meat of today’s review as I dig into Lena’s only apperance in the tie-in comic that was never punished here, and the only apperance of her protoype Minima.

Spies Like Us: As I mentioned this comic was never published here which is doubly weird to me because of how I knew this story existed. Since I follow comics weekly and buy trades reguarly, I read the solicits companies put out eveyr month to see what new series are coming, what the ones i’m currently reading are doing, and what trades are coming out. That sort of thing, and it’s something I love. I know their basically adds.. but their well put together adds that really pull you into the books you like. The big two and the indies are all very good at it and sometimes i’ts the only way to know a comic is coming if the company dosen’t make a press release for it ahead of time.

So naturally given there are several comics I follow at idw, paticuarlly the TMNT comics, I read those solicits and found they were going to do an issue with Webby and Lena becoming spies, and was excited about it. I ended up forgetting about it and never really followed the Ducktales comic as it came out, and upon reading an issue or two recently, one for another comission by kev as one story, happy happy valley, was particularly terrible. For those who haven’t read the story or my review, it involved the family getting stranded on an island where their forced to partake in activites and smile..that somehow turned into an aseop about Louie wanting to be rich. It ended with this

Yes.. really. That actually happened. But even with this, I fully planned to cover the issue when I covered Lena, and brought it up to Kev when he commissioned the retrospective. He gave me the discord equilvent of a blank stare and had never heard of it. I soon found out why: the story was replaced as, and fair play to disney, it spoiled Beakly’s past from the agent 23 episode which wasn’t going to air in time. What dosen’t work is they never reprinted the story in The US.. didn’t put it in a future issue and just swap it’s place didn’t put it in the nothing. And the story was fully complete as we’ll see, with a cover and everything so they had no excuse whatsoever to NEVER use it, even with what happened to Lena in the season finale, this clearly took place before that and it was weird to just shelve it because of that. But thankfully when a bunch of the stories were reprinted overseas, this and another one, also webby centric got published overseas. But not in english.

Lucky for me, I was able to find an english translation of an english story which you can read RIGHT HERE. It was translated by @neopuff and I thank them for it as without them this review would not be possible and want to give them all the credit. So was it worth all their hard work translating it? Well let’s take a look.

We begin at the Manor where Lena is skulking around suspiciously.. though it turns out she and Webby are just playing hide and seek. Though Lena accuses cheating. The dialouge here is pretty flat though that’s not Neopuff’s fault at all. As I can attest from reading other stories a lot of the early IDW comics are just this flat in dialoguge no matter the writer as they were likely given character descriptions and basic info about the show they likely had written up for merchandising and Frank and Co were given no involvement and likely weren’t made avaliable to consult on the comics to help them be a bit more fleshed out. It’s very obvious to me Disney just tried to get these pumped out so they’d have a series in stores to tie in without carring about qualities and given Scrooge debuted in comics, their lack of care toward that side of things in general, but especially in the first american published original duck comics in a while, bothers me a lot. It’s inexcusable.

That being said the story isn’t half bad nor is the setup as the two hear a beeping and find it’s Beakly’s phone going off with a mysterious message from Q, Webby thinks she’s been reactivated, and is encouraged by Lena to go look after her while she stays along. While Webby says in response

It just feels grossly out of character for both. Lena is far more subtle about manipulation as shown five minutes ago and Webby blindly trusts her. Because she has a massive crush on her and is naïve about how the world works. It just seems very odd of her to get suspicious as she never does on screen, and again it comes off as Disney having barely given the writers any materials on them when i’m sure Frank or Matt would’ve been happy to write up a thing for them to help outside of the usual press materials they were given.

Though hte last line isn’t all that out of character and has an obvious answer as within a jumpcut Launchpad’s taking them to London and is told to blend in.. which he does with an australian flag and accent.. good gag.

So our heroines do some heroic breaking and entering and look for the package, but soon find while hiding it’s already in transit.. and had obvious bows on int. Whoops. Our heroes trie the old follow tha tcar bit and refreshingly, it dosen’t pan out as the guy stops and tells them to get out. A nice twist. Unable to follow, our heroes instead find launchpad lost, as his map is upside down

So Lena dares him if he can follow that plane, a nice bit of character for both. I will give Joe credit. While the dialouge’s a bit flat and there was that out of character moment.. for the most part he does nail the actual character down and does use it decently enough. He’s just not given enough page room or actual details to work with is all.

So while our heroes follow they end up having to crash as they run out of fuel.. lucky their with the expert but end up near home where the package is delivered to. Turns out this wasn’t a spy thing, this was just a thing with her aunt. That’s fine and a nice gag.. it’s just ruined by just sorta.. ending. Lena leaves disapointed and Beakly scolds webby for “playing spy” and she’s sad. That’s it that’s how it ends. Which dosen’t fit the characters, as while Beakly would defintely scold her, it just dosen’t FIT that she’d be that tearse or not appricate the effort or give her an actual lecture and it feels like Joe had no idea how to end this after the gag and just.. ended it.

Final Thoughts for Spies Likes Us: This was okay. It is a bit of a disappointment as for the only story not available.. i’ts just okay and not really above an average Ducktales comics story, with some nice character bits but feeling a bit weak overall, as do at least the first half of the idw comics. I haven’t read the later stuff to see if it got better. It’s worth a read if you like Webby and Lena as characters and it’s not BAD, it’s just not anything impressive and is a simple hyjinks filled misunderstanding story.

Dime After Dime:

So now we go back a bit to the original. I didn’t do these in chronological order because frankly, Dime after Dime is the better story of the two and the bigger one at that, so I have more to work with here. But the original also had comics and honestly from the few i’ve read much BETTER comics. I chalk this up to two things: The Ducktales 87 comics seem to have come out AFTER the series was already a hit, and since Ducktales is pretty close to the original uncle scrooge comics minus it’s own tweaks here and there, it’s easy enough to just write the stories like you would a regular uncle scrooge story, just with Webby and Launchpad added, whereas the idw writers were staffed with writing for all new versions of the characters with noticable differences without much to go on. It’s why to me with tie in comics you have two options: Wait long enough so you can put your story inbtween the episodes like the Steven Universe and Regular Show comics did or just make your own continuity entirely like the Adventure Time Comics and the Archie TMNT Adventures series did. The ONLY time i’ve seen a comic work like this is the Bravest Warriors comic, which had a talented writer and fit well enough in the margins until it sadly ended.. and honestly is BETTER in some cases than the series. I might get to it someday. The point is this comic shows why you need to have a deft hand adapting something instead of just falling your arms about and hoping it’ll work.

So today’s comic was part of some Disney Series called cartoon tales, which clearly repackaged comic stories from wherever, and put them together. I don’t know much about it and the only other issue avaliable collects the disney adventures adaptation of “Just Us Justice Ducks”, which I might cover at some point. This book does have two other stories which i’d be happy to do on comission or on my own at some point, one involving gladstone the other gizmoduck, but for now, i’m just sticking to the title story and the reason you all came here.

So we open with Magica gazing into her crystal ball from her Mt. Vesuvies base saying that Scrooge will never know what hit him I know exactly what and who wiil hit him thank you very much.

Scrooge is seeing Webby off to her first day of day camp, getting all teary eyed which is touching. Beakly apparently goes with her as the story never SAYS Sshe does but she’s not also not around when the story moves on, as Launchpad says it looks like rain. Scrooge dismisses him, though Launchpad turns out to be right. Scrooge had good reason for once though, instead of just being a dick good on you comic for making me not want to punch him in the face, trust me that is a high bar to clear with the scrooge comics, as the weather was fine just a minute ago. Naturally it was Magica All Along! Nothing scrooge can do now that eveyrthing has gone wrong! Her entrance though is sadly not a catchy earwormy tune, but .. this confusing line

I think your thinking of Gladstone. And he’s still single so.. have at that but no Scrooge is the one who values hard work over anything else and brags about THAT or being rich. I .. I don’t get this line and frankly I don’t want to. Even in stories where the dime is supernaturally lucky and the source of his wealth he dosen’t boast about it because he’s not stupid and dosen’t want everyone knowing how to bankrupt him instantly. This line will baffle me until I die, presumably, given my life’s tragetctory, after reviewing an episode of mighty ducks and slipping on some a jerky wrapper.

Scrooge asks what she wants...

No this isn’t that kind of story sadly. Her plan is to.. zap the bin with lightning and take the dime. Really just went with your first draft didn’t you magica? But as stupid as this plan is Scrooge has prepared for it. He installed a lightning rod on the bin to save on power, and to power his new super soaker traps. So all Magica did was save him money. She flies off and nothing is acomplished.

So we get back to Webby at the Teenie Weenie Day Camp.. and just so you don’t think that was a terrible joke on my part...

My theory for how this name got approved at all is the editor KNEW how that sounded and just wanted to see if Disney would actually print a comic with the phrase Teenie Weenie without getting what it means in slang or how hilariously inapproriate it is to namme a children’s camp after it.

Your probably wondering who that grown woman calling Webby a dweeb is. Well story wise, she’s SUPPOSED to be another kid at the camp around Webby’s age. In practice, she looks like THIS in closeup

So it looks and plays like a 30 year old woman snuck into the day camp and no one’s noticed she’s not actually a children. Or their just humoring her because she had a week to live. I don’t know. I do know she doesn’t get to judge on names.

Snippy Von Glitz, proof rich people really do hate their kids and this this comic is trying personally to give me material. Snippy is your average alpha bitch, taking a chair from Minma and being obnoxious and classist and all that jazz. Minima gets hers back by making the chair bouncy then returning it to normal so Snippy gets in trouble when she makes up things about the chair, with the lady in charge getting ready to call her Dad. You cannot convince me that her “Dad” is just what she calls her husband, this is how they both get off, and that the lady at the preschool only tolerates it because they pay her a lot and so far the kids haven’t noticed Snippy is 30. Webby likes minima finding her name pretty, proving that the ho yay is alive no matter the webby and magica relative, and Minma returns the favor by saving her from a block.

Minma is reluctant to make an actual friend, finding they aren’t worth anything and given most of the kids here apparently pick on her and her aunt is well.. Magica, it’s understandable why she’d be so cold. But Webby presses on and says something from Scrooge about friends. Which given Ducktales scrooge has none goes weird but it gets Minma to find out she knows and lives with Scrooge, so she cons webby into taking the dime for show and tell, showing that she can manipulate them with her powers, and that he won’t notice it’s missing, getting her with “I thought you wanted to be friends”

So let’s pause for a second and compare and contrast the two: Both are the niece, or at least sorta in Lena’s case, of Magica, both manipulate webby, and both are her first real friend: The 87 boys are little monsters and I don’t consider them friends or even brothers, while the 2017 ones are just that: brothers. Their her siblings in all but blood, not friends and have hteir own long complicated history.

But otherwise the two are vastly different. Lena is a far more complex character as she’s been abused her whole life, is a rebel because Magica hardly gave her agency, and while she starts wooing webby out of self interest it’s clear even as far as the first episode she cares. Lena would gladly be part of the world if she could and this whole scheme is to gain that choice.

Minma is still sympathetic but very different: She walls herself off because the other kids laugh and mock her for being herself and lashes out at them.. not unreasonably mind , but still feeling she needs no one else.. but as we’ll learn later she’s only helping Magica to finally feel accepted, to get all the fancy clothes and stuff that will make her popular instead of that grown woman masquerading as a kid for disturbing reasons. Minma is at her heart just a hurt kid desperate to fit in. And while Lena shares the desire for a place to belong.. it’s at it’s core much sadder. Lena.. wants a family. Someone to love her and to care about her and actually look after her. Minma has that she just wants to be loved. it’s similar but very diffrent and I can see why Lena evolved into what she did, as Frank and Matt ended up going in a far darker but ultimately more interesting direction. Minima is not a bad character at all though and without her I don’t think we would’ve had Lena, but at the end of the day the 87verse is just not that complicated, so the reboot needed something more and that more evolved into who we have now.

Both kids excitedly talk about their new friends, with their respective guardians being distracted. Scrooge is distracted by the fact his car is a bit bumpy and Launchpad offers to fix it up for free with some parts from a buddy, which given the sentence “This won’t cost you anything” makes him erect, Scrooge agrees. Magica meanwhile, whose watching Minima while her mom is away which raises a LOT of questions we don’t have time for like who she is, is she’s poes wife or does Magica have other siblings... it’s a lot of questions we’re never going to get answers to.

The next day Webby got the dime easy as Scrooge was distracted. so Minima swaps them while she’s distracted. But while swiping it was easy, which to be fair Webby is likely approved in his security so it woudln’t match her.. or the story just needed to progress. You make the call.

Magica does the logical thing and goes and get sthe dime and the story ends there.. and i’m shitting you, she of course brags to scrooge, reveals minima as her spy, and offers to RACE him for it shortly after he realizes he has a fake.

The only major flaw in this story is Magica’s overconfdience, which isn’t BAD persay, but here has gotten to dumbass proportions. She just can’t plan for anything and a CHILD has a better plan than her that only dosen’t work for reasons we’ll get to. And that plan is almost ruined by Magica taunting scrooge!

So a race is on but Launchpad has transformed Scrooge’s old Model T into this

Damn that’s cool. Scrooge of course dosen’t like it, but honestly you get what you paid for. Oh that’s right you paid nothing for something you NEED to use every day for transportation.

At the rickity thickity bridge, Steve Buschemi’s worst roll and her minion ask Webby to roll with them and Minima mistakes this for betrayal planning to soak them all.. only for Webby to DEFEND HER, pointing out minma’s her friend, how she dresses is fine and she loves her no matter what.. the last part’s implied. The 30-year old asshole and her minon leave Webby and Minma is genuinely touched, as no one’s done that for her before. She put up so many walls... she didn’t realize someone could ACTUALLY care about her, so obessed with thinking she had to be like that soccer mom in preschoolers clothing, she just had to be herself: kinda werid but in that fun adams family way. Webby says she knows Minma would do the same.. so while she prepares to let’s get back to the race. Magica realizes Launchpad’s roadster is actually gaining and spreads some tacks, but Scrooge counters with some money.. because of course he has a lot of money in the trunk. But Magica takes out the bridge and while scrooge awesomely JUMPS IT... he’s still too late.

As you probably guess though, Minima had a change of heart, and gave Webby the real dime back, and Scrooge confirms it. Minima TRIES to tell Magica, and Magica is horrified her niece is a goody goody “I”ll never hear the end of it at my astral aerobics class”.. I.. I want to see that. Let’s raise those spirit ladies and kick kick that soul, doge that shadow king punch them in the soul. Yes! Now eat it eat it and absorb it’s power!

We end on a button joke as Webby apologizes for taking the dime., Scrooge accepts it and Webby tells them magica learned to carpet and they gulp for some reason.

Final Thoughts on Dime after Dime: This story was decent. It has problems, some jokes don’t land and Magica is made horribly incompetent, but minima’s character arc is endearing, and Webby herself is precious as always and her winning Minima over feels genuine. And Scrooge is in prime adoring uncle mode with her and i’ts just so cute. And the roadster race is pretty awesome to watch honestly. It’s an exceptional and enjoyable tie in story.. and not the last ducktales 87 story we’ll be covering here. Wink wonk.

Next Time: Things get DARK as Lena and Webby head into the depths of Scrooge’s hidden bin and Lena heads into the depths of her own soul.

Tommorow: Woo-Ooo mofos as we go back to the very beginning of the reboot! A family restored, a lost city to explore, and a glomgold rises! Be here or be square.

#ducktales #ducktales 1987 #webbigail vanderquack #lena saberwing #weblena #minima de spell #magica de spell #bentina beakly #launchpad mcquack #scrooge mcduck #dime after dime #spies like us #idw #comics #animation #shadow into light

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damnprussia · 3 years ago

Note

alone

SUMMARY: In the midst of World War II, Gilbert has a quiet conversation with a close companion as he continues his covert rebellion against Germany. They discuss the developments of war and the difference between free will in Nations and humans.

This drabble references Inge, whom was Gilbert’s secretary mentioned in this drabble as well. Here she is still his secretary, but also plays a further role in his life.

Historical Drabbles based on Words

Mid 1943 || Undisclosed Location || 20:05

In a dark room, lit only with a few lamps, plain black curtains drawn, a group of young men and women stood around a table, littered with papers and photographs. Behind them, mounted to the wall, was a very well-worn map of Europe. Little flags were pinned into various places all over, and various pins also held strips of paper with coordinates, radio transcriptions, photographs, and other various words. The men and women spoke in hushed tones, murmuring to one another and gesturing to various things around the table, or occasionally pointing to the map.

Gilbert was at the forefront of this table. After quite some time, all sat back in their seats. They looked tired and worn out.

“We know our positions?” Gilbert sat at last to them. He pointed to stacks of papers on the corner of the table. “Leaflets - remember to take yours. Radio scripts - we all have our duties.” They all collected their things.

“Remember -�� Gilbert stopped everybody before they left and made eye contact with all. “German intel is beginning to suspect something coming from Pas de Calais. We cannot let them think differently.” His voice lowered. “This has the potential to be exactly what we need to turn the tide of the war.”

Carefully, in a fashion that was deliberately planned, the company departed. At the end, Gilbert was left, staring up at a map of Europe blankly. Every now and then, he would reach up and move a tiny flag to a new position.

“I need a coffee,” Gilbert mumbled, rubbing his face. He suddenly felt exhausted. Granted, he usually felt exhausted nowadays, but every now and then it caught up to him.

“You’re out of coffee, Mr. Beilschmidt,” came a voice from the door. Gilbert turned and saw Inge, his secretary. She was in the meeting with him - one of those he had roped into being his revolutionaries - but he thought that she had left.

“A cigarette, then.”

“One left.” She came and stood next to him, leaning her hips against the edge of the table. Quietly, she pulled out a cigarette tin from her purse and handed him one. “Are you done obsessing over that map?”

“No,” Gilbert grunted. “Not until everyone is in the position I want them to be.”

She snorted. “You’re just positioning them to the radio broadcasts. Stop overthinking things - we have a plan. A deception campaign, so that the real invasion can be a success. You yourself said this was the key to victory.”

Gilbert rubbed his head in frustration. “I’m not used to these sorts of things. Misinformation campaign...covert operations. I’m used to...charging into battle, facing the enemy head-on. Strategising the entire landscape of battle. This whole thing is just...not what I’ve done before. Not what I’m built for.”

Inge was silent for a while, following his gaze to the map of Europe, eyes dancing across the tiny flags littered all over the geography. “Have you ever done anything like this before?” she asked quietly.

“A deception campaign?”

“Rebellion.”

Gilbert watched her carefully before his eyes turned downward. “Technically, it’s against our very nature to do so,” he explained quietly. “I suppose the closest I’ve come was fighting to take back Royal Prussia from Poland or...well, I suppose when I fought against Napoleon’s army...joined the Sixth Coalition, I was rebelling. I was already under six years of French occupation, so the very nature of going to war meant fighting against who was then my superior.” He smiled at her, suddenly flooded with fond, proud memories. “But morale was high. We were fighting for freedom, for independence. We were better than to be a satellite country, and we knew that.” He sighed. “I had an entire army behind me when I faced Bonaparte. I had allies, in Russia and Austria. I didn’t feel so...alone in this.”

“Not alone,” Inge said, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “We might not be an army but we - well, we’re damn good.” She began to grin as she looked towards the map on the wall, gesturing to it. “And besides, you have - why, you have four armies with you! And they’re not just behind you, but also, well, to the East and the West...and the North and the South.” She nodded earnestly. “They’re still your allies, they’ve been nothing but helpful to you so far.”

Gilbert gave her a look. “Because I give them what they want,” he said dryly. He glanced away, back at the map - it was a safe place to rest his eyes, and divert his attention from a difficult topic. “They don’t like it, though. Whenever something comes from me - they don’t like it at all.”

“They don’t like it?” Inge scoffed. “You’re one of the most valuable assets. You’ve given more information than probably any spy. You have all of the information they need.”

A snort. “We’re not supposed to rebel, Inge. If I can do this - and do this much...” he shrugged. “It means so can theirs as well, if the conditions are right.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Remember what I’ve told you. We only look human. We are never supposed to act human. We are not given the luxury of choice.”

Inge was quiet for several heavy moments. Then, she spoke: “Does it feel like a choice?”

“It feels like a sickness,” Gilbert answered, perhaps too sharply. “Like a disease of the mind. Most unnatural.” He sighed when he realised how he had come across. “It isn’t that I regret what I’m doing - I do not. I just wish it had never come to this to begin with.”

Inge nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“I assure you...if this invasion is a success, and they push into Germany...” Gilbert paused, inhaling a deep breath. “They will not be kind,” he finally said. “This war is cruel. There is no honour in it, not like before, in my glory days. I ask that you leave Germany, if that is the case. I can assure you safe passage out of the country, where you will be safe until things...get better.”

Inge did not respond for several minutes. It was a long, heavy pause. At last, she smiled weakly and cleared her throat. “Oh, Mr. Beilschmidt - I don’t think I’m going to be around when the invasion happens,” she said quietly. “I know that I’m being followed...monitored very closely. It’s only a matter of time.”

This surprised Gilbert. He looked over at her in surprise, visible shock on his face. “Then you have to get out now,” he hissed. “I can...I can figure something out.” Already Gilbert was wracking his brain for solutions. “I used to have connections through Holland, that might be a bit difficult now, but maybe if I pull some strings, or through the south of France-”

“Gilbert.” The softness of Inge’s tone and her using Gilbert’s first name - rather than his surname like her norm, caused him to stop instantly. She reached out and put a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m seeing this through, until the end.”

He watched her for several moments. Behind her eyes was unwavering confidence. Some part of Gilbert was proud - and another part was afraid. Afraid of losing yet another connection to his people. “But Inge, you have a young son - He needs his mother.”

She shook her head, withdrawing her hand to cross her arms. “Who do you think I’m fighting for? Humans are not so lucky - like some - that we see the end of every conflict we fight in. I’ve already had my affairs settled and have made arrangements to have him cared for after I’m gone. I had to choose between my life or my legacy. I want him to grow up in a better world than I did. Is that not what any mother wants?”

Inge straightened up and straightened out her skirt, clearing her throat. “Besides...I know that there will be people in his life who will teach him of his mother’s legacy.” She smiled widely. “I have never been afraid of death, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

She turned to leave then, and Gilbert watched her slowly, processing her words. “Where are you off to?” he asked quietly.

“Well, my boss is a very high ranking and hard-working man,” she hummed, turning to look at him. “And I think he just ran out of cigarettes.”

“Coffee, as well,” Gilbert added lightly, a small smile coming to his face.

“Yes, and coffee. And you know, there’s talk of some kind of invasion, so I may need to stock up.” She winked subtly at him, barely seen in the dim light. “I will see you at the office.” Quietly, she left the room.

Gilbert watched her leave for several moments, until he was quite sure he was completely alone. He then turned to look back at the map. He felt like it taunted it, driving him slowly insane.

“I’m already insane,” he mumbled, shutting his eyes and rubbing his head. He opened his eyes again and his sight landed on a familiar place - Königsberg. He sighed again as Inge’s words ran through his head. Life and legacy. “Oh, Inge...I worry that by the end of this, I won’t have either.”

He stood up then. It was time to go. There was work to be done.

#Anonymous #this was sent to me 2 months ago #it took me FOREVER to write it #but I really enjoyed this #WWII is an important time for Gilbert's development #he went through LOTS of changes #drabbles

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winterscaptain · 5 years ago

Text

thoughtful.

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

request from anon: hi!!! Could you do a Hotch x reader where they are close and she calls him Agent Hotchstuff and brings him food/drinks cuz he always forgets to eat. One day he snaps at her cuz he’s tired and she stops doing those things for him and he’s sad about that. Later on apologizes and confesses (very fluffy) thanks!!!

rating & words: g, ~1900

a/n: this just poured out of me last night. i loved loved loved this request. thank you to anon!!

AO3 | Masterlist | Requests Open!

+++

You step through Hotch’s doorway, finding him behind his desk on the phone. A fresh mug of coffee rests between your hands, prepared just the way he likes it – black, with one sugar. He hasn’t stopped working since he stepped out of the elevator this morning. While unruffled, you know he stretches himself too far – often forgetting to eat and take regular breaks.

You quietly place the mug on his desk handle on his left-hand side. He looks up, grateful. He mouths his thanks and returns to his note-taking.

When you retreat to the door, you watch him for a moment. He drops his pen and takes an absent-minded sip of his coffee as if it had been there the whole time. Satisfied, you track back to the bullpen and get back to work on your current consult.

+++

It’s the third day in the field. Hotch studies the map with his hand over his mouth, frowning. The rest of the team was working elsewhere, leaving the two of you to search for things yet unseen.

“Hey, Hotchstuff.” You catch him huff a laugh at your newest attempt to find a new nickname. It was a work in progress. “See anything new?”

He spares you a glance and a nearly-imperceptible smile. “No, nothing new. JJ is following up with the families today. The fourth victim’s father knows more than he’s letting on.”

You hum in agreement and pull a granola bar out of your back pocket. You’d tucked it there just before walking in. Reaching forward, you bring it into his eye-line, careful not to startle him out of his focus. He stares at it for a moment before taking it from you.

“I haven’t seen you eat anything since this morning,” you say, quietly. You pass him, and stick a post-it flag next to the fourth victim, marking a possible lead.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, sir.”

He unwraps the granola bar and takes a bite. You smile to yourself.

+++

“Jack!��

You kneel and open your arms. The boy runs to you, leaping into your arms. You spin him in a circle, and he hangs off your hip as you pepper his head with kisses. His Aunt Jessica waves to Hotch, standing on the bridge outside his office.

“What are you doing here today?” He tucks his head neatly under your chin, and you pull him close to your chest, one arm under him and the other across his back with your hand on his head.

As you chat with him on your walk back to your desk, you miss the way Aaron leans on the railing with a soft smile on his face. He had come back from an early afternoon meeting to find a muffin and cup of coffee on his desk. He didn’t need a note to know who left it for him. You take care of him more than he thinks he deserves.

Watching you with his son ignites something in him. He flushes and pushes the feeling away. He shoves off the railing and grabs his bag from the office.

“Jack, let's go,” he calls, stepping down the stairs with purpose.

The boy pouts from his place on your lap, doodling in your notebook. “Cmon dad! Just a little longer.”

“Nope. We gotta go, buddy. I promised your Aunt Jessica dinner when she’s done with her appointment.” Hotch won’t look at you, and a flash of disappointment strikes through your chest.

No. He’s not yours. Quit while you’re ahead.

Shaking off the feeling, you pull Jack close to you and lean close to his ear. “Better listen to him, love. I’ll see you later, okay?”

He grins up at you and leaps off your lap, taking his father’s hand and leaving the office.

Huh.

+++

Hotch hadn’t been able to shake that feeling in his chest since seeing you with Jack on Friday. It was uncomfortable, and felt like a betrayal to Haley. It hadn’t been that long since her death, but he felt deeply for you. You were always there for him – through the rocky last cases before she walked out, through the divorce, and through the crushing grief of her loss.

When he walks into the office, the sight of your mug next to his – George Washington University Law next to your alma mater’s seal – reminds him of the situation. You’re his direct report. He can’t have feelings for you.

He pours his own coffee that morning. When you arrive to find his mug gone and his office door closed, the irrational disappointment returns.

“What’s on your mind, kiddo?” Derek steps into the break room and sees your thousand-yard stare.

You plaster a smile on your face. “Nothing.” You press a hand to his shoulder and assure him before he can ask. “I’m alright.”

You aren’t, and he knows it. He sighs and relents, letting you go with a pat to your hand.

+++

When you knock on the door with a sandwich in-hand from JJ’s lunch run, your chest feels close to bursting.

“It’s open,” Hotch says.

You open the door, and step inside, closing it behind you.

His head has been inside reports all day and he’s been in and out of meetings since the early morning. Beyond that, he’s barely left the office.

“Hey Hotchstuff,” you say with a gentle laugh. You pray you can draw a smile from him, but his brows only draw closer together.

He looks up at you, and his brown eyes are hard and belie his exhaustion. “Stop. Just stop.”

You stop short, halfway to the desk. “Hotch…what’s wrong?”

One large hand pulls down his face, landing at his mouth. “I’m incredibly busy. Unless it’s case-related, I simply can’t spare the time today.” His tone is harsher than he wants, and he immediately regrets it when he sees your face fall.

You pull it together quickly. As you take the last three steps to his desk, you toss the wrapped sandwich toward him, turning before you can see it land. Your hand meets the doorknob. Before you open it, the bitterness crawling up your throat leaves your mouth. “Of course, sir.” You swallow the lump in your throat and continue. “I apologize for the interruption, Agent Hotchner. Won’t happen again.”

The door slams behind you. You return to your work with a vengeance, headphones on and blind to the world around you.

JJ and Derek look at each other, then train their gaze on Hotch’s office.

The figure in the window turns away from their watchful eyes, the sandwich untouched on his desk.

+++

The next few cases pass in a blur, marked only by your relentless diligence, professionalism, and adherence to boundaries. You arrive on-time for days in the office, promptly leaving right after five o’clock. In the field, you stay up working until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore, and return early in the morning.

Hotch finds himself reaching for coffee that isn’t there after his meetings. JJ has reminded him to eat twice after near-blackouts in the field. For too many days in a row, he realizes only upon his return to the hotel room that he’s failed to eat anything all day. He eyes your packed lunches as you share with Derek and Spencer on the jet and in the bullpen.

+++

Aaron makes it a point to sit across from you on the jet, in the section farthest from the rest of your sleeping team. His side is more of a small sofa than a chair.

The case was difficult, and you couldn’t talk the unsub down before he killed his final victim right in front of you.

“Hey,” he says, searching for your eyes.

“Good evening, sir.” You continue to stare at the case file in your hands, mentally building your after-action report.

He sighs. “Can we talk?”

You finally look up at him, closing the file on your lap. You raise one eyebrow – an invitation to continue.

“I’m sorry for my behavior.” He rests his elbows on his knees, his hands laced loosely in front of him. “It wasn’t fair of me to snap at you a few weeks ago.”

You watch him for a moment, taking stock of his tells. His thumb rubs restlessly against his index finger, and you know he’s not finished talking. He’s nervous.

“I know you’re always doing your best to look out for me. I didn’t – I wasn’t –“ He huffs, frustrated. “I saw you with Jack that Friday, and it scared me.”

It’s your turn to furrow your brow. “What scared you?”

“You. I didn’t expect to feel so strongly about anyone so soon after Haley, but you were always…there. You’ve been a friend to me when I’m not easy to be around and I ruined it in a moment of frustration. You always know what I need before I need it, and…” He reaches out, leaning across the small aisle to cover your hand with his. “I’ve missed you.”

His admission startles you, just a little. When you blink, you find your eyes stinging and misty. You look at his hand covering your own. Turning your palm, you grasp his hand. “I missed you too.”

He offers you a small smile, then. “And I only hate it a little when you call me Hotchstuff.”

That draws a real smile from you. You release his hand and place the file on the seat next to you. When you settle next to him, you reach for his hand again. “So, what don’t you hate?”

His brown eyes are fixed on your laced fingers. “I don’t mind Hotch, of course, but I think Aaron’s okay when it’s just us, don’t you think?”

You squeeze his hand. “Sounds good.”

“I love you, you know.” He smiles at you, and leans against the window, closing his eyes.

“I love you, too, Aaron.” Your fingers still laced with his, your eyes close.

+++

When you drift back into consciousness, you’re warm and secure and surrounded by a familiar, comforting smell. You come to realize the security is from Aaron’s arms around you, and the smell is from the soft shirt beneath your cheek.

You push yourself up, and Aaron’s arm falls behind you. The rest of the team is still deeply asleep, with a little less than an hour left on the flight. You rise, on a mission.

With two mugs of coffee in one hand and a cookie in the other, you return to your seat. You set the coffee down on the little pull-out table near the window, and place a hand on Hotch’s shoulder.

He starts awake but orients himself quickly. He smiles at you – small and sweet.

“Thought you’d want to wake up a bit before landing.” You offer him the cookie and look pointedly at the matching mugs.

He leans forward, kissing you gently on the cheek. “Thank you.”

You turn your head, leaning into the risk, and press your lips against his. He gasps quietly, surprised, before bringing a hand around to the back of your head. He holds you to him for a moment, and your hand cups his jaw, your thumb running back and forth against his cheekbone. The cookie and it’s little paper plate are forgotten between you for the moment.

When you pull away, his eyes are a little glazed over. You reach past him, intentionally leaning way closer to his crotch than is entirely necessary, and snag both mugs of coffee. Pressing one of the mugs into his hands and another chaste kiss to his lips, you lean back and settle into your seat.

“Of course, Aaron."

tagging: @quillvine, @arganfics, @ange-must-die (love you all!!)

#aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch #aaron hotchner #tali writes fanfiction #send me requests!!

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boxoftheskyking · 4 years ago

Text

Pick Up Every Piece - Part One

Ok things to know: -this does not take place in China. It does not take place in the US. It is the year 2000 in a fictional country that I control (this project is a challenge called Let’s Do Exposition). Just go with it. -It’s all talking. That’s what I do, you know this. -Warnings for stuff, I dunno I haven’t written it all yet. When it’s shiny it’ll go on AO3 but for now here’s what I got so far. -There is a lot of alcohol in this fic -Like all fic writers I live on positive reinforcement and this shit is a lot of work. -The title may change, yes it is from NMH

---

There are bodies in the creek bed. Enough bodies to stop the flow of the water. Thirty at least, a dam of them. An old woman and a child. Clothes and hair sodden, darkened and wet. Clouds of darkness hovering in the air around them, seeping into dead flesh. An old woman and a child and others. Others in that middle age, the age that passes comment. Is it wrong that these two bodies stand out to him? After all, if he were among the bodies, if he was lying in this creek bed, thirty, skinny, and unremarkable, he would hardly notice himself. He’d blend into the pile, only serving to make the word a plural. Body becomes Bodies. Alters the language. Murder becomes Massacre. There are thirty bodies and hundreds, thousands of flies. Crawling on the back of the little boy’s hand. A smell like—not burning, not quite. Death. Not rot, fresh death. The sand under his feet is nearly dry. The creek bed is dry.

Wei Ying blinks. The creek burbles on alongside him, one duck lazily riding the current under a fallen branch and along to somewhere more interesting. It’s October, and beautiful, and there’s the smallest twilight bite in the air pricking at his nostrils on every inhale. He blows out a long breath and finds himself scratching at his arms, the backs of his hands, where the old scars are. They’re ugly, blotchy and dark like land masses on a faded old map, and they still itch sometimes. He rubs at them hard with the heel of his palm—it’s a weird half-feeling, the layers of dead tissue. It’s not dead, Wen Qing would correct him. It’s not necrotic, it’s just scarring.

He steps around the gnarled roots that reach up from the banks, trying to get to the road but not ever making it. There’s a few muddy stuffed bears tucked among them, plastic wrap snagged on the bark from cheap drugstore bunches of flowers that have rotted away. A couple of carefully hand-painted wooden signs nailed to the trunks, trying to convince the place that people still remember.

He shakes himself and turns away from the woods, hopping the fence onto the road that leads to the bar. He’s late, but Li Chen is always late in the mornings so he deserves to work an extra fifteen minutes. It’s not like there’s a manager to yell at him.

The bar is across the street from an old gas station, one that got firebombed during the war and then left. That’s the thing about Yiling. Everywhere else, even up in Gusu, the cities have gotten rid of as much evidence as possible. Well, they’ve gotten rid of most and turned the rest into memorials to the victorious dead, nice and shiny and flying the Sunshot flag. Nobody really cares about appearances around Yiling—maybe the city council does, but they don’t have anywhere near the budget to run cleanup. Too much actual infrastructure got hit during the worst of the fighting, and they’ll be years behind the rest of the country for the next decade or so. Memorials here are all handmade, and none of them last long.

There’s a flag, though, spray painted on what’s left of the concrete wall of the gas station. A golden hand covering most of a red sun, partly covered by black—one finger for each of the four leading clans and a thumb for everyone else. Typical. He’s not sure who’d have painted a Sunshot here. No one local, he’d put money on it. He supposes they know about spray paint in Lanling—governments must adapt.

It’s probably intentional, anyway, the lack of cleanup. The lack of progress. Nightless City can be repurposed by the Jin government, but the site of the Massacre should stay ugly and busted for a few more years. So no one forgets what it looks like to lose.

Wei Ying likes it in Yiling. “It’s my kind of town,” he always tells Jiang Cheng, who usually throws something at his head. “You want to be a bartender in a town like this. In a town like this, people need a bartender. It’s nice to be needed, you know.”

It’s a shitty bar by any other place’s standards, but for Yiling it’s cozy. The owner, who everyone just calls Granny, still orders sawdust for the floors like it’s 1860 or something, to soak up spills and puke and, occasionally, blood.

Jiang Cheng always says it’s only a matter of time before they have murder in the bar. “Manslaughter, at least,” he’ll say. “It’s just got that look.” Wei Ying says everyone in Yiling’s too tired. Mostly he and Wen Ning just roll drunks out onto the sidewalk and into a cab if someone can afford it.

Jiang Cheng himself comes in around eight. It’s as much of a rush as they ever get, so he has to wait for a few old men to get their cheap lager and gin before sliding up to the bar on his usual stool. Wen Ning gives him a cheerful salute as he comes in, and Jiang Cheng nods awkwardly back at him.

“You’re back early,” Wei Ying says, drawing him a pint of something bitter. Jiang Cheng still lives in Yunmeng, in the old family home, but he has a sublet in Yiling now that he’s working for the intelligence department. Jin Zixuan calls it “cutting his teeth” monitoring old Wen strongholds. Jiang Cheng calls it “shoveling shit.”

It turns out cleaning up a civil war is a pain in the ass, even five years later.

“We should do lunch with Wen Qing on Saturday. She’ll want to see you.”

Jiang Cheng pulls out his annoying little planner, full of his cramped handwriting and meetings with this informant and that police sergeant. “Have to be brunch, I’ve got a twelve-thirty on Saturday.”

Wei Ying snorts at him. “Brunch, in Yiling. Good luck.”

“Hangover breakfast, then.”

“That we can do.”

Jiang Cheng takes a long pull of his beer and Wei Ying can see the relief run down him from the crown of his head down over his shoulders like something hot and slippery. Oil maybe, or homemade noodles. He groans and drops his head down behind his glass.

“Hey, Wei Ying!” An arthritic hand waves at him from the other end of the bar.

“Gotcha, Riseung,” he calls and starts fishing for the kahlua and cream. It’s always at the back of the cooler; no one else ever orders it. “You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave,” he tosses back at Jiang Cheng.

“Not if you keep giving me beer.”

“Hey, Wei Ying, I saw that story last week. Hell of a thing.” Li Riseung has a little cream mustache, but Wei Ying’s not going to mention it.

“The gas thing?” Wei Ying grins at him. “Yeah, I’m telling you, it’s all connected. You watch the prices when Lanling tries to pass another referendum. It’s all supposed to soften you up. You got something for me today?”

“Still writing your conspiracy theories?” Jiang Cheng calls to him. “Some guys just don’t know when to quit.”

(Someone else comes up, he pulls a pint of stout.)

Riseung bristles. “Wei Ying is the only real journalist left in this country. You’ll see.”

Wei Ying props his chin on his folded hands and waits. Riseung takes another long sip. “Yu Xiuying’s got her popcorn maker up and running. She’s starting to sell what she can, make enough to get the theater back in order.”

“Really? That would be something. I’m sick of taking the train every time I want to see a movie.”

“You should report on that, get her some customers.”

Wei Ying drums his fingers on his chin. “Maybe we can work out an ad situation. I need more ads, you know. Papers ain’t cheap.”

Riseung finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the bar. He half-reaches for his pocket. “So, do I owe you, or . . .”

Wei Ying stifles a sigh. Technically it’s nothing he can use. He’s not about to publish an expose on popcorn. Still, he waves a hand. “Your money’s no good here. Go on, keep up the good work.”

The man grins up at him, flashing a row of silver fillings, and heads over to bother someone else.

(Another customer—rum and Coke.)

“You’re just letting people drink for free, huh?” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying wanders back over to him, taking a sip of his own drink (coffee, plus whiskey, just enough to get through the shift).

“Reporting is all about cultivating sources, Jiang Cheng, even you should know that. Li Riseung is a source.”

“A source,” Jiang Cheng mutters. “He’s a drunk.”

“So’s everyone. This whole country’s full of drunks. Drunks make the world go around.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “This city is fucking depressing.”

“Oh, and all of Lanling’s sober, is it? Yunmeng? Everybody’s living like Lans? You’d be much more pleasant with a few more of these in you.” Wei Ying grabs his pint glass and dumps the end of it out, refilling in the same smooth movement. It’s just out of spite. He shouldn’t be wasting a good few ounces of genuinely nice beer. But he can’t help it; Jiang Cheng brings it out in him. He spins and shimmies a bit to the bad pop song coming from the busted speaker above him and grabs a bin of limes to chop.

“When are you going to come home?”

Wei Ying doesn’t slip and cut himself, but it’s close.

“I live in Yiling, Jiang Cheng.”

“Yeah, for now.”

Wei Ying sighs. “I like it here, okay? You think they’d let me back in Yunmeng, after everything?”

“I’ve got influence now. They wouldn’t say anything.”

(Two lagers, shot of tequila.)

He hasn’t lived in Yunmeng in years. Almost a decade now. He was in Yunmeng at the start of everything, when Wen Ruohan was forced out of office and half the military went with him. He visits now, but there’s still that sense of before when he’s there, like the majority of his life hasn’t happened yet. But Jiang Cheng is never going to get that, he’s a linear person.

“Not saying anything isn’t the same as allowing. I’m not going to make you fight all day just so I can work at some bougie wine bar somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t have to work at a bar. You could—”

“What? Write? You think anyone anywhere is going to hire me at a paper again? Despite all the rumors, you’re not that dumb.”

“Fuck off. You could work with me.”

“Intelligence. Really? How do you think that would work out? ‘Yes, Jin Zixuan, whatever you say, Jin Zixuan—’”

“Fuck off.”

Wei Ying shakes his head and scrapes a pile of lime wedges back in the bin. “I like where I am. I’ve got the paper—”

“It’s not a paper.”

Wei Ying doesn’t slam the knife down, but it’s a close thing. “Jiang Cheng—”

“You’re such a fucking martyr. What, you lose your dream job so you go to the ass crack of the world and set yourself up as king of nowhere?”

“I’m not king of anything, I’m just writing.”

(Three glasses of white wine.)

“Yiling Laozu.” Jiang Cheng clicks his tongue. “I know you can’t use your real name, but that’s embarrassing. Laozu. You and your sources.”

Wei Ying takes a breath and unclenches his jaw. “If Wen Qing were here you wouldn’t be calling us embarrassing.”

“You’re embarrassing. She’s not embarrassing.”

“It’s our paper.”

“Wen Qing has dignity. You have none.”

Wei Ying gathers up his knife and cutting board to run them back to the dish pit. “Ah, Jiang Cheng, you love me. I know you do.”

It’s always a good way to end a conversation, their own private code. If you keep pushing here you’re going to break something. A warning. You love me. I know you do. Jiang Cheng doesn't ever deny it, but he never agrees either. He doesn't need to. Wei Ying has proof. The scars on the back of his hands, curling around his wrists and up his arms—burn scars, chemical burns—are proof. Jiang Cheng doesn't like to look at his hands. That's proof too.

When he comes back out, Jiang Cheng isn’t alone. The general noise of the bar has fallen to a murmur, and the rowdy game of dominoes is paused in the corner.

Xue Yang is sprawled over two stools, dressed in shiny black leather and grinning a few inches away from Jiang Cheng’s face.

“How’s it going, Captain Jiang?”

Jiang Cheng leans away. “I don’t see you. You are not here.”

“Course not. Good boy.”

Jiang Cheng’s hand tightens around his glass, and Wei Ying picks up the pace slightly.

“Leave him alone, Xue Yang,” he says, carefully mild.

The grin turns on him, and Xue Yang waves, his weird little black prosthesis sticking out like a lighting-struck tree. “You telling me what to do, Wei Ying?”

“I would never. Here, have a drink. If you want.” He pours him a double from his own secret bottle, the one Granny gave him on a good night in the summer. It’s painfully ironic—Xue Yang would be the only person in Yiling who could afford it if he ever actually paid for it.

Wei Ying nods to him and slides the glass across the bar, along with the usual brown envelope. Jiang Cheng sighs and spins around on his stool, looking away.

“Feels light,” Xue Yang says, like always.

“It’s not,” Wei Ying says, also like always.

Xue Yang grins around the little white stick hanging out of his mouth, and Wei Ying grins back. “Eight percent extra on anything you’re short next time.”

“It’s not short. And it’s five percent, don’t try to fuck with me.” Wei Ying smiles wider and does not blink.

“Maybe it’s changed.”

“Granny would tell me, and she wouldn’t hear it from you.”

“Maybe it’s changing today.” Xue Yang leans across the bar, not quite getting in his face, but close enough. Wei Ying meets Wen Ning’s eye over his shoulder. Wen Ning takes a few steps away from the door, but Wei Ying shakes his head just a fraction and he goes still.

“You don’t have the authority.” Wei Ying lets his grin go a little unnatural at the corners, a little bit of a snarl. “And it’s not short, so it doesn’t matter.”

Xue Yang laughs and tucks the envelope into his jacket, then takes a long swig. Wei Ying breathes, finally, quiet and careful.

“Xue Yang,” he says as he starts to wipe down the bar again. “You know you wound me.”

Xue Yang wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Oh do I?”

“You know it hurts me, deep down in the soul parts of my body, to see you drink top shelf scotch with a fucking sucker in your mouth.”

Xue Yang sticks out his tongue so Wei Ying can see the little yellow nub of it. “It’s pineapple.”

“Great. Thank you. I’m going to go drink bleach now.”

Jiang Cheng half turns to glare at him. “That’s not fucking funny.”

Xue Yang chugs the rest of the scotch and tosses the empty glass at Wei Ying. He hates that it makes him flinch before he catches it. “Tell Granny I say hi.”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey, where’s the little one? Haven’t seen her in a minute.”

Wei Ying stiffens. “You’ll stay away from her if you cherish the rest of those fingers.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Xue Yang gives him a mocking salute and saunters back out towards the door. He’s nearly out when he knocks into an empty chair, sending it to the floor with a crack like a gunshot. No one hits the deck completely, but the held-breath silence turns into a gasp as all eyes snap to the sound, shoulders up and hands braced on tabletops, thighs tensed and ready to run.

Even Xue Yang is frozen at the door for a second. He laughs, though his jaw is tight. “Just a chair, ladies and gentlemen. Clean this shit up, Wen Ning.” And he’s gone.

Wei Ying deflates, adding some of the good scotch to his own cup. Jiang Cheng makes a face.

“How’s that coffee?”

“Shut up.”

“You should let me talk to Zixuan.”

“You talk to him every day.”

“You know what I mean. How long have you been paying—”

Wei Ying sighs and flicks his rag at his brother. “Thing one: I don’t pay, Granny pays. Thing two: Xue Yang is just a low level street thug with connections, he’s as in charge of the operation as I am in charge of Yiling. Thing three: it all kicks up to the Jins at the end of the day, so what are they gonna do about it?”

“Zixuan isn’t—”

“Yeah, I know your best pal is the paragon of morality.”

(Scotch and soda, root beer, gin and tonic, and three pints.)

“He’s our brother-in-law.”

“And your brother-in-arms, I know, I’d never dare disparage the mighty—”

“He’s a nicer brother than you are.”

Wei Ying mimes a faint. “I’m going to call Shijie, tell her you’re being mean to me.”

Jiang Cheng goes quiet, looks down at his beer. Wei Ying reaches out for it, an offering.

“Another?”

Jiang Cheng shakes his head. “I shouldn’t.” A chunk of his hair comes loose from its tie, feathers across his forehead.

“When are you gonna cut that hair, huh?” Wei Ying flicks it back over his ear. Jiang Cheng swipes at his hand lazily.

“I like it like this.”

“You and Zixuan are twins now, huh? You cultivators. Does Lan Zhan still keep his long, do you think?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him in a long time. Stop it, leave it, I have it how I want it.”

Wei Ying laughs at him. “Looks good. Dignified. Hey, did you ever ask for Zidian back?”

Jiang Cheng’s face does something complicated, a little bitter. “Not gonna happen. No spiritual weapons are gonna be authorized any time soon.”

“Yeah, but it’s yours.”

“It’s not mine. It’s the government’s.”

“But it responds to you. What good does it do locked away in—”

“Leave it, Wei Ying. I know you’ve got opinions about cultivation, but I’m fucking tired and it’s not going to change anything.”

“Well, when you’re in charge. Then you’ll show ‘em.”

That does make Jiang Cheng laugh, which is satisfying.

(Two gin and tonics.)

“Hey, you’re not allowed—” Wen Ning calls from the door, followed by the tap-tap of a metal cane. Wei Ying sighs and reaches for the grenadine.

“Wei Ying, you son of a bitch.” The voice is high, reedy, and cackling. “How the hell are ya?”

“A-Qing,” Wei Ying calls mildly. “You can’t be here.”

“Where is here?” she yells, as always. “How am I supposed to know that? Can’t you tell I’m blind?”

“Get out of my bar.”

“Discrimination!” She makes her way across the room, purposely bumping into every occupied table on her way over, just to slosh beer onto the floor.

“You’re fourteen.” He has her cherry soda on the bar by the time she hops up on the stool next to Jiang Cheng, ignoring him entirely.

“And how do you know that, creepy old man?”

“You made me get you a cake for your birthday, you goblin.”

“Who’s this guy?” She takes a long slurping suck from her straw.

“My didi.”

“You—!” Jiang Cheng hates it, which is the only reason Wei Ying says it.

“Ooh, the famous Jiang Cheng. I bet he looks real grumpy.”

“Yep.”

Jiang Cheng flips him off. He grins and goes back to wiping down the drain.

“He just flipped you off, didn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“Nice.” She finishes her drink and slams the glass down. “Double vodka please.”

“Nope.”

“I drink vodka all the time.”

“Don’t care. I’m not getting fired over your sorry ass. Go drink at home.”

“I’m not allowed vodka at the home.”

“And you’re not allowed here either.” He drops the rag back into the sanitizer and leans his elbows on the bar. “Now, are you here with something interesting or just to pester me?”

Jiang Cheng looks like he’s about to interject, but Wei Ying waves him off.

“I can multitask,” A-Qing says before pushing her glass back across the bar. “More sugar first.”

“Diabetes on the rocks, yes madam.”

She takes a long slurping pull, and he folds his arms, waiting.

“Got a new TV at the home. Real big one.”

“A-Qing, I’m waiting.”

Jiang Cheng squints at her. “How do you know how big the TV is?”

“I just know, okay. Anyway. One of the older kids got it. Bought it himself.”

“Yeah, right,” Wei Ying says. He needs to challenge her if she’s going to give him the whole story. If he seems too interested she’ll draw it out just to fuck with him.

“He did. Wen Changming.”

“A Wen?” Jiang Cheng asks.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “Lots of Wens in the children’s home. I wonder why.”

Jiang Cheng makes a sour face at him.

“He’s got cash to burn, suddenly. Pockets full.”

“Gee, I wonder how you found that out.”

A-Qing grins at him. “He’s not gonna miss it. He’s in the club now.”

“The club?”

“You know, the club. What do you call it? Do crimes, get money.”

“Mob? Syndicate? Criminal organization?” Jiang Cheng offers.

“So they’re recruiting at the home, that’s what you’re telling me? Is it Xue Yang?”

A-Qing blows bubbles in her soda. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Must be desperate.”

“You do the same thing.”

“I do not.”

She holds out a hand. He sighs and passes over a couple of bills.

“You staying there tonight?” he asks, all casual.

“Maybe. The girls are annoying. Should be nice outside.”

“Starting to get cold.”

“Not really. Only if you’re a pussy.”

“You call me if you need to crash. Here.” He drops a couple of coins in front of her. “I’ll be home after midnight.”

“Sure thing, boss,” she says, pocketing the change. She gives a little salute and hops off her stool. “So long, Wen Ning!” she shouts, walking right at him and making him hop out of the way.

She’s not really blind, of course. Wei Ying’s never brought it up—he knows, but he’s not sure she knows that he knows. One of the nights she crashed at his apartment, months ago, he caught her reading through one of his binders of old clippings—‘91, back before the start of the war, when he was still in Gusu. It kind of kills him, because he wants to ask her what she thought of them. What she remembers from back then, if there’s anything. But they don’t talk about anything serious, not if they can help it.

“Please tell me you don’t have a teenage girl staying at your place,” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying gives him a great sigh and grabs his rag again.

“Only when she's got no other place to go. Oh, I have a futon now! You’d see it if you ever came over.”

“Wow, great, you're thirty years old and you have a secondhand futon. Mother would be so proud.”

“I didn't say it was secondhand.”

“Wei Ying, trust me, you do not need to.”

(Four pints.)

Wei Ying makes a face at him. “So mean.”

“It’s weird that she stays with you.”

Wei Wuxian sighs again. “Jiang Cheng.”

“It is. It’s weird.”

“If it’s a bad night at the home then she sleeps outside. I don’t like her sleeping outside, so she stays with me. When she’s not being ornery.”

“She’s a teenage girl.”

“She’s a baby.”

“Not your baby. Why would she sleep outside anyway? Yiling sucks.”

“The home sucks. Look, it’s an orphan thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jiang Cheng pouts. “Hey, I’m an orphan.”

“No you’re not, you’re a grown up.”

(Whiskey, neat.)

“You’re a grownup. My parents are dead; I’m an orphan.”

“Then everyone’s a fucking orphan in this country. The word’s lost all meaning. From now on, if your parents were alive when you were ten, you’re not an orphan. Find a new word, leave ours alone.”

“You’re such a jackass.”

“Jackass! Yes, that’s a good word.”

Jiang Cheng sighs and gets off his stool. He tosses cash down on the bar, though Wei Ying tries to wave him off.

“Oh, you’re going to want to get a flag up in here,” he says, off-hand as he turns to go.

Wei Ying freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Coming down from on high, it’s going to be a new ordinance. To keep the liquor license.”

“The fuck does a flag have to do with our liquor license?”

Jiang Cheng holds up his hands. “I’m just the messenger.”

“I’m not letting the Sunshot flag through these doors.”

Jiang Cheng turns back to him, serious. “Look, I know you have your own . . . feelings—”

“Feelings?” he almost spits, spreading his hands out on the bar.

Jiang Cheng winces and does not look at them. “You have your reasons, I’m not arguing that. But Yiling’s a part of the Republic and people need to get used to it. You don’t have to like it, but your district rep is going to announce the policy in the next week, and I don’t want to see you— Don’t go out of your way to make life difficult, all right? It’s hard enough already.”

Wei Ying says nothing, just leans back and watches the rag twist and untwist between his hands.

“See you Saturday,” Jiang Cheng offers, hesitates, then leaves.

Wei Ying will close up. They close early, still, kick everyone out before midnight. Old habits. He’ll go home and work on his column, the one corner of the paper Wen Qing leaves for whatever he wants. (Literally, the column is called “Whatever.”) Maybe A-Qing will find a pay phone and call him, if she hasn’t spent or hidden the change, or maybe she’ll just show up and lean on the buzzer until he lets her in. He’ll sleep better, if she’s there. He was never meant to live alone.

And he’ll wake up tomorrow, and try to do it all again.

Part Two

#the untamed #cql #assorted writings #pick up every piece

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amberlightcity · 3 years ago

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Version 2 Available!

Link to main page w/ download and images:

https://www.planetminecraft.com/project/amberlight-city-v1-a-large-city-map/

The second update is here! New interiors! new buildings! Updated visuals! New land mass, removed and replaced older buildings, and refreshed an entire district! Version 2 adds many more interiors and new buildings, new roads, refreshed the bridge, new underground mall, extended sewer and subway system, and a brand-new tower! More secrets and hidden items to find too! new suburban areas have been added, along with a brand-new dam! Massive updates to certain roadways and also the mountain region! complete refresh of older ugly buildings and new ugly buildings have been added! Enjoy! Amberlight City is a large scale fully hand built custom island city map for Minecraft 1.12.2+ Welcome to Amberlight City! located on a remote archipelago off the coast of the eastern United States, Amberlight City is a large and bustling town! With huge mountains to stone cold office buildings, there's quite a lot to see! Secrets! Hidden Items! Treasure! Riches?! You decide! Amberlight is a diverse city with quite a few autonomous districts, each with their own flag and identity! From suburban housing to boats off the coast to secret underground facilities, there's much to do and see! Amberlight has a rich history that can be explored, or you could just blow the city up I guess, as long as you have fun! Feedback is much appreciated! Thanks for viewing! NOTE: Currently around 15% of the buildings are empty aside from walls floors stairs and doors. All buildings eventually will be furnished and everything will have content in it. This map has quite a fair share of map art, so if that hinders performance just delete them in that data folder of the world. This map is pretty demanding, so make sure your computer can handle it! With that said, enjoy! (Deep lore is present and references can be found, but no mini adventures have been developed yet. Further development of the city will give more hints to lore and background.) Some lore can be found currently in easter eggs or secrets, much much more planned. ----------------------- You can use this map for anything you like, as long as credit is given! Videos, tutorials, additions, etc. must be credited properly. Do NOT re-upload this map to any other site or forum without my permission, no exceptions If you have any questions just message me! Thanks for viewing!! Under production since 2016

#minecraft #amberlight #city #build

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archaneanscribe · 4 years ago

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Any Moment With You

During the period of time Marth is staying in Talys before Shadow Dragon starts proper, Caeda and Marth take a walk, get caught in the rain, and something momentous happens ;) Part of the Archanea Chronicles.

"If we seek aide from-"

"Pardon me?"

Marth, Jagen, Cain, and Abel looked up from the map they were examining, each turning to face the familiar voice speaking from the doorframe. Posture uncharacteristically shy, Caeda nodded at the acknowledgment of her presence.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but if you would not mind terribly, might I borrow Marth for an hour or two? It won't be very long."

"What exactly will you be doing?" Jagen asked, face stern but not unyielding. The discussion was important, yes, but they were in Talys only because of the good will of it's royal family after all. Caeda's gaze turned to her feet, yet again at odds with her normal behavior, "It is... a secret? If it is too great of an imposition..."

The prince and his advisors shared a look.

Marth spoke before anyone else could, eyes pleading at his eldest advisor, "I would gladly accompany you, Caeda. Surely I could be spared...?"

Jagen shook his head with a resigned fondness, "Very well. We will debrief you on the results tomorrow. Enjoy yourself for the day, my liege."

"Thank you!" the prince and princess said nearly simultaneously, cheeks red and smiles wide. Confidence seemingly renewed, Caeda grabbed Marth's sleeve and pulled him out the door with considerable haste, leaving the three cavaliers to watch their retreating forms with fond looks.

"Do not think I do not enjoy to spend time with you," Marth began, looking around at the surrounding trees. The sky above them was also a worrying grey, but he chose not to comment, more distracted by the other circumstances surrounding this adventure, "Because you know I do, very much. But is this all you needed me for? A walk?"

Caeda tugged at the hem of her skirt, looking bashful, "Yes- but that's not everything! There is something I wished to show you a ways in. You will not regret it, I promise!"

He smiled softly, placing a hand on her shoulder, "It is as I said, do not mistake my curiosity for disinterest. Any time spent with you is worthwhile time."

She tried smiling as well, though it was far weaker, smoothing the back of her hair over with a sigh, "Thank you, Marth. I know how difficult this time is for you, and I noticed how the stress has been weighing on you. I just... wanted to share something that I care for with you, to lessen your burden in any way I can."

Walking on for several seconds more, she stopped upon realizing that her companion was no longer moving with her. When she turned to see why, she found him with an expression that found an impossible middle ground between joy and sorrow, "I am very sorry, Caeda."

"Whatever for?"

"We have been imposing upon you and your father all this time, and now I am causing you to worry over me. It makes me happy to know you care, but I cannot help but find myself pained to have troubled you in this way."

"Marth, no!" she cried, rushing to stand before him, gripping his arms as tightly as she could, "Do not say such things! I am doing this because I- because I care for you, I would care for you even if circumstances were different."

His head had been hanging low, but he let it rise, nodding at her words, "...thank you, Caeda. I should not have let myself fall to despair like that. You are so kind and fair, of course you do this from the goodness of your heart with pure intent."

"You flatter me."

"I speak only the truth. It is only the presence of my comrades that allows me to face each day, and your support is chief among them. You bring me the light I need to move forward."

"Marth..."

With all her hesitance dispelled, she offered him her hand to take, and he did just that.

However, before they continued walking, like the boom of a war drum, thunder cracked, startling them just long enough to make them unprepared for the downpour that soon followed.

Thinking as quickly as he could, Marth draped his cape over his arm, and then held it over Caeda's head to shield her, "Is there somewhere we could take shelter!?" he asked, struggling to be heard over the sound of the pounding rain.

"Yes, a few minutes up ahead there is a shallow cave where hunters often rest!" she replied at equal volume, and with that, the pair took off at top speed in the direction she had pointed.

-----

"I am so sorry, Marth. I was trying to cheer you up, yet this happened!" Caeda lamented, futilely trying to wring the water out of her hair, seated against the wall of the hunter's refuge. The both of them were as wet and cold as could be, and at least one of them was just as miserable, "I was warned of the weather, but did it anyway,"

Taking off his cape, Marth laid it flat to dry more quickly, then made his way over to sit by her side, shaking his head, "I noticed as well, yet also said nothing. There is no one to blame here."

"If you say so... at least we will be able to avoid the worst of it in here. It does not seem to be as bad as it could be, thankfully."

"Yes," Marth said, smiling fondly despite the circumstances, "I remember my first island storm on Talys quite vividly, when we visited many years ago."

"You were so frightened," she said with amusement, the mood of the small cave lightening considerably, "I remember you rushing into my room in terror!"

He shifted closer to her so their shoulder's bumped, the heat of their bodies felt by the other despite their wet clothes, "I thought we were under ballista fire, and you told me it was simply the waves crashing against the rocks! Of course, I had never heard either before, so I could not tell the difference."

"It was not so easy to convince you of that at the time," she said, leaning into him, "We had to go out onto my balcony so I could show you. Our fathers were so upset that we ruined our clothes and let the rain in!"

They shared a laugh, suddenly not so bothered by the weather outside.

"I think your plan has worked despite everything," Marth commented, feeling bold enough to place his hand on Caeda's waist to pull her against him even closer, "When I am with you, no matter the circumstances, my mood cannot help but improve. I only hope I can do the same for you."

She smiled, "Oh Marth, you do. You have always treated me as more than my father's daughter, and you are always willing to listen and help whenever I have troubles, no matter how insignificant. I find just being with you calming."

"I am overjoyed to hear that. Once Altea retaken... would you consent to a visit?" he looked away in embarrassment, scratching his nose, words trailing off, "Of course, because Elice would like to see you again. And... I would like to continue spending time with you..."

"I would be glad to."

Joy overtaking all other emotions, Caeda let her instinct take over, and placed a kiss on Marth's cheek, just shy of the corner of his mouth. In his surprise, he snapped his head to face her, their noses brushing.

All it would take for them to-

"Caeda... may I...?"

"Yes... Marth..."

With the sound of pouring rain pelting the leaves and the damp earth in the background, they shared their first kiss, individually and together.

Their lips were still tinged with cold, they could taste rain water, and in truth it was nothing more than a press of lips, but for the pair, it was magical.

When they found it in themselves to pull away, they locked eyes, pupils dilated and cheeks flushed.

"I... Marth, did we..."

"Yes..." he reached his free hand up to brush his knuckles against her cheek, "Caeda. Right now, I am not in a position to give you everything you need. Retaking Altea must be my main priority. But every free moment I have, and the very day our flag once more flies over my homeland, I am yours."

"I do not want or expect more than you are able to give, Marth. We are young yet, and there is much to do. So long as I get small moments such as these," she caught his hand in her own, interlacing their fingers, "I am beyond contentment."

"And I am beyond lucky to have met you."

In the world outside, the rain had begun to wane, and they could hear the thundering of hooves as well as several familiar voices calling their names.

"That sounds like Jagen," Caeda removed herself from Marth's embrace, something that they both mourned, "He will surely be cross with us."

"Let him be cross."

"Marth!"

He grinned as he gazed at her faux scandalized expression, leaning in for one more kiss before they had to return to reality.

Independently of one another, they made a promise to themselves: they would do whatever it takes to ensure that one day, they could share as many kisses and moments of happiness as they like, no matter the cost.•

#fe1 #fe3 #fe11 #fire emblem #fe #archanea saga #archanea #marth x caeda #caeda x marth #marth #caeda #marth (fire emblem)#caeda (fire emblem)#suu's scribbles #wrote this in novemeber but posting to offset some angst i posted to my art blog lol

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echo-bleu · 4 years ago

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map out a world

I fell in love with Alec and my brain had decided that he's autistic by 1x02, and this is the result. It's basically just 6.7k of Alec finding his inner autistic and Magnus being supportive. Huge thanks to @moonlight-breeze-44 for checking it over and being amazingly supportive.

CWs: there's more than a bit of internalized ableism on Alec's part in this, and some self-injurious stims.

By now, Alec is fairly sure Magnus is trying to tell him something.

It's all about the books. It was sweet to discover, early on in their relationship, that Magnus absolutely loves reading Mundane fiction. It's partly because there's no such thing as Shadow World fiction, Alec knows. There are books of history, of legends and tales, but no modern fiction. Shadowhunters are too busy raising soldiers to care for anything cultural that isn't related to being obsessed over their heritage, and most Downworlders are either integrated enough into mundane society to adopt most of their culture, or not human enough to care for something as simple as books.

Magnus also grew up at a time were books were exceedingly rare and entirely out of his reach − he didn’t learn to read before he was over fifty years old − so discovering the imaginary worlds of the Mundanes was all the sweetest to him. He has a habit of opening the door of almost every bookshop he passes by, just to look and smell the books, and almost always comes out with a couple of new novels. He also reads at lightning speed, so he often immediately donates the books he doesn't want to keep to the closest refugee charity.

Alec loves learning about his quirks, and he's followed Magnus into more than one unassuming bookshop around the world during their dates. For some reason, Magnus especially loves crime books and the soapiest romances. But it's not something that they share.

Walking into the loft, Alec eyes the new pile of books on the coffee table, that he knows for a fact wasn’t there this morning when he left for work. He kicks off his shoes and drops beside Magnus on the couch, just shy of touching him. Magnus looks up from his paperback and extends an inviting arm, so Alec ducks under it to rest against his side.

Magnus knows to squeeze him just tight enough, making Alec sigh softly. The sun is barely rising, and it's been a long night at the Institute. Alec is glad to be home, finally. “What are you reading?” he asks when he feels steady enough to speak.

Magnus wordlessly shows him the cover. Neurotribes, Alec reads. The legacy of autism− that's not Magnus' usual reading material. It's been happening more and more, lately, Magnus switching from terrible romances to non-fiction. He started with LGBT history books, a few months ago. Pride flags started to make random appearances around the loft, and there's now a whole shelf of books, most of them rainbow-colored in some way, behind Magnus' desk. He told Alec about the parts of that history that he lived, and the ones that no book ever talked about, the lovers he had that would never be remembered, the people who'd fought for their rights from the shadows.

Then he switched to books about therapy. About trauma, PTSD, child abuse. Alec frowned at that, but he figures that Magnus has plenty of bad childhood memories. He still thinks about how rattled Magnus was, that time the agony rune brought his mother's death back up. If books can help him process that, then good for him, right?

This is new. There are half a dozen new books beside Magnus' glass, and they’re all about autism. It doesn't seem like something Magnus would research for himself−or is it? No. “Why?” Alec asks.

Magnus shrugs. “It's enlightening,” he says.

“Autism?”

“I think it could explain some things. And these ideas, about neurology being as diverse as sexuality, or skin color? I like it.”

Alec nods at the second part − it does seem like an interesting concept. Maybe he'll ask about it more, when he's not so tired. “Explain what?” he still asks.

“You should try reading them.”

“Magnus, I don't−”

Magnus stops him by squeezing his shoulder tighter. “I know. It's fine. I'll just keep reading, and share thoughts, maybe.”

“Okay,” Alex says softly. He still doesn't get it, but if it's something Magnus is interested in, then he's willing to listen. Always. He puts his hand over Magnus' on his shoulder, running his fingers over the warm silver rings.

Like a great many of their hobbies, it isn’t something they share. Alec doesn't read for fun. He reads action reports and Clave memos and equipment order forms, but he doesn't read books. It's not something he enjoys.

Or maybe that's not true, not exactly. He used to love reading, as a child in Idris. He'd get his hands on every history book he could find, heavy volumes bound in dusty leather, and devour his way through them. That is, until Jace came along.

Jace who didn't like books. He and Izzy got right along, wanting nothing more than to spar in the training room or run outside every chance they got. Alec knows now that it's not true, that Jace enjoyed reading before Valentine made even that into a lesson, a punishment, but back then he turned it on Alec, mocking him cruelly in the way only a child can every time he caught him with his nose inside a book. Alec never cared too much about the other children's taunts, but from Jace, who was better than him at everything, including at pleasing Alec's parents, it was different. So he stopped. He started following Jace and Izzy everywhere they went, and in the little time he had free, he perfected the one thing that was still his own: archery.

He hasn't read a book cover to cover since he was eleven. Magnus tried to get him to read at bedtime, but he'll just pull up work papers. Fiction is an escape he doesn't need (doesn't deserve).

“Are you tired?” Magnus asks when Alex sighs softly at where his thoughts are going.

“A little,” Alec admits.

“How about you go rest for a bit while I get breakfast ready?”

Alec nods. As much as he'd love to stay in Magnus' arms, he's been interacting with people all night, and more than just his siblings, now that he has to coordinate all the Shadowhunter teams going out. He probably needs some time to sort himself out.

Magnus initiates the move his brain is struggling with, hoisting them both up off the couch. He gives Alec one last squeeze − his hold lower on Alec's back, now that they're standing, and it gives Alec goose bumps − and wanders off toward the kitchen, his book abandoned on the couch. Alec shakes himself and makes his way to their bedroom. Without letting himself think too much about it, he grabs the first book of the pile on the coffee table as he goes.

He stays immobile in front of the bed for a full minute, trying to decide if he can curl up under the blanket even though he's still dressed. Undressing doesn't seem worth it. He compromises by only removing his pants, since his jacket is already off, and keeping his shirt on. He takes his stele out of his pocket before getting into bed and keeps it in his hand, mindlessly running his fingers up and down the textured metal handle. He sets the paperback by his head and stares at it, thinking.

He's not always good at reading between the lines, but he's not obtuse, either. He's seen the pattern. Magnus' reading choices and his gentle encouragements to look at the books have coincided directly, and a part of Alec knows that Magnus wasn't looking up PTSD in child soldiers for himself, however much he doesn't want to acknowledge it. It's him reaching out, trying to understand, even though Alec doesn't believe it's quite the right way of going at it.

He's not traumatized. Sure, he was raised a soldier, but Mundane categories don't apply. Mundanes are more fragile, aren't they? They don't heal as easily as Shadowhunters, even physically. Beside, Jace had it so much worse than Alec growing up, and he's fine. Mostly.

This new phase, though, it's more of a surprise. Sure, they've acknowledged, together, that neither of them is quite normal. Their queerness took a back seat, in Downworlder and Shadowhunter eyes alike, to the mixed nature of their couple, but they stand out like a sore thumb everywhere they go, even in the Mundane world. Magnus stands out largely by choice, by his fashion choices, but Alec has come to realize that those are an armor as much as they're a statement. He envies Magnus, sometimes, for how easy it is to him to reject the norm, to refuse to conform.

Alec stands out by default. It's just who he is, the one who never quite fits. His size makes him visible when he wishes he could disappear into the background, and his constant awkwardness attracts attention he doesn't want. He's tried so hard to obey all the rules, to be perfect, the son his parents tried to mold him into, the brother his siblings could be proud of, but he failed, again and again. Something in him is just...not right.

Broken.

Different, not broken, the book's subtitle jumps out at him, on the spine. Alec almost rolls his eyes at the truism. Yes, sure, different. Different enough that he can never be what's expected of him, that it interferes with his duty. Dating Magnus is one thing, a violation of the norm he will allow himself, because he can see that the norm is the one that's wrong there. Downworlders aren't less than Shadowhunters, so why should their relationship be frowned upon? And Alec knows plenty of queer people, by now. He knows they're not broken. Magnus' beautiful soul certainly isn't broken.

But Alec is. Not because he’s gay, but because he’s a b normal.

“Alexander?”

Alec starts at the noise and recoils, just a little. Magnus is standing close, though Alec hasn't heard him approach. The concern in his eyes tells Alec that it's not the first time Magnus has called his name. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Breakfast can wait, if you'd rather sleep.”

“No, I'm coming.” Alec doesn't think he can sleep, now that his mind has slid down this path.

He leaves the paperback on his bedside table.

The subject doesn't come up again for another few weeks. The book remains on Alec's nightstand, and he actually finds himself skimming it. Magnus doesn't push once. He leaves the pile of other books on the coffee table, and more join them when he stops at a bookstore on one of their walks, but he doesn't insist on Alec reading them.

But something changes. It's in the little things, barely perceptible unless Alec pays attention. Magnus' behavior toward him changes slightly. He asks for permission before touching him. He seems to recognize when Alec is stuck, and manages to gently steer him into action. He stops himself mid-sentence to reword his questions in a clearer way.

The first time Alec notices, really sees what Magnus is trying to do, he panics. He's pretty sure that isn't at all what Magnus intended when he pulled out a fidget toy and offered it to Alec, for him to lock himself in the bathroom and have a panic attack.

“Darling, please let me in,” Magnus says through the door. He could just use his magic and ignore the lock, but he doesn't. Alec is relieved, confusedly, through the buzzing in his ears, and yet a little disappointed. He clasps his hands over his ears, even though the loft is nearly silent and the noise he's hearing comes from inside.

“Alexander!” Magnus calls again, still softly but with an edge. Alec freezes, his breathing suddenly going from erratic to perfectly controlled, even though the pounding in his ears intensifies. Magnus is angry with him. He should be. By all rights, he should have already broken in, or be long gone.

“Let me in, Alec.” Magnus is not soft anymore, but commanding. The change in address isn't lost on Alec, either. Magnus only drops his habit of using his full name when something's really wrong.

Alec swallows. He picks himself up and takes two steps toward the door. He keeps his face angled away from the brightness of the bathroom window, but he checks his posture before he sticks out his hand to undo the lock. He hurriedly steps back, close to the wall, hands clasped behind his back.

Magnus pushes the door in, taking in the bathroom quickly until he settles on Alec. Alec keeps his eyes trained straight forward, just above Magnus' head.

“Oh, Alexander,” Magnus breathes.

Alec itches to wring his hands, but he's long learned to stay still. He waits, instead. Waits for Magnus to tell him that it's over, that this is too much.

He thought things were going fairly well. Magnus let him be as close to honest as Alec dares to be, these days. Before he knew it, Alec found himself relaxing around him, not bothering to watch his every move. He thought maybe it was because they come from such different cultures. Magnus doesn't know what's expected of a Shadowhunter, just like Alec knows very little about Warlocks, so maybe his eccentricities passed for cultural difference. But he was wrong, wasn't he?

Magnus knows, and he's trying to figure out what's wrong with Alec. That's the reason for the books. He's trying to fix him, and soon enough he's going to realize that there's no fixing this.

Or maybe he already has.

Magnus approaches him slowly, telegraphing his moves.

“I really messed this up, didn't I?” he murmurs.

Alec frowns. This is unexpected. “What?” is the only thing he manages to get past his lips, though. He wants to apologize, to beg maybe, but the words won't even come.

“I only meant to help. I didn't want to scare you.”

“I'm not scared,” Alec replies immediately, almost automatically. He is.

Magnus' hands are open in front of him, in full view, the fidget toy gone. Not that it matters. It's just a catalyst, not the actual problem.

“Tell me what you need,” Magnus offers. His voice is soft again, sad like his eyes. Alec wants to step back, but he's backed himself into the wall. He shakes his head without a word.

“Okay, okay, you don't have to tell me. Do you want space? Do you want me to go?”

Alec should say yes. He should hide far away from Magnus until he's fully in control again and then pretend nothing happened, until the next time he messes up, and the next time, the day Magnus can't deal with him anymore.

He can't.

He shakes his head again, looking away. His left hand is gripping his right so hard at his back that he can barely feel his fingers.

Magnus stays still. “I'm not leaving,” he says. “You can relax. I'm not going to try anything, Alexander.”

Alec hates that he needs this reassurance. He hates acting like this, like a child, like an abnormality, and yet he can't help it. He hates that even the thought of Magnus touching him makes his skin crawl and yet the idea of him leaving makes him want to reach out so bad. The conflict is enough to leave him immobile, incapable of choosing a course of action.

He doesn't know how long it's been, since he bolted into the bathroom. Magnus' face holds infinite patience, and that's why Alec can't look at it.

He knows that by ‘relax’ Magnus means for him to drop the parade stance he still takes without thinking about it, that always puts Magnus on edge. It is a relaxed stance, theoretically − but it's not the same, to someone who wasn't raised a Shadowhunter, is it? Alec forces himself to untangle his hands and let them fall to his sides, but then he doesn't know what to do with them. It feels wrong, to have them hanging there, touching nothing. The sudden blood flow in his fingers hurts.

“I'm sorry,” Magnus says in a low voice, and he sounds unsure, more hesitant than he's been so far. That makes Alec look at him−or at least somewhere on his face, close to the eyebrows.

“For what?” Alec frowns. He's the one who should be apologizing.

“I don't know exactly what I did wrong, but something I did made you panic. I'm sorry.”

Alec shakes his head in frustration. “You−No, you−You know,” he blurts out. “You know I'm...and you want to fix me.”

Magnus freezes. “No, no, Alexander. You've got it backward. Yes, I know you're different. I always knew.”

Alec blinks. “You did?”

“Yes, of course. But I don't want to fix you. I love you the way you are.”

Alec frowns. He tried so hard to be a version of himself that could be loved − he does believe Magnus. It's just that Magnus hasn't seen the ugly parts yet. He will bail, when he does.

Except− I never wanted you to see this terrible, ugly side of me. Maybe Magnus does know. Maybe…

“You are beautiful, Alexander.” Magnus takes a small step closer, still out of reach, but just inside Alec's space. Not intruding. Just...knocking on the door. “Everything about you is beautiful.”

The compliment glides over Alec, not really reaching him, but his own words mirrored back to him do. Magnus briefly drops his glamour, exposing his cat eyes, confirming silently that they're talking about the same thing.

“It's not−it's not the same,” Alec stammers.

“Is it not? You've seen the parts of me that are different, that I am ashamed of, and you looked me in the eyes and told me you loved me even then. Can I not do the same for you?”

Alec closes his eyes. “I'm not−” he starts, but the words aren't right. “Why are you reading all those books, then?” he asks instead. “If it's not to fix me?”

“Because I want to understand,” Magnus explains. He looks around him briefly, at the wall behind Alec, the open door, the sink. Then he seems to make a decision, and he plops down to the floor, crossing his legs under him.

Looking so far down at him, when they're so close, is quickly untenable, so Alec follows suit. He kneels first out of habit, but the position is just uncomfortable on the tiled floor, so he brings one of his legs up to rest his chin on his knee. Magnus gives him a smile.

“We're so different, you and I,” he says slowly. “We have very different life experiences. At first I thought that we'd just bridge that gap slowly as we got to know each other, but−”

“You think we're too different?” Alec hates how weak his voice sounds, how whiny.

“No,” Magnus stops him immediately. “But I...I started to get comfortable around you, and you amazed me every time you showed me that I didn't have anything to be ashamed of. You're incredible, Alexander. You make me feel...loved, even the parts of me that I could never love myself.” His eyes shine, and Alec dares a small grin, losing himself in that glow.

“You deserve all of it,” he murmurs.

“But so do you,” Magnus whispers. “And I realized that even as I lowered all my defenses, you never did.”

“I did,” Alec frowns.

“Yes, I think you did, as much as you can. But never all the way.”

The tiled plinth digs into the small of Alec's back uncomfortably. He leans into it.

“What do you mean?”

“It took me a while to realize that you don't do it consciously. Hide who you are, I mean. It's just your default. The books, they call it 'masking'.”

“I'm not hiding,” Alec frowns. Is he? He's not lying.

Magnus leans in toward him. “You don't let yourself be. You're always controlling how you move and how you speak, so that you look more normal. Aren't you?”

Alec stares for a moment, trying to make sense of the moves Magnus' lips make as his brain struggles to process the words. “I don't−I don't know,” he admits. Is he not supposed to do that? Self-control is the first lesson Shadowhunters learn, and it's deeply ingrained in him.

He looks down at his hand. He's unconsciously stuck it in the fold of his leg, under his knee, and it's now red and bears the mark of his pants' seams. He tucks it behind his back in shame.

“You shouldn't have to do that,” Magnus says softly. “I'm not asking you to change. I just want to understand so I can...meet you in the middle. You go out of your way to accommodate me and my idiosyncracies, all the time. I want to be able to do that for you too.”

Alec stares at him, speechless. Magnus stares back, avoiding his eyes as if he knows direct eye contact makes him uncomfortable. “Will you let me try?”

Magnus tries. Alec tries to let him. It doesn't go particularly smoothly.

Letting go of decades worth of strict conditioning isn't that easy, especially when you're not sure at all that you want to. When maybe it's the only thing holding you together.

If it really is a mask, then who is Alec once it is taken off? How does he own up to the parts of him he doesn't allow to pierce through, even behind closed doors?

Is there anything left of him that wasn't ripped away by training?

He's better off going on like he always has, he decides the third time a casual gesture from Magnus makes him panic. It doesn't send him gasping into a tight corner of the bathroom this time, because fuck, Alec has better control of himself than that. He just freezes in place until Magnus hurriedly backs off. He just thinks about nothing else for the rest of the day.

He just hates himself a little more.

“Alexander,” Magnus says softly that night, as Alec slides into bed with him. Dread pools in Alec’s stomach, a sharp contrast with the softness of the satin sheets around him. He pulls the weighted blanket over himself, even though a part of him want to deny himself this comfort.

Magnus noticed his slip-up earlier, because how could he not? Alec feels awful about hurting him every time he shies away from a kind and thoughtful gesture.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he makes the first move. It’s easier than staring at his hands and waiting for the blow.

At the edge of his vision, Magnus’ eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“I tried to stop. I tried to be more...natural, or something, like you said. But I can’t.”

Magnus tilts his head slightly, but doesn’t say anything. Alex can’t bring himself to look up at him, and he doesn’t know anymore if it’s because he’s ashamed, or simply because sometimes looking at Magnus, at his beauty and his shine and his compassion, is too much.

“I don't know how to do it,” he sighs. “This is who I am, Magnus. I need this...control, this grip on myself to function, otherwise I just fall apart. I don't know how to be anything else.”

“Alexander, I'm not asking you to be.”

Alex looks up in surprise, briefly meeting glamoured brown eyes. But Magnus’ eyes, real shape or not, are not where he gets his cues – they’re too intense, too confusing. No, it’s in the slight tilt of his mouth, the way his hand plays with the golden sheet, the furrow in his brow. Alec relaxes minutely.

“You’re not?”

“It would be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?” Magnus smiles softly, dropping his glamour. “All I want is for you to be comfortable, to be happy.”

Alec gently slips his arm under Magnus’ head in place of his pillow, feeling the weight of his boyfriend settle in the crook of his elbow. There’s a measure of relief there, the part of himself that always waits for the other shoe to drop, for the moment Magnus will tire of him, contented for now. “I am comfortable,” he murmurs. “Happier than I’ve ever been. There’s always going to be days that are harder than others.”

“Of course,” Magnus smiles. “But I want to do everything in my power to make even those a little less bad for you. I actually had a thought.”

“Um?” Now that his tension is fading a little, Alec feels like he could fall asleep. He shakes himself a little to stay attentive to Magnus’ words.

“What if it’s not about you changing something, dropping some kind of mask, but about adding something?”

“What do you mean?” Alex frowns, struggling to follow.

Magnus shifts a little against his arm, and grabs his hand. Rather than caress it with the tips of his fingers, like he sometimes likes to do, he squeezes it between his own hands.

“The things you do to...regulate yourself, your emotions, your...overloads,” Magnus starts. Alec can tell that he’s hesitating because he’s afraid of freaking him out, not because he doesn’t know how to word it. “They’re important. Necessary.”

Alec opens his mouth to argue, but no words come. He can’t actually deny that. He might hate himself for needing it, for needing the finger biting or the rocking or the myriad other little things he does that are frowned upon, but it gets so much worse when he tried to forbid himself that comfort. That’s what gets him to the gym or up on the roof, training until his hands are dripping blood. It’s how he ends up screaming himself raw in his pillow, hitting his head against the headboard of his bed until he’s too lightheaded to continue.

“From what I understand,” Magnus says slowly, squeezing Alec’s hand tighter, probably to check that he’s still listening, “there’s much more to that than the impulses your parents tried to train you out of. It’s about regulating sensory inputs, but also about...interacting with your environment. And I thought that it’s something we could explore together. Try to find new things that help and comfort you, rather than change what you already do.”

Alec closes his eyes, trying to process the sentence. The shine of the golden satin sheets against the light, their mixed scents in the bed, Magnus’ skin against his, he wants to get rid of it all so he can understand what Magnus is saying. Instead, he turns his hand around until he’s the one holding Magnus’. Magnus hasn’t removed his rings before bed like he usually does, he notices absently as he starts playing with them.

Magnus gives him a tiny smile. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

“You’re not like me,” Alec says. “How can we do this together? I don’t want everything to be about me.”

“Of course not,” Magnus fake-scoffs. “You know I’d never let that happen.”

Alec rolls his eyes. “Right. Seriously, though.”

“I meant it, when I said I want to meet you in the middle. Right now, you do most of the work of coming in my direction and I let you, because I don’t understand or because this translation is second nature to you by now. But I want to move in your direction too. Learn about how you experience the world. And maybe take some of that pressure off of you.”

“Magnus–” Alec starts. He doesn’t know what he wants to say. He’s not sure he knows what Magnus’ words mean, but he knows that this is a gift he never expected. He’s never even entertained the idea of someone else wanting to know him to that extent.

“I don’t know what it’s like, to be different the way you are,” Magnus says, stroking his arm with the hand Alec isn’t playing with. “But as a Downworlder, and a South Asian man in America, and an openly bi man who wears makeup, I do know what it’s like to live in a world that isn’t built for you, that doesn’t welcome someone like you. And I know that it can be very lonely. But you’re not alone, Alexander. Not anymore.”

Alec doesn’t feel the tears running from his eyes until his vision starts blurring, but he sees them mirrored in Magnus’ eyes. “I don’t know what it’s like to be any of those things,” he murmurs. “But you’re not alone either.”

And that’s the greatest gift they can offer each other.

“I think you might enjoy this,” Magnus says in the morning, over breakfast, holding out a little box. It’s Alec’s day off, so they have plenty of time to enjoy the morning – and to talk things through. Last night’s conversation went a long way toward making Alec feel better, but there’s still plenty to discuss.

He takes the box Magnus just conjured and opens it. Inside is a toy shaped a little like a spring, with alternating segments of black and white steel. Alec takes it out and it comes apart like an endless serpent, the segments articulated with each other. “What is it?”

“It’s a fidget toy,” Magnus answers. “I believe it’s called a tangle. I tried to make it visually pleasing, they’re usually made of brightly colored plastic.”

Alex smiles. “What is it for, though?” he asks, but his hands have already figured it out. Unconsciously, he’s started to tangle it around his fingers, spinning the curved segments around to change its shape.

“Having something to do with your hands?” Magnus offers hesitantly. “Please tell me if it’s making you uncomfortable. I don’t want to-”

“No, it’s okay,” Alec interrupts him. “I like it.” Given the sheer amount of time he spends wringing his hands or worrying at his nails, it might even be useful, though he doesn’t think he can get away with carrying it around at the Institute. “What?” he asks when Magnus keeps staring at him.

“Nothing,” Magnus shakes his head. “I honestly wasn’t expecting this to go so smoothly.”

Alec hangs his head in shame. He’s been making Magnus’ life hard, with his stupid panic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think that I didn’t appreciate your efforts.”

“No, no. I kept springing it on you with no warning. I was wrong to try to do this without talking it through with you the whole way.” Magnus gestures toward the couch area, where the pile of books is still growing. “After reading all this stuff, I think I forgot that we weren’t on the same wavelength, that just because I thought I’d figured something out, it didn’t mean you were ready for me to act on it. I tried to make gestures to show you that I understand you but...well, the truth is that I don’t. I’ll never understand some of you, and some will take time for me figure out.”

Alec opens his mouth to protest, but Magnus holds out a hand. “But this isn’t about understanding,” he continues. “It’s about accepting. It’s about standing by you and supporting you no matter how little I understand what’s happening in your head. I was still trying to force these things on you because I thought that, since I’ve read those books, I knew something of what you might need, but I don’t. You do. I should have asked you.”

Alec stares and works his jaw, a little stunned. His hands have figured out how to restore the tangle to its original shape of a spring, and he swirls it around one finger. “Thank you,” he says eventually, at a loss for words. It’s a lot. Magnus’ openness, his apology, is far from anything he braced himself for, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Can I ask you one thing?” Magnus asks softly.

“Of course.” They still haven’t touched the breakfast they sat at the table for, but the beauty of magic is that they don’t need to worry about it getting cold.

“You didn’t react when I first got the books. Did you know what I was doing?”

Alec squeezes the tangle toy around his fingers, until it hurts a little. The pain helps him focus. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I never…I never had a word. For it. I've heard of autism, but I didn't...I don't know, make the connection? Not really. But then you...suddenly it was like...you were doing everything right. Things you shouldn't have known to do. Things that no one has ever done.”

He pauses, but Magnus doesn't try to speak, just lets him gather his thoughts.

“Like right now,” Alec chuckles. “Like you know that I struggle with talking sometimes. But you're not supposed to know that.”

“I'm not?” Magnus asks. “Because I knew, long before I read anything. I just didn't know what to do.”

Alec tilts his head. “You did?” They're going a little off track here, and he's lost the thread. But his surprise is real.

“Of course. You thought I never noticed?”

“People mostly don't. Except Izzy, she picks up on it more easily.”

“Then why is it so strange for me to pick up on it?” Magnus asks.

Alec shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t have a lot of expectations, coming into this relationship. I don’t have much to compare it to, you know?”

Magnus smiles. “Ah, right. Well, a life the length of mine gives you plenty of time to better understand the human psyche. And yet, you still surprise me every day.”

“Because I’m...autistic?” Alec feels his cheeks heat up. He’s never said the word before, never applied it to himself. It’s a strange feeling. It doesn’t roll quite right on his tongue, and yet it feels right, in a way. He’s autistic, and the implications of that are overwhelming.

“Because you’re autistic,” Magnus repeats pensively. “Because you’re selfless and beautiful and funny. Because you’re sarcastic and you say things I don’t expect, and you stand your own ground when by all rights you should be falling apart, and you fluster adorably when I try to flirt. Because you’re you, Alexander. And yes, your autism is a part of it.”

The changes are subtle, and they don’t make a huge impact on their relationship. Alec is incredibly relieved by that. Bit by bit, he stops expecting Magnus to realize that he’s too much to handle and get tired of him.

“I’m the one who’s usually too much,” Magnus tells him darkly, when Alec opens up about that particular fear.

There’s a well of emotions in his eyes when he says that that they’ll need to explore, at some point. Magnus has a lot of baggage, too, a long history of sticking out. Of being different. On days like this, Alec can’t remember how he ever thought that Magnus wouldn’t understand.

“It’s a good thing I can never get enough of you, then,” he offers simply, for now. Magnus isn’t ready to talk about it yet, about the people who’ve hurt him.

Magnus’ face softens immediately. “You really are a delight,” he smiles.

Alec beams at him and goes back to the book he’s holding. He’s very slowly making his way through the pile of books Magnus bought. Most of them aren’t meant to be read cover to cover anyway, and he’s currently picking through an anthology of texts by autistic writers.

He’s learning a lot. So much more than he expected, going in. He figured, he may not have had a word for it before, but he already knows himself, right? But there’s new words to put on things he’s never even thought about, new ideas to try, a whole new understanding of the world around him. Sure, he knows himself, but it turns out that he knows everyone else a lot less well than he thought he did.

And there is the new, incredible feeling of being understood. That there’s someone out there, a whole community of someones, who resemble him in the ways he always thought he was alone. For that alone, the books are worth everything. It’s akin to the feeling he had the first times he snuck away from the Institute, as a teenager, to go read gay romances in a secluded corner of the local library.

Magnus’ understanding is just as precious. He doesn’t push for anything, only supports Alec quietly. Even now, as they sit together on the couch reading, he’s attentive to the way Alec reacts to his touch, tightening his loose hold on Alec’s thigh as soon as Alec starts squirming in discomfort. He redirects Alec’s restless hand from tapping a pattern on his thigh toward his own beaded bracelets, offering them as a stim toy without even seeming to think about it.

Alec tries to focus on his book. The text is about flapping, and special education forbidding it. It’s poignant, but it’s not something Alec can really relate to. And yet, he’s been stuck on it for ten minutes, trying to pinpoint why his brain just won’t move on.

It finally comes in the form of memories. Stop moving your hands around and pay attention! Can’t you just stay still for once? It’s in Mom and Dad’s voices, in Hodge’s, every instructor Alec had before he successfully trained himself out of stimming and perfected his parade rest. He even heard it, full of annoyance, from Izzy – Jace came into their lives later, when Alex was already a good little soldier. But even know, his hands itch to clasp behind his back, and he unconsciously straightens his posture.

No.

“What’s wrong?” Magnus asks, seemingly casual, but Alec can tell that he’s paying close attention.

Alec shrugs, words failing him. How can he explain the storm of emotions inside him? His fingers twitch again and he stares at them, and behind them, at the book.

Flapping is the new terrorist-fist-bump, he reads.

Shadowhunters are always in full control of their movements, echoes in his head. A long-learned lesson. But no one ever asked of Izzy and Jace to stop laughing or joking or brooding or crying, not when they’re off the clock. That was only required of Alec. Because the way Alec behaves isn’t normal.

Because the way Alec communicates makes them uncomfortable.

Alec feels nausea gripping his stomach. He wants to cry, to scream – to move. “Alexander,” Magnus starts, sensing the change.

Alec shakes his head to stop him and he closes the book, firmly. “I want to try something,” he announces, like saying it aloud will unclench the part of him that’s rearing in terror right now.

“Go ahead, darling,” Magnus drawls, and maybe it’s the permission Alec needs.

He stares at his hand for a moment, and carefully, purposefully makes it flutter. It's like he doesn't know how, like something his body has forgotten how to do. He thinks of his bow, of the sting of the string against his fingers and flexes them, hitting the tips against his palm. The memory isn't quite there, but there's something, something right about it. His fingers find his other palm, his left hand, tapping softly there. He closes his right hand into a fist, and taps his knuckles against his left palm, listening to the soft noise it makes.

“How does it feel?” Magnus asks, his voice low like he doesn't want to interrupt the moment.

Alec shakes his head. “I don't know. It's like...I don't know how to do this. It doesn't feel natural.”

“You don't have to flap your hands to be autistic, you know. Or to be yourself.”

“I know, but...I think I could? I don't know if that makes sense.” He taps his hands some more, palm against palm, harder.

“It doesn't have to make sense,” Magnus smiles. “Just to feel right.”

Does it feel right? It feels ridiculous, childish, not suitable for a grown man. It feels like a rebellion, a fuck you to all the times he’s been told to sit still, to stop moving. It feels artificial and yet like it comes from deep inside at the same time. Something repressed and almost gone, an echo of a feeling long forgotten. Something he can learn again, and maybe learn himself in the process.

It feels forbidden. Terrifying.

It feels right.

#shadowhunters #alec lightwood #magnus bane #malec #malec fic #alec lightwood fic #magnus bane fic #shadowhunters fic #mine #echo's fanfiction

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riviae · 5 years ago

Text

so anyway... did anyone ask for a regis-centric character study set during his time in beauclair in ‘lady of the lake’ ft. angouleme? no? well i wrote it anyway lol:

Beauclair was a fairytale place—that much Regis was certain of. However, even fairytales bore monsters, gave blood and bone to things that were better off not existing at all. And, more often than not, fairytales gave birth to monsters in the shape of men.

The land was an illusion of peace, a mirage of vineyards and bustling cities that fed the monsters that thrived there. Where there was peace, there would also be strife. Where there was laughter, there were also tears. Where there were innocents, so also were there those who sought to spill blood. Regis had not spilled blood in a long time, but some of his more... tumultuous memories resurfaced during the full moon, the urge to fly high above the castle battlements and walls giving way to more long-repressed desires.

He wanted to fly. He also desired a drink—though this wasn’t confined to full moons. He settled on walking and humming the melody of some tawdry ballad that Dandelion had composed when they reached the Sansretour Valley. Regis could have misted through the cobblestone streets as a barely perceptible fog—in fact, it was how he had favored to travel before his encounter with Geralt and his rag-tag hansa—but his time spent traipsing the narrow pathways of Beauclair with his companions had made him oddly nostalgic. Walking at a human’s pace allowed him the chance to reminisce, to commit the sprawling array of shops and houses to memory.

To his right, he saw a row of apartments painted a soft peach, dark green ivy climbing over an overhanging trellis and up the façade of the building. In the mornings, there was often an elderly woman that sat on one of the stoops with her cat. She had a faint Nilfgaardian accent and spoke animatedly with Cahir, who, to Regis’ surprise, smiled and laughed brightly. Regis could count on one hand the number of times Cahir had laughed in his company, which was only once more than Geralt.

Without the winged helmet and cape, Cahir looked almost boyish, his tan, freckled skin and dark hair giving the impression of someone who worked hot summer days on his parent’s farm. In truth, with just his sword at his side, Cahir did not look like a soldier or even a knight. It was only in his most basic mannerisms such as the way he postured himself as he walked, the subtle way he mapped a room with his gaze, his back always pressed to a wall, that betrayed his years of service as a soldier. War had not yet taken the kindness from his eyes or the gentleness by which he spoke to Milva, Angouleme, Regis, Dandelion, and, at times, Geralt. So, along with his politeness, it was only natural that he would be popular with the older generations.

Regis stopped in front of the elderly woman’s door, his eyes shining silver in the flickering lamplight. In the dark, he could see that she did not choose to close her window, the drapes within the first-floor bedroom moving almost imperceptibly due to the mild draft.

In a fairytale, a monster would materialize from the shadows to crawl through the window. It would approach the woman’s bed, its rows of teeth poised over her, only to have its head lobbed off by some kindly knight.

The vampire approached the window. He could hear her snoring loudly, heard her shaky intake of breath and then a brief stutter. It was a moment where she had stopped breathing, but Regis was not worried. Most sleep apneas were generally harmless and he did not hear any other telltale signs of more serious ailments such as excess fluid in her lungs. In fact, her lungs and even her heart seemed strong. It was likely nothing more than apnea brought on by the muscles of her throat relaxing, something that could be treated by learning to sleep on her side or abdomen.

Quietly, and without difficulty, he misted into the room. He locked the window and closed the drapes before disappearing again, this time the dark fog of his incorporeal form crawling underneath the space between the stoop and the door. When he reappeared, he was human-shaped and he suddenly felt the lateness of the night tugging at his eyelids. Sleep was not always necessary for his kind, but it was a luxury he had been spoiled with ever since coming to reside in Beauclair castle.

It had become a habit thanks to Angouleme’s insistence on sleep being a ‘good fucking elixir to any ailment’—her diction taken, more or less, from Regis, but sprinkled with her choice of vulgarities. It was quite endearing. And it also explained why he spent some afternoons in the shared common area within their wing of the castle, tome in hand, dozing now and again on a wide chaise lounge while the flaxen-haired girl snored in his ear. Sometimes even Milva would join them, though she took to the adjacent sofa and either played cards with Cahir or sharpened her arrowheads. Geralt, on the exceedingly rare days where he wasn’t tangled up with Fringilla Vigo or taking on a contract, sat in the armchair and scribbled in his own personal bestiary, gazing now and again discreetly at his dozing company with an expression that could almost be described as tender.

Perhaps he truly was getting old even for vampire standards, he thought, returning to the present. Giving a very human yawn that he covered reflexively with his palm, Regis turned away from the apartment and immediately met the gaze of two teenagers. One of which who had brandished a small, curved hunting knife.

If they had seen Regis reappear from a spindle of smoke, neither teen acted as if it mattered. As if all he had done was but an elaborate parlor trick, as evident by the way that more muscular teenager pressed the blade silently and fervently to his neck. The vampire allowed himself to be pushed into the nearby alley and against a brick wall as the blade pressed deeper into his skin.

A few beads of red dripped down the knife, splattering onto the ground in a star-like shape. The pain barely registered to the vampire, though his nostrils flared at the scent of sweat and alcohol. The teenager with the knife to his throat was sober, though possibly high on fisstech if his dilated pupils were any indication, but the other boy, lean and dressed in black with a sabre at his side, had definitely been drinking. He smelled of cheap beer and blood—many people’s blood.

“Looks like you’ve caught us a meddler, Boris,” said the boy with the sabre. He pulled a metal flask from his belt and took a swig, wiping the excess with the back of his hand. “Listen here, grandpa, we’ve been casing this place for weeks. So instead of worrying about some elderly wench, you should focus on yourself.”

Boris flashed a grin that sent a sinking feeling to the pit of Regis’ stomach. It was a wholly familiar grin. One that he had given long ago, so long ago that it felt like he had dreamed it. “This guy looks like a fucking tax collector, doesn’t he? Hey, gramps, you’ve got any coin on you? You must, it’s Beauclair, after all.”

“I’d bet he has more coin than common sense. Only a senile old coot would walk around alone at night, ” the other boy added, snickering. “It’d be almost a mercy to kill him.”

It was, disturbingly, like looking into a mirror of his youth. The jeering, the recklessness, the utter lack of respect or dignity for life—they were young, stupid, and thought the world owed them something. Something that they had no qualms taking violently.

This is what I was like before, he thought to himself. I only cared about myself. I lived to drink—and died for it, too. How pitiful.

His inner thoughts were interrupted by a swift strike to his cheek. Boris had dropped the knife in favor of using his fists, one hand curled around the vampire’s throat while the other prepared to punch him squarely in the jaw. Regis fought the urge to snarl, settling on a frustrated huff. If they realized he was not human, he would likely have to kill them. He did not want to—bloodshed no longer suited him. At least that was what he kept telling himself whenever the option for violence arose.

Regis did not fear many things. He did not fear fighting or war or even death, really. But he also knew that there were many fates worse than death. He feared returning to the habits and mindset of his youth, of losing the respect he had for others that had taken centuries to come to fruition. Regis was not naturally kind; kindness did not come easy to him. But he was naturally good at learning through observation and, like any skill, kindness could be cultivated—even in the worst of people if given the time to change. Or so he believed.

“Listen to us when we’re talking to you, old man,” Boris hissed none too kindly, this time reaching to tug at Regis’ greying hair. “Vinny, let’s just kill the guy already and go rob that wench.”

“No,” Vinny replied, his tone almost playful. “I’m just starting to have some fun.”

The words echoed loudly in the vampire’s ear, alchemizing into a voice that he recognized as his own.

“I’m just starting to have some fun,” Regis remembered himself saying as he rose from the barstool, lips pulled into a sneer. In a blink of an eye he had crossed the entire distance of the tavern to seize a drunken man by the scruff of his neck.

“Now, now, there’s no need for tears, my good fellow,” he said calmly, pulling the man closer. “We’re just having a party and need your… contribution.” Fangs met flesh then, the man’s outcry cut short as Regis dug his teeth cruelly into his neck. The vampire rolled the body away from himself when he was done, barely sparing it a second glance. He was already thinking of where he could get his next drink now that the last human patron of the tavern was dead, adding to his morbid pile of bodies.

Back in the present, the lean, dark-haired teenager had traded places with Boris, choosing instead to point his sabre directly at the vampire’s Adam’s apple.

Again… must I always have swords pointed at my throat?

Vinny blinked, dark eyes widening in surprise. “Huh, well I’ll be damned. The old man’s got a sense of humor.”

Regis, who had not realized he had spoken his previous thought aloud, hid his own shock with a hum of agreement. “Amongst other things,” he said, voice calm and polite. “Anyway, I’d be more than willing to part with some of my coin if you would be so kind as to lower your weapon. I am not in any mood to fight.”

“But what if I’m looking for a fight?” Vinny goaded.

Regis sighed. Perhaps he couldn’t talk his way out of a confrontation. He was tempted to use hypnotism, to simply have the pair fall into a drunken slumber beside the nearest gutter, but there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t prey on some other innocent citizen the moment they awoke. “I’m sorry,” Regis began, tone and expression severe, “But a fight with me is equivalent to courting death.”

“This old fuck must be on something…” Boris muttered, a full-body shudder wracking his muscular frame at Regis’ tone. “Let’s go, Vin. Something doesn’t feel right about all this.”

Before Vinny could respond he was cutoff by a distinctly raucous laugh from the mouth of the alleyway. “Hey, uncle!” a familiar voice chirped. “Need a hand?”

“Angouleme?” Regis breathed, watching as the teen approached, both hands shoved casually in her pockets.

As she approached, her grin grew even wider. It was an expression that very much reminded Regis of a feline who had gotten its claws hooked into a canary. “Oho, now look at what the cat dragged in! Vinny and Boris, it’s been awhile, you whoresons.”

“Angouleme,” Boris greeted, giving a nervous look to Vinny. “What are you doing all the way in Beauclair? Thought the Nightingales didn’t travel this far south.”

“They don’t—I’m not a part of their shit gang anymore. They’re also all very, very dead.” At this, Angouleme flashed another wide grin, giving the two boys a wink. “So maybe don’t bother my Uncle Regis anymore if you don’t wanna end up in the ground.”

“Fuck this,” Vinny groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He lowered the sabre from Regis’ throat with a frown and stepped away. “Ang, we were just casing some house when your uncle or whatever showed up.”

Regis took the brief interlude to fix the collar of his shirt, smoothing out the creases in the dark fabric. His gaze then returned to Angouleme who had now stepped in front of him, acting as a barrier between him and the two teenagers as much as her petite, lithe frame would allow.

“I’m sure you were,” Angouleme agreed. “But y’know what else I think, Vinny? I think you’re just out looking for someone to kill. Steal from whoever, I don’t care—but watch your blade. Too many murders in one area and people are bound to notice.”

“Almost sounds like you’ve gone soft, Angouleme,” Boris said, tone neither accusatory nor playful—as if he was only stating a very obvious fact.

“Almost sounds like I should’ve let Uncle Regis kill you two,” Angouleme replied icily. Her right hand twitched, ready to reach for the blade she kept hidden in her boot—a gift courteous of Milva after she had lost her own. “No one’s going soft, especially not me. Go find some drunk in a ditch to rob if you must and then get the fuck out of Beauclair.”

“And what if we don’t want to leave?” Vinny asked with obvious bloodlust. “What’ll you do then, Ang? Because I don’t believe for a second that your geriatric, grey-haired babysitter could even throw a punch before I have him gored on my sword.”

Angouleme cackled, a feral glint in her eyes. “Since uncle doesn’t like resorting to violence very much and I’m feeling particularly nice tonight, I’d be sure to kill ya both myself. And since we used to run in the same circles, I’d make it a quick death too. You’d both be bleeding out before you even had a chance to piss yourselves in fear. Call it a friendly discount—two quick, painless deaths. Hell, I’ll even bury your bodies so the birds don’t dine on your insides.”

“Now there’s the girl I remember,” Vinny said, whistling appreciatively. “You always had a way with words. You were all bark and bite. But now I wonder if you’ve been muzzled; why else would you be traveling around with a man who looks like a bank teller?”

“If I may interject?” Regis asked, raising a hand politely. Angouleme whipped her head back to shoot the vampire a confused look.

Regis cleared his throat. “I think there’s another way we can settle this. Without bloodshed.” Not waiting for a reply, Regis turned his gaze to Vinny and Boris, sighing. He addressed the dark-haired man first. “Vinny, was it? You like killing, don’t you?”

Vinny nodded, tone expressionless. “It’s fun. I like hearing ‘em scream. Why do all these people get to live cushy, painless lives here in the city? What’d they do to deserve a good life? Nothing. I’m just here to settle the score. Be the monster all these rich folk told me I’d be growing up. It’s a bonus that I enjoy it.”

Boris gawked at the other teen. “What the fuck? Why’re you admitting all that? Have you gone fucking mad?”

Regis continued, ignoring Boris’ outcry. “So you feel that you have some right to kill? Because you were wronged in life?”

“Yeah, I do. I’m good at stealing and killing. It came with practice. Do anything long enough and you learn to develop a taste for it.”

“I see…” Regis trailed, now turning his attention to the other teen. “Boris. Why do you follow Vinny? I can tell that you have less of a stomach for murder than him. Though it seems as if you are fine with violence… within reason. ”

“He’s a right bastard but he’s also my only friend. I can’t abandon him no matter how much I want to sometimes. He likes getting into trouble—starting brawls, drinking till he pukes, murdering when he doesn’t have to, racking up as many bounties on his head as he can without it being chopped off—and it’s up to me to keep him from going too far. From getting himself killed.”

Regis smiled sadly. “You think you’re helping him. But in actuality, you are enabling him. I don’t blame you, however; it’s often difficult to tell the difference.”

“So what’re you gonna do with ‘em, uncle?” Angouleme piped up, eyes wide with admiration for the vampire. “Wish you could teach me how to hypnotize people… seems like it’d come in handy,” she added, kicking at a loose stone.

“Hmm… well, I’ll actually leave that to you, Angouleme. You know them better than I do. Do you have a solution? We can’t just leave them to their own devices.”

At this, Angouleme paused, brows furrowing. She deliberated for a few moments, tilting her head from side to side until she snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it! Keep ‘em still for a second, uncle.”

Regis nodded, focusing on keeping the two teens in place.

Swiftly, and without any preamble, Angouleme landed a solid kick to Vinny’s right arm, relishing in the loud crack that followed. The teen howled then, the pain freeing him from Regis’ influence.

“Fuck!” He cursed, falling to his knees to curl up into a ball. His outcry was jarring enough to snap Boris from his own trance, panic flooding the teen’s face at the sight of his friend curled on the ground.

“Hey, Boris,” Angouleme drawled casually, smile curling even wider at the way the larger teen steps back instinctively in fear.“ Do me a favor, will ya? Take Vinny and get out of here. Help him heal and teach him how to control his anger. Not everyone in the world is out to get ya; you don’t need to take a swing at every person you come across. So if I hear about you two causing any sort of ruckus I’ll make sure to break more than an arm. Got it?”

With a shaky nod, Boris helped Vinny back to his feet. In mere moments the pair had disappeared, skittering out of the back alley as fast as they could.

“Thank you, Angouleme,” Regis said, smiling in his own gentle way, the tips of his fangs peaking out from beneath his lips. “You were able to defuse the situation rather brilliantly—with no bloodshed. Impressive.”

At the genuine praise, the flaxen-haired teen looked away, embarrassed. She didn’t want Regis to see how her cheeks had reddened at his words. Praise was rare; before joining Geralt’s hansa, she had only been praised for her prowess at killing and stealing. This was different. She wasn’t doing something because she wanted the praise or attention or the safety that came with being stronger and more dangerous than her peers—she was simply doing what she thought was right.

As they walked back to the castle, Angouleme gave a contented sigh, tilting her head up towards the full moon.

“It’s a nice night, isn’t it?”

“It is, my dear Angouleme. It certainly is.”

Angouleme smiled, gaze softening. “Think we’ll get more nights like this?”

“I hope so,” Regis replied, voice thick with something akin to melancholy.

At that, Angouleme snickered, nudging the vampire’s shoulder playfully. “Heh, you sounded so sentimental there. Don’t tell me you’re gonna miss going on long walks with a brat like me. ”

“…I’m going to miss a lot of things about Beauclair. Mostly, though, I think I’m going to miss all these fragile moments of peace. I know even good times must end—we still have a quest to complete, after all. Geralt’s ward is still in danger. But being here was nice. And I especially enjoyed our walks, Angouleme.”

Together, they walked the winding road back to the castle. Home, Angouleme thought a moment later. They were going home. It was the first time that she had ever thought of a place as home. There had been houses, small huts and backwater inns that she had lived in, sure—but home implied belonging. She had a place where she belonged with the friends she now saw as family.

And if Regis noticed the few stray, happy tears that brimmed in her eyes, he politely didn’t mention it.

He too was busy reminiscing--his life had changed the moment he decided to follow Geralt, to join his company and work to save his ward. Even if it amounts to nothing but ash, Regis thought, I won’t regret my choice. Here, with everyone, is where I know I belong. I don’t know if this story will end like a fairytale or a nightmare, but at least I won’t be alone. Not anymore.

#emiel regis #angouleme #other hansa characters are mentioned but it's mostly these two #can't believe i wrote something that primarily ignores geralt lmaoo but here we are #this is kinda all over the place but i did try i promise ;v;

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gofancyninjaworld · 5 years ago

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Meta: What rough beast slouches to be born?

Right, webcomic chapter 125 has raised quite a few questions about cyborgs and I purposely left it aside. Until now. I’m sorry for the length, but I’m only allowed one ‘readmore’. :(

What we knew

Many moons ago for us, 9 or so weeks ago for them, Genos showed up at Saitama’s doorstep like a refugee from another world, telling a tale of destroyed towns, rampaging cyborgs, and desperate revenge quests. It’s seemed rather far-fetched, particularly as not much has happened on that front. Over the course of the story, we’ve had little bits of independent corroboration about the veracity of his story. The town that he was born in was definitely erased from the map. Yes, a cyborg is wanted in connection with the incident.

But where is that guy? Does it have anything to do with the powered suit-flogging cyborgs seen early on the series? Does it have anything to do with the ‘glimpse behind the scenes’ chapter the manga offered us with Drive Knight (but no context as to how that glimpse fitted into the wider story)? Come to that, where are all the cyborgs?

To start with, there are a lot of cyborgs of various sorts in OPM. Quite a few moons ago, I wrote a bit about them, drawing a distinction between those who used parts to replace lost function and those who looked at it as a change of identity: “Is the Organization a Claw Analogue?”

Chapter 125 has been surprisingly good about confirming some of what I surmised about cyborgs, but it’s brought some very good additional information! On we go!

There are cyborgs; and then there are Cyborgs

Our ambassador through the world of cyborgs is new Neo Hero recruit Koko (Solitude), who modified his body for the world of cyborg fighting, only he was a little too successful and no one would bet on him. We see him scanning various people and passing commentary on them.

The first to give him serious pause is Webigaza, who lost six months of life to getting her body modifications done -- no wonder she’s pissed off that her rival has self-destructed in the interim.

Koko is shaken by her having 71% of her body modified.

obsessive determination is terrifying to look at

Percentage body modification of the sort Koko is used to seeing, 30% maximum, you can do right here right here and now. It’s equivalent to losing a leg and most of the other. Here and now, we can also do brain implants to control tremors or fits or some neurological conditions, replace part of the heart, spine fusions, quite a few bits and pieces. The sort of modifications Koko is used to seeing are very functional ones that make sense for someone looking to get an edge in fighting for money. They’re also along the lines of what we’ve seen with One-Shotter or Death Gatling.

If you lose and replace all four limbs, that's 50% of your body modified. While quadruple amputees unfortunately exist IRL, I don’t know if anyone has had the kind of money, physical fitness and pure grit to do that. Nevertheless it’s not technically impossible. 60% sounds about right before you're now looking at breaking into the more vital parts of your body. The point at which the risk involved just can't be justified in terms of restoring function or health. I’m emphasising that because I’m going to come back to this point. He’s shaken because modifications that extensive aren’t about simply gaining an edge; they’re being willing to exchange serious bodily harm for serious power. It says a lot about who Webigaza is.

Within the Hero Association, I think we do know a hero round about that 60% mark. Jet Nice Guy comes to mind. He sports an armored exterior, powerful artificial limbs (which will need internal reinforcement to not just rip up his body), but his innards are all human. After the way he started to bleed out after Nyan slashed him, I realised that the reason it looked like intestines when the Deep Sea King ripped him open is because they were... >.< Sorry, dude.

the worst of both worlds -- too modified to have an easy life, still too weak to deal with the real monsters that exist

Scary enough, but then the security staff come in to stop the kerfuffle that Koko and his buddy, Mars Leo, were causing. Koko scanned them and was stunned into horror:

as disciplined and ruthless a pair of killers as you could never hope to lay eyes on. Definitely not frothing at the mouth, these two!

These two have modified themselves so extensively they’re almost inhuman. 94, 95% body modification is equivalent to having only 3.5 - 4.2 kg of live mass left assuming an original live mass of 70 kg. And, if the similar naming convention didn’t tip you off to it, it’s around the sort of hyper-extensive modification we see Genos having. [See under the readmore for a first-principles estimation I did a long time ago.] Maybe Drive Knight too if he’s a cyborg. What kind of power have they exchanged their human bodies for? What kind of people are willing to do that to themselves? Koko is very sure that he does NOT want to know.

When he tells you who he is, believe him

That’s dating advice often given to ladies overlooking obvious red flags but it goes with great force in OPM. ONE has characters tell us who they are early on, even if it doesn’t mean anything to us for a long time.

And he’s had Genos be a particularly straightforward and truthful character. He doesn’t always interpret things correctly, but he says it exactly as he sees it. Looking at the way the high percentage cyborgs we’ve met thus far either be very inhuman looking or completely disguised as regular human beings, he’s chosen an appearance that puts both his humanity and mechanical nature on display.

Something that the chapter has brought up that I've kept saying to people on the Discord and on Reddit: there is no medically justifiable reason for Genos to have a body as modified as he does. Which Genos TELLS US for fuck’s sake. His giant wall of text is a synopsis, no more and no less.

When he says that “...I asked Professor Kuseno to perform a procedure to modify my body. Then I was reborn as a cyborg for justice...” (Viz) “...I begged Dr Stench (sic) to transform me into a cyborg and I was reborn as a cyborg who fights for justice...” (Boon scanslations, who copied verbatim whoever did the webcomic version). It’s nothing to do with health. Feel free to have whatever headcanons you like, but please don’t confuse them with the story.

But it doesn’t end there. I look at Destro and Erimin and realise that there’s another perfectly truthful statement that’s been staring us in the face.

Genos knows. Why would he ask a mechanical engineer who uses a wearable battle suit and pilots armed drones to modify his body, let alone modify it to such an insane degree? Because he knows that Dr Kuseno knows how to build cyborgs like the one who destroyed his town.

We don’t know if Destro and Erimin have any responsibility for the destroyed town, but someone of their ilk does. Which brings us to a third nakedly truthful statement. When Genos talks of not believing that he could be defeated by anything other than the rampaging cyborg, he’s not anticipating winning because he’s suicidal. It’s because he’s aware that if he’s throwing rock, so too is his enemy: mutual annihilation is the best he can hope for.

At least until he met Saitama. And started to hope for not mutual destruction, but victory (check the difference in chapter 108 of the webcomic).

a world away from the attitude of mutually-assured destruction he started with.

Stepping away from the text a bit, it casts a different light on why he’s been so desperate to learn from Saitama. Learning Saitama's secret is his balance-breaker. He wants something other than rock, that is guaranteed to smash whatever rock his enemy might throw. But that’s not all there is. As Garou said, once he discovered Blue Fire’s flamethrower, once you know how a freakish weapon works, you know it. Any edge a new weapon might give Genos is liable to be studied and replicated (see how quickly Dr Kuseno was able to reverse engineer and adapt the principles of G-4′s curving energy beams). But Saitama’s strength is unphysical: no matter how closely you inspect his body, you can never relate the physicality of Saitama’s body to the power he can generate. That unphysicality, that’s what Genos wants too. It also puts in context why he’s been so fascinated by psychic power and wants to learn it if at all possible.

neat trick, I’ll take two! Genos dodging G4′s beams in chapter 38, and putting the principle of them to good use in chapter 120

And finally, since in his world, knowledge is literally power, it gives yet another layered reason Genos is so determined to keep anyone else from becoming Saitama’s disciple. If they learn his secret too, then the advantage he seeks will be lost. (that it doesn’t work quite that way for Saitama is a fact for us to enjoy and for him to find out).

Nothing is as scary as a human being

Nothing is as scary as a human being is one of the things that Reigen says to Tome on occasion. It’s in full force in OPM. Monsters may be strong, but they all live in the now. Only a human being could have put together the Monster Association. When it comes to cyborgs, their abilities may be inhuman but their thoughts, imaginations, morals and appetites are all 100% human. It’s a terrifying combination.

There’s something I missed when I likened The Organization to a Claw Analogue. In Mob Psycho 100, the protagonists are children and they're fighting an organisation made up of over-grown children -- adults who have refused to grow up. In One-Punch Man, the protagonists are adults and the bad humans in the story are very much adults too. With calculated cruelty and depravity to match. When The Organization bares its claws for real, this is going to get so brutal.

If Genos has not been standing still, then neither has his enemy. From the manga, even if we hold Drive Knight blameless and independent of all this mess, his besting Nyan told us that cyborgs can indeed come crazy-strong and highlighted how much more work Genos had yet to do. It also highlighted how very clever and calculating cyborgs can be -- well, they’re human, duh! If I was worried for his prospects then, in the webcomic, Genos is nowhere near as psychologically, physically or emotionally ready as his manga version is. And the guys who look to be his enemies aren’t going to be cutting him any slack. They’re very real. They’re not mad. And they’re closer than he ever imagined.

Fighting monsters is barely adequate preparation for whatever it is that’s to come.

Whenever Genos gets dragged into whatever it is those cyborgs are up to -- or runs into it, since he claims he’s still hunting the rampaging cyborg -- ‘rough’ doesn’t begin to describe it.

Extra Stuff

Edited from an answer I gave on Reddit to the question of how much of Genos was still organic about 2 years ago. It’s unexpectedly relevant!

Short answer: by mass, under 10% , assuming he would have weighed approximately 70 kg. By function, quite a bit.

The long answer.

I’m going to write this starting from what is most readily observable and readily inferred to the least. In appreciation of this being a work of fiction that treats physical laws lightly, I too am taking a more-or-less approach and will keep technical terms to a minimum. I'm also not a medic and I don't play one on TV -- assume generous hand-wavium. Items in {curly brackets} are incidental notes you can skip.

Level 0: Canonically observable. The least controversial observation is that Genos does have an organic brain. Genos does not live in a lab, but is able to live largely independently, including being able to eat whatever he likes with no ill-effect. Not just that, but he lives an active and hard-fighting life that appears to do him no permanent harm (I will return to this in a few paragraphs). What can we take from this?

Edit: There is also ONE’s initial settings for Genos, which I quote here from the Hero Data Book

ONE: There's no need to visit Dr. Kuseno's place every time when his wrist break down, because he got his own spare parts at hand. Dr Kuseno's Lab is there In case for a big reparation job, a drastic upgrade or an examination.

It’s tempting to think that because we see that he definitely has a brain that’s all there is – the brain in a jar phenomenon, so to speak. Something a lot of people miss is that the spinal cord proper isn’t optional either -- it’s a core part of the central nervous system. Spinal cords are a lot shorter than most people think they are, averaging 12 inches long for women and 15 inches for men. The rest are nerve processes that can be cut and will regrow (within limits). We’re also happy to allow for nerves and their endings -- there must be an interface for the prosthetics so they're under the fine voluntary control that we see. However, that’s not all that there can be. The Cartesian mind-body duality is completely wrong when it comes to physiology. Our brains are intimately bound with our bodies and our bodies with our brains. So what does one need?

Level 1: Perfusion. This is the most obvious one. Without a blood supply providing oxygen, glucose and removing waste products from our brains, we have 4-5 seconds of consciousness available, 2-3 minutes in which we can escape brain damage and 8-10 minutes in which not to die. So, number one is a reliable blood supply. Absolutely necessary therefore are a means of generating the various blood cells, perfusing and distributing them and disposing of damaged cells (red blood cells have a lifespan of 1-2 months). While not as acutely important, a self-sustaining blood supply is also the basis of a functioning immune system. It's a bit of an oops moment when your super-killer cyborg catches a cold and dies.

Accordingly, bone marrow is essential as a source of hematopoietic (blood-forming) stem cells. A suitably reduced blood vessel and lymphatic vessel system is also needed to run the blood where it needs to go. {An awesome feature of living beings is that new blood vessels will be recruited to where they need to go and redundant branches pruned back, a process known as vascular remodelling}. A reduced liver and possibly spleen will be needed to appropriately destroy worn out blood cells. At least one functional kidney, in the role of producing the hormone erythropoietin, without which red blood cells will not be formed. Not essential: a heart and lungs, which he definitely doesn't have. How much blood is needed? I’ll come to that answer once we’ve tallied how much body is needed.

Additionally, since part of perfusion is getting rid of metabolic waste, a liver and kidney will be absolutely indispensable.

Level 2: Homoeostasis. A living organism has a very narrow range in which its internal environment, such as oxygen saturation, temperature, pH (acidity or alkalinity) amongst other things can vary without harm.

There are around 40 or so hormones, the signalling molecules that keep us going as functional concerns, regulating such things as blood pressure, salt/water balance, available energy, sleep cycle, body temperature, mood, immune system... the list goes on. Each has a stupid number of secondary functions and interacts with others in a ludicrous number of ways (note highly scientific language). Their levels vary and change on the order of seconds to hours. It's a good job that the main organiser of homoeostasis, the hypothalamus, is part of the brain. {Incidentally, this is why a brain-dead cadaver cannot be kept ‘alive’ on life support indefinitely – everything falls out of sync and eventually to pieces.} To do this artificially is to have your cyborg never leave the lab: if you're not constantly monitoring and adjusting levels, then they will die. Fortunately, as mentioned, a living, functional brain has the control network needed to keep everything working without the extensive and expensive effort. Just add air, water and food (in that priority).

At this point, we've already met most of the organs needed to maintain homoeostasis in their capacity of maintaining a blood supply. We need to add some bone, not just to serve as a niche (living environment) for the bone marrow and its stem cells mentioned previously but as a source and sink for minerals, the adrenal glands and the thyroid gland. Finally, one must not forget pancreatic islets -- or it'll be for nothing as he goes into a diabetic coma.

Level 3: Energy. Speaking of food, a brain needs essential fatty acids for turnover and lots and lots of glucose for energy. It’s entirely possible to supply nutrients as total parenteral nutrion (TPN for short). People whose digestive systems have completely failed get individually formulated TPN solutions, which requires that they spend several hours a day feeding it into their blood supply. Not something we see Genos do. And yes, you heard it here: not everyone poops, but everyone sure as hell pees. While a brain only weighs about 1.5 kg, it uses up about 500 calories a day as glucose, so 700 ish calories a day should suffice for all the needs of his live mass. This bears no relationship to the amount of food we see Genos put away on occasion. Why hasn’t he wrecked his liver in a matter of weeks? The answer would appear to lie in the artificial digestive system Dr. Kuseno has given him which turns food into biofuel. It must be patched into a feedback loop which allows it to only supply what’s physiologically necessary at any given time. Lucky for some!

Level 4: So how much body does that add up to exactly? Nothing says you have to keep the necessary organs and blood vessel network the same size. With only a 1.5 kg brain to support, many can be shrunk a good 50% if not more. A total living mass of 7 kg would be quite feasible. We know from organ-on-a-chip experiments (and from unfortunate people who have lost part of their organs) that provided the essential architecture of the tissue is respected, they will work fine. Nothing says you have to keep them in the same place as the original organs were -- you can encapsulate it all in a can and shorten the nerves serving the organs to a more rational, manageable length. It's nice and compact and can be protected as heavily as the brain is.

Now we’re in a position to answer how much blood Genos has. There are about 70 ml of blood per kilogram of body weight, so at ~ 7 kg, we’re talking about 500 ml of blood. For comparison, the typical 70 kg person has 5 litres of blood. Why does this matter? Because it allows us to answer a question many may be curious about: how often does Genos get hurt?

The answer is: Almost Never. With so little body, and with most of that body consisting of aptly named vital organs, even small injuries can turn catastrophic in no time. Genos will bleed out with around 150 ml of blood loss, which is less than half of what is donated in a typical blood donation. Horrible and dramatic as the smashes he gets into are, it’s more akin to a Formula 1 race car tumbling end over end and catching fire, only for the driver to walk out unscathed. His cyborg parts are replaceable and can be sacrificed to protect what’s irreplaceable if need be.

#OPM #cyborg #Genos #meta #ONE hides things in plain sight #because they don't make sense until they do

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st-just · 4 years ago

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Notable Provinces and Clients of the Sublime Esheri Commonwealth

Because I always do these in sets of three, right?

Central: Enlightened Esher, the Clockwork Republic itself, the seat of Reason’s reign. The beating heart of the Commonwealth, where vizers and imperial committees meet under their cool and distant stars, working selflessly and ceaselessly to drown the world in formulae and ink. Sitting on a narrow straight joining two continents, it is well served by trade networks, grand canals and aqueducts stretching inland to sustain the largest concentrated population the world has ever seen. Its suburbs and hinterlands are vast enough to have subsumed cities that were once distant, and are as close to perfectly ordered as human effort has yet achieved, the roads wide and level, the soil fertile, the weather and climate decided and prepared for well in advance.

The Sympona: Properly speaking an archaic name for a region that no longer officially exists, Sympona roughly refers to the region of old imperial conquests, from whose populations the Janissary Corps was originally conscripted. Governed thoroughly and well by the Commonwealth since its creation, its cities are by now nearly as Enlightened as the central heartland – the only real remnants of their old culture the language that loan words were plucked from to fill all the gaps in universal standard, and the exact particulars of sanctioned local festivals. Rational governance of the countryside remains an issue in certain wild reaches – most dangerously where small gods and parasitic spirits survive in hiding, manipulating peasant superstition to coerce obeisance and sacrifice from them.

Old Esher: The eastern reaches of the old Empire, and the original homeland of the Esheri people themselves. Central authority was enforced after the Revolution only after a rather brutal military campaign and a few rather unpopular compromises. To this day, prominent families and clans have sustained themselves from the old aristocracy, and dominant the local governorship and offices. The administrative Committee of the South-East has a reputation for being lured into complacency or corruption by the old lines, and on multiple occasions the Public Safety and the Secretariat have felt the need to dispatch their own agents to monitor or intervene directly.

The Maahiri: The first great triumph of the Commonwealth in foreign affairs was spreading their Enlightenment to one of the old empire’s eternal rivals. The Maahiri shahs were relied on their slave-soldiers as much as the old empire had, though they had by the end grown into a complacent and corrupt aristocracy of their own, feuding with powerful noble clans and the ‘Knives of Paradise’, a powerful deiphage cult in intrigues that left the shahs themselves puppets with a remarkably short life expectancy. Inciting a civil war that broke the rickety edifice of state apart was, when properly undertaken, simplicity itself. After that it was simply a matter of measuring the pace of digestion. While by now largely integrated, some local resistance does remain – most notable descendants or copycats of the Knives.

The Kingdom: A rather desolate land even before its century of troubles, this rugged and hilly region of the old Mishaari lands was the last to be pacified, and has been the source of several particularly blood rebellions in the generations since – the mildly tasteless joke being that, like everything else in the Commonwealth, the revolts come like clockwork on a strict 20-year schedule. The colloquial name comes form the most infamous of the rebellions. The King in White was a particularly potent sorceror whole voluntarily allowed their soul to be consumed and replaced by a Reaper. Even the better part of a century later, scars and ruins are everywhere and obvious, and the native population remains semi-nomadic and in most cases only barely short of open defiance to the central administrators.

The Adylet Protectorate: The so-called ‘Ashen Steppe’ was for a great period the hard border to the Commonwealth’s influence, a permanent state of low-level warfare with the nomadic tribes who raided into settled lands and a trickle of trade caravans bringing goods from the far coast the only notable things to emerge from it. That changed five years ago. A masterful and brutal coup involving the defection of two royals and the simultaneous destruction of the nomad’s three foremost cults has left the Grand Marshall a loyal and devoted ally of the Commonwealth, and the Committee on Unsettled Peoples has been only too happy to provide all the help she requires – both material and scientific – in centralizing power around her new permanent capital and beginning to civilize the region.

Stedry: This mountainous region is, theoretically, much of the direct Illyric frontier with the Commonwealth. It has, for the past few decades, been the site of an increasingly blatant proxy war between the two great powers. The voivodes and bans who rule the various mountains fortresses and valleys owe only loosest allegiance to the Throne, and have historically been as likely to fight an imperial army as rally behind it. This has made turning them without actually starting a war much easier than it would otherwise have been – a matter of providing refuge and deniable amounts of funding and support to forward-thinking claimants, stirring up sympathetic rebellions among the peasantry and artisans, and in a few cases outright orchestrating the overthrow of lords – an angry mob murdering a regent and installing a reasonable man as his replacement in one case, a de facto military coup in another. Maps still show the Stedry as Illyric vassals, generally, but in practice by now trade, education and governance are increasingly carried out on the lines the Committee of General Enlightenment’s ever-present and ever-helpful advisers suggest.

The Aluic Republic: The Commonwealth’s main presence in the Outer World can be uncharitably described as a scientific expedition gone wildly out of hand. The need for safe harbours and resupply on zoological and cartographic surveys naturally lead to seeking friends among native states – something which only became more important as the outer continents were increasingly claimed and exploited under unfriendly flags. Contact with the feuding Aluic city-states solved both problems neatly. Being seemingly the only peoples in the outer continents to have independently developed an alphabet and study of mathematics, they were clearly the foremost champions of civilization available. The sacrificial religion and traditions of sacral kingship were both somewhat disagreeable, but something of a long term problem. As is inevitably the case, a subset of the cities were more than happy to take the aid of flattering strangers against their much despised rivals, and the unification wars progressed quite smoothly. Formally speaking, the Republic is a federation of equal members. In practice, it is an empire with power distributed more or less evenly between the three leading cities (two of the founders and one whose leadership picked an excellent time to switch sides) and the Commonwealth’s ambassador.

The Kingdom of Thuraya: Formerly what was probably the grandest and more powerful of the Soya Principalities, the recent coup has thrown it quite dramatically into the Commonwealth’s orbit. Following several rather humiliating defeats against the Free Cities – first in attempting to assert firm authority over their coastal ports and waters, and then being forced to grant traders free trade and navigation throughout the kingdom – thee scholar-gentry were thrown into turmoil, with increasingly violent anti-foreign movements rising in prominence. Of course, when some of the more pragmatic local governors determined they would need aid to triumph, the Commonwealth was more than happy to discretely provide what they needed. The civil war was swift, if brutal, and the king was safely removed from the grip of his ‘evil advisers’ – having been kept in a comfortable sort of imprisonment in the palace since. The new government still rules in his name, and his seal on the rapid centrilizing and modernizing reforms being undertaken is most likely all that has kept the response to scattered revolts instead of a full-on counterrevolution.

#writing #worldbuilding #abhari #this is theoretically a writing blog

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ravenwritesstuff · 5 years ago

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Wandering Hearts (31/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (for real) A/N: Was going to only write 2,000 words for this part. But then I drank three bottles of wine and wrote 6,000 instead. LOL FUCK A DUCK if I am going to die young I better finish these stories (if that offended you don’t even think about reading this)

DAMN THE HORSE THAT BROUGHT YOU TO THIS PAIN

[ part one] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ] [ part nineteen ] [ part twenty ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-two ] [ part twenty-three ] [ part twenty-four ] [ part twenty-five ] [ part twenty-six ] [ part twenty-seven ] [ part twenty-eight ] [ part twenty-nine ] [ part thirty ]

The air had been still and warm that first night she slept under the stars. She had walked for what felt like years, her feet blistered in the delicate slippers she wore from the palace. She did not know where she was or where she was going or how to get there. Her stomach growled and her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth. Despite the exercise she took daily in the palace, running empty halls and such, it would seem that hiking through small wooded paths was very much a different experience.

All that considered: she still slept better that night than she had in years.

….

The second day, despite her sound sleep, she picked herself up off of the ground with a foggy head and aching limbs. She didn’t know where she was for a moment, confused by the grit that was in her mouth mirrored by the grit in her eyes. She stretched, spine bending as much as it could in the confines of her corset and overdress, and tried to make sense of her garbled thoughts.

It wasn’t quite light yet, but the birds tittered in the trees above her, and she could see just enough to remember crawling under this bush the night before just as the moon had crested the horizon. She had crawled under a bush the last night to sleep because she did not have her bed. In a flash, perhaps the first or truest understanding of what she had done struck her.

She left the palace.

She left Arendelle.

She left Elsa.

This was the first moment she truly realized what she had done.

Any giddiness she may have felt at the idea of freedom, release, is squelched near instantly by the sobering price of her realization.

She, a crown princess, had walked of her own free will out of the city of Arendelle without the slightest hiccup.

She left and no one had stopped her. No one had found her. Had they even searched? Did she mean so little?

This was the first moment she truly considered that she had never expected to succeed at her plan, or lack of it. She had had such little success in any area of her life that this notion is entirely foreign. She had escaped. So why did she only feel worse?

Her stomach growled, her throat dry. She had not thought of provision, only escape. She hadn't been entirely sure what that meant so the satchel she wore contained impractical items: a ring her mother had given her set with a freshwater pearl, a ornately carved wooden music box, few hair pins and ornaments, a miniature portrait of them all. There also was a small ration of tea cakes she had wrapped in her handkerchief, but they would not last long and her stomach protested.

The firm realities of her escape started to take hold. She had left and while she could return she was not certain she would be welcome. Perhaps they had wanted her to go. She had served no purpose, no function, besides breaking rules and bothering the queen. Who would miss her?

Still worse would be the other possible consequence. If she returned she would never leave the palace again for the rest of her life. She was certain between the two options of eternal imprisonment behind closed doors and windows or ultimate rejection and humiliation at the hand of her sister that both would destroy her entirely.

She knew well enough that despite her lack of preparation, her discomfort, that she had no desire to turn back. There was nothing for her back in Arendelle and even if she was discovered, even if they searched for her, she would fight. She would hide. She would escape.

It was a strange fire that lit within her that morning burning up from the deepest part of her soul.

She would run as far as she could. She would walk until she could not walk any further. She would board a ship and sail. She would go as far as she could before she would go back to a life of always waiting to be rescued. She would rescue herself.

So as the sun brightened the sky she stood on aching feet, stretched once more, and walked.

….

She can only wonder just how far she had traveled the past three days before and where she was now.

She had no compass, no map, no sense of direction. She had avoided the main roads and paths choosing instead to pick her way through the underbrush. The second day had brought rain and she had laid on her back with her mouth wide - parched. The individual drops wet her tongue and throat but she was fast learning that she would need to find water, find food.

She’d happened upon a cloudberry patch in a marshy section of her journey and she had eaten until her stomach cramped. The tart juices dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Once her hunger had been stated she had plucked any remaining berry she could find and stuffed them in her stachel with her precious things.

Things.

She was quickly learning that that is all they were - just another thing to carry, to tie her to her past. Still she cannot quite let go of them. She will carry them.

They may ground her in the past but only until she knows her future. When she knows what is coming then she can let go of where she has been. She wants to let go of where she has been, but she doesn’t quite know what that means yet. So she shoves the berries into her satchel and lets the press and crush of her movement ruin the miniature she had so carefully chosen.

She hadn’t known, hadn’t mean to, but when she scoops out the remaining berry mash from her small pouch for her dinner as the sun fades - she realizes her error.

The fluid and fibers had stained and marred the tiny image of her family with red splotches and she thought of blood. Their features were disfigured, smiles tainted. She could not even make out her mother’s face for a particularly terrible splotch. Her father’s face was blurred, the canvas crumpling with the excess moisture and pulling from the frame. Her own countenance was entirely lost in a wash of muddled colors from her mother’s dress - but Elsa was still there. Elsa remained. Her face was slightly stained, but Anna still saw the only friend she had ever truly had. A friend who despised her.

A friend who had wished this upon her.

She does not hesitate as she throws the spoiled portrait as far from her as she can and finishes her berry mash dinner without tears.

….

She smelled smoke.

It was distant at first but she followed it. It had been four days since she had seen another soul and she knew it was a risk but she was weak with hunger, the tea cakes and cloudberries long gone. The woods were vast and wild and if she was honest at all she had no idea if she was any further from Arendelle than she had been the first day she left. She needed guidance, someone who could tell her where she could find a port so she could sail to where no one even knew of Arendelle.

The smoke took her to the edge of what was barely a village on the edge of a fjord. There were only a dozen or so buildings, houses. It was clearly a tight knit cluster of homes . She did not know where she was, only barely understood what she had to lose, still she stayed on the outskirts for nearly a quarter of an hour to watch and understand.

Precious little happened.

A spare child or adult might meander between the wooden structures, but they were not what catches her noticed. What stuck out mostly was the lack of the Arendelle flag required to be flown in all supporting provinces. Still also there was no symbol of national association of any kind. She hoped maybe she had moved far enough away that it would not matter if she approached anyone.

This world seemed idelic, peaceful, connected. It seems like everything she has ever wanted. No one looked at anyone else in a way that suggested some sort of other-ness that she had grown so accustomed to seeing in the palace.

All she has ever wanted was to belong.

So near midday (she guessed for she slipped into a troubled, hungry sleep) she stepped out of her hiding place and came to what seemed the center of this little township. The streets were quiet then and she thought perhaps for the noonday meal. There is no single main street but several strange paths that all seemed to converge on one central building. It was not constructed with stone as many of Arendelle’s buildings were, but rather with wood bent in aches unlike anything she had seen before. It seemed as a boat turned upside down, the hull jutting to the sky with pride.

The door is on the front as she expected, but she hesitated. She had met closed doors before.

What if this was a mistake, a trap, or worse? What if she knocked only to be met with spite and denial? What if it led only to more pain and isolation? What if this was not where she was supposed to be?

She had not met with anyone in her journey to this place, but that could be for many reasons. The timing, the place, the size of the population… she readily makes excuses as she also realized that she is uncertain if knocking is what one does in this place. How does one request the opening of a door if not to knock? She had always knocked with Elsa but seldom had that produced much fruit - so instead she stood in indecision before -

“What’s this?” The soprano voice is not as soft as it is exacting. “Why are ya at my door?”

Anna whirled at that to find a woman near ten years older than herself with a wash bucket on hip and a babe on the other. Her dirty blonde hair was braided without ornament down her back. The child she carried was old enough to hold itself up and gleam a few sharp teeth in Anna's direction.

Anna was caught off guard. Her mind scrambled.

She had wondered where the people were but now as she turned she saw several women with similar baskets and children slung on the hip. Some had more younglings clutchings their skirts or staying close beside them. Anna did not understand what that meant, couldn’t, but would in the future.

Wash day.

The whole community was unified in one singular task and she had no idea that any place could be like that. She had no idea that there could be anything but being alone.

She managed to refocus her famished mind long enough to respond to the charge pressed upon her.

“I need aid.”

She had not considered exactly how to address another person outside of the palace. Everyone there had been so set on providing comfort, attending near her every wish, so it was a bit of a shock when the woman in front of her laughed and pushed past her with her basket.

“We all need that. Find some other home to bother.”

And before Anna could complain the door was opened and shut on the large, longhouse. She saw the other women of the village watching as they all filed to their homes. Their eyes were dark, distrusting. For a moment she wanted to demand her birthright, to command the respect she felt due to her parentage, but she had denied that. She had run. She was no different than these women before her. In fact she was less than them in almost every way.

Her cheeks heat at the watching crowd and she puts a hand to her rumpled hair. She hadn’t given a thought to her appearance, but now she realizes that after days she must look a fright. Her cloak was filthy from sleeping on the ground, laying in mud and dirt. The hem of her dress was caught and ripped from brush and her own clumsy steps. The delicate slippers from the palace were hardly worth even calling shoes anymore. Even if she had claimed her royalty - would any of these women believe her?

She stumbles a few steps away from the largest building towards the watching group.

“Please,” her voice cracks from lack of use. “Something to eat?”

The group disperses. All cast their eyes away from her, shelter and usher their children away. Anna feels a strange panic tingle in her chest not only because of her desperate physical need but for lack of understanding.

Still there is little she can do about it. The rejection was bright and bitter as it had ever been in the palace. Her heart crunches beneath the weight of her frantic breath. The need to be seen, be heard drove her feet towards the withdrawing figures.

“Please,” she reached out as the women disappeared into their homes. “Please!”

But it was too late. The retreat was complete and Anna was left alone in the beaten path between homes with closed doors and no windows. Anna had not cried since that first day of her escape, had not felt the hot burn of tears scald her eyes and throat, but she does now. Her knees threatened to buckle and she gritted her jaw. She would not collapse now. She had seen closed doors before and she had survived them all. This, she resolved, would be no different.

With her heart in her throat and rocks in her gut she raps on the door of the first house closest to her. When there is no answer she knocks again and again. Each beat on the door bolsters her courage and when she had had enough of that door she goes to the next. She pounds and pounds, not relenting, not having a choice.

She traveled from door to door, fist aching, heart breaking but growing in resolve. She did not know it yet but she was learning what it took to survive. She had fought the battle of the heart, the mind, when she had been trapped in the walls of the palace. Now in this open space she is learning the battle of the body.

She did not keep track of the numbers of knocks, the doors. She simply kept going. It was all she had ever done. It was all she knew to do. She knocked and she knocked and she knocked. She knocked and traveled from door to door until her knuckles were red, cracking. She fought in a way she thought she knew, but learned once again in this place and time. She tasted the language of desperation but the syllables were different. She savored the tang of rejection but the flavor was unfamiliar.

Still she went on. She went on in search of the difference until she found it. She was at the house closest to the water. She could see the fjord from where they were, the reasonable few berths and small ships constructed as a harbor for traders. This was a simple place with plain people who were only a passage point for larger and better exchange. This is where she began to learn the matter of exchange.

She knocked and knocked, hoping still against hope for a different response than she had been taught, but still surprised when it came.

A middle-aged man opened the door, and she was struck by the fact that this was the first man she had seen in this entire settlement. She did not have long to dwell on this thought and was instead taken with his appearance. His wiry frame and shock of hair even redder than hers instantly called a fox to mind. The clothing he wore was rough spun and leather. His sharp eyes scanned her head to foot and she suddenly felt her skin heating. No man had ever looked at her that way. She was not sure she appreciated it.

She did not give herself time to rethink her decisions: “Please, sir,” her voice cracked. “Some food or drink.”

He did not shut the door in her face but instead seemed to estimate every bit of her and her request with cool precision. She shifted under his scrutiny, but did not shrink. He slacked a hip.

“Ye have coin?” His voice was deeper than she expected for his spare frame.

Her mind pulled a blank for a moment, not understanding entirely. She shook her head.

“Something to sell then, trade.” It is not a question this time.

This time she understood.

Unconsciously her hand went to her satchel. His eyes tracked the motion. She thought of the ring, the music box, the hair pieces… in four days they had done little to bolster her and even less to aid her. Why then did her heart rend at the idea of separating from them the way she had her miniature?

“I suppose that depends.” Her reply was indirect - something she had learned for Elsa. “What have you for me?”

At this the man almost smiled, pleased. He widened his door and she saw inside a woman and two small children. The woman was near the central fire stirring the contents of a massive cast iron pot. The children (no older than she and Elsa had been when their relationship imploded) played on the straw floor with figures of stick and scrap. Those details brought her comfort but it was the things beyond that caught the most of her attention.

The entire home was lined with shelves filled with jars and canisters and bags. There was not a single space that was not committed to the housing and storing of many items she could only assume were valuable. It all seemed practical and that was what she needed. Still she was not entirely certain what that entailed.

With tentative, sore feet she stepped into the space smaller than her bedroom had been at the palace with wide eyes. The smell of food slapped her across the face and her mouth watered as much as it could. The man shut the door behind her and the room darkened. She blinked in the new dimness not understanding that what she saw was some sort of makeshift mercantile.

Still she felt she understood the general idea. So she stood straight and commanded as much of a regal air as she could.

“I need food and drink and transport.”

The fox of a man replied: “Aye I can give ye most that but only when the coin has come.”

She did not fully understand the concept of coin in a concrete way, so she never considered a possibility and opened her satchel. She looked at the sparse, berry-stained contents and first pulled out the few of her favorite clips and hair bobbles. On a flat, quivering palm she extends them to the Fox. He picked one with nimble fingers and turned them with precision Anna did not understand.

“Ye no stole these from some lady?” He asked. “A person that will tan my hide for having them?”

Anna didn’t not comprehend at first, simultaneously glad she did not inspire thoughts of grandeur at her appearance but also what he could mean and shook her head.

“Things like this only come from places that either look for no good or those that have good reason to get gone.” He dropped the clip in her palm. “Which are you?”

His perception made her body quake. Did he know? Had he guessed? Was there news about her here? Had she just now walked into a trap?

She would never know. She would not give herself the chance. She was here with hunger and purpose.

She squared her chin: “If you cannot prove one or the other what does it matter?”

She earned her second grin.

“I ain’t bargaining to gain something that will see me hung,” his response is quick.

“I would never wish that,” her fingers wrapped involuntarily over her asset, drew back, bargaining without knowing.

He is quiet for a moment regarding her the same way he had when she had first knocked on his door. His dark eyes strong, but still. Something told her she had made a mistake but instead of retreat she pulled her chest higher.

“Will you take what I have in exchange for my needs or will you not?”

The fox grinned then in earnest, his mouth showing gaps where teeth should be.

“Aye, but if ya need me be discreet it will nay be the same exchange.”

The comprehension of what he was saying bled into the place where the rejection of the village had cut her. He may have opened his door, may be willing to help, but it still had a price attached to it. True charity was not to be found here.

“It seems as though discretion is your idea - not mine.”

And at this the man huffed a laugh, his gap toothed smile cutting an uneven crescent across his face. She had not meant it to be a joke, so she stood straighter than before and tried to command some measure of authority despite the fact that each part of her ached. She could have asked for help, expressed at least part of her situation, but she was still too proud for that. She would learn.

“Ya have grit enough, that’s for certain, but I’ll be needing more than that for the risk.”

His eyes go to her satchel and her first instinct is to open it and show him the whole meager contents. Her second is to tighten her spine and get what she needed.

She went with the latter.

“I need food, drink, and aid for to find a port - a ship - and fare to board it and leave these shores,” asking had not worked before so instead she told. It made her insides shake, but she had no other option.

The fox’s eyes narrow: “Where you be headed?”

She almost told him she had no idea but she thought of Elsa, of the way she held herself so above everyone, and the way she owed no explanation. This man was nothing. He was only someone who opened a door.

“I wish to sail,” was all she could summon. Her years of geography escaped her. “I have a few things I can sell in exchange for food and passage - but only if you will help me.”

He moved closer, but she fisted her satchel and stepped back. Despite her need, her hunger, she would not be cheated. She had been cheated her entire life.

He settled back on one leg at her retreat and she noticed then the unevenness of his legs. They were not as they should be. One was crumpled more than the other and she forced herself to hold her tongue as she noticed. At least some of her court etiquette classes paid off in this strange world.

He appeared to notice her assessment: “I am no sailor, but food and coin for voyage I can trade if what you have be of value.”

“For these then,” she extended the hair ornaments, her favorite pins with chips of jewels and luminous pearls attached in intricate design. She’d played with them as a young woman, hoping to have reason to have her lady’s maid pin them in her coif for a ball or something. She understood now that that dream was dead.

He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side. “For both food and voyage? What else have you?”

She did not know he was testing her, had not yet learned. Feeling that she had made progress towards her goal, stupefied by hunger, she goes to her satchel.

“This,” she pulled out the music box with trembling hands. It was small enough that it fit in the palm of her hand but in the inlaid woodwork is enough to catch even the commonest eyes. The work was exceptional, ornate, and glistened even in only firelight.

She opened it and a song long familiar to her played. Her mother had sung this melody to help her and Elsa sleep when she was young. When Elsa moved to her own room… well the music box was made for Anna. She had wound and listened to it so many times that there were notes that were distorted, bits that did not quite play as they should, but she hoped it would still be worth something to this man. After all: this box was part of her past. She was moving forward.

He seemed shocked at the sound from the box. His face went blank, pale almost, and she wondered what she did wrong. Had she done something to ruin her chances?

The other woman in the room came to the fox. Anna had almost forgotten her. She was plain in all respects, but she pulled her male counterpart to a corner and conversed with him in sharp, hushed tones. Anna felt embarrassed listening so she turned her attention on the children: two girls.

They had dolls that could hardly even be called that and crude stick structures she was certain was supposed to be some sort of structure. Their muddy brown hair favored the woman in the corner but their sharp eyes favored the man. Was this what people would have seen if they had seen her with her family? Would they have thought she had her mother’s eyes, her father’s mouth?

It didn’t matter.

The fox returned even as the woman (she supposed his wife) returned to her washing. His eyes held a new light and she glanced at the woman who was trying not to stare and he stomach dropped.

Had they sorted it out? Did they know who she was? She swallowed the massive lump in her throat and clutched her now closed music box to her chest.

“The pins and the box,” he jerked his chin. “We’ll give you three day’s bread and jerky in addition to coin enough to get you on a ship out of Arendelle to wherever you might go.”

Her heart nearly stopped at the name of her kingdom.

“Are we far from there?” Her voice barely trembled, but she felt it all the way to her slippers.

“Two days by wagon,” he shifted the weight of his good leg. “One by horse.”

She thought she sensed fear in his tone. The strength of the fox had waned at her delivery, but he could not retreat. A glance showed that the children had abandoned the game and now stared. The woman watched too in her own discreet way. She felt exposed, laid bare, and fear pounded in her breast.

What if they knew her? What if she had shown too much? She was not certain if their offer was fair, had no way to gauge, had not known well enough to learn about coin and common exchange before she ran, but she had drawn enough attention. When she was on other shores, far from the reach of Elsa she would fight harder. She was sure of it.

But to walk back to Arendell now… after all she had done to be free….

“Are there other ports? Somewhere closer?”

The fox scoffed. “You could try Eldenvale but no much goes from there without stopping first at Arendelle.”

She forced a polite smile.

“I have no horse or wagon,” the music box pressed into her palm. “And I’ll take your offer but for five days food and drink plus coin for voyage from a closer port.”

She had seen the keen look in his eye and even though her voice shook as she made the offer she still made it. She tried her best to look resolved but felt herself crumbled under the cascade of worry that besieged her.

“You’ll be hard pressed to find much but local boats in these parts. But you throw in that pretty purse ya carry and I’ll throw in enough coin to get you wherever you want to go.”

Anna had not thought of trading her satchel. It had no meaning. She had taken it from the kitchen (a messenger bag from the palace) when she had been there one day and it had worked for what she needed. It was made of fine leather and a specifically tooled strap. She touched the bag, weighing her options.

If she traded the music box, the pins, the bag, all she would have left would be the coin and sustenance. A part of her revolts at the idea of giving up what she had brought for sentiment, but what comfort had it brought her? Had it filled her stomach or brought her safety?

It would bring her no comfort if she was dead. She tightened her spine and stiffened her lip.

“Five days food, drink and coin. Plus a way to carry my fare. No less.”

The fox smiled.

....

It had been two days since she had left the village, coin jingling in her pocket and ring on her finger. In some ways she misses the sound of her music box coming from her satchel - the knowledge that she could pull out her few precious belongings and remember from whence she came. Then other times she was glad to be rid of it, of memory besides the small ring. Her satchel was full now of hardtack and dried jerky. It would last her if she was careful.

She followed the directions the fox man had given her after relinquishing what she thought she prized for hard bread and jerky. She’d negotiated five days, but she was determined to make it last at least ten.

She had known so little when she left the palace. Now she knew more. She knew that food must be earned and she had done that. Soon she would find her way to where the fox had sent her and she would be on her way. She would sail and none of this would matter.

She had passed through a marsh, a field. She’d climbed through a mountain pass. Now she was back in a pine forest with her breath short but her steps purposeful. She had somewhere to go, to be. She knew it. There had to be a life waiting for her somewhere if only she could find it.

The first sign of trouble came with the sound of a rustling bush.

She had grown used to this in the past week.

There were animals about at all times and so she did not look. She did not notice the men coming behind her stalking her like wolves. Not until it was too late.

There was no preamble, no discussion. They made no attempt to speak or be spoken to. Anna hardly had a chance to see them before they hit her hard across the head and she saw stars. Then they hit her again and the stars gave way to darkness.

She tried to fight, but in her disoriented state it was nearly impossible. She did not know where one attacker stopped and the other started. She was not certain how many there were, but she felt them tear at her bodice, dig in the makeshift pouch at her waist that held her food, pull her mother’s ring from her finger. She struggled as best she could but they caught her off guard, stunned her, and now she was lost.

She felt the hand at her throat, her breasts, bunching her skirt up past her thighs but there was nothing she could do.

For the first and what she assumed the last time in her life: Anna of Arendelle gave up.

Her eyes fluttered, mind floating up somewhere in the flickering light between branches, and she had not wanted this. She had not asked to be a replacement, a spare, a castoff. All she had asked for was love, and instead she got this incessant pain, humiliation.

She hadn’t wanted to be found. She had only wanted to get away, to get past all the hurt and rejection that had followed her each day she lived in the palace. She had thought there could be nothing worse, but she was wrong. This was worse, so much worse. If only Elsa - anyone - would find her now… but she knew she was beyond that.

Her mind floated between understanding and not, light and dark, the edges hazy and bright and faded all at once as her body is beaten and abused. She could only catch snatches of the world around her: the smell of heavy, stale breath; the ugly, bruising feeling on the inside of her thighs; the shifting light in the spare moments she opened her eyes in hopeless slits.

That was why she hardly saw him coming.

Darkness had come first, swiftly - loudly, and there were shouts but none of them were hers. The relentless thrusting ended abruptly with a sickening thud and the weight of a body crashed against hers. That had roused her enough from her stupor to see something her mind had not, could not, understand. It was large, too large, to simply be a man though it was shaped as one. It tore at her attackers, breaking them with fists too huge to comprehend, and the glimpse she caught of its face - its expression - was incomprehensibly feral.

She was sure it was her addled brain that was tricking her into seeing things that were not really there. No one would come for her. She was not being saved. She was dying.

This was the end and some draug of old was here to take her to whatever abyss worthless princesses were sucked into once they were completely spent. She accepted it. The finish was more than she could wish for when everything around her only caused her pain.

Then it was dark.

The next thing she remembered was the hard warmth of a body against her side, firm arms and chest supporting her fragile frame as they traveled through the pines and yew. She thought it strange that that a draug would carry her to whatever dark purpose they might have. Why had they not eaten her or crushed her like the stories said?

She could not make sense of it.

With all the strength she had she lifted her head and looked up to see exactly who carried her with such little trouble, but there was no undead creature. In her bleary sight she made out glimpses of gold hair, dyed leather, and human skin. The light was low in the sky casting a strange halo around her carrier’s profile. It painted his profile in sharp relief: the ridged brow, prominent nose, strong lower lip, but she had not understood.

Her mind, her body, was too confused. Everything hurt, every part of her screamed. The dizzying pain threatens to pull her back into the forgiving abyss of unconsciousness but first:

“What are you?” She managed around her sluggish mind and swollen tongue.

It was only then that he acknowledged she was awake. He cast a quick glance at her with a grunt, eyes gleaming with something wild, never breaking his stride.

“That doesn’t matter,” he turned to maneuver them between thick trunks. “Sleep now.”

And she had.

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#WANDERING HEARTS #kristanna #mature #fanfiction #raven writes kristanna #please go away

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