#and i feel like i stymied the help that she could have received by my actions

[khizuo]

i feel so guilty

[mimicteruyo]

Hello, this is very random ask about your KomaEiki fanfics!

I’ve been reading your KomaEiki fanfic for about 3-4 years and I love every single one of them! I think my favorites out of all of them include Sleeping Beauty, Reflections of Higanbana, Glass Mirror and Nothing Says Romance Like Holding Back a Scolding.

I do have one question though, is Reflections of Higanbana sort of a “happy ending fix it fanfic” to Glass Mirror? I’m not sure if this was your intention when it came to writing Reflections of Higanbana but when I first read the fanfic I couldn’t help but think this due to the fact Eiki and Komachi were able to figure how they would handle their romantic relationship while also their work relationship at the same time while in Glass Mirror this wasn’t the case and Eiki basically couldn’t even tell Komachi she loved her due to work rules. I don’t know, I always felt like the two fanfics were connected somehow and that somehow the events of Reflections of Higanbana were the key to fixing the unrequited love story shown in Glass Mirror. The names for both of the fanfics also seem connected since mirrors reflect what is shown within them. I might be looking into things a bit too much but I wanted to see your perspective of things as the author of those fanfics.

Also very unrelated but thanks to those specific fanfics I couldn’t stop listening to the song Romeo and Cinderella by Doriko (this is a Vocaloid song) and it’s one of my favorite Vocaloid songs now. I would totally recommend listening to it if you are interested. Maybe the whole tragedy and happy ending thing got to my head a bit when reading those two fanfics…..

Back on topic though, do you have any plans to write a hurt/comfort KomaEiki fanfic by any chance? I’ve notice there really isn’t any out there and it would be really interesting to see your spin on things with this specific fanfiction trope.

Anyways keep up the good work!! 🐾🐾

Hi! This was a really fun ask to receive! Sorry it took me a while to reply: I wanted to think my answer through since your question was so thoughtful.

First of all, thank you so much for your kind words! I'm so glad you like the fics! KomaEiki feels like a pretty niche ship these days, so I'm always super delighted to find other people who enjoy it.

The short answer is yes, Reflections of Higanbana is a fix-it for Glass Mirror (and the names are indeed intentionally connected). I didn't deliberately reference anything from the older fic besides the title in the newer one, but the intention was definitely there.

The long answer is a bit more complicated. Before Glass Mirror, I wrote a LOT of KomaEiki that I never finished and which thus never saw the light of day, trying really hard to make fetch the ship happen. I was still new to writing as well as lacking in life experience, and combined with my then present neuroses about adhering to canon I just couldn't get it to work in a way that satisfied me. Ultimately I wrote Glass Mirror as the closest thing to KomaEiki I could at the time and basically gave up on writing romance fics altogether for years afterwards.

The basic structure of Reflections of Higanbana actually comes from one of those unfinished fics: it was a short fic dominated by dialogue, similarly taking place over the centuries but with an ending very similar to Glass Mirror. Weirdly enough I couldn't actually find it when I went looking for it in preparation for writing Reflections, but I swear it existed. 😂

Before Reflections, I'd finally gotten back to writing pure shipfic and realising how much I loved it. At the beginning I deliberately only wrote fluffy established relationship KomaEiki to avoid the issues that stymied baby!Mimic's KomaEiki attempts, but then I decided it was time to give a more serious fic another try and write what I'd so desperately tried to write back in the day. At that point, I'd grown up enough to realise that, you know, the characters could in fact have an adult conversation about their relationship and thus sort things out (and also by then canon had revealed that the administration of Hell is messy lmao), and so I finally managed to write the fic little me wanted to read.

Thank you for the song rec! I'll check it out! 😊

I'm certainly open to the idea of h/c KomaEiki, but unfortunately I can't promise anything: I've been in a pretty serious creative lurch for a long while now and haven't really had any new fic ideas all year. The most I can say is that one of the fics I'm currently horribly stalled on might have some KomaEiki in it. Anyway, I'll do my best to get out of this mire and start writing again.

Thank you for your continued support! 🌼

[lilibetts]

Someone within a twenty feet radius loves you!

(Part 2/3, Theme 1)

Betty was going to delete LoveAlarm from her phone.

She should have deleted LoveAlarm off her phone.

But come Wednesday afternoon, she still hasn’t, and she couldn’t have told you why. A glutton for punishment, probably.

>>No, you’re just a hopeful romantic! Veronica texts her while she’s in the library during study hall, working on an English essay.  >>The app is all about proximity. You don’t know who you simply haven’t been within twenty feet of yet. Or maybe they just haven’t downloaded the app.

Maybe so, yet Betty can’t help but feel like there is a fine line between hopeful and masochistic. She wants to text Veronica back with a passive-aggressive message about how Veronica has it easy with a bunch of pings and *at least* two people around the school who love her. But she doesn’t because that would be shitty.

The point is, LoveAlarm is still on her phone and she’s doing her best to forget all about it and her unexpectedly complicated feelings about Archie. That’s when it happens: she feels her phone buzzing across the wood table.

Frowning, she checks it, assuming it’s Veronica with more encouraging platitudes. Betty can scarcely believe what she sees, however:

1.

Someone within a twenty feet radius loves you!

The red heart on her screen is practically vibrating off the phone as she watches in shock. Her eyes dart up and around, landing on every face surrounding her. There has to be what, twelve people in the library that could be within twenty feet of her? It’s a popular location for study hall, after all. 

Someone is in love with her.

Was it Trev? Chuck? Sweet Pea? Alex C.? Tyler? Dilton? Of course it occurs to Betty that it could be a girl, but she isn’t up to date on who’s Out and who Veronica and Kevin are convinced are closeted. It definitely isn’t Ethel Muggs, who has started scowling at her every chance she gets lately.

The number on her phone goes back down to zero, so either the person turned their phone off or they just left her radius. Another frantic glance around only shows her the front doors swinging shut. Frowning, Betty realizes that Sweet Pea is no longer in the library and Trev has gotten up and walked over to a shelf in the back. Nobody seems to be doing anything with their phone.

Biting her lip, Betty considers her options, but there’s really only one solution.

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

Jughead is in the Blue & Gold, fingers clacking away at the typewriter Betty had gotten him for his 16th birthday, Sweet Pea’s teasing words echoing in his ears, when said Hitchcock blonde comes bursting into the room.

“Juggie!” she exclaims a little breathlessly. She has one of those determined grins on her face that make his heart go pitter-patter. 

Thankfully, his phone is off, so it can’t tell on him.

“I need your help.” She drags another chair up to his desk and sits down primly, spine straight and ankles crossed. /If you have the time./

/Of course. What’s up?/

Betty hesitates then, biting her lip. /I downloaded LoveAlarm,/ she says finally, arms and voice tentative. /Someone pinged it in the library earlier and I want you to help me find out who./ With that, Betty slaps down a piece of paper with a list of names on it. Jughead swallows hard.

He’s not an absolute moron, he did expect this. When presented with an unknown suitor, of course Betty Cooper would immediately start to investigate. 

He could just tell her, but again, vulnerability is scary. As Tim Kreider wrote, “If you want to enjoy the rewards of being loved, you also have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.” It’s a certainty that she’ll figure it out eventually. Maybe he’s being a coward, but hey, Betty *loves* solving mysteries.  

Jughead doesn’t expect her love in return, he’s just flattered that he was the first one she thought of to help her figure out who pinged her LoveAlarm.

/Why are Sweet Pea and Trev’s names starred?/

/They left my radius around the same time my LoveAlarm went from 1 to 0./

When Jughead had decided to sneak into the library earlier and make her phone ping while he hid in the stacks behind her, he had been counting on the other students around her as cover but now, seeing that she’s zeroed in on two guys in particular has a pit opening up in his stomach.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Jones. Just tell her,” Sweet Pea had told him.

His hands feel clunky as he tries to sign. /And if it’s one of them, how would you feel?/

The question stymies Betty, who shakes her head and shrugs, gathering up her things. /I don’t know. Let’s just figure out who it is and I’ll figure out how I feel then./

“Okay,” Jughead ends up saying to her retreating back.

Thursday is simultaneously the most fun and the most torturous. In the morning, Jughead finds himself helping Betty stalk Sweet Pea down G Hallway, chatting him up to stall him near the Chem classrooms and surreptitiously waving her over once he ascertains that Sweet Pea has his phone out and turned on. 

“Hey, Sweet Pea!” 

Betty practically bounces as she comes to a stop next to him, eyes bright but biting her lip nervously. She’s balancing a 13”x9” tupperware container in her arms, and her phone is in her left hand, turned away from them so they can’t see LoveAlarm open on the screen.

Of course Jughead turned his own off as soon as he arrived at school. What do you think he is? An amateur?

“'Sup, Coop?” Sweet Pea doesn’t know a lot of sign language, but he smiles down at her easily. Jughead is overwhelmed by a sudden urge to kick him in the shin. “Are those for me?” Sweet Pea approximates sign with some basic pointing from the cupcakes in the tupperware container before pointing at himself.

“Uh…” Betty’s sneaking a glance at her phone and for a moment, Jughead is worried. “Yes, you can have one. They’re Boston Cream Pie cupcakes.” 

He groans on the inside. Those are his favorite.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sweet Pea murmurs, grabbing one and peeling away the liner so he can take a bite.

This time, Jughead’s groan may have been audible.

Betty catches Jughead’s eye and shakes her head. Great, that’s one name scratched off their list. To Sweet Pea, she says: “I better be off, or I’ll be late. Bye, guys!” 

Jughead watches her leave, ponytail swishing from side to side. Sweet Pea watches him watch her leave for a moment before he clears his throat.

“Listen, Jones, I don’t mean to rush you and all, but...having a cute girl come up to you all smiles and offering you a cupcake—a damn delicious cupcake at that—might make a guy catch feelings. Just saying.” With that, Sweet Pea takes another bite of the cupcake, getting chocolate icing smeared all around his lips. Every chew he takes seems like a threat. A helpful threat.

“Lima Charlie,” Jughead sighs. Message received and understood. Sweet Pea’s older brother had been in the army and thus, he and Jughead had spent years using military jargon over walkie talkies as they snuck around Sunnyside. With a nod, Sweet Pea gives him an unnecessarily hard pat on the back and heads down the hallway.

When Jughead ducks into the Blue & Gold in between the next classes, he sees the tupperware container on his desk, next to his typewriter, a sticky note on top:

The rest are yours! I made your favorites, after all. -B

God I love you, Betty Cooper.

Lunchtime is nearly a disaster. Betty had roped the two of them into helping the Theater Club finish some set decoration for a production of Almost, Maine. All for nothing, because as it turns out, Trev is out for a dentist appointment. Still, Jughead manages to have fun being half-heartedly helpful while he eats his lunch—two ham sandwiches Betty brought in for him as a bribe for helping her with this—and Betty’s having a good time too, as evidenced by the fact she’s smiling so hard her eyes crinkle, and even when she tries to scrunch up her face to be mad at him eating more than painting, it just collapses into another giggling fit.

It’s when lunch is over and they’re heading up the aisle to where they’d left their things that Jughead remembers he left his phone on. Betty has hers with her, since she thought she would be testing Trevor’s phone for pings, and she’s barely five feet behind him.

Crap.

He hurries ahead and grabs it, depressing the power button. Just before the screen goes black, he could have sworn he saw his LoveAlarm app begin to open.

He doesn’t let himself think anything of it. In the rush, his thumb had probably hit the app button.

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

Thursday night finds Betty pondering the mystery that still remains: the identity of the person who loves her. Sweet Pea has been eliminated from the list of possibilities, but Trev Brown remains a question mark. 

Curled up in her thick socks and comfiest sweatpants, hair wet from her shower and starting to curl, Betty stares at her laptop screen as she contemplates their next step. Her and Jughead had bonded over their mutual love of The Baxter Brothers and Tracy True books as children, and they’d conducted more than one investigation together over the years, so it’s natural that Betty had gone to him for help with this, even if it’s a little embarrassing.

But why, a niggling little voice asks at the back of her mind. Jughead’s question comes back to her: what will she do if it’s Trev? She doesn’t know. 

Trev’s...nice. He’s cute, and smart, and Betty doesn’t have the faintest idea what she’d do with the knowledge that he’s in love with her. Go on a date with him, she supposes, to at least see whether there is something there before she...breaks his heart? That’s what you do, right? You go to dinner at one of the few nicer restaurants in town or you go see a movie at the Bijou.

She doesn’t really want to think about this, Betty realizes, as her attention wanders from her Sleuthster search results to the ads along the column on the right. One ad catches her eye and she gasps, straightening in her chair and grabbing her phone. Her thumbs fly over the keys as before she hits [send].

<<Do you still have the reels for Rear Window?

>>Yes, why?

<<We should set the projector up in my basement and watch it this weekend. I’ll supply the snacks.

>>Capital idea, Betts, but how are you going to get all that junk food past the K9-level olfactory senses of Alice Cooper?

<<It just so happens that my mom and dad are going to visit Polly in Boston this weekend.

>>Cambridge. Just say Cambridge.

<<As long as we dispose of the evidence and air out the basement with some Febreeze, mom will be none the wiser. I’m sure Archie will donate his trash bin to the cause.

There’s a longer pause before Jughead replies.

>>It’s a   plan

>>Speaking of plans, what do you need me to do tomorrow re: Mission Pings?

Betty grins and taps out the basic framework of how they’re going to corner Trev before the pizza party at lunch, but Jughead will have her phone on him so he can feel for her ping, and listen for Trev’s ping. A thought occurs to her and Betty suddenly feels selfish for insisting that Jug help her.

<<I meant to ask you...have you downloaded LoveAlarm?

>>What do you think?

>>Besides, I already know what it would say.

A terrible feeling, like a vise in her chest, takes her over as she reads and re-reads those words. How can Jughead believe this? Almost immediately on the heels of that thought is the reminder that Betty herself had been despondent on Tuesday when she allowed the melodramatic thought  that ‘nobody was going to ever love her’ to take hold.

<<That’s bullshit. Any girl would be lucky to fall in love with you!

She means her words. Jughead may be antisocial, he may wear that crown beanie practically all the time, and okay, yes he can be the most extra fucking weirdo on the planet...but he’s also clever and passionate, she’s seen firsthand how caring and considerate he can be, and of course he’s objectively attractive. 

Betty stares at the window that faces the Andrews’ home, with the roller shades that are always pulled down lately, and pictures Jughead’s face in her mind, how he’s a bit on the pretty side, especially with that mouth. She thinks about how jealous she’s been of that wild head of dark hair in the past, when she’s seen him with the hat off, and how over the past year he’s shot up another inch or two and seems to have filled out, especially in the arms—

>>From your thumbs to God’s ears, Betts. Night, I’ve gotta be up bright and early to help you catch the worm.

She lets out a huff of laughter and rolls her eyes even though she knows he can’t see her.

<<Night, Juggie.

[swansandslayers]

Some fantastic Newtina fics I recommend.

Putting this under read-more since this is gonna be a pretty long list. Some of the fics listed on this post can also be found in previous posts here and here but I thought I would a bigger post for anyone interested. 

Obviously there are a lot of fics out there that I haven’t comes across, so anyone wants to add their own favorite fics/writers, or just to add their own work to this list, feel free to do so. :) And I may make more of these in the future if I have the time/energy.

Hope you guys enjoy reading these as much as I have. :)

Unplanned Beginnings written by cutenewt. Newt has locked himself in the case and hasn’t left for three and a half days. Tina is worried sick and calls his brother for help. Neither of them could have predicted what happens next though.

A Photograph of A Scamander written by cutenewt. Tina’s photographs decorate her and Newt’s new flat. As she gets used to living in England, Tina finds that the Scamander reputation is an odd one. It does not help when Theseus invites himself over for supper one evening.

What Thunderbirds Do written by gnimmish. Newt knows more about the mating rituals of most of his creatures than he does those of actual human beings - though that may not be such a bad thing.

Little Things written by littlemsbookworm. When people ask her “What is it like being married to a famous magizoologist?” she always takes a long time to answer.

Rewrite The Stars  written by cutenewt. In which Newt cares for Tina… although she is most certain that this isn’t necessary.

An American Auror, a British Magizoologist and A Parisian Sewer Monster written by gnimmish. Theseus helps a certain American auror deliver a strange beast to his brother, encounters the distinct and horrifying possibility that his brother has somehow attracted a girlfriend. One shot. Also contains some Theta as well.

Maybe A Little Family written by returntosaturn. AU in which Credence lives and Newt cares for him. Tina visits, and thinks perhaps she could make the visit permanent.

Really As Wonderful As You Seem written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. Tina Goldstein has been living in London with her newly married sister, Queenie, and her husband, Jacob Kowalski, for two months. Newt Scamander is living in London after his book was published five months ago. Both receive an invitation to attend the Midsummer Festival that the Ministry throws. Though both are reluctant, both attend...and their lives are changed forever.  Also contains some Theta and Jaqueenie as well.

Good things happen when you meet strangers written by HufflepuffleMarauder. When Tina and Leta first introduce each other their conversation causes them to reflect back on previous memories with a fresh eye. After all, good things happen when you meet strangers. Also contains some Theta and Jacqueenie as well.

the stars go waltzing written by weatheredlaw. Queenie smiles. “I am happy.” She supposes it’s good that only one Goldstein sister can read minds. Also contains some Jacqueenie as well.

In the Stacks written by Kemara. "Parabolas" - the expansion of this fic - is now in progress! Tina Goldstein's first semester of college isn't going all that well until she meets a fascinating exchange student in the library.

Parabolas written by Kemara. An expansion of "In The Stacks." Tina Goldstein's first semester of college isn't going all that well until she meets a fascinating exchange student in the library. Also contains some Jacqueenie and Theta.

with all the light written by abbyli. Weeks ago, the Minister had come to Theseus with a mission to gather up a team of Aurors to go to Russia and infiltrate an underground group of Grindelwald’s followers. Naturally, Tina had been at the top of the list of candidates. Also contains some Theta and Jacqueenie.

A foggy night in London written by ravenpuff1956. Tina has been informed by a contact, that instead of being in Paris, Credence and the circus are instead in England. Also contains some Jacqueenie.

history and context written by weatheredlaw. Every time he comes back, things get a little bit bigger, a little bit bolder, until it all threatens to spill over at once.

Just This written by gnimmish. Newt and Tina try and fail to get some rest in the aftermath of The Crimes of Grindelwald.

Beneath the Surface written by ArdeaJestin. Both for her and for himself, he has to proceed in gentle touches, observe what she responds to, and ultimately make her understand that seeking the warmth of another body isn’t selfish, just the most irrepressible act of nature there is.

Find Me Where the Wild Things Are written by sakurazawa. 1929, a year and a half after the disaster at Pére Lachaise, and Tina Goldstein is at the end of her options. Haunted by dreams of Queenie, missing Newt, she’s searching for any action that might make a difference. But MACUSA has withdrawn all forces from Europe and refused further involvement in the hunt for Grindelwald, stymying her attempts to find her sister.

One Thing I’m Sure About written by HarmonizingSunsets. A letter arrives for Newt and Tina from Grindelwald. Newt knows they have to face him, but is afraid that nothing will be the same for them after. Confronting him again means risking it all, including the relationship they now have. Tina reassures him.

A Selfish Wandering Tourist written by Eilwen. It's OK to be a little selfish. Newt wanders into a bakery, attends a book-signing, tends to his creatures and meets with Tina to discuss the future of their relationship over sandwiches. Also contains some Jacqueenie.

A Silhouette Against Blue Light written by Eilwen. Outtake from 'A Selfish Wandering Tourist'.

Give Me Shelter, Be My Escape written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. After the traumatic events in Paris, Newt finds Tina at a very low point, trying to escape her guilt and worry. By remembering a kindness she had once done for him, he is able to return the favor - and erase all doubts from her mind about his feelings in the process.

What Tina Gives Newt written by Bellarsam_Chrisjulittle. Takes place right after Newt, Tina and Queenie have said goodbye to Jacob. Everyone is affected with exhaustion, grief and sadness over what has happened and what nearly happened over the past few days. But the healing begins when Tina shows Newt just how selfless and lovely of a giver she is.

As Long As You Follow written by returntosaturn. He draws his rough fingertips over her bare knuckles in a certain kind of wistfulness that makes her hearten but straighten. In a new, sudden wave of sobriety she can see that he is made for these landscapes. His bronze and green and goldenrod are complimentary to the spring palette of the mountains and the old city at its feet.  

We Stood Tall Together written by returntosaturn. He curses himself for allowing his stubborn, unbridled empathy to impede even his grief, the only element that still remains within his grasp.

If I Can't Give You Words written by returntosaturn. He find himself restless, not in want of breakfast, unable to leave her side for the beasts in his case lest she wake up and find herself alone. So he settles at the chair at his desk, faces the wall tacked with sketches, strips of notes and scrawled reminders of this footnote or that, and the black, shining, well-oiled typewriter and its keys like taunting jaws.

Something Just Like This written by njckle. A collection of newtina AUs.  

a moment of apricity written by njckle. Newt returns to school. Although, he's a few years too late and on the wrong continent.

Our Midnights written by hufflepuffsstrikesback (nadvaa). Tina earned a weekend off before she had to go back to MACUSA. After a night spent together, Newt asked her out on a vacation. Finally, they have a little private time to get to know each other and to explore what they've been ignored before.

The Feeling Eyes written by hufflepuffsstrikesback (nadvaa). Tina is an undergraduate student working on her dissertation. Newton Scamander is four years her senior and currently chasing his doctorate degree. She needs him for her dissertation, and he needs her for his upcoming project. After working with him for quite some time, she realizes that he actually fun to be around.

Yours written by gnimmish. Not long after the events of Fantastic Beasts, Tina receives a missive from a certain magizoologist. Everything about it confuses her.

Maybe a little... written by EpochApocrypha. It had been happening all her life, she was always showing up where she was least wanted. This time though, her heart paid a heavy price for such a hard lesson learned. A bit of Newtleta as well here.

This Strange World written by @turnerflowers. Newt and Tina Scamander had the ideal marriage to a stranger’s eye. They were both young, healthy, and shared the kind of love that some could only dream of.

Playing in the Snow written by @timeladyjodie​. The group of Newt, Tina, Jacob, Nagini, Theseus, and Kama had been at Hogwarts for a week after the incident at the amphitheater, planning and scheming for what they should do next.

Somebody Waits for Me written by LittleLonnie. Tina returned to America to continue her work for MACUSA. Surviving four years in a place now full of tainted memories and far away from loved ones. Until one day she is offered a chance to leave it all behind to continue her life in Europe where she left her heart.

a grand canyon in the corner of your bedroom written by fakelight. “I couldn’t wait,” he says, hesitantly, haltingly. “For it to be published. I couldn’t wait.”

Catharsis written by hidetheteaspoons. Following the events of that horrific night, Newt provides his companions with the comfort they need to begin the process of healing. During this time, Newt meets with Tina and confronts his feelings for her head-on, while Dumbledore prepares the group for the next phase of the war against Grindelwald.

Also recommend the works of @silvertonedwords, @albinokittens300, @katiehavok, and @ravens-and-writings. All have written a list of awesome fics to read.

[unwiltingblossom]

Queen’s Favor (Mysme Jumin/MC AU 5/?)

Summary: Being a maid would be much easier if the cat would just let her do her job.

AU - Instead of joining the RFA via random text, MC is hired on as one of the maids assigned to Jumin Han’s penthouse. Nothing else about the setting has changed, the messenger and the RFA still exist, only the MC’s position has been altered.

You know why she doesn’t have a name yet? She’s the help.

(but really, does anyone even remember this story anymore?)

 “That’s to be expected, given the time.” He made a small gesture with one hand, a minuscule dismissive wave. As if the concern was much too small to be bothered with anything grander than that. “It’s why I returned home early.”

Dear lord in heaven. He really was a super pervert after all.

Well. Maybe. It's the first coherent thought that jumped up to her after her initial confused panic, but then that was probably a knee-jerk response from the day before. Her body still ached from the crash with the ground, after all.

But...no. No, it still didn't add up. If he were a secret pervert, she'd be getting rules about how to dress before he started appearing home early. And besides that, what kind of a person would use 'the maid attacked an intruder who intended to assault my cat' as a downing rod for 'acceptable sexual target'?

Well, honestly, if anyone did, it would be a rich person.

 Oh.

Oh. Her expression must have been showing some of that, because he'd stopped speaking and was simply staring at her, one brow raised impatiently as if she'd actually interrupted him and had been rambling on.

She hadn't been.

She had a very good wall between inner and outer monologue, thanks much. So expression it must have been.

"Um...have I done something wrong?" Honestly, now that his incredulous expression grounded her more into reality, that was the most likely answer. "If anything's not up to your standards, you can always just call the office-"

"That would be unnecessary." He flicked a hand dismissively. "I've already arranged a replacement."

She spluttered. It was most undignified, yes, but she would contend that compared to being caught in a closet cornered by his cat it was positively graceful.

Really though?!

That...it wasn't...did she just get fired?!

"Wh-why?"

His gaze swept across her in silence for a moment, before he tilted his head toward the cat that sat near his feet. "I'll be out of the country for three days. Ordinarily, I would keep Elizabeth the 3rd in the care of a particular employee trained in her care." Of course he would have a special assistant just for his cat. "However...this time she's turned off her phone on her vacation days."

This time?

His brows furrowed a moment, almost as if he struggled to comprehend how one of his employees had managed to so thoroughly stymie him. It was only a passing expression, though, before his gaze turned back to her. "Caring for her will take up too much time for you to clean. You will, of course, be paid the premium she usually receives for the duty."

Wait. So...not fired. Just transferred. Suddenly and non-optional, apparently. "I haven't been trained to care for a cat." That wasn't really the most pressing concern? But it's what dribbled out of her open and very confused mouth first.

His lips pressed into a line briefly, before he nodded. "It's regrettable, yes. But I'll arrange for instructions for you to follow. Adhere to them. It will be extremely obvious when I return should you fail to do so."

She squinted at him for a few moments. As of yesterday she knew he could laugh - and therefore must possess a sense of humor - but his serious expression didn't seem to hold any sort of mirth to signal the set up to a very bizarre joke. The moments passed and he simply stared at her, blinking eerily similar to the way his cat did, awaiting a response.

Granted, he hadn't actually asked a question. At all. Since he came home. But she definitely felt that hanging in the air, as if he expected an answer anyway. Maybe he forgot to just ask if she wanted the job? Maybe he expected her to ask about the details of what he expected?

She sighed and pushed herself up to her feet. Instinct told her to brush her knees clean, but his rug had nothing more than cat hair in it, and she knew well enough that trying to rid herself of any of that before she left the penthouse was a monumental waste of her time.

It's pretty rude to go talking about one's poverty in front of one's employer's abject wealth, but it really seemed important to point that out. It wasn't as if he'd know her apartment was smaller than the closet he'd found her in, and with his level of wealth he probably couldn't conceive of the idea that whatever cat food chef was in his instructions would break her bank just making Elizabeth an appetizer. If she didn't want to be insta-fired over this, there was no choice but to communicate. "My apartment isn't big enough to house her. It's small enough that I could misplace it in here. And it's near a train track, so the air and sound quality really aren't up to the standards she's used to. And frankly, the neighbor's dog - who shouldn't even be there, as it's a pet-free complex - barks from 4AM to 9AM non-stop."

"That's horrifying." He shook his head. "Elizabeth the 3rd won't be staying with you over the weekend."

 Well, thank goodnes-

"You'll be staying with her here."

"...Huh?"

He gave a short, barely audible sigh, before kneeling down to gather the cat in question - who'd begun to paw at pant legs undoubtedly more expensive than her entire bed - up into his arms to pet. "Your responsibilities will solely revolve around Elizabeth the 3rd. Caring for her...and protecting her will be a 72-hour non-stop assignment. Deplorable living conditions aside, residing in your own home for that time might provide too many distractions to care for her properly."

In the penthouse? Well, honestly, now that she thought about it that did make sense. From someone as picky and pampering toward his cat, it probably would seem more sensible to him to bring in someone to sit the entire house than to just temporarily re-home his cat. And it wasn't as if she'd never house-sat for someone before. Although none of the digs she'd cared for (with the not-so-subtle suggestions left behind about cleaning them up while she was there) were quite as swanky as this one, she was at least reasonably familiar with it, given that she had cleaned it for a while now.

"Well...I'll...still need to pack up some supplies, and you'll need to make sure you've bought up enough food for her before you leave."

"...Of course anything ordered to this room from the shops below will be covered. Whether for Elizabeth or for yourself."

"Point me to the contract. I'll sign it right now. I've even got a thumbtack if you need a drop of blood." Was she coming on a little too strong there? Maybe? But three nights on that guest bed without a dog barking and free food was more than enough to put up with Elizabeth's hijinks and whatever pedantic demands she knew would somehow make their way onto her instructions.

His lips curled up in amusement, as the cat in question deftly jumped from his arms again to the floor, meandering off to attack one of her toys. "It was already signed an hour ago."

That...

That couldn't be legal.

-

She forgot to look up whether ultra-rich heirs could sign contracts in her place, but in her defense, that night had kept her pretty busy. She tidied up her things, made sure to notify her contacts that she'd be busy house-sitting for the weekend, and collected clothing more comfortable than her work uniform which wouldn't make her feel like some kind of homeless beggar just sitting around in his penthouse.

Sure, she'd be alone save for the cat, but she'd be judging herself.

Belatedly, she also made sure to gather up some books and bits of entertainment. Beautiful and spacious as it was, Mr. Jumin Han's apartment wasn't exactly stocked with things to keep herself entertained with when she had time to herself.

Predictably, the penthouse was already devoid of human life when she arrived, right on time.

Also predictable: not a list, but an entire pamphlet sat on the counter of the kitchen marked 'INSTRUCTIONS. READ.'

She was absolutely wrong about the pedantic demands. They weren't just hidden away in a list normal things. They were the instructions.

Nevertheless, the day passed...for once...unremarkably. As if the universe knew she wasn't technically 'working', and so it didn't bother to get out of bed. As the natural light faded for the day, sensors activated the internal lights, the transition almost seamless.

At some point in the night, the white cat hopped from her lap, abandoned its toys, and pranced off to the master bedroom. No doubt to roll around on her master's sheets and get white hairs absolutely everywhere in time for the poor new maid to have to clean them.

The entire floor itself was really the penthouse. Without the sounds she made from bustling around playing with the cat, feeding the cat, cleaning the dishes or running cleaning equipment, she could almost hear her own heartbeat in the silence.

She stretched out on the couch, each creak and crackle almost an explosion in the silence of the penthouse, and draped an arm over her forehead. The rug she usually played with Elizabeth on was comfortable, sure, but there could be no denying the couch was more comfortable than her bed back home. She probably didn't even need to use the guest bedroom at all, except to be indulgent and potentially keep herself from being smothered by cat hair in her sleep.

 ...It's lonely.

Yes, she lived alone. In her apartment she didn't even have an animal to keep her company. This late, she'd also often given up on texting partners who'd fallen asleep at their phones. But she heard the city. The neighbors on every side of her (sometimes getting up to things she really didn't want to hear), that infernal barking dog, the regular passing of the trains carrying people to and fro at all hours of the night.

Here...she heard nothing. The building was huge, practically a small self-contained city with employees, customers and other residents milling about on the floors below. Not even the distant clacking of heels or the rattling of the elevator could be heard from the penthouse. And it was so high up above the rest of the city the sounds on the street below wouldn't make it through the windows even when she left them open.

Cut off from the rest of the world in a bubble of isolation, so far away from the nearest human that no one could even wander up and pass close enough to be heard accidentally.

 This is worth all that money, huh...?

Her lips pursed a moment. It did separate the rich from the poor, she supposed, a bubble of luxury and wealth completely untouched and unaffected by the help except when its owner desired for it to be. Wealth, distilled into an apartment building.

Her free hand fell to the ground, fingers trailing in the plush rug, and her gaze turned toward the door.

In the still silence of midnight, a part of her couldn't help but wish the ever-frustrating and strange owner of the penthouse would have second thoughts about leaving her with the penthouse for three days and return early again.

[dracoisalooker76]

My Heart is Heavy, Part 2

This is Part 2 of “My Heart is Heavy” - my Everlark Bachelor!AU based on Season 23 of The Bachelor, featuring Bachelor!Peeta.

Part 1 can be read here.

...

Cressida calls cut and comes out from behind the camera with her eyebrow raised.

“Can you at least try to look a little less excited?” she asks, crossing her arms sternly but with the corners of her lips upturned. “You’re going to give it away with these inserts if you keep that shit-eating grin on your face.”

Peeta shrugs. “I can’t help it. She’s the one, Cress. Katniss is the one.”

Cressida moves her arms from a stern crossed position to her hips. “You know you can’t say that. We have to at least keep up the illusion that Glimmer or Cashmere could win this.”

He rolls his eyes. He knows that’s the script of the show. The filming they’ve done today will be for the penultimate episode and during a special finale he will, somehow, spend two hours determining which of the three women will receive the ring he doesn’t currently have in his possession. For the sake of the show, he can’t give anything away now, even though he already knows how it will end.

He has known for a while. It’s why Cashmere and Glimmer are here - they’re two of the favorites to go on to The Bachelorette. Since his feelings for Katniss became abundantly obvious to the producers and crew a few weeks ago, they’ve been giving him hints on who they would like him to keep in order to make good television. For the most part, he has gone right along with the script. It’s why, even though Clove told him she loved him last week during her hometown visit while Cashmere was still hedging her bets with the whole ‘I’m falling in love you’ line, he still sent Clove home. Bachelor host Caesar Flickerman put in his ear that he wanted her to be on the special ‘Women Tell All’ episode that airs the night after ‘Fantasy Suites’ and features the women who did not make the top three. Of course Caesar did. Clove caused the most drama of any of the girls in the whole season.

It’s all just a big game to Caesar and the producers, and even some of the women. But Peeta can’t help but think he got lucky with Katniss’s casting.

His biggest fear going on The Bachelor was that he would get played by some girl who just wanted fame and not a relationship. He does want to get married and have a family one day, so this is supposed to be the first step on that journey. However, over the weeks, a bunch of the girls have told him as they’ve walked out after the weekly rose ceremony that there were contestants still there who ‘weren’t ready’ for what Peeta wanted. But every week that passed, he would send a girl home he was convinced was the girl the previous one had warned him about, only to get another warning.

Luckily, he knows Katniss isn’t that girl. He thinks the girl everyone was talking about was Clove or maybe Glimmer, or maybe both. They’re both instagram models already, probably wanting to improve their views. Cashmere is older at 29 and definitely ready to settle down, since she has mentioned kids and her ‘ticking clock’ about a hundred times in the last couple of weeks. It’s not her. And of course there’s Katniss, but it’s not her either. So it’s got to be Glimmer if it wasn’t Clove.

Cressida knocks his arm and he tries to stymie the huge smile that has begun to re-form on his lips.

“Okay, let’s just try to get this sound bite done then you can go back to being a giggling school girl,” the producer jokes, turning around and getting back behind the camera. “So, tell me about tonight.”

They like to key in on sex with Katniss more so than either of the other girls. Most of it stems from her never being in a serious relationship, but at least some of it is tied to a moment of theirs in Thailand. While they were walking on the beach, the water looked so beautiful and Katniss offhandedly mentioned it looked prime for swimming. Peeta tore off his shirt so it wouldn’t get wet and Katniss covered her eyes, thinking he was going to strip naked and they were going skinny dipping on camera. Luckily, Cressida and Pollux gave them a minute so Katniss could stop hyperventilating off camera, but ever since they’ve run with the purity card with her.

But Peeta doesn’t want to talk about that on camera. That’s something personal to Katniss and he’s not going to play up the whole ‘she’s a virgin’ card that the producers want him to do.

“I mean, I can’t say I’m not excited. Physical intimacy is huge in any relationship,” he says, trying to choose his words carefully so no editors can piece them apart in final review. “But that doesn’t just mean one thing. Personally, I think just falling asleep beside someone speaks volumes about your comfort with them because that’s the most vulnerable you can be.”

Cressida shakes her head but doesn’t make him redo it. Instead, she veers into less serious questions about his time in Portugal before letting him go to get ready.

He knows that tonight is going to be huge for them and he wants it to be perfect. Katniss was a little shocked during the day portion of her date when he told her that Haymitch didn’t give him his blessing for an engagement. Her entire demeanor shifted for the rest of the afternoon and he wants to know what is going through her head. He knows he can’t say it on camera, but he is hoping that as soon as the suite doors close he can tell her that an engagement isn’t something he needs from her if it makes her family uncomfortable. He wants to leave Portugal with her by his side and if it means they take it slow until her family is okay with it, that’s fine by him.

That’s not to say he won’t have a ring ready just in case. He grabbed Prim’s number during his visit last week while Katniss and Haymitch were sent off to talk by the producers. He is hoping to use her guidance to design the custom engagement ring Neil Lane would design for the finale. Of course, that conversation happened before Haymitch refused a blessing, but depending on what Katniss says tonight he might get a ring ready just in case.

“Look, kid, I like you,” Haymitch had told him during Peeta’s visit to Katniss’s hometown. “You seem like a good one. But I’ve known you for all of five minutes and if you think I’m going to drive you to Jared’s, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“So, you don’t give your blessing?”

Haymitch had shaken his head. “She is going to decide what’s best for her and I’m with the girl.”

Of course, Cressida told him that that part would probably get axed and it would stop with him shaking his head. Too much gray area in that blessing for good television. When the show airs, Haymitch will be a firm a no instead of a no, but. Regardless, it wasn’t a yes like he got from the other families and that does bother him because he knows how close Katniss is to her family.

He lights a candle between their plates on the table that’s set up for them. Katniss should be arriving momentarily. They’ll eat, then get the key to their suite, and finally the cameras will go away. They’re mic’d almost the entire time they’re on this show, so he is excited to have true one-on-one time with Katniss without having all the crew watching their every move.

He hears a murmuring amongst the crew and turns to see what’s going on. Pollux has shown up, standing next to Cressida and talking in her ear. Cressida’s eyes widen but her face remains set, not giving anything away. Then Pollux backs away and starts to set up his camera and crew.

Peeta grins. If Pollux is setting up, it means Katniss is en route.

The idea of just being around her lights him up, filling him with a comfortable heat. He loves her. When he signed his contract, he didn’t think he’d actually find someone so perfect for him, but he did. He would just end the show right now if he could. He would ‘dump’ both Cashmere and Glimmer and wouldn’t wait another second to spend the rest of his life with Katniss.

A few of the overhead lights flick on and he watches as the producers and sound crew get into position. This fantasy suite isn’t a hotel. It’s a cozy cabin on the same resort space but he felt like this seemed more Katniss than the pristine white villas Caesar had offered. This one almost looks like it’s set into the forest, more like a fancy treehouse. It’s perfect for Katniss with her love of nature.

The gate opens and her transportation pulls into the parking bay. He stands up and smiles as a producer opens her door. She’s stunning. She wears a pale yellow dress that pairs with her purity theme almost too well, perhaps even chosen by a producer or the wardrobe specialist there to make sure the outfits the girls choose are right for the camera. He wonders if this is Cinna’s work because she looks sweet and comfortable, rather than overtly sexy like Cashmere, who had been trying not to expose anything on camera most of the night. Cinna might have been called in to make sure there wasn’t a repeat disaster like that.

She strides toward him slowly, eyes down, in a pair of ankle boots that shuffle on the uneven path. He meets her halfway, holding his hand out to help steady her. He hasn’t had to steady her before. Of the two, he’s definitely the klutz. But, she takes his hand and he gives it squeeze before pulling her in for a hug.

Cinna has ensured Katniss has worn the highest heels she can wear without falling over on the majority of her dates with him so on camera they fit better in the frames. Tonight when he pulls her into his arms, her face burrows into his chest and he finds himself grinning like a madman knowing that this is what it’s actually going to feel like when they go home. He’s not tall, but Katniss is tiny, much smaller than he even realized. He kisses the top of her head.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

She pulls away and smiles. “Thanks. So do you. I mean...you know.”

He chuckles and tugs her hand. “Come on, dinner looks great.”

The corners of her mouth drop and she bites her bottom lip, her eyes going back down to her shoes.

“I, uh, I’m not hungry,” she says quietly.

He shakes his head. One thing he learned quickly about Katniss is that she is always down for food. She is willing to try almost anything, including the cultural dishes that most of the other girls stuck their noses up at or could barely swallow as they traveled through Southeast Asia.

He puts his hands on her shoulders and realizes she is shaking. He wonders if maybe she’s nervous about tonight, so he leans in, hoping that the mics won’t catch what he says in her ear.

“If this is about the suites, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says. “I’m not expecting anything. I’m just excited to have uninterrupted time with you.”

When he pulls away, he is shocked to see her eyes clenched shut and her olive skin brushed with a pink tint. A stray tear slips down her cheek and he quickly reaches for it with his thumb. She almost melts into his hand at the contact.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he murmurs.

She doesn’t immediately respond, so he pulls her over to a wicker couch on the porch. They sit down and her head tilts to the right, like she’s trying to not let him see her face.

“Can you tell me what’s going on? Maybe I can help,” he says. Right now, he feels pretty helpless watching Katniss cry and not knowing what’s going on. He isn’t sure how he can help, but he wants to do so. “Katniss?”

She shakes her head and lets out a breath, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go,” she mumbles.

“What are you talking about?”

His heart is pounding. His head is spinning. He has no idea what’s going on.

“Katniss, please talk to me,” he begs.

“I’m not good at words,” she says.

Her hands wring together in her lap and he reaches to cover them with his hand, trying to calm her down.

“Well, can you try?” he asks. “Because...I have no idea what’s going on.”

She looks up at him with glassy eyes and gives a short nod before sitting in silence for what feels like eternity before she speaks.

“I’m going home,” she says.

He feels like she kicked him in the gut. What is happening? Does she think that she is the next girl gone? Does she really think that after everything they’ve been through that he is going to choose Cashmere or Glimmer over her? He shakes his head and puts his hand on her cheek.

“No. No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re going to get a rose. I’d give it to you now if I had it.”

He turns away briefly, but Caesar is nowhere to be found. It is late for him to be on set, but maybe someone has gone running to grab him so he can bring the roses. Peeta wants Katniss to know she’s safe tonight and has nothing to worry about.

He feels her hand on his cheek, mimicking his on hers, and he lets her guide his attention back to her. She’s shaking her head when their eyes meet.

“No, Peeta. I’m going home tonight. Haymitch and I are going to the airport now.”

His stomach bottoms out. She is leaving on her own. He can barely breathe. How did everything go from being almost perfect to this in the span of a few hours. It wasn’t like she had a lot of time by herself -

“Wait, Haymitch? Haymitch is here?” he asks.

She nods and he turns away from her and to the producers. Cressida and Pollux are standing together, neither one able to meet his eyes, so he glares at whoever in the crew can guiltily look his way.

“Haymitch is here,” he growls at them. Caesar’s probably with him in the transport, he thinks. They’re probably talking about poor Peeta getting his heart broken because ‘daddy’ said no. They flew Haymitch in for a story line. They put Peeta in this situation. They’re ruining this for him.

Well, he has one shot.

He turns back to Katniss and decides to screw the script. He knows he’s not supposed to say this and it’s probably all going to be edited out later but he has to try. He can’t let her leave without trying to convince her that it’s okay to stay.

“Katniss, I understand that I didn’t get Haymitch’s blessing and that your family is the most important thing to you. So, I need you to know that I’ve been thinking about this too and I’m okay not proposing to you at the end of this if that’s what you want,” he says. He tries not to take any breaths. He just needs to get it all out. “I just want to be with you. I want to fly home with you and be with you and I don’t care if it’s as your fiance or just a boyfriend. I just...I need you in my life.”

His voice shakes as he finishes and Katniss leans back into the couch, covering her eyes with one hand, the other wrapped around herself.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to go home a long time ago.”

Peeta’s mouth instantly dries. Suddenly, he can hear Enobaria’s voice in his head. And Finch’s. And all the others that warned him about the ‘girls who weren’t ready’ and his stomach turns as he lets out a shaky breath.

“So...this was all a lie...how you acted,” he says slowly. He pulls his hand away from her knee, where it fell when Katniss covered her eyes. “So you want to be the Bachelorette? You want to go on Bachelor in Paradise?”

Katniss’s head spins toward him frantically, eyes wide. “No. No. No,” she says. “I had no intention on being the Bachelorette at all. I just...you weren’t supposed to fall in love with me.”

“Why not?” he asks. He pulls at his hair. “I’m so confused. What are you even saying?”

“I told you I’m not good with words,”  she says. She presses the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “You can’t love me because I can’t give you what you want.”

He frowns. “Katniss, I want you.”

She nods. “I know.”

They sit in silence while it registers. Peeta leans his head against the back of the couch, running a hand over his face.

“So, you don’t love me,” he says. The words hurt just saying them. He can’t imagine what it will feel like to hear them.

Katniss covers her face. “I do, but I can’t,” she mumbles.

He isn’t sure he heard her correctly, but when he sits up to ask her for clarification, she is already standing up and walking away. He rushes after her, grabbing her hand. She stops mid-step and heaves, so he quickly takes her in his arms as the first sob breaks through. She clutches his shirt and he leans down to pick her up, carrying her back to the couch so they aren’t standing in the middle of all the crew lights. They’re still being watched, but at least it feels a little more private.

He sits down and keeps her on his lap, rocking her back and forth. He thought his head was spinning before but now it’s like it spun right off. He is so confused by everything she has said. Nothing makes sense. She looks just as heartbroken as he feels over the idea of her leaving tonight and Katniss is no actress. They did a drama class as one of the first group dates while they were still in LA and she was abysmal. Adorable, but absolutely terrible in a way that no one can fake. Katniss Everdeen will never win an Oscar, something Haymitch and Prim both reaffirmed when he visited her hometown, so he has a little hope left in him that maybe he can change her mind.

When her sobs quiet, her energy zapped as she rests her head against his shoulder, he kisses her temple.

“I’ll go as slow as you want me to go,” he says. “I will do whatever you want me to do. I’m all in. I just need to know that you’re willing to get there with me. Or to try.”

She sighs against his neck. “I’m not sure I’m capable of loving someone like that,” she whispers. “I’ve seen what it can do and I already feel so much for you that...I’m afraid...I’m afraid of what it would do to me.”

His body feels heavy all of a sudden, like it takes too much energy to even breathe. This is it. There is nothing else he can do or say to convince her. He never realized she had this aversion, this burden. How did he not see this? How did he never pick up on it before? Clearly, the other women saw it because he now knows Katniss is who they were warning him about - but how did they see it and he didn’t?

He closes his eyes. He was wearing rose-colored glasses. That’s how. He was in love. Or maybe not. Maybe he was infatuated. Whatever it was, it blinded him and it lead him here. The exact place he didn’t want to be.

In love with someone who couldn’t love him the way he loved her.

“You’ve made your decision,” he says. It’s not a question. She already mentioned Haymitch and the airport.

Katniss nods. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could let myself be what you wanted.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. He wants to say yeah, me too but even that seems worthless to say now. Nothing he can say or do can make him feel any better right now.

“Let me walk you out.”

He has walked a lot of women out at this point. Every rose ceremony, he has to say goodbye to someone - sometimes multiple someones - and more recently he has given them the opportunity to have him walk out to the transportation with them, allowing them the chance to get any type of closure they needed away from the prying eyes of the remaining contestants.

He has never felt this hollow walking someone out. He has never felt this broken. Maybe not even in his entire life.

They stop in front of the SUV and before he opens the door for her, they reach for each other. How is this happening? This has got to be some sort of nightmare.

She rests her forehead on his chest, right above the pounding of his heart. She can probably feel it.

“I’m sorry I was so selfish,” she murmurs, not lifting her head. “I should have sent myself home a long time ago. Then you could have found someone who isn’t...confused and...broken.”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. She still doesn’t get it.

“Oh, Katniss,” he says with a dark chuckle. “It’s been you for a long time.”

He really can’t say this. They might actually fire him for it, but he doesn’t care. He wants her to know.

“Do you remember, back on the very first group date, when we all stopped to have lunch in the park?” She shakes her head against his chest. “Well, I do. There was this little girl who was staring at us all sitting there and you could tell she and her mother were homeless because they were carrying all their stuff and sitting on a bench.”

“Rue,” Katniss whispers into his shirt. “I remember now.”

“Yeah, Rue.” He closes his eyes and pulls up his memory, seeing it in his head as he retells it. “All the other girls were sitting with me, fighting each other for my attention, eating their lunches, not a care in the world. And I looked over and you were gone. I panicked for a second until I saw Pollux put his camera down and smile. So I followed his sight line and I saw you walk over and hand that little girl your lunch bucket and the book you brought for the bus ride. You sat and talked to her for the entire lunch break and that mom looked at you like you were the sun in the sky.”

He gives her a squeeze.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t make it apparent until we were out of the US how much I fell for you, but just know it’s been you for a while.”

Katniss pulls away, bloodshot eyes wide. “There were still, like, twenty-five girls at that point and it wasn’t like all the attention was on me.”

Peeta gives a sad grin.

“Yeah, there were a lot of girls left then and I noticed all of them. But none of them held a candle to you. They still don’t.” He shrugs. “From the very beginning, I knew I was going home with you or with no one.”

She runs her hands over her face as she backs away from him.

“I want you to know that I do care about you at lot. That wasn’t a lie,” she says. “I never wanted to break your heart.”

He nods and leans down, pressing a final kiss against her lips. It’s different from every kiss they’ve shared before - this one tasting of salt and despair.

“I know,” he says when he pulls away, hovering close so hopefully this stays between them. “If you ever change your mind...you know where to find me.”

She nods her head and reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss him again before turning her back. She is in the large black window-tinted SUV before Peeta can even register what happened.

Then she’s gone.

He watches as the gate opens and closes for the SUV, leaving Peeta alone with the crew either staring at him or trying not to look. He turns around and narrows in on Pollux and Cressida, who are among the group guiltily looking away, and crosses his arms.

“You knew and you didn’t tell me.”

Pollux holds his hands up and Cressida rushes to speak.

“It all happened so quickly. We didn’t realize until...until Haymitch came that she was considering leaving. I promise.”

“But he was flown in to stir the pot,” Peeta hisses. “You knew Katniss was the one for me and you triggered her.”

Cressida crosses her arms. “She wasn’t ready and, yes, we brought Haymitch in to see if we could get some good one liners, but Peeta, as your friend and not your producer, this was going to end this way whether or not it was tonight or after the finale. She wasn’t ready and you can’t change that.”

All he sees is white and his hands clench together in rage. He knows deep down that Cressida is right in a way, but that sits in the bottom of his gut, under the layers of hatred he has for this situation. Even if Katniss decided to stay, they still brought in Haymitch to stir up drama for him and Katniss. They wanted to script it for television. They wanted to make Haymitch their villain, the reason why he couldn’t propose to Katniss. They probably wanted Peeta to wait and propose to her on the episode ‘After the Final Rose’ that they air live after the finale to bring in the views.

They’ve tried to script everything. And he’s done.

He rips off his mic and chucks it in the direction of the producers.

“I’m done,” he tells them. “I quit.”

He hears someone call after him as he turns away but he doesn’t care. He feels used and stupid and heartbroken. He just wants to be alone, as far away from the show as he can get himself. He walks to the gate and finds it locked, probably some sound guy has the remote and has barricaded him in.

He looks for another escape route. Not finding one, he begins to climb the steel barricade, Cressida and a few others screaming behind him. Someone yells for someone else to call Caesar to set and that’s the last thing Peeta hears before he carefully avoids the decorative top of the fence and jumps to the ground.

Katniss is gone. He’s gone. The crew can make their own TV now.

…

I debated including the fence jump because this has definitely diverged from the whole nonsense that was this season’s big drama. Katniss is not Cassie and Peeta is not Colton, though that’s where the idea originated and there are similarities. Ultimately, I gave Peeta his own spin on it so it’s not really a jump and more of a climb. I just really liked the image I had in my head of Caesar running through the Portugal wilderness ala Chris Harrison too much to remove it haha.

I know it’s not singing that gets Peeta in this universe, but I drew on Katniss’s maternal instincts here instead. Hope that’s okay.

I listened to “Got It In You (Acoustic)” by BANNERS for the majority of the time I wrote this chapter. I imagine that when this episode airs in this universe, this is the song that would play when Katniss was walking out/the car was driving away and she had her little talk to the camera as she left (which wasn’t written here but may come later)/Peeta standing there watching the car drive away.

There’s probably one more part to this for an HEA and maybe an epilogue (I have an idea for former-Bachelor Finnick and his YouTube talk show but...maybe not. We’ll see if it works).

[weerd1]

Star Trek DS9 Rewatch Log, Stardate 1909.22, Supplemental: Missions Reviewed, “Treachery, Faith, and the Great River,” “Once More Unto the Breach,” “The Siege of AR-558,” “Covenant,” and “It’s Only Paper Moon.” (For Aron.)

“Treachery, Faith, and the Great River” begins with Odo receiving word from a Cardassian informant he thought was executed that they need to meet.  He informs Kira (while massaging out her sore muscles after spingball, godamighty) that he’s going alone, and take a Runabout to see if he can find the man. Meanwhile repairs are behind on the station and the Defiant, and Sisko demands O’Brien have them all completed when he gets back from a conference on Bajor. O’Brien is stymied, not having the parts he needs, when Nog offers to get them. 

He just needs Chief’s access codes to make the right trades to make it happen. Odo arrives at the rendezvous to find Weyoun, who wants to defect.  While they are heading back to DS9, they are hailed from Cardassia by…Weyoun and Damar. Turns out the Weyoun of the last couple of years died in an transporter accident. The Weyoun 6 clone is the defector, and Weyoun 7 wants him hunted down. Damar says they must destroy the ship, but Weyoung 7 knows the Jem’Hadar will never fire on Odo.  Damar mentions they don’t have to know he’s on board. Kira calls on O’Brien to explain why the Captain’s desk is missing, and Worf and Martok want to know why their bloodwine is gone. Confronting Nog, the Ferengi explains that the universe is governed by the Great Material Continuum, running like a river from places with too much of a thing to places with not enough of a thing.  He is counting on the river to get them their parts, with a little help from Ferengi trade practices. After one Jem’Hadar ship is defeated with Weyoun 6’s command, the Female Changeling confronts Weyoun 7 and Damar about what’s going on. Damar notices that the Changeling doesn’t look right, she looks dried out.  As soon as he mentions it, she changes and demands they get Weyoun 6. Six meanwhile, with Odo and cornered by Jem’Hadar reveals that the Founders are sick, all of them. He defected to make sure Odo was ok, and tell him that HE will be the last Founder, and de facto leader of the Dominion if the other die; and opportunity to reconstruct the Dominion as an organization of cooperation and peace. To Weyoun 7 to call off the attack, Six activates a built in suicide pill, and Seven is true to his word. Six asks Odo for his blessing as he dies, and indeed the clone dies in the arms of his God, his faith rewarded. 

On DS9, O’Brien expects to be derided when called to Sisko’s office, but Nog is there, as is the captain’s desk, and the repair parts are in the hanger. As they leave ops Worf and Martok appear. Somehow Nog as replaced their bloodwine with vintage 2309, far better quality than what they had before.  O’Brien is amazed, but Nog cites the Great Material River, HIS faith rewarded.

The A and B stories here almost get equal time, but there are a lot of great reveals here. The fact the Founders basically uplifted a group of timid tree apes to create the Vorta; the Vorta’s cloning practices; the fact the Founders are ill (there will be some more dire revelations about this later). All those heavy moments balance well with the Nog/O’Brien storyline.  Now, I have to tell you. This episode as a toy and nerd collector affected me deeply, and to this day, it is my policy that if someone really takes a shine to something in my collection, I pass it on to them. I like to call it, “casting it into the great material river.”  Whenever there is a hole on my shelf, something show up to take its place. I have faith my toys end up in the hands they should.

Kor comes to DS9 to ask Worf to help him go “Once More Unto the Breach.”  Kor has been marginalized in the war, and has not been able to seek glorious combat. Worf asks Martok if there is place for Kor, but Martok is incensed. Years before, Martok’s career was almost derailed before it could begin by Kor because the House of Kor was a great one, noble, and Martok was little more than a farm boy. Worf convinces him to allow Kor on as Third Officer in a mission to raid a Cardassian base. 

When Martok describes the plan, Kor states it was the same one he and Kang (last seen with Kor in “Blood Oath” way back in season 2, and before that on TOS) against the Federation in the previous century. The crew is overly respectful of Kor, D’Har Master, much to Martok’s chagrin. When the actual fight happens though, Martok and Worf are incapacitated, and Kor takes over, losing himself and thinking he is back in battle against the Federation and Kang is on his way to help. When Worf and Martok retake control, Kor is shamed and abashed, but their small fleet is also being pursued by ten Jem’Hadar ships. Worf devises a plan to stop them, but it will cost a ship. If that ship can stop even a few of the enemy ships, the others might escape.  Worf plans to take command, but Kor knocks him out with a hypo, beaming to the bird of prey that will face the Jem’Hadar. Martok monitors the battle, amazed at Worf’s bravery, but Worf appears on the bridge, informing him it is Kor in battle.

  They watch amazed, waiting for whatever ships Kor cannot stop to pursue them.  None do. Though it cost his life, Kor destroys all ten Jem’Hadar vessels, leaving Martok’s crew—and Martok himself—to drink and sing songs of Kor’s victory, knowing they will see him in Sto-Vo-Kor.

Another great Klingon episode, and a great end for the always entertaining, and slightly mad, Kor. This it turns out was also John Colicos’ final acting role, and what a note to go out on.  The heroic battle is pure Klingon here too. The tension between noble houses and minor houses on Qo’noS is interesting, as it will also factor heavily into “Discovery” in its first season, specifically with the House of Kor dealing with Voq, son of none. There are also a few nice moments between Kor and Ezri, who seems to immediately accept Dax as Dax. Perhaps he adapted better having already dealt with the change from Curzon to Jadzia, however even then he was rather quick to accept her.  An interesting quirk for someone so adherent to Klingon noble traditions.

“The Siege of AR-558” has the Defiant bringing supplies to a Starfleet outpost in the Chin’Toka system, which has not been easily held. The outpost has captured a Dominion communications array, and hope to crack it, but have been too busy defending it against repeated attacks. On the mission is Quark at the behest of the Nagus who wants a report on the state of the war. It isn’t good. These people have been defending this outpost for five months; two months longer than a tour is supposed to be.  They were 150 people, they are now down to about 40. They are constantly falling victim to “Houdini mines,” small floating explosives that hang in subspace and randomly appear and explode, perhaps somewhere you’ve walked a hundred times.

 Nog is impressed by the battle hardened humans here, but Quark warns him these are not the cuddly Earthers he knows.   “…take away their creature comforts… deprive them of food, sleep, sonic showers… put their lives in jeopardy over an extended period of time… and those same friendly, intelligent, wonderful people will become as nasty and violent as the most bloodthirsty Klingon. You don't believe me? Look at those faces, look at their eyes…" When the Dominion attacks the Defiant, Worf pulls back, leaving Sisko, Bashir, Nog, Dax, and Quark on the surface to help defend the base. Ezri befriends Kellin (played by Lost in Space and Babylon Five’s Bill Mumy) who is trying to crack the mine problem, and they start to work. Sisko sends Nog out on a scouting mission with two of the Soldiers here, and though they get a good look at the Jem’Hadar base, one is killed and Nog loses his leg. Bashir plays Vic Fontaine music as they await the attack, but when Ezri and Kellin get control of the mines, Sisko uses them on the Jem’Hadar, thinning their numbers before the attack. One of the Jem’Hadar makes it to where Nog lies wounded, Quark himself shoots him down. 

When all is said and done, Kellin is dead, but reinforcements and engineers arrive, allowing the one survivor of the original group to leave with the Defiant.

A grim and powerful episode that aims to look war right in the face.  Quark’s speech I quote here is really fantastic, but comes back to haunt him when he too, put in the corner, is willing to shoot to kill, to protect. Ezri questioning Sisko’s decision to turn the mines they were just condemning on the enemy calls into question what is fair in war, but also leaves you as a viewer to decide if it was the right decision or not. The Starfleet trooper with Jem’Hadar Ketracel White bottles, ripped from his enemies’ bodies, brings to mind the Klingon was saw in “Soldiers of the Empire” with Cardassian neck bones as a necklace.  At least it isn’t body parts, but DS9 does not flinch here, and it is a better story for it.  Nog losing his leg will come into play again very soon as well.  Back on TOS, Kirk would occasionally refer to himself and other Starfleet members as “Soldiers.” Here we see that’s true; makes you wonder if they plan to bring back the Marines we saw in STVI: The Undiscovered Country (the Colonel of course was played by Rene Auberjonois!).

Kira is visited by an old friend, Vedek Fala, in “Convenant.” He gives her a gift which turns out to be a transponder that allows her transport across the sector to the previously abandoned sister station to DS9, Empok Nor.  There she finds her Vedek is actually part if the cult of the Pah-Wraits, who feel the Prophets turned their back on Bajor. In charge of the cult, she finds Dukat, who feels since he once housed Kost Amojan that he now has been touched by the Pah-Wraiths, and chosen to lead their people.

 Fala shows her the Bajorans here are completely under Dukat’s sway. Indeed there is one pregnant woman, who with her husband have only been allowed to have kids because Dukat has allowed it. Kira is less than convinced, but Fala persists telling her the Prophets have lied about the Pah-Wraits and they are peaceful. Dukat meanwhile tells Kira he has changed, and he loves his people. She points out he has set up some weird simulation of what he lost, commanding a station like Terok Nor, with a horde of Bajorans who love him. This proves startlingly true when the pregnant mother gives birth to a half-Cardassian baby. Dukat claims it is a miracle and a sign, but there are some doubters. He meets with the woman, apologizing for the “weakness” that allowed him to father her child, but when she says no one else knows, he tries to flush her out an airlock. 

Kira and Fala come along and save her, but now Dukat must act. He locks Kira in her room and is going to take poison with all of his followers so they can “shed their bodies” to help the Pah-Wraiths enter the Celestial Temple. Kira breaks out and tackles Dukat just as he was going to take the first pill, knocking his from his hand. When Fala hands him just another one out of the box, Dukat won’t take it, and they all realize he was going to let them die and go on. He tells them it was what the Pah-Wraiths wanted, but they aren’t having it, and he has to beam away. Fala meanwhile takes his pill and dies in Kira’s arms, telling her it was because of “faith.”

Dukat going full blown cult-leader is right in line with his arrogance and his ego. It’s just another example to me though that one of the bets DS9 misses is having Kira kill Dukat at the end of the series.  Yes, this sets him to as a vessel of the Pah-Wraiths, an Anti-Emissary, but I thing all the personal grudges with Kira deserve a better resolution. And for those who freak out over Scotty building an interplanetary transporter in the Kelvin Timeline, here’s one at work with Dominion tech in 2374, 13 years BEFORE Spock will go back in time and teach KY Scotty how to finish his. For that matter, before the Voyager will show up in just a couple of years with Borg Transwarp tech too. The Kelvin Timeline works if you just look at the details.

Finally, fandom tonight watched “It’s Only a Paper Moon” as a tribute to Aron Eisenberg’s passing, so I made sure I got this far.  Nog returns to the station with his new bio-synthetic leg, but it hurts him and he must walk with a cane. All his medical checks show fine though, and he is interested in doing nothing but lying in bed and listening to Vic Fontaine sing “I’ll Be Seeing You,” the song Bashir played in “The Siege of AR-558.” When Jake can’t take more than three days of that song on repeat he confronts Nog, who leaves and goes to the Holosuite to hear Vic sing it.  Nog decides to stay and live in the holosuite for a while.  Ezri is skeptical, but Vic mentions he will take care of the kid. Indeed, Vic helps wean him off his cane, and gives him something to do by letting him do the casino’s “books.” Nog though seems so comfortable he won’t come out. Ezri asks Vic when he’s going to be done with him, and Vic seems to realize he too has become dependent on Nog; usually, he’s only on for a few hours at a time, but with Nog there 26 hours a day, he is now constant. 

 Realizing he’s putting his own needs first, Vic shuts down the program himself.  Nog tries to get it running again, but can’t, but Vic appears to ask him about it. Nog says he doesn’t want to go back to the real world because he’s afraid, as anything could happen. Vic tells him that’s life, and why you have to seize it when you can, and indeed why he was happy to have Nog there. It’s time though, time for Nog to seize it for real. Nog leaves without his cane, and reunites with his family. Later, back in uniform Nog visits and tells Vic he has a present for him. Nog has made a deal with Quark, and this holosuite will continue to run full time, allowing Vic a life. Nog knows it’s the least he can do since Vic helped him get his own life back.

Bittersweet to watch tonight, but a great episode that takes a long look at the trauma of war and the mental scars that can be far worse than the physical ones.  The continued development of Vic Fontaine as a sentient lifeform is interesting, able to control who does and does not use his program. Still self aware though that there are times he is “off.” Aron Eisenberg is of course terrific and this is an important episode for Nog, demonstrating why this was the episode his friends, fans, and family chose to commemorate him.  

NEXT VOYAGE: The Orion Syndicate has come back for O’Brien, and somehow the Tigan family is involved. The Tigans are Ezri’s family before she was joined; she comes home in “Prodigal Daughter.”

[madscientistjournal]

The Parts of Him That I Can Help With

An essay by Stephen L. Thayer, as provided by Gordon B. White Art by Errow Collins

My younger brother Cameron never understood what working from home meant, so when he called me at 2:30 pm, I was wrist-deep in a twitching half-cadaver. Normally I wouldn’t have answered, since I was practicing stitching a double set of lungs for an upcoming necromodding commission, but I’d been stymied by what to do next, and I also had to pick Dylan up from school by 3:30, so it was as good a stopping point as any. Besides, what is family for if not to answer your call?

I pulled my hands out of the writhing thoracic cavity and peeled off my surgical gloves. The talc inside always makes me squirm when I rub my fingers clean, so I grimaced beneath my paper filtration mask–which I never remove while in my garage laboratory–and swiped my cell phone to speaker.

“Cam,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I need your help, bro.”

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

He paused. “A little.”

A little was fine. We’re brothers, so how else were we supposed to talk?

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Do you remember my last serious relationship?”

I had to think back. I was pretty sure that was Brandon and that had been a year before? Two? Cam had never been good at relationships, but I’d forgotten how bad he was.

“Sure,” I said. “Tall, dark, possibly rheumatic.”

“You make him sound so sexy.”

“Not my type.”

“Anyway, I was out with Tyler.”

“Who?” I asked as I walked across the room, away from the twitching body and the faint burning smell rising from the wires in its cranium.

“Never mind with who,” Cam said, too quickly. “The point is that I ran into Brandon.”

“With your car, I hope?”

“Nice dad joke, bro.”

“Speaking of, I have to get Dylan soon.” An hour wasn’t really soon, but anything to give Cam a ticking clock. He’s the kind of guy who if you ask him what he did last night, he’ll end up telling you what he did this morning.

“Bro, this is serious,” he said. “Seeing Brandon reminded me of how terrible I am at everything.”

“What about this new guy?” I said, desperate to deflect the conversation. “Clearly you’re not completely unlovable.” Since launching my necromodding business, I’d had enough people calling me up for freebies that I was hoping to stem this off before it escalated. That double-lungs commission was the first paid job I’d had all month, although given how poorly it was going, I worried it might be the last, too.

“It isn’t going to work out,” Cam said. “I’m not good enough.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” I said, but I immediately regretted that brotherly sarcasm as I heard a glass hit the bar on Cam’s end. I could just about smell the booze through the phone. If I were there with him, maybe he could have seen on my face that I didn’t mean it, but what could I say?

“I need your help to get a boyfriend,” he said. “A serious one. A real one.”

“One who calls you back?”

“One who thinks I’m hot.”

“I don’t know any blind and deaf guys,” I said, unable to help ribbing him further. “Besides, I haven’t dated anyone in, well, forever. I really can’t help.”

My wife Cynthia and I had been together basically forever. We’d dated for almost a decade, been married for something like seven years, and Dylan was five, so contemporary hook-up culture or any online presence more than my freelance necromodding website were absolute mysteries. Despite the skills at my disposal and the bodies in my garage, I didn’t know what I could do to help Cam.

“Bro,” Cam said, “I don’t need your dating advice.”

Oh thank god, I thought, although I was also a little offended.

“Then what?” I asked.

“I need to be a different person.”

“Can’t help you,” I said. “Try therapy?”

“I mean, I need a new body.”

The half-cadaver twitched on the table, the crown of electrodes in its skull stimulating it into smearing its coagulating intestines across the metal gurney as its torn throat wheezed through the half-sewn double-set of lungs. Seeing how helpless it was, twitching there in the approximation of life, made me feel bad that I hadn’t had Cam over in a while.

“Fine,” I said. “Come by tonight after dinner. No earlier than seven.”

~

“Look who it is,” I said to Dylan as we opened the door.

“Uncle Cam!”

As Cam hoisted Dylan up, I took a moment to do my pre-clinical once over. Cam and I shared a party mix of the same genetics, so I didn’t think he’d been too let down, especially because if I’d received our parents’ brain Chex, he’d gotten the pretzel bits of good physique. Decent shoulders and long arms, a full head of hair that was mostly not gray as he pushed into his thirties. While beer had softened him up, his spare tire was a bike wheel at worst, not a full radial. I was noting that his glutes were adequate if not extraordinary when I realized that he was airplaning Dylan into the kitchen with Cynthia.

“Hey, Cindy,” he said, using a nickname she hates, perhaps accidentally.

“Hey, Ron,” she replied, purposefully using a nickname Cam hates. “Can you not steer my child into the Bolognese?”

“Into the Bolognese!” Dylan squealed, and I could envision the downward arc occurring in the other room. Suddenly, I was hit by the pungent tomato sauce simmering over the sweet fat of the beef. It’s funny how you don’t recognize some comforts until you’re just on their periphery.

“Ron,” Cynthia said.

“Cindy,” he said.

“Bolognese!” Dylan yelled.

I joined the family circle just in time and took Dylan from Cam’s outstretched arms. Dylan pouted, but Cam ruffled his hair and then turned to me.

“So, what’s for dinner?” Cam asked.

“Let’s talk in the lab,” I said, steering him towards the mudroom and the locked door to my lab in the garage. “We’ll give Cynthia some room.”

As Dylan latched onto Cynthia and I escorted Cam out, she gave me that look that asked “Are you really skipping dinner?” I shrugged in apology and hoped my eyebrows, wriggling like caterpillars on a hotplate, said “What else is family for, right?”

~

Out in the garage, the overwhelming smell of antiseptic spray is deceptive at first, but I offered a full respirator to Cam, which he wisely accepted. Whenever I open the storage drawers, the smell usually overwhelms the unprepared. It’s the primary reason that Cynthia made me spring for airtight locks, because while she’s fine with me being a stay-at-home dad doing freelance necromodder work, she doesn’t want to be known as that family.

“How’s business?” Cam asked, looking around at all the shiny equipment.

“Honestly, not great,” I said. “It’s really tough starting out. So far mostly just cranks and perverts.”

“But this is all so, so cool,” he said.

“Clients don’t trust necromodders without a deep portfolio.”

“I trust you, bro.”

“You have to say that,” I said, but I smiled beneath my paper mask. I didn’t know if Cam was being sincere or just trying to butter me up, but it was working.

“What’s that?” Cam asked, pointing to the halo of electrodes I’d been using to reanimate the half-cadaver with the double-stitched lungs. Cam had been in the lab enough to recognize new equipment, even though he didn’t know what any of it was.

“Sort of a test drive system for bodies so I can try new mods before putting them in living clients,” I told him. “The hope is to one day use it to amp up living brains, too, but that’s a long way off.” A very, very long way off, in fact, and not being able to get it to work stuck in my craw as yet another failure.

“No chance you can fix this then?” Cam thumped himself on the forehead.

“Nothing can fix that,” I said. “What’s Option B?”

“Bro,” he said, “I need a boyfriend.”

“Believe me,” I said, “that would make all of our lives easier.”

He ignored that comment, which was bigger of him than I expected. As the older brother, it was always both surprising and fulfilling to see sparks of maturity in Cam. Perhaps I sometimes pushed him too hard to find them–spraying his pants with water in middle school to teach him an ill-defined lesson about humility, for example–but whenever those moments emerged naturally, I could just about cry.

“I want someone to love me like Cynthia loves you,” he said.

I didn’t tell him that sometimes it takes a lot of work, but I was a sucker for romance. If I could help him, at least a little, wasn’t that my brotherly duty?

“So I need a new body,” he said.

“It’s expensive,” I said.

“It can be my birthday present.”

“It comes out of my pocket,” I said, but Cam looked pointedly at me, and I knew what he was being too nice to say about Cynthia in the other room. “Our pockets,” I corrected myself. “Do you really want to take the Bolognese out of your nephew’s mouth?”

“Birthday and Christmas.”

I stared at him.

“For two years,” he added.

I sighed. “And I can use pictures for my website.”

“Fine,” he said, “if I can also use them for my dating profile.”

“Fine,” I said. “I love–”

“Me?” Cam interrupted.

“A challenge,” I concluded. “So of course I will help you.”

There’s a sort of code that we necromodders undertake–whether it’s a full-time modder doing celebrity jobs in a fancy foreign clinic, or just a dedicated freelancer who left the hospital’s daily grind and whose wife supports him while he builds up a portfolio on low-paying commissions–that we’ll do our best to bring our clients’ visions to fruition, despite our own preferences. I’d seen plenty of things on the professional message boards–literal eyes in the back of heads, third arms in places arms don’t usually go–that I personally didn’t think looked good, but which somehow made the end users feel complete. Although I think of necromodding as an art, most clients see it as design, so far be it from me to deny anyone their aesthetic preferences. As a medical professional, however, I did have one other complicating factor.

“I’ll do it,” I said, “but as your doctor–” I trailed off, hoping to prompt him.

“Really?” Cam asked. “Again?” He knew what was coming, since I’d given him a new middle toe a year or so ago.

“Tell you what,” I said, as I punched in the codes to the cold storage. “If you can paraphrase the warning, I’ll consider that informed consent.”

“Let me see,” Cam began as he joined me to watch the various hunks and chunks of cadavers slide out of the freezer. “As my doctor, you have to warn me of potential health effects related to body modifications using deceased tissue.”

“And?”

“There’s no guarantee.”

“That?”

“That the process is effective or reversible.”

“And?” I asked.

“And what?” he asked

“You’re of sound mind to make decisions that could result in your death.”

He swallowed. “Yeah, bro.”

From inside the coolers, corpses and extra bits peered out. I didn’t keep a lot on hand, but I always had a few stock bodies–inoffensive types that were easy to cut and shape for after-market mods–so I could easily do a head swap, then touch Cam up afterwards. With our health care system, there was never a shortage of parts.

“Finally,” I added, “as your brother, and not your doctor, I think you’re great and have a great personality. Don’t fix a thing, blah blah.”

“I love you, too, bro,” he said.

“I never said that.”

~

I cut off Cam’s head and stitched it to the stock body that most closely matched his skin tone. He’d asked me about maybe trying out a different one, but that would just open up questions of bodily appropriation that I hadn’t the energy to parse with Cam. Nevertheless, we had gone over the alterations he wanted and, once his original body was safely wrapped and secured in Refrigerator B and his head was hooked up to the new one, I was ready to start.

He wanted bigger muscles, and although the stock body was fairly normal, Cam had picked out globs of the red ropey fibers for me to put in. The sizing was ridiculous, but the more I’d warned him, the more he resisted. Then he said it was okay if I didn’t know how to do it, which I’m pretty sure he did just to egg me on. Sure, a procedure of that level was just a smidge outside of my comfort zone, but I wasn’t going to give Cam the satisfaction of thinking he’d asked for something I couldn’t do, so I went to work snipping out the default tendons at the muscle heads and reattaching bigger ones. It was like trying to overstuff a batch of viscera dumplings, but I finally got it done.

When I finished, I brought him back out from sedation and rolled the full-sized mirror over to where he lay on the table. He grinned and flexed, and I worried that the glue in the skin wouldn’t hold, but although he bulged, he didn’t pop. I’d had my doubts, but seeing it finished, I swelled with pride, too.

“Isn’t this a little excessive?” I asked, even as I snapped a picture for the portfolio section of my website.

“You just don’t understand the male gaze,” he said and kissed his bicep.

“Come again?”

“Like, looking at stuff.” He paused. “Also, that’s what he said.”

“That’s so juvenile.”

“You’re the older brother,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be too mature.”

~

“I need to look more mature,” Cam said, back in my lab after less than a week. “I have a baby face.”

“You have a childish face,” I said. I was already twisting his face this way and that under the light, though, figuring out what I could do with the soft tissues. Normally I wouldn’t have been doing more work so soon after the first procedure, but working on Cam had really energized me. Prospective clients were contacting me, and in a spurt of inspiration, I’d finished the double-stitched lungs and even improved the corpse-animating electrode helmet. Besides, Cam seemed to enjoy coming over for the post-op check-ups, even sticking around to come with me to pick Dylan up from school.

“What do you want this time?” I asked.

“Thinner cheeks,” he said. “And maybe a beard.”

From Freezer A, I pulled out a box of frozen samples. Inside the compartments, little swatches of hair curled like sleeping gerbils in multiple hues of blonde, auburn, ginger, and black.

“You can have a beard of this, this, this, or this,” I said, pointing out some.

“What about that?”

“That’s a dog.”

“That?”

“Pubes.”

He considered it for a moment longer than I’d have liked, but then finally pointed to a nice normal brown swatch. “I’ll take that one,” he said.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Stop second guessing me.”

So I put Cam under again. I made incisions beneath the zygomatic bones, then slit all the way down the jaw and back around. I took extra time to stencil out around Cam’s lips before I peeled away his lower face, leaving him raw from closed eyes to throat. The yolk-colored globs of baby fat clung to his cheeks as I peeled them away, then laid them in the “Base” box to store in Freezer B alongside his original body. We were getting into alterations that weren’t as simple to undo as a head swap, but I’d given him the spiel and, since he’d used up his allotment of gifts already, he’d promised to pay in cash–just later, of course.

I unfurled the main roll of beard and skin, measured off a swatch, and then snipped it. The surface was itchy, and I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting it on their face or anywhere else, but according to the message boards, it was popular among other modders’ clients and, of course, the customer is always right. It was a pain to smooth down and arrange all the follicles the right way, but it felt good getting into the granular work again. The bliss of losing myself in the details reminded me why I’d fallen in love with necromodding in the first place.

Once everything was perfect, I woke Cam up and rolled the mirror over. “This is good,” he said, rubbing his new hirsute jawline while I took a picture for the site. “This is will be the one that does it.”

~

“The beard isn’t doing it,” Cam said at dinner. He’d shown up unannounced but had become a regular enough intrusion that Cynthia had a plate ready. He was still adjusting to his beard, though, and the egg from the fettuccine carbonara glistened in the hair.

“My problem is that I get too drunk,” he said as he took another swig of Primitivo. He was still adjusting to the muscles, too, and so all of his movements were outsized and reckless. “I need the alcohol to open up, but then it hits me too hard.”

“Drink less?” Cynthia recommended.

“Or he can give me a bigger liver,” Cam said.

“An enlarged liver isn’t healthy,” I said. “It’s pretty much the opposite.”

“I know that,” he said, although clearly he didn’t. “Then give me more livers.”

That might work and, if nothing else, would hopefully keep Cam away for a while. My work had been picking up recently–at first it was new clients looking for muscle and beard work after seeing Cam’s pictures, but referrals and repeats kept rolling in. Besides, I’d been working on my electrode helmet and was on the verge of a breakthrough. Cam just didn’t understand my need to work during the day or the importance of family time with Cynthia and Dylan afterwards. His continued interruptions at dinner and frequent calls just to chat during the day were reminders as to why I’d stopped hanging out with him so much.

“Fine,” I said to Cam. “Whatever you want.”

After dinner, I took Cam to the lab and sliced him open, then clamped the flesh apart to root around. I wasn’t shocked to see the paces he’d already put this current liver through. It looked scaled and pebbled, and oozed like a pickled beet. Even through my ventilator, the rich, briny smell hit me. Gagging, I took the extra livers–my Burke and Hare men had been coming through like gangbusters recently–and started wedging them in. The healthy organs were more pliant, but as I sutured them together, the knot of muscle got less and less manageable. In the end, I had to lean on them like I was packing a suitcase while I stapled the wound together. Despite being pleased with my innovation, this one wouldn’t get a picture on the website. Probably just a text description.

As I brought Cam back around, I told him, “Be careful.”

“I always am, bro.”

He sat up on the gurney, swaying under the new imbalance.

“Should we do shots to celebrate?” he asked.

~

Cam banged on the front door on a Thursday night at 12:30 am. Cynthia and I were in bed, with Dylan down the hall asleep, and she was none too pleased at the interruption.

“He needs to learn boundaries,” she said.

“I don’t disagree,” I said, but I was already out of bed and pulling on a robe. She wasn’t wrong, of course, but it’s hard to ignore family even when you want to. Besides, if I had to choose which one to deal with at that moment, Cam was probably the easiest.

Downstairs, I barely recognized Cam as I let him in. His body was getting strange; the muscles bulged in odd ways and all the livers seemed to be throwing him off balance. The beard hadn’t been trimmed in days.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked, dragging him into the garage laboratory. At least the insulated walls would keep his disturbance to a minimum.

“I need one last one,” he said.

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he responded. “So? You going to judge me for that, too?”

“Someone has to.”

“Too bad it isn’t someone who ever has something nice to say.”

That stung. It took me a moment to respond. “I can’t,” I finally said. “It’s too late.”

“Please, I need it. You sort of owe me.”

“For what?”

He didn’t answer. “Just please. Do it and I’ll leave you alone. Forever.”

“Don’t be such a martyr,” I said.

“I just need you to make me taller, bro. Just an extra vertebra or three.”

“You dope,” I said. “It’s not your height. It’s not your muscles or your beard. It’s just you.”

“What do you mean?”

There are conversations that need to be had, and there are conversations that need to be had in a particular way. I knew this was the latter, but I was too tired. Besides, someone had to tell him, right?

“You’re a weirdo,” I said. “It’s not how you look or how big your liver is; you’re the kind of person who gets people’s names wrong. You don’t understand that you can’t show up late or that you talk a lot or ask too much.”

“Then fix that.”

“I can’t fix that,” I said. “That’s just you.”

“Zap me then.” He pointed at the electrode crown I’d been working on, the one that let me reanimate half-cadavers enough to test out mods before using them on paying clients. It had come a long way recently and I was sure it was going to launch me out of necromods and into actual biomodding, but it wasn’t ready to supercharge a living brain. Probably.

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “I already agreed you’re not responsible if I die.”

“It’s untested,” I said.

“I believe in you,” he said.

“It’s not about believing.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “I already agreed you’re not responsible if I die.”

“You moron.” I’d reached my limit, too. “Of course I’m responsible. I’m always responsible for you.”

“Stop treating me like a child,” he said. “If I could do this any other way, don’t you think I would?”

What was there to say?

“Just zap me,” he said again.

“Stop being so dramatic.”

“I’m sorry I’m not perfect,” he said. “Maybe if you didn’t leave me behind after you went to school, after you got married, I could have learned from you.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Help me,” he said.

“I didn’t leave you behind.”

“I feel like you did.”

“Fuck your feelings,” I said.

We didn’t talk as I put him under. Stewing, I drilled into his skull, then attached the headgear and pushed the little wire skewers in. That was it. If it killed him, well I’d warned him, right?

I pulled the lever, hard. Because he’d asked for it.

The lights dimmed like I expected as it warmed up; but then it hitched. The lights flickered, then everything surged, bathing us in the miasma of green and red LEDs. All the shifting colors made me nauseous and I shaded my eyes, squinting at Cam’s body under the waves of putrescent light.

Then it exploded.

Everything went black. As all the machines whirred to a stop, I couldn’t hear or see anything. I sat there, in the silent dark, wondering if I’d killed my brother. Wondering how I would explain it and wondering, afterwards, just how much worse it could feel.

Those were my first thoughts. My next was that the brain-charger was also an obvious failure. My equipment was a failure. My skills were a failure. Sitting there, unable to see anything, the whole necromodding pursuit felt like a vain delusion. I was a dinner theater actor, alone in the dark among the empty tables and the cold buffet.

Then the red emergency lights came on, but all the monitors were still dead. I wondered if Cam was, too. I couldn’t bring myself to check for life the old-fashioned hands-on way, so I waited by the machinery. Maybe by refusing to check for myself, I could wait and blame the instruments.

It was the longest thirty seconds of my life.

Then the backup generator kicked on. One by one the monitors popped back up, flickering open like eyes. They ran through their reboots. Cam’s heartbeat came up. His breathing levels stabilized. I brought him back around and he opened his eyes.

“What happened?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

He looked around at the red room and then down across his body and all the changes we’d been making.

“I gotta go,” he said, sitting up. “I’m late.”

And that was it. I glanced at the emergency report printouts and data, but I was too tired to deal with any of it, so I sealed the lab and went back to bed.

~

For the first day that I didn’t hear from Cam, I was fine with it. I needed some space and figured he probably did, too. I took Dylan to the park after school and just avoided the lab all together. After the second day without hearing from Cam, though, and then a third, I was worried. He didn’t answer his phone. He didn’t text me to ask for additional procedures or anti-rejection drugs. The kinds of modifications we had been doing had a fairly a short active life without follow-ups.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Cam. I’d really failed him, and not just as a necromodder–although that blow-up had me wondering if I should just give up, sell everything, and get a regular job again. No, I’d also failed Cam as a brother. It wasn’t the things I’d said, since I stood by those, but that I’d said them in that way. That I’d made him feel that way. That he was willing to risk dying with my half-baked brain overcharger rather than have to deal with me as a brother any more. That I’d been too proud or too stubborn to stop him. It was a dark time.

So I did what I always do when I have serious doubts and questions about life.

“What’s going on?” Cynthia asked as she answered her cellphone. I’d expected her voicemail, but apparently I’d caught her in-between meetings.

“It’s Cam,” I said.

“Not Dylan?”

“No,” I said. “Cam.”

She didn’t hang up. She paused, though, but then continued, “What’s wrong with your brother?”

“I don’t quite know,” I said. “I mean, I know you don’t like him–”

“I like him,” she cut me off. “I think you two have issues, but he’s family.”

“Right,” I said.

“Your family,” she said.

“Right.”

We waited for a second there.

“What about him?” she broke the momentary silence.

“I’m worried,” I said. “He hasn’t called me since that last thing.”

“Maybe it worked?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Regardless, there are these anti-rejection drugs that he knows he needs.”

“Shit,” Cynthia said.

“I know,” I said. “What should I do?”

“Go find him, of course,” she said.

I shook my head, even though she obviously couldn’t see it. “He hasn’t asked for my help.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Cynthia said, softly, “What do you think all of this has been about, then?”

“I mean–” I began.

“Go help him!” Whatever pristine office halls she was in must have echoed, because the reverberation carried onto my end of the phone

“But he might–”

“He’s our family!”

She was right.

So I drove to Cam’s apartment complex on the other side of town. I’d been there a few times before to pick him up for family events or to visit someone in the hospital, but it took some poking around and checking mailboxes before I found his building again. The door to his unit was unlocked, yet even before I entered I could smell the rot.

Cam was sitting in the dark, sagging in the center of his rent-to-own couch. The putrescence seeping out from around his midsection was soaking into the fabric. The muscles I could see–biceps, triceps, traps, and pecs–were purple and mustard yellow clots beneath the skin. The edges of his beard were peeling down.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said. “Let’s get you back to the lab.”

“It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t start,” I said. “Not now.” I picked my way around empty silver tallboys swimming like fish on the stained blue carpet.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he said. “I can’t do anything but think after what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said. I grabbed his arm and began to pull, but it was slack and, without his assistance, I worried my fingers would sink in and tear out big chunks.

“You broke my brain, bro,” he said and sunk down deeper. “All that zap did is made me depressed.”

“The machine didn’t do that, you dolt,” I said. It was true: when I’d reviewed the data that night, it was clear that the machine hadn’t worked. It had fried during the warm-up and although it blasted everything in the lab, there’d been no sign that it had any effect on Cam. “If you’re thinking about how shitty things are, then that’s on you.”

He had nothing to say to that.

I sighed. “And on me, too. I guess.”

Cam grunted.

“I’m sorry I said those things. For now, though,” I said, “as your doctor, I need to get you back to the lab before you have catastrophic organ failure.” I pulled again, but although he didn’t actively resist, he didn’t move his bulk to accommodate me either.

“What do you want from me?” I finally asked.

“You could tell me you love me.”

“Well, I won’t do that,” I said. “But, as your doctor–as your brother, I’d be pretty upset if you had caststrophic organ failure.”

~

The lab door is triple-sealed so that smells don’t seep into or out of the house, which is why it wasn’t until Cam and I opened the door that the wave of rot pushed out past us. The sweet and sick burst curled into my nostrils and even Cam–decaying from the neck down–winced at the ripe odor.

We stumbled into the lab, but I already knew what had happened. The power surge had blown the freezers and they hadn’t reset with the other equipment. When I opened Freezer B, as the smell had foreshadowed, everything was ruined. Cam’s original body was beyond salvage.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Somehow in this tragedy, Cam had found equanimity and so he shrugged, one of the seams around his neck popping loose and green pus oozing out. For a moment, I felt that swell of pride in how mature he was acting.

We moved over to the table and I sat him down. All of my lab equipment seemed to be working fine, but there was nothing in the freezers I could use. What a pair our mismatched reflections in the full-length mirror made–me standing there slicked with gore and my younger brother falling apart like a poutine. I was trying to be strong, holding it together, but then Cam had to go and get sentimental.

“It was really nice spending time with you,” Cam said. “But I feel like you’ll be better off without me.”

“I never wanted to lose you,” I said. “I just wanted, you know, less of you.”

“Well, you’re in luck. There isn’t much left.” He tried to laugh, gesturing to the pile of meat festering below his neck.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“What?”

“There might be a way.” Less of him. “It might be too complicated, though. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Bro,” he said, and flopped a mushy hand onto my shoulder. “I believe in you.”

“You kind of have to say that,” I said, wrestling the tears back as best I could.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I feel like you know it’s true.”

I sniffled, just once. “Fuck your feelings.”

Then I cut off Cam’s head.

~

“Swipe right,” Cam said.

“Don’t yell in my ear,” I said.

“I’m not yelling.”

“Well it sounds like it.”

That was because his head was attached to my shoulder, so his mouth was right next to my ear. Normally he didn’t get this excited, but while we were sitting at the dinner table with Dylan, waiting for Cynthia, Cam had decided he absolutely needed to show me this new dating app. I didn’t really want to see, but I’d been trying to be more supportive lately. It was his life, after all. Mostly.

Cam whispered, “Swipe right.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not taking you on any dates. Wait until your replacement body gets in.”

“Then I’m not doing any more surgeries with you.”

That wasn’t okay. Ever since I’d posted about our successful head graft, the commissions were rolling in. Not only that, but with Cam by my side, I finally felt like a true professional.

“Fine,” I said. “But just one date. Make it count.”

“Fine,” he said. “Now swipe right.”

I swiped right, and the next image popped up. I gasped.

“Can I see?” Dylan asked from across the table.

“No!” Cam and I said in unison.

Cynthia came out of the kitchen, bringing out a bowl of salad. “No phones at the table,” she said.

“Sorry, Cynthia,” Cam said. Over the past week, he’d been making a real effort to get her name right and to be a better houseguest in general. For her part, Cynthia had been much more understanding about all of this than I’d had any right to expect. Of course, she rightly insisted that Cam and I sleep on the couch downstairs. It’s funny, but you never realize how much you might miss some people until you’re just on their periphery, I guess.

“Dinner time is family time,” Dylan chimed in.

“That’s right,” I said, but as I went to put the phone in my pocket it rang, playing “Sunshine of Your Love.”

“Whose ringtone is that?” Cynthia asked.

“Tyler,” I said, reading off the Caller ID.

“Who’s Tyler?” Dylan asked.

I suddenly felt light-headed as the blood from my body rushed to Cam’s face. He’d turned bright red, and I felt the heat of his ear next to mine. I worried for a moment that our sutures might spring a leak.

“Just some guy I was seeing before all this,” he said. He swallowed, and the movement of his esophagus shook my collarbone.

“Just some guy, Cam?” Cynthia said. “I’ve never seen you this flustered.”

“I’ll call him later,” Cam said. “Dinner time is family time.” I could feel him straining, though, as he looked at the phone. I admired his attempt at impulse control, but then I looked at Cynthia, and she smiled wearily.

“What else is family for?” she said.

“No really,” Cam said. “It’s okay, I–”

I swiped the phone open and held it to Cam’s ear. I rose from the table and as we walked out Cam began, adorably, to stutter a hello.

Cynthia was right: What else is family for, of course, if not to answer your calls?

Stephen L. Thayer is a freelance necromodder operating out of his home laboratory in a discrete, secure suburban neighborhood. After receiving his MBA and spending several years in corporate finance, Stephen left the rat race to follow his passion into the burgeoning field of functional and aesthetic bio-enhancement utilizing cadaverous tissues. Although he performs standard cosmetic, muscle, organ, and/or bone alterations, Stephen considers his necromodding a blend of art and science striving towards transcendence. He is always eager to discuss exotic and/or custom commissions. A representative portfolio and anonymous client testimonials are available upon request.

Gordon B. White has lived in North Carolina, New York, and the Pacific Northwest. He is a 2017 graduate of the Clarion West Writing Workshop, and his fiction has appeared in venues such as Daily Science Fiction, A Breath from the Sky: Unusual Stories of Possession, Nightscript Vol. 2, and the Bram Stoker Award® winning anthology Borderlands 6. Gordon also contributes reviews and interviews to various outlets. You can find him online at www.gordonbwhite.com or on Twitter at @GordonBWhite.

Errow is a comic artist and illustrator with a predilection towards mashing the surreal with the familiar. They pay their time to developing worlds not quite like our own with their fiancee and pushing the queer agenda. They probably left a candle burning somewhere. More of their work can be found at errowcollins.wix.com/portfolio.

“The Parts of Him That I Can Help With” is © 2018 Gordon White Art accompanying story is © 2018 Errow Collins

The Parts of Him That I Can Help With was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

[dennishuxley]

That was the first time I saw grandfather.

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[buckybarnesappreciationsociety]

EPILOGUE: Healing (One Day At A Time)

Summary: We’ve come to the end of “James Buchanan Barnes: Family Man.” I’ve had so much fun with this series. Next up, Izzy’s in college. 

Words: 1,325

Warning: PTSD reference

The fallout from Izzy’s kidnapping  was stressful for the Barnes family. Dr. Cho recommended therapy for everyone. The first session took its toll on everyone, especially Izzy. She would sit with her legs pulled to her chest, staring into nothingness.

A well-known female family therapist came to the Tower twice a week; one session with the family and one with Izzy. Determining the terrified teen suffered from PTSD, a mild sedative was prescribed to help her sleep.

At first, the medicine had virtually no effect on Izzy. Her nightmares were horrific. She would vault up, in a cold sweat, chest heaving looking around the room, reaching out for her dad.  Bucky started sleeping next to her bed. She would hold his hand and drift off to sleep. With time, the nightmares dwindled and Izzy was able to sleep on her own, with a night light.

In spite of her progress, Izzy remained apprehensive about venturing outside until her therapist suggested a rooftop session, with Bucky in tow.

Dr. Samantha  Burgdorf, coaxed Izzy outside. Reluctantly, she agreed. Bucky held her hand as they walked through the doors leading to the pool area. Immediately, Izzy started to shake and hyperventilate.

Recognizing a panic attack, Izzy’s attentive father whispered soothing words into her ear.

Finally, her breathing evened out. Dr. Burgdorf asked Izzy if she wanted to go inside and she shook her head ‘no.’ Bucky continued to sit on the chaise lounger holding Izzy’s trembling body.

The session lasted longer than normal. After Izzy’s panic attack, she opened up more, discussing in detail what she really went through. Tears rolled down her father’s face listening to his daughter talk about how she was treated by the man who helped create her.

Voice barely above a whisper, Izzy picked at her fingernails as she spoke.

“Ro-Rodney said so many nasty things about mom. He called her a whore and a mattress; something for a man to jump up and down on!

When I wanted to cover my ears, C-Caleb tied my hands and made me listen. It felt like a tape recorder playing over and over again in my head!”

Izzy shook and sobbed loudly. Bucky cradled her against his chest, rocking back and forth.

Continuing, “When I had to use the bathroom, Caleb would watch me walk in. One time he opened the door while I was on the toilet! Rodney slapped him.”

“They snorted cocaine. That’s when I was really afraid because their eyes got real big and they talked funny.”

Seeing how drained Izzy had become, Dr. Burgdorf ended their session. “Isabella, I’m so proud of you for taking an important step. This is the first time  you’ve been outside in over 3 weeks. That’s progress.” Izzy pulled her lips into a tight smile. “Thank you.”

Holding Bucky’s hand, Izzy walked alongside her dad inside the Tower. He shook hands with the doctor and waited as she entered the elevator.

Turning to his daughter, “I’m so sorry you that happened to ya Izz, but we’re here for ya okay?’

“Okay dad. I know.” She kissed his cheek, giggling as his stubble tickled her lips.

Jillian felt left out and useless. She couldn’t understand why Izzy gravitated to Bucky and not her. Understanding her concern, Bucky made sure his wife felt loved and needed.  He bought rose petals, scattered them from the bed to the bathroom. Sandalwood candles cast a shadow on the tiled walls and her favorite bath bomb, “Fresh Rain,” provided a calming aroma.

Gently removing Jillian’s clothes, Bucky carried her to the clawfoot bathtub bridal style and lowered her weary body in the soothing warm water. Without a word, Bucky washed her hair, then moved to Jillian’s body; massaging her shoulders. A moan emitted from her mouth as her attentive husband rinsed and dried her off.

Moving to their bed, Buck lotioned Jillian’s body and she put on one of his shirts. Placing a searing kiss on his lips, she mouthed ‘thank you’ as tears escaped her dark circled eyes.

“Buck, how did you know what I needed.” Pulling her body flush against his, “I love you doll, a helluva lot. You’re the love of my life. Izzy’s not the only one feeling low.  You’re the woman Imma spend the rest of m’life with.”

Turning to face her wonderful husband, Jillian whispered, “James, you’re the air I breathe. Thank you for being supportive to our kids and me.”

Bucky’s voice dripped with sincerity. “Ya know Izzy’s gonna be alright? Don’cha ever feel like she doesn’t need ya cuz it ain’t true. Give her time.”

Laying her hand on his face, “I know baby. Sometimes I feel a little left out, but you’ve dealt with trauma and understands better than I do what she’s feeling. Thank you.”

“No thanks needed, It’s m’pleasure. C’mere, I’ve missed ya woman.”

Yawning, “I’ve missed you too.”

3 months passed and Izzy became antsy. She longed to go outside and play with her brother and friends. Little Stevie sorely missed his big sister. They shared an unshakeable bond.

The sun beamed through her teal and white curtains. Stretching, Izzy placed her feet on the floor and stared out of the large window. It was time to take her life back.

Making her way to the elevator, Izzy visited Uncle Tony in his laboratory. He was thrilled to see her.

“Hey Izz, what brings you to my humble abode?” As usual, he sat at a table, tinkering with one of his latest creations.

Sighing, “Uncle Tony, can we have a barbeque out back? I’m ready to go outside and it would be great if everyone came too.”

Pulling her into an embrace, Tony was ecstatic. “Yes! I’ll have Pepper get everything together and have FRIDAY alert the team. It’ll be small, just us. Happy you’re feeling better kiddo. I’ve missed you.”

Wrapping her arms around his waist, Izzy spoke into his chest. “Missed you too Uncle Tony. Thank you for being there for me and my family.  It means a lot.”

“The pleasure’s all mine Izzmeister. Get outta here. I have a shindig to plan!”

As promised, Pepper and Tony went all out for this family gathering. Kayla, Maddie and their parents showed up.

Time came for Izzy to take the first steps to reclaiming her life. With Jillian, Bucky, and little Stevie by her side, the determined young lady sighed heavily, with her hands on the door handle leading to the backyard.

Left foot...right foot...breathe

Izzy could feel panic bubbling in her chest but refused to allow it to stymy her progress.

Left foot...right foot...breathe

She relished in the smell of crisp air, fresh cut grass, and food smoking on the grill.

Left foot...right foot...breathe

An overwhelming sense of relief ebbed and flowed through her body. For the first time in almost 5 months, Isabella Marie Barnes greeted her extended family and friends. They in turn, applauded and shed tears.

Jillian and Bucky beamed with pride at her spunk. Little Stevie held her hand as she received hugs from everyone. Even Dr. Burgdorf’s eyes were damp. She knew the hell Izzy had endured. To see her progress warmed her heart.

Izzy, Stevie, Maddie and Kayla froliced in the yard playing soccer against Sam, Bucky, Steve and Peter! Nat and Wanda held Jillian tight as they openly wept.

The sun shined bright, birds chirped a peaceful melody and laughter filled the air!

There were setbacks. But for every dismal day, 3 good days took its place.  

The Barnes family crossed a major hurdle with determination, love and support. Times like these caused Bucky to reflect on his life and why he wouldn’t change anything.

James Buchanan Barnes, family man!

Fin

[orbemnews]

The Coronavirus Crossroads: the Vaccinated, the Stymied and the Waiting For a vast majority of Americans, a coronavirus vaccine is like sleep for a new parent: It’s all you can think about, even if you have no idea when you will get it. People are scrolling through perpetually crashing websites at 3 a.m., or driving 150 miles each way in the snow. Others are lining up at grocery stores for hours on end, hoping to snag a leftover shot, or racing to hospitals amid rumors of extra doses. Many more are tossing in bed in the dark, praying that tomorrow will be their mother’s lucky day. A small portion — about 11 percent — have received one or two shots of the vaccine, leaving the nation in a medical and cultural interregnum. Some of those with only one shot are in a precarious limbo, in states snarled over second-dose distribution. Byzantine rules setting up tiers of the eligible mean most will be holding their collective breath for months down the road, as another set moves gingerly toward the restoration of their lives on the other side of the divide. “I’ve been struck with the outpouring of grief and loss that the obstacles to getting the vaccine has generated,” said Niti Seth, 73, a psychologist and department dean at Cambridge College in Boston. She has been unable to get a vaccine appointment, despite spending all hours of the day and night online reading and clicking. “A glimpse of the possibilities of reclaiming our lives has led, paradoxically, to a more palpable sense of what we had to give up,” Ms. Seth said. Debates over masks, indoor eating, testing availability and school reopenings all now center on a single axis: the lagging rollout of the vaccine. It is the alchemy of “unrelenting waves of exhaustion, fear, hope, uncertainty and pandemic fatigue,” said Lindsey Leininger, a health policy researcher and a clinical professor at the Tuck School of Business at Dartmouth in Hanover, N.H. “I stay focused on the lotus mud metaphor and think about how gosh-darned beautiful we are all going to be when we come out the other side.” Still, although cases and hospitalizations continue to decline, and as the pace of vaccinations picks up, some Americans — including those now vaccinated and ostensibly protected — are approaching the spring and summer with quite a bit of trepidation. The divide is still quite wide between the haves and the have-nots, and many fear that even a vaccinated nation and world won’t restore a sense of safety or security. Weeks into the rollout, there are stories of heroism, supreme luck and perseverance, and those of ignominy, and widespread inequality. Some post their injections and vaccination cards on social media, while their friends and neighbors contemplate a spring of double masking, a tool in the race between vaccines and the new, more contagious variants of the virus snaking their way across the nation. The Nextdoor website has become an outpost for sightings of vaccination sites, as neighbors rush to refresh their browsers. There are tales of resentment and stories of guilt. Marsha Henderson has become a bit of a shot whisperer with her friends in Washington D.C., after securing doses for herself, her husband and their 40-year-old daughter who works in health care. Many of the sites on the city’s websites turned out to not have any vaccines, so she realized she needed to only check times for grocery stores. She gamed out times to recheck. “You have to have the ability to be on a computer in the middle of the day and sit there,” said Mrs. Henderson, who is 71. She became so good at it, an ambassador’s wife called her for tips. Still, she said, her second shot on Wednesday,“won’t change my behavior.” “I am more comfortable with the Comcast man to fix my computer, and there is some rain damage I need to get fixed,” she said. “But I will be doing carry out and outdoor dining probable for another year, in part because we don’t know the variants.” In New York, Jamie Anderson emailed a nonprofit group in northern Manhattan on behalf of her father, Jimmy Mattias, who is 66. “The nonprofit called me on Tuesday to get his details,” said Ms. Anderson, who lives in the Bronx, not far from her father in Washington Heights in Manhattan. “He was called on Wednesday to confirm an appointment, and Thursday morning he had his first dose. It was so fast, I truly couldn’t believe it.” Mr. Mattias, who works as a manager at a storage center, said extra efforts had been made to vaccinate people his age, but he had no intention of making the effort on his own because he feared missing work. “She’s my daughter, and she is looking out for me,” he said. His co-workers and bosses are all younger, jealous yet thrilled for him, while friends his age are skeptical. “Some don’t think the system was designed to create a vaccine that quickly,” he said. “I tell them this is not the 1800s, things happen faster. Let’s face the facts, this is a horrible situation.” Catherine Sharp, a freelance photographer in Brooklyn, like many New Yorkers, has had less luck. Ms. Sharp, 26, relocated to Illinois recently to help her parents, a relocation that has developed into a part-time job trying to get shots for her father, 67, who has been living in Katonah, N.Y., and her mother, 65, in Morris, Ill. “It was like a sneaker drop,” she said. “You are not going to get the Off-White sneakers. It’s just impossible.” As she waited, both she and her mother contracted the virus, and her mother, a cancer survivor, was hospitalized. “This is my worst nightmare,” Ms. Sharp said. “I know some of my mom’s friends have gotten it. I just don’t understand the algorithm. A good 40 percent of my time is spent on this. I wake up, I get my coffee and say, “I gotta do this.’” For a few of those at the back of the line — largely younger, healthier people who are working from home — luck and perseverance can pay off in a split-second, sometimes with a side of guilt. Darla Rhodes lives in Pasco, Wash., is 47 and works remotely for a start-up. Even though she has diabetes, she did not think she would be getting a vaccine anytime soon. But when the assisted living center where her grandmother lives offered vaccines to residents, and some of them refused them, the vaccinators had 30 minutes to get those shots in people’s arms or supplies would perish. Her sister, who happened to be dropping off groceries for their grandmother, got the ball rolling. Ms. Rhodes likened the sudden access to flying standby. “It was utterly unexpected,” Ms. Rhodes said. “But I jumped in the car, drove 15 minutes, filled out some paperwork and got a shot.” After posting about her experience on Facebook, she said, “One person said, ‘Hey I can’t even get a shot for my grandma,’ and my response was it was either that or it goes to waste.” Doug Heye, a Republican consultant in Washington, D.C., had heard about the trick of lining up at grocery stores, in the hopes of getting any remaining doses that were not used for residents given high priority, like those ages 65 and older, or frontline and essential workers. “The more needles we get into arms, the faster we can move past this,” Mr. Heye, 48, said. “That applied to me, personally, as well.” So he recently positioned himself at his local Giant supermarket at 5:15 a.m., where he found himself second in line in the pharmacy section. “I spent nine hours in a grocery store. Lunch was beef jerky and barbecue potato chips. It is too bad they don’t have the vaccine at Whole Foods or Balducci. It was like camping out for Bryan Adams tickets back in the day, and there’s no V.I.P. line or anything like that.” At the end of a long day staring into other people’s grocery carts, he and four others drew the last doses. “Obviously, it’s a flawed process, and there can and should be better ways of doing this like letting seniors register for any extra doses first, for instance,” he said. “But that’s just not happening. I wasn’t cutting in a line, no V.I.P. concierge nonsense, didn’t call in any favors.” Mr. Heye said he was considering how to get his life back, scanning Facebook for friends who had received their two shots so that they could resume some semblance of a social life. Those with two shots — just over 2 percent of the total population as of Sunday — at this point essentially live alone on private islands. Some may be in professions like health care where many of their co-workers are also inoculated. Others are in a sort of suspended animation, more comfortable at a grocery store or hugging a grandchild, yet still waiting for the rest of the nation before they swim ashore. “I feel very fortunate to have already received both doses of the Moderna vaccine,” said Pamela Spann, 68, who lives in Daingerfield, Texas. When the only pharmacy in her county offered shots in the last week of December, she was first told that she was too young to get the first dose. But a clerk did write down her name in a notebook. “I was so surprised when I was called that evening for an appointment the next day,” Ms. Spann said. She received a second dose on Jan. 26. Having missed out on her first year of retirement travel, Ms. Spann is waiting for others in her circle to get shots. “I am most looking forward to visiting my family again,” she said. “I also look forward to visiting and playing games with friends.” Still, she and many others who have been vaccinated or developed antibodies by contracting the virus feel a sense of trepidation. “I think life will never be as carefree as life before,” Ms. Spann said. “I will be more aware of new viruses throughout the world and what they might mean to me.” Mr. Mattias, of New York, described himself as a loner who, because he worked every day, said he hadn’t felt that deprived over the past year, beyond missing a trip with his wife to a Cracker Barrel restaurant on their annual vacation in Pennsylvania. “I am looking forward to spending time with my grandkids, walking my dog and not having to cross the street so people don’t have to walk away from me first,” Mr. Mattias said. “My mother is 89 years old, I haven’t hugged in a while, so that’s another one. Really, my whole life is little things. I am counting on getting them back.” Source link Orbem News #coronavirus #Crossroads #Stymied #vaccinated #Waiting

[aion-rsa]

Ready Player Two Ending Explained: How the Sequel Jumps the Shark

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

This article contains MAJOR spoilers for Ready Player Two. You can read our spoiler-free review of the sequel here.

At the end of Ernest Cline’s 2011 novel Ready Player One, Wade Watts a.k.a. Parzival inherits everything he set out to win in James Donovan Halliday’s Easter egg hunt: the OASIS creator’s massive fortune, as well as control over the digital world itself. So how could Cline, and Halliday, top that with Ready Player Two?

By helping humanity level up.

The sequel’s ending definitely goes in a very different direction than how Ready Player One ended, both relating to the book’s central quest and in how it opens up the world of Cline’s future-Earth. Read on as we trace the path from the Seven Shards for the Siren’s Soul to the posthumous gift that allows Wade to finally achieve some level of closure when it comes to his adventures in the OASIS.

What Are the Seven Shards for the Siren’s Soul?

Not even two weeks after winning control (along with the rest of the High Five) of the OASIS, Wade in his unique capacity as Halliday’s sole heir (via the Easter egg hunt, at least) receives another gift: the OASIS Neural Interface, or ONI. By interacting directly with OASIS users’ brains, the ONI allows for an all-senses experience of the digital world. It takes very little convincing for Wade, Aech, and Shoto to vote to share the ONI with all users, though Samantha votes against and Ogden Morrow abstains.

Once there were 7,777,777 OASIS users connecting via ONI technology, Halliday released another posthumous riddle:

Seek the Seven Shards of the Siren’s Soul

On the seven worlds where the Siren once played a role

For each fragment my heir must pay a toll

To once again make the Siren whole

But at first Wade is stymied by the quest, unsure who the Siren is or how he would go about finding seven shards with few clues to start with. The sequel’s action doesn’t truly pick up until the High Five are visited by a ghost in the machine: Anorak, Halliday’s NPC avatar in the OASIS. Except that Anorak is actually a self-aware AI that’s gone rogue, kidnapped Ogden, and forced him to begin finding the Shards. Once Og outsmarted the AI, he turned to the next best option: Wade/Parzival would have to find the Shards, but this time he would have a twelve-hour ticking clock before he and the half-billion people logged in via ONI would hit their time limit and be lobotomized.

Like the three keys to three gates in Ready Player One, each Shard is tied to a moment in Halliday’s life, particularly a moment set in the 1980s, particularly 1988-89: the year that foreign exchange student Kira Underwood spent in Middletown, Ohio, and where she met Halliday and Morrow.

While racing after the Shards, the High Five learn that when Kira had to go back to England after her year abroad, she left behind a D&D module that she had written for the rest of their group to play in her absence: The Seven Shards of the Siren’s Soul, in which her character Leucosia was trapped in suspended animation, her soul split into seven pieces that her friends had to find.

Wade comes to realize that the Siren in the OASIS quest is Leucosia herself—that is, a digital copy of Kira’s consciousness, an AI like Anorak. But while the flesh-and-blood Kira died before the ONI was officially created, the final memory toll is the last seven seconds of Kira’s memory, as Halliday tricked her into trying an ONI prototype while she was still alive. It copied over her consciousness up until that moment, creating Leucosia.

Initially, Halliday had kept Leucosia in a private simulation, in the hopes that he could convince her to love him. But he soon realized that because he had copied over every aspect of Kira’s personality and experience, that included her love for Ogden. Further, witnessing Kira’s memories of Halliday at his most insecure and selfish moments made the man realize how wrong he had been to violate her trust.

While it was Halliday who created the Seven Shards quest, it was Anorak who wanted Leucosia as his prize. Anorak, the digital copy of Halliday who grew unstable when his creator tried to remove the worst parts of his own personality from the copy and instead just gave his monstrous alter ego more control over the OASIS. With that power, he is able to hold Parzival and millions of other OASIS users hostage until Z can restore the Siren’s Soul.

How Do the High Five Win the Quest?

Even though Parzival is the only person (aside from Ogden Morrow) able to physically collect the Shards, he relies heavily on members of the High Five and the L0w Five in order to complete the seven trials. Each puzzle draws from a different person’s own particular fandom or knowledge base: Z’s new ally L0hengrin figures out the first Shard years after it gets announced; Shoto is the one to crack the riddle of Sega Ninja, while Art3mis walks them through the John Hughes tribute planet that is Shermer, and Aech coaches Z through doing musical battle with the Seven Princes on the Afterworld. Of course, Wade is the one with the personal experience on education-is-fun planet Halcydonia, and the trip to Arda I is a Tolkienesque date for Parzival and Art3mis.

Finding the Seventh Shard is simply a matter of visiting the Shrine of Leucosia on the D&D planet Chthonia, site of the final battle in Ready Player One. Once all Seven Shards are collected, one need only combine them into one jewel in order to resurrect Leucosia.

But what Z hands over to Anorak is a counterfeit jewel, which he uses to surreptitiously trade the Robes of Anorak back into his inventory. This allows him to teleport into Castle Anorak and threaten to push the Big Red Button that will destroy the OASIS—even if that means it will kill the half a billion people forcibly logged into the OASIS.

Ultimately, Parzival convinces Anorak to duel Halliday’s heir to prove that he is the only one worthy of inheriting Halliday’s power. And while Anorak thinks he’s fighting Wade, who is starting to suffer the effects of Synaptic Overload Syndrome, instead he’s up against the other heir: Ogden Morrow (who had indeed inherited Halliday’s treasured collection of arcade machines), near death after captivity and torture but putting on an ONI headset for the first and last time in order to enter the OASIS as the Great and Powerful Og and duel Anorak the All-Knowing.

Who Dies in the Final Battle?

Whereas the Battle of Castle Anorak in Ready Player One caused an OASIS-wide massacre of all the users who came to Parzival’s aid—who he later brought back to life—the casualties in Ready Player Two’s final showdown are much smaller. Z is mostly a spectator to what he calls “the most epic player-versus-NPC battle in the history of the OASIS… It was like Yoda versus Palpatine, Gandalf versus Saruman, and Neo versus Agent Smith, all rolled into one epic clash of the titans.”

The two seem fairly evenly matched until L0hengrin appears, fresh off her own epic side quest, to deliver Og the sword Dorkslayer. The sword was a creation of Ogden’s, once he received Halliday’s posthumous email apologizing for creating Leucosia without either Kira or Og’s permission. Knowing that Anorak might go rogue, Og created the contingency of an in-world sword that only his avatar could wield. Once he receives the sword, it’s all over, requiring only a single blow to destroy Anorak.

In the real world, Sorrento has already died. When Wade and Samantha, acting via telebots, went to rescue Og from his and Kira’s mansion, Anorak (also via telebot) decides that Sorrento has served his purpose and shoots him. Unfortunately, Sorrento is able to get off a wild shot that strikes Og in the stomach, a wound to which he eventually succumbs after killing Anorak in the OASIS.

Who Lives (Again) After the Final Battle?

After Anorak is defeated and all of the OASIS hostages are released back into the real world, Wade wakes up after a few days’ recovery. Samantha passes on Og’s last words to Wade, telling him that he should bring Kira back so she can decide her own fate. At first Wade is confused, but he remembers teenage Kira’s D&D module: The party has to collect all seven shards and reassemble them into the Siren’s Soul. Only then can they free Leucosia from suspended animation. Once they do, she presents them with their reward. A powerful artifact with the power to resurrect the dead, and make them immortal in the process…

First Wade assembles the Seven Shards and resurrects Leucosia, who explains that she is technically the world’s first stable AI (though Anorak predated her, he was clearly unstable by the end). She also reveals that Halliday, when he realized how badly he had wronged Kira and her, offered to destroy the ONI technology. However, she told him not to, because she was glad to have been created, as she could carry on Kira’s memories rather than letting them get lost. She also didn’t want to be alone. “I don’t feel like some sort of unnatural abomination,” she explains to Wade and Samantha. “I feel fine. I feel alive.”

It’s similar to what Black Mirror has done with their “cookies,” or AI copies, especially in its episodes “White Christmas,” “San Junipero,” and “USS Callister.” Each explores these copies’ rights to be considered as independent entities, their fates separate from their human counterparts.

Leucosia gifts Parzival the Rod of Resurrection, which will allow him to bring back any OASIS user who has died in real life—but only if they had used the ONI to back up their consciousness. So Z is able to bring back Art3mis’ grandmother Ev3lyn, as well as the Great and Powerful Og, to be with Leucosia. Unfortunately, he can’t bring back his mother, who died long before the ONI technology existed, nor Daito.

But what he does realize is that everyone who did ever use an ONI headset automatically has the chance at immortality: “We might be part of the last generation ever to know the sting of human mortality. From this moment forth, death would have no dominion.” From beyond the grave, James Donovan Halliday had created the Singularity by way of simulacra.

What Happens to the OASIS and the ONI-net?

Although Wade spends the entire book agonizing over the possibility of pushing the Big Red Button, ultimately he decides against it. It’s not his call to take away an entire world that provides escapism for people suffering in poverty, or who feel uncomfortable in their physical bodies, people for whom the OASIS is the only realm in which to be their true selves.

So, humans get to keep the OASIS and the ONI-net; but they don’t get to learn about the Singularity created by the ONI technology and the Rod of Resurrection. The High Five decide that it will take some time for humans to get comfortable with the idea of living alongside digital ghosts of their loved ones in the OASIS; but that won’t stop them from making plans for generations from now.

What Happens to Wade?

Or perhaps the better question is, what happens to Wade… and what happens to Parzival.

Like Ready Player One, the sequel’s action was narrated by Wade after the fact, recounting a digital adventure that changed the real world forever. The twist here is that in the final chapter (appropriately titled “Continue…?”), readers learn that the first-person narrator is technically Parzival, a digital copy of Wade’s consciousness in the OASIS.

Sharp-eyed readers might have noticed that when Wade returns to the OASIS to resurrect Leucosia, he mentions that it is his final login to the OASIS. This makes sense in the final chapter, when the tenses shift to describe Wade in third-person but Parzival in first-person, revealing that the two shared memories of the entire story, until their experiences diverged at the creation of Parzival as a self-aware AI copy.

What is the Future of Humanity?

In his bleakest moments, Wade had worked with Aech and Shoto to build and prep the Vonnegut, a spaceship intended to leave Earth behind for a new home. Samantha was understandably upset at the idea of the OASIS’ co-owners abandoning an overpopulated Earth for their own gains, as this ark could only hold about two dozen bodies.

However, once the High Five begin resurrecting the AIs via the ONI technology, they come to a better plan: Move Parzival, a copy of Art3mis, Ev3lyn, Og, and Leucosia from the OASIS into ARC@DIA, the standalone simulation on the Vonnegut, and set a course for Proxima Centauri, where they hope to find a habitable, Earth-like planet. The voyage will take close to fifty years, but the AIs will have one another in their digital world and won’t need to take up any resources like human bodies would. Along with copies of all of the ONI users—in suspended animation—and frozen human embryos, the Vonnegut will have more than enough physical bodies and digital souls to populate a new world, should they find one.

There is, of course, a huge ethical dilemma in copying over a billion OASIS users without their knowledge. Wade leaves it up to Parzival, since he knows what reincarnation is like. They seem to be adopting an “ask for forgiveness, not for permission” attitude—assuming that the copies’ namesakes on Earth even ever find out about the AIs’ existence.

Parzival also distinguishes how he and Wade are different people despite their shared experiences. Wade and Samantha elect to stay on Earth, where they get married and get pregnant with a daughter they plan to name Kira. (Shoto and Kiki have their son, Daito, while Aech and Endira remain happily married.) Fatherhood gives Wade a renewed purpose, while Parzival both delights in his immortal, ageless relationship with Art3mis but also hints at the AIs possibly constructing bonds that may transcend human ways of relating to one another: “Our relationships with one another have also evolved, now that we’re immortal beings of pure intellect, freed from our physical forms and set adrift in the vastness of outer space, possibly for all eternity. Even though our perspectives may have changed, we still value those relationships above all else. Because out here, that’s all we have.”

The book ends on dual notes of hope: that the humans remaining on Earth will recommit themselves to figuring out how to fix their planet, while still thriving in the escapism of the OASIS; and that their digital counterparts will settle a new planet, or even make contact with another civilization who can help them continue to evolve.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Wade and Parzival both grow up playing video games, and spend their formative years inside one. Then their paths diverge: Wade finally realizes that there are enough people and experiences in the real world that matter enough to keep him grounded IRL, going so far as to claim that he will never put on an ONI headset again. Meanwhile, Parzival carries their gaming spirit further, to explore more digital worlds via ARC@DIA and what feels like a whole new level in the video game that is life. Sounds like Cline has left enough of an opening for the possibility of Ready Player Three…

The post Ready Player Two Ending Explained: How the Sequel Jumps the Shark appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2KT4ny6

[quakerjoe]

In case it wasn’t clear, we’ve now finished “Act I” of the Trump saga, and are quickly moving into “Act II.” Which means that if you have any interest in these issues you’re going to want to start paying closer attention, because events and their repercussions are going to really begin speeding up now. What precipitated this change? As usual, Trump did it to himself. This latest shitstorm began last week when Trump gave an interview to the NY Times in which, among other things, he speculated that he might consider firing Special Counsel Mueller. Writing for the lawfare blog, Benjamin Wittes referred to the Times piece as “…a chilling interview—chilling because of the portrait it paints of presidential paranoia, chilling for its monomaniacal view of the relationship between the president and law enforcement, and chilling for what it says about Trump’s potential readiness to interfere with the Mueller investigation.”(7) Then, multiple news organizations reported on Thursday that Trump had “shaken up” his legal team. (Translation: he fired a bunch of lawyers and replaced them.) CNN for example reported that, “Marc Kasowitz, Trump's longtime personal attorney who has been the lead lawyer on the Russia investigation, will see his role recede, according to two sources with knowledge of the matter.” (1) And in case it’s not obvious, “see his role recede” is classic beltway speak for getting sacked. At the same time word also spread that Mark Corallo, the spokesman and communications strategist for Trump’s legal team, had resigned. Other than stating that “I resigned yesterday,” Mr. Corallo was unwilling to give any additional information on his abrupt departure from Trump’s legal team. But according to the New York Times, “Mr. Corallo was one of several people cautioning against publicly criticizing Mr. Mueller.” Based on reports from both the New York Times (2) and the Washington Post (3), it seems increasingly clear that Corallo’s caution is about to be aggressively ignored. According to both the Times and the Post, Trump’s legal team is seriously considering multiple ways in which to undermine Mueller’s ongoing investigations, and some of those plans include disparaging Mueller himself. The Post for example reported that, “Some of President Trump’s lawyers are exploring ways to limit or undercut special counsel Robert S. Mueller III’s Russia investigation, building a case against what they allege are his conflicts of interest…They are actively compiling a list of Mueller’s alleged potential conflicts of interest, which they say could serve as a way to stymie his work.” As for the Times, they have reported that, “President Trump’s lawyers and aides are scouring the professional and political backgrounds of investigators hired by the special counsel Robert S. Mueller III, looking for conflicts of interest they could use to discredit the investigation — or even build a case to fire Mr. Mueller or get some members of his team recused, according to three people with knowledge of the research effort.” And if you’re wondering why so much effort is being expended to find “conflicts of interest,” it’s because this is one of the few legitimate grounds that an Attorney General can use to dismiss (=fire) a special counsel. Donald Trump may be politically incompetent enough not to care, but his attorneys know that he will need some form of credible cover for removing Mueller, and finding real conflicts of interest would give him that. Of course what Trump and his team consider “credible” is usually not what anyone else considers credible. In fact many congressmen are still not taking the idea of removing Mueller seriously, because it seems so far beyond the pale. Bloomberg for example reported that Republican Senator Bob Corker, when asked about this situation, stated that, “There is no possible way anybody at the White House could be seriously thinking about firing Mueller…I don’t even want to comment on that because that’s so far out of bounds it couldn’t possibly be a serious discussion.” (4) Unfortunately, while Corker’s statement is obviously true, it mostly indicates the he has not been paying attention to Trump. As the Bloomberg piece states, “Trump’s other precedent-shattering decisions have underscored that he doesn’t feel bound by Washington’s traditions, or a fear of the political ramifications.” Which is, in my view, letting Trump off too lightly. This is not about mere “Washington traditions.” On the contrary, Trump’s statements and actions have made it clear that he does not understand, respect or even care about the important boundaries intentionally designed into the legal framework of our government. Foundational structures and precedents such as the separation of powers, an independent judiciary, and an apolitical and independent law enforcement community - these are all an irrelevance to Trump. Speaking to this issue, Michael McGough, the senior editorial writer for the LA Times, stated on Thursday (5) that Trump’s insistence that he would not have picked Jeff Sessions to be Attorney General if he knew Sessions was going to recuse himself indicates several disturbing things about the president. First, it indicates that Trump appears to honestly have no idea why Sessions even HAD to recuse himself. Which itself only re-establishes Trump’s complete ignorance of the norms of American governance. Second, it suggests that Trump actually views the Attorney General as his personal lawyer, rather than the chief law enforcement official and lawyer representing the AMERICAN PEOPLE. As Dahlia Lithwick pointed out in a piece for Slate several weeks ago (6), Trump “has always treated lawyers as hired help.” Speaking about her own experience as an attorney before becoming a journalist, Ms. Lithwick recounted her dealings with numerous wealthy businessmen. She was shocked to discover that they often “…held a view of lawyers I didn’t remember learning about in law school: They believed attorneys were the help and that laws were problems that—with enough help and enough money to buy even better help—could be made to go away.” That, as anyone familiar with his history knows, is Trump in a nutshell. Lithwick postulates that Trump most likely sees no difference between the White House Counsel’s office, the attorney general, his divorce attorney, or the FBI director. In Trump’s view they all “work for him,” and therefore should just do whatever he tells them to do. Benjamin Wittes goes even further when he observes that Trump essentially feels “…that the FBI should be his personal force and that all of law enforcement should be about serving him.” (7) But of course things don’t actually work that way, and if Trump wants to fire Mueller without real cause he will not be able to do it by simple diktat. Instead he will have to decapitate the Justice Department by firing at least three (and probably more) of our nation’s top law enforcement officials. And that in turn will create a constitutional crisis so striking it may even wake slumbering Republicans. And to be clear, even that would not end the issue, because getting rid of Mueller would not stop the investigations. In order to accomplish that Trump would have to install an Attorney General who was willing to publicly obstruct a major, ongoing Justice Department investigation involving issues of national security. That is a pretty big ask, even for political sycophants. Washington is full of people seeking power, but it is not full of people who want their reputation publicly shit on for a lost cause. And really, how many people at this point would put their professional and personal future in the hands of Donald Trump, even if he can theoretically pardon them later? And speaking of pardons, keep in mind that any attempt by Trump to squash the investigations by handing out sweeping preemptive pardons would create tremendous political blowback. Also, there’s a real chance that it wouldn’t actually work that well. For one thing, the president cannot pardon himself. Let’s dispense with that fiction immediately. Also, the president can only pardon people for federal crimes. The president has no power to pardon people for state crimes. And we already know that New York state AG Schneiderman has been working hard on his own investigations. Other state attorneys general are also rumored to be working on similar cases. Trump cannot pardon his way out of those problems. Here’s another key point that is not often considered when it comes to the issue of pardons: people who receive pardons don’t retain the “right to remain silent.” That right exists because of constitutional protections against self-incrimination. If someone receives a pardon however, they can no longer be charged with any crimes related to that pardon. Which means that they no longer have any right to remain silent, and can be compelled to give testimony. If they refuse to fully and truthfully give that testimony, they can be jailed until they do. So anyone Trump pardons will find themselves very quickly sitting in an "interview room." And trust me, Paul Manafort sitting in front of a bunch of FBI agents with notebooks and recording devices is pretty much the opposite of what Trump is looking to accomplish. Back in the day, many of the men who served under Nixon did terrible things. But they were true believers. Personally, I guessing that Trump doesn't have a lot of those. Can anyone really picture Bannon, Kushner, or Manafort going to jail for Donald Trump? Umm…no. Those assholes will sing so loud the FBI will have to disburse industrial strength ear protection for their agents. Beginning this week, multiple Senate committees will begin investigating issues surrounding Russia’s interference in the 2016 election, the Trump campaign’s possible collusion in that interference, and other issues related to those events. In the meantime, Special Counsel Mueller has assembled a team of at least 15 top-notch investigators and prosecutors to pursue his investigations. And to be clear, the people Mueller has brought aboard are some of the best in the business. While it may be impossible to predict exactly how Trump will react to all of this, it’s not that hard to guess: badly. Just how badly he reacts will determine how quickly we go from Act II to Act III of the Trump show. It will also determine just how resilient our system really is. So this is where we find ourselves: due to what may very well be the greatest electoral mistake in American history, we now have a sitting president who does not understand or care about government. To Trump, and many men like him, the pinnacle of all American efforts is business. This is why Trump so often appears to think that all interactions, both foreign and domestic, are transactional. It is also why he unrelentingly assumes that all government agencies and agency heads simply have to do whatever he tells them to do. It’s also why he is struggling so hard to make the American government function like his own family business. First, because he begins with the assumption that business is always smarter and better than government. Second, because that is really the only way he knows or cares to function, and he's not going to change for something as unimportant as the United States government. Third, because his family members are just about the only people he trusts with his various “secrets.” But government is not a business, nor is it intended to be. A point that seems obvious, but remains oddly confusing to many people, is that governments do not exist for the same purpose, hold the equivalent priorities, or function with the same motivations as business. Trying to force the government to run as a business is like trying to force a hospital to run like a game show; it might be fascinating to watch the attempt, but in the end it will fail in a spectacularly ugly fashion. Also, you really don't want to be a patient during that particular experiment. "Government" and "Business" are different entities. They perform different functions for society and are kept separate for good reason. And quite frankly men like Trump are a large part of that reason. Even ethical and well-meaning business leaders, of which there are plenty, would have a serious problem trying to run the U.S. government like a business. When you instead begin with a businessman as unethical, self-serving, autocratic and mendacious as Trump, it is nearly impossible to avoid ending up with a form of governance that is both incompetent and dangerous. In short, it is simply not possible to run the United States government in this manner, and we are now witnessing what happens when you try. 1- http://cnn.it/2ufGvs6 2- http://nyti.ms/2uOQPKN 3- http://wapo.st/2upHMgk 4- https://bloom.bg/2tKVfgs 5- http://lat.ms/2vNNXu1 6- http://slate.me/2sYvqO1 7- http://bit.ly/2uGtbiJ

-by  Michael Arnovitz

[mindfulwrath]

Silver, Part VIII

Lanyon and Utterson pick a plan, and Rachel plans a picnic.

Words: 4,522 Warnings: None

Part I Part VII

"Gabriel, I swear, you are going to be the death of me," Lanyon said, rubbing his eyebrow. Light was pouring into the conservatory, the first real sunlight they'd had in days. Two glasses of cabernet sauvignon sat on the table. Utterson had so far resisted drinking any of his, which drove home how serious he found the whole situation.

"It's gone on long enough," Utterson said. "Something must be done."

"What can be done? If Mr. Hyde eludes us and Jekyll refuses to listen to us, what else is there?"

"I don't know," said Utterson. "But something must be done."

"Yes yes, I agree with you, clearly it's all highly irregular and unpleasant—"

"He's written a will, Robert."

Lanyon pulled up short.

"He's done what?"

"He's written a will," Utterson repeated. "Didn't I tell you? He gave it to me yesterday. It's a troubling document, although I'm legally forbidden to tell you why."

"If I were to assume its troublesomeness had to do with a certain Mr. Hyde?"

"Legally I would be forbidden to tell you if you were right."

"Ah," said Lanyon. He had a sip of his wine and stared out the window. "Did he mention why he'd written this will?"

"As a precaution, he said."

"You don't believe him?"

"I don't know that I do. I'm certain he was being dishonest on some point, but I don't know what it was."

Lanyon shook his head. "Yes, welcome to my past year," he sighed. "He's been keeping something back ever since that Hyde fellow turned up. It all hinges on him, and it's got no right to."

"Something must be done," Utterson said for the third time.

"But what, Gabriel? What is there left to do?"

Utterson was quiet for a while, wiggling his mustache.

"Hyde must be findable, somewhere," he concluded at last. "We must simply be more persistent. If he be Mr. Hyde, we shall be—"

"Gabriel, please, have mercy," Lanyon said, putting a hand over his eyes. Utterson grumbled, stymied.

"We know he calls at the Society frequently," he said instead. "We could wait there for him. Perhaps he visits Jekyll at home—we could inquire with Poole."

Lanyon shuddered. "Don't make me think of that horrid creature hanging about in Henry's home," he said, his lip curling. "I shall be ill."

"Then I will ask Poole, and if the answer is yes, I won't tell you," said Utterson. "Something is profoundly wrong, Robert. It has fallen to us to put it right. If we fail, we may lose Henry completely."

"Lose him to what?" Lanyon said, frowning.

Utterson shrugged. "I wouldn't like to speculate."

Letting out a long sigh, Lanyon shook his head. "Neither would I, if I'm honest. All right—what shall we do with Mr. Hyde once we find him? I have admittedly enlisted the help of the Society's cook to help net him."

"Oh?" said Utterson.

"Yes," said Lanyon. "I don't know that she'll come up with anything, but I asked her to send him my way if she couldn't convince him to leave Jekyll alone. Which I somehow doubt she will be able to do."

"Hm," said Utterson.

There was a moment of quiet. Utterson frowned, and Lanyon sipped his cabernet, and a cloud drifted over the sun.

"Robert," Utterson said. "I have had an idea."

"You don't sound terribly pleased about it."

"I'm not," said Utterson. "Would you like to hear it anyway?"

"Yes, I think so."

"My idea is this: we report Hyde as the cause of the fire regardless of Jekyll's wishes."

Lanyon stared at him.

"My dearest Gabriel, and I mean this in the kindest possible way, but have you lost your mind?" he said.

"It was only an idea," said Utterson.

"Henry would never forgive us."

"Perhaps not," said Utterson. "But Hyde would be forced to leave him be, whether from behind bars or on the lam."

"Quite frankly, it's worse than your first idea," Lanyon said. "I was rather looking forward to having Hyde roughed up a bit, and there's no guarantee Jekyll would ever put together the fact that we hired the—the rougher-uppers. He'd know we were behind it instantly if Hyde were to be arrested."

"Which do you find more distasteful," Utterson said. "Having an innocent man arrested, or having him beaten in the streets?"

"He's hardly innocent."

"And yet you must still have a preference."

Lanyon chewed on it for some time, swishing it between his cheeks.

"I suppose having the police out for him would be more effective," said Lanyon. "Although doubtless the man has other enemies than us who could reliably be blamed for an—incident."

"Very well," said Utterson. "Since your moral compass requires recalibrating, I'll do the decent thing and admit I was wrong. I made my initial suggestion under the influence of a not inconsiderable amount of Claret. It was a foolish suggestion, and cruel. If Hyde is imprisoned, his name can eventually be cleared. I will take the case on myself, if need be. He cannot be un-beaten, Robert."

Lanyon flushed. He squirmed in his seat, suddenly quite taken with the view out the windows.

"But Henry—"

"Is Henry's regard more important to you than his wellbeing?" Utterson interrupted.

Lanyon shut his mouth. Utterson had never, in their ten year acquaintance, been so frankly and clearly annoyed with him.

"You're right," Lanyon mumbled. "You're right, of course." He rubbed his face. The wine was sitting uneasy in his stomach. He set his glass aside and rested his head on his hand.

"I know that it's difficult," Utterson said. "He's my friend, too. But he may come to understand, in time. And even if he doesn't—"

He made a restrained, helpless gesture. Lanyon understood what he meant.

"Even if he doesn't," he agreed.

A silence fell. Lanyon laughed to himself, although not particularly with amusement.

"I should have listened to you, Gabriel," he said. "We really ought not to have meddled."

"Perhaps not," said Utterson. "But now that we have, we must see it through."

"You're convinced, then?"

"Committed."

"Perhaps we all ought to be committed," Lanyon muttered. "Whatever happened to your inclining to Cain's heresy?"

"That," Utterson said, "was before I had seen the Devil."

"I would hardly call Mr. Hyde a devil."

"I wasn't talking about Hyde," said Utterson.

Rachel knocked on Jekyll's door and smoothed out her skirts. She wasn't sure what sort of reception she would receive—there was no telling if Lanyon had spoken with him yet, and even if he had, whether Jekyll had taken the recommendations to heart. She might find herself summarily thrown out. She wanted to believe that was out of character for Jekyll, but he'd been acting so strangely of late that she wasn't sure what his character actually was anymore.

"Come in!" he called. Rachel slipped inside, closing the door behind her.

The lab was slightly neater than usual, as though it had undergone a recent clean-up. It was still messy, but in a way that indicated some sort of personally comprehensible order. Jekyll was at his desk, laying aside a pen and paper.

"Dr. Jekyll," Rachel said, by way of greeting.

"Miss Pidgley," he said, matching her stiff formality note for note. "What can I do for you?"

"Er, well," she said. She kicked herself in the ankle. She was supposed to be assertive about this. "I know I said I quit, but . . . I'd like to un-quit, if possible."

"Oh," said Jekyll, looking pleasantly surprised. "Yes, of course. To be honest, I was rather hoping you would."

"Well," said Rachel. "Great."

Jekyll made a face. His shoulders slumped, and he fiddled with his pen.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Rachel," he said. "I'm sorry about . . . Jasper. It was unfair of me and it won't happen again. I know how you feel about him, and—"

"It's not about him," she said. Jekyll looked up at her, perplexed. She went on, consequences be damned. "It's about you. It's about the fact that I asked you to help me, and you said you would, and then the first chance you got, you went behind my back."

"That's not . . . precisely how it happened," Jekyll said, sounding strained. "It wasn't an intentional slight against you, Rachel."

"No, I know," she said. "It was just that you completely forgot about promising to help me. It was just that I mattered so little to you that you didn't even think about it."

"Rachel—"

"It's not about Jasper," she said again. "It's about the fact that somebody I thought was my friend clearly wasn't. I don't know why I'm surprised. As if somebody like you would ever be friends with somebody like me."

"Don't make this a class thing, Rachel, it's not a class thing," Jekyll pleaded.

"Then what sort of a thing is it?"

"It's a Henry Jekyll is an idiot sort of thing," he said. "I am deeply sorry that I hurt you. I truly am. I understand if you would like to keep our future interactions as minimal and professional as possible, I couldn't possibly blame you for that. But please, please understand that I don't think any less of you because of your station. I'm just—an idiot, Rachel. I'm just an idiot."

"Not arguing with you there," she said nastily.

Jekyll sighed and rubbed his eyebrow with two fingers. She saw the quick, perhaps involuntary flick of his eyes to the bottle of wine on his desk. She was briefly tempted to pick it up and take it out with her, for reasons she preferred not to articulate.

"Was there anything else?" he asked.

"Not really."

"All right. For financial purposes, we'll behave as though your employment was uninterrupted. You were due for some time off anyway."

"That's very kind of you," she said diplomatically.

"And I would appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone," he said. "Please. I know how gossip spreads in this place, but I can't afford this getting out. Not just for my sake, but for Jasper's."

Rachel lifted her chin and braced herself.

"Then I'd appreciate it if you could tell Mr. Hyde I'd like to speak with him."

A series of expressions flicked across Jekyll's face like pages of a book flipping under someone's thumb—surprise, respect, annoyance, resignation—and he inclined his head and folded his hands.

"What should I say it's about?" he asked.

"That's not your business," said Rachel, although her voice shook and her knees were going to give out any second.

Jekyll raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"All right," he said. "I'll tell him you're looking for him."

"Good!" said Rachel. "And I won't tell anyone you've been snogging boys half your age."

He let out a long, tired sigh.

"Thank you," he said, his voice hollow with pain.

"You're disgusting," she told him, irritated by his refusal to be anything but decent to her.

"Well, at least we agree on one thing," he said. He turned his gaze back to his paperwork. "Good morning, Miss Pidgley."

Rachel left without a further word. He didn't deserve the courtesy.

How dare he make her feel sorry for him.

Most of the day passed in a blur of activity as everyone scrambled to get things together for the exhibition. Several people were now of the opinion that Frankenstein and the monster had left London altogether and were writing them off as a loss. Others were whispering that Moreau's body had never been found after the fire. Luckett and Sinett were in a huff about that one, because Moreau's body had been found, it had just been very very crispy (as had his flamethrower, which is what they were actually upset about). The lodgers who had been taken in by the police were back at work like nothing had ever happened, although the tales of their time in prison were rapidly inflating. Mr. Hyde, too, had apparently had some sort of run-in that had left him screaming bloody murder at five o'clock in the morning. According to Virginia, there had been a truly disturbing amount of blood, and it was only thanks to Jasper that he wasn't dead.

She didn't see Jasper around anywhere. She would have liked to know that he was all right, too.

From needling a few of the other lodgers, she discovered that he was mainly staying in his flat, tending to his creatures—or so they supposed. Evidently he had been singularly uncommunicative last night. Rachel tried not to worry about it, but in the end decided it was better to look foolish than to risk letting Jasper suffer in silence. One of the benefits of being day manager was that, should any of the lodgers have current or former non-Society addresses, she was privy to them. Under normal circumstances, she would never have visited a lodger at home, as it was a serious breach of privacy, but these were not normal circumstances and she was not taking any chances. She packed up a large picnic basket full of food, shrugged on a heavy coat, and went to visit him.

Even if Rachel hadn't known Jasper's flat number, it would have been impossible to miss. The noise was the first giveaway, shortly followed by the smell. When she knocked, there was an explosion of hooting and screeching and yapping that could only have been exceeded by a zoo on fire.

Jasper answered the door already looking apologetic. When he saw Rachel, he blushed bright red and gulped.

"Oh," he said. "Er. Hello."

"Hi," she said. "Um."

They stared at each other for a moment. Rachel lifted up the picnic basket.

"Brought you lunch," she said.

"You're very—" he said, and gestured. "Red."

Rachel looked down at herself. The coat was, indeed, very red, and here she was with a picnic basket, and there he was being a werewolf—

"That wasn't intentional!" she blurted, boiling hot. "I wasn't—I really wasn't—"

He smiled at her. "We can go someplace less noisy," he offered.

"That sounds good," she said, flooded with relief.

"You can actually get to the roof from my window—here, I'll take that—"

Jasper gingerly took the basket from her arm, then ducked back into his room. Rachel followed, biting her lips. The animal smell was overpowering inside, the clutter immense. There was a little stove that had been extensively and shoddily modified into some sort of makeshift chemistry set. There were bags of seed and boxes and crates, newspapers strewn all over the floor. Two dozen different cages rattled and clanked as Jasper moved to the window. Rachel noted that half of his bed was currently occupied by a mournful-looking serpopard, its long neck curled over its own back. Jasper stepped up on the bed to open the window.

"'Scuse me, Mina," he said, mincing around the serpopard. He shoved the window open and climbed out. He scrambled upward and out of sight with impressive dexterity for a man carrying a picnic basket.

Rachel picked her way over. The serpopard blinked up at her with huge, soulful eyes and licked its chops. The tufted tip of its tail twitched hopefully.

"Er, hi," said Rachel. She picked her way around the creature and stuck her torso out the window. There was a sturdy drainpipe right next to the window, leading upward. Jasper was peeking out over the ledge of the roof. Rachel glanced down.

The fall was truly precipitous.

"It's really not difficult," Jasper called down to her. "The pipe's very sturdy."

"Uh-huh?" said Rachel, who was not wording very well.

"You won't fall," Jasper said.

"Uh-huh," said Rachel. She tore her eyes off the ground and mustered her courage. She planted one foot on the windowsill and reached out for the drainpipe. It was farther away than she would have liked—Jasper, in all his lanking glory, probably had no difficulty with the distance.

Rachel was forced to make a leap of faith.

It was more like a lurch, and based more in spite than in faith, but she did make it to the drainpipe without having to ask for help, which was the only thing that mattered. She clambered up, her skirts hitched up around her hips so that she wouldn't step on them and go plummeting to her death.

Jasper offered his hand to her when she got close, and Rachel's confidence was shaken enough that she accepted it. He helped pull her up the last few feet and over the ledge, and soon she was standing next to him, her hand in his, a little sweaty and a little breathless and very alone.

"Well that was easy," she said, like an idiot.

"Yeah," he said. "I mean."

They both looked anywhere but each other. Rachel cleared her throat. Jasper rubbed the back of his neck. He took a deep breath like he was about to say something difficult.

Instead, he kissed her hand.

Rachel went so hot she must have glowed. She ducked her head and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiled so wide it made her cheeks hurt.

"Oh," she said, her voice high-pitched and thin. "Thank you."

"I'm—welcome," said Jasper. "Wait—no, that—"

Rachel burst out laughing. He joined in, obviously still embarrassed. She tugged on his hand and stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek.

"You are welcome," she said.

He grinned, a great big goofy grin that was prettier than all the stars in heaven. Rachel found herself grinning right back.

"So um," he said. "Food? And stuff?"

"Food and stuff," she said.

After some awkward shuffling, they both sat down. Jasper flipped open the picnic basket and was immediately absorbed, rifling through its contents.

"So, um," Rachel said, hands clasped in her lap, eyes cast skyward. "What's your like, field? In science. I know you've got the whole wolf thing but that's not really an occupation."

"Oh!" said Jasper. He had found the roast beef sandwich and was busily unwrapping it. "I'm a crypto-biologist. That's what all the creatures are about."

"So like, what Miss Lavender and Mrs. Cantilupe do?"

"Ssssssort of," Jasper said. "They're more into the whole organism, I'm into the . . . the mechanism. Sort of a thing. Like why are some animals more, er, cryptish than others? What is it makes them different? On a sort of, very small level."

"Oooooh," said Rachel. "This might be a stupid question, but is that why you got bit?"

"Yeah," said Jasper, sheepish. He took a huge bite out of the sandwich and continued talking out the side of his mouth. "No' like, on purpofe, juft, acfidentally. Whilst doing ovver ftuff."

"Right, no, yeah, of course," said Rachel, rolling her eyes and laughing like that hadn't been what she was thinking.

"Bu' anyway, it'f pretty well acfepted that like—" he swallowed and wiped his mouth on his hand— "it's got something to do with bacteria, probably. You know germ theory?"

"I live with a load of scientists, of course I know germ theory," Rachel said, bristling.

"Right, sorry, sorry, that was—yeah, sorry," he said, blushing. "Well. It's got something to do with that. I was going to try and make my own microscope but . . . never could get the lenses right."

"Oof, that's rough," said Rachel.

Jasper had dove back into his sandwich, and there was a bit of a lull. Rachel went for a rifle through the basket and got out the swing top bottle of tea which, despite its swaddling, had gone lukewarm. She was starting to wish she'd brought something a little stronger.

"What about you?" Jasper asked.

"What—what about me?" Rachel said, thrown.

He gestured. "I mean, I know you're like, the day manager and cook and butcher and everything, but—what d'you like, do? Not—sorry, that sounded really bad, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like—but like what d'you—what're your . . . dreams and aspirations and stuff."

He finished at a mumble. Rachel nudged him with an elbow.

"I dunno," she admitted. "I used to want to do sciencey stuff, but then I found out I didn't much like it. I like the people, and everything, don't get me wrong, but it just . . . wasn't for me. I thought for a bit I might want to do like, library work or something, but that wasn't right either. I've sort of been bouncing round for a while, and I happened to land at the Society, and—I dunno. It's not glamorous or anything, but the people are good and the pay's good and I've got enough time off to do stuff I like doing."

"What d'you like doing?" Jasper asked.

"Well," said Rachel, flattered by the sincerity of his interest. "I—do loads of stuff. Like . . . read. I like to read."

"What sorts of things d'you read?"

"Oh, everything," she said, dismissive. "I . . . actually write a bit, too."

"Really?" said Jasper, as though this was an impressive and esoteric talent. "What sorts of things d'you write?"

"Er, well . . . ever read Poe's Auguste Dupin stories?"

"No," said Jasper. "What're they about?"

"They're like, about this detective, only he's only detecting for fun, he's not a policeman or anything," said Rachel. "He's very rich and very bored and very brilliant. I sort of fell in love with them when I was a kid. At first I wanted to be a detective, but—I dunno, it didn't work out for loads of reasons. So I just started writing my own stories, instead. Mine . . . mine are about this woman, she's named Halima, she runs a private detective business in London and solves all sorts of crimes and stuff. Like, by herself. It started out just normal stuff like murders but then once I started working at the Society I thought it—it might be neat to have her solve, like, science crimes. Like with monsters and things."

"That sounds amazing!" Jasper said. "D'you think I could read them, at some point?"

"I, pffff, well, I dunno," said Rachel, thinking with considerable discomfort of the story where Halima had valiantly slain a serial-killing werewolf from the sewers. "They're not any good."

"I've barely read anything except textbooks my whole life," Jasper said earnestly. "I wouldn't know the difference between good stories and bad stories. I'm sure I'd really like them no matter what."

In that instant, Rachel fell more in love with him than she'd ever been with anyone before in her life. She turned her face away and punched him in the arm.

"You're only saying that," she said.

"I'm not," he said.

Rachel couldn't find anything to say, so instead she just leaned over and bumped him with her shoulder, then handed him the tea. He bumped her in turn, then accepted the tea, took a long drink of it, and handed it back. Rachel had a sip, too, and definitely not because his lips had just been on the bottle, where hers were now, and it was almost like a kiss. . . .

"I um, I heard you were a bit of a hero last night," she said, before she could get to thinking too much.

"Oh," said Jasper. "Yeah. I guess."

"They said you saved Hyde's life," said Rachel.

"I—I guess," said Jasper. He was all hunched in on himself, like he was embarrassed. She wrinkled her nose at him.

"Don't get all humble about it," she said. "Hyde's inevitably going to twist it to where he's the hero of the whole thing and you were barely involved. That's what he does."

"I really didn't do much, honestly," Jasper said. "Honestly I was going home because the moon was up but . . . there were six of them and—"

"Six of them?" Rachel cried.

"Yeah, and they had like, knives and crossbows, but he didn't have anything so far as I knew, so—"

"You fought six people?"

"No, I didn't fight anybody, I just sort of . . . stood there looking scary, I s'pose," he said.

"While they pointed knives and crossbows at you."

"It's not like they were silver or anything. Werewolves are awfully hard to kill, it's one of the benefits."

"Ugh, you're ridiculous," said Rachel. She took his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're like a proper hero, and you're sitting up here all it was nothing."

"I honestly didn't do much," said Jasper.

"Obviously it was enough," said Rachel. "And it's more than nearly anybody would do for Hyde. Lucky you were there, honestly."

"Y-yeah," said Jasper. "Lucky."

Rachel took her head off his arm and frowned at him.

"Why d'you say it like that?" she said.

"I—it's maybe not completely luck," said Jasper, squirming.

"How so?"

"I—I sort of. . . ."

"Sort of what?"

"Sort of . . . ran into him at the Blackfog Bazaar," said Jasper, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at his own knees. "And I might've . . . tagged along with him for a bit. Until he got chased out. By the Forty Elephants. At which point I sort of chased them. Because—yeah."

"Aww," said Rachel. "Honestly I don't blame you. From what I've heard, Blackfog's a madhouse. I'd've latched onto a familiar face, too."

"Mm-hm," said Jasper. He went back in the picnic basket and came up with an apple. Rachel watched him out of the corner of her eye.

"So the Forty Elephants, huh?" Rachel said.

"Yeah," said Jasper. "Only there weren't forty of them. Just six, from what I saw."

"And they went after Hyde?"

"Yep."

"How come?"

"Dunno. He went off to flirt with one of them and then they started chasing him."

"Hah! Serves him right," said Rachel.

"One of them shot him, Rachel," Jasper said, put upon.

"Wait, seriously? With—"

"A crossbow. There was blood all over the place. I can't half still smell it," he said, rubbing his nose with his thumb.

Rachel reconsidered her approach.

"That must've been pretty terrifying," she said.

"I thought I was going to die," Jasper said earnestly. "I saw him start running and they all started chasing him and I wasn't nearly as fast, and then when I got up on the roofs the moon was up and I—sort of lost track of some stuff, my head gets funny when I turn sometimes, but then they were running and . . . I dunno. You've got to chase things that run from you. Next thing I knew it was all crossbows and knives."

She hesitated, then linked her arm with his and kissed his cheek again.

"I'm glad you didn't die," she said.

He looked over at her, great big orange eyes and that soft puppy smile.

"Me too," he said.

[no-the-other-thaddeus]

Hollow Knight: Thoughts So Far

Hello. My name is Thaddeus. I have a habit of rambling about games on occasion, and at the request of some friends, I’ll be organizing some of that rambling into something that vaguely resembles a review/first impressions article about a game I’ve played. You can read this one below the cut.

So, now that’s out of the way, let’s talk turkey: Hollow Knight. I’m sure more than a few of you have seen it in your recommendations feed, or just on the front page of the Steam store since the Summer Sale began. For those of you that haven’ t bothered to glance at the game’s page, a quick summary:

Hollow Knight is a Metroid-vania game drawn in a traditional 2D style. Not quite Skullgirls levels of animation, but still quite good for the game’s scale, and the art itself is quite good. Other points of note are it’s soundtrack, boasting several atmospheric, ambient tracks that lend a certain haunting quality to many of the games’ environs, it’s self proclaimed ‘tight controls’, and similarly stated non-linearity. 

It’s plain to see that it’s somewhat inspired by the games of FROM Software, but I wouldn’t say it takes solely (No pun intended) from Dark Souls. The game’s somewhat bleak, misty hub reminds me more of something from Bloodborne than any of the Souls games. Although do keep in mind that this is coming from someone who’s never actually played any of the aforementioned titles, so your mileage may vary. 

The more obvious aspect it borrows from the Souls games specifically is it’s style of story-telling. You are told basically nothing, but you are presented with various cryptic snippets of information as you go. The more you talk to NPCs and explore, the more tidbits you’ll find. The game has done this fairly well thus far; the NPCs you can find to speak with are generally interesting and well-written enough that the more curious among you will likely be intrigued enough to speak to most of them multiple times. 

Now that I’ve painted a general picture, let’s start getting into specifics, shall we?

You begin Hollow Knight with 5 ‘Masks.’ The games equivalent to hearts. Along with this, you have one ‘Soul Orb.’ The Soul Orb is a bit more unique: as you defeat enemies, you collect ‘soul energy’ from them, filling up the orb. With enough soul energy, you can hold down a button to heal off damage. You can only heal 3 health at your maximum capacity starting out however, and you’re left vulnerable while you do it. It also takes a fair few seconds, making it a less than viable option in particularly tense fights with more agile opponents. 

Speaking of, the game’s enemy design definitely leans more toward the Metroid side of Metroid-vania. One or two of the game’s earlier enemies are functionally identical to ones found in Super Metroid, and this is where the first problem arises: in Metroid, your primary attack is a ranged projectile weapon with unlimited ammo, therefore, with a bit of care, it’s not too difficult to take out enemies that fly. In Hollow Knight, your primary attack is a short-range melee strike, but there are still several flying enemies right out of the gate.This means that, from the get-go, you have enemies that can be tricky to reach with your only means of attack. While most of the earliest enemies aren’t terribly fast, their numbers can make them a bit tricky to simply avoid at times as well

This isn’t helped by the fact that every enemy in the game does contact damage, which also inflicts considerable knockback. This is particularly annoying in more vertically oriented rooms, where one unfortunate brush can send you tumbling several platforms back down.

Now, let’s talk about the map system. One of the things the trailers for Hollow Knight bring to attention is how customizable it is. With all the little pins and such to mark things out...but that’s not quite the truth. You don’t place these pins yourself, they’re a one-time buy to automatically mark every instance of the given landmark they’re for pointing out. They all have to be bought using the game’s in-game currency ‘Geo’, which is dropped by enemies and found in rock deposits. 

That would be nothing more than a nitpick, if not for a few factors: Having to buy the maps themselves as well isn’t so unreasonable, but said maps are incomplete when you receive them, and to fill the rest in, you have to buy a ‘Quill.’ Granted, you only have to buy it the once and then you’re set for the game, but it still seems a bit asinine to lock behind money. Then there’s that fact that your own position on the map being visible, also has to be bought, and is the most expensive unlock of all, and not just in money.

The ‘compass’ as it’s called, counts as a ‘charm.’ A little badge you can equip to a limited number of slots on your character for certain benefits. Sort of like the badges in older Paper Mario games. You start with 3 slots. The compass takes up one. I’m sure you can get more later, but it still makes me scratch my head that something as basic as knowing where you are on the map would be put into that system. 

Now, as I said, pretty much all these features only require one purchase, which doesn’t seem so bad, and it isn’t really terrible either; after all, you can decide what you want to prioritize being able to see on the map. However, getting enough money to buy everything you want can be a bit of a problem thanks to the game’s death system.

When you die, you leave behind a shadowy echo of yourself, which is functionally similar to the money bags you drop in Shovel Knight. Unlike in Shovel Knight, however, this isn’t losing some of your money, but all of it. No exceptions, at least thus far. As you might expect, to retrieve your money, you have to reach your shadow...and then kill it, because it’s an enemy. A relatively harmless one, but an enemy nonetheless. One that’s easy to run into for contact damage if you’re angry about dying again. Oh, and before I forget, your soul orb loses a third of it’s capacity until you re-collect your soul.

If you die on the way to collecting it, you lose all of the money you had been carrying permanently. Now, again, that wouldn’t be much of a problem, frustrating, yes, but not a hugely bad design decision or anything. But, you remember those rock deposits that also drop money I mentioned? They don’t respawn. You can permanently lose money you can’t re-collect. Those deposits also generally drop more than the enemies do, and some of the items you’re going to need to explore certain areas of the game are kind of pricey. 

It all adds up to a general sense of dread and frustration as you’re traversing any given area of the game, especially when re-treading old ground just trying to get to the next new place. It’s hurt my enjoyment of the game thus far. Maybe some of you with more experience in the genre, or sharper reflexes, won’t find it so stymieing, but it’s a problem I definitely would be remiss to ignore. 

All of the above certainly irks me, but I’ve dealt with worse over the years. I was still enjoying the game enough, especially with the thought that I would be getting more abilities to better fight enemies and traverse the world going forward. 

And then I got to the second major boss of the game, Hornet.

I was a few hours into the game at this point, 2-3 maybe, 4 tops. Before we get into Hornet, allow me to describe the last big boss: The False Knight. The False Knight, is a good fight. He’s got discernible patterns, and moves slowly enough for you to avoid without too much trouble with a bit of care, even with only your base moveset. I still died a couple times, but thanks to having well telegraphed attacks with distinct audio cues meant that I figured him out in relatively few attempts. His animations were charming (especially the way he died), and I overall left the feeling accomplished. 

Now, let’s talk about Hornet, and believe me, there’s a lot to talk about. As I said, the first boss was fairly slow. Hornet by contrast, is quick and almost constantly moving. It’s not impossible to hit her or anything, but how high and in what direction you need to jump to avoid her attacks changes depending on where she starts the attack from, and because she’s almost always moving around, that means it’s hard to reliably dodge her attacks without bashing your head against the fight a lot. 

On top of that, though I’d yet to mention it here, your invincibility frames are a little on the short side, which becomes a problem here; Hornet’s attacks come out fast, and often in quick succession. Quick enough at least that you can often get hit 2-3 times in as many seconds. Because of this, if you happen to bump into her and her attacks on accident just a few times, an attempt can be over in less than half a minute, maybe less. 

And then you have to walk back to her boss room. You see, much like Metroid, the only checkpoints in the game are fixed points on the maps. Although rather than entire rooms, in Hollow Knight, they’re benches that you can rest on. There are usually only one or two, maybe three if there’s an interior area, benches in a given area of the game’s world. This means that, often, walking back to a boss after dying to them is a tedious affair. 

Hornet’s location is actually closer to a bench than most other boss fights have been thus far, but getting back to her still wastes a good half-minute each time. Plus, of course, you have to kill your shadow before you fight her too, and that takes a bit of time as well. It breaks up the flow immensely, and makes the prospect of giving the fight another try after losing that much more un-appealing thanks to the extra effort you have to put forth to reach her again. 

All of this could be fixed by simply having bosses be an exception to the bench system’s rule: just put a checkpoint right inside the room. It’s not like it’ll make your soul any easier to recover than it already is in these situations. That change alone would be enough that I probably would’ve soldiered through and beat hear already. But it’s not there, and so the little irritations I’ve had with the game’s various systems all converge on this one fight, and I find myself reluctant to keep playing.

I’ll admit, there have been times when I’ve had better runs of the fight that there’s been a certain thrill to it; maybe I get off 4 or 5 hits on her and manage to avoid all the attacks she throws out in that time or something like that. But then all that dies away as I screw up dodging her once, then take contact damage the next moment, and then before you know it, I’m dead again, and I remember why I dislike this fight so much. 

It’s a shame, because I do like the game’s atmosphere, I do like the art style. I want to see the rest of it, but this fight is just such a slog, not to mention how jarring a step up in difficulty it is compared to what’s come before it. All in all, I don’t know if I could recommend Hollow Knight to someone new to the Metroid-vania genre of games as I am. Perhaps someone more seasoned in these types of games wouldn’t blink at these things, and hey, if so, you’ll probably like the game. More power to you I guess, but I’m a little unsure on it myself. 

Hollow Knight is currently $9.89 on the Steam Store.

[smartgirlsaremean]

Fifth Period

Fandom: OUAT

Pairing: Rumbelle

Rating: T

Summary: High school teacher Mr. Gold isn’t sure what to think when his worst-behaved class suddenly start behaving for the substitute. What kind of dark magic is this Mrs. French weaving on his class of miscreants?

(Not on AO3 yet because my work connection is weird.)

Mr. Gold always knew what to expect. He had learned enough about human nature, he thought, to be able to predict reactions, and he was a firm believer in allowing past events to inform present decisions. History, he was fond of saying, always repeats itself. In his small circle of associates he even had a reputation as something of a seer; he could predict human actions at a local, national, and even global scale with eerie accuracy.

When his son Baeden ended up enrolled in his eleventh-grade Practical Law class, he knew exactly what to expect: cheeky impertinence from him, awed disbelief from the rest. Bae never crossed the line into outright disrespect, and since Gold had a colleague mark all of Bae’s assignments, no one could claim that the boy didn’t earn every one of his grades. They got on well enough, all things considered. Just as expected.

When he had to be gone for a day and put in for a substitute, he knew what he would find when got back: positive reports for every class...except Bae’s. The boys in that class seemed to delight in tormenting their substitutes, sometimes to the point of tears. They were never unwise enough to admit it - Gold hated discourtesy and they all knew it - but he’d caught the glints of triumph and little smirks as he scolded them for their poor reports. As he always did, for what little effect it had.

Mr. Gold always knew what to expect.

So when he walked into his classroom one Wednesday morning after having been out the day before, he read the substitute’s report and was momentarily stymied.

Mr. Gold, the elegant script began, thank you so much for the opportunity to sub in your classes today. They were all very polite and attentive, and I think you’ll be pleased with what they accomplished. If I may, I would like to give special praise to your 5th period Practical Law class. They were exceptionally welcoming and helpful, and we had several interesting conversations about the material you left. If you need a sub in future, please don’t hesitate to call me!

Belle French

She’d left her phone number beneath her signature.

Gold stared dumbfounded at the note as his first period students shuffled in. Bae hadn’t said anything about a giant piano falling on the collective heads of the class and causing massive brain trauma. In fact, when asked about school he’d shrugged and said “fine” as he always did. There had been no recent reports of alien abduction. Had all the troublemakers merely skipped that day? No - her records indicated perfect attendance.

He taught the first classes in something of a confused daze, going back to the note at intervals to try to puzzle out what it could mean. At lunch he thought that the boys had actually managed to break a substitute so thoroughly that she could no longer accept reality. Strange though that the note was perfectly coherent and their assignments, when he dared to check, were completed - and completed well.

Standing before his fifth period class, he had no idea what to do. They were all staring at him, with their beatific smiles and mischievously sparkling eyes. The words from Mrs. French’s note danced in his brain and he wondered how on earth he was supposed to interrogate them about their good behavior without sounding like an idiot.

“Well, congratulations,” he said finally. “For once a substitute teacher did not leave this classroom wishing for death.” Their smirks grew wider and he grew more nervous. “I admit to being curious. Was she an ogre - green skin and rotting teeth and all?”

They said nothing.

“Well. Let’s move on, then.”

“Mr. Gold?”

“Yes, Mr. Booth?”

“Do you think Ms. French will sub for us again?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I mean,” the boy elaborated, “she said she’d like to.”

Who were these people, and what had they done with his class? “She left a note to that effect, so I’m sure she’ll be back.”

“Oh. Ok, then.”

Gold glared at the boy, who smiled widely. Was this part of a plot to drive him mad? If so, it might be working.

Two weeks later Bae came down with the flu, and Mr. Gold took the day off. He debated with himself for a full minute before using the phone number she’d left.

“Hello?”

The voice was a surprise. Low, sweet, Australian.

Young.

“May I speak with Belle French?”

“Speaking!”

Why had he thought he knew what she would sound like? “This is Roderick Gold. From Storybrooke High.”

“Oh!” Now she sounded surprised. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m afraid my son is sick and I’ll need to take tomorrow off. Are you available?”

“Oh...oh, sure! Absolutely!”

“I know it’s short notice.”

“No, it’s fine. Your son, you said? Bae, right?”

His brain nearly short-circuited. Not only had Bae revealed their relationship to a sub - something he never did - he’d revealed his family nickname and, by the sound of it, encouraged her to use it. Only the boy’s closest friends were allowed to call him Bae. “Uh...yes.”

“Tell him I hope he feels better soon.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He rang off and stared at the phone for a few seconds, his mind whirling. Walking into Bae’s room he debated bringing it up, but he was too damn curious not to.

“I’ve got a sub for tomorrow,” he said.

“You didn’t have to do that. I’d be fine on my own.” Bae rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Wait. Which sub?”

“Mrs. French.”

“Oh. Lucky.”

“I contacted her, she asked me to. And apparently she can get you miscreants to do your work.” He studied Bae’s grinning face warily. “She said to tell you that she hopes you feel better.”

“You called her?” Bae sat upright, his eyes gleaming. “She gave you her number?”

“Yes…”

“Awesome.”

“What...no. I don’t want to know.”

“Sure you don’t.” Bae let out a laugh that quickly turned into a hacking cough.

“Go to sleep, ridiculous boy,” Gold said fondly, ruffling his hair.

Mr. Gold, allow me to say again what an absolute pleasure it is to cover your classes. They’re all great kids and extraordinary thinkers.

Her note detailed what they’d covered, and Gold smiled to himself. She seemed a competent teacher and a pleasant person. She praised fifth period again, and he merely raised his eyebrows at them that afternoon when they asked what Ms. French had to say about them.

“Why would she mention you specifically?” he asked, and a couple of them squirmed.

The next time she taught in his classroom, he left a note of his own.

Mrs. French, I don’t know what black magic you work on my fifth period class to transform them into decent human beings, but may I suggest you bottle and market it? Their work has never been better and I’m grateful that I no longer need to dread leaving for a day.

Her answering note made him laugh aloud.

Mr. Gold, I only dabble in light magic, thank you very much. And what makes you think I haven’t got an online shop selling model student elixirs?

I like your fifth period class. They’re bright and energetic and imaginative and funny. They require more positive attention than the other classes, more obvious encouragement and praise, but those things are easy to give if you allow yourself. They clearly adore you, so you must have got the knack of it. It’s always a pleasure to work with them.

And for the record, it is Miss French.

Well. There was no reason for that last sentence to make his heart thump harder and his smile stretch wider. But there was also no reason for her to correct him, was there?

Two months after he received her first note, when she had subbed for him a handful of times (leaving him delightful notes that he kept safe in a drawer in his desk), Gold found he actually felt comfortable leaving his classes in her capable hands and attending one of the multi-day conferences the district liked to arrange. Miss French was willing to commit to a week, so he took Baeden with him and they made something of a holiday of it. Miss French emailed him a report at the end of the first day, but on Tuesday evening his phone rang and he saw with a jolt that it was her.

“Miss French? Everything alright?”

“Yeah, fine. I just don’t like email much. Too impersonal.”

He generally didn’t like phone calls much. Too personal. But in this case he found he didn’t mind. “Did the day go well?”

“Yeah, of course. Some of the freshmen are struggling a bit with their research, though. Do you mind if I give them a refresher on primary and secondary sources?”

“By all means. And remind them that they need to have at least one print source on top of their electronic sources.”

He thought he heard her snort. “It’s funny how quickly that’s changed. When I was in high school we were only allowed one electronic source.”

“When I was in high school we got our information directly from the horse’s mouth,” Gold quipped.

“Oh, I’m sure. What was it like to hear Winston Churchill speak in person?”

Caught off-guard, Gold sputtered for a moment before he realized that she was teasing him. “Very funny.” He couldn’t quite keep the smile from his voice.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You were talking like an octogenarian.”

“In my day young people had more respect for their elders,” he groused.

“You’re not that much older than I am.”

“Oh? How would you know that?”

“The kids told me, of course. They’re very free and easy with your personal information, I should warn you.”

“Why? What have they told you?” His amusement abated somewhat, and he now felt a little afraid of what his boy’s nosy friends would reveal to their substitute.

“The basics, really. Age, height, marital status.”

She made his class sound like a bloody dating service and suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped in his brain, he realized why his loathsome students had been so kind and welcoming to this particular substitute.

They were matchmaking.

He was tempted to fail them all.

“You’re welcome to give them all detention if they’re bothering you,” he told her.

“They’re never a bother,” Miss French insisted.

Gold couldn’t help laughing at that, but he was grateful that she allowed him to steer the conversation back to the plans for the rest of the week and how she would modify them to accommodate the changes she had planned.

He rang off as soon as he could without appearing rude and cornered his son when he came in from the pool.

“Baeden Neal Gold,” he growled.

Bae’s eyes widened. “What?”

“What exactly have you been telling Miss French about me?”

His son had the grace to blush, though his expression was unrepentant. “Just, like...normal stuff.”

“How is discussing my age normal?”

Bae shrugged.

“My height? My marital status?”

Sighing, Bae pushed a hand through his wet hair. “We just thought she might like to know you were single.”

“What - how - why would you think that?” Anger had now faded, to be replaced with bewilderment.

“Cuz when she reads your notes she gets this big dopey smile on her face.” Bae glanced at him. “Kinda like the one you get when you read hers. You like each other. What’s wrong with letting her know you’re available?”

“It’s...wasted effort.”

Bae rolled his eyes. “Says you. I need a shower, I’m pretty sure they just dumped a bottle of bleach in the pool and called it good.” And he was off before Gold could think of anything more to say to support his position.

On Wednesday night, he emerged from the bathroom to discover that Bae had answered his phone and was chatting with Miss French as if they were old friends. He glared at his son and held his hand out for the phone. Bae grinned and handed it over, but not before saying loudly, “Jeez, Pops, put on some pants, would ya?”

Glancing down at the robe he wore, Gold raised an eyebrow at Baeden and turned his attention to his phone.

“Miss French?”

“Um...hi, Mr. Gold.” Her voice sounded a little breathless. “Is - is this a bad time?”

“Not at all. How did class go today?”

She was distracted throughout the conversation, but she assured him his classes were doing well and that she had no questions about the material for the next day. She hung up rather quickly, and Bae grinned at him from his own bed, where he was sitting up and watching soccer.

The boy was acting very strangely.

They had talked every day for a week, but Gold still wasn’t used to the little thrill that went through him when his phone lit up and her number appeared on the screen. He was actually sorry that it was Friday, because on Monday he would be back in school and there would be no more calls from his favorite substitute. He answered and they chatted about the conference for awhile before she brought up the day’s lessons.

“The practical law lecture went well, but I wonder - have you ever considered using interactive presentations?”

“What?”

“Like Nearpod or something?”

She might as well have been speaking Greek. “I...uh…

“Here, I’ll show you. Are you near your laptop?”

She had him go to a website and enter a code, and then she was taking him through a presentation that appeared on his own screen, interspersed with polls and quizzes and activities.

“The kids can access this on their phones and tablets,” she explained. “It’s much more engaging than sitting and looking at a projector screen.”

Fifth period would go wild for it. He just didn’t know how to use it, and he said so.

“Oh.” Her voice went a little higher in pitch. “I could, um. Show you sometime. If you like.”

He frowned a little. “What do you mean?”

“Y’know, we could...get together...maybe for dinner or something...and I could show you how to set it up.”

His brain ground to a halt and his words fled. He’d noticed a few times over the last week that their conversations had become less professional and more personal, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t venture into flirtation now and then. And he was more pleasant to Belle than he was to just about anyone but Bae. When all was said and done, though, he was an ill-tempered old man with a limp. The fact that talking to her made him feel attractive and appealing and ten years younger was beside the point. As it was she could imagine whomever she wanted to be on the other end of the line, but the moment they met in person the illusion would be shattered.

“That won’t be necessary, dearie,” he said a little more coolly, wincing at the sarcastic endearment he used for those who annoyed him.

“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind at all and…”

“I’ve been teaching for twenty years and I’ve never yet had to turn to a substitute for instructional advice,” he said dryly.

“I’ll have you know I have Master’s degrees in education and library science,” she said after a moment of stunned silence. “You’ve never treated me like an inferior before. What did I do wrong?”

“Besides encouraging students to fiddle about on their phones when they should be learning?”

“This isn’t about classroom technology. You’re angry with me. What did I do?”

Nothing. She’d done nothing but be sweet and kind and a bloody fantastic teacher, laugh at his odd jokes and commiserate with him on the pointless nature of most of the sessions at this conference, and win his son over so entirely that Bae would return from the dining room any second to demand his turn on the phone with her.

He was damn close to being in love with her and they’d never even been in the same room. It was terrifying, especially as she didn’t - couldn’t - feel the same way.

Belle huffed into the phone. “You’re really doing this, aren’t you? Shutting me out for no good reason.”

He was silent.

“Goodbye, then, Mr. Gold.”

She rang off.

For two months Gold actually found himself inventing excuses to miss school about once a week, but Miss French’s name no longer appeared on his coverage schedule. Other, inferior subs took her place and his fifth period now glared daggers at him, though they didn’t dare say a word. Six weeks along Bae slammed his way into the house and ranted about Miss French’s disappearance, pestering his father to call her, email her, something. He only stopped when Gold threatened to ground him for the rest of the school year.

Everything was ruined.

Then one morning, before the start of class, he saw her name on the list of substitutes in the building. She was covering the afternoon classes for another teacher, who was attending the same training he was. Heart pounding, he made a few phone calls, wrote a note, and hoped he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

His fifth period students were filing in and he was gathering up his things to leave when the sound of high heels rapidly approaching made him look up at the door. A tiny woman stood there, her hands on her hips and fire blazing in her eyes.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she demanded, and her voice hit him like a punch to the chest.

It was Belle. And she was gorgeous.

“Miss French…”

“Don’t! Don’t you…” She took a very deep breath and fisted her hands in her skirt. “May I see you in the hall, Mr. Gold?”

He gripped his briefcase and followed her out, his heart roaring in his ears. He allowed the door to close behind him.

“You switched my assignment,” she said, her voice calmer and lower.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Fifth period misses you,” he stammered, “and you’re the only one who can keep them in line.”

She crossed her arms and glared at him.

“I really do need to leave,” he pointed out timidly.

“You are meeting me here after school and we are going to talk about this.”

Nodding, he walked past her, leaving her to go into the classroom alone. From the raucous cheers that erupted from the open door, Gold knew he wouldn’t be missed.

The training was pointless as well as dull, but Gold hadn’t wanted it to end. He was dreading returning to his classroom and facing the furious little beauty with eyes like aquamarines. He approached his classroom with feelings very similar to those of an inmate walking to his execution. Any hope he might have had that she would leave without facing him was extinguished when he saw that the light in his classroom was still on even though school had let out half an hour ago. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and saw that Belle was at his desk, her lovely eyes serious as she read the note he’d left. She looked up when the door clicked closed behind him.

“Do you mean this?” she asked.

“Every word,” he admitted.

Carefully she folded the note and put it in her purse. “Then why?”

Because you’re getting too close. Because I don’t like to need people. Because I’m an idiot.

“I…” he shrugged, “I am a difficult man to like, Miss French.”

“I wasn’t having any trouble liking you until you pulled that stunt,” she pointed out, coming around to lean against the front of his desk.

“You don’t know me very well.”

“You won’t let me.”

“You don’t want to.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I want.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Alright,” he conceded at last. “What do you want?”

She studied him with narrow eyes, evidently pondering his last question. “A hamburger.”

Her answer surprised a laugh out of him.

“I’m serious,” she said with a little smile. “I’ve been teaching for hours and I’m starving.”

“I understand the diner down the street serves hamburgers,” he said cautiously, relaxing when her smile grew. She retrieved her bag and coat from behind the desk and hurried up beside him.

“Lead the way.”

He held the door open for her and smiled as she passed him. He made a mental note to cancel fifth period’s pop quiz the following day. After all, he owed them, and he always paid his debts.