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phantomphangphucker · 4 years ago

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Phic Phight: If Only You Had Compassion

Prompt Creator: @summerssixecho

The bad blood between humans and ghosts was going to come to a head eventually, and when it did everyone was going to get hurt.

Danny sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and leans back against the wall; staring at the news disbelievingly.

They had lost.

Lost the entire goddamn case. Because the American government had officially decided: Ghosts were not sentient. Ghosts were not beings. Ghosts did not have rights. And ghosts were a threat to the country. Meaning any and all instances of ghosts and anything -excluding weapons or other items used to combat, control, or harm ghosts- were illegal to exist, possess, or help.

Danny, they, had gone about this the human way. Had been respectful. And nice. And friendly. And it didn’t fucking work. They extended a hand and got fucking bit.

And of course, anyone who had been fighting for ghosts and their rights and safety were the first ones to come under fire and scrutiny. And with nearly all of Amity Park being on that list, it was no surprise the G.I.W. were coming here and banging on doors at record speed.

What’s worse? Danny had been the loudest voice. Of course he had. He had to be. He was fighting for his own goddamn rights after all; not that the government or his family knew that. But it wasn’t just that. No.

Danny Phantom was King. THE High King. This was something he had to deal with, had to handle. And well... the cards hadn’t landed in his favour. In their favour.

But that wasn’t the end of it, because on top of it, his parents couldn’t understand what he was doing, to the point that Danny had to just get out of that house.

Technically he was homeless now, but well, being a ghost rather negated that. He had a whole dimension if need be and could get by just goddamn fine on the streets.

In the end, Danny had lost pretty well all his respect and love for his parents. They had become the enemy too and he just couldn’t afford room to old sentimentality and dwelling on ‘what could have been’ if they had been better people and parents.

At least Danny had listened to his gut and firmly ordered all the ghosts back into the Infinite Realm. He didn’t have to worry about any full ghosts getting captured, tortured, dissected, and destroyed.

Elle was safely with the residents of the Far Frozen too, so no worries there.

And Vlad... Vlad could look after himself. Last he heard the man fully intended to blow up his entire mansion and lab should the case fall through, purely to stop the G.I.W. from getting their hands on anything. Money only went so far in protecting yourself and your assets after all. Danny didn’t doubt the man’s willingness to do it either.

So that just left Danny. The one who was really the most at risk. He was damn near the face of the case, of the campaign. He was a minor still, limiting his rights even further. His ‘parents’ were hunters, hunters that idolised the G.I.W. and worked with them gladly and eagerly.

And he was a true halfa. Exactly half and half. He couldn’t even hide himself from the Fenton’s janky scanners, hiding wasn’t an option.

But then again, hiding had never even been an option for him. Hiding wasn’t Phantom’s thing, wasn’t the Kings thing. For now though? He lays low. He watches. And he waits. Waits for the Observants to finally back him proper. For FrightKnight to rally and ready. And finally for ClockWork to give him that melancholic face that says there is no other option.

Because Danny played this like a human. Because Danny gave humanity a chance. Because Danny wanted to have faith in people. Because Danny had hoped his goddamn half-beating heart out.

Because Danny was scared. Because he was still a kid. Because he shouldn’t have to pick one or the other. Because he doesn’t want anyone to get hurt.

Well now there wasn’t much of a choice. He picked ghosts the day he took that crown. The day he agreed to apprentice under ClockWork instead of the Fenton’s. The day Danny Fenton became just a fabricated mask for Danny Phantom to hide behind.

And now everyone was going to have to play their part. Fulfil their role. Dance out repeating history on the world’s stage. Everyone was going to have to pay a price.

Because when you take away someone’s rights in your own eyes, then they take away yours in theirs.

Because when the government decides someone doesn’t get to exist, and then every other government falls in line because the military powerhouse that is America has decided, then that someone is going to thrash and bite and scream to get to exist.

That’s how its always been.

Survival of the fittest.

And humans? Humans weren’t the fittest by miles.

Because humanity had been given coexistence on a paper. Had been given peace on a paper. And had drawn weapons and scalpels and hate instead.

And for that, this means war.

And not just a skirmish or dispute. No. An all-out bloody war. A massive war. A war beyond anyone’s wildest imaginations or worst dreams.

Because what humanity didn’t know is there were laws that existed. Laws that already governed dead and mortal interaction and travel between the realms. The Oaths and Seals. Older than most of the Ancients and predating nearly all mortal life in the universe.

And one of those Seals states simply that any being of death or life could traverse between Realms freely without harm, threat, or unwilling containment from ruling bodies or any species as a whole.

To say ghosts couldn't exist here. It was such a direct blatant violation. There was no way around that. There really wasn’t. If it wasn’t acted on then it could be overlooked as someone making stupid laws and ignored. But that just wasn’t the case. Wouldn’t be. In that sense it was both blessing and curse that Amity would be targeted first. He had a chance to stop them. To hedge them at the gates.

To cut the Gordian knot.

To meet them at the doors to his lair and tell them what awaited them should they choose to pass. Should they choose to continue a damned and forsaken path.

It would mean revealing himself. Would mean ending the lies and double life. It would mean definitively and finally choosing a side. Choosing ghosts. But it was what had to be.

And if they choose to cross him?

Then it’s game over.

Because Amity was Phantom’s lair. The High Ghost Kings land. His people. His subjects. His. It would be treason. Would be a crime against the High Crown. Against not only the Seals but the Kings Decrees and the Law Of Ages as well. There would be no going back.

The punishment was death. Was absolute subjugation. Was the end of humanity's reign upon the earth.

Because in the eyes of the universe, humanity would have forfeited the right to stand as equals to the dead. They would become lesser and treated as such. Any human who refused to kneel and bow to the Infinite Realm, to him, would be summarily cut down and disposed of.

He didn’t want this. He truly didn’t.

But it wasn’t his choice to make.

It was humanities. The G.I.W.’s.

Danny had very little faith.

But at least he could try. He was a determined bastard to a fault. Even when he should probably give up. When it was probably a lost cause.

This was hopeless now. He knew it. But he had to try and when that failed... then he’ll fight. He’ll fight with a frown and tears screaming down his face. But he’ll damn well fight.

Because that’s who he is. What he is. Because if he doesn’t do this for the ghosts then he’ll do it for the humans he protects.

For Sam and Tucker, both nearly halfas themselves due to UnderGrowth and a past life lived.

For Star, Paulina, Dale, Brittney, Kwan, Ashley, Emilie, Todd, James, Dash, Mikey, Nathan, Rosalia, Jasper, and Carrie, so horribly contaminated by Spectra’s and Bertrand’s experiments.

For Jazz, who’s opinions and field of study made her a ‘threat to humanity’ all the same.

For Valerie, who’s nanobot suit ran on ectoplasm that she could never be separated from without her death.

For Lancer, and Trent, and Remi, and Testlauf, and Ishiyama, who all just knew too much.

For every citizen of his home, his lair. Because the G.I.W. would wipe them all out.

Because he was King.

It does not matter how a king cries nor mourns nor wishes things could be different. Because a king sees his people free before he grasps his own. Because a king knows his people safe before he dares relax. Because a king does not belong to himself but to the people he rules. Because they are the kings children dear and he must see them well. Because it is his duty to do what they can not and pay every price. Because a king can never fall unjustly. Because he is their hopes and dreams.

And though he cries and begs and weeps, his blade hand must stay steady and his sword must strike swift without mercy. Even if he wants to run, every friend and family dear he must be willing to sacrifice if the need arises. Even if that leaves him alone and in pain.

Because that is the cost of the crown.

And now Danny has to pay his dues.

Has to see himself a conqueror to the human world he once protected with everything in him.

He doesn’t want this but this is what the world has given him and he must walk with it.

Into a future that may be filled with hurt and pain. That’ll make him hate every breath he takes or the things he’s seen. Or maybe something beautiful will grow from the ashes. One can only hope.

He sighs and stands. What must be, must be. Running a messy hand through his hair and shaking a spray can. He may as well tag the place where he found things changed before he goes.

Goes to wait on the road.

Wait for the men in white suits to make their arrival.

Wait for the end result of the pain the mortal government chose to wrought.

Wait for Danny Fenton’s ending.

The spray cans psssshh is oddly loud. It hurts his ears.

The FrightKnight meets him outside the alleyway. He nods and Danny nods back. It is done. His army awaits him.

He wishes it didn’t.

He knows the humans have armies of their own. Awaiting retaliation or strike back perhaps. But those armies won’t see war. They won’t do battle or struggle to win. This won’t be two forces meeting to oppose each other. No. It will be more akin to an exterminator coming in with his toxic fumes and spraying down annihilation.

The Dread Army stood four billion strong.

That wasn’t a force humanity could face.

And the Dread were truly non-sentient. Casualties on their side was not of issue or concern. And should humanity somehow persevere and fight back. Then there would be so many more ghostly armies ready and waiting for his regretful and pain-filled command.

He senses the pulse from the Observants, sent out through the Infinite Realm’s ectoplasm and across the threshold of life and death.

They approve. And inside, he weeps.

He traces his fingers on the bricks, walls, and trash cans. Everyone is tucked inside. They know what’s coming as much as he does, just not what comes after. They see this as their end. Danny does too, but for different reasons.

He knows Sam, Tucker, Valerie, and Jazz are all hovering over the extractions waiting for his signal. Waiting to pull his lair into the Infinite Realm. Waiting to save them and leave him behind.

Amity will always be home. But it just won’t be the same. Not for him. He won’t be able to just be another citizen in their eyes or to them anymore. And his friends, they’ll have to look at him knowing that he’s was ultimately directly responsible for the demise of at least thirty percent of humanity.

And he’ll have to get used to that being reflected back at him in the mirror. And refusing to look at all was a weakness he couldn’t allow himself to have.

Stopping at the fountain, its waters reflecting gears and cogs and swaying necks of clocks. As it always had since everything began. As if the water was counting down to the end itself. Only Danny knew that was more fact than fiction.

Water flows like time after all. And no matter what it must continue on. For the sake of life. For the sake of growth. For the sake of time itself continuing on. For the sake of everything.

Danny sits on the edge and it is not his own reflection that greets him, a small mercy, but ClockWork’s.

They look old and tired and worn. Aged by the faults of humanity's actions and inactions. Aged by the weathering storm that is change and its cruelties. But above all else, aged by what they know must be and what they must ask of him.

All is as it should be.

And isn’t that an awful thing.

Danny can only look to the sky tinted faintly green and nod, carrying on his way. Changing everything with every step he takes. Aching more with each breath he takes. And becoming more king than hero with every inch the city limit grows closer.

A hero can fall and rise a king.

But is still a fall all the same.

Because a king does not do what is right. He does not do what is good. What is just. What is kind. He does what he must. Decides what is best.

Humanity decided what was best and lost the bet. They gambled against death.

But death...

Death always wins in the end.

It’s the house we all must rest on. It is the debt collector at the end of every tax season. It is our last breath or a snap of the neck at the end of the noose of our own creation. It is the bullet in the gun that we forged ourselves. It is the black screen left after the credits roll, only ghosts going home.

It was always going to be this way.

What will his ‘parents’ do. Will they die. Will they live. Will they force their way back to the mortal world and seek to strike him down. Will the town or ghosts see them hanged as an example. Will they accept reality and learn. He doesn’t know. In a way he doesn’t want to.

Regardless the town’s edge approaches and he finds himself standing on the precipice of everything he has ever known, everyone he has ever loved, every place that has ever housed him.

And now he steps forward to leave it behind. Says goodbye with resounding footsteps. Mourns the loss as the G.I.W.’s armoured vehicles and containment trucks drive toward him.

Toward death.

He wished they’d stop. Turn back. Change their minds. But knows they won’t.

Ignorance would be bliss.

The most decorated vehicle stops barely feet from him. The officer inside hoping out with a smirk that Danny hates down to the bottom of his guts.

“Well how nice for the worst of them to come greet us. What. Here to turn yourself in for your disgusting crimes against humanity“.

Danny honestly doesn’t care about their words. Not how they’re said nor what is said nor who says them.

It’s meaningless.

Danny shakes his head disappointedly, “I tried. I really tried. So sorry about this. But you leave me no choice”.

The man squints at him. Not that it matters.

Danny looks up at the sky, if he didn’t know better he’d say the clouds were swirling all centred around him and waiting for him to do as he must. As the crown commands. Sighing, “I don’t know why humans must make things so hard for themselves”, and lets his human form melt away without any flashy light show. Green energy pulsing out of his feet and shooting skyward like flaming arrows lighting up the funerary ship seeing a fallen warrior off.

The reaction is immediate. They open fire on him, pausing only when every single high anti-ecto round merely bounces of his green shield; the town behind him shimmering green before vanishing like wet oil wiped off canvas.

Danny shakes his head, “that isn’t how this is going to be. Sorry”, and takes one single step forward. Voice bellowing and sturdy though he feels like shaking apart into sand, “the American government, on behalf of the entirety of the human race, has designated that the ghost species is no longer allowed amongst them or on earth. As such, they, alongside the rest of humanity, have broken the True Kept Equivalent Co-Existence Fault Line Seal of the Exterial law of the Realms. Your options are as follows: revoke your illegal actions and halt your approach or continue on as you are knowing that your actions are an act of war and punishable by the immediate annihilation of thirty percent of humanity followed by the forced subjugation of your entire species. Furthermore, any actions of violence or harm taken against Amity Park, her citizens, or Daniel James Janus Fenton Phantom, will count as an act of treason and war against the High Ghost Sovereign, king of the entirety of the Infinite Realm; and is punishable by immediate death and I do mean your death”.

He stands there and stares. Waits for a response. The men take their time, but eventually...

One of them fires.

“There’s your ‘answer’, you lying ectoplasmic scum”.

Danny bats away the weapon, not even bothering with a shield. They would need nukes if they wanted to so much as scratch him.

He had all the Infinite Realm’s ectoplasm at his fingertips after all. And it sings to be used. To defend its lands and king. To strike down those who must be, for the prosperity and safety of its people.

And Danny gives it that.

He must after all. It is his place.

With merely a flick of his fingers the Dread Army make their debut. Some are here, some are elsewhere. But where ever they may be they bring down destruction and chaos and punishment.

You may think Danny wrong for placing all this on one man’s response, but in truth he, as Phantom, had informed every government of this reality already.

The decision was already made. The choice already set in stone.

He just thought that maybe...

Maybe.

These men before him would have some heart. Some soul. Some sense. Some compassion.

And choose to say no. And refuse to follow orders.

He would rather team up with humanity to stage a coup d’état against their respective governments than what has to transpire now.

The FrightKnight appears and gores the man who dared to fire at Phantom knowing the consequences of doing so. Danny forces himself to watch the man fall, knowing his orders and words and actions were as much the sword that killed him as the one his High Dread Knight wields.

The FrightKnight turns back to him and he knows there is sorrow in his helmeted eyes, for he knows his Knight knows he is not a hardened man nor a man at all.

Just a child with too much weight. Too much hope. Too much asked of him. Too much power at his fingertips. And too much of both life and death.

“Go”.

Danny does as he’s told, as he’s asked. Thankful to have even an ounce of personal responsibility lifted off his shoulders.

Humanity was never going down a good path. Never doing the right thing.

Damning the water they drank with oil and plastics.

Damning the air they breathed with tar and fumes.

Damning the earth that fed them with pavement and poisons.

Damning their fellow neighbouring mortal species with overhunting and stolen lands.

It was only a matter of time before they damned themselves with their ego and actions.

Nothing can survive if it burns every bridge around it.

Especially if the bridge it sets its sights on to burn is the bridge with death.

For only nothing lies where death can not be.

End.

Prompt: After a fierce legal battle to end experimentation on ectoplasmic entities, it's determined that, no, ghosts can't have any rights in the human world and possessing ghostly artifacts, materials, or organisms is illegal. With the GIW enforcing the new laws, starting with Amity Park, how will Danny avoid scrutiny?

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roswellnmsource · 3 years ago

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Lily Cowles Talks Stunt Work on Roswell, New Mexico & the Action-Packed Final Episodes This Season

So, finding out that there's been another alien Roswell really threw the audience for a loop. What were you thinking when you heard that there would be another alien in town?

I mean, I was like, finally. I'm ready for a little new alien blood in the mix, like let's stir it up. We've had our little pod squad, and we have this super tight little dynamic, and it's been pretty insular. They've had to keep everything to themselves, and so I think finding out that there's another person that's like them, another alien. How exciting.

What are the implications? This might change everything. I was really excited about it. I'm like, let's go, plus he's super cute, so.

That's very true. Can you preview what's next for Isobel and everyone as they process this new development?

Yeah, well, I think Isobel is...I think her initial reaction she's excited to bring someone new into the fold. And it's a little more complicated than that. We have a conversation you see with Isobel and Kyle, where he sort of is like, you might want to take this a little slow because this is a man of God.

This is a man whose vocation is faith-based. And to tell him that he's an alien might kind of complicate his life.

So, how much do you really want to ruin someone's life by telling them that they're an alien or change it for the better but I think Isobel is looking forward to kind of bringing someone newer to the fold and wants to share everything and learn from him.

And she's pretty enthusiastic about it. And it's going to have to learn how to handle that with grace and tack, which I think can sometimes be difficult for her. I know she can sometimes be quite straightforward with things.

Beyond that, Isobel is going on a date in this episode, which is so exciting for her. And I think she's going to be faced with having to break down some of the walls that she's built up that she's been working on. So, I'm kind of like personal internal conflict, but also a lot of opportunity.

And I think our writers handle it all so well, and it's going to unfold in a very fun way.

Sure. So, family is very important to not only the fabric of Roswell but to Isobel in particular. Can you tell us a bit about what family means to Isobel?

Yeah. I mean, I think Isobel has always had to lean so much on her brothers. There may have been the small amount of codependency. You might say with the trio because they have this enormous secret, they can't share with anybody else.

I mean, me personally, I have so many friends. I like to go around and talk about all my problems and everything with all my friends, but Isobel doesn't have as many people, or she didn't up until recently that she could talk about these things with, so her family was sort of everything for her.

These two people who understood who she was and saw her for who she truly was.

For the rest of the world, she had to, for many years of her life, kind of wear this mask and do a kind of performance of something that was sort of half-truth. Now, her circle has expanded a bit over the seasons of Roswell, which has been great—adding friends like Maria and Rosa and Kyle, Alex, and of course, Liz.

We've gotten all this new group of people that can support her. But I think the first 25 years of her life were basically just her and her brothers. And so, that loyalty goes really deep, and I think it will always be the trump card for her. I think it will always take precedent over everything else, which can be good, and it can be bad.

Yeah. And that kind of leads me into my next question, which is that Isobel has some of the best dynamics on the show. From Isobel and Michael and their brother, sister bond. And obviously Isobel and Max and this new bond now with Maria. What's your favorite Isobel dynamic?

It's hard to pick one because I love them all so much. I love working with Amber. I love the Isobel and Rosa dynamic so much because it's...there's so many layers in there. There's definitely the 'Oops. I'm sorry that I murdered you with your friends'.

But then also, Isobel kind of guiding her in Rosa's journey learning about her powers, and I think Isobel really took her under her wing. And I think that means a lot to Isobel to be able to be a guide for someone and somebody's mentor. But as time has gone on, the tables have also been turning.

There are lots of times when Rosa has been a mentor to Isobel.

And I love the female dynamics, that is... it's so rich. There's so much in there. Two women who are learning from each other and growing and supportive of each other, and challenging each other to be better. And it comes from this really complicated history that they were able to overcome.

So, to me, that sort of female dynamic is just like, oh, I love to see that.

I love Isobel and Kyle together too. It's really fun. Isobel knows how to shoot. She comes in just with so much energy. And I think there's something that happens. There's some kind of chemistry there, right? There's something, and it all maybe started at Planet Seven.

But, I think Kyle is someone that Isobel really trusts and leans on, and he's like this solid foundation for her, like a real confidant. But then there's more to it than that.

And there's something that's just, it's hard to put your finger on with them, but whenever I'm working with Michael Trevino, the scenes just...we find these little places that things just kind of pop and these unexpected moments come up and it feels like a really complex dynamic.

And I'm excited to see where that goes.

For sure. I got to talk to Michael, and he said very similarly that you guys had a really great dynamic, and he'd like to see more Kyle and Isobel scenes.

You know, give the world what they want! How bout it, Roswell!

Yes! So, Isobel has gone on quite the journey throughout the course of Roswell, and throughout season three as well, we've seen as she's dealt with Jones. So, can you speak to Isobel's resilience and how we will continue to see her growth?

Yeah, absolutely. Playing Isobel has been such an honor because it's a story that I think is so powerful for so many women. She began as this kind of Barbie doll. She was very performative, had this perfect little mask on. She was kind of closed off to the world but had this way of acting that seemed right.

And I think that's the dynamic that a lot of women can relate to.

It's like wanting to come off as being sort of perfect and having this veneer that seems like everything is good, but you're really disconnected from this deep, authentic truth that might be a lot more complicated and maybe messier, but you know what Isobel had to go through in Season One with Noah, it just rips that all off.

I mean, it wasn't by choice.

It happened to her. She was definitely victimized by the thing, and she had basically no other choice but to grow and adapt. And it gave her an enormous amount of freedom. And so often, suffering is terrible, you wouldn't wish it on anyone, and yet it can also lead to enormous amounts of growth.

And that's what I got to see with Isobel that she had to pick herself back up and connect with those deep parts of herself that she'd kind of been denying her whole life. And become strong. You have to find that strength within herself and not just leaning on the men around her.

She didn't have any female friends, and she was pretty co-dependent with all the men in her life. And Season Two, we saw Isobel discovering herself on her own terms.

And I think it's such an incredible gift that the writers gave to this show to see a female doing that, to find her way on her own terms and sort of have to relearn everything and say, "Well, who am I? What do I want? And how do I get that?"

And now we're just seeing her continuing down that path, she's becoming this warrior, she's becoming this total badass, and I think there's never like an end to it.

It's not like she started out like this, and now it's like the end of the story, 'Hooray! She found herself, and now she's like a badass warrior.' It's in Season Three, I think we're seeing her struggling with what does it mean to be a warrior? What does it mean to try to be a strong female?

How much are we suddenly becoming too self-protective when we begin to build this armor where we're making sure that no one's going to hurt us again? Well, is that armor preventing us from also being vulnerable with other people?

And I think the writers have been so gracious to give this arc to a female character that's been so multifaceted.

So, I'm just so grateful. I can't wait to see where Isobel goes, and she just keeps evolving and changing and shedding her skin and becoming something new, and like I said, it's never like a destination; it's all about the journey. So that's been really fun as an actor to be able to play with.

I have to ask about the stunts in episode eight because the scenes between you and Nathan were fantastic. How was it to shoot those scenes?

Oh my God, it was so much fun. Season Two, I had told Carina, our showrunner at the time, girl put me in some action stuff because I had some martial arts background. And after everything that had happened to Isobel, I was like it'd be great for her to become more empowered in her own physical body too.

So that, we started to kind of build the foundation there, and we're seeing it now paying off, all of this training that Isobel is always talking about. We're finally seeing her in action.

In that episode, in 3x08, directed by Benjamin Bray Hernandez, it was so incredible to actually be able to do this stunt work and with Nathan, who's a great, great stunt guy too.

I mean, I swear in another life, he would like to be a stuntman, Nathan. But the two of us actually got to do most of our own stuff.

I mean all of the pool cue, all of the hand to hand. There were a couple of things that a stunt person came in when we did the backflip over the table. We're like, yeah, that's not to break your neck during that. But besides that, everything was us, and it was so much fun to work with a director who was himself a stuntman.

So, he knew how to really direct.

Every strike needs to be telling a story and the way that he filmed it on the actual film, the lens that he was using. All of this stuff was just, it was like a masterclass in stunt work. So much fun, I was so sore, and while I thought that we were using pool cues, I was like, "I'm sorry, I have never used a pool cue in a fight."

And of course we got on the set, and Nathan from Texas, is there whipping it all around in his hand, spinning the pool cue, homie has been in like 15 pool bar fights, and I'm like, "How do you hold it?"

But I think we're a pretty good match-up, and there's more to come between Nathan and I. I'm so grateful. He's an incredible partner to work with. I feel so safe with him. I did one time jab him with the butt of my pool cue pretty hard in the groin.

So, sorry for that, Nathan. But besides that, it was such a fun experience, and I'd love to do more of that.

That's amazing. Outside of Isobel's storyline this season, has there been another story that you've really enjoyed that's played out in Season Three?

I mean, all of it is so compelling.

I've loved seeing, in this last episode, we saw Alex taking on so many of the demons that I think this beautiful parallel storyline of Alex and Michael, both working through the traumas of their parents, what they've inherited from their parents. Michael learning that he is the son of this evil dictator, but his mother is maybe this amazing hero.

And Alex working through the trauma of what his father was.

And I think that a compelling, compelling story is what we inherit from our parents and what we choose to move forward with or what we want to rebel against.

Do we become our parents, or are we given the opportunity to change them, fix their mistakes? And Kyle is dealing with this too with his father and the Valenti code and all of that.

So, I love that the lineage, the kind of questioning of how lineage proceeds through us and what our obligation is to the family line, I think that's beautiful.

And last question for me, with the finale on the horizon, what can the audience expect from these last batches of episodes?

Oh my gosh. Stuff gets so crazy, Whitney! It pops off. I mean, filming it was some of the most intense work I've ever done. We were like Marines. We were like Navy seals. We bonded so hard over just the sheer physical, emotional, and psychological difficulty that we all have to go through over these next few episodes.

It's full of action. It is full of suspense. It's going to be such a roller coaster for the audience, and I cannot wait for them to see it. It's going to be a huge payoff. Our writers did an incredible job, and yeah, I think it's just going to knock people's socks off.

#isobel evans #lily cowles #roswell new mexico #cast #press #3x10 #rnm spoilers

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unsettledink · 4 years ago

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Comfort (Re)Reads Recs

It's been a rough couple of weeks, both personally and just *waves hands around* you know, everything. I found myself going back to some of my comfort reads again and again and thought – you know, I bet other people are in serious need of that too.

So here's a handful of some of my favorite comfort reads across a bunch of fandoms. Most are pretty long, or series. Everything has a happy ending, but I like h/c so plenty have some hurt or angst on the way. I put the ones that have the most near that bottom.

For all of them I'd suggest looking at the author's other works too! And if you liked what you read, please tell them that it made your day a bit better. I'm off to do so myself.

Leader Of The Free World, @copperbadge

Marvel (MCU) - Steve/Tony, Bucky/Clint, 15k

Summary: Clint Barton's presidential campaign started as a joke. It didn't end that way, except for Steve.

Sixpence In His Shoe, @scifigrl47

Marvel - Steve/Tony, 100k

Summary: Steve and Tony should really read the fine print on what they're signing. Then again, some mistakes are not really mistakes.

Always Starts the Same, with a Boy and a Girl, lightgetsin

White Collar - Neal/Elizabeth/Peter, 21k

Summary: Summer, 1998. Neal Caffrey robs the gallery where Elizabeth O'Dell is working late, and comes away with a lot more than art. Agent Burke has no idea what's about to hit him.

Take Me Out, @setepenre-set

Megamind – Megamind/Roxanne, 10k

Summary: The Metro City Wolverines are the worst team in the MLB. So Megamind, using the disguise watch to manage the stadium’s illegal betting pool, is understandably shocked when Miss Ritchi (at the stadium on a ‘date’ with Metro Man…and his mother) wants to place a bet that the Wolverines can win against the best ranked team in the league. But then, maybe the luck is turning for all of Metro City's underdogs…

My Heart Comes Tumbling Down, @devildoll

Teen Wolf – Derek/Stiles, 5k

Summary: "This is a casual, adult relationship based on sex, and it is awesome." In which Stiles and Derek have a great time buddyfucking until a burrito ruins it all.

Technical Support, @astolat

Person of Interest – John/Harold, 13k

Summary: The IFT Plaza security team wasn't what John would have called the brightest stars in the firmament. (Written for the tech support AU prompt.)

From Thy Bounty, @ibby-writes

Marvel (MCU) – Tony/Peter, 30k

Summary: Tony’s eyes are always dark, but now there's almost no iris left. He looks hollowed out. There’s something terribly hungry there, despite the feast they've filled themselves on.

Gift of Choice, @everysecondtuesday

Marvel (MCU) – Tony/Peter, 11k

Summary: Tony Stark had a thing about giving Peter stuff.

Feels Like Something, Maybe It Fits, @learned-foot

Marvel (MCU) – Tony/Peter, 7k

Summary: Peter’s still not used to hearing that voice. Four months, and part of him thinks it’s a lie every time.

Better Than, unsettled (yup, it's mine. It feels weird to include it? But it was the comfort reread that set this off, so)

Marvel (MCU) – Tony/Peter, 40k

Summary: Maybe there isn't really a fixed point where it starts, where any of it starts, nothing Tony can point to and say, there, there is where I made my mistake, there is where I could have stopped this, there is where I can stop it from happening again. Maybe it shouldn’t have been something Tony tried to stop. (or: the one where Tony is going to be responsible for once, ok? He is!)

The Swear Jar, @allthemarvelousrage

Marvel (MCU) – Clint/Laura/Tony, 12k

Summary: In the last three months, she’s seen Tony go through a lot of mood changes and shifts of introspection, but she doesn’t think he’s ever been close to leaving. Then again, she doesn’t think he’s actually aware of how intertwined his life’s become with theirs, because half the time, he’s exhausted from Avengers business or exhausted from engineering binges, and the other half of the time, he’s either trading one-liners and witticisms with Clint or coloring with Lila or building things with Cooper or letting Nathan crawl all over him.

This, You Protect, @vmohlere

Marvel (MCU) - Steve/Bucky, 64k

Summary: The mission resets abruptly, from objective: kill to objective: protect

have you heard, peradi

Star Wars - Finn/Poe, Finn/Poe/Rey, 42k

Summary: "I heard FN-2187 was a Stormtrooper."

Transfigurations, Resonant

Harry Potter – Harry/Draco, 71k

Summary: Five years after Voldemort's defeat, Harry returns to England to help re-open Hogwarts.

Something Blue, Lapin

The Hobbit – Bilbo/Thorin, 34k

Summary: Thorin marries Bilbo after the Battle of Five Armies, a marriage of convenience, not love. Slowly, they must come to make the best of it, Bilbo resolves. After all, he's a Hobbit. They make the best of things.

Nothing Gold Can Stay, @bilboo

The Hobbit – Bilbo/Thorin, 296k

Summary: Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an adventure?

Like a Comet Streaming On, @sineala

Marvel (616)– Tony/Steve, 32k

Summary: Tony escapes Afghanistan with a functioning Iron Man suit and a perfectly normal heart. He even manages to bring Ho Yinsen home safely at his side. But he may as well have lost everything... because his wolfbrother is dead. Six months later, the Avengers find Captain America, frozen in ice, miraculously alive. Everything and everyone Steve has ever known is gone -- except his wolfsister, the recipient of the lupine version of the super-soldier serum, who was frozen in his arms. Tony has everything but his wolf. Steve has only his wolf. This is how their lives fit together.

All Our Secrets Laid Bare, @firethesound

Harry Potter – Harry/Draco, 149k

Summary: Over the six years Draco Malfoy has been an Auror, four of his partners have turned up dead. Harry Potter is assigned as his newest partner to investigate just what is going on.

The End Where We Begin, @ingu

Man From UNCLE (Movie) – Illya/Napoleon, 21k

Summary: Illya kills an American spy in Zurich. Three days later, he’s staring into the face of a dead man standing in his hotel room.

A man turns around., spqr

Marvel (MCU) – Tony/Steve/Bucky, 6k

Summary: Liver failure or a lone assassin with a long-range weapon will get him eventually. He doesn’t think it will take too long, now that he’s retired. He wishes death would hurry up. If happiness were coming his way, it would’ve gotten here by now. All that’s left to do is wait. Languish in the "later life" section of his Wikipedia page. Wake up in the morning and go to bed at night. Exist, until it’s over.

#recs #marvel #stony #starker #stuckony #white collar #megamind #teen wolf #sterek #person of interest #finch x reese #star wars #finnpoe #finnreypoe #harry potter #drarry #the hobbit #bagginshield

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sylaar · 3 years ago

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sylar & gabriel ;

Some people believe that Sylar is a personality of Gabriel, that he has multiple personality disorder. It is also believed that his redemption arc at the end of the show is weak and out of character. However, that is not the case. They are the same person separated by Catholic upbringing and deep desire.

Gabriel was raised by Virginia Gray, whom he didn’t know was actually his aunt until late 20′s / early 30′s. Virginia was a hardcore Catholic and pushed those beliefs on Gabriel, like so many parents do with their children until they’re old enough to choose for themselves. Except Virginia never backed down and continued to not only push her beliefs on him, but to push other ideals.

As we see in S1, E21, The Hard Part, Virginia not only pushes Gabriel to be anything EXCEPT a watchmaker, she even goes as far as to say that he could be anything. Even President. Despite his pleas for Virginia to understand that he was happy. Not only does this solidify what he’s done, but pushes him to take Nathan’s place in the futuristic episode, Five Years Gone.

We also see in S1, E17, Six Months Ago, that Gabriel has, for a long time, wished that his family were different; that they weren’t really his family; that he was special. Not only does this show just how easy it was for Sylar to TAKE what would make him special, but it also gives some indication as to how long he’s had feelings of being someone else.

In S3, E8, Villains, we witness Gabriel attempt to kill himself due to the guilt of murdering Brian Davis, the Telekinetic. Despite having been raised Catholic and knowing that would immediately damn him to hell, Gabriel couldn’t handle the guilt and inability to obtain forgiveness from the person he’d wronged.

However, as he becomes more of this new version of himself, Sylar, he starts to go against the things he was raised to believe. He finally has the chance to be special and different, like Sylar mentioned to Chandra Suresh.

As time goes on and Sylar not only gains more abilities, but adds to the long list of kills, the serial killer begins to question if what he’s doing is worth it; if it’s what he really wants. He starts to think back on his Catholic roots and question who he is as a person.

In S3, E19, Shades of Gray & S3, E24, I am Sylar we witness his internal struggles. Finding his real father and gaining the ability to shapeshift made the serial killer start to truly question who he was for the first time. We see him worry about ending up like his dad, begin to see signs of his fear of being alone, and what these abilities are doing to him as a person; how they’re mentally changing him.

In S4, after Sylar’s mind and body reunite, he does 2 things; goes after Samuel and tries to make Angela pay for forcing his body to replace Nathan, whom he killed. Regardless of his unsuccessful attempts, Sylar goes back to the Sullivan Bros. carnival, where Lydia shows him his path; Claire.

Attempting to figure out who he is now, after all the murders and changes to who he is, Sylar seeks Claire out and, in Sylar fashion, “asks” for her help because of a tattoo Lydia ‘s ability gave him to show his desire. When she does, reluctantly, help the serial killer, he immediately seeks out someone whom he believes can help him become better; Matt.

While what Matt did wasn’t what Sylar had initially asked for, it did help him in the end to control his own hunger and ability.

I write all of this to say that given his past, it’s not out of character for Sylar to want to be good. While part of him still wants to be special and different, all of these experiences and knowledge have made him realize killing and taking other’s abilities isn’t going to make him those things. It’s what Sylar does with them that will ultimately decide HOW special he is.

However, despite his latest desire to actually be a hero and change his ways, Sylar’s true ability does come with a hunger for both knowledge and power. It takes practice, intent, and aspiration to control it. If one or all of those things are not met, he will revert to or alternate between his want to be special and his ability to control that hunger.

#( hc )#suicide tw #suicide mention tw #long post #long post for ts

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thebadchoicemachine · 4 years ago

Text

The egg and the Carrys

Nat frowned at Charlie- the currently possessed Charlie- as he fought to get up. For a moment Quackity breathed a sigh of relief watching his friend struggle, he had never been more glad the old women were so much stronger than they let on. He never wanted them to lose, but he especially didn't want them to be pulled into this mess. Even with all his efforts of isolation it was getting out of hand. For just a moment, Quackity bathed in the joy of their victory. Then Bonnie kicked Charlie; as he fell back to the ground with a pathetic yelp the moment ended.

Bonnie tisked, pulling out a tube of lipstick to fix her makeup as the young man flailed on the ground. He was much stronger than he ought to be in that scrawny body of his but she trusted her dear Nathan wouldn’t let him up. She finished up and tucked the tube back into her purse, straightening and preparing herself for a lecture. She’d never needed to give one to Charlie before, he was always very kind if a bit vulgar but that was to be expected. Honestly he reminded her of Nat when they were young and on the scene. He’d never needed more than a swat to fall back in line. Today though, he had crossed a line.

Not only had he run up and bombarded them out of nowhere but he refused to leave and even had the audacity of attempting to physically drag them away. Whatever he wanted to show them she hadn’t bought it for a second. There was something rotten going on in this town, something a field’s flight away from liquor, and everyone knew it. The police knew it, the gangs knew it, the children knew it, and her and Nat certainly knew it. Though, the problem wasn’t the strange air that had opened up like a gravity well (they could deal with new trouble just fine). No, the problem was how so many seemed to be exited by it. Intrigued to the point of erratic behavior. Really, what people these days wouldn’t do.

Now, Bonnie Carry had no intention of ending up some old fool rambling on about traditions and the proper way things ought to work. She’d gotten her fill of that already being a double breed. However, the way people were changing, the way everyone rushed home rather than going out to party, how cops and mobsters alike would suddenly act like the best of friends and turn on their own kind, it was suspicious at the very least. Not to mention the way every now and then certain reds seemed to stick around outside. She didn’t care how pretty or awe-inspiring it was, colors in the outdoors was unnatural!

With all that in mind, you can imagine how she went from taking her weekly stroll with her wife to peering over the knocked-down figure of a boy named Charlie.

“You don’t- you don’t know what you’re doing,” he wheezed, fighting to catch his breath but smiling. He looked deranged. “You don’t know what you’re giving up. We’ll forgive you though. When you join us, we’ll forgive you.“

Bonnie turned her nose up. “Manners, child. Manners,” her voice was firm but proper, as though she was scolding an unruly customer rather than reprimanding a crazy man try to drag her into some unearthly love of unnatural colors. “You are in desperate need of them. I don’t know why you think it’s alright to harass your elders when we clearly told you we were not interested, much less lay your hands on two old women simply out for a stroll.”

“Ha... hmm, I’m only trying to help,” he grinned deliriously. “Trust me! My buddy didn’t care for it either but... we set him straight. If you won’t look, why don’t you to come have a stay at the Chip? Deluxe, youse can have whatever you want to eat or drink or spend, on the house! No wooden nickels or nothing.”

“Oh, sure.” Nat rolled her eyes sarcastically.

“I mean it! I just want to help you sweet ladies. You’re so kind, I want to give you something nice. I want to show you the best thing you’ll ever see. Make you feel like a real egg, promise.”

“Well, thank you for the horsefeathers, love. I’m afraid we’re rather comfortable remaining in our own home. In fact, we’ll be returning there now.” Nat looked over at to Bonnie who nodded.

“Yes, I think we’ve had quite enough of your business for today.” The two set themselves in the opposite direction, Nathan making sure to step on his stomach rather than over him, ensuring he wouldn’t get up right away and attack them again. “Oh, go chase yourself.”

“Wait,” he rasped. They didn’t turn around, moving steadily forward as they heard him struggling to his feet. “WAIT, PLEASE!” They stopped. Bonnie could see Nat’s ears twitch although her face remained neutral. Bonnie heard it too, you didn’t need any canine genes to understand the desperation in his voice. She sighed, already regretting her decision and slowly turned to face him. He was barely on his knees, scrambling like he was weighing himself down. They frowned, there’s no way Nat had hurt him that bad. She’d barely done anything other than restrain him a little roughly and knock him down.

He was far too strong to be so weak and he had no right having such strength in the first place, being just a little frog. He was no willow but should not have been able to match with Nat as he did, yet he took on damage like a sponge one water. This wasn’t something you could excuse even if he was half-seas over, and she was fairly certain he was dry as a match. They shared a look, something was off here and it wasn’t just some trendy infatuation.

“You... alright, son?”

“You should... please... you should really come by!” He snapped his head to a tilted, awkward, angle, smiling wide and clicking his voice back into its chipper mockery of itself. “We’ve got something new there, something you’ll love. Something everybody loves! The Red Room... it’s what changed my pals mind, you know the one I mentioned before? He hated it at first, didn’t care for the blood vines at all, he tried to-” Charlie broke himself off to laugh. “He tied to take me away from them! Can you believe that? Just drag me away from them and Quackity, oh... but he’s never leave Quackity behind. So in the end, I was able to teach him better. A few days in the Red Room and he came around like the sun. Bright as the sun! He’s happy now... ahah...”

Bonnie placed a hand on Nat’s wrist, slowly dragging her backward. Careful, like so not to disturb a rattling snake. She cursed her age, something she rarely found herself doing, wishing nothing more than to be able to sprint like she used to. He mirrored their movement, dragging himself forward ever so subtly. “Goodness, child,” she felt herself murmur “when is the last time you slept?”

He either ignored her or didn’t hear, continuing to ramble and force himself to his feet. He had one foot upright now but remained crouching much longer than he should have. It was almost like he didn’t really want to get up. “You want to be happy too, right? Otherwise would you have stayed to long? You’re waiting for me to help you, aren’t you?”

Oh, of course not you blithering fool. Bonnie snapped in her head, haughtily straightening her blouse. We can’t be expected to just leave your poor soul the way you’re acting, can we?

“You should just come with me. I came for you on purpose, you know! You’re so kind to us when we stop by. My friend really likes you, he calls you his nans sometimes, did you know that? You’re good people. You deserve good things. I want you to-” he swallowed, faltering for a split second. “I- I don’t want to hurt you. You have to believe I don’t want to hurt you.” He was fully standing now, hand reaching for something in his belt. The smile remained gone from his face but his tone grew forceful and fake again. “But if you make things difficult then they will be difficult.” He took a full step towards them. “I promise you they will be difficult. That’s why I came to find you, to try to be nice. I can be nice. I can give you everything you need to be happy!”

“Thank you young man,” Nat firmly spoke, placing an arm around Bonnie and turning as though to leave. “We are plenty happy on our own.”

“Oh...” She caught a flash out of the corner of eye. Charlie was now holding up a knife, walking towards them so slick as if the ground move beneath him. “I really wish you’d just let me be nice,” he glowered. All hesistence gone from his movements, he drew closer, brandishing the weapon as if it would magically force them to change their minds.

“Hmph.” Bonnie scowled. She wanted to help but had absolutely no intention of being chilled off nor pushed around by this palooka. For a moment she pondered the idea of just trying to leave, before he was stumbling over himself as though he’d struggle just to stand up. There was the possibility he couldn’t or wouldn’t go after them. Then he tensed, as though ready to make a point, and she realized that simply wouldn’t do. “Oh,” she sighed, disappointed as her grip tightened on her smasher. A purse filled with stones made for a rather cruel and subtle weapon, one she never left home without. “And I thought you were such a nice young man, too.”

“WAIT!” A shout rang out, causing both parties to halt. They all turned their heads to spot Quackity sprinting up the otherwise empty road. He flung himself between them, hands gripping Bonnie’s arm, and shook. “Wait, don’t hurt him! Please, it’s not his fault...” he gasped, clearly out of breath. “It’s not his fault... it’s not his fault, I swear...”

Bonnie spluttered. “I- Quackity, dear, he’s pulled a knife on me!”

“I’m only trying to help!” Charlie cheerily called over Quackity.

“Charlie, go home,” Quackity ordered.

“But-”

“NOW!” He whipped around, snarling. Charlie backed off a bit. He frowned, looking from Bonnie and Nat to Quackity with genuine concern. His mouth opened as if to question or protest. Insead, his face went blank and he followed the order, turning to ankle off rather robotically. Quackity turned back to the ladies, huffing as though he’d just been through a marathon. Nat reached out for his shoulders, probably fearing he’d collapse, but he jerked away. “DON’T TOUCH ME.”

“Quackity?”

“Oh, dear boy, what's gotten into everyone?”

He ignored them, preoccupied with growling and pulling at the headband on his head. The bright... vivid... red... headband. Bonnie took a step back. His eyes flashed up, pupils shrinking at alert. He held up a hand, not to grab or push them, but to say stop. “It can’t control me!” He exclaimed, as though that was meant to clear something up. “It’s infected me but it can’t control me.” He rubbed his arms, for the first time Bonnie noticed how red and sore they were. “Karl- you know Karl? Of course you know Karl- I think it has something to do with him. I don’t know. Yeah. He left... um- uh...”

“Oh... you poor thing,” Nat took a step closer, reaching out to examining his arms. He absentmindedly allowed her to as he rambled on with his stammerings, tying his tongue in circles. “He really left you?”

“Uh- yeah.”

“What about Sapnap?”

“Karl took him with him when he left.”

“Oh, I am so sorry Quackity.”

“It’s- oh, it’s not like that,” he laughed exhaustedly. “They would never... they would never, right? Of course not. It’s good! It’s so good they’re away, everyone should be-” he yanked his arms back, realizing what she was doing. “Everyone should be away. I’ve been trying to isolate it, it’s been working but only to delay. A bunch of workers fell and several customers too. Charlie got it real bad... and then Schlatt... at this rate it’s only a matter of time until I’ve lost control completely.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to clue us in on what “it” exactly means, dear.”

“And don’t think you’ve gotten out of explaining your arms, young man,” Nat scolded affectionately.

“Oh,” Quackity laughed again. “Right. I uh... there’s an- an egg.”

“Some rich bastard is behind all this? Should have seen that coming,” Bonnie scoffed.

“No, it’s an actual egg. I think? That’s what we call it, it hasn’t hatched anything but it’s red. It likes power, it grows and grows and takes all it can. Infects everything like a disease. Gets in your mind. Makes you... love it. Love it more than anything else in the world. A-and the worst part is it lets you stay yourself just enough for it to hurt everybody else. That’s why Charlie wanted Schlatt so badly and it worked! Ain’t no reason Schlatt got stuck other than it was Charlie he was dealing with. They’ve been trying to cheer me up but... y’know... it’s not really them.” He paused. “I- I guess that’s why he came after you. Oh, hell, “He ran his hands up his face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, shush.” Nat tisked. “If it’s not his fault then it’s certainly not yours either.”

“Of course not.”

“Heh... thanks,” Quackity sniffed. “He really didn’t want to hurt you, he thought he was doing what was best.”

“I do have a question, how did you know what was happening?”

“And again, how did you get those injuries? They’re minor, sure, but don’t try to play them off to me. Friction burns are still burns and you deserve some treatment.”

“Well- I- this is strange to say out loud...”

“Try us.”

“The egg... likes me. I don’t know why but it refuses to get rid of me. It can’t control me so you’d think it’d just drop me and save itself the trouble, right? But it just keeps trying to make me give in willingly so I can be the rng leader or whatevers. Everyone infected seems to take orders from me.”

“That sounds good.”

“Well, it’s somethings of a silver lining, sure, but some of them started calling me a prophet? Which, I guess? I can hear it and see through it which is how I knew what what going on with youse. As to my arms, it can’t control me mentally but apparently decided it was gonna keep me in my room, the bitch,” he snapped at the vine around his head like it personally had upset him. “So, yeah. It kept grabbing my arms.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Nat reached out to Quackity’s shoulder but pulled back, remembering his request for space. “I can’t imagine...”

“No, no, it’s- it will be fine. Karl’s coming back soon. He will... he will.”

And when he does he’s going to answer to me. Bonnie humphed internally. She didn’t dislike Karl, far from it, he was rather like an old friend, but he clearly was used to being the one in control. That didn’t make him bad at all, he just needed a reminder of etiquette. There’s no way she was letting him off the hook for up and leaving his partner, no matter the reason. He simply needed a smack on the wrist every once in a while. She did hope he was alright, and dear Sapnap. Poor Quackity, this all was terrible. “Ugh, all this over some gross little red weeds,”

“Yeah, it- wait- you don’t like them?”

“Ha! Not at all,” Nat scoffed. “They’re just despicable, especially now that we know what they’ve done to you. How could you even ask such a thing?”

“Everybody... likes them...” he began carefully, forming something in his mind. “No- Schlatt didn’t... but...”

“Dearie, what do you mean to say?”

“I HAVE TO GO!” Quackity jumped up suddenly, backing away.

“What?”

“Quackity?”

“Trust me!” he smiled, exhausted but genuine, filled with relief and nervousness. “R-remember, it’s infected me but it doesn’t have me! It can hear everything I hear... the egg is the cause...” he winked with a shaky smile and abruptly hurried away.

“Wh-” Nat turned to bonnie, stammering. “What in the world was he trying to say do you think?”

Bonnie frowned, squinting at the distance. Not a speck of vibracy from any color, especially not red, yet still she played coy. She turned to Nat and smiled sweetly, “Nat, my love, lets head back home now. I do believe we’ve got some work to do, with a recipe that calls for one egg.”

----

@thecatchat I finished hurray. Haven’t revised it at all just wrote it out.

#karlnapity dimensions #ksq dimensions content #prowa dimensions #woah those are words I wrote

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monstermaster13 · 7 months ago

Text

Werebelushi:

I would like to apologize for the rant I did about character transformation writers not only did it sound transphobic of me but also ignorant because I did not know bigender was a thing at the time and yes I do know that it's not the same as non-binary, the original rant was deleted and also it was not finished, so I had much more to say but in hindsight I wish I could have put more effort into it. Keep in mind I am not against people of any sexual orientation or species of race of any kind and I sounded like an idiot, and also said rant was unfinished, and yes I know that toxic person comment's sounded dickish but then again it did anyway because here's the thing, accusing someone of being a coward for using a character to express themselves is just moronic. Do these people not know that reviewers use characters all the time? Yeah, real movie characters are just themselves on screen all the time but most of the infamous ones have personas they use. Also fyi, Nathan's song parodies are NOT meant to be perfect in anyway but who you are to call them horrible if you have not even read them? It's like me saying 'oh the Lord of the Rings books are terrible' when I only saw the movie adaptation.

My issue with character tfs whether it be live action, animated, anime, comics, etc is that so many of them seem to like using MC aka mind changes and I don't like that because it's a dark ending and well identity death always scares me, the gender identity of the authors or artists isn't the issue, it's just the heavy focus on corruption and MC that really disturbs me, is it so hard to get a character tf that doesn't enforce that trope over and over? I have already made a rant about the incident in general and the person who started it so I got that off my chest, but I am just going to say my reason for not liking anime character transformations in general is that I feel that these can be down without so much of the dark and gruesome aspects, I like character transformations it's just I don't like MC.

Is that too much to ask? Look it was in 2022 and two weeks after Gilbert Gottfried's death, I was trying not to start the year off on a bummer but I get not one but two people making stupid accusations about me acting like using a character to vent out is cowardly and I did not need that. Do these people not know that's what actual authors do sometimes? The original 'anime tf writer' rant from that year was not complete and was not what I wanted to get across, that was just a random mini-rant and that was it, an incomplete mini-rant that I foolishly published without knowing I did not finish it.

I never meant to offend anyone or attack them for their gender identity, the only time I actually have gone at length about someone is when I rant about Kurvos and that's because I genuinely do not like him as a person, I feel that his reviews (which are gone) showed him at his most hypocritical, and I am not attacking him for his sexuality, I am just saying that he comes across as whiny and hypocritical. And also his argument with Nathan over the Tangled review was really what started it.

For the record Kurvos argued with Nathan on Youtube too..if Kurvos actually does claim to like Disney movies why does he always complain about how it's pandering to having a gay female character and why did he do that bizarre YTP clip that had dark creepy Disney music playing over a happy scene from Huncback? I am sorry but out of all the scenes, why one of the only scenes in which Quasimodo is happy?

And also I only specifically rant about the commissions Avianine does, not the author herself, just her character. And yes there is a bit of lore behind Ciel, Ciel used to be a male character who was cursed into being female but he/she eventually began to like it, that's why Ciel likes turning into a boy I guess. It's just I don't like Ciel as a character or understand why so many people commission for tfs involving her. I would never wish harm on Avianine herself even if I do make fun of the bad dialogue in her comics sometimes.

This is the official and definitive version of that mini-rant and of course it comes with an apology, I apologize for whatever happened that caused the sort of drama from two years ago to become a thing and for not thinking about my words or being careful with what I said, it was a mistake. And I am not in any way harming anyone.

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firinniee · 4 years ago

Conversation

This time it will be a headcanon but I have to say that I like to follow the canon when it comes to the number of children etc.Forexample - if Rowling said that Luna has twin boys named Lorcan and Lysander, I think that she has just two live boys and I do not exclude that she may have lost pregnancy but she does not suddenly add more children who are alive, etc.

So I wondered a lot about the future Neville family and you know what? I believe that Hannah, his wife, is simply sterile and therefore they have no children. Infertility in our world is a big problem and it's hard for me to say if wizards treated it in some way, but I think that it would be nice if a couple of children books simply could not have kids, I will probably have a problem with getting pregnant myself too, so I think that this problem of infertility and treatment should be touched.

Alternatively, it can be assumed that they never wanted to have children, but it seems to me that both Hannah and Neville wanted to become parents themselves after the loss of their parents. That's it, the whole headcanon.

And forthose who are still reading this, I can give you a few interesting facts about Neville and his future. As a 10-year-old kid who didn't read a Harry Potter book and couldn't find anything on the internet, I thought Nev really was with Luna, I even started writing fanficks about them. I don't remember practically any of it, and this blog is gone, but I know they had 4 children - the eldest son Nathaniel (ages James II and Fred II), Clara (ages Hugo and Lily) and the youngest twins. I don't know how I managed it but I remember that they were boys and their names were Felix and Alex??? I don't think I knew more original names as a kiddo.

Then, when I was older and read the books, I thought a lot about Neville & Hannah, and I thought they should have one child, very late. Back then I had a odd Headcanon that Luna and Rolf also had a very late third child, a daughter named Maggie / Rosalee (can't remember the name exactly ok) and these kids would be of the same age. Longbottom's baby was either Nathan Frank or Daisy Alice. Then they were in a relationship, both at Hufflepuff.

The last Headcanon I had with Longbottom family was that they were raising Lunas twins. I had a sad moment with my mother and thought that Luna might die young which would lead to Rolf's breakdown and escape into the world from responsibility, just like my father do. Neville and Hannah who wish to become parents but would not be able to have children of their own... so they would adopt toddlers boys and raise them as their own children! I think I just wanted to put what I knew into the life of characters I like and that's it, I think Nev and Han would be very happy to help with the twins. I still think it's kinda cute but I don't want to have a moment when Rolf comes back. It destroyed them as well as the twins.

And ok, I guess I blew my mind. Glad to share this, maybe anyone will read it. These things have been in me for a while, so I wanted to post them on this blog. I think these are sweet children's stories or something I still believe so yeah. Thanks!

#harry potter #harry potter headcanon #neville longbottom #hannah abbott #hannah longbottom #luna lovegood #luna scamander #rolf scamander #lorcan scamander #lysander scamander #harry potter next gen #harry potter next generation #firinnie #firinnie_e #my headcanons

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nobodyeverasked · 5 years ago

Text

chasing fire; park woojin

(3079 words) - large

Summary: What you don’t know can’t kill you, but what you do hurts like hell.

It seemed like yesterday when Y/N's heart was ripped out of his chest by the hands that used to cherish his skin and run through his hair under the evening sunlight. When all he wanted to say was stuck in his throat and suffocating him like a thick smog, and when the starlight burned like wildfire as he ran out to the empty midnight road...

Oh wait, it was.

It was yesterday, when the man who he shared all of his precious firsts, seconds and thirds with left him withered just before their bedroom door as he poured the symphonies of his love out to somebody else. The room that housed their safest sounds behind a gate of dancing grey drapes and under the sapphire spotlight of the many crescent moons felt like nothing but a fantasy gone sour. All of the tears that ripped through his chest and the sounds that he heard… But he didn’t say a thing.

He didn’t say a damn thing.

Park Woojin, how could you have hurt a person so?

Y/N was so desperate, so in need of that special love that Woojin said they had that the day after, he couldn’t help but smile as Woojin’s hands found themselves on his waist at their lockers. No matter if Woojin has done the same exact thing to anybody else, worshipped another’s hips like Y/N’s, kissed other lips like Y/N’s. Woojin was right here, right now, soaking him in like the moonlight that glazed over their own sweat-soaked chests once upon a time, back when Woojin made Y/N feel like a shining star upon a dying night, a vibrant sunset over beaches burnt black and laid to waste. But at this point, he didn’t know what he felt like to Woojin anymore. A replaceable body that he would hold so close to his chest? Expendable lips that he would ignite into flames and catch between their teeth? Y/N didn’t know anymore.

“Hey, babe.” Woojin said as he let his hands wander across Y/N’s waist and up his chest, the smile that’s left Y/N breathless too many times to count shining under the morning light pouring through the windows of their College. It was brilliant, like the ivory sands dancing around their summertime kisses and like the coral sunlight that melts on Y/N’s skin whenever Woojin holds his hands and whispers his ‘I love you’s to him like a swansong. Woojin pressed a kiss to Y/N’s neck looking over the textbooks he picked out of his locker, playing with Y/N’s fingers that glossed over a few of the pages. How could Woojin make this feel so normal? Why was he so good at pretending?!

“Hey b-” Y/N didn’t know if he could finish that, but he wanted to be in Woojin’s arms so bad, and the shimmering sparks in Woojin’s eyes made him want to keep drowning in the clouds of his sweetest daydreams forever. “B-babe…” Y/N crept his hands up Woojin’s arms as he turned around, Woojin’s grin immediately catching his own. He didn’t know how to end the warzone in his brain, stopping his hands from tracing any further upon Woojin’s arms. He was almost thankful Woojin pulled back and turned around as soon as the bell rang, but he couldn’t help but remember the days when they would linger in each other's arms until a teacher had to yell at them to get to class.

The good old days have gone, Y/N just hasn’t let himself realize that yet. The good old days where Woojin meant every murmur under the night skies they ignited together; Y/N wanted them, needed them to be real. Did Woojin pretend back then too?

Was he just someone that Woojin could just sweeten up and taste when he gets bored?

No matter how true that thought was, all Y/N wanted was to feel Woojin atop him, murmuring those prayers into his skin no matter how false. Forging those words of their worn legend between their tongues. Blankly worshiping Y/N’s body under the ivory candlelights of the stars and between the tides of cherry chapstick. The thought, that very prompt in his head was the truest thing he’s heard from himself in ages. Y/N still loved Woojin with all of his heart, though. Even when Woojin broke it, when it healed, it’s pieces came stumbling after him like the first day they met.

As soon as his English teacher dismissed their class, he wound around the corner, his legs dragging him towards Woojin’s locker as if it was second nature to him - to gravitate to anything that drifted in Woojin’s nova. He finally made it to his locker, weaving between small crowds of students and letting his tense, shaky sighs dissipate into the chatter surrounding him.

Should I bring it up? Y/N let his thoughts consume him as silence began to grow and cling to him like Woojin’s cologne every night they pressed each other up on plaza fences and walls. The darkness eclipsing his reason and the heat bubbling under his fingertips made it that much harder to smile as Woojin approached him with a bright one. Y/N kept his eyes down, eyes trained on the silver ring that ‘would always be with him when I wasn’t’ as Woojin oh-so poetically put it that one night they lay on his bed, legs intertwined and flames of admiration searing lingering touches.

Should I bring it up? Y/N looked up at his boyfriend as they greeted each other, the silken velvet of Woojin’s lips ghosting his neck making his thoughts trip over their words. The gentle touch that kneaded into his waist drowning them out of his head entirely, but only for a second as a call to Woojin’s name snapped them out of this bliss that drowned them both in years’ worth of pleasant memories. Pleasant memories that Y/N wishes were real to them.

“Oh…” Y/N could hear Woojin’s breath hitch as their attention was dragged over to a man way too familiar to Y/N… Way too familiar.

It was the other man that was in Woojin’s bed, entwined in his arms - Y/N’s second home - the man who soaked in the sapphire moonlight that Y/N thought was special, that he thought only shone for them. Y/N could feel the heat of anger, sadness and regret bubble up his throat and billow in his chest, the flames of this unrelenting unease lapped at Y/N’s heart and made the doubts of his worthiness to feel Woojin’s skin meld with his own that much louder.

He was too blinded by the images of this man dressed in the sheets that once draped over his and Woojin’s shoulders and painted in the lilac tapestries of passion that Y/N knew were no less than nothing to Woojin now. He could feel Woojin’s touch leaving him, fingertips drawing away from his own even though an arm was still wrapped around his waist, hands keeping him close.

Woojin’s chest will never feel as warm as it used to just a day ago, as if the candlelights of their admiration could be blown away with only one of this man’s heavy breaths that he heard through Woojin’s bedroom door.

“What do you want, Nathan?” Woojin said curtly, a tone of distaste moulding his words. Y/N shivered at the name, and remembered how it resonated in Woojin’s throat, through the lips that would once sing a song of him. Y/N knows that their midnight melodies would never sound the same since the night Nathan’s tongue took its place between Woojin’s teeth.

“I just wanted to say hi.” Nathan gave a small wave, completely disregarding Y/N’s presence. Y/N could see it now, the flames of Woojin’s admiration dripping from his smirk, the worn cherry stains of Woojin’s kisses clinging to his neck and displayed on his skin. It taunted Y/N, beckoned the smokescreen of sadness to cloud his senses and keep his eyes on the floor. “Are you free after school today? I’d love to hang out.” Nathan kept going, combing his hair back with a small, devious smile. He eyed Woojin up and down, taking in the figure he had all to himself last night. Nathan waited for a response, but the silence egged him on - him and his perfect eyes, his perfect lips, his perfect hands, perfect body - Y/N understood now. “By the way, I like your sweater, it was comfy as hell.” Y/N unclung himself from the navy fabric of Woojin’s sweater. “Looks like you were thinking of me when you put that on. I think I look better in it though, Jinnie.” Nathan sneered.

Y/N remembered wearing that same exact sweater not too long ago, tied up in Woojin’s embrace on his couch, lost in his lips and ignoring the take-out on his kitchen counter. It was the sweater Woojin sent to him over the winter break prior, just before he went on vacation, a portable hug that kept him warm on the white nights without his touch. It was more than cotton and polyester to him.

Nathan… God-damn Nathan had the sweater too, the royal blue hugs that made Y/N’s grey skies clear as day. How? How could Woojin just give it to him, now he wonders if he really was the first to wear it; not just that sweater; but the first to wear Woojin’s kisses on his neck like diamonds, too?

“Nathan…” Woojin started but couldn’t finish, he knew what Nathan had said and what he had done, it was written all over the walls of the corridor and smudged on the lockers they onced pressed each other up on. How could Woojin have done this to the one person that understood him, that admired for all the things he was and wanted to be? The one who worshipped his imperfections like treasures and the one who poured their entire heart into every second they spent together? Woojin didn’t know, but all he did know is that he made the biggest mistake in his life, and will do anything to undo it.

“So it’s a yes?”

“No.”

Both Nathan and Woojin whipped around to the one trying so hard to keep his emotions in that they nearly burst from under his skin. Y/N raised his eyes to Nathan’s and could see Woojin’s reflection still lingering in them, still singing Nathan’s name, still cherishing Nathan’s body. A body that wasn’t Y/N’s, and he was done clinging onto this fading hope that everything is still going to be the same. Woojin flinched as Y/N took one more step, keeping his chin up as he tried his best to keep the tears from boiling over, and keep his sadness from spilling out on a person who barely deserved his time.

“He’s not free, he needs to talk to someone,” Y/N kept his composure, nails digging into his palms when all he got from Nathan was a cocked eyebrow. “Please? It’s important.”

“It won’t take all day-”

“Just fuck off, Nathan!” Y/N couldn’t keep it in anymore, just seeing his face, hearing his voice brought back all the memories he tried to scrub clean, all of the noises that burst through the gate of Woojin’s smile that would only part for him. It brought the sleepless night where Y/N lay crying to the stars what he did wrong and chasing his cries down Woojin’s street to haunt the withered hopes that everything could possibly go back to normal. Nathan winced as Y/N took a step closer, eyes no longer filled with the sparks of happiness Woojin once counted as they fell asleep, but lit ablaze by this sadness that writhed in him like a wicked flame.

“Fine, whatever. Have fun with your boyfriend.” Nathan left with a parting scoff. His glare settling upon a silenced Woojin once more before he rounded the corner. Y/N let a breath burst through his bitten lips that he barely knew he was holding, the numbness he felt while looking into Nathan’s eyes was unlike anything he’s ever felt. But he’s been feeling a lot of new stuff today.

“Thanks for that-”

“Park Woojin.” Y/N turned around to Woojin who just stood there, hands in his pockets and gaze weighted to the floor. Woojin has never had Y/N use his full name before, not even in their little arguments about who would hold the door next time or whether Marvel is better than DC. It was a bitter taste he knew he had to bite back and choke down. It was the bed he made for himself, and he will have to live knowing that when he wakes up, Y/N won’t be under him, soaking in the aurora blue tinting their most precious Sunday mornings.

“Y/N, please… It’s not what you think.” Woojin started, his tongue tripping over itself and the heat bubbling under his skin as he rummaged through his thoughts, desperately scratching at some hollow words to throw out into the hallway. Y/N tightened his fists, wedged his teeth into his bottom lip and took a couple steps closer. Was Woojin really trying to forge some hollow excuse right now? Was he really trying to fester a flame that was nothing but ashes? Y/N tried his hardest not to scream in pain or cry out in anger, the whirlwind in his head making it so much harder to look into the beautiful brown eyes that may have held some love for him.

“It’s not what I think, huh?” Y/N stepped back from Woojin’s desperate attempts to reach out for him. “I saw you two last night, and I was stupid enough for wanting to make it last.” Y/N looked at the ring on his finger, threatening to take it off, but a wince from Woojin stopped him, “I loved you, Woojin, and despite what everyone said, I thought you loved me too. But I guess the millions of times you said it was just bullshit.” Y/N saw all of their firsts in the galaxies embraced in Woojin’s dark brown eyes, all of the times they kissed under the winter stars, the coffee staining their early autumn mornings. The moonlight that drenched their skin during their nights on rooftops, and the black beaches that rendered themselves useless to the fires of admiration that soaked them. All of it started to play back like a cassette in Y/N’s mind, drawing him in this trance of flimsy nostalgia that constantly makes him think that everything will be better, that Woojin didn’t pray at another’s hips - an altar that wasn’t Y/N’s.

“Y/N-”

“What did I do wrong, Woojin? Did I really screw up that bad?”

“NO! Y/N, wait, please… Forgive me, give us one more chance.” Woojin’s words stumbled from under his tongue, reaching out to the young man that was so close, but so far away. He could feel the ivory tiled floor swallowing him whole, the sunlight they used to share together burning through his heart. Looking into Y/N’s eyes now, no longer holding the little fires of happiness that would always bloom around them whenever their lips met and sighs intertwined. Woojin couldn’t breathe, couldn’t live knowing that he made a mistake that would cost him the man he knew he was taking for granted.

“I’m afraid it isn’t as easy as either of us think, Woojin.” With every step Woojin took, Y/N inches away from him. Y/N’s heart burned the more he looked at the man he loved, not with a fire, but a poison. A toxin that ached in his chest and billowed through him like the clouds of their breaths that followed them on those winter nights that seemed like nothing but a blur to Y/N now. “It just took me one look at that asshole’s face to realize what I was doing to myself…”

“PLEASE! Y/N please!”

Tears ripped down Y/N’s cheeks and burned into his skin, his hitched breaths scratching at his throat and bursting through quivering lips. He slid the ring Woojin gave to him from off his fingers and shuffled towards him with a sad smile drenched from the rivers carved into his skin. Y/N dropped the ring into Woojin’s hands, leaving the memories with it.

“No, Y/N…”

“One heartbreak is more than enough-” Woojin throwing his arms around him cut him off in an instant, a desperate longing, a cry to stay echoing through his sobs into Y/N’s shoulder. His breaths ripped through Y/N’s skin and shook his bones, leaving him stunned, frozen still in the frigid, dark waters of sadness and regret numbing their senses. Y/N held Woojin’s face in his hands, his skin still feeling so warm, still threatening to ignite the stars under their skin. However, Y/N understood that the flames of admiration will never burn into them the same, that the sweetness that bloomed under their fingertips will just run bitter like ash. He knew that their memories tinted through ruby smiles and coral sunlight will fade to black and white and seep through their fingers. He knows that nothing will be the same, nothing will ever be the same. “Thank you for everything Woojin, I mean it.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N…” Woojin leaned his forehead onto Y/N’s, soaking in the velvet of Y/N’s sorrowful chuckles dancing between them for one last time. He knew what he did, and he knew that Y/N did too, he accepted his fate as soon as his clothes hit the floor last night, as soon as his lips cherished the skin of another.

“I know… I’ll forgive you, just not right now… I need to think, okay? We were both going to move on like nothing happened, and that would’ve destroyed us both.” Y/N cupped Woojin’s face, bringing him closer. Feeling the tears roll between his fingers and down his knuckles only twisted the daggers in his heart. Squeezing his eyes shut didn’t help him from seeing the lips that used to wait for his contorted in sadness and pain.

“Goodbye, Woojin…”

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antihero-writings · 4 years ago

Text

The Empty Throne (Ch2)

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist (Brotherhood & Manga)

Fic Summary: It's been a long time since that word died on Ed's lips...but relationships may be the only thing that can come back from the dead. || Exploring Ed and Hohenheim's relationship using the songs "Stumbling in Your Footsteps", "The Alchemist", and "Youth" as prompts.

Character focus: Van Hohenheim

Notes: I'm so sorry for taking so long with this one!! Hohenheim proved very difficult to write for... I hope you like what I ended up coming up with though!! And do let me know if there are any inaccuracies!!

This chapter is written for the songs "The Alchemist" by Nathan Wagner, and "Youth" by Daughter (with a little of “Stumbling in Your Footsteps” sprinkled in there from the last chapter). I highly recommend listening to them before reading!! (I can put links in a reblog!)

FYI There is reference to a scene from Ch40 from the manga in here that I don't remember being in the anime!!

If you enjoyed this, if you could leave me a comment I'd really really appreciate it!! As always, I would absolutely love to write more about this fandom, so feel free to give me FMAB prompts!! You can drop them in my ask box!!

Chapter 2: Dying Angels

Van Hohenheim walked the streets of Xerxes for two days before he gave up believing that there was someone still alive out there. That there was hope. That he was just trapped in the most feral breed of nightmare. Now he wandered into his home, though it didn’t feel like his own, rather just some place to rest his feet. An empty shell. They’d all died. So why did he feel like the corpse? “How?! How could you do this?! I thought you were going to make theKing immortal, not me!” “Oh? But what do I care for a nameless king who will be dead in but a few years? It’s you who gave me life. How could I allow you to be sacrificed for his avarice?” “How could you allow meto be sacrificed?! What about the people?!” He threw his hand behind him, gesturing to the empty city. “What about my friends?!” “Didn’t I teach you of equivalent exchange? Immortality isn’t bought on the cheap.”

“They’re all dead?! That’s your price?! Everyone I ever loved?!” “Not dead just…” He pondered the right word. “redistributed. To be perfectly frank, I thought you’d be more appreciative of my gift.”

“Gift?! Who in their right mind thinks this is a gift?!”

“Doesn’t everyone want immortality?” “Not at the cost of an entire kingdom!”

“Interesting…But now that you have it, free of blame, is it really so bad? You have everything you could ever want. Why, you could walk into the palace right now and take all the king’s treasures. No one would stop you.” He chuckled like this was all a grand joke—(he hoped it was). “Technically you’re the only heir left. …Unless of course you’d like to battle me for it.” Hohenhheim held his head in his hands. No, too much was happening at once. Everything and nothing at all. This wasn’t possible. His friends, the entire kingdom, it couldn’t just be gone. There were cosmic rules about this, surely. Surely this couldn’t happen. The gods wouldn’t hit reset any second now. Hohenheim leaned back against the door. …He didn’t really want to keep going, but, then again, he wasn’t sure this body would let him die. There was supposed to be a bazaar happening that weekend. He would have liked to go to it.

He had that book he borrowed from Meiyo. Van himself had taught him to read, so long ago. He would have liked to give it back, to discuss it with him. He still had to ask Rhinemile if his son was feeling better...well, he surely wasn’t now...

—(Oh, god, not the children)— He wanted to apologize to Willard for his rather rude behavior the other day. He was in a hurry but, well, it still wasn’t excusable. And there was that girl down the street he’d always wanted to ask if she’d like to get dinner together some time. The one with flowers in her hair. He sank to the floor. He’d never get to do any of that now. Couldn’t rewrite the past few days with them filled in the gaps. Tomorrow, so much of life, snuffed out like all the promises of a better future, their lives pinched out like a candle. Though they’d all died, he was the shade, wandering the streets of a manufactured hell. A vessel for all these wandering ghosts of everyone else. He’d believed in god once. He wasn’t sure he did anymore. They’d all died…so why could he still hear them? If he sat still long enough he could hear his friends’ dying cries, their pleas for mercy, as if his memories, like ghouls, decided to reanimate themselves. An eternal echo of their deaths. Dead…yet not dead. Their souls ensnared before they could reach the light at the end of the tunnel, trapped forever in this pitch black passage, bracing themselves for the end, which never came. Their voices, their emotions, ocean waves in a sea of bloody despair, and if he wasn’t careful, surely his own soul would drown in that sea of faces. The more he tried to block them out, the louder they became. Was this real? Or was he just insane, sitting in his house, and these voices were the calls of everyone trying to save him? He pleaded with a nonexistent god for insanity. The flashes still lingered across his brain; all the golden light turning to a sinister, haunted violet, those black hands still waving before his eyes, clawing at his sight, that eye still tasting his soul, and the blank Truth... He was so cold. His body, full of souls…cold as death. A walking gilded corpse; all that was left of his illustrious kingdom. The last survivor of a grand disaster…the unwitting accomplice of said disaster. Why hadn’t he realized it sooner? His kingdom had become a bone yard overnight. He wondered if future historians would come across the skeletons of his friends and the standing ruins, and wonder what could have possibly killed a flourishing kingdom in one night.

Was that all they'd be? A question to history? Not a living, breathing, bleeding people? Would their blood, their legacy, be lost to the world?

The voices clung to him, begging for a mercy he was incapable of granting any of them, like he was a cliff, one they were at risk of plummeting down. Like he was the single branch keeping them all tethered to life.

Could they not hear him snapping at the seams?

The voices were so close. He hated how close they were. Like a bug on his back, but worse, a thousand bugs crawling on his brain, and they weren’t bugs at all…they were people. They were his friends. Everyone he once knew, and plenty of people he never met, swarming his thoughts every moment. It’s sickening to have something crawling in the corners of your mind. It’d been two days, but it already felt like a century. He wasn’t sure how much of this he could take. But he would have to take it. The Philosopher’s stone. He’d read about it in his master’s books, the Homunculus told him about it. At the time it had seemed like the best of dreams; the ability to bypass equivalent exchange, to turn lead into gold… maybe even bring back the dead?

Not them though. He knew their souls were too lost to return home.

Now he knew what nightmares were made of; the best of dreams. That the worst thing humanity can get is three omnipotent, irrevocable wishes.

He’d walked around enough to know by now, he had the whole kingdom to himself. The Homunculus was right. He could march into the palace, pick up the jewels, sit on the throne. He had it all. If only he didn’t feel so damn lonely. He sat, and he thought, and he thought… and he thought. For there was nothing left to do but sit and think, and be swallowed by the quagmire of his own thoughts. Turned inside out. If only he could talk to someone, anyone. A fight with a neighbor would have been relief. Was this what war felt like? The silence was the worst part. Just how quiet the kingdom became in a single day. The shops devoid of customers, stoves left on, potters wheels still spinning, the streets empty; no kids playing in the. The worst part. The silence…and the noise inside his head. He held that infected head in his hands and, knowing the very worst nightmares are real finally allowed himself to weep.

******

The first time he died was from thirst, the second from starvation. Traveling the desert isn’t a riskless business you know. The third from that weird plant he thought was safe to eat (spoiler, it wasn’t). The fourth from exhaustion, the fifth from heat stroke. Each time he died he felt the weight of their souls lessen, become a little less active. The sixth was at his own hands. He wished he could grant them all mercy. It wasn’t long before he tried to end the suffering of all parties involved. The seventh and eighth were too. He’d lost track of how many times he died by the time he came across a little mining town in the dunes, full of poor people, whose leader was bleeding their pockets dry. What was it that drove him to help them? Was it sympathy? Pity? Some sort of hero complex? There was a little girl in rags. He pulled a golden coin from behind her ear, so she and her family would be able to eat that night. Next thing he knew the town was after him with pitchforks, wanting to know his secrets…willing to carve him up to search for them inside. He never wanted to cause them any pain. He still believed there was good in them, that this didn’t have to end in blood. They tore him to pieces. They were just a little misled, it was his mistake for dangling treasures before their hungry eyes. There was a general goodness to people. He still believed in it. And he was right about some of them. Some were kind, there were plenty who appreciated his alchemy, who genuinely wanted to learn, who were grateful to him. But it was probably around the seventh—or was it the seventeenth?—time he was killed for the crime of helping that he didn’t trust people so much. They say compassion is weakness, and when he found it was so easy to help…so easy to die for it, he started to believe them. It became more difficult to have compassion when there was such a high price. He could have created a palace out of nothing. He could have sat on a throne of glass in a kingdom of gold and disbelief. Walled himself away in a tabernacle to ungod beneath the ground. Never dying. Never living. But he didn’t. He was too weak. Too kind. Too restless. So he continued to walk the world, without a home, hope, or a single fiend to call his own. A golden wanderer in a world of lead. They’re right when they say history repeats itself. He wished someone would just reset the needle. The gods should do it any second now. Another day, another war. For Hohehnheim, really, though he’d lived through many wars—(best have the immortal fight, yes?)—there was only one war: himself, and the world. Trying to help, to save, people is much more war than it is peace. Far too many people desire immortality. Far too few know what it really signifies…what it costs. Every time he heard another foolish mortal bragging of the path to immortality he longed to wrap his hands around them, and shake them to sense. But he didn’t. He let them follow their misguided ways, for their boasts were but empty air. They didn’t know what it cost, and surely never would. They’d be granted the mercy of death in the end, and Hohenheim would stand before their corpses, a heart full of envy. It’s cruel to desire sickness in front of a sick man. Immortality was but a disease, and he longed for a cure.

He grew used to it. To the dull repetition, and the petty goals, and the scorn, and the screaming. Every day he woke up to the sound screaming within his own head. Ever those flashing lights of yesterday. Every day he fell asleep to the lullaby of cries for mercy. That endless black and red sea. He tried to row through it, but each new wave sent him tumbling to nothingness. Nothing, and everything; every emotion they ever felt. He learned to block them out so he could hear his own thoughts. He learned to listen to them, so he could know they were people, once. Hard to do in tandem. He tried to remember that they were all people once, and were still, despite the fact that there were little more than cries for mercy left on on the stove. He tried to treat them as people even so. He tried to get them to sit down so he could talk to them. Tried to discern individual waves from the sea. Tried to urge them to speak of more than just pain. To speak of life, and dreams, and who they once were. They were the only good part in all this. It wasn’t a happy life, but he got used to it all…until he met her. Was it selfish of him to want something for himself?

******

It’d been ten years. Ten years since he’d seen Trisha. Ten years since he’d seen Edward and Alphonse. It went by like days to Hohenheim. Sometimes he forgot that a few years is a very long time to people who still feel the sting of the clock.

And children feel it most of all. What had happened in those ten ticks? Were they happy years? How would they have changed? Would Trisha scold him for taking so long? And Edward and Alphonse, well, they’d be teenagers now. What kind of people had they become? Would they take after him or Trisha? He hoped it was the latter. Excitement and nervousness together flowed through him—though would could never tell by looking at his stoic figure.

He walked up the hill. When he looked off in the distance to where his house was...he couldn’t see it.

He couldn’t have misplaced it, could he?

As he advanced the nervousness took precedence over the excitement.

Trisha said she’d wait for him...they couldn’t have moved, right?

As he got closer the tree came into view, the one he tied a swing to before he left...except it wasn’t a flourishing oak as he knew it; it was barren of leaves, the top half of it painted black, its branches like a claw tracing the sky, still as death.

Horror twisted in his gut, his expression pulling taut. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and continued onward at a level pace.

When he arrived he fell to his knees. His home, the place he loved, the place the golden wanderer had finally settled down...was a pile of charcoal.

How was this possible?

The excitement became a twisting, writhing, questioning thing. He would have said some horrible disaster befell the neighborhood… if the other houses weren’t standing tall. Was it some accident? Where was Trisha? Where were Edward and Alphonse? Were they okay? Why hadn’t it been rebuilt? He turned to the house next door, like it was a sanctuary. The Rockbells. His last hope; there was Pinako at least. Hopefully she’d still be there, and could explain. Slowly, trembling slightly, he picked up his suitcase, the handle digging into his palm, and stood up, marching to her door. When he raised his hand to knock his breath caught in his throat.

Maybe he shouldn’t knock at all. Maybe he should just leave, spare everyone the pain.

Maybe they didn’t want him here after all.

An old lady opened the door. The sight was like time slapping him in the face. He hadn’t realized quite how long it’d been till he saw how the years lined her face, like a well read book. “Pinako…” He spoke, time catching in his throat. “I seem to have lost my house.”

******

They built a country out of nothing. It was incredible to be there when a nation was being delivered; it wasn’t in a hospital or a house, with blood and screaming, as it is with children, but in these empty fields, these barren sands, and was much softer. From their forests and fields arose houses and farms, and from the stones arose governments and laws. And in this nation there was born a girl. Just an ordinary girl. He’d met many like her. …He was much too old for her. But she looked at him, and she asked him to dance…and he felt young, and like he hadn’t been wandering for centuries. Why? Why would she pursue him when he was too old, too cold, too empty? What did she see in him? He couldn’t let himself get close to her. Because, after all, she was human, and therefore going to die some day…And he wasn’t going to die, and he wasn’t even quite sure he was human anymore either. She told him she wanted to be with him, even so. Even though he was like an old god, cracked and put together out of the souls of his people, and he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to be human. She told him humanity was more than he knew. Stronger than he realized. It was only because they were weak that they were strong. That they were more than just an amalgamation of mistakes. That they could change. And that the knowledge that they were going to die was what made the whole not-dying part worth it all. Trisha Elric was unlike those he’d met before. They didn’t get married. He didn’t want to chain her to him. But they decided to start a life together in a quaint town in the middle of nowhere.

There he could hear the sound of birds chirping, and the wind rustling through the trees.

The wandering god, the golden corpse, rested his feet for the first time in a few centuries.

Family. The word once meant the world. He wanted nothing more than to start one. To meet a girl, to have children with her. Long ago he told the homunculus that’s what gave life meaning.

Now he wasn’t sure his life was allowed to have meaning. So when she told him she was pregnant...that slave boy staring at the sunset, thinking he had a bright, short future, held her in his arms and twirled her around him. All the while the golden wanderer’s heart grew weary, and scared.

Was this really okay? Was a thing like him really allowed to sit down while? How would it work with him the way he was, with bullet holes in his heart and all these voices in his head? Could he possibly be a father, have a family, after all? He liked kids perfectly well…he just wasn’t sure about his kids. Would his affliction be passed on to this unsuspecting child? Would he hear voices from the moment he came into this world, unaware there were people out there without voices in their heads? Would they keep him trapped in a bottle desiring freedom from his own head?

And if the child was normal…how could Hohenheim be a father in his condition? How could he speak comforting words when his head was full of unrest? How could his child love a monster? They named him Edward, because they wanted him to be rich in spirit, and protect the hopeless. He kicked in her tummy a lot, and Trisha told him that surely meant he’d be a fighter after all. When Edward was born he cried. Frequently, and loudly. Hohenheim protested much himself when Trisha handed him to him, but Edward wrapped his tiny grip tight around his finger, and while his golden eyes were soft and unsure, there was fire there. And, as he calmed down in his arms, Hohenheim smiled, and cried, and was pretty sure he’d melted.

And the voices said He’s beautiful. Edward inherited the same golden hair and eyes that belonged to a people long gone, and Hohenheim was glad their blood ran through his veins, that the legacy of a people snuffed out, who should have had generations more, existed at least in him and his son.

And they were happy. And he thought he might stay a while. When she told him she was pregnant the second time, the slave boy jumped for joy, and the butterflies in the wanderer’s stomach turned to bats. Trisha picked Ed up and asked if he wanted a brother. He couldn’t talk at the time, but he made a gurgling sound they thought that translated to “Only if I’m still your favorite.” And Hohenheim tried to hold on to that. This was for Edward. Not for himself. This was for Trisha. And Ed turned out well enough.

…No, he turned out better than “well enough.” This one was much gentler; less tummy kicking, and when he came out he didn’t cry so much. They named him Alphonse, because they wanted him to be noble, and prepared for anything.

The four of them were joy incarnate.

And the voices said It’s okay. You can have this.

So he tried to listen to them.

He wanted to spend every moment with them, every minute he could, and some moments he didn’t have to spare.

But the more he did, the more a darkness crept in. How could they love a silhouette? They’d surely just forget him…and in a century or two, they’d be taste on his tongue he could never spit out. Hohenheim grew used to immortality. But when he looked into those lost, golden eyes he wanted to bleed. He wanted to age, and feel the aches and pains of it.

He wanted to die. For the living, death is ever approaching. For the gilded shades death is not easy to find.

He wanted to live, for them. He wanted to die, for them.

But he couldn’t find the cure sitting still.

******

The glass previously in Hohenheim’s hand was in pieces on the floor, but he barely heard it shatter, the echoes of Pinako’s words the only thing in his head now.

No. No this couldn’t be. Surely the gods would hit that reset button. Come on, any day now.

Trisha couldn’t be dead.

The woman he loved, decided to settle down, start a family with, she couldn’t be dead. No, that wasn’t possible.

Pinako grimaced, adjusting her glasses.

“I’m afraid there’s more.” She took a drag from her pipe. “I wish I knew what they were planning, I would have tried to stop it... Edward and Alphonse...they attempted to bring her back.”

His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat.

“They attempted human transmutation?” he breathed. The words were coarse as sandpaper in the air. “You’re…sure?” “Quite sure.” He sat down; the weight of his own body, his own thoughts, too much to bear. For far too long, the thought of seeing Trisha and his sons again had kept him going, kept him sane when he preferred to go crazy.

Coming home to find Trisha was gone, despite their promise to each other, that the last he would ever see of her was her standing at the door saying she’d wait for him. The woman he loved, the ordinary one, who told him people were more, the one he wanted to spend his life—as much of it as he could—with, the one who’d tethered the golden wanderer...he’d never, in all his millennia, get to see again. And Edward and Alphonse had become accomplished alchemists…but they had had more of a chance to grieve, and that grief, sitting alone in the dark, became an animate beast. In their despair they had tried to bring her back…and weren’t entirely whole anymore because of it. They had seen the immaculate truth, and it tore them apart for the crime of loving their mother. How could he possibly face them?

******

He saw the circle. The Homunculus drew a circle on the world as a line to know where to cut and make it bleed. The images of the past redoubled, the voices coming to a crescendo, telling him together they could spare this world from their fate. He had to stop it this time. Last time he stood by, ignorant. He wouldn’t now. He was determined. There was no other choice. And the price of saving this world, his family…was losing his precious years with them.

Equivalent exchange after all. He had to destroy the middle for the sake of the finish line.

He told Trisha he didn’t even want to say goodbye. He couldn’t bear to see their faces. If he did...he just might stay.

When he stood at the door, and she handed him his coat, and they came of their own accord, he knew he was right.

Those golden eyes, those beautiful eyes he adored so much...seared him like a brand. In later years he would be certain they scarred him. He saw them and though the boys said nothing, blissfully ignorant of what was truly happening, everything in him—and was this really him, or the voices still?—pleaded:

Stay. But he left anyway.

He had a world to save, after all. He stood on the hill overlooking Resembool, staring back at his house, the shadows draping across the place where he spent his better years—where he heard the crickets, and the frogs, and the birds, and the wind, and his wife’s lullabies, and his sons’ laughter—forsaking the quaint town, his family, his life for the sake of the sea of faces, for the sake of the cure.

“I’ll be back before you know it, Trisha. Just wait for me.” They were the lucky ones. They got to breathe instead of heaving through corrupted lungs. He wanted to breathe too, that’s why he had to leave, after all. The world was so empty. An emptiness that bored into his chest and made a nest there. Long ago the Homunculus had wanted to leave his flask. He swallowed the pieces of Xerxes; the pieces of the world he once called home, now nothing more than evidence to be disposed of. Now the Homunculus wanted to surpass god; cast a fishing line to bring god down and swallow him. To raise himself above all the spheres and look down upon them. He wanted to create a tower high enough to reach heaven. A door that could open the stars. He created a mark that no one could miss…except everyone standing on it. And, with a body of his own—or something close enough, surrounded by people: by another country, by all the souls inside him, the Homunculus still sat alone in a jar.

******

He visited Trisha’s grave, if nothing else, to get proof that she actually was there. That she couldn’t be touched, kissed, hugged, spoken to, or otherwise loved. If he had stayed…could he have saved her? Could he have kept his son’s from being torn apart in attempts to rewrite the past?

Now she was just a name on a stone. He stood there, not entirely believing it, not entirely sure where to go from here.

Back to wandering, I suppose. He wasn’t expecting— When he saw that boy again, the boy from the doorway, the one with the sad, fiery golden eyes—the eyes that belonged to the sea of faces—he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a teenager, and he wore grief like a medal, and Hohenheim knew there was real metal beneath those flashy clothes. There was fire in those eyes, still, but now it was fierce enough with a single look his gaze threated to scorch away his resolve. That look. The same look from when he left all those years ago. That look that he couldn’t bear. Edward was angry. He had every right to be…But the gilded sadness behind that anger was what he couldn’t bear.

Because it reminded him too much of himself. No, I had to do this, I had to stop him, don’t look at me like that. From the bitterness in his words, it became clear he was more than just a stranger in Edward’s eyes. As they spoke, Hohenheim tried to look for any similarity, any connection, anything to tie them to each other, like clinging to threads on a fraying sweater.

Edward was reckless and wild, chasing visions of his future that would leave him bleeding, and that made him lucky. Hohenheim wished he could chase visions and bleed. That he would feel something anymore.

…But it wasn’t a fire that wrecked their home. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed them until he tasted that taste again. Had his eyes been damp these ten years? That night he drifted to Edward’s room like a lost spirit, walking up to where the boy lay sleeping. The last he knew of them they were tiny things bumbling at his feet. Full of potential energy, waiting to fill out the molds of their bodies and names, and he didn’t dare touch them, for fear of infecting them with the sound of the sea.

Now that potential had become kinetic, and that name was more than just a word pronounced over him, it was something he was beginning to grow into. Time had begun to shape him. Though the more Hohenheim saw this, the more it seized him by the throat, asking him why he didn’t stay.

There’s nothing I could have done for them.

He wanted to talk to him. To ask him about the things he liked, the things he hated. He wanted to ask what those years were like, the good and the bad. To speak of those ten, and so much more. To watch the sunset and speak of tomorrow.

He wanted to touch him, for his touch to be gentle. He wanted to hug him, and cry on his shoulder and say I’m sorry and I wished I’d stayed and I‘d bring her back if he could. He wanted to help him on his journey, growing into that name he gave him. To be his father, even if it was just at the end.

But monsters have no right to touch children, especially not their own.

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1heartfanfics · 4 years ago

Note

Some Nathan and hazel emotional hurt/ comfort with a fluffy ending please???

Trigger warnings: mentions of child abuse/neglect and mental illness

So... this is certainly emotional h/c but idk how fluffy the ending is...

“Welcome home babe!” Hazel called after hearing the door open. She finished putting the laundry into the dryer then headed out to the living room to meet her boyfriend. He’d gone home for the weekend to check on his younger brother.

“Nath?” she said, frowning when she saw that he was just sitting on the couch, slumped over with his head in his hands. Hazel sat down next to him and put a hand on his back.

“Hey,” she said softly. Nathan didn’t respond, but he turned to look at her, making Hazel gasp. There were silent tears streaming down his face. But that wasn’t the worst thing. His right eye was bruised and swollen, several other deep purple splotches littering his face. She could see the fear in his eyes.

Wordlessly he stood up, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal the marks on his back and his ribs. Purple, yellow, and red spots were splattered all over him. Hazel bit back tears of her own.

“Your dad did this?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady. Nathan nodded solemnly, refusing to meet her gaze. Hazel knew that Nathan had grown up rough, that his dad smacked them around a little and his mom did nothing to stop it. But she had no idea it was this bad.

“Baby we need to call the police, this is illegal. And it’s not safe for your brother to be there with him,” she said.

“T-they wouldn’t let me leave but Zander, h-he sneaked me out. I-I’m supposed to take care of him... I-I f-failed him!” Nathan said quietly, staring blankly ahead as he bit back a sob.

“Oh sweetie,” Hazel said, heart breaking. She reached out to pull him into her arms, but froze when he flinched away from her as sobs began to rack through his body. He curled into a ball, scooting away from her.

“Nath, honey it’s me, I’m not gonna h-hurt you okay?” she asked, her own voice breaking. She slowly scooted over to sit right next to him again, placing a careful hand on his hip.

“I’m gonna put my hand on your side now alright. Is this okay?” she asked.

He nodded slightly, face buried in his hands as he continued to cry.

“Can I touch your hair love?” Hazel asked, understanding that he was wary of touch right now. He’d been beaten senseless all weekend as was terrified of everything now. She couldn’t believe that he hadn’t called her!

She received another slight nod, so she tangled her fingers in his hair, instantly helping him to relax. He let out a harsh sob but draped himself in across her lap, pressing his face into her legs.

“Alright, you’re okay baby. I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna stay right here with you and keep you safe. I won’t let anything else happen to you,” she said as she carded her fingers through his hair, slow and steady to avoid triggering him again. She was afraid to touch him anywhere else for fear of hurting him or scaring him again.

“H-he took my phone,” Nathan said quietly, once the sobs had tapered off and his tears had mostly dried. “I-I’m sorry,” he said, tears beginning to fall once more.

“No, honey it’s okay, I’m not mad. I just wish that I could’ve helped you,” Hazel said, brushing the tears off his cheeks with her thumb.

“You can’t fix this,” Nathan said, swiping a hand across his eyes.

“We will figure it out. Together,” Hazel said firmly.

"No, this is my mess, okay? I have to be the one to fix it. I’m the one who left Zand there by himself to take all the hits. I failed him. Me,” he cried.

“You didn’t fail him Nath, you took way more hits than he did. You’ve always said that you protected him,” Hazel tried to reassure him.

“Yeah but then I left. I got out but he’s still fucking there!” Nathan yelled.

"So then we’ll get him out,” Hazel said.

“What?” he asked, breathing heavily after having gotten himself so worked up.

“I’ll go get him. You stay here, get ahold of yourself and then call the cops. I will drive down there and bring him back here. He can stay with us until we figure out what to do,” Hazel said as calmly as she could.

“No. You’re not going anywhere near my dad,” Nathan said.

“You are in no shape to go back there. I won’t let you get hurt again,” she shook her head.

“Well I can’t let you get hurt,” Nathan said.

They were both standing now, Nathan pacing back and forth while Hazel stood near the couch, watching with worry. She’d never seen him like this. Even back in high school. She couldn’t believe how well he’d hid just how bad things really were at home.

“I can handle myself,” Hazel said, “I was raised by two brothers who took plenty of hits themselves. I can handle it,” she insisted.

Nathan sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face, then running it through his hair. Sending Hazel home to deal with this mess for him was the last thing he wanted, but he had to admit that he didn’t think he could do it himself. He hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d entered his parent’s house three days ago.

“Come here,” Hazel said, holding her arms open to him.

He walked to her, gratefully falling into her embrace. He buried his face in her shoulder and wrapped his arms tightly around her, breathing her in and focusing on the feeling of her hands rubbing up and down his back.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispered, pressing a kiss into his mused hair.

He nuzzled further against her, fighting to believe her. She was all he had right now, his only hope. He had to believe that she could help him fix this. He just had to.

#nathan #hazel #nathan and hazel #tw abuse #tw childhood trauma

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nathanfryerwoods · 4 years ago

Text

Lucky Stars (Chapters 1-14) - by Nathan Fryer-Woods

1 It was a dark, cold night. Which was kind of fitting for the beginning of any story. But in south east Asia, when you start feeling the cold, you know you've been there too long. And as a ginger kid from the north of England, he should have been in his element.

He was so far from the place he had once called home. And it had been years since he'd felt the long, scalding hug of the hallway radiator, on his return home from whatever trouble he'd been causing, beyond the icy front door.

He had never really, truly missed home, that was until now. He longed for that familiar smell of the old underlay carpet in the council flat he once had. The flat he received after he was crippled by a speeding police car, whilst trying to cross the road years before. There was no compensation. But, as a result, he became the king of his own castle. A place for him to lick his wounds. It was dark and dingy, and located in the back of beyond where the undesirables of town were kept, but he didn't care. He was happy, and it was his. The only place he's ever really been able to call his own. But now, those days, seemed like a lifetime away.

Today, he's found himself trapped in a different kind of paradise, one he thought he'd never want to leave. He had always believed humans to be of a semi-nomadic nature, but he had found happiness here, and at one time, for the first time since childhood, he had felt settled.

That was until, that 'thing' happened. He didn't like talking about it, and when he did, would get so frustrated. No one understood it like he did, not many people at least.

It had been 3 months since he last saw another foreigner, 3 months since he had seen anything of the world outside of their village. And he was an explorer at heart. Though he never strayed too far off the beaten track, and he'd never discovered anything new, he was always looking, it was just a matter of time... it was in his blood. His itch for exploration, grew stronger by the day.

His wife was the only one in their village who could speak any English, (although he sometimes felt he got a better conversation from their eight and a half month old son), she was the only one who had even half a chance of vaguely understanding him at a deeper level. They had met 3 years previous in the capital city. A place with a pace he was used to, and found comfort in. But now, thanks to certain 'things', and the changing world around them, he found himself in the place his wife found the most comforting, her parents cashew nut farm. Up a hill, in the middle of nowhere. He felt like an elephant, with sore thumbs, in a pond, full of fish. Sticking out... misunderstood.

2 It was the 21st of December, not only the day of the winter solstice, but in the year of the 'Great Conjunction', between Saturn and Jupiter. Tonight the world would see these astral giants, seemingly merge into one, forming what is known as the 'Christmas Star'. It had been 397 years since this alignment last took place, just 13 years before Galileo built his first telescope to marvel at the heavens above.

This event had to signify something, he knew it would, but he was far too apprehensive to look so deeply into it. He convinced himself it was a positive, auspicious event, but at the same time made a mental note to his brain's list of 'things to do', to see what the ancients made of it. After all, when the God of Thunder and his mighty Son do a high-five in the night sky, one should be prepared, or so he believed. But, that list in his head seemed to never end, it would only ever get longer. He knew, and readily admitted to himself, he would probably never get round to it. And in time, as soon as it was far too late, that entry like many before it would drop off the list, as just another faded memory.

The day before, he had tried to explain to his wife, the solstice, the tilt of the Earth, and the reason for it being so cold this time of year. But soon realising that the battle for her attention against her best friend - the phone, was a battle he always lost, he promptly gave up.

The previous week, her two youngest siblings (the brothers, aged 11 and 14), had asked him if they had shooting stars back in England. After 7 years of practice, his level of the local language was good enough to articulate most of the things he wanted to say (although this particular part of the country was the last of the true tribal areas, with 13 different clans each with their own dialect, making understanding them more of a challenge). He explained to the brothers, in as simple of terms as possible, the physics of the phenomenon. How more often than not, a shooting star was nothing more than a small pebble from outer space, travelling at unimaginable speed towards the Earth. And how it's magnificent trail was made as it burnt up in the atmosphere before it was able to reach us.

Seeing the mystery and magic in their faces fade before his very eyes, he quickly moved on to let them know how it was customary back home, after seeing a shooting star, to make a little wish to yourself. And that this, was not to be wasted. He imagined, how even the most hardened criminals themselves probably couldn't resist this, and even they would make one. Maybe it's quite likely that wish would be for guns, drugs or money. But you never know, the inner child in all of us, where that belief is instilled, only wants one of two things; love and happiness. And with that, comes security. The magic we're raised with as children, if at all, dies hard. And even with years of learning from science, logic and reason, some magic we just can't let go of. No matter how many times it's failed us.

After seeing at least some of the mystery return to their faces, he moved back - with faith, to cold, hard, facts. He explained how if these space pebbles were any bigger, and hadn't completely burnt up on their descent to Earth, even a rock the size of a toy car (available to hand at the time), could devastate the planet. At the very least, make a real mess around the site of impact. He used the 3000 year old crater lake, situated down the road as an example. This, would be the last thing he'd say on the matter. The brothers went on to let him know, how their hole in the Earth was different. Through the unique use of their local, hillbilly twang, they managed to get the point across that in fact, their crater was made by a great, angry, pig-like God from the skies... obviously, and he should have seen it coming.

The shattered pain that was once on the boy's faces, had transferred onto his own. He retreated back into his own mind, to his own thoughts. A place he understood, and needed no explanations. With no brick walls that he could waste his time with, by banging his head against.

3 The Sun had set, another day was done. The candy floss pink and tangerine orange that had painted the sky was gone, but the clouds remained, blanketing the Earth. Tonight was noticeably warmer, though he was still cold. And no matter how the clouds littered the sky, he still had hope that he would be able to see the events in the sky unfold. He'd poke his head out of their bedroom every twenty minutes or so and peer upwards. And around. Every direction, as he was a little unsure as to which way was west. The cloudy blanket persisted in its existence. All that was visible was a near half Moon and Polaris, the north star, slowly but surely running in circles, chasing its tail. He headed back inside, his hopes unscathed, there was still time.

'Just one more hour', he thought to himself, 'and the great high-five of the Gods would set sail over the horizon'. The anxiety got the better of him, he zipped his jacket back up, and ventured out again.

The Moon had become but a faint shimmer in a dirty pool, and Polaris was nowhere to be seen. In 5 brief minutes, the sky-scape had taken an unfortunate turn for the worse. The magic, once again, was passing him by. His wife came out with their Son in arm, to see what they'd been missing. She had been listening. It was a trade off that he was more than happy to make. 'I can wait sixty years for the next alignment', he thought to himself, 'I'll catch it in the next life'. His new little family meant the world to him, and nothing much else mattered.

4 It was 8am when he rose up out of bed. Not so early, but not too late either, in his opinion at least. He could have done with an extra hour, but the rooster that had been howling since 4am, couldn't be ignored any longer. He threw on his jacket and headed outside.

The Sun was glaring down on him, the clouds had dispersed. "Thanks clouds", he grumbled under his breath. "Any other day this month, and last nights weather would've..." and then, that thought vanished. He'd caught a glimpse of his Son's peaceful face, sleeping, swinging in the cammo hammock. His mind instantly emptied itself with ease, and in the same moment, filled the vacuum with a calming peace. His Son's happiness was contagious to him, a contagious cure to all his frustrations.

His extended family had been up for a few hours already, as was normal. 6am usually, to start the day with the important things in life. Sewing tapestries, playing on phones, picking their faces, more sleep. They looked down on him for not being awake so early, but he was unsure of what they expected him to be doing at 6am. He never saw them doing anything important at that time of day, and very little changed as the day went on.

Another thing that didn't help, was their inability to grasp the concept of sleeping disorders. His diagnosis came far too late for him, at the age of 25, just a few years before leaving England. It had already shaped his life by then, and in some way or another, had made him who he was. He now knew, that what had forever plagued his sleep was a combination of apnea, delayed sleep phase disorder, and the slight hint towards a long standing, yet self-coping problem called narcolepsy. A diagnosis the doctor didn't want to make. He learnt to never go with a self diagnosis of a problem again. A well paid opinion, is obviously worth so much more than anyone else's. Even when blood tests showed he had the gene needed to predispose a person to this condition, they were reluctant to admit he might be right. He was prescribed with the search of a night job.

His father in-law was a good man. He'd worked hard all his life to provide for his wife and five children, and then their children too, of which little Finlay, was number four. He loved them all like they were his own.

The farm was around half a hectare in size, with around sixty large cashew trees, five mango trees, and banana and papaya also being dotted about. The land fairly rugged and unkempt, as cashew season didn't start for another month or so. Soon, the whirring of the weed-whacker would fill the air, making the search for nuts and the spotting of snakes much easier.

The family tractor was being rented by an owner of a sweet potato farm, 100km away, southwest of them. This way good news, it was old, and it stunk. And now, it was someone else's problem to fix every other day, and they were paying for that privilege. The last time Lawrie was here was when Finlay was born (sorry, I've never been good at introductions, but baby is Finlay, or Finn, and Dad is Lawrie. Well, Lawrie's his surname... Dan, Daniel, Danny never appealed to him, and even his parents stuck to calling him Lawrie). Ok, where was I..?

...yeah, so the last time he was at the in-laws farm, was when his beautiful baby boy was born. Early April, a healthy 3.6kg. And as sure as anything, without fail - every other night, Pa would be half submerged in the belly of this beast, covered in oil as it spluttered away. Not such a soothing sound to send your Son to sleep.

These days, Pa would spend his time making furniture at his sister's house just beyond the back of the farm. Each evening, a new chair, stool or table would appear, and the huge piles of illegally logged wood, dotted around the plot would slowly, bit by bit disappear. As did the jungle that surrounded them.

5 Their village was located 10km outside of the nearest town, and the closest city was another 30km beyond that. That was the city of Lombang, the province capital (though the spelling of this, as did many other place tended to vary, wildly). The city was big, whilst at the same time, all being nicely spaced out. Apart from the market area, nowhere seemed to get so busy. The city itself wasn't over commercialised, the way a western city would be, mainly made up of independent, family owned businesses, it had a very local feel to it. That's what Lawrie liked most of all about this country... the people, the locals. For all the differences in culture, and the difficulties they created (of which there'd been many over the years), only added another layer of excitement and adventure to his whole experience. No matter how different other people saw him as being, he seldom cared. He had spent his entire life back home as the ginger sheep, and that had prepared him well, for life out here.

He missed the city. He'd only managed to explore it for one day the last time they were here, when Finn was around two months old. He lost the plot one morning, waking to find his wife, Nib, sat feeding the baby, downwind of a roaring fire made entirely of plastic. He was sick of telling her, and she was tired of hearing it. He turned his back and walked away, away from the stench of burning straws, and the feeling of absolute futility. He gathered the essentials, made the small trip to the road at the top of the plot and flagged-down the first van he saw. Finally, it was adventure time. It all happened so fast. He loved being on the road, but all the way there, couldn't stop thinking about his new born bundle.

6 The driver and the passengers all seemed friendly enough. Very inquisitive, as once was normal, but on this occasion, a nice surprise. Especially with how the world was turning these days. He wore his face mask, no matter how useless he knew it was to him. It was unfortunately, an essential item.

Forty kilometers and two and a half bucks later, they arrived. He found the journey so refreshing, though Finn was constantly in the back of his mind, with not much to see along the way to steal his thoughts completely. Just miles upon miles of lush, jungle-covered hills, beyond the back to back farms that were broken up every so often by a roadside shack of a shop. So many farms.. cashew, pepper, mango, rubber, you name it, he saw it. And every so often, the odd little spot of deforestation in the distance, clearing space for a few more.

He spent the day exploring, and enjoying his first taste of freedom in what felt like years. You see, his wife's hometown is so rural, and that trapped in their tribal mentality, even they have a hard time getting out. And generally, unless they have to, they just don't bother. Nib had told him how a while back, one of her uncles had an infection in his leg, a drunken mishap from a motorbike fall, from which he burnt himself on the exhaust pipe. He had to do the three kilometer journey on foot, through the next village to the one beyond it where the nearest thing to a hospital was. About half way there in the next hometown, you pass by the the village chief's house, who on this particular occasion, for once was awake. He imagined him stumbling out of some grand, overly ornate, heavy wooden chair, on the orders from ten or so yelping, mangy dogs. One well worn flip-flop on, while failing miserably to secure the other, not giving it the slightest bit of thought, as he starred intently at the intruding stranger, hobbling by. The chief had demanded from him, one buffalo, in order to let him pass. You're welcome to go back and read over that line again, but you got it right first time. Yes, a buffalo. A few minutes of talking by the roadside, and they'd worked out a deal, two chickens would seal it. Her uncle shuffled back home, dragging his manky leg, and after snagging two of his most sickly looking birds, started the journey again. All in the hope, of paying someone to gouge out a huge chunk of his inner thigh.

The relative bustle of the city was a much welcomed change for Lawrie. He criss-crossed his way down the main roads and through side streets to reach the city limits, and then double-back on himself in a slightly different direction, stopping here and there at the sight of an esky cooler to pick up a fifty cent beer.

He arrived rather early by his standards, maybe 8.30. But with no watch, phone, or any idea of what time he woke up, he could only guess. Over the years, he had gotten pretty good at working out the time, between the Sun and the shadows. He was usually only off by about 15 minutes or so. But who cared what time it was? It's his day off. And this called for another fifty cent-er.

The day went on and his heart was glad. He knew that fresh emptiness he felt in the background wouldn't be there for long, and that soon enough he'd be back with his boy. He missed Nib too, but pushed that thought out, whenever she crossed his mind.

He wandered through the rest of the day. No plans, no direction, and not so much to worry about. He ate, drank, bought a dummy and a rabbit teddy bear which he called Barney and headed back to the edge of town that he'd arrived at, making his way home before sunset. Nib was waiting on the front, waiting with a hug.

7 It was Christmas Eve, and this year looked like it was set to be Lawrie's best and worst to date. But considering the problems that the people of Earth were facing, it was likely, this year was to be a historically bad one worldwide... with maybe only the 'black death', and world wars outdoing it. These were strange days to be living in.

His lack of cash, and no real friends or family to share what little he did have, made the whole occasion rather pointless. He'd been asking Nin for the last nine days to help him find a pair of wooden chopsticks. He'd tried, but with no luck. He also hadn't mastered the pronunciation of 'chopsticks', it was a tricky one.

He wanted to fashion them into baby sized drumsticks, the first part of a home made drum kit he planned to make. As money was scarce, and Finn was too young to understand the concept of Christmas, he decided that this was ok. Especially, as no one for miles around, gave this holiday even a single thought.

Chop-drumsticks were kind of perfect as a Christmas present out here. Lawrie had been tapping away rhythms and singing to his Son, ever since he found out he was in Nib's belly. He'd play him songs too on his guitar, and old song recordings online. Classics from the golden era of the 60's, as his parents had done for him, when he was young.

Apart from being cheap and cheerful, chopsticks were also importantly, disposable, bio-degradable, and readily available everywhere in Asia (everywhere but, apparently, this village). He'd come to learn that while living on the farm, nothing here was actually his. Nothing belonged to anyone it seemed. At any moment, someone's grubby little mits could appear, and 'borrow', anything they wanted, not return it, and leave it half buried in the dirt to be found a week later. Just days before, the younger brother, Rutt, had taken Lawrie's lighter and Finn's favourite toy. A small, yellow, rubber pig. As Finn was teething, it was more of a chew-toy for him (the dummy by this point, had been savaged by dogs). He loved that little pig, and upon spotting it, would shuffle over, pop it in his mouth and gnaw away. Who knows where it ended up. Apparently, not even Rutt knew.

'Give it a week', he thought. 'It'll turn up.' Probably as a charred, molten puddle, next to a broken lighter, but he'd find it eventually.

The day was surprisingly calm and quiet. Pa had left early, sometime before sunrise, making the eighty kilometer journey to the city of Somtang. Life on the farm was always a little more relaxed when Pa was out of town. Lawrie couldn't work out why, as he was the most placid of the whole family, making him Lawrie's favourite. Even so, Pa's brief departures were always good news, a little more peace and quiet on the farm was much needed. He'd be back in a week or so, and he'd be bringing the rasping roar of the tractor with him.

8 Between the hours of midday and 3pm, were Lawrie's best time of day, as he usually had the house to himself. The screaming match that accompanied lunch, would cease around 12pm. Not completely or instantly, but it would get quieter and more distant, as they each skulked off in their various directions, with their own, distinct rackets.

Ma and Nib would go to one of three places. The shop over the road, the one around the corner, or Pa's sister's house out the back. Basically, wherever the card game is happening that day, where Ma can loose the money someone else has given her, and then spend the rest of the day spreading bitterness because of it. Lawrie didn't know where the rest of them went, and never cared to ask. But he knew where Pa was, Pa was always working.

He sat alone in the bedroom, enjoying the silence. His only disturbance coming from a faint yet piercing buzz in his ear, from a rouge mosquito that had managed to sneak in through the gaps between the concrete walls and wooden ceiling. A clap, or a self-slap to the side of his face would usually sort that out, or half of the time at least.

He had, ever since the age of nineteen and had he left home for the last time, been some sort of vegetarian. For as long as his memory went back, he had always hated the thought of things dying for his food. To him, it just seemed so unnecessary. But out here, with the snakes, spiders, scorpions and mosquitos, his long standing beliefs were set aside. Some things were asking to be killed. He'd always say sorry, and wish them better luck in their next life... all except the mosquitos, he took pleasure in wasting them.

He had been surprised upon first arriving in the country, by many things. During the three days it took him to get here, he felt excitement at the thought of visiting a Buddhist country for the first time. He imagined all the food and flavours he'd discover there, and how it must be much easier getting a decent meal that was death-free, and involved fewer funny looks, as the majority of people there were Buddhist.

But he was wrong. Totally, fucking wrong. It wasn't long after arriving, when he saw a sight he'd never forget, and that would help him on his way to understanding the madness of the place he found himself...

A monk, driving a car, drinking a coke, smoking a cigarette.

'Wow', he thought to himself, visibly gawping, his jaw on the floor, catching flies. 'Wow'.

9 With an almighty, thunderous CLAP!.. another pesky bloodsucker was eliminated from existence. Silence resumed. Only the static like sounds of the insects outside remained, and the faint background hum from the rare moto or truck, that was making use of the empty roads as the others ate, slept, and played cards.

He eventually managed to get a good enough data connection and logged into his messaging app. He'd always been terrible at keeping in touch, but at this time of year, there was no excuses. You can miss all the birthdays you want, and it's all forgotten by Christmas. And that's why you can't skip it.

He scrolled through the pictures that he and Nib took with Finn the week before. They were all dressed head to toe in various shades of red, the closest thing to being Christmassy, that they could manage. He selected three pictures, tagged his family and the extendeds, and wrote a short message which he cringed at within seconds of clicking 'post'.

He hated talking online. He hated talking on the phone as a kid, but these days preferred it to SMS and instant messages. It all felt so impersonal. To many people, he'd quite often come across as self-centered, and uncaring. But to him, his problem was he cared too much in other ways. He cared about wasted the moment he was in, and ignoring the people around him, whilst staring at screens. The past and future are pointless without a present, and the present, was drumsticks. He shot out of his chair, and with determination set off, on a final hunt.

10 He woke the next morning, and was glad to find that the visiting calm hadn't skipped town in the night. The only sounds to be heard were the distant chugging of heavy machinery, the here and there hum of the main road, and his wife rigorously brushing away at the laundry, by the stream that ran down the side of the farm.

She would always wait until everything was dirty, which usually took around a week, and then spend half a day literally attacking it. Lawrie's clothes were thin, frayed and full of holes because of this, and something would always come back worse off for the abuse, but he didn't complain. It wasn't a job he was fond of, and it would ruin the callouses he'd built over the years, making playing guitar a pain. And because he'd rush through it, she wouldn't let him wash any of her clothes, and he couldn't blame her.

He dusted the sleep off, and made his way outside. Ma was sat at the front on one of the two big, heavy, wooden bed frames facing the road, doing her sewing. He never got to the bottom of it, but most ot the houses out here had beds outside, while everyone would sleep on mats on the floor inside, but he never asked and it remained a mystery to him. Too many more important questions still had no answers.

Finn was asleep in the hammock. It was coming to the end of its swing. Lawrie kissed his forehead, and gave him a little push.

Suli, was the Son of Nib's youngest sister, and was the second of Finn's three cousins. For once, he was keeping himself to himself and being nice and quiet. It wasn't his fault he didn't know how to behave, and Lawrie knew that. And with Pa being away today, he probably hadn't drank half an energy drink, like he normally would have by 8am. Lawrie took the string-bound, straw brush, and swept the tiled floor, as he did every morning.

His wife was the eldest of five. The two brothers, and the youngest of her sisters all living on the family farm. The middle sister (the most well-rounded of them all), had the right idea earlier in year, and got the hell out of there. The middle sister's two children, still spent a lot of their time at the family farm, and Suli had lived there all his life. His mum, had done what was expected of her, and left him there while she went back to work, leaving Ma to raise him. At three years old, he was understandably, a handful. But Lawrie couldn't help but worry about him, and feared he had a lifetime of problems ahead. Problems not only for Suli himself, but for the family doing the half a job of raising him. A half job they weren't doing so well.

His top row of front teeth were nothing but black stumps, half decayed, causing him great discomfort. He was almost always covered in dirt. And usually, by the end of the day, had the remains of every meal he'd eaten, still round his mouth. Flip-flops were uncommon, and he rarely wore pants, maybe 3 times in the past few months.

Unfortunately for him, for his first two years of life he was Ma's responsibility. And his problems, Lawrie saw as her fault. The middle sister being back to work, was expected to send money home, while it was Ma's job to play cards and sew whilst raising her grandchild. The same Ma who had done a shocking job with her own children, and it was time to do it again for theirs.

Suli, was toilet trained. But Larwie, expected this lesson was probably taught by the dogs. He would piss anywhere, whenever he needed to go. That was usually from the tiled floor outside the house, and onto the dirt a step below. But if he was upstairs, he'd do it from there. And no one had the slightest of problems with this.

Lawrie quite often, when going around the back of the house where there actually was a toilet, would find someone there. Usually Ma, but sometimes Nib, ten feet away from the toilet, squatting.

Ma was so lazy, in every aspect of life. And she'd passed that on to most of her children. And by the standards that Lawrie had been raised with, she was a truly terrible mother, and in general, a mean spirited person with very little compassion. Lawrie found her unbearable. But at the same time, he just had to deal with it, and knew she didn't know any better. She was never going to learn, and it wasn't really her that he could blame.

The civil war, decades before, that had torn this country apart, had given her parents generation a living hell to endure. An event so disastrous, it's effects still rippled through life to this day.

Her first three children, the sisters, were all left at Grandma's house as soon as they were able to eat mashed up rice soup. This was and is, pretty much 'the norm', for kids over here. Never really knowing their parents as the grow up. Children are seen as laborers, and in a way, sort of like a pension. Breaking your child's heart isn't really an issue, if it means you've been out working.

Now today, the third generation of children are making their way through life, and thanks to this practice, are doing so with their own broken hearts. With a level of distrust only their people know, and with the job one day, of passing this on to their own children.

At the age of fourteen, Nib and her sisters started living with their parents who had got together enough money to by their farm, which was five-hundred kilometers away, up north. Pa built a simple wooden hut, and they called it home. There they would spend the following years learning who their children were, and catching up on all they had missed. And Ma got bigger, as they waited on the birth of their first baby boy. It was time to learn how to be parents.

Soon after baby number four was born, Nib, with a modestly sized bag packed to the brim, was put on a plane bound for Malaysia to work in a factory making mobile phones. She did so with the help of her auntie's passport and was greeted at the airport by another aunt, who also worked there. Over the next two years, she managed to send enough money back to build the beautiful house they live in today.

It was the nicest house in all the village, and probably the neighboring ones too, and it stayed that way for years. Pa was so proud of it, he was so grateful to Nib, and she became his favourite, and he had no worries letting the others knowing it.

When she returned home with her final salary, the house was pretty much complete. Ma was pregnant with Son number two, and with the spare cash, Nib enrolled at school.

11 Lawrie had finished sweeping. The dog had been shooed off from laying on the dinner table, and he was now finishing the picking up and bagging of all the plastic crap his in-laws had tossed on the floor the day before. As he looked around searching for any last stragglers, he noticed that Finn needed another push. But his stealthy dash towards the hammock, turned out to be a mistake.

''Boo Ree!" (Uncle Lawrie) Suli screamed at the top of his highly pitched voice... he'd been spotted, and after doing so well. In the same instance, Finn's eyes pinged open, beaming, to find his father stood over him, startled as Suli's screech was still ringing in his ear. He smiled and raised his arms, and Lawrie followed suit. "Merry Christmas Son".

Suli loved Lawrie, and this was mutual. He hardly ever saw his father, who was even more useless than his mum. Lawrie saw it as his responsibility to look out for him, as no one else seemed to be a positive influence. This wasn't just for Suli's own good, but Finn's too. Raising a child here was a constant worry for him. These bad habits and behaviors, were not for his Son to learn. He desperately needed a plan to get his family out, safely away. And this would need to be a plan even Nib would be happy to go along with, and before he inevitably snapped again.

He placed his bundle into the 8 wheeled, brightly coloured walker thing, and gave him his tambourine, one of the few toys he still had. He didn't like the tambourine so much, but it kept him occupied for a few minutes. Just enough time to build a barricade around the edge of the floor using ten heavy, tree trunk stools. Suli was rolling round on the floor next to him, pant-less and screaming to himself. He made sure all the stools were placed in such a way that Finn couldn't kamikaze off the edge, and headed back to the bedroom to take stock of all he could consume that day. He loved his coffee, and cigarettes too, but was annoyed with himself. He'd practically quit before coming back here. He had promised himself that he would pack them in by the time Finn was born. He failed, and promised again by the time he was six months old. And not far off that time, had got them down to three a day... that was when they moved back, to the madness of the farm. Straight out the window.

$1.10, thirteen cigarettes and a dollars worth of data that yet to be put on the phone. 'It's going to be a good day', a sarcastic joke to himself. He didn't laugh. It wasn't funny. He took 50 cents, and made for the shop, to treat himself.

''Four 3in1 coffees please,'' it was Christmas after all.

Half way through his double strong coffee (it was actually 6 in 2), the clouds in his mind started to clear, and he was ready to take on another jam-packed day of next to nothing.

Finn, still in the walker, had now been let loose on the dusty, red dirt at the front of the house. Lawrie was uneasy with this as the walker was light and flimsy, and flaws in its design made it that going in a forward direction was practically impossible. Almost all the plastic products sold out here, were only ever things that hadn't passed the stringent watch of Chinese quality controls. Finn spent most of his time in that thing, going round in circles, or at very best, doing his famous crab impression, scooting sideways.

Suli was dragging around the frame of an old, crusty pram, that had seen much better days. It was full of rust, had no seat and only one of the three wheel it had left, actually turned. Suli had no toys, the ones he did have, had disintegrated in his hands shortly after being given them... their remains scattered in the dirt.

Outside the front of the house was a huge 30 by 30 meter steel roof, hanging around 20 feet above. Suli and his pram, had made their way beyond the roof's reach, and over to where the overgrown, straggly vegetation had been thriving since that year's rainy season.

Lawrie, had been the only one watching. He put down his coffee, and started walking over, seeing the potential for disaster as Finn chased after. He got as far as calling out Suli's name, with the hope of reeling them back in, when Finn hit a divot in the ground. The walker was sent over sideways, Finn's face smashing into the ground. Lawrie, with a heavy heart picked up speed, blurting out some frankly useless words of comfort as he made his way, to pick him up.

Fountains of tears rolled down little Finn's cheeks, his left one being covered in small stones and dirt, with a few grazes on his chin. His wailing cut through to Lawrie's core, and he felt responsible for not getting there sooner, as he saw it coming.

By this point Ma was screaming too. Lawrie tried to explain to Nib how it wasn't Suli's fault, in a vain attempt the message might get passed on, and Ma would shut her trap. Suli wasn't to blame, he was a child and didn't know any better, and Lawrie knew what was likely to happen next.

Ma, still shrieking had gotten down to Suli's level and was now yelling in his face, slapping his legs, his bare backside.

''Viscous mutt'', Lawrie said audibly, without a care who heard. 'Silly bitch', just wouldn't have cut it, and his choice of words went straight over Nib's head. With his years of being out there, Lawrie had learnt how to best disguise his words of anger and frustration. He sometimes surprised himself with the off-the-cuff, creative expressions his mind would muster up out of the ether.

Ma had now stood up, but was still barking. Suli was in tears and had been almost as long as Finn, who was now in Nib's arms, but still in distress as he watched the animalistic behavior unfold. Ma, taking a thin branch from the sapling of a fruit tree, was snapping off all that once grew from it. Because obviously, providing fruit for your grandchildren, and one day their children, isn't nearly half as important, as whipping a child that's done nothing wrong.

Suli cried in this way, at least four or five times a day. A few months before, Lawrie had counted eight times in one day. He'd seen enough, and headed back to the bedroom with his mixed feeling of anger and helplessness.

If he'd have still had his guitar, he would have been unzipping it's case as soon as he got inside. But he had no guitar these days, and upon spotting a pen on the desk, found a scrap piece of paper, sat down and started writing. And this would be the case over the coming months, a daily compulsion. He couldn't help it, he physically couldn't stop.

12 Maybe an hour had passed and Lawrie was still writing, when he heard the not so distant cry of his boy. Nothing like the sounds he had made earlier, but just him letting the world know he was still upset, in the only way he could. Lawrie looked out of the window to see Finn and Ma on their way back from over the road. 'No surprise he's upset', he thought to himself. He hated seeing Ma walk away with his Son, and was glad he hadn't seen this time, as it would only have played on his mind.

He sat back down to his writing, knowing that Nib was out there and Finn would soon be at ease, filling his not so little belly.

He could overhear a conversation between Nib and her mother. It wasn't difficult, as they only really have two levels of communicating out here, Nib's family especially. Those levels are shouting and screaming, making everything far too easy too hear, and whether you want to or not.

Apparently, Pa was already on his way back, and was four hours away by tractor. He tore open his fresh pack of cigarettes, and threw one in his mouth biting down on the end.

His cigs came in packs on thirteen, cost 12.5 cents, and had a very well know cartoon rabbit eating a carrot, printed on the cellophane bag they came in. ''Maybe it's this one that finally kills me'', he wondered out loud. He stepped outside, and just in time to see the younger sister making off on the moto, Finn under her arm. ''For fuck's sake...''

13 Lawrie was crouched down at the corner edge of the tilled floor, intensely staring down the road as far as he could, in the direction Finn had gone. He was on his second cigarette. As he rolled it between his fingers, the end fell to the dirt below. He put it out with a small piece of chipped concrete and placed the dimp in an empty discarded bottle that was laying next to him.

Looking up, he saw Finn and the sister, with a thick cloud of red dust following after them as they made their return. A huge sigh of relief spilled out from him, he thought it would never end. Any bigger or longer, it might have been worth contacting the people who compile the world record books.

Lawrie hated it. Too much of what they thought of as normal, he saw as an unnecessary risk. He'd had his concerns shouted down already, the first time he saw it happen, and this was just another thing he had to begrudgingly accept. But he promised himself, if she ever caused his Son any harm, he would slap her so silly, it would take them a week to find where she landed.

When the Sun had set, he'd gotten down three full pages of writing. Not a massive achievement, and you wouldn't have mistaken it for Hemmingway (who he knew nothing about, though quite sure he's the Maradonna of writing), but he was proud of the fact that he had achieved a little something.

He'd always enjoyed writing, mainly just songs, the first of which he wrote at the age of eleven after watching an Adam Sandler film. He'd also, always written down the strange thoughts, or scenarios that came into his head. He had no real use for them unless they were to be used in a song, but while growing up, had a few drawers full of scrappy bits of paper with random ramblings of madness scribbled down. He would sort through them one day, but they were all boxed up in his mum's garage back home.

His first song was terrible, and unfortunately, he had come across the only physical reminder of it's existence years later, the lyric sheet. He'd written it on the keyboard he had before he had a guitar. After finding the sheet, the melody came rushing back, regaining it's place and taking up space in his memory. He realised his interest in song writing early on in life, back in primary school when they would sing in assembly. He enjoyed singing, as it was usually better than the rest of their day, and after hearing some bright spark from a few years above, singing 'toilet painted green', during the chorus of Yellow Submarine, he spent his remaining years there trying to out do it.

The Sun was about an hour off setting, and he couldn't delay calling his family any longer. No one that he needed to call, had dependent children, and they were all likely sleeping-in. Their days of cursing Baby Jesus at 5am, covered in wrapping paper, had already been and gone.

He called his Dad who was stuck in Bali, his Mum stuck in the UK, his Grandma stuck in hospital, and his Uncle David who yes, was also stuck. Everyone, everywhere was, trapped wherever they were when the world stopped turning.

David, one of his Dad's half brothers, was in London. His business of delivering butchered meat was doing quiet well through all of the craziness. A good business to be in during times like these, apparently.

His Dad had let him know that his Uncle had sent some money electronically, and that it was waiting to be collected. His Uncle was a good man, as was most of his family, but Uncle David knew Lawrie's situation quite well, as he's come out to visit him not long before the troubles started in the world. Out of most of his family, David had a much better idea of the problems Lawrie was facing.

He knew just how lucky he was for having the family he did, but felt such guilt for not showing his appreciation as much he should. He rarely contacted them, and spent years wishing he had done so more often.

He went with the elder brother, Ren, to collect his lifeline Christmas gift.

Ren was only fourteen, but he rode the motorbike as he did every time, with Lawrie on the back. The in-laws, Pa in particular, were scared of what might happen whenever Lawrie left their hometown. Mainly of the police, who in all fairness were pretty corrupt. But Lawrie, who had left home the first time at the age of fifteen, was pretty savvy, and hadn't ever been in trouble with the law out here. There had been many times, after being stopped by traffic police, that he'd ride away with a new friend he'd just drank a beer with. One time, a police man gave him his fine money back, after seeing how little he had with him. Even though this was, here was tribal land, and he just had to get on with it.

The Sun was half way over the hill when they got back to the farm. Lawrie dished the money out... a little to Ren for the trip, a little more to his wife, and way too much to Ma. She would probably be playing cards tomorrow, but as Pa was still out of town he had no choice. Choices weren't such a big thing here.

14 It was around eight-thirty when Pa arrived home. Dinner had been sat there a couple of hours, waiting on the roar of the tractor, and on his arrival, the younger ones erupted with screams of happiness. Everyone loved Pa, not just the family, but those outside as well.

Lawrie skipped to the shop and bought four cans. They all ate rice, him and Pa drank, and then everyone went to bed. Everyone that was, except for Lawrie. He stayed up researching online, looking at maps of Lombang City. There was a few places that last time, he hadn't managed to get to. He had more than a few things to pick up, and there was a couple of people he was hoping to meet. This time, knowing how long it might be till the next, he had to get as much done as possible. Most importantly, was getting an ID photo... the next step of the only half-decent, long-shot of a plan he had. And thanks to Uncle David, all this was possible, and Finn's first Christmas was back on. And although being a day late, Lawrie couldn't be happier.

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#fiction #autobiography #asia #danger #jungle #fatherhood #illegal aliens #lucky stars

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fragmentedshards · 4 years ago

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The Voices, Chapter Two: Dolcezza, Tesoro

~*~ eleven years later ~*~

Snow had fallen in the night and now covered the city in a thick white blanket, even as it continued to fall. Cameras flashed in the faces of the two Largo brothers, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Amber Sweet. Rumors of what happened to Amber had circulated through the city within hours, and now everyone with the ability to come see for themselves had flocked to the steps of the GeneCo. building. Knowing that Amber was not going to appear for quite a while, Luigi Largo stepped forward and spoke into the nearest microphone.

“The rumors are true,” Luigi said, glaring across the sea of people. “My sister Amber Sweet has been attacked by a rogue RepoMan, and her vocal cords have been cut out.” Amid all the horrified gasps and mixed yelling, Luigi continued. “She is currently getting the best medical care available and she will survive, but she will never speak again. As her career as GeneCo.’s spokeswoman and soprano has now ended, my sister also wishes to revert back to her family name, Carmela Ambra Largo. My brother Paviche - better known to you as Pavi - and I will continue to keep you updated on her condition and how this will affect GeneCo. from here on out.”

Luigi paused to look at his brother, who was wearing yet another new face. Pavi, always a diva, was busy posing in front of the myriad of cameras and dancing in the falling snow, and may well have not been listening at all. The eldest Largo rolled his eyes at his brother and then returned to the microphone. “On a slightly more personal note, I’d like to add;” he growled as he whipped out one of his many knives. “If and when I find who did this, I’ll be sure to carry out my own repossession on quite a bit of his person.” Luigi grimaced, and there was no mistaking the glint in his wide eyes.

Elsewhere, in the slums of the city (commonly referred to merely as “The Downs”), Eimear Hammond heard this press release from the little antique television sitting on the vanity in the family room. She looked up from putting the finishing touches on a new porcelain mask in time to catch Luigi’s final words. The artist shook her head and huffed.

“Graves, tell me you’re not the one responsible for the attack on Amber Sweet?” Eimear asked her Zydrate-dealing friend who sat on the sofa with his feet propped up on the table. “And for God’s sake, put your feet down!”

Graverobber obliged, looking stricken. “You wound me, Eimear,” he exaggerated. “Why would I harm my best customer? That’s not a good way to promote my business.”

“He doesn’t have the surgical training, either,” Euriel pointed out from the mirror by the front door, where she was fixing her lab coat and her long pink hair. “Nor do any of the Shadow Doctors. It must have been a RepoMan; nobody else could do the job and leave Amber - Carmela, I mean - intact.”

The door to Fortunato's bedroom opened and the boy emerged, asking “Mama, should I wear a hat today? It looks like it snowed a lot last night.”

Eimear peered out the window as her son skipped to her side. “I think a hat would be wise,” she agreed, running her hands over her son’s head and kissing it. “My boy, my Fortunato... how are you already so grown up?”

Fortunato smiled and hugged his mother. After a moment his smile faded and he pulled her to the couch where his Uncle Graves sat. “Mama... I know you don’t want to talk about this...”

Eimear sighed and began tying up her blood-red hair to calm herself. “I’ve told you before, Fortunato; we can’t afford any surgery. I wish we could, I know how much you want it, but it’s too expensive for people like us.”

The boy touched his ears momentarily before shaking his head. “You taught me not to be ashamed of myself unless I’ve done something shameful,” he said, touching his mother’s elbow lovingly. “You taught me well. I was wondering about you.” he reached up and put his small hand on his mother’s more severely disfigured cheek. “You always wear a mask when you leave The Downs, sometimes even just when you leave the house. What if you could get a new face instead of hiding one from the world?”

Euriel came and sat on the arm of the couch beside her family, watching and feeling her heart break. Graverobber pointed at Fortunato and mouthed smart kid at Eimear, who put her own hand on top of her son’s and looked at him sadly. “I raised you to be better than me, Fortunato. I hide because try as I might, I’m still ashamed of my face. But when I say it’s too expensive, I mean it. Especially now, with the attack on Amber Sweet - Carmela Largo. It’s riskier and riskier these days. Even if I hide my face behind a mask, I prefer the safety of it to a face with a barcode on the underside.”

An old German cuckoo clock struck eight on the wall, and the sisters started. “We had better get going,” Euriel tapped her sister’s shoulder. “We need to shovel the snow in the uptown graveyards before we start today’s work. Weren’t you commissioned recently?”

Eimear nodded. “Believe it or not, I’ve actually been commissioned by the Largo family,” she shook her head and chuckled. “They want me to paint murals in all the rooms in the GeneCo. building, even the warehouses. I expect they’re trying to make it their own now that Rotti’s gone.” she fastened one of her many intricately-painted masks to her face and continued, almost mournfully; “I hope they run GeneCo. better than he did. I hope they can be better than he was.”

As the sisters were nearly out the door, donning their coats and scarves, Eimear turned to Graverobber. “Will you please keep my son out of trouble? Just until his aunt is in her office.”

The dealer smiled and hugged his adoptive nephew. “Fortunato and I will have a grand, rebellious time, won’t we, kid?”

Eimear huffed and yanked her mask off. “Please don’t take him to any of your business meetings, for God’s sake? He’s only eleven!” When Graverobber raised both hands in mock protest, she shook her head and uttered an exasperated “Thank you, Graves,” before kissing her friend’s cheek and kneeling down to kiss her son’s head again. “We’re all going to prepare for the panto tonight at supper again; don’t forget!”

The boy shook his head and smiled. “I love you,” he told his mother and aunt as they walked out the door and into the snow.

“We love you too.”

~*~

The trolley ride uptown from The Downs was long and cramped but not otherwise

unpleasant, and despite the cold the two sisters were in relatively fine spirits when they arrived at the more posh graveyard. Mere miles away, Luigi argued with Pavi for his irresponsibility.

“Dad is gone, Pavi, and now especially with what happened to Amber - Carmela, we have to grow up!” he yelled at his brother, who was busy applying red lipstick to the face he was wearing that day. “Why can’t you understand that?”

“Oh yes, you’re a-very grown-up, fratello,” Pavi retorted, smacking his fake lips. “I just saw you stab another Gentern this-a morning before the press release.”

Luigi rolled his eyes and balled his fists. “I have a short temper and I’m trying to fix it,” he snapped. “If you knew how many people I’ve considered stabbing this morning besides that one Gentern-”

“Let me a-know how that goes for you,” Pavi flipped his hair and strutted past his brother. “I have-a places to be.”

“Where?” Luigi called, but Pavi didn’t answer.

Pavi’s stroll through the city, secretly on the hunt for a new face, brought him along the same path that would eventually lead him to the same graveyard where his father, as well as Nathan Wallace, were buried.

Eimear and Euriel shoveled the snow from the walkways in the cemetery, singing as they worked. They smiled at each other through their toil, glad to be singing folk songs from their childhood in harmony:

It’s cold and raw, the north winds blow

Black in the morning early

When all the hills were covered with snow

Oh, then it was winter fairly

As I was riding o’er the moor

I met a farmer’s daughter

Her cherry cheeks and sloe-black hair

They caused my heart to falter....

“Should we sing this song in the panto?” Euriel interrupted to ask. Her sister shook her head.

“I don’t think so. I’ve got some other ideas for what to sing then.”

I bowed my bonnet very low

To let her know my meaning

She answered with a courteous smile

Her looks they were engaging

“Where are you bound, my pretty maid?

It’s now in the morning early,”

The answer that she made to me;

“Kind sir, to sell me barley”

The sisters hummed the next part of the song, shoveling in perfect synchronization, when they heard a gasp followed by a heavy Italian accent.

“Dolcezza! Tesoro!” Pavi Largo emerged from behind one of the pillars of the graveyard gate, where he had been listening. “I had been admiring you for-a your face” he reached out to touch Euriel’s cheek, but she ducked away. “But I’ve stumbled upon pure, angelic-a vocal brilliance!”

He reached out and snatched both of the sisters’ hands quicker than they could blink, repeating “Doclezza, tesoro! Sweetness and treasure,” he kissed each hand in turn. “Please, won’t you-a come sing for GeneCo.?”

Eimear ripped her hand away in fear. “I cannot speak for my sister,” she said, careful to keep her voice from trembling. “But I will not be indebted to GeneCo., for anything.”

“I agree with my sister,” Euriel asserted, her voice much more level. “Besides which, we have enough to do with our current jobs; I doubt we would be able to add another to our list.”

“I can’t-a take no for an answer, my glories,” Pavi insisted. “Name your price!”

But the sisters shook their heads. “We can’t do what you ask, Mr. Largo,” Eimear said, more firmly this time. “If you’ll excuse us, we have work to finish here and then our other jobs to get to.”

Pavi regarded Eimear carefully. “Pray tell me, tesoro,” he reached for her face. “What lies-a beneath that mask?”

Eimear put both of her hands to her face, protecting her mask from removal. Her sister stepped in front of her as well. “Nobody will ever know that.”

“An injury? A blemish?” Pavi guessed. “Surely you a-know GeneCo. could fix-a whatever it is?”

“Forget it,” Euriel barked, finally getting Pavi to back off. He sauntered out of the graveyard, waving over his shoulder.

“The Pavi always gets-a what he wants!” he called out to them as he left, and though his voice was sing-song, there was a thinly-veiled threat in his words.

*note: listen to “The Maid Who Sold Her Barley” by Deanta for this chapter

#fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #write #writer #repo! the genetic opera #luigi largo #luigi largo x oc #pavi largo #amber sweet #carmela largo #eimear hammond #euriel hammond #graverobber #fortunato hammond #zydrate #geneco

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