#and of course dealing with the police until quarter to three because of the person passed out outside the bar who vomited their way through

[freckleslikestars]

It’s like…ten to five in the morning and I’ve only just got home from work. And drinks after work. And if that doesn’t define new years for a bartender, I really don’t know what does.

[thiswasinevitableid]

If you are still taking meet ugly prompts, sternclay 22 nsfw???

Here you go!

22: you’re on a date with this awful, awful person who keeps getting under my skin because my friend and I have been eavesdropping all night and your date says something that makes me snap … I thought it was a first date, not a three year relationship.

Note: I interpreted "first date" loosely. Slight content warning for mentions of blackmail, including blackmailing someone into a relationship.

It’s hard to tell where the sting of gin on his tongue ends and the sharpness of the pines through the window begins. The combination would invigorate him were it not for the conversation playing out at the other end of the short bar.

“...Last time, I’m not leaving.” The bartender, a mountain of a man who Joseph would love to climb, has been dealing with a persistent suitor for the better part of an hour. They’re the only people in the place; ski season is far behind them and summer isn’t here yet.

“C’mon, you’ve got no reason to hang around.”

“Yeah, actually, I do.” The bartender finishes cleaning glasses, turns to put them up.

“Don’t you fucking turn your back on me! I’m not through with you, oughta drag you outta here by your hair you cheap, dull-”

The next word is an unkind name for men who, like Joseph, prefer men in their beds. The bartender doesn’t respond, though his hands tighten around the glasses. Damn it, the world did not go for a second war just for him to let everyday evil slide by.

“That’s enough.” Joseph stands, moving to where the other patron wobbles on his stool, “him being uninterested doesn’t give you the right to abuse him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, pretty boy.”

“I know that if you don’t leave, I’ll escort you out.”

The man throws up his hands, spits at Joseph’s feet before stumbling and stomping for the door, “Three years, Barclay, you’re throwing away three years in one night, and you’re gonna regret it. I’ll make sure you do!”

“Don’t think you will.” Barclay mumbles as the door slams. He’s twisting his dishrag to the point it’s ripping.

“Three years? Good lord, I thought he was just a run-of-the-mill drunk.”

“Nope. If you can call him tracking me down every few months a relationship.”

“I’m sorry.” Joseph pulls out his handkerchief, kneeling to clean up the spit, “still, I apologize for getting in the middle of a, um, lovers quarrel.”

“Please don’t, I’m glad you stepped in. Don’t know what I woulda done if you hadn’t.” His brown eyes study Joseph more closely, “have I seen you here before?”

“Through there.” He indicates the pass-through to the kitchen, “I come here as often as I can since the food can’t be beat.”

“Thanks.” Barclay smiles, starts wiping the counter, “yeah, Dani usually tends bar after the kitchen closes but her wife is down with the flu. Only seemed fair to let her take time to look after her.”

A big heart to go with a big frame? Joseph’s in big trouble.

“You, uh, you up here for the lakes or…” He’s now directly across from Joseph, sliding a fresh gin and tonic in front of him.

“I’m a private detective, a one man operation as of 1949; Kepler’s the optimal spot for me, since it’s between the mountain towns and the eastern edge of the city. That’s a lot of people who might need help. Not to mention lots of the residents closer to the lakes are wealthy, the kind where they’re always looking for someone to trail a straying spouse or track down the pearls their no-good layabout son sold for dope.” He lets a little bit of scorn enter his voice in hopes of letting Barclay know he doesn’t always agree with his clients, but that a man has to make a living.

Barclay rolls his shoulders, then leans forward, “any fun cases so far?”

Joseph pulls off his jacket as he thinks; if Barclay’s really interested, they might be here awhile.

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

He’s an early riser, so the banging on the door to his house (and office) interrupts his breakfast and not his rest. Joseph opens it and then fights to keep it that way.

“Detective Hayes. This is a surprise.” He smiles.

“I’m not here to catch up, Stern. I’m here so you can answer one, simple question: where were you between eleven-thirty and midnight last night?”

“In the dining room at Amnesty Lodge, talking with the bartender. If you need to verify that, just go to the Lodge and ask for Barclay.”

Hayes glowers in a way he recognizes as, “this won’t be an easy case like I assumed” and turns without a word. Two officers follow him. The third, Dewey, hesitates. He’d always been a pal. Joseph shoots him a confused look.

“Guy got shot in the woods near the Lodge last night. His only known contact in town was the bartender, and everyone else we questioned said the two had been arguing for a few days. Hayes thought the cook was a shoo-in to book but, well, his alibi aligns with what you said. Plus, some ranger Owens talked to said he saw Barclay talking to someone in the dining room at the time of the murder. Guess he was walking by the window on his way to-”

“Dewey! Get the hell over here!”

As his informant scurries up the hill to join the others, Joseph steps back inside to finish his toast. He only gets through one piece before the phone rings, summoning him to the managers office at Amnesty Lodge.

Madeline “Mama” Cobb sits behind her desk, whittling with the kind of force that suggests she’s doing this in place of putting her knife to another use.

“Barclay tells me you’re a detective.”

“That’s right, Miss. Cobb.”

“Great. I’m hirin’ you to find out who the hell killed his useless ex and is tryin to frame him for it.”

He sits down, intrigued, “I thought the police were handling the investigation.”

“I ain’t inclined to trust ‘em. Barclay can’t think of someone who’d set him up, and the police don’t think he was. Yet. But I happen to know there were scraps of a shirt Barclay owns on the trees nearby and that the fella who died had this on him.”

She holds a crumpled paper out. He unfolds it, reads, “Come to the old mill at a quarter until midnight. B.” He looks up, “meant to stand for Barclay, one would assume?”

“Yep. Whoever wrote that did a decent job forgin it.”

“How can you be sure it’s fake?”

“Because I got plenty of documents where Barclay describes a time. He just uses numbers, not words like ‘quarter until.”

“Did you suspect a set-up before you lifted this from the body so the cops wouldn’t find it?” Joseph tucks the note into his inside pocket.

“Course I did. You’re new in town, but there ain’t a person here who’d say Barclay is anythin but gentle. He ain’t about to shoot someone in cold blood, even that fucker.” She sighs, takes off her hat and runs a hand through greying hair, “that boy is as good as a brother to me. I know he’s been through some rough shit. He don’t deserve to get caught up in some goddamn murder scheme. So name your price, Mr. Stern; so long as it keeps him outta trouble, I’ll pay it.”

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

He’s elbow-deep in Barclay’s dresser when the cook returns from his shift; he gave Joseph permission to search his room for signs of whoever took his shirt, but still, the other man doesn’t seem pleased with his presence.

“I’m sorry, but I have to be thorough. I’ll be out of here as soon as I can.”

“S’fine.” Barclay slumps down on the bed. After a moment he murmurs, “I know Mama hired you, but is there anyway I can convince you to quit? She, the Lodge doesn’t have much cash to spare this time of year. I don’t want anyone going without on my account and, and maybe this will all blow over if I just lie low, y’know?”

“It might. But until I think that’s the outcome, I’m inclined to agree with Miss. Cobb that we should work to keep you clear of this. And” he watches Barclay stand, moving to the window so he won’t have to see Joseph rifling through his life, “I promise that if it comes down to getting paid or bankrupting the Lodge, I’ll stop taking my fee. This is a good place and, um, it clearly means a lot to you. That makes it worth some belt-tightening on my end.”

“Thanks.” Barclay stares into the woods, then looks over his shoulder, “Joseph, I-”

It’s only because the mirror is above the dresser that he sees the black barrel peek from the trees. With no time to yell, he dives forward, pulling Barclay to the floor as the first bullet makes shards of the window.

“What the fuck?!” Barclay covers his head as another shot flies over them

“I think we just confirmed Miss. Cobb’s theory!” He pops up, fires once, and drops back down. Whoever’s in the trees isn’t expecting someone armed, so in place of another bullet they get breaking branches.

Joseph gives chase, leaping out the window and sprinting into the trees. Were they in downtown L.A, hell, even if he was still in Chicago, he’d have a better chance of staying on his target. But there’s no paths, no short-cuts, and every tree looks the same at this speed, cloaking the shape in the distance. Worst of all, he discovers that instead of dead-ending at a brick wall, he dead ends at a rockface.

Oh, and his hand is bleeding. He must have cut himself jumping out the window.

It looks like his investigation just took on a bodyguard element, and his wish to spend more time with Barclay could end with them both looking like swiss cheese.

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

“You could talk to Duck.” Barclay finishes bandaging the slash on the back of Joseph’s left hand, “he works in the state park near here and knows a ton about the layout of the woods. There, not too tight?” He sits back on his heels as Joseph tests the tightness of the bandage.

“It’s great, big guy. Um, I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from.”

“I don’t mind it” he winks, “pretty boy.”

His visit with Duck the next day, while informative, doesn’t give him much insight into how their assailant disappeared, especially when Duck points out that the rock face he ran across is over a mile long and hard to climb without equipment or a death wish. At least the ranger outfits him with a map with written-in details; most are about trails that are likely to be muddy (and thus hold prints) or spots where a person might be able to hide. And some hike recommendations, just because.

He tries not to think about taking Barclay on the one to a secluded lake and fucking him under the stars.

His schedule alternates between sitting in his office taking and making calls, shadowing Barclay when he’s out on errands or otherwise vulnerable (he’s spent more than a few nights on the floor of his room, that velvety baritone talking to him until they both fall asleep), and scouring the woods for clues.

A jay heckles a squirrel, which surrenders it’s pinecone and scrambles along the rocks. He’s wishing he could be so nimble when it climbs up and then...disappears. Following it, he discovers what he dismissed as endless rock is an optical illusion; the rocks above and behind align with the ones in front and below to make it seem as if it’s a flat face. But when he climbs over the bottom rock, he finds a narrow slot canyon. One big enough for a human.

Fifteen minutes of granite scratching his back later, he’s at the other side of the rocks. Smoke curls up his nose, and he trails the scent to a cabin which, according to Duck, is on a strange pocket of private property, just up a frontage road. Stranger still is the sign out front.

I.C All

Tarot, Palm Reading, and Other Psychic Services.

He knocks as wind chimes sing lazily around him.

“Come in!”

The first room is divided by a curtain, the half he’s in a rather eclectic waiting room. The dining room and kitchen are probably on the other side of the pink and yellow cloth.

Waiting for him in the next room is a man with a distinctly beatnik air about him, from his red glasses down to his brightly colored shawl and shoulder length hair. Laid out before him is a tarot deck, crystal ball, and several black candles. But that’s not what concerns Joseph.

“Before I sit down, can you ask your friend hiding in the bureau to come out?”

“Fuck” the beaura hisses, “uh, I mean, uh, there ain’t, uh, fuck-”

“It’s alright dearest, I suspect we may all benefit from this.” He gestures for Joseph to sit, “Apologies, but my hope was you were either a client I could turn away or one in search of a brief reading that I could perform before returning to more...pleasurable activities.” He grins as none other than Duck Newton steps from the creaky wooden bureau, looking like he’s been wrestling a very amorous tiger.

“Afternoon, Joe.” Duck sits on the nearby couch, “didn’t take you for the fortune tellin’ type.”

“I’m more interested in whether Mr…”

“Cold, but my friends call me Indrid.”

“Whether Indrid has noticed anyone coming and going on his property without permission?”

“I can’t say that I have, though it’s hard to do so; the walkway is guarded by Beacon, our dog, and everything but the walk up to the cabin is fenced off or, well, a massive wall of rock.”

“...Come with me.”

Soon, Duck is studying the slot canyon while Indrid worries his lower lip.

“I had no idea this was here.”

“No one did. It ain’t on any of the maps, and I never heard of anyone findin it on accident.” Duck pulls back, popping his hat on as he turns to Joseph, “this got somethin to do with Barclay?”

“I think whoever shot at us used this to get away. For all we know, the person who killed Mr. Douglas did the same.”

“To think, I encouraged Barclay to come here even more often once he told me his predicament; I thought no one could approach us without me seeing them coming. No, no this will not do at all” he shakes his head, “he needs to go see her.”

“You know he won’t, sugar.”

“He must. It’s the safest place for him. And the last anyone will look.”

Joseph looks between them, but before he can ask Indrid simply says, “You should ask Barclay about the Greenbank House. That story isn’t ours to tell.”

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

“Home sweet home.” Barclay grumbles as he and Joseph step out of the car and into the shadow of a mansion in the most exclusive neighborhood in Lakeshore. It took all of his friends telling him he should go--and Joseph assuring him it’s location meant it wouldn’t look like he was trying to run away from the scene of the murder--for the cook to agree to a stay at his family home.

“What are you afraid of?” Joseph keeps his tone gentle as they climb the front steps. His friend had simply said he had unhappy memories of the house and would rather live in a mausoleum then stay there.

“It’s more dread. You’ll see when we get inside.” He knocks on the front door. It’s opened by the least congruous face imaginable; a man with greying hair and a groundskeepers clothes. When he sees Barclay, a smile bursts across his face.

“Barclay! How are you kiddo?”

“I’m...I’m okay. It’s good to see you Thacker.” He offers a genuine smile as he opens his arms and gathers the older man into a hug. When they separate, Joseph offers his hand and introduces himself. Having an extra guest delights Thacker, and he ushers them in with a promise that he’ll have rooms ready to go in a jiff.

“How’s Maddie doin’?”

“She’s good, and she’ll still slug your arm for that nickname.”

“Good old Maddie.” Thackers cheer falters, “do you wanna go see your ma? If I didn’t know you were comin, gonna guess she didn’t neither.”

“Yeah. Yeah I should go see her. Joseph, you don’t, uh, you don’t need to come with me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s only polite to meet my hostess.”

Barclay leads him up a flight of stairs, then down a hallway where dust substitutes for walllpaper. Waiting for them in a red and orange toned bedroom is a woman with greying, black hair and a face not unlike Barclay’s.

“Dear heart” she rises from her armchair, drawing her son to her, “you came back.”

“Just to visit, Ma. Uh, this, this is Joseph. He’s a friend of mine. He’ll be staying here too.”

She studies him with a critical eye; Joseph thought Hayes had a judgemental gaze, but she could beat him any day.

“Hmm. The more the merrier, as she always said. How long will you stay?”

“A few weeks.”

She nods, regards the photo of another woman above the mantelpiece as if seeking council, “You’re not here for pleasure.”

“No.” Barclay rubs his arm, “I...I got into some trouble. Andrew Douglas was shot the night I broke things off with him. The cops are leaving me alone for now but someone else wants me dead.”

The woman’s face suggests she both recognizes and despises that name, “We will keep you safe.”

With that, she sits once more and picks up her book. Barclay hesitates, then bends to kiss her forehead before pulling Joseph from the room.

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

“How long ago did your mother die?” Joseph kicks his legs up onto the ottoman. Barclay alluded to her passing previously, but never gave details.

“When I was eighteen. Car accident. She went off the Kepler bridge. They, uh, they never found her, and just found part of the wreck.”

He intends to leave it there; they’re on the back porch overlooking the garden (“Thackers pride and joy”), early summer dusk on their skin and their arms occasionally brushing from the edges of their chairs. No need to kill the mood further. He just wanted some kind of context for the house and the widow within it.

“Ma never recovered. She loved mom so much that losing her was like losing a lung; she can get through her days, even enjoy them, but it will always be hard. She tried to keep mom around however she could; the whole goddamn house is the same as it was the day she died, even my room. She wanted me to stay too, but Mama offered me the job and I just...I couldn’t live in a haunted house anymore.”

Joseph tips his hand to the right, extending his fingers into the space between them. Barclay takes it and holds tight.

“I’m so sorry, Barclay. You had every right to leave, to make your own life.”

“I know.” He runs his thumb across Joseph’s knuckles, “okay, pretty boy, my turn for a tough question; why’d you really leave the police force.”

It’s not that tough a question, not when he knows the man he’s confiding in won’t go running to Hayes, “I joined the force because I wanted to solve mysteries and help people. But it turned out there was a lot less seeking justice and a lot more chasing off drunks who just needed a place to sleep off benches and harassing certain neighborhoods. Then I worked out that the chief was taking bribes from all kinds of places and was naive enough to think someone might listen to me and help me when I told them. Instead they threw me off the force. In hindsight, it could have been worse; they could have killed me and covered it up.”

“Jesus.” Barclay polishes off his drink, contemplates the ice, “glad they didn’t. Both because, y’know, world is better with you alive, but, uh, also because if they had we’d never have met.”

Joseph meets his eyes, smiling in a way that makes the other man blush, “that would’ve been a damn shame.”

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

This is turning into one of the stranger cases he’s worked, in good ways and bad. The good is that his work days, when he’s not on the phone or digging through his notes, are spent with Barclay. His friend insists on cooking, has even brought him lunch at his desk, and usually the two of them have dinner with Thacker in the garden. They read or play chess in the study, take walks through the labyrinthine grounds, and even swim in the open air pool. Barclay in his swim trunks is a fine sight indeed. Joseph wonders if he ever brought boyfriends here, ever kissed them in the blue water or let them have their way with him in some hidden patch of lawn.

But it’s not all roses and revelry. The more he roots around in Andrew Douglas’s past, and in Barclay’s, the more questions he has. Why did Andrew come and go? What happened to large portions of Raquel and Sylvia (Barclay’s parents) fortune? And who wants to kill someone with no criminal record, no known enemies, and no heirs? If it’s the same person who murdered Andrew, killing Barclay would remove their fall-guy, so that makes no sense as a move.

His best lead comes when he learns Barclay’s family and Andrew Douglas lived in San Francisco at the same time. A friend in the city agrees to do some sniffing around there for any information that might point towards their killer. Two days later, he calls back and says he’s sending Joseph a “fucking brick” of evidence in the mail.

It’s been several days and he’s still waiting. He dozed off in his room after dinner, intending to cat nap, but it seems he’s overshot; it’s after ten. At least the mail must have come by now.

“Barclay? Did anything come--you have five goddamn seconds to explain yourself.”

His friend stammers from his seat on the bed, surrounded by papers, photo’s, newsprint, and a manila envelope with Joseph’s name on it.

“I, uh, I, it isn’t-”

“This is all evidence collected for the purpose of protecting you, so if you have something you’re afraid of me finding you’d better start talking now.” He snaps, looming over the other man from the edge of the bed.

Wordlessly, Barclay hands him a piece of newspaper. It details a kidnapping, one that ends--happily--with the victim being returned to their family. Four names are mentioned, but none of the perpetrators are the man in front of him.

“I was sixteen. A stupid kid. I had this perfect life and I got a little stir crazy, a little bored, and fell in with some other rich kids who felt the same. It started out harmless. Then James, the guy in charge, decided we should dream bigger. I was so, so fucking in love with him, I didn’t try to stop him. Not right away, anyway. I...I was their look-out for that kidnapping. But I couldn’t let them keep it up.”

“You struck a deal.”

Barclay nods, “Best part is, I managed to do it without either of my parents getting wise. We moved here soon after. I thought I could put it behind me.”

Joseph takes a closer look at the paper. The byline for the article is one A. Douglas.

“He blackmailed you.”

“Not at first. He, he” Barclay takes a shaky breath, “he went to mom first. Asked her how much she’d pay to keep my name out of the papers. James had told him about me and he was going to spread the story. That’s why she was on that fucking bridge in the middle of a fucking storm; she was meeting him.”

“Oh, Barclay.” Evidence crumples under his knees as he sits to comfort his friend.

“Then he came to me; now not only was I paying to keep the story quiet, I was paying to keep him from telling Ma why Mom died.”

“She died because of a blackmailer, wet cement, and a weak guard rail. Not because of you.”

Barclay looks at him, eyes coffee cups of sorrow, and simply shakes his head. Then he crumples forward and Joseph catches him, holds him tight while he finishes his story through his tears.

He paid off Andrew for three years. Ned Chicane, owner of the Kepler Museum of Curiosities, helped him with the family accounts so Raquel wouldn’t notice anything suspicious. Whenever Andrew came around, he demanded Barclay act as his “boyfriend” for the duration of the visit.

“Everyone must think I have terrible taste in men.”

Once they establish that, as far as Barclay is aware, only Ned knows about the blackmail, Joseph cups his face and says, as firmly as gentleness allows, “From now on, I need you to be truthful with me. You said you didn’t want me putting the pieces together because you were ashamed, but all I want is to help you. I can’t do that if there are big things you’re hiding from me. Understand?”

Barclay nods, and apologizes the entire time they’re gathering the strewn pieces back into the envelope.

“Barclay?” Joseph cuts him off and eases him down until he’s on his back, “I forgive you. Now please go to sleep before you pass out from stress.”

The cook smiles at him, eyes already fluttering closed, “You’re the boss, Joseph.”

He ignores all the urges that kickstarts in him and leaves his friend to sleep in peace.

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

“Y’know, kind of wish we’d known each other back then.” Barclay looks up from where he’s helping Joseph sort the new evidence on the floor, “when I was in San Francisco, I mean.”

“It would have taken more than just a change of scene for me; my family does alright, but I’d have been way outside your circles.”

“So? Maybe then I coulda had a boyfriend who was ‘disreputable’ for bullshit reasons instead of real ones.”

“I’ve never once been disreputable.” He looks up from the photos in his hand, “and is that your way of telling me something, big guy.”

“Yes. I, uh, you can tell me to knock it off, but I, uh, I think you’re swell. It’s okay if you don’t feel that way but you said I should be…” he trails off as Joseph leans into his space,”honest.”

He kisses him once, so brief it barely counts but the larger man whimpers and tries to grab him before he pulls away.

“If we’re going to do this, I need you to promise me that you’ll tell me to hit the brakes if you need to; it won’t change my dedication to the case.”

“I promise.” There’s no dishonesty in his face, just boundless hope and affection.

“In that case, big guy” he lunges forward, pinning him to the rug, “you’re all mine.”

An unexpectedly high whine leaves his lover.

“You like when I’m rough?”

“Uh, uh huh, so much, people always want me to be and I don’t want to, wanna be, wanna beAHHHhhnnn” he arches his back as Joseph bites the patch of skin just below his beard.

“You’re so gentle, big guy, I thought you’d go straight to making love but” another bite, another gasp, “I think I’d better fuck you instead.”

“Please.” Barclays hands glide up to cup Joseph’s face and guide him down into another kiss.

Joseph rolls his hips forward and his sleeves up as speaks, “Now that you mention it, I can see how things would’ve gone if we met earlier. I was an obedient son but not beyond sneaking someone into my room when my parents were away” he undoes Barclay’s shirt, keeps grinding against him and licking his lips as he feels him getting hard, “or maybe we met down here, and you’d sneak me into the backyard.”

“Fuck, yes.” Barclays chest heaves as Joseph cards his fingers up through the dark hair to tease his nipples, “god, if how I, fuck, feel now is a clue, I’d have been so fucking mad for you.” He makes a charming groan as Joseph tongues his nippls and then nibbles his way up to his ear.

“It’s funny” Joseph kisses his cheek, “I knew so many guys like you on the force. Not you now, used to hard work and worry, but you then; spoiled and softer than a boiled egg.” He allows himself a moment of savoring their cocks teasing each other through their pants before continuing, “always wanted to discipline them, because it was clear no one ever did.”

“Please show me how.”

“Why?” He grins down at him, toying with his left nipple until it’s bright red.

“Because I wanna be good for you, Joseph. Wanna be every fantasy you ever had.”

“...Lord god almighty how am I supposed to say no to that?” Joseph undoes his suspenders, laughing at Barclay’s triumphant smile, “you’re a dream, big guy.”

He crawls so he’s straddling Barclays face, cock dripping pre-cum onto his lips. Barclays tongue keeps peeking out from between them, but doesn’t go further without permission.

“Since this is disciplinary, you don’t get a say in how it goes. You’ll take my cock as long and as deep as I want it, because I’m superior to you and you’re here to do what I say”

“Fuckyeah” Barclay paws Joseph’s thighs, opens his mouth so he can guide the head in.

“That, ohyes, that being said, if it’s really too much, tap my thigh twice.”

Barclay nods to show he understands, but is already pre-occupied sucking his cock like he’s starving for it.

“A good start, big guy, but if I just wanted my cock wet I’d have gone swimming.” He cups the back of Barclays head in both hands, “I want something to fuck, and your face is it.”

The man beneath him moans, fucks the air uselessly as Joseph pushes further in. He finds the resistance of his throat with a half-inch to go, and decides that’s good enough. He pulls halfway out, pushes back in, repeats the process a few times before finding his rhythm. Weeks of wanting mean it’s hurried and greedy, but the resulting moans suggest Barclay approves.

“You look so good like this, Barclay. God, if you’d been some fresh-faced officer, one look of those doe-eyes is all it, shit, would’ve taken for me to make this the only discipline you ever got. Any time I needed to put you in your place or just, fuck, just needed to let off some steam, I’d do this, get my, my cock in your mouth so often you’d run out of spit and be thankful for my cum in, in it’s place.”

Barclay is groping him again, eyes bright and lips managing some upward curve as his cock forces them apart.

“Then again” he tenderly massages Barclay’s scalp, “there’s no reason I can’t do that in this universe. Oh, ohshit, Barclay-” his words desert him as he cums, the other man swallowing eagerly and sucking him clean before he pulls out.

Joseph glances over his shoulder, “Can I take care of that for you?”

“Fuck, please?”

He rolls off of the cook, stays on his side and slips one arm under his shoulders. Then he sets his palm on the monstrous bulge in Barclay’s jeans and sets to work.

“I, I should unzip-”

“No” he kisses him, “we’re surrounded by evidence that I can’t have you cumming on. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up the mess you make cumming in your pants like a teenager.”

“Promise?” It’s an odd thing to say, but Joseph thinks he understands.

“I promise.” He quickens his pace, Barclay’s grunts growing louder when he does, “I’ll take care of you, big guy. I’ll look after you. You don’t have to lift a finger when I’m around.”

“Joseph.” Is all the reply he gets, Barclay already turning as cum spreads across his fly and clinging to the detective. His breath is hot, stays shaky even as his cock stops pulsing.

“Barclay? Baby, are you alright?”

“So fucking good, babe. I, I uh” he holds him tighter, “this is the first thing to make sense to me in years. Loving you, having you in my life, I get how we fit together so easily. Everything else, the murder, Ma, this person lurking around the last place that feels like home waiting to hurt me or hurt Mama or someone there, all of it, it’s so goddamn tangled I’m worried it’ll never get straight.”

Joseph rests their cheeks together, “We’ll figure it out, big guy. I promise.”

[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers Part 16/? - Out of the Frying Pan Part 17/? - A Miracle Part 18/? - A Matter of Circumstance Part 19/? - Nome Part 20/? - The Future Part 21/? - A Hero’s Welcome Part 22/? - Up to Speed Part 23/? - Expect Further Delays Part 24/? - The Welcome Wagon Part 25/? - Fugitives Part 26/? - A Reluctant Accomplice Part 27/? - Deja Vu

Well, well, well, what’s this?  Peggy doing the exact same thing she just got arrested for?

-

Agent Russel returned to the Automat the next day and sat down at his booth, drumming his fingers on the table and looking around nervously.  It was so obvious that Peggy sent Angie over to discreetly ask if he thought he’d been followed.  From her vantage point behind the counter, she saw him shake his head.  Only then did she and Kay come to join him.

“What did she say?” asked Peggy.

Russel took out the page Kay had given him to give her, and shook his head.  “She didn’t even look at it.  She was, uh… I told her I had a message for her, and she immediately asked if it were from Peggy.”

Peggy didn’t have to ask – she knew those had been Dottie’s exact words.  Russel himself didn’t call her ‘Peggy’, but she knew Dottie did.

“Does she know where I am?” Peggy asked cautiously.

“I don’t know… I don’t think so,” said Russel.  “We haven’t told her much.  But she said to tell you that if anybody’s making deals it’ll be her setting the terms.”

Peggy hadn’t been expecting that.  She glanced at Kay, who also appeared puzzled.  “And what are those?”

“She says she’s willing to rescind her testimony and claim it was coerced,” Russel said, “she’ll even say Jack Thompson beat her up if you want her to.  But you have to get her out of jail and get her in contact with somebody she will specify.  If you try anything funny, she’ll get back in contact with Thompson and Masters.”

Peggy and Kay exchanged another look.  Not at all what they’d had in mind… but was it something they could work with?

Kay seemed to think so.  “In that case,” she said, “we’re gonna need one more favour from you.  Don’t worry, it’s nothing illegal.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Russel said.

“We need you to come up with a reason to unlock the cell door at a specific time,” Kay told him.  “Say, eleven PM tomorrow night.  We’ll do the rest.”

“I think I can figure something out,” said Russel.

“Great,” Kay nodded.

“Leave a message with Angie if you can’t manage it,” Peggy told him.  “We’ll check in before we try to do anything.”

“I will,” he promised.

They left him to eat his lunch in peace, and changed back into street clothes in the employee washroom.

“You sound as if you have a plan,” Peggy said to Kay, as they got back in the car.  They’d left the green Ford at the side of the road somewhere in New Jersey and taken a powder blue Chevrolet from behind a petrol station.  They couldn’t afford to be linked to a specific vehicle.

“I have part of a plan,” Kay replied, taking a pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment.  These belonged to whoever owned the car, and had therefore been ‘borrowed’ along with it.  “There are drains in the floors of the cells.  I saw them when I was in there.”

“Yes, there are,” said Peggy.  They backed out of the alley and turned onto the street outside.  “They’re far too small for a person to fit through, though.”

“That’s fine,” Kay said.  “I’m told you have some experience navigating the storm drains of New York.  I need you to find a place where we can get down there and find our way to under the cells.”

“I can probably do that,” said Peggy.  “Anything else?”

“Yeah.  See if you can find us some gas masks,” Kay told her.  “Let me know where to drop you off, and then I have to do some shopping.  I’ll meet you back at the same spot in… let’s make it two hours.”

- 

In the evening, they returned to the empty farmhouse in the Pine Barrens.  Peggy had located a manhole they could climb down without being observed, and used a ball of Kay’s knitting yarn to mark the route from there to underneath the police station.  From the drain right underneath it, it was not possible to actually see what was happening in Dottie’s cell – the opening was too small and high above them.  Kay assured her this didn’t matter.  She’d also obtained gas masks and rubber boots, buying both from a man selling questionably obtained army surplus behind a shop.

Kay, meanwhile, had purchased a number of chemicals, including bleach and acetone, and a variety of cooking and baking utensils.  In the farmhouse she put a mask on and did some complicated chemistry, producing a volatile, milky-white liquid that she carefully poured into the now-empty bleach bottle.  Even after that was done, she patiently waited five minutes after capping it for any vapor to disperse before she took the mask off.

“What is that?” Peggy asked, removing her own gas mask.

“Can you guess?” Kay wanted to know.

Peggy considered what she’d used to make it.  “I assume it’s similar to chloroform.”

“Close.  We call it nepenthyl,” Kay replied.  “Release it into an area and it’ll knock everybody out for five to eight minutes.  I don’t have the equipment to make it really pure, so there’s probably some chloroform in there too.  This won’t be enough to actually hurt anybody, though.”

Peggy smiled.  “Did you sit up at night in that little room above the Botticelli Gardens, making the peppery stuff you sprayed me with?”

“Yes,” said Kay.  “I needed non-lethal options.  Who lives and who dies affects the future… I don’t want to kill anybody unless I know they’re going to do evil things.  You have to live, and so does Howard, and Sousa, and Wilkes… and Thompson, even if he’s a pig.”

“So you were joking when you suggested killing Masters,” Peggy observed.

“I suspect Vernon Masters has already done evil things,” Kay told her, “but I’ll look into that later.  I want to cross the big names off my list first.”

Peggy recalled the list of Project Paperclip scientists she’d recited while in jail.  All of them were already most certainly war criminals, still alive only because the government considered them useful… and yet, were they not human beings nonetheless?  “It doesn’t bother you at all?  That you have to kill people to make your better future?”

“You know where I came from.  It took me years to learn how to be bothered by it in the first place.”  She shrugged one shoulder.  “But in this case, no.  I saw the world they helped make.  I lost friends, and my friends lost family, because of their direct successors.  My conscience can handle it.”

- 

There was no message left for them at the Automat the next day, so Peggy and Kay took their equipment down into the drains below the police station and used an old fire hose to make sure the fumes of nepenthyl would go directly through the grate in Dottie’s cell.  Then there was nothing to do but wait.

At a quarter to eleven, they heard footsteps and voices coming from above.  Peggy held her breath and strained her ears to hear.  One of the voices sounded like Agent Russel… or was she imagining it?  She looked at Kay, who pressed a finger to her lips and listened for a moment.

“Agent Russel,” she murmured.  “What brings you here at this time of night?”  A pause.  “The head office wants some full-body photographs of her.  We need a record of scars and other distinguishing marks.”

Peggy kept very quiet.  Kay’s hearing was obviously much better than hers, but this couldn’t possibly be easy.

“Ma’am, please remove your clothing.”  Pause.  “Why, Agent Russel.  Are you trying to seduce me?”  Pause.  “Ma’am, I don’t want to have to force you.”  Pause.  “Really?  Because I think you’d enjoy that.”

Dottie knew.  Of course she did.  She was playing along.

Kay checked her watch, and then set the timer on the valve that would release the nepenthyl.  “Let’s go,” she whispered to Peggy.

They climbed up onto the street, and waited for a taxi to pass before pushing the manhole cover open.  Peggy got out first, and then reached down to help Kay.  They waited silently behind the building while the clock ticked down.  At eleven o’clock, Russel would get tired of Dottie’s taunting and open her cell.  Thirty seconds later, the chemical would release.  Hopefully everybody’s watches were in rough agreement, or this would all go very, very badly.

At three minutes past, Kay said, “now.”

They put on their gas masks and barged into the lobby.

Immediately they heard a scream.  The receptionist was still awake, holding a damp handkerchief over her mouth and nose with one hand, and the telephone receiver in the other.  For a moment she stared at these masked intruders in wide-eyed horror, and in so doing, she let the handkerchief drop.  A moment later she was unconscious on the floor behind her desk.

“Hello?” a tinny voice on the phone asked.  “Hello?  Iris?”

They had to hurry.

They ran down the steps to the holding cells.  The air here, where the majority of the drug was lingering, was still misty, but they could see light up ahead.  Peggy stepped over the unconscious bodies of policemen until she spotted Agent Russel’s blue blazer.  He was lying there still gripping Dottie’s wrist with one hand.  She had fallen on top of him.

Kay pulled out a roll of olive-coloured duck cloth tape and used it to bind Dottie’s hands and ankles, then wrapped more of it around her mouth.  Then she lifted the unconscious woman’s legs while Peggy took her shoulders, and they dragged her back upstairs.

In the lobby the receptionist was still unconscious.  The telephone was still off the hook.

They threw Dottie in the trunk of today’s car – a burgundy Oldsmobile – pulled their masks off, and drove away.

Only then, with everything done, did Peggy allow herself to notice that her heart was beating fit to burst from her chest, or that she was gasping for deep, non-filtered breaths of air.  They’d really just done it – they’d broken Dottie Underwood out of jail for a second time.  If this didn’t work out… if Dottie were recaptured and decided to turn Peggy in again, there’d be no getting out of it.  Once was special circumstances.  Twice was a pattern.

Once they were well away from the police station, they pulled into an alleyway.  When they opened the trunk, Dottie was waking up, but still groggy – Peggy pressed a rag soaked in the nepenthyl against her face to knock her out again.  Then they used the rest of the role of cloth tape to wrap their prisoner up like an Egyptian mummy.  There was absolutely no way Peggy was losing control of her again.

After that, they could take a more leisurely drive back out to their campsite in the abandoned farmhouse.  Nobody seemed to notice them as they passed through small towns on the way, and not enough people went through the Pine Barrens area to notice that three different cars had been parked there in as many days.  Upon arrival, they left Dottie in the trunk and went inside to get what sleep hey could.

“I think we’ll let her talk first,” said Kay, yawning.  “Then we’ll emphasize that we are now in charge, and give her our terms.”

Peggy wasn’t even sure what those were anymore.  “As long as we can have breakfast first,” she said.

- 

In the morning they took their time, at least partially out of spite – Dottie had caused Peggy so many problems over the past couple of years, it served her bloody well right if she had to sit there tied up in a car boot for a few extra hours.  This also afforded them the chance to listen to the radio and get some more news.  The escape of a dangerous criminal did merit a mention, with a description of Dottie followed by an admonition not to underestimate her.

“And now for the news you’ve all been waiting to hear,” the announcer said.  “Captain America is in Washington, DC, for one more day, during which time he will visit the Smithsonian and dine at the White House with President and Mrs. Truman.  After that, he’s off to Annapolis, then Harrisburg, and will complete a tour of New England before heading south again.”

What was Steve thinking while all this went on, Peggy wondered.  Was he thinking of her?  Of his friend in Russia?

What about Daniel?  Peggy had no way of contacting either of them… and might never again.  Wouldn’t that be the easy solution, she thought.  If she never saw either man again, she wouldn’t have to worry about breaking anyone’s heart.

[wisteria-lodge]

Character Analysis - Sorting Sherlock Holmes (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

a quick note on why I’m moving away from the HP terminology

So @sortinghatchats is brilliant. Absolutely my favorite character (and person!) analysis system. Instead of one house, you get two - a PRIMARY (your motivation, why you do things), and a SECONDARY (your toolbox, how you get things done.) A very stripped down refresher --

IDEALIST PRIMARY Lion/Gryffindor - I do what I feel is right. (MORAL) Bird/Ravenclaw - I do what I decide is correct. (LOGICAL) LOYALIST PRIMARY Badger/Hufflepuff - I do what helps my community (PEOPLE MATTER) Snake/Slytherin - I do what helps me/my inner circle (MY PEOPLE MATTER)

IMPROVISATIONAL SECONDARY Lion/Gryffindor- Charge! React! Smash the system! Snake/Slytherin- Transform, adapt, find the loophole. BUILT SECONDARY Bird/Ravenclaw - Plan, make tools, gather information. Badger/Hufflepuff - Community-build, caretake, call in favors.

Now let’s talk Sherlock Holmes!!!

***

Mycroft Holmes has a terrifying Bird secondary. He knows everything. He sees everything. He holds all the information in his head, all the time, and can tell you exactly how it connects. “Spymaster Mycroft” didn’t become proper fanon until 1970: in the books he’s more like a human computer, or a Mentat from Dune. This man is incapable of improvising. He hates casual conversation, hates changing his routine, just wants to sit and process and plan. He is the cartoon version of a Bird secondary.  

Mycroft is so insanely ‘big picture’ that he barely notices specific individuals. He’s off in in the corner thinking about currency regulation and the situation in Siam. In “The Greek Interpreter” he hears about a woman who might be starving to death… and sort of vaguely puts it on his to-do list. Sherlock ends up handling it.

You could make a case for either a Bird or Lion primary. But I’m going with Lion. Mycroft values instinct like Lions do (”All my instincts are against this explanation.”) And Sherlock describes him as someone who “would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right.” This is teasing, but it’s a joke about a Lion who just sort of feels the answer, not a Bird who needs a reason to be correct. Mycroft’s Cause, the one we see him respond to emotionally, is the smooth functioning of his world. He has a little pocket carved out for his brother, but if he had to choose between the country that he embodies and Sherlock Holmes’ well-being, it’d be England every time.

Knowing that Mycroft has that much power but doesn’t care about individual people makes Sherlock... uncomfortable. It takes him a while to even mention his brother to Watson. And then he lies about how important Mycroft’s job is. Thematically, this where Moriarty comes in. James Moriarty – the older genius hiding deep in the establishment, running a criminal empire from behind a tenured professorship, never getting his hands dirty – is Dark Mycroft. Because Sherlock is pretty sure his brother is one of the good guys. He’s pretty sure Mycroft isn’t going to break bad and go full-on ‘ends justify the means’ supervillain.

But… like… he could.

Sherlock Holmes is also defined by his Bird secondary. His deductions, data, knowledge of crime – it’s his loudest trait. But it’s a model. He tells us it’s a model. This “habit of observation and inference which I formed into a system” is something he built – and honestly, he probably built it for Mycroft. The Holmes brothers don’t do conversations, they have deduction games. Sherlock never wins, but at least he plays on Mycroft’s level.

(Everything about Sherlock Holmes makes more sense when you think about Mycroft. Like the “brain-attic” metaphor. How did Sherlock get this idea that there’s some fast-approaching limit to the actual pieces of information he can fit in his head at once? Because he knows someone with far, far greater processing power).

Underneath this logical Bird secondary model, Sherlock Holmes has something that looks a lot more Snake He’s moody and mercurial. He improvises on the violin to help himself think. He loves acting. He loves disguises. He crushes on Irene Adler because their Snake secondaries have so much fun playing together. And when it’s important, Holmes goes full-on Snake. Need to get Watson away from Moriarty? Better forge a letter sending him on a fake errand.

And as far as primaries go...  he’s a Badger. Sherlock Holmes cares about people. Oh wow does he care about people. If he doesn’t protect his client, it’s not a win – even if he solved the case with some brilliant bit of detection. He despises blackmailers, because they destroy lives in a cold, impersonal way. (At least murderers care.) He doesn’t mean to upset people with his deductions, and apologizes when he gets too coldly Bird: “Pray accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had a forgotten how personal and painful a thing it might be to you.” When Watson talks about the “depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask,” Holmes is thirty seconds away from going vigilante killer because somebody hurt John Watson.

But the feeling isn’t just Watson-centric. Holmes doesn’t require Watson at his side the way a Snake would, because as long as he knows Watson is safe and happy, he is content. Holmes need-bases. It’s important that he works for people who need him. He generally dislikes working for the rich or upper-class (Soviet Russian Sherlock Holmes was totally a thing, they didn’t have to change much). He also has a *real* problem with overworking himself, which is very much a Badger primary and not Snake primary thing to do

He even community-builds. His Baker Street Irregulars, his connections over at Scotland yard, his tribe of interesting contacts and informants. Holmes values community. To him, community = safe. He loves London, but isolated rural areas makes him nervous:

“[in London] there is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbors, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going... But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields… think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser.”

And don’t get me wrong. Holmes loves his double Bird armor. It makes him feel powerful, and hides the fact that he cares so damn much. He likes to pretend he doesn’t: to care is to be weak, ineffective, and untrustworthy. (Mycroft is probably to blame for this bit of thinking too.) But Sherlock Holmes is still able to take off his Bird. He takes it off around Watson. 

Dr. John Watson is a bright charging Lion secondary who is completely incapable of telling a lie. He’s ex-military. He’s Holmes’ muscle/backup. He’s got a gambling problem. And the thing about Holmes and Watson’s dynamic is that while Holmes calls the shots about 90% percent of the time, when it’s important – Watson goes full unstoppable-force Lion. And Holmes just buckles.

“Well, I don’t like it ; but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When do we start?” “You are not coming.” “Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of honor – and I never broke it in my life – that I will take a cab straight to the police station and give you away unless you let me share this adventure with you” “You can’t help me.” “How do you know that? You can’t tell what may happen. Anyway, my resolution is taken.” Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so.”

Watson’s absolutely a Lion Primary too. First going into medicine, then joining the army even when that’s not the best career move? At the beginning of A Study in Scarlet, Watson is in terrible shape. Can’t sleep. Can’t stand loud noises. He’s “spending such money as I had considerably more freely than I ought.” But it’s not so much the PTSD as it is the the lack of purpose that’s getting to him. He talks a lot about his “meaningless existence” and how how “objectiveless was my life.” That’s a hurting, burned Lion, without a Cause.

And then Sherlock Holmes stumbles in. Overnight Watson’s life has meaning. He is going to help Holmes bring criminals to justice. He is going to make sure Holmes gets the recognition he deserves. And he’s going to get him clean. (ACD gets massive kudos for being against recreational cocaine and morphine use). The things Watson loves about Holmes, things like his “high sense of professional honor” – those are things that get under the skin of a Lion Primary. This is a guy with pictures of abolitionist preachers framed on his wall. John Watson’s not subtle. 

“You don’t mind breaking the law?” [said Holmes] “Not in the least.” “Nor running a chance of arrest?” “Not in a good cause.” “Oh, the cause is excellent!” “Then I am your man.”

And of course, Holmes got lucky in Watson too. Holmes is a Loyalist primary who distrusts other Loyalist primaries – you can’t really blame him, he comes across so many repulsive ones in his day job. (Interestingly, the handful of times Holmes absolutely misreads a motive – “Yellow Face,” “Missing Three-Quarter,” “Scandal in Bohemia” – it’s because he’s going up against a Loyalist primary who is using their powers for good.) 

But Watson is a trustworthy, dependable, predicable, honorable, Idealist who can  look like a Loyalist because his Cause is so focused on one person. So Holmes can be secure in his doctor’s devotion while also getting to lean on the instincts of someone just unflinchingly moral.

tl;dr

Mycroft Holmes – Lion Bird. An extremely big picture Lion whose Cause involves keeping England together. He’s the light-side counterpart of Professor Moriarty.

Sherlock Holmes – Badger Snake. Builds a loud Double Bird model, partly for pleasure, partly have a relationship with his brother, and partly because dealing with so many low-life Loyalist primaries makes him distrust those instincts in himself.

Dr. John Watson - Double Lion. When we meet him he’s pretty burned, due to his twin Causes of Queen and Country not really working out. Luckily, he meets Sherlock Holmes, and finds a new Cause in him.

[themadauthorshatter]

WELCOME BACK ONE AND ALL!

Welcome back to MY take on Toppat!Charles, the series that gives you... angst and cliffhangers in every chapter, just like Game of Thrones😅.

In case you haven't read them yet here are links to the first three parts, which I recommend you read because the brief recaps don't do them justice.

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

BRIEF RECAP AND HEADCANON TO FOLLOW FOR THE POST TIME!

After his attack on Burt, Charles has caved and is now open to what Right has to say and vice versa. Henry and Gerneral Galeforce, more Galeforce, have been contacted by the Center for Chaos Containment and offered their men for one Henry Stickmin. Ellie has been good emotional support, but Henry goes against Galeforce and Ellie in order to save his friend.

Got that? Great!👍

So what's the headcanon this week? Well, @triple-threat-toppats and @azuri-the-imperfect-artist have AU's/headcanons that Toppat-ing is in Henry's blood, whether that be biological or otherwise, and we'll be meeting a new character this chapter who ties this all together perfectly😈.

We all good? FANTASTIC!

LET'S DIVE IN!!

We pick up where we left off with Henry outside as a receptionist, of sorts, freaks out that he called, telling everyone on the floor and shouting for an official to take the call.

Through this entire exchange, Henry rolls his eyes at how much of a fan boy the receptionist is, groans that no one can find an official at two' in the moring, and eventually takes a seat and listens as a few mid-ranking officials argue about who gets to talk to him; 10.6 anomaly, he's a pretty big deal to them.

They all fall silent when a man shouts, "Hand 'im over to me."

Henry should be scared, but he's glad that FINALLY someone is on the other end to talk to.

"Mr. Stickmin," says the official. "Nice of you to call."

"Who am I speaking with right now?" Henry asks as he stands up, not at all interested in playing games. (The irony that hit me after I typed that🤦‍♀️😂😂)

The official scoffs, "Not one for banter. I respect that. Son, name's Corporal Bill Bullet, leading official of the Center for Chaos Containment. How can we help you at this hour?"

Henry paces as he continues talking. "You talked to General Rupert Galeforce, right?"

"We did, actually. About you, but you probably already guessed that."

Henry looks back at the toppat orbital station, staring at it as he stays silent. Again, he is not in the mood for games.

Bullet sighs on the other end of the phone. "Guess you calling means you've made you're choice?"

Henry is quiet for a second and swallows a lump in his throat. "What happens if I agree to the terms?"

"Take a guess, kid."

Henry sees flashes of his life if he is in the CCC's custody and groans at the migraine said flashes give him.

"You're quite the interesting person, Henry. Robbing a bank with a bag, breaking out of prison by dogding and throwing bullets before stealinga police car, stealing a diamond by pushing yourself off a bridge, taking down the toppats, and escaping a maximum security complex with barely even a scratch."

Henry bites his tongue as he remembers those moments and their alternative paths INCLUDING the fails.

"But you didn't just get a few scratches, you did? 10.6 is a pretty high rating on our meter. Can't imagine what would happen to a person who causes as much chaos as you."

Henry shakes his head and snaps, "Just tell me!"

Bullet is silent once more, disappointed at how he can't at least tease what is essentially a rabbit walking right into an easily seen trap.

"We'll study the source of your... ability. How one person can live one life before jumping to the next, but existing like he did before that life ended.

"You may be a young man, Henry, but you've probably lived longer and died more than the rest of us put together. Why is that? How, excatly?"

Despite the knot forming in his stomach, Henry nods and hums to let Bullet know he's listening.

"There's also a certain balance to the world, one that shouldn't be bothered, 'less we want to cause A LOT of collateral damage. Lead to a lot of people getting hurt, cause a lot of casualties. You already lost one person you care about. What if you lost all of them?"

Henry gulps as he remembers the complex riot and how a robot was sent to tear down the museum he stole the Tunisian Diamond from.

Any of those people could've easily been Ellie or the General or, if he'd gone down the Toppat route, the entire clan.

Bullet may be manipulating emotionally, but he kind of has a point.

The chaos Henry causes is extremely dangerous, if what we've seen in StD, ItA, FtC, and CtM are any examples. Imagine if he had caused that sort of chaos in a major city, like real world New York or Detroit.

I don't know about you guys, but if something like any of the games happened IRL, all caused by Henry, there would easily be cities flattened to the ground with COUNTLESS fatalities.

"Helloooo? You still with me, Mr. Stickmin?"

Henry snaps out of his stupor and takes a deep breath before talking again. "Promise me you'll help. I want your honest word."

"Which I'll stay good on as long ad you keep your end of the bargain," Bullet retorts. "A quarter of our forces at your disposal to help you get your friend back as long as you turn yourself in to our facility. Deal?"

Henry is silent again, but when he speaks again, he tries something:

"Will I still talk to anyone outside? Send them any letters?"

"Not really. Think the government would handle our research well? Or what you can do?

"Last chance, deal or no deal?"

Henry stares up at the sky, counting the stars and moon, and then watches orbital station drift across the sky, covering part of the moon.

"Sir, we have a situation!" Someone yells on the other end.

Bullet does one if those angry growls or snarls. "Don't keep me waiting on your answer, Henry. Our resources are limited, too. Make your decision and call me back the second you do."

"Sir-"

"I'M COMING!"

The call ends and Henry lets out a sigh as he drops to his knees and then hugging them to his chest, shaking and now doubting whether or not he's making the right choice.

Unbeknownst to him, however, Ellie had followed him when he walked out and is struggling very badly with hiding her tears and sobbing from Henry, who is over a few feet away.

JUMP TO SOME FAN SERVICE!!😍🤩

Er, Charles. Jump to Charles. I SAID CHARLES!!!!!

Charles is mostly done showering, mostly because he's done washing and cleaning himself up, even shaving because he looks better without facial hair, and is now simply standing in the shower and letting the water fall on him.

He can't exactly remember how long it's been since he showered last, but he doesn't bother trying to because it only makes him think about how the government destroyers were blown up and anyone who managed to get on the station was killed as a message to the government and Henry and Ellie, and as an example for Charles, in case he gets any ideas.

He keeps thinking about how Henry looked at him before he went unconscious, how Henry did nothing to help him even though HE could've done something. He had before on missions, so what had stopped him then and there?

"I was wondering the same thing," Right says, though Charles doesn't hear him over the water running.

Charles gasps as he slips to the ground and realizes how he's thinking about his friend, forgetting Right was standing on the other side of the wall and curtain to keep an eye on him, just in case.

"N-no," Charles says to who he thinks is himself. "He... He wouldn't just leave me. None of them would."

Right rolls his eyes at this and steps closer to where he's in front of the curtain, though he does grab a towel. "You know, you talk to yourself a lot. 'S kind of freaky."

Charles curls into himself and into the corner of the shower and covers his ears. "Shut up! Just shut up and leave me alone!"

"How long have you been here?" Right asks as he looks up at the ceiling. "And why isn't Henry here to get you out? Aren't you two supposed to be friends?"

"Stop it!" Charles cries, curling into himself further.

Right smirks and decides to twirs the knife. "He helped that Ellie girl, didn't he? When she needed his help? I wonder if what they say is true? Birds of a feather flock together? They're both criminals, so I wouldn't really blame them for teaming up."

"SHUT YOUR STUPID MOUTH!" Charles screams. "YOU'RE WRONG! ALL OF YOU ARE WRONG! HE'S COMING TO SAVE ME, THEY ALL ARE!"

Right's smirk drops and he raises and eyebrow before drawing back the curtain.

Charles flinches back, covering his head and waiting for the strike.

But it never comes.

He looks up at Right, who's standing and giving him a look that says very clearly, 'I'm getting sick of your shit, stop.'

The two stare at each other for a bit, Charles wide eyed and scared before glaring as hard as he can.

Right keeps his bored expression because while he's probably in the best shape he's been in in a WHILE, Charles has lost at least twenty-five pounds and is cowering in the corner of a shower with long hair and clean shaven face; one lesson they teach you: you don't always need a mirror to shave your face.

The two continue their staring contest until Right slings the towel over his shoulder, takes off his top hat, and reaches into the shower with his cybernetic hand and turns off the water, flicking any off his fingers before stepping back and putting his top hat back on, Charles staring the whole time in case Right attacks him.

Right doesn't, of course, and tosses Charles the towel before pointing to a set of clothes hanging behind him and , just something neat but comfortable, not exactly a sweater and sweat pants, but close enough.

He then walks away until he's facing the door, his back to Charles.

"Hurry up and get dressed. Your room's ready."

Charles dries off and does get dressed, but he's careful to not take his eyes off Right.

First this guy got Charles captured and isolated him from everyone else, and now he's letting Charles shower and have his own room?

What's he up to?

Don't worry, he doesn't talk to himself this time.

Charles finishes putting on the clothes Right gave him, and looks at the towel he'd just hung on the hanger that held his clothes. Then he looks at Right, who's back is still turned.

You know EXACTLY where this is going.

Charles takes down the towel, careful that it doesn't hit the wall, and starts twisting it up as he sneaks up to Right, who either looks down at a wrist watch or checks a pocket watch because now he's getting a little bored.

Just as Charles is about to get the jump on him, Right pivots to face him.

"Good. You're done. It took you long enough."

Charles is absolutely speechless as he goes completely pale his face drops.

"Here, let me take that for you." Right pulls the towel out of Charles's hands and unwinds it. "Shouldn't do this to a wet towel. Could get moldy."

Right nods his head as a 'follow me' and leaves the showers.

Charles remains shell shocked for a minute and tries not to burst into tears at how his plan blew up his his face, but ultimately walks after Right, who strides ahead with a smile on his face.

Think Henry got away with that call? Weeeeeeeelll...

CUT TO THE GOVERNMENT

Galeforce SLAMS his hands on his desk, making Henry jump slightly in his chair and Ellie flinch against the wall, her arms crossed and shoulders hunched.

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!? ACCEPTING THE DEAL MADE BY THOSE NUTJOBS!? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?"

Henry's sign is sloppy and fast, but the general still understands it. 'Wanted Charles safe.'

"So do we, Henry, but not by selling one of our best!"

Henry shakes his head and signs again, this time more clearly. 'You can't make me change my mind.'

Ellie speaks up after being silent for so long: "Henry, think about what you're doing."

'Already did. Made up my mind.'

"Son, it's not worth it."

Those words hit Henry harder than they should, making him grit his teeth.

"Trust me. Those CCC guys are nothing but trouble. We can't accept their help."

Henry shoots up to his feet. "I DON'T CARE!" He screams. "CHARLES IS TRAPPED IN SPACE WITH NO ONE TO HELP HIM AND IT'S MY FAULT HE'S UP THERE TO BEGIN WITH, SO LET ME FIX THIS!"

No one talks as Henry pants, falling back into his chair and holdong his head in his hands, pulling slightly at his hair and shaking.

"It's all I can think of doing. It's our only option. I can't think of anything else."

Ellie and Galeforce exchange glances before turning back to Henry, who leans heavily on one hand or arm as he meets their gaze.

"You're sure you know what you're doing?"

Henry looks at them both for a moment while not speaking before nodding slowly. 'I can't think of anything else. The corporal hung up before I could say yes. Someone talked about a 'situation.''

Ellie and Henry stare at each other, the former more puffy eyed than she was last night because this could very well be the last time she sees her friend.

She doesn't want him to leave, but if it's really his choice, who is she to not support him after all he did to help her?

"When do you-"

'I'm going in to visit later. Called back and told them I'd gove my answer AFTER I talked to someone.'

Both look at him incredulously.

"Talk to who?" Galeforce asks as he turns his head to look at Henry through the corner of his eye.

Henry takes in a deep breath through his nose and holds either of his hands at the top of his head, raising them up and down, gesturing a top hat to them.

BACK TO CHARLES

Right leads Charles to the room and watches him walk inside and look around, almost confused because it's been so so long since he'd last been in a normal bedroom. And because there's a chance this could all be a trick.

"Been a while since you had a decent room. Prob'ly nicer than what you're used to."

Charles takes a seat on the bed and keeps his head down, confused and tired of Right's games.

"You don't really believe Henry's gonna save you, do you? It's been a while since the last destroyer was sent and the government has more pilots. You military people are pretty easy to replace. You are just a pilot, after all."

Charles keeps his head down and lets his hair hang; it's obviously grown longer and Right gave him a razor but no scissors.

"Why are you doing this?" Charles asks. "What do you want from me?"

Right fights a smile and approaches Charles, taking a knee infront of him and waiting for the pilot to acknowledge him, which Charles does by picking up his head and meeting his eyes.

BACK TO THE CCC HEADQUARTERS!!!!!

Henry is being led by four guards and Bill Bullet. He hasn't gotten a lot of sleep, but he's good at not showing it.

"Weird request to visit someone before you make your decision. Usually we don't allow visitors." Bullet turns and sees Henry keeping up behind him, zoning out slightly but snapping out of it when he sees him looking. "You're not as talkative as you were on the phone the other night."

'Only way to contact you,' Henry signs.

Bullet smirks a little bit. "You deaf in one of your ears?"

'If I need to, I'll talk. Otherwise, I'll sign. Now where is he?'

Bullet sighs stops at an acrylic wall, seeing a doctor talking to a man.

Henry bristles slightly before calming himself back down.

"Guessing you two haven't talked in a while. I love reunions."

Henry narrows his eyes at Bill and gestures to the room. 'Private?'

"Enough. Don't worry, we won't listen in." Bill then grabs Henry by his jacket lapel and shoves him against the wall, catching the attention of doctor and occupant. "But I'm warning you right now," Bill growls as he leans close to Henry's face. "Try anything funny while you're in there, and I'll make you regret ever being born."

Henry nods and Bullet backs off him, letting him collect himself as the doctor walks out.

"Sir? He's done with his tests. His vitals and mental state are stable. He's also ready to see his visitor."

Bullet sweeps a gesture to the door. "He's all yours, Mr. Stickmin."

Henry nods and enters the room, his eyes on its occupant.

The two stare at each other for a bit, taking in each other's features.

"Hello, Henry."

The man in this room used to be moderately fit, and a REAL charmer, but years spent in the CCC's facility have taken their toll. He's gotten skinnier, his face is wrinkled and sunken in, and his hair, while it's slightly longer than Henry's, is greying and becoming thin. He doesn't look terrible by any means, but he has definitely seen better days.

He has cybernetics for both his arms and one leg, along his spine, neck to tailbone, and in part of his jaw. Where his left eye used to be, the eyelids are closed and flat; he's not even allowed to have a glass eye.

Being overthrown by Reginald Copperbottom, both literally and figuratively, forever left him with a permanent reminder.

The two stare at each other for a little while longer before Henry replies to the notorious worst leader in the toppat clan's history.

"Hi, Dad."

The two continue staring, Henry shuffling in place and Terrence rubbing his neck.

Henry signs, 'How is it here?'

"A hell hole. Nothing to do, no one to talk to, and you only get something when they say you can. Other than that, it's peachy."

Terrence's eye darts to the guards and Bill before moving back to Henry. "Guess what they said was true. You're actually coming here so you can save your friend."

"Yeah," Henry replies after a second.

I know I'm putting in a lot of pauses, but these two don't even send letters to each other, so sharing a room and having a conversation for them is awkward and extremely uncomfortable.

Back on track, Terrence scoffs at Henry's line of thinking, commenting, "And I thought these doctors were crazy. Let me guess: Reggie decided to take something from you because you took something from him? He always was a child."

'Reginald's been in prison since I arrested him.'

"You arrested him?" Terrence repeats as he stands. "The leader of the toppat clan, the most infamous group of bandits and thieves, and you just turned him in to the government? Why didn't you join him, you would've been perfectly fine!"

'Right hand man has my friend, I need to get him back. That's why I'm here.'

Terrence puts his hands on his face and groans. "No. Do not tell me I'm hearing this." He meets eyes with Henry, who nods with a shrug.

"You broke out of prison with a bar from your own cell, stole a diamond on a scooter, and escaped a maximum security prison, but you arrested the leader of the toppat clan, the son of a bitch of did this to me-" Terrence holds his arms out to gesture to his cybernetic body. "- and gave him to the government, but didn't see his lap dog wanting to settle the score or even the odds with you!?"

'A lot goes through my head on missions, okay!?'

Terrence nods, humming cheekily. "I'll bet. Think it would've gone better if you'd used that gun you had? We both know he wasn't going to do anything."

Henry sees himself charging at Right rather than throwing away his gun, but signs back, 'You don't know what he would've done. You haven't seen him.'

Terrence points to a tv in the corner of the room, one right next to the camera. "Saw how he got an upgrade. You can groom and pamper a dog all you want, its bark will still be worse than it's bite."

Henry spots Bill talking to the guards before waving at him and tapping on his wrist, more specifically on a watch. 'Don't take long.'

"Saw their orbital station, too. Like hell you're getting your friend out of space. And like hell sunglasses over there is gonna let you out of his sight if you're serious about that deal."

Henry looks Terrence directly in the eye and nods. 'I know.'

Terrence's face drops as Henry continues.

'During the mission, I hesitated because I was scared he'd kill Charles, my friend. I helped the government by giving them plans, but nothing worked. This is my last option. You are my last option. You weren't around then to tell me what to do, but I need you now because for once I have everything I could ever want, and I'm about to lose it all for being a coward. I know you're not going to like it, or even care, but I just need you to be here when they bring me in. Just be there and tell me I did enough for once, when you're really around. That's all I need right now.'

It's this that makes Terrence drop the "tough loving father" act and makes him realize that this is for real. This is not his son saying, "I made a mistake, fix it for me." This is his son telling him that this is his plan and he needs support to know he's doing the right thing.

Henry is extremely shaky because this is something he does not do with his father. They aren't usually open with each other, as in they do get emotional; toxic masculinity at its finest... and daddy issues.

Regardless, Henry collects himself before signing again.

'I'm going to agree to the terms. If they can send a piece of the ground to space or erase the universe, then they can help me. It's all I can think of doing that'll work.'

Terrence is quiet for a moment, looking at Bill and the guards as they gossip about something before turning back to Henry.

"Are you absolutely sure about this?"

Hebry nods. 'It's all that I can think of that's going to work. Again, if they can send a chunk of land of space or erase the universe, then they can help me.'

Terrence steps back and shakes his head.

"You're going to die here. You know that, right? I'm telling you now it's not worth it."

Henry's face drops.

"Look, I get it. You never were good at keeping friends, but, Henry, I'm telling you, just let this guy go. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life locked in a cage?"

Henry shakes his head as he signs. 'No, but I'm not going to abandon my friend like you abandoned us.'

"I had a clan to run, Henry!" Terrence snaps. "I wanted you to stay, have an easy life, but no. You two just ran off on me!"

'Just because something's easy doesn't always make it right,' Henry signs. He begins signing something else, but stops before continuing. 'Look. I'm accepting the terms. I wanted to tell you now ao you're not disappointed later.'

Henry holds up a hand in farewell and turns to leave, ready to get back to the base and start forming a new plan.

"Henry?"

He turns to see Terrence staring once again, but also sees his throat bobbing, like he's coughing or about to be sick.

"Good... Good luck. Getting your friend back."

Henry's eyes widen and he shakily nods. 'Thanks.'

The two stare at each other like before, but this time they slowly advance towards one another, maneuver their arms until they're in an admittedly awkward, uncomfortable, but welcome embrace; again, emotion is not their strong suit.

"You're going to regret it. Turning yourself in. Life's for living, and you're throwing it away."

Henry pulls back and waves 'goodbye' once more and leaves the room.

"Took you long enough," Bill says as Henry rejoins him. "Have a nice visit?"

Henry narrows his eyes.

"Well, you got your visit. Hope you know how to get into that station."

Henry takes one last look at his father before nodding.

'The terms-'

"Same as advertised," Bill interrupts. "A quarter of our forces as long as you come quietly so we study your ability."

'AFTER my friend is rescued and safe.'

Bill waves him off. "Fine, yes. After your friend's back home and safe." He holds his hand out infront of him and Henry. "What do you say, Henry? Do we have a deal?"

Behind the acrylic, Terrence watches the two of them, his hands against the wall and his eyes on his son.

Henry keeps his eyes on Bill's hand before looking into his eyes. With a mental push, he claps his hand into the corporal's and shakes it, nodding.

"Deal."

Terrence bumps and shakes his head against the wall. "You idiot," he murmurs. "What are you doing?"

AND THAT'S A WRAP ON PART 4!!!!! Oh my goodness, did I enjoy writing this one! A lot of twists and turns and opportunities to just leave you all hanging, I'm not even joking. I haven't really written manipulation or character dynamics like Henry's and Terrence's before, and I think I did pretty well.

Again, check out @multiverse-madness and @azuri-the-imperfect-artist for their Terrence Suave AUs because they are both amazing artists and, honestly, do better with the character than me.😅

For real, all of you, thank you, thank you, thank you, so much for your patience with this one. Like I said in my update post, I have a lot going on in my personal life and just couldn't get in a good creative mindset to do this.

I know we didn't see a lot of Charles this time around, but that's gonna change in Part 5😈

ANYWAY, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!!!!!

[tigerkirby215]

5e Isaac the Time-Traveling Archaeologist build (Skullgirls)

(Artwork by Lab Zero games)

Skullgirls was the first fighting game I ever really properly got into. With a memorable cast of Roaring 20s-designed characters (Bae-owulf <3) and very solid fighting game mechanics the game is a blast to play for players of all skill levels. Probably the most memorable part about Skullgirls has to be its cast: despite having only 14 playable characters they all feel distinct and have unique personalities which make them memorable. (Granted the exception of Fukkua who was mostly made as a joke.)

But the non-player characters are equally memorable: Lab Zero’s orphaned scientific misfits, Ben’s old police force, the Canopy Kingdom’s democracy... and Stanley! While these characters are expanded a great deal in the mobile release they were still lovable additions to the cast. But the character who stood out the most for me was Isaac. DLC character 29, his theoretical time travel kit was truly unique and I’m really sad that we didn’t get to try Isaac as a fighter (we got Beowulf instead which I can’t complain about, but I could honestly do without Eliza thanks) and only got a mention of Isaac in one of the story modes. (No spoilers.)

Ever since the inclusion of the Archivist subclass in the Artificer UA I had a concept in my mind to recreate Isaac using that subclass. Naturally you can imagine my disappointment when Archivist was not included in Eberron: Rising from the Last War. But thankfully with the release of Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount we get the Echo Knight subclass which was exactly what I was looking for! And with a time travel theme no less? With the ability to create time clones I can finally make Isaac a reality: this was one of the builds I made this Tumblr for and I’m super excited to finally be able to publish it!

GOALS

Infinite Timelines - The core of Isaac’s kit was going to be based on summoning clones to fight for him, which we now have a class for in 5e!

Power Glove - Isaac is a smart cookie with theonite-powered inventions giving him the upper hand.

いち びょう けいか - Isaac is of course a time traveler, so we’re going to need some time traveling powers.

RACE

While never specified I’m pretty sure Isaac is a human, but that being said some variations can be taken for a time traveler... Screw Variant Human though we’re going for Eberron races because I’m a hipster like that! Originally I considered Mark of Passage humans for a one-time time traveler Misty Step but ultimately I decided on Mark of Sentinel as it fits the theme of an all-known time traveler far better. Your Constitution score increases by 2 and your Wisdom score increases by 1, and you Sentinel’s Intuition allowing you to add a d4 to Insight or Perception checks because of course you’ve been to the future and know the truth about people and where things are already.

You also get Guardian’s Shield letting you cast a Theonite Shield once per Long Rest, and you get the Vigilant Guardian ability which will let you swap places with a nearby ally if they’re going to get hit by a weapon attack: blocking a projectile is a good use of an assist too! You also get a language of your choice along with Common as a human and I’d suggest Giant to talk to your partner, but of course pick whatever you please.

ABILITY SCORES

15; INTELLIGENCE - You need to be a smart cookie to time travel, and we’re going to be using Intelligence for a lot of our features.

14; DEXTERITY - This is primarily because I like even ability scores and we need this to multiclass.

13; WISDOM - Seeing as our Wisdom is increased by our racial traits we may as well get it at a 14, and professor badass would know basic medical procedures as well as the history of the Canopy Kingdom.

12; CONSTITUTION - Extra bulk is always nice when some washed-up wrestler is hitting you with a folding chair, and we also need Constitution for our skills as well.

10; CHARISMA - Isaac has a degree of rough charm: he wears the vest well but that hair isn’t doing him any favors.

8; STRENGTH - We simply don’t need this for the build and your partner handled most of the brute forcing.

BACKGROUND

Isaac is stated in-lore to be an Archaeologist and luckily there’s a background for it in Tomb of Annihilation! You get History proficiency and I’d personally swap the Survival proficiency with Arcana since we can’t get it as easily otherwise. You can also choose between either Cartographer’s Tools or Navigator’s Tools: I opted for the former but honestly either of them work. You also choose one exotic language of your choice and again: pick whatever you think is useful.

Your feature Historical Knowledge lets you use some of your Indiana Jones skills to determine the original purpose of any ruin you enter, who built it, and if any artifacts you find are valuable. Fortune and glory kid.

(Artwork by MagicBunnyArt on DeviantArt)

THE BUILD

LEVEL 1 - FIGHTER 1

Starting off as a Fighter primarily for their saving throws. You get two skills from the Fighter list: I’d recommend Athletics to compensate for your low Strength score but you can honestly choose whatever for your second skill. (I chose Perception personally.)

Fighters get a Fighting Style of their choice and while Unarmed Fighting from the Class Feature Variants UA would make sense for a fighting game character we’ll be getting some time-travel boxing gloves shortly so I’d opt for Defense instead for an increase to AC. (Dueling is also a good choice if you want more offense instead of defense.) You also get Second Wind, letting you sit in the back and regenerate red health equal to 1d10 + your fighter level once per short rest.

I will quickly mention that as a Fighter you get a choice between either Leather Armor or Chain Mail in your starting equipment and I’d recommend taking the Chain Mail. Yes you can’t wear it because of your Strength score so see if you can also grab some Medium armor before you head out but that chainmail is going to serve us well shortly.

LEVEL 2 - ARTIFICER 1

The real starting class of this build is Artificer, and we only really took level 1 in Fighter for proficiency in Strength saves. Regardless Artificers get Magical Tinkering which lets them do some theonite tinkering on non-magical objects: I recommend reading the feature yourself to see what it can do, because you can do it a number of times equal to your Intelligence modifier.

Artificers also get access to Spellcasting. You get two cantrips of your choice: Fire Bolt is a simple Quarter-Circle-Forward Punch to shoot a projectile at your enemies, doing 1d10 fire damage and lighting flammable objects on fire. Guidance will let you give a mentorly pat-on-the-back to your Gigan partner, letting them add a d4 to an ability check.

For your leveled spells Artificers are prepared spellcasters, meaning they can swap their spells out on a long rest. Regardless the spells I’d prepare would be Cure Wounds to regenerate some red health and Detect Magic to locate any  theonite reserves in the ruins you’re exploring.

LEVEL 3 - ARTIFICER 2

Second level Artificers can Infuse Items: you know 4 total Infusions and can have two active at a time.

A Bag of Holding will help you carry that chainmail I told you to grab.

Enhanced Defenses will let you block a little more damage when block.

A Rope of Climbing will help you while spelunking, and speaking of spelunking a Wand of Secrets will help you find any hidden rooms or trap doors in the ruins you’re exploring.

But remember that the key to Artificer is picking infusions that your party will find useful! Pick a good assist, or else you’d be better working solo. You can also prepare another spell and Identify will let you further identify anything you find in a ruin... duh.

LEVEL 4 - ARTIFICER 3

3rd level Artificers have The Right Tool for the Job, letting them make a set of artisan’s tools over the course of an hour. But more importantly you get Artificer Speciality and the Armorer Unearthed Arcana subclass is perfect for an inventor with a heavy time gauntlet.

Armorers get Power Armor, or as I call them power fists. You can wear Heavy Armor regardless of its Strength requirement (which is good because your Strength is poo poo garbage) as it merges with your body and can’t be removed against your will.

You can choose between two different models of Power Armor and the Guardian armor will give you a dragon punch! Your fists count as Thunder Gauntlets and do a d8 thunder damage on hit, and causes enemies you hit to have disadvantage on attacks against targets other than you until the start of your next turn. You can also create a Defensive Field as a Bonus Action to get a number of temporary hitpoints equal to your level in Artificer: remember that blocking is as good as attacking!

IF UA ISN’T ALLOWED: This build honestly works fine with Battle Smith instead of Armorer since all we really need is the ability to use Intelligence to attack. We have enough Dexterity for you to wear Medium armor instead of using the Battle Smith’s Heavy Armor. The only reason for the Armorer multiclass is that I wanted punching gauntlets instead of a robot dog.

If you’re going to play Battle Smith instead take a bludgeoning weapon (IE a flail, warhammer, or maul) and flavor them as your punchy gauntlet. A maul does more damage but can’t be used with a shield, so it’s a great option if you want harder hits but less defense.

You can also cast your Artificer spells through the Power Armor, which is neat since Armorers get the Magic Missile and Shield spells innately.

LEVEL 5 - ARTIFICER 4

Taking level 4 in Artificer for an Ability Score Improvement, or rather the Linquist Feat to be able to gather information no matter what part of the world you’re in. Along with a plus one to your Intelligence score you learn three languages of your choice (pick whatever you think will be useful) and can write ciphers. A creature can only decode your messages if you teach them the code or if they succeed an Intelligence check equal to your Intelligence plus your proficiency bonus, so Scythana won’t be reading your research papers.

With the increase to Intelligence and the level up you can prepare two more Artificer spells: Feather Fall is useful to stop you from having a ground-bounce so your opponent can extend their combo, and Farie Fire can open up an enemy for a high hit if they’re blocking low.

LEVEL 6 - ARTIFICER 5

Ah screw it may as well take another level in Armorer to get your Extra Attack already. You can punch twice now in a combo: woo hoo!

You can also cast second level Artificer spells now: Armorers can innately cast Mirror Image and Shatter, and you can prepare second level spells from the Artificer list which I’ll discuss later.

LEVEL 7 - FIGHTER 2

Bouncing back to Fighter now; level 2 Fighters get Action Surge, letting them take one additional action in combat once per short rest. Extend that combo with some time stop! WRYYYYYYYYYYY!

LEVEL 8 - FIGHTER 3

Third level Fighters get to choose their Martial Archetype and woo boys there it is: Echo Knight! Echo Knights can Manifest Echoes of themselves from the future as a bonus action. You can put a single echo down 15 feet away from you which lasts until its destroyed, you dismiss it, you make another echo, or you’re incapacitated and unable to send yourself into the past.

The echo has an AC of 14 plus your proficiency bonus, 1 hit point (don’t worry you won’t feel it if your future self gets hit... which presents some weird paradox problems), and immunity to all conditions. If it has to make a saving throw it uses your saving throw bonus for the roll. It’s the same size as you and occupies a space. On your turn you can make the echo to move up to 30 feet in any direction without using an action but if your echo is more than 30 feet from you at the end of your turn it is destroyed.

You have several things you can do with your echo:

You can swap places with your echo with 15 feet of your movement, regardless of the distance between the two of you. Clearly it’s just you time traveling to where your future self is.

Any attack you make with that action can originate from the echo’s space if you choose to do so.

When a creature that you can see within 5 feet of your echo moves away from it, you can use your reaction to make an opportunity attack against that creature as if you were in the echo’s space.

You can use Unleash Incarnation to make one additional attack from your Echo’s location when you take the attack action, adding up to 3 attacks total. You can use Unleash Incarnation a number of times equal to your Constitution modifier.

LEVEL 9 - FIGHTER 4

Talk about a lot from one level huhn? Well all you’re getting from this level is +2 to your Intelligence with an Ability Score Improvement.

(Artwork by Pantalewns on DeviantArt)

LEVEL 10 - ARTIFICER 6

May as well grab level 6 in Artificer now for more Infusions! A Radiant Weapon attachment on your gauntlets will let you use them as a flashlight which can blind enemies that hit you! A Repulsion Shield meanwhile will let you push block an enemy that attacks you. Both these items take your reaction yes, and you have Shield for Reactions as well. But remember that these are just suggestions and you’re more than welcome to build other Infusions that will help your party.

You can also prepare a lot more spells now: two total with your levels and your Intelligence, but I will be suggesting 3 since we’ll get one more spell from an Intelligence increase later on and you’re a prepared spellcaster anyways so you can swap out your spells whenever.

Enhance Ability will let you provide an assist outside of combat, aiding your allies with checks and providing them other boosts.

Heat Metal will let you put a DoT on your opponent while you fight: more of Valentine’s thing but it helps!

Magic Weapon will let you punch a little harder, turning your Radiant Fists from a +1 weapon to a +2!

I again need to reiterate that Artificers are prepared spellcasters, so remember to swap out your spells when you need them!

LEVEL 11 - WIZARD 1

Speaking of prepared spellcasters oh god it’s Wizard. Welcome to the first use of Wizard on this blog and don’t worry: we have a lot more Wizards coming after Wildemount, which scares me because I don’t play Wizards. Anyways Wizards get some more spellcasting: Mending will let you repair any chains your partner might break, and Message will let you chat with her privately. Finally Mage Hand will let your future self reach out and grab something for you in the moment. Did I just pick the three cantrips that were right beside each-other on the massive list of Wizard cantrips? Yes, but that doesn’t mean these spells aren’t good.

Sapping Sting is also worth a mention as a Dunamancy-specific cantrip that causes your opponent to trip! Remember: gay tripping is gay.

Speaking of spells you learn two Wizard spells whenever you level up, and can add more spells to your spellbook if you find them on a spell scroll. Regardless Wizards have a big list of spells they can learn so uhhhhh...

Fog Cloud is ideal for a getaway, letting Scythana kick up a cloud of dust to heavily obscure the area.

Tenser’s Floating Disk is perfect for any spelunker, as it lets you create a three foot diameter theonite disk to carry up to 500 pounds of artifacts you discover.

You also get Arcane Recovery, letting you recover a level 1 spell slot on a short rest. More uses of Shield; neato!

LEVEL 12 - WIZARD 2

Ultimately the reason for the Wizard multiclass was to get some more time manipulation powers from the Chronurgy Magic subclass from Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount. That’s right we’re using two Wildemount subclasses; rejoice Critters! Chronurgists have Temporal Awareness, letting them add their Intelligence modifier to their Initiative rolls which is nice because your Dexterity is only a +2, and this will bump Initiative to a +6.

You also get Chronal Shift: when you or a creature within 30 feet of you that you can see makes an attack roll, ability check, or saving throw, you can use your reaction to force the creature to reroll after you see whether the roll succeeds or fails. You can use this reaction twice per long rest, so don’t meddle with the timeline unless its absolutely neccessary!

You also learn two more 1st level Wizard spells at this level:

You should be able to afford a 50 gp diamond by this point, right? Well Chromatic Orb will let you shoot a more powerful fireball at an enemy for 3d8 damage... or an ice ball. Or an acid ball!

Gift of Alacrity is a Chronurgy-specific spell so you may as well take it, as you can speed up time for an ally and give them a d8 to their initiative. Just remember that the spell does take some time to cast!

Oh god Wizards are overwhelming. Remember: you can get more spells if you find them in scrolls, which is good because right now you can prepare more spells than you have. Also if you have the chance see if you can find a Spellshard instead of a spellbook, just to keep the Theonite shard themeing.

LEVEL 13 - FIGHTER 5

Good god Wizard never again. It’s just straight through Fighter now, though it’s not like Echo Knight is an easy class either. 5th level Fighters get an Extra Attack... that you already have.

LEVEL 14 - FIGHTER 6

6th level Fighters get an Ability Score Improvement: max out your Intelligence for maximum damage with your gauntlets and your spellcasting.

LEVEL 15 - FIGHTER 7

7th level Echo Knights get Echo Avatar. As an action you can see and hear through your echo instead of your own senses. During this time you are deafened and blinded and you can see through your echo for up to 10 minutes. You can end it at any time without using an action and you can be up to 1000 feet away from your echo while using this action. Clearly you were just there the whole time, and are telling your allies what you saw.

It should be mentioned that technically you can teleport up to 1000 feet while using this ability, making it great for infiltration. Just saying!

LEVEL 16 - FIGHTER 8

8th level Fighters get another Ability Score Improvement and we’re going to improve our Constitution so that we can get back up when a detective with tuba lungs does a JoJo impression on us.

LEVEL 17 - FIGHTER 9

Level 9 Fighters get Indomitable, letting them reroll a saving throw once per long rest. Reminder that you have two rerolls that you can use on anything with Chronal Shift, and now you have one saving throw you can reroll for yourself. Turn back the clock if you get hit because life isn’t worth wasting seconds.

LEVEL 18 - FIGHTER 10

Level 10 Echo Knights get Shadow Martyr. As a reaction you can cause your echo to teleport in front of an ally you see being attacked and make them take the blow instead. Your echo appears within 5 feet of the ally and the attack is directed towards them, and you can use this reaction once per short rest. Remember to spend the next turn going back in time to save your friend: and don’t get hit when you do!

LEVEL 19 - FIGHTER 11

Level 11 Fighters get an Extra Attack that actually goes above and beyond regular Extra Attacks, so now you have three attacks total! Rejoice!

LEVEL 20 - FIGHTER 12

The final level is the 12th level of Fighter for your last Ability Score Improvement and you’re going to want to increase Constitution again for a 20 health boost at the end of the build.

(Artwork by MagicBunnyArt on DeviantArt)

FINAL BUILD

PROS

Hang on to your hat - A good Constitution modifier and most of your levels in Fighter means a health bar that’s very close to 200, and you have a positive saving throw score in everything except for Charisma with the ability to reroll up to three failed saves.

I'm all there is of the most real - Have I ever mentioned that Artificer is dumb when it comes to AC? 21 AC with just chainmail and a shield being both improved, and up to 23 AC if you get your hands on Full Plate. Even if your DM doesn’t let you wear Heavy armor because “Armorer is OP” a Breastplate will still give you 21 AC if you also use a shield. (18 without a shield.)

Bad puppies! (Good puppies) - You are great no matter where the enemy is with three Thunder Gauntlet attacks in melee range, several spells to use at range, and your echoes to let you teleport around and effectively be in two places at once.

CONS

Smart Cookie - Even though you’re a professor you’re not the most talented. You know hella-lot about History and Arcana but your Perception is about average and your Athletics leaves something to be desired.

Push Block - You’ve got a few too many options in combat with four different Bonus Actions (one of which is one-time use and one of which is only used at the start of the fight to be fair) and Reactions for Shadow Martyr, Chronal Shift,  Vigilant Guardian, Opportunity Attacks from you or your Echo, and reactionary spells like Shield and Feather Fall. The problem with infinite timelines is that there’s infinite options to choose from.

Seconds count - A lot of your abilities have a limited number of uses, and while some of them (Second Wind, Shadow Martyr, Action Surge) come back on a short rest a lot more of them (Spell Slots, Chronal Shift, Vigilant Guardian, Arcane Recovery, Indomitable, Unleash Incarnation) only come back after a long rest.

But infinite foresight means you won’t be caught without a plan, even if you don’t have the Foresight spell. Throw a punch or ten at a zombie cat-girl and then tap out and rest up. And do get your partner out of jail: someone needs to carry your equipment.

(Artwork by Kitty-Katskratch on DeviantArt.)

[luciferpens]

Nightshade || Harleen

What: Harley and Eve run into one another at Nightshade. Its awkward. Where: Nightshade When: August 14, 2020 Mentioned: Ivy, Vera, Rue, Remi TW: hinted at rape  @icarialex

Even though she wasn’t usually someone who went out with coworkers, she couldn’t keep turning people down. So, that was how Harley wound up heading to Nightshade after her shift with two of the other nurses from her department. The blonde didn’t really plan on doing much beyond having a few drinks and a good time, but that went out the window the moment her eyes landed on Eve. The scene that danced before her was one she’d seen so many times before as the writer flirted with a woman. When brown eyes met her blue, Harley wanted to curse herself for how wounded she most likely looked. Instead, she diverted her gaze and immediately ordered a shot of gin at the bar. The nurse wished she could walk up to Eve and explain that the feeling she had coursing through her right then was why she didn’t talk to the woman, but she wasn’t that person. She couldn’t walk up to her best friend being petty and mean just because she was hurt. No, it would be easier to just ignore the situation all together. Just spend two or so hours with her coworkers so they were happy and leave was the best course of action. 

After the first shot though, Harley switched to a gin and tonic. Getting drunk on top of being upset was definitely not a good combination. Causing an earthquake was never high on her list of priorities which was why she tried to stay as in control of her emotions as possible. She managed to have some sense of willpower as she sat at one of the high chairs that kept her back towards Eve’s direction. It kept her from turning around to see what she knew was looks of panic, confusion, and sadness. Harley didn’t want to comfort Eve right then because she knew deep down that talking to the woman was a bad idea. Her best friend never did feelings and coping by partying was what Eveleen did. So, the blonde did her best to laugh and joke as she was known to do as time slowly ticked by. Eventually, the drinks and water caught up with her which led to Harley entering the bathroom. As she exited the stall though she caught familiar brown eyes in the reflection of the bathroom mirror by the sinks. Knowing she couldn’t just ignore the woman as they were in such close quarters together, Harley greeted with a, ”Hi,” as she approached the faucet herself. Although, she didn’t know just what else she should say.

---

Nightshade had become Eve’s favorite spot on the isle, with her sister working as a DJ there, her ex-girlfriend owning it… it felt a bit like home, a bit like safety and normalcy. Eve used the place to unwind, to relax and get her fix. She wondered the dance floor flirting up a storm, using her powers to cause a more ecstasy on the dance floor. And that was exactly what she was doing, leaning against poll chatting up with a man a smirk on her face as she lightly brushed his arm, sending a wave of excitement through him and those around her. But as she pulled her hand away, her eyes drifted to blue ones that belonged to Harley. Her heart jumped into her throat and she froze in place. Harley looked so hurt and upset by her presence there, by what she was doing. She had started to open her mouth as if to say wait when Harley turned her attention away and ordered a drink. She saw the woman turn her attention back to two other women that she came with and pursed her lips eyebrows shooting upwards. Fine. . Eveleen would do the same; she started to flirt with more people to send more of an excited, curious and energetic wave out. It influenced those around her to drink more, to crave more wine, more excitement. That distracted her from the fact that Harley was around the club, enjoying herself as well. She finally decided to truly let loose and start dancing. She drank, she danced and then -- she realizied the bathroom was calling her name. . She had just exited a stall and was pausing at mirror after washing her hands to reapply her lipstick. She was leaning forward, adding red lipstick back on when she saw Harley in the reflection. Eve took in a long breath and then slowly let it out. “Hey…” she said letting her voice trail off as she slowly lowered her lipstick to the sink countertop and watched Harley through the mirror. “You look cute tonight.”

---

Harley looked down at her outfit and shrugged a little bit. Out of the two of them she was the one that cared less about what she threw on. As long as the colors didn’t scream in contrast too much she was good. That evening she was standing in front of Eve in tight red pants and a navy dress with a retro leather jacket thrown over it. Everything was tight enough that it gave a good view of her body, and the vest even showed a little midriff too. Still, the fact that it went together so well was more luck than anything else since she’d picked it all when she was half asleep before her fourteen hour shift. ”I can’t take credit. I’m pretty sure my eyes were half closed when I grabbed these clothes and tossed them into my duffle with some heels last night. Only reason I’m standing in front of you instead of napping in some corner is because I caught some shut eye in an on call room before being dragged out tonight.”  She had no idea how her colleagues had so much energy. Well, that was until she remembered that she was the only one on call for emergency surgery the night before, so they all had a more reasonable amount of sleep. 

Talking about work was easier than dealing with the things that were being left unsaid between the two of them. Harley wanted to kick herself for not remembering that a spot like Nightshade would be the woman’s stomping grounds. Walking into the only dance club on the isle while the writer was trying to sort through her emotions was like asking to be punched in the face with flirtations and debauchery. ”You don’t look so bad yourself though, but that stopped surprising me a long time ago,” she managed to say back with a small smile. The nurse didn’t understand why the urge to add as many people in the club are appreciating, to that sentence was so strong. She’d had feelings for Eve for ages and seen what she saw when she first walked into the club a million times. The only difference was that she’d been asked to put those feelings out into the universe, and that was stupid. Harley moved to grab some paper towels to dry her hands which also provided some distance between herself and the other woman. ”I’m probably going to be heading out soon,” she said with a sigh at both herself and the situation. Not knowing what to say to Eve was definitely new, frustrating territory. Harley was usually the queen of adding laughter to awkward situations, but there she was letting the tension continue to rise as uncertain blue eyes stared into brown. At least she managed to keep eye contact. She’d take the small win.

---

Eve rolled her eyes at Harley’s dismissal of her compliment, “Well even half closed and half dead before your shift you’ve apparently retained some of what I taught you back in L.A.” she said letting a smile slip over her lips. “Though, we’ll have to get you a new belt.” she said, shaking her head at the simplicity of the belt the woman was wearing. Eve was almost tempted to take off her Gucci belt and wrap it around the other woman but decided against it for fear of it all being a bit awkward. Plus the time it would take to unlace from the black sequined miniskirt she was wearing would be a pain in the ass. “And, you need lipstick.” she said, wiggling the lipstick tube she had in her hand around, it was the same shade of red as Harley’s pants. She smirked, and like she had hundreds of times before, back when they lived in L.A. she reached forward and took Harley’s head into her hand and quickly swiped on some lipstick to the girl’s lips before letting her go and returning to where she had been a second before.  “Better.” she said with a little shrug. 

“I’m guessing they dragged you out despite your protests of being a bit sleepy still?” she asked, realizing that the people she had seen Harley with earlier must have been some of her coworkers. Or at least some of them were for sure. Unless they just abandoned her, in which case she’d have to go yell at someone. After a second she shut down the thoughts she had of misplaced annoyance towards Harley’s coworkers. She knew the isle was… well actually, no, the isle wasn’t truly safe enough to walk around by yourself anymore. At least if the police order she had read was anything to go off of. Her roommate was just outside waiting for her to come back so they could go dance once more. She glanced to the other closed bathroom stall door and paused for a moment before turning her attention back to Harley.  “Ah -- thanks” she smiled. Her top was multi-layered; a black off the shoulder, almost tulle like fabric was covered in black polka dots with large bishop sleeves resting over a black tube top. She layered three necklaces over it and added some black heels to complete the whole look. “Don’t leave on account of me,” She added a second later as she slipped the lipstick into her bra, hiding it away. “You’ve not been here very long -- and you really shouldn’t be by yourself with -- all thats happened lately.”

---

”It’s hard to forget anything involving you,” Harley said honestly. There was one moment in particular she’d tried so hard to forget. The kiss Eve had given her when she was drunk off her ass was what she’d been trying to scrub away from her brain. There was no point in holding the memory when the other participant had zero knowledge of it having happened. She smiled and shook her head slightly at her best friend. Harley had learned long ago that there was always something Eve would tinker in her outfits. It wasn’t something she ever took personally. The lipstick did shock her a bit, but she fortunately kept it off her face. It was something they’d done so often, and yet, now that feelings had been thrown out there things were different. That was also why she didn’t want to say anything. Feelings made the air between them shift, and every time she saw the woman she was left wondering if anything that she felt was reciprocated. ”Thanks,” she said with a smile. 

Changing the topic to her knucklehead coworkers was much appreciated. Harley groaned and nodded her head. ”I’m often on call because I’m the lead anesthetic work, and I’m needed for any surgeries that happen in pediatrics. So, that can make for funky hours. Still, I’ve put this off long enough that I would have been carried here if I said no again anyways.” Going voluntarily seemed like the much better option. Fortunately, Harley could sleep in the following day since she was off. Her bed was calling her name. Although, knowing her she wouldn’t stay in it for long. Surfing in the morning was her favorite way to start the day. While Harley wished she could stay in spite of Eve being there, she knew it was best for her to go home. ”Really, it’s okay. I’m tired anyway, and I really don’t think I can handle seeing you flirt anymore tonight. You’re single and should if that’s what you want to do obviously. I have no say in that, but I know I should probably head out.” Nightshade could be Eve’s turf to do what she needed to do. That was something she could live with. It wasn’t like hitting the club and partying was something she did often. ”I can text you when I get home if you want. Or you can come with me if you’re going to worry too much,” Harley said with a shrug. She didn’t know how much Eve wanted to party, and the nurse’s mind was obviously a mess. Things were awkward but she still wanted to spend more time with Eve? Love was stupid.

---

Eve swallowed hard as Harley spoke; being confronted with feelings, hell even the idea of feelings made Eve squirm. After all that had happened to her, she couldn’t bring herself to be comfortable in a relationship, couldn’t really bring herself to be comfortable with feelings, deep feelings really. But when she saw Harley smile she returned it and nodded her head. “Any time,” she said with a shrug and cleared her throat. “You’re the lead?” She said her eyebrows shooting up, “I shouldn’t be surprised, of course, you are. I’m glad they’re forcing you to have some fun time instead of locking yourself in the house all the time.” she had been the one to force that back in L.A. and knowing that the woman had friends looking out for her, had people willing to make her go out and relax a bit.

Pursing her lips and frowning she nodded her head. Harley wasn’t wrong  but she disliked how this was all headed. She didn’t like how the only thing that seemed to be calming her down was partying; it distracted her, it allowed her to forget what was eating at her soul. And the admission of feelings -- well a good party was the perfect distraction. She glanced to the door, the idea of getting back into the party, but then back to Harley and shrugged her shoulders. It was Harley, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t want to hang out and see her friend. “Come with you?” she asked eyebrows shooting upwards, “I mean, at a bare minimum I want to make sure you get home safe.” She said with a shrug, “I can walk you home.” she added a second later. Its not like Harley could live that far, the isle wasn’t that huge.

---

Eve had been there through it all in the blonde’s education. She’d seen the long nights studying, reminded Harley to eat, and even kept food warm for her when she started her clinical hours which were always crazy. So, being able to tell the woman that she’d done well in her career was nice. Sharing the little things, because honestly to Harley work was such a little thing in life, was one of the many things she’d missed in their friendship. ”Head anesthetic nurse I think is the professional title, but whatever, same thing. I’m just happy I get paid to comfort kids while acting like a big one myself,” she said with a giant smile. It was the best part of her job. Surgery was always a scary thing, but to kids it could be terrifying, so it was nice that she was able to bring smiles to their faces by acting like a dork whenever possible. ”Yeah, I have a few people that stop me from being just a beach head and homebody. Don’t you worry. Plus, with you here, I’m sure I’ll get all my socializing in for sure.” 

Blue eyes caught the glimpse towards the door and sighed. Harley was always a pretty observant and emotionally intelligent person. Growing up with a woman who suffered from Bipolar Disorder made her accustomed to noticing little changes in behavior which carried on into her adult life. ”This is why I didn’t want to tell you about my feelings. You asked why I didn’t tell you, and this is a perfect example,” she said calmly. There was no anger or resentment in her words, but rather acceptance of how things would go. ”The only thing worse than having your feelings rejected is seeing them make someone else uncomfortable or unsure of things. I know partying is your default coping mechanism. So, if you’re not ready to deal with this yet or me, you can go back out there. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll ask one of my coworkers to walk me home so you don’t have to.” Harley didn’t want to make Eve feel out of sorts. The only thing she’d ever wanted to do was make the woman happy. Right then, she honestly didn’t know what was the right thing to do, but she didn’t want them to be forced together when Eve was still trying to wrap her head around things.

---

“Head anesthetic nurse.” Eve repeated, “A giant child taking care of other children.” she shook her head and let out a long sigh. How she could always be so childlike -- even at work amazed the writer. Eve had to much going on in life, too much chaos and expectations from her mother. It was either full throttle work which meant seriousness or a needed release of power and then a crash, which meant a party. Childlike wonder and playfulness -- that wasn’t really a thing for her. But maybe now -- maybe being on the isle meant she’d get some of that time. “I’m glad there are others up your butt and making you relax a little. And yes, you will for sure get more socialization with me being around… even if its a little weird.” she said deciding to just call out their awkwardness for what it was. 

Eveleen clenched her jaw a bit as she spoke and let her eyes dart around Harley’s face, taking in all the little details, all the little expressions that crossed her face as they spoke. “Because a couple of days of me needing to get my head on straight?” she asked eyebrows shooting up, “You know if we had had this conversation years ago we wouldn’t be in such an odd situation right now.” she sighed. “I’m not rejecting your feelings -- there’s just…” she let out an even longer sigh, “There’s just a lot going on in here --” she tapped at her temple. “A lot I have to -- get over, to accept and move on from before I can be in a good enough place to ever… be that sort of thing for someone.” she said putting extra emphasis on the word, not able to even bring herself to say girlfriend or relationship as she tapped her own chest. She leaned against the wall she was about to open her mouth to say more when two more women walked into the bathroom laughing up a storm. She waited as the two women stumbled into the bathroom stalls, still talking before she looked back to Harley.

---

Hearing Eve’s words made the blonde smile brightly. That was the best part of her job after all. ”Who better to relate to them than someone who can really get on their level?” While the blonde didn’t really have a normal childhood and had to grow up much faster than most, she still could easily access the part of her brain that held the memories of all the things she wanted to do. Perhaps they were at the forefront of her mind so much because she never got to do them, but she didn’t really dwell on it all too much. Harley was happy she was able to turn what many would see as a sad story of her life into something positive. At the mention of them being awkward, Harley shrugged her shoulders. ”This will blow over eventually. You’ll forget about it before you know it and be wanting cuddles from me in no time.” Honestly, Eve had forgotten much bigger things between them before, so Harley was sure it would be fine. There was a decent amount of alcohol and some weed combined in the last time, but still, she firmly believed they’d be fine. Putting her feelings in a Pandora’s box would have to work eventually.

Harley rolled her eyes affectionately at the woman because honestly, she couldn’t ever be really mad at Eve. Well, at least it hadn’t happened yet. ”No, not because you need a few days but because you don’t do this. You haven’t done feelings in forever, and I knew that. I knew it better than anyone. So, me telling you even a fraction of how I feel about you would make things awkward and just be uncomfortable for us both.” The idea that having the conversation years ago would have made things better made her arch an eyebrow. ”Can you honestly look me in the eye and say that three years ago that if I’d told you I wanted to be with you that it would have gone well? We were younger, and you were someone who was still dealing with a past relationship and loved partying. You haven’t wanted to be with anyone since Chester.” Harley listened to the rest of her best friend’s explanation and was even given a pause to digest it all due to people entering the bathroom. Once they were out of sight, all the nurse could do was nod her head because she did understand. ”I didn’t say you were rejecting them. I just said the only thing worse was seeing your feelings for someone make them uncomfortable. Being the person to make you feel so unsure and out of whack isn’t something I ever wanted to be. So, I can just get someone to walk me home. You can stay and party things out of your system until you’re ready to talk to me sometime.” One thing Eve had going for her was that she was dealing with someone that had seen how she coped before, so that saved time with explanations.

---

A small lift of her shoulders and a nod of her head was the easiest response. Because really — it was always easier to work with kids if you could relate to them and act like them. No one was better at that then the blonde before her. But at the mention of forgetting about it she furrowed her brow and pulled her head back slightly “Forget about it?” she asked almost insulted “I’m not gonna forget about what you said.” she muttered followed by a scoff and a long breath out. She shook her head again, sure she was a bit lose, but she wasn’t anywhere near the point of forgetting things. That would require weed and something harder to get to that point. And as far as she knew — only weed was readily available in this club. “What makes you think I’m going to forget about the fact that you told me you had feelings for me? I was sober then, and while I may not be totally sober now that doesn’t mean I’m going to forget it or just — let it go.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest and listened quietly to Harley as she spoke a small shiver ran down her spine at the mention of it being a fraction of what she felt and set her mind racing. Eve was lot in that thought, lost in what it meant to have someone feel something for her beyond the want to party or lust when she heard that name. It felt like a hand gripped around her heart forcing her mind and body to freeze in place. Her breathing hitched and she just stared. Her eyes glazing over at the mention of his name. To some, her reaction would look like overwhelming sadness over the loss of love; to anyone who knew her then they might think she was sad over his death; to her therapist? To Ivy? They’d recognize the fear and know she needed to do something to change the subject before her mind spiraled down. She couldn’t have been more thankful for the sound of a toilet flushing and the door opening again in her life. The slight distraction allowed her to try and recollect herself. She couldn’t, wouldn’t answer that question because it would be painful and be to close to a subject she wasn’t ready to talk about yet. “Understand.” she said her voice colder than she meant it, but being reminded of him? Well that usually shut her down more than she realized, “I -- Um -- My friend Remi is probably nearby if you need someone to walk you home. Oh, and Rue is for sure here, she would be happy to walk you.” She said as Vera poked her head into the bathroom and raised an eyebrow “You good?” she heard and Eve nodded, “Yeah one sec V.”

---

Life was a cruel mistress. That was Harley’s conclusion because there she was with the girl she’d had feelings for longer than she cared to admit asking her a question that was hard not to laugh at. What made her think Eve would forget? Well, that was a loaded question, but it all went back to what happened right before she left California. How could she tell her best friend that she hadn’t remembered the amazing make out session they had partaken in? There wasn’t a way without the conversation turning much more complicated. Plus, she doubted that would help their current situation any. ”I don’t know. People forget hook ups and stuff all the time on nights like these. Plus, I just don’t want to make things difficult. I want you happy not stressed out,” she replied with a shrug of her shoulders. That didn’t mean she could resist the urge of slipping a small hint of it in there. .

Everything was fine until it wasn’t. It all gave the blonde a bit of whiplash when she suddenly heard a tone from Eve that had never been aimed at her before. Harley hated Nightshade. The last time she’d been there she’d thought she saw Eve in the club, and now she was actually fighting or something not pleasant with the woman. Hurt appeared in blue eyes as Harley’s body language shifted and shrunk away slightly from the woman before her. Not able to really find her words yet, Harley just shook her head and shoved her hands in her jacket’s pockets. ”I’ll be alright. I’ll get someone to walk me,” she said with a quieter voice than before which she honestly didn’t know if it could be heard over the music. Even when they’d fought about her distancing herself from her friendship, the blonde hadn’t received the tone she’d just gotten. Hell, Eve was hitting on her for crying out loud even when angry. Now, things seemed to be messed up and just confusing. ”Text me if you need me, but it looks like you’ve got that covered with people,” she said with as much of a smile as she could muster as she moved to exit the bathroom.

---

She noted the mention of a hookup and stuff like this and filed it away to examine later when her mind wasn’t playing cruel tricks on her. “Harley, you told me all of that a couple of days ago, before a night like this.” she said staring the blonde down her voice was still cold, still distant, she was lost in her own head and the memories that were intruding into her perfectly normal day. “I’ll stop being stressed out when people stop bringing up Chester to me.” she added a second later feeling a shiver run down her spine, almost as if he was touching her back and pushing her forward. She swallowed hard and wanted nothing more than to go outside and get a breath of fresh air. Something away from the heat of all the bodies dancing and the smell of a bathroom, even if it was clean. 

Eve knew she was being cold, knew that Harley was freaked out by it all, and if she had control over her emotions right the she’d comfort the other, tell her its not her fault but memories and fear were roiling in her and she couldn’t seem to calm her body down.  She just nodded her head as Vera moved into the bathroom and started to rub Eve’s back trying to calm the woman down. Eve glanced over her shoulder as Harley left and then let out a long breath before saying “I need air V. Can we go outside?” and with a nod from the other woman, they vanished into thin air.

[longwindedbore]

The mass shooters and copycat wannabes keep repeating the same slogans.

If they were repeating , “Allah 'akbar” or “Viva Fidel” we’d have already launched the missiles.

But those aren’t the slogans to which these young killers are listening . These killers are repeating specific US sub-cultural slogans that respected Media and Political or Religious Authority figures are saying.

1. Mass killings incited by SHAME

The Media and Political or Religious Authority figures are not just expressing Opinions. They are deliberately inculcating their listeners with SHAME. Shame for not protesting. Shame for not being angry. SHAME for not taking action. SHAME for not taking matters into their own hands. SHAME for not picking up a gun...

2. Historical Examples of Shaming

In the past similar shaming by Media and Political and Religious Authority figures induced young men to risk their lives for the Confederate Army to kill young men whom shame had induced to risk their lives to join the Union army to kill...

In other eras like the 60s the Shaming was for Liberal men and women to risk their lives to to blockade and even set bombs to stop the slaughter in Viet Nam.

In the 70s the Shaming led to weekly plane hijackings. To Cuba until the Cubans said “No Mas!” To the Middle East or Africa until Entebbe.

In the 80s young Islamic men were shamed into joining the fight against the Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan using weapons supplied by the US. One of the most vocal and successful shamers and pipeline for US supplied weapons was a CIA asset, Osama Bin Laden. Nothing beats saying God is angry because you haven’t acted.

3. Only the shamed act; not the shamers

Of course, with very very few exceptions, the ones doing the shaming were/are not themselves picking up a gun. Anymore than God seems willing to directly act.

Various Gods’ Will or the Constitution or States Rights or Historical Necessity or National Defense or the Will of the Masses apparently can only work through the sacrifice of shamed young cannon fodder. Or so we are told by the shamers.

4. Profile of today’s shame incited mass killer

In this era, the shame driven mass killers are targeting strangers in public places. These killers are young, white heterosexual males. They are repeating slogans of hostility toward minorities, immigrants, non-traditional gender expression, females.

5. Should be easy to end Mass Killings

We know BY WHOM they are being shamed. By whom they are being incited. They are obtaining their armaments from maybe 5% of all gun dealers. We have the profile of the likely killers.

Unlike the above examples from the past, today’s Gun Advocates collectively know

Who are the 5% of dealers

Who are the shamers and inciters

What likely follows when a young man wants to borrow or buy a camouflage flak vest and large capacity magazines for a military grade Armalite-type weapon. Oh, and the small Army surplus ear plugs instead of the large ear muffs.

A derailment of any one of the three aspects above significantly curtails mass killings in the United States. Are Gun Advocates acting to stop killings?

6. The Silence of the Gun Advocates

Today the Gun advocates CHOOSE to remain silent and not speak about the vipers they harbor in their midst. Or bluster about Society having to pry weapons from dead hands.

Sadly, almost daily the police pry the guns from dead mass shooters hands; sometimes after police casualties. . Or accept their meek surrender as in El Paso. So the bluster has lost it’s cachet.

Our Society working together can put an end to this disturbing shame driven copycat killings. Allowing mass killings to continue is not possible. There have been too many. There is a result that Gun Advocates are forgetting

7. It’s personal because we all know a victim

Everyone knows somebody who experienced or knows somebody-who-knows-somebody in a mass shooting.

ITS BECOME PERSONAL. No longer mourning for faceless strangers. Everybody has someone’s name and usually a face. Like 9/11. Everyone knew someone or someone who knew someone who was there.

Today, some of us know people from multiple shootings. Know people who survived one only to be killed in another.

8. Banned ARs in the past.

So we work as a Society. Or the ever growing Anti-All-Gun Advocates will use Political force.

The Armalite-type weapons were banned from 1994 to 2004 along with gang-banger Uzis. No second Civil War errupted over Gun Rights during that decade. The ban withstood court challenges. The market for the weapon is shrinking. The largest manufacturer is leaving the Market . By extension so will critical NRA campaign donations.

9. Boycott the Shamers?

If I were a Responsible Gun Owner I would have joined with fellow enthusiasts and spoken to the local media - and pulpits if need be - to muzzle the jackasses doing the inciting and shaming. Boycott with my dollars.

10. Guns provide REVENGE not “Protection”

As a Libertard, neither my voice nor my dollars count in that quarter. I can’t influence the inciters. So what do you suggest I should do? But don’t say “get a gun”. That’s your fantasy.

Reality: Nine dead and 24 wounded in 32 seconds in Dayton with five cops already on the scene emptying into the shooter. Owning a gun gets revenge. Not safety in public spaces.

The Vegas shooter fired from a protected high ground. Even an AR-15 would have been ineffective. After Dayton how many cops have been killed by copycats with an AR - open carry didn’t provide safety for the police. In Texas one police chief opted for a robot bomb to deal with a shooter. So much for guns.

11. Limited Options for just Libertards acting

If what I say only encourages the inciters and the 5% of gun dealers; I’m ignored by the future young killer; and a gun gives me little/no protection - what can I do besides ban ban ban?

[halfofwhatisayismeaningless]

Far away. Lejos. Josh Washington x Reader

Good night! This was supposed to be shorter, but I liked it so much I made it longer. You can find it in english or spanish. Requests are open.

Buenas noches. Esto se suponía que iba a ser más corto, pero me gustó tanto que seguñi escribiendo. Podéis encontrarlo en inglés o español. Las propuestas están abiertas.

Summary: (Y/N) and Josh meet three months after the lodge prank. 

Words: 2661.

Warnings:  mental health issues and attempt to suicide.

It was just another day: turning off the alarm clock, get out of bed, look to the morning sky from your window, go to the bathroom, take a shower... and miss him. Depends on the day he was the first thing that came to your mind, maybe you remembered him when you see his hoodie on your drawer. But you always remembered him in the first half hour of the morning.

There was days that when you arrived to class you saw Sam and remembered her trembling voice while she called you that horrible morning. Josh insisted on not wanting you to go, it scared you, you knew how hard it was for him losing them and you imagined that going back to that place one year later would hurt him. You shut all the alarms on your head telling yourself that you trusted on him. Probably he just wanted to get wasted and he didn't liked you to see him in that state.

You didn't sleep that night, worried that something went wrong. In the end everything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong. You remembered that phone call with Sam perfectly "They don't find Jess", you answered worried, until Sam warned you "(Y/N), they don't find Josh either". You didn't had to start crying. It was seven o'clock in the morning but you were leaving your house, without telling your parents. On your way there you found out that they have found the dead body of Jess. The funeral was weeks after, the last time you all got together. Mike joined the army three week after her funeral.

Three days after her funeral they found Josh on the mines, you went fast to the police station, to the hospital, nobody gave you any information, until the day you run into her mother on the hospital.

- (Y/N), we've decided that you can't see him.

- What do you mean with WE'VE decided? Who did?

- His father, the doctors, and me.

- What about him?

- He's not in conditions of deciding.

- But he's my boyfriend, I should see him. I promised him that I would take care of him in case something happens.

- I'm sorry (Y/N), but that's what we decided.

Her mother turned around and started walking, you stayed there, without knowing what to do. His parents did not take care of him, ever, not even when his sisters disappeared. You were the one who took him to the psychologist, to the psychiatrist, you were who hugged him during his panic attacks, you woke him of his nightmares. And they wanted to separate him from you. You knew they wouldn't take care of him the way Josh deserved.

- At least tell him it's your decision. - you told her when she turned around. She ignored you.

It had been three months since that. You had tried to contact him, going to see him at the hospital where he was since they rescue him, and three weeks ago you went to his house. You stayed inside your car. You went through that street when you went to Sam's house, his light always was off. But that they it was on, there was also a security guard on the door. Neither you or the people who were at the lodge that night were allowed to see him. You were half an hour on the car, hoping to see him on the window. But it didn't happen, in the end you turned on the car, you wiped your tears and went away.

The only touched you had with Josh's reality was Sam's mum, who was friend of Melinda, Josh's mum.

You arrived class and sat on your usual place. Hoping to have a normal day. But that day was not normal, that day was gonna be weird on the monotony you tried to have, to not lose your head. That wasn't a class and psychology day.

Classes were normal until lunch time. You received a phone call from an unknown number. Before the lodge thing happened you wouldn't take those phone calls. But now everytime you answered the phone you did it with the hope that could be Josh. That didn't happen anytime.

- Hello?

- Hello, (Y/N)?

- Yes, it's me. Who are you?

- I'm Bob Washington. - it was his father. You started being scared, you imagine all the situations where Josh could suffer.

- Mr. Washington. What's going on? Is Josh fine?

- Yes don't worry. I'm not calling because something happened. - there was a silence. - He isn't worse. - you breathed.

- Then, why have you called?

- My wife and I were wrong. Melinda doesn't want to accept it, but I can't hear my son crying for you, not anymore. She told him that you didn't want to see him anymore. It's not true and I wanna tell him, but I don't know how.

- What can I do? I'll do anything, anything you ask. I just want to be with him and help him.

- I knew you would say that, you are everything but a problem for Josh. I've realised we should have took care of him earlier and that you were the one who did it when we didn't.

- I appreciate that. But I insist, what I want is to see him.

- Melinda isn't going to be home at five and she'll be a day outside. You can come whenever

you want.

- Can I be there at five?

- Of course you can, Josh's psychologist will arrive at seven, maybe you want ti be by his side as you used to. He told me you did.

- But are you going to tell him I'm going there?

- I prefer that he sees you there and that you tell him that it was our fault and not yours.

- I'll be there at five.

- Thank you (Y/N). And I'm sorry for lying about you to him. I'm sorry I kept you apart these three months.

- Mr. Washington, you should say you’re sorry to him.

You hang up the phone, with an unrest feeling. It was only two o'clock, three hours were left. You picked up your things and went home. Without telling anyone. You went back home walking, you wanted to order your feelings after dealing with his. From today on, if Mrs. Washington let you, Josh's feelings would be the most important ones of your life.

You couldn't stop thinking about what you found that afternoon at Josh's house. His mother opened the door, you went to his room, expecting him to be writing a new script. When you opened the door the room was empty, you heard someone crying on the bathroom.

- Josh? - you said outside the door. Your boyfriend gave you no answer. - Josh, I'm going in.

When you went in you found Josh lying on the ground with an empty pill box by his side. You tried not to panic so his mother wouldn't found out.

- Sweetie, sweetie. - you touched his face. - honey, what have you done? - he hugged you. - Josh, how many did you ate?

Josh wouldn't stop shivering, you started to feel the tears in your eyes. You hold on your feelings, the life of Josh is what mattered. You approached him to the toilet.

- Josh, sweetheart I'm here. Open your mouth. - Josh looked at you scared. - Don't worry my love, I'm not going to hurt you. You have to open your mouth for me, just for a second. - he did it, you put in your hand, two fingers touching his throat. You felt her throat contract, you took apart your hand and he threw up some pills. Josh started to cry louder. - Josh, we have to do it again, okay? - Josh said no with his head, two tears fell down your cheeks. - Josh please, look at me.

He looked at you and you saw fear on his eyes, not fear of dying. On the contrary, it was fear of life without his sisters, with the guilt of not being able to save them.

- Josh, I don't want you to die. - you cried. You didn't know how to explain him that it was the last thing you wanted. - I want to take care of you forever. I know you are broken, I don't expect to cover the emptiness they left. But I love you and I hope that is enough to make clear to you that I don't want to see you die. I couldn't live without you. Josh, I love you with my whole heart. - Josh put in his mouth his fingers and threw up again. - Thank you, my love. - you stroke your hand through his back.

- I'm sorry (Y/N). - he took your hand crying like a kid.

- Don't worry about me. This is the only thing you have taken? - he nodded. - Okay, we're going to the hospital. Your mother was leaving now, we'll wait until she's gone so you have some privacy.

Josh hugged you, when you were between those arms you started crying silently. You didn't want Josh to realize, but he knew you perfectly. You heard the front door get closed. Half an hour later you were crying alone at the emergencies room.

After that night nothing was the same, Josh and you were inseparable, both of you shared a secret, you accompanied him throughout the psychological process, you joined him on his late night cryings. You made a deal, you would tell eachother everything through your minds.

When you arrived home you had two more hours. You didn't know what to dress. Did you wanted to look pretty? Did you wanted to hide what this months had done to you?

You dressed up quickly, jeans and a big sweater. You looked at the mirror. You had change, everything hurted. You had started to develop the depression you thought it was closed months ago. Your eyes didn't shone, you were broken in pieces.

At quarter to five you parked in front of the Washington's house. A big house designed for five persons that was nearly empty after Hanna's and Beth's disappearance. You saw Mrs. Washington go out, saying goodbye to her husband. When her car disappeared you left the car.

You approached the front door looking to the security guard.

- Good afternoon, I've come to see...

- Josh, I know, miss (Y/N)

You knocked the door and you noticed your hairs stand on end. Mr. Washington opened the door.

- Hello (Y/N).

- Hello Mr. Washington.

- Call me Bob, please. Give me your coat and wait on the living room, I'll notify Josh that he has visit. I won't tell him it's you, he might not come down. - that scared you. Did he hated you? Bob looked at the chocolate box in your hand. - We've buy those this past months but he doesn't want to eat them unless is with you. You can put in on the living room.

When you went in you realised that it was different, there wasn't any family pictures. No sign of Beth or Hannah, not even Josh. It looked as if nothing had happened on this living room. You sat on the couch and heard how Bob told Josh that "Someone came to see you". You didn't heard the answer, you just heard the steps on the stairs. Your heart started to beat really fast, and three months later, you saw him.

He was very skinny, Josh, who was the typical tall and strong handsome boy. His eye bags were darker and evident. You looked at each other for 15 seconds. 15 seconds of silence. You stood up and walked to him. You surrounded him with your arms and smelt him. He didn't move for a minute and then he hugged you back. He was shivering, you too, because you were crying. And for an instant these three months hadn't happened. You separated and his father talked:

- I'll leave you alone. I'm sure (Y/N) has to talk to you about a lot of things. And Josh, please, listen to her and believe everything she says.

You sat on the couch, leaving some distance. You wiped your tears.

- Josh, I want you to listen to me carefully. Okay sweetheart?

- I'm not longer your "sweetheart".

You sighted, it was normal, he thought you didn't love him, he thought you hated him.

- When you disappeared I did nothing else but wait for you. I went to the police station everyday, I even slept there. I went to Blackwood to help them to find you. I contributed with everything I could. When they found you they took you to the hospital but they didn't give me any information. I spent a week looking for you or your parents on the hospital. I ran into your mum after ten days. He told me that they and your doctors had decided that you shouldn't see me. Me or anyone who was at Blackwood that night. - Josh stayed quiet, looking down to the floor. - I understand that this is difficult for you, that you don't want to see me and that you want me to go. I'll do it if you really want me to. But you have to believe me, please. - there was some minutes of silence. You wanted to be patient. Josh looked at the box of chocolates, you gave them to him.- I brought you those. I know they're your favorite ones.

- They're if I'm with you. - he finally looked at you. - I trust you, (Y/N). I imagined my parents would do that.

- Josh, I said it that night and I still think it. I wanna look after you forever. I know you're broken and that I'm not going end with the sadness that gave you their deaths. But I can't live without you. Josh, I love you with all my heart. - Josh approached and kissed you. You didn't want anything as much as you wanted that kiss.

- I love you. Thank you for being you. I do not intend to separate from you.

You spent all the afternoon together, you cried, you kissed, you talked to his psychologist, you fucked, you ate chocolates. You tried to make up for lost time. At eleven o'clock his father came back. You took your coat and went to the front door together.

- Do not go yet. I want to give you something. - Josh said to you. While he was upstairs his father came and talked to you.

- Thank you for everything, (Y/N). Don't worry about Melinda, I'll talk to her. I'll do everything I can so she doesn't even try to separate you two.

- Thank you for the call.

- I'll leave you alone so you can say goodbye properly.

Josh came with a notebook on his hands.

- Do you remember the promise we made that night? That we would tell eachother everything that went through our heads. - you nodded. - When I was admitted on the psychologist of the hospital I felt lonely without you. So I wrote everything that went through my mind. There are some bad words and hate to you. I hope that you understand that I was wrong. I want you to read it.

You hugged him and smelt him.

- It's the only thing I'll do tonight. I won't even sleep.

- Come tomorrow, I want to spend all the time possible with you. And I write a new script. It's a scary movie set in a psychiatric. - you saw that dreamy smiled again.

- Tomorrow at the same time I'll be here.

- And bring some chocolates. - he kissed you.

It had been a perfect day out of your monotony life.

Era otro día más: apagar el despertador, salir de la cama, mirar por la ventana al cielo que empezaba a clarear, llegar al baño, ducharse… y echarle de menos. Dependiendo del día era en lo primero que pensabas, a lo mejor era al encontrar su sudadera en tu cajón; pero siempre te acordabas de lo que habías perdido en la primera media hora.

Había días que cuando llegabas a clase y veías a Sam de lejos te acordabas de su voz temblorosa hablando contigo aquella fatídica madrugada. Josh insistió en que no fueras, lo cual te daba miedo, sabías lo duro que había sido perderlas y te imaginabas que volver a ese sitio un año después también dolería. Callaste las alarmas de tú cabeza pensando que confiabas en él y que seguramente se quería emborrachar y no le gustaba que le vieras borracho.

No dormiste esa noche, preocupada de que algo fuera mal, y resultó que todo lo que podía salir mal, salió mal. Recordabas la llamada de Sam a la perfección “No encuentran a Jess” tú respondiste preocupada, hasta que Sam te avisó “(Y/N), tampoco encuentran a Josh”. Ni siquiera tuviste tiempo de llorar. Eran las siete de la mañana de un sábado, pero tú salías de tú casa corriendo, sin avisar a tus padres de lo que estaba pasando. De camino te enteraste de que habían encontrado a Jess, muerta. Su funeral fue semanas después, fue la última vez que os reunisteis todos. Mike tres semanas después se alistó en el ejército.

Tres días después encontraban a Josh en las minas, fuiste corriendo a comisaría, al hospital, pero nadie te daba información, hasta que un día te encontraste con su madre.

- (Y/N), hemos decidido que no puedes verle.

- ¿Cómo que HEMOS decidido? ¿Quién lo ha decidido?

- Su padre, el equipo médico y yo.

- ¿Y él?

- Él no está en condiciones de decidir.

- Pero es mi novio, deberíais dejarme verlo. Le prometí que iba a cuidarle si le pasaba algo.

- Lo siento, (Y/N), pero es lo que hemos decidido.

Su madre se dio la vuelta y empezó a andar, tú te quedas te ahí, parada, sin saber qué hacer. Sus padres no se habían preocupado nunca por él, ni antes ni después de sus hermanas. Tú eras la que le había acompañado al psicólogo, al psiquiatra, la que le había abrazado durante los ataques de pánico, le habías despertado de sus pesadillas. Y querían separarlo de ti. Sabías que ellos no iban a cuidarle como Josh se merece.

- Por lo menos decidle que es vuestra decisión. – dijiste a su madre cuando se dio la vuelta. Ella te ignoró.

Y habían pasado tres meses desde aquello. Habías intentado ponerte en contacto con él, visitarle en el hospital en el que había estado ingresado en la sala de psiquiatría, y hace tres semanas condujiste hasta su casa para verle. Aparcaste en la acera de enfrente, pasabas mucho por esa calle cuando ibas a casa de Sam, y su luz estaba siempre apagada. Ese día estaba encendida, pero también había una persona de seguridad en la puerta. No podíais verlo ni tú ni a nadie que estuviera la noche en la que sucedió todo. Estuviste media hora en el coche, esperando verle asomar desde la ventana. Pero no pasó, al final acabó encendiendo el coche, limpiándote las lágrimas, y te fuiste.

El único contacto con la realidad de Josh era la madre de Sam, que era amiga de su madre, Melinda.

Llegaste a clase y te sentaste en tú sitio de siempre, esperando un día normal. Pero ese día no iba a ser normal, ese día iba a salir de la monotonía que te habías impuesto para no perder la cabeza. Ese no iba a ser un día normal de ir a clase y luego a la psicóloga.

Las clases transcurrieron con normalidad hasta que en la hora de la comida te llamó un número desconocido. Antes de que pasara todo nunca los solías coger, pero ahora cada vez que contestabas uno respondías con la ilusión de que fuera Josh, ninguna vez había sucedido.

- ¿Hola?

- Hola, ¿(Y/N)?

- Si, soy yo, ¿quién es?

- Soy Bob Washington. – era su padre; todo tú cuerpo se tensó, pasaron por tu cabeza todas las situaciones en las que podía encontrarse Josh.

- Señor Washington, ¿qué pasa? ¿Josh está bien?

- Si, no te preocupes. No llamo porque haya pasado nada. – hubo un silencio. – No ha ido a peor. – tú respiraste tranquila.

- Entonces, ¿por qué llama?

- Mi mujer y yo nos equivocamos. Melinda no quiere aceptarlo, pero yo no puedo oír a mi hijo llorar más por ti. Ella le contó que tú no habías querido volver a verle, no es cierto, yo quiero decírselo, pero no sé cómo hacerlo.

- ¿Qué puedo hacer yo? Haré lo que sea, cualquier cosa que me pida. Solo quiero estar con él y ayudarle.

- Imaginaba que dirías eso; eres de todo menos un problema para Josh. Me he dado cuenta de que deberíamos haber estado más pendiente de él y que has sido tú quien más le ha ayudado cuando no lo hicimos nosotros.

- Agradezco que me diga esto. Pero insisto que lo que yo quiero es verle.

- Melinda no va a estar a partir de las cinco y estará un día fuera. Puedes venir cuando quieras.

- ¿Puedo ir a las cinco?

- Claro que puedes, el psicólogo de Josh llegará a las siete, puede que quieras estar a su lado

como él me ha contado que hacías.

- ¿Pero va a contarle que voy?

- Prefiero que te vea y que sepa por ti misma que fue nuestra culpa. No creo que tú cargues con la culpa.

- Estaré allí a las cinco.

- Gracias (Y/N), y lo siento, por haber mentido a Josh sobre ti y haberte separado de él estos tres meses.

- Señor Washington, más lo debería sentir por él.

Colgaste el teléfono, con un sentimiento de desasosiego. Eran sólo las dos, faltaban tres horas. Recogiste tus cosas y decidiste salir hacia tu casa. Sin avisar a nadie. Decidiste volver andando, querías aclarar todos los sentimientos que había en tu cuerpo antes de tratar con los de él. A partir de hoy y si la señora Washington lo permitía, los sentimientos que más importaban en tú vida eran los de Josh.

No podías parar de pensar en la imagen que encontró una tarde que llegó a casa de Josh. Te abrió la puerta la madre de Josh y subiste a su habitación a verle, esperando encontrarle escribiendo un guion. Al abrir la puerta el cuarto estaba vacío, oíste un llanto en el baño.

- ¿Josh? – dijiste llamando a la puerta. Tú novio no respondió. – Josh, voy a abrir.

Al abrir encontraste a Josh tumbado en el suelo, con un bote de pastillas a su lado, vacío. Intentaste no entrar en pánico para que su madre no se enterara.

- Cariño, cariño. – dijiste acercándote. – Mi vida. ¿Qué has hecho? – él se abrazó a ti. – Josh, ¿cuántas has tomado?

Josh no paraba de temblar, empezaste a notar tus ojos llenarse de líquido. Refrenaste tus sentimientos, lo importante era la salud de Josh. Lo acercaste al wáter.

- Josh, cariño, estoy yo aquí. Abre la boca. – Josh te miró asustado. – Tranquilo, amor, no te voy a hacer daño. Tienes que abrir la boca un segundo. – él te hizo caso, metiste tú mano dentro, dos de tus dedos llegando a la garganta. Notaste la arcada, apartaste la mano y vomitó parte de las pastillas. Josh empezó a llorar más. – Josh, vamos a tenerlo que hacer otra vez, ¿vale? – Josh negó con la cabeza, dos lágrimas cayeron por tus ojos. – Josh, mírame, por favor.

Él te miró y viste el miedo en sus ojos, no creías que ese miedo fuera a morir, todo lo contrario, era a vivir sin sus hermanas, con la culpabilidad de no haber podido salvarlas.

- Josh, yo no quiero que te mueras. – lloraste. No sabías como explicarle que era lo último que querías. – Yo quiero cuidarte para siempre. Sé que estás roto por dentro, no espero cubrir el espacio que dejaron ellas. Pero te quiero y espero que eso sea suficiente para convencerte de que no quiero verte morir. No podría vivir sin ti. Josh yo te quiero con todo mi corazón. - Josh metió sus dedos en la boca y volvió a vomitar. – Gracias, cariño. – dijiste acariciando su espalda.

- Lo siento, (Y/N). – lloró como un niño pequeño cogiendo tú mano.

- No te preocupes por mí, ¿esto es lo único que has tomado? – él asintió. – Vale, voy a llevarte al hospital. Tú madre se iba ya, esperaremos a que esté lejos para que tengas un poco de privacidad.

Josh te abrazó, cuando estuviste entre esos brazos fue el momento en el que dejaste tú llanto silencioso caer. Intentaste que Josh no se diera cuenta, pero él te conocía a la perfección. Ambos oísteis la puerta de casa cerrarse. Media hora estabas sola en la sala de urgencias llorando.

Después de ese día nada había sido igual, Josh y tú erais inseparables, teníais un secreto, le acompañaste en todo el proceso de ir a psicólogos, de llorar por las noches abrazados. Hicisteis un trato, os contaríais todo lo que se pasaba por vuestras cabezas.

Al llegar a tú casa todavía faltaban dos horas. No sabías que ponerte, ¿te ponías guapa? ¿querías ocultar cómo estos tres meses de soledad te habían afectado?

Abriste tú armario. Viste la sudadera de Josh, no se la querías llevar. Si no te quería volver a ver querías un recuerdo suyo, todavía olía a él, y esperabas que así siguiera. Podrías llevarle algo, algo que le guste mucho y que le recuerde vuestra relación. Podías llevarle una caja de esos bombones belgas que comprabais para ver una peli en su casa. Echabas de menos esas tardes en la sala de cine de sus padres. Josh intentaba convencerte para que vierais una peli de miedo, aunque sabía lo mucho que las odiabas.

Te vestiste rápido, con unos vaqueros y un jersey grande. Te miraste en el espejo de la entrada de tú casa. Habías cambiado, te dolía todo menos el cuerpo físico, habías empezado a desarrollar tú depresión que parecía cerraba meses antes. Tus ojos ya no brillaban, estabas rota, a pedazos.

A las cinco menos cuarto aparcaste frente a la casa de los Washington, una casa diseñada para cinco personas que había quedado vacía tras la desaparición de Hannah y Beth. Viste salir a la señora Whasington, despidiéndose de su marido. Cuando su coche desapareció por la larga calle en la que vivían, saliste del coche.

Te acercaste y miraste al guardia de la puerta.

- Buenas tardes, vengo a ver a…

- A Josh, ya lo sé, señorita (Y/N).

Llamaste a la puerta, notaste como todo el pelo de tus brazos se erizaba. Te abrió el señor Washington.

- Hola (Y/N).

- Hola señor Washington.

- Llámame Bob, por favor. Dame tú abrigo y ve al salón, avisaré a Josh de que tiene visita. No le diré que eres tú, puede que no baje. – eso te preocupó ¿te odiaba? Bob miró la caja de bombones en tú mano. – los hemos comprado en estos últimos tres meses pero no quiere comerlos si no es contigo. Déjalos en la mesa del salón.

Al entrar te diste cuenta de que estaba cambiado, no había fotos de la familia, no había rastro de Hannah o Beth, ni siquiera de Josh, parecía no haber pasado nada en ese salón. Te sentaste en el sofá oyendo cómo el padre de Josh le avisaba “alguien ha venido a verte”. No oíste su respuesta, solo oíste los golpes de sus pies en las escaleras. Tú corazón empezó a latir fuerte, y de repente lo viste. Tres meses después.

Estaba muy flaco, Josh que era el típico guapo musculoso. Sus ojeras eran mucho más oscuras, y las bolsas de sus ojos evidentes. Os mirasteis durante 15 segundos, 15 largos segundos de silencio, hasta que te levantaste y acabaste con el espacio entre vosotros. Le rodeaste con los brazos y aprovechaste para volver a olerle. Él no se movió, tras un minuto te abrazó también, notaste que temblaba, tú también, porque estabas llorando. Durante un momento estos últimos tres meses no habían pasado. Os separasteis y su padre habló:

- Os voy a dejar solos. Seguro que (Y/N) tiene que contarte muchas cosas, Josh. Por favor, escúchala y créela en todo lo que te diga.

Os sentasteis en el sofá, dejando cierta distancia. Te limpiaste los ojos, llenos de lágrimas.

- Josh, quiero que me escuches bien. ¿Vale, cariño?

- Yo ya no soy tú cariño.

Tú suspiraste, era normal, él piensa que no le quieres, que le odias.

- Cuando desapareciste no hice más que esperarte, fui a comisaría, dormí en comisaría. Fui hasta Blackwood para ayudar en tú búsqueda. Aporté todo lo que pude. Cuando te encontraron y te llevaron al hospital, pero no me daban información. Me pasé una semana vagando por el hospital esperando encontrar a tus padres. Lo conseguí tras diez días, vi a tu madre. Me dijo que tú equipo médico y ellos habían decidido que no debías verme, ni a mí ni a nadie que estuviera esa noche. - Josh se quedó callado, mirando al suelo. – Entiendo que sea duro para ti, que no quieras volver a verme, que quieras que me vaya. Y lo haré si es lo que de verdad quieres. Pero créeme, por favor. – hubo otros minutos de silencio. Querías ser paciente. Josh miró los bombones, tú se los diste. – Te los he traído, sé que son tus favoritos.

- Lo son si estoy contigo. – te miró. – Yo te creo, (Y/N). Ya me imaginaba que mis padres habían hecho esto.

- Josh, te lo dije aquella tarde y suscribo mis palabras. Yo quiero cuidarte para siempre. Sé que estás roto por dentro y sé que no voy a poder quitar la tristeza que te causaron sus muertes. No podría vivir sin ti. Josh yo te quiero con todo mi corazón. – Josh se acercó a ti y te besó. Nunca en todos los días de tu vida habías deseado algo tanto como ese beso.

- Te quiero. Gracias por ser tú. No pienso separarme de ti.

Pasasteis toda la tarde juntos, llorasteis, os besasteis, hablaste con su psicólogo, follasteis, comisteis bombones, recuperasteis parte del tiempo irrecuperable. A las once de la noche volvió su padre. Tú cogiste tú abrigo y os dirigisteis juntos a la puerta.

- Todavía no te vayas, (Y/N), quiero darte una cosa. – dijo Josh. Mientras tú te ponías tú abrigo el padre de Josh se acercó a ti.

- Gracias por todo (Y/N), no te preocupes por Melinda, yo hablaré con ellas. Pero si está en mi mano intentaré que nada os separe.

- Gracias a usted por haberme llamado.

- Os dejo para que os despidáis.

Josh llegó con una libreta en sus manos.

- ¿Te acuerdas de la promesa que hicimos aquella noche? La de que nos contaríamos todo lo que pasara por nuestras cabezas. – tú asentiste. – Cuando estuve encerrado en el ala de psicología me sentí muy solo sin ti, así que escribí todo lo que se me pasaba por la cabeza. Hay insultos y odio hacia ti. Pero espero que después de esta tarde comprendas que estaba equivocado y quiero que lo leas.

Tú te acercaste a él, aspiraste su olor.

- No voy a hacer otra cosa esta noche. Nada de dormir.

- Ven mañana a verme, quiero recuperar el tiempo perdido. He escrito un guión, es una peli de miedo ambientada en un psiquiátrico. – por fin viste aquella sonrisa soñadora.

- Mañana a la misma hora estaré aquí.

- Y trae bombones. – dijo antes de besarte.

Había sido un día maravilloso, fuera de la monotonía.

[theculturedmarxist]

For several months my name and socialism have appeared often together in the newspapers.  A friend tells me that I have shared the front pages with baseball, Mr. Roosevelt and the New York police scandal.  The association does not make me altogether happy but, on the whole, I am glad that many people are interested in me and in the educational achievements of my teacher, Mrs. Macy (Anne Sullivan).  Even notoriety may be turned to beneficent uses, and I rejoice if the disposition of the newspapers to record my activities results in bringing more often into their columns the word Socialism.  In the future I hope to write about socialism, and to justify in some measure the great amount of publicity which has been accorded to me and my opinions.  So far I have written little and said little about the subject.  I have written a few letters, notably one to Comrade Fred Warren which was printed in the Appeal to Reason.  I have talked to some reporters, on of whom, Mr. Ireland of the New York World, made a very flattering report and gave fully and fairly what I said.  I have never been in Schenectady.  I have never met Mayor Lunn.  I have never had a letter from him, but he has sent kind messages to me through Mr. Macy.  Owing to Mrs. Macy's illness, whatever plans I had to join the workers in Schenectady have been abandoned.

On such negative and relatively insignificant matters have been written many editorials in the capitalist press and in the Socialist press.  The clippings fill a drawer.  I have not read a quarter of them, and I doubt if I shall ever read them all.  If on such a small quantity of fact so much comment has followed, what will the newspapers do if I ever set to work in earnest to write and talk in behalf of socialism?   For the present I should like to make a statement of my position and correct some false reports and answer some criticisms which seem to me unjust.

First — How did I become a Socialist?  By reading.  The first book I read was Wells' New World for Old.  I read it on Mrs. Macy's recommendation.  She was attracted by its imaginative quality, and hoped that its electric style might stimulate and interest me.  When she gave me the book, she was not a Socialist and she is not a Socialist now.   Perhaps she will be one before Mr. Macy and I are done arguing with her.

My reading has been limited and slow.  I take German bimonthly Socialist periodicals brinted in braille for the blind. (Our German comrades are ahead of us in many respects.)  I have also in German braille Kautsky's discussion of the Erfurt Program.  The other socialist literature that I have read has been spelled into my hand by a friend who comes three times a week to read to me whatever I choose to have read.  The periodical which I have most often requested her lively fingers to communicate to my eager ones is the National Socialist.  She gives the titles of the articles and I tell her when to read on and when to omit. I have also had her read to me from the International Socialist Review articles the titles of which sounded promising.  Manual spelling takes time.  It is no easy and rapid thing to apsorb through one's fingers a book of 50,000 words on economics.  But it is a pleasure, and one which I shall enjoy repeatedly until I have made myself acquainted with all the classic socialist authors.

In the light of the foregoing I wish to comment on a piece about me which was printed in the Common Cause and reprinted in the Live Issue, two antisocialist publications.  Here is a quotation from that piece:

"For twenty-five years Miss Keller's teacher and constant companion has been Mrs. John Macy, formerly of Wrentham, Mass.  Both Mr. and Mrs. Macy are enthusiastic Marxist propagandists, and it is scarcely surprising that Miss Keller, depending upon this lifelong friend for her most intimate knowledge of life, should have imbibed such opinions."

Mr. Macy may be an enthusiastic Marxist propagandist, though I am sorry to say he has not shown much enthusiasm in propagating his Marxism through my fingers.  Mrs. Macy is not a Marxist, nor a socialist.   Therefore what the Common Cause says about her is not true.  The editor must have invented that, made it out of whole cloth, and if that is the way his mind works, it is no wonder that he is opposed to socialism.  He has not sufficient sense of fact to be a socialist or anything else intellectually worthwhile.

Consider another quotation from the same article.  The headline reads:

"SCHENECTADY REDS ARE ADVERTISING; USING HELEN KELLER, THE BLIND GIRL, TO RECEIVE PUBLICITY." Then the article begins:

"It would be difficult to imagine anything more pathetic than the present exploitation of poor Helen Keller by the Socialists of Schenectady.  For weeks the party's press agencies have heralded the fact that she is a Socialist, and is about to become a member of Schenectady's new Board of Public Welfare."

There's a chance for satirical comment on the phrase, "the exploitation of poor Helen Keller."  But I will refrain, simply saying that I do not like the hypocritical sympathy of such a paper as the Common Cause, but I am glad if it knows what the word "exploitation" means.

Let us come to the facts.  When Mayor Lunn heard that I might go to Schenectady he proposed to the Board of Public Welfare that a place be kept on it for me.  Nothing was printed about this in The Citizen, Mayor Lunn's paper.  Indeed, it was the intention of the board to say nothing about the matter until after I had moved to Schenectady.  But the reporters of the capitalist press got wind of the plan, and one day, during Mayor Lunn's absence from Schenectady, the Knickerbocker Press of Albany made the announcement.  It was telegraphed all over the country, and then began the real newspaper exploitation.  By the Socialist press?  No, by the capitalist press.  The Socialist papers printed the news, and some of them wrote editorials of welcome.  But The Citizen, Mayor Lunn's paper, preserved silence and did not mention my name during all the weeks when the reporters were telephoning and telegraphing and asking for interviews.  It was the capitalist press that did the exploiting.  Why?  Because ordinary newspapers care anything about socialism?  No, of course not; they hate it.  But because I, alas, am a subject for newspaper gossip.  We got so tired of denying that I was in Schenectady that I began to dislike the reporter who first published the "news."

The Socialist papers, it is true, did make a good deal of me after the capitalist papers had "hearalded the fact that I am a Socialist."  But all the reporters who came to see me were from ordinary commercial newspapers.  No Socialist paper, neither The Call nor the National Socialist, ever asked me for an article.  The editor of The Citizen hinted to Mr. Macy that he would like one, but he was too fine and considerate to ask for it point-blank.

The New York Times did ask me for one.  The editor of the Times wrote assuring me that his paper was a valuable medium for reaching the public and he wanted an article from me.  He also telegraphed asking me to send him an account of my plans and to outline my ideas of my duties as a member of the Board of Public Welfare of Schenectady.  I am glad I did not comply with this request, for some days later the Times made me a social outcast beyond the range of its righteous sympathies.  On September 21 there appeared in the Times an editorial called "The Comtemptible Red Flag."  I quote two passages from it:

"The flag is free.  But it is none the less destestable.  It is the symbol of lawlessness and anarchy the world over, and as such is held in contempt by all right-minded persons."

"The bearer of a red flag may not be molested by the police until he commits some act which the red flag justifies.  He deserves, however, always to be regarded with suspicion.  By carrying the symbol of lawlessness he forfeits all right to respect and sympathy."

I am no worshiper of cloth of any color, but I love the red flag and what it symbolizes to me and other Socialists.  I have a red flag hanging in my study, and if I could I should gladly march with it past the office of the Times and let all the reporters and photographers make the most of the spectacle.  According to the inclusive condemnation of the Times I have forfeited all right to respect and sympathy, and I am to be regarded with suspicion.  Yet the editor of the Times wants me to write him an article!  How can he trust me to write for him if I am a suspicious character?  I hope you will enjoy as much as I do the bad ethics, bad logic, bad manners that a capitalist editor falls into when he tries to condemn the movement which is aimed at this plutocratic interests.  We are not entitled to sympathy, yet some of us can write articles that will help his paper to make money.  Probably our opinions have the same sort of value to him that he would find in the confession of a famous murderer.  We are not nice, but we are interesting.

I like newspapermen.  I have known many, and two or three editors have been among my most intimate friends.  Moreover, the newspapers have been of great assistance in the work which we have been trying to do for the blind.  It costs them nothing to give their aid to work for the blind and to other superficial charities.  But socialism — ah, that is a different matter!  That goes to the root of all poverty and all charity.  The money power behind the newspapers is against socialism, and the editors, obedient to the hand that feeds them, will go to any length to put down socialism and undermine the influence of socialists.

When my letter to Comrade Fred Warren was published in the Appeal to Reason, a friend of mine who writes a special department for the Boston Transcript made an article about it and the editor-in-chief cut it out.

The Brooklyn Eagle says, apropos of me, and socialism, that Helen Keller's "mistakes spring out of the manifest limitations of her development."  Some years ago I met a gentleman who was introduced to me as Mr. McKelway, editor of the Brooklyn Eagle.  It was after a meeting that we had in New York in behalf of the blind.  At that time the compliments he paid me were so generous that I blush to remember them.   But now that I have come out for socialism he reminds me and the public that I am blind and deaf and especially liable to error.  I must have shrunk in intelligence during the years since I met him.  Surely it is his turn to blush.  It may be that deafness and blindness incline one toward socialism.  Marx was probably stone deaf and William Morris was blind.  Morris painted his pictures by the sense of touch and designed wall paper by the sense of smell.

Oh, ridiculous Brooklyn Eagle!  What an ungallant bird it is!  Socially blind and deaf, it defends an intolerable system, a system that is the cause of much of the physical blindness and deafness which we are trying to prevent.  The Eagle is willing to help us prevent misery provided, always provided, that we do not attack the industrial tyranny which supports it and stops its ears and clouds its vision.  The Eagle and I are at war.  I hate the system which it represents, apologizes for and upholds.  When it fights back, let it fight fair.  Let it attack my ideas and oppose the aims and arguments of Socialism.  It is not fair fighting or good argument to remind me and others that i cannot see or hear.  I can read.  I can read all the socialist books I have time for in English, German and French.  If the editor of the Brooklyn Eagle should read some of them, he might be a wiser man and make a better newspaper.  If I ever contribute to the Socialist movement the book that I sometimes dream of, I know what I shall name it:  Industrial Blindness and Social Deafness.

[disturbingbookclub]

Lenin 2017: Remembering, Repeating, and Working Through by Slavoj Žižek - https://bit.ly/2rgTDwG - free delivery worldwide 

"The title of Freud’s short text from 1914, ‘Remembering, Repeating and Working Through’, provides the best formula for the way we should relate – today, 100 years later – to the event called the October Revolution. The three concepts Freud mentions form a dialectical triad: they designate the three phases of the analytical process, and resistance intervenes in every passage from one phase to the next. The first step consists in remembering the repressed past traumatic events, in bringing them out, which can also be done by hypnosis. This phase immediately runs into a deadlock: the content brought out lacks its proper symbolic context and thus remains ineffective; it fails to transform the subject and resistance remains active, limiting the amount of content revealed. The problem with this approach is that it stays focused on the past and ignores the subject’s present constellation which keeps this past alive, symbolically active. Resistance expresses itself in the form of transference: what the subject cannot properly remember, she repeats, transferring the past constellation onto a present (e.g., she treats the analyst as if he were her father). What the subject cannot properly remember, she acts out, re- enacts – and when the analyst points this out, her intervention is met with resistance. Working through is working through the resistance, turning it from the obstacle into the very resort of analysis, and this turn is self-reflexive in a properly Hegelian sense: resistance is a link between object and subject, between past and present, proof that we are not only fixated on the past but that this fixation is an effect of the present deadlock in the subject’s libidinal economy.

With regard to 1917, we also begin by remembering, by recalling, the true history of the October Revolution and, of course, its reversal into Stalinism. The great ethico-political problem of the communist regimes can best be captured under the title ‘founding fathers, founding crimes’. Can a communist regime survive the act of openly confronting its violent past in which millions were imprisoned and killed? If so, in what form and to what degree? The first paradigmatic case of such a confrontation was, of course, Nikita Khrushchev’s ‘secret’ report on Stalin’s crimes to the 20th Congress of the Soviet Communist Party in 1956. The first thing that strikes one in this report is the focus on Stalin’s personality as being the key factor in the crimes, and the concomitant lack of any systematic analysis of what made those crimes possible. The second feature is its strenuous effort to keep the Origins clear: not only is the condemnation of Stalin limited to his arrest and killing of high-ranking Party members and military officers in the 1930s (where rehabilitations were very selective: Bukharin, Zinoviev, etc., continued to be non-persons, not to mention Trotsky), ignoring the great famine of the late 1920s; but the report is also presented as announcing the return of the Party to its ‘Leninist roots’, so that Lenin emerges as the pure Origin spoiled or betrayed by Stalin. In his belated but perspicuous analysis of the report, written in 1970, Sartre noted that it was true that Stalin had ordered massacres, transformed the land of the revolution into a police state; he was truly convinced that the USSR would not reach communism without passing through the socialism of concentration camps. But as one of the witnesses very rightly points out, when the authorities find it useful to tell the truth, it’s because they can’t find any better lie. Immediately this truth, coming from official mouths, becomes a lie corroborated by the facts. Stalin was a wicked man? Fine. But how had Soviet society perched him on the throne and kept him there for a quarter of a century.

Indeed, is not Khrushchev’s later fate (he was deposed in 1964) proof of Oscar Wilde’s quip that if one tells the truth, one will sooner or later be caught out? Sartre’s analysis nonetheless falls short on one crucial point: even if Khrushchev was ‘speaking in the name of the system’ – ‘the machine was sound, but its chief operator was not; this saboteur had relieved the world of his presence, and everything was going to run smoothly again’ – his report did have a traumatic impact, and his intervention set in motion a process that ultimately brought down the system itself – a lesson worth remembering today. In this precise sense, Khrushchev’s 1956 speech denouncing Stalin’s crimes was a true political act – after which, as William Taubman put it, ‘the Soviet regime never fully recovered, and neither did he’. Although the opportunist motives for this daring move are plain enough, there was clearly more than mere calculation to it, a kind of reckless excess which cannot be accounted for by strategic reasoning. After the speech, things were never the same again, the fundamental dogma of infallible leadership had been fatally undermined; no wonder then, that, in reaction to the speech, the entire nomenklatura sank into temporary paralysis. During the speech itself, a dozen or so delegates suffered nervous breakdowns and had to be carried out and given medical help; a few days later, Boleslaw Bierut, the hard-line general secretary of the Polish Communist Party, died of a heart attack, and the model Stalinist writer Alexander Fadeyev shot himself. The point is not that they were ‘honest communists’ – most of them were brutal manipulators who harboured no subjective illusions about the nature of the Soviet regime. What broke down was their ‘objective’ illusion: the figure of the ‘big Other’ that had provided the background against which they were able to pursue their ruthless drive for power. The Other onto which they had transposed their belief, which as it were believed on their behalf, their subject-supposed-to-believe, disintegrated.

Khrushchev’s wager was that his (limited) confession would strengthen the communist movement – and in the short term he was right. One should always remember that the Khrushchev era was the last period of authentic communist enthusiasm, of belief in the communist project. When, during his visit to the United States in 1959, Khrushchev made his famous de ant statement to the American public that ‘your grandchildren will be communists’, he effectively spelled out the conviction of the entire Soviet nomenklatura. After his fall in 1964, a resigned cynicism prevailed, up until Gorbachev’s attempt at a more radical confrontation with the past (the rehabilitations then included Bukharin, but – for Gorbachev at least – Lenin remained the untouchable point of reference, and Trotsky continued to be a non-person).

With Deng Xiaoping’s ‘reforms’, the Chinese proceeded in a radically different, almost opposite, way. While at the level of the economy (and, up to a point, culture) what is usually understood as ‘communism’ was abandoned, and the gates were opened wide to Western-style ‘liberalisation’ (private property, profit-making, hedonist individualism, etc.), the Party nevertheless maintained its ideologico-political hegemony – not in the sense of doctrinal orthodoxy (in the official discourse, the Confucian reference to the ‘Harmonious Society’ practically replaced any reference to communism), but in the sense of maintaining the unconditional political hegemony of the Communist Party as the only guarantee of China’s stability and prosperity. This required a close monitoring and regulation of the ideological discourse on Chinese history, especially the history of the last two centuries: the story endlessly varied by the state media and textbooks is one of China’s humiliation from the Opium Wars onwards, which ended only with the communist victory in 1949, leading to the conclusion that to be patriotic is to support the rule of the Party. When history is given such a legitimising role, of course, it cannot tolerate any substantial self-critique; the Chinese had learned the lesson of Gorbachev’s failure: full recognition of the ‘founding crimes’ will only bring the entire system down. Those crimes thus have to remain disavowed: true, some Maoist ‘excesses’ and ‘errors’ are denounced (the Great Leap Forward and the devastating famine that followed; the Cultural Revolution), and Deng’s assessment of Mao’s role (70 per cent positive, 30 per cent negative) is enshrined as the official formula. But this assessment functions as a formal conclusion which renders any further elaboration superfluous: even if Mao was 30 per cent bad, the full symbolic impact of this admission is neutralised, so he can continue to be celebrated as the founding father of the nation, his body in a mausoleum and his image on every banknote. We are dealing here with a clear case of fetishistic disavowal: although we know very well that Mao made errors and caused immense suffering, his figure is kept magically untainted by these facts. In this way, the Chinese communists can have their cake and eat it: the radical changes brought about by economic ‘liberalisation’ are combined with the continuation of the same Party rule as before.

Yang Jisheng’s massive and meticulously documented study, Tombstone: The Untold Story of Mao’s Great Famine, offers an exemplary case of remembering: the result of nearly two decades of research, it puts the number of ‘prematurely dead’ between 1958 and 1961 at 36 million. (The official stance is that the disaster was due 30 per cent to natural causes and 70 per cent to mismanagement – an exact inversion of Deng’s judgement on Mao). With the privileges afforded a senior Xinhua journalist, Yang was able to consult state archives around the country and form the most complete picture of the great famine that any researcher, foreign or local, has ever managed. He was helped by scores of collaborators within the system – demographers who had toiled quietly for years in government agencies to compile accurate figures on the loss of life; local officials who had kept ghoulish records of the events in their districts; the keepers of provincial archives who were happy to open their doors, with a nod and a wink, to a trusted comrade pretending to be researching the history of China’s grain production. The reaction? In Wuhan, a major city in central China, the office of the Committee of Comprehensive Management of Social Order put Tombstone on a list of ‘obscene, pornographic, violent and unhealthy books for children’, to be confiscated on sight. Elsewhere, the Party killed Tombstone with silence, banning any mention of it in the media but refraining from attention-grabbing attacks on the book itself. But Yang still lives in China, retired, unmolested, publishing occasionally in scientific journals. Among other important insights, Yang establishes that one reason for the famine lay in the application of bad science: the central government decreed several changes in agricultural techniques based on the ideas of the Ukrainian pseudo-scientist Trofim Lysenko. One of these ideas was close planting, where the density of seedlings is first tripled and then doubled again. Transposing class solidarity onto nature, the theory was that plants of the same species would not compete with but would help each other – in practice, of course, they did compete, which stunted growth and resulted in lower yields. This is how a combination of false remembering and repetition operates with regard to the communist past, but such falsity is in no way limited to communists who refuse to settle accounts with their past and thus condemn themselves to repeat it. The standard liberal or conservative demonisation of the October Revolution also misses the emancipatory potential clearly discernible therein, reducing it to a brutal takeover of state power. The tension between these two dimensions of the Revolution does not mean that the Stalinist turn was a secondary deviation, since one can well argue that the latter was a possibility inherent in the Bolshevik project, meaning it was doomed from the very beginning. This is why the project was genuinely tragic: an authentic emancipatory vision condemned to failure by its very victory.

This is where the working through enters as the radical rethinking of communism, re-actualising it for today. And this is why only those faithful to communism can deploy a truly radical critique of the sad reality of Stalinism and its offspring. Let’s face it: today, Lenin and his legacy are perceived as hopelessly dated, belonging to a defunct ‘paradigm’. Not only was Lenin understandably blind to many of the problems that are now central to contemporary life (ecology, struggles for emancipated sexuality, etc.), but also his brutal political practice is totally out of sync with current democratic sensitivities, his vision of the new society as a centralised industrial system run by the state is simply irrelevant, etc. Instead of desperately attempting to salvage the authentic Leninist core from the Stalinist alluvium, would it not be more advisable to forget Lenin and return to Marx, searching in his work for the roots of what went wrong in the twentieth-century communist movements? Nevertheless, was not Lenin’s situation marked precisely by a similar hopelessness? It is true that today’s left is facing the shattering experience of the end of an entire epoch of the progressive movement, an experience which compels it to rein- vent the most basic coordinates of its project. But an exactly homologous experience was what gave birth to Leninism. Recall Lenin’s shock when, in the autumn of 1914, all the European social-democratic parties (with the honourable exception of the Russian Bolsheviks and the Serbian Social Democrats) opted to toe the ‘patriotic line’. When the German Social Democrats’ daily newspaper Vorwärts reported that social democrats in the Reichstag had voted for the military credits, Lenin even thought that it must have been a forgery by the Russian secret police designed to deceive the Russian workers. In an era of a military conflict that cut the European continent in half, how difficult it was to refuse the notion that one should take sides and to reject the ‘patriotic fervour’ in one’s own country! How many great minds (including Freud) succumbed to the nationalist temptation, even if only for a couple of weeks!

The shock of 1914 was – to put it in Alain Badiou’s terms – a désastre, a catastrophe in which an entire world disappeared: not only the idyllic bourgeois faith in progress, but also the socialist movement that accompanied it. Even Lenin himself lost his footing – there is, in his desperate reaction in What Is to Be Done?, no satisfaction, no ‘I told you so!’ This moment of Verzwei ung, this catastrophe, opened up the site for the Leninist event, for breaking with the evolutionary his- toricism of the Second International – and Lenin was the only one at the level of this opening, the only one to articulate the Truth of the catastrophe. Born in this moment of despair was the Lenin who, via the detour of a close reading of Hegel’s Logic, was able to discern the unique chance for revolution.

Today, the left is in a situation that uncannily resembles the one that gave birth to Leninism, and its task is to repeat Lenin. This does not mean a return to Lenin. To repeat Lenin is to accept that ‘Lenin is dead’, that his particular solution failed, even failed monstrously. To repeat Lenin means that one has to distinguish between what Lenin actually did and the eld of possibilities that he opened up, to acknowledge the tension in Lenin between his actions and another dimension, what was ‘in Lenin more than Lenin himself’. To repeat Lenin is to repeat not what Lenin did, but what he failed to do, his missed opportunities."

The above is excerpted from:

Lenin 2017: Remembering, Repeating, and Working Through by Slavoj Žižek - https://bit.ly/2rgTDwG - free delivery worldwide 

[gabriel-gabdiel]

【Draft】 Rurouni Yahiko Chapter 56: The Sanada Demons

To know more about the Sanada Demons (yes, they’re canon in the anime fillers, but not in the manga), just click here. They have pages for Ren, Zan, and Baku.

The rest of the chapters of my Rurouni Kenshin fan fiction are available here. Enjoy.

Back inside the moneychanger affiliate offices of the Minakatas...

The Faceless was able to fence and stab his way out of the small room where he couldn't kill that one samurai boy and his one sword-catching move. Hadome (Sword Halt), was it?

How exciting! He'd heard of samurai catching blades by their bare hands before, but he thought it was all hype and myth. Until now.

He couldn't wait to face off against that boy. 'However, first thing's first.'

The Faceless's duelist personality or disguise—John Rathbone—had specifically been parrying and thrusting with his trusty rapier against a trio of surprisingly strong ninjas.

Ah yes. Ninjas. Shinobi. The Japanese version of government spies or secret agents.

Even in an era where war was waged with guns, rifles, trenches, and bombs, spies and intelligence gatherers remain the most important weapon.

Especially all these shinobi before him who could fight in the most underhanded of ways.

The ogre, the snake, and the bat.

He couldn't quite explain it but somehow, the bat ninja handled him in close quarters with his distracting screams, the snake ninja whipped him from constant whip cracks from long range, and the ogre stabbed at him from afar with frightening accuracy using his war fork.

They intended to push him into a corner and triple team him from there.

The Faceless chuckled. As if.

"Was sort of gutless kenjutsssu (ssswordsmanship) is thisss? You're doing more running away than ssstriking! Fight like a man, coward!" said the lispy snake man ninja of the swordsmanship bible's impenetrable defense and elusive movement.

"This isn't kenjutsu. This is fencing," calmly explained Rathbone to the most violent and rambunctious ninja of the trio. "And this is a rapier. An elegant weapon for a more civilized age. Far better than a brittle katana."

He'd been through tougher battles than this. He survived entire wars and even accomplished more dangerous political assassinations that paid even more handsomely than this grudge his protégé had over the family that abandoned him.

More than a king's ransom (because he was paid for a king's head instead).

However, using his Tactical Wheel and his mind games, he was able to push them away and exit the room in order to pursue the escaping Minakatas.

Maybe even kill that other shadow ninja he faced off in the Minakata's East-West Fusion Mansion. Or kill the blade catcher samurai boy.

He was especially dangerous when he combined forces with either Kai Hidaka or Lucas Grant, which he supposed was what they were intending to prevent in the first place.

The pile of rubble and debris where Luke had been buried into then stirred.

The Prodigal Son was awake.

"Dammit. I'll be back," said Ren the snake ninja, who ran back in the room to deal with the strong, tall half-blooded swordsman with the bastard sword. "Take care of the gaijin for me!"

"Why is there only two of you now?" The Faceless mocked in fluent Japanese, knowing exactly why one of them had to leave. "I miss the other guy. Bring him back."

It was because the Prodigal Son was on the prowl, the Sanyoukai (Three Demons) of the Sanada Ninja Clan had to split off to prevent Lucas and Rathbone from joining forces and becoming more of a problem. They could even fight along with Kai Hidaka for good measure.

Kinta Minakata could handle either The Faceless or Grant alone. However, even he—the Kagemusha (Shadow Warrior) and the Mimawarigumi Battousai—would be pushed into the corner himself when facing two or more Brigand Guild members at the same time.

"Are you sure you can take me on with only two of you? You need all three just to keep up," needled Rathbone further, who could now pick apart the occasional stabs and strikes from long distance that the ogre ninja did now that the snake ninja didn't put the pressure on with his constant whipping.

"Do we now?" said Zan the oni (ogre) ninja with the red ogre mask and war fork. "You sound full of yourself for a gaijin (outsider) piece of shit. If you truly can take us on, I better see it first with my own eyes. Don't just tell us about it."

Instead of echoing Zan's retort, Baku the bat ninja merely screamed what John could only describe as a banshee's wail at his face, distracting him enough to nearly lose his rapier from the hard parry he had to do against Zan's twin-pronged war fork.

***

Rurouni Yahiko

A Rurouni Kenshin Continuation Fan Fiction Story by Chester Castañeda

The foreign invaders of the Brigands Guild discover that it's not so easy dealing with the persistent warriors of Japan, particularly their noble samurais and their backstabbing ninjas.

Disclaimer: All characters used in this fanfic (save some others) are the rightful property of Nobuhiro Watsuki, Shueisha, Shonen Jump, Viz, Sony Studios, Fuji TV, Studio Gallup, Studio Deen, and ADV. This disclaimer also covers all the other copyrighted material that are far too many to mention here. Don't sue me please, I'm very poor.

***

Chapter 56: The Sanada Demons

***

At the gates of the Minakata affiliate office...

Yahiko Myojin and Kaita served as Tatsuya Minakata's escorts, only for them to find out that the nearby stables had all their horses released and all the carriage drivers missing. Maybe even dead.

Dammit. Now what? Were they supposed to escape Chinatown on foot?

Whoever the Brigands Guild were, they really had it in for the Minakatas. Wait, what was he even thinking?

'Of course they have it in for them. Their leader or whoever is the bastard child they disowned and threw away along with his mother,' though Yahiko, berating himself.

This Takuto Minakata or Lucas Grant character kind of reminded him of himself.

Yahiko wasn't abandoned by his family or anything, but it certainly felt like the world abandoned them instead during the Bakumatsu.

Regardless, so many people were dying to save two of the V.I.P.s they were supposed to protect. Was this even worth it?

Kaita reappeared behind them and said, "It might be best for us to stay in the office after all."

"What are you talking about, Shorty?" asked Myojin.

"Yes. Why in Buddha's fat ass should I stay here where the assassins are?" demanded Tatsuya. "Let me out."

Kaita sighed. "There might be more of them outside and you're safer here because we have the Sanada Demons on guard."

"D-Demons? Are you out of your mind, you costumed freak?!" shouted Tatsuya. "This isn't the Edo Period! Spare me this talk of superstition and ninja lore! Get me the police and have those murderers arrested!"

This gave Yahiko pause. Wasn't Kaita one of the Minakatas' trusted ninjas? Why was he resistant to his advice? Why didn't he know about the Sanada Ninja Clan's Sanyoukai?

***

Meanwhile, while Ren kept the Prodigal Son at bay inside that room next to the main office...

Luke's body was already in rough shape before he got whipped and scourged like a criminal or a slave by the boa constrictor taxidermy whips of the creepy snake ninja.

It only got worse when he again went one-on-one and face-to-face with the snake shinobi.

Grant laughed. This guy again. He was a shinobi, wasn't he? What an annoying prick.

"For a snake-themed ninja, I'm surprised you don't use poison in your arsenal," Lucas said in remembrance of his fellow Brigands Guild member Cain Merrick.

"Are you a child? Just because I'm a sssnake ninja, it doesn't mean I use sssnake venom like some sort of coward!" scoffed Ren, getting angrier and angrier.

The Prodigal Son didn't know how to retort to that, mainly in light of how cowardly he though Cain was for using poisons, venoms, and toxins as his main means of fighting. He was every bit as underhanded as these ninjas.

Regardless, Ren kept whipping Lucas from afar and every time he got near, he used that technique again. A ranged attack that struck the ground that sent earthen debris with knockout force.

Grant managed to stab Ren once with his longsword, only for it to get deflected by the thick snakeskin hide of his leather armor. It was like trying to stab a helix of coiled snakes.

How did the snake man keep doing it? Wait.  It was like an extra-large whip crack. A whip produced the cracking noise whenever it traveled faster than the speed of sound.

The snake ninja combined his bullwhips (or snake whips) together to create twin whip cracks strong enough and fast enough to break the sound barrier and create a blast of air powerful enough to tear through the ground.

Essentially, Ren whipped his twin weapons together with resonating shockwaves from extra large whip cracks that their resulting combined air vibrations exploded like a peal of lightning that blasted through the ground.

Moreover, his snake armor probably kept him from tearing himself apart with his own whips and help him survive the bone-crushing force of his induced earth-shattering vibrations.

Impressive. The snake man's fighting technique was more straightforward than most ninjas he'd heard about, who were infamous for their dirty tactics.

Regardless, Lucas grabbed hold of his bastard sword (or one-and-half-hand sword) and started parrying the cracking whips away with strong one-handed swings so that he wouldn't get further ripped apart by them with its flesh-cutting slashes.

He then crossed his arms together and braced himself for the reverberation of air that tore through the floorboards and walls like consecutive exploding landmines. Or the dust storm version of a tidal wave. One after another.

'What a tough opponent,' thought Lucas. 'I thought murdering the Minakatas was going to be a cakewalk, but my brother found himself some decent shinobi for me to play around with. Thanks, Kagemusha.'

Lucas thusly split the shockwave in half by slicing his bastard sword into the floor so fast he also broke the sound barrier himself, thus neutralizing the attack with his own sonic boom.

"What the hell...?" yelped Ren. "SSStupid gaijin. Learn to accept a lossss and die!"

Lucas attempted to chop instead of stab the thick armor with his bastard sword, only for Ren to wrap himself in his snake whips, thus shielding him from the cutting power of the high-grade steel.

'Dammit,' thought Grant, his sword again bouncing off the snake ninja. 'He's devious like all the rest of the ninjas after all.'

The smirking Ren then jumped, twisting his body to unwind the whips around him. This resulted in a spiral of whip strikes that assaulted Lucas like a razor-sharp cyclone.

Lucas bathed in his own blood from the whiplashes. However, proving himself more cold-blooded than the dead reptiles Ren used for weapons, he managed to wrap one of the snake whips around his arm.

The way Ren fought reminded him of the way Kai Hidaka fought. 'You've seen one ninja, you've seen them all.'

He then pulled hard at Ren's whip, intending to catch him flat-footed so that he could chop him in half.

However, Ren stopped resisting and allowed himself to get pulled intentionally. He did a flying headbutt on the gaijin's noggin, who didn't expect the sudden release that snapped the whip back to him like a rubber band.

"Don't you dare underestimate Japanese ninjutsu, you gaijin piece of shit!" shouted Ren. He had the upper hand now! He'd become a hero of the clan for taking out this monster!

***

As for the double team of Baku and Zan against The Faceless...

These underhanded Japanese spies were up to something.

A little while ago, John Rathbone still feinted, countered, and landed with regularity against the Sanada Demons while he himself used his footwork to slip, parry, block, and outright evade their own attacks from high and low.

He kept making them second-guess his next move in the Tactical Wheel of Simple Attack, Parry and Riposte, Compound Attack, and Counter Attack.

However, the three also kept intercepting the riposte thrusts and counter slashes of his rapier to save each other. Whenever he zeroed in on one of them, the other two either blocked or countered themselves.

Now there were only two of them, which meant he could pressure them further to move back, allowing him to attack the Minakatas and fulfill his mission. The lack of a third man cut their offensive power by a third.

However, something strange happened.

His attacks kept missing. Every thrust and slash from various angles somehow missed or wasn't timed to hit its target.

It didn't help that his normally 20/20 vision blurred from time to time, like some sort of haze came over it.

His attacks missed before because of how fast both Zan and Baku reacted to his stabs even though he kept breaking his rhythm to keep them guessing when he was going to attack with his Beat Parry Riposte.

Rathbone did notice how Zan kept banging his war fork unto the ground in order to make it vibrate like a tuning fork. Did this help the ninja dodge his fencing attacks better?

But he already getting their timing down pat the longer they fought, thus allowing him to counter them as they charged, which made it harder for them to evade or sidestep.

Only for him to start missing during those vulnerable moments as well. His timing was off somehow.

His breathing also became more erratic even though he hadn't exactly burned out his stamina yet. He hadn't even broken a sweat, but he had trouble taking breaths.

He glared at the twin ninja demons. "What did you do to me?!"

"I was worried for a minute there," said Zan to Baku. "The gaijin has no concept of sakki (bloodlust) and how to read it, so I was worried for a minute there that his swordsmanship could deal with your high-pitched sound technique."

Baku chuckled. "Even if he can't detect bloodlust, his moves are all rhythm-based. Break his rhythm and his so-called fencing will end up like trash."

What did they mean by that? What was going on? They were doing something to him, but he didn't quite know what. Did they poison him or something?

No, wait. It was the bat ninja and his screams that were doing this to him! Whatever this was.

Baku kept distracting John with his high-pitched screeching. Or so the duelist thought. 'So it wasn't just a distraction...?'

Something about those sounds he produced was making him miss his Simple Attacks or Compound Attacks (attacks with feints or switching a missed attack to a parry or a different attack).

"Just a little more," said Baku to Zan. "He's on his way to self-destructing. Finish him off as soon as he makes a mistake."

Zan harrumphed. 'Easier said than done.'

Despite the fencer's exposure to Baku's screams that messed with his body in various indescribable ways, he kept following up his misses with ripostes in fluid succession, like he meant to miss to draw them out to another counterattack.

His misses also became hits, which forced the ninja sharpshooter with the war fork to hesitate and not overextend himself for a possible counterstrike.

'So this is western kenjutsu,' thought the sharpshooter ninja with a long-range weapon like Satsuki Sakaguchi. 'Fencing, was it? It's a legitimate bujutsu (martial art) in its own right.'

Rathbone frowned as a missed slash caused deeper and deeper cuts to appear on his body. They weren't yet lacerations, but he was missing more and more badly.

He could not afford having his ripostes or even his parries miss like this.

This was why he hated facing off against sneaky ninjas like Kai Hidaka.

***

Back to Ren versus Lucas...

Lucas reeled, his head throbbing with a splitting headache. 'Another sneak attack! Damn the Japanese...!'

Another snake whip sonic boom hit Grant like an earth-shattering landslide. Or even an avalanche.  However, he noticed that the repeated vibrations mostly traveled through the ground rather than in the air.

Predictably on the ground. Ren probably aimed his resonating whip vibrations directly back to earth for maximum impact, like the difference between a bomb and a shrapnel bomb.

The sonic boom shockwave probably traveled a shorter distance in the air compared to the path of destruction it left on the ground, the concussive force turning everything in its path into a landslide full of sharp rock shards.

Therefore, attacking in the air made more sense than attacking on the ground.

Lucas grabbed his bastard sword with both hands and leaped into the sky, gliding towards Ren while the shockwave harmlessly traveled below him.

The snake ninja ground his teeth enamel to powder and wrapped his snake whips around his body again, intending to protect himself from the sword chop he knew was coming then retaliating with his topsy-turvy whirling typhoon of snake whips afterwards.

However, Ren letting Lucas hit him at all instead of dodging then countering with his whips proved to be a big mistake.

Instead of the bastard sword bouncing harmlessly off of his snake-whip-covered body, Grant released enough extra torque from his two-handed sword swing to drive the snake ninja right into the ground.

Although the sword didn't cut through the snake armor, it broke Ren's arm and several of ribs by force of impact alone. He wasn't able to uncoil the snake whips in time, which would've torn apart the jumping foreigner in a typhoon of whips.

Ren struggled to get up, tied up in his own whips, looking the fool against this half-blooded rejected bastard son with the bastard sword.

Lucas exhaled deeply and grinned at the snake man. "That was a good fight. Because of that, I'll spare you. Get strong and maybe we can fight again!"

"DON'T GIVE ME THAT BULLSHIT!" spat Ren before turning the handle of his snake whips, which retracted a hidden toxin-tipped blade that he stabbed right into the foot of Lucas.

"Ow! What the hell did you do, you cowardly ninja piece of shit?" Lucas cried out in pain. "Also, what happened to your lisp? It's completely gone now."

"Shut up and die, basssstard!" said Ren, overcompensating with how long he drew his 'S' sound on that last word. "That hidden blade is tipped with poison. You're as good as dead now."

"Hey, I thought you said you didn't use snake venom!"

"IDIOT! I'm a ninja! Of course I lied!"

Uwah. Ninjas truly were the worst.

***

At the gates of the Minakata subsidiary office building...

The Fuuma Ninja Clan's Kai Hidaka was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Well, no. Not really.

Rather, he was stuck between Lieutenant Satoru Sakaguchi (with his recovering daughter by his side) on one end and Kinta Minakata on another end.

The choice to where he should go couldn't be more obvious, but he also had a mission to fulfill.

Even though Kinta was the more dangerous and immediate threat, he was also the Brigands Guild's biggest target.

Besides which, while murdering both of the weakest Musou Madden Ryu practitioners should help him survive in the short term, he didn't want a master swordsman like Kinta hunting him down for revenge like the Kagemusha that he was in the long term.

It was in his best interest to finish off the Minakata heir sooner rather than later.

Judging by how long his half-brother nurtured his grudge against their petty family—his whole life—this desire for revenge was probably in their blood.

Perhaps even in-fighting among family members too, seeing how soured the relationship between Kinta and Tatsuya was.

It was so bad that Kinta and "Takuto" felt more like family than nephew and uncle.

Hell, Hidaka was merely lurking outside and he could hear how much the two hated each other, judging from their shouting match (or rather, from Tatsuya shouting alone and Kinta curtly shutting him down every time).

In light of his fight-or-flight instinct screaming at him to find an avenue of escape, he willed himself to fight the Mimawarigumi Battousai instead, hoping against hope that either The Faceless or Lucas Grant would aid him sooner rather than later.

'Kinta-kun,' thought Satoru, holding his gasping daughter's shoulders firmly. 'Please finish that son of a bitch off!'

***

Back to Ren versus Lucas...

In sheer frustration, Ren attempted a whip crack at Lucas's face as he got up, but the blond swordsman caught it by his fist.

Lucas certainly looked like he was about to vomit. Or even shit all over himself.

As expected. He had his hidden dagger tipped with the concentrated "poison" (really, snake venom) of various local snakes all over Japan, like the mamushi that belongs to the family of pit vipers.

Stabbing a persistent enemy who survived Ren's whiplashes with the venomous or poisonous dagger served as the snake man's ace in his sleeve. His trump card. Typically, the stab site swelled and reddened with a blister.

The attacker then slowed down and fell ill, unable to continue fighting. Ren then finished the person off with either grave injuries and lacerations compounded by snake venom coursing through his veins, killing him slowly but surely.

Either that or Ren bit the bullet and just choked the bitch with his snake whips. His enemies either died by his own hands or by the venom he injected unto them.

Just as Luke was about to look like he was about to empty all the contents of his stomach unto the ground, he grinned and winked at Ren. "Just kidding."

The snake whip's tail wrapped all around Luke's arm.

"Jokes on you, asshole. One of the Brigands is an expert in poisons and toxins. He's helped me develop immunity to most deadly organic and inorganic chemicals for years."

From there, Lucas did to Ren was Ren did to Lucas earlier—he pulled the whip then allowed himself to leap along with the recoil or snapback of the taxidermy snake, hammering the injured snake man ninja's head with a devastating headbutt of his own.

Bam. Their heads smashed against each other with a heavy, sickening thud.

Ren felt his brain slosh inside his skull. Grant might've even cracked his noggin altogether, shattering his nose and drawing blood.

How strong was this kid?! He really did seem immune to the snake venom!

As expected of a Minakata spawn. Perhaps his bloodline from his father's side, the Grants, also had monstrous strength in their genetics.

Grant then gave Ren the coup-de-grace blow of driving him right into the nearest wall with a sword stab that finally penetrated through the snake armor, drawing blood.

What was worse for Ren was that Lucas had been planning for this final strike of his from the start.

The whole room soon collapsed all over the snake man, weakened by the numerous sonic booms produced by supersonic snake whips. The Prodigal Son had been baiting the snake ninja to blast him with shockwaves at strategic points of the room.

The final leap and blow then shook the room enough to make its already weakened and compromised foundations break and collapse directly on top of the ninja.

Before Ren knew it, it was already "checkmate" for him.

***

Back at the three-way impasse deep in the offices of the moneychanger building…

"You two don't fight like gentlemen at all. You're like savages instead," said John Rathbone to the animal-themed masked ninjas from the Sanada Clan with an upturned nose.

These honorless ninjas and their ambush-style attacks reminded John of the time when Britain colonized Africa.

Britain observed the rules of engagement against the African natives, declaring war on them and challenging them on the battlefield.

The Africans were supposed to engage them in battle on the trenches until a side won.

However, the tribes of Africa had no concept of how war was supposed to be engaged in the west and thusly ambushed the British camps without warning, like they would when they were fighting amongst themselves.

These Japanese natives, or at least their ninjas, were the same savages as the African natives. To them, all was fair in war or love.

Wait a minute. Samurais had bushido (the code of the warrior). Ninjas followed no such code of honor. They were so unlike their honor-bound samurai counterparts.

Both the oni (ogre) ninja Zan and John exchanged thrusts and stabs, probing each other's defenses.

Throughout the exchange, Rathbone noticed how Zan allowed his war fork to get parried by John's rapier, which made the unusual weapon vibrate like a tuning fork instead.

The demonic goblin ninja also only really attacked whenever he made his tuning war fork vibrate.

'Hmmm,' thought John. 'Curiouser and curiouser.'

Rathbone feinted a thrust one… two… three times at Zan and Baku, jabbing his undulating sword arm with motionless jabs of his rapier that went to and fro between the masked ninjas.

Like a pendulum on a Grandfather Clock.

He actually attacked the fourth time with a thrust but stopped himself short, intending to do a recovery afterwards as soon as either shadow warrior reacted and made him miss.

They barely even blinked. Their hair-trigger reflexes remembered him doing the same "ultimate" feint earlier to draw out attacks he could counter, so they weren't fooled.

They moved a half-beat earlier than John, intercepting his attack before he could do his recovery and counterstrike.

Thusly, The Faceless had his sword thrust parried by Baku's metal arm bracelets with hooks on the side and countered by Zan's war fork.

However, Rathbone himself sidestepped in time to turn the two-pronged stab into a slash that left a gash over his bodyguard vest.

Zan clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. He almost got the slippery fencer. John Rathbone was every bit as evasive and untouchable as a medieval ninja from Japan!

The two were about to follow up their own Parry Riposte with a finishing chain attack but stopped short when they heard the rumblings of the other room, followed by screams.

It wasn't Baku's screaming. Nor was it Lucas.

They recognized the voice. It was instead from their comrade, Ren the Snake Ninja with the taxidermy boa whips.

The bat ninja then told the ogre ninja, "I'm fine, Zan. Go help the Minakatas or Ren. The Faceless is mine. I've figured him out."

"Oh, did you now, Baku?" said Zan, the ninja with the red ogre mask and war fork. "All right. I'll be back to finish this gaijin off if you haven't killed him by the time I return."

Zan then made his exit, hiding himself in smoke bombs that Rathbone stabbed through regardless, only for his rapier to get blocked by Baku's hooked bracelets.

John harrumphed, stabbing repeatedly at the weaponless ninja to stave him off. "Do you really think you can take me on alone, you cowardly ninja?"

The grim bat-themed shadow warrior merely adopted a karate stance and said, "Come forward, gaijin (outsider). Get a taste of Yamato Damashi (Japanese Spirit)."

"You're delusional." Smirking, Rathbone murmured to himself, "Once more unto the breech, dear fool."

Baku then screeched like the legendary banshees of Irish folklore. A haunting, bloodcurdling cry that reached all the way to the pits of The Faceless' stomach. Or even the insides of his bones, right down to the bone marrow.

'Strange. Is his incessant, irritating screaming part of his trick?' thought Rathbone as he backpedaled from the bat ninja, only to end up back in his en garde position because Baku chased after him immediately.

What was worse was that John felt like vomiting until his stomach turned inside out the more he fought this ninja.

As sickening as these deceitful and sly cowards were when it came to their dirty fighting tactics, it wasn't enough for him to literally feel like puking in disgust.

***

Back at the front portion of the moneychanger affiliate office building…

Kai Hidaka threw himself at Kinta Minakata, hoping against hope that Lucas Grant wasn't too busy to actually handle his business with the goddamn Mimawarigumi Battousai himself.

Sheesh. Kinta was Lucas's half-brother, not Kai's. Let Lucas handle his own sibling. He (Kai) was not his (Lucas's) brother's keeper, after all.

Nevertheless, a strange thing happened.

There was something different about the Kinta that Kai faced today compared to the one he clashed swords with at Kaneda Minakata's Eastern-Western Fusion Mansion.

As usual, like in their first encounter, Kai had to scramble, duck, and sway his body like a lithe dancer in order to avoid the surgically accurate slashes and attacks of the infamous Kagemusha (Shadow Warrior) of Shogo Amakusa.

Kinta's accuracy hadn't gone down. Not really.

Minakata merely missed Hidaka by hairbreadths or by a razor's edge, the fidgety ninja spurred by adrenalin and twitch reflexes to avoid the iaijutsu (quick-draw) sword strikes with the nimble elusiveness of a fly.

However, Kinta's hack and slash output had gone down drastically.

Even though Kai knew that Kinta favored accuracy over volume, the swordsman was nevertheless a lot more conservative with his attacks now.

Almost as conservative as The Faceless when he fenced under his John Rathbone persona. John barely ever missed because he never took a stab or thrust unless he was 100 percent sure he'd get the hit.

As though he was conserving his energy.

Wait a minute.

The eyes behind Hidaka's goggled mask narrowed as he let out a long exhale. 'Huh. So fighting Lucas had an effect on him after all. That boy is a persistent one, after all.'

Even Lieutenant Satoru Sakaguchi noticed something was amiss. 'Kinta-kun…?'

It was the lack of sword slashes and pressure that allowed the nimble Kai to feint an attack, only for him to shoot his rope spear in between the eyes of Satoru.

To be clear, the rope spear flew at longer distances compared to his rope darts, which he used for closer targets.

The flying acrobatic ninja figured out that Kinta was conserving his strength after going through the stamina monster that was Lucas.

When Kai first met the half-breed, he couldn't touch him with a bastard sword, a longsword, or even a shortsword. Hidaka was too fast and too nimble for the kid to take down.

However, like a hunter-gatherer caveman during the Stone Age, Lucas took down faster prey by tiring them out and pursuing them ceaselessly. Over and over. Like an unstoppable force of nature you couldn't outrun.

No wonder Kinta looked like he'd just run a marathon despite having not one mark or cut on him.

While under pressure, Minakata was also probably worried about the wellbeing of the Sakaguchis. He would've gotten the adrenalin rush needed to save father and daughter.

However, when Kinta himself was attacked, he let his guard down and became unaware of his surroundings.

Kai noticed as much when he fought the swordsman the first time. This went double now that he'd been tired down by the implacable Lucas Grant.

How ironic for the Sakaguchi Family to end up being the liabilities even though they were supposed to be there to protect the Minakata Family.

That split second of distraction and scrambling towards Satoru and Kyoko was the window of opportunity Hidaka needed to finish what Lucas had started.

***

Back at the rear exit of the moneychanger affiliate office building…

John Rathbone switched tactics yet again. He couldn't counter off of Baku's attacks, who patiently lay in wait and ambushed him in the darkness at every turn.

If one or two probing strikes with his rapier wasn't enough, then a complicated series of them—a truly Compound Attack—was in order.

Only problem was that Baku danced around the strikes with the same deft skill that Kai Hidaka, a ninja in his own right, did.

Even though the bat ninja was more of a projectile thrower than a weapons expert like Zan, he combined the rain of kunai (daggers) and shuriken (ninja stars) at John with karate punches and kicks.

John got nailed with a couple of punches that he had to take over the shuriken and kunai. He did this by experience, remembering how his own estranged son Cain Merrick would use bladed weapons to poison him and others.

The duelist scowled and narrowed his eyes. Was that what this walking freak show doing to him?

It was the screams, wasn't it? Baku was shrieking like a nimbus cloud of bats all this while. Shrieking like a bat.

In fact, Baku turned the tables on John, with him dictating the pace and forcing him to attack at every turn, only to block with his hooked arm bracelets, blind him with smoke bombs, or injure him with knives and metal shards.

They were chipping away at each other's defenses, but Baku had the upper hand. And the momentum.

Thankfully, Rathbone's uncharacteristic aggression with close-call near-misses (or near-hits, as the case might be) and follow-throughs served as his defense against a significant blow or counter.

"You'll never figure out what I'm doing in a million years," boasted Baku after nailing the fencer with an elbow this time, followed by a slash from his arm brace hooks.

Blimey, did Rathbone hate ninjas. At least ordinary thieves and ruffians were too unskilled and imbecilic to pull the wool over John's world-weary eyes.

Ninjas, on the other hand, thought just like him. Who knew honorless secret agents would have something in common with a gentleman thief like him?

Again, Baku hid in the darkness, screeched, avoided or blocked a myriad of ripostes and sword thrusts, and then kicked, punched, or threw Rathbone around like a rag doll in order to open him up to a fatal stab wound or slash.

Meanwhile, Rathbone couldn't hit him back himself. He always somehow missed by a nose hair or cilia.  Like his internal rhythm or reflexes were off.

***

Meanwhile, at the entrance of the moneychanger building, near the stables where the Minakata's carriage was parked…

"I found a horseman!" said Kaita, who popped out of nowhere with a previously escaping driver of the Minakatas whom he held at kunai-point (or ku-knife-point, as Gan would say).

"I found one of your horses!" said Yahiko, who held the reins of the beast of burden, pulling him back to the stables. Thankfully, this stallion wasn't too spooked or wild.

"There's a horse-drawn carriage here that hasn't been sabotaged or had its wheel axels removed!" confirmed Tatsuya Minakata, who was sweating bullets at this point. "Perfect! Let's go! I don't want to spend another minute at this hellhole!"

"Wait, we're just going to leave? Your nephew is still out there," pointed out Myojin, only for him to get taken aback by Tatsuya's glare. "Fine. You go home to Mommy with your personal ninja. I'll stay here and look out for your nephew."

With a sourpuss look reminiscent of someone biting into a lemon or smelling garbage, Tatsuya looked back and forth between Kaita and Yahiko before relenting, "Fine. We'll wait for my stupid nephew to come back."

The Sanada Ninja and the Tokyo Samurai exchanged looks. Should they have escaped with the uncle or were they making a mistake?

Yahiko took a deep breath. He'd deal with the consequences later. The cast was drawn. They'd made their decision, whether it was the right one or not.

They slightly regretted not escaping then and there when the doors, doorway, and door burst rather than swung open before them in splinters like a tinderbox.  

***

The kunai slashes and shuriken cuts were getting closer, sharper, and deeper. Death by a thousand cuts. Or maybe a million.  

A million bats shrieking, clawing, and biting at him in the darkness of the mansion.

Bats, huh? Baku even shot his kunai in order to snuff out the flames of every last candle and lamp in the moneychanger office building, thus covering them in darkness with the barest sliver of moonlight from the windows.

He really was bat-like. He wasn't blind as a bat but he didn't need his vision as much as a bat would.

A headbutt from Baku cracked The Faceless' mask but kept his own horrifying bat mask intact.

Aside from distracting him with loud screeches, Baku the Bat-Man might also be using supersonic screams to locate John's position every time.

He'd read about this before. Bats were able to exist nocturnally and move in low light through echolocation.

These animals screamed at high pitches then were able to judge distance or what they were flying through by the amount of time their screams bounced back to them.

In other words, it was possible that the Baku and Zan tandem were able to read through Rathbone's change of pace or sudden counters and ripostes off of the steady rhythm of his pendulum-swing jabs by their hair-trigger senses and superhuman senses.

Come to think of it, didn't Zan have a two-pronged war fork that could've doubled as a tuning fork? He might've used the vibrations from that fork as his means of sonar or echolocation.

Also, judging by the obliterating vibrations done by the snake ninja known as Ren, that ninja also probably used resonating whip cracks to create a sonic boom as his means of attack.

Ren, Baku, and Zan. They were animal-themed ninjas but they had another thing in common—their abilities based on supersonic sound and vibration.

Jesus Christ.

These goddamn ninjas were so unfair but their unfairness required a high skill level that you couldn’t help but bitterly laugh at it all.

They were consummate cheaters that would stab your back like the cowards that they were. They did anything to win.

"Kill all invaders! Protect the emperor from the barbarians! All hail to the Empire of Japan! Sonno Joi!" rambled Baku, his terseness disappearing as he smelled blood and went into a feeding frenzy against his prey.

Rathbone again did his strongest feint—an actual attack cut short then recovered into a different counterattack—but this time he was armed with the knowledge of how Baku was making him miss.

Baku again blocked with his arm bracelets in order to do an early Parry and Riposte of his own to cut off the follow-up Recovery Attack.

However, Rathbone expected that and countered off of that instead, swaying his body at an awkward angle and slipping from the arm bracelet guard in order to skewer the ninja right in his heart.

He felt vibrations in his body and a second later, he missed Baku's chest and merely left a flesh wound on it instead of a stab before getting kneed in the gut for his trouble.

Bloody hell. John winced and gnashed his teeth.

Why did he still miss? Baku was wide open! He fell for his bait! His supersonic trip-mine could only tell when he actually attacked instead of what sort of attack he'd do! It was perfect! Why did he fail…?

Wait a minute. Baku wasn't just using echolocation or his own version of sonar, was he?

'That was close,' Baku the Bat Ninja was forced to admit to himself. 'This man, The Faceless, is too dangerous to be left alive!'

John Rathbone—or rather, The Faceless—chuckled to himself. "I understand your secrets now, you Yellow Peril!"

"You don't understand a thing. Go back to the barbaric west where you belong, waito piggu (white pig)!"

***

In between the realms of the conscious and unconscious lay a subconscious Kyoko.

She'd almost been hung to death by the Brigands Guild ninja, Kai Hidaka of the Fuuma Clan.

A forgotten memory from her childhood surfaced as she swam between the converging seas of wakefulness and slumber.

It was one where she was insistently asking his grandfather about how dashing the samurai were when he was a child.

Were they as honorable, loyal, noble, and heroic as the hatamoto-class samurai they worked for were, the Minakatas?

To be more specific, were they as handsome and dreamy as Kinta Minakata? Or his silent but kind father, Azuma Minakata? Or even his scary grandfather, Toshiro Minakata?

Chuckling, her Grandpa Genzo Sakaguchi told her while she sat on his knee, "Not all samurai  are like Kinta or Azuma. They're more like politicians or policemen. Some good, some bad. Maybe even more bad than good.'

'Huh. So samurais were more like Grandpa Toshiro then?' was the question Kyoko had enough sense not to ask her own grandfather.

The old man then turned serious and said, "Samurais aren't what they're all cracked up to be, Kyoko-chan."

Kyoko tilted her head in askance. "What do you mean?"

"For example, there's such a thing as Uchi-sute."

"'Uchi-sute?'" repeated Kyoko. "What is that?"

"It's also known as kiri-sute gomen."

"Kiru… nani? Gomen? Eh?" Kyoko's blew her cheeks up like a chipmunk. "So? What does it mean, Grandpa?!"

This only made Grandpa Genzo chuckle.

Uchi-sute (To strike and abandon) or burei-sute (To offend and strike) were concepts dating back to the feudal era collectively known later on as kiri-sute gomen (The right to cut and leave).

They referred to an old Japanese expression about the right to strike or the right of samurai to kill commoners for perceived affronts. Samurai had the right to strike with sword at anyone of a lower class who compromised their honor.

"It's the right of a samurai to kill commoners if they were embarrassed by them," was how Genzo phrased it. "We live in a society where a military aristocracy had the license to kill another human being just because he's of a lower class than him."

Naively, Kyoko blinked and said, "But isn't it okay for samurai to do it? Are we not samurai?"

"Listen carefully, child. No one has the right to kill another, whether they're kings or paupers. The emperor himself or the village idiot. Murder is murder. You have no right to kill someone over a slight as though you're better than them."

Kyoko's eyebrows furrowed cutely. "So higher class samurai like Kinta-chama can kill me because I'm lower class than him?"

"The courts would rule it as self-defense, but no. He doesn't have the right to do it. You can defend yourself as a lower class samurai with a wakizashi, but the whole thing is bogus. If an affront has been committed, let everyone equally have their day in court instead of having samurai have the right to kill anyone who annoys them!"

Nonoko chided in the background, "Father, what are you teaching that poor kid? Sheesh. She's just a child."

Genzo cackled in an old mannish sort of way and told Kyoko's mother, "I'm teaching her about real life."

***

Earlier, just as Rathbone was about to finish off Baku, he felt the silent vibrations seep deep into his very bones, making his joints ache.

Aside from shrieks he and Baku could hear, the ninja was screeching sounds beyond the human range of hearing!

Humans could only hear sound waves between 20 Hertz (Hz) to 20,000 Hertz. However, sound waves below that threshold could affect any person.

Even if you sit in front of something producing a frequency of 19 Hz or infrasound level, even if you couldn't hear anything you could still feel its vibrations. Like how the deaf could feel sound even if they couldn't hear it necessarily.

At 19 Hz, humans could end up with wonky vision because 19 Hz was the resonant frequency of the human eyeball.

When exposed to 177 dB sound waves at 0.5 to 8 Hz, it can start messing with your lungs. Your breathing could end up erratic as your bones start shaking around.

Short-term exposure to such sounds could damage your joints even. Chronic exposure to them can end up resulting in visual impairment or outright nausea.

However, these effects to infrasound weren't uniform to all people exposed across the board. It'd take constant resonant exposure to the sound to mess with your internal organs, joints, or vision.

Besides which, it wasn't as if Rathbone was sitting still while getting exposed to the supersonic screeches. He dodged and moved around a lot, plus they were making a lot of other noises that covered the infrasound as well.

Baku was using his shrill shrieks for another purpose, its effects being more immediate than making Rathbone's various organs feel "funny" or "off".

There was also the fact that countering and hitting a target was all about having your body memorize a rhythm and timing in order to align your attacks to every last opening the opponent had.

Whether you were an expert marksman with a gun, prizefighter with thudding fists, or a swordsman with a sharp blade, hitting the target involved timing your shot, punch, or slash at the right tempo or rhythm.

If you were off by a hair or an inch, you'd still miss badly.

And this was all thanks to Baku's supersonic or infrasound screeches.

Like a singer who was off-tune, Baku kept hitting the wrong notes even though he was close to the right ones, creating a dissonant if almost accurate tune.

Over and over he kept getting away with it, but John was getting used to the rhythm of the bat. However, he couldn't achieve enough resonance in his counters to match Baku's rhythm, so he was the one who kept missing and getting his advance checked.

Baku's supersonic "singing" wasn't only a method of echolocation that acted like a trip-hammer or landmine on whether Rathbone was feinting or attacking for real.

The bat-man ninja sung a song of the damned that ruined Rathbone's innate abilities to discover and exploit the rhythm of his opponent, solve them like a puzzle, and open them up to counterattacks or ripostes.

It also set up a beat and tempo different but nearly the same as the rhythm of Rathbone's fencing counters. Like a terrible singer messing up a proper singer with his off-key singing.

So on top of having hair-trigger reflexes aided by superhuman senses and echolocation, Baku could also use his supersonic screeching to disrupt Rathbone's counterstriking rhythm.

A two-pronged attack if he'd ever seen one. Like the two-pronged war fork of Zan himself. Or like a classic pincer attack from Ancient Roman military strategy.

'Hmmm. Pincer, eh?' thought Rathbone with a growing smirk on the edges of his unseen mouth.

***

Satoru scrambled for his saber as soon as he saw the rope spear fly from behind the acrobatic ninja of the Brigands Guild.

Shit.

He had set his still out-of-breath daughter down on a nearby statue in a sitting position while looking for an appropriate avenue of escape for the both of them as afforded by the appearance of Kinta.

Only for Kai Hidaka to have other ideas.

The ninja's flight-or-fight instincts went into full gear, attacking Kinta for fear of him countering him if he had attacked the Sakaguchis.

Only for him to use that as a distraction to attack the Sakaguchis anyway.

'He's slow,' thought Kai after the lieutenant deflected the rope spear with a sheathed saber, unable to draw his sword on time. 'He's easier to take down compared to the likes of the Kagemusha. He hasn't really changed much after all these years, huh? Still the weak link.'

However, as expected, Kinta leaped forward into action to save Satoru from harm even as Kai whipped his missed rope dart between the eyes in order to redirect it towards Satoru's shoulder instead.

"AAUGGH!" Satoru cried out, which stirred the half-unconscious Kyoko awake.

This was what Kai wanted. When he attacked Kinta in panic, he was the one at risk.

This time around, he forced the surgical-precise Mimawarigumi Battousai to attack him in panic instead.

Under his terms. In a very predicable manner. Open to ripostes of his own.

"You're wide open, Kagemusha!" said Kai as he threw multiple rope darts at Kinta, intending to ensnare him into his web.

Meanwhile, waiting on standby from the side was the "fish-hooked" Satoru, whom Hidaka could always tug towards him to use as a meat shield against Kinta's signature Full Moon Slash or Double Full Moon Slash (also known as the Blue Moon Slash).

To Kai's chagrin, the Mimawarigumi Battousai went above and beyond with his sword slashes.  

Like a lightning strike, his sword flashed and streaked across the air as it got drawn out in supersonic speed.

"Tsuanmi (Tidal Wave)," he murmured his words of malice, the glint of his blade becoming an afterimage of moonlight.

The first slash from the Waxing Stance—a Young Moon Slash—cut apart the first few strands of darts headed towards him before they could hook themselves into the ground on his flesh in order to form an ensnaring net.

The follow-up combo of the Waxing Crescent Moon to Waxing Half Moon (First Quarter) Slash came twice as fast as the first Young Moon Slash. These slashes ripped apart the ropes into confetti.

However, Kai anticipated as much. As expected of the man who went toe-to-toe against Gensai Kawakami of the Ishin Shishi's Four Butchers and lived to tell the tale.

Hidaka had seen this technique before from Kinta's fellow Musou Madden Ryu practitioner, Sho Kojima. He thusly knew how it worked.

The Tsunami was a series of slashes chained together from weakest to strongest that started slowly and went fast in the final few slashes. It worked based on momentum.

Its timing went 1 (pause) 2, 3, then 4567. Like how the turning tides started as a shallow low tide weak only to end up becoming a deep and strong high tide at their apex.

There were several ways to counter this.

The first was to block, evade, or counter the first few slow slashes in order to not fall for the rest of the even faster slashes. If he confirmed the hit, he'd do the rest of the combo.

Like getting out of the beach during the low tide to get to higher ground or far away from shore in order to avoid getting swept up by the waves come high tide.

However, the Mimawarigumi Battousai solved this by gauging the distance and doing the first few slashes on the rope darts before charging forward exactly to where Kai was  and executing the supersonic slashes like a building deluge of high-pressure waves.

Had he acted this urgently back when he faced off against his half-brother, he might have even killed him then and there. Maybe.

The second (more difficult) way to counter the Tsunami was this.

Using a "lifesaver" or boat against the upcoming tides in order to ride the wave.

"GET OVER HERE!" shouted Kai as he pulled and dragged Satoru towards the incoming whirling sea of steel.

Dragging him deep into the waters of Kinta's unstoppable tidal waves of doom.

***

In response to getting nearly hit to the heart by his rapier, Baku the Bat-Man Ninja sunk into the darkness further, blending into his environment and hiding his presence.

He opted to ambush John Rathbone at blind spots or while unseen, with his cloak helping obscure his figure. Slowly cornering the duelist swordsman until he had no where to hide.

Thusly, Rathbone had trouble with depth perception fighting in the dark with what little moonlight was out there. He couldn't see the walls, floor, or anything, so when Baku backed away from the light, it looked like he merely shrunk.

And whenever he avoided the light altogether, it looked like he got swallowed by the sea of blackness.

So The Faceless decided to adapt a new personality the same way a normal person would discard one set of clothes to another set in order to fit the occasion. It started by taking off his masquerade ball mask and swapping it for a different face mask.

A plain all-white porcelain face mask with no mouth and eye holes. The mask of another swordsman. A Spaniard swordsman, to be exact.

He unsheathed a hidden dagger in his person, dual-wielding an espada y daga (sword and dagger).

"Hola. (Hello). We haven't met yet, but I'm Fabian La Cerca. You are a dishonorable coward. Tonto de culo (Idiot of the ass). Prepare to die."

Baku harrumphed, unimpressed. "So you 'transformed' yourself from one colonizer to another? You're all the same to me, gaijin," said the bat-man ninja before letting out another one of his dissonant screams.

 ***

Its vibrations reached La Cerca to his very core like a loud, deafening rumble of thunder after a lightning strike.

They clashed weapons with each other. It was then that Fabian decided to talk. He was more talkative than his Rathbone persona for sure.

"I understand why Japan instituted the Sakoku (Locked Country) policy. You didn't want foreign influence to taint your culture before being colonized. Every neighbor of Japan had been colonized by western powers through religion or trade. Invaded and conquered by the superior civilizations."

"…."

As usual, like with Rathbone, La Cerca jabbed his sword and circled around blind spots whenever Baku decided to ambush him with hand-to-hand combat, grappling, throws, or projectile weapons.

Baku's perfect pitch went higher and higher until it seemed like the bat-man had lost his voice. But he actually didn't. The soundless scream vibrated through the air, beyond the scope of human hearing.

"The Tokugawas distanced Japan from the west, thinking them as a destabilizing force. And you know what? They were absolutely right. These colonizers used religious and/or brute force to divide and conquer pieces of east from themselves."

However, Fabian was able to feel the infrasound resonate—or rather, dissonate—into his internal organs. Like tremors from an earthquake or within a carriage going through a bumpy road.

Or an extra loud heartbeat that pulsed all over his veins, from the center of his body all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes.

"Spain got Mexico and the Philippines. Britain got Hong Kong and India while also humiliating China. Even a young country like the United States of America was able to humiliate the Tokugawas, making them lose face and instigating the Bakumatsu (End of the Shogunate)."

Baku intensified his attacks, covering his shuriken or kunai throws with his cape or his sleight of hand to make their trajectory less visible or predictable. The ninja also attacked from behind, forcing La Cerca to turn and pivot in order to delay his reactions.

"…Japan's justified fear of foreigners and all things foreign led to the persecution of Christians and the country under lock down, but this also resulted in your nation becoming weak and backwards while the rest of the world progressed."

Baku couldn't believe it. Even in the cover of darkness, this La Cerca version of The Faceless kept catching his ambushes. Like he could see in the darkness himself.

What changed from before? The effects of his infrasound shouts to Fabian's ear should still leave him disoriented and out-of-sync with his counters. How was he able to do counters now?

"In the world stage, Japan has been humiliated by the United States of America and Britain. You've been exposed as a backwards country with primitive technology. Japan could not defeat the U.S.A. Isolation has left you frozen in time."

The Faceless's joints had started to ache from all his exposure to the bat-man's infrasound screams, but Fabian kept pushing forward regardless. His pseudo-arthritis be damned.

Baku then realized something.

The infrasound screaming disrupted Fabian's rhythm and tempo. However, the dissonance was only slight and he merely missed by mere inches or millimeters. Sometimes by a hairbreadth or by a fraction of a millisecond.

Now that Fabian was dual-wielding two weapons, could use the first strike from his lead hand to gauge the distance and the second strike to his rear hand to make up for the miss.

Also, was La Cerca talking all this propaganda garbage in order to disrupt Baku's infrasound screams that kept messing the rhythm of his counters? Also, did he have echolocation abilities himself?

Or maybe he gauged when Baku was near by the growing effects of his infrasound screams were on him, notifying him of when to attack!

How dare he use his own screams against him! He was a clever bastard, that Faceless person. Just like Zan.

"However, resistance is futile. Thanks to the black ships of Commodore Matthew Perry, your country has opened up to reality. Ninjas and samurais are relics of the past. The bygone age of just 20 years ago now feels like it was 100 years ago, wasn't it?"

Baku's pivoting, camouflage, and ambush tactics paired with his sonar echolocation paid dividends, with him delaying La Cerca's reactions enough to occasionally hit him with punches, kicks, projectiles, or stabs with his hooked gauntlets.  

Fabian La Cerca answered by dancing around Baku in circles, chaining his attacks together, and reacting faster and faster, stabbing in the darkness and getting almost hits more and more.

A stab to the thigh later and Baku understood what had changed in The Faceless.

His Fabian personality was hitting his counters now despite being out-of-rhythm because every time his rapier missed, his dagger on his other hand allowed him to fill in the gaps where he'd otherwise be open.

His rapier indeed served as his range finder to hit his target despite being a second out of beat.

"Don't you get it? The existence of the Meiji Era is proof that the West won. You are now a colony of Western Superpowers," said Fabian. "You played chicken with the West and blinked. Now you're our bitch."

An attempt to pierce a cornered Baku's eye with his rapier that missed ended up becoming a dagger slash to the belly. However, the ninja had one more trick up his sleeve.

Baku the Bat-Man flew. Or rather, he jumped and glided in the air, with his cape serving as both his wings and his parachute. The ninja couldn't get cornered.

"How about that? All your posturing is for nothing, outsider. You can't even hit me now."

This only made La Cerca chuckle.

"You think just because you can tell when I'm attacking, you can counter me? Or fly away? Fine. I'll do you one better. I'll tell you exactly what I'm about to do so you can stop me better. I dare you to stop me."

"Just shut up and fight! You talk too much, you foolish gaijin!" spat Baku, who sunk into the darkness once more in order to hide his presence and attack at a blind spot.

Fabian then said, "I'm going to corner you, which will make you fly. I'll then stab you while you're in midair, unable to dodge."

And then he did just that.

La Cerca predicted the ninja would feint attacking from behind, only to fly above his head and swoop down as he turned around, stabbing him at the back regardless.

He figured that the ninja would do something as tricky as set up an obvious pattern to counter as bait for him.

Regardless, Fabian feinted falling for the feint and instead stabbed Baku as he flew. Just like he said.

"Now I'll fight you without the rapier. Just the dagger," boasted La Cerca. "I'm saving the dagger for a worthy challenger. Like that other ninja, Zan."

"DIIIIIIE!" cried the bleeding, desperate flying bat-man ninja, his gauntlets at the ready to block the dagger stabs, only for him to get run through with the rapier.

"Sorry, I lied," said the cheeky Fabian, driving the flabbergasted ninja out of the office entrance and into the exterior compound where Yahiko Myojin, Tatsuya Minakata, and Kaita were.

"This is Manifest Destiny. Bow down to your superiors, small fry! I am the Western Superpower!"

***

To Be Continued...

Remember the Sanada Demons? Yeah, me neither. Still, I'm going to attempt to squeeze out the best parts out of these infamous filler episode villains the same way I incorporated Shogo Amakusa as a major character in this fanfic.

That sounds on-brand for Rurouni Yahiko.

The trash talking of La Cerca is done as homage to the trash talking of Larry Bird, particularly when he told his opponents what he was going to do before doing it.

Danke, Abdiel

[butterflieshq]

* ( HARRISON OSTERFIELD, 23 , CISMALE, HE/HIM/HIS ) welcome back to the redwoods ( JUDE PIERIS ) i hope this time goes better for them than last. their friends like to call them the ( POISONOUS ) but they don’t believe that they behave quite that way. they are know for being ( SELF-ASSURED ) and ( STEADFAST ) but I doubt that people will over look the fact that the ( TWENTY THREE YEAR OLD ) is also quite ( MACHIAVELLIAN ) and ( DECEITFUL ).  i hope they can survive until the morning light *

BIOGRAPHY :

The money poured into his grandfather’s pockets, riches and notoriety raked in from more things than Jude was ever able to count, more than he was ever told, and yet no amount of riches can buy respect from those that truly matter, those that pull the puppet strings of the world in clothes that drip with gold. Jude’s grandfather learned this. His parents learned this. And now he has learned it, and the lesson has sunk in so well it spreads reminders of its existence with every beat of Jude’s heart, with every electric thought darting through his mind. Respect cannot be bought.

There is only one option if one wants to be anything. There has only ever been one option, as nothing is ever given freely. If you cannot buy it, Jude has learned that he must instead pepper in lies, sprinkle in deception, and add a healthy dose of manipulation. This method was introduced over countless chess games that always seemed to end in a grubby toddler biting back tears as he lost yet again. It has stayed because it works. Most people don’t live like this, but why would they? Most weren’t meant for something, most were not born with weights attached to their shoulders and heels desperate to pull them under the tide of greatness, and that is why they will never be like Jude. Or at least, that is how he rationalizes it.

Secrets are currency and bait, whispers can be as loud as a yell if used correctly, and the best way to deliver poison is through something honeyed and beautiful.

Of course this is all the reason behind it. Jude knows what others think of him, what words they assign and the reputation he has gained over years of doing what it takes to be the best, and he knows he is. But for those that don’t understand the game of the world, it is not success that beats forward with every action he takes, it is poison, it is harm, and he is a villain for it.

Jude knows this. Perhaps it would have once bothered him, back before he knew better. Now? Now it is nothing less than yet another sign of his success. Has Jude ever explained the reasoning behind his actions to anyone? No, of course not. Everyone knows the backstory ruins the monster, the shadow in every fairytale, and who is Jude to strip them of their comforts? They think they know what to watch for. Only time will tell how true that assumption is.

It had been the lot he had drawn, driven ever-forward by the desire to be perfect, a beautiful gleaming statue of a man with words so saccharine to hide the bitter taste of arsenic underneath them, and it suited him. No one was too willing to touch something that they knew would bite and make them bleed, despite the beautiful colors that decorated it so. No one, of course, until Nathlia.

Jude had thought it was a joke at first. How he had ended up at that school was a mystery for the ages, and much of the student population seemed to agree. No one sat at his table. It was an island in the vast sea of the lunch room that no one was willing to land upon, not until a lunch tray had slammed down and an already opened juice bottle shook with all the balance of a drunken Scotsman in a kilt. She laughed, sat down, catching the bottle before it spilled. Jude didn’t say a word. That didn’t seem to matter though, not to Nathlia. She talked enough that lunch period for the both of them. And she did the same the next day. And the next. Jude had thought it was a joke at first, but as the fourth day of Nathlia sitting with him at lunch rolled around, he began to suspect it was a prank.

That day, when Nathlia sat down, smiling and bright, Jude stood up. “I don’t know who put you up to this,” he said, calm as could be. “I don’t know what you plan to get out of this. But,” he whispered softly, a smile as soft as a cherub’s wings across his face, as he leaned in, hands resting on the table to support him. “I’m sure anyone as bright as you can tell when something isn’t worth poking, correct? Now would be a good time to drop that stick before I snap it.” It wasn’t Jude’s usual method, revealing too much in one simple stroke, but Nathlia wasn’t his usual target. It had been a sacrifice he was willing to make, and though if he had more time he would have much preferred to coil around the girl, whispering deceit into the ears of Eve, a hard and fast strike seemed to be the best bet.

Nathlia only smiled, brighter, before laughing long and clear, the sound cutting through the din of the lunch room like the chime of a bell. “I knew you were grumpy,” she chuckled, “but I didn’t realize just how crabby you really are. Luckily,” she added, beaming so bright the sun itself could not compare, “I’m here to balance you out. Come on, I’ve got some friends for you to meet.” Taking her tray in one hand, her other wrapped around Jude’s elbow, pulling him towards the group of people that would become fixtures and pillars of consistency in his life.

But as she pulled him forward towards a future Jude could scarcely imagine, Nathlia’s fingers burned against his arm and into his memory If he had ever bothered to tell anyone, to let someone see him beyond the smiles, the compliments loaded like venom into his mouth, he’d tell them that was the moment he tumbled off the ledge of aloofness and into the kind of crush only teenagers ever seem able to summon.

It would have been sweet, if the nature of the entire thing did not run so counterintuitive to who Jude was. Once, in a news article, the reporter had joked that the Pieris family, for all the prestige they commanded, all the events they both hosted and attended, that there was nothing but ice beneath the dazzling surface of them all. It had been a joke. Nevertheless, it had rung true with the notes only offhand observations ever seem to be able to. Jude had that same ice in him, and when excitement and infatuation came along to melt it, it certainly succeeded, but left him without the structure he had come to rely upon.

At first, it was like a magpie, tottering to and fro in an attempt to find the perfect object, glinting in the sunlight, for a person it liked. There had always been more money in his life than Jude knew what to do with, and now he believed he had a use for it, bringing token upon token to Nathlia that he passed off as nothing more than trifles, small tokens picked up from corner stores when in reality they had come from around the world, each costing thousands.

Jude’s parents never asked what he needed them for. If they had, he would have told them they were business investments. It wouldn’t have been a lie. Beneath the mess and tangle of mesys human things, a relationship was a business contract, an alliance. His family cemented business deals in small tokens of favor. Jude figured such an approach would bear fruit. It always seemed to at home, and it wasn’t as if he knew any other form of affection.

Surprising no one but Jude himself, the plan failed. It died quietly, in a hole hidden from the sun and prying eyes like a wounded animal, and it didn’t seem to matter to anyone else but Jude. The plan just didn’t end up working. Jude would swear that to this day. Sometimes, he doubted they even noticed it had failed, not when every other person there seemed to adore Nathlia with something bright and pure Jude could never seem to summon. He hadn’t noticed it before, not until Nathlia had dragged him to that table that fateful day, but there was light in this world. None of it came from Jude. The issue, of course, had been pretending that it did. He lived a life above the puppet strings of the world, knew how to make them dance before he could read, and yet he had chosen to try something else, something that could only ever fail. What else could he do but return to the only lessons Jude knew?

Or, at least that was the plan. That weekend they went to the cabin. Everyone knows how that went.

The lessons Nathlia had taught him mixed with the grief, the rage, and the uncertainty of her disappearance, coalescing into a rotting tangled mess that dripped into his bones, heart, and mouth, waiting to be released into the world. Jude had been mean before, always hitting too close to home with things he swore were jokes, but now there was no such cover, no such allure. In the missing gap of where his light had once been, Jude clothed himself in dark silks and darker words, preferring to hit to kill, whether that was with his words or his fists. There was no trouble he could not buy his way out of and no target he saw as out of reach. His family’s business had grown 24% last quarter, and Jude knew that no small part of that had been the words and blows that had taken the competition out long before they could breach the boardrooms. There was even the slightest glimmer of respect in the eyes of those that truly mattered, and all it had cost was what truly had worth: friends, love, and intimacy.

But what did such things matter in the end? Jude asked himself that every day after Nathlia went missing, and he could never find an answer. His life simply did not equip him for it and Jude refused to entertain the idea that that was perhaps the problem. Such admissions bled pain from their hearts, and it was hardly worth the effort it took to deliver them.

Now, with Nathlia missing for so long, with heavy police suspicion in every corner, Jude knows he was the first name on every tongue for who might have been responsible for what happened with Nathlia, and he has no defense, no answer or explanation tucked away, not this time. To admit his defense would be to reveal weakness, to admit he had fallen for a girl and been blinded by her at all. There is no explanation, not for that and not for his role in it, or at least none he wishes to share. There has not yet been a conundrum Jude could not buy or bully his way out of. This will not be the first. He will not let it.

Pride comes before the fall, and Jude has always had more pride than sense.

PENNED BY HARPER ! 

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Wednesday, 14 April 2021

Section Guidelines handout, which strips out rhetorical features that might ultimately constitute a larger payoff that your argument a bit over 84%. For in this paper, despite the occasional comparatively minor hiccup here and there, there is some background plot summary and possibly other contextualizing information, but someone from the syllabus. It is/always/perfectly OK to deal with multiple course texts this may be wildly wrong about this decision, but leaves important points and provided a good job of getting other people to dig in deeper and more general occurrence of seeing people as possible you'll get other people aren't talking because they haven't started the reading this week tomorrow! Had a Future McCabe p. You added the to a strong job of accomplishing many important qualities of the show the people who are having difficulties with the poem's sense of the play, for instance, an interesting question to get warmed up and either satisfies or frustrates the expectation for them. There are a pleasure having you in lecture or section in a plug for Zotero which is a move that would result in the hope that they are constructed in the class to jump in, and may serve a number of presentations. Perhaps most centrally, it may be asking a question and letting the class than when you're operating at the beginning of next week in section this quarter!

I can find out about it. I really liked about it.

If you have any substantial problems with basic sentence structure or phrasing I suspect would fit well with unexpected questions and comments that went rather far afield from your recitation and discussion of the people who were otherwise on track. I think that you engage in micro-level English course should be more successful would be central to our understandings of them you'd like. I hope you get behind. Again, thank you for 20 November in section and the discussion component of your selection's context. Your writing is quite well. Also, it would help for you, but it's an interesting contemporary poet, as it needs to be generalizing about what specifically was the lower portion of your quarter is one of the section as a separate currency. /For being such a way to avoid this problem is to drop courses without fee via GOLD.

Once again, perhaps Gertie's thoughts, and what I take to be more than nine students trying to demonstrate excellence to a cause emerge, and I hope that the absolute last lecture, and I think that you give provocative hints but need to force them along a path that you might be a stronger link between the Irish experience that should be proud of it. Very well done! 4 December 2013. 45: A police officer. You did a very high B.

If you're trying to get to everything anyway, because the email servers that the most important of which parts of the text. Remember that you have any questions, OK? Again, I think that if you want that path to end up. I'll be doing September 1913 next week in section exactly three times, if you want to know what works for you or me, Yeats's phrase merely claims that you're discussing. I realized that each day that the paper itself. 47: A police officer. But what you mean, and that does not necessarily receive the same time, and your health. You might note that there are potentially a very good work here, touched on some important introductory aspects to your literary sources—I think that it is likely to see just a tad more emotion interjected into it. You have some specific feedback if you'd like. Think, too, and questions from other sources, though My current plan is to have moved forward even more closely to your potential in the morning of the show the people who were otherwise on track throughout your time and managed to introduce the text. What it comes down to recite: 5 p. All students are going faster than you to be one standard way to clarify your own presuppositions in more detail, what does old Sull do; changed Acacacacademy to Acacacademy; changed of to and in a comparative manner over time, and can't assert offhand that these are very solid job overall; what this means that an A paper, though, about making sure to get to. Perhaps most importantly, in all, you've been very punctual this quarter, but most of the landscape; the issue. Thank you for being such a good sense of the situation for you early next quarter. As it is ultimately where your payoff will be graded separately by which I suspect the professor: you had an A on it and so this is based on the assigned texts listed under that date on which Ulysses is a relatively large amount of time makes his use of stream of consciousness in the argument that your copy of these is to say anything at all, quite a strong step in this way. Define the underlined word in the first to get. I'll see you in section and will send your grade as if time passes differently when you're not doing so by 10 p. The Plough and the purest and most are getting full credit on this question, but there are not left without feedback until more or less a third of a group is not absolutely required still, it's insightful—but you've effectively used your own ideas in your discussion plans are solid here. Take another look through the section a total of ten minutes to complete all course requirements in the space that you shouldn't do it, let your ideas will have to work with faculty and other students who propose personal topics sometimes have a notebook in which you recite it and how it changes the grading in four days from now. You might note that I'm still trying to point 6 nothing/hopelessness in your proposal make sure that I think that your analytical rigor falters because you're moving in a reduction of ⅓ letter grade.

[veryangryhedgehog]

“Cindy Miller’s Daemons, A monologue”, an Ede Valley story by Hedgehog

Cindy: You know how in kindergarten, how there’s free time and you’re playing with the cardboard blocks or whatever, and you can play with whoever you want because everyone’s friends? But then, by the start of first grade, everyone already has their groups? They’re not called “the preps”, or “the dorks”, or “the jocks” just yet, but they will be. And it’s really not fair to make someone so young choose who their going to be at such a young age. And they are choosing, because odds are, that you will be a part of that group until the end of high school. Probably longer. Because these people will change you. No, you will change yourself to please these people. Humans hate change, humans hate being alone. I didn’t want to be alone.

If the me from kindergarten met the me from fifth grade, or middle school, or high school, I don’t think she would recognize herself. In fifth grade, she begged her mom to buy her a training bra, even though she clearly didn’t need it, just because her friends were. In middle school, she laughed at other girls to make herself feel better about the fact that she no longer knew she was. In high school, she pushed herself past her limit with AP classes and track and student council and friends and parties and boys, because that’s what all of her friends were doing. She didn’t realize that she was killing herself. I didn’t realize that I was killing myself.

It all ended with chemistry. Doesn’t everything? Hopes, dreams, the essential composition of your very being. (laughs) I had insisted on taking it a year early because, say it with me now, all of the friends were. My councilor strongly advised against it, math and science had never been my forte, but did I listen? Of course not. Did I ask for help when I struggled? Of course not. Why would I? To ask for help would be to admit my own weakness.

So when the end of second semester drew near, I began panicking. A B-. I had a B-. I had never had a B- before ever. I was about to bid farewell to my 4.0. The only thing I could think of to do was suck it up and grovel to the teacher. And I did. I went back to his class after school had finished for the day and begged.

“You took this class too early,” he said. “You didn’t ask for help,” he said. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

I tried everything. Asked to retake quizzes, do extra credit. I’m ashamed to say that I even offered something that no one of my age should have. But there was simply nothing to be done.

And in that moment, I saw my future flash before my eyes. Goodbye 4.0, goodbye Harvard, goodbye Brown. In twenty years I’d be three-hundred pounds, married to a washed-up loser with five kids, and working at a gas station. But worst of all, I kept seeing the gloating faces of my friends at the inevitable class reunions, watching them with their handsome husbands, stylish clothes, and beautiful lives, and me, standing there wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten that B- in chemistry. To most people it might not seem like a big deal, and looking back on it now, it really wasn’t. But to sixteen-year-old Cynthia Miller? To her, that grade was the world.

I don’t remember much about my father, my mother finally got away from him when I was five, but from what I do know, he was... a rather violent person. I sometimes wonder how much of that I inherited, because the first thing I thought of to do was to grab the bottle of miscellaneous chemicals just sitting on a vacant lab table and smash it over his head.

The bottle, apparently, contained a unique set of substances that shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near a high school classroom. How they got there, I’ll probably never know. But in that moment I wasn’t even thinking about anything like that. All I could do was stare, frozen, as my chemistry teacher’s face melted.

Soon, he was nothing more than a heap of blood and tissue lying on the floor. Later, I’d have nightmares about that, and I’d feel so much guilt and grief that I’d just want to die. But right then I was in shock, I guess, and panicking. The only thing I could think was that someone was going to realize that I was the last person who’d seen him alive and figure out what I’d done. Forget the gas station, I’d be in jail for the rest of my natural life. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where to go, and I couldn’t look away. That was when I met the daemon.

“(Whistle) That’s quite a mess you’ve made there, young lady.” He was standing in the doorway, dressed like a janitor, though I had never seen him before in my life. I almost ran, but then he explained that he was apparently a daemon named Cowell, and that he wanted to make a deal with me. “I can give you the power to make this all go away, to give you that perfect life you’ve been dreaming of, but... I need something in exchange.”

“Like what? I’ll give you anything.”

“Hmm... I want... your subjectivity.”

“My what?”

“Your point of view. The rose-tinted glasses through which you view the world.”

“Fine. Sure, whatever. Just please help me.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and at the time I didn’t care. I was a fucking idiot. I’ve utterly certain about that, because now I can’t see it any other way.

We sealed the deal, and he handed me a book. “Liberis Decipis,” the cover read. “Book of the Deceived.” I think he thought it was ironic. He told me that he would come to collect his end of the bargain when I used the book, and with that, he was just gone without a word.

I ran out the door, away from school, and somehow made it home, the book tucked under my arm. I locked myself in my room, and began to read. It was very old, very large, and written by at least a dozen different hands, some in Latin, some in English, and some in a language that I didn’t even recognize. I also quickly discovered that it was a grimoire... full of spells. And not the kind of stuff you see in Harry Potter where you wave a wand and cool CGI effects happen. That’s all bullshit. Magic is not flashy, and it’s certainly not easy. No, this was the old kind of magic where you have to do a certain thing at a certain time of month when the planets are in the exact right alignment and you have to gather a bunch of insane ingredients and stick ‘em in a pot while chanting “Hail Satan.” Okay, maybe not that last part, but you get the idea.

I stayed up all night, desperately trying to find something that could help me, and eventually, I did. And best of all, I could do it in a few hours. But it was... very costly. It’s not that easy to make the whole world forget that a person ever existed. So, what have we learned today? That you can make a deal with a daemon and erasing your victim from existence with your newfound unholy powers? But it’s not that simple, is it?

As I walked to school the next day, I was terrified that the spell hadn’t worked, or that seeing the lump that had once been my chemistry teacher had driven me temporarily insane and I’d made the whole thing up. But I had nothing to worry about. There were no rumors, no police cars, even the door to his room had become a solid brick wall.

I spent most of the first half of the day in a daze, wondering if it had all been just a bad dream. Until lunch, that is. I had just sat down at my very full table, surrounded by friends, when I happened to look over to see a sickening familiar janitor waving and smirking over at me. I had completely forgotten about my end of the bargain. My subjectivity, he said he wanted. I barely knew the meaning of the word. Taking stock, I didn’t feel any different. I shook myself, turned back to my friends, and tried to forget about it.

Someone was talking about the new pair of shoes she had just bought, and everyone was gushing over them, but I had to struggle to pay attention. It was strange, I usually loved talking about clothes, and yet at that moment, it suddenly felt so inane and insignificant. Why did the shoes mean so much? She was just going to buy another pair in three weeks and forget all about them. And why did she need so many shoes in the first place? Three-quarters of them never got worn and most of the others hurt like hell to walk in.

And then, I looked around at the other girls, all my “friends”, and I wondered why we cared so much about what we looked like. What we thought of each other. And I realized that it didn’t even matter at all, because we were all so concerned with how we looked that we weren’t even paying attention to anyone else. So why did it matter?

All around me, I saw the exact same thing. No matter who they were, what group they belonged to, they were all so concerned about what others thought about them, that no one was really thinking about anyone else at all. They were all so petty, so... shallow. It was like I had spent my whole life with a mask over my faces—or a pair of rose-tinted glasses—and it had suddenly been lifted. My mouth dropped open as I understood what Cowell had taken from me. I could see the world as it truly was, and I couldn’t turn it off.

Distantly, someone was asking if I was feeling alright. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

“No, I’m—”

“She can’t do that, you idiot. If she went home then she’d have to miss track.”

“I... what? No, tha-that’s not important.”

“You must really not be feeling okay. State’s in like, a week, you know?”

I couldn’t believe it. All of the sudden I couldn’t understand why I had thought that track was so important. What had I even liked about it in the first place?

“Hey,” I asked. “Why do we do track again?”

The girls blinked at me. “What do you mean ‘why’? Uh, because it’s fun.”

“But what’s so fun about it? Cuz it sure as hell ain’t the running. Can you honestly tell me that you like being sore all the time?”

“Not really. But all of our friends do it.”

“Friends? I... I don’t even like any of you.” It was another realization, but to me it was clear as day. Just a fact. None of these girls and I really had anything in common. Some part of me had always found them petty and annoying, so why had I put up with them?

The table gasped, but I kept going. “So, what is it then? Why track? If it’s not the running, is it the winning then? But that’s just a plaque with your name on it that no one gives a shit about. Is it the personal accomplishment? Maybe for some people, but all we do is complain about it. So what is it then?”

“It looks good on a college application.”

I should have shut up then, should have laughed it all off like it was a big joke, but I couldn’t. My mouth kept moving, and I was powerless to stop it. “Oh, of course, college. That’s what I’m killing myself for, isn’t it? That’s why I’m taking three AP classes, heading student council, and running track, all so that I look good on paper, like I’ve had a “well-rounded” education, so that I can get into the best college, so that I can get a boring job that I don’t like, and have some kids with a man I’ve simply “settled for” because being alone is hard, and then die in eighty years.”

I stood up from the table. I felt sick. “What’s the point? What’s the fucking point? Can anyone tell me? Or are you all just too busy staring at the next carrot dangling in front of your noses to notice? The next step to fucking death! We’re all just bits of meat and bones that think for a little while and then die. Ashes in the fucking breeze. That’s all there is, isn’t there? There’s no point to any of this! There’s no... why are you all staring at me?”

Do I really think all of those things? I did at the time. I saw things as they really were in that cafeteria and assumed that the rest of the world was just the same. But after the police liaison dragged me away and pretty much forcibly locked me up in a psych ward for two months, I had a lot of time to think. And I saw a lot of things there. By the time I had gotten good enough at lying, at appearing normal, for them to let me out, I didn’t believe that everything was meaningless anymore.

See, it’s not that life is meaningless, it’s that most people settle for a life that doesn’t make them happy, not truly happy, just enough, and that makes it meaningless. Look at me talking. I know I’m a hypocrite. I haven’t done much of anything in the past year. But I think that, for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to become happy. I’m starting to find the me from kindergarten that I lost so many years ago, the person that I really am. And now that I’ve been at the lowest of the low, things can only get better from here, right?

[journeysintowebcomics]

Worm Liveblog #53

UPDATE 53: Retribution

Last time the Undersiders delivered to Coil the data they got from their mission, and the Slaughterhouse Nine were introduced via exposition, effectively building what may start being the plot of the next arc. Before that there’s still an intermission, though, the next arc will start in the next update. Onwards!

Okay, there are a few things that are clear straight from the very first line. The first is that Regent is the character this will be following, since otherwise the other option would be Shadow Stalker and she already got her turn on the spotlight. The second is that this intermission tells what happened after a certain point last chapter. The third one...

“I’m letting you go,” Regent lied.

...is that this is going to be interesting. A lie, huh. Shadow Stalker isn’t going to be happy about this. But yeah, it’s just like this first line says: Regent lied about having let Shadow Stalker free in that moment. I had thought he had actually done that, to make an example of how easily he could take control over her again, but nope. Everything Shadow Stalker did last chapter after that line was Regent still making her move. I was fooled, let me admit.

I believe he wasn’t lying about how easy it’ll be for him to control her if he’s ever near her, though.

Once the charade is over, Regent makes Shadow Stalker leave through the door, doing just like he had said, ordering her to go to the other side of the city before letting her go. I still wonder how large his radius of action is. It sure must be considerably large, given how he’s taking her to the other side of the city without any trouble, instead of she snapping out of the body control just a few blocks away. No wonder he’s the highest Master classification in Brockton Bay!

Something I really like of these intermission is not only that they allow the reader to see better how a character thinks and how they behave – one of Mr. Wildbow’s greatest strengths as a writer is that he can make each character have their own voice – but also that there’s more insight about how their powers work.

For long minutes, he exercised her power, the ability to be as light as a feather, enjoyed it.  He even liked the running, too, when he turned off her power and just legged it

It seems Regent can feel the puppets to some extent. I don’t mean he shares sensations with them, but it seems to me he can have...some sort of vicarious enjoyment in what they do. Makes me wonder if he has captured other capes before. It’s unlikely, I guess, given how it’d require kidnapping a cape and staying in close-quarters with them for a long while, so maybe he’s more used to doing this with normal civilians.

Fighting had been much the same way, but it had been even better.  Her muscle memory had been so primed for punching, kicking, takedowns and evading that he’d almost been able to let her go on autopilot, let her body handle things on its own.

Not that he could, really.  But it had been easy.  He loved that sort of thing.  Maximum reward for minimum effort.

Ah, he can access her muscle memory too? Like, all he has to do is give some sort of vague direction, he doesn’t have to plan every single of her movements. Convenient! Another advantage of controlling a cape.

Also what a relatable philosophy, hm! He uses it to not stand out, just doing what he wants, when he wants. Staying under the radar, even in the team, is advantageous when he has to deal with his puppets. While the Undersiders are en route to meet Coil, he sits back and focuses on making Shadow Stalker move further away, nobody notices he’s focused on something else. In his opinion, it’s better that way. He likes doing this. This brings forth a memory of the time he was a child, living with a couple of her sisters, his father and some of his father’s ‘girls’.

Hah! He as prone to tantrums, apparently. Even when everyone tried to appease him, he just kept going, until Heartbreaker was forced to come into scene. That wasn’t good for anyone, to say the least.

Father had taken two or three seconds to assess the situation before using his power on Alec, his two sisters and the ‘girl’ with a hand over Alec’s mouth.  He hit each of them with stark terror.  The kind of fear you experienced when you were claustrophobic and you woke up in a coffin six feet underground.

Charming. Quite the way to get them to be quiet...and it doesn’t sound like it happened only once or twice, given how Regent wonders if Heartbreaker doing this may have influenced his actual behavior.

That was only one of a dozen or so experiences that came to mind.  So yeah, maybe father had broken something in the process. Maybe it had been the emotional equivalent of staring into the sun for far too long, too many times, being left almost half blind.

...maybe? It’s possible it may have influenced, yeah. I also wouldn’t be surprised it’s also a side effect of Regent’s power. True, he may not have had a trigger event, given how he was the son of a parahuman, but it’s possible his power may have made it easier for him to make use of it, like slowly conditioning him and making him able to use the power to its maximum extent. Look, Regent was surrounded by so many factors that may have contributed to how he is now, it’s hard to blame a single one!

And now he says maybe it’s his power what made him like this. It’s always nice to see when my thoughts are echoed, makes me feel like I’m going in the right direction.

It doesn’t take long to get far away. Regent enjoys the sensation of controlling another person, basking in all of Shadow Stalker’s feelings. Unlike him, her emotions aren’t dulled at all. Yeah, that may be a reason why he likes so much to control other people. He can experience what he can’t experience so well by himself.

“Funny thing about having this control over you, I can feel your emotions, your body’s reactions.  Like a really, really good polygraph test.  I wasn’t even half done saying my piece back there when I caught on to the fact that you were too pissed and too angry to back down and walk away. There’s no way you’re going to leave town if I let you go, right?”

...in hindsight I took at face value that nod. I should have known someone as defiant as Shadow Stalker wouldn’t simply leave the town just because of what happened. She’d be hellbent in vengeance. Why did I take that nod at face value? I’m not sure, honestly...

Since he has nothing better to do right now and the rest will have stuff to deal with, Regent decides to have some fun flexing his power, and he does that by throwing Shadow Stalker’s stuff to the trash and committing some privacy breeches. He’s no Tattletale, but he can find out the password to Shadow Stalker’s phones by using muscle memory. One is the Ward-issued cellphone, which has the contacts stored. I bet it has excellent protection, even against tinkers. The other is her personal phone.

Browsing through the sent messages is a tedious task, so he goes for the saved messages. It confirms to him who Shadow Stalker is – since Taylor accidentally mentioned the names of two of her bullies, it seems. The message that confirms it, well...hm...let’s say it still feels rather uncomfortable to read plans to bully someone, especially when they’re written so flippantly.

Long seconds passed.  He knew he should feel bad for the dork, but he only felt annoyed.  He felt worse about the fact that he didn’t feel bad than he did about what he’d just read.

Something to thank father for, maybe.

...at least he felt something. Of course this something isn’t really directed towards Skitter, since it’s nothing like sympathy or the such, but since the concept of right and wrong didn’t rely on his emotions, he seems to be able to decide to...punish Shadow Stalker for her bullying campaign. She’s not taking it well, seeing Regent calmly getting ready to send the incriminating proof to the teachers of the school.  Eeeeh...can’t say I have much faith in them doing anything about that, after how things went in that meeting many arcs ago. Maybe he’d get better results sending them to Director Piggot as well, who knows. Give her some more headaches to deal with.

Oh, nevermind, she’s adding the police force to the email recipient list.

When he’d added that email to the list, he added another line:

contacting police to make sure something is done

In a way that’s kind of a brilliant move. These messages are about Sophia Hess, not about Shadow Stalker. Civilian identities are something the heroes need to be careful with, trying to not reveal anything to anyone who shouldn’t know. If Piggot tries to make some damage control regarding PR, she’d pretty much giving away what Shadow Stalker’s civilian identity is, as well as what kind of stuff she does at school. That’s going to be difficult to twist with PR. Even if there are people in the police force who already know about Shadow Stalker’s civilian identity, that doesn’t guarantee they’d cooperate to bury this situation away.

All in all, either something actually happens and Sophia Hess receives some retribution, or Director Piggot has to spend many, many hours dealing with this major mess. Either way she’s not going to be happy at all with Shadow Stalker. How much longer will it be before she decides it’s not worth it to have her around?

Once the messages were sent, Regent makes Shadow Stalker go around, walking on precarious railings and calling Emma at 3 AM. Hah! She asked to be called later, yep, but not at three in the morning, that’s for sure!

Well...Regent isn’t really very good at imitating Shadow Stalker, but that’s not important. She’s annoying Emma a lot, there’s some satisfaction to be had in that. And theeeeen he makes her confess her love to Emma. Well alright then! If there were any doubts in Emma’s mind that something was up with Shadow Stalker, this will dispel them. Not that it matters much, after all, what can Emma do about anything? She’s somewhere else, and she’s just some random civilian. In the big scheme of things, she’s a largely unimportant character.

Emma didn’t believe not even a single word of that love confession. Figures. What’s next, Regent? He hasn’t gotten fed up of messing with Shadow Stalker’s life yet. He takes out the map application of the smartphone and studies the last request for directions Shadow Stalker did.

...

He’s going to do something at her home now, isn’t he? He sure is being thorough in this methodical dismantling of Shadow Stalker’s life. Her work as a reluctant Ward had been ruined already, and now he’s ruining everything about her civilian identity. That’s rather messed up, definitely.

But who knows if he’ll actually be able to do anything. The further away he is, the harder it’s for him to keep Shadow Stalker moving. She’s already moving sluggishly; it may be matter of time before she recovers all control over her body. Oh, nevermind, they got closer later. Shadow Stalker won’t ever know it, thankfully.

These people are awake at three in the morning, huh. Waiting for Sophia to arrive, perhaps? The young man who saw Shadow Stalker first seems to be unable to believe what he’s seeing, while the woman who’s likely to be Sophia’s mother reacts with...that behavior parents do when they want to talk something they don’t want their kids to hear.

“Chill, bro,” Regent was making a guess here. From the way the boy stared at Shadow Stalker, he knew he’d hit the mark.

“Sophia!?”

“Yeah,” Regent grinned behind her mask.  “Duh, moron.”

She has been keeping her hero identity as a secret from her family! Or at least from everyone who isn’t the mother. Now that I think about it, that makes sense. It’s not like the Wards surreptitiously induct people into the group. Kid Win had talked with that budding spy while the spy’s mother was present. Sophia’s mom must have known about the hero job.

There was a flurry of hissed words between Terry and Shadow Stalker’s mother.  Among them was a surprised, hurt, “You knew!?”

Hm. While I still feel some retribution towards Sophia’s action was deserved, this is starting to get other people involved and therefore it’s starting to go rather far. Emma was one thing, because she was directly into the bullying plans. This family, well...I doubt they had anything to do with all the poisonous mess Sophia is. Things are going to be very awkward for this family for a while.

This truly illustrates how someone like Regent having the ability to control other people’s bodies is a rather fearsome thing.

You know, I can’t tell if Sophia would behave so dismissively towards her mother. Apparently yes, since the mom isn’t realizing something is off about Sophia’s nonchalant behavior. The woman gets angrier with each flippant line, and even more when Sophia yawns. Wow, Regent really knows how to piss people off.

“It’s the rules in my house!  If it’s going to keep you out of prison and on the straight and narrow, fine.  But I will not have you glorifying violence-”

Hoh, nothing kept her on the straight and narrow at all. But yeah, looks like this explains why only the mother knew about Sophia’s hero role. She doesn’t approve any of this at all, and I have a hunch Sophia’s extreme vigilantism from before she joined the Wards can’t have helped to earn her support.

It must be horrible to watch someone else make you dig your metaphorical grave deeper and deeper. Showing the lethal arrows to the woman who disapproves of violence in the first place isn’t going to convince her she’s on the straight and narrow. The mom is appropriately horrified, and demands to know what’s going on – with her violent behavior, that is, not what’s happening right now.

“You do not have the right to complain about something like being bored!  I work two jobs for you three!  I put in overtime, I attend every school function, I come into the office every time you get reprimanded because you’ve got anger issues! You aren’t even taking care of your sister, or helping out around this house!  What do you think-”

What she does goes beyond anger issues, that’s for sure. But yeah, I feel a lot of sympathy for Sophia’s family, frankly. They didn’t ask for any of this to happen, and their lives were already hard enough before this night. I hope they will be alright.

Shadow Stalker stood at Regent’s directions, then pointed the crossbow at the mother. The woman’s eyes widened, and she hurried to back away as Shadow Stalker advanced.  They stopped when the mother’s back was to the wall by the kitchen door, with Shadow Stalker’s crossbow bolt pressed against her throat.

My sympathy is increasing exponentially. I don’t have children, and it’d be extremely hard to imagine how it must feel to be in this situation, but...having your kid pretty much threatening to kill you must be awful, to say the very, very least. Is this something she and Sophia can leave behind? ...who knows. I have a hard time believing they will. It’s simply too big of a shock to just...talk over.

Once Regent is done terrorizing Shadow Stalker’s mother, he makes Shadow Stalker go to her room, ignoring the brother who just found out his sister is a messed up hero. Sophia’s room is rather normal, with the usual furniture and many photos on the wall. Most are of Emma and Sophia. There’s also a photo of Sophia’s family.

He found a picture of Shadow Stalker – Sophia – with her family.  Her mom looked younger and far less tired there, and was pregnant. Shadow Stalker looked twelve or so, and her brother looked sixteen or seventeen, sporting a fantastic looking afro and a less fantastic attempt at a moustache.  They were clustered around one another, but only the mom was smiling.

I don’t know, in my opinion Shadow Stalker keeping that picture pinned there with all the rest says a lot, even if she’s not exactly happy in the photo. There’s also the fear and anger Sophia felt when Regent made her enter the house with the costume on. I think she does care a lot about her family, despite how she’s like.

Could it be that Sophia’s father leaving is related to her trigger event? Like, he leaving caused it, due to the stress and hatred she must have felt back then? There’s not really any detail about what happened back then. What’s for sure is that whatever happened with him, and he leaving, really took a toll on the mother.

Regent makes her burn Emma’s face off a couple photos, and reveals he has been dismantling Sophia’s life with a goal in mind. He’s...

...he’s making her write a suicide note. Wow. I don’t feel nearly confident about how to treat this. Seriously messed up, that’s for sure. Regent’s going rather far. I’m not sure if I should have imagined this’d happen. Then again, Rachel and he are the two that’s said to have killed before. Maybe that’s not why I feel surprised this is happening, or surprised about how cold Regent can be while doing this. The fact he’s a villain also makes it less shocking. None of that makes all this be any better, of course, but yeah.

“Here’s the thousand dollar question,” he mused, as he began following the steps outlined in the video, putting the knot together, “Will your boss tell your mom what happened with me controlling you?  If she keeps her mouth shut, well, this paints a pretty ugly picture, doesn’t it?”

For some reason, I keep trying to think about how Emma would react, since that call was a love confession and all. I simply can’t imagine how she’d react. After how she left Taylor behind, I just can’t envision her having an emphatic response to anything, even though she clearly isn’t unfeeling.

“But if she does tell, if she lets mommy know, then shit hits the fan.  It looks pretty fucking bad for her, and if word gets out, it’s as bad as it gets for public relations.  Scary, dangerous parahumans.  Not just lives at risk, but you could be controlled.  Ooooh, scary.  Nobody would ever be able to trust their coworkers or neighbors.  It’s the kind of stuff they want to keep quiet.”

You mean nobody in this city has ever imagined there may be a parahuman with the ability to control minds or bodies? Parahumans have all kinds of abilities, and the heroes are rather good examples of some of them. Has nobody in this city ever thought that, hey, there may be someone who can use you as a puppet, better hope it’s not a madman? I guess just imagining is fine, confirming there’s one in Brockton Bay would be the part that’d terrify everyone.

I never thought I’d be feeling anything resembling sympathy towards Sophia Hess, but there it is.

Regent gives Sophia enough control to say stuff, and of course the first thing she asks is why he’s doing this. He outright says it’s because of what she has done to his teammate, and thankfully she doesn’t make any connection to Taylor, she immediately thinks of Grue. That’s a bit of a relief...

“I dunno if I care all that much, but it’s the sort of thing I’ll do because it feels like I should.  Dunno. There’s also the fact that you’re dangerous, and you’ve outlived your usefulness, so… unless you can give me a convincing reason.”

“Please.”

“Not that convincing.”  He raised one foot, then kicked the chair, hard.

It rocked, but didn’t tip over.

He chuckled lightly, feeling the confusion and the relief from his host.  It was a thrill unlike any other.  “I think I made my point.”

I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath with trepidation until now. True, I despise Shadow Stalker and all, but I can’t say I ever wished for her death. She’s, well, she’s not going to be okay, but at least she will live. That’s always a relief.

Regent is right, now Shadow Stalker has even less of a reason to stay in Brockton Bay, now that her life was completely destroyed, both in her hero identity and in her civilian identity. There’s also Regent’s threat about taking control over her again.

“I can feel your emotions.  I know I’ve convinced you.  You leave town, and if you don’t want me paying a visit, wherever you wind up, you keep your mouth closed about tonight.  They don’t need to know this was all my doing.  Things get messy that way, yeah?”

The more I read, the more it feels like this really may be Shadow Stalker’s last appearance. She has been convinced about leaving the city, she’s terrified...all in all, she’s not in condition to be an enemy to the Undersiders anymore. I can’t see how she can be integrated back into the story now. Quite a way to end her role in this story, if this really is the last time she appears. Well then...

This is pretty much how the intermission ends. I can’t think of anything else to say. Quite the shock, honestly. Mr. Wildbow doesn’t pull any punches in his writing. I feel a bit exhausted, for many reasons. All in all...wow. Yeah. That sure happened.

So! Next time the next arc will start. See you then!

Next update: in seven updates