#and she’s now trying to fill the gaping holes within her identity and self with her hero complex at a level that’s very much an addiction?

[zombiecicada]

[para-imperium]

Horizon: Rebuilt Chapter 3

The flight back to the base was subdued, slowed by the damaged aircraft. By the time they arrived Bill, and three of the survivors they’d rescued, had expired. Jenny, one of the few members of the Friendly Society who was privy to Horizon’s identity and had medical qualifications, came to extract her from the cockpit of the drone carrier.

The arctic squirrel tugged at the shrapnel in Horizon’s stomach with a pneumatic clasp while the raccoon gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the pain. Blood leaked out with each centimeter of metal that came out, only to flow back up the spar into the constantly re-opening wound. “I can’t believe I’m saying this hon, but your microbots are doing too good of a job.”

Horizon’s breath wheezed through her teeth, “just pull it out. They can handle the rest.”

“Actually,” Samantha materialized behind Jenny. “If you just waited a few more hours our leukosynths could take care of it. No need to ask your girlfriend for help.”

“Huh,” the squirrel commented, staring at the latest stretch of metal to emerge. “This looks like it was partially dissolved in acid.”

Horizon looked down as far as her awkward position would allow. The spar was pitted and scored like a photo of an asteroid. “Weird,” she commented. “Maybe it was my stomach acid?”

“Nah,” Jenny replied. “I don’t think parahuman stomach acids could do this.”

“And you got hit in the intestines, not the stomach,” Sam added. “Hence the smell.”

Horizon had been trying to ignore the acrid, cloying odor that had spilled out into the cockpit after the strike. “I figured that was from the dead body right in front of me,” she retorted.

Jenny twitched an ear inquisitively, “what?”

“Not you,” the raccoon replied. “The AI is here.”

The squirrel’s eyes lit up in surprise and excitement, “really? You activated her?”

Horizon grumbled in response, “more like she barged in and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“She shows that much initiative?” Jenny’s ears twitched excitedly. “And you’re talking to her now? Can I speak to her?”

“Sure thing.” The squirrel jumped in place and turned her head to face the projected red panda standing behind her, a smug smile on her face.

“Oh, wow,” Jenny set down the graspers and reached for Sam. Her hand passed through the panda’s chest without resistance. “An AR illusion, right?”

“No haptic feedback for you, I’m afraid,” Sam quipped. “Now, are you going to remove that thing from our duodenum or not?”

“Oh right,” Jenny picked up the clasp again and resumed slowly pulling the spar from Horizon’s torso, prompting another fresh wince of pain as it shifted position in her guts.

“My, duodenum,” Horizon groaned in objection. “Not yours.”

“Oh please,” Sam snorted. “Do you have any idea of much of that body was built by the Federation’s best autodocs? The autodocs that built me?”

Horizon gasped as the last centimeter of the shrapnel slid out of her guts, leaving a gaping hole in her skin that quickly filled with a thick blackish-red blood the consistency of pudding. Within seconds the blood had scabbed over. Jenny looked at the scored end of the metallic spar and turned back to the AI, “can you take care of any remaining bits that might have broken off? Or should we prep for surgery?”

“We’ll be fine,” Sam replied. “Construction on this moon uses a lot of carbon, calcium, and iron that the leukosynths can use for raw material. Whatever they don’t need can be purged.”

Horizon carefully started to rise out of the cockpit seat, careful not to damage her wound. “At least I can move this way. If slowly,” she said with a grimace directed at the AI.

“Raw materials? For what?” Jenny turned the piece of steel around, examining the marks made by the microscopic robots in Horizon’s blood.

“Replacement cells, mostly new leukosynths really,” Sam explained.

“Wait,” Jenny’s ears shot up in alarm. “If your microbots can scavenge materials from their environment and self-replicate, does that mean we have to worry about a Gray Goo scenario?”

“What?” Horizon asked. She thought she’d heard the term somewhere, probably from one of MechRat’s rants, but couldn’t quite recall what it meant. Though she got the sense that it was quite serious from the tone Jenny used.

Sam laughed, “no, you don’t have to worry about a runaway replicator situation. Aside from the safeguards the Federation put in place to prevent such a RunRep they need a ready source of chemical energy to scavenge and collect resources. Most likely any leukosynths Tanya here lost track off would just go dormant until she went and picked them up again.”

Jenny let out a deep breath, “that’s a relief. I always thought the guys going on about big gray blobs eating everything were a bit alarmist.”

“And they’re primarily made of corundum and iron,” Sam added. “It would be “red” goo, not gray.”

A button on Jenny’s shirt started vibrating, she pressed it with a finger and listened for a minute. “Sorry, I’m needed in theater 3, guess we’ll have to continue this conversation later.”

“Don’t let us keep you,” Horizon said with a wave of her arm.

“Bye!” Sam waved after the squirrel enthusiastically as she turned and left. As soon as Jenny was out of earshot the panda turned back to the raccoon. “You know,” she whispered, “we could inoculate her, and the Friendly Society would have two Paladins at their disposal.”

“What? No!” Horizon slapped the illusion across the cheek, to her immense satisfaction she felt furry flesh under her palm and Sam staggered back as if she had a physical presence.

Sam’s tail reared up, the mouth at its end uttering a low growl, but she laid a hand on top of it with an air of command. “Okay, we’ll table that for now,” the panda conceded. “But what about your pilot? Bill, was it? It might not be too late to save him.”

That possibility gave Horizon pause, inserting her microbots into a healthy, albeit eccentric parahuman was one thing, but if someone would die otherwise… “No,” she concluded. “He knew the risks when he signed up. I didn’t have a choice to get you implanted into my head, I’m not going to take that choice away from someone else.”

“Um-hm,” Sam muttered. Horizon started to think about dismissing the AI but before she could finalize the decision the panda held up a hand. “Wait! Before I go, there’s one last thing we need to discuss.”

“One thing,” Horizon held up a finger in warning.

“If that bit of debris had hit you just 3.7 centimeters higher, it would have hit the Thing.”

Horizon raised a quizzical eyebrow, “what thing?”

“That Thing you ate.” At Horizon’s puzzled expression she attempted to elaborate, “as we were crashing into Surt.”

“Oh,” Horizon clutched her stomach, a few centimeters above the rapidly healing wound. These days she barely noticed the weight of the mysterious metal sphere she’d swallowed months ago. “MechRat’s orb.”

“Yes, that,” Sam held up a hand and a projection of the orb appeared above it. “Whatever it is, it’s not safe inside your digestive tract. Even if you don’t digest it, and you can if you want to, or the leukosynths get desperate for resources.”

“You don’t know what it is?” Horizon inquired. “With your databases of Federation technology?”

“It’s not in my databases, no,” Sam explained. “It’s most likely a custom design of Luke Didelph’s, though I can’t guarantee that it is his work.”

“Do you have any idea what it is?”

Sam shook her head, “none. My priorities have been focused on keeping us alive and running your drones. I could run a data analysis of the orb and speculate though.”

Horizon thought for a minute, “how long would that analysis take?”

Sam shrugged, “it might be as short as an hour. Or it might take several days.”

The raccoon smirked, if it would get the AI out of her hair for a while all the better. “Run the analysis.”

Sam nodded, “alright then. I strongly advise you regurgitate it soon though.”

“Fine,” Horizon stated. Sam disappeared and Horizon started off towards the dormitories to wait for Jenny. On her way over she received a message on her BCI:

To volunteer pilot Horizon: Your presence is requested in conference room C at your earliest convenience.

The raccoon read the message and shrugged, whatever it was they wanted, it couldn’t be worse than vomiting up a mysterious artifact that had dislocated her jaw on the way down. She’d experienced enough pain for today.

---

On her way to the conference room Horizon stepped into the showers to rinse the blood and grime off. Her suit’s smart materials shed the particulates easily, sloughing off a stream of brown and red down the drain. Fortunately, her fur hadn’t absorbed too much dirt save for around her still-healing stomach wound. The jumpsuit had started to repair itself where it had been torn, but for now it left her midriff exposed. She momentarily contemplated finding something to cover her wound up but decided it might be advantageous to have the injury she’d sustained in the recent action on display, depending on what was going on.

After blow-drying off the raccoon headed up to the conference room, she opened the door with a press of her palm to the reader and stepped inside. Coordinator Taranda sat at a circular table inside, around the table holographic texts of the positions of the Friendly Society’s other regional coordinators in the Surt system floated in the places of their owners. Horizon paused, realizing whom she’d kept waiting all this time, and introduced herself before taking a seat.

“Coordinators,” she started, head dipped apologetically. “I’m sorry for the delay. I am Horizon.”

“Ah yes,” said the coordinator for the southwestern subcontinent. “The arctic region’s mysterious posthuman volunteer.”

“I don’t know if I’d call myself that,” Horizon replied. Grateful at least that they hadn’t referred to her as a “ghul.”

Taranda glanced at Horizon’s giant scab. “I heard you were impaled by a support strut out there. How is it healing?” the caribou inquired.

“It should be fully sealed up in a couple hours,” the raccoon answered. “I might be able to eat something without it leaking into my abdominal cavity this evening.” She spotted a slight wince in Taranda’s expression, and thought she heard a gasp from one of the other coordinators.

The southwestern coordinator’s icon lit up as they spoke, “you get injured a lot, don’t you?”

Horizon nodded, “I suppose I do. My posthuman durability, as you would call it, means that I can volunteer for the most dangerous missions and expect to come back alive.”

“It’s not just that,” the eastern coordinator chimed in. “We’ve noted a 28% uptick in violent engagements since you signed on.”

Horizon mentally reviewed the missions she’d gone on in the months since she had arrived on Surtur. Two dozen search-and-rescues, a couple of moonquakes, and four “raids” to save workers the Company had hung out to dry for the sake of profit. “I save lives and only damage equipment that can be replaced.”

“Your forays into airborne piracy aside,” the southwestern coordinator added. “We’ve noticed that missions you are on tend to run into explosions, cave-ins, and chemical spills. Much more than is typical for such things.”

“What are you suggesting?” Horizon asked.

Coordinator Taranda let out a deep breath, “there are suspicions, just suspicions mind you. That someone or something might be targeting you.”

That gave Horizon pause. She had cut into the Surt Company’s oh-so-sacred profit margins, and made them look bad for sure, but would they dare to try and assassinate an immortal? She did not know whether Princeps was still alive or if the singularity bomb had killed him, but there’d been no sign of the Resolution for nearly a Jordian year. Maybe what was left of the Nebula Company was waging a guerrilla war against one of the posthumans who destroyed their base ship? It was a bit of a stretch, but now that she thought about it that jagged spar had seemed rather accurate when it impaled the cockpit of her drone carrier, and Bill hadn’t had the protection of her augmentations.

“I could go on solo missions from now on,” the raccoon suggested. “No need to put other Friendlies in danger.”

Taranda nodded, “we noted before you arrived that you seemed to have managed the drones and the carrier after your pilot was taken out. Do you think you could do that again?”

Horizon nodded with some reluctance, “I had to use my implant’s AI to pull that off. But I think I could manage it.”

“Good,” the caribou continued. “We agreed to try keeping you separate from larger missions for three months and see what happened. Is this agreeable?”

Horizon sighed, “yes.”

[catloud]

Greta Gerwig is The Best One

I grew up loving, living and breathing two films: Little Women, with a wild and passionate Winona Ryder, and Emma Thompson’s Sense and Sensibility. The middle of three sisters, I saw our dynamic as a trio in both of them. We cast ourselves as these women, making our own Pickwick Papers and putting on plays in the garden, just like our beloved March sisters. My own teenage solitude revolved around moody walks in the hills near my house on a Scottish island, calling Willoughby’s name in the rain, usually to the soundtrack of Greenday or Alanis Morisette or Damien Rice.  These were the raw materials I had to craft my identity with. Sisters. Sisterhood. Love. Passion. Power. Freedom.

And, just as I was conditioned to pick a favourite Spice Girl or colour of Starburst, I immediately made Jo and Marianne my respective LW and S&S favourites. But Jo is something special. She is, after all, the patron saint of all aspiring writers and country bumpkins who move to the city for adventure. I feel that.

I know there’s something about Jo. Why did I make her The Best One?

What about Meg? Lovely Meg! Naturally maternal and equal parts severe, sensible and sweet, she gracefully bears the burdens of societal pressure and familial responsibility as the pioneering eldest child, while also taking responsibility for wrangling her more wayward sisters. She is a Mini Marmee, and lord knows we all love Marmee.

Or gentle Beth, wistful and musical, always striving to keep the peace between more the more overwhelming personalities within the household, and trying to make the world a better place for those less fortunate in times of extreme uncertainty. She loves everyone and everyone loves her.

Or Amy?  Artistic and refined Amy, who matches Jo in talent and strength of will but is a thousand times more socially savvy. She makes the rules of the world (for women like her) work as she intuitively knows how to wield and tame them, while Jo fights them kicking and screaming all the way.

The March sisters are timeless because they pose a question that has refused to leave me alone – what am I supposed to want? Jo is our natural Girl Power era heroine. She is all of the great feminist moments in one person. She’s Jane Fonda getting arrested at a protest. She’s telling a mansplainer to shut the fuck up. She’s not taking “because you’re a woman” for an answer, ever.

She’s wild and proud, recklessly emotional and deeply ambitious. And there it is. Ambition. The most masculine of fatal flaws that is at first admirable before it devours everything in its path, stopping at nothing till the whole world has been swallowed and spat out again.

We can’t all be Jos. Stoking and sustaining that level of craving and chasing is absolutely exhausting. And when what you want comes to you, and comes crashing down again because nothing is forever, then you’ll see the holes left behind. Creative projects and the pursuit of the next thing can be Polyfilla for the gaping, untreated hole left by perpetual loneliness. No one wants to look into its mouth for long, and so the great cycle begins again.

And I think about this now, because Hollywood’s Remake Olympics feels necessary this time. I need to see Jo again.

I find myself thirty, solo and skint. I have yet to find a like-minded soul who is more Alcott’s Laurie and less Austen’s Willoughby, and I’ve spent most of my twenties pursuing a career that I have loved but I’m convinced hasn’t loved me. I’ve hunted opportunities, scraped by when cash was tight with a knot in my stomach and instead of chasing something brilliant and wonderful, I have been obsessed with not failing. Failing isn’t an option. I don’t know what else to be instead.

Why was my hometown not enough?

Why did I have to want more?

These questions are Greta Gerwig’s territory, an artist who has made herself very much at home with stories about women at crossroads who sense good things on the horizon, but struggle to get their bearings. She is an artist I watch with so much strange pride, horrified that so few women are staking claims and taking names in a director’s chair and yet, there she is. There she has been, for years.  

As a writer and as a performer, Gerwig understands how painful it is to be in a perpetual state of becoming. Frances Ha - the 2012 film she starred in and co-wrote with director Noah Baumbach - is a masterpiece.  I resisted watching it for years, because I was scared of seeing myself in it. I was right, but I didn’t need to be scared. It’s filled with the same mundane intimacy in Little Women - girls sitting in bed together, making plans for a big, varied, wild life. Gerwig and Alcott write love stories about wanting to love life and have life love you back. Her eponymous character is the earnest, awkward and mis-stepping heart of a film that scrambles up the crushing economic realities of modern life with whimsical and chic French New Wave aesthetics, adding glimmers of Fame and Footloose for fun. “Scrambling” is the most appropriate adjective for her. A precariously-employed dancer, she tells successful and self-assured best friend Sophie in the film’s deeply intimate opening montage “I tried to make a frittata and it’s really more of a scramble”.  And we all know you can’t make an omelette without cracking eggs. They feature again in her Oscar-nominated and Golden Globe-winning Lady Bird. Arguing with her mother, Saorise Ronan’s Christine/ Lady Bird asks why she can’t cook breakfast, to which the excellent Laurie Metcalf replies “Because you take too long and make a big mess and I have to clean the whole thing up.” Eggs. Metaphors for messy lives, and a nod to the mothers we came from. The mothers!  They’re poets and they don’t even realise. I love Gerwig and Alcott’s big-hearted mothers, so afraid for wayward daughters who want more than they can provide and say things like “I didn’t raise you like this!” when they act up. When we act up. I know you didn’t, and I’m sorry.

At the helm of Lady Bird, Gerwig is even more masterful at painting sisterhood and choices with a bold intensity, coloured with vivid metaphorical visuals. Juxtaposing the joy of a first kiss with a hushed conversation about tight finances gives economic hardship and anxiety the same weight in the drama as romantic entanglements. Lady Bird’s mother is often visibly crushed by her daughter’s ungrateful and embarrassed recognition that they aren’t wealthy, and “wrong side of the tracks” cliches are shown to be careless, throw away words for painful and inescapable realities. Gerwig crafts anxious and relatable narratives around being economically downtrodden and feeling less sure-footed in the face of those who have hit certain milestones. Her work is peppered with the many little audacious deceptions we pull off that conceal deep-rooted despair; the greater truths can be reached when we take sex out of the equation, or throw it in; the sorrow of being left behind. But she always gives us joy, too. Writing the names of boys we love on the wall and painting over them when don’t anymore.  Going to view houses, trying on other lives for fun, because it’s wonderful and poignant to deliberately get lost in the woods to simply feel every now and then.  

She makes me nostalgic for that particular sweet spot in my adolescence. There is so much I hated about being a teenager, but I was restless and hungry and I miss that person. I still want to believe that the world is full and vibrant, and that I deserve a slice of it nut sometimes I fear that I will never feel brave or excited again. But Gerwig is familiar with this feeling and Little Women, in essence, explores all of these fears. Her films show women living their lives differently and overcoming the battles that ensue, and this makes her the perfect wrangler for the March sisters, each with their own diverging life paths but all of them equally valid.

Of course, to call it an exploration of modern feminism isn’t wholly true. Feminism that isn’t intersectional isn’t feminism and Little Women as a historical piece is incredibly white and heteronormative. But, there are lessons to be learned about what being a woman today looks like. It takes guts to be a mother and raise children, or to pursue the life you desire even if it takes you thousands of miles from what you know and who you love. She understands that choosing a creative career - and continuing to choose it in the face of all its difficulties – is to peer into the lion’s mouth. Her films have a simmering undercurrent that points a finger directly at the harsh reality and unspoken acceptance that art is for the rich, and the pursuit of culture indicates a sense of superiority or reaching above station. And it will always take courage to break free from expectations, even if those expectations come from the people you love most.

I refuse to pick a favourite this time.

Meg March is coming home.

Beth March is your favourite album on vinyl.

Amy March is playing poker, and winning.

And Jo? Jo March is every foolish text and all sparkling, heartfelt conversations.

If I have to pick My Best One, it’s Gerwig herself. She is a storyteller who handles life’s tiny disappointments and triumphs like precious ornaments. She is a master of making mountains out of moments, of carefully handling stories that give women space to live untidily and brilliantly, of big and small rituals we do to root the person we’re becoming to the person we used to be, and to the people, places and things we’ve loved, always.

I feel safe in her hands. I couldn’t trust my March sisters to anyone less worthy, and I can’t wait to see these women I love through her imaginative, sensitive and determined eyes.

[ofviktor]

my love is yours to hold (through every high & every low)

This is a companion piece to my previous prompt fic I posted last night. (So please read that first!) A lot of my friends (and others in the tags) screamed at me to write Viktor’s POV at a certain point. So I did.

Warning: This piece is just as angst-heavy as the first part. Please keep that in mind. There’s only roughly 10% fluff and it’s at the very end. 

“I’m glad you decided to keep this place,” Ivan says as he sets down the last box in the living room. “You’ve always seemed more comfortable here.”

Viktor glances up from the box he’d begun to go through and gives his ex-husband a small smile. “Yeah, I am too.” He hesitates, chewing his bottom lip briefly to ease some of the anxiety in his chest. “Ivan, look, I’m—”

“I know you are.” Ivan interrupts. “And I am too, but we gave it our best shot. We can walk away from each other knowing that at least.”

Honestly, he isn’t sure what to do with that answer because their marriage is ending and he should be more upset about it than he is. So, did he genuinely try his hardest?

That nagging feeling in the back of his mind flares again and he does his best to ignore it as he stands and walks into the kitchen to make Ivan one last cup of tea before going their separate ways. He opens the cupboard to the right of the fridge and freezes when he sees a box of pomegranate green tea sitting there, unopened.

Oh.

Yuuri.

He forgot that Yuuri had left this when he moved out of the apartment. Was that honestly almost three years ago now? “Viktor? You alright?” Ivan asks from behind him and he flinches.

“Yeah, sorry just got lost in thought,” he says before grabbing the kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove. Ivan is kind enough to help him organize the boxes so they’re all in the right rooms and by the time they’re done with that the kettle goes off.

It should probably be awkward, Viktor thinks, but it’s not and he’s grateful for it. They’re leaning against the counter, mirrors of each other and Ivan shoots him a smile when he sets his empty cup down.

“I suppose I should let you unpack,” he says and this is it. This is the end of a chapter of his life and Viktor should feel sad about it but he doesn’t.

(It helps, that Ivan doesn’t look sad either. He’ll sleep a little easier tonight knowing he didn’t ruin this man’s life because he quietly asked for a divorce two months ago.)

Viktor sets down his half-empty cup and walks Ivan to the door and he knows it’s probably awful for him to feel relief but he does. Ivan gives him one last smile, the kind that used to make his heart feel a little lighter when he didn’t understand why it felt so heavy and he does his best to return it.

“I’ll see you around, Viktor,” Ivan says with his hand still on the doorknob. He turns slightly and for the first time Viktor can see a hint of sadness in the man’s green eyes. “I hope you can find that happiness you keep looking for.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Viktor standing alone in his apartment with a torrent of emotions swirling in his chest.

His first instinct is to call Yuuri but his thumb hovers over the call button. When Yuuri didn’t come back for his wedding or when the new season began (and he still can’t believe Yakov is agreeing to coach Yuuri through videos) he was angry.

But the memory of that night they went out to Yuuri’s favorite Japanese restaurant (“it’s not my favorite, it’s the only one within a twenty mile radius that’s actually authentic, Vitya!”) always washes it away.

“I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you and always will be even if you can’t remem—”

Viktor can’t breathe, can’t seem to do anything but stare in surprise at his friend because he had no idea, none at all but that nagging feeling returns and he wonders if he should have known this whole time.

“Please don’t get married,” Yuuri finishes brokenly and Viktor doesn’t understand why his heart feels like it’s cracking apart.

Viktor may not have hurt Ivan when he asked for a divorce. But he did hurt Yuuri when he decided to get married in the first place.

He presses the call button.

And just like every other time Viktor’s tried to reach Yuuri it rings and rings and rings until the only way he gets to hear Yuuri’s voice is voicemail greeting. The soft tones of Yuuri speaking in Japanese and then English wrap around his heart and Viktor closes his eyes until he hears the soft beep that signals he can begin his message.

He hangs up.

“Come home, please.”

. . .

Yura, of course, is the first to show up at his door after he’s moved back in. He’s only a couple centimeters shorter than Viktor now and he isn’t sure what to make of that. There are nearly two years of missing memories and it’s always amazed him when he reaches back how much Yura’s changed since he was thirteen.

The nearly twenty year old Yura, barges inside and prompt reminds Viktor that the more things change the more remains the same as well.

“At least take off your shoes before you put them on my coffee table, please,” he says brightly while he shuts the door.

There’s grumbling behind him but he hears twin thuds and a smile tugs at his lips when he sees Yura’s sock-clad feet carefully avoiding everything on the table. Viktor wisely keeps his comments to himself as he settles onto the opposite end of the couch and grabs his book while he waits for Yura to say what’s on his mind.

It doesn’t take long but what Yura says isn’t what Viktor expects in the slightest. “This place feels just like it did before you and Katsudon—”

Frustration churns in his chest when yet again, someone cuts themselves off when they’re talking about Yuuri, specifically him and Yuuri. It’s been so long since the accident that he isn’t sure why they hold back anymore, whatever they have to say won’t be overwhelming. Not anymore, not since he’s accepted the fact those memories are gone and likely aren’t coming back.

He keeps this to himself, however, and simply shoots Yura the kind of smile he used to give the press. “Well, I only moved back in yesterday so give me some more time.”

Yura shakes his head and picks up his phone to text Otabek most likely. “No amount of decorating will fix what’s wrong with this place, Viktor.”

There are so many questions bubbling up his throat but he keeps his mouth shut. He knows none of them will give him actual answers.

Instead, he directs the conversation to Yura’s programs for the upcoming season and five minutes in Yura’s his usual self, yelling about how he wants to beat Yuuri and Yuuri’s records and how Viktor needs to create a program that’ll be the most difficult one anyone has ever seen.

This, at least, temporarily distracts him from that nagging feeling that’s only gotten worse as time goes on.

. . .

“How is Yuuri doing?” Viktor asks, aiming for casual but Yakov gives him a look that tells him he’s failed spectacularly.

He shrugs, unbothered, and waits for Yakov to either answer him properly for once or brush the question off like he normally does. “He’s fine,” Yakov says and for a moment that’s all Viktor believes he’ll get. “His knees are giving him trouble here and there so he’s talking about retiring after Worlds.”

The next words out of his mouth surprise even him. “He hasn’t won five championships yet though.”

And Viktor knows he just said something that must come from his lost memories because Yakov stands a little straighter and searches for something in his expression. Viktor wishes that they’d tell him what they know because feeling this confusion is getting old.

In front of them, Yura falls on his third attempt at a quad lutz and everything feels both the same yet completely different.

And when Yura shouts and both of them after they suggest he start his cool-down exercises, Viktor makes a decision.

It’s one he should have made a long time ago and he only hopes it isn’t too late.

. . .

Viktor hasn’t searched his own name online in well over a decade and while the temptation had been there after he woke up with a gaping hole in his memory he figured his family and friends would mention anything important.

The first thing that comes up on YouTube proves how incredibly foolish that was of him to believe.

KATSUKI YUURI & VIKTOR NIKIFOROV PAIR SKATE EX GPF 2016

His breath freezes in his lungs when the thumbnail reveals Viktor wearing his Stammi Vicino costume but Yuuri’s wearing an identical one in blue.

The movies always made it seem like when someone’s memory returned, it happened in a bang, with a startled gasp and a flurry of tears, as emotions hit the character all at once.

This is not how Viktor Nikiforov remembers his missing year and a half.

In fact, Viktor doesn’t realize anything happened at all until his seventh rewatch of the video and as he watches himself pull Yuuri into the second lift of the program he finds himself reminiscing on how many times they fell practicing it in Hasetsu and how Yuuri had kissed the bruise on his hip until he was giggling and squirming instead of trying to ignore the pain.

The dramatic bang happens when his phone clatters to the floor as it slips from his grasp.

Yuuri.

“Oh my god.”

What has he done?

He… he asked Yuuri to leave and then proceeded to… to…

There is no Makkachin for him to press his face into her fur and cry like he’s done so many times in the past. Instead, he’s forced to confront his tears as he curls inward when he realizes how deeply he’s hurt the man he loves.

And he still loves him, of course he does, even with three years of memories after that awful, awful day. It makes sense now, why he could never be fully happy with Ivan because even while his memories were gone his heart remembered enough to hold him back.

He’s been such a fool.

The next day he’s in Moscow, on his parents’ doorstep ringing the bell until the finally open the door and when his mama looks at him her eyes widen. “Oh, Vitya,” she murmurs and pulls him into her arms.

“Why didn’t any of you say something?” he manages to say through his tears. “Why did you let me do that to Yuuri?”

Several minutes later, his papa sets a fresh cup of tea down in front of him and Viktor can’t bring himself to drink it because suddenly he can’t get that box of pomegranate green tea out of his head. Which leads him to think of Yuuri. Who’s in Japan right now because Viktor broke his heart until the only option he had was to run.

Yuuri who has no idea Viktor remembers.

“Vitya,” his papa says and he finally lifts his gaze up from the table. “Yuuri’s the one who asked all of us to not say anything.”

Hurt sears through his heart and he tries his best to stomp it out because he knows his pain is insignificant compared Yuuri’s. “I don’t understand,” he mumbles, looking back down at his cup of tea.

His mama reaches out to grab his hand and he feels guilty for waking them so early. “I think,” she begins, softly. “That he hoped you would fall in love with him again.”

A tear splashes into his tea and he feels as though he failed. Memories or not Viktor should have fallen in love with Yuuri over and over and over again because Yuuri is…

“Please don’t blame yourself,” his papa says, gentle and kind and he doesn’t deserve it. “I know Yuuri never did while he was here and I doubt that’s changed since he went back to Japan.”

It doesn’t make him feel better. Nothing will until he can see Yuuri again and apologize. He doesn’t expect anything to change but he needs Yuuri to know that if he could take back all the pain he’s caused he would in a heartbeat.

He stays with his parents for a few more days, tries to sift through the complicated ball of emotions lodged in his chest. Anger is the first thing he tackles because it’s the most destructive and he’s so, so tired of ruining his life - intentionally or not. What surprises him most is when he finds anger directed at Yuuri.

It’s ridiculous really, because while he imagines he wouldn’t ever leave Yuuri if their roles were switched, he knows that probably wouldn’t have been the case. But it still hurts, still makes him want to curl his fingers into a fist when he remembers how Yuuri didn’t even try to fight to stay by Viktor’s side after the accident, how he just quietly left to find his own place and leave Viktor to pick up the pieces of his life.

He knows it’s far more complicated than that.

After that, he tries to tackle the guilt. Tries to wade his way through three years of memories that used to be mundane but now stab him through the heart whenever he recalls Yuuri’s face. How did he miss it the first time? How did he miss the agony in Yuuri’s eyes when Viktor introduced him to Ivan for the first time?

“Have you called him yet?” his papa asks as they sit out on the porch and watch the sun creep over the horizon.

Viktor sips at his tea and tries to figure out a way to answer without losing the feeble grip he has on his emotions. “No,” he whispers. “There’s a couple things I need to do first before I go back to Hasetsu.”

His papa hums but doesn’t say anything further, which isn’t all that unexpected. None of them know how to handle this.

“I’ve texted though, hoping maybe…” he shakes his head and wills his eyes to remain dry. ��I don’t know when I’ll be back when I leave.”

That, his papa acknowledges properly. And Viktor finds he can’t look away from the very eyes he inherited. He feels ten years old again, begging his parents to let him train under Yakov and his papa had given him this very look before agreeing and his life changing forever.

He gets the feeling it's about the change again.  

“If that boy still loves you after everything, after all these years, you would be a fool if you came back,” his papa says. “Ivan was a good man, but he did not see you as a whole person with flaws that make you who you are. Yuuri always spoke of you fondly even when it was clear you were testing his patience.”

His heart tears itself apart in his chest with each word because the truth is always painful. Especially when it comes to love.

. . .

“Viktor?”

In hindsight, he probably should have text Ivan that they needed to talk before just showing up but the last week has been one long emotional rollercoaster so he doesn’t give himself too hard of a time.

He gives his ex-husband a weak smile. “Hey, sorry to just drop by but can we talk?” he asks and Ivan seems to gather his wits because he nods and opens the door a little wider.

The apartment is nearly unchanged, though Viktor can see all the empty spaces on the walls where pictures of their wedding and their lives together used to hang.

Shaking his head, he settles down onto the couch as Ivan closes the front door. “You look like shit. What happened?”

He laughs and it sounds bitter even to his own ears so he does his best to swallow his emotions down before Ivan calls in doctors to cart him away. (Not that he thinks Ivan would actually do such a thing but life is full of surprises it seems.)

“I came to apologize,” he begins and holds a hand up to stop the words on the tip of Ivan’s tongue. “Because I didn’t give our relationship my best shot and that’s my fault. And I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one day for that.”

Ivan’s brow dips further and further down into confusion until finally, he asks, “What?”

“I remembered,” he says. “I remembered that year and a half I was missing. And I was two months away from marrying Yuuri when it happened.”

Ivan doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink and Viktor does his best to keep still himself even though every cell in his body is screaming to fidget. When Ivan does finally speak it’s his turn to be surprised.

“He must hate me.”

Viktor isn’t sure what to make of Ivan’s reaction. He had walked into this once familiar apartment expecting Ivan to be upset, to look at him with nothing but betrayal in his eyes. It doesn’t matter that Viktor had no idea until a week ago that he was even engaged to Yuuri, even in love with him because somehow, he still should have known.

So, he shakes his head and blinks a few times to reassure himself he’s still awake. “What?”

Ivan looks at him and all Viktor can see is mortification. Which doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. “Yuuri. He must hate me. I would if I were him. If I hadn’t come along…”  

He shakes his head and reaches out to rest a hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “No,” he says as firmly as he can. “Yuuri doesn’t. You know he isn’t like that.”

There’s silence for a few moments and Viktor wishes he had something to distract himself with as he waits for everything to sink in for Ivan. It must be difficult, to learn that your ex-husband was engaged to a man you considered to be a close friend.

“Why didn’t he say anything?”

Viktor flinches, he had hoped Ivan wouldn’t ask this particular question. “I’m not sure. Mama thinks it’s because he hoped I’d fall in love with him again without feeling like I had to because of what we were before.”

Ivan groans and rubs his hands down his face and Viktor wishes he could erase the guilt Ivan’s feeling. The only one between the three of them that should harbor that burden is himself. “Ivan don’t—”

“No, I’m going to feel guilty about this. A horrible thing happened to both of you and I stumbled into your lives and made it even worse. Unknowingly or not I still hurt Yuuri and ultimately you too.”

His papa was right, Ivan is a good man and Viktor didn’t deserve his kindness.

. . .

“I’m going to Japan.”

Yakov is thankfully already sitting down by the time Viktor barges into his office a few days later because he looks as though he would’ve stumbled in surprise.

It took some time to find the right coaches for the younger kids he’d taken over from Yakov a couple years ago and now all that’s left is well, this. “I remembered everything,” he continues and Yakov’s eyes nearly bug out of his head when he confesses. “And I need to tell Yuuri so I can apologize for what I did.”

Yakov sighs and this, at least, is familiar. Twenty years of memories where he’d spring new ideas or walk in with a sprained wrist to have Yakov do just what he’s doing now. It’s comforting and he lets that sink into his bones to help calm him down.

“You have nothing to apologize for and I can tell you right now Yuuri’s going to tell you the same thing when you get there.”

Viktor knows this, because that’s just who Yuuri is. And Viktor loves him for it. Loves him for his kindness, his beauty on and off the ice, and even though it upsets him that Yuuri’s selflessness caused Yuuri pain, he loves that too.

So, he shakes his head and lets his head rest on the back of his chair. “I know but I still need to apologize anyway.”

Yakov rolls his eyes and this tugs a small smile from Viktor’s lips and god, it feels good to smile like this again. He watches as his old coach shuffles some papers around on his desk and it hits Viktor at that moment how old they’re both getting.

“You know,” Yakov says. “I was going to ask you to take over Yura and Mila’s training after this season but I suppose you’ll be in Japan when that happens. Yura will probably follow you there but I should look for a new coach for Mila.”

“Yakov, I’m—”

“None of that boy,” Yakov interrupts, with that familiar gruff voice that always reminds Viktor of easier days. “You would be a fool if you didn’t go after him. And I know your father likely told you the same thing.”

He nods, afraid if he says more hope will bloom in his heart that Yuuri will sweep him into his arms and let him back into his life.

“I hope this time, life is kinder to you both.”

. . .

The front entrance to Yutopia slides open and there’s Yuuri and oh god, he’s still achingly beautiful and how could he have forgotten this feeling in his chest the swells and devours him. Part of him wishes he’d taken that later flight into Fukuoka so he would’ve arrived in the morning but…

He’s made Yuuri wait long enough.

Viktor had hoped, when he got here that he’d be able to keep his composure but the look on Yuuri’s face tears it away. He tries to take a step forward, but finds himself overwhelmed and all he can manage to say is, “Yuuri, I’m so sorry.”

It happens so quickly, Viktor doesn’t have any time to prepare. One moment he’s staring at Yuuri across the lawn, desperately wishing he could kiss Yuuri, and the next Yuuri’s wrapping him up into his arms.

That’s when he finally and truly breaks because he doesn’t deserve this. Yuuri keeps them from toppling over when Viktor can’t hold himself up anymore and he barely registers feeling the ground beneath his knees. None of that matters as he presses his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck.

“Shh,” Yuuri murmurs against the crown of his head. “You’re okay. It’s going to be alright.”

And for the first time since he asked Ivan for the divorce, since he remembered everything, he honestly believes those words. Still, he finds himself shaking his head because it can’t be that simple, not after all the suffering Yuuri’s endured.

His lips brush against Yuuri’s neck and he remembers, abruptly, that he didn’t say the words yet. Didn’t tell Yuuri what he flew halfway around the world to say. His heart bangs against his chest when he finally, finally says, “I remember.”

Yuuri freezes immediately and he tenses too, afraid that Yuuri’s warm welcome will turn cold so he pulls away slowly before repeating himself. “I remember everything.”

It doesn’t surprise him that Yuuri starts to cry, even though he hates he’s the reason for the tears and he feels his own fall harder in response when Yuuri says, “You what?” like it’s impossible for the world to be kind to him.

Viktor’s never been the best at comforting Yuuri when he’s crying. He liked to think back before the accident that he’d been getting steadily better at it so he taps into those memories and hesitates for only a moment before he’s reaching up to cradle Yuuri’s face in his hands.

“I found our pair skate online,” he begins. “And I remembered everything the moment I saw you in your costume.”

He watches Yuuri’s eyes widen in disbelief and hope and before he can say more, Yuuri’s shifting upward and—

Oh.

Of all the ways he imagined their reunion going this was only reserved for his dreams, never reality but Yuuri’s kissing him like he never wants to stop and when he feels Yuuri’s hands on his hips there’s no doubt this is actually happening.

Yuuri pulls away and Viktor can barely make him out through the blur of his tears. “How can you still love me after everything I’ve done to you,” he whispers, broken and overwhelmed because he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve it at all.

But Yuuri seems to think otherwise and his breath catches in his throat when Yuuri grabs his hands and pulls them away from his face to kiss each knuckle. “I will never stop loving you, Viktor. No matter what.”

A sob claws its way up his throat and he chokes on it as he surges forward to kiss Yuuri because he has so much he needs to make up for and the only way he can think of to start is by kissing this beautiful man until the world falls away. If Yuuri will let him, Viktor will make sure every single moment for the rest of their lives Yuuri never feels like he’s lost Viktor’s love again.

He’s reluctant to pull away but he knows Yuuri wouldn’t appreciate him passing out but the moment he catches his breath enough he’s showering Yuuri’s cheeks and eyes and forehead with more kisses.

Until Yuuri murmurs, “I don’t want to wake up,” and his heart twists painfully.

“Oh, Yuuri,” he whispers. “You’re awake. This is real, I promise.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything and it only breaks Viktor’s heart further that Yuuri’s gotten to the point that he believes only in his dreams will Viktor remember him. Where he can be loved like this. He sighs and pulls Yuuri closer. “You’ll believe me in the morning.”

They stay like this for a few more moments before finally untangling themselves. Yuuri helps him with his suitcases and he’s thankful they don’t manage to wake up any of Yuuri’s family. Though, he isn’t particularly eager to look Mama Hiroko in the eyes after what he’s done.

For now though, for now, they shut themselves into Yuuri’s bedroom and shove his suitcases in the corner.

The moonlight illuminates Yuuri when he turns and Viktor finds it impossible to breath when Yuuri reaches out and grips the hem of his t-shirt. It’s hard not to cry again when Yuuri undresses him and lets Viktor undress him in return but he manages to keep them to himself as they stand there soaking each other in.

His eyes flutter shut when Yuuri reaches up to brush back his bangs and his heart is torn between soaring with joy and sinking with guilt when he remembers the last time Yuuri did this. Before his heart can decide, he leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of Yuuri’s lips, glad that he can remember how much Yuuri loves it when he does this.

He’s rewarded with a soft sigh and the corners of his lips pull up into a smile. “We should sleep. We have a lot to talk about in the morning.”

Yuuri’s response is to lace their fingers together and pull him into bed. It takes them a few moments to figure out a comfortable position but when they do all of his exhaustion slams into him. “I love you, Yuuri,” he mumbles.

He’s half asleep when he feels Yuuri’s lips brush against his shoulder and his heart skips a beat when Yuuri says, “I love you, too.”

. . .

Viktor’s having a rather pleasant dream when a scream rips him awake. It takes a second to realize where he is and who screamed but the moment he does he’s sitting up. He’s reaching out to check Yuuri for any injuries on autopilot.

“Yuuri? Yuuri, are you okay? What’s wrong?” he says and it sounds frantic to his own ears but he doesn’t care because Yuuri wouldn’t have screamed for no reason.

“It wasn’t a dream.”

Oh.

Memories of the night before slot back into place and he immediately calms. He smiles at Yuuri and reaches up to brush back some of Yuuri’s bangs. “No, Yuuri,” he says, soft and tender. “It wasn’t a dream.”

Yuuri throws himself forward and Viktor gladly pulls him into his arms, sighing when Yuuri presses his face into the crook of his neck.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like this and Viktor’s pretty sure they could have fallen asleep like this if there wasn’t a knock on Yuuri’s door and Mari’s voice asking if Yuuri was alright.

Viktor starts to laugh and Yuuri promptly claps a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. He shoots Viktor a pointed look and he raises his hands in surrender as he tells Mari’s he’s alright and he’ll be down in a little bit.

“What was that?” Yuuri asks, fond and exasperated already and it warms his heart.

“I remember Japanese again.”

The words seem to startle Yuuri for a moment before his expression melts into something soft and tender and Viktor pulls Yuuri in for a kiss. And just as he starts getting the idea to press Yuuri into these sheets and take him apart with his lips, Yuuri pulls away.

“Wait,” he says and Viktor doesn’t like the anxious expression on Yuuri’s face. “What about Ivan?”

His mind screeches to a halt and he stares up at Yuuri bewildered for a moment before asking, “What about him?”

That apparently is the wrong thing to say because Yuuri’s climbing off his lap and glaring at him. “He’s your husband, oh my god you’re married and I kissed you. I mean he was here just a few days ago and it seemed like you two weren’t…”

There are several things he needs to address but he freezes when he sees a long scar stretch across Yuuri’s left collarbone and he follows it up and around Yuuri’s shoulder. The only way Yuuri could have gotten this was if it happened in the…

“Viktor?”

He blinks and tears his gaze away from Yuuri’s shoulder to find that ridiculously adorable concerned pinch between Yuuri’s brows. “We’re not married,” he says, dumbly and promptly wants to smack himself. “Ivan and I that is. We got a divorce two months before I even remembered everything.”

Yuuri tenses and Viktor knows well enough by now to keep his hands to himself when Yuuri gets like this. So, he waits.

“How long have you remembered?”

Viktor’s aware there is a wrong answer. That he could fumble over his words or string the wrong ones together and Yuuri will shut him out. So, he takes a deep breath and slowly reaches out to grab Yuuri’s hand, grateful when Yuuri glances down but doesn’t pull away.

“I remembered roughly two weeks ago,” he says. “I wanted to call you right after I did but I was frankly, a mess so I went to my parents’ to try and figure out how to fix everything. I was also a little angry”

There’s no way he can hide that from Yuuri and he watches Yuuri’s expression ripple with pain when he flinches. “Viktor, I—”

He reaches up and covers Yuuri’s mouth with his hand. “Don’t,” he says firmly. “You have nothing to apologize for. I realized after a while that I would have done the same thing, if it was you who forgot and asked me to leave.”

Yuuri shakes his head, dislodging Viktor’s hand and he uses it to brush away the fresh tears falling down Yuuri’s cheeks. “I only ever wanted you to be happy,” Yuuri whispers.

And god, Viktor loves him so damn much.

“Please don’t be a martyr like that again,” he begs because they hopefully both have long lives to lead and he has no idea what’s in store for them after this and the thought of Yuuri suffering again makes his heart ache.

Yuuri shakes his head and wraps his arms around Viktor’s neck, pulling himself closer until their foreheads are touching. “I can’t promise that,” he whispers and before Viktor can protest he swoops in for a quick kiss. “But I can promise I’ll never leave again.”

He leans up, fully intending to follow through with his earlier idea when the door to Yuuri’s room opens and—

“Vicchan?”

Yuuri throws his head back and laughs when Viktor squeaks at the sound of Hiroko’s voice.

He’s home, he’s home, he’s home.

[back-alley-magic]

The Mirage and The Detective

NPC Name: Bernadette Collins

FC: Laura O'Grady

Special Role: The Mirage

Age: 18 at time of death

Occupation: was a student, but is now nothing more than a fever dream

Personality (bullets only):

+imaginative

+intelligent (and more knowledgeable now than she ever was in life)

+purposeful

+determined

+stubborn

+incredibly good visualization and spatial reasoning

+/-has a dark sense of humor. She often injects the dream-worlds she infests with a video game-like atmosphere and probably makes more pop culture references than a vengeful supernatural delusion should. Then again, she still has the maturity of a teenager...

+/-sarcastic

+/-cryptic

+/-firm believer that the ends justify the means

+/-blunt

+/-sees the world in very black and white terms, and can come off as rather childish because of this

+/- tries to act tough and detached, but she is absolutely terrified of her current form. As part of the Sandman, she can feel and remember every fragmentary imagining he has devoured over the years, and it's often overwhelming. It takes almost all of her concentration to remain /herself/ in the screaming gale of his dreamscape. But through sheer determination and brute force she has managed to retain her identity and, even more impressive still, can materialize to those caught in the Sandman's dreamscapes. She is the strongest of the Mirages.

+/-very goal-oriented with little thought of the long-term consequences. Like, for example, what will happen if she really /does/ succeed in eradicating Mr. Mercurial and his dream-world?

-temperamental

-foul-mouthed

-eternally frustrated

-vengeful

-anxious

-demanding

-lonely and scared, though she's far too stubborn to admit it. She's still a kid stuck in a never-ending hell-scape watching everyone she tries to make contact with die in gruesome, if imaginative, ways while slowly losing her own individuality That's enough to terrify anyone.  

-pessimistic

Short Bio: Her childhood was an idyllic one, or at least that's what she convinced herself. Bernadette willfully overlooked the tension between her parents, or the times she found her mother crying in the bathroom, or how many dinners her father's seat was empty (it got to the point where she would prop her teddy-bear in his chair and tell it all about her day because she knew by the time he stumbled into the door he would be too tired to listen). But when her mother jumped from the Morrow Memorial Bridge into the frigid river below, she couldn't overlook it any more. Her father pretended everything was fine, even taking her out for ice cream and bowling (one of her favorite things to do on his rare days off). But when they called him in to the morgue to identify a body washed up on Plague Island, and Bernadette was forced to sit on the hard plastic chairs in the hallway trying to count floor tiles to keep from crying, there was no more pretending either. Her mother's death was ruled a su.icide, but there were a few inconsistencies that haunted Bernadette up until her death (and still haunt her father). Her body was found on the beach of the abandoned quarantine hospital, far /upstream/ of the bridge, with her arms folded and a few scraggly dandelions tucked under her rigid fingers. After her mother's death, her father became even more haggard. He tried his best to keep things just as they were, and both were too stubborn to admit to the gaping hole in their life. They became very good at pretending, faking a smile, and learning to take care of each other. Bernadette took over cooking duties (and Jack learned to love peanut butter and banana sandwiches because Bernadette's cooking abilities were rather lacking), and Jack did his best to make sure Bernadette could keep up her extracurriculars.  But he often found it easier to bury himself in work than face his daughter and the unspoken emptiness neither could confront. So by the time she was old enough to enroll at Morrow University, the two had become quite distant. Bernadette's father wanted her to be an architect. And it was true she had an eye for detail and an extraordinary knack for spatial reasoning. But she much preferred digital design. Her dreams were initially to study at Morrow University and then move on to game development or the movie industry. But dreams, as she so intimately understands now, are impossible to hold onto, and often take on a will of their own. She was a Morrow citizen born and bred, but rarely had the opportunity to explore the city under the rather stifling if well-meaning gaze of her father, Detective Jack Collins. Morrow University provided that freedom she had so desperately longed-for. There she was a rising star in her digital design classes, building fantasy worlds full of intricate, whimsical detail and vicious monsters (and chainsaw hands. She's under the firm belief that everything is better with chainsaws and ridiculous blood physics). But it still wasn't enough. Her father was hard to reach at best, and dismissive of her achievements at worst. She started acting out, just hoping he would notice. She started frequenting some of the seedier clubs in Morrow's dockside district and exploring the darker side of the city she had called home all her life. This led her to the flickering awning of The Silver Screen, and deep into the world of dreams. Mr. Mercurial was instantly tempted by her fledgling imagination and boundless curiosity. He saw in her a fantasy world more realized than many before. Her dreams weren't just whimsical and new; they were /real/, hopeful, just a bit tragic, with enough wistful pain and enough bitter anger to lend them a depth not often seen in his children's creations. Bernadette doesn't remember much about her last moments. But she does remember the terror. The dreams turned on her. What she once built came crashing around her, and tore her to shreds. It took all that stubbornness and anger to collect those fragmented pieces into some semblance of the Bernadette she was. And at first she felt herself fading away, and was happy to passively disappear. But that was when she noticed the signs start appearing through the city. Her face was plastered on every lamppost (a childish grimace. She never did like to pose for photos), and sirens wailed through the city all night long. That was when she realized, finally her father had noticed. And that was all it took for her to find her strength. It's been a few years since then, but Bernadette's determination has only grown as she's passively watched her father spiral into instability and obsession. Many Dreameaters have been introduced to the girl with the big ears and the childish frown as she twists their dreamworlds like a Rubiks cube. She is playful at first, adding in references from pop culture and filling Dreameaters' fantasy worlds with intricate details. Many see her as a benevolent if immature creator, and a few even mistakenly believe she is the one responsible for their dreams. But they're all wrong. She is determined, a fierce knight on a quest she believes unflinchingly to be just. She will destroy the creature who preyed on her imagination, and she doesn't care how many unlucky souls she must doom in the process. She hasn't realized that at some point, she's no better than the creature that devoured her.

Connection to the magical side of Morrow or to your character: The disappearance of Bernadette Collins is what sparked the investigation into Morrow's dark underworld. While many magical residents of Morrow never knew her in life, most have felt the repercussions of her death in the form of increased police presence, nosy journalists digging into their activities, and the growing power of The Sandman. But those who get too close to The Sandman, or those who succumb to his enticing dreams will come face to face with her. She was tricked and betrayed, and she'll do anything to fight him from within and shatter his dreamworld, even if it means dying a second time.

How much do they know about the magical aspects of Morrow? Do they favor a faction? Bernadette had only begun to delve into the world of magic at the time of her death. Though she had no powers of her own, she had a boundless curiosity. In this case, it really is true that curiosity killed the cat. Bernadette's investigations led her to The Silver Screen, and straight into Mr. Mercurial's tempting trap. He offered her what she could never have on her own, a chance for magic, and the ability to manipulate the world like she hoped to build game universes. Well, now she has more power than she ever could have imagined, but this power comes with no satisfaction. In fact, it's corroding her away in the writhing mess of millennia of identities and delusions that makes up Mr. Mercurial. She doesn't favor any faction and instead focuses on individuals. She prefers to reach out to magical beings who try quicksilver pills, because they are more likely to notice and respond to her than normal humans. They're also much more dangerous, resilient, and likely to actually do some damage to Mr. Mercurial (they also don't self-destruct from dream overdose /quite/ as quickly).

Greatest wish? To destroy the Sandman from within and free the city of his poisonous dreams (and a more personal vendetta against the man who killed her with her own childish dreams. She can /never/ forgive someone who used her own imagination against her). Also, she wishes she could make contact with her father again. She catches glimpses of him as he investigates the strange string of deaths (many of them in part due to her influence) and she likes to think she's giving him clues. But much as she did in life, she's still acting out in hopes that he'll focus on her for a moment instead of his job.

Greatest fear? A true death, one where she will be forgotten completely. Perhaps this is why she tries to reach out to so many, even if some of them die in the process.

Other: Though Bernadette is part of the dreamscape now, she is still susceptible to its temptation. Notably, wherever she goes, a woman in a white sundress can be seen wandering in the background. She always heads for high places, holding her arms out with her diaphanous skirt whipped about by an imaginary breeze. When she appears, Bernadette's concentration falters, and the whole dreamscape beings to morph. It's always just as this woman plummets from whatever height she finds herself on that the whole world explodes in fractal staircases and spiraling, escher-like buildings. They reach out desperately to grab the figure in white, but she always disappears. Bernadette doesn't usually stick around to explain this, and this moment is often when weaker Dreameaters become overstimulated and die.

NPC Name: Jack Collins

FC: Jeremy Renner

Special Role: Detective

Age: 46

Occupation: Detective with Morrow PD, but is on a forced leave of absence after his investigation into his daughter's disappearance ended up with a young man exploding into a cloud of white feathers in front of him. Nobody can really explain what happened, so officials are just trying to sweep it under the rug. But officials generally believe it was his fault, or at least that the combined deaths of his wife and daughter are finally breaking him (and perhaps they aren't wrong)

Personality:

+just, if inflexible

+practical and rational

+resourceful

+protective of innocents

+always willing to take on another case and really just wants to protect people or bring people closure and justice. Because of this, he tends to stretch himself too thin

+actually very good with children (not so good with full-grown people who stand in his way though)

+tireless (at least mentally. Physically he's tearing himself apart with this ill-advised quest)

+/-stubborn and immovable as a brick wall

+/-obsessed with finding out what happened to his daughter

+/-extremely frustrated by injustice and the stifling legal system that he feels failed him and his family twice already

+/-has a dry, biting wit (and a tendency to talk back to his superiors)

-grief-stricken

-self-critical

-feels that his life has been a failure, and is caught in the middle of an identity crisis

-self-destructive

-impatient

-reckless. it's almost as if he is hoping to get caught in dangerous situations to punish himself for not protecting his daughter

-not the most creative or open-minded man, and is very dismissive of those who think something supernatural was involved in his daughter's disappearance

-short fuse when it comes to dealing with morally ambiguous people or cruelty. It may not be prudent to kick informants' teeth in when they talk about his daughter like she was a burned out degenerate, or when they tell him the hard truths he can't face (like maybe if he'd have been home more often she wouldn't have felt the need to get mixed up in the bad part of Morrow in the first place). But, he's getting to the point where he just can't help it. His memories of Bernadette are all he has left, and he can't handle people tarnishing that memory.

-lonely

-nostalgic (constantly finds himself returning to places he and Bernadette used to visit when she was a child. And if you give him a banana and peanut butter sandwich he is very likely to burst into tears)

-brutal (and becoming more and more desperate and violent in his quest for information)

Short Bio: Jack is actually a British citizen who moved to Morrow after falling in love with Elizabeth Beauchamps, a forensic anthropologist from Morrow who assisted his department on a few cases. He /hates/ the city. Something about it always felt...off. But his wife and daughter loved it, and nothing made him happier than seeing them happy. That happiness was fleeting though. His wife lost a lifelong battle with mental illness and he soon found he was losing his daughter too. Bernadette was angry, contrary, and distant. His little Honey B was gone, replaced by a grimacing, dark-spirited, grief-stricken girl who was far too stubborn to admit she was hurting. It was much easier for both of them to just butt heads and pretend nothing was wrong, or that the small annoyances of life (like B’s messy room or that one time Jack forgot to pick her up from soccer practice and she had to call a cab and break into the house through the basement window) were the real issues. In response to his wife’s death, and the unexplained circumstances surrounding the recovery of her body, Jack poured his whole being into his work. He /had/ to find explanations. He /had/ to punish someone (mostly himself), and above all he /had/ to keep Bernadette safe. But his good intentions weren’t enough. Bernadette grew ever distant, so distant in fact it took a whole week without word for him to even realize she was missing. He’ll never forgive himself for that fact, and now nothing matters but finally finding answers, even if it means burning the slums of Morrow to the ground. His superiors and co-workers say they understand what he’s going through, and at first were supportive. But they’ve lost their taste for his increasingly drastic methods and self-destructive obsession. He’s been hung out to dry, and now more than ever is starting to question what he’s been fighting for his whole life. He’s soon to find he has to question not only his life choices, but everything he thought to be true about the city and those who call it home.

Connection to the magical side of Morrow or to your character: He's investigating the disappearance of his daughter, which has led him to what he thinks is a new drug ring in the heart of Morrow's slums. He's about to find out he's in waaaaay over his head and things are far stranger and more complicated than they seem

How much do they know about the magical aspects of Morrow? Do they favor a faction? He knows nothing about the magical aspects of Morrow. Even after seeing a boy explode into a cloud of feathers and hearing about another bursting into green flames, he is still unwilling to believe something unnatural is happening (probably because he doesn't know how to /stop/ that. And the only thing keeping him going is the thought that he can find justice or maybe even Bernadette, though he tries not to give himself too much hope)

Greatest wish? To find Bernadette and bring her home, alive and healthy.

Greatest fear? That there's nothing left of his daughter to find, and that he really did fail her. And worst of all, that she died alone and scared, not realizing how much he loved her.

[ndrmag]

Contributor Interview with Gazelle Naghshbandi

Bio: Gazelle Naghshbandi is an active artist focusing on Iranian-American cultural and identity concerns. Her narrative works uses the multimedia forms of digital collage, video, sound installation, and photography. Her persian perspective reflects a nostalgia for her cultured past, while documenting her transition as she adjusts to a new culture. She is residing in the United States, in pursuit of her goal to share her Middle Eastern heritage and viewpoint with a western audience.

“All Are Immigrants” is the winner of the 2016 Ryan R Gibbs Photography contest judged this year by Karrie Higgins. Visit our contest page for more information.

1.     What drew you to photography as a medium to work in?

Before coming to U.S for my MFA, I was a graphic designer. I worked as a professional designer at many advertising companies in Iran for 5 years after receiving my Bachelor’s. Photography has always been my passion. I’ve been interested in it all my life, and started to get serious about in during my undergraduate career. I was born in an artistic family—my dad is professional photographer. I remember all of his photo books from my childhood and my world filled with photos and cameras when he worked. My younger brother is also an experienced photographer. They encouraged me a lot. They inspired me. My background as a graphic designer always involved photos. I had many digital collage projects which involved photos, drawing me closer to the medium. During my MFA program at LSU one of my professors on the photography committee, Jeremiah Ariaz, realized my passion and talent in photography and encouraged me to explore the intersections of my personal work in photography and graphic design. I took a few courses with my great LSU photography professor Kristine Thompson and she changed my view about how to approach an interdisciplinary work, working towards a more fully realized voice. My first successful photo project was titled Persian Dream 2015. For this project, I focused on my understanding of the United States based on my beliefs about the American dream before arriving, showing my perception of the American daily lifestyle and the emotional challenges and struggles I grappled with to function in this new environment and culture. My visage in the photos captures a dramatic narration of identity, which for now is half Persian and half American.

 2.     When did you first start to think of yourself as an artist?

I felt it for the first time during my MFA. Specifically, during my third year while working on my thesis, getting everything ready for my gallery show. I was able to explore new mediums (i.e. video, sound, performance)—I felt like I was able to explore and put together a work that was totally mine. For photos from this show, All Are Immigrants, you can visit NDR’s Winter 2016 issue here.

After my thesis show I had a great experience at an artist residency in Sedona, Arizona. Being with a hundred artists around the world and working on and discussing different projects was incredible. It was an amazing experience, especially since I think Sedona is one of the most spiritual, magical places in the world and my current project is related to vortex experiences in that place.

 3.    Tell us a little bit about your process; where do you draw inspiration from and how does it translate into photography? 

The idea for the hole (from All Are Immigrants) came from a dream I had. Since moving to America, I’ve had sleep issues stemming from numerous anxieties. I had a recurring dream where I’d appear with a visible hole in my gut while walking among people. I looked look like an alien from a different planet! I would be walking in a store and shopping and people would look at me strangely, but I didn’t realize I had a gaping hole. What happened to me? Why was I dreaming this? With my thesis advisor, I began testing different locations around town in which to create a photo series exploring the dream. I started at Target, it being one of the first places I shopped in Baton Rouge, and it being such a mundane part of American life. The photo series took off from there, me documenting self-portraits of every day life cut through with the ever-present hole. After posing for the photos, I’d go in with editing software to cut the hole out. In my poses, I’d appear shocked, expressionless, or cold, trying to reflect this invisible process.

 The ocean, especially, is crucial to my identity. I feel a connection to the ocean in its vastness, as a signifier of borders and distance. My new life feels like an ocean; it is moveable and unsettled, not anchored to a fixed position. It also serves as both an entrance and departure, like I’m caught between arriving in this place and leaving, simultaneously.

 4.     In your discussion of All Are Immigrants, you talk about the “hole” that formed after immigrating. Is the hole still present in your current artistic work? Has your perception of the hole changed? What are you working on now?

The hole, stemming from my work in All Are Immigrants and feelings of lack and disappointment as an immigrant, is still very much with me. My work is informed by artists such as Kim Sooja, Anna Diprospero, Alex Prager, Nooshin Rosatmi (Iranian-New York artist), and Gohar Dashti (Iranian artist). I still think that everyone has holes in their lives and feelings of loneliness; we can all relate to this aspect of the immigrant experience. Moving here, at first everything seemed ideal as I longed for my American dream. I was born and raised in Iran and lived there for 30 years. My main identity belongs to that country and culture. I left my previous life, my identity, and all my memories when I left Iran. I chose to lose these things, and sequentially to open this hole within myself. This history is part of my identity. But I chose to be here and so I died there and came here to be reborn, but I mourned that. I was more comfortable there because everything was provided for me. I was taken care of, but I needed more challenges.

The hole grew here, as I had a hard time communicating with people. Some parts of my culture are so different that I felt like a machine that keeps saying “beep, beep, error”, because the culture shock was such a surprise. Some parts of this new life were too different to comprehend. I felt mechanical, as if my mind was a logical machine, continuously calculating and recalculating. My transition to America was abrupt; there was little time for transition as a new way of life surrounded me. I told myself, “This is it. This is what you wanted.” After living here, I realized my dream does not exist in reality, and I was disappointed. During the analysis of my pain — a gap, a hole — I sought to understand where it came from. This work has helped me to better understand my identity: where I come from, who I am now, and who I want to be in future. The work is how I grapple with my fears and deal with them using my creative practice to reveal the anxiety I had. It counteracts me obsessively overthinking all the worries that make my mind sick. It is a cathartic process for me—like a release and purging of emotions.

I feel like I’ve left that hole, or that is has shrunk and disappeared. I still believe that hole can reappear, but it will in a new context. I’m hoping to continue my work in educating people about the immigrant experience, and exploring ways in which we can share empathy and learn from each other. Specifically, I’m interested in educating people about my Persian identity, and how it is America is portrayed elsewhere (and vice versa). But it’s exhausting, and my brain still feels like it’s on overload when people ask questions about my nationality, make assumptions about my faith.

I married an American, and we blended together but still run into issues about my nationality. I don’t know if they’ll ever disappear. So, I’m always brainstorming ways in which to explore this through my work, working in photography and graphic design.

 5.     What contemporary artists are you very excited about right now? Why?

My favorite photographers I learned about in Iran are Cindy Sherman, Jeff Wall, and Gregory Crewdson. I got my inspiration for installing my gallery from their work. I love the commercial look of AD Photography, the thoughtful messages that invite people in. I also admire Ann Hamilton the enormous scale of her work and James Truell, the way they make and use space and use light. I’m also really excited by Damien Steven Hirst and Marina Abramovic.