#and so there should be paradoxes all over the earth for anyone who has ever seen wet side story

[imjustavenuxwithaboomerang]

idk if anyone's said this already but my brain just registered that lela and tanner (and everyone else from wet side story) are in fact not real, they're just fictional characters in the teen beach universe

which means that they have actors that are in the real world and that mack and brady befriended fake people

[textual-deviant-blog]

Haven't seen anyone talk about the heat death of the universe, lately.

- Ai-generated piece by user 'Darwhim.ai', "Mortal Redemption"

I'm hoping to eventually study the science behind that theory, get some knowledge that will help me in my writing, but for now I just want to provoke the idea some more.

When you give it some thought, it's possibly, at once, one of the most terrifying and trite things in existence. We'll never live long enough to ever have it affect us in any way, but the fear behind it is the inexorable quality it has; the inevitable erasure of everything we've built up, as a species, as a society, as an individual.

It is the Alpha and Omega of science fiction, one of the greatest existential crises people experience, and... again, none of us will ever live long enough that it matters.

As I sit here at my desk, pondering consciousness and all manner of things, the thought that people have gone mad over this, the thought that people have let their lives be destroyed by this notion? It's ridiculous, in the same manner that people still crying over the towers collapsing, every year, on that fateful date, feels ridiculous.

Everyone who more easily disconnects from the thoughts that bring them pain views these sorry individuals with pity. It's funny, because everyone barring the most sociopathic at least felt a passing terror over them. It's a universal experience, and something we universally ignore.

Some may, instead, have optimistic theories of their own, the Big Crunch being the most well known. We want to feel optimistic about a future we'll never see, the matter of how realistic or supported that future is by what we know... being somewhat irrelevant.

This isn't a psychological analysis. The conclusion I've been dancing around is that, does it matter? If it matters to you, the reader, on an emotional level, shouldn't you do something about it? Can't? Then, why? Is it because you feel a moral obligation? Or, it's just a sad reality to live in? Sir, madam, or gentleperson who lies in between, should it matter if your life remains unaffected in everything but the cognition of it alone? Because you think it's terrible that such a cosmic thing lies beyond your control?

Sometimes things just happen. For no reason at all. In a world with control, a man wouldn't die after hitting his head on a sidewalk. The one-in-a-billion prion wouldn't just kill you after living a long, prosperous life. A pulsar wouldn't have any chance, no matter how small, to accidentally blast us from across the universe. A meteor couldn't escape the grasp of Jupiter and instead aim for our civilization of everything.

...there's a sort of beauty to it, however. One of the greatest paradoxes, greatest pieces of dichotomy our existence has to offer. In a world with control, a man tripping wouldn't have that tiny, tiny chance to result in meeting the woman who would eventually become your mother. A scientist wouldn't get to study one of the most deadly organisms on the planet, and gush about how silly the series of coincidences in our physiology are to even let this poor thing have a tiny, tiny chance to kill us. We couldn't learn about things like pulsars; couldn't awe at how terribly energetic and magnificent they are, elements the size of mountains radiating beams trillions of miles long.

Nobody would ever write a novel about a meteor hitting Earth, the protagonist either saving the planet or having mere hours- perhaps even less- to face the totality of existence. It might be written well, it may be written terribly; but it would be written nonetheless. If there was no meteor, no great crisis, no great existential dread, no great confrontation, so much of the human experience would just be living, existing, perhaps not even breathing.

Would we dream of death, then? Would we think of the thrills that would result from just being mortal? Would we think about all the things we wouldn't do, for fear of death? In a world where mortality is the standard, we'll never have these thoughts- not truly. Perhaps in another universe, but that's a line of dialogue unto it's own.

Ultimately, without mortality, what would we mortals be?

What do you think?

-

Sometimes I fancy age advancing upon me. One gray hair I have found. Fool! do I lament? Yes, the fear of age and death often creeps coldly into my heart; and the more I live, the more I dread death, even while I abhor life. Such an enigma is man -- born to perish -- when he wars, as I do, against the established laws of his nature.

- Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, 1833: The Mortal Immortal.

[tanoraqui]

I’m imagining that somehow this affected specifically those who had been High King of the Noldor, maybe at the moment of their death, which means somewhere, Nolofinwë and Fingolfin are standing companionably side by side while watching the Fëanáros rolling around the floor just fucking whaling on each other. Fëanáro, who never personally lived long enough to take up the name Fëanor, wasn’t even the one to start it; Fëanáro just saw him, assumed it was some trick and went straight to punching; and of course Fëanáro punched back. Fingolfin had been coming to…also punch his brother in the face, probably, but he swears he meant to as a problem-solving measure! But he arrived to this, so he just stepped to the side with his younger self, who’d been watching with baffled fascination and a bit of spiteful delight.

Meanwhile Maedros and Maitimo are stuck in some sort of hellish looping paradox that becomes a time loop of Maedhros killing Maitimo while Maitimo tries to figure out how to stop that, which he’s unable to do until Fingon runs up with Findekáno at his heels and blocks the sword with his own. Within these hours Maitimo’s grandfather is murdered and the Trees are destroyed, and it is still going to live in his memory forever as the hottest thing that has ever happened to him in his entire life.

Turgon was going to find his younger self and warn him, fix things, but his younger self was with Elenwë (where else would he be?), so now Turgon is sobbing into her skirts while she pats him awkwardly and looks to an equally confused Turukáno for help. Idril is also there (I’m an “Idril was High Queen of the Noldor for the few years between her arrival at Sirion and her departure from Middle Earth” truther), and she’s very exhausted, having come from Dagor Dagorath itself, but she takes young Itarillë by the hand and instructs her not to fear.

Maglor and Finarfin are similarly exhausted, and neither is particularly skilled in figuring out what is going on. But I’m sure they’ll each do something—though Maglor may have to prove himself by defeating Makalaurë in a duel of Song first. It will be…pitifully easy. Makalaurë still knows nothing of grief and despair, nor even, in their absence, of hope.

By my elaborate headcanons of 3rd Age-onward Tirion politics, there should also be Finrod and several other people temporarily elected to the office over the years…

(In my self-indulgent desire to turn angst to fixit, I want what’s going on to be that Finwë, as he’s losing his battle, somehow summons to his aid the spirits/selves of all the High Kings of the Noldor who come after him, and they’ll collectively figure this out and reach Formenos in time to save him. Gil-galad, and anyone else who hadn’t been born yet, already arrived right there, rather than near their younger self.)

Time-travel non-fixit where Maedhros kills Maitimo

[7central]

one reason why five is so fascinating as a character is that he’s almost morally bankrupt when we meet him.  other characters do terrible things, sure, but five is a monster because he doesn’t let his morals prevent him from doing anything to anyone. whoever he has to hurt, to kill, to sacrifice for what he wants.  he trains himself out of remorse.  he keeps every regret pressed down deep.  he convinces himself it’s justified and that there’s no other way.  but if he were doing this out of love for himself, as our more morally inclined favorites do on the occasion, what would redeem him?

the abusive upbringing as a ruthless fighter, the torturous years of complete solitude, the temps commission turning him into a machine of violence, this all sets five up to be the perfect monster.  no morals, simply the instinct to survive at any cost.

but five doesn’t just want to survive.  he could have had that without stopping the apocalypse.  he wants his family to survive.  through everything, he held onto one tiny piece of his humanity, that love for his family.  and he would do anything, kill anyone, leave behind the time they all destroyed just to save their lives above anyone else’s, give up the people they love, tirelessly try again and again through multiple brutal attempts to save them

despite his insistence that he never felt truly gratified by killing, there is something in him that does (not even getting into comics here).  five’s soulless demeanor in the face of death, his gleeful mania in the midst of brutality, his mercilessness, his pride, all the traits he developed to survive, show that his sense of morality is pushed so far down inside him he can’t recognize it when he’s in the moment.  he knows there is no true “kindest cut.”  he even told Viktor there’s no way to do the math.  but he was never going to be able to morally justify why he should value his family over any other life.  he knows that he can’t justify it or change what he’s done.  his motivations are almost unbelievably simple, a shining virtue.  he will save his family and he will do whatever it takes, accept any timeline, give up all sense of stability.  he is ruthless and cold and immoral, and he would have imploded long ago, in the apocalypse alone, or been made crazy and power-hungry in his era of killing for the commission, or simply reserved to retire shamelessly in a simpler time, if not for his one prevailing need and desire--to make the love for his family mean something, to be able to save them when nothing else could.  after years of being helpless to do anything, he is determined to do whatever it takes.

this man created the commission, and the commission’s goal was to “preserve the timeline,” which included atrocity after atrocity, and ended in fiery apocalypse.  somewhere, in some timeline, five created the commission, and, even if it was unintentional, ended up enabling this preservation of the very timeline in which everyone he has ever loved dies.  what could he have been thinking, being a five that survived hotel oblivion, a five that did not step on the sigil, a five who stopped his father and his sister from getting what they so desperately wanted, just like him--for their families to survive?  could he have thought that creating the commission would allow him to change the harbinger of death that it would eventually become?

founder five would rather live in a paradox-proof room past the end of all life on earth, would rather lay dormant on a table alone forever and ever, worse even than his years alone in the apocalypse, than risk his life to save everyone else’s.  this five told himself to let the apocalypse come, rather than lose control.  is this version of five truly a monster?

I don’t know.  I think that a part of five was deeply relieved when he was told not to try to stop the apocalypse, and a part of him was deeply resistant.  he clung to that relief for most of the season.  Maybe a part of him knew that he wouldn’t be able to conceive a way to stop it without killing, because that has been the only thing to give him power.  I think a part of him was revolted at the idea that he would survive the apocalypse only to create the commission that was the final nail in the coffin that turned him into a killing machine

we may never truly know why five started the commission, because, our five changed that.  he stepped on the sigil, which we know from his regaining of his arm and his loss of his tattoos. but who is five without the apocalypse?  who is he without the drive to save his family?

[yandere-wishes]

MONSTERS

👹 Yandere Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

👹Summary: Monsters aren’t born they're made, but Sukuna stumbles across the rare exception...

👹Warning: dehumanization, mention of gore, blood, slight dub-con mentioned in passing, death, past trauma, and abuse

👹 Edited: By the lovely @tealyjade-libran !

👹 Wordcount: 2,480

👹Alternative Tittle : If Roxanne ( from the Police song) lived in ancient Japan.

👹First Jujutsu kaisen fic! I hope you guys like it, please let me know your thoughts! Likes and reblogs appreciated!

Monsters were made. 

Slowly created as once blazing ideals, withered and died under harsh strokes of reality. Stitched together with broken promises and the ashes of rotting memories. 

Monsters were made

whisked into a role they once dreaded, once feared. Beaten into the role of the villain, the reprobate, the sinner. 

If anyone ever asked Sukuna when was the exact moment he turned his back on the laws of "good" and "evil", shedding his human skin to regrow a pelt of hate and destruction,

He would simply answer, "Never".

Because skin is skin no matter how much it decays. Even if the epidermis turns into a rotting orange shade, littered with eyeballs and teeth that shouldn't grow there.Even if the blood from all those he's slain has finally stained his dermis, tainting it in a permanent crimson that all the waters of Lake Biwa could never wash off. Even if his hypodermis is no longer made of fatty tissue but rather spiritual energy sucked from the atmosphere. It's still skin, the same old skin he was born with.

Sukuna had never shed his skin, he'd only perfected it, enhanced it, molded it into its perfect form, until he was no longer held back by foolish human limitations.

He'd never been "reborn" only recreated; only perfected. 

Spike, talon and teeth covered arms sprouting from oozing, bleeding scars, charred over by begriming infections that burned worse than the strikes he'd endured as a child. Knuckles and bones cracking over and over and over again until they grew as solid as the rocks that were thrown at him when he was all too little to understand the malice behind the insults and threats. Breaking until they could break no more, until they'd become strong enough to split a boulder with a mere flick.

There had come a time when he'd given up licking his wounds, leaving them to be kissed by the mold-covered worms who left an urticating sensation he'd soon come to associate with victory. Rotting flesh growing covered in thick layers of black tar tattoos that hid every cut he'd endured when he'd once been too weak. 

Monsters were created from quarter truths buried neck-deep in fables that snipped like red-eyed scorpions. 

Until the blood dancing through their veins was as black as the void they now called home. 

Sukuna knew the exact moment he realized he was a monster. The day he realized he liked the crunch of skulls beneath his feet, the pitiful spark in mortified eyes staring at the heavens for a scrap of mercy. Mangled mouths barely held together by fractured jaw bones, uttering prayers and pleas that died in the scorching air. 

Sukuna knew he was an abnormality, patched together by broken heirlooms and shattered family traditions. Sitting on a throne made from skulls of those who thought they could ever kill him. 

You can't kill a monster, for you can not kill that which was never born. 

You can't slay something made from good intentions with malevolent methods, something so vile that it might actually be pure. At the end of the day, no monster really admits that it is a monster, a nightmare that should have never existed. 

Yet...

Tattered hearts and cruel orbs are never quite enough. No monster is complete until they dive off that last edge, plummet into the sea of nothingness, and finally, finally break their souls on the spiked soil. Monsters, spirits, curses any malicious being that had been mended together like a half-done ragdoll was not complete until they truly let go. Until they erased all the former humanity that they had been born with. Until their eyes reflected nothing, no emotions, no malice, no want, no need. Just the absolute emptiness. 

The void in all its glory.

that was the symbol, the true markings of a real monstrosity. The void that took over their existence, that had replaced every inch of their former self. Only then could it be said that you were above all other beings, the true perfection of this world. 

There are worse things created than monsters, things that are made from nothing and everything. Things above "Yin" and "Yang". Things that have no scrap of humanity, monstrosity, or anything in them.

Things that are just empty.

So maybe -just maybe- that's why when Sukuna's rotting orange eyes landed on the epitome of emptiness, a...girl, whose face was sculpted to disreflect emotions and intents. Someone who was the void of darkness itself. The true personification of nothingness. 

His heart -for the first time in countless centuries- began to throb.

a truly dead face swarmed by a sea of buzzing ants, chasing their routine happiness. Smiles of delight and carelessness carved on their aging faces with sunlight knives and the melody of golden coins. The lust for life leaking from every pore of their bodies. 

With every face being a carbon copy of each other it was no wonder yours stood out.

There was a silver chain of attraction, dragging Sukuna towards the village girl. Not love, never love, the king of curses was beyond certain, that neither you nor he could feel such a honey-laced sensation. It was more like....something. Something paranormal, inexpiable. Some magnetic force outside of everything's control. 

It was easy enough to explain why he liked you. Why you stood out from the other insects of this middle-of-nowhere-village. 

You had dark matter for blood and dead seas for brains. 

Your eyes radiated an endless abyss. Making others shy away from your lifeless gaze. Scared to look into the void in fear that it may respond. 

You were a thrown away doll,

A living dead,

A dying star,

You were the daughter of the number zero,

The monster that had no maker nor mother. 

Something not born nor created. 

Just an entity that roamed the earth, with no desire nor hope, no wish nor dream. Not leaving, not dying, just existing in the space between today and tomorrow. 

There'd been no need for pleasantries, for hiding behind ghostly tree branches and frozen windows. There'd been no need to kill or ravage for you. No competition to eliminate, because no one ever came near you. Humans don't like what they can't explain, Sukuna knew that all too well. 

Sukuna watched from a close enough distance to almost touch. Lingering around like a phantom begging to be noticed. Orbs trailing over you, but never approaching. Until one day he'd just stood still. Waited for you to turn your head just a fraction to the left, just to see him in all his menacing terror. To finally notice the clawing, crawling sensation that had been creeping up your spine like a hoard of spiders. 

And when your dead eyes did finally land on him. Sukuna could swear that his breath hitched in his throat for the first time in his seemingly endless life.

You weren't human. Humans didn't have hollow faces or marbles for lips. 

You weren't a curse. Curses didn't lack venom dripping from their souls.

You were something better than a monster. You were the divinity of monstrosity, the void itself. Black holes for eyes, answerless paradoxes for hands, and an endless maze where your torso should have been. 

 Exploding suns danced around you, burning, burning, till they died out, leaving behind no trace that they once lit up the universe. 

The space after the end, that's what you were.

Perfect, to Sukuna you were perfect.

You hadn't run, hadn't screamed, hadn't even bothered to talk. You didn't care about him, couldn't care about him. That's what made him want you, made his mouth salivate with the thought of your flesh between his teeth. 

That night the world stood still, as Sukuna's claws penetrated your flesh like twirling needles. You were as light as a feather. You weighed nothing, were nothing. All so easy to pluck and throw about. You never made a noise when your body collided with the bamboo walls, just letting gravity and Sukuna play a twisted ball game with your lump of a body.

You hadn't protested when he violated you. As his lips bit every inch of your body raw. For some unearthly reason that even the gods couldn't understand, would never want to understand, you had found the Curse's violent actions rather...adoring. Taking every slap and slash with the earnest pride of a small child getting praised for a day of relentless chores. letting the dawn-tinted-haired monster adorn your body in blue and purple jewels. It felt right, in a  pathetically, nauseating, twisted way...it just felt right.

 It was disastrous, sure, but it was right. Like two universes crashing. Destroying each other with every kiss and every bruise. 

But...

For the first time in your meaningless life, you had truly understood what "happiness" felt like. 

For the first time in his endless life, Sukuna had truly understood what "intimacy" felt like.

///

Was it wrong to kiss you? For a fraction of a second Sukuna hesitated, blood tinged lips hovering millimeters away from your own stone-set ones. The moon's cursed rays acting like an unnoticed barrier, keeping two things out of each other's grasp. His lips curled back revealing two rows of knife-like teeth. The last resort, a final hope that you'd run away, that you'd act somewhat normal. The king of curses, the evil among men, didn't mind your lack of regularity. He didn't mind how you leaned into every bitter strike, every painful display of fading affection . He adored how you merely giggled as he slashed open your uncharged skin, creating slits for your blood to spill through, onto his waiting tongue. He admired your lifelessness, the way you radiated death. 

Oh, how you filled him with a startling aftershock every time he touched you. Every time his tongue lapped at your bleeding skin he'd feel the sort of electric shocks that came after the storms had passed. Your body had no shape, it molded to his touch, turning his favorite shades of red, with just a little pressure. 

But sometimes, in fleeting, endless seconds. He wished he had a name for what you two were. You weren't his per se, you could never be his. Being his would indicate that he cared about you, or heck even loved you and that could never be true. The king of curses did not love, nor care. He merely tolerated you; you fascinated him, that's all. 

It had been many moons since he first found you in that no-name village. Months upon months since you'd been by his side. You'd watched as he'd destroyed cities, helped him even. Eyes never shedding a single tear. Mouth never uttering a single protest. 

The two of you had become the best, the King of curses and the Queen of nothingness. With the dying speed of laboring bees, Sukuna had carved himself inside of you. Twisted emptiness into flower-covered destruction. Into molten gold lava. 

Leaving you with wounds that were stuck in a cycle of healing and opening. Until they began to harden like his. Until the need for spilled blood lingered on your tongue like the burn of boiled tea. Until under your nails were coated in a decaying crust of dried blood. Sukuna hadn't turned you into a monster, he'd simply showed you the powers that came with your apathy. With a heart as torn and cold as yours, it was a shame to let it go to waste. 

"You're not half bad," his tone is never approving. It's always laced with a strictness that keeps you nailed into place. His words are oxymorons sounding like praise, but once you peel back the lather layers they're just taunts in disguise. 

You don't answer, words die on your tongue as quickly as they are born. Sukuna can't even remember what your voice sounds like outside of small whispers in heat filled nights. 

 However, to the two of you, things like that didn't matter. Your lack of being even semi-alive and Sukuna's endless abuse had become a norm for the two of you. Where else were a two-faced monster and a lifeless girl going to find love anyway? 

Sukuna was all you had, all you ever had. You'd die for him, kill for him, turn into anything for him. Because he gave you life. 

A purpose to life, made out of raging fires and endless screams. A life fabricated from the pain and suffering of others. That was what the king of curses had given you, all wrapped in a human skin parchment. Maybe that's why all logic withered away the first night he kissed you, maybe from the first second that you sensed his presence you had finally gained a reason to be alive. 

///

Whoever said the end of the world was beautiful? Whoever said the final days would be bright and glowing and pure? 

It's just a blaze of stray flames and red crystal droplets that may or may not be your blood. Funny, Sukuna had always thought that your blood would be as black as the moonless sky, not a mundane red like everyone else's. He'd expected a grander death from you. Some sort of black hole opening to swallow the world whole. Not just another corpse motionless in a pool of their own blood. 

Although he's not one to talk. His own 'death' is lingering on the horizon. Sukuna's head tilts back looking for the flashing jujutsu sorcerers. 

"S-sukun-a..." 

He smirks, fangs sticking out at odd angles. Your voice is sweet, for the first time in forever he'd even dare say it held some semblance of emotion. 

What that emotion is, he doubts he knows or even really cares. He'd long since stopped trying to identify all those "feelings" and their associated names. 

His orange eyes lock with your fading orbs, one last time. No, not the last time, just the final time in this lifetime. He's sure he's going to see you again. In any other life, Sukuna knows he'll be able to recognize you despite whatever flesh suit you'd be wearing. 

"Shh little one," he's halfway gone before he finishes his sentence, leaving you to relish in his memory in your final moments. "We'll see each other once more, someday in another life..."

His four eyes lock on the approaching sorcerers. He finds it humorous how desperate they look. How alive and ready they seem, such a stark contrast to your ever lifeless face and dead eyes, it repulses him. 

"Or maybe in one of the circles of hell." 

The flames encircling his fingers remind him of the heat your body radiated in the dead of night. The crack from bones hum as they meet his knuckles, flash memories of your days wasted together doing nothing and everything. 

The two of you will meet once more, he's sure of it. After all...

Monsters never die. 

How could something that was never even born in the first place, ever die?

[jokertrap-ran]

(光与夜之恋 Light and Night) Charlie’s 6✩ Inspiration: Midsummer’s Gilt [仲夏鎏金] Date Translation (END 4: Listen)

“Why do you have your eyes closed again? Sleepy? Go ahead and take a nap then. Remember to dream of me.”

*Light and Night Master-list | Charlie’s Personal Masterlist *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *Join the Light & Night Discord (＾▽＾)~ ♪ *6✩ Inspirations have 6 Endings!! *Charlie’s tag will be #For Night, For Paradox

✥ Choice: Listen [倾听] ❖ASMR

What should I do? How should we spend the rest of the time?

⊹ Ask him if there's anything he wants to do ⊹

Thinking about it now, I still feel like it'll be better if I let Charlie decide what he wants to do instead of following my plan.

MC: Hey, let me ask you something. Do you have anywhere you want to go? Or… anything you want to do?

Charlie: Oh? You're prepared to fulfil a wish of mine for me?

MC: I guess so? I mean, heaven is big, earth is big, and the birthday star’s is the biggest.

MC: Oh. Anything but marriage!!

Charlie: You’re setting restrictions on my only birthday wish in a year? How cruel of you.

MC: Not like I can help it. Who told you to be the most vicious queen of all time, hm?

Charlie helplessly shakes his head, lowering his eyes in thought before looking back up at me.

Charlie: What I want to do today is very simple.

MC: ...Which is?

I don’t know if I was just imagining it, but I suddenly felt like I just saw a sliver of mischief flash across his eyes.

Charlie: Come with me.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

I followed him back to the farmhouse and out into the yard. Charlie immediately settled himself on the deck chair.

I watched him suspiciously, not understanding him at all.

Charlie: Come here. Let’s lie down together for a while.

MC: This is the one thing you want to do the most today…?

Charlie: That's right.

Charlie: I’ve been dragged and pushed around for the entire day. I just want to have a good moment’s rest with my fiancée.

The deck chair wasn’t exactly small, but it’d be a slight squeeze to fit two people on it.

I was dubious about it for a while.

Charlie: Hmm, looks like being the birthday boy doesn’t help at all, huh.

He sighed, watching me. I stood rooted to my spot. It was rare enough that I got to look down at him, but the look he was giving me was a little like a kicked puppy...

Never mind. Heaven is big, earth is big, and the birthday star’s is the biggest.

Mentally reciting the phrase again, I closed my eyes and laid down next to him.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Charlie: And here I thought that you wouldn't agree to it.

Charlie: Why are you closing your eyes for? Am I that ugly?

Charlie: A handsome face is right beside you, and you're not even going to admire it?

Charlie: Are you really not going to look at me?

Charlie: Not bad. You "woke" in a timely manner. If you hadn't done so, then I'd have…

Charlie: What CAN I do? Have you never heard of the fairytale called "Sleeping Beauty"?

Charlie: You moved over to give me more space? How rare of you to be so considerate towards me.

Charlie: What? You get mad when I speak and feel uncomfy when I don't.

Charlie: *Sighs*...Never mind, my dear fiancée can only be coddled by me after all.

Charlie: What do you want me to talk about? My mood?

Charlie: Much better than I thought it'd be.

Charlie: Are you uncomfortable?

Charlie: Then come over here a little more…

Charlie: I know I said "a little", but you've only moved just a mere millimetre, haven't you?

Charlie: Any further and you'll-

Charlie: Alright, stop moving.

Charlie: Move any more and I'll just have to fall off with you in tow.

Charlie: I won't move, but you can't go making me loosen my grip on you either.

Charlie: Why do you have your eyes closed again? Sleepy?

Charlie: Go ahead and take a nap then. Remember to dream of me.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

After dinner, the night gradually grew darker.

Having changed into my pyjamas, I was just about to close the windows when I suddenly heard a commotion coming from outside.

It sounded like a lot of people were gathered in one place, chattering along with the joyful cries of children.

MC: What’s going on!?

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Curious, I crossed the yard and walked out of the back door. I was immediately dumbfounded the instant I opened the door.

The originally empty plain had somehow accommodated a helicopter from somewhere. Charlie was standing by the helicopter’s door with his head bowed as he adjusted his shirt collar.

There were many villagers from around the area beside him. The old, the young, the boys, the girls; some of them taking photos, some of them discussing within their midst.

Little Boy: Big bro, do you really mean what you said earlier?

Charlie: But of course; I never lie.

Little Girl: Wow! I’m gonna get dad to bring me to a good spot right now!

Little Boy: Wait a minute, me too!

A couple of kids fussed about wanting to get to higher ground, to which Charlie only smiled at. The sides of his mouth curled upwards as he let out a soft snort, an inconcealable look of pride on his face.

Suddenly, I can’t help but have a very bad feeling about this new turn of events. I subconsciously turned to flee.

Charlie: I haven’t even gone looking for you yet, and here you are.

Charlie: Looks like we truly have an affinity with each other.

A big hand lands on my shoulder, making me unwittingly turn around only to face his triumphant expression.

MC: And what are you trying to pull again? What’s with this helicopter here?

Charlie: I’m going to take you for a spin.

MC: ……

MC: I’m going to bed. Good night.

I turned to leave again, but the same hand landed on my shoulder once more, this time backed with an irrefutable strength as he dragged me up into the helicopter.

Ten minutes later.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Chuf, chuf, chuf.

The sound of the helicopter’s propeller reverberated in my ears. I’d eventually given up struggling against him; and now, I sat next to him blankly, decked in pyjamas and slippers.

Charlie: Why so quiet? Are you scared of heights?

MC: Har, har, very funny. Just think of it as me being sleepy.

Charlie: Then, you’d do well to wake up; because what’s coming up next is something worth remembering for a lifetime.

MC: …What?

Charlie: I did give my birthday some serious thought.

Charlie: While it’s true that I don’t like attending birthday banquets, it is not in line with my personality to spend my birthday in such a low-key, simplistic, manner.

MC: ……

Charlie: Plus, my fiancée worked so hard to prepare so many surprises for me. So, I have to give her a gift in return, won’t you say?

He’d only just said that when a loud bang sounded from outside the window.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

I saw fireworks blooming behind him, suddenly lighting up the night sky, as well as the hand that Charlie had started to reach out towards me.

My eyes widened in surprise. I’d totally forgotten that reactions were a thing. And that was how Charlie had pulled me over to admire the scenery outside the window together.

And that was how the gorgeous fireworks bloomed seemingly near, yet far. It was almost as if one could simply reach out and touch them.

The boundless night sky was skin to a long and endless river, while the fireworks resembled the starry sky, reflected on the surface of the river. We were seated atop a small boat, free to move and traverse this galaxy as we so wished.

I couldn’t help but raise my hand, pressing it against the glass window and fixing my eyes firmly to the fireworks blooming outside.

Charlie: What? So moved that you could cry?

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Charlie’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. I glanced at the handkerchief that held out before me and turned away with a huff.

MC: Thanks, but I’m not that easily moved.

MC: And these fireworks… It’s really beautiful, but please don’t do such overly exaggerated things in the future.

Charlie: So you’re already contemplating how to celebrate my future birthdays?

MC: I’m not…

My eyes dilated in rage, yet the flicker of flames died out the moment I raised my head.

Reflected within those twin violet orbs of his were the flashing lights of the fireworks… and two little reflections of me.

MC: Let’s leave the stuff next year… to next year.

Charlie: Don’t worry, you can have it every year.

The fireworks outside the window continued. Looking at the magnificent splendour outside, I suddenly remembered that I didn’t exactly wish him a “happy birthday” yet.

MC: Charlie.

Charlie: Hm?

MC: Happy birthday.

Charlie: Thank you.

This might actually be the first time that he has ever seriously thanked me for anything before.

My heart squeezed, immediately starting to race soon after. There was no longer any way to hide it.

MC: And there’s something else I want to tell you…

MC: Actually, I wouldn’t have known that it was your birthday today if you didn’t mistakenly think that I was making “longevity noodles”.

MC: I only agreed to go on a trip with you because I didn’t want to owe you any favours.

MC: And… I only decided to come here to this rural countryside to spite you because I knew that you’d be uncomfortable with it.

MC: And I didn’t prepare anything in advance as your birthday gift either…

I paused, not knowing how to continue. However, it was Charlie who carried on with the conversation, much to my surprise.

Charlie: So?

MC: So… Aren’t you angry?

MC: I clearly lied to you, in a way.

Charlie: My fiancée has been pondering hard and busying about like a busy bee today to celebrate my birthday.

Charlie: I don’t think there’s anything to be mad about.

I was stunned. For a moment, I didn’t quite know how to reply to him. All I registered was the soft thud of my heart as it skipped a beat.

MC: …I really don’t understand you sometimes.

Charlie: Then, I suppose you’ll have to put in more effort to understand me. After all, I can already understand you like the back of my hand.

Charlie: You can just tell me if you need help. I’ll get someone to collate my information and send it to you in a file.

MC: No need!

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

I softly snorted, turning around to continue admiring the fireworks outside the window.

Even though I knew clearer than anyone else, deep down in my heart, that fireworks were nought but merely a fleeting moment of brilliance…

I still can’t help but hope…

To hope that everything would be etched into stone, preserved forever and evermore.

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

✥ Choose another Ending:

END 1 | Choice: Do Nothing [都不做]  

END 2 + 3 | Choice: Approach [亲近] ⊹Touch⊹

END 4 | Choice: Listen [倾听] ❖ASMR

END 5 + 6 | Choice: Heart-throb [心动] ✩Light & Night★

❖☆————— ⊹ For Night, For Paradox⊹ —————★❖

Previous Part: Prologue

[paint-lady]

hey, if you don't mind, i want your advice: i'm going to be running a chronicle set in chicago (i am using the chicago by night 5e book) for players who are new to vampire for the most part in a few days and i can't For The Life of Me to come up with an interesting chronicle hook (yeah i have read the hooks in the book). any ideas/suggestions/general advice?

Hiya! I could talk your ears off on how I write my chronicles- so hopefully I have taken all my processes and reduced it down to a lovely World of Darkness jam. 

Here are two good hooks I just came up with- feel free to use them! The third is what I got for my first chronicle, and I just think its a narrative that works very well for new players.

>Option 1: Guilty Until Proven Innocent ”Chicago is a series of paradoxes and transitions, of ever changing paradigms and whimsy,” (CbN 47). Have your coterie be newbies to the city. Ask why they have come to Chicago. Power? A new start? Perhaps this is a political arrangement between the clan of one city with another. Whatever their reason, they have arrived right when a Primogen vanishes- and guess who is first on the suspect list? The fresh faces on the streets >:) The coterie, having barely settled, has to suddenly prove their innocence. And finding evidence lets them uncover something much more sinister....

This one is ideal for new players as it sets everyone on an equal footing. Even if they create a character that has been a vampire for 50+ years and has amassed several dots of influence, herd, status- whatever, they are still new to the city. And being new means you have to start all over again. (This may be frustrating to a player that invested all those points at character creation- but it is on you as the ST to make sure they have opportunities to use those dots and on them as a player to think cleverly.)

Starting the tale off with defending their innocence is actually a very engaging questline. It effectively sets the stage for the political powerhouses. It lets new players know there are rules- and those in power are watching. It also sets the consequences for failure. Understand that the Camarilla probably isnt going to outright kill the coterie if they fail- always make the punishment just harsh and grueling enough to make final death feel like a mercy. Failure isn’t the end of the story.

For new players- I would be lenient with the time it takes for them to find evidence. But within reason. Think like your Prince and Seneschal. Do you really want this coterie running around for a full week, unsupervised, making more messes? No. You don’t. (You might wanna send an npc with them to watch and keep em out of trouble. Your npc is also able to vouch for them.)

This story lends itself to be a Camarilla Chronicle very easily. You can go Anarch, but an Anarch leader suddenly vanishing and blaming the newbies is much more quickly going to end with blood spilled. Thank your local sweeper.

> Option 2: Containment Breach Blacksite 24 (Loresheet on page 264) was temporarily occupied by Operation Firstlight. It has now been transformed into a medical research facility. While most kindred of Chicago know of Blacksite 24, they have zero clue what happens inside other than bad news for them- the less they know the safer they are. The chronicle opens with a car crash. The captured soon-to-be coterie was in transit to this feared medical facility. The crash did kill the driver and the agent in charge of transporting them. The crash did not fully break their restraints, but it did enough damage that first responders are freaking out. They are all at hunger 3. The chronicle is a hunt. The coterie should have some knowledge of what had happened to them and how lucky they are to have escaped. Operatives are already on their way to recapture them. They must hide in this city- and do their best to survive and stay out of sight.

The point of this story is to invoke dread. I highly recommend one player either being a thin-blood (or an npc) with the Daydrinker merit, or a player to have a ghoul. If they decide to not have a daywatch, they increase their chance of being found.

This story also sets up a feeling of desperation. They would be willing to take shelter from anyone- anyone. Eventually the other kindred will catch on that these guys are on the run from something. Any sane kindred would toss them out to protect themselves. A compassionate kindred who takes them in will suffer the final death as a compassionate fool- or join them in captivity. 

This story lends itself to be an Anarch Chronicle much more easily. This is the time the Camarilla will likely be a bit more paranoid and bloody. While they might not outright kill the coterie- they will send them somewhere that is a death trap. They wont dirty their hands with this. After all, you do not want any evidence to fall into the hands of the SI if you hired the hit.

This story is ideal for newbies without background merits. No allies, no influence, no herd. Let them take more mythic merits such as bloodhound and unbondable (Consider finding some from V20 too! There are some really awesome supernatural merits!). These powers would certainly be more fascinating for a medical team to study- not how many instagram followers they have. This kind of story also lets your players feel more powerful- but out of the loop. It lends itself to them forging alliances and getting caught in one-sided favors a lot more quickly. 

The challenging aspect of this story is that is starts with a masquerade breach. New players may not know how to handle such a blatant breach and thats okay. I would let the crash slide- and the Camarilla in the background handles it. Breaches after the crash need to be handled with proper consequences. 

> Option 3: New Blood This is what my storyteller did to me and my first time players (and its also very close to the plot of CoNY). We were shovelheads. Embraced to make a huge mess for the Camarilla and die quick deaths. We were all thin-bloods. The last thing the pcs remember is the sweet rush of ecstasy washing over them, before clawing out of the earth and driven mad by an insatiable hunger. The thrill of the hunt, and the sweet, warm blood on their tongue, nothing was going to be better. All three will awake next to each other, surrounded by the corpses they drank dry in their frenzy. What a way to play the name game! The players have three nights were they figure out their new condition or coverup their tracks (if they think to do it). They contend with their hunger and hatred of sunlight, wrestle with accidentally drinking their family member dry. After three nights, the Scourge comes knocking. Rather than outright killed, they are dragged to Elysium. For some reason, they are adopted by an upstanding member of the Camarilla- or the Prince orders a political rival care for them (hoping they fail). The players are the errand childer of this kindred, and slowly they figure out what they have been gathering through all these errands....

This one lets the characters all have the moments where they discover their disciplines and powers- and bestial tendencies. It naturally flows to allow players to slowly discover the rules and mechanics as well. All players must play fledglings for this tale. 

This story is much more a personal tale than a political one. Eventually politics makes its way in...but it does not have to be a focus. 

This story has less of a hook and more of a “Figure it Out” survival mode until the errands begin. The story is how the character’s react to their condition. It very quickly lends itself to a narrative of finding your own path in the night, rather than mindlessly obeying.

So here are a few questions that I ask myself when crafting a chronicle story:

1. What kind of story do you want to tell? Not asking for a plot hook, I’m asking for a general concept. Is it a tale of good triumphing over evil? (Not necessarily a wrong answer, but if you wanna play good guys...vampire is not the best game for that). Is this a chase? Is this a race against time? 

2. How do you want your story to make your players feel? Do you want to tell a story that invokes as much dread as possible in your players? Do you want them to feel ultra powerful? Vampire is both a power fantasy and a dread inducing game- it can do both. 

3. If you don’t know what kind of story you want to tell, switch gears to worldbuilding. CbN has so many NPCs with the rumors already written for you. Its your setting, perhaps switch two rumors around with prominent NPCs. Decide which ones are true in your setting- Maybe Primogen Annabell did kill her predecessor. Perhaps the Lasombra are attempting to infiltrate the Camarilla as everyone fears- but no one is able to prove it or stop it. Deciding what is true, false, and undetermined usually blossoms into hooks and stories worth investigating.

4. What is a historical event of the city that the Vampires would have endured/ scars would have remained? For example, in my chronicle set in Richmond, the tale of the Richmond Vampire is true. Depending on who you ask, it is the Camarilla’s best or sloppiest cover up. Have the chronicle coincide with the events and the coterie live through them. No one said this must take place in 2021- you can do 2015, 2008, -hell go back the 1990s. Its actually super fun if you set your chronicle in the 90s and your Malkavian is using phrases from 2020.

5. One of my things I do when writing scenes and moments is play Dread by myself. Dread is a role playing game played with jenga. There are no dice rolls, if you want to attempt something, you have to pull pieces from the tower. If the tower falls, you die. If there is a moment where I really really really dont want to pull from the tower, though the reward for succeeding is so so sweet- I keep the moment. If its really easy to shrug and go eh, I can live without performing that action- go back and rewrite it. If you have no incentive to pull from the tower, why would they?

6. Examine your player’s desires and ambitions- and do not neglect them in your chronicle. The plot wont magically allow all of them to achieve their ambitions. However, provide opportunities for them through the plot. Its on them to strive for what their character wants- its on you to make them struggle but have the path to get there. For example, if a player wants to become a Baron, provide a political opening. Perhaps then by announcing their power, they have made a bigger name for themselves and it has become harder to hide. Perhaps by doing this, the kindred they owe a favor is suddenly much more vocal about it. 

Here are some suggestions for handling new players:

> You are going to have to handhold them through some things. New players to vtm won’t be able to see the cascading political web and how the consequences of their actions will ripple into waves. I like to use Wits+Insight and call it Common Sense. Common Sense was a merit in V20- and damn is it WONDERFUL. All they need is just 1 success (they can take half) to have you explain how whatever plan they just thought of is actually a TERRIBLE idea. 

> Do your RPG consent list. Know what is safe to discuss and what is off the table. I highly recommend utilizing something my Storyteller used for my first chronicle, and subsequently I use for all my ttrpgs now: Invoking the Veil. The metaphor is that you are slowly lessening the intensity of a scene- as if raising the opacity or looking through layers of fabric. Eventually, there is too much fabric and you can no longer see the scene. If something is too intense, the ST or the player may announce they are invoking the veil. Reduce the scene by lowering music, speaking in third person, or avoiding heavy descriptors. You can reduce it further to just dice rolls. Role play stops, and the consequences of the scene are solely dictated by the dice. Or fade to black. If a player is repeatedly fading to black on something- ask to talk to them about it. Clearly something is too intense and they are not having as much fun as they can. Debriefing after a session is also a good idea. Do something silly! Share and check all the memes in the discord chat. Its important to make sure you and your players know that at the end of the night- its all just a game.

> I find the sabbat and new players don’t tend to mix well. You may absolutely still use the sabbat in your chronicle! But the dogma and philosophical ideals of the sabbat can be offputting and downright upsetting to a first time player. You may absolutely build to it- that’s what I did to my players. And in the moment of the truth, they chose to cling to humanity. 

> The taking half mechanic is your friend! V5 says players may announce how many dice they are rolling- and if the dividend is greater than the DC- they auto succeed. This streamlines play. Of course, you as the Storyteller may say this is a roll they are not allowed to take half on. Usually these are contested rolls (combat).

> The three turns and out rule keeps combat intense but not too lengthy. It actually streamlines encounters super super well. 

> My ST used a phrase, “The quickest way to kill Cthulhu is to give it a healthbar.” If Methuselahs and Elders are involved in your game- avoid giving them stat blocks. This cultivates a conflict that new players must find a way to overcome without brute force combat. It makes them think critically and defy these super old antagonists through narrative means. This also gets the notion out of your and their heads, “if they die, its over.” Its never that easy. Never. 

[lu-undy]

Un-alone, Chapter 4

Here it is!

“I’m so happy they let you stay here, at least for the wedding and all.”

“I am absolutely delighted, petite fleur.”

[little flower]

Lucien took Marie’s hand and looked at the ring on their fingers.

“I can hardly believe that I am now married.” He said.

“That’s what I should be saying.” She answered.

“How on Earth could you think that no man would marry you?”

“I’m not the marryin’ type. Just never saw the point of it.”

“Oh…”

“Until now.”

They exchanged a conniving smile and a kiss that of course Marie initiated.

“Lulu?”

“Oui.”

“I love you.”

He blushed.

“So do I, infinitely.”

And now it was raining. Hold on, how could it be raining, they were inside? And why was it so hot?

“Oh merde…”

Lucien woke up, or rather his hot tears woke him up. He looked at the time and it was barely 4 in the morning. He tried to fall back asleep after wiping his face with the back of his hand, but to no avail. So after fighting with himself, he decided to pull himself out of his bed.

He sighed and took a shower just to chase the last bit of hope for sleep away before realising that he hadn’t had anything to eat for more than 24 hours. So he headed out of his room and of his hotel, in search of some food. 

He found barely anything edible so he dragged his feet in a city that he started to hate profoundly until he found himself in a park. He sat on the first free bench he encountered and waited. 

For what? 

He thought that he would wait for the first few cafés to open up to get himself some decent breakfast. But in truth, the more he waited, the less he wanted to move. 

"Hey…" 

Lucien smelled the intrusion before he could hear or see it. It was a beggar. The poor man sat next to the prim one, who was still wearing his black suit. Lucien took a cigarette and lit it.

Ooh, that one was a good one, extra bitter from his fasting. Perfect. It burnt his trachea to the point of pulling the tears out of his eyes. 

"You up early, eh?" 

"I am." The Frenchman said. 

“Somethin’s on your mind?”

Lucien frowned and sucked on his cigarette harder. 

“I just lost my wife.” He coldly said and getting the words out of his mouth was both extremely easy and unbelievably hard. 

“Oh, wow… ‘m sorry…” The beggar removed his worn out hat. He scratched his bushy beard. “Is that why you’re out this early? Ya couldn’t sleep?”

“Oui, exactly.”

“I see. You don’t seem too old though, pal. The missus was young?”

“Younger than me, and infinitely better.”

“Arh… I‘m real sorry, man…”

“Mh.” Lucien sucked on his cigarette more and he realised that it was finished. He took his cigarette case out and offered one to the beggar, whose eyebrows jumped before he accepted. 

“That’s kind of ya.”

Lucien lit both of them and smoked again.

 “The worst part is that I wasn’t there for her.”

“In the end?”

“Non, all along. I barely was at her side, and wasn’t there for her last moments.”

“Why?” The beggar asked, seeing that his improvised bench-friend was now leading the conversation.

“Because I made the wrong choice decades ago. I chose my career over her.”

“So you left her all that time ago? But she’s still your wife?”

“Non, she…” Lucien raised a trembling hand to his brow, while holding his cigarette between his fingers. “She agreed to it.”

“What…?”

“She agreed to it. I was married to the only woman in the world who… putain de merde…”

[fucking hell...]

The beggar’s eyebrows were still up.

“Doesn’t sound like your typical gal, eh… Did she leave anythin’ to you?”

Lucien’s eyes slashed to the beggar’s and he might have shot bullets out of them. Money was a dirty topic and Lucien didn’t want any of Marie’s hard earned dollars.

“Don’t look at me like that, I don’t mean it for the cash! I meant like souvenirs or somethin’.”

Lucien exhaled and looked away.

“Only a letter.”

“Oh… What’s it say?”

Lucien frowned. It wasn’t like him to openly pour his life into the first stranger to come into his life. It was immensely dangerous. What if that man wasn’t a beggar but another, less than friendly spy? 

“She is asking me for two favours.”

“Oh ho, let’s hear it.”

Lucien took the letter out of his pocket and read it again, squinting at the letters to imagine the pen gliding, the ink absorbing into the grainy paper, all of this under her soft hand…

“When I met her, I was a singer.” Lucien started. “She is asking me to continue singing.”

“Oh, that’s sweet, eh. Women are like that...”

“Oui.” Lucien read it all diagonally again. He knew the letter by heart and it bore very little magic anymore, although paradoxically, it was the most precious object in the world. 

“What’s the other thing?”

“We… We had a son.”

“Had?” The older man asked. “Did he also…?”

“Non, he is alive and well.” Lucien folded the letter and put it back in his breast pocket. “She asked me to help him in life with a job. She thinks he is gifted.”

“What d’you work as?” The beggar asked.

“The worst.” Lucien answered.

“Well, a job’s a job, eh? Puts food on the table. Can you get him to work with you, whatever you’re doin’?”

Lucien’s eyebrows jumped and he winced.

“Never!” He answered and almost jumped on his seat. “My occupation is a nightmare, a hell that is painfully real. I do not wish for anyone to follow my footsteps, especially him, because in the end, he will surely make the same mistakes as I did. He might choose his work over his own life and lose the only woman who ever understood him.”

“You’re wrong, pal.”

Lucien’s eyebrows jumped and he turned his head to the beggar. He was shaking his head.

“He might like the job, he might even be good at it, do something good with his life. And it’d put his Ma’ to rest too. Look, there aren’t any half-jobs, or bad ones. It’s only bad if you don’t like it. And if the wife’s seen somethin’ in him, then surely there is. Or maybe you don’t agree with her? Don’t you see him like she does?”

“I do not see him, full stop.” Lucien answered. “I do not see him because I was there for him up until his mind could remember me.”

“That’s when ya left?”

Lucien nodded.

“If you don’t mind me sayin’... That’s a hell of a mess you’ve lived through, man. I mean. You get married to a woman and you agree to live separated for decades you say? And you leave her with the kid too? Bit odd, eh?”

The Frenchman held his head in his gloved hands, his cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Besides… About your son, he's already lost his Mum. You're the only thing he has left even though it's tough with you."

Lucien sighed.

"Yeah, a mess of a life you built yourself, I don’t know how you’re gonna get yourself straight after all that.”

Lucien took a deep breath and stood up.

“I will not.”

He left the bench and walked some more. He carefully avoided any and all places that carried some souvenirs until he fell deep in thought. He didn’t see the streets, Boston waking up and going to work. Non, he only saw his black shoes swallowing more and more of the grey pavement, his heels lightly clicking with every step, stabbing his ears.

Cafés were opening thankfully and he entered the first one to cross his path. Lucien went to a table in the corner and sat down, with the window on his right hand.

“Hey there, how can I help?”

“A black coffee please.”

The waitress disappeared and he lit yet another cigarette. He saw in his metallic case that he was eating the cigarettes way faster than in normal circumstances. Marie would have told him off…

His coffee landed in front of him and soon, people started coming and going in the café, bringing some distraction to the grieving man. He had hoped that sitting next to the window would help with that too, but to no avail. 

He did the only thing he could to not let his mind play any more tricks on him and took a sip of the coffee. Ah, hot and bitter. It burnt his tongue and left an awful aftertaste that lingered all the way down to his stomach. 

Lucien frowned and put the cup back on the table before opening the letter again. His mind rolled and rolled. He would do anything for Marie, but would he have liked Jérémy to become a spy too? Surely the boy could do something better than that, better than himself. Yet she said that he was gifted and Lucien knew that she was an admirable judge of character. 

“Mh…” He grumbled and shook his head. 

He didn’t want his son to follow his path. It was way too dangerous, and for what in the end? Nothing. Nothing was worth losing his family and his life over. 

And then Fred's words came to Lucien. 

So that was the plan the Ministry had for his retirement, huh? Turn him into an instructor? Pfff… If he could, he'd burst into the Minister's office and he'd have a word with him! But Lucien was in America, thousands of miles away from the office that now doomed him further.

“What did he have?”

“A black coffee.”

“Bring me the same, yeah?”

“Sure thing!”

A silhouette appeared in front of Lucien.

“I see you haven’t killed anyone yet, eh?”

Lucien frowned and still refused to make eye contact with his American colleague.

“HQ is mad at the damage you did in the gym the other day.” He took his pack of cigarettes and lit one up as the waitress brought him his coffee. “They say they’ll make you pay for repairs.”

“What more do they want? Do I need to bury myself in the ground next to Marie for everyone to leave me in peace?” Lucien answered in a sigh.

Fred fell silent for a moment, looking at people coming and going. He waited for Lucien to drink a bit more to start the conversation again.

“Managed to sleep at all?”

Lucien eventually raised his eyes to his American colleague. The dark circles around his eyes answered for him.

“Thought about what I told you the other day?”

“Oui, and my answer is non. I am quitting. This is it.”

“You might wanna reconsider that, pal.” Fred put the cigarette on his lips and took an envelope out of his coat pocket. He slid it on the table. 

“What is this?”

“Work.”

“For me?” Lucien asked.

“Yup.”

“Fred, I said I am quitting.” Lucien pushed the envelope back to the American.

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell anyone yet. So here’s work.”

The Frenchman frowned and shook his head. 

“Non.”

“Listen, pal, you can resign all you want but they’re gonna receive your letter after they sent you this, so they’ll expect you to do this first. You can then try and ask them to leave without training a newbie, but I doubt they’ll accept. Everyone does that now. The hard days of the war in Europe are over. You and I were trained like no people should be trained, but that’s what makes us so good at what we’re doin’. They want us to pass on the tricks and all to the younger ones.” 

“I could hardly care less. I have nothing left on this Earth to care about.”

“Wouldn’t that exactly make you the best spy?” Fred asked and Lucien stared in his eyes for a long second before averting his gaze. “Open the file.”

Lucien sighed. He hung his menthol cigarette between his lips and pulled the file to himself before opening it. His stare was still slicing through Fred’s.

“I am not doing it out of anything but my own curiosity.”

“I know.”

The envelope yielded and Lucien retrieved the papers and pictures. The French spy read the file diagonally. He knew how mission orders worked all too well. 

“Seems easy enough, doesn’t it?” Fred said, observing his friend discover the mess of a file he had been handed. “And yet, we’re up against the Soviets to find that guy before they do.”

“This might seem easy,” Lucien answered and removed the cigarette from between his lips to tap it against the ashtray. “However, above anything else, this is an American problem.” He put the papers and pictures together and slid them back into the envelope before sliding it back to Fred.

“Yep, you’re right.”

“It doesn't bear any sign of it being given by the French government. We have no input in this.”

“Yep, absolutely.” Fred sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke away. “But this thing here, it’s been botherin’ me and my friends for far too long.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. How was that any of his problems?

“So here’s the deal. You do this for me, and I’ll pay for the repairs for the gym in your place.”

Lucien burst out laughing.

“You do surprise me, Fred. You should know me better than this.” He scoffed.

“Yep, so let me put this differently…” Fred shifted closer to the table and laced his fingers together. He bent closer to Lucien opposite him. “This is my pay back.”

“What for?” Lucien asked arrogantly.

"You owe me, Frenchie."

"And what for, huh?" Lucien scoffed.

“Mary.”

Lucien’s smile shattered and his brow furrowed. 

“Listen, pal. While you were tourin’ the world and huntin’ Nazis and all, someone here had to look after the missus. More than twenty years I kept an eye on her for you, for nothing more than friendship. Now, I’ve got this case,” Fred pointed at the envelope, half annoyed and three quarters fed up. “The guy’s a goddamn pain in my ass to get, been on him for years and the Soviets might be closer than we are to get him.”

“So you blackmail me because you are desperate?” Lucien hurt him back, clearly signalling that he did not appreciate Fred’s way of doing things. 

Fred frowned and sighed. 

“I blackmail you because I’m stuck and you’re the best spy I know, you fancy ass.”

Lucien shook his head and smirked.

“I am indeed exactly that, without a doubt, you mannerless primate. But Marie is dead and gone. I have nothing left that ties me to this job or this life.”

“You got your son.”

“And?”

“The kid’s homeless and jobless. Good at baseball but absolute shit at school. He’s never gonna be as successful as his dear Papa.” Fred arrogantly answered.

“Do not speak of him.” Lucien looked away and contained his anger but Fred knew his friend all too well, and his reaction there betrayed his emotion. 

“Take him in to help. You’ll spend some quality time and hit all the birds in the world with one stone. You’ll do me a favour and you’ll get him a job and a future, and!” Fred raised a triumphant index finger. “You’ll train a rookie so they’ll be very happy high up. And who knows? The kid might have gotten somethin’ from you after all, eh?”

Lucien frowned. 

“After all that, you can call it quits. Just vanish again, fly back to Paris or the fuckin’ Moon for all I care. You’ll have cleared your slate.”

Lucien sighed in exasperation. 

“I will not involve him.”

“So you’re gonna let him be jobless, homeless and orphaned longer, eh?”

“He is not an orphan.” Lucien’s jaw was tense. 

“It’s all the same. Lives with his auntie now and two little cousins who look up to one bad slice of an example. I don’t want to hurt you further but the kid doesn’t listen, he doesn’t stay home. He spends his life outside and doesn’t have anything to do, he’s practically in a limbo of his own. You and I both know what happens to kids like that. They either finish on our side of the bars or the other.”

Lucien winced at the thought of Jérémy breaking the law, getting caught and sent to jail. What would Marie think…?

“Best thing you can do is just do it. Go through it and get done. You don’t even need to tell him you’re his Dad! And you don’t have to babysit him either, he’s overage now. Can vote, go to college or buy a gun and make his life a livin’ hell and fuck Mary’s efforts up!”

Lucien held the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

“You do as you wish, pal.” 

Fred crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up before he left the café, leaving the envelope on the table. Lucien watched him and waited for the American to be out of sight before cursing in his mother tongue. His fingers slid to his head and he grasped handfuls of his hair, staring at the bottom of his near empty coffee cup. 

[johaerys-writes]

Where Blood Roses Bloom

Fandom: Castlevania Pairing: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades

Summary:

After Trevor gets grievously injured by a night creature, he and Sypha return to Dracula's castle to seek Alucard's help. The man they find there, however, is but a shadow of the friend they left behind.

Meanwhile, in far Styria, Hector does his best to survive in the vampires' court, a lamb amidst wolves. Little do the wolves know, the lamb has fangs of its own.

Chapter 2: Friends is up! Alucard POV, and a fair bit of introspection as he tries to come to terms with Sypha and Trevor returning after being gone for so long, and what that could mean for their (once) friendship.

Read here or on AO3! Read Chapter 1

Adrian’s footsteps ring hollowly along the empty corridor. He walks without thinking, with swift and purposeful strides that take him as far away from the room where Belmont is lying already half dead, and Sypha is wringing her hands in worry.

There is a stream of light pouring in from one of the windows along the dark hallway. Motes of dust bob and dance, shimmering iridescent in the early morning sun. Adrian walks towards it, presses his palm to the smooth, cold stone of the windowsill. His hand, he notices absently, is shaking.

What on earth just happened? What is he doing? What was he thinking, opening that damned door?

After that night —that dark mark in the series of dark marks that seem to be making up his life now— he swore he would not open that door for anyone ever again, unless it was to end them, swiftly and decisively. While sharpening the stakes that would hold Sumi and Taka’s lifeless bodies, he swore that those two would be the last to ever cross the threshold of this God-forsaken place alive. That he would remain in eternal solitude, feared and reviled, a prisoner in his own home, but at least he would be left in peace.

Barely two weeks later, and not only has he let Sypha and Belmont in, he practically carried them in himself.

Sypha’s frantic banging on the door caught him unawares. He never intended to open, not even when he realised it was them, but her desperate pleas called to him in a visceral, instinctual way. When he saw her red, tired eyes, her haggard appearance; when his eyes fell on Belmont —a miserable pile of blood-stained clothes and hair matted with feverish sweat, bleeding on his doorstep — his mind froze for a moment. There were no thoughts, not really, just shock, worry, and that deep, gut-twisting fear: please don't let him die, not him, not him, too.

And all this for Belmont. Trevor fucking Belmont, who can’t go two seconds without insulting and pushing and prodding him, even when he’s one foot in the grave already.

“Mad,” Adrian whispers under his breath. He had his doubts before, but now he is sure: he is utterly, undeniably mad. He has finally lost whatever is left of his mind.

He shakes his head as he pushes himself upright. For a moment, he wonders what in the seven Hells he’s supposed to do with them, with the mess that has been thrust in his hands. Belmont’s condition is worse than he thought. The wound is deep and ugly and festering, and unlike anything he’s seen before. It’s a miracle how the man is still on his feet; if he weren’t built like a tree Adrian is sure he would have been dead long before.

His feet take him straight to the upper floors, where he had been before Sypha and Belmont showed up. The large, dusty room with the tall floor-to-ceiling windows that his mother once used as her study is the only place he seems to be able to find any sort of peace these days. He has taken to sorting through her old medical journals; a long, painstaking process, but oddly comforting. There are still piles upon piles of leather bound books, notebooks and scrolls that she never took with her to that small cottage she had taken to living in and treating the peasants from the nearby villages during the last few years of her life. Adrian remembers thinking of taking them to her even then, mere months before she was taken, but he never did. Now he’s almost relieved, in a way, that he never did; at least he still has something of hers that the humans -those vultures- never managed to burn. As poor a consolation as that may be.

He walks to the tall cabinet made of elegantly carved dark wood that stands at the far end of the room. It is where his mother kept most of the ingredients for the medicine she used to make. It takes him a moment to find what he needs: dried wormwood and red dead nettle to alleviate pain and slow the course of infection, wild radish powder for the fever, a strange-looking mushroom that, when pounded into a paste, can stop the progression of even advanced gangrene, or so his mother told him once. Adrian takes them all to the work table that hasn’t been used in years, wipes the dust off the mortar and pestle and disinfects them with alcohol, and gets to work.

There is something soothing about mechanical tasks, about using his hands, he thinks, as he grinds the ingredients into a paste. He is so used to drifting aimlessly through the cold, dark corridors, to watching the days pass in a slow, never-ending stream, that moving with such purpose and urgency now is a welcome change, even if the cause for it is anything but.

He has something to do. The almost pleasant buzz of excitement in his stomach while he waits for the brew to boil over the old stove is a surprise.

~

“You’re back!” Sypha says, hardly a second before he has finished knocking on their door. The dark circles under her eyes still betray her weariness, but her smile is wide and relieved when she looks up at him. The fire that’s crackling in the hearth fills the room with pleasant warmth, and Sypha’s cheeks are flushed and rosy.

Adrian opens his mouth to respond, when a strained groan from the bed cuts him short. “Was about bloody time.”

Belmont is lying on his back, exactly where Adrian left him. He looks paler than death, his cheeks gaunt and sunken, the pillow and sheets drenched in his sweat already, yet he still manages a small, smug smile when he elicits an icy frown from him. “Thought you might have lost your way.”

“Fortunately, not all of us possess your embarrassing navigation skills, Belmont,” Adrian replies smoothly as he makes his way to the bed.

Belmont laughs hoarsely, “Excuse me? I have embarrassing navigation skills?”

“Yes. How would you call getting lost in an abandoned village of approximately ten houses, and ending up ankle deep in pig shit? That wasn’t too long ago now, was it?”

The other man groans and rolls his eyes. “Christ, it was one time. And I didn’t get lost, I was looking for booze.”

Adrian lifts a brow. “In a pig pen. Really. Even for you, that's a first.”

“What fault is it of mine that the storage room was right next to the pen? And part of the wall had collapsed, as you may remember, so I couldn’t get there any other way.” Belmont narrows his  blood-shot eyes. “I don’t remember you complaining any when you drank half the wine that night. After scoffing down most of that wheel of cheese I managed to bring back, of course.”

Leaning against the bedpost, Sypha lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Leave it to you two to start bickering about something that happened months ago, and everyone else has forgotten but you.” She shakes her head, but Adrian can see the small, fond smile that tugs at the corner of her lips. It startles him how much he has missed seeing it. The warmth that spreads through him at the sight startles him even more.

It feels odd to be around them. It is odd, certainly, how easy it is to slip back into that familiar rhythm, without even thinking about it. The paradox isn’t lost on him. There was a time, however brief, that he had thought of those people as friends. Or something very close to that, anyway.

What were they now? Could he afford to trust them, like he once had? Could he trust anyone?

He straightens, his amusement dying abruptly. They are both staring at him curiously, unnerved by his sudden silence. The grey light of morning that pours in through the windows highlights the sickly pallor of Belmont’s countenance, casts sharp shadows on the concerned frown that furrows Sypha’s brow.

Adrian hands Belmont the vial, then takes a step back. “Drink it now,” he says flatly, “while it’s warm. It won't be much use, after.” That should stop the man from talking for a while, he hopes. It does something strange to him, when Belmont talks. It makes him feel —almost— human.

Belmont takes the vial he is offered without a word. He tips it over his lips with trembling fingers, winces as he swallows. The medicine is quick to work. His features swiftly relax and he sinks back into the pillow.  

“Ah, that’s better,” he sighs. “Sweet, blessed oblivion.” He is fast asleep in seconds.

A tense, uncomfortable silence spreads between Sypha and Adrian after Belmont is asleep. He doesn’t really know what to say to her. He’s not sure whether he wants to say anything at all. Her bright blue eyes on him make him uneasy. They always have, a little. It is like they can see right through him.

“The wound should be cleaned and dressed again,” he says matter-of-factly. “As often as possible. The less chance of infection there is, the better. I’ll bring some fresh water and bandages, you get him out of the rest of his clothes. Can you do that?”

Sypha nods sharply, and pushes her sleeves back.

By the time Adrian returns, she has managed to remove most of Belmont’s travel stained clothes without disturbing his injury. They only exchange the briefest of words as Adrian cleans the wound and applies the antiseptic he brought, then they both dress him in clean clothes. The shirt is one of Adrian’s own, and it is a touch too snug around the shoulders and Belmont's thick arms, but anything other than what he was wearing is a significant improvement.

As he stands back to let Sypha do the rest of the work, he notices the certainty and familiarity with which she handles Belmont. It hasn’t been lost on Adrian that their relationship seems to have changed and grown since they both left the castle. When she pushes a stray lock of hair behind Belmont’s ear, and gently presses a cool, damp cloth on his fevered brow, it leaves Adrian with no doubt.

They are together.

The realisation shouldn’t have made his heart tighten like this. An ugly feeling, something akin to jealousy, something that is eerily close to despair, rises in his chest. Sypha and Belmont are together. He wonders how he didn’t notice straight away. Of course he knew upon first seeing them that, during the months they’ve been away, travelling together, their bond has grown stronger than it was before they left. It was only a natural consequence of their way of life. But this…

He stares without meaning to. He watches as Sypha tends to Belmont, as she wipes the grime and sweat away from his face with so much tenderness, and he knows that she not only cares for him: she loves him. The realisation drives those twisted feelings deeper in his heart, when he wants nothing to do with them. Before he knows it, he’s already trying to imagine what it must feel like, to have someone care about him, so much, so deeply. He imagines what it must feel like, to be with something like this, to sleep next to them every night. He pictures Belmont’s arms coming around her, pulling her against his broad chest; he pictures him smiling at her, kissing her full, rosy lips.

Adrian tries to imagine what it would be like, if it were him.

It is a quick thing, effortless. He can almost see her responding to his touch, leaning into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He imagines her laughing at his jokes, gazing at him with love and adoration, like he’s something precious, something good, and his heart aches with a sort of longing he has long thought he is incapable of feeling.

He swallows thickly and drags his gaze away. What is it to him, if Sypha and Belmont are together? Nothing. Neither of them means anything to him. As she takes her time tending to him, he only wonders idly how she has managed to stay so close to the man, let alone sleep next to him. On the best of days, Belmont smells as if he’s been dipped in stale, sour beer— among other, fouler things that Adrian doesn’t want to think about.

Certainly, the man is quite handsome in a somewhat —or incredibly— rugged sort of way. Adrian can see the appeal, if dimly. That still doesn’t change the fact that Belmont is a boor and an insufferable lout and, frankly, more stupid than mud.

“There,” Sypha says quietly, laying Belmont’s head carefully back on the pillow, as if she were cradling an injured bird in her hands. “That should do it.” She wipes her palms on a clean cloth nearby and turns to him. There is something bright gleaming in her eyes. Hope. Adrian knows that look. “Did you find a cure?”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.” He busies himself with cleaning his hands and pushing his shirtsleeves down so that he doesn’t have to see the hope wither on her face. “I have not seen a wound like this before. I need more time to figure out what we’re dealing with.”

“Oh.” He might not be looking at her, but he still hears the wind go out of her sails just a little. “Well. The medicine you gave him buys us time. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Good.” She nods and straightens, her jaw set in determination. “What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go.” Adrian blinks at her, and a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Did you think I was going to leave you to look for the cure alone? I’m going to help you.”

“That… will not be necessary,” he says, a bit too quick. “I am perfectly capable of—”

“Nonsense.” She walks to the armchair by the window and picks up her cloak. It looks worn and the hems are mud-stained, but the way she throws it over her shoulders with so much grace and purpose makes her look fierce, almost… regal.

Her large, round eyes are on him now, and the intensity of her gaze leaves him breathless. She gestures towards the door.

“Shall we? We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

He finds himself complying readily, without wanting to, and it irks him.

~

They don’t speak much as they walk through the empty corridors. Sypha follows him quietly- her footfalls are light, probably soundless to anyone not possessing Adrian’s heightened senses. Only the whisper of the fabric of her robes around her ankles as she walks, and the sound of her breathing. It is smooth and calm, and only a little bit heavy. It is not difficult for Adrian to tell that she is keeping herself upright through sheer will and determination. It is admirable, really, and it makes him want to reach out to her, hold her hand perhaps, but he thinks better of it.

“There we are,” he says as the wide doors of his father’s library come into view. The hinges protest loudly when he pushes them open. Adrian hasn’t walked in that place in months— no, years. He has purposefully avoided it all the time he’s been there, yet he is left with little choice now. His father’s collection of books and magical scrolls is impressive; he always had a fascination with medicine. If there is information to be found on how to treat night creature wounds it has to be here, if it is not in the Belmont library. Adrian prepares himself mentally to visit both of the places he least enjoys visiting, if he has to.

He stands at the threshold for a breath, letting his gaze sweep over the expansive room. The neatly stacked shelves, the vials and the oddly shaped instruments his father used to collect are exactly as they used to be, not one of them out of place. There was once a time when Adrian would spend the majority of his spare time there, the countless books and scrolls his only company in that castle when he was growing up. It had been a comfort for him then, yet the sight of them now just makes him feel… hollow.

It was odd, how a man as transfixed with death and blood as his father went to so much trouble to keep the art of healing alive throughout the centuries. It seems like a farce now, a joke, a twisted image of reality that has no place in that world. Yet here it is before him, staring at him, laughing in his face. It is like looking at his reflection in a broken mirror.

Sypha’s shoulder brushes his own as she takes a step forward and into the room.

“This is amazing,” she says under her breath. She spins in a small circle, gazing around her in awe. “Look at all these things! There must be something here that we could use.” She walks swiftly to one of the low tables filled with the strange apparatuses his father liked to construct. She carefully pokes a brass, bell shaped instrument with the tip of her finger. “What is this?”

“A bloodletting cupping vessel, used by Ancient Roman healers. A long, long time ago.” Adrian drifts near her, coming to stand beside her. She straightens, and as she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, he catches a hint of peach blossoms, of jasmine. Her soap, he assumes. He takes a deep breath, trying to discern the scents. Jasmine and peach blossoms, a hint of fresh hay, and is that sweet, slightly musky smell hers?

Before he knows it, he’s taken a small, perceptible step closer to her. Yes. That scent is definitely her. Jasmine and peaches, and that faint musk that is her, sweet and sharp like fresh cream—

He stops himself abruptly, drawing back as if stung. What on earth is he doing? He clears his throat discreetly and walks away. “And this is the funnel that goes with it,” he says, feigning disinterest, nodding at another apparatus nearby. “It is to collect blood for tests.”

“Tests?” Her eyes widen and focus. It unnerves him when she does that. Whenever she looks at him like this, it makes him feel like he is the only person in the world just then. “They used to run tests, back then?”

“In a way. Some of their methods are used to this day. Well. By those that don’t believe that sprinkling goat’s blood can cure a wandering eye, or that burning dried nettles can scare away the spirits that cause gout.” He clasps his hands behind his back and looks around. “So. I believe that what we’re dealing with is a sort of hex. We would need to remove that first, before attempting to heal the wound. Any idea where we should start?”

Sypha’s enthusiasm dims only slightly. “I’m… not sure. I can use healing magic, but my inventory of spells is quite small. I could devise a new spell, I suppose… but I would need the right books for that. That could take time. Or—” she glances up at him hopefully, “—we could look for a scroll. It seems your father has quite the collection. There must be something here, some sort of spell that can remove the curse. That was what I was hoping for, in fact.”

Adrian nods, humming in thought. “A scroll would be just what we need. My command of healing magic is rudimentary at best. I doubt I could even use it, but you could certainly try.” He turns around and walks to the far end of the room, towards the bookcases that line the walls. That was where his father kept his scrolls— hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, arranged in neat stacks in alphabetical order. His father was always very particular about the correct way to store books and scrolls.

“This is as good a place as any to start,” he told her, gesturing at the shelf with the scrolls written in Adamic. If there are powerful curse lifting and healing spells to be found anywhere, that is the place.

Sypha blinks, her eyes wide and sparkling as she takes in the sheer amount of carefully rolled up papyruses. She picks one up and opens it, swiftly reading the letters on the page.

“Fascinating,” she whispers under her breath. “This is… this must be at least two centuries old. This form here,” she points at the cluster of elegant shapes written in squid’s ink, “I don’t think it’s been used since the eleventh century. At least.” She walks up to him to show him. That faint, underlying scent tickles his nostrils again; he takes a discreet step to the side.

“Yes,” Adrian says, nodding absently even as his stomach twists in knots. “It is one of the more recent ones in my father’s collection.”

“Recent?” That gaze is on him again: bright, intent, clear like a midsummer’s day sky. Her lips widen in an enthusiastic smile. “There must— oh, there must be centuries worth of wisdom hidden in those shelves! There are scrolls from the ends of the world here. I wonder how your father came by it all.”

“Sacked the towns and villages that kept them. Killed and staked those who’d written them.” He shrugs as he examines elaborate glass vials on a nearby shelf. “Or so the tales go.”

Sypha stares, then looks away."Oh. Yes, I... I suppose you're right."

A cold, awkward silence falls between them. With slow, careful movements, she places the scroll back where it belongs and drifts slowly towards the far end of the bookcase.

They don’t speak much after that.

~

The hours fly by swiftly, one bleeding into the next in that sunless room, as Adrian and Sypha search through the scrolls. Were it not for the large, mechanical clocks on the wall, Adrian would never know whether it was day or night outside. It was probably late evening when Sypha falls asleep, with her cheek pressed to the desk. He brings her a blanket, some tea and a piece of pie he made the previous day, and continues to work. She barely stirs. Her hears her when she wakes up a few hours later; feels her gaze on his back, but says nothing.

His eyes are dangerously close to falling shut on their own as he reads through a scroll with annoyingly small letters, when an enthusiastic cry from the far side or the room jolts him bolt upright.

“I found it!” Sypha says, walking briskly up to him. She is grinning, her cheeks flushed, “I think I’ve found it. This must be it!”

Adrian blinks the weariness away from his eyes, examining the contents of the scroll that Sypha is holding under his nose. The forms are familiar, an incantation that must be hundreds of years old. It was first written by one Yin Chunhua in a province in Northern China almost three hundred years before, and was translated in Adamic by an Arabian scholar at the end of the twelfth century. Adrian takes it from her hands carefully, brushing the tip of his finger over the dried ink.

“Are you sure?” he asks, glancing up at her. “You think this will work?”

“I think so, yes. We can try.” Her face is glowing with enthusiasm, her eyes sparkling with determination. “If it doesn’t work, we try again. And again. And again. Until Trevor is healed. I know we can do it.”

Adrian holds her gaze for a long moment, a strange warmth creeping up inside him. ‘We’, she said. Them.

“Alright,” he nods. “Let’s do it. No reason to tarry.” He starts walking towards the door, when he is stopped short by Sypha’s hand on his elbow.

He turns around. Sypha’s touch is light, careful. She looks up at him, and, once again, it seems as if everything else has faded into the background, as if there's nothing else in the world but them, gazing at each other.

“Thank you, Alucard,” she says softly. Her blue eyes are earnest and crystal clear; it's like looking at the shimmering waters of a crystalline pool. “Your help means… everything. It really does."

Adrian’s breath grows shallow. The tenderness in her voice is unmistakable. It feels so strange, being directed at him. There is something stirring within him now, stronger the more he gazes at her; something that feels dangerously like hope. Could it be that she still considers him a friend? Could it be that the bond the three of them once had, however brief, is still there? Could it be that perhaps she could… love him?

The thought withers as soon as it blossoms. How foolish, how futile it all is. Sypha and Belmont left months ago to hunt monsters, they moved on with their lives, and he stayed behind, an empty shell of a man drifting endlessly through rooms and hallways that were emptier still, consumed by grief and loneliness. It was that same loneliness that Sumi and Taka had detected, and that they had pounced on, like hounds on blood. He let them. He paid for it, dearly, and so had they. And now, one kind word of thanks from the people that left him behind and he is ready to make the same mistakes all over again.

Adrian clenches his jaw as the familiar sting of shame and anger drives through him. They are not his friends anymore; he doubts they ever truly were. It was a matter of convenience from the start that they came together, and once his father was gone, so were they. What are friends, anyway?

What are friends? He’s never had any, and he never will.

Adrian takes a step back, slipping out of her gasp. His voice is flat and icy, his features schooled to an expressionless mask when he says, “This is wasting time. Let’s go.”

He turns towards the door, leaving her staring after him. The sooner Belmont’s injury is dealt with, the sooner they will both leave.

The sooner he will be on his own again, in peace.

~

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, I’d love to hear thoughts! :)

[autisticsupervillain]

The Macabre Madame Megido

Here it is. My take on an Evil Aradia. Get cozy, it's a long one.

Oh, Aradia. Everyone's favorite chaos loving time goddess.

I'm going to have to take a different approach to Aradia then I did with John and Karkat. Out the three big bads I've created so far, Aradia has probably coped best with everything that has happened to her. She still has a lot of the same light in her eyes and she's able to accept her tragic past as a part of her. It certainly helps that the loved ones she's lost along the way came back to life, which is more than can be said about John and Karkat.

Simply digging open old wounds and then hammering in the nails in won't cut it this time. So, here's a different method...

After the creation of Earth C, Aradia distances herself from the rest of the cast somewhat. Not for any angsty reasons, mind you. It's just that, aside from Sollux, she isn't especially close to any of the people who made it to Earth C. Instead, she dedicates herself towards serving as a grim reaper of sorts. She seeks out the recently deceased in the dreambubbles and works to guide them through the afterlife, helping them come to grips with their death and work through their grief.

When she isn't doing that, she's hanging out with Sollux. Playing video games, talking shit, and making sure Sollux gets out of the house and doesn't waste away into his couch. It all settles into a nice little routine.

...Which she eventually gets bored of.

Aradia is an adventurer at heart. Yes, this happily ever after is nice. It's nice to finally live somewhere peaceful. It's nice to finally kick back and relax. It's so damn nice to not get yanked around by fate anymore. But, it's not in her nature to sit around and do nothing.

So, she grabs Sollux and drags him with her to the dreambubbles, intent on discovering her next adventure.

In time, she discovers it. Whispers echoing across Paradox Space of a mysterious artifact that reveals to its holder one absolute truth. That reveals one small part of how Paradox Space operates and puts its user one-step closer to absolute understanding of the nature of Paradox Space before vanishing to be found again by some other adventurer. They call it The Scroll of Secrets.

Aradia can't resist that challenge and Sollux knows damn well that he couldn't talk her down even if he wanted too.

Aradia and Sollux spend the next few years searching for this artifact. Investigating rumors, running into dead ends, and chasing desperate leads. In the end, it takes a bit of reasoning to figure out the truth. Aradia reasons that something that freely reveals cosmic secrets of that caliber would most likely belong to a Lord of Light, so they'd just have to find one and steal it from them. Sollux points out that stealing from someone who is both nigh-omniscient and nigh-omnipotent is likely to go horribly, but Aradia has an idea.

A Muse of Void would be the Masterclass that passively hides things. As such, even the barest influence of a Muse of Void should be enough to hide them from the Lord's sight, so long as he isn't actively looking for them. Just learning the name of a Muse should be influence enough to keep a Lord from seeing them and the only people who would know such a thing are the Horrorterrors. Lickily, Feferi is on good terms with the Horrorterrors and Sollux is on good terms with Feferi.

Aradia and Sollux track down Feferi in the dreambubbles and the three of them catch up. Aradia puts the whole quest thing on hold for awhile so they can catch up and spend some time together. Feferi admits to being weirdly nostalgic for questing with Sollux during their time in SGRUB and is quiet happy to help with their quest. Sollux and Aradia would also be happy to find a way to revive her afterwards, but Feferi asks them to hold on that idea. She's more useful to them dead then alive right now.

A few trolls against impossible odds, just like the good old days!

So, Feferi asks one of the Horrorterrors for the name of a Muse of Void and the three set of to steal from a Lord of Light. Sneak into the Lord's castle, steal the scroll, sneak out. Aradia had to stop herself from nabbing every ancient relic that wasn't nailed down.

The Scroll of Secrets shows the three a horrible truth.

Simply put, history is destined to repeat itself. There must always be a big bad. Some grand villain who will spread chaos across Paradox Space. A villain will rise, causes death and destruction, and will then be defeated by some underdog heroes.

As the scroll vanishes, Sollux grumbles about losing their hard earned happy ending. Feferi optimistically points out that they don't know when the next villain will rise. It could be long after they're all dead. Aradia suggests that they just look for some way to see into the future. That way they could see who the next villain was gonna be and plan accordingly.

While the Lord of Light would likely have something that would let them view the future, trying to steal from him again would be stupid. So, they instead decide to try their luck with his opposite. A Muse of Light would be able to grant them this level of precognition, the only issue was finding one. Luckily, Feferi had them covered. She just asked Horrorterrors to point them in the direction of the nearest Muse of Light.

The Muse is actually quite impressed that they managed to steal from a Lord of Light and finds Aradia to be quite the interesting conversational partner. She’s able to keep up with all the meta-narrative mumbo jumbo and her rebellious attitude provides a breath of fresh air for the Muse. So, the Muse agrees to give Aradia the future sight she needs.

Aradia looks into the future to find that she’s destined to be the next main villain.

She sees herself reclining in a large throne draped in shadow.

She sees herself floating in the sky as Earth C burns.

She sees herself staring down at the golden blood on her hands.

Aradia is taken aback briefly… but she quickly brushes it off. Aradia is used to being toyed with by fate by now and, more importantly, she has an out here.

Remember, John has Retcon Powers. He exists outside the typical rules of Paradox Space. If anyone could feasibly help them deny fate here, it’s him.

So, Aradia thanks the Muse for her time and she and Sollux head to visit John (Feferi can’t really join them, as she’s still dead and, thus, confined to the dreambubbles). They explain their situation and Aradia reveals her plan. Have John teleport her over to the Retcon Juju before John himself picked it up so she can collect it. The Retcon Powers would then allow Aradia to exist outside the laws of Paradox Space and keep her from turning evil per what fate had intended.

While that does sidestep the issue, Sollux cynically points out that now someone else would become the next villain. Aradia hadn’t so much solved the issue as she had handed off the “become the next villain” problem to someone else. They’re still likely to lose their happy ending.

So, Aradia, Sollux, and John meet back up with Feferi to discuss their next move. John brings up how Lord English seemed to be able to influence fate and the plot somewhat at the peak of his power, which he noticed while fighting him. Sollux cynically remarks that imitating Lord English is the very thing they were trying to avoid and Aradia kinda agrees. Aradia feels that she doesn’t really want to control the narrative. She wants to destroy it.

Think about it. Nothing suggests that they need a narrative to exist. Even if they were to operate under the assumption that they are fictional characters, they still wouldn’t need a narrative. Minecraft is a game with no narrative. No story. No plot. But characters still go about their lives within it. Villagers still live their daily lives, mobs still exist, and players still build things. All destroying the narrative would do is give them control over their lives.

John agrees with the idea, he felt he got dicked around by the plot a lot too before he got the Retcon Powers. Even Sollux admits that the idea would be pretty nice while Feferi just kinda goes along with it. She hasn’t really had the same experiences as the other three, but she trusts their judgement.

But, the same question remains. How are they gonna do it?

The four of them bat some ideas back and forth and this is the plan they come up with:

The Retcon Powers are the only known way to defy the plot and break the rules of the story. So, it makes sense that if they find a way to empower the Retcon Powers, they could be used as a means of destroying the narrative. They’d just need to find a way to do that. Aradia suggests asking a First Guardian, but John laments that Earth C doesn’t have one or, if it does, they haven’t found it yet. While they can time travel, none of them would be able to understand Becquerel and there’s no way they can trust Doc Scratch. Then, Feferi pipes up.

She’d been in the dreambubbles long enough to hear about Beforus and, logically speaking, Beforus would have a First Guardian. While they may not know where that First Guardian is, it’s likely Feferi's Beforus counterpart would. As the Empress, she’d have an interest in keeping tabs on an asset like that. So, the group teleports in to a Doomed Timeline Beforus and explain their situation. Her Everlasting Compassion specifically asks Feferi for proof. Aradia and John promptly demonstrate their God-Tier abilities, proving to the Compassionate that they are in fact Gods from another world.

In the ensuing conversation, HEC continues to only refer to and address Feferi, even occasionally speaking over the rest of the group. The group is quick to get annoyed and Feferi asks her to stop. HEC takes her younger self aside for a private chat, leaving her guards to “watch the lowbloods". Aradia is amused that she thinks the guards can do anything against two Gods and the strongest psionic on Alternia.

The Compassionate asks Feferi why she allows “her lowbloods" to be so mouthy. Feferi is very… put off by how the HEC sees it that way. She asserts that her companions deserve more respect. HEC dismisses this as a case of “agree to disagree" and changes the subject. The HEC promises that she’ll speak with her First Guardian and find a way to empower their Retcon Powers.

Her true intentions are a little more sinister however.

The next night, she has John and Aradia strap themselves into a machine she swears will enhance their powers and even makes a point of apologizing to them for last night. All Sollux has to do is start it up. All seems to be going well… until Sollux hears Aradia’s voice.

He hears Aradia’s voice in his head.

Sollux’s warning gives the two just enough time to escape the machine before it blows, although all three are highly injured.

Sollux doesn’t notice his injuries at first.

That's twice now he’s heard Aradia’s last words in his head. Twice that he knew that she was about to die. And this time he saved her life. He defied fate. He’d never felt so… free.

HEC orders the three be put into medical care faculties and consuls a distraught Feferi.

In truth, John and Aradia are being taken away to gave their powers studied and potentially extracted, while Sollux is chipped with a psionic dampener and taken to a daycare to be “re-educated so his needs can be met".

There, Sollux sees firsthand how lowbloods and mutants are treated on Beforus. They’re coddled. Handheld. They’re treated like children, well into adulthood, and have all their freedoms stripped away. Any showing of disobedience has them treated with shock therapy and, at worst, lobotomy .

HEC tries to guilt Feferi for this failure, implying that if she had taken “better care of her lowbloods” that this wouldn’t have happened. She’s trying to bring her counterpart around to her way of thinking.

In the HEC's mind, the highbloods protect and coddle the lowbloods from an uncaring world that they aren’t ready for. Lowbloods aren���t people her. They’re pets. Feferi, by contrast, has spent enough time with Aradia and Sollux to respect them and she finds the HEC's implications to be disturbing.

Luckily, Aradia and John prove to be difficult to contain. They easily escape their restraints, even with their injuries, and they team up to rescue Sollux.

The HEC sees this as another opportunity to try and make her point.

She has Feferi sent away to a separate location, knowing the three will first look for her at her palace. The HEC meets them there and, after feigning a fight, lies about Feferi’s location when defeated.

In truth, she sends them towards one of her daycares. The ensuing struggle with security inadvertently gets several bystanders killed.

While everyone is reeling from what they just did, the HEC spins the incident as “two lowbloods and a mutant" rejecting her “compassionate guidance”, resulting in massive casualties. She uses this to justify her policies to the public and tries to use this to convince Feferi that “her lowbloods" need her guidance and will only hurt themselves without her. Feferi almost believes her, but then questions what she could’ve done to stop them from screwing up like that.

John, Aradia, and Sollux regroup and teleport over to The Compassionate, overthrowing and killing her. Sollux finds and rescues Feferi, but he comes back to see Aradia staring blankly at the HEC's throne.

It’s the same throne Aradia saw in her vision.

It used to belong to HEC. From a certain point of view, Aradia inherited it.

Aradia notes this out loud and the three move to comfort her. Sollux brings up how, for the very first time, he was able to save someone who he heard die in his head. For the very first time, he defied fate, defied the inevitable, and saved her life. They clearly aren’t bound by inevitability anymore. Feferi, meanwhile, relates to where she’s coming from. HEC was… uncomfortably close to what she would probably be like if she hadn’t met any lowbloods growing up. If she hadn’t gotten to know Sollux and Aradia as people. Highbloods aren’t exactly raised to think of the needs of lowbloods very often, even in a comparatively peaceful setting.

Even still, Aradia is disturbed by the coincidence. Fate is an insidious thing. You tend to end up doing what it says, even when you think you’re ahead. So, Feferi comes up with an idea to ease Aradia’s conscience a bit.

Logically speaking, Beforus Feferi ending up the way that she die would be predestined to happen. She’d need to rule the way she did so that the Alpha Trolls would fail their session, allowing the Beta trolls to exist and so on. So, if they’re able to prevent Beforus Feferi from turning evil, that would prove that they’re still operating outside of the plot. John points out that that this is a Doomed Timeline, meaning they’re already outside of fate's boundaries anyways. Preventing Beforus Feferi from ending up like the HEC wouldn’t do anything. Feferi sheepishly admits to still not fully understanding how timelines work, as she has the least experience with all this meta narrative nonsense.

Regardless, Aradia agrees to go back with Feferi to prevent Beforus Feferi from becoming the tyrannical despot they had to deal with. Both Aradia and Sollux can kinda tell that this is affecting Feferi more than she lets on, even if they don’t say anything about it. Plus, it’ll help take Aradia’s mind off things, while Sollux and John stay in the present to find the First Guardian and get their advice.

Feferi and Aradia visit Beforus Feferi at various points in her life, giving her life advice and giving her the perspective Her Everlasting Compassion didn’t have. Meanwhile, John and Sollux are able to find where the First Guardian lives via the Beforus archives. The First Guardian tells them that, while this is slightly outside the realm of their omniscience, they do believe it could be possible to enhance the Retcon Powers with energy from the Green Sun.

The two teams meet up again in the dreambubbles afterwards and catch each other up on their little side adventures. Feferi wants to see how Beforus has changed now that they’ve fiddled the Beforus Feferi’s past.

When the group arrives on New Beforus, they find Her Imperious Benevolence waiting for them. They make polite conversation, getting HIB caught up on who John and Sollux are. HIB thanks Aradia, specifically, for all the advice she’d given over the sweeps and says she wants to thank her. So, as a gift, HIB gives her the throne of Beforus.

The same throne that Aradia saw in her vision.

All that existential dread that she’d been burying and avoiding all this time stabs through her all at once. No matter where she goes, no matter what she does, fate is still there. Mocking her. Taunting her. Controlling her. Just when she thinks she’s escaped it, something reminds her of that vision. Reminds her that she isn’t free.

As long as the narrative exists, she’s doomed to become the bad guy. That’s the only way she can interpret this. The only conclusion she can offer to the throne in her vision being outright handed to her.

Aradia maintains her composure and politely refuses. After Feferi talks HIB down and the group teleports back over to the First Guardian again. The First Guardian offers up a bit of their energy over to Aradia, explaining that she should be capable of absorbing it thanks to the Retcon Juju. Aradia takes the amount of energy offered, but then a thought occurs to her.

She’d get more energy if she absorbs more. And, with all the hints fate has been giving her, it’s entirely possible she’ll need it. She might still be on track to become the next villain, so she’ll need to destroy the narrative quickly. It should be fine, First Guardian’s are tough. She’ll just absorb a little bit more….

Next thing she knows, the First Guardian has dropped dead on the floor in front of her.

Everyone freaks out. Aradia quickly explains that it was an accident. She admits that she was likely still distracted by the throne earlier. She was still worried. Afraid that fate was hanging over her.

So, the group buries the First Guardian, show their respects, and leave.

As soon as she’s able, Feferi takes John and Sollux off to the side and expresses her concerns.

Between the throne cropping up twice now, and Aradia killing the First Guardian, maybe she’s still going to become the villain after all? Maybe they haven’t actually escaped fate at all. John and Sollux are still unconvinced. John maintains that he knows how the Retcon Powers work and Sollux knows he’s never been able to defy his precognition before. Feferi concedes but remains skeptical.

The team puts together a new plan. Now that they know Aradia can drain First Guardians until they’re just lifeless husks, they could farm them. More specifically, they could farm Doc Scratch. Scratch is a complete monster, so there’s no moral reservation to be had in doing so. So they farm versions of Scratch from Doomed Timelines and each time, Aradia meets an alternate version of the Handmaiden.

Each time, Aradia’ conversation with Handmaiden gets her thinking.

What makes you think you’ve escaped fate? Why aren’t you doing more to get more powerful, to destroy the narrative faster? Surely doing so would be in everyone’s best interest, right?

After a few stops, Aradia notes that she hasn’t really gotten all that stronger. Absorbing the Green Sun outright isn’t an option, absorbing that much power at once would likely kill her. But, maybe there are other power sources she could drain from? Aradia notes how Jade and Calliope are both stronger than Scratch, which gets John immediately protective. He makes it clear that Jade is off the list and Aradia backpedals. She didn’t mean anything by it. She was just thinking out loud. Still, she can’t help but notice the looks both John and Feferi are giving her now. Apparently Feferi’s concerns influenced John more than he realized.

The versions of the Handmaiden Aradia meets now note the distrust most of the team holds towards her. If they can’t trust you, how can you trust yourself?

One Handmaiden claims she has a way to get the power Aradia craves faster. Aradia says she’ll think about it.

The cycle continues for a few days. Eventually, Aradia comes to Sollux in the middle of the night, asking him to come with her. She wants to have his opinion on hand, to keep her from doing something stupid. The two approach the Handmaiden and Aradia asks about her offer.

The Handmaiden takes them to a timeline where the Condescension won. The heroes were destroyed, the Earth belongs to Condy forevermore… and a Grimbark Jade will be forced to serve the Condescension for eternity.

Surely, it would be more merciful to put her out of her misery.

Sollux immediately tries to veto this idea.

Killing a version of John’s sister behind his back like this, even one that’s nothing but a mindless drone now, is unbelievably cruel.

Aradia looks at Sollux and then she looks down at her hands. She remembers the golden blood dripping from them. Sollux’s blood.

She decides she can’t take that risk.

So, Aradia sucks the life out of the Grimbark Jade.

Sollux tells the others what happened when they get back and the three confront her about it.

Aradia begs for them to understand it from her perspective. She just did what she had to do. It was a mercy kill. She wouldn’t have stooped that low if she had a choice.

The group wants to pull out of this plan. Get Aradia locked up until the narrative can be destroyed. For everyone’s safety.

Aradia teleports away. Since her Retcon Powers are now far stronger than John’s, he can’t keep up with her.

Aradia hides in a dark corner of Paradox Space, trying to keep herself together.

She’s gone to far now. She has to destroy the narrative and fast. It’s the only way she can fix this. It’s the only way she can keep everyone alive.

Part of her even believes it’s the only way she can get her friends back.

So, as John, Sollux, and Feferi teleport back to Earth C to get everyone caught up and prepared for war, Aradia does some preparations of her own.

She creates a horde of her time duplicates and sends the all across Paradox Space. They bring First Guardians and God-Tiered Space Players to her for her to suck the life out of, fueling up the “main" version of herself to be as strong as possible. Her end goal is to become strong enough to absorb the Green Sun. And if that didn’t make her strong enough, she’d invade Earth C as a Plan B. Overpower everyone and absorb Calliope's life force. Then, she'll be powerful enough to destroy the narrative.

She'll free herself. She'll free everyone. Even if she has to fight her closest friends.

As her body count rises, her reputation spreads. Every Space Player knows now to run when a horde of Aradias appear outside your door.

They know none survive getting dragged before Madame Megido.

[terryballs]

My favourite Doctor Who writers

10. Neil Gaiman

Neil Gaiman is one of the most talented people to ever write for Doctor Who. Of course, talent alone is not enough - Douglas Adams, Alan Moore, and Naomi Alderman all miss out on this list. What makes Gaiman special is his fairytale, fantasy approach to the show. He has big ideas, full of heart, and I am always delighted by them.

Why isn’t Mr Gaiman higher up on the list? Simply because he has only done four stories. One of them, “The Doctor’s Wife”, is an all-time classic, while the others are at least good. With a couple more stories, Mr Gaiman would surely be higher.

9. Paul Magrs

Coming in at #9 is one of the most important writers of non-televised Who. Paul Magrs has written nine Big Finish Main Range stories (most notably “The Peterloo Massacre”), three Companion Chronicles, and two Eighth Doctor Adventures, including the exceptional “The Zygon Who Fell To Earth”, as well as a huge number of spin-off adventures.

It’s in print where Magrs really flourishes, though. It’s quite hard to get across just how influential Paul Magrs has been. Firstly, his three books in the Eighth Doctor Adventures range - The Scarlet Empress, The Blue Angel, and Mad Dogs and Englishmen - are hugely ambitious metatextual delights. These stories introduce Iris Wildthyme and the Smudgelings to the Whoniverse, and have each inspired their own spin-off series, collectively called the “Magrsverse”. Iris’s parody of the Doctor is a rip-roaring delight whenever she appears - and as you know, she’s famous for it - and will prove a lasting legacy for Mr Magrs.

I suppose, at this junction, I should mention Lawrence Miles, who has had a similar influence, but I just don’t find to be quite as good a storyteller as Magrs.

8. Rob Shearman

You probably know Rob Shearman for “Dalek”, the first good New Who story. What if I told you that “Dalek” is Shearman’s worst DW story?

The titles of Shearman’s audio plays are enough to send shivers up the spines of those who have heard them. There’s “Jubilee”, the loose inspiration for “Dalek”, which explores the Daleks as fascist iconography. There’s “The Holy Terror”, where the Doctor and Frobisher the Penguin Shape-Shifter have a similarly horrifying experience with a religious cult. There’s “The Chimes of Midnight”, possibly the definitive Eighth Doctor story, and “Scherzo”, itself perhaps the most experimental story in Doctor Who history, and “Deadline”, in which the villain is Doctor Who itself.

Like many of the writers on this list, Shearman has an eclectic back catalogue full of obscure oddities. But few people have quite his capacity for knocking it out of the park.

7. Chris Chibnall

It’s true that Chris Chibnall’s work before becoming showrunner is inconsistent at best. “42″ is bad and “The Hungry Earth” is uninspired. “Dinosaurs on a Spaceship” is a fun romp, while “The Power of Three” is a great story that is let down by the ending which had to be re-written hastily due to unforeseen production issues. And Chibnall’s contributions to Series 11 range from “fine” (”The Woman Who Fell To Earth”) to “bad” (”The Battle of Ranskor Av Kolos”). But in “Pond Life” and “P.S.”, Chibnall shows that he knows how to write affecting character beats.

It’s in Series 12 that Chibnall really takes things up a step. His stories become sprawling and ambitious: globe-trotting thrillers crammed full of ideas. He’s still occasionally guilty of trying to throw too many ideas in, but his love for the story really shines through. There’s barely a weak moment in Series 12, and that’s largely because Chibnall himself steps up to write or co-write hit after hit after hit. It all culminates in the epic three-part finale, “The Haunting of Villa Diodati”/”Ascension of the Cybermen”/”The Timeless Children”, a hugely ambitious story that crosses space and time and pulls together disparate elements from the history of Who. It’s a million miles from “The Battle of Ranskor Av Kolos”: a fan-pleasing story that is truly epic.

6. Vinay Patel

Why is Vinay so high? Good question. Thinking about it, I can’t really justify this placement. Patel reliably produces great stories - “Demons of the Punjab” alone marks Patel out as a great, and to follow it up with “Fugitive of the Judoon” shows that it wasn’t a fluke. But Mr Patel has only got four stories to his name - the aforementioned TV stories plus “Letters from the Front” and “The Tourist” - so for similar reasons to Mr Gaiman, a high position is difficult to justify.

So instead, let’s give this position to Terrance Dicks. Mr Dicks has a bit of a reputation as more of a “jobbing” writer than someone like Chibnall or Shearman, Terrance Dicks was, first and foremost, a script editor. Yes, he co-wrote “The War Games” and was the sole writer for “Horror of Fang Rock”, but he’s best remembered for script editing the Third Doctor era (and part of the Second Doctor era), as well as producing an absolute mass of Target novelisations. But that’s not all - Mr Dicks has written original novels (VNAs, EDAs, and PDAs alike), Quick Reads, audio stories, two stage plays, and even the Destiny of the Doctor video game.

Sure, Mr Dicks didn’t burn as bright as Mr Patel. But his contribution to the Whoniverse is unparalleled.

5. Nev Fountain

Comedy writer Nev Fountain has written several of the very best Doctor Who stories. For some reason, these stories tend to centre around Peri (Fountain is married to Nicola Bryant). “Peri and the Piscon Paradox” is the best Companion Chronicle by far, due to a combination of great acting by Bryant and Colin Baker and Fountain’s sizzling script. “The Kingmaker” is an outrageously funny historical with incredible dialogue and multiple ideas clever enough to carry a whole story.

Frankly, those two alone should be enough to convince anyone of Fountain’s brilliance. But there is so much more - “The Widow’s Assassin”, “The Curious Incident of the Doctor In the Night-time”, “The Blood on Santa’s Claw”, “Omega“... if you like Doctor Who, make yourself familiar with Nev Fountain.

4. Robert Holmes

More than anyone else, Robert Holmes is responsible for the esteem which the Fourth Doctor is held in.

Holmes first wrote for the show all the way back in Series 6, with “The Krotons”. He wrote the very first Third Doctor story, “Spearhead From Space”, in which he also introduced the Autons. They reappeared a year later in “Terror of the Autons”, which introduced Jo Grant and the Master. In “The Time Warrior”, Holmes introduced the Sontarans, a pastiche of imperialism.

It was in the Fourth Doctor era that Mr Holmes really made his mark. He took over from Mr Dicks as script editor. In his own right, he wrote “The Deadly Assassin” and “Talons of Weng-Chiang”, but he also turned “The Ark In Space”, “Pyramids of Mars”, and “The Brain of Morbius” into usable stories, even appearing in “The Brain of Morbius” as the Doctor.

After stepping back from script editing, Holmes returned as a hack to write stories like “The Caves of Androzani” (probably the most popular story in Classic Who) and “The Two Doctors”, before dying shortly after his 60th birthday.

3. Jamie Mathieson

Putting Mr Mathieson above Mr Holmes really shows my bias towards New Who, but honestly, I’d rather re-watch “Mummy on the Orient Express”, “Flatline”, or “Oxygen” than any of Holmes’ stories. Mathieson is very inventive and extremely good at maintaining pace and tension. I’m sure we’ll get more stories from him in the future, but the ones we have so far should be used as inspiration by anyone wanting to writing exciting Who.

2. John Dorney

It is hard to exaggerate Mr Dorney’s contributions to audio Who. He may lack the external fanbase of Mr Gaiman, the influence of Mr Magrs, or the legendary status of Messrs Dicks, Chibnall, and Holmes, but make no mistake, Dorney is exceptional. In almost every range he tries his hand at - Lost Stories, Novel Adaptations, Third Doctor Adventures, Fourth Doctor Adventures, Fifth Doctor Adventures, Dark Eyes, Doom Coalition, Ravenous, Time War, Companion Chronicles, Short Trips, Jago and Litefoot, Missy, UNIT, Diary of River Song... Dorney reliably writes the best story in the set.

In particular, Dorney’s stories are notable for the way they focus on character drama. Look at stories like “A Life In A Day” or “Absent Friends” for particular examples of stories that use sci-fi concepts to draw emotion out of characters, particularly the stoic Liv Chenka. Other highlights of Dorney’s include “The Red Lady” and the “Better Watch Out”/”Fairytale of Salzburg” two-parter.

1. Steven Moffat

What more is there to say? Moffat is truly exceptional, reliably writing the best stories in TV Who for several consecutive years. The classics are too numerous to list, but the stand outs amongst the stand outs are “Blink” and “Heaven Sent”/”Hell Bent”.

Some of Moffat’s best work comes away from TV. The minisodes “The Inforarium” and “Night of the Doctor”, the novelisation of “Day of the Doctor”, the short stories “Continuity Errors” and “the Corner of the Eye”, and lockdown stories like “Terror of the Umpty Ums” are Moffat deep cuts which deserve to be held in the same regard as his great TV stories.

Moffat’s imagination lead to him creating multiple iconic monsters - foremost amongst them, the Weeping Angels and the Silence. Moffat emphasised the use of time travel within the stories themselves; other themes in his work include memory, perception, paradoxes, identity, sexuality, and responsibility. He is, without a doubt, the greatest Doctor Who writer, and I am so lucky to have lived through the period where he was active.

[countessrivers]

15 for the cuddling prompts please (if you still feel like doing them! 😁)

The prompt is ‘In the dark’, set in the early days of the Year That Never Was.

(and got longer than I was expecting, so under a cut)

The Doctor is back in his correct body, has been for about a week, but it hasn’t presented him with any fresh escape opportunities, because from the moment he’d recovered from the transformation, he’s been kept restrained in some way, or drugged.

He’s moved around too, never left in the same place for long. Usually kept within the Master’s line of sight during the day, or at least nearby, if sitting at his feet is technically outside of his direct sightline, but at night in particular it varies. And like everything on Earth now, it all very much depends on the Master’s mood.

He’s in a room of his own this time. It’s pokey, and rather basic, but it has a bed, which is a definite upgrade from the tent. Still not the most comfortable place he’s slept, but certainly not the worst. It helps that he’s not currently handcuffed or tied down, and the sedatives he was given this morning have mostly worn off. The lights have been switched off, leaving him in the dark, but that just makes it easier to rest and recenter himself.

The Doctor’s well aware though that it’s an illusion of leniency, or perhaps disregard, as he knows there are two guards just outside the door, and likely at least one Toclafane. Even if direct escape was on his mind, he wouldn’t be getting very far.

It’s almost impressive, the lengths to which the Master was going in order to not give him an inch. The Doctor is tempted to view that as him learning from past mistakes, justified paranoia, and maybe in part it is, but mostly, he knows the Master is simply afraid.

The Master is terrified of him, of what he might do. He’d deny it, lash out at the accusation, but the Doctor knows, can tell. He’s sees it sometimes clear as day, in the Master’s face, in his eyes, and it breaks his hearts, because the Master is right to fear him, but not in the way he’s thinking.

He would never.

There’s a click as the door to his room unlocks, and the Doctor has to close his eyes against the blinding brightness of the hallway lights as it slides open. He doesn’t need to look to know who’s standing in the doorway. He can feel him.

Think of the devil…

The door shuts behind the Master, plunging them both back into darkness. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to see even the vague outlines of the room, the dark too deep for even his heightened senses to fully manage.

The Master stands by the door, silent, with a tension radiating off him that puts the Doctor on alert. He wonders if he should play at being asleep, or if the Master is waiting for something in particular. Neither one of them move, or speak, the only sound in the room the reverberating hum of the ship’s engines.

It’s because of the quiet that the Doctor notices the Master’s breathing is faster than his own, uneven too, like he’s agitated. The silence stretches on, and the longer it does, the more unnerved the Doctor becomes. He’s not afraid, though he too would have every right to be. More…concerned.

“Master?” he eventually asks, voice pitched quiet and low, loath to fully disturb the stillness, but unwilling to let the silence continue.

There’s a sigh, but it’s not the pleased sound that usually follows him speaking the other Time Lord’s name out loud. There’s a weight to it, a heaviness, and it’s something he’s not heard from the Master in a very long time.

“How do you stand it?” The Master’s voice is matched to his own, he too seemingly deciding to keep the strange atmosphere between them intact.

“What?”

“Being around humans.” The Doctor can hear the distaste in his voice, can picture clearly the narrowed eyes and the twist to his mouth as he says the word. He still doesn’t raise his voice though. “Eighteen months I had to hide here because of you. Over a year, surrounded by their stink and their noise, all those dull, pathetic little minds. Pretending to be one of them”

The Master’s voice, hissing as it is, falters ever so slightly at the last, and the Doctor wonders if maybe spending a lifetime as a human had more of an impact than the Master would like to admit. Not that the Master has ever had a particularly high opinion of humans. The majority of Time Lords didn’t, unfortunately, and add to that the Master’s long-standing jealous-like approach to anyone he spent time with, or showed the slightest affection or appreciation for…

Still, there’s something off. Something more, that has the Master noticeably disquieted in a way that has brought him here, in the middle of the night, to him.

“You married one,” is all he says in response. Which is the very least of what the Master’s done, and does, with Lucy, as the entire ship could easily attest to.

“Lucy was useful, and conveniently ambitious. She’s…tolerable, as humans go. And she leaves me alone if I tell her to. Unlike the others.”

“What others?” The Doctor decides to sit up, now that it’s clear they’re having a proper conversation. He shifts back to lean against the wall, bending a knee to wrap his arms around. There’s no way the Master doesn’t hear him move, but all the same, he remains by the door.

“All of them,” the Master continues, voice still pitched low, but with a growing level of noticeable ire. “The guards and the staff, even the Toclafane. They’re always there, wherever I go. They’re just there. Dozens of them. Every room, every corridor is filled with them. It’s unbearable.”

The Doctor makes note of the strange inclusion of the Toclafane in the Master’s complaint, given that all they seem to do is sing his praises and kill on command. He still hasn’t worked out precisely what they are, though he has his suspicions, but every time he thinks on them, his mind inevitably circles back around to the Master’s warning, his insistence that the knowledge would break his hearts. It’s not stopped him, but he can’t help but dwell on it. The Master knows him as well as he knows the Master. He knows exactly the kinds of things that would hurt him the most.

Beyond that though, he thinks he has an idea of what has brought the Master to his room. More so, he even understands.

He imagines telling the Master he could just leave, if being around humans bothered him so much. He imagines offering to go with him, offering to help dismantle the paradox machine so they could leave, the two of them leaving Earth behind, leaving everything behind. No humans, just them. Two Time Lords together.

He’d do it too. It would be hard, but he’d do it, and in truth, would never look back.

“They burn, don’t they, Doctor?” The Master’s voice suddenly sounds much closer, and with a start he realises that he’s approached the bed. He can see the outline of him, the shape of him, so close now, but he still cannot make out his features. The bed dips under the Master’s weight as he sits on the edge, and the displacement has the Doctor tipping towards him.

Maybe it’s because he can’t see, but the Doctor’s singularly aware of their current closeness, of the way they’re only a hair’s breadth from touching. Because the Master’s not wrong. Humans run so much hotter than Time Lords, so much so that it can sometimes feel like scorching. For the Doctor it’s become almost normal. Something that can be uncomfortable at worst, but otherwise, just a peculiarity of humanity. Something that’s different, but manageable, and not necessarily off putting.

But sometimes they do burn, sometimes it’s too much, and there are moments where the Doctor misses the familiar touch of his own kind more than anything.

Before he can think better of it, he reaches out a hand and places it on the Master’s back. The reaction is almost immediate. Instead of stiffening or pulling away or lashing out, the Master exhales, sinking back into the touch.

Encouraged, the Doctor leans in closer, sliding his hand up and feeling the play muscles under his fingers and his palm as the Master rolls his shoulders back. He feels over the Master’s shoulder blade, hand moving across and around to the front, never breaking contact. He shifts again, pressing up against the Master’s back, hooking his chin over his should as he places his hand over his right heart.

This too, the Master more than allows. He tilts his own head back, angling it towards the Doctor’s in a way that has his cheek brushing against his temple. When the Doctor brings his other hand to wrap around his middle, the Master’s fingers find his wrist, pressing against his pulse, like the Doctor, feeling for the proof of two beating hearts.

Even this close it’s still too dark to see much, but it doesn’t matter, because the Doctor doesn’t need to see the Master to enjoy, despite everything, having him here. He could close his eyes and it wouldn’t make a difference because he would still be able to feel him. Feel his heart beating beneath his hand, feel the comfortable warmth of him, the solidity that all proved he was real, that he was there. He’d still be able to smell him, listen to his breath, touch the very edges of a mind that was like no other.

“Doctor.” The Master mouths it almost silently against his skin, fingers around his wrist tightening, but no where near painfully.

“I know,” he whispers back. “I know.”

[mwolf0epsilon]

Prompt Time: The Projectionist free-roaming Malice Angel's domain. Level 14 barely has any stimulating things, so wouldn't it be nice if he got to visit Heavenly Toys and got to feel all the nice soft plushies?

Summary: "The worst nightmare is the nightmare that continues even when you wake up." --Mehmet Murat ildan

Warning for character death, blood and mild!

[[MORE]]

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No matter how much the hulking beast that was the Projectionist walked (or how far its warped mind perceived that it went), the one thing that it could be truly certain of was the neverending pain that permeated its skin and old bones, that followed every step with a diligent sort of precision.

A truly terrible and wretched notion indeed, as walking was all it knew to do anymore…

With a gaze lost to the expanse of the soundless halls ahead, and its thoughts long since seized from a lack of…Something...

A stimulus? A purpose perhaps? It had to be one of those, but it couldn't really recall which was correct.

It didn't know if it had ever known the answer to its plight at all.

But walking? Walking came easily!

Not that it wasn't a harduos task, mind you, just not so easy for the semi-mechanical abomination to forget.

One limb after the other, the creak of old joints and the sting of stiff muscles.

The dull ache at the base of its hips that sharpened as it climbed all the way to the base of its strained neck.

The painful throb of something squishy-but-not-quite encased in metal, and driven by the soundless clicking and blinking of things it could fix but not put a name to.

Walking was both easy and hard, but necessary.

If it could walk, it would be safe. If it could walk, it could keep an eye on its many projectors. If it could walk, it could defend itself and its many, many, responsibilities…

So walk it did, no matter how much the burden of it all hurt its patchwork body.

To anyone with a somewhat intact sanity, traversing the halls was a tedious and mind numbing act. Not that there was much that the Projectionist thought about anyway. It's mind was… Buzzing, but not with any musings of a past life. It was numb in a way its body could never replicate.

Fragmented after going so long missing a vital piece of itself. A soul stagnated from the splintering of its essence, as well as the nonsensically repetitive motions of a lethargic routine.

Long ago this creature was once told that madness was the act of repeating an action hoping to achieve different results. If that was so, then this wretched being was the maddest of them all.

Lost to a looping cycle of its own, doing things that it should no longer care for.

Because why tend to the projectors? Why hunt for intruders? Why search for a part that was floors above, well beyond its reach?

Yes, the Projectionist must be mad. So mad that it no longer could do much more than act out the same motions over and over again.

Couldn't do more than walk the halls and redo its tasks… A looping reel.

Following tired feet with a blazing light and aching muscles that never rested.

How tragically ironic.

An infinite paradox within another.

Until one day it got a breath of fresh air.

The lift was a tool of the horned angel. A contraption that it had once used, as the man it no longer recalled having been. To the Projectionist however, it was merely a source of annoyance.

A means for intruders to trespass in its corner of the studio. An heinous apparatus of mayhem and frustration.

It caused it to feel things that swelled in its empty chest cavity, until they became nothing more than a senseless rage.

The kind that made its hackles raise with territorial trepidation, which quickly became the distinct urge to fight over flight.

The Projectionist could not recall being a man, but it could instinctively recall being an animal.

A one of a kind apex predator that stalked the halls with reckless abandon. And anything that stepped foot in its pooling maze was fair game.

The things, miserable creatures that they were, tended to come from that hellish metal box.

It made the ink in its pool vibrate with such force that it flooded its senses in a most confusing way.

Overwhelming and unpleasant all on its own, but with the added dilemma of some half-baked critter crawling right in to seek out its most coveted treasure: Its many hearts.

The Projectionist loathed all who thought they could steal its heart twice.

Added theirs to the expanding collection dotted all around its many inky roosts.

Thus the lift was deemed an enemy spawning ground, one that the hulking semi-mechanical beast did not trust in the slightest, but one that it kept an eye on nonetheless… If just to have some peace of mind. As shattered as it may be.

Imagine then, how jarring it was, for a creature that did little else than roam, maim, and maintain, to find such a vile blight baring it's gaping maw at it in broad studio light.

For the first time in years, its routine was completely broken, with the Projectionist standing there just staring at the open lift with a stalling empty mind.

It did not know what to do. What to expect.

In a situation like this, what was there really to do? The distrust it felt of the lift coupled with its sudden and unexpected behavior was certainly quite troubling for a creature of the Projectionist's caliber.

So terribly dulled from its stagnant pattern that it needed time to even realize such an event was abnormal to begin with.

Once it clicked that, yes, the lift should not be in its domain and showcasing its hungry maw so pridefully, it did the only thing it knew to do to anything that offended it.

It shrieked aggressively and rushed it.

Now, once upon a time, a man by the name Norman Polk would have stared at this scene and bellowed with disbelieving laughter.

To see such a frightfully powerful beast struggle with something so mundane as an empty elevator… It would have tickled him positively funny.

Perhaps reminding him of this big old bully of a gator that used to sun itself near the drinking hole his old pops used to plant some of the best sugarcane in all of Louisiana (or so he boasted). Big and strong, enough so that it could snap a man's arm clean in half with just one bite, yet dumber than half a box of marbles.

That lump of gigantic muscle had gotten it's jaws stuck in so many crawdad traps that it was a miracle it had grown so big and strong at all. Lucky bastard that brute… the same could be said for the Projectionist.

If good old Norman could have witnessed this hulking horror struggle in the lift like it was fighting some battle of titanic proportions, he would have wondered how it hadn't gotten itself killed yet.

Sadly Norman could never question such things, as he himself was the abominable creature he would have likely found so humorous.

The mind was a fragile thing indeed.

One so incomplete as his, made the Projectionist truly seem like a dumb animal at best…

As the object-headed bruiser calmed down after its initial fruitless assault (in which it had toppled over and only further distressed itself), it began to attempt to right itself. Looking so pathetic like a turtle stuck on its back, until flailing limbs caught the bars of its source of frustration, and pulled with all it's might.

The thudding of heavy feet against the lift flooring sent vibrations that jolted its wires uncomfortably, making it screech at nothing as it turned to look for whatever was setting it off now.

Upon finding nothing it simply stood there, winded from the exertion of having to pull itself back onto its clumsy feet.

Not an easy task when one's head weighted so much.

Now that the few senses the Projectionist still had were not under any stress, the rage began to dissipate. The soothing silence pulled at its frayed sanity, both comforting and familiar in a world that had become so alien to its past self.

Boredom was sinking in quickly, beckoning it to move on back into its usual flow.

It lifted one leg, ready to begin the endless trek of the maze all over again, only to freeze when the lift door closed with it still inside.

The seconds trickled as it slowly processed the newest development to this earth-shattering event.

It was stuck. Trapped. Caged.

Another unholy screech left its ruined speaker as it began to thrash violently, trying to get out of this tight little coffin that tormented it so cruelly.

Calling out for freedom it thought it had.

A loud hum made the cage vibrate, and its shrieks only increased in intensity as it tried to protect its sensitive body from the droning it couldn't even hear.

Then the mobile prison began to ascend.

The Projectionist was no stranger to the levels above and below of its own. Sometimes it wandered up and down the stairs to check up on the myriad of hearts it had stored in multiple other places it had rested in, after chasing particularly persistent prey that didn't get the hint. Often it tracked ink that facilitated its navigation across these alien floors, as the vibrations of this substance helped it track down it's assailants (the footprints they left behind also helped).

It had frequent encounters with the doggish wolves it had seen strapped to tables. Most gutted before it could claim their precious insides itself, although some he found fresh and ready to put a meaty fist through.

There were also times where it had encounters with the thief that wore the grinning devil mask, often finding it near peculiar objects the fiend seemed to covet.

Tall necky things with sharp strings that hurt its fingers, round flat things that made a strange hum when it hit them with a closed fist, and big square things that had loose teeth that also made alluring vibrations.

The thief liked these strange objects, so the Projectionist made sure to track it through locating them whenever it could remember… If it could remember.

Thinking was much too hard when it had so much time just to roam and live inside its own empty head.

How strange was that?

As the tiny cage continued its ascension the burly beast fell to its knees and hugged them tightly to its chest.

It whined uneasily as it watched familiarity fade with each level that it passed, trying to ignore the hum that occasionally assaulted its sensitive cables and chords.

It whimpered louder when it felt like it should know what these distinct pauses against its inky flesh should mean.

Then, finally, the lift came to a pause and the doors opened up wide, showcasing its captive passenger for the world to see. Not that the Projectionist gave the world much time anyway…

As soon as it sensed an opportunity to be free, it lunged itself forward. The uneven weight of its patchwork form, causing it to trip up and tumble down onto the wooden floors.

It rolled a few feet, hurting its knees and cutting up it's right arm against a few steps of what appeared to be… A very wide space.

It had no clue what this place was, and the beady eyes staring down at it made the Projectionist right itself immediately and shriek in monstrous defiance of whatever harm the creature possessing them may wish it… only to stop and stare as nothing moved.

The strange thing that was staring at him was just a doll. A very large doll in the shape of the not-gutted-wolves it had previously encountered.

It cocked its head to the side ever so slightly, so as to not tip over, and grunted in acknowledgement that this was no threat to its existence.

Sure enough, gazing around, all the eyes that it could see were more of the drawings like the ones that its projectors played. A few of the flat devils that were strewn around, and a big devil doll to keep the wolf some company.

Letting out another grunt and a huff as it shook its head, the Projectionist turned to glance at the churning fountain of ink separating the two dolls, and promptly growled at it. Warning any of the vermin that enjoyed such things to keep well aways from it, if they did not wish a painful death to befall them.

The gross ink slugs were squishy, and hard to get out from beneath its nails. They stuck to its feet and made it feel icky and gross.

When nothing reared its ugly head out from within the fountain, the Projectionist marched on through this new strange place… Momentarily wondering if it would find more hearts for its collection.

The stimulation was doing wonders it seemed, if it could ponder such things.

Environmental awareness wasn't really a thing that it often considered while aimlessly wandering the halls. Its feet just took it wherever they pleased, gaze focused on nothing in particular, the patchwork bruiser just ticking by like a broken clock.

This newly discovered location was different, and brought with it new rules. The Projectionist was suddenly hyper aware and hyper focused on everything surrounding it.

The spacious expanse of this floor was interesting all around, truly a place where it could wander and get lost and just experience new things it couldn't in its maze.

Speaking of clocks, it whirred curiously as it noted all of the paraphernalia that was just everywhere. From limb swinging devil-clocks, to devil and wolf dolls of various sizes. At some point it found a bowl containing a squishy blob that jumped and changed shapes when it poked it out of curiosity.

The sudden movement had made the large brute shriek and crush the bowl with a powerful strike from its hand, but the blob had prevailed despite being surrounded by shards of ceramic that had cut into the large ink beast's hand.

Once established that it wasn't attacking him (and that the stinging pain was its own doing) the Projectionist let the bouncy mass be, and continued to just wander and take in all the three dimensional creatures that it was accustomed to see flat on the walls.

The room full of clocks and dolls was especially alluring.

There was a very big wolf plush like the one before in the spacy room with the fountain. The Projectionist fixated on it and approached, reaching out to pat the inanimate pooch's ears, and then reach up to pat its own round prongs in curious comparison. The toy was not taller than it, but certainly felt squishy where it was more solid.

It reached out to touch again, fingers sinking into pillowy fabric while it's palm ran over the new texture.

A strange little word crept up into its splintered mind: Comfy.

So soft it was to the touch… Would it feel good to lay on top of it?

Surely doing something of the sort would be against every survival instinct it still had keeping it going, right?

Walking was important!

Walking was surviving!

But resting… How its aching body craved to finally rest!

And look at just how inviting the plush's soft body was… it couldn't hurt to stop for a few minutes, right?

Against all odds, the Projectionist braced itself to a position where it would be less likely to hit its clunky head, then lunged forward. Practically purring as it felt itself sink into the comforting embrace of the false wolf.

Slumber, it would finally meet with it at last!

Without second thought, the Projectionist's light shut off as consciousness slipped away into the welcoming darkness.

-

Norman startled awake in bed, fumbling blindly as he tried to make sense of where he was at the moment, while kicking up his legs which were trapped under a mass of weighted blankets.

It was so dark! Why couldn't he see? He could always see in the dark halls, the light of the projector lens illuminating even the shadiest corners of the studio… He…

No. No he couldn't see in the dark?

And this place… He knew this place!

This was his and his wife's room back at their apartment.

A rush of confused thoughts flooded his frazzled brain, as Norman glanced around. His hand subconsciously reaching out to click on the bedside lamp, and it soothed him slightly when the darkness melted away under the soft yellow light that cast over the familiar scene.

He was home. But… how?

His bad eye darted about, refusing to focus as usual, while his good eye carefully surveilled his surroundings.

It landed on his bedside table, above the silly novel he'd recently picked up from the bookstore. There was a note there, waiting to be read by his curious eyes.

With a shaky hand, one much smaller than the brutish claw of the Projectionist, he took hold of the unassuming piece of paper.

"Went to the store to get a few things before dinner. Told the kids to behave so you could rest. Please don't overwork yourself ever again, you had a 102° fever dear. Love Maggie <3"

He read the words once, twice and then trice, heart hammering away in his chest as it all slowly sunk in.

Had it… Had it all been a terrible nightmare? Had he, in his feverish state, dreamt up all the horrors that he thought had really occurred at Joey Drew Studios?

Had he really conjured up all of the madness and pain in those hostile halls? Pictured his own gruesome transition into a mindless abomination that couldn't even remember it was a person? A monster that was too afraid to let others attack it first?

A dry and slightly choked up laugh forced its way out of his constricted chest as relief washed over him.

He was home…

He was home and he could think, and it didn't hurt to move his neck or limbs, and he was himself.

What a terrible nightmare his fever had gifted him, one that felt so real that he expected to find a monster when he slowly kicked the blankets off and rose up from the bed.

His bedroom mirror told a different story to what he'd thought he'd find reflected back. There he was, strong features, big round nose and lips, tired eyes (one moving about, never to meet the other's focus point since birth) and dark curly hair that was starting to gray.

He felt the stubble on his face and hummed softly to himself. He needed a shave, lest he end up looking like the photos of his Poppop Polk…

But first he desperately needed a glass of water. He usually had one resting beside his book, but Maggie had likely taken it back to the kitchen once he'd drained it throughout the night.

Not an issue. A leisurely walk around their home was a welcomed thing after he'd been so sure he'd be stuck staring at inky sepia toned (and slightly rotted), wooden panels for the rest of his miserable and dreadfully quiet life.

So that's what he did.

He put on some slippers and shrugged on his robe, and strolled out of the room at a very calm and deliberately slow pace.

It was honestly a little ridiculous how long it took him to reach the kitchen. He'd really had a grand old time of just listening to the background noises of the city, and admiring the house decor.

That really ugly vase his mama sent them as a wedding gift, where they kept a half dried up fern (he was terrible with plants and so was Maggie). The equally ugly rug his pops had found in a flea market and sent to them in the mail (ugly enough that his wife had begged him to burn it, so how could he not set it down so he could watch her purposefully scratch it up with her high heels, due to her pure and unadulterated hatred of the garish horror of checkers and polkadots?), the collection of child's drawings he and Maggie had taken to taping to the wall in proud display, as well as Aaron's many pictures (the kid really took the whole photography thing seriously since he'd bought him his own camera for his birthday).

Pictures… Oh how he'd admired the family photos so lovingly… Every portrait, every baby photo, every holiday he'd managed to document with his old battered camera that he hoped to fix one day.

That terrible nightmare had shook him up so bad that Norman genuinely thought he was never going to see those smiling faces ever again.

He passed by his children's rooms but thought better than to disturb them. They had classes tomorrow, and the clock told him that at this hour they'd be doing their homework, like he and their mother had stipulated early on.

They could do whatever with their time, but 18pm was schoolwork time.

Instead Norman carried on into the kitchen and breathed in the smells. A hint of freshly baked bread coming from the breadbasket they kept near the oven, as well as veggie soup that was cooling in the pot that was currently resting on the stove.

Fuck, he'd missed vegetable soup, and he hated eating his greens! How could a series of vivid images feel like such a lifetime when they were merely hours?

The mind sure was a mysterious thing, one much harder to understand than the projectors he maintained at the studio.

Shrugging to himself while taking a glass from one of the cupboards, the tired projectionist moved over to the sink and opened the tap without a second thought… It took a second for him to realize it wasn't water coming out.

The glass shattered upon being dropped by a retreating Norman, who stumbled back and away from the distressing sight as if he'd been burnt.

From the tap was coming out thick oily ink that smelled just as toxic as the deathly scent of the warped studio in his dreams.

No, this… this couldn't be.

It had been a dream! Hadn't it?

He was home! He was safe!

Except the ink pouring out of the sink contradicted this. So thick it was, like sticky tar, clotting in the drain and filling up the sink. It took far little time to begin overflowing and overtaking all it touched.

The color draining from everything the black substance came into contact with. Stretching out over the floor, crawling towards him, with liquid reaching fingers. Wanting to claim him.

Fearfully, Norman fled from the kitchen and down the hall. Not wanting to be pulled back by that demonic stuff.

The chemical smell was driving him nuts, burning his eyes and nose so terribly they were beginning to run.

He fled until his legs ached. But his tired stinging eyes found something quite concerning.

Norman hadn't moved an inch since getting to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

It was as if he'd been slipping in oil the entire time. No traction to propel him forward, just a useless struggle against an unseen force.

And then a new smell hit him.

One that made his heart turn to ice in his chest. A coppery smell that hit the back of his throat, and made his mouth taste like loose pennies.

His hands felt warm and sticky and hurt to move.

Sheer terror of the familiarity of this whole scene made him feel absolutely nauseous. He knew he shouldn't look, knew what expected him once he did so, but he couldn't help himself.

Curiosity (morbid as it may be) was his mistress after all.

Norman looked to his left, where the doors to his four children's rooms greeted him, wide open. Inviting.

God...There was so much blood...

The mortified projectionist fell to his knees as he stared down in pure horror at what remained of his and his wife's beautiful children. His babies… all dead, torn apart by some heartless butcher.

The terrified look immortalized in their young and lifeless features making him sob openly. He shakily reached out to hold them close to himself, screaming in fright when his eldest son's hand shot out to grasp his blood covered hands.

Empty eyes that were once warm with love and childlike wonder, bore holes into Norman's own mismatched gaze.

"Why did you kill us daddy? Why did you take our hearts?"

The projectionist shook his head, tears and snot running down his face as he tried to deny it. Deny the atrocity the ghost of his son accused him of committing against his own kin. But no matter how much he tried, Norman couldn't speak over the lump in his throat.

Everything hurt, and everything was warm and sticky, his little ones' hearts still beat in his monstrous hands that had slain them without thought.

And then the click of the house key made his blood run cold all over again.

"Honey? Are you up?"

No… no no no no! Maggie! It wasn't safe! He wasn't safe! She'd die! He'd kill her too!

He tried calling out, to beg for her to run, but all that came out was the primal and blood-curdling screech of the Projectionist, as it turned and trampled over the corpses of its previous victims, rushing to claim another heart for it's collection.

Norman's very soul screamed upon seeing his wife's confused and then terrified face under the beast's burning gaze.

-

The Projectionist screamed. It screamed in terror and anguish as it kicked away from the comfy wolf it had decided to rest upon on a whim.

It screamed as it tried to force itself away from a person that was not physically there, thus safe from its violence.

It screamed, as Norman Polk was still very presently in charge of his mental faculties, after having had his "brain" so stimulated and overworked for the first time in years.

He screamed until the speaker lodged in his torso gave out, spluttering weakly as it temporarily short-circuited. The internal mess of organic and non-organic materials needing time to mend themselves once more into a semi-functional state.

Once finding himself incapable of producing sound, the Projectionist sat there, shaking and completely disoriented. Trying to make sense of reality and dreams that were cruelly senseless.

And then the weight of it all crashed down… He could remember.

He was a person, not a something, a someone.

A father… He was a father who could forget these things all over again, and hurt his loved ones. A father who couldn't protect his beloved and his children as long as he was this… Heinous monstrosity.

A monster who'd sooner dismember anything it came across than think twice about their identity. A menace to society.

With that knowledge Norman did the only thing he could think to do while he still had awareness.

He lashed out, letting the anguish and hatred of his situation demolish all that met with his brutish body.

Shelves broke, dolls were torn to shreds, the wolf plush was gutted, and the Bendy clocks shattered. All the while he screamed silently as he let the floodgates wide open to pour out all the torment.

Then, when there was nothing left to destroy, he cried.

Sobbing without a mouth or eyes to clear, hiding a lens into hands that could do cruel and devastating things.

Trembling inconsolably on his knees, in the darkness of a cold and dreary studio full of monsters just as odious as he.

Mourning what he'd become, until the memories faded back into obscurity. Letting himself fade back into nothing but an afterthought.

Above and well beyond out of sight, Susie Campbell wept as Alice whispered comfortingly to her in their shared mind.

The poor dear had only wanted her old friend to have a chance to be comfortable and rest. That, it seemed, had been a horrible mistake on her part.

There just wasn't anything in this cold and brutal world of theirs that could alleviate such misery as the one that burdened the Projectionist.

[ardenttheories]

I don't expect a super serious answer from this, but I'm just curious. in a perfect world, how would hs^2 be written? do you have any particular headcanons or plot lines that would be interesting to explore? I understand the hesitation in answering a question like this, because other people might try to discredit your critiques under the guise of "well its not ur headcanons so that's why ur mad". anyways, just curious because I respect your perspective and ideas

In complete honesty? The first thing I would consider vital is a diverse team of people - genuinely diverse - to consider every point of representation with. I’m talking people of different races (to avoid the anti-black coding of Gamzee), with mental illnesses (to avoid the ableism in both Gamzee and Dirk), with different gender identities (to more accurately and healthily portray Jade, Roxy, Vriska, June - any character we could feasibly want to make trans or nonbinary), with different romanticisms and sexualities (so that we could write genuine MLM and WLW relationships without falling into homophobic pitfalls; to avoid biphobic stereotypes), and overall, with different traumatic experiences and triggers (so that we could more accurately gauge what triggers would need to be tagged and how to go over them in an appropriate and respectful manner).

We could never be 100% perfect, but with a team like that, we could at least get close to it. 

Additionally, I’d bring back either fan prompts or closely listen to fan theories and conversations. Homestuck^2 was touted to be written with the fandom in mind; to consider the direction we were asking it to go in, while basing it around a general barebones structure. I’d want to make sure we were including as much of that in as humanly possible. So, if a fan theory seemed like it’d fit into the story? I’d want to include that with the rest of the text; if the fans liked a specific character? I’d want to try and include them more often. Little things to show that we’re listening and that we’re writing the story WITH the fans - like how early Homestuck used to be.

On an actual storyline basis, I really do love the concept of Meat and Candy; that there’s one timeline that goes off the rails and one that is very rigidly stuck to a track. I wouldn’t want to change that concept entirely, but I would want to make it more palpatable for people to read. 

This would mean, for me, absolutely getting rid of anything to do with Yiffany. I’d completely replace that with Dave and Jade having a child together via ectobiology; how Jade has to raise their child in Dave’s absence after he goes missing, how that affects her, who she turns to for comfort and help. 

I’d want to focus Candy more on that feeling of helplessness and dissociation. On John feeling adrift in a world that doesn’t quite connect with him, that doesn’t entirely feel real; how that would affect his relationships, his friends, his family. In this timeline, all of the rebellion stuff would be completely background to the interpersonal connections everyone has (the things that supposedly don’t matter, as is the point of Candy), with much more emphasis on how useless and frivolous the whole war is. It’d get to a point where nobody actually knows why they’re fighting anymore except for the fact that they are, and that even Jane, who started it out of a genuine fear for the human race, is getting tired of it, is losing resources, is starting to realise that she’s drifting away from her own child. 

A truce would be garnered, started by Jane who just very much wants to reconnect with her son, with Karkat taking on the role as troll emissiary. It features long talks in a large, empty room, pouring over papers, where Jane admits that she doesn’t actually know what anyone is up to these days, how long it’s been since she’s seen her husband, since she’s seen John, and Karkat quietly confesses that it’s been several years since he’s seen Dave or Jade, and that he misses them both. 

After that, a lot of the content of Candy would focus on healing. They would get back to their happily ever after, even though some things would never be the same, and there would still be inconsequentialities. It would also correspond with John coming to the slow realisation that he really doesn’t need a plot to be happy at all; that just because it doesn’t matter to the overarching story doesn’t mean it can’t matter to him. 

The Candy timeline, therefore, would close early; it would fade from our view just as Dirk feared, but it would be happy and content, and free from any further meddling. I’d essentially want to enforce this idea that, yes, we can still have happy endings - even if they aren’t “full of meaning”. They can still be satisfying.

The Meat timeline, on the other hand, would have a significant focus on Dirk and his attempts to continue the plot. I think it would be fun, admittedly, if nothing went the way he thought it would. That after all of his villany and his acceptance of destruction in order to facilitate something he thought would be better, he actually just lost complete and utter control. 

The plot isn’t something that he alone can continue. It’s created with character conflict, with motivations and rises and falls and losses and gains; trying to recreate SBURB, to try and restart the cycle, isn’t what a plot needs to be. It isn’t what he thinks it will do. 

I’m unsure if you’ve seen this recently, but there’s been a lot of fanwork around the Lord!Jake English idea that went around several years back (when people saw the Caliborn sona). Now, this I’d want to put into it. 

Jake, fed up with being stepped on, walked over, hurt, suffering from the trauma of being completely and utterly ruined by Dirk, absolutely flips shit. He chases after Dirk to seek revenge, to cut short whatever bullshit he’s trying to do, and therefore much of the comic becomes this constant back and forth with an increasing fear for Dirk the closer Jake gets as he traverses Paradox Space.

It’s very much clear that when Jake arrives, Dirk will lose. There’s no question about it. Nobody suggests that anything else will happen. There’s several arguments on Meat’s Earth C over whether or not they should try to stop Jake, or let him stop Dirk - and whether or not Jake will calm down afterwards or continue his rampage. 

In the end, Dirk fails. Jake catches up to him, and just before he hits the killing blow, the entire thing goes dark. Our narrator dead, the plot abandoned; there is nothing more to see. This I would want to use to enforce the idea that, yes, plot can still be satisfying as hell and still have integral moments and be heavy and harsh - but it can also end in a way that leaves open questions because that shows that it isn’t the best ending you can get. 

And then we jump back to Terezi, using her Seer powers. Both timelines have been her trying to use her powers to See what’s in store, where she should go, what she should do. She’s still floating through Paradox Space, looking for Vriska, and as such she’s met with this... sort of internal dilemma. 

She knows, now, that the chances of her dying out here are high. She also knows that even if she does survive, she’s pretty much never going to see Vriska again anyway. She knows there’s a chance at a happier relationship with John, and that the only way she can get that is if she somehow manages to make a timeline where Meat and Candy merge together at once. 

So, she flies back. She manages to arrive on Earth C the day of John’s big decision, and interrupts him before he can go to the picnic. Through their dialogue, John gets it stuck in his head that, hey, there’s something BIGGER out here that you need to do, but you need to do that amazing thing again where you make a third Choice.

When John arrives at the picnic, he decides to eat some of the pumpkin instead - to which you might be thinking, what pumpkin? The one he put there, of course, using his retcon powers.

So we start on the Pumpkin timeline, written entirely in the 1st person narrative from John’s POV. It’s a completely biased interpretation of what’s going on, but it’s honest to John’s own thoughts and feelings, too, allowing everyone to act the way they usually would do without any influence, but still having a narrative touch. 

It shows John actively fighting to free the timeline from Dirk’s and Alternate Calliope’s narrative controls, those little hooks they’ve planted in it since time began, with a lot of back-and-forth as the two talk to John through the narration (which, he hears their voices as thoughts in his head). 

John attempts to free them both from their own biases and chains, encouraging Alternate!Calliope to leave the space she’s isolated herself in and join Earth C while convincing Dirk to undo the bullshit villain schtick he’s on (and that plot or no plot, there’s still a reason worth living for). 

It’d be a timeline filled with references back to original Homestuck (and funny quips from both Alternate!Calliope and Dirk along the way), a lot of morality discussion, plenty of theorising on narrative control and arcs and the placement of plot and fluff in a satisfying story, and have plenty of representation and romance and hints towards kids, too (such as nonbinary RoxyJaneCallie, DaveJadeKat, aromantic Jake, JohnDirk [because I couldn’t stop myself, honestly, with how their Classpects work so well hand in hand], and definitely RoseMary being the first to adopt a child that they absolutely do not call Vriska). 

It’d fill plotholes the fandom wants to be filled, and it’d have drama, of course, in the form of figuring out a way to destroy Lord English that doesn’t inherently lead to the Candy timeline. But it’d go back and forth between the heavy, plot-filled moments and the slower, relationship-based moments, with more humanising and development of Dirk and Alternate!Calliope and John as rounded characters.

That’s the best my tired mind can come up with right now. It’s something I’ve daydreamed about a lot, actually; how I’d rewrite Homestuck^2, or what my own ending to Homestuck would be using it as a foundation. I hope it makes sense! It’s a fun little thought experiment, honestly.

[architectuul]

Twelve Cautionary Urban Tales: Our Acts Make the City

The exhibition at Matadero Madrid, Twelve Cautionary Urban Tales, brings a fresh look into the (im)possible urban futures. It prompts us to wonder about individual actions – mundane or extraordinary, planned or accidental – and the ways in which they contribute towards building the city of tomorrow. 

Celine Baumann’s Parliament of Plants; imagining a democracy based on the principle of mutual care and support. | Photo © Lukasz Michalak  

It is interesting to write about it at this moment when, due to the Covid-19 pandemic, our urban experience is turned upside down. Right now most of us can do the most by completely retreating from city life and staying physically away from each other. And still, as we try to do this from afar but in unison, in solidarity, we already lay the groundwork for our shared future city. What could that city be? Take a look at the exhibition to delve into the cautionary tales.

The first of twelve tales: Inverted Tents by Aristide Antonas, telling about a city fragmented into autonomous pieces | Photo © Lukasz Michalak

Twelve Cautionary Urban Tales, curated by Ethel Baraona Pohl, was opened on February 13 at Matadero Madrid. It consists of twelve cities – that is, twelve stories of cities – asking and teasing and urging us to think about the urban futures. Who do we really live with, in this big city, in this cyberspace, in this tiny room? How children play, and why is that important? Would plants make better parliamentarians than we do? What if we actually listened to the sound of injustice we keep imposing upon Earth? Is our first city in outer space going to reproduce the capitalist mode of production? Did you learn or do anything interesting yesterday?

Are the producers of happiness rankings the new designers of our cities? Our Happy Life: Architecture and Well-being in the Age of Emotional Capitalism curated by Francesco Garutti CCA. | Photo © Lukasz Michalak  

Queering the City is a sound installation with a range of works by artists invited by Katayoun Arian. Its content and connections are subject to rhythmic formations and deformations. | Photo © Lukasz Michalak

With the project 3 Wanders and 2 Strolls, Clara Nubiola explain the Madrid and its infrastructures that has grown from junctions, bridges, informal paths, illegal camps, and glass office buildings. | Photo © Lukasz Michalak

To make us stop and think about all of this and more, Ethel Baraona Pohl, the curator, critic, and the co-founder of dpr-barcelona publishing house, has brought together a variety of practices, from different fields and generations. Their artistic installations compose an exhibition inspired by Superstudio’s famous piece Twelve Cautionary Tales for Christmas, published in 1971 in Architectural Design. With these “twelve visions of ideal cities”, Superstudio gave an enduring lesson on the perils of modernist utopias, the dangers of perfectionism, and the illusion of happiness found in blissful ignorance and blind fate in technology.

Superstudio’s  ideal cities “free from contradiction, equivocation and indecision.” | Illustrations via  arqueologiadelfuturo.blogspot.com

The influence of Superstudio’s radical work cannot be overstated, and the work itself should be studied and analyzed in the context of the critical debate of the 1960s and ‘70s. But it might be interesting to briefly remember some of the Superstudio’s sharp, unexpected, science-fiction inspired visions. Their first city might give you eternal life on a grid of perfect equality, but it will also crush you with a 2,000 tons panel if you so much as consider rebelling against the system. The eighth city, with its perfect proportions and terraces narrowing as they go up all the way to the mysterious top, is the embodiment of class exploitation. The tenth city solved the problem of democracy and public participation by reprogramming anyone who’d ever questioned any of the mayor’s decisions. And the sixth city, the one where you can pay to go in and be whoever you choose to be and do whatever you want to do, might have inspired the TV series Westworld. The issues at the center of Superstudio’s tales have not faded, and their provocative message still warns us, and rightfully so, about the limits of a mechanic, technological perfection which anesthetizes human imagination, and about the values of human action and contradiction.

Cosmorama is a version of one previously exhibited in 2018 at the US Pavilion at the 16th Venice Biennale by Design Earth. | Photo ©  Lukasz Michalak

The Atom People by Traumnovelle, based on the machine-city, questions the paradox of contradictory relations that occur in nature when it is born from the search of ecology through technological means  | Photo © Lukasz Michalak

Exhibition Twelve Cautionary Urban Tales furthers the conversation by putting human action front and center, to be either criticized, admired – or simply induced. These tales have grown into installations, which bring forward a set of questions about our relationship with nature, with each other, with architecture, with political and physical spaces we inhabit, and with those we (still) don’t. And we must come up with some answers: there’s no sleeping through the urban challenges we face today, there’s no one to take over the control panel of our joint existence. We are building our messy cities together, and look, hear, feel – this is where we might end up!

Guerrera video, filmed at the Automotive Museum by Eduardo Barreiros, is one of the works featured in the audiovisual archiving project Selling Bricks.

It addresses the relationship between urban music and an architectural object, the role of popular culture in the dissemination of architectural heritage. 

Unsettled Urbanism by Merve Bedir, Chong Suen, Sampson Wong is a call to understand how collective spatial intelligence is produced and the other ways of living the city that emerge. | Photo ©  Lukasz Michalak

The storytellers bringing their cautionary tales forward are Aristide Antonas with Inverted Tents, Katayoun Arian with Queering the City: A Sono-orientation (with artists Angela Anderson, Irene Cassarini, Karachi Beach Radio, and Gayatri Kodikal), MAIO Architects with The Grand Interior: Towards the Diffuse Home, Clara Nubiola with 3 Wanders and 2 Strolls, Traumnovelle with The Atom People, Celine Baumann with The Parliament of Plants, Chloé Rutzerveld with The Politics of Food: a Radical New Food System for the Anthropocene City, Bartlebooth with Selling Bricks (with Alberto de Miguel), Merve Bedir, Chong Suen and Sampson Wong with Unsettled Urbanism, Design Earth with Cosmorama, Assemble with The Voice of Children and Canadian Centre for Architecture (CCA) with Our Happy Life: Architecture and Well-being in the Age of Emotional Capitalism curated by Francesco Garutti. 

Exhibition closes with a final call back to Superstudio. We’re still working out the same questions! | Photo © Lukasz Michalak

Exhibition at Matadero Madrid shall be set until July 19, 2020. Although Matadero is, like the museums and galleries all over the world, currently closed, the exhibition can still be viewed online.

- by Sonja Dragović 

---

Twelve Cautionary Urban Tales  Matadero Madrid, Center for Contemporary Creation Plaza de Legazpi 8, Madrid

From 13 of February to 19 of July 19 2020

Curator: Ethel Baraona Pohl Curatorial advisor: César Reyes Exhibition design: Taller de Casquería Graphic design: Naranjo-Etxeberría

[the-trashy-phoenix]

Supernatural season 5 review (part 1)

Link to part 2:

At the end of the previous season, as you remember, we were left speechless by all the plot twists happened in the last episode, leaving us on a cliffhanger. Of course we already know the aim of the entire fifth season will be stopping the Apocalypse, but we don’t have a clue, and neither do Sam and Dean at first, about how they’ll manage doing it, and that’s the whole point of this part of the show. As always, stopping the evil forces is not the only obstacle the brothers have to face, as there’s also a relational problem between them. This one is maybe the biggest so far, considering Sam himself caused the whole mess, to use an euphemism, they have to clean and will surely cause unpredictable tragedies all over the world (through the episodes, characters often refer to natural disasters). Sam’s guilt is nearly unbearable, and if we consider how considerate and kind he is we can assume it’s deadly painful for him, but that’s not the worst part. That’s not the reason why Dean can’t forgive him. Deep but not so deep inside he’s mad at his brother and can’t trust him because he refused to follow him and his advice and decided to trust Ruby’s plans. As always they’re both right: no one could say how evil Ruby was as she did a very good and long-term job in hiding it, and Dean himself trusted her, but the point is Sam made a choice and Dean can’t bare the fact that the only person he could really rely on chose someone else, especially because Sam’s choice proved to be extremely wrong. So paradoxically the real problem between them is not the Apocalypse, as Dean knows Sam would have never cause it on purpose, but the lack of trust, which is very difficult to restore (especially because they never maturely talk about it and they just do when they explode with anger and resentment) and which by the way prevents them from focusing properly on saving the world.

Moreover, the villain the world must be saved from is the worst you could imagine, Lucifer. This brings the fight on a superior level, as hell forces, now on earth, fight with heaven creatures, the angels we’ve met in the fourth season. The brothers are in the middle of this epochal war in the deepest sense, as both angels and demons want them on their side. Sam and Dean don’t know what to do, but they’re sure they will never ally with anyone, which is quite complicated because they’re deeply connected to both sides in an interesting way. As a matter of fact, in season four we've found out that not only Sam began the Apocalypse breaking the last seal, but also that Dean unintentionally started the whole thing breaking the very first seal when he accepted to torture souls down in hell. This makes Dean feel so guilty as well, and should make him consider Sam less responsible of the Apocalypse, and at some point he does, making it the real turning point in his view, as he realises they’ve been both cheated by angels and demons who made them their puppets assuming they would obey without arguing. Also, the brothers get to know they’re even more involved in the fight: Sam is Lucifer’s vessel, which means he’s the strongest human being able to carry the demon, but of course he has to say yes and he won’t, and Dean is Micheal’s vessel, which means he’s the only instrument angels have to make the archangel powerful enough to fight Lucifer and hopefully win the war. Sam’s choice is easy, as there’s no doubt Lucifer is evil, but still he has to bear a lot of pressure from Lucifer himself and his faithful demons who keep bothering him, Dean and Bobby the whole time.

Dean’s position is a lot more complex: he knows he’s the only hope to defeat hell creatures, but he’s also learned to be suspicious towards angels and would rather die than do what Zacharia wants, as he is not quite the type of person who easily forgives someone who’s been so mean to him. Somehow their only choice is quite clear, breaking free from both angels and demons and begin their own fight against all of them to stop the Apocalypse and save as many people as possible, as they seem to be the only ones caring for them. I think they know it from the beginning, but it’s a great step to take and before jumping into it they have to go through a process of inner growth, understanding how wrong it would be to take a side and how they just have each other to count on, even after all the lies and misunderstandings they’ve been through. After some time they’re ready to start their own fight, choosing carefully their soldiers in the people they trust the most and making an exception just for Castiel. He himself also went through a deep process of growth during which he becomes more and more human, both physically and spiritually, and brave enough to follow what he thinks is the right path despite the pressure from the angels, who are his family, and even if Sam and Dean’s idea of fighting against all supernatural creatures is desperate.

Of course Sam and Dean’s decision is sometimes not so firm: I’ll mention Dean’s temporary choice to say yes to Micheal, because it gives a great view of Dean’s inner self. He knows saying yes to Micheal means dying, so before leaving his body he goes to say goodbye to Lisa, his ex-girlfriend he met again some seasons ago, and tells her that she’s the only one he would imagine to be with in an hypothetical happy life. This scene really broke my heart because it’s one of the rare occasions in which Dean admits he dreams of a normal life, which could seem boring if he hadn’t experienced all the pain his life as a hunter brought him, free from the fear he constantly feels (and tries to hide in every way) and from all the burdens he has to carry every day. Dean seems even somehow happy to die, and it’s clear he hates the hunter life more than Sam, even if it’s the most important part of him. I appreciate so much Dean’s constant growth and development through the episodes and the increasing insight of his personality (which is, together with Sam’s, the most complex in the show) moving from the prototype of the narcissist and sexist guy to a deep and grown man.

In this season we also meet several times the other hunters who always keep in touch with and help Sam and Dean. Of course Bobby is still part of their team, and his storyline is developed as he has an accident that makes him lose the use of his legs. Castiel can’t help him because he’s lost his powers and Bobby cedes to deep depression. He feels more useless than ever and would do anything to have his legs again, considering how this is a huge handicap in his fully active hunter life, so he solves his problem the only way every character seems to know, making a deal with a demon. This one is particularly important as he’s a complex character whose intentions are not completely clear from the beginning, Crowley. He of course is a demon, and a very powerful one, but happens to help the Winchesters apparently without any reason giving them the Colt, the only weapon that could kill Lucifer (but it can’t, and the brothers will find out too late). I think this character will be a great source of satisfaction going on with the show.

Talking about hunters, I can’t but mention one of the saddest moments of the season. During the first attempt to kill Lucifer with the Colt, also Ellen and Jo get to help the “team free will”, as they’ve become full-time hunters after the destruction of their Roadhouse and are committed to the fight. Things don’t go as planned and the two women get killed by hellhounds aroused by Meg. Their death arises Sam and Dean’s guilt for all the good people dying to help them (and eventually they didn’t even manage to defeat Lucifer this time), because they refused to serve as vessels and chose to fight their own way. They still think that’s a good choice, but they have to constantly live with the burden of all the deaths they cause.

One of them keeps on tormenting Sam from the first season. He could never forget his guilt for Jessica’s death, but it becomes even more painful when he finds out she was meant to meet and love him and to be killed by demons from the start. Even his college best friend, who had presented Jess to him, was a demon, so that Sam was never destined to a normal life, even though he had tried so hard to build one, and everything that ever happened to him was meant to lead him to his predestined future, to become a hunter just as the father he had always wanted to break free from. This shocking revelation makes Sam cut once for all the hopes he had to stop being a hunter and to have a family one day: he now knows for sure he’s cursed (like his brother, who on the other hand can’t really let go that idea of a family) and understands he has to face his destiny without running away ever again.

I particularly liked the character of Chuck, the prophet, who can see in advance what will happen to Sam and Dean and help them, and Becky, the most dedicated fan of Supernatural, the series of books Chuck has written about the Winchesters. They also come together with the metanarrative of Supernatural itself, as Chuck wrote the books before knowing the whole story was real, and even after knowing it they keep on organizing events, such as the convention involving Sam and Dean themselves in episode 9, to bring together fans. At first it’s a bit of a shock, both for the protagonists and for us, but you get easily used to this mechanism of the show reflecting upon itself and it’s quite fun. I’m not a TV series expert, but I found this feature so original and kind of self-ironic I think that’s one of the elements which makes Supernatural unique.

Supernatural also touches kind of theological and philosophical themes through the narration about heaven and angels, focusing on their ambiguous morality, but in the fifth season also God has a space. At first he’s mentioned to justify Castiel’s resurrection (he had died at end of the fourth season) and at some point he seems to be the only one who is powerful enough to stop the Apocalypse and the war, but no one has seen him in years. The archangel Raphael says he’s dead and, when Sam and Dean go to heaven (which by the way wasn’t how I expected, as it’s just a place where you relive your happiest memories), Joshua tells them he’s alive but he doesn’t care anymore about his duties. That was quite predictable, but still it makes the brothers even more angry and hopeless, knowing that the angels are following orders from this God and that he has created humanity and forgot about it straightaway. This perspective about God is clearly made to make people think, and reflects how most of them feel about religion and Evil, which cannot be satisfactorily explained by the traditional idea of theology and free will (which by the way is the evocative name the brothers and Castiel give to their team). Sam and Dean need to find a way to reach their purpose to save the world and by doing it they can’t count on God or a good superior creature, but as always they can only count on themselves and do better than God himself did (which shouldn’t be too difficult).

Just when everything seems to be lost, an unexpected character, the Trickster, reveals himself. After giving us the last of his extremely funny and weird episodes, the brothers find out he’s the missing archangel, Gabriel: he’s an outsider in his family who broke free not to fight against his brothers, like Lucifer did, but to live a peaceful life far from all angels and demons’ issues. He’s neither good nor evil, because he doesn’t want to take sides, but it’s so clear he has a preference for Sam and Dean and kind of mirrors himself in their desire to follow their own path outside what heaven and hell have decided for them that he helps them explaining how they can defeat Lucifer. They have to collect the rings of the Four Knights, War, Famine, Death and Pestilence, to re-open Lucifer’s cage, but to do so Sam has to say yes to him and hopefully succeed in leaving it before falling down to hell. Of course Dean is not sure about the plan and doesn’t want his brother to do that, but they both know it’s the only way to stop the Apocalypse; also Sam is well aware of all the risks, but somehow feels it’s his chance to redeem and clear up the mistake he made. In one of the last scenes of the brothers together, Sam makes Dean promise the sweetest thing: he will not try to bring him back if he fails, and he will live a normal life with Lisa and Ben. The final fight ends really badly, as both Lucifer in Sam’s body and Micheal in Adam’s body (he’s the closest relative to Dean and the brothers, even if they tried, couldn’t protect him from angels, as another proof the Winchesters are cursed in their blood) fall and go back to Lucifer’s cage. I thought Dean would have never respected his promise, but the season unexpectedly ends with a peaceful scene of an ordinary dinner table where Dean, Lisa and Ben are happily eating as a proper family. But just when I thought the shock couldn’t be worse, the camera shows us we’ve seen this scene from a particular point of view, Sam’s. How can he possibly be back? What will he do now? We will surely find an answer in the next season…

- Irene 💕