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the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒐;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 15.2k+

summary: “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

warnings: swearing, violence, angst (?)

notes: So straight up: no John this chapter. But we are doing a lot of groundwork for plot and characters (hence why the chapter is so long because I’m getting it all out of the way in one, big sweep) cause covering just the movies would be boring anyway, and when have I ever made life easy for myself? So strap in, grab a snack, and enjoy this monster chapter!!

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | . . | 06 |

“It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” the priest reads loudly, his voice soaring over the pews of the dim church. “In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes upon them.”

You sit beside Avi, who nudges you when he notices your attention drifting, and you shoot him a quick glare. Tarasov’s hands are clasped together, his head bowed in deep prayer. His action is mirrored by everyone inside the church, and you bite back an amused laugh.

A man like him has a lot to repent for.

Especially for building his little safe house beneath this very church. A smart, but hardly original idea. Still, it keeps most people from sniffing around, and guarantees privacy considering that everyone—even the priest—is on Tarasov’s payroll here.

His call this morning came as a surprise. Apparently, after this little display of repentance, he plans on meeting with his brother to discuss some potential business deals with new blood from the West Coast.

Drugs, guns, money laundering, fraud, human trafficking. Everything and anything on the menu will likely be discussed.

Which explains his insistence for you to be here.

Tarasov always likes being prepared and asked you to come fully prepped in case talks go South. Your presence is also a good method of power posturing. Outsiders don’t need to know that your debt is almost repaid, meaning that your loyalty to Tarasov is flimsy at best. Still, it’s just like the man to try and squeeze whatever little use he could still get out of you.

The church door cracks open loudly, but people don’t so much as twitch, respectfully keeping their heads bowed.

Avi looks behind him at the sound of multiple footsteps echoing through the alcoves and you feel him go rigid beside you.

Even the priest falters in the middle of a verse, looking stricken as he stares at whoever just walked in.

Your head turns too and you feel yourself freeze.

Shit, shit, what is he doing?

The thought roars through your head as you stare at the approaching party. Santino’s eyes catch your own after a moment and his lips twitch upwards upon spotting you, pleased. His entire guard is with him, including Ares who stays loyally on his left, shadowing his every step. She looks less than thrilled to be here and you can understand why.

Tarasov stands to his feet, having paused his prayer in favour of checking what all the commotion is about, and exits his pew with deliberate slowness. Avi stands with him immediately, his left side covered, and you rise stiffly too. Your position is, ironically enough, that of Tarasov’s right hand ever since John’s departure—a fact that has never sat well with Avi due to your lack of iron-like loyalty which would be expected in such a position. Still, Tarasov has never changed his initial outlook of you outranking other members of his own guard, even if that knowledge has never brought you much joy.

“Ah, my apologies. We did not mean to interrupt the service,” Santino greets pleasantly, his cocky demeanour in full swing as he comes to a stop a few pews away. “We have simply come to…join you in prayer.”

You almost groan.

What is he doing?

Despite your efforts to subtly catch his notice, he looks only at Tarasov who seems to loom as he stands beside you unmoving.

“Didn’t take you for the praying type, D’Antonio.”

His voice is neutral, but you sense the danger there. People still sitting in the pews shift uncomfortably, wondering if the tension scale is about to tip in favour of bloodshed, and you find yourself wondering that too.

You’re more than armed. Tarasov would expect you to do your duty if it came down to a fight. But the idea of watching your poison eating away at a collection of mostly familiar faces makes you feel queasy.

“On the contrary, when I was a little boy, our family attended mass every Sunday morning without fail,” Santino says conversationally, his hands clasped in front of him as he sways slightly from side to side with a friendly curve of his mouth. Like two friends sharing a pleasant conversation. “Perhaps, that is why I like churches so much. Their walls are so full of secrets.”

His green eyes slide slowly, deliberately, around the space and you tense.

“Everyone, get out,” Tarasov informs in calm Russian and the people inside the pews scramble as fast as they can, not daring to look back.

Avi rests his hand on his gun, smiling faintly, and Tarasov’s guards that were previously scattered around the large space come to stand behind their boss.

You don’t move. Ares’ eyes flicker to you for a second but you find no answers in her expression. She seems calm though, unworried, and it eases your mind if only a little. Surely, she—Santino’s most loyal without a fail—would not allow him to come here and do something stupid. But it certainly doesn’t explain his idiotic egging technique. As if Viggo Tarasov is a man to be played with.

“I’ve heard you’ve come back to my city,” Tarasov finally speaks after a lengthy, tense silence between both parties. “But that fails to explain as to why you are here. Uninvited.”

Which is an insult and a provocation.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep your expression straight as you listen to their exchange, but you also know better than to interfere with a conversation between two leaders at the peak of their power.

Santino chuckles as if he’s just heard the funniest joke. “Your city?” he repeats, amused. “Ah, and here I thought that your city is Moscow.”

Tarasov does not share in his amusement. “That would make Naples yours.”

Santino’s friendly smile dips, practically disappearing and his eyes go from friendly to cold in a blink. “Indeed it would,” he muses, unblinking, but then his smile makes a comeback even though it’s smaller this time, sharper. “Bravo, bravo. So it seems to me like we are both a long way from home, no? Which would make all of us, here, what exactly? Tourists?”

He chuckles, the rich sound bouncing through the otherwise empty space, but no one else joins in. Both sides are too tense, too ready for violence to see much humour in this situation.

“As for the why,” Santino continues smoothly. “I’m afraid that I’ve found myself in a rather irritating little situation that requires the expertise of your poison master.”

Then, finally, since first walking into the church, Santino’s eyes find yours.

You make sure that he can clearly see your anger and disapproval.

The man has enough gall to actually wink at you.

Tarasov shifts, and you can hear his mounting irritation when he speaks next, “Poison master? Pretty title for a snake.”

Santino’s head tilts slightly to one side, and he observes Tarasov through narrowed eyes, his faint smile fixed in place.

“The deadliest kind, yes.”

“And this couldn’t have been handled over a simple phone call, I assume?” Tarasov wonders, his words rough with controlled anger. “No, instead you come here, into my territory, on a holy day no less and expect what? For me to shake hands with you? Your father is barely cool in his grave and you come into my kingdom, posturing like I’m supposed to be impressed. As far as I’m concerned you are nothing more than Giovanni’s heir. Not his only one, either. Or even his favourite. Which makes you…a nobody, really.”

Ares steps forward, a faint snarl twisting her upper lip, but Santino puts out his arm, freezing her in her tracks. The woman still glares daggers at Tarasov, her eyes narrowed and expression hard.

Tarasov’s booming laughter tears through the church, but you don’t pay him any attention. You’re silently trying to capture either Ares’ or Santino’s eyes to indicate to them that they should leave now.

“Fiery little thing,” the Russian comments with another deep chuckle before turning to face you. “Reminds me of you, little viper. Back when I first found you. You have mellowed out over the years though. A real shame. Took after John, didn’t you?”

It’s a provocation and Santino is not smiling anymore.

The next few seconds crawl by in another tense silence between everyone.

You say nothing.

“That nobody,” Santino finally breaks the stillness, his voice gentle—forcefully so. Chaos rages in his eyes when he speaks though. “May very soon be the new Camorra family head, and have a seat at the High Table. A rather unfortunate enemy to have, no?”

Tarasov says nothing to that.

Santino may be a “nobody” in his eyes now, but he’s right. If his father left him the seat…

He would outrank almost every person in this city, and then some.

“Now, shall we discuss business? Or will you try to undermine me some more, hm?” the Italian questions lightly, his easy charm back, and previous cold fury forgotten. Still, you know that Tarasov’s words would have cut deep. Under different circumstances, you might have felt some semblance of remorse, but he came here knowing full well what kind of reception he will likely receive. “I am, unfortunately, rather pressed for time.”

“What kind of job?”

Tarasov’s anger deepens his accent and you shift, trying to hide your unease.

“Oh, nothing too difficult,” Santino explains, waving his arm a little, dismissive. “A bit of murder, a bit of poison, that kind of thing. Might take her off your hands for a week or two though—”

“Two million.”

The church goes so silent you could hear yourself—and others—breathe.

It’s a well-known secret that Tarasov always overcharges Santino for your services. He didn’t at first, but when Santino’s interest in you became clear, Tarasov saw a prime opportunity to cash in. But even all those times in the past pale in comparison to this.

From everyone inside the church, Santino is the only one who doesn’t have a strong reaction to Tarasov’s demand. His lips press shut lightly, and a glimmer of a smile comes back as he regards the Russian curiously.

“Deal.”

He says it so easily, so calmly, you only blink. Even Ares looks surprised though she masks it quickly.

Tarasov, clearly, did not expect such an easy agreement, either.

“You get her for one week,” he informs, though sounds reluctant to do so. But he was the one to set the terms and the other party agreed to them. He has no choice but to follow through unless he’s purposely looking for a fight. Or is an idiot for refusing that amount of money for one job. “Any overtime and I’ll charge per hour.”

“Meraviglioso,” Santino calls out with a wide smile, he extends his hand your way, his overcoat pulling back slightly. “Shall we?”

Swallowing, you step forward, feeling confident you can do so without Tarasov dragging you back to his side. Your every step is stiff but you hold Santino’s gaze the entire time.

Coming to a stop before him, you frown deeply, and drop your gaze, choosing to walk past him. The guards who know you well by now part like the Red Sea and you step past them without a glance, heading towards the exit.

What you’ve just done is an insult. Not taking a boss’s or heir’s offered hand is punishable in every major crime family you know. Ones that follow the old code at least. In some places, such a blatant show of dismissing one’s authority would even get you a bullet in the head—and that’s the best-case scenario; a quick, clean death.

But it’s more about not giving Tarasov any more ammunition against you. He already knows far too much about you and Santino; a fact that sits like a sickly weight in your stomach. Santino being willing to throw 2 million away simply to have your service is also too telling. But then again, when has he ever played by the rules? Or been subtle?

That brilliant idiot.

“Ah, women, such fine but complicated creatures,” you hear his voice cut through the pews with a warm chuckle. “My father used to say that a wise man will always admit that his woman knows better than he does. Tell me, do you agree?”

Tarasov is silent, and you’re not sure if he replies because the church door is right in front of you and you shove it with enough anger in you to make it fly open.

The New York air is crisp today with heavy, rolling clouds overcasting the sky. It looks like it will rain again. But you don’t want to think about that because it makes you remember the funeral. It makes you think about John and how he’s possibly holding up.

Shaking your head to lose the thought, you come closer towards the collection of large, expensive cars you know are Santino’s and the three guards outside look up at you in surprise.

It doesn’t take long for the door behind you to creak open again but you don’t turn to face him.

Because angry is a little bit of an understatement right now.

Your back is a tense coil of muscles and you shift in discomfort at the thought of all those people behind you.

A hesitant, slow hand lands on your shoulder after a moment and your head snaps to the side. Ares winks at you in greeting, her arm snaking around your shoulder blades when she knows that you’re comfortable it’s her and not some stranger touching you.

“Always one to have the last word, hm? Or is it last action?” Santino wonders out loud before his figure appears in your line of sight, turning to face you both. “A bold little display back there, cara mia.”

“Inside,” is your tight whisper.

Santino’s expression smoothens but his eyes still flicker over the churchyard with dismayed understanding, and he nods his head.

Ares gives you a tight squeeze and you turn to face her.

Go easy on him, she signs discreetly but you ignore her.

Much to your surprise, she goes to the front, allowing you both privacy in the back.

As always, Santino is a picture of elegance as he sits facing you, drumming his fingers against his leg. In such a small space, you can smell his cologne and don’t bother masking your irritation.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you explode the moment the car starts moving, and no matter how hard you try to sound controlled only an idiot would miss your clear annoyance. “Coming to Tarasov like that? That was pretty damn stupid of you, Santino. You’re lucky you didn’t start something worse with this little stunt. I mean did you even think about the position you put me in? What if it came to a fight? I would have had to—”

Your voice breaks off, and he looks caught off guard by your deluge of words.

“Bella,” he broaches, delicate but surprised, too. “I did it for you. That tyrant is holding you in a standstill to prolong your service to him. I simply forced his hand. But I am also in a need of you and your skills. Two birds, one stone, cara mia.”

“I’m flattered,” you shoot back dryly, crossing your arms over your chest as you slump backwards. “You really thought this through.”

Santino practically pouts at you. “Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for my foolishness?”

“No, that was stupid.”

“Ah, you blinked.”

“People do that Santino.”

“And now you are smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“No, no,” he laughs, pointing at you with a smug expression as he tuts. “That, is most certainly a smile, cara mia.”

You groan under your breath, turning away from him, but he remains smug for the entire length of the journey. Which just shows how useless your attempt to stay mad at him really is.

Once, out of curiosity, you asked Santino how much his New York penthouse cost.

Without batting an eye, he told you 30 million.

Your first—and looking back on it, unwise—reaction was to call him a rich idiot. The man looked so taken aback by your blunt words that, at first, he said nothing.

Then, he laughed till his shoulders shook from the force of it.

Not exactly a reaction you expected given that most rich, powerful men can’t stand even the slightest criticism of their wealth. But having come from close to nothing, money has always been an abstract concept to you. Such an amount back then sounded ludicrous to you, but by now you have witnessed deals go down amounting to two, three times that number.

Sometimes though, you look back on that moment as the first time you saw anything even remotely genuine about the man so many fear and hate.

“So, as you can no doubt appreciate, I need him alive,” Santino talks as he moves around the large lounge area leisurely. His dark navy suit jacket is off, and his hands are buried deep inside his pockets as he continues on his little path, occasionally lifting his eyes to you. “For now, of course. Which is where you come in, bella. He wasn’t working alone and I need to know the names of the dogs who helped him.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of fun ways to get that information out of him without me,” you tell him offhandedly, inspecting one of your blades. “Why did you throw 2 million at Tarasov again? To show him you have some spare pocket change?”

Ares’ shoulders shake in silent laughter as she observes the exchange, her feet propped on the expensive coffee table despite Santino’s earlier—“feet off the table”—as she cleans her gun.

The man in question pauses, shooting you an unamused look and you shrug. He deserves a bit of attitude after his earlier stunt. Him and his intent need to show off are going to give you a permanent migraine one day.

“So,” you start, eager to recap and get everything in order. “That little hiccup a few days ago was a shipment to Brazil going missing, then? An inside job that cost you a pretty penny. Also too big of an operation for only one person to handle. This guy you caught says he knows where the shipment is, so you need him alive to find it and also learn who else was helping him. What about the people waiting on the other side? Any troubles?”

“None, for now,” he informs, though doesn’t hide the annoyance in his voice. “But they are getting irritatingly persistent for updates. The one we caught is being brought to us from the Mexico border. He thought he could run from me. Sciocco.”

Balancing the blade on your index finger, you hum thoughtfully. “Motive?”

Santino rolls his eyes, and reaches for his tie, loosening the silky material slightly. “The same as always, bella. Greed.”

“Clearly,” you deadpan, flipping the blade and catching it in your hand as you lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs. “But no other motivation that you know of? You don’t exactly lack enemies.”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking, before he sighs and sits down on the plush chair, completing your council triangle. He reaches for a glass of half-finished scotch on the table, taking a large gulp and rubs his temple for a moment. Ares’ eyes move to you momentarily and you see her worry.

Santino looks more exhausted than usual, his earlier bravado muted, and you know he only shows it because his most trusted are in the room right now. He hates showing weakness in any capacity, you know that well enough, so this must be weighing heavier on his mind than you first assumed.

“Right you are, cara mia,” he mutters, and you don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Right you are. But I’m afraid that I do not know.”

“Look,” you say firmly, and his eyes meet yours, weary. “Give me two minutes with him. He’ll tell you everything you want to know. If he does know anything, that information is as good as yours. When are we expecting him anyway?”

Ares catches your attention and your eyes swing to her.

Tomorrow morning, she signs and you can tell that she’s personally looking forward to that meeting.

“Then there’s no point in us sitting here and wondering about it,” you say firmly, giving Santino a pointed look. “You have people out looking. Relax for the rest of the evening. We’ll have answers tomorrow.”

I should secure us a location, Ares adds, already rising from her spot and gives you a slight, knowing nod; a silent moment just between you two. Truthfully, you’ve always appreciated your easy understanding of each other, and the man you both work for.

Santino nods in agreement too, briefly looking up at her. Appreciate it.

Ares leaves without another word and you watch Santino silently.

It’s an odd reversal of situations. Usually, you’re the misbalanced one, constantly clawing for some semblance of security; both emotional and physical.

But Santino is a businessman before all else, and this is a failed deal—an embarrassment to his otherwise spotless reputation. You’ve seen firsthand the depth of his ambition, his drive to reshape things in his favour. His raw desire for power and success. He works for it constantly; focused and driven. Often cruel, and even vicious.

But despite what he may say, you know he’s not as unaffected by his father’s death as he may try to convince the world he is. You don’t strive for someone’s approval, their love, for years without holding love for them in your heart.

The uncertainty of his own future must be hanging around his throat like a noose. It’s a feeling familiar to you.

“Still angry, amore?” he wonders idly, disturbing the tranquil silence between you, and tips his glass from side to side.

The amber liquid glows due to the fireplace casting light on it, and you shake your head slightly.

“No.”

“Oh?” he voices in amusement, his accent a purr, and his eyes lift to you. “That would be a first.”

A slight smile curves his lips and you chuckle too, nodding in exasperated agreement.

“You should get some rest,” you whisper after another minute of quiet, your eyebrows furrowing. “Long day tomorrow.”

“On the contrary,” he replies, and there’s something sharp in his voice as he takes another swing of his drink. “I feel in a mood for a swim. Care to join me?”

You stare at him for a heartbeat. Shaking your head, you smile faintly and stand to your feet, moving past him. You pat his shoulder when you stop beside him, and he turns to stare up at you.

“I should get going.”

He places his hand on top of yours immediately, stilling you. “Before dinner? I was just about to order.”

Hesitating, you look at him for a few seconds before carefully pulling your hand from under his. It drops like a heavy weight and he breaks the eye contact.

“I have a table booked at the Continental,” you explain, but it feels forced. “And I think Winston mentioned something about brandy later.”

Santino places his glass on the table, standing to his feet, and you meet his stare reluctantly. He moves closer one slow step at the time, and you fight to keep your expression straight.

“Or you could stay here,” he suggests, his tone and expression saying a thousand things all at once. “You know my home is always open to you, cara mia.”

“I do. But I can’t stay.”

“Ah, now why is that?”

There are a great number of things you can tell him. That it’s not right, that you’re just friends, that Tarasov might find out, that it took you two years of working with him before you were even given permission to carry weapons in his home. That every moment you’re not carefully watching yourself, your mind slips back to John.

That this is dangerous. For both of you.

That he is dangerous to you but not in the way he is to everyone else.

“You know why,” you tell him instead, your voice hushed. His still crooked tie catches your attention, and as if on automatic your hands reach forward, fixing it for him. “Because I think that it means something different to you.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, (Name).”

His voice is barely a shallow whisper as his fingertips delicately ghost over the silver chain around your neck. You stare at his tie for a hard moment before pressing your lips together, and quickly glance up at him. Your hands drop away when you register his expression and you avoid his heated stare.

“Don’t lie,” you breathe with a slight shake of your head and give him a meaningful look. “It always means something with you, Santino.”

His eyes roam over your features like he’s looking for something important—vital—to him. “I do wonder how long it will be before you let me in. Before you realise that I am not like him—that I will never abandon you.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

“Please, don’t,” you plead, and somehow sound weaker than you have in years. This is not an exchange you are ready for or wish to have right now. So instead, you try to divert the conversation. “I mean, maybe I don’t even like you.”

He grins; a wide, lazy thing that shows off his dimples and brings back that familiar gleam in his green eyes.

“Oh, amore,” he purrs, knowing and sly. “I have seen you with people you do not like. I know there is more than simple indifference here. But, what I said the other night still stands. I’ll wait.”

He leans closer, and your breath hitches in your lungs when you feel his warm breath fan over your ear. He inhales deeply, humming, his fingers coming to lightly rest on your hip for a moment.

“But one day, we will have this conversation,” he promises you softly, and the steel in his voice tells you that his conviction will hold no matter what. “And I will not let you run away from your feelings anymore.”

He pulls back, his half-lidded stare pure fire, and smiles faintly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, cara mia. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Halt.”

Your eyebrows rise but you do as you’re told.

The man in front of you is unfamiliar and you regard him with open curiosity. Much like all of Santino’s guard—with exception of Ares—he’s a 6’0 muscular giant. His neat suit seems to creak at the seams as he moves closer towards you. His reaches for you, but you swipe across his hand with a concealed blade, frowning.

The man jumps back as if you’ve shot him, clutching at his bleeding palm.

“That’s a warning scratch, next one will be your throat,” you inform him calmly, watching him fumble for his gun.

“Flavio!” a deep voice calls, anxious and loud. “What are you doing? Lower your weapon!”

“Roberto,” you greet with a slight nod, casting a look at Flavio who does as he’s told but continues glaring at you. “Whose the new blood?”

The older man looks apologetic as he approaches you. From all of the guard, he’s the most bearable one. Not that you’ve ever purposely mentioned names in hopes that Santino will bring your favourites along. Of course not.

“My apologies about that. We had to have him called in at the last second,” he explains with a pointed look at the other man, gesturing for you to come along. “He was not informed you were coming. Boss is inside waiting for you. You’re running late. He’s displeased.”

Glancing at Flavio, you wiggle your fingers at him playfully before walking into a seemingly abandoned industrial warehouse. “Santino is always displeased about something. I’m sorry but I don’t control New York traffic. Once I do I’ll be sure to inform him of it.”

Roberto coughs into his hand, trying to mask his smile as he walks beside you.

“If Flavio has insulted you in any way I will have to inform boss—”

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, giving the man a knowing look. “He’s new. I rather not ruin this opportunity for him before his first day is even over.”

Because it’s a well know fact that Santino culls his guard ruthlessly till only the best remain in his employment.

“—I will not ask again,” the devil himself speaks in the distance, his voice calm, almost amiable. “Tell me their names. Tell me where my property is, and you will live to see another sunrise.”

“Get fucked,” a distinctly Scottish voice spits back immediately, his words gurgled as if he’s speaking through a mouthful of blood. “I ain’t scared of you, Italian scum.”

“Famous last words,” you call out, stepping into the vast hanger. The guards relax upon spotting you and Roberto while Ares only winks in greeting. “And not very creative ones, either.”

Santino straightens, adjusting his black overcoat and a grin splits his previously stony expression.

“Ah, just the woman I was hoping to see,” he speaks pleasantly, extending his hand in your direction. You walk up to him, placing your hand in his and he lays the customary greeting kiss across your knuckles. “Now, the real fun can really begin, no?”

You reach inside your pocket, pulling out a thin vial with light blue liquid inside. Your eyes sweep over the guard and you frown, realising who the new fish is replacing. “Whatever happened to Mario?”

“His wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,” Santino responds with a little quirk of his mouth that only widens when he notes your own delighted expression. “Birth of your first child is a special occasion. I allowed him to fly back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” you say with a faint smile. “If he checks in tell him congratulations from me.”

Before Santino can reply the man tied to the chair cuts in. “If you think I’m gonna talk, you’re wrong. The arrival of this dumb cunt ain’t changing that.”

Santino’s expression flickers; his slight, playful smile fading as he continues gazing at you seriously. Ares shakes her head with an amused little smile as if she’s one of the few to understand the magnitude of the mistake just made.

“Well,” the man in front of you begins, his voice low as he turns to face the prisoner. Santino’s head tilts to one side as he examines him with faint but open disgust. The man already has a split lip and a swelling eye which explains his inability to speak clearly. “I can’t say that I am a man fond of such disgusting shows of disrespect.”

Already knowing where this is heading, you slide the vial back into your pocket, and cross your arms over your chest, staring. Trying to stop Santino now would be useless anyway. He’s a man of principle, and you’ve long since learned when to pick your battles with him.

The Italian hums lightly, tutting like he’s talking with a petulant child as he approaches the man, bending closer so he can look him in the eyes. “In fact, I believe a lesson in manners is in order,” he decides, turning to one of his guards. “Break his left kneecap.”

The guard does so without hesitation, and the man screams, drowning out the sound of cracking bones.

“Ah, ah, focus Mr Murphy, focus,” Santino chides, grabbing the still struggling man by the face so he can look him in the eye again. “You do not talk about her like that, is that understood?”

His voice is like velvet but Murphy only glares at him, attempting to gather blood and saliva in his mouth in order to spit. Santino anticipates this, letting go of the man as he sidesteps him. He glances down at his now bloodied fingers with vague disgust and Roberto offers him a clean serviette.

“Oh, Mr Murphy there is no need for such disgusting acts,” the Italian berates, wiping his hand, and watches the panting man with pitiless disinterest. “This pain will pass. Your bones, too, will heal. But manners? Ah, those are forever. Now shall we return to business or do you need another moment to catch your breath?”

“Fuck you,” Murphy mumbles, but his smile is cutting, arrogant. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, don’t you? With your fancy guards and suits. Why I bet you think you’re the king of the whole fuckin’ world, don’t you? Did you really think no one was going to figure it out, huh? What you and that snake did in Chicago?”

Murphy laughs; a twisted, crackling sound as his bloodied teeth shine in the light.

Santino pauses, looking taken aback and you step closer till you’re both side by side, staring at the tied man with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

“You dumb bastard,” Murphy continues as if he hasn’t heard you, shaking his head as he continues grinning; an awful, bloody thing that twists his mouth into a sneer. “You really did think you got away with it. But nah, we were always going to find you out. And now you’re both exactly where we want you to be.”

You react with the gunshot.

Your body slams into Santino’s, the impact of the bullet hitting you in the back as you both fall to the floor. A sound like an explosion shakes the foundation of the warehouse, and you twist to the side, shooting the assailant who rushes through the doorway you walked through with Roberto only minutes prior.

On the opposite side of the warehouse what appears to be a military plated van has smashed through the closed shutter door, and you glare at the people in black gear that pour out of it.

People are coming from both sides, leaving you outnumbered one to three; and that’s your best case calculation.

Santino’s fingers latch onto your wrist, pulling you back with him, and you pause in your shooting to check on him. Before any words can be exchanged, you shove him towards one of the few crates littering the hanger, watching a shot miss him by inches. Two seconds later the one responsible for the shot collapses on the floor, a silver blade no bigger than a nail file sticking out of his throat.

Ares finally manages to shoot her way through to you, and collapses on Santino’s other side, checking him. You reload in a handful of seconds, shooting another three men before they can reach your spot, and quickly survey the area.

Four of your men are dead already and you calculate it’s been a minute and a half at best since the assault began.

“Shit.”

Your turn to Ares, half-covering Santino as you catch her notice.

Get him out of here, you sign hurriedly before taking another few shots over the crate. Two men fall to the floor with subdued groans. Hopefully their last. Take the east exit. Fewer windows. Give me five minutes to deal with this.

“No,” Santino snaps, glaring. Not without you, his stormy expression seems to say.

You don’t have time for his tantrums now.

“You stay here and you die,” you bite out harshly, jerking him lower by the shoulder as something that sounds suspiciously like a goddamn machine gun joins the symphony of bullets overhead. “Get out of here, and the guard. We need these men alive and I have just the thing for it. Go!”

He glares at you but Ares puts her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and he follows willingly. You nod at her and you both count together before you rise and open fire, giving them both a small window to get closer to the East exit.

Most of Santino’s remaining guard is already there—a standard procedure that they’ve been trained for, for months—and you roll across the floor to avoid bullets, snarling low in your throat as one of the men on the opposing side grabs you.

His mistake is leaving your arms open and you wrap them behind you, kicking the larger figure in the ankle brutally. His weight sags, and you twist his head sharply to the side, his neck snapping like nothing more than a dry twig.

His body falls with a heavy thud but you feel nothing. He made the mistake of trying to kill you and that’s on him.

You dive behind the crate and glare at the small cluster that remains of your party. “Which part of ‘get out’ did you all not understand?”

“We don’t take orders from you, nor do we run,” one of the guard’s snaps. “It is not the Camorra way.”

The man falls quiet as the crate gets rained on by more bullets, and your eyes find Santino’s, staring at him with an annoyed, pointed purse of your lips. He glares at you too but after a moment his expression relaxes somewhat.

“Do as she tells you,” he states, reluctant and displeased, but the guards’ pause. “We are leaving.”

You reach behind you, pulling out a vial from a special pouch that you’ve had custom made years ago. Made especially for you to securely carry your solutions in without the worry of smashing any of the vials.

Removing one of the many thin, custom-made gas canisters you carry sewed into your clothes, you slot the vial inside. The guards continue offering cover fire and you work quickly, shaking the canister harshly. The liquid reacts to the gas inside, losing its mass as it transforms.

“On my signal, get the hell out,” you speak loudly, directing your words at Santino and Ares. “Don’t look back or pause no matter what.”

His glare drills into you, hard, but he still nods his head.

From the original guard, only three remain and you’re happy to see that Roberto is one of them. You lock eyes with Ares and jerk your chin; a sign for her to get ready. She reloads smoothly and her hand rests protectively on Santino’s shoulder. She nods, just once, her expression drawn.

You tighten your fingers firmly around the canister and a clear crack inside pops through the air. Inhaling, you immediately throw the canister over your shoulder, listening for the telltale sound of it hitting the floor. It does after another few seconds, nothing but a tiny ping against the deafening sound of bullets and you jerk your head towards Ares.

“Now.”

You rise over the damaged crate, opening fire and hear the party next to you hurry along. Two bullets hit you; one in the shoulder and one in the side, making you wince in pain but the bullets fall away harmlessly. Oh, the wonders of custom made, bulletproof clothing. It will bruise an ugly purple, you know that, but better than be bleeding out from three bullet holes.

A few seconds later, you collapse down, your magazine empty and find everyone has managed to make it to the exit without problems.

Reclining back, you check your watch, resuming your mental count as you reload unhurriedly. Straining your ears, you listen to the familiar sound of hissing poison fill the warehouse.

15 seconds and confused, pained shouts start replacing gunshots.

30 seconds and bodies start collapsing; the last few, disorientated shots sailing completely off the mark.

45 seconds and the only sound drifting through the air is the last dispersing gas and groans of pain.

45 seconds? Still too slow.

Frowning, you rise to your feet, your gun still raised defensively.

Most people fail to understand that poison is—by its very nature—rather easy. Given the right materials, anyone can do it. Being able to properly weaponise it and find ways to use it to such a widespread effect without being effected yourself, is where the real art—the raw difficulty—of being a poisoner lays.

The men that are still alive—you count ten that are still twitching—lay prone on the floor, breathing in more faint mist that has paralysed their bodies and continues spreading steadily.

At that moment, you are a Reaper standing in the field of half-dead, and it would be so easy to finish them off.

Cutting through the hanger, you slowly approach Murphy who—unlike his little friends—is still conscious. He has maybe ten seconds before he, too, is paralysed completely. It will fade. Eventually. But you doubt Santino will allow any of these men to survive past getting information out of them.

Such a direct attack on his life in broad daylight is—

Murphy’s dark eyes roll and he tries to glare at you.

Swiping a blade from under your jacket, you sink it into his left thigh—right above his smashed kneecap, and the man howls.

“Wakey, wakey,” you call, your voice dull, irritated. “We’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

“B-Bitch,” he slurs, and you release the blade before placing your palm on the top of the hilt, pushing deeper; and then all the way to the bone. Murphy cries out again, trashing clumsily. “I—I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

“Trust me, you won’t have much of a choice in that,” you inform him with mock cheer, and release the pressure on the blade, taking out your initial delivery to Santino. You shake the tiny vial with blue-tinged liquid in front of his face. “This is going to make you sing like a little bird.”

Grabbing his face, you jerk his chin up, forcing the liquid into his mouth. “You try to spit this out and the blade currently inside your leg is going to be the least of your worries. Yeah, that’s right that one right next to your artery, buddy. Do you think this hurts? You don’t know pain, not yet.”

Murphy swallows. Whether because he believes you or because he knows enough about you—clearly if he’s aware of Chicago, he knows you well enough—he doesn’t try to fight back.

You smile faintly and pat his cheek with a patronising smile. “Good boy.”

With one last cold smile, you head towards the Eastern exit, knowing full well that no one still alive in this room is going to be going anywhere for a long time yet.

You cut across the street, pausing in front of a closed building door, whistling a little tune. The sound slices through the fresh air and you smile slightly when Ares opens the door, her eyes sweeping across the street before she grins at you.

It’s a signal you agreed a long time ago. To whistle a little tune before you walk into a secure building to avoid getting accidentally shot by the very people you’re trying to keep protected.

Finally, she signs with an exasperated roll of her eyes. He is starting to become grumpy.

“I’m sure,” you begin, checking your watch. “That a whole eight minutes is far too long for his majesty to wait. My bad.”

You both share an amused grin before heading inside.

You find Santino on the phone and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I do not care about your incompetence,” he snaps in angry Italian, and his curls fall into his eyes when he pivots angrily to one side on his heels. An old habit of taking out his frustration by running his fingers through his hair. “You will get me more—I will call you back.”

His eyes catch the sight of you, and he hangs up without waiting for a reply. His legs carry him to you in a few strides and he glares.

“Foolish woman,” he mutters with a fixed frown, still speaking in Italian, but it lacks bite. His frown only deepens when he spots the bullet indents in your jacket. “Do you enjoy playing with your life, hm?”

You grin, wide and innocent. “Well I associate myself with you, don’t I? Same thing.”

His expression falters and he closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. Mentally, you know he’s asking for all the patron saints to give him strength. You have often done the same thing over the years due to his actions.

“They’re all yours,�� you report, your smile sliding off your face. “You have an hour till they can talk. Murphy is ready for a nice, long chat now though. It will be roughly another three before they start regaining mobility, so I suggest you deal with them before then.”

“They know about Chicago,” Santino points out quietly, his gaze guarded. Ares shifts. From the remaining guard, she’s the only one who knows what happened there—parts of it, at least. “I intend to find out how.”

You don’t say anything, but the long look you share is telling enough.

“If there’s more to this,” you start frankly, though you already know this conversation will not go down well. “I will need to inform Winston.”

Santino’s chin tilts upwards, displeasure twisting his expression immediately, and he glances at Ares, jerking his head to one side. She nods in understanding, snapping her fingers at the remaining guards.

We are going to collect the prisoners, she signs and you gesture for her to cover her face. She knows to do so by now—as well as time limitations of your poisons—but a reminder can’t hurt.

The room clears out, leaving you two alone.

“Do not go to Winston, cara mia,” Santino speaks bluntly and your eyes narrow. “You know what will happen when you do. We broke his precious rules. He will punish you. We can handle this on our own.”

“He will not punish me,” you argue, and continue on despite his small, disbelieving scoff. “The situation escalated but it’s been years—”

“He will inform those who have the power to punish you, then,” he rebukes and gives you a long, searching look. “You know I’m right.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Let’s not stand here and pretend like this isn’t about protecting your own self-interests, Santino.”

“Oh, certainly,” he shoots back easily, and reaches forward, swiping his thumb just above your brow, his touch gentle. “Which just so happens to include you too. So let me handle this for now, yes?”

He stares at the speck of blood on his finger and smiles that devilish, sly smile. “As you are so fond of saying. I will make them sing.”

“Indonesian Green Erla,” the Doc shows you, carefully taking the plant out of its container. He clips one leaf off, offering it to you for inspection. “It took me a while to hunt down a mature tree. They are hard to come by.”

You raise the leaf to your nose, inhaling deeply, and then proceed to place it against your tongue. The taste is even more bitter than you’re used to and your eyebrows rise, impressed.

“I appreciate it,” you say with a nod, placing two golden coins in front of him. More than the entire order cost but you don’t mind overpaying him. He always finds you ingredients of the highest quality. It was an accidental partnership that was born years ago when you both realised you had a shared interest in rare plants and ingredients.

Him, for medicine—mostly his own private studies.

You, for poison—less private studies and more an attempt to refine your craft.

While the Doctor and you do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to the usage of these rare plants, you both find a great deal of use in swapping notes and researching together. His insight has been incredible, and you drop by his private clinic often. Both to collect any outstanding orders but also to swap notes and have some tea together.

No one makes better Jasmine tea in all of New York City.

Your senses prickle suddenly and you straighten, glancing towards the window outside. Nothing.

Twilight has fallen but other than that the back street is quiet.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, glancing over his shoulder.

Still nothing.

“No,” you state slowly, frowning. “Just wondering if perhaps you have a rodent problem.”

The Doctor looks affronted at first but it takes a split second for understanding to dawn across his weathered features.

“I will have to look into it,” he says, shifting wearily. “This city is overrun.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you hum under your breath. “I will take a quarter of it. Is it okay if I come back for the rest another time? You still need to finish your story by the way.”

The older man chuckles and secures a portion of the plant for you. “Most certainly,” he tells you, a knowing gleam in his eyes as he places it in your hand. “You are always welcome at my clinic. As long as you don’t bring any trouble with you, that is,” he adds, giving you a pointed look and you nod in understanding.

Bowing your head in respect, you tell him a quick goodbye and exit his clinic.

Your phone buzzes the moment you’re back in the fresh air and you pull it out.

Something has come up. I will speak with you in a few days.—Santi

Frowning, you immediately text him back. Is everything okay?

For Santino to text instead of calling—“I like hearing your voice much better.”—it would have to be something truly important. Worry gnaws at your bones as you cut through New York streets and back towards the Continental. Is it something to do with the earlier attack?

Your phone buzzes again. Yes, it reads and you can almost hear his devious voice in your head. I have my men looking for the shipment already. But I need to fly back to Rome. Family related.—Santi

And immediately after, another sharp buzz. I like it when you worry about me, cara mia. :)

Rolling your eyes, you text back. Don’t get carried away. It would be inconvenient if you died now. Also, you would make an ugly corpse.

You turn towards an alleyway, a faint smile lingering across your face as you wait for a reply.

An indistinct shuffle…

You slip the phone back into your pocket.

Smile wider as your back muscles tense.

A slight breeze.

The concealed blade in your sleeve hits the man right in the shoulder, sinking deep and he yelps, collapsing against the dingy alleyway wall. You’re on him immediately, kicking him in the chest and he slams against the wall again, baring his throat to you which is an opening you use to place another sharpened blade against the fragile skin.

Your free hand latches onto the blade already stuck in his shoulder and you glare at the dirty face before you.

“You have twenty seconds,” you snarl at him, sinking the blade deeper and he lets out a small, pained sob. “Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

“The—The Bowery King—”

You falter in surprise before your features harden. “Why?”

“He—please don’t kill me—” he whimpers and you press the blade in deeper, not in the mood for snivelling. If you wanted him dead, he would be. “He demands an audience!”

“Demands?” you echo coldly. “No one demands anything of me. Be sure to tell him that.”

Face twisting in disgust, you rip the blade out and take a step back, watching the man press his fingers against the bleeding wound. Under his woolly hat, his eyes are wide and frantic.

“P-Please! He will not be happy if I don’t take you to him.”

You clean the blade, not bothering to look at him. “I’m busy. I’ll come to see him tomorrow. Noon.”

The man looks momentarily stunned by your simple refusal. “But—”

“Or,” you emphasise, casting your eyes his way and he freezes, pressing closer to the wall, terrified. “You can tell him you failed. Tomorrow noon.”

“Next time call instead of sending one of your little rodents after me.”

You wonder down the creaky, metal staircase and fresh New York air kisses your skin as you hear a deep chuckle float through the air.

“Should I send some flowers next time as well?” the large man questions as he turns to face you. The Bowery King is an imposing figure and he approaches you slowly with a grin that turns into a sharper thing when he comes to stop in front of you. “I can’t say that I was too pleased about the state poor James came back in last night.”

It’s an effort to not roll your eyes, and you note how the King’s own guards circle you. Clearly on the defensive. These men are survivors, their instincts are better than most.

“I barely scratched him,” you defend, bored, meeting the Bowery King’s stare head-on.

His eyebrows arch in open surprise. “The man has a hole in him.”

You take a step towards him. “He’ll heal.”

The guards shift, coming closer the moment you move, and Tick Tock steps closer as if in attempt to check you for weapons. His hand freezes midair when your eyes snap to him, your glare harsh enough to give him a pause.

“I won’t do that, my friend,” the Bowery King says with a laugh as if the whole situation is incredibly amusing to him. “The Vipress does not like being touched.”

Tick Tock wisely steps back but the tight circle remains. Your eyes pass them all, taking note of their open distrust and wariness. “What is it that you want, your majesty?”

The Bowery King exhales loudly, considering you, before his head tilts towards the open blue sky. It’s a stunning day, bright and clear. Unlike the misery of the last few weeks of cool or straight-up miserable weather. He nods at Tick Tock, and the small gathering disperses, leaving only the King’s right hand behind.

For a moment it’s silent, only the distant sound of traffic and gentle hooting of pigeons filling the air.

“Do come along,” The King says as he turns towards the cages. “It’s been a while since our last little chat.”

“I’ve been busy,” you explain as you move after him but not before giving Tick Tock another measured stare. The man grins at you widely and your slight frown doesn’t drop.

The King stops suddenly and you almost run into him, tensing.

“Yes, you have,” he says knowingly, grinning at you over his shoulder. “Between the Russians and the Italians you have your tiny little hands just full, don’t you? Appetite for everything, ain’t that right?”

You say nothing, watching as he ghosts his fingers over one of the cages. The birds come closer, clearly recognising him and you watch the tiny pigeon rub its head against the King’s open palm. “I’ve also heard about the little shootout you and your Italian got involved in the other day. Nasty business.”

That doesn’t particularly surprise you. There’s very little that happens it this city that The Bowery King doesn’t know about. Something of that magnitude happening in broad daylight would have been impossible to conceal even with Santino’s influence. “It’s being handled.”

The Bowery King practically cackles, his laugh deep and rich as it bounces through the open air. “Handled? Ha! That is the D’Antonio way.”

Folding your arms, you stare at him for a moment. “I assume you’ve heard about the old man passing.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah if I do say so myself.”

You don’t bother holding back your own amused smile, and allow your face to turn towards the sun for a moment. When your attention returns to the Bowery King, he’s holding a light grey pigeon in his hands, stroking its head carefully. A gentle action for a man of violence just like the rest of you. “Then you know that there’s 50/50 chance that Santino will be the next head,” you comment neutrally, your double meaning clear.

The Bowery King’s smile is a slow coming, knowing thing. “Good friend to have.”

Shaking your head, your arms loosen, and you step through the rows of little cages, peering inside curiously. Tick Tock’s stare drills into you, and you know that he is not the only one. “I assume this is more than just a social call to share gossip.”

The King moves closer, steady and purposeful as always. “Maybe it isn’t? I am so very fond of gossip,” he tells you, his teasing tone almost making you smile. But then his expression shifts. “But no. This is no ordinary meeting. But then again, it is not every day that you learn about John Wick’s wife, unfortunately, departing the land of the living.”

Your eyes find his and you hold his gaze steadily. He chuckles, and strokes the pigeon’s head with his thumb again, glancing towards the horizon. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Not at all. I assume Winston told you.”

“And if he did?”

The Bowery King turns to face you, and this time his expression is serious, previous amusement forgotten. “I would say the same thing I’ve been saying for a while. The man is getting old.”

You scoff. “If you think that makes him any less dangerous—”

He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “That ain’t it, sweetheart,” he argues as if disappointed you would assume that, and releases the pigeon in his hands. “I know the old man has power extending far beyond his little castle. But some believe that it’s no accident that he has taken you under his wing. Some even believe that you are his not-so-secret protege—that he’s grooming you to take his position as the head of New York Continental. After your unpleasant business Viggo Tarasov is concluded, of course.”

You stare at him with wide-eyed disbelief, trying to digest his words. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” you mutter, sounding just as baffled as you feel. “If you really think that Winston of all the people is busy making retirement plans, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The King moves towards you slowly, stopping a few steps away—just out of arms reach like most smart people do now.

“Except I have been paying attention. And it’s all very…peaceful, isn’t it?” he questions knowingly, closing his eyes with a smile and inhaling deeply. Sun bathes his skin with light and you stare at him silently. “But you can feel it, can’t you? There’s a little something in the air again. A bit of danger. There’s a storm coming, dear Vipress, and I do wonder how many of us will survive this fucking thing.”

He glances at you again, strolling past your prone figure leisurely. You let him pass but turn immediately after, your muscles tensing despite your best efforts to remain calm and collected.

“You mean John, don’t you?” you wonder quietly, a slight catch to your words as you gaze at his broad back. “He’s not coming back.”

“Why won’t he? What does he have that is holding him to the other side anymore?”

You consider his question for a moment. “He’s retired. He’s found peace.”

The King laughs; a short, amused sound. “Peace. Now, now, we both know that no such thing exists.”

Why you are here is the real question. Something about this entire encounter rubs you the wrong way. Any conversation with the Bowery King is an effort in both patience and mental gymnastics. Often he speaks in riddles or muses random thoughts that only come together later to form a murky narrative. Most of the time you both simply try to bait each other for information.

Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, you ask him a blunt, “Who is it?”

The man looks at you over his shoulder with a slight grin.

“Sharp as always,” he states but it doesn’t particularly sound like a compliment. “We have an understanding when it comes to business, don’t we? We work together every once in a while and then go back to our respective little corners of the kingdom.”

You turn your attention towards the New York skyline and frown.

“I can’t do a job for you right now,” you inform him bluntly but keep your tone respectful. “I’m still finishing things up with Santino.”

“By all means,” he dismisses with a casual wave of his hand. “This time, I don’t actually require you personally, just one of your little potions.”

That gets your attention. You usually refuse jobs unless you are there personally to carry them through. That’s not only because you doubt the competence of others—and God if that doesn’t make you sound like Santino—but also because you don’t trust your creations with others. Who may steal and study what you have created. There’s been plenty of attempts to copycat in the past. Some more successful than others, but none like you. That’s because you guard your secrets fiercely.

“Since when do you poison people?” you demand and don’t bother hiding the suspicion in your voice.

The man before you grins, indulgent, amused. “Since this job requires a more…subtle touch.”

That’s not good enough. But instead, you simply ask, “Who is it?”

“Someone you know,” The King admits, nodding his head from side to side, unbothered, almost bored. “But worry not, it’s not anyone from our little New York family. I would so hate to upset the established order.”

The smile on his face by the end does little to comfort you and your scrutiny doesn’t drop.

“I will need a name, your majesty.”

His smile fades, and you know it’s because he’s not used to being questioned, and by you of all the people. “Since when do you care?”

“I care when I’m not the one doing the job personally,” you tell him tightly and take few measured steps towards him. Tick Tock moves forward, intercepting you, his expression twisted into a mocking expression. “The last thing I need is the High Table on my ass because you mishandled my creations.”

For a moment, the Bowery King only stares at you. “Careful with that tone, sweetheart. I am the King, and you are still in my kingdom.”

Sighing, you shoot Tick Tock a look and he steps back with arms raised slightly. Then, you turn your attention back to the man before you. Wind blows gently across the rooftop, and you can’t help but find it ironic that you’re openly discussing murder with such a lovely backdrop.

“Well then, your majesty,” you inform him flatly, not wanting a fight but not in the mood for games, either. “When you’re ready to give me the information I need be sure to send me one of your little birdies.”

The Bowery King gives you the name eventually.

Zach Kahanek. In your world more commonly known as “Divider”.

An American mother and Czech father. Suffice to say, he took after his father in terms of career choice and his aptitude for it.

You do not particularly care for the King’s reasons for wanting Zach dead. Nothing from your dig for information brought up anything that could potentially get you into trouble. That did not, however, mean that you are about to pass your poison to just anyone.

No, the last 48 hours have been dedicated to creating a vastly different, more wash out version of your original formula. If anyone tries to misuse it or copy it, they’re in for a nasty surprise.

Your hotel room phone starts ringing shrilly and you jump in your chair, almost dropping your tools. Straightening, you blinking at the harsh glare of your phone screen which reads ten minutes to midnight. Your eyes feel dry and heavy as you open and close them one sloppy blink at the time.

Bones aching and head heavy, you patter across the room, grabbing the phone and lifting it to your ear.

“What?”

So maybe you sound cranky, but it’s been a while since you had human interaction. Or sleep for that matter. In fact, now that you are standing you feel positively nauseous.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you frown before a voice finally speaks. “Miss Vipress,” Charon’s familiar voice filters through and you blink again. “My apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, especially when you have requested privacy to focus on your work. However, I have a visitor wishing to see you.”

“A visitor,” you repeat and wonder if you sound as dead to him as you do in your own ears. Swallowing, you crack your neck, trying to push your brain back into the land of the living. “Who? I’m not really in the state to see anyone right now, tell them to come back tomorrow.”

“Mr D’Antonio insists that he will not be leaving until he sees you,” Charon speaks and his voice is so flat that under normal circumstances you might have found it comical. “However, due to our security protocols—”

“Santi?” you mumble, now even more confused as well as worried. Santino never comes into Winston’s territory unless it’s absolutely necessary to do so. In fact, you had no idea he was scheduled to fly back to New York today. Your last contact was the few swapped texts before he went back to Rome. That was three days ago. “Send him up.”

“Miss Vipress, as you have said so yourself you are in no state—”

“Charon.”

The man falls silent, and after a beat, “As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes dead and you sigh. As if that doesn’t mean that he will be telling on you to Winston.

By the time it takes to gather yourself, and go to the door, there sounds a sharp knock against the wood.

“If you expect me to entertain you at this hour,” you grumble with a frown as you wrench the door open. “Then I’m crushed to inform you that I’m in no fit condition to be your court jester tonight.”

Santino stands with a familiar air of cocky elegance, his bright eyes searching and suit immaculate as always. Today he’s favouring dark charcoal grey with royal blue accents that seem to add a different dimension to the green of his eyes. He shifts, straightening when your eyes meet.

He frowns the moment the sight of you registers though. A beat, and then, “You look terrible, cara mia.”

“Thanks,” you snap with a wide, sarcastic smile as you gesture for him to come in, and give a mock salute to two guards waiting by the elevator. “Just what everyone wants to hear. Please do come in.”

Santino shrugs off his overcoat, folding it over his arm as his eyes sweep over your room. Given his nosy nature, it doesn’t surprise you that his attention snags on your work desk. He takes a few steps towards it, his expensive shoes gleaming and he hovers his arm over an array of samples, ingredients and solutions.

“I won’t if I were you,” you tell him off as you pass him, collapsing on the loveseat with a groan. Your neck is aching and so are your fingers and arms. Your work takes precision which means a lot of squinting to get correct measurements and very steady hands which doesn’t do much for one’s muscles. Stretching helps, but you’re usually too lost in your work to do it often enough. “Unless you want to be left as a drooling mess on the carpet. I’m sure Winston would have a field day seeing you like that though. Do sit down at your earliest convenience by the way.”

His attention returns to you, and you find him still frowning, eyes sweeping over your features as he seats himself in front of you. He still hasn’t said anything past his initial assessment of you. Which is unusual. Santino likes to talk.

“I don’t have any fancy drinks and the fridge is empty so I can offer you…water,” you inform after a lengthy pause of racking your foggy brain. “Want a glass?”

Santino nods but his frown doesn’t let up. “You look tired.”

It’s a loaded statement.

You don’t answer at first and let the water fill the glass silently. When you approach him and place the glass on the table, you meet his stare.

“So do you.”

Which is true and rare. Santino seems to have some bizarre drive that makes him near unstoppable and always hungry. It’s not that you’ve never seen the cracks in his armour before—you have, so many times: his last birthday, Chicago, New Years in Prague; they come to mind first—but this is different.

“Not with you.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it which worries you even more. There’s not much you can say in response to such a soft, almost absentminded confession.

“I’ve been working for the last 36-something hours on maybe 3 hours of sleep,” you offer up as you walk to get yourself a glass of water too. Till this exact moment, you haven’t even noticed how thirsty you’ve gotten. “What’s your excuse, grumpy?”

“You should have called me,” he says seriously, and there’s that knowing tilt in his low baritone that tells you he knows exactly why you haven’t been sleeping. “You know that I do not like it when you choose to suffer alone, bella.”

Drowning the first glass, you pour more water, letting your tongue wet your lips.

“As if you don’t already have a mountain of problems to deal with,” you remind him because as much as he likes to think he’s the only one who worries, that’s hardly the case. You’re a team. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe a team. Because you’re certainly a something—it just usually feels too large to fit into any tangible bracket or label, so you don’t bother. “And whatever came up with the family must have been pretty important for you to drop everything—”

Your words cut off when you turn around and spot his expression. He sits slumped in the chair, his features almost—

It looks almost pained and you don’t know what to say to that.

He twists his golden Camorra ring around his finger and you feel your pulse jump.

“Santino?”

He blinks, and his expression clears as he looks up at you with a faint smile. “Nothing to worry about, amore,” he tells you, his voice soft. “They moved the will reading to yesterday, hence the reason for me flying back on such short notice.”

Shit. Oh fuck.

Suddenly, you feel so awake and alert that your head hurts.

You cut the distance between you at once, and plant yourself on the table, staring at him expectantly. “And?”

“And,” he bites out after a moment, controlled fury twisting his voice and thickening his accent. “You are looking at the Spare of Camorra family.”

A Spare.

The failed, back up heir. Which means—

You don’t know what to say—don’t know if there’s anything you should even bother saying. For so long, he’s wanted this. The entire time you have known him, Santino has had no other goal than to become the head of his family and inherit the High Table seat from his father. Control all the power that comes with it. His father and grandfather had, in their time as Camorra bosses, transformed and pioneered the family into a new age; an age of fortune and indisputable power. A terrible sort of legacy for both Santino and Gianna to live up to.

Seeing your disbelief, he chuckles but it doesn’t sound happy or amused or warm in any way. It’s a cold, hollow sound and you watch dumbly as he rises to his feet, frustration marring every inch of his body.

“Ah, life,” he whispers through clenched teeth as he fixes his cufflinks. There’s not a seam out of place though, and you know the motion is more about channelling his frustration. “It sure does have a fine sense of irony to it, won’t you agree? But no matter, I seem to be in the business of never getting what I truly desire.”

You rise to your feet slowly, still staring at him.

It’s not pity that you feel—not really—but it is…sadness perhaps? Frustration on his behalf?

You recall Naples. You recall the warm, salty breeze of the Gulf and Santino’s home. His office and the immeasurable pride he has in it.

He is most certainly a power-hungry man. He has an appetite you don’t think anything or anyone could ever quite sate, but he also has deep-running pride and love for Camorra. He doesn’t hold illusions that what they do is good or fair. He doesn’t bother to present himself as anything other than what he is. He is deeply hated for it, but it has never stopped him for working towards his goal.

And now—

You try to imagine what he must have felt in that moment, sitting in a silent room with his sister, and learning that everything he has worked for, for decades has been blown away like old dust by a few lines on a paper.

Back when you first met, you didn’t think he would make a good boss, either. He always struck you as too selfish, arrogant, vicious and—on an occasion—even petty. It took you a long time to begin seeing anything beyond a powerful man who you could use to your own advantage. It started as nothing more than a business necessity, your work with him, and you’re still unsure when exactly you began classing him as someone you could rely on.

Chicago is when you knew, a voice deep down reminds you and your lips press into a thin line.

You don’t even feel yourself approach him. The only thing that registers is your arms wrapping around his shoulders when you hug him. They squeeze tightly around him and you don’t care if he will find it unnecessary, or if there’s some unspoken rule about not touching an heir without their expressed permission first.

You’re friends, aren’t you? Even if he’s always wanted more, right now you can tell that’s what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly, bumping your nose against his shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut for a second. “I’m sorry.”

His suit is like silk against your skin and you inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself calm for his sake. He’s already angry, you don’t need to add to it.

He breathes. Shallow, soft breaths that seem to fill his lungs as he stands there. Then his arms hesitantly wrap around your waist, and he holds you to him with such ferocity that under normal circumstances you might have said something about it. His face buries itself against the crook of your neck, desperate, and his shaking fingers come to rest against the back of your neck. Gentle.

He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment you simply hold him, and he you, before he pulls back with one last inhale of breath.

“Is there anything I can do—”

“You could come to Paris with me,” he jokes, his voice thick, but his sly smile brings you some semblance of relief. “You still owe me a trip, carissima.”

“I might take you up on that offer after we deal with everything,” you say with a slight smile and Santino’s eyebrows rise in amusement. His expression drops after a moment though, drawing into a more serious and morose thing, and you try hard to control your breathing when his large hand comes to rest against the side of your face. “Anything else?” you force out, hopeful that you can dispel the change in the air between you.

The heat of his thumb leaves featherlight kisses against the curve of your cheek as he tenderly traces your skin, seemingly lost in thought, and your throat goes dry.

“Poker?” he suggests calmly, and you both pretend he isn’t staring at your lips with enough intensity to leave most people flustered.

“Learned my lesson in Chicago,” it’s an effort to keep your voice steady, and Santino laughs under his breath, his hand finally dropping away. You inhale discreetly and watch him for a moment. Your next thought comes unexpectedly—like all best thoughts do—and your expression brightens. “But I do think that I have a better idea.”

“This is not what I had in mind when you said ‘better’, cara mia.”

He glances outside as if to double-check if Ares is still out there, waiting for you by the car. As if the brunette would ever leave either of you here of all places. You follow his gaze and find that the woman in question is still with other three guards seated inside the car and waiting patiently. Thankfully, it’s so late that even by New York standards, this place is quiet. But you already knew that prior to coming because you frequent it often. It’s a cheap place with pretty great food, even if it’s far below Santino’s usual high standards.

“Speak for yourself,” you intone flatly, scooping another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it in your mouth. Santino frowns at your forced cheery smile and inspects his own ice cream dully. “Oh, come on, eat it. It’s not going to bite you.”

He scoffs under his breath, shooting you a disbelieving look as he inclines in his creaky seat; all tailored edges and sharp lines. “I’ve had ice cream before, carissima. I know that. I simply—”

He pauses, lips pursing and you feel a stab of surprise at the conflict he lets show clearly on his face for once. He usually guards his emotions carefully, and it’s often hard to pinpoint what exactly he feels unless he wants you to know. Today, however, is a mess and even though your distraction seems to be working, your previous conversation still hangs over you both.

“You can tell me,” you promise him, and see his expression twist as if your words pain him before he clears his throat, nodding his head once. “Is it something embarrassing?” you guess helpfully with a tilt of your head.

His laugh is short, unpleasant. “No. I have simply never eaten—this is my first time. Having ice cream like this. On the outside. In some dingy diner of all the places, too.”

There is a clear question to be asked here; a clear line of enquiry to pursue. But seeing the guarded look on Santino’s face keeps any questions under lock and key. You can’t bring yourself to ask how the son of one of the most powerful criminal families in the world has never had ice cream outside his own house before. How come he has never experienced something as simple and as ordinary as having a frozen treat growing up.

You can’t. Not only because you can’t bear the thought of pushing him into a headspace he may not want to revisit, but also because you are a coward. Santino talks about his childhood like one might about a broken toy; fragmented into times before and after, clearly divided by the death of his mother. Old conversations paint an image of life full of plenty but no real joy. He might have had luxury others can only dream of growing up, but being who he is—the only son of Camorra’s head—meant a childhood of living in a golden cage. Protected and stifled. Forced to conform to the role his father expected him to fill. Gianna adapted—blossomed into something fierce and deadly—but that restless hatred for rules and traditions still lives in Santino to this day. Unlike his sister, he has never let go of that wildness raging in his blood.

A part of you may never fully understand him. For you, having had nothing for so long, it seems almost funny to compare your lives. Santino doesn’t understand the terror of not knowing where you will sleep next, of never settling down anywhere, or going to bed with an empty stomach. He had everything growing up expect that which he needed most. Your parents may not have been able to buy you new toys every week but at least they loved you openly.

What must it have been like, growing up in a mansion with luxury and money found in every corner but with a father who pushed you into being what he wanted you to be? What must it have been like for two young children to lose their mother so tragically and for their father—instead of comforting them and being there for them—starting to pit the two siblings against each other.

Every conversation you’ve ever had with both Santino and Gianna about their father painted a clear image of a man who did everything in his power to turn his children into suitable heirs. He only saw or cared about Camorra’s future—the family’s wellbeing past his own service to it—and failed to care about his own kids along the way. He only ever added fuel to the blaze, fanning flames of hatred and mistrust between the brother and his sister. Perhaps, Giovanni D’Antonio thought he was doing them a favour, forging them into strong leaders, but at what price?

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.” When he said those words to you on that bitterly cold New Years night in Prague, you took his words at face value but now you know better than that.

He’s dead and his children resent each other because of his actions.

And the very dream Santino fought for—had tried to break himself for—has been taken from him.

It concerns you. Because he is not a man to take things laying down. This frustration and hurt will pass, and it worries you what might come after.

“Well, you’re here now,” you state calmly, watching the golden ring on his hand reflect light as he drums them on the table. “Having some with me. Seems like I’m destroying your diner innocence. I’m not sorry either, and I’m not going to take it back. This is a right of passage with me. Think you can handle it, Santi?”

A faint, crooked smile twitches his lips and he hums, still staring at the ice cream like it holds all the answers to the universe. “With the added pleasure of your company, I imagine I can weather a great many things, cara mia.”

It’s a relief to hear the usual haughtiness back in his voice, and you nibble on your lip, trying to hold back a snarky smile. “You know what?”

He glances up at you immediately, and the startling green of his eyes steals your breath for just a second. “What?”

It’s your turn to give him the largest, most shit-eating grin you can muster up. “You look like an absolute idiot sitting here in your ten thousand dollar suit while we eat half-melted ice cream in this run down joint.”

The slightly distorted music from the jukebox wraps around you both for a second before Santino laughs. It’s a slightly awkward, unsure laugh that shakes his whole body and you like it more because it’s not practised, not expected of him. He laughs genuinely—a warm, rich sound—and it’s the first one of the night, maybe even the week. You sit together, facing each other, and you’re suddenly reminded of Chicago. Of how much your situation has switched since then to now. But you’re not here because you owe him. You’re here because, despite his questionable methods, you really do consider him a friend.

“Ah, I will look even better when you take it off me,” he comments idly, his eyes twinkling with mirth; a sly promise. “That, cara mia, I can promise.”

“I think you look best when you’re snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“My, my, why do I put up with this again? You are so…vexing sometimes.”

“Have you met you? I’m surprised I haven’t thrown myself over the nearest cliff yet. I should really be paid more for putting up with you.”

“Ah, bella, I believe it is because you adore me, no?”

You roll your eyes at the smugness in his voice but don’t deny his statement.

He waits for it, but it never comes.

You see the realisation dawn across his features—a mere split second that softens his entire face before he hides his expression with a turn of his head.

Neither of you speak after that. But that’s fine.

Santino spends the rest of the night with a strange little smile on his face and you don’t question it.

“You could be free,” Winston muses, taking a sip of his tea. “Could just walk away from everything. Not many would be able to stop you.”

You shake your head, a hint of an ironic smile lingering across your face. “You make it sound so simple,” you remark, tapping your finger against the rim of the cup. “When we both know it’s anything but. Tarasov will not make it easy.”

“If the debt is repaid, he cannot hold you,” Winston shoots back, and your eyes lift to him, noting the sharper edge in his words. “There are rules about this sort of thing. You served loyally. He must release you or the High Table will get involved.”

You know that. But it also seems too easy. It’s been so long. The idea of there being just one last job to do till you’re finally free seems inconceivable.

Your job with Santino overran by two days but he had his information, and his missing shipment has been tracked all the way to Canada. The thieves believed they could safely move the shipment and lay low for a couple of months before attempting to sell it in parts. Santino and Ares left earlier this afternoon to personally handle the people caught and you can’t help but feel sorry for them.

You wouldn’t wish the terrible storm that is Santino D’Antonio onto anyone right now. Not even Perkins.

There would be no mercy for stealing from him nor trying to kill him. Or you for that matter.

It grates on you that you couldn’t go with him though. This whole situation is giving you a bad feeling and the fact that you can’t do anything yet is annoying.

There is also the matter of someone on the outside knowing what you did in Chicago. That’s a whole other can of worms you don’t want to open any time soon.

But information gathered from Murphy—the other ten soldiers didn’t know anything aside from their orders to kill you and Santino—made one thing absolutely clear.

Someone else definitely knows. And that someone wants revenge.

You haven’t been able to learn how, exactly, they knew about your location in advance to get a drop on you like that. The intel has simply been passed along last minute by, presumably, whoever ordered the hit. The worst part is that you have used that warehouse in the past, as have other people, expanding the pool of potential suspects. Ares took the blame on herself but Santino has been dismissive of it. She has proven her loyalty plenty of times in the past, and you know that he trusts his left hand without question.

You’ve also considered the fact that maybe someone had eyes on you and was tracking you instead. But as with any mission, you have made it into a habit of taking misleading routes to throw off any potential trackers.

So, in the end, you’ve been left with too many questions and too few answers. And although physically you are still tied to Tarasov and New York and your last job to him, your mind is adrift, fractured into different places which is unwise. You have no idea what to expect from Viggo but you doubt it will be anything straightforward. All of your time and focus should be going into preparation for The Last Job as Winston calls it.

“It could be a happy ending,” the said man continues, bringing you back to reality. “If you want it to be.”

You snort, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “People like us don’t get happy endings, Winston,” you tell him, your voice distant. “You know that.”

The older man doesn’t disagree with your statement and you stare at the crowd.

People are dancing and drinking and having a good time. But something sits in the pit of your stomach; a weight you can’t explain but it looms over you like a nameless threat.

There’s a storm coming.

“Johnathan did.”

Your head snaps to Winston, your hard stare locking onto him. “His wife died. Some happy ending.”

The man exhales deeply, lowering his pen and you watch him take off his glasses, too, placing them carefully next to his open notebook. He laces his fingers and regards you frankly, thoughtful.

“But he found it,” he says knowingly, scrutinising you. “Even if for a short amount of time. People are so cynical nowadays. Some individuals come into your life and it’s so easy but when they leave it takes so long to let go, to forget. Most assume that positive emotion is better than negative, but in my experience, you learn far more from the negative. From the pain. Otherwise, we’re empty. Better to find something good, and have it for a little while, then not at all.”

You glance down and your tiny smile is scornful. “Can’t say that’s a sentiment I can share in, Winston.”

His stare is curious, shrewd. “You wish you’ve never met him, then?”

“No, not in the beginning,” you speak and tap your fingers against the table, keeping your attention away from the too-clever man. If only because he can read you too well. “I still loved him too much back then, so even though it hurt more, I kept holding on. But with time…Yes, I now spend most of my days wishing I’ve never met him. Whatever we once had died a long time ago.”

He regards you silently for a few seconds before nodding his head once, and reaching for his pen and glasses again; the conversation clearly over in his eyes.

A blade slides free and into your palm when a man suddenly comes too close to your booth and Winston raises his hand at you in a pacifying motion. The young guard, to his credit, doesn’t flinch and you watch him lean closer to Winston, speaking something hurriedly in his ear.

The expression that falters Winston’s face makes you pause.

Your phone lights up, a familiar but unwelcome name glaring through and you glance at the message on the screen.

And promptly feel something cold slice through your entire body.

You both speak almost simultaneously.

“Oh my.”

“John.”

Iosef stole John Wick’s car and killed his dog.

. . .

an: heh. now that all that is out of the way and the playfield is a bit more even...let the real fun begin :D

as always, you all have my eternal love and appreciation for reading!! love it? hated it? feel free to let me knowwww. and thank you for your support! x

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #john wick fic #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #viggo tarasov #winston #fic: children of ares

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chromalogue · 4 years ago

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I wasn’t here much over the summer, partly because my parents had a lot of houseguests who are disturbed by my nocturnal wanderings so I just stayed home at the apartment a lot, and partly because I had so darned much to do: two catering gigs, writing an article, editing my own book chapter, editing other people’s articles, developing a themed reading list for the magazine, and putting together a mammoth job application. (As in, once I got the requested materials together it was 600 pages. I didn’t apply to grow my teeth out and wander around the ice caps naked on all fours, because I don’t have the accreditation for that.)

Also, that pandemic thing that makes you bake your own bread hit me too, so my normal aversion to food waste kicked into high gear. I made dandelion jelly and chokecherry syrup. My parents have a freezer full of strawberries, blueberries, apples, pears, and Saskatoon berries; and more pears and apples are sitting dehydrated in bags. One of my best friends came back to town after the death of one of her grandmothers, and we spent some time over at her parents’ house, and her parents said, “Oh hey, by the way, when you pass the house, pick some pears. Off the ground, off the tree, doesn’t matter. The place is empty, and you’ll save us cleaning them up.” So yeah, lots of tiny juicy pears. And seeds for next year, in case the job application doesn’t go through.

And the garlic scapes my father bought ended up going brown and gross down in the basement. I’d promised to pickle them, but by the time the houseguests left there was no doing anything with them. Well, except harvesting the heads to plant our own garlic for next year. I was supposed to build raised beds for them this week, as per instructions from the local alliomancer, but the hardware store is out of 2x4s, because remodelling is apparently sourdough for homeowners.

I’ve also taken up smoking. Started with a cheese, and when that seemed not to kill anyone immediately, tried salmon. I like it just fine, but Will said I should slice it more thinly. I wasn’t able to make the homemade smoker I cobbled together out of two lasagna pans, tinfoil, and a couple of binder clips work the way it did in the YouTube tutorial--perhaps because I was using a barbecue lighter, and the YouTube guy had a blowtorch--but in the end I just put the chips and the food into my dad’s barbecue, turned the burner on low, and closed the lid for like three hours.

Still no cases in town. A new case pops up every couple of days in Sudbury, but so far there have been no deaths in our district since May. But Toronto is going wild.

The original plan was for my mom to go down to spend Thanksgiving with my brother’s family, and then, on the way back, scoop up another of my best friends and her mom, who would spend a week at my parents’ house and then take the bus back. But a couple of weeks beforehand, as case numbers kept rising and rising, the friend and I decided that it was too risky--even if she and her mom made it up okay, being on a bus for hours seems kind of iffy right now--and then my brother found out that one of his sisters-in-law who’d been visiting had attended a wedding where someone tested positive, so everyone stayed put for Thanksgiving. And there was lamb and toasted pecans with garlic and roasted vegetables and cheesy bread and chai pumpkin pie and apple-cranberry kuchen.

Oooh! And the dive bar at the end of my parents’ street has been replaced by an Indian restaurant, the first one in town. The food is AMAZING, and every time I pass they are as full as they can be while observing proper distancing between tables.

I finished La Baronne Trépassée, but it was kind of disappointing. Like, a genre fail. Imagine LOTR if when Frodo and Sam and Gollum made it to Mount Doom, Frodo offered Sam the ring and confessed that this was all an elaborate proposal, and all the orcs and ringwraiths took off their costumes and they were just students, and Sam said yes and they lived happily ever after.

Best books so far this year have been Happiness by Aminatta Forna and Raybearer by Jordan Ifueko.

153 000 words on the new fic. Probably gonna need cutting.

#rambling #mostly about food now that I see it

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kdtheghostwriter · 5 years ago

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SNK #128 - Seeing Shadows

That’s bad, right?

There were some semantic debates regarding what exactly Hange meant when they said, “Humanity is out of time!” I think it’s clear now that humanity has no more time for them to be indecisive. Eren is on the march, and even if he settles for destroying everything on the Marley continent, that’s a massive loss of civilization and one you simply can’t live with if you think of yourself as a hero. The look on their faces tells the story. It’s no longer about saving the world; it’s about saving what’s left.

How much is left depends on how quickly they move, but it’s not as easy as mounting up the troops. Eren and his Colossal Army are across the ocean now. They’ve had at least one full day to march and probably more since the previous chapter’s events around the campfire. Think about how long it takes for a plane to cross an ocean. Not a full day. Their best bet is commandeering Miss Kiyomi’s special aircraft powered by the mysterious Iceburst Stone. Before they do that, we have to pause for another episode of the worst show in the world: This Floching Guy.

As much I have advocated for Eren to be accepted as the new villain – praising Isayama for turning the Face/Heel dichotomy upside down as it pertains to Reiner – those two, even in their most vile moments, still have their fans. There is no guesswork with Floch Forster. He’s predatory, conniving, authoritarian and mean-spirited. Above all of that, he’s a cocky little shit in a way that even Kenny Ackerman would have scoffed at. He’s the antagonist to the characters we’ve followed for ten years now, but in his own mind they brazenly oppose him, which is where the title of this chapter ‘Traitor’ becomes important.

For the last four years, Eldia has been ruled by deft slight of hand. In spirit, Historia Reiss, the rightful heir to the throne, has reclaimed her birthright. In reality, she retired to run an orphanage while the three branches of military have taken control of the government and all proceedings. Eren’s mission to Liberio as well as the counterattack from Marley’s Warrior Unit caused a vacuum to appear that was quickly occupied by the Jaegerist Faction. They now control the government and in extension all facets of Paradisian society. So what do you call a group of AWOL soldiers that are conspiring to sabotage your one method of security?

Traitors. Villains. Monsters.

They’re killing your friends and attacking your home. They’ve infiltrated your ranks and betrayed your trust. Thousands of innocent people dead just for the sake of completing their mission.

This week I learned that many people viewed Bertolt’s death as karmic in some way. I never saw it like that at all. His death at Armin’s hands was a necessary evil. Necessary certainly, but it was evil. It doesn’t make the 104th evil for carrying out the deed. It just happened to be the most brutal death in the series even if it wasn’t the most graphic. Bert is left defenseless as his powers are forcibly taken from him. He calls for his former comrades only to realize none of them will help. Then he calls for Reiner, his best friend who barely escaped with his own life. He dies a lonely, agonizing death.

“Who the hell wants to kill innocent people?!”

Who knows how long this question has been haunting Armin’s waking thoughts? There is evidence to suggest that the once bold Survey Corps veteran who was willing to sacrifice his life to help Eren take down the Colossal has been hampered by his successor’s timid nature. Ever since he acquired his powers, he’s always attempted to seek non-violent resolution. I don’t see this as simple naivety.

If you were given a power as destructive as his, where you are capable of destroying a town by simply calling upon it, why would you ever use it? Why would you ever want to? I grow uncomfortable with the amount of voices in the fandom concern trolling the 104th and their refusal to spill the blood of their neighbors. They’ve fought alongside or trained with most of these people. Why should they be expected to kill them like nameless drones? Even if it is necessary, why are they not allowed to mourn the choice?

Characters like these that we’ve known from almost the beginning. They know nothing of the outside world other than it’s filled with people that want them dead. Eren Jaeger is their best chance at keeping their society alive and these people they lived and fought and suffered with want to impede that and doom them. Samuel and Daz are soldiers, too. Forget for a moment that they’re opposing the main characters. Why would they let this happen?

I digress, though. This point is more about Bert and his exit from the story. It came at the end of a fierce battle that saw the SC expend all of their resources and most of their man power. The fact that they came away with even one shifter’s power is a small miracle. The characters can be excused then for watching, unfeeling, as their former teammate is eaten alive. Now the shoe is on the other foot. Armin has been mortally wounded and the one vehicle that can get them to Marley in time is about to be destroyed. Before Daz can do this, he is stopped by Armin who is delirious but regenerating. Before he can deal the fatal blow, Connie wrestles the gun away from Samuel and shoots them both.

The mission continues.

One could say that it’s overkill perhaps. How many times must the 104th learn the hard lesson? Even Annie made reference to the fact that the Warriors plan was being criticized with no alternative. If they spot them, the mission fails. If the ship is blown, the mission fails. If they Azumabito clan is destroyed, the mission fails. All of these facts are true and the current best way to keep any of that from happening is to fight and kill the Jaegerists. It’s remarkably easy to say, but then they are the ones who have to live with choices made.

No one should ever have to “get used to” the idea of killing…well anyone but especially not people you partnered with. Bert’s inclusion in this moment was no accident. It isn’t just because Armin inherited his mental likeness. This is the closest they have come to understanding the impossible position he was forced into four long years ago. Only this time, it’s Samuel who is scared and confused.

You can disagree with Samuel’s point of view but what Connie does next is by definition an act of treason. He shoots two members of his own combat unit and defies a direct order from a commanding officer. We know that the commanding officer is a sociopath and we know that following orders means being an accessory to genocide. But that genocide is the only thing keeping that island alive. That island has been the only home Samuel and Daz have ever known. They deserve as much as anyone, an explanation instead of a bullet to the face. But this is what happens isn’t it?

I love Metal Gear Solid for a number of reasons, but chief above them is the series protagonist, Solid Snake. In the flagship game, he is introduced to us as a super soldier engineered for battle that is pulled out of retirement to thwart his twin brother’s plans of nuclear destruction. This game is one of the few of its kind that can be completed without killing a single enemy. You are rewarded for your stealth. Because, you see, Snake the character is a pacifist at heart. He doesn’t want to do this, but he’s the only one who can. It’s a solo mission, so running and gunning almost always fails and if you kill too many people, the action hero main character becomes sick.

You see, because, these choices aren’t made lightly. They ripple and they matter. The 104th kids aren’t acting high and mighty, lording their moral values over the heads of those that betrayed them. They genuinely hate doing this. From your mouth you say, “We have to save the world,” but when you arrive you are told, “We have to kill these people.” For once they would like to preserve peace without additional death and I don’t think they should be scolded for that wish.

Stray Thoughts

- Wasn’t all that impressed by Magath’s little speech, especially considering what came before it. It’s a change of heart, yes, but not from a genuine place. When faced with the reality of his homeland being flattened, and the futility of his current position, he immediately goes back to torture. Yelena is callous in her own right but she did nothing to warrant the violence. He’s lashing out and I don’t shed tears for him.

- Onyankapon on the other hand. What a guy. He resets the joint in Yelena’s arm and crafts a splint to keep it in place. He has no powers, but you would want this guy on your team during the end of the world.

- Reiner finally puts the pieces together here. “I’m just like you,” Eren says and like Eren, Reiner moves to protect his former teammates from making this impossible choice. It’s a noble gesture and one I respect. There’s no going back for him. He has far too much blood on his hands. That he recognizes that is a strong moment for the character.

- Armin and Connie’s plan wasn’t a bad one. If nothing else, it bought time enough for Annie and Reiner to get into position. If they had attacked outright, the plane likely would have been destroyed. Some people are frustrated with them but honestly, go read Berserk if that’s the case.

- East Sea Gang rise up! Mikasa in combat is still an absolute treat. And Floch gives us an example of this faction’s greatest flaw. You know; besides the nationalist framework they are founded upon. Floch is the most experienced soldier they have and when Floch Forster is your best fighter, your team sucks. Mikasa Ackerman was worth 100 soldiers as rookie. As an adult soldier, she is easily worth two Jaegerist groups put together. Kiyomi is clearly capable, but she also took advantage of Floch’s arrogance in the moment.

- Credit to Reiner and Annie for hitting their cue. I wondered what it would be like having them in this group but it seems like for the purposes it should work.

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curuniel · 4 years ago

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Library(ies)

For the first prompt of the Tyria’s Library anniversary event. This was meant to be a short story, but it turns out a story in three parts isn’t going to be short.

“This one, this one!”

The young Jura Ogawe bounded back towards his parents, heedless of the heavy sigh that came from a librarian giving up on quiet in the children’s section. His father came to meet him, shushing him with a wink as he reached for the book Jura had picked out.

“Alright son, what do you have there?”

Jura’s mother laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder as she came up behind him and peered at the cover.

“King Joko the Implaccable versus the Wurm of Ronjok?” she read, raising both eyebrows as she did.

Her son grinned, practically bouncing where he stood. “It has pictures! Of the battle!”

“Illustrated by Vinanda Bayet,” Jura’s father noted with increasing amusement, “whose artistic career has apparently taken a few turns since that palace ceiling fresco up north.”

He handed the book back to Jura, who immediately opened it and began looking eagerly at the pictures. Beyond his notice, Jura’s mother drew her husband aside for a quiet word.

“Do we really want him reading things like that?” she asked. “Today it’s how King Joko saved Kourna from a rampaging sand wurm, but tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow he’ll being going to school anyway,” Jura’s father pointed out softly. “Better that he be reading the same books and playing the same games as every other child. We agreed –”

“- that is was safer for him. I know.” She sighed, even more wearily than the librarian had. “It just leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

He gathered his wife up in his arms. “We’ll talk to him when he’s older,” he murmured for her ears only. “When he can understand the risks. It may be harder when the time comes, but at least Jura will live to see it.”

She nodded against his chest. “And may Grenth give me the strength to endure ten more years of those gods-forsaken books.”

Jura’s father chuckled, and Jura’s mother shook with her own muffled laughter as he hugged her tighter, and Jura obliviously dropped to sit and read his book with wide, uncritical eyes.

* * *

Much older, and alone, Jura flicked through pages irritably now and the swishing sound of paper drawing a few eyes to him. That was the problem with libraries – quiet enough that the slightest irritation was noticed – but he was beyond caring about etiquette today.

It was more of the same. Tehelo was one of King Joko’s favourite biographers (of many) and it was starting to become obvious why. Every paragraph contained another overblown description with too many adjectives, not to mention comparisons to events in the author’s other works so that every battle and feat of magic was cross-referenced. The sycophantic quality of the writing, however, was not what was frustrating Jura.

This happened in my lifetime, he thought. The dragon Zhaitan, an ancient power that could raise the dead… as nothing but shells for its will, less than the simplest Awakened. Or so he had always believed. In Vabbi they had been taught that the dragon roamed the seas to the west from its lair on the risen island of Orr, making it impossible to cross to other continents. Elona was a last bastion of safety, the sulphurous Desolation a barrier against draconic doom. But then…

He flicked back to the beginning of the chapter. 1326 AE: the slaying of Zhaitan. The way Tehelo told it, someone suggested in King Joko’s hearing that the elder dragon must be the greatest necromancer the world had ever known. Annoyed at the comment the Eternal King had harnessed a mighty mount and travelled all the way to Orr to strike down Zhaitan and prove once and for all that Joko was the greatest master of necromancy in the history of Tyria and only true commander of the dead. The book, Jura noted, did not mention anything about the fate of the person who had insulted the king.

But none of this made sense as it should. 1326 was only a few years ago; if King Joko was setting out to slay an elder dragon, it was inconceivable that he would do it without full splendour, tribute and boasting. Jura remembered nothing of the sort. He remembered hearing stories about Kralkatorrik (how King Joko had allowed the dragon to send its crystal minions into a Vabbian palace that had blasphemed against him, then stood and commanded it to leave the rest of his kingdom untouched) – but Zhaitan had hardly been mentioned. Until King Joko had proclaimed he had destroyed it.

“This isn’t –” he began out loud, but it wasn’t the glare of a nearby librarian that made him finish the thought in silence. None of this is right.

* * *

The sun of the afternoon beat down hot, but Jura was new enough to Amnoon that it still felt like paradise. There was shade both natural and artificial, water when he needed it, gardens unlike anything he’d seen since leaving the halls of Vabbi behind. And he wasn’t wearing armour, which made the heat significantly more bearable. It had been days before he had really felt comfortable going out without armour, but today he felt almost normal in a shirt with a sash, loose pants and sandals.

And a sword. He’s left his ragged shield behind, but he wasn’t going to abandon all sense just because he was in a city again.

Today he was strolling into the surrounding farmland, marvelling at the freedom with which he passed in and out and the decidedly alive cavaliers who nodded to him on his way past. There were people at work here, tending the land and maintaining a marvel of an irrigation system whose workings Jura didn’t yet understand. There were refugees, too, as there seemed to be on every inch of the roads here, and the priests that aided and escorted them. As Jura walked past two priests of Kormir who were poring over a book together, he had to stop and look again at the huge figure his eyes had skimmed over next to them.

The man was easily two feet taller than Jura, and certainly twice as wide at the shoulder. He wore a beard in two braids and a dusty blue robe within which he seemed to be cooking, though he had the sense to have the hood up against the sun. His skin, from what Jura could see, would not have taken kindly to it otherwise.

Jura’s surprise much have shown more than he realised, because the giant man chuckled and gave him a wave. Curious, Jura wandered over.

“Ahai, friend,” the stranger said in a deep voice. “Let me guess; first time meeting a norn?”

“Ah… I suppose it must be. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with… your people,” Jura replied carefully. “I hope that doesn’t cause you offence.”

The norn gave a dismissive wave, then wiped his brow with his sleeve for good measure. “Not at all. We’re not native to these parts, in case that wasn’t obvious.” He chuckled at his own expense. “I prefer the cold, if I’m being honest. Though your city and its harbour are truly lovely!”

“Not my city,” Jura said automatically, then “although… I’m not sure where is, now.” He didn’t want to get into that, so he quickly moved on. “Where are you from then, sir norn?”

He broke into a true smile. “The Shiverpeaks! Great, snowy mountains full of fearsome beasts and majestic sights. Far away, I’m afraid, across the sea. But I’m here as a representative of the Durmand Priory, and the sharing of knowledge is an adventure I will tolerate your devastating sun for.”

The norn gestured at the cart behind him, and Jura’s eye widened momentarily. It was a wagon of sorts with hinged and shuttered sides, currently latched open to show rows of neatly shelved books. Seeing his expression, the norn chuckled again and invited him to take a look.

“The Ossa Legacy… Three Lands, One Sun… An Unauthorised History of the Order of Whispers,” he read aloud.

“We put that one in there just to annoy them,” the norn admitted with a wink.

“I’ve never heard of any of these,” Jura said wonderingly. Then, quashing the wonder from his voice, “and you say these are true histories?”

To Jura’s surprise, the response was a shrug rather than a sales pitch. “No history is ever really a true history. They’re all biased in one way or another.”

“Some more than others,” Jura noted with a touch of bitterness.

“True,” the norn acknowledged. “But these are from our scholars’ collections. Think of them as versions of history told by people who left these lands hundreds of years ago.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before Jura ventured, “may I… read a little?”

“Of course!” The man looked pleased, and it was hard to stay suspicious of him when his emotions seemed so free and genuine. “As long as you don’t take anything away or, say, throw it in a ditch, you’re welcome to read as long as you like.”

Jura, discovering he did not have the words to express everything he was feeling in that moment, made a bow instead and picked a book off the shelf at random. Within seconds he was sitting under a nearby awning, devouring every new piece of knowledge he could find.

#tyriaslibrary event #Guild Wars 2 #my writing #my characters #Path of Fire #I haven't talked about Jura a lot here but after playing Path of Fire I desperately wanted to explore a character raised in Joko's Vabbi

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gofancyninjaworld · 5 years ago

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Some manga predictions

Been told my predictin’ game’s getting a little weak lately. Truth be told, there’s been so many jinks in the manga that I’ve been quite happy seeing what the heck happens next in the story, but can’t take that lying down.

Btw, I haven’t forgotten my random list of predictions for the next chapter of the webcomic! Be fun to see which ones pan out.:)

So, let’s have some more story predictions. Serious enough this time for me to stick by. I’ll take a told ya so if I’m wrong. :)

Short Hits!

Well that settles it!

Metal Bat’s going to get his rematch. We can finally stop wondering what would happen if he brought his bat down squarely on Garou’s head.

Then he’ll collect his slice of Humble Pie, same as everyone else is getting. It’s fresh, it’s hot, it sticks in your throat but you can’t cough it up.

Speaking of humble pie, I predict that Golden Sperm gets to hand out free slices to just about everyone still standing. No need to have Amai Mask telling us that this is a difficult foe even for their combined efforts, show us! And that Garou shows up to save them all... for himself.

No, I don’t dare make any predictions for Genos other than he gets to have a whole Humble Pie. There’s just too many opportunities for catastrophe, from the shining Angel of Annihilation perched on top of the impromptu Mount Doom to the varied nasties crawling out of the rubble. Speaking of varied nasties, onto prediction two!

One Last Land Mine

One thing that sticks with me was Gyoro-Gyoro/Psykos noting that some monsters undergo unexpected rapid growth and act as jokers in the pack. We’ve said hello and goodbye to two of them: Rhino Wrestler and his buddy, Phoenixman (now was that a joker or what?).

It’d hardly be fair if none of the cadre (fair? Nothing fair about it -- I mean insufficiently entertaining for us) turned out to be land mines. I am predicting that Bang fighting Fuhrer Ugly is going to give us some truly sickening transformation and not go down so quickly. Bang will win, of course, but it should be an extra extra fight first.

Phew, that was Close!

This one is as much prayer as it’s prediction. I’m predicting that the transport convoy sent for Waganma juuuust escapes the carnage wrought by Tatsumaki pulling up the Subterranean city. On one level it has to as several of them are transporting wounded heroes, and heroes never die, but there’s no guarantee for all of them. Why do I care? Keep reading!

Long-Range Hits!

Saving the Hero Association

The Hero Association is on the rocks in the webcomic. Between public criticism, internal dissension, donors deserting, and the Neo Heroes leaching talent, political goodwill, and money from them faster than they can comprehend, they really don’t know where to turn right now.

Seriously, the Hero Association can’t afford to fall, unless the story is going to turn into a tragedy where mankind ends up scattered into a few small enclaves, Attack on Titan style only it’s not a lie about what lies beyond the walls.

I’ve been hoping that the convoy gets away because when the manga gets to this point, they’re going to need Sekingar. They need Sekingar’s insights on two levels. The immediate one is to understand the nature of the threat they’re facing. Sekingar may be inclined to give heroes the benefit of the doubt, but he’s not a gullible fool either:

If he’s alive, then he’s going to have no trouble at all figuring out that someone is awful keen to usurp the Hero Association, as well as Metal Knight’s automated tech and telling Sitch about it, who is no fool himself. It will be their first chance to understand what kind of enemy they’re facing.

Second, they’re going to need someone on the Executive Board who actually understands what hero work is like. Even if they see off the threat the Neo Hero threat off, they’re going to need to be able to sort through the varying suggestions of what needs to be done and actually get those changes implemented.

Since so far Sekingar continues to be a manga-only character (since chapter 20!), I have no idea where their insights might come from in the webcomic. Of course... Sekingar might not make it back in which case they’re no better off in the manga either.

So When You Said Countless, Did You Mean More Than Six?

Here’s something I’m going to stick my neck right out to predict: I’m predicting that we’re going to find out that Genos hasn’t been a cyborg for all that long, rather than four years the way we tend to think. I present to you four pieces of circumstantial evidence.

First, how has he been getting away with roaming the planet and burning bits of it out of existence? I’m not the only one to have wondered how it is that Genos never got stopped for carrying weapons -- was it somehow legal? Turns out, it’s as illegal as hell -- no wonder the Hero Association was on his trail. He’s not even subtle. At its worst, a demon cyborg special sees absolutely everything, even rock, destroyed by extreme heat for kilometres. [Becoming a hero has really clipped his claws.] For him to have avoided being intercepted by them for weeks? Sure. It’s a big place and he’s very mobile. But evading the Hero Association for years? No chance.

Second, when he said he was inexperienced, he wasn’t joking. Learning to not take his eyes off a monster is such Fighting 101 stuff it’s painful. Conversely, Saitama may have no technique to speak of, but his awareness of where a hit may be coming from has been absolutely top-notch, something Suiryu notes with admiration.

Third, body count. As of chapter 80, Genos was only on Body Four. We know what happened to the rest -- the third body got crushed by Gouketsu, the second body got melted by the Deep Sea King and the first one got cut up by Mosquito Girl. I can totally believe that if he’s being Drive Knight cautious, actually doing research on his targets before he strikes, bodies will last a lot longer than we’ve been seeing him go through them but four years of use? Hmm!!! I doubt that.

Fourth, becoming a cyborg is a process, not an event. Thanks to the webcomic, we’ve got an appreciation that body modification is not easy (or safe or sane past a certain point) and it takes months to be functional. So, some non-negligible fraction of the last four years of his life has been spent Not Dying and Learning to Walk Again.

Adding it all together, I’m expecting it to turn out that he’s really quite new at all this. That said, Genos never said he’d been searching for all four years. We just assumed.

#OPM #manga #story predictions #webcomic spoilers #Garou #Metal Bat #Sekingar #Bang #Genos #I'm keen to start seeing some plotlines start marrying up #I'm totally on board for some more cruel twists with the final showdown #and the HA's troubles from a mysterious foe #need to get less mysterious and fast

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thewarriorandtheking · 5 years ago

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The Warrior Revealed

The Warrior Queen: The Warrior and The King Book II

Chapter 9. The Warrior Revealed

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

Thorin took a deep breath and kissed Kaylea’s neck, waiting for his mind to catch up with his body. He felt as if every inch of his body was vibrantly alive, like sparks were dancing over his skin, the sensation intense and sustained. After a moment he moved to lay beside her, she too was breathing deeply, her whole body flushed. They lay together for a time, feeling the sweat start to dry on their bodies. Thorin took Kaylea’s hand in his and brought it to his lips.

“I have missed you so much,” she said. She shifted to settle herself in his soft bed, the light from the fire bathing her naked body in red light.

“Then why leave again, my love?” Thorin asked quietly.

Kaylea shook her head, she pushed herself up to sit back against the pillows. “We have talked about this.”

“And we have still not reached an agreement,” Thorin scowled at her. “I have done all you asked of me. My line is secure, my kingdom prospers, the alliances of Erebor are strong.” He moved to kneel on the bed beside her, taking her hands in his. “Every time you ride away I convince myself that you are right, that we should wait, but as soon as I have you in my arms again I know I will never be complete until you are with me always. Will you marry me?”

Kaylea met his gaze, her face pleading. “Thorin, do not tempt me! You know I cannot.”

Thorin’s face went dark. There was an edge to his voice as he spoke. “If it is true you love me as much as you say, then you must tell me once and for all why we cannot be together. I am tired of all the secrecy, I am tired of waiting. I will have an answer. You owe me that.”

Kaylea looked at him for a long moment. Thorin could see she was weighing something in her mind. At length she spoke. “Very well. You are right, I have put it off too long. But it is easier if I show you. We will need to go for a ride.”

Thorin frowned at her. “You cannot just tell me?”

She shook her head. “It would be just words. If I show you, it will make better sense.”

Thorin bent over to kiss her gently. “How long then must I wait for my answer, my love?”

“A half day’s ride. We must go to the north, toward the Misty Mountains.” Kaylea ran her hands up over his chest. “We can leave now, if you wish.”

Thorin grinned. “The morning is soon enough.”

It was mid-morning the next day before Thorin and Kaylea set out from Erebor. Thorin felt such a rush of nostalgia when she mounted her horse and reached down to pull him up behind her. This was how he remembered falling in love with her all those years ago, that wild night chasing orcs through the forest, his arms around her waist, that smell of sage and pines in her hair. He remembered how badly he had wanted to kiss her on the neck then, now he could do it. Kaylea felt his lips on her neck and turned her head to look at him.

“Feel like old times?”

Thorin chuckled. “Better than old times,” he said. “I do not have to worry where I am putting my hands.” He reached around to put his hands inside her coat. Kaylea put a hand on his and clicked her tongue to her horse.

“If you bite me, I bite you back,” she said.

Thorin chuckled.“I hope that is a promise.”

Her horse trotted out the gate and across the bridge, Ajax loping ahead. As Kaylea had said they started north around the foot of the Lonely Mountain then turned west to the foothills of the mountains. Once they were on the open road Kaylea gave her horse his head and he ran like the wind. It still astonished Thorin how fast these black horses were, this one seemed the fastest of any Kaylea had brought. Watching her grey wolf run ahead of the horse made Thorin think of Hector, and all the time they had spent together so many years ago. He still missed that black wolf, though Ajax was much friendlier.

With the dire wolf setting the pace they were in the foothills of the mountains in hours, by then her horse had slowed to a reaching trot. They headed up a slope and when they reached the top Thorin saw a wide, flat basin surrounded by hills. The air was quite still at the bottom, there was no sound of birds or wind between the rocks. All was empty and silent, just grass and what looked like one of Kaylea’s black horses grazing across the meadow.

Kaylea let Thorin down and got off her horse. She unbridled her horse and turned him loose to graze. Ajax came up and leaned against Thorin, who scratched the back of his head with a bit of apprehension. Kaylea turned to him, her face deadly serious. “My king, once you have seen this there is no going back,” she said gravely. “If you wish to accept the explanation, I have given you we can continue on as we have before, with the possibility we can be together in the future. After I show you this everything will be changed.”

Thorin looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment, wondering at her words. What can she show me in an empty valley? He drew himself up, folding his arms across his chest. “I want my explanation.”

Kaylea turned toward the open expanse, she reached up and touched the side of her neck. “Turn the cloak off,” she said.

“General, what are you doing?” Came the answer from out of thin air, Thorin jumped. Whatever it was it spoke Khuzdul. And did it just call her General?

“Making a point,” Kaylea responded. “Turn it off.”

Suddenly a giant winged vessel appeared in front of them. Thorin started and gasped in surprise, Where had that come from? One moment there had been nothing, now there was this emormous thing. It was larger than the freighting ships that sailed the seas but looked more like a giant bird, made entirely of metal. It had wings that almost touched the edges of the valley, and sat on two giant supports, like an enormous eagle about to take off. Almost immediately his Dwarvish curiosity took over and he started looking at the joints in the metal, the elegant shape of it, wondering how it was built. As he was studying it a wide platform descended from the belly of the thing, becoming a ramp leading inside. Kaylea walked forward and put a foot on the ramp, she turned to look at Thorin.

“You once told me the marvels of my country would not frighten you,” she said flatly. “Are you coming?”

Thorin took a deep breath and followed her, now her warning was making sense. It was all very strange but he trusted her, Kaylea would not be leading him to his doom. They walked up into a wide space, divided into compartments. There were a variety of things stored here, odd-looking wheeled wagons, metal cases stacked high, one compartment looked like a kind of workshop and there was one was filled with those strange metal weapons, lined up on racks. Thorin paused, then stepped in run his hand over them. There were many different types, a few like the one Kaylea always had with her, and there were others that were smaller, that could fit in the hand.

“No,” Kaylea said. Thorin looked at her with a sideways grin.

“You seem to have quite a few. How could you miss just one?”

“No,” she said again. At the far end of the space was another ramp, steeper that curled to the right. They followed it up to a corridor with doors opening off it. On one side the hallway opened up into a wide space, Thorin could see counters and storage, table and benches, some kind of soft couches on one side. At the end of the hallway was another, smaller room with a wide window that wrapped over it. There was a curving slanted table made of what looked like dark glass, many lights somehow blinking under the glass. There were two comfortable looking chairs against this table and a number of different ones along the wall behind, all but two folded up. One of the chairs was occupied by a very large cat with bright orange fur, dressed like a Man in a sleeveless vest-type garment, soft breeches and high black boots. He was reading a book, the end of his short-haired tail twitching at his feet. He looked at Thorin with mild surprise as he walked in.

“Good afternoon, your majesty,” he said in a deep raspy voice. It was not the voice Thorin had heard outside, but the creature also spoke Khuzdul..

“Have we met?” Thorin asked, looking at the creature nervously.

“In a way.”

“Thorin, this is Pilot Ahk-Set. He is a Kzin and a telepath. That means he can read your mind, among other things,” Kaylea said. She moved towards the slanted table, as she put her fingers on it, different lights appeared. Thorin looked back at Pilot.

“Does that mean you know what I am thinking?” He asked. The Kzin nodded.

“Kind of like breathing for me, your majesty.”

Thorin frowned, he realized why the Kzin looked familiar. This was the cat he had seen in Galadriel’s Mirror, he recognized the odd-looking ears. Webbed, like the wings of a bat and they moved up and down as he spoke. Although many events of the last fifty years faded in his memory, everything Thorin had seen in Galadriel’s Mirror he remembered with absolute clarity.

The light changed and Thorin looked back towards Kaylea. The view out the window had disappeared, replaced by the night sky. As Thorin watched, different colored lines snaked across the sky, he noticed there was a blinking yellow light on the left side.

Kaylea turned to face him. “This is a map of the galaxy,” she began. “Every star you see in the night sky is a sun like the one above us now. Around every star are worlds like Middle Earth, some are hotter or colder, some are inhabited by strange creatures,” she gestured toward Pilot. “A great many are inhabited by different races of Men.” She turned back toward the window, pointing to the blinking light. “That is Middle Earth, this is Dorsai.” She touched the counter and another blinking light appeared high on the right side.

Thorin sat down almost involuntarily in one of the chairs along the wall, stunned. “You come from the stars?” He asked incredulously.

Kaylea nodded. “Yes.”

Thorin looked at the map again, the blinking lights. He was starting to feel panic rising in his chest. Then suddenly, he felt calmer. As he looked at the map, names came to him for the different colored lines on the map: Second Empire, Kzin, Vorlon, Dubari, Hive. The names of some of the major races of the galaxy, these were the borders of their empires. When he looked around the room: console, viewscreen, spaceship, bridge, computer. It was the oddest feeling to look at things he had never seen and know what they were called and what they did. He gave the Kzin a sideways glance.

The cat shrugged. “It was not very nice of her to hit you with it like that,” he looked at Kaylea who was frowning at him. “I can stop, if you prefer.”

Thorin really did not like the idea of someone else being in his head, and his sense of panic had passed. “I am fine now,” he said, though he was tempted to ask the Kzin to continue. He looked back at Kaylea. “Go on, my love.”

Kaylea’s fingers danced over the console. “This large area outlined in white is the Empire, of which Dorsai is a part. More than a thousand planets now. I can travel in this ship to any of them.” She brought up a picture of a large globe, green and blue and white. A second blue globe was surrounding it. “Middle Earth is different. It is surrounded by an impenetrable shield wall. The only one of its kind, it keeps the planet hidden and no one can get through it without permission. This is how my lord Blackwolf protects your planet. Without it this place would be very different, believe me.” She turned to Thorin. “Blackwolf guards all the entrances, he holds all the keys. When he wants me to do something for him on Middle Earth, he gives me permission to get through the shield, but only for whatever length of time he thinks the mission will take.”

Thorin frowned. “You said he does this to protect Middle Earth?”

Kaylea nodded. “This was his home, he will not let it be destroyed by others. You have no idea how extraordinary your planet is. I do not agree with my lord on many things, but the protection of Middle Earth is one of them.”

“But why does he need to protect it from you? Are you not a loyal retainer? I do not understand why you cannot travel here freely.”

Kaylea sighed. “That is part of a much longer conversation about Blackwolf. He knows I love this place so he makes sure I can only come here at his will. It is a way he can have power over me. Several times in the past I have been able to travel here on my own time by calling in favors Blackwolf owes me. After this war is over he will owe me many favors. I have an idea of how I can travel often to Middle Earth, but I cannot even ask him until we win this war.”

“If we win it,” Thorin said, shaking his head. “It seems this Lord of yours treats you very poorly.” He put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to let all he had just seen and heard sink in. Thorin had seen many fabulous things in his life, but it was usually one or two in a day, not so many at once. It was all so fantastic, but there was no other explanation for the things he was seeing that made any sense. He felt that calming sensation again. Things started to rearrange themselves in his head, in a way he could grasp them better. It was amazing, but also rather frightening that he suddenly knew what Kaylea was talking about. He looked over at the Kzin, who shrugged.

“A hard habit to break, your majesty.” Pilot got up and put one of his four-fingered hands on Thorin’s shoulder. “How about a drink?” Thorin looked up at him. The Kzin was very tall, taller even than Kaylea.

“How about seven?” Thorin replied.

Kaylea led the way into the galley. They took seats on the curved bench behind the table while Pilot opened a cupboard and took out three glasses and a bottle. This was a different liquor than the one Kaylea usually brought with her, this one was blue. Pilot poured the shots, then raised his glass, Kaylea did as well.

“Welcome to the galaxy, my king,” she said. Thorin clicked his glass to theirs and drank it down. The liquor was smooth and strong, with a sweet aftertaste. Pilot poured another round, Thorin knocked his back and had to admit he did feel better. He looked around, amazed at all the metal in this spaceship. Metal floors, metal walls, metal furniture. How could they make such a thing? And why not add some decoration?

“Do you not get tired of all the grey?” He asked, looking around. Kaylea smiled.

“No, we can be anywhere.” She spoke a strange word and the walls suddenly disappeared, replaced with a green forest of broad-leafed trees. Sunlight came through the canopy in long shafts, the leaves moving in a slight breeze. Thorin could see a wide pool with at waterfall dropping into it on the wall across from him. It was weird to still see the doors and table in the middle of this forest. The word hologram popped into his head, the walls projected moving pictures, recorded in different locations. He looked at Pilot, who nodded to him.

“This is my planet,” he said. “We actually developed this, we Kzin hate to be confined for long periods and space travel requires us to spend many days at a time in these ships.”

Kaylea spoke another word and they were in a grassy meadow, the sea before them, mountains falling steeply to the ocean beside them. Thorin’s eyes went wide, he recognized it at once. He slid off the bench and stood up, turned around to see a large keep on the wall behind the table. Crenelated towers and walls, old stone, solidly built.

“Where is this?” He asked. Kaylea looked at him curiously.

“This is Tor Graham, my home,” she replied.

Thorin turned around taking in the view. This was the spot he had seen in the Mirror, where they were to be married, he was sure of it. Galadriel had told him the future was never set, but his heart was racing. This was the place!

Kaylea was watching him closely. “You have seen this before.”

Thorin nodded. “It is in that portrait you gave me,” he said, which was true.

Kaylea nodded. “Of course, I had forgotten.” It seemed to her he was remembering something more than just her portrait.

She got up and retrieved two bottles of beer from the provisions unit, she opened them and walked over to hand one to Thorin. He took it gratefully, sipped at it as he studied the view. The ocean was blue grey, he could almost hear it crashing against the cliff below. There was a breeze blowing the grass underfoot, waterfalls worked their way down steep paths in the mountains to either side, the sun high in the sky, the light seemed more blue than that on Middle Earth. He was going to be married out among the stars, his life had taken some strange turns, this would be the strangest.

“How about some dinner?” Kaylea asked. Thorin nodded. He was not particularly hungry, but the idea of eating seemed so normal among all the unbelievable things he had just seen and heard. He went back to sit at the table while Kaylea and Pilot busied themselves in the kitchen. It was not like any cooking he had ever seen, mostly opening packages and doors and pressing buttons. Kaylea brought two plates to the table of some kind of spicy curry dish that smelled delicious. Pilot was eating what looked like a huge slab of liver, he gave a second one to Ajax, who eagerly devoured it. Thorin looked from Kaylea to her Kzin pilot.

“Does Pilot talk to you in your head, like the wolves do?”

Kaylea smiled. “What Pilot can do is far more precise, as he just showed you. But he cannot get into my head. I have defenses against telepaths,” she said. Pilot snorted. “The kind of telepathy the dire wolves use is different. Even I do not quite understand how.” She smiled at the Kzin. “Kzin telepaths are incredibly powerful, but like all telepaths they are fond of silence. He has no reason to try to get into my mind.”

Thorin gave Pilot a puzzled look. “You read minds when you do not want to?”

“Telepaths are not supposed to, but when we are around people with unshielded minds it is like they are shouting all the time,” the Kzin said. “We have to consciously keep them out.”

Thorin felt oddly embarrassed he had been shouting, wondering what the Kzin must think of him. “You said we had met before.”

Pilot nodded. “I was at the Battle of the Five Armies, though you did not see me. Ever wonder why all those cave trolls kept dropping dead?”

Thorin stared at him. “That was you?” Everyone had assumed it was Gandalf.

Kaylea chuckled. “Telepaths are formidable weapons, the things they can do never cease to amaze.”

Pilot chuckled. “You should hear what is being said about you two in that Dwarf city. Kissing each other in a public street, half the place is talking about a wedding.”

Thorin stared at the Kzin. “Are you telling me you can read the minds of people all the way in Erebor?” He shook his head in realization, smiling. “I guess that is not any more extraordinary than the other things I have seen today.”

Pilot nodded gravely. “Kzin originally bred telepaths for communication between planets, as well as for war. Your city is not that far away.”

“So, the people approve?” Kaylea asked.

Pilot shrugged. “A 70-30 split. All the men are for it, of course,” he smiled at Kaylea. “You rule over a rare group of subjects, your majesty. I think they will support you in anything you choose to do.” He got up and poured himself a glass of water, nodding toward Thorin. “I hope you are keeping him, I like him.”

Kaylea laughed. “Oh yes, I am keeping him. If he still wants me.”

The Kzin turned and disappeared down the hall to the bridge without a further word. Thorin watched him go, wondering if the fact Pilot liked him was a good sign. Kaylea got up and gathered the dinner dishes, depositing them in a slot under the counter. Thorin was on his feet again, looking around at the hologram they were standing in, trying to remember every detail of it and also make sense of everything he had seen today. Kaylea came over and handed him another beer then went to sit on the couch.

“I warned you that everything will be different now,” she said.

“Some things are still the same, my love” Thorin replied following to sit next to her, he reached over to touch her face. He had long known there were many things she had not told them, he had never expected them to be so strange. But when he looked in his heart, his feelings for her had not changed.

Kaylea met his gaze, putting her hand over his. “You do not feel differently about me? Now you know where I am really from, now that you know what really separates us?”

Thorin had to smile. “I always knew you were not from anywhere near here, now I know just how far.” He shook his head. “I find it does not change the extraordinary connection we share or the fact that I love you and still want to marry you. Though I am not sure what kind of life we will lead together.”

Thorin could see the relief on Kaylea’s face, her eyes filled with tears. She pulled him close to her and kissed him. After a moment Thorin pulled back to wipe the tears from her cheeks, smiling.

“You really thought all this would harden my heart against you, or send me running in terror? You do not know me as well as you think, my love.” He kissed her again, his hand travelling under her shirt to touch the skin of her back.

“My king,” Kaylea began, after a moment. “Now you know what you are asking when you ask me to marry you. I want you to think carefully about it before you speak of it again. I am not sure yet what form a life together might take, but you can see how different it may be.” Thorin started to speak, but Kaylea put a finger on his lips. “Do not answer yet.”

“Very well, I will think about it. I promise.” He sat back next to her, holding her hand. “Can we go to that place with the ice ships?”

Kaylea spoke a word and the scene changed. They were on the deck of a huge wooden ship, full sails and running from the wind. Thorin looked around and saw a sea of ice. There was a large island on the other wall with what looked like a small seaport clinging to its side. Thorin looked around, fascinated. There were many stranger things across the horizon than he had ever dreamed.

The complete adventures of The Warrior and The King are posted on AO3 & FanFiction, author is akdogdriver. All three books now also on Wattpad.

#fanfiction #thorin x oc #thorin fanfiction #tolkien fanfic #jrr tolkien #the hobbit #lord of the rings #thorin oakenshield #true love #middle earth #fantasy adventure #fanfic

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thewebcomicsreview · 5 years ago

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please do in fact make a comparison between homestuck and naruto now that youve mentioned it i need to read it

Honestly, I don’t want to read the entirety of Naruto for this, but the more I think about it the weirder the comparison gets. Homestuck has an infamously bad opening and then gets really good around Act 4, stays really good for a while, and then crashes hard. Naruto starts off great, and then slowly putters out as Kishimoto runs out of ideas (and hands!). I think the first year or so of Naruto is legitimately great, and is starts puttering out around the Chuunin exams

I think this is legitimately the best first page of any comic ever (even though it’s technically the second page). There’s just so much in these two panels. You’ve got the ninja village, you’ve got the most striking visual image in the whole series with ninja Mount Rushmore, and there’s a kid drawing dicks on it and laughing maniacally. You learn so much about Naruto’s character, his world, and his relationship to that world in a single page with no real dialogue. It’s excellent.

Now, granted, this chapter also introduces a crystal ball that can scry on students, which you’d think would come in handy later and is never seen again, but still. Good opening effort.

dustybins said to thewebcomicsreview:

oh man do you wanna shit on Naruto? together even? like how Chakra Natures, an integral part of the setting and something constantly used in combat is largely unexplained til like two thirds of thew way into the manga? about how the big climactic battle is with an enemy that appears from no where has no character and is of little consequence after she is beaten? about how Sasuke's whole arc becomes a FARCE after the timeskip? how about the HUGE disservice that the manga does to its characters?

A smarter nerd than I did exactly that, and it’s a good video if you’re in to that kind of thing. But there’s maybe another anime that’s a better comparison

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Bleach was only slightly less popular than Naruto at its peak, and was one of the last anime I was really into as I transitions from “high-school weeaboo” to “college student who fell out of anime immediately after joining the anime club but that’s where my friends are so okay I guess”. While Naruto started great and slowly declined, Bleach followed a more Homestuck trajectory

Initially, Bleach was a lighthearted monster-of-the-week story about anime ghostbusters. The plot was kind of meandering, but it was carried by fun characters and a humorous tone.

Then it introduced a bunch of kind of alien characters, about a dozen weridos, and their society. The series took on a darker tone, and this arc, the Soul Society arc, lasted as long as everything before it put together. People went nuts for it. And they especially went nuts for the Shinigami, and started making what we’d call Shinigamisonas (Shimisonas? Chimichangas?) today. And they were helped in that endeavor because the Shinigami as a concept were very modular. If you made a Shimisona, you basically filled out a character sheet with information like which of the thirteen groups of them you were in, which would indicate what your characters basic powers were

and then you’d get to the cool shit like the number of Katanas you had. (In Bleach, instead of characters themselves going super saiyan, their katanas did, which is the raddest idea ever, so everyone got to make three with an evolving concept). You had structure, but not so much structure as to limit your creativity.

Bleach kind of lucked into that aspect, but Hussie’s big genius idea for marketing Homestuck, moreso evan than the shirts, was leaning in super hard to this idea. Troll blood color, classpect, even stuff like “what you put in your Kernalsprite” that didn’t catch on, were all intentionally made modular so that you could more easily make fanfics and personas (Hussie says this explicitly in one of the books). I doubt he pulled it from Bleach, but the same idea turned up.

Anyway, Bleach made the transition to a dark battle shonen, Shinigami were massively popular, and the Soul Society arc is widely beloved by nerds of a certain age to this day. If the Ghostbusters stuff was Acts 1-4 of Homestuck, the Soul Society was Act 5.

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But there was a problem.The Ghostbusters stuff set up a ghost called Grand Fisher as the main bad guy. He’s leading a bunch of ghosts, he killed Ichigo’s mom, Ichigo is the protagonist. Boom. Obviously, the guy who’s the strongest guy around who killed the protagonists’ beloved guardians was going to be the bad guy, right?

But then Shinigami got cool so they spent time on that and Ichigo was explicitly more powerful than any ghost about their powerups before the ending, so Grand Fisher can’t be the bad guy since Ichigo would squish him, so he’s out. He ultimately gets defeated by someone else who also has a beef with him but is in no way shape or form a protagonist

There’s a new villain, Aizen, and he’s got a new evil plan, but it doesn’t affect Ichigo at all and he kind of doesn’t give a shit about it.

So there’s no narrative momentum anymore. Ichigo is going to fight the new bad guy because he’s the new bad guy, but there’s no in-story reason for it, and also once he does the story will be over, and it’s a really popular cash cow. You know what that means!

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Pointless

Fucking

Around!

Elements of worldbuilding were brought up and expanded upon, like “Wow, the Shinigami created artificial people for fun and now wants to kill them all! How villainous! How are we going to resolve this?!” and the answer being “lol vampires”

This is where teen me tapped out. The Mod Soul storyline, itself a filler arc, is aborted in favor of forty-odd episodes of vampires that never get mentioned again because it was a filler arc while the anime desperately waited in vain for something to happen in the manga. The Homestuck equivalent would be Openbound, but Homestuck is worse because at least you knew at the time that Vampires wouldn’t be important later

So you got less of the slow decline of Naruto or My Hero Academia or most popular long-running series, and more of the series getting bigger and more popular until suddenly crashing completely because something was broken on a fundamental level that was preventing the protagonists and antagonists from ever actually coming into conflict

This scene, in Act 7, four minutes before the end of the series, is the first time in the entirety of Homestuck that a main character interacts with the main bad guy.of Homestuck.

Of course, the economics of Shounen Jump meant that Bleach could stay collapsing longer than Homestuck did, but once Ichigo killed the Vasto Lorde, which was right before the Soul Society arc even started, the die was cast and the series was doomed. Likewise, once Lord English usurped Bec Noir as the main bad guy of Homestuck, the story was broken on a fundamental level, and while Hussie going up his own ass about metanarrative didn’t help matters, nothing would have. Once Bec Noir left the medium, the story slowly died, like it was infected with some kind of slow-acting disease where the host body kills itself. I’m blanking on what the metaphor is I’m looking for. Help me out, Karkat.

PCG: AND UNLIKE A NORMAL DISEASE, IT WOULDN'T GRADUALLY KILL ITS HOST FROM WITHIN PCG: THE CANCER LEFT THE BODY PCG: CHASED OUT, AS IF BY AN IMMUNE SYSTEM. PCG: BUT THE PROBLEM IS PCG: IT WASN'T ANY LESS DEADLY ON THE OUTSIDE PCG: AND NO LESS DETERMINED TO FINISH THE JOB.

PCG: SO I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE IT COULD BE PCG: WHAT'S WAITING FOR US AT THE END OF THE COUNTDOWN. PCG: JACK WAS EXPELLED FROM YOUR SESSION SOMEHOW PCG: HE THEN METHODICALLY DESTROYED ALL OUR PLANETS, PROSPIT AND DERSE, AND TRIED TO WIPE US ALL OUT PCG: SO THAT WE COULDN'T DO THE SAME THING TO HIM AGAIN PCG: BUT HE WAS ALWAYS SAVING HIS TRUE TARGET FOR LAST PCG: THE ONE HE HATED MOST. PCG: JACK WAS THE LIVING EMBODIMENT OF THE DISEASE ALL ALONG.

PCG: NOIR IS THE CANCER.

PCG: IT'S HIM.

Yeah, that’s it

#heecawroo #Naruto #Bleach #Homestuck #Honestly that's the best meta joke in all of Homestuck #And it wasn't even on purpose

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dramaticironyoflife · 5 years ago

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Baby Bird (Fly Home) - Chapter 12: Who Was the Last?

Summary:

The story continues! It is perhaps the most disheartening to learn what you have once you have lost it. Patton is trying to return to life before the boys, the boys are trying to maintain some control over their lives, and Mrs. Strand just needs to stop reading so many parenting books.

Notes:

I am back and ready to give you all more angst! In repentance for the last heartbreak I gave out, I also offer you some fluffy boys being comforting towards each other.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

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Virgil hated how quickly he adapted. The routine of accepting the pity of others because the grownups told you that you didn’t have a choice. He shot a glance at Logan, making sure that he was alright. They were walking home from school. They had been placed with the Strand for the time being while lawyers and attorneys argued back and forth about their future. The world was never kind enough to pause while unfortunate sufferers tried to gain some footing. The world kept turning, high school still sucked, and he was sure that he was the hottest topic at his previous workplace.

Logan hated how he couldn’t get Virgil to talk to him openly. He had to quicken his pace to keep up with Virgil’s long strides, his backpack jostling as he did so. Virgil seemed dead to the world. His hood was up, and earbuds plugged his ears. Logan knew better though. He could see the bright eyes partially hidden under the bangs. They darted back and forth quickly, assessing every person, sometimes dwelling on someone for a millisecond longer. Logan had learned to both trust and fear Virgil’s mind. He was always ready to jump to Logan’s rescue or protection, always on edge. At the same time, though, he was always on edge. He didn’t trust anyone, and his mind was constantly twisting the normal world into paranoid ‘what ifs’. Virgil was the first person to run to in danger and the last person to ask for optimism. Logan watched him wearily now as they slipped back into the gated community that the Strands occupied. He wondered how much longer he would be forced to wait until he got his Virgil back again. Patton hated how quiet it was. He ran the vacuum in the now empty apartment that had been Virgil and Logan’s. The furniture he would sell and give the money to the boys. The rest of the room he simply cleaned and got ready to show to other possible guests. At the same time, however, he didn’t want to give it away. The idea of that felt like he would be accepting that they were really gone. Not that it made too much of a difference. They were gone and the sooner he accepted that, the better. He bit his lip and blinked hard. He turned the vacuum on and ran it over the carpet for the fifth time. He really did hate the quiet. Roman hated the traffic. He placed his chin on his hands, staring out the windshield with a bored expression. The people around him crawled forward and he groaned as his phone began to ring wildly. It had been three days since he’d seen the picture of the boys in the paper. Logan and Virgil were their names. Since then his life had been chaos. He’d tried in vain to find and contact his sister, cancelled at least a dozen different appointments, and convinced his agent that he could drive himself somewhere for a change. That didn’t stop people from calling and pestering him, though. He cocked an eyebrow at the mobile device before resolutely turning it off and tossing it into the back seat. No distracted driving! He chuckled at the irony of the situation as he realized that he wasn’t actually driving anywhere. Man, he really hated traffic. Mr. and Mrs. Strand hated when the boys were moody. At least, that’s what Virgil had concluded. Mrs. Strand got a very forced smile whenever Virgil and Logan returned to the house and didn’t return her cheerful greetings. They were new to the foster system, that much was obvious. Logan was polite but closed off. Virgil watched Logan as he neatly hung his backpack on the wall and nodded to Mrs. Strand. Virgil let his own bag fall to the floor only to have Logan pick it up and shoot him a look. Virgil sighed apologetically and Logan huffed in forgiveness. Mrs. Strand cleared her throat and smiled. She hated how the boys seemed able to communicate without her knowing what was going on. “Virgil, that was very nice of Logan, what do you say?” The boys blinked. They looked at each other in surprise. They both knew exactly what Mrs. Strand wanted and they both reached the conclusion that giving into such a ridiculous request was the last thing they wanted. You didn’t have to say ‘thank you’ or ‘you’re welcome’ if you were the Storm boys. You looked out of one another and did without a second thought. If one was in the wrong, you owned up to it, if you were in the right, you fought for it. They didn’t owe each other anything because everything they did for one another was an act of protective love. The difficulty was trying to explain this to a grownup who had never been in their position. The idea that they would have to had never occurred to the boys. Now, here they were, with Mrs. Strand staring them down and growing impatient, “Virgil.” She said, jerking her head in Logan’s direction. “That’s quite alright, ma’am.” Logan said sincerely, “Virgil doesn’t -” “No,” the woman cut him off with a raised hand, “Virgil, what do you say to Logan?” Virgil’s face turned red with embarrassment and then pale with anger. Logan read his expression and his mind flew. In a flash he assessed the situation and formulated a plan. If Virgil was surprised when Logan suddenly charged down the hall and past Mrs. Strand, the woman was stunned. The small boy pushed past her roughly and didn’t look back. He mounted the stairs quickly, clutching the railing as his glasses bounced up and down on his nose. Mrs. Strand turned a confused face after Logan and then looked to Virgil and then back towards the stairs. She couldn’t seem to make up her mind as to whether she should chase after the boy or drill the teen about what was wrong. She seemed on the verge of making up her mind when Virgil moved past her too, “Logan?!” He disappeared up the stairs, leaving Linda Strand to stare on in silence. Virgil found Logan sitting quietly on his bed. The boy looked up expectantly as Virgil entered. He seemed to relax somewhat, “Oh good, I was afraid Mrs. Strand was coming up and not you.” Virgil smirked, “You don’t like her either?” Logan looked ashamed, “No, she’s not the type of person I would ever imagine would have interesting kids. Or kids at all for that matter.” He slid over so Virgil could settle next to him. The teen wrapped a comforting arm around him, and Logan took the invitation to nuzzle close to the dark warmth and solid body next to him. “How’re you feeling?” Virgil asked as he ran his fingers through Logan’s hair. Logan shrugged, “The pain medication I took earlier is starting to wear off.” Virgil tensed, “Pain medication? What?!” Logan did his best to hide a flinch, “I had a headache this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Virgil took a deep breath, “No, no, sorry for freaking out. I think I still have some stuff in my room from Patton. I’ll get you some.” It wasn’t a question, but Logan nodded. He sighed as Virgil drew away. He immediately missed the warmth of the other individual, but the teen was back in a matter of moments. He handed his brother a single pill and a half empty water bottle. Logan obediently swallowed the pill and chased it down with a few gulps of water. He let himself fall back against Virgil. “Tomorrow’s another day.” He stated with a feeling of dread. Virgil huffed, “Redundant but you’re not wrong.” Logan groaned and sunk deeper into the comfort of his brother’s grasp. Virgil looked over him worriedly, “You okay?” Logan shrugged noncommittedly before staring thoughtfully off into the distance. Virgil watched the brown eyes trace imaginary lines through the air, darting around. His face grew relaxed as he let thoughts drift in and out of his active mind. Virgil could tell when a particularly interesting thought captured his attention. His eyes lit up and he got very still. Virgil playfully poked the younger boy’s side, “What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Logan blinked a few times before he smiled sheepishly. “I was thinking about the time we planned to sneak out and buy some hair dye to change your hair.” Virgil smiled at the memory, “Oh yeah,” he laughed softly, “we were so excited and then we both fell asleep. You were so bummed about it the next day. It was almost funny.” Logan huffed and shoved Virgil away, only to have the older and bigger boy tackle him and pin him under his larger form. Logan grunted and shifted, wriggling around. He finally let himself go limp and resigned himself to his fate. Virgil got comfortable and let his eyes close. It was peaceful. A small pocket of quiet carefree fun in the midst of unknown realities and the feeling of impending doom that haunted them. Virgil felt sleep tugging at him when Logan spoke up again, “We should really do our homework.” Virgil turned his head so as to see Logan better, “Don’t act like you haven’t done it already.” Logan sighed, “Yes, I have. Have you, though?” Virgil smirked. “Yep.” He popped the ‘P’ happily, “We had a sub for my last class and while the rest of the class watched a movie, I did homework.” Virgil was fairly behind the rest of his age group. Neglecting one’s education to work full time to support a plan to take care of your little brother, turns out, does have consequences. Despite this, Virgil was catching up fast and he had one on one meetings with teachers to help him progress. Virgil had always been a good student, when given the opportunity. He had trouble staying motivated, though. His passions drove him to pursue English, writing, art, and subjects that allowed him to express himself and his thoughts behind the safety of a piece of paper or some other material. Math and science, on the other hand, drove him to resentment. He understood that the material was somewhat important but that didn’t change the fact that he had no desire to invest himself in those areas. Logan’s finger dug into Virgil’s cheek. “Are you listening to me?” The brown eyes flashed an amused light from behind the glasses. Virgil blinked a few times, “Uuuuuuhhhhh…I agree completely with whatever it is you just said?” The emo offered a toothy grin. Logan raised an eyebrow, “I asked you a question, Verge.” Virgil’s grin grew slightly wider, “Ah.” Logan rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Okay, first, get off me you weigh a ton!” He shoved at Virgil’s shoulders to emphasize his point. Virgil let himself relax completely for a moment before rolling off the smaller form. Logan grumbled and straightened himself out somewhat. “Secondly, I asked if you were still interested in dying your hair.” Virgil blinked. The dream of having a mop of unnaturally colored hair was one that Virgil had promised himself that he would someday do. However, it was hardly something that he had given much thought to in the past few years. He had been busy pursuing other plans and fantasies. Now, though, he could see some of the old Logan eagerly anticipating his answer. A request for adventure, to be Lolo and Verge once more with no thoughts towards parents, responsibilities, or eyes watching their every move. Virgil smirked and Logan’s whole face lit up. He jumped up and shot a glance at the clock; he estimated they had two hours before dinner would be ready. Plenty of time for them to sneak away, purchase the necessary supplies, and return before either of the Strands would come looking for them. Virgil seemed to read his thoughts because he dragged himself to his feet and disappeared into the room he was staying in. He returned with a wallet and a box of snake cakes, “Ready?” He asked as he slid the window open. Logan nodded eagerly and, together, they climbed out into the dying light. Patton woke to the sound of his phone going off. Blearily, he waved his hand around, searching for the device. He squinted but, without his glasses, it was impossible for him to see the number. Stifling a yawn, he accepted the call. “Hello?” He muttered sleepily, “WHERE ARE THEY YOU…” The rest of the sentence was lost as Patton threw his phone across the room. He blinked in surprise before scrambling to turn on a light and find his device. He clambered about for a few seconds before he finally located it. Luckily, it wasn’t broken. He carefully brought it to his ear once more. “Hello?!” The voice on the other end was a man’s voice and it was, thankfully, much quieter than the original speaker. “Y-yes?” Patton breath shakily, trying to wrap his sleepy mind around what the heck was going on. “Is this Patton Sanders?!” “It is…who is this?” Patton shifted uncomfortably. Who could be calling him at, he glanced at his clock, 11:42 PM? “My name is David Strand, we met when you brought Logan and Virgil Storm to the police.” Patton’s heart sunk, “What happened?” He demanded. His voice sounded small and strange and far away. There was a beat of silence on the other end. “We were hoping you could answer that.”

Notes:

My sister told me that I need to stop ending chapters on cliff hangers...I refused.

Tag list:

@bunny222

#fanfiction #sanders sides fic #Baby Bird Fly Home #thomas sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #My writing

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years ago

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The Leithian Reread - Canto VII (Beren and Finrod at Tol-in-Gaurhoth)

As a starting thought, I’m seeing a similarity between the roles of Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings and Finrod in the Leithian. They’re both kings and the sort of people you would expect as the protagonist of a mythic epic, but they’re both willing to become essentially sidekicks in someone else’s story. Aragorn doesn’t die, of course, but that’s mainly the luck - or Providence - of arriving at the Black Gate just when Frodo reaches Mount Doom, rather than a couple days earlier. (Hm, and when you consider the Palantír, they’ve both also had psychic duels with Sauron, though Aragorn’s goes considerably better. I think Finrod would actially like this; I think, even seven thousand years later, he’d still be invested in the fate and doings of the House of Beör. And hey, via Celebrien [Finrod’s niece, Aragorn’s mother-in-law], they’re related! I expect he’d like that as well.)

Returning to the actual subject of the chapter. The first canto, about the journey north of Beren and Finrod and the Ten, has already sent me on another tangent. They went north via Ivrin (the headwaters of Sirion). That’s approximately where Túrin crosses the mountains into Dor-lómin after the Fall of Nargothrond, so the mountains, while challenging, are passable - and at the moment it’s late summer or early fall. Why not cross the mountains, go through Hithlum and then cross the mountains again to the east, bypassing Tol-in-Gaurhoth’s surveillance entirely? It would have been longer, but safer; a few more months seem like a reasonable price for less chance of capture. There’s even the possibility of reinforcements from the Nolofinwëans. But perhaps Finrod wasn’t confident that Fingon would be particularly on board with this endeavour? Being betrayed by most of the people you know is going to leave a mark.

At any rate, the group do have decent tactics and they do plan ahead. They wait for an orc-band, kill them rapidly, and dress as orcs. Again reminiscent of Frodo and San infiltrating Mordor - no wonder Sam kept thinking of the Leithian! - except that Finrod’s magic gives them a more sophisticated disguise where they actually look like orcs. And Tol-in-Gaurhoth was, not long ago, Tol Sirion, just as Minas Morgul was once Minas Ithil. (FFS, people, destroy your fortifications when you retreat! If most sci-fi and fantasy stories are object lessons in why not to have a self-destruct, Tolkien’s works are object lessons in why to have one.)

And here’s an indication that, while Sauron is called Thû in this version, he’s definitely still intended to be Sauron:

Now in that hill was the abode

of one most evil; and the road

that from Beleriand thither came

he watched with sleepless eyes of flame.

Immediately after that there’s a reference to Sauron’s corruption of the Númenoreans and of many of the men of Middle-earth, so yep, it’s definitely him.

One of my areas of curiosity here is what Sauron’s monster’s actually are:

In glamoury

that necromancer held his hosts

of phantoms and of wandering ghosts

of misbegotten or spell-wronged

monsters that about him thronged

Some of them are doubtless lesser Maiar. But ‘phantoms and wandering ghosts’ sond more like the spirits of elves (and perhaps men), in line with this bit from Laws and Customs of the Eldar, that “some [of the spirits of dead elves that refuse to go to the Halls of Mandos] were enslaved by the Dark Lord...To attempt to master them and to make them servants of one’s own will is wickedness. Such practices are of Morgoth; and the necromancers are of the host of Sauron his servant”, and also that Sauron and his servants were able to possess elves and men, and gain control of their bodies by ejecting or possesing their spirits.

Philosopher at Large, in The Leithian Script, also has the deeply creepy idea that some of Sauron’s werewolves are the spirits of elves who refused the summons of Mandos and accepted Sauron’s offer of being given wolf-bodies rather than remaining houseless. I waver between this idea and the idea of the werewolves being corrupted Maiar of Oromë, once akin to Huan.

For “spell-wronged” monsters, I think of regular animals - bears, wolves, and such - that have been corrupted in the same way that orcs are rumoured to be corrupted elves. These would be less powerful than Maiar or spirits, but still dangerous.

Back to Beren, Finrod, and the Ten! Their disguise doesn’t work, as their deliberate attempts to stay as far from Tol-in-Gaurhoth as possible are uncharacteristic of orcs. An interesting element of their conversation is that they start out by describing what actually happened - “Thirty we slew and theur bodies threw in a dark pit” - just without mentioning that they’re elves and the people they killed were orcs. This could be part of a general elven disinclination to lying, or it could be because it’s easier, when being interrogated by someone with psychic powers, to tell a story that has a seed of truth.

Sauron seems to have already guessed some of what’s going on, as he immediately asks them about Nargothrond, and this is where things fall apart, because our heroes are lamentably terrible at covert ops and feel the need to correct Sauron when he says Celegorm’s running Nargothrond. You’re being interrogated! Providing Sauron with accurate information on your internal politics is not necessary in this situation! If your enemies have bad intel on you, that’s a good thing! (Of course, in this case Sauron’s actually accurate, in terms of the de facto rather than de jure situation.) You just said you hadn’t been near Nagothrond! Of course Sauron immediately jumps on this obvious error, and from that point on it becomes even more clear that he’s just playing with them.

And so we move to the duel of Felagund and Sauron. The end of it, with Sauron’s invocation of the Kinslaying being the turning point, strikes me as very important. I don’t think there are any circumstances in which the exiled Noldor - in the Leithian, in the Fifth Battle, or at any other time - could have succeded at retrieving the Silmarils from Angband. Alqualondë is the original sin of their whole endeavour to regain the jewels - murdering kin and stealing their treasure in the name of avenging murder and the of the Noldor’s own treasure - and all of them who were willing to use the boats are complicit in it, even the Arafinwëans who weren’t part of the fighting. Something fundamental in the universe is not going to reward that choice with success. Instead, it’s Beren and Lúthien - who have no connection to the Silmaril, who don’t seek it in and of itself but only out of love for each other and desire to be together - who succeed. Finrod’s choice to go with Beten is important less in terms of what it achieves than what it means and communicates: that the lives of elves, though far longer than those of men, are not more valuable, and that the death of Barahir’s men to save Finrod’s life does warrant an equal return.

My last note on this chapter is that somehow, even though Sauron can now percieve the elves and Beren as elves and a man, “neither their names nor purpose [he] knew”. Now, Finrod is 1) blond, which is unusual among Noldor; 2) clearly connected with Nargothrond; and 3) just as clearly, extremely powerful. Which should by itself make his identity obvious; even the last two points would be sufficient, as there can’t be an overabundance of elves who can go toe-to-toe with a. aia of Sauron’s power. So either Sauron is being incredibly dense, or there’s something specfically about Finrod’s last spell(“yet not all unavailing were the spells of Felagund”) that not only prevents Sauron from ripping knowledge of their names and goals directly from their minds, but also prevents him from reaching obvious conclusions about their identities unless the spell is broken by outright treason.

In addition to The Leithian Script, Philosopher at Large has written detailed fics in prose on some parts on the Leithian. Terrible Gifts covers the experience of Beren, Finrod and the Ten during their imprisonment in Tol-in-Gaurhoth; it is very good and I highly recommend it if you haven’t read it. The prose is a tad purple to my taste (which is saying something, as I like my prose fairly purple), but it’s also excellent and evocative, and the characters are very well-drawn. Be forewarned that there are fairly graphic descriptions of being eaten by wolves.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #leithian reread #the lay of leithian #beren #finrod #beren and luthien #sauron

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ayearofpike · 6 years ago

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Black Knight (Witch World, Vol. 2)

Simon Pulse, 2014 441 pages, 9 chapters + prologue and epilogue ISBN 978-1-4424-6734-7 LOC: PZ7.P626 Bl 2014 OCLC: 1065025018 Released December 2, 2104 (per B&N)

A month after her connection, Jessie Ralle starts dreaming about a young thief who mysteriously disappears in a flash of light. On the ninth night of the same lucid dream, she herself sees the flash, and wakes up next to the thief and four others in transport to a deserted jungle island. There are no ideas, no instructions, no obvious goals. There’s just a clue, a plaque mounted near their drop-off point that indicates that six groups just like theirs are here, but only one will make it out alive.

In other words: Remember that world-building we had in the first book, where it was implied that Jessie and her baby daughter were going to be integral components to the new and evolving leadership among the witch council? Remember the difficulty and heartbreak of Jimmy only being alive in one half of her life? Remember the potential new bonds of realizing her father was active in her upbringing, and could be again in both worlds? Well, fuck all that — let’s have a Hunger Games.

OK, technically this is more like Battle Royale, and Pike actually makes a reference to it as the young adults acclimate to their surroundings. But it is undeniable the influence that Suzanne Collins had on YA fiction, and certainly YA sci-fi/fantasy/analogues. In the wake of Katniss Everdeen, the market felt like it made a hard shift from doomed supernatural romances to dystopian future societies. It would be irresponsible of Pike to not try to cash in on that.

But this book ... is lacking in this regard. Collins’ success was not just that she made us care about Katniss, but that we cared about the bigger problem endemic to her (and all the other contestants’) situation. And Pike doesn’t give us enough to care about here. We don’t know what the stakes are, beyond survival. We don’t know who these people are, where they come from, or what they have to live for. We don’t even know where they are or why. I’m assuming there was another book or two planned for this series that would eventually get us to the meanings and revelations of this battle and why they were chosen to fight it and what ultimately was to come out of it. But this shit was so unsatisfying and we care so little about anyone or anything here that I can’t imagine we’ll ever see resolution.

(Like, does Pike even care? He claimed when the first one came out that it was going to be his “finest work,” and that the series could go “over ten books.” But it’s been almost five years and we haven’t seen another one of these. He didn’t mention his newer works at ALL in that recent Electric Lit interview. So who knows?)

The biggest problem is that the characters and setting we already know makes such a drastic shift to accommodate this story. And, like, I get it. The model of the industry, especially when this book came out, almost requires that you have established characters and an ongoing storyline before you ever publish anything. But it doesn’t feel connected to what’s come before. At all. It’s a new place we’ve never seen, everyone in the action except Jessie is a new character (and remember there are thirty-five of them), and there is almost zero resolution or explanation for what’s happening. There’s no reason this couldn’t have been literally anybody. Like, this could just as easily have been a Sita book, and maybe it would have actually made more sense, except that there’s no other vampires left. It probably shouldn’t have been a book about Jessie, who has a uniquely important position in witch world in light of the high-profile deaths she’s overseen and her responsibility to the Special. None of what happens in this story fits with anything that’s led up to it, and we are left a) wondering why the hell we’re reading this and b) ultimately unsatisfied.

I don’t even necessarily feel like there’s much to summarize, but I’m gonna do it anyway, because I’m dedicated.

We start with a chapter about the thief — Marc — whose MO is to hide in the trunk of a fancy car he’s valet-parked, wait for the owner to take him home, and then make off with the jewelry she (usually it’s a she) was wearing after she falls asleep. This heist is going to be his last job, because he doesn’t want to risk someone putting together a pattern that these high-profile thefts all came in the wake of the victims having been at his theater. So he steals the lady’s necklace and then her car to safely get out of Dodge, but when he stops to take a leak the light appears.

This is the dream Jessie has for over a week. The rest of the story is told from her immediate perspective, in first-person present tense just like a good little dystopian. She’s wondering about the dream, but she’s more concerned about who she just saw in the mall: the Highlander and President Coroner, just sitting there eating ice cream like they didn’t both get fatal holes in their chests last month. And yes, this is in witch world, where they died. She tails them and discovers they’re staying with (of course) the Alchemist, who tells Jessie there’s a reason for this and she needs to be prepared for ... something big, he isn’t clear on it. The Council has more info, maybe: the bad witches need to replace their leadership, and Jessie is first in line because she facilitated the killing. But what about the fact that she just saw President Coroner? The Council has an answer to that as well: one of the witch genes allows its bearer to control time, and so probably the Alchemist has that and has brought her and the Highlander forward from the past for some reason.

So Jessie goes home and has the dream again, only this time when the light appears she feels as though she’s yanked from her bed. She wakes up in the real world (and yes, I have expressed my hate for these names, but I’m sticking with them for consistency’s sake) in some kind of a shipping container with five other dudes, all of them wearing identical green outfits and matching unbreakable bracelets. And yes, one of them is Marc. The others are a precocious genius who’s going to MIT at 16, a quiet and scared Korean girl, an Israeli military fighter, and a Sudanese farmer who exudes strength and just seems to accept the situation. All of them were snatched at about the same time, globally and not locally — morning for the Americans, evening for Africa and Israel, middle of the night in Korea. But as far as Jessie can tell, she’s the only witch. So what is this about?

They don’t get very far before the next chapter, where Jessie wakes up in witch world and realizes she’s in some deep shit. She spends all day trying to find Marc, but like ... if he’s not connected, how is this going to help? She ends up not doing anything about it, and awakens again in the real world on some kind of volcanic jungle island. They find the aforementioned plaque and immediately realize that they’re going to need to work together and find a place to defend. They also need food, and so Jessie has to start showing her hand when she catches a bunch of fish just by grabbing them out of the water. They find a cave to hide out in, but they also see some fast-moving people in gray outfits, presumably another set of contestants.

The Israeli wants to hunt them down — kill before we get killed, she says — and so everyone except the brain and the Korean go tracking. What they find is a grotesque death scene: five bodies in various states of dismemberment. It’s not the gray people there, though: it’s a giant Swede who has a deal for Jessie. He wants her to kill her humans as a show of faith, and he’ll do the same, and then they can team up against the other witches. Because of course he’s gotten all the information already, having made better use of his interim day in witch world than stalking some boy. Jessie refuses, and they fight, only the Swede has a healing factor that works almost immediately. Luckily some of Jessie’s time-controlling gene kicks in and she manages to run away, but her teammates aren’t so lucky. Another witch shows up and throws motherfucking LAVA at them, killing the Israeli and spearing the Sudanese to a tree.

So her next day in witch world needs to be more productive than the last one. Jessie calls up the Council, who is all pissed off that she didn’t come to them already. To survive, they say, she’s gonna have to go back to the Alchemist, because obviously this is what he wanted to prepare her for. So she shows up and talks to the Highlander, who starts working with her on fighting. Specifically, he forcibly activates her telekinesis power by throwing her off a cliff. So after this she’s gonna want to unwind with her family and enjoy their time together, right? Nope — she goes straight to Marc’s house and tells him the world’s least believable story, ending in the prospect that she might want to try to kill him so his witch powers activate in the other world. But haven’t we already said that killing someone in witch world means they’re totally dead? Technicalities. So she gets home and, oh shit, Jimmy’s mad that she went on a date with some random dude without talking to him at all about her troubles! What a silly boy!

When they wake up in the real world again, the Sudanese warrior is totally healed. Apparently the Korean girl has a super-powered healing factor even though she’s not a witch, tied somehow to the death of her twin sister, who presumably channels the power through her. They’ve also been offered a truce by a couple of other witches, not the ones who tried to kill them last night. So they partner up, but the Korean girl’s healing factor is instantly undone when she tries to fix one of the other dude’s teammates but they die randomly on the walk. (Probably actually secretly strangled by the lava-thrower, who Jessie learned yesterday can also make herself invisible.) They talk about the bracelets, which have some kind of weird stone inside, and one of the other witches says he’s found the source: a giant wall that blocks off half of the island they’re on, which you can only see if you climb to the top of the volcano.

As they’re walking, the gray team attacks ... sort of. These people are short and pale, almost albinos, but they move faster than any human can and Jessie knows they have some kind of group mind that allows them to work together. They surround the group and lure them into a battle with the giant Swede, and while they’re fighting him the invisible lava thrower murders all the humans except five: Marc (who does take a poisoned knife to the back), brain boy, Korean healer, and two dudes on a new witch’s team. Jessie manages to lop off her hand and collect her bracelet before she totally vanishes and gets away. Oh, and the other witch has captured the leader of the albinos, and is holding her hostage to attempt to lure in the rest of them. She doesn’t talk, but her telepathy is unsettling at best.

Jimmy shakes her awake in witch world and tells her to do whatever she has to in order to survive. If that means blowing another dude, whatever. So Jessie calls up the Council, which gives her a little more info on the two witches she’s teamed up with. Watch out for the second one, they say (not the one who’s tied up an albino), because he might have choked his last boyfriend to death and successfully covered it up. She goes back to the Alchemist’s house, where President Coroner pins her down about why their present selves can’t help Jessie train. So she has to limit just what she says about their deaths, and in turn they limit telling her that they traveled to Jessie’s funeral in the near future.

Fuck this training, then, right? Jessie figures the only thing to do is help Marc live, and to do that she’ll have to activate his witch genes. But to convince him to die she’s probably gonna have to give up the booty ... only she can’t do it, she’s too busy thinking of Jimmy for a change in this novel. He wants to go through with it anyway (the death, I mean) but she has second thoughts and isn’t ready to put him through it. So they fall asleep next to each other and wake up in a cave on the side of the volcano, where the other two witches are fighting. It seems the first dude had his teammates on watch, but they mysteriously choked to death in the night while the second dude was backing them up. Huh. But they have to keep moving, climbing to the place where the second dude said he saw the wall, for ... like, reasons.

They find another cave near the top of the volcano, and inside there are drawings showing a woman who looks suspiciously like the Council president touching a bracelet to a giant wall. They have to learn more, but the second witch isn’t eager to reapproach the wall. Brain Boy wants to go, so they agree that Chokey Witch can watch Healing Girl and Slowly Dying Marc while the rest of them investigate. Brain Boy touches the wall and freezes, and even though Jessie knocks him away immediately he senses that a lot more time passed, and he’s seen things that happened in witch world but not the real world. So Jessie wants to try, and when she touches it she’s suddenly playing red queen with the dead gambler from the first book, who reminds her that there’s more to the game than just the next card in her own hand. What? I don’t know.

She comes to on the ground with a lot of screaming going on. The Swede is back, so she and the first witch have to fight him. But he forgets Jessie’s plan and attacks weird, getting stabbed in the gut by one of the flying spears Jessie is controlling with her new telekinesis. Oh, and here’s Invisible Lava Thrower too, about to kill Brain Boy! He acknowledges that there’s nothing he can do and succumbs so Jessie has enough time to grab the Swede’s head and crank it around 360 degrees. Lava Girl vanishes, and Jessie picks up our other witch and carries him back to the cave, which is suddenly being guarded by all six albino dwarves. The other witch says that in this proximity, killing the leader will cause all of them to die because of the group mind, so Jessie sneaks up and lops off her head, and then goes inside the cave by herself.

Sure enough, there’s Lava Girl, holding Chokey at machete-point. Marc is mostly submerged in a freezing stream, and Healing Girl is just, like, there. Chokey fights free, but of course Lava Girl hits him with ... you know, because they’re INSIDE A FUCKING VOLCANO. Only Jessie has realized something: these bracelets with the rock inside that matches the wall control their physical connection to the island. Lava Girl looks sick, pale, and weak since she’s lost hers, and when Jessie casually chucks it into the lava she drops dead.

And now Healing Girl comes to. She wants to try to help revive Marc before it’s too late, and wants to study the poisoned knife. Only she then tries to stab Jessie with it. Turns out that when she was alone with the first witch, the one hiding outside with a spear through his guts, he used his strongest power: mental suggestion. He turned Healing Girl into a slave, designed to kill those who weren’t expecting it. Jessie uses all her mental powers to break the hold, upon which Healing Girl ... jumps right into the motherfucking lava herself.

I don’t know, I guess because we’re getting close to the end.

So Jessie disguises herself as Healing Girl and goes to confront the last witch standing besides herself. Who, surprise, does NOT have a spear through his guts. Apparently he can disguise himself too, in addition to the hypnosis. So he tells her to kill herself with the knife, but she stabs him in the lungs just before dropping her disguise, and then ... slits her wrists.

So Marc can live.

Because only one can survive, and of course it should be some dude we just met rather than the main character of the LAST TWO BOOKS. THE ENTIRE SERIES THUS FAR.

But as Jessie’s soul is floating away, she sees something. She sees herself, only older. Even though I thought once you were connected you stopped aging. And she tells herself that it’s not over, and they can go wherever they want to go ... or whenever, rather.

The epilogue takes place at Jessie’s memorial service (not actually a funeral, because there is no body, Jessie’s just been missing for a month but because Marc is now connected they think they know what happened) where Jimmy approaches Marc and they talk about what they know. In particular, Jimmy asks Marc to watch after his real-world son, who oh yeah there was an unfollowed thread where they got a DNA report that said he wasn’t actually Jimmy’s kid but it was also prepared by Jessie’s still-mostly-absentee father who has an agenda in ascending the ranks of the Council so its authenticity is questionable. But then they talk about Jessie and ... neither one thinks she’s actually dead.

And that.

Is the end of Black Knight.

I can sort of pick out the seeds that Pike is sowing in this story. I can start to sense the coming trails and paths the characters might walk in the supposedly potential ten-book series about witches. But like. You just essentially killed your MAIN CHARACTER. Your NARRATOR. And we don’t actually care about this jewel thief guy, who by all appearances is a BAD PERSON. But you went ahead and put him in the forefront.

Is it any wonder this series fizzled out? Part of why I (and maybe a lot of us) got tired of dystopian fiction is that so many authors felt the need to keep raining shit on their protagonists. And yeah, this is another Hunger Games thing, but there’s a reason there — the dictatorial leadership fighting to keep rebellion down. To be perfectly honest, even though I see that reason, I didn’t like it there either. At some point, I wanted Collins to HELP Katniss rather than repeatedly jamming a boot in her face. We want to trust our authors to care about the protagonist the way we’re supposed to care. So when writers keep making their characters climb uphill, for no reason other than to try to get readers to buy the next one and see how they get over the obstacles, it becomes stale. If they obviously don’t care, why should we?

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