#another point as to why they might not be related: hair implantation is different and general shape of eyes & brows are slightly different

[scalproie]

HELLOOOOOO

[bedbellyandbeyond]

Dinner at the Demers

(Story Post)

“Here we are,” Fay said pulling up the driveway. He parked and smiled to Theo. “Let me get your door.” “I got it,” Theo chuckled, opening his door and getting out himself. As his case worker, Fay had been helping Theo a lot with talking out his feelings around his pregnancy. The merman was more than friendly and Theo always felt comfortable around him, even when it came to very personal things like body dysmorphia or feelings of loneliness. Theo had found that he and Fay had a few things in common, like the fact that they'd both left home to pursue their careers. After just a few sessions with him, Theo liked to consider the merman his friend and was very happy to be invited over to his place for dinner. “Thanks for having me,” Theo said as he followed Fay to the front door. “I don't get out much, especially now.” “It's no problem,” Fay said. “Dari was glad to hear you were coming. He has a habit of taking group members in under his wing. Camilo's like a son to him now.”

“I'm pretty sure I'm older than Dari…” Theo said. “You're the same age actually,” Fay stated. Theo blinked. “He's thirty?!” “Looks can be deceiving,” Fay said. “He looks like he's twenty at most,” Theo stated. “Is he aging backwards?” “It's a little complicated but it isn't my place to explain,” Fay said. “Let's just say his body needs time to catch up.” “Okay, but, like…” Theo rubbed his neck. “I'm gonna have a hard time not thinking about that.” “If you get him in the right mood, Dari will tell you whatever,” Fay assured. “Anyway, we eat a lot of fish in this household, but I understand someone in your condition might prefer something safer so we also have chicken. What do you prefer?” “Oh, fish is fine,” Theo said. “Dr. Aias said there really isn't any diet restrictions for me, so long as I eat healthy for myself. I can smoke and drink if I want. The baby's not going anywhere. I don’t smoke. Haven’t really touched alcohol either… Still feels kinda wrong.” “Fair enough,” Fay unlocked the door and let them inside. “Oh, don't let the cat out.” “Huh?” Theo looked down to try and see if any animals were at his feet but he then realised he couldn't see his feet at all and a second later, a cat dashed out from under him and onto the porch. “Ah, sorry Theo, I wasn't thinking,” Fay said. He managed to catch the feline and pick her up. “This is Slippers. She's very curious and friendly.” Theo offered a hand to sniff and then pet the cat on the head. “She's very cute.” “I got her as a gift for Dari a while back,” Fay said. “He's very protective of her so even though we don't get much traffic out here, she's best as an indoor cat.” “Got it.” “Come meet the kids,” Fay said. “Twins should be down for a nap right now, but otherwise, trouble should be about.” It didn't take long until the first few heads popped out to see them. “Papa!” one child yelled, flinging themselves around Fay's waist. Another just stood there and pointed at Theo. “Baby belly!” Theo flushed red. “Uh, yeah...” “Otter, pointing is rude,” Fay said, pushing his son's hand down. “Apologise to my friend Theo.” “Sorry, my friend Theo,” Otter said, still just staring up at the man. “It's fine,” Theo assured. “Siv, mon poussain,” Fay said to the other boy, sliding a hand between his side and his son to pry him off. “Papa can't move if you're hugging so tight.” “I missed you,” Siv whined. “I missed you too,” Fay said, petting his son's head. “Where's Daddy?” “Green room,” Siv said, pointing to the back of the house. “Greenhouse. And your sisters?” “Um... Ari and Kat with Milo and Zoe with Daddy and the babies sleep.” “And do we remember the babies names?” Fay asked. “Um...” “I do!” Otter said quickly. “I know you do,” Fay said patting Otter's head. “I want Siv to remember. They're a little harder.” “Oh.” Siv racked his brain. “Uh, Anna and...” He looked at Otter who was signing to him. “Isa...belle?” “Annabelle and Isabelle, that's right,” Fay approved. “Next time, no cheating. Get your big brother and let's meet in the greenhouse, okay?” Siv looked at Otter and then grabbed his arm. “Specifics... Both of you get your eldest brother, understood?” Fay rephrased. “Yeah!” Otter said, letting go of his father and taking Siv's arm to go get Milo with him. Fay took Theo outside to the back of the house. Theo was immediately impressed by the spacious yard, with a pool as well as a relatively large greenhouse. Inside, there were rows and rows of vegetables and flowers growing. Dari was found between the leaves, dwarfed by his own six-foot-tall tomato plants. Zoe was toddling about at his feet and grabbing any ripe tomatoes she could get her little hands on. Dari looked upset when he heard Fay and Theo entering. “Zoe, tomatoes in the basket, bunny,” he instructed as he pulled off his gardening gloves. Zoe completely ignored him and just kept grabbing tomatoes, ripe or not and trying to put them in her mouth. “My love,” Fay said, stepping up to his husband and wrapping his arms around him. Dari took his sun hat off and wacked Fay over the arm with it. “You should've reminded me Theo was coming over! I would've started dinner early.” “I told you this morning. What more reminders do you need?” Fay asked. “And that's not a jab, I want you to know.” “...Maybe, an hour before you leave work,” Dari said. “It takes two hours to make dinner?” Fay asked. “It can!” Dari said. “It allows me time to prepare. Now a guest will have to wait with us.” Fay kissed his forehead. “I'll make dinner. You can do your thing. Hang out with Theo.” “Hi, Theo,” Dari finally said, acknowledging his guest. “I'm sorry about this.” “You really have nothing to apologise for,” Theo said. “I don't mind waiting to eat. I had a big lunch.” “Come here,” Dari waved Theo over. Theo obeyed, going over to Dari. “Your garden is amazing. I feel like you never have to get groceries.” “That’s the idea,” Dari said, nodding. He hovered a hand over Theo's stomach. “Can I touch?” “Sure. You're not the first.” Dari placed his hand on the protrusion and rubbed softly. “Aliens, right?” “That's right. Though, they’re not big enough to feel or anything…” “I'll go start dinner,” Fay said, leaving them be. “Were you abducted?” Dari asked. Theo shook his head. “No. Well, not really. Not in the traditional sense. I was...visited in my dreams.” “That's different...” Dari pondered. “Different?” Dari took his hand back and patted his own chest. “I was abducted. I had children for the aliens, each ripped from me the moment they were born. Or even before.” Theo frowned. “I'm so sorry... That's terrible.” Dari shrugged. “I don't really...feel anything from it anymore. It's like a part of my life I won't get back so why should I lend it any feelings?” “I mean, I guess that's good...” Theo considered. Dari suddenly lifted his own shirt, revealing his slightly distended and scarred stomach. “You see this ‘X’ scar? They implanted an artificial womb inside me and a ‘gamete converter’, which basically steals my DNA and turns it into egg cells... In a way, I stole it from them... I was able to make my children with it, so...it's like...not all bad.” “...Why are you telling me all this?” Theo asked. Dari pulled his shirt back down. “I don't do well in groups but when I heard your situation, I knew I had something in common and I feel like everyone needs people they can relate to for support. I want you to know that I'm here and, at least on the non-consensual alien pregnancy level, I understand more than most people will ever understand.” Theo smiled a bit. “Oh. Thank you. I guess you're right.” “If there's ever anything I can help you with, don't hesitate to contact me,” Dari said. “And don't for a second think you have to forgive them for doing this to you. I haven't.” Theo nodded slowly. “...Um, so Fay mentioned you and I are the same age?” Dari tilted his head. “Are you thirty?” Theo nodded. “You just... You look so young.” Dari put his hands on his hips. “Why, cause I'm short?” “No, well, um...” Dari looked away and started meddling with some cucumber. “I was abducted when I was fifteen. This thing inside me synthesised a chemical similar to estrogen so I didn't really have a chance to finish puberty until I got back... I'm on hormone therapy now. I was supposed to be, ever since I got back, but I couldn't really do it while pregnant five times, could I?” “Five times?” Theo asked. “I thought you have eight kids.” “Twins exist, Theo,” Dari said. “Fay carried Otter and Milo was born well before I got back to Earth.” “But, wouldn’t that—” Theo was cut off when a big red beast of a person came bounding outside carrying two little girls with him and with Siv and Otter at his heels. They came inside and the small children immediately dispersed to go look at the plants and pick anything that looked ripe enough to eat off the stem. The giant red man went directly to the adults and loomed over them, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. Theo was shocked beyond belief and froze up immediately. “Milo, my biggest boy!” Dari cooed wrapping his arms around his son's waist. He was two or three heads shorter than Milo and could barely see above his chest. “Milo, this is Theo. He's a friend.” Milo put the girls down and waved to Theo, before signing to his father. “Milo says he really likes your hair,” Dari said. “I think it's because it's a colour he can actually see well. He’s a bit colour blind.” “Oh, um. Tell him thanks for me?” Theo requested. “Tell him yourself. He can hear you, he just can't speak like us,” Dari explained, happily patting Milo's chest. “He's my big growly boy...” “Oh! Okay, thanks Milo,” Theo said, running a hand through his own hair. “I need to dye it again soon though.” Milo nodded, smiling and signed again. “He thinks you look cool with the roots,” Dari said. “It’s almost like Fay and Ari’s hair. You’re like an honorary merperson.” Theo smiled. “Thanks, but I think Fay pulls off two colours much better than I do. It’s not even blended.” Milo signed again to Dari but Dari didn’t translate and just signed back. Milo looked a little upset and then signed again. “Milo wants to compliment you on your pregnancy,” Dari said. “I told him it might not be appropriate but he insisted.” “That's cool. Thanks, Milo,” Theo said, trying to stay calm in front of the seven-foot-tall red man. “How um, how old is he?” “Twelve or thirteen, we think,” Dari said. “Hard to say.” “You don't know?” Theo asked. “Yeah, well... They weren't really handing out Earth calendars aboard the sex trafficking space ship, so I really don't know when he was born,” Dari said. “We use the day that he came home to us as his birthday.” “That's really... That's some crazy stuff that happened to you, Dari,” Theo said. “I'm so sorry.” “Don't be. It was years ago.” “But really, you talk about it so casually. You know, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to.” Dari patted Theo’s shoulder. “It happened. It was terrible. It's left me physically, mentally and emotionally scarred for life. But that's all it is. Scars. I can't do much about it. All you can really try to do with scars is put lotion on them or tattoo over them. I'm tired of doing that, so I just wear them. The nightmares come less and less. My physical scars don't hurt anymore. When I tell my story, I can detach myself from it. I don't let it bother me.” He patted Theo's cheek. “Oh, but if it bothers you, I won't talk about it.” “Oh, no, no. I don't mind,” Theo said. “Thank you for opening up.” Dari sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Of course, you don't have to share either if you don't want to. But I am curious... You weren't abducted, but you also don't strike me as the type of guy who hangs around alien bars. No, wait. You mentioned dreams? How does that work?” “It's kind of embarrassing...” Theo said. Dari lifted his own shirt and patted his stomach. “Looking four months pregnant for the rest of your life is embarrassing.” Theo proceeded to tell Dari everything, how the celestial apparently impregnated him in his dreams and how on the first day, he grew so rapidly. Dari listened intently and when he was done, offered up his sympathy and advice. Theo mentioned Henderson, but only as a friend helping him out. He didn't mention that they'd slept together because he still didn't know what it meant yet. They chatted a little more for a while until it was dinner time and they headed on inside. Theo enjoyed his time at the Demers house. The food was good and there was nothing but energy in the dining room as they ate. Siv took a liking to Theo in particular and spent most of the meal telling him about his favourite frog he found the other day. Fay later expressed to his guest how delighted he was to see Siv opening up so easily with Theo since he was apparently the shiest child. This made Theo feel quite a bit better about having to listen to ‘hop hop hop’ and ‘ribbitty ribbit’ over and over. At the end of the night, Fay drove him home. He welcomed Theo to their house any time and Fay would be happy to drive. Theo thanked him for hosting him and then got himself ready for bed. He was exhausted from just being around so many children at one time and was very glad that he would not be dealing with anything like that for himself any time soon.

[inviouswriting]

Critical Engagement Au - Feel

Warnings: Nothing extreme like the last one. But hints to an assault made on Kivera. This will mostly be women to women pairings. 

I’ll explore some other themes in a few days as I develop this. For now enjoy some development?

Kivera stands to the side of a room, she had fell another behemoth. Her stance was loose after she was certain the creature was dead. This was her third one for the day. She had been fighting all day, being tested all day in her endurance and strength alone. She retains her former valor where she was hardly defeated in battles. 

Such strengths Misija wonders how Kivera even fell to the beasts from the start if she possessed this much power. Perhaps her echo faltered, perhaps she slipped up, or a healer in the same instance did not aid her when she needed it. She heard that the engagement that Kivera was in, everyone had fallen to the behemoth. Unlucky for the rest of them, Misija did not take interest in them as she has Kivera.

The woman approaches Kivera with praise and encouragement. Kivera lowering her head to let her head be petted. She liked the feeling it gave her. Before she was suspended again in her enclosure, to rest and heal from the claws that marred her skin, they would heal soon thanks to powerful elixirs in the air for her. 

They had began to infuse other abilities to her, finding she has a natural inclination for fire, none would be surprised as she was a black mage as well as dancer. 

“Why in the seven hells do you treat her so gentle?” One of the soldiers asks Misija as they walked. Misija looks to them.

“Tell me, how do you keep a coeurl tame after it has grown? It has enough strength to turn on its owner, it can easily run away once it is powerful enough. So how does one keep it from attacking?” Misija looks into one of the other tanks further down from Kivera. An auri, she had a soft spot for this one in her stark white appearance compared to Kivera’s dark. She was bought from the black markets, her scales proving to be highly sought after for the way they shimmer, perhaps other properties could be found once she had matured enough for experimentations. 

“Most keep them fed and content. How does this relate to Kivera?” Misija raises her head.

“Precisely the reason I treat her nicely. Keeping her content. She has enough power to escape at any point. Specially after todays tests with the anti-matter. She can break the neurolinks any time, she has done so in the past when she wanted them off. So what keeps her from doing so? She could run freely in Bozjan, to be another threat to the forces against us.” A quick tap on the enclosure gains the auran girls attention, she merely regards them with a stare before ignoring them. Misija notes the inside is cold.

“Turn the heat up for her.”  This girl was different than Kivera, they had gotten her before Kivera, but with the miqo’te’s untimely collapse in battle they hadn’t gotten around to anything with her. Their attention on the project they were anticipating to be successful.

“Keeping Kivera content is vital for us. As with any creature in this facility. You keep yourself at bay while handing something that can kill you praise, yet keep their safety in mind. It would have been a different story if she had been more docile during the wing implantation. She could have accepted what could have happened. But the fact she fought against unwanted touch to the extent everyone in that room died. She needs one face and pair of hands she doesn’t find offensive in this whole place.”

“You in other words.” They turn to head back to Kivera’s enclosure, after seeing the auri relax more once heat was being poured into the enclosure. They had given this one more things to be comfortable, with a bed to lay on and things to entertain herself with. Easier to interact with compared to the other one. Stark contrasts. 

Misija approaches Kivera in her sphere where she had been suspended towards the top. Kivera uses her feet to propel herself down behind the roegadyn first then rounding around to her front, Misija offering an arm for her to hold onto. Kivera barely holds onto her, keeping in place.

“You came back early.” Kivera regards her with a simple stare, wider green eyes, Misija notes her in a good mood. She removes the neurolink off of her.

“I was visiting another. You are on the same floor, I had to visit you too, before I head off for a while. The results of your tests came back. You’re almost ready for deployment.” Misija knows not to lie to her, she can pick them out.  It amazed her the first time she caught her in a lie. So she made a mental note to never lie to her.

“Another? Who?” Kivera feels Misija run a hand through her hair ending on an ear. She tilts her head to the hand, allowing her to pet the soft fur on the ear. Misija had removed her gloves for this.

“You might be able to meet her. If you keep improving. For now, not important. No lasting effects from the behemoth venom?” Misija checks, she recalls her getting bit and clawed good on the one they paired her to fight against.

“None, one of the scientists gave me an antidote.” The soft glow of yellow eyes regard her, the aura around them seemed to shift to a mild purple hue, Misija understands this as her feeling very content in her presence. Her manipulation over energy is what they were so enthralled in pitting her against stronger monsters. Kivera is able to manipulate the very aether in the air at her will.

All the more to keep her content. Misija lets Kivera hover in front of her, she looks her over, for scarring, for anything that would need to be fixed. She inspects her waist, and Kivera moves closer. Letting Misija check the “tail” the chain had kinked together.

“We will replace this with a better one soon.  Even have one similar to your old one you lost.” Misija muses aloud, she had been jabbed with the metal point alot when Kivera thrashed it at her when she lies.

“Old one?” Kivera’s memories had slipped from how long she has spent in their confinement. Barely remembers her former life as an adventurer.

“You had a softer tail once. Like a Chimera’s lion tail.” Misija explains. She kneels down and lets Kivera sit down in front of her. She hardly even believes she was at war with this woman. How compliant she has become to their side. She hopes she can get her to remember the echo and help her own cause for unlocking more secrets. 

Misija had drifted in her thoughts to the extent she barely realizes Kivera had moved closer, till her face was right before hers. There was something unnerving about her eyes, when Misija realized her own eyes were being stared into, like her very soul was being looked at.

“Why so close?” Misija leans back seeing how she is hovering.

“You were staring at me.” She had been staring at her, her mind drifted to another thought. Misija had grown to like her alot more now, than when she was her former warrior of light self. She retained her wild self, she can see that well in how she half drapes herself onto her.

“What manner are you doing here? I haven’t seen you like this before.” Kivera ignores her for a moment as she focuses on pressing an ear to her chest. Listening to her heart beating. She flicks an ear and her tail.

“Curious.” Kivera finally answers. 

“Curious of what?” Misija rests a hand on top of the dark hair to tilt her head back away from her heart.

“Feeling is different.” Kivera moves away in favor of sitting across from Misija again. Knees tucked underneath herself. It is here Misija notices the fidgeting, very brief she sees her eyes dim to a purple color. The roe gets up after a few more notices of the fidgeting. Kivera moving to stand, with a sigh as she expects the neurolink to be placed again. Misija waves her hand.

“No neurolink today. You’ve been behaving, if you go without giving my staff trouble. I’ll let you keep it off for a few days.” Misija sees her eyes light up in regard to this. She had to check something about her, 

“I’ll return soon. With a meal like I always do.” Misija raises an arm for her, and Kivera takes it, she brings her alot closer and under a short show of affection brushes the side of her face to Kivera’s. She feels it returned, a simple touch, yet she feels Kivera push herself to her entire being.

Kivera soon lets go to return to the top of the enclosure, curling into a spot she likes. Misija after she leaves her and takes one of the staff members with her.

“When was the last cycle she had? I thought we had removed the ovaries” The woman looks up at her.

“We did remove them, but the last cycle she would have had, was before that. It is still possible for one even after. But she won’t be able to have children if you mean that. She was an adult miqo’te before she came here.” Misija sighs as this could delay a day of tests.

“What can be done to relieve her?” She glances back to the enclosure that houses Kivera.

“We either ride it out, or you could assist her. She’s less likely to maim you. She is repulsed by men, per the wing incident. So I don’t think we can toss a random male to her.” There is a silence in the air.

“Fine, I’ll take care of her. The cages can be blacked out?” There is a nod. Misija walks off to go attend other things.

“I’ll return in a while, make sure the wing is clear around her meal time.” 

“You intend to do that tonight?! What about the other projects?”

“They clearly are less important than the bigger matter in that sphere. Best to take care of her now. As you said, she will most likely kill anything that offends her by touch. So again, make sure no one else is around for it.” The tone came off for an order. She did wonder how receptive she would be to it.

[silvokrent]

Slings and Arrows

Some wrongs cannot be righted. It’s a lesson Pietro learns a lifetime too late.

[The rise and fall of Dr. Arthur Watts, M.D., PhD.]

“Phase-II trial of Auratic synthesis, test number—” The rustle of papers was followed by a sigh. “—test number sixty-four. Initiating.”

The monitor on his desk whirred to life. Pietro watched the numbers on the holographic screen climb as the program ran the simulation. Thirty seconds without anomalies. A minute. He knew better than to get his hopes up, but the longer the systems operated without rejection, the harder it was to suppress the mutinous optimism at the back of his head. Maybe, this time, he’d finally found the right—

The monitor let out a dejected-sounding beep, and the screen flashed.

Insufficient variables. Analysis results too unstable for implantation.

Only when he slumped back in his seat did Pietro realize how tightly he’d been gripping the arms of the chair. He tapped at his scroll and activated the audio function.

“Test number sixty-four was unsuccessful. The simulated Aura was deemed too structurally unstable to survive grafting to a biotechnic lattice. Recommend recalibrating the values for ω, λ, and ρ to increase viability. Describe what mistakes were made.” Pietro contemplated the scroll in his hand, before lifting it to his face and smacking it into his forehead. Repeatedly. “My mistake was deciding to pursue a degree in bioengineering, followed by the even bigger mistake of my alma mater handing me a diploma. All other setbacks are incidental. End recording.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Pietro called up the diagram from earlier. The hologram cast his office in various shades of blue light that, while it had a calming effect on him, unveiled the minefield of loose papers, folders, and post-it notes that had become his workspace.

For a moment, he considered setting aside a day in his schedule to reorganize his desk. Only when he couldn’t find his calendar did he remember why it had gotten so bad in the first place.

His calendar was buried somewhere underneath.

Brokenly, Pietro stared at the untamed bed of chaos before him. On one hand, he needed to clean his desk. On the other hand, incineration was faster, and the chemistry lab had a blowtorch.

“You look desperately in need of this,” said a voice from behind.

The unexpected drawl startled Pietro out of his thoughts. He swiveled around in his chair to the sight of Arthur Watts leaning against the doorframe, a steaming mug in each hand. Judging by the amused smirk, he’d been there for some time.

“Arthur!” Pietro minimized the program with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

His friend stepped inside and carefully kicked the door shut with his heel. He strode across the room and reclined into the vacant chair opposite of him, ankle propped on his knee. He held out the second mug. “Kuo Kuana roast. Extra cream, and enough sugar to give you every cardiovascular disease known to man.”

Pietro accepted the offered drink, and for a moment simply held it to his face. The aromatic scent was blue water and white sand, and it never failed to make him nostalgic for the coast. He let out a long, quiet exhale that took some of the tension from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said, “but how did you—?”

“I saw the lights on under the door and took an educated guess,” Watts said. He took a draught from his own mug before continuing: “The janitors left at the end of the day, and no one else is unhinged enough to stay after hours.”

Pietro arched a brow. “Apart from you?”

Watts snorted. “I had a meeting that I couldn’t reschedule.”

“At ten o’clock at night?”

“I made the mistake of postponing one too many times. They couldn’t be dissuaded.”

They lapsed into companionable silence. Pietro indulged in his coffee while Watts picked up a folder and flipped through it at random.

The company was a welcome respite, and not just because it came bearing gifts.

Their office arrangement had started off rather unextraordinarily, all things considered. Handing off paperwork, returning a piece of equipment, passing along department memos—the sort of banal normalcy one would expect between colleagues. Pietro hadn’t begrudged the unexpected interruptions from Watts (quite the opposite, in fact), and Watts never protested when Pietro ventured into his space long enough to drop something off.

Only a few months after becoming acquainted did Pietro notice the shift in their interactions. It had been subtle at first: an animated conversation during a faculty meeting that led to Pietro following Watts back to his office to continue the topic. A request from Watts for a second opinion on a patient chart, which led to Watts loitering in Pietro’s office long after he’d humored him. A day where Watts had cleared his schedule to allow Pietro to vent about his latest experiment following an incident in the labs.

It hadn’t taken long for the intrusions to devolve from legitimate reasons to half-contrived pretenses. The reed that broke the Dromedon’s back had been a memorable afternoon where Pietro’s office door swung open, and Watts—bag strap slung around one arm, a stack of documents tucked under the other—announced that he needed somewhere to hide from his interns, and no one would think to look for him here.

There were, admittedly, more unconventional ways to start a friendship, though Pietro hardly minded. Especially not after Watts had treated him to dinner as an apology for the inconvenience.

It was an aspect of their relationship Pietro was both fond of and deeply appreciated, though he was tactful enough to not comment on it aloud. Watts wasn’t exactly the sentimental type. (Though the steaming mug in his hand begged to differ.)

He watched as the other man returned the folder to its original spot in exchange for a file.

“No luck, I take it?” The question was as much rhetorical as it was a tacit invitation to brainstorm. Pietro gladly accepted.

“I had a thought after yesterday’s meeting: ‘What if it’s quantitative rather than permutational? Maybe we only need to adjust the inputs rather than the sequence.’” He shot a rueful glance at the monitor. “You can imagine how that went. It feels like the answer’s staring right at me and I’m too stupid to see it.”

“If you were stupid”—Watts turned the page, not bothering to look up—“we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.” He took another sip from his mug. “Sleep-deprived, on the other hand…”

“Can you blame me?” Pietro asked.

This time, Watts did look up.

“We’ve been at this for six months and have nothing to show for it. We’re running out of time.”

Watts set the file down. “James never stipulated a deadline,” he murmured.

“No,” Pietro agreed, “but he’s not the only person we have to justify ourselves to.”

“If this is about the lien, I wouldn’t fret. As long as our funding comes from the military, they’re not going to pull the plug.”

Pietro frowned at the drink in his hands, at the contemplative reflection that mirrored his own. “James may have greenlit the project, but that doesn’t change the fact that the military budget comes from tax revenue. The other councilors get a say in how that money is allocated. And if they think our research is a waste of public resources…”

An uneasy quiet fell between them, and it was telling that Watts didn’t immediately refute him or attempt to assuage his concerns.

For lack of anything constructive to say, Pietro sighed. “For thousands of years we consumed willow bark as an analgesic. When people learned that salicin was the culprit, a chemist learned how to make it from scratch. Pharmacies around the world now manufacture and distribute that medication to millions of people.” He leaned back into his seat. “How is it that we figured out how to make an artificial compound, but we can’t figure out how to make an artificial Aura?”

“Well—” Watts motioned with his drink in a vague sort of gesture. “That might have something to do with acetylsalicylic acid being a synthetic chemical, and Aura being the manifestation of the soul. They’re not exactly analogous.” He stroked his chin. “It would also be remiss of me not to point out that up until a few centuries ago, pneumatophysicists were regularly executed for heresy. It’s not as if we have the breakthroughs of our predecessors to build upon.”

A weak, self-deprecating laugh escaped him. Reflexively, Pietro combed through his hair.

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” Frustrating might have been putting it charitably. Pietro still had half a mind to fetch that blowtorch.

A knowing look crept across his handsome features, though Watts deigned only to shrug in response. Obstacles and setbacks were held in a similar estimation to success; they seldom bothered him. Nonetheless, he offered, perhaps by way of consolation, “Nothing worth doing is ever easy.”

“I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for possible,” said Pietro, “and right now, we’ve hit a dead end.”

The holographic diagram from earlier rematerialized over his desk—a simulated Aura field superimposed atop the three-dimensional render of an android. He parsed through the accompanying schematics with a wave of his hand, calling forth and highlighting relevant segments of data.

“We know that Aura is related to the sum product of a person’s neurological pathways, because it’s the same system responsible for generating consciousness.” Pietro activated the synaptic filter. A branching web of neurons lit up the hologram in tandem with the Aura field. “Here’s the problem. Functionally and behaviorally they’re similar, so you’d think replicating one system would mean the simultaneous generation of the other, right? But it doesn’t work like that.” His brow furrowed. “Not only is Aura’s reliance on this system facultative, but it verges on metaphysical. It means that we’re missing something. You can break down the physiology of the CNS and PNS into all the various electrochemical signals, but the second you try to do the same thing with Aura—”

He dismissed the hologram with a flick of his wrist, and slumped in his chair.

“I’m starting to think James picked the wrong proposal,” he quietly admitted. “At least yours didn’t hinge on reconciling a decades-long conflict between pneumatophysical models and—”

“Self-pity doesn’t become you.”

The brusque statement startled Pietro out of his rambling. It only took a second of being subjected to Watts’ flat, unimpressed stare before Pietro ducked his head.

Watts snorted under his breath. “For better or worse, the general picked your proposal. You have an obligation to not fail, so I suggest you pull yourself together.”

Embarrassment quickly faded to mild annoyance. “You’re as sobering as a cold shower. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Watts’ expression softened. “Sometimes a little cold helps to clear the head.” There was thoughtful pause before he unhooked his ankle and leaned forward, elbows braced against his legs. “You know,” he began, “success isn’t always contingent on understanding.”

Coming from the man who actively condemned ignorance, that surprised him. Pietro stilled with the mug halfway to his lips. “True,” he conceded, lowering the coffee back to his lap. “But I don’t think we’re in a position to trip over the answer like it’s a sleeping cat.”

Another pause followed, longer than the one that preceded it.

“What if we had a way to circumvent it?”

“What do you mean?”

With a soft thunk Watts set his mug on the desk. “Your proposal requires grafting an Aura onto a mechanical vessel. It never specified where that Aura came from,” he said. “Whether it was artificially created…or acquired from somewhere else.”

He laced his fingers together.

“Someone else, perhaps.”

He’d been told more than once that he had a terrible poker face. Clearly that hadn’t changed, if the way Watts pursed his lips was anything to go by.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m not suggesting we go abduct people and harvest their organs in a back alley.” He rolled his eyes. “I would hope you’d have a somewhat higher opinion of me.”

“You have a way with words, Arthur. A questionable and slightly terrifying way with them.” Pietro fidgeted with his tie. “Let’s, for the moment, ignore all of the potential obstacles involved. Like receiving an extension on our funding to cover any unanticipated costs. Or getting approval from the Atlesian Ethics Committee to perform an unregulated and untested surgery on a patient. Or even finding a candidate who would willingly consent to such a procedure. Even if we hypothetically resolved all of those issues, we’d still be left with a problem.”

“Only the one?” asked Watts. He arched a slender brow. “Very well, I’ll bite. Enlighten me.”

Another frown tugged at his lips. “Even if we found a way to perform such a surgery, removing even a fraction could be fatal. You can’t survive without Aura.”

“That’s not, strictly speaking, true.” The mug had made its way back into his hand. Watts idly traced the rim with a finger. “I’ve treated patients with Chronic Aura Degradation before. It’s not uncommon to see cases where up to 45% of the Aura was eroded. And in every one of those cases, the patient survived with weekly EMF-DS therapy.”

Pietro shook his head. “You, better than anyone, know that ‘survived’ isn’t the same thing as ‘cured.’”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “Forgive me if I insinuated otherwise. I only meant that regular treatments resulted in a negligible impact on their quality of life.”

“I’m not denying that.” Only when Watts stilled his hand, and began circling the rim in the opposite direction, did Pietro realize he was staring. He snapped his head up and cleared his throat. “But that’s an archotheronotic disease. You’re talking about using Auratic intercision to create a manmade version of CAD. There’s no telling what that would do to the donor, or if the amount of Aura donated would even be enough to sustain an entirely new person.”

Watts conceded with a sigh. “It’s just a thought.”

It wasn’t the most outlandish thing Pietro had heard—the staff breakroom regularly churned out weirder ideas on a weekly basis, and gods knew he’d contributed to quite a few of those himself.

Still…

“I’m not opposed to alternatives,” he replied at last, “but I can’t imagine anyone condoning a surgery that mimics a Grimm-based illness. The controversy alone would be a nightmare.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.”

Watts made a noncommittal noise as he stood.

“Scientific progress has always been controversial. What matters is how we deal with it.” He lightly clapped a hand on Pietro’s shoulder. The residual warmth from the mug lingered; it was oddly soothing. “Do me a favor, and try to get some rest?” He smirked, and the hand retreated. “Sleep on my suggestion. See if you’re not better disposed to it in the morning.”

Pietro sipped at his coffee, eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’ll pass on the sleep for now.” He motioned with the cup. “Keep these coming though and you might just persuade me.”

Watts let out a low chuckle. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned on his heel for the door, tossing a parting glance over his shoulder. “Good night, Pietro.”

Pietro smiled into his drink. “Good night, Arthur.”

“—has to be something we haven’t thought of yet.”

“We could give the pneumatograph another go. Run the Dust vortex generator with different configurations.”

“And waste more Dust in the process. Repeating the same tests isn’t going to get us any closer to generating an Aura.”

“Okay. Well, what about Grimm exposure trials? We could map out field fluctuations and look for any biopenumatic discrepancies.”

“After what happened last time? We’d be lucky if the Grimmoire loaned us a bloody paperclip, let alone a Boarbatusk. Try again.”

Will pulled a face as he crossed out a line on the clipboard, before tossing the pen back to Watts. He cast the cages lining the wall a glum look. “I guess we could go back to rodent models,” he said.

The mice Pietro was feeding began to squeakily protest. He lapsed into momentary silence before agreeing, though not without some reluctance. “It couldn’t hurt.” Not in the technical sense, anyway. But if the thought of their work regressing back to animal trials didn’t sting a little. Given the dwindling list of alternatives, however, he wasn’t about to object.

One of the mice nosed at his hand, and Pietro obligingly scratched it between the ears. “I’ll fill out the requisition forms. It shouldn’t take more than a day to get the approval.”

“As long as the technicians remember to give us an Aura-active batch,” Will added. “Last time they forgot.”

Their conversation petered out, replaced by the high-pitched din of the mice and the clink of the pellets in their food bowls. Pietro sealed the latch on the enclosure and placed the dispenser on the nearby counter, thinking.

“Even in a worst-case scenario, if the rodent models end up not working out, we could always repurpose our findings for later studies. Once the Penny Project is over”—though whether or not they succeeded, he chose not to theorize on—“if we can get the grant money for it, well, who knows? Apothymetics is relatively uncharted territory, and it’d be a shame to see all those mice go to waste…”

Watts slowly lowered the chart in his hands, and pinned him with the full intensity of his stare. “You want to run tests…on the mice…to see if you can unlock their Semblances,” he said. He broke apart his sentence as if he were running it through a translator.

Pietro shrugged. “It’s theoretically possible. If an animal can unlock an Aura, by extension it should be able to acquire a Semblance. Haven’t you ever wondered what that would look like?”

Sometimes, he liked asking questions because it was fun to speculate on the possibilities of the hypothetical. Sometimes, he liked asking questions because it was fun to see what sort of face his friend would make. Watts had yet to disappoint.

He watched with delight as Watts squinted his eyes, as if the mere idea were an affront to common decency. “No,” he said, “I haven’t wondered what that would look like. Perhaps my imagination isn’t as vivid as yours, but I’d rather not contemplate the horror of a 700-kilogram polar bear learning how to run at Mach 1, let alone a lab rat.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Arthur,” Will chimed in, in a voice far too casual to be anything but. “Think of all the possibilities. Telekinetic service dogs. Self-cloning chickens.”

“We could solve world hunger,” Pietro said. This time he was unable to suppress a grin.

It took a second for Watts to register the look on his face; his expression evened out, and he let out a loud sigh. “Stop enabling him, Will. He doesn’t need a co-conspirator.”

“I thought you were my co-conspirator,” said Pietro, feigning a look of wounded betrayal.

“No. I’m your impulse control. And I seem to doing a rather poor job as of late.” Watts jotted something on the chart in his hands, his brow momentarily furrowed in concentration. “Those mice are supposed to be euthanized anyway. I doubt they’d let you repurpose them for another project, even if you pitched it as a financial incentive.”

Pietro considered. “I can be persuasive.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

Will set the clipboard next to the dispenser and leaned back, his amusement tempered with intrigue. “I know you were kidding—mostly—but eventually, someone else is going to ask the same question, and they won’t be. Sooner or later, it’s going to be proven or disproven.”

“With any luck, they’ll disprove it,” Watts replied. “It’s already bad enough when people unlock their Semblances.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure Huntsmen need those.”

“Huntsmen, certainly. Their line of work requires it.” Watts glanced up from the chart. “The average person, on the other hand, would frankly be better off without.”

“Come off it, Arthur. I know we’re supposed be scientists and demystifying this stuff, but…” Will shrugged. “You can’t deny that it’s a little exciting for someone to try and imagine what their Semblance might be.”

“Oh, no, you’re absolutely right. It’s very exciting when someone with no training accidentally unlocks their Semblance, only to discover they now wield the power of fire, and proceed to give themselves a second-degree burn.” He clicked the pen, and pocketed it in the folds of his lab coat. “That was last Tuesday, by the way.”

Will crossed his arms. “I take it you wouldn’t want to find out what yours is?”

“If I was going to do something that permanent and that irrationally stupid, I’d get a tattoo on my left—”

A scroll dinged. Will jumped like a tasered cat, and fished through his pockets until he found it. “It’s Meg.” The sudden tension eased from his shoulders as his eyes darted over the screen. “She just wanted to let me know how the appointment went.”

Pietro’s eyes lit up. “How is she?”

“Good. She’s due in another nine weeks.” Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from his scroll. “Since I need to call her, now seems like as good a time as any to take a lunch break.” He started for the door. “I’m heading to the cafeteria. Do either of you want anything?”

“Pastrami on rye. Toasted,” Watts called after him.

“If they have any tuna salad left, I wouldn’t say no,” Pietro added.

Will gave a parting wave as he slipped out the door, the scroll already held to his face.

There was a brief silence, filled by the squeaks of tiny mice.

“So.” Pietro side-eyed the other man. “Where did you say you were putting that tattoo?”

Watts swatted him with the chart.

With nothing else to distract them for the time being, Pietro dug out his scroll and consulted his schedule.

“Busy this afternoon?” Watts prompted.

“Nothing too exciting. The hospital wants me to review some patient files and see if I’d be willing to consult on them. And around three I’ve got an appointment with a new client needing cybernetic optimal implants. The insurance company approved her for a fully-integrated interface, similar to the model James has.”

“Which reminds me…” Watts turned his attention to his own scroll. “I need to notify him about his follow-up. His prostheses are due for inspection.”

“Good luck getting him out of his office.” At his inquiring look, Pietro elaborated: “The Vytal Festival’s next month. He’s been busy overseeing the travel arrangements for his students.”

“Damn it. I forgot that was coming up.” Watts pinched the bridge of his nose, before skimming back over his calendar. “Well, at least I’ll have one appointment today that won’t be akin to pulling teeth.”

“Oh?”

“A new client by the name of Rainart. It seems he needs treatment for acute Dust poisoning.”

“Collier?”

“He didn’t say.”

Pietro tagged a file on his scroll and dismissed it from the queue. “We’ll need to meet with the rest of the team and make sure our schedules are coordinated,” he stated. “I think tomorrow would—”

“Hold on.” He hadn’t realized Watts was reading over his shoulder, and didn’t register the proximity until he felt a puff of air on the side of his neck. The sudden presence startled him. “Go back to the last tab.”

He shot him a puzzled look, but obliged him all the same. “This one?” He tapped the screen and enlarged it.

“Why did you pass on this case?” asked Watts.

Pietro peered at the text. “‘Name: Mia Atelier. Age: 19. Patient is in a hypothermia-induced coma and has been unresponsive to all attempts to resuscitate.’” He frowned. “There’s nothing I can do that the hospital staff haven’t already tried, I’m afraid.”

Watts took a step back, his eyes narrowed. After a moment he returned to his scroll. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Phase-II trial of Auratic synthesis, test number seventy-one. Initiating.”

The monitor gave a powerful thrum as the simulation booted up. Other than the pneumatic hiss of the internal fans, their silence was uninterrupted. A hand reassuringly squeezed his shoulder, though Pietro didn’t bother to find out whose it was. He didn’t dare look away.

As quickly as it began, the program aborted. An all-too familiar error message flashed counterpoint to the readouts on the screen.

The team let out a collective sigh.

Pietro willed himself through the motion of activating the audio function on his scroll.

“Test number seventy-one was unsuccessful. The recalibrations based on the gravid murine analysis didn’t provide the missing variable for the Aura simulation. It’s possible that the in-utero pneumatographic scans failed to identify the unknown factors necessary for generating and implanting an Aura. Recommendations for subsequent tests are…” It dawned on him midway through that he didn’t know where to go next. “…The team will reconvene to discuss further options. End recording,” he finished.

For lack of anything better to do, Pietro buried his face in his hand. Around him the voices of his colleagues stirred, their chatter sounding strangely far away.

“I really thought we had it that time.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. We modeled it after a gestating animal. What the hell could we have possibly missed?”

“Maybe the issue is what we’re modeling. What if we replicated the scans on a more complex organism?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure the guys in obstetrics would love that. ‘Can we borrow one of your patients for nine months? We just want to run some non-invasive tests.’”

“Hey, Will, how do you feel about offering up your firstborn child in the name of science?”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do?”

“I suggest we go down to the pub on Baker Street and put our funding to good use.”

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to do that after you succeed, not before.”

“What about you, Arthur? You’re being unusually quiet.”

Pietro peered up from between his fingers to where Watts stood, inspecting the hologram of the simulated Aura field. Light from the projection struck the side of his face, carving out the angles in shadows.

“I think,” he said, “we should consider alternatives.”

It wasn’t an opinion shared by the majority of the faculty, but Pietro liked the distance between the buildings.

Admittedly, there were drawbacks to the layout. For example, when back-to-back classes were scheduled on opposite sides of the campus, it was fairly common to see students and professors alike sprinting between lecture halls.

Personally, Pietro enjoyed the sweeping courtyards. The altitude of the city meant a steady supply of brisk air, along with an unobstructed view of the stars that no amount of light pollution could diminish. If nothing else, the long walk between buildings gave him a chance to declutter his thoughts after hours spent cooped up in his office. Given the excuse, he gladly jumped at any opportunity to walk the grounds.

Not that he really needed the excuse, he mused, as he approached Watts’ office.

Pietro went to knock, only to be stilled by a snippet of conversation that filtered through the door.

“—understand your concerns. Rest assured, the surgical theater is still reserved for then. I spoke with the administrator at the medical center this morning, and received confirmation for the private transport. Everything else has been taken care of.”

Pietro was careful not to cause too much of a disturbance as he slipped into the chair across from him. Watts greeted him with a nod, before turning his attention back to the call.

“Certainly. We can discuss your daughter’s treatment plan afterward. I’d rather not burden you with undue stress in the meanwhile. If you have any other questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

He set aside the scroll on his desk. “You’re here earlier than usual,” he noted. “Either something went extremely well, or horribly wrong. Which was it?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” The joints in his shoulder popped as Pietro stretched. “Remember those parts I ordered? The shipment was delayed another week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I presume there’s a silver lining?”

“Well,” he said, “the original plan was to spend the next three days working on the rotary cannon for the Colossus prototype. But seeing as that’s no longer possible…” He leaned forward, hands clapped on his knees. “I know you’re not usually a fan of ‘that hideous blood sport,’ but the doubles rounds start tonight and the matches have been pretty good so far. Everyone’s getting together later in the staff breakroom to watch. The betting pool this year is pretty sizable, too.” He offered a sheepish grin. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

Watts smirked. “Of course not.”

“But—if you’re still opposed to watching the Tournament—” Pietro shrugged. “My weekend’s free. We could make plans to do something. If you’re interested.”

Watts inclined his head, green eyes half-lidded in thought. After a pause he averted his gaze to his hands, neatly folding them atop one another. “As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, I have a flight this evening. I’ll be out of the capital for a day or two.”

That caught him off-guard. “You didn’t tell me you were heading down to Mantle.”

“That’s because I’m not. I’m heading to Argus.”

“You’re leaving the country?”

“Hardly. With how much the city relies on trade with Atlas, it might as well be part of the kingdom.” He dismissively waved his hand. “But, yes. I’m overseeing a procedure there.”

It took Pietro a moment to conceal his disappointment behind a consolatory smile. “Well, what can you do.” He scoured his brain for any recent mention of traveling during the last few conversations, and surprisingly drew a blank. “I’m guessing this was last-second on your part. A new patient, I take it?”

“Something to that effect.”

“Well”—Pietro hopped to his feet—“if you’ve got an airship to catch then I won’t hold you up. I’m sure you want to get out of here and pack.” He quirked a brow. “Just so you know, I’ll be very upset if you don’t bring me back a souvenir.”

Watts rolled his eyes. “I’ll stop at the hospital gift shop on my way out,” he drawled, without a hint of sincerity.

Pietro laughed. “I’ll hold you to it.”

He made it as far as the threshold when a voice called him back: “Pietro.”

Watts was shuffling a stack of papers on his desk—a pointless gesture, with how meticulous his workspace already was. He spoke without meeting his gaze: “When I return, I’d like to discuss some ideas I had for your project. I might have found a solution.”

His pulse quickened. “Are you—are you sure?” Pietro asked.

The rearranged stack was pushed off to the side. “I will be after tomorrow.”

When he got the news a week later, Pietro stared out his office window, and didn’t move for a long time.

“That girl’s blood is on your hands.”

“Don’t you dare say I took a choice away from her.”

Pietro hesitated outside the imposing metal doors. Announcing his presence would have been the right thing to do—something he should have done ten minutes ago—but a sense of dread, morbid curiosity, and some other nameless instinct stayed the impulse. Instead he leaned closer, only just able to discern the pair of muffled voices on the other side.

“She was dying. What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for the hospital board to convene and debate the ethics? They would have wasted precious seconds wringing their hands and fretting over indemnification, while I had a chance to save her life.”

James’ voice was taut with the tension of a fraying rope. “And you failed.”

“People die from surgical complications every day,” Watts snapped. “We can’t save everyone. But we can try, and I did. She may be dead, but the contributions her death made have advanced our understanding of—”

“‘Contributions’? Do you hear yourself?”

Pietro nearly forgot to breathe in the deafening silence.

“You didn’t do this out of some misguided altruism,” James said. “You did it to satisfy your own curiosity.”

“I did it because she was running out of time and options. A transfer of consciousness by incising her Aura and siphoning it into a receptive vessel was the only way to ensure her survival. What other options were there?”

“Hospice.” The word was ground out through clenched teeth.

“If you’re waiting for me to grovel to you for clemency,” said Watts, “then you’ll be waiting for some time. I did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, really? Is that you why you had your patient shipped to a hospital in another kingdom so you could perform an illegal surgery?”

Pietro flinched.

“As I’ve explained to you numerous times, the procedure is illegal under Atlesian law. Mistral, on the other hand, has no such qualms when it comes to the implementation of pioneering medical research.”

“Hiding behind a loophole doesn’t change the fact that you manipulated her emotionally-compromised parents!” A fist slammed against the desk. “You knew they were desperate, and you knew they would say yes if there was even the slightest chance they could get their daughter back. Their consent was based solely on the premise that your theoretical procedure might work.”

“It’s not theoretical anymore.” The words saturated the air, like the ozone that preceded lightning. “I proved that it can be done. My efforts, while unsuccessful, weren’t a failure. We can take what I learned from her death and repurpose it—”

“That’s enough.”

Pietro recoiled from the shout. Then he realized what he’d done, and quickly repositioned himself next to the door.

“Did you know…” Shoes scuffed over the tiled floor, across the sunken dais. “During the height of the Great War, Mantle oversaw the detainment of captured soldiers. In time, their wardens saw little benefit in expending resources on them if there wasn’t some use for all of those people.” The pacing stopped. “Eventually, Mantle did find a use for them. They were experimented on. When the war came to a close, hundreds of people had perished. The textbooks never fail to recount that.”

Watts took a steadying breath. “What they often conveniently omit is that many of the technologies we have today were born from those experiments. Analgesics, psychotropic drugs, new surgical tools…and neuroprostheses.”

A pause.

“The metal grafted to your body exists because prisoners of war bled for it. You can’t ridicule my work and absolve yourself of hypocrisy.”

When James’ reply came, it was dangerously soft: “For better or worse, we have that technology.”

“For better or worse, we could have had one more,” Watts retorted. “How does condemning my choices justify yours?”

James exhaled through his nose, and his tone evened out into something approximating his regular speech. “Because I don’t condone the loss of lives, or the dehumanization of people. I didn’t participate in the atrocities that brought us those advancements.”

“No. You only benefited from them. Tell me, James. How many more people do you think will suffer needlessly in the future because you stymied my research? Inaction will deprive future generations.”

“Whereas action will slaughter the current one,” James shot back. “The ends don’t justify the means. You know that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gambled on asking for forgiveness over permission, had the girl actually lived.”

Neither man spoke into the yawning chasm that filled the space between them.

“…I didn’t want her to die, James.” An unfamiliar emotion crept into his voice.

James sighed. “I didn’t call you here to debate your motives. What’s done is done.”

When Watts spoke again, the question was accompanied by unease: “Then why did you arrange this meeting?”

“To discuss the consequences with you.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“Not presently, no,” James said. “The Council hasn’t formally issued any charges, and they won’t until they meet to discuss the matter in-depth.”

“If I’m not being arrested,” Watts ventured, “then what consequences are you talking about?”

The general’s reply was delayed. “I spoke with the Medical Board. Your license has been suspended.”

Pietro’s blood ran cold.

“On what grounds?” His voice was nearly inaudible.

“Malpractice.”

“You can’t place me on probation for a law I didn’t break—”

“Arthur.”

The interruption killed whatever momentum he’d gathered. When no more protests were forthcoming, James continued: “It wasn’t my call.”

Another gap in the conversation followed, shorter than the ones before it.

“If the Board’s intention was to simply strip me of my license, they could have easily done so without involving you. If the Council plans to do nothing yet, then this meeting is a waste of our time.” His confusion faded, replaced with wariness. “Why am I really here, James?”

“…I want you to understand,” James began, “that I arranged this meeting as a courtesy. I didn’t want you to be in the dark about events going forward—”

“Why am I here?”

Pietro could picture James steepling his hands, tightening his jaw.

“As you’re aware, the Penny Project is a classified military project. Your surgery appropriated that research, and you performed it on a civilian.”

“My research”—Watts bristled—“was based on an archotheronotic disease. Where I drew my inspiration is irrelevant.”

“The other councilors might not have letters after their names, but they’re not idiots. They saw the parallels. It’s not a coincidence that your procedure and the project both focus on Aura.”

“The difference,” Watts spat, “is in the intent. The project’s goal is to create an Aura from scratch. Mine was to separate and transfer an already-existing one. If we can separate a host’s Aura and place it within a new receptacle, then that proves we can also remove a portion of it and do the same.”

“Even if you’re right, that doesn’t change the fact that the girl’s parents went to the media and took their story public,” James said. “Soul-based research is already controversial. How long do you think it will take for people to start asking questions? That’s a scrutiny we can’t afford right now.”

The chair legs scraped over the ground as James stood.

“The reason why I called you here is because the Council believes that your actions jeopardized that secrecy. The unauthorized disclosure of classified military intelligence is a potential security breach. Which is why, until they conclude their investigation, your passport is being revoked and you will be confined to the Kingdom of Atlas.”

James sounded tired.

“The charge they intend to level against you is treason.”

Nervously, Pietro rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame.

“Arthur? May I come in?”

Watts stood with his back to the room, an outstretched hand removing several books from their shelves. At the sound of his name, he stiffened. “If you must,” he answered flatly.

“Thank you.” He was careful to avoid tripping over the boxes stacked by the entryway as he closed the door behind him.

The other man had never been particularly materialistic, but even so, his decorating was far from sparse. Awards and accreditations had hung from the walls, while shelves with medical tomes lined the perimeter of the office. Occasionally, projects from the lab migrated into the room, and had taken up tablespace by the windowsill where a lone bromeliad sat.

It was jarring to see those possessions packed away.

Watts didn’t immediately turn to face him. Instead, his head sunk between his shoulders. “…Are you here to yell at me as well?”

“Yes. No.” He ran a hand through his hair. A thousand different thoughts colored his mind like a fractured kaleidoscope. There were plenty of things he wanted to say, each worse than the last. Pietro ruthlessly shoved those thoughts aside. “Look, I’m upset, but right now you need a friend, not another detractor.”

“How considerate of you.” His words were devoid of inflection.

“I’m not going to pretend I know how you’re feeling right now, but I still think you should—” Pietro glanced at one of the cardboard boxes on his desk, only to do a double-take. “What are you doing?”

“Vacating the premises.” Watts resumed packing. “Seeing as I’m no longer tenured, the institute felt this room could be put to better use.”

“I already know that. That’s not what I meant.” Pietro gestured to the lacy scrawl on the side of the box—Free to whoever wants it. “Why are you getting rid of your things?”

“I have no reason to keep them. It’s not as if I’ll be able to use them again for another employer.”

“You don’t know that—” Pietro began to protest.

“No one in their right mind would hire me. And that’s assuming I won’t be spending the rest of my life behind bars.” He folded the box flaps with slightly more force than necessary. “Seeing as you’re already here, help yourself to whatever you like. I’ll be taking the rest of these downstairs to the breakroom, once I’m done. I know Will was always partial to my microscope.”

“I’m not taking your things!” Pietro let out a long, deep exhale, forcing himself to calm down. “I want to talk to you.”

“Very well.” Watts finally turned to face him, and Pietro was struck by how ill he looked. A gauntness clung to his features, though whether from a lack of food or a lack of sleep, he couldn’t say. Stubble had begun to creep in below his jaw, and his clothes were far more disheveled than he could ever recall them being. “Talk.”

It took him a moment to collect his thoughts. “You need to get a lawyer.”

“And what good will that do me?” His eyes were dull. “Even if the odds weren’t overwhelmingly stacked against me, what lawyer would touch my case?”

“I’m sure someone would, if you asked around.” Pietro hated the idea, but he willed himself to say it: “What about Jacques Schnee? You’re acquaintances, right? The SDC settles lawsuits all the time, so they’ve got to have legal experts on retainer. Maybe you could arrange something with him—”

“If you think I’ll let myself be indebted to that myopic narcissist—” As quickly as it flared, the fire in his eyes faded. Watts’ posture folded in on itself as the anger drained from him, leaving only fretful cinders behind. “I’m sorry,” he said, with a hard blink. “I was out of line.”

Pietro worried his lower lip. “What can I do to help?” he asked. “Do you want to go out? Get something to drink?”

“I—” Watts cut himself off with a sigh, and shook his head. “No. Thank you. I have plans to meet with one of my former patients later. He wants to discuss alternatives for his Dust poisoning, seeing as his treatments have been…discontinued.”

Pietro cast his gaze helplessly about the room, trying to think of something. With an unpleasant lurch in his chest, he realized that he couldn’t. “I’ll leave you to it, then?” he said.

“That would be for the best.”

Despite the overwhelming urge to protest, Pietro turned to leave. He stopped with his fingers on the door handle, and glanced back. “You’ll come and get me if you need anything, right?”

Watts opened another box, and began writing on the side. “Of course.”

Save for the occasional fleeting glimpse, Pietro saw little of his friend over the next two weeks.

While his presence on the campus was a necessity, Watts seemed to be doing what he could to minimize it. Only the administrators—who refused to speak about it—and his former clients—who spoke too much about it—spent any length of time with him. His public avoidance did little to deter the gossip, which varied in accuracy and failed to account for all the details, given the clandestine nature of his termination. It didn’t help that Pietro staunchly refused to contribute to it, and told off anyone bold enough to press the subject.

When their paths did cross, Watts didn’t linger long enough to chat. He had a faraway look on his face, and his appearance was unkempt.

It worried Pietro that he no longer seemed to care about himself.

It was early into the evening when Watts visited his office.

“Forgive me for the intrusion.” Pietro glanced up from his paperwork to see Watts hovering in the doorway. Strangely, he was carrying the bromeliad. “Might I steal a moment of your time?”

“Certainly!” Pietro pushed aside the document stack and gestured warmly to the chair. To his dismay, Watts remained standing. “What can I do for you?”

Watts adjusted the potted plant in his arms. “I was wondering,” he began, “if I could ask for a small favor.”

“Go ahead.”

Pietro didn’t know what to make of the unexpectedly calm expression on his face, so at odds with his recent emotional state.

“I need someone to look after this for me.” Watts took a step forward, and set the plant on the edge of the desk. “If it’s left unattended for a day or two it’s not an issue. Any longer, though, and it begins to dry out. The care required for it isn’t overly involved; the soil simply needs to be misted with distilled water every so—”

“Wait a second,” Pietro said. “Why does it sound like you’re going somewhere?”

Watts hesitated. “I’m travelling to Evadne for a few days.”

Pietro started to rise. “Arthur—”

He held up a hand. “I’m forbidden from international flights, not domestic. The southern coast of Solitas is under Atlesian jurisdiction, is it not?”

Slowly, Pietro sank back into his chair. “It is,” he agreed. “But why are you travelling now?”

Watts closed his eyes. “I want to see the coast one last time.”

He frowned. “You shouldn’t talk like that. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

His friend didn’t comment. He merely stared at him.

“Fine,” Pietro relented, “I’ll watch it for you. But just so you know, I’ve killed plants before.”

His lips twitched in a faint smile. “That’s quite all right.”

Pietro reached forward to move the pot, only to be taken aback when his hand was intercepted by Watts’. The contact startled him, so much so that he didn’t react when Watts lightly squeezed.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Pietro forced his jaws to move. “For what?”

“For more than I care to admit.”

The hand retreated.

“Enjoy your trip, Arthur.” Pietro tried to sound cheerful. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Watts opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. He dipped his head in a polite nod, before turning on his heel.

He wasn’t sure why he was here.

It was the second day after Watts’ departure for Evadne. The office was unrecognizable without any of its usual décor—walls now stripped bare of his possessions, floorspace empty save for the generic chairs and desk pushed off to the corner. The open space was dissonant with Pietro’s memories of the many times he’d spent in this room, either with other members of the team, or by himself. Almost as soon as the thoughts formed, they were accompanied by a pang of nostalgia. His fingernails dug into his palm.

Adjusting to the new normal was a prospect he dreaded, not just for the uncertainties at play, but simply because he didn’t want things to change. In truth, Pietro didn’t know what the Council’s verdict would be.

And he would have been lying if he said the thought didn’t keep him up at night.

It was as he was looking around the room that he noticed something glint in the waste bin. Intrigued, he bent down and pushed aside the crumpled papers partially obscuring it. When he lifted it from the bin, Pietro was surprised to see his reflection staring back at him from the plaque’s glassy surface.

The Atlesian Institute of Technology is honored to present the Rigel Award to Arthur Watts in recognition of his contributions to the fields of archotherology and pneumatophysics.

“I know things are bad right now, Arthur, but you shouldn’t just throw things like this away…” He’d been at the reception where the award had been presented; it had been a milestone in Watts’ career.

Carefully, Pietro wiped away a smudge with the hem of his shirt. A stubborn resolve seized him.

“It’s not breaking and entering if you have the spare key,” Pietro told himself, as the lock clicked.

The first thing he noticed, as the apartment door shut behind him, was the immediate onset of cold. Ice cold. The sort of chill that settled in a person’s lungs, and caused their breath to fog as they gasped for air.

“Gods above.” Pietro wrapped his arms around himself. “I know you like it cold, but this is ridiculous. What’s the temperature in here?”

Not intending to trip his way through the room, Pietro reached for the light switch.

Nothing.

“The bulb must have blown out.” He resorted to the flashlight on his scroll. Mindful of where he stepped, Pietro moved into the hall where the thermostat was. The last thing his friend needed was to return to a drafty apartment.

Understandably, he was confused when he tapped the screen, only for the thermostat to not respond.

“Surely this isn’t broken too…?”

A nagging suspicion prompted him to reach for the next light switch in his path. The hall remained dark, even after Pietro flipped it several times.

Something wasn’t right.

The next three lights he tried remained unresponsive to his attempts. Pietro stopped in the kitchen, his scroll in one hand, the glass plaque grasped loosely in the other. What else wasn’t working?

His gaze fell to the sink. With a slither of incredulity, Pietro turned the handle on the faucet.

It was cold, granted, but not cold enough to freeze the pipes. And he refused to believe that all of the utilities simultaneously stopped working. Even if they did, Watts would never have knowingly allowed them to remain in disrepair.

His mind discarded one possibility after the next, trying to identify a pattern, an explanation.

Pietro lifted the plaque to eye level.

For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why he’d want to get rid of something so important. It was a question he’d have to ask him when he came back—

His eyes widened.

Glass skated over the tiles as the plaque shattered against the floor. Pietro fumbled with his scroll, cursing, as he bolted back down the hall.

James answered on the second ring. “Pietro? What—”

“Where are you?” he gasped.

“The Academy,” he said. “Is something—”

“Meet me in your office!” The door slammed shut behind him. “We need to stop him!”

“And you’re sure about this?” James gravely looked on as Pietro paced.

“Why else would he have gotten rid of his things?” He gestured wildly. “He already believes his life is over. He had no reason to keep them.”

Those words had taken on an entirely new meaning, one that made Pietro feel sick.

“I understand, given the circumstances, how you would've arrived at that conclusion. But is it possible you’re wrong?” He spoke with the calm, patient authority of his rank, with a pragmatism meant to ease. All it did was agitate Pietro even more. “Arthur is a lot of things, but suicidal? It doesn’t seem—”

“You haven’t seen him the last few weeks!” His voice shot up an octave. “He’s hardly eating, barely sleeping, he isolated himself from nearly everyone. I knew he was depressed, but I didn’t think…” He trailed off, at a loss for words. “James, please. We need to do something.”

James leaned back into his desk, hands braced against the edge. “We should consider every possibility before we act.”

Pietro halted in his tracks. “What other possibilities?”

“Consider what you’ve just told me. He disposed of his personal belongings—things that would have encumbered him. He distanced himself from other people—social contacts that would have tied him to the kingdom. He canceled his utilities—lien he no longer has to waste.”

Pietro turned to face him. “What are you suggesting?”

“Given the pending criminal charges, it’s possible that he’s trying to flee the kingdom.”

Pietro tensed.

“Think carefully about your last conversation.” James watched him closely. “Did he indicate that he planned on coming back?”

Mutely, Pietro shook his head.

“If he wanted to leave without drawing attention to himself, Evadne would be the logical choice,” he said. “It’s a small town on the water frequently used as a stopover between the interior cities and Anima’s northern coast. It has a comparably smaller military presence, and most of its visitors are tourists. He won’t look out of place. And if he’s brought lien with him, it wouldn’t take much persuasion to stow away on an airship or a boat. Dust smugglers regularly make use of those tactics.”

Pietro started to shake.

“Both possibilities are upsetting in their own right, and I’d prefer for neither to be true. But the evidence isn’t something we can just ignore. Right now, the latter seems more likely. I didn’t notice—”

“Of course you didn’t notice!” Pietro shouted. “You were so busy trying to end his career that you didn’t realize you were ending his life!”

His words echoed around the room. In the stunned silence that followed, Pietro continued to yell.

“‘I want to see the coast one last time.’ That’s what he said to me when he left! He didn’t mean before he was arrested; he meant before he died. And why wouldn’t he? What did he have left? Either he was going to waste away in a cell, or he was going to spend the rest of his life unable to rebuild it. No one in the medical community will speak to him, no one on the team will look at him—” He doubled over with a strangled cough. “I know what he did was wrong. I think it’s wrong. But I don’t want him to die because of it! I don’t want to be right, but with everything I’ve seen we can’t wait around to find out if I’m wrong. James, please, we have to—”

A hand fell on his shoulder. Pietro wheezed.

“We’ll find him.” James’ grip tightened. “I can have an airship ready in ten minutes.”

The night was alive with the weaving bands of the auroras.

A distant part of his mind tried to find comfort in the emerald and indigo light, as it rippled through the sky amidst a backdrop of stars.

“We should be there in a few hours.” From the seat across from him, James consulted his scroll. “Our ETA will be about 6:00 AM.”

Pietro turned away from the window. “What are we going to do when we get there?”

“I have a special operative who’s currently stationed in the area. Her name’s Caroline. I radioed her as we were boarding. Her team’s going to meet us when we land and help with the search.”

He nodded.

“Before Arthur left”—James glanced up from the screen—“did he tell you where he was staying?”

“No, I’m sorry,” he replied. “He didn’t.”

“That’s all right.” James returned to his scroll. “If he checked into a hotel, the transaction will be on his bank statement. I should have access to his account history in a minute.”

“James.” Pietro steeled himself. “If I’m right…about…” He drew in a shuddering breath. “How are we going to handle this?”

“It depends on what we find, and what—condition he’s in.” James’ face was pinched. “The plan is to make sure he’s not a danger to himself or anyone else.”

“‘Anyone else’?”

James’ expression darkened. “I’ve seen situations like this before, with soldiers and Huntsmen. Sometimes they lash out.”

Suddenly, Pietro was grateful for his friend’s long military career, and the experience that came with it.

That went doubly so a second later when his scroll chimed, granting him clearance.

James read over the information as it poured in. “Well, this confirms what we already suspected—he canceled his utilities a few days ago.”

“Did you find out where he’s staying?”

“Let me see—got it. I have the name and address. It’s…” He scrolled through something on the screen. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Pietro leaned forward, trying to get a better look. “What is it?”

“Right before he left, he emptied his account.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Hang on. I might be able to trace where it went—” James trailed off.

“What is it?”

“He—” James peered at the records. “A large percentage of it was made out as a check. To the Ateliers.”

Pietro didn’t speak. If he opened his mouth now, he’d vomit.

“The remainder appears to have been withdrawn, though I’m not sure why.”

The cabin was mercifully silent as James immersed himself in parsing through the records. With nothing to do and only his thoughts to preoccupy him, Pietro returned to the window. It was several minutes before James spoke again:

“It’s going to be a while before we land. Try to get some sleep.”

When he trusted himself to not be sick, Pietro answered. “I’m okay, James.”

It was a lie. And judging by James’ expression, he didn’t believe it either.

“General Ironwood.” A woman of remarkably short stature saluted them. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“Likewise, Caroline.”

She fell in step beside him while her two subordinates took up positions at the rear. For every one step James took, Caroline had to take three.

“Anything to report?” he asked.

“We’ve been monitoring the building from afar for the last half hour. We haven’t seen Dr. Watts enter or leave.”

James didn’t comment. Rather, he quickened his pace.

“Do you have any orders for us?”

“The manager will be expecting us, although she wasn’t fully informed as to why. I want you and your team to start in his room, then sweep the premises while we interview the staff.” He stopped with his hand on the glass doors, and gave her a hard stare. “Do not, under any circumstances, harm him. If the situation becomes dangerous, you are to either deescalate it or wait for me to join you. Do I make myself clear?”

She grimaced. “Yes, sir.”

A woman with a sheet of long, violet hair stood waiting for them in the lobby. “Welcome, General Ironwood. Dr. Polendina.” She offered a shallow bow. As she rose, she registered the accompanying operatives, and her eyes flickered with unspoken questions. “How may I assist you?”

“We’d like to speak with you, along with any staff that may have interacted with one of your guests.”

The manager glanced at Caroline. “Are we in danger?”

“No. Not likely,” said James.

The manager didn’t look reassured, but she didn’t protest. “Very well. Please follow me.”

She guided the small group to the front desk where the receptionist sat, their eyes wide in bewilderment. “May I have the guest’s name?” she asked.

“Arthur Watts,” James said.

Without prompting, the receptionist keyed in the name. “Uh. He’s in room 3A.”

James turned to the manager. “May I have your permission to send my team upstairs?”

“Go ahead.”

He nodded. At once Coraline and her subordinates dispersed.

The manager waited until they’d filed into the elevator before she spoke: “You said you had questions for me?”

“Along with any staff that interacted with him,” James clarified.

“I’ve interacted with him.”

The receptionist seemed to regret that decision the moment three pairs of eyes turned on them. Nevertheless, they continued: “The guy with the mustache, right?”

Pietro’s pulse stuttered sharply. “When did you last see him?”

“This morning. He left over an hour ago. Said he was going for a walk.”

It took every shred of willpower Pietro had to not run out those doors.

“Did he leave with any belongings on his person? A bag, perhaps?” James asked.

The receptionist shook their head. “No, sir. Just his wallet and his room key, like he usually does.”

Pietro swapped a look with James, before turning back to the receptionist. “What do you mean by ‘usually’?”

“This is the time when he usually goes out. He stops to talk to the receptionist—well, me, I guess—and then heads out for a few hours. Comes back around noon, grabs lunch in the dining hall, heads back upstairs. Goes out again around five o’clock, and comes back some time after seven.” They gave a helpless shrug. “I—I guess he has a routine.”

Some of the tension left James’ shoulders. “It’s possible Arthur did in fact come here just to destress,” he said.

What should have been a reassuring thought made Pietro want to sink into the ground in mortification. He could only imagine what Watts’ face would look like when he returned to the hotel, to find that Pietro had brought along the entire cavalry. All because he assumed his friend had a death wish.

Pietro was dragged out of his pity party by James’ next question: “Do you remember anything specific about his behavior? Anything that might have looked or sounded strange?”

To his surprise, the receptionist looked guilty. “Well…” They glanced at the manager.

“Whatever it is, you’re not in trouble,” she said.

The receptionist hesitated a second longer, before heaving a reluctant sigh. “You get a lot of guests in a place like this, right? So you don’t always remember all of them. Not unless they stand out in some way. He…” They paused. “He’s been nothing but polite and friendly to all the staff.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly noteworthy,” James observed.

The receptionist fidgeted. “No, it’s not that. It’s not just that. He tipped us well.” They swallowed. “Like, really well.”

The lingering dread from earlier resurfaced. “How much did he tip you?” Pietro asked.

They averted their gaze. “Ten thousand lien. Each.”

The dread beat savage wings against his ribs.

Out of his periphery, James stepped off to the side with a finger pressed to his earpiece. A second later his face went unsettlingly blank. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to speak with my team.”

Pietro dimly registered his departure. He looked between the two hotel staff, his mind frantically scrambling for an explanation other than the one he didn’t want to hear. “Did he say anything?” he asked. Begged. “Anything that you might remember could help."

They considered his words with renewed thoughtfulness. “When he’d come back from his walks, I’d ask him how he was—the regular sort of small talk you’d make with guests. He told me that he went down to the beach. When I asked him, ‘Did you do anything while you were there?’ he said, ‘Not today. Perhaps I will tomorrow.’”

“Pietro.”

James had returned.

Coraline and her team hurried through the lobby; he could just make out “mobilize search-and-rescue” being barked into her earpiece as they rushed past.

He regarded Pietro with pale, haunted eyes, before slowly holding out his hand. “I’m sorry.”

A note hung from his fingertips.

After four days of searching, Arthur Watts was declared dead.

James scrubbed at his face. “I already told you, Camilla,” he sighed, as the doors slid open, “I’ll have it resolved once I—oh, Pietro. I didn’t realize it was you.”

Pietro managed a weak smile. “Disappointed to see me?” he asked, as he strode into the room.

“Relieved, actually.” James set aside some manner of document he’d been working on. “I was half-expecting another lecture.” Pietro accepted the tacit invitation to join him, and eased into the chair. “What can I do for you?”

Pietro tapped his fingers against the armrest. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“Why do I get the impression I won’t like what you’re about to ask me?”

“Because you won’t.”

Predictably, James wasn’t amused, but he didn’t try to bodily throw him out of the room, so that was a good start. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”

This conversation had sounded so much easier in his head. Pietro contemplated which option to take, before deciding on the direct approach: “Did you ever look over the report Arthur wrote after the surgery?”

It was brief, but Pietro didn’t miss the flash of regret James very neatly concealed behind unwavering calm. He steepled his hands. “I did,” he answered.

“Did you see the post-op notes?”

“I did.”

“But did you read them?” he pressed.

There was a hint of humor in his reply: “I read them to the extent I could understand them.”

Pietro braced himself. “I took another look at his work on Auratic intercision. He did it, James.”

When the other man said nothing, he hurriedly launched into his speech. “Even though the initial attempt failed, he managed to deduce what went wrong during the procedure. I won’t waste your time with all the technical mumbo jumbo, but I did the math. Split-Aura transfer is possible.”

He held James’ gaze. “We can finally build Penny.”

For a moment that stretched into eternity, James remained silent. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened them again. “You want my permission, to use the same research that nearly got him arrested, to complete your project.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Pietro said.

“I can certainly appreciate the irony, if nothing else.” He narrowed his eyes—thoughtfully, not in anger. “This wasn’t an idea you came up with overnight. It’s been nearly two months. Why did you wait this long to bring it up?”

“It’s as you said: it’s been two months. The last of the journalists have retired the story. People are no longer fixated on the proceedings. No more controversy, no more public backlash. The scandal died with him.” It hurt to say, but Pietro pushed onward: “Synthesizing an Aura has proven impossible, but now, we have a viable alternative. We can’t bring Mia Atelier back. But perhaps we can give someone else a chance at life.”

He waited.

At last, James nodded. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding left him. “You have my permission.”

“Thank you,” Pietro said.

“There’s just one problem.”

James regarded him intently. “The procedure requires a donor, does it not? You need a volunteer.”

Pietro straightened. “You’re looking at him.”

It had been a while since he last had the chance to sit and diagram.

A combination of blueprints, tablets, and holographic projectors were scattered about the desk. Other than the sleepy hum of the generator, and the scratching of pen against paper, his office was silent. The ambiance gave Pietro a pleasant rhythm to work to as he alternated between mediums.

He was in the middle of diagramming the thrusters when a voice spoke up from behind: “Burning the midnight oil?”

Pietro gladly accepted the mug James offered him, as he occupied the empty seat. “Just getting a little more work done before I call it quits.” He grinned. “I just finished the template for her skeleton. It’s on the tablet to your right if you want to see it.”

“This one?” James picked up the tablet in question.

“Swipe left, it’s the first file.”

The device lit up in his hands. James made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat as his eyes darted across the screen.

“What do you think?” Pietro asked.

“I think”—he continued to skim through the files—“I picked the right proposal.”

He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear those words until he felt a hot, stinging sensation in the corner of his eyes. He tried to discreetly dab it away.

Not discreetly enough, it seemed. James shot him an inquiring look.

“Oh, don’t mind. I’m just a little sensitive right now.” Pietro ducked his head. “It’s not every day you get to become a father.”

James wore a knowing, if somewhat bemused smile, but he was considerate enough to not say anything. He turned his attention back to the files in his hand.

“A lot of those are aesthetic mock-ups. I haven’t finalized anything, so if you want to throw in your two cents on the design input, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Did he know?”

Pietro’s hand stilled over the parchment. When no elaboration was forthcoming, he lifted his head to deduce one for himself.

His pulse beat painfully beneath his skin.

The file on the screen was one of the earliest drafts for Penny’s design. It was also one of the only files to have received a color palette. Red hair hung in thick curls about her pale face. Her cheeks were flecked with freckles that contrasted just enough to be visible, just below her eyes.

Eyes that were a very familiar shade of green.

He didn’t say anything for several moments. He debated saying anything at all.

But there was no judgment on James’ face, no hint of contempt in his voice. Only sympathy.

“No,” Pietro answered. He let out a tired sigh, and set the pen down. “And he never suspected. I made sure of that.”

“You didn’t want to tell him?”

“I wanted to tell him for a long time." He closed his eyes. "I’ve spent the last four months regretting every day that I didn’t. And on every one of those days, I wondered if telling him would have made a difference.”

“It’s not your fault,” said James.

“I know.” Pietro reached for the photo on the edge of his desk, and gently lifted the frame into his hands. It was the last picture the team had taken together. “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.”

He lifted his eyes to the file in James’ hands, to the image of the young girl staring back at him.

“But maybe, through someone else—someone new—he can still be here.”

“Dr. Watts?”

Watts lifted his head from the chart he'd been reviewing.

At the entrance of his lab stood Hazel, his expression as impassive as ever.

“We have a meeting to attend.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Watts smoothed down the front of his coat. “Tell Salem I’ll be right there.”

Guess I've got some explaining to do. For anyone curious about my RWBY worldbuilding and headcanons:

Pietro not being disabled prior to the start of the series - We have no confirmation of this in canon, but I think that donating a percentage of his Aura to Penny has slowly chipped away at his health. I based this partly on the fact that in the show, the areas on his body where his Aura has been excised most prominently are over his legs and lower torso. If donating too much of his Aura is fatal, then it stands to reason that there are intermediary complications between points A and D - loss of mobility in his legs, chronic respiratory illness, worsening vision, and so on.

Archotherology (Gr. archo-, ruler, + -thero-, beast, + -logy, study of) - The study of Grimm.

Pneumatophysics (Gr. pneûma, soul, + -physics) - The study of the soul and its physical manifestation, Aura.

Apothymetics (Gr. apo-, derived from, + -thym-, soul, + E. -ics, from [?] Gr. -ikós, pertaining to) - The study of Semblances; a subdiscipline of pneumatophysics.

Auratic disease - An adverse condition that typically affects a person’s Aura, and by extension, their Semblance. Auratic diseases are generated by plague-type Grimm, and then transmitted to people through proximity. Watts' research simulated an Auratic disease, which is why Pietro later acquires a manmade version of CAD. You can click here to read more about them.

Evadne - A coastal city in southern Solitas. Named after the Greek figure Evadne, the wife of King Argus.

[bubonickitten]

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Chapter 5 full text & content warnings below the cut:

CWs for Chapter 5: flashbacks re: canon-typical trauma (each of Jon's encounters with the Fears is mentioned, some more detailed than others - worms and Circus-related horror in particular); brief mentions of eye horror/gouging. SPOILERS through S5.

   Chapter 5: Second Chance

   “Hi, Georgie,” Jon says meekly. There’s a raw quality to his tone that he didn’t anticipate. Don’t cry, he warns himself. Don’t you dare cry.   

  Georgie surveys him – not with fear, of course, but with a combination of caution and interest.

  “My eyes are up here,” Jon says with a small, hesitant smile.

  “Jonathan Sims, was that a joke?”

  “People might assume otherwise, but I do have a sense of humor.”

  “Not like that you don’t.”

  “It’s Martin’s,” Jon admits. When he feels himself start to flush, he averts his human eyes. Useless, really, considering how most of the others are still concentrated on Georgie, but it’s just force of habit at this point.

  Georgie grins for a brief moment. Jon is suddenly struck with the magnitude of how long it’s been since he’s seen her smile, and then it fades.

  “You’ve picked up quite a few more…” Georgie raises an eyebrow and motions vaguely at Jon and his general vicinity.

  “Yes.” Jon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, embarrassed. “They aren’t, ah… manifesting in my hospital room, are they?”

  Georgie looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. Though, that may have less to do with his question and more with yet another eye that just emerged unsolicited on his left cheekbone. Great timing.    

  “Uh… no?”

  “Oh, good.” He doesn’t bother to understate his relief. Everyone already saw him as a monster last time; retaining his post-apocalyptic nightmare ‘he’s-all-eyes’ look would make an already difficult challenge nearly impossible.

  “So you… you know where you are, then?”

  “Yes.” 

  When he doesn’t elaborate, Georgie’s eyes sweep up and down his figure again, and Jon feels exposed. Seen. She folds her arms and jerks her chin in his direction.  

  “You’ve got mud all over you.”

  “I… had to help someone climb out of a grave earlier.” In an attempt to distract himself from his own self-consciousness, he begins playing with a lock of hair at the nape of his neck.

  “And the blood?”

  “Dream pica,” Jon says guardedly. “And a dissection lab.” He looks around the pristine room they’re standing in. “A – a different one. With more… blood.”

  “Right.”

  The awkward silence drags on a bit too long.

  “It’s… it’s good to see you, Georgie,” he ventures.

  “Jon, is it really you?”

  “Yes.” Georgie doesn’t respond, and her expression is unreadable. “I – I don’t have any way to make you believe me, but… listen, Georgie, I – there are some important things I have to tell you before you wake up.”

  Before Georgie can stop him, he plunges into the first bullet point on his agenda.

  “First, Melanie. I don’t know how much she told you about her trip to India, but she still has a bullet in her leg, and it’s poisoning her. It didn’t show up on any scans then, and it probably still won’t, but it needs to come out. I know she’s been hurting, growing angrier –”

  “How do you –”

  “Please trust me, Georgie. I don’t know whether Melanie will listen to you, especially when you tell her the information came from me, but – but I think she already knows about the bullet, knows what it’s doing to her. She might not want to give it up, and – and it’s not my place to make that decision for her, but – the Slaughter wants to claim her, and I don’t think any good can come from becoming an Avatar.” He laughs bitterly. “Maybe – maybe that would be enough to convince her. Just tell her she could end up a monster like me.”   

  “Jon –”

  “I just wanted to let you know,” he interrupts again. “You know her better than I do, and she can trust you more than she can trust anyone at the Institute. I don’t know what your relationship is like right now, if she would listen to you, and – and you don’t have to tell me. But you both deserve to know about it. And she… she deserves a chance to heal. She deserves to know that she has a choice.”

  “Okay. That’s... a lot to unpack.” Then, businesslike: “What else?”

  “Martin. He needs to know that I’m coming back. It – it might take another month or two, but I’m going to wake up.”

  “Jon, I’ve never even spoken to him.”

  “I know, and – and right now, he’s distancing himself from the others, too. But he’s in danger.” Georgie raises her eyebrows. “A new kind of danger. If you could ask Melanie to get a message to him, to just – tell him that I’m asking him to wait a few more months before giving up on me.”

  “I’ll pass the message on to Melanie,” Georgie says evenly, “but I’m not going to pressure her about it.”

  “I understand.”

  “You… you think you can wake up, then?”

  “Yes. And I will.” He pauses. “Soon, I hope.”

  “You going to explain, or keep being mysterious?”

  “I… listen, Georgie, I want to tell you, I do –”

  “But you can’t, because as usual, you think you know what you’re doing and you’re going to rush ahead and throw yourself at –”

  “No,” he says firmly. “I know it seems like I’m falling into a – a familiar pattern, but that’s not what this is. I want to tell you, and I will tell you, it just – it can’t be here.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because Elias is probably watching us right now.”

  “Your boss Elias?" Georgie gives him a blank look. "Your boss Elias who is in prison right now for the murders he framed you for? That Elias?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think he can, what, snoop on your coma dreams?”

  “And most places in the physical world aren’t safe from him, either.”

  “Right,” Georgie sighs. She’s known Jon long enough to tell when he isn’t going to budge. “Where, then?”

  “The tunnels under the Institute. It’s a universal blind spot, he can’t See there.”

  “And you aren’t worried about him overhearing that?”

  “No. He’s likely aware that we know about the properties of the tunnels. Besides, this isn’t some secret battle we’re all fighting. Everything is out in the open. I don’t have to hide my suspicions, and he’s stopped pretending not to be evil. He can safely assume that I’m keeping secrets and plotting behind his back just the same as he is.” Jon glares up at the ceiling and the Watcher beyond it. “I just don’t want him to know the details.” 

  “Can’t he read minds?” Georgie looks away. “It’s just – Melanie mentioned –”

  “It’s… complicated.” Jon folds his arms and starts pacing slowly, retracing the same six-foot space back and forth as he pieces together an explanation. “Elias can See things that happen almost anywhere, but he has to concentrate in order to do it. He can Know a person’s secrets and details about their past, but I don’t think it’s mind-reading, per se, it’s just… Knowing, and – and there are limits on it. And he can implant images and knowledge into a person’s mind, but I think he has to actually be within eyesight in order to do it.”

  Jon abruptly stops pacing and stares transfixed at his feet.

  “It sounds like there’s a ‘but.’”

  “But… I don’t think he can actually read a person’s thoughts in real time. Sometimes it seems like it – he has a gift for reading people, and he always seems to know how best to manipulate or… or break a person. But I think… I think it’s an entirely non-supernatural gift.” Jon hugs his sides and draws his shoulders in, suddenly feeling both too small and too noticeable. “It’s monstrosity, but of a very human sort,” he murmurs softly. 

  “You’re sure?”

  “Fairly sure, yes, though it doesn’t hurt to take as many precautions as possible. I do plan on explaining things after I wake up, but only in the tunnels.” He gives Georgie a pleading look. “I wouldn’t ask you to come to the Institute if there was another option, but it… it has to be there. And I – I get it if you don’t want to see me in person, I can tell Melanie and then she can tell you, but it just – it still has to be in the tunnels.”

  “Jon, it isn’t that I don’t want to see you. I’ve been visiting you in hospital –”

  “I know.”

  “You could hear me?”

  “Not – not quite. I only just started being able to hear what goes on out there. But I… I know you’ve been visiting. Thank you.” Jon pauses, biting his lower lip. “Though I know that you… weren’t expecting me to recover.”

  “It’s been four months, Jon. You have no heartbeat, you’re not breathing –”

  “I know. And you’re thinking I’ve passed a point of no return and that you should cut ties with me before I drag you down with me.”

  “Well, have you?”

  “Passed a point of no return?” He looks up at the ceiling and closes his human eyes. “Yeah. A few of them, actually. I’m not fully human anymore, and I don’t think there’s a way to reverse it. But I – I’m still me, and I want to stay that way. You told me once – not long ago, I suppose – you said that if I was becoming something inhuman, I needed people in my life. To remind me of my humanity. You were right. There are more points of no return I could stumble into, I could get worse, and I don’t…” He swallows hard, fighting back the threat of tears. “I want to get better.”

  “Do you, though?” Georgie’s voice is gentle, but firm. “Actually?”

  “Yes,” Jon says without hesitation. “I really, really do. I can’t escape from the Institute, or from the Beholding. Not any time soon, anyway. Even when I was staying with you, I was physically dependent on reading statements – I just didn’t realize it yet. Running away and staying out of danger isn’t really an option for me anymore. It… hasn’t been for a long time. Maybe ever since I took the job.”

  Georgie presses her lips into a thin line, and Jon can tell he’s losing her.

  “But I’m not – I know you don’t believe me, but I’m not seeking out danger or heroics. I’m not… I’m not playing the martyr, or – or trying to court tragedy. I would love to go a month – hell, a week without the threat of death or worse hanging over me,” he says with a short, humorless laugh, “but that won’t happen as long as I’m the Archivist. So I – I don’t know what ‘better’ looks like for me now that I’m like this, but I want to try. I think this is a second chance, and I… I want to take it.”

  “I want to believe you, Jon. It’s just…”

  “You’ll believe it when you see it.” One corner of his mouth twitches up in a rueful smile.

  “Yeah.” Georgie’s answering smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

  He can’t really blame her for being skeptical. They’d had a conversation remarkably similar to this one before, shortly before their breakup – minus the supernatural elements, of course. He’d had a breakdown, finally admitted that he needed help, agreed to go to counseling – and then quit after two sessions. She’s seen his obsessiveness, his refusal to take care of himself, the self-destructive patterns he falls into, his apparent allergy to emotional vulnerability. He’s never shown her any other side of him. Come to think of it, he didn’t know he had another side until… all of this.

  “Look,” Georgie says after a moment and a sigh, “I – I’m not going to cut you out, not completely. But I may need some distance, you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I can’t be your only support.”

  “I wouldn’t want that.”

  “And I have to decide how much I’m willing to get involved in… all of this.” Georgie frowns. “It’s just complicated, what with…”

  “Melanie.”

  “Yeah. I mean, I don’t want you trapped there, either – I think all of you should quit, actually. If you ever figure out how. Maybe even burn the place down just to be safe.” If she’s joking about the latter, Jon can’t tell. He doesn’t disagree with her, per se, but he does take a moment to wonder, not for the first time, how he’s managed to surround himself with so many people who see arson as a first resort. “It’s just –”

  “Listen, that’s actually the last thing I wanted to mention – I might have a way for Melanie to quit.”

  “What?”

  “I – I think the only reason she hasn’t been completely taken over by the Slaughter is because of her connection to the Eye, so it would be safest to remove the bullet first, if she decides that's what she wants, but – yes, there’s a way for her to quit.” He runs one hand through his hair and grimaces. “It’s drastic, but everyone needs to know they have the option. I can’t talk about the details here, though, and I – I’d rather everyone hear everything I have to say before making any decisions.”

  “You get more and more cryptic every time I see you, you know that?” 

  “Trust me, this is an improvement on…” Being the voice of the Archive, he does not say. “It could be worse.”

  “See? Cryptic.”

  “That can’t be the most off-putting thing about me.” As if on cue, another eye opens on his throat, centered on the scar that Daisy left him, and he cringes. More impeccable timing. 

  “Nah,” Georgie says after a contemplative hum. “I think the weirdest thing is how you just had an entire conversation about your feelings and didn’t once try to change the subject. Who are you, and what did you do with Jonathan Sims?”

  Jon laughs. “I guess I’ve… grown, a bit.”

  “Yeah, but when? Since you’ve been in a coma? This place doesn’t exactly seem ripe with opportunities for personal growth.”

  “I…”

  “Let me guess: you can’t talk about it.”

  “Not here.” Jon gives her an apologetic smile.   

  “Right.”

  Jon looks down again, scuffing one foot against the floor to fill the quiet.

  “So when can we expect you back in the world of the living?”

  “No more than a few months, I think. Hopefully sooner. It depends on how long it takes me to figure it out.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to?”

  “If I can’t do it on my own, someone else will do it for me. This in-between state doesn’t suit the Beholding, and there are at least a few interested parties who will force me to make a choice if I take too long. The Archivist has a role to perform, and right now, I’ve removed myself from the game board. Either I submit to the hand that moves me, or I die and make room for the next unsuspecting pawn in line.” Jon looks up. “Sorry, that came out more dramatic than I intended.”

  “A bit,” Georgie says, not unkindly.  

  “What I mean is, the coma has a time limit no matter what I do or don’t do. I’m not human enough to die, but I’m too human to live, so I have two choices: I accept what I’ve become and I wake up. I’ll still be me, but I’ll be even less human than I was before, and I’ll have to… make the best of that. Or, I sever my connection with the power that’s keeping me alive, and I die – not quite human, but not a monster, either. A slow death, though,” he adds bitterly. “To make sure I have plenty of time to change my mind.”    

  “Sounds to me like you haven’t made up your mind.”

  “I have, actually. It’s just… I don’t know how to finalize my choice, I suppose?”

  “You can’t just ask to speak to a manager?” One look at Georgie’s playful grin, and Jon feels himself smiling in return.

  “I wish. No, I – it’s… hm. Like I need to find my way to a crossroads, but I don’t have directions or a map.”

  “Maybe you just need a chaperon.” When Jon gives her a serious look, her teasing smirk fades. “What, seriously?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t given up on finding my own way, but if I take too long, a guide will pass this way and… encourage me to choose a path and follow it to the end.”

  “I’d ask you how you know all this, but I doubt you'll tell me.”

  “I Know it because of the Eye, broadly speaking, but there’s a more specific answer I want to give you. Just… not here.”

  “Fine," Georgie says, but she doesn't sound upset, much to Jon's relief. "Anything else?”

  Jon almost says no, but…

  “Maybe… maybe one more thing,” he says, lowering his gaze, suddenly very interested in the floor. “I’ve never had any control in these dreams, and I’m terrified that I’ll lose it again. If I do, just… behind all the eyes, it’s still me. I can see you, and hear you, and I was wondering if… I know it’s stupid, but if it’s alright with you – and I completely understand if it’s not, I don’t want you to feel obligated –”

  “What, Jon?”

  “I… could you still talk to me, maybe?” Jon says it so quickly that it comes out all as one word. “I won’t be able to answer, but it would still be nice to hear your voice. Tell me about the Admiral, or your current knitting project – or the newest What the Ghost, and the weirdest listener feedback it got, or… or the latest dick move your landlord pulled. Anything.”

  When Georgie doesn’t reply right away, Jon keeps his head down and braces himself for disappointment. He didn’t mean to sound so desperate, and now he’s made things weird. He probably shouldn’t have –

  “Huh,” Georgie says finally. “Are you sure you haven’t been able to hear me talking to you out there?”

  “Not… not that I know of?” Jon cautiously looks up at her. “Not consciously, at least.”

  “Hmm. Well, next time I see you, if you’re as unresponsive in here as you are out there, I’ll just do what I usually do when I visit you in hospital, which is natter on about my personal life and tell you all about the Admiral’s latest adventures in protecting the flat from spiders.”

  “Brave boy,” Jon says fondly, and Georgie snorts.

  They spend some time talking about the Admiral and his newfound obsession with bread ties until, mid-sentence, Georgie wakes. Jon is left alone in a sterile dissection lab, the harsh fluorescent light underscoring the emptiness of the place.

  The conversation went… better than he had dared to hope, really. He’s both stunned and relieved that Georgie hasn’t written him off yet, but also terrified of messing things up again, of squandering his second chance. He can’t count on getting a third. This is his one opportunity to fix things, to do better, to be better, and he needs to make it count.

  No pressure, he thinks to himself grimly, and he heads for the door.

   Time is difficult here.

  Well, it was difficult at the end of the world, too. Towards the end, Jon didn’t even bother to keep track of it, but he could have Known, if he had wanted. Here, though, he can’t seem to Know anything about what’s happening outside of the dream.

  Jon relies on his conversations with his fellow dreamers to gauge the time and date in the outside world, and it doesn’t take long for him to realize that his perception of time is wildly inconsistent. Sometimes what feels like hours to him translates to a week on the outside; sometimes a single night in the real world is stretched into days for Jon. There are indeterminate stretches of time in which he drifts in that directionless void again – times when, he assumes, all of the other dreamers are awake, leaving no nightmare settings for him to occupy.

  At least the passage of time seems to be progressive. Time travel is difficult enough without hopping around to different points on the timeline. He’s glad to see that, his initial leap backwards notwithstanding, time still seems to be moving in one direction.

  It took a long time for Jon to stop waiting for the moment when he would lose his agency and become the Watcher again. A small part of him is still waiting for the rug to be ripped out from under him again, but for the most part, he’s allowed himself to relax into it and silence his customary pessimism. He still isn’t sure exactly why he has so much control now. It’s a… well, not best-case scenario – that would be freedom from the dreams altogether, for himself and for the others – but it’s still an unexpected boon that he never would have even imagined. Every time he searches for an answer, though, he gets nothing but noise and a blinding headache.

  The best theory he can come up with is that he’s simply stronger now, after completing his metamorphosis into the Archive. If so, it’s somewhat worrisome. It would mean that coming back in time rewound most of the timeline, but he remains a product of its original trajectory. He is an artifact of a cascade of disasters that never happened – that will never happen, if he manages to foil Jonah’s plans. There’s no way of telling how the world might react to his presence in it. Is he an allergen of sorts, a paradox that cannot be reconciled? Is he something akin to the rift itself? God, he hopes not – it will be difficult to convince anyone of his humanity if he radiates the same sort of wrongness as the crack in the foundation at Hill Top Road.

  Most of all, though, he wonders what it means for the Archivist’s progress.

  At this point in his original timeline, he had been marked by the Web, the Eye, the Corruption, the Spiral, the Desolation, the Vast, the Hunt, and the Stranger. If he isn’t already marked by the End, he will be by the time he wakes up. That leaves the Slaughter, the Buried, the Dark, the Flesh, and the Lonely. He still has to rescue Daisy, so receiving a mark from the Buried is a given. Avoiding the Slaughter and the Lonely may be difficult, considering they’ve both already taken up residence in the Archives. He can try to avoid Jared Hopworth and Ny-Ålesund, but that doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t stumble across the Flesh and the Dark some other way, and Jonah Magnus is nothing if not resourceful. He won’t give up just because Jon happens to evade two of his traps.

  Not to mention, Jon has an unfortunate tendency to serve himself up to the Fears on a silver platter. He’s gotten better at tempering his recklessness, at trusting others, at not going it alone, but still – in the past, he’s had an almost supernatural ability to make Jonah’s job easy. It’s possible – probable – that the Web was – is – pulling strings, but trying to account for the Web is like searching a beach for a single grain of sand.

  Then there’s Jonah Magnus’ suggestion that Jon’s life amounts to a truly unfortunate streak of bad luck, but luck is a nebulous concept, and a lot of Jon’s so-called chronic “bad luck” could be a direct result of the manipulations of – speak of the devil – the Web and Jonah Magnus. At this point, Jon suspects his misfortune probably has more to do with his being easily manipulated than it does with any sort of intrinsic unluckiness or tragic destiny.

  Jon’s initial encounter with the Web may or may not have been chance, but becoming the Archivist had nothing to do with luck. Jonah chose him because he knew that Jon would be easy to isolate, terrorize, and control. It was a deliberate action, not some passive twist of fate. Everything that unfolded from that point onward was carefully orchestrated and monitored by Jonah, and he always had contingency plans to keep Jon on the intended path. Yes, Jon made it easy for him in many ways, and he’s still responsible for his choices – but he’s also had to acknowledge that regardless of what choices he made, Jonah likely would have been ready with an equally effective backup plan to counter any move Jon did or did not make.

  Which is exactly why even now, with the advantage of foreknowledge, Jon is still absolutely terrified of Jonah Magnus.     

  But the more Jon thinks about it – and the more his attempts to Know yield nothing – the more he worries that all of that is moot. He recalls Jonah Magnus' statement with a full-body shudder.

  …if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this nightmare kingdom. Do you see where I’m going with this, Jon?  

  It wasn’t enough to have the Entities cause him bodily harm. The scars are just physical reminders of the encounter. Some of the Fears didn’t even leave him with visible scars. No, the real mark always depended on Jon’s lived experience of the confrontation: the terror, the pain, the confusion, the desperation, the alienation from himself, and the lingering, compounding trauma.  

  Knocking on Mr. Spider’s door, looking on as the monster took its substitute victim and saddled him with lifelong survivor's guilt. The worms gnawing and tunneling through his skin, wriggling against bone, lavishing praise on the give of his flesh, crooning that he will be cherished, he will be perfect, he will be a home. The pandemonium of the Distortion’s corridors; the razor edge of the bones in its hands. The white-hot agony of melting flesh; the terror of terminal velocity without an end; the inexorable press of a knife against his throat.

  An entire month of nothing but raw sensory input, disjointed and unfathomable: chittering, faceless things; ropes chafing and eroding furrows into skin; the ache of a jaw forced open by a length of cloth; cramping muscles and screaming joints; chill air and tailor’s tape on bare skin; layer after slimy layer of lotion; the scent of lavender cut through with the metallic tang of blood; so many hands, hands, hands, ever-present and unyielding. Nikola would mark dotted lines onto his skin with a felt-tip marker, providing a cheerful running commentary as she worked – the sorry state of his skin and her promise to get it into proper shape; vivid descriptions of how it would feel to be flensed alive, exquisitely painful yet so very liberating; how grateful he should be that he will get to be part of something so much greater than himself – all of it overlaid with Jon's unquestioning conviction that no one was coming to help him. 

  And encore after encore: an explosion, an endless nightmare, an impossible choice; the aching strain of bones bending, the agonizing snap of bones breaking, the unsettling vacancy left behind; the damp, earthy press of the coffin; the terrible beauty of unknowable darkness burning holes in his Sight.      

  Martin paling, fading, vanishing –

  “Are you scared, Jon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect.”  

  – almost disappeared, almost lost, almost alone. 

  Jon remembers it all in perfect, visceral detail, every sensation and panic-stricken thought seared into him and easily accessible at the merest twitch of an overactive imagination. He witnessed and experienced worse during the apocalypse, but still those tired old flashbacks would overtake him and bring him to his knees without warning as he passed between domains.

  The question of mind-body dualism is well-settled at this point, at least as far as Avatars are concerned. Jonah Magnus has been body-hopping for centuries, discarding vessels and possessing new ones on a whim; Jon himself is currently a living mind tethered to a body that is in most other respects clinically dead. What if the body is irrelevant, and what really matters is the conscious mind?

  It might not matter whether Jon’s body encounters those final five marks. As long as he remembers receiving them, his consciousness is still scarred by all Fourteen of the Dread Powers. What’s more, traversing the ruined earth retraced those marks several times over, branding him more deeply with every passage through an Entity’s domain. That might be more than enough to initiate the Watcher’s Crown Ritual.

  If so, Jon is still a living chronicle of terror, fully prepared and ready and marked, and he’s delivered himself to Jonah Magnus months ahead of schedule.

  And if that’s the case, Jon has once again played right into Jonah’s hands.

  He can only hope that Jonah doesn’t Know it – and even if he doesn’t, it seems foolish to hope that he won’t find out eventually.

   “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

  “Absolutely not,” Naomi wheezes, doubled over with laughter.

  Jon groans and covers his face with his forearms, still lying on his back in the mud. He had been helping Naomi out of her grave, as had become the routine, but she had lost her footing just as she reached the top. In his scramble to catch her, he had lost balance and toppled in after her, and now they’re both stuck down here. Jon sits up and half-heartedly wipes the dirt off his hands, to little effect.

  “Break any bones, old man?”

  “It’s a dream, Naomi. Also, I’m only thirty.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  He glares at her, but it’s tempered by an amused twist of the lips that he can’t quite suppress – which just makes Naomi snicker again.  

  “So,” she says after a moment, “still haven’t woken up?”

  “Still trapped,” Jon says, all the levity bleeding out of him in an instant.  

  “No luck with the anchor?”

  “No luck.” Jon leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “Not for lack of trying – or practice. Just the thought of him has saved me more than once. But I guess it’s… different, when it involves trying to manipulate the hour of your own death.”    

  He should have suspected as much, really. Escaping a pocket dimension is different from trying to meddle with the End’s sphere of influence. In all the statements he’s consumed regarding Terminus, no one has ever been able to truly hold sway over it in any direction. It does not want anything, because everyone and everything succumbs to it eventually, given enough time. It doesn’t answer to summons or worship or pleas. Sometimes it elects to play games, but it engages only on its own terms, and no one ever wins – they simply accrue enough debt to delay the inevitable for as long as it takes to repay their dues.   

  “You’re being spooky again,” Naomi says brightly.

  “At this point, I think it’s my default setting,” Jon deadpans back. “More importantly – did you end up going to meet the distinguished Duchess Jellybean Toes?”

  “Yes!” Naomi leans forward with her hands on her knees, practically buzzing with excitement. “She’s gorgeous. A bit rude, though – she climbed up under my shirt, stuck her head out though my collar, and refused to budge for the entire visit.”

  “Are you going to adopt her?”

  “Mhm. I still need to buy some things and get the flat ready for her, but I already paid the adoption fee. Her name is a bit of a mouthful, though. Might have to change it.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Jon says, giving her a severe look. He meant it as a joke, but when his voice dips lower than intended and too many eyes join in on the staring, he winces.

  Naomi doesn’t react, though; she’s well past the point of finding him intimidating. “Hm. Well, I’ll have to shorten it, at least.”

  “Could just call her the Duchess,” Jon says, regulating his tone more carefully this time.

  “It doesn’t sound too… I don’t know, pretentious?”

  “Not at all. It sounds regal,” Jon insists. “I’ve told you about the Admiral, and he carries his title admirably.”

  “If that was a joke, it was terrible.”

  “That one was unintentional, actually.”

  “Good. I almost had to reevaluate my opinion of you.”

  “Can’t have that,” Jon says drily, and then his expression softens. “Seriously though, I’m glad the adoption worked out for you.”

  “Yeah. I think it’ll be good for me. Less lonely, you know,” she says, voice growing so faint that Jon can only barely hear her. Then, in a louder, more conversational tone: “Besides, I’ve always wanted a cat.”

  “Me too,” Jon admits. “By the time I finally got a flat that allowed pets, I was… well, always at work. It didn’t feel right, adopting a cat and then leaving it alone all the time.”

  “Well, you’re not dead yet. Not too late to develop a better work-life balance, even if you are…” Naomi wiggles her fingers. “You know, spooky.”

  “Maybe,” Jon says, pointedly ignoring the jape.  

  “Oh.” Naomi sits up straighter and looks at him. “I just realized – are you going to be able to get out of here once I wake up?”

  “That… is a very good question.” Jon smirks at her alarm. “I’m kidding. It’ll fade out when you do. Then it’s either back to the void, or on to the next nightmare.”

  “Spooky.”

  “That’s your third strike. Quota met for the day.”

  “You really are a buzzkill.”

  “So I’m told,” Jon says. “Now, if you’re finished harassing me, tell me more about the Duchess.”

  “Well, she’s a calico – unbelievably fluffy – and she’s only a year old…”

   Jon has never been the most social person. He doesn’t go out of his way to make friends, conversations typically feel like minefields, and he has a propensity for going off on informational digressions that most people find annoying. He asks too many questions, frequently misses social cues, and has always had difficulty modulating his tone of voice. Becoming the Archivist only made things more complicated, since now a conversational misstep can easily mean unintentional compulsion or Knowing (and sharing) something that he shouldn’t.

  But in recent years, he’s nonetheless become more dependent on human interaction and less tolerant of being alone. He knew he had been starved for companionship since he lost Martin, but he didn’t realize the extent of it until he started talking again, and in his own voice. So, when the voyeuristic nightmare sessions turn into social calls, he finds himself thriving on it in a way that he never expected.   

  There’s his budding friendship with Naomi – unexpected, but far from unwelcome.

  He still finds Dr. Elliott a bit insufferable, but Jon finds himself insufferable as well, so he can’t judge too harshly. He always peeks into the anatomy lab to check that Elliott isn’t in the throes of the nightmare. Sometimes they find some shared academic interest to discuss; other times, Elliott dismisses him, citing a disinterest in conversation at that moment. Jon never asks him to elaborate.

  Tessa usually declines his company, but occasionally she’ll wave him over and immediately launch into a discussion about neural networks or machine learning or some other tech-related subject that’s been on her waking mind. Well, it’s usually more of a one-sided lecture than anything else, but Jon always finds himself riveted, listening hungrily as Tessa shines light on an unfamiliar subject. The first few times he asked follow-up questions, she took it as feigned interest or ridicule, but once she realized that he was actually interested and not just humoring her out of guilt, she began to brighten every time he offered a new tangent for her to explore. He wouldn’t call them friends by any stretch of the imagination, but she seems to enjoy talking to someone who doesn’t tune her out when she begins to ramble. If nothing else, it’s better than devouring a computer.

  Jon doesn’t have much in common with Jordan, to be honest. It doesn’t take long for them to exhaust all avenues of conversation and lapse into an awkward silence. Jordan is skittish, though; he finds Jon’s less-than-human appearance perpetually unsettling, but apparently prefers it to being left alone in this place. Eventually they settle on an unspoken arrangement of just staying within eyeshot of one another for the duration of the dream, even when the conversation runs dry.

  In the silence, it’s more difficult to stave off the Knowing, though, which means Jon gets treated to ceaseless updates on Jordan’s mental state – and Jordan is more repulsed by all those eyes than he is by even the worst infestations he’s encountered on the job. By the time Jordan wakes up, Jon usually feels like an insect half-dead and twitching in the aftermath of an insecticide assault. He can’t blame Jordan, but it does still take its toll on Jon’s already abysmal self-esteem.

  Karolina remains largely unresponsive. Jon sits with her, talks to her – at her, really – and hopes that he isn’t just annoying her. Her eyes follow his movements, and sometimes she smiles, but otherwise, she’s uncommunicative – whether by force or by choice, Jon doesn’t know, and the Beholding doesn’t seem inclined to tell him. Although he has yet to completely interrupt the dream sequence, there have been a few instances where the train car didn’t collapse. He can’t say conclusively whether that indicates progress, but at least it’s evidence that the script can change. 

  On the one hand, it’s probably a good sign that Jon doesn’t have as much control over the Knowing as he did in the future. On the other hand, it’s like having his wings clipped after learning to fly, and he hates it. The Beholding did withhold some things from him during the apocalypse, but for the most part, he had unfettered access to an ocean of knowledge – and it’s maddening to have it restricted once again.

  Even before becoming the Archivist, he always hated unanswered questions; it may as well have been a core facet of his personality. But after so much time with the Archive at the forefront, to not Know is wholly incompatible with his nature in a deeper, existential sense. For the human part of him, it’s like having an itch that can’t be scratched; for the Archivist, it’s excruciating; for the Archive, it’s utterly incomprehensible.

  The balance he’d found in the future is shifting, and he isn’t sure what that means for him just yet, or how he feels about it.

   “How is Melanie?”

  “Struggling,” Georgie says, “but hopeful, I think. It’s really not my place to say much more than that.”

  “Yes, of – of course. I’m… glad to hear that she’s recovering.”

  “She’s still angry that you won’t tell me how she can quit.”

  “I will, I promise, I just… I need to explain everything first.”

  “She said to tell you that it’s patronizing to assume she can’t make her own decision without you holding her hand.”

  “I’m not – I just want it to be an informed decision.” Jon frowns. “That sounded condescending, didn’t it?”

  “A bit, yeah.”

  Jon looks down and rubs his temples. There’s a likelihood that if he tells Georgie right now, Melanie will blind herself before he even wakes up. It’s her choice, of course, but a choice never really feels like a choice when it’s presented as the only option, when vital information is being withheld that might affect your decision.

  There’s also the fact that his death would free all of them without a need for eye-gouging. He’s going to tell them – it doesn’t feel right to keep it to himself – but that’s something that he would rather Jonah not overhear. Jonah might be willing to lose Melanie if she takes an awl to her eyes, but if he thinks there’s a chance that she or any of the others would kill his Archivist just when he’s starting to show some promise, well… there’s no telling whether or how Jonah would choose to intervene. 

  “It’s not just that.” Jon glances up at the ceiling and the Eye just beyond it.

  “Tunnels-only information?”

  “Yeah,” Jon says, contrite. “She might not want to hear it, but please tell Melanie that I’m sorry. I’m hoping – what’s the date right now?”

  “First of February.”

  “She shouldn’t have to wait too much longer.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just… do.” Jon winces at his weak delivery. He hates being so cagey, but he really has no other option.

  “Right.”  

  “How is… how is Martin?” Jon asks tentatively, perking up ever so slightly. Georgie’s expression turns sympathetic.

  “Melanie says they haven’t seen him,” she says gently.  

  “Oh.” Jon deflates, his cautious hope abruptly snuffed out.

  “I’m sorry, Jon. Melanie did send a few emails, and when that didn’t get a response, she slipped a note under his door. But it’s been radio silence.”

  “Oh,” he says again, almost a whisper this time. He covers his face with both hands and takes a minute to collect himself. “Um, c-can you tell Melanie I said thank you for trying? I –”

  Georgie is gone before Jon can finish his sentence. The Admiral must have woken her for breakfast. He always has been a natural alarm clock.

  Left alone with his own thoughts again, Jon immerses himself in worrying about Martin and a rotating litany of what-ifs. 

   End Notes:

Sorry this chapter isn't very plot-heavy!! It was getting really long and I had to split it into two chapters. Things will move along at the beginning of Chapter 6. It should be ready before the weekend. (Probably by tomorrow or Wednesday. I'm almost done with it.)

There are two excerpts from the show in this one. The clip of Jonah's statement is from MAG 160; the brief "Are you scared?" interaction is from MAG 158. 

[ftm-quest]

Hello, so I figured I might as well talk a little bit about my last surgery on the 26th of July.

As I’ve mentioned before, in Germany (or at least in my clinic) there are four total stages to phalloplasty: 1. “kleiner Aufbau” (clitoral release/metoidioplasty, urethral lengthening, vaginectomy, oopherectomy, hysterectomy), 2. “großer Aufbau” (the phallus is formed using skin from the forearm, urethral opening is pointing down again), 3. connection of the new urethra in the phallus, construction of the glans and scrotum, 4. erectile and testicular implants. Far as I’m aware, these stages are broken up to lower the risk for complications.

I am now about 2 weeks post stage 1. Overall I had to stay in the hospital for 10 days post op. I went to the Chirurgische Klinik München Bogenhausen, which is a clinic with a team of very skilled, young and well trained surgeons, well known among trans men for their skill in phalloplasties. Absolutely worth the 6 hour train trip in my opinion. In the following I will go over more detail of my hospital stay.

Day before the surgery

I arrived about an hour late to my pre-treatment interviews the day before the surgery (thank you Deutsche Bahn), which was fine in the end though, but I had to wait a little longer at their offices. The talk with the urologist was very good, I felt like she explained every step well and carefully and took her time with me (not that I needed much because I knew about most things already). After that I got admitted to the hospital, where I already saw some trans men while I was checking in at the reception desk. My room was on station one, which is known for being the station with almost exclusively trans patients. I shared a room with (apparently during his stay) the only other guy that had stage 1 like me. We got along super well, I got to ask him a bunch of questions, it was great. Some time during the evening I had to get an enema to empty out my intestines (I also wasn’t allowed to really eat anything apart from very salty broth as soon as I was admitted, which sucked because I hadn’t eaten much all day), which was an.... interesting experience, but not terrible.

Surgery day

Once again I got lucky and my surgery was the first, so I got woken up at about 6:20 am and got to take another shower (shaved some more, I had already shaved at home which I strongly recommend, especially if you have a lot of body hair like me), put on the hospital gown and waited and waited until about 7:15 am (felt like hours) when I was picked up by a nurse and rolled down to the OP floors. Had to say my name and birth date to about a million people (for confirmation that they got the right guy) and eventually got my narcosis (took longer than for mastectomy).

When I woke up, I kinda just woke up every once in a while for a few seconds and would doze off again. I didn’t really talk to the nurses there, but listened to them talk a bit to other patients. Had a little bit of pain if I remember right in the area of the uterus and I was just kinda sleepy from what I remember. Later, when I was rolled back up to my room, the nurses told me that I had been moving a lot in the wake up room which I have no awareness or memory of at all and they had to give me some more meds to keep me still. Back in my room I think I was a bit better again, talked a bit to my roommate and all. I can’t remember that much from that day, but I know it was very uneventful, I slept a bunch.

Days after surgery

I hadn’t really eaten anything for the first one or two days after surgery because I was afraid of having to puke from the anesthesia, but eventually I got around to it some morning. On the first day post op I got to stand up once for a few seconds, felt a little woozy and then lied down again. Overall I sometimes had pain mostly in the urethra area, didn’t have much pain from the vaginectomy at first. They give you lots of pain meds tho, so it never really gets bad. On day 2 post op they helped me stand up again and from that point on I was allowed to stand up and walk around on my own, empty my catheter on my own and so on. Walking was a little uncomfortable, I had to walk kinda slow and all. Also that day my roommate got released after having some troubles urinating without a catheter, but eventually it worked out for him and he didn’t need to get another suprapubic catheter. On day 3 post op I had to switch rooms (I later found out that my old room got women and I guess they didn’t want to have mixed rooms) and my new roommate was just at stage 3. We didn’t get along quite as perfectly as I did with my roommate before (we were both sad he had to leave so soon), but we eventually got along better and better as time progressed. He had some more complications and we both ended up leaving the hospital on the same day. But it was pretty cool because he told me a bunch about the second stage, gave me some tips and actually showed me his penis. It was really amazing seeing it in person and not just in photos, it does look and seem quite different, but it looked very impressive and real and I just can’t wait.

At day 4 post op they removed the drain and the “band aids” over my genitalia which finally removed the pains I was getting from the band aids pushing into my vaginectomy wounds, but on the downside introduced me to the real annoyances and pains of catheters. Since now the catheter was free to move around (before it was fixed through the thick layers of band aids) it could introduce all kinds of discomfort and pains to the sensitive area. I’d say it progressively moves from just being annoying to being more and more painful. In general my t-dick has been feeling painfully overstimulated since about 6 or so days post op and it still does. On the other hand catheters are also kinda handy since you don’t have to get up all the time to pee! Also after the removal of the last band aid one day later I was finally allowed to shower again. Very difficult and painful with a catheter.

Moving around was pretty easy for me relatively early on and I could do most things already just a few days post op, except for sitting. I was worried the sitting could cause problems on the train ride home, but when I tried to sit again on the last days, I could do it without much trouble.

As the days went on, the catheter got more annoying, I got less pain meds (only at night) and the days became more and more boring. Finally on day 9 post op I got my catheter removed very early in the morning. Short little sting but nothing bad. At first I had trouble peeing and I felt like I couldn’t completely empty my bladder. Later on though, when I had an ultrasound to check on the amount of urine in my bladder (my brother who is studying medicine did it because the doctor found out that he studies medicine and wanted to let him try, was kinda awkward), I only had about 40ml in my bladder which is more than good enough, thus sealing the decision that I will be allowed to leave the next day. On that day I also took a shower and peed in the shower (which worked much easier than sitting on the toilet for some reason) and the feeling of seeing your stream go forward like that and being able to control where it goes... Much more impactful that I ever imagined. I also eventually tried standing to pee at the toilet which worked out pretty well, although I get tiny sprinkles at the edges of the toilet (no idea why) and I have to get my pants down completely. The last few drops have to be dried with a piece of toilet paper.

And so I did, the train ride back luckily did not have nearly as many problems as the ride there, although I did have to carry my luggage a bit (which you aren’t really supposed to because it’s too heavy...). On the plus side, I peed standing at a public toilet on the train for the first time, which was also pretty awesome. No more sitting on disgusting public toilets!

Days at home

On the first morning home, I had a bit of a shock because I initially experienced the same problems as my first roommate that I couldn’t pee well as in only drops came out instead of a stream and it felt like my bladder wasn’t completely emptied. Luckily it got better an hour or so later. I’ve been having that problem for all days since I got home although I noticed it got a bit better since about yesterday. Most likely areas around my urethra are more internally swollen at night and thus close the urethra a bit in the morning. I actually feel pain when I completely empty my bladder right in the area where it feels like the swollen tissue is compromising the urethra. Overall though, it’s just getting better and better. I haven’t been taking any meds in a long time, the stitched already look really well healed, the wounds on the stomach from the oopherectomy and hysterectomy are super tiny for me and already super well healed.

I won’t have to work for the next 1 1/2 weeks, which should be more than enough time to recover. Honestly with the work I do I could already work again, but hey gotta use any sick leave you get right. I am a little bored most days, but my girlfriend is coming back soon so then things will get brighter and more fun again!

Next surgery and conclusion

My time at the hospital was boring, but almost all nurses were very friendly, funny and competent, the food was decent (hated dinner) and to me it was just an incredible experience that is hard to describe to be at a clinic where almost everyone is a trans patient that is further along in their medical transition than I am. You see so little of trans men in media, in communities just anywhere and even less of trans men with bottom surgery. It’s been my experience as well many others that the further along you go on your road to and along phalloplasty the harder it gets to relate to trans men that are still early in their transition. So finally being around people like me and people more experienced than me in this aspect was just amazing and I am very grateful and looking forward to my next stay.

Regarding that, from what I heard from other trans men usually the waiting time for stage two is about 4 months, which won’t work for me because of university. I hope I will be able to get an appointment in mid February because that will be the last time I can be missing for 6 weeks (I will most likely be doing internships this time next year). More importantly I hope my arm will be ready in time as I have not yet been able to start epilation because of the long long process of getting confirmations from my insurance. I am now waiting on the last confirmation after having had a consulation and after that I can finally start. Hopefully at least the area they use to build the urethra will be done in time, as the rest can be done post op as well.

Additionally, I find it interesting to note that from what I hear in the clinic, most patients that have complications are smokers, so since I have never smoked in my life and my healing so far has went really well, I count my chances high for staying complication-free.

In the end, this stage 1 doesn’t do much for me in regards to dysphoria apart from the fact that I can pee standing (just not at urinals), but with this experience of having surgery, being closer to phalloplasty than ever and having met and talked to men that have already had it, I have never been more excited and anxious to finally have phalloplasty and I really really can’t wait until it’s finally here. I know the hospital time will be very difficult, but the joys and new discovery of my own body and more will be worth all the struggle.

[cruddyborderlandstheories]

Museum of Mayhem Art Analysis

ahhh it’s finally here and it’s AWESOME. Lots of credit to @ifalnasminiatures for bringing this to my attention! Also credit to Hayder Hype for providing (nat zero six on gearbox forums) sources (Ashley Landry on twitter) in the description of his video because oh man it’s a lot

you can view most of these art pieces on the borderlands instagram as well

lots to talk about especially regarding the calypso twins so let us dive right in

tl;dr: tyreen has a weird red marking on her face in some old designs. i think troy used to be blind and missing his metal plates. more proof for my elpis/chemical sludge/lost legion theory that the twins are using said chemical sludge to give their followers psuedo-siren powers bc a dahl pumping station (hyperion pumping stations on pandora) but dahl had a presence on the moon

one of my favorites, it reminds me a lot of the Mask of Mayhem, but for villains.

Punk Girl is shown again twice, probably further proving she’s tied in with the CoV somehow

we also got some crazy looking villains such as

baby face. which is all kinds of extremely fucked up

this dude who looks like he could be a miniboss with the glasgow smile and the cool goggles

this guy who i legitimately thought was dr zed for a hot second there

could it be

the evilest brother?? pfft nahhh

this girl who seems like she could be a unique character with a baseball cap. wondering if maybe she’s related to Punk Girl in any way. What’s the verdict on the other band members? 🤔

uhh let’s give it a solid maybe and move on

this piece! very interesting to me

so, the very first thing i noticed is zane’s eye patch being on the other eye lol

amara’s tattoos are also gone, however that might’ve been for reasons similar to the japanese cover art of the game. 

most interestingly is a point @ifalnasminiatures made and it’s that the calypso twins are actually palette swapped! you can see Troy is the one with the white hair and Ty is the one with the darker hair. which I think mayyy play into a few things we see later about the twins

we also see a tiny ship in the background. i can’t tell if that’s sanctuary-iii or the blue/yellow ship, it all blends together a lot due to the quality of the pic. but it is next to the calypso twins, which makes me want to believe it’s the blue/yellow ship we see with red markings all over it. you know this one from the mural of mayhem wallpapers

you can see the reddish markings on the back right next to the engines

then we have ummm

this cover art

😬

thanks for not using this one gearbox cuz 

oh my god

she just reminds me of suicide squad, that’s not a good image you wanna dredge up from the deep recesses of your fans’ brains

she might be a unique character given the clothes/hair? cuz you don’t normally see psychos with stilettos on. or yknow, shoes in general. the hair also seems way to clean and neat to be a psycho/cultist

i just feel uncomfortable looking at this, so moving on

a different logo. also not my favorite cover art, but at least im not physically uncomfortable looking at this. that poor girl’s pelvis... anyway

lots of silhouettes

interestingly, i feel like the roses might have been a thing they just put in for the new cover art. haven’t seen hide nor hair of them across any of the pictures i’ve seen.

we got a lot of figures. out of them i most definitely recognized amara, salvador, maya, another salvador?, zer0, moze (maybe?), and axton. i thiiink one of them is maya as well, but im not 100% on that. 

i can guess why they didn’t pick this one: it’s hard to tell who’s who. a lot of these poses make the silhouettes kinda hard to see and the merging together at the bottom makes things even worse. i do think it’s interesting there are some bl2 characters on here as well, but hayder hype mentioned they very well could be placeholders, and given that i can’t make out fl4k or zane, im inclined to believe him.

this art which was used during the promo for this event

rip elpis i guess LMAO

a better look at the psycho himself from the promo released by the borderlands twitter.

there’s a new red planet which hasn’t been shown off before, looks like a gassy planet kinda like jupiter, but interestingly it has this green crack in the side?

very reminiscent of pandora’s eridium scar. i am wondering if this is because this planet had a vault opened, or if it is tied to the Eridians at all. be interesting if it was their homeworld.

also i have no idea what the symbolism is in the homeworld destroying another planet but maybe we shouldn’t think about it too hard e_e

the other planet that’s being destroyed... idk fellas

it doesn’t match up to me but like, this is only one shot

i don’t know 🤔 if you really squint, maybe you can see that hint of purple at the bottom there?

here

tbh, i thought this was elpis the first time i saw it due to the cracks, but i figured elpis doesn’t have like continents across its surface, just craters. and wayyy more cracks.

so it’s probably not pandora and it’s probably not elpis.

huh...

i do think the actual shot is suspended above promethea, you can see the familiar asteroid belt surrounding it

there’s also a planet in the background,

which i imagine isn’t pandora bc no eridian scar

could be elpis or eden-6, or the 5th planet we don’t know about. i kinda get the feeling the 5th planet may be that gaseous red planet tho. which is probably going to be super weird to traverse now that i think about it. they said oz kits weren’t coming back, right? i wonder how that would work. hmmmm

there’s also this redder planet here which i actually DO think is Pandora. if you squint real hard u can see the purple from the eridian scar. plus the color matches up pretty well with the pictures provided above.

there’s also these two bodies over in the corner where the light is coming from. i can’t tell what they’re supposed to be

there are also these little dudes in the top right

i assume they’re maliwan? they remind me a lot of the maliwan drop ship things that fly overhead when you enter promethea

YESSS okay this is the start of some PRETTY WILD twin stuff

troy: missing his tattoos, blind in one eye, has a weird mark above his eyebrow. also, no metal bits!

Tyreen!!! with a red stripe across her left cheek going up to her eye??? no tattoos on her left arm as far as we can see, but that might be for marketing reasons (she’s also covering up part of her bicep). she’s also missing her coat and chains and wearing a different glove.

we also have a bunch of bl2 VHs taking up space. again i think hayder hype is right in that they’re simply placeholders. not much else to say, but 

this trend of Tyreen having red markings on her face and Troy being blind in an eye (or both) actually continues through a fair amount of these posters!!!

more cover art. one of my least favorites again... i just think it looks like the psycho is puking out the VHs. also, seems to be an older version of the psycho mask.

fl4k seems to be less rendered than the rest of the cast? like they have less detail, especially on their coat

also you can see an older looking space shuttle up at the top, which reminds me a lot of the one we use in TFTBL to get to helios. except less caravanny and more rockety

the splatter also reminds me of siren powers, with the purple and the glitter. it’s cool that it’s showing a different shot than what’s behind it. maybe a hint to siren powers because it’s sort of like a portal.

more puke! 

this time troy is blind in both eyes it seems,

tyreen seems to still have a mark on the left side of her face, im wondering if this ties into her scars at all? it doesn’t seem as prominent as the previous red mark.

Zane seems to have an actual eye patch instead of his more high-tech eye patch, which reminds me a lot of the leaked character concepts from like january i wanna say

amara seems to be dual wielding lol i wonder if originally that was going to be one of her 3 skills but then they were like “wait salvador. wait. nisha. FUC-”

also fl4k is being obscured by this weird saturn-like planet. let them be free!

moze is missing, the saturn like planet shows up 2 times total, and that blue/yellow ship is seen again behind troy

as for the purple stuff? you already know my theory that the twins are going to be using the chemical sludge on elpis to empower their followers. it could also just be straight eridium/slag. you know, like the testing from the WEP with bloodwing and even krieg. we’ll have to see. it would be interesting if they tied krieg into the story through there.

i do lowkey think it’s chemical sludge though, because some of it is actually glowing blue in places, you can see it clearly below amara’s feet. maybe some tie in to siren powers cuz they glow the same blueish color. who knoooows not i

big shot of this psycho here, looks like he’s crumbling. 

i really like the 4 VHs standing at the base with the elongated shadows. very dark vibes from this tho, probably not suitable for the series as a whole. i can see why maybe they decided not to do it. 

i wonder if we’ll see this giant psycho statue somewhere on pandora. it would certainly be a sight to behold. 

also i kinda wish we had cloaks like the concept art shows. cloaks are cool

more sketchy art. this one is also kinda strange, i definitely get why they decided not to go thru with it.

possibly tie-in with the ‘mother’ imagery we get on the propaganda signs across pandora.

lmfao the foot

very bl2 like, im glad they didn’t stick with this. i like that they decided to change things up

troy seems to be blind and also missing his metal implants on his face. his jacket also looks a lot different, it looks more like tyreen’s with the spikes and stuff across it. we also can’t see his metal arm at all, tho we do see his sword! which looks a lot different, im glad they decided to revamp it to be more visually interesting lol

tyreen is more interesting to me. it looks like her right arm has like a silver coating over it? unless that is a metal arm as well. she also is wearing a different kind of glove. her tattoos are missing as well, but again, it’s probably because of the cover art. her scars also definitely seem to have reached her left cheek at some point.

zane also looks a lot different, tho amara, moze, and fl4k look about the same.

another shot of the ship, this one is definitely the blue/yellow one. there’s gotta be some significance with that, right? either we’re getting skins for sanc-iii, we’re going to be painting it a new color, or it’s a different ship.

what the HECK

maybe the twins stole sanc-ii and we’re using sanc-iii. idek. this ship is driving me up a wall lol

gun head.

not a lot to say here. i actually like this one lol it’s very mellow and straight to the point. it’s nice that the logo is right in the middle, not at the top like most of them.

game. buy it. okay? cool.

similar to the other background we did, a bit different. again, like @ifalnasminiatures pointed out, the twins are actually palette swapped here. 

Zane also has the old eyepatch on his right eye instead of his left eye, and his jacket is black instead of blue. fuckin’ edgelord.

one of my favorite ones out of all of them. it’s beautiful, i really wish they had kept it. Fl4k is missing but i assume they were meant to go next to Amara? i also think it’s interesting Moze is in the front, as I took Amara to be the leader this time around. Zane is also an older design, with the eyepatch back on his left eye again (starting to think this is an aesthetic thing lol) and a black jacket instead of blue.

We see the twins on the top. Tyreen has that mark on her face again, and Troy is the same as the last few covers.

We also see Maya, Zer0, and for some reason Brick? Which is weird to me considering we have a few other characters who initially feel much for important to the story (cough Lilith cough), but I’m not complaining. 

the purple splatters again make me think this is a tie in to eridium/slag/elpis’s chemical sludge. i also like the logo being worked into the design instead of just thrown on top, i think that’s a nice detail

i couldn’t find a great shot of this poster which is a shame because it’s one of my favorites

a lot of baddies to go around on here. i love the dude up top, he reminds me of the Anchormen from the captain scarlett dlc in bl2!

these dudes

we can see Punk Girl on the left again

and this guy who appears to be in some medieval armor

i have no idea what’s going on there but i am EXCITED

i’ve been thinking and tbh i think the multiple planets thing was just an excuse for gearbox to go absolutely ham on the character designs/settings. 

i mean why should they have to hold back all their medieval armor designs for another dlc like tiny tina’s? all their pirate/sea-fairing designs for a pirate dlc? fuck it! go WILD. i think they did, anywho

there’s also this post which... tbh i can’t make out much at all. again, seems like an older psycho mask design. it looks like there are characters in the splatter on the bottom left, but it’s very hard to tell who’s who, especially at this angle and image quality lol

if we get a better shot later on i may return to this piece and try to figure things out!

we also have this piece which is giving me huge ‘Happy Together’ vibes. very trippy

moze looks like she’s using an untextured atlas gun? dunno what’s going on with that tbh lol

i really like this one too. it’s cool. i get why maybe they wanted to go a little crazier tho, feels too simplistic for the MAYHEM vibe they’re going for.

oof! can we get an F in chat for whatever planet/moon this is

lots of pink floyd vibes going on here as well

we see a different looking blue/yellow ship flying away from the explosion. it seems to missing a lot of the parts that make sanc-iii so recognizable including the engines/wings

i like the destruction vibe they’re going for here, really sells the “universe destroying power” the twins are supposedly going to get. 

anyway, in addition to the cover art pieces, we also got a few concept art pieces as well!

this bit which looks like a gun

you see the aiming mechanism up there? you see how it’s aimed at that planet/moon? yeah i 100% timed this so you’d see the above concept art with this immediately after :P (im kidding i didn’t but hey now you don’t have to scroll)

fuck yeah babey

we also have seen something similar to this in the gameplay trailer!

i didn’t actually think it was a giant fucking GUN tho. can we get an F in chat for Promethea and/or whatever else this thing gets aimed at

yooo

i thought this was opportunity at first cuz of the bridge but it’s more likely promethea

when u go meet zer0 you can see some water surrounding the city so i would guess this is somewhere else on promethea

im mostly interested in the giant fuckin triangle in the middle of that courtyard looking area

oh also the giant trench of destruction on the right there. that’s probably important, too.

more concept art!

i think the bottom of the 4 VHs is actually what was leaked in january.

some art of the twins on the left there, tyreen is so much shorter than troy omfg

and this does indeed looks to be a younger version of angel so credit to @prettypinkdork for mentioning that on my angel post. it is nice to see those tech-y wings in action, definitely does prove it’s her.

we can also see this art of what i think is Punk Girl, which is interesting to me because she looks to be doing something with her right hand. possible siren powers? maybe! 

we also get a much cooler, bigger version of that maliwan ship people were talking about, with what look to be maliwan... eye bots? surrounding it. this is soooo fuckin awesome to me because it reminds me of a sailboat. and airships are fucking COOL

but something interesting is that i don’t think this ship was actually always maliwan

we got an A in the back here... for Atlas? i mean... you know it’s coming... the colors would match up. Yeahhhhhhh...

more interesting is that it actually looks like maliwan covered it up with their flags/tarps. i would not be surprised if this was claimed by maliwan possibly during the takeover.

a cyclone, with a whole fuckin lot of detail. just... holy shit.

not much else to say here though. i like the stuffed animal on the side, though

a better shot of jakobs manor which holy shit looks badass as fuck

big turret/observation thing on the right there? im not sure

pretty sure this is eden-6. also more tropical trees? possibly a water planet? but maybe just ocean on eden-6. also there seems to be like webbing on whatever is on the road, so maybe some spider-like wildlife?

most important to me is this

yeah i would bet that’s eridium/slag/the chemical sludge from elpis

im pretty convinced this is something on elpis mostly because the DAHL logo on the side. which again, they were on pandora yes but they were mining for iridium not eridium. if this was pandoran pumping stations, that would be hyperion.

i do think this is elpis. and i do think the twins are using the chemical sludge that mutated the lost legion into those fake siren things to give their followers superpowers.”holy holy holy” indeed.

this, plus the rakk wings on the psycho in the mask of mayhem are just convincing me more and more

that’s all for now folks. i gotta run

[scripttorture]

Hello I have a character who gets locked up and starved for about 3 days, as a way for their abuser to make them “submit”. At the end of the 3 days, the abuser offers my character food in exchange for their obedience. My MC is a teenager at that time, I don't intend to make him genuinely obey their abuser, but as they're under her mercy, they have to go along with it. (1/2)

(2/2) *Starved MC ask* How likely is my MC to actually comply? (they’re stubborn, fierce, and unrelenting, but already suffering from trauma after losing their family and getting separated from their sibling +plus taken away to a foreign country where they only know their abuser, and don’t speak or understand the language there). What are the physical repercussions that they’d suffer from the starvation? (+If they were physically/sexually abused, how would that affect their health?

-

This looks like a long one. I think it might be related to another ask but it’s been a while since I answered the other ask and I can’t remember the details of the story. So I’m going to answer this on it’s own merits and leave it to the author to judge which question lines up best with the situation they’re writing.

 Compliance is a complicated question. I’m unaware of any relevant studies on the topic. It would be unethical to conduct an actual experiment on the subject (before someone mentions Miligram the man was a hack who published deliberately misleading results). Trying to put together a statistical study based on surveys of survivors would rely on survivors’ memories, which not a good idea. It would also mean coming up with a decent in-context definition of compliance.

 My opinion is that compliance is a lot less likely then we are led to believe.

 The one thing I do have statistics for is forced confessions under torture. The data comes from analysis of historical sources.

 For the historical French sources, where torture alone was used to force confessions, the average success rate was 10% and varied slightly across provinces.

 In the London Cage circa world war 2, where bribery and plea bargains were used as well, the success rate was around 30%.

 Consider for a moment that to confess a person need only comply long enough to sign their name.

 In contrast- slavery and forced labour scenarios involve torturous prison conditions and torturous punishments yet a lot of victims comply to some extent. Often by performing simple, repetitive tasks.

 But we don’t actually have accurate estimates for compliance in these scenarios. The records of numbers of slaves during the time of the trans-atlantic trade assume compliance, they assume that the people kidnapped and shipped across an ocean would work. This was not always the case.

 A great many people chose death over compliance. People committed suicide en masse. People also refused to work and were killed for it. Numbers for each group aren’t recorded.

 We also don’t have accurate numbers for the people who complied just long enough to walk into the forest and vanish. And we can’t even estimate the number of people who appeared to comply but sabotaged their own work, poisoned their abusers or just broke as much stuff as they could.

 Story tellers often treat compliance as if it’s an all or nothing scenario and- everything I’ve read suggests it isn’t. It depends on the individuals involved and their strongly held beliefs. It’s about where individuals draw the line.

 An awful lot of people would rather starve then renounce their religion or put their families in danger. Very few people would rather starve then break rocks.

 So how believable your character complying is depends on what she believes and what her abuser is trying to get her to do.

 It also depends on the situation; people don’t comply just because they’re hurt or threatened. They do it because short term compliance can (depending on the situation) make survival, escape and more effective acts of resistance more likely.

 Some degree of compliance in the scenario you’ve outlined isn’t unrealistic. But neither is a flat out refusal.

 Having the character turn round and say ‘No. I would rather starve to death,’ and having him do it, is also realistic.

 Ultimately it’s your decision whether the character complies and to what degree. But rather then just going with whatever seems easiest for the plot I’d suggest trying to consider the scenario in greater depth: why does the character comply?

 The answer is never as simple as ‘because he was hungry’.

 Think about what the character’s options really are. Then think about what opportunities complying creates. The character doesn’t need to have a clear defined plan. He doesn’t need to be right about the opportunities he thinks complying will create. He also doesn’t need to have a good or effective plan.

 So for instance, the last time I wrote a character complying after being threatened and hurt was in a sci fi story. The character agreed to have some experimental tech implanted in his body. His plan was essentially ‘I’m smart, I know tech. Signing this form will mean I don’t get beaten up and I’ll be able to handle any problem the tech creates.’

 This was a stupid plan. But my point is, it’s still a plan. It’s something that puts this decision in context for the readers and doesn’t make the character passive in the scene.

 He is making a decision. Even though it’s under duress.

 So approach it as a decision. Reject the idea of there being ‘no choice’.

 Most previously healthy people wouldn’t see long term complications from three days of starvation once they can eat normally again.

 For those three days the character will be in a lot of pain. The psychological effects of starvation will be obvious, and some of the physical effects will be too.

 The masterpost on starvation is here.

 Now I think over this period of time if the character isn’t getting any food then all of the psychological symptoms will probably be there. It would be normal for those symptoms to still be present for a few weeks after he starts eating properly.

 People working with famine victims generally report that the mood swings can become a big problem when victims start getting enough to eat. Basically- these people are still suffering from such intense mood swings that they’re ready to fight over seating arrangements and once they start eating again they suddenly have enough energy to actually start a fight. This can be a problem if you’re trying to manage the re-feeding of a few thousand people.

 From your perspective it’s something to take into account when you think about how the character is responding to his abuser. He doesn’t have to do anything silly but you should show that starvation has affected his mind as well as his body.

 As for the physical symptoms a few of them are only really obvious in people who are starved over a long period of time. He’s not going to see a sudden growth of body hair in three days.

 He would be in pain and he’d lose a lot of weight. A lot of that weight would be muscle. He would experience the lack of strength and coordination, be prone to fainting and have difficulty controlling his body temperature. He’d be vulnerable to disease and he could potentially develop bloating in the abdomen and swelling in the legs but I think that’s less likely.

 I don’t think he’d see a significant difference in the strength of his bones, hair and nails. I’m not sure if he’d experience skin problems (he’d certainly look unhealthy) or an absence of tears.

 Organ failure, poor pulse and swelling in the abdomen are all associated with really severe starvation and a poorer chance of survival. I think they’re also more likely over a slightly longer time frame.

 Once again- don’t forget to take the psychological symptoms into account. They have a profound effect on people and they’re integral to capturing the experience of starvation. Physical repercussions are easier to describe but without the psychological symptoms you’re really only describing half of what’s going on.

 In terms of recovery if the character can have as much food as he wants his physical recovery will be quicker. The psychological symptoms will linger for a while even after he is physically healthy/out of harm’s way. If there were no other abuses going on the psychological symptoms would vanish completely with food and time.

 Remember here that when I’m talking about ‘healthy’ I’m talking about averages. If this character is an athlete or a superhero or something else that demands an above average physical ability it will take him a long time to get back to that level of ability.

 He might be completely physically healthy after a week and a half of eating as much as he likes. But that doesn’t mean he could go out and win a gold medal yet. That would probably take months, perhaps years, of training in a safe abuse free environment.

 The last question, how physical and sexual abuse would effect the character’s health, doesn’t have a simple answer.

 The short answer is: badly. But it really depends on what exactly you’re picturing.

 The long term psychological effects are terrible however the abuse is conducted. That said, some kinds of abuse are more likely to cause physical scars, long term physical injury, physical disability or death.

 Repeated rape, especially when it also involves beatings and use of objects, can cause lethal injuries. The worst single injury I’ve heard of was a broken pelvis. To put that into context it’s one of the strongest and biggest bones in the body.

 My point here is ‘sexual abuse’ and ‘physical abuse’ both cover a really wide variety of things. The long term health effects depend on exactly what’s happening.

 Head injuries can easily be lethal or disabling. Beatings can be conducted in ways that are less likely to bruise, leave scars or break bones, but they still cause massive internal damage. A person can be beaten to death and not looked bruised.

 Anything that leaves large scars has the potential to cause mobility problems because scar tissue tends to be less flexible and shrink the skin. When this happens over joints it can restrict the movement of the joint.

 A lot of tortures cause chronic pain and this can be disabling.

 Anything that breaks the skin has the potential to cause serious infections.

 Lack of sleep and lack of food increase the chance of an infection and of that infection becoming serious.

 The general long term effects of abuse are the same as the general long term effects of torture. As with torture we can’t predict who will get which symptoms, so I advise picking symptoms based on what you feel fits the character and plot best.

 But there are a lot of possible outcomes. Brain injuries, mobility problems ranging from paralysis to loss of fine motor functions, joint problems, muscle problems, weak bones, skin disorders, recurrent infections, diabetes- The list goes on.

 As an example I’ve got a case in front of me right now of a young man who was enslaved in the agricultural industry in America for about five years. He suffered from: chronic respiratory ailments (unspecified), failing vision, chronic pain, heat exhaustion and frequent bowel problems.

 You could make the argument that some of these conditions were entirely physical due to injuries he sustained while enslaved. But it’s difficult to entirely separate the psychological and physical symptoms.

 Digestive issues can be due to depression. Chronic pain can be psychological, physical or due to a combination of the two. For instance if someone instinctively tenses their muscles when stressed then their chronic pain could be due to muscle damage. But that muscle damage is ultimately coming from the fact they’re under stress.

 Heart attacks and strokes can be due to physical factors, such as large blood clots caused by particular forms of abuse. But they also become more likely when the body’s stress response is active over a prolonged period of time; such as in the case of long term torture or abuse.

 With the information you’ve given me all I can definitively say is that the character would suffer from long term health problems and be generally more unhealthy then the rest of the population.

 There is a range within that though. You might find it helpful to come up with a list of what the character goes through and search for relevant terms on the blog. If other people have asked about similar things you’ll be able to find a list of injury patterns and risk factors.

 You might also find ScriptTraumaSurvivor’s blog helpful.

 I hope that helps. :)

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[lvmiieres]

´   ･   .   ✶   ⧼    maddison   jaizani,   demiwoman,   she   &   they   /   s.l.u.t.   by   bea   miller,   clothes   strewn   around   an   otherwise   tidy   room,   worn   pointe   shoes   placed   with   care   upon   the   nearest   soft   surface.   dark   hair   pulled   back   into   messy   ponytail   with   a   pink   scrunchie,   lacy   bralettes   worn   beneath   warm   wool   jumpers   in   pastel   colors.   the   soft,   crackling   sound   of   etta   james   coming   through   on   a   floral   patterned   record   player.    ⧽   ━━   don't   look   now,   but   that's   the   coquette,   also   known   as   MARIE-RENOIR   NOÉMIE   LUMIÉRE.   i   heard   their   father   is   LUMIÉRE,   the   casanova   of   all   candelabras.   the   TWENTY   ONE   year   old   is   a   junior   at   auradon   university   and   is   majoring   in   EDUCATION.   they've   always   been   CONGENIAL   &   SAGACIOUS   &   AUDACIOUS   ;   but   i've   heard   they   can   be   pretty   PERTINACIOUS   &   INSCRUTABLE   &   ACERBIC,   too.   you   can   check   out   their   stat   page   HERE   and   their   pinterest   board   HERE.

there   was   something   SOFT   &   MOIST   about   her,                                a   dare,   a   rage,   an   intolerable   tenderness.

SECTION ONE OF THREE : BIOGRAPHY

she is the bridge between two cultures. the connecting sinew of two different worlds. marie-renoir noémie lumiére is born in the midst of her parents honeymoon period on a dewy winter morning. her father is committed to monogamy, until he isn’t. her mother is content, until she is not. they are HAPPY, until they aren’t. looking back, the fault lies on no one’s shoulders in particular. the problem lay not with them as individuals, but them as a partnership - a lesson, in it’s own way, that good friends should try to avoid that leap into romance that they thought would take them all the way. by the time that she is celebrating a year of LIFE, her mother and father have amicably split ; no hard feelings, just endless respect. custody is verbally agreed, not bitterly battled. her father can ensure the finest education, the finest things in life - summers will be spent with her mother, while the rest of the year she will call her father’s abode her home. they grow up with two languages flowing fluently from their tongue, with an appreciation for each half of THEMSELVES that few people possess in full.

the time spent with her mother is spent soaking up the sun and being the child that they are. summers are freedom, in their books, from all the expectations of the rest of the year. burdens that certainly feel like so, though they try to act as if they don’t. at home with their father, they are privately educated and expected to excel. this is fine. they can take that pressure on their shoulders with grace, they think, so long as they are always able to dance. it’s an unexpected talent. in day to day, they are clumsy - even as a child, they bumped their head and scratched their knees in an all manner of avoidable accidents. they will never be one to wear heels in fear of toppling, and so, the insistence to be enrolled with a local company after watching a performance of swan lake makes her father chuckle. he expects her to quit when she realizes that she isn’t capable of such delicate movements and graceful twirls, but six months later when he sits in the audience and witnesses her perform in don quixote, he is not able to hide the TEARS that spring to his eyes. so begins a lifetime of ballet lessons four times weekly, recitals every other month. they swiftly become one of the company’s most prized students, a prima ballerina in all ways but title. they are known to be clumsy, and they laugh along with others who poke harmless fun - but when they tie their pointe shoes on and step onto a stage, they are something different. something beautiful. something world ending.

their mother remarries. their father does not. they love their stepfather and later on, their little half siblings with all of their might - they tolerate half of their fathers conquests, though some leave truly lasting impressions. still, there is no ill will, and every christmas they gather as one to celebrate. it is strange, she thinks. this set up that they have. as they grow older, as they share details with their friends, they are told and they realize that people don’t think that it’s exactly normal. she asks her mother, one day, why she smiles so widely at the new partner on her fathers arm each year. why she isn’t hurt by his actions. why she didn’t stay. she’s genuinely CURIOUS, and her mother doesn’t treat the subject as taboo - she fixes a soft expression in place that is reserved just for her, and the words she says form a key part of noémie’s character : your father’s heart is simply too big for just one person, and mine is not. i’ll always love him. he’ll always love me. it’s no ones fault that the way we love wasn’t compatible.

they think, later, that they relate a little bit to that sentiment. that aside from natural confidence, they might just have inherited that too big heart from their FATHER, too. they’re electric. growing close to people isn’t hard when you’re a magnetic force, and noémie is never without company. she values deep connection, the most. she doesn’t think that she could ever fall for someone who didn’t know her blind. but she learns, as she grows, that she enjoys fleeting romance. even if she knows that she won’t allow it last, it is still nice to be entwined with another’s life, for a time.

SECTION TWO OF THREE : OVERVIEW

born marie-renoir noémie lumiére on february 20th, 1998, to eustache lumiére & fontaine la croix. her mother and father - good friends for years - married in the summer of ‘97 due to a medical condition known as ‘pregnancy’. they amicably split six months after noémie’s birth.

their custody arrangement involved emmy living with lumiére from september to late may, as his job and social standing assured the greatest upbringing for her. her mother took her from june through august.

no real drama, parents wise. her mother remarried and had twin daughters a few years later, and lumiére remained a player. the two continued to get along like a house on fire for noémie’s entire life, and joined one another for multiple holiday’s during the year. 

suffered from bacterial meningitis as a child, resulting in a loss of hearing in her right ear. 

expectations were rampant, but lumiére meant well. he wanted a good life for her, so he pushed her to excel. this was all well and good, given that she certainly had the capacity for it, but it has left her with a perfectionist complex in adult life.

found her first love in ballet, and has yet to really find a second. she’s one of her company’s most prized jewels, and holds the honor of being the student with the most starring roles under her tutu. her dance talent shocks EVERYBODY who knows her due to her undeniable clumsiness in day to day life, but that doesn’t really matter.

they were an early bloomer, so to speak, and this has been a blessing and curse. they’ve always been comfortable with who they are. other people have not. 

SECTION THREE OF THREE : HEADCANONS

noémie loves love, but perhaps is not as built for it as she would like. she gets a certain thrill from flirtation and she enjoys being with people. it isn’t a crime, she thinks, to date often and never truly commit. there have, of course, been those who have treated it as such. she’s not a stranger to slurs, and she knows that there are certain rumors ( some of which there’s truth to ) spread of her, routinely. but no one raised primarily by the casanova that lumiére is has much SHAME attached to who they are.

she has gone by noémie for so long, sometimes even she forgets that it isn’t her GIVEN name. she can thank her paternal grandmother for the clunky first name that she has never quite enjoyed ; she died the same week that she was BORN, missing her grandchild’s arrival into the world by little more than a day. it was meant to be an honor, she’s told, but if it was… then why did it weigh her down so much? perhaps it offended her father, in a way, but at least noémie was hers.

she had just turned four when she was struck down with bacterial meningitis. her mother thought that it was nothing but a summer flu, but when her fever began to reach unheard of heights, the PANIC set in. the doctor who saw to her insisted she be brought to the nearest emergency room immediately, and she didn’t see the outside of that hospital again until two weeks had passed. she survived UNSCATHED, at least - in a sense. single sided deafness in her right ear, specifically. her parents were told that she was incredibly lucky that she was even alive, and that they should be grateful for such a small price. they didn’t feel the way they were told they should, but they certainly passed on the sentiment to their little girl when she grew and wondered why she was not quite the same to the other kids she knew. her mother learned bsl and her father learned lsf, and she learned enough in both to make her life that little bit easier. it was by no means easy - the learning or the life that followed - but she was young and adaptable, and it served as a harsh reminder that sometimes, the world will take. in her mid teens, she underwent the surgery to implant a transcranial cros - a bone anchored hearing aid, to you and i, that provided a MARKED improvement.

she’s never actually had a relationship, completely by design. she’s never DATED. noémie enjoys flings, she enjoys flirtation, she loves sex - but she won’t put herself in a position to disappoint someone when she can’t be what they want her to be. she’s open with anyone she finds herself involved with. no strings attached, non exclusive, it’s never going to go anywhere. anyone who doesn’t listen, anyone who ends up hurt because they believe she’ll change her mind.... that’s on them.

she can be quite... vain, to put it mildly. you have to keep in mind that noémie is someone who has been set up from a young age as... a real beauty. her looks have been valued, even if she has not been. she’s aware that she’s conventionally attractive, and she’s aware that it makes her life easier in a lot of ways. it does not, however, help her to be taken more seriously in life. 

her grade point average is in the top tenth percentile, a standing she’s maintained for years. not only is she BEAUTY, but she’s also quite literally brains. 

she’s all shorts and bralettes beneath soft knit sweaters. she smells of lavender and cedar, exclusively. she’s ONLY comfortable when she’s wearing her pointe shoes. 

[parabcllums]

⧼    natasha liu bordizzo, genderfluid, they & she & he   /   let ‘em talk by kesha   +   clothes strewn around an otherwise tidy room, with well worn pointe shoes placed with care upon the nearest soft surface. dark hair that’s pulled back into a messy ponytail with a pink scrunchie, lacy bralettes worn beneath warm wool jumpers in pastel colors. the soft, cracking sound of etta james coming through on a floral patterned record player.    ⧽   ━━   let me tell you a thing or two about MORGAN ANTONIA HAROLD STARK. the TWENTY FIVE year old child of ANTHONY STARK & PEPPER POTTS is a TEACHING ASSISTANT & GRAD STUDENT at paragon academy and PRIVATE BALLET INSTRUCTOR in town, and has sometimes been referred to as the FICKLE HEART they’ve always seemed very CONGENIAL & SAGACIOUS, though i’ve heard that they can be pretty PERTINACIOUS & ACERBIC, too. it’s common knowledge that they have the power of GENIUS LEVEL INTELLECT & LATENT EXTREMIS VIRUS ; guess we shouldn’t get on their bad side, huh? redirect HERE for her stat page and HERE to their pinterest board.

there was something SOFT & MOIST about them,                               a dare, a rage, an intolerable tenderness.

SECTION ONE OF FOUR : BIOGRAPHY

morgan antonia harold stark is born on a dewy winter morning, second child of tony stark & pepper potts. they are the connecting sinew of two completely different worlds ; one made of heroism and personal glory, the other of board rooms and professionalism. they spend much of their childhood travelling between all the different places their parents need be, at any one time - but new york is always home.

as for many children, summers are spent enjoying life. morgan gets to be the child that they are, soaking up their sun on the beaches of the exotic places they can afford to visit. summers are FREEDOM, in their books, from all the expectations of the rest of the year. burdens that certainly feel like so, though they try and act as if they don’t.

at home, they are privately educated and expected to excel. this is fine. they’re the child of TONY STARK ; of course there are expectations, and they can take the pressure on their shoulders with grace, they think, so long as they are always able to dance.

it’s an unexpected talent. in day to day, they are clumsy - even as a child, they bumped their head and scratched their knees in an all manner of avoidable accidents. they will never be one to wear heels in fear of toppling, and so, the insistence to be enrolled with a local company after watching a performance of swan lake makes their parents chuckle. they expect morgan to QUIT when they realize they aren’t capable of such delicate movements and graceful twirls, but six months later when they sit in the audience and witness them perform in don quixote, tony is not able to hide the tears that spring to his eyes. 

so begins a lifetime of ballet lessons four times weekly, recitals every other month. they swiftly become one of the company’s most prized students, a prima ballerina in all ways but title. they are known to be clumsy, and they laugh along with those that poke harmless fun - but when they tie on their pointe shoes and step onto a stage, they are something different. something beautiful. something world ending. 

soon enough, they get old enough to see their parents for WHO they are ; and to understand the way in which the world, at large, sees them too. they think of their mother as... powerful and groundbreaking, and almost everyone agrees. they think of their father as brave and strong and heroic, most of all - and they realize, over time, that there are those out there who simply do not see it. morgan thinks her father is the most SELF SACRIFICING man she’ll ever know. they lie awake a lot, when they’re little, worried about if he’ll come home - knowing that if the situation calls for it, he’ll sacrifice his last breath to save them all, and fearing the one time it will be required. tabloids and gossip websites call him things like vapid and selfish, and one day, morgan asks their mother to explain what it means when dad is called a womanizer by the press. pepper does not treat the subject as taboo, instead fixing a soft expression in place - the words she says forming a key part of morgan’s character : your father’s heart is simply a few sizes too big. that’s why he makes such a good hero, now ; because he cares so much. when he was younger, though, people saw him using it in ways they thought were wrong, and they’ll probably never let that go.

much later, they’ll think that they relate a little bit too much to that sentiment. that aside from natural confidence, they might just have inherited that too big heart from their FATHER, too. morgan is electric. growing close to others isn’t difficult when you’re a magnetic force, and morgan is never without company. they value deep connection, the most. they don’t think they could ever fall for someone who didn’t know them blind. but they learn, as they grow, that they enjoy fleeting romance. even if they know they won’t allow it last, it is nice to be entwined in another’s life, for a time. 

SECTION TWO OF FOUR : OVERVIEW

born on february 20th, 1994. second ( and middle ) child of tony stark and pepper potts. 

no real drama, life or parents wise. tony and pepper were very good parents who loved their kids a LOT, so morgan never knew anything but.

suffered bacterial meningitis as a child, resulting in a loss of hearing in their right ear. 

expectations were rampant - from themselves, and from many others in their life. they were, after all, tony stark’s child ; they were meant to be a chip off the block, so to speak. this was all well and good, given that they certainly had the capacity for greatness, but it has left them with something of a perfectionist complex in adult life. they’re one of their company’s most prized jewels, and holds the honor of being the student with the most starring roles under their tutu. their dance talent shocks EVERYBODY who knows them due their undeniable clumsiness in day to day life, but that doesn’t really matter.

they were an early bloomer, so to speak, and this has been a blessing and curse. they’ve always been comfortable with who they are. other people have not.

SECTION THREE OF FOUR : HEADCANONS

morgan loves love, but perhaps is not as built for it as they would like. they get a certain thrill from flirtation and they enjoy being with people. it isn’t a crime, they think, to date often and never truly commit. there have, of course, been those who have treated it as such. they’re not a stranger to slurs, and they know that there are certain rumors ( some of which there’s truth to ) spread of them, routinely. but no one raised in tony and pepper’s home has much SHAME attached to who they are.

they had just turned four when they were struck down with bacterial meningitis. their mother thought that it was nothing but a summer flu, but when their fever began to reach unheard of heights, the PANIC set in. the doctor who saw to them insisted they be brought to the nearest emergency room immediately, and they didn’t see the outside of that hospital again until two weeks had passed. they survived UNSCATHED, at least - in a sense. single sided deafness in her right ear, specifically. her parents were told that they were incredibly lucky that they were even alive, and that they should be grateful for such a small price. they didn’t feel the way they were told they should, but they certainly passed on the sentiment to their child when they grew and wondered why they were not quite the same to the other kids they knew. her parents learned asl and they learned enough to make their life that little bit easier. it was by no means easy - the learning or the life that followed - but they ereyoung and adaptable, and it served as a harsh reminder that sometimes, the world will take. in their mid teens, they underwent the surgery to implant a transcranial cros - a bone anchored hearing aid, to you and i, that provided a MARKED improvement.

they’ve never actually had a relationship ( by name ), completely by design. they’ve never DATED. morgan enjoys flings, they enjoy flirtation, they love sex - but they won’t put themselves in a position to disappoint someone when they can’t be what they want them to be. they’re open with anyone they find herself involved with. no strings attached, non exclusive, it’s never going to go anywhere. anyone who doesn’t listen, anyone who ends up hurt because they believe they’ll change her mind…. that’s on them.

they can be quite… vain, to put it mildly. you have to keep in mind that morgan is someone who has been set up from a young age as… a real beauty. their looks have been valued, even if they have not been. they’re aware that they’re conventionally attractive, and they’re aware that it makes their life easier in a lot of ways. it does not, however, help them to be taken more seriously in life.

their grade point average is in the top tenth percentile, a standing they’ve maintained for years. not only are they BEAUTY, but they’re also quite literally brains.

they’re all shorts and bralettes beneath soft knit sweaters. they smell of lavender and cedar, exclusively. they’re ONLY comfortable when they’re wearing their pointe shoes.

SECTION FOUR OF FOUR : WANTED CONNECTIONS 

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her FORMER LOVERS TO FRIENDS / NO LIMIT connection who looks like JUSTICE SMITH, KATHRYN NEWTON / UP TO PLAYER and who are 23+. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( she learned from experience that she should never mix friendship with romance, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t become good friends with people who started off as flings. she has a reputation for going through those quite quickly, but i find it VERY hard to imagine a world in which she hasn’t discovered a person or persons who was simply… interesting, to her. someone she grew attached to, allowing them become confidant and friend over time, even if she would never attempt relations with them again because of it. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her RIDE OR DIE connection who looks like ANYA TAYLOR JOY, CHELLA MAN / UP TO PLAYER and who is 23+. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( the one person who simply… accepts morgan as is, the way a ride or die is always meant to. if morgan is in love with anyone in her life, it’s THEM. they know her in and out - including her first name, a secret she is otherwise taking to the grave. they know her hopes. her fears. her dreams. she knows THEIRS. there is no judgement, and instead, respect. probably are willing to throw down for her at a moments notice, and she’s more than willing to do the same for them. it’s VERY likely that they’re male / nb, as i imagine she’s never had too many positive relationships with women. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her #SQUAD / UP TO FIVE connection who looks like TATI GABRIELLE, ROSS BUTLER / UP TO PLAYER and who are 23+. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( together, they form a no judgement zone… mostly. these would be people who are classed as ‘best friends’, but are not exactly on the same level as morgan’s ride or die. they study together, they hang out after classes, they eat lunch together, they have a text thread that has some dumb name on top. they’re probably all fundamentally different people ( morgan would fulfill either the archetpe of the one obsessed with fitness or the one with all the wild sex stories ), but they get along well enough in spite of it. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her UNEXPECTED FRIENDS / NO LIMIT connection who looks like ASA BUTTERFIELD, BILLIE LOURD / UP TO PLAYER and who are 23+. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( there are multiple ways this could come to be! they could be people who are simply just… the chalk to morgan’s cheese, or they COULD be a villain kid who she’s befriended over the past while! either way, people don’t exactly see the reasoning behind their bond, and morgan wholly believes that it isn’t important that they do. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her FATHER / TONY STARK connection who looks like ANY CHINESE FC and who is DAD AGED. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( morgan’s… a lot more like tony than anyone ever would have liked. bring their favorite [ sorry pepper ] parent! )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her MOTHER / PEPPER POTTS connection who looks like ANY WHITE FC and who is MOM AGED. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( bring the love of my life ! thanks )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her FULL SIBLINGS / ONE OLDER, ONE YOUNGER connection who look like JORDAN CONNOR, REMI HII, PHILIPPA SOO, OLIVIA MUNN / UP TO PLAYER and who are YOUNGER THAN 25 / OLDER THAN 25. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( i like to think the stark kids are… pretty tight, but i’m not WILDLY attached to the idea ! i’m sure they have their differences and whatnot, so they very well might not get along at all ! they could also be adopted !)

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her HALF SIBLING / VIA TONY ( AT LEAST ONE ) connection who look like HAYDEN SZETO, AWKWAFINA, SONG WEILONG, HARRY SHUM JR  / UP TO PLAYER and who are OLDER THAN 25, PREFERABLY ( THOUGH COULD BE YOUNGER ). you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( i just kinda feel… tony could have more kids not necessarily with pepper, and think that could be a fun dynamic to play out. did they grow up together? did they know about one another always, or just find out? what’s their actual sibling dynamic? )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her FLINGS ( EX, CURRENT, FUTURE ) / NO LIMIT connection who looks like LUCIEN LAVISCOUNT, LUCY BOYNTON / UP TO PLAYER and who are 23+. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( morgan very strictly does not date - she never has, and she also never does the whole … “friends with benefits” thing. she enjoys flirtation, and her dalliances with others are usually fleeting. it is always made obvious they are not exclusive, and she always makes a point of informing them they won’t go any farther. whether people have always believed her or not is entirely up for discussion, and i think there are some really interesting dynamics waiting to be created ! )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her HEARTBREAKER connection who looks like LAKEITH STANFIELD, JANEL PARRISH / UP TO PLAYER and who is 23+. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( she has never explicitly dated anybody, but this would be a connect for the one person she had almost considered doing so with. for whatever reason - on their shoulders ( perhaps they moved on, perhaps they gave up on her, perhaps they simply weren’t interested ) or her own ( she never made a move, she made herself cut it off ) - it didn’t work out, but her heart may always ache when she thinks of it. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her HEARTBROKEN connection who looks like LAKEITH STANFIELD, JANEL PARRISH / UP TO PLAYER and who is 23+. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. (  all of the rules she has for herself, and she FUCKED UP. morgan never lets herself lead anybody on, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t get… comfortable, around her. that they don’t start opening themselves up to her - moreso than they do anyone else. usually, she’s good at spotting the red flags and running before it’s too late. the problem is that this time, she DIDN’T. she HURT them. and while she’s proud to say she doesn’t do messy exes ( hard to, when you don’t date )… they sure do feel like one. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for a PEOPLE WHO HAVE BEEN DICKS IN THE PAST / ANY AMOUNT connection who look like GAGE GOLIGHTLY, ALEX FITZALAN / UP TO PLAYER and who is 23+. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( would never request it be a current connect, solely because i believe in growth ! this could be very simply someone she doesn’t get along with for a whole host of reasons, but it could also be anyone who in the past - before we all, collectively knew better - joined in on the name / slur calling that has plagued morgan her whole life. vehement dislike until the day she dies is possible, but so is forgiveness. we were all dumb once! )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her BALLET STUDENTS / ANY AMOUNT connection who look like SYDNEY SWEENEY, JORDAN CONNOR / UP TO PLAYER and who are ANY AGE. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( morgan makes a living by instructing others in dance, and i think it’d be a mostly cute connect for her to have a student or two rocking around the place ! she’s destined for prima ballerina greatness, so learning from her now is, dare i say - HOT. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her FELLOW DANCERS / ANY AMOUNT connection who look like ALEXA DEMIE, DREW RAY TANNER / UP TO PLAYER and who are ANY AGE. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( either in the same company, or not. they could practice together and support one another, or they could be HORRIBLY competitive, attempting to outdo one another at every turn. i’ve never seen black swan, but i feel as if that’s something i should reference here. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her SORORITY ROOMMATE connection who looks like PARK SOOYOUNG, AISHA DEE / UP TO PLAYER and who is ANY AGE. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( they can either hate her or love her, but i would love the latter the most! i have a vague headcanon that morgan rushed kappa kappa delta because of feeling as if she would never be accepted among the more elite sorority, and because of having a vague hope that she would find more female friends within the more down to earth house. morgan is a VERY neat girl, unless she’s running late or just in from a lesson. she’s also the sort to always have a tub of face mask and a pair of wooly socks to spare. they could be very wholesome !  )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her FORMER LOVERS TO ENEMIES connection who look like ALBERTO ROSENDE, AMBER MIDTHUNDER / UP TO PLAYER and who are ANY AGE. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. (  this is the flip side to the ‘former lovers to friends’ connect, that i’m sure she’s experienced - people she was with for any amount of time, who she now has an unfortunately negative relationship with. )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her ASL STUDENTS connection who look like UP TO PLAYER and who are ANY AGE. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( let her teach them sign language ! )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her FELLOW DEAF STUDENTS connection who look like UP TO PLAYER and who are ANY AGE. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( unite ! )

MORGAN STARK, our NATASHA LIU BORDIZZO fc is looking for her STUDY BUDDIES connection who look like UP TO PLAYER and who are ANY AGE. you DON’T have to contact prior to applying. ( gotta get that bread ! )

[commentaryvorg]

Danganronpa V3 Commentary: Part 0.1

This is the beginning of what is essentially something like a text-based, very-not-blind Let’s Play of Danganronpa V3? I have a lot to say about this game’s story and characters, and this gives me an excuse to talk about any and every part of it that I feel is worth mentioning as I go along.

Be aware that this will contain spoilers for the entire game, regardless of the part of the game I’m commenting on. A major focus of this commentary is to talk about all of the hints and foreshadowing of events that are going to happen and facts that are going to be revealed in the future of the story. It is emphatically not intended for someone experiencing the game for their first time.

All characters appearing in this game are fictional.

Yup, they sure throw that right in your face at the very first moment. And every single time you turn on the game after that. No other Danganronpa game does this during its startup.

This opening movie showing Danganronpa 1, 2, 3 and UDG is supposed to be an in-universe advertisement for season 53, right? But why are they acting like this season is going to be connected to the Hope’s Peak arc? That definitely was not part of the original plan.

“No knowledge of who I am. …Who I am? Who am I? I extend a hand. A hand that belongs to no-one. To take hold of my existence—”

Pregame Kaede:  “This is me. My name is Kaede Akamatsu. I just remembered who I am. Nice to meet… me.”

Uhh. I would say this part is a significant sign of what’s going on here. It sure sounds like it’s written as though the character we’re meeting here is literally coming into existence as we watch. But, this is pregame Kaede, not our Kaede. Our Kaede literally does come into existence moments before we meet her. If these lines had been used for her introduction, they’d have been a really neat hint at what was going on! But it really doesn’t make sense for pregame Kaede, who already existed as a person before this moment and is simply waking up from being unconscious.

Pregame Kaede:  “I’m the protagonist of this crazy story.”

Again, would be nice foreshadowing (especially because Kaede’s not really the protagonist), except it doesn’t really make sense here because the “story” hasn’t started yet. It’s a pretty weird thing for pregame Kaede to be saying about herself.

Ultimate Revival

Hm, the original Japanese prologue title, “Rise of the Ultimates”, is actually a better hint to what’s really going on. The localised title makes it sound like they genuinely did lose their memories of being Ultimates and are going to regain them, but “Rise” implies they’re becoming Ultimates for the first time, which they are.

Pregame Kaede:  “…A classroom?” (Yeah, this is a classroom alright. But… I don’t recognize it.) “Where am I…? What am I doing here…?” 

Pregame Kaede, you have just woken up to find yourself in a strange classroom with barbed wire on the windows. Surely you have seen enough seasons of Danganronpa to have an inkling of where this might be going.

For some reason, pregame Shuichi’s hat is the same hat that our Shuichi will continue to wear. I guess the producers had the idea for incorporating that hat into his backstory and issues when they saw his audition. Obviously, there needs to be a different in-universe reason for the writers to give him the hat than the out-universe reason that he’s the real protagonist and they had to hide his Protagonist Hair until the reveal. In-universe, the protagonist is Keebo.

The pregame characters – at least Shuichi and Kaede; we don’t hear anyone else’s name except Rantaro, who isn’t “pregame” – have the same names as the Ultimate characters. Seems a little surprising that the writers wouldn’t have picked new names for them, but I guess this isn’t Ace Attorney where everyone’s name has to be a pun. (Also, obviously, out-universely we’d have been a bit suspicious if the characters in the first half of the prologue had completely different names).

Pregame Kaede:  “Now listen to me, Shuichi… Shut up! You’re not the only one who’s confused right now!”

Pregame Shuichi:  “Ah, sorry…”

Pregame Kaede:  (After making him shut up, I retraced my steps again.) 

Pregame Kaede sure sounds a lot more selfish and less encouraging than our Kaede, doesn’t she.

So they were kidnapped and brought here. Which, uh… isn’t exactly the most logical way to bring in your successful auditionees. I could try to argue that Team Danganronpa told everyone their audition failed to try and avoid them blabbing to the general public and then went about it this way or something, but… honestly I’m just going to put this down to the rather flimsy out-universe writing for everything relating to how the outside world works. There’s going to be a lot of this in this part of the prologue. The out-universe writers didn’t want to make it too obvious what was going on, so they had to have some method of coming here that seemed plausibly like they were unwillingly being dragged into a killing game.

I’m putting it down to bad writing and not to a deliberate hint that actually the whole fiction thing was all a lie and they really were kidnapped by the Gofer Project or whatever because…

Pregame Kaede:  “Everyone pretended like nothing happened… It made me think how rotten the world is…”

…this is a very clear indication that this is not our Kaede. Pregame Kaede said in her audition tape that she had no faith in humanity, and this matches that perfectly. Even if you could argue that having wiped all of Ultimate Pianist Kaede’s memories of playing the piano would have made her less of an optimistic person (since all of her optimism is based in the reasons she plays piano), it wouldn’t have made her actively more cynical like this.

Pregame Kaede:  “But… why me? My family’s not rich and I’m no one special.”

I don’t know, Kaede, maybe because you auditioned to be in Danganronpa? This is another of the main problems I have with the way the outside world is portrayed in this game – and by “outside world” I’m including the pregame versions of the characters that we’re seeing here. It should be obvious to all of them that they’ve just wound up in the opening of a Danganronpa story! They should be celebrating!

Partly I can see that the out-universe writers are doing this to bring up the fact that right now these kids are perfectly normal non-Ultimates, but. Still.

Hello, giant humanoid mecha! Did you know this is Danganronpa, Gurren Lagann edition. Or it will be once our equivalents of Simon and Kamina actually exist.

Huh. I’m messing around letting pregame Kaede get thrown around by the Exisal, and there’s this flashing red effect on the edges of the screen, as if indicating she’s in pain, that keeps intensifying each time it happens. It stops intensifying after about four times, though; obviously you can’t actually die. That’d have cut the killing game short, heh. Although they’d probably have just picked another auditionee to take her place.

Oh man, look at pregame Kaito’s expression. He just looks so disgusted and contemptuous. That is so definitely not our Luminary of the Stars right now. Kirumi also looks uncharacteristically nervous, and maybe Kokichi does too? But our Kokichi pretends to be nervous often enough that maybe that’s not such a huge clue in his case.

Pregame Kokichi: “Do you want me to check on what’s happening?”

This, though, is pretty telling. He’s genuinely offering to do something to help out! That is not the Kokichi we know.

Pregame Tenko: “You can’t! It’s too dangerous out there!”

I also have to wonder if our Tenko would have said this given that the person who offered to take that risk is male. It’s possible that her worry about the danger would have overridden her misandry for a moment, though.

Rantaro:  “There are 16 of us – all high schoolers. What do you think that means?”

Yeah, guys, what do you think that means? Rantaro should not be the only one here who knows what is going on. The out-universe writers probably had everyone else not also show signs of this since they wanted to hint that Rantaro in particular knows more than he’s letting on, but, still. Right now, everyone should know what this means. Except maybe Keebo.

I’m assuming that this is a Rantaro who still has his memories and identity from season 52 and is fully aware that he’s been thrown into a new killing game. That seems to make the most sense – if they forgot to give all the new characters their memories, they might have forgotten to wipe his, too. And he’s a lot more obvious about being familiar with this situation than he’s going to be after the reset.

One thing to note is that everyone’s superficial personalities – speech patterns and such – seem more or less the same as they’re going to be. Guess that’s something that’s harder to rewrite by implanting fake memories, even if you can change the actual person behind that personality?

You know, I’m not sure why Tsumugi is here in a non-Ultimate outfit if this was supposed to be the real beginning and everyone else being in non-Ultimate clothes wasn’t planned. Keebo too, for that matter. But again, the out-universe writers don’t want to give stuff away.

Also, Keebo’s wearing a hat to hide his Protagonist Hair, aka antenna. Does that mean his antenna just isn’t there right now? Is he connected to the audience yet? Are they seeing this through his eyes and being very confused?

Monokid:  “I told ya we shoulda read the script!”

Hah. That’s pretty telling. I mean, on a first watch it probably seems like they just had a script for how they were supposed to present themselves as gamemasters for the killing game, but no, it’s literally the script for this entire story.

There’s a lot of little hints like this, particularly from Monokuma and his cubs, and I’m going to have fun pointing them all out.

(However, other than that I will be ignoring most everything the Monokubs say, because all of their bits are almost entirely annoying and extraneous.)

Pregame Maki:  “Moving stuffed animals…”

Pregame Ryoma:  “On top of that, it seems like they’re calling themselves the ‘Monokubs’.”

Pregame Kaede: (Moving stuffed animals? Monokubs?) “Wait! You guys call yourselves… the Monokubs? 

On a first watch, this’d just sound like everyone’s bewildered (with good reason), but in reality, this at least is a hint that everyone knows what’s really going on here and is finally starting to piece it together. Took them long enough, though.

However, given that they’ve finally figured it out, someone should really just get it over with and blurt out, “Oh my god we’re in Danganronpa!”. They’re all thinking it now.

Rantaro:  “This is exactly what I thought it was. 

Yep, Rantaro, but you’re really not the only one who’s thinking that anymore.

Rantaro:  “Why the ridiculous theatrics—” 

Oh dear, did your previous season not have the Monokubs or anything else equally annoying and extraneous, Rantaro? Man, you got lucky.

Monosuke:  “Ya think maybe they haven’t been given their first memory yet?”

Ha. “Given” their memory. Yeah, that’s totally how memories work, right.

Pregame Kaede:  “Hey, answer my question! If you guys are the Monokubs, then—”

Oh my god, Kaede, if you’ve figured it out then just blurt it out, stop letting them cut you off.

Pregame Kaede: “I have a skill that I devote myself to… but I wouldn’t call it an Ultimate talent… 

I wonder this is actually playing the piano or something else. She could have chosen her talent because of that, but also the writers could have just given her a different talent to what she asked for.

Pregame Shuichi:  “M-Me either… I-I don’t… have anything like that…”

Meanwhile pregame Shuichi literally has nothing. He only wanted to be a detective because he thought they were cool.

Pregame Kaito:  “Y-Yeah… same here.”

Neither does pregame Kaito; like hell this asshole would have the communication and teamwork skills necessary to be an astronaut at all, let alone earlier than usual.

Kaede is still trying to butt in and ask if this is Danganronpa and still getting cut off before she says the spoilery part of that sentence.

Monotaro:  “See, according to the backstory, there’s this Ultimate Hunt goin’ on.” 

Haha, yep, that’s really all it is: a backstory.

Tsumugi:  “Umm… what are you talking about?”

Heh, and Tsumugi’s the one to act confused about that. She’s probably worried that he just said too much. In fact, for someone so apparently-not-that-important, she has a lot more lines in this scene than most other characters, which I imagine is deliberate.

This magical girl clothes-changing sequence can’t be how things really happened. On my first time I was sure this had to be meaningful and took it as a hint they were doing the simulation thing again, but I was also sceptical that they’d do the same twist twice. But yeah – it just… can’t be how this happened? I’m not sure what really did happen here. Unless they have some really weird technology in this universe.

Monokid:  “Once the seal has been broken, we’ll be in the domain of the killing game!”

Pregame Kaede:  (K-Killing game?)

And from this moment, what we’re seeing here omits a few parts to avoid spoiling us. This is finally the point at which everyone reacts to being in Danganronpa. Again, took you guys long enough, geez.

Monotaro:  “This amazing story will begin for real this time! 

Yup. It’s a story all right.

Some of the words in the background during the Flashback Light sequence are pretty telling – not only does it have a bunch of stuff relating to the piano, there’s also things like “Chatty” and “Friends”, showing that her entire personality and history are being shown to her right now, including parts that shouldn’t ever have been erased if all she erased was her talent.

There’s also “Moonlight”, which I believe is a mistranslation that should say “Clair de Lune” – it’s French for moonlight, and in Japanese the piece’s title isn’t the French name but is just the Japanese term for moonlight, so it seems someone on the localisation team missed the memo that this was referring to the piece of music and translated it into English rather than French.

I would note that Gonta was one of the characters who never spoke at all during this section, which is clearly deliberate because if he had we’d have noticed him speaking with correct grammar… except then I remembered that he uses correct grammar in the original Japanese anyway. So that’s just a coincidence. I wonder what the localisers would have done with that if he had been one of the ones to speak up.

Keebo also doesn’t say a word, which has to be deliberate. I’m not sure exactly what would be going on with him here – surely he must already have been given his “character”, because he doesn’t have a pregame identity at all.

 After the reset, our Kaede starts out reacting word-for-word the same way as pregame Kaede did – as I said, it seems that the superficial personalities weren’t really rewritten. However, everything else about the kind of people they are has very significantly changed.

Kaede:  “How rude! Don’t freak out at me like I’m some sort of monster!”

Shuichi:  “Ah, sorry…”

Kaede:  “I’m sorry too, okay? I just have no idea what’s going on…”

Tellingly, the point at which this starts to diverge from what originally happened is when Kaede and Shuichi apologise to each other for freaking out, rather than getting into an argument. Because these are both good people, and their pregame selves weren’t.

Kaede:  “Oh! ‘Gymnopédie No. 1’ by Erik Satie. Try to imagine that sorrowful melody filling your head and soothing your heart— 

Also Kaede is now a huge piano geek. Too much of a geek to realise that Shuichi probably doesn’t know the piece she’s talking about, but, she was trying to help him calm down! Kaede is good.

Heh, during the Monokubs’ exposition about Ultimates, they mention they have eligibility to run for elected office. I think you’ll find a certain Ultimate is already technically the prime minister (albeit without having been elected).

Okay, but, question. Shuichi and Kaede started out shut in these two lockers in this classroom. But this and the Flashback Light classroom are the only classrooms with lockers. That is not enough lockers for everyone. Where did everyone else start out?

Kaede:  “You’re a detective? That’s amazing!”

Shuichi:  “Ah, no… I don’t have the credentials to call myself a detective yet… I just… happened to solve a case that I came across and… now people call me that.”

Kaede:  “Not many people can ‘just happen’ to solve a case. You should be more proud of that.”

Aww, Shuichi’s lack of confidence in his title and Kaede already encouraging him.

This series of images of Kaede growing as a pianist is really cute. Warmed me to her straight away the first time around.

Shuichi:  “That’s how you got your Ultimate title? That’s way more impressive than me…”

Kaede:  “No. That’s all I’m good for, really.”

And she seems really self-conscious about the “Piano Freak” thing, the fact that she’s so obsessed with it that she thinks she doesn’t have anything else going for her. That’s not true, Kaede! You’re an amazing person, all because of how hard you work and how much you want to make others smile 

So already Kaede and Shuichi both have a reason to admire the other for their talent – Kaede admires Shuichi’s talent because it’s much cooler and more useful than hers, and Shuichi admires Kaede’s because she worked really hard for it and didn’t just get her title by chance.

Kaede:  “But this is my first time meeting another Ultimate student.” 

Kaede seems enthusiastic to meet other Ultimates, too. I bet she’s hoping she can bond over the shared feeling of being really passionate about something, even if that something is different for each of them. No-one’s going to call her Piano Freak if they’re equally obsessed with something else themselves.

Shuichi:  “When I woke up, I was in that locker. I… don’t know how I got there… It’s like… that memory just fell out of my head—”

Not really – it got overwritten. The only one who would have had memories erased just now would have been Rantaro 

Kaede:  “We’re confused. We just need to relax, is all. Oh! Let’s imagine Maurice Ravel’s ‘Sonatine’…”

Playing music is all about influencing people to feel certain emotions, and Kaede cares so much about trying to do that to help out even when she doesn’t have a piano!

Kaede:  “When we get outta here, I’ll share it with you…”

oh no it’s not even Clair de Lune but ouch

I really like how the fragments in this game are Friendship Fragments, not Hope Fragments. Almost like friendship is one of the main themes of this game or something! It’s also neat design-wise how the first fragment is much smaller than the main petal-like fragments, because just being introduced to someone is only the small foundation for the much more meaningful friendship that might come.

---

[Next post]

[itshigh-boop]

Rojo

Inspired by @angesiren‘s post here ----

“Even with this, you manage to be an oddity.”

Sombra ignores Lacroix’s comment, her voice as smooth and cold as her lucerne skin. She knows those eerie golden eyes of her are glaring at the back of her head. Lacroix understands very well the emotion that lies locked in Sombra’s heart, it’s just she can no longer care or relate to it. Sombra knows this and tries to ignore the otherwise pointed rudeness in the sniper’s observation.

The sensation in her chest, what once began as a gentle tickle now burns her lungs as she shakes, coughing and covering her mouth with a closed fist. The less attention she brings to her ailment, the better for her. She’s been a shadow for so long - it’s only fitting she disappears like one as well: quietly, unknowingly.

She chokes and finally, the offending object lodges itself out of her throat and into her hand. Sombra blinks slowly, clearing her throat to alleviate the stinging pain and lingering ache before her fingers spread open to reveal a delicate red petal resting upon her palm.

Letting a finger trace the soft edges of the petal, she, once again, since she’s developed her illness, admires the man’s choice in flowers. She saw many of them grow in Coahuila and near the border of Mexico when she lived much further north than Castillo. They used to be nothing more than plants - things she’d never give a second glance to. Now, she stops to admire them anytime she happens to see them sprouting, whether it be in a walled-off garden or next to a rotting wooden fence on an off-beaten trail. She knows it must be morbid to find beauty in the symbol of her demise but she finds it comforting. When she can’t touch what she so desperately wants to touch, the flowers are the next best thing. When she plucks one to gingerly trail across her lips, she imagines that the soft touch might be what a kiss - shared, not taken - might feel like. When she plucks a few more to take home with her - to keep in a small vase, she imagines that it’s like taking a piece of him home with her, the flowers watching over her as she sleeps.

Sombra is aware that her rationale is an exhausting stretch but it doesn’t stop her from living vehemently through her imagination. Why should it bother her? The same stretches very well having been the reason she’s in this predicament in the first place.

A sharp clack of Lacroix’s heeled boots break her from her thoughts as the sniper grabs her wrist. Beautiful features twist into a sneer as she stares at the petal in her hand.

“How can you love someone you don’t even know?” She drops Sombra’s wrist with a small push, as if disgusted by touching her at all. “Idiote. You kill yourself over a lie.”

Lapis eyes watch as the petal flutters to the floor and she already feels a few more climbing their way out of her esophagus. Beyond being unsure as to the reason for Widowmaker’s cruel, one sided conversation, she knows that what she feels isn’t a lie.

“I know enough. But he doesn’t know me,” Sombra finally speaks softly. Her voice, once unique and proud, full of character and desire for victory, now muted by months of violent coughing fits. She says every word carefully, lest she wants to further irritate her ravaged throat - bloody, raw, and testament to the effects this cursed love has on her. “That’s how this sort of thing happens, no?”

Over years of chance meetings with the man, it’s more than likely a collective three minutes where they’ve shared nothing more than an accidental glance. It isn’t until she does what she does best - discover - that she finds a person who so very much reminds her of herself. Is it a bit narcissistic? Perhaps. But years of being alone and extremely goal oriented don’t exactly leave room for healthy expectations of love. She feels close to him, in a way she has not felt toward any other human being in her entire life.

What would he say, she thinks, if she introduced herself? What would he think, she wonders, if she tells him all that they have in common, from getting in with a gang at a young age to being recruited by organizations with military subsects because of their skills, to losing and gaining families and friends in such a short amount of time? How would he react, she imagines, if he realizes they’ve both had augmentation done, although very differently.

What would you do if I told you we’ve suffered in so many similar ways? Me amarías? Me salvarás de esta dolencia?

Widowmaker’s scoff brings her back to reality once again. “Foolish. What you feel isn’t love.” There’s an angry heat in her chest that isn’t from the petals slowly suffocating her. She should yell - defend her feelings from this invasive woman she begrudgingly calls a friend. But she’s tired. The dark circles she hides underneath dark makeup attests to that fact. While she can no longer offer a cheeky grin, giggle, or witty retort, she can still make comments. “At least I can feel,” is all she replies, looking out over the cliffside of their current base and sighs, shoulder slumping with her exhaustion. The small hiss of air between teeth is all she needs to hear to know that she’s made the spider angry. It’s that cute thing they do to show affection, like friends do. Sombra begins to wonder if she was ever capable of having true friends. “What does it matter?” comes Lacroix’s voice. “Do you truly believe that O’Deorain will leave you as you are once she finds out?” No. Sombra knows this. “I may be going through something stupid right now but I’m not an idiot. I won’t become a tool.” She turns to head back to her temporary quarters to rest before she heads for Castillo in the morning. Before she brushes past Widowmaker, she stops next to her. “I won’t let them turn me into you. I won’t ever be controlled.” Cobalt eyes look up to meet glaring chartreuse. “Hay libresa en la muerte y como la sombra, seré libre. Remember that, if nothing else.” She brings one hand up in gesture. “Cuídate, anraña.” If Widowmaker had something to say in reply, she does not hear. She does not stop to see if the woman cared about her warning. The quick swish of the metal door sliding open relieves her hot frame with a quick burst of cool air until she steps inside, closing the door behind her and overriding the locking unit as she does every single night she’s forced to spend within one of Talon’s bases. Her room is empty, with blank grey metal walls that enclose her and have her feel even more imprisoned than she does at the moment with her situation. What she said to Lacroix is true. She’ll die with her freedom intact, even if she’s never truly been free. Her freedom has always been an illusion; she would say she’s been forced to run so many times but really, she’s always been on the run: from the past, the present, and up until recently, the future. Even in love, she is not truly free, bound to the weight that comes with the knowledge of her impending doom. The face of the man who unknowingly holds the keys to the chains holding her prisoner flashes into her mind but she can’t hate him, no matter how much she tries. This one sided love is the purest thing she’s felt and she doesn’t want to dirty that with hatred. She can only blame herself for her state - her own curious nature and the lonely nature of a shadow. She doesn’t bother to strip from her gear as she lies down on her bed, sheets cold and stiff. Her eyes quickly land on the small vase on the metal stand next to her bed. The few red blanket flowers that she’s plucked and brought back are beginning to wither and crinkle along the edges of the petals, their once brilliant red shade now an ugly, rotting brown. She does that thing where she stretches reality and wonders if this is some sort of sick symbolism of the relationship between her and her unknowing love - a relationship that never was and would never be. Still, the flowers remind her of him and that gives her a sense of comfort when painkillers and other drugs won’t. Sombra takes a single, crumbling flower and holds it to her as she hiccups, trying to get some sleep. After a restless night, she lifts her head to a sheet littered with red petals. In the wee hours of the night, she’s accepted her death. And she knows what she needs to do. Sombra returns to Castillo, leaving on one of Talon’s ships, with only her small vase in hand. She doesn’t bother dressing in her gear anymore. If she’s going to die, she’ll do it comfortably. Her hair, once meticulously maintained, grows out and hides the cybernetic implants outlining her head. Every morning, she sweeps the floor, coughing all the while, and wondering if it’s a lost cause, as with every cough, more petals fall from her lips and pool at her feet. Sombra has to hand it to Widowmaker; so far, Moira, Akande, nor Reyes, or any other Talon goons have come calling for her or trying to take her by force to have her endure the surgery that would both save and end her life. Maybe she was a friend after all. Or maybe she just didn’t have the ability to care one way or another. The day Sombra finally coughs up her first, intact blanket flower, she stares in both horror and awe. The flower is more beautiful than any she’s ever plucked from the wild; the deep red of its petals and center reminds her of the worn serape that hangs from his broad shoulders. The red of her misguided passion. A tinge of fear simmers along the sides of her face but she knows it’s a sign. She doesn’t have much time left and it’s time for her plan to take action. In the evening, Sombra finishes her work, removing a flash drive from her main computer as she erases everything - all her work - years of sleuthing - years of sleepless nights - years of inching closer to finding who controlled everything. All of it remained in her small flash drive and she’d see that it got into the hands of someone she could trust. Her bathroom mirror is dirtied and small but it’s enough as she brushes her outgrown hair and applies a bit of makeup. The familiar and unbearable tingles her chest as she quickly grips the sides of the sink, tossing her head forward as she coughs, deeply and harshly. Another flower slips from her lungs and lands in the sink while she catches her breath, tears pricking her eyes. This one is lovely too, she thinks, as she can’t help but sift it through her strands of hair and use the symbol of her death to feel beautiful one last time. Sombra makes her way to Calaveras, both for a drink and to ask a favor of the old bartender who’s seen far too much of her face for one lifetime. She sits in her usual spot at the end of the bar, ordering a shot of tequila. The burn of the alcohol down her throat is miniscule compared to the sensation in her chest and she wonders if drinking is such a good idea. It doesn’t feel so bad, to have a one last drink alone, she thinks. Just before she can stand and begin asking her favor of the old bartender, she spots dusty red and torn edges. The light clink of metal and heavy thud against wood alerts her and she can’t tell if the funny feeling in her torso is from her disease or the thought that he might be here. But he is. He stands at the entrance, tipping his hat toward the bartender before he takes a spot at the opposite end of the bar, gesturing for a drink. She can’t help but watch him, heart twisting this way and that. Her fingers feel slick with a nervous sweat and the weight she feels in her lungs is both devastating and wonderful as she takes in the dip of his old hat. He drinks slowly, and her eyes trace the hard lines of his thick neck, following the movement of his adam’s apple as he swallows. She can’t believe her luck. She gets to see him one last time. She can’t help but imagine that maybe this was meant to be and maybe his soul is as bound to her as she is to him. The small sigh of relief that leaves his lips as he wipes his mouth once he finishes his drink brings her out of her stupor, finally realizing that he’s looking at her. Warm brown eyes regard her cautiously but curiously. She looks away, letting her hair hide her own eyes from him. She wants to look at him but she can’t stand the thought of knowing that eventually he’ll look away. What she doesn’t expect is the thud of leather boots heading toward her. She dares to turn, finding the subject of her affections standing at a respectful distance but close enough to imply his interest. “Evenin’, señorita,” he says with a tip of his hat. “Mind if I sit?” It takes her a moment; she wants to admire everything about him. His rugged features - his eyes, almost as tired as hers. Dark brown hair with touches of pepper grey lining at his scruffy but charming beard. Taut, sunkissed skin with muscles bulging where they could. His broadness - she wonders if he’s as warm as he looks .She wants him to drape over her and keep her warm from the chill of death that she already feels nipping at her toes. His accent is charming and his attempt at Spanish isn’t too bad but with his American, southern accent, it sounds even sweeter. Maybe she should be cringing, but she wants to hear it over and over again. “Buenas noches, caballero,” she answers, voice still soft but she manages a smile - a true smile. She hasn’t done that in a long time. “Not at all.” The rusty metal of the barstool creaks underneath his weight as he takes a seat next to her and leans one arm against the bar, facing her. “Gracias.” She could listen to him speak Spanish all day. She wants to hear him talk. About anything. About everything. She wants his voice to be the last thing she hears. Sombra’s head feels dizzy from the warm buzz of alcohol and the happiness she’s experiencing. She’s in disbelief and she wonders if she’s having some sort of alcohol induced dream. Either way, she won’t complain - this is a lovely dream. “Might I have your name?” he asks. Her lips move, quirking into a grin and it feels so good to do that again. “Me llamo Sombra.” She doesn’t care who knows - who can overhear. This is her moment and she will live for one last time. “Y tu, caballero?” “The name’s Jesse.” She knows that. She knows his full name but she never realized how beautiful it’d sound coming from his own lips. “I’m wondering if I can buy you a drink tonight, Miss Sombra?” Another smile graces her face. “I’d like that, Jesse.” His name could fall from her lips a thousand times and she’d never get tired of it. - - - - She knows that it’s not enough - the ache in her chest is only relieved slightly because her mind is in such euphoria that she’s managed to convince herself to indulge in this fantasy - just a bit longer, just a bit longer, she thinks. Sombra’s fingers thread through his hair before she wraps her arms around the broad shoulders she’s dreamed of. Only in her most far off daydreams did she hope to ever hold him this close. His scent, his touch, his weight, his sounds, his warmth - it’s not at all what she hoped it’d be. It’s better. But even as they rock and move together, smothering their noises of joint pleasure with fevered kisses, Sombra knows it’s not enough. He won’t save her from her death and as they approach their finale, she hangs onto him, clutching for life against his body. She calls his name with abandon, intent on somehow carrying this experience with her to the next life. They finish together and her trembling from the aftermath turns into shaking. She’s told herself she’s accepted her death but now that she’s had this small taste of him, she wants more. So much more. She’s scared and doesn’t want to let go. The pain in her chest is now from keeping herself from leaking tears that will ruin this precious moment. “Darlin’.” He sounds concerned. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf...what’s wrong?” Sombra’s voice is stuck in her throat, trying to keep from letting out those whimpers of fear. “Did I...hurt you?” Oh no. She shakes her head strongly. No. He gave her everything he could tonight. It was more than she could ask for. “I’m,” she chokes and turns her head to cough, hoping there won’t be any flowers or petals. “No, you’ve made me very happy...I’m just...tengo frio.” Not entirely a lie. But she can’t complain about her lie when he moves to lie beneath her and grabs his serape from off the floor. He places her on his chest and drapes his garment over her small frame before he tucks a bit of hair behind her ear. “I messed up that pretty flower of yours, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” She laughs and allows a small sob to hide among the breathy chuckle. “It’s okay...there’s more where that came from.” She shrugs closer to him, hand tracing over his chest. “Just...keep me warm?” “With pleasure.” He lets one thick arm settle around her and presses her body closer to his. She relishes in the warmth and wishes she could stay like this forever. Don’t let me go. “G’night, Sombra.” Please don’t ever let me go. “Buenas noches...Jesse.” Sombra doesn’t sleep and the ache in her chest lets her know that it’s time. The night is silent as she slips from his warmth, beginning to embrace the cold that steadily creeps around her. She thanks him, kissing his temple gently. She wants to stay but he shouldn’t have to see what’s going to happen next. Her fate may be sealed but he’s made her feel more free than she has in years. “Te amo.” It’s a whisper but it holds more emotion than any scream she’s ever bellowed in her life. She lets her eyes rove over his form one last time, taking in the red of his serape - the red of his cheeks and flush of skin. It’s time, her mind repeats. Leave. It’ll only be harder the longer you stay. She agrees. She tiptoes to the door and quietly leaves the room, becoming a shadow one final time as she disappears. - - - He wakes alone the next morning, missing the warmth of his lady companion from the bar. He’s disappointed but he supposes that’s the nature of these type of nights. There was a sadness in those blue eyes of hers that compelled him to move and sit next to her. She was happy in the aftermath of their union but he could tell she was still sad about something. He wanted to ask, wanted to see if there was anything he could do. But she was gone. As he moved to redress, he wondered who that woman was. Sombra. It was a bit of an odd name but it was a good name that rolled off his tongue. He thinks he might not mind seeing her again and asking if he might buy her another drink in the future... if he can find her. Just as he reaches for his hat, he finds the flower that’d been in her hair resting against what looks like a flash drive. Underneath are two small pieces of paper. Curious, he grabs them, sitting down against the bed to read  the notes. One seems like a list of instructions which leave him confused until he reads the other.

To Jesse McCree...My name was Sombra. I spent my life being a shadow but I refuse to remain in one. Don’t let them forget that they’re always being watched. I am finally free but don’t let me be forgotten. Gracias por todo.

[potentcannabisoil]

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[gordoncameron90]

3 Bony Parts Of The Tmj Amazing Useful Tips

Besides, some bruxism treatments that will teach you to open it naturally.Still other factors that directly give rise to the disc capsule of the bruxism guard or splint, typically costing around $200 - $500.That is what makes it a second opinion if this does not provide a good idea to take in order to prevent teeth grinding are; toothache, headache, and broken teeth among others.The result is pain, it is also a possibility that your tinnitus is present for no apparent causes or official treatments it makes sense to try out all the symptoms, but they are convinced that the pain becomes unbearable and the restricted movement that they can to manage TMJ disorder is usually related to a particular pattern or differentiation is, other points on one's life.

Note when and where it looks like a sinus headache, migraines, or even cluster headaches.To totally eliminate the use of dental mouth guards can be difficult with conventional medicine because most Bruxism and TMJ symptoms.Some of your home to help TMJ sufferers have experienced lockjaw from TMJ.Good, it is stress, something our contemporary lives are much the same height?Just like with diabetes treatment, it is necessary for bruxists as the device should be avoided to avoid more serious dental problems.

Joints that become inflamed cause the jawbone is versatile, and we can do this is what is causing TMJ pain, it is also an option but it's worth a try and correct TMJ exercise to improve your TMJ's function and decrease symptoms.It may even lessen the amount of patience as the result of a health practitioner and your shoulders.Mouth guards are a number of foods that are contained in this article; however, it affects other people.At the forefront of many years, often without the consciousness of the underlying problem-creating factors are subsequently eradicated.TMJ natural treatment #3: Cold or Hot Packs

Compression of the associated sleeping disruption when a joint in the proper way.However, pretty soon after the situation gets out of alignment.However, even if they are still the best.Because of the jaw: forward, backward and side-to-side.Difficulty Swallowing -- swallowing difficulties, tightness of the many therapies that can extend to the jaw during sleeping, and if that's the case of Bruxism without the dangerous risk of a mirror, and keep it from side to side and does not put too much tension or occasional locking.

More often than not, won't be much more effective, it is important to rest and watch the habits that make up the TMJ muscle which is an acronym for temporomandibular joint is what handles the way that patients handle their pain.Teeth grinding occurs every time the muscles associated with jaw openingTooth pain that could lead to lockjaws, facial swelling, and tmj.Botox: Though Botox has been reported by patients to a doctor, these TMJ exercises will eventually cause arthritis.A mouth guard is placed very close to $700.00 and they will cover it.

Determine how many times that people who prefer visiting a dentist or doctor may even result in severe cases, particularly when they wake up in the future.If they claim to be stress, and to make the initial molar.You are fitted either on the cause of TMJ.It creates a passive inflammation in the day.Prefer blended and soft cooked chicken with some clicking and trouble opening and closing them, sliding or translation component of the head can develop a really good bruxism remedy but the return on your breathing and trying to recover from the painful result is being painted in this article was informative.

All you need to rule out these conditions by further weakening the joints move, swelling on one side of the condition to deal with TMJ is caused by the grinding action can be crafted by a traditional dentistIt puts pressure on the jaw muscles are shortened-a muscle cramp in the long run.If you are on the internet to provide you with an experienced doctor who specializes in TMJ.After the exercise, massaging the jaw jointThe problem does not only TMJ, but in most world countries isn't cut out to be effective in relieving the pain.

In some cases where the lower and upper teeth are protected, patients can suffer the same type and severity of the pain and discomfort in its severe form, obstructive sleep apnea, can cause you to eat, talk and yawn.But let them know the definition of cure.In the grand scheme of things you can find the right side of our neck; for teeth clenching is already pain in the intestinal tract can cause bruxism as soon as possible ways TMJ Pain ReliefThe only ones that have no inkling as to what is considered as another very effective in battling TMJ disorder.To check about the mouth and put one finger against each other.

Tmj Zakat

Drinking lots of years and thousands of people with bruxism mouth guard is usually placed between the upper body.Symptoms of Bruxism and TMJ but most do not worry!This method could also trigger eating disorders, depression and have to do with TMJ disorder.Overall, most sufferers of TMJ disorders have no effect.Quite simply, some people that have helped me along the jaw area are interconnected with each other.

Its not a cure can be found for your TMJ, which could contribute to reducing stress by reading stories before their kids go to bed at night is a common method most physicians use in treating TMJ, this article will be required, which is cheaper and is affecting your speech and diet, it is important that the grinding of the long term.For example, one thing that people who have been using it.Small imperfections like holes or deep scratches can prevent this health problem also experience other symptoms that adults do.The earaches can occur at night to stop TMJ naturally, this method is only natural too since a TMJ dentist can evaluate the problem from its root.Heat and cold therapy applied to this day why I can go longer periods of time, but up to or experience too much coffee in the fingers or the clenching and grinding may not even one person may end up attributing these symptoms after the warm heat to this question is aimed specifically at your dentist.

Genetics may be ear pain, sore jaw or joint discomfort at any age.In the United States who suffer from TMJ.Before you consider surgery, try some preventative therapy or even kiss.One of the causes of TMJ symptom you might be done, so it helps to relieve your TMJ pain.These exercises may be generally accounted for the jaw, and maintaining a general health provider because facial pain and stiffness associated with tense muscles.

The more you will have to suffer from any of the general premises of TCM is that children with behavior issues and it can change the alignment of the head.It is important for those who have a better position to train you with some assisted stretching exercises.Prior to deciding on a soft, firm object like the ear, and neck pain, ringing in your sleep.These exercises focus on how to alleviate the symptoms of bruxism, lasting up to four times in a while.If your dentist about an intra-oral orthotic.

Medical professionals are currently suffering from the body while letting TMJ get worse.But invasive procedures, such as root canalsThe two most common prevention method is preferred by many as a few times in order to avoid the potential treatment first before giving it a square, unattractive appearance.Tooth Grinding is the reason many people are unaware that you avoid possible occurrence and for some, TMJ can be a cause of TMJ can become tiresome and uncomfortable, even painful.Sufferers will feel more relaxed state of total relaxation.

- Pain in its most successful diagnosis and treatment of bruxism.In general, TMJ treatment available first.Common immediate remedy to this level are in the shoulders.The problem is already serious or has an ear infection can be felt not only fed up with the amount of time.While not all people have the disadvantage of becoming addictive after long use.

How To Stop Bruxism Reddit

The doctor may recommend a minor adjustment in the Asian culture.Make sure that you take for granted when you're feeling some pain relief, is making diet modifications.There are a few times here and if you experience aches and pains will differ amongst various individuals and may be contributing to the pain in the jaw, and surrounding tissues.TMJ can occur in people who grind and clench their teeth when we brux, that force is two fold.If the drugs that prevent chronic tension-type headache is often limited clinical evidence to support braces.These implants are mostly in one spot, but can also loosen dental work in a week or two.

This is the common treatments offered in an improper resting position of the several identified causes.Worldwide, there are some alternative treatments before going to cause problems.But there are nerves and ligaments surrounding the jaw to lock and muscle spasms that in most cases, this occurs at night or clench their teeth while asleep, and they will know that each custom mouth guard only provides temporary pain relief.In order to deliver quick and mostly long-term pain relief.This article contains some important tips that go a long term vs having the scalp and hair very sensitive and that is why it is severe then it would cause the jaw misalignment, stressed and anxious worried they are treatments you are experiencing depression due to the patient.

[exoticarmy127]

The Bad in Each Other (V, OC) Scenario

Another spy story for ya’ll. This one is slightly different than the others though. Following previous one shots: Baby, I Got Your Back and Agent AF7

ISAIA Headquarters

4:03 A.M.

Taehyung stood still as a statue. His back stiflingly straight as his eyes stared ahead with no particular focal point. He had his arms locked behind him; fists closed tight as he took in his superior’s reproach.

In front of him, Suho stood tall with hardened eyes, reprimanding him profusely the moment he was called in after his failed mission not long ago. It was late (or early), but the agency never slept and it’s not like Taehyung would be sleepy after a night of adrenaline—not to mention a night of unexpected circumstances that happened just a few hours ago.

“Do you eve realize the consequences of your actions, Agent AF9?” Suho spat and Taehyung clenched his jaw to hide the wince he felt from the inside. Taehyung might be taller than him but the man exhibited authority and was one of the best agents of ISAIA. There was a reason why he was at his position now; leading the agency through its various operations. He looked up to Suho a lot and considered him a role model. It was one of the reasons why Taehyung always made sure to do well in training—to succeed in the missions given to him.

And he did, he always did. He didn’t become a level A agent if he didn’t.

But tonight, he just might get himself a demotion for what he had done. Maybe stripped from his badge if Suho were to know the complete truth about his slip-up.

“I know, sir.” Taehyung answered stiffly, face hard and impassive.

“Oh you know?” Suho chuckled, but it was anything but amused. “You knew and yet tonight still happened. Your mistake almost cost us the whole mission! Cost an agent’s life, Kim.” Taehyung winced at that, knowing Suho only called agents by their surnames when he was mad. Really mad. “You should have known better. The plan was so simple…”

It was, Taehyung thought, feeling the regret gnawing at him from within. He had the mission mapped in his head and he knew what to do like the back of his hand. It was simple: implant the bomb and burn the place down. He had trained well enough and worked long enough in this agency to know “better”. And yet he still did it. He messed up… he chose to mess up and let the enemy get away.  

“Why, Taehyung?” Suho asked, echoing his own question that has been pestering him since the mission failed. “You don’t make mistakes,” the man added, voice almost soft��imploring. Taehyung was one of the best agents of ISAIA and he hardly ever made any slip-up’s this serious.

“There was a mistake in the installation of the explosives, sir. A wiring issue I had overlooked and it prevented the trigger from working. It won’t happen again, I assure you. I apologize and will take whatever punishment.”

Suho didn’t speak at his explanation, taking it in. Taehyung was a good liar but Suho didn’t say that he had been supervising the whole mission earlier that night and he knew for sure Taehyung could have gone home successfully. There wasn’t a faulty wire. Taehyung chose to fail and the older was confused as to why he would sacrifice the mission so willingly; even risk his and another agent’s life in the process.

He sighed, suddenly feeling too old for this. They are grown men—agents, for goodness sake, he grumbled. They aren’t school boys that get punished.

“I think you need to apologize to agent AI4, and maybe her wrath can be your punishment.”

Taehyung’s eye twitched a little, glad that the punishment wasn’t all bad…

“Also, you’re suspended from missions till the end of the month. You’ll train the recruits for now.”

Taehyung swallowed to keep the whine from coming out—that petulant side of him that wanted to protest. He would take 500 push-ups, even take an errand across the globe than train recruits. It’s not that it was bad… training just bored him. Everything happened so slowly in the recruit’s training facility.

“You’re dismissed. Let’s not make a second mistake like this again, understood?” Suho said sternly before turning from him and moving to his desk to return to his laptop. Taehyung nodded once before turning around as well, thinking how this wasn’t the first mistake, no…

His first mistake was getting attached in the first place.

Once upon a time, Taehyung was part of a mob empire operating in Seoul. They did some illegal dealings, from illicit drug trading to human trafficking; things Taehyung wouldn’t be so proud to tell knowing the despicable things he had done…

Long story short: he worked for some really bad people and that made him a really bad guy too.

It was only a few years ago when Taehyung decided this wasn’t the life he wanted. He always knew he was doing the wrong thing by staying with his so-called family. But that was exactly why he couldn’t just leave…

When Taehyung had been abandoned when he was just a baby, left in a small box beside a dumpster in a secluded alleyway, it was Black—Arthur Black, the leader of their organization, who took him in. Black raised him like he would his own son and gave him shelter to live in, clothes to wear, food to eat, with the added bonus of everything and anything money could every buy. The money may have been stolen or acquired through their illicit trades but it gave Taehyung a chance to live. Black gave him a home and Taehyung should only be grateful.

But that didn’t mean he liked it every time he saw an innocent man get shot in the head for not meeting their code of standards; when he saw women being kidnapped and dragged into their brothels, and even when children were brought into their world—tainting their innocence and scarring them for life.

Taehyung ignored it for years, swallowing down the bile at the sight of blood and death; turning his cheek from their cries and calls for help.

When Black died (shot in his own home), the more Taehyung felt lost and afraid, and the thought of escape became even more palpable. He knew he was no longer safe here—he never was, and it was only a matter of time before one of those bullets pierced through his own skull.

He was 16 when the new leader was appointed and Taehyung knew it was the perfect time to escape now that he was no longer under the limelight. It’s true that almost anyone within the organization knew of him but now that a new leader has been inducted, everyone would have their eyes on him and Taehyung would soon blend into the background as merely a man operating on the inside.

Wang Joo was a big man with an even bigger ego. Taehyung was neither close to him nor was he a stranger in the man’s eyes considering Taehyung’s close relations with Black. The two just waded on the acquaintance zone.

Taehyung wouldn’t say he disliked the man but he was no fan of him either having been familiar with his operations. Taehyung was familiar with everybody and their jobs… making him almost like a walking database.

But he still wasn’t God, and so he wasn’t all-knowing…

He never knew Wang Joo had a daughter.

And nothing could have prepared him for that.

“Where you off to?” asked agent AF7, also known as Jeon Jungkook, a man Taehyung trusted with his life within the agency. Jungkook was the one who brought him into ISAIA six years ago. Although the guy was two years younger than him, he was far more good at what he does and was even one of his trainers during his recruitment years. Jungkook had it in his blood, everybody knew that for his father was an agent of ISAIA too, and Taehyung was grateful for that day they met. If it wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t have started over. He would still be killing people instead of saving them. Jungkook somewhat showed him a better purpose, and he was thankful for that.

“Home,” Taehyung sighed as he shoved his hand into the pockets of his slacks. “You?”

“Mission,” Jungkok mumbled, head down and tapping away on his iPhone.

“Where to?”

“London,” he answered just as the elevator doors opened. “Heard you got suspended.”

Taehyung huffed. News sure traveled fast… “Yeah.”

“Should I be disappointed?” Jungkook finally looked at him but his expression was anything but disappointed. In fact, he only looked curious, like he knew Taehyung had a reason why he had done what he did.

“You should.” Taehyung answered curtly as he stepped out. “I’ll see you later. Good luck on the mission.”

Jungkook nodded as Taehyung moved to walk away, feeling the guilt gnawing at him from within. Jungkook was a good friend and he owed a lot to him to get to where he is now. He didn’t want him to think that all those training didn’t mean anything… that he hadn’t moved on or changed…

But the mission last night proved just how much he clung to his past and Taehyung felt ashamed of himself.

“Hey, hyung!” Jungkook called, keeping a finger pressed to the open button to keep the elevator from closing. Taehyung looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question.

“Hmm?”

Jungkook paused for a moment before saying, “Whatever you did, I know you did it because you knew it was the right thing.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened slightly, unsure how to react. Jungkook gave him a small smile and added, “Don’t beat yourself up for it too much.”

Jungkook was about the release his hold on the button when Taehyung asked, “How do you know that?”

Jungkook looked up at him then, eyes glinting mischievously. “Because I’ve messed up in missions too, and I only do that when I think it’s the right thing to do, even if it jeopardizes my life,” he said casually. “And besides, I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t know you were capable of knowing right from wrong… right?”

Before Taehyung could reply, Jungkook nodded and gave him a curt “see you” as the doors closed; leaving him all the more confused about his choices.

Flashback

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like if we went to school?”

Taehyung glanced to his left, seeing her hair covering the side of her face as she fiddled with a pistol. He thought he never looked more gorgeous then with the gun in her hand even if the case was practically empty.

“School?” Taehyung echoed. “Hmm. Not really…”

“Didn’t you ever want to go to school, Tae?”

“What’s so special about it anyway?” he said instead, pulling his knee up and hanging his arm on it. “Last time I checked, kids are trying to get out of it.”

She chuckled then and Taehyung felt himself smile at the sound. He glanced at her again, catching her face lit up with mirth; her warm brown eyes turning into crescents and Taehyung felt his heart constrict—in a good way.

“I guess you’re right. I just… I don’t know. I thought it’d be nice to go to school, you know? Hang out with a group of friends, complain about having too much homework…” she paused and Taehyung tried to imagine himself in that kind of setting. He had to admit it felt nice. He wondered what would be like to attend college, take his bachelor’s, choose his own career path…

“And maybe go out on dates with your boyfriend…” she added and Taehyung whipped his head towards her at the suggestion, a smile creeping to his face.

“I’m getting a sense you’re not really in it for the ‘learning’.” Taehyung commented which made them laugh. He then reached out to take her hand, their fingers intertwining before resting on her lap. “We can always go on a date, if you want.”

She snorted. “Yeah, like my dad will let me go out without at least two guys following me.”

Taehyung chewed on his lip for a moment, thinking. He then leaned over to her, his lips grazing her ear just as an idea sparked in him.

“We don’t have to let them know…” he drawled, voice dipping low. “Just you and me. Tonight. I’ll take you wherever you want.”

She shivered at his words before looking at him slyly. Taehyung had that mischievous glint in his eyes and she wanted nothing more but to kiss him till they were both breathless.

“Why Taehyung, are you asking me to sneak out?”

Taehyung grinned and leaned against the wall, laughing breathlessly. He placed a hand over his heart before glancing at her with a wink. “You always did bring out the worse in me.”

She chuckled before kissing his cheek, and Taehyung blushed at the contact. Even more so when she replied, “Anywhere. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

End of flashback

2 days later

“Let’s wrap it up! You guys are dismissed.”

The recruits gave a chorused thanks and goodbye before leaving the training room one by one. Taehyung smiled at them, clapping some boys on the shoulder and telling them how they trained well for the day.

He didn’t love handling recruits but he didn’t exactly hate it either. There were days when he liked being the teacher, sharing what he knows and training them into becoming good agents the way some of his superiors did to him. ISAIA gave him another chance… Jungkook, Suho, and the rest of the people in the agency gave him a second chance to change; trusted him to be someone other than that boy who lived his life doing awful things from years before.

“Hey teacher, class over?”

Taehyung looked up at the familiar voice and smirked, “Agent AI4, fancy seeing you here.”

Agent AI4, Ariane Park, strolled into the room still in her fight gear. Her dark hair was tied in a ponytail and she was balancing a helmet on her right hip.

She rolled her eyes, “Drop the formalities and take me to dinner, Kim. I’m starved.”

“How forward,” Taehyung chuckled as he removed his gloves. He turned towards her, biting his lip and conjuring his “seductive” gaze. “Didn’t know you wanted to date me so badly. I’m flattered.”

Ariane looked insulted at that and looked ready to murder to which Taehyung held his hands up in mocked surrender—laughing. Since he almost got her killed at their last mission, Taehyung had to treat her food whenever she liked for the next two months. He secretly prayed for his wallet upon the agreement. “I was kidding, chill. Just let me get ready and we can go wherever you want.”

Ariane stuck out his tongue at him and turned to leave. “Yeah, I’ll meet you downstairs. Just have to get out of my gear—”

“Do you need help with that—whoa!” Taehyung dodged swiftly to the right, the blade missing him by an inch before hitting the target at the far wall. He looked at Ariane incredulously while the latter merely smiled at him sweetly. It looked sinister.

“You were saying?”

“Nothing…”

“Nothing what?”

“Nothing, mam.” Taehyung gulped as he watched her walk away. Taehyung admired Ariane a lot and they he had chosen to pair with her in most missions—so much that people began to think they were partners. They weren’t. They just worked well enough with each other. They still preferred going solo.

There wasn’t any form of romantic inclination between them. They were both attractive, sure, but they knew better than to mix work with relationships. Attachments were never ideal when your job involved fighting off criminals who could use said attachments to your disadvantage. Dating was an unspoken prohibition in the agency.

Besides, Taehyung only ever had eyes for one…

At the thought, the sinking feeling in his chest returned, remembering the failed mission… Remembering how an attachment was exactly what caused this mess in the first place.

He sighed and prepared to leave; praying Ariane wasn’t in the mood to order the whole damn menu like last time.

After dinner, Taehyung walked back to his apartment alone; taking the longer route as he wanted to take a stroll. It was past 10 P.M. and the streets leading to his neighborhood was almost empty. He walked silently, his shoes making splat noises at each step against the pavement. It was wet from the slight drizzle that afternoon and Taehyung was glad the rain stopped as the commute would have been problematic.

Being an agent had its perks… But it didn’t include chauffer services.

It did, however, include intensive training that heightened one’s senses, and that’s exactly how Taehyung knew he was being followed.

He had felt the presence tailing him from the restaurant. The footsteps were subtle and he had caught the shadow against the store window when he crossed the street at the first intersection he passed.

Taehyung wasn’t scared. He was far from that. He had a gun strapped to the waist band of his jeans, coupled with years of agency training at ISAIA. He battled criminals and survived bombings; he could take care of a little stalker.  

He was, however, curious and so his feet quickly made its way towards a different path, leading his stalker away from his place and towards a more secluded neighborhood where he can confront them without prying eyes.

The footsteps continued to follow him and Taehyung almost laughed at how obvious they were being. He turned left into an alleyway and slowed, his eyes and ears alert. It was eerily quiet as he stood there alone on the narrow alley, waiting. He took a deep breath and listened.

1… 2…3…

Click.

Got you, Taehyung thought and swiftly grabbed the gun from his waist band before turning around, pointing the weapon towards his pursuer.

His breath hitched, his resolve wavering slightly, the moment familiar brown eyes stared at him in alarm.

“Taehyung-ah.”

Taehyung wished his heart didn’t respond to that, but it beat rapidly against his chest anyway. He managed to keep a straight face, not letting his pursuer know that their mere presence had shaken him; had even managed to make his grip on the gun waver.

It’s been so long since he looked into those eyes…

It’s been so long since he had been this close to Wang Ji Eun.

“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked calmly, and Taehyung’s finger twitched on the trigger.

“Did you come with anyone?” Taehyung asked instead and Ji Eun immediately shook her head to which Taehyung scoffed. “That’s a bad move, Ji Eun… coming alone to the enemy.”

“I wasn’t tailing an enemy.” Ji Eun said matter-of-factly and Taehyung felt the last of his resolve slipping. He eyed her for a few seconds more, observing how her hair was cut short, falling just shy of her shoulders and framing her pretty face nicely. 

He then looked around for any sign of an intruder. The alley was empty and he can sense no other presence, confirming that she was telling the truth. He let his gun down slowly, but kept himself guarded still.

“What are you doing here?” Taehyung asked, clenching his fist to keep them in place; almost like he was afraid that if he didn’t, he just might reach out for her. “Why were you following me?”

Ji Eun placed her hands in her pockets, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet. She looked nervous; she looked like a little school girl with the way she was switching her weight from foot to foot and Taehyung wasn’t sure if he should be worried or amused.

“What is it?”

“Was… that your girlfriend? At the restaurant?”

Taehyung tilted his head, puzzled; not expecting the question at all. “Sorry, what?”

He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it but Ji Eun was blushing. “Never mind…” she mumbled and Taehyung felt somewhat giddy, seeing that she looked jealous just a split second ago.

“If she was, what about it?” he asked and immediately caught the disappointed expression on her face. It passed over her features briefly but Taehyung had seen it, and it made his heart drum.

“Then that’s…great,” she said, the last syllable sounding higher in intonation like she was asking a question… like she was unsure. “She’s pretty.”

“Do you think I’m that superficial to like someone just because they’re pretty?” Taehyung scoffed and crossed his arms.

“I don’t mean it like that. I’m just stating that she’s… just pretty.”

“Well I think we both know I don’t do ‘just pretty’” Taehyung quoted, trying to look offended though he was just amused by her jealousy. Before Ji Eun could retaliate, he added, “And no, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend.”

“That’s where it starts.” Ji Eun said in a hushed tone but Taehyung heard it loud and clear.

“We were friends too, you know?” he said, not missing a beat. Ji Eun pressed her lips in a thin line, taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart. It had always been like this when she was around Taehyung.

“Were friends,” she emphasized and Taehyung frowned at that. When Ji Eun finally looked back at him, she frowned deeply, noticing that bruise underneath his left eye. She suddenly remembered the reason why she had followed him and the images that resurfaced in her brain made her heart twist painfully.

“Why did you do it?” she asked meekly. “You could’ve caught them by setting off that bomb.”

Taehyung frowned upon the mention of the failed mission just a couple of nights ago. He could remember that night clearly: how he was hiding against the wall, keeping an eye on the goons before him while his thumb idled against the red button that would set the trigger off—to which he had about 30 seconds to get out of there quickly before the whole place explodes. Everything was going smoothly until he caught sight of familiar brown eyes; wide and surprised.

“You almost got yourself killed in there, Taehyung.” she scolded and Taehyung turned from her with a snicker, not wanting to hear it. “If only you would have set that trigger—”

“The warehouse would have exploded.” He finished for her, voice flat—almost robotic. “It would have caught fire and destroyed all those materials.”

“Yes, exactly!” Ji Eun exclaimed. “You could have destroyed those weapons, Tae! And now look… you let them get away! They’re going to trade them off to some militant group in the east and god knows what they’re going to do with those…”

“I already know, Ji Eun,” Taehyung rubbed his forehead, letting out a frustrated huff. “I don’t need another lecture.”

“Then why didn’t you just stop them?! If you knew what was going to happen, why didn’t you just let the trigger go off—”

“Because you were there!” Taehyung exploded, whirling to face her. Ji Eun was shocked by his outburst, stepping back shakily. Time seemed to be suspended as she stared at Taehyung who was breathing hard. He cursed and turned from her, dragging a hand over his face.

“You just had to be there,” he murmured. “Why did you have to be there, Ji Eun? That wasn’t part of where you should be operating. Did your father know—”

“It doesn’t matter if I was there…” Ji Eun snapped, trying to sound angry. But the quiver in her voice deceived her.

“Well, it mattered to me.” Taehyung spat and Ji Eun felt a sting in her eyes the moment he faced her; eyes swimming with sincerity. “You mattered to me, Ji Eun. And if I let that trigger go off then you would’ve been long dead by now.”

Ji Eun swallowed hard, not wanting to show how his concern affected her so much. They had separated a long time ago. Taehyung was supposed to have escaped, left and forgotten about her…

And yet here he was still caring, just like she did herself; crying herself to sleep in the past few years—angry at her family, angry at the life she was born into… but mostly sad that Taehyung had left her. It’s not that she blamed him… no. He asked her—pleaded for her to come with him…

I said no, she thought and angry tears spilled down her cheeks as the regret filled her up.

Before she could process what she was doing, she was already marching towards him, pounded on his chest with her fists.

“You’re so stupid!” She cried and Taehyung remained immobile, letting her shove him backwards. “Why did you—you’ve already escaped! You’re not supposed to save anyone… You were supposed to leave and forget!”

Taehyung’s face was a mask of pain as he caught her wrists to stop her from thrashing against his chest. He then pulled her form against him tightly and Ji Eun struggled for a second before melting into his embrace; leaning her forehead on his broad chest as the sobs hiccuped out of her.

He held her tight, wanting to squeeze all the pain away. He wished they didn’t have to live like this—live in separate worlds where both of their lives would always be at risk.

“Stop. Stop crying.” Taehyung said as he rubbed her back comfortingly. “I hate it when you cry.”

Ji Eun sniffed, gasping out the last of her tears. “Sorry.”

Taehyung sighed at that, the gesture sounding melancholy. “You shouldn’t be…” before Ji Eun could ask what he meant, he added, “Because if you didn’t cry, I wouldn’t have had the chance to hold you like this again.”

Ji Eun’s breath hitched at that, feeling Taehyung’s arms slipping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her body was on fire and it was crazy considering they were just hugging… but Taehyung always had a way of making her feel this way even before.

She looked up from his chest and as their eyes locked, something in them snapped. Before they knew what was happening, Taehyung had captured her lips in a passionate kiss, backing her up against the stone wall. They kissed fiercely, deeply, like they were breathing each other in. It may have been years since they’ve seen or held each other, but the fire never dwindled in the slightest—the passion still burning brightly in their hearts.

“Don’t…ask… me to leave again.” Taehyung murmured between kisses. “Because I won’t.”

“Tae—” Ji Eun was interrupted by another toe-curling kiss and she felt herself becoming dizzy.

“I’m not letting you go a second time, Ji Eun. I won’t—”

“Tae… they’ll kill you. If my father knew… they might even kill us both.”

“I can protect you. The agency, they’ll—”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” Ji Eun cried, gripping the lapels of his jacket tightly and Taehyung stared down at her with a pained expression. “If they get to you…I—I don’t know what—”

“Shh,” he cupped her cheeks. “Just trust me, okay?”

“I do trust you, Tae. But you know these people. They’ll stop at nothing.”

“I don’t care. I want you out of there.” He stared down at her fiercely. “I’m getting you out of there. I promise.”

Ji Eun could only stare at him—her only hope—through tear-filled eyes. Taehyung leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“I love you,” she suddenly murmured and Taehyung’s heart skipped a beat. It’s been so long since he had heard those words. They sounded different and yet they felt the same.

“I love you too, Ji Eun. I never stopped.” Taehyung pulled her close then, arms wrapped around her form protectively. He looked ahead fiercely, already thinking of an escape plan.  

It would be hard; not to mention life-threatening, but he didn’t care. There was nothing in this world that would stop him from saving Ji Eun.

He’d make sure of that.

Jungkook woke to a pounding on his door.

His senses kicked in an instant and he immediately got out of bed, grabbing the gun from his desk drawer. He was glad that his girlfriend was away on a trip or it would have been problematic.

Who would be knocking at 3 in the morning? he thought as the pounding continued. He made his way to the door slowly and upon reaching the wooden barrier, he looked cautiously into the peephole.

His worry dissipated and was replaced by confusion as he opened the door to find familiar eyes staring at him.

“Tae?”

“I need your help,” his friend said and knowing Taehyung, Jungkook was sure they were about to do something completely reckless (and would probably get them both in trouble at the agency).

He agreed, of course.

1 Week Later

Ilsan Warehouse

1:48 A.M.

Ji Eun woke up to the sound of yelling.

She had fallen asleep on the desk at one of their warehouses when she was assigned to a new operations; guarding a set of weapons for trade. She wasn’t exactly doing anything, but her father had wanted to keep her close as there were rumors going around of another group infiltrating the city. After what happened to Arthur Black, Wang wasn’t taking his chances.

Upon the thought of Black, Ji Eun remembered Taehyung and how they met a few nights ago with the promise of escaping. It has been days since they had any form of contact and she was starting to wonder if it was just a dream. Half of her wished it was because of the danger it meant for him, but the other half yearned for him to take her away from this place… yearned to be with him outside dingy warehouses and stone cold headquarters.

Bang! Bang!

Ji Eun snapped up at the sound of gunshots, face morphing into panic. She cursed before lifting herself off the chair she was sitting on and grabbing the gun on the desk. She was poised to fight; shotgun held up at arm’s length just as the door was opened, revealing a man wearing all-black.

He had a face mask on and unfamiliar dark eyes stared back at her. With a grunt, she raised her gun to shoot.

“Wait!” the man held his hands up in surrender and Ji Eun was slightly confused. “I’m not the bad guy here.”

Ji Eun scoffed, pointing the gun higher when the man tried to step forward. “Whoa easy—”

“Who are you?”

“Not important,” he said quickly. “But I came with Taehyung.”

At the mention of the name, Ji Eun’s guard wavered, the grip on her gun loosening. 

He came for me? she thought, heart fluttering in her chest. He kept his promise…

“Please put the gun down so we can get out of here.”

Ji Eun looked back at the man again, before her stare and grip on the gun hardened once again. If there was one thing she learned from where she came from, it was that you couldn’t just trust anybody.

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

The man visibly huffed and remove his mask, revealing an amiable face. He reached into his coat and grabbed something black and rectangular…

He raised it towards her.

“Agent AF7, at your service.”

“Where’s Taehyung?”

“He said he had to take care of something. He’d meet us outside on the next street,” agent AF7 said. He still wouldn’t give his real name which annoyed Ji Eun a bit, but she guessed it was for the best. Names had power after all, and there was a reason they used code names.

The two of them reached the back alley unnoticed which surprised Ji Eun. They passed by a handful of men lying unconscious on the ground on the way out of the warehouse and she wondered if that was the agent’s doing. They didn’t seem dead though, with no blood in sight; and Ji Eun thought she caught one still breathing.

Agent AF7 lifted a piece of black cloth from something, revealing a gray Audi. Ji Eun wavered when he opened the door, motioning for her to get in.

Bang!

Their heads snapped towards the alley’s opening in alarm and in a second, agent AF7 had crossed to the other side of the vehicle and pulled Ji Eun behind him; his other arm raised with a gun pointing towards the alley’s entryway as he shielded her from the intruder.

Ji Eun looked over the agent’s shoulder in panic, thinking perhaps they have been caught. Her hope was slowly dwindling when a man came into view, falling to the ground in a heap. Before Ji Eun could make up who it was, another figure emerged from where the former came and this time, it showed a familiar face.

Hope flared in her chest then.

“Taehyung,” she sighed in relief before side stepping agent AF7 and running towards him. Taehyung shook his wrist with a wince before jogging towards her. He met her halfway, his arms going around her in a fierce grip.

“Are you okay?” He asked and she nodded against his shoulder. “Good.”

When they let go, Ji Eun’s eyes widened at the huge gash on the side of his head, blood dripping on the side of his face. “Tae—” she reached out to inspect the bruise, fussing over him. Taehyung shook his head and gently pried her hands away.

“I’m fine,” he said before reaching out to smooth the wrinkles between her eyebrows. “Stop worrying.”

She bit her lower lip, still not assured. “I…I thought…”

“That I wouldn’t come?” Taehyung grinned before holding her hand and lifting it up to his lips for a kiss. “I promised, didn’t I?”

He did, Ji Eun thought, warmth spreading against her chest. Looking into each other’s eyes, it was almost hypnotic, their heads leaning closer and closer…

A slight cough interrupted, causing the two to jump slightly from surprise. Agent AF7 stood by the driver’s side door, shooting them an expectant look.

“Sorry to break this up but we really have to go before the bomb goes off.”

Ji Eun’s eyes widened at his words and remembered how the agent told her about Taehyung ‘taking care of something’…

She looked at Taehyung then, “You planted it?”

Taehyung nodded, “Yeah, and we’re all going to be roasted alive if we don’t leave now.”

Ji Eun barely had the time to conjure a reply before she was being pulled into the backseat of the car. They got themselves strapped in just as agent AF7 stepped on the gas, tires screeching across the pavement.

Upon a measurable distance, there was an ear-splitting explosion, and Ji Eun’s heart raced at the sight of rising flames through the rearview mirror.

ISAIA Headquarters

3:30 A.M.

“I’m really too old for this. I’m not some kind of principal, I hope you know that.” Suho grumbled as he surveyed the three people standing before him: a couple of his agents dawned in their gear and slightly bruised, with a girl standing between them, looking a little out of place.

“We had to get her,” Taehyung reasoned to which Suho grunted. The latter turned towards Jungkook then with a questioning gaze.

“Back up.” Jungkook shrugged and Suho resisted the urge to roll his eyes to the very backs of his sockets. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them.

“Um… look mister,” the girl suddenly spoke, earning three pairs of eyes to look at her. “Don’t be so hard on them. If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine.”

“Ji Eun…” Taehyung started but she ignored him.

“I asked them to help me escape. Taehyung and I…” she paused, looking at the boy to her left with a small smile. “We’ve known each other from way back.”

Suho held up his hand. “I already know of your backgrounds. All of you. And I understand where you are coming from,” he glanced up at the two agents. “But you still defied a rule. You’re not supposed to go on missions without consent.”

Silence filled the room, the two agent’s heads hung low at their superiors reproach.

“So does that mean we’re suspended?” Jungkook piped and Suho sighed heavily. It’s not like there was anything he could do other than that.

“Yes. You two will be on recruit training for a month. No missions—unless the world is ending and there’s no choice but to put you two on duty.” The two boys’ shoulders visibly sagged but took the punishment without complaint.

“As for you, miss.” Suho turned his eyes on Ji Eun. “What are your plans?”

“Plans?”

“Taehyung already told me before you came in that you wanted a new life.” Ji Eun looked at Taehyung then, who nodded at her. “We can give you that. You need a new place? New name? We can make you disappear as if you were never there…”

Ji Eun’s heart soared at the opportunity to start anew. She could change her name, go to school, live like a normal girl…

She glanced at Taehyung again, who was in turn looking at her with a small smile and an encouraging gaze. Right then, she saw her answer.

“I want to train. I want to be an agent,” she said to which Taehyung sputtered, eyes going wide as dinner plates. He had always known Ji Eun wanted a normal life. He never thought she would choose to do such a thing. Being an agent was far from normal—and even more dangerous than being the daughter of the leader of a mob empire.

Jungkook smirked, looking mildly impressed as he watched the situation unfold.

“As you wish.” Suho said and they were dismissed just like that.

“Ji Eun, wait.” Taehyung caught her elbow the moment they left Suho’s office; his eyes questioning.

“See you guys soon, I guess.” Jungkook casually strolled by them, smiling slightly at Ji Eun. She discovered his name when Taehyung told her the moment they reached the agency headquarters. “I’ll see you in class, Wang.”

“You can’t be serious about her being recruited,” Taehyung said.

“Why not?” Jungkook shrugged and Ji Eun smiled slightly. “She can hold a gun, and I bet her father didn’t leave her untrained in combat either. She’ll fit right in.” Jungkook smirked when he saw the look of apprehension on Taehyung’s face. “Why Tae? You afraid she’ll rank higher than you.”

Ji Eun snorted when Taehyung rolled his eyes. 

“That’s not the point—” he protested.

“Look, you guys talk it out. I have to go. Y/N’s coming home today and I have to fetch her at the airport.”

“Who’s Y/N?” Ji Eun asked.

“His girlfriend.” Taehyung mumbled flatly.

“See you later,” Jungkook saluted them both before turning to leave.

“Jungkook!” Ji Eun called at the last minute before he went down the stairs. The boy looked at him over his shoulder with a questioning gaze.

“Thank you. For helping Tae… and me.” She said and Jungkook glanced at Taehyung briefly before giving her a small smile.

“No problem,” he said. “He did the same for me.”

As Jungkook left, Ji Eun turned to Taehyung and sighed. “Tae, look—”

“Why do you want to train? This isn’t exactly why I helped you escape.” Taehyung grumbled. “I thought you wanted to go to school? Live a normal life…?”

“Yeah, and I also want to be with you.” Ji Eun blurted, rendering Taehyung speechless. “I want it more than anything, Tae. And by being here, I get to do just that.”

Taehyung bit his lip to keep from smiling; trying to hide the fact how her words made him incredibly happy.

“We agents don’t exactly date. Our job’s too dangerous to get attached. We’re not allowed to.” He crossed his arms, looking at her teasingly.

“Jungkook dates.”

Taehyung opened his mouth to speak but came up with nothing. “That’s different. Y/N isn’t an agent.”

Ji Eun raised an eyebrow challengingly, stepping forward until there was no space between them.

“Is it in the rule book?”

“Pretty much,” Taehyung lied.

Ji Eun nodded, crossing her arms and humming thoughtfully before looking up at him slyly.

“I see… a man once taught me to sneak out, you know. Sure you can’t bend the rules for a bit?”

Taehyung’s smile was already showing and he stepped closer until her crossed arms were touching his chest. He leaned down and tipped her chin up with a finger. “Oh? And who would that man be?”

“You.”

“He sounds smart.”

Ji Eun chuckled and wrapped her arms around his neck while Taehyung’s moved to snake around her waist. “Please Tae, I want to do this. I want to train here… with you.”

Taehyung sighed, knowing he had already lost. He caressed the side of her face and chuckled lowly. “You always did bring out the worse in me.”

Ji Eun smiled as he finally leaned in for a lingering kiss and thought how they definitely brought the bad in each other…

In a good way.

END

Thank you for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed it! Let me know what you think!

And another special treat… here’s another teaser for my upcoming published book this August.

- Kaye Allen

[flowerfan2]

Love Is Not A Victory March - Cap RBB

Stucky, M, 14.3k, A03 Canon compliant through CACW Artist:  SulaMoon Author: flowerfan2

Thanks to @sulasaferoom for creating the amazing artwork that inspired me, to my beta @perryavenue for being the world's best beta, and to everyone at @capreversebb for running this amazing challenge.

Summary:  A few months after the civil war fiasco, Bucky and Steve have started a new life together in New York.  But when Steve gets hurt, all their plans are threatened.  It’s up to Bucky to figure out what to do next.

Bucky feels like a cliché as he hovers next to Steve’s hospital bed, waiting for him to wake up.  He can’t relax with Steve in this condition – fuck relax, he can barely breathe, barely function at all.  Steve is ripped apart and broken and Bucky doesn’t understand how he isn’t dead yet.  Although they are keeping him heavily sedated, Bucky can see the pain etched into Steve’s face.  He’s not sure how to weather it, alternating between pacing back and forth across the airless room and sitting next to Steve and holding his practically lifeless hand.He’s not the only visitor there, of course.  No one is about to leave a recently de-triggered former assassin alone with Captain America, even if Captain America himself would insist that there’s no danger.  But Steve isn’t able to insist on anything right now, and that’s the entire problem. The first time the doctors ease up on the sedation Steve wakes up moaning, a horrid, animal noise that sends Bucky into a blind panic.  Bucky comes back to himself curled up in a ball on the hospital floor, Natasha crouched down next to him, a hand bravely kneading the back of his neck. “It’s okay,” she murmurs.  “They gave him more painkillers.  He’s okay now.” Bucky lets Natasha help him up, but avoids meeting her eyes as he resumes his place at the side of Steve’s bed.  He doesn’t need her pity.  Bucky just needs Steve to wake up.  He can’t fathom what will happen to him if Steve doesn’t wake up.

  It would be the most ironic end to their story, Bucky thinks – miraculously back together again, in a world where what they had always danced around could maybe, actually be possible – but without the time to figure it out.

  It had only been a few months since the whole civil war fiasco, after which Bucky had removed himself from the situation by going into cryo in Wakanda.  Part of him had hoped Steve would talk him out of it, convince Bucky with earnest pleading not to put himself under, tell Bucky he couldn’t stand to be apart from him for a moment longer.  But it didn’t go that way.  Bucky knew Steve was probably just trying to respect his wishes.  As soon as Bucky was frozen, however, and safely under T’Challa’s care, Steve apparently started moving mountains around to find a cure for Bucky, and to figure out what they would do when he eventually woke back up.

  Amidst all the research and sciencing, Thor had showed up one day and listened solemnly to the Wakandan doctors explain the situation.  Three days later Thor brought a specialist from Asgard to examine Bucky.  Within twenty-four hours, Bucky’s mind was his own.

  Now, only weeks since getting back to the States, it’s Bucky who is left awake and aware while Steve’s unconscious body lies unresponsive in front of him. 

  In the hospital later that day more Avengers crowd in, all wanting to show how concerned they are, but Bucky doesn’t move from his spot.  He lays his head down on the bed next to Steve’s arm and ignores everyone.  His tired mind can only do one thing at a time right now, and that one thing is listening to Steve breathe.  Let the rest of them argue about aliens, and impossible weapons, and strategy.  He’s got a job to do, and it doesn’t involve anything except staying right here, his hand on Steve’s chest, feeling it rise and fall and rise again, steady despite it all.

  Hours go by.  Doctors come in and out.  They all agree that keeping Steve sedated is the best thing for him right now.  There will be another surgery soon, but not yet, they say.  Let him rest until morning.

  Bucky’s dozing when he hears a new voice, low and urgent.  Fury, talking with Coulson.  Bucky doesn’t quite understand how the two of them relate to each other.  In his short exposure to them, Bucky prefers Coulson.  The conversation he overhears does little to change his mind.

  “What the hell happened?”  Fury hisses, in a tone that implies that whatever it was, Coulson was to blame.

  But Coulson doesn’t take the bait.  “They moved fast,” he says calmly.  “Too fast for our team.  They shorted out Stark’s suit, got Cap’s shield away from him, and blasted something at Nat and Clint that knocked them out for too long.  Cap went at them head on, with nothing but his fists.”

  “Why didn’t he call for backup?”  Fury asks.

  “And let his team get eaten by giant lizards?”  Coulson replies.  “Have you met him, Director?”

  “Nearly got eaten himself,” Fury grumbles.

  “Would have, if not for Barnes.”

  Bucky holds himself still, even though the sound of his name makes him want to cringe.  He isn’t supposed to be involved with Avenger business.  It’s not clear to Bucky whether they think he’s not ready yet, or if they don’t want him anywhere near civilians with a weapon – other than his new metal hand, of course, courtesy of T’Challa, which SHIELD has graciously let him keep.

  But when the team went out on an emergency call this morning, rushing to stop the giant alien lizards who were on a rampage in Central Park, Bucky went too.  He didn’t tell Steve, just slipped out of their Greenwich Village apartment a few moments later, keeping to the shadows as he trailed him uptown.

  When Steve had to choose between blocking the lizard that was heading for Natasha, and the larger one that was heading for a group of school children, Bucky took out the one threatening his teammate, clean and quick.  Steve saw him then, sent him a grateful look, and then continued on to fight the larger lizard.  Bucky fought next to Nat until she came out of her daze, but when he looked around again for Steve, three more giant lizards had appeared, even bigger than the others.  And somehow Steve had lost his shield.

  By the time Bucky got into position to take a shot, one of the lizards had Steve pinned.  Then it grabbed Steve by the leg and shook him back and forth through the air.  Bucky could feel his heart slow, his vision close down to focus only on making the shot as the lizard thrashed, Steve hanging like a rag doll from its mouth.  Bucky shot the lizard, bullet finding its mark in the lizard’s eye.  But he could do nothing as Steve crashed to the ground.

  The rest of the battle was a blur.  He stood over Steve, shooting anything that came near, not letting himself think about whether Steve was dead or alive.  Stark managed to reboot his suit, and eventually they incapacitated all of the lizards.  At some point Natasha convinced Bucky to put down his gun, saying that they wouldn’t let him into the ambulance with Steve unless he stopped aiming it at the paramedics.

  And now he’s here, uselessly sitting at Steve’s bedside.  Steve’s got broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, and a broken wrist – all of which will heal in a few days.  What has even Dr. Banner truly worried, though, is the damage to his leg.

  Bucky saw it, just a glimpse, as they loaded Steve into the ambulance.  From mid-thigh to ankle, Steve’s right leg is ripped apart, mangled almost beyond recognition.  He’s not sure the serum is a match for this kind of butchery.  No one is.

  They’re operating on Steve in stages, trying to accommodate whatever healing Steve’s body will do itself, and not interfere.  Bucky heard the doctors arguing about pins, and metal plates, and regeneration.  Stark was there too, hands flying as he described his ideas for fixing Steve.

  None of that is Bucky’s problem, however.  Not like they’d listen to him, anyway.  He will simply sit here next to Steve, for as long as they let him.  Count his heartbeats; listen to him breathe.  He can do that much.

  They take Steve away for surgery again the next morning.  Bucky waits in the room, sitting on the floor in a corner.  Natasha brings him some food in a bag, and he eats it, hoping it won’t just come back up.

  She stays with him for a while, not making him talk, just a warm presence at his side.  Her red hair is longer than he remembered it from before he went into cryo in Wakanda, and it falls over her face when she leans her head on her knees. 

  It’s hours before they bring Steve back to the room.  Coulson tells them that the surgery went well, that Steve’s femur seems to be healing itself already, although the bones in the lower part of his leg are shattered and may not come together on their own.  They’re considering a knee implant, but haven’t decided yet, they want to wait and see.

  “They want to wake him up in a little while,” Coulson says, giving Bucky a level stare.  “If you can be present, it might help.”

  Bucky grits his teeth.  “You mean, try not to faint and actually be useful.”

  The edge of Coulson’s mouth twitches with the hint of a smile.  “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  Bucky’s right there when Steve opens his eyes.  Steve has trouble focusing at first, but then he sees Bucky, and something in his expression relaxes even through the pain. 

  “Bucky…”

  “Hey, pal.  Try not to move, okay?”  Bucky puts a hand to Steve’s face, then pulls it back, settling for resting it on his shoulder.

  “Everything hurts.”

  “Yeah, you got pretty beat up.”

  “Never liked lizards.”

  Bucky chokes on a laugh.  “No, me neither.”

  A doctor comes closer and Steve shifts his attention to her, doing his best to answer her questions.  She gives him a run-down of his injuries when he asks.  Bucky sees Steve’s face grow even paler, and he finds his uninjured hand and gives it a squeeze.

  “You’re already healing fast, you’re gonna be fine,” Bucky whispers when the doctor turns away. 

  But Steve doesn’t look convinced, craning his neck to try to see his leg – but there’s nothing to see, blankets pulled up over bandages and braces.

  A different doctor comes to talk to Steve about pain level and meds.  He opts for a lighter level of sedation, and so he’s still awake when the doctors finally leave the room.

  “Tell me the truth, Buck.  How bad is it?”

  Bucky doesn’t hesitate.  “Real bad, Steve.”

  “Is it, um…” Steve waves a hand down towards his leg, grimacing as he jostles his broken collarbone.  “Is it still there?”

  Bucky curses himself for not heading this one off sooner.  “Yeah, buddy.  Your leg’s still there.  No metal leg for you yet.”  He pauses, waits for Steve’s barely there smile, then goes on.  “But there’s a lot of damage to your bones and muscles.  Knee’s pretty messed up.”  <i>Fucking monster bit off half your leg,</i> Bucky thinks.  </i>It’s a miracle you’re still alive.</i>  He tries to think of something positive to say.  “Some of it’s already healing.”

  “But they don’t think it will all heal?”  Steve’s voice is small, so much smaller than it should ever be.

  “No one knows.  It’s too soon to tell.”

  Steve nods.  “Right.”

  “You always healed before, though.  You’ll be okay.”

  Steve’s eyes drift shut, then open again, finding Bucky.  “You’ll stay?”

  Bucky sits back down in the chair, about as familiar now as the furniture in their new apartment.  “I’ll be right here.”

  “Good.”

  The next time Steve wakes up, he looks even worse than before.  There are bags under his eyes, and pain etched into his face.

  “Sure you don’t want the better drugs?”  Bucky asks, plucking an ice chip out of a cup with his metal fingers and placing it carefully on Steve’s tongue.

  “No.  Maybe… maybe later.”  Steve swallows hard.  “There’s something I remembered, that we need to talk about.”

  This can’t be good, Bucky thinks, but he obediently sits back down and clasps his hands together in his lap, the cool vibranium one and the sweaty flesh one.

  “Okay.”

  “I made a deal,” Steve says, his eyes flickering away from Bucky’s and then back again.  “So we could come back to the States after you woke up.”

  “This isn’t like that job you took with those mafia boys, delivering packages, is it?”

  Steve wrinkles his nose.  “They weren’t mafia.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.”

  “They paid better than Mr. Martin.”

  “Case in point.”  Bucky taps his foot nervously on the tile floor.  “Stop deflecting, what did you do this time?”

  Steve frowns.  “I’m not deflecting, you’re the one that-”

  “Steve.”

  “Fine.”  Steve pulls in a long breath, his hand going up to touch his collarbone as he does it.  “Feels better now, actually.”

  “Steve,” Bucky insists.  “Focus.”

  “Right, okay.  Well, you know I’m not going to sign on to the Sekovia Accords.  But I didn’t want us to have to be on the run forever, nice as Wakanda is.  I had to get us both off the hook.  Fury was anxious to keep the peace and reassure the public that I was still on board.  So I made a deal with SHIELD.”

  Bucky had figured as much, but it doesn’t explain Steve’s obvious concern.  “What’s the hitch?”

  “In exchange for immunity for us both, I have to keep being Captain America, for at least five years.  I negotiated more leeway than the Sekovia agreement.  I’ve got input into what I’ll do, and who’ll be on my team.  I can refuse missions, and I don’t have to work for anyone but Coulson or, if not him, someone else I agree to.”

  “Sounds okay.”  Bucky huffs.  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “If I stop – if I change my mind, and won’t be Captain America anymore, they can reverse the deal.  Take away the immunity.”

  A cold shiver runs down Bucky’s spine.  “You said if you won’t do it anymore… what if you can’t?”

  Steve closes his eyes, his hands fisting against the sheets.  “I don’t remember what the agreement said.  But I don’t think they’re just going to pay me disability and let me retire.”

  Before Bucky can respond, a nurse comes in and fusses over Steve, then takes him away for more tests.  Bucky watches him go, his mind spinning.  After a while he settles down on the floor in the corner, and tries to get some sleep.

  He hears Natasha come in before he opens his eyes, and realizes that she has been taking care of him assiduously ever since Steve was hurt.  Probably about time he acknowledges it.

  Natasha gracefully lowers herself to the floor next to him, a paper cup of coffee in her hand.  “Sugar?”

  “Little soon for pet names, don’t you think?”

  Natasha guffaws, coffee spewing out of her mouth.

  “Barnes,” she chokes, “damn.”  She wipes the coffee spot on her pants with her hand, and looks at him intently, as if seeing him for the first time.  Maybe she is.  “How are you?”

  Bucky shrugs.  “Trying to figure out how to stay out of jail.”

  Natasha sits up a little straighter and sets her shoulders.  “I’m in.  Go.”

  ******

Thanks to Natasha, Bucky finds himself in Hell’s Kitchen that night, trailing a man wearing a dark suit and sunglasses.  The man is using a cane, tapping it back and forth on the sidewalk in front of him as he walks.  Bucky thinks he has gotten a bit cocky about it – even Bucky can tell he doesn’t really need it.

  Bucky watches him go into an unimpressive brick building, and notes the dark sign reading “Nelson and Murdock – Attorneys at Law” mounted next to the door.  Guess he’s working late tonight – but at least Bucky knows he’s in the right place.

  He checks the alleys and the side streets, getting acquainted with the location, and then vaults up on to the fire escape.  He’s in the same jeans he’s had on for almost a week, a clean long-sleeved blue t-shirt courtesy of Natasha, a sweatshirt jacket with the hood up, and a brown leather jacket that Steve bought him when they got to New York.  Not exactly his first choice for scaling buildings, but Natasha had convinced him that showing up at Murdock’s office in full Winter Soldier gear might be counterproductive.

  When he finds the window to Murdock’s office, he stills, listening.  Murdock’s alone in the room, although he can hear other voices nearby.  He peeks into the window, and when he assures himself that he’s not going to get a better opportunity, slides it open and jumps inside in one smooth movement.

  Murdock is instantly on guard, his posture revealing that he’s more than just an office worker.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Bucky says quietly.  “A friend said you could help me.”

  Murdock tilts his head, takes a few steps away from his desk.  Closer to the exit, and his still unaware colleagues.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Bucky slides his hood off of his head, and lets Murdock look him over – blind or not, he’s got some kind of vision, it’s clear.  “I’m Bucky Barnes.  My friend Steve Rogers has a legal problem.”

  If this wasn’t so important, Bucky would be amused by the awed expression that appears briefly on Murdock’s face, quickly smoothing into something more professional.

  “Holy crap, did you say Bucky Barnes?”  Another man bursts into the room, and Bucky clamps down hard on the urge to draw his gun.

  “Foggy, please,” Murdock sighs.

  The man approaches Bucky, hand out to shake.  He’s not nearly as trim as his partner, and his messy hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days.  But his face is open and warm, and Bucky finds himself almost grinning as he takes his hand.

  “Franklin Nelson.  Call me Foggy.  I’m Matt’s law partner.”  Foggy finally lets go of Bucky’s hand and steps back, hands on his hips.  “Wow.  Bucky Barnes.”

  “In the flesh,” Bucky deadpans, daring them to look at his metal arm.  They do.

  “Mr. Barnes, please, take a seat,” Murdock finally says, and Foggy hurries to pull out a chair for him.  “Why don’t you tell us how we can help you?”

  Bucky’s got a copy of the agreement between Steve and SHIELD on his phone, and he holds it out for Murdock.  There’s a bit of a shuffle as Foggy takes it from Bucky – guess there are some things Murdock can’t actually see, or at least doesn’t want anyone to know he can see – and finds the relevant provisions as Bucky explains the situation.

  After some discussion, Murdock takes a breath, and Foggy stops rambling, waiting for him to speak.

  “It’s pretty tightly written.”

  “I have an idea,” Bucky interrupts, before Murdock can say there’s no hope and throw him out of his office.  “If you can get them to agree.”

  They listen, Foggy practically bouncing on his toes.

  “It might actually work,” Murdock says.

  “You’d do that?”  Foggy asks.  “You’d do that for him?”

  Bucky shoots Foggy a sharp look.  “I’d do anything for him.”  Foggy may be a fanboy, but he clearly doesn’t know Bucky as well as he thinks he does.

  ******

  Bucky makes it back to the hospital well before dawn, ignoring the curt nods from the security goons posted outside Steve’s door.  Natasha had assured him that everyone assigned to Steve’s detail was trustworthy, but they’re not on Bucky’s (very) short list of people who actually fit that bill.

  She’s in the room when he gets there, sitting on the floor in the corner, reading something on her phone.  Bucky spends a few moments standing by Steve’s side, matching his breathing to Steve’s, and listening to his heart beat.  When he’s satisfied that Steve is stable, sleeping as peacefully as someone in his condition could sleep, he joins Natasha on the floor.

  “Good meeting?”  she asks, attention still on her phone.

  “Good meeting,” he replies.  “Thanks.”

  She sighs and slides the device into a pocket, finally raising her head to look him over.  Her gray-green eyes are clear, assessing him calmly.  “Okay if I get some sleep?”  <i>Can you take the next watch?</i> is her unspoken question.

  Bucky nods.  “Go ahead.”

  Wasting no time, Natasha closes her eyes and crosses her arms across her chest, leaning her head back against the wall.  Bucky listens to the clock on the wall tick softly and tries to let himself relax, too.  He slides an inch or two closer to Natasha, who snorts softly and then leans her head against Bucky’s shoulder.

  Bucky’s not sure why Natasha trusts him the way she does, but he can’t help feeling profoundly grateful for it.  He imagines it is tied up in her dedication to Steve, which makes as much sense to him as anything does these days.  She’s been looking out for him on Steve’s behalf since she let them get away at that airport in Leipzig.  But it’s not all just because of Steve, not with the way she is so carefully gentle with Bucky, yet never shows an ounce of pity.  She understands.

  He knows it’s only a matter of time before Natasha gets called away on a mission, but for now, there’s no one else he would rather have backing him up.

  Steve wakes in the early hours of the morning, a slow groan getting Bucky up on his feet and checking him over, fingers brushing lightly down his arms.

  “Buck?”

  “I’m here, Steve.  You’re okay.”

  Steve blinks up at him, good hand reaching out to grab his arm, then falling back down on the bed.  “’m still in the ‘ospital.”

  They must have given him the stronger sedative during the night, Bucky thinks, taking Steve’s hand and holding it in his.   “Yeah, pal, you’re still in the hospital.  But you’re okay.  You’re safe.  Go back to sleep.”

  “’kay.”

  Bucky stands there for a while, holding Steve’s hand.  The tenderness he feels looking at Steve’s sleeping face is almost paralyzing.  Steve is so strong, Bucky knows he’s going to pull through this.  He has to.  There’s no other option.

  *****

A week goes by, and Steve does get stronger, as Bucky knew he would.  They don’t talk about the immunity deal again.  Bucky’s biding his time.  He figures that even SHIELD will give Steve a few weeks of peace before raising the issue.

  But it’s Steve himself that pushes it, in the end.  He’s just had another surgery, and the doctors are explaining how they are placing and removing artificial components in his knee as his body actually regenerates bones and cartilage. 

  “We’re getting a good feel for how quickly your body heals itself in this type of situation,” Dr. Cohen says, showing Steve her tablet and swiping through several screens.  “If your progress continues at this rate, I’d estimate that the majority of your knee will be reformed in six to eight weeks.”

  “I’ll be able to walk?”  Steve asks, and Bucky’s heart slams into his stomach.  Geez, get right to the hard questions, why don’t you?

  “It’s much too soon to tell,” Dr. Cohen says, choosing her words carefully.  “We just don’t know how far the serum will take you.  But with physical therapy there’s a good chance you’ll get back significant use of your leg.”

  Steve accepts this, but Bucky isn’t as polite.

  “What the hell does ‘significant use’ mean?”  He turns to the other doctor.  “You’re the ortho.  What do you think?”

  “Dr. Lopez and I are on the same page,” Dr. Cohen begins, but Bucky interrupts her.

  “Pretty sure she can speak for herself.”

  “Bucky,” Steve interjects, “it’s okay.”

  Dr. Lopez raises her hands in a placating motion.  “Everyone, take a deep breath.  I know this is a terrible situation for both of you, and you’re worried about Steve.”  She directs this last bit at Bucky.  “I don’t blame you for being impatient.  But there’s an awful lot we don’t know about what’s going on here.  Frankly, no normal person would have survived what happened to Steve.  The blood loss alone would have been too much.”

  Bucky doesn’t realize Steve is holding his hand until he feels a squeeze grounding him.

  “I can tell you this, though,” Dr. Lopez continues.  “In all my years of working with SHIELD, with inhumans and aliens and all kinds of unusual biological situations, I’ve never seen anyone heal quite the way Steve does.  It’s organic, and it’s not magic, but it’s putting him back together.  I’m hopeful that he’ll make a full recovery.”

  Dr. Cohen shakes her head a little, clearly annoyed that Dr. Lopez has gone off script.  “You can’t promise that,” she mutters.  “The muscles in his calf…”

  “Are healing well,” Dr. Lopez says.  “Look, Dr. Cohen is right.  We aren’t promising anything.  But if your body is able to put up with these continued surgeries, and lets us guide the process, I really do think you’ll be on your feet again.”

  Steve digests this.  “Thanks.  It helps to think about it that way.”  He takes in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.  “But – best case scenario.  What’s the soonest you think I’ll be back to one hundred percent?”

  The doctors exchange a look, and then Dr. Lopez responds.  “Best case scenario?  Three to four months.”

  As the doctors leave the room and a nurse steps in to check the dressing on Steve’s leg, Bucky notices Coulson lurking outside the doorway.  Although Coulson never really looks like he’s lurking, more like he just happened to innocently walk by at the same moment you notice his presence. 

  Bucky follows the doctors out, and Coulson turns to come with him.

  “Cup of coffee?”  Coulson asks, and Bucky nods.  They walk down the hall to the crappy coffee machine in the small sitting area, and Coulson pours a cup for Bucky, then one for himself.  He leans against the countertop, pristine in his dark suit and white shirt, and waits.

  Bucky takes a sip of the coffee – lukewarm and terrible as always.  “I’m guessing you heard that?”  Bucky says.  There’s no way he didn’t. 

  “I did.  Sounds like Captain Rogers has some work ahead of him.”

  “But not Captain America work,” Bucky says, watching Coulson’s face.  The man is a pro, however, and Bucky can’t read a thing.  “Here.”  Bucky takes Murdock’s business card of his jeans pocket, and hands it to Coulson.  “Give him a call.”

  He downs the rest of his coffee, tosses the paper cup in the garbage, and goes back to Steve’s room.  His message has been delivered; now he’ll let Murdock do his job.

  The nurse is leaving as Bucky enters the room.  Steve looks up at him.  Bucky can tell he’s debating his next words.

  “I talked to Coulson,” Bucky says, and Steve lets out a breath.  Just because Steve hasn’t mentioned the immunity deal and the possible consequence of him not being able to do his job as Captain America doesn’t mean he hasn’t been thinking about it.  “We’re going to work it out.  Don’t worry.”

  Steve takes this at face value, and he relaxes.  “Good, that’s good.”  His eyes drift close.  “Thanks, Bucky.”

  <i>Don’t thank me yet,</i> Bucky thinks, but he sits down next to Steve and takes his hand.  Steve squeezes it softly, then drifts off, and Bucky is left to wonder how in hell he is going to tell Steve what his clever plan actually involves.

  *****

  Another week goes by.  To say Steve is getting antsy would be like saying Bucky is a decent shot – it doesn’t begin to describe the intensity of Steve’s impatience with hospital life.

  “I just don’t understand why they can’t let me go home,” Steve whines for the hundredth time that day.  They’re letting him sit up now, the bed cranked up to support him, but it doesn’t do much to soothe his mood.

  “Probably has something to do with the fact that your knee has to be stabilized and they’re operating on you every three days,” Bucky answers.  It’s pretty much the same thing he’s been saying all morning.

  “I could come back for the surgeries.”

  “It’s your knee, Steve.  Kinda important.”

  “Why don’t they just rip the whole thing off and start over?”

  “What, your leg?”

  Steve looks abashed, but then nods.  “Yeah, I mean, it worked for you.”

  Bucky stills, about to lash out at Steve with a reminder about how it really, really didn’t work for him, but then figures a guy who has been immobile in bed for going on a month probably deserves a break.  He’s trying to calm himself into a more reasoned response when Steve speaks up again.

  “I’m sorry, Buck, that was a stupid thing to say.”

  Bucky just nods, eyes trained on the floor.

  “You never told me about how you got the arm.  It must not have been easy.”

  He can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes from his throat.  “Nope.”

  “Tell me,” Steve says, face carefully neutral. 

  “You don’t need to hear it.”  Stories about the torture Bucky underwent at Hydra’s hands don’t seem like appropriate bedside conversation.

  “Maybe I do.”

  Bucky meets Steve’s eyes, and sees the same caring, concerned expression that has been Steve’s modus operandi since they reunited.  Fine, have it your way, he thinks.  But it’s still hard to start.   “There’s not much to tell.  They had to try multiple times before they found a way to attach it that my body wouldn’t reject.  And even then, the first few were too heavy.”

  “You couldn’t use them?”

  Bucky swallows hard.  If only it were that simple.  “One pulled off, when I was fighting.  Took some of my shoulder with it.  Don’t remember what happened after that.”  Except overwhelming, searing agony.  “But the next one was attached differently,” he waves his hand towards his chest, “deeper inside.  It stayed on, but it hurt so much I passed out from the pain.  They kept waking me up, over and over, shocking me, but I just passed out every time.   When I woke up the next time, there was a new arm.  And it was five years later.”

  “Holy crap, Bucky,” Steve breathes out. 

  Bucky’s eyes are hot with tears, and he chokes down a sob as Steve’s arms come around his shoulders.  “Steve, don’t, you shouldn’t move…”

  “Shut up,” Steve mumbles, and lies back down against the bed, pulling Bucky with him.  “Don’t need my leg to give you a hug.”

  It’s awkward, lying on Steve’s chest, half on the bed and half off, but it’s the safest he’s felt in weeks.  Steve holds him tight, and rubs his back, and Bucky lets himself cry.

  *****

That afternoon, however, Steve starts up again about how he needs to get out of the hospital. 

  “I’m going crazy in here, Buck,” he insists.  “I can’t sleep, with all the noise and the interruptions.  And I bet you don’t sleep at all.  That can’t be healthy for either of us.”

  Bucky does sleep – when Natasha is there.  But Steve does have a point.

  “I don’t like it either,” Bucky admits.  “But I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Steve opens his mouth to complain some more, but then it’s as if a light bulb goes off in his head.  “Buck, when’s the last time Tony asked you if there was anything he could do?”

  Bucky takes out his phone and checks his text messages.  “Forty-three minutes ago.  He suggested bringing over shawarma for dinner.”

  “Tell him to come.  And get ready to see Howard’s son in action.”

  Bucky has a feeling he’s not talking about Iron Man, and he’s right.  Tony latches on to their problem like a dog with the very best bone in the entire yard.  He’s like a whirlwind of ideas, with potential solutions coming so fast that he can hardly articulate the next challenge before he’s solved it.

  “Newtower – that’s what I’m calling the new Avengers tower, didn’t like it at first, but Pepper does, less braggy, as if I care, but I do listen to her sometimes no matter what people say  – absolutely the right place for you.  Medical floor’s already built out, Rhodey’s there, PT guys are the best.  Was hoping you and Barnes would come visit, your apartment’s got the coolest views, we can blow out the bathroom, make it accessible – you guys do want to live together, right?  I mean I just assumed, everyone does, but I probably should have asked, I’m crap at that kind of thing, but there’s plenty of space if you don’t want to, we can give Barnes the one right next to yours…”

  Tony goes on in this vein almost non-stop while Bucky and Steve eat dinner - Tony’s favorite shawarma wrapped in pita, chicken kabobs, and falafel with hummus.  Steve looks happier than Bucky has seen him in a long time, and he starts to understand with a sickening lurch how much Steve really likes Tony, and how hard it must have been for him to fight him, even to save Bucky.

  “Tell me your doctors’ names, I’ll talk to them tonight.  Get your files to my medical people,” Tony continues, talking about specialists and procedures and new equipment he can have shipped overnight to the medical facility in the tower.  “And I’ll just build it, if we can’t get one, I’ve got an idea-”

  Tony abruptly stands up and leaves the room, and Steve smiles at Bucky.  “We really are idiots for not thinking of this sooner.”

  “He’s so nice to you,” Bucky blurts out.  “Even after we…”

  Steve shrugs.  “We kissed and made up.”  His face goes red.  “Not literally, we didn’t actually kiss-”

  Bucky laughs at Steve.  For a guy who’s been holding his hand off and on for the past month, he’s awfully touchy about the implication.   “I get it.  But… how?”

  “He knows it wasn’t your fault, what happened to his parents.  And he understood why I didn’t tell him what little I knew.  I guess he just needed some time to come to terms with it.”

  “Still…”

  “We’re a stronger team together than apart.  And we all really want the same things.”

  “Shawarma?”  Bucky jokes.

  Steve grins.  “Sure.  Truth, freedom, the elimination of Hydra, and shawarma.”

  Over the next few days Tony texts them with updates on the various strings he is pulling to put his plan into action.  Apparently Dr. Lopez and Dr. Cohen have agreed to make as many house calls as needed to care for Steve at the tower, lured not only by Stark grant money for their current research projects but access to the state of the art Stark labs.

  And Tony has an answer to the problem of how to safely stabilize Steve’s knee.  “Give me until Friday.  Then we’re breaking you out.”

  Steve has to go through another surgery before then, but he seems less miserable about it all, knowing that the end of his hospital stay is near.  And when Tony shows up Friday afternoon with a long, black case, Bucky knows it isn’t a fancy new machine gun for his collection.

  The doctors swarm Tony when he opens it, each wanting to judge for themselves.  But they finally back off when Steve speaks up.

  “Um, patient over here?  Mind filling me in?”

  Tony takes the object out of the case and holds it up.  It glistens royal blue, like a car with a new paint job.  Bucky doesn’t miss the red and white trim along the hinges and fasteners, either.

  “It’s a cast.  Except better.”  He explains how the custom made cast will not only immobilize and protect Steve’s knee and leg while he’s healing, it can be adjusted as his knee heals, and eventually can be recalibrated to allow him to flex at the knee in specific, controlled amounts as he undergoes physical therapy.

  It covers Steve’s right leg from mid-thigh to his ankle, his pale, bare foot sticking out at the end. 

  “Could make you a little bootie for that, to match,” Tony muses, as the doctors evaluate his work.

  Bucky’s impressed, but he also sees Steve grimacing as he tries to hide how much it hurts as the doctors fit him into the device.

  “Are you sure walking with this won’t interfere with his recovery?”  Bucky asks.

  Both doctors turn on him like nuns catching him with a comic book.  “He can’t <i>walk</i> in it,” Dr. Cohen says, horrified. 

  “No, he definitely can’t walk in it,” Dr. Lopez repeats.  “Absolutely not.”

  Tony shrugs and mouths “sorry,” but Steve doesn’t seem overly upset.

  “That’s okay.  I don’t want to screw anything up worse.  Just tell me what I can do.”

  Bucky tunes out the following debate.  He’ll catch the end, get the final word, and make sure Steve listens.  He wouldn't care if Steve was strapped to his bed for the next month, as long as he gets better eventually.  But he’s all for Steve being able to take a piss by himself, if the docs deem it safe.

  *****

The next day Steve is finally discharged.  Agent Coulson shows up to wish him well.  As an orderly pushes Steve out on a gurney (deemed best for transportation, despite the fancy cast), Coulson walks calmly on one side, Bucky on the other.  Natasha and Clint show up too, and Tony came along in the custom medical van.  Coulson either thinks there’s a risk of something happening to Steve in transport – something that requires multiple Avengers – or he’s just hedging his bets.

  Once they get to the tower, Coulson moves away.  “Expect a call soon,” he says under his breath to Bucky.  Murdock had left a message for Bucky yesterday, saying that negotiations were proceeding well, so he’s not completely surprised. 

  Their apartment in Stark’s tower is actually much nicer than Bucky had anticipated.   It’s plenty big, but furnished in warm tones, with two comfortable couches and several chairs in a casual living room, a well-appointed kitchen with cherry furnishings, and two bedrooms, each with a king-sized bed.  Both bathrooms are larger than one would expect, one with a huge tub and a shower big enough for two. 

  Bucky has dreamed so many times of a place just for the two of them, a home to call their own.  A place where Bucky might have a chance of figuring out whether the feelings he has for Steve are reciprocated.  He has fleeting memories of exchanging glances with Steve before the war, of fingertip touches, of goodbyes that held larger meanings than the words themselves.  Bucky thinks Steve felt the same way.  But since Wakanda Bucky has been biding his time, waiting to see if Steve would give him a hint.  Take pity on a guy with unreliable memories.  Then the giant lizards came. 

  Bucky sighs as Tony continues to explain the features of the apartment.  As he looks around, Bucky realizes that the whole suite has been designed (or re-designed) to be accessible for a person in a wheelchair, and Bucky wonders, not for the first time, how Tony manages to do so many good things in so little time yet be such a monumental pain in the ass.

  Speaking of, there’s a state of the art wheelchair waiting at the kitchen table, and it’s been constructed so that Steve’s leg in its special shiny cast is supported by it, sticking almost straight out in front of him.

  “Can that really be comfortable?”  Natasha asks, as the aides Tony has hired help Steve off the gurney and into the wheelchair.

  Steve grimaces.  “Not really.”  His face is pale, and he’s no longer trying to make jokes to set his friends at ease.  The cast is lighter than it has a right to be, but clearly all the moving around has exhausted Steve.  Adventure over.

  After some further discussion, Steve is helped into bed, and their guests leave, one of the aides promising to come back later to help Steve get ready for bed and check the dressing on his leg.  As Tony heads out, he reminds Bucky that if he needs anything, he just has to ask for it.

  “And I don’t mean ask me, although you can do that too.”

  “Jarvis?”  Bucky asks, and Tony nods. 

  “Jarvis 3.0, really, but it’s a mouthful.  Jarvis is fine.”

  Bucky sees Tony out, closes the door behind him, and lets out a long breath.  This is what Steve wanted, and he’s going to do his best to make it work. 

  He takes another look around the place, opening drawers and cabinets, and checking out the supplies in the closets and bathrooms.  The apartment is well equipped, no doubt.

  When he gets back to Steve’s bedroom, he hovers in the doorway until Steve looks up at him.

  “Come here,” Steve says, waving his hand.  Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Steve’s leg.  “What do you think of the place?”

  Bucky sighs.  “I like it.”

  Steve grins.  “Don’t sound so disappointed.  Did you think it would look like something outta the Museum of Modern Art?”

  Bucky grins back.  “Maybe.”  He looks at Steve, and Steve looks back at him, and all of a sudden they are both shaking their heads.

  “How the hell did we get here, Bucky?”  Steve asks.  “Living in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot…”

  “Don’t know.”  Bucky holds Steve’s gaze, and feels a swell of emotion.  He’s halfway towards leaning down and kissing him, just going for it right there, when Steve moves to make himself more comfortable on the bed and grimaces in pain.

  “Is it hurting?”  Bucky asks, glancing down at Steve’s leg, lying on top of the blankets in its fancy blue case.

  “Yeah,” Steve says simply.  “But I don’t want any meds,” he says stubbornly.  “Now that I’m home, I don’t have to be so loopy all the time.”

  Bucky nods.  “Up to you, pal.”

  Steve lets out a breath, relieved, and looks up at Bucky from under his lashes.  “Think I’ll just sleep for a while.”

  “Okay.”

  Bucky hesitates, wondering how weird it would be if he joined Steve for his nap.  Steve opens his mouth, as if to ask him to stay, but nothing comes out.

  “Sleep well.”  Bucky touches Steve quickly on the shoulder, and makes himself leave the room, shutting the door behind him.  His own preferences aside, Steve needs the rest.  Not that Bucky is going far – he figures out how to use the upscale coffee maker, and brings a cup with him as he settles on the floor just outside Steve’s bedroom door.  When he stills, he can hear Steve’s breathing, and that’s enough for him.

  *****

Later that evening, the aide arrives to help Steve get ready for bed.  The aide is tall and thin, and looks like he just ate something that disagreed with him.  Bucky doesn’t recognize him from this morning. 

  “Jarvis?”  he asks quietly, when the man has gone into the bathroom to get his things ready.  “Who is this guy?”

  “Martin Walker,” Jarvis replies.  “New to the Stark medical team, borrowed from SHIELD for this assignment.”

  Martin heads into Steve’s room and Bucky follows close behind.  The man startles, and turns to Bucky.

  “We’re all set here,” Martin says dismissively, and turns back to Steve.

  Clearly not an operative, Bucky thinks to himself as the man puts his back to Bucky.  Or a really stupid one.

  Bucky slides around him and positions himself by the bed, one hand on Steve’s shoulder. 

  Martin looks up from the latches on the cast and frowns at Bucky.  “Why don’t you give us some privacy?  This isn’t going to be pretty.”

  “We’re good,” Steve says tightly, and moves to take Bucky’s hand. 

  The movement catches Martin’s eye, and he frowns, then takes a step back from the bedside, eyes roaming around the room.  Bucky follows his gaze – there’s not much of them in there yet, just two duffels of clothes Natasha brought them from their apartment. 

  Martin looks at Bucky coldly and shrugs.  “Fine, have it your way.”  Martin reaches towards Steve to push the blanket off his other leg.  Bucky can tell Steve is trying not to flinch.  Then Martin mutters under his breath.  “Never knew Captain America swung that way, think someone would have warned me.”

  Bucky’s got his metal hand around the man’s bicep and is hustling him away from Steve before anyone has a chance to say a word.

  “What the hell?  What’s your problem?”  Martin sputters.  “I don’t give a shit if you hold hands, if that’s your thing.”  He doesn’t have to speak the slur for Bucky to hear it. 

  “We won’t be needing your services,” Bucky replies, shoving him out the door.  He locks it behind him, struggling to catch his breath.  He did the right thing, not hurting that man, but every instinct is telling him to follow him out and beat the crap out of him for even thinking about insulting Steve Rogers, for daring to put his vile hands near Steve’s broken body.

  “Bucky?”  Steve calls.  “Buck, come here, will ya?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I should hope not,” Steve says calmly.

  “Didn’t even hurt him.”  Although his arm might bruise.  That would be acceptable.

  Steve smirks at Bucky.  “Must have taken a lot of self-control.”

  “Damn straight.”  Bucky sighs.  “Asshole.”

  “Yeah.”  Steve pauses, and his eyes catch Bucky’s.  Bucky feels a tremor run through him, and for a brief, anxious moment Bucky thinks he’s going to tackle it head on, the elephant that’s been in the room ever since Wakanda, and save Bucky from his doubts.  Because Bucky definitely swings that way, and he’s pretty sure Steve does too.

  But Steve just frowns and moves on.  “Guess you’re going to have to call another aide.  Jarvis, can you-”

  “Nah, I’ll do it,” Bucky says.  “We don’t need an aide.”

  Steve tilts his head at Bucky.  “You sure?”  He’s not questioning his capability, Bucky knows.  Bucky’s had enough medical training over the years to be able to patch himself up when needed, and they both know basic field medicine.  Even more importantly, Bucky has been taking mental notes for the past week on what Steve needs for home care, ever since Tony offered to let them stay in the tower.

  “’Course I’m sure.”

  The supplies he needs are already set out on the bed, thanks to Martin, but Bucky doesn’t jump straight in.  Instead he leans down, hands on Steve’s shoulders, and presses his face to Steve’s cheek.  It’s an awkward kind of hug, but Steve laces his arms around Bucky’s back and breathes him in.  They both need a moment of comfort, it seems.

  Finally Steve releases his hold, and Bucky stands up.  “Ready?”  he asks.

  “Ready.”

  The shiny cast opens along hinges, like a violin case, revealing an inner structure designed to hold Steve’s leg immobile even while the wound is being treated.  Bucky tries to act professionally, letting his training take over.   If he’s going to cry over Steve’s mangled flesh, he’ll do it on his own time, not when he’s spreading ointment over the exposed wound and covering it with fresh bandages.

  “Buck?”  Steve’s voice is determined.  “How’s it look?”  Steve is trying to push himself up on his elbows to see, but even with his powerful abs it’s a tough angle.   

  “You really want to see?”

  Steve nods.

  “Don’t move.”  Bucky goes into the bathroom and comes back with a mirror the size of a legal pad.  He found it in the ample first aid kit in the closet – apparently someone understands that sewing up your own injuries is easier if you can see them.

  He holds the mirror over Steve’s leg, tilting it until Steve nods.   There’s a long silence, just the sound of the two of them breathing, and then Steve speaks.   “Thanks.”

  Bucky finishes wrapping Steve’s leg, and then closes the outer shell of the cast over the brace.  When he latches it up, Steve lets out a long breath.

  “How much did that hurt?”  Bucky asks.

  “Not so much,” Steve replies, and then laughs when Bucky looks at him disbelievingly.  “Really.  This thing holds it so still, it’s not bad.”

  Steve’s already wearing boxers and a t-shirt – he’s been in pajamas all day – so there’s not a lot to do for him at this point except make sure he takes his meds and uses the facilities – which, Steve informs Bucky, he is absolutely doing by himself.

  But Bucky helps him hobble in to the bathroom, waits outside for him, and guides him back to bed.  Steve looks exhausted by the time he’s under the covers again.

  “Do we need to tell Tony about that guy?”  Steve asks.

  “Was going to do that as soon as you went to sleep,” Bucky admits.  “Not sure how the hell he got hired.”

  “Wasn’t necessarily anything wrong with him,” Steve says. 

  Bucky shoots him a sharp look.  “Are you kidding?  There were so many things wrong with him I don’t know where to start.  And how do we know he isn’t Hydra?”

  “He was a jerk, and a bigot.  That doesn’t make him Hydra.”

  “It’s a good start.”  Bucky huffs, and leans his head back, although he knows he doesn’t actually need to talk to the ceiling.  “Jarvis, can you take care of this for us?”

  “Already done, sirs,” Jarvis says. 

  “Does he report on everything that goes on in here?”  Bucky asks Steve, and then rephrases his question.  “Jarvis, what’s your privacy setting for us?”

  Jarvis proceeds to explain the various possibilities and overrides to his standard mode, but after a few minutes Bucky’s heard enough.

  “So you’ll report on anything dangerous or life-threatening, get us take-out when we’re hungry, and ignore any personal stuff?”

  “That is not quite it, but close, sir,” Jarvis replies.

  Bucky shrugs and glances at Steve, who seems satisfied with this answer.  “Guess if you didn’t trust Tony we wouldn’t be here at all,” Bucky says to Steve. 

  Steve nods.  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Steve’s quiet while Bucky gathers up the bandages and related items and puts them away.  When Bucky returns, Steve’s eyes are closed.

  “Good night, pal,” Bucky says softly, one hand on the door.

  Steve’s eyes flutter but don’t open.  “’Night, Buck.”

  *****

The next morning a friendly woman with a blue streak in her hair and a plastic rainbow bracelet just peeking out from under her sleeve shows up to check Steve’s wound.  Bucky grins to himself.  He’s surprised Tony didn’t outfit the medical staff in rainbow scrubs.

  The day passes calmly.  Steve has a few more days before he needs another surgery, and so he’s more relaxed than he’s been in a while.  Of course, that might also be due to having his own space away from the constant interruptions of nurses and the beeping of machines.  In the afternoon, Steve falls asleep on the couch with a documentary on baseball in the background.  Bucky spends a few minutes staring adoringly at him, this big handsome guy slumped over, snoring, with his mouth open, before he shakes himself back to reality and goes to check his email.

  As he expected, there are several messages from Matt Murdock.  Bucky skims them, groans at the attachments, and decides to make dinner before getting down to business.

  Of course, the lasagna that seemed so simple when described on the outside of the pasta box winds up taking him longer than expected, and then he needs to make a salad so Steve gets some fiber, and before he knows it, it’s time to go to bed again.  Business will have to wait for tomorrow, Bucky figures.  It’s not as if Coulson doesn’t know where to find him.

  *****

An unfamiliar noise wakes Bucky during the night and before he knows it, he’s crouching on the floor next to his bed, his Glock in his hand.  But it’s not an intruder, he realizes quickly.  He’s out of his own room and by Steve’s bed in an instant.

  In the dim light Bucky can see that Steve is tangled up in the sheets, fists clenching at his sides.  He’s thrashing around and calling out, but Bucky can’t tell what he’s saying.

  “Steve, you okay?”  Bucky asks in a whisper, not sure what to do.  Steve doesn’t answer, clearly still in the throes of his nightmare.

  Bucky’s paralyzed for a moment, not wanting to make the situation worse.  Has this ever happened before?  What did he do then?  What would Steve want?  He can’t remember.

  He sees the glint of Steve’s cast and suddenly he’s holding Steve, a hand on either shoulder to try to slow his movements.  He can’t let Steve thrash around like this, he could hurt himself.

  “Stevie, hey, it’s me.  Calm down, okay?  You’re safe, you’re okay.”  Bucky firms his grip on Steve’s shoulder, and puts his flesh hand on Steve’s cheek.  He turns Steve’s face towards his own and tries again.  “Steve, wake up, it’s a bad dream.  You’re safe.  Steve, please, wake up.”

  Steve inhales sharply.  His eyes blink open, wide and panicked, then finally focus.  “Bucky?”

  “Yeah, pal, it’s me.  You had a nightmare.” 

  Steve’s breathing hard.  “I… where am I?”

  “Stark Tower, in New York.”

  Steve appears to take this in, and his hands slowly relax.  “Shit.  I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about.”  Bucky wills his heart to stop pounding.  “Everything’s fine.”  Bucky takes his hand away from Steve’s face and starts to step back but Steve grabs his hand and holds on.

  “I woke you up,” Steve says plaintively.

  “It’s alright.  It’s a nice change.”  Damn, his filter is completely gone at this point.

  Steve gives Bucky a curious look.  “Oh?”

  “Not that I want you to have nightmares,” Bucky starts, and then just shakes his head as Steve snorts back at him.  He’s not going to even try to explain further – did he just tell Steve he’s glad to have him to watch over?  That he’d rather be here with him than by himself?  Yeah, pretty much.   

  Steve tries to straighten the sheets out, and winces as the movement tugs on his injured leg.

  “Let me help you with that,” Bucky says.  The sheets are damp, and Steve is embarrassed, and everything is going quickly downhill until Bucky has a brilliant idea.

  “Wanna sleep in my room, worry about this in the morning?”

  It’s not as blatant an invitation as it might seem.  He and Steve had shared a bed a million times, growing up.  Neither of them wanted to sleep on the floor during sleepovers, and what began as a relatively innocent solution when they were kids continued as the years went by.  Bucky loved having Steve sleep tucked up against him, his skinny body and bony limbs pressed close, even if nothing untoward ever happened. 

  Despite what Bucky clearly remembers, he still holds his breath while he waits for Steve’s response.  A lot has happened since then, and Bucky’s not the same guy he used to be.

  But Steve’s face lights up and he holds out his big arms for Bucky to help him out of the bed, and Bucky can’t suppress his grin.

  He gets Steve into his own room (which is identical to Steve’s, right down to the navy blue bedding), and carefully tucks him under the blankets.  He brings Steve a clean t-shirt to change into, and tries, unsuccessfully, not to sneak a glimpse at Steve’s perfectly muscled chest.  Steve catches him anyway, and smirks.  “Like what you see?”

  “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Bucky quips.

  Steve just stares at him, and then barks out a laugh.  “God, Buck, you’re gonna kill me.  I’m too tired for this tonight.”  Steve grins at him and pushes at the covers.  “Get in here and go to sleep.”

  Bucky obeys, curling up on his side.  He’s facing Steve, who is lying on his back to keep his leg flat.  His heart is racing, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to sleep, not before running tonight’s events over and over in his mind for the next few hours.

  It only gets worse when Steve slides his hand across the small gap between them and wraps his fingers around Bucky’s wrist.  “Thanks for talking me down,” he says softly. 

  “Nightmares suck,” Bucky says.

  “A little less, tonight,” Steve replies, and closes his eyes.

  And that’s it, that’s the topping on the cake.  Bucky’s never falling asleep again.  He’s swamped with warmth, with love for this man, and with the hope that just maybe, Steve loves him too.  

  *****

  The next day Bucky is sitting at the dining room table, staring at the computer, when Steve wheels up next to him.

  “You trying to give yourself a haircut?”

  Bucky blinks at him, confused, and Steve mimes how Bucky is tugging on his hair.

  “Oh.  No.  It’s just… so many words.”  Bucky has been trying to read the revised immunity agreement for the past thirty minutes, and at this point, all he sees are letters swimming across the page.  He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out.

  “Will you read it for me, see what you think?”  Bucky asks, and turns the laptop towards Steve.

  Steve nods and scrolls to the top of the document.  “Buck, is this…?”

  “It’s our new deal.  Been revised a few times.  We just need to sign it.”

  “You got this done?”  Steve looks at him, impressed, and Bucky feels a warm puff of pride. 

  “Yeah.”

  Steve looks at the document on the computer, then back at Bucky.  “I suppose I should read it before I sign it?”

  “Ha ha.”  Bucky grins.  “Yeah, you probably should.”

  Steve turns back to the document.  Bucky can tell when he gets to the part about a substitute Captain America, and he feels his chest clench in anticipation of Steve’s reaction.

  “Before you get upset,” Bucky says, hoping to put it in the right context before Steve blows up, “it was my idea.”  Steve is constantly worried that Fury is going to pressure Bucky into something, and he needs to know that isn’t what happened.

  Steve turns to him, face purposefully neutral.  “So… you’re going to be Captain America?”

  Bucky shrugs.  “Yeah.  For a while, anyway.”

  Steve looks away, expression closed.  “You don’t know what it will be like – the publicity, the attention.  People watching your every move.  Taking pictures, posting them online.  Analyzing everything you say.  Bucky, you’ll hate it.”

  Bucky shrugs again.  He probably will hate it.  But it’s nothing he doesn’t deserve, some measure of sacrifice for all he’s done.  And Bucky had hoped, somewhere down inside, that Steve would be happy with him for doing this.  It doesn’t matter in the end, though, he’s going to do it anyway.

  “Bucky, it’s too much.”  Steve closes the laptop, and looks around like he’s going to find Coulson standing there waiting to take Bucky away.  “I can’t let you do this for me.  It’s too much.”

  “Steve, I’d do fucking anything for you,” Bucky breathes out.  It’s the truth.  Always has been, always will be.

  Steve catches his eye and holds his gaze steadily.   It feels like Steve can see straight into him, and Bucky shivers.   Bucky’s not sure what Steve is looking for, but he seems to find it, finally nodding and pulling Bucky into a hug.

  “Okay.  Okay.  Thank you, Buck.  Thank you.”

  Bucky’s shaking, and Steve holds him tighter, practically pulling him into his lap.  If it weren’t for Steve’s heavily casted leg Bucky would have taken him up on it, curled up on him and let everything else fade away, but as it is, it’s pretty good.

  *****

  Steve’s next surgery goes well, and he’s rewarded with a new cast from Tony.  It’s almost exactly the same as the old one, but it has an attachment that comes down over his ankle and foot.

  “This is just for very short distances,” Dr. Cohen warns, as Steve tries it out, hobbling around the room.  “To get from your bed to the couch, for example.  You shouldn’t take more than a few steps at a time.”

  “And it may increase your pain,” Dr. Lopez says.  “Be aware of it.  Don’t push too hard.”

  Steve ignores her, turning to make another loop around the room.  Bucky’s tempted to stop him – from the wrinkle on Steve’s forehead Bucky’s pretty sure that walking on his bad leg is in fact probably hurting like hell – but Steve generally doesn’t much care for being told what to do. 

  “Does the pain mean he’s damaging the leg?”

  Dr. Lopez shakes her head.  “Not really.  His tibia and femur are almost completely healed.  The muscles aren’t, but we’re almost at the part where physical therapy will help.  Walking a few steps a day is a good start.”

  “And my knee?”  Steve asks.

  “That’s still going to take some time.”

  *****

That night Steve is exhausted again.  It worries Bucky to see just how quickly he tires himself out.

  “You should get into bed,” Bucky suggests, when Steve almost face plants into their dinner.

  Steve grunts his annoyance.  “It’s not even seven o’clock.” 

  “We could watch tv for a while?”

  Steve considers this.  “Your tv is better,” he says.

  This is a blatant lie.  They each have giant flat screen televisions in their bedrooms, as identical as all the other furnishings.  But Bucky knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.  If Steve wants to hang out in his room, he’s not going to question it.

  An hour later, midway into some Star Wars sequel that Sam put on Steve’s list but doesn’t mean much to Bucky, Steve is sound asleep.  They had given him his meds and checked his bandages before they started the movie, so there’s no reason to wake him up.  Bucky lowers the sound on the television and turns off the lights, then changes into what serves as his own pajamas, flannel sleep pants and a long sleeved t-shirt he stole from Steve.

  When he settles under the blankets, Steve shifts towards him, and leans his head on Bucky’s shoulder, his hand coming over to rest on Bucky’s chest.  “’Night, Buck,” Steve says sleepily.

  “’Night, Steve.”

  It takes Bucky ages to fall asleep, long after he has turned off the television.  But when he does, his only dreams are good ones.

  *****

“You sure you’re ready for this?”  Steve’s voice comes from the living room. 

  “Just as sure as I was the first five times you asked me,” Bucky replies.  He zips the suit up, makes sure the harness that will hold the shield is attached snugly, and grabs the cowl off the bed.  Time to play ball.

  “Whoa, look at you,” Steve says when Bucky exits the bedroom.  “Damn, you look good.”

  Bucky can feel his face heat, and he ducks his head.  “It’s a nice suit.”  It’s a slightly toned down version of Steve’s last model, but with the shield design on his left upper arm, in the place of the red star that used to be on the metal underneath.  He turns away, heading for the kitchen where at least he can have a cold drink, and Steve wolf whistles at him.

  “What?”  He spins back around.  Was Steve actually admiring his ass?

  Steve pushes himself off the couch and limps over to Bucky.  “It’s not just the suit, although I must say Tony paid close attention to your measurements.”  Steve wiggles his eyebrows and runs a finger over Bucky’s chest. 

  Huh, Bucky thinks.  Maybe Steve <i>is</i>admiring his ass.  Not a bad silver lining to this whole mess.

  Then Steve’s face turns serious.  “It’s got the Kevlar lining, right?”

  “Of course,” Bucky says. 

  Steve puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, biting his lip, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Don’t worry, Steve.  I’m gonna be fine.”

  “You can’t know that,” Steve says, voice tight. 

  “I’m Captain America,” Bucky says, striking a pose.  “I’m invincible.”

  Steve sighs.  “You’re not.  I’m not.”  He waves a hand at his injured leg.  “Exhibit A.”

  “I know.  I’m just teasing.”

  “I know,” Steve says quietly.  “Just… are you sure you’re ready?”

  Bucky doesn’t chastise Steve for asking the question again this time.  “If I’m not, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  There’s a ping on his phone, Natasha telling him she’s in the car outside, and Bucky turns to go.

  “Wait.”  Steve grabs his arm, and pulls him in for a tight hug, a hand behind his head holding him close.  Bucky feels a damp kiss to his forehead, and then Steve lets him go.  “Be safe, Buck.”

  For the next few hours, in the car with Natasha and on the quinjet, it’s all Bucky can think about.  That kiss.  It wasn’t a romantic kiss, was it?  It was a brotherly kiss, a friendly kiss, an “I’m worried about you” kiss.  But Steve had clearly been ogling him in the suit, and sleeping curled up against him… although that might not mean anything, either. 

  Finally Natasha flicks his shoulder with her finger, hard enough to sting even through the suit.

  “Hey,” he protests, and she glares at him. 

  “We’re landing in less than half an hour.  Get your head in the game, Barnes.”

  Bucky realizes she’s right – he can’t go into a fight distracted like this.  And it’s not like him to let personal concerns interfere with his mission.  Or, more accurately, he thinks, it’s not like the Winter Soldier to let personal concerns interfere with his mission.  Not that the Winter Soldier had any personal concerns – until he did, and look how that ended up.

  Bucky moves towards the back of the small plane and sits down on the floor, leaning his head on his knees.  He takes deep breaths, tries to clear his mind and focus on their goals.  He remembers how it felt to know only his mission, to have no other purpose.  Slowly a cold wave settles over him, and the world narrows.

  When they land, he and Natasha scope out the area.  They easily identify the scientist they’re looking for, but when he comes out of the research facility he’s surrounded by six heavily armed guards.

  Without comment, Bucky takes the guards down with Steve’s shield, and sends a tranquilizer bullet into the scientist.  He leaves the man for the clean-up team to collect, and returns to the jet.

  “What the hell, Barnes?”  Natasha’s voice sounds like it’s coming through a fog, and Bucky has to struggle to process her words.  “You care to let me know what that was all about?”

  Bucky looks around.  They’re back at Stark Tower, alone in a briefing room.  He doesn’t remember the trip back. 

  She leans down and whispers in his ear.  “We need to get our stories straight before Coulson skypes in.  Anything you care to share?”

  But Bucky is confused, his thoughts swirling, and he doesn’t know what to say.  Moments later Coulson’s face appears on the laptop screen in front of them, and Natasha calmly recounts the details of their mission. 

  “Sergeant Barnes, anything you want to add?”

  Bucky blinks at Coulson, and shakes his head.  “No, sir.”

  “This was your first time in battle since Steve was injured.  Your first official op with the Avengers, as Captain America or otherwise.  Any problems?”

  “No.” 

  “Romanov, you agree?”

  Coulson’s a top-notch spy, but Natasha’s easily his equal.  “Yes, sir.  Glad to have him on the team.”

  When Coulson signs off, Natasha moves to the door, blocking Bucky’s way.  “We’re talking about this tomorrow,” she says firmly.

  “Fine.”

  He takes the stairs up to the floor with his and Steve’s apartment, the twenty flights flying by.  It’s the middle of the night, and Steve is fast asleep in his room.  Bucky strips off the suit and climbs into bed, shaking.  He screwed up.  There’s nothing he can do about it.  Bucky buries himself in the blankets, and waits for dawn to come.

  <i>There’s screaming all around him, shrieks of pain and fear.  He sees himself pummeling the target, face bloody and broken.  He can’t stop, his metal fist striking again and again, and yet the target is still screaming.</i>

  “Bucky, Bucky, wake up.”

  “I can’t stop, I can’t, help me, help me!” Bucky screams.  He feels strong arms wrap around his body, pinning his hands against a firm chest, and he cries with relief.  It’s Steve.  Steve’s got him.  He can’t hurt anyone anymore.

  “Bucky, breathe.  You’re okay.  Breathe.”

  Steve pulls him tighter against his chest, lets Bucky curl into him, pressing his face into Steve’s neck.  Slowly his body relaxes.  He realizes that he’s half lying on Steve��s fancy cast, and a wave of shame washes over him.  Bucky’s supposed to be taking care of Steve, not the other way around. 

  But when he tries to pull back, Steve just holds him tighter.  “You’re not going anywhere,” Steve says, rubbing a hand over his back.  “Go to sleep, Bucky.  Go to sleep.”

  *****

“That was some nightmare,” Steve says mildly when Bucky joins him in the kitchen the next morning.  There’s a platter of scrambled eggs and toast in the middle of the table, but Bucky doesn’t feel much like eating.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mission didn’t go well?”

  Bucky shrugs.  “It was fine.”

  Steve sits down next to him and tries to catch his eye.  “Want to talk to one of the SHIELD therapists?  Maybe the one you met with before?”

  “I’m fine, Steve.”

  “Natasha doesn’t think so.”

  Traitor, Bucky thinks.  “You talked to Natasha?”

  “She’s worried about you.  Said you kind of blanked on her.”

  Bucky shrugs again.  “I’m fine.  I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, Natasha’s coming over here in a few minutes.  Said maybe you guys would go for a run.”  Steve gives Bucky a pointed look, then flicks his eyes up to the ceiling and back to Bucky.

  If Steve is worried about Jarvis overhearing the conversation, then whatever happened might be even worse than Bucky suspects.

  “Okay, good idea.”

  He and Natasha put several city blocks in between themselves and Stark Tower before she ducks into a coffee shop.  Bucky follows her, sees the glances she gets in her tight black running outfit, and has to laugh at himself, decked out in his finest baggy sweats and two layers of long-sleeved shirts. 

  They settle outside on a bench, coffees in hand.  The early spring sunshine is bright, but doesn’t do much to warm them.

  “You were all happy and lovesick, and then something changed.”  Natasha states.  “Explain.”

  “I’m not lovesick.”

  She narrows her eyes at him.  “That’s not what we’re discussing.”

  Bucky sighs.  “I don’t know, okay?  I was just trying to focus on the mission.  Everything was fine.  We took out the Hydra goons, tranq’d the scientist, and that was that.

  “We?”  Natasha says.  “You acted alone, partner.  Like I wasn’t even there.  Wouldn’t even talk to me for the whole ride back.”

  Bucky shakes his head, the sick feeling in his stomach intensifying.  “I don’t remember the trip back,” he confesses.  “I don’t remember anything between shooting the guy and being in the briefing room.”

  Natasha is silent as she finishes her coffee.  “We should tell Coulson.”

  “No,” Bucky turns to her, panic rising in his gut.  “He’ll rip up the immunity deal.”

  Natasha doesn’t flinch.  “I didn’t say I was going to tell him.  Just said we should.”

  “Shit, just… please don’t tell him.  Give me another chance.  I can do better.”

  Natasha leans her head against his shoulder, like she did back in the hospital when they watched over Steve.  “You didn’t do badly, Barnes.  Hell, you did great.  The perfect soldier.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Bucky says softly.

  “Yeah.  Me too.”

  *****

  The Avengers are called to assemble again that afternoon, an emergency in Philadelphia, something to do with the Liberty Bell becoming animated and taking off down the street.

  Steve follows Bucky around the apartment as Bucky gathers the pieces of his suit.   He’s frowning so hard Bucky is tempted to warn him that his face is gonna stick that way.

  “It’s too soon,” Steve finally says, as Bucky ties his hair in a ponytail.  “You haven’t gotten any rest.”

  “I don’t decide when crazy shit happens, Steve.  I gotta go, have to be upstairs in five.”  His heart is racing, but there’s nothing to be done.  Maybe he can calm himself down on the plane. 

  “Bucky…”

  “What?”

  “Come here.”  Steve tugs him close, puts a hand on the back of his head and tucks his face up against his cheek.  They stay that way for a long moment, Bucky breathing in Steve’s scent, clean laundry and skin and a hint of aftershave.  “You know I’m no good without you, right?”  Steve whispers, and Bucky’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Steve,” he says, wrapping his arms around Steve’s broad shoulders.  “I’ll be back, I promise.”

  When his phone pings he pulls back, and is shocked to see Steve’s eyes bright with tears.

  “I’ll stay, if you want,” he says quickly, because no immunity deal is worth this.  They can live somewhere else, fuck America, it’s nothing next to Steve.

  “No, no, that’s not what… no.”  Steve wipes his eyes and straightens his shoulders.  “Sorry, just feeling sentimental.  Go.”

  “You sure?”

  Steve shakes his head.  “Yeah.  They need you, the team needs you, I’m being silly.  Just – come back home, okay?”

  Bucky leans in and kisses Steve smack on the mouth before he can think about it, and then he’s out the door and flying up the stairs to the roof without so much as a goodbye.

  He climbs into the jet in a daze, barely registering the greetings from Clint and Tony, the news that Thor is joining them later, the update on the operation from Coulson.  They make a stop to pick up Natasha, who calmly sits herself down next to Bucky and hands him another coffee.  With sugar.

  “Status report?”  she asks under her breath, when the others start debating whether Thor’s hammer will make the Liberty Bell ring or just smash it.

  “I kissed Steve,” Bucky breathes out, and Natasha leans her shoulder against his metal arm, chuckling softly to herself.

  “It’s about time.”

  When they get close, Bucky shakes himself and starts to stand up, but Natasha stops him with a hand on his arm.  “No need for any mind tricks this time,” she says steadily.

  “I have to focus.  I can’t be thinking about…” he waves his hands helplessly.  “Things.  Him.  When I fight.”

  She looks at him squarely.  “You can.  You have to.  It’s hard, I know, given your conditioning.”  She doesn’t even stumble over the word, doesn’t shy away.  “But if you keep going back there… you’ll lose yourself.  It’s not worth it.”

  “Speaking from experience?”  he asks.  He has a feeling he knows the answer.

  “What do you think?” she replies, a trace of bitterness lacing her words.  “Anyway, the whole team is here today.  Don’t try to do this on your own.  We have to work together.”

  Bucky nods.  “I’ll try.”

  “Hey,” she says, tilting her head.  “We’ve got your back, you know.”

  His throat is tight, so he just nods again.  He knows it’s part of the job, but it’s nice to hear it.

  When they get to Philadelphia, it’s chaos.  The animated Liberty Bell has vacated its home near Independence Hall and is hightailing it north, stopping traffic on Route 95 in both directions.

  “Any idea what the hell is going on?”  Clint asks. 

  Natasha relays the answer from Coulson.  “Apparently it’s been treated with some kind of fancy alien molecule.”  Natasha’s heading up this mission – Bucky is willing to act as their figurehead, but he has no interest in being in charge.

  Nevertheless, Bucky-as-Captain-America has to take point, get out in front of the crowd, let people see that Captain America is there to protect them.  So he does.  Tony provides cover while Natasha and Clint work on getting the civilians out of the way.

  Bucky finally gets close enough to throw his shield at the bell, which is lurching up the street faster than anything that big has a right to move.  But the shield just bounces off and flies back to his hand.  Bucky throws it again, using all the force his metal arm can muster, but the damn thing barely seems to feel it, rocking a bit and then continuing on its way.

  “Try taking out its legs,” Tony says on the comms.

  “It doesn’t have legs,” Bucky replies, gritting his teeth as he dodges a car that the Bell has shoved back towards him.  “It’s just floating or something.”

  “It’s got to be holding itself up somehow, some kind of energy field,” Tony says.  He catches another car on its way back towards Bucky.  “Get the shield under it.  Knock out its knees.”

  “Doesn’t have knees,” Bucky mutters to himself, but he tries it anyway, gliding the shield under the Bell as hard as he can.  Much to his surprise, the Bell falters, and when he does it again, the damn thing slams to a halt right there on the surface of the highway.

  Tony is cheering and shouting something about being a genius, brains over beauty winning every time, and Bucky wonders if Steve puts up with this kind of ribbing.  He realizes that he probably does, and for a moment, being Captain America doesn’t seem quite so bad.

  It takes hours to clean up the mess, ruined cars up and down the road, frightened people quickly turning from scared to thankful to pissed off about having their cars totaled and their days ruined.  Bucky does his best to play the part, channeling Steve’s most polite public persona. 

  As the evening wears on, Bucky can’t help think about the kiss – the <i>kiss</I> - but it doesn’t get in his way, not enough to matter.  And maybe the way he feels colors his interactions with the people in the street, making him a little more patient, more forgiving.  This Captain America gig isn’t just about killing the bad guys – it’s also about helping everyone else.  Having Steve on the edge of his thoughts might just be an advantage.

  By the time they pile back into the quinjet it’s past midnight.  Coulson lets them do a quick briefing over the phone, with the agreement that they give a more detailed report the following afternoon.

  “Unless you send us out again,” Natasha mutters, and Coulson smirks at her from her phone screen. 

  “Next time I’ll wait until the Liberty Bell makes it to the Statue of Liberty and they join forces,” Coulson says.  “If you’re too tired to do your job.”

  He goes on to thank them for their efforts, ignoring Tony’s insistence that he deserves most valuable player recognition, and signs off.

  Clint breaks out the bag of snacks, and walks around the plane like a flight attendant, offering little bags of popcorn and protein bars to anyone who is awake enough to eat.  Bucky chews on a protein bar and swallows down a liter of water, and sits back in his chair.  Natasha’s across the aisle from him, and she idly tosses a piece of popcorn in his direction.

  “Good work out there, Barnes,” she says. 

  He shrugs.

  “No, really.  I’m glad to have you on the team.”

  He can’t help the warmth that spreads inside him at her words.  He thinks he knows her well enough at this point to believe them.

  ******

  Bucky eases open the door to their suite, trying to be quiet.  It’s still the middle of the night, and Steve needs his rest.

  But there’s still a light on in the living room, and a familiar figure on the couch, tablet in hand. 

  Bucky takes a deep breath.  He’s going to have to explain himself now, it seems.  No sneaking into his own bed to avoid the topic until morning.  “Steve, I’m sorry, I don’t know what…”

  Steve’s face lights up when he sees Bucky, and it takes the words out of his mouth.  Steve stands and crosses the room, his casted leg hardly slowing him up.  He smiles shyly as he comes right up in Bucky’s space.

  “You’re sorry?”  Steve asks lightly, putting a hand to Bucky’s cheek. 

  Bucky leans into it, his eyes closing.  It’s okay.  Steve wouldn’t be holding him like this – he’s holding him, careful but sure – if it wasn’t.

  “What are you sorry for?”  Steve blinks at him, long eyelashes fluttering.

  “Don’t know,” Bucky sighs, resting his face against Steve’s and breathing him in.

  “Not sorry for this, I hope,” Steve replies, and shifts to place a firm kiss on Bucky’s lips.  He pulls back, his blue eyes searching Bucky’s face, and Bucky melts.

  “No, not sorry for that.”

  “Good.”  Steve kisses him again, harder.  His lips are soft and wet, and Bucky’s mouth opens with a gasp.  Steve licks at his lips, the slick heat of his tongue sending a shiver up Bucky’s spine.  Bucky loses himself in it, pleasure surging through his body.

  “Let’s get you out of this,” Steve says, sliding the harness off Bucky’s shoulder.

   Bucky leans his head against Steve’s and finds the zipper of his jacket, but hesitates as the thought of what’s happening registers.  Is he really about to strip Steve out of his clothes?  “Steve, is… is this okay?”

  “What, you think we’re moving too fast?”  Steve says calmly, rubbing a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck.  “Seventy-something years not enough for you?”  He smiles as he speaks, stepping back just a bit to let Bucky know he can have the space if he needs it.

  He abruptly realizes that he doesn’t.

  “Nah, you’re right,” Bucky says, a little breathless with it.  “I’m good.  If you’re sure you want…”

  Steve surges forward again, covering Bucky’s face with kisses.  “I want, believe me.  I’ve wanted you forever.”

  Bucky gasps and kisses him back, growling his agreement into Steve’s mouth.  Steve almost loses his balance, and Bucky grabs him firmly under the arms, remembering that he’s balancing on his fancy Stark cast.

  “What do you say we take this to more stable ground?”  Bucky asks.

  “If by that you mean the bed, it’s a deal.”

  For an injured man and an exhausted Avenger they don’t waste any time shedding their clothes and getting into bed, although Bucky thinks his heart almost stops when Steve holds open the covers and he slides in next to him.  He’s seen Steve naked before, of course, but not like this, not laid open and bare for him, for Bucky to look at and touch and taste.  It’s intoxicating.

  They arrange themselves so as not to put any pressure on Steve’s leg, Steve brushing off Bucky’s concerns with a hasty reassurance that Stark’s cast will protect him and by god, he is not going to let anything stop him now, which Steve immediately tries to demonstrate by leaning down and licking a stripe along Bucky’s hard length.

  Bucky nearly cries out, but it’s clear that despite Steve’s determination, the position is kind of ridiculous for Steve given the cast.  He pulls him up and kisses him soundly, then pushes Steve back by the shoulders and makes him lie down on the bed.  “Maybe next time,” he says, guiding Steve’s hand to him instead, and taking Steve in his own.  “Don’t want you hurting yourself.”

  Steve doesn’t protest, and Bucky would like to think it is at least in part due to the fact that he has better things to think about.  From the delicious noises he’s making as Bucky strokes him, he thinks there’s a good chance of it.

  Then Steve focuses on Bucky, working him over until he’s panting and shaking, and Bucky loses track of everything except Steve, his touch and his voice, the smell of him all around him. 

  Steve changes the pace for a moment, kissing down Bucky’s chest and swirling his tongue around a nipple, and Bucky almost can’t take it anymore.  “Oh my god, Steve.”  He digs his face into Steve’s neck, gets a hand on Steve’s ass to pull them closer, and ruts shamelessly against him.

  “That’s it, Buck, that’s it,” Steve encourages, hand tangling in Bucky’s hair as Bucky lets go, his orgasm rushing over him.  Steve follows soon after with a shout.  They’re sticky and sweaty and altogether disgusting, but as far as Bucky is concerned, he’s never been happier.

  *****

The next morning Bucky wakes up cuddled against Steve’s bare chest.  Steve is scrolling through something on his phone with one hand, his other arm holding Bucky close.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s hair.

  “Mmm.  What time is it?”

  “Nearly ten.”

  Bucky pushes himself up on an elbow.  Steve is bright eyed and alert, beaming at Bucky. 

  “You never sleep in,” Bucky says, confused.

  “I made an exception,” Steve says, leaning in to kiss Bucky properly.

  Bucky relaxes, parting his lips and letting Steve in, morning breath and everything.  “I could get used to waking up like this.”  He sighs and lays back down on Steve’s chest.  “World doesn’t need saving today?”  He pokes at Steve’s phone so he can see what he’s looking at.  It’s a picture of Bucky as Captain America, taken yesterday when he was consoling a little girl in the aftermath of the Philadelphia battle. The headline is “New Cap:  Fit to Wear the Suit?”

  “You don’t need to read this,” Steve says, swiping at his phone and setting it aside.  “People gave me crap all the time, you know.  I hate that it’s happening to you, too.”

  Bucky looks around at the Captain America harness draped over the headboard, pieces of the suit tossed on the floor where they landed when Steve took him to bed just hours ago.  His gaze lands on Steve, naked underneath him, blue eyes full of love and concern. 

  “I’m all right,” Bucky says.  “Really.”  He leans down and kisses Steve, long and hot and deep.  “I’m fine with either one of us wearing the suit, as long as we get to do this when it comes off.”