#apologies for having returned yet again to an old structural trick

[apparitionism]

Run 11a

Well. Where were we? I keep having to reintroduce this story because it takes me so long to get to and through each part... in the large, it’s about the ethics of the use of advanced technology in athletic competition. But in the more-important small, it’s also about a Myka and a Helena trying to work out their own ethical differences, with regard to both that technology and a whole host of other issues, including their romantic past and possible—but not assured—romantic future. In the previous part, these two would-be ethicists seemed to have found themselves at the put-up-or-shut-up point, in that Helena had just asked Myka “What now?” There are a lot of answers to that question, and this part commences some forward-and-back time-shifting in order to explore them... I did a lot of that in part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7a, part 7b, part 8, part 9a, part 9b, and part 10.

Run 11a

Myka stood next to Steve, as tall and strong as she knew how to stand. For once, he needed her support: a tiny but significant wrinkle of solemnity creased his brow, marring his usual placid air yet fitting the momentous nature of this, his wedding day.

Fitting, too—in both senses—was his bespoke tuxedo, which rendered him even more handsome than usual... Myka allowed herself to feel a little pulse of handsome of her own, for her dark suit, a softer echo of his, was equally bespoke, its smooth silk an expensive privilege against her skin.

The suit’s so-careful design, its so-intentional function, made her think of Deceits... a slightly incongruous thought, and yet: as they had turned Myka into A Runner, this suit turned her into A Best Person. She allowed as how she was always going to have needed some help with that latter. In this case, she welcomed the augmentation.

The wedding was a bigger event that she had thought it would be, and she’d remarked on that to Steve when suit-fittings and other prefatory activities seemed to escalate. “Bigger than I’d thought,” he agreed, “but Liam’s parents said ‘go all out,’ with the checkbook to back it up, so we did. Who turns down a party?”

Who turns down a party. Funny that he would put it that way...

****

When Helena had asked “What now”, Myka had enjoyed a flash of certainty... because the moment their hands had touched, everything had seemed so very obvious. And based on that, “what now” had to in fact be a question about where, not what, for how could they not be on the same page of escalation?

An instant later, the where answer struck her just as certainly: “We’re actually in a hotel,” Myka said. “Right this minute, that’s where we are. In a hotel.”

Helena didn’t say anything.

The lack of reaction gave Myka pause. “And it has rooms?” she offered, but with less conviction.

“My plane boards in less than two hours,” Helena said. A stolid utterance. Unmoved.

So much so, in fact, that Myka’s initial response was to snap to match it, adopting a correspondingly aloof “If you’re unmoved, then so am I” stance—but no. That was counterproductive. Helena just wasn’t convinced yet, and who could blame her? All right, then: Myka would have to do more to establish her truth. “Are you saying we need more time than that?” she asked, trying for light, yet feeling her grip on certainty slacken. Trying harder, she said, “But also, people sometimes miss planes.”

Wrong response: Helena’s jaw took on a clench; her lips, a press. (Her jaw. Her lips.)

“I’ve told my father I’ll be home soon,” she said. “He told me I should come round.”

Myka couldn’t quite locate the genre of wrong into which her “people sometimes miss planes” play had fallen, but she did know that she had always been on the same continent—in the same country, even—as her father. And “he told me I should come round” sounded less like an obligation than that “should” suggested, more like... something sought? As if Helena were pleased by, yet defensive about being pleased by, having been told to “come round.”

How could Myka even begin to think of putting herself in the way of that?

But she had to think of it, so she did think of it, because what she sought was right here, right now—her breathing matching Myka’s as it always did, always had done, even when they could not bridge such expanses as a broken-glass-hazard hallway, or a dangerously not-quite-deserted elevator lobby—with no guarantee she ever would be again. And even now, Myka was sure that if she pressed, Helena would be moved. That inadvertent hand-touch, with the generating jump it had delivered to Myka: Helena had to have felt it too.

Had to think, had to have felt; so much had to, and so Myka fell, fast, into a consequent, seemingly inevitable, had to: she had to try the touch again—try it this time deliberately, moving her hand to Helena’s, moving her hand against Helena’s—and there again was the jump, the rush, and Myka’s heart jumped and rushed too, because surely now—

—but Helena flinched. She withdrew her hand. “Don’t,” she said.

This simple slip of my skin on your skin unfolds an entire world and you say “Don’t”? A world-destroying prohibition. “Don’t now? Or don’t ever?”

“Don’t now,” Helena said. “I can’t speak to ever.”

Was that a reprieve? If so, it was far, far less of one than Myka wanted. “Can I speak to ever?”

“I’m sure you can.”

Those words, overlain with a slight satirical cant, were reminiscent of Helena’s historical didactic streak. Intentionally? With hope, Myka re-inquired, parodically dark: “May I?”

That got a half-smile. It seemed a break... into which Myka placed, with some sadness, “You don’t believe me.”

“I want to believe you,” Helena said, the half-smile reducing by half. A quarter-smile... too fractional. Not really a smile at all. Not anymore.

The diminishing hurt Myka’s heart. “But it’s risky,” she said, adding, “that want?” As if it were a guess and not a statement of absolute truth.

“Yes. I see what you’re doing.”

Well, this should be illuminating. Or something. “What am I doing?”

“Illustrating why you were correct to reject the risk of believing me. Offering an object lesson.”

Oh. Oh. Because Myka had herself said “don’t.” And she had pressed on to “don’t ever,” and she had meant it, and this... was this revenge? Or was Helena willfully, self-protectively, misinterpreting? “And if I am? Offering that... lesson,” Myka said, hoping for some sign.

“Effective,” Helena said. She raised her glass to her mouth and drank. An emphatic swallow.

Myka watched Helena’s throat. Wine in her mouth, descending; what followed. What used to follow. Not a sign, but a reminder: why she was here right now. “And if I’m not?” she asked.

No answer.

“Because I’m not,” Myka said. Helena’s face gave her nothing to go on, neither encouragement nor warning, so she went forward with what she could: “Don’t go. I can’t say it any more plainly.”

“But I am going. I can’t say that any more plainly.” And yet her hard mouth softened—or was Myka only wishing it had?—as she continued, “Dan Badger will call me, you said, so it’s likely I’ll come back.”

“To AAI,” Myka said. She left the now-obvious, cutting corollary—“not to me”—unvoiced.

“Yes,” Helena said. It seemed painfully final.

****

“What is taking him so long?” Steve murmured to Myka, as they stood together. And kept standing. She had walked out first, followed by Steve; Liam and his best person (who was in fact not a person at all, but Rita Hayworth, the couple’s red Afghan hound) were to have emerged next, leading into the true start of the ceremony. But there was as yet no sign of either of the pretty pair.

“His hair,” Myka assured him. “Or his tie. Or Rita’s ears. You love how particular he is.”

“Making me wait,” Steve fretted, that brow wrinkle becoming more pronounced. “At the literal altar.”

“First, we’re in a hotel ballroom, not a church, so not literal. But second, anticipation isn’t so bad.”

She had meant it to mollify, but he gave her a brief, sly smile, its sunshine sneaking through his solemnity. “Isn’t it?” he asked, also sly.

In the moment, she was glad to have distracted him this little bit. Still, if they hadn’t been the focus of several hundred people, she might have given his shoulder a shove. Gently, of course; he wasn’t Pete. As it was, she murmured, “This isn’t about me.”

****

Helena had risen from the bar stool, then leaned down, choreographically perfect, to heft her carry-on bag (elegant, so elegant). As she bent her right arm up to position the bag’s strap over her shoulder, her jacket strained close around that curling biceps. The tight convexity of muscle, another reminder that was not a sign, called out to Myka, and Myka called back: “Wait!”

That did gain Helena’s surprised attention: a prize now, one that Myka wanted to hoard. “What?” Helena asked, and Myka similarly wanted to salt away that slightly breathless question, regardless of whether its slight breathlessness signified annoyance or something more meaningful.

Wavering internally, for the briefest of worries—was she really going to try to call this into being?—she blurted, too fast, too unmeasured, “I have to go to a wedding.”

Helena squinted. Myka found the confusion betrayed by that squint perfect. If she could perpetuate that perfection... “This minute?” Helena asked.

She wasn’t quick enough to come up with any way to perpetuate it. “Of course not,” she said.

“Well, not your own, I hope,” Helena offered.

Whatever Helena was trying with that, it seemed altogether too lightheartedly possessive, given how she had been ready to leave things. But fine: “Why would you hope I wouldn’t have to go to my own wedding?” Myka asked.

“Are we speaking in the realm of the hypothetical or the real?”

That seemed not lighthearted but absurd. “This airport seems pretty real to me. You’re making it that way.” As opposed to the dream it could be if you would just let me get a room.

“I’ll accept that,” Helena answered, as if she’d heard the thought and wanted to affirm Yes that is what I am rejecting. “So this wedding is real as well?”

Nice dodge of why it matters what realm we’re speaking in... or maybe in the end it doesn’t matter at all. Myka sighed. “Of course it’s real. My good friend—best friend—Steve is marrying the man he loves.”

“I’m sure you have a reason for conveying this information,” Helena said. But not as dismissively as she might have done, standing there in her bag-on-shoulder impatience.

Could Helena truly be curious? Was Myka’s flash of an idea actually going to work? She said, “I also have to be in the wedding.”

“That information as well.” Still impatient... but Helena was nevertheless still not moving.

“I need a plus-one.” Myka said. She didn’t, not really. “I’d feel foolish if I were the only person in the wedding without a plus-one.” She wouldn’t, not really. But she paused, waited... because maybe Helena would stop willfully misunderstanding and take the opportunity. Because that would mean that she wanted an opportunity.

But no. Helena said nothing: no taking. Thus no wanting? But Myka, hopeful because Helena was still not moving, began a new push, a true push, with, “Would you consider being my—”

“I can’t.” Helena forced her words over Myka’s, as if letting her finish would be a disaster.

For the length of an inhale—just that—Myka felt herself on the edge of bursting into world-changing tears, unleashing a new violence that would lead her to beg answers from Helena to the most important questions. Tears, violence—but then she exhaled. Fortunately? The small, not-quite-steady question she settled for was, “Why not?”

Helena didn’t answer immediately. Was she trying to hide a truth? Or working out how best to express one? “Because I like this look in your eyes,” she finally said.

How was that a reason to say no? “I’ll have this look”—whatever it is, Myka added internally—“at the wedding. I promise.”

“But for how long after?” Helena asked.

Myka could tell her words weren’t intended a real question; rather, they seemed a fatalistic statement, resigned to the idea of some inevitably horrible result. Some let-down of a look in Myka’s eyes.

In their first iteration a horrible result had been—in retrospect—inevitable, or very close to it, but Helena certainly hadn’t wanted to head it off then. “Since when are you this person?” Myka asked, and her utterance was a question.

“Since,” Helena said, and then she stopped—punctuation. She smiled a beatific smile and continued, “Sainting.”

Sainting, Myka fumed internally. I am going to kill everyone at AAI, starting with Dan Badger and working my way down, and I will die jailed, yet content.

But she couldn’t sustain anger; her fume dissolved, forlorn: And also lonely, but apparently lonely is just going to be the baseline.

“It’s for the best,” Helena said, seemingly taking Myka’s hesitation for... hesitation.

“That isn’t what you thought before,” Myka reminded her. If only she could impress upon Helena the renewed importance of every single instance of that “before,” if only, if only, if only... but there was no opportunity, for:

“No, it isn’t,” Helena agreed.

And then she left.

****

When at last Liam began his walk down the aisle, with Rita gliding next to him, he did chime absolute perfection: the tie, the hair, the elegant dog... whatever had made him make Steve wait, it had been worth it. Myka knew that for truth, because Steve, regarding that perfection, wore exactly the dazzled disbelief Myka would have wished for him, if she had known how to wish it, so many law-school years ago.

Standing both as witness to the marriage coming into being before her and as necessarily excluded bystander, Myka found herself prompted to consider what “marriage” really was: Steve and Liam’s in particular, but also marriage as such. For the two impossibly beautiful men here at the non-altar, it was a sign of faith in the future, a belief that the future would be like the past... or, no, a wish that the future could be like the past; that a lovely past, their lovely past, could presage and motivate a lovely future.

She herself suffered from the belief, but she rejected the wish. She clung to a contrary hope: that a disastrous past could motivate—or at least not impede—a diametrically opposed future. That might not be marriage. But it might not not be marriage either. Steve and Liam’s beautiful achievement gave her the space to believe in possibility.

****

As she watched Helena disappear into the airport, Myka had, for that strange, estranging stretch of time thought on how she might leave the bar, go to the hotel’s front desk, hand over her credit card, and let herself disappear, for a day or two or three or a week, taking time out of time, sitting and settling in to mourn her inability to ever, ever, ever do the right thing at the right time where Helena was concerned.

When she had initially approached Helena in the bar, she’d felt the lift of renewed and renewing power, as if her side hustle—no, her main hustle!—really was running the world, as if she could bend any circumstance to her will, as if her presence and her perseverance would certainly, obviously, be enough to convince Helena to stay. Really stay.

So much for power. So much for bending anything at all. Pathetic, she berated herself, and her “disappear” thought was pathetic too: What, seriously, her rational, punitive side asked, would you do in a hotel room, for a day or two or three or a week or any time at all? Sit there?

If she was going to sit somewhere, it should be her desk at work. She could sit, blessedly calmly, at her desk at work. Sit calmly at her desk and work, with no overlay of worry that someone uniquely disconcerting would invade her space.

Be thankful for that.

****

“You seem like you’re alone,” Pete greeted her as she entered her—their—space.

She’d hoped it would be late enough that he’d be gone, but all right, he wasn’t. She tried to not resent his presence... she didn’t quite succeed. But she was able to say, with reasonably good humor, “I’d be lost without your powers of observation.”

“Seriously. You totally would. But also, what’s the story? I’d say what’s the story morning glory, but you look way too droopy to be one of those.”

“They get droopy at night,” Myka informed him. “Morning glories. And it pretty much is night. So why are you still here?”

“Aha, so I got it right the first time: what’s the story, morning glory?”

“When Dan Badger calls Helena, she’ll take whatever job he offers.”

“And?” he prompted, clearly ready for excitement, titillation, outrageousness—something to whisper and shout about every time he got near the elevators.

She hated feeling sorry that she couldn’t give him that reward. “And that’s the story, morning glory.” She had a vague thought that she should try to qualify that with a joke about how he wasn’t droopy and so wasn’t really a morning glory at this time of day. It was beyond her.

“FYI, that isn’t a story at all,” he said, as if that was really going to be news to her. “Stories have beginnings, plus middles—”

“Plus ends. Yes, I know.”

The minute she said “ends,” his demeanor downshifted. “Aw, man. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Myka told him, honestly.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She knew he meant it sincerely, but all she could manage was, “I don’t know that either. I’ll work it out later.” She felt he needed a boon, so she asked, “How’s Kelly? Are you two engaged yet? When’s the wedding? I like weddings.”

He perked up a little. “You do?”

Obviously she was not yet recalibrated for reality. Anybody’s. But why bother? “Yes,” she said. “In fact I have one in a couple of weeks.”

“You’re getting married?!?” he exclaimed, downshift entirely reversed. “I’m pretty sure that’s the story, morning glory!”

Okay, there was reality, right there meeting the road. “Not the story, because not my wedding. Why do people keep thinking it’s mine?”

“People? Who’s ‘people’?” But he knew. She could see it in his rising eyebrows.

He was altogether too quick sometimes. “Never mind,” she said. “Never mind about weddings at all. Just tell me some work to do, and I’ll do it.”

Now he snickered. “Oh, I’ll tell you some work to do. That’s really why I’m still here. And trust me, you’ll laugh when you hear what it is.”

“I could use a laugh. Hit me.”

“We’re supposed to rejigger the Mechanical Aids guidelines.”

Okay, maybe she wasn’t only not recalibrated to reality, Pete’s anyway, but also untethered from it entirely, because: “That isn’t funny.”

“It is when you hear the reason: they’re worried somebody’s going to try to claim they need Deceits—or something like ’em—as an aid. I gotta say, it’s times like this I can’t believe how lucky I got, you being a lawyer. You know how many back-and-forths I used to have to do with Legal before anything got finalized, back in the pre-Myka beforetimes?”

“I’m not a lawyer,” Myka said, and uttering those words for the second time this day did hurt... but she had to be honest: she was at the same time delighted. For did she take pride in consistently saving Certification and Compliance from having to go back and forth? Of course she did. She’d always thought, and now she had some real confirmation, that this was why she’d got her AAI job in the first place: to make this department work more efficiently.

It wasn’t the reward she’d wanted, wished for, dreamed of, to end her day, but it was what she had. In her first Helena aftermath, she’d had her anger but no job; in this one, she had a hollow where her anger had once been, but she did have a job. She had work to do—useful, valuable work.

So she put her head down and did it.

TBC

[pricemarshfield]

for candia

Written for Day 1 of @acocweek​: Fluff + Theobald. Read on AO3 here.

Theobald, as always, is the first awake.

Things are different than they used to be, of course. He wakes up with a marauder curled into his side murmuring violent nothings in her sleep and a licorice snake biting his hand affectionately, rather than alone. The guards are made up of a mix of Tartguard and North-Gumbian Knights and Saccharina's collection of nobodies that Theo has yet to corral into training. Saccharina lets him sit at her side during every meeting--encourages it, actually, wonders aloud about round tables and councils and more democratic processes of enacting law in front of visiting dignitaries who stare at her staff with wonderment and fear.

There's also still a tangible air of mourning around the place, too. One of the Tartguard started wailing when he saw Princess for the first time, and they'll be repairing the damage to the castle for years.

But what a job to supervise all of this!

"Limey," Theo says with a nod to his new second-in-command, who salutes. "What news do we have for the day?"

"Nothing much, sir," says Limey. "Her Majesty the Queen Saccharina continues to insist we don't need to salute her, but we've maintained proper etiquette anyway."

"Fantastic," Theo says. "Continue on."

"There is one thing," Limey says, and his tone is more confused than nervous, so he doesn't reach for the battle pop. "All of the left shoes in the barracks disappeared overnight."

"...what?"

"All of the left shoes in the barracks disappeared overnight, sir," Limey says. "No one saw anything, and while that's not an especially expensive thing to replace, it is worrying that someone was able to slip past our defenses."

Ordinarily, Theo would be incredibly worried about someone who could sneak into the barracks and out without being spotted, especially carrying what must have been dozens of shoes. But he hears a familiar snort from somewhere above him. When he looks up, no one's there, but that's to be expected. She's good.

"I'll retrieve those shoes posthaste, Limey," Theobald says. "Tell the men not to worry."

"They're not, mostly," Limey says, but Theo's already wandered off, holding his arm out so Princess can keep an eye out, too. She doesn't seem to be especially invested, snoozing on his arm and hissing when he tries to lower it.

"Ruby," Theo calls. "I know you're nearby. Come on."

No response, no sound of footsteps, no flickering shadows. This'll take the big guns.

---

"Ruby did what?" Saccharina says, lounging on her throne, and bursts into a fit of giggles.

"My Queen," Theo says, a familiar headache already forming behind his eyes. "This is serious."

"Sure, yeah," Saccharina says. "All the left shoes in the barracks? Even Jon Bon's? Oh, that's gross. Wait, is everyone just hopping around? Also, just call me Saccharina."

"My Queen Saccharina," he says, and she frowns at him, fiddling with a small magical trinket she'd found somewhere in the castle. "The morale of the men is important. We were able to take the castle without heavy losses, but not without losses entirely."

"Hm." The Queen stands up, shakes her head when he automatically moves to kneel. "She is the Imperial Princess now, and I don't think pranks are gonna hurt morale. Tell whoever's in charge of it that I authorize new shoes to be bought. I've got this whole treasury now, anyway, what else would I do with it?"

Theo takes a deep breath. "I think--" Saccharina waits, raising a brow at Theo's pause. He doesn't normally get this far. "I think that Ruby should probably apologize. And return the shoes."

Saccharina's mischievous smile looks a lot like her sister's. "Sure. And you can tell her that if you can find her."

There's a sudden laugh from behind him, and when Theo swings his head around, he sees only the back of the throne room.

He sighs. In for a long day, apparently.

---

The Imperial Princess Ruby of House Rocks doesn't have tutors here. She's on vacation, officially and in practice. Well-deserved after the war, of course, even if Theo doesn't understand the appeal of a week or month or two without structure. He'd have thought, after everything, that pranks were beneath her, that perhaps she'd even take an active role in governance!

Instead, Ruby seems to have decided Saccharina's challenge for Theo to find her cannot go unmet.

He hasn't seen her all day, even though the Bulb is high in the sky, but the impact of her actions is everywhere. Frosting along the floors that he slipped on, causing a Tartguard pile-up. Little bursts of sparks set to trigger when he opens doors and windows that startle him enough that Princess bites him. The worst offender is when he turns down a hallway only to see piles and piles of shoes, because when he gets back, they're all gone. The other Knights of North-Gumbia, to their credit, are completely understanding.

"The princesses were always fond of japes, weren't they, sir?" Limey asks. Princess hisses and curls around his neck in what he thinks is an affectionate gesture.

"They were," Theo says. Once, he'd woken up, sat up, and stretched only to get a tray of whipped cream directly to the face. Jet and Ruby hadn't been half as good at stealthing away as Ruby is now, but it'd taken him long enough to wipe it off his face that he'd only seen Jet glance back and snort with laughter.

Nothing had happened. Caramelinda had been visiting House Meringue for a family wedding and Amethar had found it hysterical. They had apologized in their own way, after--no escape attempts for an entire fortnight.

He shakes himself of his nostalgia with the help of Princess biting his ear, and as he gently untangles her from his helmet, he says, "Right. Well, keep the search up. She can't hide from us forever."

---

Two days, six hours, and roughly thirty minutes after he makes that statement, he's not so sure. No one's admitted to seeing Ruby, though Saccharina's eyes had sparkled with mirth and kept glancing up to a corner behind him as if daring him to break court etiquette and check. He's checked the secret passages he knows, he's enlisted the help of the marauders (Swifty had only threatened to stab him once during the conversation, so he thinks they're genuinely looking), he's used every spell he knows and considered looking up new ones.

New pranks pop up around the castle, of course. A few meeps let loose in the hallways, frightening a visiting dignitary. Flooding one of the kitchens with cola. Cushions that make it sound like you're farting on every chair except the throne.

"Ruby seems to be sparing you from her onslaught," Theo says to the Queen, watching as Annabelle Cheddar stares at herself in one of the room's mirrors, hair turned a bright Candian purple.

"Yeah," Saccharina says with a wide smile. "She is! It's really cool! I've never had anyone comfortable enough around me who cared me enough to do pranks without me being the target!"

Theo, not knowing how to respond to that, is incredibly thankful for the sixth prank of the day: an explosion of scraps of paper that covers every inch of the room. The paper seems to be mostly made up of old letters from the other nations. They're important, and them being destroyed is terrible, and they will have words about it later, but he can't bring himself to mind too much right now.

Because with all the paper everywhere, he sees the little breeze she makes in her escape, and the direction she runs in after.

---

If he chases after her now, he'll lose her, and who knows if he'll ever get another lucky break like that again. So he waits. Endures waking up covered in Fructeran vino, deals with diplomats' outrage at not being greeted by the Imperial Princess herself, keeps checking secret passages in entirely different parts of the castle just to throw her off the trail. He doesn't say anything to anyone about it, because he's not especially good at deception.

The final prank: a veritable army of chocolate frogs released while Saccharina holds court. It explains why she's been holding back laughter the entire time, but that's a problem for later. For now, he sprints across the room, vaulting over one of the Tartguard, and heads in the direction he'd seen her run before.

There's a few secret passageways this way, but he's checked those. When he reaches a dead end, he looks around, thinks--casts knock on the wall. Sure enough, it pushes open, and on the other side is Ruby Rocks, mouth open in shock.

"Ruby!" Theo calls.

"Damn it," she says. "How'd you even--it doesn't matter."

"You have many things to apologize for, your Imperial Highness," Theo says, walking over to try and pick her up and carry her back to the throne room. She could escape, probably, but it's at least a start.

"That's not true!" Ruby says. "I've been helping a ton of people."

"What, people who needed specifically left shoes? Annabelle secretly asked you to dye her hair purple?" Ruby snorts. "See! Come on, Princess."

"No, seriously," Ruby says. "Look, I did this because it's funny, but it's bringing the mood up around here! Morale!"

Theo blinks at her. "What? Stealing people's things? Ruining their day?"

"Pranks," Ruby says with a nod. "Look. Pay attention to the way people are acting and talking about all of it. I'll be back here in a few hours if you still wanna try and get me grounded."

"Your sister's not going to ground you," Theo says, and Ruby grins up at him.

It's definitely a trick. He's fallen for similar tricks before. He shouldn't this time.

"If you're not back here," Theo says, and Ruby laughs, half-tackles him in a hug, runs past him, and jumps out a window. He doesn't hear a thud or yelp of pain, so he assumes it's probably fine.

He hadn't even thought to check outside, had he? Hopefully, she'll keep her word and he won't have to. Not much else to do now that she's already escaped.

---

When he walks back to the throne room, Saccharina's holding a chocolate frog with a look of fascination and disgust, Primsy's already got one in a box that she's attempting to feed sugar-grass, and Liam is visibly holding himself back from target practice, hands twitching towards his crossbow.

"I must say," he overhears one of the Tartguard say as he takes his place by Saccharina's left side. (Gooey's at the right, still. Had very, very easily won that argument.) "While these pranks are quite improper, you can't deny they're incredibly humorous!"

"Good sir!" says another Tartguard, and one of the marauders behind him rolls her eyes, but has a smile on her face too. "I have to say, I agree. It was nice to have a bit of liveliness around here!"

One of the Fructeran diplomats is upset, but soothed easily after his partner reminds him that he can tell this story before the Imperial Court, always so focused on adventures. The Dairy Islanders seem more excited to avoid courtly talk than anything. One Meatlander is holding a chocolate frog with a look that can only be described as adoring, even as it shits in his hand.

All-in-all, the atmosphere of the room is rather...jovial. Not at all like the quiet mournfulness of the first week of their reign. There's still the holes in some of the walls from their siege, and there's still the palpable loss of the chancellor and the princess, but people seem happy. People are laughing.

When he goes back to the secret passageway--opened apparently by twisting a statue of Sapphria so that she's facing the window--Ruby's there, shifting on her feet.

"You do have to return the shoes," Theo says, and Ruby's shoulders slump. "But--"

"Yes!" Ruby says. "I knew you'd get it. Well, I hoped you'd get it. Gooey's mellowed you out."

"I--that's--we're not talking about Gooey," Theo blusters. "The shoes need to go back."

Ruby snorts. "I did that so we'd get new shoes. Dad told me all about trench foot."

"What?" Theo says. "That's not even a little bit of an appropriate topic for conversation. Especially at court. If you'd just go to your lessons--"

"I don't even have lessons here," Ruby says, and he's so distracted by responding to that with an emphatic 'you should' that he doesn't notice the tray of whipped cream until it's already in his face.

"Bye, Theo!" Ruby calls, already dashing away from him.

He sighs. "Bye, Ruby."

[thenightling]

In defense of Tom Sturridge (Already!?)

Apparently Tom Sturridge needs defending from our own meager fandom... already...

Disclaimer:  Though it is looking more and more likely that Tom Sturridge has the role of Morpheus in Netflix’s Adaptation of The Sandman this has still NOT been confirmed.   We are still riding on pure speculation.  However, I will defend the man.

Though it is not officially confirmed that Tom Sturridge will be playing Morpheus in The Sandman there are already people in the fandom complaining about the casting. (See the Neil Gaiman’s Sandman Facebook group.  The one with over three-thousand-members that I left.)  

In this post I will be addressing each and every complaint that I have seen thus far.   

And you wonder why they’re keeping the cast a secret from us for so long?  This.  This behavior would actually be worse if you knew for certain who was in the cast.  

When these negative reactions are in regard to who “might” be playing Morpheus, without any actual footage, or even images of him in character, they were wise to keep it a secret from us.

Now, let us begin.

1.   “He looks too much like Robert Pattinson.”  The hatred of Robert Pattinson is bizarre and irrational.  It is as if a great deal of the population cannot separate him from a character they despise.  The irony is Robert Pattinson never liked playing Edward Cullen anyway.  He did it strictly for the money.  And as far as vampire fiction goes, there is far, far, worse out there than Twilight.  Twilight is not good but there is worse out there.  It seems the hatred of Twilight is almost a knee-jerk reaction- a compulsive raw contempt against anything that appeals to teenage girls.  I do not like Twilight but I do not irrationally hate an actor just because he was in the films.  So what if Tom Sturridge resembles Robert Pattinson a bit?  You’ll condemn an actor because of his bone structure?  Because he “Kind of” reminds you of a man who played a character you don’t like?  Really?  I thought most of this fandom were grown ups.

2. “He’s too young to play Morpheus.”    The casting call was for men between the ages of twenty six and thirty six.  Tom Sturridge turns thirty-six this year.   It’s true that a man in his forties or even a youthful fifties could probably play Morpheus perfectly well and Morpheus did have crows-feet wrinkles in the first issue but to condemn an actor based on his age is merely ageism.  In this day and age a man can look any age with the right makeup.  Look at the lead in the silent film of Faust, directed by F. W. Murnau (Director of Nosferatu).   It’s impressive to know a thirty-six-year-old played elderly and youthful Faust in that film, and that was back in 1926.

3.   “He’s too old to play Morpheus.”  ...Seriously?   What did you want?  A CW teenager or early twenty-something college kid as the ten-billion-year-old dream lord?  Yet again, I know a man can pretty much play any age with the right makeup.  All else is ageism, even my cynical statement about the CW, that’s ageism.  

When Lestat the musical was on Broadway the actor who played Lestat was forty, the woman playing his mother was only about two years older than him.  

The actor playing Barnabas in the original Dark Shadows was in his forties.  The character was (According to Dan Curtis) only twenty-five when he became a vampire.  The woman playing his mother was only five-years-older than him.  

Tom Welling was still in Smallville as pre-Superman Clark Kent and he was older than the actor who played Superman in Superman Returns.  With good acting and makeup age doesn’t really matter.        

4.   “He’s a terrible actor.”    The man has about ten acting credits in total according to IMDB.  Most are bit parts and two are from when he was ten and eleven-years-old respectively.  

Are you judging him on roles he had before he hit puberty!? 

I have my doubts you ever saw him act in anything yet.  You’re probably leaping to conclusions because the pictures you found of him are a stoic pretty boy with beard stubble.

5.  “If he’s playing Morpheus that’s automatically a deal breaker.  I’m not watching.”   Okay.  Okay, fine. Don’t watch it.   You don’t have to.  No one is making you watch it.  However, you should be aware that Neil Gaiman watched the auditions.  He had a say in the casting.  If Tom Sturridge is playing him than this is the man HE chose. If Neil Gaiman doesn’t know who should play Morpheus, than no one does.  I thought James McAvoy did an excellent job in The Sandman audio drama and I will not automatically assume Tom Sturridge is a bad actor just because there are people pre-determined to hate this.

6.  “He shouldn’t be played by a white man.  It indicates that The Endless are all white and white people rule the universe.”   Morpheus likely will still have his bone-white (not human-white) skin from the comics (and I hope, the black void eyes with star pupils).  This was pulled off successfully with the Frankenstein monster in Penny Dreadful, with his own inhuman skin and yellow eyes.   

Morpheus’ bone-white skin, improbably thin build, and black void eyes are supposed to be without distinct race.  He’s not a human being. He’s not Caucasian.   He might be played by a white man, yes, but the actor was chosen based on talent, not racial background.  

I saw the casting description. Race was not a factor.  Since actual non-human / humanoid entities devoid of distinct racial background were unavailable, the show simply had to make do with a human being, instead.  The real Endless were unavailable or refuse to act.  You know how temperamental anthropomorphic personifications can be.    

7.   “He’s not thin enough.”   Okay, look. A lot can be done with CG.   I don’t want an actor killing himself for this role. 

Back in 1976 David Bowie was close to ninety-pounds when playing Thomas Jerome Newton in The Man who fell to Earth.  He was so under-weight that the wardrobe department had to buy his clothes in the children’s department of a store.  Yes, the character was really that thin in the Walter Tevis novel that the movie was based on.  But in the book Newton had hollow bones, like a bird, David Bowie, however, is a human being, not an alien.  And Tom Sturridge is a human being, not an anthropomorphic personification.  

When David Bowie played Newton he was on a diet mostly consisting of cocaine...  He could have easily died.  Thankfully Bowie cleaned up later, but he was not in a healthy state when he was in The man who fell to Earth.  We do not need a return of The Thin White Duke.  Not like that.

For a human to reach Morpheus’ comic book weight- that might require very unhealthy behavior, it would potentially be dangerous.  This is something they can adjust with camera tricks and computer effects.  He does not need to look like he’s dying. 

8.   “They should find an actor whose cheekbones stand out.”   See above...

9.    “He doesn’t look anything like Morpheus.”   I am certain you have not seen him in costume yet.  Neil Gaiman has (hypothetically speaking).   Let us trust the author and believe that his character looks the way he intended.    Remember how Henry Cavill went from Superman to The Witcher.

 10.   “I wanted Henry Cavill to play him.”   ... What?   

Have you... have you read Sandman?   Henry Cavill is under contract to do The Witcher.   He needs to stay buff for that role, and you want him to play “rake thin” Morpheus?  Yeah, a lot can be done with CG but Henry is an action hero actor.  He can act.  He’s a good actor.   But this is probably not the right role for Henry Cavill.

11.   “He looks like an American Youtuber.” He’s not either of those things.  Stop judging by appearances.   

12.  “He’s too pretty to play Morpheus.”   Stop judging by appearances.

13.  “He’s not attractive enough to play Morpheus.”  See above... 

14.  “He’s too short to play Morpheus.”  / “I heard he’s only five foot three.” / “I read that he’s just five foot eight.”    According to Google and IMDB he’s 5′10.  That’s the same height David Bowie was.  That’s average adult male height.  If they want him to look taller that’s easily done. Remember, Tom Cruise was The Vampire Lestat.  

It’s just lather, rinse, repeat, when it comes to fans.  Every adaptation the same thing.   “Tom Cruise can’t play Lestat.” (Anne Rice apologized for leading that charge, when she saw him in action).   Or “Michael Keaton is too wholesome to play Batman.”  or even “Ryan Reynolds should never play Deadpool after what he did in Wolverine.”  

People never learn.

Just give Tom Sturridge a chance. The casting isn’t even official yet.   And if he is Morpheus- try and wait to actually see how he plays the role before you decide he’s the worst thing to happen to The Sandman.  A few publicity photos don’t tell you what he is capable of as an actor.   You might be pleasantly surprised. 

[fantastic-rambles]

The Skylark’s Song [3 /4]

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Characters: Hibari Kyoya, Kusakabe Tetsuya, Oikawa Tsuneo, Namimori Middle Disciplinary Committee, Unnamed Gang

Warnings: Gang, Minor PTSD, Language, Violence, Murder [Again, I apologize if this isn't accurate PTSD.]

Word Count: 3.4k [Lol, what? I don’t know how this happened. xD]

Summary: My personal headcanons of the (pre-canon) experiences that made Hibari into the man that he is today. Part Three: Hibari’s revenge.

[Part 1]

"Unless someone is trying to run away, you will not interfere. Is that clear?"

"Absolutely, Hibari-san!"

Kusakabe and his friends stood stiffly at attention, though Hibari caught the look of uncertainty on several faces, as well as a touch of fear. It seemed like some of them were just starting to realize just how serious the situation was, that this wasn't one of their silly little games. Those ones were probably going to end up running away, but he didn't really care. As long as enough of them remained to trap these rats in their nest, that was enough for him.

When he turned to face the building, he was momentarily startled by a shout from behind him.

"We're praying for your success!"

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Kusakabe and his gang bowing to him, and the rest of them echoed their leader's sentiment: "We're praying for your success!"

Unsure of how to respond, Hibari simply nodded in acknowledgement before walking forward, listening to Kusakabe bark out commands for the others to spread out and cover the entrances. Oikawa scurried after Hibari nervously, staying well out of reach of the older boy as he carried a briefcase in his arms. Hibari had been reluctant to bring them along, but in the end, he didn't expect the police to side with a kid fresh out of middle school over a gang. It probably also wasn't right for him to have dragged these delinquents into this either; enforcing order on a bunch of children in school was entirely different than taking on actual gangsters. But they had insisted on following him all the way out here, so his only option was to take care of this quickly to limit its potential repercussions.

The building itself was nothing special, just a squat, three-story structure that looked like any other office. But Hibari hadn't only been training during all those years since he had lost his parents: with judicious bribes, he'd been gathering information on their murderers and paying off the right people to ensure that they would look the other way when the time was right, as well as maintaining their contributions to various services such as the hospital and the schools. It was fortunate that both of his parents had come from noble clans and made good investments while they had been alive: with the returns, he could do whatever he wanted for the rest of his life. Assuming he lived that long.

It wasn't that he was stupid or had some sort of death wish. He knew that it was crazy to take them on alone, but at the same time, that had always been his intention. Still, if he'd had the choice, he would have preferred to wait another five or ten years, building up his resources and gaining more strength and confidence. But circumstances had forced his hand: he'd learned that the leader of this group was going to join the yakuza, a promotion that would more than likely bring him to Tokyo, beyond Hibari's reach, both geographically and politically. Dealing with Motozawa Tomokazu while he was still just a small-time gangster in a little town was probably the only chance he would have, before the full might of a real criminal organization was backing him.

He exuded an air of confidence as he entered the building, walking up to the receptionist and leaning on the counter.

"Is Motozawa-san here? I have a proposition for him."

"This isn't a playground, brat. Get out of here," the man snapped, waving his hand as if trying to shoo the boy away. But that was pretty much the reaction Hibari had expected, and he glanced back at Oikawa, who looked ready to shit himself, and beckoned him forward. On shaky legs, the other boy approached, dropping the briefcase onto the counter with a loud thud, and Hibari reached over to unlock it, pulling up the top to reveal stacks of 10,000 yen bills. Casually, he picked one up at random and flipped through it, showing that it wasn't some sort of trick with newspaper, before tossing it back into the case and closing it again.

The man's eyes were wide with shock as he looked between the case and Hibari, and Hibari repressed a sigh at his obvious greed and stupidity.

"As you can see, I am very serious. Please convey my message to Motozawa-san."

He gestured to Oikawa again, waiting for the boy to retrieve the briefcase before walking with him to one of the leather couches in the lobby and sitting down. He watched the receptionist pick up the phone, speaking into it with an air of urgency as he kept glancing at the boy still dressed in his school uniform as though afraid he would disappear into thin air. Hibari had considered getting a suit, but decided in the end that his usual outfit would encourage them to lower their guards and underestimate him. He needed any advantage that he could get if he wanted to get out of here alive.

Soon enough, they were being ushered towards the elevators by a pair of men who were built along the lines of a bulldozer. Of course, it would have been extremely easy for them to beat up the two kids and just take the money--or so they probably thought--but the implied promise of more would keep him and Oikawa safe for now. But as Hibari had hoped, they didn't even search either of them for weapons or anything else that could be dangerous before admitting them into the head office. A young man who looked to be in his thirties lounged behind an executive desk carved out of black walnut, his shirt half-open and gold chains draped around his neck. As the two boys entered, he rose, spreading his arms in welcome as he walked around his desk.

"And what do we have here? Izumi said that you wanted to talk business? Please, sit." He gestured towards one of the couches in the center of the room, taking a seat on another so that a low, wooden table would separate them. For a moment, Hibari froze as the familiar voice threw him back to another time. No matter how long he lived, he'd probably never forget it: that cold voice that had taunted his parents and threatened them. The voice drunk on violence that had ordered, "Take care of this brat" right before Hibari had lost everything. The cruel laughter that continued to ring in his ears long after he woke up every night.

His hands clenched into fists, nails digging deep into his palms, and Oikawa approached him cautiously, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hib-- I mean, Kyoya-san?"

He'd impressed upon Oikawa to not use his surname, since Motozawa would probably remember it and become suspicious. But the man didn't show any change in expression at the small slip-up, so Hibari took the offered seat, inclining his head slightly toward the table.

"Leave it and get out."

Oikawa looked relieved to drop off his burden, but as he walked back toward the door, the two men who Hibari presumed were bodyguards blocked his way, looking toward Motozawa for instructions. Oikawa looked back too, his eyes wide with unconcealed fear, and Hibari feigned an attitude of nonchalance as he leaned back, draping his arms over the back of the couch.

"What's the meaning of this... Kyoya-kun, is that correct?" Motozawa asked, raising an eyebrow, and Hibari sighed.

"He's just my errand boy, like your two muscleheads over there. The less he knows, the better. After all, 'Even the mutterings of a man in a well are widely known after three years,' right?"

Motozawa laughed, a sound that scraped on Hibari's nerves, and waved at his men, who stepped out with Oikawa between them.

"I like you, kid. You've got spunk. How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"Fifteen," Hibari confirmed. "Although I'll be sixteen in two months. Either way, I'm old enough to be tried as an adult if I do anything."

"Oh? Congratulations on your graduation. So what's this about, then? You wanna join up with my team? I dunno if we'll have space for a rich boy with an attitude though, 'less you're bringing something else to the table."

Hibari smiled, baring his teeth at Motozawa. "Well, then it's a good thing that I don't want to."

The gangster laughed again, reaching out to put a hand on the briefcase and tapping the sleek surface with a finger.

"Alright, I'll bite. What do you want us to do to get this money? Beat up some bullies? Pick up some designer items for your girlfriend? It can't be that you want us to do a hit for you, right?"

Still smiling, Hibari leaned forward, letting his arms fall to his sides even though every fiber of his being wanted to put as much distance as possible between this scum and himself.

"It seems like there has been a misunderstanding. This isn't for you."

He watched impassively as the greedy expression transformed into one of shock as his words sank in. Then, far more quickly, shock turned to anger, and Motozawa's eyes narrowed as he slammed his hands on the table.

"The fuck are you talking about, you brat? Is this some sort of joke? Do you really think that you can come in here with a couple million, have a laugh, and walk out? I'm fucking yakuza!"

"Not yet, and it's a hundred million," Hibari corrected him blandly, which only seemed to infuriate the man even more.

"I don't give a flying fuck!" Raising his voice, Motozawa called out, "Kazuo! Shimpei! Where are you? Come throw this brat out!"

His two thugs crashed back into the room, although Oikawa was nowhere to be seen. Hibari hoped that that meant the boy had been escorted out, since things were about to get messy. Slowly, he got to his feet while Motozawa pulled the case toward himself possessively, and one of the men grabbed Hibari by the arm, only to blink in surprise at the feeling of something slim and hard under the sleeve.

Hibari raised his other arm and slammed it against the man's hand, eliciting a scream and forcing him to let go as his fingers were crushed between the metal. His own fingers curled up toward his wrists, releasing the ties that secured his weapons and letting them drop into his hands as he spun quickly, using the momentum to drive the steel into the second man's gut. Hibari smiled grimly at the sound of the air being forced out of his lungs as the man collapsed to his knees before turning his attention back to the first man, who was recovering and had pulled out a knife. Briefly, the boy's eyes flicked aside, ascertaining the position of the third man in the room. Motozawa had scrambled away with the briefcase and retreated behind his desk with it, fumbling inside his jacket while scrabbling for the phone, and Hibari took a few steps to the side, putting the man-mountain between himself and their leader.

The man had recovered more quickly than he'd expected, but then again, he was dealing with semi-professionals. They'd undoubtedly been in fights before and learned how to work through pain. Still, he'd been able to gain an element of surprise with his sudden attacks, and he'd have to hope that would be enough.

Block. Block. Block. The sound of metal clashing rang through the room as Hibari drove in, using his dual-wielding advantage to put the man on the defensive. He gritted his teeth as he drove one tonfa into solid muscle, feeling the reverberations in his arm, but it surely had to be even worse for his opponent. On top of that, as he'd expected, Motozawa had pulled out a gun, forcing Hibari to keep track of his position as well so he wouldn't get shot. His only option seemed to be to simply brute force this guy and his friend, and then probably deal with whatever reinforcements Motozawa had called before taking care of the leader himself. Just as he had hoped.

His opponent's good arm swung at him, and Hibari leaned back, flinching as he collided with a solid wall. The blade scored his forehead as two arms wrapped around him with a grunt, the second man having apparently recovered. It only took Hibari a moment to realize that he was too short to smash the man's nose with his head, so instead, he drove both of his elbows back with the little leverage he had, the ends of his tonfa smashing into the man's torso. At the same time, he lifted his foot and stomped down on the man's instep with his heel, the combined attack making his captor stagger backwards. Still, he didn't let go, and Motozawa called out, "Great job, Kazuo! Hold onto him!"

With him off-balance, though, Hibari twisted himself around, forcing his leg behind Kazuo's and grabbing the man's other leg before adding his own weight to the backward motion, throwing them both to the ground. In the confusion, he drove an elbow into the man's groin, finally convincing him to let go, and scrambled aside, keeping a firm hold on his weapons.

His breath was coming more quickly now, but for the first time in years, he actually felt alive. Even though he had blood pouring down his face, even though he was facing down two adult men and a gun, even though there would be more men coming... everything just felt right. His joints felt loose and limber as he crouched behind the couch, contemplating his next moves. Shimpei should be close to going down by now, given the damage he had accumulated, while Kazuo had had his breath knocked out of him several times already.

Raising an arm, he wiped away some of the blood. A flash of movement at the corner of his eye had him diving around the end of the couch as a bang reverberated in the office. Staying low, he cocked his tonfa as he ran toward Kazuo, who had begun to struggle to get to his feet, and swung his arm, catching the man below the ear. Instantly, the man froze, then toppled backwards again, unconscious, and conveniently fell in the way of the door that was just beginning to open. A clamor of confused voices rose as the men outside shoved at it, trying to force it open.

"Boss? What's going on?"

"Get in here and take care of this brat!" Motozawa screeched, firing another shot that went wide as Hibari ducked behind the other couch. Shimpei appeared on the other side, and Hibari continued moving, using his smaller build to his advantage to duck inside the man's swing, flipping his tonfa out to extend his reach and bring it down on Shimpei's wrist. The knife dropped, and his opponent quickly moved backwards, out of his reach, while pulling out another. 

Now, though, Hibari was realizing the advantage of his size, particularly against half-trained, muscle-bound idiots. He pursued Shimpei, lowering his center of gravity and aiming for his legs. Doing so would gradually hinder his mobility and eventually bring him down to a level that Hibari could strike the final blow, as he had with Kazuo. Their walls of muscle had made it difficult to make a decisive strike, but there was a natural limit to how much the head, one of the most vulnerable parts of the body, could be protected. Encouraged, he attacked steadily, keeping an eye on Motozawa's position. The gang leader was at the other side of the room, pulling at Kazuo's dead weight to let the rest of his men in... or to open an escape route for himself. A familiar, chrome briefcase leaned against the wall next to him as he tugged at his bodyguard and the door slowly creaked inward.

"Tch." Hibari clicked his tongue, dashing across the room. But something seemed to have warned Motozawa, who turned around quickly, lifting his gun. For a second, the barrel was pointed straight at Hibari's face. But as Motozawa squeezed the trigger, Hibari whipped his tonfa around, leaning away as the gun was pushed out into the open air, the sound of the shot deafening him on the left side. Grimacing, he continued his attack, driving Motozawa away from the door as his subordinates wedged it open just enough to start squeezing through.

And then Shinpei was there, getting between them and pushing Motozawa away. But the bodyguard was clearly feeling the effects of their fight, his legs trembling as they struggled to support his weight. It probably wasn't even worth it to take him out at this point, so Hibari backpedaled, dodging the new members who were coming in and trying to encircle him.

"Him! That kid! Get rid of him!" Motozawa shouted, pointing at Hibari. He heard the clicks of guns, but he discarded that information promptly. In such close quarters and with so many of their allies in the room, their guns were simply a disadvantage. Unless they could pin him down with a clear line of fire, their weapons were essentially useless, more likely to put holes in each other than in him.

A few of the more intelligent ones seemed to recognize this, dropping their guns and advancing with bare fists or knives, only to serve as fodder for his tonfa. Unlike the two bodyguards who had been wrapped in shields of muscle, most of them needed only one nicely placed hit to go down. They were the true herbivores of the group, following the ones with power and swaggering around with the mistaken belief that they were the ones that were feared. Although there were several mixed in who could occupy him for about half a minute, their comrades got in the way more often than not, giving Hibari openings to take them down.

Even so, his muscles were screaming in agony by the time the last body fell and the room was filled with the sounds of whimpers and groans. A quick glance showed him that Motozawa--and the briefcase--was nowhere to be found, and he half-walked, half-dragged himself to the door, carefully stepping over fallen men to ensure he could keep his own footing.

At the end of the hallway, his prey stood by the elevators, jabbing at the call button frantically. The moment he saw the boy, he raised his gun again, firing a shot that hammered into Hibari's right shoulder and sent him staggering back a step before he even registered what had happened. But the next pull of the trigger fell onto an empty chamber, and Motozawa cursed, throwing the weapon to the ground and picking up the briefcase, heading toward the stairs.

Mustering the last vestiges of his strength, Hibari flung the tonfa in his left hand, sending it spinning toward Motozawa in a gleaming arc that caught him in the back. The man went sprawling, and the case fell and popped open, spitting out stacks of bills as it slid away from him. Motozawa scrambled after it, trying to shove the money back inside, as Hibari approached him with agonizing determination, shifting his remaining weapon to his other hand.

"What the fuck? Who the fuck are you? What do you want?" Motozawa demanded, clutching the cash to his chest as Hibari backed him up against the wall.

"My name is Hibari Kyoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." [I'm sorry, I had to do it. xD]

"My name is Hibari Kyoya." He watched as recognition dawned on the man's face, followed by panic. Reaching into his pocket, Hibari pulled out a thumb drive, dropping it into Motozawa's lap. The man looked down at it with obvious confusion, then back up at the boy whose face was a mask of blood as his shoulder bled freely.

"That's your gift. What you couldn't find back then: the proof of your rotten dealings. The money is for the Inagawa-kai to compensate for your death so they won't cause trouble here."

"Wait! Wait, wait, Hibari-san! Let's talk this over! I'm sure--"

But Hibari was no longer listening. He stopped fighting gravity, letting it add to his blow as he swung his tonfa downward, crashing into Motozawa's skull with a sickening crunch before he fell to the ground. As the darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, he felt a sense of deep contentment and relief, and he fell into the shadows with little resistance.

[Part 4]

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome (again) to the Order of the Phoenix, Christie!

You have been accepted for the role of MARY MACDONALD! We loved how readily you embraced the harsher sides of Mary -- and how you wrote her embracing those aspects of herself, as well -- and we're so excited to see the fire and fuel she brings to the Order of the Phoenix! Things are going to get hot for enemy and ally alike with your Mary on the dash, and we can't wait to see it!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME & PRONOUNS: christie, she/her

AGE: 20

TIMEZONE: bst

ACTIVITY LEVEL: Uni’s started once again and I did go through a period of ‘oh snap how is that going to work‘ but that being said, I believe I’ve finally found my balance once again and feel confident enough in taking on a third character. I try to join at least one sprint a week, but then even when I can’t do that, I usually try to have mini sprints by myself.

ANYTHING ELSE: nope, nothing

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Mary Lizbeth MacDonald

AGE: 20 soon-to-be 21 (3 April 1961)

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cis female, she/her, ‘don’t know, don’t care’. She’s not particularly interested in romance and whenever she feels any sexual frustration, boys seem to do the trick just fine. She doesn’t care to explore her sexuality beyond that.

BLOOD STATUS: Muggleborn

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

ANY CHANGES: Nope! All good!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY: 

Many seem to think that Mary’s angry – and they’re right, don’t get her wrong. She’s fucking pissed at all the thumb twiddling, at the idiotic fanatics obsessed with slaughtering her kind, at the moralists looking down on her methods from their high horses. But she’s also not an idiot; she knows that anger kills and that if she’s not smart about this, it’ll kill her too. So she lets it drive her, lets it fuel her, but never lets it control her. She’s smart like that.

She also knows most would prefer to think of her killing Mulciber as a heat-of-the-battle, spur-moment decision, but that’s not what it was. When she looked him in the eye, his wand on the ground somewhere in the distance, Mary felt a moment of perfect clarity wash over her. She was perfectly capable of taking him in, she was sure of it, and for a brief moment, she considered it too. But then the corner of her lips twitched, pulling at the tissue of her scar, and her decision was made. If that makes her ruthless then so be it; God knows they’ve got enough soft-hearted plonkers in their ranks already. And if they need someone to hold their hand and pat them on the back for a job well done, they can fuck right off. The Order isn’t an after school special nor is it an extracurricular to join for the ‘experience’ and Mary certainly isn’t here to coddle anyone. She says it as it is, straightforward and blunt, and it’s sure as hell not her problem if people can’t handle the truth. She didn’t join the Order to make friends who’d braid her hair. She has a war to fight and everything else comes second.

That isn’t to say she’s a stone-cold bitch, though, as many times as she’s heard that. She has people she cares about, of course she does, but isn’t that the point? How can she claim to love her family, her siblings, and just sit around and wait for them to get killed off? How can she claim to care about the fate of Muggleborns and not join the fight against those who try to murder them? It’s not her passion and heart that people should question, it’s their own. Because if they cared, they wouldn’t be wasting their time judging her, they’d be fighting tooth and nail, like she is. Call her bold, call her desperate, she doesn’t give a flying fuck. If she has to, Mary will take the mud from her veins and throw it in the eyes of the Death Eaters; anything to buy another second, anything to win.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY: 

There’s no question of whether or not Mary loves her family – of course she does! She loves her mum, who once tried to braid her hair but only managed to tangle it up so badly that they had to cut some of it off. She loves her dad and his terrible, stupid jokes that she doesn’t get half the time but snorts at regardless. She loves Adam too, how can she not? They had their dual act perfected; ‘I wash, you dry’, ‘I help Mum, you help Dad’, ‘I take Sarah, you take John’. And Sarah and John, the babies of the family. Except they’re not babies anymore, are they? Mary loves them too, with her entire heart and more, but she missed John’s first day in middle school. She missed Sarah’s first boyfriend. She still sees them as those tiny bundles who cried a lot, pooped a lot, and refused to ever let go of her hair, but that’s not who they are.

It’s better this way, though. The less contact any of them have with the Wix World the better. Maybe one day, when the war’s over, Mary will be able to go home and apologise. She’s not sorry, but it’s not like any of them know her anymore. They’ll believe her. And they deserve an apology, anyway. It’s the least she can do. After that… she’s not sure. But it doesn’t matter. She’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it.

OCCUPATION: 

Barista at a teashop in Diagon Alley. Yes, she’s very much aware of how ridiculous the mental image of Mary MacDonald serving tea is, but it’s a pretty sweet gig. The pay’s good, the shifts are flexible enough that she can structure her daily routine around the Order as opposed to her job, and if all that takes is serving a punch of grannies tea and biscuits then Mary will do just that. Who knows, maybe one day the old hags will even take a hint and stop telling her what a pretty girl she is, but shame for that ugly scar. Her boss sometimes gives her crap for not smiling and playing along, but considering Mary hasn’t spat in their tea just yet, she thinks she’s handling it perfectly well.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER: 

Being in the Order was never about sitting around and moralising, not to Mary. It was an outlet, it was a purpose, it was an opportunity, but never passivity. And the fact that all they seem to do nowadays is talk doesn’t sit right with her. James Potter is dead and that’s shit, she gets it. She misses him too. But unless the Order wants everyone else to join him in the afterlife, it’s time they got their shit together. And none of that vagueness, Mary’s talking plans and action. Immediate, if possible. Before the Death Eaters get even stronger.

That’s one thing she brings to the Order, at least. The push, the harsh truths, the pressure. The Muggleborn perspective, if you would. Because of course all those noble Purebloods can afford to babble at length – it’s not them being slaughtered. They might care, sure, they might want to help, but that doesn’t change the fact they don’t understand. The clock ticks differently for them, more slowly, quietly, while Mary can barely hear her own heartbeat over its deafening noise. Hell, they might be out of time already. Not that that changes anything; there’s only one path to take and Mary feels as though she’s running ahead while her fellow members leisurely trudge behind. 

But being part of the Inner Circle’s given her a voice. They have to listen to her now, she gets to have a say in the decision-making, and that’s not nothing. She advocates for action, for fighting, but she also understands that if they do that, they’re going to have to fight smart, not just blindly charge into battle. It’s not as strange as it was once was, to coordinate with multiple people, and while Mary would still only ever leave her survival in her own hands, she’s accepted that she’s a part of something bigger now.

On paper, it should work. They’ve got some crazy smart people in their ranks (and some downright crazy people, but that’s neither here nor there), they’ve got some great duellists, and that should make up for lacking in numbers. So in theory, they’ve still got a shot. And if you ask Mary, it’s about time they got off their asses and started returning the favour.

An eye for an eye isn’t quite right. She’s always been a fan of walking the extra mile, after all. When Mulciber marked her face, she ended up taking his life. And now they’d killed James. What does that say about the Order, if they let that go unpunished? Might as well line up and paint targets on their foreheads, if you ask her.

SURVIVAL: 

Mary’s tough, is all it really comes down to. She’s dead set on surviving (ha, exactly the kind of stupid joke her dad might make) and has no qualms about fighting dirty or making tough calls. Can’t afford to, really.

But thing is, she’s good at the whole surviving thing. She’s good at covering her tracks, at making sure no one sees her entering or leaving her flat, at taking care of those who take an unhealthy interest. She’d say she’s made for it, almost, but how fucked up would that be, to be made for war? Then again, what does she know about fucked up. She’s a murderer, plain and simple, and maybe it should bother her how much it doesn’t bother her. Sure, she’d had the whole breakdown-in-the-bathroom after that mission, but in the end, she’d looked at her reflection in the mirror and there’d been nothing but satisfaction there. The bastard had deserved it; if war means Mary has to play jury and executioner then so be it.

RELATIONSHIPS: 

She’s heard all that crap some members spew about the Order being a family and whatnot and she’s just not buying all that. Her family is miles away in Bristol; these people here are closer to being her coworkers. And yet. It’s them she talks to daily. Not her mum, her dad, her siblings, but the Order. She’s grown fond of some of them, she can’t deny it, but that doesn’t mean shit. It’s still Mary MacDonald against the world, just as it’s always been.

Lily Evans: When Mary said Lily needed a wake-up call, her boyfriend being killed isn’t exactly what she’d meant. She’s sorry for Lily’s loss, of course she is, but there’ll be time to grieve later. Now, Mary’s curious if maybe Lily will finally see what she’s been talking about this whole time. And if that still doesn’t open her eyes… well. Nothing wrong with a lost cause, only it takes up space.

Caradoc Dearborn: His fighting club is a good idea, Mary can admit as much. She’d even offered to join and teach those airy-fairy softies how to duel. Her only question is, will all that training finally lead to some actual fighting? She certainly hopes so.

Regulus Black: Mary had never liked Regulus back in school, and she doesn’t like him still, but that doesn’t matter. He’s got important information and valuable insights, and Mary wants to know. Spending time in his miserable company is just an unfortunate bonus.

Remus Lupin: Apparently, Lupin’s a werewolf, but unless that’s going to somehow help him in a fight, Mary couldn’t give two shits. He hasn’t gone and tried to kill them all just yet which is more than she can say about Voldemort so in her book, Lupin’s still alright.

Frank Longbottom: Mary’s got no actual proof of this, but she just knows he’s holding Alice back. Why else would she be so distracted as of late? Love sounds nice and all, but things like that are precisely why Mary doesn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: 

Love is so far down on Mary’s priority list that she can barely even see it. So of course I’d love for her to have to deal with a situation where she finds herself interested in somebody beyond just sex. But those things just happen naturally, I think, so I’ll just say that if the chemistry is right, I wouldn’t mind exploring just about any ship with Mary.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

A Muggleborn and a woman! Hide your darling little sons with their perfect little bowties, it’s the nightmare of every Pureblood mother. Really, they’re not even worth Mary’s mockery, but she gives it freely, she simply can’t help herself. Even outside of being bigoted and prejudiced, their entire little society is so damn funny to her. Twats, all of them.

Other than her clear bias against Purebloods, and perhaps contradictory of it, Mary isn’t all that fond of meek Muggleborns either. What good are they if they’re just going to be proving Voldemort right? They can use a wand and they can fight; that’s more than enough in Mary’s book. But some prefer to run away, like cowards, and she has no respect for people like that.

On the other hand, from a more Muggle perspective, Mary isn’t as liberal with sexuality as one might believe. She has no problems talking about sex, but when sexual orientation comes into play, it’s a bit of a different matter. 

There’s a reason she hasn’t explored her potential attraction to women, after all. The way she sees it, sexuality is as much of a statement as anything else, except right now, there’s no need to add that on top of an entire war. She finds it needlessly attention-seeking, the people who are so open with their preferences that they almost seem to flaunt it.

Moving onto privileges, Mary just doesn’t get why Muggleborns would feel the need to flee because she’s healthy, athletic, and good at duelling; she doesn’t have the perspective of somebody who’s been driven to a corner, helpless. Furthermore, she has a job and an apartment, she’s secure in her position in the Order, and she already has a body count which gives her an additional confidence boost. She’s got it well when compared to other Muggleborns, but she would be pissed if somebody mentioned that.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? I just really love it here. That’s it, plain and simple. And as soon as I figured I could balance another character, my fingers were already itching to fill out the app.

PLOT DROP IDEAS (OPTIONAL): Nothing comes to mind right now, I’m afraid.

ANYTHING ELSE? Nope :)

[sara-scribbles]

Fae (Part 6)

Pairing: Ulquiorra/Orihime (UlquiHime) Theme: Sacrifice or Possession Word Count: 1,949

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

@ulquihimeweek

When Barragan had aimed his shotgun, Ulquiorra had turned his back. He was determined to protect Orihime with his life. The pain he expected never came.

Opening his eyes after a few seconds, he’s in a totally different place. Sunlight beams down through the foliage. The trees that surround them are taller than any he has ever seen. Birds flit through the branches and chirp.

Still inside the mushroom circle, Ulquiorra is frozen. He can see homes built within and upon the large trees. There’s something very different about this place; it’s almost a heavy weight.

Coming from his brief stupor, he quickly leaves the mushroom circle with Orihime still in his arms. Her skin is icy cold to the touch and her lips are turning blue. Yet she still breathes, barely.

“Someone...anyone?! Please help!” His shout carries in the quiet place. 

He hears a rustle of clothes and turns around. A woman, no fae, with long black hair tied into a thick braid around her neck and down her front. Her gray eyes are kind. Her long robe shimmers in the light, almost translucent.

Her brows are pinched in worry. “Oh dear, what happened here?” She quickly comes to him and touches Orihime’s forehead.

“She’s been shot by an iron coated bullet,” he explains. The stranger exudes a calmness that even he finds himself falling into.

She nods as a deep frown mares her face. “Come quickly.” She turns and walks off without another word.

He follows her despite his wariness nudging at him. Coming to one of the massive trees, she enters into the doorway carved in the bark. Stepping inside he finds a number of beds. It’s empty at the moment. There are shelves lined with bottles with dried plants and liquids. Flower shaped lights float around the area.

“Set her down on one of the beds.” He gently lays her down. “Please move a bit, child.”

He opens his mouth to protest but the women gives him a firm look. “I am what you humans call a doctor. You may call me Unohana. I need space if you want me to save her.”

Reluctantly he steps aside and watches as she inspects Orihime. Her hands glow a light blue as they hover over her body. “Hand me that wooden bowl over there. There’s a vial on the shelf above that has a red cork, pour it in the bowl.” She waves her hand at the table filled with more supplies.

The dark haired man does as she asks. The liquid inside the vial is a murky blue color. He hands her the bowl. Pulling out a pair of thin, white tongues, she dips them in the liquid. She sets the bowl down at the small side table near the bed. Leaning closer, she uses the tongues to extract the bullet. Dropping it in the bowl, the liquid bubbles and hisses. Then it turns a brown color.

Her hands, glowing blue, hover over the wound, and he watches with wonder as the wound stitches itself closed. Satisfied with her work, she takes the bowl and pours the contents back into the vial. “Iron is a very dangerous substance to our people. To think humans would go out of their way to make such a thing…”

She pockets the vial once the cork is back in place. “You must be Ulquiorra.” He nods. “Orihime has spoken a lot about you. I never thought I’d actually get to meet you.”

His gaze travels to the still unconscious woman on the bed. “Will she be okay?”

“She should be. Though only time will tell. For now, I need you to follow me.” Again she leaves without waiting for him.

Going over to Orihime, he strokes her cheek. Her skin is still deathly pale. And if not for the small rise and fall of her chest, she looks dead. “I’ll be back,” he murmurs before turning to follow Unohana.

As they walk, he notices that it is not as empty as he thought. He spots fae everywhere, however they keep themselves scarce. All take a look at him before returning to their work. Some have looks of curiosity, while others frown with caution in their eyes. There are even some who shy away in fear, and others who have open hostile glares.

Eventually they cross a bridge made of thick wood and vines to a towering building. The floors look to be made of some kind of clear crystal. High pillars support the structure while more floating lanterns light the room. There in the room are thirteen seats, all carved from different materials. Each seat is occupied by a fae and another fae stands next to each seat. Unohana gestures for Ulquiorra to stand in the center before walking over to an empty seat where a silver haired woman stands..

The room is silent as everyone focuses their attention on the old man in the center seat. His beard is long and white. He looks even older than Barragan, but Ulquiorra has a distinct feeling the man could kill him without any trouble. The pressure in the room is almost smothering, but he holds his ground. Back straight and arms at his side, he meets the old man’s gaze with steady green ones.

Finally the tense silence is broken by a laugh. “I see some humans do have some spunk in them.” A man wearing a pink robe reminiscent of a monarch butterfly smiles widely. “So, human, give us your name.”

Ulquiorra throws him a challenging look. “You may call me Ulquiorra.”

“He’s a smart one,” he says, a sly smile playing on his lips.

“Enough fooling around, Kyōraku,” a petite woman orders. Her dark brown eyes focus on Ulquiorra. “He has fae blood on him. Not just any fae but Orihime’s blood.”

All eyes turn to the dark spots on his shirt and pants. A lot of her blood had gotten on him. Even his hands have been stained with her blood. He wonders if this woman will accuse him of hurting her. There were some fae who praised him with unveiled suspicion.

“That may be so, however he came with her in his arms asking for help. I’ve treated her wounds, and she should be healing just fine.” Unohana smiles serenely. “He does not seem to be a threat.”

“Being a human is a threat,” the smaller woman retorts. “My intel has told me that Orihime has been visiting the human world more recently. Like when she was young, she goes through the same portal. She obviously been tricked by this human.” She crosses her arms as she eyes him critically.

“Come now, let us hear what he has to say before judging him.” This time a white haired male speaks up. He tries to placate everyone’s unease. “I’m sure he has a story to tell us.”

Again all eyes turn to Ulquiorra. He looks around, pauses when he spots a large man with a wolf’s head, but quickly moves on. “I met Orihime when I was young. Back then I did not believe in the...otherworldly…”

Once he finishes, a murmur ripples through the group. His throat feels dry from talking so long. He wants to go check on Orihime, but he waits. There’s arguing going on as they discuss his story. Perhaps to some it seems unlikely. Others only nod and shake their heads.

“How do we know he’s telling the truth?” It’s the woman from before. 

“I could always fight him to prove his innocence.” The fae with an eye-patch and spiky hair grins with a bloody look in his eye.

“I could always test some of my...concoctions on him to learn the truth.” The one with a painted face peers at Ulquiorra. The glint in his eyes reminds him of Szayel.

The arguing continues and seems to get louder until one voice emerges from them all. “Enough!”

The old man, who had kept quiet throughout, bangs his staff on the ground once. Ulquiorra feels the vibrations through the floor. The room falls silent as all attention is on the old man.

“Whether this human is telling the truth or not remains unseen. However once Orihime awakens we will discover what is the truth.” His voice is like gravel and echoes. “For now he will remain in our p-”

Suddenly a young fae runs into room. “I-I apologize for disturbing your graciousness.” He bows. “But there’s something urgent and I-“

Unohana stands. “What is the matter, Hanatarō?”

Catching his breath he blurts in a hurry, “Orihime dying!”

Ulquiorra feels like someone has taken all the oxygen in the air. His stomach tightens painfully, and his heart starts to beat rapidly. Before anyone could stop him, he runs out. He ignores the cries of the others.

He’s back in the room and takes Orihime hand in his. She’s ice cold to the touch. Her lips are a light blue and her skin almost gray. Her breathing comes in short and shaky breathes.

Unohana is by his side. Her glowing hands hover over Orihime’s body. Her brows crinkle in concentration. The glow in her hands fade and her lips are pressed together.

“The iron has gotten into her system. She will die as there is no way we can extract it.” She places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He brushes her hand off. “There must be something you can do. You’re mystical beings who should have something to save her life.” He grinds his teeth together.

“We may be mystical to humans, but even we have our limits.” She looks down at the young woman. “There’s only so much we can…” She cocks her head as she eyes Orihime. Then she looks at Ulquiorra.

“What?” She’s working out something in her mind. He clenches his hands. Every second that she’s silent, Orihime’s life slips away.

“Our people have a ritual that only occurs for those who have the intention of being together forever. The ritual binds the very souls of the couple,” she explains slowly. “However if the feelings between the two are not the same, then they will both die.”

“And if the ritual succeeds?”

“Then the couple will forever be bonded together. If one person dies the other will as well. Your life forces will be shared. In your next lives, your souls will continue to come together whether you want to or not. This ritual is not for those who are unsure.” She sighs. “Also, you will never be able to go back to your human life. You must spend at least a century here. The magic of this world will change you into a fae.”

Ulquiorra stares at Orihime. His heart constricts in his chest. To let her die without trying to save her would be a guilt he could never live with. Yet he remembers having reservations on leaving his life behind. But a life without her in it seems more bleak than anything.

She loves him. She confessed so easily. He didn’t have the time to process it or respond. For so long he had believed that emotions made him weak. Yet he allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of her. He never felt weak with her.

“To save her, I’ll do anything.” He straightens his posture and looks the older woman in the eye.

Unohana nods, her eyes glitter with understanding. “Good. Take her hand.” She starts to chant words in a tongue he’s never heard. Gold light envelopes them all.

He’s willing to leave everything behind for the one who holds his heart. She’s the one who taught him about his own heart after all.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Trigger Warnings

Recently on my Facebook page someone took me to task who was triggered by a political cartoon I shared.

The cartoon showed the symbol of Justice being held down and muffled by the arms of a male figure. 

Before we go further, let me state there is no judgment to be passed on the person who was triggered.

They have a personal history that explains why the image would trigger them.  Their reaction is not to be evaluated:  It happened, and it needs to be acknowledged.

And while I don’t think the image crossed the line and serves a greater good as a warning against an onrushing authoritarian mindset (elsewise I wouldn’t have shared it), to the person in question my motives and rationales don’t matter.

They saw something that reminded them of trauma in their past and it hurt them.

To have caused that hurt, even unintentionally, is something I regret and apologize for.

. . .

I belong to a writers’ group that meets once a week at a local bookstore.

It’s a good group, although last year it was an even better group.

I’ll explain.

While no one is compelled to participate, those who bring something to share with the group typically read it aloud at the table.

Mind you, we’re literally in the middle of the bookstore as we do this.  They’re open for business and customers of all ages are coming and going until the store closes and the writers’ group ends at 8pm.

While the group’s membership has always been elastic, with new members joining and old ones leaving for whatever reason, our core group numbered around ten, divided roughly evenly among those who identified as female, those who identified as male, and those who identified as non-binary.

[SIDEBAR: At this point I have lost those who read the first block above and decided I was an unrepentant sexist because I didn’t retract what I posted even though I expressed regret for causing hurt, and now those who assumed I was going to stand up to what they consider “political correctness”.  

So be it.

I am a writer, and a writer faces two primary charges:  Know thyself and To thine own self be true.

To know one’s self means to constantly be questioning and re-examining one’s presumptions, weighing them against new knowledge and experience.

To be true to one’s self means not to compromise that self-knowledge in a desire to please others.

I write for an audience of one, and if I am not satisfied with what I write, of what value is your opinion?

You may very well challenge what I write after the fact and you may indeed convince me to change my mind -- it has happened -- but unless I believe in the veracity of what I write when I write it, it’s all bullshit.]

The group was very diverse in opinion / style / skill / politics.

We tacitly agreed that politics in any work read aloud would not be commented on.  

We would assess the style and technique, but never challenge a writer’s personal beliefs directly.  (See above “to thine own self be true”)

We carefully and respectfully critique style and technique.  No one ever says “Your story is stupid” though they might say “It was hard to follow the characters’ motivations”.

We support other writer’s efforts even when not in our wheelhouse, and seat writers who specialize in sci-fi of a libertarian bent, old school horror, gender-bender romances, and my own off the wall material.

(The other writers are unfailingly polite and never once say, “What the hell were you thinking, Buzz?”)

And we respect of the fact not all of us write at the same skill level or the same stage of our careers; no matter, if you’re there to hone and improve your craft, we’re there to help.

But while we set no preconditions on what can / can not be read at the table, we realize a few practical real world concerns need to be addressed.

First, as mentioned we meet in a working bookstore during business hours.  Everybody from elderly retirees to grade schoolers could come in at any hour.  Being aware of our venue, if one’s material might be considered edgy, we wait until the store seems less crowded to read it or skip over the more adult / violent / gruesome parts.

(Here’s where style and technique come into play.  A traditional monster story can get away with fantasy carnage that would redline a contemporary crime story.  A non-binary romance written by someone from that background is more palatable than a similar tale written by a heterosexual for titillation.  A skillful writer can describe something in a manner that creates a vivid impression in their audience without using any explicit language.)

Second, among the table itself sit those not comfortable with certain types of stories or scenes.  We consider it good manners to offer a heads up before reading a story -- “This one is a little risqué” or “This is a crime story with some gruesome details” -- so that those who might be triggered by such material can either prepare themselves for it or, if they know they would respond poorly, leave the table while it’s read.

(Acceptable table etiquette states if one feels triggered by a story one may leave the table until it’s finished.  We view this not as a reflection on the story or writer but simply an acknowledgment of the effect of the story on the one who heard it.)

As I said, as good as the group is now, a year ago it was even better.

But then the Turdmonger showed up.

. . .

I’m going to refrain from describing the Turdmonger.  I will limit my comments on their writing to this saying it was a contemporary crime thriller.

No, I’m lying, I’ll comment further: While there certainly are real life parallels to the story being read, I personally found the style and technique laughable, sounding much more like something a 12 year old boy would write than a person my age or older.

And by this I don’t mean that the sentence structure and story flow felt awkward (though that argument certainly could be made) but that the crimes were described at a 12 year old’s level of sophistication and titillation, not the way a mature adult would be expected to approach the material.

Soon-ok watches murder mysteries and crime documentaries and shows like Forensic Files all the time and I know there are myriad means of conveying brutal / explicit information without raising a typical audience’s “ick!’ factor, much less actually triggering someone susceptible.

The Turdmonger triggered quite a few people their first time reading at the table, but despite being upset those writers felt willing to count it as simply the Turdmonger’s ignorance of the table guidelines.

We clued the Turdmonger in and asked for warnings in the future; the Turdmonger agreed to do so.

Next time the Turdmonger read, same problem.  No warning, then =boom!= -- really rough stuff.

People looked visibly distressed when the Turdmonger did this.  Again, we requested the Turdmonger give a warning or better yet, bring copies for those of us willing to read their work and provide feedback.  (IIRC, mostly the male readers volunteered to expose ourselves to this, though one or two female or non-binary writers may have done so as well.)

So, problem solved, yes?

No.

The next time the Turdmonger appeared, back to their old tricks.  Now people looked more than a little upset.

They saw this not as a simple mistake, but a deliberate pattern.

The Turdmonger got cautioned yet again on appropriate for table read etiquette.

Despite that, the Turdmonger seemed unable to grasp female and non-binary writers writing about their own traumatic experiences could do so with far greater authority than the Turdmonger.

First off, they always prefaced their reading with a trigger warning, and they always kept an eye on the venue, careful not to continue reading when children or people who might be offended came within earshot.

Second, they wrote from the point of view of someone who actually suffered significant trauma in their past, and wrote not so much to titillate or entertain as to exorcise demons of their own.

Because of my personal schedule, I’m frequently the first person to bolt out of the bookstore when the table ends at 8pm.

As a result I wasn’t privy to discussions some table members had after the store closed.

While I knew the Turdmonger’s readings upset many of them, I wasn’t aware how deep and how painful their trauma went.

Events conspired against me and I missed a couple of meetings.  When I returned, the table felt on edge.  

The Turdmonger returned the previous week and read a new story, one that by all accounts sounded deliberately crafted to spit in the face of those who asked for trigger warnings.

The Turdmonger appears to have gotten their jollies out of tormenting those who felt triggered.

That’s why the Turdmonger never brought more copies for volunteers to read; by and large we were somewhat older, somewhat more seasoned, certainly less likely to be triggered by their clumsy attempts at provocation.

(I mean, geeze, I was an editor at Penthouse Comix and wrote for The Little Clowns Of Happy Town; there are no horrors left to make me blanch.)

I’ll spare the he / she / they said of that meeting, mostly because it would not be fair for me to try to summarize the various divergent opinions, but also because it serves no purpose in this narrative.

The Turdmonger achieved their desired result.  The writers’ group split up, with roughly a third staying with the original group, and the bulk of the rest -- mostly female and non-binary writers -- forming a new group.

Which is a pity, because several of them were among the best and most insightful writers in the group.

. . . 

The bookstore writers’ group still meets, and we’re slowing rebuilding our ranks.

We lost many of our best members, and I’m saddened by that:  They truly contributed great insights to the table.

The Turdmonger, achievement unlocked, never came back.

I would love to have the Turdmonger return…just once.

At the table and at other venues such as conventions, etc., I am very judicious in my feedback.

Not everybody operates at the same level, and while I might point out areas where a writer or artist can work to improve their craft, I will never be cruel or dismissive.

But if I am being paid as an editor and you are being paid as a writer and you turn in a sub-par piece of crap, I will rip out your heart and shit in the hole.

Promise.

That’s what you get for disrespecting my craft.

And oh, dear Turdmonger, how I hope you come back just one time.

One time is all that I will need.

. . . 

Last week a writer who is a mom came to our table for the first time with her 14 year old daughter in tow (I’m guessing 14; definitely under 16).

The story I planned to read that night featured a 14 year old schoolgirl getting comeuppance on an obnoxious boy her age.

Some might call it risqué’ but I carefully avoided anything explicit and kept the style and tone down to a PG-13 level.

But still…the daughter’s first visit to the table, and she’s subjected to a story she might find (a) embarrassing if not (b) creepy?

So I said I would shelve the story until a later time.

Fortunately, that later time turned out to be just two hours when mom and daughter needed to leave early.

Once they left I read the story to the rest of the group.

They laughed.  They found it entertaining.  They agreed I didn’t cross any lines.

But they also thought I made a damn good choice in not reading it in front of the girl and her mom.

Now it’s not impossible that after I sell the story and it’s published, the girl may find it and read it herself, and in the privacy of that read (as opposed to being trapped at a table with a bunch of adults) find it cute and funny and get a kick out of it.

Or she might ask, “What the hell were you thinking?”

To which I would say:   “Child, get in line…”

. . .

So back to my Facebook post, the one that unfortunately triggered a person through no fault of their own.

A few days ago I posted on colonialism, and how it affected our storytelling over the last five centuries.

I approached the topic from the angle of old pulp magazines, citing with deliberate vagueness how they frequently featured damsels in distress and / or the evil “Other” on their covers.

When I wanted to find art to highlight the post, I realized I couldn’t use any actual pulp covers.

Doing so would undermine the very argument I was making.

Instead I posted a Carl Barks’ Scrooge McDuck painting that spoofed the old style pulp covers.

It’s anthropomorphic ducks and pigs parodying the tropes of old adventure pulps.

You can’t successfully argue that it carries the same meaning as the original pulp covers because it displays those tropes and ridicules the reasons for them.

I mean, how seriously can you take a dance hall dame when she’s a DUCK?

(From my tenure at Penthouse, I know some people out there most certainly do get off on anthropomorphic ducks; nonetheless, they remain outliers, not the standard.)

The point of art in whatever form is to get the audience to look at something afresh, to see connections and meanings previously hidden.

I can’t fault and certainly would never blame the persons who felt triggered by the image I shared for what they felt.

That’s a wholly legitimate reaction.

It’s unlikely I’ll post something that might produce this particular trigger in the future; it’s just too specific to the political comment in question.

If I do think an image might trigger this person, I’ll make an effort to see that it doesn’t pop up on their Facebook feed.

As a writer, I keep a lot of references handy.

I’ve got a large number of medical photos that would upset a great many people.

Those will never be shared with the public at large.

I’ve got a few crime and war photos I will never share.

But you will see some old comic book and pulp covers I use for fictoids (i.e., add captions and dialog to), as well as old time magazine ads and illustrations from less enlightened eras.

You’ll also see almost everything I post along those lines either deconstructs or ironically comments on the image depicted.

I never present it as is.

So while I will take care in the future, I make no promise never to post or say things that may trigger people without warning.

What I find acceptable and appropriate clearly is not what everybody finds acceptable and appropriate.

I will promise to listen to responses, and try to learn from them.

That’s the only way I can be true to myself.

  © Buzz Dixon

[leeholtwrites]

Red Queen: Chapter 15

So, last time I found a worthy target for some anger in an otherwise “meh” YA book. I mean, this book is really, really cliche on a level that even I can barely forgive, and I recognized that tropes are important to defining genre, but I hadn’t found anything yet that made me angry. Then Dickbag happened.

If you have a better nickname for him, please comment below.

Horse is startled awake by her servant, Walsh. I’m not sure I remember mentioning her before, but she has a servant who is a Red. And startled is an understatement. Horse almost downright Tazers the poor woman in shock.

Horse gets out of bed, trying to apologize to the woman because she’s not completely the worst, and Walsh just mouths “Rise, Red as the dawn” to her (because of course she does) before shoving a teacup of water into Horse’s hand.

“And at the bottom of the cup, a piece of paper bleeds ink. The ink swirls as I read the message, the water leeching it away, erasing any trace, until there’s nothing but cloudy, gray liquid and a blank curl of paper. No evidence of my first act of rebellion.”

Apparently the paper said “Midnight,” but that isn’t my gripe. She knows there are cameras in the room. Isn’t it going to be suspicious that she just stares into her teacup before setting it aside? Also, the thing with prisoners, especially if you have people serving her that might sympathize with her, usually trays and food are searched. So either the writer wants us to know that the king isn’t having her service checked for anything from the political dissidents running around that he knows about just in case they might contact her, or the writer is just not smart enough to think about that. 

If you couldn’t tell by now, there are a lot of similar YA set ups involving political intrigue, but the writers don’t really think things through or do their research enough to make it convincing. In this situation, someone would need to dispose of the ink-paper trick in the room filled with cameras. So unless that ink is drinkable, and someone (Horse) drinks it, what is Walsh going to do with it? 

Maybe I’m overthinking this. Whatever. It just feels stupid.

There is a new schedule on Horse’s nightstand. Horse now has training just as Cal said she would. She’s impressed that he worked so fast. As Lucas walks her to training (I’m assuming because the time line is awful at the moment) he warns her to be careful because the trainers are brutal. Then we find out he entered the army at nine.

Okay, what is with YA and child soldiers. Is that just another shortcut for Current Administration Bad? HUNGER GAMES did it to make a point, but here its just another thing for the writer - fuck it - Aveyard to be all “War is bad, m’kay?”

“But Lucas shrugs like it’s nothing. ‘The front is the best place for training. Even the princes were trained at the front, for a time.’

“‘But you’re here now,’ I say.... ‘You’re not a soldier anymore.’

For the first time, Lucas’s dry smile disappears completely. ‘It wears on you.’... ‘Men aren’t meant to be at war for long.’

‘And what about Reds?’ I hear myself ask.... ‘Can they stand war better than Silvers?’“

I’m just going to lay down right here and try not to start shredding this book. First, you train people before you send them to battle so they know what they’re doing. Second, how old are the princes? When did they go? They’re not even the age of a modern US enlistee (18). Like, what the fuck? Also, why would you stick the goddamn crown princes on the front line? Are you trying to destroy the  royal lineage?

I have been reduced to rhetorical questions. 

And then Lucas answers:

“... looking a little uncomfortable. ‘That’s the way the world works. Reds serve, Reds work, Reds fight. It’s what they’re good at. It’s what they’re meant to do.’”

Nice on the casual classism. 

“Not everyone is special.”

I wish this book understood that more, what with 3 guys lusting after our lovely protag.

Horse gets mad at him, but mostly just brushes him off. Lucas notices her feelings and warns her that he if he doesn’t have the luxury of asking questions, than neither does she, even going so far as to use her new name.

Lucas will not ask questions. Despite his black eyes, his Silver blood, his Samos family, he will not pull at the thread that could unravel my existence.

This confuses me. Her italics thought bubble at the beginning feels more like a criticism than Horse’s realization that Lucas won’t do anything that will hurt her, even going so far as to try to help her understand how silvers Silvers think and how controlling their upper echelons are. I mean, its pretty clumsily done, but I get what Aveyard was going for. The italics double don’t work because this book is in first person. We’re in Horse’s head. We don’t need thought bubbles. The whole thing is a thought bubble!

Second, “Silver blood” or “silver blood?” I feel like it should be the second. Just saying.

Lucas also continues to sympathetic, making all the woman hate even more pronounced.

Le sigh.

At training, Horse is handed what sounds like a Lycra jumpsuit before entering what sounds like my university gym. Multi-storied, lots of equipment, dozens of baby-faced young adults in better shape than I am. Of course, all those college students are more mature than most of the people in this book, and mind their own damn business.

Unlike Polarity Princess.

The moment Horse walks in, PP drops what she’s doing to mock her. She is of course joined by her mean girl club in the process. We’re spared because Horse ignores her and immediately goes to find Maven. They talk a little, mostly about what their life will entail after they leave and the ball before they leave - which leads to dancing and how Silver girls are the worst.

Maven then asks how her visit with her family went. She tells him it was difficult because she found out one of her brothers was executed before they were all released. Mavey places his hand on hers, apologizes, and says he that he’s sure he didn’t deserve it because the guy Silvers aren’t shit heads.

Then for a moment Horse thinks he might be able to read minds, which leads to this little detail:

Few silvers Silvers inherit abilities from their mothers, and no one had more than one ability.

The low key misogyny is killing me.

And if Maven turns out to be the evil prince, he’s totally going to have his moms abilities. Watch. Or at least that’s what I would do.

Hey, I never said I wrote capital L literature. 

We get some more description about powers. Shades can bend light around themselves for invisibility. Windweaver says exactly what you think it does, and that is probably the least lame power name so far, while also not belonging at all. Then you have eyes, which have limited precognition. You know, they can see the next 5 seconds or something. If I remember right (and my Teen Titan’s knowledge is rusty) Rose Wilson has that ability. I’m still confused what a silk is. They still sounds like a D&D Rogue. Or a hunska from Red Sister. (Go read that instead. It’s written by a dude and has 100% less misogyny and a 99% female cast.)

A soft voice orders them into a line, followed by an old man with Cal and a telekinetic boy. I refuse to call them “telkies.” It sounds like something I would put on a baby’s butt for diaper rash. The old man is her trainer, and apparently used to oversee executions. Turns out this was because he’s a null - he nullifies powers, or turns them off as the book puts it. 

He can reduce a Silver to what they hate most: a Red. He can turn their abilities off. He can make them normal.

All that wealth and privilege, but removing their powers can make them normal. If only it were that simple. It’s almost like this book doesn’t understand power structures at all.

They begin to run laps. Horse is happy it’s something she recognizes until it isn’t when a piece of wall swings out and slams her in the stomach. She’s startled, but manages to keep up. And before you think this is some cool tech, the telekinetic controls the pieces.

Their powers return, and a gun barrel without the actual gun part rises from the floor.

Only the telky’s power makes it move, not some greater, strange technology. The abilities are all they have.

I thought they were defined by having power and Reds having tech. Why is this a new revelation to you? Unless this is book treating the reader like an idiot again.

Horse is called forward for target practice first, and again we hear about how special she is because she can create electricity despite bio-electricity being a thing. She misses the first target but hits the second. PP is a bitch who won’t clap. The instructor moves onto the next instead of patting her on the back. I can’t tell if this is supposed to be a bad thing.

The work out calls wore her out, but she’s still happy for it. Happier for the quietness of Julian’s class, even though the moving time means she’s closer to her midnight meet up. When she arrives, he has book labeled with years. Turns out they’re death records for the war. She knows her executed brother probably isn’t in them, and makes the lamp flick on an off in her distress. Julian asks her why, and she says its the new schedule. He says she did fine today, she gets cranky about him asking to be there, and he uses her power on her to calm her down.

Horse is upset he does this, and he explains he’s the last Singer. They can control people as long as they hear them. (Found the Bards.) Julian launches into how his sister married the king for love, not by Queenstrial, and how they could talk their way to the throne, but didn’t because they’re nice.

I don’t honesty hate this, but there are so many toxic women in this book that we see on a regular basis that it makes me sad that the one that sounds non-toxic is dead.

Horse relates to Julian, mentioning Shade and how he was executed. Julian tells her that they “removed” his sister too and will do it to anyone that gets in the way. He warns her that over-throwing them would take too much planning and luck, and to not get over her head. She knows that she’s already in deep, but doesn’t tell him this.

I actually kind of liked this scene because Horse behaves like a person. Even Julian just comes across as sad and lonely. I just wish that Julian was a woman so Horse could have a relationship with the same sex that wasn’t pure hate. We don’t see her family enough to matter. I think that’s one of the things that bugs me about this book the most. Most of the women are bad, and most of the men are good. Why? Just... why?

Next time, Horse has her midnight meeting.

[wiggly-blue-shite]

Chapter 16 The Bell Doesn’t Dismiss You (Tedgens)

More shitty parent stuff. Also slurs... yeah

"Of course you can stay here." Henry has an expression of deep concern.

I can stay here. That's good.

I don't have to go back to that house, MY FUCKING HOUSE, and deal with fucking Keith.

I hope mom is safe. She'll never love me the way she used to, if I ever tell her that I'm... bi. If Keith fucking lays a hand on her I swear to god!

Henry's worried about me. I should fake ok.

"Thank you." I kiss his forehead.

My father would disown me, not that he has any legal claim to me anymore. Then he'd kill me, in the most painful way he could. If he saw me right now kissing Henry, he'd kill both of us without a moments hesitation. A shot to the head each, execution style.

"Do you have your backpack and all your stuff for school tomorrow?" Henry works things out in his head. "You can borrow some of my clothes for tomorrow."

He has no clue what it's like. Like I don't have spare shit in my car and in my backpack at all times. I have enough shit in my car to live off of for three weeks.

"My backpack is always in my car, I have a couple spare clothes and pajamas in my car too." I really wish Henry didn't have to see this aspect of my life. "always gotta be prepared."

Has he seen the picture yet? No of course not. My account is private. One of my fucking snitch cousins must have sent the picture to mom. But no one would send it to Dad. No one wants me dead, I hope.

I'm not going to delete it either. It's a good picture and I'm really happy with how I look. I'm not ashamed.

"Ok." Henry looks like he's thinking about something. "It's a good thing my parents aren't home. They probably wouldn't let you stay."

"Why is that?" I don't want to think about my dad right now. I just want to look in Henry's eyes and think everything will be fine for a spilt second.

"They don't know you. They let Emma and Norah stay because they know them. Also they're girls. My mom would assume you were my boyfriend and-"

Boyfriend... it has a nice ring to it.

"What's wrong with that?" I only really say that because I know it'll fluster him. When he blushes it's hard to think of anything else so.

"We haven't even gone on a date, Ted." That can be fixed. Though if that were to happen I'd be faced with drama and death threats. "You just showed up at me house and kissed me in my kitchen." Henry looks really proud of that comment.

"Well when you say it like that, I sound like a creep." I chuckle a little. I kind of am a creep.

"Funny how that works." Henry smiles mischievously. It's one thing to make me sound like I'm a creep, it's another to imply that I'm a creep.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I raise my eyebrow and shift closer to him. His lips are so perfect.

"You tell me." Dork. I don want to think of anything but him.

I grab his face and kiss him. I let the world fall around me so all I can see and feel and smell and taste is him. I don't care about the outside world in this moment. Just Henry and his soft lips, and how he smells vaguely of strawberries, and the taste of his chapstick.

I pull away for a second just to catch my breath. Henry starts talking I have to mask my disappointment.

"So what do you want to do now? Because I want to get to know you better." Henry smiles. He's kind of on top of me, which I do not mind. But it's slightly uncomfortable. But he seems comfortable so I don't move.

I'm down for a get to know each other session.

"Ok. What do you want to know." My legs falling asleep so I have to move. Henry shifts off of me. I can feel the blood return to my leg. That's good.

Henry proposed this, he should ask the first question.

"Well I know your favorite color." Well I actually used to like red more. But I think purple might be my favorite color now. "Soo. What's your favorite holiday?"

Wow it has been a while since I have properly celebrated a holiday. Sure I wear costumes to school on Halloween, but no one trick or treats in my neighborhood. We don't exchange gifts on Christmas. Most years I spend Christmas Eve working, or at Bill's house. And then I work Christmas Day.

"I would say Christmas but I don't like hanging out with my family. So like Christmas with friends." If I actually spent Christmas with my mom and Keith, I would have tried to kill him by now. "I'm guessing yours is Halloween."

It's pretty obvious.

"What yeah how did you know?" Henry looks surprised like it was a wild guess. Like I just correctly guessed his favorite holiday is Arbor Day.

"Well it's a really dramatic holiday. You're a theatre dork so. It makes sense." I'm 90% every theatre nerds favorite holiday is Halloween.

Henry's sprawled our on the couch. His head is in my lap. I don't have to think about anything but him and what I want to know about him. And wow he's interesting.

"Ok wait. Dragons or dinosaurs?" Henry asks. That's a pretty silly question. I mean I guess I'll answer it.

"Dinosaurs" I remember lil elementary school me wanting to be an archeologist.

"What! That's ridiculous! The answer is obviously dragons." Henry shoots up with a dead serious look on his face. It's almost like this question has any stakes at all and isn't just petty.

"What dinos are pretty cool." I feel I owe that answer to the young innocent version of me. Your family structure is about to shatter and you'll lose all respect you had for your parents, not just in a teen rebellion way, but hey! Dinosaurs are still cool.

"Cooler than dragons? Look me in the eye and say that dinosaurs are cooler than dragons." He's really passionate about this I guess. Well I've come to understand he's really passionate about a lot of things. This is a weird one though.

"Dinosaurs are cooler than dragons." I don't really know if that's true. Nor do I care. But I chose a side, I'll stick to it.

"How?!" He's pretty cute when he's confused.

"I don't know." Why was I so into dinosaurs? Oh right giant lizards. "They're real. Well not anymore. But like they existed."

"What? How does that make them cooler? Dragons can breath fire!" I got to admit that's pretty cool. But I'm not just got to give him the satisfaction of winning.

"I guess we'll have to agree to disagree." I shrug because honestly I do not care.

"I don't know that I can get over this ted. This might be a deal breaker." This fucking adorable dramatic bitch.

"You're kidding." I know he's joking but honestly I wouldn't be fully surprised if he wasn't.

"I am." Henry leans in and kisses me lightly. Chills. I don't think I'll ever get over that. "But you are a dumbass" how sweet.

"That is correct." At least I'm self aware.

"It's getting late. We should go to sleep soon." Henry stands up. I don't want to be left alone to my thoughts. I wrap my arms around his waist so it's harder for him to walk away.

"Noooo sleep is stupid." I want to keep asking each other stupid questions and not have to sleep and think.

"Sleep is important, Ted." Henry has to be all healthy and shit.

I give the old puppy dog eyes. He looks down at me. He's not going to budge. Well resisting sleep is futile.

"My stuff is still in my car. I'll go get it." I don't want to leave this bubble of course. But I guess I should get my shit.

I stand up and go outside to my car. I open the trunk and grab the bag. I'm glad I washed everything two days ago at Paul's house. So at least it won't fucking smell awful.

I walk back into the house and close the front door. Henry walks down the stairs.

"So I'm sleeping on the couch?" I'm kind of use to sleeping on the floor, hence sleeping bag. So the couch would be a nice change.

"You don't have to." OH! Ok then. "I just don't want you to be alone."

"Awww you care about me." He's the sweetest person. I grab his face and kiss him again. Life is good.

I knew you were a fucking faggot.

I'm dead where I stand.

-

Fuck. I forgot I only have my fucking mother fucking god damn race car pajamas. I'm like a fucking seven year old Jesus Christ.

"I need a picture of you in those for personal reasons." Henry's giggling watching me setting up my sleeping bag. He wants a photo of me. I can't help but smile. That sentence would be creepy in most other situations.

He's got this super fuzzy rug that's nice and soft. That's a good place to sleep. So that's where I'm putting my sleeping bag.

"Pervert." I look up and wink at him. He giggles so more. Ridiculously cute.

"I am not! You just look adorable." Well at least he thinks these pajamas are cute and not stupid. I do like these, they're just childish.

"Damn right!" I can't help but laugh. I don't consider myself a cute person. But if he thinks I am, that's fine by me.

"You don't have to sleep on the floor." Henry sounds sincere. I know he's not saying I should sleep in the bed with him. But is he? That's moving pretty fast.

"Pervert!" I'm not mentally prepared for that so I'm going to sleep in the floor.

"I am not!" Henry throws a pillow at me. RUDE! He's so fucking adorable.

"Oh really?" I walk over to him.

"I'm not!" He has no right to be that hot.

I sit down on his lap. My breathing feels heavy. Everything is warm. What am I doing?

"are you sure about that?" I feel like I'm whispering.

Henry looks stunned. He's completely red. He's barely moving.

I press my lips on his.

Control yourself horndog

What am I doing? Ahh. I pull away and stand up. I go over to my sleeping bag and lay down. I'm the fucking worst Jesus Christ. I shouldn't have done that. I should apologize.

"Good night, Henry." Thats not an apology, dumbass.

"Night, Ted." Henry goes and turns the lights off and returns to his bed.

I stare up at the ceiling of his room. He has a couple of those glow in the dark stars. That's pretty damn cute.

Ok.

I need to sleep. Somehow.

Knowing that Keith is in my house. Knowing my mom loves him more than me. She'd probably throw me out on the street if I went home right now, so I'm kind of cutting out the middle man by staying here.

"Fucking fags are ruining this country." He would sit in front of the tv and drink. Mom really does have a type. "Teddy, what do you do if you see two boys kissing?"

"Shoot first ask questions later!" I didn't know better. I fucking idolized that pig, before I knew how fucking terrible he was.

Shoot first, ask questions later. I guess that's what he did. I haven't seen him since he was thrown in jail. Not that I'm complaining.

He is not my father. He would kill me on spot. That bastard will never be my father.

All of this has just been thrown at me at once. The whole bisexuality thing is pretty new, but I think it is me. It's a part of me. If they can't respect that, they are no family of mine.

[sunsiac]

king and queen / jaehyun [2]

genre: murder mystery, romance, angst

member: jaehyun

word count: 2k

warnings: none

summary: a young prince and a knight's daughter are an unlikely pair, but nonetheless, these two were attached at the hip as children. Without any royal duty or stress, it proved to be an unexpected yet beautiful friendship. even as they grew up together, they only developed to be more inseparable. they proved this when she, hakyeong, turned 16, and he, jaehyun, gave her one of the most precious gifts he could; both of their first kisses. but it was bad timing. their respective responsibilities dawned on them quicker than they would've imagined, forcing them to grow apart. 5 years later, the both of them 21, meet again after jaehyun's older brother who is about to be crowned king is found dead. A string of murders throughout the castle force them to come together and find the one behind it before one of them is next.

—

JAEHYUN :

There was a certain point, I don't know how long ago, that I couldn't bring myself to face Hakyeong anymore. Though I can't remember my exact reasoning, I remember thinking heavily about the fear of change.

'change isn't always a bad thing,'

I was told this the first time I was denied going out to visit her. And I didn't believe them, because, well, why would I? Back then, change was the only thing standing in the way of me seeing my best friend; my secret lover.

So, for a good time, I resented change.

But, as time went on, I began to fear it. I began to fear the possibility that she had changed. I was afraid to see the girl I fell for a completely different person.

And though I knew change was inevitable in both of us, I couldn't help but be afraid. I didn't want everything we'd been through together to be swept away by all the things we'd gone through separately.

But, soon enough, she stopped trying to reach me too. We cut off all contact, and though I did regret it for a few years, I had no time to myself to act on it.

We never officially separated after that, but with the way we both acted, it obvious that it probably wasn't salvageable.

And eventually, my sadness faded. Change was another normal part of life again, and I condoned it with no extra thought. And after that, it seemed like she had done the same. We went through years of exchanging glances across the room, or small conversations when needed.

Though I could tell there were still a few things hanging in the air every time we spoke, we said nothing about it every time.

But, seeing her now, her hands to her mouth as she stared, I realised that maybe she hadn't changed as much as I thought. Her eyes were glossy as they filled quickly with fat tears. She looked completely wrecked, the sounds of her sobs reaching even where I stood.

That's when her tears began to spill, and, god, I would be lying if I said that didn't make me cry a little more too.

--

HAKYEONG :

I hated going through the whole next day with the feeling of tears in the back of my eyes, the risk of them spilling over growing every time I spoke. I felt too vulnerable in the unusually empty halls while I was on guard, Hyeonsik missing from the spot he usually occupied next to me.

Because of that, I felt depressingly lonely the entire day, seeing almost no one as I stood on guard constantly. All day, there was only one person that came up to me, or, more fittingly, tried to. Jaehyun was, understandably, surrounded by other guards at all hours of the day. So, when he tried to come up to me, it came as no surprise when someone held him back, telling him he shouldn't talk to someone like me. Someone that he didn't know if he could trust.

I wanted to think that he did trust me, that he knew I would never hurt Hyeonsik, much less him. But, the look in his eyes said nothing. So, I just watched as he nodded.

Though I did wish they wouldn't have stopped him. Because, at this point, I was almost aching for someone familiar, for anything to help lift my mood. But somehow, at least seeing him looking fine after everything, had undeniably lifted my spirits a little bit.

The rest of my day was bland. I had nothing else to do but wait for the sun to set, so that way someone else would come around and take my place for the night. After that, even though I wanted to, at that point I was too burnt out to do much else. So, I decided to just let the entirety of my thoughts encase me and keep me still, ending up in hours spent sitting in the courtyard outside.

It was a strange time to feel homesick, but at that moment, the red roses growing nearby reminded me strangely of the white ones in my mother's garden. God, how much I wanted to go home. Back to my own bed and even Yuta's tricks. I think I would do anything to hear his laugh right now, even if it took a few bruises or bad jokes.

But, I swallowed those thoughts and went back inside, careful to walk quickly through the dimly lit halls before falling asleep in my room in the dorms.

I was on guard for only half the time the next day, but it was still almost dark when I went back to my dorm. And thankfully, besides all the expected things, today was mostly a normal day. Except, there was something I was left to wonder about. Throughout the day, people were being pulled from their posts, returning silently around half an hour later.

It was most likely just questioning about Hyeonsik, so I didn't worry about it much. At least, not until I got a knock on my door.

I was greeted by someone I didn't recognise, a higher-up knight, I guessed. Their uniform was different than a standard knight's; being made a little stronger and a deep red rather than a dark green.

"Lee Hakyeong?"

After my parents had passed away, my adoptive mother had made the choice to let me keep my given surname instead of becoming a Nakamoto. Which, I had probably thanked her for at least one thousand times since then.

I nodded. "Is something wrong?"

His expression was a strange mix of exhaustion and alertness as he spoke, no doubt less than thrilled to say, "Please follow me,"

I should have known he wouldn't have told me.

But, I had no choice but to just follow him. It was an awkward walk, stiff as uncertainty radiated from both of us. But the thing was, I knew why I was nervous, but I didn't know why he was.

We stopped a few minutes later, in front of a door I'd no doubt passed at least a million times before. I'd never thought much about it, but walking in, I realised that maybe I should have.

Though it had the same overall structure of the rest of the castle, it also had a little-personalised flair that really made the room look beautiful. Shelves lined the walls where windows were absent, giving the room an old-fashioned charisma. There were stacks of papers strewn neatly across the desk that veered the left side of the room, and there was even a little glass sculpture of a crown laying near the edge of it.

The rest of the space on the walls was filled with paintings and maps, adding colour to the otherwise brown and gold accented room.

"Miss?"

I looked up, expecting to see the person who had brought me here, but it seemed that in the time I had been distracted they'd left. Now, I was left alone with someone that I did recognise

The royal supervisor was a relatively young man, not too young, but definitely younger than you would expect someone of his position to be. Besides a uniform that was unique to him, he wasn't really visually stimulating in any way, only otherwise adorning smooth black hair and eyes of a similar colour.

Despite his simplicity, he was a powerful man. He was in charge of almost everything the king wasn't; events, training schedules, you name it.

He walked over from his previous spot by the window, dropping what looked like a checklist on the desk before he turned to me expectantly.

"Ah," I let out a soft apology as I sat down in the chair in front of his desk.

He gave me a polite smile as he stuck out his hand. "Hello, I don't believe we've met. My name is Hyunjin,"

I took his hand, shaking it. "Hi. I'm Hakyeong, it's nice to meet you,"

He nodded, not bothering to make any other small conversation as he reached for his paper and a pen.

"I'll assume you know what happened to Sir Hyeonsik?" He asked, his eyes flitting up to meet mine.

I just nodded, looking away.

He let out a soft apology. "I'm sorry. I'm told you were close,"

I didn't know what to say to that.

He cleared his throat, seeming to handle the silence badly as he moved on almost immediately. “I only have some questions for you. So, if you would, please answer them as truthfully as possible,"

This just made me more nervous, as he was obviously just trying to ease me into whatever he was going to ask. But, I agreed as I subconsciously shifted around in my seat.

I knew there was no reason to be nervous, seeing as I really had nothing to do with what happened. But, his impending gaze as he looked at me from over the paper made me feel as I did something wrong.

"Hyeonsik has a fiancée, but you two were also close. Did you two have," he paused, giving me enough time to take in what he was saying. "Anything besides that?"

"No, god, no." I sighed out, almost repulsed as I admitted, "He was like a brother to me,"

He just nodded again, marking something down as he moved on.

"Alright. Now I'll move on to simple questions. Where were you the night when it happened?"

"I was sleeping." I answered, being completely truthful as I added, "My roommate is a chamberlain, and she had gotten back a little before then. So, she woke me up when there was noise,”

A few more pen strokes.

"You were also at the scene quickly, someone said. How?" He asked.

"I asked someone what was going on when I went into the hall," I explained. "I was there so quickly because I ran as fast as I could,"

He squinted slightly at my explanation, seeming a little skeptical, but still kept writing.

"Do you know anyone that would want to hurt him?" He asked, looking up at me expectantly.

I shook my head. "Never. He was everyone’s favourite instructor, and got along with just about everybody he came across. Everyone loved him,"

For whatever reason, he seemed to be slightly disappointed at my answer.

"Okay," he leaned back in his seat and let out a breath. "Last question. The younger prince, Jaehyun, are you close with him?"

I hesitated.

"No. We haven't spoken in months."

He rose a brow. "In months? Are you implying that you had talked more before that?"

"We used to, yes, but what does this have to do with Hyeonsik?" I asked, my brows knitting.

He didn't answer me, making what seemed like last adjustments to his paper as he said, "Thank you for your cooperation. Hopefully, with more information, we'll discover who's behind all of this,"

I didn't know what to say to that, but it seemed like at that point, he just wanted me to leave.

After that, my eyes wandered to his windows where the skies had since melted down from a faint blue to a pitch black. I wasn't exactly looking forward to walking to the dining hall alone when it was it was dark, but I was too afraid to ask for anything, just saying,

"I'm happy to help,”

—

<< previous - next >>

[hugotontheonbiquiffinarians]

Melancholy As A Gib Cat

A/N: Stream of consciousness, abstract, allegorical writing; dialogue and narrative never seem to harmonise in my style because they’re still stuck in the honeymoon phase, so if it reads with a surrealist, philosophical tone, it’s probably intentional lol (probably...)

One lone susurration of pending concern braids the air with tension.

“Sir…?”

The hour is a quarter past midnight. Clocks, sedated in circumduction. Stood before a hunched and forlorn figure, the nurse is toilworn. Yet again stricken by travails entailed by working an additional night shift, she sighs interminably, mechanically, at the returning absence of reply.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we need you to vacate the premises. You’ve been lounging here since noon and have yet to provide any reasoning as to why you’re here.”

She’s confused by the jarring decibel of sudden laughter ejected from his throat. An abrupt propulsion of hilarity expectorates from the phlegm-encrusted pharynx, leaving her briefly disoriented. Did he really think this was... funny?

“Orderlies must not be so great at their job if 12 hours have passed and the ‘homeless’ man hasn’t been escorted to that slate of solid air you call an exit.”

Beyond the delicate tenor of his voice, oddly enticing in its fluctuation, the nurse pretends to lend a deaf ear to this retort, turning a blind eye to the lopsided grin that falters upon his painted features. Feigning nescience, her own facade of draconian necessity is adjusted accordingly, despite expressing unspoken agreement to her colleagues’ chronic apathy and incompetence.

Nevertheless, while Mondays had always been particularly hellsent in the realm of corporate captivity, this Stygian Monday seemed to be wrapped especially by the Dark Prince himself. The fact that it was the night of All Hallows’ Eve made her consider this disheveled man’s appearance as no mere coincidence. When he had first arrived on the scene, stumbling through the Exit as Entrance, mildly disoriented, she had failed to recognise precisely what had compelled her brows to arch in amusement. What source of strange attraction had magnetised the warm cocoa of her irises to that broad brush of porcelain white masking his face. 

Lest she forget how evocative his complexion illustrated. The outline of his form was unusually thin. Frighteningly so. As obscure compensation, he was dressed to the nines in a trio of lurid colours, both appealing yet tawdry to the mind’s eye. An edible arrangement of all primary colours, somehow satisfied in discordant harmony. A fitting description for her peculiar taste. An ode of testament to the otherwise concrete depiction of malnutrition evincing as aesthetically pleasing.

Initially, she had surmised the cartoonish outfit as being his choice of costume in adherence to that festive day of tricks and treats. Either that, or his profession happened to choreograph the motions of an actual clown. A number of employees had conceded in arriving to work cosplaying as their fulsome, fictional fancies. As such, any flux of odd characters roaming about was to be expected. Anthropomorphic pumpkins, animated skeletons and ragamuffin children included.

In any case, this curious visitor of afternoon and eventide had been given to staking a claim of extended residence to the reception area. When he wasn’t loafing about, casually, if not at self-conscious moments, modestly dancing about the floor, before an Argus-eyed crowd of perplexed patrons, his lissome limbs could be observed sprawled along the expanse of four chairs, lackadaisical and gay in demeanour, the peeling paint of a white ceiling providing him jocose entertainment for the lees of an unproductive evening.

He was a man of average height, to be sure, but his gangling structure gave the illusion of a taller stature. This eccentric coalition of artistic elements: tousled mop of head, saturated by acid green, highlighted punctuation of avian beak, which was further accented by the occasional creeping of a queried smile riddled with snaggleteeth. Summarily, a sort of misshapen handsomeness. She could only wonder if he had silently observed her as she did him with such unprecedented intensity.

“Do you need medication? Any health complications you want to identify?” Insouciant as the gait that waltzed him through in absurd performance, Arthur takes a neutral drag from the burning cylinder of his self-prescribed medicine, effectively substituting any verbalised answer. Perhaps this poor soul was just like the others. Solicitous, only by social mandate. It needn’t be repeated ad nauseam, but, indeed, he thinks. Indeed, humans were vapid, egocentric creatures; born and bred without the guidance of a tender leash. Without the scourge of humility as a redolent scar to sear inveterate marks of mediocrity.

“I’ll be more than happy to help.” Regardless of station or influence, the individual was little more than a fractured reflection, rife with lacerations, knifed and bludgeoned by nameless enemies. Bereaved and forgotten to tuneless threnodies.

“Unfortunately, at this late an hour, we can’t accept regular clients if the situation isn’t exigent. To endure the best possible assessment for your proposed infirmity, I recommend you return first thing tomorrow.”

The nameless anonymity of selfhood guided by severed fibers of the optic nerve. To heedless vision does refractive frame reveal a bruised and battered mosaic.

“What’s your name?” Arthur’s sharp intake of nicotine precedes the inquiry.

“Pardon?”

Arthur flits his weary gaze to the empty patch of fabric where a tag of nomination should be.

“I see you neglected to wear a name tag.” The humour in this sardonic intimation is diluted. Drowned to expiry by the egregore of predetermined comedy. Straightening ever so slightly in his seat, Arthur relaxes against the sterile, leather cushion of the hospital’s waiting room decor. It was unprofessional. “It’s a lovely costume.” Sincerely, it was. That blatant disregard to identity, presumptive though it was, could never have gone unnoticed, if not wholly unappreciated.

Before the innominate nurse can voice a rebuttal, Arthur accentuates his commanding tone by procuring a twin cigarette from the hard pack nestled in his left jacket pocket, swiftly and effortlessly lighting it with the old school dexterity exampled by that of a seasoned smoker, rich with the prescription of addicting tales from a turbulent history. It is this expression of confidence and appealing manner which has the nurse’s bosom palpitating with a sense of unrealised sexual awakening. A sense of sapid scent to the olfaction that was as fleeting in arrival as it was in departure. Yet, clinging in anticipation. Lingering in a recess of orphaned emotions.

“How are the patient and physician expected to establish a relationship built on trust if names aren’t exchanged?”

The nurse couldn’t decide whether or not to be annoyed at his inquiries. He was beginning to give off the vibe of a man victimised by premature senility, lonely and isolated. Struggling to connect with others due to both variables being broiled in longevity. By no means was the presumption intended as derogatory. Harmless scrutiny of the human condition was often easily misconstrued for criticism and pejorative nuance. However, as it stands, the nurse couldn’t eschew assertion in her isle of employment not advertising specialised treatment to the elderly. Moreover, it was plain to see that the man was nowhere near elderly, in spite of gaunt and debilitating appearance. Nor was he gallivanting in a glorified convalescent home.

“Firstly, I’m a nurse.” Securing her hands in her pockets, she can’t help mimicking the man’s neurotic actions, fiddling with the fraying threads of that orangish shade of red. His, admittedly nice, hands, if not fastened to his habit, were havering in exploration, gliding across sparse thighs to grasp and release at various areas, hovering above his face with gentle, reluctant pressure, memorising every pore and facial quirk, patently emotive in expression. If nothing else, his presence was innocuous, at best. Still... one could never be too safe.

“Secondly, you haven’t been registered as a patient.” Fingers start drumming with sentience against a contrast of more replete thighs, concealed from perusal by the deep ivory pockets of her lab coat. “After midnight, we have to start shifting focus to emergencies only.” If she were uncomfortable, it didn’t register in her voice. Unbeknownst to her, the gentleman sat before her possessed quite a flair for spatial awareness. This, alone, registers with dormant reflex. Only her body language conveys an increasing touch of unease to the brand of his indelible presence.

“Seeing as you aren’t in need of intensive care, I won’t be able to assist you properly unless you make a morning appointment.” Even whilst perusing the distance, there was something strangely intimidating about his gaze. Flecks of numbing pain sparkle across his sclera, contrary to the deadly evergreens of his remaining anatomy, pupils fixated on a full lunar radiance knocking at the entry, dilated in aspiration.

The following response of chest pangs are null in sympathy as the nurse suppresses an aberrant impulse to embrace the man who seems to have embodied the spirit of Atlas and Sisyphus in solidarity. Still, her empathy relents to portray as tone deaf.

“My apologies, but I really do have to ask you to lea-“

“Who are you to decide that?” Visible offense erases the scenic tranquility of his physiognomy. He was affected by Weltschmerz. Thoroughly distressed. Nervously anchoring his cancer stick to rouge-stained purse of lips. “That I’m ‘not in need of intensive care’?” Anxious knees begin to bounce of their own volition, gradually elevating intensity with each tapping force of urgency against polished tile. “Are injuries only examined as skin-deep to be considered treatable? What if I were bleeding internally with no apparent symptoms on the surface?”

Arthur frowns in contemplation, appearing struck by a gold mine of memory, extracting a weighted ore of recognition from the farrago of his musings.

“What did you mean by ‘we’?” Cocking his head like that of a cat bedevilled by the spirited tick of inquisitiveness, those piercing, ocean eyes of his flicker and fix in a way that makes the nurse delirious, for a brief spell. “Do you not exist alone?”

There was no ‘best course of action’ in this scenario. The man was clearly a clown. A delusional joker. In every sense of etymology. As those fabricated brows of crimson patiently await a verdict, she peers down at him, an owner, sapped of vim and vigour, siphoning their fuel reserve of energy to an eager pet, imbibed by a perpetual battery of endurance.

Decisive is she in her aim to play along. Any choice of dialogue that ultimately resulted in the man’s resolute departure was in direct correlation with her supporting role as the damsel in distress. There’s only one thing she wants to know before she ushers away this creepy, (cute) clown herself.

The instantaneous display of misplaced intimacy is not telling of an absent mind. Where this surge of impulse to touch strangers derived, she had no desire to ponder. Sans any ounce of shame, she had longed to get a feel for the enchanting canvas of his suit. And here, it is unclear as to whether Arthur or the nurse relaxes beneath this foreign caress. Of trust, a test, to anyone’s guess. An inviting hug of hands in silent greeting. A polarised streak of magnetism, mesmerising her idealistic heart to him. Therein, begs another question to the insatiate bird of passage. Was she merely attracted to the idea of him, as a means to evade capitalist oppression? Or, was it instead an insisting tug of fate? Kismet? Predestination? Searching earnestly, perhaps even desperately, for any signs of transparency shielded beneath that striking hue of sorrowed blue.

“I wonder…”

How she fantasised about running away to the freak show. The one that wasn’t christened ‘society’.

“Who’s the man behind the clown?”

Unconsciously, the filter slips from his ruddy mouth, reduced to embers with the spreading fervor of his crooked smile.

Maybe he could be her one-way ticket to dream town.

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: Vol. 5 "Unforeseen Complications"

This is a re-posting from Oct. 28th, 2017 in an effort to get all my recaps fully on tumblr. Thanks!

This RWBY review had to be put on hold while I finished Stranger Things 2. In all honesty if you're reading this instead of watching the new season... please re-think your life choices.

For those of you who have binged properly you'll already know that though RWBY doesn't do holiday-themed episodes, they're still bringing in the Halloween spirit this week with the rather terrifying title "Unforeseen Complications." We open on Blake, Sun, Kali, and a pacing Ghira, wearing his tiny reading glasses that everyone was gushing over when the promo picture first dropped. Luckily we haven't lost the adorable cat Dad (yet), but things aren't looking good, especially when he's given this much screen time in a show that just loves breaking up happy families. Ghira is prepping a speech in regards to Adam's recent power-play and the only thing that eases the tension is a warm, family hug.

And Sun's awkward fourth-wheeling. Honestly, that was funny about ten episodes ago. For a side character that's been thrust into one of the main cast's storyline, Sun sure hasn't justified his place there yet. He's done little in the way of really assisting Blake in her work and the injury that worried everyone last Volume was explained away this very episode, amounting to nothing. The guy either needs something to do or finally needs to clear out--which, I should add, Blake wanted him to do weeks ago.

Sun aside, Ghira remains a favorite among fans for his sweet nature, fair views, and unending support of his daughter. His speech here, laying out Adam's rogue faction in the White Fang and his involvement in the Fall of Beacon, isn't anything that the viewer didn't already know about. In fact, the scene is a little confusing if you don't catch that Blake's story is apparently taking place a month behind everyone else's. There's no overt indication of this using text on screen and given that we're following so many characters, there's no easy way to imply an ellipsis, let alone that we're jumping around a suddenly non-linear timeline. I had originally taken Ghira's warning that Adam intends to kill Sienna as an indicator that news of her death hadn't reached the island yet. However, it was pointed out to me later that Ghira mentions Haven opening in two months time whereas Ozpin, later in the episode, says that school starts up in a month. I'm not sure why RT has chosen this form--or why they've made it so convoluted--but I'm trusting that it will somehow benefit the overall structure of the Volume.

Ghira's call to assist the humans in Haven certainly doesn't get an outcry of support from the crowd, but he's entirely undermined when Ilia (dramatically) throws off her cloak and reveals herself, shouting that they should never help the humans when they've done nothing but harm the faunus in turn. Sun tries to grab her (he fails) but the damage is already done. As we see through the camera focusing on our two creepy fox brothers, Adam's splinter faction has wormed its way in deep. We know thanks to Ilia's scroll that Adam not only plans to attack Haven but take out their CTT tower as well. RWBY is chock-full of themes surrounding communication (or the lack thereof) and literally taking out the kingdoms' one way of contacting one another is highly reflective of that. Combine that with Ilia’s few words sowing so much discord. Divide them and they’ll fall, and all that. 

The real action of the episode though is with Team RNJR. After a full two weeks we finally get to see the gang's reaction to Professor Ozpin's return and oh boy, it did not disappoint.

Ruby: "Isn't it weird?"

She's so excited about this! Qrow reminds the kids that this is strange for everyone involved, including the boy you're hounding, so they sheepishly give Oscar some space. He admits that he's a little nervous because he's never met real huntsmen and huntresses before, which is a wonderful callback to Ruby's excited, "Can I have your autograph?" to Glynda in Episode One. She's come far enough now that she's the one people look up to with awe. There's also perhaps a bit of rosegarden here, but that's obviously a ship that can only happen if Ozpin gets a body of his own.

We then (bless) finally get some actual information regarding this Oscar-Ozpin situation. Oscar shows everyone his "parlor trick" where, with a flash of green aura, gold eyes, and white hair, Ozpin takes control of his body, making everyone emotional with a sincere, "It is so very good to see you again, students."

It's a remarkably light scene for all the revelations. Like I've been noting in all these recaps, Ozpin admits how pleased he is that Ruby and the others can retain their sense of humor in the face of confusing and traumatizing circumstances. We get another callback as Ozpin apologizes, saying that he wasn't exaggerating when he once told Ruby he'd made more mistakes than any man, woman, or child. We learn that he has been “cursed” by the gods for failing to stop Salem centuries ago. For thousands of years Ozpin has lived, died, and reincarnated in the body of a "like-minded soul," though there's still no explanation of what exactly constitutes "like-minded” in this scenario. 

Jaune: "So who... what are you?"

Ouch. Though not an entirely unwarranted question when you’re suddenly dealing with the impossible. Ozpin says that he is the "combination of countless men" who have spent their lives trying to protect Remnant. The implication that he only reincarnates as a man aside (seems like a missed opportunity there), this seems like a pretty firm confirmation of the merging theory. The person we know as Ozpin might not entirely erase Oscar, but it certainly sounds like they won't remain completely separate people for forever. Indeed, Ozpin says straight out that at some point, "eventually," they'll “merge” and become the new Ozpin, a man who retains the memories of all his past lives. It’s all still horrendously murky, but honestly, if Oscar doesn't have at least a little bit of a freak out over this I'll be sorely disappointed.

We still don't know who or what Ozpin was originally. Was he just a man who took on too much, cursed by the gods for his failure or arrogance? Was he the wizard, one of the few capable of wielding magic in Remnant, thus making his survival (and the curse to ensure as much) a necessity? Ozpin isn't saying just yet. After assigning Qrow to find them more huntsmen he turns his sights on Team RNJR, telling them that they'll need to get into "fighting shape" before they can face Salem.

There is nothing that I don't love about this scene. Bringing back Ruby's lack of skill in hand-to-hand after Yang's character short spent so much time emphasizing it? Check. Implying that we'll finally unlock Jaune's semblance this Volume? Check. Ozpin confirming that outside the confines of his headmaster persona he's a happy, dramatic showoff?

Triple check.

All poor Oscar asked is that Ozpin not do anything embarrassing while he has control of their body and what does this man do? Act extra as fuck of course, performing a backflip onto the chair and spinning his cane far, far longer than he needs to. Nora is the only one unimpressed by this display, but I personally can't wait to see Ozpin training the kids. It should be especially interesting given his sudden loss of control--Oscar coming back unexpectedly and losing his balance, toppling them off the chair. Training is hard enough. Training while you're stuck in the body of a weak, undisciplined child... that's something else entirely.

The end of our episode takes us back to Weiss, still guarded by Raven's bandits. It's a moment of psychological torture, with her captor taunting Weiss with her own weapon and demonstrating that the one tool she has, information, is severely outdated. Ironwood has recalled all his troops from Mistral, including Winter. She's not around now to save her little sis’ like Weiss had hoped.

Which is hilarious, because in no world does Weiss Schnee need saving. Our last shot is of the miniature knight she's made out of a tiny glyph and her confident smile. Can't wait to see what she's planning to do with that.

Other Details of Note

I was incredibly nervous during the later half of Ghira's speech where he's just going, "We have ALL this INCRIMINATING evidence on this ONE SCROLL that I'm going to WAVE AROUND out here in the OPEN where anyone could EASILY STEAL or DESTROY IT..."

The faunus press all using their scrolls instead of cameras or old-fashioned pen and paper. It's a small but enjoyable bit of world-building.

The voice acting for Ozpin as Oscar was incredibly well done. Jury's still out on whether the echo is just a byproduct of his control or is somehow more meaningful. One theory currently says it's used whenever Ozpin says something that references all of his past lives, not just his last two.

Qrow immediately gets Ozpin coffee. Or hot chocolate. Whatever it is. He might be in the body of a 14yo, but you know as soon as he has control he needs a mug in his hands.

... Qrow then breaks the table and the mug. Hello, semblance. I'm looking forward to seeing more of that as the Volume goes on. Does the bad luck get worse the longer Qrow stays in one place? Is that why he's so eager to leave and recruit more huntsmen? What exactly are the rules here? No one has laid them out and (like silver eyes...) no one seems very interested. 

Oscar upon learning that he'll be training too: "Wait, what?"

And you've gotta love Nora. She went from thinking over how she could bribe her powerful, dignified headmaster ("No wait, he has a school") to flouncing about and calling him their "little cute boy Ozpin." I really hope she ignores his request and keeps calling him that indefinitely. It's very amusing.

[gsremade]

Since you’re open to request could I ask for a lil rhyiona thingy? Maybe something short and sweet? Thanks in advance unless u can’t do it in which case just ignore me lol

They’re standing at the base of an old signal tower, light from Elpis shining down on the flats around them and reflecting off the parts of the metal framework that aren’t rusted to all hell.

“I don’t like heights,” Rhys informs Fiona for what must be about the hundredth time as they both consider the structure in front of them.

He can see her nod in his peripheral. “I know you don’t.”

“Is that why you neglected to tell me until the very last second that the fuse you needed me to replace was at the top of goddamn Barad-dûr?”

“The top of… what?”

Rhys sighs, bringing up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Never mind.”

A cool breeze rolls through, making him shiver. As if it wasn’t already bad enough that Fiona dragged him all the way out here at whatever unholy hour of the night it is right now. He genuinely has no idea how she even convinced him to do this in the first place, considering he has a pile of overdue paperwork collecting dust on his desk and a meeting with a potential investor first thing tomorrow morning.

There’s plenty of other things he could be doing right now. Plenty of other things.

And yet here he is, standing around in the middle of nowhere with his shoulders hiked up around his neck and bouncing on the balls of his feet to try to generate some semblance of warmth like a jackass.

“Sooo.” Fiona bumps her hip pointedly against his. “Are we going up or what?”

Rhys scoffs in her direction, fisting his hands in his sleeves. “Somewhere along the line, I think you started severely overestimating how much I’m willing to risk my life for you.”

“Oh, come on,” she says. “It’s not that tall. You wouldn’t die if you fell. Well, okay, you probably would. But it would be quick and painless!”

He rolls his eyes. “That is sooo not reassuring.”

Huffing impatiently, she stomps around to stand right in front of him and plants her hands on her hips. “Look, I told Sasha I would take care of this before tomorrow because we all know how cranky everybody gets when the radio isn’t working. August opens his stupid mouth way more often and Athena threatens to kill everybody at least twice an hour and Sasha spends so much time trying to pry those two apart that nothing ever gets done. Annoying pop music is the only thing that keeps us all from self destructing.”

Rhys thinks- and not for the first time- that he is very lucky to have his own private office. “If you were going to take care of it, then why am I here?”

“Because,” she starts, and then falters for a moment before continuing, “I… sort of broke it even more and now I don’t know how to fix it.”

He blinks a few times. “Broke… what, exactly?”

“The fuse? I think?” she says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement. “It was stuck in there pretty good so I tried to rip it out, but, well.”

She makes this vague hand gesture that he’s not sure actually conveys anything meaningful, but he thinks he gets the gist.

“I know it’s a lot to ask for,” she continues, “but I could really use your help on this one. Plus we’re kind of already out here and it’s a half hour walk back to base, so.” She steps forward to lay a hand on his arm. “Please.”

Shaking his head and trying to fight back the impending sense of doom twisting his stomach into knots, Rhys motions towards the very unsafe looking ladder on the side of the tower. “After you.”

It’s a long way up, the structure creaking and groaning ominously around them and the metal railing shuddering with every tiny shift of their weight. He half expects the entire thing to come crashing down before they even make it to the maintenance platform, but the structural integrity of the tower remains sound and they get up to where they need to be in one piece.

It’s colder and breezier up here than it was down below, but at least the view is sort of nice in its own barren and desolate way. The flat desert around them is cast in a purpley hue, sporadic gusts of wind kicking up sand clouds all across the landscape. Even the sky looks different, somehow more vast and unending than it had looked from the ground.

The ground that is. Very far away. He can see that once he makes the grave mistake of looking all the way down.

Shit.

He stumbles backwards until his back hits the central beam of the tower to get a safe distance away from the edge. Which might have been way more helpful had the platform they’re standing on right now been made of something solid instead of grated panels, because he can still see just how high in the air they are through the slats. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his heart to stop pounding and his breathing to slow because dammit, he’s fine, nothing bad is going to happen and everything is fine.

But what if it’s not? What if the supports start collapsing, or what if the rails around the perimeter give way and one of them falls, or what if what if what if-

“Hey,” Fiona says softly as she takes his hands from where they’re clenched into fists at his sides and carefully works her fingers between his. “Hey. Look at me.”

“I don’t like heights,” he tells her again without opening his eyes. “I really, really, really don’t like heights.”

“I know.” She runs her thumb over the back of his knuckles, and her hands are so warm compared to his. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t- I didn’t know this would be-” He can hear her take a breath and blow it back out. “It’s okay, Rhys. You’re okay.”

That’s funny, because they’re, like, hundreds of feet in the air right now, which definitely doesn’t feel okay. But he forces himself to focus on the sensation of her tracing shapes over the back of his hand until he feels less panicky and more just incredibly, nauseatingly anxious. Which, frankly, still sucks, but at least it’s a considerable step down from before.

Once he feels like he’s able to, he cracks open his eyes enough to look down at her. She’s watching him so carefully, so tenderly, green eyes wide and searching as she continues to hold his hands in her own. And then she smiles up at him, a little hesitant, a little crooked, but still full and warm and earnest.

“Better?” she asks.

He’s not sure how to answer that. It still feels the same- the paralyzing fear of being in danger of plummeting to his death at any moment. But it’s also different, somehow. Farther away. Like he’s here with her and everything else is just a step or two behind them, looming right over his shoulder and chattering viciously in his ears but never quite able to catch all the way up.

So. Maybe not better, not in the sense that it’s all magically gone away. Maybe just… easier.

“A little,” he finally decides to say for simplicity’s sake, and then clears his throat a bit awkwardly. “I, uh. Might have to throw up here in a second, but-”

She takes a very generous step away from him at that. “Over the railing, not on me, please and thank you.”

Wow. He guesses he just found the limits of her helpful patience. Brutal. Rhys gives her the flattest look he can muster. “I was kidding.”

Fiona gives him an even flatter look in return, clearly disbelieving. “If any of it gets on me, I swear I’ll push you over the edge.”

He doesn’t doubt it. After he’s actually sure he really isn’t going to puke, he turns to make his way around the platform towards the fuse box. Fiona attempts to explain what she did as he struggles to figure out how in the hell she even jacked it up this badly. The fuse she tried to pull out wasn’t even the one that was busted. He tells her as much but she doesn’t believe him, insisting that she, quote, “Knows a blown fuse when she sees one, goddammit.”

Which she clearly doesn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t be having to fix her mess right now. She doesn’t have a lot more to say once he points that out. But she does shoot lots of dirty looks in his direction as he finishes the job she attempted to start, like it’s his fault that she can’t handle the cold, hard truth.

Once he replaces the correct fuse and fixes the one Fiona messed with, the lights on the tower come back on and everything seems to be functional. Rhys lets out a deep sigh of relief when they finally get back down on the ground where they belong, swearing to himself up and down that if Fiona ever asks him to do anything like this again, he’s changing his name and moving to the Southern Shelf to dig a complex tunnel system in a snowbank so he can live out the rest of his life in relative peace.

He’s so busy fantasizing about his future as a hermit that he doesn’t notice Fiona creeping up behind him until she pokes him in his ribs to get his attention. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he gripes back, spinning around to catch her hand before she can jab him again because dammit, she knows how ticklish he is.

But it doesn’t appear that her intention is to start a tickle fight, because she rolls her eyes and shakes her wrist free of his grip to twine their fingers together instead.

“I didn’t get to say thank you before you were hauling ass down the ladder,” she says, taking a few steps closer. “So, you know. Thank you. I mean it. And I’m sorry for tricking you to get you out here in the first place.”

Sighing, he brings his free hand up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “You do know if you had just told me, I still would have helped, right?”

“Would you have, though?”

Rhys has to think about it for a second. Like, really think about it. “Okay, yeah, no. Probably not.”

She grins and stands on her toes to press her lips gently against his. He’s not sure if she means it more as an apology or just as an incentive to stop being mad, but either way, it’s surprisingly effective. She lowers herself down to stand flat on her feet again after a minute and he follows her, making her huff out a laugh against his mouth that turns into a sigh when he runs a hand up her side. Her breath catches when he pulls her closer by her hips, and he swallows a groan when she closes her teeth down on his bottom lip. When she starts to pull back, he catches her, pulling her close again and again to give her fleeting kisses until she swats him away with a laugh.

“That was easy,” she tells him as she moves both her arms up to wind them around his neck. “One kiss and I’m already forgiven. I’ll have to remember that for next time.”

“Hey, don’t you dare make me feel cheap,” he pouts as he slides his hands past her coat to run his thumbs along the seams of her vest. “And who said you were forgiven? I’m obviously still furious. Seething with rage, actually.”

She nods. “Right. Of course. Luckily, I know exactly what buttons to push to get back on your good side.”

He raises an eyebrow at her dubiously. “And… what buttons would those be?”

“I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” she says. “But I’ll give you a hint.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Two words.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You and me.”

“Right.”

“In your bed.”

Rhys makes this big show of mulling it over before gasping dramatically and releasing her to grab her by the shoulders. “Pillow forts?”

Fiona laughs so loud it echoes across the plains, taking him by the hand and not letting go the entire way home.

[horrorkingdom]

Short story 🆕➡️➡️

I pass under the words “GOETHE FAMILY ESTATE” and grapple with a queer feeling of unease. The archway is flanked by faceless statues, their features worn smooth by wind and rain. The path to my right leads down the hill, past rows of uniform headstones, to the old convent. Ahead of me stands the Goethe Manor House.

The convent was closed decades ago, and the Goethe House has been abandoned for over a century. The only building on the estate that is still occupied is half a mile away; the former Catholic girls’ school, now converted to a nursing home for ailing and aging nuns.

The breeze lifts the hair from the back of my neck. I hug my jacket tighter around me and walk straight.

I cannot place the source of my discomfort. Graveyards hold no dread for me and I have spent much time inside crumbling buildings. Perhaps it is the trees that grow alongside the path, brought from far away places and replanted at the Goethe family’s command. Perhaps I can sense they do not belong.

The Goethe House looms larger as I approach. It is made of a yellow stucco that looks out of place in the gray light of the Pennsylvania autumn sun. It looks tired, with peeling paint and sinking edges, but, strangely, all the windows are intact.

I lean down to inspect a monarch drinking from a thistle that pushed its way up through a crack in the stone walkway. It is late in the season to see one and the unexpected beauty makes me smile. I hear my grandmother’s voice. Butterflies are pretty, but moths are special. They carry souls to the moon.

But what happens when a moth gets trapped inside? I had asked her.

Then the soul is trapped too. Why do you think so many houses are haunted?

The insect flutters upwards and drifts past a second story window. A pale face peers from it, watching me from a room I know is empty. I raise my hand to the girl in greeting when bony fingers wrap around my wrist and whip me around.

An ancient nun drags my face closer to hers. A few, solitary teeth jut from her gums like crumbling gravestones in a forgotten cemetery and her breath is sharp and sour. “It consumed the Sisters who walked without feet,” she spits, her eyes boring into mine, as if she could burrow her thoughts into my head by the force of her stare. Her rheumy eyes fill with tears. “Don’t let me die here,” she weeps as two women appear by her side to pry her clenched fingers from my arm. “Not here, not here.”

One of the nurses leads the old nun away, patting her back and murmuring in soothing tones. The taller one remains and fusses over my wrist.

“I’m awfully sorry about that. Did she hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “I apologize if I did something to disturb her.”

“No, no. Sister Agnes is… not well. She was pulling one of her weekly runners.” She twists my wrist this way and that.

“If I may ask, who are the Sisters who walk without feet?”

She shrugs. “The babblings of dementia.” When she is satisfied my arm is still in working order, she steps back. “I’m supposed to tell you not to be so close to the house. You can walk around the estate. It’s pretty this time of year. It’s just that house is not structurally safe.”

I nod in acquiescence, looking at the crack that runs from the base of the house all the way up the three floors.

The nurse shivers. “This place gives me the willies.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Supposedly, before the convent was closed, two separate nuns tried to burn it down.”

The eastern wall bows out slightly. Someday it will split open like an overripe carcass.

The nurse claps her hands together. The noise bounces off the house walls. “Whelp, I better get back before I get in more trouble,” she grimaces. “Sister Agnes is old, but gosh, she’s fast.”

I wave at her as she trudges across the field towards the nursing home. Before heading towards the old convent building, I look again at the second story window. It’s empty.

It doesn’t matter; I’ll find her when I return tonight.

*****

This will not be my first ghost encounter, nor my hundredth, yet that strange, foreboding feeling still clung to me as I hurried past the trees, their silhouettes made monstrous in the moonlight. It dogged me as I completed the pedestrian portion of communing with the spirits, the breaking and entering part. I successfully jimmied the lock to the heavy oak doors at the front of the Goethe House and slipped inside.

I now find myself standing in the atrium, the yellow-green of the walls faintly visible in the moonlight. It reminds me of a summer sky before a tornado.

The moon is bright tonight, and my nighttime vision has always been excellent. I creep deeper into the house. It has been gutted, all the furniture and paintings having been removed years ago. Dust blankets every surface like a layer of snow. The air is stale and dry.

“Hello,” I say softly to the little girl at the top of the grand staircase. “I’m here to set you free.”

I would estimate she is about seven. She is wearing a white dress, frothy with lace, and her blonde hair is the disagreeable kind that hangs limp and refuses to hold a curl. The room is dark but she herself has a pulsating glow. She is pouting.

“Hello,” I whisper again. “I’m here to free you if you can take me to your wings.” I pick my way across the squeaking floorboards. I put my right foot down and the board underneath splits. My foot goes through the hole and I pitch forward. I land hard and grunt as the air is pushed from my body. I can feel the splintered edges rake against my ankle. I’m sure it has drawn blood. Wincing, I gingerly extract my foot from the hole. I turn on my flashlight and the girl vanishes. I turn it off and she is waiting at the top of the stairs. I sigh and continue towards the stairs in the dark. I prod each board thoroughly with my shoe before transferring my weight.

I reach the banister and the moon better lights my way. “Show me where your wings are,” I say. The girl spins and rushes down a hallway. I follow.

She reaches the third door on the left and passes through it. I catch up and twist the doorknob. The door swings inward and I enter. Aside from a brick fireplace, the room is empty. I limp to the window. I can see the spot in which I stood this afternoon.

I turn on my flashlight and crawl around on the floor but can find no dead moths. I search in the corners and under flaps of sagging wallpaper but come up empty handed. My hip clicks and my ankle is throbbing. I sit against a wall, massage my knees, then turn off my flashlight. “Where are your wings?” I call out.

She appears next to the fireplace and extends a finger. I frown. “I already looked at the fireplace,” I tell her. She stamps a scrawny leg, making no sound and disturbing no dust. She jabs her finger insistently. I scoot towards the fireplace and follow the line of her arm to a black brick. Her otherworldly shine makes it easy for me to see that the brick is not mortared in place, but rather juts out. The brick is rough against my finger pads as I shimmy it back and forth until it is loose enough to remove.

Behind the brick I find a small box tied with twine.

I look at the girl. She is across the room now, near the window, with her head cocked to one side. I take the box from the recess and blow off a thick layer of dust, then untie the twine. I unlatch the box and lift the lid.

Inside is a dead, black moth. I can’t imagine how it got caught here.

Not caught, I think. Entombed.

I think of that yellow-green sky.

I lift the box toward the girl. “These are your wings?”

She nods, her eyes big and mournful. I can easily imagine her sitting dejectedly in front of a mirror as her mother pulls at her wilted hair, trying to make it presentable. I wonder who she was and what happened to her. She is just a child, trapped alone in this comfortless house for a century. I have helped countless other like her.

I offer her a smile. “We’ll take it outside and set you free.” Her timid smile meets mine.

I am about to close the box when I see the wings of the moth flutter. It is almost imperceptible, perhaps a mere trick of the light or my breath disturbing the paper light corpse. Then it shivers again.

I had wiped dust from the box. It had been undisturbed for many, many years. And yet the moth had moved.

My eyes slide sideways. I can see the girl on the edge of my vision. Her face. There is something about her face. Something… trembly, like her skin is about to slip off.

I snap my gaze to her. She looks normal, as normal as a ghost can look. Still…

“These are your wings?” My tone is soothing, loving. She nods emphatically and runs into the hallway, beckoning me to follow.

I hesitate, then shine my flashlight on the box. The moth is grotesque and disfigured: it has eight legs when it should have six; its wings are hard and shiny, its body too long. Is it even a moth?

It consumed the Sisters who walked without feet was what Sister Agnes said. The Sisters who walked without feet…

I had walked the grounds this afternoon, walked through the empty convent and the servants’ quarters, stood outside the former girl’s school, now a nursing home. I would expect a place this old, a place with this much history, to be teeming with tethered spirits. And yet, I found only one.

A cold fist clenches around my heart. I turn off my flashlight. She stands in the center of the room.

“Did you eat them?” I ask quietly. “The others?”

She is trembling, struggling. Her face wobbles.

Then she slumps. Her arms droop and the glow goes out. Dark spots bloom on her face, spreading, taking the place of her eyes and her mouth. They are made of black liquid, of smoke, of nothing. Her eyes are gaping wounds of darkness, her mouth a black maw. It’s like she bleeding shadows. She is still wearing that frilly, white dress.

It drifts toward me.

My heart batters against my ribs. It's a ghost, it floated through a door, it couldn't move the brick, it can't touch me. It can't touch me.

It tugs on my hand. I feel its fingers.

Flesh, it can touch.

My leg feels warm. I realize I have wet myself.

I smile at the creature and close the box. “Alright, let us set you free.”

I make my way back down the hallway and begin my descent down the staircase, slowly, slowly. In one hand I hold the box with its soul, and in the other is my flashlight. I cannot set it free. I must give no indication that I want to flee, no indication.

Fire. The nuns tried to burn the house down.

It is beside me, in front of me, behind me. It appears and vanishes, circling me, assessing me. Tears leak from my eyes. I cannot tell if my heart is racing or if it has stopped altogether.

Maybe, maybe I can set the house on fire. I can get outside, get outside without the moth, I can hear it fluttering inside the box, it wants to get out-

I smile tenderly into the darkness. I know it is watching me though it has no eyes. “Let’s set you free.”

I latch the box shut, retie the twine.

I’ll watch as flames devour the house, devour the thing inside, I’ll laugh in the light of the hungry blaze-

The girl is in front of me. It touches my hand.

I blanche.

It knows it knowsitknowsit-

I blind it with the flashlight, shining the brightness at its grotesque face-

Nothing happens. It doesn’t vanish. It’s not frightened by the light. It was toying with me before, like a cat with a mouse.

I scream and hurl the box into the depths of the dark house. I race toward the gap in the doors, toward the tendrils of moonlight peeking through, toward safety and-

My foot hits the edge of the hole in the floor. My heel dangles over nothing. I almost regain my balance-

Tiny, delicate fingers wrap around my ankle and yank.

I hear a snap. I crumple. I try to pull my leg from the hole, but I nearly pass out from the pain. My leg feels wet, so wet, and I know I am bleeding profusely. I scream for help, scream as loudly as I as I can, but only my ears can hear it.

I’m dizzy. I taste copper. I try to crawl towards the door, but the jagged pieces of wood trap my leg. Trap me.

My flashlight has rolled out of reach. The bulb flickers. Flickers. Goes out.

In the darkness, I hear the fluttering of wings beating against a box.

It stands over me, toying. Waiting. It only eats the dead.

No moth will carry my soul to the moon.

[canadian-riddler]

Catwoman’s Revenge Redux

By Indiana

  Characters: Selina Kyle, Edward Nygma [lowkey Riddlecat]

Synopsis: I hate the Catwoman’s Revenge DLC so I rewrote it. In my version they have ~history~.

 AO3

She’d expected better security from him.

It seemed he had been banking on this place being kept secret enough he didn’t really have to put resources into defending it.  A handful of chatty thugs was not hard to get through, and the riddle, while annoying, was not impossible.  And now she was about to make it evident how very wrong he had been.

As she exited the elevator she stepped directly onto a bridge overlooking what was, she had to admit, quite an impressive underground factory.  He never had done anything halfway, and this was no exception.  It was a little dingy, and he could have used some decorating tips, but for a secret facility beneath an existing structure it was not too shabby at all.  She froze for a moment when she heard him speak.  Wasn’t he supposed to be in prison?

“Computer?  It is I, the Riddler!”

“Hello The Riddler, you sound very smart today.”

“Thank you, computer.  But this is a matter most exigent.”

“Error.  Do not understand ‘exigent’.”

Who had let that man near a phone?  And why was he allowed to call his computer, of all things?  

“It means urgent.  Now –“

“Thank you.”

“Yes!  You’re welcome.  Now, the Gotham City Police Department currently has me immured.  And – “

“Error.  Do not understand ‘immured’.”

He sighed heavily in exasperation.  “It means imprisoned!  Confined!  Incarcerated! Banged up!”  She could almost hear him rubbing his forehead.  “I don’t know which is more corrupt, the prison-industrial complex or your vocabulary files.”

“Thank you.”

“I – you’re welcome.  Now.  I believe this would be a most felicitous and appurtenant time to run the jailbreak protocol.”

“Error.  Do not understand ‘run’.”

“Oh, for…”  He trailed off into fatigued silence.  “Run vocabulary diagnostics.”

“Error.  Do not understand ‘run’.”

“That’s what I get for hoping voice recognition would work over the phone… very well.  Stay on the line.  I will execute it myself by using the keys on this phone to write lines of code.”

She had no doubt he actually could run a computer using even the old-model phones at the GCPD, but she was going to have to stop him right there, no matter how impressive and amusing that might be.  She climbed over the railing on the bridge and dropped to the factory floor.  “Hey, Eddie…”

“C… Catwoman?”

“The one and only.” She took a cursory look around. “Aren’t you in prison?”

“Ha!  No prison can hold me.  One moment.”  His voice faded somewhat.  “Yes, Officer Cash, I’m talking to my lawyer. Who else would I be calling?”

Who else indeed.

“Calm down, Eddie.  No need to order a breakout.  Here’s what’s going to happen.”  She raised her voice to ensure he got all the details.  “I’m going to steal all your money and destroy everything you’ve built here.  Okay?”

“Selina, sweetheart,” he began, and she had to admit he could still turn on that charm when he wanted to.  “Let’s not be hasty about this.”

“Eddie, baby,” she returned, “I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what to do.”

“Telling?  Who’s telling?  I am merely suggesting we renegotiate the deal.  There’s no need to rush into this.”

“I never said we were making a deal.”  She cast a careful eye around for anything that looked as though it might hold a trap.  “I am here to take what’s mine, whether you want me to or not.  And that’s no suggestion, sweetheart.”

“Listen.”  He had dropped the cloying tone altogether now, which was enough to give her pause. “There’s something down there that is of extreme import to me.  You would not understand if I attempted to explain it to you, so I am asking you to trust –“

“Trust?” she snapped.  “You listen, Eddie.  I did trust you.  That’s why we’re here in the first place, remember?  You lied to me.  You tricked me into being a pawn in your sad little game.  You owe me and I am here to make sure you pay up.  You don’t get to negotiate.  You took advantage of me.”  She hardened her tone.  “I thought you were better than that.”

Silence.  Then: “Wait a minute.  Did you say ‘Selina’, Nygma?”

“I did not!” Edward snapped.  “I said ‘Sabrina’!  She’s my lawyer.  You can call her yourself when I’m finished.  She’ll have a few choice words for you, this I guarantee.”  He must have given Cash another moment to leave, because he didn’t speak for a good handful of seconds.  Then he continued, in a lower voice, “All right.  You have a point.  But I’m serious.  There’s… something down there that cannot be replaced if you destroy it.”

“I’m not all that inclined to believe you right now.”

“Selina.”  He actually sounded… upset.  He might just have been telling the truth.  “Please.”

Well.  She wasn’t heartless.  She could give him something for his trouble.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’m still going to destroy this factory and clean out your bank account, but in return I will provide you some intel. You’ll be able to make your escape without needing this malfunctioning computer of yours, and I’ll still get what I want.  Interested?

“There’s no way for me to get you to leave the factory standing.”

“No.”

He sighed again.  “You do know it took me six months of building with my bare hands to put that together.”

“And you did a great job. Unfortunately, it’s time to say goodbye. Tell me what I need to know or I’m returning to the GCPD and leaving them a little tip telling them exactly where your remaining hideout is so they can destroy it themselves.”

“Oh… don’t do that.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Fine!  Fine. But there is a security system in place that I cannot disengage from here.  You’re going to have to survive long enough that –“

“Survive?”

“There is a small army of Riddlerbots dedicated to protecting the server.  I cannot call them off without access to a computer.  I have nothing to gain by lying to you.”

“You did risk my life, remember?”

“Selina, my dear,” he said, surprisingly softly, “do you really believe I thought for a moment he would fail to come to your rescue?”

He always sounded so chivalrous when he called her that.

“I honestly can’t tell what you’re thinking anymore.”

“You’re not the only one.”  He said something over his shoulder she couldn’t hear, then continued: “In any event, as soon as you attempt to open the door through which the computer can be found, the combat Riddlerbots will automatically deploy.  I cannot deactivate them from here.”

“So if I manage to destroy your so-called small army, you will open the server room and allow me to conduct my business?”

A pause, and then he said, “I will.”

“I was expecting you to remind me about my offer.”  She advanced towards the door, mentally preparing herself for yet another altercation with his cursed bots.  “Since you didn’t, I will tell you just as soon as I’ve dealt with your little security detail.  And any help you are able to provide will be duly noted.”  

“Very well.”

As soon as she laid a hand on the door there came discord from behind her, and she turned to see a goodly number of the bots had already appeared.  He hadn’t been kidding.  She resigned herself to the inevitable and got started.

“That’s a mighty long phone call, Nygma.”

“I have a very nice lawyer who likes to ask how I’m doing. You should try it sometime.  Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot: you can’t carry on an intelligent conversation.  My apologies. I’ll leave you to your brutish threats.”

She was going to have to hurry this along.  She wasn’t going to be able to get into the server room without his help, and he was likely to get his phone call revoked sooner rather than later.  “Eddie!”

“What?”

“You need to stay on the line long enough to fulfill our deal!  You might want to keep your commentary to yourself, hm?”  She caught one of the machines around the arm with her whip and wrenched it to the floor.

“I have been putting in some work on my end, you know.  It’s difficult to write programs on a handset while under such close scrutiny, but you’ll be pleased to know I’ve managed it.  You might even want to congratulate me, or at least pretend to be grateful.  In any event, you’re going to have to get off the floor.”

“And what would that do, exactly?”  Her heel connected with the neck of a bot with a satisfying crunch.

“It would keep you from being electrocuted, for one thing. But if you’re into that, that’s fine too.  If you aren’t, you have approximately eleven seconds before I roast you where you stand.”

She climbed back up onto the wall, directing her whip at any robots who dared follow her.  “Oh come on, Eddie.  You wouldn’t do that              .”

The floor lit up with a sudden green intensity and all of the Riddlerbots upon it were instantly decimated in a spray of smoke and sparks.  “No?”

“You’d miss me too much,” she told him, and he actually laughed.  

“That I would, my dear, for whom else could I count on to upend my life when least I need it?  You may abscond from your perch now.  That should be all of them.”

“Should be?”

“I can’t exactly see.”

She jumped lightly down onto the floor, and when it did not spark to life again and no further robots were revealed she crossed the floor to the hidden room.  The locking mechanism was denoted by a large question-mark shaped switch and a massive glowing green arrow at which she rolled her eyes.  “Eddie.”

“Yes, darling.”

“Why did you put an arrow pointing at the access point to your own computer?  Did you think you’d forget where it was?”

“You aren’t here to critique my décor.  Press the button and I will provide the verbal confirmation.”

She put her hand to it and depressed it, but he remained silent.  She frowned over her shoulder.  “Eddie.”

“Apologies for the delay.”  She couldn’t tell if Cash had returned or if he just needed a moment before handing over the keys to his palace, as it were.  “Computer: Tesla.”

And with that the door opened, and she stepped beyond it to reveal a very large monitor mounted behind a desk that had been hastily cut out of a large piece of wood.  On this desk were only a dismantled robot and an empty mug. She moved to the keyboard.  “Do I need a password for this too?”

“No.  It will have logged in automatically.  You will require one each for the bank transfer and for the… self-destruct.” She heard him take a breath.  “Listen carefully to my instructions.”

She did exactly as he told her, and she had to admit she would not have been able to get into his account without his guidance.  It was well-encrypted, with a vendor she had never heard of.  “It needs a password to complete the transaction,” she said, once she had set it up.

“I’m finding it difficult to believe your lawyer is keeping you on the line this long,” Selina heard Cash say.  “She usually prefers to meet you in person.  I wouldn’t be able to guess why.”

“Will you leave me alone!?” Edward snapped.

“I’m coming right back, Nygma,” Cash warned, “and if you are still on that phone it is not going to be pretty.”

“Fine!  Just let me finish my phone call in peace!”  He sighed directly into the phone and said, more calmly, “It’s Lovelace.”

It was going to take a minute or two for such a massive transaction to be approved, so she had time to fulfill her end of the deal.  “You ready for that intel?”

“Go ahead.”

“The GCPD confiscated your mech suit from the Orphanage.  You won’t believe what they did with it.”

“They gave it to the Bat for his trophy room?” he said with derision.

She laughed.  “Even better.  It’s in the GCPD’s trophy room.”

Silence.  

It brought her back to a time when she had been able to feel the chill of it, and she was quickly sobered.

“If this is a joke, Selina, I am as far from amused as can be.” His tone was hard, and she remembered that stony look he used to give her when she teased some of his more unusual qualities.  She shook her head despite it not being visible to him.

“I’m not joking.  They put it in there as part of their exhibit. It’s just sitting there, out in the open.  It’s yours to ride off into the sunset with.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard,” he said, but he sounded more tired than angry. “Thank you.”

“The transfer is done.” She placed her hands back on the keyboard.  “And the self-destruct?”

“Must you really?” he asked quietly.

“We had a deal.  You don’t let me do it, I send someone here to do it anyway.”  Whatever it was he was trying so hard to preserve he could probably replace.  He always had been possessive over his things.

“All right.”  He coughed away from the receiver.  He really was still smoking, by the sound of it.  “Control R, and then run endif.exe.”

She did so.  “And this password is?”

He didn’t answer immediately.  She almost changed her mind.  Almost.

“Turing,” he finally told her, so hushed she almost didn’t hear it.  “You’ll have three minutes.”

“Thank you.”  And she stepped out of the room and walked quickly towards the elevator.

“Guess what?” came Cash’s voice over the line.  “I just called your lawyer.”

“You can have the phone if you want it so much,” Edward said snidely.  “I’ve finished with it.”

“Finished what?  You were there so long you were probably rigging it into a bomb.  I’ve been authorised to use force to get you to cooperate.  So I suggest you shut your mouth and come with me.”

“What?” Edward protested.  “I didn’t even do anything, you Neanderthal!  Can’t a man make a phone call in peace?”

“Watch your tone, Nygma.”

“You touch me with that and it is going straight back to my lawyer, do you understand?  You have no legal stature to assault me when I-“ He cried out suddenly following the sound of an electric sizzling, and as the elevator reached the upper floor she had to wince in sympathy.  He hadn’t really deserved that.

She missed him sometimes. It had been so long ago now, but she didn’t think she’d ever forget how it felt to press her nose into his neck as he slept, or how comforting his arm used to feel around her waist, or how he would smile at her when he came home from yet another unfulfilling day at the GCPD. And she would always remember, too, the unmitigated rages he would fly into without a moment’s notice over nothing at all, and the nights he would wake up and cry for hours without ever telling her why, and the times that look would come over his face and he would just disappear even though he was right there.  The good times?  She missed those.  They had almost made the bad times worth it.  But she had known, just known, that it was only going to get worse.  As if to prove her regrettably right, six months after she left she found that he had vanished from the GCPD.   A year and a half after that he was in Blackgate, soon to be transferred to Arkham Asylum.  She had made the right choice.  He had been too much for her, was probably too much for anyone.  But the regret went hand in hand with the nostalgia, and the wondering whisper that asked, Would he be different if…?

She looked back at the toy store which hid the ruins of the factory below it, and considered how long it would take him to make his escape.  A few days, more or less.  Maybe she would go back after.  Ask him just what it was he’d been so eager to protect, when he had the time to explain it. He’d been surprisingly rational about the whole thing: no excuses, no threats, no real protest, even.  He had accepted his wrongdoing and met her demands. It was… odd.  Like he’d had a change of heart, almost.

Now just what could have caused that?

She had thought she’d feel more triumphant after doing this, but no.  It was not all that satisfying to destroy what little he’d had left.  All of his structures had already been torn down, his base of operations liberally draped in yellow police tape.  Even taking his money was an empty victory; he was much too paranoid to keep all of it in one place like that.  She had merely relieved him of a drop in his bucket, most likely.

And she’d never given him an explanation for her disappearance all those years ago.  Maybe she’d check up on him in a few and see where they stood.  Scarecrow was gone, but there had been rumours and she had not heard from Bruce in two weeks, nor had anyone else she knew.  There was something brewing in the city, something different.  Being allied with the Riddler just might get her out of it unscathed.  And maybe she’d get an old friend back.  Maybe.

But it was best not to get too hopeful these days.  

 Author’s note

I haven’t listened to it recently because I forget stuff like *snap* and it allows me to revisit content like I almost never heard it before, but the audio files between Catwoman and Riddler in Arkham Knight have Selina doing what Eddie wants preeeeeeeetty much without protest. Selina’s not dumb, she’s been in Gotham a long time and she’s surely watched the Riddler slowly go more and more nuts over the years.  She’s consorting with an insane supercriminal – who she remarks upon as being completely nutso in the last audio – who has been upping the stakes continually, and she just goes along with that for the monies?  Mmmmmmmm not buying it.  It puts her firmly on the side of ‘not being a good guy’, that’s for sure.  In general they get along pretty well too.

Anyways so I haven’t written it yet but they used to be a Thing when Eddie worked at the GCPD circa Arkham Origins and he had not yet learned to hide/contain his mess of a self.  They were both in their early twenties.

As for the Rids part, his dialogue in the DLC completely ruins all the exquisite character development of the actual game and the only part I like is the part where he’s polite to the computer even though it’s annoying him.  There’s NO WAY the Riddler just randomly left his computer unlocked, or puts his bank account ON HIS DESKTOP, or has a one-click SELF DESTRUCT SEQUENCE.  This is a cyber security specialist AND genius who hacks Batman for funsies, gimme a break.  I can buy the voice recognition not working over the phone, but then randomly working again without a keyword to activate it?  Nah.  And there is indeed an electrified floor during the very boring ‘hit two hundred robots’ boss fight in the DLC but he never turns it on because…………………… he likes having his stuff stolen and blown up, IDK.  And yes.  The mech really is just sitting there at the GCPD, out in the open.  Waiting for someone to steal it.

[whatdoesseostandfor]

My Last Day at Moz. My First Day at SparkToro.

17 years ago, I dropped out of college to work with my mom, Gillian, on the business that became Moz. For 7 years (from 2007-2014), I was that company’s CEO. For the last 4, I’ve been in a variety of individual contributor roles. And today, for me, that journey ends.

On a scale of 0-10, where 0 is “fired and escorted out of the building by security” and 10 is “left entirely of his own accord on wonderful terms,” my departure is around a 4. That makes today a hard one, cognitively and emotionally. I have a lot of sadness, a heap of regrets, and a smattering of resentment too. But I am, deeply, deeply thankful to all the people who supported me and Moz over the last two decades. The experience of building a company like this, of helping to change and mature an industry, of learning so much about entrepreneurship, marketing, and myself has been an honor and a privilege.

What’s Next?

Three things:

A new software company! I’ve got a bit of a chip on my shoulder, and a lot to prove — mostly to myself. That’s always been a superb motivator for me (even if it’s not the most emotionally healthy reason to take on the crazy risk that is startup-building). SparkToro is in a different field of marketing: influencer and audience intelligence. I’m hoping we can solve the thorny, painful problem of discovering where a given audience spends time, who and what they listen to, and where they engage. Some folks call this “influencer marketing” but I’ve found that terminology to be too limiting. It’s often exclusively associated with paying Instagram and YouTube celebrities to post about a product, and that’s not where this product/company is going. In the next year, I hope to have a product I can show you

A book! I’ve spent the last 18 months writing and polishing Lost and Founder: A Painfully Honest Field Guide to the Startup World with a terrifically talented team at Penguin/Random House’s Portfolio imprint. The book’s central tenet is this: A ton of traditional Silicon Valley startup “wisdom” biases companies and founders to do a lot of dumb stuff. This book will help you avoid those pitfalls. It’s told through stories from Moz’s years of growth and struggles, paired with advice and hard-won experience that’s helped us. If you’re a contrarian, or a skeptic of valley startup culture, you’ll probably love it. And if you’re an entrepreneur, marketer, or technologist who believes all the hype, maybe it can at least help you know what to watch for.

A non-profit project to help makes conferences and events safer. It is un-fucking-believable what women (and some men) have had to put up with at events in the marketing and tech worlds. This is a hard arena in which to make a dent, but I’ve been working with a pro bono legal team from Davis Wright Tremaine on a structure that can hopefully help give codes of conduct more teeth and bad behavior more consequence. More to come on this in the months ahead.

Of course, I’ll also be speaking at a number of events, blogging a lot more, and spending a lot of quality time on phone calls with state tax offices (because startup life is glamorous, yo!).

Are You Totally Done With Moz?

No, not entirely. You’ll still see me on Whiteboard Friday (I filmed a good dozen episodes before departing and will likely be back in the office to shoot some more). I’m still working with one internal team on a big product release that didn’t get finished before my departure (a project I’m really proud of and excited about, with a team of people I love). And I’m still on Moz’s board of directors as the chairperson, and still the single largest shareholder (Geraldine and I own ~24% of the outstanding shares).

Thus, I still have a lot of reasons to cheer for, support, and keep my fingers crossed for Moz. I have high hopes that in the years ahead, the product will once again be the leader in its field and the best solution out there for many in the SEO world.

No Vacation?

This seems to be the first question I get when folks hear I’m leaving Moz, so I’ll address it here. Slight spoiler for the book, but it turns out being a startup founder, even if your company has tens of millions in revenue, doesn’t necessarily mean a lot of liquidity. Dollars are at a premium, my severance will only last so long, and thus I need to get this next business off the ground as fast as possible. Perhaps someday Moz will have a liquidity event and I’ll take a few months to relax and unwind. Or maybe this next project will go so well that I’ll have the flexibility to do that (although, knowing myself, I suspect a few weeks > a few months).

Geraldine and I do have a short trip to Portugal planned with our dear friends, Wil and Nora, in late April. Maybe that kinda counts

A Massive Thank You to Nicci Herron

If you’ve worked to schedule something with me in the last 5 years, or visited the Moz office, you know that I’ve been supported by an incredible EA, Nicci Herron. Every week, Nicci does an immense load of work to help not just me, but people all across the Moz organization. She’s so detail-oriented that across thousands of days and no fewer than 20,000 unique events, meetings, and calls, I think she’s made fewer than 5 mistakes total (and most of those were probably her just apologizing for someone else).

When she heard the news that Moz and I would be parting ways, she elected not to stay with the company. Her words to me were “if you’re not here, I don’t want to be either.” I have thought about that loyalty and kindness hundreds of times over the last year when feeling down.

Nicci doesn’t yet know what she’s planning to do next, which means there’s a tiny, brief window where a very lucky organization might snap her up. If you have need of someone with her extraordinary skills, please drop her a line via LinkedIn (or ping me directly and I can connect you).

Five Tidbits of Advice

Not many people stay with one job or one company for such a huge percent of their lives, especially not in the technology world. To some degree, this has almost certainly had a myopic impact on what I can see and perceive of a professional career, but it’s also a unique position to be in. I suspect that, with time and distance, I’ll be able to see the experience of Moz more clearly, but some things I can take away now (that aren’t already covered in Lost and Founder) include:

The best skill I’ve developed and the one that’s served me best as a founder, a CEO, and a marketer is empathy. Being able to put myself in the shoes of other people and imagine their pain, their problems, their workflows and speed bumps has been invaluable both on the product side and in creating content. Side note: this does not come naturally (or at least, doesn’t *only* come naturally). Spending lots of time with people I want to learn about, getting to know them personally, and asking questions, listening, and watching has been huge, too.

My number one tip for marketers seeking to grow their career opportunities is this: specialize. Specialize deeply. I don’t mean “SEO” or “Email marketing,” I mean specialization like “I’m the best link-focused SEO for the mobile gaming world.” Expanding from a specialization (if you so choose) is vastly easier, in my experience, than becoming known for a broad practice. This is equally true for companies as for individuals.

Video served as a dramatic accelerant for my personal brand, vastly more than I ever expected. Whiteboard Friday begat more conference invitations and interviews and awareness than even my most successful blog posts. I think the branding and stickiness value of video means that every viewer is worth (in the marketing sense) 10X more than a reader of text content (maybe more).

At Moz, weighting powerful, important, high-profile people’s opinions higher than our customers opinions inevitably led to doom. That was usually me putting more stock in what a handful of VCs who turned me down for investment thought over what hundreds of customers and potential customers were telling me they wanted. Granted, when you’re a VC-backed company, paying attention to investors matters because your next round is crucial (unless you’re profitable, in which case you don’t necessarily need to raise more, even though the startup culture will convince you it’s the only way). But, I also over-indexed on what highly influential authors and bloggers thought, and what I heard from a few folks I hoped might be potential acquirers. Dumb. When building a company, customers (and potential customers) > almost everyone else.

Tricks, hacks, and individual point solutions never made a big impact for us (and honestly, they’ve never made a big impact for any other company I’ve worked with or advised, either). Coming from the SEO world (and being bombarded by the emergent culture of “growth hacking”), this hit hard. For years I thought that the one right move would accelerate growth or the one right feature would make everyone love our product. But in fact, it’s when the whole became better than the sum of its parts that magic happened. That proved true in marketing, in product, in internal culture, even in recruiting. Crafting holistic, consistent, high quality experiences always beat out that “one magic trick” for improving… whatever. I think this is equally applicable in one’s personal life. The house, the car, the boyfriend, the vacation — none can, alone, produce the “and now I’m finally happy!” result.

Thank you again to everyone who’s been so kind to me and to Moz. I hope that I can continue to return those favors and to help many more people do better marketing.

p.s. Moz is shutting off my old email address there; if you’d like to reach me in the future, drop a line to rand at sparktoro.com.

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