#as circumstantial as it might be that violence is everything he has left from the life he enjoyed.

[extracurriculargrief]

Rewatching some stuff post-All Out and thinking about how cool it would have been if they had given Yuta a Michael Corleone-esque arc.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Tabula Rasa: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there is any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another." - Anatole France

High school was such a weird era in most of the teams' lives. For Spencer, he was twelve, Pen looked too happy, JJ was the pretty popular jock, Derek wasn't half as muscular as he is now, you were too awkward, and Emily was growing into her goth phase.

Never have you been so excited to look at high school pictures than you are at this moment.

Penelope hacked the records from everyone's high school, with their permission, of course. Emily is sitting at her desk, listening to you, Spencer, and Penelope tease at the gothic look she sported in the 80s.

"It's remarkable. Something like this makes you question everything you thought you knew," Spencer says dramatically.

"Wait, there was a time when this was socially acceptable?" you giggle and snatch the picture away from Spencer.

"Oh, you two are young," Penelope says in a longing voice. "The eighties left a lot of people confused. This is especially sad, though."

"Alright, very funny," Emily rolls her eyes and snatches the picture from you. "What did you do to it? You obviously altered it in photoshop or something."

"Oh, no, pussycat. That's all you. Garfield High, class of '89," Penelope smirks.

"You really didn't change anything?" she mutters.

"Are you saying you don't remember looking like that?" you ask and lean back in your chair.

"Perhaps your lack of recognition stems from a dissociative fugue suffered in adolescence, say, at a Siouxsie and the Banshees concert?" Spencer grins.

Hotch comes out of his office with a distressed look on his face. He was on the phone the entire time, and you're worried about what he might have been talking about.

"What's going on?" you ask.

"Brian Matloff."

"Who is that?" you ask and look at Spencer since he remembers everyone.

"The Blue Ridge Strangler. There were three victims in the Blue Ridge Parkway four years ago. Allegedly, he killed them but he slipped into a coma before he could be tried."

"Looks like they're finally gonna get their chance. He just woke up. I'm going to the hospital."

Hotch hopes that this guy can remember what he did because four years is a long time to break from a case. You weren't part of this team four years ago, so you're not familiar with any of the details like some of your other coworkers.

You and Emily are the only ones in the dark about this.

However, when Hotch got to the hospital, he didn't receive good news. Brian Matloff may have woken up from a four-year-long coma, but he doesn't remember a thing. The doctor says he has focal retrograde amnesia. It's hard to recover your memories from that kind of amnesia, but you have no doubt that your team will try to get him to remember.

From what you read, Brian had a type: brunette, young, and physically fit women. All the victims were jogging alone in the early morning when he grabbed them... allegedly. The only key witness to place Brian at the scene of the crime is Marvin Leopold, but he died two years ago.

Marvin was able to place Brian at the park with Darci Corbett, the third victim. The warrant the police got and the indictment were made largely because of the witness. Everything else is circumstantial, so without a witness, then Brian could walk free.

While Hotch and Cece Hillenbrand, the prosecutor in Brian's case, prep and talk about the trial you know they are going to have, Rossi gathered the rest of the team to go over the case in more detail.

The last known victim, Darci Corbett, had ligature marks on her that seemed to match the last two victims before her. Brian uses a belt as his signature piece, and he takes trophies from each of the victims, which would explain why Darci's watch was missing from her person when they found her.

He'd always bury the victims face down, which is a sign of remorse as if he doesn't want to look them in the face. That doesn't necessarily mean that he knew them personally, just that he regretted killing them. Each of the victims were an opportunity. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all.

"After the raid on Matloff's apartment, we discovered he had another area of interest. Native American mythology. We realized our profile wasn't complete," Derek explains since he was there on the original case.

"There's a Native American belief that says burying a body face down traps the soul and prevents it from haunting the killer."

"Is that why he buried them like that?" you ask your boyfriend.

"That's the theory."

"Three women in shallow graves. I don't see any progression. There's no learning curve. Do you think there could have been earlier victims when he was honing his skills?"

"We considered it a possibility," Derek answers. "It turned out Matloff worked in Blue Ridge Parkway for the forest service. He had free reign over the entire park."

"It says here he was raised Polish Catholic. Any idea what led him to identify with Native American culture?" JJ wonders.

"We didn't get that far. Another thing we never got was any physical evidence at his apartment tying him to the crimes."

"What about the trophies he took? Surely they're somewhere," you say.

"We couldn't find them. Question is, what did he do with them?"

"If we didn't need the answer to that before, we do now," Hotch says when he enters the briefing room. "It turns out our star witness has been dead for two years."

"He was the only one who could put Matloff at the scene," Derek sighs.

"There might be another way," Spencer thinks. "He could undergo brain fingerprinting. Essentially, it's the recording and analysis of an individual's neurological responses to images and words flashed on a screen. If we show him pictures of the crime scenes, he could start to remember enough to get a proper trial."

"Only the judge can allow that, and let's hope that she does."

Cece is requesting Hotch to give his testimony in court, and of course, you're going to go. As soon as Brian woke up, the court wanted him in as soon as possible for trial. Cece is a damn good prosecutor from what you hear, and she will try her best to get him put in jail for the crimes he's committed.

Only you and Spencer are sitting in the gallery of people while Cece and Hotch are fighting in this trial.

"We'd like to request that the defendant undergo the process of brain fingerprinting. This procedure will show if the memories of the crimes are present in the mind of the defendant, regardless of whether or not he chooses to recall them," Cece requests.

Lester Sterling, Brian's defense attorney, stands up quicker than you can imagine.

"Your honor, where do I begin? The science on this type of testing is unproven, to say the least."

"In the state of Iowa vs. Terry Harrington, the results were ruled admissible as scientific evidence as defined in congress ruling 702 and in Daubert v. Merrell."

"This is a hail mary, your honor. They have no evidence and they know it. Beyond that, my client is in a very fragile mental state. I can't, in good conscience, let them go poking around in his brain."

"What about that? Is it safe?" the judge asks Cece, and Hotch stands up to answer.

"The test is non-invasive and completely safe. They'll simply be looking at images on a computer screen while an EEG monitors his brain activity."

"Subject him to graphic imagery to prompt some kind of reaction, which they can then point to as evidence of guilt? It's perverse," Lester fights for his client.

"I want to do it," Brain says.

"Just one moment, your honor," Lester chuckles.

He sits back down to talk to him, but Brian stands up to speak directly to the judge.

"Your honor, every day I wake up to this nightmare of not knowing who or what I am. If this test can really help me remember, then whatever the consequences, I want to do it. I have to."

With the client on board, the judge grants Hotch to let him do the tests. The trial is adjourned until tomorrow, so you can rest easy knowing that as of right now, everyone is safe from Brian. Whether he knows or not, you know he's guilty. Your ability runs much deeper than the surface, so you can see the blood on his hands whether or not his brain wants him to remember.

You and Spencer leave the courtroom while Brian is taken away. Cece and Hotch work with the court to get the test ready in the courthouse, and you're just waiting for them to start. You want to be present for this because you might get something that the other won't.

"Dr. Reid."

You and Spencer stop and turn to face the man who is the father of Darci Corbett. You've never met this man before, but Spencer was on the original case back then, so he's familiar with your boyfriend.

"Mr. Corbett. I didn't see you in there. How have you been?"

"Oh, not bad, considering. You aren't buying into this amnesia thing, are you?"

"We're trying to figure that out, sir," you say. "Sorry, I'm agent Y/N. I'm new to your daughter's case, but we're working as hard as we can."

"It's probably something the lawyer thought up. It won't work, will it?" Liam asks, looking back at Spencer.

"We have a pretty strong case."

"Good, that's good. You look different. Your hair is different."

You feel a sudden surge of proudness for your boyfriend. He's the most handsomest man you've ever laid your eyes on, and you're glad others are seeing that.

"It's been four years," Spencer chuckles.

"Right. I forget. Sometimes I feel like Darci's just... It messes with time, this thing. You know? You lose time. You always hear about closure, you know? But you never really know what that means. Maybe now I can get on with things, you know?"

"How is Mrs. Corbett doing?" you ask, remembering he had a wife when Darci died. "Is she here?"

"No, we split up. It was too hard to... It was my fault, really. I wasn't there for her. Everything is going to be okay now."

"Well, I am going to oversee the test with Hotch and Cece. I'll catch up with you later."

You lean up and kiss Spencer's cheek before leaving the duo. When you enter the room, Brain is getting set up with wires attached to the EEG machine. Cece is waiting in the hallway, and there is a police officer inside the room assigned to watch over Brian until he is either put in jail or released.

"You're with the FBI, right?" Brian asks as the doctor sets him up.

"You don't remember me? We met during the investigation."

"So, you don't have any doubts about me, right? About who and what I am?"

"No, I don't."

"We're ready here," the doctor says.

You and Hotch leave the room to join Cece in the hallway. The test begins, and pictures of the crime scene, of the victims, and anything related to the case are shown on TV. Brian watches with wide eyes, but you can't tell whether it's working or not. You're not a doctor, and you don't know how to read an EEG machine.

Picture after picture after picture is shown, but Brian doesn't change expressions.

"What do you see?" Hotch whispers to you.

Cece looks at you and is intrigued by his question, but doesn't say anything.

"I don't know Brian or exactly what he's done, but I get the feeling he doesn't remember any of it. I know he did it though. I can see the blood on his hands. He wants to remember, but his brain locked it away while he was in a coma. It's there, we just need to find a way to unlock that door."

Hotch's phone rings, and he steps off to the side when he sees JJ calling.

"Yeah, JJ?"

"I'm at the hospital. I may have something interesting. Matloff had a visitor that came about once every 6 months while he was here."

"Is it somebody we know?"

"It's not a name I recognize from the case file. The name on the visitor log is Nina Moore."

"Track her down. I gotta go."

Hotch hangs up just as the testing is done. The officer removes Brian from the room so you can talk to the doctor about his results.

"He tested no mermers across the board on each variable image."

"Mermers?" Cece asks.

"It's an acronym. Memory and Encoding Related Multi-faceted--"

"Is it good or bad?" Cece cuts her off, eager to move this along.

"That depends on how you look at it."

"What she means is that he showed no familiarity with the images. Either he really doesn't remember, or we got the wrong guy."

Cece groans in frustration, and you turn to Hotch with a determined look on your face.

"I know he did it, sir. I can see it. He doesn't want to remember."

"Well, the fact that you can see it isn't admissible in court, so we're going to have to prove it or he walks free."

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 17 second part

(Masterpost) (Previous Post) (Pinboard)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!!

Breaking Good

Wen Qing comes to visit Wen Ning in their backyard meth lab, and tells him that he fucked up a recipe, merely by taking a whiff of the concoction. She uses the approved "wave fumes toward self" way of smelling that you learn in high school science if you live in a country that believes in teaching science, which OP does not.

Wen Ning wants to know if they are going to have a feud, and she tells him there already is one. She tells explains to him that they're good Wens, not evil Wens, and that Jiang Cheng is fucked, and they should send the Jiangs away in the morning before Wen Chao comes around. 

Wen Ning whines at her about all of this, shifting into little-brother persona and acting like he didn't just take down 40 of Wen Chao's soldiers in a single night. He does this same persona shifting in his later unlife, with Wei Wuxian. When there is trouble, he's extremely effective, and can even tail WWX and Lan Wangji without getting caught, but then he is hopeless when dealing with turnips or children. 

Here, it seems like a version of Wei Wuxian's own little-brother persona, in which he pretends to be helpless so that his sister can take care of him.

#studyblr

Wei Wuxian comes into Wen Qing's head shop to ask her for medical books. He loves his brother so much he's volunteering for a research project. We've seen him be clever before; we've seen circumstantial evidence that he's a good student, but now we're going to see him actually buckling down and doing intellectual work.

Wen Qing thinks its hopeless and wants Wei Wuxian to get some rest. But he gives her puppydog eyes, so she sets him up in her library.

Wei Wuxian reads a huge pile of medical books and learns interesting things about the human body.   

(more after the cut)

Hopefully he does not splotch ink all over them while he holds this wet brush directly over the page. Why does he even have a brush in his hand? Is he taking notes in the margin? 

Wen Qing eventually tells him to take a break and go see Jiang Yanli.

Segmentation fault (core dumped)

Jiang Yanli is tending to Jiang Cheng, gently telling him to suck it up by citing their father, which is probably not the greatest idea. 

Yanli's wearing dark blue with white and looks awesome.  It's not Gusu Lan blue, but the blue and white is an interesting choice for the excruciating heart to heart they're about to have.  

Wei Wuxian shows up looking terrible, or the Xiao Zhan version of terrible, i.e. handsome and a little scruffy. But also worn out, unhappy, and fragile.

Jiang Yanli wants him to rest, but he wants to find a way to repair Jiang Cheng's core, and his mind races, trying to think of where he can get books and who can help him. His thoughts instantly go to Cloud Recesses and Lan Wangji. His face lights up at the thought that Lan Wangji will help him, and he hops up, ready to dash off and find him.

The first time I watched this I was like, dude yes you’re in love, but you can’t just dash off to find Lan Wangji, not when there’s a war on.  This time I was like, actually wow things would turn out a whole lot better if you got Lan Wangji to help you, instead of coming up with your own plan.

Mother Mother Can You Tell Me

Jiang Yanli tells him to slow his roll.  He's pushing himself too hard and she's afraid he will collapse. Then Wei Wuxian comes out and says what's driving him: maybe all these disasters are his fault.

It's telling, I think, that he cites Madame Yu, not Jiang Cheng, in this moment, even though Jiang Cheng has blamed him much more thoroughly and consistently. He's talking about one mother figure, to another mother figure, and looking for absolution.

He super does not get what he's looking for.

Jiang Yanli slowly lets go of him and goes the fuck off. She asks, rhetorically, what he's to blame for, and then lists off all of the shit that's happened.  She finishes up by saying, look at our situation; blaming won't help anything. 

It's unclear, because language/translation, if her answer is "it doesn't matter who's to blame" I.E. "yes, it's your fault, but I'm letting it go" or if she is saying "how does blaming yourself help anything?" I.E. "it's not your fault, stop being a drama llama."

Her body language, though, seems pretty blameful - she lets go of him, yells at him, sits down and turns away from him.  And his reaction is not one of shared grief, or of someone who is trying to get over himself; he's totally crushed, and he literally never unburdens himself to her again.  Even when he asks her, much later, about love, he immediately backs out of the conversation. 

There is no violence in this moment and her reaction is understandable, but this is kind of similar to that one time when his brother choked him in a beautiful field of grass, in order to make himself feel better. 

Then she kind of relents and takes his hand, telling him that she needs him and reminding him that he promised that they will go back to Lotus Pier. I don't remember him promising this, but okay. 

He puts his head on her lap and he cries, she cries, comatose Jiang Cheng cries; FUCK this episode.  

Jiang Cheng manages to cry only one tear and does it on the side of his face that his siblings can't see because he's not going to give them the satisfaction of sharing this moment with him, I guess.

When Wei Wuxian puts his head on Jiang Yanli's lap, it's part of a ritual for them, that they both are comforted by; he does it again much later, after they return to Lotus Pier. But this ritual does not actually do anything to relieve his burdens. As a male adult, and the only Jiang Clan disciple with any abilities, it falls to him to save the clan, whatever it takes, and he is heavily aware of it.

Wen Qing comes along and sees the sweet part of this complicated Shijie-Shidi dynamic, and decides to help with Wei Wuxian's research project. When the trio had just lost their parents, gotten sick, been pursued by enemies, & had one of Yanli's little brothers horribly wounded, Wen Qing was like, eh, I'll do the doctor stuff but that's it. But lap-crying is another level. 

Wen Qing: Nooo don't put your head on her knees I failed my saving throw

Group Project

Wen Qing goes and cleans up the mess in the library, putting everything in order and settling in to read systematically. Wen Qing probably has the prettiest bullet journal. (OP looks proudly at the 100 loose slips of paper and piles of random stuff on her own desk)

Wei Wuxian has shaved and rested and comes in with a tray of food for Wen Qing, and then goes to his table in the back to start working. He claims he made "porridge" for her and that she has to eat to gain strength, and she gives him an intrigued expression.  This moment is just blatant het baiting.  

In fact the food he brings her is clearly not porridge, which might just be a translation error, but also he totally can't cook, so it's not clear if he's joking and Yanli or Wen Ning made the food, or if this is just inedible.

The Things We Do For Love

Yanli is working in the meth lab and coughing a lot. Yanli's chronic illness is a sign of what's to come for Wei Wuxian, because strong cultivators don't get sick. Yet Yanli, as a physically vulnerable person, who has either a weak golden core, or none, is still intrinsically valuable.  Her presence in this scene is a reminder that Jiang Cheng's life is not, actually, over; he just feels like it is.

While Yanli cooks the meth, Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing have a study montage that is the equivalent of a training montage, except without "Eye of the Tiger" on the soundtrack.

Jiang Cheng remains unconscious. Apparently if you stick nails in the top of someone's head, you make them sleep, and in the back of their head, you turn them into part of your zombie army. Fortunately Wen Qing's aim is good. Jiang Cheng is looking devastatingly handsome as usual the TV version of unwell, and has grown a perfect Dorito-chip of stubble on his chin to go with his new 'stache.

Eventually Wei Wuxian changes back into his non-vampire robe and he finds the answer in an old scroll book. The Ikea instruction picture shows arrows going from the guy on the left to the guy on the right.  Clearly it's not a great procedure for the guy on the left.

Wei Wuxian's face shows us exactly how not great. 

Like walking in the rain and the snow and there’s no place to go and you’re feeling like a part of you is dying

He goes outside and gazes up at the trees and the sky as he contemplates the sacrifice that circumstance is forcing on him. He's not even making a choice at this point; his choice was made the moment he found the procedure. But it's going to be a tremendous loss for him. He values sword cultivation at least as much as Jiang Cheng does; he even fell in love with a boy over crossed swords. So he sits and just kind of comes to terms with this new understanding of his future. (Big gifs here)

Wen Qing finds him sitting, stunned, on the porch. She doesn't know what's up so she just sits quietly with him until he's ready to tell her.

She doesn't love the plan.  

Thunder, Th-th-thunder

Wen Ning is bringing food up when he sees them arguing, and he is startled by situationally appropriate thunder and lightning. Having recently watched The Lost Tomb Reboot I've come to expect thunder and lighting to appear on cue in any possible situation, so the fact that this mini-storm clears right up again doesn't bother me.

What About You?

Wen Ning dashes inside to see what Mom and Dad are fighting about. They're having a polite shouting match because Wen Qing refuses to yank out Wei Wuxian's core. 

Wen Qing: I hate the idea of harming you Wei Wuxian: I don’t even understand that sentence

Wei Wuxian doesn’t, of course, feel that he is important in any way, and ignores her concerned and appalled expressions in favor of telling her to just do it anyway. Amazingly, this does not convince her. 

OP’s 177cm-tall son keeps telling her this

Then Wei Wuxian plays the "you know Jiang Cheng" card, which...I guess she does? Maybe he was chatting her up more than we saw in Cloud Recesses? He hasn't given her the comb or anything yet. Wei Wuxian explains that Jiang Cheng cares about gain and loss, and cultivation is his life. If he can only be ordinary the rest of his life will be ruined.

Wen Qing asks the question that nobody ever asks him: What about you? 

Wei Wuxian has literally nothing to say to that, possibly because the question is so new to him. 

Wen Ning doesn't know what's going on but comes squarely in on team Wei, of course, and begs his sister to Do The Thing.  How fucking horrified is Wen Ning going to be when he learns what The Thing is? What he is personally going to help do to his beloved friend? Yikes.   

Wen Qing caves, warning them that the chance of success is only 50 percent. Wei Wuxian is happy to take those odds.

Lan Wangji, projecting his voice from Episode 46: fifty percent, are you fucking kidding me?

Soundtrack: 1. Mother Mother by Tracy Bonham 2. The Things We Do For Love by 10cc 3. Thunder by Imagine Dragons

[loquaciousquark]

Talks Machina Highlights - Critical Role C2E111 (Redux! Oct. 13, 2020)

Gooooood evening good evening good evening, all! I started the VOD late for this recap and somehow the first four or so minutes of the show have a Twitch audio copyright claim, so I am reduced to only reading Brian's lips when he asks if we're on the internet. Hilariously, Marisha's background room is a comfy-looking blue/gold fabric wall with a ceramic colorful abstract lamp and a yellow silk scarf over the lampshade, and Taliesin's is an industrial looking games room in grey and black with multiple monitors, overhead speakers, and mysterious metal fixtures behind him. What a treasure this group is, honestly.

Tonight's guests: Marisha Ray & Taliesin Jaffe, discussing episodes 110 and 111 again. I wildly speculate once more about what might have caused their absence: jury duty? Sam appearing on The Masked Singer? Something to do with the animated show? One day, we’ll know, one day... (One day this “copyrighted audio” section will come back from the wars, too. Ugh!) Finally! The audio comes back to reveal Brian discussing the endless reality of digital meetings and Marisha talking about (I think) her glare-reducing glasses she’s wearing. Welcome to the New Age (welcome to the New Age, to the New Age).

Announcements: Marisha suggests checking out Dimension20, another live tabletop gaming group, which premieres live on Wednesdays at 4pm (CollegeHumor). 

Brian immediately wants to know how they feel about the revelation that Molly is alive. Taliesin’s personal reaction: he “knows some things” he can’t talk about and is aware of several possibilities that might be going on, but had a sneaking suspicion that there would not be a body for them to find. He says it’s almost all there for anyone to see in past material. Marisha’s personal reaction: she just wants to know how she’s doing with her theories, & was trying to block Tal’s face out deliberately as she was going off on her theories in the last episode. Taliesin says he thought her ideas were pretty good!

Cad has no clue what to think - it’s like listening to your friends talk about Buffy. Marisha thought it was a 50/50 Molly would still be there, but Beau had no idea. Not that it mattered, because as soon as Matt went through with it the reveal still blew their minds. Tal laid out his plans for the character with Matt during Campaign One (towards the end) after they all got their VM tattoos.

It is a “horrifying and gross” thing to dig up a body, and Beau was pretty reluctant to do it. Tal, as Cad: “Sometimes dead’s better.” The moral quandary of trying to speak with a dead friend was very different here than the frequent occasions they used the spell in C1.

Taliesin says his poker face is very bad, so it’s easier for him to over-react and let it all play out. The only other player he can see very easily from his place in their current setup is Travis, and because he knows Travis doesn’t watch TM, tweet, or participate in social media, he admits he thoroughly enjoyed watching Travis freak out at his freaking out. He says he only knew about 20% of what Matt described at the end of that episode. He was picking things to mug to increase Travis’s surprise. I love this so much.

Taliesin provided the table left leg shake; Travis provided table right. Ha!

Beau is really accepting her role in the Cobalt Soul. It’s good when “as a person, you feel like you can settle into your calling. Sometimes you can do more from the inside than fighting from the outside.” It’s a mirrored but opposite path of Keyleth from C1; Beau felt like she was too good for her duty, while Keyleth thought she wasn’t good enough.

Caduceus is not a big believer in jumping to conclusions. He does have an idea/notion of the “city of the undead” and thinks all this necrotic energy must come from somewhere, and wonders if this is the “capital of anti-death.” He’s willing to believe whatever he sees. This is one of the few things that trigger a bit of loathing and disgust in him. It was terrifying that the Wildmother didn’t know anything.

Beau is pretty confident in her Charlie Day impression laying-out-the-research last episode. She enjoyed taking the things that were known & extrapolating around them; this is a huge facet of Marisha’s own personality and she really enjoys it, so she built a character this time that would allow that kind of puzzle-solving. It’s also why she repeatedly notes when Beau journals, so she can avoid metagaming. Trent’s mention of Vess Durogna’s tomb raiding was completely circumstantial, and the only reason she’d made the connection to the Tombtakers was because she’d recently reviewed those notes for a separate unannounced project. Sometimes she tries to make connections and Matt is like, “It was...just descriptive. Just flavor. The curtains were red...” and she has to discard a paragraph of notes. She feels like it’s still something they have to do because of “look at what he does! Look! It’s totally valid!”

Cosplay of the Week: @kitsunstudios with a gorgeous Caduceus with a very intricate silk vest.

Caduceus’s takedown of Trent! One of my favorite moments in the entirety of C2. Taliesin felt Trent was an asshole; Caduceus felt sorry for him because of how dumb he thought he was. Caduceus’s response was "this is the dumbest man I’ve ever met in my life. He’s so dumb! Is nobody going to tell this guy how dumb he is? Oh, they’re all freaked out. Somebody needs to tell this guy he’s an idiot before somebody gets hurt.” (Marisha: “Before?”) Tal says it was the product of several years of therapy and many drunk conversations with Whitney Moore. It was from a genuine place of concern from Caduceus. “How are you allowed to have this much power and be that dumb?”

Brian loved how funny it was to watch everyone tiptoe around Trent and then Caduceus bulldoze through the end of the meal.

Taliesin: “Damage doesn’t make you interesting or better. It’s not what makes you good. Character isn’t found in damage. Just recovery.”

Brian & Marisha commiserate going through the stage where believing surviving something automatically made you a stronger person, better for the pain; instead it just meant you had to pick up the pieces after. Marisha talks about how strength through survival may be true for some people, but it shouldn’t be considered a necessity. Taliesin talks about how he used to think he had to be miserable to write. Brian talks about how believing he liked reading and writing miserable things only limited him for years.

Marisha feels it’s a C2 theme that almost all the PCs have someone trying to handwave or take credit for their accomplishments or explain their pain as being for their own good (Trent, Beau’s dad, Obann). She thinks it’s interesting to see all the various ways people try to take credit for your work/delegitimize you as a person. She loves that RPGs allow you to explore these odd moralities in interesting ways. The only way to fight it is to have a sense of your own self-worth, which is a problem a lot of the M9 started with.

Caduceus likes everyone, and really likes people who appear to need role models (Eodwulf). “With the right friends and the right bar and the right attitude, I think he’d be okay. Come over here where it’s so much better. That seems like an exhausting friendship that you have there.”

Marisha loves the mix of personalities in the M9; Veth, Cad, & Jester were all “we kind of like them!” after the dinner, and she immediately made eye contact with Travis and they both shook their heads. She knows Beau has to go along with it for Caleb’s sake for now, but she & Fjord are pretty sus of Trent’s proteges.

Beau is less concerned about Artagan’s relationship to Jester because “he showed his ass--she’s less worried about Jester now because a little of the magic is gone.” It’s a little like becoming an adult and realizing your parents are also just adults & human. Caduceus wasn’t suspicious of the Traveler for a long time until they got to the island. Aside: Taliesin loves the pantheon in D&D. “The notion of attempting to apply common Western conceptions of religion to a world where you have a pantheon of interventionist gods as baseline makes no sense to me. Everyone admits that every other god is there and doing shit; it has more in common with ancient Rome than anything else.” Now that he knows it was a con, he feels the wind had been taken out of it. He does have a sense that Jester’s gotten back together with an ex: “I hope that I’m really happy for you.” They’re both interested to see how Jester navigates the new relationship.

My internet goes out, of course. I panic for a second, thinking I’ve lost everything above, but all is well! Thanks, Form History Control addon!

Marisha loved punching Artagan, but regretting rolling so poorly. “I miss violence.” Dani lets us know it’s been about four episodes since the last battle.

There’s no way the Cobalt Reserve doesn’t have a single document on the Eyes of Nine. Beau believes “there are no real secrets” because people are just bad at not writing things down. For there to be no information at all seems really suspicious for her.

Fanart of the Week: @oddalchemist on twitter with some awesome Beau conspiracy red-thread boards overlaid a distant shadowy Molly walking away.

Caduceus feels a little guilty for really enjoying his time right now with the M9 and not wanting to go home. He’s starting to suspect that he’s going to go home very different than when he left. “He has the softest problems. I don’t know if I want to move back in with Mom & Dad.”

Beau is trying to get comfortable with the idea of being happy. Jester is probably Beau’s first real best friend & one of the first healthy female friendships she’s ever had. As long as she still has Jester in her life, she doesn’t care. For Yasha... “At the end of the day, Beau is a lonely person and has always been a lonely person. And I think you kinda reach this point where once you’re not lonely anymore, you can kind of come out of the fog and realize that was horrible! And terrifying! And is even more terrifying now that I know what I could have, and I don’t want to go back to that. At the end of the day Beau doesn’t want to be lonely anymore. There’s always been that flirtation with Yasha, but everyone had to figure their own shit out. And now it feels like it’s coming out a little bit of that haze, maybe this actually could be...” There are a lot of ways they complement each other & are good-different from each other. Marisha believes people can be attracted to more than person at once.

Caduceus doesn’t think nature turned against him on Rumblecusp, it was just a reality of nature being dangerous and violent. “He has a complex relationship with nature.” He doesn’t expect special treatment.

Thoughts on the mansion: “Man, it’s nice to be seen.” Marisha: “I don’t know how I ended up becoming the Scanlan of this campaign, but I’m living for it.” It felt like an echo of “I’m better for having known you.” They compare Marisha taking specific notes on the campaign to Liam taking specific notes on people’s favorite tapestries, comics, etc.

They talk about missing theme parks and daydream a park version of the mansion in CritRoleLand. It’s lovely.

Taliesin never expected Divine Intervention to work; he just wanted to roll some dice. He’s still processing what he saw/heard. They all agree it was very useful in the Vokodo fight.

Vilya! Marisha: “Ah! Ah! Ah!” As a player, Marisha was so deep in Beau’s eyes she didn’t pick up it was Vilya at first (especially since Matt really emphasized they should not be looking for C1 NPCs). Marisha’s brain melted. She bawled her eyes out on the ride home after that episode. Right after it ended, Laura told Marisha “Keyleth finally gets her happy ending,” and it makes Marisha emotional again since Keyleth’s story ended so bittersweetly. She talks about the very real feelings of “just wanting them to be happy, though!” She went back and listened to all her old Keyleth playlists. Everyone was teary after the episode. “Everyone has these 100% real memories of being these characters and having these good times.”

And that’s that for that! Thanks for your patience, all, and is it Thursday yet?

[detectiveidiotboy]

His Time In The Commonwealth II: Nick Valentine’s Story

so as my beloved fanfiction, The Black Widow’s Waltz, comes to an end, i’ve decided that i am going to re-release the backstory chapters as their own stand-alone fic, since they read well as their own story. before that, i thought i might do a fun little thing where i release each of the companions backstories as their own post here on tumblr under the tag #his time in the commonwealth.

and thus! on to part two!!! Nick Valentine; and how he made the worst decisions of his life

When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

It was dumb quote, but damn if it wasn’t applicable here.

“Nate!” Nick called, steeling his voice. “We need to talk.” The raven haired man looked up from the pot he had been stirring at his campsite. He was dressed in sturdy flannel shirt, hair tied back with a string - he was the picture of an old-world survivalist out on a camping stint. Nate smiled when he saw the synth detective - his friend.

“Nick,” He said, a pleasant ring to his voice, “Well isn’t this a surprise. I didn’t know you liked camping.” 

Nick felt something stir deep in that little part of him that still insisted he was human. Nate had an effect on people, and Nick knew he wasn’t immune. There wasn’t anything he wanted more than to just sit down with his friend and have a bowl of stew made from whatever wild creature Nate had picked off that day. Maybe this whole thing was ridiculous; Nate was odd, some would say a bit quicker to violence than the average wastelander - but he wasn’t a murderer. Right? 

Whatever remains, however improbable...

“This isn’t a friendly visit,” Nick said, eyes narrowed. He stood firm between the trees, hands at his sides. “I’m here on business.”

Nate cocked his head, expression genuine and confused. “You didn’t tell me you had another case come in.” Nate said.

“I didn’t,” Nick said. “This is something I’ve been working on alone.”

“I wish you would have told me,” Nate said, turning back to his soup to stir the pot before it boiled over. “What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t help you crack a case that has you this worked up?” 

“The kind who’s become my prime suspect,” Nick said. Nate had pulled the spoon up to his mouth to sample his creation. He lowered the spoon as he took in Nick’s accusation. 

“Prime suspect?” Nate said, brows knit. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

“Cut the crap, Nate - I know you murdered Piper,” Nick hissed. The words hung between the two for a long moment. The pop pop pop of boiling water broke up the monotony of the windless day. Nate stared at Nick, Nick stared at Nate. 

“Well, I have to say,” Nate said, lowering his spoon back into the pot with a soft ting, “that’s quite the accusation coming from someone I thought was my friend.” The words stung, as did the harsh tone Nate said them in. Nick had to fight not to flinch. “I suppose you have some evidence to back up this claim that I murdered my girlfriend, right?” 

“I do,” Nick said grimly, “you know I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely sure it was you.” 

“Then by all means,” Nate said, crossing his legs and spreading his arms, “share with me.” 

Nick took a breath. He’d been preparing for this confrontation for hours. He still didn’t think he was ready. “Piper didn’t tell anyone where she was going the day she went missing,” Nick said, “not even Nat knew where she was.”

“I know,” Nate said, sounding impatient. “That’s why it took the city so long to find her remains.”

“But you see, the thing about that is,” Nicks said, “When they found Piper, there was a notepad and pencil in her pocket, as if she had gone out looking for a story.”

“She was dedicated to her work,” Nate mumbled, eyes staring at the autumn leaves on the ground. For all Nick saw, Nate looked exactly like the grieving boyfriend he claimed to be. The kind, accurate description of his late friend followed by the image of Nate appearing somber and dejected made Nick's head spin, but he soldiered on.

“That she was,” Nick nodded, “which was why she never left Diamond City without telling someone where she was going. What good’s a story if there’s no one to tell it, right?”

“I assumed it was something secret or sudden,” Nate said. “Something like a follow up on her story about the mayor now that he’s dead and confirmed to be an institute spy.” 

Nick grimaced. He would have to circle back to that later, since he was almost certain that Nate had been the one who 86’ed McDonough as well. “That’s what everyone assumed. Hell, even I thought that the poor girl had finally bitten off more than she could chew, maybe pushed one too many buttons with the Institute - but then I thought about it and something about the story I’d heard just didn’t jive.” 

“Oh?”

“See, the body was found with a notebook and a pencil,” Nick continued. “Now I’ve sat down to plenty of interviews with that girl over the years - not once did I see her use anything other than a pen.”

“So that’s your evidence?” Nate said, unimpressed. “Piper switched up her writing utensil and suddenly you think I killed her.”

“No, of course not,” Nick said, “But the fact that you were the last person to see her alive does raise a few questions.” 

Nate narrowed his eyes. “Nick, you know that I was nowhere near Diamond City when she died. I was with you, tracking down those holotapes."

“No - you were nowhere near Diamond City when Piper was presumed dead,” Nick clarified. 

“I don’t think I follow you here, Nick," Nate said. 

“I found her, Nate, ” Nick said, voice softer than intended. He felt his jaw lock up. If he were human he would have swallowed - the reflex was still there for him. He took a deep breath and continued. “She's in a bunker not far from the old drive-in. I found the real Piper.”

It had been only a few hours prior that Nick found himself face-to-face with the body of his dear friend; there was no mistaking her face, slumped over an old-world desk with eyes still open. She hadn't been dead long. If only he had been faster… the state of her body and room surrounding told him she hadn’t been dead more than a week, maybe even only a day or two - which was a far cry from the near month-and-a-half that the city guards had presumed her deceased. When all of this was over with, Nick would go back and make sure she was buried properly. For now, he had to see justice through. 

“When the guards found what they thought was Piper's body, they couldn’t make out her face. The poor thing was filled with so many bullets the only way they could identify who it was was by her clothes and the notepad planted on the body.” Nick said. "The Piper I found died about a week ago, around the very same time that the Guards found the fake Piper."

“So if I'm following you," Nate said, eyeing Nick with an unreadable expression, "you think someone kidnapped Piper, dressed some random body up in her clothes, and then, after the guards found what they thought was Piper's body, they killed her."

"Not someone, Nate, it was you. I know it was you," Nick said solemnly. 

"And why do you think that?" Nate spit. "What motivation could I possibly have to kill her?" He was clearly offended, which was fair enough considering the accusations - but if he really was the culprit as Nick suspected, then there was a disturbing amount of genuine indignation present in his eyes. 

"I don't know," Nick admitted. "No matter how much I think about it I can't say why you did it, but I do know is how you did it."

"Enlighten me." Nate crossed his arms and glared. 

Nick closed his eyes. He hated every second this dragged on. "Everyone assumed McDonough's assassination was the work of the Institute, including Piper. She was worried that if the Institute had anyone to come after next, it would be her. Now she was fearless, and she'd put her life on the line to tell the people the truth more than once before, but Piper wasn't just worried about herself. It was Nat she was really concerned for."

Nate's eyes twitched, following along the story. "So that's why she skipped town… You think she went into hiding."

"Exactly," Nick said. "When I went snooping around that bunker there weren't any scratch marks or signs that Piper had been trying to escape - hell, there was a spare key in her pocket that worked with the lock. It was a nice set up too; Piper had everything she needed to live down there for weeks - food, water, ammo, turrets. There was no way she managed to stock up all that alone. Piper did well for herself as writer in a city, but not that well. She had help making herself disappear, someone she trusted more than anyone else, someone with the means to sponsor her little stay in the woods."

"And you think that person is me," Nate concluded. "And you think the person who helped her hide would be the same person who killed her, since no one else would have known where she was - ergo, you think I killed her."

"Bingo," Nick said. 

Nate sighed, slumping back against a tree. "Nick, as much as I admire your skills as a detective, the evidence you've provided is circumstantial." He said. "I won't deny that I have an over abundance of caps, and Piper trusted me more than just about anyone else, but you're still missing one key thing here - why would I kill her? She was my girlfriend."

"And that's just what you were banking on, wasn't it?" Nick accused. "Why would anyone suspect you - the two of you were like a couple of sweethearts pulled straight from a 2050s romance flick. All you had to do was play the part of the grieving lover for a few days and then disappear for a little while."

Nate narrowed his eyes, expression soured and irate. He opened his mouth to argue, but Nick didn't want to hear it. "All that is besides the point. I don't need to know why you killed her. All I need is proof that you did," Nick said, "Hard evidence."

"Evidence that you do not have," Nate pointed out. 

"Not yet," Nick said, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a key with a Vault Tech ornament attached to the chain. Covering eyes of the tiny vault man was the number "2" stamped on in old-world ink. "This was the key I found in Piper's pocket. It's a copy, a spare, and I'm wiling to bet that whoever did her in has the original." Nate snarled and Nick felt the place where his heart should be skip. "It's been over a week since you've stopped by Sanctuary or any of the other settlements where you offload your crap. I checked. I'm willing to bet you still have the key on you-" 

"Nick, this is ridiculous," Nate said with a roll of his eyes. "Even if you don't find the key on me that won't prove my innocence."

"But if I do find it, it prove at the very least you lied when you said you didn't know where she was, and if that were the case then you should have known all along that body the guards found wasn't her," Nick said. 

The pair stared at each other, both knowing exactly how this would end yet neither wanting to initiate the final move. Soft sounds of woodland life filled in the gap in their standoff. Nick found his nerve after twenty full seconds and spoke. 

"Empty your pockets."

"This is stupid." 

"Turn out your pockets, Nate," Nick said, this time far more sternly. 

"It wasn't me!" He insisted. "Anyone could have killed her! She was hiding from the Institute after all-" 

Nick unholdered his gun. "Nate, don't make me do this," He said, putting the wide-eyed man's head in his sights. "Just turn out your pockets, nice and slow."

Nate stared at Nick as if he had never seen the synth before in his life. If Nick hadn't destroyed their friendship before, this was likely the last straw. He didn't want what he said to be true, but part of him hoped to God he was right. He'd crossed a line here and he knew there was no going back if this was all just a mistake. Slowly, Nate's hand reached down into his jeans. He dug around in his right pocket for a moment before pulling his hand back out, fingers curled around something small. Nate opened his palm to reveal a keychain labeled '#1' over a Vault Man fob. 

Nick lowered his gun, opening his hand to accept the damning key from Nate. There was no denying it now. Even if the keychain was some sort of astronomically improbable coincidence, Nick's optical sensors were sensitive enough to detect every groove in the key's body - it was identical to the one Nick had found on Piper. He looked between the metal object and his supposed-friend, waiting for an explanation. In spite of everything, Nick silently begged for Nate to prove him wrong. 

Come on, Nate, work with me here, Nick thought. Tell me I'm wrong. Give me an explanation, something I don't know, something obvious I've overlooked. Give me some new evidence, some new lead - promise to help me find whoever killed Piper and bring them to justice. Just please, don’t be you.

Nate continued to stare at Nick, expression unreadable. His anger he’d shown before had died off into an almost calm, pestered look. Silence dragged on between them for a full eighty-four seconds, the numbers ticking up in the back of Nick’s head. Finally, Nate’s shoulders dropped, and the thin line of his mouth fell into a disgusted frown.

“Really? You couldn’t have waited, like, a month before doing this?” 

Nick was struck by the shift in tone. Nate wasn’t upset any more - if he ever really had been - but instead just seemed bothered by Nick, as if the synth had interrupted his afternoon with some trivial nonsense. Nick couldn’t keep the shock from his face. 

“Does that mean you really did it?” Nick said, unable to stop himself. “You murdered Piper?” 

Nate arched a brow at his former friend. “I thought you already figured that out, detective,” He said mockingly. “Yes, Nick. I killed Piper. Everything happened exactly as you said it did, down to the last detail. Congrats, you solved the case - serves me right for palling around with a cop.” 

Nick realized well after the fact that his mouth was open. Dread flooded his system as he went over the words Nate said, replaying the admission a thousand times in his head in a desperate bid to find some meaning other than the obvious. “Why?” He said when he could finally get his mouth around the words. “How could you do it, Nate? She was your friend - your partner. She trusted you!” 

Nate had the audacity to roll his eyes at Nick. “Why do you care? She was annoying anyways.”

Nick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could this be the same man who had rescued him from the Triggermen? The man who’d been helping him work through cases for almost two months now - who’d helped him track down Eddie Winter and put the old Nick’s fiancé to rest? A part of him wondered if Nate had been switched out by the Institute, because surely to God Nick couldn’t have been so thoroughly fooled for so long.

But he knew that wasn’t true. The Nate in front of him was the same Nate Nick had always known. The same man who killed Skinny Malone and Darla while saving Nick's life. The man who had gunned down the entire settlement of Covenant while rescuing Stockton's daughter from fanatics. The same Nate who had burst out laughing and applauded when Nick put his foot down on Winter's chest and nailed him between the eyes. Nate had always been this way. Cunning, smart, charming, sadistic, cruel. Some detective he was - Nick had been overlooking the obvious this whole time. Nate was a monster. 

“You’re sick,” Nick hissed, anger winning out over hurt and betrayal. He dropped the key and raised his pistol to take aim again.  “I ought to shoot you now before you cause any more harm.”

Nate laughed, a choked, manic sound. His head turned to the side and he squinted at Nick. “Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Nate said. “We can still be friends, you know?” 

“I’m not your friend,” Nick spit, “apparently I never was. Friends don’t murder each other’s friends because they’re ‘annoying’ them.” 

Nate sighed in a harsh, irritated breath. “You’re overreacting,” He told Nick. Nate turned around, completely unphased by the barrel of Nick’s gun pointed at his temple, and began packing up his camping supplies. “Come on. Let’s just forget this whole thing and move on. She’s dead now - shooting me won’t bring her back, you know.”

“Shut the hell up you goddamn physcopath” Nick snapped. “The only reason I haven’t put a bullet in you yet is because you’re going to come back to Diamond City with me and face justice there.” 

“Really?” Nate said as he smothered the campfire with dirt and stones. “Does Diamond City even have a judicial system? Even before everything went all martial law it seemed to run on a system of ‘do what we say or get shot.’”

Nick ignored him. He’d come to the conclusion that anything he said to Nate would be brushed off or disregarded completely. Nate didn’t seem to grasp the severity of what he'd done, and Nick was beginning to realize that nothing he said would make him understand. There wasn’t a shred of decency in that bastard that wasn’t a put-upon performance. 

Nick marched up beside Nate and snatched the man by the wrist. Nate looked at the metal skeleton of a hand clutching his arm, then up at Nick with a curious expression. 

“You’re coming with me, whether you like it or not,” Nick said sternly. 

“I really don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing by doing this,” Nate said calmly.

“You know what? I don’t really give a damn what you think,” Nick said. “You either follow me back to Diamond City or get shot in the head and dragged back as a corpse - either way is fine by me.”

Nate snatched his wrist back, throwing Nick’s hand off with a force Nick hadn’t realized a human was capable of. Nate shot the detective a skeptical look. “You’re not going to shoot me,” He said confidently. 

“The hell I won't!” Nick said, raising his gun once again to level with Nate’s skull - this time the barrel sat less than an inch from his forehead. Nate knocked the gun away with a casual swipe of his hand. 

“No, you won’t,” Nate said, reaching down to grab his sleeping back that he had rolled back up into its case. “You’re not a killer, Nick - I’ve never seen you shoot someone who wasn’t shooting at you first. Face it, you’re just not built for this.”

Nick grit his teeth, eyes locked with Nate for a moment before the latter turned and continued packing up. His finger tightened around the trigger, hands trembling. Why couldn't he shoot? Was there some sort of calibration error in his circuits? 

Finally, with the last of his items packed up, Nate turned his back to the detective and began walking off back towards sanctuary. “Whenever you get over this come find me, ‘kay?” He said with a dismissive wave. “I got a pretty interesting radio call from an old friend of yours up north. Seemed like he had a case for you, and I'd love to tag along. I'd be willing to check it out with you if you can manage to keep your pistol in your pocket.”

Nick watched as Nate pushed his way through the forest, stepping over brambles and bushes to clear out. His head was lined up in Nick’s sight, but he didn’t seem to care, because Nate was just that confident that Nick Valentine was not going to shoot him in the back. 

Nick lowered the gun just a fraction. Nate was right about him, Nick wasn’t a murderer. Not in his previous life, and not in this one. Despite how much the post-apocalypse had tried to break him down, Nick had always stuck by his morals. Everyone deserved a chance to become a better person, and justice cannot be found by gunning down defenseless people. Even Eddie Winter had pulled a gun on him first during their standoff in his bunker. 

“Hey, Mister Valentine!!”

Nick turned, mouth open and chopsticks full of noodles in the air. The young girl in a pink coat looked up at him; she was new in town, if Nick recalled. Barely old enough to be out of school and already trying to start up her own paper company. The news was one of the old Nick’s guilty pleasures - as yellow as journalism was back then, it was nice to sit down with a paper and read about what was happening in the world. Nick had been rather thrilled to hear someone was trying to bring it back. 

“Hi there,” He said, putting down his bowl on the counter. “I don’t believe we’ve met yet.”

“Piper Wright, chief writer of the Public Occurrences. Yes, I know the name's ironic, ” She popped up onto the bar stool next to Nick. Amazingly, she hadn’t seemed bothered at all by Nick’s half-empty bowl or his metal hand - he was used to the first one or two meetings with people being riddled with uncomfortable questions and staring. 

“Good to make your acquaintance, Piper,” Nick said, tipping his hat politely. Very few people liked to shake hands with a synth, he’d learned. “The name’s Nick Valentine, local private eye.”

Piper smiled like he’d just announced himself as a wealthy corporate heir here on holiday. “I’ve seen the signs,” She said, twirling a pen between her fingers. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions for our latest issue.”

Nick tried not to let his discomfort show. Him and questions were almost never a pleasant pair if he wasn’t the one asking. His past was a touchy subject, especially now that the Institute was becoming a major threat, and if people weren’t asking him about that, their questions typically centered around his anatomy in a far too personal way - he could hardly imagine what queries would pop up in the mind of a post-adolescent girl. Still, the kid looked excited, and she was being professional about this. Besides, if things got out of hand he could always excuse himself and head back to the office. 

So, Nick shrugged and said, “Sure, Piper, I got a few minutes.”

“Thanks!” She squeaked, snatching a notepad from her pocket and clicking her pen. Nick braced himself for whatever questions came next. “So word on the street is you were recently in Goodneighbor for a case,” Piper started. “Can you give me a statement on the current state of affairs in Diamond City’s delinquent sister town?”

Nick blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, um,” He said, wracking his memory for the case she was talking about. Lately his memory had been getting harder and harder to sort through. Nick didn’t know how long he was built to last, but he was sure he was well past his warranty. Finally, Nick pulled up details about his trip. He took another second to skim through the less appropriate sections and put together his response. “The place is doing a lot better now that Hancock is in charge,” he said. “There’s a couple of shops set up now that keep the doors open, and you’re a lot less likely to get stabbed if you turn your back on the wrong guys. I even heard they’re putin’ together a Neighborhood Watch, similar to what we got here in Diamond City.”

Piper nodded, scribbling on her pad in barely-legible letters. Nick paused to let her catch up, watching her absorb herself in her work. He wondered if that was what he looked like when he was pouring over case files. 

The interview lasted for over an hour, ending with Nick inviting Piper over to the Dugout Inn to introduce her to the Bobrov brothers (and to treat the skinny orphan girl to a meal.) Never once did she mention his synthetic nature, nor did she ask about his past. Part of him knew she was biding her time, there was that journalistic glint in her eye that hinted at a deep curiosity, but she was polite enough to save the more personal questions for later. It was the first time in a while Nick had been treated so much like a person. 

Nick pulled the trigger. 

The shot rang out louder than any he'd fired before. The bullet nailed Nate in the back of the head, causing him to lurch forward as he fell face first into the forest floor. The leaves settled; Nate didn't move. Nick lowered his pistol, staring at the body of a man he'd mistakenly thought was his friend. The sound of the shot reverberated through the woods, bouncing off trees and echoing in Nick's auditory processors. 

The gun ended up back his holster, barrel of the crude pipe-pistol still trailing up smoke. Nick looked at the man face down in the dirt, letting his visual systems perform a cursory scan for signs of life. Not even a twitch. Nick ran his good hand over his face and sighed. 

"Christ," he muttered, fingers curled in frustration and dragged them down his face. "Damn… shit." 

Nick looked back at the body, feeling nothing for the monster he'd gunned down. He pulled the rim of his hat down over his eyes and turned around, ready to walk back towards town. 

Nate laughed. 

Nick's walk of shame came to a sudden halt; the sound of leaves rustling as Nate pulled himself up off the ground filled the air. "Well shit," He said, hand coming up to touch the blood on his forehead. Dark red lines ran down his face, staining his lips and they curled up in a smile. "You think you know a guy…" 

Nick barely had time to react. He turned around just in time to be tackled by the impossibly fast man. He didn't even have his gun out of the holster - Nick reached up and raked his metal claw of a right hand across Nate's face, aiming for the eyes. He pushed Nate off of him, scrambling to get to his feet. He wasn't built for combat, but he could slow down his processors to give himself an edge over most biological opponents. It did almost nothing against Nate; the man was inhuman in his movements. Nick got his gun in hand but before he could fire off another shot Nate had him by the wrists, yanking the synth's arms painfully back against the socket. Nick yelled and was forced to drop his weapon. 

The two broke apart from their death grapple, Nate panting and Nick reeling internally to keep up. The man's black hair ran down from his tied-back hair, sticking to the blood on his face in frizzed clumps. Nate chuckled, still gasping for air. He reached into his jacket for a pair of brass knuckles with home-make spikes. "So," Nate snarled, "this really how you want to go out?" 

"If it's the last thing I ever do, Nate, you're going to pay for what you did to Piper," the synth hissed. Nick lunged at Nate, aiming for his neck. Nate shrugged off the attack with a side step and an elbow to Nick's torso. Nate wrapped both hands around each other and slammed down on Nick's shoulder, throwing him off balance before pinning him to the ground. Nick turned, scrambling for his discarded gun. The brass knuckles came down on Nick's jaw, tearing the synthetic skin and damaging the delicate machinery there. Nick grunted, but managed to get his fingers around his pistol. He turned, propping himself up by his elbow to unload his last 5 shots into Nate's chest and neck. Nick might as well have been shooting a wall for all the good it did. 

The brass knuckles came back down on Nick's jaw again and again, knocking the synth flat on his back. Nick's sensors screamed in warning, flooding his mind with signals that half of his face had been torn away. He felt the sting and the cold of his skeletal jaw exposed to the elements. Nate hovered over him as he reeled from the damage, panting hard as he rose back to his feet. 

Nate took advantage of Nick's sensory overload to bring his foot down on the synth's chest, tearing through his undershirt and exposing his synthetic plates. He kicked away the plastic there as if Nick were little more than a can of cram. Nick tried to scramble back on the heels of his hands, but Nate's foot came down on the freshly-exposed wires of his chest, the pressure pinning him down and flooding his system with agony. 

Nick cried out. There was no helping the involuntary response. His insides were far more sensitive to damage than his outsides, and his systems translated that through his neural network as pure agony. Nate seemed to delight at the newly discovered weak point in the synth; he ground down with his heel, tearing the wires out of place and snapping delicate components. Nick choked on a scream. 

"I really didn't want things to end this way, Nick," Nate chided. "It's not too late to go back to the way we were." The offer was followed by a jerk of Nate's foot, digging deeper into Nick's wires and an agonizing, overly-full feeling in Nick's middle. Nick grit his teeth, raising his head to glare at the man who had him pinned. 

"Go to hell!" Nick spit. 

Nate shrugged. "Ah well, have it your way." His foot yanked back, ripping several wires out from Nick's center. Coolant flooded his system and his vision blinked. Before Nick could react, Nate stomped down directly on his power core, cracking the casing with an electric jolt through Nick's system. He couldn't remember a single instance of pain worse than the feeling of electricity freely flowing through him, energy fading fast as every single internal system shorted and failed at once. Nick seized, sputtering and jerking as Nate kicked down again, cracking his core and initiating Nick's final shutdown procedures. 

Critical failure imminent, entering semi-permanent hibernation. Shutting down higher processes. 

The last thing Nick saw before the world went dark was Nate staring down at him, smiling and laughing as the lights went out in Nick's eyes. 

---

Nick’s processors came back online as if not a single second had passed since he was put down. The stiffness and rust in his joints begged to differ. 

"What on earth…?" he dragged a hand down his face, eyes still closed. He flinched when he felt the part of his face that had been torn off courtesy of Nate's strong left hook. He could only imagine what he looked like now. Nick blinked, but his optics weren't functioning yet, so it just made the darkness he experienced all the more prominent. "Hello? Anyone there?" 

"Nah, you're just imagining me," A new voice rang from Nick's side. A hand rested on his shoulder, urging Nick to stay laid down. "Turns out synths can go schizo too."

Nick furrowed his brow. He recognized the voice. "Deacon?" 

"Bingo! Get the synth a prize!" the sound of Deacon's laughter filled the room 

It had been a long time since he'd seen the man. Nick was one of the few people Deacon couldn't fool with his disguises - thanks in part to Nick's advanced optics - so it gave Nick the unique opportunity to befriend the man who knew everyone in the Commonwealth but no one had ever really met. So far, Nick hadn't been tempted to take up on that offer. It wasn't that he disliked the man or thought he was a bad guy (in fact, Nick was almost positive he was pretty high up in the Railroad, which was a cause he could get behind as an escaped synth himself) it was just that when he wasn't putting on an act Deacon was… well, annoying. 

Regardless, Nick would put up with him for now. It appeared the man of mysteries had saved Nick's life, since there didn't seem to be anyone else around and the last thing Nick recalled was having his power core crushed by a megolomaniacal jackass.  

Nate. 

"Shit," Nick muttered, hand over his bare mouth. He hated the way he could feel his teeth against his palm. "Nate… that bastard got away."

"Heh, yeah, he sure did…" There was something deeply depressing hidden behind those words. Nick felt a tug on something in his chest and his systems threatened to power off again. He sucked in a breath reflexively - a hold over from his lost humanity. 

"The fusion core should be able to support basic operations on this unit," A new voice, this one far more curt and masculine than Deacon's. Nick frowned at being referred to as a 'unit' - then remembered he didn't have the synthetic muscles to do that any more. Christ, no wonder the new guy didn't think he was a person - depending on how much damage there was there might not be much left that separated Nick from the mindless Institute drones appearance-wise. 

Vanity aside, there was something else more important in what had just been said. 

"Fusion core?" Nick said, turning to face the direction of the voice. "Are you tellin' me I'm running on fusion power right now?"

"Affirmative," the clinical voice said after a brief hesitation. "I am adapting your systems to accommodate for the change in source power. There are a few more optimisations that need to be in place before you are functioning at full capacity." Nick felt a hand in the hole of his chest redirecting the wires. 

"Right - and who are you again?" Nick said, leaning his head back against what he assumed was a table. "Not to be ungrateful, but I prefer to at least know the name of the guy performing system wide changes to my person."

Deacon snorted. "That's fair - I prefer it if the guy at least buys me a drink before rooting around in my insides," Deacon said. Silence filled the room until he decided to answer the question for the other man. "This is Paladin Danse - he's another one of Nate's discarded 'pet projects'." 

"Former Paladin," Danse corrected. Paladin? So he was Brotherhood, then? That explained his expertise with fusion technology, and his stiffness about talking with a synth. Danse unscrewed the casing around Nick's central nervous system. Nick grit his teeth at the buzz it gave him, but apparently auxiliary power didn't reach his diagnostic system, so he was spared from the worst of the pain. 

"Pet projects?" Nick prompted. "What has that bastard been up to since he tried to off me."

"I'd say he more than 'tried'," Deacon said. "You've been offline for the better part of two years, old friend." 

Nick started, emotions churning under his exhausted systems. "Two years?" he said. Deacon made a noise of conformation. 

"Welcome to the year of 2289, bud! Diamond City is a police state, Goodneighbor is back to complete and total anarchy, and just about everywhere else is some degree of hell-on-earth - and we owe it all to our mutual sociopathic murder-friend." Deacon's voice was as cheerful as ever, but there was a undercurrent of cynicism that Nick didn't recognize in the man. Something had changed for Deacon personally in the past two years. It seemed for a moment that Deacon wasn't going to elaborate, but thankfully Danse took over for him. 

"Deacon told me that you and Nate were close before he turned on you," He said as he messed with Nick's insides. "It is my understanding that he murdered someone one who was… friends… with you?" Nick could hear the many, many levels of discomfort this man had over talking to a synth. Guess you could take the man out of the Brotherhood… Deacon must have given Danse a crash course on synth rights, since the former Paladin was at least willing to operate on him and explain the bare minimum of what was going on. What a member of the Railroad was doing hanging around with a Brotherhood soldier  - ex or not - was it's own mystery. 

"He did," Nick answered the question posed to him. "Piper. A reporter from Diamond City. They'd been dating for a couple months, but I guess he got bored and decided that a break up was just too much work, so he killed her." Nick's voice was spitting with malice by the time he reached the end of his story. He felt the hands inside of him twitch as he spoke - an emotional response. 

"I'm… sorry for your loss," Danse said, clearly uncomfortable with a synth expressing emotions. "Nate has ruined a lot of lives, and ended even more prematurely."

"The guy's a downright bastard," Deacon agreed. 

Danse continued. "Deacon informed me of your history with Nate because he believes it may make you a valuable asset-" 

"Ally," Deacon corrected. 

"-to our cause."

"And what cause would that be?" Nick asked. 

"We're gonna take that Sole Surviving fuck down," Deacon said darkly. Something about the man had definitely changed, there wasn't a doubt about it left in Nick's head. 

"Ambitious goals," Nick raised a brow. "Can't imagine how much use a barely-functioning old synth will be, but if there's any way I can help you can count me in. I made a promise to Piper that I intend to keep."

"Excellent," Danse said. He twisted something in Nick's spine and his eyes flickered to life. His vision was duller than before, almost like he was looking through an old terminal rendering, but at least he could see again. Power began flooding his limbs and Nick felt energy surge through him unabated. "Is this sufficient for basic functions?" Danse asked. 

"Might be a bit much, actually" Nick admitted, testing out a flick of his wrist. The motion was faster than he wanted. Danse nodded and adjusted the settings. While he worked Nick thought of something. "Stop me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't we be better off teaming up with one of your two 'connections' to take down Nate?"

The pair shared an uncomfortable look between the two and Nick felt his heart (or whatever counted for it) sink. 

"If it's the Brotherhood you are referring to," Danse said, voice low, "then that would be impossible. They're gone."

"Same with the Railroad," Deacon said, looking away from them both. 

"Gone?" Nick asked. He flinched as one of his wires was snipped. "What do you mean gone?" After the entrance they made into the Commonwealth, Nick didn't exactly expect the Brotherhood to just pack up and leave quietly. And as for the Railroad… 

"We mean gone, Nick," Deacon said. "As in gone, destroyed, deceased, dead, departed, no longer in existence." Nick stared at Deacon. There was a barely noticeable tremor in the man's arms; Deacon wasn't the type to get emotional, but that didn't mean he didn't have emotions. As far as Nick could tell, the Railroad had been Deacon's family, likely the only people who actually knew him as himself and not as some alternate persona. 

"Jesus. I'm sorry," Nick said to the man. Deacon shrugged. 

"The Brotherhood was eliminated as well - taken down from the inside by Nate," Danse continued as he finished up the adjustments to Nick's new core. "He was granted an honorary emergency Knighthood in the hope that he would assist us in infiltrating and neutralizing the Institute."

"An honorary Knighthood?" Nick said skeptically. "I've never known the Brotherhood to be particularly liberal with their granting of titles."

"He had… assistance in acquiring Brotherhood support," Danse said, voice thick with an attempt to hide his guilt. "Among the ranks of the Brotherhood there was a synth infiltrator - Nate befriended him- it- and used the connection to get closer to Elder Maxon." Nick felt the excess of power ebb and sighed, allowing the ex-soldier to replace his chest plate before sitting up. 

"Mhmm," Deacon hummed as Danse finished his story. "And are you going to mention the fact that the 'synth infiltrator' was you, or should I?" 

Nick had to admit - he hadn't seen that coming. He looked back at the ex-Paladin, whose teeth were grit and eyes firmly planted on the ground. He would have never guessed the man was a synth - judging by the look on his face, neither had he. Being the way Nick was had its drawbacks, but at least he never had any delusions about his synthetic nature. This poor bastard must have just found out recently. 

"I was unaware of my status at the time," Danse said, confirming Nick's theory. "However, that is no excuse. Subconsciously, I must have been aware that my actions would lead to the destruction of the Brotherhood. After I avenge them, I fully intend to face the consequences of my betrayal - unintentional though it was."

"Oh come on, man," Deacon whined with a roll of his eyes, "you're not some kind of Institute sleeper-agent. Nate tricked you. He tricked all of us."

"That's one theory," Danse said, packing up his tools. Nick threw his legs over the side of the table and tried his hand at standing up, thankful that despite lacking a shirt he still had his pants, which made the process far more dignified than it would have been without them. His internal gyroscope was offline, giving him a sense of synthetic vertigo. He kept a hand on the workbench, adjusting to his new stage of being.

"How long is the fusion core going to last?" Nick asked. He was under no delusion about the state of his body. Fusion cores were more like batteries than the self-sustaining generator his previous core was - the average core could keep power armor going for about half a day at most. Nick was far less energy-intensive than a suit of armor, but there was no telling how his systems would react in the long term. His life expectancy had at least been cut in half, likely more than that.

"It's hard to say," Danse told him. "It can be replaced, and will most likely have to be changed out rather frequently.”

“How frequently are we talkin’ here?” Nick asked. 

“There’s no way of knowing for sure,” Danse admitted. “Because you weren't designed for fusion power there's no way to gage the charge without removing it."

"Fantastic," Nick grumbled, already imagining a life of constant, unpredictable shut downs. Still, better than being dead, he supposed. 

Danse handed Nick a shirt and his coat and hat, all of which he gratefully accepted. Covering up his new chest wound was a start to feeling back to his normal self, but one glance at his face in Deacon’s sunglasses said that he was going to have to take up wearing scarves if he ever wanted to feel a shred of dignity again. 

“So,” Nick said, still rubbing at the metal now taking up the space where his jaw should be. “What’s the plan for putin’ Nate on ice?” 

Deacon smiled, as though laughing at his own internal joke. “Heh. Ice. Funny you should mention that…”

[queerbutstillhere]

Addressing the Batman Conspiracy theories, on the Wayne Family true crime podcast.

(this is based off of my post. I just had fun with this, and yes it's very chaotic. I hope it makes sense!)

"Welcome, listeners, to this months episode of the Wayne Family Circus-"

"That is NOT what it is called and you know it!"

"Okay okay! Shut up Tim!"

There was a hard cut in the audio. You, the listener, smile and put your car into reverse, backing out of your parking spot, you had a long drive to get home, and hopefully this new podcast will entertain you.

"As I was saying! Welcome to episode seven of Crime In Our Midst - I still hate that name - today we are discussing our most requested case. The Mysterious Batman. We will be discussing where he came from, and conspiracy theories involving him," the voice said, ending with a hum. "Today, I am your host, and for anyone who doesn't know, I'm Dick Grayson, the eldest Wayne child. To my left is our illustrious father, and number one theory for today, Bruce Wayne."

"Dick, I told you I didn't want-" a new, deeper male voice started.

"Next to him is Jason, the second eldest and the wildcard of the family."

"Sup bi*****," was the voice response.

"Master Jason," an older accented voice inputted.

"Sorry Alfie."

"Then we have Cassandra Cain-Wayne."

"Hello!" A chipper female voice said.

"They can't see you wave, Cass."

"Oh, sorry."

"Tim Drake is also present, as always. Tim have you ever missed an episode?"

"No," a softer male voice said with a hum.

"Even Damian has missed."

"Tt, that is because I have a life, unlike Drake."

"I am literally a CEO-"

"And just then you heard Damian Wayne, our youngest and saltiest member. Say Hi, Damian."

"Salutations," a younger sounding, yet still accented voice said.

"So formal," the host, Dick, said with a laugh. "And always, we are moderated by our Butler and Grandfather, Alfred Pennyworth!"

"Hello, listeners."

"And this week, we are joined by special guest, Barbara Gordon, daughter of Ex-Commissioner, Jim Gordon. He's not here in person, because he said, and I quote, 'This is bs and there's no amount of money you could pay me to be on your weird podcast'. To which I would like to counter, Jim, we most likely could pay that amount of money-"

"Grayson, you're rambling again," Damian said, sounding annoyed.

"Why did Dick get to host this episode?" Jason asked.

"Because it's Bruce didn't want to, so it was my turn next, shut up Jason."

"Come at me!"

There was another hard cut and a few seconds of pause. You chuckled, already enjoying this pointless bickering.

"So. We're going to start at the beginning. Batman, the masked vigilante who guards Gotham and battles crime, appeared way back when in the 2000's. He was considered a criminal for a long time, mostly due to his method of fear and violence, despite that he never killed, and solved countless cold cases - much like we do, if I might add -" Dick started explaining, paper could be heard rustling.

"Yeah but we don't dress up in spandex and go out every night and punch people, Dick."

"Okay, obviously, Jason."

There was muffled sniggering and then a grunt as someone got hit.

"Boys, calm down and let your brother finish explaining."

"Thank you, Bruce!" Dick exclaimed, there was the beginning of a yell and then another audio cut.

"Batman eventually became a founding member of the Justice League of America, alongside heroes such as Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Green Lantern and the Flash. It was around this time his protege, Robin, joined his side for the first time. Batman would eventually become the hero of our city, stopping criminals such as the Joker, Bane, Harley Quinn, the Riddler, and Poison Ivy, whom we all Stan," Dick's smooth voice continued.

"Dick," Bruce warned.

"Continuing! It is believed that Batman has had five or six different Robin's over the years, including two female ones, though neither were Robin for very long. The Batman has become a international, and even interstellar hero, working with the Green Lantern Corp on many occasions. I don't think I need to go into further detail, as almost everyone knows who the Batman is. Now let's get into theories!"

"Oh, finally," Tim said, followed by a muffled yawn.

"Shush, Drake. Let Grayson finish talking."

"Now most the theories are about Batman's secret identity or where he came from, right? And obviously the number one theory is that Bruce Wayne, our dear daddy here, is Batman."

"Do not ever say those words again," Jason groaned out.

"I most likely will."

"Can we all just agree this theory is absolute bulls***?"

"Damian!"

"I am speaking the truth father. I live with you, I can confidentially say you do not spend your nights running around Gotham unless it is in a sports car with some annoying woman-"

"Master Damian."

"My apologies Alfred."

"Can I give the evidence?!" Dick exclaimed.

There was mocking noises, and yet ANOTHER hard audio cut.

"So the main source of evidence is that Bruce Wayne and Batman have never been seen together. Which isn't true, because I have seen, and there is photographic evidence of such, which of course, you can find on our website!"

"The second evidence is something about them having the same a**, which I would rather not go into because of obvious reasons. Third, is all of us kids, somebody on Reddit mapped out all of our arrivals with in a years time of the Robin's arrival, and they think that we are the Robin's."

"Implausible. Have you seen Drake? He couldn't be a Robin, he'd snap right in half. And the second Robin died in an explosions, wouldn't that be Jason?" Damian countered.

"There actually was a kid Bruce fostered for a bit named Jason that actually died in an accident," Dick explained. "People think that Jason is the Robin."

"So we're not going to discuss the fact that you had another kid named Jason?"

"Jason, we've already discussed this a million times, I did not bring you into the family because of your name-"

"Can I continue?!"

"Please," A female voice piped in, Cass.

"Okay, the rest of the evidence is just kinda, fishy, I guess? Someone reports having heard Bruce actively state he was Batman as an excuse to not be on a jury duty, but let's be honest, who hasn't? Lastly is that Bruce Wayne disappears a lot around the time big things are happening, which is quote 'awfully coincidentally.' but circumstantial. An example of this is about five years back, Batman and Bruce Wayne both disappeared for a week, and then when Batman came back, he was reportedly 'different, more cheerful, and more charming. Less threatening', while Bruce Wayne remainder missing. Nearly a year later, Bruce Wayne returned, and Batman once again became gruff and intimidating. Shall we discuss this theory?"

"I don't see what we need to discuss," Damian grumbled.

"It's really not good evidence, but it is a good theory," Tim chipped in.

Jason spoke next. "I haven't been here for long, so it seems plausible to me."

"Jason!"

"What?!"

More bickering. Audio cut. This is getting a little weird with all the audio cuts.

"I think we can all agree that Bruce is not Batman," Cass said finally.

"Dad thinks the Bruce Wayne theory is dumb, and he's been working with Batman since year two. They're nothing alike. He suspected Bruce for a few years, but started seeing them in the same room and area and finally had to drop the theory," another female voice spoke, sounding bored.

"See? So, not plausible, moving on," Damian said dismissively.

The next theory was about some random middle aged man, the whole team thought this one wasn't terribly plausible either.

The third theory was that Batman was some type of alien, and this caused a lot of loud bickering and arguing.

The final theory was that Batman was a vampire, and all the kids seemed to like this theory, while Bruce was less then amused.

"Okay, Bruce, who do you think the Batman is?" Jason asked the second Dick closed out his presentation.

"I think he's a hero who protects the city and the planet, and had saved my life, and the lives of those closest too me, many times. If he wishes to keep his identity secret, then we should respect that the same way we respect Superman and Wonder Woman."

"Boooooo!" Jason and Tim yelled.

"Come on, Bruce. Really, give us an answer."

"Okay, I can't because I do actually know who it is," Bruce admitted.

"WHAT?" Tim screeched.

"You know who the Batman is and never told us?!" Dick exclaimed.

"Did you really miss his speech just now?" Damian asked with a huff. "He obviously wants to protect The Batman."

"You won't tell us?" Cass asked.

"Nope."

More bickering over this for a moment.

"Okay, how many agree with Vampire theory?" Dick asked.

There was a pause in the audio.

"Okay that's four. Any takers on alien theory? . . . No hands. Smith theory? And that's one. Jason and Damian, do you want to elaborate?"

"I still vote for Bruce Wayne theory," Jason said with a sigh.

"OH MY GOD-"

"OW! BRUCE HE PUNCHED ME!"

"BOYS!"

There was muffled speaking and sounds of hitting.

"Damian?"

"I don't like any of the theories."

"Do you have your own then?"

"Not particularly, but I suppose if I would have to give one. . . I believe the Batman is just some random guy with some behavioral and mental issues, and decided that the best way to combat crime, instead of becoming a police detective, was to put on spandex and Kevlar and a bat mask and theme everything after bats."

Dick chuckled. "Well there you have it folks. We finally tackled the Batman conspiracy, now could you please stop flooding our social medias with requests for it? Take that as you may, but obviously, as Bruce said, even if some of our members may know the identity of the Batman, we will not disclose that information, because it's not ours to give away. It's his choice and his privacy, so do not ask us who he is. We will not tell. Guys, anything to say?"

"I'm tired-"

"Tim you're always tired!"

"Ookaaaay! Anyway, next month is Bruce's turn, since we switched, and as always, we'll be putting up a poll on Twitter to see what case you want us to discuss! Until next time, this is the Wayne family signing off!"

"Goodbye."

"Peace out."

"Farwell."

"Death is inevitable."

"Time is a social construct."

"Children- Thank you for listening!"

"Please free me from this hell-"

"And in all the other ways to say it, Goodbye, and Goodnight!"

And you, dear listener, were left to listen to dead silence for a few minutes until you reached your destination, thoroughly confused, and mildly unsettled.

[thecleverdame]

Part Two 

Read part one here

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Omega!Werewolf!Reader

Summary: You and Sam are a bonded pair with four children. You’re both interrogated by the police who are convinced that Sam and Dean are running a criminal enterprise.

Warnings: Language, violence, murder, dom/sub overtones. mentions of: knotting, breeding, claiming, giving birth

This falls into the same AU as The Brown Bottle, Moonlight and The Derby.

-

Interrogation: Sam

Sam sits on a tiny chair in a small room, wrists in handcuffs resting on the table in front of him. He’s been waiting for the better part of three hours without so much as a hello from anyone. He’s got a pretty good idea of what’s happening, at least the basics. He can’t say he wasn’t expecting to be brought in for questioning, he was, however, unprepared for the SWAT team knocking down the door to the mobile office at their construction site.

He takes a deep breath, running his hands through his hair. While he’s not new to being on this side of the law, he’s never been left to sweat in the box for this long.

He gets it, they’re proving a point.

–

Detective Joe Burgess stands on the opposite side of a panel of oone-wayglass watching. His eyes narrow as he sips reheated, lukewarm coffee from a styrofoam cup. This moment’s been a long time coming, there’s a lot riding on this. If they can’t make charges stick this time there’s little hope of the investigation dragging onward.

The brass says there’s been way too much time and money spent on this investigation. A thousand lines of inquiry that lead to nowhere. If they can’t break one of them today, there’s a good chance they’ll all walk for good. Everything the department has is circumstantial, and the district attorney won’t move forward without hard proof.

Joe’s a veteran, twenty years with his shield, before that a beat cop in some of the worst neighborhoods in Lincoln. He seen enough bad guys to know that there’s something off about the Winchesters. He has his own suspicions, but he’s got to leave them at the door because this is about what they can prove, which, at the moment, isn’t much.

He believes in justice, but he’s not naive enough to have faith in the system. It’s finally time to bring out the big guns, so to speak, let the Winchester’s know they’re really in it deep, and people are paying attention.

You can only live outside the law for so long.

Joe’s partner, Keith Jablonski, opens the door to the viewing area between the two interrogation rooms, carefully shutting it behind him. Keith’s overweight, red faced and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but they’ve been a team for the better part of two decades so it’s about family at this point.

“How they doin’?” Keith asks eyeing Sam, then his brother sitting in the adjacent room.

“They’re both just sitting there.” Joe cocks his head as Sam shifts in his chair, palming himself through his jean and adjusting his balls. He’s been doing this long enough to know that most people panic. Guilty or not, the anticipation of the interview drives most people mad, pacing the room, crying or any number of nervous ticks…but these guys are just waiting patiently like a grandmother at a bus stop.

“You sure you wanna split up? We could tag team em’, go in together.” Keith suggest, pulling up his pants by the loops.

“We’ve got less chance of getting them to talk if we overwhelm them. We just want to get the dialogue going and hope something comes out. These guys have been involved in too much for something not to slip, that’s all we need. Once we have that we can pry the rest out.” Joe’s sure of one thing, Sam and Dean are as smart as they are criminal.

–

The door opens and Sam sits up a little, watching a cop in his fifties enter with a somber smile. He walks right over to the table and and pulls the only other chair sitting across from him and switching on the audio recorder.

“I’m detective Joe Burgess and I’ll be conducting this interview.” Joe reaches into his pocket and pulls the key the to handcuffs. “You’d probably like to get those off huh?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sam nods and holds his hands out as the detective unlocks them.

“So I’m not going to beat around the bush. I think we both know why you’re here.” Joe nods, looking Sam right in the eyes.

“Well, that makes one of us.” Sam smirks, leaning forward with both forearms on the table. “Are you going to tell me or make me guess.”

“You and Dean have been very busy the last eight years.” Joe taps the folder in front of him, leaving it closed. “I have to hand it to you, you’re two of the most enterprising young men I’ve ever seen. The construction company is impressive but all the little side projects you two have going on? It’s amazing you have time.”

“It’s just the family business,” Sam shrugs. Joe expected this reaction.

“Do a lot of guys who own a construction company also carry a loaded Glock?”

“I couldn’t tell you. But my handgun is registered, everything’s in order.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Joe chuckles, “Hey, tell me why you weren’t home today? I thought Sunday was always a family day...”

Sam’s jaw ticks at the mention of his family and it’s all Joe needs to know where to start applying pressure.

“See, we thought you’d be at home, so we went there first before we found you down at the job site.” There’s a physical response in Sam to what he’s saying, heat rising in his cheeks and the veins of his neck flexing. “It’s a shame we didn’t know, we could have avoided that whole mess.”

Sam takes the bait. “You raided my house?”

“About an hour before we picked you up,” Joe confirms, watching the cool and collected guy across the table attempt to control the rage that’s clearly building. This is the Sam he’s been waiting eight years for, the guy might just slip up. “Don’t worry, your kids are fine, a little traumatized but I’m sure that’s nothing new.”

“And Y/N?” Sam uncurls his fist, then tightens it again, short nails digging into his skin. Joe knows he’s found the sweet spot.

“Oh, she’s alright too. She’s been across the hall talking with my colleague Detective Barden. She’s a little shook up but I hear they’re getting along just fine.” Sam seems to relax a little, it’s the last thing Joe wants so he strokes the fire. “I gotta say buddy your wife - shit, I’d give my right nut to be married to something like that.”

“I bet you would,” Sam snuffs.

“I’ve been part of the team that’s been keeping tabs on you and Dean from day one. I just have to say that Y/N has really been a real highlight. I mean with an ass like that I see why you keep her knocked up. I don’t think any of us blame you.”

“I’m a lucky man.” Sam bites his tongue, maintaining his composure. A younger version of himself would have reached across the table and ripped Joe’s throat out.

“See me and the guys have a bet. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a knockout, but after four kids, that close together you gotta tell me… her pussy still tight?”

There’s flash over Sam’s eyes and a twitch of his shoulders. Joe sees it, the rage threatening to break the dam, but again, Sam remains calm. After a moment he smiles wide at Joe, leaning across the table like he’s going to tell him a secret like he’s shooting the shit with a friend at the bar.

“Better than you can imagine.”

Joe tips his head back and laughs because fuck all if Sam isn’t a sly bastard. He throws up his hands. “Well, good for you man. I’ve got two kids and a wife who hasn’t touched my dick in a year so you’ll have to forgive the interest.”

“Can we stop talking about my wife’s pussy now and you just ask me whatever it is you want the answer to?”

“Becoming a father is a life-changing thing,” Joe presses forward ignoring Sam’s request. “And you’ve got four? That’s a full house.”

“You have a point?”

“Just never expected you to be a family man, that’s all.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“See, we got a theory about that too.” Joe smiles at Sam, “Y/N really got you with the first one right? What, did she say she was on the pill and beg you to fuck her without a rubber?”

“You’re venturing into dangerous territory,” Sam replies calmly.

“You and Dean had a pretty sweet setup. The girls were top shelf, I’ll give you that. I’ve got a hard time believing that Sam Winchester, the same guy who beat Kevin Morgan within an inch of his life, the same Sam who was getting blows jobs from bar skanks in the back of Dean’s car, just magically fell in love with a bartender and decided to start a family.”

Sam remembers the night Liam was born.

He was still trying to figure out how to be a mate, the idea of becoming father didn’t seem real until you went into labor. He paced across your living room, bare feet padding on the carpet, back and forth, back and forth, while Dean tried his best to distract him with a football game.

He’ll never forget the sounds you made, the scream and cries of desperation coming from the bedroom made him feel sick to his stomach… and it went on for two days. It sounded like you were being tortured and he was helpless to do anything but listen and wait. Sitting idle was a foreign concept to him.

Dean had finally got him to sit down with a beer when the midwife popped out of the bedroom, looking to Sam, “she needs her Alpha now.”

“Is she okay?” He asked, springing to his feet.

“She’s strong, but she needs your strength too. The first is always the hardest. Don’t worry, it’s what Omegas are built for.”

Sam could feel as he walked down the hallway, but nothing prepared him for the sight of you naked on your back, belly up and looking utterly broken. “Sam,” you cried, reaching for him. The bags under your eyes made them looks like sunken sockets, surrounded by pale, sweating flesh. You reached out to him and he took your shaking hand, more terrified than he’d ever been in his life.

“Hey baby,” Sam forced a smile, kneeling down and taking your hand into his.

“I’m so tired,” you gulped with chapped lips. “It hurts.”

“I know, but you’re doing really well.” Pushing wet hair away from your forehead he looked to the midwife for confirmation. From between your legs she nodded and somehow he just knew what he needed to do. “I’m right here, I’ll be with you.”

When it was over he watched awestruck as his newborn son suckled at your nipple. You were so exhausted you could hardly keep your eyes open, so he sat beside you, mother and child propped up on his chest for the first time.

He’d never been more grateful and all he knew was he wanted more.

“You with me?” Joe snaps his fingers in front of Sam’s face, bringing him back to reality.

“What was your question? ” Sam blinks.

“Let’s start simple, can you tell me what you were doing last Wednesday night between eight and midnight?”

“Last Wednesday,” Sam thinks, “I went to the bar with Dean, I was home by eleven.”

“Anyone else at home with you?”

“My wife.”

“She’ll confirm that I assume?”

“Yes.”

“And you stayed home the whole the night?”

“I just told you I did,” Sam confirms again.

“Well, you could have slipped out. Waited until the Missus falls asleep and…” Joe probes.

Sam scoffs impatiently. “I got home, watched the news, answered a couple emails, fucked my wife, then my two year old threw up all over his bed, when I say he threw up I mean an ungodly amount of vomit. You wouldn’t think someone so small is capable of spewing that much. I spent an hour dealing with that aftermath. By the time we went to bed, it was pushing four, maybe five.”

“I almost believe you.”

“I don’t care.” Sam snips.

“I believe that too.” Joe chuckles and flips through a folder. He pulls out a photo of a woman’s mangled body lying on the ground. Her flesh is bloated, a sickening blue.“You know her?”

Sam picks the photo, looking from the grotesque image to Joe, “I’ve seen her before, Shelly or Cheryl something.”

“Charlene. She was twenty-four when she died. Her parents reported her missing two years ago and she ends up dead a couple miles from your job site.”

“You think I killed her?”

“Well I know you knew her, you and Dean both did. I don’t know who did it. I find it interesting that that picture doesn’t bother you, just another body huh?”

“How am I supposed to react? Did you want me to cry? I’ll try to act more shocked next time.”

“There’s the Sam I’m looking for,” Joe cracks a smile leaning forward. “The blood doesn’t bother you, huh?”

“Not really, no.” Sam tightens his jaw.

“I tell you what, if I needed someone disappeared, I’d come to you. You guys are good. There’s no denying that.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sam responds deadpan.

“Let’s take a look at these young women, you just speak up if anything rings a bell,” Joe lays out a series of pictures, some of them are old class photos, other personal family pictures. Sam recognizes most of them.

A few years back one of their own went rogue. Jesse Verik had a specific taste in women, he liked them young and innocent. He bit two dozen women before Sam was able to find him and put him down, leaving he and Dean to deal with the aftermath.  For six months the two of them shuffled newborn wolves from house to house while they suffered through the change, then learned how to control what they were. Not one of them had wanted to go home, all fearing the inevitable repercussions. It took time but Sam and his brother placed them all, one by one, around the country with packs that were looking to grow.

He’s now staring at a collection of assumed missing persons that aren’t really missing at all. If it comes down to it, Sam will get in touch in their Alphas and have the girls turn up alive, but he’d like to avoid it. They wanted to fall off the grid and start a new life, he can’t begrudge them that, not after what they’d been through. Being turned is traumatic enough when you know what to expect, but they were forced into this life. He won’t out them unless it’s a last resort.

“Yeah, I recognize some of them, but you already knew that right?” Sam asks and Joe nods in confirmation. He points to each one as he corroborates the facts. “She worked for my brother for a while, cleaned his house I think. The redhead up there worked for my mother-in-law, bartended for a while. The blonde with the short hair, she worked for me at Reliant. Filing and answering phones.”

“You fuck any of ‘em?” Joe thinks he already knows the answer to this but he’s pushing buttons.

“No,” Sam scoffs, “never.”

“All twenty of these women went missing within two months. All with a connection to you or your brother or one of your lackeys. Is that just a coincidence?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Sam shrugs, “people come and go around here.”

“Well, they seem to come and go a lot faster around you.” Joe flips his legal pad to a blank page and looks at Sam. “Let’s just go date by date, and you can tell me what you remember.”

—–

You wait the better part of an hour before the door opens to the small room and a short woman in her late fifties ambles it. She smiles tightly, giving you a nod of her head and sets down her papers on the table in front of you.

“I’m Diane, I’ll be your caseworker.” Diane shifts in her seat, looking at the pane of one-way glass. She flips the switch on the table and the red recording light on the camera in the corner of the room switches off. “They’re watching but they can’t hear, there’s no sound.”

“I can’t believe this is happening, look you have to understand that my children-”

“Everything’s gonna be alright sweetheart,” she reaches across the table and pats your hand. It’s the kind of touch that sends a tingle up your arm. She’s a wolf, but she doesn’t smell like any werewolf you’ve never encountered before, it’s just a faint scent that you never would have noticed without physical contact.

“What are you?” you tip your head, eyes narrowing.

“I’m a Beta, not many of us left.” She looks up maintaining her grim expression. “We have to go through the motions, so try not to look too comfortable, I’ll walk you through the process.”

Thank God, you sent up a silent prayer.

—–

Detective Linda Barden, Joe Burgess, and Keith Jablonski are gathered in a small windowless room between two interrogation suites. There are a handful of other cops in the room frantically pouring through files and evidence.

“There’s gotta be something we’re missing.” Keith offers with a shrug, “We just need one thing to tie them to one of the murders. Just one witness.”

“What about Dean?” Linda asks Keith.

“He’s not saying shit, just a bunch of fuck you’s.” Keith offers.

“Do you think the wife will break?” Joe turns to Linda.

“Yeah, but I need time. I called in child protective service, we’ll put the fear of God in her.”

“You think that’ll be enough to break her?” Joe persists.

“Like I said, it takes time. Sam’s got a hold on her, but if I can get her to realize all the shit he’s been doing right under her nose, that, combined with her kids hanging in the balance…I think she’ll flip. What about the guys? Neither of them has said anything we can use?”

“No,” Joe laughs, utterly exasperated. “It would be a fucking miracle. I think our best bet is to go after the wife. Sam’s a fucking psycho but he’s cool as a cucumber until you mention her or the kids. That’s where we gotta apply the pressure. We threaten her, we get the whole thing.”

“Time’s up.” Chief Calvin Wells doesn’t bother with a greeting, just throws the door open and stands wide with his hands on his hips. “What you got?”

“We’ve got a plan, sir,” Joe starts, “We need more time with wife, we can use her to-”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Wells holds up his hand. “You’ve had the three of them here all day, not to mention the countless man-hours we’ve spent on this case. Almost a decade, the last chief let this go on and I’m putting stop to it once and for all. It’s a black hole. Now I’ve got a social worker comforting a distraught mother of four because she’s been cleared to take her kids home after she’s dealt with what social services described as ‘baseless accusations from an overzealous police department.’ And, you wanna know the kicker, the idiot cop you’ve got watching the kids doesn’t even know how to change a fucking diaper, the baby’s been sitting in shit for hours before my secretary took care of it. It’ll be a miracle if we get out of this without being sued.”

“They said the kids could go? Jesus fucking Christ, did the caseworker even look at pictures?” Linda balks, unable to believe what she’s hearing.

“It’s not enough. It was a long shot and you failed. Now get these guys out of my station house and do it now.”

“Chief, you gotta,” Joe protests, but Chief Wells is hearing none of it.

“This is not up for debate. You’ve got years worth of surveillance, potential witnesses, hell I got all the warrants you wanted and the most you could come up with is domestic violence? Get them the fuck out of my building. I swear to God if I hear another word about the Winchesters I’ll fire everyone in this damn room.”

The room clears out, people collecting boxes and the detectives disperse to spread the word that it’s finally over. Keith Jablonski hangs back until it’s only he and the chief before he closes the door.

“You ah… you think this going to come back to bite us in the ass?” Keith asks tiredly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Maybe, but it’s better than the alternative.” Chief Wells adjusts his belt, looking around as if some invisible presence might be listening. “I gotta explain to the Alpha why I allowed a swat team to raid his home when his kids were there. Barden jumped the gun and fucked us both.”

“He’ll understand, Sam’s fair.” Keith offers. They both know their pack leader is level headed about most things, especially in recent years, but his family is a whole other story.

“I hope so.”

—-

You sit in a chair in the lobby surrounded by a crowd of detectives and beat cops in uniform milling around, having uttered conversations with their breath. The tension is palpable. No one’s satisfied with the outcome of today’s events, including yourself. It’s unclear why there are so many people. Maybe they’re just curious, eager to lay eyes on the Winchesters in person, or maybe they think there’s going to be some kind of scuffle. All you’re focused on is the sound of Sam’s muffled voice behind the door before it open and he steps out into the lobby.

His eyes sweep over the line of people until he spots you getting up from your chair. You walk to him, ignoring the snort from Linda, and let him pull you in.

“You okay baby?” he asks, wrapping his arms around you until you’re completely engulfed. He might be the pack leader, but right now he’s your Alpha and no one else’s.

“Yeah, I just want to get out of here.” You pull away from him.

“Where the fuck are my kids?” Sam turns to Chief Wells, who looks to be in complete distress. He motions to the cop in uniform beside him tells him to go see what’s taking so long.

Dean’s the next to wander out, throwing Sam a knowing look and winking at you.

Linda takes this as her last opportunity and steps toward you, “Y/N, you can still choose to do the right thing for-”

“Just stop talking,” Sam interjects before you have the chance, stepping between the two of you. “You’re done.”

Liam is the first through the door, having obviously just woke from a deep sleep as he rubs his eyes. He smiles when he sees his parents, ignoring you in favor of his father. You don’t mind. “Daddy…” he mumbles.

Sam scoops him up, cupping the back of his head with a hand. “You ready to go home, buddy?”

Liam nods, nuzzling his face into Sam’s shoulder. The other three children are brought out. Colin’s sleeping and you take him from the officer, as Owen wraps himself around your leg. Sam hands off Liam to Dean without protest, taking Killian as he cradles the baby in his arms.

For a moment all is forgotten; the fact that you’re in a police station, or the hours of non-stop questions. Now all seems right with the world as you watch your Alpha hold his infant son in his arms.

–

Sam pulls the car away from the curb, two of your children already sleeping in the back, the other two with Dean. He glances in the rearview before reaching over to take your hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“They came into our house, Sam. With guns.”

“I know, I-” Sam closes his eyes trying to swallow the anger because there’s nothing he can do about it at the moment.

“They could have killed the boys.” You take a deep breath pressing your free palm into your thighs. “You told me you had this taken care of.”

“I do,” Sam squeezes your hand his, the other gripping the steering wheel, “It’s over now. They’re not going to come after us again. Wells wants to meet tomorrow, I’ll make sure everything is squared right away.”

“He wants to cover his own ass I’m sure.” You grunt. “He told you he’d make sure we had a warning before they brought us in, what the hell happened to that.”

“He said the detective that questioned you is the one who gave the order. He didn’t know until it was too late.”

“This can’t ever happen again.”

“It won’t.” He confirms with all the confidence in the world. “I’ll always take care of you and our family, you’re the most important thing to me.”

“I know,” you give in a little. “You really think they’re going to let this go.”

“Any detective that wants to keep their job is going to listen to what the chief tells them. We’re gonna be fine sweetheart. I promise.”

Three Months Later

Detective Linda Barden gulps down the final vestiges of her cheap wine and says goodbye to her sister. She’s visiting Lincoln for the weekend, just a quick trip to see her family and catch up on the life she left behind.

Wrapping her jacket around her body she starts the half mile walk back to her hotel. It’s just after midnight and, despite it being a Saturday, there aren’t many people out and about. Five minutes into her journey she hears it, the sound that a crying baby coming from somewhere in the distance. It isn’t until she passes the alley at the corner of Shaffer and Rollins that she hears it again, coming from somewhere down the dark back street.

The cop in her knows something isn’t right, but she can’t put her finger on it. Maybe it’s the cries of the child or the uneasiness that settles into her bones? Reaching for her gun she curses when she realizes she’s not carrying a firearm, why would she be? She’s on vacation.

Linda makes her way as quietly as possible down the alley, just one foot in front of the other, step by step on high alert.

“Hello,” she calls out in a whisper, “anyone there?”

She has no time to react as a body hits her at full speed, knocking the wind out of her as a hand closes around her throat. She’s pushed face first into a filthy brick wall, gasping for air. She tries desperately to fight back, she’s pretty damn strong but her resistance is futile against her attacker who seems to have inhuman strength.

There’s the sound of tearing clothes as her jacket is ripped from her body, then her shirt. For a minute she thinks she’s going to be raped, but then comes the bite. Teeth sinking into the flesh of her shoulder, sinking into her skin as she screams in terror.

Then, without warning, she’s released, falling to the ground listening to the footfall of her attacker. She sobs, clamping a hand over the wound, blood gushing out in a hot stream over her fingers. All she can think is: he didn’t kill you, you’re alive. You’re alive.

What she doesn’t know is what will happen when the full moon rises, but that’s a story for another time.

[beatrice-otter]

Fic: Past Lives, Chapter 10/?

On AO3 Chapter Ten

Jocasta sat in her quarters, legs crossed, eyes closed, in a posture of meditation. But meditation had brought little clarity, and so it was time for logical thought. They had found many disturbing things that would seem to support Finn’s stories, but it was all circumstantial. Nothing that would hold up in a court of law. Nothing that a sufficiently glib politician could not explain away. Nothing that could not be simply a corrupt, power-hungry man who cared more for his own power than for the ideals of democracy. Nothing that proved he was a Sith—and nothing that disproved it, either.

So. If Finn was right, and they failed to act, they and the galaxy were doomed. If Finn was wrong, and they acted, the Order would be humiliated and face deep sanctions.

That is, if they acted … publicly.

The question was, what private actions could they take? The Council had already updated the Temple emergency plans for how to respond if the Clones should attack the Temple, and decided that although they were a target here, vulnerable people such as the injured, the elderly, and the young would be even more of a target if they were relocated and Palpatine were to hear about it. And they could not guarantee that he would not. Getting that many people out of the Temple would be hard to conceal.

Jocasta narrowed her focus. There were others who could plan for the safety of the order as a whole. Her responsibility was narrower. If the Order fell, so would the archives. And even if the people survived, any rebuilding would be much easier if they had the appropriate reference, training, and historical materials.

The Archives were massive, and could not possibly be moved in the time available without it being immediately obvious what was happening. But … a portion of them could. If she narrowed the focus to the specifically Jedi texts, and only the most important of those, it might be possible to pare the list down to a manageable number. Holocrons were some of the most tightly-packed data carriers available; if she eliminated the holographic guardian, she could fit many more texts in a single holocron than on a book disk of the same size. Jedi going off-world could be given them and told not to mention them to any but another Jedi.

Surely some would survive.

Barriss Offee listened quietly and calmly as Vokara Che explained that there was a chip inside the brains of the clone troopers whose function they did not know, but which was suspected of having programs that could override the clones’ wills and force them to do any number of terrible things. As Master Che explained that they could only study and heal the problem with the greatest secrecy because there was a chance—a slight chance, and probably only a fantasy—that the chip had been emplaced by the Chancellor, as part of a plan to overthrow the Republic and destroy the Jedi.

Barriss’ demeanor was no surprise to those around her, because Bariss did everything quietly and calmly. Barriss was a model Jedi, and had been known to be such since she arrived in the crèche.

If only they knew, Barriss reflected dimly. She was not calm. She had never been calm. She had learned iron control because a blank face and a quiet Force-presence won praise from the Masters, if not from her peers. She’d never been able to make friends among her peers, and so she had focused on a more attainable goal. And now, she was very, very, very good at hiding her feelings, even from herself.

She couldn’t hide them from herself any longer.

It fit. It all fit, she realized dimly. All the horrible things she had seen in the war, all the ways in which her fellow Jedi—her Master, the Council—had fallen short of the ideals she had been taught as a child. All the senseless, useless pain and misery. All the evil. The Jedi were complicit, but they were not the root of it. They were just tools duped by the mastermind. It was Palpatine who had been behind it all along. Palpatine, who had prospered while everyone else suffered. A tide of rage rose within her, but she forced it back into its cage, where no one but she could feel it.

Nothing Barriss had ever said had made one Sith-damned bit of difference. The whole Order had been all too willing to throw itself away and destroy everything good that had ever been a part of it. She had pointed out every problem, every place the Jedi were falling short, and at best people had sighed and agreed that it was unfortunate, but that nothing could be done.

Usually, they attacked her for not supporting the war effort.

Barriss had given up talking. Nobody listened to words any more, all they could hear was violence. Well, Barriss was a Jedi, her weapon was her life. Few people knew violence as intimately as a Jedi did. All that she was lacking was a target, something that would make people stop and take notice. She’d begun to wonder if she shouldn’t just blow up the Temple itself.

But it wasn’t the Jedi’s fault at all, was it? It was Palpatine’s fault. If the one pulling the strings died, then everything would stop. Even if he wasn’t a Sith, even if the chips in the clones’ brains were entirely benign, it was all his fault. He was the one who had failed to find a compromise the Separatists could live with. He was the one who had failed to make peace with them. He was the one who prioritized the war over everything else. He was the one who demanded the Jedi take charge of the war effort. He was the reason she, a healer, had ever been in combat at all.

She could get a bomb in to the Senate. They never paid enough attention to biological threats; all she needed was a person who had business in or near the Chancellor’s office during working hours.

Palpatine was a great and good and kind man. He could not be the mastermind behind the war; he could not be a Sith. Anakin couldn’t believe it. No amount of meditation calmed his thoughts, and it was a good thing Ahsoka wasn’t here to see how distracted he was, because he was setting a terrible example of what a Jedi should be.

And yet … Finn wasn’t lying. The Force sang with his sincerity.

There was something else, though, that Anakin couldn’t stop thinking about. Palpatine was the more immediate threat, and in all the worry over the possibly-impending doom of the Republic and the Jedi and the clones, everyone else seemed to have forgotten Finn’s reaction to meeting Anakin.

That, at least, was something he could do something about.

He invited Finn to his tent, and turned on the white noise generator. He’d tinkered with it himself. Nobody was going to overhear anything Anakin didn’t want them to.

“So, Finn,” he said, “Tell me about Luke Skywalker.”

“He’s a legend,” Finn said. “He was the last Jedi of the old Order, hidden on some backwater world and trained in secret, and he killed the Emperor and Darth Vader both. He was a fighter pilot in the Rebellion, too, he led Rogue Squadron, which was the greatest squadron of the rebellion. He personally shot down the first Death Star. After the war, after the New Republic was formed, he started a school for Jedi. One of his students—his nephew—turned to the Dark Side and slaughtered the rest of the students before fleeing to the First Order. Master Skywalker disappeared, and nobody heard from him for almost a decade before my friend Rey found him.”

Anakin folded his arms, trying to take this in. Given the timing, this Luke Skywalker would almost have to be his son. Skywalker wasn’t an uncommon name in the slave quarters of Tatooine, but he’d never heard of another Skywalker anywhere else in the galaxy. After he was found, the Council had sent a Jedi to search for any other Force-sensitive younglings in the worst parts of his home planet, but hadn’t found any.

Padmé was too consumed with the war effort to even think about children until after the war was done, but Anakin sometimes got through the grimmer parts of the war by fantasizing about having a life with just him, and Padmé, and children, in a house on Naboo.

Was that what happened? Did he and Padmé escape the destruction and run away and hide together? Was there hope and brightness even in the grim future Finn painted for them? It wouldn’t be so bad, if they were together, if they could raise a family together.

“His nephew?” Anakin asked. Did he and Padmé have multiple children, then?

“Yeah.” Finn nodded. “His sister Leia’s kid.”

Two kids! That was great!

“Hey, can I ask you a question about names?” Finn asked.

“Names?” Anakin parroted.

“Yeah,” Finn said. “Stormtroopers don’t get names at all, and I’m still kind of confused by all the different ways humans do names. Skywalker is a family name, right? How do you decide which family name your kids are going to get? Mother’s name? Father’s name? Something else?”

“Skywalker can be a family name,” Anakin said. “I was born a slave on Tatooine, and lots of times the masters call someone a name they don’t want to have. Skywalker is also one of the names that if you don’t have a family name—or you don’t like the one you have—it’s one that anybody can claim, and sometimes people get adopted into it, too. My mother called herself Skywalker, so it’s my name, too.”

“Oh,” Finn said. “So you’d pass it on to your kids?”

“I’d like to,” Anakin said. “It’s all I have left of my Mom.”

“Then do you know why Master Luke’s sister has a different last name?”

Anakin frowned. He and Padmé hadn’t ever really talked about names for any hypothetical children they might have; they’d barely even talked about the possibility that they might one day have children. “Maybe my wife wanted her to have her name?” he said. He didn’t know anything about Naboo naming customs, he realized. Which last name would it even be? Amidala was her political name; it had been a new name created just for her when she was elected queen. Did it pass to her kids or did it end with her? Would she want the kids to be named Naberrie like the rest of her family? Finn would probably know, he realized. “What was the name?”

“Leia Organa.”

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[flowers-creativity]

Small things

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: d’Artagnan (Charles d’Artagnan), Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay), Jean Tréville, OCs Warnings: Violence, bullying Summary: d'Artagnan has found a new home and purpose in the Musketeers. But there might be some things that are wrong. They’re only small things, though. Porthos is good at noticing small things.

AO3 link

Chapter 1

Chapter2

Chapter 3

As the evening drew to a close, Aramis and Athos left d'Artagnan for a night in the infirmary, promising to let Constance know where he was so she wouldn't worry about her wayward lodger – even if “he's spending the night in the infirmary” was not the most reassuring thing to hear, too. The Gascon spent a rather uneasy night, kept from a restful sleep by his worries about Porthos and the men who seemed to hate him so much, and the occasional pain shooting through him upon some awkward movement jostling his shoulder. He was glad when the morning arrived and brought with it Aramis and Athos' return with breakfast.

They had just settled down for the meal, d'Artagnan grudgingly suffering the others serving him due to having only one functioning arm to himself, as the door opened again and admitted a very sheepish-looking Porthos.

Aramis looked around at his friend's approach and then grinned at d'Artagnan cheekily. “I should have placed some money on that wager,” he chuckled, and the young recruit returned the grin, relief shining in his dark eyes, while Athos just raised an eyebrow at their exchange.

“Welcome back,” the older Musketeer greeted their brother dryly as he stopped a few feet from them. The big man looked between them and finally said: “I'm sorry.”

Athos sighed. “Stop apologising, Porthos.”

Porthos shook his head. “It was stupid. You need me here, not fallin' apart all over the place,” he returned.

Aramis stood up and pulled his friend into an embrace. “You may fall apart as much as you need to, but we'd be happier if you did it somewhere where we can help you put yourself back together,” he admonished him gently.

d'Artagnan, for his part, moved awkwardly forward on his cot until he could reach out with his good arm and take Porthos' hand where it was hanging limply at his side as he stood, motionless, in Aramis' embrace. He gave it a light squeeze and finally said: “You are forgiven, my friend, for this and everything else plaguing you.”

At that, the big Musketeer heaved a sigh and slumped forward into Aramis' arms, his weight resting on the smaller man for a moment. The marksman smiled and patted his back. “There, there,” he teased, “though I didn't expect I'd have to keep you upright quite so literally. You're heavy, dear brother.”

Porthos gave a small, watery snort and drew back, surreptitiously wiping at his face. Aramis released him with a last pat on the back and pressed him down onto the stool Athos had drawn up for him. Taking in the swarthy countenance, none of them could miss that he was paler than usual, apart from the bruised skin below his eyes that spoke of a night badly spent. It was Athos who asked bluntly: “You look like you have slept not a wink tonight. Where have you been?”

Porthos shrugged and answered: “Nearby.” His tone said that no answers would be forthcoming, even as Athos directed one of his eloquent eyebrow raises his way, and Athos gave a dip of his head by way of acceptance. They settled back around their meal, and bit by bit, the atmosphere relaxed as their circle was finally whole again.

***

After the mid-day meal, Aramis allowed d'Artagnan to finally leave the infirmary and sit in the garrison's courtyard while the three of them went about their duties. The would-be Musketeer was glad to be out and about even if all he did was sit in the weak sunlight at their usual table. It was agreed that he could not return to his lodgings for a while since he was unable to clothe and, to the young man's great embarrassment, even relieve himself one-handed, and it would be terribly unseemly to ask the lovely Madame Bonacieux to help him. So he would need to stay in the infirmary or with one of the others so they could assist him. Porthos had passionately argued against the former, and d'Artagnan had the distinct feeling that if they had chosen the infirmary, Porthos would have spent a lot of nights “nearby”, a suspicion he was sure Aramis and Athos shared. Staying with one of his friends it was, then.

But for now, even if he was itching to be free of the sling constricting his arm and shoulder and doing something productive, he sat and enjoyed being part of the usual hustle and bustle of the Musketeer garrison in that way again, at least. Maçon came and sat by him for a while, apologising profusely again for hurting him, until Porthos took pity on both lads and collected the contrite young Musketeer for some task or another. His friends moved around, in and out of the yard on their duties, not actually at his side most of the time, but d'Artagnan could feel the gaze of one of them on him almost constantly. It made him feel warm and protected but also slightly smothered, and he sighed, resting his chin on his free hand. He really hoped they would manage to get those men and his bones would heal quickly so life could return to normal. Well, as normal as their lives could be, he supposed. As Musketeers, they were never free of danger but feeling as if danger was lurking here, in the place that had felt like it was becoming a home to him, among people who had been on the way of becoming his family after losing his father … Now that his worry over Porthos had abated, d'Artagnan could admit to himself that it did hurt. Well, there was no danger among those who had well and truly become his family, he thought as he caught Athos' gaze from across the courtyard, and the older Musketeer gave him a quick dip of his head and a half-smile. They would make sure he was safe, and with them at his side, he could deal with whoever tried to hurt or drive him away. He would show them that he had the heart of a Musketeer and was above being bullied by those who had not, even if they wore the pauldron and he didn't.

***

The next days proceeded in much the same fashion, as his bones continued to heal, and it was almost a disappointment that his “bad luck” seemed to have stopped and there were no more little things. Knowing of Porthos' experience, none of them was relaxing his guard, though. All of them were nervous when they had to leave him alone for a while, for guard duty and similar things, and he often used this time to go visit Constance, making sure she did not think he had forgotten about her friendship. It was better if he was not in the garrison without his brothers watching his back. And it was only for a short while, anyway.

Until Tréville called the Inseparables into his office for a mission that would take them away from Paris for a week or more.

“What? No! We can't go!” Porthos protested when Tréville had barely finished his orders, and the Captain looked taken aback at the fervid protest.

Casting his mind about for a cause of this, he settled on d'Artagnan's injury as the most likely one and said: “Look, I know you're loath to leave the lad behind but he'll be alright staying here and continuing to heal, and you've gone on enough missions without him. By the time you get back, he should be able to exchange that sling for something lighter and get in some exercise to start recovering his strength, right, Aramis?”

The medic of the group shifted uncomfortably and exchanged a glance with his brothers. They had wanted to only go to Tréville once they had secured enough evidence – so far, the only thing they had was the broken blade incriminating Royer, and even this could be construed as circumstantial if he claimed he had had no idea about the tampering. There had been no new incidents, and all their attempts to covertly investigate the previous happenings and the men they suspected had not resulted in anything tangible. But leaving d'Artagnan alone for so long when they even worried their way all through guard duty at the palace – it was inconceivable.

“Aramis?” The Captain frowned at his three men as his question went unanswered and they were having one of these silent conversations they were known for. It was a great asset to have but he definitely did not like it when they did it with him.

Aramis shook himself to get out of his thoughts and turned towards Tréville once more. “You are right about that, Captain,” he started, “but that is not what we are worried about.”

Tréville raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Well then, explain yourself,” he demanded.

The three men exchanged another glance, and it was Athos who started speaking then, making a report in his usual clipped, factual manner. Tréville listened, his brows drawing low over his eyes as he took in what he was saying. By the time Athos had ended, he had stood and started pacing his office.

“Why am I only being told about this now?” he asked, whirling around to face them again, hands on his hips.

“We have no evidence, Sir,” Athos replied, meeting the stormy blue eyes without flinching. “Most of it is just Porthos' observations and conclusions, and the only piece of evidence does not clearly incriminate anyone.”

“We're sure about Royer bein' involved but we wanted to make sure all of them would be caught,” Porthos added.

The Captain sighed. “I'd have thought you'd have more trust in me,” he said in a low voice, disappointed. “You should know I won't stand for that.” His gaze went to Porthos and Aramis at these words – Athos had not yet been with the regiment when Porthos had undergone this particular ordeal.

Both friends shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his disappointment. “We didn't want you to be put into a delicate position without enough evidence – you have a duty to more than us,” Aramis tried to explain, and Porthos shot his friend a thankful look.

“Hrmpf.” Tréville didn't have a good argument against that, admittedly. “Still, the moment it turned from harassment to injury, I should have been informed.”

His men looked down, ashamed and suitably chastised. They had been so wrapped up in trying to protect their youngest brother, they had forgotten about their duty to their Captain and the fierce loyalty he held for his men. Finally, Aramis raised his head and stated: “We're sorry, Captain. But surely you see now why we can't leave.”

The commanding officer looked at them calmly and after a moment, he said: “On the contrary. I actually think it's all the more reason for you to go.”

Aramis and Porthos immediately burst into shocked protest but Athos was silent, his gaze intent on the Captain's face. He knew that look in those pale blue eyes. Tréville had an idea. “What do you suggest?” he asked once his brothers had calmed down, helped along by him grabbing their arms and squeezing them, indicating they should hold back.

Tréville returned to his seat and pulled out some brandy, filling tankards for all of them. “You've been watching the lad closely since the accident,” he remarked. “I noticed but put it down to your usual fussing because of the injury.” He chuckled lightly at the redness raising in Aramis' cheeks, at how Athos pulled himself up and adopted a haughty look, trying to look as if fussing was nothing he'd ever do, and at Porthos' sudden concentration on the drink in his hand. They'd never admit it but they were all terrible worriers when one of them was injured, and particularly if the one affected was a certain Gascon who had so successfully made a place for himself in their tight-knit unit. “But now I know why. I'd hazard the guess that those men have noticed it, too, and they wouldn't dare to make a move while he is so well-guarded. Actions like these are not those of courageous men.”

Porthos snorted and mumbled bitterly: “Tell me 'bout it.” The other two just nodded, none of them attempting to hide their disdain. Still, the conclusion Athos was drawing from the Captain's words was not one he liked. “You're suggesting that we leave d'Artagnan unprotected. That we use him as bait,” he said, trying but failing to keep his tone neutral – Tréville certainly heard the accusatory note in it.

The Captain raised a placating hand. “I'm afraid I'd have to say yes to the second part,” he said, ignoring the incredulous looks he earned with this statement, “not so much to the first part, though.” He gazed at them seriously in turn. “For one, you need to remember that this is a garrison full of Musketeers, and most of them like your young protégé. There are others to watch his back, even if you can't do it yourself. And second ...” he smiled slightly, “I would be amenable to only send two of you on this mission. While three men would be good, I trust that two of you would be able to do it just as effectively. However, all three of you would need to leave. To be seen leaving.”

Aramis nodded, understanding sparking in his dark eyes. “The third man could then circle around and come back to watch unseen, while those men believe us all gone and d'Artagnan on his own,” he concluded.

Porthos grumbled, clearly not entirely happy with the plan, but nodded as well, seeing the wisdom in it nonetheless. “That'll work, I guess.”

“Glad that you approve,” Tréville commented dryly. His expression was sympathetic, though, and Athos felt another rush of gratitude to this man. He didn't have to do this – as their commanding officer, he would have been well within his rights to order them to fulfil their mission, and they would not have any choice but to do it or risk being court-marshalled for dereliction of duty if they didn't and were caught. But he had offered them a solution and his assistance nevertheless and increased their chances at finally getting somewhere at the same time.

“I'll leave it to you who will be the one to stay in Paris, gentlemen. Make sure you're gone at least a couple of hours before doubling back, and let me know where the one of you staying behind is and how to contact him. I'll inform d'Artagnan while you get ready for your departure – send him up, will you? Travel safe,” the Captain said, dismissing them.

The three of them saluted him and filed out of his office. Coming down the steps into the courtyard, Athos caught d'Artagnan's eye, the young man sitting in his customary place at their table, and made a motion for him to go up to the Captain's office. As he got up and their paths crossed, the older Musketeer reached out and put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, giving it a short squeeze. If the young man wondered at what had brought about the affectionate gesture, he did not ask, just shot him a short smile and moved past them, disappearing into Tréville's office.

At the bottom of the stairs, Porthos made to turn to them but before he could start speaking, Athos stalled him with a sharp glance. “Not here,” he said in a low voice, “Aramis' room.” The other two nodded and they moved off.

Once the door had closed behind them, Porthos spoke, and Athos had known what he would say: “I'll stay. You know I'm best at remainin' unseen, so I should be the one to stay.”

Athos sighed and scrubbed a hand through his beard. “That's true, my friend, but I think you should go. This whole thing has taken quite an emotional toll on you – which none of us blames you for,” he replied patiently, exchanging a glance with Aramis that confirmed that the marksman agreed with him. While Porthos had been able to get his emotions back under control for the most part after the accident, they had all noticed the frustration, worry and anger threatening to spill forth from the dark-skinned man the longer they had been unable to make real headway in their investigation. And a frustrated and angry Porthos was a dangerous thing; while his self-control was better than many gave him credit for, once the dam burst, there was no telling what might happen.

Porthos growled: “I don't need no protectin' of my tender feelin's; I need to know the lad is safe and we'll get them.” There was desperation in the dark eyes as he looked at his friends, imploring again: “Let me stay. I need to do somethin' to make sure that happens. I can't go.”

Aramis shook his head sadly, and Athos could tell it pained him as much as it did Athos to deny their friend's request. “You're frustrated and angry, Porthos. Whoever stays needs to keep a cool head. Please, trust in Athos or me; each of us will protect d'Artagnan as fiercely as you would.”

The big Musketeer sagged back at those words, unable to deny his brothers his trust. “I know you will,” he murmured. “But ridin' away from him, not knowin' what'll happen … I don't know if I can do that.”

The medic reached out, drawing him near by the nape of his neck until their foreheads touched. “I know, my friend,” he murmured back, soothing, gently, “I know we're asking you to do the harder task. Forgive us.”

Porthos shook his head. “No … no, you're right,” he mumbled. “It's alright.”

Athos sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm glad you understand,” he said heavily. He looked thoughtfully at Aramis. “So, you or me?” There was something to be said for both options: As a sharpshooter, Aramis had lots of experience climbing on rooftops or through windows (with the latter acquired in some other … pursuits as well), so he was almost as good as Porthos at moving about unseen, and his medical knowledge and marksmanship might be handy if, God forbid, things came to a head in a dramatic fashion. On the other hand, he and Porthos were closer than Athos was to the swarthy Musketeer, and he was closer to d'Artagnan, something that came to him as a surprise again and again but which he could no longer deny. It might be a source of comfort for the Gascon to know his mentor was nearby – and he had to admit he was as loath to leave him as Porthos was.

“You,” Aramis replied without hesitation, without a trace of doubt, and Athos could not keep his surprise from his face which made the marksman chuckle. “Sending you two away would be a recipe for disaster,” he explained in a light, teasing tone, “you'd worry yourself sick, both of you, with no one to keep up your spirits, and we can't have that. My cheery disposition will be more needed on the road than here in Paris.”

Athos let the corner of his mouth curl up in a small smile, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement of the truth in Aramis' words, though he did not doubt that the marksman would do his fair share of worrying, too. “Alright, we are agreed, then?” he asked. “Then let us get ready and take our leave from our youngest.”

The other two nodded, and they dispersed to pack their saddlebags, get rations and tack their horses.

***

d'Artagnan had settled back down at the table in the courtyard after talking to Tréville and sighed. He hated being left behind when the three Inseparables went on a mission, and even more so in his current situation which involved a lot of boredom and a certain lack of feeling safe in the Musketeers' quarters. He was thankful to the Captain for having his back, ensuring him that he would enlist a few men of whom he and his three friends were convinced that they had the recruit's best interest at heart, so that he had people at the garrison watching over him, and allowing one of his friends to stay behind, but still … He would feel their absence keenly, he was sure.

He felt someone settle on the bench next to him, causing it to dip slightly at the added weight, and turned his head to see who the newcomer was. Maçon greeted him with a smile, and he returned it freely. Ever since the accident, the young Musketeer had sought him out and kept him company often when his duties allowed ít, and d'Artagnan found himself enjoying the friendship developing between them – once Maçon had stopped apologising all the time. While it was surely no match to the bond he had with the Inseparables, it was nice to have someone his age to be friend with, someone who had just recently gained his commission and still remembered vividly the months spent as a recruit before that. And he liked the big man for himself, too, though he found himself wondering at why a gentle soul like Maçon had chosen a soldier's life. All in all, there couldn't have been a better man to break his shoulder, he thought, and the grin on his face widened.

Noticing it, Maçon raised an eyebrow. “What amuses you so?” he asked.

D'Artagnan shrugged his right shoulder carefully. He did not want to voice that thought aloud, knowing that Maçon would fail to see the humour in his injury at the other man's hand causing them to become friends; so he opted for a half-truth instead: “I just thought I'm glad that I have friends like you to keep me company while those three are gone,” he waved a hand at this three brothers who were just finishing loading their saddlebags onto the horses standing ready for their departure, “and while I'm mostly confined to the garrison.” He had gotten better at taking care of his needs one-handed, though, and if he moved carelessly and jostled his left side, the pain was no longer so sharp that it took his breath away, so he was positive that while they still needed time to knit, his bones would no longer shift unless pressure was exerted on the injury itself. Maybe it was time to return to his lodgings, now that his friends were away and his only alternative would be to return to the infirmary or take an empty guest room if the garrison had one available.

Maçon smiled at the compliment, his cheeks colouring a little – d'Artagnan hadn't paid much attention to him before but in hindsight, he couldn't help but notice that he had never seen the young Musketeer talk much to anyone; he had seemed to be a bit of a loner, not for unwillingness to engage with others but more because of some deep-seated insecurity. “You'll be missing them awfully, I expect, though,” Maçon commented.

The Gascon nodded. “Of course,” he admitted readily. “They're pretty much all the family I have left.” His breath hitched in surprise at himself speaking this out loud – he had started to think of those three as brothers, as a family, for a while but so far he'd not dared speak it; even though the others called each other brother freely, he was not sure yet that he might claim the term for himself in their eyes. But it was how he felt; he could not deny it. Shaking himself, he returned his attention to Maçon. “But it's no use brooding about it, especially before they have even left,” he added, denying himself any more thoughts in that direction. Instead, he asked his companion: “Do you have a family? Outside the Musketeers, I mean?”

The young Musketeer nodded eagerly. “My father is a minor noble living near Rouen, and I have a brother and three sisters.” A bit more subdued, he added: “I miss them a lot, too.”

d'Artagnan reached out and put a sympathetic hand on Maçon's shoulder. He certainly knew how it was to miss your family – his father's death was recent enough that he still felt the pang of longing for the only blood family he had left and which had been taken from him so violently, no matter how much his new brothers had helped to fill the hole his passing had left behind. Trying to keep the conversation light, he asked: “And are they all as big as you?”

His question had the intended effect, as Maçon's grey eyes cleared of the melancholy that had taken residence there, and he chuckled lightly. “My brother is, and one of my sisters is almost as tall as us, though not quite as broad.”

“You must be quite the impressive picture when you're all together, then,” d'Artagnan said with a smile, which made Maçon laugh.

“Maybe so but size isn't everything. Actually, if you want to put the fear of God in a man, set my youngest sister on him, and he'll be quaking in his boots in no time. And she's tiny.”

“True, never underestimate a woman,” d'Artagnan agreed, his thoughts going to a certain landlady – Constance was not tiny but she was more than capable of putting the fear of God in someone, even his friends and him sometimes, and none of them was a coward.

They chatted amicably for a while, the Gascon enjoying the fond ease with which Maçon spoke of his family, though he learned with sorrow that the other young man had shared his fate in becoming motherless before reaching adulthood. The three Inseparables had finished their preparations in the meantime and came to stand before them, ready to take their leave from him. Maçon glanced up at them and with a shy smile and a nod of his head, he moved away a bit, allowing d'Artagnan to rise and say goodbye to his friends in peace.

Aramis was first, drawing his young friend close and resting his hands on both his upper arms. “Now listen,” he said seriously, “promise me you won't do anything stupid with that shoulder, alright? The physician has promised to check on you every couple of days, so I don't want to hear any complaints or, God forbid, anything about new injuries when we get back.”

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes at the medic's fussing but it was coloured with fondness, and he smiled as he replied: “I promise, Aramis. I'll be careful.”

Aramis nodded, satisfied, and gave him a quick hug before releasing him and letting Porthos take his place. The big Musketeer hesitated to envelop him in one of his usual bone-crushing hugs, fearful of causing the lad pain accidentally, until d'Artagnan stepped forward, shaking his head and grinning. “I'm not that fragile, Porthos,” he said and pulled him into a one-armed hug.

Porthos returned the grin ruefully but was definitely much more gentle in hugging the young man back than he would usually be. “Keep your chin up, yeah?” he said in a low voice. “You've got people around, and we'll get back as soon as we can.”

d'Artagnan nodded and patted his back with his good hand. “I'll be fine. Don't worry so much and keep your mind on the mission,” he said, knowing how much of a danger distraction could be on the road.

“Alright, yeah, I will,” Porthos promised. He let go of him and stepped back so that the Gascon could turn towards Athos.

His mentor placed a hand at his neck and pulled him forward to rest his forehead against the young man's. “I'll see you soon,” he said quietly. d'Artagnan smiled, the words confirming to him what he had suspected after Aramis and Porthos' goodbye: Athos would be the one to come back after a detour to make it look like he was leaving, as the Captain had promised. He could not deny that knowing the older Musketeer would be watching out for him warmed and buoyed him in a particular way, though it would also have been a comfort to know Aramis or Porthos nearby. And he was glad to know that Porthos would have his oldest friend at his side, aware of how much the situation had upset the dark-skinned man and how much he had to hate not being there to protect d'Artagnan himself.

He dipped his head to Athos' words. “Stay safe, all of you,” he said, and his mentor gave him one of his rare, short half-smiles, squeezing the nape of his neck, before he turned away and motioned to the others to mount up. With one last glance at the young man and a salute to Tréville who was watching from the balcony in front of his office, the three Musketeers wheeled their mounts around, and then they were gone. d'Artagnan stood, feeling suddenly bereft at their departure, and it took a few deep breaths until he turned back to Maçon, a smile affixed to his face, as he asked: “So, what are your plans for the day? Any chance you might keep a poor invalid company at the mid-day meal?”

***

Athos leant back in the rickety stair and sighed. He poured himself a cup of wine and took a first sip, savouring the taste. It was hard not to drink quickly but he had promised himself that he would pace his drinking as long as his vigil lasted – he needed his wits about him, no matter how much he yearned to calm his thoughts, racing and spiralling when he could do nothing but keep watch, with the blanket of drunkenness. For now, he could relax at least a bit, though. Tréville had just called d'Artagnan into his office, so Athos could take a break for one hour, knowing that he was kept busy by their commander. It was the fourth day since Porthos and Aramis had left, and Tréville had arranged for this on the first day – officially to alleviate some of d'Artagnan's boredom. Or maybe to introduce him to a different kind of boredom. The young man would be called to the office for two hours each day to help the Captain with the paperwork since he was able to write and fetch Tréville things one-handed. It was a good idea to give the restless Gascon a chance to feel somewhat useful, and it gave his guardian angel the chance to have a meal, stretch his legs and take care of any business, and Athos was thankful for the short reprieve.

It had been four days, and so far, nothing had happened. Athos had found a spot in an unused storage room in the garrison's uppermost level that gave him a good vantage point of the courtyard below, and for the most part, he did not have to move from it much since d'Artagnan spent most of his time down at the table the four brothers so often shared. He would observe the men at their training, and it wasn't hard to read his desire to be among them in the tension radiating from his posture. He helped Jacques if he could, by holding the horses the stable boy had saddled for Musketeers departing on a mission, fetching tack or brushing their coats, and Athos was glad that the lad could do as much, knowing how much being around the horses served to calm his young friend. Still, being forced into inaction was hard on him, even if it made watching him somewhat easier. Athos had been surprised and somewhat concerned when d'Artagnan had left the garrison in the evening of the first day, and he had followed him to see him return to his room at the Bonacieux's house. While he was glad to see him regain some of his independence, Athos was nevertheless torn about this development: He believed that d'Artagnan would be safer there than he was at the garrison, as much as it pained him to think this. Bonacieux did not like his young lodger but he was in need of coin, as little as the Gascon could bring. And Constance … She's a married woman, he heard d'Artagnan say, the denial as transparent as the finest crystal. His beautiful landlady did pose a special danger to the young man but it was not to his physical well-being, and he had no doubt that she would protect him as fiercely as any of his brothers, should someone try to get to d'Artagnan there. But that still left the way from the garrison to their house, and with the added anonymity of the busy streets and without the presence of other, well-meaning Musketeers, it might offer too good an opportunity to anyone intending to bring harm to him. His worries had been somewhat mitigated, however, when he noticed that he was not the only one following the young man – his other shadow was Le Beau, an older Musketeer whom the Captain trusted, and so did Athos. Tréville obviously had kept his promise and had d'Artagnan well-guarded.

Still, he found himself wishing something would happen. It was wearing down on him to wait, and he could only imagine how much more it would do so on d'Artagnan, the one truly at risk. What if those men did not make any other attempt at harassing him for as long as Porthos and Aramis were gone – or even longer? If they did not manage to flush them out or catch them in the act, this threat would continue hanging over d'Artagnan's head, and after what Aramis and Porthos had shared about the latter's experience, they would never be able to fully relax their guard; these men's malice would poison what was supposed to be their young friend's new home, his new family. If nothing happened, their best bet would be to get Royer for the sabotaged blade, letting the rest of them escape punishment. The thought left a sour taste in Athos' mouth, and he took another sip of his wine.

His thoughts were disrupted by a light knock at the door, and he raised an eyebrow. Tréville was the only one who knew where he was, having been informed by a messenger Athos had sent after getting installed in this room on the first day. So this was undoubtedly a message from the Captain, and he felt worry pool in his gut – well, it looked as if he got his wish after all. Something must have happened.

Opening the door, he found himself face to face with Jacques, the stable boy, who greeted him quickly and a bit nervously. “The Captain sends this,” he said, handing over a roll of parchment.

Athos thanked him and opened the Captain's message immediately. As he did so, a smaller piece of parchment fell from it and landed on the floor. At first, he paid it no attention but then he read Tréville's words:

 Athos,

 d'Artagnan got this message this morning, just before I called him up to me. It was sent with a messenger, a small boy who only told Favreau to give it to d'Artagnan, or so he told the lad. I will question Favreau for more details later but I don't expect much to come of it. At least they have now shown their hand. Be alert.

 Tréville

Athos bent and snatched up the piece of parchment. In large, ugly letters, it bore an even uglier message:

 You will never be a Musketeer. Leave, or you will regret it. The next time, you will suffer more than a broken bone.

He swore, crushing the piece of parchment in his fist. He had seen Favreau speak with d'Artagnan when he had entered the courtyard but had paid it no mind as the interaction seemed harmless and Favreau was not anyone he suspected of involvement in this; he had not seen where the Musketeer had come from. He hoped that Favreau's words to d'Artagnan were true and they did not have to add him to their list of suspects – it was certainly believable that whoever had sent the message had used an outside person to carry it. It was not that hard to find a child, of the Court of Miracles or otherwise, who was willing to give a message to a Musketeer in exchange for a shiny coin.

With a loud exhale of air, he went over to his table and penned a quick note for Tréville, sending Jacques off with it and a short thanks. Then he returned to his chair and sat, taking another sip of wine as he pondered this new development. As the Captain had said, they had shown their hand with this message. Everything that had happened before could still be construed as minor pranks or an accident, even if the conspirators knew they had the broken blade. But this was an open threat. How could they deal with it? They could go on the offensive – Tréville could openly address the regiment, telling them about the note and ensuring that everyone knew what would happen if the threat was carried out. But they would be back where they started: The threat might be eliminated for some time but given they were brazen enough to make it so openly, it would not ensure that it was truly gone, and their earlier actions would remain unpunished. What would happen if they did not acknowledge it, though? Would it embolden those men enough to act? This would give them the chance to catch them but he was terrified to think of what they might do to d'Artagnan, seeing now that with such hatred, they could no longer expect harmless harassment like in the beginning. It made him sick to his stomach that he must have served with these men for years, and he had never known them for the vile creatures they were now turning out to be; he could only expect that this sentiment was shared by his Captain who had worked so hard to instil a great sense of honour and brotherhood in his regiment.

Athos downed the remaining wine in a big gulp and set down the cup harder than necessary. He was quite sure which option Tréville, and most importantly, d'Artagnan, the reckless boy, would be taking, and while his tactician's brain agreed, he worried. He would never be able to look Aramis and Porthos in the eye again if something happened to d'Artagnan …

[him-e]

Sansa and Ned, kingmakers

x, x

It’s been often discussed how Sansa and Ned share some character traits and how their storylines have common points (Littlefinger being a mutual false ally, the Vale, etc). But with season 6, everything clicked into place, at least for me. I know many viewers were frustrated that Jon was made king instead of Sansa, and while I think it would have worked MUCH better if the writers had kept Robb’s will in the story, I would make the opposite argument—that it was a good writing decision, as it highlights Sansa’s political trajectory as a mirror to Ned’s. Because, like Ned before her, it isn’t in Sansa’s cards (at least at this stage) to be a queen, but to ride at a king’s side, and be, at least in part, the architect of his success. (warning: spoilers for season 7)

(pictured: Ned and Sansa smiling affectionately at their bffs)

to begin with, there are a few narrative parallels between Robert’s rebellion and Jon&Sansa’s /Reconquest of Winterfell/.

both are a reaction to a violent, sadistic tyrant;

both were sparked by an explicit threat to the rebels’ right to exist: Aerys wanted Ned and Robert’s heads, Ramsay more or less threatened to rape, torture and kill everyone with the Pink Letter;

both are in response/connected to unforgivable crimes committed against the blood of Winterfell (Rickon is Brandon, the trueborn heir horribly executed, but he’s also Lyanna, the captive Stark, the other catalyst of the war, dying tragically in front of her brother who came to her too late);

both wars end with a bittersweet victory, tainted by the burial of (a) beloved sibling(s);

the prelude to both is a… complicated journey back to Winterfell that begins in the Vale. In Sansa’s case, it happens long before the wheels of the war are set in motion; in a sense it is what sets those wheels in motion (although I’m talking specifically about her arc in the show, I’m moderately confident that she will make that journey in the books too, and it might be an even closer parallel to Ned if she, as it’s often speculated, travels by boat from the Vale to White Harbor) 

Sansa’s saving the day with the knights of the Vale is reminiscent of the battle of the bells, where Ned came to Stoney Sept with a Stark/Tully/Arryn army (!!!) in time to save the wounded Robert and turn the tables against the royalists;

finally, both wars bookend the secret of Jon’s parentage: the end of Robert’s rebellion marked the beginning of Ned’s lie about Jon, the conclusion of the battle for Winterfell, with Jon being crowned king at Sansa’s side, heralds the end of the secret and the unveiling of the truth—clearly for the audience, and soon for the characters as well.

Father and daughter, in different times and circumstances, make the history of the seven kingdoms through a war that sees them as co-leaders and that ends with the extinction of an entire house and the rise of a new king. 

it’s interesting how Sansa’s position in the war mirrors and contrasts Ned’s. 

neither of them were supposed to raise the banners during their life. Ned as a second son, Sansa as a girl, they weren’t prepared to deal with this. But due to extreme circumstances and extreme violence perpetrated against them and their blood, they had no choice but take the survival of their home in their own hands.

not unlike Sansa with lord Glover & Lyanna Mormont, Ned was initially met with skepticism and had some trouble convincing people to jump on the rebel bandwagon.

they both have extremely high, personal stakes in this war (even more so for Sansa, who has directly experienced Ramsay’s sadism on her own skin). 

but they take almost a sidekick role, more or less implicitly pushing their partner forward as as they recognize the latter makes for a better “face” for the rebellion (Robert because he had an actual claim to the iron throne, Jon because he’s male and a relatively experienced commander)—it is Robert’s rebellion, much as it is the battle of the Bastards.

they’re at his side when he triumphs (Sansa literally, as she’s seated next to Jon during his crowning), but the victory is tainted by an opening rift between them. For Ned and Robert, it was the disagreement over the brutal murders of Elia’s children, for Jon and Sansa it’s a mix of mutual trust issues and Sansa’s growing resentment for being passed over; in both cases, what began as a closely-knit duo evolves into at least one person being severely disillusioned about the other (and we know that in Ned’s case the disillusionment re:Robert was never really resolved, but intensified when 15 years later he is named Hand).

unlike Ned towards the Iron Throne, however, Sansa has an interest and an actual claim for the seat of Winterfell (that she’s only partially and ambiguously aware of during the whole campaign), and Jon’s rise as King in the North happens at the expense of her own birthright being literally bypassed in front of her eyes. This makes the conflict between Jon and Sansa more layered, and possibly running deeper, than the one between Ned and Robert.

there’s a sibling or sibling-like relationship between both Ned and Robert (fostered together) and Jon and Sansa (raised as half-siblings). While Ned knew that Robert wasn’t his actual brother, seeing him in that sense was a deliberate choice of the heart. For Sansa, it’s almost the opposite: the reason she trusts Jon and is willing to ride at his side is largely because of a sibling bond they actually don’t share (though a family bond still stands, via Lyanna). Who knows if Sansa eventually comes to make Ned’s choice—prioritize nurture over nature and accept Jon as a brother despite not sharing any parent with him. It will be interesting to see how this evolves post r+l=j.

at some point, both Ned and Sansa end up doing something against the other person’s back and keeping a dangerous secret that could be perceived as a betrayal and does contain the seed for a potential threat to the other person’s rule. Ned secretly adopts the last natural son of Rhaegar Targaryen, passing him off as his own bastard. Sansa secretly asks for LF’s help, allowing him into Winterfell’s politics, with all his schemes and personal agendas (and we know LF will try to undermine Jon’s rule). Notice how we’re supposed to sympathize with Ned, but not with Sansa. Ned’s protecting his nephew, while it looks like Sansa’s motivation is either ambition or a lingering hostility towards Jon’s bastardy, neither of which seems particularly noble.

again sooo unlike Ned, Sansa is (seemingly) positioned as the ruthless one in dealing with the remnants of house Bolton AND those who didn’t support their cause despite being bound to house Stark by centuries of vassalage. See: “they can hang”, her execution of Ramsay—and even before that, in season 5, her possibly planting in Ramsay the idea of killing Roose, Walda and the newborn heir (I’m not saying that Sansa intentionally used Ramsay as a proxy to wipe out the entirety of house Bolton, but… yeah, it makes an interesting counterpoint to Ned’s righteous fury at the deaths of little Aegon and Rhaenys).

one of the reasons why Ned was frustrated with Robert at the end of the Rebellion is that Robert ignored his advice to send Jaime to the Night’s Watch as punishment for breaking his oath. Guess who’s also frustrated that the king doesn’t listen to her advice?

yeah.

NOTE: due to the purpose of this post, Jon takes Robert’s place in this Rebellion 2.0, but it goes without saying that’s merely a circumstantial parallel, as the two couldn’t be more dissimilar in personality. Of course, Jon is also = Ned in this scenario, as many of the things above also apply to him, see especially the /going to war against a tyrant who left him no choice and committed atrocities against his family/; also the whole parallel/contrast situation re: Lyanna and Sansa, with Ned rushing to save his sister who was dying inside a tower VS Jon watching his sister come to him after saving herself by jumping off a tower (and how both Sansa’s and Lyanna’s captivities were a major factor in the war, though in different ways). (there ARE some fascinating aspects to Sansa’s season 5 storyline, imo).

I’m not going into this in depth, but it would also be interesting to compare/contrast all the above with the other “kingship” experience in house Stark’s recent history, Robb/Cat. (note how Catelyn has a “breaking of trust” moment too, when she released Jaime behind Robb’s back.) I’ve often seen Sansa compared to Cat via their common role of counselors/supporters of the newly made king, and not without reason, given the deliberate similarities between the two king in the north scenes and the two storylines in general (they were pretty heavy-handed with the Cat/Sansa parallels throughout season 6). But while Catelyn’s role is more in line with a typical mentor figure, due to the generational gap and, well, Catelyn being Robb’s mother, Ned and Sansa are, respectively, Robert’s and Jon’s age peers. Their role is less of advisors and more of co-leaders. 

Catelyn generally took a socially-conscious sidelined role, and exerted her influence through soft power and private conversations, or as an envoy. Sansa’s role is more upfront. She marches at Jon’s side, not behind. She participates to parleys and war councils. She discusses military plans. She addresses their allies and bannermen directly, and personally demands fealty, even when Jon’s right at her side. She even shares with Jon the same cloak and Stark insignia, establishing the two of them as part of the same package. 

A package that she personally designed, btw.

(just a thought, does this make Dadvos the Jon Arryn of the situation? I bet it does.)

But here’s the problem: Sansa is a woman. She doesn’t physically lead her men to battle. She’s a leader, but not a military commander. This makes her political role in all of this harder to define, compared to the one Ned had in Robert’s Rebellion. Is Sansa a part of Jon’s retinue? A privileged advisor? Is she the equivalent of some, huh, queen consort, minus the consort part (I guess)? Is she Hand of the King? Is she Lady of Winterfell, implying that the two titles, lord of winterfell and king in the north, are now de facto distinct? And if so, is she Jon’s first vassal?

Or is she nothing but the king’s sister and the next one in line for succession (until Bran shows up)?

It’s all very blurry because it’s an unprecedented situation, at least in the North, and I think this confusion is at the root of a lot of the current tension between Jon and Sansa. It’s also why we see her in various stages of assertiveness throughout season 6: she is, herself, uncertain of her role, of what her prerogatives and boundaries are (see the war council pre-botb, in which she waits until everyone leaves to question Jon’s plans: it’s like, the more Jon grows into his role as military commander, the nearer the big battle gets, the more Sansa retreats to the shadows, painfully conscious that this is not her purview. The more anxious she gets, too). It’s clear that one of the main future challenges for Jon and Sansa as a team will be to sort out this confusion and define their respective roles.

in light of these parallels, what to expect from season 7?

It looks likely (and spoilers confirm) that Jon and Sansa will have to part ways, at least for a while. Like Robert and Ned at the end of the Rebellion, Jon has to consolidate his rule across the country and this will bring him South, to Dragonstone and King’s Landing, while Sansa stays in Winterfell, entrenched behind its walls, reluctant to ever leave it again, like Ned himself did for so long. But fast forward 15 years after the Rebellion, and you’ll see Ned in King’s Landing again, sitting on the Iron Throne in Robert’s stead, as Hand of the King, and that’s exactly what Sansa is going to do in Winterfell during Jon’s absence. This will be a great testing ground to exercise her political skills, but what I’m actually interested in is how she might—like her father before her—be involved in a mission to thwart a treasonous plot against the King, a plot that features Petyr Baelish in a prominent role. The person Ned trusted to help him expose Robert’s enemies, and who betrayed him. This person is now whispering in Sansa’s ear, earning her trust, making himself *indispensable* like he did with Ned in King’s Landing. This person is simultaneously one of the puppeteers behind the War of the Five Kings, orchestrated Ned’s execution by manipulating Joffrey behind the scenes, and is now trying to use Sansa to undermine Jon and take control of the North. This person has to be dealt with VERY carefully, because, not unlike the Lannisters in AGOT, he holds a good portion of the wealth and the military resources that allow Jon and Sansa to maintain their rule.

It’s time for Sansa to come full circle, by confronting and defeating her father’s nemesis and fix the ultimate wrong, the original wound** that split house Stark in several broken pieces and sent it on a downward spiral: Ned’s death. Where Ned failed—his begrudging trust in Littlefinger being the reason of his fall—his daughter, his legacy, will prevail, by virtue of knowing the enemy intimately enough to predict his strategy and use it against him. The Ned in Sansa has shrunk (a bit) to make room for something of Littlefinger’s, and that’s precisely why she’s going to win this battle.

** because it is the original wound, it makes sense that Sansa, despite being formally in charge, isn’t alone in this. That Arya and Bran will play a role in casting LF down. It will be a joint effort by all of Ned’s children to bring the end of the man who destroyed their father.

in conclusion:

season 6 has firmly convinced me of Sansa’s potential as a political agent, but not necessarily as a queen—a ruling lady of an important castle or region, or, even better, a /hand of the king/ type. She’s still learning, she’s made some obvious mistakes along the way, and the fact that her political training comes from Littlefinger whereas Ned’s came from Jon Arryn inevitably makes her approach to /power/ a bit different than Ned’s—a bit more on the *scheming* side, as it seems that Sansa is growing more and more confident with the Game, in a way Ned was never able to be. 

But that’s only for the better.