#beyond parody. he should hate himself

[bbqhooligan]

Also he should be put down like a dog for that transphobic and racist bar

what is he even doing like brotherrrrr this guy STINKS

WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING GRANDPA WITH DEMENTIA. ILL PARK YOUR SON

[hamliet]

What do you make of the brothel scene in 1x09? The one with Aemond and Sir Criston?

Honestly my thoughts are that it hurt to see Gaemon Palehair, knowing what Aegon will then do to his mother and what will happen to that poor child. (Okay, we don't have confirmation that was Gaemon, but the books make it pretty obvious).

Okay, okay, I'll discuss the actual scene. It highlights one of the main themes: of seeing people--loved ones--as objects rather than as people, which is an overall theme in George's entire series.

Criston: every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.

Of course, the hypocrisy of this coming from a man who has referred to Rhaenyra as a "spoiled cunt" and hates her for his own decision to have sex with her is... beyond the pale, and obviously intended to make us sideeye. But it also underlies another problem with Criston, and with society:

He doesn't see women as people.

It does not matter if he's speaking of them with reverence or disdain. He sees them as images of something else, as objects, not as human beings who think, feel, want, and lust like himself and like everyone else. Speaking down to them or speaking highly of them is ultimately two sides to the same coin: they aren't people.

It reminds me of modern-day religions who argue that women are equal to men, but just different, you see, and hence their roles are different. They can't preach because they're more spiritual, so it's a good thing that they can't do something, after all! (It's just misogyny.)

Along these lines... Aemond's claims to want to be king are fair. He actually like, wants to do it, but his whole claim rests on Aegon, so. Again, it's seeing Aegon as a thing, a stepping stone. Aegon knows this and has always chafed against ruling because of it. To be fair, they should have listened to Aegon. He's not suited to rule. Like, I really find the whole "Team Green/Team Black" argument in fandom ludicrous and almost a hilarious parody, but the argument that Rhaenyra was unsuited to rule but the king himself sobbing and causing a public brawl while screaming "I'm not fit!" is... is, well, illogical. Let's go with that.

Anyways, patriarchy hurts men too, feudalism and monarchies are institutions of patriarchy, and all attempts to keep the family together because "duty" just wind up hurting all of them.

Throughout this scene, Arryk and Erryk Cargyll, identical twins, are present to actually stand in contrast to the tragedy and flaws of Criston, Aemond, and Aegon. While they will eventually kill each other fighting on opposite sides, they retain their view of each other's humanity--a view they apply to all, as demonstrated with their comments about the children in the brothel. They see them as people. No one else does. Their presence is actually quite a brilliant inclusion to emphasize themes. Please lean more into this in Season 2 :)))

[nat-20s]

for @jonmartinweek THE FINAL DAY prompt- Pining/Longing. This one takes place, well, you’ll see

~*~

A Study of Longing, Told in Six Parts

Part 1

Martin wonders if he’ll ever get to a point in his life where kindness doesn’t feel like a shock to the system. It’s already surprising enough when Tim and Sasha invite him for drinks in a genuine offer of friendship, but for that kindness to come from Jon? Martin has no idea what to do with being believed, let alone being protected.

And now here he is, blearily opening his eyes only to find himself staring at a mass of hair. As he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the shape resolves into the form of one Jonathan Sims. He had apparently fallen asleep with his head cushioned on his arms, against the cot Martin was currently occupying. It’s not an image that Martin can fully process at the moment, so instead he debates whether or not to wake Jon up or quietly get off the cot to let him get some much needed sleep. He decides on the former, both thinking that it would be hell on his back to keep sleeping in that position, and that he would like an explanation.

Hand hovering above Jon’s shoulder, but not fully touching, Martin oh so quietly calls out, “Jon?”

That’s all it takes for Jon’s head to rush up with a gasp, glasses askew, and with the texture of his sleeves pressed in red marks on his face. It is a horribly endearing look. “Hrn?”

Martin opens his mouths, closes it, and waits for Jon to get his bearings. Jon smooths down his (frankly ridiculous) sweater-vest, adjusts his glasses, and slips back on his professional demeanor. “My apologies, Martin, I, ah, must have fallen asleep.”

Glancing to the crappy little digital clock resting on a file box next to him, Martin rolls his eyes. Only Jon could be quite so stuffy at 4:32 in the morning. “No apologies needed. Though, um, was there? Something you needed or..?”

Jon shakes his head and stands up, dusting off imaginary grime. “No, no, nothing like that. I had just, er. I had heard you cry out and I- I wanted to make sure nothing was going on. It appears that it simply a nightmare,so I will be.. taking my leave. Now.”

He doesn’t know what part of himself replies, “Oh! You don’t have to go!,” but he replies it anyway. Jon does that little thoughtful frown at him, which forces him to continue, “I mean, if you wanted the cot. For sleeping. I’ll probably be awake for the rest of the night, so, you know, no skin off my back .”

“Ah. No, that’s quite alright, Martin. Try to get some more sleep, there’s still a long work day ahead.”

Jon doesn’t even wait for a response before turning on his heel and leaving. Martin sort of hates how much he wanted him to stay.

Part 2

Jon is laughing. Jon is terrified, all the damn time, and yet, somehow, he’s laughing. Honestly, he was starting to wonder if he was still capable of it. Martin is gesticulating wildly with his fork, animated in a way that Jon’s only ever seen when in they’re in the middle of a rather silly debate. He thinks this lunch’s topic was something like whether or not snakes were cute? He lost the thread of conversation about half an hour ago, honestly. Covering his mouth, he lets the giggles run through his whole body, shaking his shoulders and heating his core. He feels light, heady, like he’s reminiscing with an old friend and they’re both on the edge of having had too much to drink.

He only wishes he could trust this feeling. He wishes that he could trust Martin, that they were normal coworkers having a normal lunch, that the previous person in Jon’s position had gone into an easy retirement instead of being violently murdered. He wishes he hadn’t read that letter telling him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Martin, Martin, who took him to lunch and brought him tea and seemed so very warm in so very cold circumstances, was lying to him.

Jon stops laughing.

Part 3

Of course, the second his body hits the simultaneously stiff and weirdly lumpy motel mattress, his phone goes off. It may only be about 8 pm, but he’s tired, and he’s sore, and he’s had a persistent headcold for the past week for some unholy reason, the last thing he wants to do is talk. However, only about four people have the number to the burner cell, and they’re almost certainly have a purpose behind their call.

Closing his eyes and letting out a sigh that turns into more of a groan, he picks up on the 4th ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jon! It’s Martin, I’m not sure if you have my number programmed in that phone, or if it even has caller ID if you do. Anyway, it’s been about a week since I’ve heard anything, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t, y’know, dead or arrested or anything.”

His previously tense and aching muscles all relax, without him consciously deciding to relax them, and a sleepy smile spreads across his face, because some time in the past year he’s become a parody of himself. Yes, maybe he should be more affronted by how much Martin’s tinny voice brings him comfort, but he’s had a rather terrible time of things since...since he began work in the archives, really, and he’s worn down enough that he can admit he misses his friend.

Huh. Friends. They are, aren’t they? Wonder when that happened. (He can guess, something involving a fake CV admission, but he doesn’t feel like it right now.) “Martin, I recognize your voice, no need to introduce yourself.”

“Right! Yes, uh, ‘course..of course you can. Right. Sooo...I take it you’re not dead, then.”

“Correct. I haven’t been arrested, either.” It’s only sort of a comforting lie, so Jon thinks it can be forgiven.

“Good. Great! Yeah, that’s...that’s good.”

The conversation could probably end there. Jon could probably tell Martin good night, and they’d hang up, and Jon could get the sleep he had been so desperately craving not moments ago. Somehow, he thinks that neither of them want that. Scrambling for something to talk about, Jon replies, “Hang on, isn’t it something like 2am over there?”

“It...might be.”

“Martin!”

“What! It’s not like you have a monopoly on bad sleeping habits. Besides, I was up anyway, and I just..”

“Just what?”

“I just missed your voice.”

Oh. Heat rushes to his cheeks, and tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes, and god. He had missed Martin’s voice too. “Really? I know you’ve had to listen to a fair number of tapes lately, thought you might be sick of it by now.”

“No. I mean, I am a bit tired of tapes, honestly, but even the ones that you recorded, that not really your voice, is it? I mean it is, but it doesn’t sound like you when you’re actually, um, you. I wanted..I wanted to hear you.”

Jon’s far too worn out to deal with that sentiment, and the way that it makes his heart clench. So instead  of addressing it, he says, “I am very close to being asleep.”

“Oh. Right, sorry, I’ll let you go-”

“No! No. Um. Would you mind staying on the line? Until I’m gone? I-I like hearing your voice. As well.”

“Oh! Sure, yeah, definitely. Anything in particular you want me to talk about?”

“Whatever you like. Something nice?”

“All right. I can do that. Um. Did I tell you about this little yarn shop I found the other day. It’s called ‘Puttin’ on the knitz’, and it’s…”

Jon peacefully drifts off, listening to the voice of the man who he can only admit in moments such as these, he wishes was in this bed, laying beside him.

Part 4

please come back please come back for the love of god come back I can’t believe you’re doing this do you have any idea how stupid this is come back to me come back come back come back

Part 5

There is plenty of things to long for in the apocalypse. A decent cuppa. The relief of actual sleep. Murdering Jonah Magnus. For there not to be a apocalypse. They are grateful, however, to not have to long for each other.

Part 6

Martin comes to without a knife in his hand, or bloodstains on his clothing. Those, under other circumstances, would be good things.

Martin comes to, laying in the grass, without anyone beside him. He barely has the moment to feel agony spike through him before he’s out once more.

There are no Jonathan Sims admitted to the hospital. As far as he can tell, no one was admitted into the hospital at the same time as him, and certainly no one with a stab wound.

There are thousands of ‘Jonathan Sims UK’, typed desperately into a library computer search bar, wielding mostly results about a sport manager and a romance novelist. None of the images are of the right person.

Sometimes Martin puts one foot in front of the other, carefully blank in heart and head. Surviving, even  during times that he’s not sure he wants to, is one of his greatest abilities.

Sometimes Martin despairs.

On the worst nights, he tries to call the Lonely back to him, tries to be swallowed whole. It never works. He’s not sure if it’s because the fears aren’t in the reality or if they’re not established enough to have any leverage or if his connection has simply been broken. (He doubts the last reason. He hasn’t been this alone since Tim’s funeral. Even then, Melanie had thrown a few stilted condolences towards him. No one is aware enough of him to give condolences now. He misses Melanie. He misses all of them. He misses Jon like a gaping, bleeding wound misses skin.)

Seven months later, and he has enough money saved and identity built that he moves on to Scotland. The little village they had been adjacent to exists in this reality. Daisy’s cottage does not.

On a whim, he enters the yarn shop. He’s not going to pick anything up, hobbies are the last thing he can focus on, but it’s nice to look. To feel the various textures, to take in the rich variance of colors, to, hopefully be present in his own body, if only for a moment.

Martin steps in. The bell chimes. He’s there. Standing in front of him. Whole. In a cry that’s closer to a gasp, he calls out, “JON!”

Jon turns, looks up at him, recognizes him even before he’s even fully seen him. It’s his Jon, he’s here he’s here he’s here. The callback of “MARTIN!” sounds like it was punched out of him, the start of a sob and a laugh all at once.

In a blink, they’re together, their embrace a tangle of limbs, a collision of lips, a mixture of tears. Martin can’t tell which of them is saying the litany of “thank god thank god thank god” and who’s repeating “it’s you it’s you it’s you.”

It’s Jon that’s telling him, “I knew you had to be here. I knew it, because I kept thinking. Surely. Surely this new universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to allow me to live, but to make me live without you.”

It’s Martin that replies, “I didn’t know. I thought it would be that cruel. Please don’t make me go through that again.”

Jon pulls him in tighter, eliminating the centimeter of space between them. Speaking into Martin’s neck, whispered in fierce devotion, Jon promises, “Never again. Never again. You and me. Together. For the rest of our lives.”

Barely discernible through his sobbing, Martin tells him, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~*~

There are people that think that wanting is more worthwhile than having. Martin thinks, frankly, that those people have never been in love.

[kelluinox]

Well, I read snk 139. And regret it.

1) Soooo right off the bat we have Armin and his condescending patronizing. Why am I not surprised. Sure, let's blame Eren for being fucking idiots and demand that he apologize to a girl who molested his corpse. Eren should've kicked Armin more.

2) FINALLY Armin gets it. FINALLY. Intelligent character you say? Judging by how long it took him to realize what Eren was doing - I think not.

3) God I don't like this narrative of keeping your humanity. I really don't. Season 1 conveyed a completely different idea.

4) ........ Well there goes any respect I had for Isayama. Ymir was in love with Karl Fritz?!? Stockholm syndrome much?!? That is not a pure emotion!! What the fuck?!? There are so many things wrong with this, I can't even—

5) Wait does this confirm that Eren didn't know about that disgusting kiss?!? Now I feel even more sick. And seriously, seeing Mikasa force herself on a disembodied head convinced Ymir to abandon Fritz and cured her of her Stockholm Syndrome??? How???

6) So Eren did send Dina after his mom to put himself on a certain path to save Paradis? Damn, that's brutal and heartbreaking at the same time. Imagine having to sacrifice your own mother in order to save your people. My heart...

7) Okay, I will seriously fight Armin now. MIKASA ISN'T OWED SHIT AND NEITHER ARE YOU AFTER THE WAY YOU'VE TREATED EREN FOR THE ENTIRETY OF THIS MANGA. And just because Mikasa risked her life to save Eren's (although he never asked her to) he is under no obligation to return her feelings so fuck off. I swear to God Armin has to be one of the most hypocritical and unlikeable characters in SNK by now.

8) ......... Please tell me I'm hallucinating. Isayama don't do this to me. Don't ruin Eren this way, I'm begging you. Making him a lovesick possessive idiot?! Are you serious?!

9) IT'S FUCKING GRISHA! I KNEW IT! But I also can't feel happy because I'm hating this conversation so much. So thanks.

10) Finally Eren gets some fucking gratitude. But Armin will let this conversation go to waste. That much has already been shown.

11) Well, 138 was fucking pointless. Thanks for nothing, Isayama.

12) This is so cheesy and stupid I just can't help but laugh, oh my god. Who wrote these dialogues?? Everybody fucking crying and praising Eren? "What a man you are" PFFFFFT. This is so stupid it has become comedic.

13) And the promotion of unhealthy relationships continues as Annie embraces the man who abused her her entire life.

14) And here we have the survivors talking to the dead in a happy ending. Can this get any more cliche? Someone please kill me now. End my suffering.

15) Fuck Karina. She doesn't get to apologize or demand Reiner to stay with her. I know several abusive mothers and they all deserved to have their asses abandoned by their children. All of them. I've supported several friends with mother issues, I know what I'm talking about.

16) Can Mikasa stop touching Eren's head? If anyone has to carry him, let it be Armin. Stalker kasa is giving me the heebie-jeebies. I feel like I need to wash my hands every time I see her, I feel so dirty and disgusted.

17) And Marley are pointing their guns again. Siiigh. Why did the Alliance save these guys again?

18) What does it fucking matter?!?! Wasn't the entire point of your speech before the Alliance arrived that you were all equal?!?! Why the hell are you asking whether they're humans or titans, thus showcasing your continued racism?!?!

19) Like hell you did Armin. Although I suppose it does make sense that he would protect his psychotic friend by claiming her 'achievement' of killing Eren as his own. God knows, her mental health is bad already. If she gets attention for killing Eren she just might go on a beheading spree, kissing everyone she kills on the way.

20) Okay, Historia and her child are so cute. Gaaaah. Even though I so far hate everything about this, I'm saving this panel of Historia holding her little girl. I'm not made of stone. But also thanks for officially making Historia irrelevant after setting up so much.

21) Great. The Rumbling is pointless. Eldia is forming a military now. The survivors of the world probably will too. Nobody learned their fucking lesson and this endless fighting will continue. Just peachy.

22) My god everyone is a parody of themselves now. Tell me this entire chapter is a late April Fools' joke. Reiner lusting after Historia... Sure, he did that in Season 1, but it wasn't funny then and it isn't funny now.

23) Historia putting people who betrayed her country under protection... Wow. That's definitely what a good leader does. I guess if my country ever gets betrayed during a war, it should definitely forgive and protect the traitors that could've brought about its destruction. Totally.

24) Can Mikasa please get some medication already? Her psychosis is getting worse.

25) Eren is now a bird? Or at least controlling it from 'beyond the grave'? Symbolism has always flown over my head, I'll admit. And yes, I realize that this is also a callback to his promise after Hannes' death. But I guess this is confirmation that Mikasa will now live with that scarf around her neck, dreaming about Eren to the end of her days and never truly moving on. What a great character arc that is.

Maybe I'll rant about this chapter more later on, but these are my thoughts so far. I didn't expect anything good, but I'm somehow disappointed anyway, so I guess Isayama can consider that an achievement on his part.

[tired-beholding-bitch]

and if I were to forget you (a MAG 149 coda)

well. you can be normal or one (1) fictional conversation between fictional people can hit you so hard in the feelings and so close to home you write 1k words of angsty character study in 2 hours to not drown in your emotions.

... guess which one I am.

-

Martin tries to forget his conversation with Georgie.

He does everything right – makes an effort to put it in a neat little box, even as the lid of it tries to fight in his metaphorical grasp, shuts himself in the office, and types away at an half-hearted report on the statement, mostly some more notes on The Extinction.

(He has... nothing. Barely anything, three or four tapes of Peter's evidence and a spreadsheet with vague ideas and disconnected words and places that don't fit together no matter how hard he tries to make sense of them. And so, even if his head is pounding so hard he swears he can almost feel his teeth shaking, well beyond the realm of exhaustion, he forces his way through recording another statement from the pile, hoping against all logic it will be the one that starts a breakthrough.

It's, possibly, even more useless than the first.)

He does everything right, and yet. Her words keep playing back, a broken record, a constant background buzzing.

He doesn’t know what he wants. And from the sound of things he’s run out of time to figure it out.

Irritation closes like a vice around his throat, along with the usual, familiar weariness, his bones aching with it, the same dull soreness of a fever. For a second, he considers it – he's so tired he isn't sure he can stand, and the room feels much colder than it ought to.

However, that isn't what's making him uncomfortable. He's getting used to being cold, the Lonely settling over him quietly and surely, like a blanket of snow. Sometimes, it doesn't even feel like cold anymore, its touch so glacial it starts to burn in a strange parody of warmth.

It feels safe. Everything is droned out, diluted as if painted in watercolours. Peaceful.

The problem is, of course, the words. Crimson red splatters of paint on the ice-white landscape of his mind, Georgie's voice, harsh – his own rising up to meet it.

He's run out of time.

Martin wonders if it's true. And if it is, then, he wonders how long he has left.

Not very long, most likely.

The thought does not fill him with as much panic as it would have just a week ago, and he isn't sure anymore how much of it is real resignation and how much the constant, subtle pull of the Fear.

Oh, the terror is still there – buried under a thick fog, its apathetic tendrils stretching lazily, so slowly and yet so inevitably towards the tiny, horror-stricken part of him that lies curled up in the deepest, best hidden corner of his mind. But the mist is freezing-warm, the touch of it soothing on the bruised, raw thing that is his heart.

His feelings – his love, he can call it for what it is, you don't do what he's doing for someone you don't love and the way it hurts, dragging its bloodied, clawed fingers through everything that's left of him, how the devotion scalds the tender tissue of his lungs, all-consuming and too hot in his chest. There is nothing that tears you apart quite in the same way, mending your fraying edges as it eats at you.

Well, then. His love for Jon is a stubborn, desperate creature. Martin keeps trying to seal the cracks, hoping it'll starve or freeze or that the frozen fog of the Forsaken will suffocate the last of its cries, because it would be easier. It doesn't, and it just keeps coming back, again and again and again, its teeth vicious where they grip his insides.

A part of him hates the relief that floods him every time.

It scares him that it's getting bigger and bigger, and the relief deeper and deeper, like something is slipping through his fingers that he should be able to hold on to.

He hasn't actually seen Jon in what feels like months. Hasn't talked to him in even longer, and even if his absence is not the gaping, ugly wound it once was, it still pulses with longing, faint but constant.

It lives on, infused with the same febrile, passionate energy that drives Jon through everything he does, blistering heat and sharpness – it pulls in the opposite direction, a tense counterpoint to the numbing calm of the mist.

The longer he goes without him, however, the weaker it gets. Eventually, it will be scarcely more than a whisper. For now, it still is wildly fluttering, a caged bird, and Martin has to fight to not reach for it with tender hands.

Because I think he’s going to destroy himself, and anyone who lets him get too close.

She had said that, too. He isn't sure she's wrong, the horrified expression of the woman who came to him begging him to make him stop, just stop, I don't want to see him anymore like a brand against his closed eyelids.

He tries to imagine it, the way she has described him, tries to reconcile his fondness for the focused, attentive intensity of Jon's gaze with this unknown, ruthless scrutiny. He's all eyes, she had said, her voice breaking – he won't admit, not even to himself, that have him stalk the periphery of his vision, haunted crown of eyes around his head, single-minded focus boring through his skull, doesn't seem nearly as excruciating as his absence.

Martin isn't really sure what it means for his own humanity, the indifference creeping up on him. He knows all too well indifference can become cruelty with all but the slightest shift in perception, and he suspects the Lonely is waiting for him to misstep.

All too easy to do, in a dance of which you don't know the steps in the first place.

He sighs, closes his eyes. His hands are blissfully cold where he presses them against his temples, headache threatening to worsen into a migraine.

Georgie's voice is still too loud inside the encroaching, white quiet in his head.

No. I think it’s worse.

Oh, she has no idea.

[shimmersing]

Constellation

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Male Republic Trooper, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Republic Trooper Characters: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Qyzen Fess, Yuon Par, Parkanas Tark-Lord Vivicar Additional Tags: Angst, Tython, Emotional, Mentioned Mutual Pining, Fluffy, Sad, Melancholy Returning to Tython after shielding the last master suffering from Vivicar’s Force plague, Aitahea is faced with more struggle in her efforts to heal the Order and keep the Force in balance. Tired, injured, and longing for someone she can’t have, perhaps ever, the lines of her responsibility as a Jedi and her own convictions begin to blur. As Aitahea nears the end of her quest to save Yuon Par and the other Jedi Masters, she’s confronted with painful revelations and answers that only give rise to more questions. Shouldering the lives and minds of Jedi across the galaxy – alone – may prove to be more than Aitahea can bear.

Part Two

“Thank you for coming. I have made all the preparations for the ritual to find Lord Vivicar.”

Yuon turned to greet Aitahea with a rueful smile. “I plan to create a connection between us, using your shielding ability. If it is - was - Parkanas, this should work. Drawing on your strength, I will invert the link between myself and Vivicar and use it to sense his location.”

Aitahea didn’t know the details of what Parkanas might have experienced, nor did she wish to know. She did understand that as a result of what had occurred on Malachor Three, Yuon Par and Duras Fain were the parents of Laranna Fain. All of the Masters involved had abandoned Parkanas, whom they should have protected, she realized in dismay. That’s what the Jedi were, protectors, defending the innocent and championing justice, weren’t they? What did it mean, truly, that Yuon had called Parkanas weak?

“Don’t expose yourself to Lord Vivicar’s influence any longer than you must, Yuon.” Aitahea found herself whispering a plea. “Please.”

If this failed, it would cost lives, Yuon’s and Aitahea’s surely among them. In the quiet moments after her crying had passed, she’d discovered a calm remnant of strength, her private conviction that being a Jedi meant protecting everyone she possibly could.

Focusing on these newborn doubts would not benefit anyone. Her trust felt shaken, but Yuon had never brought her to harm before.

“I won’t. For your sake, as well as mine.” Yuon sighed, resignation in the drop of her shoulders. “There are risks. For one, the shielding you gave me on Coruscant will be severed.”

Aitahea flinched. The shielding had become a comfort, perhaps not so unlike the Force bond that some Masters and apprentices formed through training. But as a shield and not a true bond, it was more akin to a signal she could check at will, adjust, improve, and repair as necessary. Aitahea thought of both Yuon and herself as fiercely individual in certain ways, and she’d never truly considered the implications. It had simply been so crucial, so necessary.

“I don’t know what will happen then,” Yuon continued, looking focused and prepared again. “It’s possible I could die once your shield is gone.”

“I’ll protect you, Master.”

“With your strength to sustain me, we will do what we can.” Yuon forced another smile, little more than a grimace. “No matter what happens, you must give me as much time as possible. Reversing the link may be a long process.” She knelt on the carpeted floor. Aitahea followed suit, while Qyzen stepped back to lean watchfully against a pillar.

“Let us begin.”

The Force wrapped her, whole and complete, and Aitahea suddenly recalled a childhood visit to an artificial sea on Coruscant. She’d been young; the memory was little more than a hazy sensation of warm, buoyant safety. Yuon’s presence across from her smoldered like the banked embers of a fire, steady and glowing.

Sinking further into the lull of meditation, Aitahea found herself adrift in the numinous experience of the Force. On Tython, with her own Master, under the watchful eyes of the Council, Qyzen’s comforting presence near them, in the safest place in the universe. All was as it should be. For a moment, she rested calmly in the knowledge that she had everything she needed.

Then Yuon’s gentle warmth grew abruptly fierce. An unnamable distress gripped Aitahea; the profound embrace of the Force around her shuddered. An unnamable something snapped, and Aitahea gasped aloud at the acute absence of her carefully constructed shielding. Her eyes flew open to see Yuon swaying.

“Yes, yes – it’s working. I can feel his mind and… uhhh… I can feel—I…” Yuon’s words trailed off, reeling listlessly for a horrible moment. Just as Aitahea was about to call her name, Yuon’s eyes opened.

Only they were not Yuon Par’s eyes. With horrible, sickening recognition, Aitahea felt the tendrils of darkness that she’d battled for almost a year once again entangling her beloved Master. When Yuon opened her mouth, it was not her voice that spoke.

"She can feel the power that she’s challenging." Yuon slowly stood, motions mechanical. “There is no hope.” Aitahea reeled back in alarm, and Qyzen hissed a sibilant curse. Vivicar laughed, examining Yuon’s body as though it were a costume he wore.

“Yuon has drained your strength and made herself vulnerable to me. Still arrogant and reckless.” Turning back to Aitahea, Yuon’s head tilted in a horrible parody of affection, her Master’s face a rictus of agonized delight. But it was Vivicar’s voice that uttered her name.

“Aitahea.” She shuddered but held her ground. “You don’t look as strong as you did last time we spoke.”

Inhaling slowly, Aitahea raised her eyes to meet the horrible, mindless stare in her Master’s face, thoughts racing to find a response. “I know your name,” she exhaled in a shaky whisper. Vivicar twitched Yuon’ lips into a smirk but offered no reply. Aitahea continued, voice trembling. “You were once Parkanas Tark, a brave Jedi. You could be that man again.”

“The past means nothing,” Vivicar growled, waving a hand. “All that matters is the future, which doesn’t involve you, Aitahea.”

She clenched her jaw at his mockingly familiar use of her name, restraining a distraught scream of please stop. It would only fuel him further.

“See how Yuon’s will crumbles before mine.” Vivicar threw Yuon’s head back with a laugh, casually plucking her lightsaber from her side. Aitahea felt frozen; she could not bear fighting Yuon again, not after Coruscant. But when Vivicar ignited the blade, the usual lively green replaced by unthinkable red, she stumbled back in incomprehensible terror. Every cell of her being shrieked at her to flee. Yuon’s careworn face sneered down at her with unrecognizable hate. “Fitting, that two of my enemies will destroy each other.”

Stunned into a blank, silent moment by the abject horror of her present, Aitahea observed her own motions as if they were saber stances, performed by an initiate in practice. Lightsaber hilt to hand. Ignite. Ready position. Block, but if the blade isn’t fully —

Aitahea was shocked to find herself pinned brutally against the back wall, the ruby blade just inches from her skin. Qyzen was already aiming, but Vivicar flung out Yuon’s hand and threw him to the opposite corner. Aitahea took that moment of barest distraction to send Vivicar himself flying, then climbed unsteadily to her feet and placed herself between Vivicar and Qyzen.

Vivicar drew Yuon’s body up, limbs dangling as though they were on strings, a youngling’s broken toy. Qyzen pushed to his feet again, growling a string of curses behind Aitahea, who hesitated at the sight of Yuon’s lolling head and drooping eyelids.

At serious risk of toppling over, Yuon bent unnaturally and picked up the saber that had tumbled from her hand. Aitahea could sense that Yuon had been knocked unconscious by her reckless, panicked Force push, but Vivicar still drove her lifeless body forward.

“Parkanas Tark, Yuon Par was your friend!” Aitahea dodged a clumsy thrust. “Did she never once show you kindness, that you can do this to her? Release her! Parkanas, please!”

Aitahea blocked a second inept strike, and for a moment, Yuon’s eyes cleared, her voice was her own. “Aitahea!”

Vivicar stumbled back, clutching at Yuon’s head and keening pitifully. Yuon’s saber hilt clattered to the floor again. Aitahea reached for it, only for anguish to pierce through all her shields, white-hot agony suffusing her. Distantly, well beyond her own tormented scream, Aitahea somehow heard Vivicar’s wail become Yuon’s voice again.

“It… It worked!” Yuon cried, her own eyes peering out from her spent, elated face again. “Listen, Lord Vivicar… he’s out in deep space, on some sort of vessel… the coordinates!” Her hands reached out, beckoning.

Aitahea, panting in the wake of the assault, looked around for the datapad they’d had nearby, hoping that it hadn’t been damaged in the struggle. A cluster of Jedi had crowded into the doorway, alerted by the unusual commotion. Aitahea found and handed the datapad to Yuon, who began softly muttering as she searched the galactic map.

“He’s surrounded himself with defenses. Send this. It’s his code. It will give you… time to get aboard.”

Yuon pressed the datapad back into Aitahea’s hands, then sank to her knees again, clutching at her head. “No—the darkness… Vivicar’s will is too strong!”

Over one shoulder, Aitahea addressed anyone who was listening, fighting an overwhelming fatigue. “Fetch the Council and a medic immediately!”

“Yes, Master!” came a chorused reply as several youthful volunteers scattered. A few others began to clear the hallway in a spurt of practicality.

“I can’t hold on! Please, kill me!” Yuon threw her head back, arching her spine, a strangled moan tearing itself from her throat. “End it now!”

“No, Yuon. You’re safe now,” Aitahea soothed, Qyzen thankfully at her side again. He lifted the datapad from Aitahea’s hands so she could pull Yuon into her arms, willing the shattered shielding back in place.

Excruciating moments passed, punctuated with agony that Aitahea couldn’t identify as hers or Yuon’s or a lingering effect of the ritual. It was tedious and exhausting, like the time she’d attempted to paste back together a statuette of Master Gnost-Dural that a youngling under her care had broken. Pieces had been missing, and she’d been unable to fully complete the repair. Now, she filled in cracks and breaks with what felt like pieces of her soul.

Finally, the shielding began functioning. She could feel every straining fissure.

Yuon groaned, shook her head, and pulled herself from Aitahea’s tenuous grasp. “The darkness… it’s gone.” Yuon passed a hand over her face, blinking as though she’d woken from a long slumber.

“I’m glad, Yuon,” Aitahea murmured, swaying. Yuon started, suddenly recognizing her former student’s distress. She grasped Aitahea’s shoulders, steadying the other woman.

“You—you look exhausted.” Guilt flickered over Yuon’s face like a shadow. “Aitahea… You have sacrificed so much for me.”

Aitahea offered a doleful half-smile, struggling to keep her eyes open. “The Jedi way is to serve. Vivicar should no longer be able to influence you, Master,” she assured Yuon.

Several Padawans rushed into the room and began fussing over Yuon, her keepers that Master Satele had mentioned during their first meeting, she assumed. Qyzen leaned down and offered a scaly arm to support Aitahea as she struggled to her feet.

“Your shielding has driven him from my mind,” Yuon said. Brushing off the exasperated Padawans, she caught Aitahea’s other hand between her own. “Thank you.”

Palm to palm, Aitahea sensed the delicate strength of her shield, already showing signs of deterioration. “Of course, Master.”

The Padawans rushed in as soon as Yuon released Aitahea’s hand. “I—I must rest.” She blinked, and two of the Padawans took her arms, making soothing sounds. “Master Syo and the Council. They must hear of what we’ve learned.”

“Herald needs treatment for injuries,” Qyzen added as Yuon was pulled away.

Aitahea felt utterly wretched yet single-mindedly determined to end the plague as swiftly as possible. They knew where Vivicar was hiding. They could end it all in just hours.

“The Council first, Qyzen.” Aitahea lifted her hand experimentally off Qyzen’s steadying arm, feeling the lump in her throat tighten when her legs quivered. She took a breath, then a step, and finally waved for Qyzen to follow. With a shake of his head, Qyzen acquiesced, staying a step behind her.

By the time they’d reached the Council chamber, Aitahea had reached deeply into the Force to dampen the pain of her injuries and the fatigue of conflict. It didn’t eliminate her agony, but it allowed her to focus long enough to deliver her debrief to the Council.

“The ritual was a success,” she began. “Lord Vivicar is out in uncharted space in a hijacked vessel, the Progress. He knows I’m coming.”

“Now only your shielding ability can stop him,” Master Satele said, the other Masters nodding their consensus.

“You’ve shown great fortitude and once again saved Master Yuon, despite the odds.” Master Syo leaned forward in his chair. “But Lord Vivicar will have made preparations, and he still has his greatest weapon—the plague itself.”

Aitahea took a tremulous breath. “I believe I can save him, Master Syo. Now that I know who he really is, I could return Vivicar—Parkanas, that is—I could return him to the light.”

Syo shook his head. “A noble thought, Aitahea, but don’t take unnecessary risks. Your shielding ability is our only hope.”

Master Jaric finally spoke. “Jedi, you’re exhausted. You need medical treatment and rest.” Qyzen grunted beside her in rare agreement with Master Jaric.

“There’s no time to waste, Master. We must move now, before Vivicar strikes back,” Aitahea argued. “I can recover en-route; I have a very capable crew waiting.”

Syo glanced at Satele, then gave Aitahea an reluctant nod. “Go to the coordinates quickly. And, Aitahea—may the Force be with you.”

Aitahea accepted the dismissal with a shaky bow, unable to trust her voice, and left the Council chamber. Qyzen followed, arm steady as he offered it to her again.

“Herald cannot—”

“Qyzen, we must,” Aitahea interrupted. “I’ll rest on the Luminous, Sia will manage the flight, and Tharan and Holiday can offer some assistance, I’m sure.” Qyzen hummed a skeptical agreement but said nothing.

They limped to the shuttle pad. Aitahea idly hoped there wasn’t a trail marking their path after she noticed the oozing wound at her hairline. No wonder the Council had looked so concerned; she probably looked a fright. With the coordinates already sent to Prelsiava onboard the Luminous, they could leave as soon as they were onboard. Then she would rest.

Qyzen mindfully guided Aitahea to a seat on the shuttle. She spent a few moments in unsteady healing efforts, but her grasp of the Force felt tenuous now, soaring thousands of meters above the sacred ground of Tython. Finally, Aitahea shambled on leaden feet through the orbital station to the Luminous, ready and waiting.

See-Too made a little stuttering gasp of alarm when he saw Aitahea climbing the stairs to the main deck and tottered over to fret as they ascended the stairs; Qyzen had kept her upright through the orbital station, but Aitahea’s fragile strength was nearly spent. “Master Jedi, we must get you to the med bay at once!”

“Kriffing hell, Ai.” Sia pushed past the droid, slinging Aitahea’s arm over her shoulders. “What happened to you?” she asked, dragging the barely-conscious Jedi to the med bay. Between them, Qyzen and Sia got her onto the observation bunk while See-Too went in search of Tharan.

Aitahea roused, seizing Sia’s sleeve. “Are we leaving?” she whispered, eyes briefly opening to squint blearily at the pilot.

“Got underway as soon as you closed the hatch.”

Aitahea sighed deeply, the faintest smile on her lips as she closed her eyes again. “How long?”

“Six hours or so, if I got the calculations right, and I always do. You’ve got to rest. I’ll get Tharan and Holiday in here to patch you up at least, bandage that head wound. Don’t give me that line you always do about self-healing.” She folded her arms, disapproval in her narrowed eyes. “You’re starting to scare me, Aitahea. Very little in the galaxy scares me; you know that. When does this end?”

“Soon,” Aitahea murmured. Sia sighed but didn’t press her further.

“You’d have been better off staying on Tython where they have a full medical suite, you know,” Tharan mentioned casually when he walked in, Holiday on his heels. He scanned a few labels before selecting a medical stim and a sedative from their supply. “Fortunately, See-Too has done exceptionally well keeping our stock current. You’ll recover quickly.” He unceremoniously injected Aitahea with the drugs, efficiently bandaged her obvious wounds, and then ushered everyone briskly from the med bay. Aitahea was asleep before they left.

Her wrist comm beeped; a call was coming through. Aitahea stirred but drifted back into stillness once the alert ceased to sound. A few moments later, the missed contact’s ID popped unseen onto the display:

Lieutenant Erithon Zale.

Constellation: Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

[davidmann95]

How about those JL storyboards?

In case you haven’t heard, Zack Snyder is putting on display the ‘storyboards’ - i.e. a rough plot summary accompanied by some Jim Lee sketches - for what would have been Justice League 2 and 3, or as this puts it 2 and ‘2A’. You can see them here (I imagine better-quality versions will soon be released), and read a transcript here. This is evidently a very early version: this was apparently pitched prior to the release of BvS and Justice League being rewritten in the wake of it, with numerous plot details that now don’t line up with what we know about the Snyder Cut, plus it outright mentions it builds on the originally planned versions of the Batman and Flash movies. But it’s a broad outline of what was gonna go down, and while I initially thought it was Snyder throwing in the towel, the timing - paired with the ambiguity left by the necessity for changes, including that this doesn’t factor whatever that “massive cliffhanger” at the end of the Cut is - says to me he’s hoping this’ll be a force multiplier behind efforts to will sequel/s into existence. He’s probably right.

I’ll be discussing spoilers below, but in short: with this Zack Snyder has finally lived up to Alan Moore, in that like Twilight of the Superheroes I wouldn’t believe this was real as opposed to a shockingly on-point parody if not for direct, irrefutable evidence.

Doing some rapid-fire bullet points for this baby to kick us off:

* Folks who know the subject say a lot of this is a yet further continuation of Snyder doing Arthuriana fanfic with the League reskinned over those major players, and I’ll take their word for it.

* I don’t know whether I love or hate that in Justice League 2 the Justice League are only an extant thing for the first scene, and then it’s Snyder giving everybody their own mini-movies. It’s compressing the entire MCU “loosely interconnected solo stories leading to a single big movie later” strategy into a single movie!

*  Funniest line in the whole thing: "Even Lantern has heard of the Kryptonian, worried that he's under the control of Darkseid. He heard his spirit was unbreakable." Hal what fuckin' Superman movie did YOU watch? Second funniest being “IT WILL GIVE HIM POWER OVER ALL LIVING LIFE”

* 90% of the plot I have nothing to say about, it’s generic stage-setting crap. That to be clear is the ‘shocked it’s Snyder’ element, it feels so crassly commercial in a way I can’t believe is coming from the BvS guy.

* Most of what I have to say is unsurprisingly gonna be about a handful of characters but Cyborg’s happy ending being “he isn’t visibly disabled anymore!” is not great!

* The Goddess of War battle with Superman...never pays off? No clue why it’s there.

* What I’d originally heard was that the Codex in Superman’s blood was the last key to the Anti-Life Equation and that’s why Darkseid was coming to Earth. It’s not like all of this wouldn’t have already been averted by Kal-El’s pod smacking into an asteroid on the way to Earth so it’s not as if this makes it any more Superman’s fault, and it would have at least tied all this back to the beginning of the movies, but I suppose that was either fake or from a later draft.

* I have NO idea how this was reimagined without the ‘love triangle’, it’s the central character thing and the entire climax flows directly out of it!

* Darkseid’s kinda a chump in this, huh

Anonymous said: So: Does Zack Snyder hate Superman?

Look: the hilarity of this when Cuck Kent has been a go-to Snyder cult insult towards ‘inferior’ takes on Superman for years cannot be understated, yet at the same time I can almost wrap my brain around where Snyder’s coming from with that as the end for his take on the character. He talked in that Variety piece on how his interest in Superman is informed by having adopted children himself, and Deborah Snyder is the stepmother to his kids by previous relationships, so I can see where he’d be coming from, and I can even imagine how he’d see this as ‘rhyming’ in the sense of “the series begins with Kal-El being adopted by Earth, it ends with him adopting a child of Earth!” In the same way as MARTHA, I can envision how he would put these pieces together in his head thematically without registering or caring what the end result would actually look like. In this case, Superman raising the kid of the man who beat the shit out of him who Batman had with Clark’s wife, who earlier told Bruce she was staying with Clark because he ‘needed her’, suggesting if inadvertently that this really honest to god was a “she’s only staying with Superman out of pity, she really loved Batman more” thing.

But Clark is nothing in this. He’s sad and existential because of coming back from the dead I guess, then he’s corrupted, then time’s undone and he woo-rah rallies the collective armies of the world (interesting angle for the ‘anti-military/anti-establishment’ Superman he’s talked up as) as his big heroic moment in the finale, and then he stops being sad because he’s adopting a kid. So his big much-ballyhooed, extremely necessary five-movie character arc towards truly becoming Superman was:

Sad weird kid -> sad weird kid learns he’s an alien, is still weird and sad, maybe he shouldn’t save people because things could go really wrong? -> his dad is so convinced it could go wrong he lets himself die -> ????? -> Clark is saving people anyway -> learns his origin, gets an inspiring speech about being a bridge between worlds and a costume -> becomes superman (not Superman, that’s later) to save the world, albeit a very property-damagey version, rejects his heritage he just learned about and space dad’s bridge idea -> folks hate him being superman and that sucks though at least he’s got a girlfriend now -> things go so wrong he considers not being superman but his ghost dad reminds him shit always goes wrong so he should be good anyway, which sorta feels like it contradicts his previous advice -> immediate renewed goodness is out the window as he’s blackmailed into having to try and kill a dude but the dude happens to coincidentally have some things in common so they don’t kill each other after all -> big monster now but superman keeps supermaning at it because he loves his girlfriend and he dies -> he’s brought back, wears black which apparently means now he likes Krypton again? -> he has work friends now but he’s still sad because he was dead -> evil now! -> wait nevermind time travel -> rallies the troops -> his wife’s having a kid so he’s not sad anymore -> Superman! Who gives way to more Batman.

Do I think Zack Snyder is lying when he says he likes Superman? No. I think he sincerely finds much of the basic conceits and imagery engaging. But I don’t think he meaningfully gives shit about Clark as a character, just a vessel for Big Iconic Beats he wants to hit. Whereas while for instance he’s critical of Batman as an idea (at least up to a point), he’s much more passionately, directly enamored with him as a presence and personality. So while Superman may be the character whose ostensible myth cycle or arc or however it’s spun might be propelling a lot of events here, it’s a distant appreciation - of course the other guy takes over and subsumes him into his own narrative. Of course Batman is the savior, the past and the future (though if he’s supposed to be Batman’s kid raised by Superman there’s no excuse for him not to be Nightwing), the tragic martyr to our potential. Admittedly the implication here is also that Batman can apparently only REALLY with his whole heart be willing to sacrifice his life to save an innocent, for that matter apparently his great love, once said innocent is a receptacle for his Bat-brood, but he and Clark are both already irredeemable pieces of shit by the end of BvS so it’s not like this even registers by comparison.

Anonymous said: That “plan” Snyder had was utter dogshit. Picture proof that DC & WB hate Superman. Also I love how you’re like Jor-El: Every single idealistic take you had about Snyder, his fandom, and BvS was wrong. Snyder’s an edgy hack, his fanbase just wants to jerk off to their edgy self-insert Batgod as he screams FUCK while mowing people down with machine guns, and the idea that BvS said Superman was better than Bats was completely wrong. You know what comes next SuperMann: Either you die or I do.

In the final analysis, beyond that mother of god is there sure no conceivable excuse for the treatment of Lois in this? The temptation is to join that anon and say as I originally tweeted that these were “built entirely to disabuse every single redemptive reading of the previous work and any notion of these movies as nuanced, artistic, self-reflective, or meaningful”.

...

...

...yeah, okay, that’s mostly right. Zack Snyder’s vision really was the vision of an edgelord idiot with bad ideas who was never going to build up to anything that would reframe it all as a sensible whole. He’s a sincere edgelord genuinely trying really hard with his bad ideas who put some of them together quite cleverly! But they’re fucking bad and the endgame was never anything more than ramping up into smashing the action figures together as big as he could, the political overtones and moral sketchiness of BvS while trying to say something in that movie reverberated through the grand scheme of his pentalogy in no way beyond giving his boys a big sad pit to rise out of so when they kicked ass later it’d rule harder, and all the gods among men questions and horror and trappings were only that: trappings. Apparently he’s really pleasant and well-meaning in person, but at his core his art as embodied in a couple weeks in his 4-hour R-rated Justice League movie meant to be seen in black-and-white all comes down to that time he yelled at someone on Twitter that he couldn’t appreciate Snyder’s work because it’s for grown-ups. He made half-clever, occasionally exciting shit cape movies for a bunch of corny pseudo-intellectual douchebags, folks latching onto and justifying blockbusters that at least acknowledge how horrifying the world is right now even if the superheroes are basically useless in the face of it if not outright part of the problem until a convenient alien invasion shows up to justify them, and a handful of non-asshole smart people who vibe with it but...well. ‘Suckered’ is a harsh word, and definitely doesn’t apply to all of them re: what they’ve gotten out of it up to this point and would (somehow) get out of this. But it doesn’t apply to none of them, either.

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #239: Late Night of the Super-Stars!

January, 1984

1984! Can’t wait to make a bunch of Orwell jokes that are poorly thought out and land poorly!

But I guess it’ll have to wait since we’re on Late Night with David Letterman in this issue.

This sure is an interesting turn of events. Although the team we see on the cover doesn’t seem to be the actually active roster. They’re over in the corner box turned away - either from shame or because they’re off doing their own thing.

Because its Assistant Editors’ Month!

A fun-sounding non-event. Although, looking it up, very few books that were considered part of the event actually did anything with it beyond a slightly goofy issue box on the cover.

So we’re going to see some Avengers go on a talk show today.

Superheroes as celebrities! What a novel idea.

Anyway, I learned an interesting detail about the cover that would have totally missed me. The checkerboard strip at the top was a hallmark of DC comics around this time. And the round MC logo in the top right is an obvious spoof of the DC logo from this time.

It’s not much more than a goof for this book but the Captain America book released for Assistant Editors’ Month also had the checkerboard and logo and was a style parody of DC comics.

Last times: Vision went into a robo-coma from walking into an invisible dome created by Annihilus and only recently recovered the ability to talk. New Avenger Starfox hooked Vision up to ISAAC the Titan computer and overclocked Vision’s robot brain so now he can project himself as a hologram and has an even faster computer brain. At the end of Avengers #238, the Avengers got a call from Tigra about some nonsense going on in San Francisco involving Spider-Woman.

Meanwhile, Hawkeye got a whole miniseries all to himself where he met Mockingbird, lost his job at Cross Technological, his girlfriend revealed that she was paid to date him and also hated him, he teamed up with Mockingbird to uncover an evil scheme by Crossfire to kill all superheroes, Hawkeye lost his hearing by putting an ultrasonic arrowhead in his mouth but foiled the scheme plot, and married Mockingbird. He’s had a very busy week or so!

This time: Hawkeye comes back to the Avengers Mansion to show off his cool new wife.

Hawkeye: “Hey, everybody -- your wanderin’ boy Hawkeye has come home... And you’ll never guess what I’ve gone and done!”

I can just imagine Mockingbird replying “Me” with the biggest shit-eating grin. She feels the sort to do that.

When Hawkeye and Mockingbird arrive there’s no one to greet them except the floating disembodied hologram head of the Wizard of Vizh.

Hawkeye has also made the decision, for some reason, to not wear the hearing aid that Mockingbird got him so he can’t hear what Vision is saying when he compliments his new costume.

Mockingbird introduces herself for Hawkeye and Vision tells the two to join him in the medical labs so they can catch up.

When they arrive, Vision raises his volume so Hawkeye can hear and recaps everything that’s happened to lead up to him becoming a robot in a tube who can hologram around.

Vision: “[Starfox] set up a direct link between ISAAC, the world-computer of Titan, to better diagnose my condition. But, instead, my brain became overloaded with ISAAC’s energy-information matrix --!”

Hawkeye: “And you became several with the universe, right?”

Vision: “‘Several with the’ --? Oh -- hah-ha! Very witty!”

Overclocking his brain seems to have done wonders for Vision’s sense of humor.

He even finds Hawkeye funny now.

Vision also explains where the dickens everyone else is (because Hawkeye asks him where the dickens they are. Its so weird for Hawkeye to say dickens).

Jarvis was given the day off to visit his mother, Captain America and Thor are both busy with nonsense in their own books, and the rest of the Avengers are off to San Francisco because of that call from Tigra.

Hawkeye offers to fly out and give them a hand, which Vision declines since they’ll call if they need help.

Instead he asks Hawkeye how he met Mockingbird and Hawkeye recaps the miniseries in only five panels.

He’s better at this than I am...

Hawkeye: “Anyway, Mockingbird and I had made a pretty good team -- so when it was all over, we ran off and got married!”

Mockingbird: “What can I say? The big lug needed somebody to keep him out of trouble!”

That’s the task of a lifetime, Bobbi. But good for you two! Cute couple is what I say.

Vision: “Marvelous! I hope you two will be as happy together as Wanda and I have been!"

Vision and Scarlet Witch probably are the healthiest superhero marriage of this time.

Vision asks if Hawkeye and Mockingbird intend to stay in the mansion, which they do. But it’s cool because Mockingbird has security clearance from working with SHIELD so they won’t need to bother Mr. Sikorsky and agitate his hatred of living in the superhero genre.

After Hawkeye takes Mockingbird off on a tour of the mansion, Vision receives a call from his brain brother, Wonder Man.

Who, very reluctantly, is coming to the Avengers with hat in hand. So to speak.

Wonder Man: “Okay. Here’s the situation -- my acting career hasn’t been going anywhere lately! So my agent, without my approval -- used the fact that I’m a reserve Avenger to get me a booking on David Letterman’s show, and now, they want me to bring other Avengers along with me! My agent really put me in a tight spot on this one. I hate to impose, but -- !”

Vision: “It’s no imposition at all, Simon! I’ll personally call the network and confirm the Avengers’ appearance!”

Wonder Man: “You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

Vision: “None whatsoever! After all, we have many Avengers -- !”

You sure do! Not as many as you’ll have by the No Surrender days. But still.

Also, I love this can-do attitude from you, Vision!

This is a pretty low priority in terms of fighting crime and whatnot but Vision is like THIS IS EXTREMELY DOABLE, I AM THE INTERNET.

Although imagine how sad it is from Wonder Man’s perspective. His agent put him on the spot pulling sorta-rank to get Simon some media attention but the media is like ‘ok but do you have something better?’

This man is trying to improve his career and the David Letterman show looked at him and said ‘ok but what else have you got?’

Oof!

Anyway, Vision uses the superpower of being wired into the phone system to call up some extra Avengers who aren’t very busy right now.

He calls Black Panther, Beast, and Black Widow.

Their varied responses are pretty funny.

But Black Panther’s is probably the best. He interrupts a meeting with his advisers to take the call and then he’s like ‘yeah sure I can drop everything I’m doing to appear on David Letterman!’

T’Challa really would rather be doing anything but kinging.

Beast initially protests that he’s too busy with the Defenders to just jump on some Avengers business but...

Beast: “The Letterman show? Hey, why didn’t you say so?”

And Black Widow is unbusy sunbathing at the Waldorf Towers while between missions. She doesn’t really want to make a television appearance (it’s kinda counterproductive for a spy, I would guess) but Vision mentions something that has Natasha agree to be there.

Based on what happens later, I guess Vision mentions that Hawkeye will be there.

A couple hours later, ELSEWHERE, well if it isn’t our ol’ friend and punchline Fabian Stankowicz!

Remember this goofus? He attacked the Avengers right when everyone was feeling bad about Hank Pym? Iron Man easily beat him up while the rest of the Avengers breezed on by. Or when he attacked Wasp’s cool superheroine brunch? Which was a hilariously terrible idea because he got between She-Hulk and breakfast foods. Also, nobody took him very seriously there either.

I guess the Avengers didn’t bother to press charges either time because he’s not in jail. He’s at his home working on some machines while his dad criticizes how he spends his time.

Dads, amirite?

Granted, what he’s criticizing is Fabian’s tendency to pick fights with superheroes. And... granted. Not a great use of his time.

But apparently Fabian can afford all the robot suits he keeps attacking the Avengers with because he won the lottery.

So he has a pretty good position to shoot down his dad’s protests, really.

Dad Stankowicz: “Fabian, I’m glad your poor mother didn’t live to see what’s become of you... It would’ve broken her heart!”

Fabian Stankowicz: “Aw, gimme a break, old man!”

Dad Stankowicz: “‘Old man’? This is the way you talk to your father?”

Fabian Stankowicz: “What do you want, egg in your beer? Was it you who won the state lottery and got us out of the Bronx? No, it was me! I won the money, and I’ll say how it’s spent! And I’m gonna use it to make a name for myself! Me... Fabian Stankowicz!”

And when Fabian sees an ad saying that the Avengers will be on Late Night with David Letterman, he has an idea. A wonderful, awful idea.

Also, who the heck puts egg in beer?

I’ve looked it up and I get that it’s a saying but apparently the saying is based on people actually doing that! Why??

The next afternoon, at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, where the show 30 Rock and this issue of Avengers both happen, this issue of Avengers is happening.

A CBS page shows Black Widow to the green room where the other Avengers are already waiting.

Also: I know that it’s all the Avengers who weren’t busy (even though T’Challa really should have been?) but this is a fun roster.

Hawkeye, Wonder Man, Beast, Black Widow and Panther?

Heck, I could imagine this being the Marvel equivalent of the Justice League International team, one more geared for some light-hearted comedy?

Except we’re in 1984 so this predates that.

But you have Beast and Wonder Man, your comedy duo best buds. You have Black Panther and Widow being varying levels of straight man to the nonsense. And you have Hawkeye who can be very serious or very ridiculous depending on how hot-headed he’s being at the time.

This team could be hilarious!

(Avengers International. Think about it, Marvel.)

Outside the green room, our ol’ buddy ol’ punching bag, Fabian Stankowicz is in disguise as a repairman with a mustache as cover for installing some devices in the studio. Then he puts on a beard to disguise himself as Perfectly Normal Bearded Audience Member.

I appreciate his intiative although I doubt any of the present Avengers are gonna recognize this guy on sight even if he wore a t-shirt that said “I’m Fabian Stankowicz.”

Fabian Stankowicz: Boy, this is gonna be so sweet, especially after the way the Avengers made me look like a chump those last two times! This time, it’s gonna be different! This time, I’m going to have a ringside seat for the defeat of the Avengers!

Or at least the Avengers that were available to show up on the Tonight Show with David Letterman.

Y’know, I like Fabian Stankowicz. He’s just smart enough to be dangerous and dumb enough to be entertaining. I think there’s a place for an ineffectual doofus with delusions of grandeur in the foe Rolodex of any superhero team.

Meanwhile, back with said Whoever Was Availables, Black Widow and Mockingbird are meeting for the first time.

And luckily, they’re both mature adults who don’t act like you’d usually see in media when the missus meets the ex.

So with a fight to the death NOT happening in the green room, Hawkeye gets to asking Mockingbird about the errand he sent her on which was why she wasn’t in the room when Black Widow first showed up.

Presumably using every bit of skill in espionage at her disposal, Mockingbird got a copy of the questions Letterman will be asking during the show.

Because Hawkeye will be fielding the questions and he has made the decision not to wear his hearing aid. And has also made the follow-up decision that not only will he not be hearing anything tonight, he’s also definitely going to be fielding all the questions.

Mockingbird: “Why won’t you wear a hearing aid?”

Hawkeye: “No can do, sweetheart! The fewer people who know I’m half-deaf, the safer it’ll be for all of us!”

(I don’t really get this reasoning but okay, man)

Mockingbird: “Then why not let someone else be spokesman? This is supposed to be Wonder Man’s big night!”

Hawkeye: “Sure... but I’m the only active Avenger here! Give me a kiss for luck!”

Not for nothing does Mockingbird think that he can be impossible sometimes. And she’s only known him a couple weeks! She’s already come to the correct read on him in that short a time.

David Letterman starts the show with an opening monologue.

David Letterman: “Tonight... What can I say? Tonight is something really special! In fact, it’s probably the most special show we’ve had since our 'camping with Barry White’ program! Yes... hard to believe, isn’t it? But with all due respect to Mr. White -- I think that this show may be our greatest ever. But, as they say, ‘that’s for history to decide!’”

Imagine being a talk show host and getting to introduce the Avengers. Pretty neat.

I like that bandleader Paul Shaffer is wearing a Captain America jersey. Although that makes me wonder once again what merchandising is like for Marvel superheroes. 

Clearly it exists but did Cap sign off on a jersey mimicking his costume? Does he see any money from that? Or at least did he get to say that all profit goes to such and such charity?

Letterman introduces the Avengers for the audience.

(Fun how you can get a sense of their personality just by how they’re sitting. It’s the little touches that make a comic fun.)

Hm, I wonder how well the marvel public follows superhero roster changes.

I know that sometimes new Avengers rosters have gotten attention with press conferences and everything. And sometimes they just swap in and out members as personal business comes up.

Some of the people in the audience may not even recognize Black Widow as an Avenger. Becaaaaause, wait I don’t think she ever was one. She’s assisted on some missions and they were ready to vote her in when she vanished to go do a SHIELD mission.

Okay, better example, does anyone remember that Wonder Man- oh wait, he very publicly burst out of a crate in front of Avengers Mansion during press furor over a roster change. Also, he’s a pre-successful actor.

Black Pan- no, no. He was framed for killing the Avengers his very first day on the team. There was a manhunt.

And of course, everyone knows Beast was on the Avengers. He got around. Romantically.

David Letterman mentions that this group isn’t even all the Avengers because some couldn’t make it (read: were busy with more important things).

Which leads to a funny cut to audience where Beard Fabian is annoyed that this group is who got caught in his revenge scheme.

Fabian Stankowicz: Blast it, where’s Captain America? Where’s that &#%$ She-Hulk?

You better wash your brain out with soap before She-Hulk finds out you thought  that about her. She’s dunked people into the garbage for lesser offenses.

Beast decides that this Late Night interview is the best time to reveal that he’s quitting as a reservist Avenger to focus on his version of the Defenders.

Letterman: “Wow, that was some bombshell the Beast just dropped, Hawkeye! You’re group spokesman... What do you think of that?”

Hawkeye: First question -- ! “Well, David, the Avengers is a non-profit organization, fully sanctioned as a peace-keeping force by just about ever international organization you could think of!”

Letterman: “Eh-heh-heh! You don’t say!”

Oh god, Beast’s bombshell messed up the order of questions and Hawkeye is firmly sticking to script because he can’t hear.

My god, Hawkeye.

Letterman: “You know, I was just about to ask you something along those lines. You wouldn’t be psychic by any chance -- ?”

Hawkeye: “No, of the founding members, only the Wasp and Thor remain as active Avengers.”

Letterman: “You little dickens! You’ve been peeking at my question sheet, haven’t you? All right, I might as well as my next question which is... ‘I hear you were recently married! Is that true?’”

Hawkeye: “Yes, Dave... just a few weeks ago!”

Letterman: “How about that!”

Did Hawkeye just think they were going to blaze through the questions? Even if Beast hadn’t preempted the first question, did Hawkeye think that there would be no follow-up questions? No discussion?

I’ve been on the fence on whether the jokes about Hawkeye not hearing the questions are poking fun at deaf people or at Hawkeye and yeah, Hawkeye is definitely the butt of this joke.

Fabian Stankowicz loses patience for this very dry question and answer session and decides to start his attack nnnnow.

One of the studio cameras is secretly A GIANT LASER. Because. And it blasts the stage.

Mockingbird is watching this on a tiny screen in the Green Room and goes out to help only to run afoul of some kind of mechanized steamrolling dumpster.

Back in the studio, Wonder Man has found his new nemesis.

Move over, Grim Reaper. You’re one-dimensional and everyone especially me hates you. Hello, laser blasting camera.

Wonder Man: “Let me at that thing, Beast! It’s ruining my guest-shot!”

Beast: “You’ll have to wait your turn, Wondy! It just shredded my favorite shirt!”

Priorities!

You know, this was supposed to be about Wonder Man and he only got to say two words during the interview portion.

Dangit, Hawkeye.

Apppppparently, the audience is just assuming that this is all part of the show. A cliche, sure. But it makes sense.

Would you really have the Avengers on a talk show and just have them talk? That’s a waste of perfectly good superheroes.

Also.... apparently? David Letterman used to run things over with a steamroller a lot? So a steamroller looking contraption crashing through the wall to attack the Avengers does seem like something that might happen?

Also, Paul Shaffer decides to just roll with it so as not to panic the audience.

The show must go on, after all.

The steamroller also starts firing missiles at Beast, as ya do.

Beast: “Hunter missiles? I don’t believe this is happening on network tv!”

Wonder Man tries punching the steamroller to no avail but which does give Black Panther a chance to pull out the tried and true “Wonder Man’s fists carry as much bludgeoning power as Thor’s hammer!”

Y’know, originally, that was a flex that set Wonder Man as a threat to the team but after he joined, that never really seemed to actually be the case.

Imagine if Wonder Man always hit as hard as Thor’s hammer? Like, he’s minding his own business and then the Gorr the God Butcher arc happens and Wonder Man is like ‘huh, why do I suddenly feel like my punches could destroy planets light years away? That’s a very specific feeling!’

Fabian Stankowicz takes advantage of the spectacle chaos to walk out of the audience, plunk himself down into one of the interview chairs, remove his entirely convincing beard, and introduce himself to David Letterman as the guy who is definitely to blame for all the action setpieces going on.

Letterman, like Paul Shaffer, just decides to roll with it. Humor the guy. Ask him why he’s doing this.

Fabian Stankowicz: “Why? To prove it could be done! To show what one incredibly gifted individual can accomplish...”

Letterman: “... To get your name in the papers?”

Fabian Stankowicz: “That too! After all, the Avengers have battled Zodiac... the Masters of Evil... Doctor Doom! I want to make as big a name for myself as those guys!”

Letterman: “Seems to me that ‘Stankowicz’ is already a pretty big name!”

Badum pish?

He asks Fabian to explain all of his devices and Fabian is happy too.

I mean, he’s being a supervillain for the notoriety and supervillains already love to hear themselves talk so he’s double dipping into the ‘I will exposit everything at the drop of a hat’ well.

And imagine, Fabian built all this stuff in his garage with lottery winnings.

The steamroller thing isn’t just a steamroller, it’s also got a gravity generator. Which, I guess, makes sense if you’re expecting to go against a She-Hulk or a Thor. A regular steamroller isn’t going to do more than annoy.

Wonder Man fighting so hard against the roller makes it increase gravity so much that Simon and steamroller just fall through the floor.

Hm. I wonder what’s filmed in the studios the floor down. They’re about to have an exciting guest star in that steamroller.

Black Widow (still tangling with the laser camera) points Hawkeye towards Fabian. Although she has to shout and Hawkeye still doesn’t really get it but is happy to shoot an arrow at someone that Black Widow is vigorously gesturing at.

Alas, Fabian is one of those prepared villains we’ve been hearing so much about.

He built a force field too, and the arrow just bounces right off.

(Hey, uh, Hawkeye? What kind of arrow was that? Because it looks technological and you just shot it at this guy’s head)

Truly, can nothing stop this insidious yet not very menacing criminal genius?

Oh, I guess David Letterman can.

Knocks him out with a big knob.

It’s just plain big.

Prop comedy, amirite?

The audience seems to love it anyway. I looked up a clip of the big doorknob and it didn’t meet with this much applause. Maybe its because it was used to do violence this time?

Was the giant door knob a beloved part of Late Show lore?

David Letterman: “I guess that’ll teach you not to mess with David Letterman!”

That’s a line with weird energy to it.

Anyway, it would be a sad day for this random assemblage of backup Avengers if they were upstaged completely by David Letterman and his big knob.

Black Widow and Hawkeye finally manage to blow up the laser camera.

I’m not sure why it took them this long. Sure, the camera could apparently move, based on motion lines in previous panels. But the world’s best marksman couldn’t nail it sooner?

But the important thing is that eventually, they did do it.

The floor starts rumbling as well as Wonder Man flies back up with his belt-jets with the trashed roller and a shit-eating grin.

Wonder Man: “Sorry this took so long -- But I guess I’m a little rusty at tackling big hunks of tin like this!”

Fabian Stankowicz: Rusty? It took me a month to design that, and he totaled it in less than five minutes!

But since everyone’s focus is on Wonder Man (for once), Fabian tries to sneak away.

And runs smack dab into Mockingbird who has a lot of justified anger over almost getting run over by the roller earlier. But she just throws him over to some police that have finally shown up.

Letterman tells the audience not to try any of this at home, just in case any of them have gravity-generator osmium steel steamrollers lying around? And cuts to commercial, presumably so that some basic tidying can happen.

Hours after the filming of the show concludes, the Avengers TV Squad have returned to the mansion, with Vision wishing he could have taken part of this assistant editors month special issue.

Vision: “What became of Stankowicz?”

Black Panther: “Well, with all the charges NBC is leveling against him, the only machinery he’ll be dealing with for some time will be in the New York State Prison library!”

So, he attacked Avengers Mansion. He attacked Wasp’s superheroine brunch at the Van Dyne residence. That’s all well and good. He attacks the Avengers again in the NBC studio and the man is going to jail forever.

I guess the Avengers really haven’t been bothering to press charges on Fabian. But a massive media corporation isn’t so kind.

Since Hawkeye is technically the active Avenger (even though Vision’s hologram head is RIGHT there) he has to follow up on the thing Beast said about quitting the Avengers reservists.

Beast says its not right for him to be an Avengers reservist if he’s also trying to turn “the Defenders into a for-real group!”

Uh, Defenders fans? Wasn’t the appeal of the Defenders them being the not-team team? How did people feel about Beast going ‘ok but what if they were more like other teams instead?’

Meanwhile, Wonder Man is pacing, waiting for the Late Show to come on so he can see how he did when WOMP WOMP the show is interrupted by a special news bulletin.

Wonder Man is aghast that his big break isn’t even airing but when the special news bulletin is about a burning chemical barge, his hero instincts that he has suddenly swell up.

Wonder Man: “This... This is awful! What’re we standing around for? Let’s do something! We’re Avengers, aren’t we?”

Black Panther: “That we are, Simon! Let’s go!”

Beast also decides, hey, one more time won’t hurt and accepts his Avengers ID card back from Hawkeye.

And as they’re headed off to the Quinjet, Beast has a hopeful note for Wonder Man.

Beast: “Hey, Wondy -- remember, there’s a three-hour time difference between the coasts! If we can get this mess cleaned up in time, maybe some folks in California will still see you get your big break!”

Wonder Man: “And if we don’t -- ?”

Beast: “Well, that’s show biz!”

Pretty enjoyable issue! Like, sure, its a good for Assistant Editor’s Month. But if you’re going to do a goof, then you can do worse than bringing back Fabian Stankowicz for a third time’s not the charm.

Speaking of charm, having the Avengers appear on a talk show is a charming concept. Not a whole lot was done with it except the joke about Hawkeye answering the wrong questions but its still a fun idea.

And having the Avengers off busy lets us brush off some Also Avengers that haven’t been in play for a bit. That’s a fun idea that I wouldn’t mind seeing some more.

Have the reservists called in because of a situation happening when the Avengers are already busy.

Heck, I’d like to see a situation where the silliest and least regarded Avengers are the only ones available to respond to an emergency. Have them bounce off each other as a group. Maybe they’re mutually aware of their bad reputations.

Anyway, I expected this issue would be ridiculous but it was also enjoyable. Didn’t mind it at all. And (though by a different writer) the Hawkeye miniseries was very enjoyable too.

This is just feeling like a good era for the Avengers team.

Next time, apparently The Ghost of Jessica Drew. So she’s some kind of ghost spider? Nobody tell Carol Danvers.

Follow @essential-avengers​ because I typed this post partially while a cat was lying on my wrist. That’s dedication. Which you can’t spell without cat. Also, like and reblog if you think its likeable and rebloggable.

[immortalonus]

Where You Belong: Chapter One.

So in case you guys were wondering where I vanished off to, the answer is mostly work. This chapter also took way, way more brain power than I really intended, so I didn't really have the energy to post much else.

I could probably edit this more, but I swear if I spend one more hour editing this I will go insane, so here it is, chapter one of my first multi-chapter fic in, *checks calendar,* four years!?

Jeez, time really does fly, doesn't it?

Read on AO3

If I were Where I Would be, Then I Would be Where I Am not. But where I am, There I must be. And where I would be, I cannot.

-American Folk Poem.

________________________________________________________

As soon as Valerie had flown out of sight of Plasmius’ portal, she made a point to dump everything he had given her for the trip.

First, the communication devices. She had no desire to talk to anyone, much less the creepy, lying, traitorous ghost-thing masquerading as Vlad Masters. She gave the DALVco edition headset her best fast ball, taking no small satisfaction in watching it break piece by piece as it clattered against the frames of one floating door after another before finally vanishing into the mists below.

If Plasmius wanted to talk to her, he could crawl out of his portal and find her himself. Which he wasn’t going to do, because he had a cover to maintain. After all, what kind of delicate, elderly gentleman would throw himself into a dimension of rarified death? Not Mister Masters, oh no.

Especially not when he had a willing pawn to do it for him.

The more surreptitious listening devices went next. Fat, disgusting, bloated insects they were, bugs in function as much as form.And they were everywhere.

She found them wedged between her armor joints, the soles of her boots, in the crevices of her guns, and, after putting her systems through an intensive self-diagnostic, her hair.

When had he touched her hair?

She made a point to crush them all. Either plucking off the parasites directly, or, in the case of those lodged beneath her suit, pulling them into her storage unit and spitting them back out again into the open atmosphere where they could be destroyed.

She removed everything else Plasmius had given her immediately after: Several days worth of food, a large pop up tent, a sleeping bag, a map, several spare weapons, a well thumbed biography on Vince Lombardi and more spewed out of her storage units like a sickness, purged in gouts down to the waiting abyss.

Any thing he'd handled, all his supplies, every “present” he'd ever bestowed, she made a point to dump them all.

But God, when had he touched her hair?

Once she was finished, it felt almost like a victory. With no material proof of her obligations, it was easy to imagine she was already free.

She would finish this mission on her own. No outside aid, no puppet-masters, no regrets.

------------------------------------------

/Sorrysorry-soverysorry!/

“Shut up!”Valerie had regrets.

/sorrysorrysorry/

So many regrets.

“I said shut up, you stupid bug!”

She emphasized her point by kicking the target of her ire right in the soft parts of its creepy, eye studded thorax.

This was stupid, she was stupid, but more than anything, she was pissed.

Valerie took a few steps closer to her target, gait slightly uneven for the lack of both her usual boots. While she wasn't going to die anytime soon, as the black leather that fit snug as skin across her body, the true barrier against the toxic atmosphere of the Zone, remained fully intact, it didn't stop her from being mad about it.

The bug, which had finally stopped gibbering in that vile, hissing tongue that had become more and more common the deeper she ventured into the pea-soup hellscape otherwise known as the ghost zone, took the opportunity to cower against the calciferous outgrowth that had halted its pitiful attempt at flight from Valerie's relentless pursuit.

She had hunted ghosts stronger and faster than this every day back in Amity, and could not help the faint sensation of disgust that came over her at the sight of a figure so unexpectedly pathetic. Did she appear so weak that this creature, along with the half a dozen or so of its less successful, but no less kleptomaniacally inclined ilk see fit to prey upon her? Did she seem so low indeed, that even the meanest, most beggarly of the Zone's inhabitants should see her as some object to pilfer and mock?

It was the work of a moment to summon her laser cubes, pulling them from the pocket dimension from which they resided to slide noiselessly over to the insect lying prone before her. With a thought, they flew forward, two each to press down on the thing's chitinous skull, heightening the artificial glow of her suit as she did for that extra sense of intimidation.

It was an ability she'd never had the need for back on earth, only to find herself putting it to use with unhappy frequency not a day after she'd set off on her journey.

Everything in the realm of the dead glowed, and the capacity to put off and manipulate one's own aura was a hallmark of the creatures that 'lived' within it. Those that didn't stood out strangely, casting shadows upon themselves and the world in a way that made them an obvious anomaly in the otherwise antumbral reaches of the Zone.

While Valerie didn't enjoy wasting her resources on glowing like she was her very own spook, she also hated wasting time, which advertising her humanity to every ghost that glanced her way very much did; a lesson that she'd learned after fending off an entire assault squad of ghost police, who had chased her for ages while screaming about her criminal possession of so many 'real world objects' within their territory.

That it also made sure any enemies never anticipated her ability to phase through objects came in handy from time to time as well, such as when a would-be thief, for example, tried to duck into a thicket in an effort to snarl its pursuer.

As expected, the bug shuddered in response to the cold touch of the barrel against its skin, curling into itself as it looked up into the dark panel of her faceplate.

Valerie leaned down, pinning it between herself, her guns, and the stony trunk of what, on this particular island, seemed to serve as some kind of tree.

/Alright, Manbug, one more time./ Her voice crackled and popped through her translators, adding even more intimidation to a tone already modulated down to something lower and crueler than her natural snarl. /Where. Did you. Put. My Stuff. /

The insect whimpered a little harder, oozing something suspiciously close to snot from the hole above its writhing mouthparts. It remained otherwise silent, however, as it shook.

Valerie pulled back her leg and kicked it again.

The imitation flesh buckled beneath her toes, causing the creature to squeal, a nonverbal expression of pain peaking just beyond her range of hearing as it flickered invisible, writhing in a hopeless gambit to escape the weapons still clamped against its head.

Funny how ghosts kept so many features they really shouldn't need anymore. Like joints, for example. Was it a subconscious matter, or some kind of deliberate choice, Just one more means to mock the living, their very forms a cruel parody of everything they once had been?

She silenced the voice which whispered how she should know by now, that it wasn't that easy. There were more important things to focus on.

/P-please./

The bug focused its myriad gaze on the huntress' visor, all six limbs twisted over themselves, wrapped tight over its oozing midsection.

/In error, Milor- Milord. Your place, held, not neutral. Shall honor, please. /

It was leaking from the eyes too, now, viscous fluid pouring from its dozens of eyes, wetting it bodily, puddling down onto the dark purple earth, adding to the halo of scattered goods and tchotchkes that had spilled out from the overstuffed bags that it had clung to for dear life even as they toppled, overbalanced from a too-fast turn, dragging the creature headfirst into ruin.

/Mer- mercy./

This wasn't fair. This miserable thing, begging in the dirt like it hadn't gotten anything more than what it deserved.

Valerie grimaced, rubbing the heel of her palm against her faceplate. Phantom's visage, not long past, looked up to her from the depths of her memory, face just as desperate, just as indisputably, distressingly genuine as when she'd first seen it.

“Valerie, You don't want to do this.”

“Like I have a choice, spook.” She muttered.

She took a deep breath, sucking in the same recycled exhalation she'd been breathing for nearly a week now, and took a moment to actually think her situation through.

She wasn't lost. She had no idea where she was, but she wasn't lost: That would imply a level of helplessness she could not bring herself to admit. What little food and water she had brought with her had been eaten a while back, reducing her to scavenge among the portal droppage scattered through those areas not patrolled by mad policemen, hoping she could find something sufficiently sealed against ectoplasmic encroachment to remain edible.

She reconsidered her captive, still trembling on the ground. A ghost zone native, utterly at her mercy, and, by the looks of things, a serial hoarder of goods.

/You want mercy? Fine. But you do what I say, exactly as I say it, M'kay?/

While the guns pinning its head in place were something of an obstacle, the bug did manage a spasmodic sort of jerking motion, forebody pushed back and forth with desperate, eager haste.

/(Enthusiasm,) (enthusiasm,) assent! Lord, generous, gratitude, respect./

“Good, now-”She held out one hand, palm expectant.

/Give 'em back./

It responded slowly, still slobbering at the maw, all eyes fixed on the huntress as it unwound its uppermost limbs, which reached up towards those tattered bundles still clustered fungiform over its heaving thorax, rifling between twine-like bindings for what seemed an age.

Patience had never been a skill of Valerie's, and she found herself torn between wanting the moment to last forever and wishing go faster instead, tightening her mental grip over her laser cubes, fingering the internal triggers in anticipation of some sudden, traitorous motion on the part of her captive.

Ghosts were deceptive, dangerous creatures, except, of course, when they weren't.

Without any ability to tell the difference, she could do nothing but pace at the bars of her patience, waiting for the moment to act.

Finally, a claw submerged itself into one of the parcels, pulling out one boot, and, just beside it, a single leather fold.

This was it. Valerie snatched the wallet from its pincers. The boot was replaceable, her construct engines could make another now, if she wanted to waste the resources for it, but her wallet-She flipped open the small leather parcel, noted immediately that the contents were not any state remotely akin to how she had left them.

/Milord?/

The bug was still subtly trying to wriggle its way out from under her guns. Her systems noted, then deleted, increased energy expenditure from her laser cubes as they were forced to adjust to its motions.

Useless data. A ghost of so low a caliber could never hope to escape so easily.

Debit card-broken, bent until the plastic whitened from an excess of pressure; Dollar bills balled together and crammed into a single pocket, still damp with a kind of ectoplasm that looked disquietingly similar to the slobber still dripping from the mouthparts of the bug before her; Plastic wrappers, spare coins, a concert flyer for a band she'd always wanted to see.

/Ah, Milord? Pardon, Excuse?/

All of it. This vile, twisted excuse for an insect had messed with all of it. It had played with her most important cards and documents like they were toys, then shoved them back in with utter disregard for any sense of their value once it was done.

/Goods, returned, trust?/

Dread crept into her heart as she reached into the backmost pocket of her billfold, the place where she kept the picture of her.

/more goods? Information? Information on goods? Release, please?/

It was shoved in the very bottom of the wallet, balled into the crease where the two halves of leather were joined into one. She pulled it out, fingers shaking only slightly as they smoothed it back into a more flattened form.

The Red Huntress had no face, and never had Valerie been more grateful for that absence than in that moment, when she beheld the true extent of the damage done to Polaroid before her.

Soft white creases were everywhere, shattering the image into isolated fragments of its former self. It had been torn, too, at the edges, a grip too hard, twisting too far, integrity compromised as a result.

The worst of the damage by far, however, were a series of punctures, scattered at random through the center of the photograph, small to medium perforations forming little absences where there had once been trees and grass, where there had been a woman's face. A hole sat primly above her dark neck, arched back into nothing, a yawning gap where once there had been laughter.

The Huntress turned her blank visage back to her captive, who froze in the act of trying to pry her weapons out of position. Cowardly, but expected. Trusting a ghost was a fools game she had no intent on playing.

/Ah, haha, (nervous) (nervous,) (respect.)/ The target pulled its claws back up against itself, fiddling with the tips as it looked up to her absent regard.

/...Milord?/

The Red Huntress had no face, could betray no emotion, could reveal none of the cold black welter that rushed up through the depths of her breast and pressed against her throat. An impassive machine, possessed of a will stripped free of feeling.

No sliver of her intent showed through, no shudder passed from her shaking fingers to her gauntleted hands, not even the psychic senses of a ghost could hope to detect the lava that boiled up from her guts, pressing against her skin in an sheet of living fire even as the pits of her stomach chilled to ice.

The bug was still looking up at her, eyes all expectant, when she commanded her one of her guns to fire.

A bright streak of energy shot through the top of its head, hard pink flash cutting through a wave of green.

It squealed, jerked all six limbs towards the missing portion of its skull in a hopeless effort to stop the thick chunks of ectoplasm from slopping down the side of its face. Valerie brought her foot down at the same moment, crushing its forelimbs down into the dust. Forelimbs tipped with little claws, just large enough to fit the holes in a certain photograph.

/Why!? Ancients, why, why!?/

Why?

“Why the hell not?” she snarled, “Ain't that how it works here?”

If a different ghost wanted to rob her blind every time she tried to sleep, they could. If Valerie wanted to chase down the one that finally succeeded, she could. There were no laws here, there were no rules, there weren't even morals. There was nothing to stop anyone from doing anything, so why should she be the one to hold herself back?

She lifted her foot off its claws, then swung it once again into its thorax, only just crusted over from where she had kicked it before.

It squealed, just like she imagined another ghost would, red eyes wide and frightened, vampiric teeth shattered against her fist, choking as she wrapped her fingers around his blue, blue, skin.

He deserved this, it deserved this, she was in the right. She had been tricked, mislead, mistaken maybe, but she wasn't wrong, she was in the right.

And if there was some dark curl of satisfaction there, a self righteous flame alighted just where she'd been coldest in that moment of hate, then that was proof, wasn't it? Of just how right she was.

She bent down to her target, which had started drooling all over again, ground speckled green and wet as it heaved against itself. It was disgusting enough that she would have shot it in the mouth instead of the head, but she still needed information, which meant it still needed to talk.

It's upper set of antenna had survived the cranial blast, making for an easy handhold as she yanked its drooping head up to face her once again. At the same time, she sent her guns down to its chest, where its energy levels peaked their highest.

Ghosts, much like the cockroaches they resembled, could survive well enough without a head, but none, not one could ever hope to make it without their precious ghostly core.

“Listen up spook.” She hissed. /Here's how this is gonna work. You lie, I shoot. You run, I shoot. Got it?/Its head twitched up and down, the smallest possible motion of assent.

/Good./

This was what it took, when it came to ghosts. Cooperation proceeded pain, loyalty from the threat of it, and mercy not at all.

/We'll start with the questions./

She allowed her guns to charge power, deadly, scintillating hum filling the air with the sound of her malintent.

/I like what I hear, maybe I let you keep talking./

Author's note: If Sam is more pride than wrath, then Val is more wrath than pride, IMO. I've done my best to write her accordingly

[dragonseattofu]

School Days (TWEWY Fanfiction)

Summary

As the gang prepares for the annual school cultural festival, Shiki's not hiding in Eri's shadow anymore, and other people are starting to take notice. At the same time, Neku learns that the line between more than friends yet less than lovers is starting to blur.

Notes:

So to try and somewhat contribute to the very smol neshiki twewy fandom, I wrote this self-indulgent piece. It might come off as OOC, but at the end of the day I hope it’s enjoyable to at least one person out there (even if that’s just me). Dedicated to @altorav​ and @trashcan-of-a, in their efforts to show the world how wholesome neshiki is, you’ve inspired me. I hope you like it! (Plus we needed some fluff post episode 3 angst).

Preview:

It was that time of year again, the annual school cultural festival. A time of ostentatious costumes, overly enthusiastic maid/butler cafe hosts/hostesses, and even more unnecessary social interactions that Neku would rather just avoid school all together.

What a drag, the teen thought as he drowned out his classmate’s debate on what theme they should do.

Looking at the window from his seat, Neku was grateful he listened to his mother this morning and grabbed an umbrella. The cumulus clouds hung low, their edges tinged grey.

“Okay everyone, that’s it for today. Make sure to sign up for your roles before the end of the day!”

Pulled out of his reverie by chairs scratching against the worn linoleum and erupting chatter, Neku stood up from his seat and walked over to the bespeckled girl two rows down.

“You weren’t paying attention, were you?” The petite girl asked before he even got out his greeting.

He picked at one of his spiked out strands of hair, “is it that obvious? Festivals are such a bore.”

“They are not! And this year we have Beat and Eri to celebrate it with. Even Rhyme’s coming! It’s going to be fun!” She was really enthusiastic about this, and not the false happiness she tried to pull during their time in the Reaper’s Game, but genuine excitement. He couldn’t help but mirror her smile.

“Yeah well, what are we even doing?” He turned his attention to the board and shuttered.

“Seriously? A play … Cinderella? Cliche much? Yep, this is going to be torture.”

“Oh come on, it’s not going to be that bad! Eri and I are going to be in charge of costumes, you could help us—“

“Hey Sakuraba!” Yuji shouted from the front of the classroom, “thanks for signing up for props and set, man! We’ll have a meeting after classes in the auditorium at 3!”

Neku looked at the class president as if he had sprouted reaper wings, “what the?”

“You signed up for set-up?” Shiki asked him, getting up with her books and supplies all gathered neatly in her bag.

“Hell no, who signed me up?”

“I did.” A streak of pink wandered over to the pair. Before the young boy could protest the predicament she put him in, the girl placed her arm around Shiki’s shoulders protectively.

“I found some of your sketches in Shiki’s notebook and I figured you’d be really good at making the sets. Plus, this way you can walk Shiki home after school when it gets late. Kill two birds with one stone, right? Eri ended her explanation with a wink, much to Neku’s chagrin.

Just as quickly as Eri appeared, in a blink she was gone, yelling over her shoulder, “see you later guys! Shiki, let’s get started on the costume designs after school today!”

“Come back here Pinkie!” The boy hissed at her retreating shadow.

Shiki laughed at their antics. She grasped Neku’s fist he was shaking at her best friend gently and smiled at him before repeating, “hey, it’ll be fun, okay?”

A slight pause and resigned sigh were her only responses.

“This never reaches my mother’s ears. I’ll never hear the end of it.” He threatens, knowing full well that Shiki and his mother had each other's numbers saved as favorites.

~~~~~

Reluctantly, Neku made his way to the auditorium after school. To his surprise, he learned that the play was going to be a parody of sorts, a “Cinderella in Shibuya” story. The sets would be modeled after iconic spots in their neighborhood, one of which would be inspired by CAT’s mural in Udagawa! Even though Neku was still sulking in his seat for having to stay after school, he didn’t hate the concept.

“So gang, we’ll need a couple of supplies to start with constructing the sets and painting them.” Yuji started speaking as he walked up the steps leading to the stage.

“Takeda-sensei mentioned that we have some spray paints left over that we could use to save on budget.” Taking a seat at the edge of the stage, the class president looked into the crowd of faces and asked, “Has anyone used spray paints before?”

The answer was quite clear from the deafening silence. Neku could just sit quietly in his seat, admire the ugly clock above the stage, ticking away at the wasted minutes he could be spending with his friends if he wasn’t stuck here…

Or he could take a page out of Mr. H’s book and expand his world. Push his horizons out as far as they'll go. If Shiki was trying to overcome her insecurities and expand her world beyond Eri’s, then maybe he should too. Plus, he could use the practice.

“... I have,” Neku hesitantly muttered, not used to voluntarily bringing attention to himself. The room suddenly felt ten degrees warmer as all the eyes in the auditorium turned to him.

Yuji’s surprised expression was replaced with a huge grin, “Sweet man, thanks for volunteering! You good with the Udagawa set? It’s the only one that would look wild spray painted.”

Like he needed to ask, “yeah.”

“Cool!” Yuji said, “now let’s move on to the Hachiko set. Anyone good with sculpting?”

The remainder of the meeting was spent dividing up the work. They’d start assembling the sets tomorrow, and painting would start in a couple of weeks depending on how long it took to build everything. Satisfied that he could finally go home and relax, Neku sauntered out of the auditorium, flipping open his phone to see if he had any messages. None from Shiki, huh, I wonder if she went home already?

He didn’t get a chance to dwell on why he thought of Shiki just now because he spotted the girl in question sitting outside under one of the awnings at the main entrance.

“What are you still doing here?” Neku asked, slowly approaching the brunette. Shiki turned to the sound of her name, recognition dawning in her eyes and she waved at him.

“Eri forgot she had a doctor’s appointment today, so she had to leave right after classes. I had to stay late with Mina and Ai for the costume supply list, and I wasn’t sure if you had left already.” Shiki looked up at the sky, watching the rain fall around the bench she was sitting on. “I’m waiting for the storm to let up before heading home.”

He had to stop himself from admiring her, she looked stunning surrounded by the falling rain, the setting sun reflecting off of the droplets that shimmered like jewels falling from the sky around her.

“You forgot your umbrella didn’t you?” He asked, seeing her flinch at the accusation confirmed his suspicions. With a sheepish smile, she nodded.

Neku pulled out the folded umbrella from his knapsack and opened it up, leaving room on his left. “Let’s go?”

“Yeah,” she replied, getting up to join her companion as the sounds of two pairs of footsteps splashing in a nearby puddle reverberated off the school buildings.

After a couple of blocks of comfortable silence, Shiki asked, “So how did your meeting go?”

He adjusted the umbrella before muttering, “Boring.”

“Oh.” Shiki wasn’t entirely surprised. The festival seemed like more of a nuisance to him.

“... The play’s going to be a parody in Shibuya?”

“Yeah! Isn’t it interesting? Eri and I decided to do a fusion of victorian punk for the costumes!” Neku could practically see the stars shining in her eyes, “fairytale gold with midnight navy, flowing dresses with chains and netting! It’s going to look awesome —“

So enthusiastic about the creations in her mind, Shiki didn’t see that she stepped into the bicycle lane beside her, with a cyclist approaching at an alarming speed. Neku tossed the umbrella from his left hand to his right and grabbed Shiki’s shoulder from behind, pulling her into his chest in one swift motion. Not a second later did the wind pick up next to the two teens, the bicyclist flipping the middle finger as he passed them.

“Watch where you’re going!” Neku shouted.

“You watch it kid!”

As his senses started the return to normal from the brush of danger, Neku asked Shiki if she was alright. He didn’t move away from her, only bringing the umbrella over to shield the rain that started to drip on his hand holding her shoulder. The rhythmic pattering of droplets hitting the umbrella slowed her heartbeat enough to reply.

“Yeah, a little shaken though. Thanks for the save,” Shiki said, their eyes meeting. The proximity of their faces caused their already flushed cheeks to redden a deeper hue, both quickly turning away in embarrassment. Shiki reluctantly removed her hands from his chest, and with a little hesitation, Neku released his hold on her.

Confined to the edges of his seemingly small umbrella, Neku cleared his throat and offered the girl his arm, “I-I think you should hold on to me, you know, in case I need to save you again.”

This time she pouted, “I saved you a couple of times too, you know,” Shiki commented, her nose held high defiantly. Without hesitation, she accepted the arm that extended out to her, cheeks dusted pink from frustration because he was teasing her, and that she was holding onto the person she may or may not have feelings for. With their arms now linked, the two continued their walk home as the rain started to get heavier.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll be sure to thank Piggy when I see him next time.”

“Ugh, gosh Neku, Mr. Mew is a cat!” She pulled the black stuffed animal out of her bag and shoved him in the boy’s face for good measure.

“Hey there Piggy, thanks for saving me back in the UG. Think you can save me from your master’s death glare?” Neku chuckled while guiding Shiki across the street. She was getting more annoyed with him by the second, but he couldn’t help himself. As they waited for the crossing signal to change, Neku took the time to admire the way she crinkles her nose when she’s arguing with him, and how she tightens her grip on his arm when they can proceed across the street. He’s staring too long at her, he realizes and he blushes because may or may not have feelings for her.

They were dancing around where they stood with each other for months now. Definitely more than friends, but a little less than lovers. Neku couldn’t deny that if he ever would be with someone, it would be Shiki, but they were both still learning how to be themselves. That was more important than being branded as something they weren’t yet ready for just to satisfy other people. Shiki was important to Neku, and vice versa because they were partners, and if anything was going to happen beyond that, would just happen on its own. Right now, Neku enjoyed having Shiki this close to him, talking about what the next couple of weeks would be like as they walked home together, and that was good enough for him.

~~~~~

A couple of days had passed since the shared umbrella incident, and yet again, Neku found himself staying after school, moving one of the newly constructed sets into the west wing of the auditorium. It wouldn’t be long before he could take the massive blank mural outside and start spray painting the design he had been ruminating on. With the last of the sets neatly tucked away, Neku silently nodded at Yuji to signal his leave, before picking up his things and heading out. The fluorescent “20:35” shined on his phone as he tapped it to life, lighting up the shadowed hallway as he walked further into the school.

Neku heard her voice on his way to the classroom. He knew she was probably still working, oftentimes the last person in her group to leave, but what surprised him was the presence of another, more masculine voice in response to her quiry.

“Most people don’t know about that collection, it sold out within a couple of hours after release.”

“Wow, did you manage to get anything? Oh, lift your neck a little higher.”

“Sure thing.” There was a pause and Neku took the opportunity to peer into the classroom through the silt in the door. He could see Shiki standing on a stool, intently working on the collar of their classmate’s costume. The voice belonged to Hiroshi Minaru. He was casted as the prince in their festival play, and it looked like most of his costume was complete, sans a couple details Neku knew Shiki would never overlook. She was so deep in thought that her face was barely inches from the boy’s neck. “It was a bloodbath at 5 in the morning, but I grabbed the limited edition mint polo before this other dude and I thought I was going to die!”

Neku heard Shiki giggle, and he subconsciously clenched his fists. He felt like he shouldn’t be there, eavesdropping on her. With another guy… She’s clearly still busy, and it’s not like they had planned to leave together. He debated whether he should just go, make up an excuse as to why he didn’t wait. He felt uncomfortable, and he didn’t know why.

“All done! How does it feel, too constricting?”

“No, It’s perfect Misaki-chan, you’re so amazing with a needle and thread! You really have a talent for sewing.”

“Thanks,” she said bashfully, “now, give me a good turn!”

The boy took a step back and spun around, his cape flowing around him, “how do I look?” He put his hand to his chin, and smirked at her with a lifted brow.

“Like a dashing prince charming.” Shiki replied with a friendly smile, the ones Neku had seen time and time again.

“I’m really glad we got to work together like this for the festival, it’s nice to talk to someone about fashion with an eye for clothes making.”

“Yeah, me too. Most of the time it’s just Eri and I…” Shiki looked down, steadying herself to step down from the stool. Hiroshi offered her a hand, which she gladly took.

“M-Maybe ... sometime I could show you some photos of my Mus Rattus collection?” Hiroshi said, looking up at her from below, their faces mere centimeters away.

The pair made eye contact and the next thing Neku knew, he saw her pitch forward.

“Misaki-chan!” “Shiki!”

Thankfully, she landed on her feet, still holding Hiroshi’s hand. Both heads turned to the door that was forcibly ripped open, leaving the orange haired teen standing alone, concern written on his face.

“Shiki, are you okay?” Neku asked, walking toward the pair. He saw her slide her hand out of Hiroshi’s as she redirected her attention to him.

“Yeah, a little shaken but I’m alright.” She turned to Hiroshi, “Thanks for catching my fall Hiroshi-kun.”

“No problem Misaki-chan. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she beamed at Neku, “while you’re here, what do you think?” She asked, gesturing toward Hiroshi, to which their classmate posed with a smile.

After a second or two, “I think I see a button loose.”

“WHAT, where?!” She scurried to Hiroshi, who stiffened at the sudden scrutiny.

“...made you look…”

“Neku, jeez!” Shiki puffed her cheeks. He just smiled as she attacked him with a series of punches to the arm.

Clearing his throat, Hiroshi excused himself. It was quite late already, and he felt like he was intruding on what seemed to be a private moment.

“See you later, Misaki-chan, Sakuraba-kun.”

A comfortable silence soon fell upon them. Shiki moved to gather her belongings, tidying up her projects neatly to be continued tomorrow.

“Let’s go?” She asked, holding her bag behind her back.

He nodded as she walked out of the classroom, shutting the light, and closing the door behind them.

~~~~~

The evening air whistled in his ear, a chill nipping at his nose. The weather was getting colder, the days shorter, and staying in school longer for the festival meant commuting home when the sun was either gone or disappearing beyond the horizon. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck in a feeble attempt to fight the shivers moving up his spine. He looked at Shiki to see how she was fairing.

He saw that her cheeks were pink, from the cold or something else he didn’t know. He moved to look at her eyes, surprised when his eyes locked onto hers. Shortly after both teens looked away in different directions, a little more flushed than before.

“So Hiroshi-kun’s costume is coming together really well. The gold accents Eri wanted really worked out better than I imagined,” Shiki said.

“That’s because you brought it to life.”

Shiki looked at him with wide eyes. Neku’s always been blunt to a “T,” never sugarcoating his thoughts regardless if they were well-received or not. When he says things like this, Shiki can’t help but feel elated. He believed in her and her abilities, it was just a simple truth.

“Thanks Neku.”

She heard a muffled mhmm from his scarf.

A couple steps later, “... what were you and Hiroshi talking about?”

She gave him a thoughtful look. “Hiroshi-kun is really into Mus Rattus’ recent fall collection. Some of the pieces had some pretty neat fabrics and we started talking about textiles and fashion. I didn’t know there would be someone else that liked fashion as much as Eri and I.”

Neku grunted a reply. Realizing that he was a few steps ahead of her, Shiki quickened her pace to match his.

“Is something … bothering you?” Shiki questioned the boy, subconsciously giving him the doe-eyed look he found both irritating and endearing.

Neku felt agitated; more so frustrated because he didn’t exactly know why he was agitated. Flashbacks from that rainy day came to mind, Shiki holding onto his arm under a shared umbrella, walking home side by side, more closely than before. The memories made him feel warm and excited. Then he remembered the princely-dressed Hiroshi holding Shiki’s hand as if she was his princess he had come to rescue, and he grunted in displeasure. He came to a stop, trying to sort out his emotions. It showed on his face enough for Shiki to raise an eyebrow in concern.

“Let me in,” Shiki said quietly, “trust me?” She placed a hand on his arm delicately.

It’s not that he didn’t trust her, it was more like he didn’t trust what would come out of his mouth coherently. He looked at her hands, and with great care, took her hands into his own, slightly larger ones.

“I … ugh … want to … hold your hands.” Neku mummered, so low and into his scarf she barely caught it. But after a couple of months of getting to know her partner, she knew how to really listen when he verbally or wordlessly communicated something.

Not exactly sure where this was coming from, Shiki just replied with the first thing that came to mind, “I want to hold your hands too,” she said with a soft smile.

That was a good sign, right? Neku was nervous, but an excited kind of nervous. They were going into a very delicate topic, one that they had been carefully tiptoeing around since they came back to the RG. He didn’t know if he was ready to take the next steps, but now’s a better time than never he reasoned. He slowly realized that he didn’t want to wait any longer.

“Can we talk about…this, us?” He said, looking down at their joined hands, giving hers a light squeeze.

A pregnant pause ascended, and Neku didn’t realize he was holding this breath before he heard her speak.

“Well, I like hanging out with you, being with just you.” She closed her eyes in thought, “and I like when you walk me home.” She gestured to their hands, “this is nice too, I would like to do this more often.”

Shiki opened one eye to gauge her companion’s reaction and took a leap of faith, “I guess I’ve kind of had feelings for you for a while now, since the first time you saw me in the RG, the real me. I was super embarrassed when you told me that I was prettier than Eri. I thought you were just trying to cheer me up so that Beat and Rhyme wouldn't worry, but then I remembered that you don’t say needless things, that you really believed it, so I started to believe it too.”

Looking him straight in the eyes, Shiki continued, “I like the way you make me feel, like I’m a better person than I think I am, and I want to be the person that you see in me…”

He still hadn’t uttered a word, slowly processing what he was hoping wasn’t a dream. His silence continued and Shiki was beginning to lose her nerve, “and you should say something now because this is super embarrassing with you just looking at me like that!” Gosh, she wanted to pry her hands away so she can bury her face in them!

So the feeling was mutual all along, Neku thought, and he couldn’t stop the goofiest smile that emerged on his face.

“Well … you were my entry fee,” he replied, trying to look everywhere but her. Neku had told Shiki and the gang about his three week experience immediately after they returned to the RG. He was so apologetic for dragging her back into the game again that he didn’t see her embarrassment about what being his entry fee really meant. If he didn’t want to dwell on it, neither would she. However his comment had greater weight now, and she blushed knowing what he was implying, but she still wasn’t satisfied.

“Geez, I just gave you a whole monologue! I want something more than that. Say it!”

“Alright, alright, geez stalker don’t get your undies in a bunch,” he chuckled, and with a little bit more confidence said, “Shiki, I like you too.”

It felt like a veil had lifted, like the metaphoric waltz they were dancing finally concluded and they just stood there, hand in hand. Neku swore he heard music in his ears, the Shibuya’s metropolitan sounds harmonizing with Shiki’s melody into a rhapsody only he could hear. One day he would tell her about it, her song that was playing in his mind when she told him that she liked him. But for today he would just burn her smile into his memory, the smile she had when he told her that he liked her.

Neku didn’t know what the near future would hold, neither of them doing well under the pressure of their friends that had been right about them this whole time, but he wanted to do this right, and take it slow. For now, all he just wanted was to be with her, and hold her hand a little longer.

“Let’s take the long way home, through the park?” Neku suggested, bringing her knuckles to his lips.

“Y-yeah.” She stuttered as he boldly gave them a chaste kiss.

So into their own world, hands laced together, setting a different course home, did the young couple not realize the chuckle in the wind at the bet he just won on who would confess first.

[earbuds-and-hightops]

An Open Letter to Supernatural

[ Spoiler warning for 15x20, obviously ]

I understand that a well-contemplated complaint about this ending cannot be made without first reading the original, pre-COVID, script of 15x20, but in the long run, the initial plan is not what will be remembered. 

What will be remembered is what this show created. What it became beyond two brothers driving around the country, hunting monsters. Characters were introduced and developed, and in that, Sam and Dean Winchester become so much more than two kids living on the road. In the past 15 years, the cast, and thus the family, grew to something that would be unimaginable to those who started this project back in 2005. Not only did the characters and their stories become meaningful, but the show itself grew into, well, a family. The fans who have kept this show alive since Day 1 have come together to form what I believe is the greatest community in pop culture. 

What hurts the most is that this finale did not do any of that development justice. 

The finale (and consequently the episodes leading up to it) reverts back to the story between only Sam and Dean. While some see this as an ode to who they are--their brotherhood and familial bond being the heart of their values and the root of their characters--I cannot help but see this as a rejection of their experiences this past decade and a half. 

What’s worse, episode 15x18 confirmed one of the most pure and powerful and goddamn beautiful romances that television will ever see. This story of an angel who abandoned his family and the only beings he’s known for thousands of years, all for one person. I knew from the instant the screen faded to black on November 5 that the story of Castiel will always be remembered, even if his feelings were unrequited. Castiel will always be remembered. 

And then there’s Destiel. I was genuinely impressed that this show would even grow to include a queer angel, more importantly, a queer character in a leading role. The queer-baiting and the “bury your gays” trope both make this confession and its lack of acknowledgement that much worse (and is worthy of an entirely separate open letter for another night). It matters less if Dean does or doesn’t reciprocate these feelings and more that it’s wrong that he completely ignores it. Cas’s love confession, this beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful emotion coming from a being who wasn’t supposed to feel emotions at all, is something that, unfortunately, will become a secret that dies with Dean Winchester. 

It’s truly a shame that the writers of this show let that happen. 

We haven’t even touched the fact that Castiel’s death was an act of sacrifice to save Dean. Dean’s limited reaction and lack of mourning* tears apart this phrase that has become pivotal to the entire show and fanbase: “Family don’t end in blood.” While it would be a lot to ask that Dean rescue Cas from the Empty and resume their cycle of rescue and resurrection, I think it’s only fair that Dean take the time to fully accept Castiel’s actions and words for what they mean instead of simply moving forward as if they never happened.

What’s more, Misha Collins is one of the greatest and kindest people in this world, and he’s poured his heart and soul into Supernatural, just like everybody else. He’s spent 12 years on this project, and the final two episodes hardly mentioned his character. He didn’t deserve this. It’s heartbreaking that his last credit on this show will be a prank call from someone trying to impersonate him, and not something that pays tribute to such an important character and important actor**

The most devastating part of this ending is what happened in 15x19. Pardon my French when I say that that episode, the ultimate climax of the season and latter half of the series, was a piece of dog shit. It’s incredibly frustrating to invest in 15 years worth of television and look forward to this ultimate battle between two average boys and God the Almighty Himself and to instead watch a 6-minute long fist fight on the beach with the only dialogue being variations of “seriously guys, stay down.” 

My issues with 15x19 lie less in the storyline that was chosen and more in how they were presented. I am completely on board with Jack taking God’s power and eventually becoming the new God, but the episode was far too quick to have any real meaning, and, as stated before, Castiel’s sacrifice, which allows Sam, Dean, and Jack to do what they do in 15x19, is hardly mentioned.

Most fans agree that 15x19 was far too quickly paced. The plot with Michael and Lucifer was questionable to begin with, but should have been an episode on its own if it were to be perused at all. Michael’s story in particular could have been fleshed out to reiterate this theme of overly loyal sons and their fathers, as well as their relationships with less loyal siblings, but was instead reduced to about 20 minutes of screen time. 

Though this is less important, Lucifer’s plan to make a new Death felt like a cheap cop-out just to close the storyline with Death’s book, but we can finish that discussion another day. 

The general fan reaction to this atrocity of an episode was that this was meta, and according to Becky, the ending was supposed to be dog shit. This, along with the untouched storyline started when Cas died, gave fans so much hope that the finale would be this amazing piece of art that puts Supernatural in the history books. 

While it’s obvious that an hour cannot perfectly tie up every single event and arc with a pretty little bow, it can at least...try. Any finale should, at minimum, pay tribute to what the show started as (which 15x20 did well) and what it became (which 15x20 failed to do miserably). 

In addition, a reference to character back in season 1 is incredibly frustrating when recurring characters with actual, well, character go unnoticed. I mostly reference Eileen here, but this also applies to Jody and Donna. Nobody even mentions the other wonderful friends who have helped Sam and Dean along their journey to Heaven. If family doesn’t end in blood, then why doesn’t it extend to include Castiel, Jack, Mary, Rowena, Charlie, Kevin, Jody and her girls, Donna, and so many others?

Dean’s death was sad, I’ll give them that (and honestly, I was expecting it). However, considering that this man has defeated apocalypses, killed Death, and taken down God, his death via nail in the wall was incredibly anticlimactic, and something that could literally have happened at any point over the 15 seasons. While Dean’s death was obviously not my ideal ending, I think it could have worked if it were done properly, and in this case, it was not. That said, I do appreciate that Sam did not try to bring Dean back, as that would indicate literally no growth at all.

Dean’s funeral was...pathetic, to say the least. Sam being the only person there was depressing considering that Dean had lots of other close friends (and you’d think that Jack would pay his respects, but apparently not), however, this is likely a scene that was impacted by COVID and the availability of some of the cast, so I will not dwell on that scene.

Dean’s time in Heaven complicates matters even more. Firstly, Bobby confirms that Castiel is no longer in the Empty and has been in contact with Jack. I would have loved to see this reunion; Cas is essentially Jack’s father, and I would have loved to see how their upgrading/remodeling of Heaven brought them closer together. I understand that the writers were trying to focus this finale story on the brothers, this goes back to my earlier point that you cannot simply ignore everything that that this show has grown to include. Bobby’s explanation also begs the question of why Dean had no intention of seeing Cas (or Jack, for that matter) again now that he has the opportunity.

Secondly, Dean’s instinct to go directly for the Impala was very in-character, however, the editing implied that driving was all Dean did until Sam died. As we know, Sam dies of old age, likely (completely guessing here) upwards of 40-50 years from Dean’s death, and that is a very, very long time for Dean to simply driving around the mountains. It would have been nice to see Dean reunite with other family and friends who are also in Heaven, however, again, COVID restraints.

Sam’s ending was similar to what I and a lot of other fans imagined (not necessarily wanted, but predicted) it to be: kids and a wife, living a normal, monster-free, life. I hate to believe that he doesn’t end up with Eileen (to my recollection, his wife was a blur in the background, and it is unclear if she was meant to be Eileen) however that might just be my bias and appreciation of Shoshannah Stern. While I’m glad that this storyline gave Sam the room to grow and develop without his brother, it also completely ignores everything that he’s been through this past decade and a half, and that is something that should not happen. Sam grew and changed so much since he left Stanford and leaving that life, the life of a hunter, behind feels very counterintuitive.

Let’s not even discuss the wig that Jared wore. It reminded me of the Cain wig that Rob wore in the Hillywood parody.

What shocked me the most at the beginning of this episode was the lack of a “The Road So Far” compilation. I hoped for the full song with a recap of all 15 seasons, or, at minimum, the typical single-season recap. “Carry On My Wayward Son” is such an important part of the show and the culture of the fan base, that it seems almost sacrilegious that the season finale not begin with this song and a memorial to the events in the past season (or series).*** I’m very happy that it was included at all, but I was shocked when Neoni’s cover took over.

No disrespect to Neoni; those girls are incredibly talented and I love their music, however, a series finale of a 15 season long show does not feel like the place for a cover when they already have the rights to the original, and the original is so iconic.

Lastly, I want to acknowledge Jensen Ackles’s reaction to this conclusion. At a con panel about a year ago, he said that he needed to be talked into agreeing to this script by Erik Kripke himself, because the ending just wasn’t sitting right with him. So many fans took this to believe that he was homophobic and afraid that of Destiel becoming fully canon, and he got so much more hate than he deserved, because ultimately, he was right in his first opinion. This isn’t the way this story should have ended. Jensen explained that he had been “too close” to the story, and that it took a more holistic view from a step backwards (the audience’s perspective, as he puts it) to agree on this ending, but honestly, nobody knows Dean Winchester better than Jensen, and he knows what’s best and what would be the best way to finish this character’s arc. I think fans and Jensen alike agree that this wasn’t it.

I sympathize with all of the cast and crew members who disagree with how this show ended but are bounded by contract to support this show no matter what. Especially Misha and Jensen.

Over all, I believe that Supernatural will go down in history (in internet communities, at least) as one of the greatest shows ever. While I do agree that the writing quality in terms of both dialogue and plot declined as years passed, the community, the family, that this show created cannot be ignored because of a poorly written/planned ending. I think that the fandom will collectively let go of this disaster of an ending that we were given and will, just like Sam and Dean, write our own stories. I have full faith and confidence that Supernatural will not be represented by this finale episode, but by the beautiful stories, amazing characters, and the family that this show created and what the fans have chosen to do with it.

Sincerely,

A Fiercely Frustrated but Fiercely Loyal Fan

* I do not count that last clip of Dean crying on the floor as mourning. In my mind, that was a reaction, not an emotional healing and overcoming, if that makes sense. I argue that if Dean were to fully mourn and process everything (like Sam did in 15x20) we would have seen at least a bit of that on screen. 

** This is where I would have loved to see some of the original scripts. I hope that the writers initial intentions were to have Misha more involved in these last two episodes than what was likely a voice memo created in 10 minutes tops at Misha’s house.

*** The strange montage at the end of 15x19 makes so much more sense. I still would have preferred that montage at the beginning of 15x20. This also shines light on the video that Misha posted. What would we do without him :)

[gottawriteanegoortwo]

“Second Draft” - Rewrite the Story, Rework a Character!

I’ve been exploring the idea of the Actor and how best to write him lately. While doing so, I grew curious about the possibility of him slightly altering Damien during the time the ‘DAMIEN’ animation is set. So this is considering the idea that Mark still exists, but the Actor is the mask he wears and the role he plays.

Word Count: 1,522

-

This world - this place where neither death nor time exist - is a WONDERFUL setting for one as creative as the Actor! It was like the days in theatre, where the stage was empty yet filled with possibility. It was a blank canvas where any colours could be thrown on to help create something unique. It was the humming of a melody that could become a prelude to a great symphony. Here, anything could happen, if he so wished.

Somewhere in this timeless place hid the twins. Neither were attached to their own bodies, so they drifted deeper than most would. It must be through sheer carelessness, or even recklessness! The only one who could save them from the peril was Actor himself… But Celine had worked to make it impossible to properly locate them. He wanted to find Damien, but he only ever found Celine brandishing a weapon. However, she was only in a certain area that was hidden by an impassable wall. Unfortunately for her, it only brought about a curious Actor to see what lay in the area he now couldn’t reach.

In the time this game of ‘cat and mouse’ took place, Actor made an interesting discovery about the younger twin. Unlike Celine, Damien was simply chucked out of his body when it was possessed - his soul was still alive. Actor still had an opportunity to tweak Damien’s ‘character’, which he needed to. Damien couldn’t stay here, he needed to get back into the world! Not only that, he had to experience change to ensure further survival. Damien would perish in the world beyond the ‘bubble’. As he was, Damien was unsuitable to survive in the world Actor wanted for him. As it was, it was very good, but it was akin to a first draft that needed editing. It was unsuitable for the tale Actor had in mind. If he played his cards right, he could make the perfect plan to set in motion the new changes in such a subtle way that none would notice. What better way to help set the scene?

-

Deep within the abyss, there lay an empty pocket, like a chamber. The "walls" slowly expand and contract to bring a sense of life to the timeless place. When Mark first stumbled upon the room, it terrified him. Now, it calmed Actor. How could it not? That slow pulsing matched the rhythm of deep breaths that one would take to try and shake off the nerves. Perhaps the ones that resided in this place wanted Actor to succeed and granted access to a space that was ideal for the creative process! Actor closed his eyes and with a breath, waved his hands.

The walls trembled and pulled back to double the space available. Before him manifested a ghostly figure of the Mayor, brought forward by the memories within the body he now owned. Actor's eyes snapped open to the sight with delight. What a great starting point! It was a perfect replica, but this was not the final result. Oh no! This was merely the start, the blueprint! He snapped his fingers, and a projection of a list shuddered into existence on a screen. It was an information sheet, like when Mark used to work on characters for projects he worked on in better days. Basic facts about the Mayor appeared, but were pushed upward as Actor flicked his wrist. This wasn't what he wanted. Repeating the action manifested the Mayor's personality, neatly summarised and categorised into positive and negative traits:

 Positives - Charming, Polite, Trusting, Honest, Loyal

Negatives - Short-Tempered, Proud, Stubborn

"Such a neat, balanced character sheet. But we can't mess too much with your characterisation," Actor murmured as he began to pace around the apparition. "No, no… We cannot afford to lose your charm. I want the audience to love you, flaws and all. I want them to feel conflicted on their opinion of you… If you are too heartless, you become flat and little more than a parody of yourself, and I care about you too much for that." He paused as he eyed the list again, only to shake his head and resume pacing. "You may be doomed to fail against the heroes, but the audience should want to feel some sympathy or care toward you - or love to hate you, whichever works. But right now… Oh Damien, you are just too -" Standing in front of the figure, Actor rested his weight on one leg. His left hand propped the other arm, and his right hand clicked fingers together as words escaped him. "- How is that fans refer to someone like you… 'Soft'? 'Babey'? 'Cinnamon roll'? That isn't a good starting point for any villain, and you deserve better than to merely be a tragic character." 

That comment made him pause and step back. That did describe Damien rather well, didn't it? Mark had always thought Damien a sensitive soul, one who didn't deserve the pain that the world was keen to throw at him. Why condemn him to an eternity of suffering behind that wall and whatever was going on there? An outsider who had no trained abilities or experience in a place like this would be broken and shattered before they could return to the world beyond the void. Mark knew Damien well enough to know that if Damien was able to escape, he wouldn't mentally survive the transition back with his "still-living soul". Plus, it was likely Celine that was the only reason Damien still "survived" to this point (if he could assume that was why she kept hunting him). But Damien wouldn't survive like that forever. The moment Celine's powers ran out, they would both be doomed. Damien would be caught under the control of the creatures that lurked unseen or would be driven mad, while Celine… well, that wasn't something Mark wanted to dwell on.

It might not be the 'right' thing to do, but Mark didn't have any better ideas. They had long crossed the point of solving things amicably (body theft might have burned that bridge rather spectacularly). If Damien had to adapt by playing a role that didn't belong to him… so be it.

He took a slow breath to gather his thoughts and regain his focus. Then, Actor stepped forward. 

"I'm afraid your personality needs to be tweaked a fraction. Not too much to lose your sense of self, but enough to allow hunting me be a sensible option." After all, what good was a villain that had no drive? Damien was always a gentle soul. He would avoid causing hurt or bother to another. That needed to change. So then he needed to be strong-willed and focused, but to the point where it would be a detriment. He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and began scribbling on the screen floating before him until the list now read thusly:

Positives - Charming, Polite, Trusting, Honest, Loyal

Negatives - Short-Tempered, Proud, Stubborn, Obsessive

If Damien still believed there was a chance of good in his old friend, he might lose that drive to escape. Actor needed to be sure that Damien wouldn't fall so easily and blindly trust.

His hand reached out again to make another addition, only to freeze. Mark forced himself to hold back, to the point of once again breaking character. These were merely the bare bones of Damien's personality, but he couldn't remove another positive trait. Despite how he tried to convince himself otherwise, this felt… wrong. If it were anyone else he wouldn't feel this bubbling guilt. It wasn't right to alter Damien like this. But if he wanted Damien to escape and survive as he was, then he couldn't make another change. If he wanted Damien to live, then Mark would allow himself to become live bait that Damien could hunt. Love might be a force stronger than human nature, but so was hate. That could be his driving force.

He waved his hand and let the list disappear. The illusion of Damien shivered and faded away as the minor changes passed to the slumbering mayor. It was only a temporary solution, really. The beauty about people was that they weren't characters on a page. Their personality wasn't confined to some choice words in neat lists. People were far more complicated and nuanced than that. He hadn't erased the word "trusting", which meant it could be rebuilt over time.

"You can do it," Mark continued his thoughts aloud, "I know you can. Time and time again you defied the odds and emerged victorious. Do it this one last time, old chap. And anyway, you won't be alone. I'm sure you could find our dear Will if you are stuck, but the Attorney will be there waiting for you. They can help you through the changes and bring that light back into the world." 

It all seemed so simple and perfect, as Mark once again put back on his mask and left the chamber with a merry hum.  It would be perfect once Damien was reunited with his dear Attorney!

A shame he was unaware of their fate...

[hatsampixie]

Spy vs Spy - Curse of the Were-Pyre, part 2

(Small note, this chapter is longer than the first, and I may have gotten a bit lazy writing it towards the end.. :T)

-

Agent Black groaned as his eyes tiredly pried themselves open, he had reverted back to his normal form hours ago.

As his vision became clearer, he gave a cough and looked around. Upon scanning the area he saw that he was back home in his apartment, lying in his bed. As his energy slowly came back, his rubbed his head as a painful ache suddenly kicked in. "M-my head.." he groaned as he sat up in bed, 'what happened to me?' he thought to himself, he somehow remembered walking home on his own for some odd reason, Black flinched as his vision turned to the window and the bright sunlight seeping through the gray-colored curtains. Getting out of bed, he looked at the time on a nearby watch, he immediately woke up upon seeing that he was gonna be late, his eyes widening. Dashing out of bed and grabbing his black wide-brimmed hat, Black was about to walk out the door to get to the elevator, but when he opened it, he saw that his next-apartment neighbor, Frank was standing right there; causing the spy to yelp in fright. "A.B, we have to talk." he said, Black breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"Black, do you actually know what happened to you last night?" Frank asked, the two of them had sat down at a table in a small kitchen, Black responded by silently shaking his head, obviously a 'No'. "You were like groaning and growling like a.. a beast! I mean, you just came in by yourself. So, you didn't listen.. But did you get to know any ladies?" Black gave the fellow a not amused look. "No, Frank, I didn't. There were like no girls there apart from Agent Gray." There was silence for a moment or two. After a bit, Frank sighed. "..But that's not the point, you didn't listen to me, and I'm actually pretty scared; I heard those growls, and if you ask me, they didn't even sound human. Do you need to get to the hospital?" Once again, Black responded with a head shake. "No, I feel fine." he said, "I think everything's okay." Black and Frank got up and walked to the door, "Just get to work, don't cause any trouble, and.. Seriously, don't scare me like that again. White found out and told me that you walked home alone, and I'm just.. Grr! Any more nonsence, and I'm calling the police." Black shot him a stern look and glared. "Dude, I AM the police." Black finally walked out and shut the door, as he was beginning to walk down the seemingly never-ending hallway, his eyes narrowed as he noticed Agent White standing nearby, as if he was waiting for him. "White, why'd you tell on me?" he growled, venom entering his tone. "Well.. You know, I really hate to tell you this with all the fibers of my being.. But.. I was actually worried about you, you were acting pretty scary last night." White said. Black turned and gave an annoyed sigh, and started walking towards the elevator, "Stop going on about that, let's just get to work, c'mon White!" Black made his way to the elevator, his rival following after, he pressed a button and the lift's doors closed as it made it's descent towards the lobby floor.

"Alright, people, listen up! Because this day's report of mine is basically why you shouldn't talk to strangers." Vice (or actually temporary, the real chief was on break at the time) Chief Rodger told the agents that were sitting down at a large table in the meeting hall in the S.P.Y HQ. Agent Black raised his hand, as if he were a kid being taught in a classroom, drawing attention to himself. "I did!" he said, Rodger laid eyes on him and scowled, "No, B, I don't want to hear you're rubbish." The temporary chief has had some history with Black in the past, but Black didn't listen. "Well, last night I got like.. bitten by a vampire and a werewolf, and I kicked a robber's ass." Black said with a serious tone.

He remembered very little of some of the vents from last night, but the memories were still blurred, he didn't tell Frank because he didn't want him to be worried.

The tall man that was Rodger rolled his eyes. "Shut up, you're spouting rubbish. Okay men, ignore him, just ignore him." "..But, it's true, I did!" Black said, raising his voice a bit, even tilting his head to show him the marks from the healed neck bite, much to other people in the room gasping. One of the men chuckled upon hearing that, the black-attire-wearing spy simply glared at him, thinking that the fellow didn't believe him, "Look, pal, I did." he said, "I-I swear I did, even Rodger d- ..Gray, White, didn't you hear me growl last night like a ..weird beast?" Gray and White both nodded, "We did, we really did." The two both said in unison. "Well, it's because I got bit by both a vampire and a werewolf, and that made me a Were-Pyre." The black spy added sternly, Gray simply got a nervous look, glancing away for a moment and looking back at him, as if to say: "Black, why are you telling me this now?"

Rodger's voice breaking out made all the people in the room flinch: "People, calm down!" he bellowed, "Alright, Black, any more stories, and you won't get your break hours for today!" "I'm not lying-!" Now Rodger's eyes seemed to become bloodshot in his rage as his short temper acted up, and the veins in his neck now were now showing. "THAT'S IT! NO BREAK HOURS FOR YOU TODAY, BOY!" he roared. Unfortunately, the rage seemed to be contagious, because now Black looked annoyed, and his canines looked a bit longer than normal, and he started growling in his rage, and like Frank had said, the growls sounded inhuman. Some of the people sitting beside him started moving away from him, "Oh my god, B.. I'm getting REALLY ANGRY! That's it! I'M GONNA.. !" Rodger shouted once again, he was now looming over Black, raising his fist for the strike. At that moment, Gray stood up in her chair, as did White. "W-wait, wait, wait, don't! you can't hit an agent!" Gray spoke worriedly, Roger turned to her with a psychotic look in his eye. "Oh, YEAH?!" And then the crazed man hit Black with such a force that it knocked his hat off, and blew him into the chairs behind him, it was just too much, Rodger's strength was beyond what should be possible.

There was complete silence in the room.

Slowly, Black clumsily stood up again, putting his hat back on and breathing heavily, his eyes shut. It looked as if he had survived the blow without a scratch on him, one of the people in the crowd gulped in fear. As Black's creature-like breathing intensified, with a monstrous snarl, his eyes shot open; revealing that his pupils were now cat-like slits.

And his gaze was locked on Chief Rodger.  

The crowd, even Gray and White watched in fear as they saw something else happen, right before their eyes.

They witnessed Black transform.

Black's teeth became longer and more sharp, his ears grew visible, longer and wolf-like, and he also grew a wolf tail as well. He grew a foot taller, and his hands metamorphosed into giant bat wings.

And after this, Black looked right in Rodger's eyes, and let out a loud screeching roar.

The rage immediately went out of Rodger's gaze, and it was replaced with a parody known as horror. "OH, MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT?!" He screamed with fear in his voice, he had no idea what the heck just happened, but he knew one thing for sure as the rest of the people in the room did: Black was right. But there was no time to think as the now transformed spy lunged at Rodger at a frightening speed, shrieking.

Black knocked Rodger straight into the wall behind him, with the same force that the man had used to smack him, this instantly crushed the man's vertebrae, killing him. And Black started tearing into him, using his dagger-sharp teeth and claws, and started feasting on him like a hungry wolf.

The people looked on in horror at what was happening before them, one of them slowly got up out of his chair and tried to sneak away, but unfortunately, he wasn't wearing the right shoes for this, and a soft 'squeeak!' sounded off.

Black immediately froze, his wolf ears twitched, with rage in his eyes, he slowly turned to the crowd behind him, and with blood dripping from his claws and fangs, he lifted his head and unleashed a loud lupine howl.

The people in the room instantly went into all-out panic mode, screaming, waving their arms, tripping and scrambling over one another, desperately trying to get out of the room and away from the transformed Black Spy.

"Holy crap, Black, what happened to you?!" White screamed, Gray grabbed him by the hand and they both disappeared into the stampeding crowd, "There's no time to explain. Right now, head for the elevator!"

Three people didn't make it out of the crowd, and the first two had already been mutilated, and the room was now a mix of gray, white, and crimson red.

Breathing heavily, the Were-Pyre turned his attention to the third person left behind: the brightly colored weirdo from the party, who had now started backing away slowly, whimpering until he was now in a corner.

And as you all know, backing up into a corner when a monster's on a rampage is a very poor choice.

The rest was all a blur: the frightening screech, the terror-filled scream, the horrible sound of flesh getting torn, and the blood.. all the blood.

-

Black had once again um.. blacked out, and also turned back to normal. As he came to, he looked around and saw that he was in a small stone room.. blocked with large steel bars.

Oh no..

He woke up and saw that he was now in shackles that were attached to the walls, and in front of him, behind the steel bars, there was a man standing before him dressed in a camouflage outfit, he wore several badges, and a hat to match, and beside him, there were two other people in black suits with dark glasses, it was clear that this man was a General.

And that he was in a prison.

"..W-what am I doing here? Let me out! I'm behind bars, I shoul-!" Before the worried spy could finish, the general began to speak to him in a commanding sort of voice: "Sir, I don't know how you've done it, but there were severed limbs, blood everywhere, and people ripped to shreds inside the S.P.Y HQ. And how on earth you did this is beyond me. Agent Black, you cannot leave this cell." The black spy's eyes widened upon hearing this dreadful news as he struggled against the restraints, but this tactic didn't do any good. Slowly, he calmed down and took a more reasonable approach. "..But, how would I have been able to cause all of that?" he asked, his mind being a total blank, due to him blacking out after losing control. "Well, I'm getting reports about some bizarre things that you're some kind of 'Were-Pyre'." The general said, "But we've got some experts on board: We've got a priest, a witch, and a scientist. However, I cannot cure you, and I cannot kill you. So we have no choice until they each try to help at a time, If this fails, then all is lost." The general cleared his throat, "We first have the witch.. Ma'am, you can come in now please." A nearby door opened, and a woman came in through the door, chuckling softly. She wore a long black rope with a hint of purple, and her hair was long and black, the style was also wild and completely unkept. One of her teeth was sharp, and appeared to be made of gold. "I am Madame Ivy," she spoke with a low and yet raspy sort of voice, "And I believe that he has the spirits of a vampire, a werewolf.. And pure rage. So, I'm going to have to take you to my hidden camp, and do magical potion experiments on you, I will splash this potion on you, and we will be there sooner before you know it, dear." She said with a strange gleam in her eye.

Black, however, didn't like the sound of this one bit, and began struggling again. "Wait, wait!" But then she threw the potion bottle at him, it landed 2 feet away from him and shattered, strange purple smoke emitted from the spilled liquid. "No! take that!" the strange woman yelled. The purple smoke started hitting Black right between the nostrils, and he saw his vision get blurrier and blacker. "Wait! Ohhhh.. Not again.." he whimpered as his world went black.. again.

As Black began coming to, only one thought was in his mind, 'I'm getting sick of blacking out, here..' Glancing around quickly, he saw that he was in a huge forest, lit by the full moon shining through the trees. he was also near a campfire, and the Witch was chanting some weird incantation, and nearby was a large cart filled with strange potions, each of them glowing an ominous bright color. There were two others there as well, one looked like a goblin, and the other.. appeared to be a zombie. Yes, a real zombie. Black sat up immediately, with a confused and worried look in his eye, "Woah! what are you doing?" he asked. The witch simply responded with that suspicious look in her eyes, "We are trying to remove the demons from you." she whispered, "Child, you will turn into a beautiful butterfly!" The confused look on Black's face turned into a not amused glare as his eyes narrowed, picking a witch to cure him was the wrong choice, and this was on the path to getting nowhere. "N-no, I don't want to be a butterfly." the spy grumbled, "Oh.. Well, you will turn into a beautiful princess!" "No, I don't want to be a-" Suddenly, the zombie he noticed before popped up next to him, it was wearing a traffic cone on his head, and it was looking at him with a un-intelligent expression, drool oozed from it's mouth. "Aurrrgge.. I got a cone in mah heahd.." it groaned, Black gasped in horror and scrambled away from the creature. "Woah, stay away from me!" he yelped, the undead monster attempted to follow him, but ended up repeatedly, and stupidly, bumping into a tree. "I got a cone..Bweeahhhrrgg.."

"Woah wh-?!" See what I mean? Road to nowhere. "You need to be careful, child. One of these days you will.." The witch said creepily, and Black was already starting to get annoyed.

The zombie was meanwhile stumbling around on the sidelines, loudly groaning as it did so. "I got a cone..!" the spy flinched at this, "Just be quiet!" he said, raising his voice. This didn't do anything, the zombie continued rambling on and groaning, "Just be- grr.. You're making me angry." Black growled, his canines grew longer again, and you know what this means..

"IEE GOT A COEN ON MAH HED.." The zombie groaned even louder, now the witch was getting annoyed, she stopped chanting, and looked up at the creature, "Oh.. Calm down-!" she said, but then the zombie stumbled into the fire pit, now it started running around the camp on fire, screaming at the top of it's lungs, it's arms flailing about: "AHHHHH!!! AAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!" Black covered his ears which were now beginning to grow longer and furry, "Oh my g- rarrg.. ROAAAAAAHHHHH!!!" Black roared as he transformed into a Were-Pyre.

The witch turned and ran off into the forest, "Oh my goodness, Stay back! STAY BACK!!" she screamed, the Were-Pyre opened his wings and flew after her through the woods, as she ran, she turned and threw a potion at him, with a quick dash to the side, Black dodged it. Then the witch stumbled, having tripped on a tree root, Black took advantage of her temporary weakness, tucked in his wings, and dove at her like a falcon, screeching.

Blood splattered on the ground and trees.

The zombie and goblin had meanwhile ran off in the opposite direction, and had barely managed to escape.

And when the priest tried to cure him by saying the lord's prayer, the fellow was basically a crazy nutjob; he didn't say the prayer right at all, got Black annoyed, and the rest is history.

But when they brought the scientist in.. It had better results.. "Where am I..?" Agent Black asked, with just a hint of a peeved tone, getting tired of blacking out. Where he woke was inside a giant glass containment tube, with several chains attached to his arms and legs, and in front of the glass containment tube was the scientist, he had a scar across his right eye, which was also blind, his left hand was also robotic. And beside him was a creature he made who basically resembled Igor, but with a missing stumped left hand, not to mention his teeth were rounded, resembling gums more than actual teeth. "Exactly." The scientist said, "I knew Agent Black would be here." "Master! master! I knew he would be here-!" The hunchbacked creature beside him spoke up. His creator cast him a glare. "Zigor, be quiet please. If you're not loud, and keep quiet, he might not get annoyed, you know." Black gave a confused look, which slowly turned into a glare, which was in fact a bluff. "Well, I don't think that'll work.. Y-you're annoying me already. I'll turn into that thing and I'll break your face!" he said, Zigor flinched in fear and backed away, the scientist pushed some buttons on a nearby control panel. "Calm down now, Black. We're ready to do a test." he said calmly, a worried look came into Black's eyes again. "Oh, please don't, I'll kill you." "Listen, doing this test will transform you back to normal. Are you ready?" Black responded by shaking his head, "Master! Master, I'm ready!" Zigor shouted with a grin.

The scientist pulled a lever on the side of the control panel, and a bright light filled the containment tube.

"W-what?! No! wait-wait-wait-wait-WAIT WAIIITT!!!" Black screamed as he started transforming again.

As the light faded, the Were-pyre roared as he used his claws and large wings to bang on the glass, attempting to smash his way out of the glass cage, then he shrieked when he felt something small and sharp hit him in the shoulder blade, a small needle, attached to some sort of a robotic limb, injected him with a strange red liquid. "YAAAaaarghh! what are you doING?!" he yelled afterwards, before he started roaring and shrieking again. The scientist grinned upon seeing that Black came out for that one moment, "See? It's working!" he said. "Master! Master, keep doing it!" Zigor grinned, the scientist pushed more buttons on the control panel.

Black threw his head back and howled like a wolf in pain as several more needles came out and injected him with more red liquid. "Let ME OUT!! LET ME OUUUT!!" he screamed, at the same time, his canines grew smaller. "Masterr!! We are doing it!" Zigor squealed, clapping with glee.

Black continued screaming as he began transforming, his ears became less furry and started shrinking, the bones in the bat wings shifted and also shrank and turned back into hands, his tail bone grew shorter, turning back as well, but also leaving a hole in his pants. He also became a foot smaller.

His pupils widened.

The needles retracted into the mechanism above him.

Breathing heavily, the young spy glanced around him. "Oh, my goodness.." he panted, he looked down at his hands, they were no longer hideous bat wings! "..I-I changed!"

"See? we did it! Agent Black, you can come out." The scientist pressed a large button on the panel, and a hidden door opened and slid to the side on the containment tube, and Black stepped out of it.

"Well, that was easy." The spy said with a shrug.

"Exactly."

"How'd you do it?" Black asked.

"I just gave you the blood of Zigor, and it changed you back."

"Master, I told you my blood would work!" The hunchback said, still grinning.

"How'd it w-?"

Zigor interrupted, "I have the blood of many different species. I'm not even human."

"Woah.. But, in that case, thank you very much, I'm out, and I'll see you later." As Black was about to walk out the door, a robotic left hand grabbed his shoulder. "Hold it right there."

"What?" Black growled.

"Let me give you a piece of advice: Do not walk home alone again." said the Scientist.

"..Do not walk home alone again, okay? Otherwise, you'll be in big trouble.. hehe." Zigor said, chuckling a bit crazily.

Black held his hands up a bit, "G-guys, I'm sure I'm fine, alright? Thanks for curing me, see you later. ..Weirdos." The spy said, walking out the door.

"Byeee!" Zigor purred.

Did he listen this time? Answer: No, he did not.

Black walked along the dark, moonlit streets of Monochropilous, this time, using a map to find his way back to his apartment. "I wanna walk home alone every single time now, I finally know that this map is a really big hel-" The sight of two tentacled, three-eyed figures appearing right in front of him broke his train of thought, Black screamed and fell backwards in surprise. "WOAH! Who are you?!" The two creatures smiled, showing hundreds of sharp teeth, then they started speaking in unison. "We are the Grothians, and we just want to adopt someone who walks on his own.." Black started backing away, "Wait, I didn't mean to walk on my own, please! I've been a Were-Pyre for two days straight, I-I don't want to be on my own! Seriously, guys, you have to understand t-that I'm good." The two aliens turned and grinned menacingly at each other and nodded. "You're not a good fellow, but we have a Mountain Dew.." A tentacle reached out and pulled the spy back on his feet, then another handed him a can of Mountain Dew. Black grinned slightly, "Oh.. Does that mean I'm good? or.. Do I get a soda if I'm bad?"

"No, you don't." the aliens said, "You're going to be abducted."

Suddenly, a bright beam of light shone on him from above.

And then he couldn't move his legs.

"Help! Please! I can't move, someone help me!"

As the tractor beam from the alien ship was taking him up, Black grabbed onto the top of a lamp post and held on for dear life.

"NOOOOO!!! I SHOULDN'T HAVE WALKED HOME ALOOONE!!" Agent Black sobbed.

-The End..?

[mostfacinorous]

GO Whumptober Day 31: Today’s Special- Torture [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19][20][21][22][23][24][25][26][27][28][29][30]

“You know,” Crowley heard, as he slowly woke. “Every hunter worth their salt has a tracking device they keep on their person. And his led me straight to you. So tell me the truth: where is Mathias?” 

Crowley opened his eyes to find himself in a mostly dark room, tied to a chair, plastic spread out on the floor around him, and floodlights hitting him right in the eyes. 

There was a woman standing in front of him, arms crossed and looking both unimpressed and threatening. 

“I mean-- I ate him.” Crowley answered, feeling a mite groggy, like he may have been drugged. The pounding in his skull backed up that theory. 

“Oh, a jokester. Funny. Mathias is my brother, so I hope for your sake he’s around here somewhere.” 

Crowley groaned.

“Mathias sent a child after me by lying to her about the source of her ma’s illness, and then he attacked when I turned up to help them, so I turned into a snake and ate him.” Crowley told her. “I’m not joking, and I’m awful sorry for your loss, though he was a bit of a prick.” 

The woman looked less than pleased with that answer, and paced back and forth a bit. 

“You wanna talk me through what you’re thinking, or would you rather wear a hole in that tarp?” He finally asked. 

“Well, your eyes say demon, so that makes your story a little more plausible. I don’t want to believe my brother’s dead, because if I come home without him, my father will be furious.” 

Crowley listened, nodding. 

“So I suppose,” she continued, “My options are to take you back to my father and let you tell him your story, and hope I get let off the hook while he kills you slowly, a little bit at a time, or, I do it myself, here and now, save myself the trouble of the roadtrip with you, and know I’ll probably kill you off faster than he would, so it’s really sort of a favor, on account of how you’re right, and my brother was a prick.” 

“Sounds like either way is pretty shit, as far as options go on my end.” Crowley quipped, and she huffed a little laugh. 

“Shame about you eating him,” she responded. “I feel like we really coulda grown to like one another.” 

---

Crowley swam in and out of consciousness for the next several hours, as this incredibly disturbed human woman made a game of removing bits of him and putting them in labelled mason jars. 

It really was like some kind of parody of a decor show, the way she tied little ribbons around each one, and labelled them with what they were and the time when she removed them from him. 

He had no idea where they were or how they’d got there, but she’d done a damn good job of making sure she wouldn’t be interrupted. 

He’d yelled and cried and screamed as loud as he could, but it seemed like there were no neighbors around to hear, or care, or help. 

And he had no idea where Aziraphale was. He wished he could call to him, though, reach him, ask for some kind of way out of here. 

“So it occurs to me,” Amber said, for that was her name, and Crowley hated that she’d bothered telling him about her, because he sympathized now, a little. 

“I haven’t had much opportunity to learn about demons, and how they react to things. For example:” She held up a bottle of salt. “I can make a circle with this, and you can’t leave it, yeah? But what happens if I just…”

She upended the bottle over his chest, slashed open and bleeding sluggishly as it was. 

He screamed again as the salt began to dissolve in his blood and sting at the open skin. 

She watched, dispassionately, and when he voice broke and his screams turned to little whimpers, she hummed to herself. 

“I’d say that was about on par with a human, actually.” She noted. “Which is a real pity, I expected more… fireworks, or the like.” 

Crowley twisted his wrist back and forth, trying again to work his hand free, but she laughed. 

His fingers were broken; she’d done that first thing, so even if he could get free, the act of summoning a miracle would be even more painful. 

“How about the old folklore fixes, eh? Silver? Iron? Garlic?” 

“Werewolves, fairies, and vampires. Not me.” He answered her, voice rough from screaming and ruining his attempt at sounding cool. 

“And how about holy water? Does that do anything?” 

He croaked out a little laugh.

“Tingles a bit. Demons use it as hot sauce.” 

He had loosened the duck tape around his wrist enough to be able to move his hand a bit, and he smashed it against the chair, forcing his broken bones back into some semblance of being hand shaped.

“Hm. Hot sauce, you say?” She asked, and he didn’t like that at all. He wiggled his fingers, braced himself, and summoned a miracle.

“Maybe I should go get you some, then. After all, you are being punished for having eaten my brother-- maybe keeping your mouth on a constant holy water drip will make the punishment fit the crime a little better.” 

Crowley sucked in air, in too much pain to try and figure out how to talk his way out of that one. 

“Did I hear,” A new voice said in the darkness, and Crowley felt his eyes filling with tears of relief, “That you are in the market for some holy water?” 

Aziraphale stepped forward, looking prim and proper as ever, and he’d even pulled out his halo and wings for the occasion. 

Amber looked up at him in awe.

“You’re an angel aren’t you?” She asked, and Aziraphale smiled. 

“I am. And it seems you’ve captured my own personal adversary.” He flicked his eyes towards Crowley, and Crowley whined at the cold expression in them. 

Oh, Aziraphale was pissed. And worse, he was righteous. 

“Oh, did you want to get in on this? It turns out he ate my brother, so…” 

“Were you aware,” Aziraphale asked, voice still light and sweet and casual, “That your brother had made a deal with devils? That your brother kidnapped me, and sold me to hell?” 

Amber took a step back as Aziraphale turned to look at her again. 

“What? No, I mean, Mathias was an arse, but…” 

“Your brother.” Aziraphale said, advancing on her, “Was a monster. And so are you.” 

Crowley could not actually see what happened, but he did see that Aziraphale did not so much as lift a finger. 

Amber screamed and fell to her knees, her eyes bleeding, her mouth wide open and her tongue suddenly missing. 

“Crowley, darling, I think you had better close your eyes.” Aziraphale warned him, and, when he’d obeyed, he could see the bright holy light that suddenly shone throughout the room even through his closed eyelids. It stabbed into him and set his head off again, and he whimpered. 

Just as fast as it began, it ended, and then Aziraphale was there. 

“Alright, here we are, I am so sorry. Come on, let’s get you out of here, get you healed up.” 

“What-- what did you do with her?” Crowley asked. “She was just-- her and Mathias both, their dad…” 

“Oh, I know.” Aziraphale told him. “I sent her body back to her father, covered in writing that tells the entire story of their awful line. No further children will be born to them. The old man will see his daughter, read my letter, and then never see again. And whatever monster he is running from will finally be able to catch up.”

Aziraphale’s voice echoed with a sort of certainty, a knowledge beyond what they knew, and Crowley realized he was tapping into the weapons available to angels in the most extreme of circumstances. The sorts of weapons he’d have been given back in the beginning, back when it was a very real war, and he’d been set out to kill demons like Crowley. 

Instead, now, he was using those powers in defense of a demon. 

“I don’t think heaven’s gonna like this too much.” Crowley told him, head lolling as they moved, and suddenly Crowley realized he was being carried. 

“I don’t give two fucks what heaven does and doesn’t like!” Aziraphale said hotly, but sounding more like himself. “I won’t let anyone take you from me again!” 

Crowley smiled at that, even though, as they crossed out of the darkness and into the sunlight, his headache flared up, and all the moving was jostling the salt in his chest wounds. 

He was woozy and in and out of it, and Aziraphale got him laid out on the grass by a roadside, the day crisp and bright and lovely, and Crowley felt cold and vague. 

“That crazy bint killed me, didn’t she?” He asked, and Aziraphale’s eyes flashed, brighter even than the noonday sun. 

“Not if I’ve anything to say about it.” He answered. “I am so very sorry,” He added, softer and sweet. 

Crowley sighed, trying not to tense even though he knew what was coming next. 

Or, he thought he knew. Aziraphale had done some laying of hands on him before, once or twice, and it was terrible for them both each time. They both suffered when they went about helping one another that intimately. So he tried to prepare for more pain. 

What he felt instead, though, was Aziraphale’s hand on the side of his face, and then his lips on his, and he was kissing him back to life. 

And somehow, it didn’t hurt. 

It was like being dunked suddenly into a cold pool, a shock to the system, unpleasant, but bracing. He felt alert again, like he’d just woken, and he felt the pain in his chest going away, the throbbing in his fingers ceasing as everything straightened out and reknitted itself, pieces regrowing and reattaching and healing. 

And Aziraphale was kissing him. 

When he was done, Crowley chased after his retreating lips, panting and confused. 

“That didn’t-- it didn’t hurt me at all. Did it-- are you alright?” He demanded, sitting up and reaching for Aziraphale to catch him in case he fainted from the efforts.

But Aziraphale just smiled. 

“When God said she wanted us to be closer,” He said, sounding, finally like himself, “I suspect this is more what she had in mind.” 

“You mean I could have been kissing you since winter?” 

Aziraphale laughed and helped Crowley to his feet. 

“If we weren’t so scared, I would say we could have been kissing for much longer than that. But, yes. I don’t think we’ll have any problems with healing one another any longer.” 

Crowley felt tears coming to his eyes again, and he grabbed hold of Aziraphale and held onto him tightly. 

“Let’s go find somewhere that’s quiet.” He requested. “Somewhere out of the city. You bring your books, I’ll bring my plants… and with any luck neither of us will have to heal the other ever again.” 

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale said on a sigh, “That sounds delightful. How do you feel about the south downs?”

“If you’re there?” Crowley told him, as he reached to pull him into another kiss. “Better than heaven could ever be.”

[miss-tc-nova]

Parody of Fine Pt 2 - Xehanort

Part 2 of 2

I’m trying really hard to keep moving on track. There’s a request in the wings as well as some other fun stuff, so I’m sorry if I slow waaaaaaaaay down. 

~~~~~

               It’s been a few months since Xehanort took his leave in search of answers; it was a success—he got them and has a new mission for his future. However, there’s still things he needs to sort out in his adoptive-home world.

               Stepping into the bright world of Scala Ad Caelum gives him a feeling akin imposter syndrome; nevertheless, there’s something to be done here as well as a special someone he needs to speak to. Despite having a new goal in life, he fully intends to speak to the person most important to him and, depending on the outcome of that discussion, decisions will be made. It makes him feel a nervousness he hasn’t endured in a long time; they parted in uncomfortable circumstances brought on by Xehanort himself, but surely his beloved would understand.

               The trip to the citadel standing tall in the center of the city is drawn out as the seeker meanders, reminiscing in the better part of his childhood. Sad memories with friends flicker no matter where he looks and he reminds himself that, with time, he’s going to fix everything.

               Entering the castle brings an uncertainty with it; perhaps he should check in with his master first.

               Nothing about this place has changed, giving off a similar aura he’d gotten from his original world—he hates it. Scala never used to be so stagnant, or maybe Xehanort had been so enamored by his freedom to see it—not to mention there were also other reasons to love this place.

               As he ambles along, his eyes catch sight of a familiar haori billowing behind a man with a familiar head of black hair. It’s the first moment back in Scala where he truly feels happy to be back.

               “Eraqus,” he calls, feeling the burdens of his duty lighten just a little.

               That respite vanishes when the man looks back at him. Granite eyes he remembered being full of light are empty; Xehanort had expected—almost hoped—to be bowled over in excitement upon his return, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, Eraqus faces him with a smile faker than traveler’s desire to be here.

               “Xehanort,” he greets, not even rushing up to meet up halfway. “Welcome back.”

               Broken. This is the only thought Xehanort has as he approaches and it’s haunting. While the urge to embrace his love is incredible, he refrains from doing so upon recognition that something in his former partner has changed. “Thanks. How’ve things been around here?”

               “Oh it’s been pretty quiet.”

               Is that an automatic response? “So nice and boring? Guess that suits your laid back, lazy ass.” Eraqus laughs but not in the usual way, nor is there some sort of retort or defense on his part.

               “How was your trip?” Xe thought it impossible, but Era’s eyes lose even more of their old light. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

               He’d wanted to share everything with this man, but now he’s reconsidering. “Yeah. I did.”

               “That’s good.”

               From his goofball grin to the loving smiles he absentmindedly wore, Xehanort used to think he loved every one of Eraqus’s smiles, but this—this hollow, mechanical, miserable-excuse for a smile—makes it feel like he’s speaking with a mimic.

               “You cut it pretty close—our exam is in a few hours. We were worried you weren’t going to make it.”

               “Yeah, sorry. It took longer than I thought.”

               “Oh well. You’re here now. You’d better go see Master Odin before you do anything else though.” A finger points back to the stairwell. “I’m pretty sure he’s in his office.”

               “Um…Okay. Thanks.”

               There’s a mix of concern and hurt in Xehanort’s thoughts as he gives Eraqus a brief wave and sets out to find his master—something has clearly happened in his absence.

               Master Odin, too, expresses his concerns that the young man would not make it in time for his Mark of Mastery exam. Assurance is given that the pupil is ready for the exam and they discuss the specifics of the ceremony—all the while, Xehanort’s mind keeps dragging him back to that counterfeit expression.

               In the hours leading up to the exam, Eraqus is nowhere to be found. Hopes had been had that they could sit down and catch up—and talk about the future—but those are dashed when there’s no time left.

               There’s still neither hide nor hair of the youth in white even while Xehanort paces in a small waiting room just off the ceremony hall. Just as they should be starting the exam, an opening door reveals the second participant. There’s no chance for the other man to tease or scold him, though, before Master Odin appears to take them away.

               The exam goes forward rather smoothly; each boy displays their magic and basic keyblade skills. There’s no doubt that Eraqus has gotten better but, not to be outdone, Xehanort ensures the things he’s learned on his trip are applied properly.

               Then comes their sparring match. Once again, Eraqus faces him with a fake smile. The pair draws weapons, setting up fighting stances.

               “Are you ready?” the Master asks each.

               Xehanort’s “yes” is mixed in with Eraqus’s “yes master.”

               “Then you may begin.”

               Immediately following the master’s words, the pleasantry on the opposition’s face vanishes, shocking Xehanort but not enough to prevent his defense. Ruthless and calculated were never words to describe Eraqus and his style of fighting, but he’s barely giving his foe any room to retaliate. The intensity of this fight has shot beyond expectations, almost as if it’s real.

               Xehanort’s been able to hold his own fairly well after adjusting to the seriousness of his partner, but his mistake comes when his back foot slides farther than expected. Without missing a beat, Eraqus takes advantage of the miscalculation and a keyblade promptly throws him to the ground. A swift kick dislodges Xe’s keyblade from his hand and that leaves him defenseless beneath the man towering over him.

               Stone-colored eyes stare down at him, cold, fierce, and empty—like a killer. There’s a genuine fear for his life as Xehanort watches Eraqus prepare to strike him down. The metal flies with no mercy on behalf of the victim.

               “Enough.”

               There is no harm done. Silver eyes pry open to find cold steel barely centimeters above his head. The amount of control Eraqus would have to have to stop that swing while being fully committed to the attack is phenomenal.

               The enemy retreats, weapon turning to glittering light in his hand. There’s no glance or sportsman-like hand offered to Xehanort left in the dirt.

               Just what the hell has he been doing while I’ve been gone?

               Once again, the pair stands before their master, awaiting further instruction. A lecture on always being able to learn no matter the rank falls on deaf ears—Xehanort’s mind is preoccupied.

               Even if his plans are going to take him far from his home and his teachings, there had always been expectations that his promotion to Master would be more light-hearted than this. He thought friends would be here alongside him, all struggling to contain their elation. Even after their passing, he assumed he and Eraqus would be beaming with pride—instead it’s as if Master Odin has just told them class is dismissed and to be back tomorrow.

               The new masters bow to their former teacher and congratulations are given by the sparse spectators before the boys take their leave. Once the door closes behind them, Xehanort pauses, intending to speak with his friend, but said friend continues on as if he doesn’t exist.

               “Eraqus…”

               He turns back with that stupid smile. “Yeah?”

               There’s hesitation, confusion, hurt, and so many things swimming inside that, for the first time since he can remember, Xehanort’s not sure what to do. Somehow he manages to spit out, “Can I talk to you?”

               In mockery of who he had been, Eraqus tilts his head. “About what?”

               There’s really no easy way to condense it. “About the future.”

               Finally, there’s a falter in that imitation—the corners of his lips drop just the slightest and something in his eyes reacts. “Okay. Like what?”

               “Like…what are we gonna do now?”

               “I think my parents had a few missions lined up for me to be a part of—you know, to get a reputation going.”

               You don’t even like your parents! What about me?! “Yeah?”

               “Mmhm. What about you? What are your plans?”

               It’s like he’s back in the sparring match, under attack—at least that’s what those eyes portray. “That’s what I wanted to talk about, but if you’re busy, that’s alright.”

               “So you’re leaving again.” Not even a question, Eraqus just knows—practically accusing him.

               Am I? “Yeah, I guess. Don’t wanna get in the World Defender’s way after all.” The words are bitter and he immediately wants to stuff them back down, but words can’t be unspoken.

               “I’m sure you’d be no bother.”

               Do you want me here or not?! “Nah. I’ve got some things to do.”

               The placid contentedness returns, full of farce. Meanwhile, Xehanort wants to scream, to demand the old Eraqus back, but in saying that, he’s no longer the kid he used to be and that’s just not fair.

               A spark catches silver eyes, drawing attention to the man’s ear where the matching black metal is clasped, further confuing the seeker. They had been so love—he was sure they would be together forever, no matter what trials they faced, but standing before him now is a stranger. Yet for some reason, they both still clung to silly fantasies symbolized by warped metal. Whispers of the promise he made scuttle through his mind.

               “Then I guess I’ll see you later.” A little wave is offered as Eraqus turns away.

               “Sure, I’ll see you later but—” The granite gaze finds him again. “Don’t you ever forget what I told you, I’m there for you.” For the second time, the parody falters, only Xehanort’s sure he can see a glimpse of the person he loved. “If you need me, just call—I’ll always find you.” A finger taps against the metal to emphasize his point.

               Eraqus stands there motionless for a moment, and then just turns around to continue walking. He does say something as he goes though: “Don’t bother wasting your effort on me.”

               Then why bother wearing that fucking earring?! Resisting the urge to snatch his arm and drag him into some random, private room nearly proves too much for the silver-haired man, but he remains stationary until the ends of that white haori turn the corner. A million questions threaten to drown him and Eraqus may as well have taken Xe’s heart with him. Perhaps he’s upset that Xehanort left despite the promise to return for the exam or he may have simply outgrown his boyhood infatuation—regardless, he doesn’t seem to want Xehanort around.

               “I guess that decides that then.”

               In his trek, Xehanort comes to terms with the fact that Eraqus is no longer the man he fell in love with; however, while his travels may take him far away, he will never forget his most-cherished. His wayfinder, chosen specifically for him, will never be removed—it means far too much. He’ll come back, check in now and then, but if things are ever to return to the happiness he had known, Xehanort must move forward along the path laid out for him…by the man in the black coat.

[alpha-centari27]

“Robotnik Hates Christmas”

Title: “Robotnik Hates Christmas“  -- I know not very creative, but I can change it later.  The important part is just to write.

Characters: Stone & Robotnik and some other filler characters.

Warnings: Mentions of self-harm behaviors and mental breakdowns so be advised.

Plot Summary:  It’s almost Christmas and Robotnik’s work has come to a grinding halt because of the miserable and detestable holiday.  Stone learns more about Robotnik’s past and Robotnik as a person.  Hopefully, they can both survive the holiday.

8888888888888888888888

It was a chilly and overcast day at the research facility and military base Agent Stone called home for the time being--or at least that is what his phone said a few minutes ago.  He wouldn’t know what the atmosphere outside looked like being cooped up in the air hanger like structure that housed Robotnik’s mobile lab, prototypes and other assorted works in progress, spare parts, tools and testing equipment.

Agent Stone mentally went through his to do list.  He had already stocked up on food for Robotnik’s fridge, freezer and pantry.  He would need to consider making a grocery run to pick up some fresh produce in the near future, but otherwise they were in good shape.  The drones were fully charged and had earlier been inspected for any wear and tear that required maintenance and repair.  The mobile lab itself was in tip top condition.  Tool boxes and spare parts bins had been inventoried and he had already given his list to the Dr. for his approval and given permission to make the necessary orders.  Everything seemed to be running smoothly.  The trash, recycle and hazardous materials bins had been emptied.  After disposing of the waste and recycle there was cleaning and tidying up to do, which was also complete.

“Huh...“  Agent Stone hummed to himself as he patrolled the aisles and open spaces for anything out of place, anything he might have missed that required a little tender loving care.

“I think I really have done everything that I can do for the time being.  Better check in with Robotnik to see if he needs anything.“  He whispered, setting his course for the mobile lab where he was sure he would find the man at his work station.

Agent Stone climbed the stairs of the mobile lab, being careful to tread lightly on the steps.  Stone couldn’t help but smile seeing Robotnik at his computer, flicking and thumbing through the visual displays.  It still amazed him that he got to be a part of this.  It was like he was the sorcerer’s apprentice--watching the raw act of creation from nothing but an abstract, intangible thought that was turned into an idea, translated into a testable hypothesis or experiment and then given physical form.

“Good afternoon Dr.“  Stone announced as he made his approach.  Lazily Robotnik paused and turned over his wrist.

“So, it is afternoon already.“  Robotnik said with an edge to his voice.  Stone guessed that the Dr. was not in the mood for chit chat and instead focused his eyes on what Robotnik was reading.  It seemed like the Dr. was refreshing his pages and menus just waiting for something to happen or a new message to pop into his inbox.  Sure enough, Robotnik refreshed one of the pages again and a new unread message appeared.  Robotnik opened it immediately.  Stone could make out Robotnik’s expression reflected off the screen, he was not pleased at all.

“I hate Christmas!  I hate the whole holiday season!“  The Dr. decried.  “Why?”  From what Stone could make out the message was an automatic reply message stating they were out of town for the holiday and would return a week after the New Year’s.  He knew all too well Robotnik could be moody, but did this really warrant such a dramatic reaction?

“Christmas isn’t so bad Dr. the lights and presents and food.  It’s a chance to take a break from work to be with family.“  Stone immediately regretted saying that.  This was the worse possible thing he could have said.

“Not so bad...  Agent Stone.”  Robotnik said rising to his feet in a way that was slow and menacing.  “I cannot progress my work because everyone is on vacation and unavailable!  Don’t even get me started on the forced sentimentality of being nice to the people you can’t stand all year.  Santa isn’t real and the story of Jesus is an exaggeration at best.  Good will to all men for this holiday season, but every other time of the year--who cares?”  Robotnik said flippantly, baring his teeth.  “The expectation of always being happy, happy, happy, happy, happy, happy, happy--joy, joy, joy, joy.”  The Dr. said clapping and speaking in a parody of an upbeat cartoon character.  “It all makes me sick.“  Stone just stood as stiff as a board and took it.  He should have known better.

“Is there anything I can do for you Robotnik?”  He asked trying to steer the conversation in a more constructive direction.  “By my assessment everything is in good repair, we have adequate supplies of spare parts and what we are running low on has been put on order.“

“No.”  Robotnik said while shaking his head.  “If everything has been tended to and cleaned up then, no.“  Robotnik faced his screen again and shut it down.  For a while he just stood in place without saying a word.  “Why don’t you take some time off Stone?“

“Time off?“  Stone repeated.  He never expected to hear those words pass through Robotnik’s tight lips.  This coming from the man who was the definition of a workaholic. 

“I insist you take some time off.  If I have nothing to do than you have even less to do.“  Stone was lost for words and didn’t know what to say.  He wouldn’t mind having a break for a few days, but he wasn’t sure if that would be allowed.

“I think I need to check with my contacts first.“  Robotnik frowned, but said nothing at first.

“Of course.“  He muttered.

Stone excused himself to step outside and find a place to make a phone call out of earshot of Robotnik or anyone else who could over hear.

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A segway was useful for getting from one end of the base to the other, but it still took a while. It took a ridiculous amount of time to find a private spot for a phone call, but there was little sense in whining now that he found what he was looking for.  He had seen it numerous times by now, but never ventured outside the base to look at it more closely.

Not far from the installation there was an old phone booth.  The phone had been removed, but for some reason the glass and metal case remained standing.  Maybe it was left in tact for this exact purpose.

Agent Stone thumbed through his list of important contacts and stopped on Lance Bringum.  He tapped the name and gave a second tap for the call icon before raising the cell phone to his ear.  Hopefully, his contact had not skipped town for the holidays too.

“Hello?“  A voice answered on the first ring.

“Ugh, hi.  Mr. Bringum, it’s agent Stone calling.“  A deep sigh was Mr. Bringum’s immediate reply to Stone’s greeting.

“What can I help you with today Mr. Stone?“

“The reason I am calling is to find out if I can get some time off--that’s all.”  He said with a shrug, not that Bringum could see that he was shrugging nonchalantly.  “Christmas is almost right around the corner and it seems as though Robotnik’s work has ground to a halt.  He even suggested that I take some time away from him.“  There was a prolonged pause that dragged on for more than a minute.  Stone began to wonder if maybe he hung up or they got disconnected.  “Sir, are you still there?“

“Agent Stone, the answer is no!  As I have said before this is a 24/7 assignment and your assignment is Robotnik.  We considered you for this post in part because you have said you have no close family to visit around the holidays.  If he has no work for you to assist him with than kick your feet up, read a magazine, watch some TV, while still keeping an eye on him and tending to his needs as he sees fit.  The only way you are cashing out your PTO is if you quit.  At this point I am amazed you have stuck this out for so long.  Are you sure you don’t want to quit right now?“

“I am not quitting Sir.“  Stone answered firmly and politely.

“Good, good because I wouldn’t let you quit your assignment at this time of the year anyway.  You would have to wait till the beginning of January at the earliest.“

“Why is that Sir?“  Stone asked out of curiosity.

“I have said too much...  But maybe you should know so you can be prepared.  You have never been around Robotnik at this time of the year.”  Now Stone was even more curious.  What did Mr. Bringum know that he did not?  He had been told repeatedly not to ask questions to leave well enough alone and not to trouble Robotnik’s mind with personal questions.  This was also a lesson he had quickly learned the hard way early on when he first started working alongside Robotnik.  Stone steadied himself before speaking again.

“Prepared for what Mr. Bringum?“  Silence, then a deep sigh.

“You didn’t hear this from me, understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” 

“This is just what I have heard.  I cannot verify this for myself because it’s--“

“Classified.“  Stone said finished the sentence for him.

“Right.  A number of years ago Robotnik had some sort of breakdown around Christmas.  He locked himself inside some sort of solitary confinement cell or high security storage area.  It’s believed that he did this intentionally and there was no foul play involved.  Why he would do this to himself is beyond me.”  Stones eyes widened in shock and he had to brace himself to maintain his balance.  “Anyway...”  Mr. Bringhum drawled.  “When they found him he was almost dead.  He was unconscious, badly dehydrated and malnourished, some bottles of liquor were found close to him.  He had probably been in there for at least two days before he was found.  From what I heard he made a quick enough recovery physically...  Mentally, I suspect he always has and always will have a few loose screws.  I think they tried to evaluate him psychologically, but he refused to cooperate.  You know what they say about leading a horse to water.“  Stone nodded.  His mind was racing.  This changed everything, this one sliver of information into Robotnik’s past was re-writing everything he thought he knew about him, which admittedly was not much.   

“You’re not pulling my leg are you?”

“No, Agent Stone--I’m not.  But like I said I cannot view the files myself.  Something happened and it was serious enough to make us re-think how we handle him.“  Stone paused again.  He didn’t like the phrase ‘handle him’ as if Robotnik was some kind of animal snatched from the wild and coerced and conditioned to perform.  Stone always wanted to know more about the Dr. and now was his chance to get some answers.  May as well make the most of it and push for as much as Bringum is willing to share.

“Ok, so he refused a psych evaluation.  What happened next?“

“Well, despite his insubordination--it’s not like we could let someone with his talents and expertise slip through our fingers.  If he wouldn’t submit to a psych evaluation and a treatment plan then we had to think of something else that would at least be tolerable for him.“

“Wait, this is why the Dr. has an assistant assigned to him isn’t it?“

“You’re right on the money Stone.  They made some adjustment to his workload, made it more manageable for him, or so I heard.  Although he was never evaluated by a psychologist after that incident they suggested that he might benefit from having an assistant.  Someone to talk to, someone to help him relax and curb any self-destructive tendencies just by having another person constantly around him.”

“It sounds like what you are describing is a friend.”  

“I suppose in a way, yes.  At first we gave him a small group of assistants to help him out.  Turns out that didn’t work.  I think it’s just too challenging for him to handle a small group of people.  All he needs is one person he can trust and rely on to be a buffer between him and everyone else.  That and he found it a source of amusement to pit the assistants against each other.“  A smile came to Stone’s face.  He would need to keep this in mind when he was on missions with the Dr. and they were assigned a team of government agents to make the job easier and more efficient.  Though from what he could remember the Dr. seemed content to let Stone boss them around.  His smile faded when he returned to what Bringum had confided in him.

“Hmmmm....  What do you propose I do with Robotnik?“

“Huh...find a way to keep his mind occupied that doesn’t lead to trouble.  I wish I could tell ya something more than that.  You should get back to your post and I should shut up now.  Good day and good luck Stone.“

“Thank you, Mr. Bringum.  I won’t let you down.“  Stone heard the sound of a click.  The call was over and he had so many unanswered questions.

The government wrote his paycheck, but Robotnik was the boss calling the shots and telling him what to do.  If he made a suggestion would Robotnik actually listen to him?

“Well, I guess there is only one way to find out.“

Stone hopped on his segway and passed through the entry gate after showing his government ID and hauled ass back to the hanger where he assumed Robotnik would be.

Stone wondered and worried if Robotnik asking him to take time off was intended to be a diversion or distraction for the Dr. to do something stupid.

He parked and dismounted the segway outside the mobile laboratory.  Tracing his earlier steps up the stairs.  The Dr. was no where in sight.

Stone was stricken with a sense of panic.  Where could he be?  Standing in the middle of the lab, Stone’s phone began to vibrate.  Robotnik was calling him.

“Hello.“  Stone said, trying to sound natural.

“Where the hell have you been?  I got tired of waiting so I tossed together some lunch.“

“Oh...  Sorry, about that.“

“Did you go all the way to the moon to make your call?“

“No.  Ugh, where are you right now?  I’m by the mobile lab.”

“My personal quarters.“

“Ok, that’s not too far.  Just give me a few minutes.  Oh, and one more thing.  I’m staying with you whether you have work or not.  I’m not going on vacation.“  Stone ended the call and put his phone away.

The Dr. had what amounted to his own house on the premises that was in close proximity to the hanger.  “I wonder what he made for lunch.“

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Author notes:

Yay, it’s done for now!

I want to continue this, but I am not entirely sure how.  I got some ideas, but I need to think about how this fanfic is going to progress and how it’s going to end.  If I know how this ends then I can work my way backwards to build up to the ending I have outlined.

If this does get a few more chapters I probably will change up the POV and have some stuff from Robonik’s POV.

I don’t imagine this turning into sexy times or Stone trying to be anything more than a friend and someone Robotnik can confide in.

This happens before the events of the movie.