#bracket: four b | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit · 3 months ago

Text

Moments the boys fall in love with Yuu

Romantic or platonic, mostly fluff, a little angst with comfort

Ruggie Bucci, Jack Howl, Deuce Spade, Ace Trappola, Rook Hunt

Ruggie Bucci

Yuu had been helping Crowley with all sorts of paperwork this year, as she had taken on the apprenticeship under him for education. She was already doing most of it anyway, might as well get paid for it right? But it gave her access to a lot of information other people don’t.

So when she found the grant and looked at the details, she knew she at least had to offer it.

Yuu knows better than to pull Ruggie out of class, he hides it well, but it pisses him off. He can’t afford to get anymore behind than he already is compared to these rich bastards. So, she slips a note to the teacher to give to him to arrange a meeting in the next few days.

It ends up being over dinner at Ramshackle a few days later, after a late shift at the Monstro Lounge, that she finally gets to talk to him.

“So, you can tell me off, but I ain’t doing it out of pity or nothing,” she starts, pulling out a stack of papers. He cocks his head, starting to skim over the complex and small text. “Long story short, it’s a grant for schools under a certain income bracket to receive additional help, including a three-meal program. If you can convince instructors to continue using the building over breaks, you can even continue with meal program during the breaks so that the food comes around all year, all shipped in and paid for on the governments dime. It lasts around 5 years.”

Ruggie’s ears are flat against his head, flipping through the pages. She gets the impression that he would have set his plate down if she hadn’t waited until he had scraped the pot clean.

“NRC obviously makes too much in donations alone,” especially from the royal families, no nepotism rules her ass, “but if you could give me some more details about your place, I might be able to-”

“Set up an actual school.”

That makes her pause. There wasn’t...no.

“I know you said that you learned from the hard knock school of life but...there’s nothing?” she asked.

“Naw. So, this grant would guarantee that a school could stay and that the kids might actually attend, especially with the promise of food.”

“Well, I’ll need to find the forms for that, but I'm sure it's doable, especially if I can make a good case. It was pretty buried in there, so I don’t think I’d have to try too hard, I don’t imagine a lot of folks even know about it.”

He squints his eyes at her, leaning back in his seat.

“What do you get out of this?” he asks, folding his arms, “You don’t know my home. You don’t know my people.”

“No, but I know you love them and you work hard for them every day.” She gestures to the apron folded over the chair. “And if you do, I will choose to. Besides, you and I both know these rich bastards have no problem taking our taxes and doing stupid shit with it. Might as well take it back and apply it where it needs to be.”

He huffs, covering his mouth as it turns to a full cackle as he curls in. He might have said something in between his laughs? She can’t tell, but he’s cheeks are ruddy and glowing when he finally collects himself.

“Alright Prefect, what details do you need?”

Jack Howl

There were lots of places boarded off at Ramshackle that Yuu was still exploring. Finding a sunroom was the last thing she thought Ramshackle Dorm might have, but after sweeping and cleaning the place, it’s charming. Open windows, dark frames lining the three out of four walls, and the furniture actually isn’t too bad, just needing a wipe down and some wood oil to make it shine again. The fact that Ramshackle was also being used as an oversized storage unit helps since it has upholstery, furniture and fabrics for repairs for every dorm that she can really make the place shine.

She knows that Riddle and the boys would love to decorate in Heartslabyul colors, line rose boxes and vines and lilies in the hanging baskets, but she has a better idea.

“Hey, Jack!” She calls out after track practice. He raises a hand at her, giving his body a light shake to get rid of the soreness in his muscles. “Do you have any succulent or cactus cuttings you could spare?”

His ears narrowed in straight on her, standing a bit straighter.

“Ah, yea...I could have some sent from home too.”

“Is this about the sunroom?” Deuce asked. “We could have some rose bushes sent in from Heartslabyul too. Riddle would be ecstatic to have the Queen’s roses out.”

“No offense to Riddle or Heartslabyul,” Yuu rubbed the back of her neck, “But there are roses everywhere. Queen Heart’s Roses, Fairest Roses, Thorn Fairy Roses, you get the idea. Besides, I like plants that are heartier and don’t require alot of tending too. Just free to do their own thing.”

The only reason Jack’s tail wasn’t wagging is because he was holding it. Deuce snickered behind his back, cackling as he avoided the swat at his head.

“Let me bring what I have at the dorms right now. Besides, it’ll be nice for my dormmates to not be able to mess with it at least some of them.”

Jack wasn’t able to bring anything big with him when he came to NRC, but the cuttings would grow quickly. The fact that his Mom paid for some of the bigger ones to be sent carefully through the mirrors helped fill out the space, and Leona donated some of the ferns and larger faunas when Ruggie mentioned it. It was in exchange for having a daybed in there so he could nap whenever he wanted, but it was a small sacrifice.

By the time they finished putting the room together, including sewing together some pillows in Savannaclaw colors and tightening a few screws on the benches and chairs, it looked like a slice of his dorm. Mainly yellows and oranges, with the soft greens of the succulents and more saturated green of the cactus to accent it all. His cactuses were clearly the center point though, blooming like nothing else.

His Mom had also taken the opportunity to send Yuu a few old clothes that his sister no longer fit in, warm sweaters and shirts that were very much in the style of home. Jack hadn’t known until they started unpacking the box, but Yuu had loved them and he couldn’t find it within himself to be too upset. Afterall, Yuu didn’t have much to begin with, and he knows that fall will be coming in soon.

When he comes in a few days later He sees her curled up on a chair with her study materials. The tap of her pen against her lip, the smell of heat and fauna thick in the air, snuggled into an old hoodie of his, he can’t even blame his heart for skipping a beat.

It’s only natural, he tells himself. Instinct even. He doesn’t have to think too hard about it.

“Why’s your tail wagging?” Yuu asks, pointing to his back.

“No reason!” he barks, ignoring the way he’s heart does it again as she cackles.

Only natural.

Deuce Spade

Deuce would tell you that he’s not the smartest guy in the room. He knows that academically he struggles, and even sometimes with common sense. There’s a lot of things that he never learned or forgot because he made some stupid shitty decisions in his past.

Maybe that’s why he prefers studying with Yuu one on one instead of a group. Yuu is having to teach herself the basics too, history, spell work, math, literature, they aren’t exactly on the same page, but they are closer than he would prefer to admit.

Riddle, bless him and his tenacious ways, kept his notes from all his grades. It’s binders and binders worth of material and even if they are slow at it, Riddle never says anything about how long the binder is gone from his bookshelf. He simply continues to offer help.

Yuu gets the idea after she sees Riddle’s magicam and puts 2 and 2 together with Cater’s exam results.

So, the next time they get together, she takes him to a side room where a broken radio is.

“What’s this?” He asks, looking at the tools set off to the side.

“I have an idea,” Yuu says, sitting on the floor. “I’m going to quiz you while you fix the radio.”

“Huh?”

“I have an idea, I think it’ll help, I just need you to trust me.”

He shrugs his shoulders, rolls up his sleeves and starts answering questions as he pulls the panel off. The quiz is tomorrow and anything is better than nothing at this point.

Professor Trein smiles at him a bit as he passes the quizzes back at the end of the period.

“Well done Mr. Spade. Your studying is paying off well.”

83. He had gotten an 83.

“Dude!” Yuu jumps on his back, hugging him, “Awesome! It worked!”

He knows the blush on his face isn’t pride or joy. Neither is the goofy grin. But if that’s what Yuu thinks when she sees it, she doesn’t need to know.

If they dance together with that fixed radio and his hands linger a little too long on her hips or waist, he doesn’t think too hard on that either.

He isn’t a very smart man, but he knows he is a happy one.

Ace Trappola

Ace will admit that he’s an asshole sometimes. He is self-aware enough and selfish enough to not care. But he isn’t a complete asshole, and really, he’s just preventing you from being stuck with another Overblot like what happened on Winter Break!

That was the only reason he invited Yuu over. No other reasons.

He of course does the polite thing and introduces you to this family, including his brother. He doesn’t dislike his brother, he’s actually pretty cool, but he’s aware that he is cooler than Ace. And smarter. And more handsome.

He isn’t purposefully keeping Yuu away from him, but if it so happens that every time his brother is home that you two are out doing things, that’s just a weird coincidence.

It’s sunset on the last day, and his family insisted on a cookout all together. They like Yuu a lot, and for the most part try and keep him out of trouble. Which meant lots of talking, family telling stories and comparing between the two of them, like they always do. It isn’t malicious, he knows that, but it hurts sometimes when his brother has a seven-year head start. It’s winding down now though, with his parents and brother going to bed already for work in the morning. They should have been, the train leaves early the next morning, but neither of them can sleep, so they are trying to wind down with cards. Ace always has a pack on him, but in his room he has multiple. He’s even nice enough to let Yuu pick the deck she wants.

“You ready for tomorrow?” she asks, laying a card down.

“Totally. I love my folks but being here just makes me itch to leave again.” he makes a pair, chuckling at her huff, “Besides my brother is...well he’s my brother, you know.”

“I mean, he’s ok, but I much prefer hanging out with you.”

It’s such a small thing that it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t. But damn if he’s face doesn’t twitch into a genuine smile. Prefers him. Yuu prefers him.

“Ah, you gotta crush on me?” He teases, poking her cheek, “You got something you want to tell me?”

“Oh, fuck off.” She snips, kicking his foot, “You got an ego that makes Vil look humble.”

He can only laugh, muffling his delight into a pillow. He tucks the memory away with a breath, making another pair.

Rook Hunt

The gardens of Pomefiore aren’t as well-known as some of the other dorms, but they are beautiful, nonetheless. Carefully cultivated and trimmed, it has more of a nature tamed by man aesthetic, but it was still beautiful.

Rook knows them better than most students, spending so much time amongst the trees, bushes and flowers to practice his hunting skills and photography. When Yuu asked him for pointers, he was more than happy to give her a hands-on lesson.

“And that is how you achieve this effect!” He says, setting the glass off to the side.

“Nice!” she nods, finishing the note she was writing. “That is so much easier than what I was picturing. I can’t thank you enough for this Rook, this will help so much with the commission that Crewel gave me. What got you into photography anyway?”

“Having pictures of Roi De Poison and Monsieur Curiosity that nobody else has? Bliss! But also, I do so enjoy the thrill of the hunt. Photography gives me the means to shoot and not kill my target. Their beauty must live on until fate takes them. Or my arrow.”

Yuu cannot help but chuckle a bit, figuring that was the case.

“Vil told me a bit about the day you two met. It makes sense. He also said you started in SavannaClaw?”

“I did. Transfering dorms was the best decision I have ever made!” He touches the leaves above him, the apple tree swaying a bit in the cool breeze. “Why do you think I switched dorms, Mon Trickster?”

Yuu zips up the ghost camera into her bag, taking a moment to try and phase her words. The Rook that Vil described reminds her of herself here. Ambition with no direction. Goals of survival with no room for anything else. Of being so cautious and gentle with everything around, but the people aren’t with her. Even those that care for her bruise her, even when they don’t mean to.

“I think...you got tired of your life feeling like a museum.” Rook cocks his head at her. “Before, you kept your hands behind your back, quietly observing, scrutinizing and praising the beauty around you but never interacting. I don’t know if you thought you didn’t deserve it or that you couldn’t have it, but I think you got tired of imagining what softness would feel like. I think you decided that you would rather be an active participant, in your life, even if it meant changing, however scary it is.”

It is quiet behind her. Yuu secures the last of the props into the tote, still waiting.

“Rook?”

She doesn’t get a chance to turn around. His front thumps into her, arms wrapping around her shoulders.

“Apologize Mon Ami. I was stunned by your wisdom un moment.” He whispers. She feels him take a deep breath into her shoulder, but he’s hat completely blocks him from her view. “You might be the closest yet.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, nothing!” He jumps in front of her, grabbing the tote with a bright smile. “Let us return, Roi de Poison does hate one being late!”

“We are meeting Vil after this?” She asks, jogging to keep up his pace that’s more like a skip.

“Of course! We have traveled much today. We must replenish with good food and drink!”

He goes on to describe what is on the menu, but inside it is taking everything within him not to gather you up and take him home. Oh, Mon Trickster, you read him too easily. He will have to keep you close in the years to come to just keep himself safe, in whatever capacity needed. There is, after all, more than one way to be a lover.

307 notes · View notes

howtofightwrite · 10 months ago

Note

I'm writing a scene where character A gets ambushed by an assassin. A gets injured and starts bleeding out. B swoops in to save them in the nick of time, but A starts fading in and out of consciousness. B transports A using a horse-drawn carriage (setting is 1890's London, so no cars) to a safe place for medical attention. Would the carriage be safe enough for transportation or make things worse? Also, any ideas where the wound could plausibly be located on A? (Stab/cut, no guns.)

Okay, so this is a good news/bad news situation.

The good news is that blood loss is really easy to understand. If someone pokes a hole in you, and you start leaking, you'll generally keep leaking at a pretty consistent rate until you manage to stop the leak, or until you start getting additional holes poked in you.

Now, joking aside, moving around, and staying active can accelerate bleed out. Especially if you're engaging in activity that keeps your heart rate up. For example: Running, or fighting. But, normally, you're going to keep losing blood at a fairly consistent rate. (Now, it's worth noting, as you lose blood, your body will actually increase your heart rate to keep oxygen going to your brain. This means that the rate of loss isn't completely consistent. You'll also start hyperventilating.)

The fun part about blood loss is it can actually turn into a math problem. If you know the volume lost per interval, you can calculate roughly how long it will take to die. Just take 2,000, then divide that by the blood lost in milliliters per interval (so, for example, minutes), and then you will know how many minutes your character has before they bleed to death. (Technically you can go over that two liters lost a little bit. (In sloppy napkin math, this means that you'll slightly overestimate how long the character will last.)

Here's the problem.

Hypovolemic shock has four recognized stages. These stages are bracketed by how much blood you've lost. Stage one is up to 15%, Stage two is 15-30%, Stage 3 is 30-40%, and Stage 4 is 40% or more. You might know that the human body has roughly five liters of blood in it, and if you were paying attention you'll notice that two liters is 40% of five liters.

As a quick aside, Stage 1's only symptom is that you'll be a little paler than usual. Otherwise you're basically fine (even if you don't feel particularly great.) To put this in context, you can (almost) lose a liquor bottle's worth of blood without serious side effects.

Once you hit stage 2 and 3, you'll see some mental issues. Anxiety and restlessness at Stage 2, confusion and impaired reasoning at stage 3.

Loss of consciousness (and comas) are symptoms of stage 4 blood loss.

This is the bad news. If you are losing consciousness from loss of blood, you have already lost so much blood that your body (and possibly your brain) are already dying. Humans can lose a frightening amount of blood before it incapacitates them. And, that fun little math problem earlier, the time to death that you're calculating, is also the time to loss of consciousness, because there's a tiny margin between, you bled to the point that you're drifting in and out of consciousness, and, you have bled to death.

There's still some hope here, but it's not great. First aid for hypovolemic shock is to stop the bleeding. It kinda makes sense, because if you don't, they'll bleed to death and after that, it won't really matter. That means, if you're swooping in to the rescue, the first thing you need to do is stop the bleeding, as best you can. When you're already looking at someone in stage 3 or 4, you're not going to stop it in the field, and the best you can do is buy time. But that is a critical step.

This leads to a really important question. How long did it take your character to lose two liters of blood?

Because, if they lost that much blood duringthe fight (which is, actually possible with some arterial hits), there is no medical science that would keep them alive long enough to get them to a surgeon. Not in 1890, and even in 2024 it'd be touch and go with modern emergency trauma packs.

This is a mortal wound.

Now, if you slow it down, and they're bleeding out over the course of the ride, that's entirely feasible. You'll probably want to read up on the exact stages of hypovolemic shock, keep in mind that the stages do transition from one into the next. And, keep in mind that, “slipping in and out of consciousness,” is basically the end. At that point they're about to die. Immediate surgical attention could still save their life, but they need a hospital. This is beyond the scope of what a back alley clinic could reasonably deal with.

I know I didn't address it earlier, but, “where,” could be pretty much wherever. So long as it didn't sever an artery, because at that point they would be dead. Arterial nicks could result in serious bleeding over time. Really, any serious, persistent blood loss that refuses to clot could create a situation like this. Deep tissue penetration, particularly when it damages internal organs, can be pretty nasty, and surprisingly hard to stop a bleed. If someone is hemorrhaging internally, that's going to require surgical attention to keep them alive, and any effort to stop the bleed will really be wasted effort (because they'll continue bleeding into the chest cavity), though, unless your characters have a pretty solid grasp of anatomy, they're unlikely to know that.

The real issue here, from a practical application, is just the, “swooping in at the last minute.” If you're really coming in at the last minute, you've got a minute to make peace with their death, and move on. If you get there sooner, you have more of a scene. You have more options to spool out the drama, and subvert expectations.

Consider, alternately: Your character comes in to disrupt the assassin, and the pair make their escape. While escaping, the character who's been injured discovers they're bleeding. Leading their rescuer to realize that the situation is much worse than they initially thought, and having to change route to a hospital, while the injured character starts to become less coherent.

In this alternative, you can carefully track how quickly the character is bleeding out, so that they're getting into the hospital right around the time it's starting to become touch and go. With a real possibility that they'll die, either before or during surgery. (Also, with added stress that now your character needs to keep them safe in a public space, while that assassin is still on the loose, and they can't move the injured character to someplace more secure.)

So, you've got options, and now you've got a math problem you can play with to figure out how quickly your characters will expire after you poke new holes in them.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get access to new posts three days early, and direct access to us through Discord. If you’re already a Patron, thank you. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

#writing advice #writing reference #writing tips #how to fight write #starke answers #starke is not a real doctor

506 notes · View notes

thewriterwithnoplan · 1 year ago

Text

THE TRAITOR'S SOULMATE (2/2)

Summary: Humans once had four legs, four arms, two heads, and two hearts. For humanity's hubris, Zeus struck them in two. You and Luke Castellan are determined to find your way back to each other, but before that can happen, there are things the two of you need to do.

[Part 2 to The Hero's Soulmate]

Soulmate AU: You meet the future version of your soulmate.

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Word Count: 7378

Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, I use the spelling 'mom' because the series is American but I - and I cannot stress this enough - am not American, she a long one.

A/N: I've loved reading your comments, thank you so much for all the support in part one. I hope you enjoy, because we all deserve a little Luke Castellan every now and then!

Masterlist

Amphitrite had been gifted a premonition and the world was all the worse for it. The dream had come from Apollo or perhaps the Oneiroi or whatever great heart pumped blood and Gods and monsters out into the world.

It did not matter to the Goddess from whom the vision came, for in this dream Amphitrite had watched her husband fall in love and sire a child to a mortal paramour. A precious boy that Poseidon might even one day love, with a taste for the colour blue and a heroism that would grow to rival his namesake. And for the Queen of the Seas, that simply would not do.

It would not be the child’s nor his mortal mother’s fault – she was not Hera after all – and so she would have to punish her husband for the blame would be his. But how was one to punish a King among Gods before his crime even came to be? Why to beat him at his own game, of course.

So, Amphitrite set out to sire her own demigod with the mortal man her husband would hate most. A devout catholic.

Amphitrite stayed with her mortal lover and their half-blood daughter until the girl was all but five. Far longer than the greater Gods were wont to spend with their offspring. But what a precious babe she had bourn and what a traitorous husband she had back home.

But fate and prophecies and soulmates were such funny things. Inciting chaos. Inviting paradox. Introducing dangers untold.

It took Amphitrite all those years – though seemingly short in her immortality – to realise her fatal error. She had been the one to leave Poseidon. She had been the one to sire a child. She had been the one to drive her husband to the surface and his mortal. And so, the blame was hers to shoulder.

Amphitrite decided that she would be a self-fulfilling prophecy no longer. It was time to venture back below the surface.

In a last fit of guilt, she bestowed her first and final act of mercy unto her mortal lover. She told him everything.

When finally, she had gone back to the sea to reconcile with her husband, the catholic man took his turn to bestow his first and final act of mercy unto his young demigod child.

Against all the teachings of his faith. He abandoned his young daughter at Half-Blood Hill. And let the devil-spawn keep her life.

The Spirit of the Hudson River never did learn to like you. You with your greedy hands, snatching debris from its murky waters. You and your strange sea creature friends who would not dare brave such pollution were it not for your presence. Your pile of war spoils tossed aside like children’s toys. Your strange little bubble of air on the sandy floor of the river, where you stowed your treasures and slept bracketed by water. Were it not for the pollution that slopped against the edge of the river as if it were trying to escape you, the Hudson River Spirit might have chased you and your sea friends and your collection of trinkets out of his waters. But as it were, you made a strangely amicable tenant for a demigod. So, as long as you paid your dues the spirit let you keep your little underwater oasis.

For your first years living there, you made your way in New York City by selling lost things dredged from your river home. Bikes and old weaponry and tarnished jewellery and buckets of coins from across the world. You were careful and you coveted your few precious belongings, but with the rivers bounty, you rarely went hungry.

By the time you were fourteen, you found you could venture further into the city without as many questions. You had met an odd assortment of people whilst selling the lost and unloved things of the river; all who knew someone, who knew someone, who needed another set of hands and so you offered yours. You babysat and cleaned, worked in delis and sandwich shops, helped old women with their groceries and young families mend their clothes. A retired teacher gifted you packets of schoolwork and with little else to fill your hours under the river you took to learning. Your numbers came easier than letters and reading always gave you a hard time but the activities she gave you each time you tended to her balcony garden gave you something to do when the sounds of the city kept you up at night.

All the while you followed Percy Jackson from the recesses of the Hudson. Shuffling your little bubble and its blessedly dry treasures up and then back down the river as he was bounced listlessly from school to school. Watching over him as the mythosphere tried desperately to barge into his little mortal life. Feral harpies that tried to snatch him into the air, great snakes that tried to sneak through air vents and all manner of underworld-born sea creatures that sought to pull him below. You had wrestled and dismembered and slayed them all. Adding their feathers and scales and great weapons to your dragons-hoard.

You were sixteen when you finally knocked on Sally Jackson’s door to introduce yourself. You had spent weeks working yourself up to it, planning your outfit and then fussing over each piece. All your clothes had been gifts and were often a size too big or printed with some generic tagline like Spread peace not hate!; or made entirely from yarn that the old woman whose meals you prepped at the start of each week had gifted you after she had taught you how to crochet; or like the dress you wore now, were sown together from thrifted fabric scraps and embellished with pretty shells and baroque pearls. You had planned the time you would arrive down to the minute so that her oppressive husband would be out, but the hour would not be so late as to make an unexpected visit threatening. You had planned to keep Percy safe while you were away from him by entrusting your friends Clarence the Crab and Emily the Squid to supervise him for the evening.

What you had not planned for was the possibility that Sally Jackson would be the most lovely woman you had ever met. You had been struck dumb by it the moment she opened her door and greeted you with a kind smile. Couldn’t your mother have chosen a mortal as gentle as she to be your parent? Alas, the Gods had never done a thing for you.

“Can I help you, lovely?”

You tried not to burst into tears as you asked, “Mrs. Jackson?”

“Are you alright?” She opened the door wider, leant out and scanned the corridor behind you. “Is there something you need?”

“No ma’am. I’m here about your son, Percy. His father sent me.” A good ambiguous statement that would pique her curiosity but let on nothing about the Gods. Allowing you to spin your tale – that you were Percy’s long-lost step-sister, come to reconnect.

“Poseidon?” Alas, the Gods had truly never done a thing for you. “Is something wrong? Is Percy, okay?”

“He’s fine Mrs. Jackson, I’ve been keeping him safe.”

She scanned the hall behind you once more, “You best come in.”

Over a cup of tea, you told Sally Jackson everything.

You liked your home under the river. For lack of a better term, it allowed you to remain liquid. You could follow Percy wherever trouble took him. You could stay up until the city grew quiet for that brief moment before dawn. You could train with the Hudson River Spirit, even if he only entertained you because he enjoyed winning.

You liked your bed made out of stacked wood pallets and a mountain of blankets. You liked your wooden chest of draws stuffed full of trinkets and weapons and the precious few items you owned. You liked this place that you had carved out with your own two hands.

But you also liked your home in the Jackson household. Where there was always music playing. Where it was always warm and dry. Where there would always be some blue-ified food in the oven or blue candy in the mason jars by the sink.

It became your job in the summers to babysit Percy, to keep him away from Gabe and from danger while entertaining his endless need for motion. You took him to art galleries (which he hated) and aquariums (which he loved), to craft fairs (which he tolerated because he liked the things you made) and swimming pools (which he only liked when he won your swimming races).

“What even is a soulmate?” Percy had asked you one day at the park.

“The person with the other half of your soul,” You scrunched your nose up, “Or well, that's what people say.”

“You’re saying I’ve been walking around with half a soul?”

“I didn’t say I believed them,” You rattled your water bottle in front of his face until he took it. “Stay hydrated.”

He frowned at you, “You don’t believe in soulmates?”

“Of course I do, but it's a little more complicated than that, kid.” You took the water bottle back and played with the cap for a moment while you thought. “Think of it like this. You can have two different puzzles that are cut the same way, right? So all the pieces from one will fit with all the pieces from the other. But that doesn’t mean they belong together, the picture doesn’t come out quite right because even though the pieces fit, they don’t necessarily belong to the same puzzle. Maybe that’s what it was like for your mom, like she couldn’t find the pieces that made up her picture and so she went with the ones that fit at the time.”

“You don’t think my mom and dad were soulmates?”

“I never met your father.”

“But he’s your dad too.”

“He’s my mom’s husband. Maybe my mom and dad are soulmates.” Percy didn’t seem to like that answer. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe your mom and my mom each have pieces that fit into your dad's puzzle but neither match his picture, or both. Maybe his picture is a year with your mom and a lifetime with mine and having you. Maybe he needs to collect all those little pieces at the right time when they’re the right shape or he’ll end up with a completely different picture at the end.”

“I kind of understand.” But he gave you a look that said he probably didn’t. “What picture are you making?”

You hid your smile behind the lip of your water bottle, “My soulmates about yay-high, pretty as a magazine cover with dimples and all. I’m collecting my puzzle pieces with you and your mom and this city so that I’ll have half of his picture.”

“If you know who he is, why don’t you just go find him now?”

“Still looking for some pieces, I guess.” You kicked a rock with the toe of your boot. “Souls are fragile. If you go rushing in and trying to jam the pieces in when they’re not shaped right just yet you could damage them.”

“What happens if you do that?”

“It’s probably harder to find each other in the next life. You’ll chip pieces away and your souls won’t fit right.” You shoved your hands into the pockets of your cardigan and pulled out a sandwich, you gave Percy the bigger half.

“Who taught you all this?”

“My mom used to tell me and well, I've thought about it a lot.” You tugged Percy by the back of his shirt so he didn't go stomping through a puddle, he glared. “But anyway, some people think it’s just fate. That you find your soulmate no matter what and it’s a perfect fit either way.”

“It would be easier that way.”

“Sometimes that’s just not how the story goes, kid.”

Percy thought that was the most important thing anyone had ever taught him, but he figured some of the other stuff you taught him came in handy too. You taught him the tricks you learned to work around your dyslexia. You taught him to skip stones and to not throw rocks at seagulls. You taught him to flip off the Empire State Building but only when his mom wasn’t around. You taught him to knit and do a cartwheel and make a good cup of tea to take his mother in the morning. You taught him to chew with his mouth shut and to sword fight with wrapping paper rolls. You taught him to braid hair and throw a punch and say all the swears in Ancient Greek.

And then one day, a Satyr came for Percy Jackson, and there was nothing left for you to teach.

You wrote Sally a brief letter of warning, picked your way through seven years’ worth of belongings and collapsed your life into a backpack. You said goodbye to Clarence and Emily with a brief promise to visit, pushed a final wave of pollution from the waters and thanked the Hudson River Spirit for his hospitality. He gifted you sixteen perfect round pearls and insisted that he never wanted to see you again. You spent the bus ride to Long Island threading them into a necklace made of fishing wire, tying off each pearl with your teeth.

It was a tentative tradition between demigod soulmates to exchange gifts upon their first meeting. So few and far between were the possessions of a half-blood that even the smallest bauble would likely mean the world. The practice had died out some over the centuries as the Gods received fewer offerings from mortals and turned to their children for sacrifices. Gift-giving to your soulmate as a demigod became all but synonymous with spitting at the feet of the divine and loudly proclaiming you would make offerings to your soulmate instead. A pearl necklace would be an excellent final addition to the collection of small gifts you had assembled over the years. Let the Gods weep at your feet and beg for scraps if they needed them so much, you would ignore them just as they had ignored you.

You arrived at Camp far sooner than you might have liked, a few hours past mid-day when hopefully the rest of your ilk would be occupied with meaneal chores and activities. You considered waiting at the crest of the hill for someone to notice you only to find a pine tree planted firmly at its peak where you might have stood. Instead, you make the alarmingly easy trek down to the Big House.

“Chiron!” He had always been your favourite of the two men, currently sat on the porch drinking juice and playing cards.

“Yes, my girl?” He barely spared you a glance as he shuffled his cards between his weathered hands. He stilled for a moment and then tossed his head back in the way a horse might toss its mane. “My dear!”

You raised a hand, halfway between a salute and a wave, “Nice to know I haven’t been totally forgotten.”

“Au contraire.” Mr. D stuck his nose up at you. “Which one are you again?”

“The little one that went missing some seven years ago,” Chiron stood as you climbed the stairs onto the porch. “How are you, my dear? Where have you been?”

“Shouldn’t you be at Yancy Academy?”

Mr. D’s eyes turned sharp in the way that had once made your friends whisper that some days, he was more maniac than man , “And how do you know about that little girl?”

“Percy Jackson is at Yancy,” You smiled at him, all teeth, “How did you think he survived long enough for your baby satyr to find him?”

“You have been protecting young demi-gods?” Chiron asked wearily.

“Percy Jackson is a full-time job, I’m afraid,” You tugged at the strap of your backpack, praying you could keep control of the conversation. You had a lot of time under the river to think and this was one of many things you had spent countless hours mulling over. Weighing and considering what story you would tell them – to tell the truth of both your parentage and put Percy in harm's way or to lie and balance your life on its sharp edge. “I found him in Manhattan, he was like a magnet for mythological activity. By the time I’d had enough of rebelling and wanted to come back to camp, I was protecting him from attacks every other week. He wouldn’t have lasted a month. I came back as soon as I could.”

No matter how many times you played it out in your head, the lies won every time.

“Kids.” Mr. D threw back the last of his juice.

“Perhaps you should settle back into the Hermes Cabin, dear.” Chiron smiled down at you, the corners of his eyes pinched, “You’ve given myself and Mr. D much to talk about. We’ll settle the issue of your paperwork tomorrow.”

“Of course.” You rustled through your bag, digging up a palm sized statuette that you set onto the table. “Before I forget, I brought you a gift Mr. D.”

“A toy,” He snatched it up. “Oh joy.”

“It’s you, as the mortals’ see you. It’s from the gift shop at the Met.”

“How kind of you, my dear.” Chiron softened, and you watched as even Mr. D’s temper seemed to ease, his hands gentle around the gift as he admired it.

An unseeing piece of plastic for the God who served as no more than a silent observer over the affairs of the camp. Let him choke on his ego, you thought as you left the pair to their discussion.

Cabin 11 was blessedly empty when you entered, but your old bunk was not. A pile of clothes was thrown haphazardly across the bedspread. You snatched a sleeping bag and a lumpy pillow from the storage closet and threw them down with your bag. If you could not have the bunk that had been yours at twelve, you would claim the corner that had been yours at five. As you shook out the sleeping bag and pulled out your belongings, you tried not to think of your bed of blankets under the river or Sally Jackson’s couch.

Instead you turned your mind to the Big House and the conversation that was no doubt happening within.

You had constructed a perfect image, if you did say so yourself. Grown in ways Mr. D could not have predicted but Chiron would insist he had foreseen. Still a rebellious young woman in the mortal sense, with your scuffed leather boots and ripped jeans. But the parts that had screamed ‘insubordination’ to the Gods were neatly tucked away. Your twin knives strapped to your forearms under the billowing sleeves of your crocheted top, your vicious tongue caged behind a sweet grin, your once sharp stare softened at the edges.

Once you had fashioned yourself so that the Gods could not paint you as a hero, now you fashioned yourself so that they might forget you were an enemy.

Let Chiron think you were a misunderstood wayward girl scout come home from her self-imposed quest. Let Mr. D think you were a stupid girl who had seen the world beyond the Gods’ protection and finally accepted that you needed them. Let them all think wrong. You had left to protect your brother and returned for one reason only.

“You’re here.”

You turned, and there he was, “Luke Castellan.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, limbs jerking slightly as if he wasn’t sure whether to move toward you or stay put. He was almost certain you could hear the way his pulse was racing, his heartbeat clanging wildly in his chest as he searched desperately for a suave reply, but everything else seemed lack lustre when you said his name like that.

Your face twisted into something like anger and for a moment he thought he’d messed it all up before your lips curled and you practically spat, “I do like your scar.”

And then he was laughing at you, wild and bewildered and not the least bit contained. Before long you were laughing too, neither of you quite sure what was funny, just so wholly relieved as your chests were flooded with wonder and warmth.

It felt like fireworks and popping candy. Just as he had promised all those years ago. You resisted the urge to throw up on his Converse.

You might have been crying and he might been too but you weren’t exactly sure because one moment you were both laughing at nothing and the next he was on the floor with you. He held you like he had never held a single thing in his life, like he was lost at sea and you were the only solid thing for miles. He tucked your head under his chin and sucked in great forced breaths that you could feel beneath your cheek. Because he was warm and there and real. And that meant the last seven years, the better part of your life, hadn’t been for nothing.

You and Luke make your way to dinner side by side. You had spent the afternoon rambling about your lives, about your meetings with your future selves, about your home under the river, about his responsibilities as a camp counsellor and yours as your brother’s keeper. He told you about Annabeth and Thalia and the rest of his siblings, you told him about your parents and Sally Jackson and your sea friends. You gave him his necklace which he lets you fix in place at the base of his throat – you do not spend a moment too long running your hand up the back of his neck and through his curls.

He had been almost bashful when he gifted you a watch that matched his, inlaid with twin fragments of mother of pearl taken from the same shell – kind of like your soul had been, he had said. You swear you’ve never owned anything as precious. You let him strap it to your wrist as he tells you about spending a summer diving for it in the lake. And then softly, tentatively, he tells you about his quest.

Luke could have cried from the way you were looking at him alone, so very gently, like you could cradle him with your gaze alone. At a loss for words, you simply whispered, “I am so proud of you.”

His grip is iron-clad and you tell your next story with your face pressed into the side of his neck, pretending you can’t feel him shaking softly.

When you make your way to dinner you’re both glowing with the soft exhaustion of emotion. You all but lean against one another as you collect your goblets and fill your plates.

The other campers steer clear of you, content to leave Luke to chauffeuring the new kid around. You count yourself lucky, it was only a matter of time until one of the older campers recognised you.

You were almost to the end of the Hermes table – that perfect spot at the end where you might just have a chance of holding a private conversation after dinner – when Chiron interrupted you.

“Mr. Castellan, I see you’ve acquainted yourself with our newly returned camper.”

“That’s my job, sir.” You tried not to stare at the crooked smile he flashed the centaur.

“Perhaps you ought to show her how to make an offering,” Chiron says pointedly, “She’s been away for a long time, and it’s your responsibility to treat her as you would any other incoming Camper.”

Luke turned to you, his boyish grin still charming but the mirth leaking out of his eyes, “Of course. Do you remember how it’s done?”

“I do. Just not a lot of food to be spared in the mortal world.”

You squinted, the corners of your mouth pulled up in what Chiron would likely mistake for sheepishness. But Luke could see it in your eyes. How your anger had made you pointy in all the places someone your age ought to be soft. He wondered how all the jagged edges of you would feel against all the jagged edges of him. He thought maybe if the two of you were careful, you could make something smooth as sea glass and twice as pretty, together.

You dump a clump of mashed potatoes into the fire with an unconcerned flick of your fork. Luke lops part of his own meal on top of yours, you glare enviously at the reasonable portion he had left on his plate. You hoped the food would burn at the bottom of the braiser.

“Sorry, sir.” You mocked Luke. He stuck his tongue at you once Chiron had turned his back.

You hurried to snag the seat at the end of his table, sliding into place across from each other. You flounder for a moment, wondering whether to draw your legs as far under your seat as they will go or bask in the gentle brush of his knee against his leg. You settle for the latter and try not to evaporate under his gaze, as he stares at you even as you start eating.

Luke realised he’d spent too long staring when you all but groaned, “Don’t tell me I have to sacrifice my dinner to you too.”

He flashed you a grin, then tried to say as nonchalantly as possible,“Is that why you left? So you could enjoy a proper meal every once and a while?”

You stared at him for a long while, “You, future you, told me to leave, to find my brother.”

“Why would I do that? If you had stayed at Camp–”

“That’s almost exactly what I said to you.” You pushed your food around as you stared at a point just beyond his head, he thought for a moment that he could see the neurons firing behind your eyes, like a hundred tiny zaps of lightning, “But I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. And I think you were right to send me away.”

“I don’t think I’ll be hearing that very often.” He dodged the pea you fling at him with a grin.

“I think maybe if I don’t leave, I won’t become this me or do the things I’ve done and maybe that’s important for us or our future or some past you rewrote by telling me to leave.”

“Seems overly complicated.”

“I think it’s supposed to be complicated,” You couldn’t help but admire the quiet skill with which he wielded his cutlery, “If it were easy, we would find each other in every universe.”

He paused, knife aloft, “You don’t want to find each other in every universe?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” You speared a leaf of spinach onto your fork to hide your scowl behind as you said, “The Gods have made it this way to keep us separated.”

“We’re together now.”

“Which means they lost.”

Luke watched you for a drawn out heartbeat, then leaned over to transfer the perfect squares of meat he’d been cutting onto your plate.

You took a long moment to chew before you said, “So, your plan to send me after Percy worked.”

“I thought it was your plan.”

“I forgot to ask you whose plan it was.”

“I say it’s your plan.” He took a long pull from his goblet that left his lips tinted red.

“It doesn’t matter what you think.” You passed him a napkin before he could ask, “It’s what you will think.”

“Sure, Precious.” He smothers a laugh into the napkin at the way you scrunch your nose at him, “You know, because you're so protective of your food. Like Gollum with the ring.”

“That’s the stupidest explanation for a pet name I’ve ever heard.” But you’re damn near head down on the table as you laughed. “I definitely got the smarter half of our soul.”

“Then it was definitely your plan.”

You’ve still got a hand pressed to your face to conceal your smile when you say, “What about when I meet you? Any words of wisdom?”

“Try not to fall for me. I can tell you’re pretty charmed but it’s really not appropriate. I’m seventeen, and you’re what? Twenty-four?”

You launched your bread roll at him. You’re twice as incensed when he catches it whilst looking directly at you, “Asshole.”

“Smartass. See, two can play that game.”

Luke can’t help but think you’re just as pretty sneering as you are smiling, like no expression no matter how ugly could detract from your beauty. Maybe you’re like him, he scarcely dared to hope. Maybe you’re something better, another part of him whispered. The way you talk about the Gods and turn your nose up at them, and play their game only when it suits you.

You weren’t vengeful in the way he was. You weren’t the spitting vicious thing the Camp had liked to pretend you were when you weren’t around to prove otherwise. You were worse and better and everything he needed. You were a storm on the horizon, a snake coiled tight. You were better than just angry. You were disillusioned. Not a product of juvenile resentment but true wrath born of awareness. Not the wild foaming-at-the-mouth kind that he had imagined when he had first heard your name. But the dark carefully contained kind he had seen in the face you would grow into.

This, Luke thought, you were the start of everything.

It’s some weeks later when you stick your hands through the grating of the bunk above Luke as leverage to lean over him and croon, “Up and at ‘em, Pretty Boy.”

He pushed his face out of his pillow, curls sticking up at odd angles as he looked at you half-asleep, “What?”

“Remember? Training?”

“No,” He scrubbed sleep from his eyes, “What did you call me?”

“Sickly.”

“I don’t think that was it.” He propped his head up on a fist as he smiled at you sleepily.

It was so disgustingly cute that you had to turn your back when you said, “Just meet me there.”

Luke’s freshly showered and holding an apple core when he deigns to join you in the forest. He tossed the apple at you and you caught it without thinking. You fake gag at him as you throw it further into the forest.

You wiped your hands against his shoulder as you say, “I’m not sure if an apple core counts but that was dangerously close to an Ancient Greek proposal, Castellan.”

“I got hungry.” He shrugged. You squared off across the clearing, stretching as you warmed yourselves up for the ensuing sparring match.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Is this you rejecting me?” He landed an open hand on his chest and staggered backward. “You wound me, Precious!”

“Was that you proposing? Because I’m,” You wiped your hand again for good measure, scrunching your nose up, “Disgusted.”

“You would be honoured if I had just proposed to you.”

“You should be nicer to me.”

“And go easy on you just because you’re my soulmate? Unlikely.”

“Because, asshole, I’m the one who got you out of chores this morning, or have you forgotten already. You seemed rather grateful for your little sleep-in.”

He unsheathed his sword and twirled it round in his hand, “You’re a bad influence.”

“Like you weren’t ready to worship the ground I walk on when I told Chiron you needed to get my training up to speed.”

“Do you want me to tell you, you’re brilliant?” He pointed his sword toward you with that grin that made you want to hold him down just so you could admire it longer. “You’re brilliant.”

“You’re stalling.” You pull your knives out, one from your boot, the other from your belt. You miss your old clothes with their pretty sleeves and their personality, your camp shirt seems a poor trade in comparison.

“Stalling? Me?” Luke scoffed. “Never!”

“Don’t you have a counsellor meeting at half-past?”

“I do, so please don’t feel bad when you lose. I only have half an hour to wrap this up. You understand.”

“Who’s fault is that Mr. Just-five-more-minutes?”

He gasped in mock offence and lunged forward, his sword swinging at you in a great arch. You leapt back, out of his range, then ducked low and rushed toward him. Luke was quick, in a viciously smooth move he swept his sword at you again. You brought your knives together, bracing as the impact ricocheted up your arms. Admittedly, you were at a great disadvantage given that you were reluctant to throw a knife at Luke’s head – even though he’d demonstrated an impressive ability to swipe your wayward throws out of the air – and that he had an additional several feet of reach on you.

Luke feigned to the right, you lashed out at his left side and narrowly avoided his sword as it came down at you. He whistled slowly as both of you backed up to circle each other for a moment.

“You’ve got moves, I’ll give you that.”

And so the dance went on. Luke struck, you parried or slipped out of his blade's path with a flourish. You struck, Luke swung his sword and slipped around your blows. Finally, you found the chink in his precious armour. He fell back to his right foot when he deflected a blow. You jerked forward. You jabbed the knife clutched in your left hand toward him as you moved in with the right. Just as you hooked a foot around the back of his leg, Luke’s sword made contact with your left shoulder slicing through sleeve and skin. Luke fell backward with a sharp hiss, his sword flying to the side.

In the end you had laid him out flat in twenty minutes. Luke Castellan had spent the last seven years fighting to win. You had spent them fighting to survive. You supposed it didn’t hurt that the greatest swordsman to enter Camp Half-Blood in nearly three centuries was reluctant to let anything sharp or pointed anywhere near you. You secretly thought he might have been going easy on you for being his soulmate after all. You collapsed on the forest floor beside him, your chest heaving to draw in oxygen.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” Luke huffed.

“Orange isn’t really my colour.”

He turned to you with a wink, “Oh but it is.”

You wave your hand through the air.

“I’ve gotten very good at putting broken things back together over the years.” He tried not to look at the line of stitching that ran from the ankle of your jeans to the rips at your knee. You tried not to look at his cheek. Instead you reached out and trailed your hands across his necklace where the pearls sat snuggly at the base of his throat.

“You’re wonderful.” He brushed his knuckles down your shoulder and they came away red. “Even covered in blood you’re the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You groaned, “Sweetness, you can’t just say–”

“You call me Sweetness when you visit me.” He whispered it like it was his greatest secret. You traced up his throat to his cheek and pressed your thumb into his dimpled cheek. “You’re still being wonderful. I can’t think when you’re–”

“Wonderful?”

“Okay, Smartass.” He sighed up at the sky, then pulled the both of you to your feet, “Enough lounging, we need to get that cut checked.”

You let him dust the dirt from you and resheath your knives, one in your boot, the other in your belt. Silently revelling in the gentle way he tugs you this way and that. You were well on your way to the infirmary, shoulders bumping and fingers just barely brushing, before he spoke again.

“Where does it come from? The nickname.”

“Sweetness?”

He looked away from you and squinted off into the distance, as if you were suddenly too bright to look at, “Yeah.”

“My mom used to tell me this story about meeting her soulmate. She probably meant Poseidon, but at the time I thought it was about my dad,” The back of Luke’s hand bumped into yours again, his fingers catching yours, his gaze resolutely ahead but you were definitely holding hands. “She said it felt like swallowing lightning and gorging yourself on popping candy. Like sweetness.”

“You like popping candy?”

“It’s my favourite.” You gave him a queer look as if to say, it’s not yours, you utter heathen?

Luke laughed at you all the way to the Apollo Cabin as he listed all the reasons it was the sub-par candy option. Nonetheless, when you emerge from the infirmary, he unloads a fistful of little packets he’d pinched from the candy bowl when the Apollo kids’ hadn’t been looking.

“Who has sub-par candy options now, Sweetness?” You teased, your mouth crackling merrily.

“Keep calling me that and you can have all the terrible candy you want.”

“Try some,” You shoved a packet toward him, because if he kept saying silly things like that and looking at you the way he was you were liable to do or say something equally as stupid. “You’ve got half my soul, maybe it’s our favourite.”

“I don’t think they had popping candy when we had one soul,” He flicks the packet held between your fingers. “And aren’t you the one who says we’re puzzle pieces not halves?”

“You have been listening to me!”

“Hard not to.”

“Asshole.” You flashed your teeth at him.

“Smartass.” He said, but the bite wasn’t there. He was watching you again, in that way he did sometimes before he said something stupid that made you want to throw yourself in the lake or run back to Manhattan or do something equally as stupid, like kiss him. “You–”

You twisted your hand in the front of his shirt and jerked him toward you, the little sachet crinkling in your fist. For a heartbeat, you were both silent, an inch away and staring as if you could will the other to be the one to press forward. But then he closed his eyes and Luke Castellan was kissing you. Like lightning and popping candy. With all the elegance of two lovestruck teenage fools and all the heat of two people who knew they had all the time in the world but still couldn’t bear to waste a second of it. His hand held you by the chin and then splayed lightly across your cheek and tucked hair softly behind your ear. You were only just reaching for the mess of curls at the back of his head when someone wolf whistles.

“My favourite.” Luke grinned, licked his lips and then turned. Hands stuffed in his pockets and a big stupid grin stretched across his face, as he shouted at you, “Stay out of trouble.”

You flip off the Aphrodite kid who’d whistled at you, and hurried back to the Apollo Cabin. You and Luke Castellan were going to need a lot more popping candy.

You’re in the lake, encased in an air bubble, sprawled out side by side with your backs against the sand, when Luke tells you what he’s done. That mere weeks before your arrival he had done the unthinkable. He had robbed the King of the Gods blind and betrayed half the Pantheon in doing so. You weren't sure whether to laugh or cry.

You had simply laid there, silently, for what had felt like aeons to Luke but maybe that had only been because he had to keep reminding himself not to hold his breath. He wasn’t drowning. You weren’t going to turn him in. He hadn’t just blown his whole plan and his life with his soulmate in one fell swoop. He just had to keep breathing and wait for you to say something. He thinks that maybe your mother had passed on some divine knack for diplomacy as Queen of the Sea with the way you seem to turn the issue of his betrayal over and over in your head.

After a while, you reach your arm toward the bubble and the sky. For a brief, terrifying moment, Luke thinks you’re going to pull the lake down on him. When you don’t Luke spends another infinite second wondering whether he would just let you do it.

He tosses the thought aside and focuses on the coin weaving between your knuckles. Like magic, it appears and disappears around the bends of your fingers but it wasn't real magic, just you fidgeting. He pressed his lips together and tried not to think about you at the bottom of the Hudson River, flipping your coin and turning over the issue of your soulmate and your brother and the camp you’d left behind. What is it you had said? You’d had plenty of time to think about those things.

Maybe that's what you need now – time. He’s about to offer it to you, offer to swim his way back to shore so you can think, even if he'd probably drown on the way. He’d give you all the time in the world if he had it.

But then you finally speak, the golden drachma rolling between your fingers, “If you hurt my brother, soulmate or not, I will kill you.”

“I am your soulmate.” He insisted as the implication made his skin itch.

“You are.” Your smile was so gentle it almost felt sad. “So you understand that my love for him comes before my hatred of the Gods. If you have put him in danger wit–”

“We get married.” He blurted. “We have a future. I woke you, when you visited me. That must mean I win.”

“It means, if that’s the path we’re even on, if those people are even the versions of us that we become… maybe you don’t hurt Percy.”

“I won’t.” He swore and you weren’t sure how to ignore the half of your soul that lies so sweetly. “I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe.” You swallowed like you’d been chewing glass your whole life, and someone had finally offered you something substantial to sink your teeth into. “Maybe if we leave now, there’s a world in which I don’t have to pick between my blood and my soul.”

Luke was quiet for a long moment, “We could recruit him. You said it yourself, he’ll be more powerful than any of us.”

“He’s twelve.”

“He’s the son of Poseidon.”

“He’s twelve.”

“You were twelve when you left to protect him.”

“And look how that turned out,” Your grin was brittle, but he swore you were still the loveliest creature he’d ever laid eyes on. “I’m sat here planning to betray everything I was raised to follow.”

“You’re going to follow me?”

Your eyes traced the shape of his jaw, his nose, his scar. You looked pained, “I fear I would follow you into much worse, Luke Castellan.”

“I’m trying to lead you to something better.” He reached for your hand, took the drachma from your fingers, and pressed a slow, soft kiss to your palm. He smiled and there were dimples in his cheeks and tears in his eyes as he whispered, “We can try for better.”

“Leave Percy.” You pressed your fingers to his cheek, “Let him come to camp, let him join us when he’s ready.”

“You’re sure he’ll join us?”

“He will, I know it. We just need to let him see the Gods’ apathy for himself.” And you sighed. Luke wondered how many lifetimes your souls had seen, how many times you had searched for each other, how many times you had been torn apart. You sound ancient when you say, “You and I have seen more than enough.”

He turned his head and whispered in the scarce distance between you, “What do you propose?”

“We leave. As soon as anyone catches on, we take anyone who agrees with us and flee.” You brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his knuckles firmly, “We can plot your revenge and plan my new world on the way.”

Luke feels ancient when he promises, “Okay, on the way then.”

But he swears, as you lean forward and kiss him, that no matter how many times you do it this lifetime or in all the lifetimes until this story – of you and Luke Castellan – became ancient, it would still never stop feeling like the first time.

Like lightning and popping candy.

Tag List:

@emelia07 @star611 @7s3ven @kissingyourgrl @myxticmoon @shermanno @moonsficrec @soleilgrec

#luke castellan x reader #soulmate au #luke castellan #pjo luke #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo series #pjo show #percy jackson show #pjo #percy jackson #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan fic #luke castellan fanfiction

473 notes · View notes

four-of-them-showdown · 1 year ago

Text

Miku, Rin, Len, Luka:

No propaganda!

Jay, Cole, Kai, Zane:

"They're my friends, they've been a team for over 10 years now and I've been there that whole time :)"

"Why shouldn't they win? They're little gay skittles. Or they're brothers. You choose"

"JUMP UP KICK BACK WHIP AROUND AND SPIN (sorry i am very passionate about the legos but too tired to form like. real sentences. please imagine something written about how they're cool and fueled my childhood or something)"

"OK SO

They’re the OG members of the ninja team and shipping all four of them together is popular and is very gay it’s called polyninja and it’s amazing and let me break down the dynamics of each of them

Zane x Jay: Technoshipping

Robot x their mechanic trope goes brrrr. Zane is a logical and smart one, and Jay is chaotic and kinda a disaster. Zane is the autism to his adhd and they are very fun <3

Zane x Kai: Oppositeshipping

Ha ha opposites attract trope goes brrr. Again, Zane is logical and smart, whereas Kai is impulsive (and also smart just in a different way). Both of them feel emotions strongly but process them in different ways and I have to end it here before I write an essay about how ZANE was the one who with a single meaningful look and touch to the arm told him it was too late to go back, how Lloyd mentioned KAI to try and restore Zane’s memories when he had amnesia, how- (You get the picture)

Zane x Cole: Glaciershipping

Mom friend x Dad friend. I have realized that his is getting long so I am going to be much briefer now

Jay x Kai: Plasmashipping

Two adhd/add idiots being stupid together <3

Jay x Cole: Bruiseshipping

Best friends to lovers what more could you want (don’t start me on this one they have so much chemistry)

Kai x Cole: Lavashipping

I am bad at words for this one but just trust me they’re a Vibe ok they’re a Vibe

Zane x Jay x Kai x Cole: Polyninja

THEY ARE STUPID, GAY, AND IN LOVE, YOUR HONOR"

#vocaloid #lego ninjago #hatsune miku #kagamine rin #kagamine len #megurine luka #jay walker #cole brookstone #kai smith #zane julien #polls #four of them showdown #round 1 #OBSESSED with the propaganda for this one

379 notes · View notes

janmisali · 7 months ago

Note

Are you going to do a poll for 3rd/4th place?

this is an inherent structural thing with large single-elimination brackets in general, but the four semifinalists aren't necessarily the four strongest competitors in the bracket. even if you assume bracket performance is both deterministic (not influenced by random factors) and transitive (character A beats character B and character B beats character C implies character A beats character C), any one of the characters beaten by the final champion along the way to the final round theoretically could be the second most-favored character in the bracket.

the polls I did for "characters that the finalists won against" do suggest that the seeding was pretty good in this regard and that the characters that made it further really are more well-liked among the voters of the bracket, but it's not guaranteed that doing well in a free-for-all "pick your favorite out of all of these characters from just their names" is really correlated with how well they'd do head-to-head in a proper poll.

besides, why would I make Daisy and Luigi fight? it's poetic that they got out in the same round, I think

#super mario bracket

134 notes · View notes

aromanticduck · 4 months ago

Text

Letters of the alphabet and the smallest whole number they appear in:

A - one hundred and one/one thousand (depending on whether you include 'and' in your numbers)

B - one billion

C - one octillion

D - one hundred

E - one (zero)

F - four

G - eight

H - three

I - five

J -

K -

L - eleven

M - one million

N - one

O - one (zero)

P - one septillion

Q - one quadrillion

R - three (zero)

S - six

T - two

U - four

V - five

W - two

X - six

Y - twenty

Z - (zero)

Five biggest highlighted in colour. It turns out that the letter C takes the longest to appear (aside from J and K, which don't appear at all... unless you're Phillip J Fry buying anchovies for one jillion dollars). Originally I was only doing positive whole numbers, but I went back and included zero in brackets so I could have something for Z.

#numbers #organic home grown content

90 notes · View notes

fingolfinwiththesteelchair · 2 months ago

Text

Mightiest Elf Fight Club Side B

Vote on side A HERE

These elves are competing in a tournament! I don't like brackets, so below, select the elf in this group that you think would come in LAST, I repeat, vote for the elf in LAST PLACE. The elf you vote for will be ELIMINATED from fight club

The sister poll with more options is located HERE

Find PROPAGANDA and MIGHTY DEEDS below the cut

Maglor: Maglor was one of the best bards in Middle Earth - which is very important in a world where Songs of Power exist. Maglor held a breech against Morgoth, known as Maglor's Gap, for four and a half centuries, and fought in countless battles against Morgoth. Weaknesses: Silmarils, oaths. Glorfindel: One of the few beings to successfully slay a Balrog, Glorfindel died and came back to life (he did it before Gandalf made it cool). He spent his time in The Fellowship of the Ring gleefully chasing down the ringwraiths, who were so scared of him that between the choice of Glorfindel and a magically- pissed off river, they chose the river. Weaknesses: needs a haircut

Rog: One of Tolkien's earlier characters, Rog was the chief of the Hammer of Wrath, Rog led his people against the forces of the enemy during the Fall of Gondolin. He was said to the strongest of Noldoli. Weaknesses: getting cornered, but who isn't

Gil-Galad: The elf so cool no one knows who his parents are. The Last High King of the Noldor, Gil-Galad held the ring Vilya. He fought against Sauron's armies in the second age, and then again during the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, where he engaged Sauron in single combat and won, driving him back. Weakness: fiery hands

Maedhros: Maedhros has fought in countless battles against Morgoth, including orchestrating the Union of Maedhros. He's known for his ferocity with the sword. He held the fort of Himring against the tides of Morgoth's forces for nearly all of the First Age. Weaknesses: Silmarils, oaths.

Galadriel: A Noldor straight from Aman, Galadriel is said to be the greatest of elven-women. The bearer of the ring Nenya and a member of the White Council, Galadriel aided in the Battle of the Field of Celebrant and helped drive the shadows of Sauron from Dol Guldur. Weaknesses: temptation

Finrod: Finrod has fought in the Dagor Bragollach, and later joined Beren in his quest against Morgoth and Sauron. Finrod got into an epic rap battle with Sauron, and then, completely naked, Finrod killed a werewolf with his bare hands and his teeth. Weaknesses: Beren

Fingolfin: A High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin braved the Helcaraxe, fought in the Battle of Sudden Flame, and then rode out alone to Actually demigod-Satan's house, knocked on his door, and told him to come out and fight him one on one. And then he almost killed Actually demigod-Satan, dealing seven devastating blows that would never heal. Weaknesses: Hammers

Beleg: A great captain of the Sindar, and considered to be the best archer. He was one of the few Sindar to join in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and took part in the hunting of the werewolf Carcharoth. He managed to withstand Turin's terrible fucking luck for several adventures before succumbing. Weaknesses: Friendship

#silmarillion #elffightclubpoll #you can use that to blacklist this #maglor #glorfindel #rog #gil-galad #maedhros #galadriel #finrod #fingolfin #beleg

70 notes · View notes

ginnsbaker · 2 years ago

Text

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (4/?)

Chapter summary: The night at the club - from your perspective. And we find out whether you came to the opening of Wanda's cafe or not

Chapter word count: 6.3k+

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader (heavy on this chapter)

Tags: fluff if you squint (did I just say fluff?)

AO3 | Masterlist

Next Chapter: Five

Four

The night at the club - from your perspective

The club Clint chooses for Natasha’s send-off is a drug deal away from being sleazy, despite its popularity. It’s significantly larger too, than the typical nightclubs you’ve been to in the past; there's a mezzanine for VIP members and celebrity guests; three bars are stationed at the corners of the main room, selling beverages based on a price bracket–with the most expensive ones near the steps leading to the VIP area. In here, you find all kinds of party-goers–from preppy high school kids with their daddy’s money and fake IDs to aging business men looking to score a high-end escort or a B-list actress in need of a sponsor for their lavish lifestyle.

And then there’s you–newly single, unemployed, nearing your 30s and rooming with your best friend. Just with how you’re dressed–a white, velvet sleeveless cowl neck top and skinny jeans–you wonder what other people think of you, what backstory they’ve concocted in their heads. Whatever it is, it couldn’t be worse than your actual reality.

“How did you find this place?” you ask Clint after he returns with shots of tequila to start the night with.

He glances between you and then Natasha, who finishes her shot in a single gulp the second she snatches it from Clint’s fingers.

“Did you not see how big this place is from outside? It’s hard to miss the biggest nightclub in New York, Y/N.” His breath fans over your face, and all it takes is one whiff to know he’s already had some pre-party drinks in his system.

“I prefer the dive bars we used to frequent.” you say, grimacing as the tequila burns down your throat. It immediately warms the middle of your chest, leaving you thirstier than before.

Clint raises his eyebrows at you incredulously. “We’re not here to talk and catch-up. We’re here to get trashed because our girl right here,” he playfully puts an arm around Natasha so she’s snug against his side. “Is returning to the front lines.”

“Damn right!” Natasha yells, raising her empty shot glass to no one in particular. She’s deadly as she looks for what she’s capable of–which you know very little about–and yet, astoundingly lightweight when it comes to holding her liquor. It wouldn’t take three more rounds to render her thoroughly incapacitated.

Clint looks so smug, and it doesn’t take a second more for you to realize that he gave Natasha a double. You weakly jab his side with your elbow and then proceed to swipe his credit card from his back pocket, making sure he at least pays for everything tonight.

“Come on,” you say, reaching for Natasha’s hand. “We can’t have you drinking on an empty stomach or you won’t last until midnight.”

Natasha shakes her head with a pout. “Gotta last much, much, much later than that.”

“For sure. But first, let’s–”

“Where are you taking my sister?” A voice behind you asks in a demanding but playful manner. You feel it being said right in your ear, causing goosebumps all over the back of your neck.

Whipping your head around, you find Yelena smiling at you as she staggers a step back to avoid you accidentally kissing her cheek in the process.

There’s tension from the last time you saw each other, and it becomes instantly obvious that it hasn’t gone away the moment you take in her plunge cocktail dress and the rose-colored smirk she has on. You don’t really mean to, but it’s easy to make the conclusion that anyone would easily find her the most attractive person in the room.

“Little sis,” Natasha exclaims in barely contained excitement, hastily enveloping Yelena in a bear hug. “You came!”

“Hey,” you breathe out, failing to stop your gaze from straying below her collarbone and landing on her proud cleavage.

“Hey, stranger.” she greets you back, and you catch the mischievous smile on her lips despite having half of her face squashed against Natasha’s shoulder. Yup. She’s definitely noticed.

“See you around, kid. I’ll take care of this one.” Clint says, already pulling Natasha away before she can suffocate Yelena further.

Helplessly, you watch Clint and Natasha disappear into the crowd, anxiety crippling your ability to decide what you’re going to do or where you’re going next.

Yelena lightly taps you on the shoulder to get your attention–which, for all intents and purposes–is already hers to begin with. You just don’t want to be too obvious about it.

“My sweater.” she simply says with an unreadable expression when you turn to address her.

“Sorry?”

“You still have it?”

And then it comes back to you. Your ruined shirt, borrowing’s Yelena sweater, Yelena joking about her first sexual experience, that happened to be with you–

You can always blame the tequila for the way your cheeks flush at the memories.

Biting your lip, you say, “The truth is I forgot to mail it. With everything that’s happened–”

“It’s okay. Nat just recently told me the stuff you went through the past few months,” Yelena cuts in, and the softness in her gaze gives you a sense of calm. “Do you, maybe, want to drink about it? First round’s on me.” she reluctantly offers.

“Nah,” you dismiss her intentions to pay, as you hold up Clint’s Visa. “All our rounds on this.”

Yelena orders a frozen margarita, while you opt for a more basic choice of gin and tonic. You find yourselves sitting closely together, sharing a couch with random strangers in the most relatively secluded part of the club.

“So, what exactly did Natasha tell you?” you ask, letting your index finger dance along the rim of your glass.

Yelena takes a sip of her drink and considers how she should relay what she knows.

In the end, she goes for the unfiltered narrative, given that there’s really no way of making it sound less severe than it is. “That your wife cheated on you with her student.”

You offer her a wan smile and clink your drinks togethers. “Cheers.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I can’t imagine what it feels like to be betrayed like that by the person you–I assume–trust the most.” Yelena says after some time. She’s not used to being the one to give consolation, especially with you. Growing up, you were a steady, ever-reliable presence in her life; her place of solitude throughout the pains of her youth. It’s pathetic how she’s wishing she had gone through the same ordeal if it meant she could give you the comfort and understanding you needed.

“Me too. I don’t even remember how I was able to survive what came right after taking your sister’s call that day. Did Nat mention that I almost killed the kid? He’s only a little younger than you are.” you say.

“Yeah. It’s fucked up. But it doesn't compare to what she did.” Yelena tells you with a pained expression. “You’re okay now, though. Right?”

“I’m,” You search for the right word that perfectly describes your monotonous routine and lack of a meaningful purpose. But you figure that there’s no need for Yelena–or anyone for that matter–to worry about you. Life’s easier to live without the concern of disappointing people who care about you. “I’m better than I was yesterday.”

Yelena nods empathically, and places a hand on your knee. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Your smile is small, but genuine. Clearing your throat, she quickly puts her hand back over her lap.

“Y/N?” Yelena starts.

“Yes?”

Yelena, for all her boldness and tenacity, has to put down her glass lest it accidentally slips from her shaking hands.

“There’s something I want to say, and you can’t talk unless I say so. Understood?” she says as calmly as she can manage.

“Am I free to react?” A smile plucks at the corner of your mouth, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Yelena has grown into a woman so different from when she was just Natasha’s little sister. She carries an air of sophistication, and from what you can tell, sasses her way out of difficult situations and knows what and how to get what she wants. Which is why it’s refreshing to see her display glimpses of the shy girl who spent her summers burning through classic literature in the public library.

A husky laugh escapes Yelena’s throat. “As long as it’s a good reaction.” she says.

You playfully roll your eyes at her.

“But seriously, hear me out,” Yelena breathes steadily through her nose. “First of all, I want to apologize about what happened when you were at my apartment.

“I didn’t know why I brought up losing my virginity to you, and it was terribly awkward–for me especially because the look on your face was…” Yelena trails off, pointedly avoiding your curious eyes. “It’s like you were recalling a bad memory–a memory that’s dear to me. And to be honest, it hurt me a bit.”

“Yelena–”

Yelena shushes you with a finger. “Let me finish. I was hurt, but I understood that I crossed a line that day. I was flirting with you the whole time knowing you were married. In a way, I was no better than–well, your ex-wife.”

Yelena pauses to look at you. She can’t read your expression, but at least you haven’t run away yet. Which is more than a good sign for her to continue.

“There’s no excuse for what I did. I could dismiss it as friendly between old friends, but could we even call ourselves that? We were never just friends. We had something that wasn’t official, and then I ran off to the UK before we had a chance to talk about that thing that wasn’t official, and then when I got back, I found out you’re already with someone else.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… that was a shitty move on my part and I’m sorry. But I’d be lying if I said I didn't mean to do any of that. ‘Cause I did want to stir the pot just to see if there’s still something there.”

You wait for her to continue, but eventually Yelena vaguely signals that she’d done speaking.

You cover your mouth with your hand, thumb scratching lightly at your chin as you thoroughly digest her confession.

“Y/N?” Yelena asks when she feels you’re being silent for too long, fear lacing her voice. “Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not,” you quickly reply. “I accept your apology. And I do appreciate your candor–for not skirting around that incident like I probably would’ve, for…well, forever.”

Yelena is overwhelmed with relief.

“You were never great at confrontations.” she muses, and your minds both wander to the letter you wrote for her that she had missed, already having boarded the plane when you decided to drop by and hand-deliver it yourself.

“I’m working on it. I know I can’t keep putting things at the back of my head until I eventually forget them and then it’s too late.”

“Or maybe you just think it’s too late, and you use that as an excuse to not even try.” Yelena counters. It’s a fair point and somehow applicable to your shared history together.

“You know what? I’m just gonna shoot my shot here while I’m feeling brave,” Yelena says, keeping her eyes trained on her almost empty drink.

“Go to dinner with me next Friday.”

Before you can stop it, Wanda’s languid face in the mornings registers in your brain fleetingly. And then you blink once and the image of her is gone, replaced by Yelena’s hopeful stare.

“Dinner, as in…” you try to clarify, just in case you’re misreading it.

“As in I’m asking you out,” Yelena confirms, and proudly smiles at how your ears redden at this point. “Or if you’re not ready, say so. I’m a big girl. I can take it. Then I’ll ask you again in a few months.”

“I-I don’t know. Can I sleep on it?” you say, suddenly embarrassed.

“Take all the time you need. I just thought you should know that I’m an option.”

Your expression turns grim once you question the fact that someone like Yelena wants you.

She senses your internal conflict and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“How could you want me? I’m damaged goods. You know that, right?”

“Y/N,” Yelena chides, and she looks positively horrified. “Don’t you ever think you’re half the person you are just because somebody was stupid enough not to know your worth.”

You shrug your shoulders. There’s no point in arguing. Regardless of what other people think, it’s what you see in the mirror these days.

“Okay.” you mumble in reply and casually chug your drink to the last drop.

Yelena’s not convinced, but recognizes that it’s not the right place nor the right time to show you you’re more than just damaged goods.

“Okay.” she says, then looks over to where people seem to be under the spell of eternal bliss.

“Wanna dance with me at least? You know–as friends,” Yelena says, and then a second later adds, “For now.”

You don’t answer and merely allow yourself to be pulled towards writhing bodies moving to the beat of the music, like puppets on strings.

You don’t remember the last time you’ve thoroughly enjoyed dancing with someone.

(That’s a lie though, because you do; if twirling your wife and enthusiastically swaying to her poor singing in the kitchen counts.)

Unbeknownst to you, a pair of green eyes darts to you and your dance partner, before they shut in reprieve.

A surprisingly sober Natasha appears next to you as you’re getting the next round of drinks. You fan yourself uselessly with your hand after breaking out a sweat on the dancefloor.

“Hey! Where have you been?” you say.

“Bruce was here. But that’s not important.” Natasha says.

“Are you guys–” you begin to ask about it, but Natasha brazenly cuts you off.

“Don’t even think about it.” she says, her tone unusually stern, and you whip your head so fast in her direction your vision spins a little.

“Think about what?” you say.

“Flirting with my sister.”

“I wasn’t,” you say and Natasha lifts an eyebrow. “I swear.”

Natasha surveys you a while longer with an unreadable expression, and just as you start feeling uncomfortable, she backs off with a small nod.

It only bothers you more. “I-Is that something I’m not allowed to do?” you cautiously ask.

Natasha scratches at her nape. “Technically, you’re single now and you can flirt with whoever you want. But maybe not my sister, okay? I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“What are you implying?”

“Look, Y/N, I’m just trying to give you the big sister talk, and I hope you understand why I need to. Especially since Yelena told me not long ago about the R-rated version of your history together.”

Your mouth falls open in shock, already circling around the details of what Yelena might have shared with your best friend. “She what?”

“I wanted to smack you in the face when she told me that you were…” Natasha grimaces, trying not to imagine you in bed with her sister. “... her first.”

“God, Nat. I–” Your tongue feels heavy, and you wish you weren’t half-sober for this. “She–we–”

“Relax, Y/N. It’s not like I found out about it yesterday. I’ve known ever since she came back to New York.”

“I think I’d prefer if you’d still smack me in the face right now. But please consider how tiny I am compared to your usual sparring partners.”

Natasha lets out an airy laugh that gives you a bit of relief. “To be honest, I think I’ve always known that there was something going on between you and her. I was just too stubborn to admit it because I care about you both so much.”

“I care about you too. And Yelena.”

“I believe you,” Natasha says. “But Yelena thinks you hung the moon and stars and all that shit, and you’re–you’re kind of a mess, Y/N. No offense.”

“Do you want me to stay away from her?” you ask.

“Not really. But as her older sister, I need to remind you to think about it carefully if ever it becomes more than platonic.” she says. “I’m leaving in a few hours, so I need you to promise me not to be reckless. That's all I’m asking.”

Natasha gives and gives and gives, and rarely ever asks for anything.

And you suppose you owe it to her in some way.

“Promise.”

A couple of more shots (and an incident of restraining Natasha from punching the lights out of a guy who randomly grabbed your ass) later, you’re stumbling out of the club, reeking of smoke, sweat and alcohol.

Your phone dies just before you could confirm a ride, and you blearily stare at it like you’re expecting it to suddenly come alive again by some miracle. Yelena has left earlier, mentioning an early meeting at work, and you can’t find Natasha since Bruce’s surprise appearance. An option is to walk to your apartment, but you can’t seem to move any part of your body with the intense throbbing in your head.

You deliberate your fate for the night, until you feel an odd sensation of being watched.

Your eyes flit across the street and there she is.

Wanda Maximoff.

You get home safely with the help of your ex-wife. Once you reach your room, you don’t bother to brush your teeth or wash your face. You just mechanically strip down to your underwear before diving under the covers.

In your sleep, you dream about Wanda.

Dream Wanda resembles College Wanda, with her dirty blonde hair that falls in waves past her shoulders. She’s cradling your head on her lap, while you look up at her lovingly.

“Wands,” you whisper. “I miss you.”

She scrunches her nose as she smiles down at you. “I’m right here, baby.”

“You’re not.”

“Where did I go then?”

You shake your head and close your eyes. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Look for me, then. I only want to be found by you.”

“I’m not sure I want to.” you confess to Dream Wanda, and her brows stitch together into a frown. Then you feel something wet and cold drip on your cheeks. Your eyes flutter open but instead of seeing Wanda, you see Vision’s face covered in blood.

Your mouth opens in a silent scream. In reality, you’re alone in Natasha’s apartment, thrashing in your bed and mumbling incoherently.

The next morning, you don’t recall any of it, but you feel its echoes in your heart anyway.

You wake up to a text from Natasha, telling her that she’s already at the airport. The message came in at 1:30AM, and was followed by another text six hours later, saying that she has landed safely and that you won’t be hearing from her again in the next ten days at the minimum. A third message came in a second after that, and it simply read, “Look out for my sister. Don’t forget what you promised.” You text back a short “Take care, Nat.”, before tossing your phone somewhere on your unmade bed.

Trudging towards the kitchen, you think about Yelena.

There was a time when the blonde used to occupy your thoughts day and night, notwithstanding the thousands of miles you were apart.

But all that changed the day you met Wanda, and she never crossed your mind again except when she’d come up in conversations, and until that time you accidentally almost ran her over in Soho.

You languidly stir together the milk and cereal in your bowl. It would be a lie to say that seeing Yelena, especially in that dress, didn’t do things to you that a married woman would normally stamp out before they could spread like wildfire. Except, you’re no longer a married woman. And Yelena let you look as much as you wanted–even encouraged it.

It’s liberating more than anything, not because you’re free from the confines of marriage, but because you didn’t feel guilty having looked.

Is it time?

You’ve always thought of Yelena as your ‘right person, wrong time’.

Is it the right time?

The weekend passes in a blur of series marathons and Chinese takeouts. Wanda doesn’t text or call, neither does Yelena. You thought you had sufficient time to reconsider Wanda’s invitation, but Monday eventually comes around, bringing about an unexplainable anxiety you can’t curb and can only attribute to intuition. Even if you don’t tell Wanda the reason you won’t come, binge-watching another show instead of doing something meaningful for someone is at a level of pathetic you’re not willing to stoop towards.

Besides, you said you’d come. Being steadfast in your word is both your strength and your undoing. And so, your intent to follow through with your promise brings you to a corner gardening store, after scouring the internet for ‘grand opening gift ideas’.

None of them suggested this. Though you knew Wanda enough to know better than those online articles.

“And this pretty thing? What does it stand for?” you ask, pointing at flowers of a variety of colors resembling a pompon.

“That’s a Chrysanthemum–or just ‘mums’. Very easy to keep them alive. In Chinese culture, it represents longevity and good luck. But it also simply symbolizes friendship and happiness.” the store keeper says.

“Perfect,” you say, focusing on ‘longevity and good luck’. “I’ll get… Five of those in a pot.”

“What color would you like, dear?”

Without thinking, you pick Wanda’s favorite color. “The red ones. All of them.”

The store keeper claps her hands together. “Excellent choice. Just give me a second to prepare them for you.”

A pleased smile works its way to your lips. “Thanks a lot.”

Mums in a pot. That's a good gift right? Not too thoughtful nor impersonal. It would look good displayed anywhere in her shop should Wanda decide to keep it there. Or she can place it at her new home near a window, as it probably needs six hours of sunlight a day.

Perhaps you should also write instructions for Wanda on how to care for these mums. And will she need some fertilizers too?

You’re busy putting together a mental list when the store keeper comes out with the final product.

“Here you go,” she says and hands you over Wanda’s gift in a paper bag. “It’s $95.86.”

You pull out a hundred dollar bill from your wallet. “Keep the change.”

She does a little bow of gratitude and says, “Thank you, dear. She’s going to love it.”

“She?” you sputter, bewildered.

“The recipient’s a lady, I assume. Is it not?”

“It…is.” you hesitantly confirm.

“Good luck, ma’m.” she says with innocent cheer, unmindful of your sudden skepticism.

As you leave the shop feeling less sure of your gift choice, your phone’s ringing tone goes off in your pants. With urgency, you take your phone out of your pocket and find an unknown number calling.

“Hello?”

“Y/N,” A husky voice greets you over the receiver.

“Yelena?”

“Hey. I, uh, got your number from Nat,” she says, hearing her heavy sighs in between sentences. “Is this a bad time?”

“No. Is something wrong?” you ask, swinging the paper bag back and forth as you meander about the busy alley on your way back home.

“I’m in the middle of a news article that’s due for tomorrow, and I heard that your former boss is Scott Lang?”

“You heard right.”

“I need your banking knowledge to go over some facts in my draft,” she says. “And maybe, get a quick interview with Mr. Lang?”

For a while, you don’t know how to answer. You haven’t been in touch with Scott or any of your colleagues since moving back, and it seems kind of rude to call him up out of the blue for a favor.

“Please?” you hear Yelena beg softly. You knew Yelena. Like Natasha, she almost never asks for help, not unless it’s a matter of life, death or career.

“Okay,” you finally say. “Where should we meet?”

“I’ll meet you at Nat’s in an hour? It’s where you’ve been staying, right?”

You agree on the time and place, and hurry to catch a bus instead of your original plan to walk the thirty minutes back to the apartment.

It oddly feels good to be part of a Monday’s morning rush once again.

You end up spending the whole day helping Yelena and trailing after her to visit various places and meet financial executives just to put together a 1,500-word news article on The Wall Street Journal.

“You saved me today,” Yelena tells you while you escort her to the lobby. “Let me make it up to you on Friday?”

It’s tempting, especially after discovering that you both make a great team. You actually had fun running errands with her.

But you promised Natasha.

“I’ll text you.” you answer with a small smile.

Once Yelena gets inside her ride, it hits you right away where you’re supposed to be. You check your watch and the time displayed sends you in a panic.

It’s almost ten. Wanda’s café is only open until nine. You quickly grab your gift for Wanda and hail a cab for Queens.

Your cab screeches to a halt right in front of Second Chances. You make sure to tip big for forcing your driver to beat the speed limit several times on the way.

You get off the cab, and take in your first impression of Wanda’s café. The facade of the coffee shop is simple: the signage looks obviously hand-drawn, while the black awning underneath it gives it a Parisian vibe; a string of yellow led lights hang above the glass door and the full-length window next to it.

It has Wanda written all over it. And you can’t help the teary smile that creeps its way to your lips. Carrying the potted Chrysanthemum securely under your arm, you walk to the entrance that holds a ‘Sorry, We’re Closed’ sign. The stainless shutter is lowered down just barely, and it’s pitch black inside except for a beam of light coming from the back room.

You raise your fist, about to knock, when suddenly you catch a figure from the corner of your eyes.

It’s Wanda, and she’s asleep with her arms as her pillow, hunched over the bar table facing the window. Curiously, you move over to stand right across her and push your palm against the translucent barrier.

She waited for you to show. Your heart betrays you as it thumps wildly in your chest.

For a moment you just stand there watching. There are still days when you randomly get angry at Wanda all over again. Some days, you bargain and simultaneously undergo depression. And you cycle over these stages in random orders but haven't–not even once–felt like you’re ready to accept all of it.

Somewhere in the stillness, an ambulance siren could be heard wailing in the distance. Wanda is slow to come to, and even as you realize she’s waking up, you stay frozen in your position.

“Y/N?” you read your name being spoken from her lips. Wanda looks confused in her sleepy state, still deciding if you’re actually there. You beam at her and mouth a ‘hi’ in return.

Wanda lights up right before your eyes. She hurries to unlock the door to her shop.

“Sorry I’m late.” you say.

Wanda’s smile only widens, and then she says, “Better late than never.”

You choose to sit at one of the tiny dining tables for two near the open kitchen. There are congratulatory flowers arranged neatly by the counter, making you a bit self-conscious about bringing something similar on a smaller, more insignificant scale.

“How long have you been waiting?” you ask as you survey the interior of the cafe..

“Not long.” Wanda assures you, and then proudly hands you over the menu. Her writing is almost instantly recognizable.

“Pick anything you want. On the house.” she says, tying back her apron.

There aren’t many items on the list, but you’re familiar with each of them from Wanda having made them for you over the years.

“I’ll have a Spanish latte,” you say, eyes still scanning the menu. “Do you have any cookies left?”

“Sorry, they are all sold out.”

“Wanda, that’s awesome!” You exclaim, placing the menu back on the table.

Wanda endearingly chuckles at your excitement. You’re still a customer, and it’s very unusual for one to cheer when the item they want is unavailable.

“Have you eaten? I can whip something up.” Wanda says, peeking inside the fridge.

You haven’t eaten since lunch, but you don’t want Wanda to go through the trouble of preparing something off the menu. “It’s fine.”

“I’m kinda hungry myself,” Wanda chews on her bottom lip. “Does garlic pasta sound good?”

As if on cue, your stomach rumbles and Wanda tries to suppress a smirk.

“Sounds amazing.” you mumble, somewhat flustered by the sound you just made. The thought of a warm pasta for dinner, however, is already making you drool.

Wanda grins, buzzing with childlike enthusiasm. “Coming right up!”

Right before she gets to it, Wanda puts on some music and gives you her phone. “Play anything you want.” she says. A classical piano piece starts playing in the background, and it actually matches the mood and the vibe of the room, so you choose to stay on the current playlist.

Wanda already has some minced garlic and left over pasta from earlier, so it’s just a matter of reheating and then mixing the ingredients. In less than ten minutes, she’s bringing out two plates of Aglio e Olio and your order of a hot Spanish latte.

You haven’t realized how starving you are until the aroma of Wanda’s dish reaches your nose.

“What’s that?” Wanda points to the paper bag sitting beside you after she settles in her seat across you.

“Oh!” you say. “I almost forgot. This is for you. Happy, uh, grand opening day?”

Wanda takes the bag, unintentionally brushing your fingers in the process. Her skin is warm from cooking and smells like the condiments she used to prepare your food.

You quietly eat your food, unable to keep yourself from moaning out your satisfaction. After months of living on takeouts, it’s a very welcome change.

Wanda, on the other hand, peers inside the paper bag, and her smile grows and grows until it reaches her watery eyes.

“These are gorgeous, Y/N,” Wanda comments, taking the pot out of its hiding. “I love them. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Wanda stands up and walks towards the window near the entrance, the plant and a glass of water in tow. She places the mums in the corner where it will be least bothered by customers, but should receive the most sunlight at the same time. She then proceeds to water it, careful to cover the whole soil and sprinkle some on its delicate petals.

A smile graces your lips as you watch her tend to the mums.

It’s hard not to wonder if maybe this could work. Maybe healing can be possible while being friends.

“How much do I owe you?” you ask, after you finish your food. You subtly eye Wanda’s plate, which she’s barely touched.

“Like I said, on the house.” she answers.

You purse your lips in disapproval but don’t insist; the tip jar is right beside the register and you can slip some twenties later when Wanda’s not looking.

“So, any feedback? Is the latte too sweet?” Wanda asks with a devoted curiosity of a businesswoman. “For the pasta I added an extra ounce of minced garlic from the original recipe, but I’m not sure if it made the flavor too strong. And this table–don’t you think it’s too small? Cause they don’t look standard-sized to me, and I keep telling them–”

“Wanda, slow down,” you gently cut in, bringing the coffee mug to your lips for a taste test. It’s sweet but not achingly so. There’s still a hint of bitterness in the aftertaste, and the richness of the condensed milk counters it, resulting in a very comforting pick-me-up.

“It’s good. I’d say, better than the ones I always got when I was still working.”

“You’re not working anymore?”

You bite your lip at that, not really meaning for that information to slip out of you.

“I took a sabbatical,” you explain, refusing to call yourself jobless in front of your ex-wife, who somehow contrived to achieve greater heights following a divorce and a narrowly missed small town sex scandal.

You quickly try to change the subject. “Anyway, don’t worry about the furniture. As long as they’re comfy.”

“Half of your ass is barely hanging onto your seat, you know?” Wanda points out with a giggle.

There’s no denying the tinge of jealousy you feel over the fact that Wanda seems to have her shit together more than she cares to admit. But that’s overruled by the natural joy of seeing someone you care about (because you do, you really still do) thrive, no matter how much they hurt you in the past.

“Are you saying my ass is fat?” you ask, pretending to be offended.

She laughs harder, resulting in tiny hiccups that never fails to trigger you into a fit as well.

“Honestly though, it barely fits mine as well. But that's all I can afford for now.” Wanda says as she keeps twirling the pasta around her fork without any intention of actually eating.

“You shouldn’t play with your food.” you chide, still smiling.

“Do you want some of mine?”

You shake your head no. “Not when you just implied I have a fat ass.”

Wanda snorts, her laughter building up again at your poker face.

When she recovers this time, you sheepishly smile and take some from her plate and transfer it to yours.

“I haven’t thanked you for coming.” Wanda mutters in a hoarse voice. You wordlessly fill her empty glass with water.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure until this morning if I was going to.” you say.

Certain muscles on Wanda’s face visibly tighten at that.

“Why is that?” Wanda whispers, staring at her unwanted food, losing again the appetite she lied about in the first place.

You mull about it for a moment. There’s no point in denying that you feel things for Wanda. Abstract feelings that you can’t name, but feel regardless. And it’s still unclear whether they are beneficial or not to you moving forward. Just that, being in communication with Wanda again puts you at ease; brings back a sense of normalcy that you so crave. It could be because you can’t remember a time she wasn’t a part of your life, can’t remember who you were before her. Going cold-turkey only led to some impulsive decisions (not to mention, a cheap and random sex with a stranger who was spoken for).

“Because I want to do what’s right for me, this time. And I’m not sure if this is.”

“This?”

“Being in each other’s lives.” you coolly state, crossing your arms and leaning back on your chair.

Wanda blinks a couple of times when wetness gathers around her eyes. You drop your head and sigh. It goes without saying that these meetings with Wanda are always volatile. But constantly crying around someone is obviously not an indication of a healthy bond.

“I’m afraid you’re the only one who can answer your own question, Y/N.” Wanda swipes at the corner of her eyes.

You hollowly laugh. “I was kinda expecting you’d convince me that this is a good idea.”

“The fact that I invited you here and never stopped trying to contact you says alot without me having to say it.” Wanda reasons evenly.

“And me doing exactly the opposite, must also say a lot. Is that it?” you retort.

Wanda squints at your hard tone. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Well, it’s what I’m hearing.”

An impasse is reached, and Wanda wishes nothing more than to retract her statements and start all over again.

“Why do I keep fucking this up?” you’re scarcely able to hear Wanda talk, more directly to herself than you.

You release a ragged breath and speak out, “You’re not fucking up anything, Wanda. There’s nothing to fuck up in the first place because we’re not supposed to expect anything from each other anymore, remember?”

Wands nods in understanding. “It just feels like I keep saying the wrong thing.”

You consider her words for a moment. “Maybe it’s because I keep waiting for you to.”

Wanda looks up at you with wide, limpid eyes. “So I am walking on eggshells.”

“You don’t have to though. You can’t always worry about what will set me off. Let me worry about that.”

“I’m scared, Y/N,” Wanda whispers. “I’m scared I’ll say one wrong thing and I won’t hear from you again for a long time. I mean, I just… I just found you. Inadvertently, if I may add.”

“I-I get where you’re coming from, and I don’t blame you for feeling that way,” you say. “But I can’t promise that I won’t disappear when something happens.”

Wanda hums and you lick your lips.

“I have thought about it.” you say, in spite of the delicate timing.

She looks skeptical. “Thought about…?”

“Us,” you motion between yourself and her. “Being friends.”

“Oh,” Wanda tries not to sound disappointed. The problem is she wants too much too soon. And she needs to work on that or else she ruins her chance with you. “And?”

You’re nothing but truthful when you say, “And I miss the comfort of having you as a friend.”

“Me too,” Wanda whispers thickly as you both share a meaningful look.

Maybe someday, she can have everything she has lost.

Just not all at once.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #wanda maximoff #marvel #natasha romanoff #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova #unbetad #my writing #my fic #angst

486 notes · View notes

xhxhxhx · 7 days ago

Text

Today, the Supreme Court handed down opinions in TikTok Inc. v. Garland, No. 24-656, slip op. (U.S. Jan. 17, 2025), sustaining the federal law banning the social media platform.

For my own sake, I tried to figure out what the law says and does, bracketing the First Amendment issues.

The federal law at issue is the Protecting Americans from Foreign Adversary Controlled Applications Act, Pub. L. No. 118-50, div. H, 138 Stat. 955. It's a division of an April 2024 appropriations bill, a bundle that came with aid for Israel and Ukraine.

The Act targets "foreign adversary controlled applications," which it defines, in part, as applications operated by ByteDance, TikTok, their subsidiaries or successors, or any entity they own or control. § 2(g)(3)(A), 138 Stat. at 958.

The Act's prohibitions address app stores and web hosts. They're the ones who have to deny support to "foreign adversary controlled applications," and keep them off their platforms.

The Act makes it unlawful "to distribute, maintain, or update" the app by providing either (A) "a marketplace" through which users in the United States "may access, maintain, or update" the application, or (B) "internet hosting services" that enable "distribution, maintenance, or updating" for users in the United States. § 2(a)(1).

These prohibitions are only applicable to the territory of the United States and those within it. They address "carrying out, within the land or maritime borders of the United States," acts for "users within the land or maritime borders of the United States."

The territorial language, "the land and maritime borders of the United States," is not defined within the Act. Nor is it defined anywhere else in the U.S. Code. It's only used once. 6 U.S.C. § 124h(e).

That said, deducing "the land and maritime borders of the United States" should be fairly straightforward for someone familiar with the relevant boundary treaties and law of the sea, as understood by the political branches. It's just not something I understand.

II.

The Act extends to covered companies "controlled by a foreign adversary," following a public notice and a public report to Congress, § 2(g)(3)(B), but ByteDance and TikTok are the only persons identified by name.

The language seems broad. But "controlled by foreign adversary" is fairly narrow. It means persons domiciled in "foreign adversary countries," entities they have a 20 percent stake in, and persons subject to their direction or control. § 2(g)(1). That's it.

The term "foreign adversary country" is defined obliquely, § 2(4), by reference to a military minerals procurement rule, 10 U.S.C. § 4872, but it only covers four countries, specified by name: North Korea, China, Russia, and Iran. 10 U.S.C. § 4872(d)(2).

The President could, in other words, ban applications operated by persons domiciled in North Korea, China, Russia, or Iran, or entities in which such persons have a 20 percent stake, or entities subject to their direction or control.

It doesn't sweep much further than that.

III.

The "foreign adversary country" limitation means the Act isn't an unconstrained delegation to the President.

It's not like the President's authority to "suspend the entry of all aliens or any class of aliens as immigrants or nonimmigrants, or impose on the entry of aliens any restrictions he may deem to be appropriate." 8 U.S.C. § 1182(f); Exec. Order No. 13,769, 82 Fed. Reg. 8977 (Jan. 27, 2017).

Nor is it like the President's authority to restrict entry from countries "designated by the Secretary of State," or "designated by the Secretary of Homeland Security." 8 U.S.C. § 1187(a)(12); Exec. Order No. 13,780, § 1(b)(i), 82 Fed. Reg. 13209 (March 6, 2017).

Nor is it like the President's claimed authority to bar "any transaction by any person, or with respect to any property, subject to the jurisdiction of the United States, with ByteDance Ltd.," Exec. Order No. 13,942, § 1(a), 85 Fed. Reg. 48637 (Aug. 6, 2020), a claim that proved wanting. TikTok Inc. v. Trump, 507 F. Supp. 3d 92 (D.D.C. 2020); Marland v. Trump, 498 F. Supp. 3d 625 (E.D. Pa. 2020).

The Act is, mercifully, is more constrained than that.

25 notes · View notes

proton-wobbler · 1 year ago

Text

Round 2, Poll 31

Streaked Weaver vs Oriental Bay-Owl

sources under cut

Streaked Weaver

“How can you not love them, they make a home, they wear a hat”

They live in wetlands, reedbeds and rice paddies, often preferring those with bulrush species. They are also associated with elephant grass. A colonial nesting bird, the males will weave most of the nest with strips of reed or palm leaves, while the female adds a lining of fine grass stems.

Oriental Bay-Owl

“these little FREAKS look like a cross between an alien and a frog. even in the most "normal” photos of them they look like a corrupted version of a real bird. nintendo 64 ass birds. these aren’t birds they’re some type of fungus or perhaps lichen. but don’t worry they do all the normal owl shit and more (they have a wide range of vocalizations and a huge diet pool). also we’re in egg laying season RIGHT NOW (as of early June) ok? don’t forget it"

“In breeding season, once described as surpassing all other owls in appalling nature of its cries, even sounding like a half-dozen cats fighting.” - BoW

Images: Weaver (Abhijit Mishra); Owl (Ayuwat Jearwattanakanok)

Birds of the World: both species

#hipster bird main bracket #round 2 #bracket: FOUR b #streaked weaver #oriental bay owl #tytonidae #ploceidae

21 notes · View notes

mathematical-cheese · 1 month ago

Text

Why Straws Have One Hole: An Introduction to Homology Part 2

In this post I'll discuss simplicial complexes and how we can use them to make our test for holes simpler and motivate the definitions for simplicial homology! The post is more technical but I have tried to motivate each step.

Simplicial Complexes:

A common theme in topology is to build up our spaces from smaller, simpler spaces. One way of doing this is to use simplices! These are generalisations of triangles to all dimensions:

Image is taken from here

An n-simplex has n+1 verticies and is denoted by its vertices in square brackets: <e₀,...,eₙ>. A simplicial complex is made by gluing simplices together such that the intersection of two simplices is also a simplex that is included in the complex. We also require that any n vertices can define at most one n-simplex in the complex. If some vertices e₀,...,eₙ in a simplicial complex, K, define an n-simplex <e₀,...,eₙ> that is in K, we call <e₀,...,eₙ> an n-face of K.

An example of a simplicial complex is a square where each vertex of the square is a 0 simplex and each edge is a 1-simplex. If instead we considered a solid square, we wouldn't automatically get a simplicial complex because the 2 dimensional part isn't made up of 2-simplices. We fix this by adding an addition 1-simplex bewteen one pair of diagonal points which gives us a simplical complex with four vertices, five 1-simplices and two 2-simplices:

We can construct a great number of spaces using simplices! This construction is only up to homeomorphism but that's all we care about! A simplicial complex that is homeomorphic to a space is called a triangulation of that space. Importantly we can triangulate a straw:

This is the simplest triangulation because having fewer simplices would lead to us having different simplices described by the same vertices.

Simplicial Homology

So why do we care about triangulations? The key here is to notice that the boundary of an n-simplex is a simplicial complex made up of (n-1)-simplices. For example, the boundary of a 2-simplex is a simplicial complex made of three 1-simplices. The idea is to modify our test to only involve simplices because then we only have to check finitely many things! This is where things start to get a bit more technical but I will try my best to motivate each step!

Firstly, we need to introduce a convention in the way we describe simplices. We pick an order for the vertices in our complex to be listed, e.g. for the triangulation of the straw we could pick the order a,b,c,d,e,f. Then any time we write a simplex we must list the vertices in that order. For example, with the order above, <a,b,d> is how we describe the left most 2-simplex. The reason we need this is we are about to start thinking about simplices in a more abstract way and we need a systematic way of writing them.

Now for arguably the weirdest (but most powerful) step. We want a way to talk about the boundary of a simlicial complex as one object and we want a way to say when a particular simplicial complex has no boundary. The motivation for this is we want to talk find the analogue of a loop that we can use to test for holes, that is we want a one dimensional object that doesn't have a boundary. Since we eventually want to count things, it might be prudent to somehow assign numbers to things. As mentioned above, the boundary of an n-simplex can be thought of as the union of (n-1)-simplices and unions of sets are kind of similar to a kind of sum. The idea is to talk about "sums" of simplices. It doesn't really make sense to add simplices but we can sort of just fudge it. This fudging is known as "formal sums" and this is when we say "okay, we don't know what a sum of these things actually is but we study it anyway".

We say the elements of X generate these formal sums.

We then consider the set Cₙ(K) of all the formal sums of n-simplices in a simplicial complex K and we call it the nth simplicial chain group of K and we call elements of Cₙ(K) n-chains. We say that the rank of Cₙ(K) is the number of elements of X. Note that the sum or difference of two chains is again a chain.

The rank of C₂(K) is 1 and the rank of C₁(K) and of C₀(K) is 3.

We can now also give meaning to a simplex that is written in a different order to our chosen order. Given an ordered list of vertices, we can swap two elements around to get a different ordered list. If n is the number of swaps it takes to get an ordered list of vertices into our chosen order, we say that the simplex with vertices written in a different order is equal to the element of Cₙ(K) given by (-1)ⁿ times the simplex with the vertices written in our chosen order.

Now we want to figure out how to represent the boundary as a map from Cₙ(K) to Cₙ₋₁(K) since the boundary of an n-simplex is made up of (n-1)-simplices.

The full representation of this map is a bit detailed so I will stick to the case when n is less than or equal to 2 since that's all we need. The definition of this boundary map only depends on what it does to the simplices because it comes from considering their boundaries. So we will say that the boundary map applied to a formal sum is just the formal sum of the map applied to each simplex, for example

where ∂ is denotes the boundary map. So we just need to define ∂ on simplices.

To motivate the definition, we consider a 2-simplex <x,y,z> with the order x,y,z. Starting at x, we can think of the boundary as a loop that goes from x to y, then from y to z then from z back to x:

So we could represent the boundary as the formal sum <x,y>+<y,z>+<z,x>. Then written in our chosen order, the boundary is <x,y>+<y,z>-<x,z>. That is ∂(<x,y,z>)=<y,z>-<x,z>+<x,y>. In the first term, we remove the first vertex, in the second term we remove the second vertex and multiply by -1, and in the third term we remove the third vertex and multiply by -1 twice. So it would seem sensible to that the pattern here is the nth term in the boundary of a k-simplex is the simplex where the nth vertex is removed and we mutlipy by (-1)ⁿ⁻¹.

So the boundary of a 1-simplex <x,y> is <y>-<x>. But the boundary of a 0-simplex is always 0 since 0-simplices are just points and have no boundary!

We also have that the boundary of the boundary of a 2-simplex is 0. This makes intuitive sense since the boundary itself has no points at the edge of it but we can show this still works in our abstraction to formal sums:

Now we have two special types of formal sums: those that have no boundary and those that are the boundary of something else. We call an n-chain that has no boundary an n-cycle and we call an n-chain that is the boundary of an (n+1)-chain an n-boundary. We can extend the first above argument to show that boundaries are always cycles, i.e. the boundary of a boundary is always 0. 1-cycles are what replace loops in our earlier test, that is we want to find 1-cycles that aren't 1-boundaries! An obvious yet important example of a boundary is 0, 0 is the boundary of 0 (we'll use this fact later). Two other important facts are the sum of n-cycles is also an n-cycle and the sum of n-boundaries is also an n-boundary. If c and c' are both cycles, then ∂(c+c')=∂c+∂c'=0+0=0 and if c=∂b anf c'=∂b', then c+c'=∂b+∂b'=∂(b+b').

Let's take a step back to summarise what we have so far. We have found a test for holes in a space but it didn't really allow for easy calculation of the number of holes in a space. So we restricted our view to simple spaces and have found a way of abstractly representing the building blocks of those spaces. This abstraction has allowed us to reframe our test for holes into a purely algebraic question!

But how can we be sure this test still works? Let's consider a circle. Using our first test, we can just take a loop around the circle. Then this loops isn't the boundary of anything since it bounds a disc of the same radius but this disc isn't part of the circle. So the circle has a hole. Now we triangulate the circle using three vertices and 3 edges, i.e. a triangle. If we label the vertices as <x>, <y> and <z> we already know an example of a cycle: <y,z>-<x,z>+<x,y>. Even though this calculation was done for a 2-simplex, it only involves the 1-simplices so it is valid in this situation too! But in this case, we don't have any 2-simplices in our space so this cycle can't be the boundary of anything! Conversely, suppose we get a positive result using our simplicial hole test, i.e. we've found a cycle that isn't the boundary of anything. Then we can construct a loop in the space using this cycle and this loop wouldn't be the boundary of anything so the first test would also be positive!

The final step that actually lets us count things is to define the homology groups! What we want to do is find cycles that aren't boundaries. Algebraically, we do this by considering cycles to be "the same" if their difference is a boundary. That is, we say two n-cycles c and c' are homologous if there is some (n+1)-chain b such that c-c'=∂b. We have that all n-boundaries are homologous to each other. Say both c and c' are n-boundaries and that b and b' are (n+1)-chains such that c=∂b and c'=∂b', then c-c'=∂b-∂b'=∂(b-b'). The since b and b' are (n+1)-chains, b-b' is an (n+1)-chain so c and c' are indeed homologous. In particular, 0 is a boundary so every boundary is homologous to 0. So now suppose that c is a cycle that is homologous to 0, then there exists an (n+1)-chain b such that c-0=∂b. So c=∂b and hence c is also an n-boundary. This means that a cycle is a boundary if and only if it is homologous to 0. So now if we want to find cycles which aren't boundaries, we look for cycles which aren't homologous to 0.

We define the homology class of a cycle c to be the set of all the cycles which are homologous to c and we denote it [c]. For example, the homology class of 0, [0], is the set of all boundaries! We can also define a notion of addition of homology classes: [c]+[c']=[c+c']. That is, the sum of two homology classes of two cycles is the homology class of their sum. We call the set of all homology classes of a cycles of a simplicial complex K, the (first) homology group of K and write H₁(K). If H₁(K) only has one element, i.e. H₁(K)={[0]} every cycle must be a boundary and K would have no holes. But if K has a hole, H₁(K) would have more than one element.

We are actually now quite close to being able to count the number of holes a space has! Let's come back to the example of a circle. Intuitively, a circle has 1 hole and we've already seen that we have one cycle which isn't a boundary: <y,z>-<x,z>+<x,y>. But by the way we defined the boundary, we also have that

for any integer n. So for any non-zero integer n, we can find a cycle that is not a boundary. In particular, if m doesn't equal n, then n(<y,z>-<x,z>+<x,y>) is not homologous to m(<y,z>-<x,z>+<x,y>) since their difference is (n-m)(<y,z>-<x,z>+<x,y>) which is not a boundary unless n-m=0, which is not the case here since n doesn't equal m. Moreover, I claim that any cycle in a circle must be of this form. Remember, this cycle represents the loop going around the triangulation of the circle once. The only way we can get loops in the circle are obtained by going around the circle a whole number of times (where going in the opposite direction gives us a "negative" loop). Any other path you try to take will end up with not having the same start and end point and so would have a boundary! So there is a homology class of the circle for each integer. Moreover, adding these cycles represents going around a loop n+m times so adding the homology classes together is somehow the same as the regular addition we know for the integers! In formal terms, we say that H₁(circle) is isomorphic to the integers. Like how homeomorphism is the notion of "the same" for topologists, isomorphism is the notion of "the same" for algebrists! The important part of this is that all of the homology classes can be expressed as an integer multiple of [<y,z>-<x,z>+<x,y>] just like how an integer can be thought of as an integer multiple of the number 1. In this sense, we say that [<y,z>-<x,z>+<x,y>] generates H₁(circle), i.e. H₁(circle) has 1 generator. This cycle came about as a loop around the hole in the circle so it is sensible to guess that the number of generators corresponds to the number of holes!* This is how we will go about showing that a straw has 1 hole in the next part! That is, we shall figure out what the first homology group of a straw is and find out how many generators it has!

*technically, we actually count the free generators of H₁ since the torsion elements represent something else but it won't matter for what we're doing. Alternatively, we could have defined homology over a field to get vector spaces which naturally don't have any torsion but this doesn't feel quite as natural as doing homology with integral coefficients.

#undescribed #maths #topology #algebraic topology #panda's post

25 notes · View notes