#but at least the feeling of imminent explosion has died down

[urbanbirdbud]

having a category 5 neurodivergent event (overstimulated bc all sounds all the time) so ive made a nest in the closet and am just chilling here in the dark eating pretzels and trying to not go insane

[whump-in-the-closet]

The Scarred Among the Mundane.

cw: mentioned death, magical torture, failed escape, inhuman whumpee

previous. masterlist. next.

— —

Finn wakes to a bucket of water in his face. He jerks upright, coughing with enough force to make his ribs ache.

Freezing water drips down the back of his ripped shirt. With a disgusted flick of his wrist, he pushes wet braids out of his face. Droplets of water are thrown in every direction as he peers up at Verne.

She holds an empty bucket in one hand, flame-red hair bright against the darkness. She smiles. “Good morning.”

I hate you. I will rip your throat out with my teeth.

The sorcerer doesn't seem to realise the imminent danger she’s in because her smile brightens.

Finn bares pointed teeth in a snarl.

A threat for a threat.

Verne drops her bucket and kicks it aside. Finn watches it, gaze darting from the bucket to the closed door.

To the unlocked, closed door.

A trembling hope– the colour of yellow– rises inside him.

Verne’s voice cuts through his thoughts with all the force of a physical blow. “Stand up, elf.”

Snarling. “No.” Finn's eyes never leave the door.

Verne sighs. “Go ahead and try.”

The world stops spinning. “What?”

“Try and escape.”

She’s far too calm for this to be anything but a trap. But the glimmer of hope is now an explosion. He’s on his feet, scrambling for the exit, a fire burning behind his eyes.

“Idiot,” says Verne and she’s smiling.

But Finn’s hand is on the door and escape is so close he can taste it –

His body ceases to be his own. He stiffens, hand falling to his side. Breaths come in odd gasps that are ripped out of him.

He’s forced to turn around, back to Verne and to the cell full of shadows and echoing screams.

Verne’s hands are twisted into wierding shapes. Her smile is unwavering. “Are you paying attention now?”

What else can he do? He can barely manage the required nod.

“Good.”

Finn finds something very, very bad with how she says ‘good’. It feels like a threat. A skin-crawling, mind-numbing horror about to be released.

Verne’s voice is dangerously low. “I’m going to try something familiar first. Perhaps you remember…I used it only two days ago.”

Has it only been two days?

His stomach drops.

“The spell I used isn't supposed to render a human unconscious. It's supposed to kill them.”

She waits for that to sink in.

Finn’s eyes widen. It’s sinking in.

“Did I try to kill you? Well,” she shrugs. “You were trying to burn down the Monarch’s castle. But you– somehow– are still alive. Oh, it's fascinating. I wonder how many other spells you can hold up against…I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Finn stares in silent horror.

“Let's see how long you last this time, my elf-friend.” She lifts her other hand with a shark-toothed smile. “Remember, deep breaths.”

And Finn’s world shatters.

He can feel his body reacting— twisting into a voiceless scream. Crumpling to the ground, legs giving out on him, horror upon horror upon horror. But for a moment, he remains detached.

He manages a huh, that looks painful–

And then he joins in the screaming.

His blood is ice inside him. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything is wrong. Blood isn’t supposed to be a mountain-range under his skin.

This is his last coherent thought.

Blood in his throat, tasting like an open blaze.

Spiralling darkness. It spikes through blood cells, spearing the crimson red with shadows.

–He is an insect, pinned to a wall with needles–

Finn’s view of Verne’s boots and the scarlet-stained floor starts to fade.

Verne’s hands drop to her sides. The relief of unconsciousness is denied to him. She sways on her feet, wiping away the sheen of sweat on her forehead.

Her hand comes back red.

She looks at the blood. Sighs. Glances at Finn– shivering elf, all shadowed skin and ripped clothes– still alive. Judging by his shattered breathing, at least.

Despite her exhaustion– the mind numbing, void-filled exhaustion– Verne laughs. It dies on her lips.

But–

But the elf’s still alive.

Her theory is correct.

A dozen more spells burn at the back of her mind, demanding to be tested. And for the first time in ages, she’s excited to test them.

“I’ll be back,” says Verne. Not that Finn can hear her.

Finn curls up tighter on the ground, trying to convince himself this is some bad dream he’s trapped in.

This can’t be real.

This nauseating pain cannot be real.

tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast (lmk if you want to be added/removed!)

[depressed-sock]

Lucky Number Six

Part One: Death

Fandom: Mass Effect: Andromeda, Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Male Ryder | Scott/Reyes Vidal, Jaal Ama Darav/Original Character(s)

Characters: Noble Six | SPARTAN-B312, Male Ryder | Scott, mentions of noble team, Reyes Vidal, Jaal Ama Darav, Liam Kosta, Cora Harper

Additional Tags: Nonbinary Character, Trans Male Character, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, everyone's got anxiety and stress, Found Family

___

You'd think that facing imminent death would make you rethink your life, maybe even leave you terrified by the certain outcome that you’re definitely going to die. But the truth of the matter is...

They feel nothing.

No pain at all, though in truth, pain is a symptom of the past for them. With the nerve damage they've experienced so severely there was bound to be side effects. One’s that led to a screen blaring a red warning across their eyes even as they take another shot at the Jackal that had tagged them.

There was no time left to feel anything anyway. Their number finally coming up as they fight to the death in a hopeless endeavor to take out as many enemies as they can with them. The last stand.

The last chance for some kind of vengeance. They can't even bring themself to really care. Their team is gone. Picked off one by one, a 'heroic' sacrifice one after the other.

An exhausting joke about an unkillable team who got an Achilles heel.

Of course, Six couldn't actually know if their presence had made the difference. It felt like it though and tasted like some kind of failure on their part. The lone wolf was so great at causing death of all kinds it seems.

Even if their hands shake a little as they slam another clip into their gun. Even if their vision is starting to blur. Death is something they've been taught to do. So easy it's almost like breathing.

They hate it. They love it.

It won't ever bring back their lost friends. It won't reverse the bullet that had splattered Kat's skull against a wall. Won't bring back Carter from his self-sacrifice. Won't stop the blade that had sliced through Emile's chest.

...Won't stop Jorge from throwing them back into space. To watch as he died in an explosion swallowed by the vacuum of space. His dog tags heavy around their neck. Weighing more and more like a chain as their hopeless fight carries on.

Has it been minutes or an hour? It doesn’t really matter anymore does it.

Their breathing is getting heavier, each shot not as carefully placed. Bodies of dead covenant litter the battlefield but they just don't seem to stop coming.

Six can't stop if the covenant won't. They can still shoot, they can still kill. Even if they can tell that the air is growing warmer and the sky is growing brighter.

They know what's going to come. Know that Reach itself is lost. But there's still hope for others. Hope that stands on the backs of the dead who risked everything for it.

Their gun clicks empty and with a hiss of frustration they toss it away, grabbing their pistol from its holster.

It won't be long before they join their team. At least maybe Jun will survive though. Lucky bastard. A harsh bark of laughter filters through their helmet. Wish you the best of luck, hope you get out of this hellhole.

Because they definitely aren't. They feel like there should be more anger. Anger at these fucking aliens that murder entire planets. Anger that the Covenant had killed their family and left them with nothing.

Maybe even anger at their own government for taking advantage of a kid who'd lost everything.

It doesn't matter. Not when they can see their armor smoking from plasma shots. Shields already cracking and dying in a burst of blue light.

Not done yet. They still have time enough to run, dodging down into a sturdier cover as they pull their sniper rifle from their back. Only a few shots left but they'll make them count.

Because they never could get the stain of Kat's blood off their armor. No matter how hard they had scrubbed. No matter how much their own hands had bled.

One.

Another shot into the chamber. Another Elite in their site because they can still see the Pelican going up in smoke as it crashed into its target.

Two.

Dodge back down. Hold and wait for a chance because they had watched helpless as their friend fell forward and dropped from the guns.

Three.

Ignore the tears and blurred vision. Aim on target. Their hands somehow steady because they never got a chance to tell Jorge the truth.

Four.

Take them down. Give humanity the time it needs because there was still hope for one of them to get off of this planet.

Five.

Even if there was no hope for them in particular.

Click.

They want to scream as they toss the rifle away. Out of guns but not out of enemies. Left with no choice but to rush forward. Hand reaching down to grab a plasma rifle.

Shots burning into their side causing them instead to stumble away empty-handed. Only to have another shot crack into their helmet. Shards of it blown back into their eyes and face.

They try to blink away the blood that drips down so they can see their screen. Try and asses the damage. How much longer they might get. But the screen is gone and they're left with no way to know their condition. Leaving them with no choice but to rip the helmet from their head. Tossing it straight at the nearest grunt.

Black hair annoyingly falling and sticking onto the blood smeared across their face. Mouth turning into a snarl as they reach instead for a nearby plasma sword. Driving forward and through one enemy after the other.

They know they're dying. Their dark eyes feel like they've been glazed over. The world blurring together into a single entity as they give one final fight.

Elites swarm in around them and they know they're outnumbered. Hopelessly outmatched.

I don't want to die.

It's the first kind of pain they've felt in a long time. That sudden feeling of wanting to live so visceral it cuts them far deeper than any weapon could.

But there's no chance to think on it as the Elites pile on them. Forcing them down as their legs give out. A fight still building in them as they grab the knife strapped across their chest and shove it into the eye of a nearby Elite. No surrender. No defeat.

A spartan never dies.

They try not to think about the click of a plasma sword that hisses to life. Or the way their arms have become too heavy to move. Helpless as their executioner steps forward.

It doesn't feel like anything as the sword pierces through their armor. Just a gasp of air and the taste of blood on their tongue. And maybe that's what makes the entire situation so funny to them. Their laughter a mix of hysteria and blood even as the enemy watches them. An unnerving scene to the Elites that surround them.

Or maybe what's truly funny is the fact that they had pulled all the pins on their grenades during the struggle.

"I win," they whisper their last lie as an explosion of sound and light swallows them.

…

“What the hell was that?!”

“What did we hit?!

“Don’t know yet, ma’am.”

“Someone get on the comms and get me some answers!”

“On it.”

“We’ve got injured, ma’am!”

“Shit. Get them to the medbay now!”

[gaeilgeoirgay]

“You Have To Let Go”

Whumptober has arrived! Here’s my contribution for Day One

Ao3 Link

six minutes and sixteen seconds of a lifetime lived

“Jay, it’s okay. You’ve been so strong, Little Wing, but you have to let me go.” Dick says, a heartbreaking smile on his face as he gazes steadily up at Jason. “No fucking way, Goldie. That drop's gotta be near 3,000 feet- I ain’t letting you fall.” He responds roughly, swallowing back the lump in his throat. He doesn’t have time for tears.

He knows Dick is right though. His arms are burning and the rock beneath his fingertips is weakening. Either he lets Dick go and pulls himself up, or both of them fall to their deaths. The rapids are churning beneath them, angry water screaming against the rocks.

The day had started out so well- they’d been following a particularly vicious group of metahuman traffickers for months now, and they’d finally caught up to the leaders. They had released three dozen prisoners who were being kept in a sprawling underground compound built beneath a Venezuelan village so small it didn’t even have an official name.

The prisoners had stolen one of the big Arctic trucks the traffickers owned while Dick and Jason had led them on a merry chase through the jungle. But at some point, their luck had run out and a fortuitous strike from one of the miniature missiles at the traffickers disposal had crumbled the cliff face the two vigilantes are now hanging from.

They have mere minutes before either the ledge Jason is clinging to gives out or his hand does and the traffickers aren’t far behind but there’s no way he’s dropping his brother.

Dust and pebbles skitter down the side of the cliff and land in Jason’s hair, his helmet having been sacrificed as an explosive seven miles back. The ledge is getting smaller and he’s constantly adjusting his grip, but his other hand is tight around Dick’s wrist and he’s not planning on loosening it.

“Jay, both of us don’t have to die. Let go, Jay. I don’t want you to die.” Dick says softly and Jason growls. “What part of no didn’t you understand? If we fall, we fall together, but I’m not letting you go.” He snarls back.

There are voices entering the edge of his hearing and he knows they don’t have long before their adversaries catch up to them. The fall might be kinder, because at least gravity will kill them quick, but if the traffickers capture them, they’ll want to interrogate them and there’ll be a chance to escape.

They could also kill them outright but Jason is trying to be optimistic. This day has gone to complete and utter shit, surely it’s not too much to ask for one small thing to go right for them. It would be absolutely superb if they could just not die. Jason’s done it once before and so has Dick- neither of them would recommend it.

Wait. Superb. Super. “Dick, I know what to do.” He hisses down at his brother, trying to keep his voice quiet in case the traffickers are close enough to hear him. “That’s great, because I have no clue how we’re getting out of this. No way am I letting you die again, Hood, so it better not involve some sort of self-sacrificial bullshit.” Dick replies and despite himself, Jason laughs.

“Nah, that’s your thing. And we will definitely be talking about your willingness to die on this mission, because I can’t believe one of us didn’t think of this before. What if we just call one of the Supers? We can stall long enough for them to reach us, you know we can.” Jason explains quietly and Dick gapes back up at him.

“That is the best idea you’ve ever had! Clark, Connor we could use a bit of help ASAP.” Dick says, wasting no time. He keeps muttering their names, interspersed with their location and situation so Jason mimics him.

“Superman, we’re in South Venezuela, hanging off the side of a cliff, three thousand feet up, so we’d appreciate an assist before we fall to our untimely deaths.” He says, slightly snarky, but sue him, he’s in imminent danger of dying. Dick mock glares at him and Jason snorts despite himself. It’s an ugly sound and if they were safe in the Manor, they’d be bent double laughing.

The voices are above them now and Jason knows if he looks up, the traffickers are probably peering down at them. A laugh confirms his suspicion- apparently they find something funny in the two vigilante’s predicament.

“Do we need both of them? One of ‘em will be hard enough to keep locked up, I’m not keen on two.” One trafficker muses, his accent distinctly American. Jason curses in his head at that, because if he’s American, there’s more chance he’ll know about their exploits and Jason hates it when captors take Bat-worthy precautions. They’re still only human after all no matter how skilled they are.

“Boss says we only need one.” Another minion reports after a comm crackle. Clearly, they’ve consulted with this boss and they’ve decided that only one of them gets to live. Well that’s just great. Jason has plans upon plans to deal with capture but if the traffickers decide to shoot one of them now, there’s nothing he can do.

“Wait, not yet.” One man says after Jason hears the noise of a gun being unholstered. There are discontented grumbles before the man continues. “That one, Red Hood, he’s the only thing between his brother and death, aren’t ya, Hood?” He says, addressing Jason who remains stone silent. If they want his second last words, they’ll be sorely disappointed. Those will go to Dick.

“So, what if we just…..” The man trails off before there’s a crack from his gun and blinding pain in Jason’s left shoulder. It hurts, fire shooting through his arm and he screams unthinkingly. He instinctively tries to lessen the weight on his injured arm…. the arm connected to the hand Dick is clinging to.

No! No, no, no, no! He had sworn he wouldn’t let go, not of Dick, not of his brother but he has, he has.

Dick’s hand slips through his and Jason tries frantically to grab hold of him, to stop his fall but he’s too late, fingertips just brushing Dick’s hand. His brother falls, plummeting out of Jason’s grasp, the last Flying Grayson dying the same way as the rest of his family did.

And all Jason can do is watch as Dick falls to his death, the burning pain in his shoulder nothing compared to the agony of losing the one person he always knew he could depend on. Even when Jason was Pit-mad and seething, hating the world and his brother both, he knew that Dick would drop everything to save someone he loved.

All the times Dick has caught him and Jason couldn’t return the favour the one fucking time he needed to. His brother is dead and it’s his fault.

The traffickers are laughing above him and he should feel angry. When Dick died the first time, Jason had been furious, vowing revenge on Luthor and putting bullets in everyone who crossed his path. Now…. The traffickers may have caused the wound but Jason is the one who let go. Jason is the one who let the best goddamned person in the world die.

They’re talking now about hauling Jason up the cliff-face and then interrogating him but he’s not listening. They want him dead? Good, so does he. It’s only fitting that he die again the same he killed his brother.

So Jason does what Dick had asked him to do, fifteen minutes and an eternity before. He lets go.

(he falls for four minutes and fourteen seconds. he remembers thinking that the bomb had been set for sixteen seconds. in a way, he’s annoyed that they’re not the same. it doesn’t matter anyways because connor kent catches him and clark kent caught dick. they’re alive but there was a brief time where jason todd and dick grayson did not exist in the same world and he will never forget those six minutes and sixteen seconds. they’re burned into his brain the same way they were in Ethiopia, and he will never get them out. six minutes and sixteen seconds; a lifetime lived.)

[elysian-prince]

and i think it's gonna be a long, long time

“Well, since we’re going to die anyway, you have any, I don’t know… Last confessions?”

Or what would have happened if Steve and Tony had been more open about their feelings in the escape pod.

Spoilers ahead for Marvel's Avengers Reassemble story campaign.

warnings: mentions of alcoholism and mentions of death

also on ao3

He’s almost afraid to look away. Afraid that if he does, it’ll all turn out to be just another dream, and Steve won’t be at his side when he looks again. It’s like Tony can finally breathe again with Steve beside him. Ironic, since they’re about to suffocate. But even with impending death looming, it feels as though a weight has been lifted off of him. They’re going to die here. Well, probably. The chances of any of their teammates being able to reach them are slim to none, even by Avengers standards. The team doesn’t even know Steve is alive, and honestly Tony doesn’t think they would (or should) launch themselves into space to look for him after such a massive explosion. Though maybe there’s a chance they would come looking for the supposed inhumans he had come to save... Well. The odds say they’re going to die here, so Tony is spending every moment he can memorizing Steve’s face. He looks a little bit older, another reminder of those five years. For someone who’s been in a coma for the past five years, Steve still somehow manages to look good. Tony is trying to keep his eyes from wandering too much and doing his best to not focus on the wires still attached to Steve’s body. They’re a terrible reminder of what was happening to their beloved captain while everyone had thought him to be gone. After Tony had found Steve in that cryopod, he hadn’t wanted to let go. He would have been perfectly fine with holding onto Steve forever. Tony had brushed it off as making sure Steve didn’t fall because of his unsteady legs, but he wasn’t even sure which of them had truly needed the support to stay upright. Steve seems so at peace as he gazes out into the vastness of space. Tony would be lying if he said it isn’t the reason he’s been able to keep his calm in the face of certain death (it is, and it has been so many times before). At least they’re together at the end. Part of him had always hoped his final moments would be with Steve. He still can’t take his eyes off the man beside him. The faint light coming in through the glass of the escape pod is reflecting in his clear blue eyes, and oh, how Tony hadn’t truly realized how much he had missed those eyes until this moment. Steve had said their view of the stars was good, but Tony’s is even better. “How about you?” Steve asks, interrupting his thoughts. “What about me, Cap?” “Any confessions to make?” The glint in his eyes was somehow challenging and hopeful at the same time. He thinks about responding with some witty joke, but this… this is truly it. This is his last chance. A chance he never even thought he would get, especially after losing Steve on A-Day. Tony thought his unspoken words would die with him. What does he have to lose at this point? Well, besides Steve’s friendship and respect, but the man is too good to actually think any less of him if Tony’s feelings are unrequited. He likely wouldn’t say anything even if he felt differently; that’s the kind of person Steve is. That’s the person Tony fell in love with. So he takes his shot. “Steve… I have missed you every moment of every day for the past five years.” He feels himself start to choke up as the rush of emotions hits, but he pushes through it. “It’s been… it’s been rough. Really rough.” He finds that he can’t quite voice the actual words. That alcohol didn’t burn away or dull the pain of the loss, and wearing Steve’s jacket couldn’t even start to mend the hole in Tony’s heart. The way Steve is looking at Tony tells him that he doesn’t have to say the words; that he understands without them. After Tony falls quiet, Steve gently breaks the silence. “Thank you for finding me.” Of course Steve has the magnanimity to thank Tony after he left the man in space for five goddamn years while he tried to drown in his own self pity. It’s too much. He hadn’t even been looking for Steve. He’d been alive all this time, and Tony had failed him.

“What…? Steve, I—” The emotions he had managed to keep at bay break loose at that. “I love you so much, I shouldn’t have given up so easily. But you— you’d been my rock for so long that I was lost without you.”

He manages to choke out a wry laugh through the tears. “You’re like a damn cockroach, I should’ve known you were still alive. I should’ve—”

“Tony.” Steve turns his seat towards Tony and puts his hand on the shoulder of the armor. He looks into Steve’s blue eyes and isn’t sure if the poor lighting is playing tricks on him or if Steve is close to tears as well.

Steve leans closer, and suddenly lips are gently pressing against Tony’s, and the rush of guilt ebbs away. It takes a second before he realizes he should probably kiss Steve back. His lips are a little bit chapped, but the softness and warmth are heavenly in the chill of the escape pod.

When they finally part, Steve pulls away just far enough to be able to look into Tony’s eyes again.

“You just wanted to shut me up,” Tony pouts, sticking out his bottom lip. He definitely notices how Steve’s eyes quickly flick down to his mouth.

“Well, it worked,” Steve chuckles. Tony can’t help but laugh too, even if the entire moment feels a bit surreal. Surely he’s just having some sort of near-death hallucination or something… though Steve still hasn’t moved away entirely.

“Tony,” he starts again, scooting closer on the edge of his seat. He reaches up to hold Tony’s face as best as he can given the armor. His thumb gently caresses Tony’s cheek, wiping away a tear streak left behind. “I love you, too.”

“Oh,” he says dazedly.

There’s a beat.

“So, does that mean we can do that again?” Tony starts, words coming out in a rush. “Because it’s probably the best use of whatever oxygen we have left and—”

Steve cuts him off again with another kiss, and Tony can feel his smile against his lips. Steve isn’t cold from his second stint as a Capsicle anymore, and he wishes he could rip off these damned gauntlets and touch Steve with his bare hands.

In his peripheral vision, there’s an extraordinarily bright flash of lights, and Tony breaks away from Steve’s kiss to reluctantly check it out. When the light dies down, there’s nothing but Norse god in the pod’s viewport.

“Well, look who it is. Am I always—” Thor stops and takes in their current state. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Tony answers, unable to keep the hint of annoyance out of his voice.

Steve scoots back in his seat and turns around to address Thor properly, and Tony has to bite back a whine at the loss of contact.

He doesn’t really listen as Thor and Steve are catching up, though he thinks he hears the god congratulate the two of them on finally pulling their heads out of their asses. Tony’s too busy running back through his moment with Steve repeatedly, feeling entirely too much like he’s dreaming.

Though really, isn’t this kind of craziness just par for the course at this point?

“Not that I’m not eternally grateful for the save, big guy,” Tony grumbles. “But couldn’t you have taken a few more minutes to find us?” He can hear Thor’s booming laughter outside the pod.

As Thor pushes the escape pod into Earth’s atmosphere, Tony turns to Steve and tries to will himself into ignoring that their godly teammate can probably hear their entire conversation now.

“So, was that a one time deal or…?” He doesn’t finish his question, waiting for Steve to add in what he truly wants to hear.

“I sure hope not.” Steve has the audacity to blush now that their doom isn’t quite so imminent.

“Okay, just- just checking. I wasn’t sure if it was like a heat of the moment thing because we were dying or—” Apparently, Steve has decided to make cutting his rambling off with kisses a new habit.

“You know, I’m just going to talk even more now if that’s the reward I get,” Tony playfully grins at him, and Steve’s eyes crinkle as he returns the smile.

[symphonyofthewrite]

Such Fragile Things (Ch2) 

Fandom: Castlevania (Netflix)

Summary: Dracula thought love was gentle...but it is more piercing than any stake. He knows this best when his son is born (Ch1), and in his final moments (Ch2).

Character focus: Dracula and Alucard 

Notes: I also posted this on my writng blog @antihero-writings if you want to check it out there!! 

A huge thank you to everyone who commented and/or reblogged the first chapter!! <3 <3

**Major spoilers for S2 E7:"For Love"**

Chapter 2: His Father's Death

Dracula throws the golden man into wall, hard enough to break it, revealing the room on the other side.

Nails against the wood, against stone, footsteps merciless as a death toll, blood in the burning halls; Dracula is the monster from the stories after all.

He stalks into the room, his cloak furling behind him, seeking his prey. The kind of snarl only things not-quite-human-anymore make emanates from his throat.

The moment he crosses the threshold, that snarl morphs into a gasp, and, as if it were some magic barrier…everything looks different.

His cloak falls softly, quietly, like a hand on his shoulder.

This dhampir, this man, up until now has been Alucard. The reverse of him. The thing meant to destroy him and stop his war. A hunter of vampires that is himself a vampire—(or half of one at least). No, not a vampire hunter. Just Dracula’s hunter. All he has been is another thing in Dracula’s way.

But this thing sitting against the bed, failing to catch his breath, golden hair falling about his face…looks different.

A little boy is gasping, leaning on his wooden sword just to stay up.

“Father, do you think we can stop? I need a break.”

Vlad laughs, and the sound is warm. His hands fall to his sides and his smiles, stepping up to his son.

“Of course, Adrian.” He puts his hand on his shoulder/ruffles his hair. “You’ve done well today.

He is…so small.

This bed. A bookshelf. A wardrobe. A desk, with charts and maps. A basket of toys in the corner. All too small. Too dusty.

The window is letting too much light in.

On the wall, a painting of a family. Too happy.

…a boy, hurting, beneath the bed.

Not a hunter, or an annoyance, or an enemy. Not a mindless, heartless, thing. Not an other. Not a him or an it to be disposed of, but a living, breathing, thinking, hurting you.

A very specific you. A you with a name. A you with whom Dracula had shared so much of his life. A you who perhaps knew Vlad more than anymore else. Not a him or an it to be destroyed, a you that he needed so desperately to keep alive.

Not Alucard; the thing meant to destroy him.

Adrian.

“It’s your room.”

His fingers, a moment ago poised to claw at this man, curl gently into a fist, hiding his nails.

The rest of the castle was drenched in bloodshed. The rest of the castle was full of war. The rest of the castle had turned itself towards it’s master’s deeds, destroying itself in a pointless fight, just like him.

But not this room. He had protected this room from all the blood. He dare not bring it with him.

The heavens turn from hazardous red to delicate blue.

Both of them stare up into the stars. Not the real ones—though they are here to guide them too. The ones on the ceiling. The ones they played under, read under, the ones this golden man once dreamed under, the ones he used to learn their names and places in the sky when he was but a child. The rich blue like a spell, putting the warriors into a trance in the middle the battlefield.

—(But this isn’t the battlefield, and that’s why the war must stop here)—

The blood is clearing from Vlad’s view. It has been a long time since he’s seen the world without the blood.

The room has been empty for a while, but the boy it belongs to is here now.

And, in his proper place, all at once this golden man is that fragile thing again. That thing that could break if Vlad held him wrong. That thing Vlad, more than anything, wanted to keep alive, to protect, and who he would die for before he ever saw him get hurt.

Barely perceptible, Vlad is shaking.

His hands are no longer claws against the walls. He sees them for what ugly, monstrous things they are. Ugly, monstrous, because of what they’ve been doing. He crosses them over his chest, as if to cage them; as if trying to keep them from hurting anything, ever, anymore. As if to feel his own heartbeat, and remind himself there is still something living there.

This is the boy who he played cards, and chess, and swords with. This is the boy who asked about the myths in the stars, and the ones in our hearts. This is the boy who he bounced on his knee, and read to, and comforted when he cried, and on very special occasions sang to sleep.

“My boy.”

Adrian is trying to stand, and for a moment his father sees a tiny thing on wobbly legs reaching for his open arms.

“I-I’m killing my boy.”

Dracula steps to the painting—(though he can barely feel his feet)—where an echo of his wife sits on canvas, holding that infant golden thing.

He remembers her now. He wasn’t sure he did before.

“Lisa…I’m killing our boy.” His voice is soft and cracked and breakable itself. “We painted this room. We…made these toys…”

He was never one for sentiment, never grew attached to objects…but as he looks around at this room, and the things in it, those moments are flickering through his mind now—(is this what they mean when they say one’s life flashes before your eyes? Had he really forgotten so much? Had he really forgotten what life was?)—and the blood seems so obscene now.

Not in front of Adrian.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

With an exhale Alucard gets up, and it sounds like the world being crushed into a fine powder. The motion is not gentle…it comes with a cracking and all-too clear purpose, and now his steps are as calculated and foreboding as Dracula’s were moments ago.

Vlad’s hands are now too dangerous to let sit at his sides, so he uses them to cover his eyes…to hide his pain from the world, to hide the world from his pain. A feeble defense against the pointed intention in his son’s own dangerous hands. Playing peekaboo one last time.

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He hears Adrian’s breath very close to him, but it is not that of a beast ready to pounce, it is heavy, like the world is sitting on his chest.

He takes his claws from his eyes to look into his son’s face.

Vlad laughs, and the sound is cold.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.”

“What?”

“You didn’t kill me before. You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.”

“Do I?!”

“You died when my mother died. You know you did. This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

And if he could hurt this boy—Adrian—who he loved more than anything, then:

“I must already be dead.”

Adrian’s eyes are not full of malice. He is not like anyone else that would try to kill the vampire king. Anyone else’s eyes would not be soft; they would be solid and still, pointed and gleaming with with hunger and hate. Anyone else wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t be gentle.

Even now, Adrian’s eyes are still full of sunlight; trembling, rippling, ripping sunlight.

It is not fear, nor anger that makes his eyes shudder. It is heartbreak. Imminent heartbreak.

Because he wishes he could save him. Because he knows he cannot.

His heart has been aching for a very long time, slowly coming apart, and it is about to shatter. This golden man is about to split his own chest for the sake of saving the world.

Once upon a time all the stories they told him ended happily, and families stayed together, and no one ever died. His heart must fracture, for he knows their own cannot.

How could Dracula ever try to take that sunlight from the world, when Lisa had brought it down to him from her place in the sky? He’d traveled the world in search of the sun...but his sunlight was right here…and if he couldn’t see that then…

He closes his eyes. He opens them. A silent ask. A silent answer. They both know.

Alucard steps closer. And it is not to hold him tight—(no matter how much he they both wish he could just wrap his arms around him and cry, like long ago, and understand that after the rain everything would be better).

Now Dracula is the fragile thing. And they both know what he must do.

He is trying to be gentle. For love is the only thing that can be harsh in the kindest word, and gentle in the cruelest stroke.

That horrible cracking, crackling, squelching sound. Red drips from his chest along the golden man’s sleeve.

It isn’t death, really. It is mercy. Mercy on humanity. Mercy on Vlad himself. Death had already administered its kiss when Lisa died. And in his undead state Dracula had tried to spread that death to everything and everywhere else, in the world’s most exorbitant suicide note.

“Son.” The word is soft, rasping; the wind in a hollow house.

“Father.” The word is a broken plea; the sun on the abandoned floorboards and dolls, wishing it could illuminate the family that once lived there instead—

And this hurts, yes, but even so, it is the love behind it that is more piercing than any stake.

Love has never been breakable. Love is what does the breaking.

There is something defiant in Alucard’s eyes as he drives it in farther.

His heartbeat fills the room.

And, after much bending, the stake bores through, and the mirror breaks.

—(And for a moment Adrian could have sworn the sound came from his chest)—

Dracula does not burst into flame. Death, for him, is not an explosive show. It is soft whispers: he turns slowly to ashes, without any burn.

Vlad wants to wrap his arms around this small, precious, golden thing one last time. To say goodbye.

Adrian never looked at his father like a monster before, never backed away from his touch, but Dracula could swear the fear in his eyes now—(a little boy hiding from the thunder)—is the only reason the breath is leaving his chest.

Adrian is so, so tiny. (And after everything, he cannot bring himself to deliver the last stroke.)

Dracula’s last thought, the sonnet of a dying monster, is not a curse, or a threat, but something very gentle indeed.

Lisa, Adrian…I’m so sorry.

The only thing left of him is a wedding ring.

[lhs3020b]

The Ragged Astronauts, by Bob Shaw

Look! A books post!

I recently found myself in a mood to revisit old books (again), so I found myself re-reading Bob Shaw's "The Ragged Astronauts".

It turned out to be rather different from how I remembered. (Content warnings apply below the cut - this is an interesting book, but it’s also a dark one in places too.)

SYNOPSIS

The planets Land and Overland share a common orbit, revolving around a common centre of gravity. In fact the two objects are remarkably close together, separated by only a few thousand miles. In our universe, this would ensure that both bodies would lie inside the others' Roche Limit, and thus would ensure the destruction of both worlds. However, the region of spacetime in which Land and Overland exist is configured in such a way that the value of Pi is exactly equal to 3 (what this implies for the values of 0, 1, i and the base of natural logarithms is never addressed). Given this, we can assume that at least some of the physics is a bit different; perhaps the tidal force declines even more steeply then it does in our universe. Whatever the case, the Land/Overland planetary binary appears to be dynamically stable, and while both planets have problems, neither of them appears to be in imminent danger of gravitational disruption. The arrangement is implied to have existed for a geological timescale, so however they managed it, Land and Overland appear to be in an equilibrium.

However, due to their remarkable closeness, the two planets have ended up sharing a common atmosphere. This is actually not quite as strange as it sounds - in our universe, there is a category of stars called contact binaries, where two extremely-close stars have gravitationally-distended each other to the point where their atmospheres actually touch. (Seen up close, a contact binary would look a bit like a sort of stellar hourglass, with each star being a lobe of the hourglass.)

The novel opens on Land, whose inhabitants are entirely-unaware both of their folly and of the imminent end of their civilisation.

The lead character, Toller Maraquine, is technically a member of the scholarly Philosophical Order of the Kolcorronian Empire. However, with his short temper, muscular physique and his difficulties with reading (he's implied to be dyslexic, though no-one in Kolcorron would know that term), he feels ill at ease in his birth station. He wants to join the Kolcorronian army, but in practise this is out of reach due to both the internal politics of the royal court and also the strictures of the Kolcorronian aristocracy. (The aristocracy is in some ways closer to a caste system than the "classical" feudal system it presents as. While readers will see it through a European lens, the way it functions and is structured feels a bit more similar to Imperial China, given its centrally-organised bureaucratic orders and the absence of any equivalent to the Three Estates system that was common in parts of medieval Europe.)

However, things are about to change on Land, and Toller may well get what he wanted. Whether he realises it or not, he's about to find himself living the classic morality play - Be Careful What You Wish For.

The Kolcorronian Empire has made itself into a near-dominant world hegemon by exploiting the brakka trees. As part of their reproductive ecology, brakka trees fire their pollen high into the air, dispersing it over wide areas. The tree is essentially a sort of photosynthetic wooden canon; the explosive reactions are powered by two crystalline materials called halvell and pikon, which the trees' roots extract from Land's soil. Halvell and pikon are apparently hypergolic - mix them together and you get a very high-energy bang. Brakka wood is extraordinarily tough - with this sort of biology, it has to be! - and so Kolcorron uses brakka wood in all the places where we'd use metals or ceramics. (In addition, Land is said to be a low density planet that is under-enriched in heavy metallic elements, which seems to have discouraged the development of any native metallurgy.) Kolcorron's technology is entirely based around exploiting the brakka, pikkon and halvell. As such they don't map easily to any era in Earth history; while their society has feudal structures they also have a trade network based around pikon/halvell-powered airships. Honestly at times, their society feels closer to a steampunk age than a purely-medieval one.

Only there's a problem: Kolcorron has chopped down most of the brakka.

Kolcorron, you see, is not a pleasant society. The people who run it seem to vary from greedy to outrightly-sociopathic. Its politics are basically a sort of semi-totalitarian absolute monarchy; even people on the King's advisory high council have to be very careful what they say, and ordinary subjects can basically be conscripted, raped and murdered with impunity by the aristocracy. As such, the aristocrats have little time for things like "factual advice". The Philosophical Order has been trying to warn the government that a severe energy crunch is beginning, and this is deeply-unwelcome news.

But worse news is coming.

Land's people share their planet with the ptertha. Ptertha are gas bag creatures, possessed of a hard-to-determine level of intelligence. Ptertha are also inimical to Landians - when they encounter one, the ptertha explode, showering the person in question with poisonous dust. Anyone exposed to ptertha dust inevitably dies soon after. There is apparently no cure for pterthacosis; the normal response of Kolcorronians is to simply behead a pterthacosis sufferer, apparently on the assumption that trying to treat them is futile. (There is no suggestion that this is about saving the victim from suffering; that would involve a capacity for empathy, which very few people in Kolcorron appear to possess.)

What the Landers don't know is that the brakka and the ptertha are symbiotic species; the ptertha feed on brakka pollen, and in return they protect the sessile trees from any predator. Predators like Landers who keep chopping the brakka down. While the ptertha never show any ability to communicate, they are apparently at least somewhat intelligent, in some way. They are able to adapt their behaviour and apparently even their own biology to help them attack their ground-based enemies.

Up until now, pterthacosis has been a threat to individuals, but society as a whole has been able to cope. All that abruptly changes on a sunny morning, when the ptertha launch a mass attack against Ro-Atabri, Kolcorron's capital city. Only it's worse then that, because pterthacosis has changed - it can now spread in a viral manner, from person to person. With an economy based around outdoor manual labour and nothing resembling a public health system, the empire is swiftly devastated.

In barely two years, two thirds of Kolcorron's population die. By the mid-point of the novel, the monarchy has concluded that organised society has no future on Land, and they're probably right. In fact the evidence supports the conclusion that their species is facing extinction. Civilisation is tottering, and when it falls, there is no expectation that anything will succeed it. And the ptertha? They just keep coming, more deadly with every attack.

But, but, but ... Overland is just _there_, right above everyone's heads. The two planets share a breathable atmosphere. Perhaps, just perhaps, a migration to the neighbouring planet is possible? This is what the Kolcorronian leadership attempts - an interplanetary migration, via hot air balloon.

As a sequence of societally-catastrophic events take place, Toller Maraquine finds himself at the front of all of them, undertaking a personal journey that will take him from the Philosophical Order to the front ranks of the military, and eventually even to the surface of Overland itself.

OBSERVATIONS

This book was ... different ... from how I remembered it. I didn’t remember it being anything like as dark or as violent as it is.

First off, deary me, Land is a bleak place to live. Even before person-to-person transmission of pterthacosis becomes A Thing, the Kolcorronian Empire is a militaristic, authoritarian, dictatorial mess. The other societies on the planet don't seem to be any better; Kolcorron is bordered by tribal societies who practise virgin sacrifices. The opposite hemisphere of the planet is occuped by Chamteth, who appear to be an isolationist, xenophobic, theocratic empire. Kolcorron's response to the brakka shortage and the ptertha-driven economic collapse is to launch a genocidal war of conquest against Chamteth. This isn't to take Chamteth's land - rather, it's simply to steal their better-conserved brakka forests. As it is, Chamteth would probably have seen them off, but the Kolcorronian forces are followed into Chamtethian territory by the new, mutant ptertha. Chamtethians turn out to be even more vulnerable to pterthacosis than Kolcorronians, and their entire society is essentially destroyed within a matter of months. To his credit, Toller is increasingly-nauseated by the horrors that take place within the Chamteth campaign, though it's also notable that he doesn't attempt to repudiate it.

As for gender and representation, well, you won't really find any in this book. There are two female characters, Gesalla Maraquine and Fera Rivoo, but they're not treated well in the narrative. What happens to Gesalla is grim - Kolcorron's ruling family practise a particularly-twisted version of prima noctis, and the walking bipedal monster that is Prince Leddravohr doesn't miss his chance to inflict some personal misery on the Maraquine family. (Arguably Kolcorron's rot is from the top down - King Prad clearly knows what his depraved son is like, and has done nothing to rein him in.)

As for Fera, Toller actually marries her, then forgets she exists halfway through the book. Yes, seriously. The last mention of his wife is that she apparently moved out of the Maraquine household at some point; Toller is entirely unbothered by this. He doesn't even think about her during the evacuation. Admittedly rescuing her from the chaos in Ro-Atabri as the city disintegrates on its final day would have been a tall order, but he doesn't even try.

There is also a lot of bad sex in this book. Basically, any capital-P Problematic sex trope you can imagine? They're all here. The fail is fractal. It's bad even for the mid-80s, which was when this book was published. (It very much belonged to that period when SFF authors suddenly discovered they could write about sex, and the results were near-uniformly dire.)

As for gay Kolcorronians or ethnic minority Kolcorronians, honestly, being either seems likely to be a good way to get yourself an arbitary death sentence. If any exist, they're keeping their heads down. Like I mentioned above, Kolcorron is horrible; honestly, one unexamined question in this book is whether this civilisation is even worth saving. If the Reapers rolled in and Husk'd them all, I think you could argue a case here for it being an improvement.

To top it all off, it's suggested that all this has happened before; during the novel, Toller receives a peculiar stone, composed of a mineral found nowhere on Land. Later, he is surprised to find a deposity of the same material on Overland. Also, the Kolcorronian state religion postulates an external, cyclical exchange of souls between Land and Overland, which possibly is a folk memory of a previous migration between the planets. Oddly, the book and the trilogy it's part of never really do anything with this idea. The colonists on Overland never find any ruins, or any evidence of prior inhabitation by their own kind.

The positive qualities of the novel are that its viewpoint characters aren't 100% horrible - by the end of the book, Toller has turned into a somewhat-improved person than he was at the start. Lain Maraquine is that rarest thing in Kolcorron, a person who is actually genuinely-sympathetic and who actually does care about the welfare of other people. Lord Glo, while a senile drunkard, is also someone who is able to see the bigger picture and his early insights ultimately hold the key to ensuring that at least part of society survives the ptertha crisis. Gesalla turns out to be different from Toller's initial impression of her - honestly, Gesalla's a more interesting person then he is - and the monster Leddravohr at least ends up dead, so there is that. Also the new regime on Overland winds up in the hands of Prince Chakkell, who appears to be the most-sane of the pre-migration ruling quartet. (Chakkell is still fairly-unpleasant in many ways, but he's Lawful Evil than Leddravohr's Chaotic Evil and Prad's Neutral Evil. In fact, his dislike of Toller aside, you can argue a case for Chakkell being more Lawful Neutral, I think. That seems to be about as "benign" as the Kolcorronian monarchy is capable of being.)

The novel is also a page-turner. Awful as Kolcorron is, there is a sort of nightmarish clarity to its demise. It has that "can't look away from the trainwreck" quality. The book doesn't bore you - it may horrify you, it may appall you in places, but you're not bored. Also the mechanics of the inter-planetary migration are well-realised. The Kolcorronians' desperate struggle to flee their own world feels real. (I will admit some skepticism about whether a society undergoing a freefall demographic collapse worse than our Black Death is going to be able to run any large-scale projects, but perhaps sheer desperation counts for something here.)

The setting is also vivid and interesting. The planetary binary and the sky packed full of stars, galaxies and meteors - even during the daytime - was something that made a deep impression on me when I read it the first time. In our age with its increasingly-decarbonised electricity and the beginnings of an electric car transition, the brakka/halvell/pikon oil analogy does feel a bit heavy-handed, but it would have been timely when the book was written in the 1980s.

The last thing I'll note about the book is that it has some odd pacing. There are some rather-jerky time-skips - at one point, we jump two entire years between paragraph-breaks! There are also some sections that drag on longer than they perhaps should.

I don't know whether I can fully recommend this one - really, that depends on your tolerance for problematic content! - but it certainly does provide a unique reading experience.

[lassieposting]

Vile and Mevolent 💅

god so, i have feelings about this

so they fuck long before they get together. it's here, it's immediately post-battle, and they're lowkey fighting at the same time, so there is Zero romance involved. at the end of it, vile gets dressed and leaves, and that's that. It's uh. Rough. But they both have a good time and neither of them are interested in having any strings attached, so

Mevolent is lowkey hoping it'll happen again. He promotes Vile because he's competent, but the fact that they'll be spending more time together is a bonus. He sees an opening, makes a pass - and Vile shoots him down in flames.

Mev has no idea wtf just happened. It has been a very long time since anyone told him no.

Mevolent is now Intrigued.

Unbeknowst to poor Mev, Vile has been having an ongoing internal crisis since the first time they slept together, because? He doesn't think Mevolent ever saw Skulduggery Pleasant up close, but he can't say for sure. He might've just given himself away. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He's waiting for the hammer to fall, for Mevolent to give the order to attack him, and he's battering himself for his own idiocy. But he's also wildly mentally unstable and being manipulated and abused six ways from sunday by abyssinia, so he swings wildly between "i don't care about consequences just make me feel something" and "do not touch me Ever" which is? Deeply confusing for everyone involved. He has no idea what he wants. And that is exciting, in mev's book, because he's managed to get himself to a level of control and stability where he can fairly certainly predict pretty much everything that happens in his life. Vile is a wild card. He's into that. Every time he hits on Vile, he doesn't know whether he's going to get laid or snapped at.

And then there's a battle.

This battle never happened in the original dimension, because Ghastly's mother had a vision of Mevolent ruling the world, and enough top dogs listened to her to stop it. But in Leibniz she dies young, and the Resistance decides to take out Vile because he's Mevolent's most lethal weapon, and they need him gone to stand a chance of evening the odds.

They throw everything they have at him. It's just about enough. He's disoriented. Injured. He doesn't normally need much, if any, backup in a fight, and it's not unusual for him to go up against an army alone, but he's lucky that day, and at least someone is there to flee the scene and report back to Mevolent.

Now, Vile is not only very intelligent, he's a tactician. He doesn't expect a rescue. He's valuable, but he doesn't think he's "wade into Resistance-occupied territory into a guaranteed trap where they have the home turf advantage" kind of valuable. He fucked up, and now he's cut off from his magic, and he's probably going to die again, possibly at the hands of his old friends, and all he can do is rage and seethe and take some of them with him if he can.

And normally, Mevolent is an imminently sensible man and would make exactly that call: sacrifice the one, and keep the advantage of superior numbers. But Vile is his most effective weapon, and more than that, he's entertaining. Mevolent doesn't have many people in his life who can surprise him.

He goes against his own common sense and against Vengeous' advice, and mounts a rescue. And Vile only gets tortured a little bit, which Mevolent considers a pretty favourable outcome, because he has one of the world's top surgeons on his -

And here he encounters Problem The First: Vile is terrified of Nye.

Mevolent has no idea what the issue is. But Nye helped Serpine torture Skulduggery, and in Vile that lingering fear comes out as explosive aggression. Nye learns very quickly to avoid Vile if it wants to keep its limbs intact, and while Mevolent is a pragmatist, he's also not unnecessarily cruel to his own people. Vile's response to Nye is pretty extreme for someone who's famous for not being scared of anything. So okay, he brings in another doctor, with the end result that Vile spends a bit longer out of commission while he's recovering.

That rescue is the thing that changes everything. The Dead Men never came for Skulduggery; he died alone, in pain, terrified. And they were supposed to be his team. His brothers in arms. His friends.

But Mevolent came for Vile.

Just like that, he's won over, and Mevolent getting someone else to treat him instead of Nye seals the deal. Mevolent cares about him more than his friends did. His loyalty is better deserved here.

Mevolent visits him while he's recuperating. They play chess and talk shop and draw portraits of each other and take little walks around the palace gardens. Vile is stubborn and hates showing weakness, so he'll inevitably exhaust himself pushing it too far, and Mevolent will give him an arm to lean on in a way that feels more like companionship than pity. Eventually they fall back into bed together, and it's a lot gentler this time bc Vile is still Healing, and neither of them gets up and leaves straight after, and the Emotions start to seep through the cracks in the 800ft walls they've both built to keep everyone out.

Vile gets over his identity crisis. If Mevolent knew who he was and intended to harm him, he'd have done it while Vile was too badly hurt to fight back, not waited for him to get better. Mevolent enjoys getting to spend a lot of time with someone with his sense of humour, who treats him like an equal. There's no pressure to be the Lord And Saviour with Vile, because Vile doesn't see him like that in the first place. He can just be...himself. And that's new, and he likes it.

(They're developing Feelings by now. Neither of them has figured this out, and both of them think they might be ill. Neither of them has a working Emotions brain cell.)

And then Vile goes back in the field, and this time they're fighting together. The Resistance doesn't know what hit 'em.

[ridiasfangirlings]

What if the only way a King can 'abdicate' is that a relatively powerful of his clansmen take all the power until consume them at the point of not leaving even a phisical body, then the King is 'free' and the slate gets to choose someone else. What if in S1 being Kusanagi, Anna and Yata the only suitables, Yata sacrifices himself for Mikoto, but holding the power is harder than for a King, so even if casualties are avoided thanks the evacuation there's still heavy damage on the island

I feel like Mikoto would be really against this one, since it would be basically sacrificing the life of one of his people in order to save his own. Especially after losing Totsuka, I think Mikoto would decide that he'd rather just let his Sword fall and (hopefully) have Munakata kill him than make someone else sacrifice themselves in his place. The only way I could see this happening is if for some reason Munakata wasn't able to play his part in that plan, like maybe Colorless manages to successfully waylay Munakata somehow and Mikoto reaches a point where his Sword is falling and the choice becomes either let one of his clansmen take the power and die or let the Sword fall and everyone dies anyway. Like maybe AU where Colorless actually does manage to do some damage when he stabs Munakata at the end of S1, like imagine Colorless uses his powers a bit more and manages to actually badly wound Munakata. Munakata still attempts to go after Mikoto and they fight but he's got a lot of blood loss going on and he ends up collapsing just as Shiro appears with Colorless trapped inside his body. Mikoto takes the opportunity to kill Colorless but when he turns towards Munakata he finds Munakata just lying there collapsed in the snow. Mikoto's Sword is already starting to crumble and he sighs, like great the one time I need you and you're asleep.

Mikoto looks back up at the Sword of Damocles and this is pretty much just a shit choice all around, he knows that once the Sword falls everyone in the vicinity will be destroyed and his clansmen are too close to escape – even from where everyone's evacuated onto the bridge it's still too close. Mikoto walks through the deserted school, trying to decide what to do next and maybe that's when he comes across Yata and Fushimi, who were never dragged off by Kamamoto and were continuing their fight. The imminent destruction of Mikoto's Sword has started destabilizing the landscape and say Fushimi's been knocked out by a bit of crumbling building, when Mikoto comes across them Yata's shaking Fushimi desperately trying to get him to wake up. Yata looks up to see Mikoto, who's staring at him in surprise before telling him he needs to get out of there. Yata stares at Mikoto's Sword and even he knows what that means, just shaking his head like 'M-Mikoto-san...', totally unwilling to believe it. Mikoto reaches down and takes Fushimi's sword, handing it to Yata like 'sorry to make you do this.' Yata shakes his head and says he can't, Mikoto says someone's got to or they're all dead, Yata and Fushimi too. Yata looks down at Fushimi and then drops the sword and holds out his hand instead, saying that Kusanagi mentioned there was a way Mikoto could 'abdicate' if someone strong enough was there, right. Mikoto says Yata doesn't know what he's asking and even though he's scared Yata's like '...yeah. I know. But this is for everybody, right?' Before Mikoto can object Yata grabs his hand and suddenly they're both enveloped by red light.

Back at the bridge everyone sees this huge explosion, not big enough to be a Damocles Down but still something that clearly causes a lot of damage. Awashima runs to the end of the bridge, trying to keep her men back while Kusanagi's keeping the Red clan members in check too. That's when a figure appears walking out of the destruction, everyone moves to see what's happening and Mikoto appears, with Munakata slung over his shoulder and Fushimi in his arms. Both are wounded by alive and Mikoto himself seems unharmed except for a few scratches. Awashima and the alphabet squad run forward to take Munakata and Fushimi while Kusanagi walks over to Mikoto, looking clearly shaken as he realizes that Mikoto doesn't seem to have any King power inside his body. Anna appears from behind him, staring for a long moment before she clutches Kusanagi's pant leg and whispers Yata's name. Kusanagi's hands drop to his sides as he realizes what must have happened, Mikoto walks past him with fists clenched, not saying a word.

In the aftermath I feel like this would make things even more of a mess than canon, because now the Red clan still doesn't have a King but Mikoto's alive (and an obvious target for enemies). Mikoto's just pissed that someone else took his risk for him, feeling very much that he still shouldn't be alive but Yata didn't die for him to give up. I'm sure Fushimi wouldn't ever let him forget who died for him either, like just imagine Fushimi waking up and learning that Yata died to save everyone – or at least to save Mikoto, in Fushimi's mind, and Mikoto telling him that Yata was looking at Fushimi there at the end is no comfort at all. And then Anna still becomes Red King and for Mikoto this is like some cruel joke, that all his important people are taking on the burdens that should have been his and he's too weak now to do anything about it.

[antihero-writings]

Such Fragile Things (Ch2) 

Fandom: Castlevania (Netflix)

Summary: Dracula thought love was gentle...but it is more piercing than any stake. He knows this best when his son is born (Ch1), and in his final moments (Ch2).

Character focus: Dracula and Alucard 

Notes: I’ll also post this on my Castlevania blog @symphonyofthewrite if you want to check it out there!! 

A huge thank you to everyone who commented and/or reblogged the first chapter!! <3 <3

Fair warning, this chapter is VERY different from chapter 1. So if you’re looking for more fuffy Tepes family adorableness...this chapter isn't that. (I absolutely do have more fluffy, cute Tepes family fics you could read though!!) This is a mirror fic, so rather than being a continuation or similar childhood story, this chapter is the mirror of ch1. I hope this chapter is still good, and worth reading, and personally I like it a lot, and find it very powerful...but it was also pretty heart wrenching.

**Major spoilers for S2 E7:"For Love"**

Chapter 2: His Father's Death

Dracula throws the golden man into wall, hard enough to break it, revealing the room on the other side.

Nails against the wood, against stone, footsteps merciless as a death toll, blood in the burning halls; Dracula is the monster from the stories after all.

He stalks into the room, his cloak furling behind him, seeking his prey. The kind of snarl only things not-quite-human-anymore make emanates from his throat.

The moment he crosses the threshold, that snarl morphs into a gasp, and, as if it were some magic barrier…everything looks different.

His cloak falls softly, quietly, like a hand on his shoulder.

This dhampir, this man, up until now has been Alucard. The reverse of him. The thing meant to destroy him and stop his war. A hunter of vampires that is himself a vampire—(or half of one at least). No, not a vampire hunter. Just Dracula’s hunter. All he has been is another thing in Dracula’s way.

But this thing sitting against the bed, failing to catch his breath, golden hair falling about his face…looks different.

A little boy is gasping, leaning on his wooden sword just to stay up.

“Father, do you think we can stop? I need a break.”

Vlad laughs, and the sound is warm. His hands fall to his sides and his smiles, stepping up to his son.

“Of course, Adrian.” He puts his hand on his shoulder/ruffles his hair. “You’ve done well today.

He is…so small.

This bed. A bookshelf. A wardrobe. A desk, with charts and maps. A basket of toys in the corner. All too small. Too dusty.

The window is letting too much light in.

On the wall, a painting of a family. Too happy.

…a boy, hurting, beneath the bed.

Not a hunter, or an annoyance, or an enemy. Not a mindless, heartless, thing. Not an other. Not a him or an it to be disposed of, but a living, breathing, thinking, hurting you.

A very specific you. A you with a name. A you with whom Dracula had shared so much of his life. A you who perhaps knew Vlad more than anymore else. Not a him or an it to be destroyed, a you that he needed so desperately to keep alive.

Not Alucard; the thing meant to destroy him.

Adrian.

“It’s your room.”

His fingers, a moment ago poised to claw at this man, curl gently into a fist, hiding his nails.

The rest of the castle was drenched in bloodshed. The rest of the castle was full of war. The rest of the castle had turned itself towards it’s master’s deeds, destroying itself in a pointless fight, just like him.

But not this room. He had protected this room from all the blood. He dare not bring it with him.

The heavens turn from hazardous red to delicate blue.

Both of them stare up into the stars. Not the real ones—though they are here to guide them too. The ones on the ceiling. The ones they played under, read under, the ones this golden man once dreamed under, the ones he used to learn their names and places in the sky when he was but a child. The rich blue like a spell, putting the warriors into a trance in the middle the battlefield.

—(But this isn’t the battlefield, and that’s why the war must stop here)—

The blood is clearing from Vlad’s view. It has been a long time since he’s seen the world without the blood.

The room has been empty for a while, but the boy it belongs to is here now.

And, in his proper place, all at once this golden man is that fragile thing again. That thing that could break if Vlad held him wrong. That thing Vlad, more than anything, wanted to keep alive, to protect, and who he would die for before he ever saw him get hurt.

Barely perceptible, Vlad is shaking.

His hands are no longer claws against the walls. He sees them for what ugly, monstrous things they are. Ugly, monstrous, because of what they’ve been doing. He crosses them over his chest, as if to cage them; as if trying to keep them from hurting anything, ever, anymore. As if to feel his own heartbeat, and remind himself there is still something living there.

This is the boy who he played cards, and chess, and swords with. This is the boy who asked about the myths in the stars, and the ones in our hearts. This is the boy who he bounced on his knee, and read to, and comforted when he cried, and on very special occasions sang to sleep.

“My boy.”

Adrian is trying to stand, and for a moment his father sees a tiny thing on wobbly legs reaching for his open arms.

“I-I’m killing my boy.”

Dracula steps to the painting—(though he can barely feel his feet)—where an echo of his wife sits on canvas, holding that infant golden thing.

He remembers her now. He wasn’t sure he did before.

“Lisa…I’m killing our boy.” His voice is soft and cracked and breakable itself. “We painted this room. We…made these toys…”

He was never one for sentiment, never grew attached to objects…but as he looks around at this room, and the things in it, those moments are flickering through his mind now—(is this what they mean when they say one’s life flashes before your eyes? Had he really forgotten so much? Had he really forgotten what life was?)—and the blood seems so obscene now.

Not in front of Adrian.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

With an exhale Alucard gets up, and it sounds like the world being crushed into a fine powder. The motion is not gentle…it comes with a cracking and all-too clear purpose, and now his steps are as calculated and foreboding as Dracula’s were moments ago.

Vlad’s hands are now too dangerous to let sit at his sides, so he uses them to cover his eyes…to hide his pain from the world, to hide the world from his pain. A feeble defense against the pointed intention in his son’s own dangerous hands. Playing peekaboo one last time.

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He hears Adrian’s breath very close to him, but it is not that of a beast ready to pounce, it is heavy, like the world is sitting on his chest.

He takes his claws from his eyes to look into his son’s face.

Vlad laughs, and the sound is cold.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.”

“What?”

“You didn’t kill me before. You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.”

“Do I?!”

“You died when my mother died. You know you did. This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

And if he could hurt this boy—Adrian—who he loved more than anything, then:

“I must already be dead.”

Adrian’s eyes are not full of malice. He is not like anyone else that would try to kill the vampire king. Anyone else’s eyes would not be soft; they would be solid and still, pointed and gleaming with with hunger and hate. Anyone else wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t be gentle.

Even now, Adrian’s eyes are still full of sunlight; trembling, rippling, ripping sunlight.

It is not fear, nor anger that makes his eyes shudder. It is heartbreak. Imminent heartbreak.

Because he wishes he could save him. Because he knows he cannot.

His heart has been aching for a very long time, slowly coming apart, and it is about to shatter. This golden man is about to split his own chest for the sake of saving the world.

Once upon a time all the stories they told him ended happily, and families stayed together, and no one ever died. His heart must fracture, for he knows their own cannot.

How could Dracula ever try to take that sunlight from the world, when Lisa had brought it down to him from her place in the sky? He’d traveled the world in search of the sun...but his sunlight was right here…and if he couldn’t see that then…

He closes his eyes. He opens them. A silent ask. A silent answer. They both know.

Alucard steps closer. And it is not to hold him tight—(no matter how much he they both wish he could just wrap his arms around him and cry, like long ago, and understand that after the rain everything would be better).

Now Dracula is the fragile thing. And they both know what he must do.

He is trying to be gentle. For love is the only thing that can be harsh in the kindest word, and gentle in the cruelest stroke.

That horrible cracking, crackling, squelching sound. Red drips from his chest along the golden man’s sleeve.

It isn’t death, really. It is mercy. Mercy on humanity. Mercy on Vlad himself. Death had already administered its kiss when Lisa died. And in his undead state Dracula had tried to spread that death to everything and everywhere else, in the world’s most exorbitant suicide note.

“Son.” The word is soft, rasping; the wind in a hollow house.

“Father.” The word is a broken plea; the sun on the abandoned floorboards and dolls, wishing it could illuminate the family that once lived there instead—

And this hurts, yes, but even so, it is the love behind it that is more piercing than any stake.

Love has never been breakable. Love is what does the breaking.

There is something defiant in Alucard’s eyes as he drives it in farther.

His heartbeat fills the room.

And, after much bending, the stake bores through, and the mirror breaks.

—(And for a moment Adrian could have sworn the sound came from his chest)—

Dracula does not burst into flame. Death, for him, is not an explosive show. It is soft whispers: he turns slowly to ashes, without any burn.

Vlad wants to wrap his arms around this small, precious, golden thing one last time. To say goodbye.

Adrian never looked at his father like a monster before, never backed away from his touch, but Dracula could swear the fear in his eyes now—(a little boy hiding from the thunder)—is the only reason the breath is leaving his chest.

Adrian is so, so tiny. (And after everything, he cannot bring himself to deliver the last stroke.)

Dracula’s last thought, the sonnet of a dying monster, is not a curse, or a threat, but something very gentle indeed.

Lisa, Adrian…I’m so sorry.

The only thing left of him is a wedding ring.

[sarcastic-sunshines]

ABIONA AU - Before Abiona Interlude Part 6: Be His Peace

Pairing: T’ Challa x Black!Reader

Warning(s): None

Word Count:  4192

Link to ABIONA by @writingmarvellousimagines

Link to Face claims (2)

Part: (1) (2) (3) (I1) (I2) (4) (I3) (I4) (5) (6) (I5)

Be His Peace

It had been a difficult two weeks for Alix and T’challa. It began when T’challa told her he would not be coming on Wednesday as he normally did. He had to attend a press conference in Vienna after the Avengers incident in Lagos. Alix for some reason had a terrible feeling about T’challa going.

“Just say you will miss me Alixandre” He joked as they laid on their bed on Saturday night before he was supposed to leave early in the morning as he normally did. Alix was nestled warmly in T’challa’s arms as he kissed her head and shoulder. She nervously played with T’challa’s fingers as she smiled at his comment.

“It is not just that babe. Obviously, I will miss you, but I just have this feeling, I don’t know but just promise you will be careful okay. I know you are the Black Panther and all but I just need you in one piece” She said grabbing his hand to kiss it before closing her fingers around his. “I don’t feel comfortable with you leaving so close to the due date. You know we only have a few more weeks until my due date”

“I promise I will be more careful. And I promise that by the next time I come back I will be here for at least three weeks after the baby is here. Do not worry. I will also be using this opportunity to talk to my father about you and the baby moving to Wakanda again.” Alix turned to face T’challa.

“Really? I thought you said it would be better to do it after the baby got here and he could meet them?”

“I did, but I have realized that it is better for us so we can start planning to move after the baby comes. Also, it is time for me as a man to defend my family and I shouldn’t wait because both of you deserve to comfortable. And I cannot wait to show you all my favourite parts of the country” He said as he kissed her cheek.

“Did you happen to take your past flames to these favourite spots as well” T’challa stiffened before speaking.

“Possibly, however that does not matter because that was when I was a different man and Alix you are the only woman in my life. Truly entle, I am here for you and you only and -” Alix giggled as she stopped her nervous lover from his normal word vomit.

“Babe it is okay, I just wanted to see you squirm. I know that wherever we go in Wakanda will be made special by you.”  She said as she kissed his cheek, T’challa released a breath that he did not know that he was holding. “Now if we were going to Brazil I would be a bit worried.” T’challa groaned

“Oh my Bast Alix you will never let that go will you”

“Nope. Goodnight. Have a safe trip okay.” She giggled as T’challa kissed her goodbye and headed to the guest room for the night. Even as she laid to sleep, Alix rubbed her belly but the feeling of imminent trouble didn’t leave her. And it continued through the night and grew as T’challa came to kiss her and the baby goodbye. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

T’challa sat across from his father as he prepared for his speech. He stared out the window and admired the Vienna skyline. His mind thought of Alix as she walked the streets of Vienna to and from work. Most likely finding a little café where she would often lounge. She loved her time here and hoped that he could bring her and the baby back here. He had begun to grow nervous being here, just because of Alix’s reluctance to have him go. She kept reminding him of a funny feeling she was having. At this point, he was afraid that something might be wrong with the baby and it was not just her instinct. He turned to face his father. 

“ I think you should cut that line out. It sounds a bit redundant” His father looked up from his speech.

“ Thank you uyana wam, I wasn’t sure about that line”

“ What does this mean for Wakanda, signing the accords. Are we not allowing foreign jurisdiction over our sovereignty?”

“ Many theorists have written about the social contract. It is said that for societies and individuals to have peace they most offer some of their freedom in return. That is what Wakanda is doing, we can sit by while our own die in other lands.” T’challa nodded. “It might be time for Wakanda to begin to show itself more in international affairs. I know we as a culture have been against it, but it may be time to help those who need it the most. If we do it smartly, we may be able to succeed without compromising Wakanda’s safety.” T’challa continued to nod surprised at the new position his father had begun to take. What surprised him more is his father’s next question.

“How is Alix, and the baby? She is due soon no?” His father had never asked about Alix nor her pregnancy. He rarely commented on his weekly trips. T’challa had thought his father saw it best for their relationship if it was never discussed.

“She is good and baby is good. We have about three weeks until the baby is supposed to be here” 

“That is good to hear. One's first child is an indescribable journey. The love I felt after meeting you the first time can only be battled by the love I felt when I met Shuri” The pair shared a smile

“Your mother tells me you are getting along better with Alix, have you gotten what you sought out for all those months ago?”

“I think so, Alix and I are happy. Of course, we are moving at the pace she feels comfortable, but we are moving and that is what matters now. I am just happy to know the baby is going to be coming home to a house with two loving parents. Baba, I want to bring up the discussion of the two of them moving to Wakanda. I know you had previously said no but I need to be able to have my family with me, Baba. It isn’t fair for me to have to go back and forth” T’challa began to ramble as he normally did before his father stopped him.

“I hear you uyana wam, and I have begun to agree with you” T’challa looked at his father with surprise and happiness “I have seen you handle your duties so well while still making time for Alix. I am proud of you for that, but you are right it shouldn’t be as strenuous as it has been” Both men turned to face Ayo who let them know it was time to go “We will talk more when the Accords are finished with. You must know, I am excited to meet my grandchild” He said as he got up and patted T’challa’s cheek.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had reassured Alix that he would take care of himself and be back in one piece. So she held onto that reassurance while he was gone. Not until Wednesday rolled around and she got an alert from a colleague at work about the explosion in Vienna. Alix felt the world around her freeze. She immediately began to pick up her things to go to Vienna. Luckily Jules was there to calm her down.

“Woah Alix, you have to sit down, this stress isn’t good for the baby. T’challa will not appreciate missing his child’s birth because you are freaking out. T is fine, I promise, he is probably going to call as soon as the dust settles.” Jules held his sister as he tried to help her stay calm. The siblings moved to her bed and laid facing the ceiling as Jules made her laugh to distract her from her never ending fears. Just like when they were kids and the other needed comfort. When the phone finally rang and T’challa’s voice came through, Alix felt like she was allowed to breathe again.

“I am so happy you are okay.”

“I am fine, please do not stress yourself. I cannot be worried about the two of you while I am gone.”

“Gone? Gone where? You aren’t coming back here?”

“Alix” T’challa took an extended pause trying to control his emotions. “Alix, my father, he died in the explosion. I must return home and proceed with the burial traditions, as well as challenge day. I will be becoming the King of Wakanda. I must go back and do this as quickly as possible so I can be there for you and the baby” Alix was stunned. In her fear of what has happened to T’challa, she had refused to check the news. She was heartbroken, she truly admired T’chaka as a leader and a man despite what had happened. But, truly she was heartbroken for T’challa whose relationship with his father was so strong despite their issues.

“I am so sorry T’challa, how are you taking it? I am here if you need me” T’challa took another pause

“I am fine entle I am as good as I can be. Please just take care of you and the baby okay. Tell them I will be there as soon as I can. And thank Jules for me. I am so grateful for him being there. I love you entle and I will be there as soon as I can.” And with that he was gone again,  for the two weeks he was gone contact was rare. 

It had been foreign to her, T’challa had gone from calling her twice a day when he was usually in Wakanda to a less than 5 minute call each day. The day of the challenge she was nervous but knew that he would win. Luckily Jules had moved into T’challa’s study so  Alix would not be alone, in addition to her mother coming every day to help her. But none of that compared to the comfort that T’challa had made her accustomed to. She continued to send him pictures of her and the baby as a way of saying that she was doing okay. And despite the strain that the distance created T’challa always responded with praises making Alix smile. She was happy to finally hear the joy in his words after challenge day. And that joy continued the next day when he started his rule as King. She was disappointed to hear that he was meant to go to South Korea for his first mission. But again she held on to his reassurance and prayed for a safe return. She again got a call from him about a cousin who he did not know existed and have to do go through with the challenge again. Alix was afraid, the similar indescribable feeling returned. That day she and Jules laid on her bed and he tried to calm his sister’s nerves. But when a call never came, nothing seemed to calm Alix’s nerves. When she didn’t hear anything she grew scared. T’challa had said he would call as soon as everything was done with, and if he didn’t Ayo would come and talk to her in person. As she sat in the nursery stressed out of her mind, Alix still hung on to T’challa’s reassurance. Though he had not called yet, Ayo still hadn’t come so she tightly held on to his promise to come back to her and the baby safely. That night she tossed and turned with no chances of falling asleep. She felt her baby kicking and began to rub her stomach.

“Hey there, you can’t sleep either? Not that you ever really sleep at night. Things have been a bit restless since your Baba left. I know, but he promised he would come back to us. “ Alix began to silently cry in the dark “He has to because I can’t do this without him and I don’t want to. Who is going to sing you that lullaby when you are fussy? He promised he would do that and I am holding him to it. And he still needs to help me pick a name for you. I am not choosing without him so he needs to hurry and come back. He is so excited to meet you, you can probably tell by all the kissing, singing and talking he does with you. He is so excited to be your Baba, he makes me excited even on the days when you test me. I need him to come back because you deserve to meet the amazing man your Baba is and I still have so much to tell him and I don’t want to know that my fear stopped me from saying how I truly feel about him”.

 Suddenly the kimoyo beads T’challa left started flashing. Alix struggled to sit up and reach for them as quickly as her bump would allow. She tapped them just as T’challa had taught her.  She looked up to see T’challa’s tired but alive hologram. 

“Thank God!” and she began to shed tears of joy, “I thought I lost you. You don’t know how happy I am to see you”

“Trust me entle I am thousand times more happy to see you. Please stop crying it is not good for the baby” Alix wiped at her eyes.

“Are you okay T’challa? What happened?” T’challa slowly explained to her what had happened, his words were delicate with his near death experience and his eventual revival. He knew it was a lot of information for the expectant mother, but Alix took it all in strides. She was more happy to know he was fine and wanted him back as soon as possible. But he assured her that he was okay and that he would be back tomorrow.

“I promised I would be back didn’t I. I know it is has been a whirlwind but I back do not worry.”

And that morning as she was about to start her day, T’challa walked through the door. She held onto him for a whole minute, taking in his smell and the comfort that being in his arms gave her. When she finally looked up she saw the sadness in his eyes. He leaned down to kiss her and slowly led her to the bed where they held on to each other as a way of making up for the lost time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

T’challa woke up the next morning feeling nothing like himself. He felt as though he was dragging his body to do simple tasks. It had been a difficult two weeks for him. He thought he could come back and continue his happiness in Paris. But after the dust had settled and he actually had the time to think, his grief replaced his stress in no time. He didn’t get the opportunity to mourn his father, and now it seemed as though his brain was going to take the time. To reflect on what could have been, to think about all the unfinished discussions and lessons he would never get. When he was in Wakanda he had spent every free moment looking at pictures and videos Alix sent of herself to him. He couldn’t wait to get back to her. But now that he was here, he only wanted to be alone. He was overcome with emotions he didn’t want her to see. He wanted to remain strong for her and the baby, He was afraid that the stress of the two weeks would cause her to go into labour or have complications. He thanked Bast for watching over them when he couldn’t. He hoped Bast was still there because he couldn’t find it in him to perform simple tasks. He wasn’t hungry, he would lay in his bed for hours but couldn’t sleep. He would sit in his office but couldn’t find the strength to get anything done. He tried his best to smile for Alix when he was around her, but he knew she was starting to notice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 There was something different about T’challa. He was quieter and less of the jovial person she was used to. She would catch him sitting in his study staring off into space or laying in the bed but not sleeping. He looked exhausted.

“T’challa” The  King jumped at the sound of her voice

“Are you okay?” She asked as he invited her into his lap and kissed her bump.

“Yes, I am fine. Have you had lunch yet?” he smiled but his eyes looked empty.

“Have you had anything to eat at all today? I have barely seen you get up from this chair. Come eat with me” She slowly got up and held his hand to follow. He pulled his hand from her grip and spoke 

“Actually entle I am not too hungry but you go ahead and make sure you and the baby are fed okay.”

She stared at him with skepticism but he kissed her hand and told her he will be there for dinner. Dinner came and T’challa picked at his meal. She watched as he mindlessly went to bed with the sadness written all over his eyes. T’challa continued to wallow in the sadness the next day. She again encouraged him to eat with no avail. By dinner time, Alix was more than ready to get her charming lover back to himself. Unlike T’challa, Alix was not gifted with the magic of stringing words together to create poetry. So she decided to comfort him the best way she knew how. 

She started by going to the store and the bakery down the road. She began to make dinner as Jules walked in.

“Hey sis, I thought T’challa was home why are you pretending to be in the kitchen”

“Well look who it is France’s top comedian. I can cook and pretty well thank you very much. We also had the same teacher so I don’t know why you think you are better than me. T’challa loves my cooking”

“T is also trying to get in your pants so he will say and do anything if it increases his chances” Alix through a dishtowel at Jules who was laughing at his own comment.

 “ What are you making and where is T?”

“Pilau and Lamb, just like we used to have in Kampala. He made it for me a while back. He needs to get some food in his system so I made a meal I know he will appreciate. And I even got his favourite cheesecake from the bakery down the road.”

“What is this? Alix showing affection for the man who has been begging for her attention for months. I need to take a picture for Maman as proof” Alix glared at her brother but turned her head to hide her growing smile.

“He has just been sad since he came back. He went through so much and although he refuses to talk about it I aim to provide at least some comfort just as I know he would for me.”

“Okay well, I am going to leave you to pretend to play house. Save me a plate. I will stop by tomorrow to pick it up.” He said as he kissed his sister goodbye and left. When Alix was done, she was tired but proud of her work. She waddled to T’challa’s study and found him staring off into the distance again.

“Hey babe” He slowly turned to her “Come here I want to show you something” T’challa slowly rose and followed her to the dining area. The smell of the rice hit him and the first time in days he felt hungry. 

“Did you cook? Why didn’t you call me to help?” He became frantic and afraid Alix was overworking herself.

“Don’t worry I am fine and I need to move around anyways. Can you please just eat,” she said as she led him to sit down and served him a plate. She kissed his cheek and sat next to him making sure he finished his plate. T’challa for the first time in a few days began to feel happiness. He was grateful that Alix had thought of him enough to make a meal that meant so much to them and their relationship. He kissed her hand in appreciation.

 T’challa did not struggle to eat today and even went for a little more. 

“ Thank you. This is really good Alix. I mean not as good as when I made it but a close second” she smiled, happy to have him joking with her again. The cheesecake truly lifted T’challa’s spirit. He didn’t realize how much a good meal could help lift his mood.

“Cheesecake is truly one of Bast’s greatest creations”

“Bast didn’t do that. The bakery down the road did”

“I truly believe she was present during the baking process. You cannot change my mind” Alix giggled at his silliness.

 When they were done and had cleared the table, Alix put on Real Housewives of Atlanta, which was T’challa’s favourite installation of the series.

“Hey, come watch with me please.” she patted her lap. As he slowly sat down she again patted her lap for him to lay his head. T’challa lowered himself on to her and allowed Alix to pamper him. She rubbed his ear and his curls just as he liked. She allowed him to make all the commentary he wanted without any ridicule. Alix’s love engulfed him into a serene state. He thanked Bast for bringing a woman into his life who knew when he needed his love the most, even when he could not say it himself. As he laid on her lap, he was sure he had begun to feel his body become light again. 

“Though I have seen this episode, I am still unsure as to why Porsha came on the girls' trip knowing that Kandi was going to call her out for her rumours. Could that make any less sense? I do not know why I watch this. ” Alix smiled as he rambled on. During a commercial break, he grew silent. He finally spoke but it was slower and seemed more reserved than T’challa normally was.

“Being back here is the first time it is truly hitting me that he is gone. Though  I met with him in the planes, the fact I know he won’t ever back have really rocked me these past few days.” Alix wiped away the few tears T’challa had let fall. “He will never be able to meet our baby, and it so funny because when I brought up the two you coming home with me he was willing to talk about it. He said we would go further into detail after the conference. He even said he was excited to meet his first grandchild. Now that will never happen and it truly breaks my heart knowing that.” T’challa began to cry a bit harder. “I thought if I came here and was strong for you and the baby I would be able to forget, but the sadness has taken over my body” Alix wiped at his eyes again

 “T’challa you do not always have to be tough for me or the baby. You don't have to hold it in. Let me be the strong one for you sometimes. Let me be the shoulder you cry on. And know this, your father may not have gotten the opportunity to fully amend this issue, but I know for a fact he is proud of the man and King you have become. And you are going to be an amazing Baba. His memory lives in you, so make sure you do great things with it.” 

T’challa got off her lap to give Alix a kiss before lowering himself back on her lap.  “Thank you entle I truly feel a sense of relief in your arms. “

“Don’t thank me for doing my job.”

“Who knew that the hungriest and crankiest pregnant woman could be this kind” Alix laughed out loud almost as though she was thanking God for the small sense of normalcy that had returned.

“There is my baby daddy. Always taking my good gestures for granted” They both laughed as T’challa snuck a kiss to her hand. They went back to watching the show with T’challa��s added commentary that made Alix giggle. 

 Even in his stage of sadness, Alix’ s proximity to T’challa still made her feel at home in her own apartment.  Alix’s comfort had allowed T’challa to open and release a sea of emotion he did not realize he was holding. In her arms, the world stood still and waited for him. He had never felt a sense of peace as he did with Alix. He thanked Bast for providing him with a woman like Alix. More importantly, he thanked Bast for providing him with more time to enjoy the mother of his child and making her his inner peace. 

______________________________________________________________

Taglist:

@writingmarvellousimagines @chaneajoyyy @oceanscorazon @teechallas-blog @ashanti-notthesinger @wakanda-inspired @90sinspiredgirl @lovely-geek @fd-writes @chefjessypooh @imagine-mbaku @dopegalkk @liyahshaeking

[violetsmoak]

Pieces of April [4/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.

Author’s Note: In which panicking Jason needs someone to help ground him...

First Chapter

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Jason only just makes it to the nearest bathroom and upchucks everything he’s consumed in the past five and a half hours.

He is left with only the same sweaty, stomach-warbling panic he remembers from the most frightening moments in his life.

Finding his mother’s limp body in a piss-stained back alley. Making a run from Batman and being unable to escape that heavy, gauntleted hand clamping down on his shoulder. The first time he jumped off Wayne Tower with only a reinforced grapple line to hold him up. The first time he got shot. The first time he watched Bruce break down in front of him.

His first and last moments looking at a too-wide smile and the gleam of a bloodied crowbar. A timer ticking down to zero.

It doesn’t make sense.

In the vast procession of frightening and dangerous screw-ups that litter his life, the news that he has a kid shouldn’t fill him with so much dread. But right now, he feels paralyzed and can’t even sort through his spinning thoughts long enough to figure out why.

Jason wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stumbles out of the bathroom, ignoring wary looks sent his way by several hospital staff. His stomach is still flip-flopping, but he doesn’t think he’s doing to puke again, so now…he just needs to move.

Once he escapes the maternity ward, he has no idea where he’s supposed to do next. The largest part of himself wants to leave the hospital—and the situation—as fast as possible and not look back.

It’s what he does, isn’t it? Get into a jam, leave a trail of fire and debris, and then move on to the next job so as the avoid the consequences as long as possible.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Can’t avoid consequences forever.

He planned an entire vengeful crusade around that premise and as for himself, he’s never been one to try to avoid what’s coming to him. It’s just usually when he throws himself headlong into complicated situations, he has a pretty accurate idea of what the outcome will look like.

Not this time, though.

This time, his wandering is as aimless as he thoughts, having no direction and no destination in mind. Doors and stairwells and different hospital wards pass him but he barely registers.

“I’ll be back with your daughter.”

Daughter.

This—now—a daughter—a baby: it’s too much. Too much information or implication or whatever it is blocking the part of his brain that thinks ahead. There’s just too much.

Sometimes when things get to be too much, you need to take a step back, chum.

Bruce’s voice echoes in his head somewhere, rising above the gibbering panic.

Most of the time you’ll have too little information to go on—but very occasionally, you’ll have too much. In either case, there are drawbacks, but you still take the same approach. Focus on one aspect at a time. Move through your process as slowly, methodically as possible. You must have all the facts before you can formulate a cohesive plan of attack.

Jason snorts, shaking his head and the thought away with it.

Because Bruce was clearly slow and methodical when the demon brat appeared on the scene. The way Jason’s heard, the kid shows up and the same night he’s living at the manor.

B’s biggest problem has always been how quick he is to go down the accidental-kid-acquisition route.

Which makes him about the last person Jason wants to be thinking about right now. Even just thinking about what his reaction would be if he found out about Jason’s situation makes his skin crawl. All he needs on top of things is judgement and disappointment the way only Batman can get just right, especially when it comes to Jason.

(Not least of all because Bruce was the one to make him sit through a painful and—what Jason believed, up until now, to be—completely unnecessary talk about safe sex back when Jason met his first girlfriend.)

Except.

As messed up as Bruce and his methods sometimes were, more often than not it’s those early lessons that kept Jason alive. Especially after he died.

So…okay.

Facts.

Isabel is dead.

That’s a fact.

Something solid, something he can deal with, as shitty as it feels to do so.

Jason knows how to deal with the dead—hell, he was the dead. It doesn’t get any closer than that. There’s a routine to it, expectations and procedure—

He can start with that.

Destination finally in mind, he sets off.

Hospitals are the same everywhere, really. If you look like you know where you’re going and walk with enough confidence in your stride, people don’t question you or your presence.

Jason finds the hospital mortuary with relative ease, orchestrates a distraction for the morgue attendant with the same, and heads inside. A cold chill creeps up his spine at the familiar, ever-present lingering stench of formaldehyde. He’s had nightmares of that smell ever since he woke up from his coma, and he doesn’t know why since he was stone-dead before he went anywhere near a morgue.

He snags the attendant’s discarded tablet on his way past the empty desk and scans down the list of names, teeth clenching when he recognizes what he’s looking for.

Maria Isabela Ardila, 25. Preliminary cause of death, contingent on full postmortem: pulmonary abruption.

So she hasn’t been autopsied yet, which means she’s not in a drawer. It’s only been about two hours…

Jason ducks into the adjacent lab, glancing at several gurneys with body bags on them. He doesn’t even need to check the identifying tags; only one of them contains a body of Isabel’s height and build.

He approaches the body bag slowly, is barely aware of his arm reaching out, of carefully unzipping it over her face.

And there she is.

Pale now, no more color in her cheeks, hair limp with dried sweat. Her jaw is slack, expression devoid of the light and spark that drew her to him in the first place.

He’ll never see it again.

Jason swallows.

It’s not like he was in love with her or anything, but it was a close thing—if given the chance, he might have one day felt for her the way he felt for Essence. The knowledge that he’s lost yet another potential human connection is another blow he wasn’t expecting today.  

“What the hell were you thinking?” he murmurs, fists balling.

He’s angry, but not at her for being dead. Well, okay, he is a little. Not completely because from what he understands, what killed her is something that could happen to anyone.

No, what he’s angry about is the fact she was pregnant and didn’t tell him. That she both kept and kept secret the fact she was having his kid, never gave him a chance to know about it or to try to convince her why it would be a bad idea.

And now she’s dead and if it hadn’t been for him—if he hadn’t met her—she’d still be alive right now.

The skin over his knuckles is pulled painfully tight now, and he forces himself to loosen his fist and shake it off. Slowly, he reaches out and lays his palm across Isabel’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “This is all my fault.”

He backs away, threading his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep himself from lashing out with fists.

This is so messed up. This is so…too much.

And sitting in the morgue is probably not helping.

He paces back and forth a minute longer, before digging into his pocket for his phone. It’s time to contact the one person who can usually knock him out of his own head.

Roy has gone through this. Hell, Jason watched him go through it, he was there when Jade told him that he was a father. Roy knows what it’s like to have something like this dropped on you out of the blue.

It takes longer than normal to get through, but Roy answers all the same.

“…Jaybird?”

He sounds rough, but not strained in the way Jason would associate with imminent explosions. He can only hope his own voice is a little stronger. It takes a bit, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he tries to figure out what to say.

“I’m in a mess,” he manages. “And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

“Gotham style mess, or alien mess?” Roy asks warily.

“I…have a kid.”

There’s nothing but the sound of static for several breaths, and then, “…Say again?”

“A kid. A…baby, technically. She’s…I just…found out. An hour ago? Seems like longer—”

He’s pacing again.

“Whoa, hold on, slow the hell down, what do you mean you have a kid? How—?”

“Do I really need to paint a picture?” Jason hisses.

“Nah, I’m good—but shit, Jay, this is—whoa.” Pause. “Are you okay?”

It’s the first time anyone’s out and out asked him. Drake sort of did, but that was buried under the guise of assessing if he was injured.

“Not really,” he admits. Then, “Isabel’s dead.”

“What? No—how is that related to—?”

“She’s the mother. Was the mother. She bled out delivering the…”

The baby.

His daughter.

“Shit.” Roy groans, exhaling harshly. And again, “Shit. Jay. I’m sorry, man. I know things didn’t work out, but…she was cool.”

“Yeah…” Jason swallows. “Roy, I have no fucking clue what I’m supposed to do.”

“No kidding. Okay. I hear ya buddy. First of all, take a breath. Or five hundred.” Somehow it’s less irksome being told to breathe by Roy than his replacement. “This is big. You’re allowed to freak out, but not so much where you lose your head, okay? And look at it this way, at least Isabel wasn’t an internationally renowned assassin that more often than not wanted to kill you.”

Jason coughs out an unexpected, manic chuckle at that.

“Where are you right now?”

“Hospital. Technically, the morgue.”

A pained exhale at that. “Isabel, right?”

“Right.”

“And the kid?”

“Up in the maternity ward still.” Jason pauses. “Drake’s keeping an eye on her.”

“Drake? As in Tim Drake?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, you’re the one who picked up the damn phone and sent him to babysit me.”

“Yeah, but that was before...”

“Before it turned out there was actual babysitting involved?”

“Right.”

Jason swallows back another wave of mounting hysteria.

“He’s as weirded out by this as I am, and I don’t know how long it’s going to be before he tattles to the Bat cavalry. Could really use someone in my corner on this one.”

“It sounds to me like you already do,” Roy points out, “at least in the short term.”

“Yeah, well, he’s never been in this situation, unless Wayne’s PR-team is a lot better at their jobs than I thought.”

Roy sighs heavily, in a way that immediately has Jason’s shoulders tense.

“You know I’d be there in a second if I could. But right now, I’m kinda…tied up.”

Jason frowns. “Literally or metaphorically?”

“Little bit of both?”

“Do you need me to—?”

“No! No, you have your own issues to deal with right now. The kind that trump mine, and your first instinct can’t be to leave Gotham in your rear-view instead of dealing with this.”

Why not? Jason wants to ask but doesn’t.

“Look, Jay…” Roy sighs, weary. “This sort of thing…there’s nothing I can tell you that to give you an easy answer here. Kids…every kid is different. It’s always different, so…you gotta go with your gut. Ain’t nothing anyone else can tell you to do. And as messed up as you are right now, it’s not about you. It’s about what’s best for her.”

Jason nods at this even though Roy can’t see him. Maybe if he focusses on that—distances himself from the situation, thinks about the baby like it belongs to someone else. Needs to think about it like some Crime Alley orphan he’s rescued and needs to take care of.

Temporarily.

Until he figures it all out.

“Listen, whatever you decide, I’m with you man. Ride or die, even if I’m not there right this second. Soon as I can, I’m there,” Roy goes on. “Until then, whatever you do, don’t try to go it alone. I know from experience trying to deal with a tiny human on your own is asking for trouble.”

Jason inhales slowly, scowling at the sharp smell in the air and forces an exhale. “So don’t run Drake off.”

“Or try to kill him.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

Jason glances back to Isabel’s body on the gurney, stares at the lifeless face that will never smile again. Thinks of the infant upstairs who may or may not look like her, but who is definitely his.

“I have to get back upstairs,” he says. “Got some decisions to make.”

And that’s putting it lightly…

He starts to hang up, but then Roy speaks again. “Hey, Jaybird?”

“Yeah?”

“Bouncing baby girl, that’s…” his best friend swallows so heavily it’s audible across the line. “That’s something.”

Jason knows he’s thinking about Lian.

“Yeah, man, it’s…it’s definitely something.”

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Hm, I think next chapter we'll check in with Tim's POV, just to switch things up...

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Next Chapter

[cuatropelos-blog]

That Was the Year That Was – 1916

Monarch – George V

Prime Minister – H. H. Asquith (Coalition) (until 5 December), David Lloyd George (Coalition) (starting 6 December)

The Battle of the Somme: 141 days of horror

Battle of the Somme: More than one million soldiers die; with 57,470 British Empire casualties on the first day, 19,240 of them killed, the British Army’s bloodiest day; the Accrington Pals battalion is effectively wiped out in the first few minutes. The immediate result is tactically inconclusive.

The Battle of the Somme, fought in northern France, was one of the bloodiest of World War One. For five months the British and French armies fought the Germans in a brutal battle of attrition on a 15-mile front.

The aims of the battle were to relieve the French Army fighting at Verdun and to weaken the German Army. However, the Allies were unable to break through German lines. In total, there were over one million dead and wounded on all sides.

The Allies bombarded German trenches for seven days and then sent 100,000 men over the top to attack the German lines.

The day was a disaster for the British. The Germans weathered the artillery fire in deep trenches and came up fighting. As the British soldiers advanced, they were mown down by machine gun and rifle fire. In total, 19,240 British soldiers lost their lives. It was the bloodiest day in the history of the British army. However, the French had more success and inflicted big losses on German troops. In spite of heavy British losses, Douglas Haig, the British general, agreed to continue the attack.

The home towns which provided the volunteers for General Kitchener’s “Pal’s battalions” were hit hardest. The 11th East Lancashire battalion was known as the Accrington Pals. Of the 720 men who went into action on 1 July, 584 became casualties. Although they were still behind the war effort, people at home wore black arm bands to commemorate those who had lost their lives.

UK Conscription: the First World War

Your Country Needs You

Within a year of Great Britain declaring war on Germany in August 1914, it had become obvious that it was not possible to continue fighting by relying on voluntary recruits.

Lord Kitchener’s campaign – promoted by his famous "Your Country Needs You" poster – had encouraged over one million men to enlist by January 1915. But this was not enough to keep pace with mounting casualties.

Conscription introduced

The government saw no alternative but to increase numbers by conscription – compulsory active service. Parliament was deeply divided but recognised that because of the imminent collapse of the morale of the French army, immediate action was essential.

In January 1916 the Military Service Act was passed. This imposed conscription on all single men aged between 18 and 41, but exempted the medically unfit, clergymen, teachers and certain classes of industrial worker.

Conscientious objectors – men who objected to fighting on moral grounds– were also exempted, and were in most cases given civilian jobs or non-fighting roles at the front.

A second Act passed in May 1916 extended conscription to married men.

Conscription was not applied to Ireland because of the 1916 Easter Rising, although in fact many Irishmen volunteered to fight.

Effects of conscription

Conscription was not popular and in April 1916 over 200,000 demonstrated against it in Trafalgar Square. Although many men failed to respond to the call-up, in the first year 1.1 million enlisted.

In 1918 during the last months of the war, the Military Service (No. 2) Act raised the age limit to 51.

Conscription was extended until 1920 to enable the army to deal with continuing trouble spots in the Empire and parts of Europe.

During the whole of the war conscription had raised some 2.5 million men.

munitions factory explosion at Uplees near Faversham, Kent, kills 108 men

That morning, Major Aston Cooper-Key, His Majesty’s Inspector of Explosives, travelled to Kent to make an inspection of the privately owned factory at Uplees, which was then working flat-out in the wake of the shell crisis of 1915. The complex, so the inspector noted, was in “a very congested state”, the Ministry of Munitions having sent supplies “much in excess of the requirements of the works”. Of special concern were the quantities of TNT and ammonium nitrate – these were combined at the plant to produce amatol, for use in shells and bombs – packed into magazines or, when the buildings were full, left out in the open and protected with tarpaulins of green canvas. Still, such congestion was to be expected, and at least the Explosives Loading Company, which ran the plant, was not shirking out here on the marshes. Cooper-Key declared himself satisfied with the general condition of the factory, and left to file his report.

It seems the major had not noticed, in the course of his inspection, the pile of empty TNT bags tucked against the north wall of building no 833: a brick-and-timber structure filled with 150 tonnes of high explosive. In the early hours of Sunday 2 April, soldiers and civilian guards made their usual rounds of darkened sheds and silent machinery, and came across an incipient fire between the TNT store and a nearby boiler house. It had been caused by sparks from a chimney fitted with an inadequate arrester. The fire was put out, and around seven o’clock the working day began. We must assume the unseen arc and fall of another spark occurred late in the morning, in bright sunshine, and this time it reached the pile of bags, impregnated with TNT dust. It was shortly after noon when the foreman of a local contractor, having spotted the first flames, put his head in at the door of the canteen and said: “You are sitting here enjoying yourselves, but if you don’t look out you will have one of your buildings alight.”

The manager George Evetts had left the factory at noon for his home in Uplees, and was sitting down to his midday meal when the news reached him. He started back at once along the lane to the main gate, and called for the fire brigade to be sent. At building 833, 30 or 40 men were engaged with buckets and chemical extinguishers. Their efforts were having little or no effect. At half past 12 a fire engine arrived, but the nearest hydrant was 700 yards away; the firemen would have to wait for an additional hose.

In the meantime the most urgent task was to remove as much explosive as possible from 833 and surrounding buildings, and to drench with buckets what could not be moved. Sparks had begun to fall on another storehouse; a soldier, Private Wiltshire, clambered on to the roof to extinguish them, flinging himself flat to avoid heat and smoke from 833. A young firefighter, Steve Epps, recalled: “The stuff inside the shed was already alight … One old chap – he could see I was a bit nervy – he said: ‘That won’t go off unless it’s detonated, old chap.’ I said: ‘Right, I feel safe enough.’” Some of the workers present later reported they had noticed now some change in the nature and appearance of the fire; Evetts, standing 40 yards away, thought he saw a puff of dense black smoke as he turned in the direction of 833. Epps was closer to the heart of things: “We’d just got the water on it, and up she went.”

The explosion at Uplees, which killed 108 people and injured many more, was not the first nor the last such disaster at a munitions factory during the war. Nor was it even a unique occurrence that year on the outskirts of Faversham, though it was certainly the most deadly. (In the autumn of 1916, four women were killed at an adjacent factory. Only men had been present on 2 April – the “canary girls” had Sundays off.) Accounts of the day’s events, and the aftermath, survive in Cooper-Key’s report to the Home Office, and in oral histories recorded decades later. In writing about the explosion and its radiance or ramification in the land and in memory, I have tried to stay close to this minute-by-minute testimony. But I have had to reckon also with the half-mythic and evanescent nature of such an event; at times the story has seemed as porous as the landscape in which it happened.

The description of explosions is really a matter of before and after, it proving so difficult to inhabit the appalling moment itself, though there are notable exceptions, such as Hemingway and Ford Madox Ford. There exists, for example, a minor literature regarding gunpowder and munitions factories, with accounts of such places appearing in Victorian magazines such as Dickens’s Household Words. During the first world war, Arthur Conan Doyle and Rebecca West were invited to report on the Ministry of Munitions factory (unnamed in their articles) at Gretna. West, who is keen to note the diligence, grace and bravery of the women workers, also remarks that such a secret place, devoted to nothing but death, “has the disordered and fantastic quality of a dream”. In the case of Kent, the most resonant treatment of the county’s centuries-long romance with the chemistry of death came later, and in fiction. In Russell Hoban’s 1980 novel Riddley Walker, with its demotic Joycean dialect, post-apocalyptic Kent is in thrall to the ghost of an awful energy once loosed upon the land: “that cleverness what made us crookit”.

In the aftermath of 2 April 1916, men plunged into drainage dykes to retrieve the dying and the dead; they threw timbers from ruined buildings across the sea of mud surrounding the crater, and pulled their comrades, or what was left of them, from the ooze. Some stood up within the circle of destruction to find they were naked and almost unharmed, but the men beside them blown to pieces. Others had died 100 yards away, victims of flying debris or the blast wave’s capriciousness.

Epps, blown into a dyke and half-buried under shattered timbers, was the only survivor of his group of seven firemen. Evetts also lived; deafened and with most of his clothes blown off, he climbed with another manager on to the roof of a burning magazine building, and soldiers passed them up buckets till the fire was out. In his report, Cooper-Key notes with absurd sobriety: “Their gallantry is much to be commended.” The number of dead was first put at 106. Most were buried in a mass grave at Faversham cemetery, the Archbishop of Canterbury presiding. A week later, another body was discovered in a ditch. An ambulance driver who had helped gather the dead returned home to the village of Doddington, lay awake all night, then rose on Monday morning and hanged himself.

The explosion had been heard on the French coast. Dinner tables shook on the outskirts of London, and plate-glass windows shattered on the seafronts of Essex. The cross was said to have fallen from the altar at St Peter’s church, Shoebury. From the seed of a small agitation of the air, here at the darkened edge of England, destruction and the news of destruction hurried over the flat land. If you walk this summer through the nature reserve surrounding the place where building 833 stood – nothing there but a shallow declivity of the ground – you will find the dykes are filled with weed, so they look almost solid. And if you crouch towards the water, clouds of pond skaters teem on the surface, which remains unmoved till you stand and cast a shadow on the ditch, causing the insects to panic, sending countless ripples through the water, speeding across the flat green plain.

English civilian ferry captain Charles Fryatt is executed at Bruges

Charles Fryatt: The man executed for ramming a U-Boat?

The name Charles Fryatt is memorialised from New Zealand to Canada. Yet he was tried, convicted and executed as a "terrorist". A century on, Captain Fryatt’s case is still debated by legal experts. But why would a merchant ship’s commander ever try ramming a U-boat?

"I don’t think he set out to be a hero," says Louise Gill. "I think he set out to look after his crew, his men and women, and trying to avoid capture."

Gill is the great-granddaughter of Fryatt who, in March 1915, attempted to ram a prowling German U-boat with his 1902-built passenger ferry, the Great Eastern Railway-owned SS Brussels.

Ordered to stop by submarine U-33 near the Maas lightvessel off the Dutch coast, Fryatt – born in Southampton and raised in Harwich – saw the German U-boat surface.

It was his third such encounter with a U-boat that month.

Believing it was being readied to torpedo his ship, Fryatt ordered full steam ahead and tried to ram the U-boat head on, forcing it to crash-dive. The SS Brussels managed to escape and Fryatt was awarded a gold watch by the Admiralty.

But 15 months later his ship was cornered by five German destroyers shortly after setting sail from the Hook of Holland. Fryatt, his crew and passengers were taken to an internment camp near Berlin.

Fryatt was then taken away to Bruges to stand trial on charges of being franc-tireur – a civilian engaged in hostile military activity.

His gold watch from the Admiralty was used as evidence against him and he was accused of sinking the German submarine – despite U-33 still being in active service.

The hearing, sentence and execution by firing squad all took place on the same day, 27 July.

Fryatt had earlier told his captors he had done his duty to protect his crew but, according to press reports at the time, was not allowed to speak at his trial.

His death was to have propaganda value for both sides, says Mark Baker, a Fryatt memorabilia collector who is organising an exhibition commemorating the centenary of his execution.

For the Germans, the execution of Fryatt was a case of justice served.

For the British, says Baker, Fryatt’s execution was both an outrage and a useful springboard for recruitment and swaying international opinion against Germany.

"In 1916," he says, "people were starting to become a bit war weary and recruitment had become conscription.

"His death came at the right time for the government which used the case of Fryatt to show how ghastly the ‘Hun’ were."

The name "Fryatt" was also written on shells fired at the Germans.

The Fryatt case was also seized upon by Irish nationalists who accused the British government of hypocrisy.

If the British government was outraged at the execution of a civilian committing an act of war, the nationalists argued, how could they condone such executions in Ireland?

Mr Baker, whose exhibition takes place at the Masonic Hall in Harwich (where Fryatt himself was once a member), said: "I find the story itself fascinating,

"Though sometimes the way it is told on websites is as if he was the only person who had ever rammed a U-boat.

"U-boat ramming was actually common practice following an instruction from the Admiralty that crews should attempt to ram U-boats.

"The objective, however, wasn’t to actually hit the U-boats," says Baker, "because merchant ships were usually fairly fragile.

"The actual objective was to make the submarines dive."

"It is still very, very controversial," said Baker. "It’s a case that has exercised legal minds ever since.

"Merchant mariners’ rights to defend themselves in open water is still very much a grey area."

World War One: Hereford theatre fire killed eight at fundraiser

During World War One there were thousands of appeals and fundraising events to support soldiers serving at the front. One such event at a theatre in Hereford ended in "a ghastly tragedy" when eight children died after their cotton wool costumes caught fire. It led to accusations a smoker had caused their deaths.

Like many English cities Hereford has close ties to its local regiment and the soldiers serving in it.

By 1916, the vast army of Kitchener volunteers were in France preparing for the Battle of The Somme, and most families knew someone serving at the front.

The two concerts at the Garrick Theatre in Hereford, in April 1916, were advertised in the Hereford Times as "a grand variety entertainment – for the benefit of the Herefords and Shropshires".

More than 40 children were involved in the amateur show. But, just as the first performance was coming to an end, fire broke out.

As the newspaper reported, "in the space of three minutes what had been a highly successful performance was transformed into a ghastly tragedy".

Thirteen children had just left the stage after performing what the reporter described as "an exceedingly pretty dance and snow scene", complete with paper snow.

Their white costumes, which so caught the reporter’s eye, were made of highly-flammable cotton wool.

"By some means yet unexplained, the cotton wool garments of one of them had become ignited and in an instant a dozen children were literally in flames," the paper reported.

"The little mites’ clothes blazed up in pillars of fire, defying control before they had been terribly burnt.

"Bright happy little youngsters, only a few minutes before in snow white costumes, were now charred and blacked, some beyond recognition."

In the auditorium, "the large audience rose en masse" and there was "an immediate rush for exits with anguished cries", their correspondent reported.

Parents who were backstage, including "Mrs Lilly Roden… in the garb of Britannia", tried to beat out the flames "with the utmost heroism".

A man from the audience jumped the orchestra pit to help and "without fear, fought the flames with his hands", the reporter observed.

Six of the 13 children died that night from their burns – another two later died in hospital.

An inquest was held against the backdrop of rumours in the city the fire had been caused by a smoker.

Faith Mailes, who organised the concert and was mother to one of those who died, had no doubt a smoker was to blame.

She told the inquest jury Ivy Illman, sister of one of the victims, told her "she had seen a man smoking who threw his match down".

"I should like to find the one who dropped the match," Mrs Mailes testified.

Theatre staff and other people backstage strenuously denied this.

Reginald Maddox, theatre manager, told the jury there were notices in the dressing rooms and on stage banning smoking.

Staff working backstage and an agent who was there on the night all denied smoking.

Mr Maddox also told the inquest he had no idea the children would be wearing cotton wool costumes – its use was banned in theatres because of the fire risk. Mrs Mailes confirmed she had not told Mr Maddox cotton wool was used, "not thinking it was necessary".

The inquest ruled the deaths of the children were accidental and there was no evidence of what started the fire.

The city came to a halt when the funeral service for five of the victims were held at Hereford Cathedral.

People lined Broad Street ten deep in places as one by one the funeral corteges, each with an escort of soldiers to act as pall bearers, passed.

The letters page of the paper was filled with calls for a lasting memorial to the children who died.

In September, a meeting at the town hall decided to raise "£500 with which to endow a cot in the Children’s Ward of Herefordshire General Hospital as a suitable memorial of the sad incident".

The appeal beat its target, raising just over £540 and the cot and a memorial plaque were unveiled at the general hospital in April 1917.

That hospital building and the Garrick are long gone, but the terrible fire that claimed the lives of eight girls is commemorated by a plaque on the wall of the car park that stands where the theatre once did.

daylight saving time introduced

The Daylight Saving Act of 1917 was enacted by the Dominion of Newfoundland to adopt daylight saving time (DST), thus making it one of the first jurisdictions in North America to do so, only a year after the United Kingdom on May 21, 1916. DST was not instituted in the United States until March 31, 1918.

While living in Paris in 1784, Benjamin Franklin wrote a satirical essay, in which he suggested that Parisians get up earlier in the morning. Modern DST was first proposed by the New Zealand entomologist George Vernon Hudson in 1895. William Willett, a London building contractor, independently invented DST and pitched it to the British Parliament in 1907. In that same year Willett spoke with John Anderson, who was on a business trip in Britain, and explained to him the benefits of adopting DST and its economic benefits. Germany and its allies were the first European countries to adopt DST in 1916, followed quickly by the United Kingdom and many other western European countries, all in an effort to save fuel during the First World War.

Upon his return to Newfoundland, Anderson became a strong proponent of daylight saving time and three times introduced a bill to the Legislative Council for its adoption. The first two attempts, in 1909 and 1910, failed. In 1917, spurred on perhaps by the recent adoptions of DST in Europe, Anderson introduced a third bill which passed on June 17, 1917. The new law stated that at nine o’clock in the evening of the second Sunday in June clocks would be put ahead to ten o’clock and would not be turned back until the last Sunday in September. It is not clear exactly when clocks were put ahead in 1917, as the bill became law one week after DST was scheduled to take effect. In St. John’s DST was first applied on April 8, 1917, by virtue of a local ordinance. DST in Newfoundland came to be known as "Anderson’s Time", at least in the years immediately following its adoption.

Daylight-saving time remained a provincial jurisdiction in Newfoundland since 1949. In 1952, the timing was changed such that it began just after midnight of the last Sunday in April and ended at midnight of the last Sunday in September. In 1970, it was extended to the midnight of the last Sunday in October.

1916 UK news events

The British Admiralty invites bids for aircraft catapults for the first time, asking for electric, hydraulic, and compressed air catapults. It does not pursue electric or hydraulic types, but two compressed-air types are produced.

Spring – British officials order one million rounds of .303-caliber (7.7-mm) explosive and incendiary ammunition for use by aircraft against German airships. The ammunition will be issued to Royal Flying Corps home air defense squadrons during the summer.

On a single evening, 10 of the 16 Royal Flying Corps aircraft which take off to defend England against German air attack crash, killing three pilots. By May, RFC night flying skills will have improved to the point that 10 aircraft that take off on a single evening all land safely.

1 January – the Royal Army Medical Corps carries out the first successful blood transfusion using blood that has been stored and cooled.

9 January – World War I: Battle of Gallipoli: last British troops evacuated from Gallipoli, as the Ottoman Empire prevails over a joint British and French operation to capture Istanbul.

27 January – conscription introduced by the Military Service Act; applies to unmarried men aged 18–41 from 2 March and to married men in the same age bracket from April/May; it does not extend to Ireland.

1 February – night-long German Zeppelin raid on the West Midlands of England, claiming at least 35 lives; Tipton suffers the heaviest losses, with 14 fatalities.

1 March – transfer of the National Library of Wales at Aberystwyth into its purpose-built premises is completed.

4 March – third war budget raises income tax to five shillings in the pound.

10 March – Sir Hubert Parry writes the choral setting of William Blake’s poem "And did those feet in ancient time", which becomes known as "Jerusalem" (first performed 28 March at the Queen’s Hall, London).

22 March – marriage of J. R. R. Tolkien and Edith Bratt at St. Mary Immaculate Roman Catholic Church, Warwick. They will serve as the inspiration for the fictional characters Beren and Lúthien.

25 March – Military Medal instituted as a military decoration for personnel of the British Army and other services below commissioned rank, for bravery in battle on land.

1/2–5/6 April – nightly German Navy airship raids on England.

2 April – munitions factory explosion at Uplees near Faversham, Kent, kills 108 men.

7 April – Garrick Theatre fire, Hereford: 8 young girls appearing in an amateur benefit evening performance for soldiers are killed when their costumes catch fire.

9 April – The Libau sets sail from Germany with a cargo of 20,000 rifles to assist Irish republicans; Captain Karl Spindler changes the name of the vessel to the Aud to avoid British detection . 24–30 April – Easter Rising in Ireland: Members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood proclaim an Irish Republic and the Irish Volunteers and Irish Citizen Army occupy the General Post Office and other buildings in Dublin before surrendering to the British Army.

24 April–19 May – Voyage of the James Caird, an open boat journey from Elephant Island in the South Shetland Islands to South Georgia in the southern Atlantic Ocean (800 nautical miles (1,500 km; 920 mi)) undertaken by Sir Ernest Shackleton and five companions to obtain rescue for the main body of the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition (left under command of Frank Wild) following the loss of its ship Endurance.

25 April – German battlecruisers and Zeppelins bombard Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth.

27 April – Gas attack at Hulluch in France: 47th Brigade, 16th (Irish) Division, decimated in one of the most heavily concentrated gas attacks of the war.

29 April – Siege of Kut ends with the surrender of British forces to the Ottoman Empire at Kut-al-Amara on the Tigris in Basra Vilayet during the Mesopotamian campaign.

2 May – eight German Zeppelins raid the east coast of England.

16 May – the UK and France conclude the secret Sykes–Picot Agreement, which is to divide Arab areas of the Ottoman Empire, following the conclusion of the war, into French and British spheres of influence.

21 May – daylight saving time introduced.

31 May–1 June – Battle of Jutland between the Royal Navy’s Grand Fleet and the German High Seas Fleet in the North Sea, World War I’s only large-scale clash of battleships. The result is tactically inconclusive but British dominance of the North Sea is maintained. Prince Albert is present as an officer.

5 June – HMS Hampshire sinks having hit a mine off Orkney with Lord Kitchener aboard. 737 lives, including Kitchener, were lost.

12 June – Whit Monday bank holiday abandoned.

First day on the Somme opens

1 July–18 November – Battle of the Somme: More than one million soldiers die; with 57,470 British Empire casualties on the first day, 19,240 of them killed, the British Army’s bloodiest day; the Accrington Pals battalion is effectively wiped out in the first few minutes. The immediate result is tactically inconclusive.

25 July – North of Scotland Special Military Area declared, restricting access by non-residents to everywhere north of the Great Glen. Other areas so designated this year are the Isle of Sheppey (7 September), Newhaven (22 September), Harwich (27 September), Dover (6 October) and Spurn.

27 July – English civilian ferry captain Charles Fryatt is executed at Bruges after a German court-martial condemns him for attempting to ram a U-boat in 1915.

3 August – the musical comedy Chu Chin Chow, written, produced, directed and starring Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, premières at His Majesty’s Theatre in London. It will run for five years and a total of 2,238 performances (more than twice as many as any previous musical), a record that will stand for nearly forty years.

7 August – August bank holiday abandoned.

10 August – the official documentary propaganda film The Battle of the Somme is premièred in London. In the first six weeks of general release (from 20 August) 20 million people view it.

21–24 August – Low Moor Explosion: A series of explosions at a munitions factory in Bradford kills 40 people and injures over 100.

2 September – William Leefe-Robinson becomes the first pilot to shoot down a German airship over Britain.

15–22 September – Battle of Flers–Courcelette in France: British advance. The battle is significant for the first use of the tank in warfare. The Prime Minister’s son, Raymond Asquith, is killed in action.

24 September – following a bombing raid on east London, German Zeppelin LZ76 carrying military number L 33 makes a forced landing at Little Wigborough in Essex; its crew are the only armed enemy personnel to set foot in England during the War.

6 October – a British Army Order removes the requirement for soldiers to wear moustaches.

27 October – life-boat William and Emma from Salcombe Lifeboat Station capsizes on service off the south Devon coast with the loss of all 13 crew.

21 November – hospital ship HMHS Britannic, designed as the third Olympic-class ocean liner for White Star Line, sinks in the Kea Channel of the Aegean Sea after hitting a mine. 30 lives are lost and, at 48,158 gross register tons, she is the largest ship lost during the War.

28 November – first bombing of central London by a fixed-wing aircraft when a German LVG C.II biplane drops 6 bombs near Victoria station.

5 December – Asquith resigns; on 6 December Lloyd George is invited to succeed him as Prime Minister, which he does on 7 December.

11 December – Lloyd George establishes a War Cabinet; Lord Derby succeeds him as War Minister; Ministry of Labour formed.

22 December – the Sopwith Camel biplane fighter aircraft makes its maiden flight at Brooklands.

31 December – Douglas Haig promoted to Field marshal.

The Kent village of Hampton-on-Sea is abandoned due to coastal erosion. Hampton-on-Sea was a drowned and abandoned village in what is now the Hampton area of Herne Bay, Kent. It grew from a tiny fishing hamlet in 1864 at the hands of an oyster fishery company, was developed from 1879 by land agents, abandoned in 1916 and finally drowned due to coastal erosion by 1921.

Mary Hare School is founded as Dene Hollow School for the Deaf, originally in Burgess Hill.

Gustav Holst completes composition of his orchestral suite The Planets, Opus 32.

White-tailed sea eagle last breeds in the UK, on Skye (prior to reintroduction).

The 1915–16 season was the first season of special wartime football in England during the First World War.

Britain proclaims Gilbert & Ellice Islands as a colony in Pacific.

Posted by brizzle born and bred on 2019-03-16 12:39:31

Tagged: , That Was the Year That Was – 1916 , 1916 UK news headlines , British , UK , Britain , United Kingdom

The post That Was the Year That Was – 1916 appeared first on Good Info.

[finn0]

All the houses I’ve lived in

1. 94 Queens Rd, New Lambton, NSW

My parents current house since 1989 and the house I’ve had sex with the most people in. A regular two storey house opposite bush on a nice street with neighbours that don’t talk to you (perfect). 3 bedrooms and 3 bathrooms with air con, a big fireplace, pool and massive garage. Lovely, but I don’t expect to inherit it so the attachment must remain minimal.

2. 11 Cobb Ct, Annandale, QLD

Okay formative toddler years were spent here. A tropical style bungalow with the lowest ceilings you’ve ever seen and even lower hanging ceiling fans (take off your shirt with caution). A massive pool constantly populated with cane toads year round that saturated the yard with chlorine every time a cyclone blew through. More floor space than is necessary for anyone. Horrible, angry neighbours that hated children. Short walk to shops, no air con despite Townsville being the armpit of the country. I spent almost all of time sitting on a Big Bird beanbag watching Sesame Street and screaming in abject terror every time there was a toad sitting in the toilet bowl (which was worryingly frequent).

3. 27 Woodrose Cres, Sinnamon Park, QLD

Literally the ugliest house I’ve ever seen in my life. Gaudy, over-tiled, far too big for any family, nothing but white tiles everywhere and not a tree, nor plant, nor weed in the backyard, just grass the colour of hay. Who in Brisbane requires an attic? Who requires THAT many bedrooms? What the FUCK is that suburb name? This house we thankfully lived in for no more than 7 months but good God what a relief.

4. 45 Clarence Rd, Waratah, NSW

My grandmother Bessie’s house. We lived there for a year while I was in pre-school and while my parents house was being renovated. Absolutely fascinating house that each grandchild loved to visit. The most bizarre things were to be found there. First of all it was a regular 2 bedroom home with gaudy wallpaper and a 1950′s kitchen and bathroom, plenty of living space etc. BUT the bizarre flat that was downstairs under the house that was built for my great-grandmother to inhabit was like stepping a 1950′s motel room. Pea green bathroom, pink kitchen, rising damp, mouldy wallpaper, dust upon dust upon bugs upon discarded venetian blinds. Oh my goodness it was amazing down there. It smelled like a nursing home. PLUS under the house was this enormous space all covered in dirt and other crap and trinkets and sheets. ZERO light penetrated this space and therefore was the best place to crawl around and get spooked. The laundry, also under the house, had high ceilings that were stained a Jackson Pollock amount of colours from years of laundry and rising damp and rain leaks AND leading from under the cupboards in the kitchen upstairs was a laundry chute that led all the way down to the laundry WHICH smaller grandchildren could actually fit into and snake their way down to avoid the prying eyes of older cousins during games of hide and seek. Until you were too big to fit. Like I found out one day. Not an easy search and rescue mission, I’ll tell you that. OH AND the back bedroom had some creepy as shit naked dolls with no hair and meth eyes that rolled back in their head along with like strange 60′s childrens paraphenalia and tiny trinkets that I later found out were things like ACTUAL jewels from Scotland and vintage broken Rolex watches. Also I remember sleeping in that room in my mothers childhood single bed while she slept next to me in another, while my father slept next to my grandmother in a separate single bed in her room (why??). Later after she died, new owners bought the place and my mother met them after a few years and asked if they thought the place was haunted to which they replied an unequivocal “YES”, my mother then asked if they left dishes out in the sink of a night, to which they replied “.....yes” and Mum was like “Well that’s the culprit, my mother would NEVER allow that” and the look of understanding coupled with genuine fear cements the fact that my grandmother was and is a motherfucking force to be reckoned with, alive or dead.

5. 7/58 High St, Randwick, NSW

I moved to Sydney! Why? I don’t know! My partner was doing a degree at UNSW and I went with him because I was 21 and couldn’t stand my parents any longer so I buggered off. Now. This apartment was a second floor walk-up in a WW1 era building opposite a hospital and BEHIND a Coles loading dock. Plus there was a screaming autistic Arabian child downstairs and the loudest dog you’ve ever heard next door. Serene. Peaceful. Damaging to the psyche. We lived with my partners brother which was fine, but that place not only had no heating nor ceiling fans it also had no flyscreens. I didn’t even have my own set of keys. I shared ONE set of keys with my partner for two years. Fucking ridiculous. Yes, the food nearby was good. Yes, I commuted back to Newcastle most weekends to keep my casual job. Yes the neighbours were fascinating, ranging from the American guy across the way who never ever closed his bathroom window and gave me many shows of his frankly monstrous penis, to the chainsmoking nurse below who had a permanent frown despite living across the street from her work, to the Koreans downstairs who constantly cooked delicious barbecue while pretending to not speak English, to the gorgeous gay couple who lived above us who could add a new synonym to the dictionary to define “unfriendly”. We got out just before the new light rail was to begin construction right outside our building, but regardless, because of all the noise that surrounded that place before that, I now can sleep through the sound of a fucking jet engine roaring right next to my face.

6. 145 Wilson St, Carrington, NSW

Back to Newy! Okay so this was the first house we even Googled when looking for a new place back in Newcastle, and weirdly, we got it!. It was a tiny cottage in a harbourside suburb that was across the the street from wheat silos that are literally the size of Windsor castle. The day we moved in, a representative of the Port Authority knocked on our door and told us that if we ever heard a particular siren, that it meant the silos were on fire and an explosion was imminent and that we would have about 10 minutes to evacuate before half the city was Hiroshima-ed. Lovely welcome. We heard that siren (or a siren at least) about 50 times in the 2 years we were there. Pretty alarming, as it were. Anyway, the house was literally 3 rooms and a kitchen, 2 tiny cubicle afterthought bathrooms, and a nice big back deck. Now I was happy there, it had everything I needed, it was pleasant. I had a good garden going and I really learned to cook there. Carrington is where my family is originally from, and it was easy to walk everywhere and I loved the history of it. However, our landlord was a Chinese lady called Winnie who could not have misunderstood the concept of landlord responsibilities less. Any repairs or things we needed, she was not just unavailable but actively apathetic. It was like pulling teeth to get her to even communicate to the property manager in even basic English in regards to anything we required. Our neighbours on one side were a lovely couple with 2 babies but they had a dog called Trippi that would bark whenever someone in the opposite hemisphere coughed, and on the other side were a couple in their 70′s who were both suffering dementia, constantly screaming at each other and who also had two elderly dogs that would bark whenever someone nearby inhaled. For two years I heard literally nothing except Matt’s piano, Trippi barking, the other dogs barking, the neighbours angrily SCREAMING at one another, wheat silo alarms, screeching train tracks and coal tankers blasting their horns as they entered the harbour. Again, seasoned professional, can sleep through anything.

7. 46 Garden Grove Pde, Adamstown Heights, NSW

Alright, so two friends of mine, also a couple, were living in a tiny half house situation and also wanted out of their place, so we decided to all move in together, into a place that was much larger and that we could all collectively afford. So we found this lovely large house with 4+ bedrooms so that we could all have our own space and get on rather well. And it worked out! My partner and I had a great big bedroom, Matt had his own study, we had a library, a music room, and my friends had an enormous bedroom downstairs plus a huge bathroom/laundry AND there was 3 tiers of yard that we grew all sorts of vegetables in, plus it had a driveway that looped around (I would call it a plantation driveway?) so heaps of space for everyone. It was great, plenty of space for guests which we had a lot of, plenty of outdoor areas for entertaining, it was wonderful. But unfortunately my friends relationship ended and an old friend took one of their places for a year (also fine) but eventually it turned out that the place was getting sold and after literally months of surprise inspections and open houses we’d all had enough and decided to move out separately. Now this so far has been my favourite place. It was 10 minutes to work, everyone had their own space and we lived, I think, pretty well harmoniously together. But nothing good lasts so now...!\

8. *** Kings Rd, New Lambton, NSW

From Queens Rd to Kings Rd! We found a gorgeous house right near a train station that I am currently in and pretty happy with. For the first time I have ceiling fans again plus air con and FOUR bedrooms that I barely know what to do with. Currently I’m sitting in my study surrounded by all my books with the fan on typing this out and it feels good to have my own space for a change and actually have trouble furnishing a house as opposed to making concessions about what I keep and what I can’t. I’ve planted a veggie garden, I have my kitchen the way I want, and the house has been renovated, re-carpeted, painted and made livable for a modern couple. We have spare space for guests (or a spare room for me when I don’t want to wake up Matt when I go to bed at 3am, but that’s the sleep pattern of a shift worker) and overall I feel good about it. Finally. I’ve been looking for a good home to just COME HOME to for ages and for a long time I haven’t really felt that. My last home was lovely, but honestly 3 tiers of gardens to maintain and roommates (though they remain dear friends) are just not what I want to deal with anymore. Actually not even that, I’d be fine with roommates, but it’s just nice to feel like I have MY house and it’s mine to come home to.

Anyway, apologies for this long post, and I know barely anyone will read it, but I started this blog TEN years ago so and I don’t have a print journal to write all of this stuff in, so I might as well talk here. HOUSES! If they’re not haunted, then where’s the drama we so desperately crave?

[possiblyimbiassed]

Carl = Charlie = Victor?

The appearance of Victor Trevor in TFP as a little pirate friend from Sherlock’s childhood, who got trapped in a well where he drowned, is intriguing to say the least; it doesn’t seem to connect with anything else we had seen in the show, except for the dog Redbeard. But Victor is not a new element for Sherlockians over the world, and I think this meta by @sagestreet gives an excellent explanation of how Victor fits into the show on a meta level. But what about the textual and subtextual levels? I imagine this has been brought up before, but something just seemed to click into place, so I’ll just throw my thoughts on it out here anyway. There are some pieces of the puzzle that stands out to me, so let’s try to put them together into something - more or less - coherent. 

So, for a start: what exactly do we know about Victor Trevor from ACD canon (The Gloria Scott, GLOR)? I’ve highlighted certain facts that caught my attention in this recollection (Sidney Paget’s illustrations are all found here):

Well, basically this:

The story about Victor Trevor was Sherlock Holmes’ first case ever.

Sherlock got to know Victor when they were both at college.

They became friends (Sherlock’s only friend) because Victor’s dog bit Sherlock so he ended up in a sick bed where Victor spent a lot of time with him.

Victor came from a rich family, and Sherlock spent a summer with Victor and his father (Trevor senior; a “squire”) at their large, old-fashioned house with high chimneys.

In what is described as his ‘first case’, Sherlock deduced (parts of) and eventually learned what had happened to Victor’s father, involving a ship with convicts (Trevor senior among them), a mutiny, explosions, killings, shipwreck and Trevor senior ending up hiding under false name for the rest of his life.

Hudson, a surviving criminal from the event, showed up at the mansion, getting drunk and blackmailing Victor’s father with the threat of exposure, which would forever sully his and his family’s name.

Victor’s father's real name was James Armitage, the initials of which Sherlock discovered from his secret tattoo. He got suspicious of Sherlock, who could deduce his criminal past, which led to Sherlock leaving the place.

Victor showed Sherlock a message with a skip code that had meant imminent danger to Trevor senior. It’s a threat of exposure, the fear from which he never recovered; it gave him a stroke that lead to his death.

The skip code read, after deciphering: “The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.”

After his father’s death, Victor ended up “heart-broken” in a tea plantation in India. Sherlock and Victor never seemed to have met again after that.

This is Sherlock, many years later, telling John about the message Victor had him decipher: 

“Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a fine, robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had been the butt end of a pistol.”

“You arouse my curiosity,” said I. 

Now, this does not bear the slightest similarity to what we learn about Victor in TFP, does it? But what if his story is indeed included in BBC Sherlock, but not (just) in TFP; what if the story about Victor is scattered all over the episodes in the show? And what if this scattered story about Victor is meant to give us clues about the emotional trauma in Sherlock’s past that made him shut down his feelings? Under the cut, let’s take a closer look at some elements of the episodes from this perspective, to see if this idea would make any sense:

ASiP 

This is only the first episode of the show, but I think some traces of Victor might be found already here. James Phillimore, 18, who seemed to have some problems with internalised homophobia (judging by how he refused to share an umbrella with his friend in the heavy rain), was found dead near a sports centre, seemingly having committed suicide with a poison. But Sherlock’s investigation makes it clear that Phillimore is one of the victims of serial-killer cabbie Jeff Hope. Phillimore was a student at Roland Kerr’s College for Further Education, an old building with Victorian design (see my recent meta + additions for a more in-depth analysis of the significance of this college). 

In canon James Phillimore figures as an unsolved problem in The Problem of Thor Bridge (THOR):

“A problem without a solution may interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader. Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world.”

(The main plot of THOR, however, is a triangle drama where one of the involved parts commits suicide but tries to arrange it so their rival is accused of murder.) Roland Kerr’s college is also where Jeff Hope takes Sherlock to talk to him and make him kill himself at the end of ASiP, and where (supposedly) John shoots Hope. The college is also represented as Sherlock’s Mind Palace in HLV, where he finds comfort and strength to survive a gunshot  by mentally summoning his childhood’s dog Redbeard.

TGG 

Several people have pointed out, about this last episode of S1, that Moriarty’s five “Greenwich pips” transmitted by a pink telephone (=heart metaphor) in TGG represent the five series in BBC Sherlock. Moriarty’s ‘great game’ with pips in it begins with an explosion close to 221B. 

The case of Carl Powers is what comes from the first pip, but it also ties into the fifth and final pip. In the first pip we learn that the death of Carl Powers was Sherlock’s first case, an he has saved a press clip of the boy from this case:

In TFP, however, we’re told that The Musgrave Ritual was his first case. None of them is canon consistent, however, since ACD told us that Holmes first case was The Gloria Scott. According to Sherlock’s discoveries in TGG, Carl was a young swimming athlete who was poisoned by Jim Moriarty, which lead to him drowning in the pool. The official version from the police, however, was that Carl died in the water due to some sort of ‘fit’. The case of the fifth pip takes place at the swimming pool where Carl died.  

Strangely enough, Sherlock makes an appointment with Jim exactly there, and this pool is also where Jim tosses the valuable memory stick that Sherlock has recovered. The Carl Powers case was never solved, though, and the Bruce Partington memory stick was never recovered. Which means, that if the fifth pip is foreshadowing S5, the Carl Powers case might come up again in S5.

THoB

This whole episode of S2 is about a guy, Henry Knight, who is haunted by  a childhood trauma in which he lost his father. Sherlock seems particularly engaged in this ‘cold case’ with modern times consequences. For the first time we see him shaking with fear after having (supposedly) sighted the same monstrous ‘hound’ that has affected Henry since he was a boy. 

But it turns out that “there never was any monster”; Henry’s father was killed by his own friend. (Please read @sagestreet‘s brilliant ‘Follow the dogs’ meta series for subtextual explanations of how the ‘hound’ mythology represents homophobia, and many other very interesting ideas). Another important fact that we learn in this episode, is that Sherlock considers John his only friend.

TRF 

In one of Sherlock’s cases in the last episode of S2, he and John visit a boarding school, from which two children have been kidnapped. Sherlock’s sudden rant against Miss MacKenzie is a little bit weird, though, isn’t it? 

Moriarty has poisoned the children by luring them to eat toxic chocolate. In this episode Sherlock and John are very much exposed and speculated about in the media. Suddenly Sherlock is accused of the kidnapping and Moriarty blackmails Sherlock by threatening John, which (supposedly) leads to Sherlock killing himself (but he actually disappears by faking his suicide).

TEH 

in the first episode of S3, when Sherlock comes back from the dead, he immediately deduces that John’s fiancee ‘Mary’ has a secret tattoo and is a liar: 

Later, in HLV, it turns out she has been hiding under a false name and lied about her criminal past and has many deaths on her conscience as an assassin. Sherlock also observes that ‘Mary’ can recognise a skip code; in fact there’s a skip code sent as a warning about an imminent danger to John. 

Sherlock deciphers it, and the resulting message is “Save John Watson”, which leads him to where John is trapped in a bonfire. 

HLV

At the end of the last episode of S3, John is threatened by the ruthless blackmailer and media magnate CAM, who flicks John’s face in front of Sherlock and threatens them both with exposure in his news paper. 

I’ve written about this in The Threat of Exposure and other metas about media’s role in BBC Sherlock (X, X).

TST 

In the first episode of S4, young Charlie Welsborough is found dead in his own car outside his rich (and Thatcher-loving) parents’ mansion, when his car is hit by another car and explodes. 

Rather than (as is his MO in S1 and S2) investigating the crime scene to find out what really happened, Sherlock quickly concludes merely from police data that Charlie had made himself invisible by disguising as a car seat. 

According to Sherlock, instead of surprising his father by coming out of the car, as he (supposedly) had planned, Charlie died instantly from some sort of ‘seizure’, and sat there dead until the car exploded a week later. (Added to this case is also the smashing of a Thatcher bust, which later in TST leads to Sherlock discovering a valuable memory stick). 

What bothers me however, apart from the fact that Sherlock’s explanation is quite illogical, is the subtextual implications: a) Charlie is queer-coded, 

(the rainbow is just one of the clues) and b) dying inside one’s own car like that is suspiciously similar to a common suicide method. The idea that Charlie (supposedly) died from a “seizure” ties him closely to Carl Powers - his namesake in Sherlock’s first case, who according to the police died from a “fit” in the water. And Sherlock was reminded of Carl’s case directly after an explosion in TGG. Only this time it’s Sherlock who jumps to conclusions about a ‘seizure’, rather than the police. Which makes me believe that this event represents something entirely different inside Sherlock’s Memory Palace/Mind Theatre. Something dwelling in Sherlock’s subconscious, possibly involving a young (boy)friend ‘coming out’ to a conservative, homophobic father in the Thatcher era. And a possible suicide (or at least disappearance?) by said (boy)friend. Victor Trevor travelled to India in canon, while Charlie Welsborough was traveling in Tibet before he died. (Sounds a bit similar to Sherlock traveling in Tibet/Himalaya during the canon hiatus/MHR doesn’t it?).

TFP

In this last episode of S4, theres an explosion at 221B Baker Street, caused by a ‘patience grenade’: 

Sherlock and John suddenly appear on a ship as pirates:

They take over the boat and force their way onto Sherrinford Island where Eurus is imprisoned. This is also the only episode where Victor Trevor is mentioned, but he’s not a young man; he’s supposed to be a kid from Sherlock’s childhood - his best (and only) friend. Victor is very much presented as a John mirror; short blond hair, checked shirt and trapped in a well. 

Sherlock and Victor were playing pirates outside Sherlock’s childhood home, the mansion Musgrave Hall, which apparently had high chimneys. 

Sherlock was called ‘Yellowbeard’ and Victor ‘Redbeard’. In TFP we also see John and Sherlock hijacking a fishing boat and telling the captain that they’re pirates. In spite of both Sherlock’s dog Redbeard and Victor figuring in early snippets of Sherlock’s dreams in S4, Sister Sentiment Eurus later tells him that they never had a dog; 

Sherlock was not allowed to have one, since their father was ‘allergic’. We also learn that Eurus (Sherlock’s supposedly forgotten sister) killed Victor by trapping him in a well, because she was jealous that her brother Sherlock had a friend and she was not included in their games. Nothing more is explained about Victor, however (and I feel sure this storyline isn’t over yet). 

Victor never came out of the well; he drowned there, but at the end of TFP John seems to be trapped in the same well as Victor, and discovers his bones in it. In the last minute, with a raising water level, Sherlock saves John from the well by solving a puzzle and thereby finding and embracing Eurus.

Conclusion

So, I do believe that we have most of the ingredients of canon’s story about Victor Trevor and the ship The Gloria Scott scattered over the whole show: colleges and boarding schools; a dog; two best friends who were separated; a young man who might have committed suicide, a homophobic father; a mansion; a secret tattoo; a skip code with an important message; someone seemingly innocent with a criminal past; a ship with pirates (= mutinous criminals); dangerous explosions; blackmail and threats of exposure; a trip to Asia. And the back story is merged with the show’s present. What all this might mean for the next series, we can only speculate, but I do think that we have a pattern here. 

Thanks to everyone who has had the patience to read all this. :) Tagging some people who might be interested: @sarahthecoat @tjlcisthenewsexy @ebaeschnbliah @fellshish @gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @sherlockshadow @darlingtonsubstitution @devoursjohnlock @tendergingergirl @kateis-cakeis @csi-baker-street-babes @88thparallel @timilina @dieseldrakilis @sherlock-overflow-error @elldotsee

[dearophelia]

gonna set your flag on fire (chapter 1)

Thirty years after the war, things are as close to normal as they’ll get. Garrus is the turian councilor and Olivia runs Galactic Affairs, helping the galaxy rebuild. They’ve happily settled into the life they’ve built. Their kids are grown, and out living their own lives.But something goes wrong on Nora’s latest mission. Very wrong.

chapter 01: upside down with a perfect view

(read on AO3)

or, guess who’s finally posting norafic, y’all! I’ve only been talking about this for like three years. My eternal gratitude to @nightingaleseeking and @tarysande for cheerleading this project along, you two are angels.

Note that there is a warning for eventual mindfuckery. And, as per usual, a flagrant disregard for canon.

Later, when it’s all over and Nora’s sitting on the back porch of her grandmother’s house watching the sun rise over the lake, she’ll think she should’ve told James she’d take the eezo job.

She’ll sip at her tea, tug the blanket tighter around her shoulders while the cat weaves his way around her legs, and replay that conversation with James a thousand times. The sky will turn from dusky grey to purple to warm oranges and pinks, and she’ll wish she’d accepted his offer – he gave her an out, and she ignored it.

She should’ve taken the eezo job. Instead, she took the Cerberus mission.

Hindsight.

***

7 September 2191 - 23 years earlier

Olivia scrubs a hand over her face as the elevator makes its slow descent to deck three. Eight years since the end of the war, four since they cobbled enough of the relay system back together that the galaxy could begin to function again, and it still feels like they’re fighting: reaper cults keep growing even though they’ve long since found a cure for indoctrination, there’s always an alliance-ending diplomatic crisis somewhere, and they’ve been playing whack-a-mole with stray Cerberus cells for years. It’s nice not to have to dodge banshees and brutes, or worry about the imminent end of the universe, but there are days she would like the galaxy to take care of its own bullshit for an hour so she can take a nap.

This is one of those days. She started out mediating the third day of an argument between Wrex and one of the new dalatrasses about blueprints salarian architects drew up for the Tuchanka rebuilding effort, she ate half her lunch while on a vidcall with Liara listening to intel on banshee worshippers out on the Far Rim (as far as she knows, the other half is still in her office), and spent the next two hours holed up in the AI Core reading a stack of reports while avoiding Cortez and the embedded reporter who won’t leave either of them alone.

She misses Allers.

Their stop at Tereshkova was only long enough to refuel and pick up Abby Williams and whatever recon she found on her latest mission. Olivia loves the Normandy, even more in its third incarnation, but she’s glad she isn’t her captain anymore. Four days back to the Citadel, and then she’s home - at least until the next time the Council decides she’s needed for face-to-face diplomacy. She has three messages from Garrus on her omnitool, and hasn’t had a chance to check them all day.

The elevator doors open and she nods at Ashley, waiting for her.

“It’s a kid,” Ashley says, uncrossing her arms as they fall into step with each other.

“What?”

“The data Abby picked up – it’s a kid. A girl. She was the only one left alive.”

Olivia stops and turns to Ashley. “This is your ship now, but you seriously let a kid from a Cerberus station on board?”

Ashley nods. “It’s not like we didn’t take any precautions.” She points.

The usually-occupied mess area is empty of barely-awake lieutenants and hungry sergeants, replaced instead by a contingent of marines, armed and standing at the ready; four more stand guard inside the medbay. Olivia looks through the medbay windows and sees a small girl sitting inside a sealed glass container set on one of the exam tables. Mass effect field generators clamped to the container’s corners glow faintly blue, and she recognizes the symbol painted on its sides: the container will withstand a ten-ton thermonuclear explosion inside of it. “Fair enough,” she says.

Abby steps out of the medbay. As tall as her older sister, she’s leaner, built for speed instead of Ashley’s muscle. She’s still in her lithe armor, with her sword still strapped to her back. “Captain,” she salutes Olivia, “Commander,” she turns to Ashley.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Ashley says. “What’s going on?”

Abby exhales heavily. “We got some intel about a Cerberus station orbiting Rayingiri. I went in –”

“Alone?” Ashley asks, ever the older sister.

Silently, Abby points to the N7 on her chest and the two crossed swords beneath it, identifying her Shadow designation. “I went in, just to get recon; Liselle and Rosie were on their way to back me up for the attack. I guess the op was blown somehow: everyone on that station was dead before I got there – suicide. They all had their heads half blown off from that capsule thing in their teeth.”

Olivia grimaces. She’s seen no shortage of grisly scenes, but that’s particularly nasty. “What about the girl?”

“Rosie hacked the station records. Her name’s Nora Milton, three and a half. Father died last year in that raid in the Hades Nexus, mother was an engineer on the station, working on a Cerberus project code named Damocles.”

Olivia’s attention shifts back to the girl in the glass box. She’s tucked herself up into the back corner, as far away from the guards and Doctor Chakwas as she can get, hugging her knees to her chest. “And Damocles is?”

Abby shrugs and shakes her head. “No idea. They wiped most of their servers. All we got was a crew manifest, shipping logs, and some low-security email. Nothing that flagged Alliance intelligence when we ran it past them.”

“Send it to me,” Olivia says. “I know people who may be able to do more with it.” Liara’s had her own troubles getting anything out of the remaining Cerberus cells, but she may have more luck than the Alliance.

Abby nods. “Sure.”

“Thanks, Abby,” Ashley says. She lightly squeezes her sister’s arm before heading toward the medbay doors. She gestures for Olivia to go first.

Doctor Chakwas looks up at the whoosh of the doors and waves the two women over. Olivia pauses to smile at the scared girl, but none of them trust Cerberus not to use a three-year-old girl as a bomb.

“Physically,” Chakwas says as she pulls up a series of scans on her monitor, “she’s mostly normal. Probably dehydrated and a little malnourished, I’ll know more once we get a blood test, but she looks like a perfectly healthy three-year-old human.”

“I hear a but coming,” Ashley says. Olivia nods in agreement.

“And correctly so.” Chakwas taps on the display and it zooms in on the girl’s brain. She points at a tiny square in the middle. “She has a microchip implanted near her cerebrum.”

Olivia’s eyes narrow. “I think we can safely assume that’s not good.” She clenches her jaw as she flashes back to a few uncomfortable conversations with Miranda. Nora’s a toddler. “Can you get it out?”

The doctor shakes her head. “It’s deep in her brain, and she’s very young. Even with the Citadel’s surgical AIs, the risk of brain damage or death are extremely high.”

“How about turning it off?” Ashley suggests.

“EDI’s working on that,” Chakwas says. “She’s also sent the information to Tali.”

Olivia looks over her shoulder. The girl’s still curled up in her corner, but she’s watching the three of them with wide eyes. “Besides the chip,” she turns back to Chakwas, “is there anything else wrong with her? Any indication that she’s going to explode or start some sort of virus...anything?”

“I haven’t been able to check her directly while she’s in the box, but no, not that my scans have shown.”

Olivia looks at Ashley. She’d let Nora out, but the Normandy isn’t her ship anymore, and Doctor Chakwas and the guards outside aren’t her crew. “Your ship, your call.”

Ashley presses her lips together. She looks up at the display screen, to Nora, to Olivia, and back to Nora. “She’s three,” she says, “if the chip does do anything, I think we can take her.” She turns to one of the guards. “Clear the entire deck. In five minutes, we’re opening that box.” He nods and rushes out with the others. She taps her omnitool. “Vega.”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“In five minutes, Shepard and I are opening a container holding a very small child who may or may not be a Cerberus booby trap. I need you to put the ship into lockdown and get ready to quarantine the deck if necessary.”

“Uh, are you sure that’s wise?”

“No,” Ashley says. “But she’s three years old and we can’t keep her in a glass box forever.”

“Lockdown in effect,” he says as a low alarm pulses through the ship, “and Level 4 quarantine on standby.”

A quiet whimper escapes from Nora’s throat and her eyes fill with tears. Olivia taps a command into a nearby medical console, and the alarm silences inside the medbay. Nora sniffles.

“Thanks, Vega.” Ashley ends the call and looks at Olivia. “You want to take this? You’ve actually got kids.”

“They’re eight and ten and turian, Ash. My frame of reference isn’t exactly wider than yours here.” One of the messages from Garrus was a photo. Quentus had his first durak tournament today. She hopes it went well; he was so excited.

“Okay. How about – you’ve actually been a Cerberus experiment before?”

“Does Traynor know you’re this reluctant to be around kids?”

“I’m not,” Ashley says. “Except when they were the only one left alive on a station full of dead people and we’re keeping them in a box built to contain a ten-ton nuke.”

“Wimp.” Olivia grins and steps up to the box. She gives Nora her best reassuring smile.

Ashley checks her watch and, after five minutes have passed, taps her command code into the box’s control panel. It beeps, and the latch unlocks with a hiss. Slowly, and with a low mechanical hum, the top panel retracts.

Nora looks up, eyes even wider. Her lower lip starts to quiver, and she looks straight at Olivia.

“It’s okay,” she tells her, “we’re getting you out of there.”

As soon as the top fully retracts, Ashley and Olivia unlatch the front side, laying it down on the bed, leaving Nora sitting in a three-walled box.

Nora blinks once, twice, and then scrambles to the edge of the bed and wraps her arms around Olivia’s waist. She moves so fast she scrapes her arm on one of the hinges, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh!” Olivia exclaims. She runs her fingers through the ends of Nora’s tangled brown curls and sets her other hand on her back. Nora presses her face into her stomach. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she whispers.

The entire medbay holds its breath.

“So,” Ashley says after ten minutes have passed without incident. “Not a bomb.”

Olivia shakes her head. Nora hasn’t let go, and so neither has she. “Not a bomb.”

“Any sign of contagion?” Ashley asks Chakwas.

“None.”

Ashley exhales. “It’s nice to be wrong sometimes.”

While Ashley calls Vega and tells him to lift the lockdown and take his finger off the quarantine trigger, Olivia looks down at the small girl still hugging her tight. A thin trail of blood trickles down Nora’s arm from the scrape. Olivia gestures for Chakwas to come over and check her out.

“Can I have your arm, please?” Chakwas asks.

Nora shakes her head and hugs even tighter.

“Nora,” Olivia says quietly, “I need you to let go so the doctor can look at you.” Again, Nora shakes her head. “I’ll be right here. You can sit on my lap.”

After a moment, Nora loosens her arms, but doesn’t let go. Olivia shifts and lifts Nora up, settling her on her hip as she carries her over to another exam table – one without the bomb-proof box on it. She sits Nora on the table and then hops up and crosses her legs underneath her. “Come here,” she says, and Nora scrambles into her lap. Nora settles, pressing her back into Olivia’s chest, and Olivia rests her arms around Nora’s waist.

Chakwas scans the scrape, and then runs a dermal regenerator over her arm. “There we go,” she says.

Nora whimpers, but otherwise doesn’t make a sound.

***

By the time she finally gets to call Garrus, it’s well past two in the morning at home on the Citadel. She at least had a chance to read his messages at dinner: a good morning smiley face, an update on the batarian trade agreement discussions (going about as terribly as she anticipated), Nico’s report card was all top marks, Quentus and his team won and will advance to the next round (sent with a picture of her eldest, pointing at the scoreboard and grinning proudly), and a final message asking if she was okay. She sent him a quick response – crazy day, will call, probably late – thankful for autocorrect, as Nora kept trying to grab her arm and put it back around her.

Nora’s sound asleep in the bed. She was quiet – almost happy – throughout the entire day, through a lengthy round of medical tests, through a half bath/half shower that had Olivia, Abby, and most of the women’s bathroom soaked by the end, and quiet even through Olivia combing out her hair. But the minute Olivia tried to settle her in for the night, tucked in amongst a pile of pillows on a bed in the medbay, Nora started crying. Tears turned to screams when Olivia stepped away and turned off the light.

Olivia took some spare blankets and pillows from the crew quarters, settled Nora into her bed, and made a makeshift bed for herself on the couch. She’s left the door unlocked, a concession to everyone’s paranoia, in case anything happens in the middle of the night and the two guards standing outside need to storm in.

“I wonder why she imprinted on you so hard,” Garrus says, after she’s told him everything.

Though she’s exhausted, Olivia manages a smirk for her husband. “Oh, come on. I’m totally lovable.”

“You are,” his mandibles flutter, “but that’s not what I meant, Shepard.”

Olivia sighs and rests her head in her hands. “I know Cerberus isn’t known for their humanitarianism, but she’s so little, Garrus. Who the hell puts a control chip inside a three-year-old?” The why of it gnaws at her even more.

“Olivia,” he says gently, in a similar voice to the one he uses with their boys when they have a nightmare.

She inhales and looks up. “I’m fine,” she says, though by his lifted brow plate she can tell he doesn’t believe her. She pushes her hair out of her face. “EDI and Tali think they have a way to turn off the chip, so we’re going to try that in the morning. How are the boys?” She wanted to talk to them before they went to bed tonight. She misses them.

“Nico made me promise to actually show you his grades,” Garrus taps on his omnitool, and hers lights up with a new message and an image attachment, “and Quentus scored two goals today.”

Her omnitool lights up again, this time with a video attachment. She opens the picture while the video downloads, and smiles. Nico struggles to make friends in school, but he doesn’t struggle with the academics at all; even at eight, he’s so proud of his grades. She presses play on the video, keeping the volume quiet, and watches proudly as Quentus makes two goals in a row.

“I wanted to be there,” she says wistfully.

“He knows,” Garrus assures her. “And he also knows that sometimes Uncle Wrex needs you in the room to keep him from eating someone.”

“Still,” she sighs. She’s missed games before, they both have, but it was his first tournament. Hopefully his team will stay in after the next round, and she’ll get to see him play when she’s back home.

“Are you on schedule to be home next week?”

“Yes,” she nods. “And if Wrex and the dalatrass haven’t sorted out their differences by then, they can bite me.”

“The ship’s still in one piece after three days. You may not have them drinking tea together, but they’ll come to an agreement.”

“Okay, now I’m just thinking about Wrex with a teacup,” she laughs quietly.

His mandibles flick open in a grin. “Good. Get some sleep, Liv.”

“You too. I’ll call you tomorrow, hopefully a little earlier.”

“Alright. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She ends the vidcall and her monitor goes dark, leaving the room lit only by stars outside and faint light coming around the half-shut door of the bathroom.

Nora shifts and makes a quiet sleepy huff as her feet gently kick at the blankets.

“I hope this works tomorrow,” Olivia whispers to herself.

***

“Ah, Shepard?” Chakwas says, as EDI finishes her calculations. “You shouldn’t be standing there when they do this.”

Olivia opens her mouth to ask why, but she follows the doctor’s gaze down to her leg. Oh. It’s not that she forgets her right leg is a cybernetic prosthetic now, it’s that it hasn’t bothered her for a few days and she’s had other things on her mind. “Right.” From what she understands, the EMP will be targeted toward Nora’s brain, but it’s still best not to risk it.

“We’re ready, Shepard,” Tali says from the monitor.

She looks down at Nora sitting on the exam table beside her. Nora’s kept her wide eyes on the EMP minigun since EDI set it up. She doesn’t seem scared of it, just staring at something new.

“You ready?” Olivia doubts Nora fully understands what’s about to happen, but she’s not going to give Tali the go ahead if Nora isn’t sure.

Nora looks up at her and blinks.

It’s not a no.

“I’ll be right here,” she says, and takes a few steps away out of range. She nods to Tali and EDI. “Go ahead.”

Tali taps at her controls, transmitting the code to EDI. “All yours,” she says.

EDI nods, and presses a few buttons on the side of the EMP gun. There’s a series of short beeps, and then EDI turns to Olivia and Chakwas. “It’s completed.”

Olivia raises an eyebrow. She’d expected…more. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

She looks at Nora, who doesn’t look any different. “Did it work?”

Chakwas runs a handheld scanner over Nora’s head, and peers at the results displaying on the bedside manner. “It’s no longer emitting a signal.” She looks over her shoulder at Tali and EDI, both waiting expectantly. “It looks like it worked.”

Olivia nods slowly. “Send a message to Miranda,” she tells EDI, “have her meet us when we dock at the Citadel. It’s not that I don’t trust your work, guys, it’s –”

“That you don’t trust Cerberus wouldn’t put failsafes into place in case anyone tried what we just did,” Tali says.

“Bingo.”

“We can pretend we’re still working, if you want to avoid the dalatrass a little longer,” Tali teases.

Olivia grimaces. “It’s a miracle I haven’t gotten at least five nasty messages from her yet.” She owes Cortez an entire bar’s worth of drinks for keeping the dalatrass at bay this morning.

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Will do. Thanks again, Tali.”

“No problem, Shepard.” Her vidcall blinks out.

Olivia turns back to Nora, only to find Chakwas looking at her with a distinctly pointed look. “What?”

“Nora is welcome to stay. But you cannot avoid the dalatrass all day by hiding in here.”

Aware that she sounds like a petulant child, yet not caring in the least, Olivia huffs. She almost misses Linron and Isheel. Almost. “Fine.” She takes a deep breath and turns to Nora. “I’ll be back at the end of the day, okay?”

Nora just blinks.

Olivia supposes if she watched the heads of everyone she knew explode, she wouldn’t talk either. She gently tucks Nora’s hair behind her ear and smiles. “Call me if she needs anything.”

Chakwas nods. “Of course.”

But as soon as Olivia has one foot out the door, Nora sniffles and starts to cry.

Olivia stops in her tracks and walks back to Nora. She can’t avoid the negotiations – she really does need to resolve things between the dalatrass and Wrex – but it looks like she can’t leave Nora, either. Everyone will just have to deal with a small human child sitting at the negotiating table.

***

"What do you think the Alliance will do with her?" Garrus asks later that night, when she sits back down after getting Nora a glass of water and settling her back to bed.

Olivia shrugs. "Run a thousand tests on her," she surmises. "Keep her in a cage, mess with the chip, see what it does." As if Nora needs more time spent in a science lab with people poking her. Sighing heavily, she rests her head in her hands and looks at him through her fingers. "What she needs is a family, but they'll never let her go for proper adoption."

Garrus tilts his head and looks at her softly. "They might if it was us."

She raises her head, blinking at her husband. Her mind started down that same path earlier, but was blocked by a thousand different arguments: physical space, time, busy schedules, two parents wrangling three kids under ten. Their sons.

"Liv, you know they're never going to let a civilian take her. And she already seems attached to you."

Olivia bites her lip and looks away. "I don't want Quentus and Nico to think – I don't know." She's unsure how to voice that concern to him. Both boys have needed a lot from their parents, which she and Garrus have been so willing and happy to give, and she doesn't want them to feel like suddenly they're going to have less. They lost their birth parents to the war; the last thing she wants is for her sons to worry that they're not important anymore, or that she and Garrus are going to leave them too.

"I'll talk to them," he says gently. "See what they think about maybe having a little sister."

"You haven't even met her," she says, though she knows that’s not even remotely a problem. Garrus has always been kind to those important to him, and he's grown impossibly kinder since becoming a father. He's light years away, and that kindness already extends to Nora.

His mandibles flutter. "She likes you," he says. "She clearly has good judgment."

She laughs quietly, a slight heat rising to her cheeks. Almost ten years, and he can still make her blush with a simple compliment. "Dork."

Before Garrus can respond, there's a noise behind him that sounds suspiciously like two young turian boys racing each other down the stairs.

Garrus looks over his shoulder. "Incoming," he confirms.

"Is that Mom?" Nico asks, off camera still.

"Mom, I made two goals today!" Quentus shouts, followed by the scrape of a kitchen chair urgently pushed out of the way.

Olivia scrambles for her earbuds so the excitement doesn't wake up Nora. Within seconds of getting the buds connected and in her ears, Quentus and Nico have both popped their heads up into the camera in front of Garrus. They're a little too close at first and fill the screen completely, competing to take up the most space, until Garrus pushes the monitor back a bit.

"When are you coming home? I miss you."

"Dad let us have ice cream for dinner."

Garrus clears his throat and looks down at his eldest. "We weren’t going to tell her that."

Laughing softly, Olivia smiles at the three most important people in her life. "I miss you guys too," she says. "I'll be home on Friday," she promises. "How was your day?"

As their sons excitedly tell her about their days, she briefly glances over their heads at Garrus. Her eyes lock with his, and he gives her a little nod. Smiling, she focuses her attention on Quentus retelling, in very animated detail, his game-winning goal.

***

Miranda spends a long time in silence, looking at Nora’s scans.

Just when Olivia almost can’t stand the silence anymore, Miranda turns. “It’s a control chip. It’s a different model than I considered using, but it is definitely a control chip.” She steps to the side, gesturing for them to join her at the monitor. “Do you see those thin lines radiating from it?” She points on the screen and as soon as she sees what Miranda’s pointing at, Olivia wonders how she didn’t see the lines before. They’re light, but clear.

“Those are wires connecting to her memory centers. This design was still experimental when I was with Cerberus, evidently they’ve moved it into production.” Miranda looks at Chakwas. “You were correct not to operate. There hasn’t been time for her brain to grow around the chip, but it’s beginning to,” she points to faint shadows. “Given how young she is, surgery will cause permanent damage, and would likely kill her.”

"Then how did they implant it?" Chakwas asks.

Miranda glances back to the monitor. "The wires are grown post-implantation via nanotechnology. It’s likely you could surgically remove the chip itself, but the wires are the problem. Without knowing how they work, I wouldn’t recommend leaving them in there unconnected."

“Does Project Damocles ring a bell?” Olivia asks, before the two women can begin down a conversational black hole about pediatric neurosurgery neither she nor Ashley has half a hope of understanding.

Miranda shakes her head. “Unfortunately, no. Cerberus cells operated mostly independently. I only knew of a small handful of projects other than Lazarus. I’d imagine they’re even more independent now.”

"Any ideas why Cerberus might implant a control chip into a toddler?" Olivia’s been doing her best to ignore that reality, but the question has to be asked.

"Yes," Miranda says. "All of which you’ve probably thought of already, and none of them good."

Olivia shudders. She’s come up with plenty of theories, and they’re all terrifying.

“Okay, I’m just gonna ask,” Ashley says. “Is she safe? Can we let her off the ship?”

Miranda shrugs. “It’s been deactivated. Control chips work in one of two ways: either orders are transmitted directly to it, or there’s a designated controller whose voice activates the chip. Even if you hadn’t deactivated it, the likelihood of anyone knowing she’s alive to receive orders or encounter the controller are monumentally slim.”

Olivia shares a look with Ashley and Chakwas. “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.” She swallows. She’s long made her peace with Miranda’s confession, but that doesn’t mean it sits well.

“Well, it’s off,” Miranda says. “It doesn’t matter either way.”

“Her brain is still very young. Surgery isn’t a viable solution, and the chip and wires are microscopic, but I am concerned about the effects of a foreign object on her development,” Chakwas says, staring again at the scan.

Miranda purses her lips and takes a moment before responding. “I know Cerberus hasn’t always had the most responsible scientific practices, and I doubt they’ve improved in the wake of the Illusive Man’s death. Nora may very well be their first attempt, and she may be facing extreme developmental problems. Or, she could be the end of the experimental line and they got it right. Or, they could have perfected it years ago and she could be one of many. There’s no way to know for sure.”

Ashley stares at Miranda and then scoffs. She crosses her arms. “None of those is a comforting thought.”

“No,” Olivia agrees, and looks out the medbay windows. Nora’s sitting next to James at a table in the mess, playing with empty MRE boxes, the closest non-explosive thing to blocks they could find. Nora looks up from her tower and waves at Olivia. Olivia waves back; Nora started to cry when she left her with James to go speak with Miranda, but settled when she realized she could see Olivia through the window. Olivia dreads what happens when they get off the ship – when Nora has to go the Alliance, and she has to go home.

“I think the next question is: what does the Alliance plan to do with her?” Miranda asks.

Olivia exhales slowly. “That is a great question.”