#but i simply cannot watch how that man operates on dates with nurses and not imagine that his inclination is to push toward topping

[remyfire]

In my perpetual spread of Let Trapper Bottom propaganda, I keep waking up more and more to top-leaning switch Hawkeye and I believe that we should celebrate him more often.

[petri808]

Hauntober prompt Ghost (sort of lol)

Bakudeku requested by @nona-inc Angst w/happy ending, AU modern times. Longer than I’d planned to write but stories go where they wanna lol.

Got the idea here

A Second Chance

In his adulthood, Izuku Midoriya did quite well for himself career-wise. He had a nice home and lived comfortably even though it was alone. Relationships had never really crossed his mind, which he chalked up to the turmoil of his childhood. It wasn’t a terribly horrible one but coming from divorced parents is never easy on young child minds. Why get close to anyone if they’ll probably leave eventually? That was a lesson bolstered by the end of primary school when his best friend ditched him for the popular kids.

It was Halloween night, and Izuku’s simply followed his normal routine after work consisting of dinner while watching a bit of television. Trick or treaters were a rarity in his neighborhood, so there was no sense in celebrating the holiday. As he waits for the news, he lets the current show drone on in the background while he scrolled mindlessly through his social media. He didn’t pay a lot of attention to what acquaintances posted and mostly looked for interesting or funny posts instead.

“Deku...”

Izuku’s brow furrows slightly at that ancient nickname. He looks at the television characters on the screen, had one of them said it? But instead of the tv show, he finds a fuzzy, staticky screen. He grabs his remote assuming something had gone wrong with the channel or service when...

“Deku, I’m sorry...”

“What the?” Izuku starts clicking the buttons and getting no response. The screen stays stuck, yet that voice... it was a familiar voice from long ago...

“...I’ve watched you from afar for all these years, because I could never admit how much I loved you and now it’s too late. I’m so sorry Deku. You’ll always be my only true love.”

Silence. Dead silence for a flash of a second when the television loudly blares back to life and startles Izuku out of his seat into a standing position. “What the fuck is going on?!”

The show had ended, and the news is now on in its regular-timed slot.

‘Breaking news, a major four car accident on the I10 highway has left 3 people dead and one in a critical condition. The victim identified as 37-year old K. Bakugou had been transported to the hospital for treatment. Police have closed off the highway in both directions, so anyone traveling in that area should use alternative routes...’

As he watches the footage of the accident story, Izuku’s hand unconscious covers his mouth and tears gather in his eyes. “Oh my gosh....” That was the voice he’d just heard! Of course, Katsuki was the only one who ever called him Deku.

He quickly calls one of the nurses at his hospital and they confirm that the man had in fact been transported there 15 minutes ago.

“Oh! Dr. Midoriya! We were just about to call you! Yes, patient Bakugou was brought in unconscious, lacerations to his arms and chest, broken leg, possible punctured lung, internal bleeding, concussion, and brain swelling which is why I was just about to call you in.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The entire way there, Izuku struggles to rationalize the message. If Katsuki was unconscious, how could that have been his voice? Then again that’s if you believed his television had somehow sent the message in the first place! Oh, this was entirely crazy! Izuku didn’t even know why his logical mind was allowing him to believe it had happened if not for the coincidence of the news coverage.

But as a neurosurgeon, he had to put all those questions aside and focus on the task at hand. The description the nurse had given him already indicated major problems, but it wasn’t until his own physical examination that determined the true extent of the damage. Primary surgical nurse Uraraka already had set up the operating room by the time Izuku arrived.

“The patient was revived once by EMTs in the ambulance and a second time in the ER after his heart stopped. Right now, the patient is intubated and prepped for emergency surgery.”

“Thank you, nurse Uraraka.”

Along with a fellow doctor, Izuku switched into a hyper focused mode. He works to repair the damage to the patient’s brain while the other doctor simultaneously focuses on internal chest injuries. Time was of the essence to stem the blood loss and mitigate further damage if they had any hope of saving the man, because even if he made it through the surgery, only a miracle would bring him back at this point.

It was now a waiting game. They keep Katsuki in a medically induced coma for the first three weeks as his body worked hard to repair itself. Once he was brought out of the induced coma, he still didn’t wake up, was breathing with the assistance of a machine, but at least the man’s heart was functioning normally. Surprisingly, Katsuki’s parents remembered Izuku and were grateful their son was in familiar hands. They’d initially flew in after the accident, but the cost to stay for such a long length of time would be too steep. So, after they returned home, he kept them up to date.

Each day that passed by, Izuku would check in on Katsuki’s progress like a normal doctor would, but at night he’d go home and ponder the ghostly message that had come through the television. He’d told no one about it because who would believe something so crazy? It just didn’t sound like the man, or rather child he remembered. Never once was there any indication Katsuki had romantic feelings for him, especially considering it was him not Izuku that ended their friendship. They saw each other in passing though middle, then high school and still nothing. So why is he now being told this?

Some say that when you die, any regrets you have must be released or your soul cannot ascend to the next plane. Izuku wasn’t religious or spiritual and before that Halloween trick he would have said he didn’t believe in anything beyond what he couldn’t see, touch, feel, and analyze. Ugh! Maybe that’s why this was all driving him so crazy. He wanted answers but the one person who could give it to him was stuck in a coma.

“Everything okay doctor?” One of the LPN’s asks Izuku. “I just need to check on the patients vitals.”

“Do what you need to nurse, I’m just visiting before I go home for the night.”

“Yes, doctor.” The woman makes her chart notations and leaves them alone again.

Because of Izuku’s standing at the hospital, he’d gotten Katsuki a private room. The man was taken off the breathing machine a week earlier and this way he could monitor the man without being pestered. There were times he would spend a few hours just watching the man sleep, trying to study what had become of his childhood friend. Through research, Izuku learned Katsuki had moved here around the same time that he’d started his internship at the hospital. Before that the man lived in the same town as the medical school he attended. It appeared Katsuki really was keeping track of Izuku, never married, and just worked in the marketing field.

Izuku squeezes the man’s hand with his eyes closed in a silent conversation. The only sounds being the beeps and noises of the machines to break the stillness. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t know what to think, what to feel, just that this man was dredging up long buried emotions that part of him was afraid to open up. Hadn’t he built up a good life, albeit a lonely one, it was still by his own wit and merits whereas Katsuki always had it so easy. The man was a smart, handsome jock, popular, and had been on track to do great things. While he was the geeky kid with freckles and wild green hair who the popular kids teased.

They were so close as little kids, all through preschool and the first years of primary. Katsuki was the extroverted one pulling him along on make believe adventures to emulate a shared love of a comic book character. In fact, it was with Katsuki’s help that he’d weathered his parent’s divorce. He idolized the stronger boy and wished he was Katsuki, not a weak like little nerd... perhaps having his child’s heart broken, really was the reason he swore off ever caring about anyone else again.

Did he just?! Izuku’s eyes pop open when his hand squeeze is returned by a weak one. Katsuki’s eyes are still closed and nothing else seemed unchanged. Perhaps it was just a nervous tremor, they happen sometimes. But no there it is again! Izuku stares down as the weak squeeze slowly turns into a grasp of his hand.

“Katsuki?”

A third squeeze. That meant the man was alert enough to hear and understand! Friend or not, it was the kind of thing to get a neurologist excited! Izuku quickly moved into doctor mode again and starts checking all the stats as well as alerting the nurse on shift.

“Welcome back Mister Bakugou.”

The man squeezes his hand.

“I’m your doctor, Midoriya. You might remember me...”

The man squeezes again and tries to talk, but after being intubated for a long time the throat tends to be dry, sore, and the muscles weakened. All that comes through is so faint it’s barely audible.

“Mister Bakugou, you’ve been unconscious for almost two months now, please try not to talk just yet, everything will be fine.”

But that only makes the man angrier. Furious red eyes flashing, Katsuki grips harder to Izuku’s hand using what little strength he has to try and pull him closer. So, Izuku leans in. “Calm down, it’s gonna...”

“Ma—y...” angry growling noises. “Mar...”

Obviously, the man wasn’t going to stop until he gave in, so Izuku leans in even more until his ear is practically next to Katsuki’s mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“Marry me damnit!!”

Izuku shoots straight up. “What?!” Is the guy serious?! The first words out of his mouth is that?! Wow... Katsuki really hasn’t changed, feisty as ever even after almost dying.

“Pa-pa—per pen!”

“H-hold on, just try to calm down please! I don’t want you to strain your heart!”

Midoriya grabs the chart, flips the paper over to the blank backside, and puts a pen in Katsuki’s hand. He holds it steady as the man scribbled shakily. ‘No waste 2nd chance marry me Deku.’

“Mister Bakugou, this is...”

The man pounds his fist on the bed then scribbles more. ‘Stop call me that! nickname!’

Izuku sighs and squeezes his eyes closed for a second. He hadn’t used that name since primary just like he’d hadn’t heard Deku all these years. “Kacchan. Happy now? I-I can’t just say okay. You—y-you ditched me remember and now you suddenly pop up and expect me to marry you?! Kacchan you almost died, I get it, that’s a scary thing to deal with, but you just need time to process...”

Katsuki writes, ‘Nothin 2 think bout. No more regrets,’ Then he mouths out the rest in a whisper, “I love you Deku.”

Izuku sighs, “I’m not saying yes or no Kacchan. Just get well first okay, then we’ll talk about everything.”

“Fine.” The man closes his eyes again seemingly satisfied with the answer.

He squeezes Katsuki’s hand. “I’ll see you in the morning Kacchan.”

When Izuku leaves that evening, he couldn’t help but walk out with a flutter in his chest and a pang in his heart. There really was a lot he still needed to get off his chest, but... he felt the honesty from Katsuki. If his dying regrets had been strong enough to reach him via spiritual mail, and the first thing he wanted to talk about was love, then... ‘take the second chance Izuku.’ Not everyone gets one.

[myoddramblings]

the world, coronavirus and people

Well the world’s infrastructure is crumbling around us as we wait and watch from homes in self-isolation. This is the state of the world in the midst of the coronavirus. Depending on where you are in the world, it may not be the midst of it. Yet.

There are those in places such as China, which went through a peak in February and are coming out of the worst slowly, despite numbers of imported cases still remaining there is a sense that there is a lessening of domestic transmission creating a sense of fragile hope that there is a possibility for recovery. Then you look at places such as Italy which is currently the “scary” place. The one whose daily death numbers are quoted in conversation as a reminder by and to those who are scared but fortunate enough to not yet be there. These are places that are currently taking and have taken maximum (a relative term) precautions of quarantine and lockdown and where the full enormity of the crisis have been understood only due to the extent of spread and have been forced into these measures.

Then we have those who are yet to be affected on this scale, that are seeing initial numbers of cases growing and we observe their reactions to this. There are those across Europe closing borders, the Netherlands, Germany and the USA in Northern America to prevent cases being imported. In airports testing is undertaken and in some countries all incoming passengers are put into quarantine. There are extreme measures put into place to avoid spread and contagion on the levels that has been seen elsewhere. Places that have managed to contain it thus far but balance on this precipice of fragile stability until cases can no longer be contained. The “yet” is what is terrifying for these countries, witnessing the effect on other economies and being aware of what will come.

There are two wide categories of reaction to the virus which can be seen: those who want to continue as much as possible as normal (whether they are at-risk or not) and those who are changing their lifestyle around the virus (whether by choice or not). There is much criticism from those in the latter to those in the former, but the reality is that for all of us there will come a point where we all are part of the latter. The main reproach towards those continuing with their daily lives is the disregard that they have for those at risk and the impact that they have by potentially spreading the virus further, selfishly so. I disagree with this label. It implies malicious thought, but it is not malice that drives this. It is fear. All of us are aware of what is coming, whether it has happened, is happening or is yet to happen. We all know life has to change, the only difference is that some of us want to hold onto that sense of normality for a little longer. For the younger generations in particular, this may be the first time that the news around us directly affects us. The financial crisis was something that happened, but to me (not applicable to everyone) it was something I heard on the radio, that went on in the background whilst life went on. 2020 has been a year of horrifying news stories, the Australian bushfires, the rising political tensions between China and the US, but again whilst terrifying to hear about, they were other, things that were background noise to our ordinary lives. This is something else, something we cannot avoid or ignore. Those deemed selfish are aware of how life will change for them. They are just attempting to hold onto normality up until they have to accept reality.

Everywhere we have seen the money pouring in to support the crumbling economy to avoid a total collapse, with figures already quoting numbers worse than the 2008 financial crisis. The thing is, in this case it is not man-made, the panic of the financial crisis was (not purely) financial, the effects were on people’s livelihoods whereas now it is on people’s lives.

The current situation can be likened to any number of horror movies where the world erupts into panic but the reality is so much more gradual in the little changes in people’s actions. We see it in our shops where people’s stockpiling in preparation for shortage has only made it a more imminent reality and breeds further panic. We see it in the masks that have become commonplace and the hand sanitisers that are now out up everywhere to give a sense of control, that if we just wash our hands it will all be fine and it’ll just go away soon enough. The real fear comes from the reality that no one knows when this will truly be over. We hold arbitrary figures in our minds, fourteen days in self-isolation, six months until university opens again, hoping that normality will return soon enough for us all to return to everyday routine at some specific date. Aristotle’s words seem especially appropriate at this point in time as all we know is that we know nothing. From world leaders to the scientist working on a vaccine, no one truly knows anything about what will happen to the world.

The truth of the world is that it runs on people. People and their expectations and reactions and actions are what drives everything. The financial system, at its core, simply works on predicting expectations, of how people will react to key events and preparing for this. So how do we prepare for mass panic? The collapse of Northern Rock is often quoted as the beginning of the financial crisis in the UK which was due to a bank run, the cause of which is panic. Nowadays preventative measures are taken so that the financial system does not reach that point again but the reality is that fragility remains. The economy runs on people and how they behave.

But now it is not the economy that is failing (not that that isn’t also happening) it is the people. The pandemic brings fear for our lives and our loved ones that we cannot ignore. Every realisation of another person close to me in danger makes the situation more and more grave but also brings me to the realisation that we are all helpless. Our literal only option as people to stop the spread of the virus is self-isolation and social distancing. At the time where you want and need people around you is when we must stay apart for the sake of those same people. Isolation becomes separation as friends head home across closing borders with promises to keep in touch but with the knowledge that for some we don’t know when we will see each other again. There is no certainty when every day there a new announcement and last-minute flights are booked at extortionate prices to avoid being stuck for God knows how long away from home. A farewell is a privilege at this point. There are so many goodbyes that will have to do for however long it may be as we head into isolation. Can we really blame those “selfish” people for trying to stay normal for as long as possible in a world that is becoming more and more abnormal by the moment. That is not to say that they are justified in acting as they do but the condemnation towards them should not be so harsh without some understanding of why they are doing so.

Heading home myself for a presumable six months, there was a sense of normality I expected. Not even that, just an awareness of what it would hold for me, regardless of how the virus spreads I knew I could expect a solid period of inactivity on my behalf. In complete honesty, isolation at home for me holds very little difference to how I would spend my time regardless of the virus. What I did not think about, though I was aware of it, was the impact of the virus on my parents. As healthcare workers there is a certain tension there and likely in the whole system that further drives the fragility of the world, and the UK in particular, home. We as people consider the strain on them and the risk they put themselves at as individuals but they must consider the wider impacts. One (unexpected) positive patient does not just mean that those in contact are now at risk but also that they are out of commission, leaving even fewer behind in an industry that needs more. here are appeals for retired workers to come back to support the NHS but even at the current levels of infections in the UK there are cracks in the system. The lack of funding which was public knowledge to all before the crisis will slowly be the demise of the system as pressure increases on these workers who are personally taking precautions that the system cannot afford to provide them with. Doctors and nurses are having to pay out of pocket for proper protective equipment that is not provided. I cannot claim to be any type of authority of the working and reasoning of why the operations are running as such but I can only assume the funding is being held for the peak of infection but the reality is that peak is only being drawn closer and more extensive with the rate of infection likely not only being higher but also unknown amongst healthcare workers than suspected due to the way the situation is being handled as well as the fucking mess that the whole thing is. The world runs on people and as those who are most key at this point in time (and always) are being recognised, they are also most in danger themselves and unlike the rest of us, their isolation affects not themselves but those who need the most care. The strain on the healthcare system will only increase in the coming months before we come out the other side, whenever that may be.

These key workers are being recognised but also others who are often disregarded in society; the shop workers, delivery drivers and so many others who make up the fabric of society but are not viewed in the same way as the healthcare workers. The recognition of the work that these people do is coming out with the slow realisation that the economy runs on these “invisible workers” who cannot work from home, as so many of us are now doing, and still have our lives continue in the way that they are.

People. It has already been mentioned here but  people are what everything depends on. And that is one of the few good things that have come out of this. People are coming together, going where they are needed, set technicians from offering up their skills to build hospitals, companies reassigning production to those things most in demand, initiatives for students to assist the elderly and vulnerable in the community who cannot survive self-isolation by themselves. People are coming together for the important things. So many are in self-isolation, and even though physically apart there is the knowledge that we are all together in this situation, doing our best, whatever that may be.

The world runs on people. Remember that.  

21/03/20

[greenglasslov3]

Unnamed Cannon Divergence - Exulansis Excerpt

Gotham’s Writing Workshop Week 2 Prompt:

Exulansis

According to the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows:

n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land.

The Preface:

This piece is from a new nameless fic I’m working on: what if Claire had gone through the stones the first time Jamie tried to send her back (post witch trial) and what if he accidentally had gone with her?  Would she stay?  Would he stay?  How does Frank work into all of this?  Below the cut is an excerpt from a little later on in the story where Claire meets an old, yet familiar acquaintance somewhere unexpected.  Shout out to @anoutlandishidea for being absolutely wonderful and pushing my writing to it’s absolute best place.

Exulansis Excerpt

“Oh, darling, it’s the Dean. Do you mind if I…?”

I smiled weakly and shook my head no.  Frank pressed a kiss to my cheek before ducking into the fray.

“I’ll only be a minute!” He called back to me.

The crowd enveloped him instantly, and I lost sight of him before I could even blink.  In a sea of average height men with their hair all fashionably slicked back and sporting similar suits in varying neutral shades, how was I supposed to know him from Adam?  I tried to recall his many years in special operations.  Of course, Frank could easily blend with a crowd; it was his job, for Christ’s sake.  Yet, I couldn’t help searching for a flash of red hair and the familiar plaid...

No… I scolded myself.

Before I could catch myself, I was falling freely into the abyss, as vibrant memories flooded my vision.  Every sight and sound and touch was just at the tips of my fingers.  A bodiless voice whispered in the shell of my ear, its breath warm on my neck.  

Jamie.

It was Jamie’s hand I felt on mine, as he guided me through the great hall to our seats to hear Gwyllyn sing.  It was Jamie’s bashful blush I saw, when I had found him sleeping on the floor outside my bedchamber - protecting me.  It was Jamie’s voice echoing in my ears, proudly introducing me his wife to the Duke of Sandringham.  Jamie had included me, treasured me, respected me… loved…

“NO!”

Brash and loud, my own voice echoed harshly against my ears.  The conversations around me crashed to a deafening halt, and I could plainly hear my breath crashing against my lungs in relentless waves.  Loud and steady, my heart hammered like a tipper thrumming a strong rhythm against my chest that served as its tightly strung bodhrán.  One by one, conversations resumed, and the voices rose to a familiar, buzzing hum that made me dizzy.  

Desperate to escape their judgmental glances and slanderous whispers, I staggered to the far end of the bar.  I nestled into the dark corner and prayed that the shadows would swallow me whole.  I collapsed onto a wobbly stool, my body crumbling and retreating inward.  Tingling pins and needles shot up my arms as the tips of my elbows found the bar top with a painful bang.

Couldn’t I do anything right this evening?  We were late to the restaurant, I spilled soup all over my dress, and now I was making a spectacle of myself because I couldn’t keep my end of the bargain no matter how hard I tried.  Don’t talk about him, don’t think about him, leave the him in the past like he left you here in the present.  I buried my face in my hands to keep the tears at bay...

“Madonna,” a voice croaked.  It was barely a whisper, and I strained to hear the thin, strained syllables over the din of the bar around me.

I lifted my head from my hands.  “What did you just say?” I whispered back into the void.

Suddenly, a man appeared behind the bar.  His chest barely cleared the bar ledge, which I imagined made serving patrons a bit of a challenge.  His silvery hair crowned his head in thin wisps reminiscent of clouds on a perfectly clear summer’s afternoon.  However, what truly caught my attention was his face.  There was something almost amphibious about his features with his eyes sitting almost too far apart and his lips pursed into a thick, bulging line.  I should’ve been wary of him, this odd stranger who seemed to have materialized out of thin air...but I wasn’t.  Something about this man felt oddly familiar.  From deep inside my chest, I felt a piece of me calling out to him, as if I already knew him.

A sputtering cough escaped his pursed lips; the squat man spoke again, “Something to drink?”

Christ, he even sounded like a frog.

“Ah, whisky,” I ordered, keeping my request as plain as possible to avoid stumbling through the simplest of sentences. “Neat, please.”

I watched as he poured the amber liquid.  He paused to glance in my direction and then continued to pour a bit more whisky than what was socially acceptable to drink in public into my glass.  The bartender presented me the drink with a wink and a small smirk.

“This should settle your nerves,” he promised as I took a generous sip.  “Honestly, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

I coughed violently, the whisky burning the back of my throat and nostrils. Did he just...? I shook my head, clearing my sinuses and any thought ghosts, particularly those of the Scottish variety.

“No, no! Nothing like that,” I insisted.  “Just… abandoned by my husband is all.  He saw some colleagues just now, so I’m leaving them to talk shop I suppose.”

Cautiously, I took another sip, drinking slowly as not to choke again.  The liquid warmed me from the inside out, chasing out the chill set into my bones by memories that seemed to chase me at every turn.  

Nodding, the bartender pursed his lips again, he asked innocently, “And your husband, what does he do?”

Exhaling forcefully through my nose, I smirked.  “He’s a professor at Oxford. History - The Jacobite Rising, The ‘45, and all that.”

Flippantly, I waved my hand and took another healthy gulp from my glass.  I could hear my new frog-like friend muttering to himself while he wiped down the counter with a clean towel.  While his sentiments weren’t clear, I made out the words “figures,” “Tearlach,” and “understanding.”  His brow creased as the train of thought pulled away from him, and he shook his head in frustration.  I eyed him cautiously over the rim of my glass.

“What was that?” I demanded, arching a suspicious brow.

He returned my stare and frowned slightly.

“It’s nothing.”

I took another sip and decided to broach a more neutral subject.  “Your accent - it’s very interesting.  Where are you from?  Originally, I mean.”

“France, a small village north of Paris near Amiens, but I’ve traveled quite a bit, which is why my accent might seem... unusual.  But that’s normally a question a bartender asks.”  Wiping his hands on his apron, he finished with a playful wink.

“And you? You’re a traveler like me?”

Get a hold of yourself! That’s not what he meant.

Clearing my throat, I provided the perfectly rehearsed answer that I had given for most of my adult life.  “Yes, I was born in London, but my uncle - he raised me - was an archaeologist.  Try as he might to lock me away at a proper finishing school, I simply couldn’t be parted from him, so I followed him around the world on his many expeditions.”

Listening thoughtfully to the tales of my adventures with Uncle Lamb, the Frog nodded.  He pressed his pointer finger to his lips as if to keep a secret at bay.  When I ended my story of my famous blunders in Morocco with self-deprecating laugh, he sighed.

“Do you find it...frustrating?” the bartender asked as he topped of my drink and ready a few more for other patrons sitting at the other end of the bar.

“Do I find what frustrating?” I asked.

He paused for a moment.  As if to steady himself, he placed his hands flat on the bar top.  His eyes shifted to the patrons at the other end of the bar.  A man was telling from what I could hear some terrible joke and completely ruining the punchline; encouraging him, his date for the evening barked out an obscene laugh that was loud enough for the entire bar to hear.  Either way, they were completely ignorant to the Frog and me tucked in the corner.  He chewed on his swollen bottom lip, as he turned his attention to me.  Black, beady eyes examined me intently like I was a fly he intended to pin.  

“For me, I cannot speak of where I’ve been or what I’ve seen because most people won’t believe me or they simply cannot fathom what I am - what we are, Madonna. It’s so frustrating that I normally try not to think on it, pretend that it didn’t happen.  But even hiding in stifling silence can be so very… frustrating.”

He exhaled slowly, and I nodded.  Of course, I understood.  During the war, doctors and nurses alike had been given a crash course in basic psychology - a “What To Expect When Your Patients Have Been Completely Traumatized” if you will.  With massive casualties and at times endless waves of critical patients, we were pressed for time to treat our most dire patients.  Where were we supposed to pull the time to sit and listen - truly listen - to our patients who were suffering in ways that were hidden from plain sight?  We were equipped to treat the body but not armed to heal the mind.  Day after day, I found soldiers hunkering down and forcing themselves to forget; one young man from Philadelphia had convinced himself the war hadn’t even happened.  

Exulansis - they called it.  I knew the term, the causes, the symptoms… but none of that knowledge could prevent me from succumbing to my surroundings.

After the whirlwind adventures of the past couple of months and the heartbreaking complications of the more recent weeks, I found myself simply coasting.  Cresting each wave, letting a cruel riptide carry me where it may, I was stagnant, frozen, indecisive.  I was drowning, and I didn’t even bother to put up a fight.  I gave up.  I didn’t even know who Claire was anymore…

But I knew how to find that answer.

“Who are you?” I growled, feeling the words rumble low in my chest.

The Frog slowly blinked at me several times until he finally smirked and said, “Why, no one of consequence, to be sure.”

I felt the fire reignite.  He was baiting me now...he knew.

“What are you implying?” I demanded.  “What do you mean what we are?”

A stray hand brushed against my arm.  The bar was quickly becoming crowded, too crowded.  Our time was over.

“I should think it quite obvious. We both wore blue tonight, no?”  The bartender stated.  “I think it’s time you rejoin your husband.”

“Which one?” I hissed.

The Frog smiled knowingly.  “You know which one, Madonna.”

And, with his answer, the fire within me restarted anew.

[romionesecretsanta]

Little Stranger

Here’s your gift, @idearlylovealaugh! I’m a big fan of your work, so this was a huge honor. I hope I provided you with some simple, happy-ending fluff! :) This entire thing is based on a head canon that Rose and Ron were BFFs from day one, and I had a good time fleshing it out a little. I hope you enjoy!

________________________________

As soon as they announced Hermione’s pregnancy, the advice had started rolling in. It ranged from Molly’s tried-and-tested knowledge (“Use nettle to help with milk supply—it worked wonders for me!”) to Luna’s more ludicrous suggestions (“Don’t leave the baby unattended outdoors. Pixies love red-haired babies, and they will take her!”) 

However, there was a common thread of wisdom that ran throughout all of these tips: Life with a baby was amazing and fantastic and new, but also…difficult. And in defense of their family and friends, no one had ever even tried to tell Ron and Hermione that life with a newborn would be easy. 

As responsible parents-to-be, they’d tried to heed these warnings—they really, really had. But there was only so much one couple could take, and after hours of listening to horror stories about nappy explosions and spit-up and night feeds from Audrey and Angelina alike, they’d (naively) decided they could manage on their own, thankyouverymuch. 

“We’ll be fine,” Ron had said nervously one evening after they’d left Harry and Ginny’s house, the wails of both Albus and James still echoing in their ears. “Our parents did it. Their parents did it. We’ll get through it, yeah?”

Hermione had just shrugged and waddled over to the bed, returning to one of her many parenting books. At that point, she’d still been convinced she could research her way out of dealing with the hardest parts of parenting.

And what a fool she’d been.

Because, at the time, Hermione (somehow) hadn’t realized something quite crucial: Babies are just tiny humans. And human behavior is one of those stubborn things that cannot always be researched or predicted.

Rose was born on 10th December at 3 o’clock in the morning, which was nearly two weeks after Hermione’s projected due date. In retrospect, this should have been her first clue that this baby would not be operating exactly in accordance with predictability.

Ron had been the picture of a proud father when the healers had finally pressed the squalling bundle into his arms. Mirthful tears had slid unapologetically down his face as he’d gazed at Rose, his eyes filled with such raw love, devotion, and awe that it made Hermione burst into tears, too. He’d cradled the baby like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen, worth more than all the money in the world, worth more than his own life.

Of course, Hermione felt that way about her baby too, but it was so different to see those feelings reflected on Ron’s face—to see him so full of compassion and understanding, like he hadn’t really lived until he’d seen their daughter. 

And in spite of the complete inappropriateness of her feelings, Hermione began to feel a tad…envious.

She knew that those feelings of envy were ridiculous. Really, truly, she did. Rose was just a baby, after all! She hadn’t asked to be brought into this world any more than Hermione had asked to have bushy hair or large front teeth. Furthermore, Hermione’s feelings weren’t to suggest that she didn’t possess any motherly inclinations. Quite to the contrary, in fact. From the very moment that Rose had been born, Hermione had reached a startling realization that she loved this tiny little red-haired, brown-eyed baby with more fervor and intensity than she’d ever even fathomed.

It actually scared her a bit, to be honest—the depth, the immediacy to which she’d loved their daughter. The second that she’d come out, Hermione had been filled with a sense of rightness, a feeling that she knew she’d never felt before, an assurance that she loved her baby more than anyone else on the face of the earth. Except for Ron, of course.

But that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? Since Rose had been born, she’d never been more confident in her love for Ron, in her conviction that they were meant to be together. She adored watching this strong, powerful man hold their tiny baby and whisper quiet consolations, even if said baby couldn’t understand a word he said.

It made her wonder—deep down inside—if Ron was simply better suited for this job than she was. And she also wondered if perhaps Rose’s company was simply preferable right now, especially while her Mummy was such a weepy, leaking mess.

These suspicions had started the very day Rose was born. After the adrenaline had worn off from the birth itself, Ron had insisted that Hermione go to sleep. After 48 hours of labor, she had not been difficult to persuade.

When Hermione had awoken some time later, though, Ron hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes were bleary and unfocused, his facial hair grown in, his bright red hair matted to his head, but he was still sitting there and smiling at Rose like a complete madman, the occasional tear slipping down his face.

When he’d noticed that Hermione was awake, he’d grinned even more broadly back at her. “I just can’t believe how perfect she is,” he’d rasped, wiping away more errant tears as the baby wrapped a chubby hand around his finger.

Hermione had made a dry half-joke about how she already had Daddy wrapped around her little finger. Ron had chuckled, still staring at the curly-haired infant, and confirmed, “Damn right.”

He hadn’t left her cot in St. Mungo’s for the entirety of their stay.

When they’d returned home several days later, Hermione had still been weak from the birth. Ron had done a near-perfect imitation of his mother and all but forced her into bed.

“You need your strength, love,” he’d admonished, not unkindly, kissing her on the forehead. Hermione had huffed and muttered something about not being disabled. But Ron had easily cradled the baby in his arms, stared her defiantly in the face, and repeated: “Bed. Now.”

From then on out, Ron had taken to parenting as if it were this dormant ability he’d had his entire life, an asset that had somehow lurked beneath the surface until they’d had a baby of their own.

In Hermione’s opinion, the amount of natural skill that he possessed was…alarming, to say the least. Ron seemed to have a sixth sense about their daughter, a kind of tuned-in sensitivity to when she’d be upset, when she’d need a nappy change, when she needed to be winded for just a bit longer to get her to settle down.

And frankly, Hermione had never been more frustrated.

Being a mother was something she was meant to be good at, wasn’t it? She was a woman, after all. Those instincts should be just that—instinctive! For all intents and purposes, it should have come to her as naturally as magic, as easily as analyzing legal documents, as quickly as spell work.

But being a mother hadn’t come that easily. Whenever Rose cried, Hermione was seized with an overwhelming amount of panic, a powerful urge to correct whatever the problem was. This was how she’d lived her entire life, after all—by noticing a problem, attending to it swiftly, and moving on, having learned a lesson.   

Except for this time, there didn’t seem to be any lesson to learn. In fact, it seemed like nursing Rose was the only thing she could do to make her daughter happy. Fortunately for Hermione, Rose had inherited Ron’s appetite, and she was able to keep her baby content for as long as it took to feed her; after that, though, all bets were off. As the days began to blend together and Ron slowly started returning to occasional shifts at the Wheezes, Hermione felt an increasing sense of futility, a growing feeling that she simply wasn’t cut out for this like Ron was.

By Christmas Eve, Hermione’s exasperation had reached new heights. Rose had spent the entire day wailing, and by afternoon, her entire body was the same color as her hair. None of Hermione’s exhaustive efforts—from feeding, to nappy changes, to winding her, to walking, to playing with her, to distracting her—had worked. She was close to admitting defeat and getting help from Ginny when Ron came stumbling through the Floo.

Without even removing his cloak, he crouched down in front of her on the couch, pausing for a cursory glance at the dark circles beneath her tired eyes.

“Alright, love?” He asked, worry written on his face. She shrugged and passed the baby to his open arms, careful to support her head as she did so.

Just as Hermione had predicted, Rose stopped crying immediately when Ron pressed her against his chest, his large hands rubbing slow circles on her back. Within seconds, her wails and sobs had diminished to mere whimpers.

Ron smiled sweetly, his blonde eyelashes looking nearly translucent in the light from the Christmas tree as he pressed a kiss to her little head. But it was all too much for Hermione to take.

In an instant, she leapt up from the couch, hurriedly muttering something about “laundry.” It was a weak excuse, but the sitting room was already swimming before her eyes; she knew didn’t have long.

Hermione ignored Ron calling her name in bewilderment, refusing to turn around to see his hurt expression; it was the only thing that could have possibly made her feel any worse. She all but ran down the hallway and threw herself into the bedroom, not allowing herself to dissolve into tears before the door was firmly shut.

Perhaps I’m simply not meant to be a good mother, she thought morosely through her sobs, crawling into bed and staring at the bedroom ceiling.

Rose’s contented coos began to echo from the other room, and she could hear Ron talking to her in that same lilting, soothing voice he’d used since the day she was born. If she had her wits about her, she might’ve been able to appreciate how lovely it was that he talked to her so much.

But Hermione wasn’t in the mood to be sentimental (or even appreciative) at a time like this, not when she felt like such a complete and utter failure. She nestled into bed a bit more and released another pained, gasping sob. She could already feel exhaustion tugging at the corners of her eyes, the events of the day wearing on her more than she’d like to admit.

And Hermione had one taunting, pained thought before she fell into a fitful sleep: You can’t be good at learning everything.  

___________________________________

Some time later, Hermione blearily opened her eyes, the bedroom ceiling coming into blurry focus. From the darkness in her room, she could tell that at least an hour had passed. She reached out a hand beside her to feel if—but no, of course Ron wasn’t in the room. He was probably still with Rose, just like she, the baby’s mother, should be.

She rolled over to look at the clock and winced a bit at the pressure against her full breasts; it was much later than she thought. Rose would be ravenous soon, if she wasn’t already. Weasleys didn’t do well if they were denied meals, and Rose was certainly no exception.

She rose gingerly from the bed and tiptoed to the door, trying not to make any noise in the event that Ron had actually gotten the baby to sleep. A slow flush of guilt crept up her neck again, and she sighed; it wasn’t Rose’s fault that her mother felt so inept at caring for her. It was just a shame that she had to suffer as a result.

Hermione shook her head resolutely, reaching for the door handle. Perhaps all she needed was to read some different parenting texts. Muggle books might have more to offer, after all—a fresh perspective.

She began padding down the hallway, still lost in her own thoughts. Yes, I can ask Mum for some of the books she used with me. The information must be rather useful, even if—

But Hermione froze, stock-still, in the middle of the hallway. Ron was standing in front of the Christmas-adorned Floo, jostling the baby gently against his chest as he spoke to her. Hermione bit her lip and felt the tears spring to her eyes before she could stop them. Those two really were precious together.

So surely he wouldn’t mind if she just listened in a bit..? Hermione inched a little closer, still confident that Ron hadn’t noticed her presence. 

“-And that,” Ron continued in gentle overtones, “is why Bulgarian quidditch players won’t be going anywhere near you.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the squirming baby’s temple as Hermione covered a snort with her hand.

She stared at them with love in her eyes as the lights from the Christmas tree twinkled merrily across their freckled faces. Maybe things weren’t quite as bad as she thought. Rose was less than two weeks old, after all. Perhaps this was just a venture that had taken a bit longer, a skill that had taken Hermione slightly more time to master, something that she’d laugh about in years to come. She might even be able to comfort Rose as well as Ron did, one day. 

She was about to interrupt, to alert him to her presence, when—

“But now that we’re on the subject, Rose Bud,” Ron said, clearing his throat. He began walking back and forth as he continued to bounce her.

Hermione knew this trick well, mainly because she’d never been able to perfect it herself, despite studious application. It was a maneuver designed to keep the baby occupied for just a bit longer, and like all things with Rose, Ron had developed it subconsciously.

Hermione cocked her head, suddenly fascinated. If he had something that important to say, she was interested in hearing it herself. Even if it felt a bit like snooping.

“I reckon you can’t understand this.” Ron said softly, a hint of sadness in his voice. Hermione managed a weak smile; Rose hadn’t been able to understand him talking about quidditch players either, but that hadn’t stopped him.

“Do Daddy a favor,” he continued gently, now shifting Rose to his shoulder and kissing her ear. “Try to go easy on Mummy when I’m at work, yeah? She’s a brilliant genius, your Mum. But somehow she hasn’t quite figured out yet that you’re exactly like her, and I think that’s why she’s having such a hard time.”

Rose let out a loud grunt, and her face scrunched up. Ron chuckled and began patting her on the back.

“Say what you want, Rosie, but it’s true. You remind me more and more of her every day. And I couldn’t be happier about that, to tell you the truth.” His voice lilted up on the end; even though his back was facing her, Hermione could tell he was flashing the baby his lopsided grin.  

But as Ron continued to prattle on, Hermione felt her head start to spin. She soundlessly leaned her full weight against the wall, not trusting her feet to continue holding her up. Taking deep breaths, she stared blankly ahead, mouth opening and closing like a fish floundering on dry land.

Merlin.

He was right.

How had she not seen in before?!

She’d been so blinded by Rose’s appetite and bright red curls and freckles that she hadn’t even noticed it. But now that the facts were staring her in the face, it was obvious: She and Rose were extremely similar. They were both so particular, both so requiring of a specific type of reassurance, both so responsive…to Ron.

Well, no wonder she’d had so much difficulty, trying to get her to respond to a personality exactly like her own!

Hermione let out a startled laugh—her first in days—before she could stop herself, slapping a hand over her mouth just in time. Ron, who was still casually chatting to Rose, didn’t seem to notice.

Oh, how she’d misunderstood!

Hermione could’ve wept with joy in that moment, her body filled with a wave of love and compassion as her brain and her heart finally clicked all the pieces together. It wasn’t that she was a terrible mother—it was that Ron just happened to be an excellent father. And Ron happened to be an excellent father because Rose was so much like her.

After all, she and Ron were used to caring for each other—it was just how the two of them worked. Ron was the person who reminded her to take a break and eat, the person who informed her when it was time for bed, the person who made sure she wasn’t working so hard that she made herself sick.

Hermione cared for Ron too, of course, just in entirely different ways. She helped him talk through things when he needed to, but also understood when it was sometimes too painful for him to bring things up. She also coaxed him to realize when he did need to talk about certain things to feel better, and provided him with gentle reminders about getting his work done.

The two of them fit together like gears on a clock, each needing the other to function. She’d been trying to care for their baby without even considering how to approach things from Ron’s perspective—even though their baby was half Ron.

Godric, why hadn’t she realized any of this before? She scrubbed her face with her hands as days of frustration melted off. Of course Ron was able to handle things so fluidly, of course he was able to foresee and anticipate exactly what their baby might need. He’d been used to helping Hermione for ages now; he now knew Hermione far better than she knew herself.

Hermione pushed off from the wall and stood up straight again, feeling completely at peace for the first time since her daughter had been born.

And she would’ve been happy to let Ron shush and cuddle and play with their baby all night long, but a startled cry from Rose’s lips brought her back to reality. Hermione’s breasts were now painfully engorged, and if Rose didn’t eat soon—

“Oh. Hey. Didn’t see you there.”

Ron had turned around to face Hermione, an affectionate smile playing on his lips as he bounced Rose in his arms. “Didn’t want to wake you,” he murmured, glancing down at the baby and wincing a little, “but she seems a bit peckish, thought you might want to…”

“Of course,” Hermione breathed, unbuttoning her top as she went to take the baby from him.

The three of them sank down onto the couch, and Ron shot Hermione a sheepish grin as she brought Rose to her chest; he loved watching this bit. She rolled her eyes at him playfully, bringing the baby even closer her just as her tiny mouth went wide and rooting. Rose released an appreciative gurgle from her throat as she latched on, and her parents both laughed, matching smirks dancing across on their faces.

“You may act like Mummy, Rose Bud,” Ron said softly, playing with a ginger curl as he propped his head up on his hand, “but you’re 100% Weasley when you get food in front of you, eh?”

Rose slurped loudly in response, her brown eyes wide and curious. Hermione gazed at her fondly, pressing a kiss to her chubby little fist before she could reach up and yank her hair. But Ron was two steps ahead; he gently brushed Hermione’s hair from her shoulder, making sure it was far out of Rosie’s grasp.

The three sat cuddled together for a few moments, content to relax as the lights from the tree played across the room.

“Happy Christmas, Rosie.” Ron finally whispered, pressing a kiss to the baby’s curly red hair.

Hermione tilted Ron’s chin and kissed him softly on the lips. He responded by kissing her back and she pulled away, resting her head on his as the baby continued to nurse.

As she smiled broadly at her little family, all nestled and warm in front of the tree, she felt—for the first time in her life—like perhaps she’d be a good mother, after all. 

[colormusicdying]

Almost the Beginning:                Hell’s Own Fire .5.

Good morning sunshine. It's 5:30 AM. Today, astonishing Nobel Prize-winning technology, the far reaches of human knowledge about our selves, and the gift of rare skill, will be rained down on hell's own fire, in an attempt to put it out.

Discovery of her brain tumor actually came at the end of five months, a period starting with the grand mal seizure at 3 o'clock in the morning. I will write about that a different time. So this is almost the beginning. But this is the beginning of the attempt to put out the fire. The beginning of fighting this thing and trying to survive it, for as long as possible. The diagnosis is coming after this. The tumor material has to be removed first, and used. We know for sure it's bad. 

Groggily we arrive. There is preoperative prep. Where is the power of attorney? Someone comes to the hospital room and glues markers all over her head so the last pre-operative MRI, which is fed into the surgical machine, will be as up-to-date as possible, so the operating machine and the surgeon, know where, in all that darkness, they are cutting. This is a machine surgery, guided by human hands. No one can see to the middle of your brain, except via MRI. It is not rocket science. Yes, it really IS brain surgery. 

You say goodbye to your loved one as she is wheeled behind hospital doors like none you have ever seen; doors that prevent ordinary people and their germs from destroying a very delicate process, from lousing up the possibility of new life. Have a seat. Will call you from the operating room. And over the course of the surgery, they did. During that time our 16 year old daughter came from her camp counselor job across the street. Try to eat; try to even think; watch the fish swimming swimming swimming stuck in their tank not even aware they are in a tank. What else is there to think about? Who the hell could read? Phone calls from the deeply mysterious operating room on another planet somewhere beyond those doors: it's going fine. The evolution of humans from fish did not take this long. We're done, seven hours later. She needs to recover before you can see her. And as in all surgical procedures the surgeon comes out to speak to the family. That would be me. This is the great surgeon, the person followed around by younger doctors who want to be him. Confident not cocky before the surgery, he is visibly exhausted. The fact is, this is a horrible tumor and he knows, and I know, he could not remove it. "I did cut off its blood supply," he said. It is June. I ask, "Will she still be here at Christmas?" He stopped to think for a moment. Exhaustion? Uncertainty? "I think so," he said. Good grief, my own tired brain spins, he's not even sure? I thanked him. He was not a happy man, and he dragged himself away.    He poured caring skill on that fire, from right inside her brain, but the fire was not out. It still isn't. 

You think, these are people of pure steel, and they are. But they know very well they are struggling to save humans, and the heat from that struggle melts steel. This was maybe the first time but certainly not the last I realized that the best and the wisest of these people know what they can control, and what they cannot.

Survival has begun. With Defiance. 

Three hours later they allowed me in to see. Not really the big mess you might think after such a rude attack on a human body, lots of bandages but only one IV. She wakes up, cracks an eyeball, sees me and says, "did anybody get the number of that truck?" Ha ha, I thought, still functioning. Still a smart-ass.  Music to my ears. 

Two weeks in the hospital, me going back-and-forth. At this point she is capable of using a phone and we can talk. On the Fourth of July, they let me wheel her up to the roof of the hospital so we could see some fireworks. Together. 

One of the students of the great surgeon shows up to remove the stuff that was used to put her skull one piece again, put the lid back on. I asked, what are those things? He answered simply, "staples". I would say about 300 staples. He had an M.D. AND a PhD, and this guy is removing the staples! I asked, how do you put them in? With no irony what ever, and no pause, he replied, "with a staple gun". I asked him how do you take out these things? He said, "well, with a staple remover". And the staples shot all over the room, bouncing off the walls like ricocheting bullets,  ping ping ping, as he pried them one at a time out of her skull. The scab took a year to heal.

There is training. There is rehab. You'll have to stay with her all the time, they warned me. If there's a fire she may not know she should get out.

And after two weeks in the hospital, I was so happy to be bringing my wife home sitting up in our family van. I think that's the first time we ever discussed it. When one of us dies, what the other person should do. We agreed, whoever is left should be free to do anything including find another partner. Don't sit around and mope forever.

As we left, one of the oncology nurses said, "and now you will get your life back." Well, compared to what we just did, yes. Compared to everyone else's life, no. If you didn't realize that her vision was severely damaged, a diagnosis called hemianopia, and that she would never drive again, never read normally again so that she could never read a book again, never see both halves of a dinner plate again, had to give up her beloved sewing hobby and all fiber arts because not only her vision but her sense of space was destroyed, had to give up her dream of teaching again after only one semester prior to her diagnosis, didn’t realize that she would never be able to read script writing again, and that she had lost all sense of time and would never again know what day or time it was or have any sense of time passing. Why, if you didn't realize, then you would have thought everything was just fine, in the summer of 2005.

But on our side of the membrane, everything in the world changed to a different feel and Color. Because from then to now, everything in the world constantly reflects the unforgiving heat from hell's own fire. 

Next post: Small post midweek, then, Friday July 13: The Membrane

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

AU idea: what if the kids took the Escafil Device with them, noticed that disabled people were passed over by the Yeerks, and started recruiting the Auxiliaries right away?

• The Pediatric Long-Term Rehab Center of Children’s Hospital Los Angeles has a secret.  It’s an open secret, to be sure—any of the kids who aren’t directly involved nevertheless know something about something—but none of them have ever breathed a word to their parents or friends or caregivers about where James and his friends go when they sneak out every few nights.  Certainly no one has ever so much as hinted about the way he and his friends leave, because who would believe them?  The nurses shut the window every time they come by; Faith or Pedro or one of the others left behind always opens it again.

• They’re divided into units: Craig’s team, Erica’s team, Jake’s team.  Jake and the five friends who fight directly under him all live across town, operating semi-independently, but they always find their ways to come by and check in with James.

Ax becomes a volunteer entertainer for the unit, swooping in every week to sing pop songs or play instruments for the children.  He’s delighted enough by mouth sounds that Collette and Liam actually start teaching him to sing for real after a while, so that he can perform Britney Spears and the Rolling Stones on command for the nurses.

Rachel brings home brochures for a gymnastics camp that meets twice a week after school every day, makes a big show of convincing both her own mom and Cassie’s parents to let them join, and then simply doesn’t bother signing either of them up for the camp in reality.  Every Monday and Thursday Naomi drops them off, clad in leotards and leggings, at the community center downtown.  Every Monday and Thursday, an osprey and a bald eagle can be seen soaring out the skylight and heading downtown.

Marco takes a bus to the hospital any time he feels like; Peter never notices his disappearances.  He’s a frequent enough visitor that the nurses know his face, but by then Marco is already dating Collette so that’s his excuse ready-made.

No one notices Tobias disappearing into thin air, and certainly no one notices the red-tailed hawk that can sometimes be seen circling the hospital’s rehab center.

Jake makes the daringest move of all when he simply joins The Sharing, which sends volunteers to the hospital every weekend to read to the patients.  He slouches around the edges of meetings making noise about how he’s only there for the free food and the college application boost, and eventually everyone concludes it’s not even worth the waste of time to ask him when he’s going to become a full member.

• Jake might be their founder, but James is their commander.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Jake asks one day.  “Ax calling you ‘prince’ all the time, I mean.  It would drive me nuts.”

“The last prince he had was his big brother,” James points out.  “He knows I could never fill those shoes, but I’m honored he’s asking me to try.”  

And Jake shuts up about the subject of titles.

• The thing is, it’s a big group.  There are over 20 of them directly involved in the war, another 30-odd who know something about something.  The leak is inevitable.

The young man who walks into their rec room on an ordinary Tuesday bears a passing resemblance to Jake—same long nose, same dark eyes, same lanky build—but you could never mistake them, because the overt cruelty twisting those features is the kind of expression Jake would never wear.  “Which of you is James Connerton?” he asks.  James has him out cold on the floor before the yeerk has time for another word.

The next several minutes are a frantic hurricane of life-or-death decisions made too quickly with not enough information.  James gathers everyone who can morph, everyone who can fly and fight, and he’s sending them out the window as droves of pigeons before they can do more than ask what’s going on.  In the chaos, there is no time to grab anything, no time to leave messages for family or friends.

Liam says “I’m not going with you,” and in the long silence that follows everyone figures out what he means.  

“You traitor,” Tricia spits.  James holds up a hand to stop her.  It takes maybe the greatest effort of willpower he’s ever exerted, but he watches with dry eyes and clenched jaw as Kelly morphs and kills Liam on the spot.  

The brutal thing is, Liam’s not the only one who can’t come with them.  There are several others who cannot survive on the run, away from respirators and morphine and palliative care.  “Do as they tell you,” James tells the ones he leaves behind.  “Give them everything they for ask about us, cooperate with everything they ask for, and try not to get yourselves killed.  That means…”  And now the tears threaten harder, but again he forces them back.  “If they ask you to become controllers, you do it.  We will end this war, and we will be back for you.  Until then… Survive.”

As the others either brace themselves or flee, James walks back into his room.  He kisses Pedro on the forehead, whispers “Take care of them.”  And then he morphs falcon, leading his reduced flock away from the building as the black limousine pulls up outside.

• When they land in the woods, they take nearly an hour to let it sink in: they were twenty-six this morning, and right now they are fifteen.

Julio screams at the sky.  Craig calls Liam names that most fourteen-year-olds wouldn’t even know.  Erica doesn’t morph, but her howl of rage and pain does credit to her wolf shape.  Pedro was the little brother James never had; Ray was Erica’s first love.  

And then they pick themselves up, take inventory, and start planning where to go from here.  These children’s lives have all touched loss, from the accident that took James’s father and his legs, to the three roommates Jessie has seen die throughout a lifetime spent in hospitals, to the twenty-year limit doctors have put on Collette’s lifespan.  They know how to categorize, how to cope, how to adapt around scar tissue and amputation.  They adjust, and then they go back to work.

• Jake’s team appears to be secure—for now.  James and the others make it to the hork-bajir valley with their help, and with Toby’s help they start planning their next attack.

• It’s a routine reconnaissance mission on the outskirts of a Sharing meeting, one that’s not meant to turn into a full-blown attack until suddenly it does.  They are an army, the twenty-one of them who remain, and there are so many frantic messages shouted back and forth in thought-speak that when Jake gives the order to retreat, Cassie doesn’t hear until it’s too late.  They are an army, and so it’s not until they do a headcount mid-retreat that they realize they left one behind.

The yeerks never took her.  It’s a small reassurance, but it’s the only one the Animorphs have.  

Forty-eight hours later, Cassie’s parents paper the town with missing posters.  Her image makes it to the local news, next to a segment of Michelle tearfully begging for any word at all about her daughter.  The adults’ search goes on for over three months, hope waning steadily.

Jake spends most of that time sitting in his room staring at the wall.  Jean tells him that if he wants to talk she’s here.  Steve reassures him more than once that they’ll find Cassie soon.  Tom—or the appearance of Tom—mutters about how Jake didn’t even know her that well so he should probably get over it.  Homer, who doesn’t know much but still understands human emotion better than Temrash 114 ever will, curls up at Jake’s side and growls at anyone who gets too close.  

Jake thinks of pieces of a wolf’s body, cut clean down the middle by a dracon beam, buried at the edge of the farmland Cassie’s family has owned for over a century, marked only by a boulder Marco’s gorilla hands rolled over the fresh earth.  He tells James, “I’m out,” and James doesn’t argue.

Rachel, however…  Rachel shows up in Jake’s doorway after his fourth missed meeting, her perfect makeup almost enough to hide her red-rimmed eyes.  She sits on the end of Jake’s bed (growling right back at Homer when he objects) and says, “You know what I’ve been asking myself more and more since the war started?  ‘What would Cassie do?’  Because she was the best of us at keeping herself.  And if I can figure out what she would do, then most of the time I can figure out what I should do.”  She leans close, not letting Jake look away.  “We have got to keep her around, or I don’t even want to know what’s going to happen to the rest of us.  We’ve gotta keep figuring out what she would do, and we’ve gotta keep doing it, or by the end of the war we’ll all be more like me than like her.”  She sticks out her hand, palm up in offering.  “So come on.  The yeerks are shipping portable kandrona generators through the garment factory downtown, and according to Marco I’m in charge of this little team for now.  So we’re gonna do this raid, and we’re gonna do it right.  Like Cassie would insist that we did.”

Jake takes her hand.  The raid goes according to plan, as much as these things ever do.  Afterward, he leaves a pebble on top of that unmarked stone.  

• While all of this is going down, Kelly stops breathing in her sleep.  Timmy resuscitates her, and she morphs, but two days later it happens again.  The thing is, cystic fibrosis is progressive, and it’s not fixed by morphing.

Kelly and James have a long conversation.  She says a lot of things she doesn’t mean, he says a lot of things he does, and at the end of it she acquires DNA from him.  From Collette.  From Elena.  From every single one of her fellow Animorphs.  Ax talks her through the process, and then she morphs for the very last time.  

A teen runaway shows up at a shelter downtown, claiming her name is Kelsey James.  Within two weeks she’s in foster care.  Her fight is done.  

Timmy doesn’t wake up when Julio starts struggling a month later, and the following morning Julio doesn’t wake up at all.

James calls a meeting of the entire team, because they can’t keep going like this, with no equipment or support or doctors’ assistance.  Jake hesitates for a long time, but at last he says it: “My dad’s a pediatrician.”

• It was always only a matter of time before the yeerks’ investigations into James’s known associates turned up a connection to Marco or Ax; the time has come to evacuate the four families that remain ignorant.  

Ax and Rachel convince her mom to take her sisters and follow them to safety.  Marco takes Collette with him, and together they decide what to tell his dad.  Tobias uses his own and Timmy’s gentler touch to approach Cassie’s parents with the news that they can’t bring their daughter back, but they can offer closure.  

Jake, James, and half a dozen other Animorphs do with a sledgehammer what the others are accomplishing with a scalpel.  Tom gets unceremoniously tossed in the trunk of the car, tied up with almost a hundred yards’ worth of duct tape.  Jake holds his own mother at gunpoint as she drives with shaking hands where he directs her, glancing occasionally in the mirror at her white-faced husband and the full-grown lion draped across their back seat.  Nothing any of them say will convince Jean and Steve that their son has been replaced by an alien, so they don’t even bother.  Explanations will have to be sorted out at a later time.

Everyone arrives in one piece, more or less.  James, who has a knack for this kind of thing, sits Jake’s parents down to explain.  Jake leaves him to it, more concerned with negotiating for his brother’s life.  He offers the yeerk a fast death, and makes it very clear that the only alternative is a slow one.  

The yeerk chooses a fast death.  Jake grants it to him.  And then Tom pulls him into the longest hug Jake’s had in his life, clinging as if Jake is the only raft in a storm.

• Steve writes the most extensive shopping list Jake has ever seen in his life, and the Animorphs use it to rob a hospital for everything Erica and the others will need.  James takes the morphing cube, goes to the nearest school for the blind, and comes back with over a dozen new Animorphs.  Tobias disappears for almost a week, but when he comes back Loren is with him.  Rachel leads her team of five on mission after mission, and at the end of each one the stack of pebbles on Cassie’s grave grows by one.  Naomi writes the hork-bajir their own constitution.  Loren starts an interspecies baseball league.  Toby starts freeing human-controllers along with her hork-bajir, and the population of their valley swells to almost 500 people. 

• There are about a dozen of them sitting around a fire, debating next moves, when Tom says, “I could steal you a Blade ship.  But I’d need a hell of a diversion.”

Jake and Rachel smile at each other, nearly identical grins.  And then they become the first two to volunteer for the suicide run.

The ensuing fight is bloody, and awful, because that’s the way that war works.  Somewhere in the middle of it, Ax points out that the yeerk pool can be drained for cleaning.  It’s Marco who says, “C’mon, man, what would Cassie do?” and stays his hand.  Instead they fake an alarm indicating a hull breach in the Pool ship; in the end, it works just as well.  

• They win, kind of.

«Who exactly are you?» the andalite prince asks.  

Marco cocks a thumb.  “This is James.  James Connerton.  President of Earth.”

• James retires, more or less, retreating to work quietly as a volunteer in youth outreach in downtown Los Angeles.  He leaves the limelight to Marco and Collette, the political wrangling to Timmy and Elena.  There are just five Animorphs left, where once there were dozens, but James sees to it that the others are not forgotten.  He pays for the monument erected on top of Cassie’s grave, the sports scholarship earmarked for teenage girls in Rachel’s name.  Tobias gets a national forest purchased in his name; Ax gets a $500,000 anonymous donation to CinnaBon’s R&D department.  To honor Jake, James writes a memoir, preserving all their stories exactly as they happened before history has the chance either to glorify them or to gloss them over.