#but i will briefly live in the universe where the warriors books are good and gay cat characters are real

[clanborn]

pov myrtlebloom and finchlight steal ur girl

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Austin Grossman’s ‘Fight Me’

On July 14, I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

In Fight Me, the novelist and game developer Austin Grossman uses aging ex-teen superheroes to weigh the legacy of Generation X, in a work that enrobes its savage critique with sweet melancholia, all under a coating of delicious snark:

http://www.austingrossman.com/fight-me

It is, in other words, a very Gen X kinda novel. Prodigy (AKA Alex Beekman) is a washed-up superhero. As a nerdy high-schooler, he was given super powers by a mysterious wizard (posing as a mediocre teacher), who gave him an amulet and a duty. Whenever Alex touches the amulet and speaks the word of power, reaclun (which he insists is not "nuclear" backwards) he transforms into Prodigy, a nigh-invulnerable, outrageously handsome living god who is impervious to bullets, runs a one-minute mile, and fights like a champ. Prodigy, he is told, has a destiny: to fight the ultimate evil when it emerges and save the world.

Now, Alex is 40, and it's been a decade since he retired both Prodigy and his Alex identity, moving into a kind of witness protection program the federal government set up for him. He poses as a mediocre university professor, living a lonely and unexceptional life.

But then, Alex is summoned back to the superhero lair he shared with his old squad, "The Newcomers," a long-vacant building that is one quarter Eero Saarinen, three quarters Mussolini. There, he is reunited with his estranged fellow ex-Newcomers, and sent on a new quest: to solve the riddle of the murder of the mysterious wizard who gave him his powers, so long ago.

The Newcomers – an amped-up ninja warrior, a supergenius whose future self keeps sending him encouragement and technical schematics backwards through time, and an exiled magical princess turned preppie supermodel – have spent more than a decade scattered to the winds. While some have fared better than Alex/Prodigy, none of them have lived up to their potential or realized the dreams that seemed so inevitable when they were world famous supers with an entourage of fellow powered teens who worshipped them as the planet's greatest heroes.

As they set out to solve the mystery, they are reunited and must take stock of who they are and how they got there (cue Talking Heads' "Once In a Lifetime"). With flashbacks, flashforwards, and often hilarious asides, Prodigy brings us up to speed on how supers fail, and what it's like to live as a failed super.

The publisher's strapline for this book is "The Avengers Meets the Breakfast Club," which is clever, but extremely wrong. The real comp for this book isn't "The Breakfast Club," it's "The Big Chill."

When I realized this, I got briefly mad, because I've only had two good movie high concept pitches in my life and one of them was "Gen X Big Chill." Rather than veterans of the Summer of 68 confronting the Reagan years, you could have veterans of the Battle of Seattle living through the Trump years. One would be on PeEP, one would be an insufferable Andrew Tate-quoting bitcoiner, one would be a redpilled reactionary with a genderqueer teen, one would be a squishy lib, one a firebreathing leftist, etc. The soundtrack would just be top 40 tracks from artists who have songs on "Schoolhouse Rock Rocks":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schoolhouse_Rock!_Rocks

Every generation has some way in which they seek to overthrow the status quo and build a new, allegedly better one, after all. "Big Chill"'s impact comes from its postmortem on a generation where it was easy to feel like you were riding destiny's rails to greatness thanks to the sheer size of the Boomer cohort and the postwar prosperity they lived through. A Gen X Big Chill would be a stocktaking of a generation that defined itself as a lost generation reared in the Boomers' shadows, armored against the looming corpo-climate apocalypse with the sword of irony and the shield of sincerity.

Which is basically what Grossman is doing here. What's more, doing this as a superhero story is a genius move – what could be a better metaphor for a teen's unrealistic certainty of destined greatness than a superhero? Superhero fantasies are irreducibly grandiose and unrealistic, but all the more beautiful and brave and compelling for it.

You know, like teens.

At 52, I'm a middle-aged Gen Xer. I've got two artificial hips and I just scheduled a double cataract surgery. My hairline is receding. I'm an alta kaker. But I wasn't always: I was a bright and promising kid, usually the youngest person in the room where we were planning big protests, ambitious digital art projects, or the future of science fiction. I had amazing friends: creative and funny and sweet, loyal and talented and just fun.

We're mostly doing okay (the ones that lived; fuck cancer and fuck heroin and fuck fentanyl). Some of us are doing pretty good. On a good day, I think I'm doing pretty good. I had a night in 2018 where I got to hang out, as a peer, with my favorite musician and my favorite novelist, both in the same evening. These were artists I'd all but worshipped as a teen. I remember looking at the two selfies I took than night and thinking, Man, if 15 year old me could see these, he'd say that it all worked out.

But you don't get to be 52 without having a long list of regrets and failures that your stupid brain is only too eager to show you a highlight reel from. No one gets to middle age without a haunting loss that is always trying to push its way to the fore in order to incinerate every triumph great and small and leave ashes behind.

That's why there's a "Big Chill" for every generation. Each one has its own specific character and meaning situated in history, but each one has to grapple with the double-edged sword of nostalgia. Not for nothing, John Hodgman (a bona fide Gen X icon) calls nostalgia "a toxic impulse."

Grossman really makes Fight Me work as a Gen X Big Chill. He's a great Gen X writer; his first novel, Soon I Will Be Invincible, was a knockout debut about superheroes and supervillains that had a very "The Boys" vibe, you know, that neat little move where you contend with the banal parts of a super's life and show how super powers don't make you a good person, or even a competent one.

His followup to Invincible came six years later. YOU is a coming-of-age story about the games industry with a second-person narrator (think "Zork"). Grossman is an accomplished game dev (Tomb Raider Legend, Deus X, Dishonored, etc), and he uses YOU to really plumb the depths of what games mean, what fun is, and how working on games isn't just work, it's often really shitty work, the opposite of fun:

https://memex.craphound.com/2013/04/16/austin-grossmans-you-brilliant-novel-plumbs-the-heroic-and-mystical-depths-of-gaming-and-simulation/

Grossman's last novel was Crooked, a very daffy alternate history in which Richard Nixon is a Cthulhoid sorcerer locked in a Lovecraftian battle of good and evil. This is a purely hilarious romp, wildly imaginative and deliciously certain to offend reactionary jerks:

https://memex.craphound.com/2015/08/26/austin-grossmans-crooked-the-awful-cthulhoid-truth-about-richard-nixon/

All those chops are on display in Fight Me: a book that covers its brooding with wisecracks, that spits out ten great gags per page even as it drives a knife into your heart. It's a great novel.

Fight Me doesn't come out in the US and Canada until tomorrow (it's been out in the UK, Australia, NZ, etc for more than a month). Normally, I would hold off on reviewing this until the on-sale date, but this is my last day on the blog for two weeks – I'm leaving on a family vacation early tomorrow morning. I'll see you on July 14!

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/01/the-big-genx-chill/#im-super-thanks-for-asking

[realroykoopa]

My Zelda Timeline

My Zelda timeline inspired by lorulean historian, Brian David Gilbert, and Bird Keeper Toby: Includes fan creations:

keep in mind not everyone may agree on this timeline. This isn’t to discredit anyone else’s personal timeline it is simply the way I see the games as fitting together:

Majora’s Mask prequel manga 

Minish cap and split:

Timeline 1: Minish cap bad ending: Zelda is turned to stone and Vaati briefly rampages but Link seals Vaati in the four sword leading to the rest of the four swords trilogy.

Four Swords

Four Swords Bonus Manga Stories 

Four Swords Adventures 

Timeline 1A: link to the past and other classic Zelda games: A branch off from the four swords trilogy in which Ganon tries to steal the triforce and gets sealed in the sacred realm. 

A link to the past 

Nintendo Land: Zelda Battle Quest 

Oracle of ages and seasons 

Ancient Stone Tablets and Link’s awakening 

The Time Break and BS The Legend Of Zelda: Link goes into the multiverse after being stranded in the Mario universe, whilst he is gone the events of BS The Legend Of Zelda happen in which a different set of protagonists battle Ganon since link is absent:

Super Mario RPG

Donkey Kong Country 3

Captain Rainbow 

Super Mario Maker

Super Mario Maker 2

Mario Kart 8

Soulcalibur II 

Sonic Lost World Legend Of Zelda Zone

Scribblenauts Unlimited 

End of time break: Link returns to his own universe:

Oath of Riruto

A link between worlds 

Tri force heroes 

Zelda’s Adventure 

End

Timeline 1B: CDI Shenanigans: Instead of going to the sacred realm Ganon goes directly for Hyrule leading to the original Zelda games and media. 

Zelda Game watch

The legend of Zelda and the moblin’s magic spear book presumably takes place at some point during the original Zelda game. 

The Faces of Evil 

Zelda Game and Watch 

The wand of Gamelon 

Crystal Trap and Shadow Prince

Zelda Tv Show and Valiant Comics  

Captain N 

Zelda 2: Adventure of Link

Battle of Mirage Castle

End 

Timeline 2: Minish Cap good ending: the regular ending of Minish Cap leading to the prospering of Hyrule and a different origin for Ganon. 

Cadence Of Hyrule 

The Skull Kid And The Mask manga story 

Ocarina Of time 

Rouru Of The Watarara Manga story 

Link and the Portal of Doom 

Tingle’s Rosy Rupeeland

Tingle's balloon trip of love 

Majora’s Mask 

Link’s Crossbow Training

Twilight Princess

Wind Waker 

Phantom Hourglass

Tingle’s Balloon Fight DS 

Spirit Tracks

Timeline 2A: Terrako doesn’t go back in time resulting in the breaking of Demise’s curse and Hyrule prospering for eternity:

Breathe Of The Wild 

Tears Of The Kingdom

Timeline 2C: Champions succeed: Terrako Travels back in time allowing the champions to succeed. However Ganon was meant to be destroyed for good to break the curse so unbeknownst to them they have doomed The Hero, Hylia, and Demise to reincarnate for eternity meaning there will never be true peace in Hyrule:

Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity 

Hyrule Warriors 

Hang ‘Em Hyrule a Zelda western fan Film 

Modern Zelda Fan Film 

Demise’s curse is never broken leading to Link, Zelda, and Ganondorf reincarnating for the rest of time. 

Timeline 2D: Cadence doesn’t come to Hyrule:

Octavo’s Ode 

Ganon’s Fury 

Symphony Of The Mask 

Ocarina Of Time 

Wind Waker Arc (Hyrule Warriors)

Leads back to Phantom Hourglass in Timeline 2 and continues as normal from there 

I haven’t been able to figure out where the hell Skyward Sword fits on the timeline though. It clearly can’t be first since the first timeline cannot logically include Skyward Sword as part of its backstory due to the fact that Zelda 2 gives a different origin story for the very first Princess Zelda. Unless the Zelda from Zelda 2 is the same as the one from Skyward Sword this would not work. It could go after Minish Cap but it would be hard to explain how the humans go from living on the ground to in the sky. The easy solution would be to say that the timeline was never unified in the first place.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 142

Another late chapter... I’m really batting a thousand lately, seems like.

So, work has been insane, but @baelpenrose reminds me to post when I forget, thankfully. And this is SUCH a fun chapter.  I hope you all enjoy!

I dropped into a seat in Mess Hall Seven with a groan, so exhausted that I barely managed to get soup and a grilled cheese from the console.  Tyche yawned and nodded in agreement before poking at her sushi bowl idly. It was six Von-days after the last drill, and between coordinating increased training schedules for Shelters Three and Seven and helping Charly plan kink-night at the Undine, we were wiped.

“People are ungrateful,” she muttered before managing to barely balance a piece of salmon into her mouth.

I muttered something that hopefully sounded like agreement before I scooped up a bite of my soup with one wedge of sandwich, too lazy to even bother with the spoon. “Remind me why we don’t have Vati and Hannah handling the practice schedules?”

“Because they are handling the extra evacuation drills with Jokul and Arthur.”

Personally, I thought they were getting the better end of this deal, but since the raging success of their first Food Festival, it really was only fair. “And the relocations for those who need it,” I admitted. “Except mine.”

“Conor may actually strangle one of them if any of your plants don’t make it,” she pointed out, gesturing with her chopsticks for emphasis after having given up and using her fingers to eat her lunch. “Not to mention I wouldn’t wish packing with Maverick on anyone.”

“He’s letting me pack the books and textiles.” I shrugged in acceptance after taking another bite of soup-dipped sandwich.

We picked at our food in silence after that, grateful for something resembling a reprieve, before we were interrupted by a flurry of grey hair and enthusiasm landing in one of the nearby chairs with a heavy thunk. “Good afternoon, Madams Reid.”

“Hey, Jokul,” I muttered as Tyche just waggled her fingers at him. I really think I liked it better when he was trying to kill me. Right now, I might even let him do it.

“I know you are both on your meal period, but I wanted to test the waters on potentially scheduling a community activity,” he rushed out.

Tyche guarded her lunch with an almost feral aggression, having heard what happened the last time Jokul had interrupted my lunch. “That should really be something you run by Al-”

“Worthington, yes, I know,” he interrupted. “However, I know you are both quite busy and I wanted to be respectful of your time. As such, I will make this as brief as - ow!” He snatched his hand back away from the other half of my sandwich, rubbing where I had slammed my spoon down onto it.

“I have no idea where the food stealing comes from, but don’t,” I warned him.

“Rude, got it,” he nodded in a terrifying impression of Charly’s normal demeanor. “As I was saying, I recently learned a new type of game from Terra, from the Before.  It involves teamwork, and encourages creativity and escapism, and I think it would be a very good community activity - “

I surrendered to my urge to groan. “We are not doing a redux of Settlers of Cattan. Arthur stabbed someone last time.”

“I didn’t press charges…” Jokul pouted, glancing at the scar on the back of his wrist briefly. “Besides, it was only a fork. Clearly he didn’t mean it, there were four knives in arms reach counting my own.”

Tyche cocked an eyebrow at me. Seriously?

I pursed my lips and wrinkled my nose in response. Yep.

“So what game is it this time?” I asked hesitantly.

I was reward-bombarded with a grin. “It’s called Dungeons and Dragons! Somewhat like a video game, but with more people, and using writing implements and paper. Oh, and different kinds of dice, very important. One person is something of the narrator, to give the game a kind of structure, while the other players act as characters in the game… Ivan introduced me to it, and it is quite challenging with the right people.  The dungeon master - that is the narrator - has to re-evaluate the story based on the actions of the other players, but the players themselves don’t know what the dungeon master is going to do. It is very much a social diversion, and there are many classes….”

As Jokul continued to gush, he was rather oblivious to the fact that Tyche and I were stuffing our faces as quickly as possible to avoid interrupting him or laughing. We had both played when we were younger - in fact, we had been introduced to the game by our mother.  There had even been a very overwhelming pop-culture movement in our youth around the game, which further emphasized just how far out in the boonies Jokul had grown up.  As shocking as it was that he was just now discovering the game, it came at exactly zero surprise that he enjoyed it so much - it was right up his alley of interests.

About fifteen minutes and two more grilled cheeses into his retelling of the campaign he was part of, Charly and Arthur squeezed in with us, their own lunches in tow.  As seemed to be a growing trend, Arthur reached over and snagged one of my sandwiches before I could react, shoving half of it in his face.

That was apparently enough to snap Jokul out of his story. “Hey! Why didn’t you hit him?”

“His deathwish, not my problem,” I shrugged.

Around the remains of my lunch, Arthur managed to enunciate. “Told you, Noah fissed the dairy allergy.”

“Bleargh,” I gagged comically. “It’s okay, think I’m done anyway.”

Jokul’s hand swatted Arthur’s out of the way to steal the rest of my food. “As I was saying, Ivan was quite clever with his resolution to deal subdural damage to the player who was very much ruining the storyline by insisting his character was immune to magical sleep…”

“Oooooo! I love tabletops!” Charly squealed, bouncing in her seat. “What setting are you playing in right now?  My favorite was always Exalted…”

“Miss Harper, I think we are discussing different activities.” Jokul sounded supremely confused, but my heart broke a bit.

Arthur shook his head. “Maybe not Exalted, but what about Ebberron? Swordhaven, maybe?  Just tell me it isn’t Ravenloft… I know you haven’t been fucking around in a Dark Sun, but I beg you to tell me you aren’t playing Ravenloft.”

��I’m not sure what those are… Ivan introduced me to Dungeons and Dragons. There is only one setting.”

“So… Greyhawk or homebrew,” Arthur nodded. “Best place to start, get the basics down.”

Jokul’s head pivoted toward me and Tyche, squinting in annoyance. “You knew, didn’t you? And you let me prattle on…”

“You were so… happy….” I explained plaintively. “We didn’t want to ruin that for you.”

Tyche nodded. “We both remember how fun that first campaign is. And honestly? We’ve been having a kind of crappy day.  It was nice to hear someone be excited about something that isn’t work related.”

“But I came to you to discuss making it a ship activity…”

“Originally, yeah,” I shrugged. “That was maybe the first thirty seconds.  After that, you were doing what literally every tabletop roleplaying person has done since the beginning of time… telling stories about the fun, dramatic, and frankly stupid shit the people in your party are doing.”

“Says the two-foot eight halfling rogue,” Arthur scowled.

“I rolled it at random, it was fifteen years ago, get over it!” I threw my hands up dramatically. “At least I wasn’t mated to a frickin’ deity.”

Charly giggled uncontrollably while Jokul goggled at us. “Exalted is broken in all the fun ways.”

“You literally sacrificed, and I quote ‘all of your fucks to give’, for necromancy.”

“That was your idea!”

Jokul turned toward Tyche, waiting for her to say something. She just held up her hands defensively. “I was a murder monk-bunny.”

Arthur snorted. “You were the Black Rabbit of Inle….”

“Well if my wife would have just stopped dying…!”

“At least none of us were the Platinum Knight who pissed his pants every time he confronted his favored enemy,” I laughed. “He never did live that one down. Every. Single. Dragon. He would crit fail his roles.”

“Oh, please,” Arthur intoned drily. “Did I ever tell you about the time one of my players managed to make ‘Notice me, Senpai’ into the most terrifying in-universe warcry imaginable?”

Charly choked before swatting his shoulder. “Not in front of my pasta. Please.”

Jokul, however, looked both horrified and intrigued, egging Arthur on. “Barbarian whose entire clan worshipped a god named The Senpai…. Just imagine, a barbarian in a rage, bellowing ‘NOTICE ME, SENPAI!!!’ before just scything down thirty men with a broadsword.”

At this point, I was laughing so hard that tears were rolling down my face. “Please, please tell me there was a kilt and pigtails involved….”

Jokul touched his own hair, before straightening as seriously as possible. “They are warrior’s braids, Councillor.”

That was it, I couldn’t take it anymore. I just put my head down on my folded arms and waiting to either pass out from laughing so hard or from exhaustion.  A few deep breaths and a spinning head later, I managed to wipe my face on my sleeve and realized the conversation was continuing without me.  Just as I was clearing my throat to let Jokul know he should be fine to start organizing something and to send me a rough outline, Arthur dealt the final blow.

Leaning over, he whispered over my shoulder. “By the way, the barbarian’s name was Drystan of the Doki-doki tribe.”

I was proud that I managed to get up and dash into the hallway before collapsing against the wall in maniacal laughter.  I barely registered Hannah’s voice behind me asking everyone at the table if I needed medical assistance, and that did not help.

<< Prev  Masterlist  Next >>

[ahh-fxck]

Warrior’s Blues Chapter 9: Mockingbird

Hello, my lovelies! Here is the next chapter of Warrior’s Blues! In it we feature nervous Jaskier making comfort food while Yennefer finally lets him in on the big secret with her marriage to Geralt. Yennefer lives her best life making the poor bastard nervous again, and Geralt getting his feet a little more under him. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!

A huge thank you to @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog​ who is the co-creator and beta of this fic. Your patience and hard work are SO appreciated you don’t even know <3 <3 <3

Ao3 link here

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the tag list!! This fic updates roughly every two weeks.

@astouract​ @smolpoe​ @yes-im-the-violin-girl​ @ladyknight-keladry​

“Are you telling me that you’re not here to kill me? I admit I was a little worried when you showed up without Geralt.” He flashes her a lopsided little grin, trying to ease the tension of the situation.

“Afraid not. I would happily murder you, but Geralt would get upset…” she sighs, then smirks. “Step out of line and you die, but keep me happy and play your cards right? Then as far as I’m concerned, you’re free to pursue him. If you want him.” She takes another sip of her coffee.

Jaskier blinks, caught so off guard that he finds himself actually panicking a little. Wife not killing him? This is not in the usual script. Possibly still being able to see the unbelievably hot husband? Mind broken. He pulls his coffee in close against his chest for the warmth, trying to restart his brain. In the background of his mind is a steady stream of whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck repeating in circles.  

Yennefer laughs, watching his face journey through a number of stages of confusion. Eventually, she takes pity on him. “Breathe,” she quips. He sucks in a breath and looks at her, blue eyes wide and startled, and she gives him an amused grin. “So. Are you going to let me grill you, or should I just leave now?” she asks with a teasing twist of her lips.

Jaskier puffs, then sputters, “Grilling? Grilling’s fine.” Still looking like he’s been hit between the eyes, he turns away and sets his coffee cup down on the counter near the stove, then opens the fridge and begins nervously pulling fruit out and setting it on the counter. When strawberries and blueberries have been pulled out, he walks across the kitchen to hanging baskets and pulls down an apple and a banana. If he was going to be interrogated, he was damn well going to have some comfort food while it was happening.

Yennefer watches with amusement, sipping her coffee. “You crossed some lines by jumping into bed with Geralt so quickly, why don’t you start there?” she says sweetly, enjoying the way he winces.

Chapter 9: Mockingbird

The road outside the bar was quiet. She pulled her black blazer up around her shoulders, neatening her outfit in a storefront window. Then she eyed her reflection critically. When she was satisfied, she approached the door of the bar. From the outside, the place looked like a dive, but when she pushed inside she saw that it was actually a neat, well-appointed little space. The floor was wooden, and brass fixtures winked in the dimness. There was a subtle, pervasive odor of cumin lingering in the air, a memory of good cooking mixing with the more typical bar smells of spilled beer and cigarettes. Sitting in the far corner was a pale, broad-shouldered young man with ice blond hair shorn in a military cut. He was dressed in a plain tan shirt and khaki pants.

He raised his head when he heard the door. The place was almost deserted. Despite this, there was a cozy, well-lived feeling to the neat seating and lovingly polished tables. When he saw her, his face lit up. Yennefer had been running a little late, and his anxiety had been starting to get the best of him. 

“Yennefer,” he rose to his feet to greet her as she crossed the room. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” 

“I’m the one who asked you for a drink, Geralt, why wouldn’t I come?” She gave him an irritated look. She slung her purse off of her shoulder and hung it on the chair, putting herself bodily between the young man and his attempt to pull the chair out for her. Her violet eyes flashed as she fixed him with a look that very clearly said, ‘don’t touch.’ 

His eyes widened, and he gingerly took one step back, then another, waiting until her expression softened before he stilled again. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, then gestured vaguely towards the bar. “What can I get you?” Despite her sharp temper and sharper tongue, or perhaps because of it, Geralt had become fascinated with her as they worked together. She was whip-smart, merciless, and graceful in equal measures, and he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame even though she didn’t seem to like him very much. It had made his week when she’d grudgingly asked him out for a drink to get to know him better, but he hadn’t been certain she liked him enough to actually follow through. 

She eyed him impatiently as she considered. She found herself wishing he would stop looking at her like a nervous puppy, and she stared at him in vaguely concealed irritation. If anything though, the stare made it worse. She came to a decision and pulled the chair out neatly, seating herself at the table. “Arak, please. On the rocks.” 

“Chalav shel Ariot,” he said with a quick little smile. “Sure, I’ll be back.” 

She cocked her head at him, eyeing him curiously as he turned to leave. Milk of Lions, another name for the liquor arak. It was a common enough term among the locals, but she didn’t think she’d heard anyone else on base use it. 

As he returned a moment later, she sat back skeptically and took her glass from him. He sat down across from her with a beer and a shot glass full of clear undiluted arak. Her own was white, the sugars transformed by contact with the water from the ice. She drew her fingers along the cool sides of her glass, noticing that he didn’t seem to be making eye contact. Instead he watched her fingers trace beads of moisture. 

“Is this what you do all day? When you’re not being a pain in my ass?” She asked, observing the softness of his face up close. He usually had a stern expression. It was easy to miss how handsome he actually was, with wide topaz eyes and a cupid’s bow lip. To her surprise, he smiled crookedly and looked up at the ceiling fixtures, taking in the brass on the lights and dark iron brackets. 

“Yeah. This is where I spend a lot of my time. Coën likes it here too.” 

“He mentioned,” she replied dryly. “More than once.” She took a slow sip of the arak, the sharp burn of the aniseed flavored liquor pleasant across her tongue. 

“What brings you to this part of the world?” He asked quietly, now studying the table. His big hands were wrapped around his beer mug, but they gave the impression of nervousness stilled, like he would normally be in motion but was concealing it. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Yennefer had a keen eye for body language. Though she wouldn’t have readily admitted it, she’d been observing him closely for some time now. They had spent a lot of time together, both in and out of the field, and it had given her time to catalogue his tells.  She crossed her legs and considered his question, examining her glass. 

“I was assigned back here after college because I speak a couple of the local languages,” she said. “I grew up Ashdod, down the coast from here.” 

He licked his lips, nodded, then assayed a reply in Hebrew. <<Where did you go to college?>>

She frowned, putting her glass down and leaning towards him. <<What did you just say?>>

<<You said you came back after college. Where did you attend school?>> he tried again, shooting her a hopeful look over the edge of his mug. 

Surprised, she sat back. <<University of London. Why?>> She’d known from their field work that he knew at least a little of the local languages, enough to get by, but she had apparently underestimated how fluent he actually was.

<<I was wondering where your accent came from. You have an Israeli accent but you don’t sound quite like the locals. I thought the UK maybe..>> He took a long swallow of his beer. <<I graduated from Lexington Military College.>>

<<I know,>> she said wryly. <<I did a little digging after you got pinned to my ass by your CO.>> 

He shook his head and flashed another crooked grin, chuckling. <<Sorry about that. I don’t think he likes me very much.>>

<<Yes, well, I don’t like you very much either,” She replied, without any real heat. 

He tilted his glass at her ironically, then took a drink. <<Why the invitation, then?>> he inquired, lifting his gaze and catching her eyes with his own for the first time this whole conversation. A small shock ran through both of them, and she held his gaze for only a moment before looking off to the side, feeling oddly off balance. 

<<Coën kept insisting that I should get to know you, since we’re stuck working together so often.>>

He smiled at the table top. <<Coën’s a good guy. I like him.>> 

<<He is.>> She admitted, taking another swallow of arak. The burn was pleasant, smoother now that the ice had begun to melt into the alcohol. Rolling liquor on her tongue, she considered him with renewed intensity. <<How did you learn Hebrew?>>

Golden eyes came up and played briefly across her face, then dropped off to the side to study a nail in the floor. <<When I heard I was being assigned out here I picked up some books. And…>> he shrugged, taking a long swallow of his beer. <<I listen to the locals. I try to talk with them. David corrects me a lot.>> With a jerk of his head, he indicated the bartender quietly puttering around behind the bar across the room from them. 

She frowned, leaning towards him again. <<How much time did you have? That doesn’t seem right.>> 

<<Uhm… A year? Less? Not long.>> He replied, shrugging. <<I got more serious about it after I was assigned to you. I know people enjoy hearing their own language. I thought you might like it.>> His lips quirk as he feels her gaze on him, feeling put on the spot. 

Despite herself, she found the corners of her lips tugging with a smile. <<That’s insane,>> she said. <<I don’t believe you.>>

He shrugged, tossing back the last of his beer. <<Believe what you want.>> He chased it with the shot of arak, then shook his head to clear his burning sinuses. 

She leaned back, taking her glass with her and cradling it close to her chest.  <<Do you just speak, or do you read, too?>>

Licking his lips, he nodded. When he spoke again, she stared in astonishment. 

<<Not the peace of a cease-fire,

not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,

but rather

as in the heart when the excitement is over

and you can talk only about a great weariness.

I know that I know how to kill,

that makes me an adult.

And my son plays with a toy gun that knows

how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.

A peace

without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,

without words, without

the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be

light, floating, like lazy white foam.

A little rest for the wounds—

who speaks of healing?

(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation

to the next, as in a relay race:

the baton never falls.)

Let it come

like wildflowers,

suddenly, because the field

must have it: wildpeace.>> 

<<Where on earth did you learn that?>> She asked after a long, shocked silence. 

He shrugged awkwardly.. <<I saw the book in a pile of your things while you were working. Yehuda Amichai, Not For the Sake of Remembering. Uh. I got my hands on a copy of it. I thought you might like that one. I like it.>>

<<It’s my favorite from that whole book,>> she replied, taken aback. Not even her cameraman Coën, her closest friend, knew that. She tossed back the rest of her glass, taking the time to gather her suddenly scattered thoughts.  

<<Why are you a soldier? With a mind like that, you’re wasted in the army.>>

The smile he gave the table, brief though it was, was like sunlight flashing across still water. 

<<Thanks, I think?>> He toyed idly with his empty glass. <<I’m uh, in the army because my old man’s a Colonel and he raised me to follow his footsteps. Ran the base out in Powidz, Poland until they forced him to retire. I guess I always was headed here.>> Shrugging, he stood. <<Want another round?>>

<<Please,>> she said, offering her empty glass. He nodded and took it, returning a moment later with new glasses of beer and arak. Placing the milky glass of liquor in front of her, he sat back down. 

<<Why are you a journalist? Especially writing about what you do… interviewing who you do? It’s fucking dangerous.>> He leaned back in his chair, holding his beer against his chest and eyeing her curiously. The tension in his body was starting to fade, and he looked both kinder and younger as a result. 

She felt a curious warmth, looking at him. It was similar to the burn of the alcohol, but it tingled in her hands, in her chest. Taking a long swallow of liquor, she considered his question. They eyed each other curiously. <<I think I did it because I hate people lying.>> She waved her hand as she took another sip, explaining, <<Which, granted, makes what I do for a living ironic.>> He nodded and chuckled, taking a swallow from his mug while he listened. 

<<Um… I think I do it because I get to write everything down. Even if what I publish is… what it is, what I do to get paid, I know that somewhere there is a true and real account of what happened. What was said. Who was saying it and why. I know it’s written down somewhere, impossible to erase. And every now and then I get to really destroy someone awful, which makes some of the bullshit worth it.>>

<<Good answer,>> he said, eyebrows going up. <<Not sure what I was expecting, but I like that. You’re ferocious. I love watching you scare the shit out of people around here.>>

She laughed, genuinely and openly. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh like that, and he liked it. He never wanted her to stop. 

The road is wide and quiet, shaded by drooping, dusty trees. They are big, old, their gnarled branches weaving together to create a dim canopy that covers the early morning road and sidewalks in flickering shadows. The houses lining the street are old Victorian and Craftsman style homes with white gables. 

Yennefer drives slowly along it, violet eyes intent as she studies the neighborhood. The hum of the rental car’s engine is quiet as she rolls past house after house, scanning for the proper number. The first thing she spots even before that is Geralt’s battered old truck. It sits in the driveway of a simple blue house with a white wooden staircase spiraling up the outside. Next to it is a small white car with black songbirds printed on the trunk, done in pen-and-ink style art. They carry flowers, small splashes of color against the plain background. Yellow buttercups, blue cornflowers, red poppies, even blue forget-me-nots are carried in their beaks. 

Flicking on the turn signal, she waits for a green van to slowly pass going the other way before she pulls up in the driveway behind Geralt’s truck. Pulling the parking brake, she leans back in her seat to rest and gather herself. It had been a long, emotional night and she was still jet lagging terribly. Still, she thought that getting out while Geralt was still asleep was probably for the best, so she had risen early to take care of things.

When she gets out of the car a wall of sticky, humid air hits her immediately. With a brief expression of displeasure she eyes the sky, then turns around and retrieves her purse from the car. She pauses to flick open her compact, checking over her appearance. Despite her exhaustion, she is impeccably appointed as always, black pinstripe suit pressed, white blouse spotless, makeup crisp even in the soggy heat. She tucks a hair back into place, snaps the compact closed, and locks up the car. 

Striding up the driveway, she follows the concrete path around the side of the house to the front door. As she goes, she curiously studies the place that Geralt has been living. The walkway is plain, lined on either side with a leafy, ill-kept rock garden that has seen better days. Many of the rocks are painted, little friendly blobs of swirled color intermixing with odd little symbols and tiny hand-painted fairies from children’s movies randomly amongst the plain stones. The door itself is wooden, with a rectangular stained glass panel in the middle containing a simple diamond and square motif typical of the town during the era that the house was constructed. She rings the bell. 

“Just a moment!” She hears a voice call from the depths of the house. The door opens a beat later, revealing Jaskier. He gives her an uncertain look, hesitates, then opens the door wide so that he can face her directly.  

He is wearing long blue shorts that look like they belonged to a suit before someone shortened them and took to them with a bedazzler. There is a swirling pattern of rhinestones up each leg, with little hearts winking on each of his hips amidst the swirls. His big loose button down shirt is white, with splashes of blue watercolor style flowers all over it. Near the breast of the shirt on the left is a silk screened mockingbird in black and white, with a little curl of rhinestones coming from its beak like it is exhaling them in song. He looks tired, with shadows smudged under his eyes, and his hair is damp from the shower. 

“Can I help you?” He queries, wary. It had been a long, shitty night full of self-recrimination for him that had left him feeling like the middle of him had been scooped out, leaving him empty and sore. He’d been expecting to see Yennefer today, but he didn’t think anything could prepare him for dealing with her again. He was a grown adult, though, and if he had to face the music, he would do it with as much dignity as he could muster.

She looks him up and down, considering him. Of all the types of men she’d expected Geralt to go in for, someone as colorful as this wasn’t even on the list. It’s oddly sweet that her quiet, withdrawn husband would be attracted to someone so different than himself. Too bad he picked an idiot. “I’m here to talk,” she announces, her eyes flashing. It is hard to resist intimidating him just a little more, especially since she isn’t entirely sure she likes him yet.  

He presses his lips together, a flash of pain and worry going through his eyes before vanishing behind a carefully constructed neutral expression. “Of course,” he says, and steps back to gesture her inside with a broad motion of his arm towards the kitchen. “Please come in. I just made a pot of coffee, would you like some?” 

“Please,” she replies, stepping past him into the house. The inside is gleaming, practically spotless, and smells like orange oil. Spotting the rack of neatly stacked shoes next to the door, she toes off her black pumps next to it. Then she strolls across the house to the kitchen island and seats herself confidently on one of the tall stools. 

Jaskier follows her with rounded shoulders, giving her a respectfully wide berth and watching her every move. He serves them both a cup of coffee, then brings out the little buttercup dishes full of sugar and cream and sets them on the counter near her. She smiles but otherwise ignores them, taking a sip of the black coffee. It’s good coffee, complex and almost sweet at its finish. As she rolls the beverage on her tongue, she looks Jaskier up and down again.

He has come to rest with his back up against the fridge, one foot up on it, knee bent, sleepily sipping his coffee. His expression is still wary as he waits for her to begin talking, cautious of her temper after yesterday’s encounter. When the silence stretches out a little too long, he stirs. “Look, if this is about his stuff, I can take you upstairs to get it…”

She shakes her head, waving this statement away. “Not necessary. Not right now, anyway.” She smiles around her cup as he frowns, as if he’s not sure he heard her correctly.

“What?” 

“I said that won’t be necessary yet. Hence,” she says, cocking her head and locking eyes with him, “why we need to talk.”

Jaskier gives her a long look of puzzlement. Pushing off of the fridge, he pours some sugar and a generous splash of cream into his coffee. “I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” he admits, a worried note entering his voice. She didn’t want the boxes, so what did she want? Was he in trouble or not? 

Yennefer smiles again, leaning back with her cup of coffee held close. “Did Geralt talk about me at all while he was here?” Jaskier cautiously shakes his head no, taking a sip of his coffee. He goes to say something but she gently cuts him off. “Fine. Geralt should tell you most of this, but nothing is going to make sense unless I throw you a bone first,” she smirks. 

Jaskier nods, mystified but listening. Normally, this was the part where the spouse started demanding blood, not throwing proverbial bones. Drawing his mug in close against his chest, he leans against the counter. 

“I’m asexual.” Yennefer explains bluntly. “He and I don’t have a sexual relationship. We married for our daughter’s sake, but we’ve never been,” she gropes for the right phrase, “physically in love. We’re as close as two people can be…” She pauses and takes a sip of coffee, giving Jaskier a direct look over the edge of her mug. “But our relationship is unusual.” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up, but he has the good sense for once to remain quiet, allowing her to continue. Daughter? With a wife Geralt didn’t have sex with? This conversation had taken a hard left turn, and he felt like he was mentally scrambling to catch up. He had so many questions. Instead of letting his nervous tongue get away from him though, he takes a long swallow of his drink.

Yennefer lowers her mug, enjoying Jaskier’s obvious puzzlement. The pleasure she feels is bittersweet, though. Sex or no, Geralt had been hers for a long time. Her heart ached a little to think that she might have to share him with the tall, elfin man in front of her. Deep down though, she had always hoped he might find someone. She draws her fingers along the side of the mug, hesitating, but finally she says, “I always hoped he was going to find someone special… eventually.” Eyeing Jaskier, she flashes him a sly look. “Maybe someone like you.” 

The way Yennefer looks at Jaskier makes his stomach flip. What the hell is she saying? He thought she was here to terrorize him again and collect Geralt’s stuff. Now it is starting to sound like she is implying he still has a chance with Geralt. He feels caught somewhere between a sudden weird hope and the gnawing guilt of knowing he’s crossed lines he can’t uncross with this woman, mysterious marriage arrangement or no. He pushes off of the counter and leans forward to spoon more sugar into his coffee, trying to stir his nerves away.  “I don’t think I understand,” he grimaces, shaking off the spoon and setting it aside on a little saucer. 

“No, I would be surprised if you did,” she chuckles and takes a sip of her coffee. “The reason I’m here is because it seems like he’s become very attached to you.”

Jaskier gives a bashful, confused smile. “I… I like him too,” he admits softly. “Quite a bit.”

Yennefer gives him a measuring look, but a smile is slowly creeping up her lovely features. “I should hope so.” Leaning forward onto her elbows, she fixes him with a serious gaze. “When Geralt and I got married, I knew he was going to meet someone someday, and I didn’t want him to feel guilty about it. So we discussed it, and we decided a few things.” She holds up fingers, ticking them off as she goes. “One, that he is free to choose his own lovers. Two, that said lover doesn’t get to meet his family unless he’s serious about them. And three, I get to have a long talk with anyone he does want to bring home.” 

She pauses again, giving Jaskier another measuring look. “While our current apartment being in England makes bringing you home rather difficult, we can still have that long talk. I want to know more about you. If anyone is going to be seeing my husband, I have a right to know who they are.” She pauses, obviously unimpressed as she looks him from head to toe “Especially if they’re foolish enough to jump in bed with someone without asking questions first.” 

Jaskier gapes, at a loss for words. He fiddles the coffee cup nervously, mind reeling. The jab stings, but he knows he deserves it, so he leaves it. Taking a swallow of his sweet creamy coffee grounds him, the sweetness biting through some of his confusion. “Are you telling me that you’re not here to kill me? I admit I was a little worried when you showed up without Geralt.” He flashes her a lopsided little grin, trying to ease the tension of the situation.

“Afraid not. I would happily murder you, but Geralt would get upset…” she sighs, then smirks. “Step out of line and you die, but keep me happy and play your cards right? Then as far as I’m concerned, you’re free to pursue him. If you want him.” She takes another sip of her coffee.

Jaskier blinks, caught so off guard that he finds himself actually panicking a little. Wife not killing him? This is not in the usual script. Possibly still being able to see the unbelievably hot husband? Mind broken. He pulls his coffee in close against his chest for the warmth, trying to restart his brain. In the background of his mind is a steady stream of whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck repeating in circles.  

Yennefer laughs, watching his face journey through a number of stages of confusion. Eventually, she takes pity on him. “Breathe,” she quips. He sucks in a breath and looks at her, blue eyes wide and startled, and she gives him an amused grin. “So. Are you going to let me grill you, or should I just leave now?” she asks with a teasing twist of her lips. 

Jaskier puffs, then sputters, “Grilling? Grilling’s fine.” Still looking like he’s been hit between the eyes, he turns away and sets his coffee cup down on the counter near the stove, then opens the fridge and begins nervously pulling fruit out and setting it on the counter. When strawberries and blueberries have been pulled out, he walks across the kitchen to hanging baskets and pulls down an apple and a banana. If he was going to be interrogated, he was damn well going to have some comfort food while it was happening.

Yennefer watches with amusement, sipping her coffee. “You crossed some lines by jumping into bed with Geralt so quickly, why don’t you start there?” she says sweetly, enjoying the way he winces. 

Jaskier putters nervously with the fruit, setting up a cutting board and knife, then he bends over and pulls a stand mixer out of a cabinet, setting it up on the counter. The movement gives him time to catch up to the conversation. As he fiddles the paddle off of the mixer and goes to hunt for the attachment he is looking for, he says, “I’ve been thinking about that a great deal myself. And you’re absolutely correct,” he tosses his hair out of his eyes and glances across the room, apologetic. “I handled things with Geralt inappropriately. I’m sorry.” His lips thin out as he presses them together, looking tired and angry with himself. “I let my feelings get ahead of me sometimes. It’s not my best trait.”

“Clearly not,” she replies wryly, slightly mollified by his apology but still unimpressed. “So why did you do it?”

"I…" he returns to the stand mixer, fitting a whisk attachment onto the end of it. Then he takes the bowl out and wipes it down with a damp cloth in the sink, nervously scrubbing away miniscule specks of dust.  “That’s complicated. If I answer you honestly right out the gate, I’m worried I’m going to sound crazy to you, which is the last thing I want right now.” His lips quirk in a brief, bitter smile. “I’ve already done quite enough damage, thank you. So...” he pauses and heaves a sigh, trying to gather his thoughts. “I’m going to tell you a little about myself first. Maybe help you understand?” Bright blue eyes meet hers for a moment, giving her an uncertain look. She meets gaze unflinchingly until he drops it to study the bowl in his hands. He shakes his head and returns it to the mixer stand, then goes over to the fridge. 

“Fine,” she replies, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “What do you want me to know?” 

“Well…” he bends over and sticks his head into the refrigerator, chewing his lip. “I’ve been a part of the queer community since I was a teenager. And,” he grimaces, hunting for something, “I was twenty years old when HIV was first identified. There was an outbreak at Fire Island, are you familiar?” Finding the carton of heavy cream hidden at the back of the fridge, he snags it with a satisfied noise and straightens.

“Geralt told me you were there. About your friends.” Yennefer replies quietly. “I’m sorry.” And she genuinely is, no matter how else she might feel about Jaskier. Being at the center of something like that leaves marks on people. She’d been all over the world in her job and seen many types of trauma, and the HIV epidemic had scared her to the bone wherever she encountered it.  

“Right. Well then, I don’t need to tell you the rest. Good.” Returning to the stand mixer, he dumps in cream and flicks the mixer on at a relatively slow speed. “What’s important about it, that I want you to understand, is that, in my experience queers are already not terribly good at staying in one another’s lives after the…” he waves his hand searchingly. “The romantic spark has passed. And the few people that I thought could be constants, slipped through my fingers without recourse.” Turning, he riffles through one of the nearby cabinets and retrieves vanilla, confectioner’s sugar, and bourbon. “So when I say that I don’t expect people to stay around long, I want you to understand what I mean.” 

She frowns, understanding dawning. “You didn’t expect him to stay.”

“No, darling. I’m afraid not. When I met Geralt… Ah. I didn’t expect much to come of it. While I’m not running a fuck-and-release program,” he cuts her a sharp look over his shoulder, “I must say I wasn’t expecting him to be around long. Which is why I didn’t ask nearly as many questions as I should have. I wanted to leave him what little peace he had… I… I felt like prying would have made things worse.” He trails off into a brief silence, measuring vanilla and bourbon and dumping them into the mixer. 

When he looks at her again, his expression is deeply worried. “He looked like he was in a lot of pain.”  

She grimaces at the pointed comment, hiding it with a sip from her coffee mug. Irritated that she’d let him get to her, she schools her face into a carefully neutral expression until he finishes speaking. She remembers Geralt’s distress the night before, and a flash of worry and sadness crosses her face. Pain was the understatement of the century. She’s still not sure she would even be here, but for that. Geralt was in danger, and she would do just about anything to make it better.

Taking a deep breath, he measures sugar and then starts carefully sifting it into the moving mixer with a small sieve. “I thought… why make it worse for him when he’ll have moved on shortly anyway? I thought... “ he shrugs uncomfortably, setting aside the sieve and turning up the speed on the stand mixer by increments. “I thought, he’ll stay for a few weeks, get his first few paychecks, find his own place, and be gone. And not long after that, he’ll probably find a new job, and that will be that. Good deed done.” 

“That’s… questionable, but fine. I’ll leave that alone for now. It still doesn’t explain why you started fucking him within twenty four hours of meeting him,” she points out, unimpressed. 

“No, you’re right.” He replies, shaking his head and pulling a face. “And this… is where I sound a little crazy, and I hope you’ll forgive me.” Once the mixer is at the proper speed, he turns to another cabinet and pulls out a big bowl, which he sets near the cutting board. “Um.” 

His stomach does a double flip as he tries to summon the words, feeling her violet gaze boring into his back. He begins to speak, stutters into silence, and then tries again. “I have… spent a long time ah, vigorously jousting in the lists of love, so to speak,” he observes wryly, starting to top and halve the strawberries, tossing each one into the bowl as he finishes. “Mm. And I’ve known many different kinds of love, as a result. Some, admittedly, deeper than others,” he gives a rueful chuckle. Behind him, Yennefer smirks. 

“But with Geralt…” Jaskier pauses, feeling his throat close up a little bit with sheer nerves. Taking the cutting board to the trash, he sweeps the strawberry heads into the bin and then returns to the counter to start processing the banana, peeling it and chopping it. 

“My life has always felt like a hurricane. Like there is a hurricane blowing around me and I’m just trying not to get swept away with all of the rest of the debris. But- I’m sorry, I know this is insane, oh, I sound like a crazy person. But when I’m around him, it feels like…” he heaves a shaky sigh. “It feels like the center of the hurricane found me. When he’s nearby I feel like the whole world goes silent and still. All the other madness is still whirling around the outside edges, but where he is, there’s this intense quiet… Silence so loud it makes my whole body just ring with it, no matter what he’s doing. It’s the most beautiful feeling. And I’ve never felt that around another human being before. Not a single solitary one. And… it was terribly impulsive of me, and selfish, and I shouldn’t have done it… but I wanted to wrap myself up in that feeling for as long as I could before he vanished, too.” 

He trails off, dumping the chopped banana into the bowl. Then he glances at the stand mixer. The cream is starting to stiffen, but hasn’t reached a proper consistency yet. He turns back to the cutting board, starting to process the apple now. “I know that’s… insanely inappropriate to tell someone about their husband. Ah. And I know I’ve only known him two weeks. I don’t… I’m not saying I’m in love with him. That’s the kind of thing you only find out with trust, and time, and we haven’t had that. That’s not what I’m trying to say. I’m just trying to say that he’s different. And I like him. And I would be very fortunate to have the chance to know him more.” 

He dumps the apple into the bowl, then turns and looks at her. “I hope that answers your question.” His face is tired, and he looks like he doesn’t particularly expect her to be receptive to any of this. He knows he shouldn’t have kissed Geralt when he did, no matter how attracted he was to him. Normally, he would have even had the restraint to wait until things were more above board. But something about the situation had triggered him deeply, and between that and the incredible depth of feeling he experienced around his handsome lover, he had lost his head.  

Yennefer takes all of this in thoughtfully, her face softening. She’d been expecting Jaskier to tell her he’d done it because he was a horny idiot, and while that is partially what he’d said, the rest gave her pause. She didn’t hear people speak like that about anyone very often, much less her taciturn and often unfriendly Geralt. 

“Thank you for your honesty,” she settles on, then takes a swallow from her cooling coffee. “I’m really not impressed by your boundaries, but…”  she sighs, relenting slightly. “It’s nice to see that you like him so much.” 

Jaskier blushes awkwardly at the backhanded compliment, busying himself by stopping the mixer to check the flavor and consistency of the whipped cream. He finds himself feeling thrown for the umpteenth time since he’d met her the day before. “I’m really very sorry I wasn’t more… uh, circumspect,” Jaskier stutters awkwardly. “I’m kind of impulsive sometimes, it’s a problem. I’m sorry.” He sprinkles a little more sugar and another dash of vanilla into the cream, then starts it going again at an even higher speed. 

“Good. You should be.” Yennefer says sharply. He winces and nods. She leans forward, putting her elbows on the counter and twirling her cup in her hand. Her face softens into a look of curiosity. “Let’s talk about your family. Where were you raised? Who raised you?” 

Jaskier tosses some blueberries into the bowl, then returns them and the remaining strawberries to the refrigerator, pulling out lemon juice in their stead. Then he fishes out a bottle of honey from a cabinet and sprinkles it and some lemon juice into the bowl of mixed fruit. He gently tosses it to coat them. Pursing his lips, he ponders where to start. He’s not sure that he wants to share this much with the intimidating stranger sitting at his kitchen island, but on the other hand, he was already in over his head. Chewing his lip, he decides to plunge forth.

“I was born here, in Rhode Island, at the local hospital. I was almost born on a ferry, point of fact.” He smiles, shaking his head and flicking off the stand mixer. “The Pankratz family home is on Martha’s Vineyard, out off the coast. My father thought he could finish one last thing before getting in the car to leave, and my mother has never let him forget it.” Chuckling ruefully, he lowers the mixer’s bowl and retrieves the whisk attachment, shaking it as clean as he can. 

Yennefer snorts softly, thinking that if Geralt had done that to her, he’d probably have suffered permanent injuries. Her pregnancy had been bad, but Geralt had been painfully attentive to her needs. Getting to the hospital hadn’t been the problem; keeping him from jumping onto the ceiling at every minor mishap had been the real issue. “Sounds like a poor choice on his part,” she smiles.

Jaskier casts a brief smile at her. “It was. Even when I was in my teens, it was still favorite material during fights.” He grins lopsidedly as Yennefer laughs.

“I can only imagine. I would have murdered Geralt if he’d done that to me,” Yennefer admits.

“He doesn’t seem like the type,” Jaskier observes as he rinses the whisk in the sink. 

“He wouldn’t have survived my pregnancy if he was,” Yennefer smirks. “He’s a good father.”

“Now that, I believe.” Jaskier replies with a soft smile. “How old is your daughter?”

“She just turned twelve at the end of spring,” Yennefer reveals, clearly proud. She takes another sip of her coffee, then sets her mug down. “That’s neither here nor there, though. Were you raised on Martha’s Vineyard, or…?”

Jaskier nods, placing the dripping whisk on a towel. “Yeah. I was raised on the Vineyard for the most part. Summers in New York, sometimes winter holidays with our grandparents in Warsaw. Well, at least before they passed away. Attended a private school on the island all the way through high school.” He takes the mixing bowl off of its base, setting it near the fruit absently. 

“My parents are… highly motivated people. They own and operate Pankratz Enterprises. It’s the family company, and it’s been passed down for… ugh, generations. I don’t know. My father’s parents passed on before I was born, so he and my mother have been more or less in charge as long as I’ve lived. It very much consumes their time.” He tastes the whipped cream one last time, nods, then tries a piece of fruit. Shaking his head, he drizzles a touch more honey into the bowl and gives it another few stirs.

“I am… the baby of the family. No surprise there,” he gives a breathy little chuckle, shaking his head. “Um. Older brother, fifteen years older than me. He’s the actual heir of the whole… family business monstrosity. Good riddance, he can have it. And a sister, ten years older. She’s uh… I think she’s in London now, working for Sotheby’s last time I checked.” 

Yennefer’s eyebrows go up. “That takes quite a few connections to achieve, last I heard.” 

“Well…” Jaskier shrugs. “That’s my family.” He tastes the fruit again and this time he nods, setting down the bowl. “Anyhow, I came along rather late to the party. I’m ah… Rather the embarrassment of the family. My mother and father hadn’t been in each other’s beds in years by the time I was conceived.” He pauses in the middle of getting two little ceramic bowls down, smirking at Yennefer over his shoulder. “At a swinger’s party. There’s still rather some debate as to whether my father is actually my father.” He gestures at his face. “No one in his family has blue eyes, you see.” A mischievous grin makes his eyes twinkle, and Yennefer finds herself chuckling, shaking her head. He’s charming enough, she’ll give him that. 

“So, what. He just raised you anyway?” she asks wryly, draining the last of her coffee. For the embarrassment of the family, he seemed oddly pleased by his story. 

Jaskier smirks and shrugs. His family had never failed to remind him that he didn’t quite belong, so he felt few qualms about airing their dirty laundry. It was petty, but the story usually made people smile, and knowing that somewhere his parents’ ears would be burning gave him a feeling of satisfaction. “Well, admitting I wasn’t his would have been a far worse scandal, so they never actually bothered to find out who my father was. It didn’t change much… even if I were his, I don’t think either of them would have raised me with any more care than they already did.” 

“That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement,” Yennefer observes, watching as Jaskier sets the bowls on the counter. Using the big spoon, he measures honeyed fruit into each bowl. 

“It wasn’t meant to be, darling. I was mostly raised by a nanny and our cook, if I’m going to be perfectly honest. Anything that took my mother away from work and organizing social events seemed to make her terribly nervous, and my father was worse. I don’t think he knew what the word ‘vacation’ meant.” He puts the big spoon down and grabs the freshly made whipped cream. “Even when he’d actually bother to accompany us someplace, there was always a briefcase with him.”  With a shrug, he measures a dollop of whipped cream onto each bowl. 

“Do you want nutmeg?” He asks, giving her a curious, hopeful look. Yennefer eyes the bowls on the counter with interest. They look tempting. Pursing her lips, she nods. “Sure.” Geralt hadn’t mentioned he was quite the little cook, but if this little display was anything to go by, he’d been fed quite well while he was in Jaskier’s home. Good. At least there was something the idiot had been doing right. 

He smiles and turns back to his spice cabinet, pulling down a grinder with part of a whole nutmeg still in it. He grinds it briefly over both bowls, then sticks a spoon in each of them. Turning, he offers it to her with a flourish. 

She gives him a skeptical look but takes it, setting it on the island in front of her. The flourishes are lost on her, but the food looks good. Privately, she marvels again that this is the kind of man that had her husband so frazzled. There’s no accounting for taste, she supposes. 

“Can I offer you more coffee?” He asks, holding up the carafe. She nods, holding out her cup, and he fills it. Then he picks up his own bowl and spoons the fruit around, covering it in whipped cream. “Where was I?” Taking a nervous bite, he looks at her again.

“You mentioned you were raised by the staff,” she replies with a twist of her lips, as if she finds the word ‘staff’ a bit distasteful.

“Ah. Yes, I rather was.” He nods, giving her an apologetic look. He wasn’t overly fond of having staff in his childhood home either. It had never felt right. “My father preferred to pay to make problems go away, and cooking and childcare were problems for him.” Jabbing a banana with his spoon, he gives it a little moue. 

“When I said nanny, I really mean there were a series of people who got me to school, got me home… hmm, made sure my homework was done. I wasn’t particularly close with any of them. The cook was special, though. Klaudia. She was Polish, we met her through my grandparents… I spent quite a lot of time underfoot in the kitchen, but she never seemed to mind. She’s the one who gave me my name,” he says with a fleeting smile. “Jaskier. I used to bring her flowers from the garden, and sometimes she would put them in salads. Buttercups are poisonous, of course, but I was about five when she told me about the little game of sticking a buttercup under your chin after you speak the name of someone you have a crush on… That your chin will shine yellow if you’ve spoken the name of your true love. Terribly silly, but I adored it when I was small. I became so attached to them that she started calling me Jaskier, and I loved that, too. So I kept it.” Shrugging, he takes another bite of cream covered fruit.

Yennefer smiles, taking a bite of her own fruit. The bourbon in the whipped cream is barely there, but it’s enough to make the strawberry she just bit into sing. Delicious. Apparently Klaudia had been a good teacher. Whatever else he had going on, she could admit that she was impressed by the food.

“After I graduated high school I went to New York for college. I… that was a chaotic time in my life. I’d just left private high school and had an enormous amount of freedom all at once, and I spun out for a little while. Spent a lot of time clubbing and fucking, not nearly as much time studying as I should have.” Jaskier blushes and sets his bowl aside, grabbing his coffee cup and taking a quick swallow to conceal his embarrassment. He’s usually quite unabashed about his love life, but something about this whole conversation is making him feel awkward.

“Studying?” Yennefer inquires. The idea that this man might have fucked his way through New York doesn’t entirely surprise her, but she’s curious what someone like him might have studied. “College?”

“Yes! I was lucky enough to matriculate into Juilliard as a young man. I,” he proclaims, his eyes twinkling, “have a degree as a Master of Music in historical performance. Despite a rather rocky start, I did quite well for myself by the end of my courses. I’m an adjunct professor now at the college up the street! I teach medieval music theory.” Lifting his head, he gestures to the opposite wall in the living room, indicating the different types of lute hung on the wall. “My favorite instrument is the lute.”

“Do you compose?” She asks, allowing herself to be slightly impressed. It took a fairly talented musician to even get into a college like that, much less walk away with a degree. Perhaps he was more intelligent than she had been giving him credit for. She turns to look at the beautiful instruments gleaming softly where they hang. 

“Well… Yes and no,” he says, suddenly uncomfortable. “Mostly right now I recreate ancient pieces. Put them back together and record them, style of thing. Maybe add a little of my own flair, when I’m just playing at home.” He hesitates, temporarily at a loss for words. Yennefer turns back and looks him up and down, curious about why he suddenly seems uncomfortable. 

Fingering his shirt, he gestures to the mockingbird. “The woman who made me this shirt also did the birds on my car,” he reveals quietly. “We dated for a while, after I got out of college. She ah… this is one she gave me right before we broke up. She said, it was fitting for a man who hides behind the music of other people.” Shrugging uncomfortably, he says, “I do compose, but I don’t feel I’ve ever quite gotten my legs under me with it. Maybe someday.” 

Yennefer frowns, then slowly nods. “You must be very angry with yourself to be wearing something like that today,” she observes. 

Jaskier looks up at her over his coffee mug and nods, a little surprised at how perceptive she is. “I am. I slept with your husband without thinking it through, and I feel… Embarrassed. Guilty.” He looks down at his coffee mug, swirling the remains at the bottom of the cup. “He has his own song. I don’t necessarily get to be part of it, and I understand that.” He shrugs, downing the last mouthful of his own coffee. 

Yennefer nods, finding herself reassured as he makes that admission. Good. He didn’t have a right to be any part of Geralt’s life, and she was glad he was aware. Any future access Jaskier might be granted to Geralt would be a privilege, and one he damn well better cherish. It was best he was aware of that now, and thankfully he seemed to be. She purses her lips, studying the shirt again. The little rhinestones wink in the light. It’s far too gaudy for her tastes, but it’s clean, well made, and on Jaskier it has a certain charm. Her eyes run over the delicate ink like feathering of the screen printed mockingbird. As she watches it glitter, another question occurs to her.

 “You date women?” She asks, gesturing to the bird.

Jaskier chuckles ruefully, picking his bowl of fruit back up. “Yes, darling. I’m pansexual. When I said I’d had my share of lovers, I really did mean I’ve run the gamut.”

Yennefer shakes her head and spoons up half of a strawberry, bemused. “I would not have guessed that. You’re very…” 

“Campy? Flamboyant? Yes.” He tosses his hair out of his eyes and gives her a winning smile. “Always have been.” 

Yennefer eyes him curiously. His comfort with himself was unusual, a confidence she rarely saw in queer men. Privately she wonders how he managed to stay so at ease, but files away the question for later. If all went well, there would be time for questions like that another time. 

“So. You pulled your shit together, got through school… then what?”

“Well, then I spent a year or so running myself ragged around New York and the surrounding areas trying to care for my loved ones as the AIDS epidemic worsened. I’d already been doing it during school, but once I got out, it ate up all my free time. And the ah… hospital up the road from here ended up being friendly. So over time, I ended up spending more and more time in this city, ferrying my loved ones to appointments. And eventually I started getting sick and tired myself-” He flips up his hand gently, waving away the unintentional implication. “From stress, I mean. And so I bought this house. It was good… A little spot of bright in all the shit, you know? Something stable.” He spoons up another portion of fruit, shaking his head. “So, that was my life for a while. Um. It’s also sort of what led to the bar.” 

“How so?” Yennefer asks, interest piqued. She takes another bite of fruit as she listens. This was definitely a story she wanted to hear. 

“Well…” He licks his lips and ponders. “A lot of my HIV+ friends ended up experiencing a lot of stigma. People were scared… No one understood yet what was happening. And I started getting more and more people showing up at my house every night.” Laughing, he gestures around. “It’s quiet now, but it used to have a lot more furniture. Wall to wall queers some nights, darling. We’d host art parties and try to keep up the spirits of the sick men I had living with me… It was fun.” 

Yennefer half-smiles, looking around the room behind her, trying to imagine the quiet, elegant space full of rowdy queer people doing art. “Sounds like an adventure,” she muses with a quiet chuckle. “So what then?”

“Then, one of my friends who I was hosting wanted to go to a bar. One last time, sort of thing… And we discovered that the few bars around here didn’t have much in the way of wheelchair access or safety accommodations for someone who was immunocompromised. We worked for months trying to get someplace to do the right thing, and he kept getting worse…” A dark look comes over Jaskier’s face. “At a certain point it became urgent. So,” he shrugs uneasily, “I paid for it myself.” He sets aside his empty bowl and turns around, turning on the kettle. 

“I prefer very much to make my own money and leave my family alone, but some things are worth it. In this case my friend who we were doing all of this for- James- uncovered a secret need in the local scene. There were a lot of queers who wanted a clean space with wheelchair access.” Digging in the cabinet, he pulls out a sachet of loose chamomile flowers, a strainer, and a small teapot. 

“I imagine there were,” Yennefer replies softly, her heart constricting. She looks around the room again, seeing it in a different light now. 

“So… Once I’d gotten everything fitted and set up, I had everyone come in and put up a bunch of the art we’d done while we were at the house. Most of it’s still up in the bar,” he says with a fond smile. “And now, I don’t have nearly as much traffic through here. There’s a safe place for my queers to be, I can still check up on my regulars, and I get some peace and quiet at home.” 

Yennefer nods, then looks down at her bowl to cut apart a strawberry. Then she looks up and fixes Jaskier with an inquisitive look. “You said queers… Is your bar not just for men?” 

“Heavens no,” Jaskier flaps his hand dismissively. “That’s primarily who shows up, but I have different theme nights for different parts of the community every month. Dyke nights, Trans nights, Ace nights… Leather night,” he chuckles, “is usually a blast.” 

Yennefer’s eyebrows go up, not sure how to even start with this. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, as she imagines Geralt in the middle of a leather night at a gay bar. He’d probably be mortified at first, but she has a feeling he would enjoy it more than he’d outwardly let on. She breaks out slowly into a smile, which she hides in her coffee cup. 

“When you said that you check up on your regulars… what did you mean by that?” she queries, studying him carefully. How he answers this question will tell her quite a bit about who he is as a person. Her listening look, already focused, becomes even more intent.  

Jaskier turns to face her, finished fiddling with his tea until the water has boiled. “I mostly have a feel for who is friends with who around here…” he explains. “At least among the people who come to my bar. The city isn’t that large. When someone doesn’t show up, or doesn’t seem to be doing well, I know who to send to check on them.” Blue eyes meet hers seriously, his gaze steady for what feels like the first time since she’s met him. “I don’t like watching people drop on my watch anymore. I’d rather die than let another queer rot or fall into homelessness because there wasn’t a family there to catch them.” 

Yennefer tips her head to the side. While she’s still angry about the potential heartbreak he might have caused Geralt by having shitty boundaries, she’s beginning to understand what drives him to do things like take strangers home. The kind of pain he had experienced did odd things to people, and they each coped in different ways. In his case, it seemed to have come out as a ferocious kindness. 

“Do you find them if they don’t have friends?” She queries, eyeing him speculatively. 

“That… “ he pauses, picking his words carefully, aware of the intensity of her scrutiny. “Depends. I don’t hunt down every stranger who passes through, but if it’s someone who’s been coming long enough to form a personal relationship with me? Maybe, sometimes. We had an older patron, Deirdre. Wonderful old queen from the days before being trans was really a thing. She came every Tuesday night for… oh, six years? Seven? She’d sit by the front door near me out on the sidewalk and smoke cigarette after cigarette, and we’d talk for hours. When she stopped coming, I went to check on her. Found her passed away in her armchair, poor dear, and the neighbors hadn’t bothered to call anyone. Mail was spilling out of her mailbox.” His lip curls with frustration and sorrow. 

“But, that kind of situation is thankfully rare. I can think of only a handful of times when I’ve felt the need to go to someone’s home. I mostly work through the grapevine,” he explains with a wistful smile. “I may be impulsive, but I do have boundaries, believe it or not. I am… very sorry I gave you such a bad impression.” Holding his hand up to forestall her speaking, he says, “Admittedly a well-deserved one. I’m not twenty anymore, I’m old enough to know better. My therapist is going to have a field day.” 

Yennefer smirks, and this time a twinkle reaches her eyes. He may be an idiot, but she is gratified to see that he has at least a glimmer of self-awareness. There’s a therapist, too. Good. He has someone to hold him accountable. It makes her feel better about the prospect of giving the hotel phone number to him. “And how old are you, that you ought to know better?”

“Thirty-four. Had a birthday about a month and a half ago, May 22nd.” He smiles and gives a little flourish. “I’m a Gemini.” 

Yennefer rolls her eyes. Of course he would be into astrology. She was going to have to have a talk with Geralt about his taste in men, again. She finishes her fruit and pushes her bowl aside, feeling satisfied. “Well. I can see that you’re not as thoughtless as I was worried you were, at least.” 

Jaskier puffs and shakes his head, not sure how to respond to that. He settles on a cautious, “Thank you?”

Yennefer snorts softly. “That being said, there’s some things I want you to understand about Geralt before we move forward. The most important is that he’s never let himself date or fall in love. He’s spent his whole adult life in the military, and he’s never given himself the chance. Were you aware?”

Jaskier looks at her, a sad look crossing his face. “He told me he’d spent his life in the service but I hadn’t quite put it together-” He breaks off and starts again. “I wasn’t aware. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

“You’re right, you should have,” she reproofs sharply, but then her voice softens. “But in this case, I don’t think he would have told you even if you had asked. So I’ll give you a pass,” she quirks a little smile at him. “This time.” 

Jaskier smiles awkwardly, relieved, then turns around and turns off the kettle as it whistles. “Can I get you anything?”

“No thank you,” Yennefer says. Then she shifts and catches Jaskier’s eye. “When I say he’s never had a boyfriend, Jaskier, I mean it.  If you don’t step carefully with him, I will personally end you. He’s likely to get very attached to you if you let him.” She leans forward, her face very serious. “If you cheat on him, it will crush him. I want you to think very carefully about whether or not you can handle a commitment like that. You and I both know he is in a world of pain right now. Aside from my daughter there is no one more precious in the world to me, and I want him to be safe. Please don’t make things worse by being irresponsible with his very fragile heart.” 

Jaskier takes this in quietly, regarding Yennefer with a serious expression of his own. He chews his lip, then nods. Turning slowly aside, he fills the little teapot with hot water, pouring it through the strainer full of flowers. The weight of her words presses on him, making him feel small and inadequate in the face of them. 

“Do you want me to date him?” He asks finally, after a long moment of staring at the dried flowers floating to the top and unfolding in the strainer, not entirely sure he wants the answer. The last day had been a wild ride, and he was starting to get heartsore trying to deal with all of it.

Yennefer pauses, frowning a little and leaning her chin on her hand. “Do I personally want you to date him? Doesn’t matter, since you seem to be an idiot, not a predator. What matters is this: He really seems to like you, and I want him to be happy. He gets to choose you if he wants to. Do you still like him after all the shit he pulled?”

Jaskier flushes, turning away to look back at the teapot. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot before he answers. “I’m… angry that he wasn’t more forthcoming, but it’s not like I asked, either. I definitely brought it on myself.” Licking his lips, he fiddles with the strainer. “But despite that… can I be honest with you?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want an honest answer,” she gives him an amused look. He chuckles and shakes his head. 

“Forgive me, darling. I’m feeling a little out of my depth right now. I usually don’t have a long conversation with the wife, you know? I’m still trying to wrap my head around… uh, what’s happening here.” 

Yennefer chuckles, her eyes twinkling. “This is only the tip of it. But you haven’t answered my question yet.”

His throat bobs visibly as he swallows, his flush deepening. “Right. Well.” He pulls the strainer out too early, leaving himself with weak tea. Stopping as he realizes this, he sinks it back into the pot with a shake of his head and turns around, forcing himself to leave it be. This puts him facing Yennefer, which isn’t much better, but at least it gives him fewer things to make messes with as he loses his composure. “I ah, very much do like him still. Yes.” 

Yennefer smirks, pleased that she can fluster him. As long as he knew who was boss, then as far as she was concerned, he’d probably do fine. 

“Good. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know that.” She folds her fingers under her chin, contemplating the uneasy looking man before her. “The other thing I want you to know is that I won’t be going anywhere if you decide to date him. You will always have me to deal with; I married him, he is my husband, he is the father of my child. I expect you to respect that.  Are we clear?”

Jaskier feels as if someone has poured ice water down the back of his shirt. He’s been in polyamorous arrangements before, but never with someone so fucking intimidating. “As crystal,” he replies weakly. “I wouldn’t imagine getting between you and him, not for a minute.” After all, he didn’t have a death wish. 

“Well then,” she says, pulling a hotel business card out of her purse and writing a number in a neat hand on the back. “As long as that’s understood, here’s the hotel phone number. Take a few days to think about it. If you really want to see him… That’s up to you. But if you do? Take him out on a date. Treat him the way he should be treated. He deserves that. If you don’t, please remember that I am more than happy to bury your dead body.” She smiles sweetly and extends the card to him. He takes it delicately from her, looks the number over, and then tucks the card into the breast pocket over his heart. 

“He does deserve a real date,” Jaskier agrees nervously, feeling caught between the hope and guilt and confusion all swarming around inside of him. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.” He feels like his face is burning, and he knows from her smile that she can see how uncomfortable he is. 

“Now. The last thing I need for now is his backpack. It has things he needs in it, and I’d like to make sure they’re there for him when he wakes up.” She says with an air of finality, standing. “Can you please get it for me?” 

“Of course,” he says, pushing off of the counter, glad to have something to do to break the tension of the moment. “Just a minute.” He retreats to the bedroom and there is the sound of dragging and rummaging. A moment later he emerges with a set of keys. 

“Come with me?” he offers, gesturing with his head towards the door. She rises and nods, following him out the front door and up the staircase to the loft. He unlocks the door for her and steps aside, allowing her past him into the quiet room. It’s starting to get hot as the mid-morning sunshine radiates through the round window in the eaves, but unlike the outside, the inside hasn’t yet turned unpleasant. 

Yennefer steps carefully into the loft, looking around. It’s a peaceful, neat little space, mostly unruffled except for Geralt’s boxes piled neatly against the back walls. His backpack still sits at the foot of the bed. She retrieves it, brushes her fingers fondly over the box labeled ‘Correspondence’ on her way back, and meets Jaskier at the door. 

“Thank you,” she states, sounding firm but sincere. She, at least, feels more settled now about getting out of Geralt’s way. Some things about the situation still don’t feel right to her, but she’s no longer on red alert. It was enough to be moving on with, at least.

Jaskier nods. “Of course. I’ll see you soon, Yennefer.” He fidgets awkwardly, then says, “Thank you, too. For leveling with me.”

 She smirks. “Get used to it.” She says dryly, then turns and heads down the stairs to her car without further comment. He stands at the top and watches her go, fiddling with the keys between his fingers, at a loss for words. 

The quiet little library near the MWR was almost deserted at this time of day. It never saw heavy traffic at any time, but right after evening mess most men had more interesting things to do than hit the books. Coën pushed his way into the library curiously, looking around from side to side. At first, aside from the librarian, there was no one to be seen. Then, as he rounded one of the stacks, the tan metal shelving opened out into a little seating area with some battered gold and cream yellow velvet plush chairs and a little work table in the middle of the space. Seated in one of the chairs was Geralt, holding a book in one hand, his expression serious as he read it. 

Coën smiled with pleasure. He’d been noticing the big man vanish after evening mess for weeks now, but this was the first time he’d had a good opportunity to follow him and find out what he got up to after hours. Most of the men on base scattered for the MWR or the smoke pit, but he’d never seen him in either of those spots. The only place he’d ever seen Geralt spend much free time was the track; he had a tendency to run when he wasn’t otherwise occupied. He didn’t run after dinner though; cracking where he went was something Coën had been meaning to do. Pleased, he walked out from behind the shelf. 

Geralt oriented to the movement immediately, half-closing his book and switching the intensity of his gaze onto Coën. The force of it hit Coën like a blow to the chest and he stopped, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Aside from being their liaison on base and in the field, Geralt also commanded his own men. Coën had heard he had a fearsome reputation. While he hadn’t yet been able to see why, the look the man was giving him right now gave an inkling of what they might have been talking about. Around Yennefer, the young lieutenant was often awkward and caught on his left foot (although to be fair, most people were; she preferred it that way,) but here alone, he had a quiet, powerful presence that gave Coën pause.

“Hey, man,” he said with a friendly smile, pitching his voice low in the silent library. “Finally found you. How’s it going?”

Geralt gave him a wooden look, then closed his eyes as if summoning strength to deal with this intrusion into his personal space. Coën, usually confident and easygoing, shifted awkwardly. When Geralt opened his eyes again, he marked the book carefully and set it aside. 

“What do you want.” He asked flatly. The full bore of his attention on Coën was vaguely uncomfortable, but Coën wasn’t about to be deterred. He was used to Yennefer, after all.  

“I wanted to talk, man. Get to know you a little. We work together all the time, why not?” He fixed Geralt with a charming, lopsided grin, leaning his shoulder lightly on the shelf next to him. 

Geralt took this in, unimpressed. “Where’s Yennefer?” Of all the things that he wanted to deal with right now, being harassed by both of them on his off hours was not it. He eyed Coën skeptically. 

“Off base doing errands, last I checked.” Coën replied easily. “Want to come out for a run with me?”

“No.”

“A drink then? C’mon. On me.”

Geralt hesitated, then grumbled reluctantly. He didn’t want to socialize, but free booze was hard to turn down. “Fine.” 

He picked the book up and stood, unfolding to his full height with an easy grace. From where he was standing he could see the librarian, whose eye he caught. Geralt gave the librarian a short nod before starting out the door. Coën could have sworn he caught a slight smile between the two of them, so quick he wasn’t entirely sure he saw it, but then Geralt was pushing past him and he was turning to follow. The little moment popped like a soap bubble and faded from Coën’s notice, forgotten, as he followed the big man out the door. 

When they arrived at the bar Geralt walked in without comment, leaving Coën to follow him. At this time of day the space was warm and full of the smell of good food, dotted with patrons chatting over drinks and baskets of falafels. Geralt leaned his elbows on the bar and greeted the owner in Hebrew as Coën came into hearing range. The man shook his head, corrected him, and Geralt tried again, this time holding up two fingers. The dark-haired man smiled and nodded this time, then looked up and waved to Coën as he approached. 

Geralt turned as Coën neared and slapped Coën’s shoulder, just a little too hard to be entirely companionable. “He’s paying.” 

Coën grinned, unperturbed, and slid into the bar seat next to where Geralt was standing. “Give me a basket of those falafels, too. They smell fantastic,” he said. 

“You got it,” the bartender replied, placing a beer and a shot of arak in front of each of them. Coën nodded his thanks and grabbed the arak first, downing it, welcoming the burn. Geralt did the same, tossing it back in one go. The liquor was strong, having the tendency to punch the drinker in the sinuses with a sharp hit of vaporized alcohol and aniseed. They both shook their heads to clear the burn, then took large swallows of beer to wash it back. Blinking their watering eyes, they turned to look at one another, considering one another in the quiet near the front of the bar. 

“Why are you bothering me?” Geralt asked him bluntly. “Don’t you have something better to do on your off hours?”

“I’m buying you food and booze, I’d hardly call that bothering you,” Coën replied dryly. Geralt quirked the tiniest of smiles and turned away, shrugging. His eyes tracked as the bartender brought the falafels back to them. Coën grabbed them and jerked his head. “Let’s grab a table.” 

“Fine.” Geralt said, eyeing his back with a little frown as he followed him across the bar. Coën was a little shorter than Geralt, although he was by no means a small man, with a leanly muscled frame and a confident posture. He wore a brown shirt and fatigues, though his press pass was now stuffed safely away, no longer needed off base. When he turned and sat, Geralt sank into the seat across from him. His face was plain but friendly, with terrible pockmark scarring from some sort of accident or illness. He grew a short beard over it, neatly trimmed, which slightly eased the effect of the scarring. His eyes were a little unsettling, a pale yellow green like a cat’s eyes, the whites riddled with red streaks from some sort of old injury.

“What happened to your face?” Geralt asked, setting his beer on the table.

“Boy, you just jump right to it, don’t you, big guy?” Coën replied affably. “That’s none of your goddamn business. But since you’re asking, it happened while I was over in ‘Nam. Got me a medical discharge out of it, and fuck all else.” He shrugged and waved his hand, indicating Geralt’s body and face. “What’s with the whole… pale, spooky thing?” A grin played over his face as he saw Geralt sit back. The young soldier’s expression changed quickly from offense to understanding as he caught on that he was being mildly rebuffed for his rudeness. 

“It’s genetic,” he explained with a little grimace. “And if you’re about to call me Casper, save your breath. I’ve heard all of it before.”

Coën’s grin widened. He took a big swallow of his beer and then leaned towards Geralt. “I was about to ask if your mother fucked a snowman, but I guess we’ve got that all covered,” he teased. Geralt pulled a face at him, wavering between offense and laughter. Coën popped a falafel into his mouth, still smiling, then pushed the basket towards the middle of the table towards Geralt. 

“So tell me about yourself. What’s with the library thing?”

“What’s with the disturbing my reading thing?” Geralt grumbled back at him, but he took a falafel and bit into it. Coën waited, still unperturbed, and after a moment Geralt said, “I like it because it’s quiet. I get a chance to catch up on my reading after dinner when no one’s there.” 

“What were you reading about?” Coën asked, then drained his beer. “Want another round?” Geralt nodded cautiously, draining his own beer and setting the empty glass aside. Coën nabbed it and brought it back to the bar, returning a moment later with full glasses and another round of arak. 

They pounded the shots back as Coën sat, then Geralt replied. “Hebrew. I’m trying to get fluent.” He gave Coën an uneasy look. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Coën shrugged comfortably. “I prefer fantasy. Love me some Lord of the Rings.” 

“Oh,” Geralt said, sounding a little surprised. He wasn’t used to people actually engaging in conversation with him about books. “Why?”

“I don’t know man,” Coën said, waving his hand. “Swords? Dwarves? Elves? It’s a fun escape, I guess.”

Geralt smiled slightly, nodded, nabbed another falafel. “What do you usually do on your off time?”

“What, when I’m not with Yennefer?” Geralt nodded, and Coën stretched in his chair, pondering. “Physical training. Fuck. Read,” he tipped his beer at Geralt in a friendly gesture, “Play cards, if there’s a game on. Harass people who don’t want to be bothered,” he said with another grin. 

This time Geralt snorted into his beer, nodding. “Ok. Fine. Where are you from?” 

Coën leaned comfortably in his chair and swiped another falafel. “Michigan. You?”

“Poland,” he replied, tossing his beer back. “My parents were stationed out there when I was born.” 

“Poland, huh? How’d you end up back in the States?”

“Military school. It’s a long story.” Geralt shrugged, his face closing off, and he changed the subject. “How’d you meet Yennefer?”

“Mm.” Coën eyed Geralt curiously, but let the subject drop. “I met her when I was over in ‘Nam. Saw her burn through a bunch of my COs like they were cheap paper and I thought, I have to know this woman.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “She wasn’t easy to get to know, but,” he shrugged. “I’m charming.”

Geralt shook his head, smiling slightly as he bit into a falafel. 

“Then… after a series of long stories I’m not gonna get into, she ended up out in the field with my unit, which was fucking insane given what was going on out there. Long story short, she saved my ass. I’m pretty much ride or die now.” 

Geralt nodded thoughtfully, then stood. “I’ll buy this round.”

“Sounds good, man.” 

When he returned, he passed Coën his drinks and sat down. This time, with the drinks, Geralt offered him a smile.

Hours later, when they staggered out of the bar together, their arms were wrapped around one another’s shoulders.

In the parking lot of the mall, Yennefer pulls into the parking space and pulls the emergency break. Now that she is done talking with Jaskier, she wants to check in with Coën, finally update him, make sure that everything is okay with him and Ciri. She pulls out a big, blocky cell phone and dials a number. It only rings twice before someone on the other end picks up. She turns the blowers down as a man’s voice answers the phone. 

“Hello?”

“It’s Yenna, Coën. I found Geralt, he’s safe. How are you and Ciri doing?” Her voice is quiet but carries clearly across the phone line. 

“Yenna,” the man, Coën, replies with relief. “It’s good to hear from you. I actually just got her down for a rest.” Yennefer can hear a small shuffling sound as he shifts the phone to his other ear, then settling sounds. “She had a helluva meltdown a little while ago.”

“Is she sleeping?”

“As far as I know, yes. Last time I looked in on her she was out.” He sounds tired, but his voice is steady, calm. “It was a bad one. She’s not hurt, but I just finished sweeping up the last of her lunch plate off the floor.” 

Yennefer sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose lightly. “Do you know what caused it?”

“I don’t think there was any one thing this time. She misses you, she’s scared about her dad being gone, her routine’s thrown off. This time the thing that kindled it off was the water from her steamed broccoli touching her ketchup, but…” He sighs, and she can hear fabric shifting, probably a shrug. “As you know, that usually doesn’t set her off like this.” She can hear another shuffle as he shifts. 

“She’d been asking about you a lot since you didn't call yesterday morning, even though we both told her you’d be missing a day… which got me thinking it’s more about missing you than the fucking ketchup. She’ll be ok, but I’m glad you called. You said you’ve finally found Geralt?” A note of worry enters his easygoing voice, and she can almost see the look of concern on his pockmarked face. 

“I found him, Coën.” She confirms. “He’s safe in my hotel room right now. I found him with a man.” A frustrated sigh bursts out from her. “I can’t believe him. This is how he got tossed out of the Army, and the second he hits civilian soil he’s in someone else’s pants. This isn’t like him.”

“He what?” On the other end of the line, Coën bursts into laughter. “Oh man, good for him! He deserves a little happy. What the fuck happened to him, anyway? Last I heard you hadn’t been able to get any details about the damn discharge, I’ve been worried sick.”

“We all have. I still am. He’s in a bad way.” And with that, she relates the events of the past day to her friend, filling him in on the details of Geralt’s discharge, how dangerous his depression has become, and the circumstances under which she found him. Coën listens patiently, stopping her only rarely to ask a clarifying question. She winds up by detailing everything she’s learned about Jaskier, ending on an amused note. “So, that situation is totally barmy. Trust Geralt to find the most impulsive man in Rhode Island… I really hope he’s going to be ok. I know I don’t get much say in this, but it worries me.” 

On the other end of the line, she can hear another soft rustle as Coën shifts and re-settles himself while he mulls this over. “I don’t know, Yenna… it sounds like it’s not the worst situation I’ve ever heard of.” 

“Coën-”

“Stop. Listen. I get why you’re upset. The guy sounds like he’s a little fuckin’ foolish, but when has Geralt gone in for anything else?” 

“Coën!” she exclaims, insulted. “Excuse me?”

“Except for you, sweetie. You know I never mean you. But Eskel? He’s never had all his screws tightened down and you know it. At least this guy seems genuinely interested in him.” 

Yennefer sighs and nods. “You’re right. Whatever else is happening, his idiot really does seem to like him,” she admits. 

“That’s good,” Coën chuckles. Then he asks, “Hey, what the fuck is he wearing? All of his stuff is here! Oh… Yenna, don’t tell me he’s in his old clothes from storage…” 

Yennefer slowly grins. “He is. Spares from his twenties, too.” 

On the other end of the line, Coën bursts out in quiet laughter. “Do they even fit?”

“Depends on how you define ‘fit’,” she replies dryly. “They’re a bit tight across the shoulders now.” 

“Oh man, and he’s just walking around wearing that? You’ve got to be kidding me. I ain’t gonna be able to mail his clothes overseas fast enough to rescue that disaster, you have got to get him new clothes.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re not wrong… I’m already on it. I’m actually about to go pick him up a few things, I just thought I'd call you first.” she says, then trails off. The smile falls from her face. 

“Coën, this feels crazy. I know I already agreed that we’d stay and work it out but… Between you and me, I just want him home safe. I don’t know if I’m making the right choice staying here.”

She can hear another rustle, and when he speaks, Coën’s voice is serious and quiet, muffled to avoid waking Ciri. “I get that. I really do. But… What do you honestly think is going to happen if we put him on a plane and force him back to London? He’ll hate you, for a start. We can’t strongarm another bar owner into giving him a job with his special interest, either, and I don’t think he’ll make it if he doesn’t have something to do. Not the way you’re talking about him right now. That scares the shit out of me.” He sighs, and then speaks again, barely audible now. “Besides, Ciri needs her dad to be happy. You know what will happen if we put them together right now before he’s stable.”

Yennefer feels her stomach plunge as Coën points that out, pressing her lips together. Reluctantly, she nods. “You’re not wrong about that. I bloody fucking wish you were, but…” 

Coën hums softly in agreement on the other end of the line. “Listen.” He says, after a long moment of worried silence. “I know you’re nervous, but take the crappy impulse sex out of the picture for a minute and look again. He’s met a man who likes him a lot. He’s so into him that he finally admitted to you that he’s gay. That’s like, moving fucking mountains material. And you know how much he loves mixing drinks, it’s like an illness. I fucking hate when he starts talking about it because he won’t fucking shut up. Don’t get me wrong, it’s sweet, but-”

“It’s fucking exhausting,” she agrees with a laugh. “You’re right, this job offer is right up his alley. If he’d come to it a little more honestly, I’d probably be thrilled for him…” She hesitates, then adds, “About all of it. He really likes Julian. He blushes when he talks about him.”

“Oh ho ho ho!” Coën crows quietly. “You’re kidding me! Mr. My Face is Carved Out of Granite Rivii, blushing? That I have to see for myself.” Yennefer laughs again, feeling deeply held tension in her chest and stomach begin to ease. 

“It’s quite the sight,” she admits with a smile. “It’s nice to see.”

“I bet. So it sounds like you’re not going to be home anytime soon.”

“Probably not.”

“What do you want me to tell Ciri?”

Yennefer sits back in her seat heavily and sighs, then flips down the sun visor so that she can open the mirror on the back of it and inspect her makeup as she thinks. The process grounds her, bringing her back to her center. She carefully sweeps a finger under one eye, corralling a minute smudge of eyeliner before she responds. 

“Tell her that I love her very much, and that I will call her before bed tonight. I will keep up with her morning calls until I figure out what to do… Beyond that, it’s hard to say what next steps should be until I see how this rumpus between Geralt and his idiot takes shape.” She pauses, chewing the inside of her lip.

“What are you thinking about?” Coën asks quietly, voice gentle. 

“I’m thinking about what to do with Ciri. If everything goes well here, I don’t want to just leave Geralt alone and go back to London.” “So move her. We’ve been all over the world, Yenna. Rhode Island isn’t dangerous, what’s the problem?”

She looks up at the ceiling of the car, huffing and studying the velvety fabric above her. “It feels crazy, is the problem.”

“This whole thing is crazy. Our life is crazy. It’s ok, we know how to land on our feet. Maybe start looking into a month-to-month for you two, you don’t know how long Geralt’s going to need you over there. Maybe start scouting for bigger places in case you decide to move us, too? I’ll get a few things wound up over here, just in case, and… we’ll feel it out, ok? No need to make any big decisions yet. Let’s just make sure Geralt is safe first. Ciri’s safe with me, you can handle yourself, everything else is gonna be fine. Ok?”

Her hand comes up to her chest and presses it as she listens to Coën, trying to ease some of the sudden ache in her heart. As she gets wrapped up in the calm safety of his voice, it finally occurs to her just how emotionally exhausted she is. She takes a moment to sit with it, breathing slowly until the worst of the ache has passed and she is thinking clearly again. Coën waits patiently on the other end of the line, his own breath quiet and steady in her ear.

“I still don’t like it.” 

Coën laughs, muffling his chuckle so as not to wake Ciri. “I know, sweetie. You wouldn’t be you if you did. You were never gonna like any boyfriend of Geralt’s, it’s not in your nature... That’s ok. Give it time. Go get ‘im, sweetie, that little twink isn’t gonna know what hit him.”

She breaks out in a sudden laugh at that, pleased. “He already doesn’t. I’ve got that boy properly terrified.”

“Good. Keep the little fucker in line until I can meet him,” Coën says warmly. “I’ll beat him up for both of you if he doesn’t do right by our boy.” 

“Thank you,” she replies with a smile. “I’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as I know. Give Ciri a hug for me?”

“You got it. Anything else before I go?”

She hesitates, then grins mischievously. “The bar has leather nights.” 

“Oh, Geralt is going to die,” Coën giggles quietly, still trying to muffle himself. “Oh lord, thank you for telling me that. That’ll do.”

“You’re welcome. Talk to you soon.”

“Yup. Give Geralt a hug for me when you get back to him.”

“I will,” she promises. “Goodbye.”

“Bye.” 

She ends the call and drops the phone back into her purse, sighing heavily. She feels more grounded now, but the weight of the situation sits heavily on her heart. Like no matter where she turns, something unpredictable looms, out of her control. Closing her eyes and leaning back in her seat, she gives herself a long, slow moment to gather her thoughts. The conversation with Coën was calming, and she feels much clearer now. Once she is gathered, she gets out of the car and shuts the door firmly. Now that was all settled, it was time to get Geralt some clothes. 

~*~

When she arrives back at the hotel room some time later, Geralt is just starting to stir. He is lying there blinking in the dimness of the hotel room, feeling like he is being crushed under a ton of bricks, when he hears the click of the magnetic key card sliding in the lock. Sitting up on his elbow, he watches as Yennefer pushes through the door with a bag on her elbow and his backpack slung over her shoulder. Oh, crap. That’s right, she’d gone shopping for him. Despite the fact that he’s grateful he didn’t have to go to the store himself, he still feels apprehension about the prospect of a whole new set of clothing. Groaning, he flops back against his pillow and scrubs his hand over his stubbly face. 

Yennefer smiles as she watches him do this, setting the bag down on the little round table. “I have more in the car, kochany.” She gestures to the little counter with the mini fridge and coffee maker, where a bag of ground coffee sits waiting for him. “I bought some decent coffee in case I found you. Why don’t you get that started?” Geralt grumps out a muffled noise from behind his hand, not moving.

Then she walks over and deposits the backpack next to his side of the bed. “Got your razor.” Leaning over, she plucks his hand off of his face and kisses his forehead, then his lips, light and sweet, and is rewarded with a little flicker of a smile. 

“Thank you, neshama shelì.” Geralt rumbles softly, his voice still thick with sleep. “How did everything go?”

“Well… I still don’t entirely get what you see in him,” she teases gently, sitting next to him on the bed, forcing him to scoot slightly to the side to make room for her. “But. We had a long talk, and I have a better feel for who he is as a person.” She trails her fingers lightly along his arm, affectionate. 

“And?” Geralt asks, tilting his head and eyeing her with guarded curiosity in the dimness. 

“And,” she sighs and smiles, patting his chest. “I suppose I can see something of what you see in him. He’s a pillock, and he’s too impulsive for my liking, but he’s also… kind. Soft. Generous. More thoughtful than I gave him credit for. So,” she says, turning to smile down at him, “I left him with the hotel room’s number. The ball’s in his court now, kochany. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Geralt looks back up at her, his face unreadable in the dim half-light of the hotel room. He nods, his eyes sliding closed, still groggy and emotionally hungover after the day previous. Yennefer pats his chest gently one last time and then says, “I also talked to Coën. He and Ciri are doing well, and he’s glad that you are okay. He told me to hug you for him.” And with that she leans over, giving him a gentle squeeze. He huffs out a noise of mild protest, but deep down he enjoys the hug. She smirks as she rises. “I’ll be back with the rest of the bags in just a minute. I’ll fill you in about the rest over breakfast.” 

He grunts a sleepy noise of acknowledgement, waiting until she leaves to slowly rise. Every movement causes his body to burn with exhausted pain. All of the raw sadness and grief that he’d been staving off for weeks has collapsed in on him, and he can barely breathe under it. Grumbling softly, he sets up the coffee maker, pulls his shaving things and his dog tags out of his bag, and limps into the bathroom for a shower. 

By the time he is out, he can hear Yennefer moving around in the room outside the door. He uses a towel to swipe the mirror clear. This time he doesn’t even try to meet his own eyes. Instead, he sets about the routine that he’s done nearly every day of his adult life, the same way every time. It is unspeakably grounding to feel the cold pattern of strokes across his skin as the razor cuts away the night’s stubble.

When his skin is finally smooth for the first time in weeks, it feels like a weight has fallen off of him. He sighs deeply in contentment as he washes the remaining soap off of his face and rubs his hand gently over his cheeks. Then, he turns to his dog tags. There on the chain is his wedding band, a plain gold ring. 

Yennefer had put it on him a long time ago, and it is one of his most treasured possessions. It had never felt right to hide it, but he’d been so certain that he didn’t deserve them anymore. That they would reject him. Now that he knew differently, it was a relief to see it again. It had always been an honor to wear.  

Gently, he removes it and puts it back on his ring finger. When he emerges from the bathroom, Yennefer can see the difference in him. Her eyes flicker to the ring and back, and she gives him a little smile. That was a good sign, she knew. It meant he felt connected enough to his family to wear it. 

“Better?” She asks, watching him walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Better,” he agrees, fingering his chin. 

“Good.” She smiles. “There’s fresh clothes on the bed for you.” With a tip of her head, she indicates the jeans, dark blue button down, undershirt, underwear, belt, and socks that she’s laid out on Geralt’s side of the bed. 

“Thanks,” he squints, eyeing them distrustfully. 

“Just try them, Geralt, they won’t bite,” Yennefer suggests wryly, taking another pair of jeans out of a bag and clipping the tags off of them. “You’ll have to get used to wearing them someday, might as well start now.” 

“Hmm.” He grunts, casting her a look of very mild irritation. She smiles back at him, he rolls his eyes, then capitulates and heads over to inspect the new clothing for himself. It’s simple, sturdy, well-made. When he picks up the shirt, it’s surprisingly soft. He shoots a glance at Yennefer, who gives him a ‘See? Told you to trust me,’ look in return. 

Grumbling softly, caught somewhere between feeling annoyed and loved, he puts the shirt on. He discovers that the underwear is comfortable, too. To his surprise, even the socks are pleasant, dress socks with fine seams that don’t bother his feet when he puts them on. The jeans are a little stiff, but they’re new and that can’t be helped. The clean clothing feels nice, as does the fact that it fits a great deal better than his old clothing did. He walks over to the mirrors paneling the little closet door in the corner of the room and eyes himself uncomfortably. 

“What do you think?” Yennefer asks from across the room, an amused note lilting her voice. 

“I hate it,” Geralt gripes, only half serious. He tugs at the shirt and grimaces at his reflection. The outfit feels surprisingly nice on his skin, and deep down, he knows he’ll get accustomed to it quickly. 

“Liar,” Yen chuckles warmly, setting aside a wine-red shirt in a small pile of other clothing. 

“Hmm.” Geralt hums, walking over to the little counter to get himself a cup of coffee. Then he turns around and leans against it, eyeing Yen and her bags skeptically. 

“I know I need clothes, Yen, but really?” He complains, as he watches her pull out a deep purple shirt and clip its tags, adding to the pile. 

“Really,” she says firmly. “You’ll feel better if you look presentable, Geralt. Especially at that new job of yours, if you decide to take it.” She glances up at him, a twinkle in her eye. Then she gestures at a shirt on top of the pile of work clothing she’s set aside for him.

He gives her a wide-eyed look, then walks over and tentatively picks up the shirt that she’d indicated. It is just a black button down shirt, nothing fancy. But it is more than that, too. It is a silent statement of support from her, and as such, it means the world to him. 

She smiles to herself, setting aside the empty bag in her lap. “Want to go get breakfast somewhere, moj drogì?” She asks. “I saw a few places nearby that looked good.” He glances up from his coffee warily. To be perfectly honest, all he wanted to do was sleep, but he was all slept out, so after a moment of hesitation he nods. 

“Good. Once I’m done here we’ll leave.” 

He nods again, downing his coffee and pouring himself another cup. Then he walks over quietly behind her back and leans down, kissing the top of her head. 

“Thank you for the clothes, Yen.”

“You’re welcome.” She replies warmly, leaning back into his stomach. Her violet eyes peer up from underneath her lashes, a slow smile lighting her face. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He takes a sip of coffee, holding her head and gently savoring her curls with his fingertips. They both close their eyes, soaking up the warmth of being together. It might not be a usual sort of love, but it was theirs, and neither would have traded it for the world.

[aion-rsa]

How The Mandalorian Gave Fans a Different Kind of Star Wars Story

https://ift.tt/2Miy7FO

This Star Wars: The Mandalorian article contains spoilers.

Technically, Disney+’s The Mandalorian is part of the biggest franchise on earth. But it doesn’t always feel that way.

True, it’s a Star Wars property, and it rarely lets you forget that fact. The show is rife with references to the films and animated series that have come before it and it enjoys padding out existing lore in ways that only the most hardcore of fans will care about—or possibly even notice. (Did you remember there was a krayt dragon skeleton in A New Hope? Be honest.)

The Mandalorian isn’t a story that requires a tremendous amount of Star Wars knowledge to follow or enjoy. And that’s because its central tale is one that follows rules and patterns we’ve all seen before. A mix of tropes from classic spaghetti westerns and samurai adventures, the show offers a broad look at life on the edge of the galaxy that exists well beyond the world of Jedi Knights, Sith warriors, and space princesses. And its tale of a lone bounty hunter and the supercute Force-wielding toddler he is charged with protecting is proof positive that there is space for every kind of story in this franchise. (As well as every kind of fan.)

Stream your Star Wars favorites right here!

In a universe that has become increasingly dense and self-contained, The Mandalorian still manages to feel like a breath of fresh air. Sure, its second season finale includes a surprise appearance by Luke Skywalker, because no property in this universe can apparently escape that family and their seemingly never-ending daddy issues, but the Disney+ series doesn’t seem concerned with him as anything other than a vehicle to further the story of Din Djarin, a good man who is trying to do right – by his faith, by his people, by the tiny creature whose life has suddenly become intertwined with his own.

Though the eponymous Mandalorian has run across a bevy of characters that have made longtime fans shriek with delight (Boba Fett, Bo-Katan, Ahsoka Tano, Luke himself), and the series ties in rather neatly with other franchise properties like The Clone Wars and Rebels, it still understands that its greatest strengths stem from its smaller stakes, more realistic worldbuilding, and the emotional connection between two vastly different creatures.

The Mandalorian isn’t an epic adventure, a space opera about the future of the galaxy as we understand it, or a tragedy about a single family’s apparent inability to keep from making the same mistakes from one generation to the next. It’s a story that’s deliberately limited in its scope and modest in its ambitions and, at the end of the day, the show itself is all the stronger for these choices. 

In comparison to other Star Wars properties, The Mandalorian’s story is almost painfully straightforward, if perhaps a little bit darker in places than we’re maybe used to in this universe thus far. Set in the galaxy’s Outer Rim following the fall of the Galactic Empire, it generally deals with characters – including its own lead – who are not terribly complicated people. Their lives are simpler, rougher, and more focused on the everyday challenges of living than the Jedi and characters like them that populate the films. 

Even the Mandalorian himself is simultaneously an avatar and a real person, and we get to know him as much through his struggles as his successes. He is, after all, the most reluctant of saviors. Yet, as many lone warriors before him, he is also a man with a code, and he holds tight to it, even in the lawless outskirts of the galaxy. 

Occasionally Mando will have to rescue someone or must join forces with an uneasy partner in order to kill a monster or pull off a heist. But no matter how that particular adventure goes, by the end of the hour, he’s back on his path and moving toward his next goal. The show doesn’t really have “arcs” so much as stories that occasionally take place over an episode or two—see the transport of the Frog Lady back to her partner that begins in “The Passenger” and ends in the subsequent installment—and its most dramatic set pieces generally rely on Mando fighting something, ranging from a furious mudhorn to ravenous, gross ice spiders.

In the world of genre storytelling, serialized stories with twisty plots and puzzle-box mysteries are all the rage right now. Just look at shows like Westworld, a drama that—as much as I love it—spends much of its time tying itself into complex narrative knots it doesn’t really know how to get out of. So, a show like The Mandalorian, with its linear narrative, clear-eyed storytelling, and refreshingly basic plots suddenly feels like a revelation.

And maybe it is.

Read more

TV

The Mandalorian Season 3 Predictions: What to Expect

By John Saavedra

Books

What Star Wars: The High Republic Reveals About the Galaxy Before the Movies

By Megan Crouse

The fact is, there’s still real value in a simple story about a man doing his best, no matter what circumstances he finds himself in. Maybe we’ve forgotten that fact in a television landscape that’s conditioned us to always be looking for a trick or a surprise reveal, but The Mandalorian’s largely straightforward narrative proves that it doesn’t have to be that way. And the show is as satisfying as any series that requires complex fan theories to enjoy or in-depth explainers to fully understand. 

The explainers are nice, don’t get me wrong, but in all honesty, the show is doing just fine introducing existing canon characters like Ahsoka to new audiences on its own. You don’t need to have watched Rebels to enjoy her presence here, but if you have, the satisfaction is all the greater. Truly, we don’t give The Mandalorian enough credit for the delicate balance it strikes in the age old struggle between storytelling and fanservice. It’s a difficult thing, and the show walks a fine line both carefully and well.

Even the appearance of Luke, probably the ultimate moment in Star Wars pandering, exists not for its own sake so much as it does to advance the series’ main relationship – that between Din and young Grogu. (If you didn’t get a little emotional watching them say goodbye to one another, then you have no heart, I’m sorry.)  

There’s little of the narrative baggage that usually comes along with a Skywalker arriving on the scene here – it doesn’t appear that anyone else even knows who he is beyond the fact that he is a Jedi – and though he’s meant to teach Grogu the ways of the Force, there’s no real indication we’ll see Luke again. After all, he has to start off down the path that leads him to The Last Jedi, and Grogu will  undoubtedly return to his Mandalorian’s side at some point in the not too distant future. Disney knows where its money is, after all. And it’s not in Pedro Pascal merch, much as we all love him. 

The Mandalorian’s  first season occasionally drew criticism for what naysayers deemed a “flimsy” or “barely there” plot, but this underestimates the power inherent in the series’ simple framework. Not only is it an emotional balm for those of us who are, quite frankly, tired of hour-long installments that require a significant amount of work to understand, it actually serves an important narrative purpose. The slower pace and simpler story allow us to get to know Mando and his culture, and gives the Star Wars universe a chance to take a minute and breathe.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The Skywalker films are so full of big, potentially galaxy ending stakes and consequences that we as viewers get little time to simply take the universe in on its own terms – let alone get to know the people that inhabit it. We’re usually too busy worrying about how it all ties back to the family at the story’s center or the Jedi they serve. 

The Mandalorian has shown us what the Star Wars world outside of all the Skywalker drama looks like – even though it briefly includes one of them – and it lets us take our time to gawk at its sketchy bars, enjoy its colorful characters, and travel through run-down desolate towns at a slower pace. It’s allowed us to invest in the emotional connection between a lonely man and a lost creature who may be the last of its kind. And quaint though all that might seem, it’s certainly turned out to be a journey worth taking.

The post How The Mandalorian Gave Fans a Different Kind of Star Wars Story appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2Mh7mS7

[dc-earth53]

#0002: Wonder Woman (Diana of Themyscira)

Age: 45

Occupation: Ambassador, author, adventurer

Marital status: Single

Known relatives: Hippolyta (mother, deceased), Gaea (mother),  Lyta Hall Trevor (half-sister. deceased), Daniel Hall (nephew), Ares (grandfather), Donna Troy (sister), Cassandra Sandsmark (great-aunt).

Group affiliation: Amazons of Themyscira, Justice League of America, formerly Star Sapphire Corps.

Base of operations: Themysciran Embassy, New York City.

Height: 6′0″

Weight: 165 lbs.

History:

45 years ago: Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons, ashamed that she had to leave her first daughter behind in man’s world, petitions the gods of Olympus to give her another child. They take pity on her, and instruct her to mold the form of a baby girl from clay. Gaea, spirit of the earth itself, imbues this clay figure with a soul, and Hippolyta names the newborn child Diana.

29 years ago: Teenage Diana befriends Troia, another young Amazon who had been adopted by the tribe after washing ashore as a baby.

20 years ago: 

Sensing much trouble and discord in the world of men, the Olympian gods declared that Themyscira should send out an emissary of peace into the world. Hippolyta holds a contest to determine which Amazon would be sent, forbidding Diana to enter. Disguised, Diana enters the competition nonetheless, winning and claiming the uniform her mother had worn decades before her, as well as her Lasso of Truth.

Diana leaves Themyscira, arriving in Boston, Massachusetts, where she is detained by local authorities. The Olympians intervene on her behalf, appearing to her in animal form and granting her abilities beyond those of normal Amazons.

Diana is taken in by Harvard professor Julia Kapatelis, and her daughter Vanessa, and enrolls at the school to learn more about the world.

Diana is attacked by Decay, a minion of Ares, god of war, and the battle spills out onto the streets, garnering her attention from the media, who dub her “Wonder Woman.”

19 years ago: 

Diana foils a plan by Ares and his children, Phobos and Deimos, to cause a nuclear holocaust, using her lasso to convince the god of the error of his ways.

Diana becomes a founding member of the Justice League of America after teaming up with other heroes to repel an alien invasion of Earth.

18 years ago: 

Diana agrees to hire Myndi Mayer as her publicist.

Troia arrives in Boston, taking the moniker of “Wonder Girl.”

Diana gains the attention of Barbara Minerva, the feline femme fatale calling herself the Cheetah. Minerva attacks Diana, attempting to steal the Lasso of Truth. After subduing her, Diana decides to return home to Themyscira.

17 years ago: 

While on Themyscira, Diana is forced to partake in the Challenge of the Gods in order to sate Zeus’s anger for refusing to sleep with him. She fights monsters including the Hydra and Echidna on her way to freeing the imprisoned demigod Heracles.

Diana is first confronted by Valerie Beaudry, the Silver Swan, and Dr. Doris Zuel, alias Giganta.

15 years ago: 

While on a trip to Greece with Vanessa and Julia, Diana is captured by the sorceress Circe, defeating her with the aid of Hermes. 

When Diana returns to Boston, she finds Myndi Mayer dead, victim of a drug overdose.

14 years ago: Themyscira reveals its existence to the world, and the Amazons begin to take a greater part in world affairs.

13 years ago: Vanessa is kidnapped by the diminutive telepath Edgar Cizko, alias Doctor Psycho, beginning his long rivalry with Diana.

11 years ago: Diana, along with the rest of Earth’s superheroes, participates in the fight against the Anti-Monitor.

10 years ago: 

After the Dominator invasion, Cheetah attempts to steal the Lasso of Truth once more, leading Diana to find the lost city of the Bana-Mighdall tribe of Amazons, and their champion, Artemis.

Diana is caught up in a war between the various pantheons of gods on Earth, and is seemingly murdered by Circe during the fighting. With the aid of the Phantom Stranger, she returns to life and defeats Circe, ending the war.

9 years ago: Diana is briefly replaced by Artemis as Wonder Woman after Hippolyta has a vision of her daughter’s death. Artemis dies instead, and Diana reclaims her mantle

8 years ago: 

Diana joins the new incarnation of the Justice League, assembled to combat a team of rogue White Martians.

Vanessa Kapatelis is mutated into the new Silver Swan by Circe, who sets her loose against Diana.

7 years ago: 

Diana re-locates to Gateway City, befriending museum curator Helena Sandsmark and her daughter, Cassandra. Cassandra disguises herself, and using artifacts stolen from Diana’s belongings, helps defeat Morgaine le Fey as the new Wonder Girl.

Themyscira is destroyed by the forces of Imperiex and Brainiac, killing many of the Amazons, including Hippolyta. The survivors relocated to a new Themyscira - a floating island built in the Bermuda Triangle.

5 years ago: 

Diana takes a position as Themyscira’s ambassador to the United Nations, moving to New York City. She publishes a book, titled “Reflections: A Collection of Essays and Speeches,” which makes an enemy out of pharmaceutical tycoon Veronica Cale.

Diana confronts Maxwell Lord, who murdered the Blue Beetle and had Superman under his control, and snaps his neck. Afterwards, seeking internal peace, Diana makes a pilgrimage to Nanda Parbat, leaving her post to Troia.

4 years ago: 

Despite strained relationships with Superman and Batman, Diana joins the newly restructured Justice League.

Diana is placed on trial by the World Court for the murder of Maxwell Lord, with Kate Spencer as her attorney. She is cleared of all charges and returns to the embassy.

3 years ago: Granny Goodness, in the guise of Athena, and Circe, work together, leading an attack on the United States by Themyscira. Diana is forced to fight against her sisters.

2 years ago:

During the Blackest Night crisis, Diana temporarily becomes empowered by the Violet Light of Love, becoming a Star Sapphire.

The resurrected Maxwell Lord enacts a scheme to eliminate Diana from play, trapping her in a prison of her own mind with the aid of Doctor Psycho - all part of a scheme from Nemesis, goddess of revenge. Diana defeats Nemesis and returns to reality.

1 year ago: Diana is attacked by Grail, daughter of Darkseid, who wants the essence of the gods to restore her father to adulthood.

Present day: Diana continues working at the embassy, while also continuing to serve with the Justice League and aiding the Sentinels of Magic against the goddess Hecate.

Commentary:

If Superman embodies hope and Batman embodies justice, Diana embodies compassion. Her existence is almost paradoxical: she’s the most compassionate of the Trinity, but also the most willing to kill when it comes down to it. The New 52 took her character too far in the direction of being a warrior, emphasizing the sword as her main weapon rather than her lasso and bracelets - to the point where her lasso became part of a chainsaw in Death Metal (as badass as that was). This Diana largely rejects that part of her nature, leaning into her status as an ambassador of peace to the world and believing in an open hand rather than a closed fist whenever possible.

This version of Diana is largely based on George Perez and Greg Rucka’s interpretations of the character, although that raises a few issues with regards to the timeline. Since post-Crisis Diana was introduced without any of her prior history, her post-Crisis early career is spread out over several years in this timeline. Certain elements of the post-Flashpoint interpretation of the character are also included, namely her being detained as an illegal alien by immigration officials, and her battle against Grail after this universe’s equivalent of Final Crisis.

This Diana also adheres to her origin according to Perez, rather than Brian Azzarello’s revamped origin that was also used for the live-action film. Diana was originally envisioned as an inherently feminist character, and making her narrative a patriarchal one centered around her heritage as a descendant of Zeus detracts from that. Rather, she’s a daughter of Hippolyta and Gaea, empowered by the female members of the Olympian pantheon (as well as Hermes). Diana doesn’t need a man behind her to be powerful, she just is.

She also doesn’t need a love interest. I have no hatred in my heart for Steve Trevor, but the character works better in the setting of World War II. In this continuity, he’s Hippolyta’s lover who later settles down with Etta Candy after Hippolyta returns to Themyscira. Perhaps a lover is in the cards for her in the near future, however.

Diana’s costume in this canon is the one she currently sports in Rebirth canon. I am shocked that it took so long to give her a battle skirt, given how much sense it makes as a permutation of the classic culottes or leotard look. 

Got questions about Diana or anything else? My asks are open!

Upcoming:

#0003 - Hal Jordan

#0004 - Aquaman

#0005 - ?????

[pepperidgefarmremembers]

Chapter 6 here.

Intuition

The chattering of the people at the stalls filled the open marketplace. These were the kind of days that made Aang smile the most. People moving in the open air. A symphony of individuals from all walks of life coming together to get what they need. He loved to see life continuing after so many years of death and destruction. He walked leisurely with his wife and three children through Republic City's marketplace in the hope that they would all get what they desired. Katara kept the household kitchen organized, so she was interested in stocking up as a home of five quickly devoured any food in the home.

Bumi, much to his parents dismay, was very fond of warrior items and excitedly ran to the stall with tools and weapons. Kya sprinted towards the stall with hundreds of books with a quick "I'm going over there!" Tenzin was just happy to be sat upon his dad's shoulders. Aang echoed his youngest son's motivation for going to the marketplace. They both seemed to love new adventures and the freedom of outdoors. Katara smiled at the sight of her distinguished and older looking husband bouncing and singing their toddler on his shoulders. She gasped at the view of a fruit stall and motioned for her husband to follow.

The woman behind the fruit stand appeared to be in her 50's or 60's and smelled of lavender. Her kind eyes opened widely at the sight of the family approaching her stall. "Oh, Avatar Aang and Master Katara. I'm so honored," she said with a timid bow. Waving the formalities away, Aang replied, "Please, just 'Aang'. Also, we are honored as well. It looks like you have many different kinds of fruit here. Some are even pretty exotic." Tenzin reached out his hands to his mom, asking to be held by her. She then leaned over the rows of fruit as she walked with Tenzin on her hip, inspecting them to make sure they were up to her standard. Her eyes widened at the ripe apples, oranges, watermelon, and even blueberries, which were difficult to find in Republic City. A slight impulsiveness overtook the older woman as she blurted out to Aang, "So, you're not the last airbender I see. You must be proud!"

Katara stopped what she was doing and turned to look at her husband as if he knew something she didn't. Fortunately for him, he shared his wife's confused look and frowned at the older woman. "He's only two. We don't know if he's an airbender yet or even if he is a bender at all. Sometimes bending abilities don't show up until as late as 5. I am curious though, what makes you think he's an airbender?" The older woman continued to smile, still surprised by the Avatar's illusion surrounding his son, "Oh, I'm sorry if I overstepped, I just assumed you knew. I could feel the energy in your aura, it has specks of green, which is pretty uncommon for non-airbenders. I wasn't sure until your little one moved away. I sense the green auras on both of you right now, with your son's being very large" The couple remained dumbfounded with mouths wide open in surprise. Aang was the first to respond, "Well...that's certainly an interesting theory. No one really knows for sure how to predict bending but that is something to consider." Aang paid for the fruit in a heavy silence and began to walk around scanning the crowd for their other children.

Tenzin's squealing and laughter masked the tension between the couple as they walked over to where Bumi was playing with children in a park. Katara asked her husband a question that has been hanging in the air but unsaid. "Do...you think there was any truth to that? That-um-Tenzin could be an airbender?" She tried to get a good read on her husband's face but failed. Aang's face was scrunched but his eyes remained kind and soft. "I really don't know, Katara. I have never known any other way to tell about bending besides it just happening one day. I try not to overtly look for signs because that can lead to disappointment. All I care about is that our kids are healthy and loved. But..", Aang came to a thoughtful pause. He glanced away from Katara briefly before returning to her eyes. "I think I might be curious to find out. Maybe I can meditate and gain some knowledge from one of my past lives or something."

Aang had a knot in his stomach while waiting for his wife to respond. He didn't know why he thought she might be angry about this. "Aang, I think that's a great idea. Maybe you'll get answers and maybe not. But I think you have to try." With an encouraging smile from his wife, he beamed at her and gave her a passionate kiss on the lips. "Oogies!" laughed Bumi as he began to run to his parents. Tenzin, securely held by his mother, lifted up his arms in excitement "Oogies, mommy!" The couple rolled their eyes and laughed at how fast the word "oogie" spread amongst their family. The family pried Kya away from another book stall as they all began to walk home, with Aang carrying more than a handful of books.

In their home, Tenzin was successfully napping from the adventure at the marketplace. Kya and Katara practiced waterbending beginning stances in complete view of Bumi sharpening his tools. Aang nodded to Katara with a knowing look that he would be undisturbed for a while. After lighting incense and placing his spiritual beads around his neck, Aang folded his legs into lotus position. Feeling himself leave his physical body, he was soon standing next to Avatar Yangchen. "Hello, Avatar Aang, what can I help you with?", she questioned the young airbender. "Avatar Yangchen, thank you for answering. I was wondering if you have heard of a way of sensing if someone is a bender or not?" Avatar Yangchen smiled and answered, "I assume you are asking about your youngest son." Aang nodded and asked, "Yes, I was told today by a stranger that she could see his aura, and it was similar to mine. Have you heard of that before?" She replied, "Yes, it is a very old way to determine a bender. It is from when humans used to bend the energy in themselves. The air chakra is green, which permeates your aura and Tenzin's. Even Though you cannot see it, I believe you sensed it. Your son's name is a common Air Nomad name, after all."

Aang was silent for a few moments, processing what he had just heard. "I guess that makes sense. As soon as I met him, I knew. I knew his name was Tenzin. It just felt right, and I never questioned it," he said. Avatar Yangchen smiled and said, "You were listening to your instincts, Avatar Aang. The universe has a way of telling us the truth in nondirective ways. With Tenzin's help, in his lifetime he will see the Air Nomads repopulated greatly and the world will be balanced again." He remained deep in thought for a moment. He didn't know what to say, but he knew he needed to talk to Katara. Aang bowed respectfully before leaving, "Thank you for your wisdom, Avatar Yangchen."

Aang came out of his meditative state and walked out of his bedroom in search of Katara. He found her outside, sweaty but encouraging their daughter in her waterbending stances. "Good job, Kya. You're getting so good! How about we take a break and you play with Bumi?" As Kya screamed and rushed her older brother in a sneak attack, Katara walked over to Aang. She wrapped her arms tightly around Aang, resting her head on her shoulders. "That woman at the fruit stall was right, Katara. Avatar Yangchen told me reading auras is an old way to determine if someone is a bender. She confirmed that Tenzin will be an airbender and he will see the Air Nomads repopulated in his lifetime" he said softly, almost not wanting to get his hopes up.

Katara pulled away and kissed him on the lips, "Wow, that's great news! I'm so happy for you, Aang. How are you feeling about it?" He smiled with a hint of hesitation, "I am excited and happy. But, we haven't seen any bending yet. I'm just...worried. What if it's too good to be true?" "I would worry if it was just the older woman, but the revelation came from two people. One was a stranger so, yeah, kind of weird, but her story was confirmed by Avatar Yangchen! I think you told me once that spirits and energy transcend time so it's not impossible to see the future. Maybe trust your intuition? Not everything is logical. You should know that, simple monk." He laughed before stating, "You're right, Katara. My heart says it's true and I think I have known it since he was born, somehow. I guess we'll see what happens." Just as the couple began to hug, they're attention was turned towards the window of Tenzin's nursery. Tenzin was squealing in excitement as he was airbending his blanket above his crib.

Katara's heart fluttered as she squeezed her husband's hand. "Aang…", she whispered. He didn't say anything. Tears rolled down his face as he stared at the window. He leaned his weight into his wife's shoulder, hugging her close. Years of shame and sadness that have haunted him, now lifting from his mind. His heart leapt as he sighed into her shoulder. Although he had left the thoughts of shame for running away behind him so many years ago, it never felt truly gone. Sometimes, every once in a while, a pang of regret would appear in his thoughts. He always rationalized it and mindfully remembered to tell himself that it wasn't his fault. But the thoughts never stopped completely. He did not tell anyone this, not even Katara. He imagined the little piece of shame and regret he still carried leaving his body in a cloud of black smoke. Those thoughts never appeared again.

[fadingcoast]

Death Of The Lie  ||  Chapter 26: Uncovered

AUTHORS: @fandom-and-feminism​ & @fadingcoast​

Summary: Odin and his daughter Hela are the perfect conquerors of the universe. The nine realms fall one after the other into their clutch. After Odin takes a second wife and has a son with her, he doesn’t need Hela anymore. Hela abandons her father and ends up marrying Laufey, a sworn enemy of the Aesir people. Not long after, she becomes pregnant with Laufey’s child. Odin cannot let that son be born, but against all odds, the boy survives. Odin is forced to bring him back to Asgard to be raised as his own until he could make further use of him. The half-Jotun-half-Aesir boy grows up to look and act a lot like his mother, which disturbs Odin, and makes him treat the boy horribly. Odin’s lies are deep and complex, but one day the boy will find out the truth about everything he is.

PAIRING: Multi RATING: Teen

MASTERLIST

Feedback is always appreciated and reblogs are encouraged!!

.-

Chapter 26: Uncovered

The chill humid air of the Alfheim lake filled Loki with the warmth of familiarity, giving him a sense of comfort he hadn’t felt in a long time. He was only allowed to enjoy it for a second, however, before a pulse of magnetic energy emanated from where they had apparated.

“That was the alarm,” Loki warned Hela, his magic already weakened by the effect of the pulse. “The guards will be here in seconds.”

Hela nodded her understanding, and struggled to summon a long black cape to cover herself with, while Loki sent a small magical token Hela did not know where.

Several soldiers materialized in front of them, closing in like shadows coming from the trees. All escape routes were covered, their combined magic annulling any attempts of teleporting again. Instinctively Loki put himself between Hela and the soldiers, straightening his spine and taking a deep breath to draw the attention away from her.

“I am-”

“LOKI!?!”

The familiar voice brought a smile to Loki’s face. But he didn’t have time to speak before a plasma blast hit him full on the chest.

“I KNEW IT!!” Another blast knocked him backward. “I KNEW YOU WERE ALIVE!!” Loki tried to shield himself, but his seidr was barely recovering. “YOU MISERABLE LITTLE RAT!” Yet another blast. In all honesty, Loki didn’t mind much. He felt he deserved it. “HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME??!” Another blast that hit him right on his lower belly.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please stop!”

Loki was bent over himself, hand held up to make Sigyn stop. Between all the wincing and the burning, he still smiled at her. It only infuriated her more. She glared down at him, hands clenched in two tight fists. Loki straightened up slowly and walked closer, reaching for her hands.

“I am so terribly sorry, my queen-”

Sigyn kneed him right on the groin and he doubled down in pain again.

“I probably deserve that as well,” he admitted in a little voice.

“I hope, for your own sake, that you have an extremely good explanation for all this!”

“He does.”

Sigyn turned to face the cloaked figure that had stood behind Loki. Hela uncovered her head and held herself proudly. She hadn’t even opened her mouth when Sigyn bowed low to the ground.

“Your majesty,” she said with great reverence.

The Alfar guards, though clearly confused, lowered their weapons and took Sigyn’s lead. Each one knelt even lower than their Princess.

A glint of satisfaction sparkled in Hela’s eyes, though she still was perplexed. It had been centuries since anyone had treated her with the respect her position demanded. She eyed Sigyn, seeing familiar traits in her lovely features. 

“You are Iwaldis’ child, aren’t you?” Hela asked, eyeing Sigyn. “As bright as your mother, I see.” With a hand gesture, she allowed Sigyn, and the guards, to stand again.

Sigyn gasped with delight, taking a step closer to Hela. “You knew her?”

“Briefly. She taught me about Seidr, in secret.” Hela gave no more information about it, but Loki could tell there was much more to the story.

“I assume you found much more about me, about us, than whatever is left in Asgard.” Loki held Sigyn’s hands and squeezed.

“We must discuss this further at the palace.” She looked at Hela, and then at Loki, returning his gesture. “You are in for a very long history lesson.”

.-

Books piled up on every table in the small council room. Old tomes with ancient smells and yellow pages, kept from falling apart with magic. Loki wondered just how long Sigyn had been researching in his absence, and how much of it she had shared with her father. Sigyn searched for a particular volume and handed it to King Frèyr, pointing out a page to start reading. Loki and Hela listened.

It’s an ancient conflict between Asgard and Jotunheim, traced back to the times of Bor. The Frost Giants were one of the few who opposed Asgard’s rule, and sacrificed many lives to keep their freedom. Before his death, Bor had left instructions to assemble an army so powerful that the Jotunns would have no other option but surrender. When his son Odin ascended to the throne, the army was ready. The most skilled warriors of the Nine Realms came together as part of the Valkyrie Army. The conflict became even more savage and sanguinary.

When the time came for Odin to wed, there was only one woman he wanted: Rindr, General of the Valkyries and his most trusted war advisor.

“In Asgard,” Frèyr paused his reading and turned the book for Loki and Hela to see. “You will find many volumes written about the prowess and victories of the Valkyrie Armada. But there’s too little about how they came to an end.”

Loki looked at the book. On the page next to the one Frèyr was reading, there was a vivid drawing of the Valkyrie Army. It was very similar to the one Hela exposed in the throne room, but at the same time, different. There was nothing glorified about the blood dripping from the swords, or the bodies being trampled by horses. It was brutal in its honesty.

Hela traced her fingers over the drawing of her mother, and read the caption at the bottom.

The Jotnar king, Ymir, outsmarted King Odin’s strategy and led Queen Rindr and her army to a trap. The Valkyries were all slaughtered, and the Queen captured. It is said that King Ymir offered mercy.

“Mercy!” Hela scoffed. “She would not come home defeated and without her army. Asgard would not tolerate the indignity of defeat.”

“What happened then?” Loki asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Depends on who you ask.” Hela pursed her lips. “According to Odin, she was sacrificed in the middle of the plaza, her head on a spike for everyone to see.” She gulped and took a breath. “In truth, she commited suicide. Valkyries follow the King’s orders to either victory or death. There was no victory, so they died.”

“I have read of such a ritual, for fallen warriors to kill themselves honorably and still go to Valhalla,” Sigyn offered. Hela nodded.

“I was but a little girl, growing up listening to lies. Being fed nothing but rage and thirst for vengeance.” Hela flipped through the book, turning its pages to find images of Odin’s battle and the death of King Ymir. “Odin used to say that I would take my mother’s place by his side, and lay waste to those who oppose us.” Flicking through more pages, she stopped on a small drawing of Laufey ascending to the throne of Jotunheim. “For a while, I was exactly that. A weapon for him to use. I would come to regret it later.”

Loki’s mind wandered back to all the vandalized books, all the information that had been lost. 

“There is no way Odin could have gotten away with it. Someone must have known.”

“They were permanently silenced, I assure you,” Hela said, venom in her words.

Loki looked to Freyr. “And the other realms?”

“The war against Jotunheim was not our war. We were purposely left out, told to mind our own business.” Frèyr shrugged. “But the Alfar value one thing above all else, and that’s knowledge. They knew something was amiss. It took great effort to track down the truth, but they found it.”

Hela made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a growl. “And they had to keep Odin from knowing, or it would have ended up swept under the rug, with everything else, and everyone else.”

Loki knew this was true. If Odin had known Alfheim had that knowledge, he would have burned it to the ground. Hela stared at the drawing of Laufey, her breathing becoming more audible and rapid by the second.

Frèyr softened his voice when he spoke to Hela again. “There was no way we could have known about your marriage to Laufey, though, or your pregnancy.”

“The ceremony was done in secret, in Jotunheim,” Hela said with a small shake of her head. “Jotnar tradition is different. Their temple is their book, and holds their history. I had already been -” She paused to clear her throat. “Even after my banishment, I knew Odin was spying on me. It was only a matter of time before he would find out I was with child.”

Loki wished he could melt into the chair, but Sigyn held his hand. He was hanging desperately onto every word from Hela’s mouth and he had to remind himself to breathe. A lifetime of lies, finally leading to the truth, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

“Do you…” Loki cleared his throat and forced himself to get the words out. “Do you know what happened the night I was taken to Asgard?”

Hela’s face paled, and she stared at her hands in her lap. A few moments passed before she could gather herself together.  When she looked back up at Loki her eyes were filled with unshed tears.

“That was the night you were born,” Hela managed to say. She took a deep breath and continued, her long fingers turning the pages of the book in front of her until she saw Laufey’s portrait again. “Odin had only just found out about you. You could say he was less than pleased. Less than two days later he came to Jotunheim with an army to drag me back to Asgard.” Finally she met Loki’s eyes. “I was in labor.

“Laufey ordered me to hide, so I did, for you. Once you were born Odin was close to discovering where I was, so I used what strength I had to teleport you to the temple. That’s all I know.” Shocked silence followed her last statement. It didn’t take much stretch of the imagination for Loki to figure out what happened after that.

The Casket wasn’t the only thing you took from Jotunheim that day, was it?

“One fact still remains, my queen.” Frèyr said very solemnly. “You are the rightful heir to the throne. Alfheim will pledge allegiance to you, and help you reclaim what is rightfully yours.”

“Why?” Hela said, her eyes narrow slits as she closed the book in her hand.

Frèyr said nothing, but looked at Loki and Sigyn holding hands, making it clear that Loki was the one they were helping. Hela nodded, her chest tightening at the sight of her son in such distress.

Frèyr gave a lighthearted smile, trying to lighten up the mood. He ordered his maids to arrange a room for Hela, and have dinner served, ignoring protests from both her and Loki. There was nothing either of them could do, he insisted. They needed to rest, gather their strength and plan for the next step. They all knew Asgard wasn’t going to bend so easily.

After supper, Loki walked Hela to his old room to find none other than Gwyn pulling fresh sheets onto the bed. The old maid smothered Loki with her powerful hugs and introduced herself to Hela. After some good-natured chastising, Loki let Gwyn take over and made his way to Sigyn’s chambers. He had a lot of explaining to do.

.-

Sigyn poured a glass of wine for herself and offered some to Loki, but he politely refused. The two of them had been catching up for over an hour, but they both knew they were getting to the most difficult part of their conversation. The part Loki was purposefully avoiding. So he directed the discussion to the exact point when all of Odin’s lies crumbled.

“…Odin is about to die, and he reveals you as heir to the throne of Asgard, rather than the golden boy.” Sigyn took a long sip of her wine and smiled over her glass at Loki. “How did Thor take it?”

“He didn’t have time to take it. He was flung from the Bifrost before we made it back.”

Sigyn coughed, spilling red liquid down the front of her dress. “How??”

“It’s a…” Loki didn’t want to get into details, but Sigyn’s stare made him continue. “I called for the Bifrost, we all got sucked into it, and Thor attacked her, so she retaliated. I’m not sure if he’s… well, let’s just say the odds are against him now.”

Placing her empty wine glass on her nightstand, Sigyn shook her head, reaching for Loki’s hand. “That had to have been hard for you, even after all you’d been through with him. I’m sure he’s out there somewhere, though, he’s a tough guy.”

“I suppose.” 

Sigyn gently ran her thumb over Loki’s palm in small circles. “You have yet to tell me what happened to you after you - after your fight with Thor, when you learned about Laufey. Before Thor brought you back to Asgard.”

A flash of cold shot down Loki’s spine, and he gulped hard against the lump in his throat. “I wish I could tell you, but-” 

“It’s okay.” Sigyn gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand. “I am an empath, Loki. It’s been clear to me for a long time, and with the growth of my powers I learned to control it. Master Indilwen said I would make a great healer, but alas, I’m a princess.” She scooted closer to him on the bed. “You don’t have to tell me. You can show me.”

Loki nearly sighed with relief. “What do I have to do?”

“Let me in.”

Loki turned to face Sigyn, legs crossed on her bed, and took both of her hands. He drew a deep breath and allowed his defenses to drop, letting Sigyn’s magic flow inside of him. Quickly he realized doing that meant he was also reliving everything he was showing her. His first instinct was to resist the memory, but Sigyn’s warm energy slowly began to soothe him.

Flashes of time appeared before his mind’s eye, and Loki felt Sigyn’s hands tremble more with each one. The cold metal floor of a prison cell, the fierce dry heat of the Sanctuary II’s engine reactor core shoving razor sharp tendrils of scorching pain down his throat and into his lungs. Days spent dangling by his throat so only the tips of his toes touched the red hot floor. Long, clammy fingers shoving needlelike spikes under his skin, the same creature laughing at his defiance and speaking in honeyed verses praising the Mad Titan. One voice ringing out over the rest, the voice of the one who wished to control him. 

How do you break a frost giant?

Loki could feel his skin turning cold. He wanted to pull away from Sigyn before he hurt her, but the harder he fought the more she held him. 

Endless days of training, fighting against the Titan’s children with no rest until he won. Words fed to him to condition his broken mind to Thanos’ cause. Glorious purpose… glad tidings… freedom is life’s great lie… you were made to be ruled…

No! Stop! That’s not me!

Sensing Loki’s distress Sigyn released his hands, wincing a bit from the frost that had formed between them. Loki’s arms faded back to his usual pale color, but his face was bright red, tears streaking down his face as he stared off at the wall behind Sigyn’s head.

“Loki…”

Loki shook his head, trying to compose himself. It had been too long since the last time he let himself show any emotions, and wanted to hide them back as soon as possible. Sigyn didn’t push, and gave him space, wiping her own tears in the meantime. It took them several minutes to calm down.

“I don’t know how or why I survived. But I did.” Loki spoke again, his voice still broken.

“The norns still have plans for you, it seems.”

“Can they be good plans? Or are they just toying with me to torture me ever further?”

Sigyn took his hand, and Loki saw the worn gold ring still on her finger. “I guess we’ll find out,” she assured him. “If your fears turn out to be true, we’ll fight back.”

“We?”

Loki was, to say the least, surprised to hear Sigyn say that. He was convinced that given the new information about his true parentage and what he really was, she would be disgusted, she would reject him, and obviously call off their engagement. Her assurance that her feelings had not waned was more than he could have ever expected from her.

“Don’t look at me like that! We are still going to be married!” She stated matter-of-factly, as if there had never been any question of it. “Just… after all this is over. Then you - we - can finally live in peace.”

Loki burst out laughing. “As you wish, my queen.”

.-

<< Chapter 25  –  Chapter 27 >>

.-

@nikkalia​ @xalgaliareptx​  @christy-winchester​ @silverhart93​ @honeybournehippy​ @unseelie1963​ @angryowlet​ @thelittlestlittlecutiepie​ @moonlightprime​ @velvetzybanshee​ @bengalaas​ @damalseer

[stranger-who-writes-fiction]

Crisis on Infinite Earths - a Primer

So, maybe you’ve never read Crisis, and wanna know what all the fuss is about...or maybe you have read Crisis, but it’s been a while, and you could use a refresher...or maybe you’re avoiding that thing you gotta do and you’re looking for a convenient distraction. Whatever the case may be, this post aims to provide a relatively quick* and painless breakdown of the crossover comic to end all crossover comics (literally), CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS.

*It will not be quick.

Crisis on Infinite Earths is a twelve-issue crossover event comic that came out in 1985, written by Marv Wolfman, with pencils by George Perez (and inks and colors by a whole bunch of guys.) The thing most folks know about COIE is that it took the then-current DC multiverse, and merged it into a single earth/continuity. (That, and the deaths. OH, the deaths.)

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS--THE MAJOR PLAYERS:

THE MONITOR: The Monitor is a cosmic being comprised of positive energies, who starts gathering a bunch of heroes and villains together in order to save the multiverse. He also recruits... HARBINGER/LYLA MICHAELS: Lyla Michaels was orphaned at a young age and saved by the Monitor. He raised her, and gave her the powers that would make her HARBINGER. She helps the Monitor, but also kind of screws him over. PARIAH: Forced to watch worlds die as penance for three terrible sins--he’s drawn to earths just before they perish, but can’t really do anything about it. As such, he almost always looks like Munch’s The Scream. ALEXANDER LUTHOR JR. OF EARTH-3: Son of Lex Luthor and Lois Lane of Earth-3 (the earth where the bad guys are good, and the good guys are bad.) Lex sends his son away in a pod to escape the anti-matter wave destroying their universe, and as such, Alexander has both positive and negative energies within him, making him a kind of conduit, and vital component for the Monitor’s plan.

On the flip side, we have...

THE ANTI-MONITOR: The negative entity to the Monitor’s positive entity. He uses anti-matter to destroy universes and feed off their positive energies. He’s also got his own posse... PSYCHO PIRATE: Anti-Monitor steals him from Team Monitor and uses his emotion-manipulating powers to control people on various earths, forcing heroes to fight other heroes, as well as rush towards their doom in the anti-matter waves. HARBINGER: Yes! Harbinger is briefly controlled by the Anti-Monitor, and is used to betray the Monitor and kill him.

The Anti-Monitor also has RED TORNADO and THE FLASH imprisoned on his ship.

CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS--THE EARTHS: Earth-1: The main DC continuity earth. It’s got the Justice League, the Trinity, etc. etc. Earth-2: Justice Society of America earth, home to folks like Jay Garrick Flash, Alan Scott Green Lantern, Power Girl, and Old Superman (Kal-L). Earth-3: Crime Syndicate Earth. The Justice League, but evil. Earth-4: Home of the Charlton Comics heroes. (The Question, Blue Beetle, etc.) Earth-6: Technologically advanced earth ruled by superheroes, home of Lady Quark. Earth-X: Earth where WWII has lasted for 40 years; home of the Freedom Fighters. (Uncle Sam, The Ray, Dollman, etc.) Earth-S: Home of the Fawcett Comics characters, AKA, the Marvel Family. Earth Prime: Home of Superboy.

CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS--THE PLOT: (oh boy, here we go)

- So, earths are being destroyed by a mysterious anti-matter wave. One of the first earths to perish is Earth-3, home of the Crime Syndicate (evil Justice League.) Lex Luthor, hero of Earth-3, sends his son to a different universe so as not to be killed. His pod is found by the Monitor, and Alex is taken aboard the Monitor’s satellite. - The Monitor starts to summon various heroes and villains; he sends Harbinger to get them. Harbinger splits into multiple versions of herself to go to the various time periods/universes. One of the Harbingers comes under the control of the Anti-Monitor, unbeknownst to the other characters! - Various heroes are brought to the Monitor’s spaceship, but before the Monitor can explain anything, they are all attacked by stranger creatures known as Shadow Demons. This makes all of the heroes and villains a bit mistrustful of the Monitor. - Still, the Monitor tells them that the multiverse is in peril, and that he’s set up some machines (‘vibrational forks’, I believe is the technical term) to stop the destruction. He’s going to dispatch teams of heroes and villains to protect the machines (which are placed in different universes and time periods) and activate them when ready. - There’s a whole portion here of the various heroes going to each machine, and really, it’s just an excuse to get These Characters to hang out with These Other Characters, and visit all of the various earths/time periods DC has going on. (i.e. Old West, WWII, Kamandi future, etc.) Shadow Demons arrive and attack the machines. - Meanwhile! Evil Harbinger brings Psycho Pirate to the Anti-Monitor! Alexander Jr. rapidly ages from infant to adult! And the Monitor creates a new Dr. Light! - And thus it seems like all of the pieces are in place for the Monitor’s plan to save the multiverse...BUT! Evil Harbinger KILLS the Monitor! GASP. - It’s okay, though, because the Monitor totally saw this coming, and prepared accordingly; he brought Earths 1 and 2 into a kind of pocket dimension to save them from the anti-matter wave, but now there’s a NEW problem--the vibrational frequencies separating the earths are slowing down. Soon, the Earths will occupy the same space, and when that happens, they’ll be DESTROYED! - This slowing of vibrations manifests as not only the earths merging in certain spots, but also all of time collapsing on itself--dinosaurs and cavemen run into WWII pilots and Batman. - And it only gets crazier--Harbinger, no longer under the Anti-Monitor’s control, uses the last of her powers to bring Earth-4, Earth-X, and Earth-S into the pocket dimension. So now FIVE Earths are gonna potentially merge together. - Six representatives are called before Pariah, Alexander, and Lyla. Five of them are from the remaining five earths, and one from the now-dead Earth-6. A lot of exposition follows! - In short: Long ago, the multiverse was formed, and along with it, the ANTI-MATTER UNIVERSE. That dark universe in turn gave birth to the ANTI-MONITOR, who sought to conquer all! He was kept in check by the MONITOR, his positive-universe counterpart! And then, one day, Pariah opened a portal to the anti-matter universe which allowed the Anti-Monitor to grow strong enough to attempt to conquer the positive-matter universe. This also gave Pariah his powers--being drawn to the Anti-Monitor’s destruction--which the Monitor used as a way to kind of track him. - STILL WITH ME????? - So the plan is to take the fight to the Anti-Monitor, by using Pariah to lead the way to his ship, and using Alexander as a way to transport all the heroes there. (Because, you know, comic book science.) - So the heroes arrive on the Anti-Monitor’s ship! They fight creatures which appear to be made of living stone, while Superman and Dr. Light discover a machine that the Anti-Monitor is using to speed up the merging of the Earths. Anti-Monitor finds Superman and Dr. Light, and attacks them both. Supergirl hears the fight, and intervenes. She very nearly destroys the Anti-Monitor’s outer shell/armor, but is ultimately killed. The Anti-Monitor escapes, the heroes return from the anti-matter universe, and Earth-1 mourns Supergirl. - While the Anti-Monitor is healing, Psycho Pirate contemplates killing The Flash, who is still imprisoned in the anti-matter universe. The Flash escapes, and uses Psycho Pirate to turn the Anti-Monitor’s forces against him, inciting an uprising. As the Anti-Monitor’s warriors riot, Flash finds an anti-matter cannon. He destroys it, and is killed in the process. - The earths seem safe for the moment, however, Brainiac has been collecting all of the villains previously recruited by the Monitor. They attack and conquer Earths 4, X, and S, issuing an ultimatum to Earths 1 & 2 to surrender, or they’ll destroy the other three earths. -The heroes travel to the other three earths via the Flash’s cosmic treadmill-- operated by Wally West and Jay Garrick--and fight the villains stationed there. Both sides sustain losses, and only cease fighting when the Spectre intervenes! He tells them they all have to join forces in order to stop the greater threat of the Anti-Monitor, who plans to travel to the beginning of time and destroy all life. - The heroes and villains agree to work together; the heroes travel to the dawn of time to distract the Anti-Monitor, while the villains travel to the birth of the anti-matter universe and multiverse, which occurred billions of years after the dawn of time but billions of years before the present, when a proud Oan named Krona opened a gateway to the dawn of time. - (Yeah.) - The heroes are succeeding in distracting and weakening the Anti-Monitor, however the villains fail to stop Krona from opening the gateway. Just when all seems lost, the Spectre appears once more. Using the combined powers of the various earths’ mightiest magicians and sorcerers, he fights the Anti-Monitor, and seems to win, BUT IN SO DOING, prevents the formation of the multiverse! - (Two more issues to go, y’all.) - Kal-L of Earth-2 awakes the next morning, thinking the whole ordeal has been a dream. He goes to the Daily Star, only to discover that it’s not the Daily Star, but the Daily Planet! He’s not on Earth-2--He’s on Earth-1!!!! - Except, not quite. Earth-1 has been changed, and only those heroes present at the dawn of time for the fight with the Anti-Monitor seem to remember the Crisis, and know that something is amiss! - Kal-L is anxious to return home; he, along with Clark of Earth-1, go to Jay and Wally to use the cosmic treadmill to get back to Earth-2. When they do, however...they discover that Earth-2...IS NO MORE! - All the heroes gather together again, THIS time to try and determine what’s going on. They all realize that there’s only one earth, meaning that the residents of the other earths have had their lives erased! Harbinger appears, her powers returned to her in the rebirth of the universe, and explains further. The various histories of the different earths have merged; some heroes are remembered, like Power Girl, but others are forgotten, like Helena Wayne, and Kal-L. - If that’s not bad enough...THE ANTI-MONITOR RETURNS! The skies over the new singular earth go dark, and not just any dark! A complete and total darkness that causes a panic, and turns out to be...SHADOW DEMONS! - Harbinger gathers the heroes (again) to stop the Crisis and the Anti-Monitor (again) while the Shadow Demons run rampant around the globe. Those who are caught by the Shadow Demons are erased from existence! - Meanwhile, another group of heroes, separate from the ones fighting Shadow Demons and the ones with Harbinger, stumble upon Brainiac, who agrees to take them to someone who will be able to help with this Crisis business. - Namely, Darkseid. - Harbinger takes some heroes back to the anti-matter universe to face the Anti-Monitor, while the mystic-powered heroes concentrate on the Shadow Demon problem. Those heroes in the anti-matter universe discover Psycho Pirate--and the Flash’s costume and ring, finally learning of his heroic sacrifice. - They attack the Anti-Monitor (again) who appears to be defeated (again) and Alexander serves as a portal back to the positive matter universe (again). - BUT THEN...the Shadow Demons--which had been imprisoned by the mystical superheroes--are absorbed into the Anti-Monitor’s corpse! And he lives! AGAIN AGAIN. - Alexander can’t hold the portal open much longer, though; all the heroes need to get through, or be FOREVER TRAPPED IN THE ANTI-MATTER UNIVERSE! - (We’re getting close to the end, thank goodness) - Kal-L and Superboy (the sole survivor of Earth Prime) stay behind to fight the monitor, as they no longer have earths and loved ones to return to. They’re losing, but Darkseid has science on Apokolips that allows him to not only observe the battle via Alexander’s eyes, but also launch a (seemingly) fatal blow against the Anti-Monitor! - Darkseid sends the heroes away, their tenuous truce done for now. - And then it’s over! YAAAAY!!!! - Except it’s NOT. Because GUESS WHO’S BACK, NOT EVEN A PAGE AFTER HIS APPARENT DEATH? THAT’S RIGHT. ANTI. MONITOR. - Kal-L’s had enough of this, though. He punches the Anti-Monitor so hard that the guy explodes. - And then it’s over. - Kal-L, Superboy, Alexander, and Lois Lane of Earth-2 (who was saved from destruction by Alexander, kept in a kind of pocket realm) retreat to said pocket realm, happy to live out the rest of their existence in a kind of nebulous afterlife. - Harbinger records the entire account for posterity, and conveniently ties up some lose ends while dictating the story; heroes mourned the fallen, Wally West became the Flash, etc. etc. - Lyla, Pariah, and Lady Quark decide to explore the new, singular Earth, looking to the future, rather than dwelling on the past. - EPILOGUE: Psycho Pirate is in Arkham Asylum, ranting about Infinite Earths...Worlds that lived, and Worlds that died...

CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS--THE DEATH TOLL (PARTIAL): -Dove -Flash (Earth-1) -Kole -The Losers -Solovar -Nighthawk -Supergirl -Loir Lemaris -Aquagirl -Green Arrow -Huntress (Earth-2) -Robin (Earth-2) -Hawkman (Earth-2) -Rising Son -Wonder Woman (Earth-1)*

END NOTES: - In the interest of brevity, I’ve forgone mentioning which specific heroes go where, who fights who, and so on and so forth. If you’re really curious as to what, for instance, Halo’s up to during the Shadow Demon attack in issue #12, I recommend just reading the comic. It will probably be quicker. - I’ve done my best to specifically name the ‘main’ characters; characters that play a significant role within the story, or characters that have an ‘arc’. - Also in the interest of brevity! I’ve tried to simplify various concepts where possible; for instance, I refer to the Anti-Monitor’s base of operations ‘his ship’ when in actuality, it is three separate locations within the anti-matter universe; a fortress, a ship, and the planet Qward. (Qward is the anti-matter universe equivalent of Oa, which the Anti-Monitor conquered shortly after his creation.) As the specific location within the anti-matter universe is not terribly significant to the main plot, a generic term was used. - Like any comic crossover worth its salt, Crisis had lead-ups and tie-ins. There are characters and plots introduced in Crisis that show up briefly, and then are never mentioned again, presumably to be picked up or referenced in other titles. As this post is primarily concerned with the main crossover event, they’ve not been included. - The cosmic origins of various characters, universes, and anti-universes are perhaps only slightly less confusing and vague as the summaries in this post. - Lastly: I’d treat this a bit like a translation--it’s one person’s view of the important bits of a written work, and as such, the source is always going to be the best place to look if you want to accurately judge the plot, characters, etc. If you have the time and the means, I recommend checking it out. (If only for those INSANE George Perez group shots...my god, so many characters on any given page.)

[freedomartspress]

Three Poems — Tongo Eisen Martin

Kick Drum Only

All street life to a certain extent starts fair

Sometimes with a spiritual memory even

Predawn soul-clap/ your father dying even

Maybe I’ve pushed the city too far

My sensitivities to landfill districting and minstrel whistles/

White supremacist graffiti on westbound rail guards 

-all overcome and reauthored

The garbage is growing voices

Condensed Marxism 

modal gangsterism for a warrior-depressive

Underpass in my pocket

because I am a deity

or decent bid on the Panther name 

revolutionary violence that chose its own protagonists 

or muted stage of genius

A merciful Marxism        

Disquieted home life 

Or metaphor for relaxing next to a person 

Who is relaxing next to a gun

I stare at my father for a few seconds 

Then return to my upbringing

Return to the souls of Ohio Black folks

Revolution is damn near pagan at this point

You know what the clown wants? The respect of the ant. 

Wants a pen cap full of bullets

Wants to see their ancestors in broad daylight

I am not tired of these rooms; just tired of the world that give them a relativity 

My only change of clothes prosecuted

The government has finally learned how to write poems

shoot-outs that briefly align…

that make up a parable

white bodies are paid well, I posit

do white men actually even have leaders?

all white people are white men

white men will only ever be metaphors

all I do is practice, Lord

A rat pictures a river

Can almost taste the racial divide

Can almost roll a family member’s head into a city hall legislative chamber

Knows who in this good book will fly

I have decided not to talk out of anger ever again, Lord

Met my wife at the same time I met new audience members for our pain

We passed each other cigarettes and watched cops win

A city gone uniquely linear

Harlem of the West due a true universe 

 “I will always remember you in fancy clothes,” my wife said 

so here I sit… twisting in silk ideation

  My rifle made of tar

My targets made of an honest language

This San Francisco poetry is how God knows that it is me whining 

Writing among the lesser-respected wolves

Lesser-observed militarization

Dixie-less prison bookkeeping/I mean the California gray-coats are coming 

lynch mob gossip and bourgeois debt collection

I mean, it’s tempting to change professions mid-poem

in a Chicago briefing, a white sergeant saying, “blank slate for all of us after this Black organizer is dead.”

standard academics toasting two-buck wine at the tank parade

bay of nothing, Lord

  nuclear cobblestones, gunline athleticism  

and the last of the inherited asthma

children given white dolls to play with and fear

facial expressions borrowed from rich people’s shoe strings

I can hear hate

And teach hate

And call tools by people names

And name people dead to themselves

no one getting naturalized except federal agents soon 

carving the equator into throats soon

I’m sorry to make you relive all of this, Lord

pre-dawn monarchy 

friends putting up politician posters then snorting the remainder of the paste

minstrel scripts shoveled into the walls by their elders

my children sharpening quarters on the city’s edge

For these audiences

I project myself into a ghost like state

For these gangsters, I do the same

every now and then, we take a nervous look east

Sleep becomes Christ

Sleep starts growing a racial identity

do you ever spiral, Lord?

has the gang-age betrayed us?

be patient with my poems, Lord

So much pain

there is a point to crime… 

There has to be if race traitors come with it

 Lord, is that my revolver in your hand?

Better presidents than these have yawned at cages

Have called us holy slaves

Filled the school libraries with cop documentaries

Baby, I don’t have money for food

I have no present moment at all

/

I Do Not Know the Spelling of Money

I go to the railroad tracks

And follow them to the station of my enemies

A cobalt-toothed man pitches pennies at my mugshot negative

All over the united states, there are

Toddlers in the rock

I see why everyone out here got in the big cosmic basket

And why blood agreements mean a lot

And why I get shot back at

I understand the psycho-spiritual refusal to write white history or take the glass freeway

White skin tattooed on my right forearm 

Ricochet sewage near where I collapsed 

into a rat-infested manhood

My new existence as living graffiti 

In the kitchen with

a lot of gun cylinders to hack up

House of God in part

No cops in part

My body brings down the Christmas 

The new bullets pray over blankets made from old bullets

Pray over the 28th hour’s next beauty mark

Extrajudicial confederate statue restoration 

the waist band before the next protest poster 

By the way,

Time is not an illusion, your honor

I will return in a few whirlwinds

I will save your desk for last

You are witty, your honor

You’re moving money again, your honor

It is only raining one thing: non-white cops

And prison guard shadows 

Reminding me of

Spoiled milk floating on an oil spill

A neighborhood making a lot of fuss over its demise

A new lake for a Black Panther Party

Malcom X’s ballroom jacket slung over my son’s shoulders

Pharmacy doors mid-slide

         The figment of village

                     a noon noose to a new white preacher

Wiretaps in the discount kitchen tile

-All in an abstract painting of a president

Bought slavers some time, didn’t it?

The tantric screeches of military bolts and Election-Tuesday cars

A cold-blooded study in leg irons

Leg irons in tornado shelters

Leg irons inside your body

  Proof that some white people have actually fondled nooses

That sundown couples 

made their vows of love over   

opaque peach plastic

and bolt action audiences     

Man, the Medgar Evers-second is definitely my favorite law of science

Fondled news clippings and primitive Methodists 

My arm changes imperialisms 

Simple policing vs. Structural frenzies

Elementary school script vs. Even whiter white spectrums

Artless bleeding and

the challenge of watching civilians think

     “terrible rituals they have around the corner. They let their elders beg for public mercy…beg for settler polity”

“I am going to go ahead and sharpen these kids’ heads into arrows myself and see how much gravy spills out of family crests.”

Modern fans of war

    What with their t-shirt poems

    And t-shirt guilt

And me, having on the cheapest pair of shoes on the bus, 

I have no choice but to read the city walls for signs of my life

                                                                                     /

The Chicago Prairie Fire

First, I must apologize to the souls of the house

I am wearing the cheek bones of the mask only

Pill bottle, my name is yours

Name tagged on the side of a factory of wrists

Teeth of the mask now

Back of the head of the mask now 

        New phase of anti-anthropomorphism fending for real faces

Stuck with one of those cultures that believes I chose this family

I am not creative

Just the silliest of the revolutionaries

My blood drying on 

   my only jacket

just as God got playful

the police state’s psychic middlemen

Evangelizing for the creation of an un-masses 

An un-Medgar

Blood of a lamb less racialized

or awesome prison sentence

Good God

Elder-abuse hired for the low

dog eat genius

Right angle made between a point

On a Louisiana plantation

And 5-year old’s rubber ball 

3 feet high and falling

like a deportee plane 

to complete my interpretation 

(of garden variety genocide) 

I am small talk

about loving your enemies

A little more realistically

About paper tigers 

And also gold…

I need my left hand back 

I broke my neck on the piano keys

Found paradise in a fistfight

Maybe I should check into the Cuba line

Watching the universe’s last metronomes

some call Black Jacobins

Just wait…

These religions will start resigning in a decade or two

Some colorfully 

Some transactional-ly

In a cotton gothic society

Class betrayal gone glassless/ I mean ironically/ my window started fogging over too 

Wondering which Haiti will get me through this winter

Which poem houses souls

Which socialist breakthroughs

Breakthroughs like ten steps back

Then finally stillness

Stillness

Then stillness among families

a John Brown biography takes a bow

I’m up next to introduce Prosser to Monk

I remember childhood

Remember the word “Childhood” being a beginning 

Scribbling on an amazing grace 

I rented this body from some circumference of slavery

Remember being kicked out of the Midwest

Strange fruit theater

Lithium and circuses

Likeminded stomachs 

The ruling class blessing their blank checks with levy foam…

                            with opioid tea 

Sentient dollar bills yelling to each other pocket to pocket

Cello stands in the precinct for accompanying counterrevolutionaries 

My mother raised me with a simple pain

A poet loses his mind, you know, like the room has weather

Or first-girlfriend gravity

Police-knock gravity 

Mind-game gravity

Or revolution languishing behind 

The sugar in my good friend’s mind

“The difference between me and you

Is that the madness

Wants me forever”

A pair of apartments

Defining both my family

And political composure

Books behind my back

Bail money paved into the streets

Playing:

Euphoria

Euphoria

Cliché

Bracing for the medicine’s recoil

Sharing a dirty deli sandwich with my friends

Black Jacobins

Underground topography

Or grandmother’s hands

Psychology of the mask now

Teeth of the mask again

—

Originally from San Francisco, Tongo Eisen-Martin is a movement worker and educator who has organized against mass incarceration and extra-judicial killing of Black people throughout the United States. His latest curriculum on extrajudicial killing of Black people, We Charge Genocide Again, has been used as an educational and organizing tool throughout the country. His book of poems, Someone’s Dead Already was nominated for a California Book Award.

[lesbianmonsterlover]

Female Orc x Plus Sized Female Reader (plot-driven NSFW)

Humans and Houses is the magic universe analog of Dungeons and Dragons.  This little group of orcs wintering at an outpost on the border of their lands has been playing since they were in the academy together, what happens when they manage to summon a human by mistake in a world where humans don’t exist except for in stories?

This is a long, long story with some NSFW to it.  This is 100% self indulgent romance and comedy borderline crackfic.

“I would like to roll to see if I can guess the password on the device, this comp-tar is no match for my tech prowess!”  Balzol looked over at Rokal, who considered and then nodded. The clattering of bone dice followed.  “19” he grinned, tusks flashing, and Rokal chuckled.

“You find a scrap of paper posted on the side of the desk, it has some letters and numbers written on it, trying that you’re pleased to see it works giving you access to the information contained within.”  Balzol looks pleased with himself, and the rest of the group at the table cheers him on.  

Rokal had been running this group of Humans and Houses for a few years now with other orcs in her barracks at the stronghold, although this would be the third crop of characters, this new workplace setting was proving very interesting, much more intrigue and political backstabbing.  They were running the university setting, at the request of Shokk, and having quite a good time doing it.  

She waits for the noise to die down before moving on, consulting her notes and the new DM guide for this expansion.  “You open up a document labeled ‘Second Semester Lesson Plan’ hoping to find some information that would allow you to outdo Jamison at the meeting coming up at the end of the week with the department.  You find some class information but, moving further down the document, it seems as though it devolves into a recipe for a human love potion and a desire for a particular librarian at the university to notice him-” Rokal snorts in amusement, and writes out the recipe for the potion before giving it to the team.

Shokk scoffed, the healer of their group who had been trained in magic.  “That wouldn’t even work!  Stupid humans, love potions aren’t real, just mind control.  Besides that this ritual wouldn’t even do anything, look.”  The ingredients listed were common, and within a few minutes the laughing group is crowded around a small earthen bowl over a candle flame, dropping in the oils and herbs, Shokk gestured to Rokal.  “You, oh fearless leader, should do the honors.”  Rokal snorted in amusement and shoved the smaller Orc before standing over the pot and drawing in chalk the symbols pictured in the book.  

Grabbing up the dried flower she grinds it between thick fingers into the pot, slowly chanting “by rose, by myrrh, by candlelight, my love will come to me tonight.”  Repeating the chant again she sprinkles in the myrrh, and at the third repetition she carefully takes the beeswax candle and ignites the contents of the pot.  The smoke is fragrant and heady, but nothing happens, making the Orcs break out in laughter anew until a bright flash of light is accompanied by a snap that sounds like a cracking whip, and when the light fades there’s a small body on the floor.

You, meanwhile, had graduated with your librarianship degree and were beyond thankful that you had been offered employment within the university post-graduation.  It wasn’t a high paying job, but the cost of living in the area of the university was fairly low, and the benefits were nothing to stick your nose up at.  The only thing was the crippling loneliness.  Being gay in a small town is never quite fun, even one as progressive as the little town your university was located in.  The majority of other women passing through who might be interested were undergraduates, far too young for you, and the gay scene in this place was so incestuous you couldn’t date after breaking up with your latest girlfriend.  

Sighing you tapped languidly at the computer keyboard in front of you, debating whether to get up from the circulation desk for another coffee.  With a shake of your head you pull out your knitting instead, finding the repetition of stitches comforting and distracting from the pull of the coffee machine at least until it’s actually your break time.  You vaguely register the smell of roses and smoke before it feels like you’re sucked through a straw, twisted inside out, and then dumped unceremoniously onto a roughly hewn wooden floor, your bag skittering to a stop at the boot-clad feet of a stranger.  

With a whimper you push yourself up some, blinking against the dizziness.  As you come to your senses you look around, this looks like no place on campus you’ve ever been before.  Large wooden bunks line one long wall of the room, with a large fire on the opposite wall in a stone hearth.  You just begin to register voices, but they’re speaking a language you’ve never heard before, something rough sounding almost like german maybe?  But it definitely wasn’t.  Looking up the legs of the person in front of you you’re surprised to find green, maybe stockings?  A leather skirt, interesting choice, with a skull belt?  Very hot, and those abs, leading up to small muscular breasts and broad shoulders.  The green skin was interesting, leading up to the face of what looks like an orc, if your nights of Warcraft as a teen taught you anything, and it’s at that point you promptly pass out.

Rokal gapes at the form on the floor as they collapse back down again.  What in the actual hells just happened?!  Shokk thankfully had more of his wits about him, crouching beside the figure and rolling them onto their back, their soft face slack in sleep.  Rokal actually thinks you’re quite pretty, you look so soft and gentle compared to the warriors she has spent her years around.  Bending down she picks up the bag that came to a stop at her boots, smiling a little tenderly at the knitting project she finds attached to the ball of yarn inside it.  You reminded her briefly of her mother, she couldn’t deny feeling that kind of comfortable warmth inside her at the sight of you.  It was somehow different though, spicier.  She shook her head, gathering up the knitting and carefully placing it behind her GM screen on the table.

“She’s got round ears…” Shokk is mumbling to himself as he checks the girl over, eyes wide and hands shaking.  “Rok, she has round ears, she isn’t an elf, or a dwarf, or a goblin, there’s no fae magic here, no disguises or tricks.  Rok...Rok I don’t think she’s supposed to be here.”  His voice is a frantic and thin whisper by the end, and Rokal has dropped to her knees beside the healer to try and calm him down.  Her hands are on his shoulders as she looks into his eyes, making him breathe with her.

“Shokk, Shokk you need to relax, we’ll figure this out…”  Rokal looks down at you.  To her eyes, your clothing is strange, and with a cautious glance over at the table she is coming to a sinking conclusion that you look strikingly like the characters printed on her screen.  A human...you look like a human.  Now she’s the one trying to keep it together, at least visibly more poised than Shokk was.  “What the fuck…”  She picks you up off of the floor, cradling you against her chest and trying not to focus on the way your soft body molded against hers.  She brought you to her own bunk, laying you on the sheets and tugging up the wool blanket that had been crumpled at the foot of the mattress.  She strokes your cheek with one knuckle, staring down at you with intense searching eyes.  

You stir at the stroking of your cheek, pressing up on your palms you blink your eyes open blearily.  Rokal drops her hand, stepping back as you tilt your head cutely, looking confused as a newborn kitten.  “What the fuck.  What the fuck, did someone drug my fucking coffee?”  You lean forward heavily and stare at your hands before you stare up at the group of what look like FUCKING ORCS standing around a table laughing at your outburst.  When a throat clears beside you your head whips around to come face to abs with a tall, muscular orc woman.  Or you assumed she was a woman, considering the binder over her chest that the others were lacking.  “Oh holy shit, I’m definitely hallucinating, there’s no way anything but my imagination could make such a gorgeous woman.  Christ, I need to get laid.”  The group of orcs in the background laughs louder, yelling something out in that rough language you heard earlier before Rokal makes what you assume is a rude gesture in their culture and their laughing crescendos but they stop the comments.  

Rokal is dark with embarrassment, thankful that it seems like you cannot understand their language although she’s sure you’re smart enough to figure out in context they were quite crass.  She’s also thankful you seem to speak common so at least she can communicate, although your accent is odd and some of your words are...confusing.  “Hello there, little one…”  you blush darkly and give her a halfhearted scowl, offering up your name which makes her smile soften.  You look like an angry kitten, it’s too cute.  She repeats her greeting with your name this time, and you smile.  “My name is Rokal, you are in Ecrad at our outpost at the Western border with the nation of Othar.  Tell me, where are you from?”

You look confused, you supposed your brain was an odd thing inventing all of this out of thin air.  You never thought of yourself as much of a prose writer, but perhaps being surrounded by books for the last several years had rubbed off on you even a little bit through osmosis.  You try to explain to Rokal where you’re from, but she only gives you a blank and confused look when you name your home city.  You grab your bag and are thankful you keep your small wallet with ID and a bit of cash in alongside your knitting, knowing that you never leave without it.  With shaky hands you pass over the leather fold, and it looks tiny in her grip as she carefully examines it.  “You are...human?”  She sounds wondering, a tremor in her voice that is either fearful or hopeful, maybe even reverential?  When you nod and give her a look as if to say ‘what else would I be?’ she shakes her head, looking at you wide eyed as she drops your ID.  “Not possible.  You aren’t real, you aren’t supposed to exist.”  She reaches out with an outstretched finger and pokes the soft flesh of your upper arm, as if to make sure you are in fact corporeal.  She looks over at the group of orcs helplessly before looking back at you with the same huge puppy-dog eyes in a startling shade of pure onyx.

You want to reach out to comfort her, but before you can make a move she turns and slumps onto the edge of the bed, sitting heavily next to you.  The weight of her dips the bed and makes you slide until you’re pressed up against her back.  You can’t move though, it seems as though the mattress has swallowed you whole and you’re just stuck between the soft feather bed and her broad strong back.  It would be comforting if it wasn’t so embarrassing.  

Rokal rests her elbows on her thighs, rubbing her palms over her face before raking her hands through her mohawk.  A human, a real human, warm blood and flesh pressed up against her back right now, and existing in this universe.  What the fuck were they supposed to do about this?!  Rokal couldn’t very well get her home, and even Shokk with his knowledge of magic would be no use, as he focused on healing and strengthening their unit.  It would be weeks or months until the passes would be clear from winter, they were stuck on the winter rotation on the border this year, snowed in just the group of them making sure that the border was secure until another crew would come to to relieve them in spring.  Some weeks the weather was clear enough to allow them to trudge to the small village a little over a mile away to stock up on some supplies and even leisure items, like their Humans and Houses game, but there was no one there with a deep enough knowledge of the magical arts to help get this human back to wherever they are from.  

The border was secure, peace had been struck between Ecrad and Othar over a century ago and the only things they caught were the occasional animal wandering through the wood without any care for the borders of lands, and the occasional patrol from Othar passing by to share gossip and news.  So the border was secure but that still doesn’t explain how the fuck there is a cute soft human lying in her bunk, emphasis on human.  The boys gathered around sitting across from her on Shokk’s similarly unmade bed or pulling up chairs from the table.  Gurukk, another of the orcs in her company, chuckled, his grey-green skin looking strangely pallid.  “Well this is a fucking mess.”  His voice is a low grumble, but at least he speaks in common, following in Rokal’s lead.  “We’re stuck here until spring, and the first snow was only last week…”  He voices the internal struggle Rokal was having, and Shokk chimes in.

“I have no idea how she even got here, let alone how to get her back.  It will be months until the mountain passes are clear enough to get her to Mama Rena, and she’s the only one who could do anything to help I think.”  Shokk spoke often of his mentor, a stern half orc half elf he called Mama Rena who lived on the outskirts of the settlement he grew up in.  She was brilliant with magic, naturally talented in a way that is impossible to teach or train.  She was not one to take students, but Shokk couldn’t seem to get rid of her, even before he decided he wanted to study healing magic the strange old woman would simply force her presence on him.  Especially infuriating was the fact that his parents encouraged her behavior, knowing the honor for what it was.  

You struggled, flailing slightly and feeling for all intents and purposes like a child while surrounded by this group of giants.  Finally though you managed to right yourself, scooting up to the side of the mattress and sitting next to Rokal, looking out at this group of orcs.  Everyone introduced themselves, the one who couldn’t speak common introduced by other members of the company.  You still found your eyes constantly drawn to Rokal though, it’s as if someone took your ideal of a woman and made it big and green with tusks (all of which was a bonus, if anyone wanted to ask you).  Tall and broad, sitting next to each other the top of your head only just reached the bottom of her chest binder, with thick muscular arms and a firm stomach, small muscular breasts, and thighs that could crush your head if she let you between them.  You wanted to worship every inch of her mossy skin, watch this beautiful creature come undone for you, and then maybe selfishly get pinned down and absolutely ravished by her in return.  You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice you’ve begun openly staring at the orc woman, only drawn out of it when Gurukk says something to Rokal in Orcish with a teasing tone that makes her cheeks darken and she bares her tusks and growls in his direction.  It would be intimidating to be on the receiving end of that, you’re sure, but Gurukk just laughs and turns his face to you with a soft smile, or at least as soft a smile as an orc mouth can manage with tusks as large as his.  

“You are welcome here, tiny human, we will keep you safe until we can return you to your world.  Tell us, what is human society really like?  Is there really no magic?  Are there no other races in your world?”  The five orcs are looking at you with wide, sparkling eyes as though they’re sitting for story time like the kids from your internship at the children’s library.  It makes you laugh, and the orcs look surprised at how gentle the sound is compared to their own.  It isn’t as bell-like as an elf or as bellyful as an orc, it’s sweet though and they’re all a little enamored by it, especially Rokal as she stares down at you with some wonderment.

“Well, no, there’s no magic where I come from.  At least, I would have said that until I wound up here somehow.  I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t a drug-induced hallucination.”  You giggle, and a few of the orcs snort out a laugh.  “Magic is kind of a concept where I’m from, but we consider it a myth.  It’s a story you tell children, but no one in my world is capable of using or acting on it, and even if they are they’re laughed at and derided as charlatans.”  Shokk looks aghast, like he can’t even fathom a world where that was a possibility let alone a reality.  

“But...but anyone can learn magic if they practice hard enough!”  Shokk speaks up, trying to impress this upon you.  “Seriously!  Some are more adept than others, but literally anyone can learn basic conjuration at the very least.”  He looks confused, and you suppose for a moment that it’s like telling someone that where you come from nobody has ever heard of or is capable of performing some other basic fundamental like math or reading.  Yes some people have more difficulty than others, and never progress past a basic understanding or cannot do it because of neurotyping or lack of exposure to education, but to believe that it is fake?  You’d never be able to wrap your mind around that.  You’re forced to shake your head no, looking at him a little sheepishly.

“No, no magic I’m afraid.  At least not that we can access in any meaningful way.  I wonder if it’s something that humans are incapable of, or if it’s just that the world where I come from has no magic or weak magic…”  You trail off, contemplating for a moment before Balzol snaps you out of it, asking again if there are no other races where you come from that might access magic. “No, our definition of race in my world revolves around skin tone.  We are all humans, but we organize based on how dark or pale our skin is, and for a long time we have fought one another based on whose skin tone is superior.  Many like to say we’re past that now, and that equality has been achieved, but that is just not true.  One subset of the populace is imprisoned at such a significantly higher rate because of systemic oppression and lack of opportunity, but many people in charge simply say it’s because their race makes them more violent or prone to crime.  It’s depressing.”  You feel a little embarrassed about the rant you’ve gone on, but the orcs looks offended on your behalf as well.  

“Orcs are used to such treatment as well, it is why we have isolated ourselves for so long, because other races like to believe that we are more violent and savage simply because we are good warriors.  We are treated as if we are stupid just because we are big and strong, and outside of our strongholds and settlements there are many paths barred to orcs because of other prejudiced beings.  We promise little human not to underestimate you, or treat you as lesser simply because you are so cute and tiny.”  Balzol has done what he set out to do and made you laugh and smile at the last sentence, bringing a smile back to your face instead of the grimace you were wearing discussing your world’s culture.  You shake your head giggling.

“Maybe compared to you lot!  Back home though, I’m considered quite big.”  You gesture at your belly and chubby thighs, kicking out your legs a bit.  “It would be more difficult if I were trying to date men I think, other queer women tend to be more forgiving of different body types.”  You shrug and then notice the stare that Rokal has fixed you with, blushing a little self consciously.  You’re so used to being proudly out in your world that you didn’t even stop to consider whether or not same sex relationships were acceptable in this one.  You couldn’t be sure if orcish society here was the same as it was in the fiction of your universe, open and accepting of those who were true to their emotions and experiences, unabashedly themselves.  “Are those sorts of relationships not acceptable in your world?”  You glance out shyly at the rest of the orcs and find them fixing you with silly grins.  

“Oh, no, not at all, you are attracted to who you are attracted to, there is no shame in loving anyone.”  Balzol smiles wider, and you think an outsider would find you absolutely insane for not being intimidated by his huge tusks and glinting piercings, but you think he looks like a big overexcited puppy.  “You know, our Rokal is the same as you...many find her too big for an orc female.  It makes her quite good at what she has chosen to do though, there is no shame in living in your body.”  Rokal glances down at you a little sheepishly to find you beaming up at her, your little face tilted up and filled with open affection.  

You stare at each other for a moment, and you take in the scars on her face, one bisecting her left eyebrow and a thick one that just pulls the right corner of her mouth down going from her cheek down to her chin.  She’s missing a chunk of one ear, it looks like a bite was taken out of it, and on either side of the wound she’s placed a shiny silver cuff.  Her other ear is studded with piercings of silver and bone from the lobe all the way up to the pointed tip, a few of them dangling and clinking together when she moved.  Her hair is in a mohawk, braided to the scalp and then loose down her back, keeping the hair out of her face but leaving room for traditional beads and feathers marking her achievements.  She has intricately embellished rings around each tusk, and you think you noticed the glint of a stud through her tongue.

The two of you are blatantly eye-fucking each other, and you forget for a second that there are others there with you as you take in this huge, beautiful woman.  Your mouth runs away from you, “I don’t think you’re too big, I think you’re gorgeous.”  Your face burns as you suddenly remember that there are other people there when one of them snorts.  You desperately wish you could shove the words back in your throat but sadly that isn’t possible.  Rokal smirks at you though, seemingly unphased by your embarrassment.  

“Well I can say the same of you, little one.”  She almost purrs at you, and you forget how to breathe.  She’s flirting.  With you.  She’s flirting with you.  Oh god what do you do?  So you opt to stare up at her, blushing and with slightly parted lips, and she laughs deeply.  One of her thick arms snakes around your waist, her big hand sitting on your hip and squeezing slightly as she turns back to the rest of the orcs.  “So you keep your grubby hands off, she isn’t interested in brutes like you.”

“Yeah, she’s interested in brutes like you!”  Gurukk’s retort makes you giggle and lean into Rokal’s side, turning your head slightly to hide your blush.  He isn’t wrong, after all.  She laughs as well, bright and happy and loud, pulling you closer so your soft thigh is pressed right up against her muscular one.  

“And don’t you forget it!”  Rokal’s grin is happy, and it’s nice to see her comfortable and less worried.  She looks in her element, and it makes you swoon a little more.  This confident, brash orc woman was juuuust your type.  “Now, little one, would you like to watch us play our game?  We were playing Houses and Humans when we managed to summon you here, I’d like to know what you think of it.”  Her smile is no less big, but seems gentler when she looks down at you.  You nod wordlessly and her smile turns to a smirk as she thumbs your chin affectionately.  “Well I am afraid we only have enough chairs for our group, so you’ll have to sit on my lap...unless you’d rather sit with one of the boys.”  Your blush returns tenfold, but you smile up at her just a little shyly and shuffle even closer.

Rokal laughs and lifts you up from beside her before standing in one fluid motion.  You giggle and cling to her, your arms doing their best to wrap around her broad shoulders and neck.  When she settles back down at the table behind her screen you’re struck by how much this looks like a game of Dungeons and Dragons, and you comment on it.  You explain D&D, and they laugh, admitting that it does in fact sound similar.  You pretend to be magic beings, strong warriors, and cunning rogues, but they live in a world where that is their daily existence so they pretend to be mundane, living in a world where they have to get by on just their cunning, intelligence, and smarts - street or book.

She hands you back your bag of knitting, and you’re thankful to have not dropped any stitches by your count while the rest of the crew get settled back at their spots, refilling mugs of mead and bringing out dried meat and cheese.  Rokal feeds you from her portion, making sure that you have had your fill before eating the rest, her rations are plenty big to feed her tiny little human without depriving herself of nutrients she assured you, and you couldn’t help the way your heart stuttered when she called you hers.  

You watch their game curiously while knitting, curled up in Rokal’s lap feeling warm and happy.  You eventually fall asleep curled up against her stomach, the soothing rhythm of her breath and the occasional rumble of her laugh lulling you into darkness.  You are asleep when your arm wraps possessively around her waist while your head nuzzles into the tender skin just beneath her binder.  She stills, freezing and looking down at you.  The boys roar into laughter briefly before she shushes them with a bare of her teeth while gesturing down at you.  They don’t quiet down too much, but keep it to a dull rumble instead of an all out riot.  One of her hands pets through your hair, smiling gently as you bury your head further into her.  This is what she had been missing, what she has needed her whole life.  Someone to protect and care for, someone open and loving who will cherish her as much as she cherishes them.  This little human was a surprise, but certainly a welcome one.  Even if she only got to be with you for a short time, she would cherish and make the most of it.  

It is late into the night when they finally stop.  The blizzard raging outside means that they will not be patrolling until the weather lets up some.  Rokal stands and cradles you in her arms, smiling at the way your face pushes against her neck, searching for her scent and warmth.  You seem in tune with your nature, something orcs valued, and your nature seemed very in tune with her own.  Without too much thought she sits on her bed, laying you out underneath her sheets and blanket before sliding in next to you.  She can’t help the happy sigh she lets out when you curl into her side as if looking for her, one of your thick thighs slung over her leg.  Her fingers card through your hair, sending up a thankful prayer to whatever forces brought you here.

You wake in the middle of the night to something caressing your ample breast and teasing over your puckering nipple.  With a soft whimper you buck against whatever is between your thighs that feels so hot and firm.  Your memories flood back to you, waking up in a world with orcs, and when you realize you’re definitely not hallucinating this time you still.  Glancing up you can see that Rokal is asleep, one of her arms keeping you tucked firmly against her side where your full length is cuddled up along her torso, her other arm slung across her stomach and her hand unconsciously fondling your breast.  

You gasp when her clever fingers pinch your nipple, moving your hips against her thigh again to press your panty-covered mound against her muscles.  She shifts in her sleep, dragging you further up her body as her grip tightens, your core now pressed right into the thick protrusion of her hip bone.  Rokal seems to stir at the heat of you against her, and the softness of your breasts dragging over her flesh.  She squeezes slightly, making you squeak as it digs your crotch deeper into her hip.  Her hips buck in return, the hand on your breast groping as she moans lightly, waking from sleep slowly.  Her bright eyes lock with yours as you gaze up at her, pupils already blown with lust from her unconscious stimulation.  She smiles down at you, sultry and predatory, her movements becoming conscious as she grinds up against your obvious arousal, feeling the soft flesh of your labia press enticingly against her hard hip bone.  You bite your lower lip firmly, trying to keep the whimper in your throat from escaping and failing.  She chuckles.  “Don’t worry little one, they sleep like the dead, and besides, there is no shame in bringing pleasure to your lover.”  Her hands move down to your hips, dragging you to straddle her abs.  

Rokal smiles down the length of her body as she strips off your dress to reveal your bra and panties.  Her hands squeeze the flesh of your belly and migrate up to grope your breasts.  She tries to remove the garment and you giggle at her attempts to pull it off of you before you reach behind yourself and undo it for her.  It’s her turn to gape at you as she sees your breasts for the first time.  You’d usually be self conscious of their sag, and your stretch marks, but she looks at you with such wonder, her hand trembling slightly as she reaches up to caress one gently with her calloused and scarred fingers.  She hauls you further up her body as she pulls your face down to hers.  Your first kiss is heated and passionate, but with an underlying sweet loving wonderment, as if she’s pouring everything she’s felt from the moment she saw you until now into this kiss.  Her tusks press firmly against your chubby cheeks but don’t poke you at all, you let out a pleased sigh when her tongue slips out from between her lips to push between your own.  You were right, she does have a tongue piercing, and when you playfully tug on it with your teeth she growls at you and presses your hips down harder against the hard plane of her abs.  

She swallows your whimper, instead moving your hips and flexing her muscles to slowly stimulate your clit.  She gives a husky chuckle when your panties begin to soak through, sticking to your flesh and leaving a trail of your essence shining her skin like an emerald in the dim light of the banked fire.  You let out a surprised squeal when she moves you up her body again like it’s nothing, straddling your plush thighs around her head while she hooks one tusk through your panties, shredding them away and off your body to flutter onto her chest.  She’s panting, chest heaving, as she stares awed at your flesh, the curly hair of your mound glistening with your arousal, lips slightly parted to reveal deep pink flesh within.  “You’re so beautiful, my love.”  The endearment rolls off her tongue so effortlessly, and sounds so right, you can’t correct her.  You think you love her too.  Her calloused hands smooth up the inside of your soft thighs, gripping up at the top of your thighs and using her thumbs to spread the outer labia of your sex.  Your whimper of ‘Rokal’ just makes her give a sultry laugh.  “Don’t worry, little one, I’ve got you.”

Your hand clamps over your mouth at the first contact her tongue makes with your flesh, despite her assurances that the others slept like the dead you really didn’t want them to see you like this, pinned against the face of your lover.  The desperate moan she gives you sizzles along your nerves frying your brain.  Her tusks are warm and firm pressed against the inside of your labia, and you find yourself marveling for a moment how they hold you open for her as her hands stroke up to grasp your ass, kneading and pulling you firmly against her mouth.  Her tongue pushes up into you as her broad flat nose nudges against your clit.  You whimper, thighs twitching in pleasure as she presses and angles her tongue just right to push the stud through her tongue on your g-spot.  You whimper her name again and she chuckles huskily before pulling away and licking her lips.  “You taste so sweet, is this all for me?”  Your shy whimper is enough of an answer and she chuckles again.  “I wonder what kind of noises I can get you to make…”

Rokal sits up some, taking you with her.  You’re flipped upside down, your head and upper back resting on her stomach as her legs are held out in front of her.  Your legs are folded back, knees close to your shoulders as she pushes your thighs up, pinning you open completely for her and making it so you can’t move.  She hold you in that position with one arm, and you’ve never felt more helpless or turned on.  “R-Rokal…”  You whimper, you don’t know what you’re asking for but she gives you a comforting pat on the rear.  

“Shhh little one, Rok’s got you, don’t worry…”  You gasp as her free hand firmly smooths up your ass and the back of your thigh, thumb pulling at the lips of your sex again.  She parts you with her middle and forefinger, exposing you to her intense gaze.  She chuckles, leaning down to lick a stripe from your asshole up to your clit, making you choke out a whimper.  She probes her thick middle finger against your hole, circling teasingly with the rough pad of her fingertip before plunging all the way inside you.  The needy moan you let out makes her chuckle, and the only movement from the others is a louder snore from one before it evens out again.  

“I liked that one.”  She draws your attention back to her, slowly pistoning her middle finger in and out of you.  With her eyes locked with yours she presses a second finger into you, crooking them slightly and moving faster.  You let out another moan, raising in pitch as her fingers find that spot inside you that makes your inner thighs twitch.  Her chuckle is raspier, voice thick with arousal, you wish you could squirm but all you can do is curl your toes and grip your hands into fists.  “Such a good girl for me, so good, you can take one more yeah?”  You don’t think you can, but you don’t want to disappoint Rokal, so you nod a little and whimper as she slowly fits a third thick finger inside you.  

It only takes a minute for you to be a drooling, whimpering mess pinned into submission by this giant muscular goddess while three of her impossibly thick fingers piston themselves in and out of your weeping pussy.  The choked gasp that precedes your orgasm is a noise you don’t think you’ve ever made before, Rokal just smirks at you knowingly moving even just a little faster and deeper as you begin to spasm around her.  You let out a wail of pleasure, and she coos your name affectionately as she starts to slow, working you through the last of your orgasm and wringing every drop of pleasure she possibly could from you.  

Rokal releases you, arranging you over her lap with your head against her chest again, dropping kisses all along your hair and face, murmuring affectionate praises of you as you wither against her, spent with pleasure.  Your arms are still slightly shaking with effort as you wrap them around her waist, burrowing into her heat.  You want to return the favor, but you aren’t sure you can even keep your eyes open.  It isn’t even a minute after that when you fall asleep again, making Rokal chuckle affectionately and kiss the crown of your head.  Perhaps over the coming months she could convince you to stay…

Waking the next morning is a much less sensual affair, although you are embarrassed by your nudity at the very least you’re beneath a wool blanket and no one else has to know.  Rokal’s hand skates affectionately up her back, the scratch of her callouses a pleasant contrast against your soft skin.  “Good morning my love.”  The endearment falls from your lips unthinkingly, and when you move to blush and turn away Rokal stills you with a hand on your cheek and beams down at you before kissing you fully on the lips.  This kiss is less passionate than last night’s, but no less warm and loving.  The wolf whistle beside you makes her lift her hand in a rude gesture and pull back slightly, growling something in Orcish.  

While you didn’t love not understanding what she was saying, you’d be lying if you said hearing her speak that the guttural language didn’t turn you on a little bit. She gives you another chaste kiss before crawling out of bed, thankfully distracting the others for long enough that you can put on your bra and the tunic she’s lent you, that’s more like a dress on you.  It at least comes down to your knees, and though it hangs bare off one shoulder due to the wide neck, it’s warm and smells like Rokal.  

The day passes lazily, with some food and cards, exchanging stories, and Shokk showing off some basic conjuring used to impress young children.  The others find it funny that you’re so enthralled, but Rokal just uses her limited knowledge of magic to produce you a pretty flower and the way you giggle and blush up at her makes her thankful that this doesn’t exist in your world.  This is something she can give you that no one else can, at least no one from your universe.  Perhaps it can be a reason to stay.  

It’s three weeks of isolation in the cabin before the blizzard has stopped and the weather cleared enough that the party can patrol.  You’re left on your own for the first time since you got here, and find yourself lonely without Rokal.  And the others, you hastily tack on, Rokal and the others.  But you know you’re lying to yourself.  You love that big gruff orc, her cute smiles, the way her cheeks turn a dark emerald when she blushes, those lingering sultry looks, her goofy laugh, the way she tells stories, you could make a list for days.  But This wasn’t your world, and you knew it would be too much to hope that she might want you to stay once winter was over and they headed back to their stronghold after finishing their tour.  

You’ve managed to work yourself up into quite a tizzy when the door to the large cabin slams open and Rokal comes in calling out your name in a sing-song lilt.  You’re confused to find her alone, and give her a puzzled look as she sweeps in to pull you up into a full kiss, one hand under your thighs holding you up while the other cups your cheek lovingly.  You melt into her, relaxing under her careful ministrations.  She pulls back and smiles at you, full of open affection.  “I have something I must ask you, little one, and something I must tell you.”  She places you down and cages your face between both of her large hands.  You’d be worried if her smile wasn’t so bright and her eyes so full of obvious warmth.  “I love you, I have since you landed on the floor of this cabin, and I would like for you to be my mate.  I will protect you, provide for you, I will love you for the rest of our days together.  Will you stay?”

Rokal is worried momentarily at the tears in your eyes, but when you launch yourself at her, sniffling and murmuring yes over and over again, she laughs heartily and scoops you up, spinning you in a circle.  “Does that mean you’re my wife?”  You giggle up at her, placing your own hands on either of her cheeks, smiling up with sparkling tear-filled eyes.  She nods, giving you a roguish grin.  

“Although, my little mate, we have to make it official…”  The hungry look she’s giving you fills you with need and you’re looking forward to finally being able to touch her as she has you.  Every time you’ve tried she’s told you that your noises are cute and small, but hers are too loud for shared quarters.  You’d pout up at her, trying to argue, but you weren’t about to do something she didn’t want and so you let it be.  “The boys are all going to spend the night in the village at the tavern, I told them I planned to propose.”  She’s got an excited grin on her face but she’s a bit embarrassed.  You’re touched by her care, and the fact that she wanted you to be someplace you felt comfortable instead of simply whisking the two of you to the village and letting them all sleep in their usual bunks.

You’re brought out of your thoughts by Rokal’s hands trailing up your thighs and pushing underneath the tunic of hers you’d thrown on today.  You’d asked her once why she had them if she never wore them, and she just laughed at you saying they’re to go under her armor when she goes out on patrol or to battle, more to protect her armor from her skin than to protect her skin from the armor.  Her hands make quick work of the garment, leaving you bare before her.  She groans happily and kneels in front of you reverently, her face in line with your chest as you stand.  She nuzzles her face into your breasts, hands pressing into the soft flesh of your stomach, and you giggle.  “Rokal, my love, will you let me touch you?”  You tilt her face up towards you with your little hands, staring down at her with such love and devotion.  

Her answering smile is filled with heat and she turns to kiss your palm before standing before you.  Stepping back slightly she pulls off her leather armor, leaving her in tight leggings and a loose tunic that looks just like the one she pulled off of you.  The tunic comes off and you can see her usual leather bindings, the small loincloth when she tugs off her leggings though is a surprise, and you can’t help but admire the way it lays over the jut of her hip bones, the flat of her pubic bone leading up to her abs, you were going to be married to a literal goddess.  She wants to tease you, but instead of words Rokal simply untucks the end of her chest bindings and lets the leather unravel onto the floor.

Her breasts are small and pert atop muscular pecs, still soft and feminine but they fit the rest of her figure.  Her nipples are a dark green and puckered enticingly, begging for your lips, and who are you to deny them?  Without preamble you step forwards, placing a kiss to the center of her chest before trailing your soft lips over to one breast.  You take her nipple between your lips, sucking gently and teasing it with your tongue, and she lets out a low rumbling moan of your name.  Her fingers tangle in your hair, tugging you closer to her breast.  You moan against her flesh in answer, sucking on her nipple slightly more firmly and lashing across it with your clever little tongue.  You move to take the other in your mouth, lifting a hand to tease and caress the nipple you just released.  The words leaving her lips are in Orcish but they sound like pleas and praises to your ears, walking her back to the table you push her slightly until she’s sitting on the edge, long muscular legs splayed in front of her while she leans back onto her palms.

She grins wickedly at your open stare, flexing and posing for you as you ogle.  “Do you see something you like, little mate?”  You bite your lower lip, nodding as you walk up to her.  You kiss down the center of her chest and down her abs, your hands massaging and caressing up the inside of firm thighs before your head and hands meet between her legs.  You undo her loincloth without trouble, revealing the puffy outer labia of her emerald green sex, covered in thick dark hair glistening with drops of her arousal.  You dive in like a woman starved, and the triumphant yell she lets out is definite proof of why she hadn’t let you do this sooner.  

You find her clit, larger than you’re used to but it simply gives you more to work with.  Your lips close over it softly as you gently press against it with your tongue, but the way Rokal’s fingers tighten in your hair and she growls at you tell you to go harder.  You up the suction of your mouth, slowly increasing until you reach a point where she starts rutting her hips against your face.  You lash your tongue over the head of her clit, using first two and then three fingers to push into her.  “More!”  Her cry is wanton, just audible above the grunts and moans she keeps letting out as she fucks her clit into your mouth.  You press in a fourth finger and she glares down at you “I said more, mate.”  You angle your thumb to slide in as well and begin pumping in and out to the wrist.  She let out a long, loud groan of approval as you fist her, continuing to rut her clit into your suctioning mouth against your lapping tongue.  

It only takes a moment of all of this stimulation for her to release all over your face, squirting so much that it soaks your arm and down your front.  You don’t stop, milking her orgasm for all it is worth, and as long as she continues moving you do too.  After her first orgasm she reaches a second quickly, not squirting this time but still clenching around your hand and screaming your name to the gods along with your praises of how she loves you.  

She’s a panting mess leaning back against the table while you step back, giggling up at her a little proud of your handiwork.  You made this beautiful, strong warrior into a puddle of melting, feminine goo.  It takes her a moment to compose herself and once she catches her breath she stares at you with with a lewd gaze, licking her lips suggestively.  “Oh my little mate, you are in such trouble.”  She chuckles and you bolt, making her laugh.  You barely make it four steps before she’s caught you in her grip and forced you face down onto her bunk.  

“My beautiful wife…”  She hums against your neck, nuzzling your skin while being careful with her tusks.  The feeling of her nude body next to yours is better than you ever dreamed.  No leather edges or cold spots, just warm scarred skin and heat.  She hikes your hips up and keeps your shoulders pressed against the blanket, forcing your back to arch and exposing your heated sex.  Normally she loves going down on you, teasing you until you’re a whimpering begging mess.  But today she shoves two of her thick fingers into your waiting channel, knowing this is all she needs to do to make you hers forever.

“Rokal, I love you so much…”  Your answering whimper makes her hum against your skin and drop a soft kiss, murmuring her own endearments in Orcish.  She’s gentler than normal, but still lets you know who’s in control, using three of her fingers to bring you to your peak.  You think you’re going to get rest but she merely pins your legs in place with one of her own and continues pumping her fingers into you.  Your second orgasm surprises you, coming so quickly after the first, and that’s when she begins using her thumb to rub your clit.  Her stimulation is gentle but still too much, and you try to wriggle your hips and relieve the pressure.  She shushes you, kissing your neck and cheek, but keeping you pinned as she continues fucking you with her thick green fingers.  

Your third orgasm has you screaming and hoarsely begging, it’s too much, but she just chuckles.  “You can give me one more my love, come, it is my job on our wedding night to pleasure you as much as you can handle.”  Your pained whimper makes her chuckle again and speed up just slightly.  The incessant fingers inside you and on your clit make you come apart one more time as she kisses your neck and spine, whispering praises against your flesh.  “So good for me, my mate, so beautiful.  I promise you a long life of this.”  You whimper, a boneless heap on the bed.  She pulls you onto her, resting your head on her breast and cradling you against her body as you lay fully atop her.

“I love you.”  Your tired mumble makes her smile and pet your hair, her hands are smoothing over your body, careful not to touch anywhere too sensitive, soothing and relaxing you into sleep.  When you awake after your nap you’re alone in bed, but Rokal has dragged out a huge wooden tub and is boiling some water over the fire to make a bath for the two of you.  Her muscular naked back contracts as she lifts the heavy kettle from over the fire, pouring the water into the tub until it reaches a comfortable steaming temperature.  She gives you a wide smile when she notices your stare from the bed, holding out her hand and asking you to come take a bath.  If this was to be your life here, with this beautiful creature who loved you, well, going home was no longer on the table.  “I’m coming my love, just let me look at you some more.”  Your tender smile makes her blush and rub her neck awkwardly, and you just giggle.  Yes, this would be a good life.

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Z 230

Last time, Vegeta blasted big chunks out of the tournament stadium, killing hundreds in the process.    Goku agreed to fight him, provided Babidi would teleport them to some place where no one would be in harm’s way.   

Which leaves everyone at the stadium to wonder what the hell just happened.   The World Tournament Announcer discusses the post-tournament ceremony with the winner, Mr. Satan.    Under the circumstances, handing out the prize money doesn’t seem like a good idea, so it’s probably best if everyone just goes home.    This scene seems very weird to me.   I’m pretty sure it’s filler, but either way, this conversation seems a little too “funny-awkward” when it needs to be “hundreds-of-people-just-died-awkward.”   

For example, if you look closely, you can see Android 18 and Marron standing in the background, between Satan and WTA.   She’s been there since the last episode, before Vegeta showed up and killed all those people.   The gag is that Mr. Satan can’t celebrate his victory too much because he keeps noticing 18 glaring at him, waiting for him to pay her the 20 million zeni he promised to her so she would throw the fight.   

I think what’s happening here is that Toei decided to recycle the gag from the last episode, which is a common filler tactic on this show.    Think of all the times we’ve seen Goku running down Snake Way, or training on his way to Namek, or suffering from the heart virus.   But it really doesn’t work here because the atmosphere in the stadium has drastically shifted, or at least it should have.  I know it’s a popular joke that death has no meaning in Dragon Ball because everyone can just be wished back to life, but most of the people here don’t know that.   18 does, but you’d think she’d be more disturbed by what Vegeta just did.   She’s a cool customer, sure, but you’d think she’d want to get her daughter to safety at the very least.

At least Bulma seems to be on track with the story.     “Vegeta... What’s Wrong With You?” could be the title of her autobiography though.

The answer, of course, is that he’s allowed himself to be mind-controlled by a space wizard so that he can finally fight Goku.   No more teases, no more buildup, no more false starts.    This fight is happening, and it’s going to keep happening for a few more episodes.  

So this fight.    What do I say about it?   When I was a kid, I grew up with the lore established after Return of the Jedi came out.    One way or another, I heard that the reason Darth Vader wears his life-supporting armor is because he once challenged Obi-Wan Kenobi to a duel, and suffered severe injuries from it.    I don’t remember where I heard this, but the story was that it was right after he turned evil, and they fought over a live volcano, and he fell in some lava.  

Of course, for younger readers, it’s all a matter of record.    You can just watch “Revenge of the Sith” and see exactly what happened.   But between 1983 and 2005, we only had this one-sentence legend.    I might have come up with the volcano part myself, since I heard “molten lava” and figured there had to be a volcano involved.    For my generation, “Revenge of the Sith” was the payoff to that decades-long speculation.  

The problem with moments like that is that you have to compete with fans’ imagination.   I remember after the movie came out, and I was at a comic book store and heard some guy complain that there should have been more lost-limbs in that battle.    Anakin lost an arm and both legs at the end, but I guess this guy’s bloodlust wasn’t sated.   Maybe he wanted Kenobi to lose limbs too?    Except he won, so I guess his dream scenario was for both of them to chop each other’s hands off and continue fighting one-handed.  

For my part, I was satisfied with what I got, although when you get down to it, it’s never going to hold up quite as well as I pictured it, because I had 22 years to picture it, and I could imagine it from every possible angle, with every possible scenario.   And when you imagine something, you can mix your emotions into the visuals.     Watching Darth Vader fighting Obi-Wan Kenobi on the screen, well, it looks a lot like all the other lightsaber battles in Star Wars, only it’s longer and more intense.    The movie is depending on you to fill in the emotional gaps.   The actors can act in between the swordfighting, but it’s up to you to remember those performances when the blades start swinging.  

What I’m driving at here is that a lot of Goku-Vegeta II is a dead heat.   In particular, you see scenes like this one where neither guy can overpower the other, and they’re stuck holding each other’s hands and blocking knee strikes with their thighs.    It reminds me a lot of the gifs of the Anakin/Obi-Wan fight, which just show them swinging their sabers around.    Stripped of context, it looks downright silly.   DBZ is counting on you to remember this:

This is why they’re fighting.    I don’t just mean the original Goku/Vegeta fight as a whole, or even the outcome of that battle.    I’m talking about this specific part of the fight, Episode 31 of DBZ, where Goku reluctantly used the Kaio-ken X3 and overpowered Vegeta, however briefly.   This was really where Vegeta started taking Goku personally.    After this, he tried to destroy the entire Earth just to kill Goku, and Goku used Kaio-ken X4 to overpower him yet again.   From that point on, Goku spent the rest of the battle on the defensive, relying on Gohan, Krillin, and Yajirobe to finish what he’d started.  

I’m not going to sit here and tell you the rematch is better than the original.   Goku-Vegeta I is one of the crown jewels of this whole franchise.   I still think I like this one better, though, because of the anticipation I had for it.  It fufills a long deferred dream that Goku, Vegeta, and the audience have shared since Episode 36.   One day, they’ll fight again, and settle this. 

So maybe this battle doesn’t have the same underdog factor going for it, and the psychology and choreography isn’t as intuitive.    It’s not as self-contained as the original battle, becaue this one depends so heavily on the viewer being familiar with Goku and Vegeta’s history.   But dammit, I am familiar with all of that, and that’s why I like it.   

There’s not a lot of stalling or desperate tactics here.   Both guys powered up to their maximum at the start.   This is just two guys trying to beat the hell out of each other, but they’re so evenly matched that it’s easy to lose sight of how hard they’re hitting, or how much of themselves they’re putting into every blow.   Like here, Vegeta just got slammed into a cliffside, and he’s disintegrating the rock instead of just moving slightly away from it.    Remember, it’s all about this:

Each of these guys want to pulverize the other this way.    Goku wants to do it to prove that he can sustain this level of offense instead of barely holding out for a minute.   Vegeta wants to do it because he’s still sore that any Saiyan managed to do this to him and live to tell about it.   

There’s also something deeply tragic about this fight, which appeals to me in a way the original can’t tough.    Before, they were two Saiyans.    The last two, perhaps, but Saiyans nonetheless.    Now, they’re Super Saiyans.    The legend said there was only one every thousand years, but now, in spite of everything, there’s two.    They’ve even managed to surpass the Super Saiyan and become something greater, but instead of saving the universe like they might have done before, they’re just beating the shit out of each other while the world burns.   Z stands for the end.

Because every time Goku takes a hit...

The energy lost from the damage he sustains is magically transferred to Majin Buu’s ball.    When enough has been aborbed, the seal can be broken, and Majin Buu will be resurrected.   

Meanwhile, Dabura and Gohan have moved deeper in to Babidi’s ship to try and stop him while the Goku/Vegeta fight is in progress.    This is Stage 4 of his spaceship, and in theory it’s no different from Stages 1-3.    Babidi would normally send a warrior to fight the intruders, and any damgage they take would feed Buu.    Only Babidi’s fresh out of good fighters, so he just sends ten of his low-tier henchmen to hold the line instead. 

For some reason, everyone on board Babidi’s ship looks like these guys, except for Puipui, Yakon, and Dabura.    I never paid much attention to it before, but when you think about it, it’s kind of weird how Babidi only “recruits” the best evil warriors he can find, but his crew all look like they came from the same planet.    I’m guessing these guys were some sort of pirate band or something, and Babidi forced them all to come work for him and run his ship for him, or maybe this ship used to be theirs before Babidi hijacked it.  

Anyway, Gohan takes them all out with a simple ki attack, and they can proceed.    Not sure why these guys had Roman numberals on their uniforms.     It implied that they were somewhat important, but I guess not.  

Anyway, back to this fight.    So yeah, like I said, these two are just going all out.   

They’re using big flashy moves that might be climactic finishers in past battles, but here it’s just standard issue.   

Take this beam struggle, for example.    This was the height of the first Goku/Vegeta battle, but it’s just an appetizer here. 

Like, they can’t even just have a beam struggle, they have to charge towards each other while they do it.   Are they going to punch each other with their free hands while they do this?   

Meanwhile, Trunks and Goten take a piss break on their way to the action.    Some pervy dinosaur peeks on them while they go.   

Okay, so this is my favorite part.   Right here.  Somehow, Vegeta managed to get the better of Goku, so he hauls him up, and it looks like he’s got Goku at his mercy.

Then he slams him into a rock and fires ki blasts that basically at like big staples, to hold Goku in place by his wrists, ankles and neck.   

Then he reminds Goku that he claimed that he would finish this “quickly”.  I think Goku knows better now, but let’s face it, he took Vegeta too lightly.    He was sure that he could turn Super Saiyan 2 and blow him out of the water without a whole lot of trouble, because he’s spent most of their rivalry in the lead.   

Then he slaps him in the face, and Goku can’t do shit.  This part right here is the receipt for all the times Goku looked past Vegeta or failed to take him seriously.    You can argue that he spared Vegeta all those years ago as an act of compassion or sportsmanship, but another way to interpret it is as an insult.  To put it another way, Goku let Vegeta live because he didn’t think he was dangerous enough to kill.    I think that’s how Vegeta’s always seen it, and now he’s out to prove otherwise.   

So he’s just teeing off on the guy now.    The message here is: If Goku doesn’t like this sort of thing, he should have killed Vegeta when he had the chance, because he’ll never get it again.

Then Vegeta has an extended flashback.  The dub has him narrate this, which is one of my favorite monologues in this series, but the Japanese version just plays the footage, letting it speak for itself.    I guess there’s a case to be made for either approach, but Chris Sabat killed this scene.  

The bottom line is that Goku humilitated him in their first encounter by standing up to him and beating him up, and then he saved his life.    Vegeta plans to avenge himself by tearing him to pieces.    He means to kill Goku, which I don’t really understand, seeing as he’s already dead.   

And this is where I think Babidi’s mind control may be somewhat underrated in this battle.    I think it’s pretty easy to assume that this is how Vegeta would normally behave, but is it, though?    Was he planning to face Goku in the world tournament and chop off his arms while their families looked on in horror?   I’m pretty sure he wasn’t this hardcore about it going in.    Before, he had resigned himself to never seeing Goku again, and then he was coming back for the tournament, and Vegeta was excited to face him under any terms, even while governed by the tournament rules, and Gohan’s “no-transforming” request.    He wanted to beat Goku clean, sure, but he wasn’t nearly this bitter about it. 

Now, this fucker wants to vivisect Goku.    I’m pretty sure that’s Babidi’s handiwork, amplifying old grievances that Vegeta had probably moved past a long time ago.   

Except...

Goku’s not done yet.

Every time Majin Vegeta gets surprised, I get a little more excited.    This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?   You self-important prick.    You killed all those people just to get this guy mad enough to fight you.   

WELL GUESS WHAT, JACKASS?

YOU GOT HIM.

ALL OF HIM.

I get chills every time I watch this part.   Majin Vegeta is played up to be this horrible thing.    The awesome power of Vegeta with none of the restraint, and if Goku even tries to stop him, he’ll just be playng into Babidi’s hands.    Critics can say that this is a no-win scenario, or that Goku’s holding back during this fight, or that he’s not as into this as Vegeta is.  

But this sequence here tells the story.    Goku doesn’t have a long flashback to explain his motivation here.   We’ve already seen it.    This blue-pajamas-wearing idiot came to his planet to start shit.  Goku was fighting to protect his home and everything he holds dear, and he barely managed to save the day, and that makes him the bad guy here?   Vegeta broke Goku’s legs in that battle, but for some reason Vegeta wants revenge for that day.    Vegeta beat the shit out of Goku’s son.   Several times.    Then he let Cell become perfect, and Goku and Gohan had to clean up his mess.     Goku’s dead because of Vegeta’s arrogance, but Vegeta wants revenge?

There’s a part here where Vegeta tries to full-nelson Goku and impale him on a stalactite, and Goku just powers out of it.   Goku’s not saying a lot in this fight, but he’s pissed, make no mistake.    He’s just focused enough and gentle enough not to say anything.  

He’s not shooting a Kamehameha inside a cave because he’s detached.    

Vegeta fires back and the whole thing explodes.

So let’s be clear about this.   There’s a relentless, wild animal in this battle, who won’t stop fighting no matter what.   Also, Vegeta is here, and he has a goofy tattoo on his forehead.

Meanwhile, Gohan and the Supreme Kai have arrived at the chamber where Buu’s ball is kept, and Babidi and Dabura are there to greet them.   Babidi isn’t worried at all, since he figures Dabura will be enough to hold them off until Majin Buu is ready.   On the other hand, the Kai thinks he can kill Babidi wile Gohan holds off Dabura, and that should put an end to all of this.  

But he’d better act fast, because Buu’s ball is glowing hot pink, and getting hotter and pinker by the second.   

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Spider-Girls #2 Thoughts

Mixed feelings but don’t get it twisted they’re mostly good mixed feelings.

When I say I have mixed feelings it’s a case of me trying to decide what this series is.

Now I went into Spider-Girls expecting it to essentially be Spider-Geddon’s equivalent of Scarlet Spiders in that every issue would focus upon one of the 3 main spider characters (wow I’ve never used the word spider so many times in a sentence before).

What I wanted from Spider-Girls was a lot of Mayday focus and/or her interacting with Annie and addressing the fact they are pseudo sisters.

However my expectations were in fairness not based upon what was advertised, the series wasn’t stated to follow that narrative structure. As for what I wanted this series has delivered on that to a certain extent.

But more importantly than what I expected or wanted is what the series actually is, what it’s trying to be and whether it lives up to that.

And that’s where I’m debating with myself how to evaluate this.

Because it’s clear to me to a large extent Spider-Girls #1-3 is effectively....Renew Your Vows #24-26 (or #29-31 technically).

Put aside how the book is written by Houser for the moment. These past two issues have seen Annie as the focus character, the action wholly take place in her world, involve her supporting characters, centre upon her powers and utilize major plot elements from her book. So like I said this doesn’t just continue Annie’s story from RYV it is to a large extent the next 3 issues of the title.

Key phrase there though, ‘to a large extent’.

Because the series also pays attention to Mayday. She’s not the POV character, we don’t see her internal thoughts, but her emotional journey in this story is given panel time and played as important. Anya’s isn’t.

If this series is supposed to be about all of them as the main characters then this is bad, because Annie is stealing the limelight. But if this is a continuation of RYV it is also bad because Mayday and Anya have basically replaced Peter and MJ’s roles as second/third fiddle to Annie and that series was supposed to be about the whole family.

Buuuuuuuut...the series isn’t titled RYV, it’s it’s own off to the side mini-series.

So in that sense we’re sort of in a unique situation wherein it has to adhere to established continuity of all these characters (in Anya’s case I know next to nothing so let me know about that) but it doesn’t have to be consistent with RYV’s central premise.

Houser is free essentially to do as she wishes so long as she’s consistent within the context of this book.

So evidently the series is about Annie amidst an adventure where she is joined by Anya and Mayday. I guess then a more appropriate title would be Annie and the Spider-Girls but that makes for a lame title.

The fact that this is an off to the side thing also helps or mitigates the fact that there is a mystical aspect to this series which normally shouldn’t be in a Spider-Man book nor RYV.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, within what this book is trying to be, is it any good?

The answer is in fact yes, it is very, very good.

From my personal POV I want so much more Mayday/Mayday and Annie interactions but I can’t hold that against the comic. Especially when what we do get of Mayday is done well and is respectful to her character; unlike the cover which saw fit to omit her apparently.

We get direct references and flashbacks to Mayday’s past, with the writing and art clearly demonstrating they did their research.* Normie was a huge part of Spider-Girl and having Mayday think about him and for the comic to briefly play compare and contrast with RYV Normie is both natural and very appreciated. It also helps to explore Mayday’s character, something worthwhile given how long ago her series was. You can tell from the art and dialogue her romantic feelings for Normie still sting a bit.

Houser doesn’t rely just upon going over old ground with Mayday, she continues to showcase Mayday’s feelings of unease in Annie’s universe, which is perfectly natural. She also uses Anya quite effectively in this way.

Were I an Anya fan (as opposed to someone who resents her for getting Mayday cancelled and stealing her name) I might be more upset about that and her over all treatment in this book. Because this is Mayday and (even moreso) Annie’s story, Anya is kind of just there as a vehicle to propel the plot and to get help explore Mayday’s feelings. As she says herself she’s not a Parker which I choose to take as Houser throwing shade at Anya and I love it. The only thing I dislike regarding her use really is

a)      Her tension with Normie. She claims Normie having six arms should convince him to believe in her magical mumbo jumbo but really that doesn’t stack up. Science and sorcery are different things to the man on the street. A genetic experiment giving you six arms is frankly easier to buy than magic scrolls

b)      Her inclusion at all. Beyond helping Mayday to open up I see little creative rationale for her inclusion if anything the story would be stronger if it really was just Mayday and Annie. I’m sure you could find some reason for Mayday to go after Annie alone even with the same central premise. Like I dunno say Anya and Mayday got attacked and separated, with Mayday getting a hold of the scrolls or something.

Going back to Mayday briefly, one thing that is a double edged sword is how she’s changed since Spider-Verse.

By this I don’t mean her costume (I kind of miss her Spider Island suit but oh well).

I mean that she’s become a bit more cynical. Not overly so but it’s there. She refers to her adventures as Spider-Girl as a very distant past, going so far as to say ‘back in High School’. I’m choosing to take that as not meaning Mayday has graduated because that wouldn’t make sense. But the fact she refers to high school like that and treating her high school worries back then as meaningless is a clear sign of how she’s changed.

This is as I said a double edged sword.

It’s bad for two key reasons. The first is that it gives new readers a warped impression of Mayday and wouldn’t encourage them to check out her old stories (which Marvel wants you to do hence her recent epic books and this series happening around her 20th anniversary) let alone helping get her any new stories. Secondly it’s simply for older fans not the Mayday we knew and loved. Don’t get me wrong it’s a drastic improvement of how not  like Mayday she was in Spider-Verse but it still undermines including her when surely the point of that is to entice back older fans.

On the flipside though it is entirely realistic for Mayday to feel this way in the wake of what happened in Spider-Verse and Web Warriors, especially as some stories have implied (illogical as this is) that she’s spent most of her time with the latter group. Losing your Dad violently, then being embroiled in a war for survival, then acting as a police officer of countless worlds, then being stranded in one of them, losing your newly found ‘Grandpa’ and then finding yourself in another violent war with the same people will believably make your old high school worries seem trivial.

In a sense I feel for Houser as she is in a lose-lose situation.

Spider-Girl fans want the Mayday we know and love but we also want her to be treated believably and to develop as a character (albeit preferably under the pens of her creators). In the context of this situation those a mutually exclusive goals.

Houser has opted for the latter which I guess if nothing else helps maintain Mayday’s verisimilitude so that hopefully in the future writers may pick up on her and course correct her organically. It’s also in line with the direction her creators chose to adopt for her in the wake of her Dad’s death so Houser is continuing to be respectful. In fact between the respect she’s shown and how much her run echoed Spider-Girl’s I think she might be a fan.

In a lot of ways the situation brings my mind back to Howard Mackie’s Hulk issue of PPSM. It saw Spider-Man picking a fight with the Hulk in the immediate wake of losing Mary Jane. Losing MJ was a horrible situation that should never have happened (much like everything involving Mayday in Spider-Verse and beyond) but the story was good within that bad context.

Moving on to Annie, as much as I complained about the over focus upon her in RYV, her exploration here ain’t bad. We acknowledge that she’ll feel a little adrift with her parents gone and her sense of reality opening up. It’s also right and proper she feel guilty about what goes down. I think much more could’ve been done with her though. I know we have a fair amount of plot to get through but you had space for more thought captions.

As for the elements of her series that have come back they kind of make me feel better and worse about the final RYV arc.

Looking back the final arc of RYV was probably it’s worst, at least of the second volume. There were major problems with Slott’s first volume when you look at it.

But a lot of elements from that arc clearly were written in as set up for Spider-Girls. Normie’s mutation. The spider creatures created from Annie’s blood. Her hyped up Spider Sense. Peter and MJ’s first child.

That’s all to this series’ benefit because we need not waste any of the 3 issues we have setting that stuff up. In that sense I can see now why that final arc was the way it was to some extent. The X-Men connection is still unforgivable though. On the other hand though it means that the grand finale of that whole series was in service of this which taints the arc as a whole. Not only was it problematic unto itself but it existed for something else, that isn’t even technically the actual finale arc of the series. It’s a spin-off continuation for one particular character from that book.

Anyway let’s wrap up with a few smaller points.

·         We have the Inheritors show. Up obviously I hate seeing them but I guess it’s mandatory. I will say that the choice to use the twin Inheritors is a neat one given the story revolving around two pseudo sisters in this series.

·         I didn’t think of this at the time but Normie’s six arms are reminiscent of his black costume form in Spider-Girl. That works well in this series but it retroactively makes it’s inclusion in RYV yet more derivative of MC2.

·         I liked the brief interaction between Annie’s parents and the Spider-Girls. It was believable for parents to behave that way.

·         I liked how the series went as far as to point out some of the spider creatures were deemed fit for trial so they didn’t all get jailed nor let off the hook.

·         There is a spelling error in the comic when Normie says ‘immortal  spider powers people’ it should be spider powered . A nitpick and rich coming from me I know but my blog isn’t a professionally written comic you pay for.

·         The art is faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaantastic! I makes me made these 3 issues have better art than basically all of Houser’s RYV run.  Special kudos for that cool splash page.

Much as I can pick problems with this issue it was still really lovely to read.

*Except on Normie’s black costume design but that’s an artistic licence thing I guess. They balance it out by recreating a Spider-Girl cover, from ASG IIRC. Also they fixed her legs unlike last issue so kudos.

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of DC: Week of August 14th, 2019

Best of DC: Week of August 14th, 2019

Best of this Week: Justice League Odyssey #12 - Dan Abnett, Will Conrad, Rain Beredo and Andworld Design

Darkseid is.

The former ruler of Apokalips’ plans have finally come to fruition after the small team of heroes brings together the final few relics to complete Sepulkore, the planet that will release a wave of cosmic energy all over the Ghost Sector and make it immune to the destruction of the Multiverse. Narrated by Darkseid, this issue expands on how far back he’s had these ideas and plans in place, even anticipating the betrayal from Cyborg, Starfire and Azrael from the beginning. He hasn’t been lying to them at all, but rather, omitting a few things so that his plans would proceed as they naturally would.

In the last issue we see Darkseid take control of Cyborg, turning him into a dangerous, Motherbox like being with all of the knowledge of the universe and more at his disposal. Darkseid orders Cyborg to keep Azrael and Jessica Cruz distracted while he fights an enraged Starfire. He sees the spark in her eyes and flings her into the core of Sepulkore, where she was destined to be the flame that lit the fire pits of this new hell. As Sepulkore awakens, Darkseid becomes even more powerful. Azrael is left with no other choice than to call his warriors into the fight as well.Unfortunately for him, as soon as the Azraelites enter Darkseid’s presence, they are turned into a new fodder-force: Para-Angels. Azrael succumbs to Darkseid’s control soon after as well. 

With all of the pieces falling into place, Darkseid smiles. His new Apokalips is lit and it connects with all of the other remaining relics in the Ghost Sector, becoming a reality unto itself. Darkseid monologues to himself that he has always known that the Source Wall would fall and the Multiverse would be destroyed eventually. Since his early years, Darkseid has been lying in wait, creating myths of heroes that would be Gods and those Gods would serve him. The Eternal One - Darkseid.

His new acolytes look upon him, chanting “Darkseid is,” as he returns to his full power. Jessica Cruz stands tall against him, however. I want to take a moment to say how much I love her journey as a character. She started out as this young girl that could barely leave her apartment and she could barely control her fears which allowed Power Ring from Earth 3 take control of her. Since then she has fought to get past her fears, anxieties and PTSD to become one of the most courageous Lanterns in all of the Green Lantern Corps. 

With only about two percent power left in her ring, she tells Darkseid that she will not let him win. His plans will fail if she has anything to do about it and Darkseid is mildly impressed. Darkseid could crush her, without question. She’s barely a fly on his rader, but he’s super into her tenacity. He offers her a place at the table, he cold become as powerful as Cyborg, Starfire or Azrael, a New God of Indomitable Will as Darkseid puts it.

Jessica says “Screw You,” and plants Darkseid with a mean right cross, firmly planting her in the same club as Guy Gardner and Hal Jordan, the “Are You Absolutely Insane? You Really Thought It Was A Good Idea to Punch HIM?” Club

Summarily, he swats her away, crushes her ring hand and Omega Beams her to hell.

*HEAVY SPOILERS ARE HEAVY*

Summarily, he slaps her, crushes her ring hand and Omega Beams her to hell.

*HEAVY SPOILER HOURS ARE OVER*

Will Conrad does the art for this issue and every single page is a wonder to look at. Darkseid is made to look unreasonably imposing as his power increases over time. Cyborg with his advanced mech body looks like a thing of terror as he has a faceguard only over his mouth and his human eye is a milky white. I also appreciate how his metal parts are shaded to give them a sheen. Sepulkore itself is drawn with an immense sense of scale and the architecture of it complex and effective, looking like a huge dodecahedron. Darkseid himself even has a new design that mimics some of his Superman: TAS look with tights added.

Justice League Odyssey might be one of the best ongoing Justice League stories right now because of how different it is to the rest of them. With a team almost as strange as the mid-2000s R.E.B.E.L.S. team and it being centered around an even stranger area of space, everything is so cool. Though there have been a few artists, each have taken different approaches to make all of the different locations and character designs cool.

What should really be applauded is the work when it comes to Beredo’s colors. For the most part, this book is awash in an oppressive red hue as Darkseid become stronger as the book goes on. This color blends well with Starfire’s fiery starbolts and Azrael’s flaming sword. It also worked best with Jessics Cruz being the only contrasting color in the bunch as her green made her the hopeful hero. Beredo makes everything feel dire as hell and it really sells the mood of the book.

I can’t wait for the next issue of the series because Darkseid has effectively won. He has a new Apokalips that he can rule from away from the dangers of the Multiverse and Perpetua. With his new New Gods, the Dark Sector will be another oppressive entity that Darkseid can hatch his schemes from with he regained power. The best question of all, however… who will stop him?

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

Barry Allen is back and better than before.

Runner Up: The Flash #76 - Joshua Williamson, Rafael Sandoval, Jordi Tarragona, Tomeu Morey and Steve Wands

After re-living one of his first adventures as The Flash, Barry sees just how out of touch with things that he has been lately. He realizes that he hasn’t taken the time to slow down since Wally returned and he’s just been throwing himself into adventure after adventure without any regard for his friends and family and it has caused their lives to suffer because of it.

Iris has practically left him. Wallace West distanced himself from Barry as much as possible, even going so far as to briefly join a team with Deathstroke. Avery, the Flash of China, isn’t even that close to Barry, but he also left her and Wallace in the middle of an argument just before he went off on his Force Quest. In an effort to put a stop to the Rogues that have now branched out of Central City, he’s been going through the escapees left and right.

We begin with Kid Flash and Avery fighting with Girder and Tarpit in the middle of Central City. The two young Speedsters are quick, but not all is right as they have a hard time putting any serious damage on either. Just as Tarpit is about to burn them alive, Barry zips in and saves the teens.

Rafa Sandoval is absolutely one of my favorites of DC’s current crop of artists and my favorite Flash artist. His slick lines and shading combined with Morey’s coloring and Tarragona’s inks makes everything look smooth. Costumes look good, bright and vibrant. Flash’s deep red stands out and compliments Wally’s yellow and surprisingly Avery’s dark pink and purples. Shadows are appropriately dark and every blast of lightning and every blur is stunning to see.

Barry gives his young proteges some advice in dealing with Tarpit and Girder, allowing the young speedsters to defeat the villains. After the win, Wallace is less than enthused to see Barry again and begins to walk away before Barry asks them both to run with him, to see how he's trying to make up for his mistakes.

Begrudgingly they agree and we get another amazing shot of Barry running while flanked by Avery and Wallace. I really loved this because it reminded me of the old Flash Family days and because Barry is really trying his best.

He shows them the rebuilt Flash Museum and they're amazed that he managed to rebuild it all by himself. Barry reveals that there's something more and they use their vibration abilities to enter their new headquarters, which I don't have a pun for yet. They're greeted by Commander Cold(?) And Steadfast, the new avatar of the Still Force, and Barry explains what's been going on with their powers.

Wallace had been noticing small things, but he thought it was all in his head. Apparently with the release of all of these new forces, the Speed Force is collapsing under the weight of these new forces that aren't supposed to exist alongside it. This is further backed up as The Black Flash returns for a cliffhanger ending.

As all of this is going on, in another city altogether, Heatwave is causing havoc, seemingly with his own heat powers having returned. The cops show up to confront him, but are suddenly incapacitated by blasts of ice. Captain Cold, Leonard Snart, has begun to gather his Rogues. With updated Cold Gear, to mirror his own New 52 ice powers, he hands Heatwave a Heat Gun and he two OG Rogues reunite to gather the rest of the troops and finally take down The Flash.

With this first part being so affectionately referred to as "The Death of the Speed Force part 1" I can't imagine that any of this will end well. The Speed Force has been in existence for the better part of almost 30+ years now and there's a good chance that we've seen all that we possibly can from it. It's been used to trap people, reset universes and even bring back past Speedsters for big events.

With the Speed Force dying, now's a great opportunity for new stories to be told with the Flashes exploring new ways for their powers to work if the Speed Force does indeed get destroyed in the future. But what will this mean for other speedsters still trapped like Jai and Iris West II, and Jay Garrick? Will they be immediately freed or will Doomsday Clock somehow tie into things? Only time will tell! High recommend!

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 30: The Winding Road

Chapters: 30/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Someday) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Reader, Brunnhilde, Thor Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), On The Road, Horse With A Side Of Extra Horse, Bills Bills Bills, Let’s See If You Can Guess Based On Descriptions Exactly Where New Asgard Is, Summary:  Who’s ready for a road trip?

This was only the second time you'd gotten out of the city, and the countryside was just as beautiful as the first time. So very different from the tall, orderly cornfields of home, that went on and on for untold miles of green, or even from the wild roadside margins, with their riot of luscious weeds. The plants here formed a dense carpet, confettied with colorful wildflowers, which climbed up the nearby mountainsides. Here and there, patches of tall lupines towered over their shorter brethren like miniature forests.

Endless ranges of mountains rose on either side, the river running sluggishly through the wide valley they created. Heading north from the city, you quickly came into contact with evidence of human habitation in the form of small farms, and a paved road that followed the river off into the distance.

The party had been forced to ford the river in order to reach that road, as it did not cross the water, but Loki had spared you with what you considered a tremendous feat of magic, teleporting both you, and sweet Acorn across the slow river, safe and dry. He didn't even break a sweat, and if you had wondered before about the upper reaches of his strength and speed, you were now in deep wonder about the limits of his magic.

You wondered briefly if any of those mountains were volcanic before Thor began to sing.

“When the sun shines through the summer

I find my thoughts turn to another

To a shining city

Writ in poetry witty

Whom I miss like an absent lover.”

You stared at him. Where had that all come from?

Loki seemed to be contemplating something.

“Is it the ocean?” Saldis asked. Thor shook his head.

“A reflection?” Borgliot ventured.

Oh, it was a guessing game! This was another thing right out of the fantasy stories; the proud and poetic warrior king.

“It's the moon.” Loki said.

“Yes! That makes it your turn.”

Loki thought a moment.

“O' sing of the Sapphire Brand

Living as Loki's right hand

Our two links we clasp

Like Jormagand grasps

it's tail, to encircle the land.”

Heat crept up your neck to wash across your face. That was really obvious.

“So...I'm guessing that's me?” You asked.

“Very good, my dear. You know what that means, don't you?”

“M-me? My turn?” Oh heck, you hadn't signed up for this. What did you say? How did you rhyme? What subject did you pick?

This was Loki's revenge for your teasing about the cinnamon rolls, you just knew it. Wracking your brain for a rhyme, you were only able to blurt out the first idea that came to your mind.

“Stories told before bed

It's supposed to be all in my head

But myth became real

Now I'm left to deal

With the path my saviors have tread.”

You lost the tune partway through, but got some applause anyway. Loki looked especially pleased, and you felt a spark of pride in yourself for having kept up.

“Could it be me?” He asked.

“Well, not exactly...”

“She said 'saviors' plural, you smarmy boy.” Brunnhilde interrupted. “She means us. The gods, the myths and stories we represent.”

You nodded. “Yeah, that's where I was going.”

“Oh.” Loki said with some indignation. “Well then, I suppose it must be the General's turn now.”

“Sure is! So, let's see...

Viewed with envy, but never with scorn

Shining long before I was born

But something eternal

Can still be burned all

to dust; even gods have to mourn.”

Nobody ventured a guess, but even you knew what she was talking about.

Asgard.

How did they stay alive and sane through all this? Even though you'd lost your home, you were still on the same planet, at least. There were still other humans all over the place. You'd been taken in, and given what you needed, accommodated, and even fawned over a little bit.

They had nothing. If things didn't work out, there was no old country to go back to. There was no other nation of Asgardians to emigrate to. They had to do whatever it was they did to survive.

What did they do? You hadn't asked how they afforded the materials for the city they were building, or for the food, or the electricity. Just how were they making their money? Loki had said they had enough for day to day affairs, but how?

That familiar feeling of money-anxiety weaseled it's way back into your mind. How much was this costing? How much were you costing? These dresses? This serpent brooch? Loki's promise to take you around and get you some toiletries and things for yourself; whose sacrifice was paying for that?

How did you pay it back?

Eventually, the riddle song game started up again, but you didn't venture any more guesses. Just listening to their voices was enough; their rhymes and subjects giving some greater insight into the things they liked and valued. For Saldis it was mostly objects, for Bogliot, places. For Thor, nature and traveling, and for Brunnhilde, the comforts of home and civilization. For Loki, most surprisingly, it was people. The people closest to him, the people he had known in his life, friends and family. He went through every member of the party, in more or less impertinent rhymes. You couldn't help but focus on how he had started with you.

It was very sweet of him to make sure you were involved.

                                                                           ******

Hours down the road, Thor turned Sleipnir down a short detour. All of the other horses followed him without the slightest command, reinforcing your guess that Sleipnir might be a god among horses. You'd have to ask later.

The group clattered up to a small complex, away from the road. You could just barely make out the sound of braying sheep before a few excited people rushed out of the nearest building, and began making a great fuss.

They seemed to know Thor, who dismounted, and greeted them, letting one take Sleipnir's reigns. The great horse graciously allowed himself to be led away, and the rest of the party began to dismount.

“-avail themselves of some of your feed, we would greatly appreciate it.” Thor said. “We have many hours to go, and mountains to cross, and we will need every bit of their strength. We also would eat, at your lovely cafe.”

The people agreed readily, though they viewed Loki with some concern. All of his earlier playfulness bled out of him, leaving him a pale, grim presence among the grinning and grateful Asgardians.

You stepped forward, legs wobbling from the hours spent riding, and allowed yourself to fall against him. He glanced down at you in mild concern.

“I'm not used to being on horseback for such a long time.” You said. “'Fraid my legs are a bit weak.”

He offered his arm without further explanation, and you took it with appreciation. As you had hoped, the chivalrous display of tender helpfulness towards another human being seemed to change the way the owners of this place looked at him.

It was a petting zoo, about the last thing you expected to find nestled into the lofty mountains. But Iceland, though a land full of tourist-attracting beauty, didn't necessarily have too many stops that would appeal to children. Looking out the window of the little cafe, watching the little lambs and goat kids frolicking together, you could imagine that this was a welcome respite for excitable children from the waterfalls and valleys that so captured their parents imaginations.

You found the animals compelling as well, envying their innocence and boundless energy. You were handed a menu, finding the offerings to have been helpfully translated into several languages, English among them.

You ordered a mocha and a hot lamb sandwich in a slightly hushed voice, trying hard not to side-eye the animals outside. It wasn't as if they could hear you, and it was very unlikely that any of their animals ended up on the menu, but it still seemed a little insensitive.

Loki also opted for a coffee, while Thor and Brunnhilde naturally ordered whatever alcohol was strongest. If the 'weak' crystal mead was any indication, the most powerful libations of man wouldn't so much as give the Asgardians a buzz, but maybe they'd like the taste.

Saldis and Borljot however, dared to try something new to them; Soda pop. They simply couldn't stop giggling about the bubbly sensation of the carbonation, though Borgliot declared it “Too sweet by far!”

Watching the others eat, it occurred to you that Asgardians all seemed to have huge appetites. Perhaps it had something to do with their different physical attributes. The denseness of their skin and muscle, the heaviness of their bones, it all probably required a great deal of nutrition. But if they were going to be eating like this the whole week...

“Where does the money come from?” You wondered aloud.

Thor paused in eating, never quite expecting your questions.

“Well...” He began. “Multiple avenues, actually. First of all, though the less than adoring crowds outside the city today might attest otherwise, there are a great many people in this world who look upon us charitably. We receive many donations of useful things; clothes and cloth, dishes, kitchen utensils, books, pencils and paper, and a great many other things, which lessen our daily costs. Otherwise, some of our scholars have been offering Asgardian language and history courses at the local schools, and our weavers, clothiers, and artists are facing a growing demand for their works. When the city is closer to being finished, we will open for tours. And, of course, I am a member of Earth's primary defense force, which pays well on it's own, not even taking into account the merchandise.”

“Oh, you mean the calendars?” You asked.

“What do you know about the calendars?” Loki asked, mildly scandalized. “Oh, you own one, don't you?”

“Uh...well...I did.” You admitted. “I doubt Dad would have saved it, even if he did manage to get some of my stuff.”

“What calendars are you talking about?” Saldis asked.

“Uh, well...They're sorta like...Do you know what a pin-up is?”

She shook her head.

“Well, they're...pictures that are kinda risque, but not outright...you know...pornographic.”

“Oh my.” Saldis said, and you ducked your head in embarrassment. “And you owned one of these?”

“I, uh, I owned the whole set. What?” You griped defensively. “I like the Avengers, and the calendars are kind of a hot commodity.”

Thor snorted with laughter.

“Well, I don't own them anymore! I hope they didn't just get thrown away.” It would be a shame if no one else was enjoying shirtless Iron Man, with his mysterious glowing heart, working on his suit. Or Shirtless Captain America, grease smeared artfully on his hands and face, fixing an airplane. Or any of the other shirtless pictures of various heroes, in teasing poses. Even the king...

Should you be bashful about that? Having seen the king like that?

“What picture did you leave on?” Loki asked suspiciously.

“It was May...Yeah, that Was Captain America, and some puppies.”

“Of course...” He said sourly.

“Why do you care? Were you in it?”

“Of course not! Do you really think I would debase myself so, as to participate in such a..a burlesque?”

“He's in next years.” Thor said conspiratorially. “We put him in a jail cell and handcuffed him to the bars.”

Loki went bright red in the face at Saldis' gasp, and Brunnhilde's bray of laughter.

“I-it's for Asgard...” He stammered. “All the proceeds come to us...I only did it for the sake of the people. It's not like I enjoyed it.”

“It's true.” Thor teased. “He complained the whole time.”

“I've got to get one of these calendars!” You declared.

“You'll do no such thing!”

“You can't stop me.”

“I very well can!”

“I'm going to get two.” Brunnhilde said. “And if you won't allow her to get her own, I'll give her one of mine.”

“Why must you torment me so?” Loki adopted a put-upon pout.

The rest of the meal passed in companionable jokes and conversation, though Loki continued to pout a little. No doubt he disliked being embarrassed in front of the likes of Saldis and Borgliot, but you figured nobody could be purely dignified all the time.

Never mind that this all could be considered your fault for bringing up the calendars, or even asking about finances in the first place.

                                                     *****

Soon enough, you were on the road again, all stomachs pleasantly filled.

“How many illicit photos do you think they took?” Brunnhilde asked. “You gonna charge them?”

“No, we ate most of their food, after all.” Thor said. “And besides, how would we even prove it? Confiscate and search their phones? Asgard is not a police state, and neither is Iceland.”

“Did they take pictures of us?” You wondered. “I didn't notice.”

“Not us, though they might have.” Brunnhilde answered back. “Sleipnir.”

“We tried to take him to a few horse shows, to drum up some quick cash.” Thor explained. “Of course, he was disqualified immediately. However, many people were eager to pay for pictures, so we didn't go away empty handed. There were even a few offers to put him to stud. If those offspring are found viable, we may have a very lucrative source of income indeed.”

“Oh wow, I'll bet!” A whole new breed of multilegged horses running around...The horse world would be turned upside down and shaken about!

Then again, hadn't Loki said that his Leynarodd was related to Sleipnir? She did look like a paragon of horse-kind, large and beautiful, but she had the normal number of legs. Perhaps functional polymelia was not a dominant trait.

A few hours later found you deep within a terrain that was unusual to both Iceland and Iowa: Forest. A lovely forest of pale, slender birches and furry-looking spruces, the understory a magical blanket of flowers. It was straight out of a fairytale; you half-expected to spot an elf peeking out from a particularly lush patch of blossoms.

But that was silly. Elves didn't exist.

Just gods. And aliens. And killer robots. And green rage giants. And century old, cryogenically preserved super soldiers. And wizards. And ghosts. And magic stones that could reshape the universe.

You continued looking for elves.

Leaving the forest behind, the road took a rather sharp turn, as a series of lazy switchbacks took you suddenly up the mountainside. As the air grew thinner and colder, you drew your cloak closer and leaned over Acorns neck. Even in summertime, you found the air a bit chilly. Back home, you would be sweltering, seeking the refuge of an air-conditioned indoor environment. Here, there hadn't been a single day where the sun had caused you to sweat, even though it graced the sky day in, day out.

The higher you rose, the more pronounced the chill became, wind cutting through all your layers of clothing, burning your ears. At your first tooth-rattling shivers, a thick, velvety, leaf-green cape was dumped over your head. You wrapped it tight around you, peeking out from the makeshift hood, to give Loki a grateful smile.

He remained as regal as ever, though now bared to the wind, which teased his sable hair.

“If you begin to feel faint, say so immediately.” He urged. “The air is thinner up here, and it may affect you. We will need to see to you as soon as possible, if you begin to grow weak.”

You agreed without any argument. You and Tara had once gone on a hiking vacation in the Rockies once, and you knew exactly what altitude sickness felt like.

These mountains didn't rise quite high enough to truly take your breath away, but the altitude did cause a painful pressure in your ears, Loki noticed you gritting your teeth and tried to stop the whole expedition to fuss over you, but you flatly refused.

“It'll go away once we get lower.” You said, deflecting his insistence that you stop. Maybe the discomfort was making you irritable, but you found his fretting to be annoying. You were already well aware that you were the weak link here, but you would not be responsible for slowing the group down over something as simple as temporary, manageable pain.

But on the other hand, maybe he was as worried about putting you back in that murderer's presence as you were. This man wanted to kill you! If any of a number of things had gone differently, he might have succeeded.

How many times might he have replayed the scenario in his mind? If you had died in his arms that day, what would he have done? Would he have returned your body home, or buried you here? Would he have hunted your killer down? Did he care enough back then? Would he have mourned? And what would the magical bond between you have done to him if you had died? He didn't even seem to know.

But you were going to die long before Loki did, so there was no way to avoid it: He would find out eventually.

You shook your head, trying to clear the morbid thoughts as well as the painful pressure. This was no time! That was the future, and you couldn't know what would happen. Besides, you were nearly at the top.

As you crested the mountaintops, and began down the other side, you were overtaken by the glorious view of the glittering fjord, sprinkled with ships and bordered by a thick band of green farmlands. In the distance you could barely make out the city. It seemed so small from here. It didn't even fully cover the inward edge of the fjord, lying clustered all on an outcrop on one side, surrounded by even more verdant farms.

A killer lay in its midst. You were headed right for him.