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marcyvamp1re-blog · 3 months ago

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Pt.3 SILLLY LITTLE BAT.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ There are only memories, fragments of a past that, like shadows, will haunt you until your last breath, whispers of what was and will never be. Gotham cries out for a guardian, a soul to face the darkness, to challenge fate in its shadowy alleys.

But tell me, who will rise to protect you, traveler of scars and broken dreams? Who will watch over your light when the world swallows your hopes?

In the eternal night, amidst the echo of fear and longing, there is only one path: to confront the monsters and become the hero this city needs, even if the price is the forgetting of oneself.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation.

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt2. Pt.4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— Here is the continuation of the other parts. There will be a few more parts but you should know that we will soon reach the end, but there are still things to clarify and so on. I don't know if you would like me to do another Batfam yandere series in the future or similar. Send me your ideas if you want :3

They are upset because I left

Where they never included me.

The car moved slowly under the gray sky of Gotham, as if the universe itself understood the weight of the pain you carried in your small figure. Commissioner Gordon, with his firm hands on the wheel, cast furtive glances at the rearview mirror, where he saw you curled up in the back seat. Wrapped in an old blanket, the same one you had hugged for days, your face was hidden among the folds, but the silent tears that fell could not be disguised. There were no words that Gordon could offer to heal the recent wound of losing your mother, but his empathy, though silent, was there, wrapping around you like the coat that couldn't quite warm you.

In your lap, a small Batman doll rested, pressed against your chest, as if that fabric toy could protect you from the world that had just destroyed your innocence. Your eyes, still swollen and red, looked out the window without seeing, watching the city that seemed so distant, so foreign.

"You will be loved and cherished," Gordon whispered, breaking the silence that had weighed like fog in the car. "Bruce Wayne... he will take care of you, I promise."

But you didn't respond immediately. The name Wayne felt strange, distant, as if he spoke of someone living in a story, not in your reality. You looked up, your eyes meeting Gordon’s for a second in the rearview mirror.

"And if they don't want me...?" you murmured, insecurity clouding your childish voice. "I don't know them, Commissioner... and they don't know me. What if they leave me in an orphanage? Mama always told me those places aren't nice."

Gordon swallowed hard, understanding the depth of your fear. "You were just a child, but you had already learned that love was not a guarantee." The world had taught you that cruel lesson too soon.

"The Waynes..." he began, searching for the right words, "are good people. You might not understand it at first, but I assure you they have suffered too. Bruce..." he paused, recalling the losses that man had faced. "He understands what it is to lose someone. He will do everything he can to make you feel safe, to help you find a home again."

But you kept looking at the doll in your hands, your fingers squeezing it tightly, as if it were the only stable thing in a world crumbling around you.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, as if the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how. Again, Gordon spoke, his voice low, almost afraid to break the stillness.

"And/y/n... what was your mom like?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road, as if by doing so, he could give you space to be honest, to not feel pressured.

You fell silent for a long moment, your small fingers nervously playing with the edges of the blanket. The world outside the car seemed a reflection of what you felt inside: cloudy, cold, distant.

Finally, you exhaled, as if gathering the courage to speak. Your voice came out shaky at first, filled with a mix of sadness and a hard-to-accept truth.

"My mom..." you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window. "She wasn't a good person, but... she wasn't a villain either."

Gordon nodded slowly, without interrupting you. He knew things were rarely black or white, that life had that cruel ability to mix the two.

"She... told me she grew up in an orphanage. She never had anything that was really hers." You paused, your eyes glassy as you recalled details that now seemed more painful than ever. "Well, except for me."

"Gordon felt a knot form in his throat." He knew that loss was a terrible burden to bear, but there was something more in your words, something suggesting that, amidst it all, there had also been love. An imperfect love, but real.

"She always dreamed of having a little house..." you continued, and for the first time, a faint smile appeared on your face, though it was tinged with melancholy. "A house with a garden, lots of Barbie dolls, and a little dog. She didn't need more. She just wanted something that was hers."

You stopped for a moment, as if the simple act of recalling those dreams your mother had hurt you. You knew she would never have them. That the world had been cruel to her, denying her even the small things she wished for so fervently.

"But... she never got it. We were always moving around, fleeing, searching for something better. And now... she doesn’t even have that."

The car seemed to shrink, the air denser. Gordon felt a wave of compassion for that woman who, though perhaps not perfect, had dreamed of something so simple, so human, and yet had not achieved it.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he murmured.

"Commissioner, what if... what if I can't forget her?" you asked, almost in a whisper. "What if I can't stop thinking about Mom?"

The silence in the car became heavy, almost tangible. Gordon wanted to tell you that you didn't have to forget, that it was natural to carry that pain. But the words didn't come, and instead, only a long sigh escaped his lips.

"It's not about forgetting, Y/n," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "It's about moving forward, even though it hurts. Your mother would want you to find happiness again, even though it may not seem possible now. And I’m sure Bruce will do everything in his power to help you."

The car turned onto the long, dark road leading to Wayne Manor. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows, as if the road were wrapped in the same mourning you carried within. The mansion, with its imposing grandeur, appeared in the distance, its walls as high as the secrets it held. "You were so small in the face of the immensity of this new life that awaited you."

"We're almost there," Gordon said softly, as he slowed down. "The wind outside whispered through the trees, like an echo of everything you had lost."

You didn’t know it at that moment, but that house would be full of stories, some broken, others in the process of healing. And although you felt like a stranger in a strange land now, Gordon hoped that, one day, that place would become your refuge.

The car stopped in front of the enormous gates. Gordon looked at you one last time before getting out. In his eyes, you could see a mix of sadness and hope, an empathy that went beyond words.

"You are not alone, Y/n," he said, his voice now firmer. "You will never be alone again."

You remained silent, gazing at the mansion as you clung to the blanket and the Batman doll. The weight of the world still rested on your small shoulders, but for the first time, there might have been a glimmer of relief in knowing that someone, even if he was a strange and distant man, was waiting for you inside."

And in that moment, although you still felt the burning pain of your loss, a ray of hope began to break through the shadows of your heart.

Y/n was sitting in the BatCafé, that corner of the city where the tables wobbled and conversations were woven into murmurs, as if the place knew how to keep secrets that even you wouldn’t dare to share aloud. The walls, a mossy green, were filled with stories that no one had asked for. She looked at her lukewarm latte as one looks at a future that hasn’t quite arrived, a liquid mockery evaporating before it could warm her hands. It had barely been a month since she left her family home, but she already felt that independence was more of a myth than a fulfilled dream. At first, the heroism of having thrown herself into the world had filled her with pride, but now reality lurked like a treacherous chill seeping through the cracks, and the fact that she was waiting for her potential roommate didn’t help matters.

“Well, at least the rent will be cheaper,” she told herself, or rather to the coffee, as if the dark liquid could reply with something sensible.

Sharing an apartment was, for Y/n, the only way out. Her salary barely covered survival, but only if she fed on fresh air and broken dreams. And there she was, waiting for someone named Pamela Isley, who, according to the ad, didn’t even seem to be from this planet. "I hope she’s not one of those people with invisible cats," she thought. Of course, the alternatives weren’t very promising: people who collected Batman figurines or guys who made friends with cockroaches in the kitchen. She had seen it all; after all, her apartment was in one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham, and she knew it all too well.

You were born in that area. One could say the neighborhood chose you before you had a chance to choose it. You didn’t remember exactly which apartment; in that hive of broken windows and half-painted bricks, all the floors seemed like a blurry copy of the previous one, each with the same square footage and an air of silent resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter, because in a way, everything was the same. Dust in the corners, worn tiles, cracks in the walls that seemed to form a map of some invisible and secret city, a place that only you could decipher if you stopped to observe long enough.

It was an unpretentious place, where people rarely smiled, but neither did they let themselves be trampled. There was something in the air, a kind of poorly disguised pride, as if every neighbor, every stray dog, knew that surviving there wasn’t a matter of luck but of will. Heroes didn’t exist in that corner of the world, but villains didn’t dare impose their law without facing some gaze that, without saying anything, said it all. It was rough terrain, where kindness camouflaged behind growls and complaints, and malice grew tired before it could fully settle.

And yet, you loved it. It was absurd, but you loved it with that devotion reserved for things you don’t choose, for roots that sink into your chest without asking for permission. The place was filled with memories you didn’t ask for, stories you never wanted to hear but that seeped into your skin. Tales of people who vanished in alleyways, of broken promises around the corner, of loves that drowned in factory smoke. And yet, those same tales were like echoes that held you, reminding you that you were born there, in that half-hell where life was always a fight but never a complete defeat.

The clock in the BatCafé struck six ten when the door opened. What happened next was hard to explain, like when you dream and you don’t know if it’s the pillow or the universe holding you. Pamela Isley walked in, and it was as if the wind, that autumn wind that brings memories, had gently pushed her in. Y/n looked up, and the first thing she noticed was her hair, a red that was out of this world, more fire than pigment, more nature than dye. The roots tangled as if they were living branches, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if the sun had made a mistake and was shining only on her.

Pamela walked as if she had a pact with the earth. Her steps were slow but firm, as if her feet waited for the ground to respond before settling. She wore a jacket that was impossible to describe without sounding crazy: green vines and small buds peeking out, as if at any moment the plants would grow over her. "Where does this woman come from?" Y/n thought, feeling something beyond mere curiosity. There was something she couldn’t deny, an attraction that felt unsettling, like those waves that, without warning, sweep you away when you think you can still touch the bottom.

Pamela approached the table with a calculated calm, a calm only nature or time can sculpt. And then she smiled. In that smile, Y/n felt something familiar yet strange, as if she were facing a younger version of her mother, but instead of being terrifying, it was comforting. What was happening?

“Y/n L/n?” Pamela said, her voice reminiscent of the whisper of dry leaves underfoot.

“Yes, that’s me,” Y/n answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, even though everything inside her felt out of place.

Pamela sat down across from her, crossing her legs with an almost feline elegance. The BatCafé seemed to conspire around them; the air smelled of wet earth and freshly brewed coffee, a strange mix, like the combination of what was about to be born and what had already died.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” Y/n began, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what she was expecting.

“Strange?” Pamela completed, with a playful smile that left Y/n with a sense of defeat and fascination in equal parts.

“Something like that,” Y/n replied, looking at Pamela’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were covered in small green spots, as if she had just planted a forest with her own hands. There was something almost magical about her, as if every part of her being was connected to the earth in a way that Y/n couldn’t quite understand. And there, amid that confusion, was the fine thread of attraction.

Pamela let her gaze fall on her own latte, turning it between her hands as if it were about to reveal some hidden secret in the foam.

“So, what do you do? I mean… aside from, you know… looking like you walked out of a Tim Burton movie,” Y/n said, attempting a bit of humor to ease the tension she felt in her stomach.

Pamela glanced at her and laughed softly, a laugh that felt like an unexpected breeze on a hot day.

“I’m… a caretaker. Of plants.” She paused, gauging Y/n’s reaction. “And other things.”

“Other things?” Y/n asked, intrigued but also amused by the way Pamela toyed with the mystery.

“Yes, like people who don’t know how to water a plant without drowning it,” she replied, arching an eyebrow mischievously.

The response made Y/n laugh, a laugh she hadn’t expected, as if Pamela had found a way to touch something deep within her, something that hadn’t bloomed in a long time. And without being able to help it, she felt drawn, not just by the way Pamela moved, spoke, or even by the air of mystery surrounding her, but because there was something more, something familiar, something that reminded her of her mother, but without the shadows of authority and judgment. It was like a wild, free version of what had once been security.

“So… are you going to save my cactus or criticize it?” Y/n said, trying to sound casual while feeling that her heart had started playing a game of chess with her emotions.

Pamela smiled again, and this time it was a different smile, one that seemed to carry a promise.

“It depends. Would you let me stay to try?” Pamela said, with a playful seriousness that left Y/n unsure whether the question was about the cactus or something much larger.

Y/n blinked, trying to process the phrase, but deep down she knew that any answer would sound awkward. Pamela’s question hung in the air between them like a leaf falling slowly, right at the perfect point where it was neither entirely a joke nor completely serious. And there she was, caught in that space, wondering whether she should laugh or just blush.

“Well… you can try,” she finally said, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her face. “But I can’t promise the cactus will survive. I’m something like… a serial plant killer... When I was younger, I had time to care for them as they deserved, with help from… from my father. But now work consumes me a lot, and the truth is I’ve neglected them too much… they must feel the same way I felt when… sorry, I talk too much about myself, don’t I?”

Pamela raised an eyebrow, with a smile that seemed to say more than either of them dared to voice at that moment.

“Oh, no, keep talking about yourself; I’m used to it. I have very… eccentric friends, to be honest.” She leaned a bit closer, as if about to share a secret. “Though I prefer not to work under threats, so don’t look at me like I’m going to be your next plant murder victim. But I doubt a little scared bat can kill even a fly.”

Y/n laughed nervously, surprised at how easy Pamela made everything. She, who had always been clumsy with conversations and glances, felt like the words flowed with Pamela in a way she didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to question either.

“...Little Bat?” Y/n asked, with a clumsy and blushing smile as her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her cup.

Pamela let out a low giggle, that laugh that always seemed to carry the sound of dry leaves being trampled in autumn. With a gentle gesture, she pointed to her clothes.

“Is it that obvious?” she said with a half-smile, raising a playful eyebrow as she leaned a little forward.

She wore a dark fur coat, enormous, with a wide fall that, under the dim light of the BatCafé, seemed to have the precise shape of bat wings extending. The high, well-fitted black boots completed the image of a figure that seemed to have emerged from the very shadows. And for a moment, Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or get lost in that air of mystery that Pamela seemed to wear like a second coat.

“Well…” Y/n diverted her gaze with a shy smile, “it’s not like you’re hiding it much.”

Pamela smiled with that touch of mischief that characterized her.

“Does it bother you? I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve been fascinated by bats since I was little.” she asked, her voice low and slow, as if measuring every word, as if the world were a delicate plant that required to be touched with the tips of her fingers.

Y/n let out a small nervous laugh, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks again.

“No, not at all. I think it’s…” she hesitated for a second, searching for the right word, unsure how to avoid the obvious, “I think it suits you well.”

Pamela watched her for a moment, and then, with that look that always seemed to go beyond what words said, added:

“You’re turning red, you know?”

Y/n’s eyes widened a bit more, surprised by Pamela’s directness, but all she could do was laugh at herself.

“Well, it’s just that, I’m not really used to… this.”

“This?” Pamela repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sharing coffee with someone or bats?”

“Both,” Y/n admitted, shrugging, which provoked another smile from Pamela. “I always wanted one as a pet… but I have a vegan little brother who’s very… spooky… so I’ve always been afraid he’d steal it from me or accuse me of having exotic pets.”

Pamela settled into the chair, not taking her eyes off Y/n.

“But you’ll get used to it,” she paused, letting her words float calmly.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of nerves and a spark of something she couldn’t quite define. Pamela’s dark coat and relaxed smile were a disconcerting yet strangely familiar contrast, as if they had always been there, waiting for her. And suddenly, all she could do was wonder how soon that would happen… getting used to it.

“Although I can’t promise my apartment isn’t… a battlefield,” Y/n said, trying to sound confident, but noticing the slight tremor in her voice.

Pamela looked at her intently for a moment, with that mix of flirtation and something deeper, something that seemed impossible to decipher completely. Then she relaxed in the chair, as if the game had just begun.

“A battlefield, huh?” she said, playing with the spoon of her coffee. “Well, I like challenges. And chaotic places have their own charm if you know where to look.” Pamela let the phrase slide smoothly, like someone throwing a stone into a lake and waiting for the ripples.

Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that every word Pamela spoke carried a double meaning, but far from making her feel uncomfortable, it sparked something akin to contained laughter, as if they were sharing a private joke that she was just beginning to access.

“Don’t you have plants at home?” Pamela suddenly asked, as if the question had sprung from the foam of her coffee.

“Well, there are a couple of cacti… and a fern that I think hates me,” Y/n replied. “But I always forget to water them. Or I overwater them. Seriously, it’s like plants come to me already doomed.”

Pamela smiled, one of those slow smiles that seem to grow little by little, like a sprout deciding when the perfect moment to emerge into the light is.

“It’s not just about water, Y/n,” she said, with that voice that seemed to carry the calm of the wind and the weight of centuries of nature. “Plants need attention. Patience. Sometimes they just want to know you’re there, even if you don’t say anything.” She paused, letting Y/n’s gaze get lost in her eyes. “Sometimes, like people.”

Y/n felt a little shiver. It wasn’t what Pamela was saying, but how she was saying it. There was something in her voice that disarmed her, as if every word had been calculated to penetrate a defense that Y/n hadn’t even realized she had up. And then, almost without thinking, she let slip a truth she rarely shared.

“I’m not very good with people.” The confession came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said it without drama, almost as if she were talking about the weather. But something in Pamela changed, barely perceptible, like a leaf moving without the wind touching it.

“Really?” Pamela asked softly, but without an ounce of pity. Just curiosity.

Y/n looked down for a moment, fiddling with the edge of her cup, before daring to continue.

“I grew up in a huge house, but… empty. My father… well, he was busy with his things. Business, parties, the usual. Shrugging it off, wanting to downplay it, even though inside she knew it wasn’t something that could easily fade away. Alfred, the butler, raised me. And yes, he was amazing. But it was always just him and no one else. It’s not the same as having… friends.”

Pamela listened in silence, but not in that awkward way where people listen just to see how you respond afterward. No, there was something in her attention that enveloped Y/n, as if she were giving her space to bare herself without fear of being judged.

“You never had friends,” Pamela asserted more than asked.

Y/n shook her head.

“Until now,” Pamela said, with that same softness that seemed to have become her trademark, and something in Y/n’s chest stirred, as if she had just heard the most important thing in the world.

There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that somehow connected them. And then Pamela broke the spell, with a mischievous smile that lit everything up again.

“So… are you going to let me be your first friend, or would you rather keep killing plants?”

Y/n couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, a sincere and liberating laugh, as if something inside her had broken an invisible chain. After all, it was clear that Pamela wasn’t just another person passing through her life. There was something different about her, something that made the air feel lighter, that made the future seem less uncertain.

“Well, if you can survive the cactus…” Y/n said, leaving the sentence unfinished, but knowing Pamela would understand.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt that everything might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, Pamela Isley wasn’t just a roommate, but the first person in a long time with whom she could imagine a less lonely future. She was already caught in that web, and the worst, or perhaps the best part, was that she didn’t care at all.

Bruce Wayne was sitting in the mansion's garden on a gray afternoon that seemed to drag memories along like the wind drags fallen leaves. In his hands, a cup of black coffee, still steaming, its strong and bitter aroma mingling with the scent of damp earth after the rain. In front of him, on a small wrought-iron table, rested a piece of dark chocolate cake topped with melting strawberry ice cream, forming a pink puddle around it. But he found no pleasure in the view. It was more of a bitter symbol of a routine he once believed unbreakable.

In the garden, where the wilted flowers swayed gently, a little girl flitted about with contagious energy, as if the chill of the afternoon did not exist for her. Her laughter, so innocent and pure, filled the air, breaking the sepulchral silence that seemed to reign in that old home for a moment. She wore a pink dress with small white dots, an 80s style that would have been charming in another time but now seemed out of place with the scene. Her patent leather shoes shone as she ran back and forth, chasing her dolls.

In her small hands, she held action figures, one of the Batman her father portrayed and another of the Joker, his eternal rival. The girl, no older than six, organized her battles with adorable seriousness. In a high-pitched, mischievous voice, she brought the characters to life, staging an epic duel between hero and villain.

“You won’t defeat me this time, Batman!” she exclaimed, raising the Joker figure with a malevolent laugh.

“I will stop you! I always do...” she replied with her other hand, giving voice to Batman, but with a childlike touch that contrasted with the darkness of the character.

Bruce watched the scene with a mix of tenderness and pain. He knew she wasn’t really there, that this vision was nothing more than a distant echo of what never was. Y/n, his little Y/n, had vanished months ago. And he… he had never given her the love she deserved, always wrapped in his own shadows, in his endless struggle to protect a city that never rested.

The air felt thick, heavy with nostalgia and regret. The girl continued to play, laughing, talking to her dolls, oblivious to the weight of the years, to the loss. And Bruce, although he knew it was an illusion, couldn’t look away; he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to give her what he never knew how to offer. What it would have been like to see her grow, to laugh more, to run through those gardens with the carefree spirit only childhood allows.

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps interrupted the daydream. Alfred appeared at the garden entrance, always elegant, always with that air of discretion and understanding that only he possessed. He approached slowly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as if he understood the pain that kept him trapped in that scene.

“Mr. Wayne” he said in a low voice, filled with compassion, “it’s time to come back.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting Alfred’s words seep into his consciousness. He knew what they meant. He knew that girl, in her 80s dress and her dolls, was nothing but an idealized memory, a distorted reflection of what never was. Because Y/n wasn’t like that. She didn’t like those old dresses; she had always preferred the fashion of the 2000s, with its vibrant colors and comfortable clothes. And she never enjoyed the chocolate cake now sitting in front of him. She liked carrot cake, simple and sweet, but he had never paid attention to those details when he still could.

How did he know those little details about his daughter? Bruce often wondered. It wasn’t because he had learned them by being close, because proximity had been a luxury he never allowed himself. No, those small fragments of her life he had discovered in the album that Alfred kept with an almost reverential discretion. That album was more than just an object; it was a silent refuge where Alfred had archived what the big house, always filled with shadows and echoes of footsteps that never came, had refused to hold.

The day the children learned of the album’s existence marked the beginning of a chaos he still remembered with a mix of exasperation and a contained smile. They had decided, like little conspirators, that treasure belonged to them. A kind of all-out battle had ensued in the mansion, something that over time acquired the quality of family legends.

Bruce, standing in the study, could still see the sparkle in Damian’s eyes, the intensity, the almost playful fury with which he had taken that assault as a personal mission. Damian, with his perpetual impatience, had been the fiercest of all. He vividly remembered how his youngest son had burst into the room wielding two katanas, with the cold precision of a millennia-old warrior, even though his hands were still too small to fully grasp the handles.

“It’s mine!” Damian shouted, with that mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that only the youngest possess, as if he could cut not only the air but the very uncomfortable silence that always floated between them.

“It belongs to all of us, Damian” Bruce had tried to intervene, with that authoritative voice that, curiously, never managed to control his own children as he did with the chaos of the city.

But Damian wasn’t listening. For him, the album was not just an object; it was a relic, a bridge to something he felt but couldn’t name. His sister Y/n, so distant in daily life, was closer in those pages than in any superficial conversation they had ever had. She was his sister, but not enough. He wanted those photos, those notes that Alfred had kept, he wanted to understand what it was about her that slipped away from him daily.

Bruce watched from the threshold, not really intervening. He let the chaos unfold, as if it were necessary. The children fought, but it wasn’t just for the album. They fought for something deeper, a kind of silent reclamation of what they had never been able to have: time, connection, perhaps even love. Alfred, from a corner, merely smiled with that quiet wisdom, knowing that those battles of childish katanas, of shouts and disputes over photos and notes, were actually the way they tried to find each other in a house full of absences.

Bruce sighed, remembering. Alfred had always known more than he did, always understood those invisible things that Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to, could never quite grasp. And so it was that he himself, at the end of it all, also ended up snooping in that album, with a silent curiosity he would never admit. There, in those carefully tended pages, he found his daughter. Or at least, he found the idea of her, the pieces of a life he hadn’t shared but that, somehow, had always been present in those photos, in those little notes that Alfred, more of a father than he was, had kept with such love.

“She won’t come back, Alfred... I lost her... maybe forever... ” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible, as if admitting it aloud would make her absence more real—“and I… I was never there for her as I should have been.”

The old butler sighed, his tired eyes filled with infinite patience.

“It’s never too late to remember, sir. It’s never too late to honor her memory in the right way.”

Bruce opened his eyes, looking again at the scene, but this time more clearly. The girl had disappeared.

The wind blew gently through the Wayne mansion's garden, carrying away the murmur of the dry leaves. Bruce remained motionless, as if the weight of the years, of the mistakes, had turned him into another statue in that landscape. The aroma of coffee had dissipated, and the cake before him remained untouched. Y/n’s figure still floated in his mind, her laughter like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade but also wouldn’t console him.

Alfred, with the patience only a father at heart could have, stood by his side, his firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if in that gesture he could transmit strength to face the pain that gnawed at him.

“Mr. Wayne” Alfred began, his voice soft but laden with meaning, “the kids have gone looking for Y/n again.”

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing those words to sink into his consciousness. He knew all the Robins and Batgirls had been following leads, searching for answers in the darkest corners of Gotham, but the emptiness he felt remained overwhelming. They had failed so many times… what did another attempt matter? The city, always hungry for its heroes, seemed more a trap than a cause.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Alfred” Bruce replied, his voice rough, worn down by years of struggle. “None of this will change what happened. Y/n… is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Alfred interjected, this time with a firmer tone, “Y/n is still out there. And as long as there’s a single chance to find her, you cannot allow yourself to give up.”

Silence stretched between them. Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on some point in the garden, lost in thought. But Alfred, with his usual insight, knew he needed more than empty words to awaken him.

“There’s something else,” Alfred added, taking a breath, “a new figure appeared last night during a robbery in the East District. They call her Kerosene. The White Bat. She was seen taking out a group of assailants in seconds.”

Bruce didn’t react. Kerosene. The city had always generated figures willing to fill the void he had left every time he stepped away, every time Gotham lost the light of its vigilante. But this time, he didn’t feel the urgency to learn more. What did it matter? He repeated to himself. Gotham already had its heroes.

“I don’t care” he murmured, his voice empty, as cold as the air surrounding the garden—“Let others deal with Gotham. Kerosene, the Joker, or whoever… the city doesn’t need me anymore.”

Alfred tightened his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, almost like a father refusing to see his son give up. He stepped forward, and this time his voice was lower but more incisive.

“This isn’t about Gotham, sir,” he said with an intensity Bruce hadn’t expected—“It’s about Y/n.”

Bruce lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting Alfred’s, as if those words had ignited a spark within him.

“If you don’t want to protect this city, do it for her ” Alfred continued—“Because you will find her, sir. I’m sure of it. And when you do… how would you want her to find you? Destroyed? Defeated? No. You need to be ready, you need to be strong, for her. Wherever she is, Y/n is still waiting for her father.”

Bruce felt the pain in his chest intensify, a constant reminder of his failure, but Alfred was right. Y/n was somewhere out there. Alive or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as long as he didn’t find her, he couldn’t give up.

“The kids have done everything they can to find her,” Alfred said, softening his tone—“They’re still at it. Every day they search for new leads, explore new corners of Gotham… but there’s only one man who can put everything in order. There’s only one father who can bring her back.”

The air tensed between them, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt a slight tremor inside. He remembered the moment he decided to become Batman, driven by the guilt and pain of losing his parents. Now, that same guilt, that same pain, called to him again, but this time, it wasn’t for Gotham. It was for Y/n. His daughter.

“Tell me, Alfred, who is this Kerosene?” Bruce murmured, finally reacting to the information Alfred had given him.

“Yes, sir. Her abilities are astonishing, according to reports. Agile, fast… but her true identity remains a mystery. Some say she’s just another vigilante trying to fill the void you left. But the important thing is that she is acting with lethal precision.”

Bruce stood slowly, leaving the cup of coffee on the table, already cold and forgotten. He looked at the empty garden, but this time, with a new determination blooming in his chest.

“If this Kerosene is connected… if there’s any link to Y/n, I will find out,” he said, his voice firmer, closer to the one Alfred had known for so many years—“And if not… then I’ll find her myself.”

Alfred nodded, a mix of relief and satisfaction reflected on his face. He had managed to awaken the man Gotham needed, but more than that, he had awakened the father Y/n deserved.

“ Very well, sir,he replied with a slight smile, always the unwavering servant—“The Batcave is ready for your return.”

Bruce turned toward the mansion, but not before glancing once more at the garden, where Y/n’s figure, so real in his mind, faded like morning mist.

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Richard “Dick” Grayson knocked forcefully on the old apartment door, the echo resonating in the narrow hallway of the building, where dust gathered in the corners like forgotten memories and the lights flickered as if trying to perform one last dance before going out. Beside him, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, crossed her arms, staring at the door with an intensity that could have splintered the wood.

Jason Todd, restless to his left, kept his gaze fixed on the doorknob, his body tense, as if each passing second brought him one step closer to breaking through that wooden barrier. Above, on the roof, Red Robin, The Spoiler, and Batgirl waited, shadows in a world that seemed to ignore their pounding hearts, ready to act.

“I don’t know why we always have to deal with the worst specimens of humanity,” Barbara murmured, adjusting her coat as she shot a sidelong glance at Dick, who seemed to have a plan in mind.

“Because we’re lucky,” Jason replied, sarcasm lacing his words, a crooked smile on his lips that didn’t quite fit the situation. “And when I say ‘lucky,’ I mean we’re carrying someone else's karma because we… are screwed.”

Dick knocked on the door again, this time with more force. The echo reverberated through the hallways, a declaration of intent.

“We should break it down. You know it’s not going to open just from a gentle knock,” Jason said, stepping forward, his intention clear and palpable.

“Calm down, Jason. Not all problems are solved with violence,” Barbara retorted, though a part of her knew that idea faded every time they found themselves in a situation like this.

“Sure, as if we have another option. Do you want me to schedule a tea date instead of kicking down the door?” Jason frowned, the tension palpable.

Finally, a sound came from behind the door. Chains, the metallic echo of locks being unlatched with a maddening slowness, as if someone on the other side knew that every second of wait was boiling the blood of the three standing before the door. At last, the door opened just enough to reveal a face: the landlord. A short man with small eyes and a slimy smile that seemed to ooze like dirty oil through his yellowed teeth.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at Dick with suspicion, but his gaze soon dropped to Barbara, lingering unpleasantly on her figure, and then to Jason, who had already tensed the muscles in his jaw.

“We’re looking for Y/n Wayne L/n,” Dick said, trying to maintain his composure, the heat of anger threatening to overflow. “We know she lives here. And we know you know where she is.”

The man let out a laugh under his breath, a rusty squeak that resonated like a heavy joke.

“Ah, the pretty girl… yeah, yeah. And who are you all, huh?” he asked, his slimy tone sending chills that seemed to crawl over Dick's skin.

“It’s none of your concern. We just want to know where she is,” Barbara said, her voice firm and resolute, although the tension in her body betrayed her impatience.

The landlord tilted his head, like a cat playing with its prey, and smiled with a disturbing mischief.

“Well, if you haven’t found her in five months, maybe you don’t want to know,” he said, letting the words drop like stones in a pond, creating ripples of discomfort.

“I warn you, this isn’t a game,” Jason interjected, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me remind you what can happen when a man plays with fire.”

The man shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, although the glint in his eyes betrayed him.

Jason's hand rested near his belt, right where he kept his gun, and although he hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, the threat was clear.

The landlord noticed but instead of being scared, he wore a repugnant smile, like a predator that had just spotted a wounded prey. His gaze shifted back to Barbara, and then, without the slightest respect, murmured something that made Dick’s fists clench.

“Ah, Y/n... yeah, I remember her. She came around when she had just turned eighteen. Good material, if you catch my drift. She looked innocent, but... those are the most interesting ones, right?” The man's gaze darkened, scanning Barbara again, as if evaluating merchandise.

“Say that again,” Jason growled, drawing his gun in a motion so quick that the landlord barely had time to blink before feeling the cold barrel pressed against his forehead. “And I swear I’ll blow your brains out right here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, loaded with contempt and a lust that twisted like a snake inside him.

The man let out a cynical chuckle, relishing the moment.

“The last time I saw pretty Y/n was a while back. I don’t know what she’s up to now, but I kept some pictures of her and her friend.” His tone was defiant, almost mocking.

Rage was bubbling in Jason. His fists were clenched, a deadly spark in his eyes.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled between anger and control, like a string about to snap.

The landlord, feeling invincible, continued. “I don’t know if they’re lesbians, but seeing them together was quite the spectacle. Both of them were hot, you know?”

Jason could no longer hold back. The anger erupted like a volcano.

“Shut up!” he shouted, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence that had invaded the room.

Before the landlord could react, Jason pulled his gun, aiming with precision.

“I’m going to give you one chance. Tell me where Y/n is. Now.”

The man’s laughter faded, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, wait, there’s no need to…”

“WHERE?!” Jason's voice thundered, firm and filled with rage, like a storm rumbling in the atmosphere.

The tension became palpable, the air thick with promises of violence.

“Alright, alright!” the landlord stammered, but Jason’s voice turned even colder.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“She just left for work at night and that’s it…” he started to say, but Jason could no longer hear. The man had photos of Y/n. Compromising, crude, and that simple mention ignited hell in his chest.

In an instant, the sound of an explosion resonated in the hallway, and the man fell to the ground, his silly smile erased by the terror that had overtaken his face. Blood gushed forth in a dark torrent, staining the floor and nearby walls.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, while Dick stood frozen, stunned.

“Jason!” she exclaimed, but the image of the landlord lying on the ground with his vacant stare was etched in her mind.

Jason holstered the weapon, his breath rapid and uncontrolled. He had crossed a line, and in that moment, he realized there was no turning back. Anger had found a way to break free, but at a terrible cost.

“I won’t let anyone hurt Y/n again,” he murmured, his eyes filled with determination. No one else would stand in his way to find her, no matter the price he had to pay.

The room was saturated with the echo of the gunshot, and the silence grew heavy, almost palpable. Barbara took a deep breath, the anger sparking in her eyes as she looked at Jason, who still seemed dazed by the act he had committed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, her voice contained but sharp as a blade. “That’s why we didn’t bring Damian along, because he would have gone off just the same, but in a much more reckless way.” Her gaze fixed on the corpse, lying in a pool of blood, a scene that could have come from the mind of a disturbed artist.

Jason, with his chest heaving and jaw clenched, simply shrugged.

“I couldn’t just stand by. He knew something, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.” The fervor in his voice didn’t hide the confusion that was beginning to seep in, like the cold of the night creeping through the windows.

Barbara didn’t respond, but the silence that filled the room grew even denser when the others entered, alarmed by the gunshot. Tim, Stephanie, and Cass arrived, their expressions filled with concern that quickly transformed into indignation.

“What happened here?” Tim asked, his eyes widening at the scene. Blood slid across the floor like a dark river, and the landlord’s body faded beneath the flickering light.

“Are you crazy, Jason?!” Steph exclaimed, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Cass crouched down, her expression grave as she looked at the fallen man. She didn’t need to speak to convey her disapproval; every glance said more than a thousand words.

“It doesn’t matter how we got here,” Dick intervened, his authoritative tone trying to restore order. “We need answers. Let’s investigate.”

With a determined movement, Barbara approached the body, while Jason still breathed irregularly, as if the weight of his actions began to settle on him. Barbara looked around; the apartment was a dusty and sad place, filled with shadows that seemed to whisper secrets.

As the others searched, Tim found a series of photos pinned to the walls, each one showing Y/n and other women from the area, frozen laughter in time, trapped between moments that should have been happy. However, there was something unsettling about the way they were arranged, a disorder that seemed a declaration of possession.

“Look at this,” Tim said, pointing to the images. There was Y/n, always smiling, but next to her was a figure that couldn’t be ignored. The silhouette of Pamela Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, stood beside her, her red hair like a fire that seemed to consume the sadness of the place.

“Pamela…” Cass murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s been in Arkham for three months.”

Barbara moved closer, examining the photos more closely. “This is more complicated than we thought. Ivy has been involved, and that changes everything.”

Jason, still trying to comprehend the chaos he had unleashed, ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find Y/n. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Barbara looked at him, her expression one of challenge but also understanding. “We can’t do this recklessly. We have to be smart. Silent.”

The group nodded, realizing that the road ahead would be filled with dangers, but also promises of redemption. They were all willing to kill for Y/n, but they had to do it quietly, like shadows slipping through the streets at night.

“Listen, we’re going to find her,” Dick said, his voice resonating like a mantra. “No matter how many doors we have to break down, how many truths we have to drag into the light.”

And so, in the echo of the silence that followed the violence, the five united in a tacit pact, intertwining their destinies in the search for Y/n. Each lost in their thoughts, each remembering that shadows sometimes have the power to conceal not only secrets but also the light that clings to hope.

The shadows stretched as they moved away from the apartment, leaving behind the vestige of a dead man and the echo of trapped laughter. The search had begun, and Y/n’s fate hung in the balance, a thread of light in the darkness that promised to bloom amid the ruins of despair.

The city lights flickered in the distance, like lost stars in the asphalt.

The tears of Y/n fell onto the slippery ground, forming puddles that blended with the blood, a dark ruby staining every part of her thin body, as if sins were being tattooed onto her skin. The humidity of the place smelled of iron and fear, of broken promises and a destiny she had chosen but didn’t quite know how to accept.

“It doesn’t feel good, little one?” said the Doctor, his voice a bitter whisper echoing off the damp walls of the room. He, with his dirty blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, wore a white coat that looked more like a rag than a symbol of authority. A cynical smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than the fate he had designed for her. “Bathing in the blood of enemies, isn’t it an exquisite pleasure?”

Y/n, her gaze lost at a point on the floor, nodded slowly, as if each movement cost her an eternity. The blood, warm and sticky, slid between her fingers, a sensory experience that drowned her in contradictions. On one hand, there was a dark delight in the power that image conferred upon her, a power she had learned to wield. But on the other hand, there was an abyss of pain threatening to consume her.

“It’s…” she whispered, barely able to form words. Her voice trembled like a leaf in autumn, indecision etched in her features. Guilt suffocated her, and each tear that fell was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she had left behind.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her, his eyes lit by a glow that was not exactly compassion, but rather a cruel satisfaction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, scrutinizing the dark corners of her soul. “Is it pleasure you feel, or is it fear?”

Y/n recoiled, feeling her skin burn under his gaze. The Doctor’s words tangled in her mind, forming a knot that seemed impossible to untie. Her voice, almost a cry for help, resonated in the air.

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain.” The words shot out like arrows, but only managed to embed their tips in the empty air, finding no destination. She trembled, caught between repulsion and the desire to free herself from the invisible chains that kept her anchored in that place.

The Doctor let out a cold laugh, as if he were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. With a careless gesture, he threw another bucket of blood onto the floor, creating a small puddle that slid toward Y/n.

“That is the beauty of your situation, my dear. You have been chosen to cleanse Gotham of the scum, and along the way, you will discover that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.”

“Chosen?” replied Y/n, her voice shaking with the fierce mix of disbelief and rage. “Chosen for what? To be your puppet?”

The Doctor stepped closer, letting the distance between them fade. His presence was oppressive, like a shadow that swallowed light.

“You are not a puppet, Kerosene” he said, pronouncing her name as if caressing it. “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution. The tears that fall now are the ashes of the old you, and it’s time you embrace what awaits you.”

Y/n felt the air grow dense, as if the Doctor’s words were trying to envelop her, to convince her. But there was a truth in his voice, an echo of what she had longed for deep within her being. Hadn’t she been searching for purpose, a place to belong?

“No… I don’t want to be what you’ve made me.” she said, though her voice sounded more hesitant than determined. It was as if reality slipped around her, like the slippery ground she stood on.

“Of course you do, Y/n.” He smiled, and there was something unsettling in that smile, something that made her feel she was on the brink of a revelation. “Your pain is the echo of the city, and you, little one, can be its savior.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, and Y/n felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, the possibility of becoming Kerosene, the force of vengeance and power. She fought against the idea, but there was a part of her that was beginning to awaken, to open like a flower in the desert.

“So, what do I have to do?” she asked, finally facing the reality that surrounded her. The tears, instead of being a sign of weakness, now seemed a recognition of her new identity.

The Doctor looked at her with a mix of satisfaction and complicity, like a teacher who sees the spark of greatness in his student.

“First, you must accept that the past does not define your future. The blood that surrounds you is only the first step toward freedom. Become what you have always been. Your destiny is to burn, and in doing so, illuminate others.”

Y/n felt the weight of her decision slowly fading away. By accepting her destiny, she had found a new way to free herself, a purpose that shone like fire.

“Then I will do it.” she said, her voice now firm and resonant, as if she were finally embracing the darkness that had always dwelled within her. “I will be Kerosene.”

The Doctor smiled, and in that smile lay a world of possibilities. Together, they could shake the foundations of Gotham.

“That’s right, my dear Kerosene.” He stepped back, allowing his figure to fade into the shadows..“And remember, every decision you make will be a step toward glory or toward downfall. The line is thin, and you are destined to cross it.”

“What about them?” Y/n asked, pointing to the shadows surrounding her, referring to the Waynes who remained silent in their luxurious prison of silence. “Where is Batman?”

The Doctor paused, his gaze turning serious and contemplative.

“Since your appearance, the Waynes have become shadows of what they once were. Batman has vanished, as if fear has locked him in his own game. They don’t want you to know the truth, and I wonder if, deep down, he fears what you are capable of.”

“Fears?” repeated Y/n, incredulity splattering her voice like a rain of dead stars. “Why?”

“Because the truth is that there is no longer space for the good in this city.” The Doctor stepped closer, his tone low but filled with fervor. “Soon you will go after the Court of Owls. We will expose those monsters in the streets, as they deserve, and they will have no one to defend them. Not even their beloved bat.”

A chill ran down Y/n's spine. The idea of stepping out into the night, of facing the villains who had ravaged her city, filled her with a strange power. She remembered Pamela, laughing amidst the shadows, her voice like an echo urging her to fight.

“I will not be their puppet. I do not want to be a pawn in a bigger game.” The words erupted from her with the force of an approaching storm, and the vision of Pamela dancing among the flowers filled her with a sudden sweetness.

“You will not be a pawn, Kerosene.” The Doctor smiled, and in his eyes was an air of admiration. “You are the queen in this game. Your vengeance will not only bring down those villains, but it will also seek the man behind the mask of Batman. We need to end him.”

“End him?” The question hung in the air like a trembling whisper. Her heart stopped for an instant, remembering the nights spent with Batman, the unspoken words, the caresses of an absent father.

“Yes. Because he, like them, has become a legend that needs to fall.”

Y/n felt the darkness looming over her, a shadow whispering promises of power and pain. But there was something more, a spark igniting within her, a fire burning with the strength of a new dawn.

“Then I will do it.” said Y/n, her voice resonating with a clarity that surprised her. “I will expose the Court of Owls and make my father see.”

The Doctor watched Y/n with palpable satisfaction, as if he had finally ignited a spark deep within her being. With a gesture of his hand, he made the invisible shackles that kept her trapped fade away. In that moment, a strange freedom slipped over her skin, a freedom laden with dark responsibility.

“Come, Kerosene.” he said, his voice now a hypnotic chant rising among the shadows. “There is something you need to see.”

He led her through a labyrinth of damp hallways, each step resonating like an echo of past decisions. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, tales of those who had fallen into the abyss before her. As they advanced, the light of day faded, and the gloom became an accomplice to their thoughts.

Finally, they reached the balcony of the building, a place where time had stopped its march. The Doctor gently pushed Y/n toward the railing, forcing her to look out over the vast expanse of Gotham that stretched before them. The city was a canvas of flickering lights and deep shadows, a portrait of intertwined chaos and order.

“Look, little one.” the Doctor whispered, his voice wrapping around her like a veil of mystery. “This is your city, a monster that feeds on the secrets you hold in your chest. The blood that stains your skin is a symbol of the struggle that lies ahead.”

Y/n leaned over the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind caress her bare skin. The city glimmered like a sea of dying stars, each light a story, each shadow a whisper of betrayal. The vision enveloped her, and for a moment, she felt like a spectator of her own destiny.

Her bare skin, still stained with blood, prickled at the chill of Gotham, a freezing breeze sneaking through the cracks of crumbling buildings, as if the city itself reminded her that she was alive, that darkness embraced her with its mantle of forgetfulness and despair. Each small contact of the air made her more aware of her vulnerability, and at the same time, of the power that blossomed from within her. It was a reminder that, amidst chaos, she was the spark of a new flame.

The puddles of blood that had stained her skin, silent witnesses to her transformation, shone like a dark ruby under the dim light of the moon. In that moment, each drop was an echo of past decisions, a symbol of the life she had left behind. And yet, in her mind, the Doctor's words echoed: “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution.” The irony of her state wrapped her in a sweet and bitter confusion; deep down, her nakedness felt like a release.

The city stretched before her, a vast ocean of twinkling lights and lurking shadows. Gotham, in its complexity, seemed to breathe, a living being pulsing with stories of pain and longing. The streetlights flickered as if about to go out, and Y/n felt that each flicker was a whisper calling her, a reminder that she was destined to be part of something much larger than herself.

As she gazed at the horizon, her mind filled with images: the faces of those she had lost, those she had loved, and those she had to confront. Her heart wrestled between the desire for vengeance and the longing for redemption.

“What do you see?” asked the Doctor, his eyes shining with an unsettling intensity.

“I see…” Y/n began, but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. The city was a labyrinth of emotions, a stage where pain and pleasure intertwined in a macabre dance. It was a reflection of her own internal struggle, her desire for vengeance and her yearning for redemption.

“I see a sea of shadows, a stage where illusions collapse like houses of cards.” she finally replied, her voice echoing. “Each light, a hope; each shadow, a whisper of unhappiness.”

“Perfect.” The Doctor smiled, his face illuminated by an almost fraternal satisfaction. “Gotham is a mirror, and you are the light that can break the darkness. You must be able to see beyond what shines.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, tearing through the veil of confusion that enveloped her. In that instant, Y/n understood that every tear shed had fed the city, that every drop of blood on her hands was an echo of what she had lost. And yet, vengeance offered her a new purpose, a path into the unknown.

“The city cries for change, for a fire to purify it” she whispered, her voice gaining strength in the night breeze. “And I… I am that fire.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Doctor nodded, a mix of pride and malice in his expression. “The fire that will purify Gotham and, in its wake, consume everything that stands in your way.”

Y/n felt the air fill with electricity, a palpable current connecting her to the city, to its pain and desire. Deep within her, something began to change. She was no longer just a puppet; she was no longer merely the shadow of her past. She was Kerosene, the spark that would ignite the flame of change.

“But, Doctor, what about those who love the darkness?” she asked, her voice now an echo of what she had learned. “What if they cling to their shadow?”

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his penetrating gaze filled with complicity.

“Darkness is a possessive lover, but there is always a price to pay. The truth is that they cannot hold onto it forever. And when the fire burns, only those ready to be reborn will be saved.”

Y/n felt a mixture of anguish and determination. The city before her became a symbol of her internal struggle, a stage where light and shadow intertwined in an eternal game. Every street, every building, every corner whispered her name in a song of warning and challenge.

“And when the fire consumes everything in its path, will there be anything left of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with the fragility of a leaf in the wind.

The Doctor smiled, a smile that seemed to mock the questions still dancing in her mind.

“Perhaps, dear Kerosene, you will find yourself in the act of burning. Or maybe, you will fade into the ash. That is the enigma of transformation: in the fire, death is merely the prelude to a new beginning.”

As she gazed at the city, Y/n felt her identity fragment and fuse, in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. The image of Gotham before her became a metaphor for the human soul, a reflection of the struggles everyone faced in the darkness. The city, with its chaos and its heartbreaking beauty, enveloped her like a hug.

With one last look at the flickering lights and lurking shadows, Y/n stepped back, a firm decision rising within her.

“There’s no turning back now” she murmured, her voice an echo of her new reality. “I will be the fire that illuminates this eternal night.”

The Doctor, with a gesture of approval, retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone in her revelation. As the city spread before her, a mantle of mystery and power, Y/n knew that the true journey was just beginning. The line between fire and ash was thin, and in her chest burned the certainty that by crossing it, nothing would ever be the same.

“So be it, Kerosene” she said to herself as the wind enveloped her in secret whispers. “Let the fire speak in your name and let the night receive your lament.”

And looking at Gotham, she understood that, in the end, her destiny was not merely to be a spectator, but an unstoppable force, a storm that would unleash chaos. And so, with her heart beating to the rhythm of the city, she prepared to embrace her truth, her fire.

☆

A/N — Here is the long-awaited third part of this series. Thank you for all the support and love you have given me. I decided to make this part longer (at the cost of not being able to include the last image :( ) so that you can enjoy it more.

I was reading your comments where you were asking if Y/n and the Doctor would have a romance (which horrifies me a bit :d, but it gave me an idea) or if he performed a lobotomy on her. Well, that will be answered in the next part or in a headcanon, whatever you ask me.

By the way, in the tag list, there are some users I couldn't add, sorry about that 😔. I really appreciate your understanding and patience. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated to keep creating and sharing these stories. I hope you find this installment engaging and that it brings you the excitement and emotions you’ve come to expect from the series. Enjoy!

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @imnotdumbimstupif @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @sheepintherain @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @kiarst @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

Inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams ' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

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caligvlasaqvarivm · 10 months ago

Text

Murder, Love, and Destiny: An Eridan Ampora Character Study

Warnings for things from Homestuck, like discussions of child abuse, mental illness, murder, suicide, etc. etc.

Because there's a huge wall of text after this point, I'm going to summarize what I hope to convince you of in bullet point format, and then hope you'll actually read the rest of the text before arguing with me about it.

Eridan is the least casteist highblood, if you ignore all the slurs.

Those are his emotional support slurs.

Pale EriKar was not only canon, but set up to be endgame.

Eridan is incredibly plot-relevant, thematically relevant, and was definitely originally intended to be brought back to life, alongside the other dead trolls.

He's Sad.

The first thing we have to establish is what counts as "canon" for the purpose of this essay. I am only counting the original comic up to Game Over, after which there's a general consensus that Hussie kind of gave up on his original planned ending, and slapped together something that most people hate. So I am immediately disqualifying Pesterquest, supplementary material, fanworks deemed canon, the epilogues, and Homestuck^2.

Moreover, we are taking Hussie's commentaries with a grain of salt, for two reasons. The first reason is that I firmly believe - and will be arguing - that the original plan was to bring Eridan (and the other dead trolls) back; therefore, Hussie (who has a track record of playing coy with future plot twists) can't speak too fondly of him, lest he give it away. The second reason for de-emphasizing Hussie's words is that, post-retcon, Hussie isn't very well going to say that he had plans for a better ending, and then didn't execute on them; to save face, he has to act as though his trashing of several prior plot threads, including but not limited to Eridan, was the plan all along.

Therefore, this essay will not be putting too much emphasis on Word of God, and will instead be relying on textual evidence from the comic itself, of which there is plenty. So without further ado:

Eridan is a Consummate Murderer.

The reason I'm starting with this point is that, far more than any other, this truth lies at the core of his being. Eridan is formally introduced to us with a murder, and he's haunted by an overpowering genocide complex. He outright describes to Rose at one point that "killin is all i evver done practically," and uses "murder" as an expletive (ie "swweet stinkin murder"). With a conservative estimate of 5 kills per week for 4 sweeps (Vriska looks VERY young when she has to start killing, and Eridan was likely a similar age when he began), both Eridan and Vriska easily have bodycounts above 2000 - the real number is probably even higher.

At this point, many raise an objection that Eridan is only killing lusii, but I believe we need to count his kills as troll murders, for three reasons: first, a dead lusus results in the orphaned troll being culled; second, one has to assume he has had cases of trolls trying to defend their lusii, or coming after him for vengeance; and third - and most importantly - Eridan HIMSELF is thinking about the orphaned trolls.

Compare Feferi: Go Home:

That should keep her happy for a while. At least until she dies.

To Eridan: Go Home:

That should keep her happy for a while. And make a freshly orphaned troll somewhere very sad.

So Eridan, to a much greater extent than even Feferi, is thinking about the orphaned trolls he's leaving behind, and considers his own actions to be murder.

Now that we've established the facts regarding his murders - a rough bodycount, and the fact that, by his own admission, he barely had any hobbies outside of it - we can move on to the effect that it's had on him. It's not very good!

Vriska's manipul8tions and murders had to be done for her own sake - if she ever stopped, she died. Therefore, much of Vriska's personality revolves around justifying her own actions so she doesn't have to reckon with her softer feelings, like guilt or kindness - which she expresses would be viewed as scandalous by others of her caste.

But if Eridan ever stops feeding Gl'bgolyb, everybody dies. The stakes he has riding on his shoulders are, at all times, the fate of all trolls, including all his friends. Given Dualscar's title was "Orphaner," it's implied that killing lusii for Gl'bgolyb has always been a violet blood's duty, and is seen as such by the others, which is why nobody expresses gratitude for his hard work even a single time.

Which brings us to our next point:

Eridan is Crushed by Anxiety.

If Eridan stops killing lusii, everybody - especially his friends, but everybody else, too - dies.

If Eridan ever shows guilt or kindness, he'll be considered "weak" by the standards of highbloods - he shares this with Vriska.

Eridan is expected, by aristocratic tradition, to take on the mantle of his ancestor Dualscar and finish his work. Dualscar met a comedically cringefail end, so this is a massive undertaking.

Before finding out that god tiering is an option - so, for nearly his entire life - Eridan has had to live with the expectation that he will outlive all of his friends. The lowbloods from culling or dying on the battlefield, the highbloods from old age, and Feferi from being killed by the Empress when she gets old enough.

(This is reflected in who he talks to the most - Feferi, who's the only one with a natural lifespan longer than his, Vriska, who's a highblood, Kanaya, who's practically guaranteed to survive into adulthood, and Karkat, whose anonblood allows Eridan to give him the benefit of the doubt.)

Also if he can't land his concupiscent quadrants he'll die from that too, but that seems pretty secondary to the rest of his concerns.

He can't even make friends with the other highbloods, because sea dwellers are expected to hate and antagonize them.

He had a free ticket into adulthood, but would almost certainly be expected to join the army and serve as a commander. That is to say, his fate of performing the role of a vicious, murderous sea dweller seems dreadfully inevitable to him.

NO WONDER he can't stop having emotional breakdowns. NO WONDER his chatlogs swing wildly from relentless self-aggrandizement to traumadumping. NO WONDER he's obsessed with murder and death and genocide.

Doc Scratch calls him a "vengeful boy on the path of nihilism," and it's not hard to see why: Eridan's entire life has been about living up to the role imposed on him by society, sacrificing his own time and sanity for everyone else, which he "nevver got any appreciation for anywway." And all he had to look forward to was more of the same, all his friends dropping dead one by one before him. For Eridan, there has never been any hope.

SGRUB could have been a way out for him, but a combination of his own terrible choices, spurred on by his anxieties, and his teammates' unwillingness to knock some sense into him, meant that he only wound up mired even deeper in his hopelessness.

We all know about how Eridan wouldn't stop killing the angels on his planet, provoking their aggression and turning it into a ball of death. How he was definitely not supposed to be doing this, and how his stubborn insistence on it led to his further ostracization from the rest of the group. The thing is, when we look at his angel-murders from the point of view that Eridan's entire life has been about murdering things or else Something Bad™ happens, it actually starts to become... kind of sad.

KARKAT: BETWEEN A TRIGGERHAPPY PRINCE WITH A GOD WEAPON BLASTING ANYTHING THAT TWITCHED AND A MILLION CRAZED ANGELS HE DELIBERATELY ENRAGED, IT WASN'T WHAT I'D CALL AN IDEAL SOCIAL HUB. KARKAT: IF YOU WERE LONELY WHY DIDN'T YOU VENTURE OUT MORE OFTEN? ERIDAN: wwell i wwoulda but nobody else wwas vvolunteerin to pick up the slack on angel killin duties

Killing the angels is something he feels like his has to do, because his entire life has been about killing things he doesn't want to kill. He's unable to break out of that mindset on his own, and his unpleasant personality has scared off anyone who might want to help. No one on the team tries to understand his thought process on a deeper level, not even Karkat, who just tells him it was an idiotic thing to do without addressing his underlying anxieties at all. Indeed, "nobody understands."

And this is really the root of why I think so many people get the wrong read on Eridan - Eridan is constantly contradicting himself, constantly denying his own feelings, constantly pushing an image that he doesn't actually believe in, and constantly insisting that he's fine with all the horrible shit in his life - that he likes it, even. After all, he can't admit to his guilt for his murders, or how much he doesn't want to watch his friends die, or how scared he is about the future - that'd be weakness!

CC: I can't look after you anymore. CA: I DIDNT EVER NEED ANYONE TO LOOK AFTER ME CA: i was totally fuckin fine my ambitions were noble

You see his contradictory nature with his stated love of history, which he only ever offhandedly mentions - because he's not actually that interested in history, it's just something that's expected of someone of his station. And you see it with his wavy accent, which he himself calls "weird" and drops when he's trying to be emotionally sincere. And you see it with his dumbass outfit, which is very clearly an imitation of Dualscar (with the only exception being the wizard-ass scarf, because wizards are his actual interest. I don't believe he likes fashion. I genuinely believe - and Eridan himself says so - that he basically has no hobbies outside of murder).

Even being proud to be a sea dweller is pretty much an outright lie:

CC: You can't )(ave t)(e sort of affinity for "our kind" t)(at you profess if you've only spent, w)(at... CC: A few days underwater, maybe? IN YOUR W)(OL-E LIF-E!

One that he tells because he's SCARED OF THE OCEAN. Because he knows what lives in the ocean, because he's been feeding it his entire life. I see a lot of people who give Eridan an interest in marine life, and I'm telling you, that's just got no basis in canon. He's fucking TERRIFIED of the sea.

And for that matter, land dweller genocide. Eridan doesn't want to do it. Both Feferi AND his internal narration call him out for not actually wanting to do it. He outright states he wouldn't kill his friends.

CA: wwell CA: im not goin to vvery wwell kill you am i that wwould be fuckin unconscionable CA: wwhat kind of friend wwould i be

But he feels like he HAS to want it, HAS to believe in it, HAS to be talking about it constantly, because that's what's expected from him as a sea dweller, and a sea dweller is ALL that he will get to be. The mutation that puts a violet streak in his hair is damning. It's a fate he feels like he can't escape. Which brings us to:

Eridan is Not Actually Casteist, Well He Is But Not Like That, It's Complicated

Secondary title: Those Are His Emotional Support Slurs, Okay

In the exact same vein (haha) as secretly not wanting all the land dwellers dead, Eridan also genuinely doesn't feel like he's better than lower blood castes. Vriska and Equius obviously put quite a bit of stock into being nobility, and both have acted superior to Karkat for it. Feferi actually revels in her high status, and while she is genuinely well-meaning, she's not as interested in abolishing casteism as she is in changing the meaning of "culling" specifically (the hemocaste, aristocracy, and casteism still very much exist in a Beforus under her rule). Gamzee MIGHT be the only highblood less casteist than Eridan, but then again, as soon as he snaps, he does say a lot of casteist stuff to Equius, although it's unclear how serious he is, and he also proceeds to get really into his weird highblood clown cult.

Meanwhile, Eridan - despite all his slurs and talk of genocide - does not actually try to "pull rank" on a lowblood for being a lower caste than him with a single exception. That exception is Sollux... after he's already shown having entirely caste-neutral opinions on Sollux:

CC: But Sollux finally came t)(roug)(, and now I believe t)(e full c)(ain is complete! CA: man that guy CA: hes a fuckin drama machine it is fuckin pathetic CC: YOUR STUPID FIS)(Y FAC-E IS T)(-E DRAMA MAC)(IN-E T)(AT DO-ES NOT)(ING BUT W)(IN-E AND GLUB. CC: 38P CA: fuck SORRY CC: Anyway you s)(ouldn't say t)(at about )(im, )(e is a )(ero and )(e saved my life. CA: yeah sorry

CA: my feelins seem petty and meaninless noww CA: she had better things to wworry about than my ovverwwrought bullshit CA: like the dead guy wwho savved her CA: so forget it thanks anywway

It's only AFTER he's mad at Sollux for dating Feferi that he starts going in on Sollux with casteist rhetoric... which is treated as unrequited flirting and not serious casteism:

ERIDAN: hey finless this doesnt concern those wwith mustard sludge slippin through their vveins ERIDAN: its a matter for royalty only ERIDAN: so keep your mouth closed or ill slit you open ovver my next meal SOLLUX: w/e bro, not iintere2ted. FEFERI: -Eridan, please! I don't want to see any more dueling. FEFERI: Don't try to provoke )(im. It's not like I don't know w)(at you're doing! You keep trying to spark a rivalry wit)( )(im to get me to auspisticize between you two, and pull us out of our quadrant! FEFERI: It is t)(e oldest and lamest trick in t)(e book. It didn't work t)(en and it won't work now!

THEY don't even think he's being casteist.

In fact, directly contradicting this earlier argument he has with Feferi:

CC: T)(is is t)(e last time I will say t)(is. CC: W-E AR-E NOT B-ETT-ER T)(AN ANYBODY!!!!! CC: GLUB. >38( CA: pshh CA: hemospectrum begs to differ

He OUTRIGHT states his real feelings here:

CA: im the biggest fuckin idiot who ever lived CA: i cant BELIEVE i just opened up to you like a chump when i knew what was comin CA: i am one sad fuckin brinesucker CA: overemotional sappy trash youre right im not better than anybody CA: im worse than anybody CA: EVERYBODY CA: all the bodies

So the question of "is Eridan casteist" has an answer of "kind of, but also no." Eridan DOES espouse the rhetoric; he's constantly saying stuff that a casteist sea dweller "should" be saying. However, if you look at his ACTIONS, and the way he actually treats people, he doesn't actually care about blood color. He'll hit on anybody, and he's rude as fuck to everybody. The real problem with him is that he's terrible to talk to, not that he's discriminatory.

That's the thing about Eridan. Understanding him means looking past the way he presents himself, the lies he tells to himself, and even, at times, the way the narration presents him. His "overblown emotional theatrics" seem a lot less overblown when his problems ARE so real, deep-seated, and constantly causing him an unimaginable amount of anguish.

The problem is, the main people he has to bounce those problems against are Feferi, Vriska, and Kanaya, three of the people most comfortable with their privileged positions, for whom Eridan's genuine emotional distress seems like needless melodrama. Feferi loves being a princess, Vriska enjoys her noble privileges, Kanaya doesn't need to worry about culling. But for Eridan, his noble status, and the duties and expectations placed on him for it, have caused him nothing but pain - of course he would feel like nobody understands. Most of his closest friends genuinely don't, nor do they try to.

Because that's what he is at his core - a traumatized fucking child, who doesn't see any way out. Eridan is not a casteist genocidal sea dweller... he just wishes he was one, and tries to be one, because if he actually was one, he wouldn't feel so awful and scared and sad all the time. He'd be normal, like his friends.

The reason he constantly spouts anti-land dweller rhetoric and uses casteist language is to assuage this cognitive dissonance. That's why he has to come off so strong, present himself in such an aggrandized way, act like such a douchebag. They're his emotional support slurs. He doesn't actually believe what he says, which means he's a Bad Sea Dweller, which means he's Failing, which means Something Bad Will Happen, so he'd better get his ass in line and say something casteist!

And it's all made worse because:

Eridan is Dumb of Ass (and True of Word)

Oh my god you guys he's so stupid that it hurts.

Okay, that's not entirely fair. Eridan is clearly well-educated and book smart; he has some of the most elegant prose out of the trolls, and he's prone to going off on insane rants with it. (Actually, his language gets more flowery and showy when he's trying to impress a stranger, and gets progressively more laid back, chill, and even kind of "bro"-y when he starts talking to people he doesn't feel like he needs to impress.)

CA: at this point i find all her adorable black pixie dabblins to be prime kiddie playtime shit CA: all of her FRAUDULENT MAGICS cannot come close to posin threat to my mastery ovver the TRUEST SCIENCES CA: an wwith my empiricists wwand i servve as the righteous hope that wwill incinerate delusion and the deluded alike CA: my holy fire is the wwhite fury bled from the wwrath-wweary eyes of fifty thousand nonfictional angels CA: and wwhen theyre finished wweepin they wwill boww before their prince GG: wow what are you talking about

What I mean is this: his brain is so full of anxiety and cognitive dissonance and murder and death that he struggles to care about other people, which has devastating effects on his social skills. I go really in-depth on how his though process informs his behavior here. The question may have popped up in your mind already: if his casteism stuff isn't actually real, then what is Eridan actually like? The answer is, overwhelmingly, and discomfortingly, SINCERE.

This boy is gunning at 100% emotional earnestness 100% of the time, and it's deeply uncomfortable for others to deal with. He'll swing wildly from insults and derogatory language, to stating a desire to kill all land dwellers, to awe and amazement at his friends' prowess, to demanding that they do things for him, to traumadumping and venting, without missing a beat. Often in the same conversation.

CA: kan its hard GA: What CA: being a kid and growwing up CA: its hard and nobody understands

He's also specifically terrible at parsing hostility. Functionally, he interprets all hostility aimed AT him as either pitch/ashen flirting or "ironic repartee," and similarly views his own hostile words as verbal jousting, pitch/ashen advances, or even just factual descriptions of the world around him (ie calling Nepeta a "kittycat shipper cavve girl"). Hostility and aggression are just kind of his baseline, default state of being, and he basically has no ability to differentiate between good and bad attention. I talk more in-depth about his emotionally bereft upbringing (and shitty lusus) here, but suffice to say that our boy isn't getting any emotional support at home, and as a result, craves attention, no matter what kind.

This also means he's insanely gullible. For example, Rose calls him an idiot to his face, and then blows up his computer, sarcastically calling it "your first lesson in showmanship." Eridan proceeds to literally considers it that, blowing up Jade's computer after he's done talking to her. Furthermore, Kanaya sees him as a burden, insults him to his face, and pretty much just bullies him along with Rose for fun.

So she trains Eridan to become a powerful white wizard of hope to challenge her, as a joke.

And yet, in spite of all that, Eridan still has nothing but gratitude and praise for Kanaya:

ERIDAN: kan i been meanin to thank you KANAYA: For What ERIDAN: for all that trainin you did ERIDAN: i wwouldnt be the incredible holy wwizard i am noww wwithout your help KANAYA: But I Didnt Even Really Train You I Just Made You A Wand ERIDAN: yeah wwell thats all i needed i guess ERIDAN: i just needed for someone to showw a little faith in me so im sayin thanks i owwe ya KANAYA: Okay Then Youre Welcome KANAYA: I Hope You Use Your Magnificent Powers Of Light And Hope For Goodness And Purity And Lets Not Forget Science ERIDAN: dont wworry im all ovver that shit you dont evven knoww KANAYA: Uh Oh I Hope That Didnt Come Off As Too Sarcastic ERIDAN: wwhat KANAYA: The Thing I Just Said KANAYA: I Didnt Even Realize How Sarcastic I Was Being Its Starting To Become A Problem I Think KANAYA: Please Dont Take Too Much Offense ERIDAN: haha damn kan if thats your idea of offense bein made then i honestly gotta fuckin wworry for you ERIDAN: tell you wwhat ill givve you some lessons in dealin out the dark umbrage to repay you for your tutelage in the wwhite science

Like, he's in the middle of genuinely thanking her for believing in him, she makes fun of him to his face, and his response is to laugh it off and offer to teach her how to properly insult someone. It's honestly... kind of sad. Not that he doesn't deserve the ridicule, but what we're seeing here is a traumatized, emotionally neglected boy trying to communicate the best that he can that he loves and appreciates his friends, and receiving nothing but mockery in return.

It's really not a surprise, then, that he goes off the deep end. His entire life prior to the game has been shit; he got broken up with as soon as he entered the game (by someone who didn't even care enough not to use fish puns while doing it); he's ostracized and avoided for the game's duration; and then he spends the rest of his time on the meteor being bullied. He feels deeply hopeless and anxious about their situation because he literally doesn't know how else to exist, and his concerns are dismissed and mocked at every turn. When Feferi turns on him with intent to kill, that's his breaking point.

I see a lot of people say he goes grimdark, or succumbs to external influence somehow, but I don't think that needs to be true (nor is it) - he's just a deeply traumatized kid with almost no support network who's finally been pushed to the edge, despite displaying every possible warning sign and making multiple cries for help. Yes, ultimately, he's guilty for his own actions, but his killing spree - alongside Gamzee's and Vriska's - represents a cohesive failure as a team to address very clear problems in their midst.

So Feferi and Kanaya are sick of his ass. Sollux hates him platonically, Equius doesn't like him, and Nepeta thinks of him as a creep. Vriska is his awkward ex, and Terezi agrees with him when he calls himself pathetic. He never interacts with Tavros, Aradia, or sober!Gamzee. Is there anyone that treats him nicely?

Uh, okay, so I swear this isn't shipping goggles -

Pale EriKar Is Canon And I Can Prove It

So, I'm going to start this with a disclaimer: you can ship what you want to ship. I don't mind. I don't care. Headcanons are valid, death of the author, etc. What you do in your free time is up to you.

What I am attempting to argue in this section is that an Eridan/Karkat moirallegiance was heavily foreshadowed, one of the most heavily foreshadowed things in the entire comic, and - assuming that the original ending of Homestuck included all the dead trolls being brought back and redeemed - was going to be endgame. There's a torrential amount of evidence pointing to this, and very little of it is acknowledged even by the EriKar shippers, which is a shame.

At the very least, I'll be happy if I can convince some Karkat RPers to be extra nice to Eridans, because they are actually just friends who care deeply about each other. Canonically.

The first thing to note is that Eridan and Karkat, at least prior to SGRUB, talk all the time, to the point where Feferi feels the need to comment on it:

CC: You know, I'm not sure w)(y we never talk about our romantic aspirations. CC: We s)(ould more often. It is kind of -EXCITING! CA: shrug CC: Probably because you fill your gossip quota wit)( your nubby )(orned bro. CC: You leave not)(ing left to talk about wit)( your dear sweet moirail! CC: We are supposed to )(elp eac)( ot)(er wit)( t)(at stuff too, remember. CA: maybe CA: seems kinda CA: odd though

("Can you please stop having an emotional affair with Karkat" "Eh, I'll think about it")

The second thing to note is what the contents of those conversations entail. Sure, they "gossip," but it goes deeper than that, because they gossip about things that Karkat would NEVER gossip about with anybody else, because Karkat usually respects his "VERY GOOD FRIEND"s. For example, here Eridan mentions that Karkat has speculated on Kanaya's love life with him:

CA: you dont wwant to be our auspistice cause you dont wwant to get locked into that sort of relation wwith her i can respect that GA: No Thats Not It CA: yeah it is your real feelins run pretty awwful RUDDY methinks evverybody knowws it CA: especially that assblood karkat he and me havve you so pegged about that its upright silly

And it's not even a one-off thing, because here Karkat is again, mentioning Nepeta's crush on him:

KARKAT: OK, BUT TO BE FAIR, I'M PRETTY SURE SHE'S STILL OBSESSED WITH ME. KARKAT: IT'S A VERY UNFORTUNATE, VERY RED AND VERY UNREQUITED SITUATION I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TIPTOE AROUND FOR A LONG TIME, OK? KARKAT: HER DISINTEREST IN YOUR ADVANCE WASN'T A REFLECTION ON YOU AT ALL. KARKAT: COME ON, WE TALKED ABOUT THIS.

It's a situation he's been trying to "tiptoe around for a long time," and he tells ERIDAN, of all people? MULTIPLE TIMES? (AND HE ALSO TELLS ERIDAN THAT THE REJECTION WASN'T HIS FAULT???? WHAT??????)

So we've established that they talk frequently and about some pretty seriously sensitive topics. But did you know that they also talk about... their feelings?

See, the thing is, Karkat has always been weirdly nice to Eridan. Here he is in a memo near the very beginning of their game, when Karkat is at his most "rah rah, I'm the big bad leader":

FCA: i got a problem FCA: wwith feferi FCA: and im really kinda sittin here in bad shape about it emotionally speakin CCG: OK, WELL CCG: I GET THAT, I HEAR YOU BRO CCG: BUT THIS IS STILL NOT THE RIGHT PLACE FOR THIS SO I'VE GOT TO BAN YOU. CCG banned FCA from responding to memo. CCG: BUT SERIOUSLY JUST GET IN TOUCH WITH ME IN PRIVATE ABOUT IT, OK MAN? CCG: WE'LL GET YOUR SHIT STRAIGHTENED OUT.

Compare that to Tavros asking for advice later down in the same memo:

PAT: sINCE i DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU ARE NOW, bUT MAYBE HELP ME, PAT: aBOUT A THING THAT HAS TO DO WITH A GIRL, PAT: lIKE, PAT: a ROMANCE THING, yOU MIGHT KNOW ABOUT, CCG: YOU PEOPLE ARE IMBECILES. CCG: ALL OF YOU. CCG: I AM NOT POSTING THESE MEMOS TO COUNSEL YOU ON YOUR PAST AND FUTURE DATING PROBLEMS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! CCG: WHY ARE YOU ALL SUCH BASKET CASES. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY ANYMORE. PAT: sORRY, CCG: SHOULD I BAN YOU? WHAT'S EVEN THE POINT ANYMORE! ONE OF YOU STOOGES WILL BE RIGHT ON THE LAST ONES HEELS WITH ANOTHER SOB STORY. CCG: JUST CCG: HURRY UP AND TELL ME WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS BRO.

He then proceeds to dispense no actual love advice; he just points out that Vriska can totally read this memo too, and then mocks them both when she shows up - thus making it clear that he is giving Eridan special treatment.

You see it again in his discussion with Eridan in [S] Kanaya: Return to the Core, where Eridan invokes a "pact" between them, and Karkat immediately plays nice with him, despite himself being extremely high-strung and stressed out:

KARKAT: RIGHT, IT'S POWERED BY SCIENCE, I FORGOT. KARKAT: OR HOPE. WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT MEANS. ERIDAN: i dont fuckin need this from you i take enough shit as it is from the rest a you dirtscrapers i thought you and me had a kinda pact or wwhatevver KARKAT: OK FINE, SHUT UP, I APOLOGIZE. I KNOW IT'S TOUGH BEING YOU.

That's definitely pity, which Karkat states to be the basis of all relationships besides pitch. But, sure, okay, Karkat is sometimes nice to his friends. He is, after all, the Friendship Troll, so that's not necessarily out of the ordinary. But how about the fact that it goes both ways?

That's right, Eridan "100% aggro 100% of the time" Ampora is actually really considerate toward Karkat's feelings, and basically nobody else's. Upon hearing that Karkat is distressed that Sollux has died, Eridan actively puts his own meltdown about his breakup with Feferi on pause:

TC: BeCaUsE OuR GoOd bRo sOlLuX JuSt kIcKeD ThE WiCkEd mOtHeRfUcKiN ShIt CA: wwhat the fuck do you mean by that CA: are you sayin hes dead TC: YeAh :o( CA: oh fuck CA: oh god fuck noww i feel like an asshole

He then goes on to chastise Gamzee for his shitty advice, demanding to be given the chance to comfort Karkat himself instead:

TC: BuT I ToLd hIm tO Be cHiLl TC: BeCaUsE ThErE Is a mIrAcLe cOmInG, i cAn fEeL It CA: that is the wworst fuckin advvice CA: wwhat an awwful thing a you to say CA: MAGIC ISNT REAL STUPID STOP BELIEVVIN IN IT TC: i'Ve gOt tO BeLiEvE At wHaT My hEaRt tElLs iN Me, EvEn iF It's a fAkE ThInG TC: HoNk CA: this is a lot a pointless fuckin rubbish and isnt no emotional help to him or me either for that matter CA: put kar on

Before finally giving up when Gamzee insists he's "too scared of Jack" to help, drinking some Faygo, and trying to ask past Karkat for help, because past Karkat isn't sad yet about Sollux dying. So, to recap,

Eridan's first instinct when in emotional duress is to go to Karkat.

Eridan feels like he knows Karkat well enough to know that Gamzee's advice would be useless (and is proven right by the fact that Gamzee and Karkat's moirallegiance fails for similar reasons).

Eridan is willing to shelve his own emotional meltdown for Karkat's sake.

Eridan demands to be the one to provide Karkat with emotional support.

And this is, again, not a one-off thing. In the memo Karkat opens right after Eridan and Gamzee have both turned murderous, after he's spent several minutes making death threats toward Eridan and insulting him directly, he goes:

CCG: I'M SO UPSET, I'M JUST COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT IN EVERY WAY POSSIBLE. PCA: yeah i knoww wwhat its like you wwanna talk about it

Eridan spends this entire memo under the belief that it's a completely run-of-the-mill conversation they're having:

PCA: i mean yeah obvviously i kneww you wwerent serious PCA: i guess i appreciate the effort youre puttin into cheerin me up PCA: i can alwways count on you for some good ironic repartee kar nobody else really gets our sense a humor CCG: UGH, NO PCA: are you busy PCA: you said youd try to make it to lowwaa soon wwell howw about it

Which implies that offering to listen to Karkat's feelings is also a completely regular thing for them.

But something magical is ALSO happening within this last memo, and to really explain it, I'll first have to be a little mean to the GamKar shippers (sorry).

So, canonically, GamKar doesn't work out for them, despite also being somewhat foreshadowed. In fact, they feature on Nepeta's shipping wall, which is actually, in my opinion, foreshadowing that it WOULDN'T work out. (Nepeta's ships being wrong, and shipping being something she needs to learn to outgrow, is a whole essay on its own, that I'm not getting into here.)

But the thing is, the seeds for them not working out were also planted in the first - and only - real post-moirallegiance interaction that they have with each other, where Gamzee tries to calm Karkat down... and FAILS:

GAMZEE: naw brother, i was just about to all say for you to try and get your settle down on, maybe. GAMZEE: :o( ... KARKAT: OK KARKAT: OK YEAH KARKAT: I GUESS YOU'RE RIGHT. KARKAT: NO, YOU'RE RIGHT, I SHOULD RELAX. KARKAT: AND BREATHE. KARKAT: I MEAN, WHAT ARE MOIRAILS FOR, RIGHT? KARKAT: THIS IS HOW IT WORKS, I STOP YOU FROM KILLING EVERYBODY, THEN YOU RETURN THE FAVOR AND CALM ME DOWN AND I JUST KARKAT: BREATHE KARKAT: LIKE KARKAT: THIS... KARKAT: SNIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFFFFFFUCK, THAT SUN IS BRIGHT. KARKAT: CALL ME CRAZY, BUT IT'S KIND OF HARD TO RELAX WITHIN A STONE'S THROW FROM, OH, I GUESS ONLY THE BIGGEST FUCKING STAR ANY MORTAL HAS EVER LAID EYES ON. ... KARKAT: BUT I MEAN, CAN THIS BE HEALTHY? KARKAT: AREN'T WE GOING TO GET BURNED OR HAVE OUR RETINAS SCORCHED BY LOOKING AT IT? KARKAT: OH GOD I THINK I'M HAVING A PANIC ATTACK.

But let's go back to that memo where Karkat is freaking out in every way possible. This is how he starts that memo - so upset about the deaths of his friends and terrified by Gamzee that he can barely string together a coherent thought:

CCG: WE ARE SO SCREWED. CCG: OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK. CCG: GUYS, I AM TERRIFIED, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. CCG: I'M IN A ROOM FULL OF BODIES, AND I THINK I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO TURN MY BACK ON THEM? CCG: OH MY GOD, I JUST HEARD A HONK. ... CCG: FEFERI, I'M SORRY. CCG: IT WAS MY FAULT, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. PCC: Sorry for w)(at?? CCG: FOR CCG: I CCG: I CAN'T DO THIS CCG: IT'S TOO MUCH FOR ME, I'M SORRY.

In fact, he's so distressed that he bans Past!Feferi and Past!Gamzee almost immediately after they come in. But then Eridan comes in, and... I mean, first of all, just compare how long it takes for him to ban Eridan:

But more interesting are the contents of their conversation. Over the course of talking to Eridan... Karkat completely calms the fuck down. Like he's entirely forgotten that he's shitting his pants with fear. In fact, he even starts critiquing Eridan for his dumbassery:

PCA: evven if i wwasnt compelled to think you wwere still bein flippant and ironic wwith me you cant exactly outright reject me can you CCG: WHY NOT PCA: cause youre future you PCA: doesnt count unless its present you til then its all fair game CCG: IS THIS REAL, ARE YOU BEING IRONIC OR SOMETHING, I CAN'T EVEN TELL ANYMORE CCG: THE PROBLEM IS, I CAN'T PUT THIS SORT OF BEHAVIOR PAST YOU AT ALL, SO I DON'T KNOW. ... CCG: YOU'RE KILLING ANGELS NOW, AREN'T YOU PCA: no CCG: YOU ARE KILLING FUCKING ANGELS, RIGHT NOW, IN THE PAST, WITH YOUR SHITTY GUN. I JUST KNOW IT. PCA: wwell uh PCA: therere just so damn many kar and theyre not gettin any less bloody pissed is the thing CCG: THIS IS WHY IT WOULD NEVER WORK BETWEEN US, MAN.

It's extremely funny. Over the course of talking to Eridan, he goes from:

CCG: OH GOD OH GOD OH MAN OH GOD CCG: NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

To:

CCG banned PCA from responding to memo. CCG: ANYWAY CCG: THAT'S IT I GUESS.

Eridan isn't even trying to calm Karkat down. He still succeeds in doing so. This is because they are soul mates. And I mean that in the sense that the comic literally calls being moirails soul mates, which it doesn't do for the other quadrants:

A reasonable human translation would be the concept of a soul mate, but in a more platonic sense, and with a more specific social purpose.

That "social purpose" being that an even-tempered troll calms down a more hot-tempered one, and vice versa.

It also goes on to note:

But some pale pairings, as the one above [referring to a picture of Nepeta and Equius], will be strikingly obvious to all who know them.

But what's really interesting is the next page.

And yet others will seem to have been hatched for each other.

Did you catch that? Let me zoom in.

(Also, the blue and red cuttlefish to represent Sollux - Feferi and Sollux spend the whole game together, and even wind up talking about their feelings constantly in a pile - more on piles in a sec.)

In fact... in Eridan's first visual appearance...

The crab has always been there for him.

It's also important to talk about the bottle of Faygo that's been photoshopped to be candy red, Karkat's blood color. The path that it takes actually directly mirrors Karkat's relationships with Gamzee and Eridan - it's initially something that Gamzee has, but winds up being ejected out of his life, and washes up on Eridan's shore. In fact:

TC: SnAtCh aN IcEcOlD, dOg TC: MoThErFuCkIn cHuG ThAt sHiT LiKe yOu aNd tHe bOtTlE WaS ReUnItEd lOvErS CA: are you recommendin a bevverage to me or somethin CA: is that wwhat this is TC: YeAh mAn SlAm A FaYgO CA: i dont havve a fuckin faygo you stupid fuck wwhy wwould i keep that disgusting shit on hand TC: ArE YoU MoThErFuCkIn sUrE AbOuT ThAt? CA: oh CA: oh god youre right i do CA: i totally forgot about it TC: YoU SeE MaN TC: MoThEr TC: FuCkIn TC: MiRaClEs TC: :o)

When Gamzee and Eridan discuss this exact bottle, Gamzee even likens it to "reunited lovers"; it's something that Eridan has had this whole time (after all, he was cheating on Feferi with the guy), but never realized.

There are a few miscellaneous things that don't really mean anything on their own, but put next to all this other stuff, is worth considering, so I'll list those now.

First, they both do the bonk:

Second:

CG: ARE WE NOT FRIENDS ANYMORE BECAUSE OF STUFF I SAID. TA: eheheheh you LIITERALLY a2k me that every tiime are you jokiing. TA: ii cant even tell anymore. CG: IT'S A JOKE MORON. CG: HONESTLY I'M JUST GLAD NOBODY ELSE IS PRIVVY TO OUR CONVERSATIONS.

Third, Karkat muses to his future self about how he misses his friends, especially the assholes, two pages before staring at a dead Eridan's ass (joking, he's definitely looking at WV, but it's still significant that this thought is being associated with Eridan):

CCG: I MEAN, DON'T GET ME WRONG. CCG: I MISS ALL OF MY DEAD FRIENDS A LOT. CCG: EVEN THE ASSHOLES! I MISS THEM TOO. MAYBE EVEN ESPECIALLY THEM, IN SOME PERVERSE WAY. CCG: AND I SHOULD BE RELIEVED THAT THEY ALL SEEM TO BE HAPPY IN SOME WAY, EVEN IF IT'S BY FLOATING NEBULOUSLY THROUGH DREAM PROJECTIONS WITH THEIR FREAKY BLANK EYES. CCG: AND I GUESS I AM RELIEVED ABOUT THAT. CCG: BUT AT THE SAME TIME IT'S LEFT ME UNSETTLED.

Fourth, in the same conversation, he bemoans his failed relationship with Terezi, before Future!Karkat chastises Past!Karkat for his instability and mixed signals. Going back to the page on moirallegiances, an explicit function of a proper pale relationship is stabilizing a troll's other relationships:

The two partners in a strong pale relationship will serve to balance and complement each other's emotional profiles, and thus allow their other relationships to be more successful.

Of course, I don't need to tell you how messy and unstable Eridan's relationships have been.

And finally, Piles of Stuff™ are associated with moirails, and directly stated in-comic to cause an outpouring of emotion:

Standing near this pile stirs powerful emotions. The closer you stand to piles of stuff, the more freely the feelings flow. It is a law of reality.

So here's a seven-word tragedy for you: For Sale, Shitty Wand Pile, Never Used:

ERIDAN: at least i got the upright basic decency to hide my shitty wand pile somewwhere in the lab you wwont find it dont evven bother lookin KARKAT: WHY DO YOU ASSHOLES HAVE PILES OF THINGS, JUST STOP.

(Which he specifically tells Karkat about.)

So, yeah, what I'm saying is, there's just, like, a weirdly large amount to read into here. That Karkat and Eridan are probably soulmates or whatever. And that this is important because...

Eridan Is Plot Relevant (Well All The Dead Trolls Are But This Is An Essay About Eridan)

So. Now we are going to talk about themes. Yes, like we are in schoolfeeding again. I'm going to keep it simple, because "The Themes of Homestuck" is a whole essay on its own, and this one about just the shitty fish boy is already way too long.

I think it's fairly non-controversial to posit that the main theme of Homestuck is, "children should mature, care about each other, and throw off the shackles of their old society, because they will be responsible for a new world one day."

Up until Game Over/the Retcon, this is so prevalent and well-established that SBURB/SGRUB's coming-of-age themes will outright be commented upon by the characters, and the main villain is a child who deliberately stunted his own growth so he could go around kicking over other peoples' toys forevermore.

So, the thing is, with that being the theme of Homestuck, if ALL of the Alternian trolls don't survive to the end, the ending is thematically unsatisfying, because the message suddenly gains an addendum of "well, some kids just need to die," which totally sucks. Like, sure, Eridan was a violent, crazed murderer even at the best of times, but his permanent death within the canon ending kind of means that the comic is saying that people in his position don't deserve kindness or second chances. That position being a traumatized, emotionally neglected child, who was being bullied by people he considered his friends. It's a pretty terrible message.

It's even worse when you consider what other trolls don't make it to the end - Nepeta, the most outspoken troll against the hemospectrum (and Davepeta does NOT count, don't try to tell me the final culmination of Nepeta's character arc is being combined with some guy she barely knows and a bird). Feferi, who genuinely wanted the best for others, even if she was kind of a privileged princess. Aradia and Sollux also stay behind in the bubbles, even though their lives have pretty much been endless parades of suffering and being used by other people. Even Equius doesn't deserve it - he was kind of a casteist freak, but not irredeemably so, and the fact that he became kinder to Karkat over the course of SGRUB proved that he had the capacity to change. And Tavros, allergic to himself and being insulted by Vriska, is a terrible way to end his arc.

It's also really clear that, since half his friends are dead, Karkat just doesn't really have anything to do. His title is the Knight of Blood, and Blood is about bonds - romance, friendship. And yet, he ends the comic having never figured out what Blood was about, with no confirmed filled quadrants (sorry DaveKat likers, but within the comic itself, DaveKat is never confirmed), and most of his bonds nothing more than ghosts in the bubbles. It's a terribly unsatisfying ending for the most narratively important troll.

I think, then, that even if you don't agree that Homestuck should have ended with full revivals and redemption arcs for all the trolls, the essay is going to proceed on like you do, so, sorry, I guess.

The thing with Eridan, specifically, is that he's actually tied deeply into the plot and themes, and his return means more than just Karkat finally getting a date (although that's important, too). Eridan is directly intertwined with a prophecy to kill Lord English; he's set up to mirror Caliborn and Calliope; and thematically, his redemption would be the most clear instance of the "interrogating society" part of the theme of Homestuck, because Eridan is kind of the Society Troll. And also, he was definitely supposed to be Roxy's wizard boyfriend.

Just gonna get that last one out of the way real quick because it's a fast one, Roxy fucking loves wizards and is a hipster. Eridan is a wizard and is also a hipster. Roxy has a crush on a prince. Eridan is also a prince. Roxy wears a purple striped scarf. Eridan wears a blue striped scarf. Roxy uses rifles. Eridan uses rifles. Momlonde's introduction includes a passive-aggressive fridge battle that features a cameo of Eridan's quirk.

Using the colorful MAGNET LETTERS, you recently left a succinct message, which may or may not have been directed toward anyone in particular. But you couldn't find the letter W, so you just stuck two V's together. Your mother then purchased a fresh pack of W's and left them there for your convenience.

Yeah. So. Uh. Not only did Eridan need to be brought back to date Karkat pale, but he also needed to be brought back to date Roxy flushed. Can you imagine how funny it would be. They'd get together within 5 minutes of meeting for the first time and Rose would lose her shit. Anyway.

Him being a parallel to Calliope and Caliborn is also a quick one - Caliborn uses Riflekind/Sceptrekind, and Calliope uses Pistolkind/Wandkind. Eridan's two weapons are rifles and wands. Lord English is described as an evil wizard and at one point is shown using Calliope's wand. Eridan is also an evil wizard who uses a wand.

Look, I'm not saying that Eridan is necessarily directly related to these two, nor am I even necessarily saying that he and Roxy HAVE to date, but I am saying that he's got Weird Plot Connections that make him bizarrely relevant to characters that only come into play well after his death - almost like the comic was setting up that he would be coming back. His reaction to Cronus supports this, which I go into detail about here.

There's other strange "Eridan's plot important" things, too - like the fact that he's completely unimpressed by Faygo, considering it to be "just soda," and seems to be the only non-cultist who's okay with it. Or the fact that he's actually been awake on Derse since before the game (but unable to hear the horrorterrors, maybe foreshadowing some psychic resistance?) which he casually reveals to Kanaya and which Terezi is aware of, hence he's included in the people she names are "in" on the existence of the game. Or the fact that the genetic code for Alternia's first guardian was written within the pages of four FLARP books, with the addition of a fifth code Gamzee wrote in Karkat's ~ATH book... but Eridan was the fifth FLARP player in the team, implying that Doc Scratch/LE influencing Gamzee caused him to usurp Eridan's part of the first guardian code, giving LE his way into the trolls' universe.

Individually, it's all kind of nothing, but it just paints a bigger picture of Eridan being weirdly relevant, especially when we get to the juicy stuff:

The Prophecy

ARANEA: The 8ard of Hope may seem a little jaded these days, 8ut he once had a deeply a8iding faith in magic, and dedicated himself to 8ecoming a great wizard. He 8ecame convinced he was hatched to defeat an extraordinarily evil magician, one he swore the angels foretold of. ... [T]his magician once somehow from afar tried to strike him down at a young age, so he would never have to face him. 8ut the evil spell was deflected, sealing the magician's spirit away in a series of unassuming vessels until he could find some other cunning way to enter our universe. ... ARANEA: 8ut at some point he 8ecame disillusioned with magic. If there ever was any truth to his far fetched vision, the legacy of defeating the evil magician would have to 8e passed on to his descendant, or if his descendant proved to 8e as much of a failure as he did, then perhaps on to some other Hero of Hope.

ERIDAN: i slaughtered enough angels to knoww my limits and wwhere i stand against the lord of all angels they prophecized

GG: im pretty sure hes from the future! CA: wwhy GG: because he said hes my grandson CA: wwhat the fuck is a grandson CA: is that some kind of pervverse human familial thing GG: umm yes ... CA: that gun i just gavve you is somethin of a hatchright to the kid CA: happy i could play a role in your dirty stinkin lineage GG: like an heirloom? i guess it could be ... CA: i kinda think thats wwhy i found the gun in the first place CA: but noww im forsakin it because fuck i just found a better destiny than my old crappy one wwhich i nevver got any appreciation for anywway

Jake is supposed to have been the one to defeat Lord English. (No, Jake defeating pre-LE Caliborn right before he gets sealed into Cal doesn't count! He doesn't even get the final blow in that fight, DIRK does.)

But Eridan at one point had that destiny on his shoulders. Aranea turbohealing Jake, and the resultant hope field, summons a bunch of angels, which are heavily associated with Eridan - yet another random connection that Eridan has with future plot events.

Jake was another character, alongside Karkat, who was kind of reduced to a joke by the end, despite the fact that he had literally, directly, been passed the destiny of defeating Lord English. It's hard not to see this as a consequence, at least in part, of removing Eridan from the story. By cutting him out of the fabric of the ending, several plot threads - including this prophecy - are left dangling in irrelevance. And so Jake, like Karkat, now has nothing to do.

Homestuck is generally a series where every prophecy does come true, which makes it kind of startling when several prophecies fail to - Feferi's to "unite the two races," Jake's to defeat Lord English, and Karkat's to bring "compassion, forgiveness, and equality among all bloodlines" in the Signless's place.

That last one is actually relevant to:

The Thematic Importance of EriKar As Soul Mates

Eridan represents the worst aspects of Alternian society. He's a sea dweller at the top of the caste structure, with free reign to murder whoever he wants, soaked in the blood of thousands of innocent trolls. He espouses the casteist rhetoric that their society is built on, calling for the deaths of all land dwellers and the oppression of the lower castes. And while he should be benefitting from his position of privilege, it has also done nothing but hurt him.

Karkat, meanwhile, is a pariah. A mutant who would've been culled on sight, who spent his entire life living in hiding, and most of the game in fear that he would be ostracized or worse by the rest of his friends if they found out about his blood color. He's also the second coming of Troll Jesus, and thus, more despised by the Alternian ruling class than a mutant normally would be. For most of his life, he dreamed of nothing more than finding belonging within the society that had deemed him unfit.

Their friendship is something that "should not be." The highblood and the mutant. The royal-v and the off-spectrum. The empress's sea dweller and the second coming of the signless. Eridan "should" see Karkat as a miscreant to cull on sight. Karkat "should" be terrified of Eridan's very existence.

But in reality, Eridan doesn't give a shit about blood color, and Karkat just wants to be accepted. Eridan just wants someone to care about him, and Karkat loves his friends. Aside from Feferi, Eridan is the only highblood who never comments about Karkat's mutant blood, and they were best buddies even before Eridan knew.

Eridan and Karkat getting together isn't JUST the two most undateable trolls on the team finally landing a stable quadrant. These two, moreso than any other pairing, represent the themes of Homestuck. Children growing up, caring about each other, and throwing off the shackles of their old society.

In the pre-retcon timeline, their team failed to do so. This led to Gamzee falling into his highblood clown cult, Equius letting himself and Nepeta die by submitting to his place in the hemospectrum, Vriska killing Tavros because she couldn't allow herself to show weakness, and Eridan completing his caste's dream of genocide. Karkat spent the entire meteor trip and beyond beating himself up about it, since he considered it all to be his fault.

But with the introduction of John's retcon powers, they have the chance to, one by one, redeem themselves. I believe that's how the original ending would have gone: Terezi would ask John to bring Vriska back, because she only feels comfortable fixing her own mistakes. Vriska would then have asked John to bring back Tavros, whom she regretted killing. Tavros would be there for Gamzee, rendering him an ally. Gamzee would ask John to bring back Equius and Nepeta. Equius would ask John to help him not make the same mistakes with Aradia, and Aradiabot would catch John by the wrist and demand he bring her back in time to before she died, allowing her to circumvent her own death and Sollux's guilt. Sollux would ask John to keep him from provoking Eridan, saving Feferi. And Feferi would be pretty ok with the way things were... but KARKAT would then pull John aside, and drop an entire book of mistakes he made on John's lap, and this would result in a finalized timeline where all his friends are alive and god-tiered.

Because all the trolls SHOULD have survived.

Vriska should've survived because people should be allowed to have second chances.

Tavros should've survived because caring about each other, and being willing to show kindness and mercy, are good things.

Gamzee should have survived because people mired in religious fundamentalism and cults deserve to be offered a helping hand.

Equius should've survived because people should be allowed to grow and change their beliefs.

Nepeta should've survived because she was the anti-casteism troll. Casteism is bad, folks! Not only that, but I'm convinced that she was originally going to give the Ultimate Self exposition, and Davepetasprite^2 had to be contrived in the canon ending in order to shortcut Nepeta's character development, ruining it in the process.

Aradia should've been allowed to stay with the rest of the team and live a life free of the control of evil uncles and shitty ancestors.

Sollux should've been allowed to stay with the rest of the team because we all deserve to heal and be happy.

Feferi should've survived so she could be in a kismesistude with Nepeta, and realize that casteism itself is bad, not just the definition of culling, and then used her Witch of Life powers to even out the lifespans between the next generation of trolls, which needs to happen or else casteism will just happen again as long-lived highbloods inevitably amass power. And, also, it would complete the prophecy Gl'bgolyb gave her that she was intended to unite the two races (dream bubbles don't count, because by that metric, Sollux did more than she did by establishing a connection between the trolls and humans).

And Eridan should've survived, because the harm society has done to us can be undone. We don't have to submit to the roles it imposes, to the laws it wrote, to the abuse it inflicted. We can be free.

I've seen a lot of people who believe that such-and-such character did SUCH awful things that they don't deserve a happy ending. Oftentimes, it's Eridan, but nearly all of the dead trolls have gotten this treatment. So, let me just ask all of you who have gotten this far and still hold that opinion one thing. Do you think that's what Troll Jesus would have wanted?

This is why pale EriKar is so important: for it to happen, Eridan has to make a choice between upholding the beliefs of his shitty society, or pursuing a happier, kinder future, one where he outright rejects the caste system. For it to happen, Karkat has to shake all his insecurities about not being good enough by Alternian standards, and take on the duty of creating something better than what he came from. If pale EriKar happens, it means Eridan and Karkat choose love, not fear. Compassion, forgiveness, and equality.

This choice - this pairing - is the ultimate representation of giving Alternian society one big middle finger. Saying, we don't need you anymore, fuck off! Saying, we reject you at your core; we will choose something better! Saying, we will create a new world, and it will be kinder than the one we came from!

Pale EriKar means LOVE WINS.

Thank you for reading.

#homestuck #eridan ampora #karkat vantas #erikar #im also going to tag all the other trolls that feature because yeah.#vriska serket #feferi peixes #nepeta leijon #equius zahhak #gamzee makara #kanaya maryam

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nicodiangeloing · 23 days ago

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bianca di angelo. bianca is dead, bianca is a lesbian, bianca doesn’t know what religion she belongs to, bianca is quiet, bianca doesn’t fit in where she should, bianca is italian and prefers to speak the language, bianca is from the 30s, bianca raised her little brother, bianca is an eldest daughter and a sister and a mother and a child, bianca has the crushing weight of guilt on her chest and cannot seem to outrun it, bianca has always thought she’d be better off dead but i’m an older sister, bianca has no idea who she really is, bianca is a ballerina, bianca is a cat personified, bianca loves her little brother more than she loves herself, bianca plays piano and violin, bianca is emotionally intelligent, bianca wears her mother’s perfume, bianca is from venice, bianca never had a support system, bianca is gentle and can sing lullabies by memory and heart, bianca looks exactly like her mother and is haunted by her own appearance, bianca wants to go to university and learn, bianca wrote a novel for fun, bianca is an immigrant, bianca wants nothing more than to protect her brother, bianca wants to go home but has no home to return to, bianca is culture shocked, bianca struggles with dissociation, bianca does not feel like a girl, rather the societal expectations attached it and a tie to the women that have came before her, bianca is autistic, bianca always has her hair braided because it was the last thing her mother did, bianca doesn’t view herself as a person, more so what she is, if it is a huntress or daughter of hades or older sister, bianca overthinks, bianca is constantly lost in her own mind, trying to navigate an identity she does not even know, bianca has wavy frizzy hair, bianca who is an insomniac, bianca is a writer, bianca was “gifted”, bianca can see love in everything and everybody but herself, bianca doesn’t have many friends, bianca feels inadequate and undeserving of the mystifying people she’s met, because she is not anything special, bianca has tan olive skin and hairy arms, bianca has birthmarks and thick eyelashes, bianca understands the dead better than the living because she knows what feeling gone is like, bianca is mentally ill, bianca wants to know who she is so badly but cannot stop pretending to be someone else, bianca is the moon, bianca is florence + the machine’s music, bianca loves snoopy, bianca is winter, bianca is constantly sick to her stomach with worry, bianca worries about her brother and who he will become and how she can keep him safe forever especially when the big three children are seemingly destined for a gruesome hero’s death, bianca is tragic not just because of nico, bianca was robbed of her life, bianca is not just nico’s sister, bianca is powerful, bianca is an exceptional necromancer and could bring armies to their knees, bianca deserved and wanted more time, bianca is dead and she should not be, bianca is a nameless grave and her body will never be recovered

#bianca di angelo #nico di angelo #di angelo siblings #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #pjo #do the masses care about bianca di angelo #she’s basically my oc #i love her #she’s so me #pls like this

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supercrazyangel4 · 1 year ago

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i think the thing that makes people mischaracterize and completely miss the point of chara is that theyre written to be two very different things concurrently that dont really mesh together.

from what we know concretely about chara as a character, they were a very mentally ill child and complicated person who simultaneously hurt and helped people around them, who held both a lot of love and hate in their heart. they are fairly vague but also have specific character traits such as liking chocolate and filling up water glasses to the brim to maximize efficiency. they take speaking patterns from toriel and an interest in gardening from asgore. if you believe in the narrachara theory, they even have a character arc that changes depending on the route you take. they are inarguably a character who haunts the narrative due to their decisions in life having lead to tragedy that shapes the very plot of the game inextricably; and arguably a character that haunts the narrative and shapes the story much more literally in being a conscious force and companion that accompanies our journey.

at the same time, chara isnt treated as a character at all and is instead a meta-narrative device meant to act as an in-universe player stand-in. in this way chara isnt actually a person with character traits, but a vehicle for toby to provide commentary about the people who play video games. they are a concept that represents the state of thoughtless exp grinding. in the no mercy route their main purpose is to be a reflection of you and your mindset, even more directly than flowey. the reason theyre named after you is because, for a number of aspects in the game, they are supposed to be you; with no notable separation like there is with frisk.

this problem also heavily applies to frisk, for who there is an effort to separate their identity from yours at the end of the pacifist route but who still ends up with no real character traits of their own. people compensate for this by using black-and-white thinking; which results both in assigning frisk and chara a sort of "good-and-evil" dichotomy leading to their early fan interpretations, and in thinking that frisk and chara can only be either fully fleshed out characters or mindless player inserts leading to people favouring option one and basically ignoring the player as a concept except to occasionally use it as a generic big bad.

i think toby prioritized meta-textual implications over actual textual characterization for the human characters in undertale. this left chara as a character feeling unclear, unfocused, and incongruent due to them trying to be several things at once with no real through-line; and frisk as a character feeling practically non-existent outside of being a vessel. there are effectively two different charas in undertale, the character and the plot device, which makes it hard to talk about them as one consistent whole. i think this is why in tobys second game hes been putting such a focus on kris as a character and their separation from the player, as to improve on what he didnt properly touch on in undertale.

#undertale #chara dreemurr #frisk #btw i love chara to death they are super important to me but i think its necessary to acknowledge that their character writing is flawed #and i think undertale is a beautifully written masterpiece but that doesnt mean everything was handled perfectly #especially since it was written by basically just one man working on his first major project #analysis

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wangxianficfinder · 6 months ago

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In the mood for...

July 10th

~*~

1. thanks in advance :) i hope you don't mind a nsfw itmf req. can you/the community recommend any good fics with bimboification vibes? specifically with wwx as the one undergoing it. i've read several fics like this, but i'm hoping there are more i haven't found

Baby, You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet by TriviasFolly (E, 177k, WangXian, Modern AU, A/B/O Dynamics, Alpha LWJ, Omega WWX, Omega LSZ, Mafia, Crime, Sects are Clans, Feral WWX, Feral Omegas, Nurse WWX, Dark LWJ, Dark WWX, Possessive LWJ, feminine WWX, wwx’s cannon desire to be a sugar baby/trophy wife, Breeding Kink, Mpreg) A/B/O dynamics, long fic, modern AU mafia setting, really great

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2. Hi for the next itmf I was wondering if anyone had some time travel gone wrong? Like, maybe wwx tries to go to the past but instead he only sends resentment and it ends up haunting the wwx of the past or sometimes. Thanks!

Grief and Blame, Interwoven by donutsweeper (T, 2k, LXC & LWJ, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Character Death, Dark, discipline whip, Time Travel) LXC uses time travel and changes something to fix things but it doesn't work remotely as he'd thought it would

🔒❤️ the thing with feathers by RoseThorne (G, 43k,wangxian, Transmigration, Time Travel Fix-It, Illnesses, Family, Scars, Memory Loss, Angst, Fear, Recovery, Sharing a Bed, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Parent YZY, Referenced Sexual Slavery, Blood and Gore, Sexual Tension, Arranged Marriage, Grief, Adoption, POV Third Person, POV Alternating, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Good Parent LQR, Clairvoyance, Butterfly Effect) link in #12

❤️ A Future Family In A Broken Past by Hauntcats (T, 121k, wangxian, time travel, not Jiang friendly, Not Cultivation World Friendly, WWX Needs a Hug, Family Dynamics, What is a good family?, Fear of emotions does not excuse abuse, happy ending of sorts, Not Jiang Clan Friendly, Angst with a Happy Ending, fix-it, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Divergence, LXC needs a hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, except JC, He can suffer, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, not YZY friendly) has time travel that was fueled by resentful energy so more monsters are encountered in the new timeline.

Lan Yuan's War by BurningTea (G, 196k, LSZ & LWJ, LWJ & LXC, WangXian, LWJ & WQ, WIP, Time Travel, Dad LWJ, Sunshot Campaign, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Rumours, Lots of rumours about LWJ, several people worry about LWJ, CQL Verse, Mental Health Issues, LWJ is very much not okay, Time travel has consequences, Sick LWJ) has time travel that affects the golden cores and health of those who traveled through time.

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3. Hi, for the next itmf, can you suggest some fics where A-yuan and Lan Jingyi are twins

🔒❤️ kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight by AlfAlfAlfAlfAlf, tardigradeschool (T, 75k, WangXian, Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, Inspired by The Parent Trap (1998), Kid Fic, teen shenanigans, two a-yuans, Fluff and Angst)

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4. thank you for your work !! itmf any fic where either yl!wwx gets transported to the future, or he comes back to life after his death, and his name has been cleared/he’s been missed/basically he isn’t met with hatred and killing intent. thanks again!

🧡 The Shade of Old Trees by Kryal (T, 363k, WangXian, Ridiculously Long Notes, History, Canon Divergence, Modern AU, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, Slow Life, Action/Adventure, Magic Returns, BAMF WWX)

Until The End by abCEE (M, 365k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, war changes people, resulting to OOC, no pinning, Established Relationship, Mpreg, Good Uncle LQR, a little grey LWJ, a bit of JC bashing from LWJ, BAMF JYL, 16 years of yearning, mainly CQL verse but has scenes from the novel as well, LSZ is WangXian’s Child, WWX Has a New Golden Core, Canon Rewrite, Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts) might work. It isn’t time travel, rather a canon rewrite, but circumstances happen and in the years WWX is absent his name is cleared.

🔒 不忘 | Don't Forget by dragongirlG (E, 50k, WangXian, LSZ & LWJ, JL & LSZ & LJY & OYZZ, Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Reincarnation, Fix-It of Sorts, Identity Porn, Social Media, Devotion, Reunions, Feelings, Family, Angst with a Happy Ending, Light Bondage, Names, References to Canon, Modern Era, Artist WWX, Sexual Content, Pining, POV Multiple, Additional Warnings In Author's Note)

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5. Hi! This is for ITMF where WWX works as medical examiner or a coroner or he works in lab like in "i really want to know (who are you)" by Stratisphyre

Thank you! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

Slaughter House by Duochanfan (M, 24k, future WangXian, LXC/NMJ, NHS/JC, Light Angst, Drama, Crime Scenes, Crime Drama, Psychometric WWX, Coroner WWX, detective LWJ, Detective JC, slight romance, Amnesia, Past Kidnapping, Murder Mystery, Reference to Autopsies, dead bodies, Single Parent WWX, Modern)

Post Mortem by Cataclysmic_Calamity (E, 178k, WangXian, Psychological Horror, Modern, friends with benefits, they’re both fucked up but they love each other so much, Slow Burn Mystery, Unnegotiated Kink, Dom/sub, Anal Sex, Consensual Non-Consent, Stalking, Drug Addiction, Serial Killers, in WWX’s desire to critique the ‘final girl’ trope he accidentally becomes one, Angst with a Happy Ending, meta commentary on the horror and true crime genres) medical examiner WWX, thriller/horror, stalking but not between Wangxian, extremely good writing, very worth the read

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6. sorry if this has been asked before but for im ITMF a fic where lan wangji is very overprotective of wei wuxian. preferably because wwx's death traumatized him, but id also take any other overprotective fics. thank you!!!! @stgroversfire

So Full Of Love (Wouldn’t Know Where to Start) by witchupbitch (M, 63k, WIP, WangXian, Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Possessive LWJ, Protective LWJ, Blood and Violence, Idiots in Love, Humor, Mafia AU, Modern AU, Flirting, shameless WWX, Confident WWX, Explicit Language, Mutual Sexual Tension, dark LWJ, Dark WWX, Exhibitionism Sex, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings) modern AU mafia, dark Wangxian, like they're both really fucked up

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7. hello hardworking mods! i can see that you're working on a backlog, so no rush, and thanks for your hard work!! i would love to see a fic where any member of the cast is trans, and learning how to deal with second puberty - preferably ftm, and not treated like a crack fic. bonus points if its wwx and he gets totally railed, bonus bonus points if there are lovely family dynamics centred around someone being lovingly accepted.

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8. Hello good! This fandom is so big that I was wondering if fanfics were written with Lan Wangji condemned to live the same fate as his mother. Mama Lan was always a compelling mystery to me, canon LWJ was more in line with making her father's mistake, but then I thought about Mama Lan and went wild thinking "What if?" It would be a delicious avalanche of mixed feelings and strange curveballs for Wangxian to end up like this, considering their dynamic and how they are as people. I don't know what tag to use to find something like this (if it exists), so I would really appreciate your help! Thanks for your time in advance @makolashida

I haven't read any fanfics of that type but maybe dark!Wei Wuxian + bottom Lan Wangji could give some results? Maybe just bottom Lan Wangji + gusu lan sect bashing

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9. I m new to this... I don't really know how this works but... Are there any fics where Wei Ying goes to therapy and just processes his trauma? @ishipwenqingwithmyself

Better By Change by NebulusCharlie (Not Rated, 8k, WangXian, Therapy, Not JC Friendly, gaslighting JYL, Happy Wangxian, Fluffy wangxian, Boundaries, healthy mindspace) it's a modern AU, involves JC + JYL bashing, doesn't deal with canon WWX trauma like losing his core/various family deaths/war trauma

redemption lies plainly in truth by kaseyskat (T, 5k, WangXian, JC & WWX, JL & WWX, WQ & WWX, WWX & JYL, Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Character Study, WWX is allowed to mourn, that's it that's the fic, Reconciliation, mentions of WWXs past) set in canon so no therapy in the modern sense but WWX gets time to process some of his grief

Come Around and Stay by trippednfell (M, 160k, WangXian, NieLan, Slow Burn, Kid Fic, Found Family, Modern AU, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, PTSD, Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Musicals, POV Alternating, Baking, Yunmeng reconciliation (eventually), Friend Zoning, Literal Sleeping Together, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks) modern AU, WWX gets a therapist in this one, no canon trauma processing but deals with modern trauma

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10. Are there any fics, where wangxian end up talking about LXC calling WWX LWJ's one mistake? Or where LWJ finds out his brother said that. Thank you for all your amazing work. I adore this blog. @winxhelina

🔒💖 When has silence saved anyone?by Vrishchika (T, 6k, wangxian, LSZ & WWX & LWJ, post-canon, LXC critical, family feels, angry LWJ & LSZ, LXC gets scolded) really wonderful writing, takes a critical look at LXC

Wei Ying Was Not A “MISTAKE” by Jeeny271196 (Not rated, 6k, wangxian, LXC & LWJ, BAMF LWJ, confrontation, hurt/comfort, protective LWJ, not LXC friendly) LWJ snaps back at LXC

Enough! by Jeeny271196 (Not Rated, 12k, WangXian, WIP, Gusu Lan Sect Bashing, Jiang Family Bashing, JC Bashing, LXC Bashing, BAMF WWX, Cultivation Sect Politics) WWX is the one who snaps back at LXC

break by justdoityoufucker (T, 3k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, LXC Critical, JC Critical, Canonical Character Death, Guānyīn Temple Scene, BAMF WN, Protective WN) Wen Ning is the one who snaps back at LXC

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11. ITMF fics (non modern au) that explore WWX’s time on the street and the consequences of it please and thank you @dynmo13

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12. for itmf any fics about wei wuxians childhood in yunmeng jiang sect mostly canon but they save yunmeng jiang sect/not everyone dies and madame yu is not written as an antagonist or she has redemption arc something like that

tysm @r3n-vy

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13. Itmf wwx having a daughter

Jiang Xiaolian's Guide to Motherhood and Gardening by bumbledees (T, 14k, WangXian, JC/WQ, JYL/JZX, Crack Taken Mostly Seriously, like many of WWX's best ideas it starts as a joke!, and then i write it, canon is sad bitch let's get you some fun, purposeful baby aquisition, john mulaney voice: you know those days when you're like 'this might as well happen', that's this fic, WWX when will you learn that there are consequences to your actions, have a melon baby) sort of but not really mpreg? there's no actual pregnancy, just some WWX-typical cultivation shenanigans

sweet lotus petals, unfolding in the sun by stiltonbasket (G, 33k, WangXian, LXC & LWJ, LXC & WWX, JC & WWX, Unplanned Pregnancy, Married WangXian, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Curtain Fic, wangxian are dads and it hurts so good, Medical Inaccuracies, heaps of them, Mpreg, lxc is best bro, someone save JC, wangxian dual cultivation baby, except not how you think, the radish method gets an upgrade, Reincarnation) mpreg WWX

❤️ Attempting the Impossible by Ariaste for williedustice (T, 36k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Post-Canon, Yunmeng Bros Reconciliation, Adoption, Family Fluff, Kid fic, Family drama, Fluff, 🔒[PODFIC] Attempting the Impossible by Ariaste by lunatique)

Never Again by Hauntcats (T, 67k, WWX & WN & WQ, JC & WWX, wangxian, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, Canon Divergence, Angst, Golden Core Transfer Fix-It, Time Travel Fix-It, Not JC Friendly, Dark, BAMF WWX, mentions of abuse, Not Everyone Dies au, XY doesn’t have a happy ending)

🔒 Little Stars by Aki_no_hikari (G, 4k, WangXian, Family Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Canon Divergence, Yílíng Wèi Sect)

The Trouble with Talismans: a Treatise on Time-Travel by Young Master Lan Xiaohui (Age 6) by stiltonbasket (G, 26k, WangXian, LSZ & WWX & LWJ, LXC & LWJ, LXC/NMJ, Time Travel, wangxian get smacked in the face with their future children, Parenthood, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, a-yuan is the best big brother, xiao-yu has a, Very bad day, baby just wants his a-niang, and for his parents to GET IT TOGETHER already, Happy Ending, Confused WWX, Accidental Baby Acquisition, lwj is panicking)

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14. Hi! I'm in the mood for any good recommendations for fanfics that aren't on AO3. Any favorite Tumblr posts, or anything on other sites. Smut or Fluff very welcome! But anything goes. @hikato-chan

Shattered Mirrors Master Post by @besanii

rebuttable presumption masterpost by @sarah-yyy

The requester for 14 should be sure to check out the non-AO3 fic compilations: Non-AO3 Part 1 (Twitter) | Pt.2

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15. Hey! Not sure if my prev. ask got sent so if this is a duplicate please delete. For ITMF - do you know of any fics that challenge the practice of seclusion? It's just the more I think about it the more it seems like the in-universe version of celebrities going to "rehab" at upscale resorts to avoid taking responsibility for their behavior. So I'd like to see a character (possibly lxc?) dragged back out again to clean up their own mess.

Scattered ashes and dispersed smoke series by AshayaTReldai (E, 50k, Past LXC/WWX, WangXian, SL/XXC, Past Mpreg, LXC in Seclusion, Post-LXC in Seclusion, Angst, Family systems theory and differentiation, Broken LXC, but we're going to give him the opportunity to heal, Daoism, PTSD, Abuse, Mental Coercion, Mental Abuse, JGY has a lot to answer for, Dark WWX, Dark LXC, WWX's Birthday, Angry rant, the raw truth) This is a 2 part series, canon divergence AU. Changes are big but don't actually shift the overall plot. (Changes are WWX and LXC have an arranged marriage at first, golden core goes to LXC, WWX and LXC are A-Yuan's birth parents.) That stuff isn't really important and is kind of just mentioned, the focus is on LXC facing his mistakes and actually growing as a person. Wangxian happy ending.

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16. Is there wangxian fics where the gusu classroom sees wangxian's future and shamelessness? what led to deaths framing wwx? Whodunnit and why? @tjrc18

💖 From the Future for the Past by friedchickenlord (G, 27k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, First Love, Love Confessions, Fluff and Humor, accidental time travel due to one husband malfunctioning array, teen wangxian meet adult wangxian, Happy Ending, adding extra chapter, in this household we hate JGS, in which WWX love library pavilion, (in a way) Yiling Laozu x Hanguang Jun, Denial, Mutual Pining)

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17. fics where wwx has wings. or a fic where wwx only has a (raven?) wing and lwj saw it and fell in love if I'm not mistaken @quwieiidkd

you'll love me at once (the way you did once upon a dream) by sweetlolixo (T, 18k, WangXian, Dark Fairytale, Inspired by Maleficent (2014), Wingfic, Sleeping Beauty with a twist, Maleficent WWX, Prince LWJ, Older WWX, Younger LWJ, young prince lwj flirts with MILF wwx that's it that's the fic, just kidding there is also, Angst with a Happy Ending, True Love's Kiss, Three Chaotic Fairies NHS NMJ and JGY, A Fairytale Iteration of "Lan Zhan you like Mian Mian?!") maleficent AU WWX

the sleeper's gift by iliacquer (T, 6k, WangXian, Implied/Referenced Torture, Disability, A curse within a curse within a curse, Wingfic, Sleeping Beauty Retelling, Maleficent WWX, Reincarnation, Sometimes love lasts multiple lifetimes I guess, True Love's Kiss) another maleficent AU but more intricate, cursed LWJ and WWX

Two is a Pair, Three is a Murder by cosmicworry14 (E, 6k, WangXian, Wingfic, winged!wwx, demonic bird wwx, Bird/Human Hybrids, Protective LWJ, Possessive LWJ, Possessive WWX, Animal Instincts, Courting Rituals, Blood and Gore, Dark) winged WWX due to burial mounds

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If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic recs #i'm in the mood for a fic #the untamed #wangxian fic search #wangxianficfinder #long post

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batmanlovesnirvana · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter two | Under Gotham’s Shadow.

masterlist

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +7k.

author’s note : The second chapter is here! Just a reminder that English isn't my first language, so if there are any mistakes, I apologize in advance. We're meeting a lot of new characters in this chapter, so I hope everything makes sense. If anything is unclear, feel free to ask questions!

cw : bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

AFTER LEAVING the mayor's house, Maryam reluctantly approached her car.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, shutting out the chaotic world outside. The muffled sounds of journalists shouting questions and the wail of police sirens barely registered as she tried to process the night's events.

Her mind replayed the grim scenes in a loop— the mayor’s lifeless body, the blood, the devastation in young George’s eyes. It was a deliberate murder, no doubt about it, and something deep inside told her this wouldn't be the last. A shiver ran down her spine as she pondered the motives behind the killing. Why target the mayor? She didn't know him personally and, to be honest, barely cared about the man. His face was familiar, but only in the way that all politicians’ faces are—seen, not truly known. Despite keeping up with politics, she could hardly recall anything of substance that he'd done for Gotham.

Sure, he’d put Salvatore Maroni behind bars, but Maryam suspected he was just another cog in the Falcone family's machine. Who in Gotham wasn’t at this point? The city was still in shambles, with criminals running rampant, homelessness skyrocketing, and the gap between the rich and poor only growing wider. Every promise the mayor made during his campaign had turned out to be empty words, nothing but lies wrapped in false hope.

Everything was a mess.

Yet, despite her cynicism, she found herself more worried about George than the murdered politician. The boy was innocent, a child who had nothing to do with the murky underworld of Gotham.

Her aunt had been babysitting him for three years now, and Maryam had often found herself at her aunt’s house, playing with the boy, listening to his innocent laughter. She couldn't help but feel a pang of protectiveness for him.

But what really freaked her out was the vigilante. She had quite literally stumbled upon him, and the memory sent a shiver down her spine.

He was taller than she imagined, his form imposing in a way that felt almost otherworldly. But it was his eyes that haunted her the most—those piercing blue eyes, the bluest she had ever seen. They weren’t just blue; they were the kind of blue that poets of the Renaissance would have wept over, likening them to the tragic skies painted by God himself, sorrowful and burdened with the weight of the world.

His eyes were like a sea under a storm, blue but ringed with red, the color of exhaustion, the remnants of battles fought, and the silent scream of hopelessness written in every shadow. They were the kind of eyes that held the world’s tragedies within them, where hope was a distant, dying light, struggling against the overwhelming tide of despair.

And the way he gripped her—firmly but not forcibly—sent a jolt through her, like a live wire connecting them. It was as if he was afraid of breaking her, as if she were a delicate flower and he was the brutal wind, dangerous and unpredictable, but somehow hesitant to cause harm. It was electrifying. No, it was more than that. It was mortifying. Yes, that was the right word.

The sensation of being held so carefully by something so dangerous—it terrified her.

Another sigh escaped her lips. She had to stop daydreaming, a habit that both gnawed at her and offered comfort in equal measure. But no matter how hard she tried, those blue eyes, full of a sadness she couldn’t comprehend, kept pulling her back into the memory.

Raising her head, Maryam stretched her neck and glanced at the clock in her car. The night had dragged on longer than she realized. She fished her phone from her back pocket, the screen lighting up to reveal a picture of her younger self with her parents and siblings, a bittersweet memory frozen in time. She quickly typed in her password, intending to call her aunt Meysa, but the screen flooded with notifications—several missed calls from her aunt and her siblings. By now, the news must have spread, and they would be worried.

She pressed the call button for her aunt and placed the phone on the dashboard, putting it on speaker. The ringing echoed through the car, the foggy windows a testament to the cold outside. She undid her updo, letting her hair fall, and massaged her scalp as she waited for her aunt to pick up. Finally, the call connected.

“Allo? Maryam, I have been calling you for two hours! You don’t respond to me or your sisters!” Meysa’s voice was thick with worry, not giving Maryam a chance to speak.

“No, I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. I was working—” Maryam started to explain but was cut off again.

“Like always,” Meysa said in Arabic, a tone of gentle reprimand in her voice.

Maryam sighed. “Look, I wanted to call you to ask if you’ve seen the news?”

“Not to ask how your old aunt has been doing?” Meysa teased.

“I literally saw you this morning!” Maryam replied in Arabic, exasperated.

“I know, I know... But yes, I’ve seen the news, although I received it before.”

Maryam furrowed her brows at this. “What do you mean?”

“Rebecca, the Mayor’s wife, called me in tears! I was getting ready for bed when my phone rang,” Meysa explained, then quickly added with a tsk, “She told me her husband was dead! Killed! Can you believe that, yah Maryam?”

Maryam listened, nibbling on her nails and massaging her scalp with her other hand. “Not really, it’s Gotham, have you forgotten?”

“I can’t believe they did that. Killing the Mayor. I never liked him anyway, but the boy? Miskeen, Wallah. I told her to bring him to me so I could take care of him, but she refused. She’s right; it’s better he stays with his mother and family. He must be traumatized.” Meysa continued, brushing off Maryam’s comment.

“I saw him and talked to him—” Maryam began, only to be interrupted again.

“You were there?” Meysa asked, surprised.

“Yep,” Maryam confirmed. “It was a horrible sight. And like I was saying, the boy was really traumatized. I tried to comfort him, but...” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Seeing that kind of thing really messes with your head.”

A heavy silence hung between them.

“You’re right,” Meysa agreed quietly. “I’ll talk to his mother when I can. I don’t want to bother her—God knows how things must be for her right now.”

Maryam only hummed in response, her gaze drifting to the chaos of journalists outside her car.

“What else did you see there?” Meysa asked, hopeful for more information.

“You know I can’t tell you, teta. It’s confidential,” Maryam replied, taking her phone in her hand.

Meysa huffed. “Fine, fine. I suppose I’ll see it in the papers tomorrow.” Then, as if remembering something, she added, “By the way, I made dinner—couscous.”

“Noted. I’m coming to sleep at your apartment then. I’m not working tomorrow morning anyway. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Salam, and be careful—or you might run into that satanic devil.” Meysa warned, her tone half-joking.

Maryam laughed, her thoughts flickering briefly to the vigilante. Oh, if only you knew. “Yeah, okay. Bye.”

She ended the call and started the car engine, the rumble breaking the quiet of the early morning. Without another thought, she sped through the empty streets, heading towards her aunt’s apartment.

────୨ৎ────

Bruce removed his helmet with a quiet exhale, the motion slow and deliberate.

The cool air of the cave brushed against his sweat-dampened skin, a stark contrast to the warmth trapped beneath the black armor. As he pulled the helmet free, the shadows lifted from his face, revealing a man who carried the weight of a city’s sins in his eyes. His blackened gaze swept the cavernous space around him, the dim light catching the maining streaks of dark camo that clung to the edges of his eyelids, a haunting reminder of the night he’d just endured.

He reached up, his fingers deftly removing the contact lenses, the tiny sensor bands embedded within reflecting the harsh glow of the monitors around him. The lenses were more than just a tool—they were a gateway to his world, a lens through which he witnessed the darkness that engulfed Gotham. He placed them on the workbench, their curved surfaces still warm from his eyes, before shifting his attention to the grainy video footage playing on the screen.

Nirvana playing on the background; the scene replayed in stark black and white, the distorted image of a gang member convulsing as he was tased in the neck. Bruce’s eyes lingered on the man’s face, reading the fear etched in every twitch of his muscles. He knew that fear well; it was the same fear that had once gripped him as a child, staring into the eyes of the man who had taken everything from him.

He stood, his eyes scanning the vast space of the cave, the eerie silence of early morning settling around him. The remnants of a bygone era surrounded him—an unfinished black muscle car sat hulking in one corner. Monitors lined the walls, their screens flickering with the latest news. The headline that caught his eye made his stomach tighten:

"MAYOR MITCHELL MURDERED."

The newscaster’s voice droned on, filling the cave with words that felt like distant echoes: "...this certainly isn't the first time Gotham has been rocked by the murder of a political figure. In fact, in an eerie coincidence, it was twenty years ago this month that celebrated billionaire philanthropist, Dr. Thomas Wayne, and his wife Martha were slain during Wayne's own mayoral campaign in a shocking crime that remains unsolved to this day..."

Bruce’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as the familiar pang of loss surged through him. The past had a cruel way of resurfacing, no matter how deep he buried it.

He sat back, his eyes scanning the footage on the monitor. He paused as the camera caught a glimpse of her—Dr. Maryam Halimi.

Even in the grainy, night-vision footage, she stood out, her presence both captivating and unsettling. Her expressive hazel eyes had been wide with shock when she stumbled upon him, her hair meticulously styled in a French twist updo, a stark contrast to the chaos around her.

There was something about the way she held herself, a blend of poise and vulnerability, that gnawed at him.

Her presence was an unexpected calm amidst the storm of violence and despair.

Bruce leaned in, his gaze sharpening as he studied her features. She had looked at him with those eyes—greenish-yellow, filled with tragedy, hauntingly beautiful, and framed by the weariness of someone who had witnessed far too much yet clung to a fragile hope. A sudden comparison flashed through his mind, almost disorienting: her eyes were like the sky at dusk, desperately holding on to the last traces of daylight before succumbing to the darkness. They were eyes that bore the weight of the world.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it clung to him stubbornly. For a brief moment, he had seen his own torment reflected in her gaze. The deep blue of his eyes, like a painting etched in sorrow, had found a mirror in hers. It was a gaze that spoke of shared suffering, even if she was unaware of it.

Bruce replayed the scene, his heart rate subtly rising as he relived the moment she had stumbled upon him. He hadn’t expected her to be there, and the way she had frozen, her eyes widening in shock, had left an indelible mark on him.

He captured her image on one of his computer screens, letting it linger there before switching to another monitor to continue reviewing the footage.

A metallic clank echoed through the cave, pulling Bruce’s attention away from the screen. He looked up to see Alfred stepping out of the freight elevator, his figure cast in the half-light. The older man’s face, etched with years of wear and scars of a different kind, was a picture of quiet concern.

Bruce turned back to his work, avoiding Alfred’s gaze, but the tension between them lingered in the air like a ghost.

“I assume you heard about this...?” Alfred’s voice was low, tinged with the weary resignation of a man who had seen too much.

“Yeah,” Bruce replied, his tone clipped, eyes fixed on the footage he was fast-forwarding through—frame by frame, dissecting every moment of the crime scene.

Alfred moved closer, his steps echoing softly on the stone floor. He glanced at the screen, his eyes widening at the sight of Mayor Mitchell’s body. “Oh. I see...” His voice faltered as he took in the gruesome scene. “...dear God...”

As the image of the cipher filled the screen, Bruce froze the frame, his hand reaching to print the image. The lines of the eerie symbols etched into the Halloween card were now stark on the paper. Alfred’s breath hitched as he took in the sight, the chill of the moment settling deep into his bones.

“The killer left this for Batman?” Alfred’s voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear he kept carefully masked.

“Apparently.” Bruce’s reply was curt, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a message from a murderer.

Alfred’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re becoming quite a celebrity... why is he writing to you?”

“I don’t know yet.” Bruce’s voice was flat, betraying nothing of the storm brewing inside him.

"And her?" Alfred gestured toward the computer screen where Maryam’s face was paused, captured in the moment their eyes had locked. Bruce hesitated, his gaze briefly shifting to the screen as Alfred studied the image.

"Does she have any link to what happened—"

"No," Bruce cut him off sharply, his tone leaving no room for further questioning.

"She’s pretty," Alfred murmured, his voice softening as a small smile tugged at his lips. "Quite a striking woman, if I may add. Or was it the way you scared her?"

Bruce's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. "She seemed familiar."

Alfred glanced at him, curiosity piqued. "Do you know her?"

Bruce shook his head, his voice distant, as though reaching back into a memory just out of grasp. "I asked Gordon about her. He said she's a pathologist. Medical examiner. Her name is Dr. Maryam Halimi." His gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he returned to the other screen, burying himself in the work that never seemed to end.

A heavy silence settled between them, the only sound the hum of machinery in the background. Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to weigh the gravity of the situation against Bruce's relentless pursuit of justice.

"Have a shower," Alfred finally said, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. "The accounting boys from Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast."

"Here—why?" Bruce asked, irritation flickering in his eyes, a reminder of the ever-present tension between his two worlds.

"Because I couldn’t get you to go there!" Alfred retorted, frustration seeping into his voice as he met Bruce's gaze, the unspoken concern between them thickening the air.

“I don’t have time for this,” Bruce muttered, his own patience wearing thin.

Alfred’s voice softened, a plea underlying his words. “It’s getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won’t be long before you’ve nothing left—”

“I don’t care about that. Any of that.” Bruce’s words were sharp, final, cutting through the space between them like a knife.

Alfred’s eyes flickered with a pain that he quickly masked. “You don’t care about your family’s legacy?”

“What I’m doing is my family’s legacy,” Bruce countered, his voice low, edged with a conviction that left no room for doubt. “And if I can’t change things here, if I can’t have an effect, then I don’t care what happens to me.”

Alfred swallowed hard, his throat tight with unshed emotions. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Bruce's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a warning. “Alfred, stop.” The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “You’re not my father.”

The statement was cold, a barrier thrown up between them, meant to shut down the conversation. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Alfred’s expression faltered, the faintest trace of hurt flashing across his face before he masked it with a resigned nod.

But the words lingered, echoing in the cavernous space of the Batcave, a reminder of the chasm that sometimes seemed too wide to bridge between them.

A thin, pained smile touched Alfred’s lips, barely masking the hurt behind his eyes. “I’m... well aware,” he replied quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that Bruce chose to ignore.

Alfred’s eyes lingered on Bruce for a moment longer, searching for something—some sign of acknowledgment, a crack in the armor. But Bruce remained impassive, his gaze already drifting back to the screens, to the work that consumed him.

Bruce rose from his seat, the movement deliberate and final, signaling the end of the conversation. Alfred watched him go, a deep pain etched in his expression, the kind that comes from years of unspoken worries and unresolved conflicts.

The distance between them felt wider than ever, a gulf that no words could bridge.

As Bruce disappeared into the elevator, Alfred turned back to the computer, his gaze lingering on the screens Bruce had been working on. His eyes scanned the thumbnails from the lens footage, pausing on one that showed the boy in the ninja costume with Maryam crouched in front of him, trying to comfort the little boy. His heart clenched at the sight; the tenderness in her gesture stood out sharply against the brutality surrounding them, a small but significant act of humanity in a city drowning in darkness.

His gaze then drifted to the printed cipher lying on the desk, the eerie symbols from the Halloween card glaring up at him. Above them, in Bruce's sharp handwriting, were the words: "HE LIES STILL."

Alfred frowned, the weight of those words pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. He knew the dangers Bruce was courting, the dark path he was walking. But seeing those words, seeing the connection between the message and Bruce’s relentless pursuit of justice, filled him with a deep sense of dread. It was as if the very essence of Bruce's mission was encapsulated in that ominous phrase—a mission that seemed to be consuming him more each day.

Alfred let out a weary sigh and closed his eyes, the heaviness of the situation settling over him. The fear of what it might do to Bruce weighed heavily on his heart.

────୨ৎ────

Maryam stirred awake, the faint sound of voices and the clattering of dishes drawing her from sleep.

The room she found herself in was familiar, though now it bore the quiet solitude of the morning. This was the place she once shared with her younger sister Sherine during their teenage years—a space that had seen countless late-night conversations, whispered secrets and shared dreams. It wasn’t vast, just big enough to comfortably house two people.

The furniture was modest, with a couple of beds positioned against the walls, each adorned with mismatched bedsheets that reflected the distinct personalities of the two sisters.

A shared wooden dresser stood between them, and a small desk, once a place for late-night study sessions or scribbled notes passed between them, sat against the wall, bearing the marks of years gone by.

The room had a comforting, lived-in feel, with soft, warm colors that reflected the coziness of their aunt's home. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle rays that danced on the patterned rug. A few framed pictures adorned the walls—memories of family gatherings and happier times.

Maryam rubbed her eyes, still groggy, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen flashed to life, showing the time: 10:36 a.m.

She sighed, stretching her arms above her head, and then rolled out of bed. Her face was slightly puffy from sleep, and her hair, which had been washed the night before, had settled into bouncy curls that framed her bare face.

Yawning, she reached for her red robe, slipping it on and tying it snugly at the waist. The soft fabric provided a small comfort against the coolness of the morning. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight that streamed through the window, she made her way to the door.

As she entered the hallway, the sounds of life became more pronounced—familiar voices mingled with the clinking of dishes, the occasional clatter of cutlery, and the unmistakable melody of Um Kulthum filling the apartment.

The closer she got to the kitchen, the stronger the scent of coffee became, warm and inviting. It was a smell that always made her feel at home, no matter what else was happening in the world outside.

In the kitchen, her Aunt Meysa was on the phone, a foulard wrapped like a turban on her head and her usual apron draped over her jelaba. She was speaking loudly, gesturing with such vigor that it was as if the person on the other end could actually see her. The mix of broken English and Arabic in her voice was unmistakable.

"No, no, we take no more kids tonight! Already full!" She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair, as if the person she was speaking to was as thick-headed as the fog that sometimes rolled in from Gotham Bay.

At the small table, Aunt Jamila sat, the embodiment of calm despite the tumultuous life she’d endured. A cigarette was nestled between her fingers, a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. Her black hair was tied back, and her sharp yet warm brown eyes were fixated on the newspaper spread out before her.

Maryam paused, blinking in surprise. Aunt Mila never read the paper. The last time she’d seen her aunt with a newspaper, it had been crumpled up to light the fireplace.

Strange, she thought.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” teased Moncef, her cousin, a few years younger and always up to something.

He was Aunt Meysa and Uncle Fawzi's only son, a boxer who owned a gym in Gotham, both training and fighting in the ring.

Maryam, unfazed by his usual teasing, just rolled her eyes and ignored him.

Rania, the fourth Halimi sister, was hunched over her laptop at the table. Her dirty blonde curls were pulled into a messy bun, held together by a pencil, and an earpiece was tucked into one ear. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, completely immersed in work for Bella Reál’s mayoral campaign.

Yesterday's fiasco had thrown her into overdrive, and she barely noticed the world around her.

At the far end of the table sat Warda, the second-born daughter. An engineer at Wayne Enterprises currently on maternity leave, had one hand resting gently on her rounded belly.

She was the only married sister out of the five, wed to a man named Ryan, a dentist. Despite the exhaustion that often accompanied pregnancy, Warda looked as radiant as ever.

Her dark hair, straightened and perfectly styled, brushed her shoulders as she leaned in to spread marmalade on her toast.

When Moncef made his remark, she glanced up, a warm smile spreading across her lips. “Sbah al khir, sbah al noor yah Milou,” she greeted, using one of Maryam’s many nicknames.

Maryam, stretching again to shake off the morning sluggishness, walked over and planted a small kiss on Warda’s head. Warda returned the affection with a tender smile before taking a bite of her tartine. Maryam moved to the counter, tugging her robe tighter around her waist as she poured herself a cup of coffee—milk and three sugars, her usual.

Meanwhile, Moncef, ever the joker, threw a few playful jabs in her direction as she poured the coffee. Maryam, long accustomed to his antics, didn’t even flinch.

Noticing the empty chair at the table, Maryam smirked to herself. The youngest sister, Alma—affectionately known as Lulu—was still in bed.

Typical, she thought. Lulu, the baby of the family, was probably the only one who could sleep through the chaos.

Maryam turned her attention to Aunt Mila, who hadn’t lifted her eyes from the newspaper. “Since when do you read the news, hmm?” she asked, raising one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows as she sipped from her mug.

Amina took a slow drag from her cigarette, her gaze still fixed on the paper. “Why wouldn’t I? The mayor’s dead. That’s big news.”

Maryam chuckled, turning back to the counter. She put her mug down and opened a drawer, rummaging through it for her favorite biscuits. “I’ve never seen you read the paper,” she said, her tone light.

Finally finding the biscuits, she tore the pack open with her teeth and turned back towards the table. “Actually, I’ve only ever seen you light fires with it.” She shot a sideways glance at Rania, who grinned without looking up from her laptop.

Amina sighed, finally folding the newspaper and meeting Maryam’s gaze. “Well, times change, and so do people, ya benti,” she said, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Even I, need to keep up with what’s happening in this madhouse of a city.”

Warda, still chewing her tartine, chimed in with a soft, teasing voice. “Oh, Maryam knows. She was at the crime scene last night.”

Moncef’s eyes widened as he snatched the newspaper from Amina’s hands, dodging her half-hearted attempt to pinch him. “You were?” he exclaimed, scanning the headlines.

Maryam rolled her eyes playfully, leaning back against the counter. “Thanks for the reminder, Warda. Like I needed it,” she quipped, though the corners of her mouth twitched into a small smile.

Moncef, still clutching the newspaper, leaned forward with curiosity. “So, what did you see? Give me the juicy details.”

Maryam shot him a look, already feeling her patience thin. “Moncef, how many times do I have to say it? I can’t tell you. It’s against the rules.” Her eyes widened to emphasize her words. “Besides, I woke up to Sherine hounding me for more info for her papers, and I still refused.”

Ali threw the newspaper at Maryam, but she dodged it with practiced ease.

Meysa, still on the phone, caught the exchange and snapped at her son, “Moncef, stop bothering your cousin! Go find something else to do.”

Ali grimaced and backed off. “Fine, fine. Just trying to get some interesting gossip.”

Maryam stuck her tongue out at him in mock defiance, earning a bemused look from Ali.

“So, what does everyone want for dinner?” Meysa asked, finally hanging up the phone. “I’m thinking Mloukhiah.”

Moncef chimed in, “I don’t know, Baba’s off to work at the bay until tonight, even though I told him not to go. The weather’s awful.”

Meysa scoffed. “Your father is as stubborn as a mule. Out there, getting drenched while Gotham spirals into chaos. What’s next? A gang of criminals taking over Wayne Enterprises?”

Maryam chuckled, her mind still partially occupied with the crime scene. “It’s Gotham, Meysa. Anything’s possible.”

Rania, finally looking up from her laptop, wore a serious expression. “The conspiracy theories are spiraling out of control. This is going to be a nightmare for Bella’s campaign. Every scandal just adds more fuel to the fire.”

Maryam leaned back against the counter with a smirk. “Welcome to my world, Rania. Looks like you’re becoming Maryam 2.0.”

Rania narrowed her eyes at her sister but couldn’t hide a smile. “Oh, please. I’m still young. Don’t age me prematurely.”

“Too late,” Maryam shot back with a laugh. “You’re already showing signs of stress. Look at those bags under your eyes.”

Rania leaned in closer with a smirk. “Ha! You’re one to talk. Your workaholic tendencies could turn anyone into an early retiree.”

“Maybe,” Maryam conceded with a grin, “but at least I’m not glued to a laptop 24/7.”

“Not glued, just constantly engaged,” Rania retorted with a cheeky smile.

Warda, ever the peacemaker, chimed in with a gentle smile. “Let’s not turn this into a competition over who’s the bigger workaholic. We all have our issues.” She glanced down at her round belly and stroked it lovingly. “Some of us just have different priorities.”

Meysa, always the doting aunt, leaned over and added, “Eat, Warda. You’re not eating enough for a pregnant woman. I don’t want my grandchild to be hungry.”

Warda quipped back, “I’m fine, Aunt Meysa. Don’t worry, my husband is feeding me enough.”

At that moment, Alma, the youngest Halimi sister nicknamed Lulu, stumbled into the kitchen. Her auburn, almost red hair was a mess of curls, and her eyes were half-closed as if she’d just been dragged from a deep sleep. “What’s going on? Why’s everyone so loud?”

Warda greeted Lulu with a warm smile. “Welcome to the land of the living, Lulu.”

Lulu took the coffee cup gratefully and sat down at the table. “I’m still half-asleep. What’s everyone talking about?”

“The mayor’s dead,” Jamila said matter-of-factly, lighting another cigarette.

Lulu’s eyes widened in shock, nearly spilling her coffee. “Wait, what? When did that happen?”

“Last night,” Maryam replied, watching her sister’s reaction with a concerned look. “It’s all over the news.”

Rania snorted and returned to her laptop. “Trust me, you’re not missing much. Just more chaos.”

Aunt Jamila exhaled a stream of smoke, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Chaos or not, this city’s going to hell. We’ve got to be careful. All of us.”

Warda nodded, her hand resting on her belly as she considered Amina’s words. “Yeah, we do. But we’ve survived worse, right?”

The room fell into a contemplative silence. They had indeed survived worse.

Breaking the silence, Maryam asked Lulu, “Where were you, anyway?”

Lulu groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Revising my bar exam.” She avoided eye contact with Maryam, her unease palpable.

“Really?” Maryam asked suspiciously, crossing her arms and frowning.

“Yep.” At this point, everyone stopped what they were doing and focused on Lulu, sensing the tension in the air.

With all eyes on her, Lulu finally exploded. “Okay, fine! I did go to revise, but then I went on a date with a guy!”

Jamila, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, said, “See? Wasn’t that hard.”

“What guy?” Moncef asked, his tone protective.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to tell you his name. I’m not even sure if it’s serious,” Lulu said, trying to deflect.

“Well, is he hot at least?” Rania asked with a mischievous grin.

“What do you mean ‘hot’?” asked Aunt Meysa, looking puzzled. “Is he sick or something?”

“No, Meysa,” Aunt Jamila clarified, “she’s asking if the boy is handsome.”

Maryam said nothing, but her gaze fixed on her sister, already forming suspicions about who the new guy might be. She hoped to god it wasn’t who she had in mind.

“Yaani, oh my god, it’s my life. I’m 26! Leave me alone!” Alma snapped suddenly, throwing her spoon onto the table and storming off to the bathroom.

Ali raised his arms in mock surrender. “I have to go open the ring anyway. Salam!” He left the kitchen, grabbing his energy drink on the way.

Seizing the opportunity to escape, Rania pushed back her chair, shutting her laptop with a decisive click. “Yeah, me too. I’m heading to the office. The team needs me.” She grabbed her bag and called after Moncef, “Can you please drive me?!”

“Be careful,” Warda called out, but the only response was the door slamming shut.

Maryam emptied her coffee into the sink, quickly washed her cup, and left the kitchen.

Aunt Jamila called after her, “Don’t make her even more mad!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maryam responded with a wave, already heading out the door.

────୨ৎ────

Maryam leaned against the bathroom doorframe, crossing her arms and giving her sister a stern look as Lulu brushed her teeth. “Please tell me it’s not who I think it is.”

Lulu leaned over to spit out the toothpaste, avoiding Maryam’s gaze. “Oh god, it is,” Maryam muttered, beginning to pace anxiously. Her fingers pressed against her temples. “Vittorio Falcone. Of all people—”

Alma quickly placed her hand over Maryam’s mouth, her eyes wide with alarm. “Keep your voice down!”

Maryam lowered her hands, her frustration palpable. “Can you blame me, Alma?” she said, using her full name to emphasize her annoyance. “You promised me you wouldn’t talk to him—”

“He kept insisting, Maryam!” Lulu cut in, placing her hands on the counter. “Sending me flowers, gifts, waiting outside uni and work—”

“And I warned you!” Maryam’s voice rose. “I said you’d be tempted by him and his charms! Ever since that night at the restaurant, and the way he looked at you while you worked! He knows what he’s doing; he’s playing you—”

“Maryam, he’s not that bad when you get to know him—”

“He’s part of the fucking mafia, be for real right now!” Maryam exclaimed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And not just any member—he’s the oldest son of Carmine Falcone!” She lowered her voice further. “The literal heir to the Roman throne.”

Alma shook her head, dismissing Maryam’s concerns. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Lulu,” Maryam said, taking her sister’s shoulders, “please don’t be fooled by them. I know them, I’ve worked near them. They’re dangerous.”

“I talked with him,” Alma said, though Maryam continued to shake her head. “We’re just friends. He says he’s going to make everything legitimate when he takes the reins, which he already has and has started doing some changes!” she explained, her tone pleading.

“Doesn’t matter,” Maryam said firmly. “He’s still dangerous. And you’re not even Italian. Why would he want to go out with you? It’s just so strange.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Alma said suddenly, her tone serious. “I know who he is, but all I ask is for you to trust me on this.” She absentmindedly played with a strand of her red hair. “We’re not together; if anything, I just went on that date with him so he’d stop pestering me. It’s nothing serious, really.”

“Look, I know he’s handsome and charming or whatever, but it’s not like in the movies. Please—” Maryam started, but Alma cut her off.

“I know what I’m doing, Mar. I’m not a baby anymore, and you know that.” Alma began to gently push Maryam out of the bathroom. “Don’t worry about me. Really.” With that, she pushed the door shut and locked it, leaving Maryam outside, bewildered and even more worried.

She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped as she tried to steady her breathing.

Maryam felt a pang of helplessness—she had always been the protector, the one who stepped in when things went wrong. But here, with Alma’s stubborn defiance, she was powerless.

The thought of Vittorio Falcone, the heir to one of Gotham’s most feared crime families, being involved with her sister was unsettling.

Her pulse quickened as she imagined the worst-case scenarios: Alma being used, manipulated, or worse. The danger was all too real, and Maryam’s protective instincts flared up with a fierce intensity. She remembered her own experiences with the criminal underworld, the threats and violence she had witnessed, that she had endured.

It was a world that left scars—both physical and emotional—and she couldn’t bear the thought of her sister being dragged into it.

Maryam’s fingers gripped the edge of the door poignet, her knuckles white with tension. She fought to push down the rising wave of anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She understood Alma’s need for independence and the desire to make her own choices, but the stakes were too high.

Maryam had always been the voice of caution, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, she had failed.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Alma’s footsteps retreating on the other side of the door. Maryam took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. The cacophony of the house—the clinking of dishes, the distant chatter—seemed to amplify her sense of isolation. Her family was moving on with their day, while she remained stuck in this moment of worry and frustration.

Maryam’s heart ached with the weight of her responsibility. She knew she had to find a way to protect Alma without pushing her further away. But for now, she felt powerless, her attempts to safeguard her sister thwarted by the very person she was trying to protect.

With a sigh, Maryam pushed away from the wall and decided to leave the bathroom door.

She needed to refocus, to address the rest of her day, and maybe��just maybe—find another way to keep her sister safe without losing her.

Maryam trudged back into the kitchen, her mood heavy with the weight of the earlier confrontation.

Warda was slowly rising from her chair, preparing to leave. “I have to go back to the house. I promised Ryan we’d go shopping for the baby. He took the day off just for me,” she said, leaning in to kiss her aunts goodbye.

She then turned to Maryam with a knowing look. “Don’t be too hard on her,” she advised softly before grabbing her coat and leaving, her floral perfume lingering in the air.

Aunt Jamila, still sifting through the pile of envelopes, glanced up. “Looks like the Mayor’s wife invited us to the funeral,” she said, holding up a sleek black envelope.

“Oh yes!” Meysa exclaimed, recalling the phone call. “She phoned me this morning and said she wanted us to come.”

Maryam nodded, tying her hair up with a practiced motion, her mind still churning from the argument with Alma. “I’ll be here,” she said, her tone clipped. “But I’ve got work. I’m heading back to my apartment, and then I’m off to meet Gordon for lunch.”

Aunt Mila gave her a once-over, her keen eyes noticing the tension in Maryam’s posture. “Don’t work yourself up too much,” she advised, her voice carrying a mix of concern and firmness.

“Don’t worry,” Maryam replied, trying to sound reassuring.

But her mind was elsewhere, already dwelling on the tasks ahead.

With that, she turned and made her way to the room where she had slept, intending to change into something more suitable for the day’s events.

────୨ৎ────

After arriving at her apartment just outside the Narrows, Maryam quickly changed out of the clothes she had worn the previous day, opting for something more suitable. She selected a sharp outfit, something that matched her professional demeanor and the gravity of her work.

Heading to the bathroom, she swiftly straightened her hair with an iron, though she didn’t leave it down. Instead, she went for her usual French chignon updo, securing it neatly at the nape of her neck. With practiced ease, she reached for her makeup bag and began her routine: a touch of concealer to brighten her eyes, bronzer to accentuate her tan skin, a quick brush over her eyebrows, a flick of mascara on her lashes, a hint of blush, and finally, her signature red lipstick, which added a bold pop of color to her plump lips.

A spritz of her usual oud perfume added the final touch as she glanced at the time on her phone. Satisfied with her appearance, she slipped on her black high-heeled boots, her long black coat that she secured with the ceinture around her waist, grabbed the dossier she had prepared—complete with the photos and notes from the crime scene—along with her black bag. After ensuring her keys, phone, and wallet were inside, she opened the door of her apartment and stepped out of her apartment.

As Maryam stepped out into the hallway, the familiar sounds of her building greeted her. The muffled cry of a baby echoed from one of the nearby apartments, and somewhere down the corridor, a couple's argument punctuated the otherwise quiet morning. She sighed, tightening her grip on her bag. This was Gotham, after all—a city where peace was always fleeting.

With a quick glance back to ensure her door was securely locked, he began her walk towards the stairwell. The weight of the dossier in her hand was a reminder of the seriousness of her work, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand. The voices behind her faded as she descended the stairs, the familiar creaks and groans of the old building, along with the click of her high heels, accompanied her steps.

Despite the less-than-ideal living conditions and the constant noise, this place had become a part of her, just like Gotham itself. She thought about her aunts’ constant urging to leave the city, to find a better life somewhere like Metropolis or Central City.

They couldn’t understand why she chose to stay, why she remained in a city that seemed to chew people up and spit them out.

But Maryam knew. Gotham was in her blood. It was a city that had shaped her, toughened her, and no matter how dark it got, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She often joked that if she worked anywhere else, she'd probably die of boredom.

Here, every day was a new challenge, a new puzzle to solve, and as much as the chaos drained her, it also fueled her.

Her salary might not reflect the work she put in—the long hours, the emotional toll—but money wasn’t what drove her. It was the people, the ones who needed her, and the small victories that kept her going.

Each time she uncovered the truth behind a death or brought a criminal one step closer to justice, she felt a sense of purpose that was worth more than any paycheck.

As she reached the ground floor and pushed open the heavy door leading outside, the cold air hit her face, sharp and bracing. She squared her shoulders, letting the door swing shut behind her as she made her way to the subway.

────୨ৎ────

The diner was a relic from a bygone era, its faded charm unmistakable despite the wear and tear.

The once-vibrant red booths had lost their luster, now marred by cracks and scuffs. The linoleum floor, a worn pattern of black and white squares, squeaked with every step. Old-fashioned pendant lights cast a soft, yellowish glow over the space, creating an ambiance that was both cozy and antiquated.

The walls were adorned with vintage photographs and a few outdated advertisements, giving the place an air of nostalgia. A jukebox in the corner remained dormant, its music silenced by the passing years.

Inside, a handful of patrons sat scattered across the booths and tables—some reading newspapers, others engaged in quiet conversations. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and the faint scent of cleaning products, a mix that added to the diner’s homey but slightly worn-out atmosphere.

Maryam spotted Gordon seated in a booth near the window, absently stirring a coffee. He looked up as she approached, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Maryam, right on time,” he greeted, standing up to kiss her cheek. “I’ve already ordered your usual—Diabolo mint.”

Maryam returned his smile and slid into the booth across from him, her black high-heeled boots clicking on the floor as she settled in.

“Thanks, Jim. My aunt sent over some cakes for Barbara,” she said, handing him a small box. “She thought Barbara might enjoy them.”

Gordon’s smile widened as he accepted the box. “I’m sure she will. She’s always been a fan of your aunt’s baking.”

Maryam nodded, pulling out the dossier from her bag and placing it on the table, her expression serious.

“I’ve compiled everything from the crime scene—photos, notes, and the autopsy details,” she said. “There’s a lot to go through, but I’ve highlighted the key points.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice steady. “The pattern suggests a personal motive. I’m leaning towards someone with a clear objective, possibly targeting specific individuals.”

Gordon listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. “And you think this might be just the beginning?”

Maryam’s gaze was unwavering. “Yes, I’m afraid so. The killer seems to have a goal in mind, and if my analysis is correct, this could be part of a larger plan.”

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “Now that you're suggesting it, I’ve been hearing some unsettling whispers about potential future targets.”

He took a sip of his coffee, the weight of the situation evident in his tone. “Anything else?”

Maryam sighed, leaning back in her seat. “Yes, my aunts and I were invited to the mayor’s funeral. I think it’s important to be there, considering everything.”

As she spoke, the TV mounted on the diner’s wall flashed news coverage of the murder, catching both their attention for a brief moment.

Gordon glanced at the screen, then back at Maryam. “It seems the night of the murder is still making headlines.”

Maryam huffed, a hint of frustration in her voice. “Well, the Mayor’s dead—it’s kind of a big thing.” She took a sip of her Diabolo mint before adding, “It’s all over social media. My sister Rania, you know her—dark blonde hair,” she gestured to her own hair, “she works comms and public affairs for Bella Real’s campaign.”

Gordon hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, it’s been hell since yesterday night,” Maryam said, her tone weary.

Gordon nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. “Man, tell me about it. The whole city’s on edge.”

They shared a moment of silence, the gravity of the situation settling in. The TV continued its coverage, but their focus remained on the task ahead.

“Anyways, anything new from the Bat about the case?” Maryam asked, a note of hope in her voice as she tried to pry any information from Gordon.

Gordon chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Well, you certainly made quite an impression on him, that’s for sure—”

Maryam cut him off, blushing slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gordon shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he adjusted his glasses. “But seriously, no, I haven’t heard anything from him since last night.”

Maryam mumbled under her breath, “Probably rotting in his cave.”

Before Gordon could respond, his phone rang, the screen displaying an unknown number. He answered it with a hint of skepticism, holding the phone to his ear as he listened intently.

Maryam took a sip of her Diabolo mint, waiting patiently for the call to end.

After a few minutes, Gordon hung up and looked at Maryam, a hint of intrigue in his expression. “That was him.”

Maryam’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Oh, really?”

Gordon nodded. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go, but I’ll make sure to keep you informed.”

“Of course, don’t hesitate to call,” Maryam replied, watching as he stood up and placed some money on the table.

Gordon offered her a nod. “Take care, Maryam. I’ll see you around.”

She watched him leave the diner, heading toward his car, the weight of the situation lingering in the air as she finished her drink.

previous chapter (chapter one) | next chapter

Halimi Family

Parents :

Idris Halimi (the father, deceased)

Anastasia Nikolaevna (the mother, deceased)

The sisters :

Maryam Halimi (the oldest) — 30, doctor, medical examiner.

Warda Halimi (second born) — 29, Engineer at Wayne Enterprises.

Sherine Halimi (third born) — 28, Journalist

Rania Halimi (fourth) — 27, Comms and public affairs for Bella Real Campaign.

Alma Halimi (youngest) — 26, Law student

Paternal aunts :

Meysa (Halimi) Saeed

Jamila Halimi, nurse

Paternal Uncle :

• Fawzi Saeed (husband of Meysa), fisherman

Paternal Cousins :

Moncef Saeed (son of Amir and Meysa), owner of a Boxing Ring in Gotham.

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angelzofdecay · 2 years ago

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If you die

FT- Blade, Jing Yuan, Dan Heng, Welt CW- death, murder, mourning, angst, hurt no comfort A/N- I'm sorry the voices told me to

Being the man that he is Blade wouldn’t react to your tragic passing at first. He would remain stoic concealing all of his feelings of despair and rage. For the longest time he didn’t believe that he could love, let alone be loved by another. The loss of you meant the loss of hope.

If you were murdered by the hands of another, he would eradicate them from the solar system. Anyone who worked with them may as well die too... He’ll need a place to vent out his frustrations. After the massacre and probable bounty put on his head afterwards, he would break down. If you died by illness or age, something he couldn’t take revenge on would be far worse. Blade would have nothing to take his inner feelings out on besides himself and maybe a few rouge robots. Eventually, his facade would be, and he would mourn you. Somewhere quiet, dark and alone and he would succumb to his inner turmoil. He would shed a tear or few but mostly likely scream his anguish and curse what had caused your unfortunate passing. He would never waste his time with another. Once you were gone, so was the last of his heart and no one could fill the void you left.

Jing Yuan has a bit more composure than Blade. Of course, he would mourn but wouldn’t make an outright spectacle of his. Your funeral would be as grand as your life, and he would spend every penny to be sure your memory was engraved into the world forever. If your precious life was stolen by a living thing, he would use all his power to have it wiped out. Now, if you were taken by an illness, he would make use of his funds by trying to find a cure. A way to prevent it from ever taking another dear life from someone else. Without you the days became dull and fruitless. It felt as though time itself had stopped when he heard the news. Jing nearly fell to the floor when he heard but simply excused himself to run to his private chambers. He wailed once he was alone like a lost child. He’ll feel exactly like a lost child who had lost the person most dear to them. It would take a long time for him to ever recover and find someone new.

The mourning process for Dan Heng is a combination of both prior characters. Unlike either of them when he heard of your passing he fell to his knees. His breath hitched in his throat, and he swore his heart constricted and tried to kill him as well. Instead of slaughtering everyone related to the murderer or using his popularity and coin to have them destroyed he enlists the help of the Astral Express Crew. They all adored you for how much joy you brought their dear friend so they would stop at nothing to bring the criminal to justice by any means necessary. An illness taking you suddenly would be soul crushing for Dan. There wasn’t anything he could do besides be by your side until you took your last breath. The healing process for him would come slow… He visited your grave on your birthday and the anniversary of your death and left offerings to celebrate your life and afterlife. He cleaned your tombstone so it would shine just like you did.

Welt is the most mentally stable of the group. How would he react if you died? Probably by becoming an even more stoic recluse. At night he would reach out for you forgetting that you were gone. He swore to protect you and failed, and he’ll never let himself forget that. Why should he live on peacefully when you can’t live at all? He goes by the book when it comes to seeking justice for you, but it doesn’t change the fact, he wished he could make them suffer like you did. He prayed he could make the sickness disappear from the universe all together. When he’s alone he still twiddles with the dumb stuffed bear he gave you that still smells exactly like you. Himeko has done her best to distract him, but your ghost continues to haunt him… Although he finds a sort of comfort in that.

#honkai star rail #dan heng #blade #welt yang #jing yuan #honkai star rail x reader #welt x reader #welt x you #dan heng x reader #dan heng x you #blade x reader #blade x you #jing yuan x you #jing yuan x reader

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princeloww · 10 months ago

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The Real St. Judes: Gartloch Hospital - History (abridged)

The Scottish Lunacy Act of 1857 saw the creation of the Glasgow District Lunacy Board. The act, through these boards, aimed to establish and operate "district asylums", which would house patients unable to pay for the already existing "Royal Asylums".

In 1889, the Gartloch Estate was purchased by the City of Glasgow for approximately £8600 (~1 million today). The Glasgow District Lunacy Board were to turn it into an asylum for the mentally ill, and Gartloch Hospital would open in 1896.

In the early 1900s, a tuberculosis sanitorium was opened.

During World War II, Gartloch was temporarily transformed into an Emergency Medical Services Hospital; the psychiatric patients were transferred and housed in other hospitals. After the war, the tuberculosis sanitorium was shut.

Gartloch would fall into the hands of a different board (Board of Management for Glasgow North-Eastern Mental Hospitals), after joining the NHS in 1948.

Although there were 830 beds in 1904, by 1990 there were apparently only 530 - this being just under the amount available when it first opened.

In its last few years, Gartloch would fall under the Greater Glasgow Community and Mental Health Services NHS Trust. In 1996, the hospital officially closed, and was essentially abandoned, until 2003, when plans to turn Gartloch into a village began.

Now, there is a village, "Gartloch Village", surrounding the hospital. The main body, the iconic front we see in Donna Franceschild's TOTA, standing derelict and with boarded windows.

Oh, it's also apparently haunted, according to two nurses.

What was the hospital like?

I've nabbed these (like most of the other information - although I cross-referenced the rest (such as the years) from wikipedia and some other archives) from this article on hiddenglasgow.com.

I was born and lived at 2280 Gartloch Rd (East Cottages) of Gartloch Hospital. My Father, Bill Milne was the Bacteriologist at Gartloch Hospital Laboratory. My Mother was Helen and was the hospital hairdresser. My memories of Gartloch are the most wonderful memories ever. We had the most perfect childhood. The children of employees were involved in lots of differant ways. I remember especially the farm. Our house looked onto the busy fields and the Bishop Loch. We spent many happy summers pickinf tatties with the patients. And in the long cold winters, skating on the Bishop Loch. Christmad parties in the hospital involved all the staff, their children and patients. We got to know many of the patients who had been there most of their lives. Some had been admitted the the unit because of ''having a child out of wedlock'' I have so many stories to tell this page is not big enough! I would love to hear from anyone who remembers Gartloch or who lived/worked there.

Pattie Milne [04/02/2004]

I was talking with my gran t'other night about Gartloch (her maw died in there!) and she remembers these two women that used to walk about when she went visiting. One of them was about 4 foot nothing and the other about 6 foot. They walked up and down the hall, not saying a word to each other, but every now and then the taller one would repeatedly slap the little one on the head (that story seemed funnier when my gran told it!).

Crusty [30/01/2004]

There are a few more interesting stories on the linked article, so if you're interested, I recommend you check them out.

Finally: Takin' Over the Asylum (and other pop culture)

Takin' Over the Asylum aired on the 27th of September, 1994. The six-part drama was filmed in a disused wing of Gartloch, while the hospital was still open and functional. The hospital would close only 2 years after the airing of the show.

Gartloch's iconic, gothic towers would play a key role in the show, and be instantly recognisable to any viewer of TOTA.

Although it shut down in 1996, TOTA would not be the only media produced about the hospital. Wikipedia states that a film was produced in 2005, named (appropriately) "Gartloch Hospital", that covered the history of the hospital. This film went on to win an award in 2007, at the Scottish Mental Health Art and Film Festival, for "Best Factual Film".

Although hidden away, Gartloch hospital has an undeniably interesting history. Personal accounts from the hospital seem to paint it as a fun place, where patients and staff seemed to get along. Knowing the horrors of early mental health treatment, and the abuse many would suffer in these sort of places, we can only hope that these accounts are true and create an accurate image of life surrounding the hospital.

And I wrote all this because I really like David Tennant. Good night

Note the decorative peaks on the towers - they are absent from the rest of the photos. They were reportedly removed in the late 1930's.

SOURCES

Very interesting archive that goes into the history of Gartloch: (link) (source of above images)

Timeline and personal memories: (link)

Overview: Wikipedia (gartloch, Takin' Over the Asylum)

#watch this get 0 notes #david tennant #takin over the asylum #campbell bain #takin' over the asylum #taking over the asylum #donna franceschild #eddie mckenna #fergus mckinnon #fergus mackinnon #francine Boyle #rosalie garrity #history #gartloch hospital

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nipuni · 10 months ago

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Some various lighthearted life updates 🏃‍♀️

It's been a very busy last few months! in a good way mostly. We had a friend visiting us from overseas so we showed him around the city and took him to all our favourite places. We also met new people and were invited to a bunch of events so it's been very fun! We are all out of social battery tho so now we are slowing down a bit and getting back to work. Nicolas is on a short work trip to Berlin and I'm back to painting. We also started running! aaand we are also back to watching a bunch of shows and to me talking about it here to like five people 😌

Under the cut cause it's a lot as usual!

We finished watching S13 of Doctor Who! (we still have the specials to go but after that we are all caught up!) I haven't updated in ages so here are lot of opinions!

We really did not enjoy S11 😞 I was aware it wasn't very popular but we were hoping it was for all the wrong reasons, sadly we found many to be valid. Some of the episodes were baffling, Rosa? Kerblam?! the writing of the whole season in general felt like a rushed school assignment. The first part of Spyfall was a strong start for the next season but that ending in the second part was really not it. We did love Sacha Dhawan's Master tho!! and we really love Jodie too, 13th is adorable and reminded us of Ten at times! Jodie is such a fantastic actress that it makes the quality of the writing and everything else around her even more frustrating 😫 S12 was an improvement in general. In the last few episodes It felt like the writing team suddenly remembered the companions could have a personality and agency lmao. Highlights for us were Spyfall one, Fugitive of the Judoon and Haunting of villa Diodati, tho we did also enjoy most other episodes of the season despite their issues.

The timeless child plot reveal felt a bit underwhelming? The idea on itself has potential but it felt mishandled (and it had a bit of a Moffat flavour to it? and not in a good way). I think it was meant to add more depth to the Doctor's lore but in a way it ends up having the opposite effect. Then the flux was just a complete mess. It read like a Marvel sort of plot, very comic book like which is alright I suppose if that is something you enjoy but it felt out of place. But mostly it was just way too much, it got out of hand. Anyway we still have the specials to watch! and I think the Master is in them so we are looking forward to it 🥰

We also watched Broadchurch!! and we LOVED it. We ended up binging all three seasons. Chibnall's writing on this is surprisingly great and Jodie's acting is spectacular she really shines here. Olivia and David are always brilliant!! honestly everyone's acting was amazing. This series had us both tearing up every five scenes. The direction and the music are outstanding. I could watch Hardy and Miller solve crimes forever I really love their chemistry and dynamic. We went into it expecting the usual detective fiction but it ended up being a whole study on grief with such a focus on family and community and trauma and a ton of touching interconnected character arcs, just really really good!!

Then we also watched Taking over the Asylum!! MAN we were not expecting to have our hearts wrung out like laundry by this!! We thought it was a lighthearted show!! GOD we are still not over it, what the fuck!! It was so good we loved it!! but we were not prepared lmao what do you mean 'the end'?? we'll be thinking of this for months, I was expecting an extra scene after the credits or something. Excellent characters, refreshing depictions of mental illness and trauma and so crushingly realistic. Every character is so loveable I really wish this was longer 😭

And our quest to watch everything with David Tennant on it continues. We watched Decoy Bride on Valentines day too and it was terrible but such a hilarious fever dream kind of bad that it was fun, it has David on it and he never disappoints. I feel so lucky that Nicolas and I are both in love with him, get yourself a man who shares your celebrity crushes lmao it's so fun!! We feel like teens again chatting about him and drawing little hearts next to his pictures haha 🥰 We watched the BAFTAs just for him and speaking of the baftas!! I was not expecting that last drawing of his outfits to get that much attention oh my god 😭 thank you!! you are all insane and I appreciate it so much!! and thank you for all the support in general, about my art and photos and just everything. I feel very lucky and grateful 😭 anyway I'll end this before I get sappy, that is all for now! I hope this week is kind to you all, I'll be sharing some more art soon 😊

#personal #DW report #doctor who #broadchurch #taking over the asylum #nips blogs

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r0tting-rat · 13 days ago

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The fanfiction officially has a name now! And a house in the sims as well, although that's still a work in progress… Anyway! I don't promise anything yet, but let me share the concept with you, okay? (This is just a wip, I did not put any effort into this so I'm sorry) (Also, I abandoned Stoker and gave my soul to Poe, as you can probably see by… well, everything.)

Midnight Overture: Cotard's Delirium

In the little city of Pacewood, near Towerdom Lake, down a little road half hidden by the trees, is Oleander Manor—a beautiful house of bricks and ebony who stands tall, proud, and old against the gray sky of January.

The people say the manor is haunted, but who could blame them? It's old, the portraits hanging from the walls depict men and women in beautiful gowns from the 19th century that not even a direct descendant could name, of course the place is haunted — although the current owners of the house claim otherwise.

Living in Oleander Manor are three children, orphans, with their two legal guardians: a pair of automata built by the long-passed owner of the house and adoptive father of the three, Augustus Barnard. The older of the the kids, Annabel, will inherit the house and everything inside — automata included — as soon as she turns 18, which won't happen until 6 more years.

If questioned, the two automata will claim to have never seen any ghost or presence inside their house. The kids, however, never miss an opportunity to tell you everything they know about the corpse in the basement, about the woman with their mother's voice in the attic, about how, sometimes, the walls whisper and bleed.

“Mr Sun doesn't like it when we talk about them, he says we're past the age of imaginary friends.”

You're just looking for some easy money and a place to stay, you're not planning to plant your roots in Pacewood — or anywhere at all, for that matter. You'll take any job, do whatever needs to be done, work for whoever offers a good enough pay, even if they're... well, not human, to your big dismay.

What an unfortunate situation! Three children with an incredibly morbid imagination, a pair of automata unable to keep their hands to themselves who seem to have grown a tad too close to the new hire, and a wanderer with automatonophobia. Life can get pretty crazy sometimes.

Friendly reminder that this story will contain:

For sure: gore, blood, suggestive themes, torture, mental illness, child and animal death, vivid descriptions of violence and injury, "yandere" behavior from our dear boys.

Most likely (still considering): explicit and consensual nsfw content between adults. Sorry, but I like to be… precise when it comes to this stuff.

Therefore, this story will probably be 18+ (if I do decide to include the nsfw content, otherwise it will be tagged as Mature and be 16+), so yeah, beware.

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talkativeanxiousturtle · 4 days ago

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TW: Mention of death, mention of su*c*de.

I saw the description for "Psych", on Netflix. And if you don't know, it's basically about this detective helping the police who has to convince everyone he's a genius but actually he's a psychic.

So I had this idea for a AU. What if Sherlock could see ghosts? Now, when I write fantasy, ghosts already have a set of rules in my universe, that makes them juuuuust unhelpful enough that they can't fix the characters' problems, and just important enough that they haunt the narrative, quite literally. So I used those rules for my ghosts. That would mean that Sherlock, although he would have a huge advantage in solving the crimes, still wouldn't be able to like, deduce everything about you. Like he's still a genius for doing that. It's just... Now he also sees ghosts. He can't really talk to them with people around (people already dislike him, if they think he's crazy he'll lose all credibility), and ghosts don't like communicating with the living anyways, unless you're willing to trade something away. Sherlock is NOT. So, his power seems pretty useless, right?

But what if he had a ghost friend? A ghost bonded to him, haunting him, but still on good enough terms that he's willing to help Sherlock in his endeavors. His ghost friend interrogates the ghosts on the scene, asks questions, makes sure they get as much info from the other side as they can. Sherlock uses the clues to find out WHAT question to ask.

Now all that's left is to figure out just who that ghost is... The easy answer seems to be John. A dead soldier haunting 221B, Sherlock moves in, and John gets so enraptured in Sherlock's adventures that his unfinished business becomes writing about him. John uses a haunted pen to write it all, by hand.

But then, Johnlock just becomes tragic, doesn't it? Sherlock is constantly lying awake, fearing that John will finally tire of writing about him and move on to the next plane. And John doesn't want to leave Sherlock alone! He's scared of what Sherlock might do, if left behind. John is refusing himself Heaven, to make sure Sherlock doesn't end up in Hell. Sure, he had no reason to think that Sherlock would end up in Hell, but... It's Sherlock. Come on. So when Sherlock does something wrong, John is WAY more on his case about it. He's terrified for Sherlock's soul. The fic would end with the Fall, because why, pray tell, would Sherlock bother faking his death? Just join your boyfriend. Sure, he could envision a way out, but all he has to do is lie to John, "there is no other way", and John would let himself be convinced.

That's all well and good, but a story where the happy ending is "main character kills self" is not like... A GREAT moral for a story to have, especially in THIS mentally ill fandom. So you know what would be a better moral? Learning to let go of hurts past, and choosing to live. We all know Sherlock would die for John, would kill for him. What if, in this one, we make him live for him?

I propose Sherlock's ghost friend should be Victor Trevor. Sherlock's dead childhood friend never stopped haunting him, quite literally this time. Sherlock was so traumatized, his desire to grow up with Victor, to not be left alone, so strong that he accidentally tethered Victor to the mortal plane. He doesn't know he's the one who did it, of course, and Victor doesn't want to tell him. He knows Sherlock would hate himself too much for it. So, they cohabitate. They get to grow up together. At first, they think Victor is just going to stay a child, but for some reason he's able to grow older. Makes sense, since he's a manifestation of Sherlock's desire for them to age together, but THEY DON'T KNOW THAT. Sherlock isn't as bitter about being alone, in this version. After all, he still has a best friend. And no one could ever replace him.

Then he meets John.

Oh! The guilt of Sherlock, as he begins to feel things for John! Oh! The jealousy of John, for this unknowable, apparently much smarter, funnier, handsomer friend than he! Oh! The torn feelings of Victor, both fearing losing his place in Sherlock's heart, and wishing his friend would move on!

... Should I write it.

#sherlock #johnlock #john watson #sherlock holmes #sherlock bbc #sherlock fanfic #victor trevor #sherlock au

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385bookreviews · 3 months ago

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2.279 Compound Fracture by Andrew Joseph White

SPOILERS

Pages: 368

Time Read: 4 hours and 43 minutes

Overall Rating: 5★ Storyline: 5★ Dialogue: 5★ Characters: 5★

Genre: YA Thriller

TWs for the book: Violence, gun violence, gore, injury IN DETAIL, murder, blood, transphobia, outing, deadnaming, F slur, police brutality, death, fire/fire injury, animal death, animal cruelty, body horror, classism, hate crimes, medical content, addiction, drug withdrawal, child death, grief, vomit, car accident, death of a parent, bullying, homophobia, torture, physical abuse, cursing, toxic relationship, toxic friendships, alcohol, mental illness, ableism, panic attacks, dysphoria, child abuse, emotional abuse, gaslighting and manipulation, s*xual harassment, chronic illness, misogyny, body shaming, kidnapping, p*d*philia

POV: First Person

Time Period/Location: Twist Creek County, West Virginia in 2017.

First Line: When the sheriff of Twist Creek County--and all those other sons of bitches, the Baldwin-Felts agents and bloodthirsty strikebreakers--finally caught my great-great-grandfather and dragged his ass up from the mine to make a spectacle of his execution, they killed him by hammering a railroad spike through his mouth.

Transgender socialist Miles Abernathy lives in Twist Creek County, West Virginia. His great-great-grandfather, Saint Abernathy, led a strike against the coal mine companies and tortured the sheriff's son for leverage. When he was caught, the sheriff executed him by driving a railroad spike through his mouth. This started a blood feud between the Davies family and the Abernathy family. Having just completed his junior year of high school, Miles sneaks out to go to the graduating party in the woods. But he hates social events, and he isn't going to celebrate. He meets up with his childhood friend Cooper O'Brien. Miles stole pictures that his dad took the night of the accident that killed Mrs. O'Brien that incriminate Sheriff Davies as being the one that ran them off the road. Cooper takes them and agrees to show his dad to maybe finally bring the Sheriff to justice. While they are talking, Noah Davies, the sheriff's son, and his two friends Eddie and Paul come to interrogate them about what they're doing. They lie, and Miles starts to walk home through the woods. Noah, Eddie, and Paul catch up with him though, and take a video of them beating and torturing Miles almost to death. Cooper finds Miles and brings him to the hospital. When he wakes up in the hospital, he sees the ghost of a coal miner shaking him awake. He has extensive injuries and experienced massive internal bleeding that caused him to need surgery.

Before he had departed for the party, Miles had sent an email to both of his parents coming out as trans. He brings it up to his mom, but she doesn't take it very well and doesn't want to discuss it. Sheriff Davies comes in while Miles' mom is out of the room, and threatens Miles into staying quiet about Noah and his friends beating him up. Miles tells him that with his head injury, he doesn't remember what happened. Miles eventually goes home and begins his recovery, periodically still seeing the mute ghost of the coal miner. Cooper checks up on him and their friendship begins to return, Miles even coming out to him as trans. Miles does get stir crazy and refuses to let the attack haunt him, so he goes to pick up his check from the restaurant where he works as a dishwasher. His boss tells him that he has the whole summer off and gives him extra money, saying she has temporarily hired someone to take his place, but just for the summer. Miles walks out the back door, and contemplates going back in to return the extra money, when Eddie walks out the door and reveals himself to be Miles' replacement for the summer. They get in an altercation, Miles breaking Eddie's nose and trying to threaten him to delete the video of his attack. Eddie is afraid at first, but realizes he has the upper hand with his connection to Noah and Sheriff Davies. This angers Miles further, and he tries to reach for Eddie to hit him, but Eddie backs away, slips on the gravel, and hits his head, which kills him instantly. Miles is mortified, but knows what Sheriff Davies will do to him and his family if the accident is discovered, so he drags Eddie's bodies behind the dumpsters and calls Cooper. Cooper comes immediately and helps Miles clean up the scene and they take the body. They dump Eddie's body down the old mineshaft where no one will ever go looking because of the structural instability. They then go back to Cooper's house where Miles takes a shower and Cooper helps him shave his head so his hair is more even after the head wound stitches. Cooper and Miles share a somewhat tender moment, and when Cooper leans in to kiss him, he reciprocates, logically deducing he must have a crush on Cooper because that's what he's supposed to do. After they kiss, Cooper says, "We've already killed one of them. What's a few more?" Miles is disgusted and angered by this notion and they fight before Miles leaves and goes home.

Soon after, Miles realizes that he has become reliant upon the opioids he was prescribed in the hospital, just like Mr. O'Brien is and like his father used to be. He quits cold turkey and spends time going through withdrawals. During which he finally is able to go out and see the ghost without him disappearing. After looking through old pictures he realizes that the ghost is Saint Abernathy, and he can't speak because of the railroad spike down his throat. Saint reveals to Miles that he was also trans, and leads him and his dog Lady to the burned down movie theatre where he was executed, and hands Miles a railroad spike. Miles then takes this as a sign to fight for his family and get his revenge, and texts Cooper that he's willing to move forward with the murders. He goes home, but his dad is awake. His dad begins to make an effort to use his new name and pronouns, and Miles is forced to confess his opioid withdrawal. The next morning, his mother is enraged that Miles didn't say anything about the drugs, and demands he has to start going to therapy. Miles refuses, and they argue until Sheriff Davies shows up to inquire about Eddie. They tell him they know nothing, and then Sheriff Davies asks where Miles is going to go to therapy once he sees the brochures. Miles chooses one at random, and once the sheriff leaves, his mom tells him that he is going.

The next day, his mom drops him off at a church for group therapy. He leaves halfway through out of anxiety and goes into the alley next door. A person comes out of the door to a restaurant, and Miles doesn't recognize them, but the person, Dallas, does. Dallas is their old friend from before the accident. When Mr. and Mrs. O'Brien, Miles' father, and Dallas were run off the road by Sheriff Davies, Dallas sustained a lot of burns and injuries, and Dallas' parents blamed Miles' father and family. They moved away and had no contact, but Dallas is back, living with their brother and his wife Amber, who is autistic. Dallas' brother and Amber have their own restaurant/bar that is entirely socialist and run by the workers, right under Sheriff Davies nose. Miles is glad to see his friend again, and also talk to another trans person, but is scared to be seen in the bar. Dallas says that on the Fourth of July, the biggest holiday in town, they would be throwing a "Fuck the Fourth" party to counteract it and call out Sheriff Davies. Miles rejects the invitation, but him and Dallas swap phone numbers, and he gives them Cooper's number.

Miles and Cooper meet up to plan the murders, deciding to use Miles' father's gun to shoot Paul on the Fourth of July when his parents are out of town. While they are talking in Cooper's convenience store, Paul and Noah turn up to harass them, further settling their decision. Miles spends the night with Cooper and they get drunk and make out. Miles then decides to also make a difference in another way, and goes back to the bar to speak with Amber. Amber tells him they are going to be handing out pamphlets with evidence of Sheriff Davies' and the police departments' corruption. Miles gives them copies of the pictures he gave to Cooper.

The night before the Fourth of July party that the Davies plan and throw every year, Cooper and Miles took the gun and drove up to Paul's house. The plan is for Cooper to shoot him, and then they would clean up and dump his body in the mineshaft like they did with Eddie. They arrive, and find Paul in his father's processing plant in the garage, skinning a dear. He says he knew that they had killed Eddie the whole time but that Noah didn't believe him, and he tells them to get it over with. Cooper chickens out and lowers the gun. Miles and Paul talk, and Paul talks about how he really doesn't have it any better than the Abernathy's. Sheriff Davies bought out his parents' land and makes them pay rent to him, and takes most of their wages, and Noah had threatened to kill Paul because Paul said he wanted to leave town. Miles feels for Paul, and agrees to spare his life and just make it look like they killed him if Paul leaves town that night. Paul agrees, looking relieved, and asks to grab some stuff, when Cooper regains his nerve and shoots Paul in the jaw, removing the entire lower half of his face. Miles is appalled, and Cooper insists that they leave Paul to bleed out on the floor. They run, but on the drive back Miles makes Cooper pull over so he can throw up. They fight about Cooper shooting Paul like that, and Miles trying to let Paul leave. Cooper becomes more and more deranged, shaking Miles and deadnaming him. Miles tells him to leave him there as he was going to have Dallas pick him up. Cooper leaves and Dallas and Amber race to come pick him up, not knowing what's wrong. Miles goes nonverbal and begins having a meltdown. When he gets to their house, he wants to shower but dreads the prospect of the sensory experience. Amber gives him some things to help and tells him he might be autistic like her. He spends the night in Dallas' bed with them, but Cooper keeps blowing up his phone, demanding to speak with him and leave Dallas' house so he can come get him, worried that Miles will snitch.

In the morning, Amber and Dallas take Miles home, and he returns the gun to the safe. Later in the day his family comes to the house to prepare to go to the Fourth of July party together. Cooper comes in, saying he is Miles' boyfriend, and quietly threatens Miles to keep his mouth shut. They walk to the party, where Dallas and Amber are handing out pamphlets with evidence of Sheriff Davies' crimes and advertising the Fuck the Fourth gathering. Cooper sees the pictures on the pamphlet and is enraged, and Miles' dog Lady has to come between them. He leaves, and Noah and Sheriff Davies get up on stage and announce Paul's death. Then they announce that they'll be giving out a citizen award to Miles, since he bravely recovered from a hate crime and for being a pillar to the transgender community. This outs Miles to the entire town and also to his grandparents, aunt, and uncle. They all quickly leave the party after telling Dallas to go home now. Once they arrive back home, their aunt and uncle are enraged and leave. Miles' grandparents, however, accept him and are enraged on his behalf. They discuss what they should do, and they decide that it's time to fight back, and go to the Fuck the Fourth gathering. They do the next day, and while his mother and father discuss what to do with Amber and her husband, Dallas and Miles enjoy the punk band performing, talk about trans issues and about Miles potentially being autistic and aromantic, and marvel at the fact that so many of the towns people showed up. A girl who's father was imprisoned by Sheriff Davies and a mother who's son was killed by him share their stories, and Miles decides to be brave and stand up on stage, showing off his still disfigured face and head and tells everyone finally that Noah Davies and his friends did this to him and that the sheriff threatened him and his family in order to cover it up. At that exact moment, Sheriff Davies walks in and starts demanding that people leave. Amber refuses and demands he leave, and Miles' mother and father start ushering him and Dallas towards the back door. Finally, Amber throws water in his face, and he pulls out his gun and shoots her. The crowd turns into a riot, and Miles' mother shoves him and Dallas into the kitchen and locks the door. They contemplate what happened to Amber and how to get back in, but then Noah enters, covered in blood, and lights a Molotov cocktail, setting the place ablaze. Miles and Dallas run outside, where people have finally started to come out, including his mother and father, Amber's husband, and Amber, who was shot in the shoulder. They drive back to their house separately. When Dallas, Miles, and his father arrive back at their house, they find Cooper's body, cracked open and gutted on their porch. The rest of them arrive, they call Miles' grandparents, and Mr. O'Brien to see the body of his son. Miles' mom takes care of Amber's shoulder, and Miles fesses up to him and Cooper killing Eddie and Paul. No one is really surprised, as the Davies and Abernathy's had been killing each other for years. They decide that enough is enough, and when Noah texts Miles to end this permanently by meeting him alone, they decide for them to meet in the abandoned mineshaft. They plan for Miles to trap Noah, and then use him as a negotiation tool to convince Sheriff Davies to leave town.

Miles goes down into the mineshaft with the gun. Noah meets him there and taunts him, saying that they'll leave his family alone forever if he agrees to go with him and his dad. He also tells Miles about how he tortured Cooper, gutted him like a deer while he was still alive, and Cooper confessed everything. Miles lets off a warning shot, and Noah attacks him. They fight, and Noah gets the gun, but Miles pulls a knife out and kills him with a stab to the neck. He leaves the mineshaft and tries desperately to call his family, but is then shot in the head by Sheriff Davies, taking out his eye. The Sheriff kidnaps him, and takes him to the abandoned movie theatre to hammer a railroad spike into his mouth, just like his ancestor did to Saint. Saint manifests in front of Sheriff Davies to distract him, just as Miles' family shows up, and Lady attacks the sheriff, ripping chunks out of him. By the time they recall Lady, the sheriff is dying, so Miles' grandpa shoots him in the head. The rest of the town witnesses it, but they all grab shovels and tarps to help them bury the body and hide the evidence.

Time skips forwards a bit to the town holding a meeting to decide what to do to ensure the corruption of the town ends. Miles is missing an eye now, and him and Dallas are in a queer platonic relationship. A state trooper shows up, but everyone at the meeting clams up and refuses to give any answers about Sheriff Davies.

Miles Abernathy (Sadie Abernathy): I love Andrew Joseph White's protagonists because they always feel so real. I, of course, connected with Miles due to his autism, but also due to his humanness in general. He's no where near perfect, making mistakes and even plotting murder, but he's also just a kid, doing his best in a near impossible situation. I also appreciate him showing different presentations of autism with his characters, between Nick in Hell Followed With Us, Silas and the gardener in The Spirit Bares Its Teeth, and Miles and Amber in Compound Fracture, you get different perspectives of people that live with the same thing, and for me as an autistic person, I am able to see different aspects of myself represented in each character. This also applies with Benji from Hell Followed With Us, Silas and Daphne from The Spirit Bares Its Teeth, and Miles and Dallas from Compound Fracture in how they all view their trans-ness differently and have different journeys with it.

Cooper O'Brien: I really wasn't expecting at first for Cooper's character to become so twisted, but you watched him spiral into a sort of madness in real time with Miles. He became wildly unpredictable, and anticipating his actions was a source of anxiety while reading (in a good, thriller kind of way). You almost became just as scared of Cooper as you did of Noah and the sheriff by the end.

Storyline: I finished this book in one sitting, staying up WAY past my bedtime because I just needed to know what happened. The plot kept you on your toes the entire time, even in the calm moments, because you had no clue when some kind of chaos or calamity was about to descend. The plot twists were genuinely brutal, especially with the vivid descriptions of the gore these teenagers were inflicting upon each other. The sheriff was written to be especially enraging and evil, a well done villain. You feel the characters' rage alongside them as the story progresses.

Representation: Miles is autistic, aromantic, and transgender (FtM), and ends up in a queer platonic relationship with Dallas at the end. He is also left disfigured in the face and head after the attack, and later on completely blinded in one eye when he is shot by the sheriff. Dallas is a burn survivor, and is disfigured because of it. They also are plus sized, have ADHD, and are queer and nonbinary. It is undetermined if Cooper is queer, or if he just sees Miles as a girl despite him coming out. Amber has autism. Miles' boss is described as visibly queer, but nothing is specified or confirmed. Miles' great-great-grandfather Saint Abernathy is trans and gay. Miles describes there being several queer people at his school, including a he/they lesbian, a queer girl, and a gay boy. One of the musicians in the punk band is a trans woman. Miles, his father, and Mr. O'Brien all struggle with opioid addiction.

Summary: Once again, Andrew Joseph White has written a masterpiece. His books have the incredible ability to suck you right into the story, making you feel like you're there and experiencing these events with the characters, and, for fellow trans and autistic people, at times it can even feel like you're the protagonist yourself. No characters are overlooked, and it feels like everyone in the story grows and develops, not just the protagonist.

Quotes: "...parents seem obsessed with performing their grief about a child's transition."-Miles Abernathy (p.66) "We've already killed one of them. What's a few more?"-Cooper O'Brien (p.102) "It's like everyone knows there's something off about me, and they don't like it, and they don't quite know what to do about it."-Miles Abernathy (p.149) "I wish Cooper had gotten to know the version of me that's going to exist one day."-Miles Abernathy (p.333)

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