#even though the author has actually said what he meant! on record! easily available!

[jesuisgourde]

y’know, for a book about richey edwards this book sure doesn’t contain many quotes directly from richey edwards

[dwellordream]

“…If the crusades were primarily military expeditions, and women were not expected to fight, we might first ask why they were present in significant numbers. What motivated their involvement? The answer to this question is not easily discernable since there were women from all classes of society present on crusade. Moreover, historians have no way of knowing for sure how many women and other non-combatants actually left with the crusading armies. The sheer length and size of many campaigns meant that for any medieval army to function effectively, it required many non-combatants – engineers, bakers, artisans, tailors, squires, prostitutes and so on – in addition to the presence of fighting men and their commanders.

Numerous women formed a part of this retinue; however, the vast majority of women were poor and, in comparison to the knights, foot soldiers and other male warriors who set out alongside them, militarily unsuited to the task of conquering the Holy Land. Many of these women came alone or unmarried, while others had left their homes to come on crusade with their whole family in search of a better life, no doubt influenced to some extent by the enthusiasm and excitement which greeted the whole concept of a holy war. Other factors probably also influenced their decisions to leave for with the crusade army. The fact that certain celestial phenomenon such as aurora and comet sightings around the time that the First Crusade was being preached auspiciously coincided with the end of a long French drought in 1096 may have prompted some women to leave with the crusade army, although it is hard to know for certain.

Moreover, there is also the possibility that, for those who wished to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the prospect of travelling with an armed force who could protect them all the way appealed to unarmed female (and male) pilgrims. One eyewitness to the preparations for the First Crusade, Bernold of Constance, even recorded that ‘innumerable’ numbers of women disguised themselves in men’s clothing, possibly because they wished to actually take up arms against the enemy. This suggestion is supported by the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which asserted that ‘women and children’ were amongst those who ‘wanted to war against heathen nations’. Furthermore, we cannot discount the spiritual incentive of simply going to the Holy Land, which undoubtedly would have also helped motivate the masses of men and women to leave on crusade.

In some cases noblewomen also left on crusade, usually in the company of their husbands or other male relatives. Eleanor of Aquitaine, Marie of Champagne, Marguerite of Provence and Eleanor of Castile are all well-known examples of women who followed their husbands on crusade to the Holy Land. Once again though, the motivations for noblewomen who went on crusade are not easily ascertained, although the length of the crusade expeditions (which could last for years) probably had something to do with it, especially for couples who wanted to stay together. Other women appear to have acted fairly independently: around the time of the First Crusade, Emerias of Altejas took the cross by herself, but was persuaded by the bishop of Toulouse to endow a monastery instead of leaving for Jerusalem.

Alice, countess of Brittany, took a crusade vow in the 1260s, and, after her husband died in 1279 without fulfilling his vows, left for the East – specifically the city of Acre – in the late 1280s. On a broader scale, Kedar has drawn attention to an extant passenger list of a crusader ship in the mid-thirteenth century that had 453 passengers on board, forty-two of which were women, and of these women twenty- two were travelling with no male companion. Whatever their motivation, the fact that certain lords and their wives had to consider such decisions at all helped differentiate the crusades from other, more localised military escapades fought on a smaller scale that did not involve the same prospect of spiritual reward or the same possibility for material gain (at least early on) in the form of land.

Clearly, then, there were women from a range of different backgrounds present on crusade, for a variety of different reasons. The support which they rendered to the fighting men, however, was primarily indirect and auxiliary regardless of their social rank, and included such tasks as washing, cleaning clothes, cooking, gathering supplies – even picking lice and fleas off the men’s bodies. They might also provide comfort to the men (through prostitution), or when new territory was conquered they could assist with and become a part of settlement plans within that territory. In another sense, however, women could provide spiritual support for the men, encouraging them whilst they fought and praying for God’s favour.

The medieval poet Baldric of Dol, for instance, in his account of the First Crusade, noted that women and other non-combatants were an integral part of the spiritual side of the crusade and prayed for the men whilst they were fighting. Although this may not sound like a particularly useful form of ‘support’ to those living in the twenty-first century, spiritual supplication was still important since the crusades were a holy war and it was believed that God was on their side. Prayer thus helped ensure God’s favour and consequently the likelihood of military success.

The provision of supplies to the fighting men, most notably water, was another basic but essential form of support women rendered to men on crusade. Describing the female presence at the battle of Dorylaeum, one anonymous chronicler at the scene notes how ‘[t]he women in our camp were a great help to us that day, for they brought up water for the fighting men to drink, and gallantly encouraged those who were fighting and defending them’. Likewise Margaret of Beverly, whose brother recorded her experiences in the Holy Land around the time of the Third Crusade, recounted how she put a pot on her head for protection and brought water to the men on the walls during Saladin’s siege of Jerusalem, being injured in the process by an enemy projectile.

Oliver of Paderborn, whose account of the Fifth Crusade is one of the most detailed and important sources available, also recalled a similar form of female support during the crusaders’ attack on Damietta in Egypt, when he mentions that ‘the women fearlessly brought water and stones, wine and bread to the warriors’. Not long afterwards, during a skirmish between crusaders and Saracens at a castle south of Damietta, he mentions women carrying and distributing water to clerics and foot-soldiers.

The Fifth Crusade also offers examples of how women might assist an army with other supplies besides water. Powell has documented how women were said to have helped grind corn for the Christian army whilst it was besieging Damietta, how they were in charge of the markets selling fish and vegetables to the crusaders, and how they helped attend to the sick and needy. Most notably, Powell notes that women even acted as guards in the crusade camp and were assigned with weapons to prevent desertions and maintain order while the army prepared for a fresh attack against the city.

Joinville too, in his chronicle of the Seventh Crusade, described women who ‘sold provisions’ raising a cry of alarm when the Count of Poitiers was captured at the battle of Mansourah (February 1250). These examples suggest that women could be of definite help on a military expedition, and whilst we should not generalise and assume that women fulfilled the same logistical roles in every crusade or medieval military campaign, it is important to be aware of the different ways they might have rendered basic support and provisions to armies on campaign.

At the same time, however, women sometimes did become much more involved with military actions and appear to have actually used weapons themselves on the enemy, though not specifically in hand-to-hand combat. During the second siege of Toulouse in 1218, for instance, women from within the city supposedly operated the mangonel or perrière (a stone-throwing device) that killed Simon de Montfort, leader of the Albigensian Crusade, just as a Frankish woman ‘shooting from the citadel’ with a mangonel was said to have destroyed the Muslims’ mangonel at Saladin’s siege of Burzay in 1188.

Acting in a similarly defensive manner were the women who helped repel the French attack during the siege of Hennebont in 1342 by throwing stones and pots of chalk from the walls onto the enemy at the urging of Jeanne de Montfort. Likewise, in 1358 women also played an important role in defending the French township of Senlis from an attack by French nobles during the short-lived but violent peasant uprising known as the ‘Jacquerie’. In this case, the townsfolk were forewarned of the attack and had their women stationed at windows ‘to pour great quantities of boiling water down upon the enemy’ while their men-folk fought off the attackers.

…Nevertheless, there are accounts of women who dressed in armour and who may have physically fought the enemy. In studying the evidence available, though, we must be very careful in accounting for possible bias in the sources, particularly in accounts where the author’s ulterior motive may have been to portray the enemy in an unfavourable light and especially when it comes to descriptions of actual female combatants. Hence we must treat as suspicious a passage by the Byzantine chronicler, Niketas Choniatēs, about mounted women bearing ‘lances and weapons’ and dressed in ‘masculine garb...more mannish than the Amazons’ on the Second Crusade. According to the modern translator, this passage was assumed by Steven Runciman to refer to Eleanor of Aquitaine and her retinue, despite the fact that her name was not specifically mentioned. While Eleanor was indeed present on this crusade, the passage makes more sense, however, if it is understood as an attempt to criticise the Franks as uncivilised and even barbaric compared to the Greeks, because they allowed their women to don armour and unnaturally fight as warriors.

In the same way, Muslim chroniclers’ descriptions of Frankish women who supposedly dressed up and rode into battle at the siege of Acre ‘as brave men though they were but tender women’, and who were subsequently ‘not recognised as women until they had been stripped of their arms’ – as well as another Muslim account of a Frankish noblewoman who allegedly fought at Acre alongside 500 of her own knights – must be treated with caution. As Nicholson has noted, for both Christians and Muslims ‘it was expected that good, virtuous women would not normally fight...in a civilised, godly society’. By depicting Frankish women as warriors, therefore, the Muslim chroniclers could illustrate the barbarous and heathen nature of Christian society and contrast it with the properly ordered Muslim society where women knew their place. Thus, while we cannot rule out the possibility that some women at Acre may have actually dressed up and fought, the Muslim accounts are certainly questionable.

Likewise, other accounts of female combatants and women in armour that do not appear to be influenced directly by religious bias must still be carefully evaluated. In France, Orderic Vitalis recorded how Isabel of Conches rode ‘armed as a knight among the knights’ during a conflict in 1090 between her husband, Ralph of Conches, and Count William of Évreux. Although Orderic remarked on her courage among the knights, he says nothing about her subsequent actions, and thus we have no way of knowing if she actually fought. In a similar vein, the English chronicler Jordan Fantosme, writing primarily of the rebellion against Henry II by his son Henry ‘the Young King’ in 1173-1174, asserted that the earl of Leicester had his wife, Petronella, countess of Leicester, dressed up in armour and given a shield and lance before the battle of Fornham in October 1173.

According to Fantosme, Petronella encouraged the earl to fight the English, but fled from the battle while it was in progress and then fell into a ditch where she nearly drowned. Fantosme, however, was the only chronicler to describe Petronella’s martial deeds, and Johns has argued that he was clearly trying to portray Petronella in an unsympathetic way in order to emphasise that women should not be involved in military affairs. Fantosme wrote to entertain, but also to instruct moral lessons and highlight divine law; Petronella thus served as an example against women’s involvement in war and the follies of accepting female advice. Nevertheless, Petronella must have been present or involved in some way since other sources do mention that she was captured after the battle along with the earl and that she was present with him on campaign in England.

Further afield, in the Holy Land, William of Tyre contended that in the first crusade army’s excitement at the imminent capture of Jerusalem ‘even women, regardless of their sex and natural weakness, dared to assume arms and fought manfully far beyond their strength’. His account, however, cannot be verified as no eyewitness accounts of this siege actually describe women acting in such a manner. Likewise, although the memoirs of the twelfth century Muslim nobleman Usāmah Ibn-Munqidh mention several female combatants – a female Muslim slave who rushed into battle ‘sword in hand’; a Frankish women who used a jar to try and help fend off an attack on Frankish pilgrims; a Muslim woman in Shayzar who captured and had killed three Frankish men – it is important to be aware that Usāmah was recalling these anecdotes sixty years after they supposedly took place.

…It is because of this need for more defenders that other accounts of female combatants may be considered more reliable. For, even though Muslim writers are our source for the story of a female archer at Acre who, in defending the city, ‘wounded many Muslims before she was overcome and killed’, it is quite possible that in the heat of battle, when manpower was necessary to fight off attackers, this woman was forced to draw a bow. Equally plausible are these same Muslim writers’ astonishment at finding women amongst the dead on the battlefield after a failed Christian attack on Saladin’s camp, though this revelation does not tell us that these women actually fought.

Then there is the case of Christian women who executed the crew of a captured Turkish ship at Acre. According to the Itinerarium Peregrinorum, ‘the women’s physical weakness prolonged the pain of death, because they cut their heads off with knives instead of swords’. Again, although the women were not actually fighting in battle, it is quite possible that this event did occur given that the men had been defeated already and the women were perhaps motivated by thoughts of revenge. As Evans points out, the passage still displays ‘a gendered approach to weaponry’ in that the Muslims’ death at the hands of women is emphasised as ‘humiliating’ and reference made to women’s weakness – implying that the women were acting in an unnatural way.”

- James Michael Illston, ‘An Entirely Masculine Activity’? Women and War in the High and Late Middle Ages Reconsidered

[starwarsfic]

Breathe In With Hunger

Originally posted September 13, 2020

Summary: Obi-Wan had spent his whole life keeping his species a secret, until the Clone Wars made that impossible.

Details: Sithspawn Stewjoni AU.

xxxxxx

Obi-Wan hadn't known what to expect from the clone medical staff--he'd seen how efficient the troopers were, he almost hoped that he'd be able to get in and out of medical without any fuss.

That, however, was not to be.

"General," the medic, who had finally introduced himself as Sleep, seemed baffled by something and Obi-Wan braced himself. "Your medical records require Council authorization."

"Ah."

His casual acknowledgement called more notice to them than he'd thought it would, the focused attention of so many similar people clawing at him in the Force.

It also didn't help Sleep's attitude and, from the bags under his eyes and the tell-tale sign of stim-caused tremors, Obi-Wan was beginning to understand the name was possibly an in-joke. "General, I can't treat you if I don't know even the basics about you. It's the entire file except your name and birth date! Even your gender is redacted!"

He shifted, glancing around them. Only clones.

Whatever that meant. As he still wasn't sure how he felt about Jango Fett creating a supposed army for the Republic.

Alpha-17 was there, shifting closer to them with his tell-tale scowl. Beyond him, a few other troopers lingered, ones that had been on the recent mission with them, back-up when no other Jedi, not even his Padawan, were available.

Thus, too, why Obi-Wan wasn't being seen by a Jedi healer who already knew about him.

They all felt safe. Alpha had certainly proven himself time and time again to Obi-Wan.

And if the war continued on as it was going, they would all find out sooner than later, regardless of how careful Obi-Wan was. Perhaps an early warning would garner him the troopers' help in hiding himself in plain sight.

"Do you know what a Stewjoni is?"

Sleep blinked at him, like a droid that had just rebooted, and then startled. "You...but...." His fingers flew across the datapad in his hand, most likely at whatever medical information he'd been able to collect from their own databases. "That would explain the copper levels," he finally allowed, seeming to fumble over his words.

Beside them, Alpha-17 let out a low string of curses in Mando'a, a few that even Obi-Wan didn't know. "That would have been good to know, General," he bit out the title, condescending. "Especially with how the Sith are always all over you."

"I apologize for the oversight, Alpha. It has never been necessary information for those who temporarily worked with me, before."

Obi-Wan needed the distraction from thinking about the Sith--the feel of them against his senses, the smooth Darkness that flowed out of them. His instincts were dulled by over three decades with the Jedi and still they were so, so hard to resist when he was injured and someone like Ventress was right there.

He still remembered the taste of the Sith on Naboo, his instincts tearing through him after watching the killing blow delivered to Qui-Gon, feeling their bond start to come undone. It had just been the slightest amount, enough that he'd come out of the encounter with not even a bruise, but it had made his food taste like ash for months after.

"What do I need to know, sir?" Sleep dragged his attention back from places he really shouldn't let it go.

With a sigh, he motioned for the datapad and reluctantly logged into his own medical profile, watching as two lines became a short lifetime of information. "This is full access, trooper. I expect you to be discreet."

Sleep nodded and, distracted as he was, barely said anything when Obi-Wan slipped from the room. It wasn't as though he had gone alone, Alpha-17 was at his back the whole walk to his own temporary bunk in Tipoca City.

"If you're looking for another apology, Alpha, I'm afraid one isn't coming."

That just earned him a snort, Alpha-17 closing the door behind him and standing in the private room like he was a common fixture and not a new oddity in Obi-Wan's life.

"Your blood was blue."

"Excuse me?"

"After Ohma D'un. I thought it was some trick of the weapon you'd been exposed to."

Obi-Wan licked his lips, glancing down at his wrists where carefully crafted tattoos gave the impression of near-human blood vessels under his light toned skin. "I have an implant," he said, finally, "that helps make my blood look red, or close enough. It had failed by the end." The added iron often made him feel sickly and he'd been almost glad that it wasn't working, with how much damage his body had taken.

"Do you need...accommodations?" When his answer was a raised eyebrow, Alpha-17 glowered and continued, "Like General Koon or General Fisto need. Environmental? Special rations?"

"Have I given any indication that I do?" Now it was Alpha-17's turn to give him a look. "It's not...you must understand, my people were manufactured. We're quite capable of living in very diverse environments and, when our preferred food is scarce, living off of nearly anything." He gave a wry grin. "Though, despite it all, I'll never be as fond of live insects as my Padawan is."

Alpha-17 grimaced, remembering a few particularly harsh campaigns where Anakin had become creative with additions to their GAR-issued rations. He remained silent for a few moments, clearly working through something serious, and Obi-Wan took the time to prepare some tea for them. The ritual of it, adopted from his own Master (who adopted it from Dooku, though Obi-Wan tried not to think of that), was comforting.

As much as he'd deny it, this was a nerve-wracking evening. The last time he'd revealed himself had been when he'd taken Anakin as his Padawan, needing the boy to understand the idiosyncrasies he might notice and the difference in emotions that would flow down their bond. Anakin had already been facing so many changes, and had such a unique perspective compared to the Core and Mid-Rim peoples that Obi-Wan normally encountered, that it had gone easily.

He wasn't sure how the clones would actually take the information, when they had time to process it. Obi-Wan was aware that how human he looked could often be unsettling to those who knew the truth. That his whole being could come across as a lie in itself.

"Are you holding back?" Alpha-17 asked into the silence, after Obi-Wan served him tea in a delicate cup, as if sensing his thought process.

"What do you mean?"

"During our fights. Are you holding back because you're...hiding."

Obi-Wan stroked his beard with one hand, the fingers of the other tapping against his cup. "I suppose, if you wanted to be fully accurate, I am. But it's not because I worried you would find out," he hurried to add, "it is because if I were to stop...it would be very difficult to come back from that."

"What does that mean? You would...go feral?"

He coughed out his sip of tea, trying not to laugh. "No, Force, what sort of odd fictions are you troopers reading?" Alpha-17 had the good grace to look embarrassed. "I could far more easily take on someone like Ventress or even Dooku himself if I used my...natural abilities. However, I do not know if I could stop myself from...feeding from their essences. Which in turn would kickstart a healing process in my body that could very well reverse all the very extensive, and expensive, surgeries I have had over the years and possibly get the Order in trouble for harboring such a dangerous creature as I."

"Right. Because...you don't really look like this."

"Is that a problem, trooper?"

Alpha-17 regarded him and Obi-Wan was confused by the weight of the hurt settling within him at the hesitation. "No, General. I can't say I'm not curious about what you'd really look like, but it's no problem from me." He scowled. "I'm not some longneck who is going to judge you for not being exactly what I was expecting."

***

Sleep died in an explosion four months later. Alpha-17 disappeared into Tipoca City to train ARC troopers after severe injuries towards the end of the first year of the war. The others who new were picked off here and there, the rate of survival for the troopers worryingly low.

Obi-Wan told the medics of the 212th, when he was finally assigned to them, but he did not tell anyone else. The longer he went without doing so, the less he felt like he could.

It was Ventress who told Cody, taking great delight in stroking the scars along Obi-Wan's exposed back as his vulnerable Commander struggled against his bonds. She had a thing for stripping clones that Obi-Wan didn't like, anymore than he liked how she kept chaining him up whenever she caught him.

"He's a pretty thing, isn't he?" she cooed at Cody, carding a hand through Obi-Wan's sweaty hair. "But...why? Isn't it odd, Commander, how he seems to be nearly everyone's type?" Her smirk was self-satisfied and Obi-Wan wanted to kick it off her face. "As if he were...made...to appeal to people, regardless of their species."

Cody just seemed confused, at least at first. What he might have said was lost behind the gag that Obi-Wan found himself more and more thankful for as Ventress continued, pointing out the marks of his surgeries. Where his spines down to their very base had been dug out, where his eyes had been capped over with lenses, where his ears had been cut down and reshaped.

When she stripped down his lower body and gave Cody a view, the anger and distress coming from the clone had sharpened into rage.

As soon as they were free, it was all Obi-Wan could do to keep Cody from beating Ventress to death with his bare hands. Which was...more flattering than he wanted to admit.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Commander," he said, as they settled into the command center of the ship they were now alone on and waited for their rescue.

Cody stared at him. "Sir, that's private information. As long as the medics knew, that's all that I would expect from you."

"Truly? You're not...unnerved?"

The answer was a shrug and what might have been the beginnings of a blush, Cody's shields once more impeccable enough that Obi-Wan couldn't actually tell his feelings in the Force. "I admit it...answered a few questions I had...but it's none of my business."

"Questions about my attractiveness?" he supplied, remembering Ventress using that as a starting point.

"You do, uh, seem to garner a lot of...cross-species interest, General."

Obi-Wan gave a gentle smile, an expression he'd practiced as a youth after noticing how the humans around him responded to it from others.

"My people weren't originally created by the Sith, like every other species of what are called 'Sithspawn' they took us and twisted us to their purposes. Sith Flesh Alchemy allows for otherwise incompatible species to breed, so that they can adopt attributes the Alchemists thought would be useful." His smile turned wry, an expression that felt more natural on his face these days. "I am attractive to so many species because I was genetically engineered to be so. The closest translation into Basic for 'Stewjoni' is 'Siren,' if you know any old Aldeeranian myths."

That got Cody's attention. "You had me read those. I thought it was just...entertainment."

"Ah, you've caught me, my dear. They're not accurate per se--as you can tell, my people no longer spend much time in the water--but they serve as warnings."

"You thought we needed a warning about you? Sir, we know you would never--"

He held up a hand, stopping whatever Cody was about to say. "When Sith are involved, Cody, when they've created you, in a way, you can never be fully trustworthy. There's always the chance that somehow, someway, they still have their grip on you."

His kind weren't prone to nightmares, but everyone he'd had since the war had started was the same--Dooku's shadowy Master finding a way to turn him on his people, on his troops, with little more than the properly worded phrase.

Cody watched him, sadness seeping out from his shields. "General...Obi-Wan...just because those demagolka changed your people somehow...that doesn't mean you're monsters."

"Not just monsters, perhaps."

***

Obi-Wan was not capable of hate, not in the way most species felt it. He knew what it was, knew what it felt like rubbing against him in the Force like a tamed tooka, what it tasted like flooding him as he sipped from a Sith opponent, but he didn't feel it.

If he could, he was almost certain that he would have fallen sometime between being shot at by his suddenly blank-feeling troopers, hearing from Yoda of how most of the Council had confronted Palpatine--Sidious, and having to watch the recording of Anakin slaughtering his way through the Temple.

"You went hunting a Sith without me?" the hiss in his words was the only sign of his emotional turmoil and he tightened his hands and tried to get himself together.

How many of his colleagues--his friends--would still be alive if they had waited?

“Important, it was, to strike quickly.” Yoda’s ears were tucked closely to his head, his shoulders slumped, but Obi-Wan had little sympathy. “The Will of the Force, to act.”

“To act without thinking, to rush headlong against a Sith powerful enough to hide from all of us,” he shot back.

Obi-Wan had known--had accepted--that a war against the Sith would mean exposing himself fully by the end. He’d even imagined that it might end up being against the hidden Sith Master, had looked into ways of reversing some of the procedures he’d gone through--at the very least for claws and teeth, and venom--and none of that mattered, apparently.

He didn’t think he could take Sidious by himself, not when the man would be prepared for attacks and surely knew what he was.

If they’d waited until Obi-Wan had returned, he could have given them the upperhand. “I sincerely doubt the ‘Will of the Force’ wanted the Jedi slaughtered,” he muttered, finally, starting off into the catacombs they hid in.

“Go to face Sidious, do you?”

“No, I’m going to find Anakin. There’s nothing we can do against Sidious, not right now.”

***

The first place he thought to look was with Padme. How many times had he and she played a game of pretending he didn’t know Anakin had spent the night there? How many times had he taken up the role of possible illicit paramore to draw attention from her closeness with Anakin?

She was near-panic, clouding the Force with her strong emotions, but she understood what they needed to do. If Anakin was caught in a torrent of the Darkside, they’d need to be very careful in talking him down.

“If we can’t reach him...will you kill him?” Her hands clutched her rounded belly, as though the children within could understand the conversation and needed comfort.

Obi-Wan took long breaths, staring down at Mustafar as the ship approached. The whole planet was rife with the Dark, making his instincts claw at the back of his mind. But it was Anakin he felt most strongly, the blazing sun of his Force present nothing but rage and fear, now.

“If we can’t reach him, that means it’s not Anakin anymore. We don’t know what Sidious did to him to get him to this point.” His hands clenched, imagining some of the stories his people shared of Sith crimes. “There might just...be nothing left of him.”

He was upsetting her, perhaps unnecessarily, but he needed her to know. Needed her to be prepared.

“Your children must be your priority, Padme. It’s what he would have thought, too.” They stared into each other’s eyes, her trying hard not to flinch away from him.

Outside, the volcanic air was harsh enough that Obi-Wan worried for her health--and Anakin's. The Force could do much, but if he wasn't careful, Anakin would ruin his lungs. He'd always been so reckless with his own body.

xxxxxx

A/N: This got a little too long to just be shoved in my drabble collection (where you'll find some other stuff using the same headcanons) so I decided to make it it's own work, even though I rewrote the ending like six times over the last few weeks. 

This post has everything so far about my headcanon, but in short: Stewjoni were originally sentient predators that fed off of Force users in particular and when the fallen Jedi alchemists met up with the Sith and found out about them, they experimented on them and made them into basically Sith hunting pets.

The very original idea was because I really can't stand Stewjoni (considering it was a joke that Lucas refused to back down on) and "Stewjon is Space Scotland," and there's this Scottish legend called a "baobhan sith" that's like a siren.

Sleep is one of my clone OCs.

[burlybanner]

Syzygy - An AU of Infundo (post-Infundo Chronicles).

Chapter 9: Who do you say that I am?

Summary:  Bruce has the upper hand, right?

Link to Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

Author note: I am not a chemist and I don’t pretend to be. So feel free to shout at me if my technobabble is more babble than techno. Also, more DID stuff.

***

Funny enough, even though the video began playing there was still a good thirty second pause. Bruce watched "himself" rock back and forth in his chair, smile slyly to himself, and then root around in his drawers for something.

Bruce's lip curled in a small, self-righteous smirk. "Interesting."

"What is?"

"I'll tell you later, Steve. Keep watching; I want your honest perspective. If anything seems weird or off--" he made a face. "Well. More so than usual. Note it. I don't want you to tell me yet, but keep it in your head. I might need it later."

He could feel Steve fidgeting behind him but explaining would take too much time.

Your timing was off, Bruce sneered in his head. You expected me to pause it longer than thirty seconds. You missed.

He definitely heard a huff in his brain. I'm not omnipotent.

Bruce nodded to himself. Good. Professor didn't hold all the cards, then.

"Hey, I was saving that," Bruce muttered when Professor produced a tin from Bruce's desk. It was filled with tasty lemon bars that he'd planned on eating for a snack, after dinner, but Professor had wiggled his sausagey fingers and had begun chowing down on the tasty treats.

"Mm," Professor finally said. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed his lips before swallowing. "These are quite delicious, Banner. Absolutely heavenly. Sweet and sour treats are my favorite, by the way. Please eat more of them, whenever you're able." He ate three or four lemon bars before finding some hand sanitizer and wiping down his fingers.

"I imagine you're quite available for our conversation now. It's technically one-way. But I can tell you everything you need to know. In fact, I'll explain it quite easily to you, and the good Captain."

"There's that weird grin," Steve said. A growl had crept into his voice. "He knows I'm here, but I still see him for the bully he is. Sorry, Bruce. But your Person is an ass."

"Agreed," Bruce thought, chuckling. Professor huffed again deep inside but fortunately kept quiet in Bruce's mind.

Which could've been a strategic move but Bruce wouldn't analyze that yet. Too distracting and he hadn't finished the rest of the video.

Professor rose to his feet and slowly paced. The camera panned his movements as he commanded the lab area. Like a professor.

"One," he stated. "You know I am real. I typically stay out of things unless I'm warranted, but yes. You are correct. I've influenced some of your behavior in the past, and present. Possibly your future."

"Ass," Steve reiterated.

Bruce shushed him, since Professor seemed done pausing.

Professor held up his fingers like a peace sign. "Two. Hulk and I can work in tandem, but I usually let him do whatever he wants. I'm not a babysitter. I can influence him quite easily, though. He's such a child."

Bruce's expression hardened. Then how many people have you killed, how many families destroyed in my name, Professor? He thought darkly. If you're the Hulk's gatekeeper, was the killing and destruction in the name of science?

Professor appeared to grin and stare hard at the camera, almost winking at it, and Bruce's lips thinned. The answer was clear as day. Yes. Professor had done things. And he as the "Core" personality paid the price for the others. "Robbing Peter to pay Paul," Bruce muttered. He felt Steve's hug but he wasn't sure if Steve got what Professor had done. Tony probably had. Which meant they had a lot to discuss when he returned.

"Three," Professor said, his back to the camera. He held up three chubby fingers and pulled up another video screen on Bruce's desk. "I tampered with the gainer formula so it would be most effective. Jarvis? Zoom in if you would. Let Banner take a good, hard look at it."

Bruce hated being manipulated and playing into Professor's hands, but of course he was curious. "2-DG," He said, scanning the list. "Desipramine. Amitriptyline, escitalopram oxalate." Yes. He knew those drugs were in it, they weren't anything new.

Except...what was that hastily drawn scrawl--

He hissed sharply between his teeth. "Zolpidem...and thioridazine? Both of them...? You son of a bitch--"

Professor tutted and wagged his finger at the camera, as if he knew exactly what Bruce had said. "Swearing is such a nasty habit. Please refrain from doing so."

"Pause it, Jarvis."

Steve was the one who spoke this time, and Bruce checked over his shoulder. Steve's expression was hooded and stoic. But the love in his eyes was genuine. "You're on sedatives for your anxiety, aren't you?"

Bruce let out a slow breath. "Tranxene," he murmured. He took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his lab coat sleeve. "Pretty high doses of it, actually. Higher than the average person can afford to take." He pursed his lips and put back on his glasses. "And that's part of the problem."

"All those chemicals you read out," Steve said. He began rubbing Bruce's shoulder. "Do some of them interact with the tranxene?"

"Yup," Bruce said, sighing heavily. "In the wrong amounts they'd kill the average person. The gainer shake would kill Tony if he had anything more than four ounces. Although you'd be okay," He said, patting Steve's arm. "Probably mentally checked out, but you'd be okay. But with the addition of zolpidem...well." Bruce grunted and sat down. "Zolpidem has reported side effects of sleepwalking. And in some cases, sleep eating."

Steve snorted, laughing a little in between. "Which explains why you got the night munchies."

"Yes. However." Bruce turned, looking at Steve full in the face. "The thioridazine is a bigger issue. It's a phenothiazine, normally used for people suffering from schizophrenic episodes, and it can...really fuck up people like me." He absently scrubbed his face. He had a lot of questions. So. Many. Questions. But he'd have to find the time to ask, away from Steve.  "My balance between Hulk and now the Professor -” Bruce nodded to the screen. “That’s his preferred name, by the way--my...our balance depends on my own awareness levels. Hulk received the suggestion of the gainer shake from the Professor, but this was after Professor tampered with the ingredients. In short,  Professor created the shake so our walls would be tenuous, at best. It wasn't to allow the Hulk to binge eat, Steve. I think--"

His lips twisted, and the weird silence in his head confirmed it as he sighed. "Professor wants more control. He wants to Drive, in a sense. And he's using Hulk as leverage, and my desires for immobility, to do so. If I keep using the shake I'll gain. Definitely. But it also gives Professor that open window to play whenever he wants, by taking over my mind and body while I'm in a drugged, hypnotic state." Bruce stared coldly at the screen. "And I do not trust him."

Steve rolled a hand through his hair. "So it's potentially bad news. Do you have a reason to distrust him, though? Outside of acting like a jerk, has he really done anything...horrible?"

"I don't know," Bruce murmured. "I suspect he might be responsible for some of Hulk's earlier battle rampages. Or even some of the recent ones. But proving it will be...uncomfortably difficult."

"Why?"

Bruce sighed. "Because it means talking to them both. At the same time. And I don't think I'm able to do that without losing what little sanity I have left."

Steve grunted but chewed his bottom lip. "But would he have anything to gain - pun notwithstanding - now? He's folded. Given up his hand. You didn't know he was around until now, and he could've continued playing you."

"Tony figured it out, Steve.” He nodded to the monitor. “That's the only reason he showed up."

"Maybe." Steve tapped his chin. "I think you're right, though, Bruce. There's something else to this. But I don't think we're on the right track. I think it's something else."

"Really?"

Steve shrugged. "Either that, or he's just an ass who gets his kicks from people coming up with conspiracy theories. Could go either way."

"Thanks," Bruce deadpanned. He made a face and finger combed his curls. "We can't keep him on pause forever, Steve. He's gotten quiet in my head but I think he's waiting for me to make the next move." His eyes wandered over the screen and keyboard. All of it was, for lack of a better term, a clusterfuck and he wasn't sure how to fix it. And he wanted Tony back.

"We can wait a little while, if you're not up to it."

Bruce rubbed his chubby chin. "Nah. Better to rip off the band-aid, so we can deal with it. Jarvis," he sighed, "go ahead and play the rest."

There was another uncannily long pause, and Bruce smirked. He needed to use that information, that Professor made mistakes. He'd need that knowledge.

"Got it all out of your system? Good. Yes, you're right; the walls between us are thinner than ever. Unlike," Professor chuckled, "our body. Which is glorious, by the way. Can't wait to see what else you do with it."

"Can't tell if he's being sarcastic, or not," Steve grumbled.

"Shh," Bruce admonished. "Let him finish."

"Anyway, Banner, that's all I wanted to show you. I had to introduce myself properly, after all." His gaze sharpened, and the same cold chill ran down Bruce's back. "However, I do miss my science partner. Be careful with him, won't you? Try to bring him back in one piece. And tell him," he said, that same self-satisfied smirk spreading across his lips.  

"Tell him I said 'hi.'."

"That was the conclusion of the transmission," Jarvis intoned. "Do you need to review it for future use?"

"Yes," Bruce and Steve said together. Bruce smiled and rubbed Steve's hand. "Also, Jarvis, I'm asking for your help. If any of my...Selves decide to make a recording, wait until I'm 'me.' " He realized how weird that sounded, and sighed deeply. "Shit - I guess I should ask. Jarvis, can you tell the difference between us?"

Jarvis paused a millisecond before answering. "I've analyzed your mannerisms and compared them to the Professor as well as Hulk. I feel I'll have no issues telling the three of you apart, regardless of who is in control."

"Good." Bruce gave Steve a small look over his shoulder, unsure what the man was thinking. It was a lot to take in, he knew. And to be fair, he didn't expect Steve to respond to any of it well. It warmed him that Steve was doing this well. "Do me a favor, Jarvis. Always view me, Hulk, and Professor as three separate individuals. If another Person wants to access the system, they will need my permission first or, in a pinch, Tony or Steve if I’m ‘unavailable.’ But no one else. Is that clear?"

"Affirmative," Jarvis said. "On that note, would you like to view the notes and information I've gathered over time, notes the Professor might have added to my server files?"

"Wow.” Professor was a sneaky bastard. Of course he’d used Jarvis before, and Jarvis probably hadn’t known any better. He shared a look with Steve who looked equally uncomfortable. Maybe he’d talk to Tony about it later, whenever he got back. 

Bruce chewed his lip. "Yes, please, Jarvis. I'll need to look over those documents. I'll need to know if he's been tampering with any of my experiments."

Which would be horrific. What had the Professor done? How much damage--?

"Muffin," Steve sighed. Apparently he’d had enough, and Bruce didn’t blame him. He pulled Bruce close to his chest and rubbed circles across his back. "Professor’s made a mess of things, huh?"

Bruce chuckled darkly. "Understatement."

"Thought so. You should take a break, or a bath and get some food in ya." He grabbed Bruce’s shoulders and softly twirled him, so he could pat Bruce’s stomach. To Bruce's surprise his stomach growled. Loudly. "See? You're hungry. Get some snacks from the kitchen and de-stress. We'll worry about this Professor guy when you're more up to it."

"Maybe." Bruce wrung his hands, feeling out of sorts. The day started crappy and went downhill from the time he woke up. The Professor pressed all his triggers while singling out his frustrations and weaknesses. "I can't relax too much, though. The thought of what might happen..." He ran a hand down his face. "I dunno, Steve. I--"

"You'll be fine, Bruce, you've been okay to this point, right?" Bruce half-shrugged. "Then no worries, all right? We'll take care of the rest when it happens. Like you said, he tipped his hand and made himself a target."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Not the best analogy, but--"

Steve put a finger to Bruce’s lips, stifling his rant. "Eat something, Muffin. Then do something to relax. Maybe turn on Netflix, or something. I'll be up to check on ya in a bit."

A small frown marred Bruce's features. "What are you doing?"

"I need to blow off some steam," he said, shrugging. "It was a weird experience for me, too, and I've gotta wrap my head around it."

"Hmm." Well, he couldn't argue with Steve because he agreed, but still. "Don't take too long. I think I need a lot of TLC tonight."

Steve laughed. "You got it. Tonight’s your night."

"Okay. I'm holding you to that," Bruce said, as he made his way to the exit. "You take too long, and I'll come find you. And you said it yourself, you don't want me burning any extra calories."

Steve chuckled. "Forty-five minutes, tops." 

He watched Bruce leave. But Bruce missed the subtle frown tugging at the corners of Steve's lips.

[fallforcs]

Cinnamon

Art by: @jell-obeans

Author: @theonceoverthinker

Summary: What starts out as a simple apple picking trip for Emma Swan takes an unexpected twist when she discovers that the nice connection she’s finding between herself and the farm’s owner Killian Jones might be something more profound and, for Emma, terrifying than she bargained for. Emma then finds herself on a journey that pulls her between her own insecurities, her growing feelings for Killian, and the very will of Mother Nature itself. Can Killian truly be the apple of her eye or will the worms of Emma’s past keep her from taking that first bite?

Rating: G (Nothing of an equivalence to a trigger)

A/N: I want to give a couple of shoutouts.

First, to my beta, @lassluna. I can’t even begin to tell you what your tireless work on this story meant to me. Whenever I needed you, you were on our Google Doc ready to work. You’re an amazing beta – catching things before I could all the time. You were incredibly supportive and I felt that you were always working with me because you believed in my story and my writing. And your help with the story itself can’t be overstated. Honestly, there were times where I didn’t think I could finish this story, but knowing that I was doing it for you kept me going. Working with you was a privilege and I hope it was even a tenth of that for you.

Second, to my artist, @jell-obeans. Not only did you take on making me a piece at the last second, but you completely captured the tone I was going for. Your artwork presents a relaxed and casual sense of intimacy between Emma and Killian, and that’s exactly what I wanted my piece to offer for my readers. There’s a nice use of earthy autumn colors and the setting of the artwork gives off a nice sense of closeness. Finally, that Monopoly board and the tea box give a great sense of detail that I just love. It’s freakin’ gorgeous and I can’t thank you enough for all of your hard work.

Finally, a note to my readers. Thank you for taking the time to read this piece. When someone puts together a work and takes the time to painstakingly make sure that it delivers an experience that’s in its own way original, entertaining, and personal, it’s such a cool thing when that work is actually seen. So trust when I express my appreciation to you for giving me that, and I hope that “Cinnamon” can delight and warm your soul in return.

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Upstate New York was truly something to see.

Around every corner Emma turned, she saw acres and acres of trees that cascaded along the landscape like snow piled onto a mountain. Every single one of those trees had the warm colors of autumn, and on their own, they’d be beautiful enough – Emma had certainly seen plenty of them on their own – but together, they melded and practically terraformed the steep inclines they rested on into a place she wouldn’t have minded getting lost in one day.

It was her first time to this part of the country. She’d been to New York, but it was always to the city on a job. This may has well have been a different state. Whereas New York City was an urban jungle – not without its greenery, but mostly sectioned-off greenery – Hudson was a dense forest with towns and road in the spaces between it. It moved alongside the land, and that made for a more difficult, but also more beautiful drive.

But among all the beautiful aspects of the countryside, again, none stood out more that those trees.

That’s actually what had brought her up here today.

Her friend Regina had bought the apples that contained the seeds of what would become a magnificent tree that was so very similar to those now on the other side of Emma’s window many years ago. Regina had always wanted a big apple tree in her yard, and she told Emma that when she first tasted the fruit of this one particular apple only available at this one particular farm, she knew it had to be that one. After trying one of the apples from the bags Regina had brought home, Emma had to agree.

Regina spent months trying to plant it before finally consulting a gardener – one Robin Locksley. Together – by Regina’s insistence together – they worked the land. As they worked, Regina began to swear to Emma that she was smelling marigolds all day long. She’d joke about him probably keeping seeds in his pockets.

It didn’t take long afterwards to realize what had happened. Regina had to ask Robin to be sure, but indeed, Robin’s favorite scent was those of marigolds.

When it came to the matter of the heart, everyone knew what it meant when you smelled someone’s favorite scent whenever you were in their presence. The world they lived in was by no means magical, but this was one truth that persisted throughout time that science could grant no other explanation. At the dawn of this realization, first recorded in journals from the Renaissance, the concept was thought to be a myth, but it was granted solidification as a fact through time and repetition.

Regina had found her soulmate.

Emma recalled Regina telling the story perfectly. Robin had laughed when she told him, but only at the fact that the pervasive smell of apples wasn’t just because of their efforts to grow the tree. The rest took care of itself. With their love secured, finally, not one, but two things grew. The first was Regina’s tree and the second was a love that was just as strong as the bark below the sunrise-colored leaves.

After a few years, the tree began to falter in its fruits. The apples lost their firmness and batch after batch became more inedible than the last. Regina and Robin had meant to go back to the same farm where Regina first got those apples. That was the plan.

But then life happened.

Time slipped away from them. Regina became mayor and their free weekends became fluxes of going to her stepson Roland’s baseball games and taking him to wilderness survival club meeting in between town meetings, tending to their neighbor’s trees and flowers, and general chores.

And then Robin became sick.

That’s where their story had left off, but it wouldn’t be the end if Emma had anything to say about it.

Emma wasn’t a doctor and there was little a bail bondsperson could do to take the occasional load off Regina’s back, not that it would probably be accepted, knowing Regina.

What she did have though was a currently empty schedule and the perfect idea for a gift that would lift the family’s spirits.

It was going to be a simple trip. Emma had made sure of it, and if everything went according to plan, she’d be home by midnight.

Can’t wait to spend another six hours on the road, as if the last six weren’t fun enough.

It would be a long day trip to be sure, but the shitty thing about her type of business was that one never knew when their next client would call asking for her immediate services, and the fact was that an apartment wedged in the corner of Maine didn’t pay for itself.

Google Maps had told her that she’d be approaching Jones Farms in just a few minutes, three to be precise.

Finally, after hours of passing through them, the forests came to an end and a subsequent clearing revealed a series of farms over the next few miles. Jones Farms was the fifth that Emma saw. She found the spot where she could park and her yellow bug – her sole companion on this elongated trip – at last got a well-deserved rest.

Emma got out of her car and as she stretched – a relief she couldn’t understate if she tried after such a long trip – she took in her surroundings. Right in front of her stood a wooden farm with a storefront alongside it and a wide stretch of trees behind it. Emma could just make out the sight of an apple or two across the distance. Just then, the door to the storefront opened, and Emma turned her attention that way. She noticed a man exit and come into her line of view, though somewhat masked by the shadow from underneath the roof of the patio. Upon taking notice of her, the man waved Emma over.

Emma was about to head to the storefront and get started on business. Then, as she took a deep breath of the crisp air, she smelled something she hadn’t expected alongside it.

Cinnamon?

The aroma didn’t as much dance up her nose as opposed to hit her nostrils like a brick to the face. And it wasn’t like Emma disliked it. It was actually the opposite, really. But it did leave a lingering question, one Emma couldn’t answer so easily:

Why did The Great Outdoors smell like a snickerdoodle?

Her curiosity as well as her mission compelled her to go forward towards the shop.

“Hello,” the man said. “Welcome to Jones Farms.” When Emma finally got close enough to make out the man’s features, she blinked.

To be fair, Emma didn’t know what to expect from the farm hands when she came here, but what she didn’t expect was him.

The man before Emma was roughly half a head taller than her. He had piercing blue eyes, dark brown hair with a set of bangs that were swept back, and a tasteful bit of scruff that peaked at the space between his nose and mouth and otherwise ran across his chin. A black jacket covered his upper torso and arms and below was a pair of dark jeans, but neither entirely masked the subtle hints of muscle.

All this to say, he was quite handsome.

Not a bad person to spend an hour or two with.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before, but it’s nice to meet you all the same. Killian’s the name,” he went on to say, extending a hand. “Killian Jones.”

“Emma,” she responded meeting his hand with her own. “Emma Swan.” They shook, and Emma couldn’t describe it, but just the feeling of touching him was…nice.

His whole demeanor was nice, in fact.

No, not nice. Kind.

People were a generally easy read for Emma. One didn’t survive long as a bail bondsperson without such an ability. She’d always had an affinity for spotting lies for as long as she could remember, and the rest had developed with age. These days, Emma could easily tell someone’s intentions on sight, as if a map of their person was drawing itself right in front of her.

And right now, Killian’s map pointed to the big heart on his sleeves. It wasn’t a bad way to be. He was certainly more comfortable around new people than Emma tended to be, but Emma supposed that came with the job, customer service and all that. In any event, he had an air about him and Emma couldn’t help but find it infectious.

“It’s a pleasure. Now, how may I assist you today?”

“I’m looking for some Bloody Ploughmans.”

Killian raised both of his brows and bulged his eyes. “Such language,” he said, the mock offense in his voice as clear as glass, and a gloved hand clutching at his lapel as if to milk the reaction for even more. Emma gave a gentle roll of the eyes with a smirk that was quickly returned with a charming smile. “Sorry, can’t help but use that joke on the customers. To be fair, you would too if you had something with that name.” He released a small chuckle and Emma allowed her smirk to soften into a more genuine smile. Noticeably grateful, Killian gave a thankful nod. “In any event, a fine apple.”

“And you’re the only place that has them.”

“That’s because there’s few apple farmers who come from across the sea where they’re found.”

Emma nodded. The accent in his voice made it obvious that he was British.

“You’ve good taste,” Killian continued.

“Not me, actually,” Emma pointed out. “My friend. You may remember – she came here a few years ago – Regina Mills?”

Killian’s eyes brightened with what Emma could assume was recognition.

“Yes,” Killian confirmed. “I think a decade has past since then. I remember her because she insisted on trying every apple at the farm while she was here. People often make that promise – mostly kids – but she was the first to actually do it, and the only!” He started to laugh, and Emma found herself unexpectedly compelled to join in.

That’s Regina for you.

“She told me about that,” Emma said jovially. “And if you think that’s crazy, you should’ve seen her when her favorite cereal got discontinued! She broke open her piggy bank and dragged me all over town. We went to every supermarket and bought as many boxes as we could carry!”

“Did you two grow up together?” Killian was smiling at her.

“Yeah.”

“Relatives or friends?”

“Kind of both.”

Killian quirked his brow, looking as confused as a penguin in a desert. “I don’t follow.”

“Foster siblings,” Emma said, following a moment’s hesitation.

“Ah. Gotcha,” Killian said with a soft grin. His appreciation may have been unspoken, but the gentle sprouts of his dimples told Emma quite a bit of his gratefulness for sharing something like that to someone who was little more than a stranger.

It definitely made Emma feel better. She was always tremulous when it came to bringing up something like that, but though Killian had asked for specifics until it became unavoidable, it was clearly not his intention for her to reveal that and he’d given just the right reaction to it, leaving the ball in her court for more information without a bit of pressure.

“So anyway,” Emma resumed, getting back on topic, “Regina planted an apple tree with some seeds from that apple, but the fruit these days has got all these bumps on them  – Regina said it’s something called brown rot – and she wanted to grow another. She had a hard time getting back down here, so I came here to get them for her.”

“Quite a generous offer,” Kilian said. “Regina’s taste seemed to have remained the same, both in apples and in company.”

Emma smirked. “You use that line on all your customers?”

Killian returned the expression without missing a beat. “Only for the best.” Emma felt a compulsion to blush.

This guy’s either the best salesman in the world or he’s Superman.

Well, whatever he is, I’ve got to get moving. Besides, it’s starting to look cloudy.

“So, how about we get started?” Emma suggested. “Bloody Ploughmans are great and all – my favorites – but I really want to make this just a one day trip and traffic is probably going to be a bitch getting back to Maine as it is.” At the location of Emma’s hometown, Killian’s brow raised.

“Maine? Well, that’s one hell of a day trip, but I can surely understand, so, as the lady insists.”

Emma nodded gratefully, and as she did, she noticed the smell of cinnamon and how it was still so strong in the air.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask: What’s that smell? I feel like I’m in a bakery.”

Much to Emma’s confusion, Killian gaped and the brow that was already raised as well as its brother practically flew out of his head. “Is this really your first time visiting an apple farm?”

“Yeah,” Emma answered, stuck between feeling guilty and laughing at the expression on Killian’s face through her befuddlement at the question.

With a click of his tongue, Killian smirked. “No wonder. You’ve never had an apple cider donut?”

Apple cider donut?

The words flowed off Killian’s tongue, and mental images of the idea of the snack started floating through Emma’s head. To add to that, the traces of cinnamon in the air made it all the more enticing. “Can’t say I have. They sound pretty good.”

“They’re better than good, Emma.” Killian pressed his lips together and looked at his store thoughtfully for a brief moment before turning back to Emma. “You know what, Emma? Come on in. I’ll give you a freshly made one, on the house.”

Emma was about to decline at the behest of her inner-chiding about her already expected-to-be long ride home, but her gurgling stomach betrayed her. Another smirk crossed Killian’s face, and if it didn’t look so good on his face, Emma might just be annoyed by it. Regardless, she was hungry and the donuts sounded delicious. “Lead the way,” she said as she signaled for him to do just that with a finger pointed towards the door.

“It’s weird though,” Killian commented as they enclosed on the shop’s entrance.

“What?”

“I smell the donuts too, but I haven’t made any today.” Killian then shrugged. “But then again, that machine is powerful and it’s old, too. Perhaps it’s just gotten a bit of a residual smell with age.”

Emma shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”

“But trust me when I say this, Emma: If you think the cinnamon is powerful now, when this thing gets kicking, your nose will be straight-up filled with the stuff.”

And whether it was the hunger softly making itself known through the pangs in her stomach or the aroma that she started to feel acting as a premonition for the success for the rest of the day going forward, but Emma found the idea of a cinnamon-filled shop to be not only delightful, but also worthy of a show of delight and one final disclosement about herself.

“Well,” Emma said, smiling. “Cinnamon just happens to be my favorite smell, so get cooking.” Killian grinned and with that, he opened the door to the store and the two of them walked in.

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True enough to Emma’s expectations and Killian’s word, as soon as Killian put the apple cider donut machine to work, the smell of cinnamon grew ten times stronger.

The batter, Killian told Emma, had already been prepared and refrigerated the night before, so all he had to do was place some in the machine, and it would do the rest. Watching it go was quite the spectacle. The machine molded the batter into the correct shape for the donuts and plopped them onto a conveyor belt that would from there take them to be fried and adorned with their cinnamon sugar coating. It was a cool process to watch and Emma would’ve been lying if she said otherwise.

The two of them filled the time waiting for the donuts to finish with light conversation, first with a cursory tour around the store, and afterwards with Killian showing Emma how his apple cider machine worked.

When the donuts were at last done, Killian stood at the end of the donut-making machine, grinning like a mad scientist as the coating was sprinkled on the freshly fried pastries. “Gotta love that smell – the cinnamon and sugar coming together. Best in the world if you ask me!”

“It does smell good.” Emma took another whiff and felt goosebumps as she took it is. “I love my cinnamon candle at home, but it has nothing on this.”

“And it gets even better! Just wait until you taste one!” A moment later, an apple cider donut was in her hand and another in Killian’s. He clinked their donuts together and took a bite, with Emma immediately following suit.

What next hit Emma’s lips she could most closely describe as a lightning bolt of sweetness. Sugar and cinnamon so fresh that Emma swore they came off their original plants spread across her tongue like fireworks. The pastry itself hit her teeth like a goose down pillow and when it opened, the texture of warm cake spread through her mouth. Emma closed her eyes as she absorbed the taste while the rest of her donut radiated warmth between her fingers.

Ooh. Is that–?

“Cinnamon? Yup, it’s in the donut batter too,” Killian said. Emma nearly choked on her donut, releasing a cough so that she wouldn’t spit out her food. Her eyes bulged open.

Is he psychic?

Killian seemed to think so. At Emma’s reaction, he gave her a shit-eating grin. “You’re a surprisingly easy read, Emma, and even for me.”

“You read everyone so well?”

“All part of the job, love. I’m quite an old hat at it.”

No, not psychic. Just cocky.

Though I’ll admit: cocky looks good on him.

Emma returned the smirk, not ready to be defeated at the game she excelled so well at. “Well, I’m pretty good at reading people too, and you’re not exactly War and Peace yourself.”

“Oh yeah?” Killian asked, his smirk having grown somehow even wider than before. “Then what am I thinking?”

This is too easy.

“You’re itching for me stroke your ego and compliment your donuts,” Emma answered, with not a single beat missed in the process. Killian looked impressed, his cocky smirk still present, but his eyes forfeiting his amazement.

“Very good. Now will you?”

She took a deep breath, revelling as cinnamon danced around her nose once more. “Yeah, they’re pretty good.”

The smirk on Killian’s face dissolved into a smile. “Always nice to hear.”

Emma was about to say something – granted, jokingly – about not letting the compliment go to his head when suddenly, a loud noise beat her to the punch.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

As the noise sounded off, Emma turned her head. Atop the cashier’s counter was a loud and colorful birdhouse with a clock in the top center of it. At the moment, a blue and yellow bird were rolling around a semicircle stretched out in front of the display of the time.

“The kids love it,” Killian commented, “and it’s a great reminder to check on our inventory regularly, especially in our peak season.” Nodding, Emma looked at the time, but before another second passed, her curious expression turned violently into a gawk.

Shit! It’s already one!

Killian had clearly noticed the change of face. “Are you okay, Emma?”

Emma sighed, remembering herself.

“Yeah. I’m okay,” she said. “It’s just that I didn’t think I’d be here this long. I’ve gotta get moving. Look, thanks for the donut. It was really good. Tell you what: I’ll grab a half a dozen of those for the road and take two bags of the Bloody Ploughmans.” Emma dug her hand into the pocket of her jeans, the leather of her wallet brushing against her fingers, but she soon stopped at the sight in front of her: Killian frowning. “What?”

“Come on, Emma,” he whined. “It’s your first time at an apple farm, and I’m not about to let you just buy the apples without picking them first.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Killian, but I can’t.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Killian chided, waving a finger. “There’s nothing like the feeling of pulling an apple right off a tree and taking a bite out of it. It forms an intimate bond between yourself and nature.” Emma raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Besides,” he continued, “I sold out of my pre-picked bags of them yesterday. Unless you can come back another day, you haven’t a choice.”

Emma pouted to herself. “No, I can’t. It took me hours to get up here and this is the only day I’ll be able to do it for like a month.”

“Look, Emma. If you want, I could go and pick the apples for you if you really don’t want to. I know the situation’s hardly ideal what with the weather so perhaps I can assist.”

Still pouting, Emma resigned herself to the idea. “It’s okay. There’s nothing else to do here. I may as well help you.”

So much for my quick trip.

Also, I should grab some gloves from my car. From the way Killian’s talking, it might get cold soon.

Killian smiled, practically stubbornly in the face of Emma’s pout. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fun,” he encouraged. “And I’ll come with you, take some pictures on your phone, and you can show Regina what a good time you had!” When faced with Killian’s grin, Emma felt her pout give out right before she grinned too. Killian seemed to be able to tell that he’d won the battle, his teeth flashing. “Will,” he called to a man sitting by the cash register in front of the store. “I’m going to accompany our lovely patron to the orchard for her first proper picking. You’re in charge until I get back.”

“Aye, aye!” the cashier said cheerfully. Content enough with the circumstances, Emma and Killian started for the exit out of the store. “Uh, before you go, Killian,” the man continued just before Killian could touch the doorknob, his tone now smaller. “Just reminding you that you said I could leave in two hours. I really need to get home soon.” Despite the meekness of Will’s words, Emma noticed that there was an underlying urgency to them too.

What’s beating him?

“Of course, Mr. Smee. We should be back with time to spare. Now come, Emma! The orchards await!”

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Jones Farms ended up being far more extensive than Emma thought. While the trees looked to be close to the house and storefront, the walk to the orchards had taken about five minutes, and Killian told Emma as they strolled through the trees that the Bloody Ploughmans were in the back of the fields, past the dozens of Macintoshes, Galas, and Granny Smiths alongside their path. The trek made Emma feel like the layers of trees were practically swallowing her whole. She looked to Killian who contrarily seemed so at home as he navigated through the dense forest. His eyes were shifting from branch to branch, muttering to himself about the state of the fruits on the trees and the fences on the border of the orchard that were just visible from the path. From what she could make out from his mutters and expressions, it all looked good.

Just before Emma was about to turn her head back to focus on the way ahead, Killian met her eye. Instantaneously, his expression popped from one of intense focus to one of an equally intense embarrassment.

“So sorry for the quiet, Emma!” Killian said. “Just wanted to check on everything. You can never be too careful with one’s livelihood when it’s forced to lay bare against mankind and the elements, and since I’m here and all, may as well look now.”

“I get it,” Emma replied, assuaging Killian of his clear guilt. “It’s your business, and work always means more when you’re your own boss.”

Killian quirked a brow. “You know from experience?”

“I’m a freelance bail bondsperson.”

“That’s pretty cool! What’s the work like? Is it like all the TV shows?” Emma almost wanted to laugh at the childlike enthusiasm on Killian’s face. It was wide-eyed, curious, and honestly just cute.

All of that made it hard for her to do what she needed to next.

Emma scrunched her face and shook her head. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but not really. I mean, sometimes, you’ll get a runner, and then you’ll have to play detective to find them, but it doesn’t happen often. Usually, I’m just filing paperwork, checking with the courthouses, and driving to defendant’s houses to check on them and make sure they haven’t skipped town. Thankfully, for most of the people I’ve worked with, they haven’t. It’s not the easiest lesson to learn when you’re a foster kid, but in my field of work, you realize that more people are good than not.”

Killian’s face fell, but only slightly. “Well, it’s at least an optimistic aspect of society nowadays, that those who you help are also working to help themselves.”

“Exactly,” Emma said, a feeling of profound satisfaction in her gut and a smile tugging at the edges of her lips. She hardly ever talked about work – mostly because it was as mundane as she described most of the time – but Killian just got what that mundanity meant.

I wonder what his story is…

…Couldn’t hurt to ask.

“By the way,” she continued, “how’d you get all the way from England to have an apple farm here in the states? They don’t have apple farms across the Atlantic?”

“They do, but –”

Wait, don’t tell me.

“Trying to avoid someone?”

Despite the interruptance, Killian seemed to take the question well, a brief low chuckle coming through his throat.

“That depends: Does an entire country count as someone?” Emma’s eyes bulged. Killian seemed to understand immediately where Emma’s mind had gone. “No, trust me. I’m not a criminal,” he explained. “Quite the opposite actually.”

“Oh?”

Killian pursed his lips. Though Emma could tell from there that the subject made Killian uncomfortable, right before she could stop him, Killian started speaking. “My brother and I were in the navy back home. He was killed in the line of duty and I lost my hand.”

Shit.

Emma grimaced, feeling guilty for ever bringing up the topic. She couldn’t imagine losing a limb, much less someone so close to her in a war. “I’m so sorry, Killian.”

“It is what it is.” Killian took a deep breath. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to spare Killian any further pain, Emma spoke again.

“We don’t have to talk about this if you want.”

“It’s alright,” Killian dismissed. “You told me a bit of your story. The least I can do is give you a glimmer of mine.”

Emma – touched – felt her hand drift to her chest.

“After being honorably discharged, I left the country,” Killian continued. “Life in England had never been easy for me, so I decided to make a new start in a new country.”

“All by yourself?”

“Yes. Our parents are long gone, one more loosely fitting that definition than the other, but gone all the same. I’ve Mr. Smee as an employee and a few townspeople as friends, but otherwise, no one really.”

Now that was a weird sensation. While it wasn’t something she was used to growing up, Emma’s small town these days carried with it a sense of intimacy. She had Regina who she was close to, but there were others as well and given the nature of small towns, she had at least some idea of everyone’s business. Sometimes, it was too much for her, especially due to her upbringing, but to be by yourself with all this land, Emma couldn’t imagine it.

“It doesn’t get lonely?”

“Oh, it does. To tell you the truth, I’ve hoped that one day, perhaps my soulmate will drop by the farm and from there, we’d settle down here together.”

Emma snorted, perhaps a tad more condescendingly than intended, but not enough that it looked like she hurt Killian in the process.

“You’re into that stuff?”

Killian raised a brow. “Who wouldn’t be?” She met his eye, and once more, he seemed able to read her thoughts. “You?” he asked, his surprise evident.

“Eh,” Emma shrugged.

“Hmm. I’ve always loved the idea,” he responded with a shrug of his own. “Being around someone and everything just feeling…right. Kind of like a safety net. The rest of the world gives us so much pain. It’d be nice to have one person who was always on your side, who you could always rely on, and could always rely on you.”

Boy, is that naive.

But Emma didn’t give voice to the thought. After all, when Killian finally found his soulmate, odds are that they’d have the same idea of what a soulmate is. And maybe it really would be as easy as that for them. For his sake, she hoped that was true.

As for her…

“I don’t know. I guess it just feels weird, like being in an arranged marriage by the universe.”

It was an understatement of her true thoughts, to be sure, but it was serviceable for their conversation.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Killian said, musing. “I’d say it’s closer to…an apple farmer showing you where to find the trees you want are.”

Jeez, he’s a total romantic.

But hey, if anyone can make the whole soulmates thing work, it’s probably him.

I can’t imagine anyone would turn him down with a face like that, and that’s before they’d spend a minute with him.

“Speaking of,” Emma redirected, “so what about the apple farming?”

“My brother Liam and I used to work odd jobs as teenagers to make money. We found being farmhands for this one couple’s orchard to be the best of them. Besides, even though I wanted to leave my old life behind, it didn’t mean I wanted to leave my brother. You know what’s funny?” Emma hummed inquisitively. “You said earlier that Bloody Ploughmans were your favorite apple. Well, they were Liam’s favorite too. And speaking of,” Killian said, pointing ahead. “Look, we’ve arrived!”

Indeed they had. Emma’s gaze followed Killian’s finger. Beyond a small clearing was a messily labeled was a sign for Bloody Ploughmans and three rows of trees that extended back until a fence roughly three hundred feet away.

“Emma,” Killian said, walking past Emma until he could face her from the front. “I’m going to check on the fence at the back of this section.” He then produced a folded bag out of his coat pocket. “Why don’t you get a head start, and I’ll be right back?” She nodded and took the bag, and with a final toothy smile, Killian took off, leaving Emma alone.

For a moment, all Emma could do was take in the trees. There was such a beautiful familiarity in seeing the Bloody Ploughmans. After the tree in Regina’s yard had proved itself to be ill beyond repair, Regina had chopped it down, leaving only a small stump where the strong bark once stood. Emma had forgotten how they stood, shorter to the ground than she remembered, but  also fuller in its fruits and still as commanding in their presence as ever.

With the crunching leaves below her boots as her only companion, Emma stepped towards the closest apple tree.

Suspended in the air, just a half a foot above Emma’s head was a gorgeous looking apple. It was perfectly plump in its shape and was a shade of red that she recognized all-too-well.

Now that’s what I’m talking about!

Raising a hand up to the apple’s base, Emma pulled it towards her, twisting it slightly when she felt weakness in the top of the stem. When the apple was finally released, the branch that held it flung backwards – and as Emma found out before she could even hope to move to stop it – right into Killian’s unprepared face.

Oh crap.

Killian released a grunt that was deprived of any and all grace at the impact.

“Sorry,” Emma said meekly, an apologetic smile on her face. Killian enclosed his hand around the branch and steadied it. He didn’t look mad, but simply startled. As he sputtered, a leaf revealed itself to be in KIllian’s mouth, much to his clear disgust.

For the record, Emma did feel guilty. Truly, she did.

But she couldn’t help herself when she felt a bout of giggles in her chest as Killian coughed and pushed the leaf away.

So, after losing a battle of wills she never had a shot in hell of winning, Emma released a small chuckle, and much to her relief, Killian joined in.

“Might I suggest a less violent approach to picking apples?” he asked, chuckling not only from the absurdity of his previous situation, but also from the triumph that came with ridding himself of the stray leaf once and for all. “Not that your approach isn’t effective, but I’m quite fond of my face the way it is.”

So am I.

“Lead the way.”

“You got it, love,” Killian replied, a flirtatious wink at the word.

Emma felt her cheeks get pleasantly warm, making the cold air around her face feel all but nonexistent.

Killian took an apple less than a foot above him into his hand and with the other, took the branch.

“What you want to do is hold the apple - and you were right to give it a little twist at the stem - but what you want to do is keep the branch steady too. It’s not good for the tree for it to flail like that.” Emma watched closely, and as Killian spoke, she noticed his left hand - unlike the right - was gloved.

That’s probably the prosthetic.

Emma found herself impressed. The prosthetic moved almost as well as his hand did, perhaps a touch more rigidly, but it would be nothing anyone would be able to notice of they didn’t have the hawk-like eyesight of a bailbondswoman.

“So watch what I do.” Gently, Killian removed the apple while still keeping everything else relatively the same. Once the branch was safely put back in place, Killian showed Emma the apple. It didn’t gleam like an apple on a teacher’s desk, but it had this distinct and natural beauty to it within the thin layer of dirt at its surface. “And there you have it.” Killian gestured downward with his eyes and it took Emma a moment to realize that he was pointing at her bag. Immediately, Emma opened it, and both Killian as well as her own apple from earlier fell into it.

“Thanks.”

Killian gestured towards the very apple tree he had just picked from. “Now you try, if you think you can handle grabbing an apple without causing an earthquake, that is,” he challenged. The good-natured smirk on his face made it clear that he knew she’d be one to hardly pass up a challenge.

Good guess.

“Either way, I’m about to rock your world.” After taking a second to choose the perfect apple, Emma grabbed it, and was careful to use the strategy Killian taught her. When she was done, she hovered the fruit in front of Killian’s face, just as he had done with the one he picked.

“Indeed you have,” Killian remarked. “And a very nice choice on top of that, love! See? Told you it was a good idea to come pick the apples fresh.”

“Not like I had a choice,” she said, putting the apple into her bag.

“But admit it: it was still fun.”

“Fine,” Emma relented, an amiable eye roll trailing beside her words like a trusted friend. “It was fun.” As if to solidify the point, Emma grabbed another apple in much the same way as she did the last.

She hadn’t planned for today to go how it had. She never imagined that she’d actually had to go out into the fields and get her own fruits, but being around someone like Killian, someone so open and easy to talk to made her wonder why she’d have ever wanted to do this differently.

“Not to mention, Killian said, “you were also exposed to this beautifully crisp mountain air. Bet they don’t have this back in Storybrooke! Trust me, Swan, nothing makes you feel alive quite like when your lungs are full of it.” Dramatically with his arms open like he was performing the opening of The Sound of Music , Killian took a loud and deep breath. “Go on!” he encouraged.

And Emma did, albeit without the Julie Andrews pose. She took a sharp inhale and immediately, the fresh breeze began pouring throughout her entire being.

…Alongside something else.

Cinnamon?

Emma furrowed her brow. That didn’t make sense. They must’ve been a quarter of a mile away from the storefront of Jones Farms. And there’s no way with all the wind blowing that the smell from the donuts she ate over an hour ago was still strong enough.

So why was she still smelling cinnamon as if she was right in front of the machine itself?

Wait…Didn’t Killian say something earlier?

She remembered it so clearly.

“Gotta love that smell – the cinnamon and sugar coming together. Best in the world if you ask me!”

That’s what Killian said exactly. Word for word.

No…

But if Emma was right – and she got a good feeling she was – then so much now made sense: why she felt so comfortable telling him she was a foster kid, how he was able to convince her so easily to come up here and apple pick, and why Kilian couldn’t seem to take two steps without making her smile.

We’re soulmates.

Emma’s stomach clenched. She took another breath, this time more staggard.

This really wasn’t what she expected to happen today.

Soulmate.

Killian was her soulmate.

Killian, the kind farmer.

Killian, one of the most handsome men she had ever met.

Killian, someone she had already felt okay telling bits about herself to.

…

Killian, the hopeless romantic who was just ten minutes ago waxing about how great soulmates were.

Killian, the guy who thought that he’d find his soulmate and they’d be together forever like the ending of a storybook.

Killian, the guy who was now looking at her, seemingly able to tell that something was amiss.

And of course he could.

After all, they were soulmates.

“Everything okay, Emma?”

No. Things weren’t okay by a long shot. Killian was her soulmate and she was not ready to deal with that yet. There was so much to think about, so much to talk about, and a million ways that things could go wrong if it wasn’t handled carefully. Killian’s hopes were so high, too high, and telling him right now in the middle of a picturesque apple orchard, for as photogenic as she’s sure it would be, didn’t seem the best way to ease him out of that mindset.

At the same time though, that very mindset had begged the question: Had Killian figured it out, too?

Definitely not. If he had found out, he wouldn’t hide it. He’d say something. I can read him.

But if she could read him, it stood to reason that he could probably read her too, no matter whether or not he knew.

To be blunt, Emma didn’t want him to know, or at least, not yet. To tell him now, before she could figure out what to say would open a can of worms that she knew could hurt them both.

And currently, Killian’s question over her well being hung in the air, waiting to be answered.

Emma searched for a way out, knowing that a straight up dismissal of his concerns would only arouse Killian’s suspicion. Attempts at fake concerns fizzed in and out of her mind, killed by the consequences that could ensue in their wake.  

Thankfully, Emma looked at her apple bag and found her solution.

Perfect.

“I’m just hungry.” Immediately, she grabbed one of the apples she picked and shoved it into her mouth.

Damn, that’s good! But it tastes a little different. Did I just remember it wrong?

Emma scrunched her face in confusion.

Just then, Killian started chuckling.

Fuck. Why does he have to have such a cute laugh?

“Uhh,” Killian started. “You should probably know that there’s a layer of pesticides over that apple.” Emma gaped at the apple which now had a huge chunk removed from it, a chunk that was by now likely chilling in her stomach. “Nothing that’ll harm you!” Killian assured. “However, it does throw off the taste. I think that should solve that mystery for you.”

Emma chuckled, remaining conscientious as to keep the nervousness at bay despite how difficult the task ended up being. After finishing her apple over some small talk with Killian, she went back to picking apples off the tree. Killian took another bag from his coat pocket and at her behest, started assisting her.

Okay, good. We’ve just got to finish filling these bags and then I can get out of here.  

She’d come back. Emma promised herself and Killian that much, however silently. For right now though, she couldn’t handle a soulmate.

For God’s sake, this was supposed to be a quick apple picking trip, not a rom-com!

“I gotta say,” Killian spoke, taking Emma from her thoughts, “I admire you for your dedication to your friend, but it’s a weird time for you to come all the way out here.”

Emma quirked her brow. “Why’s that? Some sort of festival going on?”

Killian looked at Emma as if she was crazy. “No, love. Amelia.”

Oh, please don’t say love.

She could feel her heart protest that sentiment, the tenseness that existed since she found out the truth being somewhat mitigated by the cozy feeling of the single word.

“Who’s Amelia?” Killian bit his lip, which was quite worrisome given his more chipper disposition from just a few moments ago. “Killian?”

“Amelia’s not a person, Emma,” he responded, so soberly that she felt a phantom shudder as he stared at her. “She’s a hurricane, and a bloody strong one. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of her. You can hardly walk ten miles without hearing anyone talk about it.”

“Oh crap,” Emma said, taking a hand away from her apple bag to massage her forehead.

“If you want to leave,” Killian spoke, “you need to get out of here fast.”

It didn’t take Emma long to come to a decision. She’d head out now. It was too much to not only confront the fact that they were soulmates, but to be trapped in the same town…

No. Especially not after last month…

She’d get Killian’s number or come by again after the storm let up. That way, she could talk to someone about this back home first. Maybe Regina would know what to do. Or hell, maybe she made a mistake. It was fall. Maybe everything just smelled like cinnamon up here and if she came by a few months later, the smell would be gone.

…That probably wasn’t true, but Emma entertained the notion all the same.

Emma nodded. “Let’s get these apples packed up. I’ll pay you then head out.”

“Good thin-”

Two simultaneous beeping sounds interrupted Emma’s words and a feeling of vibration from her pants let her know exactly where it was coming from.

Killian got to his phone first. He looked for a few seconds at the device before turning back to Emma, his tenuous face giving her insight into what he was about to say.

“The hurricane’s already caught up with the next town over and the main roads that lead out of here have just been shut down as a precaution.”

Words dried up on Emma lips like an ice cube in a cup of tea.

Until Hurricane Amelia let up and those lonely roads could be filled once more, she was stuck here.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

After a brisk walk back to the buildings beside Jones Farms, Killian invited Emma to use his laptop in the farmhouse. Already, Hurricane Amelia’s strength started to show itself. The winds were picking up fast and it had started raining on the return trip. Still, Emma retained some degree of optimism. Until the roads were shut down from within the town, she could conceivably find a hotel to stay at and avoid Killian altogether.

Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on their side.

There were very few hotels in the area and those that were around either had no vacancies or were off of or directly on roads that were rapidly closing down more and more with every click on the mouse.

After an hour of searching and a final emergency alert that definitively shut down all roads in Hudson, Emma closed the laptop with a sigh.

“Nothing,” she concluded, her eyes dull with the haze that followed resignation.

“I’m sorry, Emma. I know you only planned for a day trip. But, if it helps, you’re welcome to stay here for the duration of the hurricane. I’ve a spare room upstairs that’s all yours.”

It couldn’t be understated how badly Emma didn’t want this to be her only option. Killian was a smart guy and while cinnamon seemed to be a common smell by the storefront, it would make itself apparent as an outlier soon enough. He’d figure out they were soulmates, probably before if she was being generous

However, the fact of the matter was that this was her only option. The winds had only gotten stronger and while she’d slept in her car more than her fair share of times, she’d never been stupid enough to do it during a hurricane and that wasn’t about to change.

As for Killian, she’d do what she could to handle things.

After all, if cinnamon was Killian’s favorite scent too, maybe there was some finagaling that could be done.

“Thank you,” Emma said. “That’s really sweet. Can I pay you or something?”

“Nonsense!” Killian dismissed. “Besides, you’re doing me a favor.”

“How’s that?”

“It gets lonely during these hurricanes. The power goes out more often than not, it’s dark and disgusting, I forget to buy books, and there’s little else to do around here than gorge myself on cider and donuts. It’ll be nice having a spot of company. We could have a drink, share a story by the fire, also gorge ourselves on cider and donuts, play a board game.” Killian smiled goofily at her. “I’ve got Monopoly,” he added with a shrug.

Emma, despite every bit of panic in her bones, couldn’t help but smile back at the joke. “I’m in, but only if I can play the race car.”

Killian shook his head. “I’m always the racecar, love.” At that moment, Killian lowered his eyes to the floor. Once Emma’s eyes followed suit, she saw the small dark and damp looking circle at her feet. “Tell you what. Why don’t we pause our battle over the pieces and get you out of those wet clothes? I’ve some clean sweats you can change into.”

“Aren’t you the gentleman?”

“I’m always a gentleman,” Killian countered, a finger pointed at nothing particular. “Now, how about I continue to show myself as a gentleman and escort you to your dwelling?” As he spoke, he mock extended his hand, as if asking a beautiful lady to dance.

If Emma hadn’t been trying to keep a secret, she’d have groaned.

Could he be any more romantic?

Hesitantly, Emma smiled and slid her fingers onto his palm, completing the joke.

Killian showed Emma the way to her bedroom. It was cozy and small with a queen sized bed, a dresser with a mirror against the front wall, and a window that gave a nice view of the orchard.

“The sweats are in the top right drawer of the dresser. If you need me, I’ll be in my room down the hall. I think I need some clean clothes myself.” With a tap against the door, Killian exited the room, leaving Emma all alone.

When his footsteps were finally out of earshot and a door clicked shut in the distance, Emma leaned against the nearest wall and sighed.

How am I going to handle this now?

After soulmates were introduced, it didn’t take long for them to realize it. For Regina, it had taken a few weeks, but she had the benefit of living far across town from Robin and by her own nature, was so focused on the Bloody Ploughmans that she went all that time missing the forest for the trees.

Killian, Emma was willing to bet, would not. Not only was he perceptive – and more emotionally speaking than most – but they were now in the same house and weren’t going anywhere until this hurricane passed. It wouldn’t take long before the smell of cinnamon became too abundant to ignore.

A sigh parted her lips.

So that left her wondering: should she tell him the truth now? On some level she wanted to. He was a great guy, if not a touch too idealistic in his views on love and harboring this secret was going to be a pain for however long she had to. That said, Emma also saw a future past the reveal, and things didn’t go smoothly there. Killian was so invested in the idea of soulmates. If Emma approached things the wrong way, it could make for a very awkward evening.

Besides, Emma reminded herself, she had a plan.

She’d go home.

She’d talk to her friends.

She’d maybe even see a therapist.

Then she’d come back and talk to Killian, when she knew the right thing to say.

But that meant until then, she’d need to fight the clock.

Emma looked out the window. Leaves flew through the air like bluebirds, and the comparison was only solidified by the unique whistle that the wind made. She was going to be stuck in the house for the night, maybe even two if things weren’t better the next day.

Of course I don’t have anything I can pretend is perfume or deodorant.

As Emma took in and mused over her situation, she took a deep breath. As the oxygen inflated her lungs like a vacuum bag, it revealed something quite curious: the smell of cinnamon was out of her nose shot.

And as loathe as she was to admit it, that revelation gave her a glimmer of hope.

Maybe Killian wouldn’t figure out they were soulmates if Emma played things smart. When they were both in their rooms, any clues that they were soul mates were nonexistent. Obviously, she couldn’t ignore Killian, but if she could keep in her room just long enough to keep any suspicions that he’d have at bay while not proving herself to be rude, she’d possibly be able to get away with their secret intact.

Just until she had that precious time to think.

A squishy feeling from below Emma’s boots drifted her away from her thoughts. Though not as big as the circle she made downstairs, this room’s beige carpet was starting to darken from the wayward drips of rain coming off of her jeans.

Speaking of thinking, I think I need to change clothes.

Emma looked at the top drawer that Killian pointed her to when she had first entered the room. Inside it was a pair of grey sweatpants as well as a matching sweatshirt. Both looked to be about a size bigger than she was, but Emma could tell that they’d fit fine enough.

So, to the sound of musical winds and thumping against the outer walls, she began to undress.

She got on the sweatpants and was about to put on the sweatshirt. Her hand had enclosed the garment when all of the sudden, less than six feet from her, there was a crash.

The entire explosion happened in an instant. Glass shattered and spread across the room like water over a beach at high tide. Right afterwards, the wind and rain began pouring in as aggressively as a hornet.

And somewhere in that mix, though she was uncertain of exactly when, Emma screamed.

“Emma!” Killian shouted as he ran inside. “Are you alright?” He looked at her with a primal fear in his eyes, only turning to look at the shattered window after a few seconds.

“Y-yeah. I’m okay. A branch must have crashed through the window.” Her words were proven true by the large piece of bark that currently leaned against her bed.

“Damn,” Killian muttered, right before turning to her again. “But at least you’re okay.”

Then something strange happened. Killian, who was noticeably only looking Emma in the eye, choked.

It was only at that point that she realized he, with a labored but steadily heaving chest, was shirtless.

In the moments where Killian had just entered the room, Emma had been too focused on the ruckus, as she should’ve been and the panic in his eyes as he examined both her and the scene.

But now the worst of the danger had passed, and his assets were fully on display.

And hers too.

Crap!

The sweatshirt - still not on her body, but pressed against her nonetheless - had done a fine job concealing Emma’s top half, but now was the time to properly wear it.

Killian seemed to realize this too. He held his left hand to his eyes and averted his gaze back towards the window.

“I’m sorry, Emma. I heard the crash and a shout-”

“It’s fine. I get it,” Emma interrupted, somewhat muffled by the sweatshirt that was going over her head. When it was finally on her person, Emma set about grabbing the stuff she’d brought into the room before stepping aside so Killian could inspect his window.

As Killian looked around, it became increasingly clear just how unsafe the area was. Glass was still falling off the window and rain was flying from the other side, and while the glass had mostly just missed him, the rain had been far more successful in that endeavor, hitting his face more and more with every passing second. After a full minute of this, Killian stepped back and turned to Emma.

“How bad?” Emma asked.

“Mother Nature’s quite upset with us. That branch did a clear number on this window and the room. I won’t be able to repair that, at least not until the storm’s gone. I can try to tape a shower curtain over it, but with the fierceness of this storm, I’m not confident it’ll hold. The most I can do otherwise is I bottle it shut with some towels.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“There’s a container down by the kitchen – big and blue, you can’t miss it – that could hold back the excess water from getting all over the floor and causing flooding. If you could get me that, that’d be great. I’m going to put my sweater back on and get to work.”

Emma headed downstairs and made her way into the kitchen. Sure enough, just as Killian said, there was a big blue container in the back.

Okay. Time to get this sucker upstairs.

Taking an edge of the container in each hand, Emma lifted it. She was all ready to go back upstairs and deliver the container to Killian when suddenly, something appeared out of the corner of her eye. Had she moved her head at any other angle, she would’ve missed it completely, but she hadn’t, and there it was, calling out to her like a sign.

A box of apple cinnamon tea and an old iron kettle right by its side.

Talk about fate.

The ensuing plan was formed in a matter of seconds and her hands were bringing the kettle to the sink after another pinch of them. Emma dropped the box and began to fill the kettle with water and stuck the last of the tea into the infuser inside of it, feeling a certain culpable delight as she got a whiff at the cinnamon, artificial for the first time since she’d discovered the truth. She set it on the stove and put the heat on.

The whole while that Emma conspired and enacted her plan, she felt her heart thumping heavily and quickly in her chest, beating as if she could be discovered at any minute.

Or like she wanted to be discovered.

Emma dismissed the notion as she continued to toil over her brew.

It’s for the best, just for now.

Once she was done, Emma grabbed the container again and brought it back upstairs to her room. As she entered, Killian was still at work, doing his best to hold the shower curtain down against the violent rain and winds. If Killian wasn’t already soaked from the downpour and his initial inspection of the window, he certainly was now. Emma quickly dropped the container in her arms and rushed to his side, holding the sides of the shower curtain he wasn’t using down.

“My hero!” Killian praised upon realizing what she was doing. The two smiled at each other and with the other sides of the shower curtain taken care of, Killian was able to make fast work of the project. After he was done, he put some extra towels on the floor and Emma put the container on top of them.

Breathless after the whole ordeal was done, Emma made a move to sit on the bed.

“Wait!” Killian cried before her tush could land. Carefully, he grabbed a piece of glass from just under her. “There’s more on there, too.”

Taking the hint, Emma leaned against the wall instead, just as she had when she first entered the room. At that moment, she noticed, much to her chagrin, that the smell of cinnamon had returned, and that the tea she prepared downstairs wasn’t anywhere close to boiling yet.

Fortunately, Killian seemed too occupied examining the destroyed room to contemplate the smell in any meaningful way. Emma looked on at the glass spread all over the floor and over the bed. The branch may have only given the window a single hit, but that single hit had evidently been more than enough to not only break the glass, but to shatter it entirely. All the while, the outside world was trying its best to wreck the window’s replacement. The wind puffed the shower curtain forward like a sail on the sea, and while it put up a good fight, there was no guarantee that it would be a solution that could unquestionably whether the storm.

All in all, Emma knew she couldn’t stay here.

Apparently, Killian picked up on that as well, for he moved to answer it for her.

“We’ll have to get you to another room,” he said.

Thankfully, Emma had a plan already brewing for that.

“Don’t worry,” she said, shrugging. “The couch looks comfy enough to spend a night or two on. I’ll ride out the storm there.”

And it seemed to be one that would work fine.

…For about as long as she was saying it.

But as soon as she was done, the pushback began.

Killian shook his head. “Not a chance. No guest of mine will stay on a couch, or at least not that couch. It my appear to be good for a nap, but trust me when I say its springs will surely kill you. No, you can have my bed, and I’ll weather that accursed thing.”

Emma groaned internally, knowing what she had to do. Damnit, the idea of them being in separate rooms was so perfect! It would’ve kept them apart and more importantly, keep the truth at bay, just until Emma figured out how to handle it.

But she couldn’t kick Killian out of his own room. Not after everything he had already done for her. Not with his low-hanging shoulders. Not with the way his hair that had fallen from the moisture of a long day’s work and a hurricane, doing more to show off his exhaustion than Emma was willing to bet his words ever would of Killian’s own volition.

And not after he had shown himself to be such a good guy.

“Why don’t we share it?” Emma suggested, fighting the hesitation that threatened to voice itself as best as she could.

Killian’s brows raised, and she could see him get smaller in the way he carried himself. “Are you sure?” he asked, the light glaze of nervousness obvious in his voice. “I-I mean, I promise to be a gentleman, of course.”

Despite her concerns, at the memory of a familiar phrase, Emma couldn’t resist the urge to make a little quip.

“I thought you were always a gentleman,” she countered.

“I-,” Killian started, but stopped his words in their tracks. After releasing a cough, he adjusted himself, looking like he was willfully banishing the worry from his system. He seemed to have accepted Emma’s offer with no reservations. “Thank you, Emma,” he said. Emma could feel his earnestness, just like she imagined he felt hers as she wordlessly told him that he was welcome.

The gratefulness there made for a meddlesome reminder that she was lying to his face.

Universe, you sure you didn’t mess this one up too?

He deserves someone who’ll be a real soulmate to him, someone who believes in the whole soulmate thing and that it really can last forever.

What he doesn’t deserve is a liar.

Suddenly, from outside the room, Emma could hear a loud whistle, pulling her from the inside of her head.

“Did you make tea?” Killian inquired, a cocked head.

“I figured it would be good to get ourselves warm after we were done with the window.”

Killian smiled. “Generous and kind. You’re one of a kind, Emma Swan, and I hope a friend.”

Emma felt her breath stagnate.

Once you figure out we’re soulmates, you’ll definitely want to be more than friends.

And that’s only going to make it worse when I tell you I can’t.

Because while you deserve a happily ever after, I don’t know if I can give you one.

I hope you know that when I finally tell you, it’s gonna hurt for me too.

He was close to her now, close enough to kiss if either of them wanted to.

It was annoying how appealing that was and how the notion so nearly overpowered her fears.

It was extra annoying given how the appeal of Killian Jones in general had so far won on more than one occasion, and she wasn’t about to let it win here.

“Monopoly!” The word burst out before Emma could process it. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for her to catch up. “Bet you won’t consider me a friend after we play Monopoly. So why don’t you get dressed and I’ll serve us up a cup of tea? Then I’ll show you how generous and kind I really am when I get those railroads from you.”

Killian smirked. “Game on, Swan. You best take the race car, cause you’re going to need it for luck. I’ll see you in five.” With that, he made off for his room, leaving Emma to descend the staircase with both hope and dread battling a what was essentially a Cold War in her chest as the scent of cinnamon vanished once more.

Oh believe me, I’ll need luck for a lot more than Monopoly.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Never let it be said that tea time couldn’t get intense.

Killian and Emma were quite the fierce competitors and Monopoly had run them well past the setting of the sun, running so late that they took a break to make dinner. All the while, their tea – and more importantly to Emma, the accompanying cinnamony aroma – continued to permeate the living room for the duration of the game.

“Shouldn’t have given you that race car,” Killian said, a good-natured tone present in his voice as he shook his head. “Told you it was lucky.”

Emma, proud of her victory, smirked. “Luck has nothing to do with it when you’re smart enough not to buy Baltic.”

“What did you want me to do? I had a Monopoly there!”

“Maybe use that to buy some houses on your yellows.”

She looked over at Killian, who was now slumping in his chair. A drawn out yawn roared from the innards of his mouth and much like a disease, it was quite contagious and suddenly, Emma was belting one out as well.

“Quite a day it’s been, between apple picking, hurricanes, a shattered window, and a positively gruesome game of Monopoly,” Killian said.

Emma, content as she rubbed her belly to alleviate the full stomach dinner and their dessert of apple cider donuts, snorted. “I’ve been to New York a few times, and the one thing I’ve learned throughout all of them is that you never know what you’re gonna get.”

“Does anything top this?”

“Not unless you count ramen burgers.”

“That’s a thing?”

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“You know, when the song said, if you can make it in New York, you could make it anywhere, our city neighbors took that a touch too literally.”

The two of them laughed for several long minutes. During that time, Emma’s guard began to drop and her mind wandered to places she hadn’t allowed it to go. She imagined a reality were she felt comfortable telling Killian they were soulmates, one where tonight could be celebrated as the first adventure in a life that would be full of them. She imagined coming home to a house draped with the scent of cinnamon and beaming, just knowing that inside was someone who would stand by her forever, no matter the obstacle.

It was a reality she had only recently barred herself from, but one that was so comforting to return to.

One that was too comforting to return to.

Shit

Emma knew she could drop the truth bomb now. Killian clearly hadn’t figured out the truth yet.

But the thought of it made her too nervous. Opening the door to the truth meant opening the door to their future together.

The only problem was that there was a chance neither of them would like where that door led, and that possibility held Emma back.

If things fail, I don’t want to hurt him.

If things fail, I don’t want to hurt me .

Killian, still oblivious to all of this, looked towards the distance at what Emma soon discovered was a clock.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “Why don’t you head off to bed?”

Emma felt a hitch in her throat, rendering her nearly speechless.

“Yeah,” she croaked, wishing that there was still some of the apple cinnamon tea left.

“You sound parched. How about you go upstairs and get settled in and I’ll grab you a glass of water.”

“Are you sure? I could grab it if you want.”

“Nah, that’s fine. Besides, there’s something I wanted to check on in the kitchen.”

Emma was vaguely curious about what exactly it was that Killian wanted to check on, but the idea of having some time to herself was too alluring to possibly risk by asking questions. And so she went upstairs, making a quick trip to the bathroom before heading to the bedroom across the way. Killian’s room was cozy, furnished with a neatly made king-sized bed with a navy comforter and one nightstand at each side, beige cabinets and drawers spread around the room, and a television parallel to the door. Much like Emma’s room, there was a large window, though it thankfully wasn’t broken.

Closing the door behind her, Emma sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands, finally letting out a half-hearted groan.

Killian was right: It had been a long day, and an even longer on for her.

This whole ordeal was harder than she’d thought. When she first learned she and Killian were soulmates, Emma hadn’t come to terms with it – she still hadn’t – but at least she had a plan and didn’t feel as tight knit to him as to make her feel too guilty about implementing it to stop herself from doing so. But the later afternoon and evening had exposed more than her prowess at board games.

It had exposed something of a normalcy. Were they together, she knew when times were good, that a day like this – the introductions and storm aside – could conceivably be what she could expect. The layout felt right enough: a trip to the fields, discoveries of even more personal stories, a night playing a game or even just watching TV together, and bantering all the while.

And Emma liked that. Talking with Killian was the most natural thing in the world. Even as she swallowed her insecurities through the hours she spent together, she could hardly say she was having a bad time throughout it. Spending time with him was fun. Killian was charismatic, but not too over-the-top and made the unexpected into an adventure just through his presence and sense of humor.

Yes, when times were good, Emma could see an ideal future with Killian Jones forever by her side.

The only troubling thing was the reality she was all too aware of: Times weren’t always good, and of that inevitability, she had no vision of what could come to pass.

What was Killian like when he was sad or upset? What about when he was angry or was going through real misfortune? A couple of times throughout their games, Emma was tempted to test those emotions, but she didn’t want to cause him harm, especially when he had done nothing to warrant it.

It was the exact same reason why she had continued to hold her tongue about the very matter of them being soulmates, and why she would continue to do so for however long she’d have to.

Now how long will that be?

Emma checked her phone. She opened up the weather app and saw a rain symbol right under the word “Tomorrow.” Of course, it wasn’t indicative of whether or not the hurricane would continue, but the possibility still existed.

Another groan, this time closer to a whine came out.

Damnit. Not what I wanted to hear.

She took a pause and another deep breath. It would be hard – just as today was – but she’d figure it out.

And so Emma picked herself up and settled herself into the left most and less lived-in side of Killian’s bed, all the while continuing to lick her proverbial wounds and try to plan for what the next morning might bring. The plush mattress underneath her form cozily ensnared her and the still whistling winds began to sing her their own kind of lullaby to the beat of the tapping rain against the roof.

Emma felt her upper eyelid start to succumb to its own weight, threatening to close. Just as she was about to let them, Killian stepped into the room, a glass of water in hand.

“Thanks,” Emma murmured sleepily while he placed the glass at her nightstand. She looked at him and noticed an apprehensive expression across his features. “Everything okay?”

In an instant, Killian’s expression made a complete change, now appearing as if he were just caught.

“Yes,” he dismissed. “Everything’s alright.”

If Killian had hoped to fool Emma with what he said, he was wrong. However, the pull of sleep won out over any curiosity that she had for the matter, and she let it go.

We’ll talk tomorrow.

A duet of good night’s filled the air, and as light left the room, so did all but the sounds of natures and snores.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

CRAAAAAACK!

In the midst of ebony left shortly after a shockwave of brightness, Emma gasped, startled awake.

A fear of thunder had never been something she ever fully got over from her childhood uneasiness, but this outburst of the elements was a particularly loud one and took Emma out of her slumber with a single crack.

“You okay?” a quiet whisper from beside her spoke.

“Killian?” Emma mumbled. She coughed once and composed herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, her volume restored. “Did I wake you up?”

“No need to apologize,” he assuaged. “And no, I was up earlier from another bolt. I’ve never been great with thunder either.”

“You could tell?” Even though she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, Emma could tell he was smirking as he heard her question.

“As I said earlier, you’re an easy read.”

Not to mention, your soulmate.

And suddenly, Emma too notice of the scent of cinnamon in the air. It wasn’t heavy, but what it was was hard to ignore.

She only hoped that Killian somehow had been able to do it.

Emma, biting her lip, checked her phone for the time. It was a little past two in the morning. That crack of thunder had fully woken her up and if Killian had been up for some time like he said he was, the same could definitely be said for him.

Great.

“May I turn on a light?” Killian asked from across the darkness.

“Yeah. Go for it.” A second later, the lamp from Killian’s nightstand lit up the room. It was bright enough to cause discomfort for a moment or two, but not enough to give that feeling of needing to start the day. Emma sat up in the bed, matching Killian who was already in the position. With her phone still in her hand, she tried looking at the weather app, but the service she had enjoyed all throughout yesterday was nowhere to be found.

“You can thank the hurricane for that little inconvenience. The service went out at least an hour or two ago. Small towns, you know. Cell phone towers are the first thing to go. I’m just glad we still have power, at least for now. Of course, if you need a phone, I’ve a landline downstairs. All yours.”

“No thanks. I just wanted to see an update on the storm.”

“I’m afraid that’s still up in the air.” As if to emphasize the point, a flash of lightning as well as an accompanying crack of thunder chose that moment to present themselves to the world. It wasn’t as powerful as its predecessor, but it nonetheless had the both of them letting out a small shudder. As they locked eyes, they gave each other a comforting smile.

“How bad was the one that woke you up?” Emma asked.

“Not too bad. Definitely not as loud as the one that got you, but to be fair, I’m quite perceptive when it comes to sounds to begin with.”

Apart from a courteous chuckle, Emma said nothing and for a moment, a silence bubbled in the space between them. She looked out the window at the skies. It wasn’t easy to see, but from what she could make out, the weather was just as violent, if not more so, than it was Hurricane Amelia first started up yesterday afternoon.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here,” Killian said quietly.

Emma shrugged. “It’s fine,” she answered. Though careful to keep the lie off her tongue, Emma found that it was a task she found easy enough to do when she thought of her relative fortune given the circumstances. After all, a broken window aside, she was in a safe house in the middle of a harsh hurricane. “Besides, you’re a good host.”

“Thank you,” Killian said. Emma took a glance at him and saw that he was biting his lower lip.

He’s…nervous?

She was about to give voice to her concern when Killian beat her to the punch.

“Can I say something?” he asked.

“O-of course.”

“Remember last night, when you asked me when everything was alright, and I said it was?” Emma nodded, the memory as fresh as the apples on the trees outside. “Well, I lied,” he confessed.

“Yeah, I figured. Just like I told you earlier, you’re not the hardest read either.” Killian gave a chuckle that was very much like the courtesy chuckle Emma gave him earlier, but otherwise remained quiet. At a closer look, Emma saw him once again biting his lip. “So, what’s up?”

“It’s just that I-” Killian stopped and took a deep breath before starting again. “Emma, I’ve noticed something.”

Oh crap.

As Emma listened to Killian and processed his words, she began to notice the speed at which her heart was beating. “O-oh?” she uttered. “What’s that?”

Killian, clearly too caught up in his own nerves, didn’t seem to pick up on the fact that hers were shooting through the roof. “Last night, while we were playing, I realized I was smelling cinnamon all around the house.”

“You mean from the tea?” Emma quickly suggested in a vain hope to deter Killian’s line of thought.

However, it didn’t work.

“That’s what I thought at first,” Killian explained. “But I’ve been drinking that tea for years now, and it’s never been that powerful. Even when we finished, the smell was still there. So when you went up to the bedroom, I grabbed the mugs, but when I took a whiff out of mine, I could barely pick up the scent. The smell went from being everywhere to practically gone. Then I went back to my seat in the den and tried smelling for it. I even went outside to see if it was the machine. But nothing.” He stopped and took another deep breath and turned to Emma, the corner of his lips tugged up ever so slightly. “And then I thought of something you said back at the store.”

Oh crap.

“W-hat was that?” she asked as if she didn’t already know.

“How much you loved cinnamon,” he said simply. “ So I came up with a little theory and tested it. I grabbed that glass of water for you and came upstairs and when I reached my room…the smell came back. It was just as potent as it was when you left.”

Oh crap.

Emma struggled to speak or even make a single noise.

“Emma,” Killian said, his volume just above a whisper. “I think we’re soulmates.”

As Killian’s – and unbeknownst to him, Emma’s – truth proclaimed itself once and for all, only one thin went through Emma’s head.

Oh crap!

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

For the first few seconds after Killian announced his and Emma’s shared fate as soulmates, Emma felt her entire self go as blank as a sheet of paper. She found her ability to speak as nonexistent as a unicorn riding atop a dragon. Her thoughts blurred like the eyesight of a drunkard. Her hearing was muffled like a groan into a pillow.

Killian found out they were soulmates.

For as much as Emma had tried to prevent him from finding out the truth, she hadn’t thought of how she’d handle it when he eventually did.

But that time had finally arrived and now the best Emma knew that she could hope to do was try and hide the fact that she knew for as long as she did.

So when those mercilessly slow seconds at last passed, she realized she’d need to react somehow to the news.

Here goes nothing.

A smile and a “yeah” that was as excited as Emma could hope for was the response she settled on.

Right beside her, Killian was beaming, as ecstatic as Emma imagined he would be.

And as ecstatic as she feared he would be.

“I can’t believe–I’d always hoped–And with you–” Killian was practically tripping over the words that came out of his mouth at a mile a minute. “This is amazing!” he cried, the volume in his voice now bereft of its respect for the quiet of the early morning and was as loud as it would’ve been in the middle of the day.

In the midst of Killian’s tornado of thrills, Emma did her best to get swept up in it too.

With the bounciness of a box of puppies, he certainly made it enticing to try.

As he talked, Emma made the effort. She pushed for a hearty laugh and she made her smile large enough to match his.

While not entirely for naught – doing as much as could be conceivably done for the ten seconds of work she could afford to give in the time she had – it did little to banish the butterflies in her chest.

Suddenly, through her cotton sweats, Emma felt a patch of heat gently pressed against her. She looked to her side and saw that Killian had placed his hand upon her forearm.

“I’m so happy,” he said, practically cooing. Emma’s smile grew smaller, but at the same time, so much more sincere. “Are you?”

It was a tough question to answer.

Killian’s short term excitement should’ve made her happy. His smile should’ve made her happy.

And they almost did.

Key word: almost.

And there lied the problem.

Killian was a perceptive man. It was something he had proven himself to be throughout the past day and Emma knew better than to doubt it now. If she lied, he’d know it.

It was one thing to project a negative emotion onto something other than its intention. Emma was able to do it earlier on the orchard by feigning hunger. It was another thing to straight up lie about an emotion’s existence.

No matter how badly she wanted to feel it.

But it didn’t stop her from trying.

“Of course,” she answered, fighting with all her might to will her words into fact.

Sadly though, despite her wish, it didn’t take.

Killian’s face crinkled as he listened. His features darkened, his smile dissolved and his brows furrowed. “No you’re not,” he said, so much conviction in his voice that Emma believed that he was as sure of the truth as the sun is sure of rising each day.

And the exposure of that one lie seemed to start a domino effect of doubt.

“Emma, you have been smelling something, right?”

At least I can tell the truth about this.

“I have,” she responded, her tone now matching his.

“When did you first notice it?” he asked immediately afterwards. There was an imperativeness to his words, but his eyes were pleading with her. They looked to be trying to find an excuse to reject the truth that was undeniably becoming so clear.

Emma worked to give him that truth, but Killian had clearly run out of patience.

“You…you said earlier that you didn’t care for soulmates,” he pointed out. Emma saw him putting puzzle pieces together and finally, reaching the conclusion Emma was most afraid of. “Emma, Did you know…the whole time?”

No, it wasn’t the whole time, but it was damn well over half of one and well past when Killian discovered it. To point out the difference would be meaningless.

So Emma said the only thing she could.

“I…” Emma sighed. “I did.”

The effect was instantaneous. Killian’s lips seemed to be forming the word “why,” but couldn’t get enough support from his diaphragm to give it any voice. He slid back down so he was once again lying in the bed. His eyes took on such a sad expression. Emma wasn’t sure whether or not there was the start of welling tears, but there grew a certain puffiness to his eyes.

In short, he looked like she’d just ripped his heart out of his chest, and hell, in that moment, she felt like that’s exactly what she did.

Killian turned so that his back was to Emma. If Emma felt at a loss for what to say or do before, it was nothing compared to how she was feeling now. A verbal apology would do nothing, a touch would feel too intimate and raw, and now she couldn’t even apologize with her eyes.

Before Emma could think anymore on it, Killian got up from the bed.

She knew she couldn’t leave what had happened at that, but what exactly she wanted to say still left her struggling to convey properly. In the end, something that was a mix of a squeak and a protest came out of Emma’s mouth, though it was as meager as the size of an ant’s leg.

“I,” Killian started, cutting her off while not even looking at her with a hurt-strained voice. “I just need a minute.”

Out of his line of vision, Emma nodded, her mouth agape from the seemingly guiltlessness of how he went about his decision. Since yesterday afternoon when they had met, he had constantly given her a choice as to how he’d behave, whether formal or friendly. For the first time though, as he’d walked out of the bedroom door, he had taken the decision for himself alone.

As the door closed, vacating Killian’s form from her line of sight, so did the smell of cinnamon vacate Emma’s nose.

And once it was gone – after staying with Emma in the midst of a hurricane – Emma realized just how much she missed its presence.

Emma, who remained sitting up in the bed, listened as the sound of creaking floors grew softer and softer. For the next hour, she continued doing just that, frozen with both regret for her lie and hope that at any second, she’d hear him come back.

It was a childish presumption and after the shock and initial run of panic had worn off, it didn’t take long for her to realize that.

So what am I supposed to do now?

Throughout their time together, Killian had only expressed a true desire for only one thing: His soulmate.

And for almost just as long, Emma knew exactly where he would find them and chose to withhold it.

Were they worth the guilt that was now cutting into her chest? Worse, were her fears worth the betrayal in Killian’s eyes or the destruction of the newly formed yet completely solid companionship they had built thus far? Were they worth the tells of doubt and worries of worthlessness that spread across his features like sand over a beach?

No, of course not. And now that the fallout had ensued, she’d regretted making it so.

And it was now her job to fix it.

But how would she do it?

Was it better to give him his space, or should she talk to him before the situation became unfixable or at the very least too awkward to mend in a meaningful way?

As Emma pondered this, she realized that she ended up answering her own question and quietly, she got up from the bed and left the room.

The walk down the staircase had Emma’s heart feel like it was thumping like a rabbit’s foot with nervousness and anticipation. It felt like a puzzle to not let the errant boards squeak, as if she would further hurt Killian by making any premature noise, and when it was at last over, she felt relief.

She found Killian sitting on the couch, a box of apple cider donuts in front of him. He didn’t seem to register her presence, apparently too caught up in her own thoughts to do anything other than look down towards his hand and prosthetic.

As the scent of cinnamon returned once more, something that Killian either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t care any longer, a fresh pang of guilt attacked her: guilt over causing this and guilt that her nerves still had power over her even as she attempted to do damage control.

Should I be doing this?

Yes, she pushed herself. She should. A lie got her into this mess, and the truth would be what would hopefully set things right.

“Hey,” Emma spoke softly. Killian blinked and turned to her. His mouth opened as if to speak, but ended up staying silent.

So Emma chose to fill the air instead.

“Can we talk?”

With his teeth pursed against his lips, Killian nodded and Emma sat down at his side.

“Are you mad?”

Killian let out a sigh, as if he was finally releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I…I don’t know. Confused, definitely. Hurt too. But- no,” he seemed to decide. “I’m not mad.”

For a moment, Emma desperately wanted to smile. Despite his suffering and what could’ve been justifiable anger, Killian had chosen to instead be kind to her and honest with himself.

Universe, this guy is way too good for me.

But she couldn’t, for with every word Killian spoke, Emma felt her guilt pound at her like the wood beneath a judge’s gavel, and despite knowing that Killian hadn’t intended it, the pain was insufferable.

She was willing to bet that his pain could match it. After all, what does one think when their soulmate lies to them about it? Rejected? Unwanted? Like a trapeze artist who just lost their safety net in the midst of the circus?

Emma knew those feelings all too well.

Never had she imagined she’d pass them along to someone else.

What do I do now?

“I’m sorry I lied, Killian,” Emma said. “The whole soulmate thing, it’s…” – how would she finish that? – “Complicated.”

Killian, despite Emma’s every expectation, gave her a soft smile. It was as thin as a piece of angel hair spaghetti, but it said all that it needed to about whether or not he’d forgive Emma.

“It could definitely be worse,” he commented, shrugging with a lightness in both his form and tone.

“Really?”

“Remember that big TV special about the soulmates who hated each others favorite smells and had to video chat just so they could stay together? I’d say this is a touch easier.”

He’s got a point there.

“You’ve got a point there,” she said, reflecting her thoughts perfectly.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. A jackrabbit on methamphetamine could’ve moved slower than Emma’s thoughts. Killian had taken her lie and apology far better than Emma could’ve hoped for or even deserved.

But what would they do now?

Well, one thing was for certain: Emma needed to start explaining herself.

“I was going to tell you,” Emma explained. “Not during this trip, but I was planning on coming back to tell you.”

Killian nodded, apparently taking the information in.

“May I ask you something, Emma?”

Emma knew what was coming, but nodded just the same.

“Why don’t you want to be soulmates?” The utterance was just as predictable and heart breaking as she expected it to be, and knowing that it was coming didn’t help it feel any better. “Is it just the concept of soulmates in general, or is it me?”

“No,” Emma practically shouted. “It’s not you.”

Well, not fully, but I’ll get to that.

Killian snorted, probably at the sheer loudness of her outburst. “Good to know. But why then?”

Emma took a deep breath. She hadn’t told anyone about a good deal of this. Hell, some parts even Regina wasn’t privy to.

And now she was about to tell Killian every bit of it, warts and all.

Well, he deserves the truth.

“I grew up in the foster system.” Another deep breath came to pass before Emma realized it. “But you already knew that. What you don’t know is that my parents left me on the side of the road.” Killian gave a nod, something Emma surmised was the best he probably felt he could do without coming off as pitying.

She’d be lying if she said it went unappreciated.

“When I was fourteen, a woman named Ingrid and her husband fostered me for a bit, and she and I grew close. We went on walks to the park, amusement parks, the pier. There was hardly a weekend we weren’t together. I really thought she’d adopt me. But then, one day, a social worker came and just like that, I was off again, with hardly a goodbye from her.”

Killian made eye contact with Emma, signaling to his hand as if asking permission to use it to comfort her. Emma gave him permission with another light nod, and Killian delicately placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Emma,” he said. “You don’t have to do this. It’s okay if you want to stop.”

“It’s alright,” she said. “I want to. This is just…”

“A lot,” Killian finished.

“Yeah.” Emma took another deep breath. “Besides, you told me a bit of your story. The least I can do is give you a glimmer of mine.” Emma found herself able to smile at that homage to KIllian’s words. And just like Emma, Killian’s hand drifted to his heart.

Maybe we really are soulmates.

“I dealt with it and moved on – don’t get me wrong. After I made it through the foster system, I moved to a nice town, made friends, and got a good job. And then a month ago, I got a message from her on Facebook. She had looked me up and invited me to come to her house. So I went, hoping to get some answers.”

“And did you?”

Emma bit her lip and nodded. “Yeah,” she said, the volume of her voice only a touch above a whisper. Killian gave her shoulder a small squeeze, and she melted into the touch.

“So what happened?” he prompted.

“I got right to the point and asked her why she gave me up.”

Killian gave a light smirk. “You’re the blunt type,” he excused when Emma gave him a raised brow.

Fair enough.

In keeping with that very same blunt nature, Emma continued. “She had a lot to say on the subject. Turns out she wanted me, but her husband didn’t. He had commitment issues, according to Ingrid. Foster care was their compromise, but the idea of actually adopting a kid? That was a different story. Ingrid loved me, but her soulmate Spencer didn’t and there was no way she’d be able to adopt me alone on an ice cream lady’s salary. And so I went back into the system.”

“I imagine that didn’t bode well for Ingrid and Spencer.”

“You’d be right,” she said. “After I left, apparently things went south with Spencer.”

“And they were soulmates,” Killian repeated. Emma nodded.

“Ingrid said she used to smell fresh mowed grass every day before she and Spencer split up, but unless the gardeners show up, she hasn’t had a whiff of it since, and when she does, she can barely stand it.” Killian moved his arm from Emma’s shoulder onto her arm and the warmth of a tender squeeze graced her skin again.

“Swan –”

Emma lifted a hand to stop Killian’s words early, silently begging him to let her keep going. Killian closed his mouth, and she continued on.

“Before I left her house last month, Ingrid warned me about soulmates and love and all of it. She told me soulmates were like two scoops of unlabeled ice cream. You could get two that complement each other perfectly, like vanilla or chocolate, or you could get two that go together like cilantro lime and carrot top.”

“Are those actually ice cream flavors?” Killian had a face that was just as silly as his question was.

Emma, at a loss for words, albeit for an entirely different reason, gave Killian a look that screamed of exasperation with another raised eyebrow for emphasis.

Killian’s expression lost its hold, though its kindness remained as it was. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“You’d be surprised what ice cream can taste like,” Emma said, indulging him. Then, remembering her point, she sighed. “But you get it right? I mean, we’re soulmates, sure, and you’re great, but I- with what happened- how can we know if we belong together? Soulmates usually work out, but sometimes they don’t and I don’t want to end up like Ingrid. And I know that it’s just one time, but it just got me thinking: What’s going to happen when things get tough? Right now even, we live six hours away from each other and I don’t even know if either of our careers would allow us to move. Just…with the odds against us like they are, it’s..” When she was finally done speaking, she took a deep breath, finally allowing an admittedly very patient Killian to take the floor.

“It’s just got you nervous,” Killian finished.

Emma gave him a light smile. “You know me well.”

“Better now that we’re really talking.”

“And what do you think of me now?”

“That you’re an intelligent woman, although you could stand to trust a bit more.” Emma massaged the bridge of her nose with her fingers and after a moment, her entire hand encapsulated her face as she openly groaned into it.

He’s not wrong.

“You also understand love in a different way than I do, and that’s not a bad thing,” Killian continued. “Thank you for telling me your story. And I get why you’re so skittish at the idea of us being soulmates.” Emma removed her hand from her face.

“I know you want one,” Emma said. “You wanted someone who’d always be with you and live up here on the farm and survive everything with you. I’m just not sure if I can be that. That’s why I kept quiet. I just wanted some time to figure out what to say after I told you the truth.”

“And it was just a hope, but hopes can change.”

“But how much of your hopes are you willing to bargain with? I don’t even know what the answer would be with me.”

It was true. Emma liked her affordable and established home in Storybrooke. She liked being close to Regina, the closest thing to family she had. And while her job certainly had its hit-or-miss days – though she reminded herself that no job didn’t have that – she liked it more than she didn’t and it was the first career she felt she’d ever been truly good at.

Even if things worked out with Killian, could she see herself giving all of that up? And if not, would there be room for compromise or would they just fall apart?

So much of her didn’t want to find that out.

And suddenly, she felt that same racking of nerves that she allowed to control her all throughout yesterday.

“Emma,” Killian called. She looked up at him.

Guess I got caught up in my own head.

“You’re getting caught up in that head of yours,” he mock chided. Emma took a deep breath.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re too good at that?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to,” he countered, smirking. “Emma, I honestly understand what you’re talking about.”

“You do?”

“More than you would think,” Killian commented. He bit his lip and Emma by now was more than well aware of his own tell of nervousness. “Remember when I told you about my parents?”

Emma nodded slowly. “Yeah. You said they were gone, but one more than the other?”

“Indeed I did,” he concurred. “My mother died when my brother and I were young. She said she and my father were soulmates and that she’d smell a freshly printed pound every day when he came home from work, just as he’d recount the smell of the sea whenever he was by her side to us.”

“It didn’t last?”

“No. Shortly after her death, he left us. Apparently, he loved the smell of pounds so much, that he made off with a briefcase of them one day, but forgot us on the way out. While I didn’t get to spend much time with my mother, I know she’d never have wanted that.”

“You’re right,” Emma agreed. “I can’t see anyone related to you who’d do that.”

“Then I’m happy to know I take more after her then. Anyway, Liam and I did a lot of traveling when we were on our own, and do you know what I discovered along the way?”

“Bloody Ploughmans?” Emma quipped.

“Smart ass,” Killian shot back, smiling all the while. “No, Emma. Soulmates. All kinds. Ones that worked out, and ones that didn’t. Ones that were divorced, widowed, went off into the sunset, and everything in between. And I realized what made the good ones good and the bad ones bad: Effort. Emma, even soulmates are still human, and no matter what, humans will do as humans do. What will make us work or not work will be the effort we give to each other. And I like you, Emma. I like you a lot. I promise that if we try, I’ll work with you night and day to build a future and a life together.”

Suddenly, Emma felt a weight on her hand, very much like the one she felt hours ago when Killian first discovered their shared destiny.

“So can we at least try?” he finished.

Emma took in what he said. She took in everything – about him, about her, about her past, about his past, about the smell of cinnamon that permeated every bit of air that they breathed, and about their hearts. And in between it all, a fight ensued from within her. Pulses nervous and infatuous lunged for each other like two wrestlers in a championship.

Finally, when she was at last done taking things in, and one set of emotions finally overcame the other, she took one last cinnamon-filled deep breath and gave her answer.

“Okay. Let’s try.”

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Emma ended up staying at Jones Farms for another three days. Together with Killian, they endured the remaining gusts and shocks of Hurricane Amelia and after it passed, began rebuilding the thankfully not-too-tattered parts of the farm side-by-side.

With every second that passed – through a greatly-needed nap following their heart-to-heart, a power outage, lots of conversations, and even another game of Monopoly – Emma felt herself feeling more comfortable with the idea of a soulmate, and thus, more in love with Killian as he showed her just the kind of soulmate he would be.

Killian had truly proven himself to be a man of his word, taking the initiative and bringing up uncomfortable subjects that Emma introduced that night such as how often they’d see each other and where they would live if things worked out.

When things worked out. That had been Emma’s push for herself. Because before the evening of their third day together, Emma had truly believed in a when for them.

And all throughout their days and nights, the rich aroma of cinnamon embraced her senses, only now, instead of queasiness that came from fears of the future, it brought on the same warmth one would get from a hearth, a symbol of the love she’d choose to let reside there in its place.

They would’ve continued, but dinner time had interrupted their bubble of isolation with something borderline unwelcome: A new client for Emma. Though she tried to give herself reasons to decline, the reality was that she couldn’t live on love alone.

Regardless of her decision, the idea was tempting.

But even Killian had supported the idea of returning to Storybrooke, and that all but solidified her answer.

“It’ll just go to prove what I already suspect,” he said. “We can overcome everything, especially a little separation.”

And so it was agreed, albeit reluctantly. Connections were made on every platform from their phones to their Facebook accounts and after a final connection in the bedroom, they were ready to leave each other.

Or as ready as they were ever going to be.

They stood in the front of Jones Farms – and Emma swore it was the spot where they’d first shook hands – as they said goodbye.

“I need to get back,” Emma moaned, more at herself than anyone else, especially Killian.

“I know,” Killian said, smiling sadly.

Emma found that it was so hard to pull away. There was a comfort with Killian, just like a spot of shade under an apple tree, and she didn’t want to lose it.

No. I won’t lose it.

“But I’ll be back soon,” she reminded both Killian and herself.

“And I’ll be waiting on bated breath until you do.”

Killian cupped Emma’s face and Emma leaned into the touch. Hardly another second passed before she closed the already small distance between their lips once more.

Like velcro being opened, Emma found it damn near impossible to separate from Killian, but it was done all the same, though their eyes stayed locked until Emma finally drove off and she was willing to bet that Killian’s remained on her for as long as her bug remained in view.

But despite that longing to be together once more and the pain that came with the wait until then, they relaxed, for they knew they’d be embracing the welcome smell of cinnamon soon.

[gofancyninjaworld]

OPM Chapter 93 Thoughts

<20 in bold at the end.

It goes without saying that if you've not read this chapter yet, you probably shouldn't read this!

Typeset: https://imgur.com/a/cuCBt76

Youtube video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AopCejGDKMg

The ART!

If there’s only one thing I’d declare my love for, it’d have to be the art.  It brought the characters and the sense of place to life in a way I’ve not yet seen in One-Punch Man.

This chapter round, Murata did not pour his energy into elaborate backgrounds or spectacular scenes. His assistants did wonderfully at the backgrounds, particularly in showing the dereliction of City Z. So you'd think this chapter would be quick and easy to knock out? NO. WAY. Murata poured his art into detailing and delineating characters, bringing their very souls to life as we've rarely seen before. So many characters, both familiar and new. Along with the incredible character interaction, this chapter has been a real treat for the eyes as well as the mind.  

More thoughts still under the cut!

Chapter Theme: You Can't Escape the Pressure

Everyone is under pressure. It's on everyone, both that imposed by the external circumstances and that imposed on themselves by the characters. So much of the ugliness we see in the S-Class meeting comes from that pressure. I'll deal with Fubuki, Bang, King and Genos separately.

The collective pressure to prove themselves is on the support heroes. While they may be the support, their role is just as crucial and their objectives are many -- containing any escaping monsters, clearing an escape route and making sure that Waganma is escorted to safety. OneShotter definitely feels the toughness of the assignment while Needle Star focusses on the other side of the pressure: the potential reward of promotion.

Even at the top, the pressure is intense. If anything it's worse. Being based in A-City, the executives have to look at the results of their failure every single day, at the still-raw lunar landscape that used to be most of A-City. Metal Knight didn't even bother trying to fill in the larger craters, but just built road bridges over them. Sekingal may be ambitious but he has earned Sicchi's respect for not merely being the guy in the suit who sits back in relative safety while sending heroes to their doom. He's going to be there with them -- he's tied not just his reputation and career trajectory to the success of the mission, but his very life.

I don't think many people would begrudge Sekingal his ambition nor any of the support heroes for being politically shrewd in their desire for promotion. They're doing the work and taking the risks, why shouldn't they make sure to get their reward? It's people who use politicking as a substitute for doing the good work whom we object to.

Wanted: Leadership and Unity

ONE has long had a special dislike for experts without actual expertise. One of his early cameo characters was a Mr. Nanmoshirane (Mr. I don’t know) who was a pundit making useless pronouncements on the mosquitoes that had appeared over City Z. So, why is a ten year old in charge of S-Class? Because he's the best at the job and has lots ofleadership experience? HA, not a bit of it! It's because he's clever (technologically), is available, and is the only one who will speak up. 

Unfortunately, Child Emperor hasn't got the personal authority to shut down dissent and is having to rely on mollifying the egos of the other heroes to keep them all on side and focussed on the threat in front of them.   To watch the clash of titanic egos as they try to work out how best to approach the Monster Association raid is to feel for Child Emperor.  But he manages.

And then Sweet Mask appears.  As a deeply disliked and barely respected hero, his presence is unwelcome in the first instance and his insistence in not just joining the strike team but leading it started to create an ugly situation. 

Watching the S-Class meeting nearly implode into bloodshed, all I can think is with allies like this, who needs enemies? It's evident that no matter how talented the individuals are, without a sense of shared purpose around which they can rally and actual strong leadership, they're going to be easily working at cross-purposes to one another.

Fubuki: The Power of Spite

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? I guess Shakespeare knows what he's talking about -- here comes Miss Blizzard and she's looking to raise hell, both with the Monster Association and with her sister.

So much of her anger is not for the monster, Do-S, who brainwashed her group. After all, Do-S is a monster -- that's what monsters do. It's for Tatsumaki, who seriously hurt the members of her group and who has now had her dismissed without so much as a say. That's what she cannot forgive. She's taking them both on, both on a personal level and on the behalf of the group of heroes and compatriots she loves and nurtures.

While it's hilarious that she thinks of Saitama's group as her 'new' Fubuki group and is outraged at how completely she's ignored, her astuteness cannot be faulted.

Go Blizzard!

Bang: A Shabby Way to Treat a Good Man

I salute Bang's sense of responsibility in coming all the way out to A-City in order to find out what is going on, since the loss of his communicator has meant that he has no way to keep abreast of the situation. Watching Sicchi lie to Bang's face was just painful.

It's shocking how quickly narratives grow up around events. Sicchi may have defended Bang staunchly to the other executives, but he's asking if Bang let Garou go. Even Bomb is questioning Bang over it. And Bomb was there! You see how deeply this hurts Bang.

And yet, even now, Bang hasn't given up on Garou. He's jumped at the chance to 'accompany' King as he puts it in order to fulfil his duty to apprehend Garou. Maybe even to save him if he still can.

King: The Paper Tiger Becomes a Cardboard Tiger

King running away only to get himself deeper into trouble is nothing new, although it's wonderfully done here. His accidentally defusing the S-Class meeting's tension was absolutely stellar timing. And how freaky is it that even through several walls, Zombieman can hear the King engine?

However, what's new is that King can be mighty brave... so long as it's from behind Saitama. Watching King dying inside even as he puts on a brave face and says brave-sounding things has been quite the edifying development. He so wasn't counting on being bundled off to the Monster Association like a secret weapon though. Being deferred to and consulted by the other heroes was terrifying enough. The out-of-body experience he was having at the end is one for the ages. :D

You Wait Forever For A Cyborg And Then Three Come At Once

Conventional wisdom is that a cyborg is hard to kill. Defeat one, sure. Kill one, that takes some dedication. Accordingly, we see the return of Jet Nice Guy, phew! His backstory is that he won the lottery, then used his winnings on buying body modification surgery -- I'm glad they were good enough to keep him alive and that he's still got enough money (and enough desire) to return to hero work, looking better than ever. Learning that Drive Knight is also a cyborg has been awesome. Finally the question of what Drive Knight is has been settled, although the clues have been there for a while, mostly in Murata's art spreads, one of which shows him eating noodles through his mouth grille and another that shows him lounging in the swimming pool with a snorkel. His cyborg nature is why the rest of the S-Class are hoping that he may yet be alive, even if he's incapacitated.

I hope that we get to see what Jet Nice Guy and Drive Knight do. I hope the conventional wisdom isn't tested too hard!

As to the cyborg we know best, Genos, he has has gone dragon-crazy. [That said, his enabler-in-chief, Dr. Kuseno, has no right to say that it is Genos who is reckless: there's a bit of the devil in the old man too, what with putting such a badly-balanced build together for him.] I think I see the rational side of why Genos is gunning for dragon-level monsters so hard. As far as he's concerned, they're just a stepping stone in his path to strength -- huge, treacherous, bitey stepping stones, but stepping stones nonetheless. But they're rare monsters. If one pops up, it'll be assigned to Tatsumaki or a group of well-tested S-Class heroes. As a new guy who is still building his track record, Genos has no chance of being assigned one, not even to support another hero.

The conservative way to become a dragon-slayer is to painstakingly grind away, improving his proficiency with demon-level monsters until the HA is so confident in his ability to deal with them that they'd consider briefing him on joining other S-Class heroes to deal with a dragon-level threat. That'll take weeks. Genos is a little less... patient.

The Monster Association is the only place where he's guaranteed a crack at them. There are five main possible outcomes.

A: He gets killed or crippled (the scenario that literally keeps Dr. Kuseno awake). It is a risk that exists regardless of what he does -- monsters target even the most peaceable civilians. As a hero, Genos has a great big target on his back anyway.

B: He gets beaten down without taking out any dragons. Here's the thing: at the very least he's no worse off than beforeand he gets invaluable battle data to build up on. The data will help to sort between changes and strategies that were never going to work and those that might yet work with some improvement.

C: He gets beaten down but kills or critically injures at least one dragon. He gains that invaluable battle data plus a basis on which to consolidate gains. Gets a promotion to around S-10 (more likely rank 10 - 12)

D: He doesn't get beaten down and kills or critically injures at least one dragon. He can work on using data and experience to further refine the fighting platform. Gets promotion to well within top ten and to ask Saitama for his next assignment.

E: He doesn't get beaten down but doesn't take down any dragons, either. This scenario will have Dr. Kuseno sigh in relief, but it's the only really bad outcome from his perspective. He's lost data and the chance to tackle such monsters. He'll have to grind like mad and hope for another lucky break.

I rate the likelihoods of the various scenarios as A - 0%; (ONE isn't about to kill Genos over this fight), B - 60%; (no change from webcomic), C - 39%; (it's a big step up and still respects what happens in the webcomic), D - 1%; (in that case the first half of chapter 108 is redundant) and E - 0%; (don't worry boy, here be lots of dragons).

Rounding up

This may have been a set up chapter, but it was anything but uneventful. 32 people are responding to what is for most, the greatest challenge they've yet faced. Okay, one of them is Saitama and he's just wandering around oblivious to the import of anything.

I can't wait for the fights, when we see all the tensions and motivations explode into action.

<20: The keg is full of dynamite, and the fuse is lit. Bring on the explosion!

[missingverse]

Missing Chapter Twenty Eight

Note: Please excuse the long absence, a combination of being metaphysically hit by the fandom feels and being hit by actually physical issues with my crumbling bones interfered with my ability to write this chapter. I'm still pretty unwell but I'm going to catch up on all of my fics this month hopefully.

As always, I recommend you check out my novel on Kindle if you like my work, and there's the added bonus that if I get struck by lightning or have another embolism you will have something to read while I'm in the ICU, cursing the lack of wifi.

US link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BGSPPBY

UK link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BGSPPBY

Also, soon to be available in paperback form!

…..

Waring's lawyer tried to argue for an insanity plea, but it was rejected. There was no doubt he was insane, but functional enough to kill so many women and keep a kidnapped child hidden for nearly half a year. He was given three consecutive life sentences, narrowly avoiding the death penalty because there was limited proof that he had killed the missing women. The prosectution was quoted as saying that without Helga's testimony he might have walked away.

That was some consolation during the week she spent in an induced coma followed by an intense surgery to relieve some of the pressure on her brain. The nosebleeds had been a herald of something that could easily have killed her, and there was still no telling what effect it would have on her long-term. When she came to after surgery, she couldn't speak and had trouble moving her arms.

It was depressing, Arnold had to admit. She had come so far he had pretty much assumed it could only get better, even though he'd been warned multiple times she could slide back like this. He was lying on his bed at home, staring at the ceiling and wallowing in his unhappiness, when his phone pinged.

It was Phoebe, of course, because she was the only person who really texted him.

Arnold, you might want to

come down to the hospital.

Why? What's up?

He had that sinking feeling it was going to be bad news.

She's talking again and

she seems okay, but she's

acting strange.

Strange in what way?

I don't know how to

explain it properly

over text.

Can you at least try?

She thinks she's dead, Arnold.

What? How?

I don't know, apparently

it's something that happens.

I don't know what to do.

Is she being treated for it?

We're waiting on the psychiatrist,

they probably won't get one until

tomorrow. I'm trying to act

normal but it's really hard.

Is there a way to act

normal in this situation?

This is why you need to

be here, Arnold. She

remembers what we did

when she was a ghost.

What?

Just get down here when

you can, okay?

…..

When he finally made it to the hospital (Ambrose was away getting some things sorted with his estate and so couldn't drive him) Phoebe had left. Helga's main doctor caught him in the corridor before he could go into Helga's room.

“Cotard delusion,” the doctor sighed, as if that explained anything. “It's not uncommon with brain injury. At least she's not self-harming or suicidal, she's taking it pretty well.”

“But...she thinks she's dead?” Arnold wondered.

“Specifically, she thinks she's a ghost,” the doctor explained. “And she's kind of upbeat about it. Most Cotard patients are manic or depressed or a combo of both. All things considered, it's not a bad result.”

Arnold wondered sourly how Helga suddenly believing she had died wasn't a bad result, but he supposed that was what separated the doctor from the normal civilian. She didn't die or become a vegetable after surgery, which technically meant it was a success.

She was scribbling something in her newest pink notebook when Arnold entered the room, but shut it hastily when she realized he was there.

“Thank God,” she muttered darkly. “Someone sensible.”

“Sensible?” Arnold laughed. “Are you sure about that?”

“Depends on what words come out of your mouth in the next few sentences,” Helga quipped. “Apparently everyone can see me now. At least here in the hospital anyway...”

“Well, yeah they can see you,” Arnold chuckled awkwardly. “You're alive.”

“God, not you too,” she groaned, flopping back against the pillow. “Phoebe already tried this, I know I'm dead. Don't try to sugarcoat it.”

“Why do you think you're dead?”

“I got shot,” she shrugged, seemingly without a care. “We found out that much. Who survives getting shot in the head?”

“You did,” he pressed. “The bullet just grazed you, the medical records prove this. Why do you think the nurses and doctors are treating you, if you're dead?”

“They don't believe in ghosts,” Helga answered. “It's easier to believe I'm just some sick kid that needs treatment. I suppose if I was going to manifest somewhere besides your house it would be the hospital I died in.”

It made a crazy sort of sense, at least from her perspective.

Maybe I should play along, at least until the psychiatrist can come to treat her.

“Okay, fine,” he shrugged, trying to put on a casual face. “You're dead. Did anyone tell you the guy who shot you got three life sentences?”

“Yes, everyone who's come to see me since I manifested,” she said. “And now you. Good. Let him rot in there.”

“So we did what we set out to do, we found out what happened to you.”

“Guess so.”

“What now? If you were a ghost, wouldn't you have moved on after we solved the case?”

“I don't know,” she moaned. “I'm not some sort of authority on ghosts.”

“Well then, it looks like you're here to stay,” Arnold said agreeably. “You're still welcome to haunt the boarding house.”

“I might just do that,” she said, smiling warmly.

An idea suddenly struck Arnold.

“I'm just going to find something,” he told her, getting up from his chair. “Oh, and I should talk to your doctor...”

“About what?”

“If I find it, I'll tell you.”

He hurried off to find the nurse's lounge. After asking a few of them, he found one with a bike she was willing to lend him and it had a basket on the handlebars (smaller than the one on his own but that didn't matter. He okayed it with the doctors, as long as he kept her warm and didn't stay out too long he was able to take her out. Rushing back to her room, he bundled her into her wheelchair and wheeled her out to the front of the hospital, where the nurse had propped up the bike waiting for them.

“Even ghosts need some fresh air,” he explained, lifting her into the basket he'd lined with pillows.

He took her out through one of the rarely-used country roads, bumpy and rough as it was the air was so clear and crisp and fragrant with the scent of blossoming fruit trees. She laughed wildly as they skittered over potholes and bumps in the road and didn't seem to mind that her bare feet were getting splattered with mud. Arnold's arms and legs ached with the strain of pushing the bike through the rocky terrain but it was worth it to see her so happy.

The bare patch of skin on her hairline where the bullet had struck her was covered by gauze since her surgery, but it brought back memories of hauling her ghost form around in his bike like this. Back then, he had come to terms, at least a little, with her death. He was more fearful now that she was living, that things could go wrong and she could be snatched away again. At least as a ghost, nobody would be able to hurt her.

Maybe that's why she believed herself to be dead; for protection.

…..

“I'll be going now,” Gertie told Arnold, kicking him out of his half-sleep.

“No, Grandma,” he groaned, rolling over in bed. “You don't have anywhere to be.”

She was wearing her coat but no shoes. Keeping shoes on her was the hardest task, even if she didn't leave the boarding house she seemed to lose her shoes within minutes of putting them on. Arnold brought her downstairs, took her coat and put some slippers on her feet. Phil was already at the breakfast table, frowning at some bills.

“Everything all right, Pookie?” he asked when Gertie sat down.

She didn't say anything but mumbled to herself a little. She was irritable these days, the new medication made her groggy and confused.

“I'll get started on breakfast,” Arnold offered.

Phil grunted in response and went back to scanning his bills.

A spike of resentment fired up in Arnold as he took out the ingredients to feed everyone in the boarding house. It was the weekend, and he should have had less work to do since Ambrose had started more or less renovating the building, but he'd found himself taking over his grandmother's old jobs instead. He appreciated Phil's money worries, but would it kill him to say thank you?

Other teenagers had the luxury of rebellion. Arnold didn't even have enough time to himself to get an ill-advised tattoo.

“Hey Arnold,” Ambrose said, leading Della into the kitchen. He was a naturally early riser. “On breakfast duty today?”

“Guess so,” Arnold shrugged.

“I'm going down to the hospital later. You wanna hop in?”

“Sure,” Arnold agreed. “Any news from the doctors?”

“They say another month and she should be good to come home,” Ambrose told him. “She has to be monitored by a home visitor but that's no big thing...and I almost got the ramp finished.”

Finally. They'd be living under the same roof. Helga remembered the things they did when she was a ghost, and at some point the Cotard delusion would fade.

She kissed me back. I know she did. It's not just me.

Once the scrambled eggs he cooked were ready, he piled them onto a platter, buttered enough toast to feed an army and brought both into the dining room.

“Ambrose is giving me a lift to the hospital,” he told Phil. “I should be back around ten or...”

“What?” Phil snapped, dropping his bills for probably the first time all morning. “No, I need you here.”

“I don't have any homework,” Arnold shrugged, that little resentful spike pricking him deep. “And the boiler's fixed, Ambrose finished up last night...”

“There's a pile of laundry higher than the kitchen door,” Phil retorted. “None of the floors have been vacuumed in a week and there's weeds all over the garden. Now I've been patient with this hospital business as long as you kept up with your chores...”

“Chores?” Arnold snorted. “Chores are cleaning your room and taking turns with the dishes, not doing laundry for an entire apartment building of adults!”

“Watch it,” Phil growled. “This is your home, you're as responsible for it as I am.”

“No, I'm not,” Arnold growled back. “I didn't choose to live here and I sure as hell never agreed to work here. You've had me doing what should be your job since I was six, you pay me next to nothing for the work I do, you ruined my social life and you're killing my future!”

Arnold hadn't realized but his voice had been climbing in volume, and now there was a line of awkward lodgers standing in the hall, not wanting to come in for breakfast. Phil looked shocked, the bills crumpled in his hands, two bright mortified spots on his cheeks. Even Ambrose and Della back in the kitchen had gone silent.

“Well,” Phil said at last. “If that's how you feel....you know where the door is.”

That just made Arnold even angrier. Over the years Arnold had been such a good kid, never given either of his grandparents any trouble, never even been caught smoking or taking a few dollars from a wallet or ditching school. And this was what he got for a lifetime of good behavior.

“Yes, I do,” he said as he stomped past the lodgers to the front door.

[socialjusticeartshare]

GOP's Border Stunt 'Nothing But a Divide and Distract Tactic' Say Immigrant Rights Advocates

"Their focus on the border is a cynical and strategic racist play for political gain."

As Republicans attempt to portray the arrival of unaccompanied asylum-seeking minors at the U.S.-Mexico border as a threatening crisis caused by the Biden administration's supposedly lenient policies, immigrant rights advocates are warning that this right-wing framing of the situation is a "trap" designed to score political points while dehumanizing migrants.

"The GOP's framing of migrant children arriving at the border as a 'crisis' is nothing but a divide and distract tactic," America's Voice, an immigrant rights organization, said Saturday in a video statement. "Their focus on the border is a cynical and strategic racist play for political gain."

America's voice pointed to what Stephen Miller, a white nationalist and top adviser to former President Donald Trump, said last month: "From a purely political standpoint, [immigration] is a recipe for Democrats to have a historic drubbing in the midterms if we can make it even as big an issue or bigger than Obamacare."

As America's Voice noted, many in the GOP are "fully embracing" Miller's strategy. The National Republican Senatorial Committee "has already started running xenophobic dog-whistle ads" against President Joe Biden and congressional Democrats, and more than 32 GOP lawmakers have "used the hashtag 'BidensBorderCrisis' alongside hate groups and far-right media personalities."

The most high-profile stunt came Friday when more than a dozen congressional Republicans traveled to Texas, where they engaged in a "fear-mongering photo op," as America's Voice described the lawmakers' tour of the Rio Grande aboard machine gun-equipped boats.

"For the GOP, the border is all about politics and cruelty, not policy," said America's Voice. The organization alluded to a tweet shared last week by Sen. John Cornyn (R-Texas) that criticizes Biden for "emphasiz[ing] the humane treatment of immigrants, regardless of their legal status," rather than following in the footsteps of former President Bill Clinton, a Democrat who cracked down on immigrants in the 1990s.

Congressional Democrats also sent a delegation to the border on Friday.

In sharp contrast to the GOP—which is "terroriz[ing] the children who are coming here to seek asylum," as journalist Jacob Soboroff put it—Rep. Joaquin Castro (D-Texas) said the purpose of their visit was to ensure that unaccompanied minors being detained in Texas are "treated humanely."

"This isn't about politics and it isn't about playing games," Rep. Ilhan Omar (D-Minn.) said Friday from the Carrizo Springs detention facility. "It's about the humanity of these children. It's about respecting their dignity and it's about empathizing on what it means to be in their situation."

America's Voice argued that "the GOP's coordinated efforts are meant as a tactical political distraction." 

As the Washington Post reported Thursday, there has not been an uncharacteristic "surge" in migrants entering the U.S. at the southern border, but rather a predictable bump in border crossings that typically happens at this time of year, augmented by the arrival of people who would have come in 2020 but could not due to the clampdown on immigration during the Covid-19 pandemic.

The Los Angeles Times reported last week that "since March 20, 2020, when the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention issued its order invoking Title 42, U.S. border officials have claimed unchecked, unilateral authority to summarily expel from the country hundreds of thousands of" undocumented immigrants—including single adults, families, and even unaccompanied children and mothers with infant U.S. citizens—"without due process or access to asylum."

While Biden has kept the Trump-era policy in place for single adults and families, the White House last month reversed the previous administration's xenophobic "Remain in Mexico" policy for asylum-seekers and announced that it would not deport unaccompanied minors.

Thousands of migrant children are now being held in overcrowded facilities run by Customs and Border Protection (CBP), which falls under the Department of Homeland Security (DHS). Although DHS is supposed to transfer minors to the Office of Refugee Resettlement within 72 hours—after which children are housed in Department of Health and Human Services-approved shelters until they can be placed with a family member or another suitable sponsor—thousands have been stuck for far longer than legally allowed in squalid conditions.

The Post emphasized that the changes enacted by Biden are not responsible for the rise in border crossings: "We analyzed monthly U.S. Customs and Border Protection data from 2012 through February and found no clear evidence that the overall increase in border crossings in 2021 can be attributed to Biden administration policies. Rather, the current increase fits a pattern of seasonal changes in undocumented immigration combined with a backlog of demand because of 2020's coronavirus border closure."

"CBP has recorded a 28% increase in migrants apprehended from January to February 2021," the Post noted. "During fiscal year 2019, under the Trump administration, total apprehensions increased 31% during the same period."

"Migrants still came to the U.S. under the cruelty and chaos approach the GOP employed under Trump," America's Voice pointed out, which negates the claims of Republican lawmakers and right-wing media outlets that the recent uptick in apprehensions—part of a seasonal pattern—is a reflection of the Biden administration's deviation from the Trump administration's maximally cruel response to immigrants arriving at the U.S.-Mexico border.

According to America's Voice, "The new administration is fixing an intentionally broken mess and trying to build a safe, humane, and timely system to process asylum claims."

Biden has come under fire, however, for restricting media access to CBP's detention facilities, which some have described as "border jails."

Progressives, such as Denise Bell, Amnesty International USA's researcher for refugee and migrant rights, have acknowledged that unaccompanied minors need a safe place to stay "while the government identifies and reunites them with appropriate sponsors," but insist that detaining them for long periods of time in ill-suited facilities "cannot become status quo."

"Kids need a place to call home," Bell said. "That's why they should be with their families, friends, and community members; this in the child's best interests."

Meanwhile, in a Boston Globe column published Saturday, Marcela García criticized Politico for validating Stephen Miller—"the architect of family separation"—by seeking his input on the Biden administration's handling of migrants at the border.

Even though "Trump banned reporters and members of Congress from child detention centers in the summer of 2019," Politico allowed Miller to "gasligh[t] the public" with his opportunistic critique of Biden's lack of media transparency, García wrote.

She continued:

Miller's appearance not only reflects media amnesia, but also the new obsession with the border, which is rife with falsehoods and phony narratives. It bears repeating: Foreigners who show up at our borders to request asylum are following American and international law. But some of the journalists at Biden's first press availability Thursday framed their border questions using the Republican, right-wing lens. As Washington Postcolumnist Greg Sargent noted, that's a deeply flawed exercise because it assumes that not letting migrant children into the United States is an acceptable option.

And yet, the false framing of calling what's happening at the border a "crisis" can be traced back to—wait for it—Miller himself. And some in the mainstream media were happy to follow suit.

America's Voice said that the GOP "hopes to fear-monger at the border to distract from their failures," which the organization listed: "Zero Republicans voted for the relief bill that gave Americans stimulus checks, extended unemployment, and helped reduce child poverty. They helped stoke a terrorist attack on the Capitol and refused to confront those responsible."

"Instead," the group added, Republicans "blame children seeking refuge," as Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.) did earlier this month when he said that "they are children today, but they could easily be terrorists tomorrow."

The framing of border crossings as a "crisis" is a "trap," argued America's Voice—one that "only helps dehumanize migrants... and perpetuates the GOP's strategic racism." The group implored people to not be deceived by right-wing lawmakers and media personalities who are "dividing Americans and distracting from the work of providing real solutions."

America's Voice added that if the GOP actually wants to reform the country's immigration system and improve migrant welfare rather than engage in photo ops at the border, there are several bills that have been introduced in Congress this year that Republican lawmakers could help pass.

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[thecloudlight-blog]

New Post has been published on Cloudlight

New Post has been published on https://cloudlight.biz/new-apps-provide-a-world-of-literature/

New Apps Provide a World of Literature

A machine that kicked off the phone growth and forever changed the manner we speak, accumulate and eat records. With portability and a knack for alleviating boredom, the iPhone and its ilk obviously have become ad hoc e-book readers for busy humans seeking brief breakout to fictional locations from nonfiction reality, like being trapped in transit or stuck in a Trader Joe’s line stretching to infinity and beyond.

Serious readers understand squinting thru a sprawling novel can take a few attempt at the small display. But just as websites, films, and games soon adapted themselves for the phone experience, a brand new form of “cellular fiction” has emerged to match the confines of the tool — and today’s on-demand mindset.

Modern cellular fiction commonly consists of sections of a novel or story that take just 15 to twenty mins to take in.

The installments are cleanly formatted for smooth reading on a 4- or five-inch display and delivered at ordinary periods through e-mail or app (Android and iOS). Cliffhangers are famous.

RADISH announced its debut in advance this yr and is one of the more modern businesses hoping to make the idea of serialized tales for smartphones as a hit right here as it’s far in Asia — mainly in China and Japan, where the form has been famous for years. In the Radish app, readers subscribe to character works on a by means of chapter foundation and provide small payments (starting at less than a dollar, and writers get a reduce) to continue beyond the primary few sections.

The Radish content material is written on the whole by self-published authors and looked after through genre

Romance, fantasy, paranormal, teen, thriller, L.G.B.T., science fiction and fashionable. For extra refined looking and discovery, testimonies are also tagged with labels like “black girl magic,” “billionaire,” “insurrection,” “werewolf” and so forth. The fine of the writing varies — and plenty of efforts constantly appear to end up as ham-fisted erotica — however Radish books are proudly taking the mantle of snackable pulp fiction into the digital age. (And don’t knock do-it-yourself authors — “Shades of Grey” aside, Andy Weir’s “The Martian” began out as a self-posted serial on his blog again in 2009 before the 2015 film model grossed $630 million at the global container workplace.)

Mobile Apps – A Necessity While You Are on the Go

Since the past a long time, human evolution has been absolutely patronized with tendencies in digital computing sectors which might be constantly growing their diameter through a chain of innovative innovations. Today, we’re within the era wherein a virtual world has already begun to take form over the real world with a promise of endless opportunities. Our global is transforming on the bottom of sand to silicon and is depending on the complexities of code to ultrathin fabricated chips which strength our remotes to this virtual world i.E. Smartphones, laptops and many others.

Imagining the sector without those powerful devices and internet is out of the query.

The smartphones have already altered the humans’ thoughts approximately experiencing the world. Furthermore, there may be bias in every and the whole lot that surrounds them. For instance, our look for new locations and the war to locate them has almost vaporized for the reason that invention of “Google MAPS.” Google Maps has enabled its user to discover the preferred region in no time and get a pre-routed map to get there. The utility or “APPS” on the Smartphone could be described as software program or collection of encrypted code which runs on the phone hardware just as a program on computer systems/laptops. Directly or circuitously these ‘APPs’ paintings as the primary verbal exchange bodies which are responsible for interplay and paintings are performed through a phone.

These mobile applications could be categorized on the premise of – hardware they’re used on and environment on which they’re programmed specifically android, ubuntu, apple iOS and so on. Since the inception of digitalization trend, the entirety we will suppose upon has an APP to be had on a phone; for instance, from reserving a cab to ordering meals, to shopping online – there are multiple packages for each of them.

Leading People in the VUCA World

Warren Bennis, an American student and a pioneer of the present day subject of Leadership Studies said that achievement in control requires gaining knowledge of as rapid as the world is changing. Especially, we’re now entering into the digital age and the whole lot movements very speedy. If we can’t maintain up with the one’s changes, we will be left at the back of. This article will discover four key areas to address speedily converting global.

American Military used an acronym known as VUCA to describe severe situations in Afghanistan and Iraq. It stands for Volatile, Uncertain, Complex and Ambiguous. Actually, VUCA does no longer exist handiest in Afghanistan and Iraq, it may be discovered in countries, townships, households and organizations. It is everywhere and usually supplies a hard time to leaders.

Volatile: Things are not very easy to predict like earlier than. With the new generation

The sector will become like a huge village and smaller. Everything can take place at any time in everywhere.

Uncertain: Nothing is permanent and present day enterprise international is complete of uncertainty. If we need to make choices most effective when we know things very genuinely, we may additionally by no means make decisions in this speedy converting world. Complex: Almost all conditions are very complicated within the enterprise now an afternoon. Leaders are going through many troubles and challenges associated with many rules and regulations which need to be compliance with, plenty necessities, product problems. Ambiguous: Everything is unclear and vague. Unclear conditions, rules, regulations & regulations make leaders harassed. It is very tough for leaders to make clear decisions. Therefore, a pacesetter needs to recognize the phrase VUCA this is used to describe excessive conditions in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Leaders should create some other VUCA as a way to deal with the VUCA that is meant for the intense conditions. They are Vision, Understanding, Clarity, and Agility. Vision: Since the destiny is not easy to be anticipated, leaders ought to have a clear imaginative and prescient in which they want to head. Leader while not having any feel, of course, will fail ultimately.

Understanding: Leader needs to be capable of recognizing the conditions where there is complete of uncertainty. A leader need to apprehend their business, the situations they’re in, and people who they may be dealing with. Clarity: Most of the enterprise situations are complex and complex, leaders need to be able to see matters virtually and create readability. They ought to be able to clarify things which aren’t positive or unclear.

Agility: When matters are doubtful and indistinct, it will very tough for leaders to make selections. Therefore, the chief should have the ability and should have potential to move quickly and effortlessly. There is only one aspect that isn’t always modified is an alternate. Leaders must face the VUCA global with clear thoughts (Head), correct mindset and right mindset (Heart), and the courage to make things occurs (Hand). In different words, leaders need to have a clean imaginative and prescient, they need to be capable of understanding the situations and those, they should be capable of seeing matters actually, and that they must be able to move speedily and easily. By doing so, the chief will be capable of lead their humans to continue to exist within the VUCA paintings this is extraordinarily hard.

Love Poems in Sanskrit Literature

Remember Sir Walter Scott’s, Brignall Banks? ‘A maiden at the fort wall, Was making a song merrily,-,”O, Brignall banks are clean and honest, And Greta woods are green; I’d alternatively rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen.”

What a beautiful sentiment is being expressed there? Similar poems are available in loads of English Literature. But in case you come across Sanskrit and Tamil literature lots of Love poems will take you to a greater level.

Every unmarried movement of a lover will become a terrific epic! The poets left no stone unturned. In order to study all the poems and soak up the, that means we might also need masses of years.

The love poems are analyzed threadbare through the wonderful pupils and in these poems, the sentiment or ‘rasa’ reigns very best.

The emotion of affection is inborn in the human coronary heart. But it will come to prominence once it reveals an item for its activity.

Take a case of a fascinating youth. He occurs to see a lovely young female. His emotion of affection is aroused. He starts to think about her. Fortunately, if he meets her in a secluded vicinity and the mutual love is completely advanced, they revel in the ‘rasa’.

But within the poetry the ‘rasa’ even though developed within the characters inside the poem, they’re no longer enjoying or tasting it, however, the readers are enjoying it.

The mystery of the good poetry is to offer that ‘rasa’ or sentiment to the reader.

Sanskrit love poems are usually successful in giving this lovely sentiment.

If you move in deep, the literature gives numerous elements of affection. Coding machine isn’t a modern one. In historic instances, the fans used this system. Only the lovers will understand their language. This has been defined in love poems in an element. Also, there’s a sign language. The gestures give exclusive meanings. Meeting area, meeting time and so forth. Will be communicated via this signal language. If there are a few own family individuals gift inside the accumulating, the female will communicate to her lover the use of this language. Their global is specific and there’s no location for others.

    Originally posted 2016-08-27 05:55:58.