#for my own reference but in case anyone is looking for some unsettling short stories this month

[ghostlyheart]

I want to make a list of my favorite weird tales and ghost stories because I've been listening to quite a lot recently and it's hard to remember what's what. So here are a few in no particular order:

The Human Chair (Edogawa Ranpo)

The Underbody (Allison V. Harding)

The Thing on the Doorstep (H.P. Lovecraft)

The Girl with the Hungry Eyes (Fritz Lieber)

The Lonesome Place (August Derleth)

The Color Out of Space (H.P. Lovecraft)

Ringing the Changes (Robert Aickman)

The Doll (Daphne du Maurier)

Afterward (Edith Wharton)

[arahul-abyssia]

Looks like it's September again (already, somehow), so that means that it's Nintember again, which means I'll be writing again! Same dealio as last time, one story per five prompts, up to six writings total. (And I'll be putting most of each under a cut, because mobile users can't skip posts)

And for my first entry for @starprincesshlc and @jklantern 's wonderful little event, I shall once again be attempting to twist some modicum of continuity, characterization, and canon-compliance out of a world that clearly cares scarcely for all three.

The Great Act

~~ Art, Green, Dizzy, Fire, Strength ~~

It was the loud buzzing of his phone’s alarm clock that dragged him from his slumber. He awoke to find himself sprawled across the couch, which was in no way long enough for his lanky body and spindly legs. As he blearily reached out and slapped at the coffee table, hoping to find the rude device by pure luck, he also blearily reached out and slapped at his memories, trying to figure out what series of events had led him there. For a moment, they floated just out of reach, and then suddenly flooded back to him all at once.

Oh. Right. It’s all over.

Another sporting event had come and gone, and as usual, in spite of all the effort he put into training and practice, he had ultimately lost to the same people he always did. No matter the sport, no matter the plan, no matter the time, they always won. And why shouldn’t they? The heroes always win in the end, always securing victory against the villains.

And he was one of them: the purple-clad counterpart, mirror, and supposed rival to one of the land’s most revered figures. Meant to oppose, and meant to lose.

He was Waluigi.

The name still sounded absurd to him. He had no idea how two men whose names were ‘Mario’ and ‘Wario’ and who naturally served as near-perfect foils of each other, had managed to meet and form such a publicizable rivalry without any deliberate effort, but such was the case. However, the notion that the brother of one had his own doppelganger in the brother of the other (or cousin, they never did manage to keep that story straight), with the same dichotomies of name, body, and personality? That was simply and utterly ridiculous, far beyond even the realm of ‘too good to be true’. And yet, if anyone had caught on, they hadn’t made it known to him.

Lost in thought and routine, he realized he had reached and opened his wardrobe, where numerous sets of that purple hat, shirt, and overalls were staring him in the face. In a sickening sense, they were the centerpiece of a great work of art, the fabrication that was his entire public existence, the character that he and Wario had constructed so that he might further be the ‘evil counterpart’ to everyone’s favorite red-clothed fire-throwing hero. Mario was stout and a bit fat, Wario was stouter and fatter; Luigi was tall and a bit thin, so Waluigi was taller and thinner. Mario had an M as his emblem, Wario had an inverted M; Luigi had an L, so Waluigi had an inverted L. To any casual outside observer, it was perfect.

But unlike Mario and Wario, whose rivalry had been formed in their youth, Waluigi had never even met Luigi until Wario had made him his sporting partner. The most he had known of the legendary Mario Brothers was just that: they were legends, for the countless adventures and quests they went on. In truth, despite how much he played it up during each and every game, he bore no true grudge against the man he was supposed to hate; Wario had, for a time, convinced him that Luigi’s presence in the public eye was somehow detracting from his own, but he had long since realized that that wasn’t the case; in fact, it often seemed like Luigi himself was being snubbed by the public, with the vast majority of the glory placed upon Mario, no matter how much Luigi contributed.

And yet, despite his existence being little more than a convenient story, despite the stress that constantly acting like a jerk brought, and despite always losing at the games no matter what, none of it brought him any sadness: for all its ups and downs, he felt himself to be rather good at keeping up the act, and the sports were, at the end of the day, still fun.

So why do I still feel so… bad?

Routine and thought had once more brought Waluigi elsewhere, and he found himself once more on his couch, now dressed in his usual outfit, with some sort of drink in his hands, probably coffee or tea; he didn’t care to determine which at that moment. His eyes casually wandered around the room as he brought the mug to his lips.

Then, just as the liquid touched his tongue--apparently he had managed to make tea out of coffee beans--the answer came to him. All across the room’s walls and shelves was sporting equipment of every sort--tennis racquets, shin-guards, helmets, golf clubs, old kart wheels, giant dice blocks, a probably excessive number of deflated balls--and absolutely no other sort of decoration. He leaned forward to place the mug on the table, and in doing so noticed his gloved hands and violet sleeves. Who wore the outfit of a character that they supposedly were not, every single day? Apparently, him.

He didn’t do anything else. He had let the character that was Waluigi consume his life to the point that had no idea who he was outside of it. He had nothing that he did when sports weren’t involved. Wario didn’t dedicate all his time to his rivalry; he owned an entire video game company--an unstable and poorly-run one, certainly, but it was nevertheless another use of his time. Mario and Luigi had their own grand adventures, of course, which is also what Peach, the Yoshis, Bowser, and his horde of minions were all typically involved in.

They all had lives outside of the games, and what did he do during the interim times? He either tried to practice, on his own, in the few suitable locations that he could find when the world was arranged for adventure, in a vain attempt to not lose as bad when the next game came around, or he wallowed in his home, doing absolutely nothing of any import.

But what could he do? Waluigi was never anything beyond a fabricated counterpart to both Wario and Luigi, but he could not remember, even slightly, what or who he was before he embraced that role. That nearly all of his memories prior to his first meeting with his partner were lost to him, was, he shuddered to admit, rather unsettling. Not even his old name--if he even had had one, he could not recall anymore--would reveal itself to him, and it was not as though he could simply find out through some external means: he was never the best at record-keeping, and to really sell their act, he had had his name legally changed to “Waluigi” and all references to his previous identity erased.

He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind of thoughts. There was little sense in worrying and fretting over who he was in that moment--the chance of any sort of useful epiphany emerging from it was even slimmer than he was.

Ugh… better just try to distract myself…

The first suitable option to catch his eye was the TV remote lying on the table. He quickly grabbed it and flicked on the set, and was immediately assaulted by the cheery enunciation of the Lakitu news anchors on the aptly-named Lakitu News Channel. He recalled that that was the channel he had left the set on last night, after he had gotten quite fed up with the incessant and inane blathering about the events of that day’s final matches, and it took only about five seconds to figure out that they were still on that topic. Scowling, he began flipping through the various channels available, hoping to find something interesting enough to block out the melancholic thoughts that were biting at his mind, like a hundred tiny Muncher and Nipper Plants.

After a painfully long series of more newsrooms--all talking about the exact same thing, of course--and unappealing shows--Half of these are for children and other half would just make me feel even worse!--he stumbled across some sort of advice segment hosted by a Birdo (was it the Birdo? He couldn’t tell). With absolutely no better options, he resigned himself to sit back and listen halfheartedly to whatever trite tips she tried to provide; maybe they’d be amusing enough to at least give him a small chuckle.

“I hope you all enjoyed our lovely guest! Now, before we move on to the submissions from all you wonderful viewers, I’d like to reiterate some old, but tried and true, advice, which I hold very close to my heart.”

Oh, here we go…

“Something which you probably hear very often is to always be yourself, or to always be true to yourself…”

Feh, I can think of several people who definitely shouldn’t do that…

“But it may be that you don’t like who ‘yourself’ is, or perhaps you don’t know what self you even have to be true to…”

Hah! As if… uh…

“And to that end, I’d like to say that there is always room for change. There’s always a way to make something new of yourself, to alter the parts of you that you want to, to become a different, better person. ‘Yourself’ can be whoever you want it to be; never are you locked along one unending bleak path. Try new things! Experiment! Don’t let yourself be trapped in an endless cycle.

“Believe me when I say I have personal experience with this: I’ve done so many different things over a rather short period of time, trying to find what I wanted to do with myself, who I wanted to be. Even now, I’m still not entirely sure if this is my supposed ‘calling’…! But I never got anywhere by doing nothing: it was on me to break out of my shell and search for myself, and now it’s on you to do the same.

“You don’t have to begin drastically, with a flying leap of faith--I think we’ve all walked over enough cliffs by now to know that!--but, if this is the sort of mindset you find yourself in, why not try taking some small steps today? It could be as simple as wearing a new outfit, or talking to someone new, or partaking in a new pastime.”

Birdo continued to elaborate on her point, but Waluigi--or, whoever he was beneath that--had stopped listening. He wanted to make some snark about what she said; he wanted to rationalize how what she described couldn’t ever apply to him; but, he found that he couldn’t. He had attempted to follow similar advice long in the past, and failed, but something about the way she phrased it, managed to affect him more deeply than he had thought possible. It was as though her words had dug beneath his shields and layers and pierced something somewhere in his core; pulled a lever, turned a handle, flipped a switch.

A strange sensation washed over him, one he could only describe as a blazing fire--nay, an inferno--igniting within him. He had felt the touch of flame countless times over the years, but not even the innumerable rage-fueled volleys he had endured, all combined into a single force, could compare to what now burned in his soul.

He leapt up from the sofa and ran to his bathroom. Staring at him from within the mirror was a character, a costume, a facade. It was not who he was. He grabbed a towel, dampened it, and proceeded to scrub away the pink paint on his nose; Wario and Waluigi’s noses were defined by that bright rosy color, but his was not. He then tore open a cabinet and grabbed his bottle of mustache product; normally, it was used to create the signature angular mustache of Waluigi, but today, it would shape the hairs into something softer and curlier. Whether that was what he would ultimately like did not matter: he was experimenting! He was changing himself!

Though the man that stared back at him from the glass now bore a much different visage, it was still framed by the purple cap and shirt, yellow emblem, and dark indigo overalls. He tore them off, then opened his wardrobe once more and threw all the copies of that same outfit to the ground. Hidden behind them were old clothes that he hadn’t worn for many, many years. He grabbed the first garments he saw--a casual dress shirt and gaudy neon-yellow shorts. Did those go well together? It didn’t matter. Without hesitating, he put them on.

He quickly glanced in the mirror again: the ensemble was nearly complete, but just missing one last touch. He thought on it for a moment, then stricken with brilliance, hurried to his modest backyard, where the roses he performed with in the games grew. He plucked one from its bush and affixed it to his hair, then ran back to the mirror to observe himself one more time.

His mismatched get-up would likely garner many stares from others, though he wouldn’t mind them at all; if he had anything in common with Waluigi, it was that they both loved being the center of attention. Even still, that’s not what mattered. A whole new day lay before him, a whole new day to be someone new, someone different; to move on from the cycle he had been stuck in, to take a whole new step forward.

He returned to the sitting room and turned off the television, then went to the front door. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle, threw it open, and marched into the daylight, the daylight which felt far fresher and warmer than it had in a long time, though even it held no candle to the flame that continued to blaze within him.

Ready or not, world; here I come!!

[ayamari-no-goshi]

Verboten 10 | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary:   AU. When Danny was five years old, he went missing for 2 weeks. In the years that follow, his family tried to make sense of what happened, only for the truth to be discovered years later.

Warnings: rated T for violence, mentions of death, language. Be prepared for some very weird things

Chapter warning: child kidnappings mentioned

Parings: Danny/Sam

Notes: originally uploaded to Ff.net. Cross-posted to AO3 and tumblr. This fic is very heavily inspired by folklore surrounding mysterious wilderness disappearances

Chapter 10

Frostbite was close lipped on their journey to Clockwork's lair, at least in regards to the mysterious and ancient ghost. He instead talked to Danny about different aspects of ghosts and their realm. Although the yeti ghost wanted Danny to return home, he wanted Danny to know about the realm as a precaution, and Danny reluctantly agreed.

As they passed by some of the floating islands, buildings, and doors, Frostbite would occasionally mention which of his allies or neutral acquaintances lived there. It was all so strange. There were buildings which looked like they were from ancient Greece or Rome, while there was another which looked like a modern library. Frostbite explained the form of the lair was heavily influenced by its ruler. A ghost needed to be a fairly strong to be able to create such a large lair, and while the architecture often reflected what the ghost knew while they were alive, it wasn't a necessity.

Eventually, a dark and imposing clock tower could be seen in the distance. "I guess that's the place?" Danny questioned as he tried to get a better look at it.

"It is. When we arrive, it is unlikely I will be able to go in with you."

"Wait, what?" Danny hadn't expected this would be a one on one meeting. From the way Frostbite spoke, he figured someone would be guarding him, at least until he had answers.

The older ghost gave him a sheepish look. "The invitation was only for you. Unless Clockworks invites me in, I will do no more than ferry you to the location and wait for your return."

"Is this Clockwork really so scary?"

"He is far more powerful than I am, so I have no desire to anger him. There are stories regarding how no foe has been able to sway or harm him."

"So you're just going to allow a teenager to go to meet a ridiculously powerful ghost by himself? That's just great. What if he incinerates me or something?"

Frostbite just chuckled. "I do not think you have anything to fear, unless you try to attack him. Clockwork is not known for going out of his way to do damage to someone."

"Great. That makes me feel so much better." Danny's sarcasm was lost on Frostbite.

…

A short time later, Frostbite's sleigh landed in front of the clock tower. Upon closer inspection, the building appeared to be made of a dark gray stone with large wooden doors. Thankfully, there was a small amount of land surrounding the building, so Danny wasn't worried about falling to his death. After being coaxed out of the sleigh, Danny, feeling incredibly self-conscious, knocked on the door.

The door opened, but he didn't see anyone when he cautiously stepped inside. He half expected the door to slam behind him, but instead, it remained open until he started moving towards the only thing in the room, a stair case. Once he reached it, the door slowly closed on its own.

While uneasy, he wasn't exactly scared. Whoever this Clockwork was, he was at least somewhat courteous.

After reaching the top of the stairs, he found himself in a large room filled with gears, pendulums, and what appeared to be mirrors set within large gears. However, after a closer inspection, the mirrors showed shadowy images which didn't appear to be him or anything in the room.

"Do you see anything interesting?" a pleasant voice asked from somewhere behind him, making him jump. He sheepishly spun around to find a ghost with blue skin, red eyes, and a clock pendulum in his chest watching him. The ghost initially appeared maybe around thirty, but after a few moments shifted to appear much older.

"I'm sorry! I shouldn't have looked." Danny wasn't exactly certain why, but he felt almost as if he was being caught in the act by a favorite relative. There was something familiar and personable about this ghost, even when his form shifted again. This time, his appearance was childlike.

The ghost chuckled as he approached. "It is quite alright. Most of my visitors have been drawn to them." He gestured towards the closest one, and the images suddenly became more vivid. It was almost as if it was playing some sort of video. "As you have guessed, I am Clockwork, master of time. I am able to see all events which may or may not come to pass." His form again shifted.

"Err… Frostbite said you wanted to see me?"

"Correct. Beings such as yourself have only shown up a handful of times over the millennia, and each time one does, it often brings great change."

"But what am I? Am I dead? Am I alive?"

The ghost gave a gentle chuckle. "You are still very much alive. You're just able to access the power of your soul, which is not usually feasible while one is still has a living body. However, this is not possible unless you are able to resist the pull of this realm."

"What does that mean?" Although Danny was relieved to know he was classified as living, he was still deeply confused by everything. "Does it deal with what Frostbite explained regarding what could trigger the change?"

"Yes. This world is similar to the human concept of limbo. It is a place where some souls wander until they are lead to the Evermore – true death. But, it is still a world of the dead, and the living are not meant to be here. It has defenses to prevent the dead from crossing back into your world, which unfortunately can cause the wayward human to become a denizen."

"However, there is more to it than that," Clockwork continued as he gestured to the mirror. Strange images flickered within it. "Over millennia, this realm became corrupted. The guides, beings unique to this realm, which used to help guide those wayward souls, are all but gone now. No longer being able to find true rest, souls that remain here often become tainted and become ghosts. Many can spread that taint as well, and some use that to create others like themselves."

"You're telling me that's why my classmates were abducted?" A cold chill ran through him as his body decided to return to his human form.

"Not in this case." Clockwork gestured to the mirror as an image flickered to the first ghost Danny and his friends saw. After a moment, another ghostly figure who suspiciously resembled Mikey came into view. "In Youngblood's case, whether or better or worse, wanted a companion more than anything else. This isn't an isolated case. However, many abductors have a far more insidious reason." The ghost turned to face him. "The living have an energy that the dead do not. It's probably easiest to refer to it as vitality. Returning to your previous question, you still produce that energy so it is safe to say you are still alive."

"Alright. So what makes that so appealing? Does it give, I don't know, special abilities?"

"Some believe so. Others believe vitality will help them restore some of the memories commonly lost upon death."

"That's so messed up," Danny replied after mulling over the information. "The memory loss thing, does that happen to everyone? Will it happen to me? Will I…?" He didn't want to admit it out loud, but he was worried he might become a danger to his friends and family.

The ghost, who was back in his child form, gave him a soft smile. "As long as you're alive, you don't need to worry. As for death, most souls do not come to this realm, but instead find their way to the Evermore. Also, as long as the soul is strong, it can avoid being tainted by this realm and become a force of good or of balance. Those which do have no need to seek out and harm the living." It was impossible for Danny to hide the relief on his face, which made Clockwork chuckle.

"Now let us move on to some of your other concerns. You want to know if you can return home and how you became like that, correct?" When Danny nodded, Clockwork again gestured to the mirrors. An image of a young Danny berry picking with his aunt and sister. The view changed to show a creature, some other ghost, peering at them from behind a tree. After Danny caught sight of it, his family members disappeared from the scene. "This is where your journey began. As you saw earlier, a distraction from this realm can accidently pull you into it."

"What is that thing?" Danny felt uneasy as he watched the ghost beckon to his younger self which somehow triggered his body to switch forms again. There was something about the ghost which made him unsettled. It looked humanoid with dark skin, but did not have any facial features. "I don't remember seeing it, but then again, I don't remember much from that."

Clockwork stared at the image for another moment before glancing at Danny. "Most of them no longer have names. We call them 'Recruiters', but it was believed they had been destroyed several centuries ago. They worked for the previous king."

"Wait, king? You guys have a king? And what do you mean they were supposed to be destroyed?"

"We once did," Clockwork replied as he shifted to his elderly form. "He waged war against this realm and yours, so he was sealed away. The members of his court, made mostly of purposely modified ghosts, were either destroyed or sealed. It appears someone has resurrected those modification techniques."

Danny was about to ask another question when the images in the mirror caught his attention again. It showed the ghost, the Recruiter, examining him. It then handed him something which looked like some type of candy. After young Danny ate it, the Recruiter watched him for a while before attempting to grab him. When the attempt failed, young Danny tried to escape.

Images flashed as his younger self ran away from the Recruiter. Eventually, the boy collapsed outside of what appeared to be some sort of wall and began to cry as a faint glow started to surround him. As the Recruiter again appeared in the scene, it was blasted away by a strange beam. The boy looked up to see Plasmius staring curiously at him.

"Wow… so Plasmius actually wasn't lying when he said how he first met me."

"For the most part, no," Clockwork replied as he raised his staff, which caused the scene to shift to the inside of Plasmius' mansion. The older ghost had given Danny more food and was watching him carefully. "Plasmius did accidently find you, but if he hadn't provided you with more food from this realm, you may have been able to return home as a fairly normal human, albeit with form of minor psychic ability. However, he saw potential in you and became interested."

The teenager was silent for a moment as he continued to watch the images. After Plasmius took him back to the human world, the scene shifted to show him a little older. With a jolt, he realized it was when he disappeared the second time. Instead of the Recruiter, it was Plasmius who beckoned him. The ghost didn't do anything other than talk and play with his younger self. However, Danny was showing evidence of ghostly traits again. "He wanted to make sure he was right, didn't he?"

"Yes. Plasmius has grand ambitions in this realm. He wants power and having someone like you at his side would be a great boon. However," Clockwork froze the image and somehow zoomed into a spot in the background. There was a Recruiter watching them, "you were not alone. This is troubling."

"You mentioned earlier you are able to see all possible events, didn't you? So why do you seem so surprised?"

The ghost, still in his elderly form, wore a tenebrous expression. "While my abilities allow me to see any number of possibilities, it can be difficult to sort through the amount of information I receive. It is also possible, though unlikely, someone powerful was able to block them from my abilities. However, now that I am aware of the concern, it is much easier to locate similar events." The ghost shifted to his child form. "I had wanted to send you home while you adjust to the changes in your body, but you may need trained first."

Uncertain how to respond while the ghost took a few moments to think, Danny turned back to the mirror. It was no longer showing images of his past. Instead, it was flickering through a multitude of scenes at a blinding rate. For a second, he thought he saw Sam and Tucker, but the image changed before he could be certain. Some of the images seemed to show an army of some sort. Overall, it left him unsettled.

"I believe I will need to let Frostbite into the Clock Tower," Clockwork stated, making Danny jump. "I will need him to spread the word of my discovery, and he has information for both of us."

Moments later, the white furred ghost hurried up the stairs with two of his guards. After taking a moment to collect himself, he bowed towards Clockwork. "I humbly thank you for allowing us into your presence."

"There is no need for that. My abilities and agreement with the Observants force me to remain neutral under most circumstances. As such, I prefer to keep to myself, but sometimes when extraordinary people appear," Clockwork gestured to Danny, "curiosity gets in the way. However, this time, I am glad it did." The ghost brought their attention to the mirrors and showed the Yetis the image of the Recruiter.

Frostbite's shock was quickly replaced by rage. "Who would dare attempt to recreate such a vile creature? However, we have unsettling news of our own. The entourage who were escorting the other humans Danny knows home were attacked by the Fright Knight and a horde of Reanimated." When the yeti caught sight of Danny's horrified expression, he gave a small smile. "Fear not. Pandora herself stepped into assist my men and drove them back; not even the Fright Knight dares raise his blade to her. Your friends should be arriving home soon." His attention turned back towards Clockwork. "Pandora explained one of her spies caught sight of them shortly before they attacked my men and took it upon herself to intervene. Her ambassadors will request an audience of the counsel within the day."

"As much as I dislike dealing with the Observants, I believe this is necessary," Clockwork agreed. "Whoever is employing the techniques of the old king has been able to exploit the blind spots in my abilities. It also seems as if they are aware of Daniel and what his existence means. They may also be watching Plasmius."

"This is most troubling."

"Uh, excuse me, but I have no idea what's going on here," Danny interrupted. The conversation had lost him some time ago, but he was relieved to hear his friends were safe.

Frostbite gave him a sheepish smile as Clockwork explained, "It appears someone is trying to make a grab for power. The last time this happened, war overtook this realm and spilled into yours."

"That… that doesn't sound good."

"No. Last time, it was only through the power of the Ancients that we were able to defeat the King. If someone has found a way to access his abilities, then it needs to be stopped before catastrophe happens." The yeti's expression was grim as he addressed Clockwork. "So what becomes of Danny? Will he need to remain with us, or can he travel home? Is it even safe for someone like him to return to the human realm?"

"As he is still alive, there is no harm in him returning him. His parents are working on several projects, one of which will provide his home with enough ambient energy to allow his core to remain stable. However, the more I attempt to peer into the future, the more muddled the images become. There is definitely interference. So, I am uncertain what route will allow the most favorable outcome." He shifted to his adult form. "So, Daniel, I leave the choice to you."

"You said that whoever attacked my friends know about me?"

The time ghost nodded. "Yes. Since you can traverse both worlds without ill effects, your abilities would be of great interest. You could remain here and train with Frostbite…"

"But I would not be able to guarantee your safety as today proved," the Yeti admitted.

"There is also a concern the Observant and the Counsel will not approve of your existence," Clockwork continued. "You could return home, but you would be forced to develop your abilities on your own. However, you would be much safer there for the time being."

Danny looked down at his hands and momentarily stared at the faint glow surrounding them. "Am I a danger to my family and friends if I go home?"

"No, but it is possible to make them more open to this world. If we are unable to prevent our enemies from gaining power, it may cause them to be targeted again."

"Is it okay if I take some time to think about it?"

"Of course. Take all of the time you need."

=========================================

Note: The Evermore is something within DP lore. It was mentioned in a video Butch Hartman released which expanded upon more information regarding the different residents.

Clockwork's mention of limbo and soul guides. To my knowledge, the concept of Limbo is most prevalent to Christians (particularly Catholics). This is a place in between life and Heaven/Hell. In previous Catholic tradition, Limbo is the place where unbaptized souls go upon death, and there were circumstances which could help those souls find rest (the Catholic Church modified its views on Limbo in 2007). Some people say Limbo is also the realm of the fairies, elves, and any creature/entity which lives in another realm that is not heaven or hell. There is a similar concept in Greek mythology which was referred to as the Asphodel Fields/Meadows.

And for completion sake, Purgatory is not the same as Limbo. Purgatory (also per Catholic tradition) is a place of fiery cleansing after death. It's a temporary stop as once the cleansing is completed, the soul moves on to Heaven. While it is not mentioned much, Purgatory is still considered to exist.

Soul guides, also called psychopomps, are creatures responsible for guiding the deceased souls to the afterlife. The belief in them is ancient. Depending on tradition, they can be anything or look like anything. There's even some thought that certain entities known to spirit away people, faeries come to mind, may have derived from this concept. A great representation of this are the Alebrijes found in Mexican traditions (they were recently featured in the movie "Coco.")

The Recruiters are kind of based of off "Shadow People" mixed in with other legends like "Tall Man" spirit and Stick Men/Indians seen in some First Nation lore. Shadow People are a weird phenomenon, even for the paranormal. True Shadow People are not usually considered to be ghosts, but no one is exactly certain of what they are. The inter-dimensional theory often pops up with them because they don't seem to act like "normal ghosts" and are usually considered dangerous. They are reported to negatively influence and harm humans. There are some reports of them attempting to steal people. 

Stick Men/Indians and the Tall Man are described as creatures similar to that of the modern tale of Slenderman, and they are again said to either negatively influence or take children. I used these descriptions due to some supposed reports from missing and found children saying creatures of similar descriptions wanted to take them with them, but they didn't meet the correct criteria.

Also, regarding Clockwork's powers… per the show, he "knows everything." However, it would very difficult of an entity to be able to take and absorb all of the information he gets at a time. So, my mind is viewing it as if he's skimming the majority of the information, which could allow events in the background to get missed.

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 33 of 26

Title: The Edge of Worlds (2016) (The Books of the Raksura #4)

Author: Martha Wells

Genre/Tags: Fantasy, Adventure, LGBT Protagonist, Third-Person

Rating: 9/10

Date Began: 11/28/2020

Date Finished: 12/09/2020

Two turns after The Siren Depths, Moon has settled into life in the Indigo Cloud colony with young children of his own. But when all the adult Raksura experience a disturbing, shared nightmare that foretells the destruction of their home at the hands of the Fell, things are about to change. Soon an expedition of strange groundlings visit The Reaches, claiming they need the Raksura to help investigate a mysterious abandoned city far to the west. Believing the two events are linked, Moon and the others embark on a journey to avert disaster. However, they soon find more than they bargained for when a Fell attack traps them in the deadly, labyrinthine city ruins.  

If eyes fall on this, and no one is here to greet you, then we have failed. Yet you exist, so our failure is not complete. 

Full review, some spoilers, and content warning(s) under the cut.

Content warnings for the book:  Graphic violence and action. Some mind control stuff (par for the course at this point). 

This is a difficult book to review because it is, for all intents and purposes, part one of a longer two-part story. While the three previous books were all self-contained, The Edge of Worlds isn't, even ending on a cliffhanger. I feel like this duology might have been written as a single book but got split for publishing reasons. As of this writing I have not read the next book, The Harbors of the Sun. So take what I say with a grain of salt, because my commentary assumes the next book will address certain things.

The Edge of Worlds’ core plot builds on threads from the previous book-- mysterious ancestors, bizarre dead cities, the Fell/Raksura crossbreeds, and so on. This book doesn't include any new details about the ancestors, which are just called "the forerunners", but I expect the next book to touch on this more, as it’s been a consistent Thing in the series. There's also another mysterious, ancient ruin critical to the plot. However, it’s pretty different than the underwater city in The Siren Depths, so doesn't seem repetitive. Oddly, it reminds me of House Of Leaves with its vast size, impenetrable darkness, and sentient (?) traps.

The book also explores Fell/Raksura crossbreeds in yet another way. Previous books depicted them as terrifying weapons (The Cloud Roads) or just weird looking Raksura (The Siren Depths). The Edge of Worlds splits the difference, introducing a Fell flight that seems much more sympathetic and reasonable than any encountered thus far-- led by a crossbreed queen. My criticism of the Fell way back in The Cloud Roads is they're basically an Always Chaotic Evil horde of predators, but this new idea adds a lot of nuance. Though I am assuming the next book goes into this more, as they’re just introduced here. It's important to remember the Fell and Raksura are descended from the same ancestor, and even though Raksura are the heroes of the story, there are a lot of similarities between the two species. Overall this is one of the most intriguing threads in the series, and I'm glad we keep coming back to it in new ways.

Another thing this book does differently is perspective. Moon is the POV character in the other main entries. While that's still true, there are several interludes from the perspectives of others. For practical purposes this is to show what's going on outside of the main party, particularly so Malachite showing up at the end doesn't feel like an asspull. Also, certain events really do need to be explained when Moon isn't present. I can respect that.

From a reading standpoint I really like these alternate points of view. They're all minor characters-- Lithe, Ember, Merit, River, and Niran-- which is an interesting choice. Ember's interlude is actually my favorite part of the book. It's fun to see a more "traditional" consort approach an awkward situation, and I like his initial struggle to accept and treat Shade (one of the crossbreeds and a personal fave of mine from the last book) as a regular consort. Ember comes off as very submissive in the rest of the series so it's fun to see him take charge. Also this part features a scene in which two intimidating Raksuran queens, Pearl and Malachite, have the most tense tea service of all time. It's just hilarious. 

This book actually has a trans analogue with the Janderan, the primary groundling species, who apparently choose their gender when they reach adulthood. Specifically there’s a focus on a young man named Kalam, who just took that step. This doesn't feel like the standard fantasy/scifi copout because humans literally do not exist in the series. Wells handles trans/nonbinary/agender characters (human and otherwise) extremely well in The Murderbot Diaries so I feel it’s in good faith. LGBT rep in the Raksura series has been great so far, honestly. Moon/Jade/Chime is like... canon, man.

Another general observation I haven't previously noted... I love how many interesting and varied flying ships there are in this world. They're all boat-like (nothing like airplanes) but there has been a different kind in each book. Considering that most of the main cast can fly it's interesting that flying ships are consistently integral to the plot. It would be so easy to cop out and design one ship that every society uses, but Wells really makes them all unique despite serving similar functions to the story. The ship in this one is organic, powered by living, cultivated moss. I dunno! I just think it’s neat. 

I do have one criticism for The Edge of Worlds, keeping in mind it's part one of a longer story. The pacing. This book is pretty slow; it takes a while to get going and then there are lots of lengthy travel sequences. As long as there’s interesting flavor to it, I generally don't mind this approach. It allows for breathing room and character interaction. But even I started feeling bored at points and had to power through. It feels like a lot of the travel could have been cut from the book without losing much. For example, the journey to the colony tree in The Serpent Sea took up maybe a few chapters. I appreciate travel in this series from a worldbuilding perspective, but in this case I think some time gaps would have been fine. The action doesn't pick up until the party arrives at the ruin, in the latter half of the book.

Also, this isn't really a criticism, but there are several references to the Raksura novellas and short stories. I haven't read them (yet) so they’re totally lost on me. I can't blame Wells for including references, both as a wink/nudge to people who have read them and because ignoring relevant ideas makes no sense. But as someone lacking context it comes off as awkward to have a character think “WOW, this is just like that one time Jade had to do this one thing!” and I’m just like “...it is???” 

Despite this I like just about everything else in the story, especially the second half. It really does feel like a proper finale, bringing back notable characters from throughout the series (not anyone from The Serpent Sea yet... I do have my suspicions here, though). River seems to be getting a mini redemption? The labyrinthine, dark city is creepy, and the artifact they find inside it is super unsettling. All the climactic action is intriguing, particularly regarding the new Fell crossbreeds. The novel ends abruptly, but that’s understandable since the next book leads right off from it. I'm really excited to see how the Raksura story concludes.

[takadasaiko]

Love Me Twice: Chapter Seventeen

FFN II AO3

Summary: Ressler and Park follow a lead to Bonn, Scottie arrives in DC, and Tom hits a wall with his memory therapy.

Chapter Seventeen

Cooper had sent Ressler in as lead to Bonn in part because he needed a seasoned agent with a deep understanding of the delicate nature of their situation, but Ressler was also the one with a contact there. He had known Mike Weiss in Quantico and the two had traded favours over the years, especially when Ressler had been abroad so often with the first Reddington Task Force. He was always good for a few beers, a collection of absurd stories, and - if Ressler was lucky - an answer or two if he could get him around to it. Weiss was the kind of guy everybody liked and he loved to be the center of attention. It didn't hurt to gather intelligence either.

He motioned for another round and Ressler heard Park's less-than-subtle sound of annoyance as she excused herself for a moment. Weiss chuckled. "That one's wound up almost as tight as you used to be."

Ressler's lips quirked you at the corners. "She's a good agent."

"Most people that tightly wound have something to hide."

"I'll vouch for her."

"I don't care. I know you. I know you're clean. So listen fast." His voice dipped a little so that it was hard to hear him over the music and the chatter. "Emilia Schmitz isn't a name you want to toss around in this town. She's a ghost that supposedly died around the time the Berlin Wall fell. She was East Berlin and vicious."

"What's she doing here?"

Weiss quirked an eyebrow. "What makes you think she's here?"

"A case I'm working. There was a man named Petrov that blackmailed a German attaché to deliver a file. We think it was being sent to Schmitz. What do you know about her?"

"I know mentioning her name can get you killed." He took a long drink from his stein. "Maybe… eight or nine years ago her name came across our radar for a case. Had these partners that were like bloodhounds. Mick and Jamie. They could find anyone with just a scrap to go on."

"Could?" Ressler echoed.

"They'd just started making progress when Mick got hit crossing the street late one night. Car drove off without stopping and left him bleeding in the street. He didn't make it to the hospital. Jamie picks up the trail, right? She's pissed, swears up and down it had to be Schmitz somehow. Three days later we found her dead in her flat. Local cops ruled it a suicide and I got word in from D.C. to drop the case."

"Did you?"

Weiss offered a small shrug. "Alan Fitch made the call himself. You don't exactly tell the Assistant Director of National Intelligence no."

Ressler made a small sound of acknowledgement. "Saying you will and doing it are two different things."

"What'd I miss?" Park asked as she returned and Ressler watched his old friend's expression close off.

"Just reminiscing about Donnie's mishap with the lap pool second week into training," Weiss answered lightly and that was that. The rest of the night was chatter and a frustrated Park, even as Ressler worked through the details of the story and the fact that a known Cabal leader had been the one to cut the case off at the knees.

As they wrapped it up for the night Weiss - a little clingy that many beers in - wrapped an arm around Ressler's shoulders, pulling him in and hanging into the front of his jacket. "You got one of the best here," he told Park and she tried not to look as irritated as she clearly felt. "Sorry I couldn't get you what you needed."

Weiss offered Ressler one more squeeze and sauntered off. Park rolled her eyes as they started for the door. "What a waste of time."

"Maybe not," Ressler mumbled as he patted at his own jacket, feeling something that felt suspiciously like a jump drive in his inside pocket. Leave it to Weiss. The bastard always had had a flare for the dramatic.

--------

Liz remembered her own memory extraction had left her feeling violated and in desperate need of solitude and a shower from the inside out. She'd been taken and drugged against her will only to find out that she'd been used as a child to traffic one of the most dangerous blackmail files that the world had seen. It still left her unsettled all these years later and the vague reference that Krilov had made after Ressler's equally twisted experience with him to the fact that he'd screwed around with her mind yet again only made it worse. Part of her wondered if, after Tom had his memories back, she should speak with Selma about trying to find out what had been altered or taken from her the second time, or if it had just been an attempt to throw her off her game. If history had taught her anything it was that the not knowing was just as dangerous as knowing in the life she led. Another part, though, didn't want to crack open yet another round of danger. Maybe when this was over she should just be done.

Not that Reddington would let her.

Thankfully Tom's experience with the memory extraction hadn't been quite as horrifying. At least it wasn't all bad. Where Liz's buried memories were filled with smoke and fire and gunshots, Tom had a mixed bag. He had been exhausted after the session, falling asleep next to her on the couch as she'd worked. It hadn't been until late that evening that the nightmares had crept in, but even as he'd come flying off the couch like he was ready for a fight he could only remember pieces of what he'd seen. It was something they would have to talk to Orchard about when they saw her later that day.

Before that, though, Liz needed to get Agnes safely dropped off at school.

The four year old had wanted nothing to do with leaving the apartment that morning. Liz wasn't sure if Tom had won all that affection through pancakes for breakfast since Agnes had re-met him or if she remembered him on some level. Their kid had always been more intuitive than Liz thought was possible and she'd loved her daddy before he had been snatched away from them. He could always get her to laugh, that giggle filling the whole apartment and he was all she'd known in the first month of her life. Even in the painfully short time that they had had in Cuba together after they'd run, Liz had seen it. Tom had changed over the years, but Agnes had taken that growth to a whole new level. Now, even at the beginning of the process that they hoped could return his memories, she saw that connection between dad and daughter, and it had been a chore to get her out the door without him.

Now she just had to get her to her classroom and they'd be doing alright.

"Grandma!" Agnes squealed, pulling Liz out of her thoughts as they crossed the parking lot.

She tugged her hand almost free, but Liz clamped down a little harder just in time. "Hey, you know not to let go of my hand with cars around," she chided softly and followed to where Agnes had tried to run.

Scottie Hargrave stood on the sidewalk, her skirt and sleeveless blouse perfectly pressed and a sharp look fixed on Liz. It softened as it shifted to Agnes, and as they reached the safety of the sidewalk, Liz let her go. Scottie showing up without warning couldn't be a good sign. Let the grandkid work her charm on her first.

Agnes flung her arms around Scottie's long legs. "Hiiiii! Mommy didn't say you were here!"

"I thought I'd surprise you," Scottie answered, her tone light.

"But I gotta go to school," Agnes pouted and looked to Liz like she hoped she'd give her another option.

"Yep. School's a must," Liz answered.

"What about this?" Scottie asked and there was something in her tone that said as much as Liz was willing to let Agnes' natural adorableness soften whatever Scottie was about to drop on her, Scottie was willing to use her granddaughter to get her foot in the door. "I'll pick you up after school and we can get ice cream?"

Oh…. Liz never stood a chance against ice cream.

"Ice cream!" Agnes cheered and hugged Scottie again. "Love you, Grandma!"

She started towards the door where her teacher was waiting. "Hey, what about me?" Liz called after her, her lips quilting up at the corners in a teasing smile.

"Love you, Mom!" Agnes shouted with a wave and was gone.

"She's just like Tom was at her age," Scottie mused softly and Liz would have bet a sizable chunk of change that she knew exactly what Scottie was doing there. Her mother-in-law turned a look on her.

Liz squared her shoulders just a little. "Why don't we get out of the pathway?"

"No, I think we should have this conversation right here." Brown eyes caught hold of blue and the older woman held her gaze. "I'm not sure what I did to offend you."

"What makes you think I'm offended?"

"I took Agnes in for months so that you would have time to process everything and grieve. I understood. I was mourning him too." Her tone was biting, the boiling rage just barely kept under control. "I kept it to myself because I thought you needed time. I suffered in silence so you could heal and that sweet little girl - my Christopher's little girl - wouldn't suffer like we did. And this is how you repay me. Why?"

Liz bit back the first snarky reply that came to mind and then crushed down the truth that she'd suspected Scottie at first. That wouldn't do either of them any good now. Instead, she stepped off the path and under a tree, waiting for Scottie to move with her. "Because I just found out he's alive."

"Is that so? When? Because there had to have been enough time for you to tell that insufferable partner of yours and for him to run a DNA test. Did you really think —"

Well, at least Liz knew how Scottie had found out. She would deal with Ressler later. "A week and a half ago," she cut her husband's mother off. Might as well fill her in at this point or she'd start digging and who knows what she would throw off balance. Liz had never wanted Scottie for an enemy. "He lost about a decade's worth of memories. He didn't remember me or Agnes. It's been…. busy."

She watched shock slowly settle if Scottie's features. "Is he…. alright?"

"Mostly. He's been working at St Regis. It was the last thing he knew when he woke up, he said."

"How did that bring him to DC?"

"A job. He was hired to…. We're still sorting it all out."

"There are people and methods that can help with that. Let me—"

"I know. I've had it done." Scottie turned to look at her a little more sharply than the statement warranted.

"Had what done?"

"Memory extraction. It's a long story and one that I'd rather not get into outside my daughter's school if you don't mind."

Scottie pursed her lips. "Do you think his memories were taken on purpose?"

"Seems to be that way. We don't know for sure by who yet. It's…. a really delicate situation."

"Yes." Liz could see the woman's clever mind spinning and brown eyes met blue. "I'd like to see him."

"Scottie…."

"I need to see my son," she pressed. There was a desperation in her voice and there were tears forming in her eyes. She was a strange woman for the CEO of a company that dealt in spycraft. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, but the more Liz had gotten to know her, the more she suspected that it was a tactic.

Even so, she knew how much Scottie loved Tom and how much Tom had come to love his mother.

"Let me talk to him. He's been…. overwhelmed, but I'll talk to him."

"I'll be in town."

"You better be you owe your granddaughter ice cream after school," Liz answered with a small smile.

Every moment there seemed to be a new complication added. Something that made an impossible situation that much more difficult. Scottie knew. Okay. She could deal with that. She could even use that, potentially. It was the fact that Ressler hadn't trusted her enough to let her know what he was doing. He'd snagged DNA from Tom - likely from something left behind at his apartment the night he'd stayed there - and sent it out without saying a word. As soon as he got back from Germany, Liz was going to have a chat with him.

---------

For as well as the session the day before had gone - at least after Liz had gotten there - this one kept getting sidetracked. Even with Liz next to him, her voice working as a tether to better things, his mind kept trying to go a different direction. The result was fractured memories joining together like a Picasso painting. Nothing made sense and he couldn't find a way to break through and make it.

Tom loosed a frustrated breath as he felt himself being pulled out of it and then he was back in Selma Orchard's clinic, strapped back in a chair and hooked up to machinery. Liz reached out, her hand in his forearm and he tugged away, the movement making him realize he had already been unstrapped from the chair. "We're not done."

"For today we are," Orchard answered.

"You took me out too soon. I could've gotten there," he growled, his voice sounding as agitated as he felt.

The doctor offered a sympathetic smile. "This isn't something you can push, Tom. Not without substantial risks."

"And if I'm willing to take those?" he shot back.

"Then it may cost your life and that defeats the purpose, doesn't it?" Orchard asked pointedly. "I have another patient like you. She had trouble with limitations at first too. She wanted something she could fight. It took a while for her to understand that you do more damage by pushing past the limits your mind and body are clearly setting than working within them."

"What happened once she got that?" Liz asked.

"She started to improve. Little things, but better a half a step forward than two back," Orchard answered. "And you have something she doesn't."

"What's that?" Tom grumbled, not really in the mood for some life lesson about patience his second day in.

"The ability to surround yourself with what your mind has forgotten. Your wife, your daughter, your home. I know you didn't have a breakthrough today like yesterday, but that doesn't mean we didn't push at those blocks that have been put in place. Think of it like a dam holding back water. You're putting cracks in it with the work we're doing. As the dam weakes, memories could start to slip through when triggered by external forces."

"Happened with me," Liz said softly from his side and Tom felt a sudden and unfamiliar wave of guilt for pulling away from her. He reached out and she took the offered hand as Orchard continued.

"The more you surround yourself with the familiar, the more likely you are to find yourself remembering things." She glanced over at Liz. "Why don't I give you two some time to talk?"

"Thanks," Liz answered and Tom tightened his fingers around hers.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"Pulling away. For… You've done nothing but help me."

"I love you," she said softly. "And we will get there. I promise."

He sighed heavily, letting his head drop back against the rest behind him. He could feel the ache coming on and all he could do was hope it didn't turn into a full blown migraine.

"So Scottie showed up at Agnes' school this morning."

"Remind me who that is?" Tom asked tiredly.

"Your mother."

That drew his attention. "Is that normal?"

"No. She found out you're alive. Apparently Ressler ran your DNA."

"Asshole."

Liz snorted a laugh at that. "I'll handle Ress, but with what Orchard said, this might be a good opportunity."

"What? You want me to meet this woman?"

"You guys got… well, you were getting close when everything happened." Her other hand came up to cover his, almost like she needed as much of a reminder as she could get that he was right there. "She wanted to have dinner. If you feel up for it, maybe it'll knock something loose?"

He thought about it for a long moment, trying to conjure an image of the woman Liz was talking about in his mind, but he had nothing. Not a glimpse of the woman that Liz had said - despite what Bud had told him and that Tom had believed growing up - loved him.

"Okay," he breathed at last. "Let's give it a shot."

That smile of hers could light a room, and as Liz leaned in and kissed him, he felt some of the frustration ease away.

----------

TBC

Notes: Well, Ress is busted. Good thing he walked away with a successful trip to Germany at least?

Next Time: The Keens have dinner with Scottie, Red takes a trip down to Texas, and Ressler runs into trouble.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Mark of the Wolf Part 7 (Derek Hale x Reader)

Catch up here!

A/N: So I take major liberties with the lore of transferring memories between werewolves in this chapter, but it’s still bordering the line of the established lore in the series so... But now I can happily say that the mystery of who the Order are and what they want is slowly unravelling. Now about that slow burn... (Also when you read the dream state part where the reader's eyes change colour, that’s just the eye colour of her inner wolf).

Note: I had previously described Derek’s eye’s as being Hazel but I was corrected and was informed that they are in fact Green, so I edited the eye colour descriptions.

Words: 3660 (this chapter was long!)

Warnings: Violence, Past Trauma??? That’s it I guess.

(gif isn’t mine)

"I'm like you. I'm a werewolf."

The words rang through the room as all four sets of eyes were on you.

Scott's face was scrunched up in thought, he had found your reveal to be quite the shocker. You guessed he was probably unsettled by the fact he had never sensed the werewolf in you. Not that many could. Even your own family had a hard time sensing your other half. They had said it was because the wolf had remained buried, never once surfacing to take to its own unique scent and feel.

Stiles and Liam seemed the least shocked. If anything Stiles seemed to find some credibility in your being a werewolf. After all, just as Liam put it, the Order hunts other supernatural creatures, not humans.

Derek, however, had an unreadable expression on his face. It bothered you somewhat. You didn't want him to look at you with that same level of distrust and caution as he used to. You had hoped things would be different after the attack on the clinic.

You waited in deafening silence as the boys mulled over your words. Until finally Derek spoke.

"How did you know the sage would work?" Derek asked, to your delight he regarded you no difference on account of your secret being made known. You felt more at ease for some reason.

"I'm not sure. I just knew," You told him, surprised by his choice in question.

"How come we couldn't sense you?" Liam asked, bringing the focus back to your newly revealed secret.

"You and I both know the wolf form and the human form can have two very distinct scents. Also, I'm what you call an 'afflicted,'" You said in a hushed voice, the word afflicted rolled off your tongue with a slight sting to it. You always hated that word.

"What is that?" Scott asked, finally breaking from his stupor.

Derek's brow was drawn together as he wore his signature scowl whenever he was deep in thought.

"I thought they were a myth. My mother told me stories as a kid… the Afflicted are pure born shape-shifters who can't shift," Derek looked at you with what you assumed was pity in his eyes.

"Yahtzee," you said sardonically, "give this man a prize."

"That's a thing?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah, my mother would tell me these stories about werewolves being cursed to stay in their human form forever. To be honest, I always thought it was just a scary story to keep me from turning outside a full moon," Derek had a fond look on his face, the memory brought about a bitter-sweet touch to his chiselled features.

"It's actually a recessive gene. My family are one of the last few remaining carriers. It only runs in pure-blooded werewolf families. My brothers and sisters can shift, my mother is the carrier and I'm the one with the genetic predisposition, that is, assuming lycanthropy works the same way as gene expression," You said brazenly, a solemn smile gracing your lips.

Stiles' eyes went wide as he flailed about trying to open one of the leather bound books he had in his possession. His actions caused quite the ruckus and you had to stop yourself from laughing at his goofy behaviour.

"Okay so on my way here, I started thinking about the name they gave the hunted:  Ex Alia, right. And it's an odd phrase because combined Ex Alia actually means 'from the other' and that can also mean 'apart from', right."

"Stiles, we've been over this," Derek said running his fingers over his thick eyebrows.

Stiles mimed Derek's words back at him in a comical way, "If you would just let me finish!"

Derek held up his hands and folded them over his chest, eyeing Stiles intensely for the loud tone he had shouted at him with.

"Thank you," Stiles said condescendingly, "Now, what if it's in reference to werewolves who are apart from their kin. Like for example..."

"Werewolves or other shapeshifters who can't shift," Scott finished Stiles' thought.

Even though Stiles argument made sense to you, you couldn't help but fight against his logic, "Even if that were true, they still went after Alex, and he could shift," you rebutted.

"Yes, but you said it's genetic. So what if Alex was a carrier?" Stiles rebuffed.

You went silent. Stiles had a point.

You knew Alex since childhood, he was a third generation werewolf. Your family had a close relationship with other legacy families, that's how you met. It was completely plausible for Alex to be a carrier for the same recessive gene you expressed.

You were startled from your lamentation when you heard a booming knock come from the bunker door. Everyone in the room exchanged questioning glances as they silently asked each other if they knew who it could be.

Stiles drew the short straw and offered himself up to go and see who it was. You were still standing there, numb from everything that had transpired.

You heard Stiles pull open the heavy metal door of the bunker, mutter a quick "Nope," like he was rejecting Girl Scout cookies and shut it behind him before he came to re-join the half circle again.

"Who was it?" Liam asked.

"No one important," Stiles said coolly as he waved the question away and wore an upturned frown. It was certainly a dubious look. Derek wasn’t convinced as he raised a brow at him.

A second later, Derek and Scott's heads snapped to the doors direction just as the door flew off its hinges. Their claws and fangs protruding outwards, their wolfish features taking shape.

Liam was already fully shifted, his nostrils flaring as he let out snarls for breaths. The energy coming off him was powerful and angry, making you instinctively take a few steps back.

All three of them lined up in front of you and Stiles, their eyes creating a gradient from red to yellow to blue. Their animalistic growls echoing through the room.

A set of footsteps descended the steps in a relaxed, languid manner. They belonged to a handsome faced man, slightly older than everyone else in the room, with the same dramatic streak as Derek. He smiled wickedly as he opened his arms in a warm mocking embrace, his head held up high like some entitled prince. His own blue eyes glowing with the same intensity as Derek.

Derek, Liam and Scott retracted their fangs and claws and dropped their defensive stances as soon as they registered who it was that had just punched the door in.

Apparently, the man making the needlessly dramatic entrance wasn't a threat.

"Anyone ever tell you it's rude to shut the door in people’s faces?" The man asked Stiles in a low threatening voice. His clawed fingers dusting off none existent dust from his leather jacket.

"Yeah, well I was also told not to invite homicidal maniacs into any enclosed spaces with me, so..." Stiles shot back.

"Peter, what are you doing here?" Derek asked with a hint of familiarity.

"Why dear nephew, I heard your call."

"Okay who called the homicidal maniac?" Stiles said as he looked over at Derek, Scott and Liam with exasperation.

"He meant the howl," Liam told Stiles.

"Oh, this is just great," you sighed, plopping yourself down on the stool where Liam had previously sat. "More werewolves."

Stiles just patted you back and gave a weak, "There, there," in place of consolation.

"So what have I missed?" Peter said with a large smirk on his clean-shaven face.

The next hour was spent catching Peter upon what was currently plaguing Beacon Hills and your life.

Peter stopped Scott from talking with a single look when he heard you had repressed the memories from the night Alex died. He had an idea, you could read it on his face.

He came and stood a few inches away from you, looking down at you like you were some mathematical theorem to be solved. He held up one finger after much silence and ushered Derek closer to you.

"Derek, come here a second," he said. Derek obliged but made sure to drag his feet a little so Peter didn't think Derek was open to being summoned.

"I hear you have amnesia," Peter directed the statement to you, you just stared up at him and didn't reply. "You're a werewolf, right? So that means even though you can't shift, the same rules apply to you?"

"In a way. I can heal faster than humans, my sense of smell is better and in some cases, I can hear better, but without the ability to shift those powers are significantly weaker to that of actual shapeshifters. But… yes, the same rules apply. Wolf's-bane is still toxic to me, I still feel the pull of the moon, and my abilities are magnified when I'm in a pack. Why do you ask?" You were curious as to where Peter was going with this.

"Just making sure this won't kill you," Peter just gave an innocent smile before he extended his claws and dug them into yours and Derek's neck, linking you to one another, using himself as a conduit. Before you were lost in the spiral of memory and shared consciousness, you heard Stiles say "Oh my God!" in shock and Scott shout Peter's name in an alpha male voice.

It was too late though, you and Derek were already linked and pulling you out now would just cause more harm than good.

***

It felt like you were free falling through an endless white space. Incoherent chattering and sounds playing all at once like someone had overlapped several songs onto a single track.

You were lost in the cacophony of your mind in disarray, until you felt Derek's hands link with yours, pulling you from your confusion.

"Where are we?" You asked him.

Derek looked around at the white empty space, it was like staring at a blank canvas that had no end. His brows knit together for a moment before he realised what was going on.

"We're in your mind, Peter linked us in a shared dream state. Werewolves can sometimes share memories by a bite or a scratch. I think in this case he figured you couldn't grow out your claws or fangs, so he used himself as a proverbial telephone cord."

You were familiar with how the sharing of memories worked. Your father had done something similar with your older brother Markus when he had passed on the mantle of Alpha to him.

Just as you were reliving the memory, the blank canvas of your mind bled through with colour and voices and suddenly a clear image of that day began to replay as though you had just stepped back in time.

Your brother was lying in the centre of a field by the meadow you had spent much of your childhood watching your sibling’s roughhousing.

Markus was writhing in pain as his eyes shimmered between his former vibrant gold to the frightful red they were now. Your mother, sister and younger brother were standing alongside you as you all watched your father transfer his powers onto Markus.

"What is this?" Derek asked

"The Markolf tradition," you said with a hint of pride at your legacy and sorrow for the pain your brother was enduring.

Your brother let out a howling scream, you winced. so did Derek.

You continued, "We differ from most werewolf families because we have the ability to pass on the mantle of alpha when we are no longer fit enough to carry it. That’s partially where we got our name from. Markolf is old High German, it combines the words ‘border’ and ‘wolf’ because we aren’t like most werewolf families. The transferral is painful and can only be done during a full moon. If none of the pack contests, and if the progeny is strong enough, then passing on of the mantle is usually successful."

"I've never heard of this..." Derek was perplexed and in awe of what he saw unfolding.

"My great-grandfather was what you call a True Alpha, he discovered it was possible to pass on the gift by focusing his power through a bite. However, in doing so, you also relinquish most of your strength, making you considerably weaker."

Derek shook himself of his astonishment and tugged at your hand to make you face him, "I think I know why Peter did what he did. If you can't remember what happened to you, then maybe I can. Earlier, you were having a nightmare, I think it was about the night Alex dies."

You squinted your eyes at him, not having any memory of having had a nightmare earlier, "I don't remember having a nightmare."

"It must be your subconscious protecting you from the trauma. All I need you to do is just think about that night. Close your eyes and picture it, what's the first thing that comes to mind?"

You closed your eyes and let your mind wander.

***

Derek kept his eyes on you while yours stayed shut. He held onto your hand to be your anchor, your guide. He watched silently as the canvas began to bleed through with new colours and images and sounds again.

It started with a laugh.

A sweet, sing-song laugh that tugged at Derek's heartstrings. He turned in the direction of the laugh and saw a younger version of you. A version from the past. He couldn't help but think how beautiful you looked with a bright eye-creasing smile and a glow to your skin from the beams of light falling against your body from the moon.

Derek's breath hitched in his throat as he saw the younger version of you wrapped in another man’s arms. A strong man’s arms. Alex, no doubt.

Alex tucked a strand of your longer hair behind an ear. There were accents of playful red streaks hidden amongst the darker parts of your hair. He enjoyed your vibrancy and so did Derek.

You had seemed a different person in the memory. More carefree and easier with a smile, it had managed to coax an unexpected smile from Derek too.

Alex whispered sweet nothings in your ear as the camp sight materialised behind you, and soon so did the trees and the speckled night sky.

Derek couldn't help it when his jaw tightened and his eyes filled with what held the familiar tang of jealousy. He didn't understand where this feeling was coming from, but he was sure it had to do with the fact the younger, longer-haired version of you was looking longingly into the eyes of another man.

Was Derek jealous of a dead man?

Derek grew annoyed at his boyish behaviour, he was here to help you uncover your memories, not be yearning after a version of the woman whose hand he held.

Once the memory had been constructed it was time for Derek to relive it for you while you kept your eyes shut.

The memory shifted from its pleasant sweetness into a slightly more darkened tone. Derek saw the younger version of you having an argument with Alex. Your face frowned and your eyes held a stubborn conviction, Alex appeared more worn out, as though he was slowly realising he was losing the fight:

"I just don't understand why you would take the job in Vancouver without talking with me about it…" Alex said with gloom.

"Alex, I don't want to fight about this again. It's not every day that someone gets offered such a desirable job straight out of university!" The younger version of you shouted, tired of arguing about the same thing for the past month with Alex. "You know I couldn't pass it up."

"But you did so without talking it over with me first. It's like you're using the job as an excuse to end things with me. I know we haven't been ourselves in a while now, I know we fight a lot but--"

"Alex, please stop. We can talk about this when we get back home."

Derek noticed that your smile began to falter as you heard the words the younger version of you shouted at Alex. He squeezed your hand slightly to let you know he was still with you. That you weren't alone.

The memory grew darker still.

The night was less illuminated and the moon was obscured by rain clouds. In the memory, you were holding a hand over your mouth to keep your ragged pants as inaudible as possible, hunkered behind a sage bush as Alex slowly bled out a stone’s throw away from you.

Alyster -the man in the green robe from before- was scanning the forest, he was searching for you. His eagle eyes still every bit as disconcerting as before. The compass around his neck slowly losing its green glow.

The blonde archer from before came to his side, "Alyster," she called out, "the girl, can you sense her?"

Alyster shook his head, his red hair weightless against the howling wind, "Her aura has been shielded from the Oculus," his bony fingers clasped the compass around his neck, "its ability is being obscured." Alyster pointed at a burning cluster of sage close by.

The archer grabbed a hand full of sage growing on one of the many bushes closest to her and crumpled it in her hands with distaste, "And the boy?" the archer asked, glancing down at a slowly dying Alex.

"He carries the magic in him as well, but the girl’s was stronger. She is the one we need if we hope to keep the Mother Tree fuelled. I fear, she may be the last." Alyster glanced down at his arm. A tattoo made up of a strange marking etched onto his forearm, previously hidden under his green robe.

When Alex finally drew his last breath, a green mist came into view around his body, the mist was drawn towards the tattoo, embedding itself into it. The tattoo glowed the same shade as the Oculus for a brief minute before it returned back to normal. Alyster let out a pained growl.

"The rest of the pack have scurried off, do we make with the chase?"

"No. They do not possess the magic. Leave them be, tell the others to return. Daybreak is upon us."

Derek noticed tears streaming down your face.

Your hand had clutched his in a death grip as the memory began to unravel and spiral into chaos. It played over and over again: the lone arrow whistling through the tree line, embedding itself into Alex's chest after your argument; Alex shouting for you to hide as another arrow flew out; you scurrying behind the bushes and holding your breath as you listened to Alyster and the female archer converse; Alex losing the light in his eyes; the eagle eyes that scanned the forest belonging to Alyster and the green tendrils that felt out for you emerging from the Oculus.

It just kept repeating.

"Y/N, snap out of it," Derek shook your shoulders. You didn't budge, your eyes shut tight, refusing to open.

"Y/N, wake up, listen to my voice," Derek tried to reassure you, "I'm here, I'm right here, don't lose yourself in the memory. Stay with me!"

He was shaking you violently but you were lost in the chaos. Derek watched as the memory replayed itself, getting corrupted and altered the longer it stayed in its loop.

Derek couldn't think of anything else to do, he needed to draw your senses to him, to pull you out of your hell.

In desperation, he gripped your face between his hands and drew you in for a kiss. Your lips were stiff and unmoving at first, but soon enough he felt you loosen in his arms as you began to instinctively kiss him back.

In the background, the horrific memory dissipated into blackness and the dark canvas mutated into a beautiful rendition of a romanticised full moon and starry sky.

Derek felt himself let go of all senses and logic as he deepened the kiss and wrapped his arms around your waist. He felt your fingers grace his jawline as his tongue practically serenaded you into a peaceful quiet.

You were drowning in each other.

When Derek pulled back, he was utterly thrown by what he saw. Your eyes, they weren't their normal colour, they glowed a magnificent silver, like the moon itself. And your body was surrounded by a shimmering green aura.

If the moon were personified as a woman, Derek imagined she would not be able to hold a candle up to your spellbinding beauty.

You had taken the very air from his lungs.

His eyes turned their werewolf blue, but it wasn't from being on the defensive or from anger. They were blue for another reason.

"Why did you--" you couldn't finish your question, a deep flush colouring your neck and cheeks.

"It was the only thing I could think of to snap you out of your… daze," Derek explained, his chest heaving up and down.

Without any warning, just as you were mere moments from placing your hand back on his face, to feel if he was real even in the dream state, the dream melted away.  Derek and you were pulled apart in opposite directions as reality bombarded your senses again.

***

"Welcome back," Peter said in between ragged pants as his head was coated in sweat and he was hunched over, holding onto his knees to keep him upright.

Your neck bled from the claw marks, staining your clothes red. Your eyes struggling to open.

You gasped out loud as you almost toppled over from the stool. Derek caught you before you touched the ground, his arms struggling to hold you up, Liam rushed to help him.

As you lost consciousness, the last thing you saw was his soothing green eyes looking down at you with worry and Liam’s own panic riddled expression contrasting deeply with the calm that was settling over you.

Part 8 is Here!

MASTERPOST | Mobile

As Always: Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Let me know what you think so far! Don’t be afraid to ask to be added to the tag list and just a heads-up, this will be my last update for this series for a little while. I have some moving to do!

Tags: @melissavercos   @theflash-trash @mynamesalreadytaken @island-end @chipster-21 @helloscorpious  @marvelismyfantasy @anonymousfanfics @homra-the-red-clan @derangedangel @phonegalhelp’

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[forthelulzy]

Heaven By Violence: Chapter 2

How deeply are you sleeping or are you still awake? A good friend told me you've been staying out so late Be careful, oh my darling, oh be careful what it takes From what I've seen so far, the good ones always seem to break — “Sky Full of Song”, Florence + the Machine

The prisoner is unconscious, borne on a stretcher by the scouts, and the whispers have already begun. Herald of Andraste. Chosen of the Maker.

He wants it to be true. She’s something like the statues. Statuesque, at least: all hard lines and muscle. A warrior. But Andraste is depicted as beautiful, and she is… not. And that mark on her hand, while no longer flaring every few seconds, makes him uneasy. What would his reaction have been had the prisoner — survivor, must think of her as the survivor — been a mage? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

They take her down to Haven, and Josephine secures a cabin and servant for her. Well, really: most everyone is clamoring to accommodate the Herald, and the servant is beside herself with pride when she is chosen.

They wait, again, for her to wake up. In the meantime he and Josephine are brought up to date, and Leliana finally hits a lead on the identity of the survivor. She’s from Ostwick, a daughter of Bann Trevelyan. How she ended up with a mage husband, who he was, and what they were doing at the Conclave remains a mystery. Josephine advises against contacting the Trevelyans without Irene’s permission. In any case, she says, the House will find out soon enough. Word is spreading, though they have yet to formally announce the reborn Inquisition. They don’t even know if Irene will pledge herself to it; Cassandra said she had earlier, but Irene hadn’t known what she was getting into then.

Cullen hadn’t, either, when Cassandra recruited him. Before the Conclave blew up and an Inquisition proved necessary in the first place. Perhaps the Divine had some kind of foresight, to leave her directive with her Hands instead of placing all hope on the Conclave.

~o~O~o~

Cullen isn’t there when she wakes, but in the afternoon of the first day of the fledgling Inquisition, he’s finally summoned up to their makeshift war room for the first meeting including Irene. He is apprehensive. She had fought fiercely at the smaller rift, but brushed him off afterward. Cassandra’s report indicates she thrives on anger. He fears she is single-minded by nature, and not the leader the Inquisition needs. Perhaps, even, another Meredith. The thought coils low in the back of his head, nesting in with yet another headache.

Cassandra enters first, followed by the Herald. The blacksmith has crafted new armor for her, and the chainmail rustles as she walks. She’s… tired. Careworn. Her blond hair is neatly braided down her back and her face is freshly washed, but the skin is bright red and irritated from scrubbing too hard. He knows the feeling.

“Here we are,” Cassandra says, closing the door behind them.

Irene flinches when the door thuds gently into place. It takes a moment for her to force her stance to relax, though tension remains bunched in her shoulders and jaw.

“Before we begin, let me introduce the advisors to the Inquisition,” Cassandra says. Irene focuses on the Seeker, but she watches everyone else, especially him, in her periphery. He realizes he is resting his hands on his pommel again, and deliberately lets his arms fall to his sides. She relaxes only a fraction.

“Commander Cullen, who you met briefly on the way to the Breach.”

Her eyebrows knit together. He is not surprised she wouldn’t remember; it wasn’t even a meeting worthy to be called such. Nevertheless he says, “Only for a moment. I’m pleased you survived.”

She looks at him carefully, and Cullen can only determine it’s not anger or hatred, at least. That’s a start. Her gaze flits away when Josephine and Leliana are introduced, and he feels her attention leave like it had been a weight across his shoulders he hadn’t even known was there. She scrutinizes them, as well, and nods sharply when Cassandra is done. “All right. I guess you have questions for me.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already found everything there is to know?” Leliana asks mildly, and Cullen rolls his eyes.

Irene snorts. “If you did, we wouldn’t be talking, Spymaster. You would’ve made assumptions, correct or not, and we wouldn’t be nearly so friendly now.” She pauses long enough for Cullen’s mind to make up a half-dozen theories — Agent? Fugitive? Thrall to a bloodmage husband? — before continuing. “Ask your questions. I will answer, or I won’t. I am no master of the Game.” Her tone is resigned, but her posture thrums with agitation. She holds her head high, staring straight ahead.

Leliana clears her throat, putting on her neutral mask quickly but not so quickly Cullen misses her unease. It comforts him that even the Sister finds Irene unsettling. “Very well,” she says. “Where are you from?”

Irene scowls. “Ostwick, Free Marches. Bann Trevelyan’s fourth daughter. Don’t look surprised, it’s insulting.”

Josephine coughs politely. “Yes, I apologize. Leliana likes to start with questions she already knows the answer to.”

“Josie!” she protests, even as Irene huffs and says, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what—” Cassandra starts.

“I know I don’t look or act like a Lady Trevelyan. I don’t want to. My father is a spineless hypocrite and my siblings are worthless yes-men. They are my relatives, but they are not my family. You can be the most stereotypical, Light-chanting noble and still be trash. And you can spend your whole life trying to get away from titles and still have them come back to bite you in the ass.” She shifts, mouth clicking shut. She seems to have surprised herself with her own vehemence on the matter.

Josephine is frantically scribbling a note on the little board she carries everywhere, and Cullen can only hope it involves never, ever calling the Herald Lady Trevelyan to her face, as she has been doing in private since Leliana dug up the information two days ago. Probably not ‘Herald of Andraste’, either.

Cassandra and Leliana share a look, and the Seeker says, “What were you doing at the Conclave?”

Something flickers in Irene’s eyes, and she swallows hard. The anger bleeds out, but not the tension. It takes a moment for her to gather herself. “I was only there because Colm was there. We were looking for his brother. We had heard rumors he was in the mage delegation, but… I don’t remember whether we found him or not.”

“What do you remember?” Cullen asks, though he suspects Leliana wants to get to Colm’s identity first. That was her and Cassandra’s most pressing question, but Cullen doesn’t want to step into that nest of vipers yet.

Irene turns to him, eyes going unfocused while she searches her memory. “I remember… the sky, the night before. It was cold and clear, and Colm was talking about how the stars were different in the south. Then…” She growls and shakes her head, braid whipping back and forth. “Nothing. It’s just gone.”

“You have no idea who the woman was? The soldiers who found you said they saw a shining figure behind you in the rift, before you fell out and it closed,” Leliana asks next.

“No. I’ve heard the whispers though. Herald of Andraste. I’m not— I don’t know. I don’t know why Andraste or the Maker would chose me as their voice. If anyone, Colm—” She cuts off, throat bobbing as she swallows hard. She doesn’t cry.

“Your husband? Was he devout?” Josephine queries, still scribbling notes.

Irene huffs a shaky laugh, blinking hard. She looks at the floor when she says, “Not in the way you all are thinking. Colm didn’t believe the Chantry should have as much power as it does.” She pauses, and though her voice is softer when she continues, she’s also lifted her chin to stare at them in turn. “What he did believe was in the power of kindness, and setting good examples, and— I can’t explain it properly, but… If anyone held the Maker’s light, it was him. If I was chosen, Andraste missed the far better candidate for Her will standing right next to me.” Silence falls again when she is done, but her words linger in Cullen’s mind. Her self-hatred is strong. Why?

“What did the voice mean, Colm was a traitor to his kind?” Leliana says, edging around the real question yet unanswered.

“I imagine… I imagine that refers to how he came to leave Tevinter.”

Josephine gasps. Cassandra practically snarls, “Tevinter?” Cullen’s hands clench around his pommel, cramping his hands and turning the knuckles white — he didn’t realize they had drifted back to their familiar resting spot. Leliana’s mask is firmly in place; she is the only one to not have a visible reaction. Instead she orders with a voice like steel, “Explain.”

Irene shifts her weight and crosses her arms. It is a defensive posture, but at least it gives them more time if she decides to reach for her greatsword. “It is a long story.”

“We have time.” Cullen is glad Leliana has yet to be truly angry with him; they may disagree on many things but he has never seen her this way, even right after the Conclave. To be the focus of her ire would be a deadly position.

Irene is not afraid; she seems to have prepared herself for this. “Colm is short for Columbus, and he and his brother Caius fled Tevinter following a scandal in which they helped a slave kill their father, a magister. That is the short of it. My husband admired Divine Justinia. He did not agree with many southern customs regarding magic, but he did not tolerate slavery or blood sacrifice either. He always believed there must be another way.” She pauses, lets her arms drop to her sides. “I can only hope to carry on as he would have wanted. He and I were very different people, but in his memory I will try to leave the world a better place than I found it, if at all possible. It is the least I can do.”

Silence falls again but for the soft scratching of Josephine’s quill. Cullen cannot imagine the diplomatic explosion-in-the-making Irene has given their Ambassador, but if anyone can defuse it, it is her. Cassandra and Leliana are exchanging looks again, the Seeker having relaxed a minuscule amount during Irene’s explanation and Spymaster clearly thinking ten steps ahead, as she always does. As for Cullen, he finds himself pitying Irene for the position she has found herself in. “I admire your honesty, Herald,” he says softly, before he thinks too hard about it.

Brown eyes dart to him, but she doesn’t rebuke the title. She seems… surprised? There’s another emotion flitting beneath, but the headache is rising to the forefront of his mind and he can’t identify it.

Leniana shifts, folding her hands behind her back. “Yes, you have given us a lot to think about. I believe we should move our discussion on closing the Breach to tomorrow. Agreed?”

Though Cassandra could probably go into the wee hours of the morning, she relents, and the date is set.

Cullen leaves the Chantry with his headache pounding away, and the late afternoon sun doesn’t help. But he soldiers on, as he always does, walking down with Cassandra in silence. He wants to be able to lie down in his tent with a pillow over his head and rest, but there’s recruits to oversee and reports to read. He will sleep when it becomes unavoidable.

~o~O~o~

It’s late and the moons have long since risen. Everyone but the guards (and Cullen) have gone to bed. The night shift may have a good reason to stay up, but Cullen should have forced himself to sleep hours ago. He knows this, he does. He still can’t bring himself to.

Working methodically, he transfers reports from his ‘unread’ stack, writes replies, and drops those in the crate for a runner to pick up in the morning. The headache lingers and makes it difficult to focus. He loses track of time — not that he ever has a good sense anymore. He reaches for another report and his hand hits the bare wood of his desk. Oh.

Cullen glances back at his pallet. The tent is relatively large, but most of it is taken up by the desk. It’s not like a fancy bed would help, anyway.

He gets up, feeling his bones creak from so much sitting. He is not old, but sometimes he feels the years. Most of the time, actually. He steps outside into the freezing Frostback night, taking a deep breath of the chilly mountain air. It is still, and, if he only looks north, peaceful. Southward the sky is dominated by the Breach. If he looks at it too long he remembers: green streaks of light, like mockeries of shooting stars, falling to the earth. The ground erupting with the impact, flinging his soldiers about like dolls. The shrieks of demons, that time blending in with all the other times.

A shadow moves near the gates. The guards are there, but they are looking out, not inward, and the shadow slips past them and circles around behind the tents.

Cullen gets his sword halfway unsheathed, but the warning shout dies on his lips when the shadow suddenly straightens up, and their cloak rustles in the wind. The moonlight glints off chainmail. The Herald? No other woman (and precious few of the men) in Haven is so tall, and he recognizes the dark brown cloak as the one Leliana gifted to her. Irene skirts towards the lake, walking fast. What is she doing?

It’s not hard to follow her heavy footprints, though he loses sight of her. She’s headed up into the hills, and he finally catches up to her some ten minutes later on a cliff overlooking the lake and Haven. He crests the rise and stops, realizing all at once what she’s doing. What he’s doing, too.

Irene is kneeling, gathering snow with her bare hands to pile onto a flat rock she’s placed a foot from the cliff edge. When she has shaped it to her liking she rubs her hands — Maker, they must be freezing — on her cloak and clasps them in front of her, bowing her head. She mouths something, ignoring the wind whipping her hair. He takes a step back, shamed blush creeping up his neck. She needed some time alone, obviously, and here he had to hunt her down. Hasn’t he left that life behind, mage or not? He’s about to leave her be and return to Haven, when she sits back on her heels and, without turning her head, says, “What are you still doing up, Commander?” It’s quiet, but her voice carries.

“I could ask you the same.”

She turns her head, a tiny smile on her lips. “I have been asleep for one of the last two weeks.”

“That is… true enough. I apologize; I will leave you alone.” He turns around, fully intending to do just that, but she calls him back. “Yes, Herald?”

“I wanted to ask you something.” She stands up and brushes the snow off her legs. “Do you believe we really stand a chance? Not only sealing the Breach, but restoring order as the Divine wanted?”

He blinks, turning the question over in his head. His first instinct is to answer with enthusiasm, but the look on her face begs a more measured response. She’s uncertain, but a woman like her will not accept blind optimism. Not that he would call it optimism — he considers himself more pragmatic — but he believes it. “Yes. If anyone can do it, it is the Inquisition. It’ll be hard, of course, but I believe it is the Maker’s will.” Something flickers in her eyes, and he adds, “Maybe not so obvious, but… I have to believe there’s meaning behind this.”

“I can understand that,” she says. “I’m— not the most faithful person. Yes, Maker and His Bride, but…” She shakes her head. “I know on some level prayer and putting myself in the hands of a higher power might make many of my issues better or even disappear, but I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Her parents might have something to do with that. “It’s something unique to each person. Or should be.” That’s all the comfort he can offer her without lying.

Irene studies him for a long moment. He tries not to fidget under her gaze. Finally she lets out a long breath. “I’m told you were Knight-Commander of Kirkwall’s Circle.”

It is an abrupt subject change, a topic he’s been expecting to come up — and it has before — but not so quickly. Not here. “I… yes. Knight-Captain before everything fell apart.” This time he does fidget, hands tightening — imperceptibly beneath his gloves, he hopes — on his pommel. It is a habit, and one that makes many people nervous, but she seems to have realized he’s not threatening her when he does it.

She makes a considering noise. “Caius was there briefly. Was taken in three months before… that.”

“He escaped?”

“Yes. We lost contact with him while he was in Kirkwall, thought he had died with everyone else when we got the news. It turns out as soon as Meredith made the announcement, he fled. Fade-stepped across the Waking Sea, according to the letter we got before he dropped off the face of Thedas again.” She shrugs. “Not sure if I believe it but… he always was good at that spell.”

Cullen shakes his head. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad he got away.” He means it, he’s surprised to find.

“I still don’t know whether he was at the Conclave or not, but if he’s still alive, he’s going to be devastated. They were twins.” She sighs, turns her face to the sky. It would be a beautiful, peaceful night, if not for the Breach still casting an eerie green glow over the place. “I wish I had more to remember him by. But memories will have to do.”

Cullen doesn’t know what to say, and the melancholy look doesn’t suit her, so he follows her gaze to the stars. They stand in silence for a long time, until she sighs again.

“Good night, Commander. I hope we can both find rest.”

[prixmiumarchive]

Don’t Hug Me I’m Confused

Disclaimer: The following post contains some personal critique of certain fandom patterns and habits that I personally find strange, don’t relate to, or don’t enjoy. However, this post really isn’t that deep in those areas, and so while I’m not talking about kink at all, just kind of consider this a sort of KINKTOMATO disclaimer. What you enjoy and how you enjoy it is not my business, and your art and cosplays are things that a) seem to be of high quality and b) I could not actually accomplish so kudos to you for doing it even if it’s not my thing in its expression. You do you, and I’ll do me, and I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings. This is just a personal blog post / semi-review that I’m tagging in case anyone else who has watched dhmis wants to read it. This post may likely come across as pretty “anti-shipping,” but rest assured that I probably ship some weird stuff in other fandoms so I’m not judging you, or whatever.

Nursing a headache better and responding to a text, I was reminded of the existence of a weird web series on YouTube that, apparently, was released over the course of several years. The first installment of Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared was shown to me by a former friend sometime after its release many years ago now. Naturally, I was pretty unsettled by it at the time in a sort of nervous-laughter, later-haunted-nightmares sort of way. However, at the time and with its sole initial video being around, the way I processed the video and its purpose was quite different from the way I process it now. I had seen that there were a couple more videos over the years, but I had never actually managed to watch the little series to its sixth installment because at some point I got disturbed ever time and quit. However, in a state of resolve and slightly greater desensitization, I finally finished it up. And I’m strangely satisfied and intrigued, particularly after watching a couple of commentary videos about it.

Rather than rehashing someone else’s explanation, I’ll simply refer to The Film Theorists two videos on the subject. I think that this YouTube channel sometimes gets a lot of raised eyebrows and bad press for reaching really hard to get shock-value, click-bait-y ~dark theories~ out of benign or extremely popular media. I haven’t really consumed their other material, so I can’t speak to that, but I can say that the two videos on DHMIS are not reaching for even more darkness and edge. Rather, they seem to be well-researched, well-reasoned explanations for what is otherwise a strangely difficult work of art to process. I say “work of art” not terribly lightly nor terribly dogmatically because I really don’t know what else to make of something that intrigues, bothers, pleases, disturbs, and fascinates me that is intended to communicate something even if that something is the particular sense of unease I am describing.

As is my custom when I don’t really know what to do with feelings about a particular work of fiction, I opened a tab to AO3 to see if fanfiction exists for that “fandom” to see if a quantifiable fandom is actually there. To my surprise, DHMIS actually had over 100 fics. So, I scrolled through the first couple of pages to see what they tended to be about or whatever. I had no particular craving or desire to read fic about this at the moment; I just wanted to know what the environment was like. And what I found was really, really deeply not what I expected.

A major part of the fandom seems to be something called “p/adlock” shipping which I’m censoring so that I’m not picking on someone’s OTP. Again, disclaimer, not judging, simply commenting. It seems to be shipping the Sketch Pad from the first installment with the Clock from the second. I really don’t know where people came up with this or why it seems to be so passionate, but I am not here to judge. It just seems like it is strangely misaimed and sort of misses the central themes of whatever the hell is going on in DHMIS. Even if I’m not sure what is going on, I’m pretty sure that it is not a romantic love story, subtextually or otherwise. Of course, there’s shipping in everything. Before you get mad at me, let me also say that it reminds me of another fandom I’m involved in in which I am one of the weird maybe-missing-the-point shippers, so I’ll get back to that.

Perhaps one of the reasons that this is such an interesting experience for me is that I feel like I’m experiencing my discovery of this fandom much the way those who discover the Portal fandom and poke around not knowing what to expect must do. I came looking for commentary or elaboration on the universe that seems to have been established in these little shorts. Instead, I find shipping that I cannot really find the thread for at all. Now, of course, I would argue that I do find subtext and reasoning and so on in Portal fandom and “chelley” (Chell/Wheatley) shipping. I also find reasons to believe that Wheatley being in a humanoid or android form makes sense in some cases. I don’t see why there are humanoid forms of already anthropomorphic set pieces and characters in DHMIS. See the above videos for a theory I’ve pretty much bought into, I think, that these characters represent props or animations or such anyway while only Red Guy, Yellow Guy, and Duck are real characters/people/performers. (I realize they have names, maybe.)

Anyway, digressing a bit from the strange experience of seeing how a subset of fandom that is really transforming the original work (again - kudos even if not my thing, I think) being the majority when you don’t really get it from the other side of it, I also want to comment on how worth-it I found finally finishing DHMIS. It went from what felt like a strange, occasionally darkly humorous, occasionally dark-dark-dark exercise in internet meme-y nihilism to something that became so much more. Initially, watching the first couple of episodes, it felt like something that existed that sort of titillate and affirm that particular vein of teenage, edgy, oppositional defiance-y, XD-random, I wear black as it is the color of my soul, I have fantasy colored hair despite it not being goth because I like color secretly and because it bothers some conservative people, I’m angry at societal structures that have failed me and am determined to throw all the babies out with all the bathwater because I’m so angry frustration. Now, I still relate to a handful of those things. If my life allowed for it I would be a pink-hair-but-wearing-all-black kind of person some of the time. However, I find that the depth of that particular soft-laughter rage that comes with being a teenager with the experiences to develop it sort of off-putting as someone who has both been-there and has become a teacher in my adult life. I see myself in it, but I also see things that I hate both on their own merits and that I hate in the form of hating it for a person who has to go through it or go through the steps to have gotten there. In the end, though, I found that DHMIS was less late night Cartoon Network programming is the pinnacle of artistic expression and more some kind of play on nostalgia, capitalism, anxiety, power structures, creativity and its opponents, institutionalized violence, and even, maybe, the meat-packing and commercial food industries. In a way, watching it all the way through sort of felt like going through a fast-motion montage of going from being a sort of disturbed teenager to being an adult on the other side of it with a whole other set of frustrations and anxieties that can still be found in the same sort of imagery. It felt like growing up in a weird way.

Still in episodes I had seen before, I remarked to mentioned texting friend that Red Guy was my favorite when she indicated that she was watching a bit of it. I wasn’t even sure why, but in particular his reactions to the clock in the second episode really sold me. All of the characters had strange reactions to a lot of things, but his deadpan, monotone confusion, and the way in which he complies to this-might-as-well-happen sorts of circumstances until he cracks in the end and has some kind of epiphany really resonated with me. Then, I realized, it was because he was, in fact, that avatar of the adult in this situation, and that is its own kind of mind-blow because initially one does not really conceive of these characters as anything but ageless muppets. Which is its own layer of unsettling. In any case, I am really impressed with this little series. Whether or not the “film theory” is right, I feel more satisfied in the end. However, I would really recommend those videos because it totally flipped my perspective on the ending of DHMIS from “there’s no hope and not escape from this hell” or, possibly, “you might escape hell but you’re dooming someone else to replace you,” to something entirely and much more hopeful bout the drudgery of a creatively inclined adult trying to slog through the obstacles and soul-drains that our present societal pressures place on us. I really hope I figure it out in the end like Red Guy.

One final, mostly off-topic note: upon a glance, I think that maybe that film theories youtube channel is, perhaps, more genuine in its efforts to dissect internet memes than in the clickbait it produces for blockbuster movies. But then again, in a a world dictated by ad revenue, whatcha gonna do?

Given that our focuses on what we like about the series seem to be wildly different, I doubt that I’ll be hard-joining the DHMIS fandom for the most part. I enjoyed some of the content in the tag, and if you’re reading from outside it, you might check it out.

If you like or hard-relate to Red Guy and enjoy scifi (Doctor Who, The Expanse), other web series (Carmilla), or other common fandom stuff (superhero shows, DC/Marvel, select anime), you might consider messaging or following me. I’d love to talk about Red Guy with someone who kinda gets it, but again I’m not really interested in shipping in this fandom.

If you read this far, thanks and have a lovely day!

[joanofsnarrrk]

Fic: Bad Girls Do It Well (Uncharted) - 10,000 words

SUMMARY: Chloe has never considered herself a particularly sentimental person (perish the thought!), but certain memories, certain snapshots in time have an inconvenient way of sticking with a person. After all, only two things have remained constant in her life, amidst the chaos, the adventure, and the danger: music and photography. And...perhaps adopted family along the way? Nope, no, absolutely not. Her sentimentality must have *some* limits, surely

So after actual MONTHS, I’m thrilled to have finally finished this! Awhile ago, Sony put out playlists on Spotify for the characters of Uncharted: the Lost Legacy (they were awesome!). Chloe's was particularly inspiring, and after finishing the game, I found myself really attached to the idea that using a camera to document her adventures was something she's done since the beginning. Please enjoy Bad Girls Do It Well (title from M.I.A.’s “Bad Girls”)!

Can also be found on AO3 - Fanfiction

Oklahoma, 2002 - Nate

I said to the man, “Are you trying to tempt me Because I come from the land of plenty?” And he said, “Do you come from a land down under?”

—Men at Work “Down Under”

“Would you put that away, and give me a hand?” Nate grits out, clearly not amused by this as much as she is.

“And miss out on this view?” Chloe bites her lower lip as she watches his boxerbrief-clad backside through the lens of her camera. He audibly groans at the sound of the lens shutter, and she’s powerless against her smirk turning into a full on grin. “Unlikely.”

She imagines he would throw her an exasperated look right about now, but as it is, he’s crouched on top of a radiator, toes gripping around the edges, while his unclothed torso—along with the rest of his upper body—is dangling outside the window of their fourth story hotel room.

She watches as he contorts himself unnaturally in an attempt to retrieve one of his Para 9’s that was accidently thrown onto the fire escape during what Chloe is referring to as a particularly enthusiastic bit of foreplay. Not wanting to further encourage the suspicions of the front desk manager with patron complaints of an unregistered firearm, Nate lunged after the gun almost immediately, nary a second thought to his own livelihood.

Initially, she had protested, but after watching him writhe about, his muscles extending and contracting every time he moved, she had to admit it was far more entertaining than whatever she could pull up on the telly.

She lets him struggle a moment more before snapping a particularly gratifying shot and adds, “If you consider me your moral support—and you very well should—then I am absolutely lending a hand.”

He ignores her, focusing all of his attention on retrieving the blasted weapon, fingers splayed in the hopes of extending just a few more centimeters. “Almost…got it.”

He flashes her a huge grin once he’s back inside, twirling the Para 9 in his right hand like he’s Steve McQueen, rather than the bloke who was just hanging out of the window in his underpants. It would be absolutely embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

“Are you impressed, or what?” he wants to know.

Chloe considers commemorating the moment on film, but suddenly, she really likes the idea of keeping it to herself. Something she can chide herself for being overly sentimental about later. She sets the camera on the table next to her armchair, careful not to knock over the radio, which is providing ambience in the form of 104.5’s eighties at eleven.

(“Is this your guys’ national anthem?” Nate had asked last night once they had collapsed onto the bed. “Down Under” was playing then, too.

“Mmm, yes,” Chloe hums with laughter, her hand tracing aimlessly on his stomach, her head resting comfortably on his chest. “We praise the Queen and country and the musical genius of Colin Hay.”)

In response to Nate, she makes a show of fanning herself dramatically. “Whew! You certainly had me—and the residents of Tulsa who bared witness to your little show—hot and bothered.”

Much to her delight, he rolls his eyes before turning his attention to the desk next to the radiator, the same one he had just vacated. His shoulder holsters (as well as his shirt) are draped haphazardly over the accompanying chair, and he carefully places the firearm back into its holder, snapping it closed.

“You’re a piece of work, y’know that?” he says with his back to her. She can hear the amusement in his voice, but she’s more interested in the patchwork of scars stretched across the broad expanse of his back.

“I distinctly recall there being less complaints where my behavior’s concerned prior to your acrobatic performance,” she replies offhandedly. As if sensing her staring, he turns around and leans against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Back when we were…”

Nate grins. “…Preoccupied?”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Among other things.”

“Really?” asks Chloe with a raised eyebrow. “Because I was going to refer to it as ‘being-interrupted-by-a-roving-firearm-before-I-could-even-get-my-top-off.’”

His eyes darken in distraction as he takes in her appearance, and for the first time in…well, ever, she feels herself flush. It’s nothing scandalous—more coverage than a bikini, certainly, in her tank top and knickers. But it’s the harsh light of day and her hair is down, and for the life of her, she can’t recall ever sticking around long enough the morning after for firearm antics and flirtatious banter.

It’s bordering dangerously close to domestic, which should raise all sorts of red flags, but...well, she isn’t exactly running away, is she?

All red flags are blissfully swept away, however, when he closes the distance from the desk to where she’s seated and grips the arms on either side of the chair, effectively caging her in place.

“There’s at least one good thing to come out of all this,” Nate insists, not even trying to be subtle as he rakes his gaze over her from head to toe.

“Which is?” It takes every ounce of restraint she possesses to not break into an absurdly delighted smile. Instead, she brushes her fingers, feather light, over one of his lower arms, lingering far longer than necessary.

“That at least you know it wasn’t a gun in my pocket,” he clarifies, barely holding it together. “I really was happy to see you.”

Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes, which she absolutely does, with only a hint, mind you, of amusement. Nate’s arms shake along with his laughter, but his antics are effectively cut short when she sits up and pulls him into a kiss.

Nate’s jokes only get worse from there, but it doesn’t change the fact that they don’t leave the room for at least two more days.

London, 2009 - Harry

We’re hell raising And we don’t need saving ‘Cause there’s no salvation for a bad girl We’re rock bottom But there ain’t no stopping ‘Cause it’s you and me against the world

—Natalia Kills “Problem"

She comes back from Nepal with insomnia and a spare key for a flat in London that belongs to a dead man. There’s nothing particularly fanciful or noteworthy about the place, except that she spent a lot of time (a lot of nights) there researching and planning their steps from Istanbul to Borneo for Marco Polo’s fleet back when Harry…

…back when Harry was alive.

She can’t bring herself to sleep in his bed, so she sets herself up on the couch, but after two hours of listening to rain pelt against the front window and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, she can’t take it anymore. She throws on a pair of runners and an ancient gray hoodie before heading out into the night.

It doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for. She spots the tattoo shop just up the road and turns into the adjoining alley, bypassing a couple of bins before walking down a small set of worn concrete stairs to the building’s side entrance. She walks inside.

Dim, flickering overhead lights expose a seedy gym underneath. There’s a roped off boxing ring in the middle, a few punching bags near the back, and wooden benches with free weights and barbells off to the side. No treadmills or ellipticals to speak of, but there is faint music coming in through tinny speakers around the room.

She heads toward the back, ignoring the unsettling leers coming from some of the male patrons as she walks by. It’s a little more difficult to block out the bald guy in the ring, his swear-laden diatribe directed at the bloke being pummeled, but Chloe manages.

There’s no one else by the bags, which suits her plenty. She wraps her hands, but before she can start, she feels her burner phone vibrate. It’s two messages—one from Nate and one from Sully. R u ok? Nate wants to know. Damn it Frazer pick up, is Sully’s less subtle text of choice. Chloe doesn’t have the closure or emotional maturity to deal with either of them at the moment. Not until she hits something, anyway.

She thinks about Nate’s stupid face, how he traded in death and bloodshed for picket fences and HOAs, while she was left to deal with the fallout of a dead partner, a-a turncoat. She cracks her neck, left to right, before slamming her fist into the bag. A jolt reverberates back through her arm, and it’s enough to light an unseen spark, to set her off.

Sure, Chloe thinks as she unleashes a series of jabs and hooks, Harry could be an absolute tosser, but she’s not entirely sure he deserved the way he went out. Hell, she’s not entirely sure anyone deserves to go out like that. Except maybe Lazaravec. He brought his demise on himself.

But, a small, resolute voice suggests, so did Harry.

She sinks a roundhouse kick, grunting when it lands. The arsehole didn’t even think—just pursued his own ambition, not caring what or, in her case, who became collateral damage.

She blinks as a drop of sweat lands in her eye, swiping at it before landing another uppercut. It wasn’t like she was in love with him (perish the thought!), but he could be charming and sarcastic when it was just the two of them. Admittedly, being with him didn’t require much acting on her part.

She punctuates her next flurry of hits with a muttered swear, and tries to gulp down air. It’s only then that she notices how her chest feels like it’s going to burst open. With an anguished cry, she lands an axe kick that somehow manages to break the punching bag from its chains and send it flying back a few feet. It takes her a moment to calm down, for her shoulders to stop heaving and her heart to stop racing, before she realizes just what has transpired.

“Oi, watch it!” The bald guy from the boxing ring vaults over the ropes and approaches, taking in the broken heavy bag and her disheveled appearance, soaked through hoodie and all. Up close, she notices the cleft in his chin and the scars across his nose and eyebrow.

She brushes the sweat-plastered hair out of her eyes. “Sorry, I—”

“Got swept up in the moment? Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I dunno if you’ve taken the time to assess what type of establishment this is, but it certainly doesn’t have enough funds to cover property damage every time some lady’s off her nut.”

Chloe bristles at that and reaches into her pocket, too exhausted to call him out on his overt sexism. “Here.” She hands him 50 quid. “Apologies to the establishment from the knackered lady.”

He pockets the money, mouth lifting into a slight smirk, but he doesn’t apologize. “Y’know,” he says instead, “we run an amateur boxing match every week. If your affinity for property destruction can be equally applied to people, you should consider signing up.”

He hands her his card (his name is Charlie, apparently) before he hops back into the ring, presumably to continue his coaching efforts. The tension in her shoulders dissipates, and she shoves his card into her front pocket. Breathing steady once again, she wipes a hand over her brow and snaps a picture of the downed punching bag. She sends it to Nate and Sully.

I’m processing, she writes back.

Sydney, 2010 - Sully

The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent, now To pay our share

—Midnight Oil “Beds are Burning”

“This easily could have been discussed over the telephone, Victor.”

Sully swivels in his bar stool and looks at her over his glass of scotch. His smile is visible beneath his mustache. “Would you believe me if I said I missed the hell out of ya?”

“No,” she responds emphatically, but her laughter betrays the hardened exterior she has worked so hard to uphold over the years. She absentmindedly stirs her own drink. “I don’t buy it. What I would believe more is if you said you were here on behalf of one Nathan Drake.”

She knows she’s spot on when his cheeks go slightly pink.

“Can’t it be both?” he asks sheepishly, which says a lot about their relationship and his sincerity because Victor’s not sheepish about anything.

She laughs. “I knew it! So what is it this time, hmm? The latest treasure hunt’s gone belly up, and Nate needs a couple hundred quid to bounce back? Or perhaps his latest adventure brings him down under, and he and Fisher need a place to crash? Is that it?”

Sully remains silent and pointedly avoids her gaze. It’s so uncharacteristic, Chloe becomes concerned that Nate and Elena may be in serious danger. “Victor,” she presses, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Just tell me what’s going on. Are they—?”

“Nate and Elena are getting married.”

Chloe nearly chokes on her spritzer. “Married?”

“Don’t act all surprised, Frazer. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Or perhaps,” she offers, “not at all?”

Sully clicks his tongue at that in an annoyingly condescending way. He pauses, shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “Don’t tell me you’re still sweet on him after all this time?”

‘Him’ meaning Nate. She doesn’t even have to convince herself anymore. She scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Good. Because for a second there…” He lets out a nervous breath, and slams back the rest of his scotch.

“Wait just a minute, I’m not supposed to be comforting you in all this,” Chloe insists. She motions for the bartender to come over. Before she proceeds any further, she’s going to need a much stiffer drink. “You’re supposed to be offering me false platitudes like, ‘she can’t possibly compare to you, Chloe.’”

“Oh.” Sully takes that information in. He scratches the back of his neck, and then lifts his gaze to hers. “…Do you need me to?”

“Of course not!” Chloe blurts. Mercifully, the bartender returns with her whiskey sour. She pouts, then: “But the gesture would have been appreciated.”

Sully smirks at that. “Forgive an old man his impertinence then, will you?”

They sit in companionable silence for a moment as Chloe nurses her drink. Sully’s turned around, his elbows resting on the bar top as he takes in the view of the beach behind them. When the bartender returns to settle their tab, Sully brushes her off and says he’ll take care of it. Unable to muster any energy to protest, she closes her eyes and relishes the feel of the sun on the bare skin of her back.

“Well, mazel tov to the happy couple, but why would this warrant an in-person rendezvous?” she finally asks when her curiosity becomes nearly insufferable. “Not that I’m complaining about the exceptional company by any means,” she amends.

Sully doesn’t answer right away, but when he finally does, it sounds like he’s tiptoeing across a minefield. “They need another witness, and when I suggested you as a potential candidate...well, Nate and Elena thought it was a great idea.”

Chloe lets that marinate a moment before she asks, “Who, if I may ask, is the other witness?”

Sully beams. “You’re lookin’ at him, sweetheart.”

“Should have guessed.” She sighs dramatically, letting her head loll back. I’m going to regret this, she thinks before she squeezes her eyes shut and blurts, “Fine. But I’m bringing a plus one. This bloke, Charlie, we’re working a job together."

Sully raises an eyebrow at that, but mercifully doesn’t say anything. He claps a hand on her shoulder and pulls his phone out. “I’ll let them know.”

“Wait.” She grabs the phone out of his hands, flips it open, and holds the phone out. “Here, move in closer.”

Sully puts his arm around her shoulder while she gives a thumbs-up with one hand and snaps their picture with the other. They’re both in frame when she looks at the phone screen (of course they are—what is she, an amateur?), so she hands it back to Sully.

“There. Send that over to Nate with the message that I’m in, but he owes me one.”

“From you?” Sully hits send and flashes her a smile of solidarity. “I would expect nothing less.”

London, 2011 - Charlie

So slide over here And give me a moment I’ve got to let you know You’re one of my kind

—INXS “Need You Tonight”

“Do you need any help?” Chloe hollers again, hoping her voice is loud enough to carry to the loft on the second floor. Selfishly, she hopes the answer is ‘no,’ as she has finally settled into the end of his worn, leather couch with a hot mug of tea.

“You’re incorrigible,” Charlie calls back, his voice muffled. She thinks he may have rolled his eyes, which, rude. “I’m fine. I broke my leg, not my executive function.”

She shrugs, causing her oversized jumper to slip off her shoulder. “Have it your way, then. Just don’t come crying to me when you fall and break your neck.”

The warmth from her mug radiates past her fingertips all the way down to her sock-covered feet. She closes her eyes, sinks further into the couch, and pulls her jumper back over her shoulder.

It’s good to be back on solid ground again, she thinks.

They were lucky to be alive after what happened in Syria. Once they were certain none of Marlowe’s agents had successfully tailed them, all three of them (excluding Charlie, of course, who kept groaning and swearing under his breath each time they hit a particularly rough patch of road) took turns driving until they were able to reach a small airstrip some distance from the main road and far away from the ruins they vacated.

(“An old work acquaintance. He owes me one,” was all Sully would say once they parked the tour bus, and he began leading them toward a dilapidated hangar.

“Which leads me to believe,” Charlie chimes in, hobbling and leaning on both Nate and Chloe to remain upright, “that no one we’re about to meet is licensed to operate a bloody tin opener, let alone an aircraft.”)

It was there that they parted ways. Nate and Sully boarded a relatively stable looking plane headed for Yemen, while both she and Charlie were stowed in the back of a run down cargo plane headed for southwest England, surrounded by caged chickens and other small livestock.

As it turns out, Charlie is exceedingly allergic to feathers.

It’s suspiciously silent before Chloe hears the labored sounds of someone trying to hobble down a spiral staircase. When she finally does open her eyes, she’s greeted by Charlie—red faced and wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of white boxer shorts with hearts on them. She has to stifle a disbelieving snort when he proceeds to sling his Danelectro guitar over his shoulders, allowing it to hang low on his hips.

“What are you—?”

Charlie turns his back to her and flips on his stereo, effectively drowning out the rest of her question. When he turns around—nearly losing his balance with his broken leg in the process—he pulls his hat down low and moves his hips in time to the music.

It’s a lot to taken in, but Chloe doesn’t fully dissolve into actual giggles until he lifts his gaze back to her, his brow raised and a wink at the ready. So slide over here, he mouths, hopping across the space in front of the couch with his only good foot, and give me a moment. Things enter into truly mental territory when he mimes playing his guitar.

“Are you insane?” Chloe demands. “The doctor said not to put any direct weight on it for at least a few more days.”

She tries to sound stern, but the smile that keeps breaking out on her face betrays her true feelings. She grabs one of the throw pillows to cover her face when some of his dance moves become slightly more…inappropriate. However, it does nothing to hide her laughter or the flush she feels up around her ears.

He pries the pillow from her grasp and tosses it to the side. “What can I say?” He gives her a come hither gesture. “There’s just something about you, girl, that makes me sweat.”

“Absolutely not,” Chloe says, shaking her head emphatically. She sets her mug on the nearest end table, right next to her mobile phone. Seeing it gives her an idea, so she grabs it, easily switching it to camera mode.

“Sorry, love.” She grins wickedly, not sounding even the least bit apologetic.

Before Charlie knows what’s happening, she snaps the picture. It’s a perfect still of him mid-hop, mid-lip sync, and mid-guitar solo. It takes Chloe breaking into fresh peals of laughter before Charlie realizes what has happened.

“Oi,” he cries, pulling his guitar up and over his head. He props it against the stereo. “This was meant to be a private showing.”

“And it will be,” Chloe assures him. A beat, then, “Right after I send this to Nate, Elena, and Victor.”

Charlie does his best impression of crossing the small distance between them in an intimidating manner. “Chloe,” he says warningly.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, alright, fine.” She sets the phone aside and crosses her arms, pouting. “You’re no fun.”

“Oh, I’m plenty fun, darling,” he retorts, slowly lowering himself down onto the couch. He nearly loses his balance again, but Chloe crawls over to help, holding his arm to guide him. Once Charlie’s settled (“Bloody hell,” he grumbles under his breath.), Chloe reminds herself that she’s still holding on to his arm.

She makes an effort to pull her hands back, but Charlie snatches her right one, his grip sure. He turns to her, and one glance at his face tells her he has sobered, all mirth quickly gone. She swallows and tries to steady her heart, which begins beating absurdly fast.

Run, her mind tells her, but before she can obey or even protest, Charlie brushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear. His hand lingers, thumb brushing over her cheek.

“Sully would have killed me, back in Syria, if you hadn’t been there to stop me,” he finally says, voice barely above a choked whisper. She can hear the rawness, the slight waver in his voice, and it, frankly, terrifies her.

“Charlie, that’s not—”

He cuts her off. “No, it is. I was a downright mad man, and if it weren’t for you, Nate—“

“—is alive,” she finishes. With her free hand, she scratches her thumb against his stubble. He closes his eyes, pain evident on his face. “There’s no use in dwelling on what could have been. I was there, you weren’t yourself, and that’s that.” She pauses before adding, “In any event, I would have easily bested Victor. He’s incredibly old.”

Charlie lets out an abrupt bark of laughter before he forces himself to look at her again. It’s a new sensation for Chloe, being looked at with such adoration, that is. She’s not sure how she feels about it, only to say that the desperate commands to flee have simmered.

“Thank you,” he says. He searches her eyes for permission, and she nods imperceptibly before he captures her lips with his.

Run, her mind tells her once again, but she throws her arm around his neck, disobeying the command entirely.

One week later, during his follow up appointment, Charlie’s doctor gives both he and Chloe a long lecture about the need to avoid any direct weight on his broken leg. Chloe doesn’t even wait until the doctor is out of earshot.

“I told you so,” she tells Charlie proudly. His eye roll is nearly audible.

Glasgow, 2013 - Sam

I don’t want to go to school I just want to break the rules

—Charli XCX “Break the Rules”

There’s no reason Chloe should even be contemplating this. No reason she should even be here in the first place. It’s like salt and vinegar crisps: absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever, and yet...

…there’s no use in denying the insufferable do-gooder she has become.

A sea of writhing people, colorful, epileptic seizure-inducing lights, and pulsating bass: immediately, Chloe’s senses are assaulted as soon as she enters the club.

This has to be some kind of fire code violation, she thinks to herself sourly as she pushes her way toward the bar, serpentining through throngs of gyrating bodies and one particularly grotesque snogging couple. (“Excuse me!” she practically bellows at them, but they either can’t hear her or simply outright refuse to move out of the way.)

Finally, she reaches the bar. The bartender gestures to the glass in his hands, then back at her, but she waves him off. She wants to have clear reflexes and a sound mind for this particular meet up. Although she had insisted on a public meeting space, there’s still every chance for danger, never mind that she has no idea what her mark looks like. She imagines something like his brother, but that’s certainly not much to go on, is it?

“Now there’s a lovely lass,” she hears over her shoulder. “Curious that she’s all alone though, innit?”

Chloe turns just in time to see the stranger at the bar drag his gaze over the entirety of her person. He’s stocky with a bristly black beard and a terribly unfortunate complexion. She crosses her arms over her chest, doing her best not to shudder, and challenges him with a surly glare of her own.

“Perhaps,” she grits out, her restraint nearly in tatters, “it’s because she prefers solitude over the company that a man, such as yourself, is able to offer.”

In a magnificent feat, the stranger’s face grows even redder. When he makes an attempt to lunge after her, she can feel her heart pound in tune with whatever eurotrash music—noise, really—the DJ keeps churning out. Before the man can embarrass himself or do any lasting damage, another man enters the fray—his back to her—and keeps the other man from moving any closer by placing an outstretched hand square in the middle of his chest.

“Beat it,” the new guy says. He nods in her direction. “She’s with me.”

Chloe doesn’t even have time to enjoy the first guy’s harried retreat (she thinks he may have mumbled an apology, but it’s difficult to be certain with the heavy bass of the music bludgeoning her eardrums) before she rounds in on the new guy.

“I beg your pardon,” she blanches, her hand on her hip. “I am with no…one…”

Her speech falters once the new guy turns around, and she’s suddenly staring into a pair of hazel eyes (though, admittedly, it’s difficult to tell precisely with the uneven lighting). Everything, from the small bump on the bridge of his nose to the slight slope of his shoulders, overwhelms her with a sense of familiarity. She narrows her gaze at him suspiciously.

“Are you trying to tempt me because I come from the land of plenty?” Her tone is airy, but she chooses her words carefully, testing the waters.

“Do you come from a land down under?” he shoots back hopefully, eyebrow raised. In response to her visible relief, the tension in his own shoulders gives way, and he smirks, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Men at Work, huh? Do you do this for all your meet ups, or…?”

Apparently, all the good looks skipped right on down to Nate, she thinks idly. Not that Sam is horribly disfigured, by any means, of course. It’s just with his slightly receding hairline and his two-decades-too-old-to-be-fashionable jeans jacket, he’s not traditionally handsome like his brother.

“No,” she answers, hating herself slightly for her train of thought. “Only for known affiliates of Nate’s. Hazard insurance and all that, you know?”

He continues smirking. “Oh, I know.” A scantily clad woman stumbles past them both, brushing his shoulder as she steadies herself by grabbing onto the bar top. For what it’s worth, Sam’s eyes stay trained on her. He shoots his hand out. “Sam,” he says.

“Chloe.”

As they shake hands, she notices a couple of brutes dressed in oversized parkas just behind Sam. This isn’t her scene by any means, but even she knows that’s too much clothing for this kind of environment. They’re ideal for expertly concealing firearms, though. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure putting a face to a name after all these years, but why am I here, precisely?”

He starts to answer, but she’s barely listening, eyes still trained on the two overdressed men behind him. She watches as they push past the sea of people separating she and Sam from the two of them. It’s likely that they’re tailing them, but Chloe doesn’t want to stick around long enough to be certain.

She promptly grabs hold of Sam’s hand. “Let’s walk and talk, shall we?”

It’s less of a suggestion when she begins pulling him forward. “I—yeah, okay,” he relents.

It grows brighter and louder the closer they get to the center of the dance floor. She can feel a bead of sweat roll down her neck as they continue fighting through people, who are essentially packed in like sardines. Thankfully, the two thugs seem to be unable to bypass a particularly rowdy group of dancers when she glances behind her. It will give them enough time to regroup, at least.

“We’re being tailed!” she yells to Sam once they come to a halt. She has to avoid being hit by the elbow of a nearby dancer jumping up and down.

“What?”

“Followed,” she tries again, this time accompanying it by walking her fingers over the palm of her other hand meaningfully.

He follows her line of sight, and she can see the understanding hit him almost immediately when he turns back around. “That’s what I was saying earlier,” he yells back. “I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“Well, yes, I was able to deduce that on my own, but whatever for?”

A nearby group of girls nearly knocks Sam over, but he steadies himself by holding on to her hips. Almost immediately, he recognizes his error (it doesn’t actually require a reproachful look from her, but she tosses one in anyway) and lets go, holding his hands up for good measure. Sorry, he mouths, looking fully repentant.

“It’s a long story,” he hollers, narrowly dodging a wayward arm, “but I got roped into working for Rafe Adler—”

“Who?”

“Rafe,” he repeats, holding his head in a haughty manner and running his thumb over his index and middle fingers.

Money, she immediately thinks before making the connection between obscene wealth and heightened levels of tossery.

Ah.

“Adler,” she spits out distastefully.

Sam nods. “Exactly, and he’s got us searching for Avery’s—” He covers one of his eyes with his hands, curves the other hand into a hook shape, and mouths arghhh. “—treasure, which is why we’re in Scotland. The trail led us here.”

“Here, as in this horrible den of iniquity in Glasgow?” Chloe yells. They both have been forced into moving along to the music to avoid being hit by any number of the people dancing near them.

“No,” he yells back, barely holding back an eye roll. “St. Dismas Cathedral. We’re not supposed to leave the site, but I had to let someone know in case—” He swallows, the thin sheen of sweat on his Adam’s apple glistening. “—in case something happens. Which is why we’re here, here.” He gestures to the ground meaningfully. “Far away from Rafe’s goons.”

“Have you at least told Nate?” she hollers.

His whole expression falls. “I can’t,” he insists. “He—He already thinks I’m dead—”

Chloe lets out a frustrated groan, her head lolling back. “Of course he does.”

“—which is why I came to you,” he finishes.

“Well, you’ve done some abysmal covert work,” she yells back, her eyes focused just over Sam’s shoulders. He goes to check for himself, but she holds his face in place with both hands. “Our friends are heading toward us. We need to blend, pretend like we’re not dead as soon as they reach us. Follow my lead?”

Sam nods, rather than answering verbally. He follows her as she pushes forward, a little closer to the DJ’s table. When they come to a stop, she drapes her arm over his shoulders, and pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket.

“Hey! Everybody!” she shouts, switching her phone to camera mode. A few of the nearby patrons stop to stare at them. “This lad—” She gestures wildly at Sam. He sheepishly waves. “—just found out he’s going to be a father!”

Sam makes a choking sound just before everyone around them erupts into cheers and excitement. She has to pound on his back a few times for him to stop. When he can breathe again, she holds out her phone until the two of them are in frame, as well as a number of strangers wanting to wish the new dad well.

“’Baby’ on three, everyone!” she instructs. “One…two…three—baby!”

A chorus of ‘baby’ can be heard when she takes the picture. The cheers transform into an overwhelming roar as the patrons around them begin dancing wildly, slapping Sam on the back, and splashing drinks everywhere. It’s the precise level of pandemonium needed to make the brutes lose them. At least, for now, anyway.

Sam flinches as a particularly muscular guy claps him on the back in congratulations. When he moves away, Sam fixes her with an aggravated look. “Thanks for that,” he yells, his dour expression particularly hilarious in light of the glitter and champagne raining down on the two of them.

Chloe sighs dramatically, an infectious grin breaking out on her face.

“I live to serve. C’mon, mate,” she adds, brushing some of the glitter off of his face.

Just as she finishes, another bottle of…something douses both of them, and at its conclusion, Sam—hair soaked through over his eyes, mouth in a hardened line—spits out a mouthful like a tiny fountain. Chloe absolutely loses it as she grabs his hand and starts navigating both of them through the crowd.

“Let’s get out of here before your tail notices,” she barely gets out in between laughter.

Brussels, 2015 - Elena

We bury it, bury it, bury it And rise above

—CHVRCHES “Bury It”

It’s incredibly late—or really early, more accurately—when she gets the call.

The initial ring doesn’t even rouse her. Rather, she groans and turns over, pulling the covers over her head to block out the sound of snoring. But when it grows louder and more persistent, she grudgingly cracks an eye open, only to be blinded by the blue light filtering out from under her mobile as the vibrations cause it to skitter across the end table.

She takes a moment to reorient herself with her surroundings before carefully extracting herself from Charlie’s arm, which is draped across her waist, and wrapping a nearby blanket around her. Sufficiently cocooned, she grabs her phone and pads across the carpet over to the balcony off their hotel room, careful to close the sliding glass door behind her quietly.

She doesn’t recognize the number on the screen, but this is a new phone (the last one not only ran out of minutes, but also plummeted to the bottom of the Thames), and there’s every chance this could be a known affiliate.

She swipes up. “Hello?”

There’s silence on the other end, then, “…Chloe? It’s me, Elena.”

Well…shit, Chloe thinks rather unceremoniously, sinking on to the cheap plastic chaise lounge, pulling her blanket more tightly around her.

“Elena.” She hopes her voice doesn’t betray the sudden onset of fear sparked by this unexpected phone call. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It’s not that the two of them don’t communicate—quite the contrary, actually. There’s the occasional e-mail and a handful of texts containing memes about their circle of acquaintances (the last one Elena sent was Chrissy Teigan’s cry face with the text: when he scales the building to enter through the 8th floor window but you could have picked the lock on the front door). They even follow each other on Instagram (in fact, she had just given a like to Elena’s last uploaded photo, the one of her new camera). However, they rarely speak over the phone. The last time had been—

…Well, the last time had been the night she and Nate separated.

There’s some shuffling on the other end before Elena responds. “Nate mentioned you were traveling, so I tried to time it correctly. Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Chloe insists, clearly stifling a yawn, “nothing less than bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on this end.” She hesitates before quickly adding, “Charlie, on the other hand, is still asleep.”

Chloe can practically hear Elena’s knowing smile on the other end. “How isCharlie anyway?”

They’re not even in the same time zone, yet she can still feel her ears grow hot. “He’s fine, if you must know,” Chloe relents, unable to stop the small smile that stretches across her face. “But now you’re clearly trying to distract me. Is…?” She hesitates, uncertain whether she will be able to stomach whatever Elena throws at her. “…Is everything all right?”

She hears Elena sigh. “Eventually, you’re going to have to give me some more details, you know that, right?”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Obviously. But out with it, Sunshine: is everything okay? Are you and Nate—?”

“We’re fine,” Elena cuts her off, more hurriedly than defensively, which seems to bode well, in Chloe’s opinion, “or at least, we will be. We’ve decided to…leave the life.”

“Leave the life?” Chloe repeats, her voice hollow. She’s heard this one before.

“More like continue the life, but do it in a strictly legal sense,” Elena clarifies, “including permits, dig crews, no firearms, et cetera.”

Chloe snorts. “So…all things I’ve no patience for?”

Elena laughs at that. “More or less.”

“But this is something you want?”

Elena nods, or at least, Chloe assumes she does. “I suggested it, including funds for a really expensive camera and a small crew, so I can reboot Uncharted, my old show."

“And Nate’s on board with all this…gentrification of sorts?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fascinating. I wonder what’s got him so generous all of a sudden.” Realizing how that comes across, she hastens to add, “Other than him being irrevocably in love with you, I mean.”

It sounds as though Elena has a retort for that, but instead she simply blurts, “Nate has a brother.”

The silence that falls between them is deafening. “Oh,” is all Chloe can manage—guilt slowly coiling in the pit of her stomach—before Elena launches into the story of what has occurred over the last couple months.

On the street below, there’s some kind of festival still carrying on from earlier in the evening. Colorful string lights dot the perimeter, while the sound of excited chatter and electronic music, as well as the smell of deep-fried smoutebollen, waft up to where she is on the fourth floor. Her stomach growls in response, but she ignores it, focusing only on Elena’s retelling of the events at King’s Bay, how she met Sam, and later, how they barely escaped from New Devon with their lives in tact.

“That’s actually why I’m calling,” Elena says, after she recalls the circumstances that led to she and Nate buying Jameson’s business for their new Stepford—rather than crime—inspired lives. “The last time we talked, you mentioned going back to India to…follow your father’s trail and track down the Tusk. Have you—is that still your plan?”

Chloe makes a choking sound, the question catching her completely off guard. “I—“ she sputters, shocked that Elena remembers any of that conversation at all. “Yes.”

“Since I’m basically retired, and since there’s no chance you would ask Charlie to come along…?”

Chloe glances through the window behind her, the outline of Charlie’s sleeping form visible. “Absolutely not,” she says emphatically.

Elena snorts. “I thought as much,” she admits, “but I think I have another option. The way Nate tells it, Rafe’s right hand man—Nadine Ross—abandoned them right as Avery’s ship caught fire. Questionable alliance aside, Nadine seems like a competent partner to have in the field.”

Chloe pulls her blanket closer around her, eyes narrowing, as a sharp breeze passes by. “And you know this because…?”

Elena lets out an unexpected bark of laughter. “Chloe, she kicked Nate’s ass. Not once, but twice over the course of our trip.” She pauses and then quietly admits, “There’s something especially cathartic about it happening on two completely different continents.”

Chloe wipes the tears from her eyes—a combination of laughter and the relentless wind. “Say no more,” she insists breathlessly. As soon as her teeth begin chattering, she decides it’s time to head back inside. “Do you have a way to get in touch?” she asks quietly, gently closing the sliding door behind her. She makes a beeline to the bed, sighing when the covers come up and over her frozen feet.

There’s a slight hesitation on Elena’s end before she suggests, “Call Sam. He probably knows how.”

It takes a moment for the unspoken meaning in her words to settle in, but once it does, Chloe’s face falls and her stomach plummets to the ground.

She knows.

“Elena,” Chloe breathes, her knuckles white and hands frozen in place as they clutch onto the covers. “I’m so—”

“I know,” Elena interrupts. Her tone isn’t angry, but it’s not exactly warm either.

“I wanted to tell you about him, truly,” she confesses, flinching at how desperate her voice sounds, “but I didn’t feel it was my place. I thought it should come from Nate, and—”

“I know,” Elena says again. “Listen—” she continues, trying to stifle a yawn in the process, “—I don’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep any longer than I already have, so…just keep me posted on your plans for India, okay? Oh, and tell Charlie I said hi.”

That makes Chloe chuckle. “Of course. And, Elena?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” she tells her, hoping her emphasis is enough to cover all multitude of her own sins.

“Of course,” Elena echoes.

The line goes dead, and Chloe is nowhere near satisfied with the residual guilt and accompanying broken record playing over in her mind, especially because she can’t seem to fall back to sleep. So she snaps a quick photo of Charlie (he’s sprawled out on his stomach, boxers riding low on his hips, and a small stream of drool seeping from his lax, open mouth onto his pillow), and texts it to Elena with the caption six minutes into Jet Lag & Chill.

She wakens the next morning to a three-crying laughing emoji response from Elena.

It’s a start.

Maharashtra, 2017 - Nadine

And I don’t really care if nobody else believes ‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me

—Rachel Platten “Fight Song”

It figures that her hero’s journey doesn’t play by the rules in the least bit. Sure, she stopped the villain, survived all sorts of danger, and even walked away with the treasure. But rather than riding off into the sunset while the credits roll, as is tradition, she finds herself...pushing her ride off into sunset.

Because it bloody well figures that the battery would go dead here, three-quarters of the way up a hill, at the end of their journey.

“Do I have to do all the work over here?” Chloe huffs out. She sets her feet into the dry dirt and throws her whole body into her next push, powered by a second wind. “Or do you plan on stepping up in front of the wicket?”

Sam tears his gaze away Nadine (…which, Chloe doesn’t even begin to have enough emotional, physical, mental—etc.— wherewithal to address any part of whatever that whole situation may be), and shoots her a bewildered look. “Wicket?”

Americans, she thinks irritably before making it her top priority to reach the top of this God forsaken hill, if only to sink a fist into Sam’s incredibly punchable face. Up front, she can hear Nadine—who, in addition to pushing, is also gripping the steering wheel to guide the jeep forward—snicker.

“You mean, like, baseball?” Sam wants to know. “As in ‘step up to the plate?’ Because that—” He grunts, pushing into the vehicle, trying not to loose his footing. “—I understand. That I can—shit—that I can work with.”

His stumbling and flailing cause Nadine to burst into outright laughter. She tosses a rare grin behind her in Chloe’s direction. “I follow you, Frazer.”

“Thank you!” she cries. “At least someone is sensible in this group.”

“Yeah, okay, have your fun,” he mumbles petulantly, “but who do you know that collects cricket cards, huh? I’m feelin’ pretty confident that number’s a big ol’ zero.”

Chloe doesn’t trust herself to say anything further, so she sinks all of her physical and mental efforts into pushing the jeep to the top. Her back and legs are killing her, but the thought of a bath and dry clothes in Mumbai once they get this monstrosity up and running is enough to motivate her to keep going, keep pushing.

“Easy, easy!” Nadine calls back. “Just a little more, and we’re over the precipice.”

By some small miracle, they’re on flat land again, and instead of dirt and rubble in her line of sight, Chloe can see the cerulean sky above and a sea of lush green and brown vegetation below. With few clouds for cover, the sun beats down on them relentlessly, doing absolutely nothing whatsoever for the pool of sweat collecting at the small of her back and her chest. At this point, the dark sweat stains on her shirt resemble some kind of beginner’s abstract expressionist painting.

The vehicle settles into place absent the momentum, creaking to a halt. Exhausted, Chloe and Nadine lean against the jeep, trying to catch their breath. For his part, Sam circles around to the front and pops the bonnet. He coughs and wheezes as a plume of smoke unfurls from the engine compartment. Thankfully, it’s white, not black, which—according to Chloe’s very limited motor vehicle knowledge—is the better of the two kinds of smoke.

“I’ll take a look at this battery, see if I can’t get this thing up and running again,” Sam says. He disappears behind the bonnet, and it’s all very gallant until he adds, “You girls just stay there and look pretty.”

Nadine and Chloe exchange looks before they both break into disbelieving smiles. Pretty is certainly the last word Chloe would use to describe her current appearance. Perhaps artfully disheveled instead? Nadine gestures for her to follow her into the front of the jeep, which she does, and the two of them collapse into the driver and passenger seats.

“Are we certain we can entrust this vehicle and our livelihoods to this uncultured American?” Chloe directs to Nadine, but says loud enough for Sam to hear.

“You’ve already said ‘American,’” Nadine adds as an aside, “the ‘uncultured’ bit is understood.”

Sure enough, Sam chimes in with a protest. “Hey! I’ll have you know that I used to have a completely cherried out, 1962 Indian motorcycle back when I was in Boston, so I know a little something about cars. Just…let me have this one area of expertise, huh?”

“Okay, okay,” Chloe sighs as if it’s taking a lot out of her to grant him this request, “let’s allow this strapping man’s man to fix our ride home.”

She can’t tell for certain, but she thinks Sam might be frowning. “Thank you,” he deadpans from behind the canopy of the engine compartment, which only serves to make both Nadine and Chloe snicker quietly.

Silence falls over them (with the exception of the clink clank of whatever Sam’s doing to the jeep) as Chloe leans back against the headrest and closes her eyes to the overhead sun. It’s short lived, however, when Nadine speaks up.

“Sam—” He pops his head out to look at her. “—what on earth possessed you to get this ridiculous thing?” she asks, gesturing to the side of her neck that mirrors his, the one with the bird tattoos.

Chloe pops an eye open to witness his response. He ignores Nadine’s insult and instead clears his throat. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll show you my other tattoo.”

Chloe shouldn’t find his concluding wink so…visceral. And yet… “More than one?” she interjects, while Nadine mimes heaving up the contents of her stomach, accompanied by some over the top retching sounds.

He shrugs. “My cellmate was doing a buy one, get one sort of thing.”

Against her better judgment, Chloe laughs at that. His returning smile does absolutely nothing to her. “I can appreciate a man who recognizes a good bargain when he sees it.”

Sam returns to his work, but Nadine clearly has more thoughts on the matter. She turns to Chloe and jabs a thumb in his direction. “If that’s the case,” she says, referring to Chloe’s earlier comment, “I wonder what kind of bargain resulted in that floral shirt.”

The sound of the engine sputtering to life cuts off any protests Sam may have (and Chloe is quite confident he has more than a few). It doesn’t stop the sound of raucous laughter from she and Nadine, but it certainly drowns out a lot of it.

“See?” he says smugly, slamming the bonnet shut and approaching the passenger seat. “Told you I could do it.”

He goes to grab the door handle, but Nadine holds it resolutely shut. “Back,” is all she says, jabbing her thumb behind her.

Dejected, Sam hoists himself up and over the backside of the jeep and settles onto one of the wheel hubs with one arm draped over his knee. “What a show of appreciation,” he mumbles, somewhat bitterly.

“Now, now,” Chloe begins, shifting into first gear, but her knuckles hit a button on the dash, and she’s interrupted by the sound of the radio. And not just any radio, either: pop radio.

In English.

Sam’s the first to recover. “What the hell is this?” he demands, a look of pure disgust hilariously present on his face.

Chloe turns the dial tuner to other stations, but only finds static in response. “I have no idea,” she admits, perplexed. “Surely, out this far, you would expect something in Marathi, not this. It’s—”

“—it’s noise,” Nadine interjects sourly.

She goes to turn it off completely, but Chloe bats her hand away as soon as she recognizes the song. “No, listen,” she admonishes, the smile spreading on her face almost painful. “This is actually the perfect song to close out our adventure.”

“How? Is this—is this an American torture device?” Nadine tries again.

“No, this is a ballad of empowerment,” Chloe explains between laughter. Sam leans forward and reaches across to turn the radio off, but Nadine elbows him for his efforts. He falls back, coughing and wheezing. “I’m listening,” she says skeptically, a questioning brow lifted.

“Ow,” Sam hisses, rubbing the spot on his chest Nadine hit.

Chloe ignores him as she transfers the weight from the clutch to the gas pedal to begin their ride home. The resulting breeze, though warm, is wonderful. “Our journey has been one of growth and realizing untapped potential,” she explains. “Between Rafe for you, and Nate for me—”

“—eww, what?” Sam blanches, suddenly no longer interested in his chest pain.

“—we haven’t let anything come between us and our success,” Chloe continues as if he didn’t speak. “So this isn’t just our fight song, it’s our ‘prove we’re alright song.’”

“Our…‘take back our lives’ song?” Nadine asks tentatively.

Chloe beams. “Exactly! Elbows,” she says as she goes in for the high five, and their hands collide with a resounding smack. They both smile as Chloe digs her phone out from her back pocket. Using voice command, she switches it camera mode.

“Alright, everyone. Say ‘Tusk of Ganesh!’” she implores.

Sam sinks back onto his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “I hate both of you,” he’s sure to add.

The picture takes, and they don’t stop singing American pop songs until they cross over into Mumbai.

Florida, 2033 - Cassie

You ask yourself When will my time come? Has it all been said and done?

—Missing Persons “Destination Unknown”

“Is it here yet?”

Elena looks up from the stack of mail she’s leafing through on the kitchen table to see Cassie bounding into the living room, bouncing on the balls of her feet when she comes to a stop. She gives a small smile as she looks at one of the return addresses through her reading glasses. “I don’t know yet,” she tells her daughter. She offers the stack to her. “Do you want to look through?”

Cassie takes the proffered stack with a quick thanks and begins her own search.

“Is what here yet?” Nate asks, heading for the refrigerator with the intention of grabbing a beer. When he doesn’t see any, he grunts and grabs a vitamin water instead.

Cassie rolls her eyes at her dad (a behavior that has become increasingly common, Elena notes with a mild level of concern) before she explains, without tearing her gaze from the mail, “Aunt Chloe. She promised she would send something for my birthday.”

Elena frowns, placing her reading glasses on the table. “Cass, that’s not for another week.”

“Yeah, I know,” she agrees, “but Aunt Chloe always plans ahead—”

Elena and Nate share a knowing glance (his raised eyebrow makes her chuckle).

“—plus you have to account for international shipping rates and time differences, and—here it is!” she exclaims, holding up an abnormally shaped package wrapped in brown packing paper. Rather than tape, it’s held together with strategically tied twine.

“Hey!” Nate calls as she practically runs toward the stairs that lead up to her room. “I thought we were supposed to go fishing out on the boat today?”

“We are, Dad. Let me just look at this a second,” she calls back, her voice muffled by the floor of house between them.

Once she’s in the privacy of her own room, Cassie closes the door and flops down onto her bed. She examines the package a minute (her name and mailing address are written in Chloe’s scrawl, the purple ink a nice little addition) before pulling apart the twine ties. The contents of the package spill out once she finishes unfolding the packing paper. She reaches for the folded letter first before the enclosed CD case catches her eye. The cover is bright—there’s a blonde woman on the cover with wild hair, bright pink lips, and a swipe of blue over her eyes—and she flips it over to the track list.

“Cool,” she exhales quietly before placing it aside and picking up the letter again.

When she unfolds it, something falls on her comforter, but she ignores it temporarily as she reads the contents of the letter:

Cassie—

I hope this finds you in time for your birthday. I’ve been in Argentina with Sully and your Uncle Sam for the last few weeks. We’re supposed to meet up with Nadine and Charlie your Uncle Charlie Charlie in Morocco for a job, so apologies in advance if I time this incorrectly.

I pride myself in being the ‘cool’ aunt; however, I’d be remiss if I didn’t express some disbelief over the fact that you will be 16 this year. How time flies! I could launch into stories of you still in nappies, but I do not wish to embarrass you further (we’ll leave that to your father, surely?).

I don’t dawdle in sentimentality. In fact, I loathe it for the most part. However, a sixteenth birthday certainly calls for some level of sentimentality, even if we simply dip our feet in for a short while.

Cassie, you have grown into a remarkable young woman, and I very much look forward to whatever accomplishments you pursue in your future. You are incredibly fortunate to have the parents you do, even though I am sure their own accomplishments may lord over you, somewhat intimidatingly.

Here’s the shared wisdom bit: I’ve been the bad guy, I’ve been the hero, and I’m here to inform you that regardless which direction your path turns, there is always a chance for second chances. Always a chance for growth into something different, something better. If you don’t follow your parents already tread path exactly, there is still hope for you yet. You command your own way forward, and in the event that you make a wrong decision here or there, you are fortunate to have parents who truly love you and will help you get back on track. And for the truly bad decisions, you can always come to your Aunt Chloe. She knows a guy.

Or gal, in the case of Nadine.

Annnd…sentimentality over. Whew. Have the happiest of birthdays, love. Your Uncle Charlie and I plan to be back stateside close to the Christmas holiday next month. Until that time, when you must update me on that cute boy in science lab situation (the one with the neck tattoo, I believe? Which, please don’t take cues from your Uncle Sam), don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ;)

With love, Chloe

P.S.: I’ve enclosed a CD, which is an ancient form of technology that was used to play music in the late 20th, early 21st centuries. Do young people listen to CDs anymore? (Bloody hell, do young people even have to ask, “Do young people, etc.?” Please don’t actually answer that.) Regardless, this is a fantastic album by the Missing Persons (track 4 is a personal favorite), and I thought you might enjoy it as well.

Cassie sets the letter down and directs her attention to whatever fell out of the letter earlier. It’s a photograph of both she and Chloe from nearly a decade ago, Cassie thinks. Chloe’s crouched beside Cassie with her arm around Cassie’s shoulders. They’re both decked out in fedoras and bull whips—Cassie’s even wearing a tiny leather jacket. Cassie remembers the night pretty clearly, including when Sully secretly dumped some extra candy into her trick or treat bag. And then Charlie tried to kiss Chloe on the cheek, but she thought he was a stranger and ended up having to drive him to the ER later for a broken nose.

The memory is enough to make her smile. She flips the photo over and reads the caption:

Keeping up with the Joneses —2023

Her dad interrupts her thoughts as he calls out her name (pretty impatiently, actually). She quickly tacks the newly acquired photo next to some other family pictures—there’s one of her on Sully’s shoulder after a soccer victory in elementary school; one of she and Sam in sunglasses, trying to look effortlessly cool; one of she and Vicky in life preserver vests on the boat; one of Charlie teaching her how to play the Martin guitar he bought her in middle school; one of Nadine showing her how to properly land a punch; and one of she and her parents at Disney World (her dad looks so dorky in mouse ears and a Hawaiian print shirt).

“Coming!” she calls back, grabbing her fishing rod, and racing down the stairs to meet him.

[syrupwit]

Letter for Trick or Treat Exchange 2020

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Hello there, and welcome to my letter for Trick or Treat Exchange 2020! I appreciate that you’ve taken the time to read this letter. I hope that it will provide you with clarification, inspiration, or at the very least a bit of entertainment.

Although I’ve written more for some sections and less for others, rest assured that I would be super excited to receive a gift for any of my requested fandoms, characters, or fanwork types.

Please see the table of contents below:

Likes

Do Not Want (DNW)

Fandom: The Bureau d'Echange de Maux - Lord Dunsany

Fandom: Carnacki the Ghost-Finder - William Hope Hodgson

Fandom: Invader Zim

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Fandom: Stellar Firma

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LIKES

For Treats, some general things I like are:

Silly, clever, or situation-based humor

Surreality and weirdness

Lore and worldbuilding

Stories-within-a-story

Slice of life, especially light moments for darker canons

Unusual team-ups

Dramatic rescues

First times

Seasonal and holiday-related tropes -- autumn weather, changing leaves, spooky foods, candy, friendly ghosts, haunted houses, horror movies, costume parties

For Tricks, some general things I like are:

Dark comedy, gallows humor, horror comedy

Psychological, paranormal, and cosmic horror

Creepy lore and worldbuilding

Unreliable narrators

A lingering sense of unease

Examining darker aspects of canon

Obsessive, love-hate relationships between adversaries or people who are in conflict over something

Corruption

Dubcon where a third party or outside force is responsible for the situation, or where the dubconned party enjoys it

I have a very long list of fic likes here.

Please see my Multifandom Horror Exchange letter for more about my horror likes.

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DO NOT WANT (DNW)

Characters under age 16 involved in sexual situations

Sex without mutual attraction

Hate speech

Harm to animals (the existence of ghost animals is OK, but I don’t want to hear about injury, abuse, or death of animals)

Fandom-Specific DNW Exception for TMA: Mention of canonical, character-motivation-significant cat death is fine.

Bestiality

Scat

Necrophilia (sexual activity involving ghosts is OK, just not corpses or remains)

Sexual activity involving worms / spiders / insects

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THE BUREAU D’ECHANGE DE MAUX - LORD DUNSANY

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic 

Characters Requested: Shop Owner

This short story can be read online for free here. CW for brief antisemitism (it’s one line/mention, but it caught me off guard, so).

I actually hadn’t read this story before seeing it in the tagset, but what an intriguing premise! I’d love to hear more about the shop owner’s business and the bargains his customers make. The trades in the story seem intuitively equal -- life for death, troubling intelligence for happy ignorance, a phobia for a phobia -- but what more unusual types of trades might occur? Has anyone ever tried to rob the shop owner? What strange or ordinary-seeming locales has his shop traveled to, and how does he feel about them? I’m interested in Trick and Treat takes on all of these questions.

I really like Lord Dunsany’s style and would enjoy anything in that tone. If you wanted to bring in some of his other short story characters, like Nuth or the bad old woman in black, that would be great. I’m also open to crossovers for this fandom with all fandoms I’ve requested in this exchange or any previous one.

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CARNACKI THE GHOST-FINDER - WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic 

Characters Requested: Thomas Carnacki

The original nine short stories about Carnacki can be read online for free here. Project Gutenberg also has the first six stories.

Among fictional occult detectives of the early twentieth century, Carnacki has a special place in my heart. He gets scared, he makes mistakes, he does weird things with colored lights and electricity, and sometimes he figures out that the haunting was a hoax. While the supernatural cases that Carnacki investigates are (in my opinion) genuinely scary, those occurrences that turn out to have a mundane explanation are just as suspenseful.

Hodgson’s cosmic horror worldbuilding, as well, is inventive and unusual. My favorite Carnacki story, “The Hog,” concerns a malevolent extra-dimensional pig that attempts to manifest in the world by tormenting a frightened dreamer. Other adversaries include a ghost horse, a cursed ancient dagger, and a giant pair of whistling lips.

For Treats, I’d like to see Carnacki tackle a lighter-hearted problem or deal with an antagonist that’s more silly than sinister. The stories’ conceit is that Carnacki calls his four closest friends to dinner every so often and makes them wait until the meal is finished to recount his latest case. I’d also enjoy something about his relationships with them, maybe a situation where his personal and professional lives clash or he acquires a new quirk after an odd case.

For Tricks, I want ghost pigs and ghost pigs only. Just kidding! I’d really like to hear more about the creatures and lore of this universe, as well as the beings, texts, and rituals that Carnacki references or uses in his work. More mistakes, near misses, and terrifying encounters are always welcome.

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INVADER ZIM

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic 

Characters Requested: Dib, Zim

Apparently one of my forever fandoms. To re-use my own words: There’s something irresistible to me about the blend of snappy comedy, unapologetic pessimism, and hints of a more complicated universe that we just get to see. I’m not up to date on the comics yet, but please feel free to include canon from comics, show, or movie.

Dib

I love Dib’s obsessiveness, his alienation, and his frantic pursuit of approval from a community and society that couldn’t care less about him. He wants to be the hero, but his actions are selfishly motivated and often result in catastrophe. I’m really endeared by his devotion to the paranormal and the ridiculous situations he’s drawn into. 

Dib/Zim is my OTP, but I also enjoy them interacting as enemies or frenemies. (I would prefer any sexual content be set when Dib is 16 or older.) For gen, I’m interested in Dib’s family relationship with Gaz, potential friendship with Tak, and encounters with aliens, cryptids, monsters, ghosts, and other paranormal investigator types.

Zim

Zim is a total disaster, and that’s what I love about him. Like Dib, he’s stuck in a futile quest for validation from leaders and peers who would prefer he not exist. I like that he’s gullible and easily scared -- cf. “Germs,” his meltdown over the VHS copyright notice in “FBI Warning of Doom” -- yet unusually chaotic and dangerous even among his species. He also has a subconscious layer of... neediness, I think? that could be really interesting to explore.

Again, Dib/Zim is my OTP. For gen interactions, I like Zim’s relationships with GIR, Ms. Bitters, the Tallest, and any other invaders, as well as random hapless humans and experiments and so on.

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THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic  

Characters Requested: The Buried, The Vast, Adelard Dekker, Jurgen Leitner, Peter Lukas, Gertrude Robinson

My favorite horror podcast! I may be obsessed at the moment. I love the tone and worldbuilding of TMA -- the entropy and hopelessness, the way the monsters don’t play fair, the semi-religious devotion of avatars to their patrons.  I also love characters figuring out the magnitude of the awfulness they’re dealing with, and fighting against overwhelming odds.

The Buried

A fascinating fear! I’m really attracted to the Buried’s mix of attributes -- not just dirt, asphyxiation, and the subterranean, but also pressure, metaphysical weight, oppressive circumstances and hopeless struggle.

This entity’s particular aspects of denial, and of accepting increasingly adverse or strange conditions -- the pit, the statement giver from “Dig,” Karolina Górka considering a nap on the Underground -- both unsettle and delight me.

I feel that both the Buried and the Corruption have this compelling theme of like... suffocating, boundary-crushing love, that takes a person’s identity, will, and outside connections but leaves them a sense of belonging or importance. Then, on the other hand, the Buried can also belittle as it isolates. I thought Hezekiah Wakely’s identification of the Buried with rest and peace, and the Sunken Sky’s evocation as a mercy, were very interesting as well.

For prompts: I really love archaeology and ancient history, so I’d love anything about the Buried in connection to that. An anon on FFA brought up the Kola Superdeep Borehole as a potential hook for the Buried, and that idea is quite  interesting to me. I’d also love to hear about any of the statement givers from canon, the coffin’s other victims, or any main or original characters encountering this entity.

The Vast

Heights are one of my most visceral fears in real life, despite not being something I’m conceptually afraid of. I am requesting the Vast because I would like to be conceptually afraid of it!

Elements of this entity that intrigue me: the image of the Falling Titan, nihilism (and finding freedom in it), insignificance, call of the void, oceans / storms / cliffs, space, scales of size so large they’re not humanly comprehensible, Simon Fairchild’s love for the sky, delineation from the Lonely, opposition to the Buried, unusual manifestations.

As with the Buried, I really love the justifications that avatars give for their devotion to a power -- something exploring that, the choice to serve and the benefits that someone either gains or rationalizes after the fact, would be amazing. As stated above, unusual manifestations of fears are my jam, especially things that start out looking like one power but turn out to have a different affiliation.

I’d be interested in hearing about any canonical statement givers, avatars, main characters, or original characters encountering the Vast, or perhaps just a record of a past manifestation. I love stuff that’s grounded in a place, time, or feeling, so something super-specific or historical would be awesome. But, again, I really just want to be scared.

Adelard Dekker

Such an interesting character, and with depths yet to be explored! I enjoy his pragmatism, sense of humor, and relationship with his faith. I’m intrigued by the question of his allegiance and motivations, as well.

I’d love to hear more about Dekker’s pursuit of the Extinction -- perhaps the incident or incidents that first made him suspect its existence? accidental Extinction!Dekker? -- and his apparently far-flung contact network. I ship him both romantically and platonically with Gertrude, and I’d be interested to hear about their first meeting or other cases they collaborated on. Additionally, Dekker/Tim is a rarepair that intrigues me -- perhaps they meet in an AU where Tim becomes Dekker’s apprentice, and they take down Nikola together? I’d be open to seeing him interact with any character you think might be interesting, whether in a gen or shippy way.

Jurgen Leitner

I just want to know about the cataloging system he uses. Alternately, MORE LEITNERS. Alternately, ohh, the hubris! Leitner’s motivations for starting his library, vs. what he actually ends up effecting... aiii. I’m interested in what role the Eye played there, or how others may have manipulated him.

I don’t have any ships for Leitner, but for gen I would be interested to see him interact with Gertrude, his assistant, or Gerard Keay. Elias or Peter Lukas could also be interesting -- potentially funny, potentially sad or ominous.

Peter Lukas

On the one hand, a sinister sea captain and the heir of a frightening legacy; on the other, an annoying boss who refuses to learn basic computer skills and says things like “You and me, the dynamic duo!” I enjoy how petty and human Peter seems, at the same time that he’s this remote and gleeful monster.

I ship Peter/Martin super hard, but I also enjoy gen Peter & Martin and both gen and shippy interactions involving Elias. Additionally, I’m really interested in what happened for Peter to transport Gertrude to Sannikov Land, given their animosity. (Peter and Gertrude interacting seems like it could be hilarious.) For a fish-out-of-water scenario, I’d also like to see something where Peter feels out of control or threatened -- like, perhaps he’s caught in another avatar’s trap, or forced to be around other people for a bet or some strange purpose.

Re: Peter/Martin: I would prefer for Martin to gain the upper hand, even if it’s just in principle. I really like the idea of Peter going along thinking he’s in control, he’s seduced Martin to the Lonely, his plan is moving along -- and then he’s suddenly hit with all these feelings that he doesn’t know what to do with, because he’s never been in this situation before. On Martin’s part, I like it when he’s sort of reluctantly allured, but also contemptuous and focused on his own plan. And I would absolutely love some weird monster courting rituals -- Peter trying to impress Martin, but not quite pulling off “human” or “not disturbing.” I’m not married to these sorts of dynamics, though -- if there’s one you like better, please write it.

Gertrude Robinson

My favorite character! I love her practicality, dry wit, and self-control, but I also love stuff exploring her weaknesses, blind spots, regrets. I like that she can be smug and sometimes cruel, but not to the point where she violates her own principles (or, at least, not in her own opinion). I like that her backstory is so simple. I just really like Gertrude, in general.

For solo Gertrude, I’d like to learn more about her early days at the Institute -- maybe some of those heroic ideas she mentions she had, or their gradual dispelling. I’m also interested in seeing her solve problems, travel to unusual (or totally mundane) places, and face all kinds of supernatural nonsense. How did she get so unflappable? Is it mostly temperament, or was it a process?

For Gertrude ships, I could be convinced to ship her with pretty much anyone, but especially Agnes, Adelard Dekker, Emma Harvey, and Mary or Gerry Keay. For gen, I like her with everyone. I just want to see Gertrude interact with people!

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STELLAR FIRMA

Fanwork Types Requested: Treat - Fic, Trick - Fic 

Characters Requested: Hartro Piltz, Trexel Geistman, David 7, IMOGEN

I love this podcast so much it’s ridiculous. If I recall correctly, it’s been described as a cross between Brazil and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy; this strikes me as accurate. I love how the tone is at once silly and exuberant, but also dark and messed-up, in an absurd way that doesn’t try to hammer listeners over the head with its irony. (Please feel free to explore that darkness in a Trick.) Also, it’s funny.

Hartro Piltz

I fell head over heels for Hartro’s character somewhere between her first appearance and the Executive Quarterly mini-episode where she reveals that her alarm clock launches her headfirst at the floor every morning (“I like to really smack awake”). She’s such a fun villain, and her attempts at team bonding with David and Trexel are oddly endearing. I like that it’s made clear that she’s as much at the mercy of Stellar Firma as everyone else, just with more perks.

For ships, I’m really into Hartro/Trexel, and I could get behind some Hartro/Trexel/David 7 as well. (If foot stuff is opt-in, consider me opted in.) For gen interactions, I like Hartro with anyone -- not just the other main three, but Standards, Sigmund Shankeray, and other members of her team or clients.

Trexel Geistman

Trexel is the worst, and I adore that about him. I love how thoroughly the show demonstrates his jackassery, and how it’s still possible to sympathize with him and see how he got where he is at the same time that you (I) just want to shake him.  His responsibility-abnegating, depression, and alcoholism seem weirdly realistic, or at least reality-informed, and they weight his character in a way that I find compelling. I love his songs and weird shticks (Detectives and Detonations <3), and lapses into grandiosity and fantasy.

For ships, I like Trexel with Hartro or David 7 or both. Bathin/Trexel and Percy/Trexel, as well. Broom/Trexel, ehh. For gen interactions, I’m interested in seeing him interact with just about anyone -- but I’m especially curious what he did to Space Gertrude’s space tug (from Episode 25, one of the character witnesses from the trial). For seasonal-themed prompts, I am amused by the idea of Trexel as a horror host -- thanks, FFA -- or something else along the lines of the TMA crossover mini-episode.

David 7

Poor, sweet, innocent, possibly-doomed David 7. I love his rage, his affinity for crafts, and the bits where he gets swept up in the excitement of planet-designing (or planet-selling, or problem-solving) and can’t contain his enthusiasm. And I love his progression, over the first two seasons, from timid and cautious to just plain fed up.

For ships, I like David/Trexel, David/Bathin, David/Bathin/Trexel, and David/Trexel/Hartro. David and IMOGEN are interesting to me both platonically and romantically. For gen, I am again interested in seeing him interact with just about anyone.

IMOGEN

How much power does IMOGEN have, exactly? At some point, I hope we find out. I love her chipper sarcasm and barely-hidden dark side, and I hope that she eventually gets a vacation.

I don’t really ship IMOGEN with anyone, though the idea of David/IMOGEN is interesting. Her dynamic with David seems to have an unusual tension built into it, where they get along well and he trusts her but she can’t stop herself from threatening him with gun walls and there’s some murkiness about everyone’s motivations. Oh! IMOGEN and the Board, IMOGEN and the senior executives -- what’s going on there? IMOGEN and the station, IMOGEN and near-omnipotence -- there are a lot of fascinating things to explore about her as an AI.

[sending-the-message]

My Work Is Haunted by amcma10

For as long as I can remember I've always wanted to be a nurse. When I was a little girl I would transform my room into a make shift infirmary. All my dolls would be bandaged up and I would even construct IV poles complete with ziplock baggies full of water and straws connecting to my "patients".

Fast forward to present day. I now work in a long term care facility and contrary to popular belief they aren't all depressing places where families drop off once loved relatives and then forget about them. We have a terrific Activities Director who makes sure there is something special planned for our residents every day. I know this not because I actually get to witness it, but because the calendar of events is prominently displayed at the entrance and throughout the halls.

By the time I get to work, which is roughly 5 minutes before my 7p-7a shift most of the residents are finishing up with supper and after their meds are dispensed they retire to their rooms for the night.

What I have neglected to mention about my place of employment is that it actually consists of two buildings. The main building or A building is a large brick structure that sits right up against the main road and the back building aka B building is much smaller and is connected to the larger building by a long covered breezeway.

I work in the B building which is the newest part of our facility that was constructed during the late 80's. The main building is much older, originally constructed in 1952 and was once the only hospital in the small rural town where I live. It was run by Catholic nuns and saw it's fair share of tragedy and unimaginable heartache. Some of the "lifers", a term of endearment we give our long time employees who transitioned over to the LTC facility after the hospital shut down used to regale us with stories that were both hysterical and soul numbing. While those tales were often embellished I could reference some of the facts from our "death book".

I remember the first time I had to access this book, I had only been on the job for a week when one of our geriatric residents passed away. All deaths must be recorded with the following: name, date, age of deceased, time of death, next of kin, address, followed by our signature.

When the hospital was in operation the "manner of death" was also listed. So many young lives taken too soon by accidental drownings, gun shot wounds, stabbings, MVA. I hate that damn book and have been vocal about our need for a new one. Unfortunately this is the way things are done in my county and for now the death book stays.

If any of you have ever worked in LTC then you are well aware that if anything can go wrong it does go wrong after midnight. Confused residents fall out of the bed, scream out due to hallucinations, attempt to leave AMA etc. Anyone who thinks "night shift nurses" have it easy need to be throat punched.

In any case, when we have someone in need of a safety alarm such as a bed alarm or chair alarm there is only one place at my work that houses the spare equipment.

The old ER, or dungeon as we call it. It is in the basement portion of the main building that also houses the kitchen, custodial offices, employee break room, an old chapel and several conference rooms. I hate going down there and usually I enlist the help of one of the CNA's to accompany me. This was mainly just for safety reasons. Once, a drunk man was able to gain access to the back door where the time clock was located and was found passed out against a drink machine near the employee break room. He was completely oblivious to where he was when the cops showed up and took him off in handcuffs.

In order to get to where the spare equipment room is located you must go through the swinging metal doors leading to the old ER. Past the doors there are several round metal speaker systems that hang out from the top of the walls and an assortment of old signage directing patients to the front desk, bathrooms, exam rooms and the radiology department. It truly looks like you stepped into an old episode of the Twilight Zone. Trust me when I say that walking down these halls by yourself is extremely unsettling.

Any way, about the dungeon. One night last November I needed a bed alarm for one of our newer residents who had fallen out of bed twice within 3 hours. Its our policy after the 2nd documented fall then we institute soft restraint measures to prevent injury. Being short a CNA that particular night I was forced to retrieve the alarm myself since there had to always be one employee on the floor at all times and Grace, one of my "lifer's" was elbow deep in shit at that moment.

It was a little past midnight when I grabbed my coat exited out into the frigid night walking the breezeway leading into the main building. The door to the main building from the breezeway opened up to a dimly lit hallway where directly in front of the doors stood a single elevator. I observed that the elevator door leading upstairs to the main floors was open. Odd. Unless someone is entering the elevator or exiting it the door remain closed. As if reading my thoughts the elevator door slowly closed and I watched as the "up arrow" glowed brightly.

I'm one of those people who can generally get freaked out by the slightest thing so already I was dreading my trek down the hall to the equipment room. As I walked along the corridor leading to the swinging metal doors it felt like the heating system was on the brinks. I could almost see my breath that's how drastically the temperature change was. In that moment I remembered every horror/scary movie I had ever seen where a sudden drop in ambient temperature meant that ghosts were present. I tried humming the Pharrell Williams song "Happy" to keep my mind from going to those terrifying thoughts.

After pushing through the metal doors I thought I saw a glimpse of movement off to my right. Perhaps one of the other nurses or CNA's from the two upper floors were down here getting equipment as well and I chastised myself for being such a scaredy-cat.

I quickened my steps and made it to the door marked "Radiology" which was where all our extra equipment was stored. During the time the hospital was in operation this was where all the x-rays were performed and it still held some of the ancient machines. I could hear movement as if someone were pushing a wheelchair or stretcher out of the way and again relief washed over me.

I opened the door and was immediately struck with fear. There was no one else in the room! Despite its size I would have been able to see someone even if they were crouched down looking through one of the storage bins. The air again was even more frigid in the room, so cold in fact that I actually could see my breath in front of me.

It felt downright silly but I uttered a shrill "Hello?" as I took a few steps inside. The door slammed shut behind me. Panic was now reaching every cell of my body and I could hear and feel my heart as it bounded in my chest. My mind raced as I turned behind me and tried the door knob. It was locked! I was way past terrified at this point and started banging on the door shouting at the top of my lungs. My voice bounced off the sickening green cement blocks that made up the walls. "Help!" I continued to scream to no avail. Then it happened.

A voice, so soft and faint came from the other side of the door. "Is it time?"

I moved back from the door and detected movement from the other side however even with the dim fluorescent light fixtures in the hall there should have been a shadow.

I swallowed hard even though my mouth was dry and my throat burned from my screaming. I listened again, waiting and the voice a little louder asked "I'm ready to go, is it time?" After those words were again uttered the soft sniffles of a child crying echoed through the room I was in. I remained motionless, frozen by fear when I heard another voice, much older say "Come on Lily, this way." I could hear the sound of footsteps leading away from the door.

Not even a minute later the door opened behind me and I screamed when I heard my name. "Janie?" He looked bewildered. It was Steve, one of the new CNA's from the 2nd floor coming to get a wheelchair. I must have looked like a ghost myself as I'm sure all the color had drained from my face. "Jesus they need to get the heat fixed down here" he said as he moved past me to grab the chair.

"Could you wait, just a minute while I grab a chair alarm?" I asked. Steve looked at me funny before breaking into a grin. "Why? You scared?" he snickered. Asshole.

Nevertheless he waited while I grabbed the alarm and I hauled ass down the hall and then broke into a jog after exiting the building before punching the code to get into my own building.

I made it back to my nurse's station and handed the alarm to Grace, the older CNA who had been keeping a watch on the halls and told her to take it to room 301. When she rounded the hall I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the death book. I don't know why I was compelled to do so but after flipping through and skimming several names I saw what made my heart drop to my stomach. NAME: Lily Robertson DATE: October 5th 1958, AGE: 5 CAUSE OF DEATH: Blunt force trauma to the head. I now know without a doubt that my work is haunted and sadly it was not an isolated incident.

[stunudo]

Teamwork Makes the Dream Work:

A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction Case 1 Part B

Featuring: Female Reader as she joins the Team

Setting: Early Season 12                Beginning

A/N: This is a piece about how someone with some quirks fits into the BAU. xoxo Stu

Your name: submit What is this?

They had a jet! She was a gorgeous example of engineering and simple luxury.

“Shiny! How can you fly commercial after using this beauty?” Your approving eyes were flitting through all of the leg room. Alvez and Jareau snickered behind you. You continued inside, quickly counting seats. You didn’t have to sit next to anyone! There were plenty of buffer seats for everyone.

You hummed pleasantly as you found a window seat towards the back. The relief of personal space made you almost forget the embarrassment of the morning. Rossi sat down opposite you, watching you observe the workers on the sides of the runway. His reputation was one of the most noteworthy on the team. But you always held personal interactions above gossip and, even, bureau legends.

“The jet is possibly my favorite addition to the team.” Rossi stated, “Just don’t tell the kids, they’ll be jealous.” He added in a mock whisper.

“Good to know, I would hate to have to live up to all she has done.” You teased. “Penny says you have quite the games collection.”

Rossi smirked, “Does she? Well, that’s it, all of my mysteries have already been revealed.”

Hotch was last on the plane, he sat beside Rossi with his tablet at the ready. “Garcia, what did you find?”

“Sir, sirs and sisters too! Waupaca County Sheriff just got word that state troopers located Abigail Brown’s car in, or near rather Pelican Lake.”

“That expands the comfort zone. It is 93 miles from her last known location.” Spencer jumped into the conversation, leaning down to speak to Garcia over Hotch’s shoulder.

“Alright, Rossi take Alvez to the victim’s car. JJ, I want you to take Y/L/N and Reid to the parents’ house near Waupaca. Lewis and I will coordinate with the locals. We will have rental vehicles, please behave with them.” Hotch emphasized, which made you wonder who was in trouble with “dad” for reckless driving in the past.

“For now, rest up. We have two hours in the air and another hour, hour plus on the road.” Hotch thanked Garcia and the team dispersed to different corners of the jet. You slid your earbuds in, picking up where Simon Pegg’s voice had left you giggling last.

The plane landed on a small airstrip in Oshkosh, WI located on the same campus as the world famous EAA Aviation Museum. The clear skies and bird’s eye view had left a beautiful impression of the surrounding lakes and towns. You waited in your seat to be the last off of the jet, so as not to have anyone behind and not to slow anyone down.

The stiffness of flying twice in such a short time frame left you yearning for a jog. Unfortunately the crisp autumn air rushed your face as you descended from the hatch. You shivered against the wind and followed your new team to the waiting assortment of rental cars. JJ had snagged the first set of keys for a dark four door sedan. You cautiously hauled your Go-bag and messenger to the rear of the car. As JJ popped the trunk, Dr. Reid tossed his bags inside the trunk before you registered his presence. The shock of having him there without catching him in your periphery locked you in place.

You shook your head to clear the unsettling tinge that remained on the air. You looked deeply into the trunk and slowly inserted your belongings while keeping your head down. You made your way to the back door and slid onto the leather seat. Reid was already sitting in the backseat behind Jareau. He glanced at you, surprised.

“Dr. Reid, you can sit shotgun. I prefer the back, backseat.” You tried to look reassuring. “With limbs like yours, I imagine, the front will be more comfortable. For you.” His big eyes taking in your slow to calm nerves. He made a half smile, accepting your offer with a nod. Once Spencer was situated up front, JJ typed in the address for the Brown family and headed out of town.

“So,” you began, “I’m going to pry, full disclosure. Why was the chief so huffy about the team having rental cars?” You leaned between the front seats, ensuring the other agents could hear you. You never meant to mumble, but it happened on occasion.

JJ laughed, “First off, it’s Hotch. Sir is fine, I guess. But everyone calls him Hotch.” You nodded, storing that detail for his approval later.

“You see, Y/L/N, our former colleague, Morgan, had a thing about “vibing” while he drove. There was a pedophile ring, we were on the task force near the end of the case. And Morgan, he, well he-”

“Derek drove into a marsh.” JJ concluded. “The car was unsalvageable and it set back the investigation-”

“An additional eight hours,” Reid continued. “Hotch was not pleased. He hates things that get us billed unexpectedly.”

You sensed the closeness between Reid and Jareau, interpreting their relationship to be greater than simply teammates. As Jareau was clearly married and Reid did not give off any sexuality hints you assumed they were “besties”. Riding in the backseat was refreshingly entertaining. People watching was a specialty of yours, as you tended to fade to the background anyway. You learned about JJ’s family. Spencer’s mother was mentioned briefly, but you could tell it was a touchy subject. He was studying a map, marking it diligently with details from the case.

“Y/L/N, what’s your story? Besides transferring from cyber crimes, of course.” Jareau asked after a patch of quiet. “We’re going to find out eventually. Might as well spill.” Her eyes caught yours in the rear-view mirror, prodding yet kind.

“You tell me, between Reid’s eidetic memory and your past profiling and negotiation experience. I am quite obvious, I suppose. I am curious what you’ve gathered.” You leaned back, waiting for the inevitably judgmental insights.

Jareau and Reid exchanged a look. “We don’t, uh, we have an unspoken rule not to profile each other.”

“Alvez says you all do it. You just don’t talk about doing it.” You explained. Reid pursed his lips, from where you sat you couldn’t deduce if it was in amusement or annoyance.

The family was a mess. Their emotions in dark contrast to their small, cookie cutter, ranch style house and manicured lawn. The Brown’s house interior had no visible blemishes as well. Abigail was their oldest child. Missing her were her father, Mark, her mother, Sandra and brothers Danny and Benji. The boys were at school, so there were more of your agents than family members occupying the cubical shaped dining room.

“Ma’am, would it be alright if Dr. Reid and I see Abigail’s room?” You asked rather abruptly after being introduced by Jareau, the question had been burning in your mouth. You wanted to get to work, but had to tell yourself to be considerate of the family.

“Why would you need to go in there?” Sandra asked defensively. “It’s not like she is hiding under the bed.” You glanced up at Spencer, letting him take over.

“I know you are upset, but we are trying to get to know Abigail. When we investigate we start with the victim. Why her?” Reid explained, his crisp reasoning held both parents’ attention.

“Hey, Doc?” Mark Brown chimed in, “When you figure that out, let me know. I want to reason with the bastard as it is.” You watched Reid hold the father’s stare, knowing words were not involved with his intentions. Reid cleared his throat and Jareau resumed the standard victim’s family questioning. You stepped widely around the compact table, waiting until Reid was in the hall before following his puff of hair.

Abigail Brown’s room was fairly standard college freshman material. She had a Klimt poster on one wall and a bookshelf dedicated to YA novels. The girl had good taste: Clare to Riordan, Steifvater to Rowling. Her desk was cleared of her laptop, as she would have packed it with her to return to school. Dr. Reid’s hands loomed over her dresser, the vanity astonishingly bare for your modern, small town young woman.

“Y/L/N, what don’t you see here?” Reid quizzed you. Your eyes glanced over the space once more before answering.

“There is no jewelry, make up or anything personally or monetarily valuable.” You concluded.

“She wasn’t coming back home.” Reid agreed.

SPEAKERPHONE

Rossi: Everything this girl owned seemed to be jammed into her hatchback.

Hotch: Reid and Y/L/N are suggesting she knew she wouldn’t be coming back.

Alvez: There was no sign of a struggle in or around the car. Maybe she was meeting someone?

Garcia: Sir? Once we get Abigail’s laptop connected to WiFi, I can start digging. Rossi please don’t let the new kid hurt the tech.

Rossi: Y/L/N’s with Reid and JJ.

Garcia: You know who I mean! But, now that you mention it, if Y/L/N is close by, she can dig too.

There was no good place for the team to sync up. Victims went missing counties apart from where their cars were parked. Evidence was in three jurisdictions. According to Reid, the eye of the storm was in Shawano County, but Hotch booked the hotel in Antigo, one county north. Fortunately the hotel had internet access, unlike every restaurant, diner or cafe you had come across.

You plugged your headphones in to Abigail’s lap top and got to work uncovering this victim’s dirty laundry. While you did your “tech thing” the team round tabled. You overheard the highlights, comfortable to be invisible and an eavesdropper once again.

-Victims had all packed above and beyond the usual weekend laundry run of a college student.

-Parents hadn’t heard much from the victims over the few weeks leading up to their disappearances.

-No signs of struggle and no more bodies had been found.

Dr. Lewis was extremely insightful, pulling references to human trafficking rings that ran from Green Bay to Chicago. You reminded yourself to touch base with the sultry voiced agent once you had a decent question for her brilliance. Abigail’s computer was full of malware. But other than that she had an active, yet not obsessive level of social media profiles. She checked her school email inbox between each class.

This victim was a good kid, you didn’t know why she was targeted. It wasn’t until you found reoccurring references to Night Owls that you felt the computer was a dead end. Night Owls was a evening group chat that Abigail had found on a banner ad. It was a chat room coupled with a confessional. It was in Night Owls that Abigail started communicating with a Nocturne1995. It was in one of these very emo and very lengthy chats that you found where Nocturne1995 suggested that they go to the Cabin for an Escape from Everything.

Finally turning off Abigail’s most listened to list on iTunes, you returned to your awaiting teammates. Hotch and Rossi watched you approach the table. Their dark eyes held you and you fumbled trying to wipe the sweat from your palms.

“Sir?” You began, whispering just to Hotchner. “I am going to call Garcia to trace a chat ID, its a long shot, but there are mentions of an escape and a cabin in their conversations.”

“You do what you need to, Y/L/N.” Hotchner agreed. “Y/L/N? Good work.”

To Be Continued...

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Can we please have some more "Our story?"

What happens after Claire calls Jamie in “Our story?”

anonymous asked: When will we get a continuation of “Our Story”, this is a really great fic and I can’t wait to discover if Jamie and Claire will finally meet after all these years apart. Thanks to all the writers, you’re each doing a terrific job with your own world and creation. Keep up the great work :)

[December 24th, 2007]

When another deadline flies by, Jamie is flying at 10,000 feet, Boston-bound with a mouthful of pretzels. He can almost see Geordie in his Glasgow office, fat fingers typing misspelled threats into a text: droppING representaton, beach of contract, an etc. etc. dripping with career-ending venom. But no matter. How could anything matter, when the sea is a sheet of blue glass below? When a woman—his woman—is waiting for the sound of his knuckles on the other side of her door?

Later that evening, Jamie’s rental pulls up outside Claire’s home. He does not move from his seat, but waits, wanting to see what fragments of life he can snatch from the trees, the waft of peanut butter from the swaying pinecones. The house is large and painted brick, with a mismatched patch of white above the garage. Roman Column instead of Lily of the Valley. (He imagines a man, Frank, on a ladder; Claire looking up, shielding her frustration from him and the sun). The grass is freshly cut, and Jamie knows that if he wanders to the back, he will find a garden. Marigolds sleeping until spring.

Jamie thinks, with a certain sense of awe, This is the place. This is the place and that is the yard and that is the door. Inside, there is the kitchen where she has eaten breakfast, the table where she’s done her taxes, the mirror that has fogged with her breath when she leans close. (He remembers being that close, once.)

Finally, he gets out of the car.

The slats of thin metal clank when Claire pulls at the blinds. She sees Jamie striding up the pathway, looking as impressive as he does on glossy paper, or in the intricate webbings of her late-night brain. She smooths her curls and her skirt to tame whatever has burst inside her. (Loneliness, that old friend—just a puff of smoke.)

The first thing Claire says when she opens the door is, “You broke your nose.”

There is no intonation at the end, implying doubt, or criticism (“You broke your nose.”). Rather, there is only quiet evidence that Claire has not forgotten, still knows Jamie and the once-sharp bridge of his nose, through and through.

And Jamie, seeing Claire, says, “Aye, and you’ve gone a bit gray.”

Similarly, it is not a question or an insult (he thinks she looks wiser, wants to see what she’d look like in all white), but merely a quiet recognition that time has passed, they are older, and he does not care.

“I’m assuming there’s a story to go with it.”

Claire squints, trying to mine the story from his face. The possibilities: a horse, riled by the teeth of flies. An angry lover, whose palm soars, its heel shoved outwards and up. It’s unsettling, almost, how Claire can only fill these blank spaces with assumptions.

“Aye, there’s always a story,” Jamie says.

With her face pinched this way, Jamie can read the years in the crinkles of her forehead. He sees the spot where the furrow is at its deepest, the place where she probably wonders, “What other parts of you have broken?” He wants to put his lips there, tell her about every splinter and fracture without speaking them aloud. 

Claire’s eyes travel downwards until they sparkle. Apparently, she has found something in the cut of his jaw because she puts a hand to her chin, saying, “I’m going to assume…an unfortunate encounter with a mountain lion? No. A bear. A grizzly. Are there grizzlies in the Highlands?”

“Nay, unless ye count Rupert,” Jamie replies and, as if on cue, a roar comes from a nearby porch. A man staggers towards an idled taxi, all hairy haunches and pale flanks in the streetlight. “Merry Christmas!” he shouts to no one, voice ringing with booze. He draws up when he spots Jamie and Claire across the way, and his lips are spit-shined when he puckers them, cooing, “Now kissssssssssssss!”

Jamie laughs quietly, so that Claire must work to hear it once the engine putters awake. (When she moves a bit closer, she does; decides it is still the best thing she’s ever heard.)

“Well, there appears to be a small population of them in Boston,” she jokes. “Now’s your chance. I’ll hold those flowers while you two go at it.”

Christ, he’d forgotten the flowers. 

“Thank you,” he says, placing them in her arms (the pulse of an old grief when she cradles the roses). “Make sure ye dinna crush them, mind. The woman I’m taking to dinner wouldna appreciate crushed flowers.”

“Better crushed flowers than a crushed date. Not much you can do with that.”  

Whether either of them realizes it, the four feet between them have become one, and if Jamie were to extend his arm, he could wrap it entirely around Claire’s waist. Instead, he jerks his head towards the car, and she follows him.

“But if a ghastly beast did break your nose, I’d love to hear about it.” 

“The story’s not as exciting as all that,” he replies, opening the passenger door, taking an extra second to admire the clumsy way she ducks inside. “Just a rugby match against the Mackenzies.”

“Beasts enough,” she says, once he’s in his seat. “Was it worth it?”

Already, the new-car smell has been replaced by hers: that fertile spring scent, moss and rain and opening flowers. Jamie rubs his nose and wonders if, after all these years, Claire’s green thumb would set it straight by simple touch. Crunch, click, wholeness.

“A broken nose in exchange for Dougal on his arse, doing the splits for all king and country? Worth it, I’d say.” 

“Oof.” Claire cringes. “Think I could die happy without that one.” 

“Aye, there’s a few other things I’d rather see…” Suddenly bold, Jamie lets his words become a suggestion. A flush blooms across Claire’s cheeks as she reaches toward the dashboard. 

“Easy there, lad.” 

Jamie notices how her fingers waver in the air, seem to yearn for the knob of his knee. But Claire freezes, suddenly self-conscious, and only turns the radio dial. When Joni Mitchell sings through the speakers, she hoots, “You’re still listening to this stuff?”

“Always,” he wants to say. 

“Better than what’s on nowadays,” he says instead, tapping the cracked CD case on the consul. “And my iPod broke.” 

“Broken nose, broken iPod…” Claire looks out the window and hums. (What other parts of you have broken?)

It’s as though the music is dragging them from Jamie’s car, pushing them into a crooked Edinburgh flat where a needle crackles and the record spins. The soundtrack of their newlywed bliss, “Blue”—forever playing in tune with the creak of their cot, the groan of the pipes behind their heads. Lying awake at night, they had dreamt aloud of the 70’s—of history—believing they’d both been born late, two souls adrift. (“If you could be anyone, who would you want to be?” they had asked each other. But whatever time or place, the answer was always, “Yours.”)

“So where exactly are you taking me?”

“That’s for me to ken and for you to find out.” 

“I do hope it’s at least remotely interesting,” Claire replies. 

“Jury’s still out. Awaiting yer judgment.”

“Hope you remember I’m a difficult one to please.”

“Not as difficult as ye think,” he says. Another suggestion. Suddenly, Claire remembers bubble wrap and a weightlessness where there was nothing but the flutter between her legs. Jamie remembers her face, gone slack, and her heavy-lidded sighs above him.

“No,” Claire says, “maybe not.” 

And when she smiles, it is just as Jamie remembers (the most beautiful, the best thing). He feels himself wrap and wind, like a red string, around her finger.

Jeanne’s, the place is called, a tiny French joint where a glass of water costs $2 and the tablecloths feel like spider silk. It is a short walk from Jamie’s hotel and a much longer drive to Claire’s home, out in the suburbs. Both of them silently agree to ignore the implications of these distances, shunting away thoughts of alabaster shoulders and muscled calves under a hotel bedspread. 

“So tell me,” Claire says, their meals ordered, “why this place?”

“You have to promise ye won’t laugh.”

“Promise,” she says (though she will giggle halfway through, a teenager’s star crossed giddiness). “I won’t laugh.” 

So this is what Jamie tells her: that he’d once looked up restaurants in Boston, and found this one. That he’d used it as a reference—a stage set in his mind, which he could place Claire easily inside, see her occupy. That, in knowing the menu and the wine list and the painting near the bar, his memory of her could be something more than memory. Something just short of real because there she’d be, ordering from the menu and the wine list, sitting beneath the painting that he’d memorized from the bookmarked Yelp page. (This, Claire understands. It’s why she used to read the articles, why Frank shredding her collection seemed like the greatest theft.)

There’s a synchronicity to their movements as they eat. When Claire reaches for the salt shaker, Jamie’s hand is already there, passing it to her. And when Jamie spills his whisky, Claire is already advancing with a napkin, blushing as she grazes his lap and feels a hardened promise in his trousers. At one point, there is a crumb at the corner of Claire’s mouth, and Jamie does not feel shy about telling her it is there, about flicking it away with his finger (but God, does he wish it was his tongue) when her own cannot seem to find it. 

“There.” 

They talk about everything: Sorcha the horse, the online forum, Laoghaire, Frank. The random moments when they were reminded of each other: a particular slant of light on a penny, a navigation system set to British English. They smile, they laugh, and begin to think that a span of fifteen years is no significant thing. No time at all.

But for all their honesty, they are skirting around the great, fat elephant. It squats in the middle of their table, fattening itself on the bread basket, until it grows too large to ignore. A breathing wall that Claire considers hopping, sticking one brave limb over the edge; testing, testing. Are ye sure about this, Claire? 

Their conversation halts when a fight breaks out beside them. A couple, much younger than they, lips curling with their fists. Everyone—Jamie and Claire included—braces for the smack of a cheek or the slosh of drink, but a waiter intercedes and guides them out. The combatants rush into the night, huffing a trail of hate that only lovers know.

Claire seems to wilt then, her shoulders and eyes lowering. The last bite of coq au vin is left untouched.

“I suppose we should….” She pauses, bullying a lone mushroom onto the table. “We should talk about some things.”

It is then that Jamie realizes what is to come and that—no matter how hard he wishes it wouldn’t—it must. He straightens himself in his chair, gives a noncommittal, “Mmm.” And only after Claire’s lips tremble does he realize his mistake: like so many years ago, he has not said the right words. 

“Ironic,” she says. “You seemed to have a lot to say about it in your books.” 

He stares at his plate. 

“You’re not going to say anything?” 

“Not here, no.”   

“Ever?” 

Jamie’s gaze falls further, to the floor. The hardwood is darker than in the pictures, he thinks. More mahogany than chestnut. Suddenly, he feels betrayed, like his picture-perfect stage was built from rotten planks all along.

When he finally looks up, he sees Claire’s empty chair, spots her back as she spins through the revolving door. 

“Wait!” he shouts (A word! A word!). He slams $100 onto the table and weaves his way to the entrance, rattled nerves rattling wine glasses. Once he’s outside, he finds Claire leaning against the building. Eyes like smothered coals in the full dark. 

“Mo nighean—” 

“Don’t say it,” she barks, so fiercely, that he shuts his mouth. “You don’t get to say that. Not yet.” (He had forgotten her fury, how her tiny body could hold so much of it, wield it carefully or recklessly whenever she wanted.) “You know, I’ve never heard you say her name since that day.”

Jamie thinks his gut has been sliced open. Believes that, if he looked down, he would see his liver, his intestines, his kidneys—a collection of his organs—soaking into the sidewalk. Streams of his blood trickling into five letters. 

No, he hasn’t said it. Can’t.

“Of course I remember,” he grumbles.

“Then what else do you remember?” she asks, but she gives him no time to respond. “Do you remember that morning, Jamie? The half-empty church? The too-full cemetery?” She shakes her head, laughing. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Because you weren’t there.” 

“How was I to know what to do?” he yells, his own grief-rage pouring out. “I was 23, just a kid!”

“And I was your wife. You know, that person whose side you promise to stand by? But you weren’t standing by me, Jamie. You were in a bloody prison cell.”

“I did it for you. For her! We had no money, and I thought—”

“Which part did you do for us? The prison part? The not being at the funeral part? The let’s-just-make-another-child-and-things-will-be-better part?” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Bride. I’m trying to explain myself so that you can understand, if you’ll only give me the chance.” 

Claire takes a staggering step forwards, drives her index finger into his chest. She cranes her neck to look at him, unafraid. “No, I want you to understand first. I want you to understand what it was like, standing there, surrounded by “Beloved Mothers” and “Devoted Fathers.” All these people who’d lived long enough for that kind of stuff.”

She whirls away again, caught up in memory.

“And the priest, the damn priest! Jamie, he couldn’t even say your name right. Faith Eraser. Like some sick joke. I didn’t know who I hated more. Him, for not being able to pronounce it right. Or you, for having that stupid name.” She pauses, catches her breath so that her words don’t break when they hit the air. “In the end, I remembered: it was you who I hated more. Because at least the priest was there.”

“You’re the one who left. You’re the one who didn’t even try.” 

“I tried. I—” 

“Nay, give me just one second, because I think you’ve got it in yer head that ye somehow own this grief. The grief of—” He swallows. “Of Faith. But ye don’t. Ye werena there when I finally took the crib down, or when I brought all the wee clothes to the charity shop because I couldna look at them. I pretended—Christ—I pretended they were my niece’s because I couldna allow myself to think I had a daughter. That I was ever a father.” 

“You were a father. You still are.” 

“Aye, I ken that now,” he says. “It was too painful, though, at the time. To think of what I had, to remember what I’d lost. And then there were the phone calls, all the questions: Where’s Claire? Is she all right? When is she coming back? The worst of it all, really, because I didna ken the answers. Wasna sure you’d ever come back.”

Claire looks down, but he can see the beads on her lashes, the thin stream flowing down her neck, inside her collar.

“Why did ye leave? How could ye leave?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Back then I thought I did. You couldn’t look at the crib or the clothes? Well I couldn’t’ look at myself, or you, without seeing her. Remembering everything: how she felt, what she smelled like. What it was like to hold my entire heart in my arms, just for a moment, and then watch it break.” 

(She wants to tell him about the butterfly ears and about the sheets—Please, please just to remember—but is afraid of them, even now.)

“The day I came home, she was everywhere—on the walls, in the little flower mobile—and you weren’t. And then when you were, I would look at you and there’d be a split second, just a blink of time, where I’d forget. Because how could she be dead if she was still there, in the bones of your face?” Claire is sobbing now. Streaks of mascara under her eyes and snot from her nose. (Grief: such an ugly, ugly thing.) Jamie steps forward, waiting for her to shrink away, but she doesn’t. Welcomes his arms. “The moment after that—where I remembered again—was more painful than anything else. Y-y’know?” 

“I understand, Sassenach. I do.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I—I don’t think I should have left. Jamie, I really shouldn’t have left.”

“I’m sorry too. And I wish you hadn’t.” 

“God, we fucked everything up, didn’t we? Made a real fucking mess.” 

“Aye, perhaps we didna do—or say—the right things. But it’s nothing we canna fix.”

Claire’s laugh is mirthful when she says, “Fix? How can we ever be the same?” 

(Jamie was asked a similar question, years before, in a cabin up in the Grampians. He had doubted it too, then, thinking of nothing more irreparable than a speechless husband, a fleeing wife, and a baby who never cried. But that was long ago and before this night, where he is hugging Claire and feeling a ring beneath her blouse.)

“We can’t, Sassenach—but I dinna want to be the same. I dinna want to make the same mistakes.” His head bows, an oath. “I willna make the same mistakes.” 

“You’re really willing—”

“Yes.” 

“And even though—“

“Yes.”

“Will you stop bloody cutting me off?”

Jamie’s silence. Claire’s pointed look.

“Oh sorry. Wasna sure if ye were going for a dramatic extended pause or no’.”

Jamie grins, and it pulls at the corners of Claire’s mouth.

“You’ll forgive me?” she asks, then. Shy. “And trust me enough to know that I won’t run off? Because that’s what I do, Jamie. I disappear.”

“And I get too quiet, and I dinna say the right things—or anything—when I should. Too prideful, too ashamed.” 

“But you do, eventually. Say the right thing. The perfect thing.” 

“And you come back, Sassenach. Eventually.” Jamie tweaks her chin, brings his forehead to hers. “Can ye no’ see it? You are my courage, and I am your conscience. We canna be whole if yer no’ here to bring the words out of me. If I am no’ here to bring ye home.”

Claire rubs a sleeve across her eyes.

“Bloody writer,” she chokes, and he kisses her. (A second passes where they are 21 and 22 again, two young things dashing through the streets of Edinburgh. All this life ahead of them.) When Claire tries to break apart, he keeps her to him as if wanting, somehow, to fall into her.

“Are you going to write me into your bed tonight?” she asks, breathless.

“Is that a proposition?” 

“Merely the question of a curious reader.” 

“I thought I might drive ye home first and see where the story takes me. Dinna like working from an outline.”

“All right. Spontaneity’s nice. I like a good plot twist.”

“Are ye ready, then?”

Claire reaches for his hand, and he gives it to her. Jamie squeezes, she squeezes back. She leads him toward the car. He follows, holding the keys and her heart. 

“I’m ready,” she says. “Take me home, Jamie.”

(At her doorstep, Jamie will give Claire a Christmas gift: a vase wrapped in old hopes, tied up with a sweater ribbon. Because of this, she will say, “Want to come in?” and will allow him to shuck his shoes on the rug, kiss her in the moon-drenched foyer. It will be immediate—the dissolution of their separate mouths and the resurgence of a familiar knowledge—once Jamie’s shirt parts and Claire’s skirt drops. Blue stripes and liquid gold on the floor.

She will let Jamie lay her down—gentle, so gentle—in front of the fireplace. And Jamie will bend—reverent, so reverent—and lick the pale tributaries of her inner thighs, inching towards the most tender part of her. “Please,” she’ll say, and he will make her say it again.

“Please.”

There are old lines. Ones they will know, remember as a soft curve or a particular bulge of muscle. Theirs to re-meet, reclaim and own.

There are also new lines. They will cut their teeth on them, tasting each other’s now-bonier spines or the looser skin of their upper arms. Jamie’s hands will still be larger—so much larger—than hers, and he will grasp the soft side of her knees, spread, and sink. “God,” Claire will think he says, and then wonder if he’d ever prayed in an empty church. Found some kind of grace in religion, as she had done, during those lonely, intermittent years.

Claire will kiss Jamie’s jawline, remembering that he likes it. Jamie will nip Claire’s neck because he knows it makes her shiver. And they will both be happy when they see that they’ve remembered correctly, that he does, yes, still like it when she kisses his jawline and that she does, yes, still prickle with goosebumps when he nips her neck. Please. God.

Jamie will begin to move faster, pushing Claire up and up until stars fall into her open mouth, then pour out again onto his shoulder. The bite marks there will glisten. 

Not long after, Jamie will follow, the fullest kind of breaking. And this time—oh, oh, oh this time—she will hear his whisper. Not “God” at all, but: 

“Claire.” 

And maybe, she will think, her cheek finding his steadying beat. Maybe this is what God is. The sound of your name in a lover’s mouth. Your face inside his heart.)

[teagrl]

So this is an interesting scene on the issue of balance in the late EU during the Skywalker roadtrip. Luke and Ben visit these mysterious aliens who can look at the past and the future (flow walk) and that Order believes in the Force existing along a spectrum, not light or dark, something the aliens refer to as a rainbow.

I do like Golden’s take on the cave scene in ESB. That part is the highlight of this excerpt to me.

That said, I’m not entirely sold on Golden’s analysis between the lines here. The Force itself IS gray, it’s just there is never a moment where a human, at least, can perceive it as such, is my understanding. The minute the Force is accessed by someone there’s the choice of channel/go with it (the ~flow of it) or trap it/control it. These seem to be mutually exclusive and one action leads to balance/harmony and the other to destruction. This seems to be the core of Force metaphysics in the GFFA, at least going by most of the EU (inconsistencies aside, of course).  

I also don’t think Golden goes far enough with Ben’s critique about pulling people from the dark side -- about where the line is in the “ends justify the means.” There is actually a LOT of gray already built in. Even before we start moving towards ethically murky territory -- just look at the Old Republic’s Jedi. Being fully in the camp of the light side didn’t stop them from being short sighted not to see the chain of decisions that lead to their doom. In that case, it wasn’t an issue of intent or being power hungry necessarily. Perhaps under their own framework it was that they focused more on external problems to the point that they forgot to protect and care for their own. I’m shaky on this, but increasingly interested, so if anyone wants to weigh in more on the prequels, please do.

I’m going to go back to Traitor probably tomorrow to see what’s there because it might be more relevant and smarter (Off the top of my head Vergere asking Jacen about the canvas upon which light and dark take shape is an excellent quote).

And let’s ignore that Golden also Did Not Do the Reading about Mara because wtf with Luke “pulling Mara from the dark side” I would buy this, if fucking Palpatine hadn’t crippled her abilities to near-normal status (is it the dark side when you’re a normal? Worth discussing at some point). BUT I DIGRESS.

Here’s the scene:

“I used to think of [the Force] like a tool, a weapon,” [Ben] said. “A blaster isn’t inherently evil. It can shoot a friend to betray him or an enemy to save a life. I thought of the Force that way. As neither good or evil, just kind of—gray.”

Luke nodded. “I remember when I entered the cave on Dagobah. I sensed something wrong at once, even before I went in. It was so cold, so  unsettling. I was—” He laughed slightly. “I was setting myself up for failure, is what I was doing. Yoda told me I wouldn’t need my weapons, but I took them anyway. He warned me that a Jedi uses the Force for knowledge and defense, never attack, but when the image of Vader approached—I activated my lightsaber first. That’s not what Jedi do. We protect and defend those who can’t defend themselves. So I failed my first test on the whole light side-dark side thing pretty miserably.”

[...]

“I—I think Jacen wanted it to be gray,” Ben said slowly, speaking as he worked things out in his head.

“What do you mean?”

Ben suspected that Luke knew exactly what he meant, but wanted to hear him say it. He continued. “Jacen wanted a safe galaxy. That’s something all right-thinking people want—a safe place to raise their kids, pursue their art or their passions. It’s not a bad ideal.”

[...]

“It’s the classic example of the end justifying the means,” Luke said quietly. “You want something—even something that everyone agrees is a good thing—too desperately. And so you start eliminating obstacles to your success. And then in order to keep going, you’ve got to  harden yourself to doing more and more things that are at odds with your core beliefs of what is right and wrong. Make it so that your goal is so important, you have to lie or betray or kill for it.”

[...]

Luke laughed. “You know the story. But the lesson—which I failed miserably—was that you really do find only what you take with you. The dark side can’t corrupt you unless you let it, let it use the anger, hatred, and aggression you already have.”

“Or your wants,” Ben said quietly, the humor fading. “That’s what Jacen did.”

“For a Jedi, there is no place for a rainbow Force,” Luke said quietly. “There’s no room for compromise. We walk the path of the light side, or we fall to the darkness. There’s no gray area, Ben.”

Ben sighed. “It sounds like a nice idea, but … yeah. I saw what happened to Jacen, up close and personal. And I’ve felt the dark side on Ziost, just like you did on Dagobah. But Yoda was wrong about one thing.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“It didn’t dominate Vader’s destiny. You pulled him back from the dark side, and when he died, he was one with the Force. And you pulled Mom back from it, too.”

Luke smiled gently. “And Leia pulled me back, when I got too close. I think you did the same thing for Tahiri, Ben. You didn’t just abandon her, even when she had done all the things she did to you.”

Ben struck a heroic pose as best he could in the flowform chair. “Jedi Skywalkers,” he said melodramatically. “Practicing a fine family tradition of rescuing people from the dark side.”

[njawaidofficial]

Elisabeth Moss on 'Handmaid's Tale's' Real-World Parallels and How She Became an Accidental Activist (Cover Story)

http://styleveryday.com/2017/07/19/elisabeth-moss-on-handmaids-tales-real-world-parallels-and-how-she-became-an-accidental-activist-cover-story/

Elisabeth Moss on 'Handmaid's Tale's' Real-World Parallels and How She Became an Accidental Activist (Cover Story)

With her Hulu breakout scoring 13 Emmy noms, including best actress, television’s reigning (and surprisingly foul-mouthed) star opens up about Season 2 and her political awakening: “I’m a staunch believer in women’s rights. I don’t really give a s— about anybody who isn’t.”

The morning of July 13 started like any other, with Elisabeth Moss trying to eke out a little more time in bed. She is not, by all accounts, an early riser, and this sticky Thursday was no different, save for the locale, South Florida, where she was enjoying a rare few days off.

Then came the midday text from her publicist: a GIF of Chicago Cubs first baseman Anthony Rizzo, shirtless and clapping. “I knew it was good news,” says Moss, a fourth-generation Cubs fan, “because a shirtless Anthony Rizzo is always good news.”

And it was: The Handmaid’s Tale had just scooped up 13 Emmy nominations, including a best actress nom for Moss, the dystopian drama’s producer and star. In short order, she began scrolling through the 49 congratulatory texts that had already come in. Before long, there would be a lengthy email chain among the actors and a back and forth with showrunner Bruce Miller as well. By 3 p.m., Moss was still working her way through the deluge.

This isn’t new territory for the 34-year-old actress, whose pileup of critical hits — The West Wing, Mad Men, Top of the Lake and now The Handmaid’s Tale — has led to her media moniker: the “Queen of Peak TV.” She earned six nominations for what was once her career-defining role as copywriter turned feminist heroine Peggy Olson on AMC’s long-running Mad Men and a seventh for her star turn as a cop in Jane Campion’s 2013 Sundance Channel miniseries Top of the Lake. But for reasons that still confound a large contingent of TV critics, Moss has never won an Emmy. “It’s lucky number eight,” she teases, turning more serious as she continues: “But if you’ve been nominated seven times and lost seven times, you learn to be pretty excited about being nominated. You feel this sense of, ‘Well, at least I seem to be doing well consistently.’ “

What makes this round of recognition different is not simply that her odds of taking home a statuette are greater than they’ve ever been but also that the universally lauded Hulu series has redefined Moss’ career — as an actress, a producer and, at first reluctantly, an activist for women’s rights. “What I’ve learned is, now is not really a time to stand in the middle,” she says. “You’ve got to pick a side.”

Jumping so quickly into another series was not initially part of Moss’ plan. She liked the idea of dabbling in the film world, throwing herself into a string of indies within days of Mad Men wrapping, and then a second installment of Top of the Lake, which she was busy filming when her reps sent her a copy of Miller’s Handmaid’s pilot. His take on Margaret Atwood’s seminal novel — first published in 1985 and now back on the best-seller list — centers on Offred, the titular Handmaid, whose world has been overtaken by a theocratic regime under which all fertile women are stripped of their rights and forced into sexual slavery. Despite her initial hesitation, Moss, who goes by Lizzie, recognized that the opportunity was one she couldn’t pass up. Her one stipulation: She insisted on being an active producer as well.

The demand didn’t faze Miller and executive producer Warren Littlefield, who both chuckle at the mere suggestion that Moss’ could be a vanity title, as is often the case when TV stars transition to producing. “At the beginning, I’d send Lizzie five different films, and I’d say, ‘This one is just about color palette; this one there’s a tone.’ And she’s in Australia starring in Top of the Lake, and a few days later, I’d get these detailed analyses: ‘I completely see this, and I love this, and what about this woman as a production designer?’ ” recalls Littlefield. “I said to her, ‘Do you sleep at all?’ She said, ‘Well, I had a weekend here.’ ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but you could go to the gym, maybe out to dinner — I’ve been on location before. I also eat.’ She was quiet, and even though it was over the phone, I could feel her smiling, and she said, ‘This is really important to me.’ “

Some 300 emails and nearly as many conference calls followed before the trio first met face-to-face on the Toronto set in the summer of 2016. In that time, Moss also had weighed in on directors — recommending Reed Morano, with whom she’d worked on the 2015 film Meadowland, to helm the first three episodes — as well as on casting, marketing and even wardrobe. At one point, she had costume designer Ane Crabtree send her swatches of the handmaids’ robes so that she could chime in on the autumn-red hue. “I may have taken it just a little bit too far,” she laughs. (Her self-deprecating charm notwithstanding, it’s clear Moss has the instincts and the eye of a producer, which she is bringing to bear on a slew of other projects. More on that later.)

What no one involved in The Handmaid’s Tale could have predicted while filming last fall was just how relevant the drama would become in Trump’s America. Launched three months into his presidency, the series hinges on plot points — right down to the all-female street protests — that mirror the real-world news cycle with unsettling frequency. The handmaids’ robes and bonnets have become the de facto uniform for women’s rights activists, and references to the Hulu drama seem to be fueling the feminist movement. “This show has prompted important conversations about women’s rights and autonomy,” Hillary Clinton told a crowd gathered at Planned Parenthood’s centennial celebration in May, referencing a particularly poignant scene in which one character says, “We didn’t look up from our phones until it was too late.”

Along the way, the series has put Hulu on the creative map in the same way Mad Men once did AMC, and Moss, whose unflinching performance has lapped up praise as “chilling” and “brilliant,” was catapulted into the unexpected role of spokesperson — with which she’s only now getting comfortable. “I guess I just didn’t know anyone gave a shit about what I had to say,” she says with the kind of wide smile you rarely see from her onscreen.

•••

Over a late lunch at a cafe on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, where Moss shares an apartment with her two cats, Lucy and Ethel, I wonder aloud how she handles the exceedingly dark world of Handmaid’s, rife with rape and physical abuse.

Moving a bed of lettuce leaves around her plate, she recalls how famously blunt French film star Isabelle Huppert responded (during a roundtable discussion for THR) to a question about whether rape scenes in particular can be more challenging to shake. “She was like, ‘Noooo.’ Like, ‘It’s my job, and I go and do my work and I go home.’ I was literally like, ‘Praise Jesus, she is my fuckin’ hero,’ ” says Moss, whose propensity for profanity can be jarring at times. “Some of the other actresses [at the table, including Natalie Portman and Amy Adams] probably wanted to answer like that, but sometimes you feel like you shouldn’t because you should take things seriously. But I just love that she is so fuckin’ French that she just was like, ‘Noooo,’ and that’s more of the camp that I subscribe to.”

It’s an approach to acting that Morano, 40, finds herself marveling at each time the pair is together on set. “Lizzie has this uncanny ability to transport herself, and it happens very quickly,” she says. “We’d be joking around, making fun of someone on the crew, and then two seconds later I’d have a camera on her and she’d be crying in a scene.”

Moss has felt comfortable pingponging between real life and make-believe, however grim it may be, for as long as she can remember. “Acting has always just been play for me,” she says, harkening back to her debut as Sandra Bullock’s 6-year-old daughter in a 1990 Jackie Collins miniseries. “All I remember is doing the scene where I find [Bullock’s] body in the pool,” she says. By 10, Moss was being snatched from her family in the Harvey Keitel movie Imaginary Crimes; parts in other disturbing flicks, including Girl, Interrupted, starring a young Angelina Jolie, followed. “So yeah,” she says, “I’ve never really done the lighter stuff, even as a fuckin’ kid.”

Initially, all of it was just a sideshow to her first love, ballet, which Moss studied at the School of American Ballet in New York and with Suzanne Farrell at the Kennedy Center in D.C. But having picked up some early lessons in discipline and hardship, she hung up her pointe shoes at 15 and by 17 found herself back in her native L.A., auditioning for a role on The West Wing before a fast-talking man who seemed particularly at ease with the material. “Later I found out that that was Aaron Sorkin,” she says of the series’ famed creator, adding in her own defense, “I didn’t know who the fuck anyone was.” Moss was cast as Zoey Bartlet, the president’s daughter, and over seven seasons on The West Wing earned a formative education in the power of good writing.

Upon its wrap, Moss jumped immediately to Mad Men as then-awkward secretary Peggy Olson. It wasn’t the simplest decision. Back then, AMC was known for airing crusty old movies, and her agents, since replaced, were trying to sell her on a forgettable indie casting at the same time. But Moss, who was struck by both the world and the script of Matthew Weiner’s series, was insistent: “I just kept saying, ‘Do not let Mad Men go.’ ” Over seven seasons, the drama about 1960s ad men (and women) helped usher in the golden age of television, with Moss’ character ascending the corporate ladder to become something of a feminist icon. The status still tickles her, she admits, as she searches her phone for her favorite Peggy memes. She finds one in which the Mad Men character, with shades on and a cigarette dangling from her lips, shares the screen with a bonneted Offred. “I fuckin’ love this,” she says with a giant smile.

The Mad Men cast became a de facto family for Moss, who’d been home-schooled during her early teen years by her mother, a harmonica player, and father, a music manager. Most of her 20s were spent on that downtown L.A. set; and given her dedication to ensuring everyone there was having a good time, often by way of competitive parlor games that Moss frequently would win, her fellow castmembers anointed her president of base camp. “I was like, ‘I’ll pay for the flowers,’ and they were like, ‘Done! You’re elected,’ ” she jokes. Her co-star Jon Hamm, base camp’s self-appointed sergeant-at-arms, recalls Moss being critical to the cast’s morale. “For a girl who has made her bones being a very heavy and very capable dramatic actress,” he says, “she has a wicked sense of humor, and she gives as good as she gets.”

During that time, Moss married — then quickly divorced — Saturday Night Live alum Fred Armisen. The tabloids attributed the relationship’s demise to Moss’ devotion to Scientology, a theory later dispelled by Armisen when he told Howard Stern that he was a “terrible husband” and then, on Marc Maron’s podcast, admitted that he struggled with “cheating and infidelity.” At one point, Moss chimed in, too, telling the New York Post, “The greatest impersonation [Armisen] does is that of a normal person.” While she learned quickly that “if you don’t want people talking about stuff, don’t talk about it yourself,” she can acknowledge it was a good line, adding with a chuckle: “I was holding on to that one for a while.”

Though the Armisen mentions figure less prominently in her recent round of press coverage, no profile of Moss is complete without reference to Scientology, which she was reportedly born into via her parents. New York magazine once called her affiliation with the church “the strange, odd fact of her biography, the thing that does not belong in her regular-chick story,” and sites like Jezebel have argued that it’s relevant that “the star of The Handmaid’s Tale belongs to a secretive, allegedly oppressive religion.” Moss has come to expect the line of questioning, even if she consistently declines to respond. “It doesn’t surprise me [that it’s always mentioned] because I think if there was anything unusual, it would be there [in a piece about me],” she says with a shrug. “So when it was my marriage and I was going through that, it was that. If something else happened to me, it would be that. And I [understand the interest], I’m happy to read about the thing that I don’t know anything about, too.”

She tucks her shoulder-length blond hair behind her ears, and continues, now with that smile reemerging: “There’s just not a lot else to explore here. I mean, my cat has asthma. It’s something that we’re dealing with: medicine twice a day and she gets a little inhaler. You want to talk about that?”

•••

You don’t need to spend much time with Moss to see that she still has reservations about her own soaring profile and the attention that comes with it.

She talks about stars as though she isn’t one and describes her life, though it includes such things as stylists on her payroll, as devoid of any glamour. One of the last times she can remember going out at night, she says, was Nov. 8, and that was only because she expected the first female president to be elected that evening. (See sidebar on page 64.) Any free time she does have these days is spent in front of the TV (Veep and This Is Us are current staples) or out to eat with her mom, Linda, who lives a couple of blocks away, and her small circle of friends, all of whom she has known for more than a decade and many of whom she has worked with at some point during her career.

“If Lizzie had her druthers, she’d probably stay in bed all day,” says her best friend, Susan “Goldie” Goldberg, a former AMC exec who met Moss on the pilot of Mad Men. Though the two text often and share a “borderline obsession” with Disneyland, there are a handful of subjects on which they don’t see eye to eye. “Lizzie’s a diehard Chicago Cubs fan, and I’m a longtime Mets fan, so we agree not to talk about that,” says Goldberg, now an exec at Annapurna. “Or I love hiking in L.A., and Lizzie dismisses the whole notion of hikes, making fun of me and my ‘urban walks,’ as she calls them.” Other Moss favorites: Central Park, sushi and a decent Moscow Mule.

Moss is equally skilled at downplaying her professional accomplishments. Ask about her first visit to the Cannes Film Festival in May, when her indie The Square, a satire of the art world, won the Palme d’Or and her upcoming season of Top of the Lake earned rapturous reviews, and she tries to refocus the conversation on the surrealness of the festival. (“It’s like a French Fellini movie,” she says. “Everyone’s walking around in tuxedos with people taking pictures of them, and you’re like, ‘Who the hell are these people?’ “) After a fair amount of prodding, she finally accepts that her recent track record is noteworthy. “Yeah,” she allows, “I recognize that I seem to be on a streak of finding really good stuff and people liking it.”

Looking ahead, that “stuff” will include many projects that she’ll be intimately involved in from the start — such as Fever, the story of Typhoid Mary, which she acquired the rights to and is starring in and producing with one of her mentors, Annapurna’s Sue Naegle, for BBC America. She has been busy meeting with other female producers, too, including Girls‘ Jenni Konner, who calls Moss “our generation’s Meryl Streep,” about potential collaborations; and she’s in the process of setting up a production company with two other women, citing actress turned prolific producer Reese Witherspoon as an inspiration. Though female-led projects will almost certainly be her bailiwick, she’ll continue partnering with liberal-minded men, too, including filmmaker Alex Ross Perry, with whom she already has done two films. The pair is quietly prepping a third, for which Moss reveals she’ll play the lead of a female rock group who’s also an alcoholic, drug-addicted mother. “Come on,” she jokes, “she couldn’t just be a rock star.”

Like Ross Perry, most who have teamed with Moss try to do so again. Campion wasn’t interested in returning to Top of the Lake for a second installment unless she knew Moss was on board. She proposed the idea on a coaster that she slipped under Moss’ hotel room door when they were both in L.A. for the Emmys. “An actor like her is often relegated to sidekicks, characters and best friends, but beginning with Top of the Lake, Lizzie proved she could be a lead — that she had the charisma and gravitas to pull it off,” says Campion, who adds that she’s accessible as an actress and humble as a human in a way that so many are not.

Weiner, her former Mad Men boss, has been busy writing his Amazon anthology series, about descendants of the Romanov family, and while he hasn’t begun casting, he has said publicly that he’d like to have past castmembers like Moss drop in. Though she has yet to have that conversation with him, she says she’d “love to do it.” Her current boss Miller says he can’t fathom doing another project without Moss by his side. Sure, he has been blown away by her talent onscreen (“She’s a miracle to watch,” he says), but it’s her contributions as a producer on Handmaid’s that he hadn’t anticipated valuing so much. “Lizzie brings something that you don’t normally get from producers, and once you get it, you never want to not have it,” he explains. “Someone who’s an expert on actors. A lot of the work that she did the first season was just managing this cast of players and getting a great performance out of all of them.”

Of course, that doesn’t mean it has always been smooth with Moss at the helm. She famously put her foot in her mouth when promoting the series at the Tribeca Film Festival in April. When asked whether the show’s feminist themes drew her to the project, she responded, “Honestly, for me, it’s not a feminist story. It’s a human story because women’s rights are human rights. … I never intended to play Offred as a feminist.” Within minutes, the Twitter mob had pounced, and the media began blasting her “striking and somewhat baffling” reluctance to associate with the feminist movement. The experience proved a wake-up call for Moss. “I was asked a question about my character, and I was thinking about my character and about the TV show,” she says, “not that I was speaking for feminists.”

In the months since, she has warmed up to her new platform, even if it can still leave her with a pit in her stomach. “If you’re spending a year on something and you’re thinking about it, you’re reading a book over and over and you’re having to do these scenes, it sinks in, this idea of like, what happens if we don’t say anything or what happens if I don’t speak up?” she says. She has started donating to both the ACLU and Planned Parenthood and has found ways to incorporate the organizations’ pins and ribbons into her red carpet looks and her Instagram feed for her quarter-million followers to see.

After the lunch bill has been paid, I ask whether she worries about alienating the part of her audience that might not feel the same way she does on these issues. Her response is immediate and emphatic: “I’m such a staunch believer in women’s rights, I don’t really give a shit about anybody who isn’t. It’s like, I don’t need them to watch the show. At a certain point, things are more important than your job.” Which is why when you see Moss back on the red carpet at the Emmys in September, you can expect some kind of political statement. “There will probably be a pin or a ribbon involved,” she says, giggling as her mind wanders. “Or maybe I’ll just wear a giant ACLU ribbon and a really good spray tan.”

This story first appeared in the July 19 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.