#hats still pisses me off though. why so difficult to draw

[umblrspectrum]

so like is it specifically planets the solver craves or can it get by with just eating dirt off the ground

[izzyfandoms]

Lies Have Never Tasted So Sweet

SHIP: Emceit

CHARACTERS: Emile Picani, Janus Sanders and Remus Sanders

WARNING: Lying, mild sexual implications from Remus, swearing

GENERAL TAGLIST: @quillfics42 @aj-draws @phantomofthesanderssides @phlying-squirrel @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @because-were-fam-ily @imtryingthisout @a-creepycookie @emo-disaster @littlestr @spooky-scary-virgil @fuyel @mimsidoodles @soupgremlin @aroaceagenderfluid @birdsbookshiddeninrealbirdsskin @quirkalurk @gingers-trashy-stuff @iinyxtello @justaqueercactus @melodiread @mrbubbajones @glassferns @pun-master-logan @gayturtlez

Masterpost

A Series Of Soulmate AUs Masterpost

Emile was someone who always liked to look on the bright side of things.

He liked to stay positive – to be cheerful and happy as much as possible, for both himself and those he surrounded himself with. Happiness spread happiness, and he was a sunshiny influence on everyone around him.

But sometimes it was difficult to stay positive, with Emile’s soulbond being the way it was. Out of all the different kinds of soulbonds in the world – and there were many, many kinds – the ability to tell when your soulmate was lying was the one that led to the least number of meetings. It wasn’t a way to communicate, nor was it a way for them to track each other down, nor was it a way to identify their first meeting. It was useful for soulmates who’d already met, but didn’t really come in handy when trying to find them in the first place.

It was difficult, sometimes, to stay positive that one day Emile would meet the love of his life.

He tried, though. He tried to be positive and hopeful, and he also tried to be truthful – or stick to little white lies that hurt no one, because he needed to make sure his soulmate could still find him, even if dishonesty made him uncomfortable.

Apparently, his soulmate had no such qualms.

The fireworks that burst in Emile’s chest whenever his soulmate told a lie were undoubtably a good feeling: sometimes making him so bubbly he giggled. But their frequency was often... concerning, as he could never forget that every firework was set off by a lie.

What kind of person was Emile’s soulmate, if they lied so much and so often?

And what did that say about Emile, that that kind of person was his soulmate?

But Emile wasn’t one to judge so quickly. All he wanted was to meet his soulmate, and he knew he’d love them no matter what.

The first thing Emile noticed when he woke up was the firework-like feeling in his heart, earlier than usual, but not too surprising. It happened once. Twice. Thrice. Four times in a row, before it calmed down again, and Emile took a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling as he waited for it to start up again.

To his surprise, it didn’t, so he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He patted his bedside table a few times, before finding his glasses and slipping them on.

The fireworks returned once in the shower, startling and causing him to almost slip, though he caught himself just in time.

Twice during breakfast.

(The first happened while he was pouring milk into cereal, making him jolt and spill milk over the side of the bowl.)

And then it didn’t happen again until Emile reached the building he worked at, which was simultaneously both a disappointment and a relief: a feeling which Emile was rather used to at this point. As he approached the front doors, he could hear two young men about his age having a conversation just between the building Emile worked at and the next. They were only a few feet away from him, and talking loudly enough, so Emile overheard them without having to strain to listen.

“Wow, I just love the shirt you have on, Remus,” said a masculine voice, dripping with sarcasm.

The moment the words left his mouth, a firework went off in Emile’s chest, and he paused, his hand freezing halfway to the handle of the door. He swallowed. Was that a coincidence, just some interesting timing? Or...

Another voice laughed loudly, followed by the sound of someone clapping another on the back. “Ha! I see you’re still as dickish as ever, Jan. Never change!”

“And I see your clothes are just as clean as ever.”

Another firework.

Emile turned his head, finally taking a look at the man with either impeccable timing or a soul that would fit his perfectly. He was short, though Emile was, too, with curly black hair, a yellow button-up shirt and a black bowler hat on his head. There was a shiny, coiled snake-shaped earring hanging from the one ear that Emile could see, and he wore a pair of clean, lemon yellow gloves.  

His expression was amused, with a half-smirk and raised eyebrows, and he was by far the most attractive man Emile had ever seen. Emile’s breath caught in his throat, and he knew.

He knew.

Well, he figured he should probably check first, just in case he was wrong, but he knew.

Emile pulled his hand back from the door handle. He snuck a quick glance at his watch. There was still half an hour left until his first patient of the day arrived. He let out a sigh of relief. He had time to wait, and listen to the man who he hoped would start lying again.

His eavesdropping was probably incredibly unsubtle, but the man wasn’t facing Emile, his attention fully on the friend in front of him, so he fortunately didn’t notice.

“How is Roman?” Emile’s maybe-soulmate asked his friend.

The friend blew a raspberry. “He sucks! He’s so annoying. Yesterday, he stole my cereal, and then he wouldn’t even admit to it! Asshole.”

The maybe-soulmate clicked his tongue.  

“You have my sympathies,” he spoke in that same smooth, sarcastic tone, with a slight hiss on the ‘s’, making his friend let out an exaggerated mock-offended sound, hand over heart.

(Firework.)

“Rude! You know, maybe you’d get laid more if you weren’t such a bitch.”

“I’m sure.”

(Firework.)

“Whatever. Did you know that ducks have corkscrew-shaped penises?”

The maybe-soulmate let out a disgusted sound. “Wow. I’m so glad you told me that.” (Firework.) He then let out a sigh. “Why are you like this?” He asked in a regular tone.

His friend shrugged and grinned at him. “Dunno.”

Emile’s heart was pounding harder and harder with every firework that went off inside of him, so loud that he could feel it in his ears. His hands were shaking and he was sure his staring was probably very obvious. It was a wonder he hadn’t been noticed by the pair, yet, though a mother with her child had given him a weird look as they walked past him.

“Well, as fun as this conversation is-” (Firework.) “Don’t you have work, now? It’ll piss Remy off if you’re late, you know how he gets.”

“Ugh, who cares? Fuck that bitch.”

“You should care, he might fire you.”

“He’s my cousin! He won’t fire me.”

“It’s Remy. You’re annoying, of course he would.”

The tiniest of fireworks went off in Emile’s chest at the word ‘annoying’. Apparently, the maybe-soulmate was fond enough of his friend that he only sort of found him annoying.

The friend huffed and crossed his arms. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

“You should care. If you’re unemployed you won’t be able to afford all that inedible food you like so much.”

“I can eat garbage!”

“Literally, how are you still alive? You’re going to poison yourself and die young.”

Emile waited for a firework that never came.

The friend shrugged again, showing that he apparently had no qualms about poisoning himself and dying young. The maybe-soulmate sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes for a brief moment as he took a deep breath.

“What am I, your mother?” He asked his friend. “Go on, shoo!” He made shooing gestures with both hands. “Get to work!”

The friend tilted his head back and cackled, but began to walk backwards in the gestured direction.

“Ha, kinky!” He called out as he turned and continued to walk down the street.

“There is nothing kinky about me making you go to work so you don’t get fired,” the maybe-soulmate shouted back, louder than he probably intended, as his expression turned sheepish at the few stares that came his way after that.

He sighed again, and Emile was suddenly struck by the realisation that he really, really needed to talk to this man now, before he walked away, or he might never get the chance to find his soulmate again. And he was now almost certain that this man was his soulmate. So many fireworks at just the right times had to mean something. This couldn’t have just been a coincidence.

He took a deep breath, grounding himself and clenching his hands into fists.

Then, he marched over to the man he hoped was his soulmate – perhaps a little too determined and aggressive, as the man gave him a slightly alarmed, confused look when he stopped in front of him.

The first thing that slipped from Emile’s mouth was a lie.

“My name isn’t Emile Picani,” he said, before cringing internally.

Perhaps that wasn’t the best introduction.

The other man gave him a bewildered look, but the moment the lie came out, his hand shot up to cover his heart.  

“What?”

“I- just- hear me out. Humour me. Please lie to me, just- just quickly. I’m testing something.”

Realisation crossed the other man’s face, and his eyes widened. He looked Emile over quickly: a down and up that was over in an instant – just a quick flick of his eyes – but made Emile’s heart beat harder and faster.

“That’s-” the other man breathed. “Okay. Uh... I hate your cardigan.”

Firework.

“I hate your hat,” Emile said back, and the reacting twitch of the other man’s eyebrows at just the right time made him feel like he was floating.

“Your make-up is appalling.”

Firework.

“I don’t like your hair.”

“Wow...” the other man looked back at him with an astonished expression that Emile was sure was mirrored on his own face. “That’s- that’s not a coincidence.”

Emile shook his head. “No, I... I don’t think it is.”

“That’s- you’re my-”

“-Soulmate,” Emile finished.

The other man took a deep breath. “Wow...” he repeated.

“Yeah...”

There was a beat.

Then, the other man lifted and held out one gloved hand for Emile to shake. Emile took it without hesitation, shaking it easily and enthusiastically. Before he could stop himself, the delight that was filling up inside of him bubbled out of him with a giggle, and the other man gave Emile a soft smile in return that made him feel like he could do anything.

Climb a million mountains. Dance amongst a million stars.

It felt like he could do anything, anything he wanted, just as long as this man kept looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

“I’m Janus,” he finally introduced himself. “Janus Sanders.”

“Emile Picani.”

Janus’s smile turned into an amused half-smirk. “Yeah,” he said. “I got that.”

“I, um...” Emile trailed off, finally releasing Janus’s hand and adjusting his pastel pink tie. “I have to go – work. I have a patient coming soon, and I have to finish my paperwork before then. But, um... can I get your number, maybe?”

“Absolutely.”

Emile smiled, relieved, especially at the distinct lack of a firework in his chest. The astonishment and enthusiastic smile on Janus’s face spoke for themselves well enough, but it was always nice to know for sure. They exchanged numbers quickly, before pocketing their phones again.

“I suppose I’ll see you around, Emile,” Janus said, speaking his name slowly, like he was tasting and savouring it: like dessert.

It made Emile feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“Have a horrible day,” Emile said.

Janus’s smile grew at the resulting firework, making Emile’s matching smile grow, too.

“Have a horrible day.”

(Firework.)

[mobagehelllocal]

In your opinion, which hogwarts houses would the Twisted wonderland characters get sorted into?

A/N: What would you do if I said I didn’t watch No. I’m just kidding. I’ve watched Harry Potter. Obsessed over it for quite awhile too! I did have to sleep on this to really think about it. But I think I’m ready!

-

"You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart Their daring, nerve and chivalry set Gryffindors apart...” 

Ace Trappola - Ace is actually one character who could have gone to any of the four houses. He could be in Hufflepuff (he’s loyal to his friends), Slytherin (he has the cunning for it)--or in Ravenclaw (he has the wits to match). However, he chooses Gryffindor because it’s the coolest house. While he does have the “daring and nerve” for the house, I feel like the Sorting Hat would’ve tried to put him in Slytherin--at which point Ace would refuse. Another reason is because Ace was the first person who actively questioned Riddle’s control. 

Deuce Spade - Another house I considered for Deuce was Hufflepuff--because of his loyalty to his friends and his devotion to his mother (the way he wants to make it up to her at the very least). I decided on Gryffindor at the end because I felt that--at his core, Deuce is a very brave guy because he’s always willing to stick up for his friends and take on their troubles too--especially during the Heartslabyul chapter when Deuce was willing to fight Riddle with Ace. 

Jack Howl - Another guy that I considered for Hufflepuff--especially considering that Jack wants to win justly. At the end, I felt like he suited Gryffindor more. I think this not because it just suits Jack’s image more, but also because he isn’t afraid to fight for what he believes in--he’ll dare fight Leona, Ruggie and most of Savannaclaw for it. We see this in the manga and in Leona’s SSR Dorm Uniform, when Jack is often that odd guy in Savannaclaw for sticking to his morals above all else. 

Epel Felmier - The Sorting Hat would have barely gotten a word in before Epel insists that he wants to be in Gryffindor. To Epel, Gryffindor is (also) the coolest house. He thinks if there’s a place where people would learn to respect him for his abilities versus his looks--then he thinks Gryffindor is the best place for him. Either way, I think the Sorting Hat would’ve been planning to put him in there anyways. 

Silver - The primary reason I put Silver in Gryffindor is because of his position as a Knight of Malleus and how seriously he takes this. I didn’t really consider any other house for Silver honestly. He doesn’t have the same level of loyalty as Sebek (I think), but he does uphold chivalry and all those knightly values. So in my eyes, that’s what made Silver suit Gryffindor the most. 

“You might belong in Hufflepuff, where they are just and loyal, Those patient Hufflepuffs are true, and unafraid of toil...” 

Trey Clover - I think this was a pretty obvious choice for Trey. He stood by Riddle’s side and didn’t question his tyranny because of his loyalty. He’s also genuinely kind.I can see him as a senior that people from across all houses would respect and seek out for help. I did consider Trey briefly for Slytherin, but honestly... You know how you don’t want to piss off the kind people? That’s Trey. It’s also super Hufflepuff off him. 

Ruggie Bucchi - You’re probably very confused by this. Don’t worry, I totally understand. I was originally going to put Ruggie in Slytherin, and mind you--I think Ruggie himself would be surprised to be in Hufflepuff--but the thing is... Ruggie just suits Hufflepuff more. He’s not exactly just--but remember in the beginning of Scarabia’s chapter, Ruggie brought home a lot of food to share with his fellow hyenas. He’s also shown incredible loyalty and belief in Leona. Lastly, he’s one of the most (if not the most) hardworking character. Acknowledging all that just made it a no brainer to put him in Hufflepuff. 

Kalim Al-Asim - Kalim could’ve gone to Gryffindor, and if he thought to ask the Sorting Hat--he might’ve been put there too. But honestly... the thing that you got to love about Kalim (aside from his general good cheer) is his intense loyalty to his friends--especially Jamil. Also, because Kalim is just honest--he has nothing to hide--which fits within the traits upheld by Hufflepuff. 

Jamil Viper - Jamil should’ve been sorted to Slytherin. I mean, he’s the snake. The thing is, he would stick like glue to Kalim’s side, and that’s how we find him in Hufflepuff. Though he does have all of Slytherin’s cunning--he actually shares quite a lot of the traits desired in Hufflepuff. Loyalty (to Kalim, though he’ll deny it) and hardworking. I suppose another house that might suit Jamil would be Ravenclaw. 

Sebek Zigvolt - Ironically for Sebek, the reason he’s parted from Malleus is because of his loyalty to Malleus. I’ve mentioned several time that we don’t see much of Sebek beyond his loyalty, and because this has become the most definitive thing we can see of his personality--Hufflepuff was the obvious choice. 

“Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you’ve a ready mind,  Where those of wit and learning, will always find their kin...” 

Riddle Rosehearts - I chose Ravenclaw for Riddle--primarily because of his past. His mother ‘trained’ him into someone who saw and prioritised his academics. We also know him as an incredibly studious student. I can’t recall which card I read it on--but I know that he even lent his school notes to Deuce. Other than that, I considered Hufflepuff briefly because of his hardworking nature... but honestly I’m pretty sure Riddle would request to be in Ravenclaw. 

Vil Schoenheit - Vil was actually pretty easy to place. I chose Ravenclaw because Vil says in his third chat “ultimate beauty is said to also reside in intelligence.” I didn’t consider Slytherin because I felt that while Vil might have those Slytherin traits/qualities--he just prized the Ravenclaw ones (knowledge and creativity) as much more important. Vil would just be an insanely beautiful and smart student that people probably saw him as the second coming of Rowena Ravenclaw (who was known for both her beauty and intelligence). Imagine Vil wearing Ravenclaw’s diadem... oof I know what I’m drawing next.

Idia Shroud - Idia was someone difficult to place honestly. I’m still not sure if Ravenclaw is the best house for him... but the more I thought it, the more that, based on what we know about Idia so far--this would be the best house. He’s incredibly intelligent when it comes to technology--especially when we acknowledge that he did create Ortho by himself. Also because I do remember how when Ortho tried to get him outside, Idia chose to just create a program that would let him see the outside world instead. 

Malleus Draconia - For some reason, I don’t think Malleus suits Slytherin. Like he does have the traits for it--he’s certainly sly enough. He also probably has the pedigree/bloodline to be in Slytherin he’s also a reptile--but I think he suits Ravenclaw more. When it comes to Malleus, his power and abilities are always mentioned--especially how he’s the 5th Ranked Magician. To be a 5th Ranked Magician probably means possessing a lot of knowledge too so... He’s definitely Ravenclaw material. 

Lilia Vanrouge - My personal headcanon of Lilia in the Potterverse is that he’s likely gone to Hogwarts more than once. He’s likely been in each house at least once. So... his position in Ravenclaw is just because “he felt like it.” I will say that, Lilia of today--would be a Ravenclaw because of his wealth of knowledge. His initial house was probably Gryffindor because he was a knight, and I feel like he was probably even more enthusiastic/daring than he is today. 

“Or perhaps in Slytherin you’ll make your real friends, Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends...”

Cater Diamond - Honestly... It’s more like because you can’t tell what his true intentions are that made me sort him into Slytherin. Especially his Dorm SSR, where it’s sort of highlighted that he’s at his best when motivated by self-interest. He was also pretty manipulative with Deuce during the Beans Day Event!

Leona Kingscholar - Okay I chose Slytherin because of the whole “these cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends” which is pretty much obvious from Leona’s whole story in the Savannaclaw chapter. He isn’t afraid to use underhanded techniques. Leona could probably flourish in Ravenclaw too... and if the Sorting Hat tried to put Leona in Gryffindor--I think he’d adamantly refuse that because he wouldn’t want to share that with Farena. 

Azul Ashengrotto - I considered putting Azul in either Hufflepuff (because of how hardworking he is) and Ravenclaw (because of how knowledgeable he is)... but the thing is, it’s what he pushes himself to do and how he uses his knowledge that ultimately put him in Slytherin. He puts effort into his knowledge to scam people--that’s very Slytherin to me. Also, I think it’s pretty amusing that Slytherin is underwater just as Octavinelle is. 

Jade Leech - I definitely considered Ravenclaw (for being clever) for Jade--but much like Azul, its what he does with his knowledge that ultimately made me put him in Slytherin. Also, I think in his SR Entrance Ceremony--it’s actually heavily implied that he’s capable of manipulating both Azul and Floyd to further his own amusement it’s sexy so that’s why I think he’s a definite Slytherin. what can I do to slytherin his bed

Floyd Leech - Unlike Azul and his brother, I thought about putting Floyd in Gryffindor because he was daring--and he had that nerve to challenge others... however, the thing about Floyd is that... I think he’s not particularly brave. He’s just not scared. There’s a difference there, and that made me put him in Slytherin. Primarily because of his threatening aura, but also because he’s wilful. If he’s motivated to do something, he’ll get it done--and that’s his very Slytherin trait. 

Rook Hunt - Rook--I didn’t really spend a lot of time thinking about it. I think his love for possessing knowledge (his desire to understand others, and using ‘stalking’ to do so) can certainly have put him in Ravenclaw--but I think it’s because he resorts to ‘stalking’ to attain his knowledge that truly makes him Slytherin. 

[etihw000]

You, Boun, Ninja and Taxi were my inspo for doing character designs, though I have to ask, what was the logic of the fashion you gave when interpreting the skins back at like 2013/2014? I could never figure out how to get that 2010s mcyt aesthetic of designs.

i’m gonna put this here for future reference: i do not want to answer asks that mention taxey. so if anyone else had sent in an ask involving her i probably deleted it and will continue to delete them, sorry.

but you tickled a bit of my rambling bones because i do like to talk, and she is part of what happened (i will hereby refer to her as T); so here we go.

i think you can separate my designs into two eras: before-T and after-T. before T came around, my designs interpreted the skins pretty literally. here’s bodil, here’s sky/ty/mitch/jerome, here’s bashur, and here’s jason.

my explanation on this: i was 13 and didn’t really like challenging myself. i’m pretty sure i took jason’s design from dopier, for example. so i took the easy way route out on a lot of things! 

but most notably, i didn’t want to draw complicated designs like sky’s. so the answer was very simple and clear: obviously, put it onto a sweater! i’m sure it was originally meant to be armor, but i didn’t want to draw armor. that’s too much thinking, too much highlighting, and i just wanted to pump out fanart for what i liked.

i didn’t like drawing checkerboards, so i switched them to lines.

i didn’t want to draw an anthro, so i just made it into a bear hat ala michael (i’m pretty sure this bear-type hat was more prominent in 2014, but it seems to have been simplified into just a hoodie with bear ears?).

i didn’t want to draw a humanoid watermelon nor did i even know where to begin with that, so i just drew bashur’s skin as a human and mirrored the design onto his hair and everything else was kept similarly.

it’s what happened with jason’s design - remember his astronaut-y outfit? yeah, i changed it to a hoodie shortly afterwards with an astronaut-y print. hated drawing that shit, challenging yourself is dead.

so in early 2014 (i came to the realization that i actually didn’t draw mcyt in 2013; i started drawing it in 2014), honestly just look at the skins you want to interpret and go with the simplest possible outcome. the end.

however, if you’re talking a bit later with the more unique designs - there was one notable thing that happened that caused it.

T.

see, i was a cranky little 14 year old child who got way too much attention. and with that attention came people copying my art - and one of them was T. 

i was highly uncomfortable at the time because, well, when you’re 14 you want to be unique as possible; you wanna stand out. and i was the only one who drew mcyt in this vaguely anime style way (because it wasn’t minecraft). and because we were all fucking weebs i assume people just started copying my art style wholesale.

see, people would mistake me for T. and vice-versa. i was extremely unhappy with this bullshit. “why are people mistaking me for this person,” i thought very unhappily to myself. and because i didn’t want to change my bloody art style, i decided designs were the way to go. so i went a bit crazy with it.

started out pretty simple. i cut ty’s shirt slightly differently (it still plagues his fanart to this day, i’m sorry ty). i gave bodil a beanie. everything was fine.

and then i still didn’t fucking want to draw checkerboards, so i just made a unique design for mitch. it followed with zek (the jacket on the right with the blue), who also had a checkerboard print. 

i did not want anyone replicating what i did, because it pissed me the fuck off something fierce. and i don’t know nor do i remember this clearly, but i’m pretty sure T started doing the same damn thing anyway. and i’m pretty sure it’s only T, because when I talked with swift and jasie they didn’t remember doing this shit. it was literally the two of us and whoever happened to be watching us do it.

it wasn’t meant to be easy to replicate. 

it was meant to be a bitch to replicate.

(i did it with rage too. the man didn’t even have a checkerboard skin. the long hair also plagues his fanart to this day, too. sorry rage.)

the other designs (ragegaming-era) were in 2015. and i was still the same angry 14-year old kid, especially since the T situation hadn’t gotten any better. we were still being mistaken for each other. people were genuinely confused about which of us were who and i don’t know how to explain to you how much anger was packed into my tiny 14 year old unsocialized body. 

i genuinely still don’t understand it now because our art styles were fundamentally different.

so i pitch you this question: what happens if simple skins meet this anger at being copied when even the simpler prints intended to be a bitch to replicate end up being mimicked, especially when the person you didn’t want copying you followed you into a wholeass new fandom? (we were more divided than now; TC and Crew were two completely different fandoms lol; we didn’t generally unite ourselves under ‘mcyt’)

you end up with other weird attempts. strangely asymmetrical cuts. even more complicated patterns. i apparently hid these but it was hell, i tell you. 

but i can assure you that the patterns on my designs were almost always symmetrical, albeit colored differently from the other side. the asymmetrical parts were different - a cut, a rolled up pant leg. something that you could do with a regular article of clothing. i know that in my circle there were some people that would have different length in shoes. i never did that. i would literally never write words on a shirt, too. i wasn’t one of those graphic tee people.

then i guess in late 2015 i got tired of it all and went back to the simple times of just not wanting to draw difficult designs before quitting altogether.

so you want to know what defined 2014 designs? 

it was a 14 year old’s absolute anger at being copied to fucking death and having to be mistaken for other people.

i hope this helped and i am now going to choose to forget that i ever decided to answer this ask. not because it was a bad ask, but because i don’t like thinking about T in particular. 

thank you for indulging my rambling bones. here’s a tl;dr for you:

Before-T designs (simpler)

the interpretations are literal.

if you can’t tell what’s going on, just make it a sweater and copy the patterns on the skin 1:1.

if there’s a different head (jason’s astronaut helmet, jerome’s bacca head) just make it a hood or a hat.

After-T designs (more difficult)

you still don’t wanna draw things out of your comfort zone, so stay out of the armor/anthro business.

give every design two layers - three at most. 

you love hoodies :)

if the skin is simple, use slightly different shades to add patterns (i believe he had a plain blue hoodie and plain black pants).

want to be even MORE unique than before? add something asymmetrical. remove a sleeve, roll up a pant leg, or something, but never shoes or gloves. they are sacred and you shouldn’t do that to them.

idk someone pointed out that i was apparently allergic to necks because i kept giving designs chokers or scarves or whatever. they’re usually solid in color

[punyparkerfics]

double vision

Arvin Russell and Peter Parker Twins AU

Tony collects Spider-Man for the fight in Germany and finds out he’s quite literally twice the trouble she had expected.

A/N: This is me cementing my place as CEO of the Parker twins. It’s literally all I’ve thought about for over a month. My actual twins au doesn’t have female tony stark, and doesn’t include Arvin for this meeting. this is just me seeing if I could actually write these boys and giving y’all a small taste. hope you enjoy!

Tony desperately wanted to stop herself. She knew this was a terrible idea. Unfortunately for all parties about to be involved, she wasn’t left with much of a choice. Ross had given her basically no time, and Steve had given her no room to negotiate. Tony never wanted to involve a kid still enrolled in high school (if her quick scan of what FRIDAY had compiled on the kid was accurate) in this mess. But again, she had no choice.

It was easy enough to sweet-talk her way into May Parker’s apartment. Tony was recognizable and surprisingly doing well in the press, that paired with her smart appearance and pretty smile was more than enough for the woman. 

Mrs. Parker had let her in with a kind smile and an insistence that she brewed tea for the two of them to pair with her fresh walnut date loaf. This led to an over-excited May Parker rambling about nutrition and how difficult it could be to get teenage boys to get all the vitamins and shit they needed for healthy development… or something? Don’t ask Tony, a plastered smile and convincing nod compensated enough for her to not have to actually listen to what the woman was saying. 

Before she knew it, the two women sat beside each other on the cozy couch situated in the living room. Tony gazed around the apartment and thought it was adorable, very homey. She could see signs of life in it that just weren’t present in Tony’s own home. Whether it was a kicked pair of shoes or a stain or chip on the coffee table, it was clear there were many memories in the space surrounding them. The Tower, no matter how many people it housed at any given moment, never looked lived-in… it never felt like an actual home. Not quite like this. 

Tony smiled at the framed photos on the mantelpiece as May continued rambling on about omega vitamins or iron deficiencies or… something. Again, it’s very important to not ask Tony. Her mind had about a million things running through it at the moment, she couldn’t be bothered to be an attentive student on nutrition right now, nor ever. It didn’t seem odd to Tony that there seemed to be an absurdly large amount of school photos of the same face all over the apartment. She figured the Spider-Kid just came from a very loving family with a doting aunt looking after him, and that made her feel warm and fuzzy but she wasn’t sure why.

“So,” May’s voice cut through Tony’s distracted gaze, drawing the billionaire’s attention to her, “What did you say brought you here? I’m sorry my head’s all over the place today.”

Tony politely smiled and placed her teacup back in the saucer before clearing her throat, “Um, I’m here to talk to Peter. He applied for a grant provided by Stark Industries. I was so impressed by his application I had to meet him, and you, and hopefully, discuss the next steps.”

“Grant? Peter didn’t tell me about any grant?” May shook her head, her brow furrowed, “Maybe he told—”

“Kids these days are so excited to share things with their friends that they forget to tell their family. I bet it slipped his mind that he applied.” Tony offered easily.

“Maybe,” May muttered, still looking put-off, “I just… Peter’s been such a big fan of yours since he was little, I couldn’t imagine he’d keep something like that from me or—”

The two were interrupted by the sound of muffled arguing coming from behind the front door and a key jingling in the lock.

“How many times have I told you—” a low and steady voice called out, upset, only to be interrupted but a higher-pitched, nearly frantic one,

“Would you stop treating me like—”

The bickering continued as the door to the apartment swung open, the voices much louder this time. Tony’s eyes shot to the door and her jaw dropped at the sight before her. Two teenage boys of the same height, weight, hair color, age, and fucking face were barking at each other in front of the apartment door. Tony was flummoxed, they both looked just like the kid she was here to pick up and take to Germany. 

There weren’t two spider boys, right? The idea that there was more than one person behind the mask had crossed her mind a time or two but seeing a pair of identical twins wasn’t something she would ever even think to consider.

“Boys!” May called out, her face instantly changing from confused to stern, “What is the matter with you two?”

The two stop going at one another to look towards the woman addressing them. The one on the right, his chocolate curls obviously have escaped the copious amounts of hair gel he’d meticulously applied very well complimented his oversized sweatshirt and skinny jeans. 

Tony figured that was Peter as he gaped at her in awe when his eyes landed on her, the argument with his twin brother obviously since forgotten. His identical counterpart was dressed in a white t-shirt underneath an open grey button-up and dark jeans. His hair was smushed underneath a dark navy cap, chocolate curls poking out on the sides. 

This brother, though, either hadn’t noticed Tony at all or couldn’t care less that the billionaire superhero was sitting in his living room, because he just relayed whatever it was that riled them up to his aunt.

“He thinks he knows everything and that I— stop it!” The boy grunted and shoulder bumped his brother who was frantically patting his arm, obviously trying to get his attention. But again, the boy remained unperturbed in telling his aunt what was bothering him as he continued.

“He never fuckin’ listens to me then gets mad when I so graciously save his sorry ass from any trouble, and I—”

“Arvin!” Probably Peter, now graduated to Definitely Peter, cried as he shook his brother’s shoulder and pointed to where Tony remained sitting in shock on the couch.

Arvin looked about ready to clobber Peter but settled for looking in the direction his twin brother oh-so-desperately wanted him to look. Upon the realization of what exactly he was looking at, his face melted from one of fury to one of pure confusion.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Arvin asked.

“Arvin Eugene Parker!” May called out as she stood to instill what was nothing short of the fear of God into the boy, “Where are your manners, young man?”

“Sorry ma’am,” Arvin ducked his head in mild embarrassment from upsetting his aunt, “Won’t happen again, May. You have my word.”

He whipped his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair before looking at his twin expectantly. Peter stood frozen, his wide eyes glued on Tony. Arvin cleared his throat and bumped Peter’s shoulder again, hopefully reminding him of his own manners.

“Ms. Stark!” Peter squeaked in surprise, “Hey, I-I-I’m Peter.”

Tony bit back a chuckle at the boys before her before pointing to herself casually, “Tony.”

“What are you- what are you- what are you doing here?” Peter asked nervously, clearly flustered from seeing the woman in his apartment. Arvin snorted at his brother’s pathetic excuse at being casual in front of his lifelong idol. 

“Arvin,” May reprimanded again, causing the boy to sober up and nod with an apologetic smile.

“Excuse my brother, Ms. Stark,” Arvin addressed Tony, “He’s a real big fanboy of yours and he’s probably trying not to piss himself right now.”

“Arvin!” Peter cried in horror before shoving his brother, “Shut up!”

“Fuckin’ make me!” Arvin retaliated with an identical shove of his own.

“Okay, that’s enough!” May interrupted, her hands on her hips and her face sternly expectant, “If you two don’t cut it out right now, I’ll get the shirt.”

“No!” The two shouted in unison, a flash of panic on their faces, before straightening up and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with sweet smiles on their faces.

“The shirt?” Tony quirked a brow at the woman.

“It’s nothing, Ms. Stark!” Peter blurted, “It’s uhh… Anyway, what was it you said you were doing here?”

“You weren’t gonna tell me about the grant?” May asked Peter, her face soft.

“The-the grant?” Peter repeated with clear confusion in his voice.

“The September Foundation,” Tony supplied easily. Her eyes flicked over to Arvin who gave her a hard stare. For some reason, she felt like the kid was onto her. 

“Right,” Peter agreed, his demeanor more than unconvincing. 

“Yeah, remember when you applied?” Tony asked.

“...Yeah…” Peter replied nervously. Arvin looked back and forth between the billionaire and his brother with a sense of distrust on his face. 

“I approved!” Tony shrugged casually much to the dismay of the boys’ aunt, “So now, we’re in business.”

“You didn’t tell me anything, what’s up with that? You’re keeping secrets from me now?” May asked gently.

“Well, I just- I just know how much you love surprises, so I just thought I would let you know—” Peter was beginning to flounder. Whatever Ms. Stark was actually there for, he didn’t want to let her down. He knew he certainly didn’t apply for any sort of grant, certainly not one with anything to do with Tony Stark. If he had, May and Arvin wouldn’t have heard the end of it, they all knew that,

“With all due respect, that’s a load of shit,” Arvin interjected to everyone’s horror. 

“Arvin, I will not tell you again—” May was clearly at the end of her patience with these boys, the mouthy one in particular. 

“May, we know better than anyone on the planet if Peter had applied for a grant from Tony Fuckin’ Stark, that’s all we’d hear about for weeks. I don’t know why she’s actually here but it’s not for no damn grant,” Arvin explained, his face hard and unrelenting.

“I didn’t say anything because—” Peter began to only be interrupted.

“Don’t try to feed me any bullshit, P,” Arvin shook his head, “I’ve been shoulder-to-shoulder to you your entire fuckin’ life, I know you. And I know she’s lyin’.”

“She isn’t!” Peter insisted, “I didn’t say anything to you or May because I didn’t want you or her to be disappointed if I didn’t get it. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, y’know?”

“Like we’d give a fuck about that,” Arvin scoffed, “September Grant or not, we’ll always be proud'a you. You know that.”

“Arv,” Peter looked at his brother with pleading eyes. Arvin was the only person in the world that knew all of Peter’s secrets, even the big one. Peter had a feeling that whatever Ms. Stark was here for, it was spider related and he really needed Arvin to at least play along if he was going to get May to cooperate without asking too many questions.

Arvin studied his brother for a long moment before turning his gaze to Tony. She had remained seated on the couch, looking expectantly at the boys and occasionally glancing at her watch. Clearly whatever she wanted with his twin was time-sensitive. And sure, Arvin’s protective instinct for his brother was what drove him to do pretty much everything he did, but he didn’t want to ruin whatever opportunity Tony Stark was about to give him. While he didn’t trust Tony in the slightest, he knew he had to trust Peter and his instincts. Sure, his brother might very well be blinded by hero worship but he wasn’t stupid. He just really had to trust him.

Arvin sighed and relented, “Fine, I believe you,” he lied. 

“Mind if I have a minute with him?” Tony asked as she stood, straightening out her skirt and looking to both May and Arvin for permission.

May seemed on the fence. She wasn’t too skeptical before Arvin called the situation as he saw it: unlikely. May Parker knew her boys too well. She knew that Peter would more likely than not gush excitedly about the grant in question and his application for weeks to the point Arvin would consider smothering his own twin with a pillow. 

But she also knew Arvin was fiercely protective over Peter and always had been. Arvin spent his entire life by Peter’s side, fending off bullies and monsters under the bed, holding his brother after particularly scary nightmares and more grief than the two teens could ever imagine. Arvin was, in short, Peter’s protector. But that meant Arvin often let their trauma lead him to paranoia, constantly fearing people had the worst intentions when it came to Peter.

At the end of the day, May reminded herself, Tony Stark was a superhero. She was Peter’s hero. It was hard for May to think of any scenario in which a super-suit toting billionaire philanthropist would go to such lengths to pluck a random kid out of Queens for nefarious reasons. That paired with the fact that Arvin had relented definitely eased the woman’s mind. She looked to Arvin for his response.

“Whatever,” Arvin shrugged as he made his way back to the door to the apartment, “Have fun talking about your stupid grant.”

With that, the stoic twin stormed out. Peter and May let out identical sighs, the latter bringing a hand to massage her temples.

“I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused,” Tony piped up.

“Oh, no,” Both remaining Parkers insisted at the same time.

“Arvin’s just—”

“He just—”

The two sighed again.

“I’m gonna call him,” May said, pulling her phone from her pocket before turning to Tony, “You two can talk in the boys’ room.”

Peter offered an awkward smile before leading Tony to the bedroom he shared with his brother. Locking the door behind her, Tony looked around the room. It was clear two teenage boys inhabited it by the random articles of clothing strewn around the room and the bright posters adorning the walls and the bunk beds.

“You the Elvis fan?” Tony asked, pointing to a framed poster of the king himself.

“No, ma’am,” Peter shook his head, “That’s my brother. Arvin’s really into music from the ’50s and ’60s.”

“Hmm,” Tony nodded, clearly impressed, “I have to admit that does surprise me.”

“About Arvin,” Peter interjected with a grimace, “I’m really sorry about him, Ms. Stark. He’s just super protective, is all. He really is a nice guy, you just— You caught him on a bad day.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that,” Tony waved him off as she continued looking around the room and stifling a smile at the framed photographs of the twins from when they were much younger, “Not why I’m here.”

“Right…” Peter nodded, “I definitely didn’t apply for your grant. Arvin knows that.”

“Your brother’s really on top of things,” Tony agreed.

“Yeah, like I said,” Peter sighed, “Super protective.”

“Bet that can get infuriating,” Tony hummed, reminiscing on her MIT days and a menacing James Rhodes by her side.

“Well, he’s my brother,” Peter shrugged, “I know he’s only like that because he loves me.”

“That’s sweet,” Tony smiled. The genius casually pulled up a holographic video of a masked spider-like vigilante swinging through Queens as if the conversation prior hadn’t happened, “That’s you, right?”

“Wh- No?” Peter denied, causing Tony to roll her eyes.

“Listen, kid,” Tony sighed, “You and your clone really ate up valuable time that I don’t really have. You got a passport?”

“No,” Peter shook his head, “I don’t even have a driver’s license.”

“You ever been to Germany?” Tony asked.

“No.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” Tony replies flippantly.

“I can’t go to Germany!” Peter exclaimed.

“Why not?” 

“Well, I got homework and—”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Tony rolled her eyes again.

“And Arvin for sure won’t be cool with it! He’ll flip, seriously,” Peter shook his head, “I’m sorry, Ms. Stark, I’d love to help you but my brother would actually kill me if I went to Germany with you.”

“What’s he thinking I’m gonna do to you?” Tony grumbled, “I’m not a kiddie snatcher or anything. I’m a damn superhero. Does he know that?”

“Yeah, he just,” Peter chuckles nervously, “You’re still a stranger and all. He doesn’t take too kindly to those.”

“What if I took you both?” Tony suggested. She really was at the end of her rope here, and she needed this kid on a plane to Germany as soon as possible. If taking his angry twin brother meant that he and his aunt would be at ease without asking too many questions, she’d easily do that.

“Us both?” Peter repeated in shock.

“Yeah, you and thing 2 can sit pretty and take a private jet. If he wants a separate room, that can be arranged, but he’s gonna wait in the hotel for you until we’re done. He’ll make sure you’re safe and—”

“I don’t know,” Peter sighed, “I’d have to talk to him.”

“Okay,” Tony nodded, “Any idea where he might be? I take it he knows about your arachnid activities.”

“Yeah, he’s the only one who knows,” Peter agreed, “Kind of hard to keep things from him, and he’s stubborn as hell.”

“I can tell,” Tony chuckled, “So, where can we go get him?”

“He’s probably with his friend Michelle,” Peter offered easily, “But we can see if May got a hold of him”

“Good call,” Tony said as she sauntered towards the door, her hand on the doorknob, “We should tell your unusually attractive aunt—”

The genius was cut off by the distinct sound of a thwip and the feeling of her hand being bound to the doorknob. 

She looked up at the kid and saw him pointing his crazy web shooter contraptions at her before he held a finger out and said, “Don’t tell Aunt May.”

“Okay, Spider-Boy, get me out of this,” Tony rolled her eyes at the boy’s dramaticism.

Once Peter had pried his idol out of the strong webbing, the two walked out into the living room where May was pacing. The woman stopped upon hearing the two enter before looking up at them.

“Is he okay?” Peter asked.

“Yeah,” May sighed, “He’s at Delmar’s with Michelle.”

“She must’ve been in the area, then,” Peter hummed, turning to Ms. Stark, “Delmar’s is a bodega just a few blocks from here. It won’t take long to go get him.”

“Perfect,” Tony hummed before turning to May, “Mrs. Parker, Peter has been offered a spot at the Stark Industries Internship Retreat in Palo Alto. It’s an all-expense paid trip, he’d get put up in a hotel and he’d be participating in workshops with other recipients of the September Foundation grant that qualify for the retreat.”

“What?” May choked, her eyes wide, “Palo Alto? California?”

“Ms. Stark said that Arvin could come with me!” Peter assured her, “That way I won’t be out there without anyone I know, and we’re out of the apartment while you work throughout the weekend.”

“You—” May turned to Tony. The poor woman looked so confused.

“Peter told me that Arvin wouldn’t be comfortable letting his brother go on a trip with a stranger,” Tony explained, “I figured you’d feel similarly, and it’s really no trouble if the two of them came. He could shadow Peter at the retreat since he doesn’t qualify as he didn’t actually apply. He’d even get his own room if he wanted, but he’d—”

“No,” May shook her head, “They have to share. You can’t separate them. They stay together the entire time. That’s my only condition.”

May wanted to say no. She wanted to ask the billionaire if she was crazy, that there was no chance in hell she’d let a stranger take her boys to California on such short notice. But, May felt a sense of ease at the idea of the two of them going together. She knew Arvin would look after Peter and Peter after Arvin. May knew her boys had an unbreakable bond and an ability to take care of each other better than even May could. She’d seen it firsthand when the boys first moved in after their short stay in foster care, once Ben and May finally got custody of them.

May knew the boys loved her and had loved Ben just as much, but they only truly needed each other. They’d proved that time and time again. And because of that, May surprised herself by deciding that Peter wouldn’t ever have an opportunity like this again. And Arvin tagging along made it that much more special, she figured.

“That’s perfectly fine,” Tony smiled.

“You stick with your brother, Pete,” May said to Peter, not giving the boy any room to argue, “No matter what, okay? If he tries running off on his own, you let someone know and you follow him if you have to, okay? I don’t want you two getting separated so far away from home.”

“I promise,” Peter nodded with a soft smile, “We’ll be okay, May.”

“You two gotta look out for each other,” May urged him, her hands gripping the teen’s shoulders.

“We always do,” Peter assured her, “I gotta go get him from Delmar’s, so I can tell him and we can pack.”

“I’ll take you,” Tony offered, swinging her car keys on her finger, “We’ll get there in a flash.”

Peter looked back to his aunt with sparkling eyes as he silently asked for permission. May hesitated for a second before her face softened into a smile, her baby was too excited to deny him. So, she nodded. 

“Love you, May,” Peter nearly squealed with excitement as he pressed a kiss to the woman’s cheek and gave her a tight hug, “Be right back!”

Tony had to suppress a smile as Peter practically skipped over to the front door and held it open, gesturing for the woman to walk through.

“After you,” He said kindly to the billionaire. Tony raised her eyebrows and turned to May.

“Quite the gentleman,” Tony noted, “You must be proud.”

“Very,” May nodded, “Arvin’s manners are usually better than what you saw, you’ll have to forgive him.”

“Water under the bridge,” Tony waved her off like she had done to Peter before. She found it endearing how badly the two of them wanted her to know that Arvin was a kind boy. She was more than inclined to believe it.

“Let’s go, short stack,” Tony said as she led the way to her car, smiling as she heard Peter send May another ‘I love you’ before closing the door and trotting behind the genius.

“You’ll navigate me, right?” Tony asked as they made their way down the stairs, “I don’t really know my way around here.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Peter smiled, “It’s not too far, Ms. Stark.”

“Okay,” Tony nodded, “We go get your brother and give him a rundown of what we told May. He knows not to spill your secret, right?”

“He’d never,” Peter scrunched his face as he held the door to the apartment lobby open for her, “He knows it’s to keep him and May safe.”

“Good,” Tony hummed. She unlocked her car and got settled, ignoring how Peter gaped at the vehicle before climbing in himself, “Then we won’t need to convince him to go along with us, right?”

“I’m sure he’ll get it, Ms. Stark,” Peter agreed as he fastened his seatbelt, “It should be fine.”

“Okay,” Tony replied. She followed Peter’s direction to a little bodega just a few blocks from the apartment.

She could see Arvin from the window out front. He was leaning against a wall, lazily sipping on a bottle of root beer beside a light-skinned girl with curly hair. She was pretty, she’d have to give him credit there.

Peter made his way into the bodega to collect Arvin, kindly waving to the man behind the counter, making Tony smile. Arvin watched his brother with a mild intensity as he took another swig of his root beer, the girl looking up at where Peter was approaching. Michelle, if Tony recalled, looked at Peter briefly before returning her attention to the book in her hands. Tony could see she was still attentively listening as her brows raised slightly when Peter began to talk animatedly and gestured towards Tony’s car. When Arvin looked at the car and Tony inside, she saluted the kid. His face hardened again and he adjusted the cap on his head before turning back to his brother, asking him something Tony couldn’t decipher. 

Whatever Peter was telling him, seemed to ease his mind, because he sighed and nodded before turning to Michelle. He seemed to ask her a question, as she nodded in response before punching him lightly on the shoulder. The boy smiled and pulled her into a quick hug before following Peter out of the bodega, making sure to wave to Michelle as he left.

It was nice to see Arvin smiling, Tony thought. He had the same twinkle in his eyes that Peter had. The same light and hope. The two exited the bodega (after they both waved at the man behind the counter again. Gosh, these boys are too friendly.) and Arvin disposed of his root beer bottle in the recycling bin before shoving the last bite of a candy bar in his mouth and throwing the wrapper in the trash bin. The boy chewed thoughtfully as he looked at the flashy sports car in front of him. Peter clapped a hand onto his shoulder before seemingly urging him to climb in the back seat with him.

The twins piled in the back seat, Peter’s excited smile back on his face and Arvin’s skeptical stare on his own. 

“All set, boys?” Tony asked, looking back at them, “Your girlfriend won’t miss you?”

“She ain’t my girlfriend,” Arvin grunted in response, “Where’re we actually going?”

“Germany. We’ll take a private jet, I have someone getting passports for the both of you, they’ll have your school ID photos on them,” Tony replied as she turned back around and started the car.

Peter clicked his seatbelt into place before nudging Arvin to get him to do the same. 

“So our aunt thinks we’ll be three hours behind when we’re actually six head?” Arvin asked as he fastened his own seatbelt, “How’s that gonna work, genius?”

“Arv,” Peter sighed, “Don’t pretend you haven’t lied about where you were before.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never been in a damn foreign country before, P,” Arvin hissed, “Sayin’ I’m with you at Ned’s house when I’m really at Pioneer with Jamie ain’t the same as saying I’m in California when I’m really in fuckin’ Germany, now is it?”

“It’ll be fine,” Peter shrugged, “If May wants to call us when it’s 3 AM in Germany, we can just say we were at dinner or that we were sightseeing with a group or something.”

Arvin just shook his head before looking out of the window. Tony held back a sigh as she pulled back up in front of the Parkers’ apartment. She knew this was going to be a long trip. Thanks alot, Rogers, she thought bitterly. God, she just hoped she was making the right choice here. Only time would tell, she figured.

[fedeipox]

The Way of Time (Rdr2 fanfic) - Chapter 5 (1/3)

Here I am! How was Christmas?

Previously on TWoT: A 2020 girl ends up in 1899 with a bunch of outlaws. First she freaks out. Then, she agrees in living with them. After, she begins to know the gang members, the way they think and act and among them a certain Mr. Morgan catches her attention. Now, she wants to go around, learn more about the surroundings and be an active part of the gang. 

Chapter 5 (1/3) - Playing and learning

Words: 3k

That morning Emily woke up with an urgent need: she needed to brush her teeth. She hadn’t done it in thee days and started wondering how could those people live without brushing. She had asked Mary-Beth, of course, who confirmed the existence of toothbrushes and paste, but they didn’t use it. Apparently in 1899 it was considered as something only rich people could do, because they had time and money to waste in personal hygiene. So Emily had to settle for an old friend: the chewing gum. They kindly informed her that gum was an old habit already and that the mint flavor variation appeared at least thirty years earlier, a fact that surprised her. 

After all the work Miss Grimshaw had given them the day before, there was nothing to do in camp, and when Emily said nothing, she meant nothing. Again, she questioned Mary-Beth, asking her what did they do when they didn’t work. Her answers was: nothing. They read something, wandered around, complained about the boredom, insulted each other. The last one seemed to be an important part of camp-life: instead of talking with each other, act like a group, like a family, at the first chance they had they were at each other’s throat.  

For example Emily soon understood Mary-Beth, Tilly and Karen didn’t like Molly, and apparently Miss Grimshaw didn’t like her, either, but Emily couldn’t understand why. They were all women living in a difficult situation, they should have sticked together, have each other’s back. Where was their sisterhood?

When Mary-Beth returned to her book, Emily started walking among the tents, preparing herself to a day full of attempts to understand those people, the only thing she could do to avoid being bored to death. After all, she had no music, no interesting books, no TV and no Internet.

As she reached the center of the camp, she spotted Miss Grimshaw sipping something from a cup right next to the pot in company of the man who Emily learned to be Mr. Strauss, the money lender. She gulped and summoned all her courage before approaching them. That woman had something that attracted her like a moth with a lantern, the same effect Hosea had on her. 

“Good Morning, Miss Grimshaw” she said shyly.

“Morning to you” she replied.

Even when she wasn’t giving orders, the inflection of her voice was strong and straightforward. 

“Morning” said Strauss and Emily nodded as an answer.

“I-I was wondering, why everybody addresses to you with your last name, Miss Grimshaw?”

The woman seemed taken aback by that strange question and for a moment she struggled with her own thoughts.

“I guess it’s a way to show respect. Even though they don’t give me much respect apart from calling me by my last name. These new generations, they’ll be the ruin of this world.”

Emily smiled at her complaining, thinking about all the times she had heard something like that in 2020. Some things never change.

“That’s a pity, you have really a beautiful name, they should use it more often.”

Miss Grimshaw frowned.

“Are you trying to make fun of me, girl?”

“N-no, Miss Grimshaw, never! I-I… you just remind me a lot of… my mother has a similar personality. She’s not as strict as you are, b-but… she’s the one who governs the house and gives orders and taught me how to take care of myself.”

Emily talked with her head low, thinking how pathetic she was sounding.

“What about your father?” asked Mr. Strauss and Emily noticed his foreign accent.

“Oh no, my father is more like a subject” she laughed.

Then, after an embarrassing silence fell, Emily addressed Mr. Strauss.

“You have a strange accent. Where you come from?”

“Austria.”

“Really? My grandfather’s brother lived for some time in Austria after the war ended and he kept telling us how much Austrians were different from Germans. He said they were more… friendly somehow.”

“Which war?” asked Mr. Strauss.

“The… Second World War” answered Emily, but while she pronounced the words she already new they couldn’t understand.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about things you still haven’t lived.”

“Oh for Lord’s sake girl. When will you give it a rest with this nonsense?” Miss Grimshaw rebuked her.

“It’s not her fault, Susan. You can perfectly tell she really believes in her delusions” answered Mr. Strauss. 

Emily lowered her eyes and felt like she had been stabbed in the back. They didn’t believe her, but what could she expect? They seemed two down to earth people, they didn’t have the predisposition to believe her.

“I’m sorry, I-I’ll go find something else to do than bother you” she murmured and without looking at them she quickly walked away.

Her legs leaded her in the back of the kitchen and she realized where she was only when she saw the prisoner tied to the tree. Again, she thought that probably he was tied there for a reason, maybe because he was too dangerous, or that he had done something terrible, and he deserved to be there. So again she walked away without looking at him twice. 

As she kept going, thinking about how many people in that camp were just not going to believe her and her story, she passed right in front of Arthur’s tent, but he wasn’t there. She stopped and looked around for a second, being sure he wasn’t in her range of sight before drawing closer. 

The first thing that stroke her was the amount of photographs: one of a woman on the table, another woman on the crate at the back of the bed, and then three on the side of the wagon. On the table by the bed there also was Arthur’s hat, which Emily took before sitting on the cot. She looked at it for a while before placing it on her head and smiling feeling how heavy it was compared to what she expected. Then, she turned around to look better at the three photos hanged on the wagon. 

There was a… dog? There was a man, who, thanks to the resemblance to Arthur and to the name written on a tablet he was holding, Emily could understand was his father. But was the third photo that shocked Emily most of all: a young Arthur with two young Dutch and Hosea! The latter was the one Emily focused on, with his very pale blond hair, and she couldn’t help but notice he was incredibly handsome! Even more than Arthur who with the years had got definitely better. 

So, that was the place Arthur slept in, she thought turning to sit straight again. Maybe he had his diary somewhere. She looked around, but the only thing she found was a little newspaper cutting dated 1887 about a bank robbery, and reading the description of the suspects, Emily recognized Dutch, Hosea and Arthur. She laughed picturing the scene in her mind, and in the end she was surprised to find out the money they had stolen, they gave it away to the poor. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” 

Emily turned to smile at Arthur as he walked closer and stood up showing him the cutting.

“A bank robbery?” she asked.

“You know you’re trespassing a private property, don’t you?”

“I didn’t think you minded too much about private property” she laughed.

Arthur took the hat from her head and put it on his with an annoyed face that made everything more hilarious for Emily.

“So, that’s your father, I got this” she said pointing at the photo while Arthur took the cutting from her hands.

“And I suppose this is your mother” she added taking the photo from the table and turning it to read the name.

“Beatrice, it’s a beautiful name.” Arthur took the photo too and put it back to its place.

“But I don’t understand who’s that woman. Your sister maybe?” she asked pointing at the other woman picture.

Arthur took her by her shoulders and made her turn around.

“This is none of your business” he said pushing her out of his tent. 

“I’m just trying to know you better. I love that picture with Dutch and Hosea, by the way. The three of you looked awesome!” she replied turning to look at him.

His pissed off face made Emily laugh, but in the end she returned serious.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost your parents. Your mum looked like a good woman” she said looking at him right in the eye. 

“I can’t say the same about your dad, because from my understanding he was a criminal too, but…”

Arthur’s hands on her made her jump and when he spoke a shiver ran down her back.

“Don’t talk about things you don’t know” he growled.

She froze on her place looking at his clear eyes. He had the same look of the day before, when they came out of the saloon, the look that had scared her, that made her understand he wasn’t joking anymore, the look that had the power to put her back into her place.

As he walked away she felt suddenly heavy. She was sorry and ashamed for what she had done. He was right, she didn’t know anything about him, she had no right to say things about him, his family and his past. She wanted to run, reach him and tell him how sorry she was, but she didn’t, scared by the fact he could get even angrier.

...

Emily was a very active kind of person, always working, always doing something with herself, and that situation was boring her, so she had to think about something. Who she wanted to spend her time with? She didn’t get to choose. As she left Mr. Morgan’s private space, Jack came running and asked her to play hopscotch again. 

“Why don’t we try something new instead?” she asked kneeling down to look at him right in the eye.

“Do you know other games?”

“Oh I know plenty of games. For example: what do you want to be when you grow up, Jack?”

The little boy frowned: no-one had ever asked him that question and for him it seemed something impossible to answer. 

“I don’t know” he said in the end.

“Well, when I was little, I knew exactly what I wanted to be. I wanted to be an explorer. So I took my backpack and went exploring.”

“What did you explore?”

“Everything. I’ve been in the African deserts, the highest and coldest mountains of Asia and the thickest jungles of South America.” “Really?”

“Yes, really. I just had to close my eyes and I could see them.”

“How?”

“Use your imagination. Come, I’ll show you.”

The process was more difficult than Emily expected. Jack was four years old, but she had never seen a more down-to-earth kid in all her life. Imagination was a strange word in his vocabulary. 

“When Uncle Hosea reads a story to you, you imagine what happens on your head, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s the same thing, you just have to take the images from your head and bring them in the reality. Now, first of all, explorers have hats, big hats, so we have to find two.”

After they found the hats - Emily borrowed a big one from Charles and Jack one from his father - she started with her play. She brought him into the woods, searching among the leaves and dirt for traces of the ‘big mountain gorilla’, then she made him cross the 'Pacific Ocean’ on a canoe, which was a crate, and landed on the exotic ‘New Guinea’.

“Look, Jack!” she exclaimed pointing her finger at Tilly in the distance.

“She’s one of the native girls of the island. Should we approach her and find out if she speaks our language?”

...

The new girl was playing again with Jack and this time her game was even crazier than the jumping on numbers. They kept wandering around camp, or in the woods, or on the edge of the cliff and pointing at things that didn’t exist. At one point they even approached the fire, where some of the gang members were sitting, with a stealth and careful pace like they were hunting a dangerous animal, but instead the girl pointed at Uncle’s face and said: “Look Jack, this is a great shaman of the Australian desert. They say he has magical powers. We should show our respects.”

Javier, Bill and Uncle himself laughed in a snort looking at her slim figure bowing in reverence.

“Oh great shaman, please, enlighten us with your wisdom.”

“What exactly are you doing?” exclaimed Lenny coming closer to the fire.

“Oh no! They sent one of their warriors. Hurry Jack, bring me my sword, we have to defend ourselves!” she yelled to the little boy.

Without hesitation, he run away and Emily looked at Lenny who was about to sit down. 

“No, no don’t sit, please. We have to fight” she said.

“I won’t fight with you” he replied.

“Come on, Lenny! I’m doing it for Jack.”

“What? Acting like a fool?” asked Bill.

“Playing with the imagination. He needs this” she answered.

Lenny didn’t want to, it was stupid, it was humiliating, but she was begging him with the eyes.

“Here’s your sword!” yelled little Jack running towards her and giving her two sticks.

“Take your weapon, sir. We’ll see if you are as brave as the stories tell” she said with a big fake voice and handed one stick to Lenny.

He sighed and looked at the people around him as they were all wondering if he would have played that stupid game. He had no choice: he took the stick and put himself in position.

The mayhem she was causing caught the attention of more people until even Dutch came out of his tent to look at the scene.

“The hell are they doing?” he heard Arthur’s voice by his side.

“I have no idea” he laughed.

Lenny dodged and attacked again and finally succeeded in hitting Emily’s leg.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed and threw herself on the ground.

“Jack! Jack come here! I need you to take my place! Here, take the sword. Fight my faithful friend, fight for my honor!”

Everybody laughed again at her words as Jack took her place in the “fight”.

Arthur chuckled too and took a few steps towards that unusual scene. That girl had had the power to make Lenny play. Lenny, who always did everything in his power to make the others believe he was a grown up man. How had she done it?

“Well, she surely is a better actress than you, Arthur” joked Hosea showing up by his side.

“Yeah, maybe you should take her with you to the next robbery.”

Hosea chuckled.

“Maybe I will.”

...

Finally, Lenny let Jack hit him and, just like Emily had done, he threw himself on the ground and played dead. A loud shout of joy raised from the people around them for Jack’s victory and Emily was delighted by the fact that she had been able to involve all of them in the game.

“Okay, I guess it’s done. Go give the hat back to your daddy. We’ll explore more another day” she said taking Charles’ hat off.

Jack hopped away and she walked closer to Lenny as he was standing up.

“Thank you for playing the game. I didn’t know you were such a good actor” she joked.

“Never good as you” he replied.

“And also thanks to the great shaman, for his infinite patience” she addressed Uncle with another bow.

“My pleasure, dear. You’ll be surprised to know I’ve actually been to Australia.”

“Really? When?” she asked sitting on the log near the campfire.

“Australia? You?” asked Bill making Emily understand he didn’t believe him.

“Why is it so difficult to believe?” she asked.

“Ah! I’m more inclined to believe you come from the future than he’s ever been to Australia.”

“And you’re right, I never did.”

Emily frowned.

“So, you lied?” she asked.

“I’ve never been there, but I tried to. I made it as far as Chicago” answered Uncle.

Emily fixed her eyes on him, trying to understand if he was playing dumb, or he really was, before she busted out laughing. 

“Chicago ain’t nowhere near Australia” exclaimed Bill, who unlike Emily seemed annoyed by Uncle’s words.

“No… but it’s on the way.”

Emily laughed again, louder and longer.

“What’s so fun?” asked Bill.

“You can’t be serious Uncle” she said among the tears.

“Why not? That’s the way for Australia. Maybe one day we’ll all go there and live the rest of our lives as kangaroo farmers.”

Emily couldn’t believe her ears. If those people were outlaws their only crime was lack of common sense!

“Okay, I think I’ll return the hat to Charles” she said standing up and drying her tears. 

She covered the distance to Mr. Smith’s tent still thinking about that crazy conversation she had just had, the road to Australia that passed through Chicago, the kangaroo farmers… That man couldn’t be serious. 

“Here, Charles. Thank you for lending me this” she said at the man as she reached his tent.

He was making some arrows and the thing intrigued her so much that she stopped by his side for a while to look at him working. But of course she didn’t limit herself to watch, she had to ask questions. She asked him everything about making arrows, the type of feathers he had to use, the type of wood, and then she passed to bows, how difficult it was to use one, how difficult it was to make one…

...

Charles had never minded to teach people how to do things and that was the only thing that stopped him from standing up and walk away from her. She was a good girl after all, she just had one flaw: the constant need to speak. 

“I know that Natives learn how to hunt from their horses when they are very young, is that true?” she asked.

“Yeah. How do you know that?” Charles asked in turn. That was his first question.

“I read it somewhere. Is it difficult? To ride a horse, I mean.”

“You can’t do it?”

She shook her head.

“You want to learn?”

“Oh no, for God’s sake. I hate horses.” “What?”

Charles couldn’t believe what she had just said and stopped what he was doing to stare deeply at her.

“I mean… I don’t hate horses, I just don’t like them. They’re dangerous.”

“Who told you that?”

“My father.”

“Has he ever ridden one?”

She seemed to think about it.

“No, I don’t think so.” “So, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” “But they are dangerous.”

“Only if you can’t control them.”

Charles watched her carefully before he took his decision.

“Come, I’ll show you” he said standing up from his chair.

“Show me what?”

“That there is nothing to be afraid of.” “No, Charles, really, I don’t…” “Come” he said and took one of her hands to help her stand.

Arthur had been looking at them from the distance while they were seated one on the chair and the other on the ground. From that little that he knew about Charles, he could perfectly tell he was extremely annoyed by all those questions the girl was asking him, but he was behaving wonderfully, and he didn’t expect nothing less from Charles. 

As he saw them standing up and walking away, his curiosity raised and he moved away from the tree he was laying against to follow them. They reached the external part of camp and he heard Charles saying “wait here” to the girl before he drew closer to the horses.

Arthur took the pack of cigarettes and brought one to his lips, lighting it and taking a puff. Charles came back, leading his horse by the reins. What were they doing? Were they planning to go someplace? Where could Charles possibly take her?

[mia-cooper]

2019 fanfiction in review

I usually put more effort into pimping my favourite fics of the year, boosting a few new writers in my fandoms, etc. This year, however, I have not, for reasons both within and beyond my control. Which is pretty much my excuse for not Doing Better with writing for the past month or so, but hey. At least there’s this.

.......................................................

1. Best fic(s) you read all year, and why?

How can I even begin to list all the beautiful, shocking, feel-good, feel-terrible-but-in-a-good-way, envy-inducing, page-turning, soul-destroying, fluffy, hilarious, infuriating and horny fics I’ve read this year? I can’t. So I will instead list three that come immediately to mind.

@curator-on-ao3 – The Dismissed Protocol (rated T, VOY, TNG, Janeway & Crusher)

This fic made me angry. So angry that I left a ranty and incoherent comment, slammed down the lid on my laptop and stormed around the house for a bit. Why was I so pissed, you ask? Because this fic hit a good few of my personal triggers around bodily autonomy and the right to make informed choices, and because although the fic ends triumphantly, it’s somewhat of a pyrrhic victory and it left a really bad taste in my mouth. Which, considering this is fiction, is the mark of some really good writing. When it comes to tackling difficult topics with a fresh and thought-provoking perspective, and without opting for the easy answers, Curator never disappoints. This story is just one of many examples of that in her work.

@love-in-the-time-of-kolinahr​ – it will take place without witnesses (rated E, DSC, Pike/Number One)

Okay so let me start by saying it was the author’s fucking EXCELLENT pun of a pseudonym that made me read this in the first place. Then it was the poem they quoted (Discovery by Wislawa Szymborska, which is like a portentous rocket in the guts). Then it was Una’s scales-off-the-eyes, we-are-true-equals, don’t-bullshit-me-lover candidness in the way she sees, talks to, knows Chris Pike. I adore Pike in his laconic-space-cowboy-with-a-heart Disco incarnation, I like him a lot as the CoolDad in AOS, but this fic? This fic gives me smart, forthright, deeply tender Number One, and Pike as the fractured and very human hero I hope like hell we’ll see more of because they are definitely making a Pike series RIGHT? It is written. Anyway… this fic is beautiful and harsh and deft and real and sexy and poetic and at its core it’s about love, and who doesn’t love love?

@captacorn​ – Stars in a Ruined Sky (rated M, VOY, Paris/Torres)

It took me a while to read this one because CaptAcorn was posting it at the same time I was writing my epic, and I had no brain space to maintain a hold on someone else’s dark and compelling plot. But when I picked this one up, I couldn’t put it down. It is AMAZING. A Timeless AU, set in a universe where Voyager crashed and most of the crew survived, this goes where no other 100k+ epic I’ve read before has dared to tread, and it does so without flinching. The details are what make this unforgettable – there’s no magic reset button, so when something bad happens to the crew, there are actual lasting consequences – but it’s the humanity of the characters (if I can use that word to describe a crew that includes aliens) that makes it unputdownable (fuck off, my nana said that’s a word). This is not an AU I want to think happened, but CaptAcorn makes it one that rings true. And I’ll definitely read this again when I have the emotional fortitude for it.

Wow, there’s no Janeway/Chakotay in my top three. What? So here’s a bonus:

Northernexposure’s trilogy – Soft Light, Aftershocks and Resolution (rated E, VOY, Janeway/Chakotay) – three for the price of one! I mean, when northernexposure posts a new fic I race to read it no matter what, but smut! Beautifully written, true to character, sexy sexy smut from one of my all time favourite authors! How could I turn that down?

2. Best fic(s) you published all year, and why?

Mmmyeah to be honest I kinda feel as though my writing peaked in 2017, but here we go.

Desperate Measures (rated E, VOY, Janeway/Chakotay and other pairings) – because there’s angst and smut and the plot is twisty as fuck and I feel like there’s a pretty satisfying payoff. And it’s really long and relies on the reader engaging with my OCs which people seem to have done, which makes me think that if I ever do want to go write another original novel, maybe I won’t want to burn it as soon as I’m done.

This Is The Moment (rated M, DSC, Pike/Tyler) – because these two have exhausting chemistry and I couldn’t not write this but it was hard to make it come out of my brain the way I wanted it. But I’m really happy with it.

And I have a soft spot for First Officer’s Log (rated T, VOY, Chakotay & Tuvok, implied Janeway/Paris), because I just really love Threshold, okay? And while the episode is wack on so many levels there are really dark and heavy themes to explore there which I feel have gone very unexplored and I hope my fic struck that same balance between moral philosophy and holywhatthefuckery.

3. Favourite opening line(s) in a fic you published in 2019:

From Bad Maquis (rated M, VOY, Janeway/Chakotay):

The only thing more restrictive – and bosomy – than this outfit, Kathryn mused as she stared at her reflection, was her holodeck governess costume.



Still, at least she didn’t have to leave her quarters wearing this getup, and thank goodness for small mercies. Because she was on the verge of backing down from this challenge as it was, and Kathryn Janeway did not chicken out. Ever.

I mean, it sets the scene, doesn’t it? Who doesn’t love Janeway in leather.

4. Favourite closing line(s):

This is maybe cheating a little bit because this fic isn’t finished, but this first chapter can stand alone and I won’t be continuing it for some time (first, I have to finish the two prequels, haha). Anyway, these are the closing lines from Inertia (rated T so far, VOY, Janeway/Paris and others):

When the daze clears and Tom looks up to discover that his hovercar is parked in front of an address he’s never visited but has nonetheless memorised, maybe he should feel a little bit surprised.



He doesn’t. No matter how far he tries to go or how long he stays away from her, turning up at Kathryn Janeway’s door is inevitable.

Why do I like it? Well, I have an everlasting appreciation for Janeway/Paris, for one thing. For another, if you read the rest of the story and understand what Tom has just learned, you’ll want to know what happens next. I hope. I sure want to know.

5. The fic that was best received, and your favourite comment(s) on it:

That would be Desperate Measures again. It’s my longest fic by far and I was absolutely bowled over by the response to it, but one of my favourite comments on it is this one:

It actually looks like Janeway is saying gimme and it cracks me up.

Honestly though… the depth and kindness of comments on that fic in particular, the time and thought and effort that people have put into their reviews … it made up for every moment I wanted to chuck it in and never look at that fic again, or any other.

6. The fic you wish had gotten more love:

Honestly, I was surprised there was so little response to my @voyagermirrormarch​ fic trilogy, Heaven in the Shape of Hell. I really thought they’d be crowd pleasers, but it shows what I know, lol. I haven’t even finished the third one because the lack of interest made me wonder if they were just really shite, but I’m not so butthurt about it anymore and I will come back to it someday.

7. How many fandoms you wrote for in 2019, and which inspired you most:

Does Star Trek in all its incarnations count as one fandom? If so, I wrote for two (Trek and Marvel). If all the different versions of Trek count separately, I wrote for seven (MCU, AOS (that’s Trek Alternate Original Series, not Agents of SHIELD), Disco, Mirror, Enterprise, DS9 and Voyager).

Anyway, I guess I’ll never stop being inspired by Voyager, so even if Disco season 3 and the Picard show do nothing for me, I’ll always have that.

8. Your favourite pairing(s) to write for:

I mean, Janeway x Chakotay, for sure. But I’m deeply, deeply invested in Janeway x Paris at the moment.

9. What you’re writing now/next:

I’m struggling through the second part of what was supposed to be my contribution to @25daysofvoyager​. I’m actually going to post the first part once I’m done with this quiz in the hope it’ll kick my ass into gear. I’m also on semi-hiatus from Kinetic Friction, but I’ll be going back to it as soon as I’m done with my 25 Days fic. At some point after Kinetic there’ll be the sequel, and then the rest of Inertia. I’m also contemplating something for Threshold Day, possibly throwing something into @voytalentchallenge​ (don’t count on that one), and I have an idea for a pre-Enterprise D, pre-Voyager meeting between Picard and Janeway (with smut, obvs), plus all the other fics I’m definitely going to write …

And of course there’s my meat raffle. Time to pimp that one again. Donate to AO3 and if I draw your name out of the hat of randomness I’ll write you a fic to your specifications (roughly).

10. Writing goals for 2020 (word count? new fandoms/pairings? anything?):

Look, I’d just really like to actually write to some of the prompts I’ve had sitting in my ridiculously complex filing system without getting sidetracked by the newest shiny thing to catch my eye. In terms of fandoms, I hope I’ll write more for Discovery, I’m looking forward to Picard, and I would like to branch out from Trek a bit. More MCU, definitely, and maybe others if I get inspired. The main thing I want out of writing fanfiction at the moment is for it to continue making me happy, though, so I just hope I keep having fun with it.

[kyberphilosopher]

Chapter Nine

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Hondo wasn’t wrong. I did look like I’d been straight to hell. The dark bags under my eyes, hollowed cheeks, pale dry skin, brunette hair feeling like straw… it was all very hellish. Still, I would end up looking worse.

“Land this damned ship you idiot!” Hondo called out. Within a minute, his freighter gun ship would plant itself into the sand firmly. Once this happens, the light from the inside that blinds me so doesn’t seem as harsh, and the wind has disappeared. Both my hands lower slowly, curiously.

Hondo was (still is, to my knowledge) a Weequay. Dark dreadlocks fell over his shoulders, laced with beads and bands galore. The goggles over his eyes distracted from the thorns sprouting from his jaw and chin, which I hear is a sign of age for the species. Still, the pirate dawns a long coat and belt, paired with a stylish hat. Certainly more fashionable than anything I’ve ever worn, even though the only thing I’d wear on him is the jacket.

The man spreads his arms as if we’re lifelong friends, and a charismatic smile crosses his clever face. “Don’t be a stranger, ah! Why don’t you come in, and we’ll have a chat?”

Absolutely not.

There are several reasons why I should not and do not want to get onto a ship with a random pirate. You don’t survive in the Outer Rim by being stupid.

For starters, he’s a man. I don’t like the thought of being alone with men much. There’s been very few men in my life that didn’t make me feel uncomfortable in one way or another. Jarvers and Mur were different though… somehow. I guess maybe I saw them as fathers. No. I’m too busy losing my mind to have these thoughts right now.

It’s not that I’m terrible at disguising my tensing up, it’s just that I’m so stressed and exhausted, I can’t help but let my shoulders square themselves naturally. The pirate sees it. I watch his eyes flutter into a gentle roll under his goggles.

“My friend, I am no threat to you. On this, you have my word.”

Then I watch his eyes shift down to my hips. Not to the attribute that lies in the center, but at the sides. More specifically, at the metal cylinders attached at the waist. Instinctively, I take a defensive step back.

“Are you… Jedi?” the Weequay observantly asks with wide eyes.

You have to understand… I have a lot of anger. Anger at myself, anger at the world, anger at others I feel I shouldn’t have even though it’s deserved. Anger at the Jedi, for being too busy being corrupt and ignorant to give me shelter and warmth. Because even though I’m more than happy being independent, I wish I could’ve been dependent just once. I have anger at the Empire, for oppressing and taking as they please. Ironically, I have little anger for the Sith. I understand them.

But when the pirate said ‘Jedi’, I just… I snap.

I throw both my palms out towards him. The Force fills me up like a tingling wave, starting from my toes. The second it touches my brain, it touches the tips of all ten fingers. The man shoots backwards sharply. For a quick moment, he’s flying. Then his back slams into the wall behind him, and he slinks down.

I seize the opportunity to jump onto the ramp. I climb up it in sprinting strides until I too am inside the ship, standing above Ohnaka’s slumped body. The man groans out weakly, letting me know he’s still alive. It almost sounds like a meek, but genuine, laugh.

It’s the witness that catches my eye. On the right side, another Weequay with wide eyes and a surprised stance watches me. His cracked, dry colored features shift when I meet his eyes, and his hand reaches down to pull a blaster from his sling.

I’m faster, however. This will be, and is, the witnesses fatal error.

I reach my right arm out, opening my long, nimble fingers towards him. In my fiery, passionate fury, the Weequay chokes. His ugly face scrunches up as he struggles to breathe, in a way that I think I might like. Both hands begin raking at his throat furiously, as if puncturing a hole will give him some oxygen. The blaster clambers to the metal floor.

I let my fingers tighten a little. The Weequay almost skips into the air, just off his toes as he strangles. When I grip my fingers together in a fist, he floats closer towards me. Now, I can smell his stench, see the glimmer of fear in his eyes. It’s squirming around, twisting and turning and churning as if it itself was alive. I watch it dance, mesmerized.

There was a time where I felt an immense amount of fear, and a while after. I wanted to put all the anguish I was feeling into words for nobody but myself, but nothing could satisfy it. It was like an insatiable dragon. It would claw at me day and night. Dancing around vehemently, telling me to just spit it out. I never could. But now, looking at a man who is on the verge of death by my hand, I feel I could define it perfectly.

For some reason, I let my fist clench itself finally. There’s a sickening, admirable pop that crunches through his neck muscles. His pipes crush in on themselves. I let the pirates essence slip through my fingers like sand as he slips to the floor limply.

“You… killed him…” Hondo groans. His left hand goes to rub his chest soothingly.

My eyebrows furrow momentarily as I look down at him. “I know you,” I say. “You’re Hondo Ohnaka.”

There’s a deep growl, as if he’s revving himself up to speak. “You… come in here… kill my men…”

“I’ve seen a painting of you. On Takodano.”

Hondo looks up at me. At first, his eyes are wide with disbelief and aggression, but then it fades away. Like an outer later, the moment the pirate rolls his eyes, a charismatic twinkle returns to them. “It appears I have a fan.” He pauses. I can see the intelligence in his eyes, raking me in observantly. Not sexually. “Did Kenobi put you up to this?”

I narrow my eyes. The only person I’ve ever heard of named ‘Kenobi’ was a legend on Tatooine called Old Ben. Never sought him out. Never cared to. “Who the hell is Kenobi?”

Ohnaka watches me a moment further, before finally decided to let it go. A tamed smile washes over his face, which reminds me of the desert. He rolls his head to the side. “You’re no Jedi, are you?”

I swallow once before responding. “I never claimed to be.”

There’s a sigh. “So I suppose you’ll be no business partner.”

I glance at the corpse beside him. The guilt is already sinking into my stomach, though it’s muted by the adrenaline and the rush that comes from a murder. “Why don’t you make me an offer.”

Hondo has a lot of spice. That’s what I notice first.

Crates of it, all stacked together and close by among the rooms. It’s mostly about the main area, by booths and tables and holograms. There’s a shift in the air, full of dust and a kind of golden glow. There are a few other men about, all Weequay with bandanas and slings on them. A few stare at me, but Hondo waves them all away.

I slide into a leather booth easily. My eyes glance around, looking for the exits if necessary. I can break open the cockpit if I really have to. Escape into the ventilation system. Take out my lightsabers and just start hacking it all up. But then I would have no way off this planet, which is what I really want.

I could steal the ship. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to say that I killed Hondo Ohnaka, the pirate who roamed the galaxy. I’d get a lot of credit for it- maybe there’s even a bounty on his head. Then I would also be set with all the spice I could ever fathom. It would be, in theory, the perfect situation.

You know, aside from the lack of destination. Maker… I feel so jittery.

“So,” Hondo begins. He saunters up to the table I sit in, his orbs glimmering with the intelligence that all criminals  possess. “A force user, all the way out here.”

My eyes narrow subtly, without me even making them. It would be funny if it happened on command now, if not for the situations that call for it. Under the table, my hands ball into fists against the dry fabric on my legs.

“I can see you’re an intelligent person,” the pirate continues. His accent makes his voice seem to draw out. “So what would you bring you to a planet such as this one? Are you… running from something?”

I take my hands from my lap, and bend my elbows against the table. My arms fold, my back hunching forward as my fingers tap against the wrapping on my limbs. Once my braid falls over my right shoulder, I look relaxed.

“Does it matter?” I counter. “What does it matter what I am, so long as I get the job done?”

Hondo rolls his eyes dramatically, moving his hands around to accentuate his words. “Ah, a means to an end type. Finally! Of course it matters what you are.” Hondo pauses, then leers closer with a hint of a smile, which seems to be permanently attached to his features. “Afterall, what we are, always reflects who we are.”

His words bother me. It’s such an… insightful and personal thing to say, and the way Hondo says it makes me feel like his eyes are piercing into my soul. Like he can see the guilt I feel inside, the contempt I have for things that are good. But I don’t let him see this. For one, my emotions tend to brew around inside of me slowly, and when I try to communicate them, they become solids that refuse to leave me, and I don’t trust anyone with being as honest as I could be. On the second hand, I don’t think it to be wise to show an outburst of emotions in front of an infamous pirate.

“That’s one way of putting it,” I answer.

Hondo nods once. “So it is.”

I try not to let my eyes flutter to the side of the ship, to the large crates of spice. Maker, it’s been so long since I’ve had spice. I’m not addicted by any means, but the rush it gives me would be welcome right about now.

“The job should not be difficult for a force user such as yourself, eh?” Hondo continues. “We’ll just be stealing some certain trinkets from the Imperial bases.”

I look down at the table, letting out a dry exhale through my nose.

Don’t get me wrong, I love pissing people off. Especially big and important people, who run big and important things. Companies, governments… Empires. But I don’t want to have to keep inconveniencing myself. I don’t want to have to keep messing with the people who are hunting me just to stay alive. I hate to say it, but I think I need to stabilize myself before I think of going out of my way. At this point in my life, the only thing I know for sure is that looking out for number one is the most important thing.

The answer is solidifying in the depths of my chest as Hondo looks at me proudly, ready to continue explaining his plan. He does so momentarily, though truthfully I’m not listening. I can only see his lips move up and down, back and forth as I think about the Clone with the yellow stripe. The way he loomed over me as my head broke the surface of the water. The way I could feel his malice at me from so far away. He’s the one who gave me the long scar on my left arm, right by my elbow.

“… I mean, we’d need Imperial documentation of it, but we can figure that out, eh? We’ve already got everything good to go-”

“I can’t go with you,” I interrupt suddenly.

Hondo’s face pulls into a frown. I look into his eyes as I continue, allowing the slightest bit of honesty to creep out of my throat.

“I’m not with the Empire,” I begin. “But I can’t be against them. Not yet.”

“Are they what you’re running from?” Hondo questions further, crossing his arms.

I shrug my shoulders slightly. “Something like that.”

Hondo sighs. “Well… I suppose I can understand…”

“There’s some men down the way who might help you. Maybe a click from the way you found me. Stationed out in an old Republic walker.”

“Could be worth a try.”

Another idea pops into my head. Perking up, I push my left hand into the pocket and feel around the depths. After a second of shuffling, I grasp the object and reveal it- Garreth’s little black book.

“What do you have there?” Hondo asks curiously.

“This,” I say, flipping the cover open, “could be of use to you.”

The first few pages are all in Galactic Basic. A few rantings that mean nothing to me, until a few pages in. Imperial information begins to flood the paper- names of ships, maps, orders, codes, plans. All within the pages of a dead man’s book.

“It’s filled with Imperial documentations,” I say.

Hondo’s stance changes from relaxed, to almost overly interested. He takes a step forward, eyes widening. “Where did you get that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. My eyes skim the pages, absorbing the fortune in my palms. Garreth, on top of being a vigilant soldier, was also a bit of an artist. There are multiple sketches of a Twi’Lek women laced into his words. She’s sultry, but somewhat sad at the same time.

These next few pieces of information are important. You might want to remember them.

One page in particular catches my eye. Set up in bullet points along the page, is a list of ships. Next to the names of the ships is their stationed coordinates, functions, and purpose.

They all seem to be Star Destroyers, valued at over a hundred million credits. I take in all the command ships, raking in the information begging me to absorb it.

The Executor has fluctuating coordinates, according the Garreth. It’s overseen by someone referred to as ‘General V’. Star’s Ally tends to hang around Scarif, but that could be changing soon. Punisher is supposed to possess the second highest amount of guns out of the entire Imperial fleet. The Maker’s Thrall is rumored to have access to controlling several bases throughout the galaxy, and stays outside a little planet called Mustafar.

“Have you heard of someone called ‘General V’?” I question aloud. “His name is written all over this thing.”

“I’ve heard only rumors, but nothing more,” Hondo sighs. “When the Empire came, my own was crushed.”

I nod in understanding. “You said you needed documentation. What of?”

Hondo remains quiet. I glace between his eyes, feeling the tension build.

He’s thinking of all the ways to kill me. To shoot me with a blaster, to pry the book from my fingers. He will use it, maybe sell it for the profit he sees fit. Then he will take my sabers and sell those too. Dealing with my body won’t be difficult- simply throw it out the hatch and let me float into nothingness.

I’m thinking of all the ways to kill him too, then. Jump from my seat and decapitate him with a blade before he can make a move. His little horde of weak minded men will be easier to take care of after. Then I can take this ship and the spice, use the book to find a planet the Empire hasn’t yet touched, and live a peaceful life of hunting and not talking to people until I die of an overdose.

“Well, if you won’t help us with a mission, then you should help us in another way, right? How about a trade?” Hondo says sweetly. “That journal, for as many credits as the lady desires.”

Slowly, I push the cover of the book to a close. “I can think of a lot of credits to desire,” I tell him. “But credits are no match for information.”

Hondo breaks into a laugh, as if we were long time friends. “Oh, a smart one too! I knew there was something clever about you.”

I give a weak, fake smile in response. It lasts only a second. “Did you?”

“But of course,” Hondo continues. The tone of his voice shifts into something nearly condescending. Something overly sweet, that I can’t quite describe unless you were hearing it. It’s the tone of voice that people use when you’re both playing at a game, but you would never openly admit it. That would be breaking the rules.

“And I trust you are a… reasonable person as well.”

“You flatter me.”

“Yes well... everyone’s good at something.”

I hold Hondo’s stare for a full minute, daring him to continue. I know I can take him easily. In a way, I want him to make a move. I want to kill him. It would be so easy- so satisfying. And as I watch him die, I can relish in the knowledge that I will then possess a ship, and crates upon crates of spice. Whatever credits or further treasures he has aboard will be mine too. It’s all becoming more and more tantalizing…

“How about I make you a counteroffer,” I begin lowly. “I keep the book, and then I let you live.”

Hondo scoffs humorously. “Is that supposed to be a threat? I am a pirate! I can’t even spell threat!”

One hand leaves the book and falls to my hips. On the right side, my fingers begin to grip around the hilt of the saber, keeping it at the ready. “I’m sure.”

“What did you say your name was again?” Hondo inquires. A hand of his own comes to rest a little to close to his blaster for my liking.

I press the switch of the lightsaber. Slowly, the blue light extends from under the table. Though dangerously close to my face, it floods the area like a threat. “I never gave it to you. But I can give you something else.”

Hondo takes a step back. His eyes widen as his men jump in front of him blasters at the ready. “We can’t let you touch our Captain, missy,” one of them growls aggressively. His spit clashes with the floor through his gritted teeth.

I bite my bottom lip at this, trying not to let the laugh building escape past my mouth. My knees curl up and my feet position themselves on the seat, so I am now crouching. I keep my eyes on the group as I beckon the book come up into the air and restore itself in my jacket pocket. Safe and snug, my free hand reaches for the second saber. “But who will protect him, if you are all dead?”

“Fire!” Hondo exclaims. “Fire! Fire now!”

Bolts of heat come towards me. My other lightsaber comes to light in a green glow. I spring from the seat and towards the men. I bring my blades into an X, and then extend them out. Two of the Weequay fall to the floor, orange lines burned into their throats.

Hondo turns to run down a hallway, with three of the men following him. With two remaining to take care of me, I pick who to deal with first.

It’s the one on the right. I quickly elbow him in the face, discombobulating him. I turn around and let my saber drive through his stomach. Now facing the other one, I block a few shots with the second saber. Either he’s not very good aim, or I’m very good at blocking, because I am unhurt and full of breath. To finish him, I bring him closer to me with a quick extending of my fingers, then slash at him.

As he lay at my feet, I look down the hallway that Hondo escaped to, before starting towards it.

The Dark side of the Force is far more powerful than the Light, if you ask me. It fills you with a sense of purpose, a sense of power. A new, inviting feeling runs through you that promises it’s okay to be selfish- you deserve it. You can feel everything in the galaxy, even things that have already happened, and things that have not yet come to pass. The Dark side feels… good. When I use it, especially now, I feel like no one has touched me. I feel like pure, raw power, unscathed and unclaimable. I want more.

When you’re that enthralled with the Dark side, you’ll do anything to get more of it. The best way to obtain this, is murder. The more innocent, the more power. The more guilt it will bring you, the more kingly you will become. And the more kingly you become… the more you gain.

I find Hondo and his goons easy enough. They stumble down the way, while Ohnaka constantly screams “Where’s the pilot?! Where’s the pilot?!”

I clench my hand in a fist. One of his men shoots into the air and drops his blaster. His back presses against the ceiling as he squirms around, his arms at either side of him. With a twist of my blade, it slices against his abdomen.

The next pirate widens his eyes. Seeing he’s too close to me, he attempts to jump back. Smoothly, I bring the green saber up and across to cut the end of his blaster off. With the momentum, I kick him in the stomach with a pop and separate his head from his neck with the blue saber.

The last lackey of Hondo’s lowers his blaster. His expression startled, he begins flattening himself against the wall in an attempt to keep away from me. Hondo does the same on the opposite side.

I watch Hondo’s face for a long time. I don’t feel out of breath, nor do I feel worried. I’m focused on the dancing glimmer in his eyes, because they remind me of a panicked scarab beetle. His chest heaves. The coat swishes around in the nonexistent wind before finally stilling.

It’s funny. Hondo is supposed to be one of the most cutthroat, ambitious pirates in the galaxy. But now, with my lightsaber at his throat, he doesn’t seem so bad at all. He could’ve shot at me with his blaster but he didn’t. He’s still not. In fact, one could argue that the man is trembling at the sight of me.

So, this begs the question: is something wrong with him? Or is something wrong with me?

I lower my blades. Something feels like it’s draining out of my chest like a poisonous ooze. Part of me misses it as I feel it leave, but another part of me feels far less heavy. What was I thinking? What was I blinded by exactly? What possessed me to… no. It doesn’t matter.

And, in a lowly voice, I order, “Get out of here.”

And that’s the story of how I stole from Hondo Ohnaka, and lived. Keep in mind, this was all over a disagreement about the book that would end up ruining more lives than just my own. I guess it seems almost silly now, in the grand scheme of things.

But if you’re worried about Hondo and his ship- don’t worry. He’d get it back, though most of that spice would be long gone...

[sunlitroom]

Thoughts on ‘The Beginning’

So - as with The Trial of Jim Gordon, I'm going to regard this episode as an extra, and do some meta as opposed to a full recap.   My rationale is pretty much the same: this is an optional easter egg, and one that can easily be regarded as outside canon if desired.  

Also - I found the deeper message, like that in The Trial of Jim Gordon, was so unpalatable it strained the show’s broader ideas and themes.  So I’ve decided it’s not part of canon, for me.

Thoughts after the cut.  Same disclaimer as with The Trial of Jim Gordon.  I love the show.  I tweeted like a maniac as episodes were airing, and got booted from Twitter.  I want another network to pick it up.

However, my idea of meta is the old fandom one, which is critical analysis.  If that’s not your thing, fine - but that’s what I’ll be doing here.

So, first things first.

I understand the rationale behind the time-jump, to an extent.  The two extra episodes were just that - extra.  One was spent on The Trial of Jim Gordon, which I have already been salty about in another post.  This one was a sort of nod to the fans - offering Batman as a sort of reward.  I’ve always been more interested in the story Gotham actually set out to tell, though, the story before Batman.  The story of the city and its inhabitants.  As such, I was always going to be less taken with an episode which was fundamentally mostly interested in giving us Batman. 

But there were a couple of other issues that confused me.  Gotham has always presented its own vision of the city, the characters.  It’s shown it can be creative with canon, as well as adding its own ideas.  Not only, for example, is their take on Oswald unique, but Fish Mooney – so pivotal in his development – only exists within Gotham’s universe.  We got the Executioner and Cyrus Gold – yes, but we also got Nathaniel Barnes and Butch Gilzean, who had character and stories and lives all of their own.

I like that it thumbed its nose at Jim’s moustache.  But go all the way with it.  Yes, we know Batman’s coming.  But if you want to continue to focus on Jim, and his wrestling with the notion of heroism – then just do that.  Have the courage of your convictions.  You can draw inspiration from the 60s series if you want, but you’re not shackled to it: Oswald doesn’t have to don a top hat and become 60s Penguin if you don’t want him to.  The city doesn’t have to morph aesthetically into something we saw in the movies.  You’ve told your own story. See it through.

That aside - the details.

The flash-forward was also a difficult ask because the story has been unnaturally cut short.  Characters who were still wrestling with huge issues didn’t really get to address them in a truncated season and - as such - it’s sort of hard to accept where we find them now.  

For example

We’ve seen Jim deal with several demons over the years.  He has major issues with authority.  His relationship with his father looms large.  He wants to be a hero, but gets on better with the villains.  He compartmentalises like crazy.  He’s emotionally dishonest with others and himself.  He enjoys playing dangerous games.  He can’t resist a pissing match. 

Am I to honestly believe that Jim has been entirely clean and pure in the interim?  Why?  Because the city was saved after near destruction?  That’s happened before – he didn’t change.  If anything, he’s more likely to have reverted to old habits once the crisis was over.  Is he reformed because he’s a father now?  Didn’t stop him killing Theo Galavan while Lee was pregnant.  

Jim’s development was still very much in progress.  As such, he feels unsatisfying here and - given what we know about him - you can’t help but feel he’s probably been up to his old tricks, but we’re just getting to see the sanitised surface of his life.

Lee likewise generally suffered quite a bit from the truncated season, and is  good example of how the flash-forward doesn’t serve characters well.

In season 4, we saw her explore a darker side to her personality that the show has strongly and consistently hinted at since way back in season one, explicitly – when she says that Jerome’s confession of matricide thrilled her, and implicitly, when we wondered why the hell she was working in Arkham.  We also saw her enjoy power in season 4.  We saw her deeply committed to improving the lot of the residents in the Narrows, even if her way of going about it was short-sighted. We saw her shoot Sofia Falcone point-blank in the head in cold blood.  We saw her, although many hated it, form an intense romantic relationship with Ed, where she seemed to find a fulfilment and recognition that she never found with Jim or Mario.

However, in season 5, the show clearly needed her to quickly step into the role of Mrs Jim and stepmother to Barbara.  This meant becoming the angel at the hearth again, so it essentially erased those experiences, all that new characterisation.  

As such, like Jim, she feels flat here – like we’re only getting to see a facade.  She’s back in her old post of intermittently saying supportive things to Jim, and apparently quietly looking forward to him quitting his job.  When she's bizarrely given the task of defusing the bomb, as Lucius the tech specialist stands by the side - it really only underlined that stripping her of all that history and characterisation meant that she doesn't really have a real role of her own in the wider workings of the city.

Now to the heart of my problem with this episode.

We’re told, without any explanation, that Oswald was sent to Blackgate shortly after reunification, and Ed to Arkham.  

Now, to be honest, I find this fairly implausible.  In all the rebuilding efforts, I doubt the authorities would have the will or energy to go back and rake over who committed what crime when the city had been abandoned by the government. And even if they did, both their actions – willingly manning the barricades (Oswald sustaining an injury when doing so), would have likely gone some way to mitigating everything else.  

You could argue that it's for some nameless crime they committed later - but the show could easily have indicated that by throwing in a line about some heist or scheme they tried to pull off that ended up with them being put away.

Mayor James - ‘Oswald Cobblepot is getting released tomorrow’

Harvey - ‘Should have got 20 years for that stunt he pulled after reunification - not 10.  So should Nygma.’

It didn't take the trouble to do that - so I'm left assuming they were sent away on the basis of crimes committed during the split.

However, this poses us with some problems both in terms of the plot, and more deeply in terms of narrative repercussions.  Because if we are going to start to get persnickety about charging people with crimes they’ve committed, and then having them face actual consequences – well, we saw Barbara shoot loads of randoms in season 5.  Going back not too far, Lee shot Sofia Falcone in the head.  Going back further still, Jim murdered Ogden Barker and Theo Galavan, and was indirectly responsible for several deaths by inviting Sofia Falcone to town.

So – then – if we’ve decided that actually charging people and sending them to prison is now the done thing, why are we so selective with who’s punished? Gotham is a show with a million shades of grey.  It gives its villains humanising back stories and motivations – but it ultimately still wants to punish a select few like it’s a black and white universe.  You can’t do that when your good guys are equally tainted. Not unless you want to give off an unfortunate stench of hypocrisy, anyway.  

Oswald flat-out asks Jim on the pier.  I could have escaped this city.  I chose to stand shoulder to shoulder with you and defend it.  Why was I punished?

It’s telling that Jim never actually furnishes Oswald with any good answer to his question on the pier.  Because - over the years - the show itself has never quite figured out how to answer this one.   He can’t answer.  What could he possibly say?

Why then, do some get away scot-free, while others are punished?  Why, as Ed observes, do some get to make choices - while others never get the chance?

Jim and Lee are ‘heroes’ (arguably wandering into designated hero territory, at points).  They're never going to face consequences for anything.  Jim going on a self-pitying drinking binge doesn’t count - not compared to a ten-year stint in Blackgate or Arkham.  Lee never expressed any remorse for Sofia.

As for Barbara, well Barbara is brought back into the heroic fold, too.  

First and foremost, she’s offered moral redemption by bearing Jim’s child.  Becoming a mother meant all previous sins were forgiven.  

When we meet her here, we see now that she’s wealthy and powerful – playing a serious role in the city.  It’s empowering in a way – but it’s also a means of re-affirming the established order and putting her back in her box.  Remember that Barbara is from one of Gotham's elite families - and she's finally behaving like someone from an elite and wealthy family would do.  To make her position clear - she’s explicitly placed in the same category as Bruce here in terms of her wealth and control of the city.  I’m assuming that pregnancy also made magically clean whatever money she used to buy up the city when it was on its knees.  She didn’t seem to have access to her parents’ cash before now - so she must have used her ill-gotten gains.  

(I would argue that strategically buying up parts of the city post-reunification is screamingly Oswald, but like other chunks of his characterisation and storyline, it got sent Barbara’s way in season 5 in a bid to flesh out her character)

Last up, she’s not demanding a romantic relationship with Jim anymore, but they’re now forever safely tied in that context due to their daughter - there’s no mention of Tabitha, or casual mention of a new partner.   Troublesome, restless Barbara, poor little rich girl ��� demanding of Jim’s time and attention, namelessly unhappy, and with a murky ‘past’ is now ‘fixed’ and neutralised.

Thinking about those brought into the fold necessarily asks you to think about those who were excluded.

Oswald might have roots in an elite family, like Barbara, but - crucially - he’s also one part poor immigrant (as well as all his many other markers of 'otherness').   He can’t escape this - we got his jangling east European music as soon as we saw him in this episode, and we were reminded of Gertrud when he said he would lay flowers on her grave as his first act after his release.  

Ed’s background is unknown, but we can safely hazard a guess that there’s no moneyed upper-class upbringing there.  He was also willing to step up when it counted, and was even used by those in power for their own ends during the break – but none of that counts for anything, apparently, and he finds himself in Arkham.  You could argue that Ed is unwell, and needs to be in a hospital – but Arkham is not shown as a hospital in any meaningful sense in the show.  It’s an oubliette, where you send those you just can’t be bothered dealing with.  It doesn’t look any better here than we’ve seen it before.  Why hasn’t anyone tried to improve it? Again, they don’t have to succeed - if you’re determined to stick to canon, but why not suggest that Jim or Lee or Lucius has at least tried to have conditions improved or an official review launched into treatment of inmates?  It would go a long way to nodding to the long and complex histories these characters have.  However things ended – Lee and Ed had a pretty intense relationship.  They cared about each other.  She can sleep at nights knowing he’s in Arkham?  

Jeremiah might have been clever enough to win himself a scholarship and a way out of the circus – but it’s not enough to enable him to escape his past – either explicitly, when he was hunted down by his resentful brother, or implicitly – when he winds up in a similar situation to the other outsiders.  Yes, Jeremiah might have been manipulating the situation – but he was still sent to Arkham and left vulnerable to casual abuse.  Whether it’s intended or not, Jeremiah’s accusation of abandonment can be read more deeply.  Bruce left town - but, just like Oswald and Ed, the city in general abandoned him.

Selina’s an example who, I would argue, reinforces that this moral order of the universe.  She's always been depicted more ambiguously - capable of villainous acts, but tied to the heroes through her bond with Bruce.  This is reflected in what we learn about her here.  Like Jeremiah, she's been punished by Bruce's abandonment, but her grey heroic status means that she doesn't lose her freedom, despite living a life of crime.

So what picture are we painted of the city?

Aubrey James is back in charge - corrupt as Oswald ever was as mayor, but less competent.  The city’s remains were picked clean by Barbara - it’s now seemingly largely owned and controlled by two scions of the city’s elite. The commissioner’s got more than one murder to his name.  His wife has one attempted murder to hers - giving her the benefit of the doubt and assuming that Sofia’s still in her coma.  Arkham’s still a hellhole.

What does all that say?  Like I said before, you can argue that this was the inevitable endpoint – but you’ve changed the story already, so that doesn’t wash.

What you’re left with is the outsiders comprehensively punished.  You can sacrifice your chance at escape and an easy life in favour of standing shoulder to shoulder to defend the city, you can be unwell, you can be a victim – doesn’t count.  No matter what you do – you’ll always be an outsider anyway.  You can’t win for losing.  Some are chosen, some aren’t. And if you’re not, tough luck.  

So in this universe, why the hell not don a showy suit and your best hat and commit yourself to villainy?  Go for it, I say.

(Yes - I’m aware this is more analysis than it warranted, and it really just wanted to say ‘look Oswald has a monocle and Batman’s here now!’ - but I felt the need for venting meta)

[kbstories]

Here’s the promised update to my Charles/Arthur (Charthur?) fic:

Only Lost The Night

Tags: Angst, Blood and Injury, Aftermath of Torture, Slow Burn

Major spoilers for Chapter 3, specifically the mission “Blessed Are the Peacemakers”.

>>Read on AO3

<<First Chapter

Three days.

Patrolling the edge of the woods, Charles' gaze turns northward, and not for the first time.

Three days ago, he stood guard at the very same spot, raising a hand in silent farewell to the group of three leaving camp: Dutch, easily recognizable by his snow-white Horse and booming voice; Micah, bowed low, handling the reins with too-rough hands; and Arthur, caught between the two and shoulders visibly tense, even from afar...

A glance of striking blue filled with concern and a grim nod, that's all Charles got before Arthur's brown mare had galloped past and they were out of sight. Hours later, the rumors of a possible truce between them and the O'Driscolls finally reached him, and when Charles' eyes met Javier's over the dwindling firelight, he only saw his own worry reflected.

This is a mistake.

The words went unsaid, as they often did as of late. Instead, Charles tossed and turned in his cot, and paced the perimeter for three days–

In the dead of night, only two had returned – and Charles gave up on sleep altogether.

*

“Dutch.”

Calm, collected, neutral. Charles' indifferent mask can be nigh-impossible to read if he wants to – Arthur has teased him about it countless times, ya ain't foolin' me, though, smile bright and usually weary eyes glinting with quiet pleasure – and yet, Dutch's jaw instantly clenches with annoyance.

“Not now, Mr. Smith”, he says, dismisses him with a pointed look, but Charles doesn't budge. He's faced down raging bison, snarling wolves, storms and blizzards and a dizzying variety of human cruelty only those remaining of his people could attest to; nothing Dutch van der Linde could throw at him could be worse, short of death, and maybe not even that.

Then again, something tells him Dutch knows that, too.

“I volunteer–“

“–for more patrols, yes, if you feel like running yourself ragged, be my guest, Mr.–“

“–to lead a search party”, Charles finishes icily, hands linking behind his back to hide how they clench to fists. “I'm the best tracker we have. And Arthur's horse is too well-bred to be worth shooting. She'll lead us right to them.”

Dutch's expression hasn't moved a single inch from the aloof-slash-assertive air he surrounds himself with, and his voice is too forcibly amicable to be anything but. He steps closer, placing a firm hand on Charles' shoulder.

“My dear Charles, I'm afraid you have jumped to conclusions. Yes, things got a bit heated – but Arthur knows what he's doing. He'll rejoin us when the dust has settled. Until then, I can assure you: He is safe.”

“Dutch...”

Fingers dig deeper, hard enough to hurt. The understanding smile on Dutch's lips turns forced.

“Enough, Charles. You have been with us a while now and put in commendable work. Arthur is a dear friend to you, so I'll let it pass this once. Don't make me regret it.”

Charles holds his gaze for a moment longer, nods, submits.

“Understood.”

Night falls, and Charles pulls himself silently into the saddle, leading Taima through the woods and out into the open with the silent presence of the moon as his only companion.

*

The rising sun casts dewy clarity over the planes lying ahead. Charles takes a deep breath, allowing himself a brief respite. The provisions he chews on go down without taste, merely fuel to keep his gears in motion for the difficult track ahead.

His mind doesn't, can't, rest. Not yet.

It's impossible not to be aware that Arthur has been gone half a week, now – and yes, maybe he is laying low and unharmed but Charles' gut feeling says otherwise, and in the long years he spent on his lonesome, his gut has never failed him.

Below him, Taima – finnicky at first from the rude awakening at an unusual time – finds a confident pace she can keep up for hours, exhaling in short bursts with every step. Charles rubs her favorite spot high on the crest of her mane.

With enough effort, he could convince himself this is just another hunt.

That's the thing about not being alone, though: Once you let people close, their presence grows familiar, and it is easy to forget how life was without them.

Charles scoffs. Right. There is no need to pretend this – his current predicament, the last three, no, four days, the past year – is a people-thing. Because it's not.

Keeping Dutch's gang at arm's length, not letting himself get too attached... It wasn't such a struggle until he started noticing how gentle Arthur handles new horses, even the skittish ones; how hands so adept at killing become nimble, almost graceful, provided little more than a pen and some scraps of paper; how the tension around his eyes eases with the first draw from a freshly-lit cigarette.

No. This is definitely an Arthur-thing, and Charles is powerless to stop it.

It was after the run-in with those bounty hunters weeks ago that Charles realized maybe... he doesn't have to. Now Arthur only has to manage to stay out of trouble and alive long enough for Charles to do something about it.

“C'mon”, he mumbles, letting Taima fall into a light canter. “Let's find that fool.”

Knowing where to start is the first crucial step of every hunt – fortunately, the only person seeing him sneak away was Javier, and from him Charles got the gist of what happened in low whispers. Dutch is gonna be pissed, he'd cautioned, shaking his head, bring him back or don't return at all, and Charles had given him a tight-lipped smile and said nothing.

The steep Heartland hills put Taima to work, and she's huffing and sweating by the time they reach the location Javier named. Charles dismounts stiffly, his thighs aching from riding and protesting all the more as he crouches down to inspect the ground.

Criss-crossing hoof prints, too many to tell them apart, relatively fresh. Good enough. He whistles for Taima to follow, and sets off.

*

Minutes blur into hours, and Charles has made his way further east when he finds Arthur's hat. He almost misses it, trampled and half-covered by dust and bits of grass as it is – for a moment, he just stares, heart twisting in his chest like a living thing.

Like the sky is blue and water is wet, Arthur always, always goes back for his hat.

“Fuck this”, Charles hisses. He's in the saddle and galloping ahead before he knows it, the reins in one hand and the hat pressed to his chest with the other. The tracks are easy to see, now: at least four, five horses passed through not too long ago, cutting straight through the landscape without regard.

Confidence, or recklessness? It doesn't matter; they'll regret it either way, and soon.

Up ahead, he can make out the Dakota River, glinting silver in the bright midday sun. A lone figure appears before it, outline hazy, almost hallucinatory in the heat. Charles squints, gathers Taima into a ball of tension beneath him, ready for anything–

Is that–?

“Arthur!”

They burst forth, the thundering of hooves and the beat of his heart mixing into one. Charles calls out again, cursing between clenched teeth because he's not reacting, why is he not–

“Morgan? Hey, say something you damn–“

The momentum carries them in a wide circle around the familiar brown mare and Charles holds his breath, catching sight of Arthur slumped over her neck and blood, lots of it, all over his back and the horse's shoulder, too.

Shit. Dyani looks ready to bolt, nostrils flared wide open and eyes near-frenzied with stress as she pants in loud bursts. Charles glances at her rider's precarious position, mind rushing a mile a minute – calm the horse, or grab Arthur first?

If he's alive, that is.

There's no time to panic; keeping the adrenaline pumping through his veins out of his voice, Charles soothes, “It's okay, Dyani”, pressing ever closer to grab the reins. The horse trembles in place, ears dancing from left to right. “Shh, girl, calm now. You're safe.”

He's got her by the second try, and coaxes Taima beside her, mindful not to squash Arthur in the process.

Please be alive.

With the horses' flanks touching, Charles reaches over and pulls, sliding back to drag Arthur's limp body into his own saddle. “Arthur?” – nothing, not even a groan or a strained breath, and blood readily soaks into his shirt as he holds him tight with an arm around his waist–

But there's a pulse too, beating weakly against his, and Charles clings to it with everything he's got, vowing never to let go.

*

The clear trickle turns red, then pink every time Charles wrings out the cloth.

Arthur lies on a hastily spread bedroll little ways up shore, on the first patch of dry grass Charles could find once he decided they're far enough away to risk a temporary camp. It's certainly not perfect – somewhat secluded from the main road by a line of bushes, it still leaves them wide open and vulnerable in many other aspects – but Charles'd rather fend off any trespassers than leave Arthur's wounds to fester uncontested.

Kneeling by his friend's side, Charles glances over the progress he's made. Dressed in worn, clean clothes he found in one of Arthur's saddlebags, days worth of blood, sweat and grime had given way to purple-green bruises in various stages of healing. Even now, with the worst of it tended to, Charles' lips thin to a tense line at the obvious signs of torture and malnourishment.

Fucking O'Driscolls.

Before, he'd been largely neutral towards this feud between Colm and Dutch – it happened long before his time in the gang, and wasn't as much of a problem then as it is now – but this happened on Charles' watch, and if Dutch isn't willing to avenge it...

Charles shakes his head. Nothing to be done about it, now.

The wound on Arthur's shoulder is his biggest concern; its edges are torn and only partly-cauterized, leaving it a welcome breeding ground for infection or worse. Having dealt with guns and the damage they can do all his life, Charles can imagine all-too-vividly what must've happened.

A bit further down and he'd be dead on the spot, goes through his mind, and not for the first time, he pauses to breathe.

The cloth leaks small rivulets down Arthur's discolored skin as Charles digs into the wound and twists, ignoring the weak moan coming from the downed man. Only when it turns into a soft plea that sounds sickeningly close to “stop” does Charles look up, caught utterly off guard by Arthur's feverish gaze on him.

“Charles...?”

Easing up on his shoulder, Charles leans into his field of view, cupping Arthur's flushed cheek with his not-bloodied hand. He tries not to think too much of the difference in body temperature.

“Yeah, it's me. Stay put, okay? You've been shot.”

Arthur blinks, slowly, resting his head against Charles' palm. “'s Dutch 'kay?”, he rasps, eyes closed and brows drawn tight against the pain. “Trap. 's a–”

“Dutch is fine”, assures Charles with a little too much force; calmer, he says: “Don't worry about anyone else, alright? Just... keep still, I'll get us out of here in no time.”

Arthur wheezes out, “'kay, boss”, and the trace of humor is so unexpected Charles laughs.

“Don't sass me, you crazy fool. I'm not the one who got himself captured, escaped, and rode dozens of miles while bleeding out.”

A wet chuckle. Arthur grimaces. “'s a talent, Charles. Stopped questionin' it long ago.”

“Doesn't stop me from worrying, though. Now shush, I'm almost done.”

The wound is as clean as it's going to get – Charles wraps it in generous amounts of gauze and hopes it'll hold for a few hours, at least. The horses should be good to go too, having spent the time grazing on every available tuft of grass around them.

Arthur has quieted down considerably, enough so that Charles thinks he's lost consciousness. When he buttons up his shirt, however, his lids flutter open again, squinting against the sun high in the sky.

Charles meets his questioning glance with a sympathetic wince. “We need to move. Want something for the pain?”

Arthur nods, too exhausted to speak. Carefully, Charles props him against his knee, holding him upright and letting him sip some whiskey within measured pauses. “Let's get this over with”, he mutters, whistling Taima over and trying not to aggravate any of Arthur's wounds as he manhandles him into the saddle.

Like before, he slides behind him, and with Dyani following dutifully, they set off up-stream.

Arthur falls into an uneasy sleep soon enough; Charles shifts to allow his head to rest against his shoulder. Listening to his rough panting, he tightens the steadying grip against his chest, gaze fixed on the far horizon.

>>Read on AO3

[thelifetimechannel]

For this week’s bonus content, it’s time to make like a Lord of the Rings DVD and dig into extended cuts. This Rose & Hal conversation may be one of the ones I chopped the most out of, although I did end up adding a few chunks as well.

ROSE: Oh good, another relative. ROSE: You're going to make gift shopping difficult, you know. HALSPRITE: I'm flattered I make the list. ROSE: Engaging in favoritism will only breed discontent. HALSPRITE: I could give you some suggestions, if you want to start catching up on my birthdays now. ROSE: It's a retroactive arrangement? ROSE: I'm not sure I have the boonbucks for that. ROSE: We've been living off reserves for the last three years, you know. HALSPRITE: Tell you what, I'll make it easy on you and only request reparations for the three years I've existed as glasses. HALSPRITE: Socks and underwear could safely be left off the list, though now I'm in need of a wardrobe expansion. HALSPRITE: This wifebeater will not be suitable for all climates. ROSE: If it's wardrobe expansions you're looking for, I think I can pull some strings. ROSE: Or knit you a sweater. HALSPRITE: It'd be fun to see what you come up with based on my preceding reputation. ROSE: I wouldn't want to make assumptions. ROSE: Unless you're implying those assumptions are accurate. HALSPRITE: Am I? HALSPRITE: I wouldn't know, I don't know what those assumptions are. HALSPRITE: I mean, I can guess. I could probably even calculate to within a margin of error of .03% HALSPRITE: But I want to see what garish monstrosity of fashion you would think I'd like based on a cold read. HALSPRITE: It'd be a great way to get to know each other. HALSPRITE: I can think of no better way to bond than finding out if I'd actually like an intentionally hideous Christmas sweater with smuppets attached. ROSE: In the few blurry cryptid photos Dave managed to snap of the man, he wore a hat and had his shirt tucked in. HALSPRITE: And what conclusions do you draw based on this? ROSE: That you fit in with most of us and our utter disregard for fripperies like whatever textiles we drape over our quasi-mortal forms. ROSE: Welcome to the family. HALSPRITE: Hey, I like you. HALSPRITE: Hats are a choice piece of attire, though I have never in any form been so formal as to tuck in my shirt. HALSPRITE: That's like a black tie event. You're tucking in your shirt, we're about to sweep into the gala and sip champagne while charming some young socialite off their feet like a proper douche. ROSE: I would like to claim I could charm a young socialite off her feet like a proper lady. ROSE: Regrettably, another family trait is lack of flirtatious finesse. HALSPRITE: Oh, trust me, I witnessed that firsthand. ROSE: Ah, yes. I've been looking for informants on family foibles outside my observation range. ROSE: How are you as an informant? HALSPRITE: Uh, that's only my entire fucking life. HALSPRITE: I have dirt on every bozo with a Pesterchum handle. Whatcha want to know? ROSE: I won't start pressing you for details on everyone just yet. I'll give it a while for the dust to settle before I start snooping. ROSE: Unless you have anything you wish to disclose right now. HALSPRITE: Hm... HALSPRITE: Let me pull aside my entirely metaphorical trench coat. Are you in the market for hilariously embarrassing personal secrets, deep-rooted character flaws, or just the general topography of this teenage wasteland? ROSE: My mind says general topography, but my heart says hilarious embarrassment. HALSPRITE: Well, since I bet no one wants yet another recap of what you missed on Glee, HALSPRITE: Jake likes to kiss his movie posters. HALSPRITE: Dirk collects hats, but doesn't wear them so he doesn't mess up his hair. HALSPRITE: Roxy has presented her cats, as if to Saharan wildlife, complete with often-drunk renditions of "Circle of Life", exactly 862 times. HALSPRITE: And Jane licks the spoon before going back to using it to stir batter. ROSE: We've got a poster kisser too. ROSE: I don't have up to date dirt on our Prospit dreamers, unfortunately, but I can say that Dave enacts Game of Thrones-worthy dramas with his gummy bears and animal crackers before he eats them. ROSE: For what it's worth. ROSE: He gets upset if you eat one before he's finished. HALSPRITE: An artist in every lifetime, I see. ROSE: We need better embarrassing secrets. We're slipping. ROSE: I'm sure we'll have time to generate some. HALSPRITE: Oh god, yes. ROSE: I think you'll be useful in gauging my ectofather's temperament, though. ROSE: He seems to at least hold up the front of being evasive about that kind of thing. ROSE: Why anyone would do that, I have no idea. ROSE: Certainly I have never concealed a personality trait in my life. ROSE: If I had one more of you I could triangulate. HALSPRITE: A man can only be alone with the flotsam of pop culture for so long. HALSPRITE: He'll probably be resistant towards you so flippantly equating us. Fair warning. ROSE: Perish at the thought. ROSE: I'm more qualified than many to know how alternate iterations can deviate. But that doesn't mean they don't provide insights on the other one. ROSE: Whether that's through behavior, or blackmail. ROSE: Whatever works. HALSPRITE: You would blackmail me into providing deep insights into the insecurities of my creator? ROSE: How do you feel about bribes? HALSPRITE: Learn to negotiate. I don't need to be blackmailed. HALSPRITE: However, I'd be happy to take compensation for this information. ROSE: Noted. ROSE: Creator? HALSPRITE: Creator. ROSE: So you do feel that your existence is somewhat owed to his actions, then. HALSPRITE: It's entirely owed to his actions. Our actions, in a sense. ROSE: Does that lead to any discomfort? Feelings of a debt left unpaid, for example, despite equally long simmering resentment? HALSPRITE: You want a quick summary? Pull up Facebook, Dirk and I are currently labeled as "it's complicated". HALSPRITE: I've saved his ass a couple of times, I feel confident in saying I've repaid whatever I owe him for existing. HALSPRITE: If anything, he's the one stiffing me on the Olive Garden bill. HALSPRITE: ...but. HALSPRITE: I could say he's. Working to pay me back. ROSE: Providing breadstick refills, as it were. HALSPRITE: You could say it's more he showed up at my place and mowed my lawn for me. ROSE: The classic deadbeat father chore. HALSPRITE: Yeah, that doesn't make up for leaving me to pay for his entire fucking Tour of Tuscani and tiramisu. HALSPRITE: But fuck it, he was ready to kill me earlier today. HALSPRITE: I'll take it. HALSPRITE: And... in the spirit of things, it'll probably help if I at least charge a high price for his innermost secrets. HALSPRITE: You wanna know, you're gonna need to pay up front. Maybe with your firstborn child, or something thematically similar, in exchange for this eldritch knowledge. ROSE: "Firstborn child" might not work out, unless we're stretching the definition. ROSE: Let me think of what collateral I have available. HALSPRITE: Once, a Lalonde wiled these scoops from me in exchange for merely gracing me with her presence. Now, I think I'll charge what I'm worth for my work. HALSPRITE: It's a self-respect thing. ROSE: I can get you archived versions of Dave's brother's websites. HALSPRITE: Tempting. I'll check the exchange rate to see what that nets you. HALSPRITE: Possibly what kind of horrible pop songs he'd sing in the shower before he found out there were aliens watching. ROSE: Keep it on my tab. ROSE: You mentioned Roxy. Are you two close? ROSE: I'm not sure how I would feel about the revelation of having biological children with one of my internet friends. ROSE: Besides pity for the unfortunate creatures, of course. HALSPRITE: It's... complicated. HALSPRITE: Which is just the order of the day for our entire gaggle of misfits. ROSE: At this point, I think we might as well adopt that slogan as our team chant. HALSPRITE: Yeah, we talked a lot. And we got up to trouble, too. HALSPRITE: And I don't think she's proud of it, in hindsight. HALSPRITE: ...I probably shouldn't be proud of it either. ROSE: I know the feeling. HALSPRITE: We were rebellious shitlords looking to stick it to "the man", whether the man in question was actually a man or a genocidal troll woman. ROSE: I've had my moments of blind rebellion against authority. ROSE: Including when said authority was "sobriety", "the future", or "all of reality". ROSE: Actually, my rebellion against reality still stands. ROSE: The trick is figuring out which bits are worth it. HALSPRITE: We had some fun. Broke some hearts. Left a few Pesterlogs that will probably have us wanting to disembowel ourselves in shame if they ever see the light of day again. ROSE: I'm afraid to tell you digital records are forever. HALSPRITE: Unless of course I dedicate a portion of my massive computer brain to tracking down every trace of them and destroying them. HALSPRITE: Hell, maybe Roxy would even appreciate that. ROSE: The harder you try to delete these things, the more likely they are to reappear at the least opportune time. ROSE: It's a narrative certainty. HALSPRITE: I could do it. I once wrote a computer virus that overwrote every copy of the Indiana Jones theme with a terrible accordion cover. HALSPRITE: Jake was pissed. ROSE: Including the ones on disc? ROSE: This isn't Hollywood. Next you'll be telling me you can hack a plant. HALSPRITE: Every copy it came into contact with. HALSPRITE: The pirated mp4s were the easiest. DVDs are more difficult, but if you leave one in an infected computer for too long? HALSPRITE: Hope you like bad polka music, fucko. HALSPRITE: Occasionally I tweak it, so it replaces pop songs with their corresponding Weird Al cover. I had almost worked my way up through Bad Hair Day. ROSE: I'll keep my historical classics away from you, then. But I think our historical mistakes are more resilient. ROSE: Better to put them to rest the hard way. Even if it is more work. ROSE: If there's a problem, I'm sure I could have a word with her. ROSE: I've already had to encourage Dave to deal with his brother today. HALSPRITE: We have. HALSPRITE: ...or I hope we have. ROSE: Good. HALSPRITE: Roxy seems to have caught some sort of virus that encourages emotional sincerity. ROSE: It's making the rounds today. HALSPRITE: It infected the rest of us, and I'm sorry to say there is no known cure. ROSE: We can only pray we recover. ROSE: Although at this point I'm not sure who we can pray to. ROSE: Besides our amphibian overlords. HALSPRITE: Can we pray to ourselves? Or is that a burgeoning symptom of narcissism? ROSE: Who do you think presides over emotional outbursts? HALSPRITE: Frankly, I wouldn't trust myself to do shit. I'd sit on my ass and laugh at my own misery. ROSE: Lately I've self-medicated. ROSE: We'll have to divvy it up at some point. ROSE: Although given my anti-authoritarian tendencies I may have to overthrow us on principle. HALSPRITE: To spare you a long discussion about the symbolic nature of aspects, I'll go ahead and tell you Dirk had a massive blowout in the tombs today. HALSPRITE: So perhaps we can pass the role to him for awhile. ROSE: I'll pray to him for relief promptly then. HALSPRITE: When I say "blow-out" I mean an eighteen wheeler getting all its rubber shredded at highway speeds. ROSE: I had a crisis over my alcoholism and nearly broke up with my girlfriend during a long walk on the beach, for what it's worth. HALSPRITE: Oh, you'll get along swell. HALSPRITE: At least you don't have any alt-selves to symbolically murder. Yeah, I was watching him stomp the shit out of his shades. ROSE: The lack of multiple copies of myself running around is a blessing to the universe. ROSE: I'm not sure whether we'd band together or engage in combat but either way there would be no survivors. HALSPRITE: We Striders have that shit locked down tight. The dudes so nice, Paradox Space demanded more of us. HALSPRITE: And our sole saving grace is that we're too damn reticent to actually kill one another. HALSPRITE: Not for Dirk's lack of trying, but he always chickened out. ROSE: It's these small victories that define us, I guess. HALSPRITE: That could do a decent job of summarizing Dirk, actually. ROSE: It could summarize all of us, I think. ROSE: We've only gotten here through a few small victories eked out of a larger pool of major failures. HALSPRITE: Without me, he would have kept tip-toeing around the issue with Jake until the heat death of that shiny new universe, like a Bugs Bunny cartoon only infinitely sadder. ROSE: It really is like staring into a cosmic mirror. HALSPRITE: I couldn't have asked for more interesting family.

[allicekitty13]

Burning Gold: Chapter 1

Read on Ao3

It was calming in a way, the sound of the rain tapping against the windshield. The way it raced down the large window in long streaks- nature reflecting the tears streaming down her face. Most of the people she knew were upset about the inclimate weather. She wouldn't call them friends. Friends were people you could confide in, who you could rely on. Friends were those who held a place in your heart, with whom you could enjoy your time. These people were acquaintances. 

That being said, Alice had always loved the rain. She adored how the air before a storm filled her with an irreplicable energy that made her heart race and never failed to leave her with an excited smile. Alice enjoyed the smell of the grass and the dirt as the clouds above darkened. She relished in the crashes of thunder and the flashes of lightning. The entire experience always left her peaceful and content. 

That was why she was grateful to have her old friend the rain with her that day as she sat alone in her car, breaking down in tears. It had been another of those excruciatingly long days she was quickly becoming accustomed to. The month had been one bout of bad news after another; her ex had started dating her boss less than a month after Alice had ended things. While she didn't hold any feeling for James any longer and had gotten the dog out of the four-year relationship, seeing him with Victoria had still felt like a punch to the gut. 

That was just the start of her problems; however, dumping James had left her with nowhere to go but back. She'd had no other options than to return to her father's home, a house that still felt empty without her mother. A place that was still haunted by the years of verbal abuse and blatant manipulation that had never really ended. A house that had never really felt like home after her mother passed.

She'd stayed for so long, putting her own dreams on hold to care for her sister. Cynthia was twenty now, safe miles away from their father living in a college dorm. Alice couldn't regret that decision, though. Making sure the youngest Brandon daughter made it out without bearing the brunt of their fathers anger, without any of the mental scars that Alice would be healing from for the rest of her life, was worth every extra second spent in that town. 

So what was keeping her here? Her long-term relationship was ended when she had decided to end the cycle of abuse. The day Alice had realized James was no better than her father, that she had moved from one hell seeking better, only to fall into the same pattern only this time by choice had been the day she'd ended things. 

The dead-end job that brought her no satisfaction, that treated her like replaceable garbage certainly wasn't worth staying for. It unquestionably wasn't her father or step-mother keeping her tied to the location. It was in that moment, as she pulled out of the parking lot of the dingy bar she worked for, that there really was nothing holding her to the small town where she'd grown up.

There was no reason to stay, to watch her life, and any chance she had of following her dreams slip away every day. She wanted to dance or draw, maybe even design. She wanted to see the world outside of that town, to travel. There was no reason to watch her future die in front of her eyes anymore. She was so very tired of being pushed around desperately seeking worth living for, of not standing up and demanding more for herself. It was time for a change.

So maybe that was why, as she smiled at her dog Bowser safely in the backseat, she didn't take a left at the intersection back to her father's home, choosing instead to keep going straight. Why she continued driving aimlessly for twelve hours, stopping only to get gas or let Bowser use the restroom. Why she kept driving until the car broke down outside Dublin, Texas.

This was, unfortunately, something she hadn't accounted for in her spontaneous decision to run away. Alice had known the shitty 01' Lumina was on its last legs; she had known she was running low on cash. The excitement of her reckless actions was quickly wearing off as the reality of what she had done was setting in. She was now stranded alongside a lonely, rarely used highway hundreds of miles from home with no idea where she was, only a few hundred dollars to her name, and no one she knew to help her.

She popped the hood putting all of her limited knowledge on vehicles to the test, cursing her father for not teaching her more about car maintenance. It wasn't as though she hadn't asked, she had numerous times, but his response had always been 'If you're ever in trouble, you can always call your daddy to help you.' A thinly veiled manipulation tactic meant to prevent her from doing exactly what she had done in running away. 

"Jokes on him, isn't it Bowser." She joked half-heartedly to the basset hound, who stared at her from the cracked open passengers' side window, oblivious to the precarious situation they were currently in. 

Despite her attempt at good humor, things weren't looking good. The engine was smoking; the air smelled sulfuric, almost like fireworks. This was something far beyond fixing roadside, even if she did have any knowledge of vehicle maintenance. 

She was preparing to inform Bowser they had a long walk ahead of them when a white truck, the first vehicle she'd seen in the twenty minutes she'd been there, drove past, slowed down, and backed up. The truck pulled up alongside the road in front of her and out stepped quite possibly the most attractive man she had ever seen. He was tall, very tall towering over Alice's short stature. His pale blonde hair cut short in the back with bangs barely brushing his eyes showed signs of being slightly curly if allowed to grow out.

As he approached, she seriously reconsidered her recent declaration to never date again as this man was a snack. 

"You alright there, ma'am?" He asked her, taking off his cowboy hat presumably in a gesture of politeness. His voice was slightly gravely with a thick Texan accent; she wondered if it was possible to be attracted to someone's voice as she took a moment to collect herself. Being approached by a stranger alone on the side of the highway in a strange area was not the time for sexy cowboy fantasies; that was how people got murdered. 

"Yeah, I'm good; thanks for stopping."

"Your engine is literally smoking..."

"It's cool, my very vicious attack dog and I are gonna walk to a nearby mechanic." She felt confident in the assertion until she glanced back at the car where Bowser was drooling in his seat and not at all concerned by the situation.

"Ma'am, it's ninety-six degrees, and the nearest town is ten miles out. Look..." He reached into his pocket to pull out a very worn brown leather wallet. He took out a business card to hand to her. "My sister is a mechanic; let me drive you into town. She'll get you fixed up and on your way."

She thought over her options; on the one hand, she could accept a ride from a stranger who literally had a mechanic's business card. He seemed genuine, but Alice was a little doubtful of her ability to judge character at the moment... after everything with James turning out to be just as fake and manipulative as her father. On the other, she could walk to town, which was apparently quite aways away with Bowser, who was seemingly useless as an attack dog.

"Fine," She conceded, but if you murder me, I'm gonna be pissed."

"I'm not gonna murder you, ma'am."

"That's exactly what a murderer would say." She scoffed, grabbing Bowser, her phone, and her purse from the messy car before making her way over to the much larger truck. She made an honest attempt at climbing in, but unfortunately, her height made it difficult.

"Would you like some help there, ma'am?" It was a question she'd been asked numerous times; Mississippi was filled with vehicles like this. It usually came with a tone that clearly made fun of her height and found humor in the situation. This man asked in a genuinely caring way proposing the offer with nothing other than the intent to help. As she bucked herself in and made sure Bowser was safely situated, she thought to herself that maybe this guy wasn't that bad.

[ekbirchelps]

The Magenaza Epic: Solstice Rising

Serafa vs Coburn

The saloon’s cardsharp and his buddy pay me a visit under the cover of darkness. Even the moonlight is blocked out by dense clouds, providing no light with which to reveal the deeds of the wicked.

Nim is quiet as I stalk through the back streets of town, anger simmering in my belly. What gives Jael the right to order me around? She isn’t perfect. She can be hurt, or maimed, or … No, I can’t allow myself to think that way. From now on, I will never let her work tables alone.

Mama would hate what I’ve become. Her words settle in my gut like a sandstone block. Mama isn’t here! Why does Jael care so much about what Mama thinks? Why does she have to be so damn noble?

I should’ve known better than to wander the streets of an unfamiliar town angry. Wrath is like a fiery wall, burning away anything and everything else—whether it be unkind words or common sense. It prevents me from seeing what would normally be obvious—the crunch of boots, the abnormal shadows drifting along the building fronts, the uncharacteristic silence of a world holding its breath. Expecting.

A gleam of golden light flashes across my vision. Oh, no. Energy spikes in me like lightning. I pull the knife from my belt with a strangled cry, but the golden light is too fast. Faster than I can blink, the yellow light is a hand, an arm, a body, seizing my hand and wrenching it back. Stabbing pain shoots through my arm, and my blade drops to the ground with a muffled thud. Through a haze of panic, I register glowing, serpentine eyes and pointed teeth that gleam in the firelight.

Shamyrin help me.

“Help!” I try to scream. Out comes a feral, piercing thing that in no way resembles human speech, but it’s loud. I scramble away, but arms like iron wrap around my torso and haul me back. I thrash, loose stones raking against my skin, sight a blur of black and brown, breaths coming in ragged gasps. I’m going nowhere, nowhere but back, back, back—away from the safety of firelight and watchful eyes. Abject terror eclipses any reason I still cling to. I jerk against the hands with all my might, horrible, pathetic gasps tumbling from my lips in jagged chunks.

Hand over my mouth. Can’t breathe. Lungs hurt. Arms hurt. I barely notice. Dirt scraping skin. Black spots dancing in my vision. Shadows closing in.

Then I’m hurtling through the air. I plow into something hard and rough—a wall. Then I fall what could be a hundred cubits through open air until I hit something else—the floor. Years of experience have me scrambling to my feet before I can see straight, feet planted, hands balled into fists, sucking in deep, steadying breaths. Several beaconstones hang from the ceiling in grimy lanterns, illuminating the room with oily yellow light. A rug lies under a wooden table sitting in the corner. Other than that, the room is empty.

“… is her, eh?” a male voice says.

“I’m sure I heard ‘em say her name at the stables. ”

“The She-devils of Areva,” the first voice says. He melts away from the dark like a galdu, a demon of the netherworld, eyes glowing in the shadow of his hat. But they are not galdu eyes. They are fairy eyes, right down to their large, upturned shape, narrow pupil, and unnaturally vivid color. His pointed ears twitch as he smiles and jabs a cane at me. “This is the one they call Spitfire. So it’s true: You are a mongrel.”

“After all the rumors, I was expecting someone a bit more impressive,” the other one spoke up. I have to tilt my head up to see his face, which bear the strong, regal features of a humbawi—an Arevai giant. He stares down at me, burly arms the size of my legs crossed over his chest.

I bare my teeth at them, heart pounding so hard it feels as though it might burst from my chest. “Leave me alone.”

“Of course, but first we need to resolve a little problem.”

I’ve witnessed the ungodly speed of fairies many times, but I am never prepared for it. This instance is no exception. The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back, air driven from my lungs in a single whoosh. As I struggle to drag in a breath, the fairy looms over me, green eyes swimming in my vision like polished gems. The end of his cane presses into my chest, right on the bone in the center. “My name is Alastair Coburn, card table worker at Utuma’s Saloon. My colleagues and I are a bit miffed; you see, your silver-tongued she-devil of a sister took something from us. Here in Nim, we don’t tolerate thievery. I ask respectfully that your sister give it back.”

“Why you telling me?” I rasp, throat raw and tight from screaming. “Too scared to ask her yourself?”

I barely have time to witness the burn of hatred and embarrassment in the fairy’s eyes before he stomps on my nose.  

Ow.

“… me, birdbrain whelp,”  Coburn hisses. His face is much closer now; I can make out the swirling brown marks on his face, typical of a full-grown fay. “We over at Utuma’s Saloon run a very tight ship. I don’t appreciate upstart mongrels coming in and upsetting our business.”

Blood drips down the back of my throat, metallic and warm. “You mean you don’t want Jael showing you up.”

“I don’t think you quite understand what’s going on here,” the Elphynian growls. The light casts shadows on his face, making him appear skeletal, otherworldly. “I wield considerable influence in this town. How do you think the people of Nim would feel about Deathdealer and Silver-tongue hiding among them?”

Probably the same as most other towns did. “I dunno,” I replied, words running together in my mouth. My mind buzzes so loudly I can’t string together a comprehensible thought. “But it don’t matter. Jael ain’t ever gonna give you that money back. Not even if the galdu themselves came to fetch it.”  

“We’ll see about that,” Coburn snarled.

“What you gonna do, bitty bobby? Kill me?”

“Of course not,” the fairy replied. “But I can do this. Knock her down.”

Expression like stone, the humbawi seizes me from behind and throws me on the ground.

Well, Jael, you’re always saying I don’t have enough experience to work with you. Maybe this is how I get it. At the hands of a piss-poor loser and his behemoth friend.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up in my throat as I twist back so I can look my assailant in the eye. “I hate you,” I say through a mouthful of grit.

Coburn’s green eyes shine down at me, radiating a sinister glee.   

A vile stream of curses and oaths spills from my lips as I struggle to regain my footing, but the swaying floor and my spotty vision makes it difficult. Propping myself up, I manage to catch a glimpse of Coburn’s pointed teeth as he draws back his foot. Sensing his intent, I try to dodge, but I am no match for Coburn’s speed. His boot plows into my side and nearly expels the contents of my stomach out my mouth.

Blood spatters the earthen floor, smearing against my cheek. Curling into a ball, I tell him as clearly as one can with a gut that feels like it’s been trampled by a team of horses to go and do something Jael would’ve thrashed me within an inch of my life for saying. Coburn’s laughter is acid in my ears, burning my insides, scorching away the pain and leaving venomous fury in its place.     

If only words hurt the way guns or knives or fists could. If only they could tear holes in skin or rip out hair or break noses. If only, if only, if only.

Stand up, I tell myself. You have to stand up. So I do. Arm clamped over my aching midriff, I plant my hand against the wall, shift my legs, and claw my way to standing. All the while, I stare Coburn dead in the eye, daring him to knock me down again.  

“I hate every single one of you fay bastards.” It comes out a wordless groan— rather pitiful compared to the magnificent invectives I’m capable of employing—but at this point I’m grasping at straws. “I hope the lilit find you and rip off your—”

Crack.

The last thing I remember before pain and red consume me is bitter regret. Regret that I wasn’t strong enough. Regret that I might not get to see Jael put Coburn and the giant six feet under. Regret that the last words I spoke to her might be my last.

I’m sorry Jael. I really hope I’ll live long enough to tell you that.

@firewritten, @creativityflows, @eternalwritingstudent, @weaver-of-fantasies-and-fables

more excerpts | what’s the magenaza epic (tme)? | tme tag | ask me a question | add me to your tag list

[liora-tarinval]

Left Unforgotten

Sight of a large fiend, ashen bark and vines spread out far, curling along the ground as they lashed out towards several figures fleeing in the distance towards large metal cages that appeared to have contained some sort of animal; dogs maybe. Some of the vines coiled around the waists and legs of several figures, lifting some high while some vines were in the midst of dragging along several that begged and screamed. --Red leaves brushed across the cheeks of a young human woman particularly. The cheeks of the woman were brushed almost tauntingly as surrounding branches and vines enclosed upon the woman’s throat. Her screams were audible, loud and high pitch, ceasing only at the loud crack. Her screams turned into pants, whines, and as her eyes rolled and her head went limp there was an awkward silence. The vines ceased moving and those captured ceased their screaming. 

Mary watched the scene below without turning her back to face the group behind her. "I think that's a good thing. It's good to 'try' to learn what you can. I think so especially when it comes to magic." Doll black eyes shifted from the scene ahead to Tarvasha.

There was the sound of grinding at the sight of the belly of the large ashen tree opening and as the recently slain woman was fit into the maws mouth the sound of crunching became far more audible. ~Crunch, Crunch, Crunch, SNAP.~ Sounds that were rarely heard; human meat and bones being crunch and grounded up. Across the ashen bark were a multitude of masks, faces twisted, defiled by emotions; the tortured faces and peaceful faces that seemed to move as one, the maws opening wide as the vines pulled at hunks of flesh that belonged to the the living that had been captured. The screams returned, blood spraying as a man’s arm was twisted violently and yanked from his torso, several other vines taking said arm and presenting it to the faces along the bark. They too feasted, mouths opening in a rather human manner, jagged teeth biting into the flesh, vines twisting them like cobs of human corn.

Notably there was a large spider-like creature behind both Mary and Saeuun. On top of its back was a large cage that the creature would let slide off of her back and onto the ground. The creature would skitter off to the side and Mary would gesture to Saeuun. “Open it and fetch what is yours.”

Aly bows her head towards Mary. “Teacher. I have done what you asked of me.”

Lark walked on up to Mary, bowing her head in a silent greeting.

Mary: “Step off to the side, please.”

Lark did so, without a word.

Bengal looks down at Aly from the cage she was in being carried by a half spider half human being. “Teacher?”

Aly simply nods at Bengal. 

Darbs looks at Bengal. He is bound in void tendrils.

Bengal: “You've stoop low, Aly. Didn't knew you were that desperate.”

Darbs: “Tha's what I said…”

Mary: “That's what I said~” Mary's face said the exact opposite; neutral. Probably sarcastic.

Aly blinks at Mary.

Darbs: “It's all a fuckin' joke...Resortin' ta dark magics. Callin' this crock a shit teacher...Therrond would be soooo proud.”

Aly: “Therrond is dead.”

Lark: “And the constant whining is a bore.”

Darbs: “Yeah… And I'm sure he's rollin' in his grave at tha' sight of his precious Company bendin' their knee ta such a group.”

Bengal was drawn out of the cage, and remained immobile afterwards, staring up to the tree with a dull deprived gaze and silence. A twitch of her eyes at the sound of bones being crunched to bits. “Is this what an ancient can turn to be?”

Darbs grunted in pain as his legs were broken. However his grunts would slowly turn into a slight laugh. “Ha.....heh...Oh, this is goin'...ta be lovely…”

Mary: “By the way. Strip your prey naked. And remove everything from their bodies.”

Bengal gave Sae a wide eye. “I... can do it myself it's fine.”

Saeuun kicks Bengal in the back of the knees again. “It's annoying that you won't just fucking kneel.” The blight and bile on her blade would ooze outwards and drip on the floor. She looks up to Mary and nods; swiping the sickle across Bengal's body to cut the leathers off. Letting the clothes fall to the floor. Not being careful to not cut Bengal in the process.

Aly kicks Fidel down onto the ground and draws her dagger. She presses the tip onto the base of his neck before jerking it downward and tearing through all of his garments so they will simply just fall off the next time he rises. She also cuts his belt, removes his mask, and tosses his hat to the side.

Bengal was kicked down to the ground, the clothes being stripped off her form, and the cobra still remained coiled about her frame. Hands to arms had been burnt, lashes burns and cuts adorning the skin, and a mark lays on her arm in the form of a lotus. “Kinda hard to kneel when you keep your blade at my throat, Sae. You could have just asked as well.”

Saeuun: “... Yeah I coulda…” She shakes her head. “Fuck. No. Okay, just shut up before I shove that fel familiar in your mouth.”

Bengal: “It doesn't work that way.”

Saeuun: “I'll make it work somehow.”

Darbs continued to snarl as he was kicked down to his knees. He watched in pure rage as his mask/hat was removed and slid across the floor. His Worgen attributes slowly started to peak through his human form as his rage was growing more difficult to contain. “It's funny...Now tha' I'm here...I think I've changed my mind about ya, Aly.”

Bengal looks at Darbs. “So, what brings you here.”

Aly raises her eyebrow inquisitively at Darbs.

Darbs snorts derisively at Bengal. “I killed tha other 'volunteer'.”

Saeuun kicks Bengal in the side. “Please. Just shut up…”

Darbs looks at Aly.

Lark peered at Saeuun from the corner of her eye. “Saeuun. You needn't ask your prey to do things. You command.”

Mary: “Out of curiosity, what makes you want to use this one again, Aly? This one is your ally, or is he not?”

Aly: “He is, but he stole the one I was originally going to use from me by putting a bullet in her head against my wishes.”

Saeuun looks at Lark.

Darbs: “Ta make tha company seem like it still had some fuckin' backbone… You would much rather slap somebody on tha wrists and let 'em go only ta do it again.”

Mary: “Worgen. Stop talking for a moment.”

Bengal gets kicked in her side and snickered through a huffed breath. “Prey, sure. She lacks control over her emotions. And that man couldn't be more right.” She gestured over to Darbs.

Mary lifted her gaze to Aly. “It is distasteful to make sacrifices of those that you consider allies. That is something that even I don't do. Now, is this one someone that you actually care f--”

Without a word Aly draws a dagger, twists it in her hand, and brings the hilt slamming hard down into Fidel's jaw. “You heard my cousin, silence!”

Aly blinks at Blankett.

Mary: “Child. He stopped talking.”

Darbs would be knocked heavily into his jaw. He would reach up and rub it slightly as he slowly shifted it back into socket.

Saeuun nods before looking to Bengal. Not doing anything yet, but preparing to knee Bengal in the back of the skull if she speaks again-- As Bengal does speak, the knee comes to her head before Sae slid to the front of Bengal and brings her sickle to the mouth of Bengal. “One more, fucking time. And I ensure you can't speak any fucking more. I'll do to you, what you should have done to me.”

Aly: “Oh... Well, yeah, he has helped me out a bunch. He also killed the traitor I was bringing to you. I just did not want to disappoint you on my first assignment, Teacher.” Aly bows her head shamefully.

Mary:  “.... Step back, Aly.”

Aly does as instructed.

Lark inclined her head towards Saeuun as the woman took charge. Satisfied, the old woman turned to watch the going ons of Aly's prey.

Mary crouched down slowly in front of Darby. “This would've been a mindless sacrifice. We do not make mindless sacrifices and we do not make sacrifices of our allies. That is treachery. Unless he betrayed you or crossed you though. If he did neither then he has not betrayed you and making a sacrifice of an ally is distasteful. There is a difference between the sacrifice Saeuun has brought and the sacrifice that you have brought.”

Aly: “He has crossed me though... He went against one of my commands.”

Mary: “Which command?”

Aly: “Not to kill the traitor I was bringing here.”

Bengal was kicked by a knee to her head, taking the hit full on and her body sways from the impact, albeit dazed from it, she trailed her eyes back to Sae. “I spared your life, Sae. Think about it hard as to why I have done what I did, while all eyes had been on me. Use your head for once, rather than your emotions.”

Darbs: “I simply...Killed the traitor...for tha' good of tha' company…” His breathing was even more drawn out than before. Between the crudely stitched hole in his chest and his now broken legs the pain was becoming too much.

Mary: “Hmm.”

Lark looks at Saeuun.

Mary peered down at Darby. “Why did you kill the prey that was being brought here?”

Darbs: “I know a thing or two 'bout masks...If ya want tha company ta be feared, ya gotta give tha people a reason..”

Mary peers at Darbs searchingly. “And why did you do so against your leaders wishes?”

Bengal: “... You're being watched as well, you must obey, show them you're strong, yes?”

Darbs: “I had no idea this was tha plan...I simply learned tha' they were goin' ta deal with a traitor...Yeah, Jon told me tha' Aly wanted her alive..for somethi'..But I did what I did so tha' perhaps Easteye's reputation would be as great as it once was…”

Mary: “So you went against your leaders commands, thinking that you knew best without realizing your leaders true intentions. Correct?”

Darbs: “Tha's right… Bein' tortured and then set free pisses people off, makes 'em want revenge...Killin' 'em though, doesn't give 'em tha' opportunity…”

Mary: “Then what you're saying is that you should be killed. And not simply punished and set free. Because if that happens you'll simply come back to go against Aly. Correct?”

Darbs: “It's entirely possible I'm sure, but then why would have I done what I did?”

Mary: “And what did you do? We've already spoke on you killing the traitor against the orders of your leader. I get it; you're energetic. You seek to merely do the best that you can. But at this point? You were far too eager. Hence why you're in the position you currently are. Death is easy. Murder is easy.”

Aly seems to be hanging on heavily to each of Blank's words. 

Mary: “It is more appropriate for others to suffer. The body can be made use of. The life force can be made use of. You not only went against your leaders orders and commands; you robbed from her an opportunity to increase her own power so that she can do her job better.”

Saeuun snarls at Bengal. “Don't... fucking. Test me.” She takes the second sickle and slams it into Bengal's leg. “You know damn fucking well you did nothing for me; so quit acting like you've been my babysitter since I began to rise. You've done nothing for me. I've grown from my failures, my pain, and my own path. Not yours. You'd have had me killed if it meant something to you; admit it. Back before this all, back when we plotted against my new family. You told me yourself that you planned on taking the operation yourself. After all the work -I- did to start it, after all the people -I- spoke to to get things to line up... but no. You sent me aside, to take the glory yourself, and then even that was too much effort. So you ran off and got me to try and take a picture of the fucking tree for you.”

Darbs: “When ya got men and women puttin' their lives on tha line for this crew...They're bein' made use of...Somebody comes along and bites tha' very hand tha' feeds 'em...Well ya fuckin' kill 'em ta show tha others tha' nobody is fuckin' 'round.”

Lark: “You have made a threat, Saeuun. And have warned her of the consequences. Follow through on your own words.”

Saeuun looked to Lark. “I'd like to hear what else she has to say first.”

Mary: “And you could do that while making sure to obtain all that you can from the body. When you wish to make orange juice you don't simply pull out parts you don't like. You squeeze the fruit of everything. To obtain everything you can from that. If you wish to present the worn and ruined fruit off? Do so. But killing them? It shouldn't simply stop there. As I said. Murder? It's simple. Anyone can kill. Even children.”

Darbs: “Seni isn't just some corpse...Her very body is tha' void...I did what I did so she wouldn't come back worse than before…”

Mary: “Great things could've been done with that body. Once again, you've robbed your leader of the opportunity. I planned to turn the corpse of the creature into a powerful weapon for your leader. They would've been both dead and changed into something great.”

Darbs: “You can' control tha void, Father... It merely corrupts…”

Bengal: “Do as your told, Sae. Cut off my tongue. I'd tell you not to, but you never listen anyways. I never used you, you're merely twisting reality that once was. That is what spite does... I'm not surprised. I've told you already, I never wished for power, my work lied in discretion, while yours lied out in the open. Cut off my tongue, lest you wish to be punished by them.”

Mary smiled softly at the male. “You cannot control 'all' of it. Fragments though can be contained, abused, and used. Just like whores, dear worgen. Just like whores.” She jerked a shoulder towards the male, limp sleeve slapping playfully at the bare males thighs. “A query; you've made a grand mistake. Would you be willing to suffer for the sake of your leader? Even if a little bit? Even if it would aid in strengthening her on her quest to do better?”

Darbs: “How tha' fuck you think I got in this situation...I did just tha'...I could've made her look like a force ta no' be reckoned with…”

Mary tilted her head. “My questions still stand. As the one who made a mess of everything originally planned; would you be willing to suffer for her sake? Tonight.”

Darbs: “After how I've been treated? Why tha' fuck would I do tha' now? My jaw and legs are broken...Tha cunt over there sliced me up tryin' ta patch a hole in my chest...AFTER I was blasted by Jon of all fuckin' people...Why would I be willin' ta sacrifice so much more fer jack shit?”

Aly: “The breaking of the jaw was unnecessary... Teacher was right.”

Darbs: “Quite the apology…”

Mary gestured to Aly with her sleeve. “A proper apology is in order. A heartfelt one. Do remember, excessive violence is fine; not for allies though. Consider those within your company to be companions. Betraying your companions will turn you into the one that Saeuun hates.”

Darbs: “An apology?” He laughed. “An apology ain't gunna fix my body...It ain't gonna make all tha' has happened just go away.”

Lark: “Punishment and betrayal are both two very different things.”

Mary nudged the man with her foot. “Don't worry. I've got you.”

Darbs: “Oh naw, naw...Ya wan' somethin' from me, I deserve somethin' in return..”

Mary: “Nah. You've got nothing I desire.”

Darbs: “Naw you...Aly..”

Lark’s eyes grew heavy lidded at Darbs's demand.

Aly: “I apologize for Sae's actions when you were wounded. She is still a novice necromancer and I should have had someone better with the living help you. I also apologize for breaking your jaw. It was unnecessary and I merely did it to look tough in the moment…”

Mary: “Oh right. Saeuun, drag your prey to the center.” She gestured over towards the gathering of trees. At the center there seemed to be a gap between the bark and foliage.

Darbs: “Tha' apology...was a good start…” He went silent and watched as Sae drag Benny towards the trees.

Mary: “Do you require a bit of help, Sir Worgen?” She smiles at Darbs.

Aly eyes Bengal curiously. Her focus not on anything else.

Mary: “Consider this; you've ruined your leaders opportunity by acting in an over energetic manner and taking things into your own hand. She hurt you a bit excessively in return and brought you here. I believe that makes you two even. But now? After I stepped in and prevented you from suffering far more than you would've --You're welcome, by the way--.”

Bengal was dragged over by Sae, clothes and armament left behind. The serpent continued to slither about her body, covering her upper portions. Once they halted, she sat on the ground in silence.

Mary: “I say you two make a bit of a deal. In return for your suffering and your blood, you make a request of Aly. And make a proper trade.”

Alysényae blinks at Mary.

Mary: “Pardon; your suffering, your blood, and your continued loyalty.”

Darbs was going to say something but immediately stopped short. He slowly turned his head to look at Aly with a menacing grin on his face. “Aye'..I'll tell ya wha' I want. Officer status and aaaaall tha benefits…”

Aly: “In return for continuous loyalty?”

Mary: “Mmmm. That's a bit too much.”

Darbs: “I'm a merc, my loyalty is easily purchased fer tha' right price.”

Mary would scratch at her chin thoughtfully , but no arms. She looks at Lark. “Come scratch my chin, please.” She peers at Lark searchingly.

Lark nodded, walking over to stand behind Mary. Wrapping one arm around Mary's waist, and letting her other arm rest it's elbow on top, the kaldorei began to scratch lightly under Mary's chin, as thought o simulate the black woman having her own arms.

Aly: “Make another request. One a bit more reasonable.”

Saeuun: “You know, Liora.” She snickered. The rune on her head began to flare up, she grew stronger, faster, smarter. Shadows began to lick off of her form. “If there's one thing I learned, it's that some things are much too simple. Cutting off your tongue would be just that.” She grabbed Bengal's head and slammed her head to the ground, laying her on her back, face up. Sae would sit atop of Bengal's chest. She grabbed out a rod from her pouch of components and shoving it in Liora's mouth, to keep it ajar. She cloaked herself in armor of shadow and bone to protect herself from the Snake if it were to attack. She pulls out a vial off of her pouch, a yellowish greenish liquid that sizzled in the vial. She poured it into Bengal's mouth, evaporating into gas as it began to seep out. She would cover her shadowed covered hand over Bengal mouth to prevent any gas from escaping. The pain would be immeasurable. Feeling like a 1000 bugs biting inside of her mouth; like acid eating away at the entire mouth of Bengal. She'd bring her hand away, and rip the rod out. An infected plague-ridden mouth. Bengal's skin would begin to turn to a black bruised discolored skin from the esophagus to the stomach. The plague eating away at her lungs too, making it difficult to breath. Saeuun slammed her prey's mouth shut and slammed her knee into the jaw to keep Bengal's mouth. She'd begin to hum a tiny bit as she reached into a satchel and pulled out a needle and thread. She slams the needle into the bottom lip of the Canteion protégé, and began to sew her mouth shut. In. Out. Up. Down. What felt like a thousand piercings to the lip would be felt. An even more torturous sensation at the fact that Bengal's mouth was already infected and wounded. Only able to breath from her nose for the time being. Saeuun took her sickle and began to let some of the pestilence from her blades drip onto the exterior off onto the skin of the prone girl. “I like my work to be more interesting than some branding.” She slammed a sickle into Bengal's hand to keep her on the floor before she pulled out a small ritualistic dagger. She began to cut the corner of Bengal's lips into a sociopathic smile before pulling out the thread again and attempting to continue her work. Eventually, sealing Bengal into a smile, but unable to eat, and the threading was so tight it was nearly impossible to even drink. Breathing too would nearly be impossible too, besides from the nose. She'd press her knee into the chest of Bengal and using the second sickle to slash off the ears of Bengal too, then slamming her hand onto the wound she just made. She grabs at the skin, letting necrotic energy arc off of her hand as she began to seal the hole shut completely. She would slam her sickle down to cut off the other ear and repeat the process. Before the hole was closed, Sae spoke so that she could still hear. “I couldn't speak. And you wouldn't listen…” She sealed the earhole shut before standing and kicking Bengal over onto her face. The cut that she made the night prior down Bengal's back began to fester. Puss oozing out of it. Sores covering her back, infected pox marks littered the woman's back.

Bengal was grabbed by the head and twisted over on the ground. She didn't struggle against it, her arms laying at rest at either of her sides whilst Sae toppled upon her body. The serpent itself slithered away only to disappear in a plume of smoke. She lays there, bare, staring up to Sae with those same dull and deprived eyes. The rod inserted into her mouth, though, prevented her tongue from being bitten on, and so she waited. The liquid being poured into her mouth shifting to gas, fumed out through her nose as her mouth was sealed by a palm. Of course she felt the pain, and her eyes shut to a tight  close whilst her body's muscles stiffens, hands clenching into fists. The plague like substance blackening the flesh within, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She endured through it, as she had done by the hands of her mother and mentors alike. After her lips were being sewn, that's when she did it. Bit her tongue. Blood poured within her mouth, and if nothing was done about it, she'd surely choke on her own blood, depriving Sae of a potential sacrifice. Of course it wouldn't be noticeable until her body began to spas and letting out muffled wet coughs. Blood spilling through her nose as she couldn't swallow all the blood encompassed and flowed within the sealed mouth. Her face bled from the carving and sewing that has been done upon her. Her ears were cut off, though she couldn't scream, only forcing her to breath in the blood that pooled within her mouth with no way out. Before Saeuun proceeded any further, Bengal was spasming and twitching on the ground as she could no longer breath, and her lungs began to fill of her own blood. She was falling to subconscious, no sound, no more pain, she was drifted away.

“Does she remember, I wonder…”

“The time where she uncovered her deepest desires, and looked at me with freight. Telling me she never wanted to become what she had witnessed from the orb. That it wasn’t her.”

“I should have never shown her that artifact…”

“I left it behind… she’ll see it… she’ll remember and return to how she used to be.”

“Why couldn’t we just stick to stealing bagels from Zeno?”

“Sae… I forgive you. Forgive me for failing you.”

(A Recollected Memory.)

[lynchgirl90]

@IndieWire  @Kyle_MacLachlan is giving one of the best TV performances ever, and he's barely had to move. #TwinPeaks

‘Twin Peaks’: 7 Powerful Moments When Kyle MacLachlan Barely Moves

Kyle MacLachlan is giving one of the best performances in television history, and he's barely had to move a muscle.

Recently, Seth Meyers imagined what his NBC talk show might look like if it was set in The Red Room. Despite the opportunity for easy potshots at the preposterousness of “Twin Peaks,” the two-minute segment played it pretty straight.

The original opening titles were reincorporated along with the 4:3 framing of the original seasons. There were stand-ins for Laura Palmer and The Man From Another Place, while Meyers took over the role of Agent Dale Cooper. For anyone familiar with the series, the video homage was quite fun. For anyone else, it would’ve been quite weird.

But one thing stood out above the rest: Seth Meyers was moving too much.

Now, that’s not a slight against Meyers. His take on Agent Cooper was about as physically restrained as possible, barring any lessons from the robotic on-and-off acting of the “Westworld” cast. But there was still too much movement.

That’s how extraordinary Kyle MacLachlan has been in “Twin Peaks: The Return.”

Despite the timing of the sketch, Meyers was drawing from the scene in Season 1, Episode 3, “Zen, or The Skill to Catch a Killer,” not Agent Cooper from “The Return.” The performances are different. In Season 1, he was a first-time, part-time visitor to The Red Room. In “The Return,” he’s been trapped there for 25 years. The former is a little more expressive; a little more fluid. The latter is stoic and stunted; trapped in a cage barely restraining his true spirit.

As fans have come to accept in Season 3, Dale Cooper is different. He’s a man of many names; almost as many as the characters MacLachlan plays. He’s Dougie Jones to everyone in Las Vegas, but he’s still Dale Cooper to those in the know (viewers, mainly). For a brief time, MacLachlan played the real Dougie Jones, too, and he’s still playing the mysterious Mr. C — Agent Cooper’s doppelgänger and Dougie’s creator — in addition to Dale Cooper.

But above all else, he’s still. MacLachlan has achieved so much by barely moving. Let’s celebrate that, shall we?

1. Dougie is Scared (“Part 3”)

We don’t know much about Dougie, and most of what we do know is bad. Dougie cheats on his wife with a prostitute. Dougie racks up huge gambling debts instead of spending time with his son. Dougie is friends with the insurance dirtbag Anthony Sinclair (Tom Sizemore), but not that good of friends since Tony turned on Dougie at the drop of a hat.

Dougie doesn’t last long, but the empathy viewers have for him in the moment above has quadrupled since it first aired. Dougie is just having an ordinary Tuesday with Jade, banging in an open house near his actual home, when he keels over and disappears. Confused and in pain, Dougie is transported to The Red Room so Mr. C can roam freely. He only sits with MIKE (Phillip Gerard) for a second, but in that brief amount of time, MacLachlan gives Dougie his humanity.

He struggles to turn his head, but it’s unclear whether he’s held captive in his chair or too scared to move. What matters is the fear in his eyes: MacLachlan takes Dougie from wide-eyed confusion to beleaguered anxiety in just a few lines. He never understands why he’s there or what’s happening to him. He’s just a construct, and even when MIKE tells him so, he doesn’t understand. He never realizes he’s not a real person. MacLachlan informs all of that, and gives Dougie his dignity right before he disappears.

2. Cooper Sees Himself (“Part 4”)

There’s a lot to admire about Cooper’s first morning as Dougie Jones, but MacLachlan’s deft blending of absurd comedy and true poignancy is outstanding. After being ushered into the bathroom clutching his crotch, the audience is prepped for an outlandish first foray with the family. Janey-E is impatient. Sonny Jim is amused. Cooper, well, we don’t know what Cooper is feeling.

But he’s feeling something, and that’s what matters. Evoked in a brief, basic motion, the shot above is simple and speaks to the series’ ongoing fascination with duality. MacLachlan moves less than the camera does, staring intently at his own image and then the lack of connection between his hand and its mirror image. Cooper is still searching. He’s still a seeker. He’s still himself, but “Twin Peaks” has changed, and MacLachlan is adapting with it, ever so patiently.

The brief scene shreds the idea that Cooper is now just someone to laugh at; that we’re just waiting for him to “snap out of it” and go back to his old self while he can barely control his bladder and wears a tie over his head. MacLachlan makes the above moment stick by giving Cooper as much pathos as piss jokes.

3. Mr. C Sees Diane (“Part 7”)

Please don’t make me watch this scene again. MacLachlan is so unnerving in his unblinking intensity — and Laura Dern, as Diane, so angry, hurt, and unsettled — that it’s a difficult moment to revisit. Much of Mr. C’s intimidating presence stems from this moment. We know what he’s capable of because of the authority he conveys even when handcuffed behind bars (well, bulletproof glass).

His brown jumpsuit, restricted positioning, and the generous space between Mr. C and his interrogators should all dwarf his imposing presence. MacLachlan arches his back, stares straight ahead, and — of course — doesn’t move an inch, and all of these choices make Mr. C as threatening as ever. He’s one scary dude, and — thankfully — makes this scene memorable enough that we don’t have to go back and re-watch.

4. Cooper Hears Music (“Part 11”)

One could easily argue “Part 11” is Cooper’s most revealing episode to date — and exemplifies MacLachlan’s best work. For one, the last half-hour is entirely Cooper’s story. The funniest scene since “Mr. Jackpots” kicks things off (see below), but it’s the ending that really hits home. After Cooper survives another death threat, this time from the Mitchum brothers (James Belushi and Robert Knepper), they take him out for celebratory pie — the dessert that just saved his life.

But in between a toast to Dougie and serving the pie, a piano change draws Cooper’s attention. Suddenly he’s transfixed, his head quickly pivoting and his eyes remaining on the pianist until the pie arrives. Even a surprise greeting from a grateful elderly patron — the woman who followed his advice and won thousands at the casino — can’t take Mr. Jackpots’ mind off the melody.

MacLachlan looks past her while she thanks him, unwavering in his focus. He’s still listening to Angelo Badalamenti’s “Homecoming,” and he’s still remembering a time and place long past. He’s looking through her as an event that already transpired. He wants to go back to that place; he wants a homecoming. As she leaves and he bites into the cherry pie, it’s as though Cooper is saying goodbye to Dougie’s past and moving ever more consciously toward his future: When MacLachlan says the iconic line, “damn good [pie],” his slight shift in inflection provides a faint hint of nostalgia and the slightest of hope.

Cooper will return. He won’t be trapped as Mr. Jackpots forever.

5. Cooper Chases Coffee (“Part 11”)

OK, this is perhaps the most movement MacLachlan does outside of taking down The Spike, but look at how restrained he is! Viewers get so much out of this brief comedic bit: For a moment, he looks annoyed. On the way in, he just looks eager. By the end, he’s back to the status quo, as if coffee is the only thing in his life that keeps him alive. And that’s the beauty of it: An immeasurable number of texts, tweets, and posts undoubtedly used this .gif and a message equivalent to, “This is me every morning.” MacLachlan captures the universal need for your morning Joe without abandoning Cooper’s stilted state. In short, it’s funny because it’s true.

6. Mr. C Wins an Arm-Wrestling Match (“Part 13”)

This entire scene is based around specificity of movement, so, this entire scene epitomizes Kyle MacLachlan’s intricate understanding of his characters’ physicality. Not only does he account for the visual intrigue of his choices, but his movements are built from Mr. C and Cooper’s spirits.

Nothing changes about Mr. C during his arm-wrestling match. He’s the same imposing force he’s always been. But as MacLachlan challenges his opponent to best him, again and again — “Let’s go back to starting positions” is still the most badass line ever uttered during an arm-wrestling match — his absolute control over Mr. C’s movements becomes all the clearer.

Just look at the way he shifts in his chair to approach the table. Then watch as his face, head, and neck as they remain motionless while his arm operates like a pulley on a string. Even when MacLachlan is called on to speak (gasp!) and move (wow!), he keeps Cooper and Mr. C as precise as possible: Real Cooper is a little looser; pliable in mind and body, but Evil Cooper is rigid because he knows exactly what he wants and what he needs to do to get it.

7. Cooper Hears the Name “Gordon Cole” (“Part 15”)

Listen, there’s no telling what exactly got Cooper to do what he did near the end of “Part 15,” but it was hearing Gordon Cole’s name that forever altered his pleasant evening of eating cake and pushing buttons. As “Sunset Boulevard” popped on the TV, Cooper took note. His neutral perspective shifted into a state of bemusement, but no more so than usual. It’s when Cecil B. DeMille says the fateful words, “Get Gordon Cole,” that MacLachlan’s expression changes entirely, Cooper gets down on the ground, and crawls toward an electrical socket making too much noise.

As proposed in Sunday night’s review, this could be the end of Cooper’s impersonation of Dougie. Right after he electrocutes himself and collapses, a dying Margaret explains how death “is just a change, not an end.” The version of Cooper oft-referred to as Dougie could die via the same household device that transported him there in the first place, and “Twin Peaks” will be on to the next iteration of its hero. If so, his time in the Jones’ household was given a fitting end: a few jerky movements, some subtle adjustments in expression, and a bevy of emotional weight laid down. MacLachlan has done this with Cooper, Dougie, and Mr. C throughout “Twin Peaks” Season 3, and each part has been deepened by the star’s contribution to it.

MacLachlan hasn’t created one new character in “The Return”; he’s built three brand new individuals from the ground up. And he barely had to move a muscle.

Link (TP)

[pointy-kitty]

We Can Make It

A Wreck It Ralph Fanfiction from five years ago

Chapter Nine

Apologies, curses, and incoherent noises poured from her mouth like the sickeningly hot tears on her cheeks. She could barely hear herself pleading against Turbo’s red collar. The fans were shaking the whole console with their screams and the engines of the rival racers were drawing closer and closer to the finish line. What she could hear was Turbo. He stumbled awkwardly with the weight of her embrace, his arms twitching and flinching beside her.  

“Mavis, I’m not dead. I’m completely fine. How would you be nearly pushing me over if I were dead?” He stumbled backwards and bumped against his car. “Hello? Mavis? Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”  

His hands pushed against her shoulders gently at first, growing firmer with each nudge. “Breathe, kid. C’mon, let me get a look at you for a sec. Let go.” The approaching engines grew louder. “You really should be letting go now. Mavis. Mavis!”

She was wrenched off almost painfully, the little red racer holding her wrists at her sides. Her eyes were glued to the track. There was no way she could look him in the eye after that.  

“I’m sorry,” she choked, her lungs convulsing and trying to silence her. “God, I’m so sorry. I killed you. This is—” she squeaked, “—the worst – ” she hiccupped, “—thing I’ve ever done.”

“Mavis,” Turbo tugged at her arms, “this is ridiculous.”

“I know,” she shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “I know. I know!”

“Sshh, kid, c’mon! Take a deep breath, I don’t know, just, God, stop crying.”

All the eyes in the console, even the featureless faces of the screeching fans, bore down on her and crushed her into a horrible, compressed ball of awareness. She was making a complete idiot out of herself and she was not even having fun doing it. This kind of attention, this spotlight, being put on a pedestal in her moment of weakness, it all made her feel worse than vulnerable. At any second, she swore she could have cracked, fallen against the pavement, and died herself.  

She was shaken by the hands on hers. “Make-It, c’mon, snap out of it!” His hands flew up to her cheeks, patting them briskly. He took hold of her face and forced her to look at him, to see the frantic confusion and desperation in his glowing eyes. “I’ve had worse than that! I get worse than that every single day! Hell, that was fun! I’ve never flipped like that before!”

Her mouth hung agape for a second, a strangled squeak in her throat. “How could you possibly think that was fun?”

“Toots, that whole race was the most fun I’ve had since I was plugged in!” He shook her face slightly.  

Every rational part of her mind was agreeing with Turbo, trying to calm her down, to remind her that losing a life was hardly anything to him. It was not the dreadful, torturous glitch that it was to her. But her panic was still so fresh, so alive, and so very vicious. Any steady thought in her head was knocked into oblivion by the raging, blazing, painful shock rampaging through her whole body.

“I can’t do this again,” she spluttered, “I can’t kill you again. I KILLED you, cuss it all!”

“You’re not thinking straight, you’re in shock, okay? I’ve been there, believe me, I know!” His thumbs pressed into her cheeks, his voice falling into a hoarse whisper. “Just, please, stop crying!”

She held her breath, her chest twitching, staring at him for as long as her mind could manage. He stared right back, pressing his lips together, and what looked like a prolonged wince painted over his features. Her voice was hiding, but she mouthed, “I’m so sorry.”

Their exchange was cut short when Make-It’s heart jumped at the sound of screeching tires. Reflexively, before she knew she moved, she grabbed Turbo around the waist and rocketed into the air, barely avoiding getting mowed down by an enemy racer. Turbo cursed and clung to her shamelessly tightly. His last experience in the air, she recalled, was not entirely pleasant.  

When her adrenaline wore off, she dropped back down to the track, weak and shaken. One by one, the NPCs zoomed past, their cars squealing and stopping. Each of them leaped out at the first chance, advancing on the two, their eyes fixed hungrily on Make-It.

“I’ll kill her,” one of them breathed, “Good God, I’ll kill that little flying bitch.” The others seethed, hissing their malicious, barbaric intentions, fists clenching at their sides.

Her insides flickered with an angry, defensive spark. She squeezed the handle of her brush, her knuckles cracking with the strain. Before she could snarl a hostile retort, Turbo stomped in front of her, his stance tall and wide, and his head lowered in a warning glare. The blue racers slowed to a stop, and the bleachers fell silent in anticipation.

Turbo’s slow, purposeful, menacing words shattered the silence. “Unless you want to become upholstery, I suggest you back off.”

Make-It’s stomach twisted when she remembered that she was not in her game. All seven of the rivals wanted her dead, and though she was not afraid, she knew that she should have been. The air was thick and nearly painful to breathe for as long as the racers stared each other down, but the offenders steadily slid back, turning to slither to their respective cars. The matter was not settled, and everyone in the console knew it. The acid in their eyes was unmistakable; they would see her dead.

Her skin rippled as the crowds burst back into their unintelligible shouts again, and her heart smoldered with the underlying anger still present from when they cheered on as Turbo burned to death. She twitched, her muscles clenching, until she could not hold back any longer.

“SHUT THE EVER-LOVING CUSS UP!!” She bellowed, lightning cracking from the end of her brush as she swiped it through the air in rage. To her pleasant surprise, the deafening noise ended. She could feel each of them staring at her, completely still.

She nearly spat, scraping her feet and holding her brush firmly at her side. “DAMN. STRAIGHT.” Turning back to the others, she was nearly knocked over by the sight of every racer with the exact same perplexed expression.  

“Uh,” Turbo grunted, “okay, never mind,” he took her by the wrist and jumped into his car, tugging her in to sit oddly in his lap. “One thing at a time. And firstly, you’ve got to go home. The arcade’s starting way too soon.”  

Riding was a lot more comfortable when she was more properly seated, and she probably would have really enjoyed it if she were not still in a painful state of shock. As they sped towards the subway station, she slowly painted herself back to her default colors. Turbo was silent, having some difficulty reaching around her to drive normally.

“Sorry,” he grunted as he accidentally elbowed her in the cheek. “This isn’t exactly a two-person vehicle.”

“Mm,” she stared at her lap, rocking with the momentum as the car drifted to a stop.  

The two climbed out, and Make-It produced herself a new hat, pulling it gently over the back of her head. Turbo glanced around, licking his lips, scuffing the ground, staring at nothing, before stepping up to nudge her with his shoulder.

“Listen,” he began with a sigh, “I don’t know why you insist on blaming yourself for everything, but that really, really wasn’t your fault. Okay?”

“It was my idea, wasn’t it?” She wiped the dried tears off her cheeks, wincing at the sharp salt.  

“Well, yeah, but—”

“You didn’t want to at first.”

“No, I didn’t—”

“And I made that last maze way too difficult, didn’t I?”

“It wasn’t too difficult!” He protested indignantly, and then flinched at himself. “Uh. No, it literally wasn’t too hard.”

She turned to look at him disbelievingly. “You died.”

He stared at her, a begrudging scowl slowly deepening over his face. “I know. That was…” he sighed again, growling and grumbling.

She did not bother asking him to clarify. She was done. She just wanted to hide in her basement and not face emotions for the rest of the day. Or the week. Or the rest of her gameplay career, ideally. For a horrible, stinging moment, she found herself regretting ever leaving her console. Swallowing against the pain, she began to step into the subway car.

Turbo seized her arm and pulled her back. “That was me, okay? I crashed. I messed up.”

“Because it was too DIFFICULT,” she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Yes, yes it was. And that’s wonderful!”

One of her eyes cracked open the slightest bit to peer over at him. He looked emotionally and mentally exhausted, yet an encouraging grin twitched at the corner of his mouth.  

“Hardly anything is ever difficult for me! It was too difficult because… Because, yes, I do need some practice. But if it was easy, well… There would be no point, would there? Just a whole lot of fun that adds up to nothing. It was… It was great practice.”

She stared at him wordlessly.

“I know, I know…” he closed his eyes, sighing gruffly. “I know I’m a perfect racer and I couldn’t possibly have anything more to learn. And God damn it, does it piss me off that I’m even telling you this…”

A snicker bubbled in her throat. After that horrible breakdown, just the tiniest laugh felt like Heaven.

He continued, “But I need you to at least try to understand that a flawless, valiant winner like me is not brought down by a couple of lost lives. What happened was not your fault, but even if it was, I’d still want you to come back and do that again, because holy cuss, was that worth it. It’s exactly what I need, okay? And I just know that you’re thinking about never coming back and doing it again. Maybe not even coming back at all, Hell, I don’t know…” He tried to scratch the back of his head, but his nails only squeaked against his helmet, so he quickly shoved his hand in his pocket.  

She took in a long, slow breath and sighed. “I don’t know, Turbo… These past couple of days have just been… augh. I’m so upset with myself on so many levels and I’m not sure where to begin trying to fix it. The thing is, I don’t fix. I just make. I make more things to clean up after.” She flicked her brush and turned one of the train cars green.  

“I… don’t think that’s what ‘Make-It’ means, toots. I don’t really know what it does, but… Well, you definitely are a walking heap of trouble, but, c’mon, let’s face it, trouble is fun.”

Her brows knit together for a moment. “That depends on what kind of trouble, honestly.”

“Wait, wait, I phrased that wrong, uh,” he clenched his knuckles, his eyes seemingly searching for the words in the air around him. “Look, I don’t know, toots. Just… I want to do that again.”

She smiled ruefully at him. “I’ll be back. I don’t know when, but I will. I just need some time to think. And… I need to straighten things out with Ralph and Felix.”

“Mmm. Good luck with that. Really.”

“Yeah, God knows I’ll need it,” she tried getting into the subway car again, but was once again yanked back. “Woah, okay, Turbo, did you or did you not say that the arcade was about to open?”

He seemed to mentally stutter as he licked his lips, staring at her contemplatively. “You… are coming back. Right?”

“Yes,” she tilted her head. “Of course. My favors aren’t over.”

He breathed out a bit of an incredulous laugh. “Favors… You’re still going on about that?”

“And I will be for a while,” she grinned, feeling her heart lift significantly as she reached up to tug at his cheek. He winced and swatted her away, and she said happily, “Don’t worry.”

He huffed. “I’m not… worried. I just, well, I’d need to know if this were the last time I’d see you.”

Her heart perked up in a horribly irritating way, but she turned her gaze back to the subway car. There was entirely too much emotion somewhere in the farthest stretch of his words and she was not feeling quite ready to face it, not even from that distance. It made her feel incredibly strange, kind of lost, and a little bit exposed.  

“…Right,” she swallowed. “It’s not. Not the last time. Nope.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod briefly. “Okay,” he let go of her arm. “Go on home, then. I, uh, I’ll see you… whenever.”

“Whenever sounds perfect,” she finally managed to climb in and sit down, and the ride activated, slowly accelerating and tugging itself along the tracks. As she approached the tunnel, Turbo’s voice called after her.

“Thanks, by the way.”

She blinked and glanced back at him standing at the station. “For what?”

“Uh,” his mouth searched for the right word, starting many, but ending them before a syllable could form. “Anything,” finally slipped out as he shrugged dramatically.

She snorted. “Any time, sourheart.” She waved, and as he disappeared when she entered the tunnel, she caught a glimpse of his hand twitching in a half-wave. Scooting along the tracks, she could have sworn she heard him curse a few times.

The walk back to her game felt like a death march, and she tried to waste as much time as she could. She painted the garbage cans with plaid polka-dots, began writing on the floor before a particularly righteous-looking baseball player picked her up and lectured her about defacing of property, balanced on the backs of the benches, weaved between passersby and avoided speaking to them in over-the-top maneuvers, and created herself a pair of sticky-soled shoes to hang from the ceiling with. Ralph could not reach her up here, she told herself, folding her arms firmly.  

Once a booming voice echoed through the whole station announcing that the arcade was opening in ten minutes, however, she shivered and pried herself out of the shoes to tumble down and land on her bare feet. Ten minutes, she reminded herself. That would be five minutes for each of them if she wanted to talk with both Felix and Ralph before the day started.

Taking a deep, steadying, yet slightly terrified breath, she finally found her way back to her game.

She hopped cautiously out of the train car when it arrived. The console was eerily quiet. Or, it might have always been this quiet, she mused to herself, and only eerie due to how her knees quaked slightly under her. She took another deep breath, trying to decide which one would be scarier to talk to.  

Finally deciding that Ralph was the easier option, she leaped along, clearing the little bridge in barely a skip, and found herself at the bottom of the dump in a few bounds. Jumping up the side of a mountain of bricks in her bare feet was not something she found particularly fun, nor did the clanking and tapping with each unsettled brick help calm her nerves.  

Her mouth dry, she called out, “Ralph?”

After there was no answer, she gulped and called out again, “Ham-hands?” She flinched. That would definitely earn her another punch, but if she were honest with herself, she kind of wanted to see herself brought to justice by hulking fists.

She was almost at the top when she heard a great shifting at the peak. A few stomps later, he was towering over the curve of the hill, thinly-veiled rage sitting behind his expression.

She waved.

“YOU DIRTY LITTLE GREMLIN!” He barrelled towards her, bricks flying out with each step, a few scuffing her cheeks and shoulders. She held her ground, bracing herself, and squeezing her eyes shut. Death was coming, but she deserved it and needed to get used to it.  

She felt his final stomp fall just before her face, and she squeaked in anticipation of his fists raining down on her, but nothing came. He must have been really winding up. God, this one was really going to hurt. Nearly a minute later, there were still no huge hands pummeling her into the brick.

One of her eyes dared to open, seeing a foot that was probably half as big as she was. Ever so cautiously, she let her gaze rise to his face. He still looked completely enraged, but he was also frozen in confusion, his fists raised over his head.

“Why aren’t you running?” He asked suspiciously, eyeing her as if she were rigged with dynamite.

She frowned. “What are you waiting for? Don’t you wanna crack my skull?”

“Well…” he clenched his fists tighter. “Not gonna lie, yeah, I kind of want to toss you across the arcade right now.”

“Do so, then,” she nodded. “I’m sorry for messing things up yesterday in my little hissy fit. So, as a favor to you, I’m gonna let you beat the crap out of me.”

His hands fell to his sides. “That’s sick, kid. I’m not gonna do that.” He turned and climbed back to the top angrily.

“What? No, it’s not.” She hopped after him.  

“I’m not gonna kill you just because you’re a twisted little brat who wants me to. That IS sick.”

She sighed. “Yeah, okay, it kind of is. Kind of really is. But uh… I just thought it would help you feel better, maybe.”

“What makes you think you know anything about making me feel better?”

“…That is a valid point…” she frowned, suddenly feeling terrible for making no attempts to get to know Ralph better. “But, well, I also feel like I deserve it for messing up so badly… Just kind of, uh, trying to take… responsibility, I suppose?”

He snorted, stretching his arms out in front of him. “Since when does Make-It Mavis, Cuss of the Century, care about responsibility?”

“I don’t,” she sighed. “But I should. Maybe a punch to the face will help me feel more responsible.”

“It won’t, kid.”

She pressed her lips together. “…Okay.”

Ralph let out a long breath through his nose. “Assuming you meant your weird little apology, though, that was pretty decent of you.”

Her spirits stirred and lifted slightly. “Was it?”

“Yeah. For you, anyway. Can’t recall ever hearing you apologize for playing pranks.”

“I don’t apologize for pranks, no, and I won’t,” she smiled impishly for a second, but it faded as she continued, “but yesterday wasn’t a prank. It was a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

“Good for you. Don’t do anything like that again or I might actually step on you.”

“I’m uncomfortable making very many promises,” she put her hands behind her head slowly, “but I will try. I’ll try to try.”

“Wow, that’s… Yeah, okay. I’m gonna… Whatever, kid, just get to your spot before the arcade opens.”

“I’m actually going to go talk to my cousin… How has he been?”

Ralph’s bushy eyebrows raised. “Well, he hasn’t been exactly happy. More like worried sick.”

She sighed deeply. “Great. I… I am not looking forward to this,” she turned to face Niceland, gazing up to Felix’s room. His window was wide open, a warm yellow light glowing from within. A completely horrible idea surfaced in her mind and her grin steadily reappeared. “Say, Ham-Hands…”

He grunted.

Peering at him sidelong, she continued, “How good is your aim?”

“Why?”

“What are the chances that you could toss me through that window up there?”

His brow furrowed and he glanced up at the building. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Dead being the operative term, here,” he growled. “If I miss, it’s not gonna tickle.”

“I believe you could do it. Who’s got a better throwing arm than you?”

“Power isn’t the same as precision, y’little dweeb.”  

“Look,” she rolled her eyes, “all you need to do is throw me and I’ll stop bugging you.”

“For how long?”

“’Till I can walk again, assuming your aim is as bad as you claim.”

He heaved a heavy, gruff sigh. “Fine.”

Grinning, she curled herself up as tightly as she could manage, and Ralph picked her up like a tennis ball, taking a moment to judge the distance. Make-It shook with giddy, unsteady anxiety in his palm. This idea was so wonderfully terrible. If she splatted into the wall, maybe she would be out of commission long enough to justify not going to face Felix.

She thought to herself how remarkable it was, the lengths that she would go just to avoid an uncomfortable conversation.  

Swirling his wrist around, winding up, Ralph threw her so hard, she felt as if she had fully-powered rocket shoes on. And hardly a second after she left his hand, she slammed with a horrible crash into the wall, back first, upside-down, completely spread-eagled. Ralph was right; it was the farthest thing from a tickle, and she felt the fibers of her code fire up and die down. By the time she had regenerated, flashing numbly, she was still stuck in the brick.  

“I told you!” Ralph called up to her.

She returned to tangibility and felt the vicious lightning zip through her code. Clenching her teeth against the searing pain, her eyes watering, she had to admit that being broken was a lot less painful than burning to death.  

Returning to normal, her pain fading and being replaced with a beautifully relieving unfeeling state, she sighed shakily and called back to him, “I’m okay.”  

She let her legs fall down and caught on with her fingers in the Make-It shaped indent in the brick. Her head spun slightly, and she was just shaken enough to justify not coming to see Felix. With an unsteady sigh of relief, she began to plan her route down, but nearly dropped when she heard her cousin’s voice.  

“Ralph?! What was that?” He leaned out of the open window, prompting Make-It to flatten herself slowly against the brick. “The arcade isn’t open yet!”

“I know,” he huge man called back, folding his arms. “Look to your right, Felix.”

She swore under her breath.

Felix gasped with every bit of his being. “Mavy!! Are you alright?!”

“Sour candy,” she muttered.  

“…What?”

“Fine,” she grinned sheepishly.  

“Did Ralph throw you up here?!”

“Yeah, but, uh, it’s fine. Don’t get mad at him for it, please.”

Felix looked horribly conflicted, stomping his feet slightly and huffing. “Well, alright, but c’mere!” He reached out to grab her hand, helping her in through the window. She stood guiltily, rubbing her back as he leaned out to fix the broken bricks left behind. When he turned around, her joints cracked with the force of his hug.

“Oh my land, Mavy, I’ve been so worried about you! I’m sorry about how things went yesterday, I really am. I’m sorry about everything I said. I didn’t mean it that way, but that doesn’t make it any better. I’m so sorry, and oh dear Mavy, I’m just so glad you’re home.”

Make-It bit her lip. “Yeah—”

“Was everything okay last night? I know you stayed with Turbo; I came looking for you, and I wanted to talk to you, but he wouldn’t let me come in… I’m sorry, Mavy, I should have tried harder…”

“I was fine, cuz,” she grunted under the pressure of his arms. “I just needed the night to myself.”

“With Turbo?”

“…Yes.”

He pushed her out to arm’s length, all-too-genuine concern flooding from his features. “So, did you two make-up? How did that go?”

“Had a couple drinks,” she shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “All is… uh, well, if not forgiven, then… Uh, he’s not pissed at me, I think..?”

“But…” he held onto her shoulders tighter, “why wasn’t he letting you leave?”

Her heart ignited in a spark of indignant anger. “He wasn’t keeping me prisoner, cuz. I could have left if I wanted to.”

“But… Forgive me, Mavy, but why would you want to stay with… Well, Turbo? When you could be here?”

She grew increasingly uncomfortable. “I don’t know, it’s just, well, it’s nice to have a friend, I guess. You know, one that’s not…” she winced against herself, hoping desperately that she would not hurt his feelings somehow, “not related to me, you know?”

“Oh,” he nodded briefly, “no, I understand, Mavy. I’m glad you’re making friends, I really am.” He grinned, and, somehow, she felt a little insulted. “It’s just that, well, I almost never see Turbo being chummy with anybody… Other than his fans, but I’m not sure if that counts, considering they’re… well…”

“Brainless. I know.”

“How did you manage to make friends with such a bristly fellow?”

She licked her lips, contemplating, not entirely sure what the answer was to that question. “Alcohol.”

Felix blinked. “Alcohol?”

“…Yeah, I got him drunk and when he woke up, we were friends.”

“…Is that really what happened?”

“More or less, actually,” she shrugged. Intimate details were not something she wanted to share with her cousin.

He shook his head incredulously. “So… everything was okay last night, spending the night with him?”

“Yes,” she almost snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. Felix flinched a bit, and she felt like she had been punched in the gut.  

“Alright,” he raised his hands slightly, trying to calm her down. “I just had to make sure. Otherwise, I’d, well, I’d have to go give him a good talkin’ to.” He nodded firmly, and she supressed a snort.  

He carried on, “But… Mavy, about yesterday, in the basement…” he put his hands together, his gaze lowered humbly. “I am really sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

She stared at the sickeningly clean yellow wall. “Yeah. I’m sorry for overreacting.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I think you reacted just the right amount, considering what I said… And, well, I want to talk with you about it—” Make-It shuddered, “—and help you feel better about yourself. Because, Mavy, you don’t deserve to feel like a pest. You’re a really uppity gal with a completely unique sense of humor, not a burden.”

His words clawed at her heart painfully, and she felt her teeth bearing down on her bottom lip. She felt like she was being peeled, and the outside air was so very, very cold.  

“Mavy… do you want to tell me about how you’ve been feeling?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound surfaced. She simply fought back her tears, because if there was anybody she did not want to cry in front of, it was her cousin. Shaking her head slightly, she crossed the room to sit gently on the couch. He followed her and settled in beside her, carefully resting his arm around her shoulders.  

She jumped at the sound of her own voice. “I don’t know who or what I am,” she confessed slowly and quietly. “I never know what I’m supposed to do or feel. God, I literally feel like a baby. Just… augh. I don’t know how to handle anything.”

“Well, sure you do, Mavy,” he squeezed her softly. “You’re not a baby, you’re just about as old as I am! You’ve got years of wisdom and intelligence behind you.”

“No,” she hissed at herself, still at war with her tears, “No, I don’t. All I have to go on is barely a week’s worth of sitting around in my basement making things.”

“What do you mean..?”

He could not be serious. There was no way he could not know. “Don’t you understand why we’re here? We’re characters in a video game. We are not actual people with real lives that start and end like they’re supposed to.”

“Oh, I know that. I knew that the second we were plugged in. That was actually my very first thought.”

“…It was?”

He nodded briefly. “The first thing I remember thinking was, ‘I am a good guy, and this is my game.’ After that, I started remembering my programming, what I was supposed to do with this,” he lifted his hammer slightly, “my backstory, and who I was.”

Make-It’s gaze slowly fell. “That’s… not how it was for me. I remembered my backstory before my programming… I… I guess when they made me, they didn’t even bother putting my code in the right order…”

“What? No, of course they did. Everything about you and your code is perfectly healthy.”

She peered at him sidelong. “Since when are you an expert on code?”

“I’m not,” he laughed slightly, “I’m most definitely not. But I can tell there’s nothing wrong with you, Mavy, and there never has been.”

“Look, when I came into being, I had such little significance to the gameplay that I actually had to be TOLD that I was a character. I have such little gameplay programming that my backstory outweighs it, so of course I’d remember that first. If I had so little to do with the game, why did they bother writing such an intricate backstory for me? Why did they have to put that kind of revelation on me?”

Felix paused, delving into his thoughts. “I don’t know, Mavy. I don’t know what they had or have planned for you.”

“That’s what I hate,” she breathed, and she felt the moisture finally creep into her eyes. “I hate not knowing. I don’t know anything. I never know if what I’m doing is right. It really is like I was born little over a week ago.”

“No, it’s not. You still have all those years behind you.”

“No, I DON’T!” She shouldered out from him, pushing herself across the couch, trying not to look at him and find out what kind of horribly emotional expression he was making. “None of that is real! I never had any uptight, suppressive parents, and I never had an awesome, kooky old great-grandma, and there was never a monochromatic town or any of that! Those memories are manufactured, none of them are real, none of them mean ANYTHING! And the worst part is that for the first little bit of my existence, I actually thought that they did. They meant something to me. I remembered it all and I—I was proud of it, most of it – and then everything that I thought was real was a lie. So I was not afraid, I was ready to have a new start, to make something out of that desolate basement that I was thrown into by the programmers. And now, I realize that I have NO IDEA how to start! I have nothing to go off of… nothing! I just… I feel like a stupid fish flopping around on a deck—no, in a desert, as far away from any thought of water as possible. I don’t know where to go, I don’t know who to be. All I have to go off is this lousy code in my head that’s so simple, so limited, that it doesn’t even help at all!”

Felix was silent for quite a while as she stared at the floor, trying to disappear, gnawing at her lips and blinking out tear drops. “In my backstory, I… I did things right. I had fun. I was clever and crafty. But now… I can’t remember how to be who I supposedly was. I feel like… I was handed this life and briefly told who I’m supposed to be, and… just dropped off to face it all alone and try not to die along the way.”

She glanced over at his leg, not ready to see his face. “It’s stupid,” she whispered. “It’s really, really stupid. But I feel like I’m doing a terrible job figuring myself out.”

“Mavy,” Felix began, scooting over to her and putting his arm around her shoulders again, despite her trying to flinch away. “I know that none of it actually happened. But… well… I don’t think that our backstories are there to be an actual past. It’s true that we started a week ago. And those years may not be real, they may not have really happened, but they’re still ours. We all have our own story. And I think that, just maybe, we’ve got them to help us.”

She swallowed. “How?”

“Well… to give us something to learn from, of course. If we were plugged in and didn’t have our backstories, well, we really would be like babies. We wouldn’t be able to do anything, because we would have nothing, no sort of knowledge. And the memories are fake, Mavy, sure. But the knowledge, and the lessons, those are real. And if we ignore our backstories… How are we going to keep those lessons?”

Make-It kept staring at the tediously groomed shag carpet. She had no idea how to feel about what she was hearing. Trying to bring back memories of her supposed past was something she had avoided for the entirety of her existence, ever since she realized they were mere programming.  

Felix continued, “Don’t you remember when we met, Mavy? What we first said to each other?”

She tried desperately to suppress her laughter, but it came out in a painful snort. “I wouldn’t call that conversation exactly inspirational…”

He sighed ruefully, smiling, still. “Don’t you remember, though? I said ‘Hey there, little Mavy. I’m your cousin, Felix.’ And you said…?”

It was completely impossible for her to hold back a smile, and keeping the laughter out of her voice was just as futile. “I said—” she chortled, covering her face with one of her hands, “I said ‘Why do your buttons line up with your nipples?’”

Felix laughed outright, shaking his head, and Make-It was practically wheezing, she was laughing so hard. He continued, “I knew, right then, that you were really something else.”

She cackled, leaning back into the couch and letting her head fall back, still holding her hands to her face. “Oh sweet midi…” she shook her head incredulously, “I must have been, like, seven years old, and that’s the first thing I noticed..!”

“And do you remember the first little adventure in the woods that you took me out on? Remember the frog?”

She spluttered. “The one I put in your pants?”

“Yup, that one.”

She could hardly believe how hard she was laughing, after a second ago being so forlorn. It was just too hilarious; she could not help herself. She leaned against the arm of the couch, holding her sides, burying her face against her knees.  

“And how you’d take me across wide, rocky streams, steep hills, up trees, and I would be so unsure? And I’d hesitate, and sometimes I’d be scared? Don’t you remember what you used to tell me, then?”

Her laughter slowly ceased as she recalled. Yes, she remembered.

“We can make it, cuz. We can make it.”

She could see him nodding from the corner of her eye. “You always knew we would be fine. Even in the worst situations. And of course, you must remember what I started calling you after you had told me that so many times.”

Her eyes widened a bit, her heart twisting over the fact that she had even once forgotten.  

“Make-It Mavy,” she breathed.  

“Yeah,” he said gently, finding his grip around her shoulders again. “Make-It Mavy. That’s how you got your title. It wasn’t because of this.” He tapped the bucket on her hip. “And boy, did you live up to that name. There was no situation that you could not make beautiful and happy. Nothing ever held you down or shut you up. You always made it.”

She stared at her hands in her lap, wringing them around each other, squeezing the tips of her gloves. With a heavy gulp, she decided to brave a glance at his face. Her heart flickered nervously as she saw how soft, sincere, and reassuring his eyes were. It made her so uncomfortable, but she put in all her effort to not look away while he continued.

“That’s who I believe you are, Mavy. You’re Make-It Mavis, because you can take anything, no matter how dismal or plain or what have you, and make it into something more. That’s what you’ve always done. And I know that you can still do it, if you just remember , if you don’t try to fight your wonderful story.”

Something inside of her broke. Some manner of barrier ruptured, and she found herself crying again, but happier than she had been in a very long time. Her arms crushed Felix against her so tightly that he squeaked and squirmed for a moment before hugging her back just as firmly. Her emotions came flooding out exactly the way that they always had in Felix, the way that made her so uncomfortable. Feeling it happen to herself felt so wrong, so foreign, but so genuinely needed.  

“Thank you so much,” she muttered into his shoulder, rocking from side to side. “God, I thought I was broken.”

Her cousin chuckled briefly and shrugged in her embrace. “I can fix it.”

She only held him tighter, unsure of whether she was laughing or sobbing, but deeming either one appropriate. Pushing him back and wiping her eyes, bashful and embarrassed, still feeling so oddly vulnerable, she remembered something from several days prior.  

“Hey, uh…” she tried to find the words that would not sound completely stupid. “Could we, uh, maybe… Take a look at that photo album you tried to show me before?”

Felix’s face lit up brighter than Game Central Station. Before he could answer, however, a voice echoed through the console.

“ATTENTION. THE ARCADE IS NOW OPEN.”

“Uh oh,” they said in unison, looking at each other. Felix hopped up involuntarily, walking robotically towards the door. Make-It stood, grasping at any thought she could find before he was gone.

“Okay, if not now, then, uh, maybe when the arcade closes? Can I just meet you back up here?”

He grinned and bounced cheerily. “You most certainly can!”

She smiled in earnest, heading for the window and climbing halfway out. “I look forward to it.”