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heat-riser · 4 years ago

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Some weird analysis of when you knew me.

I’ve thought about doing this for a while. One part screaming into the void, one part for anyone who was on tumblr in it’s heyday and watched me be strange and into- frankly- the worst characters and really terrible ships. I’m 26 now and understand a bit more about myself after finally finding a good therapist who specialized in sexual trauma and delving into the deepest darkest parts. Maybe it’s part insight for people who were friends with my at the time- and by ‘at that time’, I guess I mean any point in my life up until a couple years ago. From around 5 years on- I was in a constant state of incredibly deep sadness and anxiety but was too numb to even really consciously feel it. I learned some of the worst things about people and became acquainted with some of the worst things a person can feel at 5, and then again multiple times around 9 due to rape by two different boys. The first, my family and people around me knew about pretty immediately. The second was completely unknown to people until recently. It’s not an easy thing telling your parents another neighbor boy who was a ‘friend’ raped you too. I can’t really explain properly how deeply this effects a person and how people don’t really understand it. Things as little as not being able to be outside my house without a jacket and full pants to cover my whole body because I internalized that showing your body is vulnerability opened up the possibility of sexualization and therefore- attack. All the way to now with everything being resurfaced and having nearly no sex drive and being unable to feel arousal without more anxiety coming in and overpowering the arousal feeling. It was recently recommended to me by my therapist to not play horror games because the feelings of arousal and fear are so tightly linked. I’ve been with the therapist for three years and anticipate at very least another 3-5 and she has clients who have been seeing her 10+ years for having experienced childhood sexual abuse. I can’t remember if I’ve talked publicly here about any of that but most of my friends are aware of the first one (it’s not really something I want to throw out there randomly and conversations in covid time are strange). I was only aware of the first one up until a couple years back. When talking about buried memories, how they come up, how to tell if they’re legit, I halfway thought “what if there was more” and felt sick to my stomach. One of the sure signs of a memory being true is an emotional response. I’m in the process of reclaiming the memories of the events involving the second neighbor boy. But point being- I learned the world was awful very early on and it became the background for all future development (sexual, social, self, etc. etc.). I began to numb myself after the first event and went through half of elementary school and middle school angry, sad, and hateful- I especially hated men, but also just the world at large. By high school, I had learned to shove all of that down. I can’t really recall feeling much of anything in high school. So the people that knew me at the time really only knew a weird ghost of a person. Then there’s this thing called trauma reenactment- where victims are drawn to things relating to the trauma situation. So this is what takes me to explaining the characters I was interested in. 1- Adachi. I now see as little more than a sad incel but it does say a lot about where I was at the time to be so fascinated with him. He shared my resentment towards the world, the idea that anyone who wasn’t depressed simply didn’t understand, and saw more of a problem with the world than his current state of being. Of course that was relatable. I very clearly remember in middle school believing people that weren’t depressed simply had no idea what was going on around them. Of course I thought that and still struggle with that mentality. All I had really known was deep despair and numbing myself from the world. I didn’t understand how other people didn’t realize that but now know what the emotional world I was living in was not typical of children. So here was someone that knew how bad everything around was and how bad the world felt and I clung onto him the same way I did my own idealizations. With what I’ve been processing more recently, the dude needed therapy and to unlearn that depression was cool and correct but had shown multiple times he was unwilling to challenge any of his issues and just started killing people. There were a lot of favorite characters through this but one that sticks out as another really fucked up example of where I was was Damon Gant. I look back at liking him as the ultimate symbol of trauma reenactment. He’s older, he had power, he was creepy, intimidating, unsettling, and controlling. Everything my predators had been to me at the time. So- all of those things were in a way intertwined with my own sexuality as they’re what I first learned with anything ‘sexual’. Some of my favorite ships are due to the same reasoning. Gant and Lana- again, kind of inherently controlling, imbalance of power, and ends horribly and tragically. I always found something intriguing and beautiful about the most horrific and sad feelings. And I’ll touch on it just for the record. Cyrus is big fucked up- but I think he is, though maybe incorrect, well intentioned with his main goal being what he believes will actually be better for everyone cause of his projection of the awful things he feels on everyone. He doesn’t go out of his way to hurt anyone and certainly doesn’t enjoy other people’s pain but rather wants to eliminate what he sees as the reason for people hurting others with and end justifies the means mindset. His numbing/attempts to numb, hatred of emotion, and hatred of people inflicting pain on others is all incredibly familiar and I’m certain a part of me in middle school knew that when picking him as a fave. As I progress, I’m more interested his potential to relearn people and start opening up to feeling. (Pokemon Master’s definitely more than hinted at him changing and I’m hoping that means they’ll go that route with remakes.) I should note that during my most ‘numb’ parts would sneak out and I would be very- and increasingly over time starting with 6th grade- suicidal and became addicted to cutting and self harm (which I realize now are both just further numbing techniques). I described the feeling at the time as a parasite controlling your brain and a part of yourself knowing you had to fight against it. There was a period I was certain of how I would die, it was just when I would finally snap. I should also say how much people are able to numb themselves. I can remember getting so anxious that my heart would race and the world felt fast- I would get to the point of gagging but can’t remember ‘feeling’ any ounce of anxiety consciously. When first becoming sexually active, I had extended, horrific anxiety that would have hospitalized me for a couple weeks if not for my mom being able to stay home with me (also out of work for a couple months and left addicted to xanax for a bit). And still didn’t quite believe her all the way when she suggested it was anxiety. And I sure as hell didn’t make any connections to any possible mental issues around sex. So I’ve ranted enough but saved this bit for the end cause it hits kinda hard. People tend to feel the same things they felt in locations. Curiosity got the best of me and I drove around parts of my childhood I spend a lot of time at and specific routes I would take. (It’s called state dependent memory if anyone’s interested). I’m learning just how much I was numb to everything and wondering just what it was I was covering up my whole life. This isn’t easy to really type out cause of how fucked it is with the realization that I didn’t really experience childhood to a degree. During my drive, past my high school, up near my friends houses, the route I would take coming back from college- I was deeply, and very profoundly sad in my core. Nothing near what a person should have felt through their childhood. I missed so much. And I’m sorry to my friends at the time who only got to know a strange, numb, trauma reenacting, ghost of myself. I’m not going to be able to relive those times in a better light but I can at very least do some work to prevent a future spent numb and profoundly sad. But my brain is finally allowing me to remember some things because it’s deemed that I can handle it, I’m learning more about myself and my past, learning how to listen to what my brain and body are telling me and why, and getting better at expressing grief and real, raw, sadness and a touch of deep-seated anger so I think I might be starting to turn this around.

#TW: rape #TW: self harm #TW: suicidal ideation #some explanation of why I liked the characters I liked #This was meant to be focused on the character thing but went all over the place

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 5 years ago

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Witches, Chapter 14: the prelude to the one you’ve all been waiting for.

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

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“Chief! Chief!”

“Phoenix, you can’t come screaming in here banging doors and - what if we had a client? That hardly looks professional.”

“Er, right, sorry, Chief. But, look! I got my badge! I passed the Bar!”

“You did? - You did! Phoenix, that’s incredible! You deserve to be proud - scream that to the world, show off that you have your attorney’s badge! I expected no less of you, of course. I knew you could!”

“Heh, really? I wasn’t so sure there, myself.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Well, you couldn’t, so there’s that - seriously, Chief, I - I couldn’t have done this without you. I wouldn’t be here without you. I don’t know how I could ever thank you enough, or pay you back, or—”

“You don’t need to thank me, Phoenix, really. You don’t owe me anything. As long as I can help, I’ll be here.”

Was his badge always this light and this tiny in his palm? It should be heavier. It should be weightier. It’s supposed to be weightier after it’s saved lives and ruined them. Everything it means, and it’s just this little sliver of metal, as shiny as when he was a rookie. After he put three years of wear onto his first one, too, looked like he’d been around the block as a lawyer once or twice, and now he’s starting over from the bottom again.

Or worse than that, because when he started out he had no reputation but Mia’s, and now he has his own name, the highs and lows of it. Who is Phoenix Wright? The man who defended Will Powers, Max Galactica, Mask de Masque. (Scratch Matt Engarde.) The man who felled Manfred von Karma, Damon Gant. The man who defended Zak Gramarye. (Zak goddamn Gramarye.) The man who felled Kristoph Gavin.

(Though there’s some who still think he positioned Kristoph Gavin to take the fall for him.)

If it wasn’t for Edgeworth (again; first to save him, now to save someone else at his behest) he wouldn’t have bothered. Not with his name bitter on the tongues of half the legal system and this new little badge with its sheen dulled by tarnish and grime only Phoenix can see. But it’s Edgeworth, so Phoenix is here, and while he’s here, he supposes he can show Athena that all her admiration of him, all her faith in him, wasn’t hollow. That he can be who she thinks he is.

He can show Apollo that he’s more than the director hiding in the wings, the puppetmaster behind set. That he can be more than Apollo knows he is.

They won’t have to run his errands anymore. He won’t give them more reason to resent him.

But even thinking that - and even knowing that this accomplishment he wants to share stems inextricably from to all his failures that won’t be far from their minds - he’s still excited to tell them, to present this new badge to them.

Sometimes he’d swear he’s running a daycare.

He’ll freely admit he’s not an organized person and that his daughter has learned from him. She doesn’t put her magic props away because “I’ll just need them again soon anyway!” which is absolutely fair reasoning. But the playing cards and hula-hoops and plastic spaghetti don’t make the place look dignified, and it’s even less when he enters, ready to proudly show off his badge, to find the couches turned around to face the ancient TV that usually only plays the news, and Athena flinging herself up off the couch, a notebook raised as a weapon, at Apollo who has begun to walk away.

“How can you suggest such a thing!” she demands, indignant and raring for a fight. “This show is therapeutic!”

“You’ve watched it five times already!” Apollo roars back. His loud voice is about the only thing that lets him keep up with Trucy and Athena, Phoenix is pretty sure. They have the energy, but he has the volume. “That inane pirate song getting stuck in my head is not therapeutic!”

“Uh, guys?” Phoenix interrupts. “Boss here, asking a question, y’know, what do you think?” He gestures at his lapel area where the new badge - he still has trouble thinking of it as his badge - is pinned.

“But animal-assisted therapy is a real and valid thing and that’s why getting membership cards to the local aquariums here is paramount to my study of psychology—”

“Are you trying to justify it to write it off on your taxes?”

“Is there any work you should be doing?” Phoenix says, louder this time, and apparently the word work flips some switch in their brains, causing both to jump, and Athena to lower the notebook.

“We both already cleaned the toilet—” Apollo says.

“A couple times because he thinks I didn’t do good enough,” Athena adds.

“—and watered Charley.”

“But not with toilet water,” Athena adds, which instead of reassuring Phoenix makes him worry about a matter he had no reason to be concerned about a second ago. “So y’know.” She flashes a reflexive peace sign.

“And what if it was a potential client who walked in, instead of me? That hardly looks professional.”

“Er.” Athena’s eyes dart toward Apollo, searching for help.

“Sorry.”

Phoenix sighs. They barely respect him, but why should they? He’s given them space to work out of and left them alone enough that whatever unprofessional mess they make is their problems, not his. “Back to whatever you’re arguing about,” he says wearily.

They glance at each other again, obviously aware that he’s bothered, that it’s probably something about them - how many complexities must Athena hear in his voice right now? - but she’s also still passionately heated about whatever this aquarium argument is and can’t drop it yet. “And the orca pirate song is not any more inane than whatever tunes you hum while you do paperwork, Apollo!”

She probably doesn’t know what tunes those are, but Phoenix can absolutely guess what they are by the way Apollo’s face flushes. Oh, to be in his twenties and just casually crushing on his courtroom rival instead of being thirty-something and pathetic about it.

He starts past them, back to his desk. Athena raises the notebook threateningly again, Apollo puts the couch between himself and her, and all the lights in the office burn out with a horrible burst of static. The blinds clatter heavily down over the windows. Athena shrieks - christ, has he told her about Mia? No, he didn’t. (“It’s all need-to-know with you,” Edgeworth grumbled, once, some or another time within a seven year span, “and you think no one else needs to know.” Apollo asked about the office, so Phoenix told him. Athena hasn’t asked.)

Apollo, a little more used to her whims, still jumps, but silently.

“Why?” Phoenix asks. The light directly above him hums back to life, a makeshift spotlight. “Okay, that’s a little much.”

But he only realizes what she’s doing when Apollo blurts, “Wait, Mr Wright, that badge—”

It’s extra shiny in this light. Mia knows her dramatics.

“You passed the Bar! You got your badge back!” Athena drops the notebook and claps her hands together. “Congrats!”

It might just be a psychological trick of the light, the way it’s focused on him and nowhere else, or maybe it’s Athena beaming at him and Apollo’s astonished expression slowly opening up into a grin, or a combination thereof, but a warmth is gathering in his chest. It replaces the cold confusion that clung to him since he first took this new badge in hand. “Thanks, guys,” he says, and he finds he means it, even if it took Mia smacking them around the head. The rest of the lights spring back on, though the TV remains off. Mia never really cared for television, not even the news; Phoenix later found out, or realized, that she was looking for Redd White’s hand in every broadcast, every spin on a story, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything else if local news rumbled on in the background.

“You look like a real lawyer,” Apollo says, with clear admiration. Almost the way he sounded when Phoenix first met him, though without the stammering and stumbling. “Like you’re capable!”

He is not going to ask if that means he didn’t look capable before. He knows the answer.

“So!” Athena puts her hands on her hips. “When do we get to see the chief in action?”

“Huh?” he asks. The warmth of moments ago is a little too hot now, boiling him. “Who?”

“You, duh! Like Mr Edgeworth is the Chief Prosecutor, you’re the Chief Defense! Chief Anything Agency!”

“No thanks,” he says. Athena’s shoulders hike up slightly, her concentration increasing even as he fights to level his voice. “Just stick with ‘Boss’. Or my name, that works even better.”

Athena isn’t subtle, turning to Apollo for help understanding, help she’s not going to get from him on this.

“I don’t want that much responsibility,” Phoenix jokes, or he’s trying to joke, and it’s true but also not really the reason. “And anyway, ideally you’re not seeing me in action; ideally” - he’s allowed to dream - “we’ll actually have clients and you and Apollo will have your cases, and I’ve got mine, and you’re hopefully too busy to watch me go bungle my second attempt at a career.”

Self-deprecating humor is maybe not the only kind he has left, but it’s definitely that which he knows best how to wield. It started as another weapon in his arsenal against Kristoph: misdirection and diversion by confirming of all the worst that Kristoph thought of him. Phoenix Wright is a lawyer with only luck and no skill; Phoenix Wright has everything he does because some of the fae, and not just any but the royal fae, handed it to him. Phoenix Wright is so goddamn incompetent without them that he stumbled into an enchantment and lost everything he had been given.

(The thing about that last statement was, looking back on the transcript of the trial, he knows even if there hadn’t been enchantments layered on the diary page - Kristoph’s clumsy attempt to fortify Vera’s beautifully-and-unknowingly-cast spell that made it convincing evidence despite its dubious source - he would have presented it anyway. He didn’t have another bluff left. He just had Mia’s advice, believing in his client - he had Mia and that day in court she couldn’t save him. The truth of it: Phoenix Wright, so goddamn incompetent that even with help of the fae he lost everything.)

“Man, all this preparation you do for cases,” Phoenix would say, leaning his elbow on Kristoph’s desk and lazily waving at all the paperwork that he had so carefully organized on his desk. “Ever thought about my tried-and-true wing-it-and-bluff?” he’d ask, and Kristoph would smile tightly and pretend that it was funny and that he didn’t hate Phoenix, and right back Phoenix would pretend that he didn’t hate Kristoph.

(But the thing about carrying on like that was that, at some point, Phoenix came to hate Phoenix too.)

Neither Athena nor Apollo has this in common with Kristoph - because Phoenix is the man who gave Athena her faith that defense attorneys can save people, and because Apollo knows what it’s like to be the flailing, bluffing one, and that it’s not indicative of incompetence but more the kind of bullshit cases they end up saddled with. Neither of them expect the self-deprecation - neither of them agree. (Apollo’s reasons to hate him aren’t these.) And they’re both staring at him trying to figure out whether he believes his own joke, whether “I hope the agency is busy” is just a thin veneer for “I want neither of you around”.

Which - to be fair to them for asking that question, he really doesn’t. Better for them not to find out what it’s like investigating alongside a man as cursed as he is, how those cases twist and turn worse and worse, more than what Apollo has already experienced. The way culprits shift: Redd White moving suspicion from Maya to Phoenix himself; SL-9 falling onto Ema’s shoulders because he tried to save Lana; Ron DeLite going from theft suspect to murder suspect; Godot letting the accusation fall on Maya once Iris was exonerated, just to see if Phoenix was capable of solving the case, whether he’d really been worth it for Mia to save. And then the weirder things: the amnesia, the doppelganger who tried to damn Maggey. Edgeworth escaping a guilty verdict only to make a confession, saved only to die. (“Die”, air quotes. Saving people is a funny thing. They’re only human. And even ones who aren’t human can only do so much.)

All Apollo’s had is a client he personally charged with smuggling, and that was moving a step up from murder.

(Okay, yeah, there were both the Kristoph situations, Apollo exonerating his client by indicting his mentor, and Vera’s poisoning, but Phoenix was there for both of those so he can say those are his fault.)

“Yeah,” Apollo says finally, after he and Athena share a glance that says they’re probably going to be discussing this later, “based on precedent, that’s not happening.”

“Ah, but that’s before you’ve become the heroes of Nine-Tails Vale and Tenma Town, yes?” Phoenix asks with a grin.

Apollo does not share his amusement. “I didn’t set out to be a yokai lawyer,” he says.

Phoenix didn’t want to be a fae lawyer - or, Mia was a fae lawyer, and Phoenix is a lawyer for the fae - and it happened anyway. His career is not something that should be replicated, but it might already be too late for Apollo. “Making names for yourselves, however it happens, is a good start,” he says. “You probably won’t get stuck in a niche from two cases.”

“Y’know, Boss, I hope you’ll sound more confident encouraging your clients than you do with us,” Athena says.

“The clients won’t have your ears, though,” Phoenix says.

“No, you don’t sound at all confident to me either,” Apollo says.

Go figure. Was he always bad at this, or over the years has he lost yet something else? “Noted,” he says. “Thanks for the advice, kids. I’m still gonna recommend you not yell at each other in the front room. Save that shit for after hours.”

Athena chuckles and Apollo sighs and that seems a quick summation of each of their relationships to him. He heads to his desk, finding it cleaner than he remembers it last night, which means either Apollo organized it while he and Athena have been rattling around their cage today, or Mia’s gift to him in honor of passing the Bar again is to give him one day that she’s not on his case for being a disorganized mess.

She’d like Apollo. She does like Apollo, Phoenix sees that plainly, but they should have gotten the chance to work together. Stand in court together. He’s got a whole damn list of people he wishes Mia could have spoken with; all three of the kids are right at the top. It’s not fair, not in the least. It never is.

Athena’s voice drifts loudly in from the front room. “Hey,” Phoenix says, sticking his head back out. “What’d I just say?” he asks. They really don’t respect him at all do they. “If you really have to yell at each other, go back into the kitchen or somewhere.”

“We have a kitchen?” Athena asks.

“Only sometimes,” Apollo says. Right, he’d been taken by surprise by its existence, too.

“Anyway that’s not important right now!” Athena is still yelling. Phoenix ventures further into the room. She points at the television screen. “Apollo! You heard me! We have to go investigate!”

“If we don’t have a client, we’re not gonna be allowed to run around a crime scene,” Apollo says slowly, like that will make the words sink in. “Not unless we were already on site when the crime was discovered, are friends with the detective, and the prosecution is neurotic and stressed enough that he doesn’t care that you’re there, and even then, witnesses aren’t going to talk to you because you aren’t anyone officially on the case.”

Based on how Trucy relayed it, that must be the Tobaye case, over at Sunshine Coliseum, that he’s talking about. “What is it that you want to investigate?” Phoenix asks.

“The aquarium we were just talking about!” Athena sounds frantic, and Widget can’t settle on shock or anger. “The owner was found dead, under suspicion of being murdered! And a suspect in custody! We’ve gotta do something!”

There’d be a lesson here about how she tries to stretch herself thin doing everything that isn’t her job if they had anything else they could possibly be doing, but they don’t.

And then it is their job, because a young woman who looks like she’s just come from a costume party at the beach, barrels in and asks which one of them is Phoenix Wright.

As far as coincidences go, this is one of the sort where Phoenix would worry that Maya had murdered a man and sent the suspect’s friend over to the office to request Phoenix’s help, as a celebration of him getting his badge back. Except Phoenix hasn’t told Maya, yet, and even if it was that, it still wouldn’t account for Athena chattering about the aquarium minutes ago. Chalk one up to the possibility of fate or destiny and move on.

The young woman’s name is Sasha Buckler, and she, as Athena guesses, works at Shipshape Aquarium, the site of one of Los Angeles’ latest murders. Her friend, the accused, is in custody down at the aquarium. And she needs the “Wright” man for the job to help her.

“Don’t tell me she’s here because of a bad pun,” Apollo mutters.

Surely not, and not just because it’s a pretty good pun, all considered. “I’ve been all over the city already, actually,” Sasha says, her mouth set in a hard line, “and all those lawyers said there’s no merit to the case, or they can’t help! Hearts colder than the depths of the Mariana Trench!”

“Ugh!” Now Widget has settled firmly in anger, and Athena once again ready to upend the entire legal establishment. “How awful! To have a friend in need, and no one else on your side…”

This far out of practice and diving in headfirst - he can’t not. It’s why he’s a defense attorney. “Okay, Sasha,” he says, taking a deep breath to steady his stomach, the resuming fear of fucking it all up, “I’ll take your case.”

“You - you will?” The words take a moment to settle, and Sasha lights up. “You will! That’s great! We’d better get to the aquarium right away so you can meet her!”

“All right!” Athena says. “Do you need a lift back? I can drive us!”

“Wait.” Phoenix turns to her. “Athena. You’re not—”

“Not coming? Of course I’m coming! You’ll need a co-counsel, right?” Because the last time he defended without one went so far wrong. “And I’ve been to the aquarium before, and I know a lot more about it, so I can help if Sasha isn’t around!”

That one is a good point, but the sick churning in his stomach resumes. It’s going to go wrong. She’s going to be disappointed in what she finds, what working with him is actually like. How his cases actually go. And she’s already invited herself out the door, taking Sasha with her, asking about the penguins and the puffins and all the other denizens of the sea. Helpless, Phoenix turns to Apollo, who is gesturing at the door with his eyebrows raised questioningly. “You’ve gotta hold down the fort, at least until Trucy gets back,” Phoenix says.

“Right,” he says darkly, seeming to have expected that answer but not happy about it, either. “Got it.”

Phoenix catches up with the girls at Athena’s car, to find himself relegated to the back seat.

The client, Sasha’s friend, the one accused of killing the aquarium owner, is an orca.

Phoenix should have asked Sasha for more details about her friend while they drove over, but she and Athena spent most of their time in loud animated conversation and he hadn’t been sure he could get a word in edgewise. Athena is, apparently, with all her other interests, huge into marine biology, and she establishes her favorite animals practically immediately with Sasha. “I’m more of a dolphins and seals gal, myself,” Sasha said. “You like sea birds though, huh?”

“And dolphins!” Athena says. “They’re so cool - and so smart! I can’t believe you get to work with the orca in the Swashbuckler Spectacular! But birds, yeah, all of them - even sea gulls, ‘cause I hate to project human morality and personal awareness and personality onto animals, but those little bastards definitely know what they’re doing. I remember, way back when I was a little kid, the - the one day we went out to the pier, me and my friend and - my mom and, um, another family friend” - she trips over all the words about people from the past, and she doesn’t talk much about life before Europe, but Phoenix does know that her mother died years ago - “and we tried to get lunch and the gulls—”

After that ride, Phoenix is on the other side of the city, finding out that Sasha either forgot or - he suspects - deliberately didn’t mention the identity of her “friend”, who is a killer whale wearing a pirate hat and fake mustache. “See, when I was asking around for a lawyer for Orla here, I was told about you and your office, that you don’t discriminate against animals - that you’d questioned one as a witness and got your client off the hook that way!” Phoenix wouldn’t call that doesn’t discriminate, but rather fucking desperate, but Sasha is beaming and he doesn’t know how he’s going to turn her down. “And I just knew you were the person who could help me, and save her!”

Who told her about that? Either someone who thought there might be some merit to defending an orca but already had a full caseload on the platter, or someone who’s having a laugh at Phoenix’s expense. Or both. Put both of those thoughts together, and add that ten years after the fact, that someone who spoke with Sasha remembers Phoenix for the parrot stunt and not just the Gramarye debacle, and - oh hell, it was Raymond, wasn’t it.

“I am texting Apollo right now to remind him to tell me about that case,” Athena says, and true to her word she pulls her phone from her pocket. “Right now.”

“That was - that was a lot different.” Phoenix stares at the orca with its head poked up out of the pool. Its little tweets and chirps are cute, certainly, and the hat, but it’s also a fucking orca. It doesn’t talk, is the first of many problems. There’s also got to be a reason they’re called what they are. “So, uh, killer whales, y’know - they don’t eat people, do they?”

Said killer whale pops back out of the water and whistles angrily at him. Sasha glares. “Of course not!” she snaps. “And don’t say things like that in front of her! She’s got feelings, and you’re making her feel bad!”

“Yeah!” Athena chimes in, and Phoenix wonders if he had Apollo here, would Apollo be on his side or not.

“Orla here only eats fish,” Sasha says. “In the wild orcas eat” - she shudders and her pirate jewelry loudly jingles - “seals, too, but we can’t exactly get those, so it’s just tons of fish!” She smiles fondly at the orca, and after several seconds of it making some more noises and smacking the water with its flippers, she says, “Orla says she forgives you for the question.”

Wouldn’t want a killer whale to hold a grudge against him, but either Sasha’s taking the piss out of him, or she actually—

A quick check confirms two things: that Orla the orca is indeed only an orca, which makes this entire situation both better and worse, but Sasha is not merely human.

Shimmering whiskers brush out along her cheeks, and the hands she gestures with are gloved in translucent, grayish-tan flippers, complete with claws on the ends. Dark speckles, most almost star-shaped like the stage makeup around one of Sasha’s eyes, aren’t set against her skin but hover just above it, on the level of her flippers, a second skin invisible in some places but all encompassing. And her features are bold and apparent about her, more than a ghost of a transformation she’s never made - she’s more like Kay, whose feathers are bold along her arms and through her hair, than Lang, who even with the Sight has to be in a certain light for his eyes to glint yellow or a wolf’s ears to show up out of his hair.

The killer whale trainer is a seal. Her other form ranks on the food chain directly below the creature she works with. He could almost laugh.

He doesn’t, of course. That really wouldn’t help shit; Athena would certainly yell at him for it. She’s heated as anything with the detective - a man built like a brick wall as much as Gumshoe is, but even louder and, really, just obnoxious. He introduced himself as “Fulbright” and Athena says they worked opposite him on Mayor Tenma’s case and from that one occasion, three months ago, she obviously has the read on him, and importantly, knows how to manipulate him. She’s ready to fight, teeth bared and fists up, and Phoenix is not going to get in her way.

And Sasha is looking at Phoenix with stars in her eyes, like he’s really the man who can put an end to this nightmare. She’s looking at him the way Athena did all those years ago when she told him she made him believe that it’s possible for a defense attorney to win. The way Apollo did in the courthouse lobby, before Phoenix sent him and the trial both straight to hell.

For someone who actually believes in him, however deserving or not he may be - he’ll do it. Athena’s cracked Fulbright open and provided a window of opportunity. “Detective Fulbright,” he says. “Sasha. I’ll defend Orla in court. Even an orca deserves a fair trial and a thorough investigation. If the aquarium’s owner is dead and can’t take responsibility for her, then I will.”

Sasha beams brighter. Fulbright, finally struck silent, gapes at them. “Oh, so we’re outdoing your last craziness now, huh, Boss?” Athena asks. She smacks her fist into her open palm. “What the helll-eck, what the heck, I’m on board with this! I’ll take responsibility for her too!”

First client with his badge back on his lapel, and it’s a selkie and her orca. The more things change, the more they stay just as goddamn weird as they always have been.

#roddy fanfics #fic: the witches of los angeles

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0rdis · 5 years ago

Text

actually wrote something sfw about my fl oc. written in the pov of Lady in Lilac.

spoilers for seeking, kinda. Goes up to the Knock but is very much a huge au so its... very not canon. And very very vague.

[ao3 link]

The first time you meet him, his eyes are peligin.

He wanders into your shop on legs fresh off the zee. He's seen something out there and you set out vials of dark ink. It's hard not to have heard the rumors about him, as close as you are to the Bazaar.

"I hear you can do tattoos in the Neathbow?" Asks the Monster-Hunter and his tongue keeps running over his teeth. There's no blood on them but you know that's what he's looking for. He's hungry in a way you know.

"I do. They call you the Fist of the Bazaar, correct?" It's an impressive title. The Masters overlook his hunger because he's willing to follow his targets to Death's Boat. You remember shuddering the first time you heard about how he shoves them off.

He is dedicated, in the least. You, of all people, know how the Bazaar and her Curators are with secrets. Having someone so naive, so desperate for a place in the world, makes it easy to keep enforcing their wills.

He tenses. "Have we met?"

He wouldn't remember if you had, you think. You say, "No. I'm a friend of the Bazaar, though. Don't fret."

He doesn't relax. "They call me that. But I'm just a bounty hunter." He's modest and that's strange down here. You wonder how long he will be like this.

"A hard job when death isn't permanent down here," you smile. His name and face are known. His habits will be known next. "A tattoo, then?"

"An eye. Like they say hides under the Zee."

You take out your instruments. "Have you seen it?"

"Not yet."

You have no doubt he will. Already you know he's curious in ways that are dangerous. You ink it into the soft flesh of his inner arm with peligin. Gant flecks the pupil, because he will be consumed soon too.

He's silent as you work, like he's holding his breath. He watches with the same peligin eyes. You are sure they were brown before he got hungry. You wonder how he started.

"Do you dream?" You ask.

"Even when I don't sleep," he says quietly.

"I'll give you some advice, on the house. When things seem too hard to bare, look to love. Always."

His eyebrows furrow. "I don't know anything 'bout love "

"No?" You tilt your head. "Nothing about the sacrifice? The feeling of tightness in your chest like you may be drowning? The feeling you get when you remember the stars?"

His breathing hitches. You both fall silent, until finally he replies, "Isn't love dangerous here?"

"Yes. But when has that ever stopped you?" You're talking about yourself but you see something in his eyes that reminds you of yourself. You had been curious like him too once. And you had found the answers in the Game That Stretched To The Stars and you had fallen in love. Every year you return to the Neath. You look to love and add your own stories to her runed spires.

He doesn't answer.

After, he pays and leaves a tip. You raise a brow but he leaves before you can ask. He's left you his card, though you never use it. He leaves in the direction of the Forgotten Quarter. You can almost hear him telling the Well his stories.

(No, not you. The you you left behind.)

You see him again before you leave again to the surface, the tattoo is healed but you think you see it blink.

–

The second time you meet him, it's two years later. His hair is turning white, his eyes almost golden. He gives you a candle. It smells like lilacs. He's trying to hide the smell of absinthe on his breath.

"Have you seen the Vake?" The Vake-Scarred Hunter asks.

"I hear hunters go missing searching for it. I wouldn't dare seek it out."

He pulls out a crumpled paper. You didn't take him for an artist but it looks like something you would see in a research paper. Messy sketches with too much attention to the wings. You absentmindedly touch the tattoo you gave yourself. The one of a crab.

There's love in his drawings. Like there's love in your work.

"A bat," you say evenly. Mr Veils, you think. You've met them in passing, although never without their robes like he's sketched out here. You've read all about it on the hidden undersides of the Bazaar. She keeps even the worst and failed love stories, though they are hidden. You doubt even Veils knows its tale is burned into her carapace, right next to a name that should no longer exist.

"Please. Can you do it?"

You have turned down many Vake-Hunters but you do it for him. For the love story it will produce.

Wings wrapped around his neck as you know claws have wrapped around it before. You can see the blood from a weeping scar soaking into his shirt. How many times has he died now? And how cruel is fate is to give him eyes you once saw in the Irrigo pools. He's hungry and has lost too much weight.

Is he the one, you wonder?

When you finish, you hold out a mirror and you swear you see him wipe away tears. You inked the stars of the wings in cosmogone and violant. A feral grin and eyes the speak of intelligence rather than a beast.

"Yes," he whispers, "That's perfect."

You wonder if Veils will be offended or proud.

–

It's the third time and yet the first. He's soaked from well water, limping. He almost looks like he recognizes you. He's full of love like you are. The real you.

(You're early.) You say and the real you would feel guilty. Down here, you don't, you can't. He still reminds you of yourself. Would you stop him if you could? Fate and Destiny are such strange things. You had once sought yours too.

The Rapacious Hunter wants answers, of course. You can give them. Just like the Bazaar once gave you.

(No more mysteries.) You tell him. (Mr Candles was forgotten and you must be too. I know what you want – what he wants and what the real me wants. And it's all about love.)

You almost laugh at the look he gives you, somewhere between surprise, joy, and fear. (Oh, hush, I can say it down here. No one can hear us. It's just you and me. I'm no one and you're even less than that.)

You baptise him in Irrigo. You don't need to take anything, he'll leave behind a shade like you. His future is already set in stone. But you will make it so he can't back out, can't turn around. The Masters will know. But will they remember after they've seen him long enough to stop him?

(Perhaps, in time, he came to like being The Drowned Man. You're more alike him than any other.)

You had met Candles and you had read the tragedy until your eyes burned from the Correspondence etched on the back of the one you love (not the you down here. The you down here doesn't love her). You had cried reading it and she had cried with you. She hadn't meant for it to happen like this, but she had no other options.

Perhaps Spices had been right, the Bazaar had told you, murder makes wonderful love stories. She's tired. You wish you could help more.

In a way, you do, stepping to the side to reveal the candle. The Hunter-Seeker stumbles forward, desperate, mad. (Take it and you'll never be alone again.) You warn but you almost laugh. He's not alone. Not with the voice in his head. Not with Veils. Not with you.

(What else could I do but love you?) You ask because the real you gave you up for love. This Seeker will give himself up for love as well.

And there's a comfort in that. For him and you.

–

“Do you ever miss the Sun?”

(Yes.)

He doesn't ask which Sun. You almost wish he would.

–

You don't expect to see him again, but the next year, he is back in you shop. He glows with a familiar violet. He knows you as much as you know him now.

And both of you know what it's like to love a monster.

"The Parabolan sun isn't right." People say there are only colors that exist in dreams. You are sure his eyes are that shade of gold now.

You agree because you remember the way the sun of Parabola looked before he died. It was his light back then, not the false sun the Second City Refugees put into the sky.

"They love the sun," you reply, "They couldn't live without it, so they built their own."

"Love makes people do horrible things." He isn't talking about Parabola anymore. Maybe he's not even the one talking.

"Especially when you love something cruel."

"Cruel enough to kill?" He asks and you are positive you aren't talking to the Hunter now.

"Cruel enough to imprison." You can't help the sadness in your voice. It still surprises you, though.

"All shall be well. It promised."

"They will only take a little. They promised." You counter. It's a low kind of blow but you don't say it bitterly. Everything that the Bazaar did, she did for love.

The two of you stare at each other. He closes his eyes, steadies himself. "Ah," he chuckles, "But we wouldn't love them if they weren't so."

Yes, yes, you agree. If the Messenger had succeeded, or had it not had tried so hard, you would not love it so. If Veils hadn't betrayed, it would not be Veils.

You don't say any of this, of course. What you say is, "A final parting gift?"

He nods. "I want to remember Parabola."

A vine in viric curls up his leg like a snake. Thorns look like they could draw real blood and buds could bloom into roses if you close your eyes. You step back so he can see your work.

"Do you think," he starts, "that this will ever end?"

"I know it will." How, you aren't sure. But you know sooner or later it will end. You know the politics of the Wilderness.

You pick up your needle one last time, put it to skin and write one word. A name. The name of the Bounty Hunter in front of you. He won't be this way much longer, but for now, it's his name.

He will be remembered this time.

–

The Once-Master had promised you the Sun.

You had haunted the Nadir like a ghost, turned bitter by being given up. The real you had left you, so that she may work to a doomed future. The Bazaar is doomed. You can't change that. Perhaps you want to punish yourself. Bring light to the Neath and end this charade.

The real you had love, had a future. You would take it from her as they had taken it from Mr Eaten. Grief and hate are all that's left you which is why it hurts so bad to realize the Rapacious Hunter has more.

He has hope.

You are silent as he lets the Betrayer cut him apart. You expected Veils to kill him. You find yourself surprised yet again by how the whole thing unfolds. Instead, the Hunter is left less than he was before, if possible. Less human. But not a candle.

Not yet. He wants to be more. He wants to be Candles.

That leaves you as Eaten, you suppose. The agony and hate made manifest. You think you, too, have been betrayed. You would have frozen with him had he asked. Died here in the north with nothing but each other. You love him because there is nothing left of you, as there will be nothing left of him. He is meant to bring Law to this Lawless place. Restore the balance of the Chain.

He is meant to be avenged and remembered. He promised you would see the Sun.

You break your silence only because he is so weak. You aren't sure if he can make it. But he has made it this far and you are left without a choice. It's now or never.

(Knock, and ask.)

"How can he return?" The question is a damnation. There is no Sequence for this. But you realize, suddenly, this may have not been Eaten's plan, but it had been Candles. A Greater Plan, a Greater Sin. This is greater than you, or the Vake-Scarred Hunter, or even Mr Veils who slinks back as the gate ignites in a burning white light. The real stars glisten and glow. A ripple across the door.

You understand. This had never been about the Bazaar or the Betrayers. This is about those higher. Lure the White here, to this Lawless place. An army is building.

On the surface, the real you makes a wish on a shooting star that streaks across the horizon. In all things, look to love.

Veils is staring, not at the stars but at the figure in front of the gate. The shadow that had been the Seeker bursts at the seams with light and memories. Lacre cannot bury Law. You cannot reach his mind, the place you had made home. It's not there and neither are you. You are finished. Nothing will remain.

But in the end, you see a Sun, bright golden.

#fallen london #my writing

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neotericbitch · 7 years ago

Text

put it back

more of that one fic, as seen here and there

In their lab, the hooded Necromancer touches Valkyrie’s shoulder, right where her injury that facilitated Abyssinia’s return had been. They and their assistants do some magical hand-waving, Abyssinia’s Vita observing the process at Abyssinia’s side - he’d like to be further away from Valkyrie, but the view from the door is taken. When it seems the job is done, one of the Necromancers sticks one of their knuckles into a wound visible from where Valkyrie’s shirt is opened, and while she tenses and whimpers in pain, everyone else’s eyes are on Abyssinia.

“Nothing,” she says.

“Success,” says the head Necromancer, once a cleric of some kind. “And now we must make it so you only have more, my lady.”

Abyssinia specifically chose a tower room for Valkyrie to stay in, right at the top of the tallest and most winding of the staircases in the place. The one barred window has the perfect view of the lands that stretch out beyond the fortress, currently occupied by troops of all kinds. After a negligible once-over and unenthused bandaging - but no magical healing - the Vita clears Valkyrie to make the climb.

“You can wash yourself and your clothes with in your room,” Abyssinia tells her, smiling. “Don’t worry, Valkyrie. You’ll be looked after here.”

“I’d rather be anywhere else in the world,” murmurs Valkyrie.

“You been everywhere else in the world! It’ll grow on you. Trust me.”

Valkyrie does not, but she says nothing more as she is escorted out and away to where she needs to be. Her cuffs are not bound, neither should her room have any binding sigils anywhere in it - Abyssinia claims to want to keep a magic-positive environment - but she doesn’t think she could make anything happen if she tried. Not that she hasn’t kept some practice. It’s just been difficult for her to find time.

Perhaps, in her new life as a POW, she can make some.

Cadaverous Gant makes it halfway up the stairs before he caves in and starts talking. “If I weren’t bound by Abyssinia’s will,” he says, “I’d kill you. I would.”

It’s only now that Valkyrie recognises him. Up until now, she had thought he was another young Neoteric lackey. Seems that Abyssinia has made good on her promise to him.

Acutely aware of the man who has been her shadow since her arrival, Valkyrie must admit that Abyssinia has made good on a lot of her promises.

“When the time is right,” Cadaverous continues, “she will make the right decision. I have faith. In fact, I’m certain she’s only waiting for her next scheduled appearance on the Global Link. She’ll behead you for all to see.”

Valkyrie considers this. “Good.”

This isn’t the response Cadaverous was hoping for, and so he goes quiet again. Valkyrie feels the bandages wrapped around her waist becoming more loose with each step she climbs, and her face hurts no matter how still she tries to keep it. Her arms and neck and back are aching. Her legs are sore from running, all the running she’s been doing these past months.

She’d tried everything she could to get herself out, starting the very day it became clear that she couldn’t stay in the magical world. She’d run away a week and three days before Abyssinia announced her attack on the Irish Sanctuary. But even the mortal world isn’t safe, neither did it want to have her in it, and now here she is back in Ireland, all her hard work undone, no better off than the moment she lost Skulduggery.

She’s tired, so tired. There’s nothing left for her to do at this point except die - and after all the time spend trying to deal with her suicidal ideation, Valkyrie can’t say she’s terribly eager to get back into it. She sank five years into silently willing herself to death and that got her nowhere. Best to just...live. Even in a situation like this. Take it one day at a time. Whatever happens will happen.

Fuck that.

Valkyrie veers off the stairs, but she gets caught so quickly by the arm that her stomach barely has time to lurch. He must have been keeping this possibility in the back of his mind, which explains why he’s been following her, watching from the moment she first hit the ground. As she gets pulled back up on her feet, Valkyrie wonders what else he’s keeping back there.

The I’ll take this from here vibe radiates off Vile much like the shadows do, and Cadaverous makes his grumbling way back down the stairs, all that legwork for naught. Valkyrie doesn’t look at either of them, just up at the several minutes worth left of staircase until her door. When Cadaverous’ footsteps are nothing but distant patterings, the break is over and Vile nudges Valkyrie to get her moving.

“I can’t,” she says. “I’m done.”

He nudges her again.

“This has been the longest and worst day I’ve had since I left. I’m beaten half to death. I just made the world’s most pathetic suicide attempt. There’s ten dozen stairs in between me and where I can lie down. I’m done.” To fully express this, Valkyrie goes up one more step and sits down, groaning at all the loud cracking noises her body makes. “You’ll have to drag me.”

Vile sighs - the kind of sigh that her younger self would have taken great delight in, she’s pretty sure, because she did once love annoying Skulduggery. That sigh was once a bit like a win, but Valkyrie doesn’t feel particularly victorious now, not even when Vile picks her up and flies the remainder of the stairs. No, it’s not a win at all.

Her cuffs click open at the door and she throws them behind her, down into the abyss especially chosen to lie outside her quarters. The door is thick wood, though definitely the kind that she can kick through. The lock is stronger. The floor and walls within are no different to the rest of the tower, that cold stone that Valkyrie bets she could crack her skull open on if she tries hard enough. The bed is tiny, she’ll have to fold herself over to fit. And there’s a washing machine in the corner. A washing machine, she can’t fucking believe it. Well - Abyssinia makes good on her promises, after all. It doesn’t feel much like a luxury, but it’s the only one for miles.

Valkyrie doesn’t doubt she’ll be locked in here until she’s needed again. She wants to crawl onto that pathetic little bed and bleed out.

She goes over to neatly placed first aid kit on the washing machine instead, undoing the buttons on her shirt as she goes.

“I’m still here.”

“Good.” Valkyrie has no time to be surprised or even momentarily set back by a notoriously quiet fellow. “Make yourself useful.”

She throws the shirt in the machine and measures a cap of liquid. The bandages around her waist slip bloody and sodden down her legs. She has other wounds aside from that huge gash in her side, though none quite as pressing, nor covered. Her open injuries reside primarily on her top half, so the pants stay on, the right leg only rolled up a minute so she can slap a cheap bandaid on her knee.

The box probably won’t last her very long. She sticks more bandaids all over her, on the smaller cuts and scrapes mostly awarded while tumbling down a wooded hill, in a last ditch effort to escape capture. It was a lucky break, not far from the fortress, and completely wasted on her after waking up from her drugged-out flight. Certain movements make her hiss in pain - like putting one arm up over her head so she can get a clear look down at her ribs - so there’s no doubt there’ll be bruises on her bones as well as her skin, but at least nothing appears to be broken.

Valkyrie sits down on the bed - which on top of being tiny, is much too close to the floor - and prepares to rewrap her waist...then stops. She lies back and stares at the stone ceiling instead.

Vile finally moves from his spot and comes over, takes hold of her free hand first, then the one holding the roll of bandaging, and pulls Valkyrie back up on her feet.

She groans. “I’ve had enough.”

Vile hums softly in response. He takes the roll from her and winds it around the gash, mostly dried up now but painful all the same. His armour is colder than the stone, and Valkyrie’s skin has goosebumps and every hair on her body stands on end. She’d like to tear it off him piece by piece. She’d like to be warmed by a fire. Burnt at the stake, maybe.

When he withdraws his hands and the bandages are done up tighter than she could ever accomplish herself, Valkyrie gets back on the bed and assumes the foetal position, despite how much it hurts, and tries not to shiver. Vile just stands there, looking down at her.

“I've missed you.”

“You're a lot more chatty than I remember.”

“I've also missed talking.”

Valkyrie shuffles to the edge of the bed as best she can and pats the free space she made. Obligingly, Vile sits, and is very clearly taken aback by the height of the bed as well. She likes that, and smiles. His shadows wrap over her like a blanket.

“I didn't expect you to run,” says Vile after a minute’s silence. “I thought we’d built a rapport.”

“What, when? The Ball? Yeah, well, I wasn't much in the mood to reminisce about a dip when you burst out of your bones. Forgive me for thinking it wasn't safe, I don't know what would have given me,” as she talks, Vile puts his hand over hers, “that...idea. Not like your girlfriend was right there or anything, doing her spooky magic.”

“I meant with me. Skulduggery. I'm in control.”

“Oh yeah? Take off the armour.”

“I can't. Not now.”

Valkyrie shifts and shuffles up, sitting with her back against the wooden excuse for a headboard. He looks at her, right in the eyes. It's one of those things she can tell he's doing. If she couldn't tell after all this time, what could she do?

Sixteen years is a long time.

“You can't be fully trusted while you're wearing it.”

“Oh, Valkyrie…”

She shakes off the warmth hearing him say her name brings. “You're Lord Vile, crown Death Bringer, death sentence incarnate. I'm sure you've done loads of killing this past year. Do you know how much killing I've done? None.”

“Ten months. I spent longer with the Faceless Ones.”

“What have you done in that time? Did you plan on just standing back and watching Abyssinia take over the world?”

The helmet shifts away from her. “There's no way to end this easily, no way that I can see. Her followers won't go down without a fight, and making her a martyr would only put more fuel on the fire. I've been standing back and watching, yes, and waiting. Waiting for something that could help.” He lets that hang a moment. “I was waiting for you.”

Her heart lurches.

“And I've killed her twice already, Valkyrie. I'm never alone in a room with her. At least five people have to watch me with her.”

“Aw, you could kill five people in one go.”

Vile leans back. “Barely a minute ago you were chastising me for murders you don't even know I've done.”

Valkyrie doesn't have a response to that one, just a kind of sad smile directed at the barred window. “You sound so much like yourself.”

“Valkyrie, this is nothing more than a disguise. A façade, if you will. My demons are conquered, I only have to look like them for the time being. Either I'm here in armour or in chains.”

“Like me.”

For a minute, all either of them can hear is the washing machine. The door to the room is closed. Valkyrie hadn't noticed it shut, but she supposes it was a quiet job done by a tendril of a shadow.

“You watched,” she goes on. “You watched her fling me around like a rag doll.”

“It was taking everything out of me to stop myself from stepping in.” He's getting convincing now, as he leans in close to her. “Valkyrie, I spent every moment in that courtyard wanting nothing more than to take you away. I want to take you away now. If running is what you want to do, I'll run with you. Every day I've thought of…” He trails off. “Valkyrie?”

She forgets she doesn't have a sleeve and wipes her tears on her forearm. These aren't big messy tears, not accompanied by snot or sobs, these tears kind of remind Valkyrie of the ones you only ever see in romantic movies, where everyone is beautiful all the time, even when they're devastated. Though, she wouldn't quite describe herself as beautiful at the moment, battered up the way she is. Totally wrecked.

That's a good way to put it. She's a wreck.

“Valkyrie.”

“Take off the armour.”

He hesitates.

She covers her face with her hands for a moment, drags her palms down her cheeks and takes a breath. “You'd have given up a lie by now. I know who you are. I just need to see you.”

“Abyssinia did something.”

The washing machine finishes its cycle and powers down. Valkyrie would much rather deal with it than sit and consider all that could be wrung out of Abyssinia did something. Better to wring the water out of a shirt. She pulls it out of the machine.

“That's mine,” he says.

Put it back put it back put it back.

“Somehow got in my go bag.”

Valkyrie remembers the day she very deliberately and specifically chose one of Skulduggery’s shirts to put in that bag. The go bag was first formed in Colorado when it became apparent that she had to be ready to uproot again at any moment, stuffed with clothes and cash and a bottle of water. Sometimes, after returning to Ireland, she would get it out of its place at the back of the wardrobe, and just stand and stare at it. Sometimes she would sit with it on her lap.

When Abyssinia was resurrected, she started keeping it in her car.

Like the animal she is, Valkyrie wrings the shirt out onto the stone and whips it against her legs a couple of times. It's still dripping and stuck together as she tries to shove one of her arms through the wrong sleeve.

“For the love of god.”

Using Elemental magic like he's trying extra hard to prove that he's himself, he pulls the shirt off her and over to him, blasts air until it's dry and snaps his fingers to warm it. He offers it to Valkyrie as she comes back over.

She puts it on, doesn't button it. Sits back down on the bed. Skulduggery immediately gets up.

“I'm exhausted,” she says.

“Of course you are.” He turns towards the door. “You rest, then. I'm sure there's somewhere I should--”

“Let me see your face first.” Valkyrie pauses, then laughs. “Head. Skull. You know.”

He doesn't turn back, though his left hand does twitch. She knows this stance, one of deep conflict, intense consideration and anxiety, but that twitch is new.

“I'll come back tonight,” says Skulduggery, then shadow-walks out of the room.

#skulduggery pleasant

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akayamadanjaydotcom · 7 years ago

Text

I have finals tomorrow, so I’m drunk and watching Rotten Tomatoes’ worst movie EVAR

Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever has a 0% on Rotten Tomatoes with 116 critic reviews. It starts off with a few minutes of the blandest rock 2002 had to offer, over opening credits blaming “KAOS” as its director.

A woman has her child taken away and she can only muster an unconvincing shrug. Now someone is beating people up over record scratches.

I can’t believe this guy’s name is actually “Ecks.” Just call him “X.” Make him “Agent X.” Otherwise it looks like someone saying “XD” ironically. Another person is named “Bins,” so they clearly chose names by throwing darts at manly phonemes.

Ecks walks through the rain while clips play from that episode of Mythbusters where they blew up a car for no reason.

Lucy Liu is keeping a kid in a hamster cage. My roommate walked in on me pantsless to give me my bike key back, so I missed some conversation on a bridge. This FBI guy is telling a guy to commit suicide, and bongos are playing. It’s really disconcerting.

“His nickname: Prince of Darkness.” That’s the bullshit you get when you let someone pick their own nickname. Blah, blah, someone tried making the perfect human assassin and gave up and made death-robots instead. Now they’re watching Lucy Liu beat people up and also I might be misunderstanding this but I think they talked about China’s One-Child-Policy for some reason. Ecks must find Lucy Liu, playing Sever, a name so dumb I don’t want to use it.

Ecks pops some pills. His partner asks, “Is that why they call you Ecks?” He responds, “I’m on a diet.” I don’t know what that means, so I still hate his name. Is this an ecstasy thing, maybe? It never comes up again.

Some thugs try to capture Lucy Liu by putting a gun to her back in a public place and shouting “Freeze!” Why would you do that? That is the dumbest way to kidnap someone possible, outside this video of a guy at a concert who just tries to lead a singer offstage.

It took me a while to set up that link, and I missed an action scene, but I don’t care. Lucy Liu is shooting a minigun in slo-mo. Sure.

Now Ecks warns someone over walkie-talkie to leave a crime scene before they got shot, and then the guy gets shot. Then Ecks appears on scene. Why were you using walkie-talkies? You were like ten feet away from one another.

Ecks and Sever fight until they look like they’re about to kiss. Then they fall down a building, and it’s really hard to figure out where they are in reference to one another.

“My daughter asked why you look so sad. I told her it’s because you got beat up by a girl.” Thanks, dude, great. Also, I think Ecks looks sad because Ecks is a one-note character with no depth.

Lucy looks at computer-plans for the death-robot. It looks like a dopey sea-turtle. She zooms into a person’s arm, and there’s a sea-turtle-death-robot in someone’s blood? It’s the kid’s arm, I think. The kidnapped kid has the sea-turtle-death-robot inside him.

Pausing over some computer stuff, Lucy Liu is described as “Orphan Class Werewolf Grade Wet Design Prime.” It also references the Sword of Damocles, and since her character is named Sever, this is officially the only clever thing in the film. And it’s literally blink-and-you-miss-it.

Lucy looks up Ecks’ profile, too. He has survivors guilt because his partner died in a car-bomb. We’d better get him running towards a car shouting “NOOOOO” by the end of this.

A phone conversation with Lucy Liu and the bad guy, Gant, tells us the death-robo-turtle is totally in the kid’s blood. Gant put it there, because evil scientists always do this kind of stuff to their kid. You know? Shit.

“You promised me this would never happen.” This? Specifically? A child-kidnapping because he had a sea-turtle-death-robot in his blood? Who promises to their spouse that their child will never be kidnapped? That’s a red flag, at best.

Lucy takes some time aiming a rocket-launcher from a high-way overpass, and all the cars are like “okay” until she fires it. Then like twenty seconds of explosions occur, and I don’t think they’re even close to any of the characters. It’s just explosions.

Ecks confronts Sever and gets his ass handed to him, and Sever is like “your only character trait is you care about your wife, right? Gant has her!” but I thought that was clear from the beginning. Gant is the evil guy behind everything, including sea-turtle-death-robots, and we’re supposed to be surprised he’s behind that dangling subplot, as well?

The kid Lucy Liu is keeping in a hamster cage thanks her for bringing him food. His food tray had macaroni and cheese, jello, and a Hostess Pastry, so I guess I’d be thanking my captors, too, if they kept me in a hamster cage but at least fed me decently. Still, this isn’t making Sever a likable character. She kidnapped this kid, it’s a little difficult to pull off a heartwarming moment between them.

“If you don’t want to do this, then quit!” “I can’t it’s my job.” THAT’S WHY SHE’S TELLING YOU TO QUIT. Gosh, Ecks, come ON. But it’s turning out that the kid in the hamster cage is Ecks’ son? I think? And they showed the car explosion, but there was no running up shouting “NOOOOO” so it hardly counts.

Ecks meets his wife and now Sever is on his side. Except she kidnapped his son. She says she’s protecting him, not kidnapping him, and I guess that’s kind of true, but you don’t protect someone by locking them in a hamster cage. Ecks asks Sever, “what do you know about my son?” and I just have to imagine her saying “well he likes macaroni and cheese and jello and is remarkably okay with being locked in a hamster cage.”

Mom reunites with child and honestly this must be the most well-adjusted kid in the world. He’s fucking unflappable. “I wasn’t even scared,” he says. “Where were you, Mommy?” he says. Not “There’s no toilet in this hamster cage, I’ve had to poop in the corner like an animal.” Not “I must seek sunlight and also therapy.” Goddamn.

Now Gant sort of implies the kid is really his son, and he’s tricking Ecks into protecting him? Or something? I’m not sure who’s fooling whom. Who? Whom’st’d’ven’t?

“There are no innocent people, only killers and victims.” Then the victims would be the innocent ones. Oh my god. Proof read your scripts. Don’t just write stuff that sounds cool.

The climax seems to be Ecks and Sever pressing three buttons, each of which causes successively larger explosions. Ecks shoots a truck and it explodes. Then he shoots people. Goons ambush them. They shoot them. “Let’s finish this.” Thank GOD.

Bad guys chase Sever, not even firing at her. Then they shoot when she’s not there. I hope this text is tiring to read, because these endless explosions and shootouts are tiring to watch.

Finally the bad guy confronts Ecks, and is like “give me back my wife and kid” and Ecks is like “they’re not yours” and the bad guy is like “I’d hate for either of them to get hurt” in a threatening voice. Dude, you just threatened your own family. That is not bargaining.

Ecks defeats them with MOAR SPLOSIONS and it’s STILL not over. It’s Sever’s turn to shoot people. Then, for variety, she knife-fights another big bad guy, the Prince of Darkness. We get the same bland rock music which has played behind every scene. She throws him into a convenient vat of acid, while the bad guy Gant also explodes the acid at the same time.

The super well adjusted kid is afraid of Gant. Why? Gant was his Dad for his whole life. Suddenly he’s afraid of him? He wasn’t even afraid of being locked in a hamster cage for, like, days. Gant checks his kid for death-turtles, and finds none. Sever shows up behind him and it’s supposed to be this big moment. I don’t even remember what beef Sever had with Gant. Gant is just the bad guy.

And oh, man, Gant had the super-death-turtle in him. He collapses.

This movie was beyond dumb. I want to become a Rotten Tomatoes critic just to add another rotten review. It’s not even so-bad-it’s-good, it’s an unending slog. And whose kid was it? Is Ecks a dad now?

If I’m lucky, I won’t remember this tomorrow. If you want to join me in that bliss, start drinking now.

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