#hm I could also wish to be normal but that seems less achievable than the other two things

[whimsyprinx]

also sorry to the people who do actually care about or like me, I’ll just never know or believe you do me unless you actually say something

[spicycreativity]

Good Omens but Make It Moceit (unfinished)

I said I would do it and I tried very, very hard but it's not looking like I'm going to be able to finish because ✨mental health reasons✨

Here's what I have so far (about 8k words)

EDEN

It is a little-known theological fact that the invention of the hypothetical coincided nearly perfectly with the invention of the thunderstorm, the latter being a rather effable invention of God, all things considered, and the former springing forth from the troubled mind of Phaedaël, the angel of the Eastern gate. The first drops of rain pattered to the ground and he curved one wing upward to protect his head. Addressing his companion, he said, "I'm sorry, but I don't think I should be talking to you."

"Oh, and what a shame," cooed the serpent, who hadn't yet chosen a name, "and here I was so hoping you'd wring the details out of me."

"Oh," said the angel, considering this. He shifted uncomfortably, and made a face like he'd just been forced to swallow something bitter. "Well… What did you say to her?"

"Don't patronize me," said the serpent. He paused. "I don't suppose you could enlighten me, angel, on what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil?"

"They broke the rules," said the angel firmly.

"I don't suppose it matters that the rule was arbitrary?" The angel drew in a breath to reply, but the serpent cut him off, looking him up and down suddenly as though seeing him for the first time. A sly smile tugged at his lips. "Lose something?"

"No!" said the angel, far too quickly.

"Oh, come on. Lying doesn't become an angel."

"It's not a lie!" the angel insisted.

"Well, then. Please do tell me what happened to that flaming sword of yours."

The rain began to fall in earnest. A thunderclap sounded overhead. The angel said, "What if you had an opportunity to help someone--"

"What if?" repeated the serpent incredulously.

"What if," persisted the angel, "someone could benefit from something you were supposed to have, but weren't really using?"

The serpent began to laugh. "Don't tell me you gave it--" he gestured into the distance-- "to them?" A few more hysterical cackles escaped his chest, but he swallowed the rest down at the anguished look on the angel's face. "Oh, relax. If you did it, it can't have been bad, can it? Angels don't do bad."

"And demons don't do good?" the angel looked at the serpent with uncertainty.

"Oh, yes," purred the serpent, "we're wicked to the core."

The angel went silent, considering this.

The thunder roared, the rain came down harder, the serpent remained, and the angel very gently lifted his other wing to keep his companion dry.

Who, after all, prayed for the Devil?

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

God (God)

Logan (Patton's overseer)

Satan (A Fallen Angel; The Fallen Angel, one might say)

Remus (Janus' overseer)

Janus (An angel who did not so much fall as back away muttering "I'm really going to do it this time; no one try to stop me")

Roman (a lover)

Virgil (an Antichrist)

Dog (hellhound, hellraiser, and sleeping partner)

21 YEARS AGO

In the Valendale Regional Military Cemetery lurked a demon.

Well, he lurked as best as he was able, given that the ambiance was all off for lurking. He had fudged the timing a little, being unaccustomed to the nature of the passage of time on Earth, and had accidentally arrived just in time to witness a beautiful sunrise over Florida's eastern coast. Half the sky was a magnificent golden ocean with waves of orange and pink. The military cemetery had also been a mistake, though this one bothered him less. While he had been hoping for something a little more ancient and decrepit, he soon began to console himself by playing hopscotch on the clean, flat grave markers, delighting in the muddy bootprints he left behind him.

Besides, he liked the way 'military cemetery' rolled off the tongue.

When he inevitably got bored of desecrating graves, he threw himself down in the grass and began to look for worms and bugs with which he might decorate his uniform.

This was Remus, a Duke of Hell.

He found a worm and began to speak to it, watching it writhe around in his palm. "I'm so bored."

He spent a good few seconds coming up with a voice to use to represent the worm, then asked himself in a high-pitched squeak, "Why's that, your

Grace?"

Remus cupped the worm in his hands and rolled over, nearly kicking the basket he'd brought with him. This bothered him less than it rightfully should have, considering what was inside. He only gave a blithe "Oops!" and returned his attention to the worm. "That little subordinate of mine is making me wait!"

The worm said, "You should punish him!"

"Good idea!" Remus exclaimed, stroking the worm with his fingertip. "What do you think, should I spank him? Make him kiss my boots? Or--" He cut himself off, having just caught sight of flashing red and blue lights in the near distance. Sirens had been echoing on and off throughout the night, but they were very near now. "There's my bitch!" he said with undisguised affection. He put the worm in his pocket and stood up.

The Interstate Highway System was ostensibly developed under the command of United States President Dwight D Eisenhower in order to facilitate the movement of personal use vehicles, public transportation vehicles, and self-propelled field artillery across the country. This project, as anyone who has ever attempted to traverse the Interstate Highway System can tell you, was a catastrophic failure. The criss-crossing network of freeways, highways, turnpikes, and byways is frequently backed up with bumper-to-bumper traffic.

What most hapless travelers of the Interstate Highway System do not know is that the cloverleaf interchange, one of the most commonly-used interchanges in city planning, is also the exact same shape as the sigil det in the written language of the Church of the Black Clock. Written correctly, it means "black fire upon my enemies, devour their souls!" (Note: Written incorrectly, it reads "kneel, gay men.") Every day, commuters slow traffic via their own ill-wishes on fellow drivers, granted life by the sigil. (It is a known fact that every driver on the freeway considers every other driver on the freeway an enemy).

It was one of Janus' most diabolical achievements. He was quite proud of himself, not only in the end result but in his methods. While a lesser demon might have had to go to the trouble of hands-on work: hacking computers, making bribes, and, Satan-forbid, possibly even sneaking out at night to move marker pegs by hand, all Janus had had to do was talk. He was quite good at getting people to do his bidding once he got his foot in the door.

Something Janus had inexplicably failed to account for was the fact that he, too, would occasionally need to use the freeway system. Such was the curse of Janus' great evil deeds: more often than not, they slalomed between his legs like a wily terrier and bit him squarely on the ass.

The irony snuck up on him sometimes.

Janus had dark hair and high cheekbones. His eyes and tongue were really only unusual if you looked at them twice, and he had a tendency to hiss when he forgot himself. He looked far too young, far too handsome, and far too svelte for the 1957 Cadillac Deville he was driving, bearing no resemblance at all to the sort of wealthy, elderly man who deals in classic cars.

He checked his watch, which also seemed too old for him, and glanced at the rearview mirror. Normally he enjoyed the minor thrill of having cops on his tail, but his exit was coming up and he did have someplace to be.

What he did next lacked imagination, but it got the job done: With one complicated hand gesture, he turned both officers into pigs and gently glided their cars to the shoulder. Then he turned on his blinker and took his exit.

Remus watched the police lights disappear  with impassivity, bouncing on his toes. When Janus finally emerged through the wrought iron gates, having bent reality to get past them, he raised his arms and shouted, "Hail Satan!"

Janus acknowledged this with two lifted fingers. "So sorry I'm late," he said, bringing his hand smoothly upward to tip his hat, "it's just that I don't value your time in comparison to mine." The sarcastic inflection was so light the words could very well be sincere. But of course Janus always meant every word of what he'd said. (Now that's

sarcastic inflection)!

Remus gave a feral grin. Janus was his favorite subordinate. "Wanna see my worm?"

Millennia of acquaintanceship had freed Janus from the notion that he needed to be polite to Remus. The demon was as twisted as they came and nearly immune to flattery. "As much as I'd love to, shouldn't we get this over with?"

"Yeah, yeah." Remus looked around. "Hm, now where did I put the basket?"

The basket was currently sitting atop the headstone for a General T. Pratchett. Janus spied it first and indicated it to Remus with a flicker of his yellow irises, careful not to let a trace of his hesitancy show on his face. He didn't even let himself hesitate when Remus, who had hopscotched over to the basket and then back over to Janus, thrust it out to him.

"So this is really it," Janus murmured, wrapping both gloved hands around the handle of the basket. Then he began to work. "What a high honor."

"So they say," Remus said.

"Remus, be honest with me." Brief pause, just enough for Remus to wonder at the weight in Janus' voice. "Did you pull some strings to ensure I was the one who got this task? Do I owe you a favor?"

"Are you about to thank me?" Remus asked, tilting his head. Addressing the worm in his breast pocket, he said, "Listen up, this should be good."

"So you did?"

"Of course not."

Here it was. After a few seconds of rallying, his ace: "So why me?"

"You've been in the field the longest." Remus' grin widened to an impossible degree and he grabbed Janus by the lapels of his immaculate suit jacket, coming nose to nose. "Some of us think you're getting soft."

Janus smiled back, the unblinking predator's grin of a snake about to strike, and hefted the basket. "We'll see about that." And he extricated his lapels from Remus' grasp and turned to leave.

"You didn't say hi to my worm!" Remus called after him. Janus did not reply. Remus fished the worm out of his pocket. "How rude."

"The nerve of some demons," agreed the worm.

The Cadillac's speedometer hit 110. Janus fumbled for the volume knob with a shaking hand. The radio was permanently set to 98.5 The Jukebox, which only ever seemed to play Queen.

"Shit," Janus muttered as majestic panned harmonies began to emanate from his speakers. "Shit-shit-shit. Why now? Why me?"

BECAUSE, came the harmonic vocals, YOU'VE EARNED IT.

Janus bit down on his tongue to keep from swearing. Communication via electronics had been another one of his ideas, hoping he'd be issued a BlackBerry or a Nokia. But no. Instead, upper management just cut into whatever he was listening to at the time and twisted it. "Thank you very much, my lord," he said, working very very hard to instill his voice with the proper amount of unctuous ooze.

THIS IS IMPORTANT, JANUS.

"Yes, my lord."

THIS IS THE BIG ONE.

"Yes, my lord."

AND YOU UNDERSTAND, JANUS, THAT IF THIS GOES WRONG, EVERYONE INVOLVED WILL BE PUNISHED. EVEN YOU. ESPECIALLY YOU.

"I understand."

GOOD. YOUR INSTRUCTIONS.

And suddenly, he just knew. A new Queen song began to play on 98.5 The Jukebox, and Janus hissed and slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. "What was the point of all that, then?" he demanded of Freddie Mercury.

Freddie Mercury replied, "Don't stop me now! 'Cause I'm havin' a good time!"

Janus rolled his eyes and changed lanes without signaling. He had been instructed to head straight to a hospital on the edge of town. It was technically in an unincorporated community called Misty, but for all intents and purposes, Misty was Valendale. If he kept up this pace (the needle of the speedometer now closer to 130), he could be there in five minutes. Joy.

It had all been going so well, too. He'd really hit his stride in the 21st century, and now here was Hell pulling the rug out from under his shiny Armani brogues. Armageddon. What a nightmare.

In the Publix baking aisle, two angels stood side by side. One of them was Phaedaël, who had lately adopted the name 'Patton,' feeling it suited his corporation.

The other had been christened 'Loirea' once upon a time. As Heaven began to

modernize, Loirea had been the first among the angels to adapt to the changes being made. He had even taken on the name 'Logan' as a show of good faith. 

Both of the angels were human-shaped, having discovered early on that it's much easier to get things done when you have limbs as opposed to flaming wheels of eyes and animal heads poking out at odd angles.

Both wore glasses. Patton's glasses were round, wire-rimmed things, of the sort usually found on kindly old librarians and stern but fair headmasters of all-boy's boarding schools. Logan's glasses were made of shiny black plastic and looked like they could draw blood if strategically applied to a sufficiently tender area.

Patton was, at the moment, holding a bag a semolina flour under one arm and awkwardly attempting to explain himself. "It's called 'cooking.' It's actually really clever, you take ingredients and combine them--"

"Why?" Logan interrupted 

"Oh, uh, well," Patton hesitated, shamefaced, "it makes food."

"Eating," Logan said in such a forceful tone of dismissal that three boxes of brownie mix turned to ash behind him. "I don't understand why you waste your time."

"It helps me blend in," Patton said with a sheepish smile. Everything from his shoes to his shirt was a shade of white or blue; he'd never been comfortable dealing in gray areas.

"I see." Logan adjusted his tie. "Well, I'll let you get back to it in a moment. I just came to pass on a message: Our intel has given us reason to believe that Armageddon is underway."

"Oh," said Patton vaguely, staring at a bag of something labeled 'pasta flour.' "Oh!"

"We'd like for you to keep an eye on Janus. He's a demon; he's on a similar mission to yours."

"I, uh," Patton swallowed hard, staring right through the pasta flour, "I've heard of him."

"Good." Logan put his hand on Patton's shoulder and looked him dead in the eye. "Patton."

"Y-yes?"

"When I say 'keep an eye on' I mean I want you to watch him. It's a figure of speech."

Patton nodded, forcing his mouth to curve into a pale imitation of a smile. Logan nodded back and vanished.

"Well," Patton said to the pasta flour, "fiddlesticks."

Brother Emile Analogical had been raised a Satanist. There is no such thing as an orthodox Satanist, but if there was, that would be the kind of Satanism that Brother Emile's parents had practiced. He had graduated with unspectacular grades, joined the Paralleling Order of Saint Botild, and promptly moved from Nebraska to Florida: more specifically, to the unincorporated community of Misty in the greater Valendale area. The climate had taken some getting used to, not to mention the long, black robes he had to wear, but he had survived the transition and found himself a good fit for the Paralleling Order.

Note: Saint Botild Comminalitus of Malmö was reputed to have been martyred in the middle of the fifth century, for reasons unclear. It is said that the Lord granted him the power to draw parallels and connections between topics; his last words are reported to have been "This reminds me of that one story about Loptr, when he--" Then his assailants lit the pyre.

At the moment, Brother Emile was thinking about the tall, dark figure stalking down the hallways at him holding a basket, likening him to a Scooby-Doo villain, the way the shadows seemed to stick to him.

"Jinkies!" said Brother Emile once the figure was in earshot.

Janus raised an eyebrow at him over the tops of his sunglasses. "Hello."

Unphased by the cold greeting, Brother Emile pointed to the basket. "Is that the fairly odd baby?" he asked in a high-pitched coo that indicated he already suspected the answer.

"No," said Janus, rolling his eyes. "It's a basket of kittens I saved from drowning. Aren't you wondering why I'm all wet?"

"You're," Brother Emile started, and Janus braced himself, fearing the last frayed thread of his patience might snap if the sentence ended with the word 'dry,' "a Mister Grumpy Gills, aren't you?'

Janus thrust the basket at Brother Emile and did not dignify him with any answer more notable than a slight thinning of

his lips.

Brother Emile drew back the blankets and began to babble at the sleeping Antichrist. Janus took the opportunity to flee.

"Look at you," Brother Emile said happily. "Sleeping in a pic-a-nic basket, huh, Boo-boo?"

After a few more moments of cooing, babytalk, and Boomerang references, he remembered himself and found a wheeled bassinet for the baby Antichrist. 

There is a game, common among carnies and street magicians in which a ball is hidden under cups and shuffled around. Unbeknownst to himself, the two sets of new parents, and all the friars at St Botild's, Brother Emile Analogical was about to become a mark.

And Hell had had nothing to do with it.

same rate, and good and evil had a knack for balancing themselves out in the grand scheme of things. And this left Janus and Patton free to pursue other passions, which somehow resulted in the two of them spending a great deal of time in each other's company.

silence. "It's not even that I disagree with you," he said apologetically. "It's just, well, you know, I'm not allowed to disobey."

his hazelnut hot chocolate. "What's a shame?"

Janus nodded. "Roman Dowling."

Roman was about to turn 21, and lived his life according to the belief that everyone over the age of 30 was, in some degree, an 'elder').

wanna do that."

"Roman!"

people; every social interaction, no matter how minor, always kept his body as tense as wire.

[ganseybois]

Hi! I’m back with another prompt, if you’ll have it.

Tommy is subbing and all goes well until Alfie like the good Dom he is, starts aftercare. And Tommy is confused at first but then realizes this is normal.

here you go :) i hope you like it!

Tommy felt as though he was outside of his body.

This had been beyond anything he had ever dreamed. It had certainly been better than any other sexual experience he had in his life, including with Alfie. Alfie had been able to control him, so to speak, been able to coax him into letting go of himself, of turning over all sensibility and fight, of allowing himself to be handled (roughly, even) in ways he had never been handled before. He had even been able to achieve two orgasms, and Tommy was quite sure that he had been to heaven and back by the time that second one came out of him.

Now, here he was, trying to get up so he could wash himself, so he could tend to his slightly bruised wrists from where he had been tied, but found that he could not. He still did not feel quite connected to his body. Where was Alfie anyhow? Tommy felt so cold. He shivered and tried to grab for the blanket, but then, Alfie was there, warm hands ghosting over Tommy's, taking them and stopping him.

"Tommy sweetheart, hold on."

"I'm fucking cold." he snapped, his own anger surprising him. Where he felt light before, he was starting to feel itchy all over.

"I know, just let me take care of it, hm?" he said, and a warm washcloth began to make its way over his stomach, where Alfie had released on him.

Tommy wanted to retort back angrily, but it was as though the very touch of Alfie soothed him, made him calm down. Alfie's hand brushed over his forehead, his chest, while he used his other hand to clean Tommy carefully. He felt vulnerable, too vulnerable, but it also felt shockingly nice to have someone care for him this way. Alfie was being very delicate with him, as if Tommy was someone who could break so easily. But Alfie’s eyes were soft, his hands were gentle and careful, and the washcloth seemed almost an extension of him, of his care.

"As you may have noticed," Alfie spoke softly, "when a man is pushed to the limits, as you were, and you are fucking welcome for it mate, he can find himself in a space that is amongst the fucking clouds, yeah? Coming down from that can be a right fucking disaster if the person who got him there does not care for him after the fact."

Tommy didn't know what to say, but at least he was a bit less confused now about everything he was feeling. He sat up when Alfie finished, kissing him tenderly.

"I must be out of my mind for letting you, of all people, take care of me."

Alfie snorted. "Trying to pick a fight already, are we? After that magnificent fucking session I just bestowed upon you?"

"Bestowed it did you?" Tommy grinned.

"Yeah mate, and you should count your fucking blessings that I did. See, when you die one day, you'll be on your deathbed, right, and mark my words you will think to this very fucking moment right here and wish that you could have sex with me, one last fucking time."

"I'm sure that's exactly what I'll be thinking on my deathbed. Not about my children, no, I'll be thinking of your cock."

"Right you will."

Tommy rolled his eyes, and allowed Alfie to grab his hand and pull him up. "What now?"

"We're going to take a bath."

"You just washed me." he was cold again, being apart, and inched closer to Alfie, who smiled lightly, wrapping an arm around Tommy.

"It's part of the process, right? It's about me making sure that you feel safe Tom."

"You just want to see me wet."

"All right, a little of that as well." Alfie shrugged, preparing their bath quickly. When they got in, Alfie positioned them so that Tommy's back was against his chest, and his arms were wrapped around Tommy's stomach, their legs twined together.

Tommy had to admit, he did feel safe. He felt good. He had come down from his high, but besides his moment of temporary confusion, he felt okay now.

He leaned his head against Alfie's shoulder, kissing his jaw. "Your reputation would be ruined if people saw how gentle you really are Alfie."

He huffed. "Yeah well, if you ever say a word I'll fucking shoot you, how about that?"

Tommy laughed softly, making Alfie grin in turn. He brought his hand up to Tommy's face, running his thumb along Tommy's bottom lip before he brought him in for another kiss.

[scattered-irises]

LONG AWAITED CONCLUSION TO THAT ZEXAL PHILOSOPHICAL CHAT I POSTED A YEAR (or two) AGO

Part i

Basically, the theory is: Tron is a figment of the Arclights’ imagination and it’s actually just Byron going around messing everything up. Tron is a symbol of the corruption of the Arclights. 

****

And so, I pose you this question, Phosphorous. What if Tron never existed and was just a metaphorical representation for Byron's hatred and anger? What if the Barian World hadn't done anything to him and instead, just made him an angrier old man? So instead of this creepy, laughing child, we have this creepy man who goes around ruining people's lives for the sake of his revenge. 

The child is just something the Arclight brothers made up because they couldn't stand the fact that their father had become like that. But that was why they still followed him. Because he was still their father.

I see your point there. It has plausibility, muses Phosphorous. 

The reason why Tron erased their old names was because it was a way for all of them to disassociate their current selves with their past selves. They have changed too much to be considered Byron, Christopher, Thomas and Michael anymore. Christopher has turned extremely cold and calculating compared to his happier, gentle brother attitude when he was younger.

And Thomas...the poor child. He used to be a happy boy that teased his younger sibling but as IV, he masks himself as a happy celebrity loved by all in the world and underneath that mask is a sadistic monster and underneath that mask is a son that just desperately wants his father back and will do anything to get it and underneath that mask is a lonely young man who wishes to be understood.

Arguably, Michael is the one who remains closest to his original self. He's still the beloved younger brother and like when they were younger, still has a close relationship with Thomas. But he's cracked beneath his placid smile and gentle nature. When angered, he lashes out terribly and like Thomas, will do anything, even murder, to achieve his family's goals.

And so, one could argue that Tron is basically just an overall representation that their family has changed for the worse.

“How much autonomy do the brothers have? and how do they relate to others as they attempt to fulfill their families goals?” poses Phosphorous.

  Ah, ah. An insightful query, my friend. They are pretty much never seen doing things of their own free will. Even when it seems like they are enjoying themselves (I.E III sneaking into Yuma's house to eat lunch and meet him. It actually was just a scouting mission on his family's next target), their actions are meant to serve ulterior motives. In the end, all of the things they do is in the name of serving the family. 

A somewhat random note, Christopher looks at Thomas with contempt. They're basically polar opposites (But not really. Once Christopher gets emotional, he's just as broken and destructive as Thomas). 

Thomas has a grudging respect for Christopher because a part of him still recognizes him as his older brother. 

Christopher seems to care a bit more for Michael, but when Michael was being tortured, he watched the scene at the insistence of Tron. At the end of it though, he turns away, hinting at a bit of a conscience. 

It's Thomas and Michael that are more of a sibling relationship. This is most likely because they have spent all of their lives together while Christopher had been absent for 5 years from their lives. He was gone when Thomas was 12 all the way to when he turned 17 and Michael was 10 and is now 15

Thomas genuinely cares for Michael, going as far as to shout at Tron for treating his brother like that. Christopher immediately silences him. 

Michael also returns that gesture, although less because he ended up falling into a coma before we could see more. 

“Yet all three are, at least at times, willing participants in Tron's schemes?”

Yes, my fellow thinker. Christopher is the most loyal one. He never questions Tron’s orders. Michael will go with his father in hopes that he will get his family back. He is Tron's favorite because he is a "gentle and obedient child." I find it quite sad how, although Christopher is the most loyal one to the cause, he isn’t the favorite. I suppose it is also because I am the eldest of three, yet am not as favored as the youngest. 

“The youngest seems to be favored most of the time,” muses Phosphorous as they look out at the tumultuous Barian sea. 

It's Thomas that sometimes goes out of line. He's the strongest of the brothers, but Tron is always saying that he is the weakest. It is most likely the fear of Thomas realizing that he's actually powerful and could turn on Tron. Hence, that is why Tron says he trusts no one.

Phosphorous stands, overlooking the gloomy landscape of crystals. 

“So each and every one is then beholden to this idea of what? A happy family? Or just something different than their current state of affairs? Do all the brothers truly share this idea of a return to a happy family? Or do they don't even know that that looks like and just want something to change?”

In short:

Tron: Kill my murderers and I'll become your happy ol' dad again and we can go back to England and do happy British people stuff

Sons: Uh sure okay

Personally, I think they all know to an extent that they're deluding themselves

They're just ambling down this path of lies because the brothers are desperate to have a place to belong to after being separated for so long

But you might have a point that they might not even know what a truly happy family is anymore.

“So it's like they're chasing something that doesn't exist then?”

Exactly. Much like the couple that was running to the end of the rainbow. They are chasing a boat that has already long passed by. After all of the things Tron did to them, I'm sure they all know that they will never be "normal" and "happy" again.

“So under your theory, Tron doesn't truly exist, or at least is highly metaphorical, which makes all of their struggles self-inflicted and their delusions even more deep.”

Quite perceptive of you. Tron does exist, but he's basically Byron but meaner. They merely use the child with the ruined face to cover up the fact that their father has turned into a monster.

"Hey so dad's gone nuts but let's pretend it's a weird little boy who's nuts so it takes a bit of the pain away."

“Ah, so then they could say "Tron" instead of ‘Father.’”

Yes, exactly. They almost never address Tron as father. They only talk of their father in the past tense.

“But then,” proposes Phosphorous, dramatically turning back to me. “Why would they care so much for the new names they received? Or do they not care for them?”

Those names have become a part of their identities. They use it to cope with the fact that they've all gone south personality-wise. Thomas even uses IV as his celebrity name, perhaps as a sign that he does not recognize his celebrity persona as his true self.

Phosphorous takes in a deep breath, the acidic breeze rustling their toga. Their eyes meet mine own with a sharpness that I had always so admired.

  “So these new names, they're basically masks, but do they disassociate themselves from their new identities the same way they do with Tron and their Father, or do they still think of themselves as fundamentally themselves, just forced to do things they wouldn't normally do? Though I would assume each brother is affected differently by their mask,” says my friend as they begin to pace.

Ah, they still view Tron as their father (A leader) but deep down they probably don't want to put two and two together. So it's a superficial belief of "We fight for Tron (our father but let’s not think about that.)"

Either that or,

They are fighting for their Father,

 who is basically just an idea of a happy family now whilst Tron

represents a bad family.

Onto your second point, the brothers fit into their masks to different extents.

Michael doesn't seem to mind III for they appear to have the same personality, save for III's destructive tendencies.

When Christopher is reunited with his student that he abandoned and is called Christopher, he sadly smiles and says. 

"It's been a long time since someone has called me that"

And Thomas probably has an extremely difficult time taking off his mask after wearing it for so long in front of so many people

“So then do their numbered names also represent a bad family? also why do they start at three, like why not 1,2,3 instead of 3,4,5?”

I still don’t understand why it’s 3 4 5 (Nor does anyone else, for that matter.), however, their numbers are probably how Tron sees them. From his scientific background, he probably just sees his son as pieces of useful data he can use to his advantage.

“Hm, the only thing I could think of for the numbers was that Tron was somehow including him and the boys' mother in his count, like their the first two so that's why it starts at three, which is something you probably already thought about,” theorizes Phosphorous futilely.

Perhaps the numbers are used as place holders. They are not Christopher, Thomas and Michael. They are merely placeholders for when Christopher, Thomas and Michael return. When their family is whole again...

“But if the numbers are place-holders then so is the name ‘Tron,’” concludes Phosphorous.

Indeed.

“But I wonder if the brothers associate the numbers with Tron, like the numbers aren't really them, just a means to an end that will be removed when they get their father back, or if they're deluding themselves,” muses my friend.

Yes, the numbers are most likely temporary to them. Christopher is deluding himself.

He knows that he’s Christopher under V’s cold exterior. Same for Thomas and Michael. They are a family of delusions, united under the promise of a better tomorrow that will never arrive. 

  And so I thank you, for bearing with me. 

  Without ceremony, Phosphorus walks away from the crystal cliff, leaving me. I stare into the depths of the sea of ill intent and allow the sounds of the waves crashing against the crystal to overtake me. Closing my eyes, I begin to meditate. 

  Thus we conclude our bout of philosophy and ardent beard stroking. 

[three-houses-text-files]

byleth/linhardt

c-s support + paired endings + night of the ball

c

Linhardt: Well, hello, Professor. You came all the way to my room to— Oh. L: You’ve brought the materials from your lecture I slept through. I appreciate it. Thank you. L: I won't do this again.

>Don't miss the lectures.

L: It's rare for a nice professor like you to be so strict. L: Please, Professor. You must understand how difficult it is for me to fight the demon of drowsiness. L: It's not that I want to miss lectures...exactly. L: Drowsiness is my archnemesis. For some reason I just can't seem to win against it. L: Just talking about it makes me sleepy...

>Let's wake you up with a bit of training, then.

L: Oh no, I couldn't possibly. I would certainly injure myself if I tried to train while drowsy.

>A trip to town might help your mood.

L: That sounds more than a little exhausting. I think I'll stay in.

>You're not motivated enough.

L: It's not that I don't have enough motivation. The problem is that I don't have any at all. Not for useless things.

L: I must compliment you though. By this point in most conversations, I'm bored senseless. L: But I'm enjoying this. I wonder why... What is it about you that fascinates me so? L: You're definitely a strange one.

>I'm not strange.

>Maybe so.

L: In truth, your very nature is odd. L: You're definitely not a commoner, but you don't seem like a noble, either. You're...something else. L: And yet you can wield one of the Heroes' Relics. You're like a hero in some silly legend. L: Or you could be a villain who came here to enact some evil plot. That wouldn't surprise me either.

>I'm not a villain.

L: Is that what you think? L: Hey, Professor... Will you ever allow me to investigate that Crest of yours? L: It won't hurt a bit, I swear. I'm sure I could find out all sorts of things about your Crest...and you. L: Of course, I'm not as experienced with such research as Professor Hanneman, but I do what I can. L: Someday, I think I might like to become a Crest scholar. You never know.

>Hm...

L: Oh, don't trouble yourself. I didn't mean now. L: I've got a lot of other research I'm working on at the moment. I tend to start a project, get bored, and then leave it be. L: I might be ready to investigate your Crest soon. I'd have to tidy up a bit first. L: On that note... Goodnight, Professor.

——————————————————————————————

b

L: …

>What are you doing?

>Are you thinking about the battle?

L: It's just... I was wondering why it seems as if no one values their own lives. L: Why do we fight until we die? Why do we kill without hesitation? L: I hate it. I don't like taking lives or even the sight of blood. L: In the last battle, some of the soldiers under my  command died for foolish reasons. L: Those soldiers could have pulled back... L: Instead, they kept fighting...and were overrun. L: Am I supposed to be satisfied with the victory alone?  Even at the cost of such life?

>No, I couldn't be satisfied with that.

L: Exactly. I don't see the point.

L: Honor? That's a foolish reason to give your life. Glory? Even worse.

>Yes, I could be satisfied with that.

L: Really? I—

L: Trading someone's life for a bit of honor and glory...

L: You'll pardon me if I say I find that repulsive.

L: Just the thought frightens me. I'm not suited for battle, Professor.

>That's not something you can control.

>There are some fights you can't run from.

L: I'm happy you feel that way, but... L: It seems like so much in our world is decided by who wins or loses a fight. Very little is accomplished via  diplomacy or even simple decency. L: I suppose that's the nature of the world, isn't it? L: Professor, you take the time to lead me and teach me like this every day... (pre-skip) L: Professor, you take the time to lead me and guide me like this every day... (post-skip) L: Could the reason be that you don't want me to die on the battlefield?

>As long as I'm here, I won't let you die.

>We'll make it through together.

L: That's a bold statement, Professor. L: But for whatever reason, I want to believe you... You really are a strange person, you know. L: Professor, I wish to ask something of you. L: I...I don't want to kill. I don't want blood on my hands. L: I just want to lie on my back and soak up the sun filtering down through the trees... L: And I want you to help me make that a reality. (pre-skip) L: And I want you to help me make a world where that's possible. (post-skip)

——————————————————————————————

a

L: Hmm… Ah, yes... L: Professor. What brings you out so late?

>I heard a strange voice.

L: Oh, um... That was likely my voice.

>I could ask you the same.

L: I've been worrying about something... L: I asked you once to help me achieve my goal of being a person who can simply nap all day. L: I once asked you to help me make this the sort of world where I can simply nap my days away. L: Then I thought, if the world becomes a peaceful place, all my Crest research might be for naught...

>Why's that?

L: Well, I don't see how Crests have much use in times of peace. L: Certainly there are Crests that make you stronger and could be used in engineering. L: And I suppose Crests that increase magical abilities might help doctors heal injuries... L: Still, the possibilities seem limited. L: It's as if Crests were designed to be used only in times of war. L: Their power meant to bring about death and destruction.

>Maybe you're right.

>I don't really understand.

L: I cannot prove what I say is true, but suppose for a moment that it is... L: The longer this war goes on, the more useful my Crest research becomes. L: But if the war were to end today, we would go on living, perhaps not using the power of our Crests at all. L: It is truly my dream to be a Crest scholar, but I also dream of all the wonderful naps peace would bring. L: Saying it all out loud, it feels a rather stupid thing to worry over. Knowledge or peace? Sleep or war?

>It's not stupid.

>You shouldn't worry about it if it's stupid.

L: Thank you, Professor. I appreciate the sentiment. L: You know, you're right. In the end, maybe it's not that stupid after all. It certainly isn't to me... L: Although, if I stop researching Crests, I'll have one less excuse to spend time with you. L: Professor. Don't make faces like that. L: People like you who listen to my blathering and then nod and smile as though what I say matters? L: People like you are very precious to me.

——————————————————————————————

s

L: Professor, I've been waiting for you.

>How did you know I was coming here?

L: How much time do you suppose we have spent together?

>Enough that I believe I can predict how you'll feel about something.

>You're livelier than normal.

L: Oh, is it noticeable? L: I imagine we've spent so much time together that you understand everything about me by now. L: The truth is...I want to ask you a once-in-a- lifetime question.

>Once-in-a-lifetime?

L: Um... Yes. L: I know that the end of the war hasn't granted you limitless free time... L: But you must have more time on your hands than  you did during the war, yes? L: Would you spend that time with me? L: I want to know more about you. I want to solve the  mysteries that surround you. L: I don't think I'll ever meet anyone more intoxicating than yourself. L: I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours. L: Here is proof of my desire. Will you accept it?

>Of course. I love you, Linhardt.

L: Oh, thank goodness! I don't know what I would have done with myself had you turned me down. L: Though, I feel like I've come to understand rather a lot about you. L: So I didn't honestly think you'd reject me.

>Wow, you're very confident.

L: Oh, just wait. I will understand you even more.

>Hmm...

L: You doubt me? But I was proven correct the very moment you took the ring.

L: You'll see. I will come to understand you even more.

L: Our future together has only just begun. L: Before I become bored of this business, I wish to  learn all there is about your Crest and your strength. L: And perhaps we'll even come up with ways I could help you guide Fódlan. L: I as a Crest scholar and you as a leader of Fódlan... L: We will take our first steps together into this new  world, the two of us working as one. L: Once things settle down, we can retire to  the countryside. L: A place where the air is fresh, the lakes are full of fish, the sun is warm, and where we may nap deeply.

>I should've known this was about naps.

>I'm not into napping...

L: Without naps, life is nothing but work! L: I value you too much to let you spend your whole life laboring for others. You're the hero of Fódlan after all. L: Besides, naps are the entire point of retirement! L: It may be some time until we can nap beneath a tree,  peaceful sunlight filtering through the branches... L: But when that day comes? To have you there lying  by my side... L: Paradise. And we will have made it so.

——————————————————————————————

paired endings

After ascending to the throne as the first leader of the United Kingdom of Fódlan, Byleth announced his/her marriage to Linhardt. The people of Fódlan placed high expectations on their leader's spouse, but to their consternation, Linhardt spent most of his time fishing, relaxing, and researching Crests. Fortunes turned when Byleth discovered a document, hidden away on Linhardt's desk, which provided a ground-breaking discovery. Cast unwittingly into prominence, Linhardt was put to work in earnest. In return for his service, he demanded longer naps in the company of his spouse. (golden deer + church route)

After taking on the role of archbishop of the Church o Seiros, Byleth announced his/her marriage to Linhardt. The people placed high expectations on him, but to their consternation, Linhardt spent most of his time fishing, relaxing, and researching Crests. Fortunes turned when Byleth discovered a document containing a ground-breaking discovery hidden away on Linhardt's desk. Cast unwittingly into prominence, Linhardt was put to work in earnest. In return for his service to the church, he demanded longer naps with the archbishop. (blue lions route)

Though grateful for the end of the war, Byleth and Linhardt were disappointed to see that there was no time to relax. The fight against those who slither in the dark began immediately, and Linhardt abandoned his territory to help fight for a world of peace and quiet. Though the struggle was bitter, he took heart in the knowledge that once it was over, he and Byleth could spend the rest of their days in leisure, chasing idle pursuits far away from the stage of battle. (black eagles route)

——————————————————————————————

night of the ball

L: Professor, you're late.

>What do you mean?

L: To tell the truth, it was an act of sheer hope that I might find you here.

>We didn't have plans to meet.

L: True, but a young man can hope to accidentally bump into someone.

>Oh, sorry!

L: My apologies, Professor. It was a bit of a joke.

L: I've been waiting here because I thought you might come by. L: I'm glad to find I was right. L: I hoped to find you so I might ask... Well, I would very much like to research your Crest.

>Not right now.

L: Does that mean you might be interested eventually?

L: Let's decide the place and time right now, then. What? Is that not acceptable?

>Why would I let you do that?

L: Because it would be terribly interesting?

L: Anyway... Have you heard the legend of this place, Professor? It's a sentimental one to be sure. L: The story goes that if two people share a vow at the Goddess Tower, they'll be bound together forever. L: Hm, or was it that they'll be cursed forever? One or the other for certain. L: All the same, I think it's a rather lovely legend.

>It doesn't sound that lovely to me.

L: Well, I suppose it does depend on your enjoyment of potentially mistranslated myths.

>Tell me more.

L: Professor, be warned. This may seem forward of me... L: However, let's vow that one day I will be allowed to research your Crest as much as I please.

>I think not.

>Excuse me?

L: I've overstepped my bounds again, haven't I? L: It's just that today is such a special day and, well, I suppose I got caught up in all the excitement. L: How about this instead? Let's agree to meet here again one day, just the two of us. L: If the opportunity arises.

>I agree.

L: Such an opportunity won't just arise, we have to make it happen for ourselves. I look forward to that day. L: I look forward to that day. L: I really do...

[apparitionism]

Mercury 13b

And with this VERY long second part of part 13(!), Mercury at last comes to an end. (Preceding parts are findable on my tumblr, via search and/or archive.) Talky, pedantic... there’s a great deal of unresolved thinking here; I’m resentful of how the whole Emily Lake situation requires you to fall back on “well, it’s just artifact-y magic” once you really start pushing to make sense of it. Anyway, previously on Mercury, Helena was remarking on the astonishing coincidence of their having met Emily Lake’s girlfriend at this random county fair. This raised in Myka a significant sense of uh-oh, so she asked Helena if she’d asked the girlfriend why she’d come to the fair in the first place...

Mercury 13b

Helena’s brow wrinkled. “I did not,” she said.

Myka voiced her fear: “What if the Regents set this up?” she asked, and Helena paled... so much for not causing trouble. Myka went on, and as she did, it felt still more plausible, “Manipulate everybody to Nowhere, Wisconsin, sit back, and watch the disaster unfold. I don’t really believe in accidents anymore.”

“Happy or otherwise...” Helena’s voice was resigned, as if Myka articulating the idea had made it not only thinkable, but instantly and obviously true.

Myka couldn’t really disagree. “Our punishment. I keep thinking maybe it’s over, but it isn’t.” She inhaled a painful breath. “If Pete had—if the coin. And then if Emily Lake was all that was left of you? I guess I would have met her girlfriend anyway. Talk about an unfolding disaster... do you think I could have stayed away?”

“Of course I wouldn’t have,” Helena said, oddly offhand.

“Stayed away?”

Still offhand: “Met her. In that case.”

Myka’s gut lurched. No, Helena wouldn’t have met her; Myka had said it herself. You’d be gone. “Appetites,” she said now, self-castigating, “but this one’s sick. I think about what I would’ve done, and it’s sick. Like when people have their pets cloned. I would have kept hoping Emily Lake would turn back into you.”

“Perhaps you would have persuaded her to produce a facsimile. ‘Myka,’ said as I say it.” This was not offhand at all, and having said it, Helena clamped her teeth tight, increasing the jut of her jaw, her cheekbones.

“No,” Myka said, quickly, wishing it were true, but was it? Helena was jabbing back at Myka, as she had with her “Oh Agent Bering” this morning, at the start of this impossible day—and Myka, as the insensitive jerk in the situation, had to acknowledge that these digs were entirely fair. (Pete’s “the fair” echoed at her. Where it all just happened.)  “All I know is, the sight of her. Pretending it was the sight of you. Not believing, but pretending. I wouldn’t have been able to give it up. Slippery slope.”

“So regardless of the action taken in that forest clearing, a life sentence for you.” Helena’s words managed to convey resentment both toward Myka and on Myka’s behalf.

“Self-imposed... when the Regents want dirty work done to me, I’m usually the best person for the job,” Myka agreed. “Which brings us back to what we—both of us—do and don’t deserve.”

Helena sat up straight, breathed out emphatically through her nose, and said, “What is an appropriate punishment? To whom does it rightly redound? What part of one’s self must any human insist on the right to retain? What is constitutive? To what extent are violations of that self, of others’ selves, acceptable, tolerable, endurable in the name of justice?” Helena reeled off this list of questions as if her monograph answering them had already been completed, as if she were cracking open the freshly published volume on a lectern before her because this was at last her opportunity to present her findings to Myka and even to the world at large. But what she said next was, “I imagined myself—ha, my self—a philosopher skilled enough to think all these things through. I was wrong.”

Helena had now admitted two times, on this day when it all just happened and kept happening, to being wrong. More than that: both times, she had actually uttered, as a sentence, “I was wrong.” Once in a day was unusual enough—once in a week—but twice? “Nobody here is a philosopher skilled enough to think all of that through,” Myka said. She wasn’t sure the monograph wouldn’t eventually emerge, but Helena seemed to need to believe, right now, in this moment, that she wasn’t the one who could make it happen. “Nobody... well, maybe Pete,” she faux-conceded.

It had the intended effect; Helena’s hard, bleak expression softened. “He was doing very well.”

Myka asked, of that softer face, “If we can’t think our way through it, then what are we left with? Let them win or... I don’t know, ignore it?”

Helena shrugged, still soft. “We prove again and again that we’re incapable of the latter. As for the former, what would it look like, letting them win?”

But Myka suspected Helena knew the answer to that—or rather, knew Myka’s own answer to that. “I let them win once before. I gave up and left. So I’ll say it out loud: You could do that.”

Helena breathed. Not sighs, but noise. “Could I?” she eventually asked, her voice empty. What did that mean?

“You’re not a prisoner. For once, you’re not. As far as I know. And even if you are, you could escape... quit trying to figure out what happened, what was justified. Give up the fight. The fights.”

“The fights,” Helena said, and was that less blank? “Give up the fights with you?”

“I’m being serious,” Myka said, because there was some twitch in the way Helena had just said “you.”

“Hm. The fights with Pete?”

Helena clearly intended that to have an effect similar to what Myka had achieved by mentioning him, so Myka rolled her eyes and lightened her tone. “Didn’t you two just sign the historic Kenosha Accords anyway?”

“And the fights with Artie?”

“You’d both be perfectly happy never speaking to each other again.”

“Even with the hideously bearded Frenchman?”

“Are we going to go through the list of everybody you ever had a beef with? You’re still alive and he isn’t. As you never stop pointing out, you won that one.”

“Not as far as literary scholars are concerned, not yet; thus I continue to argue my position.”

“You should argue it with literary scholars then, and leave me out of it.”

“Which reminds me: you seem once again to be forgetting a quite salient point.”

“What point this time?”

“I don’t want to leave you out of it.” Helena said this with laser-precise intensity, and just like that, they were back in the real conversation. “I don’t want to leave you out of anything. I don’t want to let them win, I don’t want to give up the fights, and, most importantly, I don’t want to leave.”

“I bet some part of you does,” Myka said, because it seemed like she... should. Should make sure Helena knew that leaving really was an option. Because leaving needed to be an option, never mind the philosophy; otherwise, how would Myka ever know that Helena was choosing to stay? “I just bet. I bet if you listened close, it’d work on you like that microphone.”

This time, Helena did not pause. “Then I won’t listen at all. I’ll stop my ears, or I will have you lash me to the mast like Odysseus. Let these words work on you: I would rather be whatever recobbled version of my fractured self I am now, arguing with you today or on any given future day about whatever aspect of our punishment we are being forced to confront, than undertake yet another rebuilding.” She paused for breath. “Do you disagree?”

Myka thought of their yesterday talk of earplugs and the mast, when they were guessing about how they might stay safe at the fair—when they could not have known there would be no way to stay safe at the fair. But then Myka shifted her thoughts from earplugs and the mast, from those things, to Odysseus himself. That exile who at last came home... “When I gave up and left,” Myka said, “it was because I didn’t know who I was anymore. I thought I knew Myka Bering so well, but that turned out to be some name on a badge I surrendered. I guess I didn’t learn any kind of lesson, though, because now, today, I think I know myself pretty well, but then there I am, ready to lick key lime pie off a Pinto. Constitutive? I was sure I was still me. Clearly I have no idea who that is.” A sad truth to learn, on a very educational trip to Wisconsin.

“At the risk of confirming the Wells family’s sentimentality, I will say, you should have some idea that that is someone I love.”

She sounded factual, not sentimental, and under normal circumstances, that would have reassured Myka enormously. I am someone she loves. That is a fact. But that was also a problem, because love did have a factual basis, a factual, bodily basis, one whose inescapability had caused so much of the trouble. “Your body loved someone else,” she said, and as Helena began to shrink into the chair again, she hurried to add, “I’m not saying that like I did before. I’m saying it because I don’t know how to think it through. What it means. What we feel as love, that’s chemicals in the body, and... I have to confess. I did feel it, when I first saw Emily Lake. Those chemicals: My heart leapt. My blood moved. So if anybody—any body—did any betraying, it was me. Not you.”

“Myka,” said as I say it.... what if Emily Lake really had sounded like Helena? What would Myka’s heart have done then? “I’m sorry,” she said to Helena now, as if it were possible to apologize for any of it—what had happened, what might have happened. Part of the punishment, something whispered at her. Betrayal on betrayal.

Helena cleared her throat. “Conversely, I loved you—even, although it sounds strange to say, desired you—when I had no access to my body, to its production of those chemicals. To the way its blood once moved. What does that mean?”

Shaking her head, Myka said, “Sounds like two sides of the same completely incomprehensible coin.” She instantly regretted her terrible choice of simile... she was never going to be able to think clearly about coins again, their sides or their consequences. “Sorry for that too,” she said with a wince. “The same punitive, incomprehensible coin.”

“Would that coins—and one coin in particular—were comprehensible.” Helena said, in grim agreement.

Myka found herself unreasonably grateful that she and Helena would always share such overlapping areas of... inclarity. “I know the only real explanation is that there is none. Artifacts. We shouldn’t even try to think it through. Stupid endless wonder.”

Helena nodded. “Cringeworthy, certainly. But even in the absence of artifactual complication, I don’t believe love is particularly easy to parse.”

“That doesn’t sound very sentimental.”

“It’s not. Charles would hate it.”

“Right now I’m with Charles. Why can’t it be easy?”

“That’s yet another line of philosophical investigation, I suspect.”

“We’ve established that we’re both pretty bad at philosophy. I have to think that extends to the part about love.” When Helena didn’t respond, the moment stretched. Myka felt the onset of, tried to resist, and then gave in to an enormous yawn.

“Hm. You find the philosophy of love dull?” But this was said gentle, not to argue against a yawn, but to cradle it.

Myka now found her fatigue foregrounded, so much that even a chuckle was beyond her. “I wish it were dull. I wish we were, but we’re not. We’re the opposite of dull.”

“The opposite of dull...” Helena quirked a smile. “Thus we shine,” she concluded. Like she believed it.

“So much it hurts my eyes,” Myka said, and she yawned again. “I haven’t said anything to make you want to stay in that chair all night, have I?”

“No.”

“Then please come here.”

Helena spidered her way onto the bed, all thin limbs and caution, moving like she’d been afraid such an invitation would never be issued, plastering herself to Myka as if it might never be issued again. For someone who had acted as if she were testing Zeno’s dichotomy paradox every single time she was in Myka’s vicinity—standing half-closer and half again and half that—Helena had been surprisingly permission-oriented with regard to truly intimate physical contact, the bridging of that final molecular, bodily gap. “Let me,” she had breathed, begged, in the moment before she kissed Myka for the first time, and “Yes,” Myka had breathed back. She could not possibly have said no. In that moment, she had been sure she would never say no.

Last night, Helena should have been able to rely on that license, how it had deepened, expanded. Remorse at denying her the certainty of consolation hit Myka anew.

She would not ever, ever, ever take for granted that they were able to lie in this way that had become customary, with Helena’s head on Myka’s shoulder, her arm across Myka’s midsection, her lithe length wedged tight against Myka’s side, Myka’s arm safe around her slight scapulae. How easy it was to be misled about her small size. How important it was to be reminded of the very real weight of her body, no matter how light that weight.

Helena’s hair, when Myka turned her head, smelled of cotton candy, engine exhaust, and an entire day’s worth of sunshine.

Myka said, “You were right: I was nervous. That we’d keep fighting. Need to. Some things, the daylight fixes them, but I thought not this, even with the PDA and the Ferris wheel and the pie. And I thought you thought it too.”

“I did think it, for a time. I do think we’ll continue to fight about many, many things. But this... in fact Pete said it best.”

“He did?” These historic Kenosha Accords were... mind-boggling.

“I’m tired. Of it all. I need to tell you something.”

Oh god, Myka thought. Here it comes. But what was “it”?

Whatever it was, it was something Helena wouldn’t have been able to say, sitting in the chair. This wasn’t Helena’s at-a-decorous-distance voice; this voice, Myka heard most often in the dark.

“Or perhaps it’s that I need you to tell me something.”

“Okay,” Myka said, hiding behind the word.

“But I don’t know what it is.”

That admission carried a tremolo of frustrated helplessness that Myka didn’t often hear, and it sent a pulse of those well-known chemicals through her body.  “I’ll tell you anything you need me to,” she said, trying to sound as sure as if she were being sworn in—truth and nothing but. “Or I’ll try. But you have to at least give me a hint.”

“She wanted a child.”

Now Myka was the one who took a minute to breathe. “Emily Lake wanted a—”

“Or I should say, another child. Because she knew she’d had a child.”

“What?”

“Based on a physical examination, I learned today, but my first thought—my yesterday thought and fear—was that she had kept something of Christina, something that had been mine. I feared, and in fact I still fear, that the coin left in her some memory of my child, some memory that, when she was wiped away, was lost.”

A physical exam. Christina was of Helena’s body; there was bodily evidence. Myka didn’t often think about that, because she had the luxury of not thinking about that, and now she hated herself for indulging in that luxury, and she hated herself even more for last night, for this morning. Why weren’t you a better human? Never mind philosopher... she had heeded only her own small jealousy, when Helena had been terrified by, had been staggering under the weight of, the idea of having lost still more of her already-lost child.

“You still love literature,” she tried, lamely. “They let Emily Lake keep that, but you got it back.”

Helena reared away from Myka’s side to bare her teeth and snarl, “I ‘got it back’? Its quality, its fullness? Who can say? And if some part of that was lost, if in fact some memory of Christina was, then what else essential to myself—constitutive of my self—might now be lost to me?” Now accusation, with a dash of contempt: “Tell me, how sick did you feel, upon realizing what you’d eaten this evening? How very, very sick?”

Something tu quoque–esque from Helena wasn’t unexpected in such a circumstance; it was her version of Myka’s knee-jerk, defensive “I can take care of myself.” But the sudden animal anger stung. Hadn’t Helena just said she was tired of fighting about this? Yet the contours of this were ever-changing, and to have Christina become a part of this would always have made for dangerous ground. Myka said, low, “You’re right. But don’t you think I’d tell you if you were different? If some of what had made you yourself was missing?”

“But what if it isn’t something you would know?” Helena asked, on her back, separate from Myka, talking to the ceiling.

Myka said, because it seemed only logical, “But I thought I was the one person who knows you better than anyone else.”

“You are. The one living person.”

“Oh,” Myka said, and “oh, god,” and she tried not to let those words emerge as the sob they were. Myka had indeed flattered herself with the idea that she knew Helena better than anyone. Another indulgence. She had not bothered to stop on the less-flattering truth that so many long-dead people knew Helena better than Myka did, better than she ever could. Charles, probably... even Christina. And Myka didn’t know Helena with Christina—what constituted Helena with Christina. No living person did.

That vast then-now distance... sometimes Myka felt it in herself, how it estranged her from Helena. But tonight, just as with the idea of shame, her viscera knew the reverse, knew how Helena must feel it as an estrangement from Myka and everyone and everything, an all-consuming difference. She wasn’t like Myka and the rest of them, humans who had lived through history; rather, she was history, an angel flying over time itself: unable to turn away from all the wreckage of the past, yet also unable to keep from being flung violently into the future.

All the wreckage of the past. All that constitutive wreckage to which Helena clung. “I wish,” Myka began. “I wish I had the microphone, because I’m not a philosopher, and I don’t know how to make this make sense.” Groping for words that would make it better, not worse, but she wasn’t a philosopher, not even one as good as Pete... “You need me to tell you something, so I’ll try. Can I—I mean, may I—try to say something—some things—that you might believe?”

“You may,” Helena said, quietly, but she didn’t move closer. She continued lying on her back, staring up, as if the ceiling were frescoed with scenes no living person had painted. As if, should she divert her attention, they would be lost forever.

Myka would have stayed on her back too, but she had to say these words to Helena, not to some expanse that loomed above them both—not even if it had been the sky, but certainly not cheap drywall treated to soak up all sound. She turned on her side again. Regarded Helena’s profile. She’d thought she understood who she was in relation to that profile; then she’d thought she’d been wrong. But then: I believed in you and I was right.

She reached her hand over, let her fingers climb that cliff of cheekbone, let them rest for a moment at the apex. Helena moved her head in a tiny, sharp nestle against Myka’s palm.

So astute, that movement. It gave Myka enough push to start, “You said you don’t have my memory, and that’s true. Most people forget things all the time, things constitutive of different versions of themselves. You’re saying you’re terrified that one of those versions of you might have loved, might have valued Christina in a way deeper—better—than this version of you does. Right?”

“That is...” Helena angled her face, minutely, toward Myka. “Uncomfortably right.”

Keep going. “So I’ll ask you: can you imagine valuing her more than you do right now? As you sit and think about her, because I know you do that, like breathing. I don’t know what it feels like to you, breathing like that, but I know it feels like something.”

Helena put her right hand to her forehead, as if pressure would yield the right simile. “Like... something wrapped around me. A straitjacket? Or a full-body bridle. A steady, clothing presence—but then it yanks tight, and I can’t breathe at all.”

“No one memory’s going to change that,” Myka said, and she tried to say it with conviction, but Helena didn’t move. Of course not; it was a cliché. Myka put her own hand to her own forehead, as pressure to think, pressure to get this right... all she found was another cliché. Still, she had to try something. “Okay, how about this: memories are like rosary beads, that’s what they say.” Helena still didn’t move, but Myka forged on, “I know you’re not religious. But let’s say you were. What if the Regents took your rosary and stole one of your Hail Mary beads or made you skip over a Glory Be? Even if they never let you touch your rosary again... what could that ever do to faith?” Myka thought she knew the answer. Not for certain, not for Helena, but Myka had felt the warmth—had suffered the violence—of a full-body bridle of her own.

The exhale, the inhale. Finally, on yet another exhale: “When you say it that way.”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Yes you do. Yes you do, philosopher.” Helena moved herself to Myka, fit their bodies together once more.

Myka didn’t understand how her heart withstood it all: how it kept on beating, given how full it was, given how full of chemicals her entire body was, chemicals explaining to her exactly what this feeling was. Its right name. She kept on breathing, too, feeling how her older-than-science respiration now pushed Helena’s body up, where it lay upon her; now let it fall.

“The part about love,” she eventually said. “I’ll never know what we can and can’t get past. How hard it’ll be.”

Helena, still in time-taking mode, said, “Nor will I. But the part about love. If you could... bear it in mind?”

“Well, if you could too. I’m no picnic.”

“Compared to myself, you are surely the most relaxing of holidays.”

She was dry, she was herself—the self Myka knew so well, the self Myka did know better than any other living person knew. We can get past it. She scoffed, “I’m a relaxing holiday? That is objectively not the case and also ridiculous, because we’re both stupidly difficult. Punishment aside. I don’t think even the Regents had toothpaste-cap-etiquette-based consequences in mind.” She reconsidered. “Sure as I say that, though...” And sure as she said it, she did see that there would be no knowing. Ever.

“Perhaps...” Helena began; Myka felt a shake in her body, and was that more danger? No: Helena was laughing. “Perhaps the conflict, even over toothpaste caps, will draw viewers to the Bering-and-Wells television program.”

Instead of laughing, Myka yawned again, this time from relief. “On which we’re shipped, I guess? This isn’t my area of expertise.”

“It is,” Helena insisted. “It is both of ours.” To Myka’s raised eyebrow, she continued, “When it comes to yourself and myself romantically paired.”

“Once again, objectively ridiculous. Expertise? We both keep proving how incompetent we are.” Myka followed this with yet another yawn.

“Incompetent at the part about love? Let’s see. You know, ‘inspissate’ is a very good word.”

Myka knew that musing, yet goal-directed, tone. Was Helena right to be using it here, now, in this aftermath? Was Myka right to let it work on her? “Is it,” she said, as neutrally as possible.

“Yes.” Helena levered herself above Myka, brought their faces very close together. “For what happens to the air just before I kiss you. As I make you wait just one inspissating instant more.”

“You shouldn’t make me wait,” Myka said, helpless under that pressure, “inspissation aside,” but her words were a prolongation too, a thickening, a proof that the air between them could thicken, could take on such perfect unctuous molecularity.

This kiss, every kiss, was better—sweeter—than key lime pie. And better still, because Myka was fully herself (she thought so, at least, and that had to be enough), enjoying it so much. Enjoying the bodily, real, uncoerced nature of it. The way the muscles of lips and tongues worked, relaxed. Breath moved out, breath moved in.

But breath, and its movement, brought Myka to an unpleasant physical awareness. She turned her head away.

Helena pulled back; then she sighed with exaggerated grievance. “So much for voracious. Your soul can stand only so much appetite in one day?” Her tone was lighthearted, but Myka heard in it a spindle of tension.

“It’s not about my soul,” Myka told her. “I just realized I desperately need to brush my teeth.”

Helena laughed, as if she really had been joking after all. Myka was not fooled. “Given your devotion to dental hygiene, I believe it is about your soul. It’s true I like your teeth.” Helena paused. “I also like the fights about toothpaste caps.”

“Do you.”

“Small fights. They seem like ours.”

“Just ours? Not our punishment?”

“Just ours. Truly, the Regents could not possibly know with the intimacy I do the extent to which the capping of toothpaste containers matters to you.”

“It’s representative,” Myka said, “of all the things,” and she pushed herself off the bed, heading for the bathroom and her toothbrush, hoping that could be the last word on the topic—but Helena followed her, would not leave her alone, narrated the toothbrushing (narrated in recalled detail the reason for it, including “and then it was at your feet—and then it was not at your feet because it was in your mouth,” the whole idea of which was another thing Myka would have been happy to Eternal-Sunshine away), such that Myka was indeed getting wound up, ready to stop Helena’s mouth by any means necessary. Which was clearly Helena’s goal, but: “You ate pie too, you know,” Myka said. “Not to mention a corndog. And you have a toothbrush of your own.”

Helena gave a very adolescent eyeroll. “You are overweeningly fastidious,” she said, but she complied, still narrating; her next pronouncement, around a mouthful of mint, was, “And despite your consumption of an unsanitary, sugar-saturated bite, you had no access to your toothbrush.”

Myka did find it appalling, in retrospect. She’d had no access even to a breath mint. “Please stop,” she said, with no real hope that Helena would.

“No,” Helena confirmed. She sounded surprisingly—and then, as Myka thought about it more, unsurprisingly—Pete-like.

“If this is a fight,” Myka said, “it isn’t about a toothpaste cap.”

“No, but it is small and ours. Even if the Regents did engineer this Kenosha misadventure to toy with us, they could not have imagined that Pete would induce you, artifactually, to eat key lime pie, nor how violently you would eventually react to having done so.”

“Still feels like part of the toy-with-us misadventure to me.”

“I know. Is it all right if I find that precious? In both senses of the word?”

Instead of answering, Myka pushed Helena against the wall of the bathroom, waited until she smiled in triumph, then kissed her smiling, clean mouth. Enjoyed it so much, and yet so much more, that clean mouth. “Voracious?” Helena eventually teased.

“Desperate,” Myka corrected. Helena began to raise an eyebrow, so Myka added, “To get you to stop talking.”

Helena smirked at that, because of course she would. “A distinction without a difference.”

“I really don’t think—” Myka began, but she immediately forgot how she intended to end that sentence, because Helena said an authoritative “Hush,” and now she was the one pushing, demanding.

“Peace?” Myka proposed, when she could breathe.

That won her an intimate smile, one that could have been wicked but was instead happy. Straightforward. “Perhaps not quite yet.”

The part about love would never be the part about peace. The build and release of tension, physical and otherwise, was not peace; it would bring them to rest, but it was not peace.

Not peace, and they were physically proving it: this hand, this press, this thigh, this rise—this fight to bodily get somewhere. That they could have this fight, this small-and-theirs fight, was a dispensation Myka had tried, for such a long time, to train herself out of wanting...she had so, so longed to gather hologram-Helena into her arms after Pittsburgh, and that had obviously been an absurdity, and just as obviously, it had been part of the punishment: that the very idea of holding Helena was made absurd. Absurd and unthinkable.

Tonight Myka found her attention, and thus her lips and her breath, drawn repeatedly to a tiny, fresh mosquito-bite sore right where Helena’s shoulder met her neck. An imperfection, a wound, inflicted on this breathing body today. This now-gasping body, this one that Myka could touch—could make gasp—today. The Regents had tried to punish such present joy away; they had tried to bequeath it to Emily Lake, but Myka and Helena had got it back. Myka had believed it back, and Helena had nobled it back. Belief and nobility: they lent something solemn, something like dignity, to even the most basic, pleasurable gasps and where they led.

Meant to be deprived of this, they had refused to be deprived of this.

In the quiet before sleep, Myka touched the proud little bite-swell with what she hoped was a gentle finger. “Does it itch?” she asked, and in response to Helena’s drowsy “somewhat,” she couldn’t hold back an equally sleepy, yet softly outraged, “How dare any creature bite you.”

“You reserve the privilege?”

“You did say you like my teeth.” She dipped her head to scrape them gently against Helena’s temple. “But I meant: damage you at all.”

Equally soft, yet indulgent, Helena said, “You reserve that privilege too?”

Myka couldn’t quite laugh. “Maybe. If you ask the Regents, it’s probably in my job description. But for now? I just want your body intact. I’d like to say nobody gets to touch you but me. That privilege.”

“Claudia would object. She is a hugger.”

“Yeah. And then there’s Pete, who’s also a high-fiver, a back-slapper, and a drops-his-head-like-a-rock-against-your-shoulder-on-an-airplane snorer.”

“You are none of those things,” Helena said, factually. She followed it with a soft but insistent, “What would you say you are?”

Myka took a moment to think. What this feeling was... its right name. “A lover,” she said at last. “Yours, in fact.”

An accurate statement, for they were close in bed, pressed against each other, their limbs nakedly, solidly together. An accurate statement, yet Helena said, just as accurately, “You never say things like that.”

Myka didn’t say things like that. She didn’t think she was good at saying things like that. But now, tonight, because there had been so much saying but maybe not quite enough, not quite yet, she said, “I thought maybe that was part of what you needed me to tell you.”

Helena breathed at Myka. She had breathed like this in the past, when moments were at their most enormous. “I told you I didn’t know what,” she said, when she had apparently had enough of meaningful breathing.

“I know.”

“But that was, after all. Part. Please never stop telling me things.” A dulcet nestle, now against Myka’s neck. “For example tell me what is canasta.” Helena’s turn to yawn: not with vigor, just a little open-close of mouth. Small, sleepy animal.

Myka wanted to celebrate. She settled for placing a kiss where her teeth had lately scraped. “A card game. I’ll google the particulars and explain it tomorrow, I promise. And I’ll tell you why I brought it up.”

This was not the way Myka had ever expected to say “I love you”: vowing to speak about canasta when the day was new. But this was not the way Myka had ever expected to find happiness, either—constantly subjected to endless wonder/torment, never at peace—and yet here she was, happy. At rest, and happy.

“Don’t forget,” Helena said in a slow slur. “I know you won’t... but don’t.”

“Never,” Myka said. Had Helena heard her? It didn’t matter, not as they became sleep-ballast against each other.

The Regents did still mean to punish them; even Myka’s dreams were certain of that. Within the deserved and undeserved punishments, though, the consolations—the sleep, the dreams, the dreams that came true—were worth it.

****

Back at home, Pete gleefully informed Claudia about the basics of the duck bet—including what she was not going to have to “be some word cop about.” Upon receiving this information, Claudia proclaimed, with a pat of Myka’s shoulder that she apparently intended to be comforting (Myka added “shoulder-patter” to “hugger” on Claudia’s list), “Poor Myka. You win some, you Pete some.”

“It’s even worse than that,” Myka reminded her, “artifact-wise.” She jerked her thumb at Helena.

“Ooh, that’s right. Artifact-wise, you win some, you Pete-and-H.G. some. Rare, but true.”

“Worse than that,” Myka went on, “you win some, you have to travel home with two gloating gloaters some. My advice to you is, don’t ever enjoy eating pie around these two, or you will never hear the end of it.”

Helena produced her most typical smirk, but then she softened it. “Two gloating gloaters,” she said, “each of whom, in her or his own way, loves you very much indeed. And each of whom is both astounded and transported when you are willing to show that something is making you happy—a pie, let us say. Or a peace accord.” Then she whispered, directly into Myka’s ear, “Even a closed toothpaste cap.” Because Helena had indeed snapped the travel-size-toothpaste cap closed that morning, and Myka had indeed shown her, immediately and fervently, how happy she was about that rare occurrence.

“Are you using that microphone?” Myka asked, remembering the morning, remembering the joy that had accompanied its complete lack of peace. “Because I actually believe you.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Do you believe me?”

“I do. And I would like to add, we’ll play canasta one day.”

Because Myka had not forgotten.

“A very exclusive party,” Helena added. “I find the word ‘meld’ quite inspirational.”

“How do you feel about the extra jokers?” Myka asked her.

“Hey, don’t call us jokers!” Pete protested.

“We’re super extra, though,” Claudia assured him, and now she was patting his shoulder.

Myka stood very still and reminded herself it was usually better not to say words out loud around Pete and Claudia... she hadn’t, in fact, fully got through the canasta rules with Helena, because canasta information had been part of the post-toothpaste-capping portion of the early daylight... but the game did involve decks with extra jokers, and, yes, something called a meld. “I honestly don’t care if we ever play it,” Myka told Helena now. “All joking, and jokers, aside.”

“Neither do I,” Helena said, “but with regard to exclusive parties, we—”

She might have been about to say something extra inappropriate, but Pete headed that off with, “Enough with the la-la. C’mon, H.G., let’s go.”

“Where are you going?” Myka asked.

“Driving lesson,” Pete said, and Helena supplemented, “I am to have drummed into me the difference between derbies and day-to-day.” Pete finished up with, “We worked it out on the plane, when you got so tired of us gloating that you took that nap.”

Claudia reached out to pat Myka’s shoulder again, but she changed her mind mid-gesture—Myka shot her a once is enough squint, which Claudia, surprisingly, heeded. Instead, she huffed and said, “Once again, Myka gets herself Pete-and-H.G.’ed. Lemme get me shoes on. No way I’m missing this ‘driving lesson.’”

Myka saw a look pass between Pete and Helena.

“Sure you wanna take your life in your hands like that?” Pete asked.

“Good point. Myka, you’re coming too.”

“Why? Because it’s better if we’re all in the emergency room at once?”

“Don’t you ever pay attention to the ‘loves you very much indeed’ business?” Claudia demanded. “If you’re in the car, she’ll be more careful.”

“Experience does not bear that out,” Myka said.

“Myka! That is untrue!”

That Helena would express such shock at a statement of fact was more than a little ridiculous. Myka noted, “Just because you say something’s untrue doesn’t make it untrue.”

“It would if I had that microphone,” Helena grumbled.

“No...” Pete said. “It’d make Myka believe it was untrue. Wouldn’t make it really untrue.”

“You may stop doing philosophy now,” Helena grumbled deeper.

“No, I kinda like it. It ticks you off, plus I get pizza afterwards because of all my hard work.” Was that a wink he’d just sent in Helena’s direction? “Which reminds me, hey, Claud, remember the part about the ginormous rabbits?”

“That’s with me like I’ve got a case of the Bering eidetics, Anya.”

“Don’t call me Anya!” Pete protested. Was that another wink?

“You’re the one scared of bunnies,” Claudia said. “Anya.”

“Only when they’re ginormous,” he whined, with a wound in his voice, and that was definitely a wink now.

Helena went into the bit about the pizza, Pete took even greater offense, and Claudia howled.

Believing in things didn’t make them true. But Myka was particularly happy to find that sometimes... sometimes, it made them real.

END

****

A few thoughts:

This is not an epilogue, because I’m trying to break my addiction to those, but I think what most likely happens at some point in the future is they work it out so that Pete, Helena, and Claudia all drive in a demo derby in some fair in South Dakota, because all three of them would be entirely down, in their own peculiar ways, with modifying the cars as they would need to for competition (demo derby car regulations are abstruse and fabulous)... and Myka and Steve and Leena would go and spectate at the big battle, and Steve and Leena would find it just this side of too violent for a recreational activity, and Myka would have pie-eating flashbacks, and I have no idea whether Helena, Claudia, or Pete could actually win, but all three of them would end up totally exhilarated by the experience. And covered in mud. And Myka would take one look at elated, mud-spattered Helena, and she would give thanks that this impossibly material, muddy body stood before her, and she would fall in love all over again (as she would of course do regularly). And then she would say “Don’t touch me until you take a shower.” And Helena would very deliberately raise an index finger and paint a line of motor oil and mud down Myka’s cheek and say “There, I’ve touched you. What do you intend to do about it?” And I suspect Myka would feign outrage—another small fight, because Helena wouldn’t believe the feigned outrage, so Myka would feign it even harder—but inside, she would continue to give fervent, prayerful thanks.

Speaking of things prayerful, I know Myka talking about praying the Rosary is a little off. I was pretty sure the example needed to be faith-related, and everything else I was coming up with was even worse than this, plus it seemed to fit with her needing to confess the sin of her first-sight-of-Emily-Lake bodily reaction. Also I figured that even though Myka isn’t Catholic—she isn’t, right? as far as we know?—I bet she took a comparative religion class or several, and the Rosary isn’t too obscure.

(Also: Bering-and-Wells-ers are a pretty erudite bunch, so probably some will have recognized the image of the angel of history from Benjamin’s Theses on the Philosophy of History; it’s become somewhat hackneyed to refer to now, certainly in an academic sense, so I semi-apologize for shoehorning it in. Nevertheless, I find show!Helena to be a strangely literal fulfillment, or maybe I mean expression, of a lot of Frankfurt School thinking about history, particularly how it detonates and reverberates. I can’t not think of her when I read Adorno, and if you take the step back to poets like Hölderlin, there’s resonance there too. Anyway, here’s Benjamin’s passage about the angel:

A Klee painting named “Angelus Novus” shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. This storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.

I can’t do philosophy at all. But I’m always waiting and listening for the chimes of concepts and articulations that rhyme and echo. I’m waiting for lots of things, some in a messianic-time sense. Hence the shoehorning mentioned above.)

Anyway, Mercury may have at last ended, but I’m not going anywhere. If nothing else, I’ve got Ballet AU’s Propagator to finish up, and of course I’ll keep struggling with my white whale, Sound. I gotta stay alive for that. Plus Christmas! Even if there isn’t an actual B&W gift exchange this year (though I hope there is), I’m going to try to do something for the holiday. Plus several additional ideas are clamoring to be expressed... hang around if you care to.

[the-unknown-storyteller]

We are Four (pt.1)

(Loosely based on this discord message by @cassandrasdreamworld)

(Also, this request by anon came in just in time for this fic)

(Universe by @linkeduniverse)

Warning: Gender (?) Dysphoria, Probably Inaccurate Depictions of what could be described as dysphoria (I'm sorry in advance)

Summary: The Four Sword is a most peculiar sword with most peculiar side effects. Four is not amused.

______

They step up onto the podest, each raising their swords to the sky. Woeful expressions bid the last goodbyes in silence, before they simultaneously drive the Four Swords into the stone below them. Their bodies tremble, shake, merge back into one. A quiet “goodbye” leaves his lips as he opens his eyes to see that everyone is truly gone. They’re- He's alone now.

He steps down from the sacred stone and shoots Zelda, who's standing behind him, an unsteady smile. “It is done, we've won”, he says, glancing towards the sword one more time as they leave.

___

The first few days show how much he needs to adjust. Link makes his usual remarks, but looks and laughs in the wrong direction, expecting to see someone there. Only to then realize that, no, there is no one. Of course, why would there be? Link’s alone. As he has always been… before.

Still, there are always a few too many bowls on the table, a few too many spoons and forks and knives. He buys too much bread for one person to eat, too many arrows for him to carry around alone. His eyes are always magically drawn to the purple of certain lilies, the deep red of especially sweet and ripe apples and the vibrant blue of sapphires along the market stalls. The constant green of his tunic in his peripheral doesn't help. Neither does the shadow that seems to swirl and dance at his feet as the sun goes down.

To top it all off, he realises how wrong the name “Link” feels on his tongue and in his ears. It leaves a bad aftertaste in his mouth and makes his fingertips itch.

He tries out different names to look and see if the hollow feeling in his chest goes away or lessens in any way. But normal Hylian names won't do the trick, so he tries ones from other cultures, from other regions.

One day, on his way to the library to get a book on names from other lands because this is driving him insane and he's desperate enough to just find something that will remotely work, an old lady stops him on his way. “Would you reach over and give me some of those apples, my dear?”

Ripped from his thoughts he turns around, looks at the old lady, then at the apples behind him that are too far away for the small woman to reach.

She smiles at him sweetly and adds: “Four of them, please.”

Link carefully puts them in her basket with a distracted nod.

When he was talking to her, the empty feeling in his chest had dissipated for just a moment.

He takes a few steps away from the small fruit stall, while quietly repeating what the lady had said. Excruciatingly slow, word by word. It could be anything the small lady’s said, but he wouldn't reject it.

His lips slowly form the word “four” and he immediately knows that this is it. He's found it. Four, Four holds back from voicing his joy too loudly. The name is quite odd, since it is but a number, but it somehow feels right and soothes the strange feeling in his chest enough to be bearable.

_____

Shortly after that, he notices the bitter taste of “me” and “I”. His mind, which had been occupied with the issue of his name before, can redirect its thought towards the next one. This time it's pronouns. It gives him that same tingling sensation he felt back then. Whenever he refers to himself as a singular, it leaves a growing ache in his chest that makes itself noticeable again each time he says “I”. So he switches over to the most logical one he can think of.

And to them, it feels just right.

Days go by and the news have spread of the hero who doesn't want to carry the legendary name of “Link”, who vehemently refuses the implications of being just one.

But nobody dare say a word against it, you hear? How can we deny them this simple request of expressing who they are when we're the ones who caused this. We just don't have the right to be this arrogant.

While everyone did say and think that, the reality of it looks much different. People keep calling them Link by accident, refer to them with singular pronouns and the conversations that sometimes follow afterwards are tiring. In some instances they make Four wish they were “normal”.

Fed up by the constant confusion surrounding them and their name, they sit down one evening and think. They think about how they could make this easier. How they could show everyone that they're not the Hero “Link” anymore.

They let their eyes wander through the room until they land on the green tunic that's hanging over their chair across the room. It is one monotone singular shade of green.

As they are looking at it, they can't help but feel annoyance towards it, before it makes way to confusion, then hesitation and lastly satisfaction. They frown. They think some more.

Four then gets up and walks over to the chest beneath the footboard of their bed. Pieces of clothing and tools like a small hammer, nails and a few broken arrows go flying through the room. With a smile on their face they finally pull out three more tunics in blue, purple and red. A big pair of fabric scissors follow shortly after. They open and close them a few times, listening to the satisfying clicks, and get to work.

Soon enough each tunic, including the green one that was hanging over the chair, is cut apart into four separate, equally big pieces that slot together nicely. Four lays it down flat on the ground, making sure the edges aline, before they pin it down carefully. Excitement and waves of approvement rush through their brain and they slowly start to stitch the fabric back together. Each stitch puts them more at ease, makes them feel more like themselves and when they're done, they proudly pick it up, smoothing down some of the rougher edges.

“This will do”, Four whispers, puts it on and goes in a small circle to see every inch of their new tunic, that describes them perfectly, in the mirror. Yes, this will certainly do.

______

“Do you think that's him?”

“It must be. All the other boys around don't have the right characteristics.”

“You mean the golden hair? Twi and I don't have golden hair and there are actual a lot of boys here with that kind of hair colo-”

“Yes-, I mean, No! I'm talking about his face, you idiots.”

“Hm, yeah. I guess, he does have our faces.”

“I'm still the handsomest, though.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“Everyone, just shut up. Wind, you go and talk to him.”

“Why me?!”

“Because you're the least threatening since you’re small and all.”

“But-! Ugh, fine.”

______

“Hey there. Sorry to interrupt your… uhm, walking”, a boy with golden hair and a blue tunic approaches them with a waving hand. Four raises an eyebrow, but does stand still and wait for the boy to catch up. It's not unusual for them to be spoken to out of the blue.

“Are you Link?”, the boy continues, lowering his hand and wiping both of them on his tunic. Four ignores the uncomfortable feeling in their chest He's probably new around here, never seen him around. and nods with a pinched smile. “Yes, that's me.”

“I know this probably sounds crazy, but I'm Link too! Everyone calls me Wind, though, since it would be confusing because, you see, in that bush behind me, there are seven others whose names are also Link, we're incantations of each other, you know, an-”

Wind’s rambling is suddenly interrupted when a hand comes up from behind him and stops his river of words.

“How could we forget that Wind is really really bad at talking in high stress situations,” the boy groans. He’s wearing some kind of animal fur around his shoulders and there are strange markings on his face. He’s keeping a strong grip around Wind’s mouth who looks less than thrilled. “You can come out now, you guys. I don't think we can ‘ease’ him into the current situation anymore.

“We should have sent in Hyrule. He's way better with words. Also, look at his face and tell me you can say no to that.” The one in blue tunic and with a hooded cloak around his shoulders is squishing the face probably of the one called Hyrule.

“Whatever. We can't change how we've approached him and I don't think that discussing how we could've done it better in front of him is doing any good.”

“Legend’s right. We're achieving nothing with all of this blabbering going on.”

While the group of people in front of Four are discussing… something, they can do nothing but stare. At their faces and their clothes and the way they look like the same person, just slightly changed.

And it reminds them so much of Green, Blue, Red and Vio. The way they bicker and jab at each other. The aching feeling grows into something else. Tiredness and confusion make Four’s chest constrict in an all too familiar way, but it's different. The reason behind it is different. They're jealous. Jealous and hurt and stricken with grief that they have lost this and can't have it any more.

They are all so absorb in what they're doing, saying, thinking that nobody notices how the place around them warps and changes and takes all of them somewhere else.

_____

When they all, except Four who was still very much confused and didn’t know what to do, had noticed that they've changed dimensions again, they began to set up camp. They collected wood and pulled up small tent-like constructions, various maps were pulled out and spread across the ground.

After a quick round of introductions from the group’s side, they all go back to planning and checking on supplies or just leaning back and taking it easy.

“I am so sorry about this”, Hyrule says, sitting down next to Four who's staring into the flames of the campfire. They don't know what's going on, but after having gone through that kind of adventure back then where they were also thrown all over the place, they learned to just not question, but rather find out what to do. Even though they don't know what to do right now.

“Usually, we're fast enough with the explanations and all”, Hyrule continues. “But then, Wind kind of failed to do it and everyone started panicking a bit and now we're here.” An apologetic smile is sent Four’s way. “Since I can't really offer you a way home, I can at least give you an explanation, alright?”

Four still feels overwhelmed, but more so tired, so they just nod and listen to Hyrule, as he talks on and on about the Legend of the Hero and how he incarnates and passes on his name, his tunic and his piece of the triforce.

“A few months back, old man Time”, he gestures towards the one across the camp with the scar who looks the oldest out of the bunch, “was ripped from his universe and into Sky’s. He was incredibly confused. When he met the “Hero” of that dimension, they both barely had enough time to find out what was happening before they were thrust into the next world."

He pauses and looks down at his hands, then into the fire and then back to Four.

“Since then, they've been slowly collecting Links from all kinds of timelines and worlds. Time usually tries to give a short and precise explanation. That way the current Link won't be too overwhelmed when we change dimensions... Ah, but some time ago, in Wild’s Hyrule, the old man barely avoided getting stabbed. Wild wasn't too fond of the scar over his eye and the amor. To him, Time looked like an enemy. So then, we changed things up and sent me to explain instead since I look less threatening. We just met Wind a few dimensions over and thought it would be a good idea to send him, but you saw how that went.”

Four gives him a blank stare which makes Hyrule give a nervous laugh in response.

“Anyway, I can already see your head spinning. Let's just… lay back for a minute.” He lays down his hands on his lap and looks up towards the darker growing sky. First stars are starting to twinkle and sparkle faintly. The silence is the most comfortable one, but Four doesn't really know how to initiate a new topic or what to talk about for that matter. So they just let it be for now.

Four averts his gaze and awkwardly looks around. There's nothing they can really do, but wait for something to happen. They lean closer to the fire, hunching in a bit.

Different incarnations of them, huh?

“Hey, Link?” An unpleasant feeling crawls up their left arm. They turn their head back to Hyrule. A displeased expression on their face which the other doesn't see since he's facing forward. “This is kind of a strange question, but are you the hero of something? Like, Twi is the hero of Twilight which is why we call him that and Wild is the hero of the wild and so on, ya know. It's kind of confusing to call you Link because everyone will swivel their heads around out of habit.”

“Oh, uhm, of course. Just call me Four.” They would love to add on their preferred pronouns, but something is holding them back. It could be that everyone else goes by he/him and aren't they supposed to do that, too? Being another incantation and all.

All of this is giving them a headache and the Four Sword they can spot leaning on a tree across the clearing is making things even more complicated.

______

The days pass in a blur and the matters weighs down on their mind, their body and their heart. It gnaws and eats away at them and just reminds them so much more of how different they are to all the other Link incarnations.

Not only that, but there's also this sharp, stinging feeling whenever they overhear someone talking about them. They also feel an uncomfortable tingle shoots up their back whenever they have to talk.

“Four, could you take over the first shift?”, Hyrule asks. He's the one, Four been primarily talking to. The others are nice and friendly, too, of course, but something about Hyrule’s familiar brown hair and his soft way of talking reassured them.

“Yeah, w- I can do that,” they catch themselves and swallow down the ‘we’. They're back to being singular. They have to remind themselves a few times a day, even after having gone through with it for at least a week.

It's fine. It's okay. They can do it.

They sit down at the fire, while everyone else hits the hay, and throw in a few more sticks for good measure. Their gaze wanders around before it falls on the Four Sword. So far, they didn't dare use it properly, scared that someone might see them. All of them.

But tonight, for the first time, they're truly alone. He's the only one keeping watch. Everyone's gone to sleep already. This is the perfect opportunity to maybe, just maybe, try…

They pick up their sword and slowly get up. For a few moment, they don't move a muscle and wait for a reaction from the sleeping group a bit away from them. When there is none, they tiptoe away from the camp until they can be seen no more. With shaky hands they raise their sword up to the sky.

Deep breaths. Concentration. On the feeling of the glimmer within the sword. Pull it out, let it engulf you. They can feel their body changing, moving, splitting into four.

They keep their eyes closed and hold onto the sword for dear life. They're scared. What if...

Right then and there, they could have all cried, seeing each other again. Red throws himself into the arms of Green and Blue who are standing the closest together. A few heartfelt hugs are exchanged, accompanied by the sobbing words of Red and the embarrassed ones of Blue. They sit down in a circle. None of them can wipe the grin off of their face.

As they are talking and laughing and bursting with relief and happiness, no one notices how all of the Four Swords give off a faint glow that were growing weaker by the second.

“But guys, it's really not okay for Four to deny themselves. Because if they are, they're hurting themselves and the body,” Red cries out, when Green explains why everyone has this weird feeling in their chest.

“It's probably because they used the Four Sword for so long,” Vio contemplates. He takes out his journal and his pen and draws a quick sketch of a person. “Usually, when a person uses the Four Sword, they've received a lot of training beforehand, so that they won't lose themselves. They have to precisely know who they are, what they want and how to center themselves, since they're literally getting ripped apart into pieces. Four didn't have that training, but used the Sword anyway.” He draws two crooked lines across the person's body, parting it into fourths.

“Not only is Four really young, compared to past wielders of the Four Sword, but we also got separated on our journey. Now their center isn't in the right place and the power starts to weaken and crack every time Four is unsure or denies themselves. They're unstable and so are we as a result. It's not unexpected that something is going to happen to us if we're like this for too lon-”

Vio’s words are cut off by a sudden tightness in his chest. He grips his tunic tight with his left hand and supports his body on the ground with his right. He's heaving and coughing for air that doesn't want to fill his lungs.

He looks around with hectic motions and sees that everyone else seems to be fighting with that very same tightness in their chest.

“Crap, it's happening, ugh, sooner than I e-expected,” Vio gasps out. His left hand is shaking so badly and is feeling kind of numb. He watches on in terrified fascination when he suddenly notices that his hand is turning gray. So is his shirt. The bangs in front of his eyes are losing their golden glow. “G-Green?!” He can barely feel his left arm now.

“I got it!”, Green suddenly yells and lunches for his sword on the ground. Both of his legs look like the color is slowly melting off of them. His trembling hands grab the sword before he thrust it upwards, face pinched with pain and exhaustion.

The others understand immediately. Each takes their sword in hand and weakly lifts them up into the sky. They can feel their body changing, merging, moving back into one.

Four falls down to their knees, gasping for air. Beads of sweat cover their forehead. The sword falls from their grasp.

“Dammit.”

Read more

______

A/N: Dammit, indeed. I've just edited this crap on the desktop version on mobile because of that stupid 100 word block limit and it didn't frickin work. I'm so sorry but I'll have to split it.

[the-second-circle-ffxiv]

Proposition

Asagi looked around in a mess of a room she had just casually walked into through an unlocked door. Somewhere deep down she wished that she, too, could still be that carefree. Silke's small apartment was so full of miscellaneous things, that at the first glance it seemed to be chaotic. However, after watching more closely, despite of the amount of things everything was in surprisingly good order. Opposite the door, on the other side of the living room was obviously her personal fortress: a huge, inviting and soft-looking canopy bed accompanied by a gigantic bookshelf that almost touched the roof. It had been crammed full of books, and even then she hadn't managed to fit them all in there. About half of the tomes were either laying on the floor or had been piled next to the shelf. On the right side of the living room the eye-catcher element was definitely a cluster of a small fireplace and an odd, winged sofa alongside a couple of round armchairs. Asagi was just thinking how her usually somewhat unorganized and clumsy sister had matured so much since starting her mage studies and finally reached some level of elegance. Then her gaze moved into the darkest, farthest corner of the room, where an old cupboard slouched both doors open like a drunkard passed out while still sitting in a chair. Bundles of clothes, cleaning tools and who knows what else were hanging from the drawers crammed so full of stuff they couldn't fully close. Shaking her head, Asagi turned to look on the other, tidier side of the room, where Silke had displayed her greatest treasures. A couple of far eastern drawers were almost bending under the weight of all plush toys and figurines on them. Silke liked to travel, and she had a habit of bringing something cute back home from every place she had visited.

Asagi couldn't help but smile when she noticed a happy looking emerald Carbuncle sitting on a round, red pillow and holding a gold coin almost as big as itself. It was very old, but it still looked almost like new. Back in the days when Asagi and Silke had been kids and lived in Kugane, they had gone to fair with their parents and brother. Some old merchant had noticed Silke's greedy stare and they had told the girl such artifacts brought luck. Asagi wasn't sure did she believe in such or not, but Silke couldn't have cared less. She had thought the creature was pretty colored and cute and that was all that mattered. She decided right then and there she wouldn't leave the fair without it.

However, the money their parents had given for the fair had not been enough for the item. Silke had asked for more without success. A heated debate had followed, which Silke had lost. Gracefully she had dropped on the ground and started screaming like a banshee, attracting too much unwanted attention. Their parents had finally bought the damn thing just to avoid possible Sekiseigumi questions about domestic violence. When Asagi's gaze finally ended up into the last corner of the room, a frustrated exclamation wasn't far. It was Silke's desk. The dummy had piled paperwork on it - judging from the amount since the day she had moved into the apartment - and a candelabrum peeked out from the messy mass. It was purely absurd to keep it in such place, and even more with a shiba inu in the house. Damn creature, Asagi thought in passing, while lifting the candelabrum away from the desk and relocating it on one of the drawers. The little red beast wasn't annoying in the same way most of dogs were, who barked at everything, smelled like animals, shed their fur everywhere and were messy in general. No, Laurence von Salem - though Silke and Lareine called him also Lucy for some reason, had way too much fun with it and Asagi had not the slightest clue why - was like people, except he looked like a dog. Just like a few minutes ago, when Asagi had arrived. Normal dogs would've barked their lungs out, dashed to greet her and dropped all nearby movables with their swooshing tail. But no, Laurence had just lazily gotten up from his spot in the living room next to Silke's bed, slowly padded towards the little hallway like he'd own the place and stared at Asagi for a moment while looking like he had just smelled something bad. Then he had apparently decided Asagi wasn't a threat, since he had silently snorted and continued his way into the kitchen, after which Asagi had heard rippling of water before it had become silent again. He hadn't come back though. It was probably cooler in the kitchen. Bah, enough of recollection, Asagi thought to herself. She took a couple of steps next to the couch where Silke was laying in a half sitting position, facing towards the fireplace and neck bent in such an unnatural way it almost hurt just to look at.

"Hey, sis", Asagi said, poking her sister carefully. "Can I sit down for a while, or are you busy?" Silke flinched and turned to look at Asagi, dazed. Her long, black hair was unkempt and glasses tilted. She was wearing one of her pompous robes, as usual. It was rare to see her in a more casual outfit. The girl just loved robes. "Oh, hi!" Silke exclaimed and glanced around like not being completely sure about her surroundings. "Yeah, by all means", she giggled awkwardly and then added: "I think I just fell asleep." "You should seriously sleep for a change... have you pulled an all-nighter with those books of yours again?" Asagi asked accusingly and took a seat next to Silke, reaching out towards her and gently fixed her glasses. Silke rolled her eyes with dark circles around them. "Not my fault they make books so interesting. And I gotta say I hate schedules. There ain't enough hours in a day for me to do stuff, I swear." She became more serious all of a sudden. "But oh, you got me interested. This must be something very important for you to leave your work and drop by." Her sleepy gaze focused a bit. "Maybe one day you'll find a way to add more hours into your day... as an archmage and all that", Asagi noted smiling, but let her expression quickly fade away. "And well... it's about my work. I do not know who to talk to, but you are all I have so... Silke, what would you say if I told you I have hit a mid-life crisis?" There was a short silence. Silke's eyes widened for a moment while she was staring at Asagi in disbelief. Then she burst out laughing, but soon after noticing Asagi's darkening expression she forced herself to stop and coughed awkwardly. "Eh... what? Why? Wait... Does this have something to do with that new hair color of yours?" It was Asagi's turn to roll her eyes. "Oh, go on and laugh, you silly little gremlin", she snapped playfully. "I mean... I have been thinking. What do I have? The bar... yes. But it's all there is. And honestly: the recent accident with the drunkard made me wonder. Is it all even worth it? Day after day I'm stuck inside those red walls. Seeing the same old faces. Hearing the same dry stories time after time. I have started to see myself as I will be when I grow old: a bitter woman, wiping puke off the table."

Silke listened closely while nodding rapidly. "Hm, well... I don't think other occupations are any more exciting", she pondered, rolling her hair around her finger. "Less risky they may be, but... My professors for example. Their job looks exciting from a student’s point of view, but I've thought of what it's like to them. Same old routine day by day, teaching students at days and fixing paperwork at evenings and nights. I think all regular occupations are like that in the end, after the first charm has worn off. You just gotta pick a career of which routines you like the most." Asagi couldn't do anything but to stare at her for a moment. Silke was usually so cheerful, but this was probably the most depressing thing she had ever said. And it made the whole thing even more depressing, that Asagi thought she was right. "At least you have choices", Asagi notified. "You don't have to become a professor. You can use your knowledge in so many ways. Maybe you can become a seer in a royal court. A mercenary... Maybe a researcher of old. Only the sky is the limit with your talent, Silke. Don't even think about locking yourself into some dusty, old office!" While Silke was frowning, Asagi let out a long sigh. "For me, though... I don't want to say this... but I don't know what to do. Time to time I find myself just thinking about burning the whole shit down." Silke tilted her head, frowning even more. She lifted her feet alongside a pair of moogle slippers from the floor and turned around so that she was facing Asagi completely, sitting cross-legged. "Huh? How are those royal seers or mercenaries any different then?" she started to grill. "They have their own routines as well." She rolled her eyes once again. "Personally I don't have a clue what you're talking about. I've always thought your occupation is interesting. It includes more risks than ordinary duties, but that's about the only thing I don't like about it."

Asagi leaned her back onto the sofa's comfy curve while crossing her legs. "Well, at least days would be different. But I guess you are right", she admitted.

If Silke of all people thought her occupation interesting, it couldn't be too bad after all. All those poor souls depended on her. Sure, most of them were drunkards, but despite of some bad choices of life, deep down they were just ordinary folk. One usually had a very good reason to grab a bottle. Asagi couldn't deny her bar was a peerless way to gather information, both for herself and her customers. She also had her doubts of being on the game for so long it might actually be close to impossible to step out from the shadows without dragging them along with her. "And it's bringing food to the table", Asagi added after a short while. "I'm proud of what I've achieved. But you see... I never see you for example. I miss the old days in Kugane. We used to do a lot together. Now it's just... Bah, look at me being all sentimental! I think I'm finally starting to drop the ball for good." "Now that you mention it, I'd like to see you more often, too", Silke noted, smiling. "But I don't think there's another bar in Foundation area like yours. And no, I'm totally not including Forgotten Knight! Imagine all those poor folk who'd have no longer a place to go and have fun in if you quit. But honestly, if you're feeling bored, what is stopping you from changing careers? What would you rather like to do?" "That... is a good question", Asagi pondered. "Anything connected to magic is off limits. My magic is way too unstable as it is. My blade? Years have made me rusty, and I don't want to risk my life again." "Of course your skills will get rusty if you don't do anything with them for a long time", Silke notified. "If you want to live by the sword again, all you need to is to pick it up and start using it. Geez..." Asagi had been thinking about it herself as well, but she had ended up into a conclusion it was too big of a risk and could lead into another mistake way too easily. And perhaps this time she would lose more than just an eye. "Nah", she said and couldn't help but smile. "I want to make sure I stay alive and see you becoming an archmage. And maybe get married. Then I could be the uptight aunt Asagi." "You?" Silke exclaimed, eyes round with horror. "Married?" She burst out laughing uncontrollably. "As if!"

Asagi blinked, her mouth hanging ajar. Before she was able to regain her voice, Silke suddenly stopped laughing and slowly turned to look at her. "Wait... Does this mean you actually have someone you like?!" "No! What?! No!" Asagi cried out. "I was talking about you anyway!" "Oh." "But speaking of which: why do you find me getting married so impossible of an idea?! You are hurting my soul, sister..." Asagi turned away from her dramatically. Silke puckered up her lips, and the tips of her ears started to droop a bit. "Meh... And here I was getting all excited for you." Then she sighed deeply and looked away. "You should know by now. I'm not interested in relationships, even less getting married. It's too much work and takes too much time. I've had my share of dating partners who've been jealous of my studies or my hobbies, or even magic itself! Relationships feel like someone tying a leash around my neck and tugging me all the time, telling me to stop doing what I love the most and give them attention instead. There's no way I could live like that. Ugh...", she rubbed her temples, eyes squeezed shut. "My brain starts to hurt just by thinking about it. Let's not talk about me." Asagi wasn't sure what she should've said. She found it extremely hard to believe there would've been anyone in the whole world fitting to be her own lifemate. She had also noticed she shared her sister's problem: she wanted a partner who wouldn't make her feel like she was trapped. If such a miracle were to happen, she would - by all means - welcome it. But still she thought the mere chance was low in astronomical proportions. Thus she wanted Silke at least to experience it, but so far it seemed she was following in Asagi's footsteps. She couldn't keep anyone for long, and wasn't even sure did she truly want it. Silke wiped the melancholic expression from her face like a pinch of dust from a table, and in an instant it was replaced by her more familiar, impish grin. "As far as I've watched other people's relationships from afar, there seems to be awfully lots of people who're seeking... ya know... the princess type, who they can protect or something like that. You couldn't be a princess even if your life depended on it, no offense!" Silke started to laugh again. Asagi smirked playfully and reached out to pinch Silke's ear. She let out a surprised squeal and yanked her ear away. "Here I was just teasing you, but you are shooting me with actual poisoned arrows!" Asagi proclaimed. "How dare you? I can be a delicate princess if I want to! Anyway, I guess you are right. I will just keep doing what I do. And maybe try working a bit less and seeing you more. I'm... kind of worried about you anyway." "Worried about me? Why?" Silke repeated, frowning slightly. "I haven't even blown anything up lately. Is that what worries you? If that's the case, it's easily fixed." If it had been something so simple, Asagi certainly wouldn't have had any need to talk about it. She had been postponing this discussion for as long as she had been able to, but lately she had started to feel she should've said something much earlier. "You are spending quite a lot of time time with that experiment girl", Asagi finally stated. "You hardly see people, and when you do, it's that... what does she call herself? Lareine? Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you have found a friend. But you know what I mean." Silke tilted her head again. "Experiment girl?" she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "Yes, her name is Lareine. She happens to be the only person who has enough spare time in her hands to see me when I'm able to go out. And what's even more important: she doesn't annoy me, like most of other people." Asagi let out a drawn-out sigh, looking at the flames dancing in the fireplace. "She's not right in the head. She is an outcome of what that man did to a poor woman. I may see him in different light these days, but I'm afraid this Lareine is just pulling you closer to Blacksoul. You will end up being an experiment as she is." Asagi hadn't been completely honest when she had told Varg she didn't care about the rumors about him. In a way it was true - while no one she knew was involved with the man in any way. However, it was completely another matter when Silke of all people had started to spend her time in such questionable company. Silke made a gesture with her hand like shooing away a fly. "Pff, oh please. This is probably the most ridiculous thing I've heard all week. You're being mean now." Silke obviously tried to keep a brave face on, but Asagi still noticed that strange hue in her sister's eyes she always had when someone had been poking her into the wrong place. "Lareine has been through so much shite it's no wonder it has left its mark", Silke started to speak formally like she'd been addressing an audience. "She's one of those few people who actually like to have me around and who doesn't think I'm crazy. Would you like me to rather hang out with my classmates? The normal ones? The ones who're bored during classes, who badmouth professors behind their back, who call me a nerd because I actually like to study..." Silke's voice was dripping with bitterness. She inhaled deeply and continued: "I've always wanted to ask them why do they even bother going to school if they don't want to be there. It's not even a grade school anymore, it's completely optional! No one is forcing them!" She shook her head, trying to regain at least some of her composure. "About Grumpy, I mean, the old man Varg-Varg... you're just being paranoid, dear sis. He may appear intimidating, sure, but in reality he's just an ordinary dude and totally under Lareine's slipper. He's not interested in me in any way. He probably wouldn't even want me visiting there." When Silke finally stopped talking, she was slightly out of breath. Asagi remained silent for a while, studying her. She certainly hadn't wanted to make her this upset. She wasn't sure did Silke know about it, but few months back Asagi had marched to Varg's door and demanded him to leave Silke alone. Back then Asagi had been certain he had lied when he had said he had no clue what she was talking about and told her to put her sister on a leash or something, so that she wouldn't stray into his house anymore. "...I'm sorry, sis. You are right", Asagi admitted finally. "You're a grown up woman. Just promise me to keep your eyes open, okay?" "Don't I always?" Silke asked, glancing at Asagi, sounding a bit tired. "Every time someone has tried something shady with me, they've ended up burning themselves..." Her eyes unfocused for a moment. She was either thinking very rapidly or wasn't thinking at all. Then she turned to look at Asagi again. "Perhaps you should join me next time I go visit them?" Asagi blinked. "J... join you? To Blacksoul Manor?" she broke into a giggle. "Oh, Varg would love that for sure!" She wasn’t certain was the suggestion either genius or plain stupid. If Varg didn't want either of them around, it would've been best to stay away. But Silke and Lareine were best friends, and Asagi had only heard good things about the butler, Arsene, who seemed to be delighted when he had guests to serve. It couldn't be good for Lareine either to spend her days alone in that grim, old estate. If she was important to Silke, and she wanted to keep her close, Asagi would certainly help her with it. "I may consider", Asagi agreed finally. "Maybe it's good time for me to pull my head out of a wine barrel. I guess I have been so drowned into my work I have not even noticed you growing up... You are hardly the same girl who got in trouble on the streets of Kugane. And what am I? Your mother? Bah... I'm not the one to tell you what to do." Silke shrugged and grinned. "I don't want you to worry, and I want to show you there actually is nothing to worry. What would be a better way than facing your doubts head on? Besides, grandpa Arsene is the best cook I've ever met. His skill may even rival our dad's. You haven't truly lived until you've tasted his stuff." "I guess that's an offer I can't refuse", Asagi giggled. "If someone is competing with dad in cooking, I have to see it with my own eyes. Tell me when you are going over, and I shall find some time. But talking about work...", Asagi got up from the couch and ruffled Silke's already messed up hair. "My shift is about to start. I will see you later, okay? Thanks for listening to my ramblings." Silke yawned and stretched her limbs, but didn't get up. "Haa, I’m glad I was able to be of help. I think I'm gonna try and sleep some more. Keep your eyes open at work as well, sis!" "I will." While walking towards the hallway, Asagi glanced over her shoulder and saw a petite, pale hand waving at her from behind the back rest. Smiling, she turned back towards the door, but then she noticed an eerie silhouette of a shiba inu staring at her in the kitchen doorway. The setting sun created long, sharp rays that cut the view like in far eastern paintings. Laurence was standing there, his back against the window, making himself seem like a black figure basking in an explosion of bright, orange light. What a drama queen, Asagi thought to herself, frowning. Laurence strutted closer to her and looked at her accusingly like she'd been a cheap sausage. "Lucyyy~!" Silke yelled from the living room. "C'mere, boy!" In an instant the arrogant expression disappeared from the dog's face and suddenly he was beaming as happily as the sun itself. His tightly curled tail started to wag rapidly but clumsily as he dashed into the living room so eagerly he was about to slip. Silently, Asagi opened the door and stepped outside. Before closing it, she could still hear Silke babbling at the dog in a high-pitched tone: "Whooza good boy? You are and you know it, don’t ya? Yes, yes~" --- With @lareine-kira​ :3c

[cocona]

anyway im back here again cos apparently idk what a diary is nor what a private acc is n i dnt want a character limit to say whats on my chest so.

i feel guilty for trying to take my life bcos dealing with the aftermath is a hassle n now my parents have to pay disgusting amounts of money bcos i decided to get shitfaced w porto n xanax at 8am before class n fainted on the bus n almost smashed my skull here n there. n bcos im gross like that the dizziness made me feel so good it was enjoyable to sit on the floor waiting for an ambulance. when they asked me what had happened to me, i was so dazed i started crying n then said i had taken a lot of pills ! which i had. but i didnt mention the alcohol cos i hadnt taken enough for it to be noticeable. barely three gulps. im not even a heavy drinker or whatever n at that point i rlly just wanted to faint or die or sth in between n i didnt achieve any of those. i just rlly . existed n floated until i got admitted in the hospital n put on these robes and started crying a lot cos it all fell on my head. i’d be living monitored. i’d be living. and also, now my parents had to deal with me going to the hospital for the second time in less than a week cos i cant keep my hands off prescription pills. the therapists there kept saying i was banalising it too much n that trying to kill yourself isnt light. but ik that and it’s not because they tell me that i’ll feel any less numb. idc ! hm . idk why im writing this. because im idealising abt passing away again and i feel the need to say it somewhere. the semester is starting in three weeks and id like to be positive about it n hope for the best n start living like a normal college student but already i feel waves of heat all over n my palms are sweating n im starting to feel what i see and see what i feel. it’s so bad . weird ass symptoms i cant explain but that are due to anxiety n dissociation n their weird crossovers. it’s seven in the morning and i havent slept all day. i could easily stay awake until i complete a 24h shift and then clock out for five days. the only reason why i dont try anything dangerous is because i dont want my parents to feel like i cant be trusted just bcos i have wild tendencies. lately ive been afraid of becoming addicted to things because i keep watching things abt them. id never smoke to the point where id be a stoner and id never become an mdma addict but it seems that any form of escape would soothe me greatly. i take engagements that lead nowhere. the director of uni said that he felt like i wasnt there seriously. i am not indeed. i am but a soul trying to leave bcos it’s too much. im tired as hell and i dnt even want to wait for a walk in to take over, i just want to end it all. but at the same time i accepted to go back this semester so my parents wouldnt worry, so i wouldnt be bored, and so tht if i was supposed to meet my soulmate @ uni i dnt miss them. these are laughable reasons but theyre reasons nonetheless. everyone has their ways of coping and finding motivation i suppose. i feel embarrassed to write things for everyone to see but i think only i will be reading this later. listening to sad songs does help to get in a certain headspace. i dont want to sleep because then i wont have these songs. im scared of losing everything else but what i want to lose. i wish i had a valid reason to take time off without having to pay back my scholarship and without feeling like im wasting the resources of medical institutions and professionals. bcos what is there about me. what even is wrong with me. why do i feel so bad ! why do i feel so bad, nothing has ever happened to me and yet i feel stressed and sad n like trash and i want to die but also i have massive ego boosts n im embarrassed n blush a lot . why am i like this. these days ive been asking myself if it’s normal to be still single when ure a wlw n ure 17 but i suppose that since we’re repressed it’s normal. i suppose that since the first girls i ever kissed were my sister then my best friend it’s normal id feel gross about my sexuality. i suppose that after men liberally rubbing their hands on my thighs n boys making fun of my misshaped body through all of my school years it’s only normal that id hate my body. disgust is a common theme, alongside disease and vomiting. things like that. i wish i had a clear image of my duty and role here. all i feel is pain. what am i even here for. i feel like i broke so many rules and that in a sense i cant be saved anyway. i just want to feel loved and useful and like i fit in for once. im tired of saying i like being alone because im too anxious to open up and too timid and used to being talked to first that idk when to stop talking and when i reveal information abt me thats not normal to be revealed in regular human interactions. i want to keep living so that there will be a book with my name with hundreds of unsent letters. perhaps ppl will relate to this later as well. heartache is normal. but why dont i get any precise diagnosis and why am i still doing so bad even after all this time... im tired of being angry and embarrassed and sad and aggressive and disgusted n feeling worthless and useless... give me a purpose.... or give me the tools to leave calmly and quietly... with no loud movements !

[ghostmartyr]

Pokémon White Randomized Nuzlocke Run [Part 1]

This is going to be a first in many ways for me. I’ve never done a proper Nuzlocke, I’ve never played any of these on a PC before, and my only previous experience with liveblogging belongs to things I’ve watched.

For people who aren’t familiar with Nuzlocke, here are the basic rules copied from Bulbapedia:

    Any Pokémon that faints is considered dead, and must be released or put in the Pokémon Storage System permanently.

    The player may only catch the first Pokémon encountered in each area, and none else.

Other rules that I’ll be using:

Each pokemon must be nicknamed.

If the first pokemon in an area is a species I’ve already caught, the first one that isn’t will become the catch option.

The catch rules start applying once I have the option of catching things.

No looking anything up on guides.

Team wipe means continuing on using whatever I have in the PC.

For added fun, all starters and wild pokemon are random. The rest of the game is as it is normally (or should be if I did this right), but considering how many years it’s been since I’ve played this version, that means very little to me except that gyms are going to have consistent typing, probably.

I think that’s it, so awaaaaay we go!

I neglected to screencap the dear professor because of course I did, but this generation’s tree name is Juniper. Hi Professor Juniper.

Thank you, I chose it partially myself.

See that? Two best friends I don’t know and didn’t bother taking screenshots of.

I don’t think I’m going to do a whole lot of commentary on things that aren’t related to the pokemon I get. I’m always pretty bad about paying attention to the plot of these games, which means maybe I should have picked a different gen for this, but yeah. I am here for the critters. The humans are boring.

(Cheren and Bianca are pretty nice, actually. I like how as the games go on they seem more and more interested in giving you good friends.)

So, the time has come for the randomizer’s first spin!

Let’s see what we’ve got...

That one’s out. Where’s the fun in picking a starter for a randomized run? Plus it’s already evolved. Part of the enjoyment is watching these things grow.

I’m going to go with probably not.

...

I think so.

I’m going to eat you alive.

That’s what I thought, anyway.

This is where, despite just starting, I got myself into trouble and had to start over. By which I means Psywave’s irregular damage meant that the Patrat murdered me. Legendary starter vs. Route 1 HM slave. The outcome could not be more obvious.

I’ve made the snap judgment that the catching rules might not be in effect yet, but the fainting rules are, so I restarted.

Then I realized that oh, because of how I’ve set things up, yes, it’s randomized from the original choices, but the same starters are still available. I also realized that I am far too interested in playing to really care that I’ve already botched this run, so whatever. Onward! Together we shall defeat the wretched Patrat and save the day!

Cue Psywave doing even less damage than last time.

While the Patrat just spams Leer.

All it needed to do was select Tackle once, and I could say goodbye to Latios, but thankfully, it did not do that, so we get to move forward a single step!

I appreciate I’m doing this the day after my dog got ink all over my carpet.

Next fight... go!

I can’t remember if Meganium has Poison typing to go with Grass. I’m leaning towards no, but hoping for yes, because I don’t really want to restart again. That would mean having to deal with figuring out the right randomizer settings, and please consider that I do not want to. We’ve got to pull through on this.

That’s... a good start?

I believe in you, currently unnamed Latios.

I can’t wait to find out if this is one of the versions that has you take poison damage outside of battle or not. I don’t think I will enjoy that. Watch, the first pokemon I catch will die because I have no antidotes and am too many steps away from a center.

Victory against Cheren achieved! With another nonexistent screencap because I am unprofessional as all heck. Yay for gratuitous amounts of exp because Meganium isn’t something level 5s usually fight!

It’s nice that my mother in this game is so understanding.

I see, so if they can’t stop you from going out in the wild grass, they’ll just inject plot to keep you from immediately running out the door. Geez I hope I get running shoes soon. I feel so slow.

I can’t remember what kind of jerk dad Bianca’s father is, but I do remember not liking him and very much liking the Electric gym leader.

It’s true, in an alternate universe that never happened she and her Patrat beat me up and I was very sad.

Loudly. Do not like.

Hi fellow kids.

The time to receive our permission to leave the town (aka pokedex) has come, but more importantly, it’s time for Latios to get his very own nickname! That’s how you know the difference between this one and the exact copy that died to a Patrat!

In the spirit of being uncreative, Latios’ new name is Boeing. Long may the two be attached to each other.

Every Pokemon game ever, until the end of time.

Bianca you are so cute. I sure hope nothing bad or inconvenient ever happens to you during the plot. Can you imagine how sad that would be for you and your bloodthirsty Patrat.

If I could have three wishes, one of them would be to skip the tutorial section in all of these games. Please just let me catch things and try not to kill them.

It begins.

You know, one of the problems with having Boeing only knowing Psywave for damage is that predicting what he’s going to do to the creatures I try to catch is going to be an entertaining mess. I predict whatever I catch first is going to be significantly more helpful in the process than he currently is.

(Don’t worry, Boeing. I am still obligated to love you until death.)

I really need to be better about screencapping things, but I don’t think I will.

Bianca starts a pokemon-catching competition between the three of us, and unless there are more routes than I think between where I am and where the three of us are going to meet up, I think I lose that by default.

What route is this?

Alrighty then. Let’s go forth and find out who our next partner is! Forward, Boeing!

You know. I wonder if I have made mistakes with my preferences for the randomizing here.

Okay Boeing. You and me. Trying not to die. If possible, trying to include catching our new friend in that mission plan.

Boeing, two misses in a row is not how we do that.

...Make that three.

He did dodge the Supersonic after he finally hit it. There’s hope here.

What’s a Seismitoad’s catch rate? I have my suspicions and they are not good, but...

Who thought this was a good idea.

Gasp.

Am I allowed to be disappointed that it’s already in its final form, or is that considered rude to my new friend?

I dub thee... Frogger.

I should probably run back and go heal before I get one of these overpowered little guys killed.

I can’t remember if you being Modest is a good thing or a bad thing, but you’ll hopefully be alive long enough for me to teach you Surf, so in theory it’s a good thing. Poison Touch is the good ability I think (thank you luck for not having Boeing know any physical attacks that could have gotten him poisoned). Frogger’s also “proud of its power,” which I think means might have max IVs in the category his nature isn’t good for.

What’s Boeing like?

He’s also Relaxed and loves to eat. I grant him the secondary nickname of Good Boy. Speed being lowered is probably the most neutral I could ask for that isn’t actually neutral, and I am not going to say no (like I have a choice) to having his Defense raised for a Nuzlocke.

Okay guys, it’s time to go grind and be sad about the things we could’ve caught. ...No offense, Frogger.

...

This run is going to be fun. I can tell.

I am not confused, and yet I still managed to hurt myself.

I think some people might have some rules where you can catch your first encounter for grass and your first encounter for water, but this one is just going to be straight-up, one pokemon per route. Hopefully I’m better at keeping track of that than I feel like I will be.

I imagine I will have much reason to appreciate the kindness of strangers in this game. I usually end up grabbing every single item I can, but out of me being a completionist, not necessity.

Every Shaymin I find during this grind session is mocking me.

I continue to be really slow about screencapping, and really fast about button mashing to speed through every solitary bit of text, so not pictured here is me and my two besties being happy about how all three of us have two pokemon each. Shaymin not included.

I can’t remember anything about these video chats. I hope they aren’t important enough that I feel the need to cap them.

Accumula Town. Pokemon seen here: None yet. I can’t remember if I can even get anything here. I remember so little about this generation. N’s entire existence was practically blotted out before I watched the intro cinematic.

When do I get my running shoes. I feel so slow.

Wait, is this the generation where the Marts and Pokemon Center get combined? Yessss. I have made one (1) good decision in my choices here.

Look, more names I don’t remember.

Hm. I am not used to having to do stuff with my money in these games. I just pick whatever up, heal at the centers, and maybe buy some healing items for the Elite Four. I’m not sure what the protocol is when you have to worry about your beloved partners actually dying.

Potions and Poke Balls. The two things I can buy here, and the two things I will probably need fairly quickly. Pokemon Go’s spoiled me with how easy things are to catch. This is going to be a rough awakening.

Current bag stock: 4 Potions, 1 Premier Ball, 13 Poke Balls. Plus Key Items.

I’m really starting to understand why most people just do these things in a video format. This has its limitations as a medium when I have my limitations as a competent host.

I put Boeing back in front so that he can maybe get enough exp to know something that isn’t Psywave, but I think that doesn’t currently matter because the plot has arrived.

Hi Team Plasma. Leave me alone, please. I am not here for plot. I am here for fun times and accidental murder.

This is sort of an unfortunate generation to Nuzlocke when it’s all about treating pokemon better. “Pokemon are my precious partners! Battling is a way to bond! Oh whoops Frogger’s dead.”

This is N. He hears pokemon. He also does what he can to speak for pokemon. He is a good egg, if memory serves. He also has a cooler outfit than I do, and that makes me sad.

Try... I don’t know, how many routes are there? Yell at Cheren and Bianca, not me. I’m going to be a very irresponsible pokedex filler.

Wait, this is a battle? Already?

Guess who thought, “I can’t remember if this is Dark or Normal. If it’s Dark Boeing is the least helpful thing I could use. It’s probably Normal until it evolves, it’s early in the game, right?“

Frogger, maim.

Frogger’s going to win and I’m not going to think any other way, but this would be a really sad way to go. Purrloin just murdering me because of critical hits and Boeing’s inability to hurt it.

Prediction proven correct. We win, Boeing gains a level, and yet again, no one is dead. Yay.

We blink the same way. That’s where you can really see the family resemblance.

Wait.

Is it...?

YES! Movement achieved! Best mom is best!

So the question is if we’re going to fight trainers or catch something first. I think I’ll take the lead and just step in front of the girl to the left. Then I’ll find out she has a Purrloin and Boeing will be sad.

Oh. She’s not a trainer. Learning all over the place.

Hello! Well, isn’t that convenient. Let’s hopefully not murder you!

That’s stage one accomplished. Now for the less fun part. Let’s throw the Premier Ball for luck.

...Let’s be sad when that has no effect.

Whoever wrote the reactions to the pokemon breaking out of the balls had a great understanding of what torture their players would be going through.

Success! Something normal to play with!

Hm.

You shall be Timon. Please don’t die.

I love being able to run back to the Pokemon Center instead of needing to walk like a peasant.

Switching Timon into first place since he is the weakest in every possible way. Don’t worry though, buddy. If you live long enough, we will change that together.

Timon is a Bashful boy and likes to run. The first neutral nature of the group. I have no strong feelings on that one way or another, but I do know me, and knowing me, I will be most sad if the Bashful one dies. You protect the Bashful ones.

Time for our first battle against an NPC. I foresee this going well. Even though Youngster Jimmy is a bearer of the dread Patrat. It’s level 7, so Timon belongs nowhere near it, and it’s a Patrat, so Boeing needs to stay far away. Frogger, you’re up.

Two hits later, the Patrat is gone, Frogger is level 8, and Timon grows to level 5. Progress.

Me too, as long as I win.

The theme of this run will just be never using Boeing in a fight.

Victory achieved, and Timon has leveled up to 7 and learned Ember! A productive fight.

Are you kidding me.

Hm.

Okay it turns out it knows Bite, so Boeing this is yet another creature to stay away from, Frogger, if you don’t mind stepping back into the role of enforcer? Yeah it’s a fierce dragon, but it’s also level 4.

Good Frogger. And you even all get to share the exp together! A solid group experience that didn’t take any years off my life, no sir.

I should probably give up on screencapping every single encounter. It’s not exactly entertaining for anyone, and if the post doesn’t suddenly stop, the answer of what happens should be fairly obvious.

We’re going to let Timon try fighting for once instead of going pure switch training.

And now we’re going to let Boeing take over, because Lillipups are the terrifying puppies with STAB. Timon takes a level up, and Boeing takes the pride of actually being useful again.

My first experience with Randomizer should not have been wasted on a Nuzlocke. My only real complaint about Pokemon games is that I’d like more variety in the ones you find on early routes, and with that solved, it’s like being thrown into a candy store where everything is free.

Except I already caught something in this route, so sorry Yamask, time for you to go.

This thing knows Disable. I... think Psychic can hit Ghost, it’s just not very effective. It’s Dark it has a problem with, but we’re not going to find out this fight because Boeing missed and Yamask Disabled it.

Things like that are why early game variety isn’t a priority. Pokemon pick up their better moves as they advance, and that translates to a lot of early moves not hitting Ghosts.

A wild Salamence was found after I went back to go heal. It made Timon flinch twice in a row.

In some ways, this is exactly what I wanted, in others, mistakes have very much been made. There’s probably an option to keep all the evolutions found in the wild level appropriate.

If Boeing ever hits a Psywave, I might just die of shock. My poor useless Legendary. I’m going to let him try to kill a level 7 Tepig just so he can feel needed. Though he is a Relaxed guy, so his performance probably isn’t bothering him nearly as much as it bothers me.

Bianca, you and your terrifying Patrat should feel no obligation to fight me. You could just. Not. You also have a Lillipup now. I do not trust this encounter to go well, because I am a paranoid sort.

Then Timon’s Ember burns the Lillipup as I’m typing that, so fine, maybe not everything will be horribly dramatic all the time just because death is on the table.

Boeing, I know it’s scary, but I’m going to send you in to fight your rival. Don’t worry. In this universe, I have other things to switch to once it starts murdering you.

She used a Potion? Really?

Patrat please stop Leering at my Latios.

...Also please undo your knowledge of Bite. Boeing’s accuracy with Psywave is so bad I actually can’t guarantee that he’ll live long enough to strike the final blow, so once more... Frogger, time to pick up the slack. Sorry you are the most useful of the team when you are clearly the most unloved.

We win and arrive at Striaton, which I think I actually remember now that I’m walking around in it. It’s the one with the waiter Gym, I believe. And the Dreamyard’s next to it, where we will likely have our next friend.

This Gym changes based on who you picked as your starter... I wonder what Boeing replaced.

New location get. Oh wait... am I remembering wrong, or can I not access the grass without HMs? I’m pretty sure this is the area where you get the chimp pokemon, but that’s a letdown here since I don’t think I randomized gifts and the like. Maybe we are not meeting our new friend here yet.

As I’m going through the trainers here, Boeing is still level 8, Frogger is 10, and Timon is 11, so... sorry, buddy. You’re going to have to face down another Patrat. Maybe it’s a good thing I banned myself from looking things up, because I am guessing that however long it takes for Boeing to get a new move, it will be too long. His only other move is Heal Block, and that is only theoretically useful at this stage in the game.

Against any type, actually, but I guess that’s the answer to what Latios replaced among the starters. I now have a Panpour.

I didn’t really think much about what to do with gift pokemon... I think I’ll just add to my personal rules that using pokemon on my team that have not been randomized is a no-go. As a sign of its ineligibility, Panpour will receive no nickname. I’ll ditch it in the PC before the temptation to use it grows.

Yeah, the grass is currently beyond my reach... I guess we’re doing the first Gym with these three, then. After our obligatory journey to the Trainer School.

I don’t remember so many battles with non-NPCs in other games, but it’s also been quite some times since I’ve played. And I was tempted to go with a no-items rule for this run, but then I remembered I am a coward when it comes to small creatures under my care being in pain.

...Geez, I probably have to worry about what level the Gym Leader has... usually I grind the heck out of things by accident, so it never comes up, but there’s room enough for error here to concern me.

Cheren having a Meganium is going to surprise me for a while yet.

Boeing being pretty useless against it won’t surprise me anytime soon. I guess I’ll have my answer about how this generation deals with poison if I make it through this fight.

I apparently forgot to heal when I ditched Panpour. Whoops.

But Timon comes through!

Thank you my intrepid fire pig.

Hey, Boeing learned a move!

.

.

.

Helping Hand.

Latios replaced the Grass starter.

Isn’t that supposed to be easy mode.

Lucky me, this is one of the versions where poison doesn’t kill you outside of battle. That’s a relief; I never remember things like antidotes when I’m playing the games normally, so it was fully within the realm of possibility that my entire team would die just because I forgot about the rules.

...

I’m gonna yolo it.

Frogger, I believe in you. Murder the Fire pokemon with your mighty Bubble.

The first trainer has a level 11 Lillipup... I would probably be way more comfortable taking this gym after some grinding, but that’s hardly the point here. The point is for me to entertain myself and feel terrible when it all goes wrong.

It’s weird how little memory I have of this gym. I remember the final fight, but absolutely nothing else. I think that’s because Cheren takes over being the first Gym Leader in the sequels, and who ever remembers the peons anyway.

I can’t believe I’m switch training a Latios.

We’ve got a long way to go, Boeing.

This could go so badly so easily.

His name’s Chili? Really?

At least he only has two pokemon--

Lillipup with status boosting move and Bite, run Boeing.

Timon bravely holds the line, and... yeah, this is the gen where the amount of exp is determined in part by the difference between your level and your opponent’s, isn’t it? Because grinding needed an added complication, naturally.

Level 11 Frogger vs. level 14 Pansear.

This should be fine, but I am so used to being a higher level in gyms. Being a lower level while playing for keeps is making me twitchy.

Atta boy, Frogger!

And he learned BubbleBeam! That is so much better than Bubble!

One badge down.

...Does anything in my party learn Cut?

Okay, with the badge, that seems like a good stopping point for this post. I don’t know how these will end up going, since, in case it weren’t painfully obvious and you didn’t read some of my comments above, this is all brand new to me, but hopefully this proved at least a little fun on some kind of level.

[zee-cupcakes-personal-blog]

If you're still interested in recieving kiss meme prompts, either 1 (hot, steamy kiss), 10 (neck kiss), or 19 (forceful kiss) for Shigaraki? Take your pick, whatever sound fun for you. ^_^ (conversely if you don't want to do any of them delete this ask. I understand 💚).

((Ah. Yes. But you made a fatal error.

I’m an over-achiever who will likely try to do all three in one. Wish me luck.

…. How am I going to do that?))

((Edit* This has been sitting in my drafts forever. I was able to do 2 of the 3... I GUESS that’s a win~?))

Shigaraki wasn’t one for being forthcoming when he was hurt. Despite what many would expect good ole’ Shiggy could take a surprising amount of physical damage before he’d admit to being hurt. It took even more damage to force him into bed-rest.

You had no idea what sort of damage Shigaraki had sustained when the league returned from a particularly dangerous mission. Aside from Dabi eventually spilling that the lot of them had tried to make a break-in at Tartaurus and been caught- you wouldn’t have known. It was supposed to be a secret… A secret even Kurogiri didn’t seem to like you knowing.

Like a loyal guard-dog Kurogiri kept you from seeing Shigaraki to personally just… Check on him? Make sure he was alright?… Kurogiri had made mention that “Tomura” was the picture of wrath when he was in situations like these- but you knew there were other reasons why he did not want the two of you seeing each other.

What? Well, you couldn’t put your thumb on it…

The stale air around the base since the last failure clung to everything, and the tension was thick enough to be cut.

Downstairs you sat while Toga painted her nails a myriad of colors in silence, Dabi continually snapped his fingers- lighting them ablaze out of idle curiosity… Twice happily growled lyrics to a song he had heard on the radio earlier, and without any competition Spinner was playing a game on the console connected to the television.

That’s when you heard the door slamming, and the sound of heavy foot-falls from the stair-case leading up to the living area. Everyone had their eyes on Kurogiri as he huffed and stormed off behind the bar.

Dabi was the first to break the silence. “…I take it the make out session didn’t end well?“

Normally you would have laughed.

Normally, Kurogiri wouldn’t have poured himself a shot, taken it like a champ and then threw it at Dabi (purposefully missing), of course. “Shigaraki is being unsufferable. Not like you would have anything useful to contribute.”

“Hey, it was a joke,” Dabi said, almost defensively.

At this point, however, Kurogiri had begun to go off on a tangent on why Shigaraki was being so insufferable. Threat to his own safety, unresponsive emotional state, blatantly refusing to listen to anyone…

Frankly, that sounded like normal Shigaraki to you. Your eyes darted to the stairs just at the other edge of the bar… You had never been up there- it was strictly off-limits for you… And most everyone, unless they had a room up there.

“I wouldn’t,” Kurogiri scolded you from where you sat. “He’s in a mood.” In the time it had taken you to zone out effectively Dabi was now pouring Kurogiri another shot- a double. “I won’t stop you, still” Kurogiri emphasized. “Consider it just forewarning.”

“AH!” Toga chirped. “You should totally go talk to Tomura!” she chirped. “He seems to actually listen to you, sometimes!”

Ah, right… Toga was on a first-name basis with him. As strange as that was- you felt very odd for realizing that. It hadn’t bothered you before.

“If he does; I’ll count my blessings,” Kurogiri said bluntly. “As I said before; I won’t stop the two of you- but I’m also unwilling to help. If you get hurt- you get hurt of your own accord.”

“Okay!” Toga chirped as she grabbed your arm and began dragging you. “Come on! Let’s go make mister handy-man feel better!”

Behind you Dabi and Kurogiri exchanged looks.

“… Next round goes on my tab if Toga ditches.”

“Dabi, it isn’t wise for someone to bet on the obvious.”

Toga took you upstairs and in a moments notice she was standing in front of an unlabeled door, knocking on it twice. “Heyyyyy Tomuraaaa~” she sang. “I brought a freinnnnd~”

The response was less than cheery.

“GO. AWAY.”

Even Toga’s head jerked away. “… Well, so much for that,” she said. “Guess what Blackmist said is true… Come on,” Toga said, turning to you.

You were strangely annoyed by how easily she gave up… You walked to the door and knocked three times. “… Is there anything we can get you?” you asked.

There was no response for a moment before a growl came from beyond the door. “… A soda,” he answered numbly. “Melon, please.”

“Okay,” you said. “Give us just a few minutes,” you said, looking back at Toga, who’s face was curled up into a toothy grin and her fingers barely just covered her lower lips.

“I told ya,” she pointed out before merrily skipping off downstairs, dragging you behind her.

It took you a minute to go get him a melon soda- the base didn’t have any, but the vending machine that did wasn’t that far off. When you were almost wordlessly told by almost every member you passed to drop something off for Shigaraki. Dabi handed you a set of clean clothes from Kurogiri, Twice handed you a copy of one of Tomura’s favorite games... Little things that would have made the recovery go well for Tomura-- days ago.

With only a door between you and your boss you gingerly lifted your hand to the door. “It’s me,” you said.

Without much hesitation Shigaraki’s voice croaked- allowing you to open the door on your own. You’d be spared looking into his room this time- though you weren’t sure if that was an invitation to come in or to just open the door- so you stood there as the door creaked open. Shigaraki was sitting, back facing you as he typed furiously on the computer- blue light illuminating the otherwise completely dark room.

“Got you the soda,” you said, lumbering in- stepping over a few used soda cans... Of course, you weren’t all that surprised. Shigaraki had a bad habit of throwing things away. In fact; you were more surprised his room wasn’t as bad you imagined. “Annnd Twice wanted me to drop off a game and I have a new set of night-clothes.”

You heard him let out an annoyed “harrumph”, not even looking over his shoulder to see you. He seemed to be satisfied with the offerings the bottom floor offered him.

“Alright, so I’ll just stick this on your mattress...” you said as you made a b-line for his messy bed. A twin- barely big enough for him- let alone the pile of blankets that it was laden with.

You set the clothing and the game down together gently, keeping the soda in your hand so you could turn around and hand it to Shigaraki, leave him be to brood and stew in his silence- but found you didn’t have to go far.

“Can I have my soda now?”

You jumped and nearly hit your employer- which he didn’t seemed pleased about- grabbing your wrist with his middle-finger extended.

“You startled me-” you excused yourself apologetically- though your chest was still frantically pounding. Here you were, in Shigaraki’s room with just one finger away from ending you... And he was not looking pleased to say the least. “Sorry.”

You extended your hand to the can, hoping he’d let you go, but of course he didn’t. He used his free hand to take his beverage and expertly popped the lid with just his middle finger.

At this point you were confused- startled yes, but mostly just confused. You looked around, wondering exactly what he was doing as he took a long sip. Had he... Forgotten he was holding you.

“... Hm.” He made a noise, staring at the soda in his hand. “Odd.”

Uh-oh. “Did I get the wrong type?” you asked. “You said melon, yeah?”

“No,” he said, tilting the can like it was a wine-glass. “You got the right thing. It’s just...” He pursed his lips in thought, then looked at you, then at the soda again. Wow he was tall... Despite being a string bean he could really be intimidating when he wasn’t trying, even if his face showed the utmost innocence... Relatively speaking.

Without much warning his face suddenly loomed much closer to yours as he gave your lips a very brash and reckless collide with his own. You gasped- hoping that whatever the hell he was doing was as innocent- but judging by the fact he took full advantage of your open mouth suggested it was anything but.

Moments later he found himself pulling away from you, using his arm to wipe off the remaining spit over his lip-- when did he let go of your arm? Why was your hand on his collar?... And when the hell had your eyes closed?

“Thought so...” he said, sounding strangely satisfied with whatever conclusion he had come to. “You’re sweeter.”

[thecrookedtower]

20. Spellbound

[many years before campaign, around ages 14-15]

               The glade truly was serene, especially as the dying light of day painted it in hues of oranges and fading purples. The pond at the center was wreathed in willows, whose long branches barely brushed the surface as breezes blew through the clearing, sending slight ripples through the water. In the grass, upon a worn quilt, sat the young tiefling and human. Around them was all manner of books and scrolls, and the pair sat studying in a long silence.

               “I think I understand… but tell me if this sounds correct.” Morcego finally broke the silence, her eyes still focused on the leather-bound tome in her hands. Vitor looked up from his own reading and gave her a nod.

               “Magic is just pure power and energy. It exists almost everywhere, though in many different forms.” The tiefling gestured to the surrounding woods, and the sky that arched above them.

               “Yes.”

               “Magic is channeled in different ways, some are born with an innate ability, some act as a conduit for a deity or other powerful entity, and others channel it from their connection to nature or simply their understanding of its flow through the universe. For some even a powerful conviction can give rise to magic?” She closed the book and closed her eyes for a moment, seemingly trying to focus on all she had learned in the past hours.

               “That is correct. Magic is the energy to shape and bend reality, but it also can be found in almost every thread of it, if one knows where to look. The source of someone’s magic can come from a myriad of places, internal or external.” He elaborated.

               “Your magic is... external? You just use your understanding of magic to pull from what is around you and then channel that to cast spells?” She asked, focusing her gaze upon him, he shifted slightly under it.

               “Ah, yes. As far as I’m aware there isn’t a magical bone in my body. Through study and practice I learned to just borrow and shape reality’s energy as my own.” Vitor grasped at a handful of air, and with a whisper and a small gesture produced a small shower of starlight. A miniature of what was beginning to be displayed above them as the sun set.

               “After that you learn that it’s just a matter of learning different ways to shape and manipulate the energy you hold.” He added.

               “I want to try. I think I understand, at least enough to give it an attempt. How should I start? How did you start?” The determination on her face was so intense that he had to stifle a smile.

               “Master Abarin made me do all sorts of things before I ever learned a hint of magic,” Vitor crinkled his nose, remembering all the chores and ordeals, “but I think the most helpful one was simply meditating and becoming more aware of the magic around me. You understand the theory, now it’s just a matter of whether or not you can feel and harness magic. Here, we can try.” The young wizard sat up a bit straighter, and closed his eyes, he took a deep breath in and then released it. Morcego mirrored the action, trying to remember what she’d studied.

               “Good, keep going. It takes a while to really focus enough to find the first strands of magic.” Vitor assured. The two sat for a few minutes, Vitor opened his eyes and snuck a glance at his friend. The rising moonlight suited her, highlighting the markings on her skin, and casting a glow upon her hair. Her yellow eyes fluttered open, meeting his open stare. He looked away quickly, color rising to his cheeks.

               “It helps to keep your eyes closed.” He chided, staring down at the grass. “It helps you focus.”

“Your eyes aren’t closed!” Morcego protested.

“Yes, but I can already use magic.” Vitor raised his chin, finally returning meeting her eyes again. It was getting darker, and so he reached within his bag and pulled out a small pebble that was swaddled in a cold flame. It illuminated the glade in fire-light, casting long dancing shadows. “Close them and keep trying, or we really will be here all night.”

               Morcego let out a huff of air and closed her eyes again. She kept her composure this time, breathing silently for almost a half an hour. Vitor was content to simply watch her, impressed by the depth of her focus.

               “I think… I might have it. I feel it.” A whisper filled with awe escaped her lips.

“Hold onto it, gently. Let it flow into you from your breath and guide it to the tips of your fingers.” Vitor rose, moving to sit behind Morcego. He reached around her, taking her hands, and cupping them around the candle he had brought with him.

               “Now imagine that energy as light, as warmth, and focus it on the wick. Ask the magic to light a small flame.” He whispered, guiding her fingers through the motions.

               “Illuminate.” Morcego murmured to the candle, the tiefling felt an energy course through her, flowing from her breath and into her lungs. Yet as she tried to channel it, she felt it halt, and dissipate, as if it had been snatched away into nothingness. As she opened her eyes, the glade was dark, the continual flame extinguished, the only light was the dim starlight from above. She let out a sigh as she looked down at the candle, why had she failed? It had felt right, she’d followed everything that she’d read. The magic had just stopped.

               “Hm. Odd.” Morcego heard Vitor mutter, his words so close that she could feel them against her cheek. He stared over her shoulder at the candle, his hands still grasping hers. All at once, he seemed to realize his nearness. He withdrew, realizing his touch might have been too familiar. These moments had happened often lately, and neither knew what to do about them.

               “Why didn’t it work?” Morcego asked, after a few moments of silence. “I felt the energy, I tried to guide it, but when it reached my chest it just… vanished.”

               “I’m not sure exactly. You seemed to be doing everything right, you could just need practice.” Vitor reclined, gazing at the star filled sky, it was difficult for him to see much else in the darkness. “It seemed more like a block, like something within you stopped the magic from flowing. It even snuffed out the pebble. You were channeling something, but I don’t think it works the same way for you that it does for me.”

               “What could be blocking it? How do I fix it?” Morcego’s voice had an edge of hopelessness, she had been studying for so long, and it had felt so close.

               “It might have to do with your own internal energy if I had to guess. I know that most tieflings have at least some innate magic from their devilish blood, but I know that hasn’t been the case for you. You have your wings instead.”

               “A freak even among tieflings, great.” Morcego sighed deeply and let herself flop down onto the quilt. She stared up at the night sky, wondering how much magic was hidden up there, trapped within the stars. Vitor rested next to her, still pondering her question.

               “I think it might be your negative energy, when you broke the lich’s stone in the tower you must have absorbed an untold amount of it.” Vitor felt himself shiver, even though that had been almost a year ago he could still remember how cold and still she’d felt in death. How she had come back was still a mystery to him.

               “It could be stopping the magic with its own flow; negative energy is like a cold void. Almost like empty space, but also not. It could either be swallowing the magic or redirecting it in an unexpected way.” Vitor gestured towards the stretches of black across the sky.

               “So, using magic is hopeless for me?” The tiefling looked at him with a crestfallen expression.

               “I think it’s too early to conclude that, but you might just have a different sort of magic than I do. Perhaps you will find it, in time. The spirits of the tower already have an incredible affinity toward you, maybe you just have a power you don’t yet understand.” He offered.

               “Why can’t things be easy or normal, for once?” Morcego complained with exasperation, rolling away from her friend to face the pond with a huff. Her disappointment and frustration were understandable, Morcego had never lived a simple life. Yet, her curiosity and zeal for life in spite of it all were something beautiful. Vitor wished his friend could see the substance of her own character, instead of the portrait the villagers had painted of her. He reached out and gently placed a hand on her wing. She shifted it, pulling it to the side and looking back at him over her shoulder.

               “You don’t truly wish for that. They can’t fly, they wouldn’t know magic if it was right in front of them. They run screaming at the mention of ghosts of the ruins, or of the dark wizard in the tower, but you know better. You know the story of every spirit in our dwelling, and you befriended me.”

 “Easy and normal are far less interesting. I would be stuck, alone in my tower, if you were some simple village human. One day, they will look at what we can do and what we’ve achieved and wish that they could accomplish a mere modicum of our greatness.” Vitor stood up and offered her a hand, Morcego tried in vain to fight off a smile, but her pouting face relented.

               “I hate having to admit you’re right when I want to wallow.” She took his hand and rose to stand.

               “That’s fine, you don’t have to admit it. Just help me pack up and guide me home, I can’t see a thing in this darkness.”

[mahistrado-blog]

another dimension with(out) you ; 2.5k, g, sana/eva & other stuff

there are so many other ways this could have gone. a series of other universes occurring at the same time as ‘let’s go b*tches’. [there’s no cursing in this, for those trying to avoid that for ramadhan!] ao3

eva flops back against sana’s unmade bed, long copper hair splaying out against the mustard yellow bedspread. “sa-na,” eva whines, emphatically. “you’re a genius. stop already.”

sana looks over from her desk with amusement, and eva meets her gaze upside down, her face painted with an overblown pout. despacito is playing from eva’s phone next to her head, because sana had refused to let her play it through her speakers. eva has the worst taste in music, and when sana tells her so, she replies, i make up for it with my taste in girls, and something warm and lovely curls in the base of sana’s stomach.

“please?” eva tries again, hopefully.

in another universe, where isak goes swimming with jonas

sana sits at her kitchen table, books splayed across the whole surface. she stares at the text in front of her, knowing she has about an hour and a half left to study before everyone gets home and the chatter of anticipation of ramadhan will make it impossible to take in any more information.

she sighs, sits back fully in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. it is completely useless and she knows it. she closes her eyes, presses her thumbs against the hollow where her eye socket meets the bridge of her nose. she stays like that for a long time, forcing stillness into her brain, flushing out the simmering rage in the back of her mind, breathing in the familiar scent of her home, soft linen and lingering spices.

“sana?”

her eyes snap open and she sits back up in her chair abruptly, scooting it incrementally across the tile with the movement.

“yah?” she says sharply, looking at elias hovering in the doorway between the entryway and the kitchen. “what do you want? i’m studying.”

“yeah? you getting it by osmosis or what?” he taps his fingers against the doorframe with an expectant smile.

she rolls her eyes and hunches back over her notes, not bothering to reply and hoping he’d just… go away. exist somewhere not here. not just him, but everything that came with him. the fight. the boys. the stupid sexism that made it perfectly fine for him to be russe while it's tearing her life apart.

the tapping stops, and she hears elias approach the table. “sana?”

she doesn't answer. the page of her notebook that she's flipped to is well worn because she's handled it so much in the past week. it's the summary of chapter five on respiration, and it’s also the page that noora wrote her password on.

she folds the corner of the page up and pretends to read. elias pulls out the chair opposite her and sits down.

“sana,” he repeats, this time with the darija inflection that mamma uses when she's angry, or fond, or tired, heavy on the n and short on the a’s. “come on. do you need to punch me? i’m tough. you can give me a bloody nose too.”

he reaches across the table to put his hand over her notes, and she swats his hand away immediately, glaring at him.

“no,” she snaps. she's forgetting what her voice sounds like when she's not snapping at people. it seems like a different life to imagine herself heart full, practically glowing with the force of her joy, less than two weeks ago.

she holds her glare, resists the urge to soften her face. she's horrified when she feels the hot burn of tears behind her eyes and she looks down immediately, blinks hard once, twice, three times until they go away.

“is this all because—,” he starts, eyebrows furrowing. “because i punched your friend? or is it something else?”

she feels her bottom lip fall into the same juvenile pout she's been trying to train herself out of since she was a kid like it does every time she feels like she's going to cry. she hates it, and she hates it even more right now, hates that she can't even seem to get her own stupid angry stereotype right.

when she looks at elias lately, she sees isak’s bloody nose; and she sees her reflection in the mirror of the bathroom at the karaoke bar; and she sees yousef (under the streetlights in front of her house); and she sees noora (smiling at her over the top of her laptop); and she sees them together like a nail through her sternum. then she blinks until she sees elias as himself, but by then he’s too tied up with the rage of her battles with other people to treat him right.

he deserves to be forgiven, but she can’t. because if she forgives him, elias gets to go back to normal, like everyone else. as long as she’s still mad at him, they’ll both remember that something happened, and as long as she’s not alone, she feels a little less crazy for feeling heavy all the time, for wanting to hide and scream and hurt people the way she’s been hurt.

what she really wishes is that she could be mad at everyone else. but the only person she has a real reason to be mad at is elias, and elias is the only person who will still love her for sure after two weeks of getting nothing but biting remarks and eyerolls.

her eyes burn, and she realizes she’s been been staring so hard at her notebook that she’s forgotten to blink.

“come on,” elias says, and she can see him leaning in over the table, whining a little. he doesn’t know how to handle not getting what he wants. she doesn’t move.

he reaches for her hand but stops short of touching her. his hand lands next to hers where it’s pressed flat to her notebook. his voice is gentle, the same one he used to tell her when you’re sad, i’m sad, says, “let’s have it out before ramadhan starts, khti.”

it’s the khti that breaks her. suddenly, she is small again, squished between her two older brothers in the backseat of their car. when baba took turns too fast, she would grab at their hands at her sides to steady herself, and they would never shake her off. she doesn’t mean to be dramatic, but it is dramatic, a little, when a tear falls onto the back of her hand. elias wipes it away with his thumb, curls his fingers over hers. it’s quiet in a way that elias rarely achieves.

she can’t look at elias, so she fixes her gaze on the curve of his hand over her own, the warmth there. she remembers that he will never let go.

she says, “yeah, okay.”

it’s barely above a whisper. her voice feels like she hasn’t used it in ages.

*

in another universe, where sana doesn’t text isak

the morning after she read the comment thread on the facebook group, she woke up and stared at the ceiling for 15 minutes until mama came to wake her up. the thought of going to school made her ill, in a way that she hadn’t felt since meeting chris in german class during first year.

mamma, sana said as fatiha turned to go wake up elias. her voice was strained and she kept her gaze trained on the bumps of plaster above her, gaze blurring them into abstract shapes and patterns. i can’t go to school.

are you sick? she asked, concerned.

sana didn’t want to lie, had done more than enough lying lately, so she told the truth: i don’t feel well.

she could tell that fatiha knew she was not sick, and sana saw the exact moment where she moved between the mamma who wanted sana to be responsible and focused, and the mamma who had been asking increasingly pointed questions about how sana was doing for the past two weeks.

fatiha calls in sick to the clinic and they spend the day together. it’s both peaceful and vibrant in a way that sana has not felt in weeks. they drive to grønland with the new nancy ajram album playing and the windows down, and sana breathes a little easier with every moment that she goes without seeing any blonde-haired, blue-eyed people.

they browse through fragrant, cramped grocery aisles, filling their cart with dried fruits and spices. they go into a small dress shop that is draped from floor to ceiling in rich jewel tones, sequins sparkling from delicate embroidery across the neck and waistlines of the dresses fitted over the mannequins. sana runs her hand along a skirt made of fabric so deeply blue that it was almost black, overlaid with an iridescent shine.

it would suit you, fatiha observes from behind her, squeezing sana gently with palms flat against her upper arms. her voice is warm with her fond, honey-sweet smile, and sana rubs the fabric between her fingers.

her mother is all soft fabrics and warm heart, steady and considered, and the streets filled with her people bustle around her in a dance; brightly painted, loud, abrasive in the way that all proper homes are.

they return home around 14:00, and fatiha immediately gets to work preparing dinner, chattering absentmindedly about what she wants to have prepared to make suhoor easier as she dices vegetables and puts oil to heat in a heavy bottomed skillet.

sana puts away the rest of their groceries, and goes to her room to hang her new skirt on the hooks mounted behind her door. it looks like the night sky under the dim light of her room, something beautiful, and hers. looking at it makes her heart full in an almost painful way, the opposite of how she’d felt when she woke up.

when she returns to the kitchen, sana asks, “do you need any help cooking?”

fatiha turns around, raises her eyebrows at sana. “you want to help me cook?”

at her look of surprise, sana can’t help but laugh. it feels fizzy and effervescent in her chest, bubbling out of her and filling the kitchen, sharp and bright. “i want to help you cook!” she insists, walking over and kissing her mother on the cheek, smile still playing on her lips.

“mash’Allah,” fatiha murmurs, pressing her temple to sana’s. she winds her arm around sana’s waist and keeps her close. “are you feeling well now, habibti?”

sana nods, leaning into her mother’s warmth more firmly when she feels her start to pull away. she takes a breath, closing her eyes. “your advice isn’t dumb, mamma.”

“hm?” fatiha hums, questioning. her palm rubs soothing circles against sana’s back. “is this about before?”

“mmm,” sana says in affirmation, but doesn’t elaborate. they can get into it later.

she spends a moment longer against fatiha’s side. when they bow their heads close, it feels like prayer.

*

in another universe, where the conflict is different altogether

eva flops back against sana’s unmade bed, long copper hair splaying out against the mustard yellow bedspread. “sa-na,” eva whines, emphatically. “you’re a genius. stop already.”

sana looks over from her desk with amusement, and eva meets her gaze upside down, her face painted with an overblown pout. despacito is playing from eva’s phone next to her head, because sana had refused to let her play it through her speakers. eva has the worst taste in music, and when sana tells her so, she replies, i make up for it with my taste in girls, and something warm and lovely curls in the base of sana’s stomach.

“please?” eva tries again, hopefully.

sana tucks her chin and stares at her with her best imitation of annoyance, before she breaks, sighing and rolling her eyes fondly. she closes her notebook, and climbs into the bed, sitting with her back against the headboard. she lifts eva’s head so she can rest it on the top of sana’s thighs, her hair contrasting with the black of sana’s leggings. eva hums contentedly, and reaches for sana’s hand.

“it’s okay that i’m here, right?” she asks, worrying the right corner of her bottom lip with her teeth.

sana’s eyes flick to her open door, and she can hear mamma bustling in the kitchen and the faint sounds of elias and his friends in the living room. the two weeks since her mother had found a note from eva in the pocket of one of her sweatshirts had been both horrible and wonderful, in the way that things that transform you permanently often are. they had all screamed at each other, mamma, pappa, her, and elias; raw and ugly late into the evening, the holy month looming over their shoulders. mamma and pappa all but disappeared for a week, ghosts of their former presence through the house.

but this morning before school, pappa had exchanged a look with her mother before he placed his coffee on the table. then, he asked, do you want to invite your–, he paused, pursing his lips together before continuing, friend, eva, for dinner tonight?

“they asked you to come,” sana reminds her. a small smile replaces the worry after that, and eva settles comfortably against sana’s legs.

“i know,” eva says, half sigh. “it’s just–it’s so nice. shouldn’t they be more mad?”

sana shrugs, brushing a stray strand of eva’s hair off of her face. “they’re not–,” she starts, trying to find the right words. she looks at her prayer rug, eyes blurring across the ornate pattern. “it’s not mad. they’re scared. they’re worried for me. my soul.”

eva hums in acknowledgement, but sana thinks she doesn’t fully understand the difference. sana looks into eva’s soft features, her lashes fanned out against her cheek as she looks down at their interlaced fingers running the pad of her thumb over the smooth curve of sana’s nail.

“my soul is fine, though,” sana says, more to herself than to eva.

she thinks about the way that holding eva’s hand makes her feel like the truest version of herself, makes her feel brave and beautiful and capable. she thinks about her relationship with Allah, the limitless love that she feels from her god, the abundance of it filling her to bursting with the certainty that she has no reason to fear the truth of who she is.

eva laughs at that, squeezes her hand. “ja, i know that for sure. duh.”

[gossamer-scraps]

All of them; you don’t even have to reblog the post, since you’re me.

- gossamer-scraps

Thanks for the ask!

1. When did you start playing?

Ashlynne's irl birthday is November 1, 2014.

2. What was your first characters race/class (profession)?

Sylvari guardian. As previously discussed, it was not what I was expecting.

3. How many characters do you have?

Depends how you count: ~11 that I play; 20 total.

4. Whats your favourite race?

Haven't got one.

5. Whats your least favourite race?

the male norn model Ahem. I definitely have the fewest charr, but that really comes down to the lack of armor skins that I thought would look interesting/good on their models. So while it's not true from a lore perspective by any means, from a purely ingame perspective I guess it’s charr.

6. What do you prefer PvE or PVP?

PvE. I bet I might like PvP as well, but I just never came across an opportunity to really get into it.

7. Have you spent IRL money on the gem shop?

Once, on a present for someone. Given how things have gone with Arenanet, I feel a bit bad about not having been slightly looser with my wallet. I do think the developers deserve more than the (I just checked) US$135 I've spent for more than 4 years of entertainment.

8. Whats your favourite zone? 9. Whats your favourite city? 11. Whats a piece of gear you always transmute because you love the look of it so much? 17. Whats your best guild wars experience? 18. Do you have a favourite character from the lore? 21. Favourite weapon skin? 38. Best memory in guild wars? 40. What bothers you the most about the game if anything?

Oh, man. I bet back when I played non-raid content in this game and developed my own fanlore, I'd have really interesting answers for these if I gave them some thought. But I really don't remember at the moment. I may come back to some of these.

10. Whats your favourite PVP map?

Absolutely no idea. I've only played like 4 of them. I can tell you which ones aren't my favorite (all of the ones I've played).

12. How many achievement points do you have?

10,534. I expend no effort collecting AP; in fact, I used to enjoy not having that many.

13. Is it okay to ask to RP with you?

Sure! I prefer to do that kind of thing outside of the game, though, for a number of reasons; the most important of which is that I like to keep records of everything in case something really compelling comes out of it and it could be made into a story.

14. Is your guild open to new members?

The actual guild I rep: Yep! They're not on Tumblr though. The "guild" I made, [PS] Please Stack: Sure, why the hell not. Message me if you want in.

15. Have you ever been really angry at the game? why?

Yeah, probably? Though most instances that might count are being really angry at people's behaviors within the game. Things bother me about the game itself all the time, but I can't think of a time off the top of my head that would qualify as "really angry." I'd put the over/under as like 5 times though.

16. Do you enjoy jumping puzzles?

Yes, especially when I experience them entirely within the game. I haven't done a ton oh I'm apparently at 35/44 on the achievement category, though a lot of jumping puzzle experiences in the game aren't on there. But in any case I don't usually go out of my way to do them.

19. Is there a class you like the idea of but the gameplay doesn’t match up for you?

Years ago I wrote a post about this. But... pretty much all of them don't match up in my opinion. I treat the lore implications of each class completely separately from the game-mechanical implications, with few exceptions. As far as classes I particularly dislike the play of but want to like, revenant definitely takes the cake, as I can't stand any of its unique mechanics (energy, not customizing your utilities, few weapon choices, the animations, etc). Guardian too: I still want the defensive, supporty knight class I signed up for at launch whose mechanics all apparently went to chronomancer. (Necromancer doesn't qualify because neither the idea nor the gameplay appeals to me particularly.)

20. How far have you made it in SAB (Super Adventure Box) if you had the chance to play it?

I think I beat W1 on normal? I don't remember, it didn't interest me that much.

22. Do you have a legendary? Which one or ones?

I have nevermore and sunrise/twilight/eternity. If I collected 3 more chak eggs I'd enough stuff and gold on me to instantly craft a set of legendary armor and another legendary weapon, but neither seems worth the cost.

23. Whats your favourite legendary?

Hopefully the upcoming ring, since I'll probably make it in that case. But hm... maybe the wielded version of the flameseeker prophesies? Or nevermore? I wish astralaria's metal parts were less flat-looking, maybe with more than one color to visually differentiate the gears. The shining blade's pretty nice too.

24. Is there a race you hate with a passion?

I looked through the whole list, and... nah. The closest would be halloween creatures, due to a general dislike for most of the holiday, but that’s not their fault, and they don't do anything particularly bothersome to me. Can't blame them for being pointless and unfun ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

25. What class do you hate to face in PVP?

Let's go with scourge, because standing in a shade and dying of conditions is kind of boring? But honestly I have no idea; I don't PvP.

26. Are there any players you look up to?

Hmm. In small ways, a few, like DEKeyz from back in the day. But I don't think there's really been a player who I met who I thought, "I aspire to live up to the example you set" or anything like that. Rare is the player whose skill at ingame things is notable who isn't also annoying or an asshole in some way, and the ones who I only know from public comments don't get a pass until proven otherwise. If I was being optimistic, I’d like to think a few people might be okay, like Knox from [Ren]. And purely on ingame skill there are a lot of people.

28. Do you play with sound on or off?

Off. I've pretty much always played games mostly without sound. Not sure why.

29. Do you stream GW2? If so where can I watch you?

I could! I've considered it, but I don't know anyone who would watch, and I don't have any particular GW2 content to stream.

30. Are you obsessed with in game fashion?

Yes, arguably. I'm very particular about it, and I don't make characters without putting hours into how they look.

31. Do you have a favourite dye?

Nah. I'm sure there are some I like a lot, but it's all down to how they're used (just like my favorite color).

32. Whats the best glider skin in your opinion?

I'm still waiting! I've been ready to snap up the first glider skin I really like ever since HoT came out, but none has tickled my fancy or whatever the saying is besides the classical glider which I've got right now. iirc I used to like the old ad infinitum glider, but I don't like the changed version and I certainly don't want to spend 1300g on it.

33. Have you ever had to block someone?

Tons of times. This is video games; I’d be surprised if I didn’t. Though, to be fair, none of the blocks I can think of were out of “necessity” in that none of them were actively reaching out to me or anything. They were just annoying/offensive/etc and I saw no value in remembering they exist. So perhaps I’m lucky in that regard.

34. Weirdest map chat experience?

Uhhh... hm. I bet it was back in the HoT-meta-grinding days. In the aerodrome, nothing is at all unexpected. Nothing comes to mind though; the memorable stuff is just offensive or annoying, not weird.

35. Do you have 100% map completion on any of your characters?

Only a few. They were all for the gifts of exploration to craft legendaries for profit. I used to keep track of how many I'd sold, but I don't recall anymore.

36. What type of player are you? Hardcore, Casual, Semi-hardcore, Barely online.

This is such a wide range, so it’s hard to specify. Among all GW2 players I'm sure I'm hardcore. Among raiders I'm still probably hardcore. Among hardcore raiders I'm probably semi-hardcore to casual. 

37. What are the top three tips you would give someone just starting to play?

I would prefer to give them a lot more than 3 tips, and do so in voice chat over a long period of time. Otherwise I try not to get involved with that. I can't stand trying to correct other people's misinformation or judge how much or how little background someone has when they ask a newbie question without really getting into it. Like, I used to read the reddit and answer new players’ questions, but the number of other commenters who’d chime in and be totally wrong or obviously unhelpful drove me nuts.

39. Do you stick to one character mostly or are you an altoholic?

When you get to this point in the game, you really have to be comfortable with a roster of characters. I guess there are some exceptions, but those are still people who have a main but can and do play every class. But ever since basically the beginning, I've switched between a bunch of classes and builds as was appropriate for the situation. I dunno how much that counts as being an "altaholic" though; I've made a new character for non-mechanical reasons probably 3-4 times, which may be many or few depending on who you compare it to actually I just counted and it's like 7, so... maybe. You be the judge.