#i also need to become an ao3 coding volunteer so that i can make their css sanitizer accept functions like var and calc

[hua-fei-hua]

i need to become an ao3 coding volunteer specifically so that i can rewrite all their stylesheets to utilize css variables. i can't keep living like this (trying to write stylesheets that can work across multiple different site skins w/o being forced to utilize js to detect what site skin is currently being used)

[dawnfelagund]

Independent Archive Survey

What concerns about OTW/AO3 do you have?

Check all that apply.

the organization is slow to respond to fandom concerns: 59% consolidation of most fandoms and fanworks onto AO3 increases the risk of a mass loss of fanworks: 57% volunteer safety is not taken seriously enough: 45% concerns about racism within the organization and AO3 are not being adequately addressed: 38% the organization is slow to respond to individual fans who need their help: 28% moderation of potentially harmful content is inadequate: 27% the organization is not transparent enough about decisions: 22% AO3 users' safety is not taken seriously enough: 18% the AO3 code is not properly documented and maintained: 18% organization leadership (e.g., Board members, Legal, committee chairs) wield too much power: 17% I don't have any concerns about OTW/AO3 archives: 12% (note: 2 of the 10 respondents who chose this did select concerns from the list; eliminating these responses, 10% of respondents had no concerns) I don't know: 2% Responses in the "other" field:

Other projects besides AO3 seem to fall by the wayside (e.g. fanlore); AO3 is hostile to outside fixes for code problems; volunteers are burned through quickly; volunteers must go through an intensive onboarding process that weeds out people who actually want to help; functions of AO3 don't work as intended/advertised (the exchange interface, the prompt meme, tagsets)

I have concerns as noted but I also hope and want Ao3 to improve and succeed (while also supporting the existence of more archives!)

Moderation of illegal content is inadequate

My main concern with OTW is that it has grown too large as an organization/project to continue operating solely on volunteer labor. To be honest, most of their issues stem out from that main problem or are exacerbated by it, in my opinion. But it isn't some simple thing to start bringing on paid staff either. Anyway, in short, the org has outgrown its model, but switching to a new model will also take time and there will be more growing pains as a result before things improve.

Not enough moderation in general. Hard to remove/report harassing comments, spam fics, etc.

for how long it's been around, the feature set is surprisingly immature (e.g., blocking/muting is just now being added, the time-based posting bug)

No sense of community

The size makes for a lack of community; the weight placed on quantitative measures (work stats)

I use it too little to personally experience the negative effects, however I'll support people I know and trust who do.

administration of the site feels to far from the individual user

Responses: 82

Analysis

I hesitated to include this item at all. I really do not want this to become a small archive vs. AO3 issue or to be presented as an either-or. We can and should have both, and for the 999th time, I want the OTW and AO3 to succeed for a variety of reasons. However, getting a sense of concerns seemed important as we move forward into crafting next-generation small archives that meet the needs of their creators, visitors, and fandoms. So the question went in.

Not surprisingly, fewer people overall are concerned about OTW/AO3 than small archives. About one in ten respondents did not have concerns at all, and no single concern was selected as often as the top ones in the corresponding dataset for small archives. Again, this is not a surprise. Despite the past few months, many of the concerns on the OTW/AO3 list remain hypotheticals, whereas concerns about small archives have happened at one time or another (if only because there have been thousands of small archives and just one AO3!) Furthermore, many of the concerns on this list were in response to some of the whistleblowing of recent months, and it's possible not all respondents were even aware of what was going on.

What were the concerns? Two dominated. The organization's slow response to fandom concerns, was top—also not a surprise. It's nearly cliche to point out that the wheels of large bureaucracies grind slowly, and one needn't be versed in the latest discussions around the OTW to have likely seen this at some point in its almost fifteen-year history. I will note that this is an area where smaller archives can succeed ... but aren't guaranteed, of course. On the SWG, it has always been a policy to take no longer than twenty-four hours to respond to a task, question, or issue, and most of the time we are significantly quicker than that. (Sometimes actually fixing the issue takes longer, but even that is rare.) However, you have to commit to doing this. The potential is there (where I'd argue it's really never going to be for an organization the size of the OTW), but it needs to be realized.

Secondmost was the worry about consolidation and the possibility of the mass loss of fanworks. I have been yelling about this for years, so I'll admit that it felt pretty good to see that those words haven't gone entirely unheeded. Is this unlikely? Yep. Is it possible? It is. Sorry, sweet summer children, it really is, and if it does happen, it is devastating in a way that the closure of a small archive never will be. And for the last dataset about small archive concerns, I made the case that the data around archive closures possibly reflected the Tolkien fandom's "collective trauma" about the unannounced transfer of ownership or closure of small archives. (And I imagine most respondents participate in the Tolkien fandom; my signal boost wasn't passed that widely around.) Of course, this happens against a backdrop of Fandom's collective trauma around unannounced content purges. Point being, these possibilities are on our mind.

There are a couple responses that pair naturally between the small archive and OTW/AO3 datasets. There is much more worry about the technical stability of small archives than AO3. Again, we've seen small archives fail and degrade due to tech issues, so this isn't hypothetical in the way it is for AO3, for all that's been said about spaghetti code. On leadership and the power given to a site's leaders, the two sets are remarkably even. This does surprise me! For all that's been revealed about the OTW's governance in recent months, they do have a process of governance that is more transparent than most archives, and they do offer points of democratic input, whereas many small sites do not.

The "Other" option was also more used for the OTW/AO3 dataset than the small archive dataset and includes some interesting responses that elaborate on the concerns from the list and identify some new ones. A couple mentions of "community" jump out at me here—and again, this is what small archives have to offer (potentially! again, "potential" and "actual" can be quite starkly divided) and what AO3 really cannot in most circumstances (and I'd further add was not intended to. I've argued before that a universal archive cannot offer the community features many people want and need by definition.)

What is the independent archive survey?

The independent archive survey ran from 23 June through 7 July 2023. Eighty-two respondents took the survey during that time. The survey asked about interest in independent archives and included a section for participants interested in building or volunteering for an independent archive. The survey was open to all creators and readers/viewers of fanworks.

What is an independent archive?

The survey defined an independent archive as "a website where creators can share their fanworks. What makes it 'independent' is that it is run by fans but unaffiliated with any for-profit or nonprofit corporations or organizations. Historically, independent archives have grown out of fan communities that create fanworks."

Follow the tag #independent archives for more survey results and ongoing work to restore independent archives to fandoms that want them.

Independent Archives Survey Masterpost

[maryellencarter]

Oh, update on the AO3 elections situation with Tiffany the pro-censorship pro-VPN fandom newbie: the elections were held August 12-15, 2022, and neither Tiffany nor the other relative OTW newbie, Noémie, was elected. It's unlikely that one board member would have been in a position to make any major changes to the OTW/AO3's direction anyway -- the biggest impression I came away with about Tiffany is that they thought they were running for a position with a ton more power than OTW Board Member actually has -- but y'all can stop panicking now.

However, if you've got ten bucks to spare and would like to be in a position to vote about the OTW board *next* year, it's not a bad idea to toss them a donation. Remember to ticky the "become a member" box if you want to be able to vote. I hear a fair amount of "anti" chatter in some of the circles I move in, and "we should volunteer / run / take over in order to make AO3 censorship-friendly" is a lot more common of a talking point there than, y'know, "we should do a fork of AO3's open source code and actually spend any of our own time or money to create an archive with rules we like, which nobody would post in because we'd wind up blocking them all over minor differences of opinion, like Calvinist theologians or French Revolution demagogues".

Uh. Sorry, it's 4am (I've been wrestling with Windows updates) and I'm a bit punchy. Anyway, point is, in order to encourage new blood, the only tenure/screening requirement for a Board candidate is nine months' OTW volunteer work -- Tiffany was a tag wrangler, for instance. (You have to be 18 or older and willing to put your full legal name publicly on the list of Board members if you win, also.) So it's certainly possible for some misguided group to look at this whole situation and go "clearly Tiffany was onto something, we need to put up another candidate with pro-censorship goals" and have time to get someone in place.

Sooooo long story short, I'm definitely planning to donate and become a member, having finally had it brought to my attention while I have some money to spare. Once I'm awake enough to figure out where the donations page is, because I always get lost looking.

[hlizr50]

You Belong with Me

Azriel and his brothers are high-power executives, and while the Valkyrie ladies always attend the fancy dinners and events, Gwyn is NOT wealthy and is the only one who isn't attached to someone who is. When Gwyn volunteers to take Azriel to the cabin early to prep for their big family/friends vacation, they have a conversation about how she might have to cut back. Add in banter and hours of Gwyn unabashedly belting Taylor Swift, and Az realizes that not having her around is just not an option.

Guys... I've never cared for AU, never been big into song lyrics. But my soul just needed this to be a thing. So here it is.

Read on AO3

“You sure this thing is gonna get us there?” Azriel’s smug grin only earned an eyeroll from the redhead on the other side of the car, opening the driver’s side door.

“Just put your shit in the trunk and get in the car,” she huffed across the weathered blue of the roof. He chuckled, slinging his suitcase into the trunk as the door slammed – maybe with a little extra force. He loved poking at her, and he knew she would dish it right back. After closing the trunk he returned to the open door on the passenger’s side and lowered himself into the well-worn leather seat. “You know not all of us are fortunate enough to be high-level executives at multi-million dollar companies. But rest assured that this historical document restoration expert and her 16-year-old Toyota with 154000 miles are going to get you to the cabin safe and sound. Because you insisted on getting there a day early to make sure everything is secure.” Gwyn deepened her voice, giving him her best Azriel impersonation. And maybe he was being a bit… overzealous. But he had always been the most keenly aware, the most protective. He may have been CFO, but he was also deeply involved in security – both from the standpoint of the organization and of it’s employees. And his family.

He simply smirked, “If you say so.”

“You��re insufferable,” she groaned, turning the key. The car rumbled to life, and Azriel had to admit that he was impressed with how quiet it still seemed to run. He was sure Gwyn was a stickler about maintenance. “Just for that, you are sentenced to three hours of me serenading you with the best songs Taylor Swift has to offer.”

“Oh, Gods, anything but Taylor Swift.” Azriel grimaced, hiding the secret joy he rarely let her see. He loved it when she sang. Her voice was lovely, of course, but what hit him harder was how she seemed to radiate joy when she did it.

Gwyneth Berdara wasn’t quiet and shy like he tended to be – not by a long shot. She was irreverent and blunt and bold. But he could see the shadows that hid just behind the shimmer in her eyes – he could tell there were demons there. Her sister had been murdered four years before, in the apartment they both had shared, and it had wounded her deeply. Nesta had mentioned that there was more to the story, but that it was only Gwyn’s to tell. So, yes, she definitely had darkness that followed her, but she kept it well hidden. He’d learned, as they had become friends, that she often grew anxious in large crowds or chaotic environments. She didn’t feel safe, and that had always bothered him. Regardless of how many people were around or how crazy it was, her friends were there with her. He was there. Whatever it was that kept her so on edge, he imagined that the lingering sadness in that deep ocean gaze and the faraway wistful look that sometimes passed over her features were a part of it.

But when she sang she was a beacon of light, with the brightest smile and rosy, freckle-flecked cheeks.

“Don’t you dare disrespect the goddess T. Swift,” she glowered, and as they pulled onto the highway he lost himself in the lilting notes of her car concert.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been driving – at least seven works of the goddess T. Swift – when he reached for the volume knob on the console and turned it down.

“Are you coming to the charity gala in a couple weeks?” Azriel looked over at her, noting the light stain of pink gracing her cheeks. She kept her eyes on the road.

“Oh… No.” Gwyn glanced over at him and gave a tight smile, causing him to purse his lips.

“Why not?”

“Az,” she chided, throwing him a stern look. “It’s too expensive. I can’t afford a seat and a dress. Hell, I probably can’t even afford one or the other.” He stayed silent, mulling over the understanding that money wasn’t something he ever had to worry about, and how he could make that not a problem for her. “Besides, you know how I am with crowds like that. I’d probably just have an attack and ruin everyone’s night.” She tried to laugh it off, and that troubled Azriel even more. Because she had seemed disappointed just then when she said she wasn’t going.

“Do you want to go, Gwyn?” He prodded. I want you to go. She sighed, adjusting herself in her seat to straighten her back.

“It doesn’t matter. Like I said, it’s really not possible for me.” She shrugged, as if that was it.

But that wasn’t it. Everyone was going to be there. She should be there, too. She should be there, with him.

“You know we would help –“

“I know, Az. But I’m not asking you, or Rhys. I’m not asking anyone. I can’t keep depending on everyone else just to go to events and dinners and whatever else.” She sucked in a breath. “I just… I don’t live the same life that the rest of you do. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just how it is.”

“Gwyn, you know nobody cares about that.” Azriel frowned. “I understand that my family is… fortunate. Privileged. But you and Nesta and Emerie are a part of us.”

“It’s not the same, Azriel.” Azriel. The full name. This was more serious than he realized. “Nesta is with Cassian and Emerie is with Mor. It makes sense that maybe they’re taken care of. I’m just… a friend. A friend who is poor.” He opened his mouth to argue but she beat him to it. “And it’s not just about covering food… you go to places with dress codes and too many forks for dinner, and with the company’s increasing success the three of you are only growing more popular and more press-worthy. Especially you.”

“Me?” Azriel swallowed, brows furrowed. “Why especially me?”

Gwyn cast him a pointed look, eyes dark and serious. “You’re the last single brother, Az. You are eligible bachelor number one. All the single ladies in the metropolitan area, if not further out, will be pining for you. If they’re not already.”

Eligible bachelor number one. He rolled his eyes. “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Oh Az. Sweet, precious, innocent Az. Have you seen yourself? You’re gorgeous. You’re wealthy, successful, and absolutely beautiful.” Azriel raised a brow and gave her a sideways glance, but she was so stubbornly keeping her eyes trained ahead. It was responsible, of course. She was driving. But not even a peek meant that she was intentionally avoiding looking over at him. The corners of his mouth turned downward, not quite understanding how this conversation had gone the way it had.

“Is that so? Please, tell me more,” he snickered. If there was anything that he knew, it was how to draw her back with teasing. She wouldn’t back down from a challenge, and Gwyneth Berdara was ruthless when it came to having the last word. The corner of her mouth twitched, and he knew she was doing her best not to smile.

“I hate you so much,” she huffed.

“Now, I don’t think that’s even remotely true.” He reached out to pinch the apple of her cheek, but she slapped his hand away, sending a glower that only made him laugh.

“The single ladies can have you. Maybe you’ll find someone else to annoy.”

“Aw, Gwynnie. You know nobody could ever replace you.” And even though it was in jest, it was also… true. “And what would you do without me?”

“Get some peace and quiet for once?” And when the redhead turned with that scrunched freckled nose and her tongue stuck out at him Azriel was relieved to have the playful girl – his best friend – wearing a smile again. “Now shut it or sing along, you have not been punished with nearly enough of our lady Taylor Swift.”

And so the ride continued, but Azriel chewed on his lower lip, contemplating everything Gwyn had said. She was fiercely independent, so he could understand how she might not want to accept what she might perceive as charity, or worse, pity. But the idea of her just not being there… it made something inside of him feel hollow. He reached out and turned down the volume again.

“Why wouldn’t you say anything? About where we’re going to dinner? Or about not being comfortable at big events?” He didn’t even try to hide that he was staring at her, trying to pinpoint any reaction she may have. Once again pink stained her cheeks.

“Az, it’s not like you guys are going to stop going to fancy restaurants so you can come to Wendy’s with me. I don’t want to take away from anyone’s fun.” Fucking ridiculous.

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe we would have less fun without you there?” Azriel tried to keep his tone light, but his temper was flaring. He wasn’t sure why, but it bothered him that she would think she could just… not be there and they would all just go on like it didn’t matter.

“Of course I did,” Gwyn shrugged nonchalantly and threw him a wink. “I know it will be hard but I’m sure you’ll manage somehow. Besides, I don’t plan on just disappearing. I just… need to be more thoughtful about what I’m doing. I’ll just be around… less.” She turned the volume back up and jumped straight into the lyrics, not giving him the opportunity to tell her how preposterous she sounded.

Azriel leaned back in his seat, losing himself in thought with Gwyn’s lovely voice still soothing him in the background. He didn’t know how long he’d been brooding when the volume increased dramatically, blaring through the interior. Looking over he found her tapping on the steering wheel and swaying to the beat of her majesty Taylor Swift. Her eyes were shining, her smile was brilliant, and she sang like she didn’t have a care in the world.

You’re on the phone with your girlfriend, she’s upset

She’s going off about something that you said

‘Cause she doesn’t get your humor like I do

I’m in my room, it’s a typical Tuesday night

I’m listening to the kind of music she doesn’t like

And she’ll never know your story like I do

But she wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts

She’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers

Dreaming ‘bout the day when you wake up and find

That what you’re looking for has been here the whole time

If you could see that I’m the one who understands you,

Been here all along, so why can’t you see

You belong with me

You belong with me

Walkin’ the streets with you and your worn-out jeans

I can’t help thinking this is how it ought to be

Laughing on a park bench, thinking to myself

Hey, isn’t this easy?

And you’ve got a smile that could light up this whole town

I haven’t seen it in awhile since she brought you down

You say you’re fine, I know you better than that

Hey, what you doing with a girl like that?

She wears high heels, I wear sneakers

She’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers

Dreaming ‘bout the day when you wake up and find

That what you’re looking for has been here the whole time

If you could see that I’m the one who understands you,

Been here all along, so why can’t you see

You belong with me

Standing by and waiting at your back door

All this time how could you not know, baby?

You belong with me

You belong with me

Azriel felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was seeing Gwyn for the first time. Unbridled joy, laughter when she turned to him when she was singing, dancing in the driver’s seat like a passenger’s worst nightmare.

And he couldn’t help but listen to the words, too. Surely that part was coincidence, but he couldn’t help but feel like she was speaking to him… something was speaking to him.

He grinned as she shimmied her shoulders and rocked her head from side to side, wisps of copper flying away from her ponytail.

Oh, I remember you drivin’ to my house in the middle of the night

I’m the one who makes you laugh even though you’re ‘bout to cry

I know your favorite songs and you tell me ‘bout your dreams

Think I know where you belong, think I know it’s with me

Can’t you see that I’m the one that understands you

Been here all along, so why can’t you see

You belong with me

Standing by and waiting at your back door

All this time, how could you not know baby?

You belong with me

You belong with me

You belong with me

Have you ever thought just maybe

You belong with me

You belong with me

“Gosh I think I went too hard on that one. I’m out of breath!” she laughed, and she glanced toward Azriel in the passenger seat. “Have you had enough yet, Az?”

“Never,” he murmured, and her breath caught. She turned her focus back to the road, but kept stealing looks back at him. She seemed unsure of how to respond, but he was also lost in his own head.

He didn’t want to be the eligible bachelor. He didn’t want to annoy anyone else. He knew that he had cared for Gwyn as more than a friend for a long time – Nesta and Cassian had always encouraged him to do something about it. Nesta in particular had assured him that Gwyn felt the same way. But no matter how much Azriel had flirted she never seemed to acknowledge it, never seemed inclined to do something about it. They bantered and challenged and laughed, but never more.

But Nesta continued to be insistent. She told Azriel that there were some things about Gwyn that might keep her from acting upon her affection for him, and maybe he should make the first move. He never had, of course, for fear of rejection and fear of ruining the relationship that they had.

But now suddenly he was looking at a future where she wasn’t always there. He didn’t like the thought of that. He would go to Wendy’s for dinner instead of whatever black-tie restaurant had their reservation. But, furthermore, he would take care of her, like Cassian took care of Nesta. He wouldn’t go to events without her, and he would make sure that she was comfortable and safe while she was there. Because he would keep her close. He would always keep her close.

By the time Gwyn was pulling the car onto the driveway leading to the cabin she was only singing quietly to herself and letting him sit in his own silent thought. And as soon as she parked and turned off the car he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Without a word he ripped off the seatbelt and burst out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He was already crossing across the front when Gwyn popped out.

“What the hell, Az? The car is 16 years old you can’t just slam doors like that –“

Azriel grabbed the back of her neck and crushed his lips to hers. Gods, they were perfect – warm and lush. She inhaled shakily against his mouth and he tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth. He swept his lips across hers once again before pulling away only slightly, resting his forehead against her own. They were both breathing hard, and her expression nearly sent him to his knees. Gwyn’s teal eyes were wide, shining with surprise and confusion. Her lips were swollen and her freckled cheeks stained crimson. Azriel wasn’t going to give himself enough time to question this, though.

“You’re coming to the gala,” he insisted, gaze flitting wildly between her lips and her eyes before drowning in the ocean pools. “I’m buying your ticket. On our way home after this weekend we’ll go shopping for a dress. And no matter what you wear you will be the most exquisite thing there.”

Gwyn looked up at him, chest still heaving and eyes still wide, and nodded.

“And you’re coming to every dinner and event and anything else after that. Because, no matter what you might think, I don’t want to be there if you’re not there.”

“Az –“

“And when you’re there, you won’t think about money or crowds. Because I’ll be there. I’m going to take care of you and make sure you’re safe. Because I don’t just want you to be there with all of us. I want you to be there with me. Okay, Gwyn?” His eyes bore into hers, willing her to understand, to see what was in his heart.

“Okay,” she nodded. Her breaths had quieted, her eyes were warm, and there was a ghost of a smile there. And Azriel dared to hope that Nesta had been right, and all he’d needed was to take the leap.

“Can I kiss you again, Gwyn?” he asked.

“Please,” she giggled at him, smile widening. He leaned in, this time with much more restraint and care, slanting his lips over her soft ones and gently moving against them. When he pulled away his face was plastered with a shit-eating grin, which grew impossibly bigger when he saw her blushing.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he laughed, still not believing that he had done all that, and that it had… worked?

“I… I’ve wanted you to do that for a long time.” Gwyn sighed and then dragged her bottom lip between her teeth. “So… so just to be clear. You want me… to be…?” Azriel chuckled and ran his hands down her arms and then tangling their fingers together.

“I want to date you. I want you to be my girlfriend. I don’t want to aggravate any other single ladies. I don’t want to be an eligible bachelor. I just want you. We can go to fancy dinners or charity events or the finest fast food restaurants in the metropolitan area.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and then kissed her cheek. “Will you?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Of course, Az.” He bent his head and kissed her again. He couldn’t get enough of it. It was like he was making up for lost time.

“As her holy highness Taylor Swift said, you belong with me,” Azriel grinned devilishly. “I can’t help but be suspicious that you planned that… planned to make me fall for your beautiful voice and how adorable you are.” Gwyn tilted her head back and laughed, nearly a cackle full of amusement and contentment.

“I did not plan it, but I’m not going to complain about how it turned out.”

[autodiscothings]

Hello! I am quite new to your page and I love how you draw Kolyat. ♥️ Also, would you care to share some details about your characters?

I’d love to, thanks for asking! Funnily enough, I did a personality quiz for them recently, so I can just copy/paste the results here. Most of my content for Mass Effect is centred around Kolyat Krios and Oriana Lawson: 

I write them here: [AO3] I draw them here: [ART TAG]

Everything I do with them is post-war, and them as adults in their 20s navigating the shit heap that is a broken, post-destroy galaxy, and how they cope with their own traumas. They both want to help rebuild, but do it different ways.

KOLYAT KRIOS

Kolyat Krios has a lot to live up to and change, but prefers to do it on his terms.

Kolyat is a methodical man, and gentle and patient with the people who need it most. He possesses an unexpected depth of emotional intelligence, and becomes a protector of the small and the strays, from a galaxy that often forgets about them.

While Kolyat can be even-keeled, if he is left to stew in his feelings, his anger will get the better of him, and he will react. He has a reputation for salt, and for his surliness; he also has a tendency to hide himself from others as a defence mechanism, and is slow to trust.

ORIANA ‘ORI’ LEE

You might know her as Oriana Lawson, but she’ll introduce herself as Ori Lee.

Ori is a warm, compassionate soul who loves to be around other people and enjoys her work as a colony developer/civil engineer for Kellam Industries. She is quick-witted and smart, and funny with it; her taste in fashion and makeup is impeccable, as is her comic timing.

She is very good at getting to know you, but you don’t get to know her. Ori keeps her cards to her chest, and only lets her guard down around people she trusts completely, and has a tendency to care too much about what others think about her.

FISH (the cat)

Queen of everything, ruler of them all- well, maybe just Kolyat’s apartment for now.

Fish is a foul-tempered gremlin of a tabby cat, with white socks and a white belly. Her iron paw rules the roost of her home; she graciously lets others share it. Fish loves her food, her nap spots, and her soft piles of things to sleep on. She likes listening to music, and watching the traffic outside of her window.

She is a former stray with both PTSD and trust issues, and for this reason she lashes out without thinking, and needs her own space. When she trusts though, she really trusts. It will take her forever to do it, but once you win her heart, she’ll love you forever.

BATESEDA ‘Bats’ T’LORI

The man, the myth, and the almost legend- at least, in his mind.

Bats was always told he had potential, and rather than stay with the Huntress squad who trained him, Bats left for the Citadel. He is a firecracker of a man who makes everything he does seem fun, always ready to crack something- a joke, his glass, a skull. Pour another one out, he has stories to tell, and they’re mostly true- if he remembers them right.

He has a tendency to go through frequent bed partners, and never keeps anyone around for long. Despite the crooked smile and easy living, there is an air of melancholy around Bats he is reluctant to explain, but something shows through the cracks every now and then. He will take things too far -the jokes, his drinking, his anger- and fall down the holes he put himself in. One day he will struggle to get back out of it.

ARJUN PATEL

A man who borders the line between squad dad and gross uncle, Patel is a treasure for any crew to have.

Patel is content to stay in the background, and is more savvy than he lets on, willing to play the bumbling, easy-going fool if it’ll get him what he wants. He is essentially Columbo with a cooking habit, but is willing to share his snacks- if he likes you, and that doesn’t take much. He is a man with quiet passions, and they shine brightly when he gets talking; his food, his wife and daughter, his interest in history… ask him about them, and his enthusiasm will be boundless- much like his appetite.

He has a tendency to be lazy, if he can get away with it. Patel can also overspill the TMI details of his life even if you’ve heard them before, without a clue he’s crossed a line.

SISO VITACUS

Like most of the squad, Vitacus came to the Citadel for a new life, and another shot of something. He recently split from his bootcamp boyfriend, and is really not looking for anything serious- at least, not at the moment. Vitacus is neither as funny as Bats, as serious as Kolyat or as happy as Patel, but he fits right in as the jack of all trades of the squad, content to play everyone’s middle man and all rounder.

He has a reputation for awful, neon suits, a love of dancing and shitty action movies, as well as a fondness for lurid drinks, despite looking like the kind of man who likes none of these things from first glance. Vitacus is a tall, stocky bruiser of a man, even for a turian.

Vitacus can also be a pushover and too laidback for his own good, and can drift along with the crowd than go against it. He’s unsure why he’s like this, but as far as he’s concerned, ending up in law enforcement is already an oddity- all his family are engineers and scientists.

BRATHAN ‘Brath’ SEKET

If ever there was a man you were unsure of -even after knowing him for years- it’s Brath. The usual rags to riches story, heavy on the rags; Brath fled the grasp of his abusive family as soon as he was able to, taking on jobs across the Terminus until he built up enough of a reputation as a gun for hire.

He got his money from less than savoury sources to begin with, but absolutely no slavery. He has a personal honor code he will hold the rest of the galaxy to, even if you don’t know the rules. Brath might give off the appearance of loving luxuries and living well, but to him it’s just greasepaint and stage costumes; he’s learning that on the Citadel, a Terminus boy like him will never fit in, anyway- the four eyes see to that.

He will hold a grudge for decades, and it will smoulder, too. Brath can be incredibly petty and keep receipts, and if things don’t go his way, he will make them- for better or for worse.

LAETITIA PHALIA

A woman with a firm grip of the ins and outs of both her work and her neighbourhood, Phalia is the person to know when you need something, and if you don’t she’ll soon tell you, anyway.

She looks strict, but only when she needs to be. Phalia is just busy! There’s always some charity, pot luck, clawball practise, afterschool homework club, Galactic Scout cookie drive, donation pickup and volunteer work activity happening in her life. Phalia is always doing something, despite a full-time job and being a single parent. She gives and gives, because that’s what she expects people to do, the kind of person who will give you her coat and freeze.

There is only so much of herself she can give away. Phalia has had the very worst happen to her in her life, and she survives by constantly moving, not looking back. She just needs to remind herself from time to time she deserves to be taken care of too, and can rest every now and then. Sometimes Phalia also has a tendency to hold people to the same standards she has, but is getting better at learning the difference.

DEREK

It's Derek, innit? Just Derek. Not his real name of course, but he thought it sounded fancy. He has a full salarian name, but his clan mostly ignore his existence - except when they want money.

The eponymous Derek has a fairly sweet soul, but it’s one slowly corrupting under a mantle of the music industry and celebrity. He has an addict’s personality, and bounces from fixation from fixation- but music will always remain a constant. He is good at what he does too; his production skills are perceptively complicated, and he is an absolute master at looping and finding rich, interesting samples; there is a reason he is in demand both as a DJ and as a producer.

Derek doesn’t have the best social skills, despite befriending people easily. He’ll pick them up and drop them, and will often self-medicate his mistakes. His ego can get him into trouble too, but finding real friends -and not hangers on- will help him realise he’s not the centre of the universe.

***

(The quiz is [HERE] f you want to see which one you got.)

[patriciasage]

Title: double trouble

Author: Patricia_Sage

Fandom: The Adventure Zone - Amnesty

Pairings: Indrid Cold/Duck Newton, Dani/Aubrey Little (mentioned)

Summary: 

Aubrey feels like her heart has crawled up into her windpipe. The flame in her hand flickers erratically. Two copies of Duck stand before them, breathing hard and holding their hands in the air. Ned, pointing the NARF blaster at them both, is attempting to appear confident, but Aubrey can tell he’s panicking.

“Shit, Duck,” Aubrey says, “Why didn’t we think of a code word?”

[posted in full below the break, but you can find me on AO3]

Aubrey is scared shitless, but she won’t admit it.

This abomination isn't like anything they’ve faced. Before, hunting them felt like finding a dangerous animal that had to be put down. This one is intelligent and intentional, and the attacks are personal. Knowing the abomination had taken Dani’s form sends a shiver down Aubrey’s spine.

Eugene had told Duck that he had seen some ‘alien activity’ at Pins & Needles, the bowling and knitting club, so the Pine Guard was sent to investigate.

“You’re not supposed to split the party,” Aubrey whispers.

“But a group of three people cannot investigate two noises at once, Aubrey,” Ned replies, continuing to sweep the staff room with his flashlight. Aubrey is comforted by the flame in her hand as both a light source and a weapon. “Besides, Duck can take care of himself. He has a sword, for goodness sake.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have his powers anymore and he didn’t bring his helmet! I’m worried about him.”

“There’s only the bathrooms left to check and then we shall be reunited. Nothing to fret about, my dear.”

Except, there is something to fret about. A shout echoes through the building, followed by a loud crash. Ned and Aubrey look at each other for a second before sprinting toward the sound. “Duck!” Aubrey calls. A loveseat is overturned in the knitting area and a ball of yarn has made its way halfway down one of the lanes. There’s no sight of their friend.

The phone behind the front counter begins to ring. Before Aubrey can think about answering it, there’s another sound.

A crash followed by some swearing. It’s coming from the area behind the lanes. Ned makes his way to the carpeted path on the edge of the room. Aubrey runs directly down Lane 3, her combat boots skidding slightly on the smooth wood. When she reaches the end of the lane, she doesn’t stop to think before she hits the floor. She propels herself into a slide, feet first, crashing through the bowling pins and the plastic curtain and emerging in the back room. Ned flings open the door, out of breath, just after Aubrey gets to her feet. They take in a strange and frightening sight.

Duck is on the floor and he is grappling with someone who is also wearing a ranger uniform. The person underneath clips him with a punch to the side of the head and dislodges him. It’s dim in this back room but Aubrey can see his opponent’s rugged features, now. It’s Duck.

Duck reaches amongst some bowling pins and retrieves Beacon. He swings it down with ferocity and Aubrey lets out a startled shout as it moves toward her friend’s face. But the attack is intercepted by another Beacon. The two swords wrap around each other like snakes, spitting insults.

“False! Ephemeral!” One of them snarls.

“Pathetic duplication! You cannot compare to Beacon!” The other shouts.

“Fuck,” Aubrey says.

Ned steps forward in the hallway behind the pin-dispensing machines. Aubrey clambers down next to him as he draws the NARF blaster. “Halt, Ducks!” Ned commands. “Step away!”

Both Ducks look up from their tangled position on the floor. The one on top attempts to yank Beacon back, but the two swords are linked together. The force of their sword tug-of-war causes both weapons, still entangled, to be flung in the air. One of the Ducks reaches for Beacon, but Ned takes a threatening step forward. “Hey!” They both freeze. “Stand up and kick the swords to me.”

Aubrey feels like her heart has crawled up into her windpipe. The flame in her hand flickers erratically. Two copies of her friend stand before them, breathing hard and holding their hands in the air. Ned is attempting to appear confident, but Aubrey can tell he’s panicking. “Shit, Duck,” Aubrey says, “Why didn’t we think of a code word?”

They speak at the same time: “I told you!” / “No shit, Aubrey.”

“Alright. Everybody, remain calm,” Ned says authoritatively. He levels the NARF blaster between them. “Tell me something that only Duck would know.” It’s incredibly cliché. Aubrey resists the urge to roll her eyes.

The two Ducks speak at once, again: “Uh, that we hooked up?” / “Like how we slept together eight years ago?”

Aubrey’s jaw drops and she looks over at Ned, scandalized. Ned adjusts his grip on his weapon, flustered and embarrassed.

Aubrey hits him in the arm with her non-flaming hand. “Ned, you idiot, the Bom-Bom looked through all your memories when you were in that hotel!”

“Right,” Ned mumbles, blushing. He clears his throat and attempts to look intimidating again. “Tell us something only Aubrey would know!” Aubrey groans in frustration.

Duck One, on the left, speaks up. “We don’t have time for this, y’all. The more we fuck around, the more time it has to figure out how to get past us.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Ned shouts.

“We can’t let it get away again, Ned!” Duck One reiterates. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “Shoot us both.”

“What!?” Duck Two protests.

Aubrey sees Ned make a decision. Her heart races, but she’s frozen to the spot.

Ned shoots the Duck on the right.

Except his flesh doesn’t come apart in scattered orbs of light. He doesn’t scream like a malfunctioning computer. Red blood, and lots of it, pours out of the wound in his thigh. Duck collapses with a very human yell. “Fuck! Ned!”

The abomination takes advantage of this moment of distraction to create a rift. It steps through, smiling with Duck’s face. The rift closes and Ned’s second foam bullet embeds itself into the wall.

Aubrey and Ned run to their fallen friend. Aubrey feels sick at the sight of his pants darkening with blood. Duck lifts his shaking hands off of the wound for a second before pressing them down again, hard. “It’s not – fuck! – Doesn’t look like you hit an artery. But holy shit, Ned! I could never take a bullet, but I really can’t take a bullet right now, man; I’m just a regular guy! Fuck!”

“I’m so sorry, Duck. I thought it would be very improbable for the abomination to volunteer to be shot.”

“And you thought I would volunteer to be shot!? Fuck, man, you should have done what it said and shot us both. This is worst-case scenario shit right here. Dammit!”

“Yes. I’m –” Ned looks absolutely miserable, but he steels himself and turns to Aubrey, who has stalled next to the growing puddle of blood on the carpet. “Aubrey, go to the front desk and call an ambulance. Bring back the first aid kit under the counter.” He takes off his jacket and places it on Duck’s thigh, replacing the ranger’s hands with his own.

“How do you know it’s under the counter?”

“It’s always under the count– go, Aubrey!”

“Right!” She takes off running, this time through the door and along the side wall. She jumps over the counter and frantically scans over the bowling shoes before finding the landline on the wall.

The phone rings just as her fingers are about to touch it.

Aubrey answers, “H-hello?”

“The ambulance will take too long. I’ll be there soon.”

The voice is familiar, often heard through a telephone. “Indrid! Wait…was that you calling, before?”

“Yes, Aubrey,” he replies a little harshly. “I was going to tell you not to shoot my boyfriend.”

Her first instinct is to protest, correct him that it was Ned who pulled the trigger. Instead, she says, “I’m sorry.”

Indrid sighs and the sound pushes against the receiver. “No. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I’ll be there soon.” The dial tone rings in her ears.

About five minutes later, the bell above the front door rings. Aubrey and Ned, crouched over their injured friend in the back of the alley, share a meaningful look. Duck is slumped against the wall, pale and bleeding through the bandages. They’re ready to protect him.

There’s a deep fluttering of wings and the scraping of claws on the wood flooring. Then…nothing. It’s almost impossible to hear footsteps on carpet. Aubrey raises a fist of flame and Ned readiest the NARF blaster at the door.

Ironically, they’re relieved to see a monster step through. He’s so tall he has to crouch under the doorframe, wings folded close to his body. His huge red eyes glow in the dim room, flickering in Aubrey’s light. A pair of clawed hands raise in response to Ned and Aubrey’s defensive stance, the other pair holding onto a white box. He chitters in a way that Aubrey assumes is meant to be calming. All she can focus on is the movement of his sharp, terrifying mandibles.

Duck speaks up from behind them, his voice weak. “Hey, darlin’.”

“Hello, Duck.” Indrid reaches out a clawed, dark hand and hands Ned another first aid kit. He must have brought this one from his Winnebago or from another room in the building. “You need to add more bandages – tighter – if he’s going to make it to the hospital.”

Ned nods and gets to work. Aubrey wonders absentmindedly why he’s so calm about this. The moment she saw the bullet go into Duck’s leg, she just about passed out.

Indrid turns to Aubrey and tilts his head to the side in a swift, insectoid motion. Aubrey has only seen him in his Sylph form once – the time they asked for his glasses at the Winnebago. If she didn’t know he was a friend, she would be absolutely terrified right now. As it were, she’s still a little unsettled by his proximity. He towers over her, dark and frightening.

Indrid seems to notice her reaction. Shoulders hunched a little, he draws a pair of glasses from a pouch on his waist (like a moth fanny pack, Aubrey thinks). When he puts them on, he becomes the pale, tall, slightly disheveled man she’s familiar with. He’s wearing an old sweater of Duck’s, emblazoned with one of The Smiths’ album covers. Indrid looks a little uncomfortable. Aubrey realizes with a jolt of guilt that it’s because of her.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m just not, you know, used to seeing you as the Mothman. You can take your glasses off if you want!”

“It’s alright, I understand,” Indrid replies. He fiddles with the large lenses and shivers a little. He keeps his disguise on. Aubrey feels bad for making him feel self-conscious. Empathetically, she thinks of how it would feel for people to look at her and act scared or unsettled. Just because he’s a giant, frightening moth doesn’t mean she should make him feel bad about himself.

Before Aubrey can make an attempt at a better apology, Ned speaks up. “Won’t you be spotted transporting him to the emergency room?”

Indrid’s head tilts back and he freezes for a moment, evaluating potential futures. He returns to the present with a sigh. “He’s going to pass out before we get there.” His hands clench in frustration. “I can’t carry him in my human form.” Indrid turns to Duck. “Sorry, Duck, I’m going to have to leave you on the sidewalk outside of the hospital and call in from a payphone. Too many questions.”

Duck manages a weak shrug and grimaces. “Well, shit. Alright. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Indrid glances over at Aubrey before taking off his glasses again. Aubrey makes sure to keep her face neutral as the Mothman appears in front of her once more. Ned scrambles out of the way. Indrid kneels and his claws dig into the carpet. When he stands up, he has Duck cradled gently in his top set of arms, the other two providing support. Duck is a big guy, but he looks almost small surrounded protectively by Indrid’s wings.

Aubrey thinks about how most people would find Dani scary in her Sylph form, but all Aubrey sees is the woman she cares about, the woman she would do anything for. Indrid must be like that for Duck. Even though the Mothman’s transformation is significantly more intense than Dani’s, this is his authentic self. As the four of them make their way out of the back room and past the bowling lanes, Aubrey can’t help but notice the comfort the two take in each other. Duck buries his fingers in some chest feathers while Indrid’s free hand gently strokes his hair. It’s kind of…cute.

Ned opens the front door to the bowling alley and peers around the parking lot. “Coast is clear,” he says, holding the door open for everyone to step through.

Aubrey turns to Indrid. “Take care of him.”

“I will,” Indrid replies, then takes off into the sky with a powerful beat of his wings.

Aubrey and Ned watch until Indrid’s form disappears into the night sky. Ned sighs and Aubrey looks over at him. He looks like he’s about to crumble from guilt. He’s much bigger and taller than her, so all she can do is place a comforting hand on his arm.

“Come on, baby driver, let’s hit the road.”

[scumbag-monthly]

Hey guys! Evil Ed here bringing you a special PSA. We’re a small fandom here, as you all know, and that means – unfortunately – it’s impossible to avoid drama. Fortunately, it also means that we like, literally hardly ever have it. We’ve been going along pretty fine for the past couple years without much in the way of scalding tea to spill, and I’m grateful for that. We also wanted this blog, and this zine, to be a drama free space, and although we have reassured people of this in the past, I hope I can say truthfully that the zine-blog won’t be cluttered up with anymore of this pointless crap. If you don’t care about any of this, congratulations! You’re a bigger person than any of us, and we’re genuinely thrilled – we hope we can follow your example in the future. If you want the tea, however, it’s under the cut.

About five months ago, give or take, some discourse started in the Scumbag fandom. I’m not going to rehash it here. It is what it is, and it’s more or less in the past. Based on the situation, the “In-House Staff” at Scumbag Monthly (the figureheads behind Electric Boogaloo Publications, who don’t necessarily contribute to the zine every time all the time, but run all the boring unanarchic admin stuff behind the scenes) held a meeting to take stock and determine the situation. Given that the tension was taking place between regular contributors, we all agreed that for the sake of the zine, a decision had to be made, and although it wasn’t an easy decision to make, it was one that we came to for the sake of the zine. I understand that this all sounds very serious and severe for a volunteer run fanzine dedicated to a very niche fandom, but from the start we all unanimously agreed that we would give the zine our all, and run it with the level of dedication and professionality we felt it deserved. With that in mind, it’s also worth noting that despite many of us inhabiting fandom spaces for over a decade, none of us had ever been involved with / close to any kind of discourse before, and I readily admit that we were all well out of our depth.

Some of us were reluctant to take a course of action for fear of hurting anybody’s feelings or making the situation worse. However, I decided that even though R is the acting editor in chief, and has done more for the zine than I ever could, Scumbag Monthly was still my baby, and these were the volunteers – my friends, my family – that I had enlisted to help me. I felt that I had a responsibility to them above all else. So I did something I don’t ever want to do again, I flexed my power as Scumbag Monthly’s creator and made the call.

With regards to the staff members causing drama, I looked at the situation as objectively as I could, and decided that the staff members who had held their posts for the shortest amount of time – two months – and had already missed deadlines in the past, would be asked to leave. Did I make the right call? I like to think so. I felt it was my job to admit that both sides had made mistakes, and make a decision for the sake of the zine and the people who have worked on it since the beginning. Also, by the time the meeting was called and a decision needed to be made, I was aware that numerous people on-staff were feeling anxiety and tension over the situation, without having been directly involved in the original internet. Again, these things ripple, and they are uncomfortable for everyone, and nobody knew how to handle a situation like that. I knew that whatever we decided to do, it needed to prioritise the mental health of the Scumbag staff. I also had to take into account that in the history of the zine as well as the numerous other group collabs I had worked on with these people in the past, there had never been an issue up until this point. I’m sure after this point I’ll be accused of taking a stance with regards to the original drama, or picking sides, or just generally being a biased prick. I assure you I’m not. Again, I made a decision firstly for the sake of the Zine, and secondly for the mental health of the people I care about. I won’t apologise for either of those things.

So, I readily admit that some people were removed from staff. And I will admit my handling of it was less than ideal. It’s worth remembering that this is a thing we do for fun, that we all have lives extending far beyond Tumblr, and we all have stuff going on. In a spectacular case of bad timing, I had a mental health episode that demanded my attention, and although I had already taken a break from Tumblr at that point I needed to take another step back. Again, I’m not gonna apologise for having a life outside the internet.

For perhaps the hundredth time, I relied on R to steady the fallout, because out of us two she has always been the more stable, dependable, responsible one. At no point did I think that she would ultimately become directly attacked based on what was ultimately due to my crumbling mental health. If I had, I assure you, I would have gone full human shield mode and kept her out of the situation as best I could. Again, it may not have been my drama, but I felt I had an obligation to the zine and to the people who supported me in its creation.

If I could have done things differently, I would have contacted the people involved and informed them that they were no longer on staff. I admit that it was immature to not contact them, but at the time my personal life was a mess and Tumblr drama was the last thing on my mind. We were all shaken up, and nobody was feeling 100%. Following my decision to remove some people from staff, we agreed (as an Electric Boogaloo Collective, if you like) that although those people would not be blocked from either the zine-blog or the Ao3 feed, the staff were well within their rights to block anyone who was giving them unnecessary anxiety in a place that was supposed to be their safe space – that is, their own Tumblr blogs. We agreed that the people in question would also be allowed to submit and post to the zine, just not hold a collaborative place on staff that would result in unnecessary friction. I like to think that this is the kind of action that would be carried out in a professional setting, although I have no way of knowing for sure.

Based on the situation, many of the Boogaloos decided to block those involved on their personal blogs, because they did not feel they could handle the risk of anymore drama in a place that, for them, was supposed to be sacred. I supported this decision wholeheartedly, as did R. When R made the decision to block these people on her personal blog as well, I supported her too, because despite the brave face she was putting on I could tell that the situation had upset her deeply, especially since all parties involved were people she considered her friends and she felt like she had failed in keeping the fandom together. I couldn’t stomach the thought of her feeling like any of this was her fault, especially since all she has ever done in this fandom is try to make everyone feel welcome and included, and has done her best to be diplomatic about this entire ridiculous situation. She made the decision (possibly for the first time ever, may I say) to put her mental health first, and I am fiercely and incredibly proud of her. In an act of solidarity, I made the decision to block those in question from theevilesteviled, aka the Dump, aka my personal blog on Tumblr.

However, I still took notice when one of the parties in question reblogged a recent Scumbag Monthly post. Frankly, I was surprised that after five months there was still a degree of tension, but was informed by some other staff members that there had still been some drama going on for quite some time. I was deeply upset by this, especially when I saw just how much R had been flamed and blamed for choosing to put her mental health first, and how she had essentially been thrown under the bus for what was ultimately my call. That isn’t fair, and I blame myself.

If you’re still here - after this long ass rambling post of nothing – you may want to consider picking up a day job or some kind of hobby, ha-ha. But if you are still here, with me, under the cut, (and I hope at least somebody will be) I have a request. Come flame me if you want – all G my dudes, I can take it. Hell, I might even deserve some of it for handling this whole situation with the grace and dignity of an upside down bullfrog. But leave R out of it – she didn’t do shit. Anyone on staff will tell you that 99.9% of R’s job is cleaning up after my messes and sorting out my meltdowns. She has been endlessly compassionate and patient with me, and imo, extremely patient about this entire situation, despite how much its bothering her. Furthermore, leave the zine out of it. It’s just an internet fanmag at the end of the day. It’s for fun. That’s all. There’s no deep hidden meaning, no magic codes behind the word searches, no hidden agenda. We’re a fanmag. We like The Young Ones. It’s really not that deep.

[justmeandmythoughtson]

If you don't understand why AO3 needs so much money, here's a few pointers.

First: the difference between making a website and making AO3.

Making a website - like a Carrd - means that you're storing a tiny bit of information on someone else's hard drive, essentially. You might have organized it, but that information isn't being save to your computer - it's being saved to a central server. And you're paying the person who gave you server space in personal information, which they can sell for money to advertisers. OR, they put their own ads on your site, making money whenever someone opens your website.

Making a SERVER, however, means that you own ALL the hard drives that that information is stored on. It means you have to create code to allow outside individuals to access that information remotely. It means you have to create a website to let people accurately navigate your archive of information AND store that website data on that hard drive type thing.

You have to pay for maintenance, all the time, to make sure everything is working properly. And maintenance is physically fixing machinery and circuitry, not just fixing a few lines of code (though if you code you KNOW how annoying and time consuming finding the single issue can be) Like, did you know that the term "debugging" a computer refers to the fact that insects (used to) often nest in these giant computer storage units? And errors with programming would occur because of them, so people actually had to go through and search for the insects causing the problems? That's part of server maintenance - finding the loose connections or faulty lights in the maze of computer parts.

You also have to pay for massive air conditioning costs - have you heard your laptop fan kick on high and noisy when you're running a huge program or video game? Great, imagine that but it's a whole room or building of nothing but giant versions of your computer, just without the screens or anything associated with directly letting you look at the information coded into those machines. It gets HOT, so you need to keep it from overheating. Now imagine MILLIONS of people running that same program in different ways at the same time in the same computer. That's gotta be a HUGE computer to take that load without slowing down.

And, this server ALSO has to keep up with advancing technology! If it becomes obsolete, nobody can use it, and the archive becomes worthless, so it has to be updated every so often. That's more costs to deal with.

And then, you have to PAY people to do all this work! Being a non-profit doesn't mean that the professional coders who come in to fix an issue don't get paid. It doesn't mean that the maintenance crew that keeps the physical computer components running work for free. Non-profit means you're breaking even on costs and expenses and aren't actively trying to do anything but cover operating costs.

Sure, a LOT of people who work on AO3 put their time into this project without asking for anything in return. And we need to thank them for it. It's exceptional. But $300k to maintain a server with MILLIONS of users and millions of fanfics is NOT asking much. Hell. If we assume ten people and ONLY ten people are permanent AO3 staff, and that money ONLY goes to them, they're making 30k a year.

30k a year is LESS than the salary of someone with a 15$ an hour wage that works forty hour work-weeks, 52 weeks a year. That's barely a living wage. Hell, I'm not sure at this point I'd care if the people working in AO3's administration paid themselves from the leftover money, if there is any. They're maintaining an entire server! I mean, think about how much Jeff Bezos is making for doing something similar.

AND AO3 ISN'T EVEN ASKING FOR THAT MUCH MONEY. THEY'RE ASKING FOR 130k.

TL;DR

AO3 isn't a scam. It's a group of volunteers doing what is usually an immensely expensive thing on the cheap, and they're doing it on a massive scale. Sure, it's not Amazon. But it's huge and it's fan-owned. It's for us, by us, and you won't have to worry about your email address being sold for cheap to scammy advertisers to keep the site running.

And in addition: all this information is publicly available on AO3's front page. They not only post a breakdown of the budget, but they even post a link to the google doc that has all of their expenses and costs written out, plain as day.

And

if after reading all this shit, you STILL decide you don't like AO3 and that people shouldn't donate if they want to, well-

Fanfiction.net is right there.

AO3 isn't gonna change because you're whining about it. Either suck it up, or put your money where your mouth is and boycott the site.

Hypocrites

[blarrghe]

10 and 16, your choice 👀

Currently neglecting everything else I have going on for this Dorianders modern au. This is going to go somewhere...interesting.

16. I need a date for this wedding from the cliche prompts

Dorian asks a favour, he even has the foresight to ask using kittens. How can Anders say no?

Continues from the last one, for more of this tale you can read them in order on AO3

--

He had a wrap made with roasted vegetables, house made hummus, and smoked tofu, and it was surprisingly good. A little expensive still, but the menu said that a portion of all the proceeds went towards supporting the animal shelter, so really no part of him could find reason to complain. A skinny young tabby came and sat by them while they ate, and Anders stroked its stripes slowly, almost mesmerized, while Dorian told him the latest dramatic tale from some high-brow party he’d been to the night before. Anders was only half listening; they’d been friends for just over a month, though with all the little chunks of time they found to spend together, it seemed longer, and in that time Anders had learned that Dorian went to an unbelievable number of fancy parties. It seemed like there was a new one each night, fundraisers and awards ceremonies and shows of support for one cause or another. Pompous, stuffy affairs that he looked to Anders to laugh over, later. Anders didn’t mind, exactly, he could make fun of upper class excess any day of the week, and he actually appreciated being privy to some of the more political gossip, but there was a reason why Dorian seemed to always cap the nights off with an outing to some noisier, bouncier club. Most of what he did for work was painfully boring. And the stories that came after, about what happened at said bouncy clubs, were worse still. 

He was going through it, Anders reminded himself, he didn’t really talk about it, but it was there. Grief and guilt and an unmistakable feeling of relief, which only led him to more guilt. There was a good deal of alcohol in the mix, too. He looked good, tall and handsome, workouts the next day to detox from the wild nights, but he was still a mess, underneath it all. Easy to forget, smooth as he talked, but Anders had an uncanny ability to see through veils, thanks to that ghost still shadowing his soul. 

As his friend, Anders was more or less supportive; reminders about the uselessness of detoxes, a sounding board for work-related gripes, encouraging smiles when it looked like Dorian might say something a little closer to the truth. But as a man who had seen him, been struck down by the lightning bolt of his smile every time it graced his lips, he was mostly just jealous. But Dorian was busy treating his grief with sex and mindnumbing dance beats, and Anders would rather be a friend than a drunken encounter at a noisy club, so that was that. And he was very deliberately not waiting. He’d done all that before, the yearning and pining and endless aching for a one-sided love, and it was fucking terrible. Unhealthy. Friendship was good, friendship was healthy. Being used as some kind of distraction would not be, no matter how tempting. 

Anders, meanwhile, had found his own distraction in the form of a coworker who was also decidedly going through something. Someone as different as could be from Dorian, and who had no undue attachment to Anders whatsoever. In fact, she had three or four men in rotation and was very obviously beginning to fall in a complicated way for one of the other ones. So distractions abounded, but at least between himself and Dorian there could just be a solid foundation, untroubled by jealousy and sex. Except for when he smiled. 

“Anders?” Dorian’s voice cut through his thoughts, and the skinny tabby looked up, irritated that Anders had abruptly stopped petting it. “Alright, I get it, Tevinter politics, boring.” Dorian went on, “shall I leave you here with your new friend?” The cat hopped down from its perch on the seat next to Anders, and slunk away, indifferent. 

“I — ah,” Anders shook his head, turning his focus back to Dorian, who always seemed to be smirking at him. “Sorry, I’m just tired.” 

Dorian raised an eyebrow, then glancing away over Anders’ shoulder, he indicated something with a slight nod. “Would a kitten help?” 

Anders turned to look, and whatever else was going on in his heart simply melted away, as two bright white kittens emerged stumbling from one of the carpeted cat tunnels set out under the windows of the cafe, wobbling and hopping over one another with fluffy little tails and bright blue eyes. 

“Sweet maker,” he breathed, and he could hear Dorian laughing under his breath as he watched, “I’m going to go pet those kittens now.” Anders announced, leaving his head-shaking and amused friend behind. 

He played with the kittens until they finished being curious about him and wandered off to sniff at someone else, and then he took a look around the place, appreciating the genius of it. Lots of fun shelves and carpeted tunnels and posts with fluffy balls on strings tied to their ends, cats lounging and wandering about; the skinny tabby, the two white kittens, an old black and brown giant with long hair and a grumpy expression, watching from a shelf on high, and several others, sleeping in happy piles on top of one another in various hiding spots or jumping from platform to platform overhead. There was a bulletin board on the wall with each cat’s picture posted up, along with an informative biography detailing their name, breed and personality. Paperwork for adoption could be requested from the servers, and the place had purportedly housed over a hundred lonely cats in the short time since its opening. There were some pictures of the lucky adoptees up on the board as well, and a flyer requesting volunteer help at the shelter. Anders ripped off one of the phone numbers hanging from it. 

By the time Anders returned to their table, feeling altogether lighter and refreshed, Dorian had paid their bill. Anders watched as Dorian stood, pulling the strap of his gym bag back up over his shoulder and checking his watch with an apologetic grimace. 

“You didn’t have to pay,”Anders frowned, reaching in his pocket for the bills to cover his share. Dorian shrugged. 

“I may have ulterior motives, actually.” He replied, and Anders’ frown deepened. “I need to ask you a favour.” 

He crossed his arms, feeling rather buttered up, what with the kittens and the lunch and the way Dorian was still slyly smiling at him. 

“There’s an event next week, and I need someone to accompany me…” 

“I’m no good at formal events,” Anders warned, “I’ll get you voted out of the Magisterium just by holding my fork wrong or something.” 

“It’s not that kind of event, it’s a — it’s a family affair. A wedding.” Dorian admitted the context stiffly, a tenseness in his jaw already. It had been weeks since the funeral, which he’d never talked about at all, but the way he said wedding sounded about as much like one. 

Anders’ heart stilled. “Can’t you find a date?” He quipped, or tried to quip, throat going dry again. 

Dorian sighed. “I could take the one my mother’s found, or I could take a friend.” he replied, eyes pleading. Fuck that word and his desperate eyes. “Besides, the whole thing would be much more tolerable with someone to make snide remarks with on the sidelines. Free food, free wine, saving me from an evening of drudgery celebrating the union of some distant fourth-cousin and her fifth husband. Please?” 

“I don’t much want to antagonize your mother.” Anders said, still frowning. He remembered her in the hospital, shouting bloody murder at his supervisors and snapping at the nurses. And it didn’t escape him either that for Dorian to bring another man to a family affair would set tongues wagging; that he probably wanted it to. Anders had a habit of flaunting Tevinter sensibilities where it came to things like gender presentation and respectable life choices. Some of it was accidental — there were so many rules to Tevinter codes of behaviour, it was too easy to break them — but some of it was deliberate. He missed Kirkwall, where none of it had really mattered, and some part of him didn’t want to let Tevinter rigidity take away his freedom. Halward Pavus, rest his temperamental soul, had seemed to pinpoint him for his otherness even while laying on his deathbed, and had let him know it with regular scorn. Scorn he’d no doubt directed at Dorian his whole life, given all the maladaptive coping mechanisms he was displaying in the wake of his death. And Anders was still trying not to become a maladaptive coping mechanism. Spirits on earth, he needed to call Merrill. 

“Not even a little?” Dorian prodded, breaking through his brooding once again, “it can be great fun you know; it’s practically a hobby of mine.” 

Anders sighed. “I wouldn’t know what to wear.” he said, a lame excuse that Dorian would happily rectify in a second, given how much he delighted in his own stylings. He could see it already, a smirk coming back to his lips out of that tense jaw, ready to make some suggestions as soon as Anders gave him permission. 

“We can work on that. Come on, if you say no I’ll be forced to get exceedingly drunk, reject a probably perfectly tolerable woman, and generally make a scene.” 

“As though inviting me isn’t going to do that,” Anders protested. No, Dorian didn’t talk about his family much, but Anders didn’t need him to in order to figure him out. 

“You’re a friend, and a doctor. It’s plenty respectable.” Dorian leaned back, “and an excuse to leave early, if you get called away for some sort of...medical emergency.” he winked. 

Anders sighed again. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head and wondering who exactly was deciding his responses at this point; clearly not the part of him that was sensible. “But I’m not buying new robes.” 

“Of course not, you have terrible taste.” Dorian grinned, “I’ll find you something.” 

Anders took the bus home, and fell asleep on his couch, an unsent text message still in the draft stages on his phone. Not to Merrill, she would be useless in this particular dilemma, but to a different old friend. Not that he trusted Isabella to know what to do, either, but at least her advice would be fun. 

[always-and-forever-a-killjoy]

Building Home Chapter 4

Hey fuckers and welcome to another chapter of Building Home! I've decided to switch to posting on Saturdays because Fridays are always chaotic, just a heads up, but I'll still be posting regularly for at least another six weeks, hopefully longer if I get my ass together enough to write the last six chapters of this in those six weeks (or at least like, Chapter 11 and 12). Anyways, the song for last week was so big/so small from dear evan hansen. This week's isn't quite so tricky, I don't think!

Title: Building Home

Chapter Title: I’ll keep you safe inside

Chapter Wordcount: 2263

Chapter Summary:

The crew settles into living with Autumn Assassin and the house of soup crew, and the Analog Wars suck ass.

POV: Dr. Death Defying

Warnings: Injury mentions, death mentions.. (If you want to know what parts to skip, go to the end notes on AO3- I also put a brief summary of any important info in those parts. Stay safe!)

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia @dagger-queen​ @no-braincells-here @piratecherricola (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

Chapter 1 AO3 Link

Chapter 1 Tumblr Post

Chapter 2 Tumblr Post

Chapter 3 Tumblr Post

(Actual fic under the cut)

They stayed with Autumn Assassin for a while longer, talking with the killjoys of the household and generally having a better time than just living alone. It was a little strange to have three of them in one small room, but none of them minded much. 

“I shared a room with my sister in Battery City,” Cherri Cola told the others. D restrained any surprise from showing on his face- Cherri almost never volunteered information about himself, and especially not his past. It was something killjoys didn’t talk about much and rarely shared with anyone except their crew. So D just nodded in acceptance.

“D and I are used to sharing,” Lily agreed. “So we’ll just have to stick it out,”

Autumn Assassin, meanwhile, had taken Cherri under their wing. They had the common trait of being an excellent shot, and Autumn had managed to get him a much nicer ray gun. 

“Scarecrow model,” They informed him. 

Cherri nodded as they positioned his hands on the new ray gun. “Right. Look around what you’re aiming at, keep your hands in this position and steady as you can, and don’t hesitate. Hesitation will kill you, kid.”

D was watching the lesson just like he had watched Lily teach Cherri, making sure Autumn wasn’t too rough. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the other killjoy- White Lily trusted them, and that was good enough for him- but he wanted to make sure Cherri’s wound healed properly as well. So he was sitting and watching as they taught Cherri how to shoot better than ever before. Cherri was taking to the lessons eagerly, wanting to learn how to fight. 

“Don’t hesitate,” he repeated, and pulled the trigger. 

Autumn Assassin whooped as the can fell. “Good shot, kid!”

Cherri was grinning as he glanced back at D. “A hundred and sixty.”

“I saw,” D grinned back. “That’s pretty fucking incredible, Cherri.”

“He’s a quick one,” Autumn agreed. “Needs to work on his hand-to-hand combat and reactions in the heat of battle, but he’s a good shot.”

“I’ll do hand to hand if you want to teach me,” Cherri offered quietly.

“Of course I do, kid, you’re a quick learner and frankly a lot of fun to teach.”

Cherri’s grin grew even wider. “I’m seventeen.”

“And I’m almost thirty, what’s your point? You’re a kid to me, even if you kick ass at shooting and probably other things too.”

“Fair.”

“Ready to kick some ass?”

“Yeah!”

“Be careful of your stitches,” D warned, but it wasn’t his place to stop Cherri. 

“I will be, don’t worry. I don’t feel like getting hurt again,” the other said dryly.

“Good, I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

“Overprotective,” Cherri said with an eye roll, but he was smiling. 

“I’d rather not have one of my best friends die because he was an idiot and ripped his stitches, thank you very much.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Cherri was…less than careful, in D’s opinion, but he didn’t rip any stitches while training with Autumn Assassin so that was a something, at least. He did, however, get very good at fighting with a variety of weapons, including but not limited to knives, ray guns, older style guns, and even simple hand-to-hand combat. Autumn Assassin’s name included ‘assassin’ for a reason, and it wasn’t that they could poison people.

Meanwhile, D and Lily dedicated their time to the radio station and recruiting more people. Killjoys had started to settle in other houses and buildings in this little town area, given how intact many of them were. It was becoming a whole little community, arsonists and crash queens living next to medics and some of the most peaceful rebels. So while Autumn Assassin was teaching Cherri to be terrifyingly good at fighting, D and Lily were wandering the area and getting to know the killjoys there.

They met Legolas Greenleaf, fantasy nerd and excellent maker of crepes, apparently, although given that it was the desert they couldn’t really verify that. He and his crew dressed like fantasy elves and kicked draculoid ass while shouting things like ‘dishonor on your lineage!’ and ‘spawn of Morgoth!’. There was also Tommy Chow Mein, who both of them knew from the wars and was running a little general store out of what had once been the town’s general store, and his assistant was a kid called Penny Pincher who had copper-colored hair and was a bit younger than Cherri.

The variety of killjoys in the town ranged from a short, grouchy killjoy who simply went by ‘Fuck’ and was one of the best medics out there to a tall, freckled killjoy called Angel Kisses who was an absolute sweetheart but would absolutely fuck you up. Ages ranged from some of the oldest soldiers of the Helium Wars (“I’m damn near forty.”) to the younger siblings and even children of some killjoys (“She’s a bit under a year, just barely weaned but we had to get her out of Battery City.”) From the news others brought in, they knew this wasn’t the only community of killjoys, but it was by far the largest. Here was where the center of the rebellion would be for another few years, and the unsuspecting Autumn Assassin’s house was at the center of it all.

Their house was already somewhat of a town hub, being the most intact and the one with the most residents, and Autumn Assassin seemed to encourage this.

“What with the amount of people here, we’ve always got extra food, and extra rooms for travelers. We’ve got the resources, might as well use them. And I don’t mind these dumbasses hanging around the living room, they bring some life to the place.” That was what they told D when he asked about it, leaning against the counter as the two of them watched the chaos unfold in their living room like it did almost every day. 

“They certainly do bring life. Also chaos.”

Autumn Assassin cackled. “That’s true. Nothing wrong with a bit of chaos, though. We are killjoys, after all.”

“True, we are.” D frowned. “Do you worry about Lil and I bringing bli down on your head?”

“If you do, we’ll tell them to fuck off.” Their face grew more serious. “I’m not kidding, though, Doctor Death. We give no fucks about Better Living, and we do give some fucks about you and your little crew. I worry a little about putting the younger members of the house in danger, but all of them knew what they were getting into. And all of them know how to fight.”

“I’m assuming you taught them?”

“How did you guess?” Their voice was utterly deadpan. “Not all of them, but yeah. I insist on teaching everyone who comes through some basic hand-to-hand combat and how to shoot a ray gun, if they don’t know. It’s my way of keeping them safe. Like your radio station.”

It was true, 109 in the sky had many goals, but one of them was keeping the killjoys safe and informed. The more they knew about upcoming dangers, the better they could fight back, and WKIL served as a hub of information. Killjoys radioed in or brought news of whatever they had found, from a supply truck that had been raided and had some extra supplies to exterminators coming to the desert. Code words were a part of this too, a cobbled together mixture of killjoy slang and actual code that served as yet another line of defense. Even if Better Living Industries figured out how to listen in, it wasn’t as if they would understand half the words being said, and Dr. Death Defying knew they had to keep it that way. Secrecy was essential to a successful rebellion, as Lily had put it. So the code was an important part of running the radio station, alongside the technology and the consistent news.

Even as they began to travel around again, taking the news van to broadcast from different Zones as a way of confusing Better Living Industries, they continued to return to Autumn Assassin’s house and the town around it as a home base. The room that Autumn Assassin had given them at the very start was theirs permanently now, and Autumn always kept it open for them. Sometimes they would be gone a day or two, sometimes an entire week or even a month or more. It depended on how close they thought Better Living Industries was to catching on, and traveling around seemed to be working as a method of confusing the corporation. In addition to the FM radio station of WKIL, multiple AM stations had sprung up that took the info from D’s daily broadcast and spread it over a wider range. Their signal was much easier to interfere with, which was why the original WKIL was an FM station, but it got the news out to the entirety of the Zones, providing an invaluable service. 

So the rebellion continued to grow, month after month, until the Zones were alive with killjoys and color, loud noise and firefights. Cherri’s training at the hands of Autumn Assassin had only made him more bold, much to D’s worry, but he had to admit that Cherri’s borderline insane antics were a very effective method. He was one of the few killjoys unafraid to fight almost any level of Better Living Industries employee, and one of the most effective at it too.

Lily, meanwhile, was working on organizing larger raids and even attacking Battery City itself. D was her right hand, as always, but he was also occupied with the radio station and other things. So Cherri had stepped partially into their role, accompanying Lily when she went on missions and standing by her side as a very effective deterrent against exterminators. Better Living Industries had intensified their efforts to find Lily and D, and Cherri was now top of their wanted lists as well. He had gone from an unremarkable and frankly unintimidating sixteen-year-old to one of the finest shots in the desert and a highly wanted killjoy, the name Cherri Cola whispered almost as often as you could hear whispers of Dr. Death Defying or White Lily.

He had gained a reputation for being one of few killjoys who usually worked alone, often taking on missions solo (and giving D and Lily a heart attack when he stumbled back in with a stab wound or ray gun shot, bruised and battered). That wouldn’t change until their last few crew members joined up, and even then, Cherri was fiercely independent both as a fighter and a person. He was loyal, that was for sure, willing to fight just about anything for D or Lily, but he would always prefer solo raids or missions.

That scared D shitless, but they couldn’t stop him and they trusted Cherri to keep himself safe, to an extent. He was still more reckless than D or Lily would like, but neither of them could really blame him. 

“I don’t know what he’s running from, but there’s something.” That was Lily, plunking down in a chair next to them.

“We’re all running from something, aren’t we?”

“Dark but true.”

The two of them knew what each other was running from better than anyone else. Both somewhat happy children back in Battery City, there was nothing in their childhood that they ran from, only a faint sense of nostalgia, but the war they had fought in had changed them both in ways they didn’t like to think about. There was a past there to run from, horrors to set right. D knew that Lily had a sense that she needed to put things right, needed to atone in some way for her deeds during the Helium Wars. If that atonement, that fight, took her life, she would accept it as such. 

It might have been selfish of him, but he would not atone. They were trying, of course, to make the world a better place, fighting for the future they believed in, but the past was the past, and D refused to die for the crimes he had committed then. He had fought to survive for long enough that he wasn’t giving up now, regardless of what fate would be just for them. The best they could and would do now was fight for the future, not die for the past. 

It wasn’t easy for him either, watching young killjoys fight and be injured and even die, but he had to believe in what they were fighting and dying for. They would break the stranglehold of Better Living Industries, they would live free and bring the same for their children and all the generations that would come after them. All this wasn’t for nothing.

That was what D told themself as they watched Cherri curl into a ball in the corner of the room, protecting the slash on his side like a wounded animal. That was what they repeated when Lily’s sobs shook the mattress at night, keeping the others awake even if they didn’t dare break the silence of the room. D just prayed the others’ spirits wouldn’t end up as broken as their bodies after claps.

This pattern continued, day after day and week after week as their missions got more dangerous and Cherri grew even more reckless and solitary. It wouldn’t be truly broken until far after the final few members of their crew arrived, but the one who arrived next did by far the most towards that end.

[hollowcrovvn]

The Ostensive Fumblings of Being Human (part 2)

Pairing: Connor x female!reader Rating: G for Gross Cute Crap Summary: Set two months after the ending of Detroit: Become Human, androids are living in government created “pop-up” communities while efforts are being made to integrate them into society. You are a grad-student volunteer with the Detroit Crisis Response Unit (DCRU), working to help with relief efforts… or at least, doing the work no one else wants to do. Which brings us to part 2.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (ao3)

The moment kept playing in your mind, giving you little snapshot glimpses of his face when he saw your phone number written on the cup. His face, perplexed, but so curious as he took in your every word with such rapt attention. 

“Ugh… no.” you whined towards the ceiling, throwing your head back and sinking further into your sofa. Some TV series played ideally while you tapped a stylus on the screen of your tablet, opened to some notes regarding your most recent class. You risked short glances over to your phone. 

“Stop it.” you said to yourself, “It’s not a big deal and you don’t even know if he’ll text.”

You sat silently for a moment, nearly forgetting about it in the thrall of the TV and procrastination on your assignment when your eyes slowly drifted over to it again.

“Son of a bitch.” you huffed, throwing tablet aside as you got up and made your way across the small one bedroom apartment to your smaller bathroom. You needed a shower and some comfy clothes and maybe some sleep. 

Several minutes later you came out from the bathroom, towel drying your hair and feeling a bit more human with the cold no longer biting at your skin still from the damp outside. You weren’t looking, not really, your eyes just fell to the phone on the small kitchen table and noticed the screen was list with an envelope icon.

You managed to pretend not to be interested for approximately fifteen seconds before you were over, picking up the phone and trying to not think about how fast your heart was going as you opened the message…

… which was just from your DCRU supervisor reminding you to go to the DPD station downtown after checking in on site tomorrow.

You felt your heart fall and sighed as you clicked the message and set a reminder. Someone in Jericho had requested a number of open human-on-android violence cases as well as android-on-human and someone had to go get the stats. Most android cases were still considered “sensitive” so the only way to get the information was from the source. It was a placating act, something to make Jericho not so hostile to DCRU and their efforts, even if they could realistically do nothing about the numbers. You wondered if you would be lucky enough for it to be the same station Connor worked at.

You took your phone and headed off to bed, setting your alarm. It was nearly 11:40, which was not ideal if you didn’t want to be a zombie tomorrow. Sighing, you flicked off your lamp and curled up, closing your eyes and tucking in. Your breath began to slow and your body relax when suddenly the darkness behind your eyelids lit.

You opened your eyes a slit and saw the envelope notification with a question mark attached.

[ new sender ]

[ accept msg y/n? ]

You never hit “y” so fast in your life. 

[ from: DPDCNSL#317

Thank you for agreeing to continue corresponding with me. I am looking forward to the experience.

And thank you for the coffee.

Have a good evening, ---.

Connor ]

And then before you could respond the little dots indicating he was responding popped up immediately.

[ from: DPDCNSL#317

Lieutenant Anderson has informed me that saying, “I am looking forward to the experience” sounds “creepy”. I am looking forward to being able to speak with you more.

Connor ]

You smiled and quickly wrote up a reply-- which you waited a few minutes to send because… like that is what you did right? You didn’t wanna reply too fast… right? You killed some time, changing his name in the message box.

[ from: ---

You’re welcome. And pls don’t thank me for that pitiful excuse for bean water. Next time, I’ll get you a latte and you’ll never be the same again. ]

[ from: Connor

You are correct, but not in the way I believe you think.

Regardless, I would like that. You are studying at Wayne State, correct? ]

You froze, staring at the words with shock. How the hell did he know that?

[ from: ---

You pull up my file, copper?]

[ from: Connor

I did a search on the internet. You came up under the staff listing as a research assistant for Urban Studies. Is that correct? There is no image, so it could be another ---. ]

[ from: ---

Bit weird to be searching for someone you just met. ]

[ from: Connor

I agree. Lieutenant Anderson located the information and sent it to my terminal. I was… curious. I apologize, I do not wish to cause you to feel uncomfortable. ]

It didn’t really matter much. All the information on the website was basic things and any social media you had was hidden from the outside. It was harmless, as far as most things went.

[ from: ---

It’s alright, next time you can just ask me. Though I think to make it up, you can buy me the coffee. Only fair. :)  ]

[ from: Connor

I do receive a salary now, so that is a possibility.

--- it is now almost midnight. You should be resting as you have already lost two hours of the recommended time for sleep. I would recommend lowering your caffeine intake to 300mg per day to prevent further sleep disturbance.

Good night, ---.  ]

[ from: ---

You can pry my coffee from my cold dead hands, hippy.

Good night.  ]

Wildly specific advice aside, it was-- kinda sweet. That bit that you assumed was a joke about “receiving a salary” got a small chuckle from you. After waiting a few minutes though, it appeared that he was done messaging for the night.

Not too bad, you hummed to yourself, First potential friend outside of campus in four years. Adult humaning at last.

---

“Checking in on site” was just code for “bring us all our coffee order before you do any real work” and you did so as usual, dropping the cups off at the various desks, crowded into the small “conference” building. All of the DCRU’s own buildings were of the same shake-n-bake quality as the shelters put up for the androids. They did little to hold out the chill, but they kept out the damp. Several people had space heaters beneath their desks or blankets wrapped around their legs.

After dropping off the last drink, you made your way over to the desk of the person you liked most of all the superiors, chiefly because he would never ask you to bring him coffee. His name was Josh, and he had served as one of Markus’ companions during the start and the heart of the revolution. Prior to Jericho, he had been a university professor, which was something you found common ground with.

He was sitting still, as if staring off into the distance, but a quick note of his eyes would show them flickering back and forth. He was reading.

“You ready to do some real work?” he said, voice tinged with faint humor as he continued to scan through whatever files were working their way through his synthetic mind. You’d gotten use to this.

“Yes, for the love of Markus Christ.” you huffed, enjoying in the private joke. Since the revolution there had been no less than 112 articles official and amateur declaring Markus as an android “Messiah”. Based upon Josh’s word, this caused the actual Markus a great deal of discomfort, but still the metaphor stuck.

“I’m going to have to tell Simon that one.” Josh said with a laugh, finally turning his eyes to you indicating he was finished with whatever he was working on.

“But first things first.” he said, pulling out a tablet and handing it to you. It was one of his.

“You know most of these “deviant” criminal cases are still on lock down?”

You nodded.

“We’ve gotten clearance to have the files downloaded. Part of our agreements with the government involve… some explaining. I won’t sugar coat it. Some of these open cases are violent, resulting in death of the human or the android or sometimes both.”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to the tablet as if there would suddenly appear images but there was only a menu showing how to accept file download.

“... death can be a hard topic for anyone. Even more so for your people when it involves Android on Human crimes. You may see some disturbing things. You alright with this?”

“Of course!” you said, a bit quickly and a bit more defensively than intended.

“I mean that… I want to do anything I can to help. I know that… I know they are pressuring to have these androids turned over for prosecution.”

If Josh were non-deviant, he wouldn’t have tensed at the words, but he did. 

“Historically speaking, we haven’t given any android justice. I know this is important. Anything I feel is secondary to that… is what I mean.”

Josh smiled warmly, standing up and hesitantly patting your shoulder.

“You remind me of my old students, ---. I’m sure you’ll do what you can.”

You nodded vigorously, because you would. 

---

It was too far and too cold to walk the length of Detroit back towards downtown, so you took an automated cab. You’d tucked Josh’s tablet safely away in a rucksack over your shoulder and flipped through your phone idly.

You hovered over the message window with Connor for a moment before quickly sending off a few lines.

[ from: ---

Just so there are no surprises, I’m heading to the DPD station rn for unrelated stuff. Might see you! ]

It took you way longer than necessary to actually hit send, but when you did you were shocked that his response was almost instantaneous. 

[ from: Connor

Unrelated to what? Also, are you alright? Do you have an open case with the DPD? ]

[ from: ---

It’s all good. And meant I just happen to be that way as opposed to ya know, stalking. ]

[ from: Connor

“Stalking” does imply stealth, which would be in direct opposition of your current actions if that was the intent. I agree that your  actions do not constitute “stalking”.  ]

You huffed a sigh, but then were startled as the message pinged again.

[ from: Connor

Bit weird though.  ]

You felt a smile slowly form at one corner of your lips

[ from: Connor

That was a joke, in case it was too vague.  ]

[ from: ---

I gotcha ;)

See you in a bit maybe.  ]

And with that, you shut off your phone’s display just in time to exit the cab out front of the DPD building. Inside, the DPD had the same tell tale signs of the android revolution with its lack of noticeable androids. It was not until you got up to the reception desk that it dawned on you they both were identical. They were androids, they had just removed their LED. She was even wearing a name tag that said, Alicia in clear bold font. She was wearing regular professional wear, no Android identifiers in sight.

You’d heard the DPD had gotten on board relatively quickly with providing androids with pay, not wanting to lose the bulk of their staff. While the cleaning crews were absent, the receptionist turned up her face and smiled pleasantly,

“Good morning, how may I assist you?”

“Good morning!” you said, a bit too quickly, “My name is ---, I’m here from the Crisis Response Unit. I have a meeting with Captain Fowler.”

“Yes, we were told to expect you! Do you have your I.D.?” she said, and you were struck by how… friendly she was, as opposed to all the other ST300’s you’d encountered. You pulled out your “badge”, which was nothing more than an I.D. card with a special DCRU designation stamp inside a flip wallet. You passed it to her and she scanned it quickly.

“You’re all set! Just head right through these gates here and go straight back. Fowler’s office is the one in the middle with the glass doors, it should not be hard to miss, but if you get lost just grab one of the officers. They all should know all too well where his office is.” she said with a faint laugh at some private joke.

You nodded, fumbling to put your I.D. with a quick “thank you” before you headed through the gates. It was bigger inside than you expected, with several desks and lots of people working, standing and having their morning coffee or otherwise engaged. You noted the glass enclosed office towards the middle of the room and headed in that direction. There were three people already waiting inside and two of which you recognized immediately.

Captain Fowler was up, preparing to come open the door for you, but Connor beat him in a few brisk steps.

Hank was grinning at you in that suspicious way that you recalled from grade school… like he knew something you didn’t. In this situation, it was pretty unsettling. Did they find that parking ticket from sophomore year?!

“Good morning Ms. ---, please, have a seat.” Fowler gestured to the one other empty chair next to Hank, “These two suspect characters are Lieutenant Hank Anderson and his partner, Connor. They have been working the deviant android cases since the start.”

Connor politely offered you his hand, which you took. He squeezed gently, mischief glinting in those brown eyes before he let go and all but ushered you to your seat. Hank snorted.

“We’ve met.” Hank said, disregarding any pleasantries. 

Fowler looked surprised.

“We frequent the same coffee shop.” you added, “So it was a very brief meeting.”

“You’re lucky.” Fowler said, eyeing Hank with disapproval. Hank seemed oblivious, or more likely, immune.

“We’ve been informed that the ADA’s office is seeking to prosecute these androids. It is highly likely that they are being concealed among the deviants at the relief camp.” Fowler leaned back in his chair, “So, we’ve been told to assist you in whatever way you need.”

“Some of us are a bit too eager…” you heard Hank muttered under his breath. Connor’s eyes trailed on him slowly, making no expression you could see but Hank must have gotten the message because he grumbled and slumped back.

“I appreciate that, Captain Fowler.” you began, “Markus has agreed that his people will search into the population of their androids for these individuals. It’s a good start to integrate androids into the justice system.”

Though you had your own opinions regarding the effectiveness of that. How could any android expect a fair trial when a jury of their peers would most likely be full of humans? But that was a topic for another time and place.

“These files are sealed, so we are requesting a downloaded copy so that efforts can be made to locate these androids.”

Captain Fowler looked unconvinced.

“I have confirmation from the governor and the President’s staff approving this request, if you would like to see it. The governor also said you might like to call her office as well.”

“I think I will do that. In the meanwhile, if you’d gentleman escort Ms. --- to the break-room where she might be a bit more comfortable?”

Hank stood and gave Connor a hard pat, “All you buddy.”

He left without a second glance.

“Right this way. ---.” Connor said, Chief Fowler now too engrossed with his phone to notice Connor used your first name.

It was hard to contain a smile as you walked alongside the detective, following him to a small break-room.

“Coffee?” he asked and you nodded briskly. He poured some of the dark, strong smelling liquid into a mug that read “#1 Dad” and after considering for a moment, pot still in his hand, he poured another.

Bringing both he came to sit with you at a rickety table, stabilized by a half folded paper plate under one leg.

“Don’t think this counts.” you said, taking the mug in both hands, enjoying the warmth if not the overly strong taste.

Connor did not drink.

“You work with the Detroit Crisis Response Unit?” he said, getting right to the point.

“Volunteered. Don’t give me too much credit though. When I joined up, it was all about flooding relief. The Android situation was a surprise.”

“Do you dislike Androids?” he asked.

“Wow. Talk about a hot button topic, Connor. You sure you don’t wanna ask me what my favorite color is first? My favorite movie?”

“No. I would much rather know your stance on the current events seeing as you are working as a relief volunteer.”

Direct. You hid behind the lip of the mug, feeling his eyes keenly on you.

“Why do you wanna know?” you countered, taking a small sip.

“I’m simply curious as to how you feel about your current assignment.”

“I feel just fine.” you said, “I guess… well. Guess sometimes they just spook me. Just like most people.”

“I see.” Connor said, seeming to relax a fraction, “You are afraid of them?”

“Not “afraid” just-- reasonably cautious.”

Connor seemed to be processing this, tapping his fingertips against the mug in his hand and watching himself do so intently.

“You worked on “deviant” cases for awhile, yeah?” you began, “Are… do they make you nervous? Because that’d be understandable given what you’ve seen.”

“They-- did. Before. Now I realize it’s the same as humans. We’re all capable of violence.”

Before you could continue, another man walked into the break-room, smile slick as oil.

“Well, there you are, tin-can.” he said with a smirk, picking up the coffee pot and sloshing some of it onto the counter as he poured a mug full.

“Whose this?” he said, giving you a smirk.

“A liaison from DCRU.” Connor replied coolly, bringing the coffee mug to his lips.

“Is that even good for your health, Con?” the man asked, but Connor ignored him.

“And who is this charming fellow.” you asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Detective Reed. Gavin, Reed.” he answered, giving you a wink, “Now I can see why Con here was in such a hurry to get his ring off before you showed up.”

Ah. That. That was. Not expected. Your blood ran cold, eyes immediately falling to Connor’s left hand as if you’d catch sight of a tan line or some other indicator that you’d been incredibly stupid.

“I got some super glue over at my desk if you need a quick fix.” he said, tapping Connor’s chair with the toe of his boot. Connor, looked somewhere between deflated and coldly controlled anger.

Hank’s appearance in the break room door thankfully put a halt to whatever was going on between the two men, his eyes fixing Gavin with a vicious glare.

“Don’t you have reports to finish, detective?” he said, circling in so that Gavin was forced to walk towards the door.

“Just tryin’ be a good wing-man for my bro, Connor.” he said, disappearing into the hall with a laugh.

Hank looked between you and Connor, noting the change in your demeanor, arms pulled in and looking anywhere but at his partner.

“Fowler uh-- got the call. You can come over to my desk and we’ll get you sorted.”

You hurriedly stood, fishing out your tablet so you’d be ready to download those files and get out of here as soon as possible.

Connor said nothing in his defense, but he watched you intently, searching.

“... thanks for the coffee.” you said, following Hank out.

---

Connor did not join you at Hank’s desk, which must not have been part of the plan because every few seconds Hank looked over his shoulder for him.

“Here. You should get a prompt to download any second now. There are photos, so if you’re squeamish I advised ya not look at the screen while they are downloading.”

You took his advice, letting the tablet drop unceremoniously to the desk as you leaned against it, arms crossed.

Hank was not scowling for once, but you were, brows furrowed tight and troubled.

“Look… ---, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t-- just don’t judge Connor before you get to know him. I know he’s a weird one. I know most people, hell even me, have this innate prejudice, but he likes you. Which is a big deal for him. He’s learning how this goes, so I don’t know-- maybe give him a break.”

“... did… did his wife die or something?”

Hank stared at you, eyes wide and confused.

“His wife.” he repeated, not so much a question but a confirmation of whether or not you were a rambling idiot.

“That detective! Gavin whatever-the-hell said that Connor took off his ring before I got here!”

Hank groaned, resting his face in his hand as he shook his head. The sound quickly turned into a laugh of sorts. He looked back up at you with that same mystified look he had before.

“You really don’t know. Kid, Connor took off his LED before you got here. That’s what Gavin meant. He’s an android.”

A lot, like a lot of things suddenly made sense now.

You sunk into a nearby chair, dazed.

“You really had no idea? With how fuckin’ weird he is?”

“I thought he was just… like, ya know. A hipster intellectual.”

Hank choked on nothing, busting into a loud laugh, “Well you ain’t wrong, kid!”

The tablet pinged, indicating it had finished downloading. Hank popped up, dismissing the file before you could pick it up.

“Like I said. Some gory stuff. I’d advise you get that to whoever wants it and not go poking around in it.” he handed you the tablet, “And for god’s sake, go talk to him before you leave. You’re the first person he’s been around that ain’t me and trust me, that’s good for him.”

You ran your hands over the tablet’s smooth sides, mind going a hundred miles a minute. You turned to leave and saw Connor coming back towards the desks, seeing clearly now the flashing LED he had replaced on the side of his temple.

His expression was blank, but you had dealt with enough androids that you could just faintly see the lines of nervousness and… hopefulness as he passed you.

You caught his forearm, touching the same place where androids connected systems.

“... I don’t dislike androids.” you whispered, risking a look at him through your eyelashes. He was-- smiling and it was so damn beautiful you felt the wall you had started constructing around your heart from Gavin’s words crack open.

“I’m glad to hear it.” 

You smiled, “Text me when you are ready to shell out for that latte.” and gave his arm one last small squeeze before heading out of the station.

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Six Baudelaires AU, Part Three {AO3} {Masterlist} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter Twenty-One → in which Fiona is Volatile

Solitude fell asleep in Nick’s arms, while Babbitt crawled into her pocket. Nick made his way into the main hall, where he slid into a chair and held her tight, rocking her gently. 

“I’m sorry.” he said quietly. “I can’t… I can’t do anything.” 

“That’s not true.” Lilac knelt in front of him, as his other siblings surrounded him, putting their hands on his arm in a comforting gesture. “Nick, it’s okay to not be able to do everything all the time. We understand why you were scared, okay?” 

“You don’t need to be the hero, Nick.” Violet said, giving him a side-hug. “You just need to stay with us.” 

Nick bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, and then he nodded and leaned his head onto Klaus. “We love you, okay?” Klaus said. “And we’re not letting the bastard touch you ever again.” 

“We just… we need to go. Soon as Fiona gets here.” Nick said. “And then we need to run. Far away. Please.” 

“We-” Lilac paused. “Does anyone hear that?” 

They listened, and heard what sounded like a printer. 

“Is…” Violet narrowed her eyes, and then she gasped. “Is that the Volunteer Factual Dispatch?” 

She and Lilac ran to the telegraph, and saw that, indeed, a paper was coming out of it. Violet grabbed it first, saying, “It’s from VFD! It’s- it’s-” her gaze softened, and she burst into a grin. “It’s from Quigley!” 

“What?” Lilac said, shocked. 

“It’s from Quigley!” Violet bounced, running back over to her siblings to show them. Even Nick brightened when he saw she was right- his name was beside the phrase sender. 

Violet traced the Q in his name, smiling, and then said, “It is my understanding that you have six additional volunteers onboard STOP. We are in desperate need of their services for the most urgent matter STOP. Please deliver them on Tuesday to the location indicated by the rhymes below STOP.” 

“What rhymes?” Lilac asked, trying to grab the paper. 

“Two poems, one by Lewis Carroll and the other by TS Eliot.” 

“I-” Nick stuttered. “I know TS Eliot.” 

“Macavity,” Sunny said, which meant, “Wasn’t that from your musical phase?” 

“Not the time, Sunshine.” Nick said, curling up. 

“I know Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass.” Klaus said. “Is the poem from one of those?” 

“I think so.” Violet nodded, also remembering the book. “Here’s what it says:” 

“‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!’ The walrus did beseech.  ‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the movie theater.’” 

“A movie theater?” Nick said. 

“No.” Klaus shook his head. “Quigley’s using Verse Fluctuation Declaration.” 

“Using fucking what?” Violet said. 

“It’s a Volunteer code.” Klaus said. “They replace words in poems, like Aunt Josephine did with letters, and the actual words are the message.” 

“Liddell?” Sunny asked, which meant, “Then what’s the original poem?” 

“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,” Klaus recited. “Along the…” He paused. 

“Along?” Violet prompted. 

“Along…” Klaus swallowed. “Along the Briny Beach.” 

They fell silent. 

“We’re going to Briny Beach.” Lilac said quietly. 

The last time they had been there was when their unfortunate events had began. 

“What about the TS Eliot?” Klaus asked, sitting down numbly. 

Violet’s hands shook as she held up the telegram, and read, 

“At the pink hour when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a pony throbbing party.” 

Nick narrowed his eyes and sat up, still rocking the sleeping Solitude. “He changed three words. The actual poem begins with ‘At the violet hour’ instead of ‘at the pink hour.’ Do you think that actually signals something, or-” 

“Maybe,” Violet smiled softly, sitting at the table beside them, “Quigley just wanted to say my name.” 

“We can talk about that later.” Lilac said uncomfortably. “What’s the rest of the message?” 

“The last line,” Nick said, “Is ‘Like a taxi throbbing waiting.’ The message is, ‘taxi waiting.’” 

“Taxi waiting at Briny Beach.” Lilac said. 

“Well,” Violet said, curling up. “We’re lucky you all knew poetry. I can’t imagine Fiona or Phil were big studiers of Carroll or Eliot.” 

“Fernald used to study poetry.” Lilac said. “So maybe Widdershins has those poetry books hidden somewhere. He would’ve been able to find out.” 

“He kept them secret.” Nick hissed. “Like everything else.” 

They fell silent, and then Klaus said, “Do you guys remember when Violet and I left the window open in the library and ruined the atlas, and Mother and Father got mad?” 

“Yeah.” Violet nodded, as Sunny moved to sit against her. 

“I… I don’t think that was the only reason they were mad.” Klaus admitted. “I never told you this, but… I had to use a stepladder to get that atlas from the top shelf. I don’t think Mother and Father thought I’d be able to reach. That’s where they kept the books they didn’t want us to see.” 

“Why wouldn’t they want us to see the atlas?” Violet asked. 

“There must’ve been a code inside.” Nick said. 

“There was a whole row of other books, too.” Klaus said. “I don’t remember what they were, because they moved them later, but they must’ve been mad that I reached the atlas and could’ve discovered a secret.” 

“Like a secret that they were working for-” Nick got choked up, and he buried his face in Soli’s hair again. 

They fell silent again, and then Lilac said, “I know how to use the ship’s steering mechanism. I can use the locator to take us to Briny Beach as soon as Fiona returns.” 

“Are…” Violet bit her lip. “Are we sure she’s coming back?”  

“Of course.” Lilac said. “She-” 

“She what, my dear Lilac?” 

The Baudelaires jumped, and Nick instantly backed up in the chair, curling up around Solitude to shield her with his body, while Violet shoved Sunny into Klaus’s arms and leapt in front of the table with Lilac, blocking their younger siblings from view. 

Count Olaf stepped into the room, followed by Esme, who was sneering beneath the hood of her octopus outfit, and Carmelita, who bounced along and clanged her tap shoes. 

“When I saw you orphans had flown the coop,” Olaf said, stepping forwards, “I was afraid you might have managed to do something useful and get out.” 

“Get away from us.” Lilac said. 

Violet reached into her pocket, and to Lilac’s surprise, she pulled out a knife. “I will use this.” 

“Okay,” Lilac muttered, “Where did you get that?” 

“Kitchen.” 

“How long-” 

“Just now.” 

“Oh, shut up!” Olaf groaned. “You’re all as annoying as-” 

“As annoying as what?” Carmelita asked. 

Olaf took a deep breath. “It’s nothing. Although I can’t quite figure out how you escaped. You must’ve been lost in that submarine-” 

At exactly the wrong moment, Fiona and Fernald ran down the hall; Fiona now had a portrait of Edgar Guest where her portrait of Herman Melville should be, but otherwise she didn’t look harmed. But when the two siblings saw Olaf, Esme and Carmelita in the room, they froze dead in their tracks, and Fiona’s face fell. 

“Shit.” Fernald said. 

Olaf narrowed his eyes, and before the Baudelaires could do anything, he raced forwards and slammed the Hook-Handed Man against the wall. 

“No!” Fiona shouted, but Esme reached a tentacle forwards and ripped her back. 

“Let him go or I’ll stab you!” Violet shouted, but Carmelita danced in front of her, blocking her path with her twirls. Violet growled, considering whether or not it’d be unethical to stab her, too. 

“You betrayed me!” Olaf shouted with fury. “And our side of the schism has no use for traitors!” 

“Ooh! When he’s dead, can we use the hooks for the costume trunk?” Esme asked. “They’ve become In recently.” 

“No! Stop it!” Fiona lurched forwards, finally breaking Esme’s grip. “He didn’t betray you! We only let the Baudelaires go so they could lead us to the Medusoid Mycelium!” 

“Fiona!” Lilac screamed. 

“No!” Klaus shouted. 

Olaf released the Hook-Handed Man, who gasped and struggled to stay standing, and stared over at Fiona. “The Medusoid Mycelium? That was destroyed years ago.” 

“It wasn’t! We have some in Solitude’s diving helmet!” Fiona said, crying and reaching to help her brother to his feet. “Baudelaires, where is it?” 

“It’s- nowhere!” Violet tried. 

“I’ll make this simple.” Olaf smiled. “I could torture you until you tell me, or we can trade information- or a lack of information, if you so prefer.” Then, in a sickly sweet voice, he called, “Nick?” 

Violet, Lilac and Klaus all stepped in front of Nick, while Sunny bared her teeth. Nick looked up, horrified, but he clutched the sleeping Soli all the tighter. 

“How about a deal here?” Olaf stepped forwards, putting his hand on the table, much too close for any of the childrens’ comfort, but still just outside of Violet’s stabbing range; if she ran at him, he would see and disarm her. 

“We don’t make deals with bastards.” Lilac crossed her arms. 

Olaf smirked, eyeing her in a way that made her incredibly uncomfortable. “Interesting choice of words, my dear Lilac.” 

Nick sat up, horrified, as Olaf took a step closer to his oldest sister, and then he shouted, “It’s in the kitchen!” 

“Nick!” Sunny said. 

“It’s in the kitchen, just leave her alone, please! Don’t hurt them!” Nick pleaded. 

Olaf smiled, and then gestured his head. “Esme, go check.” 

“Why do I have to go check? Why can’t you?” 

“Because I’m intimidating the Baudelaires, love.” 

“I can do that, and I can do it better than you.” 

“Ugh, stop arguing, you’re starting to sound like my real parents.” Carmelita groaned, before tapping into a room. “Is this the kitchen? It has food and shit.” 

Olaf groaned. “Does it have a diving helmet?” 

“A small one, on a plate. It is totally not adorable, never make me wear one of these.” She came back in, carrying the helmet on a plate, and the Baudelaires backed up more. The noise woke Solitude, who rubbed her eyes and yawned, looking up. 

“The Medusoid Mycelium.” Olaf looked inside the helmet. “It’s here.” 

“It is.” said Fernalld with a gasp, sounding very scared. 

Solitude saw Olaf, and then said, “Oh, fuck.” 

“They really found that horrible mushroom?” Esme looked enthralled. “Oh, good job, Hooky and Triangle Eyes!” 

Fiona stared hard at the ground so she wouldn’t have to look at Lilac. 

“Oh, I know!” Esme continued. “We should throw them in the brig with it and wait until they suffocate!” 

“Then I can do a recital on their graves!” Carmelita gigged. 

“No!” Fiona shouted, running forwards. “No, you- you shouldn’t waste such a weapon on them. You’ll need it for the Last Safe Place!” 

“Fiona-” Lilac began, her face paling. 

“That’s right! Good idea, Triangle-Eyes.” Olaf said. 

“How come you think her idea’s better than mine?” Esme asked, offended. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Olaf groaned. “Come along. Triangle-Eyes, take them to the brig.” 

“I…” Fiona began. 

“Why don’t you hurry it up,” Olaf said with a dark grin, “And then we’ll go find your Stepfather? Your whole family can be together again.” 

“Boss-” Fernald began, but Olaf shot him a dark look that shut him up. 

Fiona turned towards him, eyes full of hope. “You’d really help me find him?” 

“He won’t help you.” Nick shuddered. 

“He’s lying, Widdershins and Olaf are on opposite sides of the schism.” Violet said. 

“Maybe not. He did abandon you, after all.” Esme said. 

“Don’t listen to them, Triangle-Eyes.” Olaf said. “They only care about themselves.” 

“That’s not true!” Lilac said. 

“Really?” Olaf smirked. “I thought you Baudelaires always put your siblings first.” 

“We…” Lilac began, but her face fell as Fiona reached over to grab her brother’s hooks. 

“To the brig.” Fiona said blankly. 

“Good choice, Triangle-Eyes.” Olaf said, “Now, we’ll remove all the valuables-” 

“But Countie, my recital’s starting soon!” Carmelita tugged on his arm. “You won’t miss it, will you?” 

Olaf forced a smile on his face. “Carmelita, sweetie, Countie needs to rob the Queequeg and torture the Baudelaires.” 

“You like the Baudelaires more than me!” Carmelita pouted. 

“Darling,” Esme hissed, “We can rob the sub later. Carmelita’s been practicing all day for this recital.” 

“It’s the same recital as always.” 

“No! This one’s more adorable!” Carmelita said. 

Sunny sighed and said, “Cruciatu,” which meant, “Can they kill us now?” 

Fernald gave her a look and shook his head, and then Olaf said, “Fine. Hooky, smash some windows so they can’t escape this sub. Triangle-Eyes, get the Baudelaires to the brig, and for the love of God take that knife away from Violet.” 

“No, it’s mine forever.” Violet said. 

Olaf put his head in his hands. “Why did I decide to work with children?” 

“Because you suck?” Klaus suggested. 

“Esme, lead the way to our…” Olaf grimaced, “wonderful Carmelita’s recital.” 

Carmelita tapped away, spinning and twirling, followed by a delighted Esme. After a moment, Fernald gave Fiona a significant look and then scampered after them. 

Olaf turned to the Baudelaires, and smiled. “You’ve lost again, you horrible brats.” he said, cheering himself up by tormenting the Baudelaires. “You can never defeat me, and it’s time you all learned that. I triumphed the moment you lost your family.” 

Violet straightened up and threw the knife, which Olaf unfortunately dodged. She glared at him, and then spat, “We didn’t lose our family. Only our parents.” 

Klaus linked his arm with Violet’s as Sunny reached to grab Lilac, the four of them still shielding Nick and Solitude. “Our family’s right here.” he said. 

Olaf glared at them, and then said, “You will lose everything.” He then turned to Fiona and said, “Triangle-Eyes, make sure they’re in separate cells. No more jailbreaks. We’ll take care of them one at a time.” He gave Nick a smirk, which made the boy curl up over Solitude again. Olaf then walked to the wall, grabbed Violet’s knife, and left. 

As soon as he was gone, Fiona whipped around. “Can you pilot a submarine?” she asked. 

They stared at her, confused. “What?” Klaus said. 

“Can you pilot the sub?” 

“Y-yes.” said a shocked Lilac. 

“Good. I know how to open the hatch to let you out.” Fiona said. “Soon as I do that, you’ll have to go fast. Carmelita’s recitals likely feel like they last forever, but they don’t, and soon Olaf will notice-” 

“You’re not taking us to the brig?” Violet asked. 

Fiona shook her head. “I’m not letting him hurt you. Fernald and I discussed this while I was getting my portrait swapped out, in case we got caught, we can just pretend you’ve escaped while we weren’t looking.” 

“Fiona, you don’t have to go with them!” Lilac said.

“I’ll be fine. If we get caught, we have a potential escape plan that involves a seaside town, a train, and a vineyard.” Fiona said. “And releasing a bunch of wild new recruits to perform chaos.” 

“But you’re still joining them!” Lilac reached forwards, desperately grabbing her hands. “You’re helping them! You don’t have to do this!” 

“I do! My brother is here!” Fiona said. “He’s the only family I have left! You wouldn’t leave your siblings, and I can’t leave mine.” 

“Fi…” Sunny began. 

“Fiona, you can stay with us.” Solitude said, sitting up. 

“You can run from VFD altogether.” Nick said, his voice shaking. “From all these assholes.” 

“Please.” Lilac squeezed her hands. “You’re not a wicked person.” 

Fiona smiled, and then said, “People aren’t either wicked or noble, Li. They’re chef’s salads.” She squeezed her hands and whispered, “Take care of the Queequeg. It’s shit, but it’s home. And… when you think of me, think of a food you love very much.” 

She leaned forwards, putting her hand on Lilac’s cheek, and kissed her. 

Lilac froze in shock as Fiona’s hands passed over her braids, fingers running through her hair. She shut her eyes a moment, feeling the wonderful, volatile girl pressing against her. 

And then Fiona pulled away and ran. 

Lilac stared after her, and then raised a hand to her hair, her fingers following the same path Fiona’s had. 

“How… how can someone so wonderful do something so horrible?” she asked, her voice breaking. 

Violet stepped forwards, and then put a hand on her arm. “She let us go.” she said. “Now. We have to run.” 

Lilac took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and then said, “Aye.”

As she moved slowly towards the controls, Violet at her heels, Nick curled up on his chair, and he whispered to himself, “But they were fucked up in their turn, by fools in old-style hats and coats… who half the time were soppy-stern…” 

He hugged Solitude very close, shutting his eyes and trying not to think about everyone who had left. “And half at one another’s throats.” 

It took several hours to reach Briny Beach. Nick kept rocking Solitude, who fell back to sleep, while Babbitt crawled to her shoulder to nap there. Sunny served up Violet’s cake, handing out plates to Violet and Lilac whenever they came down to check on them. Klaus was going through the Queequeg’s library, trying to find something that might be helpful. 

Lilac finally descended after a while, still looking a bit shocked. “Um,” she said, drawing everyone’s attention, and after Nick shook Soli slightly to awaken her, she said, “We’ve reached the beach.” 

“We have?” Violet asked, her eyes sad. 

Lilac nodded, and after a moment, Nick said, “Listen. VFD’s waiting for us. I…” 

Everyone looked at each other, and then Klaus put a hand on his shoulder, and Violet said, “We know, Nick. And… we won’t trust them. But Quigley could be there. Or someone who can actually help.” 

“I just…” he shut his eyes. “Okay. Let’s see the beach.” 

Lilac nodded and led them through the hallways, which seemed so echoey and dark now. They climbed up the ladder in silence, and out the hatch, and onto the sand. 

Briny Beach looked exactly the same. Like not a single minute had gone by since the Baudelaires arrived on the beach to have a picnic and test Violet’s new invention. The tide pools were still there, the waves still crashed the same way, the sky was still gray, and… 

Violet bent down, placing Sunny on the ground, and picked up a rock, marked with an X. 

“Nothing’s changed.” she said finally. 

“We’ve changed.” Solitude said, leaning onto Nick’s shoulder. 

Klaus slid a hand into Nick’s, and said, “Did you guys ever miss the beach? Because… honestly, I feel worse being here.” 

“I…” Violet shut her eyes, blocking tears. 

“I want to go.” Nick whispered, eyes on the ground. 

Lilac stepped forwards, looking around. “I… I can’t believe…” then she looked up and said, “Our taxi’s here.” 

Up on the hill, on the road just off the beach, was a yellow taxi, waiting. 

Before anyone could say anything else, Sunny looked up and said, “Gack.” 

They turned, and heard a familiar coughing as a figure emerged from the fog. 

“Baudelaires?” 

“Mr Poe.” Lilac said coldly. 

The Baudelaires all stood, facing him, and Nick put Solitude down, though he still gripped her hand. Babbitt leapt to her shoulder again, cocking their head at the banker. 

“Baudelaires, what ever have you been doing?” Poe said, stepping forwards. 

“What are you doing here?” Violet said. 

“Why, I received a message saying that you’d be here at Briny Beach today.” Poe said, pulling a telegram from his pocket. “From some JS. But that’s not important. How in the world did you get here? Where have you been? I must admit, I had given up all hope of finding you again- egad! Where on earth did you find Nicholas?” 

“It’s Nick.” Nick spat, staring the banker dead in the eye. “My name is Nick, it never was Nicholas, and you need to learn that, you stupid fuck.” 

“Language, Nicholas.” Poe said. “Come along, children, you have a great deal of explaining to do.” 

The Baudelaires looked to each other, and then Lilac said, “No.” 

“No?” Poe said in amazement. “Of course you do! You’ve been missing for a very long time, children! It was very inconsiderate of you to run away without telling me where you were, particularly when you’ve been accused of murder, arson, kidnapping, and assorted misdemeanors!” 

“We sent you a telegram.” Violet said. 

“We’re going to get right in my car, and I’ll drive you to the police station, and-” 

“No.” said Nick. 

“No.” said Klaus. 

“No.” said Solitude. 

“No.” said Sunny. 

“Mr Poe,” Klaus said, looking from the taxi to Poe, “Have you ever heard of a Hobson’s choice?” 

“I don’t know what gibberish you’re saying,” Poe said, “Or where you’ve been, or how you got here, or why you’re wearing a picture of Santa Claus on your shirts, but-’ 

“It’s Herman Melville.” Klaus said. “Goodbye, Mr Poe.” 

“Piss off.” Solitude said, cheerily flipping him off. 

“Sayonara.” Sunny said. 

And with that, the six orphans spun on their heels, and ran to the taxi. 

“Wait!” they heard him calling after them. “Come back here, Baudelaires! You’re children! You’re youngsters! You’re orphans!” 

“And you’re a piece of shit, you fuckhead!” Nick called, also flipping him off as they ran. 

They raced to the taxi, and Violet managed to get ahead, calling, “Quigley? Quigley! Quigley!” 

When she reached the car, she threw open the door, and then froze in astonishment. 

“You’re not Quigley.” she said. 

In the driver’s seat, a woman looked up, pushing a pencil into her hair with a white-gloved hand. She placed a commonplace book on the shotgun seat, and smiled at the six children, who slid to a stop upon seeing her. 

“Hello, Baudelaires.” she said. “Climb aboard.” 

The children looked at each other cautiously, and then at the beach. 

Then, Lilac asked, “Who are you?” 

The woman smiled at Lilac, as if she’d asked the right question. 

“I’m Kit Snicket.”

[dawnfelagund]

Thank you so much for such a detailed and well reasoned reply! That makes me feel a lot more educated on the subject. Out of curiosity, since ao3’s popularity and ubiquity seems to have bred its insularity and lack of accountability, what do you think they would have to do, promise, or change to become more credible again, or to excise this issue? (While preserving their mission, as AO3 is not a moderated site like SWG). Because I do like their mission statement, and some of their operations seem transparent, but as you said, the zero commentary and progress (outside coding) for three years is ridiculous. And if this is outside the realm of something you can or want to answer, that’s okay! No sweat.

It's really hard to say, to be honest! I'm not very familiar* with how the OTW runs (aside from knowing that it is a registered nonprofit in the U.S. and therefore follows the law where that is concerned), and really, I think the question of what needs to be done to regain credibility is really up to individual users/fans to decide. Like the AI thing? Kind of eye-rolly as indicative of dysfunction because of the lack of communication within the upper echelons of the organization and the inability to quickly get about even a basic reassurance that AI scrapers were blocked. Probably not something I'm going to leave over, though. But End OTW Racism? Especially if I was a fan impacted by racist harassment who felt the site had been made off-limits to me as a result?? Every day of silence would make it hard for them to win back my trust, I'd imagine. I wasn't even involved in the protest but find myself pissed, as we approach a week with no response after the protest ended, by the complete lack of response.

* Though it seems that not many people are familiar with how the OTW runs. I recently read this post, which does go into organization-level changes (and Chestnut is in a much better place to speak on this topic than me), which also has a number of comments from OTW volunteers along the lines of, "Well, I was a volunteer for x years but I'm not 100% sure how this is handled in the org." Which is interesting to me that even long-term volunteers--some of whom were quite high in the hierarchy!--lacked that big picture understanding.

The [lack of] communication piece seems quite big to me. In my experience, that torpedoes an organization quite quickly. In my work running the SWG but also as a teacher-leader (someone who takes on leadership roles in my school and district while remaining in the classroom), I have found that better communication always makes things better. Even just saying, "Hey, I know this is a thing. I'm working on it," makes a difference. My experience is that people tend to be pretty understanding. It's the radio silence that is hard to handle. People feel unseen and unheard. Like right now ... there was just a massive antiracist protest against the OTW and still there is nothing on their news page about their promises three years ago, much less a response to that movement. How can that be?? It's hard not to hear in that, "We don't care." It's hard not to see the lack of response as the response.

I wonder too to what extent this dysfunction is going to be endemic in an organization of this size that is run almost entirely by volunteers. Over the weekend, in writing this post about the SWG archive, I realized that we recently reached 5,000 fanworks. Then while checking the OTW news page to see if there were any updates on antiracist actions going forward, I saw that AO3 recently hit 11 million fanworks. 11 MILLION. I know what goes into an archive of 5,000 fanworks and cannot imagine scaling up more than 2,000 times that on volunteer power alone. I also know that the most difficult and time-consuming work the SWG mods do is moderating our Discord server (which is, again, relatively small and friendly!), and while I don't agree with the argument that "AO3 is no longer an archive but a social site and should be moderated accordingly" (i.e., throw out their ideals around serving as a universal archive), I do wonder if we, as fans, need to accept that a site of that size will not be able to do an adequate job of even the limited moderation they do and socialize/interact elsewhere. Which again takes us back to a "small internet" with sites and groups that function as communities and can be moderated by members of those communities. If people want that, let's do it! Let's build those places again. But as I said in my last post, that task isn't on the OTW/AO3, it is on us.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: Shooting Star (Ao3 link) - Chapter 3: Doomworld

Fandom: Flash, Legends of Tomorrow Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

For Coldwave Week: Doomworld - @coldwaveevents

Summary: “So, Mr. Rory,” Sara Lance, leader of the Legends, asks, leaning across the desk. “Tell me. Why do you want to join the Legends and be a hero?”

Mick really hopes he doesn’t screw up this interview - it could be his last chance of becoming a real superhero.

(You see, he has this little complication involving this one supervillain…)

———————————————————————————————–

"So," Ray says. "Uh. What now?"

Everyone turns to look at Mick.

"I have no idea," he says crossly. "Leave me alone."

"You usually have the most insight into what Len's up to," Zari points out.

"I'm also still a hero," Mick says, more than a little testily. "So no. I have no idea what he's up to. Or what he was thinking. Or how every single hero group on the planet still managed to absolutely fail at stopping the Legion of Doom from getting their hands on the Spear of Destiny and re-writing reality into a dystopic Doomworld where they're in charge of everything. And absolutely none of that lack of knowledge is going to keep me from strangling him about it when I find him!"

"Probably why he hasn't shown his face since the change," Sara says wisely. "Waiting for you to cool down."

"It's not exactly like him, though," Amaya demurs. "Len's usually a really down-to-earth sort of villain, flair for the dramatic aside. This is really out of character."

"I know it's not like him," Mick says through gritted teeth. "That's why I'm gonna strangle him."

"Domestic violence is wrong, Mick," Sara says.

"In this instance?!"

"Hmm. Point. I will totally let you get in a few punches as long as I get one too," she offers.

Mick grumbles but agrees. Len doesn't actually take being beaten up by heroes when he deserves it personally, after all. "I really don't know what he's thinking this time," he adds gloomily. "He hates world-conquering plans, he thinks all-powerful magical trinkets are cheat codes for losers, and he's normally the first guy to tip off the good guys that something like this is going down."

"Maybe he didn't know about it?" Ray suggests.

Mick snorts. "His membership in the Henchmen and Minion League hasn't been revoked, as far as I'm aware. No way anyone got this far without him knowing."

"Then why..?"

"I don't know! He won't answer any of the usual numbers, and it's been over twelve hours of Alternate World and he hasn't so much as shown his face yet!"

Zari nudges Mick's shoulder gently with her own. "Hey," she says, immediately getting the real problem he's been having, which is not exactly the same problem everyone else has been having. "Don't worry about him, okay?"

"I'm not worried," Mick grumbles.

That's a lie.

He's worried.

Normally, anytime any big battle goes down that the Legends are even remotely involved in, Len can be guaranteed to show up within six hours, usually less, to check on his favorite team.

"He's fine," Zari insists. "He's Leonard Snart, Mick. One of the five co-rulers of Doomworld. He literally helped create this world."

"Yeah, sure. All the more reasons for one of his co-rulers to want to knock him off so they can be the only ones in charge..."

"Go back to being angry," Amaya suggests. "We haven't seen any indication that anything has happened to him, and you know the other villains wouldn't be able to keep from boasting about it if they did do something."

"Hm. Point.

"That means he's fine. And that, in turn, means that he'll have to show his face sometime."

"Does he?" Mick asks glumly. "He owns a fifth of the world now; I'm sure that'll keep him busy."

"Too busy for you, Mick?" Sara says skeptically. "Not really likely."

"More like 'never'," Ray agrees.

Mick shrugs. He admits it's unlikely, given Len's track record, but then again, so is Doomworld itself.

He doesn't like it when Len goes out of character.

Certainly not without some justification like mind-control or new-villain pheromones, and there's been no indication of anything like that.

"Personally, I'm just really happy we're immune to all the Doomworld changes," Nate says.

"Nate," Amaya says gently. "We're not immune."

"Wait. We're not?"

"Nope," Zari says. "Len just let us keep our memories of the original timeline. Possibly without telling any of his co-rulers about it."

"He did? Huh. One point in the 'he has a secret plan' column."

Ray obediently adds a point to the chart they have going on the whiteboard Gideon created for them when they first realized that the Waverider was grounded until repairs could be made. The time drive is totally dead, without any hope of recovery, so at this point they just want to have the air support. Not to mention wanting to avoid notice from the other people in Doomworld any more than they already have...

The other columns in the chart (titled "Why Would Leonard Snart Do?") are "he's gone crazy", "he was tricked into it", and "he's going to literally give the world to Mick on a platter because he couldn't think of a good enough gift to pay him back for that Diana thing".

(Mick objected strenuously to the inclusion of that last one, but got overruled.)

"Wait, if we're not immune," Nate says, "what are we?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, what do we do? Is there an evil Wikipedia saying what our jobs are in this universe?"

"Good question," Sara says. "Zari, could you -"

"Already checked," Zari says. "We're officially part of the Enforcers of the New Regime, actually."

"We are?!"

"Officially. Unofficially, we're Len's pet superhero team."

"That doesn't actually seem all that different from how it normally is," Ray says thoughtfully. "In our regular universe, I mean. Without the whole 'Enforcer' bit, but still."

"It's - actually not, sad to say, except for the part where we're all part of the ruling class of a dystopia and have absolute control over about 99% of the population, which has to fulfill our every request."

Silence for a few long minutes.

"Which we will not be exploiting," Sara says, sounding very tempted. "Because we're heroes and that would be bad."

"So much free coffee," Ray says, his eyes dreamy. "So much."

"...not what I was thinking, but you know what, sure, we can demand free coffee."

"Sara!"

"We have to exploit the system somehow or they might get suspicious of us," Sara sniffs.

"They'll be suspicious anyway," Amaya mutters.

"Hey, if we're Enforcers, why don't we get the sexy leather get-ups the rest of them have?" Nate wants to know.

"Because unlike the rest of them, we haven't been brainwashed," Sara points out. "Which I for one approve of."

"We should still get cool outfits."

"I'll have Gideon make you a leather outfit, okay? We'll probably need it to infiltrate somewhere eventually anyway."

"Good," Nate says, pleased. "I volunteer for that mission."

"Of course you do."

"Wait," Ray says, "are all of the other superhero teams incapacitated?"

"Uh, yeah, as far as I can tell," Zari says. "The only ones still at large are deliberately weakened so that they can be hunted down at the leisure of their respective villains. Why?"

"So what you're telling me is that the Legends are the only hero team left available to fight a world-destroying event? Like, this is our big chance," Ray says, rocking up and down in excitement. "This is our save-the-day, enter-the-big-hero-leagues moment!"

"Huh, yeah," Sara says, already looking vaguely haunted by the responsibility. "Hadn't thought of it that way, but I guess you're right."

"That bastard!" Mick suddenly roars.

They all look at him.

Mick, scowling, grabs the pen from Ray and puts a check in the "world to Mick on a platter" column.

Then he crosses out the word "world" and adds in "opportunity to be a real hero" instead.

Silence for a few long moments.

"You have got to be kidding me," Sara says flatly.

"It is the one thing he's always wanted to be able to give Mick," Amaya muses.

"I'm going to find him," Mick says. "And when I find him..."

"Never mind that," Ray says. "Let's go save the world!"

When reality is returned to normal, Len is given a very long talk about not using reality-altering devices to create what is essentially an Escape Room-style puzzle for the pleasure and glory of his significant other and his friends (from Mick and the other Legends), not playing with his fellow villains' dreams of world-conquering like that (from Lex), and about the fact that this whole gift-escalating thing really needs to stop (Sara called Diana in for that one).

Len responds by proposing marriage to Mick, being as that's the only way he can think of to permanently one-up him.

(He claims that once they're a single unit and Mick is permanently locked down, Mick's amazing gift-giving ability won't make him so frantic to pay him back.)

Mick says yes, but claims loudly that he's only doing it in order to write a pre-emptive restriction of crazy plans clause into their marriage vows.

(No one believes him.)

Their marriage is the biggest social event of the year for heroes and villains both. It goes remarkably well, or at least it does after they all end up teaming up to take down the locust-aliens horde from Earth-ABC.

After all, if there's one thing heroes and villains can agree on, it's that it's one thing to crash a wedding and a totally different thing to try to eat all the food.

Len swears he didn't set it up deliberately so that everyone would have a nice, entertaining fight to get out their hostility before the reception, the food for which was stashed in a totally different place.

Mick, having seen the early drafts of the program for the wedding, doesn't even pretend to believe him.

(Neither does anyone else.)

[kmorelikegay]

almost forgotten

For Day 2: Alternate Universe.

This is really late, but technically where I am it’s only 2 days late, so that’s acceptable, right?

Also on AO3.

The underground facility is dark and damp, and the wet sound of groundwater dripping from the ceiling and down the perfect paint of the walls permeates the air. The juxtaposition is unsettling, especially since, even through the humid air and several layers of concrete, Yata thinks he can hear the horrible moaning of the experimental subjects being kept here.

When the Homra special investigative unit had received a tip that the Jungle cartel used this facility to test new drug formulas on human subjects, they had expected it to be a straightforward drug bust: With a small team of special agents, arrest anyone on site (no interrogating allowed offsite; all suspects are to be taken directly into Homra custody and trialed and imprisoned at a later time) and perform a sweep of the place and confiscate all cartel property and operations – all in a couple hours’ work, usually. But Yata and his partner had been able to tell right away that this run was different. They couldn’t see the facility when they arrived, for one; had needed to confirm and then reconfirm that their coordinates read right before eventually discovering an entrance, tucked inside the bottom of an old well, which led to an expansive underground structure that made no effort to hide the opulence upon which it was built. The walls shone a brilliant green, the floors and ceilings were painted a bright white that made Yata’s head hurt, and gold-trimmed furniture decorated every room. It was odd, to say the least, of a facility they believed to be a simple drug den to look this way.

Stranger, however – and much more worrying, in Yata’s opinion – was the lack of security or any apparent personnel on the grounds. He thought at first that perhaps Jungle believed their well-hidden entrance and lack of any evidence of the operation on the surface provided them enough security in itself. But it is clear they don’t lack the funding to hire at least a guard for the entrance and a few for the top floor, so why not do it? Besides, they had found rooms on one of the lower floors which appeared to be dormitories, all with evidence of recent inhabitation: Unmade beds, shoes thrown halfway under mattresses, lockers full of clothes and other belongings and, most revealing, a large floor locker of the small but powerful pistols preferred by Jungle and plenty of ammunition to fuel them. Clearly, the place is guarded by some sort of security force, which means that either they all happened to take the same day off, or…

“No ash!” comes a shout from the end of the hall. Shit; that’s Kamamoto’s voice – they had been trying to estimate how many guards they could possibly expect as well as investigate how to get down to the lower floors, where Homra was told the human subjects are kept. He hears a call of his name again, and then the sound of footsteps – more noise than just one person’s would make – thundering toward his partner. Those words are Homra code for an urgent message: Run.

Yata is going to disregard the message – it isn’t in his nature to leave one of his behind, and he didn’t hear orders being given or the metallic clanging of guns, so maybe Kamamoto can still be retrieved – but as soon as he pokes his head out of the dormitory he’d been searching he sees that his partner has already been surrounded by a group of men in women in armored uniforms the same green as the walls. Although he has been restrained, he seems to be attempting to talk himself out of it – Yata doesn’t have high hopes for him, as charisma generally isn’t Kamamoto’s strong suit – but Yata recognizes it for what it is: His partner is distracting the security detail so that Yata can continue the mission.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, hopes for Kamamoto’s safety until he can rescue him later, and dashes down the hall in the opposite direction of his partner and the guards – and the only exit. The hall gets darker down this way, and, if it’s possible, even more humid, as if the thick concrete walls somehow welcome the moisture from the ground inside like an old friend. After a while, Yata has to turn his flashlight on, and he continues searching the floors and walls for traps as well as ladders, doors, elevators, or anything that might take him to a lower level. He hasn’t found any evidence of a drug lab or storage area or anything of the sort, but he figures either they cleared it out already (clearly they knew to expect company, somehow) or it’s all closer to the basement level. He needs to get down there before the guards figure out Kamamoto wasn’t alone.

When he turns another corner, he almost trips over an uneven spot on the floor. He looks down. It’s a latch attached to a wooden panel. Score, Yata thinks, reaching down the tug on the handle, wary of any traps it might trigger, but it comes up with no issue. Peering down into the hole revealed, he can’t see anything even with his flashlight, but there is a ladder. He nods to himself, taking out an emergency glowstick from his pack and hanging it from the ladder so he can find his way back here, puts his flashlight between his teeth to free up his hands, and descends.

Right away he can feel the difference in temperature. It’s cold down here – bone-chilling cold, the kind that seeps through the thickest layers of clothing and can’t be chased away even by the warmest fire. Yata shivers, looking around in confusion; he can still feel the heat and humidity bleeding out from the entrance he came from above him. This means the floor he’s on now must be completely isolated from the ones above it, or else there would be some sort of thermal equilibrium between the levels. He keeps climbing down, down, down, until he knows he’s gone further down than just a single floor or even two, until, when his feet finally do touch down hard and loud on the concrete of what must be the basement, Yata is almost surprised he hasn’t found himself at the center of the earth.

Releasing his hands from the ladder to grab the flashlight, Yata takes stock of his surroundings, immediately spotting a light switch to his right and flicking it on. For a moment, nothing happens; then, flickering reluctantly as if they’re being woken from a deep hibernation, the low glow of lights hanging on chains from the ceiling illuminate the room.

What he sees is not as bad as what he was expecting. There are no blood stains on the walls, no shackles nailed to the walls just high enough so a person of normal height couldn’t touch the ground, no racks of knives or fire pokers, not even any beakers or vials or any of the sort of tools he usually expects to see in a cartel’s main drug production facility. There are cells, though – small, hard rooms behind rusted but thick metal bars which form lattice shapes like a chessboard over the uncannily emerald green walls. Yata imagines the test subjects that must have been kept here, imagines this being all they knew. He shudders at the thought.

But for all he swore he could hear their misery, he can’t hear anything now except the dripping of moisture down the lengths of the cell bars. He looks left and right, both ways down the hallway he finds himself in the middle of. There are endless rows of cells both ways. He closes his eyes, listens to his instincts, realizes something in him is screaming at him to go left, and so he listens.

Several minutes pass with Yata moving warily down the hall, flashlight flicking wall to wall and floor to ceiling and ears peeled for any sound, leaving glowsticks behind every so often so he can find his way back since he has yet to see another way in or out of this area. He has gotten so used to the monotony of these tasks that when the clatter comes, a clanging of metal against something equally hard, Yata nearly jumps out of his skin. He pulls himself together quickly and starts moving toward the noise instead.

The clanging continues, guiding him to its source. It sounds like something – or someone – is hitting the metal bars of a cell with a bat, and if it is a someone rather than a something, Yata needs to make sure it is not themselves they are using as a bat. He runs faster, almost slipping on the damp floor a few times, until he finally reaches a corner around which the sound is louder than ever.

Cautiously, he draws his gun and eases himself around the corner, keeping to the shadows as best he can; he doesn’t want to startle the person, if it is a person, but his own safety needs to come first. The origin of the clanging becomes clear: In the cell around the corner, all on its own in contrast to the rows of repeating cells in the other halls, is a man kneeling on the floor facing his cell bars, and against them he bangs…his own fingernails?

Yata is so confused he lets out a gasp, and the man, whose face had been tilted down to watch his own hands against the bars, tips his head up toward Yata, who gasps again, this time in a disorienting mix of terror and relief.

The man is…it’s Saruhiko.

But it can’t be Saruhiko. His old friend was taken months ago from another special investigative unit – Scepter 4, which is both a rival and a close partner of Homra – by Jungle during a dangerous undercover mission he had volunteered for (volunteered for, but Yata has never forgiven their captain, Munakata, for agreeing to send one of his own into enemy ranks). They had thought him, assumed him dead; they had mourned him, and Yata had been devastated despite his friend’s defection to Scepter 4, that the person he was so close to was gone, that there was no chance, now, of even throwing taunts his way ever again, much less rebuilding their compromised friendship. But the man in front of him now is unmistakably Saruhiko, even with his glasses apparently missing, and Yata’s heart thunders in his chest as he takes in the familiar deep blue eyes and delicate cheekbones and tall, thin frame; he had finally accepted these were things he would never see again, and he can’t help the choked-out whisper of the man’s name that escapes his lips.

Saruhiko’s eyes widen, and Yata registers the confusion in them at the same time he realizes they are not the dark blue they should be at all. Instead, his irises are an inky black that swallows his pupils until there is no distinction between them. This is somehow less shocking than the fact that Saruhiko doesn’t seem to recognize his own name, and Yata says it again, louder this time, the last syllable lifting off his tongue so it sounds like a question, but he only gets a confused look in response again.

Yata lowers his gun, disheartened, but he still can’t just leave Saruhiko here, whether or not any of the real Saruhiko is left in him. He moves closer to his old friend, telling him who he is, telling him, it’s me, Saruhiko, remember? It’s Yata, it’s Misaki, I finally found you, I thought you were – and then he stops moving because Saruhiko has drawn himself up to his full height, taking a defensive stance, and then literal fucking wings sprout from either side of his upper back.

Yata’s gun clatters to the ground in an uncanny imitation of the sound that led him to Saruhiko in the first place. He knows some of what Jungle has developed – has seen much of it firsthand, has tried to forget much of what he has seen – but this is another level of fucked up. They had figured out pretty quickly this facility was used to test newly developed drugs on experimental subjects, mostly kidnapped civilians, but a captured member of an elite special investigative unit must have been too tempting to resist for the twisted leaders of Jungle, and Yata thinks he is now witnessing the results of this. And he remembers, too, folders full of experimental formulas Homra discovered at their last Jungle drug bust; drugs to imbue subjects with certain animal qualities, drugs to extend life at the cost of reason, and drugs to recreate creatures from myth and legend. Creatures – and Yata observes again the wings, the eyes void of color, the accentuated, beautiful facial features, the deadly nails – such as the incubus.

And then Saruhiko spreads his arms, making himself look even bigger, and he looks ready to strike with his terrible hardened fingernails, but all Yata can see are the black silhouettes of veins stenciled onto the insides of Saruhiko’s elbows where an IV might be stuck – or an injection of something terrible might be administered. As he observes what those bastards have done to Saruhiko, he backs away a little, slowly and as non-threateningly as he can, still speaking quietly, low murmurs of Saruhiko’s name and whispered reminders of who he himself is, how he’s here to help, not to hurt.

That same confused, searching look from before appears on his face again, and his brow furrows as if he’s trying to remember something important. Yata doesn’t know what they’ve done to him (though he knows what he’ll do to them, if he ever finds them – he’ll break them, he’ll fucking – ) but it seems Saruhiko has managed to keep some part of himself nonetheless. Yata feels proud of him in a twisted sort of way, and uses his moment of almost-recognition to take a slow step towards him and say softly, “I want to help you. We need to get out of here. How do we get out of here?”

Saruhiko lowers him arms, then, regarding Yata with those unsettlingly dark eyes, and Yata thinks again of his earlier revelation, of what Saruhiko might be now – or at least until they can figure out how to reverse it (if anyone can figure it out, it’s the two of them, right?). He looks again at the new features, the unfamiliar parts of him that Yata’s brain connects to those mythical demons, and his eyes see all of this but his brain cannot connect what his eyes see to the friend he remembers. But if Saruhiko really is an incubus, then he has so much power – power that cannot be unleased unless someone willingly enters into some sort of pact with him, so that they may share power, and Yata is just processing this, reconciling the realization with what it would mean (if it is him – and who else could it be? – then they would have to kiss, would have to touch, and Yata isn’t opposed to this, has never been opposed to this, but Saruhiko isn’t…Saruhiko doesn’t…he doesn’t remember…)

He is almost too busy fighting down the flush on his face to hear the quiet whisper of his name, a soft, “Misaki,” not really a question but said like he’s sounding out the letters for the first time, said like he’s never sounded out letters before at all, and Yata’s heart breaks at the familiar (but different, so different) voice even as hope flares in his chest. If they can communicate, then –

A loud clamber from around the corner and down the hall snaps him out of his thoughts. It is coming from back the way he came, and then he hears footsteps and shouting, and fuck, he thinks, the glowsticks. Beside him, Saruhiko has drawn himself out to his full size again, wings and arms spread, and he’s nearly snarling in the direction of the noise, but when the metallic clang of a gun hilt hitting the stone wall echoes down the hallway, he flinches, and that is fear now in his eyes.

Yata springs into action.

“Saruhiko,” he calls urgently, not bothering to be quiet anymore; they’ve already been discovered, and now haste is the most important thing. “If you are what I think you are…we need to make a pact. Right now, Saruhiko. We need to make a pact and then we need to get out of here, and we can’t do it without each other, you have no power without a willing person and I don’t know how to get out of here and even if I did I’m not leaving without you – “

He’s cut off by a cool grip on his wrist. Saruhiko is looking at him intently, staring into his eyes, and despite the coldness of his hands Saruhiko’s gaze warms Yata so much (all he ever wanted before was this man’s eyes on him, this man’s attention, this man’s – ) that he almost misses his slow chanting, said under his breath in words that get swallowed by the humid air but with red lips that part over them and with eyes that never leave Yata’s, and then something shifts in him, and he can feel Saruhiko as if his friend has moved aside Yata’s insides and made room for himself there, and as soon as he has that thought Saruhiko dissipates before his eyes and then Yata gasps because now he can feel Saruhiko inside him not only spiritually but physically, and then a voice in his head that sounds like Saruhiko says, calmly, “Misaki. Run,” and Yata does.

-

Yata is panting heavily by the time he can see the sun again, but he doesn’t feel tired. He has never felt more exhilarated in his life. He feels so fast (sprinting through the halls at supernatural speed, twisting and turning through the cells in the basement and somehow knowing exactly where to turn next), so powerful (the crack of bone against stone walls and floors, moving in and out of the shadows as if he’s not fighting them but part of them, and thrum of Saruhiko’s inky black, intoxicating power in his head and all his limbs), so unstoppable. He cannot help it; he laughs out loud, and it feels even better when he feels Saruhiko’s echo if it inside him.

And, oh, fuck – Saruhiko is inside him, and he chokes on his laughter, feeling his face heat and his body start to react despite the situation they’re in. He doesn’t even notice when the intrusion of the demon – though he’s already stopped thinking of Saruhiko as a demon, if he ever did, and it doesn’t feel like an intrusion anymore so much as a welcome guest, a missing piece, an old friend – disappears from within him until he hears another call of his name, this time heard in his ears and not his mind, and whips around with a still-burning face to see Saruhiko now in the flesh in front of him.

He still has that searching look on his face, but his eyes reflect the exhilaration Yata feels, and he’s wearing a smirk that suggests he knows exactly what Yata is thinking – which, shit, he probably does; he had Saruhiko’s voice in his head, after all, so he probably knows his thoughts too. But then Yata notices how pale he looks, and barely moves in time to catch him as his knees buckle and he gives in to gravity.

His mouth is spouting questions faster than his head can come up with them – “Shit, Saruhiko, are you okay, what happened, what can I do, how can I fix it” – when he remembers the pact, and then asks instead, blushing furiously, “Oh, you need…shit, Saruhiko.” He feels so hot, and he wants this, so much, but Saruhiko still doesn’t remember, but he looks like he’s about to die, so Yata finally blurts, “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Saruhiko looks up at him warily from where he’s slumped in Yata’s arms, and Yata’s face heats even more; his gaze is so penetrating, and then fuck, he has to blush even harder at the thought. But Saruhiko clicks his tongue, making Yata’s heart clench with the familiarity, and turns away from him, facing down at the grass instead, and says, “I’m fine. Misaki.”

But he’s not fine, and Yata isn’t going to let him get away with not taking care of himself like he did when he was…well, himself. (It seems not so much of the real Saruhiko was lost, after all, even if he doesn’t remember.) And Yata provided food for him before, tried to get him to eat properly, and he’ll do it again, provide sustenance for Saruhiko, even if the sustenance he needs now is…less innocent.

But if Saruhiko needs it, and Yata wants it, then even if it’s not the real Saruhiko, then it should be okay, right?

So he calls his friend’s name again, softly, fondly. “Saruhiko,” he says. “Saru.” And he’d almost forgotten, what it felt like to have this man’s gaze on him, but he remembers all at once as their eyes meet; he’d almost forgotten, how it felt for their hands and bodies to touch, but it comes back to him as their fingers intertwine; he’s almost forgotten, what it was like when their lips slotted together, but it all comes flooding back with Saruhiko’s mouth brushing his, Saruhiko’s tongue running along the seam of his lips, Saruhiko’s breath flooding into his mouth in a rush, and he kisses just like the old Saruhiko, so that Yata almost forgets that he isn’t, not really. He lets himself have this, lets them hold each other as the sun he’d almost forgotten about caresses their hair and their backs. They are so close that he feels it both under his palms and within himself when the effects of the kiss hit Saruhiko, and he pulls back, watching his skin flush with color and the black in his eyes retreat as if chased, giving way to that deep, beautiful blue. He looks, now, exactly like his friend, exactly like Saruhiko, and then he whispers Yata’s name again, his voice breathy and gorgeous, “Misaki,” and Yata cannot do anything against it; he takes Saruhiko’s hands in his again and pulls him forward and Saruhiko meets him in the middle, and Yata lets him muscle memory take over as he refamiliarizes himself with his oldest friend’s touch.

[aronymous-borsch]

The above is a REALLY good take. There's so many different ways in which shipping aro-coded characters can go really, really unpleasantly, and it can very quickly and easily become not only erasure but repeat a lot of arophobic sentiments. I'd say if you're not aro and not deeply familiar with the nuances, the answer would probably almost always be no.

If you have a piece of media where the character's actually confirmed aro in particular (so far personally I've only had one confirmed aro character in all the media I've ever enjoyed so it's a *super* big deal) I'd stay away from it if you aren't arospec yourself. When you're dealing with canon representation of a group that's super underrepresented, that's honestly a really good rule of thumb anyway. It can be really easy to fall into the trap of accidental erasure if you're not familiar with all the nuances, and for me personally it always hurts a lot more when it's canon rep than anything else. ESPECIALLY aros. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt when it isn't explicit canon, but for me personally it's like the difference bw a broken toe and a broken spine. One's a lot harder to manage with than the other.

But if it isn't canon, just common fanon (like Sasha James from TMA) or something similar...I'd still be really cautious, actually. I won't necessarily say flat out no? Imo, it really depends on 1) your knowledge and understanding of the aromantic community and 2) again, why you're shipping them in the first place.

First off, have you read first-hand accounts of how aro ppl approach the kind of relationship you're going for? We have a lot of good resources if not, from aro authors on Ao3 to Arocalypse to Tumblr (I, personally, would be happy to volunteer my services to any authors looking to write aro characters, I mean I only have my experiences but I want the rep so BAD-). Do you know what a qpr is? Or how someone might approach and appreciate a relationship with someone without all of the usual aspects of the corresponding attraction?

All of that's still secondary to the actual reasons you might be shipping, though. If it's just bc you want the character to have someone, or have that kind of interest in the story, I'd say hard no. See, like, if you're aro and want to see that with the character that's one thing, but if you aren't--one of the most difficult things about being aro (for me at least) can be feeling like you and your story are boring/incomplete without romance attached. Seeing an aro character paired up "just because" without any of that complicated nuance that makes aspec relationships so beautiful is....awful because of it.

Or maybe you just genuinely think the aro character works really well with another character, which is amazing!--but I'd also take the time to consider how, exactly, you feel like they work together. A lot of the time when two characters fit well, the automatic assumption is shipping even in cases where a platonic relationship would work just the same or better.

And in terms of aro "ships", some kinds of dynamics can be a lot easier to work in than others? Giving characters a close friendship is actually strongly encouraged (by me, always, whether they're aro-coded or not but ESPECIALLY if they are).

Actually, in terms of actually writing aro ships, I wouldn't go further than a well-informed qpr if you aren't aro/arospec yourself. Which in typical aro fashion I realize is probably not what most ppl mean by shipping now that I've gotten to the end of this post, but I've written all of this now so I might as well. Anyway. QPR's are GREAT and deserve more rep honestly--I would also say again, though, that if you're just using it as a catch-all to be "allowed" to ship an aro character without the added informed nuance,,, avoid.

In summary, I'd avoid it (with fanon aros often, canon aros all the time) if you don't feel comfortable in the nuances. Friendship is good! Friendship is magic! And we need more of that in media anyway. If you really, genuinely feel like it could work, do your research. Like. So much. There's so little rep that a small fic can still make a big impact on people, so ask! Read! Learn! And I'm happy to be a good faith resource if you need it--but understand those resources might sometimes tell you no, and if so not to push that hard cuz there's probably a good reason.

*note: these don't apply if you're aro and projecting, we've all been there and mood honestly go ahead w what feels right and good I'm not here to judge your experience any more than the other way around*

Sorry if this question is offensive, but can people still ship aromantic characters with other characters?

hi,

this is... something of a complicated question. this is one of those, "each and every aro person will have their own nuanced opinion on the subject" types of asks, but which I am expected to answer as a representative of the total community. assuming you are referring to romantic shipping: as a general rule of thumb, I'd advise that if you are not aro, the answer is no.

Aromantic people can date. Some aromantic people, such as those who are demiromantic, can feel romantic attraction. However, we have so little representation as aromantic individuals. We see how being aromantic is treated as a sign of a villain, or emotional immaturity, or mental health problems. We see how people love to ship aro-coded characters as a way of redeeming, maturing, or 'fixing' problems.

Additionally: is this the only aro character in that series? Is this the only aro person in the media you watch? Why do you want to ship them? If the answers are anything remotely resembling "yes / yes / because they/the other person/people I ship them with deserve to be happy and healthy", you are erasing their aromanticism; they are not being treated as an aro who dates. You are enforcing amatonormative roles and opinions onto them. Don't be that person.

if you are aro (including anyone on the aro spectrum), then keep that in mind, but also let yourself relate to or project onto that character. you're aro and want to date? hell yeah. you're grayro or otherwise experience some romantic attraction and you want that representation? go for it!

- mod kee