#i fully thought this was about genetics until the last sentence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reidingandwriting · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter Three: “Your Obedient Servant”

“You’ve kept me from the room where it happens for the last time.”

Word count: ~2450 words

Warnings: Shitty parent, verbal abuse from mother, language, bullying, brief mention of alcohol, mention of guns, implied murder, typical Criminal Minds-esque details towards the murder but nothing graphic.

Characters mentioned: Neutral!Reader, Jennifer “JJ” Jareau, Aaron Hotchner

Original characters: Reader’s mother and father, Este and her family, Lara, Andrew Walker, and Abby.

Mentions of: David Rossi, Erin Strauss, and Penelope Garcia

A/N: And here we are! Chapter three! I think I have marked all warnings but if there are any I’ve missed, please feel free to let me know! As always, feedback is always appreciated. This chapter is kind of background of reader focused and I’m so sorry for that. I hope y’all can enjoy anyways and enjoy the turn made towards bringing everyone in. Next chapter will fully bring the team in and I’m excited! That’s enough out of me, enjoy the chapter!

Previous chapter

Next chapter

Eight years old…

“What in fresh hell are you doing?” A voice came from your doorway, one that belonged to your mother. You didn’t look up from where you laid on the floor, a colored pencil in your hand and a coloring book was spread out in front of you. Your room was illuminated by the lamp on your bedside table, it being well past your bedtime.

“Coloring. Couldn’t sleep.” Footsteps got louder as your mother approached and you flinched as she snatched the book up.

“What time is your bedtime?”

“Eight-thirty.” She cleared her throat. “Ma’am.”

“And it’s midnight. So your ass should be where?”

“But I wasn’t making any noise.” Your eyes met your mother’s and her harsh glare made you look back down. “In bed.”

“That’s right.” She grabbed your arm and pulled you to your feet, and you tried not to wince. “If I come check on you and catch you out of this bed again, you’re gonna be in so much trouble, kid.”

“But what if I can’t sleep?” You asked as you climbed back into your bed.

“You’ll fall asleep eventually.” Your mother turned off your lamp, the warm glow of the room now being replaced by total darkness. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Your mother walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. You listened for a minute to make sure she was really in bed before you pulled your stuffed animal to your chest and screwed your eyes shut.

“Unfortunately.”

Sixteen years old…

“Happy birthday, kiddo. The big sixteen.” You smiled as you held your phone, sat on the bench outside of school as you waited for your mom to pick you up. Your dad was on the other end of the phone, and you had to admit you missed him. “Still up for your visit this weekend?”

“Are you? You pulled a Mom and bailed on me last time.” Your words could sound harsh to anyone passing by, but there was no malice behind them, just a teasing smile. And you could practically hear your dad rolling his eyes.

“Brat.”

“Yours truly.”

“I promise, nothing will stop me from seeing you this weekend. It’s not every day your only child turns sixteen.” A sigh from the other end makes your heart clench. “I miss you, kid.”

“I miss you too, Dad. I can’t wait to see you.” “Ditto.” Muffled voices were heard in the background before your dad spoke again. “I have to go, but I expect to hear all about your birthday extravaganza Saturday.”

“You mean my trip to the bookstore with Este and dinner with her family? Mom’s too busy with her new fu-”

“Uh uh. It may be true, but don’t finish that sentence.” You could hear the smile in your dad’s voice, mixed with irritation. “I love you, sunshine.”

“I love you, Dad. See you Saturday.”

“See you then.” You hung up and tucked your phone into your pocket, opening the book that sat in your lap to read as you waited for your mom to pick you up from school.

You were delved deep into your book, the sound of the athletes practicing in the nearby fields fading into silence as you let yourself become entranced in your book. You didn’t notice the looming shadow of Lara standing over you.

“Well, thanks, Y/L/N! I’ve been looking for a new book.” You jumped when you heard her voice. She snatched the book from your hands and you reached for it, but she was quicker.

“Give it back!”

“Really? David Rossi?” Lara scoffed and tossed the book over her shoulder where it landed in a pile of mud by the sidewalk we were on. “Whoops.” Lara walked past you, her shoulder knocking harshly into yours. “It’s too easy with them.” Lara said to herself and you ran to your book, and your eyes watered as you knelt down to pick it up, the book being covered in mud.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.” You whispered to yourself as you held the book and tried your best to wipe the mud off it. You sighed in resignation and walked to the trash can a few feet away and set the book in. You were going to the bookstore tomorrow, you could replace it then.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when a car honked and you looked up, noticing your mother’s car. “Come on, we’ve got places to be.” Your mother yelled from the open window and you nodded.

“Coming.” You called out and jogged over to the car, throwing your backpack into the backseat before you got into the passenger seat.

“What’s wrong with you?” She gestured to your red eyes before she noticed your dirty hands. “Gross, how old are you?” She slapped the back of your head and you digged for napkins in the glove compartment while apologizing repeatedly.

“I’m sorry. Lara threw my book in the mud and I tried to save it.”

“Those were weird books anyways. She did you a favor.”

Twenty-two years old…

“Look at our college graduate, Jess.” Este’s father, Phil, smiled from the head of the table. “Look out, world, you’re not prepared.”

“I will not be taking over the world until Y/N is. They still have one year to finish their master’s degree. So I’m taking a gap year. Maybe I’ll go husband hunting.”

“Or, you know, do something that’ll look better on your job applications.” Este’s sister deadpanned.

“Where’s the fun in that?” You nudged Este with your foot and gave her a playful warning look. Este stuck her tongue out at you and you mirrored her expression.

“I wish Y/N would have majored in the same thing as you, Este.” Not even fifteen words out of your mother and the whole atmosphere was brought down. Why couldn’t she be with Joe? Jonah? J-something. “Instead of aiming for the FBI, where you’re not even guaranteed a job.”

“Which is why I majored in criminology. Minored in digital forensics. And I’m earning my masters in forensic psychology.” You responded, not sparing her a glance.

“And if you still don’t-”

“I think my credentials will be impressive regardless.” You paused as the waitress stopped by, setting everyone’s plates down. You thanked her as she left, before looking at your mother. “Even if I don’t immediately get offered a job, I don’t mind. I can work my way to the FBI. I don’t get bored of something within a month.” Bella’s eyes widened and Este smirked to herself as she took a sip of her drink.

“I would sure hope not! College would have been a bad idea if you couldn’t work at something for a month.” Jessica, Este’s mother, tried to joke but your mother was relentless.

“I hope you fix your personality before you apply or they’ll never let you in through the door.”

“You don’t like it? I learned from you.” Your mother stood from her chair, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“I’m done.”

“Drive safe.” You called out to your mother’s retreating form and rolled your eyes as you turned to Este. “Drinks?”

“Drinks.”

Twenty-five years old…

“So, you’re about halfway done with your training at the Academy.” You sat across from your field counselor, Abby. “How have things been?”

“Andrew and I had some… creative differences with firearms training.”

“Creative differences?” Abby asked and you thought back to the day.

You had missed the vital shots multiple times, and you and Andrew both were getting irritated at each other. What was meant to be motivating turned snarky, which had started to turn condescending. You started off getting close to your vitals, and with each negative comment, your concentration turned to frustration which led to further off shots.

“If you could make these three shots so I can leave, that would be great. Come on, how are you going to ace rifle training but not handgun? I might as well talk to our program director and tell her your future in the Academy and FBI is a deadend. But if she ever needs a sharp-shooter…” And something snapped inside you, and you shot the five targets in front of you perfectly. Alternating between head and chest shots, straight in the middle. Bullseyes. You turned to face Andrew, walked towards him and set your gun in his hand.

“You may leave now.” You walked towards the doors of the firing range and called out. “See you tomorrow.”

“I see.” There was a hint of a smirk on her face as she spoke. “You know you can’t let people get to you like he did. It may have benefitted you this time, but there will come a time where you’ll reach your breaking point and lose your temper at your superior and risk your job.”

“You know about my parents, it’s kind of genetic.” You sighed. “But I will work on it. I know I need to.”

“Good. And I’ll have a word with Andrew about his motivational methods.” You let out a laugh before your session continued.

Thirty-one years old…

You sat in Hotch’s office and your body language screamed ‘angry.’ Your arms were crossed over your chest, your foot tapped against the floor, and if that wasn’t enough, the saying if looks could kill truly applied to you right now. If looks could kill, Aaron Hotchner would be a pile of dust in his chair. But like usual, Hotch’s body language was as usual. Professional, stoic, cold. He’d warmed up to the rest of the team, surprising you that he wasn’t truly emotionless after all. But that persona never came out around you. All that came out was indifference at best. Disapproval at worst, often paired with anger. Disappointment. That’s all you’d ever be, huh?

You had been called to Hotch’s office after you got back from your latest case. You’d never seen Hotch as mad as he was then. To anyone else, it might seem like he got mad because he cared about you and your wellbeing. But that was not the case today. You didn’t follow his orders, and now you were to pay the consequences.

“I am slow to anger, but I toe the line as I think about the effects of your choices on the team. I look back on where we failed, but in every place I checked, the only common thread?”

“Let me guess, me?” You interrupted.

“Your disrespect.” Hotch narrowed his eyes at you.

“You call me inexperienced, a danger to the team.” You leaned forward as you began to speak.

“Agent, if you’ve got something to say-” You raised your hand, cutting him off.

“Name a time and place, face to face. Then we can really talk.” You rested your hands on his desk, matching the expression he was giving you.

“That is enough, Agent Y/L/N.” Hotch spoke after a minute of your stare-down, and you settled back into your seat.

“I’m just an agent, trying to do my best for our team. I don’t want to fight but I won’t apologize for doing what I believe was right.”

“Careful, Y/N, or it’ll be the end of your career at the BAU. Not mine.”

“I won’t apologize for my actions, if that’s what you’re looking for.” You shrugged.

“Then be prepared to meet with me and Strauss tomorrow morning to discuss your placement on this team.” Hotch leaned back in his chair.

“Are you fucking serious? Every agent on this team has gone against orders. Even you have given the middle finger to direct orders several times. I make one call that goes against your orders, one that allows us to save the hostage and take in the unsub, and now you’re threatening my career?” You scoffed and looked your boss in the eyes as you stood up. “Unbelievable.”

“Nine sharp, agent.” Hotch kept eye contact with you as he spoke.

“Oh, I have the honor to be your obedient servant, sir.” You turned on your heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door as you left.

Today…

You sat outside Andrew Walter’s house, lying in wait. Andrew lived in Baltimore now, having quit his job to work at a local FBI field office. You think a federal agent would have been more private about his life; it didn’t take Penelope Garcia to figure out where he worked. Where he lived. You had been waiting for the perfect moment to revisit him, and now you had it. Now was all waiting for the window of opportunity to hit. The window to open just enough for you to seize your chance and show him what all you had become since you graduated from the Academy.

The last light flickered off in his home and you looked down the street. No cars moving, no sounds of laughter or conversations could be heard from your spot. It was almost eerily silent, but there was a rush of an unknown emotion flooding through you. You tucked your gun into your waistband, snapping your gloves into place, and adjusting your hood over your hat. You got out of your car and walked up to the house, a smirk on your face.

---

“Come in.” Hotch glanced up from his paperwork, JJ standing in his doorway.

“I know we don’t typically take cases only involving one person.” JJ said as she walked over to Hotch’s desk. “The detective thinks there is a possibility it could be related to the Fairfax murder.”

“And do you?” Hotch held his hand out for the file and JJ set it in his hand before taking a seat.

“The possibility is there, but the similarities are basic. Both victims were men who died by gunshots. But our Fairfax victim was married, this guy is single. And in Baltimore. There’s a bit of distance between the two cities, but definitely a doable drive.”

“We’ve seen further.” Hotch opened the file and his brows furrowed. “And he died by gunshot?”

“There was some blunt force trauma involved, but the M.E. says the cause of death was the gunshot wound. All the other injuries were sustained antemortem.”

“Personal?”

“Or was our unsub physically incapable of subduing him before injuring him?” A beat of silence.

“Everyone else is here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. We have a case.”

Taglist: @spideyspeaches @ssa-sugar-tits @willowsbendtothewind-blog @lazy-bird-fanfics @spencerhotchner @lolychu @ajeff855 @averyhotchner @meowiemari @liagzs @herecomesthewriterwitch @colorful-quinn @haylaansmi @theroyalsaikou @boring-yet-creatively-odd @drreidsconverse @notyourcupofteax @catherine-nelson @reids-mismatchedsocks @lieswithoutfairytales @devilswaldorf @panhoeofmanyfandoms @sassiest-politician @yoshigguk @httpeacewitch @feedthemadness-sweetie 🤍 Taglist and requests are OPEN, send an ask/message/whatever makes you comfortable to be added or send a request :))

142 notes · View notes

kaypeace21 · 4 years ago

Text

El and “post institutional syndrome” (psych analysis)

Before I go in depth with this condition. I wanted to discuss the unique real life case of Genie (whose experiences most closely resemble El ‘s) . And , because of this , could possibly give us insight on how El’s past may affect her psychosocial development .

“Genie had spent almost her entire childhood locked in a bedroom, isolated and ab*sed by her father for the first 13 years of her life. The social worker soon discovered that the girl had been confined to a small room, and an investigation by authorities quickly revealed that the child had spent most of her life in this room. The windows were curtained and the door was kept closed.”

“At this time, she could only speak a few words -- including "stopit" and "nomore."

“While her circumstances until that point were undeniably tragic, they also presented an opportunity for psychologists, linguists, and other researchers to study psychosocial, emotional, and cognitive development in an individual who had suffered from severe social isolation and deprivation. In particular, the discovery of Genie presented an opportunity to study whether a child who was past the so-called "critical period" for language acquisition could learn to speak a first language.”

“The case was important, said psycholinguist and author Harlan Lee, because ‘our morality doesn’t allow us to conduct deprivation experiments with human beings; these unfortunate people are all we have to go on.’

* Brenner not only kept her in isolation via her room but even put her through severe deprivation via solitary confinement as punishment. Putting her in a completely barren dark room for hours.UN Special Rapporteur Juan E. Méndez warned ,”Considering the severe mental pain or suffering solitary confinement may cause, it can amount to t*rture or cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment when used as a punishment, indefinitely, or for a prolonged period, for persons with mental disabilities or juveniles.”

“After assessing Genie's emotional and cognitive abilities, Kent described her as ‘the most profoundly damaged child I've ever seen … Genie's life is a wasteland.’ She began to experience more developmental progress, but remained poor in areas such as language.Susan Curtiss worked with Genie to teach her English. Genie soon developed a rather large lexicon and was able to express herself. But despite extensive training, she remained unable to produce grammatical sentences. Here is a transcript of one of her reports of her time in the hands of her father:

Father hit arm. Big wood. Genie cry ... Not spit. Father. Hit face—spit ... Father hit big stick. Father angry. Father hit Genie big stick. Father take piece wood hit. Cry. Me cry.”

“According to Lenneberg, the critical period for language acquisition lasts until around age 12. After the onset of puberty (at 13), he argued, the organization of the brain becomes set and no longer able to learn and utilize language in a fully functional manner.The case of Genie confirms that there is a certain window of opportunity that sets the limit for when you can become relatively fluent in a language. Of course, if you already are fluent in another language, the brain is already primed for language acquisition . If you have no experience with grammar, however, Broca's (an area of the brain) remains relatively hard to change: you cannot learn grammatical language production later on in life. But the abilities to understand language and produce language in ways that do not rely on grammar largely make use of Wernicke's area in the temporal lope. This area is capable of expanding and rewiring throughout life—even after the teen years. The case of Genie confirms this. Grammar was beyond reach for her. But language comprehension and storytelling were not.”

So El struggling with grammar in some sentences but not in others and improving in grammar unlike Jennie- could possibly be because unlike Jeanie, El was 12 when rescued vs Jeanie who was 13?

“Researchers were also left to wonder whether Genie had suffered from cognitive deficits caused by her years of severe neglect or if she had been born with an ��intellectual disability’. ��Most believed, the permanent mental impairments and ‘developmental delays’ Genie exhibited (upon being assessed ) were the result of the isolation and deprivation she was subjected to.”

For those confused about certain terms just used. “Developmental delays appear before 22 years of age. They are life-long disabilities that affect one or both physical and cognitive functioning. ‘Intellectual disability’ encompasses the “cognitive” part of this definition, that is, a disability that is broadly related to thought processes. People with intellectual disabilities are known for having below-average IQ/cognitive abilities . ID can be caused by a myriad of things- including physical and genetic factors, problems during pregnancy or at birth, health issues at an early age, exposure to environmental toxins, or non-physical causes such as lack of stimulation.”

*DISCLAIMER before we begin: I’m saying this now, cause I expect bad actors to try and cancel me. El , even if she has an intellectual disability- is still a human being with many aspirational character traits- that people can admire or aspire to have . She’s kind, selfless, brave, and resilient. People with ID can still function and have jobs, make decisions, and learn new skills too. And they have human emotions like everyone else. if you are “offended” that I say a character you like may have ID - and are pissy you related and empathized to a character that you would otherwise have ‘othered’ cause they have an intellectual disability. Me, an autistic person, (who the fandom has bullied for being autistic) is not the ableist one for simply saying she may have an Intellectual disability .Being angry by the very idea a character you like has a condition , and saying it’s “offensive”/”insulting to them” (is ableist). And in a sense dehumanizes these people who are greatly underestimated and mistreated by society already. you don’t have to agree of course- but don’t try to smear me for stating my opinion based on the psych papers I’ll be discussing. I love El, and have a cousin with ID, so no this isn’t me insulting El. The Duffers said they wanted to give a voice to those “othered” by society- and people who aren’t neurotypical could easily be on the list. The Duffers having us love, relate, and empathize with a character such as this wouldn’t be a bad thing- but good rep .So now I’ll continue with the evidence that alludes to El possibly having ID.

Post institutional syndrome

“In clinical and abnormal psychology, POST INSTITUTIONAL SYNDROME- refers to deficits or disabilities in social and life skills, which develop after a person has spent a long period living in remote institutions (such as orphanages). “

“Growing up in such an environment can change the brain for good.Institutionalization in early childhood can alter a child's brain and behavior in the long run.The ongoing nature of chronic neglect significantly impacts the brain in infancy and early childhood. It suggests that the specific ages of approximately 6−18 months old , may be especially sensitive to developing deficiencies in orphanage environments. “ (*Making El who was raised in such an environment since birth quite susceptible ).

“According to Perry (2002), neglect at this phase impedes formation of neurological pathways essential to communication in the brain. They found that early institutionalization changed both the structure and the function of the brain. Any time spent in an institution shrunk the volume of gray matter, or brain cell bodies, in the brain. Kids who stayed in the orphanages instead of going to foster care also had less white matter, or the fat-covered tracts between brain cell bodies, than kids who, at a young age, moved in with families.Staying in an orphanage instead of foster care also resulted in lower-quality brain activity as measured by EEG.”

“Neglect may be the most detrimental maltreatment type on brain development.A child’s neurocognitive and emotional development rapidly moves towards a downward spiral following extended time in an institution.Normal development may be disrupted by deprivation associated with neglect and can result in dysregulation of neural systems during vulnerable periods of brain development, leading to pronounced neurocognitive deficits due to maltreatment.There are many outcomes related to this disruption in brain development: delays in development of IQ , delays in language, cognitive delays that impact learning, and difficulty with behavioral inhibitions, social emotional functioning and well as impaired attachment (Wilkerson, 2009; Barkley, 1997).”

“Low-stimulation environments can lead to lower scores on intelligence and language tests. Neglect is the type of maltreatment most strongly associated with delays in expressive, receptive, and overall language development.interpersonal interaction is necessary for the acquisition of early language, and these interactions may be limited for children that have been in institutional settings or have experienced physical or emotional neglect.Speech and language delays along with social-emotional delays are very common as the child continues in the institutional environment.”

“Compared with youth that were not neglected, children demonstrated lower cognitive and language scores and more behavioral problems.Higher IQ could be predicted by language scores and an absence of externalizing behavior problems. When comparing the neglected children: shorter time spent in a stable environment, lower scores on language skills, and the presence of externalizing behavior problems predicted lower IQ.”

“The cognitive development of institutionalized children has been studied for more than 60 years. Between 1930 and 1950 a first wave of studies documented that children in institutions often showed a low IQ and severe language delays (Crissey, 1937; Durfee & Wolf, 1933), and children’s orphanages have been considered “natural experiments” on the necessary conditions for intellectual growth (MacLean, 2003).For example, Rutter (1998) found that the mean IQ of children leaving institutional care in Romania shortly after the fall of Ceausescu was about 50 (population mean = 100). Similar results were shown with Dennis in (1973) who addressed the question of how large the cognitive delay of children in orphanages was compared to children adopted into families. He studied children who were abandoned immediately after birth and were reared in children’s homes in Lebanon.Dennis found that at age 11, the average IQ of the adopted children was within the range of normally developing children, whereas the non-adopted 11 y old orphans still living in these institutions were diagnosed as Intellectually disabled.At his followup, when they were 16, these same girls at the Zouk institution had an average IQ going just above 50. While, In a meta-analysis of 75 studies, van IJzendoorn et al. (2008) found that children living in institutional care scored on average 20 points lower on intelligence tests than children who were raised in families.”

“These later studies also revealed that the percentage of time spent in institutional care was significantly and negatively correlated with full scale IQ, verbal, and memory scores. And that 12 years of institutional care, from birth to 12 years of age, showed placement into foster care did not increase iq points .The only cognitive improvement of placing these children in foster care at age 12 -was on working memory. While the only cognitive improvements of taking the children out of the institution by 8 years old was on processing speed. “

pics for proof if you don’t believe me-

* Meaning realistically El who was in such an environment (from birth to 12 years old) may learn new things after being placed in foster care (like with Hopper or the Byers)-but her Iq would never improve to the point of being neurotypical- she’d always have an intellectual disability.

Intellectual disability

“People with intellectual and learning Disabilities may have deficits in speech production . Impairment of speech production is among the most commonly reported difficulties in children, adolescents and adults with ID . The children, including some with mild and moderate intellectual disabilities may lack in phonological development in their speech. These children also exhibit many articulatory deficits, delays in expressive language and show significant limitations in grammar and syntax development compared to those their age (without an iD). They often speak in subdued tones or use explosive voice modulations .Some speak quietly, while in others vocal intensity varied from utterance to utterance. “

“Intellectual disability is identified as mild , moderate, severe or profound.”

So, if based on average of Iq of children raised in orphanages (from birth to 11,12, or 16 years old). El would have a mild intellectual disability (and an Iq possibly around 50).Of those affected with ID, about 85% fall into the "mild" category.

Mild intellectuality disability disorder symptoms:

-”being fully independent in self-care when they get older (brushing teeth, dressing themselves, cooking, taking public transport, etc)”

-having problems with reading and writing (having math/reading skills between a 3rd- 6th grade level).

-having an IQ range of 50 to 69

-social immaturity

“Iq below 70 isn’t the only marker for diagnosis. But, also issues in adaptive functioning are usually used for diagnosis. Three areas of adaptive functioning are considered:According to the DSM-5 (APA, 2013), the signs and symptoms of adaptive functioning deficits across 3 domains (conceptual ,social and practical) for a mild intellectual disability are:

Conceptual Domain

”Slow language development (children learn to talk later, if at all). Or problems learning to talk or trouble speaking clearly.”

”Difficulties in academic learning ( such as having math/reading skills between a 3rd- 6th grade level).”

* El can read but still struggles with proper grammar ( verbally and through her writing) .She’s even reading an english-learning book. Her unsteady handwriting/ lack of apostrophes hint she’s still learning to write (despite her reading abilities) . And at 14 she doesn’t know what a state is-specifically Illinois which she visited 6 months prior.

”Difficulty understanding academic and abstract concepts of time “

*She didn’t start learning how to tell time until 12, and only seemed to master it at 14.

“childish behavior inconsistent with the child’s age.”

*14 y old El and 5 y old Holly both having a thing for teddy bears, in s3/2.

”Problems with abstract thinking, short term memory, and cognitive flexibility”. (”Abstract reasoning tasks include the ability to understand subjects on a complex level through analysis and evaluation and the ability to apply knowledge in problem-solving.”)

(”Cognitive flexibility has been described as the mental ability to switch between thinking about two different concepts, and to think about multiple concepts simultaneously.”)

*This one is a bit iffy, cause there’s a few explanations to the s3 example. El and Mike lie to their friends about her curfew.Yet the next day she is confused and says Mike wouldn’t lie to her - cause “friends don’t lie” All despite the fact she and Mike lied to Dustin, Max, Will, and Lucas the day before. So either she doesn’t understand the concept of hypocrisy because she lacks cognitive flexibility (or just doesn’t care about the hypocrisy)- aka her and Mike can lie to their friends, but she’s upset when they lie to her, (and she’s fine if Mike lies to everyone but her) ? Personally,I think she doesn’t grasp the concept of hypocrisy yet. Or she didn’t even realize she was lying and believed Mike was right about her curfew. Or bad writing. But given the concept of lying being prevalent to the season- I lean to Mike accidentally lying to her about her curfew (and El thinking her curfew was 4:00) . Or (more likely) El lies and doesn’t have the cognitive flexibility/abstract reasoning to understand that being upset Mike lied to her but not upset Mike (and her) lied to their friends is hypocritical. She also lied to Mike and pretended she didn’t hear the confession at the cabin for 3 months. She ‘forgave’ Mike but she never noticed Mike didn’t even apologize for lying just being ‘jealous of Max’ (despite lying being the thing she was upset and dumped him over in the first place). Anyways back on topic-

Social Domain

“Receptive language that may be limited to comprehension of simple speech and gestures.These students struggle to differentiate concrete and abstract concepts. Figurative language (metaphors, similes, idiomatic expressions, etc.) is typically quite confusing to them.”

“trouble understanding social cues”

“Limitations in language and communication skills.More concrete and less complex spoken language (if used), compared with peers. Limited vocabulary and grammatical skills.”

Practical Domain:

“May function age-appropriately in personal care (brushing teeth, dressing, going to the restroom etc).”

Early signs and symptoms of intellectual disability:

El has most of the signs...

-”Have trouble speaking or experiencing delays in speech, trouble understanding social norms,Challenges with problem-solving and logical thinking, Behavioral problems like extreme temper tantrums (breaking windows, pushing max, throwing food on Hopper and the girls in the mall), Having difficulty understanding the results of his or her actions (for instance like not understanding why spying on an ex is wrong).”

“If your child has ID, they may experience some of the following behavioral issues:aggression, Dependency, lack of impulse control passivity, stubbornness,low tolerance for frustration ,difficulty paying attention (She’s exhibited all of these).”

Other traits of Post institutional children

“poor self concept” (One's self-concept is a collection of beliefs about oneself. Generally, self-concept embodies the answer to "Who am I?".)

“problems with coping and regulating emotions ,poor impulse control, and aggressiveness.”

“Studies have repeatedly shown that children with disrupted attachment who have experienced neglect have problems coping and managing emotions, “

“inappropriately demanding and clinging”

“indiscriminate friendliness”

“44% of institutionalized children showed high levels of indiscriminately sociable behavior as contrasted with 18% of children who had never been institutionalized.children who were indiscriminately sociable as 8-year olds were not indiscriminately sociable toward adults as 16-year olds; however, these children were indiscriminately sociable in their relationships with peers (those their own age). Thus, it is possible that indiscriminate sociability serves as a marker of later problems in social relationships, even though manifesting differently by the teen years.That friendliness was probably an important coping technique in their socially starved early lives. What's interesting is it just doesn't go away.Indiscriminate friendliness may also be tied to the amygdala. In a study using fMRI, Aviva Olsavsky, MD, at the University of California, Los Angeles, and colleagues found that when typical children (4-14 years old) viewed photos of their mothers versus photos of strangers, the amygdala showed distinctly different responses. In children who had been institutionalized, however, the amygdala responded similarly whether the children viewed mothers or strangers. That response was particularly notable among kids who exhibited more friendliness toward strangers. Attachment and behavior problems, indiscriminate friendliness, and lower IQ seem to go together in the same children.”

(We have to admit she attached herself rather quickly to Max, and Kali after only a few days, same goes for Mike and the boys she knew for only a week).

“cognitive delays, particularly speech and language deficits.” (we’ve covered that)

“quasi autism (is a term used to describe autistic-like difficulties and traits following very severe social deprivation in the first year of life.) About 10 % percent of the children adopted from Romanian orphanages after 6 months of age were diagnosed with autism sometime in childhood. And of those who stayed in the institution to age 11, 8.5% with an IQ >50 , fit the “quasi-autism” profile (meaning they fit some but not all autistic traits). The results showed children with ‘autistic features’ usually experienced longer durations of severe psychological privation, than other orphans.”

El does have a few traits that some people on the spectrum have.

-” Many children with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) use echolalia, which means they repeat others' words or sentences. They might repeat the words of familiar people (parents, teachers, friends), or they might repeat sentences from their favorite video.”

(X)

-”Some children with ASD also have delayed speech and language skills.some children are even selectively mute. “

- ”Talk in a flat, robot-like tone” (obviously not all asd people. But I do think El’s voice in conversation can often be quite monotone).

- Many autistic girls on the spectrum also have disordered eating patterns . This can include simply eating the same foods over and over again (cough her eggo obsession). And although “disorder eating” and “eating dis*rders” are different.”Previous research has found that autism and eating disorders can occur together, as 20-30% of adults with eating dis*rders have autism (despite being only 2.2% of the US population).”

-“Has obsessive interests” (her whole room is covered in Mike related stuff like he’s her special interest- my gay ass has no idea if a whole room covered in bf related stuff is ‘straight little girl normal’ or a bit obsessive- but I lean to the latter, especially when compared to Max’s room XD)

-” difficulty understanding social cues .” (covered that)

- “And she is sensitive to certain noises (thunder etc)”

Alright, thanks for listening. Of course, this analysis is if the Duffers went the realistic route-which I do lean to them doing. One of the stephen King movies “dream catcher” was cited as inspiration for Stranger things . It even had a boy with ID who spoke in broken english, carried around stuffed animals, and had the superpower of being able to track people (just like El) . And he retained broken english/his interest in stuffed animals in adulthood.Of course her fitting the psych criteria I listed could have other explanations.El can most certainly learn and improve in academic skills, language, and social skills even with an Intellectual disability. But honestly, even if El had an Iq of 160 she would (at least initially) struggle tremendously given the lack of education and neglect/ab*se she’s dealt with.But, I’m excited to see El gain independence as she learns more about herself and the real world (and maybe heal from some of her tr*uma).

But if we’re talking academically-she doesn’t know basic geography or what a state is at 14.She’s still learning how to speak and write with correct grammar at 14.She only just mastered how to tell time at 14 . Does she even know how to add, subtract, multiple, and divide, let alone algebra (knowledge needed for highschool) ? Or basic science knowledge also needed ? No way would she’d be ready to go to highschool in s3 (like the others already attending, during the ending-time skip). If we were being realistic- she’d be held back a few years and or in remedial classes, or special school, etc. The kids in middle or highschool who don’t know her circumstances wouldn’t be understanding of why she has little knowledge of social norms, expressions, language issues,etc. El has only interacted with 4 kids her own age for 3 months (9 months with Mike) and was in a year of isolation with Hopper (being taught social norms via tv- which is not the best teacher) .This was hardly ‘typical socialization for a kid her age’. Unlike, the rest of the gang who interacts with many kids on a daily basis.How will she be in an environment with this many kids? I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sadly bullied.Regardless, I’m looking forward to El’s character arc of trying to assimilate to the ‘real world’ as she grows into her own person-most likely there’s some good in her journey and not just bullies along the way. :)

#el hopper #jane ives #stranger things

230 notes · View notes

alexhoghdaily · 3 years ago

Text

Alex’s Instagram Live interview with Tommy DiDario for #LetsStayTogether

Once again this got extremely long. Because as usual I cannot grasp the simple concept of ‘Highlights’. I basically wanted to write every single sentence down. Forgive me.

(note: this interview contains spoilers for the Vikings finale!)

The comments are turned off. This sets a relaxing mood for the interview.

Alex starts by asking if he’s getting through alright, Tommy is in New York and Alex is in Denmark. Which can make the time difference and connection difficult. He was confused about the actual time of the interview. His email said the show would be at 9pm, but the instagram countdown was set for 7pm. He’s not a technical person so he got a little nervous and was very happy to be live.

Tommy mentioned he started the show #LetsStayTogether during covid to give people a place where they can turn to for some joy, hope and inspiration. A place to just have fun. He said Alex brings all that and more so it was a pleasure to have him on the show.

He spoke about his character and the show Vikings, and asked him What made him want to play the part of Ivar on the Show. Alex answered the question with him being a ‘nobody’ when he came into the show, and he was very thankful to get the opportunity. He didn’t think about wether or not he liked the character, for him it was more like “I’m going to be an actor on Vikings? Are you kidding me? That’s a solid yes.” He didn’t even know what character he was going to play. It started with a regular self-tape of him doing weird accents and weird lines and then multiple auditions for all of the brothers. He said it was an intense audition. He remembered coming into the room and immediately noticing that the people present there were very important.

Tommy mentioned the darkness he brought to the show, the rise and fall of Ivar and how people were rooting for him in the end, and then asked Alex what he loved about playing such a great character like this. Alex answered with the ups and down’s, those are always fun for an actor to get into. Ivar is complicated and that’s always fun to take on as an actor. you always have to defend him [Ivar] even despite him making that very tough. “When he started burning people for a living I was like Michael Hirst are you kidding me. How am I supposed to make people still kind of love him?” It was challenging and fun.

Tommy asked Alex if he was protective of him [Ivar] because he felt like he had to figure out a way to make people like him. Alex answered with: Absolutely. He needs to be, because he always has to understand him and never judge him. And if he would struggle with that, the audience would absolutely 100% too. He has to be the last line of defense. He explained his thoughts and reasoning behind Ivar’s decisions. If he can reason with his thoughts and feelings behind it, it can completely change how he says his lines. It’s all in the little details and that’s what makes the job fun.

He didn’t get his script long ahead of time, only a week, so when he was still rehearsing his lines for one episode he already got his lines for the next and that was really though.

Tommy asked him why he [Alex] thinks is the reason fansresponded so well to his character even with his darknes. Alex answered this wit that he thinks it’s because he’s an antihero. You like rooting for someone who isn’t always perfect because we as human beings are also not always perfect. (He compared it to him liking batman over superman because batman is more flawed than superman.) He also said that he loves that he’s [Ivar] complicated. Every time you create a character that has a lot of depth to them, you challenge the audience and force the audience to always question him and ask themselves what they think about him and his actions. Why is he doing what he’s doing? That keeps people invested and engaged with the story/character. That’s his job.

Favorite scenes: Alex’s favorite scenes are 5x03 where Ivar is yelling, covered in blood in York. (He repeated his iconic Icelandic line as usual.) Another favorite scene was the one where Ivar said goodbye to Baldur in the woods. It is a scene that is really close to his heart. This is because Ivar was honest and vulnerable. Usually he’s doing crazy stuff and yelling and killing people. Alex likes the quiet moments more where he’s just in his own head and having a heart time. He loved the scene because it was so real.

Tommy asked Alex how he views Ivar’s relationship with love. (Absent father, overprotective and smothering mother, a tragic marriage, how does Ivar view love after this.) Alex said that he understands why Ivar does not understand love. After his absent father, smothering mother, tough love from his brothers, he was so blinded by Freydis’ love and his love for her that she could fully manipulate him. It was a complete disaster. When they started season 6 Alex thought that Ivar had completely given up on love. He had discussed this issue with Michael Hirst and the directors. Alex found him to be a sociopath and not an actual psychopath. Because he understands emotions, and he has a lot of them. He does have love and he does have empathy. He thought it was great to focus more on that in season 6. Showing more of Ivar’s human side was very important to him. He has many emotions and he was never just a crazy guy, Alex never thought he was crazy, nor that he was a god, he believed that Ivar knew better than to actually view himself a god. He thinks Ivar is an actor, and he is more broken on the inside than on the outside. The whole “I’m a god” act was all fake, and it was Ivar’s defense mechanism.

For his journey in season 6, Alex asked Michael Hirst to take it down a notch for Ivar. in season 5, especially 5B, he was challenging to like and Alex was struggling to defend him. He wanted to turn that around. He said that after losing his wife, his throne, and being on the run really makes him think. He says Ivar was smart enough to learn from his mistakes. He loved to come to a new place and start from the beginning. He did say that even with the new beginning Ivar was still plotting and manipulating and smart. He is still Ivar the Boneless. Alex was always amazed by his smarts when he read the scripts. He loves season 6 because Ivar was more human and humble.

They discuss Ivar’s death in the final episode. Alex said that he was on top of that. It was completely his idea. He wanted him to go out with a bang and not survive. He told Michael Hirst he wanted a death scene for Ivar. He also discussed with Michael that he loved the idea of Ivar being scared in the end. That he showed himself to be extemely human in his very last moments. Which Alex himself thinks all of us would be. Ivar is the guy who has been yelling that he’s a god, and he loved to contrast of him showing who he really was in the end, and just being afraid. He wanted him to be human in the end, the little boy that he really is. He needed him to show it in his last moment. He thought it was a beautiful brotherly and honest moment. Quote: “I like honesty.” He said that it was also one of his favorite scenes.

Tommy asked what it was like for him, and Alex said that he was bawling his eyes out. He cried the entire day. It was the end of 3,5 years of Vikings, the end of a very intense period of his life and it had been extremely challenging. He was happy to go but he also knew he was going to miss everyone. They were like family. It was the very last scene he shot, and it was magical to finish filming the show with his death scene. After it he was like I guess it is really over. He got a microphone and a signed shield with little messages. He was crying and everyone was gathering around him in a circle, which made him very nervous. It was a regular day with many extras and crew members and performing for them is no problem but when it get’s personal it’s more difficult. It felt like a very private moment. It wasn’t until he got home 14 days later that he fully understood what happened.

Tommy said that he understood that after such an intense role it would take a bit to come back from that and realize what he’s done. Alex agreed 100%. He said it can really feel like an empty dark hole, because you’re so used to working with so many people around him and he’s in a groove and all of a sudden it stops.

He mentioned that he was in his studio, and that he has a band. “That’s what’s happening in the background here.” It’s a fun hobby, nothing official. It’s just them doing decent cover songs. When Tommy asked if we would be able to hear any of them Alex answered with: “Absolutely not”. He joked about it being a secret passion and that it’s not supposed to be talked about. Tommy said no one would be opposed to them releasing a single.

After tommy asked about on set relationships Alex said they were all really close like a family. Filming was tough, not the best circumstances, 15 hour workdays, no breaks, eating the same cold food in between takes and the only way to get through it is because you’re with family. He said he worked with incredibly beautiful and talented people and that helped getting through it. He says he keeps in touch with a lot of people, not just cast members. He said that this is the beautiful thing about this job, you get families all around the world. He mentioned that there were a lot of food battles between the actors.

They moved on to the most popular fan questions.

Who would Alex play if he wasn’t Ivar? In return Alex asked if he could pick anyone and it wouldn’t matter. He jokingly said Lagertha, then said he would actually like it. Then he said Floki because he loves both Floki and Gustaf. (insert little floki laugh.) He also said Ragnar and King Ecbert.

What was the experience like filming Ivar’s genetic disorder? Alex said it was such a challenge. Especially physically because had to crawl around. He thought it was very important to him because he studied OI for his role and he said it’s an awful disease. It was important to him to make it as authentic as possible and show the struggles people who have that disease go through every day. Tommy said that people really appreciated the honesty that Alex brought to that portion of the character and he saw a lot of comments from people in the disabled community saying that they appreciated seeing someone go through that on a mainstream show because they can relate to it. It’s very powerful. Alex had also received some messages from people suffering from OI and it was very inspirational and humbling. It made the experience even better because he likes that he can give people the extra confidence to go out there and do things.

The third question was if Alex would ever be interested in doing a prequel about Ivar’s life. Alex said that he would want to. He jokingly said: “Why not? if the money is good enough.” Of course he would because he loves his character. He also said that even though he would love to, he also has to admit that his character has been a big part of his life and he would like to do portray other characters. (They joked about a lot of people wanting to see Alex in a romantic comedy and Alex mentioned it’s not his favorite thing to do).

Is there a behind the scenes secret that people would be surprised to know about? Alex said that on Vikings they were allowed to write their own lines once in a while and that’s not very common.

Alex’s screen froze and he suddenly left the livestream, but he finally was able to come back after a few minutes. (Insert embarrassed face and him apologizing for being a technical disaster).

He continued about writing their own lines. They really had a say in their own lines and character’s storylines and that was amazing. It helped getting a better sense of understanding characters.

Tommy asked him if he had a favorite line or scene that he’s written. Alex told about the scene where Hvitserk and Ivar meet each other again in season 6 after being separated for a long time. Marco and himself wrote the tiny scene together where they sit together next to the river where Ivar says to Hvitserk: “You look like shit” and Hvitserk replies with “I feel like it.” Followed by “What are you wearing?” Alex loves that little moment because after everything it brings them straight back to their original relationship.

The last fan question was actually not a question, it was a happy early birthday! Tommy asked Alex how he would celebrate and what he would like for his birthday. Alex answered the question with Less COVID and peace in the world. It’s really the time to stick together. He can talk about it and use his platform but that’s all he himself can do. He said he’s happy and priveleged, everything is good. Copenhagen is opening up. Because cafe’s are opening up again he can go out to have lunch and a beer. But there are so much places around the world where circumstances are horrible and it would make him happy if everyone could get a little closer together. Tommy agreed that it was an important message to put out there.

They joked about his band again, Alex not committing to putting anything out. Alex said it’s absolutely noted. He also jokingly said he would tell his bandmates that they should put out some originals.

They spoke about Alex’s photography. Alex said it’s a side thing and a hobby, a way for him (when on set) to relax and focus his mind on something else. He also thinks it’s so much fun to capture moments. He likes to capture moments in front and behind the camera, that’s what photography for him is about. Capturing moments and telling stories. It’s a pleasure to bring his camera on set because he can capture so many different things. He likes to keep doing it. He also said he’s working on a photography book but he wants to wait with releasing it until he has enough good material from a lot of different projects to include.

Finally Tommy asked him what he would like to say to everyone who tuned in and who stood by him for all these years. Alex answered with: “Thank you very much for all the support throughout the years, he literally couldn’t have done it without you [the fans] because that’s why they keep doing another season and another episode. Because you tune in every single week and do that for several years. It’s all for the fans. Sure they do it for themselves but in the end it’s all for you and they are proudly trying to make it as good as possible because of you, and because you are watching. Thank you for doing that.”

#interviews #instagram #live #alex høgh andersen

25 notes · View notes

annewritesfic · 4 years ago

Text

Happy Endings Don’t Exist

i sat down and worked on this for the last FIVE HOURS y’all better appreciate it

based on chapters 4, 6, 9, and 10 of scarlet by marissa meyer

tw: mentions of gun, knives, blood, attempted murder... i think that’s it but lemme know if i missed anything

word count: 7266

The incarceration of Captain Farrah Thorne had gotten off to a rocky start.

(Farrah was fully aware, of course, that technically she’d been only a cadet when she’d gone on the run, but captain just sounded better.)

After the soap rebellion, Farrah had been put in solitary confinement, but she’d managed to sweet talk one of the guards into giving her their port screen. It was honestly probably because the guard thought Farrah was an idiot and wouldn’t be able to do anything with it, but no matter the reason, Farrah was now sitting cross-legged on her bed, fidgeting with the port screen.

Of course, the guard was right about Farrah not being able to do anything with the port screen.

She’d had it for several hours now and still hadn’t accessed her comms, any news feeds, or anything else useful. Looking up “how to break out of a high-security prison using only a port screen” probably wouldn’t get her anywhere, so now she was just absentmindedly entering the names of people she used to know, wondering where they were now.

The cell was painfully, obviously quiet, but slowly, Farrah noticed the sound of what almost seemed like a drill, coming from the ceiling. She looked up and briefly scanned the room, but there wasn’t much to see - the same plain, shiny white walls. If the prison was remodeling, Farrah hoped her cell was next.

The drill noise suddenly came louder, clearly directly above Farrah’s cell, and she watched curiously as one of the ceiling tiles was removed and someone jumped down, landing in a crouch and facing the wall opposite Farrah. The someone had messy brown hair tied in a ponytail, a crumpled white prison uniform, and one bare foot… and one metal foot. In fact, Farrah realized that the person’s left hand was plated with metal, too, and one finger had a screwdriver sticking out of the tip.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly. The cyborg jumped and slipped, turning to look at Farrah. “It seems you’ve stumbled into the wrong jail cell. Do you need directions to get back to yours?”

The cyborg narrowed her eyes at Farrah. “What…?”

Farrah smiled charmingly.

“These cells aren’t supposed to be occupied,” the cyborg said. Her voice was a little bit hoarse, like they hadn’t spoken in awhile.

“Special circumstances.”

“You’re not a murderer, are you?”

“Stars, no.” Farrah popped her collar proudly. “I started a riot in the yard. We were protesting the soap.”

The cyborg stared at her.

“The soap,” Farrah said again. “It’s way too drying. I have sensitive skin.”

“Huh,” the cyborg said, turning away. They stood up and kicked the fallen floor tile to the side, looking around, then knocked the side of her head with the heel of their human hand. “Stupid, stupid… one room off.”

Farrah watched them press a hand against the wall and blink a few times, like there was something stuck in their eye. “You’re escaping, aren’t you?”

“Not at this very moment, but that is the general idea, yes.” The cyborg sighed frustratedly, then spotted the port screen in Farrah’s hand. “Hey, what model is that?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Farrah said honestly.

The cyborg crossed the room and snatched it out of her hand. “I need your vid cable.”

“My what?”

“Your vid cable. Mine’s on the fritz.” The cyborg sat cross-legged in the center of the room, port screen in her lap. Farrah realized that the screwdriver in their metal hand was a drill, and she watched curiously as the cyborg used it to remove the back panel and pulled out a yellow wire. She kicked the port screen aside and reached up to the back of their neck, unlatching a panel there. After a moment of fidgeting, the cyborg pulled out a blackened wire and then replaced it with the yellow one from Farrah’s port screen. She tossed the blackened wire aside and sighed, a brief smile crossing their lips. “Ugh, that’s so much better.”

Farrah picked up the port screen, mind whirling. “You have a port screen in your head?”

“Something like that.” The cyborg began running a hand across the wall. Farrah watched her pry one of the panels off the wall, and tried to make small talk, but the cyborg ignored her.

“When they locked you up, didn’t they think that maybe there were some… security weaknesses with you?” Farrah asked.

The cyborg sighed, sitting back on their heels and blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “There weren’t. The hand is new.” They stared at the open wall for a moment, thinking.

“You wouldn’t happen to be convicted of breaking and entering?” Farrah said, only half joking.

The cyborg rolled her eyes. “If you really have to know, two counts of treason, resisting arrest, and unlawful use of biolectricity. Oh, and illegal immigration, but I kind of think that’s a little excessive.”

Farrah squinted at her. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“How the hell-”

“It’s really complicated and I don’t wanna talk about it,” the cyborg snapped.

“O-kay.” Farrah sat back. “By the way, what’s your name?”

No response. The cyborg kept doing… whatever they were doing behind the panel.

“I’m Captain Farrah Thorne,” she said. “Most people call me Thorne, though. Or Captain. Or Captain Thorne-”

“Kate,” the cyborg said. “Just Kate.”

“Wonderful to make your acquaintance!” Farrah smiled brightly. “Are you in need of an accomplice? Because I happen to be a criminal mastermind-”

“Go away.”

“Um.” Farrah looked around the small, one-room cell. “Where?”

Kate closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then kept working.

“What’s your plan for when you get out?” Farrah asked.

“The most direct route out of the city is north,” Kate muttered. White flecks of plastic from the wall dusted their dark hair, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, my poor, sweet, naive little convict,” Farrah tutted. “That’s exactly what they’ll be expecting from you!”

“Please stop distracting me.”

“We might be able to help each other!”

“Leave me alone.”

“I have a ship.”

Kate actually looked at her.

“A spaceship,” Farrah said in a sing-song voice.

“A spaceship,” Kate repeated doubtfully.

“Yep!”

The cyborg paused, as if reading something on the wall behind Farrah. “It wouldn’t happen to be a stolen ship from the American Republic?”

“Yeah, how did you…” Farrah trailed off, then grinned and tapped the side of her head. “Port screen in the head?”

“The Republic hasn’t found the ship yet?”

“Nope. At least, I hope not. Stripped the tracking equipment, and it’s hiding in a warehouse over by the plague quarantines.” Farrah raised an eyebrow. “So? Need that accomplice?”

Kate said nothing and turned back to the wall.

“You look exhausted,” Farrah commented. “Need a back rub?”

Kate jolted upwards with a growl and whipped around to face Farrah. “Please, just-- just stop talking. Leave me alone.”

Farrah gasped a little and fell back against the wall, mind whirling. Kate’s image wavered just a bit, like heat in a desert, and Farrah’s heartbeat sped up, her head filling with thoughts of worship and devotion and surrender.

She was beautiful. Divine. Perfect.

“All right,” Farrah said slowly. “Anything you’d like.” She turned to face away from Kate, eyes watering, and the silence settled over both of them. Farrah and the cyborg, prison mate, goddess.

FARRAH THORNE

ID #0082688359

BORN 4 JUNE 106 T.E., AMERICAN REPUBLIC

FF 437 MEDIA HITS, REVERSE CHRON

POSTED 12 JAN 126 T.E.: EX-AIR FORCE CADET, FARRAH THORNE, HAS BEEN CONVICTED AND SENTENCED TO A SIX-YEAR PRISON SENTENCE AT THE END OF A SPEEDY TWO-WEEK TRIAL…

The green text scrolled across Kate’s vision without prompting, showing them a detailed record of the crimes of the annoying convict sitting just ten feet away. Despite only having turned twenty a few months ago, Farrah Thorne was guilty of one count of military desertion, two counts of international theft, one count of attempted theft, six counts of handling stolen goods, and one count of theft of government property.

“Government property” didn’t seem to do justice to the fact that Farrah Thorne had stolen a spaceship from the American Republic military. The spaceship she was so proud of.

She was currently about six months into her six year sentence in the Eastern Commonwealth (for attempted theft of a second-era jade necklace), but she was also wanted in Australia and, of course, America, and after this sentence was completed, would be standing trial and serving time in those countries as well.

Kate didn’t pause their work to think, even though her mind was racing. Escaping from prison was one thing, but could she really aid the escape of this actual, real criminal, in a stolen spaceship?

It’s a whole lot harder to find a criminal in space than on Earth, their mind tempted. Kate scowled and shoved away the thought.

Behind them, Farrah Thorne sat on the little white cot, chin resting in both hands, staring at the wall. Kate only risked half a glance back every few minutes - just looking at her made them feel guilty.

Leave me alone.

The words had tasted like fire, like ashes and burning and smoke. That heat had spread through Kate’s veins again - not as painful as it had been at the ball, but still not comfortable, either. She was pretty sure that using her gift - a genetic trait Lunars were born with that allowed them to sense and manipulate the biolectricity of other living creatures - wasn’t supposed to burn like that, but it was probably just a side effect of using it again for the first time in years. Probably for the first time ever, really. Kate didn’t know much about the Lunar gift, but it seemed unlikely that a three year old would be able to control it, and she’d only lived on Luna until they were that old.

Thirteen years ago, though, Queen Levana had tried to murder Princess Selene.

She’d tried to murder Kate.

By some miracle, Kate had survived and was smuggled down to Earth, and now thirteen years later, the lost Lunar princess was kneeling in a jail cell, white flakes of plastic decorating her white prison jumpsuit, the drill implanted in their metal hand helping her break out of New Beijing prison.

Literally, what the fuck?

Dr Erland had figured it out weeks ago, but had only decided to tell them less than twenty four hours ago, after Levana had recognized them at the annual peace ball and threatened war if Kate wasn’t immediately thrown in jail for being an illegal Lunar emigrant. Dr Erland had decided that was the perfect time to pay Kate a visit, give her a new foot (seeing as theirs had fallen off on the palace steps), a fancy new cyborg hand with the latest attachments, the biggest shock of her entire life, and instructions to meet him in Africa. Right. Easy-peasy. Break out of a high-security prison and meet a crazy doctor in Africa.

Kate risked another glance back at Farrah, still sitting on the cot with that dazed smile. A spaceship would make it easier to get to Africa…

Still, just looking at Farrah brought back that flash of guilt, and Kate had to turn away.

She hadn’t meant to use their gift on Farrah. They were still learning how to use it. It took three tries to convince a guard to move her to a more convenient cell, and shutting Farrah up had been completely on accident - she’d just wanted Farrah to stop talking for ten seconds, and the heat of their gift had surged from the base of her neck and spread to her fingertips and leaked into her voice, prompting Farrah to do…

To do exactly what Kate wanted her to do.

It hadn’t felt good. It made Kate feel awful and guilty and like the worst person on Earth - stars, how could Lunars stand having this gift, let alone love it the way they did?

I don’t want to have this gift. I don’t want to be Lunar.

I just… wanna be the old me again.

Kate pushed away their spiraling thoughts and stood up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Farrah looked up at them with wide eyes, sitting up eagerly.

“I’m sorry I manipulated you,” Kate said, the words coming out a little bit jumbled. They tried again, slower this time. “It was an abuse of power and it wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

Farrah frowned. “Are you the same person who was just here?”

“Yeah…?”

“Oh.” Farrah looked her up and down. “You seemed a whole lot prettier before.”

A little bit of Kate’s guilt faded away. “Listen, Cadet-”

“Captain,” Farrah corrected.

“Cadet,” Kate repeated forcefully. “You can come with me if we make it to your ship, and if you try not to talk so much.”

Farrah eagerly stood up, almost losing her balance for a moment. “Sick!”

Kate glanced back at the hole they’d created, having found the entrance to the air ducts. “So this ship of yours is the one you stole from the American Republic, right?”

“I prefer borrowed. They didn’t exactly have proof I wasn’t gonna give it back.”

Kate immediately began to regret this.

“And you’re sure the ship isn’t traceable?” they asked.

“Of course I’m sure.” Farrah tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I told you, I removed all the tracking equipment immediately.”

“Oh, that reminds me.” Kate held up her left hand and ejected the stiletto knife in the thumb. “We need to remove your ID chip. Hope you’re not squeamish.”

Farrah’s eyes widened, but she closed her eyes and held her wrist out. “Please try not to hit anything important, okay?”

Kate quickly removed the ID chip and tossed it aside, then cut a strip of cloth from Farrah’s sleeve for her to wrap around the wound. There was already a scar there, probably from where she’d cut out her ID chip the last time she’d been on the run.

Farrah pressed the cloth against the cut on her wrist and grinned at Kate. “Is it just me, or is this a big moment in our relationship?”

Kate glared at her. “Do not make me regret this.”

The air duct was cramped and hot and uncomfortable. Kate’s metal leg scraped against the bottom of it every time they crawled forward. Farrah, to her credit, stayed quiet, but Kate was so agitated that even just her breathing was annoying. Any sound ran the risk of getting them caught. Honestly, it was a surprise they hadn’t already been caught.

Kate checked the clock in her head. She’d left their cell thirty two minutes ago.

The prison blueprint glowed brightly on the retina display over the dark air duct, a tiny blue dot representing Kate and displaying where exactly they were - and with Farrah in tow.

Stars, Kate had to sneak both of them out safely. This was going to be hard enough on their own, how was she supposed to get both of them out?

You could glamour her.

Kate bit their lip. That was true… she could convince Farrah that she wanted to tell them exactly where her ship was, then make her decide that she didn’t want to come after all. Farrah wouldn’t have a choice but to listen.

“You good?” Farrah asked softly.

Kate shook her head just a tiny bit. No, they wouldn’t glamour her. Not again. She’d made it sixteen years just fine without a Lunar gift, and they’d be fine without it now.

“I’m fine, just… checking the blueprint,” she whispered back to Farrah. “Almost there.”

“Bluepri- ohhh, port screen-”

“In my head, yes.” Kate rounded the corner and saw a grate just a few feet ahead, casting a checkered square of light into the duct. “Okay, that’s it.”

Slowly, carefully, Kate crawled over the grate and then awkwardly turned around so both of them could look down. Below was a loading dock, where food and other supplies were brought in for the prisoners, and almost directly below the grate, a storm drain, exactly where Kate’s blueprint promised it would be. The drop was a full story, and there was concrete below, but besides that, this was almost going to be easy.

“The exit ramp should be that way,” Farrah whispered, pointing.

Kate shook their head. “No, we’ve got to get into that storm drain.”

“We’re going through the sewer?”

“What, did you think we’d just walk to your ship in broad daylight wearing bright white prison uniforms?” Kate rolled their eyes. “The sewer is our only way out.”

Farrah started to reply, but the sound of voices below made both of them duck away from the grate, out of sight.

“I didn’t see her dancing with the cyborg, my sister did. Her dress was soaking wet and wrinkled like a garbage bag.”

“But why would the empress dance with a cyborg? And then for them to go off and attack the Lunar queen like that… no way. Your sister was seeing things. I bet she was just some crazy who wandered in off the street, bitter over some cyborg injustice or whatever.”

The conversation cut off at the sound of a delivery ship. Kate bit their tongue at the voices shit-talking them and dared to peek over the grate again. The delivery ship passed by below, backing towards the loading bay and coming to a stop directly below where Kate and Farrah crouched in the duct. Kate took advantage of the noise and unscrewed the grate’s screws, then Farrah carefully lifted it up and to the side. Kate ignored the way their heart was thundering and carefully moved lower, looking down to get a better view, and saw, just a foot away, a rotating camera.

Kate jerked back up and crouched lower automatically, her retina display recommending deep breaths to calm down. The camera wasn’t facing their direction, thank God, but between the camera and the delivery workers unloading below, there was no way they’d make it to the storm drain undetected. And every second brought the risk of a guard discovering their empty cells - twice as many empty cells as Kate had planned to leave behind.

They made a decision and, without leaving time to question it, slowly and carefully reached their cyborg hand out, palm flat against the ceiling, and felt around for a moment before finding the camera’s lens. The plastic crushed easily in her bionic fist, the crunching noise terrifyingly loud.

“What the hell was that?” Farrah hissed.

“Camera.” Kate listened for a moment, but none of the workers below seemed to have noticed. “Time to go. We probably only have a few seconds before they realize they’re missing a camera.” Kate took a deep breath, pulled herself over the edge, and dropped down onto the roof of the delivery ship. Farrah followed.

Kate’s metal leg clanged loudly against the roof of the ship, and the whole thing shook on both impacts, immediately drawing the attention of all three workers. For a moment, the five of them just stared at each other, but then one of the workers reached for the port screen on his belt.

Kate focused for a moment, and the man’s hand never reached his port screen, hovering in the air just above it instead.

“Don’t,” they hissed, pushing away the guilt. The fire began to spread through her body again, but they ignored it, mind whirling.

Turn around.

They did.

Close your eyes.

They did.

Cover your ears.

They did.

Hum.

They did.

Farrah gaped at Kate. “What are they doing?”

“Obeying,” Kate muttered over the buzz of the humming. Hopefully that would keep them from hearing the storm drain open and realizing where the two escaping convicts had gone, and that was the only thought that kept Kate from releasing them, even as the guilt and the hatred of this stupid goddamn gift began to spread alongside the fire.

The fall into the storm drain was about as far as the fall onto the ship, but this time, Kate almost gagged at the sensation of the oily water against their bare foot. She envied Farrah’s shoes as she landed beside them, replacing the grate, and then they both turned to the round concrete tunnel beside them. It was only waist height and stunk like garbage and mildew, but Kate set their jaw and crawled into it.

“Ew, oh my God, that’s disgusting! Get it off me!”

Kate nearly slipped in their haste to turn around and look back at Farrah, who was jumping and squirming in the cramped tunnel, shrieking. Kate’s embedded flashlight flicked upward to the ceiling, and the cluster of cockroaches made her shudder, but they turned away and kept going.

“A cockroach won’t kill you,” they called.

“It’s in my fucking uniform-”

“Be quiet, there’s a manhole up ahead.”

“And we’re exiting through that manhole, right?”

Kate scoffed.

The idea of a cockroach in their shirt did make her shiver a bit, but Farrah’s squeamishness wasn’t as important as the map of the sewer system overlaid on top of their vision, guiding her to the warehouse where Farrah swore her ship was.

Plus, Kate was walking through ankle-deep sludge with one bare foot. That was easily worse than a thousand cockroaches.

“Wait, what's that noise?” Farrah asked.

“The combined main line,” Kate answered just as the worst stench Kate had ever had the displeasure of experiencing reached them.

“Aces and spades,” Farrah said, choking. “That had better not be what I think it is.”

“We’re not just gonna be walking through surface water runoff soon,” Kate said simply.

“You’re joking. For the love of fuck, tell me you’re joking.”

Despite the stench, Kate smirked.

That smirk didn’t last long as the stink got worse. They both took shallow breaths, but Farrah had her shirt over her nose by the time they reached the sewer connection. Kate’s flashlight washed across the edge of a concrete wall, then against the metal grate on the far edge. It was stable enough for maintenance workers, although unfortunately covered in rat droppings - although the rat droppings were easily preferable to the churning, brown, two-meter river of sludge between them and the grate. Kate hadn’t eaten since before leaving the apartment building before the ball, which was the only reason she didn’t vomit from the stench.

“Alright, ready?” She inched closer to the edge. “The faster we do this, the faster it’s over with.”

“Wait- no, no, what the hell are you doing?”

“What do you think?”

Farrah almost backed up against the wall, but thought better of it when she felt the slime there. “I’m not walking through that. Don’t you have some sort of gadget in that fancy hand of yours that could get us across?”

Kate rolled their eyes and glared. “Oh, wow, thanks for reminding me about my grappling hook.”

The water, thankfully, only went up to their thighs, but Kate still barely managed not to gag as they crossed, the current surprisingly strong against her legs. Something squished under her foot, and Kate almost screamed. Thankful for the weight of her metal leg keeping them from losing her balance, Kate made it to the other side and crawled up onto the grate, still taking shallow breaths even as they began to get light headed.

“Okay,” they shouted across to Farrah. “You either cross, or you can go back and serve the rest of your sentence, but you have to decide right now.”

Farrah gulped, staring at Kate’s legs. They risked a glance down and pushed away the wave of nausea at the way the stark white pants now clung, greenish-brown and sopping wet, to their legs.

“Are you coming?” Kate shouted.

Farrah scrunched her face up and muttered a series of creative curses, then lowered herself into the sewage and trudged across, still muttering curses the entire time. She finally made it to the grate and heaved herself up beside Kate, glaring daggers. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“That’s what you get for complaining about the soap,” Kate said lightly. “Which way?”

Farrah pressed her lips together, thinking. “It was near the old Beihai Park, whichever way that was.”

“You mean we didn’t have to cross that river?”

Farrah’s eyes widened. “What?”

Kate smirked again. “Only messing with you. C’mon, this way.”

“How long have we been walking?” Farrah asked as they started down the tunnel. “Feels like hours.”

Kate checked her internal clock. “Twelve minutes.”

“Bullshit.”

Kate saved their breath and didn’t answer. To Farrah’s credit, it did sort of feel like they’d been walking for a few lifetimes, hearing the sounds of rats skittering past and water dripping from the ceiling. Kate’s flashlight glistened on the slimy walls, and they passed another manhole before finally making it to the one by Beihai Park.

“We’re about a block away from the park,” Kate said, putting a hand and a foot on the ladder. “Does West Yunxin sound familiar?”

Farrah squinted. “I think?”

Kate rolled their eyes and started to climb. She pushed the manhole cover up and to the side, almost gasping at the sudden gust of fresh air, before a hover glided overhead. Kate ducked down below the manhole, heart pounding at the lights atop the vehicle, but then it turned a corner and the red cross painted on the side revealed itself as a medical hover, not a police one, easing Kate’s fearful vision of androids with cold, emotionless voices and brain-interface-overriding tasers. The old warehouse district was near the plague quarantines, so it made sense that there were medical hovers.

Kate glanced to make sure the road was deserted before pulling themself up and into the sun, uniform glaringly bright against the pavement. Farrah followed and replaced the manhole cover, and Kate crossed her arms, pushing down the worry about being caught. “Okay, which way?”

Farrah squinted. Turned in a circle. Twisted her lips to the side thoughtfully.

Kate resisted the urge to scream.

“You have to recognize something, right?” they asked desperately.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just been awhile,” Farrah said quickly. She turned to face down the street. “This way!” She walked five steps, then stopped and looked around again. “Or, um… maybe this way?”

“Do you have an address?” Kate demanded.

“A captain always knows where her ship is! It’s like a psychic bond,” Farrah protested.

Kate glared. “If only we had a captain, cadet.”

Farrah rolled her eyes and marched down the street with spectacular confidence, and Kate followed, jumping at every sound and hugging themself nervously. They walked for three blocks without seeing anyone, and Kate started trying to think of a backup plan as Farrah slowed and began scanning the nearby buildings.

“There!” Farrah said, pointing. “That one, I’m sure of it!” She walked up to the warehouse, which looked the same as every other warehouse within a mile, and tried the door. “Goddamnit, it’s locked.”

“D’you have a key?”

Farrah glared at Kate. “Yep, let me just pull it out of my prison issued pocket.”

She’s got your escape ship, Kate reminded themself, teeth grit. You can’t hit her.

They kneeled down besides the ID scanner, examining it. “D’you think it’s alarmed?”

“It had better be! I’ve been paying rent this whole time, and it wasn’t for my darling to be sitting in an unprotected warehouse.”

Kate was beginning to wonder if one punch would really be so bad when the door swung open.

“Thorne!” the strange man said loudly. “I just saw the news, thought you’d be showing up here soon!”

Farrah’s eyes lit up. “Hey, Alak, what’s up? I’m on the news? How do I look?”

Alak’s attention flitted over to Kate, and the smile slipped from his face. Kate kept her expression neutral (mostly, but a glare was part of their resting expression anyways) and took a second to check the newsfeeds. Sure enough: ESCAPED CONVICT. CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. IF SEEN, COMM THIS LINK IMMEDIATELY.

“Saw you on the news, too,” Alak said flatly.

Farrah coughed a little. “Hey, I need to pick up my ship. We’re kind of in a hurry.”

Alak shook his head. “Sorry, Thorne. The feds already watch me close enough. I can always claim ignorance to storing a stolen ship, but assisting a felon, and assisting… one of them-” Kate wondered if he was referring to their Lunar heritage or cyborg limbs- “If they track you here, I’m toast. I won’t tell anyone I saw you, but I can’t let you take your ship ‘till this all blows over. You understand, yeah?”

Farrah made an extremely offended face. “But she’s my ship! I pay you a lot of goddamn money, Alak, you can’t keep her from me!”

“Every man for himself, you know how it is.” Alak looked back at Kate with an expression of revulsion. “If you leave now, I won’t comm the police. And if they show up here, I’ll tell them I haven’t seen you since last year when you dropped off the ship. But if you stay a minute longer, I swear to fuck, I will comm them myself.”

Kate glanced down the street, and their heart leaped into her throat at the sight of an emergency hover without the red cross on the side. “Look, we need that ship. We don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Alak sneered and stepped back into the doorway. “I’m trying to help you out, ‘cause Thorne’s been a good customer for awhile, and I don’t rat out my customers, but it isn’t a favor to you. I wouldn’t blink twice about sending you off to rot. It’s the best you freaks deserve. Now fuck off, before I change my mind.”

Kate clenched her fists, barely containing a cry of pain as the burning returned, white hot as it spread from the base of her neck. They managed to stop the burst of electricity, white spots blinking in their vision, just in time to see Alak’s eyes roll back as he passed out.

Farrah caught him, groaning. “Aces, he weighs a ton!”

Kate fell back against the wall, suddenly dizzy. “He’s not- fuck, he’s not dead, is he?”

“No, I think he’s fine.” Farrah groaned again under the weight. “Ugh, help me, will you?”

Kate reached for Alak’s feet, and they tugged him into the building. The office to the left had two net screens with security footage on one side and a newsfeed on the other.

“He’s a selfish ass, but he’s got good taste in jewelry,” Farrah murmured, holding up his limp wrist with a golden watch.

Kate slapped her hand. “Can you focus?” They both turned and scanned the warehouse, packed with all sorts of ships - cargo ships, podships, personal flyers, raceships, ferries, cruisers-

“Hey, look, there was another jailbreak.”

Kate looked back at the netscreen, reading the words that scrolled across the bottom. LUNAR ESCAPES FROM NEW BEIJING PRISON. CONSIDERED EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. Wonderful.

“This is awesome!” Farrah said with a laugh. “If they’re tracking down a Lunar, they won’t think twice about us!”

Kate pressed her lips together and looked back at the array of ships.

“Wait… you’re Lunar?!”

“Yes, dumbass, I can’t believe you haven’t noticed.” Kate put their hands on their hips and raised an eyebrow, hiding the way she wanted to curl up under the desk and hide until the world forgot Kate Dalton had ever existed. “Which ship is yours?”

“Woah, woah, woah. Assisting a crazy Lunar is a bit out of my league-”

Kate laughed sharply, humorlessly, throwing their hands in the air. “If it wasn’t be me, you’d still be rotting in that fucking jail cell, so you owe me. And you’re already on the news as my accomplice, so it’s a bit too late to go back. You look stupid in that picture, by the way.”

Farrah looked at the screen that showed her own prison picture besides Kate. “I think I look pretty good.”

Kate took a deep, shaky breath. “Farrah, please.”

Farrah thought for a moment, then sighed heavily. “Fine, let’s go.”

Kate managed a sigh of relief and followed Farrah into the mess of ships. “I hope it isn’t one in the middle.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Farrah pointed up. “The roof opens.”

“Huh.” Kate looked where Farrah was pointing, at the seam across the ceiling. “Convenient.”

“Here she is!”

Kate’s retina display automatically began downloading the ship’s information as Farrah proudly pointed to it. It was larger than they’d anticipated - way larger. A 214 Rampion, Class 11.3 cargo ship. Two satellite podships, six crew quarters, a galley and a washroom… definitely enough room to avoid each other.

“You know, there was a time when she housed a crew of twelve men,” Farrah said, patting the side of the ship.

Kate walked around to the main entry hatch, noticing that the seal of the American Republic had been hastily painted over with the silhouette of a lounging woman. “What the hell?”

“Painted it myself,” Farrah said.

Kate sighed.

“Over here!” an unfamiliar voice shouted from across the warehouse. Kate glanced back and saw a man in the uniform of the Eastern Commonwealth’s military crouched over Alak’s unconscious body.

“Shit, fuck, shit,” they muttered and shoved Farrah’s shoulder. “C’mon, time to get out of here, let’s go.”

Farrah turned to the hatch and cleared her throat. “Alright, Rampion. Code word: Captain is queen. Open hatch.”

Nothing happened. The hatch stayed stubbornly closed. Kate started to panic.

“Captain is queen,” Farrah said again. “Captain is queen! Rampion, it’s me! Captain Thorne! What the hell-”

“Shh,” Kate said quickly, pressing up against the hull of the ship. Just on the other side, soldiers with searchlights had begun making their way through the warehouse, combing it for them.

“Maybe the power cell is dead,” Kate thought aloud.

“But it’s just been sitting here-” Farrah cursed. “I left the headlights on, didn’t I?”

Kate ignored their rising panic. “Maybe it’s the auto-control system? I’ve never worked on anything bigger than a podship, but I doubt it’s that different.” They put a hand on Farrah’s shoulder. “Stay here and keep trying to get in, okay?”

“Where are you-”

Kate snuck around the side of the ship, moving as quickly as possible, the blueprint she’d downloaded a few minutes earlier glowing over their vision. She found the access hatch easily and got it open even easier, and crawled into the undercarriage of the ship, barely avoiding the wires that criss-crossed in her way. The second interior door was more of a challenge, but with their flashlight and screwdriver, Kate was in the engine room within a minute.

The engine was bigger than she was, looming against the opposite wall. Kate brushed past it and found the computer motherboard, pulling the universal connector cable from their hand as they went, and snapped it into place. The flashlight dimmed, and Kate turned it off as her power was diverted, reading the pale green text that took over her retina display.

DIAGNOSING COMPUTER SYSTEM. MODEL 135v8.2

5% … 12% … 16% …

Farrah pressed herself behind the landing gear, heart pounding in her ears. “Captain is queen, captain is queen,” she hissed, even though she was pretty sure it was useless.

A subtle hum started up over her head, and she looked up at the running lights flickering on near the ship’s nose with a spark of hope. Gears started to rumble, and Farrah rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being squashed beneath the ramp.

“There!” shouted one of the soldiers.

Farrah swung herself up onto the ramp. “Rampion, close hatch!”

Nothing happened.

A bullet pinged off the overhead light. Farrah swore and ducked behind a plastic crate. “Rampion, I said close hatch!”

“I’m working on it!” said a voice overhead.

Farrah froze and nervously glanced up. “Rampion…?”

No response.

Just before the soldiers could follow Farrah onto the ship, the ramp creaked and began to rise, blocking more and more bullets as it went. Once it was safe, she rushed to the cockpit, keeping her balance with a hand against the wall as she slid into the pilot seat. The windows were filthy, but she didn’t have time to worry about that right now.

“Rampion, ready for liftoff!” she ordered.

The dash lit up - only the most important controls and screens.

That same cold feminine voice rang over the speakers. “Farrah, I can’t set the automatic lift, so you’ll have to take off manually.”

“Why is my ship talking back to me?!” Farrah yelled, panicked.

“It’s me, dumbass!”

Farrah furrowed her eyebrows. “Kate?”

“The auto-control system has a bug, and the power cell is weird, too. I think it’ll make it, but you have to take off without computer assistance.”

Farrah gulped. “Without- are you sure?”

“You know how to fly, right?”

“Y-yeah, of course!” Farrah scanned the controls.

“We’re fucked.”

Farrah reached for the controller on the ceiling and blinked as the warehouse doors opened, smacking her in the face with a bright beam of sunlight. She jabbed at the ignition and engaged hover mode, smoothly easing the ship off the ground with the help of the magnets beneath the city. Farrah’s breathing began to steady.

Then the ship began to tilt to the left.

“Woah- hey, stop that!” Farrah shouted, leveling the ship.

“The power cell is going to die. You’ve got to engage the backup thrusters.”

“The wha- wait, no, I found them.”

The sudden jolt of power made the ship lurch to the right, and Farrah winced as she slammed into the ship beside her. A wave of bullets slammed into the starboard side. Farrah shivered.

“What’s going on? What the hell are you doing?”

“Stop distracting me!” she shouted through gritted teeth. She tried to right the ship, but overcompensated and they tilted too far to the right.

“We’re gonna fucking die.”

“This isn’t as easy as it looks! Normally I have an automated stabilizer to take care of this for me!”

Oddly enough, she received no sarcastic reply.

Another panel lit up to her right. MAGNETIC CONDUCTORS STABILIZING. POWER OUTPUT: 37/63 … 38/62 … 42/58 …

The ship settled and once again began to hover evenly.

Farrah grinned. “Exactly like that!”

The engine roared as the ship soared upwards, a last wave of bullets sending them away as they broke free from the warehouse.

“C’mon, darling,” Farrah said softly, as the ship easily broke through the magnetic field of the city and speared through the clouds of the morning sky. The skyscrapers of New Beijing were only visible for a moment before they dropped away, and then it was just Farrah and the ship and the open starry sky ahead of them.

Farrah’s knuckles were white around the controls until the ship made it to neutral orbit, then she slumped back into the chair, shaking. She forgot to speak for several minutes, her heart too loud to hear anything else, before she said “hey, if you want a permanent position on the crew, you’re hired.”

No response.

“And I don’t mean, like, the lowest rank,” she continued. “First mate? I mean, everything’s available. Mechanic… cook… a pilot would be nice.” She waited. “Kate?”

Nothing.

Farrah sighed and pulled herself to her feet, leaning against the wall as she walked along the hallway that was as familiar to her as her cell in the prison had eventually become, down to the engine room. The screen by the door didn’t say anything about space vacuums, or about a living cyborg inside.

Farrah unlocked the door and shoved it open. The engine room was loud, hot, and stank of melted rubber. It was too dark to see, but Farrah squinted anyway, a bit terrified of what she’d see.

“Cyborg? Are you in there?”

Nothing.

Farrah squeezed her eyes shut. “Lights, on.”

A red emergency light was the only one that turned on, casting a sinister light over the revolving engine and masses of cords.

Farrah spotted something white.

“Kate?” she called again, getting closer. Kate didn’t move. As Farrah got closer, she saw them on their back, dark hair fanned over the steel floor, eyes closed and bionic hand plugged into a computer panel.

“Hey,” Farrah said nervously. She put a hand on Kate’s shoulder and gently shook, but got no response. Farrah pressed an ear against her chest, but the engine was too loud to hear a heartbeat.

Farrah reached and unplugged Kate’s hand from the computer panel, and a robotic voice came overhead, the same one Kate had used to talk to Farrah during takeoff. “Auto-control system disconnected,” it said. “Engaging default system procedures.”

“Cool, you do that,” Farrah said, dragging Kate into the hallway. God, whatever the hell those cyborg limbs were made out of, it was way heavier than a normal human limb.

Farrah propped Kate up against the wall and frowned. At least in this brightness, it was obvious that they were breathing. “Do you have, like, a power button or whatever?”

Her gaze fell to the hand, a cord still dangling from her pinky.

“Aha!” Farrah leaped to her feet and opened the podship dock, then tugged Kate in between the two small podships. She grabbed for the podship’s charging cord from the wall, then paused, looking back and forth between the charging cord and Kate’s cord. Dammit, two males. They’d never connect.

Farrah glanced down and saw the small latch on the back of Kate’s head.

“Aces and spades,” she groaned. “Tell me it’s not…”

But all signs pointed to yes.

Farrah kneeled next to Kate and looked away as she opened the panel, then snuck a glance and breathed a sigh of relief when she realized Kate’s control panel hid any brain tissue from view. The compartment was shallow enough that the ship’s lights were enough to see by, and she quickly spotted a small outlet, the same size as the plugs.

“Gotcha,” she whispered, hoping she wasn’t about to majorly fuck up as she plugged it in and leaned Kate back against the wall.

For a moment, nothing happened, but about a minute later, something hummed inside their skull. It got louder and louder, but then stopped, and Farrah gulped, tucking her knees up to her chest.

Kate’s eyes flew open, and she gasped, looking up at Farrah.

“Kate…?” Farrah said nervously. “Are you dead?”

Kate took a moment to speak, and when they did, the words were slurred. “Auto-control defaults… almost drained my power system…”

“Uh, I think it did.”

Kate stared at her for a moment with a confused expression, but then reached up for the cord still plugged into the back of their head and yanked it out, slamming the panel shut. “You opened my control panel?” they demanded harshly.

“I didn’t want to! And I saved your life!” Farrah pointed out.

Kate paused and thought for a moment.

“Well… I guess that was quick thinking,” Kate finally assented.

Farrah grinned. “Are we having another moment?”

Kate slumped back on the floor. “I guess. If you consider another moment to be me not wanting to strangle you for the first time since we met - although maybe I’m just too exhausted.”

“I’ll take it!” Farrah stretched out on the floor beside Kate, enjoying the coolness of the steel, the humming engine next door, the smell of sewage still wafting from their clothes, and the sensation of freedom.

#we are the tigers #the lunar chronicles #kate dalton #farrah watt #blood tw #gun tw #knife tw #ask to tag #holy shit this took forever #this is probably going to be the longest installment of this whole series #enjoy

18 notes · View notes

iclaimedtobethebetterbard · 4 years ago

Text

it was always you (falling for me) - chapter 2

Fandom: Sanders Sides Characters: All the sides Rating: Teen & up (for swearing) Relationships: Prinxiety, Moceit, and QPR Intrulogical (eventually this will develop into Intrulosleep!) Warnings: Language; Remus being Remus; Shakespeare fans will probably hate my interpretation(s) of the plays I reference here, if the English major friend I showed this to is anything to go by, and I’m very sorry about that 😂 Word Count: 9042

Read on AO3!

My writing masterpost

start - previous - here - next - masterpost

Summary: In a world where you and your soulmate swap dreams once a month, seven young adults enter the same college as freshmen. Each of them is wondering when they’ll find their soulmate and what that will mean for them.

Notes: Secret Santa gift for sanders-sides-fics!

Chapter 2

Roman had a problem. A person-shaped problem. Specifically, a problem shaped like his brother’s excessively pretty roommate, who seemed to take pleasure exclusively in needling Roman every chance they got.

Roman groaned, burying his face in one of the pillows on his bed.

“Hm?” his roommate, Patton, said sympathetically.

“I swear Virgil has, like, an agenda against soulmates, or something,” Roman said, rolling over and staring despairingly at the ceiling.

“Now, kiddo, I’m sure that’s not true.”

Roman lifted his head to look at Patton. “Aren’t I older than you?”

“Only by a few months,” Patton said serenely. “Spiritually, you’re my kiddo.”

“Pat, that makes no sense.”

Patton blinked up at him with a too-innocent face. “If it feels dad to you, just don’t think about it any father.”

“Oh my god.”

Patton giggled, a noise of pure delight, then circled back to Roman’s original topic. “What makes you think he’s got something against soulmates?”

“Uh, the way ze rails against them at every opportunity, for a start?” Roman sat up. “We have argued five times in the last two weeks about soulmates, and only three of them were even about Shakespeare like usual!”

“Haven’t you only known Virgil for, like, three weeks?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not the point.” Roman climbed down the ladder to the ground. “Also, I feel like that makes it worse?”

“Hmm, maybe.” Patton seemed amused. “You talk about them a lot, you know?”

“He’s so annoying!” Roman said defensively. “Ze gets this stupid smirk like ze knows something I don’t and he doesn’t even seem to care about constructing sound arguments half the time!” He put his laptop into his backpack.

“Going somewhere?” Patton asked.

“Yeah, Virgil and Remus invited me over to their dorm to study.”

“Oh,” Patton said, a funny sort of look on his face like he was trying not to laugh.

“What?” Roman asked.

“Nothing, nothing.” Patton waved him away, still smiling to himself. “Have fun studying with Virgil.”

“I will,” Roman said brightly, heading out the door.

***

“I want to go get ice cream,” Remus announced suddenly, hopping to his feet. “Who’s coming with?” It was late, almost midnight, and Roman was sitting on the floor in what had been a nice triangle with Remus and Virgil until Remus had stood. The three of them had been alternately working on homework and arguing about Disney characters.

“Sure,” Virgil said with a shrug, tugging their hoodie up onto their shoulders—they’d been wearing it dangling off their body, with only their wrists in the sleeves holding it on. “Let me fix my eyeliner first, though.”

Remus nodded distractedly, looking around the room and turning in a circle.

“Whatcha looking for?” Roman inquired, getting to his feet as well.

“My wallet,” Remus said, gaze still roving around. “I don’t know where I—”

“By your chapstick,” Roman said.

“Ah!” Remus dove under his desk, scrabbled on the floor, and emerged with his wallet clutched triumphantly in one hand and his chapstick in the other. “Thank you.”

“How the fuck did you know that?” Virgil asked, turning away from the mirror hung on the door with their eyeliner in their hand. They’d reapplied it to one eye, in a perfect, pointed wing; the other eye still had the only slightly less perfect, barely faded wing they’d been wearing this whole time. It matched their black lipstick and the carefully blended eyeshadow on their upper eyelids.

“He put it down there when he was telling the story about trying to collect dried gum off the street,” Roman explained. “And the chapstick was already there right next to it. So that’s how I remembered.”

Remus nodded. “I would have gotten there in a minute, probably,” he agreed.

“I still don’t understand how the fuck you knew that, but good for y’all, I guess,” Virgil said, turning back to the mirror.

“ADHD solidarity,” Roman explained.

Remus made finger guns at him, nodding. “ADHD solidarity,” he agreed.

Virgil paused halfway through drawing the other wing on. “Oh, that makes sense.” They picked up the line again, their hand perfectly steady, drawing it out to a fine point. “I thought you said you were autistic?” they added after a moment, their face holding perfectly still as they filled in the eyeliner with a practiced hand; their monolid eyelids allowed them to draw the wings of their eyeliner wide and dramatic.

“Yeah, I’m both. There are high rates of comorbidity, and also they’re both genetic, so neurodivergence runs in families,” Roman explained, the sentence rolling out of his mouth without him stumbling over the words once or having to think about it at all. “Did you know about ten percent of the population is probably ADHD?” he went on eagerly. “It’s super underdiagnosed. Especially because of race and gender biases in doctors who diagnose it, and the misconception that it’s only something children have. I only got diagnosed because Remus did when we were little, and we’re twins, so then they tested me too. Even though we aren’t identical. It’s super frequent for identical twins to both have ADHD if one of them has it, though.” Roman bounced on the balls of his feet, tapping the tip of his finger against his thumb. “I wish we were identical, I think it’d be so funny. Like, impersonating each other, and things. We could make such good video skits.”

“We make fantastic video skits already,” Remus protested.

“Okay, fair. But you know what I mean. And we could switch places for a day and see who noticed. All the stuff twins do in stories. Twins are always identical in stories, it’s so annoying, I wish there were more stories with fraternal twins.” Roman paused for a second, his mind hovering for an instant between a not-fully-realized train of thought about the gender politics of twin representation in stories and the question of what animals were most likely to have twins. He chose, almost before he was aware there was a choice, the animals question, his emotions nudging him away from the energy talking about gender representation would take up. “Do you think kittens dream?” he asked, only a second or two after he’d stopped talking in the first place.

“Yeah, probably,” Remus responded without missing a beat, likely following his train of thought. “Better question, do other animals have soulbonds, and how do they know if so?”

“Maybe it’s a scent thing,” Roman said thoughtfully.

“Ooh, like with glands or some shit?” Remus looked thoughtful. “That could make sense. I wonder—I bet there’s answers on the internet. I’m going to look this up later. Are you coming, too, by the way? To get ice cream?”

Roman thought it over. “Sure,” he agreed.

“I’m ready,” Virgil announced, capping their eyeliner and setting it down on hir desk. “Also, I got whiplash about five times just listening to that conversation.”

“Good, my chaos is overtaking another victim and soon I shall rule the world. Let’s go!” Remus led the other two out the door and started walking towards the end of campus.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Roman inquired, shoving his hands into the pockets of his red letterman jacket to keep them warm.

“There’s an ice cream shop that’s open till one in the morning about ten minutes away walking,” Remus said over his shoulder. “Logan and I found it the first weekend here.”

“You two went in search of sweets without me?” Roman put a hand to his heart. “I’m hurt,” he declared in his most dramatic voice.

“Oh, shut up, we would have gotten around to telling you about it eventually. I mean, I’m telling you right now, so.” Remus shrugged. “Virge, aren’t you cold?”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty, so it’s worth it,” Virgil said, tossing their head so the long hair on the top of their undercut swished. They were wearing a distressed band tee and a black skater skirt over fishnet leggings and a pair of doc martens. It was quite chilly out, and even though they were wearing a hoodie too, Roman understood why Remus had been concerned.

“You are very pretty,” Roman told them seriously. Even aside from their clearly carefully chosen outfit, this was true. Their eyes were round and curious and a captivating shade of dark brown. Even with the boost from the platform of the shoes they were wearing, they were tiny. Roman was sure they couldn’t be more than 5’2” without the boots. The hair on top of their undercut was very long, almost down to their waist, contrasting with the closely-shaved back and sides of their head. About six inches on the ends of their hair were dyed purple. Their makeup, of course, was flawless, as was their golden-brown skin, which was just a little bit darker than Roman’s. He made a mental note to ask them about their skincare routine sometime; no matter how much care he treated his skin with, the acne on his cheeks refused to go away. It was his least favorite side effect of taking testosterone. “But you can be pretty and warm at the same time, if you want. I hate being cold. But I respect your decision to be pretty and cold if you want to,” he added quickly.

Virgil let out a slightly nervous laugh, rubbing the back of their neck. “Thanks, I think.” Their eyes widened as they looked past him. “Oh, my god, Remus, shut up!”

“What?” Roman asked, looking over at Remus, who was giving Virgil an evil grin.

“Nothing,” Virgil snapped.

“I didn’t say anything,” Remus said innocently.

“Shut up!” Virgil repeated, flipping the hood of their hoodie up and dragging it over their face.

“What’s going on?” Roman asked, confused, while Remus burst into cackles of laughter.

“Nothing!” Virgil repeated with great emphasis.

Roman let out a sigh of frustration, but Virgil seemed genuinely upset about whatever Remus had done when Roman wasn’t looking, so he dropped it. Maybe Remus would explain later.

Remus did not explain later; however, he did turn around to walk backwards after the silence had stretched on long enough to become awkward. “Is the ocean a soup? Discuss,” he commanded.

“Oh, not this again!” Roman groaned. “No, absolutely not!”

“Yes,” Virgil said, almost as soon as Roman stopped talking.

“No!” Roman stamped his foot. “That makes no sense!”

“It makes lots of sense. Explain how it’s not soup,” Virgil challenged.

The resulting argument lasted them all the way to the ice cream shop and halfway through their treats.

“Aren’t you going to take a side?” Roman demanded of Remus at last.

Remus looked up from his cone. “Oh, no, this is very entertaining for me, I could watch you two bicker all month. Please keep it up.”

“You’re a terrible person,” Roman told him, trying not to laugh.

“I never claimed to be anything else,” Remus said happily.

***

“—and that’s how you do it. It’s really easy, but it’s so fun, I could balance chemical equations for hours,” Remus said, bopping the tip of his dry-erase marker against the giant whiteboard in the library for emphasis. He and Roman and Virgil had all met up here to study; it was a sunny afternoon, and they’d gotten a nice spot by the window. The marker left a little black mark next to the diagram Remus had spent the last ten minutes drawing; he wiped the dot away with his finger. He was wearing a turtleneck with horizontal black-and-white stripes and a pair of faded jeans with paint splatters all over them and huge rips in the front that ran from his mid-thighs almost down to his ankles; he’d finished the outfit off with socks in sandals and a black felt beret. His outfit—vaguely artistic, but mostly just terrible—contrasted comically with the intensely technical pseudo-lecture on chemistry he’d just given.

Roman nodded without looking up. “I remember balancing those was fun,” he agreed. He hadn’t taken a chemistry class in a couple of years now, but Remus was majoring in it, and the best way for Remus to study was to explain it out loud, so he’d gathered Roman and Virgil in the library. They’d even been able to snag one of the coveted whiteboards. Roman was able to focus on his notes better with Remus’s animated talking in the background, and Virgil preferred quiet but was willing to put on his headphones to block out Remus’s noise, so all in all this arrangement worked out well for all three of them.

“Yes!” Remus agreed with a happy wiggle. He picked up his water bottle off the table and took a long sip. “Okay, next I have a bunch of molecules I have to memorize the structures of. Do you need anything first?” He addressed his question to both of them, but Virgil seemed pretty focused—or perhaps his music was loud enough to drown out other noises.

Roman, however, thought the question over. “Yes, actually, can you help me go over my lines for this one scene? It’s not very long.”

“Mmhm.” Remus held out his hands expectantly, and Roman handed him his script. Remus began fiddling with the dog-eared bottom corner of the page it was open to, folding it back and forth.

Roman dug in the pocket of his cargo shorts—he liked cargo shorts, partly for the shape but mostly for the pockets—and handed Remus a star-shaped fidget toy made of sequins that could be flipped back and forth. He’d rather the corner of the script didn’t get torn off by mistake.

“I think I’m off book, I just want to make sure,” he said as Remus accepted the toy and began fidgeting with it.

Remus nodded, scanning the page. “Sounds good. It’s just this one page?”

“Yeah. Ready?”

Remus nodded, and Roman launched into the scene. His character had most of the lines; it was essentially a glorified monologue. Remus interjected the two lines from other characters, using a hilarious nasally voice that made it hard for Roman to stay in character without breaking to laugh, but he successfully made it through the final line before dissolving into snickers.

“You’re word-perfect, kid,” Remus proclaimed as Roman got ahold of himself, handing him back the script.

Roman grinned. “Thank you!”

Remus nodded and took another sip of water before wiping down the whiteboard and launching into a ramble about the molecular structures he had to memorize.

Roman had just about tuned Remus out again and slipped back into the headspace where he could focus on his work when Remus broke off. “Logan!” he exclaimed, sounding delighted.

Roman looked up, and so did Virgil, pulling off hir headphones. Roman followed Remus’s gaze, and there indeed was Logan, his flat top haircut and dark academia outfit unmistakeable. He was stepping out of the stairwell that led down from the floor above, adjusting the strap of the leather messenger bag they used instead of a backpack. Even at this distance, the pins he kept on the bag were visible, neatly affixed in alternating rows on the bag’s buckle straps—a demiboy flag, an aromantic flag, an enamel pin shaped like an open book, and a handful of other pins Logan had collected from the university’s cultural centers during orientation. Roman had a few of that last category on his backpack himself; he knew he and Logan had matching land acknowledgment pins now, but he wasn’t sure if any of the other pins they’d chosen matched.

Remus darted across the wide open floor, weaving his way around a few students. “Logan! Hi!”

Logan looked up, a small smile finding its way onto his face as he saw Remus. He said something—presumably a greeting—but was too far away for Roman to hear, since he was speaking at a normal tone.

Remus seized Logan by the hand and dragged them towards Roman and Virgil. Logan laughed and said something in protest, pushing his square glasses up his wide nose as he followed Remus.

“Remus, I have to go to class,” Logan was insisting as they got close enough for Roman to hear. “Hello, Roman. Virgil.” They adjusted their already-immaculate clothing, the tendons in their thin hands flexing as they smoothed their mustard-brown cable knit sweater vest and tugged on the rolled-up sleeves of their periwinkle button down shirt.

Virgil gave a two-fingered salute. “Sup.”

“Hi Logan,” Roman said happily. “We’re studying!”

“Very nice,” Logan said, raising Remus’s hand—which was still clasping his own—and gently pressing it with their other hand. “I am always glad to see you, Remus, but I can’t stay long.”

“Okay,” Remus said. “I just wanted to say hi.” He gave Logan a quick, tight hug around the ribs before releasing them just as fast as he’d darted in.

Logan smiled again. “Hello, then. I hope your studying is going well?”

He received nods from the group, and gave them his own nod in return.

“You’ve got to go,” Remus reminded him. “You don’t like to be late.”

“True. I’ll see you later, dear.”

Remus nodded. “Wanna hang out tomorrow night?”

Logan considered this. “Maybe. I’m going to the Black Student Union meeting tomorrow evening. So it would have to be after that.”

“Okay, I can do that! I love you!”

Logan smiled. “I love you too, Rem.” They made as if to leave, then paused. “Roman, while I’m thinking of it—are you and Patton still free for lunch tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Roman confirmed. Logan and Patton had two classes together, and so together with Roman they’d formed a tight-knit little friend group very quickly; the three of them tried to make sure to meet up for lunch at least once a week.

“Wonderful. I’ll text our groupchat about it. See you then.” Logan tugged his hand out of Remus’s grip, waved, and set off at a brisk pace back towards the stairs.

***

“I’m telling you, Virgil, Oberon and Titania are a really good example of how soulmates can make it through rough patches!”

“Bullshit. They’re obviously not a metaphor for soulmates, why would the fae even have soulmates? Their story is a cautionary tale,” Virgil said languidly, lying on their back on the floor of their room.

“No!” Roman pounded his fist on the floor. “Why do you always do this?”

“Because it’s funny,” Virgil replied with a snicker.

“But you always bash on soulmates, specifically!” Roman said.

“Yeah, because I think society’s emphasis on soulbonds is dumb.” Virgil shrugged. “Anyway, if you think Oberon and Titania’s relationship is a good example of anything, I have some concerns.”

“No—no, stop! I didn’t mean it like that! They’re fae, like you said. I obviously don’t condone any of the ways they treated each other! I’m just saying that viewing them as a metaphor for soulmates makes a really interesting lens to view the other couples in the play! Right, Logan?” He turned expectantly to Logan.

“Wh—no,” Logan, who was sitting on Remus’s bed and combing their fingers through Remus’s hair, his head in their lap, responded. “You are both, objectively, wrong. Horribly so. Painfully so.”

“Hey! You’re not allowed to tell me I’m wrong about Shakespeare,” Roman countered quickly.

“Why did you ask me for my opinion, then?” Logan asked, rolling their eyes.

“I don’t know,” Roman grumbled.

“Wait, why can’t they talk to you about Shakespeare?” Virgil asked.

“Because they always win!” Roman crossed his arms.

“Oh, and I don’t?” Virgil demanded. “What am I to you, Roman? I thought we had something special here,” they went on playfully. “You make dumb arguments, I make worse ones, and then I win. I thought that meant something to you.” They pouted at him.

“That’s different!” Roman protested, stifling giggles at the mopey puppy dog eyes Virgil was sending him. “You just don’t care what I say. Logan actually refutes my arguments! It’s very humiliating!”

“I only do it because your logic is physically painful to listen to,” Logan said.

Roman crossed his arms and pointedly turned away from Logan, nose in the air. “Anyway. As I was saying. Puck’s role in all of this is really interesting, if you consider the question: are the fae supposed to be able to truly alter soulbonds, or are they only messing with feelings?”

“Dear,” Logan said plaintively, looking down at Remus, his fingers still carding through Remus’s curls.

“Hmm?” Remus responded, not opening his eyes.

“Make them stop,” Logan said beseechingly.

“Sorry fellas, you heard them. Stop torturing Logan, he’s already an English major, so he’s plenty tortured already. Or else I’ll have to dissect your spleens.” Remus wagged a finger in Roman and Virgil’s direction.

“What a terrible fate that would be,” Roman commented, flopping over to lie on the floor beside Virgil.

Seconds later, his phone buzzed; he pulled it out to see a text notification from Virgil.

Virgil: oberon sucks btw

Roman: Oh, it is ON!

Roman grinned as he sent the response, already anticipating the thrill of the argument that was about to ensue. He felt a warm thrill in his chest at Virgil’s answering chuckle—it was good to know Virgil was having fun with this too.

***

“—so I was hanging out with Virgil the other day at the library cafe, and he said The Tempest was dumb because magic solves everything.” Roman was lying on the floor of his dorm, tossing a bouncy ball up in the air and catching it over and over again. Logan was sitting at Roman’s desk, legs up and crossed on the seat of the chair as he worked on readings for an English class, half-listening to Roman’s rambling. “And that since it solved all the problems, it made no sense for Prospero to give it up. Which was completely ignoring all the bad stuff magic had done and the symbolism of him throwing it away!”

“What did Remus have to say about that?” Logan inquired with a small laugh, not looking up from the copy of Frankenstein in his hands.

“What? Oh, nothing. Remus wasn’t there.”

“Oh?” Logan blinked, glancing up from the book.

“Yeah, we were at the library getting Starbucks, we do that on Wednesdays now. Remus was in his history class, I’m pretty sure.”

“I didn’t know you and Virgil hung out together,” Logan said, raising their eyebrows.

“Oh, we don’t, we just get coffee on Wednesdays, it’s different,” Roman said.

Logan stared at him. “...What?”

“Like, we only hang out on our own time to get Starbucks and then argue about Shakespeare. It’s really fun! It’s a great system, honestly. And this way, you don’t yell at me about Shakespeare or text Remus rant essays about what you think I’m getting wrong!”

Logan looked away, a very called-out expression on his face. “You weren’t supposed to see those…”

“Oh, Remus didn’t show me, I just broke into his phone the other day and it was open to your texts,” Roman said reassuringly.

“Why would you break into—” Logan began, not seeming reassured in the slightest.

“I needed to check his calendar to see if he was available to come with me to the grocery store,” Roman explained. “You know we’re really good at guessing each other’s passcodes. He doesn’t mind, we break into each other’s phones all the time.” He paused, assessing Logan’s face, trying to gauge if their expression was upset or not. “I’m sorry I read the texts, though,” he added, just in case it had hurt their feelings. “I only saw the very end of it, it wasn't on purpose or anything. Promise.”

Logan sighed. “I know. It’s alright.” He reached across the space between them to press the back of Roman’s hand.

Roman grinned. “Only you would come up with a whole essay in a text,” he teased. “Dunno what I expected, really.”

“It wasn’t an essay,” Logan said defensively. “Technically speaking.”

“I dunno, it sure looked like if you formatted it with MLA, you could turn it in for a grade.” Roman giggled. “But hey, what do I know?”

Logan opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as the doorknob rattled with the sound of keys.

Patton stepped in. “Hey! If it isn’t some of my favorite people!” he greeted the two of them with a smile. His dark, wavy hair was a little ruffled. Normally he combed it to the side, but Roman remembered it had been windy today, so Roman guessed that was responsible for the irregularity. “How are you doing?” Patton asked the two of them.

“Better now that you’re here,” Roman told him with an answering grin. “How’s your day been?” He’d noticed that Patton really liked being asked how his day had gone.

Sure enough, Patton’s smile spread a little wider. “Pretty good, thanks! I haven’t had too much to do today, which is nice. How are you doing, Logan?” He sat down on the floor beside Roman, sliding his backpack off his shoulders.

Roman immediately sat up and scooted over to lean against Patton—he was an excellent cuddler; he was tall and chubby and he ran warm, and Roman liked cuddles. He tended towards understimulation rather than overstimulation, and hugs were one of his favorite things. Patton was always happy to supply.

“I’m alright, thank you,” Logan said as Patton wrapped an arm around Roman’s shoulders. “A little underslept, but otherwise good.”

“Good, good. You should sleep more. Are you both busy?” Patton asked.

“No,” Roman said, because Patton always had fun ideas.

Logan pursed his lips, glancing down at the book in his hands in consideration. “I can finish this chapter later. Why?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if either of you wanted to play a board game,” Patton said. He and Roman had each brought a couple from their homes, and together they had quite the little collection.

“Yes!” Roman agreed eagerly, breaking away from Patton and crossing to the shelf where they kept the games. “How about Clue?”

“I will decimate you both,” Logan said, deadly serious, adjusting their glasses and scooting to the floor.

“All part of the fun, Specs.” Roman pulled out the box and set it down between them. “Dibs on the red piece!”

***

“—so I told him that was utter bullshit—not in so many words, of course—and listed off the reasons why, and he simply did not seem to recognize how completely nonexistent his logic was, he just kept repeating his original points louder and louder.” Logan punctuated his rant about a classmate with hand gestures as he walked next to Roman on the sidewalk.

“I hate guys like that,” Roman said, making a face.

Logan nodded. “But I got full credit on my discussion post when I typed up my argument and I cannot imagine he got the same, based on his talking points. So.” He shrugged, clearly trying not to look too smug with himself.

“Good job!” Roman told them.

“Thank you.” Logan’s happiness was palpable. “How have—”

“Logan!” Remus’s voice shouted.

Roman looked in the direction of the noise; they were almost an entire block away still from the quad, where they’d agreed to meet Remus, but he seemed to have spotted them. He was sprinting at full speed directly towards them.

“Oh, dear,” Logan said, the exasperation in his voice belied by the grin on their face. They took a step back and braced themself, just in time.

Remus full-on tackled Logan in a hug, colliding into him at full speed. Logan stumbled back a couple of steps, but successfully avoided falling over. “Hello, Remus,” he said composedly, wrapping their arms around Remus and returning the enthusiastic hug. “How are you?”

“Much better now. I missed you,” Remus said into Logan’s shoulder. “Normal people get all weird about it when I tell them cool murder facts. You're much cooler than normal people.”

“It has been twenty-seven hours and about thirty minutes since you last saw me,” Logan informed him. “And thirteen minutes since we last texted.” They rumpled his curls, which fell messily in loose spirals about his face; they were mostly about chin length, although some of them were choppily trimmed shorter than others. Remus was very insistent about cutting his own hair. It was always mildly disastrous, but he insisted he liked it that way. He’d dyed it himself, too; he’d bleached a streak at the very front of his head and dyed it silver about a month before college started, with a surprising amount of success.

“Yeah, and I missed you.” Remus stepped back from the hug as Logan released him. “Also hi Roman, I guess.” He tossed Roman a grin.

“You are a terrible brother sometimes,” Roman informed him. “Hi.”

“Uh, I think you mean all the time,” Remus corrected him. “I’m joking,” he added. “C’mon, I got Starbucks for us! I have extra meal credits!” He seized Logan’s hand and reached invitingly for Roman’s.

Roman let Remus grab his hand, too, and his brother immediately began dragging both Roman and Logan at a slightly breakneck pace down the sidewalk. Several students dove out of their way until he dragged them to a halt by the food truck, bouncing on the balls of his feet and waiting expectantly.

Not even a moment later, the barista placed three cups on the delivery window tray and called out Remus’s name.

“Yes!” Remus pumped his fist, darted over, and picked up two of the cups—Roman recognized Remus and Logan’s go-to coffee orders, a trenta mango-dragonfruit refresher and a grande vanilla sweet cream cold brew with extra ice. Roman picked up the last cup, a warm drink in a grande cup; he sniffed to check what it was even though he knew what Remus usually got him. Steamed apple juice with a sprinkle of cinnamon on top—his favorite as a kid and still one of his favorites now. He wrapped his hands around the warm cup and followed Remus and Logan over to a sunny patch on the lawn.

Remus sprawled out, taking up more space than seemed humanly possible for one person to fill; Logan tucked their legs beneath them as they sat beside Remus and began pulling out a textbook, a dog-eared novel, and a handful of pens and pencils from their messenger bag.

Roman sat so that he completed the triangle between the three of them, his legs crossed so he could lean his cup against them between sips and not worry about knocking it over.

“Thank you for the coffee, Remus,” Logan said, his cup halfway to his lips as he flipped through the worn novel.

Roman nodded in agreement, breathing in the warm cinnamon scent of the apple juice.

“Of course!” Remus said exuberantly, taking a noisy slurp of his drink.

Roman and Logan both winced slightly.

“Could you be a little quieter, there?” Logan asked mildly.

“How dare you.” Remus clutched his heart, leaning back so far Roman was surprised he didn’t lose his balance and fall over.

Logan sighed, reaching over and placing a hand over Remus’s, gripped around the edge of the cup’s lid. “At least please be careful not to splash,” he said, guiding Remus’s hand downwards until the cup came to rest on the ground. “This textbook cost rather a lot and I’d like to sell it back in a decent condition at the end of the term.”

Remus let go of the cup, leaving it to rest where it was, and leaned forward. He took Logan’s face in both of his hands and looked seriously into their eyes. “Hey. You are my best friend in the whole world and you mean everything to me. I love you and I’m so glad we’re soulmates. But I draw the line at stopping my annoying behavior for anything less than a natural disaster.” He released Logan and picked his drink back up. “I promise I won’t spill on your book, though,” he added lightly. “Roman gets no such promises.”

“You wouldn’t dare, you know I hate being sticky—” Roman began heatedly.

“Okay, okay. Jesus. You two are really conspiring to foil all my chaotic little gremlin dealings today. I’ll order an ice water to spill on you instead, will that make you happy?” Remus snickered.

Roman frowned. “If you must,” he begrudgingly agreed, since this seemed the closest thing to a compromise he was likely to get out of Remus. He suspected it might be a joke anyway, but he wasn’t sure about that and didn’t want to take any chances.

But Remus didn’t return to the food truck, so it seemed likely that it was a joke after all. Instead, he devoted himself to more noisy slurping, crossing his eyes and looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“You’re the tallest one of us,” Roman said after a moment.

“Huh?” Remus looked up at him.

“He has a point, dear,” Logan said, turning a page.

“Like yeah I know I am, but what’s the point?” Remus asked.

“You said we were foiling your chaotic little gremlin dealings,” Roman elaborated. “You’re, like, fucking… six two.”

“And a half,” Remus added. “Emotionally, I am a chaotic creature of spite who’s about three five and can sneeze fire, though.”

“That makes no sense,” Roman protested.

“Does too,” Remus responded, crossing his arms.

“It does,” Logan agreed. “For example, emotionally, I punch that one classmate in the face twice a week, but we can’t always embody what we want to be. And you, Roman—emotionally, you’re very invested in Shakespeare, but in actuality, your interpretations are painfully bad.”

“Hey. You talking about me and Shakespeare is off limits. We’ve discussed this.” Roman waved a warning finger at them.

“I still think that’s unfair and have raised a motion to reject and overturn the ban.”

“Unfortunately for you, the judge and jury are my feelings, and you hurt them, Logan. Shakespeare and I have something special. You need to stop trying to come between us like this.”

Logan glanced up from his book to give Roman a singularly unimpressed look. “You are preposterous.”

Roman beamed at him and made a heart shape with his hands, holding it up like a picture frame to look at Logan through. “But you loooooove me,” he singsonged.

Logan nodded. “This is true.”

“You’re both nerds and Shakespeare isn’t even that good,” Remus put in, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“I’m divorcing you,” Logan said immediately.

“Noooo, come back!” Remus dramatically grasped at the air as if reaching out from afar for Logan.

“Fine.” Logan shrugged. “Then Roman’s disowning you.”

“Hey, that’s my line!”

“He can’t disown me, he’d miss me,” Remus said confidently. “Y’all are stuck with me.” He looked very pleased with himself.

There was silence for a beat, then all three of them burst into laughter.

“I’m really glad we’re all friends,” Remus said happily, leaning back and taking another long sip of his drink.

“Yeah,” Roman agreed.

“I don’t know,” Logan said, holding back a smirk. “Sometimes I think about a world where I don’t have to deal with a pair of himbos every day of my life.” He maintained his faux-serious face for all of the three seconds it took both twins to start pelting him with ripped-up blades of grass, then devolved into helpless laughter again.

***

“Patton, you good? You’ve been kind of spaced out all day.”

“Huh?” Patton looked up, blinking through his round gold-rimmed glasses. “Yeah, I’m okay! Just… boy problems, I guess? Which is… it’s new.” He wrinkled his nose for a second in a face of dissatisfaction before smoothing his face back into a smile.

“Oh? Want to talk about it?” Roman asked eagerly, leaning forward and resting his chin in his hands, interest definitely piqued.

“I don’t know…” Patton glanced away. “It’s complicated. And it’s probably not a big deal.”

“Patton. We are friends. The main purpose of friends is gossiping about crushes.” Roman crossed his arms. “I am offended that you would ever doubt my capacity for talking about boys in a gay way.”

“I don’t think that’s the main purpose of friendship,” Patton said, but his smile looked more genuine.

“Shush, I know that, I’m being dramatic. How about a movie night and you can spill the deets in a cozy setting with popcorn? And Logan?”

“I mean… okay,” Patton relented. “It’s probably not as exciting as you’re hoping for, though, I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense. You are perfect and so is everything you do,” Roman said absently, pulling out his phone and FaceTiming Logan.

“Roman! You’re sweet, but you know you shouldn’t go around passing out compliments that should go to you,” Patton said.

“Oh, stop,” Roman said, grinning wide.

Logan picked up on the second ring. “What do you need, Roman?”

“To see your gorgeous face, nerd. Also we’re having a movie night at me and Pat’s, attendance mandatory. Seven works, right? Pat’s having boy problems.”

Logan stared at Roman with a blank face for several beats. “And… you want me there to help… why?” he deadpanned.

“Shut up, you have a nonromantic boy toy, you’re basically qualified to help.”

“Don’t call Remus that! He’s a person, not a—wait, he’s your brother, Roman, that’s worse, that’s so weird—”

“—Anyway, I can more than handle giving Patton plenty of terrible advice on his love life,” Roman interrupted. “You’re there to tell him everything I say is a terrible idea and let me throw popcorn at you. We can watch Big Hero Six. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

Logan heaved a sigh. “Fine. But you have to put your dad’s curry powder on the popcorn.”

“What kind of man do you take me for, Logan? Of course we’ll have curry popcorn! See you at seven, love you, bye bye.” Roman blew a kiss and hung up.

After his English class, Roman grabbed a burrito from the dining hall and hurried back to the dorm, making it there at half past six. Patton was already back; he made hot chocolate while Roman microwaved popcorn and tossed it in a bowl with curry powder.

At precisely seven o'clock, there was a knock on the door; Roman let Logan in and the three of them climbed into the nest of pillows and blankets Patton had built on the bottom bunk, pushing aside the bi pride flag and the Puerto Rican flag Patton had hung like curtains around his bunk.

“So,” Roman said eagerly as the movie’s opening bot fight began on the laptop screen, turning to Patton and bouncing (Logan grabbed the popcorn bowl out of Roman’s lap as it jostled), “spill!”

Patton squirmed under the attention, a half-hidden smile ghosting its way onto his face. “I don’t know… what should I talk about?”

“What’s he like?” Roman asked. “How do you know him? Is he cute? Have you got his number?”

“Oh, wow—that’s a lot.” Patton giggled nervously.

“Okay, start with is he cute?”

“He’s really cute,” Patton allowed, biting back another smile. “He’s got all these freckles all over his face and neck and hands, and his eyebrows are really expressive—he gets this really serious face when he’s thinking, and it’s… really pretty.”

“Eyes?” Roman demanded. “How are his eyes?”

“I mean, they’re eyes? They’re this kind of greyish blueish color. I don’t know, I try not to stare, especially when he’s looking, you know?”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Roman relented. “What else? Is he fashionable?”

“I—not really, honestly. He mostly just wears longsleeve tees and jeans. Sometimes beanies. He has these really cute yellow converse that he always wears, though. He, like—oh, gosh, I’m not sure how to describe it. He’s not, like, fashionable like you asked, but he—kind of the way he holds himself makes it seem like he is? He wears his clothes well, I think is maybe the phrase.”

Roman nodded. “Alright. Do you know whether or not he’s queer?”

Patton hesitated. “Um… I’m not sure. I don’t know either way. But he was the only one that laughed at a bi pun I made one time, and he wore a pink shirt and yellow belt with faded jeans one time, which I might be reading way too much into but it sure looked like a sneaky pastel pan flag.”

Roman nodded very seriously, taking mental notes. “All good signs. Anything else? Any stickers on his laptop or water bottle? Pins on his backpack?”

Patton shook his head. “They’re, like, super empty. He doesn’t really do anything that tells people about his personality. His outfits are usually really plain, like I said, and everything. It’s weird, because he’s got such a distinct personality, and he really doesn’t seem like someone who’d leave his stuff unpersonalized. It’s like he’s afraid of something, or something.” Patton was silent for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “But then, he seems kind of nervous around me in general.” He looked away, a worried expression crossing his face.

“Maybe he likes you back?” Roman suggested. “Plenty of people get nervous around their crushes.”

Patton shook his head quickly. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I think I know what the thing worrying him is. I just… don’t know how to talk about it with him.”

“You do realize you’re being super vague here, right?” Roman queried; he couldn’t parse what on earth Patton meant by that, but his curiosity was piqued.

“I know.” Patton bit his lip. “I, um, don’t want to talk about it yet, I think. It’s complicated. I don’t think it would be fair to him to discuss it with others.”

“Oh.” Roman did his best to hide his disappointment. “Okay, that’s fine. How do you know him?”

His attempt to change the subject didn’t seem to ease Patton’s discomfort, based on the way his shoulders drew up even closer to his ears. “...Kind of from a class we’re in together?” he answered after a long pause. “We’re partners on a group project.”

“Sounds like a meet cute to me,” Roman said, searching again for new lines of questioning that would hopefully not be as upsetting for mysterious and unknown reasons. “What do you like about him?”

Patton lit up. “He’s really sweet, actually. It takes some looking to see it, because he’s got a lot of walls up, but you can tell he’s really thoughtful and observant, and he’s really warming up to me, I think—he’s being much nicer to me than most people, and I’m starting to think he really means it and wants to be nice to me just to be nice, not because he feels like he has to.”

“Well, of course he’d be nice to you, you’re like the sweetest person I’ve met in my life,” Roman said, feeling bewildered by this line of reasoning.

“No, I—oh, nevermind. I was worried he wasn’t genuinely being nice for a while, but I’m really starting to think he means it, is my point. Anyway, he’s really smart—he’s so good at like, you know, synthesizing stuff? He’s really good at finding the information we need and paraphrasing it in a way that works really well for our project. I have such a hard time wording things how I want, you know? So it’s awesome that he can do that so well. And he’s good at puns, too! He tries not to laugh, but he scrunches his nose up and gets really red cheeks so you can always tell, it’s really cute. And one time I was trying to explain to our professor he was wrong about something, but I was kind of having trouble getting my point across, the teacher didn’t seem to get it, and he just spoke up and pointed out exactly where the misunderstanding was. It was really nice and reassuring of him. He just seems really protective of people he cares about, you know?”

“He sounds great, Pat!” Roman agreed.

Patton nodded, giving an excited little wiggle.

The brief silence was broken by a quiet crunching noise. Roman looked to his other side to see Logan, eyes fixed on the movie, who had worked their way through a solid third of the popcorn.

“Oh, you fiend!” Roman cried, seizing the popcorn bowl back since he was sitting in the middle.

“What?” Logan defended himself exasperatedly. “You two seemed to be handling that just fine! I like this movie! Neither of you asked for the popcorn back! What did I do?”

“...Okay, technically nothing,” Roman admitted after considering this defense and finding it to be unfortunately solid and covering all of Logan’s bases. God, they knew him too well. “But we are supposed to be doing this as a group.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Fine. Patton, he’s probably queer. You should ask him out and see what happens. Happy now?”

“Wh—how are you saying that with such confidence?” Roman demanded.

“Which part?”

“That he’s queer. I agree Patton should definitely ask him out at the first opportunity, we just hadn’t gotten to that yet.”

“I mean, I can’t say for sure, but being the only person in a classroom to react to a queer joke is pretty telling.” Logan shrugged. “Any other relevant details?”

Patton shrugged. “I don’t know. Janus—that’s the guy—he doesn’t talk about himself very much—”

“Hold on, Janus?” Logan interrupted. “Lanky white guy? Constantly acts like he’s just swallowed a lemon? Kind of a twink? Looks incredibly uncomfortable in his own skin? Growing his hair out?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Patton admitted. “You could maybe be nicer about him, though.”

“I’m sure I could,” Logan said, seeming unconcerned. “Yeah, I know him. He’s queer, I’m pretty sure he’s compatible with you. No idea if he’d be interested, or frankly what you see in him, but go for it.”

“Wh—how do you know him?” Roman demanded. “I feel left out now!”

“We met at the Aspec—at a pride center identity group. Also he’s Remus’s roommate’s best friend. They’re practically attached at the hip. I’m surprised you haven’t met him yet, with how much you hang out over there lately.”

Virgil had a best friend? A best friend here, at college? That was news. Surprisingly unpleasant news—Roman wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t like he disliked Virgil to the point of not wanting them to have friends! Of course not! Frankly, he was glad to hear the tiny emo had a social life. It just kind of stung that this was the first time he was hearing about someone evidently so important to Virgil. And not even from hir own mouth. He’d kind of thought they were closer than that. That he’d have learned basic facts about what and who was important to Virgil by now. Learning otherwise was a remarkably unpleasant experience.

Logan took another handful of popcorn out of the bowl in Roman’s hands, startling Roman out of his thoughts.

“Stop!” he yelped. “I want some, too!”

“You have more if this bag runs out,” Logan pointed out. “I have some extra popcorn in my dorm too. And you’ve been holding out on me with your curry powder.” He popped another handful into his mouth and crossed his arms.

“If you just asked my parents, you could have some of your own! They’d even give you the recipe! Now share with Patton!” Roman leaned himself and the popcorn bowl away from Logan, trying not to laugh.

“I don’t mind,” Patton put in. “It’s very tasty, but I’m not as attached as Logan is.”

“No, you have to take some, he’s been hogging it,” Roman insisted.

“I don’t mind!” Patton insisted. Roman shoved the bowl in his face, and he relented and took a handful.

“Let Logan have some more now,” Patton said, gently pushing the bowl back into Roman’s lap.

“Thank you,” Logan said primly when Roman relented.

“You’re welcome!” Patton said with an easy smile. The smile fell away after a moment, though, and he looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure about asking Janus out, though,” he said hesitantly.

“Why not?” Roman asked. “You really sound interested in him! What have you got to lose?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Patton said, worrying the edge of a blanket between his fingers. “I’m not sure if he’d be comfortable with it. I don’t—I don’t know.” He looked away. “I’ll figure it out, I guess.” He looked back at Roman and Logan, forcing a smile onto his face. “Thank you both for the advice, though. And for listening.”

“Patton—” Roman began, concerned.

Patton shook his head. “Let’s just watch the movie now, okay? Really. Thank you. But I’m good for now. Can I have some more popcorn?”

Logan wordlessly held out the bowl and Roman allowed himself to be mostly distracted by Big Hero Six. He felt better when Patton leaned on his shoulder, a genuine smile on his face as he watched Fred goofing around on the screen. Whatever the issue Patton was dealing with was, at least it didn’t seem big enough to keep bothering him after putting it aside.

***

“So,” Remus said with an evil grin.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to know,” Roman said. They were both sprawled on Remus’s bed, sharing earbuds as Remus swiped through TikTok.

“It’s nothing!” Remus protested.

Roman gave him a suspicious look. Remus’s face was entirely too innocent.

“I was just wondering when you’re going to get your shit together and do something about your crush on Virgil,” Remus said, the evil grin back.

“My what?” Roman did a double take. “I—I don’t have a crush on Virgil, we barely even get along!”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. The tension between you two is so high I’m surprised something hasn’t snapped yet. And you definitely have a crush.”

“I do not!” Roman grabbed Remus’s pillow and threw it in his brother’s face. “We’re barely even friends!”

Remus shoved the pillow aside and rested his chin on top of it, making a skeptical face.

“I mean, are they really pretty? Sure. But that’s not a crush,” Roman insisted.

“Mmhm. Okay. So what makes it not a crush?” Remus pressed.

“I—well—” Roman stammered, flustered by the very question.

“Uh-huh.”

“No!” Roman snapped, voice cracking. “I just—that’s a hard question to answer right off the bat! How do you define a crush? It’s just not, okay?”

“I mean, I define crush as, like…” Remus paused. “Huh. Okay. You have a point, or whatever. I guess… a crush is, like—huh. No. Okay. You’re distracting me. I’m teasing you about your crush that you totally do have, we are not veering off topic.”

“I do not have a crush on Virgil! I just want to be his friend! Okay?”

Remus made a skeptical face. “Sure, whatever you say. I’m still going to tease you about it.”

“Oh, whenever you find that third soulmate, I am getting so much revenge.”

“Eh.” Remus shrugged. “Like, go for it, but I dunno if you’ll have that much time to tease me about it before we get together. You know? Like, think about me and Logan.”

“Logan knew you were soulmates for two and a half years before you got togeth—”

“Yeah, because he’s smart, but I didn’t figure it out until thirty minutes before we got together. Or like. Thirty minutes before we started talking about it. You know this.”

Roman crossed his arms. This was unfortunately a very good point; the day Remus had figured out that Logan was one of his soulmates had been a pretty memorable one even for Roman. Logan and the twins had grown up next door to each other, and had been best friends since elementary school. One Saturday morning near the end of their senior year of high school, Remus had bolted upright in bed while Roman was brushing his teeth, blurted out something nigh incomprehensible, and taken off at a sprint; he’d slammed the front door behind himself on his way out and he hadn’t answered any of Roman’s texts for two hours, only to show up by sprinting back into the house and screaming at the top of his lungs “Logan and I are soulmates!”

This had prompted a lot of confused questioning from Roman. He’d learned that yes, Remus and Logan were definitely soulmates; Logan had figured it out in sophomore year but hadn’t said anything; Remus had only just figured it out; yes, Logan was still aromantic; yes, Remus was still allo; no, neither of them felt like either of these facts was an issue; and Remus was very happy.

“We’re going on, like, a date, but platonic,” Remus had announced to him that day, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m really excited, this is so cool! Who’d have thought, right? Logan and me!”

Roman had smiled and tried hard to just be happy for Remus and Logan, and not jealous of them. Particularly about two months later, when they’d made their relationship official and become queerplatonic partners. He was happy for them! He was!

But Remus had never cared that much about finding his soulmates. Roman had. It didn’t feel fair. Remus, who didn’t care, got two soulmates, and one of them was literally his childhood best friend. Roman, who’d been daydreaming about finding his soulmate since he was too little to remember, and had learned just about everything there was to know about how soulbonds worked, seemed to have just the usual one soulmate. His soulbond hadn’t even developed until he was sixteen—admittedly, that was an expected side effect of the puberty blockers he’d been on for a few years before he’d been approved for T, but he was still salty about it. And when his soulbond finally had developed and he’d started tuning into his soulmate’s dreams, they were so creepy! He wasn’t sure he’d had a single souldream so far that wasn’t a nightmare. They ruined his sleep for the night whenever he got one. It was irritating and frustrating and all sorts of bad things; he’d actually cried over it a couple of times, not that anyone but Remus knew.

But as annoying as it was for him, it had to be worse for his poor soulmate—if these nightmares were what was making it through the soulbond, he could only imagine how much worse their nightly sleep must be.

He hoped he’d find them soon. He was ready for a proper romance, thank you very much!

42 notes · View notes

blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years ago

Text

Anonymous asked: I love your book reviews under the banner ‘Treat Your S(h)elf’ - nice play on words. You have such a wide and cultured range of interests that I really learn something new. Do you read poetry? What are your favourite poets? What are you currently reading?

I love reading poetry because as the poet Robert Frost put it succinctly, “Poetry is when emotion has found its thought, and thought has found words”.

Poets are before anything else in the words of W.H. Auden, “a person who is madly in love with language” and language is the bedrock of any culture and society and ultimately civilisation. When you truly think about it, poetry is meaningless when it has been left to gather dust on a piece of paper. It is simply a memory of an idea conjured up by a writer with something to say. Poetry must be read, it needs to be experienced because it keeps these ideas burning. These meaningful concepts about the nature of life, death and everything. Every time a person reads a poem, a new bright spark emerges in that person’s head. A new way of thinking, a new way of understanding. That is exactly why poetry must be read because it is the essence of our language.

The reasons I personally read poetry, you ask? Here are some reasons I can think of from the top of my head others are too personal to reveal:

I read poetry because poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn. And I read poetry because it is what happens when my mind stops working , and for a moment, all I do is feel. This is good therapy for me as I’m not the most openly emotional or prone to displays of emotion in public. It’s just not how I was built. Poetry helps one to feel. So some poems remain so close to my heart.

I remember when I was about to go on my first tour to Afghanistan I was quite calm and cold blooded because that was and is my nature. My father - who served with distinction in uniform like his father and grand father, and great-grandfather before him - was always proud and supportive of me being the black sheep of the family as the only girl in our family going through Sandhurst and now I was off to the last embers of a war in Afghanistan that everyone had forgotten about. He was concerned - like the rest of my family - like any loving parent about what might happen. But he didn’t question my professionalism or my abilities so he didn’t give me that lecture instead he thrust in my hand both classical literature (Thucydides and Homer in particular) and the works of selected poets. He told me poetry will save your life. He wasn’t anxious about my physical safety he was thinking about my soul. For what happens during war and what comes after if and when I come home. Long story short: poetry saved my life.

By nature I am restless to an incredible annoying degree. I fear being bored. I find it hard to sit and be idle. Poetry is my balm for boredom.

I am incredibly busy and I work punishing long hours. Time is premium. People make demands on me and my time. Poems are like super-condensed stories, and are therefore usually short enough to be read over your morning tea/coffee. In this fast-paced world we live in, sometimes poems are a better alternative to reading fully-fledged novels, or even short stories and poetry gives you the chance to continue to expand your literary horizons even during the busiest times in your life. And becoming more widely read is an incredible way to ensure you are continuously growing, and learning, while becoming a more cultured individual at the same time. There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you and when I read some of those beautiful pieces of poetry by my favourite poets it's like the paper is filled with the breathings of my heart.

The most frightening thing is people I know stop growing culturally after they leave university and get on with the business of life i.e. careers, marriage and family. Once on that treadmill they don’t or can’t stop. They are unable to step off and take a breath. Poetry gives you a breather and helps you to re-centre your priorities. The more you read poetry, the greater your quest for knowledge awakens. Doorways will open inside your mind and unlock your hidden potential for a greater understanding of life. Anyone who reads poetry often can connect with this conclusive sentence formation that defines your very questionable outlook on life.

I also believe poetry allows us to be less rigid in our thinking with an authentic, personal touch. When I read poems, nothing is often straightforward. Every poem has a meaning hiding under it, but it is blocked by a myriad of literary devices such as metaphors and symbolism. It is important to be able to think more figuratively because it allows you to understand ideas and perspectives in a more abstract and possibly more meaningful way. Sometimes I find that having a single page of beautifully crafted words can be enough of a distraction to spark a sudden creative leap in my brain. There have been many times where I've miraculously thought of ways to solve a problem (big or small) purely because reading poetry forced me to think differently from the usual day-to-day thoughts required for general life.

Poetry is best read when you’re hidden from the outside world, in a quiet little spot, somewhere away from all the hustle and bustle. It is increasingly hard to do just that. I have so many demands on my time and limited space but I force myself to carve out the time and space to do this - one must try. As a rule I switch off all social media (not that I have many to begin with but most definitely my phone). The best time for me to carve out time is when I’m traveling as I’m able to shut out everything around me. Usually when I’m waiting for a flight in the business class departure lounge it’s quiet and not too many people to distract me and there is usually a delay to the flight. When I check into a hotel I feel a disconnect to the world around me. I feel like an alien. Poetry helps me to connect again. Poetry calms and focuses the mind. With poetry I can almost reset my day because it’s not just a time zone I have to get used to but also a state of mind - and especially if I find myself being unproductive too!

I often escape Paris and go into the countryside. I love going on walks, hikes, mountaineering, and other outdoor pursuits. It allows me the space and time to read poetry and reflect in peace. And of course I snatch time before I go to sleep to read a poem if I am not too tired.

The point is that I need the head space to absorb the poem and take some time to work out the meaning of the full entity. I try not swallow a whole book in one sitting, instead I read a few poems and leave the book until the next day or a few days depending on my schedule. Sometimes, you can read a poem again and you will find other meanings or pick up on information that you couldn’t see before. That’s poetry, you create the film, journey or picture inside your mind from reading the words on the page.

As for my favourite poets this is of course is a very personal choice. I didn’t read English at university but rather my academic interests were Classics and History, so I profess a very paltry poetic palate. Still, I’m grateful to those friends more versed than I to point me to other poets. So I do my best to keep an open mind and try and read poetry recommended by others or some thing that captures my eye when I browse through book stores or read it as a passing reference in a book I am reading.

Different poets and poems are discovered at one stage of life and where I happened to live in the world and only take on another meaning when re-read them at another stage. So I tend to re-visit poets I used to read as a teen and then see how it resonates now.

The majority of my poetic readings are in my native English and Norwegian languages but because I have varying degrees of fluency in other languages (because I grew up there for instance) I love widening my poetic palate. One of my regrets is not knowing Japanese and Chinese to a sufficient degree to really read poetry in those languages even if I have basic fluency in literature and everyday conversation. So reading Ezra Pound is one way in English to appreciate these Eastern poetic influences. I’m also ashamed to admit that I only know a woeful smattering of words in Scotiish Gaelic - my Anglo-Scots father knows it fairly well but even he struggles - and really I must find time in the future to learn more of it because it’s such a fascinating language (not least because it’s also dying out and that is tragic).

So below is an eclectic and random list from the top of my head and in no real order of preference:

• Homer (Greek) • Sappho (Greek) • Rumi (Farsi) • Mirza Ghalib (Urdu and Farsi) • John Milton • John Donne • William Shakespeare • Dante (Italian) • Robert Burns • William Wordsworth • Samuel Taylor Coleridge • William Blake • John Keats • Emily Dickinson • Christina Rosetti • Gerald Manley Hopkins • Walt Whitman • Oscar Wilde • W.B. Yeats • Rudyard Kipling • Wilfred Owen • Alfred Tennyson • Rainer Maria Rilke (German) • Cavafy (Greek) • T.S. Eliot • Hilda Doolittle • Marianne Moore • Sylvia Plath • W. H. Auden • Olaf H. Hauge (Norwegian) • Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (Norwegian) • Aslaug Vaa (Norwegian) • Rolf Jacobsen (Norwegian) • Sarojini Naidu (Hindi) • Gulzar (Hindi)

Living in Paris I tend to read more French poetry these days. By osmosis it helps me appreciate the French language and French culture even more.

• Charles Baudelaire. • Paul Verlaine • Jacques Prévert • Arthur Rimbaud • Alphonse de Lamartine • Alfred de Musset • Paul Valéry • Paul Eluard • Jean Genet • Françoise Villon

Poetry is an art that combines the essence of life through the fabrication of reality. Poets challenge and nourish me with their wisdom, philosophy, love and journeys beyond what used to be the limits of my own creative imagination. They push my boundaries ever so more. In doing so they grow my mind for understanding, my heart for empathy, and my soul for wisdom. It would hard to disagree with Robert Frost who sums up what poetry means to me, “a poem begins in delight, and ends in Wisdom”.

Thanks for your question

#ask #question #books #treat your s(h)elf #review #poems #poetry #personal #bio

45 notes · View notes

cecilspeaks · 5 years ago

Text

167 - Echo

Spring reveals nature’s secret That death is reversible. Welcome to Night Vale.

The worst part is not the tall plumes of smoke. Nor the destroyed cars and buildings, nor the armed desert cult marching through the streets. It is the silence. The absence of sirens echoing across the valley. The absence of help. the absence of hope that help will happen. And now the absence even of screams.

The clan of passengers of Delta flight 18713 prowls the streets of our town, seeking those who hide, those who resist. They know there are few of us left who have not been subsumed by their leader’s commands. And those of us who do remain will be captured and eventually killed. They must know I am here, hiding, talking, resisting. They must see our radio antenna, our station sign, hear our broadcasts.

The pilot knows who I am, delights in having inhabited my mind a couple weeks go to speak his foul truth. He holds out some hope that he can re-enter my brain, squeeze it tight with his calm convincing voice. I remain alive because the pilot wants me in my job. Wants me on his side.

I hope for solution. I hope my own voice empowers those who are still free to rise up, to fight back, but so far – nothing. I no longer hope to find Amelia Anna Alfaro who was always the best at everything and who disappeared eight years ago to loo for Delta flight 18713. I no longer hope that Amelia Anna Alfaro will be found or that she will save us because she is found. She will not save us.

Amelia stands at the top step of the Night Vale City Hall. Behind her is the multi-headed, single-bodied entity that is City Council. Amelia and the City Council are both fully under the control of the pilot. Amelia Anna Alfaro found the missing passengers of flight 18713, and then was enjoined by the pilot to join them.

When the pilot makes contact with your brain, he does not speak to you at first. He does not begin with a plea, with a mission, with a request or command. He first forces you to hear the lives of his passengers, innocents who boarded Delta flight 18713 from Detroit to Albany on June 15, 2012. You hear a mother calming her child, you hear giggling teenage boys, you hear middle-aged men telling each other the same stories they have told each other for years on end. You hear about vacations and jobs and families and favorite books and unrealized dreams, you hear it all until you accept the mundane comfort and intimacy of community, until you are lulled into a willingness to hear anything – and then you hear the pilot. And you hear his message. The words of his message are about nature’s beauty. The words express loving respect that all nature is beautiful. But the message is not the words. It’s what’s encoded within them, the message is that all who are not beautiful are an affront to nature.

His power of unspoken oration, of invisible influence, allows his hatred to metastasize, to become an active assault rather than an idle grumble. It is difficult to stop his voice from entering your head. Nearly impossible. I am not able to do it on my own. Carlos sits with me still in my studio. When I talk to Carlos, I do not hear the voice of the pilot nor his passengers. Charles Rainier, the former warden of the Night Vale Asylum, went fishing to keep his mind clear. Tamika Flynn has taken to listening to the audio book of Emily St. John Mandel’s bestselling novel “Station 11”, which is narrated by Night Vale’s own Lee Marvin who, by the way, turns 32 next month. Happy early birthday, Lee, if you can hear me.

I have found that Carlos calms me, centers me, silences the echoes of 100 different people, 100 different thoughts in my head, none of which are my own. If you know what centers you, do that immediately.

The streets are quiet, Night Vale. I hope some of you can hear me. I hope some of you are staying out of sight, out of reach. If you can, come together, find each other. Perhaps we can overpower these invaders of our peace, but the pilot hides from any potential counterattack, and if we can’t stop him, can’t cut out the brain of his insurgency… I believe our hopes are lost. Our end is near.

The last hope I had stands on the top step of City Hall rallying her mindless clan on a ruthless scouring of our city. Amelia Anna Alfaro was always the best at everything, and the pilot knows that. It is why he chose her as his chief strategist, his general, his right hand.

They will push beyond Night Vale soon. To Red Mesa and Pine Cliff, and to the rest of the state, and beyond.

More people are brought to City Hall as I speak, and Amelia flanked by Doug Biondi delivers their sentence, their punishment for resistance. Their fate for lacking beauty in the eyes of a truly hateful man. Their sentence is to be tied together and held in the rock garden lining the outer lawn of City Hall. Once every person in Night Vale has been gathered in one place, the pilot will make one last attempt to overtake our minds as a group, to grow his army tenfold. He may succeed with some and the remainder – will be executed.

The pilot believes in his own specific definition of beauty. He believes those who fail to be good enough specimens of nature, of humanity, must be removed from the genetic pool. Every few hours, another group of prisoners crouches before Amelia, and another group receives immediate conviction.

As Amelia stands in judgment before the most recently indicted, she pauses. One of the captured is standing in defiance. In response to this rebellious act, Doug Biondi, still wearing his asylum-issued coveralls, raises a handmade curved blade, but Amelia stops him. The one standing is Yvette Alfaro. It is Amelia’s mother. She begs Amelia to recognize her own family and to have mercy. But Amelia’s eyes show no hint of relenting. Yvette tells Amelia she always loved her, was always proud of her, but that her motherly pride was sometimes a selfish price. “You were a story I wrote for myself to tell my friends,” Yvette says contritely. “I did not let you tell your own story. I should have been proud of you for what you achieved, for yourself. Happy for your happiness. But I saw you as a way to better me. I’m sorry, Amelia,” Yvette tells her only child, and then hands Amelia a note. “Please read this. It’s all I ask that you do for your mother. Read what I wrote,” Yvette says. Without even glancing at the paper, Amelia crumples it into a ball, her face reddens, and her eyes blacken, as she pushes her mother back down to her knees. With a nod of Amelia’s head, the brainwashed and ever growing clan of flight 18713 ties up the new prisoners and pushes them into the rock garden, until every remaining person in town has been drawn together for the pilot. And the last who resist his voice will be destroyed. A rotten harvest to be composted for a more promising crop.

If you can hear my voice, you are one of the last left. We cannot see the pilot, but he can see us, and it is not long until his minions are here with me, or there with you, Night Vale. We are the last to be reaped, the last to be gathered.

They stalk outside my studio now! Climbing the walls, smashing in windows, knocking down doors. I-I can hear them in the hallways behind me. Carlos is barring the door to the studio, but I know it will not hold! Carlos, do as you promised and run! I will stay focused, I will keep my head safe, I will take us all To the weather!

[“The Stolen Century” by Ellen Beizer: http://ellenclairebeizer.com]

I am captured, Night Vale. So is Carlos. I can’t see where they took him, so I keep my eyes closed and imagine Carlos’ face. I keep talking to this image of Carlos to protect my thoughts from the pilot’s voice. The ragged, empty-minded clan of flight 18713 pushes me into a larger group of captives. I still do not see Carlos, but I see the violent hungry faces of those under the pilot’s control. I see two teenage boys who are secretly mad for each other. I see a middle-aged man who either went to New Orleans or heard about New Orleans so much that he might as well have gone. I see the people who inhabited my mind. Whose voices were used to hypnotize me, to lay the psychological groundwork for the pilot. And I hear them. I hear their voices coming from their mouths, live, in real time. But I hear them in my head too! Separate from their bodies. And I think of Carlos again, trying to stop the echoes, [very quietly] return to silence and clarity.

They lead our group. I with my head down, eyes closed, quietly conversing with an imaginary Carlos, to the steps of City Hall. To the feet of the ruthless Amelia Anna Alfaro. Ohh, [quietly] but she’s not ruthless. She is compromised. I do not know how to convince her of this, if her own mother could not. Even still immediately we are denounced as resistors and tied up with the other uncooperative prisoners, wriggling uselessly in their bindings along the rock garden. The last of those who refused to join the 18713 have been gathered together. Amelia knows she has quickly and thoroughly sorted out entire town into the recruited and the renounced. She was always the best at everything.

At this moment, the pilot emerges from the front doors of City Hall. Amelia and the rest of the 18713 look on him with awe. And it occurs to me they have never seen him in person. Only heard his voice. The enormity of his legend is evidence in the gaping maw and sparkling dark eyes of Amelia Anna Alfaro. The pilot does not visibly speak, yet I can hear him in my head. Each of us can her a personalized appeal from him in our minds.

[deep creepy voice] “Cecillll,” he says to me. “You have a beautiful voice. Think of how much beauty we can share together. Think of your voice, carried miles through the air like dandelion seeds. Spreading our message of nature’s true beauty to everyone in the desert. To everyone beyonddd the desert. You are chosennn Cecillllll. Beeeeeee. My. Voiccccce.”

I think of Carlos’ face. I say aloud to my imagined Carlos: the first time you called me, I knew you liked me. Even though you avoided my flirting. I thought you were trying to be professional, Carlos, playing ignorant, but you weren’t. you were shy. You didn’t know how to ask. And I knew I loved you.

My mind remains clear as I talk, but I see several of the remainders sturgling to ignore the pilot’s voice permeating their every thought. A few lose the fight and join his clan. He is too far from me, too far from any o the rest of us to reach him, to subdue him, to kill him, to get back my mind, to get back my town, to get back my Carlos.

When the pilot’s final pleas and patience expire, he walks down the paved path and stands next to Amelia Anna Alfaro. Then he says, for the first time using his mouth: “None of them are beautiful! None of them are nature! None of them can live!” Amelia stares at him like a star struck fan in the presence of a Hollywood celebrity. Doug Biondi, next to her, holds up his crooked blade. The angel of death wears electric blue coveralls, and the 18713 raise their weapons too, glaring at the last of us tied up a the rock garden. I search in vain for Carlos one last time, battling the sick truth that we are born and we will die alone. And Amelia Anna Alfaro raises her hand. Inside her hand is a ball of paper. Seeming confused about how it got there, she unfurls it. Smoothing out the wrinkles with her fingers, she examines the paper. There is a long silence. “Should I do it or what? Amelia?” Doug Biondi asks, anxious to get to the killing part. I now see what Amelia sees. I cannot read what is written on the paper, but I know what is there. They’re words from her mother, written in code. In a puzzle. The one place Amelia’s mind can hide from the voices, from the voice of the pilot, is in puzzles. Amelia says: “It is my responsibility to destroy that which is not beautiful. Give me the blade, Doug.” Doug, reluctantly, does so. Still staring at the paper, she pulls the blade behind her shoulder and says: “You come from nowhere, and that is where you shall return.” She splashes the blade into the pilot’s throat. I see his hands clutch at his neck. I see Doug Biondi lunge for Amelia, to protect his beloved leader, but as his arms crash down onto her shoulders, he relents. Doug’s mind is free now too.

I see the pilot convulse one final time. I see the emancipated Amelia run toward her mother. Other members of the 18713 surrounding us drop their weapons, their eyes vacant and lips white. The rush of mental agency is blinding them, staggering them. One of them cuts the ropes from my hands. I help free the others, one by one, still searching for Carlos and then – I find him. He is in the very back, the last of the last of Night Vale. Those who are free are running or embracing or helping those who are still bound or drunk with confusion, and on the ground where Amelia stood moments before, I find the wrinkled note from mother to daughter. It is a series of numbers, not words. I show it to Carlos. “A cryptogram puzzle,” he says. “I love those.” I ask him if he can solve it. He screws up his face. “We should get out of here first,” he says. “Please,” I say. He looks at it for a couple of minutes, until finally he says: “It’s a basic alphanumeric code. It reads: Amelia, I am proud of you, no. matter. what.”

Carlos and I hold each other through the town. Passing two teenage boys dressed in scraps of airplane upholstery, gripping tightly each other’s faces. We help a lost toddler find his parents. We clear broken glass from streets. We walk home.

We shade our eyes from the setting sunset, which kindles through a hilltop cliff. We talk nonstop about today, about tomorrow, about yesterday, about every possible moment, just talking and talking, because we almost lost our talk forever. We do not hear the returning echo of sirens across the valley. We do not hear anything but ourselves.

Stay tuned. Next. For a silence that is all your own.

Good night, Night Vale … Good night.

Today’s proverb: Did you know the Germans have 31 different words for beer? Well they don’t, that’s wrong, you’re wrong

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv transcripts #episode 167 #echo #i apologize for the long delay #but i couldn't load the post form for some reason

55 notes · View notes

peaceinside · 4 years ago

Text

Spinning

I have never been a writer, I have always been a thinker. I think about things endlessly. All kinds of things. I never know where my brain is going to connect to something else. On my 30th birthday, in the midst of a long covid-19 inspired depression, my life seemed to click. 30 years of being a thinker, made me see that a lot of my thoughts are worth sharing. And even now after reading that sentence I start to wonder if people will think that sounds narcissistic. But aren’t all people who write just sharing their ideas? Mine are just rooted in my unique brand of thought. And my thoughts today are a reflection of 30 years of thought behind me. I thought maybe the ones that I’ve stitched together into a coherent string can be read by others who see reflections of themselves in me. Because I see struggle everywhere. Struggles I understand. Everyone has their own story, I have come to the conclusion that there are no “normal” people. And in 2021, I realize that only few are really happy. Everyone is plagued to some extent by internal struggles they refuse to share or receive help for. Help comes in all forms, I wonder if anybody might find these words and get help to look inside themselves for who they really are. Until people find peace within themselves we will never find peace elsewhere.

My thoughts today while driving home from having coffee at a friend’s house were inspired by such a small thing. But I have come to such a stage of thinking that other trains of thought are already well explored. This blends a few parts of my views on the world and things that have happened in my life. But they all came to me at once when watching my friend’s child play outside in the sun with his friends. His child broke from the group and came to talk to his father, and returned back to his friends. In the time he had left the group, his friends decided to start spinning. When was the last time you spun? Arms out on the grass under the spring sun? But when my friend’s son returned to the circle of friends, no explanation needed, he started spinning too. This is how kids play, this is how humans play. And we lose a lot of that when we get older. Or do were? I spin with friends all the time. I’ve had cigarette friends, cannabis friends, coffee friends, gambling friends, alcohol friends, and sex friends. Sharing in vices and activities and view points. When others are spinning, sometimes we don’t question it, we just shrug our shoulders and spin with them. That’s playing. And that’s part of being a human being.

I’ve always known that there were a lot of similarities between my brain and Karl’s, Karl was my big brother, who fought a fight his entire life. One with mental illness, one with addiction. And in 2018, he lost that fight and left my life forever after a drug overdose. That’s a story I’m sure I will get into in much more detail at some later time. Today’s thought was that I know there are similarities between myself and my brother. I don’t think we ever fully connected before he died. But I’m in tune enough with how my brain works to know that I suffer from forms of “mental illness”. Bi-polar disorders, manic depression run in the family. I don’t need to go to a doctor to know It didn’t skip me. My brother lived his struggle alone, like I would have. But I got to have the benefit of the endless warning signs he left behind him while paving a road to nowhere. That’s why there is a lot of my brother left in me, because through his life, he was able to show me that whatever our family has been plagued with genetically, is something I had to carry down a different path than he did. I don’t know all the things Karl struggled to cope with in his brain. But I have an idea of how he thought about them. It’s hard to talk about all of your sad thoughts, your complicated thoughts because we don’t live in a world that’s open to thoughts that are radically different. We call it illness. And I know that he got to the end of his road quicker than most because for a lot of it, he didn’t have the benefit of someone else’s road markers. Traveling an unlit road is scary and I understand how my brother would have been looking for anyone to help him navigate. And when he did have the benefit of co-pilots… His friends just spun a little faster than mine.

In a final desperate blaze my brother fizzled out like a road flare. A flare that was no longer asking for help, but a last signal for future travelers to turn around if they happen to find where he left his car at the end of a dark and lonely road. Shine on you crazy diamond. And thanks for all your help.

#addiction #mental illness #depression #new blog #thoughts #idontknowhowtousetagsyet #willanyoneevenseethis

1 note · View note

vee-angel · 5 years ago

Text

First Day of School (Part of the Sodom Virus Chronicles)

Synopsis and content warning: This series is set in a world where The Sodom Virus has infected everyone in the world. While it’s asymptomatic in males, females eventually get sick and die unless they’re regularly able to ingest sperm (for reasons not fully understood, the genetic virus seems to bond with male DNA, but only in it’s incomplete form). It can be swallowed, but is most efficiently absorbed through the membranes of the anus and (to a lesser extent) the vagina. If you want the full Introduction to the Sodom Virus universe, you can click the #sodomvirus tag at the bottom to find the post I wrote a while ago where I gave the details.

This first story details a girl named Ricki who has spent her life up until now in a religious sanctuary where she was protected from the depravity of the outside world. Now she’s going to have to go to school in the real world to catch up on her education.

Fair warning, stories set in this world will be sort of a grab-bag of extreme and taboo fetishes. Female inferiority is the central theme, but filth, violence, and abuse of all kinds will be scattered throughout the stories pretty casually.

Also, this will be my first ever illustrated story! Which is a trend I hope to continue.

* * * * *

First Subject: Female Humiliation and Degradation

“What do you mean, I’m “Property of the high-school??”

Ricki’s life had been in a rapid free-fall for the last three days. She had spent her life in a religious sanctuary where she’d been insulated from the misogynistic objectification the rest of the country participated in. She grew up hearing stories about how females were treated in the outside world. Rape, torture, humiliation, degradation. They were treated like objects with no regard for their humanity and expected to smile and thank their abusers.

As a child, Ricki had assumed that such tales were exaggerations meant to reinforce the safety of the sanctuary, but now that she’d seen a bit of the world, she wasn’t so sure.

“There’s another cunt who lives here at the school who I’ve assigned as your mentor to help you catch up on your education. You’ll meet her in your first class.”

The man across the desk from her seemed annoyed at her presence so Ricki decided against pushing further for fear of accidentally inciting some kind of punishment. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” She replied before gathering her things and using the school-map she was given to navigate to her first classroom. As she walked, she wondered about what questions she should ask the “cunt” who was assigned to help her assimilate to this strange new world. Ricki wasn’t exactly sure what the word “cunt” meant, but she’d heard it a lot since the government raided her home a few days before, it seemed like it was a word these people used to refer to women and girls, but that was about all she could glean.

Ricki worried about her mother, the men from the government said that she had been declared a feminist and was being sent to a repository along with all the other adult women from the sanctuary. The men had been arrested and were charged with crimes as well, but she got the distinct sense that the penalty for the women was much harsher. They had told her that due to her age and circumstances, they were going to give her a chance to escape the same fate as her mother, but that she had better learn to abandon her feminist ideology “really fucking quick.”

She never thought of herself as a feminist. She grew up believing that her purpose was to be a good daughter, wife, and mother. To smile, and be pretty, and kind, and always pleasing to others. Ricki wasn’t sure how that could make her a feminist.

Well, she didn’t think it was right to be cruel to women, but that was because she didn’t think it was right to be cruel in general. Could that be it? Just because she thought women should be treated like people?

She wanted to be good, so she hoped that the other girl assigned to help her would be a good mentor. Maybe she would end up being like a big sister to her! She could only hope.

Finally, she reached the room indicated as her first class on the map. The lettering on the door read “Female Humiliation and Degradation.” Was that the name of the class?? Nerves made her pause briefly before entering, but she figured that good girls should be eager to do as they’re told, so she went in.

The first thing she noticed is that the room seemed very…. open. The far wall was almost entirely glass, overlooking a rather pleasant looking courtyard that Ricki guessed was used for leisure time between classes. There was an alternating pattern between tall, solid glass panels, and large windows that seemed able to slide up about four feet from ground level. Otherwise, the classroom seemed relatively ordinary, A few rows of neatly organized desks, and girls mulling about and chatting with one another as they wait for class to begin. The fashion sense of many of the girls was quite striking in its variety and daring. She noticed a girl she thought was wearing skin-colored leggings before realizing that she’d actually come to school completely bottomless! Ricki blushed as she wondered how common it was for girls to go around so…. on display, and turned her attention back to the lovely view through the glass wall. She briefly wondered why the windows opened from the floor, but her thoughts were interrupted by a smiling girl waving from the back of the classroom.

“Hey, you’re the new girl, right?” she called from across the room.

She turned to look at the source of the call. Whoa. The girl smiling and waving to her from the back of the room was breathtaking. So much that Ricki’s breath was literally taken. She just stared for a moment before remembering to breathe. She walked toward her and found her even more beautiful from up close.

She was tall, with long waves of cascading black hair framing exotic middle-eastern features. Sapphire eyes emphasized by dark eyeliner upon lightly tanned skin the color of beach sand. She wore a form-fitting off-the-shoulder crop top that barely covered what appeared to be very large and very perky breasts. Her bottom half was covered with what appeared to be tight blue-jeans that had a strange sort of lacing across the front.

“Hi!” Ricki greeted her new friend and extended her hand for a handshake.

The raven-haired beauty stared down at her hand, seemingly confused for a moment before understanding dawned on her. “Oh!” she said as she grabbed Ricki’s wrist and pressed her hand against her left breast, “You don’t need to wait for permission, you stupid cunt, you can just grab my tits whenever you want! That goes for all girls, by the way. Unless a man tells you not to.”

“Oh! Umm, thank you.” Ricki replied. She wasn’t really into girls sexually, but she didn’t want to make things harder for herself by being rude, so she made an effort to give the firm, perky orb a nice squeeze before removing her hand. “They’re very nice!”

“They’re fake, I used to have pathetic, ugly little C-cups like you, so I had to get pumped full of silicone so I could have a cute, little pair of bolt-on bimbotits.”

The way she spoke was jarring, both because of the insults she casually hurled at Ricki, and because of the dehumanizing way she spoke of herself.

“I’m Ricki, by the way.” she introduced herself, resisting the urge to extend her hand again.

“What a stupid name for a cunt.” she said giggling slightly, “I’m Sharaje” she said before leaning forward and pressing her pillowy scarlet lips against Ricki’s.

She tried not to seem unnerved by the emotional whiplash of Sharaje insulting her name and then kissing her on the mouth. In a weird way, the mean things she was saying didn’t seem hostile. She’d been smiling the whole time, it was more like she just casually disrespects all women out of habit.

This put Ricki in a predicament, would it be seen as “feminist” if she failed to disrespect Sharaje in return, or was she obligated to submit to her as a superior? When in doubt, she defaulted to being nice. “That’s a very pretty name.”

“Thanks, it means butthole. That’s my best feature.” Sharaje turned around to reveal that the jeans she was wearing were actually a very fashionable garment Ricki would later learn were called “Spreaders.” The middle section of the back was cut out, with the remaining fabric held up with what seemed to be some kind of adhesive attaching them to her butt cheeks. The laces she’d noticed on the front now made sense, as they allowed Sharaje to tighten the front of the garment in order to spread her ass apart, ensuring that her anus was perpetually on display. And while Ricki hadn’t made it a habit of admiring other girl’s assholes, she had to admit, Sharaje’s was remarkably pretty. Flawlessly clean-looking, lightly-tanned skin led to a tiny muscular pucker.

“It looks like a virgin’s huh? Can you believe I get buttfucked like ten times a day?”

She couldn’t believe it. Ten times a day?? She’d heard that women in the outside world were treated like sex objects, but surely Sharaje was exaggerating.

“So… umm, they said you were assigned to be my mentor or something? They didn’t really explain much.”

Sharaje turned to face her again, “Yeah, they told me you were in some kind of fucked-up chastity cult and-” She stopped mid-sentence to deliver a sharp slap across Ricki’s face. “Hey! Stare at my tits when I’m talking to you!”

Ricki was stunned, but obeyed, turning her eyes to stare intently at the perky nipples straining against the tight, plum colored fabric as she continued.

“So anyway, they thought I’d be good at de-programming all the stuff your ugly, feminist cunt-mom and her cult friends taught you because I’m captain of the bullying squad here.”

“Bullying squad? What’s-”

Ricki was interrupted by a twenty-something statuesque blonde woman who entered and stood at the front of the class. “Okay, sluts,” she announced with a serious expression, “Class is starting, so get your sexy teenage asses in your seats.” The girls scattered around the room casually made their way to desks. Sharaje indicated at a seat directly in front of her where Ricki was to sit.

The teacher’s face turned to a look of shameful resignation as she introduced herself, “I’m Miss Fartface, please feel welcome to fart in my face because I love the smell and taste of dirty teen girl assholes.” Her voice was mechanical, as though forced to read from a script. The students laughed at her.

Ricki felt Sharaje’s breath on her ear as she whispered, “She’s actually straight, and a major germaphobe. Her owner makes her act like she’s obsessed with face-fucking our shitters to humiliate her.”

The teacher went on, now speaking more naturally, “I understand we have a new student joining us today.” she said looking at Ricki; or more accurately, at her tits, “Would the new cunt please come to the front of the class and introduce herself?”

Ricki’s heart was beating in her throat, but she made her way to the front of the room on shaky legs. All the other girls appeared to be staring at her body judgmentally; she’d never felt more on display.

“M- my name is R-Ricki,” she began unsteadily. She could already see a lot of the other girls in class openly showing disgust at her name. “My stupid feminist mom cunt gave me that name… umm, I grew up in a… a fucked-up chastity cult… and that was bad? But now I’m going to try to learn how to not be a dumb feminist, and to be a good girl, like all of you?”

She looked out at the rows of desks hoping to see a glimmer or approval, she was trying to hard to assimilate to their world, but it seemed so unfamiliar to her.

A sudden voice from the back of the room broke the silence, “Hey, show us your pussy!” It was Sharaje. She wasn’t sure what she should do. Was it just an obscene jeer that she could ignore? Several seconds of silence passed. Ricki looked around to see expectant faces. She tried to go on as though nothing had happened. “I look forward to making a lot of new friend-”

“Ricki, you’ve been given a command.” The teacher stated flatly. She couldn’t believe this was real. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have been so bad. It was a room full of girls, after all. But Ricki was getting the distinct impression that the other girls were waiting to mock and criticize her most private areas. What was worse was that it appeared that one of the other classes had let out recently, and the courtyard just past the floor-to-ceiling windows was filling up with students of both genders who could easily see into the classroom.

“Are you fucking retarded? If I have to ask again, I’m going to strip you naked myself and have every girl in class fist you. At the same time.” Sharaje had a certain authority to her words that made her believe the threat wasn’t hollow.

Ricki lifted the hem of her dress high enough that she could pin it to her chest with her chin, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pulled them to the floor to reveal a rather unkempt patch of fur between her legs.

She heard a few of the girls pointedly making noises of disgust at the sight of her ungroomed bush, but before anyone could articulate an insult, an Asian girl cosplaying some slutty anime character spoke up.

“Hey, what’s that weird diaper thing she was wearing under her dress?” For a brief moment, Ricki’s humiliation was replaced with confusion. Diaper thing?

“They’re called panties,” the teacher began, “They’re not very common anymore, but before the Virus, almost all women wore them under their clothes. Nowadays, they’re mostly worn when men dress up girls in historically accurate costumes.”

“Wait,” a different girl chimed in, “Wouldn’t cunts need to take them off every time they got fucked?”

“Oh!” Yet another girl began, “Girls used to get, like, pussy-diseases back then, huh? I bet those pantie-thingies used to be, like, a code so that everyone would know that a girl was just for face-fucking, right?”

“That’s a good guess, Ditzy, but no.” Miss Fartface explained. “Actually, before the Virus, the average girl went weeks or months without being fucked. By some reports, certain women actually went years.” A few of the students looked shocked or saddened.

Ricki wanted to cover her naked crotch during this exchange, but dared not cover herself without permission.

“But didn’t they get sick and die if they didn’t get fucked everyday???” Ditsy asked.

“She’s talking about before the Virus, stupid!” A nerdy looking girl in a too-small school-girl outfit said condescendingly to Ditsy. “I read that girl’s used to live as long as men, but hardly any of them got to have sex more than a few times a week.”

“Oh my god! Did men used to be, like, super mean in the old days?!?” Ditzy exclaimed.

“That’s enough, cunts.” The teacher said, quieting the chatter. “Actually, men have always been kind enough to fuck us, and at many points in history, they tried to create societies to put women in our proper place where we could be happy as servants and fucktoys; However, these men endured abuse and harassment at the hands of feminists who believed that cunts deserved to be equal to men.”

Sharaje raised her hand.

“Yes, Sharaje?”

“How did they think cunts could be equal? I mean, everything I do is to please men. The way I talk, the way I eat, the way I dress. I abuse other cunts because it gets me attention from men. So if feminists somehow didn’t care about pleasing men, than why do anything? Did they just want to lay in the dirt until they die? What’s the purpose of a cunt even existing if she doesn’t please anyone? It’s not like girls can get pleasure without men.”

The blonde teacher just shrugged, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know. It’s true that the health and happiness of cunts is conditional upon their ability to serve and please the superior sex; and that’s been explained to feminists many times throughout history, but somehow they were too stupid to even understand that simple fact. It’s why the Sodom Virus was such a godsend. Who knows how long it would have taken society to progress to where we are today without it. And while we’re on the topic of pleasing men, why don’t we all go around the room and mention one way that our new student here could improve her fuckhole?”

With that, the classes attention was back on Ricki, or more accurately, their attention was on her exposed genitals. The teacher went down each row.

“It’s way too hairy. Some men like that, but she needs to at least trim it properly.”

“Her pussy-lips are too big, she needs to get those trimmed, too.”

“Also, do you see how dark they are?! Look really close, her whole pussy is a darker color than the rest of her. It’s so fucking disgusting!”

“It should be puffier. Puffy pussies like mine are super cute. Hers isn’t cute at all.

“She needs to spread her legs more; She doesn’t even know how to show her fuckhole correctly!”

“Well her thighs are so short and fat, even if she did spread, you can barely even see her pussy through all the flab.”

“I don’t think we talked about her cuntlips enough. They’re wrinkly, too. It’s super gross, it looks like she stuffed roast beef in her twat and some of it’s coming out.”

“It looks like it smells bad, too.”

“Oh my god, you’re, like, so totally right! I don’t want to get close enough, but it looks like it’d smell like dead fish!”

“It wouldn’t even be sexy to make a girl eat her out. A man would only make me lick her pussy if he was punishing me!”

The onslaught of humiliating insults wasn’t even half over, and Ricki was already openly bawling. The girls seemed indifferent to her tears as they continued hurling deeply personal jabs about her most intimate area while she was forced to display herself. She could barely see through the tears, but she could still tell that there was a small cluster of boys and girls looking through the window and giggling to one another as they observed the degrading ritual.

Thankfully, it was nearly over. Sharaje was the last one to comment on her parts.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t even call that thing between her legs a pussy. There’s no way it could ever please anyone. If I were her, I’d just get the whole thing cut off and sew up the hole. Better to be a two-hole whore than to make men look at something that fucking ugly.”

Somehow, Sharaje’s comment hurt the worst. Being taught that her primary reason for existing in this world was to get fucked, and then being told that the hole created solely for that purpose was worthless devastated her. It made her feel like a failure as a woman.

Ricki made her way back to the empty seat in front of Sharaje and wept quietly as the teacher spent the next few minutes explaining the intricacies of female humiliation and degradation. Focusing mainly on their necessity to inoculate against the threat of feminism. She used the verbal hazing Ricki had just endured as an example multiple times throughout the lecture.

Eventually the teacher segued into explaining their assignment for the upcoming week. “You are each going to be given two cards, one of them is going to have a fetish that will degrade, dehumanize, and/or objectify you. The other card will have your enjoyment level of the fetish; categorized as reluctant, eager, or desperate. Each of you is to sincerely live and embody your assigned fetish with your assigned enjoyment level for the next week. And for those of you who choose “reluctant,” you still need to make every available attempt to fulfill your new fetish, even though it humiliates or disgusts you!” she finished with a smile. Miss Fartface seemed to have plenty of experience being forced to live out a fetish she hated, so perhaps the smile was due to a certain sense of sadism at getting to have her students do the same.

“Sharaje, you went last when we were shaming Ricki for her ugly cunt-hole, why don’t you go first this time and show the other girls how to properly announce their new fetishes to the class.”

“Sure! But since you’re not going to be using your tongue to lecture, you really should be using it to clean all of our assholes, don’t you think? I mean, that is your favorite thing in the world, isn’t it??

The teacher’s smile faded and she stared daggers at the middle-eastern beauty. “Yes, of course.” She said in a reluctant monotone, “I’d love to shove my tongue in each and every one of your dirty teen assholes.”

“And?” Sharaje pushed with a sadistic grin.

The older woman sighed, “And thank you again for making me follow you to the bathroom last week so that you could use my tongue as toilet paper, Sharaje. I can never thank you enough for allowing me to use my ugly old tongue to lick the shit from your perfect, young asshole. I beg you to please let me do it again as soon as possible, and as often as possible.” Miss Fartface was almost sneering in disgust at the memory, but at the same time, there was no way she could refuse to humiliate herself while teaching a class on female humiliation. Sharaje delighted at the torment as she skipped to the front of the class where the blonde woman grimaced as she forced her tongue inside the pristine teen anus.

Sharaje flipped over the cards assigned to her and her face lit up. “Yes! I got the best one!” She looked out at the other girls in class with a toothy smile and even waved to some of the students out past the window to come closer to hear.

“So I know I’ve never mentioned this before, but it’s actually probably my biggest kink. I’ve always had this fantasy of getting fucked by dogs while a lot of people watch. And I mean, like, a LOT of people. The way I picture it, everybody has their camera phones out and they’re getting good shots of dog-cock in my pussy and ass. Maybe videos of me sucking a dog’s dick straight out of my butthole. Definitely get my face in the picture, and post it online with my name and ID number. I want everyone to know forever that I’m a dog-fucker. It should be the first picture that comes up anytime someone searches for me online. I seriously want it to follow me around for the rest of my life. I’m super glad I got an “eager” card for this, because there’s no way I could be reluctant, it’s just… Oh my god, it’s just the hottest fucking thing to think about, I almost came as soon as I turned the card over.”

She finished by roughly yanking the teacher’s face from between her butt-cheeks and returning to her seat. The next girl took her place at the front of the class and explained her fetish while being rimmed by the teacher. Ricki wasn’t exactly sure if all the girls were acting like they loved the fetishes they were supposed to love and hated the ones they were supposed to hate, or if the teacher was just nice enough to make things easy on them. Either way, she learned a variety of things about the strange, horrible, and disgusting acts that some people seem to fetishize.

Finally it was her turn. She timidly made her way up to the front of the class. She gasped slightly when the teacher lifted the hem of her dress, pulled down her panties to began tongue-fucking her ass. Even though she’d seen it happen to about two dozen girls before her, she still wasn’t totally prepared for it.

She turned over her cards one at a time. “Reluctant” was written on the first. Good, she thought, at least she wouldn’t need to pretend to like whatever horrible thing she had to say she was into. She turned the other card over and her heart sank. Tears once again began to well up in her eyes.

Without looking up, she began, “Hi… so my fetish, which I love, is having my pussy destroyed, and made even uglier than it already is. I want… I…” She broke down and heaved heavy tears for several seconds before she could continue. The teacher being forced to tongue-rape her up the ass didn’t relent. “I want my vagina so totally destroyed that it can never bring me pleasure. So that I can be denied orgasms for the rest of my life, and so that my pussy gets so ugly that no one would ever think of fucking it ever again.”

She tried to control her weeping while she rushed back to her desk. The teacher said that this concluded first period and that they could socialize while waiting for their next class. Sharaje wasted no time and was already being sodomized by a boy who’d been waiting outside. Another girl was on her knees letting a man piss in her mouth through the strangely low windows. Ricki seemed to have figured out the purpose for their unusual placement now.

Everything going on around her was so obscene, it was like the men in this world regarded them as little more than masturbation toys. Was she really never going to get to go back to her old life? Was she really going to have to ask people to destroy her vagina so that she could never have another orgasm? Everything was already so horrible and it was only just the end of first period!

#sodomvirus sodomviruschronicles #sodomvirus

431 notes · View notes

urdbell18 · 5 years ago

Text

Those Moments In Between The Problem with Mary’s Hair

AN: So thanks to this virus I’m out of work for the next too weeks and I’m bored out of my mind. So I got this great idea about creating a mini series to my main fic A Seed Hidden in the Heart. This is the first story but f you guys have anything that you want me to write about just message me! I think this might be fun.

Zelda loved a lot of things about Mary. She loved how Mary could anticipate her needs before she even needed them. She loved how Mary always had an ear to listen with and if anyone needed help she was willing to lend a hand. Most importantly Zelda loved how Mary was with her family, especially her daughter. Mary was the perfect parent, she was strict yet fair, fun but knew when to be serious, reliable without being overwhelming. Mary took to being a guardian to two extremes, a teen and a small child, almost effortlessly and it was just one of the reasons why Zelda loved her.

Mary had only one flaw however and that was her hair.

Now don’t get Zelda wrong, she loved Mary’s hair. Mary’s hair was soft and full of volume, perfect to tangle your fingers in. It’s just the problem is that ‘volume’ translates to ‘a lot’ and Mary had a LOT of hair. A sort of trail seemed to follow Mary wherever she went as several strands of hair would end up on things, mostly soft surfaces like the pillow cases and the back of the sofa. It wasn’t noticeable at first but over time the build up of loose hair started to become more obvious which triggered something inside Zelda. Zelda wouldn’t call herself a neat freak, she was just the type of person who liked things to be a certain way and that way just happened to be organized. So her reactions when she saw the large collection of hair on the pillow or on the headrest in her car were perfectly normal for her. She bought a large collection of lint rollers and that was that.

Or so she thought.

A month after Mary moved in Zelda noticed that her tub wasn’t draining as it normally would. It wasn’t something that she noticed at first until she came into the bathroom to brush her teeth and the tub would still be filled with water from her daughter’s bath. It gave her pause. She checked the plug and it was fully dislodged so it wasn’t that, so what could it be?

Zelda didn’t think about it again because everything seemed to go back to normal, her tub was draining like it should be until, yet again, it wasn’t. She noticed it first when she was taking her morning shower and found herself in ankle deep water. Curious, and luckily she didn’t break her neck getting out of the tub. The problem got steadily worse until she couldn’t stand it anymore and turned to the only person that she knew who could fix it, Ambrose. Ambrose was their resident handyman, he couldn’t fix big problems like when a tree fell and put a whole in their roof but for small problems he was great. He had an answer for her almost straight away when she came to him, his exact words were, “Again? I just cleared it two weeks ago.”

Two weeks ago? That was the first time that Zelda noticed the tub wasn’t draining properly. It was also, when she checked the calendar, the end of the month. That meant on the first Ambrose completed his monthly chore of maintenance on all of the household plumbing, including the tub in Zelda’s room. So the drain was clogging faster than normal and the only reason why that was that Zelda could think of was because of Mary.

All evidence pointed to Mary. Zelda never had this kind of problem before. Not when she shared the room, and thus the bathroom as well, with Hilda. There’s never been a problem with her and Vida. Mary was the only factor that added up. All that hair had to go somewhere and down her drain wasn’t one of them. So she bought a drain trap to catch it all and it was fine until… this

The drain trap needed to come out. It did its job and that was the underlying problem. A clump of hair and other things that Zelda didn’t even want to think about circled the trap. She was NOT going to touch it. She called out to Mary who came into the bathroom a bit confused.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need you to remove that.” Zelda pointed at the drain trap but didn’t look directly at it in fear of being sick. Mary looked over the edge of the tub and grimaced.

“And what exactly is that?”

“That my dear is a week worth of your hair trying to clog up my drains yet again.”

“Last time I checked I’m not the only one with hair. How do you know this is all my doing?”

“Because I never had to deal with this before until you.”

“What’s that’s supposed to mean!?” Zelda took a deep breath. This was escalating out of proportion.

“I don’t want to fight with you but we can’t have the drain clogging up every other week. Could you please just clear the drain.”

“Fine.”

A compromise was reached after that. Zelda would set the trap while Mary would clear it as well as picking up any stray hair that she could. And everything worked out just fine.

_____________________

Part 2

There were some advantages to living in Greendale. One of them that Mary cared about the most was the humidity or lack thereof. There was little to no humidity in Greendale and thus her hair wouldn’t get staticy or dry like it did whenever she was sent to camp in Arizona. That was hell on earth.

However, Greendale did come with one disadvantage and that was rain. It rained a LOT in Greendale. Their yearly rainfall rivaled that of Seattle and Forks and they were one of the rainiest towns on the east coast. All that rain led to one thing that Mary was starting to believe was even worse than the humidity. Frizz.

When spring hit Greendale there were two things that Mary could count on, her allergies and frizz. Both things were manageable. She had her allergy medication for outside, she didn’t really need it for inside anymore thanks to Zelda’s neat freak nature. Zelda says she’s not a neat freak but she totally is and Mary loves her for it. She still had some off days, mostly it would be her eyes would be too dried out for her to put in her contacts. The frizz however, she hadn’t quite mastered. She tried everything, and she means everything, to try and tame it with little to no results. After years of dealing with the same thing she just accepted it as something that happened and went with it, unless something happened.

Like getting a hairbrush stuck in her hair.

The thing about her hair was that it was always kind of hard to brush. Unless she used a smoothing conditioner her hair would become coarse and make the act of brushing it twice as hard. So meeting some resistance wasn’t that unheard. None of that didn’t matter when frizz was involved and so it wasn’t completely unheard of if her brush got stuck in her hair but this was completely different. Her brush wasn’t just stuck it was stuck. Any other time she could get her hairbrush out of her hair but, nope. Her tugging was only doing one thing and that was causing her pain. As loath as she might want to admit it she needed help. Luckily the first person she came across was Hilda.

“Hilda.” The plump blonde woman jumped a bit, she probably wasn’t expecting anyone to still be upstairs.

“Oh, good morning Mary. Thought you would be downstairs with the others.”

“I’ve had a bit of a set back that has kept me and I’m in need of your assistance.”

“What’s wrong?” Instead of trying to explain it Mary turned around so that Hilda could get a clear view of the blue backing of her hairbrush. “Oh my! How’d this happen?”

“Would you like me to blame genetics or the weather?” She heard Hilda chuckle behind her and a warm hand landed on her shoulder.

“Brace yourself love, this is going to hurt.” Mary took a deep breath and placed a hand on the railing. Without further hesitation Hilda started to yank. She was right, it hurt!

Nether noticed Vida coming up on the first landing nor her eyes wide in horror until…

“Mommy!”

At the same time downstairs:

Zelda closed her newspaper, only one article interested her today and now that her reading was done she folded the newspaper and placed it next to her empty plate. She checked her watch and her eyebrows scrunched in confusion. Mary and her sister should be downstairs by now and yet when she did a head count they were missing. Ambrose was here eating a bowl while stretched out on the bench. Sabrina was putting some final touches on a school assignment. And Vida was next to her downing the last remainders of her milk. Mary’s absence didn’t go unnoticed by her either.

“Where’s Momma?”

“I don’t know, baby why don’t you go upstairs and check up on her.”

“Okay!” With that Vida jumped down from her seat and rounded the corner out of sight. Zelda checked her watch again and sighed. At this rate Mary wouldn’t be able to sit down for breakfast. This wasn’t the first time it has happened so Zelda got up and filled a travel mug with coffee and popped some toast in the toaster. Mary could eat in the car, something that she never allowed, but Mary needed to eat something and her threat of vacuuming her entire car if she saw even a single crumb was enough for Mary to keep things neat.

“Mommy!” Zelda’s blood ran cold and she rushed out of the kitchen to where her daughter's voice was coming from. Behind her she heard Ambrose and Sabrina scrambling to catch up with her.

“Vida what’s wrong!?”

“Aunt Hilda’s hurting Momma!” Zelda opened her mouth to say something else but froze. At the top of the stairs was her sister and her girlfriend. Something was poking out the back of Mary’s head and she had an ironclad grip on the banister. Vida looked at her with big eyes filled with unshed tears. Zelda could only imagine what all of this looked like to a four year old.

“What is going on here?”

“I was just trying to help with…” Hilda’s sentence trailed off and she waved a hand to the back of Mary’s head. Mary just gave a sheepish sort of smile and a light blush crept up on her cheeks.

“Hilda.” Zelda didn’t need to say anything else as she went up one side of the staircase. Hilda went down the other, ushering Sabrina, Ambrose, and Vida to the main floor. Vida looked up at her but Zelda just nodded and gave her a soft smile. She went with Hilda without a whimper. When Zelda reached Mary that blush seemed to have gotten darker and spread higher on Mary’s sharp cheekbones. “Let me see.” Mary turned to show Zelda the hairbrush that was half embedded in her hair. With gentle fingers Zelda observed the damage. “Come with me.” Zelda turned back to her bedroom, Mary followed her. She pointed to her vanity and, after a slight hesitation, Mary sat down. All Mary could see in the mirror was Zelda’s torso and the flexing of her shoulders as her arms moved. Next thing Mary knew the brush that was causing a tugging pain in the back of her head was being held out to her with a smug look on Zelda’s face.

“Frizz?” Mary gave her a side nod and took back the brush. There was a huge clump of hair in the bristles. Mary hates to think about the damage to her hair. “All you had to do was say something.” Mary turned to look at Zelda surprised.

“Really?”

“It’s not as bad as it was when I lived in London but I’d get the occasional flare up now and again. We just need to find the right combination for you but for now...” Zelda went into the bathroom then came out with a tube in her hand. “Try this.” She squeezed some cream into her hand and then ran her fingers through Mary’s hair. It felt good, really good, and Mary gave off a low moan, it almost sounded like a purr. “That’s better wouldn’t you say?” Mary brought a hand to her hair, it felt almost back to normal, it was still a little rough but a whole lot better than it was before.

“Thank you.” Mary got up and gave Zelda a quick peck on her lips. Zelda hummed and kissed Mary back.

“There’s toast and coffee waiting for you downstairs, We need to get going.” Mary looked at the alarm clock and cursed under her breath. She quickly grabbed her shoes and scrambled to keep up with Zelda. Hilda was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, she handed Mary a travel mug and her toast. She and Vida sent them off with a hug and a wave goodbye as she, Zelda and Sabrina went off for another exciting day of Baxter high.

After that Zelda found the perfect combination to contain her frizz. Some cream, a little hairspray and she was good as golden. No more dryness. No more stuck hair brushes or cries for help.

Thank god.

#Zelda Spellman #Madam Satan #madam spellman

13 notes · View notes

willwolfie · 5 years ago

Text

Location: Pittsburgh, PA. Time: Last Spring. Triggers: Blood, Death, Accident

“The fear of death never left me; I couldn't get used to the thought; I would still sometimes shake and weep with terror.” ― Simone de Beauvoir

If life got busy it was tough luck and if one lived life as one William Moritz Wolf did, then the lives of everyone else needed saving before his own. His entire adolescence was spent in and out of hospitals, in and out of doctor’s offices, in and out of treatment centers. He loved his annoyingly careful parents with his whole heart, but life had never seemed as worth it as it did when his disorder and he were not at the center of it anymore. And life was busy enough right now for him to forget fully about himself and do what he did best instead. Soothe others, care for them, save them.

They usually rotated on air ambulance duty, and while Will suspected it was still because they did not entirely trust him, the newly certified flight paramedic, it didn’t bother him as much as he initially thought it would. It kept him close to the 027 Fire Department-- his home and family that had seen all too little of Will the weeks leading up to his final examinations and away from getting too close to the pretty nurses that he sometimes was made to sit in the small aerial space for hours. And as he made his way into Jefferson Health for the first 12-hour shift this week, his eyes made a bee-line for the prettiest one to join him yet. He had always liked the nurses better than doctors, regardless of whether they were women or not; they took their time and liked to indulge in his lulling stories with charms, even if they were just as busy as anybody else in the hospital. She (later found out to be named Sami) seemed no exception to this rule as she entertained him throughout the shift by dropping by and giving various kinds of information in exchange for a joke or two.

Air ambulances had the ring of great risks and adrenaline, but there was a lot less glamour attached to the job that one would hope. Transporting corpseless, artificially kept-alive organs through the state like a butcher delivery service irked Will. As morbid as it sounded, he was happy for every real emergency that sent their way to get away from the everyday duties that left him never knowing whose life was altered. Who was saved or not? Getting one Harmony Logan off of Mount Washington after a biking accident sounded a lot more like helping a person than arbitrarily pushing former human body parts around for hours to Will. “And hey, Will, maybe we can get together for after-shift drinks” Sami’s words cut right through his train of thought as the paramedic got into the helicopter for the sixth time for the day, the third of which with her. “Sure” he’d told her absentmindedly, willing to push whatever really had been his post-shift plans for another couple hours without much of a second thought. They got up in the air in a good enough mood at three thirty-one pm and would most likely return before five; average day, well enough outcome.

If life got busy it was tough luck and as the impact of the crash hit Will’s chest and neck, a realization hit him with almost the same brutal force. His date for the night had supposed to be the I.V. bag lying at home for five days too long. When life got busy, he was playing with his life on luck. Two missed days of treatment of factor eight and he knew what the natural percentage of his clotting factor returned to. Still, his first instinct was to look for Sami and the pilot. He was the paramedic and a bloody cough would not stop him from any of it. Will was out to assume the worst at all scenes, but as his heart steadily pumped at a heightened rate his eyes already seized the young nurse stirring on the ground as though she’d only been knocked to her knees in a clumsy tumble. All fine. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in relief, helping Sami to her feet in almost the same motion that he used to lean into the cockpit and assure himself of person number two. Anger mixed with atonement came billowing out of the pilot's mouth, too preoccupied with his mistake in the too harsh landing to respond to Will’s questions on his state of being but lively and on the move in their limited space that he, too, seemed fine. All back to himself then.

His hand gently felt over his uniformed chest where he had brutally hit the inner walls of the helicopter. Dry as ever, no skin had broken at the place or any other and sent a wave of relief through Will’s body. Maybe, just maybe it would be fine until they got back. He’d rush to the E.R. and have someone hook him up as the last minutes of his break rung in. “We can’t take off” The repeating sentence, almost screamed in anger by the pilot, shouldn’t have been the first indicator that things weren’t fine anymore, but Will was determined not to be what his genetics dictated him to be. Fine, fine, fine his mind repeated with every step he made outside of the helicopter to look for whom they had come there for, fine he told himself as the metallic taste of blood started to replace any other sensation he felt and pooled in his mouth, only for him to spit the mixture if it and saliva onto the ground. Fine until the color of what now continuously wet the ground grew darker, redder, thicker. Until the masses of it forced Will to his knees this time, and a scream rung in his ears as though a tragedy unfolded before somebody’s eyes. But where?

All he saw was the full terror and absolute horror in the girl’s eyes as she kneeled above his body. His mind knew that there’s nothing she could do for him but his instincts now screamed louder than any coherent thought for her to help him, save him from what was happening inside. Do anything than let him miserably choke on his own blood that wouldn’t just stop flowing, giving his life the short few final minutes until his body would either shut down completely or it found its way into his lungs and suffocated him first. For every breath he took now, there was a mouthful of the warm, red liquid that stained the surrounding ground and his face to make way for air that barely found its way inside. This was not supposed to be how it ended. There was no peace in his mind or heart and no one else to blame but himself. Suddenly he was at the center of everything again and there was nothing to do but bleed and slowly fade away to nothingness. The wetness on his face was not exclusively what was drained of him, but sudden tears. Only his own, he thought for a split moment, but what vision he’d left told him that they dripped down from Sami’s face, screwed up in shock, where they’d meet his.

He was not twenty-five at that time as much as he was four years old when he first cut his hand and would not stop bleeding. He was thirteen and had gotten punched in the face at school for the first time with his teachers freaking out. He was twenty-one and on the doorstep of his parents for the first time in months, beaten and bruised. He was all those boys, but he was ultimately alone even with his hand held and faces surrounding his failing body. They couldn’t know what to do, Will had never told anyone about it, refused to acknowledge or bear the alert bracelet and would be one of many bleeder’s to bleed out for his own actions. It felt like trying to scream underwater to tell them what was wrong with him, why his body reacted so severely while everyone else’s did nothing, only that water didn’t drain his body and energy from it. Hemo was as far as he’d get before coughing fits and the struggle to breathe pushed aside any more attempts to vocalize. There was only one or the other, and the one thing kept him alive though unclear for how long when even pushing out the breath started to burn like every drop of blood he lost was replaced with fire burning the insides of his lungs. Will started to count his breaths, trying to slow his heart from pumping so rapidly to his demise but to no avail. It paradoxically tried to fight him instead of fighting for him. Eight. Nine. Ten. He barely even felt anything entering him with breath ten and knew, that should his body muster up another one, it would be his last. His hand clutched, harder than before, at Sami’s and blue eyes wide like never before-

Eleven.

There was that day, and then there were the six weeks of recovery after to learn what happened after breath eleven. Many days of that time were spent in the same walls of Jefferson Health that he’d left then so carefree, never to return the same. His brain was full-functional but the body too weak to leave, so that waking nights were too hard to escape. Closing his eyes haunted him, made him afraid it would be the last time that the motion would fulfill itself, so every morning a nurse was greeted with a faint smile paired with bloodshot blue eyes that had evaded the dark once more to pass out in the daylight, only to repeat the motions day for day. They never were Sami’s eyes that he would meet though, and as he asked for her or how she’d been doing, they told him that she had quit at Jefferson. There was no judgment, only bitterness that remained like the metallic taste on his tongue like a torturous reminder that he had done this to her. Gotten into an impossible situation and forced her to look on as he bled out onto her. Who would blame her?

February 28th came early that year. He turned twenty-six and there was nothing he wished for. Nothing but one thing that, from that day on, glimmered on his left wrist without a fail. He faulted his parents for a lot of things but never for crying as they brought the very same gift to his hospital room as they had to his childhood bedroom for years and Will wearing the silver bracelet for the first time in his life.

#this is half a novel but if yall wanna be emo :) ur :) welcome :)#devinstone.task003

5 notes · View notes

blueyesandleatherjacket · 5 years ago

Text

The Fallen, 8/17

Volume: 1.

Number of parts: 8/17.

Pairings: Nine x Rose.

A/N: Tagging @thebookster on her demand.

“We've all fallen, but at the same time we're not broken. There is the hint that we are going to get up again.” - Amy Lee.

CHAPTER 8:

“So, you’re fresh from the war. Damaged. Broken. Shattered. And you meet that girl. Rose Tyler. She’s showing you that life is worth fighting for. Traveling with her makes you feel alive again. Until her life is threatened. You sacrifice yourself for her to life.” “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.” Nash shrugged. She had to pretend that she couldn’t understand the beauty of such a sacrifice. The concept of giving a life to save another should have been unknown to her as an assassin. Giving a life to save the one of the persons you loved was out of her reach though. She never had the chance to meet her soulmate but she had people she would die for. “But it doesn’t go as planned. You feel something is wrong…” “No, that’s not how it went. I just realised I didn’t want to leave her or my ship.” “Your time machine.” “Oh, she’s so much more than a time machine.” “A space ship.” “You’re so far from the truth.” “Anyway, the Doctor was gonna change into another man…” “Yep. And I was gonna die. And I had that irrational and universal thought that I wasn’t ready to die, that there was more to live. I made the wish to be sent back on Earth to stay around the woman I love.” “Even unsure that she would follow you?” “She was left with a new man. She trusted me, my daft old face… He certainly was prettier and younger and funnier to make a perfect match with her but he still remained a stranger. What would you have done?” No response. “I wanted to stay in her life but I woke up in Manchester with that deep conviction that something was wrong.” “Because you sensed that you had half of that Bad Wolf left in your mind.” “And since I could feel the other half around, it meant Rose still had it in hers.” “Which could be fatal to both of you.” “You’ve got it.” “So that Bad Wolf has quite amazing abilities. Meaning you’re some kind of superhuman now. You’ve got the control of Time and you can change whatever you want to. You’re also a telepathic being and you can access people’s mind and create a real mess in there. Change someone’s history, create false memories or erase it all.” “That’s not exactly how it works. There are rules.” “Who cares for the rules when you’re that powerful?” “I have a consciousness. So does the Bad Wolf. You can’t use its power for personal or evil purposes. Time Lords made the rules. They engraved it in their genetic codes. Anyone meddling with Time would go mad.” “Time Lords are megalomaniac. How could they not go against the rules?” “Oh, some have tried. And they paid the price.” “What about you?” “I ran away from home as soon as I could. Their philosophy wasn’t for me. I had my own dreams.” “What now?” “I intend to leave this place, find my Rose and survive this almost human life. Quite boring, I know.” “And the Bad Wolf?” “I only possess a part of its power. I can’t do much. Need my other half to be able to really do something with that power. Unless…” The Doctor voluntarily chose to stop his sentence there, to show a hesitation. Nash would get more curious if he wasn’t giving her all the answers. Or pretending to giving her the answers. He couldn’t forget that she was manipulated by Jeremy Backfire and that his goals weren’t clear enough. No need to give him what he desired by mistake. Better not give them Rose and the other half of the Wolf. He would die protecting them. Dying was exactly the card he was gonna play. So far, the Wolf and him had worked together but he was always in charge, except for some incidents that had happened now and then. The Wolf was remaining hidden for its own safety. I t was just fixing the damages Nash was creating to its human shell when she was done. He would have died a long time ago without this power, which ironically was also killing him. “Unless what? Is there another card you wanna play? You think that talking all the way through that session will save your ass? We can’t even tell what’s true and what’s not.” “It’s up to you to believe me or not. But just so you know, I am fully human and humans can’t handle the power currently stuck in my head.” “Which means?” “I’m slowly dying. The power is burning everything in me and you’re speeding the process up with your methods.” Nash smirked. Maybe she believed him and was concerned for him deep down, but on the outside, she had to act like she didn’t. She had to pretend it was a trick when the doctor inside her wanted to check his words and save him. She couldn’t see it, the power burning his mind and causing rage fits and complete blackouts when he was alone in his cell. He was holding on pretty well so far but he didn’t have much time left. They would realise it soon enough. “Nice try, Doctor.” That new voice turned his blood to ice. Jeremy had been there all along the session and had witnessed their exchange. That explained why she was so tensed and acting like the Quiston Assassin she had once been. Well, you never ceased to be an assassin. You just learnt how to hide this part deep inside you. The Doctor was well placed to know that. Jeremy was done with these games. Now was the time for round two. If the Doctor didn’t want to say the truth, he was gonna talk to his other self, the one he was keeping hidden all the time, and there was only one way to force him out. He came in the room and dismissed Nash who obeyed wordlessly. He pushed the machine to the maximum. However, the Doctor was strong and he resisted. Him and his Wolf were a powerful team. Powerful enough for Jeremy to fly off the handle. The yellow room wasn’t enough. He had to hit harder. The Doctor was breathless. All his body was suffering from the electricity that had just gone through it. He laughed in Jeremy’s face instead of complaining and raging. He was rewarded with a punch in the face. It added more to his physical pain but didn’t affect his mood. He was determined not to let Jeremy win, no matter the cruel things he had in mind to torture him. It was certain that he wouldn’t like them at all. Jeremy was furious. He turned around, opened a drawer and pulled out a needle. He checked the label on it. They had invented a special mix for him. One that wouldn’t wear off in the minutes that followed the injection. One that would keep him awake but unable to move or speak or think. The fluid was injected straight in his jugular vein and slowly followed the course of blood to spread in his whole body until there was nothing of him that could react to Jeremy’s threats. When the Doctor was completely paralysed, Jeremy called a bunch of his subjects to transfer the patient in another room he had never seen before. It looked like an OR, with red walls. There was a metallic table in the centre where he was strapped down. He couldn’t move at all but they were taking no risk. His head was placed in a surgical vice? All around him, the walls and furniture were immaculate, sterilised. There was a whole collection of tools for surgery, all perfectly sterile and waiting to be used on a new Guinea pig. Behind the strong smell of bleach, there was the smell of terror, of blood, of urine. Many had been taken there before him and many had suffered from irremediable damages. Today, the Doctor was gonna get familiar with the red room. Here, they weren’t gonna flood his brain with electricity. They were gonna go further. They were gonna explore the brain itself, for real. Jeremy Backfire was nowhere close to being a neurologist. That was gonna be a disaster. “Well, Doctor, it’s about time we use brand new methods. Forget about the soft ones Nash was using on you. Now, I’m taking the control of your case.” Jeremy slipped a finger down the collection of tools, seemingly looking for the proper one to choose. His mind was already set on the scalpel but making the choice last was playing on the Doctor’s nerves. Everything to make the unwavering man drop his mask of confidence he was wearing so proudly. “See, Doctor, I want something from you and I’m ready to get it at any price.” Jeremy placed his cold hand on the Doctor’s face and folded his ear to clear the way. The scalpel stroked his skin, just above the ear, and cut the tender skin deeply. Blood flowed and ran down his neck. Jeremy put the scalpel down, grabbed a drill and tested it. He pressed the trigger a couple times to make sure it was working. Then he drilled a hole in the Doctor’s skull. The patient was conscious. He was feeling everything and couldn’t defend himself or scream. A brain surgery without anaesthetics. It was gonna push him beyond his limits and forced the Wolf to come out. Exactly what Jeremy was wishing for. He inserted a little sensor in the hole. The Doctor didn’t see it properly but he felt it. A sensor inside his brain. It could have been a sensor to monitor his brain’s activity but he sensed that it was for another purpose. Another method of torture that needed two holes and two sensors, one on each side of his head. He had been scared of death once. Right now, he surprised himself to think that it would be a relief. Jeremy wouldn’t give him that. “Oh, now, you’re scared, big ears,” commented Jeremy, amused. “Excellent. That’s the right attitude. It means you’re gonna give me what I want.” The Doctor did, and not because he chose to. Actually, he tried to resist as much as possible but being electrocuted straight in the brain was proved to be efficient as a torture method. The human abandoned the battle in less than ten minutes. The pain and death threat hanging above its host’s head compelled the Time Entity sleeping in his mind to come out and protect him. So far, it had been too weak to even show up but it had found out that feeding on the evil vibes and negative emotions that were filling this place was more satisfying than feeding on a Time rift like the TARDIS needed. Being in a human body didn’t only have drawbacks. It could now take control and show that damn man who was the real boss around here. The Doctor’s eyes turned gold and a loud growl came from his throat. In the second, all the restraints and sensors vanished in golden particles and the Doctor, possessed by the Wolf, was on his feet. The cuts healed themselves. Jeremy stepped back, a smirk on his lips. He was scared of course. He knew partly what the Wolf was capable of. It was better not to make it angrier. It was mad enough at the moment. “There you are.” “Oh, so I’m the one you expected to see? You happy? Good. Because that’s the last thing you will ever have done in your miserable little life.” The Wolf took another step toward Jeremy. It wanted to lay its hands on him and feel his body disintegrating as it erased him from time and space, as he reduced his whole existence to dust. It had been provoked, but it also had been given the strength to finally be in charge. Wiping Jeremy away would also wipe Maxence away and that wasn’t an option. It had to reduce Jeremy to nothing and yet, keep him alive. There was one simple way to have its revenge on him and run away from here to find the real Doctor. “You think we didn’t plan it all? That we didn’t take any measure for the day you would come out again?” “Oh, you’re getting clever.” “Always have been.” The Wolf snorted, “What do you want from me?” “Do you even have to ask?” “Pure politeness.” Because the Wolf was already in his head and looking for the information it desired. Which wasn’t complicated. Humans were open books. They didn’t have any lock or any barrier to protect their minds. If they knew what was living among them, what was coming for them in the future, they would protect themselves better. At the moment though, it was an opportunity. “Hm. Humans are predictable but you have the merit of being different. On some points at least.” That hospital was only a façade. They were using this asylum to hide their real activities. Their basement had been turned into a lab and a prison for non-terrestrial species. The place was protected by all the human technology available at this time and it was doubled with some alien technology. They were capturing every alien specimen they could find and experimenting on them to get as much information as they could get. Worse than Van Statten and Torchwood. Jeremy had even offered himself some upgrades with this data. And one day, he had heard about the Doctor. “You want me. You want my power to rewrite yourself. My power and my immortality. Basic.” “I want the Doctor and I can’t reach him without you.” “You want to use me to get him?” The Wolf scoffed. “The Doctor left me on Earth, stuck in the mind of his now human former self who didn’t want to die. Do you think he cares about the bomb I am? If he did care, he would have taken me out of here and you wouldn’t have known a thing about it.” “He hasn’t come because he doesn’t know. We caught you before you could do anything and this place intercepts most of the calls. Telepathic or not. You did call him but if he got the message, he never came around.” The Wolf clenched its fist and a golden glow travelled through his veins. The anger burnt in its hosts body and mind. If it had any limit, Jeremy would have crossed them. It was about time to break the man once and for all. “You can’t have me or my power. I won’t let you. And if you want the Doctor to come, draw his attention with something big. Big ball of troubles. He loves that.” “I don’t remember giving you the choice.” Jeremy wasn’t losing his impertinence. “I can’t do anything to neutralise you completely and force you to obey, but I can still break your human shell.” “Go on, try.” Jeremy smirked. The Wolf pressed a hand on his face to reduce his brain to a puddle of grey cells, to make a vegetable of him. It should have seen it coming but it was one of those grey zones. The moments always in flux. The ones where a decision needed to be made. And Jeremy had just taken his when the Wolf chose to attack instead of submitting. There was a whistle caused by a flying object and the Wolf felt a distinct sting in his thigh. A needle. “YOU THINK IT’LL STOP ME?” it roared. It was really mad now. It began the process of killing Jeremy from the inside. Its other hand grabbed his throat and lifted him from the ground. He was struggling against the hand strangling him, his feet dangling in the air, but his face showed a clear victorious expression. “I was just the distraction,” he panted. The door of the room flew open and someone shot five times. The Wolf roared louder as the five needles jabbed in its back. It let go of Jeremy to run to the person who had dared shooting it. But it found itself unable to move anymore. It was losing its power, its control and slowly being numbed by the drugs he had been given. The Doctor couldn’t take over for the moment so the Wolf fought. In vain. It fell to its knees, to Jeremy’s feet who was watching him with a victorious smile. “I always get what I want, Maxence. You should know that.” Those were the last words the Wolf could hear before it completely fell to the ground, beaten by the high dose of modified drugs they had shot him with. Nash would have a furious Wolf to deal with on their next appointment. It wasn’t gonna forget or forgive that. Jeremy would pay for that. Not from the cell. It wanted to face this asshole when it would get his revenge. Just for fun. It would carve it in its memories to never forget. It would laugh about it. However, it would have to wait until later. The nurses chained up the Doctor’s body again and dragged him to his room. Since he was deeply asleep, they didn’t even bother carrying him. Dragging him was less tiring. They threw him in his cell and took away the chains before they left and locked the door behind them.

To be continued...

×××

← Last || Next →

English version:

AO3 || TS.

#doctor who #ninth doctor #rose tyler #doctor x rose #dwfic #the fallen

1 note · View note