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bubonickitten · 3 years ago

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering�� you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers #magnuspod

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hyunhour · 4 years ago

Text

right behind you ] [ felix au

a/n: yoohoo! been wanting to write a yandere themed fic for the longest time and finally got around to it. note that i do not condone this sort of behaviour and it certainly isn’t meant to be glamourized. yes, this story isn’t supposed to be all sunshine and rainbows. loosely inspired by “never ever getting rid of me – christopher fitzgerald” this is for fictional purposes only! it doesn’t depict the actuality of my sunshine boy at all!

yandere!felix, barista!hyunjin, barista!reader, unrequited love, obsessive love, toxicity

tw: yandere themes

word count: 2k

walking home alone after midnight had been a common occurrence for you after taking late night shifts at work. maybe you should start taking earlier shifts instead.

—

Your steps were heavy, slugged as you dragged your feet across the concrete path. There was only the sound of the wind howling as it gently caresses you, accompanied by the music softly playing from your earphones.

The streets were dimly lit, only neon lights of pubs being a reliable source of light. All the stores that lined the pavement were closes, shutters locked shut. There was not a single soul in sight, besides yours of course. It felt lonely, but comforting, the tranquility of the serene night enveloping you in a newfound safety.

« Shuffle, shuffle. »

More shuffling.

You quickened your pace. You were dubious about whether those footsteps were yours, but they weren’t matching with yours at all.

So, you’re not alone after all.

Anxiety washed over you, goosebumps prickling at the surface of your skin. You no longer felt the peace that the night held you in, only fear and panic surging from within you. Perhaps, you were overreacting. It could very well be a passer-by, just wanting to hurry back home, like you.

You shrugged off your doubts momentarily, warranting yourself a bit of relief. Right, you are probably overreacting.

But, just to be sure. You took a sharp left turn on your heels, opposite from the usual route you took home. Just as you thought, the footsteps trailed behind you. They were slow and steady, as if it was mocking you. You could just turn, it was right behind you.

Your hands stiffened in the pockets of your jacket, gathering sweat in your palms. You know that the way down this road was going to be to your old elementary school, otherwise known as a dead end. This person had to stop sooner or later at one of the houses scattered around the area. That had to be it. You’re overthinking this all.

« Shuffle. Shuffle. »

It had been a good five minutes of you walking down this pathway. This person is still hot on your trail, close enough for you to hear them but far away enough for them to.. to?

You’re overthinking. Overreacting. Over–

“Hah,”

That wasn’t you. Your lips were firmly pressed into a tight line, which made it harder for you to breathe in the cold weather. The only sounds escaping from you was the light wheezing of your lungs from your ragged breathing.

Your legs were losing vigour, instead they were shaking. Your stomach felt knotted, the deepening anxiety further tightening it. The inky darkness of the night no longer felt welcoming, instead it began to engulf you. You felt the invisible walls closing in on you as the footsteps behind you, got closer, and closer.

Right behind you.

Just turn.

Turn and see it.

Finally, mustering all the bits of bravery inside of you, your steps came to a halt. You had to be sure. This was the only way.

The footsteps had stopped as well.

Dread twisted in your gut as you turned around, painfully slow.

Within a blink of an eye, a dark figure that you couldn’t quite make out from the lack of light, sped off to the alley right around the corner. It was quick, and it almost made you doubt yourself, that you even saw it in the first place.

All your self-doubts dissolved immediately once you noticed something had actually fallen out of the person’s hold. It flayed around helplessly in the light breeze on the concrete path. It was a handkerchief, a pale cream coloured one, delicate to the touch. Your hands briefly hovering above, before retrieving it.

Your eyes scanned the foreign object, your fingers just ghosting along the seam lines. Down the handkerchief, your finger continued to trail.

« F.L »

Were those initials? They had been sewed on in a garish red thread, completely in contrast with the cream coloured cloth.

You slipped it into your pocket without thinking much of it, your mind was clouded with pride, the fact that you were actually able to ward off the creep.

—

It has been a day since that odd incident.

Hyunjin was busying himself with making the drinks, avoiding the cashier at all costs in order to dodge the multiple girls that lined up just for him. You laughed silently to yourself as yet another girl approached you, the cashier, for Hyunjin’s help instead.

“Sorry bub, he’s busy right now.” you meekly apologized, a faint smile plastered onto your face.

The girl before you whined, her eyes glued onto Hyunjin, who was at the back of the counter. He sneered, he lost count of how many times you had to say that fixated reply to almost every customer. He almost felt bad for you.

You finished tending to all the customers, immediately scurrying over to Hyunjin to help him out with making the drinks. You were adjusting the apron around your body before Hyunjin holds an arm out in front of you.

“Don’t.” he pauses briefly, “your coffee is fucking bitter.”

Your lips part apart in shock, smacking him at his arm. He winces in pain before retracting himself and scoffing.

“I’m trying, okay?” you roll your eyes at him, not amused at his usual bluntness. He reiterates you in a mocking way, rolling his eyes in return as well.

“Where the fuck is your nametag?” he stares down at your breast pocket, where sure enough, it was empty. You were hoping that he wouldn’t realize about your missing nametag, which you left at home. “Stop cussing at work, you asshole. I promise to bring it tomorrow,” you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Are you kidding me? You had like, one job–“ he berated, a string of incoherent words mumbled under his breath. You just couldn’t be bothered to even listen to his nagging anymore, thus putting on a deaf ear and just nodding your head to whatever words he relentlessly spewed out. “I swear your nametag spends more time at home than at work. You’re lucky, boss doesn’t know.” he remarked, causing you to grunt in response.

“Boss doesn’t care, thus boss will never know.” you smirked smugly at him, before distancing yourself from him as he flings a couple more vulgar insults at your face.

You had recently just started working as a barista, after Hyunjin pestered you about being lonely at work. It was another impulsive decision that Hyunjin easily manipulated you into taking without ever doing a double take. How could you resist when he pulled out those puppy dog eyes and pouty lips? Annoying fuck.

The bell against the front door chimed, a clear indication that a new customer had just stepped foot.

“Welcome!” both you and Hyunjin greeted, softly laughing at each other because of the unplanned perfect timing.

You were ready to receive another order, probably from another hormonal teenage girl that was ready to pounce on Hyunjin.

Boy, you were wrong.

It was a man. A very beautiful man at that. He stood at the door, soft eyes meeting your tentative ones. He sweeps his silver tresses back with his hand, before offering you one of the most gingerly-looking smiles. Your heart fluttered at the enticing sight. He didn’t go straight for the cashier. His eyes darted from the menu that was on the wall behind you, and then back to you, shyly avoiding your eyes now. What happened to that confidence he strutted in with?

He lingered at the entrance for a while, taking hesitant steps as he ventures further in to the café. You had gotten tired of waiting around for him, so you decided to help out Hyunjin—this time with refilling the coffee beans into the hopper. He so stubbornly insisted upon you not making any drinks until he could properly guide you, which would be after the store closes.

“That dude is iffy,” Hyunjin mumbles under his breath, briefly turning to face the entrance of the store, and then back to you.

“Iffy? Yeah, you.” you mock, and he nudges your arm a little too hard.

“I’m serious, Y/N.” he says, before leaning down to your ear, “he keeps looking at you, and like– salivating? Not over the food, but you.” You follow him, and sure enough, the silver-haired man had been staring right back at you unabashedly before looking away moments later. “Of all things.. you?” he reiterates, putting his finger on his chin, as if deep in thought.

You almost choke at his choice of words, caught off guard by his bluntness yet again. You pinch his arm, earning a whimper from him before he returns the same pinch onto your arm, if not more painful.

“Fuck you.” you hiss under your breath, pulling away.

“I was being a nice friend, looking out for you.” he hisses in return. You and Hyunjin both bicker for a while, causing you to spill some coffee beans onto the countertop, earning another earful from Hyunjin. God, he wasn’t even the manager but he sure was niggling like one.

“May I..” a voice from a distance interrupted your bickering, and you were almost thankful for it. You stick your tongue out at Hyunjin playfully before tending to the cashier.

“Yes! How may I help you?” maybe you were a little too excited, the poor boy in front of you jumping a little, obviously surprised at your gleefulness. It was the same person that had been standing around the entrance of the café, he was also always picking at the bed of his nails with his teeth, a habit that you noticed from just a few moments of looking at him. You felt an inkling of pity for this boy.

“I’d–” he choked on his words, his cheeks reddening. You chuckled softly, this kid probably has some major social anxiety. It wasn’t new to you to receive shy customers.

“It’s okay.” you motioned for him to continue, nodding your head. His eyes locked with yours briefly, a glow of light circled around his pupils momentarily, sparse freckles adorned his pale face as he chewed incessantly on the bottom of his lip. Out of anxiety, probably.

You had to break away the eye contact, feeling tense under his watchful eyes. It had gotten a bit uncomfortable with him doing more of staring than talking. This wasn’t normal.

“I’d like..” he resumes, sucking in a deep breath, “a medium vanilla frappe.” the sides of his lips tug upwards tremulously, and his eyes begin to waver.

“That’ll be $6!” you chirped, trying to coat the awkwardness within you with glee instead. He nodded, his hands frantically fishing for change in his pockets.

You open your palm up to him, not losing notice of the way he stares at it. His eyes linger for a moment before placing his money onto your palm, his fingertips just barely grazing the surface of your skin. It all went by painfully slow. You sighed, retracting your hand. He, however, seemed a lot more happier than before. His eyes glistening still at the newfound physical interaction, although small; it was still something. A wide smile crept up onto his face.

Brushing it all off, you returned his change by sliding it over the counter. Usually, you wouldn’t be that rude but this customer particularly did actually feel iffy as per Hyunjin’s words. You took in his smile that disappeared, a solemn frown in place instead on his freckled face.

“Your name, Sir?” you questioned, readying a plastic cup and a permanent marker. He cleared his throat, “Felix.”

“Felix Lee.”

You could’ve sworn your heart had stopped beating for a moment. Moments of the previous night flickered on and off in your head, whizzing by quickly before you could even comprehend what you had just realized.

« F.L »

Felix Lee.

“I’ll be waiting, Y/N.” he coos, before backing away from you. His words, his tone and the volume of his already low voice, letting goosebumps bubbling to the surface of your skin. The familiar feeling of anxiousness washing over you once again, fear having a grip on your throat, causing you to have the inability to even interrogate him.

When did you tell him your name? Right, it must be from your nametag–

Your nametag?

Your finger ghosted over the bare breast pocket of your apron, no nametag pinned onto it. You recall only remembering your nametag once, which was your first day of work. Other than that, it was stuck at home.

This all had to be some sort of sick, sick coincidence.

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burningpaths-ffxiv · 3 years ago

Text

FFXIV WRITE 2021 // Prompt #21 Feckless

🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑

Trigger Warning - This prompt includes depictions of violence, bodily injury, blood mentions and references murder and arson.

Read at your own discretion.

One cannot kill other people for a living without igniting certain… types of enemies.

Typically the righteous sort; with flares for revenge or avenging angles.

One cannot avoid these types of people, or their perfectly expected retaliations.

Even bad people have family or loved ones, after all.

‘Bad’ could even be subjective, to some.

To Shear, ‘bad’ simply meant someone might be willing to pay coin to have their ‘bad’ influence removed from their lives. Permanently.

And he would be happy to oblige their desires for the right price.

Late summer sunbeams streamed in through the window, curtains and shutters open, facing the rising sun. In the early morning, giving a stir, tanned bare skin shifted against soft-spun silk sheets with a tired groan as tiny beams of light trailed over his face.

One rosy quartz colored eye blearily peeled open, the gold flecked pupil drawing unfocused across the sun-brightened wooden walls of the room and across the grass woven mats across the floor. The room he’d chosen for himself lay on the second floor, along the east side of the building, located on the sprawling estate of Shirogane where they were staying. The muted colors of the painted walls were broken up by the occasionally specifically placed dark wooden shelves in varying leveled patterns and meticulously - albeit sparsely - decorated.

A single paneled shōji set against the far wall opposite where he lay, leading to the private balcony on the north side of the building and was closed, the latch still locked in place. The small rectangular windows set between them and the ceiling in opaque glass, brightly illuminated and unoccupied by any shadows.

A full-length, double paneled shōji was on the joining wall on its left, also still closed and latched. His ears picked up the trickling of the man-made stream that moved through the grounds, set beside the stone garden just below his balcony, and the faint chirping of distant birds on the other side of the house. The sound of sea waves were close, but still a walk down the long, winding stone steps outside the north gate to the beach.

Blonde head rising off his pillow, the viera pushed his body up to a sitting position on the thickly stuffed and layered futons he’d been sleeping on. Clad only in a pair of black cotton smalls, one palm rubbed sleepily at an eye while the other stretched high above his head. Torso twisting, the opposite of the movements were echoed on the other side.

Scratching at the base of both long blonde ears and easing that scratch along the back of his head through the blonde tangle of his overgrown bob, Shear blinked fully open both mismatched, sunset toned eyes. One the rosy quartz flecked in gold, the other sunlight golden and speckled with deeply hued pinks.

Something felt off but the rousing viera couldn’t quite put his finger on what. The estates had been rented a week prior, Kalona’s crew all having various jobs or errands to run in the nearby prefectures. With the size of the house itself, Shear had his own room, as had they all. Kolli had opted not to stay on the grounds, insisting on a room at the hot springs inn in Kugane proper.

With Manjima fucking Yohan.

Stamping down his spike of irritation at the thought of the smug, smiling xaela, Shear pushed himself to his feet. What he realized was odd, then, was that there were no close birds chirping. The bell crickets that had taken to singing in the carefully tended bushes below his window were silent.

A squeak in a floor board on the stairs - and why Shear had chosen the second floor for sleeping- got the viera moving. The pillows he’d previously been resting on were stuffed under his blanket and the blanket tugged over them. Standing from there he slipped the loose, oversized summer patterned garment hanging from the hook over his head over his shoulders, belting it closed quickly. Two curled knives from his belt were removed and placed - by the grips - between his teeth.

Slipping out of the window, he hung there curled on the outside of the wall, listening intently.

He rather liked the estate and he thought it’d be a damn shame to accidentally burn the place down dealing with whoever was coming for him. So, knives it was. Adjusting his handholds, Shear moved to the very northside of his window quietly, ear turned to listen at his balcony.

There. A scuff of a leather sole on the waxed wood. A calming, muffled exhale.

Shear scowled from where he hung on the sill of his window.

Let them calm themselves all they like.

They’d be dead before the next bell’s chime.

The figure on his balcony kicked the wooden brace of the single paneled shōji, rolling into the room with a snarl and there was a distinct whump where a weapon hit the pillows along his futon. The viera swung up onto the waxed dark colored wood, waiting there as he observed the hyuran figure stab his futon repeatedly with a short sword.

Panting, the bandana-masked hyur yanked at the blanket with a disbelieving, “He’s gone!” A man, younger sounding by the pitch of his voice, yelling in Hingan.

Someone else - the one Shear had heard on the stairs to the second floor - shouted from outside the door leading to the rest of the house. “What do you mean he’s gone?!” A woman this time, also young, also responded in Hingan. The viera’s eyes narrowed as the figure previously stabbing his futon shanked it again in frustration.

Now he was curious.

Standing up from his crouched position, the karambit knives in his mouth were eased into his palms, clamped there idly as he gave a small whistle and called out in Hingan to the man in front of him. “Not that gone, idiot.”

The hyur whirled, startled, and nearly tripped on the destroyed padding. “YOU!” He lunged for Shear on his balcony - without his sword. Shear waited until he was near before ducking low, catching the edges of both the curled blades inside the front of both thighs after the man tried to throw a boxing punch for his face. With a pained scream from the masked figure, he shot a look down at his thighs as he clutched his palms around the karambit knives planted into him.

Yanking up and heaving him up over his head, Shear tossed the younger male off the edge of the balcony to the carefully raked tiny pebbled rock garden below. He fell straight to the ground with a yell, abruptly cut off as he landed on his back with a cough. From the lack of scuffling from below and just the echoing, gasping groan, the viera figured he wasn’t getting up any time soon.

“Taku!” A different figure, the one belonging to the woman, barreled into the room after ramming it a few times with her shoulder. Another bandana covered his face and she screamed in fury not finding him present in the room.

The bloodied karambits dripped blood onto the waxed wood of the balcony floor under him. The half-dressed viera braced his legs apart and cocked his head with a broad, taunting smile. “What are you two kids doing trying to break into this place, hm? Looking for someone?”

“We’re not kids! We’re adults!” A bulky weapon snapped up in her hands, pointed his direction. Shear jerked shortly before the tiny crossbow’s string gave a twang of warning, diving to his right. The bolt thunked into the railing where his guts used to be and he gave it an impressed ‘Huh,’ under his breath before gripping for the railing.

Kicking up over it’s edge, Shear landed in the swath of pebbles below with a clatter, heading for the figure still on his back who was struggling to catch his breath. The hyur gave a gasp and a wheeze, trying to scramble away from the approaching figure but was at a disadvantage. His aching legs bled freely, still winded, and his back throbbed at the points he’d landed on it.

Reaching down, Shear hooked the tip of one bloodied karambit onto the edge of the bandana, giving a yank against the tugged fabric before flipping the blade off his finger and tucking it into one pocket of his cloth-belted shirt. Giving the younger man’s revealed face a quick inspection before reaching down to grip a fistful of his dark hair, the viera yanked him up by it and drug him backwards. He kept the hyur pressed close against him as the woman - who’d reloaded her crossbow - pressed her hips to the railing and raised it again, taking aim.

“Nami, shoot him!” The unmasked young man Shear was using as a shield shouted at her but above them, she hesitated, unable to get a clear shot. He continued walking backwards, putting more distance between them and dragging the now struggling Taku stumbling with him. The viera’s other hand settled the still-wielded karambit under his pointed chin, the tip pressing closed and the curve of the blade resting up against his jaw.

The man froze in place. Nami, the one on the balcony, gave a shout and raised her bracing arm off her crossbow. “Don’t--!”

“Drop the crossbow over the side, then.” Shear called up at her, eyes narrowing.

Taku half turned his head and ceased the motion when the karambit dug in closer. “D-don’t do it, Nami! Take the shot!”

“Brave. Stupid, but brave.” Shear muttered it near Taku’s ear, who hissed something callous about the viera’s mother and her various used holes in return. Giving an amused snort, Shear held his position. To the woman, he called up again. “Drop it or I will kill him here and now.”

“Wait! W-wait, don’t--... Please.” The crossbow was tossed over the railing, landing with a clatter below and she raised both of her hands up. “He’s all I have left. Please.”

Scoffing, Shear rolled his eyes and barked at her, “You cannot tell me that, you never tell your enemy your single weakness! Honestly, are you new? Get down here.”

“Do I jump-?” Nami’s brimming fury from earlier was deflating the longer that karambit was held so close to easily sliced skin, although the edge of her tone betrayed a lingering annoyance.

Shear gave her a long-suffering look from behind the bristling hyur in his grasp. “If you can jump it, sure. Otherwise, you took the stairs once, you can take them again.”

“You won’t kill him while I go downstairs?”

“What? No, I want to talk to you, not lose you to grief screaming. Or worse, you trying to come at me senselessly after this idiot’s death and I’d have to kill you, too. Then you’re both dead and I get no answers. So just get down here already.”

“Nami no, just leave me!” Taku shouted and gave a lurch as she turned from the balcony, heading back into the room to proceed back down the stairs she’d come up and threading through the house’s corridors quickly. The hyur gave another hiss as the ache in his legs sharpened and the karambit bit in with the movement.

“She has more loyalty to you than to leave you behind to die in my grasp. How are your legs, by the way~?” Shear adjusted his grip on the hyuran man’s hair, checking that the idiot hadn’t yanked his neck open on the knife pressed to it. There was a tiny trickle where the tip of the blade had nicked skin, but short of the furious look on his face and his blood seeping into his pants, he seemed fine.

“Fuck you, murderer!” The hyur spat the words over his shoulder, which gave Shear a bigger indication of why they were there. “My legs are fine enough to kick your ass.”

“Is that why your knees are shaking like a freshly-born ewe? Don’t struggle, I have a knife to your neck.” The hyur had attempted to lurch away again, and Shear decided then these two would live if only because they were so gods damned stupid they’d get themselves killed before it mattered if he did it.

Nami stepped out of the front door quickly and followed the wrapping porch around to the north side of the building. Shear motioned with his chin for her to approach as she slowed on arrival to the stone garden. “Sit, on your knees in the grass, just there. Pull the bandana down and lace your fingers in front of you on your lap after. Reach for the stones or for another weapon and I will give him the last smile he will ever give you. Understood?”

“I d-don’t have a-any other weapons. But a-ah, y-yes.” The hyuran woman knelt where bid, fingers clasping the edge of the dark bandana and pulling it down off her face. The tongue spoken did match both of their looks and Shear frowned at the familiar looking face she’d revealed that shared features with the hyur in his grasp.

Likely related, and both of them locals to the area, then.

She was passably pretty, not his type, but good looking, with her hair tied tightly behind her head. Speaking of looking, she barely looked of age but he took her word for it. On the back of one clasped hand, Shear could see trailing burn scarring along the uncovered skin. The scarring continued up into her sleeve past her wrist, and he could see more of it crawling at the edge of her shirt’s high collar on the same side, partially up one side of her neck and up along her cheek. Her earlobe was stuck to the side of her neck on that side, her jaw more defined by the irregular shape of the healed scar tissue.

“You really should not tell me that either,” Shear drawled his Hingan lazily, as casually as Iji had taught him. No formalities. You don’t try to kill someone while they sleep and get formalities or respectful phrasing. “Unless you are lying and you do have other weapons, in which I will kill him for that.”

“Stop!” Her clasped hands rose and Shear growled a warning. They thumped back to her lap as her lip quivered. “I r-really don’t. Please, let him go.”

“Nami, shut up, don’t tell him that-” Taku started and was silenced by the sting of the karambit once again. The hand in his hair gripped harder, making the hyur grimace.

“Mmn, I will believe you, if only because of his rude pleading for you to shut up. Since you seem more inclined to speak than he does, why are you here? More specifically, why did you target me?” Shear spoke evenly, staring at the woman across from them.

“W-we were told you s-sleep well into the a-afternoon when y-you don’t h-have work,” She spat the word bitterly. Her voice shook the longer she stared at her companion’s state, deciding to change her gaze down at the disturbed stones leading from the place Taku had fallen to where he’d been dragged and was currently. So much for keeping her eyes off of it. “So th-the early m-morning we thought w-would… Be p-perfect.”

“And who told you that?” Shear’s lip curled and Taku gave another whine as the grip in his hair tightened.

“Sto- hhhhgh, o-one of the people you t-travel with! He was d-drinking and m-mentioned this place he was staying, and c-complained that you sleep t-too m-much.” The laced fingers squeezed, thumbs rubbing against one another nervously as she watched the grimace ease off Taku’s face, Shear’s grip having loosened as she talked.

Shear’s annoyance dimmed some. Maybe this wasn’t personal then. “So you made smalltalk with one of my companions, got them talking about me, and decided to… What? Make me your mark, to rob me or something? Is that it? Do you need gil? Are you starving?”

“Screw your money! You killed our mother.” Taku snapped it over his shoulder, laced with venom. Maybe it was personal after all. “And you left the place burning where Nami was sleeping, so she got burned real bad! This is revenge, you idiot!”

“Actually, this would be you avenging your mother, and would be her revenge.” The viera’s chin motioned at the woman sitting across from them. “Although I have to say, thus far you are poorly avenging your mother, so the word choice on the matter is irrelevant.” Shear corrected Taku loftily and barked a laugh when the hyur snarled back at him. “How do you even know your mother died because of me? I do not know either of your faces, or recognize your names for that matter.”

“The neighbor told us she saw a viera man matching your description leaving, long after the flames had already been roaring. If not you, then who? Do you even remember the fire? Or our mother? Ota Emiko. Her name was Emiko.” Nami’s nervous thumbs shifted, rubbing at the scar along the back of one hand as she spoke fiercely.

That name did ring a bell. Two, even. “And you decided to not report this witness to the authorities because...?” Shear pressed for more, figuring the answer before they spoke.

Taku responded when Nami did not, her lips pressed together while she bit back tears as the painful memory resurfaced. “Because they didn’t believe her. She’s older, and claims to see things no one else can. I did though. Believe her I mean. That old lady might say she sees her dead son sometimes and some other weird spirits, but some people can just do that. It doesn’t mean she’s lying. She took care of me while Nami recovered, so we had time to figure out who you were. Not like you rabbit ijin are common in our area, it was easy to put together, stupid.”

Listening, Shear nodded and eased the karambit off Taku’s throat. His hair was also released, giving the hyur’s back a shove towards Nami. “Good little sleuths then. I would say ‘well done’ if not for this piss-poor execution of your plan so far.” Still holding the karambit in his hand, Shear’s other palm rested on his hip as Taku hit the stones with a pained grunt. The hyur crawled closer towards Nami who hesitated.

To her credit, she recalled his previous warning and did not move from her position as Taku crawled into her lap. At Shear’s nod, her hands rose and wrapped around Taku’s back in a hug as he gasped for breath on her folded legs. She eased her hold off him with a murmured apology as he whined at the squeezing.

Hitting the ground on his back had been very painful.

“As you were honest with me, I will be honest with you. I recall Ota Emiko, as well as a house fire around this area. That was a few turns ago now and that house was empty, except for the marked target left inside-- your mother, I presume. You could not have been home, you were with your brother and father at the Ruby Bazaar in Kugane that night.” Brows furrowing, Shear recalled that job and he dug for the memories of it.

He remembered all of his jobs, just not always immediately. They were daily reminders about the scum of humanity, and how easily your life could rest on the edge of a large sack of coins.

“You’re wrong!” Nami finally blurted it out, staring up at him indignantly and openly crying in frustration. “I was home. Taku was out with his girlfriend at the time and our father, not me. I was in my room, on the second floor, asleep.” Shear’s gaze wandered to the girl and her burn scars, his eyes narrowing on them.

Had his lookout been that foolish to mistake them? Had he only seen a young girl with the then-teenage boy and his father and assumed she was the sister?

That was entirely possible. Tymbask* was a hulking wall of muscle that could cleave a person in two with his axe easily, and who had been historically kind to the viera, but as his name’s literal translation meant ‘Dumb Ash’ suggested, that did not mean he was always intelligent.

“When the fire was set on the main floor, it eventually came up through the floor and caught my futon and hair on fire.” Nami choked and swallowed thickly, touching at the space above her ear under her tucked hair. The styled hair was lifted to reveal more of the scarred skin a bit above the edge of her ear. “I-I couldn’t get down the stairs. I had to jump o-out of my bedroom’s w-window, w-while I w-was on fire. I b-broke my arm w-when I landed a-and the old lady saw me jump. She r-ran over a-and helped put me o-out.”

Putting details together, Shear observed her brother push himself up to sit beside his sobbing sister, brushing at her tear-streaked face with one hand gently. It left streaks of red behind from his bloodied hand, leftover from when he’d grabbed at his bleeding thighs earlier. Realizing his error, Taku attempted to keep swiping it off in vain, spreading it further out across her face until Nami was swatting at his hands.

Shear felt a pang of pity and moved cautiously closer. Both of the young Hingans flinched, heads turning to stare up at him with a varying level of distrust and hatred. Shear reached up with his unoccupied hand, claws hooking the fabric of one sleeve and tearing it off. The torn off sleeve was then slit along it’s seam with the karambit into a wide - but now flat - arching square of blue, flower-patterned fabric.

Shear moved to just in front of them, squatting and holding it out towards the crying woman. “I was misinformed, then. You were never meant to be home.” Taku slapped at the hand holding the cloth but Shear, simply to spite him for it, leaned closer to wipe Nami’s bloodied and tear-streaked face clean instead. “Where is your father now, perchance…?” He asked cautiously while Taku simmered in his anger beside them.

Nami looked confused at the question and her sobbing eased some, responding to his inquiry as her reddened face was wiped with his sure motions. “H-he’s dead. He died a bit after our mother did, trying to barter the r-remaining things of value that survived the fire with a corrupt a-appraiser.” Her expression fell again but the tears seemed to have stopped. She gave a sniff. “But he was k-killed for them instead.”

“Nami shut up! Stop telling him shit!” Taku snapped and wiggled between Shear and his sister, shoving at Shear’s chest with one hand. The viera gave a snort at the shove, his crouched form wobbling a moment. He leaned back in, shoving the hyur aside roughly instead, straight back into the stones he’d fallen into earlier with Taku giving an indignant, pained squawk as he landed.

“You should not tell your sister to shut up while she is talking and being reasonable. It is incredibly rude.” Her face clean and dry, Shear tucked the torn cloth into the same pocket as his other karambit and crab walked back a step from her as she turned to check on her brother. Taku waved her off with a grunt. The viera continued. “Although it is a good story, and I may be incorrect on the specific details, I do not believe that is who killed your father, or for that reason.”

“What do you mean? How could you claim to know something we were assured of by the investigators? They even caught the appraiser! He was sentenced and thrown in jail!” Nami objected loudly and narrowed her eyes, shaking her head. The braid Shear had assumed was just a simple ponytail whipped behind her with the movement. “How dare you!”

“Nami- it was Nami, yes?” Shear waited and the heated Hingan stared a moment distrustfully before nodding. “Nami, you seem the smarter and more reasonable of the two of you. Maybe even older, I’d guess by at least a turn or two. Take stock of what I have said and realize I may know more than you, having been intimately involved in this already. I also described your mother as a mark earlier, and you have yet to ask me the most obvious question.”

“Wait, a mark?” Backtracking her thoughts prior to her outburst about him being wrong, her brows knit. “Oh, so you did. What does that have to do with my father and the appraiser? Who marked my mother, then?”

“Your father.” Shear sat his backside on the stones in front of her while Taku gave a shout and lunged for him. The karambit still in the viera’s hand curled up for the lunging man who stopped just short of it’s point, huffing.

“Liar!” Taku spat at him, the wad hitting his bare leg.

Shear’s other hand removed that bloodied, tear-damp cloth from his pocket and wiped it off his leg. “I have yet to lie to you about anything, least of all this.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Our father was distraught when he realized our mother was dead. The official reports ignored our old neighbor lady naming you at the scene. We knew better, obviously, and tried to tell our father but he told us not to make demons out of shadows.” Nami shook her head again, gripping the back of her brother’s shirt and tugging him back away from the knife.

“He would, considering he knew it was I carrying it out and that he was the demon in the shadows the whole time. Assuring you to accept a perfectly believable story is entirely why he asked for the job to be carried out in a rather distinct manner. Your mother was known for fainting, right? Something about her weak heart, if I recall.”

The siblings looked at each other and frowned. Taku decided to broach it first. “Yeah. So what? Everyone around our area who knew our mother knew that.”

“So I happen to know your father had been trying to poison her for some time, hence the strange and sudden onset of it, despite being healthy as a chocobo her whole life. All it gave her was a weaker constitution and fainting spells instead. She was very strong willed, I heard. He insisted he had wanted her to die quickly but his poison attempts were failing and he did not want her to suffer unreasonably.” Taku bristled but Nami set her scarred hand over his mouth. After her nod to continue, Shear tucked the cloth back into the pocket at his side and kept going.

“He needed distinct things, which cost him extra for finesse.” The viera counted the contracted details off on his fingers. “First, his wife dead from a posed fainting episode. That was easy. After she was already dead, I had to drop her just right as if she’d fallen and bashed her head on the edge of your living room table to make it believable. By the unmistaken damage on her skull eventually found in the fire. Some would even believe that is when she would have died, on the edge of the table itself. So the body would be next to where it would have fallen before the fire consumed it, either way.”

“Second, the place needed to burn down from the lantern she'd have mistakenly knocked over from her fainting fall in your living room. He indicated clearly he wanted her body taking the brunt of the worst of the flames so no other damage than the obviously damaged skull would be recognizable. He could claim the whole thing as an unfortunate series of events out of anyone’s control about the terrible accident.”

Shear let these details settle into the two Hingans in front of him, the both of whom looked increasingly sick as he spoke. He followed up with the next information more gently. “All this to guarantee the insurance money from your mother’s death, and for the house, which would be paid after the heart-breaking investigation into her death. You all would have alibis, witnesses of the bazaar itself and each other placing you shopping in the Ruby Bazaar during the regrettable incident. All of this plotting and planning to pay off his debts, one of which was a life debt, as well as the debt he would have with us for completing, since he was broke to pay us outright and too cowardly to kill himself.”

“You lie!” Taku exploded and pointed a trembling finger in his direction. Wisely, he did not lunge at the viera as he had during previous shouted dissents. “Our father had no debts, or they would have passed to us! He was an honorable man who did not have our mother killed for money. He loved her! He loved us! Fuck you, asshole!”

“Explain.” Nami, more reserved, stared at Shear with a level expression.

“You can’t believe him!” Taku whirled on his sibling, looking shocked.

“He hasn’t lied yet, Taku. He knew about the lantern, and where and how she died.”

“That you know of! And of course he knew the details about the crime scene, he’s the fucking murdering ijin who set all of it up! You can't trust a word he says!”

“That’s true, although for a ijin, he speaks our language well.” Nami pointed this out and Shear considered passing her compliment to Iji. They really had worked very hard on his pronunciations while sharing dumplings.

Taku did not agree. “So he’s a well-practiced ijin, who cares! He’s a murderous, lying bastard!”

“But Taku, what if it’s true?”

“Shut up! Don’t even entertain it! It’s not!”

While the two siblings continued bickering, Shear eventually cleared his throat. Taku turned his head and glared, Nami looked tired. The mismatched gaze glanced between them before the viera shrugged. “I can prove it.”

“Bullshit! You can not! Asshole! You fucking liar! Bastard! Piss off!” Taku bared his teeth. Nami set a hand on her brother’s shoulder, squeezing it. She took a deep breath and quietly counted under her breath. While she counted and Taku puffed and muttered angrily, the young Hingan eventually simmered his shouting.

Shear waited as well, faintly amused about being told to ‘piss off’ in front of his own - current - home. “Are you finished?”

“Don’t test your luck, shithead.” Taku growled it under his breath after another squeeze of the hand on his shoulder.

Nami spoke louder then, turning her head from her brother. “How can you prove it?”

“We have his contract for the job in a safe, for starters.” Taku looked less certain then and stared at the stones. “My mentor keeps them as insurance in the hypothetical scenario that should anyone who requests services from us attempt to betray us or extort us by threatening to, we would simply take them down with us. The details I spoke of I know about because they are clearly outlined, in your father’s own hand, in that contract.”

“Can we see it?” Nami frowned and pressed her lips together. “Not even Taku could deny such damning evidence.”

“Typically, no.” Nami started to ask something else but Shear continued. “However, this is… a curious case. My mentor may make an exception. Although,” Shear eyed Taku, who despite having calmed his shouting, was still openly seething beside his sister. “Would seeing the source of this pain, knowing it were true, sway you away from attacking me in the future? I was still the one who did the job. I killed your mother, and set fire to your house, and as such subsequently, set fire to you.”

“Exactly!” Taku hissed it and Nami looked torn.

“But if I’m understanding this correctly, you would not have if our father hadn’t paid you to.” Nami chewed the inside of her lip.

“That’s also true. It wasn’t personal to me, it was a job. Normally not even the type of job I would have accepted because your mother, all things considered, was an innocent.” Shear scratched at his bare shoulder with the handle of the karambit lightly.

Taku cut his sister off before she could speak to exclaim at him.“Then why did you?! She was kind! And sweet! And loving! She was innocent, like you s-said, so why d-did you kill her?!”

There, then, was the root of all of that futon-stabbing bluster. Shear grimaced and waved his free hand vaguely. “Because it was as I said. Your father was already trying to carelessly kill her, and I knew she would have died eventually anyway. By accepting and handling the job myself, I could at least guarantee her a swift death, rather than a painful, extended one. His first idiotic suggestion as a means to possible ‘painless death’ had been to slit her throat and let her bleed out. He’s obviously never choked and drowned to death in his own blood before.”

The siblings looked at Shear, clearly horrified.

Both blonde brows perked. “Oh, I see. Well, maybe he understood why I didn’t at his end then.”

“How did you know?!”

“Did you kill him, too?!”

The viera held the waving hand still up in a ‘stop’ motion at the sudden upset assault of questions. “No, I did not kill your father. I expect the ones who he owed his massive debts to did, especially after learning that instead of simply owing them his life, he traded his wife, his house - which arguably had more value than his life anyway - and nearly his daughter in exchange. Someone who is willing to sacrifice someone he loves to save his own skin is not someone to be trusted. I suppose you both should be grateful he didn’t have one of you killed instead.”

“That is not the comforting thought you think it is.” Nami muttered under her breath, rubbing the back of her neck.

As eloquent as ever, Taku glared at him before turning his face away. “Asshole.”

“I will let the two of you talk it over. It would be more likely you would both see the contract your father wrote for us and be set free to return home if you swore to drop the vendetta.” Shear shrugged simply.

“How do you know we wouldn’t simply lie about dropping it and come back to kill you, regardless? Or report to the investigators what we know?” Nami asked it, and Taku thumbed at his sister to echo it silently.

Shear’s shoulders raised in another simple shrug, flipping and spinning his karambit idly in his hand. “The investigators would not want to reopen something they have already tied closed, and especially so old. It would never pass in any kind of court, especially not hinging on someone your neighborhood has labeled as a liar.”

Motioning at Nami with the karambit and making the hyuran woman look nervous, Shear followed up. “As to the former, two words: magic contracts. My mentor knows how to do them. You both would sign one guaranteeing the dropped vendetta, even if you both still feel like doing it. But if either of you caused me harm, especially death, the contract would reap its justice against you in return.”

“So if one of us hurt you, or killed you... Say, me, I would die when you died.” Taku squinted suspiciously at Shear, who returned the suspicion with an unimpressed brow raised.

“Or be harmed equally, by cuts, stabbings, scratches, etcetera. Please don’t go thinking you would valiantly sacrifice yourself to rid the world of me, idiot. It would kill you both. Same contract, same punishment for those involved. It would also, in turn, guarantee that I could not harm either of you, either. Not that I have any plans to. Though you do owe me a new futon.”

“Owe you a-?!” Taku spluttered and sat up threateningly, and Nami’s hand plopped against his puffing chest.

“We will sign it.” Sure of herself, Nami stared at Shear hard who looked bored by that point. His adrenaline had more than worn off at that point.

Taku made another angry noise, shoving the hand off his chest. “Can we talk about this?! He’s still the murderer who killed mom!”

“Taku.” Shaking her head, Nami offered her sibling a small smile. “It would still be answers. And he was simply the tool used against her, he wasn’t truly who killed her. Even if she died by his hand, he was set against her by someone else. That is who really killed mom. Do you understand?”

“No?! Hello, did you fall and hit your head when I wasn’t aware?!” Gripping at his sibling’s shoulders, he shook her gently. “He! Killed! Her! He could have said no-”

“But he said she would have died either way! And then we would be chasing someone else in her name! But that’s not the point, Taku. He was sent after her by someone, possibly our father. I want to know the truth! I want… I want to know for certain.” Shrugging his grip off her shoulders, Nami set her jaw and stared at him stubbornly.

“And if it’s true?!” Taku scrubbed at his scalp with both hands, eyes squeezing shut. “Then he’s already dead and this asshole is still alive! We promised to kill her killer! This just… It just turned into killers, plural!”

“Except we won’t get answers unless we give up something, Taku. Aren’t you ready to go back to Old Biju? She’s still worried about us, Taku.”

“Don’t you dare use the old lady on me like that. Of course I want to see her, but we… We promised each other!”

“And if father is behind it, and he is the reason the rabbit was sent after mom, then he’s dead, and her killer is no longer alive. We would have succeeded.”

Shear considered correcting their word for ‘rabbit’ with ‘viera’ and opted that the linguistics battle wasn’t worth it at that moment.

Taku growled and rolled his shoulders, flinching when they gave a twinge. “But…”

“And if it’s not true, we did say until death we would hunt her killer. I would accept our fate, if you would.” Nami cocked her head in Shear’s direction, whose intrigue in their back-and-forths died inside his irritation.

The viera began talking, heated. “Excuse me, you would ki-”

“Of course I would accept it. So it’s settled. If … If it’s father, then the rabbit lives. If he’s a liar, the rabbit dies. That fair to you, rabbit?” Taku turned to address Shear who looked miffed.

“Viera. I am a viera. A veena, to be precise. And I guess, you could try. The first time went all sorts of in your favour.” Pulling the karambit off his hand and pocketing it, Shear rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they didn’t pop clean out of his head. Climbing to his feet and stepping past them, he waved his hand over his shoulder. “My mentor will be gone at least until midday, so either leave and come back later or try not to annoy me with your quarreling. And a reminder you still owe me a new futon!”

“Sure, yeah, whatever. That’s definitely not fucking happening, asshole. Consider it collateral damage for you being a prick.” Taku snorted and stood with the assistance of his sister, the pair of them stumbling towards the house. “Don’t suppose you got any bandages?”

Turning his head and glancing at his bleeding limbs, Shear curled his lip in disgust. “... I do. Stay on the porch. If you bleed on the mats, he will kill you.”

“He who?” The pair of them chirped the question at the same time as Shear stepped into the house.

“My mentor, Kalona.”

“Who the fuck is Kalona?” Taku snorted as he eased to the porch. “Sounds like a girl's name.”

Shear called over his shoulder. “You will find out.”

Nami murmured under her breath to her brother after Shear disappeared, nudging him gently as she sat beside him. “Think we’ll regret it?”

Taku exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging, staring at his bloody thighs. “... I got no fucking clue.”

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evabellasworld · 3 years ago

Text

Storm of the Republic

Chapter 6

AO3 Link | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

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Summary: When Tup murdered General Tiplar during a battle, Anakin Skywalker and Captain Rex dispatched Ahsoka, Fives, and Yara to solve the mystery that was plaguing the Clone Army. Meanwhile, Senator Padme Amidala contacted Commander Fox, Commander Tori, Riyo Chuchi, and Dipper to help her continue investigating the death of Palpatine, suspecting that Dooku was behind the evil plot. But when Dooku send an ISB agent to stop them, the team had to race against time to search for the truth, which could alter the course of the galaxy.

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Arriving at the medical base, Anakin, Ahsoka, Rex, Fives, Yara, and Tiplee entered the room where they were greeted by Kix, who was watching over Tup’s condition.

“Fives, Yara, what’s happening to me?” Yup asked, realising that he was strapped to his bed.

Fives and Yara exchanged a brief glance with each other as they focused on Tup. “You don’t remember?” the former raised his eyebrows.

“No,” he denied, unsure of what he meant.

“You murdered General Tiplar,” Yara told him the truth, much to his surprise.

“What? No, that’s not possible,” Tup shook his head, as he tried to wriggle free from his current position. “I would never, I could never…”

“Tup, you did,” Fives grabbed his hand, stopping him. He wished it never happened, but unfortunately, there was nothing he or Yara could do to change the past.

“I don’t, I don’t understand,” he expressed his agitation, prompting the medical droid to reach for a syringe beside him. “How could this happen? What’s happening to me, Fives?”

His body was jittering as the medical droid injected the syringe on the right side of his neck, causing him to scream for help three times until his pulse level decreased. Yara looked at her younger brother, crushed by his conditions.

She had never seen him like this before. Usually, Tup was shy and quiet, but he put on a brave face and fared well in battle. The closest thing Yara had seen to Tup’s fearful face was on Umbara, where he was struggling to execute her, along with Fives and Jessy.

Poor Tup, she pitied him. I’ve never seen him like this before.

“What do you think happened?” Rex raised the question to Anakin, who was rubbing the back of his head.

“I wish I knew,” Ahsoka hoped for answers.

He turned to Kix, who was holding a datapad. “Did you check all of his scans?”

“Well, all of his scans are clear,” Kix answered his general. “As far as I can tell, this is combat-related stress. It seems he’s had some sort of breakdown.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Yara slapped her forehead, hearing that from an experienced medic. “Combat-related stress? Is that what you came up with?”

Rex couldn’t believe it either. “Kix, you should know better. We were designed to withstand any stress.”

“I agree,” Fives chimed in, shifting his focus towards them. “He doesn’t seem to remember what happened. It’s like he’s sick, or drugged.”

“Well, it could be a virus, a toxin,” Kix shrugged, speculating about the potential cause of Tup’s odd behaviour. “I can’t be certain.”

Looking at Tup, who was dozed off, Anakin gestured to his team towards the exit. “Let’s talk outside.”

“Yes, master,” Ahsoka acknowledged, as they headed outside the medical bay. As Fives was the last to walk out of the room, the door hissed behind him, prompting Anakin to continue with what he wanted to say back then.

“You mean the enemy could have made him do this?”

“It’s a possibility,” Tiplee shrugged. “There have been rumors that the Empire has been trying to develop an anti-clone virus, biological warfare.”

“It could be possible,” Yara said. “That could explain why Tup killed Master Tiplar on the battlefield.”

“Listen,” Kix calmed them down. “We aren’t equipped for this type of situation. He’ll have to be taken back to Kamino. Only then, you will have your answers.”

Ahsoka shook her head in disagreement. “The Empire shut down the cloning facility on Kamino. Going there wouldn’t be the best idea.”

“I agree with Commander Tano,” Yara acknowledged. “For all we know, the Empire would ambush us there.”

Anakin groaned, figuring out a better solution for Tup. Both of them made a good point. Since he suspected the Empire was behind all of this, it would make perfect sense if they found an alternative treatment for his men instead.

As the Jedi pondered, he thought about Jedi Healer Cinta Kaarim back at base, who could treat her patient. Before that, she helped Commander Tori’s child, Frieda, with her speech therapy and also assisted Obi-Wan with a stomach bug as well. Master Kaarim is our only hope right now.

“I have an idea,” Anakin spoke. “And it’s a superb one.”

“It better be,” Ahsoka crossed her arms, knowing that her master’s plan worked half the time.

“Trust me, Snips, it’s a good idea this time,” he assured his Padawan, placing his hand on her shoulder. “We could send Tup back to base instead. Master Kaarim can handle it from there.”

She smiled at him. “I have to admit, that is a good idea. Besides, Master Kaarim is the only medical doctor we can trust right now.”

Kix nodded in unison with General Skywalker’s solution. “Alright, we’ll send Tup back to base and hopefully, we’ll get answers from there.”

“Can Yara and I come along?” Fives volunteered. “Tup is our friend, and right now, he needs someone to watch his back.”

Anakin and Ahsoka glanced at Rex, who then let out an exhale. “Alright, but everything must be done by the book,” Rex stated. “You both need to stay by his side at all times. I don’t want anymore slip-ups.”

“Yes, sir,” saluted Yara. “We won’t let you down.”

***

Marching through the base, Tori held Frieda as the little girl's eyes wandered around, looking at the Republic soldiers working around the base. Some of them were refuelling their ships for the next battle, while others were walking in and out of the base, reporting their status to their superiors.

“Mama, look,” the child pointed at the Jedi Cruiser hovering above them, making Tori’s lips curled upward.

“That’s a ship up there,” she described to her. “It’s protecting us from the bad guys.”

Hopefully, it’s protecting us, Tori fancied, not wanting Frieda to succumb to cynicism like her.

Tori never felt alone since the Battle of Coruscant. No matter how much she fought in every battle, the galaxy turned their backs on them. No one is coming to save the tide of the war. They had to rely on each other for support instead.

So far, with General Arin Sallis leading the 101st Battalion, their luck seemed to improve. Being an experienced soldier, Arin has proven herself to be an effective leader towards her troops. Despite her strictness, Arin has a soft spot for the clones and children, which shows in her attitude.

Odd Eye could also say the same towards her new general, Erina Almarez-Guttierez. Unlike Arin, however, Erina was temperate and calm, just like how Erhan was. Her partner, General Raul Antonio Gomez, who led the 197th Battalion, was supportive, which depicted the relationship between the two battalions.

The Coruscant Guard is entrusted under the care of Marshal Commander Fox himself, with supervision from General Nara Brinks, who worked for the Galactic Republic long before Palpatine was in office.

Though Nara was hard, Fox got along with his new boss well. She was straightforward with her command and cared about the clones under her wings. As he entered the main headquarters, the elderly Palliduvan woman greeted him with a grandmotherly smile on her face, making Fox feel at ease.

“How’s my favourite commander doing?” she asked him, giving him a hug. “I hope you have plenty of rest for yourself.”

”I’ve rested in an adequate amount, sir,” he said honestly. “Thank you very much.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Riyo spoke, much to Fox’s delight. “He tends to overwork himself too much.”

“You know what they say, old habits die hard,” he teased her, gazing at her with loving eyes. “But what’s this all about, anyway?”

“We intercepted a call from Coruscant,” Arin stepped out of the shadow, her hands guarded behind her. Tori straightened her posture and gave her a salute in respect.

“General Sallis, to what do I owe you for my pleasure?”

The red half-Twi’lek glanced at Frieda and shook her little hands. “Hello darling, how are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Frieda said, making her beam with joy.

“Anyway,” the general cleared her throat, shifting her focus towards Fox. “Senator Amidala had reached out to us through a secure line. It appears she had requested for Commander Fox’s help.”

Fox’s eyes widened when he heard Padmé’s name mentioned in the briefing, switching him into bodyguard mode. “Senator Amidala had tried to contact me? Is she alright, General? Is she safe?”

“She is, Fox,” Erina comforted him. “But it won’t be long before the Empire finds out. I will play the message for you.”

Gesturing to Arin and Nara, the hijabi woman played the message, though the Naboo senator’s face was not visible. “Commander Fox, if you’ve received this message, then my life is in danger,” Padmé relayed. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time in our hands. Ever since Count Dooku had taken control of the Senate, he had been restricting our rights to exercise as a citizen of the Galactic Empire, including the freedom of speech.”

“With the Chancellor gone, his death has been covered up by the current administration. He promised he will be transparent about the case, but so far, there was nothing mentioned about it so far. There are senators demanding answers on Palpatine’s death, but all Dooku did was to deprive them of their voices.”

“Commander Fox, as someone who was in charge of the case, I need you to return to Coruscant and help me find the murderer of Chancellor Palpatine. The clues that you have found would be useful to connect the dots. This investigation is the only way to defeat Dooku and end this war as soon as possible. Padmé, out.”

As the transmission ended, Fox blinked twice as he tried to process her speech. This is insane, he thought. I have to return to Coruscant to continue the investigation? This is suicide.

“Well, that was intense,” Tori expressed her opinion. “I mean, what are the odds that Foxy has to return to Coruscant undetected?”

“He won’t be alone,” Riyo said. “I’ll be accompanying him on his trip to Coruscant. He needs all the help he can get.”

“Riyo, you shouldn’t-”

“Padmé is my friend, and I’m willing to risk it to help her out. Besides, we can get her out of Coruscant. It’s safer here.”

Fox relented to her determination, knowing that there was nothing he could do to convince her otherwise.

“Tori and Dipper will also join you as well,” Arin disclosed, leaving Fox rolling his eyes in despair.”

“Is that really necessary? I can just take Thire and Hyewon with me instead.”

“They have proven themselves useful before,” Nara defended her choice. “Besides, I’m dispatching the rest of the Coruscant Guard on Hucora with the 212th, 197th, and 666th.”

”So that’s where we’re going,” Odd Eye spoke, crossing her arms.

“Mina, Cody, Raul, and General Kenobi will be here soon,” Erina noted. “They’re currently on an errand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I guess I’ll tell Dipper everything after this,” Tori shrugged. “So, what’s the plan for getting there?”

“You will be disguised in your civilian attire,” Arin briefed them. “Once you arrive on Coruscant, any form of long-range communication will be cut off.”

“So we’re on our own?” Riyo raised her doubt.

“Unfortunately, yes, Senator, so you’ll have to stick together and make sure your presence isn’t known by Imperial authorities. If compromised, you’ll have to leave as soon as possible, with or without Senator Amidala. Am I understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Fox replied.

“And don’t trust anyone,” Nara advised. “We don’t want any trouble for all of us.”

“I understand, generals,” Tori responded.

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lordbeyron · 4 years ago

Text

By Any Other Name

Tyrellius Duskfury exhaled sharply out of his nose. His mask hid well the disapproving scowl on his face, as he escorted Lady Silentspear into Everblaze Manor. While the Demon Hunter didn't see in the same way as his elven kin, he could still perceive his surroundings well. Better than most, thanks to his prime bound demon. Observers saw the world through many different lenses. And now, so did he. Everblaze Manor was… gaudy. Crimson drapery with golden filigree, the grandiose portrait frames and statue busts lining the corridors-- most of which depicted Lord Everblaze himself, of course-- the vaulted ceiling crowded with dimly lit chandeliers... all of it shiney and extravagant! The manor was a monument to the Magister's narcissism, most assuredly. Tyrellius found himself glad, for once, that he'd gouged his real eyes out to spare them the true pain of seeing all this naturally.

Tydori, on the other hand, didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. A rather slender woman, she walked the halls of the Manor with such grace and reverence, any passer-by could have mistaken her for master of the domain. If not for the garish horns protruding from her raven hair, perhaps. She dressed the part nonetheless; an elegant black dress with red and gold trim. A blindfold to match. Simple, but all the same displayed a fealty to the High Kingdom. And that wasn’t an accident. For months, since stepping into the spotlight of the Council, she’s long represented the side of Quel’Thalas often left too forgotten by those living in the luxury of Silvermoon. Soldiers and citizens, all who have made often-overlooked sacrifices. She needed no extravagant dress or peacocky attire. Hers was a platform of simplicity and fealty. And she wore it well in both the literal and figurative sense.

That’s why they were here, Tyrellius could only surmise; Lady Silentspear’s controversial propositions had tipped the Sun Council itself on its head. Outraged at her “radical” ideas for reformation, she was dismissed… much to the ire of the people whom she represented. Protests, riots, anger in all its forms from civil to ugly all erupted throughout Silvermoon. Unintended by Tydori, of course, but Tyrellius knew she wouldn’t have been invited to a Councilor’s estate if noise hadn’t been made on her behalf. Though, he never expected Lord Bey’ron Everblaze, of all the Councilors, to be the one who would reach out first. An odd move, even for him. Despite the support she’d garnered from her fellow elves, to any politician she was a poison; was Lord Everblaze truly so powerful-- or arrogant-- to host her like this without losing face?

The pair of demon hunters stepped into a large room; dimly lit, but that was no issue for them. Bookshelves lined the walls. And where there weren’t bookshelves, there were more paintings-- scenery in this room, rather than portraits. In the center of the room were three luxurious chaise lounges, all circled about an elegant table of food and wine. No guards. No attendants. The room was as empty as a tomb. Magic permeated the air throughout, causing Tyrellius’ ears to flicker with unease. Was this a trick? He wasn’t fond of the idea before, and grew less so by the second. His hands settled onto the hilts of his weapons as he stepped out ahead of Tydori to better examine the lounge. Nothing looked too unusual, save a few remnant portal signatures slowly dissipating into the ambient arcana. He approached the sitting area, Tydori waiting as patiently and quietly as she always did for her trusted hand to inspect the scene. The food, while delivered via magical means, was real. Fresh, too. Grapes from a vineyard, sliced meats and cheeses… and red wine in a small cask-- their host’s vintage, it seemed. Tyrellius grunted, before nodding to Tydori. All seemed well enough… for the moment.

“How long are we to wait here for him, before we get on with our lives?” he asked, no shortage of bile in his tone.

Tydori approached, and placed a hand on Tyrellius’ shoulder. Wordless, yet it said all he needed to hear. He exhaled a sigh, ears wilting as he dipped his head.

“... I know. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge. I’ve heard… things… about this Magister.”

“--Good things, I hope.”

A pair of bookshelves across the room opened up, revealing Magister Everblaze. He smirked at his guests as he entered the room, and bowed his head.

“Lady Tydori Silentspear. I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation today.” he grinned, approaching the sitting area.

Tydori bowed her head politely, her ruby lips curling into a polite smile. Tyrellius, however, simply crossed his arms. Bey’ron raised his brow curiously, at the rather mixed reception.

“... I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long. I know you Illidari are used to a certain hastiness, hmm?”

“--I’m sure you mean punctuality, Milord.” Tyrellius corrected, unabashedly.

“Mm… certainly so.” Bey’ron grinned at him, before motioning to the chaise lounges. “Why don’t we sit, hmm? Please make yourselves comfortable.”

Tydori once again dipped her head, before lowering herself into one of the seats. Bey’ron did the same, settling into his preferred chair. Tyrellius remained standing, arms crossed as he stared at the Magister. He’d seen him before, once or twice in passing; always dressed in lavish robes, and wearing that cocky smirk. His entire person soaked in arcana-- and a streak of fel magic inherent to most Blood Elves. Yet now, the Magister’s attire was simple. Almost humble for him. Unusual, considering everything he’d seen so far of Lord Everblaze’s lifestyle. Was it a ploy of some kind to relate to Lady Silentspear? Or a gaff at her expense? Perhaps neither; perhaps Lord Everblaze didn’t find this meeting worth dressing up for. Insulting, no matter the case. Tyrellius was normally reserved and accepting, but… something about Bey’ron rubbed him the wrong way. He kept still, statuesque, mask hiding the glare on his face. But Bey’ron seemed to know it was there… and smirked at Tyrellius as if he didn’t care. As if he welcomed it.

“I admit, I’ve been greatly impressed by your resilience through all this, Lady Silentspear. Your Councilorship has not been the smoothest, has it?” the Magister began, folding his hands atop one another in his lap. “And yet, you endure. You persevere. I find your tenacity inspiring, I must say.”

“--With all due respect, is this a joke, Milord?” Tyrellius chimed in. “You know as well as I do that Milady Silentspear has been dismissed from the Council by you and your fellow Councilors, hasn’t she?”

“Ah, I’m glad you asked. That’s not entirely accurate.” Bey’ron got his turn to correct. “Councilorship isn’t just granted and revoked by declaration alone. There’s a lengthy process to both. The Council’s intention is unaltered, presently, but she’s not been stripped of the honorific just yet.”

He turned his attention to Lady Silentspear, and dipped his head.

“That, frankly, is what I’ve invited you here to discuss, Lady Silentspear. I’m curious what it is you want. What you hope to achieve. If our goals align… perhaps we can attain them together, hmm?”

“Milady Silentspear’s goals are quite clear, I believe.” Tyrellius spoke up once more. “She outlined them succinctly in the draft of her most recent proposition. One which you and the Council--”

“--Forgive me, Master Duskfury, was it?” Bey’ron’s voice raised, eyes narrowing at the Illidari as his smirk vanished. “I’d thank you to hold your commentary, hmm? I was addressing Lady Silentspear.”

Tyrellius exhaled sharply once more, shaking his head.

“I speak on her behalf, Lord Everblaze.” he explained. “A side effect of the sacrifice she made, and the pact she formed… Milady Silentspear doesn’t speak any language but one, now. Not one that elves inherently understand.”

Rather than appear surprised, as Tyrellius expected the Magister to, Bey’ron simply chuckled lightly. His emerald eyes flickered, settling once more on Lady Silentspear, as his fingers steepled in his lap.

“Worry not, Master Duskfury. This is something I anticipated.” he grinned. “I know Lady Silentspear hasn’t been one to address anyone publicly. And her propositions were all delivered by Council Orators, never by herself. It wasn’t hard to piece together her vocal limitations. I assure you�� I’m quite capable of carrying out a conversation with her on my own. Reza kil xi nath (We won’t be needing you).”

Tydori’s ears flickered, as Bey’ron switched fluidly to the Demonic tongue. She turned, looking to Tyrellius, who appeared equally surprised. His brow knit behind his mask, as he exhaled a grunt of disapproval.

“Hmph… You’re a warlock then.” he derisively accused.

“Oh, please, Master Duskfury. That’s such a savage nomenclature, don’t you think? I’m not some ritualistic demon-worshipper, like an Orcish warlock.” he grinned. “No, I’m a Magister. My interests and pursuits into the Fel and Demonology have all been scholarly, I assure you.”

“Zi nar falak tu zu kanil (You’re full of surprises, Lord Everblaze).”

Both turned to Tydori, as she finally spoke aloud. Her felfire gaze glowed a bit brighter, shining through her blindfold as she peered at Bey’ron. The Magister dipped his head, and replied to her, in kind.

“Gek toro ix vesk taniz (Our paths aren’t so different).” he assured her with a nod, before speaking in his native Thalassian once more. “If it pleases you, we can converse freely like this, hmm? No need for your translator.”

“(He’ll stay. But I’ll speak for myself, now.)” Tydori replied. “(I admit… it’s nice to have a direct conversation again.)”

“One of the many ways I’m sure we’ll work well together, hmm?” Bey’ron grinned. “So please, tell me… what is your ultimate goal in these propositions you’re creating? You seem to have public interests at the forefront of your agenda.”

“(Of course. I’m an Illidari, Magister Everblaze. We’re but one group of many sin’dorei who are criminally under-represented in the Spire.)” Tydori elaborated. “(By design, the Sun Council is a nepotistic exclusive group, suited to serve the nobility best, and everyone else sparingly. That has to change.)”

“On that, I think we agree. But it won’t change overnight, Milady. You’re talking about altering the foundation of the Sun Council itself. That will take time.” Bey’ron advised, before plucking a glass of wine from the table. “What is your plan, precisely? Brute-forcing propositions won’t work, I’m afraid. You must realize that now, hmm?”

“(I… do, yes.)” the Illidari exhaled a light sigh. “(Perhaps I was too… ‘hasty’, as you put it.)”

Tyrellius scoffed lightly.

“(But that’s only because this goal is an important one. Our Kingdom has changed greatly over the last few years. Old mindsets no longer suit our needs.)” she elaborated, her tone brimming with conviction. “(Modernizing organizations like the Sun Council are the first steps towards building a better Quel’thalas. For everyone. Not just the nobility.)”

“Mm. Then we should do so mindfully.”

Bey’ron nodded in agreement, before taking a sip of wine from his glass. He eyed Tydori for a moment, silently, before leaning towards her.

“You know… I wasn’t always a noble. My beginnings were humble, if you can believe it. I had to build up my name. It wasn’t already pristine and revered, like the one you inherited.”

His lips curled, eyes flickering a bit brighter.

“Or… should I say stole?”

Tydori reached for a glass as Bey’ron spoke-- pausing to look up at him at his last accusatory word. Her brow raised; not in confusion, but light panic. Tyrellius stepped forward, hands slipping up to his sides.

“--I insist you show Milady Silentspear respect, Lord Everblaze!” he growled. “You’ll not slander her so in my presence!”

“Oh? Is this all for show, then? Or does your pet not know, Lady Silentspear?” Bey’ron grinned. “I have a theory on who you really are… maybe you’ll confirm it for me, hmm?”

Without hesitation, Tyrellius drew his blade and pointed it threateningly at Bey’ron. His eyes ignited in felflames, glowing brightly behind his cloth mask.

“That’s enough out of you, you arrogant, slimy--”

“(Tyrellius.)” Tydori interjected. “(Stand down.)”

Tyrellius turned, brow raised at Tydori. He could sense it-- her demeanor had changed from one of silent confidence to quiet shame. Her shoulders sank, chin dipping as she leaned back in her seat. Like a child caught stealing treats, she folded her hands before her. The strength in her aura, too, diminished. Something was amiss. Slowly, he sheathed his blade, looking between the two Councilors warily. Bey’ron only chuckled.

“He doesn’t, then… a pity. Do you wish to tell him, or should I?”

Tydori remained quiet.

“... So be it.” the Magister smirked. “Lady Tydori Silentspear went to Outland and fought as part of the Sunfury. But she never became an Illidari. She died in Netherstorm, defending a Manaforge from Aldor forces. Isn’t that right?”

Tydori still kept quiet and still; her silence still rather telling.

“This woman, to which you’ve pledged your fealty, Master Duskfury… I suspect is actually Tanori Flaresorrow, Lady Silentspear’s trusted seneschal and close personal friend. My theory is that upon her Mistress’ death, she joined the Illidari… and then stole Lady Silentspear’s identity once your kind were accepted back into Quel’thalas. A name like hers carried such weight - a shame to see it wasted. Am I right?”

Tyrellius shook his head in disbelief. He turned to the other Illidari fully, leaning down at her. He could feel it; her heart rate increasing, beating hard in her chest. Her cheeks grew flush with embarrassment or shame. She didn’t need to say anything to confirm what Bey’ron claimed.

“... By the Sun…” he muttered, defeatedly.

“(That’s not why I did it.)” Tydori-- rather, Tanori admitted. “(I swore I would do everything I could to uphold her family name and its values. Nothing I’ve done has been outside her intent and wishes! Turn me in if you wish, Lord Everblaze, but know that Tydori had nothing to do with this! I won’t see you drag her name through the mud!)”

“--Oh… you misunderstand, my dear.” Bey’ron shook his head, idly swirling the wine in his glass. “I’m not going to turn you in. You’ve turned Lady Silentspear’s name into a beacon, and the citizens are rallying around it. That has uses. You have uses.”

“--Bastard! This is why you brought her here? To blackmail her?” Tyrellius snarled.

“On the contrary… I meant everything I’ve said thus far. Our goals may align well here. And my keeping this little secret is… let’s call it a show of good faith, hmm?”

A dozen thoughts swarmed Tyrellius’ mind all at once. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade once more, as he stared with disdain at Bey’ron. Tydori had been a long time friend… he never knew she’d lied about any of this. But was it so bad? He knew her intentions were pure. Would it be worth continuing to serve her? Or would the lies pull him apart from the inside out? What of Bey’ron? Tyrellius knew he could kill him, here and now. But… no, that would only make things worse. His staff knew he was meeting Tydori and him today. Turning up a corpse of their master right after? It wouldn’t be hard to piece it together.

“... Leverage, then.” he grunted.

“Call it what you will.” Bey’ron shrugged, before taking another sip of his wine. “My offer stands; reintroducing Lady Silentspear into the Council, and helping her gradually bring about positive change, is still very much in line with my own agenda. Details aside, we can help one another out. With your support of the citizenry and my clout in the Council Chambers? I’m confident we can see certain improvements made. Effectively, too.”

“(I won’t manipulate our people like that!)” Tanori frowned.

“--More than you already have, you mean? With your lies? With your silent consent of their aggression?” the Magister chuffed. “You’ve made it decently far on your own merit, my dear, but you won’t get much further without someone helping you. No matter how you look at it… that’s what I’m offering.”

With that, the Magister stood up. Tyrellius stepped forward, ready to intervene or apprehend him if he tried anything… but Bey’ron simply smirked at him again. Gloating over him. Mocking him, like a dog at the end of its leash. He knew there was nothing Tyrellius could do. Not without only harming himself, or his mistress. Lightly, Bey’ron bowed his head to Tanori, and turned to depart.

“I’ll give you a few days to think it over, hmm?” he offered his parting words. “Feel free to linger, if you wish. See yourselves out at your leisure. We’ll be in touch, to be sure.”

With that, Lord Everblaze departed in the same manner by which he’d entered. The bookcase doors closed behind him, leaving the two Illidari alone once more in the elegant lounge. Tanori was silent for a moment longer; less in a quiet dignity, and more out of speechlessness. Tyrellius grunted, as he looked her over. His blood felt like it was boiling-- to be lied to for so long! If he had known, he could have protected her better, or helped conceal it. But now, this Magister had her locked in his grip, and there was no easy way out. Tanori seemed to feel the same way.

“(... I’m sorry, Tyrellius.)” she muttered, quietly. “(I should have told you.)”

“It’s too late for that now, Milady.” he replied, with a grunt. “Instead, we need to figure out what we can do about this.”

Tanori shook her head, before looking up at Tyrellius. Even behind her blindfold, he could see her eyes were dim. Extinguished.

“(What choice do we have?)”

~*~

#Bey'ron Everblaze #Tydori Silentspear #The Sun Council #Tyrellius Duskfury #Warcraft #Blood Elves #Silvermoon #Politics #Quel'Thalas #Illidari #Character Story

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 5 years ago

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Michael in the Mainstream - Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain

Metal Gear games are some of the only video games I really feel like I can talk about in my review style, because these games are about 85% story and 15% gameplay, and even that might be a generous estimate. But what about a Metal Gear game that is infamously criticized for a lack of a story? Or, well, I should say an incomplete story. Metal Gear Solid V is a game composed of the somewhat short epilogue Ground Zeroes and the sprawling main game The Phantom Pain, and together they combine to make quite a divisive package, with many citing the absolutely stellar gameplay as a selling point while condemning the supposedly sloppy and incomplete story as a major downgrade. Some have seen this game as a step down from the lofty heights of Kojima’s previous four games, while others are just as likely to embrace it. I suppose that is the nature of Kojima’s work; it always sparks discussion and debate.

I’m certainly not going to debate on the gameplay here; it’s a very fantastic open world sandbox that gives you a lot to do, from capturing animals to spiriting away guards with the Fulton system to finding the oodles of cassette tapes so that you can blast “Take On Me” while you ride a horse guns blazing into a fortress full of armed Russian soldiers. You can play stealthy or straightforward, pacifist or violent, and you can do it all while Joy Division and Spandau Ballet blare over the speakers of your helicopter. This is easily some of the best gameplay the series has ever had, and there are plenty of little missions and side objectives to do while you scour the maps for things to do. But I’m not here to sell you this game based on its gameplay; any game reviewer worth their salt has done that already. No, I’m going to make a case for the story and characters, and hopefully convince someone that they’re not nearly as bad as some have claimed.

The centerpiece of this game is Venom Snake. Venom might actually be my favorite Snake of them all; this sounds blasphemous, but his character arc is just so beautifully tragic to me, and how he compares to Big Boss, it just really makes me love him. Venom is a man who was never given much of a choice; it was decided he should be Big Boss’ “Phantom” while he was in a coma. And when he wakes up, while he looks the part and can act the part, he just doesn’t have the wit or talkativeness that Big Boss does, leading to Venom being a bit more quiet than most of the other protagonists in the series. But his silence masks that, unlike Big Boss, to the very end Venom was a truly noble man, never mind he believed himself a demon. Unlike Big Boss, who may or may not have outright brainwashed people into joining his cause and who didn’t break a sweat at training children for war, it never even crosses my mind that Venom used torture and brainwashing, and he never fights to have child soldiers after Kaz tells him no – he drops it without much of an argument. Venom is a good man, one who does some dark things in the name of keeping the world safe, but he never truly sinks into anti-villainy the way the man he’s doubling for does, at least not in this game. Any man who would spare Huey rather than execute him immediately has a bottomless well of compassion in their soul and higher moral fiber than most of us.

Of course, the real reason I love Venom is the two most meaningful arcs: his coming to terms with Paz, and his relationship with Quiet. The former is a hauntingly tragic look at Venom’s psyche, something that shows that even though he doesn’t remember who he was, the memory of his failure to save Paz still follows him like a shadow, and the moment when Paz leaves the phantom tape telling him to let go and live – a sentiment Big Boss himself would eventually echo at the end of his life – is poignant and beautiful. As for his relationship with Quiet… everything about it just really gets to me. It’s such a beautiful friendship they form, from enemies to partners with a mutual respect, one that works even better as both are characters who speak very little or not at all. It gets to the point where, yes, the two seem like they do love each other, with culminates in the most adorable scene in the entire franchise as they splash each other in the rain… but it’s a love that can never be, as despite her respect and admiration of Venom, Quiet has a desire for vengeance that she lets consume her… and it leads to her a demise, though it is a demise of her own choosing that she brings about in a final effort to save Venom. That moment that ends their story together, which has Venom running through the desert only to find the tape with Quiet’s first, last, and only words to the man she loved, is just utterly heartbreaking and the perfect depressing capstone to their partnership.

Venom is not a character that gets happy endings. In fact, after it’s revealed he was turned into the body double of Big Boss, it’s shown that ultimately he would go on to die in Big Boss’ place during the Outer Heaven uprising depicted in the original Metal Gear. The ultimate tragedy and heartbreak that Venom goes through in this story and the others is ultimately what draws me to him and adore him; unlike Solid Snake, he never gets to earn his happy ending, dying for the cause of his commander, loyal to the bitter end, having lost almost everyone he loved and cared for along the way. Unlike Big Boss, he never gets to ultimately realize the fruitlessness of his actions and truly come to terms with the fact that all he lost just wasn’t worth it in the end. He’s just so fascinatingly sad, and it’s a sort of sadness that really draws me in. I wouldn’t say he’s a better protagonist than Solid Snake is, and he lacks some of the finesse and charm that Big Boss does, but there’s just a lot to Venom that makes him an incredibly compelling character in his own right, and all with only the bare minimum of a vocal performance.

Speaking of minimal vocal performances, there is Quiet. Quiet is such an odd character, even for this series; she is blatantly designed to be an over-the-top fanservice character in a series that has tons of gratuitous fanservice in the first place, to the point where it’s kind of weird and uncomfortable. Of course, thankfully, as Kojima is incapable of just leaving a character as one-note and superfluous, he gives Quiet the standard bonkers backstory nearly every character in the franchise gets, and as mentioned before gives her wonderful chemistry with Venom. It’s to the point where I seriously can’t imagine anyone wouldn’t feel a bit misty-eyed at her death scene, or the beautiful song her actress Stefanie Joosten sings over the credits of the episode Quiet dies in. She’s a bit much even for this series, but I think her relationship with Venom and her impact on him as well as how she fits thematically into the story more than makes up for any shortcomings she may have.

One of the MVPs of the game is undoubtedly Kaz, who got ridiculous amounts of characterization and some of the most iconic lines (“They played us like a damn FIDDLE!!!!”). He went from being something of a background character to almost the moral core of the game, the shoulder angel to Venom in contrast to Ocelot’s shoulder devil. Of course, much as everyone else, Kaz is consumed by revenge, which leads to him taking the final reveal of who Venom is and Big Boss’ betrayal of him rather badly, and any fan of the franchise knows how his desire to take down Big Boss goes. Still, his presence goes a long way towards making up for Ocelot’s shocking lack of presence; frankly, Ocelot in this game is a bit of a minor character, which on one hand is understandable as he’s only here to keep up appearances while the real Big Boss kickstarts Outer Heaven, but it’s kind of sad to see the guy who is perhaps the franchise’s greatest character take a backseat for vast chunks of the game, only chiming in now and again to give Venom some info or record a tape.

And then we come to the villains. Skull Face is a rather intriguing villain, who lives up to the hammy nature of past villains in the franchise; just see where he howls as Sahelanthropus is taken control of by Eli’s sheer hatred and, ahem, lust for revenge. Skull Face is just a wonderfully thematic villain, and while he is tragically cut down a bit earlier in the game than he should have been, his impact is still felt, as in a manner of speaking he is the reason for the events that plagued Solid Snake’s life due to his crippling of Zero with parasites. We also have some more minor villains, such as Eli (AKA Liquid Snake), Psycho Mantis as a kid, and the Man on Fire (which is actually the reanimated corpse of Colonel Volgin from Snake Eater. Sort of. It’s complicated). The more minor villains seem a bit excessive, especially seeing as the former two don’t actually get to have their arc in this game pay off in a meaningful way due to the Kingdom of the Flies portion unfortunately being cut, but they still lead to some entertaining and exciting moments, particularly young Mantis. Eli is really the only minor villain who feels like a missed opportunity, since all he really does is act like a haughty little brat and adds very little to the overall story, which is a shame considering who he grows up to become.

Of course, no discussion of evil in Metal Gear Solid V would be complete without mention of Huey, the father of Otacon. Huey is the complete and total antithesis to his son. Where his son took responsibility for things that were not even his fault up to and including his own rape, Huey deflects all blame and throws it onto others to make himself seem an innocent victim; where Otacon had the courage to face up to the horrors of the world, Huey chose to be a sniveling coward who hid behind anyone who offered him some semblance of safety; and where Otacon and Solid Snake were true companions and friends to the end who managed to raise a wonderful child together, Huey was an utter bastard who backstabbed his friends repeatedly and killed his own wife via inaction because she dared to stand up to him and not allow her child to be a battery for a Metal Gear. Huey is one of the most detestable, loathsome, and pathetic characters ever conceived in all of fiction… and I love him for it. He is just so void of any sort of redeeming quality that he becomes the poster child for “love to hate.” There is a beauty to a character like this, and it helps that he does get his comeuppance and he’s never shilled by other characters; in fact, not one of his so-called “friends” likes or even trusts him, and all of them think he’s a pathetic, delusional liar. He’s a nasty, spiteful, egomaniacal hypocrite, and I wouldn’t want him any other way.

Now I saved the story for last, mostly because the story is infamously a bit short and incomplete. Still, I feel a lot of the hate for the story is a bit unjustified; while it is true and incredibly frustrating that nothing involving Eli gets any payoff outside of descriptions of what would have happened, all of the story with Skull Face, Quiet, the parasites, Huey, and the side quest involving Paz are all rather engaging in that crazy Metal Gear way, and the prologue Ground Zeroes definitely helps to round things out. If we’re only counting the Solid games, I’d say this is at least as good story-wise as 2 in its own way; where that one is a much more cerebral story involving metatextual elements and deconstructs a lot of concepts, this game’s story is more of a showcase of the toxicity of revenge. Almost every character in the story – Venom, Kaz, Skull Face, Quiet, Eli, the Man on Fire, and Huey – has some desire for vengeance against those who have wronged them, some need to bring some semblance of closure… but it never comes. As is demonstrated in the scene where Skull Face dies, Kaz and Venom both realize that even if they killed Skull Face then and there, it wouldn’t bring back their dead comrades, it wouldn’t return the time they lost, it wouldn’t bring back their missing limbs. Ultimately, revenge is a bitter, futile waste that will only end up consuming and destroying, as it did to Skull Face, as it did to Huey, as it did to Quiet, and as it would do eventually to Kaz and Big Boss. In the end, all that has been done is that a cycle of violence has been perpetuated, and no one is better off for it.

While it’s obviously not the first story to use these concepts, I do like how it ties into the series. It all feels like it fits. Add in the fact that this game finally resolves some long-standing plot holes, such as how Big Boss survived Outer Heaven to end up in Zanzibar Land and how Kaz went from singing the praises of Big Boss to saying he was a monster who deserved death in Metal Gear 2, and while it is a technically incomplete story, it is most certainly a solid one that gives you just enough to think about that I can’t really see calling it “bad” as a logical statement. Could it have been better? Oh, absolutely. But is it still good on its own merits with a lot of standout moments due to the themes and the wonderful cast of characters? Absolutely.

I think the game’s true strength lies in its moments. This game contains some of the most powerful emotional beats in the entire series, hands down. The conclusion of Paz’s side quest, Quiet’s exit, Venom having to deal with a breakout of the parasite among his own soldiers… even if the overall narrative isn’t as cohesive as the four previous games, it still manages to pack so much emotion and power into some of its scenarios that you will feel something. The tapes too manage to be powerful and emotional, from Paz’s final “phantom” tape to Strangelove’s final moments recorded to Zero’s lament that he couldn’t ever apologize to Big Boss, there’s just so much to love here in terms of writing and emotion that I really don’t care about the main story being cut short a bit. It does suck, but I’m too busy sobbing over Quiet and Paz’s fates to really care about the fact I didn’t get to smack Eli upside the head one last time.

The Phantom Pain and Ground Zeroes are not perfect games, far from it. But they are good games, end even if a small part of the overarching story doesn’t get a satisfying conclusion, Most of the rest does, and there are so many powerful moments in here that it reminds you this series with its roid-raging nanomachine senators and gay vampires who can run on water and giant volcaloid AI robots can actually be poignant, heartfelt, and heartbreaking. It’s a fantastic game, and if you love the series you’ve likely already played it, but I definitely recommend it to anyone who hasn’t, though play through Snake Eater and Peace Walker first. It’s definitely worth your time, and far more rewarding than some have made it out to be.

#Michael in the Mainstream #Review #Game review #Metal Gear #Metal Gear Solid #Metal Gear Solid V #The Phantom Pain #Ground Zeroes #Hideo Kojima #Fuck Huey #Venom Snake #Big Boss #Quiet #Kaz

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ddaenghoney · 5 years ago

Photo

Series: of Silver

Part 14

Attending a performing arts university, you’ve been managing just fine until the fall semester of your third year starts off by making out at a party only to realize the random guy was actually transfer Jeon Jeongguk, whom you had previously agreed to help get used to the city.

Pairing(s):

Jeon Jeongguk x Y/N

Below the cut is a written scene from the story, but you don’t need to read it to follow the plot for the fake texts portions!

masterlist link is in blog description

disclaimer: any character depicted do not represent the actual personality of the respected idol in real life.

Warning(s)/genre(s): College!au, fluff, developing relationship, love triangle(s)??, some angst/drama here and there– Jeongguk has a dog this series isn’t allowed to be too tragic.

Tag(s): @butterflylion @rjsmochii @mahakookie @dammit-jjk @joanc24 (note: @zamasus-sugarbaby , it won’t let me tag you! :( if you have a different url I can use to tag lmk!!) (if you would like to be tagged send me an ask to let me know!)

If you enjoy, let me know!! : )

set after the events of this chapter.

wc: 1145

warning(s): none

The other two students said their goodbyes first, thanking once more for the job as they excited the cafe. Jeongguk grabbed at his backpack strap that lodged itself under a table leg, shimmying it gently away while also saying a thanks, “I’ll keep practicing on film, so don’t be too worried.” The professor smiled down to her notes as he spoke with assurance that felt more aimed at himself than her. She removed her glasses as he stood upright, doing a better job at easing Jeongguk’s tension,

“I’m not, and you don’t need to be either. From the photography samples you brought today, I don’t think you have any issues with perspective and have a good eye for the image overall. It’ll be a good chance to practice, try to relax about it.” Jeongguk nodded his head, looking at her organized notebook, and closed folder that previously held aspects of the wedding that she passed out. He thought of her mentioning the close friendship between her and the bride, saying everyone was genuinely overjoyed by the news. A lot to document appropriately for such a happy event. But like she was coaxing now, he knew that the couple themselves were okay with students using this as a large scale practice.

“I’ll try, yeah.” He nodded, a hand fiddling with the sleeve hem of his sweatshirt, “Thanks again.” She nodded her head at his words, something about her graceful, but imposing enough without the added stipulation of this job Jeongguk signed up for. He shrugged the thought away, starting a goodbye as the front door chimed open. Vibrancy walked in as a man about Jeongguk’s age-- another student given the proximity of the cafe to campus. He glanced around, while Jeongguk turned his attention back to his professor,

“I’ll see you at the next meeting.”

“Yeah,” She nodded, waving a hand in the direction of the student, “Hopefully next time we can use a studio to map out the choreography they’ll be using,” Jeongguk shifted as the man walked over, his head nodding once in greeting though he had no idea who he was. “This is Jung Hoseok, he’s arranging the choreography for the wedding party.” Hoseok in question smiled at Jeongguk, the two opting for a small handshake as professor Choi continued, “Choreography apparently so difficult the groom thought he accidentally hired a professional instead of an undergrad.”

“The bride wants it to be big, so,” Hoseok gestures with his hands to match the cheerful expression, “Can’t argue with that. What was your name, by the way?”

“Jeon Jeongguk.”

“Haven’t seen you around campus before, I don’t think.”

“He just transferred this semester.” Professor Choi interjected, gesturing her head to one of the empty seats, “Sorry to cut in on the introduction, but I need to go over a few things with him and get to a class.”

Jeongguk exhaled in the crisp air, starting a descent down the sidewalk. He skimmed down at his phone at the first crosswalk, wondering how else to improve to match up better with the actual filmography student, whom brought a sample of an incredibly crafted video she made for some competition over the summer. His eyes caught the red bubble of attached to his messaging app. The one from Jimin started off in a ramble of anger towards a situation that must have happened in a class, but Jeongguk clicked open the thread he shared with you first. His lips pursed, seeing a video sent earlier. Clicking play chuckling almost immediately fell as your voice grumbled from off screen, “The light quality in here is crap-”

“My head hurts don’t turn on anymore just to film the dog-” Gold barked at that point, eager in anticipation of the ball Namjoon’s hand while he sat huddled in blankets on the couch, “He cursed at me-”

“Throw the ball, Joon!” A half-hearted toss that sent the puppy’s nails clattering against the floor as he raced off to retrieve it. “Look, he’s an athlete- Jeonggukie,” Jeongguk bit onto his bottom lip an unabashed smile aimed at the pixelated video on his phone, “I’m going to have to be his trainer, you know? Like, I’ll just adopt him-”

“Hell has to freeze over for him to agree to that-”

“Joon, this isn’t your moment.”

Jeongguk’s laughter continued as the video concluded there, typing in a series of emojis, then startling as a car somewhere off-beside him honked. He rolled his eyes at his own shock and clicked to your contact information and hit to dial.

“Jeonggukie?” He smiled at the confused tone of your voice as you answered, “I’m writing up the adoption papers-”

“You’re never getting my puppy, babe.” You laughed on the other end. Wind hit against the receiver into his ear. “Are you out with Gold, right now? I’ll meet up with you both.”

“Ah, the meeting’s already over?” He moved from the center of the sidewalk to the wall as you spoke on, “Yeah, I’m at the park with him, but I’m getting cold. I didn’t know the wind would be this strong.”

“Let’s go to a cafe, I don’t want you to get sick.” He considered the park he usually takes Gold to be where you were as well and thought of different places around there. “Yoongi and I went to a nice one before, I’ll send you the location?”

“Okay,” Your voice distanced from the receiver, “Listen,” He covered his free ear to tune in better, hearing a little series of barks as you started talking nonsense to get Gold to speak. Jeongguk smiled at the odd sound you were making, “He said he loves me most.”

“Did he? I heard him say save me from this iPhone girl, dad; didn’t you?” You snickered on the other side,

“No, he actually said let’s get out of this weather.”

“I’ll get you both something to warm up with then, okay?” Gentle tone as he started walking to the general location of Yoongi’s apartment complex. “Before you say no, just agree because I will anyways.”

“Well,” Your sentence fell away as he called out what your response would’ve been, “Only if you admit that Gold likes me more than Yoongi.”

“How does that correlate?” Jeongguk laughed, listening to your own giggling on the other end, “I can’t say, Yoongi will sue me if I do. I like you more than Yoongi, is that good enough?”

“Wow,” You sounded taken back with a higher voice, “Yeah, I’ll gloat to him about it the next time I see him.” Still seeming like you were scrambling for a sarcastic reply. “What an honor.” Quieter, sort of shy, Jeongguk thought. He smiled, looking down at the concrete as he travelled along. Even smaller as you barely voiced, “Really?”

“Yeah,” He didn’t need to think before he was mumbling a reply, “Much more.”

#jeongguk #jungkook imagines #jungkook fake texts #jungkook smau #jungkook au #jungkook social media au #jungkook fluff #bts #bts imagines #bts fake texts #bts smau #bts social media au #bts au #bts fluff #all #series of silver

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lilithsgayadoptednephew · 4 years ago

Text

Holy Hands

By: This_is_my_toenail_collection

Fandoms: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Not Rated Graphic Depictions Of Violence F/M, Other Complete Work

Chapter List

Chapter 5

Lucifer had been to earth a few times.

He never cared for it, but he went now and then for business or just a change of pace. Most often he ended up there to retrieve a wayward brother. He was sure he'd seen the worst of it.

Oh how wrong he was.

Never had he seen such a rundown street. It was more pothole than road, if you could call the one lane alley a road. The shrubs were scraggly and unkempt, the air smelled like gasoline, no one mowed their lawn. Lucifer couldn't believe MC lived in a place like this. He'd only been there for a few minutes and he'd decided it was longer than he ever wanted to spend.

The house was marginally better. Painfully small and dull, mismatched furniture and shabby carpeting. But it was warm and it was clean. It smelled like sandalwood… odd.

"Please retrieve your snake quickly, I'd like to leave as soon as possible." Lucifer couldn't help but sneer at the pathetic place.

Acacia wasn't as good with her words as MC but she knew emotions to a T. She could clearly feel the contempt radiating off of Lucifer as he scrutinized her home and it made her blood boil.

"I didn't ask for you to come here you know." She snapped. "It's not much but we worked hard for it so...fuck you!" She added the curse for extra punch.

Lucifer kept his mouth shut despite the flood of threats and comebacks that came to his mind. No need to prolong this trip by arguing.

Acacia led Lucifer up the stairs to MCs room. There wasn't a door, just a blue blanket covering the doorway like a curtain. Upon entering a wave of smells hit him, all of them pleasant. Dust and warmth and smoky patchouli, all the smells that made you want to sit down and do something simple. Like knitting or watching a nice movie.

Where the rest of the house was tidy, this room was not. Shelves had no order, the carpet was indistinguishable from the sheer amount of stuff covering the floor. The bed was unmade and there were books and paints all over it. Lucifer immediately backed out of the room.

"What now?" Acacia rolled her eyes.

"That room hurts my eyes, you retrieve the snake."

"Oh so now I'm allowed to go places alone? Now that it's convenient for you?"

"I don't have to dignify that with a response."

Acacia crossed her arms and stared Lucifer down. He stared back, making her immediately avert her eyes to the floor.

"It's because it's messy isn't it! God you're so pretentious how can you be Mammon's brother." She snapped while closely examining her shoes. Trying to hide her embarrassment with accusations.

"We can go back now and your snake can be left to shrivel." He answered coldly.

"No no MC would be heartbroken, they paid a lot for him and they've had him since he was a baby snake." Acacia sighed.

Lucifer didn't actually intend to leave the animal to die, but he was getting sick of this little girl being difficult.

They both stood there for a moment in silence.

"Well?" Lucifer prodded.

Acacia continued to stare at the ground. "Icntgthmbmslf.." she mumbled angrily.

"Could you repeat that?"

"I can't get him by myself!" She yelled and stamped one foot.

"What?" Lucifer didn't see why she couldn't have mentioned this earlier.

"He's… I mean I'm not… I'm not scared of snakes, it's… oh you'll see, just help me ok!" She grabbed Lucifer by the sleeve and dragged him back into the room.

Again he was confronted by the sweet smells and perilous organization of the room. Acacia stopped dragging him and moved to open a large glass tank on the far side of the room.

Lucifer hadn't taken the time before but now that he was standing in the room he saw the mess wasn't just a mess. All around, scattered on the floor and over the shelves were unfinished projects. Knitting, sewing, painting, drawing, crafting, clay, tape, string. Every material and craft under the sun was strewn around the room in a creative panic. A lot of finished projects as well. Fully made outfits, huge oil paintings, intricately woven tapestries. Even the wall paper wasn't what it appeared to be.

Murals lined each wall. Obviously painted at different times, large pictures of fantastical beings or landscapes. Full made-up stories depicted in acrylic. Lucifer stared in awe, the longer he stood there and took it all in the more he noticed.

Beach glass window hangings casting colorful sunlight through the room, wooden wind chimes probably hand-carved, Ragdolls and papers with poems and stories sat on the bed and...was that sheet music?

"Hey tall, dark and judgmental. Are you gonna help me?" Acacia held what looked like a large hook. Gesturing for Lucifer to approach.

"What do you need of me?" He asked upon reaching the young human.

"Just hold out your hand and...try to act like a tree"

Puzzled, Lucifer did as he was told. Acacia reached the hook into the tank and moved a cave looking structure. Underneath it was not what he was expected. He had expected a garter snake or perhaps some kind of corn snake to reside in a hovel like this.

Instead a huge, beautiful boa stared back at him. Tan with brown spots.

"I see why you may need help" he relented. Even curled up he could tell the snake was easily 7 feet long.

"Mhm" was Acacia's tense reply "I've never actually done it on my own" she confessed.

Tapping the creature twice with the hook, she scooped it up close to the head. She audibly groaned as she struggled with the creatures weight before placing it in Lucifers outstretched hand. He involuntarily flinched, not knowing the snake's temperament. He was not afraid, he'd faced much more threatening creatures. But...he'd never held a snake. It was heavy but not slimy like he expected. The scales were smooth and cool, and the creature was remarkably docile.

Acacia lifted the other end on the snake out of the cage, having to use both hands to support it with the hook. She then placed the rest of the snake on Lucifer's other arm. He noticed the tails deep red color as it coiled around his arms. It actually started to climb on his face, much to his distress.

"Oh look, he likes you" Acacia drawled sarcastically as she put the hook back.

Lucifer said nothing, he was too distracted. He had to close one eye as the snake with seemingly no boundaries started slithering through his meticulously kept hair.

"Take this thing." He finally relented.

"Nope, I gotta carry the tank" she replied. She punctuated it by hoisting the large tank up with no hesitation. She struggled slightly before settling its weight in her arms and motioning that she was ready to go.

"You're...uhgg" Lucifer held the snake away from him trying to get it to stop climbing on him. "You're stronger than you look." He finished his compliment.

"Thanks, and he's doing that cause he doesn't wanna fall." She giggled. "He wants to rap around something more secure, MC usually puts him on their shoulders."

"Ngggg…" Lucifer groaned as the snake tried to smell his face with its tongue. Carefully he lifted the reptile above his head and settled it on his shoulders. It shifted for a minute before settling. "This is an interesting pet."

They started heading back down the stairs.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure if MC does anything normal they'll go into a coma." Acacia joked.

"I see that, just their room is odd. The murals were most impressive."

"Yeah, they begged me to sketch one so I did. You saw the explosion?"

"Mhm"

"Yeah that was all me, cool right?"

They continued like this. As they walked back through the house he noticed other things. The unfinished game of cards on the table. The twin video game controllers plugged into the TV. The framed artwork adorning the walls, some of it obviously drawn by a young child.

They walked back out into the street to the gate. He noticed the sidewalk chalk and the two bikes locked to the stairs and the dog lead.

He didn't notice the potholes.

#obey me!#obey me fanfic #Holy Hands #tw snakes

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angelic-holland · 5 years ago

Text

Seeing the Thing 8

Summary: People are disappointing, especially when they have so much to say and so little words are used.

Word Count: 6k with a flashback in italics and texts in bold

Warnings: depictions of anxiety and panic attacks, angst, mild slut-shaming, soft tom?

A/N: oh hey i doubled the word count and posted early who am i???

You feel a gentle hand nudge your shoulder and you wake up with a start.

“Someone’s tired,” Tom laughs as you sit up, your eyes wide as you see his arm resting underneath your head and his legs tangled with yours.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling away from him.

“What’re you sorry for?” He asks, his eyes are soft and you wanna curse yourself for not being able to look away.

“Falling asleep,” you sigh, blinking up at the empty sheets, the movie was over, the sheets were rustling in the wind. You turned to see Gianna and Harrison were no longer sitting beside you.

“Wh-,”

“You fell asleep maybe fifteen minutes in, and you looked really peaceful so I didn’t wake you, then the movie ended and Gianna and Harrison left.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up when they left?” You ask, turning to Tom.

He holds his hands up in defense and you stand up, slightly irritated.

“Come on, you just looked calm or whatever, you had a long day, Harrison thought you needed rest so he said to let you sleep. Let’s just go back to your dorm and-,”

“We needa bring all this stuff back,” you make your way to the sheets, starting to take everything down. Tom was silent behind you and you turn, not expecting him to be so quiet.

“What?” You ask, one sheet in your arms, the other hanging by one end on the soccer poles.

“Nothing, let's just get this back to your room,” his voice has a tinge of annoyance and you can’t help but worry that it’s your fault.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh once you’ve got everything put in your backpack and the rest held tight to your body or his in your arms.

“Why’re you apologizing now?” He groans as he follows you off the soccer field.

“Nothing,” you search your brain for something that you’re sorry for. A single thing. You’re sorry for your inability to find words in this moment. You’re sorry for the way you reacted earlier, out of anger when he was actually being kind for once. But you weren’t going to admit that to him. Not now.

“Thanks,” you mumble as you end up at your door. The two of you seemed to end up here often, you hovering, back to the door, Tom inches in front of you. Something just on the tip of both of your tongues, never a fully formed thought, never any words that meant anything spoken out loud.

You fumble for your keys, arms full of the projector, Tom’s arms held the blankets, your sheets and the rope shoved in your backpack.

“Here, lemme help,” Tom says, shifting the blankets to one arm. Your eyes watch as his hand slips into the front pocket of your jeans, his arm flexing slightly as his fingers curl around the key to your dorm room.

You expect him to pull the key out of your pocket immediately, to help you unlock the door, put your things down and leave. Especially since, and you’d admit it, you were sort of rude earlier.

His eyes were staring back at yours with a curiosity you were afraid to quench.

His head leaned forward and the hand in your pocket tugged you as close as you could to him with the projector in your arms.

And it was clunky and odd as his lips pressed hungrily against your own, tongue curiously sweeping across your bottom lip before you pulled away, head banging against the door.

“Shit,” you curse, squeezing your eyes shut as pain throbs through the back of your head.

“Sorry,” he pulls the key out of your pocket now, unlocking your door with ease.

“Now why’re you apologizing?” You laugh as you put the projector away, Tom helping you unpack the rest of everything in silence. He also doesn’t want to answer the question. It’s possible he’s just as unsure as you are. About what to say, what to do.

You’re bent down to shove the container back under your bed, maybe the next time you had a movie night you wouldn’t fall asleep.

You felt a towering presence behind you as you stood up and despite knowing that you still jumped when you felt his hands rest on your hips.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his hands dropping from your hips and you turn, knees knocking his own as you trip over your foot mid turn, back falling onto your bed.

You groan, hands covering your face as Tom laughs above you.

“Were you a dancer in a past life?” He jokes and you peek between your fingertips at him, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

“I should go to bed, I’m pretty delirious without a full night’s sleep,” you sigh, sitting up, your legs swinging off your bed, between Tom’s spread legs.

Tom laughs bitterly and his expression turns resentful.

“What?” You frown, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Nothing,” he spits out between laughs, once a sweet song to your ears, now a sour note.

“No, tell me,” you stand up, he takes a step back as you follow his movements. It was your turn to lead, confronting him.

“Just, thought, you know, thought this was some- but Ben warned me about you so I guess I shouldn’t have expected much,” Tom starts and you’re about to collapse in on yourself when the buzz in your pants pockets says you’ve got a call. Which honestly, you were grateful for.

A small part of you itched to know what Ben told Tom. When he told Tom. Every single word. The rest of you however didn’t want to know, some things are better left unsaid.

You pull your phone out and press to pick up the call.

“Yes?” You snap at the other person.

“Whoa, everything okay?” Harrison’s voice chimes in from the other end.

“Everything’s fine,” your face softens as you step backwards, dropping this ridiculous dance to talk to your best friend.

“Okay, well, we need to talk, can I come by your room?”

We need to talk.

Those words echoed in your head as only one thing came to mind. Why else would he be calling you?

“You there?” His voice is muffled on the other end as your ears ring.

“Sure,” you manage to get out before hanging up.

You don’t even realize you dropped your phone until Tom catches it, placing it back in your shaking hands.

“Hey, y/n, what was that? Harrison?” Tom’s voice sounds like it’s right in front of you and a million miles away at the same time, distorted as you feel tears well in your eyes.

“Hey, okay, okay,” you hear Tom take a deep breath before placing his hands on your shoulders, which were heaving.

“He knows,” you stutter out.

“Wha- who knows? Knows what?” Tom asks and you don’t know how to answer.

Because your stream of consciousness thought process didn’t make sense, the string of ideas your brain pieced together didn’t add up correctly to anyone but you.

“Okay, pause, look at me, y/n?” His voice is steady as you blink away tears, looking up at him.

“Okay, good, keep looking at me, alright? Let’s breath, you needa breath for me sweetheart,” and his voice becomes clearer as the ringing in your ears settles to a low buzz.

And he takes those big exaggerated breaths that would normally have you rolling your eyes but now they were useful because that’s how you breath. Forgot about that.

And you follow his movements, shoulders rising, air rushing in through your nose and out of your mouth.

“Good, doing a good job,” he says, another breath.

You feel the warmth of his fingertips against your collarbones and he’s running them back and forth, creating a calm pattern for your mind to focus on.

A lot of times when someone attempted to control your panic, to help you through it, they’d hug you, and hold you tight until they were almost crushing you. You didn’t mind when they did, finding comfort in the way they held you. But this, the whisper of a touch that gave your brain another thing to focus on? It wasn’t like anything you’ve ever experienced but it felt so right.

“What’s your favorite play?”

Hmm.

And there were the slightly nosy questions that were just a tad bit endearing, you knew they were just to attempt to bring you back to reality,

“Red Herring.”

“What’s it about?”

You take a deep breath, hands no longer shaking as they rest on top of his arms, still steady on your shoulders, fingers cool against the skin of your collarbone.

Your ears slowly stop ringing as you look up at him, “it’s about communists, and detectives, and velveeta cheese,” you laugh.

“Velveeta?” One of Tom’s hands moves from your collarbone, long thick fingers running up the side of your neck to cup your cheek.

“And pelicans.”

“Pelicans?” He laughs and his forehead is pressed against yours.

“And a pair of bum shoes.”

“I think you’ll have to tell me more about this play,” he smiles, his thumb rubbing your cheek as you nod.

“yeah, I think I will,” your eyes search his for anything, something. You want him to throw you a bone. Use his lips to say something that means something. His eyes look down at you with similar yearning and that scares you.

Because you were mad at him not five minutes ago, why let him open his mouth and ruin it again?

So instead he uses his lips for something so much better than talking, and he’s kissing you, it’s gentle and hesitant, like one of the many kisses Dave gives Rhonda. He’s not searching for more but he’s fine with what it is right now.

And although you struggled to understand what it was other than soft kisses and harsh exchanges of words, you were content for the time being.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Hey, I know what I said earlier sounded bad so I got here as fast as I could,” Harrison explains from the other side of the door, voice worried.

You pull away from Tom who sighs and drops his hands.

Tom settles down at your desk chair and you unlock and open the door for Harrison.

“Oh hi Tom,” Harrison acknowledges him briefly before turning to you, “so I’ve got some bad news.”

And you knew this wasn’t about Tom and a wave of calm coursed through your body and you visibly relaxed.

“What’s up? What’s wrong?” You ask as Harrison sits on your bed and you follow, crossing your legs underneath you.

“You know how you said you always wanted to sound design Almost Maine but I said doing stage management and sound design would be too much?”

You nod, where was this heading?

“Well Julie quit.”

“I’m sorry she did what?”

“She literally called me fifteen minutes ago saying she was too stressed out with grad school interviews that she hasn’t even gotten started on the design and she didn’t think she could.”

“Harrison.”

“Yes?”

“We have two weeks until tech.”

“I know.”

“So who’s going to -, no,” your eyes widen at the realization that he wants you to sound design it.

“I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t out of options, there’s literally nobody else I’d trust to put a design together in two weeks.”

“Harrison,” you sigh pointedly, “I’ve got tutoring and classes and rehearsal what time left do I have to sound design?”

“Hey, I could design it, toss together a playlist and have it play from my phone during the whole show but I have a feeling you’ll do a better job. I’ll buy you as much coffee as you need to work on it. Please, there’s nobody I trust more than you.”

You look between Harrison and Tom as you feel Harrison’s hand cover yours on the bed.

Tom’s eyes were trained on the spot between you and Harrison, where his hand covered yours and curling around the top of your hand, lightly holding it.

Harrison was oblivious to Tom, just looking at your face, searching for any sign that you might have an anxiety attack over it.

Little did he know you already had one earlier, that Tom walked you through it, the same prodding questions that gave you a chance to focus your energy as before.

And honestly, if you had to choose between Harrison finding out you and Tom were, whatever, and this, you’d choose this over and over again.

“Okay.”

“You’ll do it?” Harrison asks and you nod, smiling at his goofy grin before he pulls you into a hug.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into your hair and you nod, watching as Tom stands up.

“I’m gonna head, see you back at the dorm Harrison?”

And you’re confused because you thought everything was going okay, that you and Tom might’ve had something teetering on the edge of normal back there. But like a child he jumped off the end of the seesaw and sent you flying up into the air. He doesn’t acknowledge you as Harrison nods, pulling away slightly.

“Sure mate, I just wanna go through some logistics first,” he pulls away from you and Tom leaves without so much as a second glance back in your direction.

“Sorry I ditched earlier, Tom told me he would wake you up and help you back here, I was gonna wake you up but he told me to get lost.”

“He did?” You ask, tilting your head curiously to the side.

“Why? Did he say something else?”

“No, nothing, so do you want to review the sound cues you want?”

“Sure,” he nods and you grab your laptop before settling back down next to Harrison. A hand which previously would’ve felt comforting now only feels odd against your leg while you pull open a new spreadsheet.

You didn’t need your script, the two of you knew this show like the back of your hand by now.

“Okay, to open the show, what type of music should be playing? You’ve got a preshow playlist?”

“Yes, full of some excellent song choices.”

“If it’s your sex playlist I swear to god,” you start.

“Nope, I would never reveal my sex playlist.”

“Name one song on it.”

“Love you down.”

“Nope, no way are we playing that. This show is supposed to be pg-13!”

“Okay, Thank God I Found You.”

“Okay, see that’s the perfect transition music between This Hurts and Getting It Back.”

“Told you you’d be the perfect sound designer. I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“Do you seriously want some ridiculous 90s sex song in between each scene?”

“Only most of them.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Actually, I think the show should end with Waiting For A Girl Like You between your scene and the epilogue.”

“You know what? I’ll give that to you because that song is very much those two scenes.”

“You’re not the only genius.”

“Hush,” you laugh as you set up the columns, meticulously planning was how you liked to go about most of life. And that came down to intricate spreadsheets as well.

“So preshow music, make that sound cue A, cut preshow is B, do you want a mic to make your announcement prior to the show?”

“No, I’m loud enough,” Harrison yawns.

“We can do this later,” you suggest, turning to him slightly.

“No, lets get the basics out of the way together, I know shit about quelab but I can at least help you set up what we will need for it.”

“And none of your sex songs can be the originals, they’re all copyrighted but I’ll find good covers.”

“Would you please not call them sex songs?” He groaned which made you laugh.

“You brought it up.”

“Fair point,” he sighs and it’s silent as he watches you work.

Every so often you’d chime in, ask a quick question he’d be able to answer.

“Barroom chatter for Sad and Glad?”

“Sure, like the slightest commotion, maybe mixed with some light music, whatever song you think fits best.”

“I might just overlay different instrumental pieces, maybe Toxic.”

“You want to overlay an instrumental version of Toxic into Sad And Glad?”

“If you get your sex playlist, then I get Toxic.”

“I was expecting some ABBA so you can have Toxic.”

“Don’t worry, ABBA will get thrown in as well.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

You sorted through the few internal cues of the scenes, mainly arguing with Harrison about transition songs and why we absolutely could not have an instrumental version of I’ll Make Love To You between Story of Hope and Seeing the Thing.

“Come on, it's totally the perfect song for Seeing the Thing.”

“Is not,” there’s absolutely no way your scene is having that play before it.

“Fine, what song would you play? Bump N Grind?”

“Oh my god don’t tell me that’s on there.”

You take one look at your best friend and hold back a sigh, “it isn’t isn’t it? Whatever, it’s Take a Chance On Me, obviously.”

“Oh obviously?”

“Yes, oh come on,” you roll your eyes at Harrison’s incredulous stare, “all Dave wants is for Rhonda to admit that she likes him. Although he’s an idiot and can’t even say it out loud for the first half of the scene.”

“But their love is beautiful in the end, I mean, it’s the only scene that really gets a happy ending.”

“True, ah to be young and in love,” you laugh, closing your laptop, “Hey, did you ever tell Tom about what happened between Ben and I?”

“No,” he tilts his head at you curiously, “why? Tom bring it up?”

“I mean he said he got the story from Ben but I don’t know when Ben and Tom would interact other than that time they were yelling at each other at auditions.”

“You know what? He was at a party that Tom and I went to a few weeks ago. Tom was fucking drunk out of his mind so he might be remembering wrong.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, he should hear your side too but I doubt Ben would slander you or whatever.”

“Yeah. Whatever, doesn’t matter much anyways, I’m going to look for covers between calc and rehearsal, you owe me coffee though,” you sigh, resting your head on Harrison’s shoulder.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“Course.”

“If you get overwhelmed we can get one of the theatre department kids to help.”

“Eww, no they’re stuck up.”

“I’m a theatre department kid!” Harrison scoffs.

“Yeah but you’re different,” you nudge his shoulder as he stands.

“Alright, I’m going to meet Gianna to study, I’ll see you tomorrow? Vanilla misto for rehearsal at 5?”

“Obviously,” you smile as you drop back down to the bed, Harrison giving you one last smile before closing the door behind you.

You open your laptop, determined to work on more of the sound cues, you didn’t need to sleep that badly anyways.

You let out a frustrated sigh as Quelab takes forever to load, the annoying ring of dashes indicating its loading. You roll your eyes as you check your phone.

Tom: sorry

You: don’t be sorry unless you’re going to explain what ur sorry for

Tom: ???

Tom: you didn’t explain earlier???

You: and I should’ve

Tom: ok

Tom: then explain it

You: I’m sorry I don’t know how to properly use my words when I’m around you

Oh god what are you saying? You could smack yourself and you consider throwing your phone out of your window and tell Tom someone stole it and it wasn’t you who just said that. You wait for him to say something back. You see the three little grey bubbles pop up on your screen before disappearing again.

***

Harrison moves with purpose into his dorm room, slamming the door behind him. He watches Tom sprawled on his bed, dropping his phone on his face when Harrison surprises him.

“Fuck, mate! What the hell?”

“What the hell? What were you asking y/n about Ben for?” Harrison asks as he sits paces across the room.

“What do you mean? Oh, I just, I-,”

“What did he tell you anyways?”

“He told me that she broke his heart,” Tom shrugs, “that they hooked up at a party before the end of summer, and started dating and they never had sex after they started dating.”

“Why, oh god, why would he tell you that?”

“Because he was explaining that she would always want to cuddle and be held or hugged or whatever and wouldn’t be up for it. I mean that’s fine, everyone’s different but he just didn't know why she had sex with him when they first got together then refused the rest of the summer. And they had this huge fight and broke up.”

“Okay, that’s an abridged version if I ever heard one,” Harrison takes a seat on his bed, facing Tom who moved to sit up against his wall.

“I mean I figured y/n would have a different way things played out.”

“So that’s why you asked her? To get her side of the story.”

“Yes,” Tom lies through his teeth. He wasn’t going to tell Harrison that you were constantly sending each other mixed messages and he had no fucking idea where he stood and didn’t want to end up down the same road as Ben if what he heard was true.

“And what did she tell you?��

“Nothing you sort of interrupted us.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know her side of the story?”

“I was there during their big fight,” Harrison shudders at the memory. He’s genuinely never seen you as angry and upset as you were in that moment.

***

Harrison’s flight had just gotten in and he was staying at your house before the dorms opened on Friday. Ben also happened to be coming over for dinner.

You and Harrison were lounging on your sofa, your head resting on his shoulder, hand lightly holding his as you mindlessly watched tv, catching up on your respective summers.

“So yeah, I really like Ben. He’s a nice guy.”

“He better be, you deserve the best,” Harrison nudges you before squeezing your hand.

You roll your eyes at Harrison, always looking out for you.

“Harrison! Y/N! Ben is here!” You hear your mother shout from the front entrance and feet shuffling into the house before two sets making their way to your living room. You let go of Harrison’s hand to greet your boyfriend, pulling him into a hug, his hand smoothing down the back of your dress as he kissed your cheek.

“Hey, you look gorgeous,” he says as you step back, your hands resting on his shoulders as he twirls you back and forth.

You giggle, cheeks tinted red before your mother reminds you that you’re not alone.

“Manners, y/n, come on, it’s time for dinner.”

You gulp and let Ben’s hand rest in your own, a comforting weight much like Harrison’s as your arms swing between your bodies. You’re nervous, this was the first time Ben was coming over, meeting your parents officially.

“Dad, this is Ben,” you nervously smooth down the front of your dress before sitting down, Ben next to you, Harrison opposite, your dad already sitting at the head of the table. Ben reaches his hand out to shake your dad’s hand, who in return simply stares at it.

“Nice to meet you,” your dad says, he gives your mother a look and the two of them stand up.

“We’re going to grab the rest of dinner.”

“Do you need help?” Harrison asks, about to stand up.

“We’re fine, thank you,” your mom smiles warmly at Harrison before following your dad out of the room.

And a few moments pass and you wonder what is taking them so long before Ben taps along your thigh, “Hey, which ways the bathroom?”

You let him know and he walks that way, leaving you and Harrison alone.

“Okay, what was that face your dad made when Ben tried to shake his hand?” Harrison’s laughing and you narrow your eyes at him.

“Dunno,” you shrug, “didn’t really notice it.”

And little did you know that when Ben was leaving the bathroom he overheard your parents hushed whispers in the kitchen.

“No, her and Harrison are just friends,” your mom explains to your dad.

“Then why does it look like they’ve got more chemistry than, what’s his name?”

“Ben? I don’t know, maybe Harrison has a crush on her.”

And Ben’s mad as he stalks back to the dining room. And no he shouldn’t have listened to your parents conversation, but he couldn’t help it when he heard Harrison’s name, a little green eyed monster perching on his shoulder.

“Can I talk to you?” He asks and your pulled out of your conversation with Harrison and turn to Ben, confused.

“Sure, we’re about to have dinner can it wait?”

“No,” Ben taps his foot frustratedly against the hardwood of your floor and you share a look with Harrison that says ‘cover us’ while you follow Ben to the living room.

“What’s going on?” You reach your hand out to rest on his shoulder, something you thought he normally found comforting. He brushed it off, taking a step back. It was cold and you were confused. Ben normally enjoyed the feeling of your hand in his, the warmth of your body cuddling his own.

“Do you love Harrison?”

“I’m sorry what?”

“Do you love Harrison?”

“I mean, he’s my best friend, I love him as my friend. Not like-,”

“Like what?” Ben asks, irritation furrowing his brows as he stares at you.

“Like I like you.”

“Oh so you love Harrison but you only like me?”

“No that’s not what I-,”

“I mean, I should’ve seen it coming. You’re always texting him, FaceTiming him.”

“That’s because he’s my friend? What, are girls not allowed to have guy best friends anymore?” You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Did you fuck him and tease him too? Is that your signature? You sleep with a guy once and make them-,”

You felt tears well in your eyes as Ben’s voice steadily raised.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Have you ever slept with the same guy twice?”

“I- I,” you stutter and Ben laughs as you struggle to find a way to respond.

“You know what? Fine. You don’t have anything to say? I’ve got plenty. How about, why do you constantly want to be held and touched but you never want to have sex? Or how about you don’t ever talk to me about it when I ask? You just brush it off and act like I never said anything? Or when I told you I loved you on the Ferris Wheel at the fair last week you know?” His eyes were softer now as he recalled the moment before turning bitter as he remembers what you said.

“I’m, I’m s-sorry.”

“Yeah, that’s what you fucking said! I’m sorry? What’s that supposed to mean when I just said I loved you? And I thought I could look past it, whatever aversion you had to sex or love or whatever, but if you can’t even open your mouth to explain yourself, what’s the point?”

“You know what?” Your voice is rising in anger as your hands drop, trembling at your sides, “fuck you. This isn’t the fucking time or place for this conversation. But fine! If this is how you want to act. I didn’t say I loved you because we’ve been dating for two months. I don’t know if I love you because I feel like I hardly fucking know you Ben. Every time I give you the opportunity to talk you don't want to talk about anything meaningful, so yeah, maybe I don’t open up about that part of me but I haven’t seen you open up about a single thing.”

“I didn’t love you,” his voice cuts through you so harshly you stumble back.

“What?”

“I didn’t love you. I was hoping me saying I love you would’ve made you sleep with me again,” his voice is venom as you keep walking back.

“Why would you say that?”

Ben shrugs, his eyes staring at a focal spot above your head, the doorway, ignoring your pleasing eyes.

“Then again, if your MO is being a slut then I won’t stop you.”

“Get out of my fucking house.”

“Fuck, I, that was really mean, I didn’t mean it like, I just, you hurt me so bad, I-,”

What? He wanted to hurt you too? Your head pounding and your heart racing, tears dripping down your cheeks, you were plenty hurt.

“Get out,” you spit out, your voice attempts to match the same level of anger but all you manage to get out is a broken whisper.

“I think it’s time you leave Ben,” Harrison’s voice startled you and you quickly turn to see your best friend, a hand clenched in a fist at his side as you breath harshly through your nose, running past him and up the stairs. You feel your lungs begin to cave in and you crumple against the railing, one hand clutching the staircase to keep you upright, the other scratching at your chest, the heavy thud filling your eardrums.

“Y/N?” You hear Harrison’s voice over the blood rushing through your brain and you gasp out loud.

You hear the thud of your parents running over.

“It’s okay, c’mere,” you feel he sit down next to you on the stairs, hands pulling your body to turn to him and hands wrapping around your shoulders as you drop your hands to the side and cry.

“I don’t know- I- why was he-,”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s okay, you can cry, cry it out,” Harrison’s voice was soothing as you tucked your face into his shoulder.

You felt your parent’s’ presence at the bottom of the stairs as you tried to control your breathing, control your crying.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered, his hand rubbing your back while you draped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, afraid you were going to lose him too.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Your mom asks and you nod, blurry eyes looking up at them.

Your mom has a worried expression, your dad had a mix of worry and anger radiating from his body, his face was worried but his hands were clenched angrily at his sides.

You nod, “yes.”

Because you were. Even if Ben made you feel like complete shit, even if he said horrible, nasty things, Harrison was there to let you know that everything was going to be okay. That he wouldn’t leave.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, other hand running through your hair.

Your eyes flutter shut and you suck in a deep breath, trying to steady the thumping of your heart.

It doesn’t work.

You’re still crying, broken sobs as your parent’s footsteps echo farther away from you.

You don’t know how long you sat in the cramped weird position on the stairs, your body tight against Harrison’s as he soothes you. Your legs started to cramp from being bent and your arms trembled around his neck.

“Come on, why don’t we get some rest?”

You nod and open your eyes, pulling back slightly from him. The look in his eyes almost shatters your heart. He’s got tears welled in his eyes and they were dark and guilty.

How much of that conversation did he hear?

He helped you stand up as unspoken words reverberated within the walls of the staircase as you walked.

I’m sorry.

Sorry that I caused a scene.

Sorry that I can’t help my anxiety.

Sorry that I make things difficult sometimes.

Sorry that I got into this mess in the first place because I couldn’t keep my legs shut.

As you got to your room, Harrison’s hand slips out of your own and you almost whine at the loss of contact.

“Come on, get changed into something comfortable and we can cuddle. Okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur as he pushes the door open for you. The two of you step inside and he sits on your bed, turning his head in the opposite direction as you change.

It was comfortable, what you and Harrison had, like you’ve known each other for years and years rather than a little less than one year. You could change in front of him, he could change in front of you and there was no worry that there would be any stolen glances or longing. He helped you with your panic attacks, you helped him when he felt less than stellar confidence wise. You could tell him anything and everything, almost everything.

That’s what best friends were for. So when your boyfriend met your family, broke your heart, and called you a slut, all in one night, he was there to pick up the shattered pieces of your heart, even if he got hurt in the process.

***

And that’s where Harrison paused his story, looking up at Tom who had an angry expression on his face.

“What?” Harrison asks.

“Ben’s a fucking twat.”

“Yeah,” Harrison laughs, “he tried to apologize, called her about fifty times, texted her way too many times to count, and I know he’s sorry, at least he’s sorry now, but uh, he was a real prick.”

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Ben made it seem like she broke up with him.”

“Well she did, technically, but I think he knew it was over the second he called her a slut.”

“Really? That got to her bad?”

“Guys think a girl sleeping with, I don’t know, 6 guys in a year makes the girl a slut. But guys can go out and sleep with how many girls? So yeah, him calling her a slut because she wouldn’t put out was pretty fucked up.”

“Yeah I guess it is isn’t it?”

“Anyways, real fucked up but he’s grown and she has too. People can be shitty but if you know, you ever want to open your mouth, just use your words and make sure they’re kind. Okay? She’s my best friend-,”

Tom gives Harrison a pointed look.

“My other best friend and if you’re still hung up on Brit-,”

“Don’t say her name.”

“If you’re just looking for someone to hook up with, stay away from her. But I see the way you look at her.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m more perceptive to things than you think. Or maybe you’re just more obvious than you think.”

“Whatever, I hardly know her,” Tom lies.

He knows bits and pieces about you. He knows your favorite band is ABBA. He knows that you’re critical of yourself, whether it’s directing or stage managing and only he has really seen that part of you. He knows your favorite color is red and that your strawberry chapstick is your favorite chapstick and it’s slowly turning into his as well. He knows that you love your friends and you always want to make them happy. He knows that your parents have made you highly critical of yourself and other people, whether you liked it or not. All these little parts of you are slowly getting stitched together to show him a whole person.

“Okay, well I’m gonna go to Gianna’s and work on some homework, don’t wait up.”

“Yeah yeah, homework,” Tom rolls his eyes.

***

You sigh before putting your phone down and working on downloading some covers of the songs Harrison wants to play as transitions.

You came to recognize that Tom wasn’t very good at using your words. You weren’t either, that’s what was so frustrating. With other people, Gianna, Harrison, Ben, if you were at a loss of words, they could pick up where you left off. No awkward silence, no opening and closing of the mouth as you struggle to find the words to say.

Your phone buzzes as you’re halfway through leveling the first song on quelab.

Tom: *photo attachment*

You curiously unlock your phone and nearly throw it against the wall when you see the photo and added comment.

Tom: u up?

*** Taglist: @tom-hollands-blog @unicornsyy @practicallylivesonline @jackiehollanderr @khhbby @amyalpha @peterbxrnes @relise-thefury @fandomdarlings @saysomethingspiderman @dylanrauhl @legendsofwholock @pumpkinsinnerpie @particularmila @darktwistydiamond @aestheticqueen18 @marveltho @ccnicole02 @lunatic-charm @hollandjmc

#tom holland #tom holland series #tom holland college!au #tom holland x fem!reader #tom holland x reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fic #tom holland reader insert #tom holland fem!reader insert #tom holland x y/n #seeing the thing

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shamans-of-reeds · 5 years ago

Text

Overgrowth and Dust: Part 1 [RP]

(( Rating: PG-13 ))

(( Genre: Suspense, Mystery ))

(( Cast: @infiniteleftdoesffxiv , @gaillaffxiv , @ritsykitty / @moonlit-nightingale , @the-firetouched and others who don’t have a tumblr or I cannot find it. ))

The Dawn Throne's pennants flutter overhead, the wind tugging them in a rhythmic thwup-thwup-thwup. Overhead a great bird soars, white dusted with a dusky mauve; its screech is something halfway between a chocobo's wark and a dragon's roar. It ignites Dione’s heart.

"Yol," one of their group explains, pointing up and nodding. She looks up too late to see it; a shadow, passing over the pennants, might have been it, though she can't be entirely sure. But the memory of its cry stays with her.

"The tamin' a' th' yol," she murmurs to no one in particular. "In Bardam's Mettle. Why do they want y' t' tame a bird?"

"Proof of fierce of heart." Vachirsukh spoke up in his broken Eorzean. He never had to speak it thus his skill with the words wasn't the best. "Weak hearts can't earn respect." The large Oroniri man was still on babysitting duty for the group but at least they'd returned home.

Home for him at least. He'd taken a few moments to visit his dwelling, his forge, and visit his daughter that had been left in a friend's care. Altani had been sure to stick her stuffed yol plushie into his arms and now he was forced to carry it around, tucked into the sash of his gold fabrics. He didn't have the heart to say no to the young girl.

Vivisha pointedly stays back just enough from the edge of the Throne and yet she feels drawn to look down and down and over and far, far into the Steppe's sky. What a wondrous place, this Steppe -- full of frights never before felt, but feelings never truly explored.

After a time, she rejoins the group. She clutches her thaumaturge's staff to her chest as if it could keep her from flying away or being picked up by one of the yonder Yols.

"It must be a very tough challenge indeed," she comments quietly. Her usual vivacity is subdued. She is surrounded by unknowns, and is struggling to keep up.

"Only the worthy pass the challenge and proved as warriors of the Steppe." Vachirsukh crossed his arms as he watched the yols soar over the highest levels of the great structure. Their roost was tended up there, as high as could be atop the Throne. It was well-deserved for the fearsome skykin to be as close to the sun as they could!

“<And some are never granted the chance>.” The smooth voice of the Buduga star reader rang out as he approached the group.

Khenbish’s green robes covered far more than any of his brothers. From neck to ankles there was scarcely an inch exposed. His attention moved over the points of life across the landscape of the throne before falling to the edge of the throne.

The blind Buduga strides towards it and stops at the very edge. Pure black eyes gaze over the range he can not see. Aetheric flows were noted and added character to the black landscape he saw, but that was it.

The Oronir's tail simply flicked at those words as he lingered on the edge of the group.

"But why a yol?" Dione pipes up again when next they move, her voice pitched to that exact tone of plaintive inquisitiveness well known to parents and elder siblings alike. "I mean, there are lotsa things you could battle or tame. I were wonderin' if there were a meanin' to it."

"It is said that it was the steed of choice for the great Bardam, as depicted in ancient murals." The voice of a Moks-Noykin accent sounded as Sali trailed along with the group, his little sister Ilakha at his heels, cradling her floral staff. <"Friends, I am happy you've come,"> she voiced, then repeating the line in Common.

Himaa Iloh - or what it was - sat eerily quiet on the horizon before them. The sky was clear but the day was frigidly cool, the air incredibly dry. There wasn't even any footsteps or trails to be seen on the hard ground around the former camp. The grass was sparse but tall.

"Sister Dione," Ilakha began gently as she came over to the individual with a smile. "If only you can have meeted him on better grounds... this is my big brother, Sali." The short male gave a nod, his neck-length hair toyed with by the stiff breeze.

"What we're looking for here may or may not be an easy find, given how worn the place is to the elements," Sali declared, then in Auri. "General artifacts. Weapons, armor, traits on any bodies spotted. Ilakha and I will scout the area for any bandits or signs we've been followed. We'll keep in touch over linkpearls."

As Sali got right to business, Ilakha sullenly glanced to group again. "This site is kind of old. Is grounds the Noykin would go to stop raiders from the base of the Tail Mountains. We not knowed anything 'bout them. Just that they is not from here. What we gather, we can take to Bargujin Khatun of the Noykin." The words were also repeated in Auri to the Oronir and the Buduga.

But Khabataaq would be nowhere near that place. There were far to many people waiting for him there. So he waits out in the Steppes some distance he considers far enough from that Dawn Throne, some safe distance, waiting for the time they were set to meet or some announcement over linkpearl. He watches the Throne as if he could see the dots of people in the distance leaving it, an impossible task from this distance but still he watches, locked in some persistent shiver that doesn't seem willing to leave him. It could be dismissed easily as cold, but Khabataaq knows better. It's nerves, it's worry, it's apprehension about their destination and the things they'll find there. It's odd... and wrong, maybe, that his first contact with his old tribe after all these years would be with those long dead. But after he was told what would be happening today, he knew he didn't have much choice, did he?

Dione is about to ask more questions, but instead her attention is fully consumed by the sight of the distant camp. Though she knows that her people are both nomadic and prone to conflict, and that they're investigating a raid, somewhere inside she'd still expected to see... a living iloh, a thriving community. What they approach now is naught but overgrowth and dust.

So caught up is she in her thoughts that she almost doesn't notice her name being called, jerking suddenly as if from sleep. Turning to the short-- but to her, still impressively tall-- male, she nods in return. "A pleasure," she says with a struggling smile, before falling quiet as she listens to his words, her heart only growing more chilled at each one.

Are we looking for bodies of your people, or mine? she fears to ask, and won't. Instead, she plants her feet in the dirt and takes a breath. This too is the Steppe, she repeats to herself instead.

"The feeling is mutual," Sali replied to Dione. "However, it'd be more so if we weren't to traverse a site of the deceased." His weight shifted between his feet, hands migrating to his hips. "About twenty summers ago this was a camping ground for the Himaa. That is, until the Jhungid tribe passed through this area and absorbed those that lived here. Since the Kharlu met with the Jhungid for war south of here an epoch ago, the site has only been used as grazing land for the Noykin. They'd used to camp here in the late bells of summer. Northwest of here are common sites for laying bodies for the bearded vultures and seedkin. For religious reasons, the rest of the iloh was never ransacked."

Ilakha's expression was sullen all through Sali's explanation of the history. Her grip on her staff twisted slightly as she looked about the group. "We doing this to help the living, though," she declared. "Is important we get our finds to Bargujin Khatun as proof the attackers comed from somewhere 'round here like the Tsubegen said is possible, not the Oroq valley."

Dione nods upon that mention of religion, glad at least that that much respect had been offered the fallen. Whatever else we Xaela are, she thinks, we have our honour. "So d' ya want me to take a look around th' northwest?" she asks, growing bolder. "Or investigate th' iloh, if it's untouched?"

Ilakha opted to raise her own linkpearl, pausing at Dione's question. A weary smile was offered. "There is no need, Sister. You just need to look 'bout the iloh today. Is large... er, was large, so am glad there are a few of you here." Just then, she spoke into the linkpearl; contacting Khabataaq. "Brother... we finded Himaa Iloh. I will pin our coordinates to you. Linkpearl will alert you when you getting close." Sali bowed his head to Ilakha before looking to the group, expression stern but gently so. "Does this make sense to everyone?"

Khabataaq jumps at the sound of the sudden chime of the linkpearl. He scowls crossly to himself. Settle down. Calm down. Stop being so jumpy. "<Y-Yes, yeah, I'm... I'm on my way.>" He pushes himself off the ground, gathering the few items he'd taken out of his bag and stowing them away, before trotting off in the vague direction of the Iloh.

She nods again, looking towards the iloh. "Weapons, armor, artifacts. Signs a' who th'... bodies might be, if there are any." Her hand goes to her hip; beneath the voluminous folds of her Dotharli-blue robe twin daggers lie sheathed, should she need them. In an uncharacteristic moment of pacifism, she finds herself hoping she won't.

Vivisha has followed atop her trusty steed, Lalana -- a small 'bo, but one with enough spirit that it eyes any would be predators of himself or his master with sharp, angry eyes. The lalafell, however, is unusually quiet. While her base magickal training is indeed in that of thaumaturgy -- a practice synonymous with death -- she rarely ever had to come face to face with it like this. It's distasteful to come face to face with so much truth, some dark part of her thinks. This is why the high houses employ their own tutors and servants and bo handlers and all the like.

It's prettier that way.

But then, this is the core of the work of diplomacy: Digging in, finding the realness of it. She reminds herself of that as she slides off her 'bo, and puts her sharp ears to work on finding some hint of what has happened. She reaches out to sense the aether of the place, too, to see if there were any recent disturbances.

Sechen glanced over the group already there. Cautiously, she raised a hand. "Haven't missed much, have we?"

Following in quiet tandem with his daughter, Sechen, came another Xaela to the herd. Arav Shono'tsag, tall, muted plum skin, sharp silver eyes and dark blue hair, graying by his temples with feathered locks covering the most of his face. His robes were not tribal, and creased brows hinted at discomfort- Or maybe it was just his face. A wooden staff thudded to the ground as he followed Sechen over. Soon on their way, though, a shrill shriek of a bird would startle him enough to leave his jaw clenched. "Hells take me." He muttered under his breath, trying to relax. The only one chancing to hear this might be Sechen. As they came closer, he glanced around, scanning the group of strangers and taking in a breathe. "<Hello.>" He said, when close enough, at nobody. An extra nod of greeting was sent to Sali and Ilakha, were they to pay attention. He also eyes the lalafellin. Perhaps he is not the most out of place?...

It would take Khabataaq some time to join with the group, and he drops from his brisk pace as he catches sight of the others gathering. More than he thought there would be. And faces he doesn't recognize. Though he supposes that should be expected. He spots the small, recognizable silhouette of Ilakha in the group, and there's a bit of relief then. A few familiar faces then, at least. He feels another pang of guilt, wondering if he should have told Sari after all. But... this was probably for the best. Probably.

He would be wearing simple traveling clothes, something made to be covered in dust and dirt, heavy enough to endure the Steppe's winds but provide little protection to anything other than the elements. No tribe colors. There's a weight to the ex-Buduga's shoulders as he falls in with the rest of the group, hovering just at the edge of the pack, a few fulms away. It's more than just worry, or skittishness, but dread. He tears his gaze away from the ruins to survey those around him, his gaze stalling as it falls upon a familiar Xaela woman. ...Dione? He doesn't realize he's staring, eyebrows arched in surprise.

Dione blinks back at him, eyes widening. "Kha... Khabataaq?" she stammers. "What are you doing here," she's about to say; and yet it's obvious what he's doing here. He, too, is Himaa. --All Himaa, instead of half-Himaa like her. And half a Himaa is no Himaa at all......

The droop in mood isn't missed; perhaps because this isn't like the Dione he remembers meeting all those months ago? This stark contrast to the enthusiastic and fiery girl, suddenly somber and quiet, it makes Khabataaq even more apprehensive. That heavy smile returns - he hasn't worn that in a while... hasn't he? - as he crosses over to stand a bit closer to Dione. He wonders where Rev is, but... some part of him is suddenly nervous to ask. An unnecessary caution, maybe, but it's enough to silence the question. "It's good to see you again," he says instead, tail waving cautiously behind him.

Sali turned abruptly, looking towards his relatives as Ilakha followed the motion as well. "Cousin! Uncle!" Ilakha darted towards them with open arms. Sali would have offered a smile, but the circumstances were a bit serious. "So, you finally come... am sorry is under these conditions. But I telled you what will happen at home. You 'member, right? You guys okay if me and Sali go to scout? Himaa Iloh is empty. Should be okay."

Meanwhile, Sali spoke to the others. "You all know where you are going. Take your time to prepare and head out. I know this isn't easy for a lot of you."

Sechen pulled Ilakha into a hug, patting her on the back, after deciding to ignore Arav's muttered curse. "I think that's a shared feeling, but... We're here to help!" She spared another glance around, her tiny smile faltering. "I think we'll be fine, Ilakha, if, um, you think that's what you should do."

"Well, considering who's here, I'd say we'll have just about any situation handled." A calm voice sounded out from behind the group. Approaching the group with her blade Kioku at her side and a spear across her back, the Malaguld Xaela approached. She nodded to the others who were already around, then turned her gaze to Ilakha. "Though, we will still have to be careful. One misstep could mean larger problems." Akuro stated matter-of-factly.

"Beasts, hunters, warriors from the more aggressive tribes," Akuro counted off on her fingers, "along with anything unexpected happening."

"Oh, that's not a very long list," Vivisha pipes up with unusual, bubbly sarcasm. She looks around, as if shocked she said that out loud. "Ah...don't mind me..."

Warriors from the more aggressive tribes. A concern that Khabataaq could agree on, that much was for certain. His gaze never stayed with the group for long, darting about the horizon as he kept an eye open for silhouettes or watchful hunters.

A backwards glance is given to the approaching Malaguld, just before Arav is given his own hug by Ilakha. "So, the usual." He says the unfamiliars, as he pats his niece affectionately on the head. Then he looks to her. "It's good to see you're well, Ilakha. Is there divided parties already, or are we grouping together on our own terms?" His hand finds its way to Sechen's head, just to make sure she knows he's there. Or to make sure he knows she's there. Either or.

Dione glances up to Khabi, trying to catch his attention with her eyes. If he studies her, he'll see that she's not devoid of fire; merely subdued, in this moment, confronted with her first glimpse in memory of what could have been her home only to find it a ghost town... or possibly a graveyard.

Twenty summers. She's twenty-two. She finds herself wondering about Khabi's age; whether this might have been home for him too.

"Wanna go together?" she asks him, recalling he's no fighter. "I'm armed if it should come to it."

Ilakha glanced up between Arav and her brother warily. "You can pick your partner for investigating. People can also go alone if they wish, but you think is best to stay 'round Sechen, right?"

Briefly, the wind picked up. Metal chimes from somewhere at the edge of the iloh tinkled gently, almost like beckoning. The wind hummed through the holes of the chimes like deeply pitched flutes, not unlike the pillars on the grounds of Ceol Aen.

And it definitely was a concern the other Himaa shared, a same worry that hung between them unspoken. He didn't know where his parents were. But there was a definite fear, a burden that seemed to drag down on his shoulders, that they could have been caught in this skirmish. And even if proof to confirm or deny was a slim chanced thing, didn't he need to try?

A smile at Dione's offer, some of that weight seeming to lift. "Sure, I like that idea. As... As long as you don't mind." A silly question maybe, given the offer came from her, but Khabataaq knew he would be a burden. He may be able to take care of himself a bit better since last they met.... But he has no doubts that Dione was the stronger.

He pauses then, before cautiously asking, "You're here with the Kotodama? You're here to help with their investigation?" Or are you here for yourself, was the unasked question.

Vivisha, for her part, stands close to the many tall individuals near her, afraid of being forgotten in the vast lands. But she turns pointedly to the chiming sound, staring in that direction... Creepy...

"I could use th' second pair a' eyes," Dione states, perfectly honestly, as she makes her way towards the sound of those chimes. "...An' th' company." No, Khabataaq probably won't keep either of them from being wounded; but his presence could be a bulwark, all the same.

She picks her way forward over a land slowly transitioning from green to brown, from the vibrant rustling of winds in grasses to the haunted silence of bare earth. Even the wind seems to die as they approach, and she thinks that, despite all those gathered here today, this is the quietest she's heard the Steppe fall.

"Not with 'em as such, no. But 'ere t' 'elp." She doesn't look back over her shoulder, assuming that he'll follow. "I'm journeyin' around th' Steppe. Lookin' for 'ome, I s'pose-- but not 'ome like this, I..." She waves her hand briefly towards the iloh. "Where I belong, I s'pose. Who I am." A pause. "Why're you 'ere?"

Akuro walked over in the direction of the chimes, deciding to take a look on her own. One hand rested on the hilt of her blade as she approached, not letting down her guard an ilm. If anything tried to go for her, whoever or whatever made the attempt would quickly regret it.

And follow he does. "The same as you, to help the Kotodama," Khabataaq says with a half smile. But that smile fades a bit, because that's not quite true, is it? And he's trying to be better about that.

"Ahm... and... just to be sure. That no one was here." A bit of a blush then, as he looked down towards the ground in search. But his eyes don't see anything just yet, and the search is more of a formality. He's far too distracted.

"My parents, I mean. ...I don't know if they were here when... this... happened. But I know they traveled a lot. ...I know it seems a bit foolish to be looking. Odds are I won't find anything. But... I wasn't sure... if I could not ... you know?"

Dione, however, neither scoffs nor flinches from his words.; only nods, as her eyes likewise scrutinise the ground. "'ow old are you?" she asks bluntly as she continues to walk.

Arav nodded agreement with Ilakha's statement. He was here specifically for Sechen's sake, to begin with. "She is my priority." He said, just to make sure that much was clear. Then his horns were graced with the sound of distant chimes, calling his eyes to their position. There is one person headed in their direction. He decides to remain with his family, but he is watching Akuro investigate, in case anything should go wrong.

A small frown at Dione's question, but it's a thoughtful one, not a stern one. ...Oh dear. That was a question he'd lost the answer to years ago, he thinks. Twenty.... ....twenty.... "Tw... twenty... three? ...Twenty two?" Just like when Sari had asked him his name day, it was information that had become so unimportant overtime, he'd just... lost it.

Khabataq realizes something then, that frown relaxing in sudden worry as his eyes find Dione again. "...You?"

"...Twenty-two," she says softly, with a nod of acknowledgement. Not a whole lot more need be said.

Ilakha bowed her head to her head to her uncle and cousin, repeating the motion for her brother before going to his side. "Then we'll watch to make sure nobody's followed our trail," Sali replied firmly, but not sternly. "Best of luck, everyone." With that, he and Ilakha turned to set off, the girl scuttling to match her brother's longer strides.

Another breeze crept through the plains as they made their approach, the atmosphere far from welcoming. There was a rustling in the dry grass before a couple of songbirds scattered into the air at the sight and sound of the group. Everything else looked relatively untouched. The backs of faded ghers that were once brilliantly decorated faced the group, two in specific being closest from the left and right. The right one had the door halfway broken off, the splintered remains dangling while the rest was jutted out at an angle. The spiderweb that made up the gap in the door frame was an indication of a lack of recent activity nonetheless. The gher on the left's door - once a vibrant orange - remained shut, its contents within on apparent. All the ghers others faced the same direction as the one of the left; there were at least six in total. On the crowd a long cloth rolled over lamely in the wind, as if to greet the explorers. It was tattered, but carried distinctive colors...

#ffxiv rp #mateus rp #ffxiv story

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aelysalthea · 5 years ago

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Baby Foxes Still Bite: Chapter 4

WARNING: I know it's been throughout the story quite a bit so far, but this chapter contains pretty heavy depictions of and implied child abuse. Please be careful if you find this kind of content triggering.

Chapter 4: Day 3

Flipping her sunglasses up onto her head, Allison blew a bubble of her gum as she reached for the doorbell. The chime had barely sounded before Abby's door was wrenched open.

"Fuck," Nicky blurted out as soon as he saw her. "Fuck, fuckety-fuck."

Allison blinked. She raised an eyebrow and blew another bubble. "Hemmick? What's wrong with you?"

Nicky didn't listen, and Allison wasn't all that surprised. He looked a mess, his hair askew and made worse by his hand raking through it, his eyes blow wide and face cast into lines of tension. His lips were pressed together so tightly they were blanched white. Whatever had happened in the two hours that Allison had returned to Fox Tower had apparently thrown him off the rails.

"You haven't seen him?" Nicky asked, nearly yanking his hair out as he raked his fingers through the mess again.

"Seen who?" Allison asked, though she was fairly sure she had an idea.

Nicky didn't answer. Uttering a strangled sound, he spun on his heel and trotted back into the house. "It's just Allison," he called. "I don't – I have no idea what the fuck –"

Closing the door behind her, Allison followed him into the house. A flicker of something – concern? Was it really concern? – sparked in her chest as she stalked down the hallway, heels clicking on Abby's floorboards. Two hours. Two goddamn hours she'd been away, taking the suggestion that Abby had offered as none of the rest of the Foxes had, and shit had hit the fan. Two hours of reprieve to gather herself from the latest dip out of reality with a good bout of hair-washing and fresh clothes, and she should have been feeling a million bucks at least. Two days of having one of her friends shrunken small enough to practically fit into her handbag could really do a number on a girl, to say nothing of sleeping in jeans and a bra the previous night.

And now said friend was… what -?

"What happened?" Allison asked, stepping into the kitchen stuffed to overflowing with Foxes. Heads turned and voices momentarily quietened, except for Abby who, phone to ear and muttering in rapid-fire conversation, hastened past her from the room. Allison barely noticed her leave. There were more than a few faces that flickered with guilt, and Allison didn't blame them. They should feel guilty if Neil was – if he'd actually -

"Did you lose him?" she asked, though it was more of a demand than a question this time. Allison was only a little surprised that something like that suspected concern made its way into her voice.

Another beat of quiet, glances exchanges and more flashes of guilt surfacing, before Dan straightened slightly from where she was leaning heavily against the dining table, her hands propping her upright. "We were left in charge of him," she began before faltering.

Renee, clearly having returned from Fox Tower in Andrew's car more promptly than Allison had, patted her shoulder before glancing at Allison. "Andrew went to see Bee as soon as I dropped the car off."

"Was practically dragged to see Bee, you mean," Matt said. He shrugged at Allison's glance. "He didn't want to go, but Bee wouldn't hear it. Said it would be good for him to have a break for a while."

"Which was a royally bad idea," Nicky said, hysteria pitching his voice into little more than a squeak.

"Yeah, we know that now," Aaron said, rolling his eyes, but even that was a tense gesture. His own concern practically seeped from him like sweat.

"We were keeping an eye on him," Dan said. "We were, I swear. I don't know how he – how he even…" She trailed off, glancing around the table at the Foxes. "How the fuck did this even happen?"

"We're terrible parents," Matt said, scrubbing his face with both hands.

"It's not your fault," Katelyn said, sparing a smile for Nicky as he shot her a desperate, almost pleading glance. "Honestly, we were all watching him, so if he managed to slip away somehow then I think he would have managed it just as well with anyone else."

Murmurs of disagreement, more guilt, and curses circled the room, and Allison couldn't help but agree with the dissent. Katelyn was like that, always looking for the silver lining, and Allison had postulated that it was part of the reason she'd managed to stick with Aaron throughout the shit of the past year. But even so, Katelyn was wrong.

How had they lost him? Allison knew as little about kids as the rest of them, and even less in most cases given that she actively avoided them at every opportunity. She would be the first to admit that she would make a frankly terrible 'parent', as Matt had claimed himself to be numerous times over the past few days, and not only because she appreciated her freedom more than she did any remaining maternal instincts that had survived into adulthood. Kids were little snots; they spoke too much, asked too many questions, were generally dirtier than they should be, and had the instincts and inhibitions of a drunken football jock. And that was just the older ones.

But Neil was an exception. He was different, even without consideration for who he was to Allison – a teammate turned reluctant friend who she now enfolded into her coterie as readily as she did the other Foxes. More readily than some, particularly when it came to the monsters. Baby Neil was different because he had an odd edge to him that seemed to override a decent chunk of childish tendencies, because he dropped bombshells about his home life that his older self would shudder to know he admitted to, and because he was actually kind of a cool kid. Allison had never play-fought with a six-year-old before, but she'd admit to enjoying it when it came to Neil.

That Neil had apparently disappeared? And that it had been in the brief window that she'd been away? It kicked up a gut-churning bout of worry that Allison hadn't anticipated, alongside an equally powerful bout of resentment.

Jesus Christ, you lot, she thought, frowning at her friends even as they bowed their heads in their persisting guilt. You had one fucking job.

"Well?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest. "Where have you looked?"

"Everywhere," Nicky all but wailed, dropping his head onto the table with a heavy thunk.

"Abby's calling around," Renee said. "We were outside scouring the street until a couple of minutes ago."

"I'm gonna go again," Matt said with the ring of words that had been spoken before.

Dan sighed. "Go where, Matt? Where else would we look?"

"I'll take my truck –"

"And what, just wipe the streets again?"

"It's better than sitting around and doing nothing!"

"I'll come," Kevin said, speaking for the first time and straightening from the wall he'd been leaning against. His shoulders were rigid with tightness. "Andrew will kill me if he comes back and Neil's not here."

"Just you?" Aaron asked, rolling his eyes again. This time, the gesture hardly seemed exasperated at all, more likely posturing than sincere derision. He shook his head. "I just don't get it. I wouldn't have picked it of him."

"Of Neil?" Matt asked, eyebrows snapping up. "You wouldn't have picked it of him doing a runner?"

"Neil was probably running before he could even walk," Dan said. Nicky hummed an agreeing whimper into the table.

"Yeah, I know he was when he was older," Aaron said, frowning in thought more than annoyance. "But as a kid? How he acts and everything, and what he said, I don't think…" He shared a glance with Katelyn and she reached her hand for his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "When you're on that tight of a leash, you wouldn't do a runner."

He spoke from experience. Again. Allison regarded him for a moment, pursing her lips. Neil's conversion into a Mini Me had hit him oddly hard; even more oddly considering the relationship between him and Neil that already existed. Allison didn't have to look far to see it scratched the surface of his own childhood like picking at an unhealed scab.

Which she could relate to. Even more so when she was cast back into reflection on her own childhood. Aaron was the type of person to wear the leash his mother had put on him, leaving it loose and hanging even when it wasn't looped over someone's hand to yank him in any given direction. He wore it as though it were a part of him, accepting his fate.

Allison had worn her own leash, but it had never been hanging flaccid. She'd struggled and strained at it every opportunity she'd had. 'Rebelliousness' had been a label engraved on her like a tattoo for as long as she could remember, and she hadn't denied it. But that wasn't quite right, was it? Where her parents muttered 'rebellion', she'd thought of freedom. When her nanny scolded her for foolishness, she'd thought of escape. Poor behaviour, acting out, resisting orders – it fit the mould of a rebellious child, then a rebellious teen, and Allison had let the term drape across her shoulders because it was useful. It had given her as many liberties as it had restrictions.

But that didn't mean it fit.

As a child, Allison sought freedom and escape when other kids chased after candy and games of tag. What had become active attempts at escape certainly hadn't begun that way. Allison could even remember the first time she'd run away from home – or 'run away', because it had only appeared that way. Allison hadn't meant to flee; she'd simply seen an open door and longed so ardently to know what was on the other side of it that she couldn't help but look.

"Shit," Dan cursed, breaking into Allison's thoughts. "Shit, so… so if he didn't do a runner, then -?"

"Shit," Matt echoed. "Do you think he's okay?"

"Could someone have nicked him?" Nicky asked, head lifting from the table and eyes blown even wider than before. "Could the Moriyamas -?"

"No." Kevin shook his head, though he looked less convinced than he sounded. "No, they wouldn't. Not with the deal Neil made."

"Would the deal still be in effect?"

"Fucking hell, would it?"

"Would they recognise him? As a kid, he's –"

"Oh, come on. It's impossible not to recognise him."

"Oh my god, does that mean -?"

Allison exhaled sharply, frowning at the lot of them throwing worries amongst themselves. No one but Renee seemed to notice her frustration, and she only glanced at Allison briefly. Not that Allison really cared. She was growing increasingly pissed off, and her friends, usually so level headed but thrown into a clucking frenzy when the duties of babysitting arose, were making her even more so. Tapping a foot on the floor in rapid clicks, Allison considered for a moment before turning on her heel and stalking back out of the room.

"I'm going to go out and look for him," she flung over her shoulder. "Call me if he turns up."

"Allison!" Dan called after her. "What -? Wait!"

"I'll come with you," Renee said, the sound of her footsteps following Allison from the kitchen.

Allison glanced over her shoulder again as she yanked the front door open. She shook her head. "You give me that call, okay? If Andrew comes back – I expect someone's rung him?"

Renee nodded. "Yeah. He should be here any minute."

"Then you'll need to be here too to make sure he doesn't murder anyone."

That Renee didn't reply but to give a tight smile and a nod spoke more than a flagging attempt at denial would have. Personally, Allison didn't want to be around when Andrew arrived. She expected blood to be spilled, and she'd rather it wasn't her own.

Gunning her car to life, Allison left Abby's driveway with little more than a slight screech of wheels. She was flying down the road in seconds, nought to fifty in a heartbeat, and damn the cops if she got pulled over. She had a kid to find. After all, tolerable kids were hard to come by these days. She knew too well given she'd never been one of them.

Scanning the roadside, Allison passed down street after street, barely slowing to dodge pedestrians or kids of the less tolerable kind playing some ball game in the middle of the road. She didn't slow to swerve around them, and the squawks of indignation flung after her were lost to the wind of her passage.

One street. The next. Then another before she ground to jerking a stop as she caught sight of one particularly kid by himself. A moment later and she threw her car back into motion when she identified it definitely wasn't her kid. Allison was a full ten minutes into her search before she jerked to another stop and stayed that way.

If it hadn't been on a corner, hadn't been in a moment when she'd slowed to less than fifty miles, she would have missed him. As it was, that she'd seen him at all was something of a miracle. On his knees, tucked into someone's front garden, he was apparently oblivious to the world and definitely not doing the runner that Matt had feared. Not abducted either, which was even better.

Allison released the pent breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Closing her eyes briefly, she flipped her sunnies onto her head again and climbed out of her car. Picking her way through rose bushes and trimmed hedges in heels wasn't ideal, but it wouldn't be a first. Simply the first time Allison had attempted when she wasn't drunk, which made it infinitely easier.

Neil didn't notice when she came up behind him, which his older self would have been horrified at. He didn't notice when she paused at his side, peering down and frowning at whatever had caught his attention. It was only when Allison scoffed, shaking her head, that he flinched and swung his gaze up to her.

"Seriously?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at his solemn, wide-eyed expression. "Are you fucking with me?" When Neil didn't answer, she gestured to the cluster of fur tucked into the bushes lining the house. "You really have a thing for them, huh?"

Cats. A fucking bunch of cats. Not just one either; Allison knew as little about cats as she did kids, but she was pretty sure it was a mother with a bunch of closed-eyed, wriggling, and utterly helpless kittens. Newborns, even; one still had a damp streak of fur on its forehead.

Neil didn't answer Allison's words. He only lowered his gaze back to the cats, giving a tight shrug of his shoulders. He didn't reach for the cats, didn't lean towards the be nearer to the kittens, but simply watched. It was far too much restraint for a little kid, but not too much for Neil.

Squatting down alongside him, Allison folded her arms across her knees. "What're you doing, kid?"

Neil side-eyed her. "Nothing," he muttered, shifting in his own squat.

"Really? Because I was pretty sure you were at Abby's when I left a couple of hours ago."

Neil flinched again, shrugging with even tighter shoulders. "I was just…"

"Just fucking around."

"Just looking."

"Outside. Alone. Without anyone to keep an eye on you to make sure you don't get into any shit."

Neil's expression grew even more solemn, though a flicker of something, something that Allison's parents would have called rebelliousness, flared before he quickly tucked it away. "I'm sorry," he murmured, even more quietly. "It was an accident."

Allison snorted. "You accidentally wandered out of Abby's house?"

"Yeah."

"And would up half a dozen blocks away?"

"Yeah."

"Trespassing in someone's front garden and spying on cats?"

Neil flickered a glance up at the house, face working for a moment before he shuttered his expression again. "I wasn't trespassing," he said, stubbornness hinted at beneath his words this time. "I was just looking. The cat had – she has kittens and everything, and I thought maybe…"

Allison poked his shoulder, rocking him gently on his haunches. "It's still trespassing. You could get in trouble for that."

Neil's shrug was so tight it was barely a shrug this time. Allison didn't believe the nonchalance of it at all, though she suspected that the flash of fear across his face was entirely sincere. While Allison would have been scolded, grounded, and had her freedom restricted even further, Neil would have…

What?

Allison almost didn't want to think of it. What a mass-murdering crime lord and his terrified but equally fierce wife had in mind for punishment didn't bare consideration. Allison didn't want to know, even as something in her chest squeezed and her hand dropped to rest lightly on Neil's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"I won't tell anyone," she said, shooting Neil a conspiratorial smile. Reaching her free hand for the cats, ignoring the mother's blown pupils and momentarily bared teeth, she flipped the tag on its collar and squinted at it. "We'll just make out as if you got lost or something."

"Really?" Neil asked.

Allison glanced at him, smile widening at the incredulity slackening his face. "Sure."

"Will everyone believe you?"

Definitely not, Allison thought, but she kept it to herself as she extracted her phone from her pocket, punching in the number on the tag. "Kid, I'm pretty sure they'll be so relieved to have you back that they won't even care what excuses we make. Now come on, let's get a move on."

"But," Neil glanced between the bundle of cats and Allison as she rose, pressing her phone to her ear, "the – but the cat. She – what if she -?"

"Hello?"

Allison held her finger to her lips to silence Neil before replying. "Hey. I've found your cat here. She's got babies."

A beat of silence met her words before the woman on the other end answered. "What?"

"Your cat. Tweetie, or whatever her name is. She's had her kittens."

"Tweetie's got -? Oh my gosh, she's had her -?!"

"I've found her on Wembley street," Allison said, glancing around herself for the road signs. "On the corner of Westbrook. Big fucking house with too many rose bushes out the front."

"You mean she's -? Gosh, thank you so much, you –"

"Come pick her up. She's got, like, five of them and I'm not carrying them. They're all dirty from being under the bushes or whatever, and I'm not getting that shit in my car."

Allison hung up a moment later, turning back to Neil where he blinked up at her owlishly. "What?" she asked.

Neil blinked rapidly for a moment longer before frowning, switching his gaze back to the cats. "Don't you like them?"

Allison smirked. "No. They're hairy and they stink."

"They don't stink –"

"Do you like them?"

Neil twitched, shuffling on his haunches again. "No," he said, and he mustn't have properly developed his lying skills by six, because Allison had never heard a more blatant lie in her life.

She chuckled. "Yeah, right. I think we'll properly have to consider what Nicky said this morning about getting a cat-mascot for the team. I've seriously never seen you so hyped about anything but exy before."

Neil glanced up at her again, though it seemed to take an active effort to drag his gaze from the cats. A mess of confusion drew forth a frown, then raised eyebrows and open mouth, then smoothed into something touched with excitement. "Really? You're going to get a cat?"

Just how he'd made the jump between "you don't like cats" and "you're getting one", Allison wasn't quite sure, but she disregarded it as a relatively rare moment of childishness. Waving it aside, nudged him with a toe before nodding back to her car. "We'll talk about it later. Before that, we've got to get back to Abby's. Everyone's really freaking out, and if Andrew's there, he's probably super pissed off that you're missing."

"Andrew will be angry?" Neil said, jumping to his feet and trotting alongside Allison as she strode back to her car.

She shot him a glance. Only a very small part of her had expected any real fear from him when it came to considering Andrew's wrath, but she certainly hadn't anticipated worry for Andrew. Not even a sliver of it appeared to be for himself as Neil practically scampered for the car to clamber into the passenger seat.

So weird. Always weird. But then, Allison didn't even bother with trying to understand the Andrew-Neil situation anymore. She didn't know why Matt still bothered to try. Folding herself back into her car, she gunned it to life and tore down the street as fast as she'd pulled into it. Despite her speed, the relief she felt at having a pixie-sized kid alongside her was almost astounding.

"Not at you, Neil," Allison answered him. "I'm starting to suspect that Andrew never really gets angry at you." Whatever hold Neil had on Andrew, Allison didn't really want to know, but it helped. Particularly if it meant the littlest of their Foxes would be sheltered like he was made of glass.

Allison ignored the fact that, when it came to protecting Neil, she wagered she'd find herself standing front and centre alongside Andrew in making sure he was kept out of harm's way. While part of her reason might come from the fact that he was a kid now, it certainly wasn't the only part.

~|=|~

The door closed behind Allison, shutting out the curious eyes of Renee's friends as they glanced over their shoulders. Turning back down the hallway, Renee met Abby halfway as she retreated from the kitchen herself.

Renee raised an eyebrow and Abby shrugged. "He's fine now, I think," she said, her voice lowered, and Renee didn't know if she spoke of Neil or Andrew at that moment.

Andrew had been furious when he'd practically crashed his Maserati through Abby's front door. Seething waves of black anger had radiated from him like he was a raging sun, and Renee couldn't blame the rest of the Foxes for ducking for cover. It was likely only Allison's return with Neil in tow that had saved them all from more than verbal blows. Andrew didn't shout – Renee couldn't even remember the last time he'd raised his voice louder than a growl – but she wouldn't have been surprised. Not in the least.

It had been some time since she'd seen him that angry. She'd hoped to never see it again.

But Neil returned, Allison following after him with lazy strides as though she hadn't called Renee with relieved confirmation of her findings barely minutes before. Neil ducked through the Foxes that immediately flocked towards him and planted himself at Andrew's side.

"I'm sorry, Andrew."

Andrew's cheek had twitched as he'd wheeled towards him, the only break in his expression. "You're –"

"I didn't mean to go so far away."

"You –"

"I just got distracted, and then I didn't realise it was a really, really long time that I was away, but I was watching a cat and she had little baby kittens, and –"

"So much for lying," Allison muttered at Renee's side, folding her arms with a roll of her eyes.

Neil's voice was strained as he continued with rapid-fire apologies, his face just as tight, and there was real worry seeping from him just as Andrew's anger did. Renee watched, glanced briefly at the frozen Foxes, and met Aaron's eyes for a split second. His earlier predictions apparently hadn't been quite accurate, but he seemed to observe Neil's babble with keen understanding.

Renee didn't like it. She didn't like it at all – not what was making itself apparent about Neil that had only hitherto been speculation, and not what memories those revelations were digging up from the rest of the Foxes. She hadn't missed Nicky's sympathetic clinginess, his murmurs of "reminds me of baby-Aaron sometimes", or Allison's mutters about shit parents. Not Matt's wrinkled brow or Dan's raised hackles, coaxed to attention whenever one of her Foxes' secrets revealed.

That the situation was triggering wasn't anyone's fault, and most definitely not Neil's, but Renee didn't like it. The darkly angry part of herself that she had whittled down into barely a fingernail-sized sliver within her trembled to life with each reaction she noticed, and she didn't like that, either.

She also didn't like that Abby's face was crumpled into a mask of confused concern when Renee paused alongside her in the relative silence of the hallway. Abby had been wearing such a face far too often in the past few days, just as Wymack did whenever he slunk around the outskirts of the scene. Laughter and amusement, careless entertainment in the form of eating junk and binging movies, was all well and good, but it was a superficial farce masking the concern that festered beneath. The concern that Renee knew infected everyone.

"I hope you don't mind me staying," Renee murmured to Abby.

Abby shook her head. "No, it's fine. I think the others just needed to get out of the house for a while. If you're here…"

Renee gave a small smile. "I'll keep an eye on things, if you'd like."

Abby's return smile was grateful yet no less worried. She stepped past Renee with a gentle pat on her shoulder, slipping through the front door after the rest of the Foxes in what would likely be a much-needed consolation for them being kicked out. Renee instead poked her head around the doorway into the kitchen.

Andrew was sitting at the table, arms crossed before him and head a tilted slightly to listen to whatever Neil was muttering at his side. Neil's voice was low, but it didn't sound urgent anymore. There was no longer the ring of worry bordering on hysteria, the fear that he'd done something wrong and that Andrew would be upset because of it. Renee didn't think that Neil thought Andrew would punish him; she'd seen too much of the both of them over the past few days to think that even as a child Neil could believe such a thing. But the worry was real nonetheless.

It was with relief that Renee noticed, too, that Andrew's simmering fury had cooled a little. Tension still tightened his shoulders and his expression bore that deliberate blankness that she knew more often than not concealed fierce emotion, but he was calm. For now. Leaning against the door frame, she watched them both for a few moments without being noticed.

"… never even got to touch one before," Neil was saying matter-of-factly, fingers tapping on the glass of water he cradled in his hands. "They have germs."

"Germs," Andrew echoed rather than questioned.

Neil nodded curtly. "So Mom says. It's dangerous."

"Not dangerous, exactly."

"But they could make you sick."

"Yes, and breathing the air could make you sick. Touching a cat isn't going to kill you. Don't be so cautious all the time."

"Breathing can kill you?"

"Potentially. Not as much as not breathing, though."

"Oh. That's really tricky, then."

"Exactly. So don't inhale bad shit."

"But…" Neil frowned slightly. "You have those little cigarettes, right? Like the big Coach. I saw the box in the bin. Wasn't that yours?"

"Yes."

"Isn't breathing smoke and stuff bad for you?"

"Definitely."

"Then shouldn't you not do it?"

"Yes. But I'm a hypocrite, so I can do what I want."

"Then you can't really tell me when I'm not allowed to too, huh?"

Andrew snorted, shaking his head, and seemed to catch a glance of Renee for the first time. "You're too wily for your age. Stop it."

Neil cocked his head. "What does wily mean?"

"Clever."

"So then, you think I'm clever?"

Andrew flicked Neil in the side of the head, but Neil only grinned. "Drink your water, Neil."

"'Kay," Neil said, smirking over the rim as he raised his glass to his mouth. Andrew rolled his eyes, rose to his feet, and crossed the room to Renee's side. She immediately turned and led him back down the hallway a ways, just far enough to hide their voices but close enough to still hear Neil. She knew the perfect distance just as instinctively as Andrew did.

"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly.

Andrew shrugged.

"Andrew."

"What do you want me to say?"

Renee smiled slightly. "Anything, I guess. I'd rather know what you're thinking."

"Why? So you can predict what I'm likely to do?"

Renee took her turn to shrug. "It might help to know who you blame most for what happened so I can know how to stand in front of if they need it."

Andrew folded his arms across his chest. "That's playing favourites, Renee."

"Not really. Call it supporting the underdog."

"Bias."

Renee laughed. It died quickly into sobriety, however, before Andrew's flat expression. "I mean it, Andrew. How are you? I know it upset you."

"I'm not upset."

"Anymore."

Andrew scoffed, shooting a hooded glance towards the front door. "They're all fucking idiots."

"They're not. They just don't know how to look after children."

"They're incompetent. It was less than an hour."

"Yes," Renee said slowly, "but this is Neil we're talking about. As Dan said, if anyone would be capable of slipping away when he wanted to it would be Neil."

"He's six years old, Renee." Andrew's tone sharpened, rising slightly. "Six. And there's eight of them."

"Nine, including me," Renee corrected.

"I'm not blaming you."

"Maybe you should. I'm as responsible as anyone else."

"You," Andrew raised a finger in her face, "don't get to deflect. They fucked up, and they should learn not to do it again."

"I think everyone's feeling guilty enough already without having a physical lesson taught to them, too," Renee said gently.

"And so they fucking should!"

Andrew snap wasn't loud, but it was loud enough. A split-second later there was the sound of a clatter, a smash, and Renee and Andrew both whipped their attention towards the kitchen. Renee had barely blinked before Andrew practically teleported back to the kitchen doorway. He paused on the threshold for the briefest second before diving inside. Renee hastened after him.

"I'm sorry!" Neil blurted, his words striking Renee before she even had a clear picture of the scene. "I didn't mean to!"

"Neil."

"It just slipped –"

"Stop."

"- and I couldn't catch it, and it broke everywhere and the – the water –"

"Don't touch –"

"I'll clean it up. I will, Andrew. I'll do it, so please don't be upset -"

"You won't do fucking shit."

Renee cringed as she dove into the kitchen on Andrew's tail. It wasn't a pretty sight; Andrew had been fast but Neil was faster, dropping to his knees in the damp mess of the floor and frantically scooping up the shards of fractured glass with his bare hands. There was blood, smears of it along the edges of the glass pieces Neil clutched, and his hands themselves…

"Oh, Neil, don't do that," Renee said, dropping on her knees beside them even as Andrew abruptly rose. In short order, Andrew snatched Neil's hands away from the bloody mess, pinned his wrists in one hand, and scooped him from the ground with his other. As Renee ducked beneath the sink for a dustpan as Andrew planted Neil on the table, gentle but unyielding in his hold of Neil's hands.

"I'm sorry," Neil said, and a glance up at the both of them saw his eyes wide and pleading. "I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't," Andrew said, studying the cuts on Neil's hands.

"I didn't mean to make a mess or – or to be noisy –"

"I don't care about the noise or the mess."

"I won't do it again -"

"You think I care?"

"I – I'll clean it up." Neil nodded fervently, his hands struggling to curl into bloody fists despite Andrew carefully pinning them open. "I will. Promise."

"No, you won't." Andrew glanced briefly towards Renee where she'd collected the worst of the mess. "Med kit?"

Renee nodded curtly. She didn't say a word as she hastened from the room.

If there was one benefit to hiding Neil in Abby's house it was that she had more than enough medical equipment on hand. In short order, wordlessly accepting the retrieved kit from Renee, Andrew was wiping clean the patchwork of cuts and smudges of blood from Neil's hands before covering them in more bandages than Renee thought was properly necessary.

Not that she objected. Not that she would even point it out. Quickly finishing with the mess on the floor, she watched as Andrew worked with precise motions, not gentle exactly but not callous either. She couldn't help but grit her teeth as she watched Neil too, continuing to murmur fractured apologies and eye his sliced hands with barely any real concern. That he didn't flinch at all was even worse.

Renee knew he'd had a life on the run, and she didn't need to see what scars lay beneath his clothes to know that the damage inflicted upon Neil was physical as much as it was mental. But she hadn't known that the damage had started even younger than that. She'd hoped it hadn't.

"Does it hurt?" she couldn't help but ask quietly as Andrew affixed the last bandage. "Abby has some Tylenol in here if you'd like it, Neil."

Neil shook his head, chin tucked and regarding his hands with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. "No, thank you," he mumbled. "Thank you anyway."

"You're welcome."

"Thank you for cleaning up all of the glass, too. I'm sorry I messed up."

Renee exchanged a hard glance with Andrew. "That's okay. It wasn't much to clean."

"It was just an accident," Andrew said, his words clipped. "Don't freak out over little things."

Neil shrugged tightly. "Yeah, but –"

"No. There's no buts."

"But –"

"No, Neil. No. Shit happens. Move on."

Neil nodded obligingly, but he didn't lift his chin. Renee didn't need to know anything about kids to know he wasn't convinced. Rather than continue to argue, however, he only rocked forward slightly until his forehead butted against Andrew's shoulder. Andrew didn't move to comfort him further, but he didn't move away either. Rather, the tension in him seemed to renew to the point that Renee could detect the faintest of trembles in his shoulders.

She took it as her cue to leave.

Abby was entering through the front door as Renee passed back into the hallway. There must have been something telling on her face, because Abby's frown reappeared. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Renee only shook her head, pursing her lips as she passed Abby for the door. "I just really hope whatever happened to Neil fixes itself soon," she said. If not for the rest of the Foxes, who might appreciate the chance to muck around with Neil at a third of his proper age but definitely missed him nonetheless, then for Andrew. Neil might be cherished regardless of what packaging he came in, but even so. Even so.

Andrew would never admit it, but Renee knew. He likely needed Neil back the way he should be more than anyone. More than he'd ever admit.

~|=|~

A/N: Hi again! Thank you for reading, and I hope you liked it!! If you’d like to, or have a second to, I’d love to hear your thoughts in a comment on my AO3 page. See you next time!

#fanfiction #aftg #baby foxes still bite #the foxhole court #kid!fic #child Neil #neil josten #andrew minyard #Multiple POV #protective!andrew #cats #trigger warnings #implied/referenced child abuse

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