#i think the mimicry is just presumed but as far as i can tell

[creatureimages]

lycid beetle and its belid weevil mimic!

[silyabeeodess]

Thoughts on Frisk, Chara, and the Player

Besides what I’ve covered briefly in the description of a comic a few years back, this is long overdue; however, since I might make something focusing on Chara in the future, I decided to go ahead and put down my two cents on these two characters.  Since this is effectively a long essay, I’ll have everything below the cut:

One of the most longstanding debates among Undertale fans is the morality of these characters and their relation to the Player.  Some see Frisk and Chara as effectively polar embodiments of good and evil following the Pacifist and Genocide routes while others see the Player alone as the individual in control of all choices with the two characters bowing to that control.  The truth might be somewhere in the middle.

Let’s cover the most basic thing first.  The Player is you.  Yes, it’s your decisions that take the story in different directions, but you are not a character. You are not a part of the world of Undertale.  You’re an intruder, an outsider, an anomaly--something that the people in Undertale only seem to have a vague understanding of.  Characters like Flowey will break the 4th wall by calling you out for your actions, but it’s often from the idea that you’re still Chara--even if Chara’s own story played out long before you came in.  Chara will ask for your SOUL, but you personally don’t actually sacrifice anything: Even as far as the game’s story goes with the “Soulless Pacifist” route, the most you lose is the time is takes to reinstall the game and play it as you normally would. You can cheat them out of “your SOUL” easily.  They think you’re Frisk.

Most glaringly, however, is that both Frisk and Chara will fight against some of your decisions.  For Chara, you have them not giving you much of a choice with how you end the Genocide route and declaring that you were never in control, amongst other actions like killing Asgore and Flowey. Most people might not notice Frisk’s refusal beyond the fact that we don’t pick their name like we can Chara’s; however, the point where this becomes most clear is during our interactions with Undyne on a Pacifist Run.  When we try to become Undyne’s friend and she insists on fighting anyway after her house catches fire, we have the choice to fight back.  Doing so though results in a weak attack, which Undyne declares as being the result of a lack of will to hurt her.  That isn’t the Player’s decision, and it effectively forces us to spare her whether we want to or not.  

This relationship parallels what we also see in Deltarune, with the Player there also exhibiting control over Kris, but Kris fighting back.  Kris isn’t an empty vessel or puppet for the Player to manipulate, and the same can be said for Frisk and Chara in Undertale. It’s a form of temporary possession, where we--an otherworldly being--take over a host for as long a period as the game’s designers allow. It means that we can’t pin our actions on either Frisk or Chara.  Let’s go back to that second paragraph though.  The other characters don’t really know this, making Frisk/Chara/Kris suffer as a result.      

From a gameplay perspective, this is an awesome idea to tackle. From a story perspective, meanwhile, things get a little complicated.

Here’s the thing about handling it simply as a story: The Player often has to be ripped out of the equation.  Again, you aren’t a character, and the only way the Player can really be present in the world of Undertale is as an OC or persona based on the independent choices of each creator.  Keeping them out means leaving the choices we would normally make 100% up to Frisk/Chara.  Ergo, stop attacking artists and writers for their portrayals of those two when creators have to give them qualities that are entirely up to each individuals ideas and experiences to try and fill in a bunch of blanks.  Beyond Chara’s backstory giving us some information on who they were, which is mostly told to us through other characters, there is no perfectly in-character portrayal of either of them.  

Which I guess brings us to the part where I try explaining my idea of them.  So let’s start with Chara, since again, they have the most background info.

What are some canon points we can cover with Chara?

Asriel describes them as “not the greatest person,” but still cared for them deeply as his best friend. From the recordings in the True Lab, we see they had a good friendship, even if Chara often took a more leading role.

Also according to Asriel, Chara “hated humanity” and had an unhappy reason for climbing the mountain.

It was Chara’s plan to commit suicide, have Asriel take their SOUL, and try to kill humans to break the barrier.

Chara laughed after poisoning Asgore with buttercups. It’s presumed by Asriel to have been an accident, but we don’t know Chara’s knowledge on the situation.

An extended monologue from Asgore has him describe Frisk and Chara as having “the same look of hope in their eyes.”

Asgore considered Chara “the future of humans and monsters.”

They refer to themselves as “the demon who comes when people call its name.”

As of the Genocide route, their goal is the complete destruction of Undertale’s world to join the Player and move on to another. They pin the Player’s actions on their newfound “purpose” to attain power.

Narration in the game is different depending on the route, speaking commonly from a 2nd-person POV on Pacifist and Neutral runs, but 1st-person on a Genocide run. This alludes that Chara is always with us during gameplay.

Chara’s dialogue mimics Toriel’s, hinting to a close relationship following the concepts of mimicry being a form of flattery and a child’s desire to be like a positive adult figure in their lives.

So here’s what I think.  Chara’s hatred toward humanity is supported not only by Asriel’s confession, but also in their actions.  If Chara took control as Asriel described after crossing the Barrier to kill humans and take their SOULS, that willingness to commit murder along with their own suicide indicates not only that general disdain, but also a hefty amount of self-loathing simply for being human.  Whatever happened to them prior to entering the Underground, that hatred was likely only nursed further by knowledge and ideas fed to them from monsterkind: Humans hurt monsters too and monsters are supposedly “made of compassion” while “humans don’t need any.” (They may have even been bullied or faced prejudice for being human, even if it wasn’t from the Dreemurrs, just like how Frisk was constantly attacked on-site.)  This likely led to a monster-centric worldview where all of humanity--and even themselves, to a point--was the enemy.  

I imagine the “Mr. Dad Guy” sweater we find was made by Chara rather than Asriel because of the inclusion of “guy” at the end, since this seems like something more of an adopted child would do than a biological one, maybe not entirely comfortable with the idea yet of calling Toriel and Asgore “Mom” and “Dad.”  I truly do think Chara loved their newfound family and never meant to hurt Asgore: The laugh, while it can’t be confirmed, seemed to be a mark of mental instability rather than something of true malice. With the pressure of being called “the future of humans and monsters” as well, they probably felt like they had to be responsible for humanity’s actions as a whole even if they personally did nothing wrong.  From that perspective, their life--and any other human’s--mattered less than a monster’s, because they had to atone for the crimes of others.  Humanity itself had to atone.  This is why they would be so willing to sacrifice themselves and kill for the sake of breaking the Barrier.

So what happens when the monsters Chara placed on a pedestal start breaking their script?  Asriel stopping Chara from committing murder is one thing: That seemed to be one part of the plan that Chara didn’t tell him about, probably because they knew he wouldn’t agree to it. Beyond that though?  What happens when monsters stop showing that legendary compassion?  Asriel started playing with lives and killed for fun as Flowey.  Asgore declared war against humanity and started killing children.  Toriel left her position as queen and couldn’t protect anyone. Not only was their happy family broken, but monsters started acting like the humans they claimed to be better than through their own “weaknesses” and desire to kill.  They were supposed to be above humanity’s choices, above even Chara’s choices. Vengeance isn’t an excuse anymore: It’s all the same, and it feels like the ultimate betrayal.  

They’re all the same.  Monsters, humans, it doesn’t matter.  It’s an ugly world where only the strong and terrible reign, and it deserves to be destroyed.  There’s nothing left.  There’s no good left.  There’s no hope left... 

Unless, maybe, someone new enters the game. Can they rekindle that hope or will they only prove those dark thoughts right?

In comes Frisk, who we really only know as a blank slate.  We don’t know their history or their desires except to leave the Underground one way or another.   We can’t really say much, so this is where it really is entirely up in the air how we portray them.

A personal headcanon of mine is that they were a bit of a little thief, “frisking” things off of others--which is why we can get G even without killing in the game.  A very morally grey character, fitting the multiple routes Undertale’s story can go and Sans description of them “maybe not being a saint” even if they play as a Pacifist.  Maybe they don’t really know what the right choice always is, but they desire to do their best when possible. 

I can’t say much here because, as I’ve said several times now, it’s up to everyone.  Me?  I like a Pacifist Frisk, even if they struggling and suffer before reaching their happy ending.  Some might have them go through a Genocide route on their own or by Chara’s possession. Some have them with guilt-riddled consciences and others treat them as the purest of souls. Some pick different endings.   

So enjoy your interpretations, your characterizations, and your AUs.  You don’t have to agree with my ideas or anyone else’s: Just don’t bash others for theirs.  Undertale’s gameplay opens things to everyone’s personal experience and should be enjoyed as such. 

[tessatechaitea]

"Media and popular culture can be seen as a kind of spell being chanted over and over again across the whole of the world. Even if one, such as myself (and, you as well, I presume, Em), do not believe in magic, we must pay close attention to the information that constantly bombards the lesser thinking individuals in our midst. One cannot know how the unimaginative beasts will react when they are turned on to ideas and events far beyond their comprehension. Ofttimes, the lesser man (and woman, of course. I trust we are all (save maybe Little Tokyo) fine with my use of the term “man” as one of ambiguous gender merely representing our entirety of a species without judgment or implied erasure. Surely, the term “man” is lesser than the term “woman” being that “woman” is always precise and specific, whereas “man” can never be completely free of inclusion) will only know that he (or she. Once again, the former argument fits the pronouns as it fits the previous nouns) has an undying rage within him born of God only knows what (“God,” as always, being defined simply as the unknown forces that seem to rally against a person that knows little of free will and self-fulfillment) and will be frozen in inaction. It is only when these unimaginative beasts see an event portrayed through some form of media in the popular culture that inspiration strikes them and they act out the event they mindlessly incorporated into their psyche and their rage. Other mindless automatons, the ones not filled with quite as much rage as the one that acted out, notice, in a stunning display of intellectual mimicry, that the perpetrated violence or chaos or destruction was incredibly similar to some overly exciting current piece of pop cultural jetsam (I use the term “jetsam” with particular care here). Thus the responsibility for the violence drops from the perpetrator and becomes the sole property of the artists that put the idea into the zeitgeist. Carrying this idea further, some believe that the government now uses the popular culture to prepare the masses for horrendous events that they themselves will author. They foreshadow the event with a proper amount of omniscient narration so that the populace sees the event not as reality but as just another twist in the action movie forever playing on their favorite media player. I must say, I find the conspiratorial idea behind predictive programming as juvenile as giggling over a fart joke. It is a waste of time and energy. People are, for the most part, idiots. They think they are thinking when, all too often, they are merely parroting. Believing that the government needs to prepare the mindless zombies for their catastrophic acts against their own subjects is believing that people are far more capable of knowing when they’re being lied to in the first place. I assure you, they are not. A lie is the easiest thing to tell as long as you prepare it carefully with a pinch of the listener’s own prejudices. People want to be deceived. It’s just that simple." — The Professor, quoted from sometime/where in the Dusty Stretches

[xxforsaken-angelxx]

=> A Friendly Secret Visit.

chimericarchitect Howdy! I wanted to ask about the rods and how that was coming along.

xxforsaken-angelxx aww shit yeah i got them i just slipped on messagin you

chimericarchitect Neat! So, let me know whenever it is clear for me to come and get them and I'll do that.

xxforsaken-angelxx gotcha > You'll send her a time for later today, after your shift is over.

chimericarchitect > Presumably he will send updated coordinates since it's a ship in space and you will, at the time allotted, go there to pick up the rods. It'll be great.

xxforsaken-angelxx > He will, and she'll be teleported straight to his block.

> Or at least part of his block. It visibly looks like a study, with floor to ceiling shelves on the two walls without doors that are loaded with jars of herbs, crystals, bones, and basically any other magical trinket that gets used in his kind of trade. That and what's probably a fairly narrow curation of books, most of them looking old or otherwise well loved.

> You're at your desk nestled in there, in front of an oddly old looking computer. You're dressed in full goffik attire, with the boots and the long coat and the whole nine yards.

chimericarchitect > Saness might like what she knows of Grinmaww, she might think he seems a pretty decent troll, but that doesn't change the fact that he is an unknown. She is dressed accordingly, in what she used to consider 'cool adventurer attire,' something good to tussle in or go for an impromptu roam. It consists of a sturdy white vest over long dark sleeves, equally white boots over flexible black pants, an overly vibrant neckerchief, and a wallet chain on her hip that definitely doesn't connect to a wallet. With her sunglasses up in her stark-white dandelion puff of curling hair, useless but available, Saness looks like a starry-eyed kid dressed up as a cosplay biker.

> She arrives in a blossoming yellow-green light, accompanied by the sound of something stretching sharp, the hollow bell-tone echo of a rubber band snapping, an unnaturally compressed static twang. It's only a fall of a few inches to the floor of the ship, boots tmp-ing with the weight of her existence as the glow recedes as rapidly and efficiently as it had appeared. With her face fully exposed, it can be noted on a glance that her hair grows in this shade. That, or she spends way too much time dying her eyebrows and lashes.

> Immediately Saness looks to Grinmaww, the full attention of 5' 10" of dimension-hopping globetrotter drawn right to him by some force unknown. There is a sort of reckless energy to the way she carries herself, careless of her color, focused intently and intensely on the only other troll in the room. It lingers for a heavy second, gears turning behind her eyes, before scattering nearly as immediately under the force of her own curiosity and whimsy, the dopey little 'o' of her mouth and the perplexed pinch of her brow turning to a wowed smile while the slightly flighty hands-out posture of her arms falls to her sides as she straightens. Her eyes gleam when they catch light, a reflective plate of lime snapping here and there over all of the fascinating and colorful doodads filling the walls of this space.

> "My dude, you are absolutely killing this aesthetic."

> She defaults to common Alternian, for all purposes friendly and easygoing in tone, if a little bright with excitement.

xxforsaken-angelxx > That cracks him up immediately, after those few seconds of regarding each other in silence. His face is...oddly stretchy, the skin pulls a little farther than most people when he smiles.

> Which is why he doesn't, when he rises out of his office chair to full 6'5" stature. It's not exactly an Ampora Resting Bitch Face, his eyes stay friendly, but there's all the signs of someone who keeps their expressions trained.

"Well shit, mission fuckin' accomplished then. I'm diggin' your whole look too, though. Y'look cute."

> And how dare she, frankly? Meeting someone from a whole other universe was supposed to be a big deal, both from a mental and security standpoint, but here she was waltzing up with the aura of a box of novelty rubber ducks. It's hard to be all serious at that, bah.

chimericarchitect > Cute, huh? Saness grins a little wider, something easy and lopsided. She's being very loose with her expressions, leaning heavily into what charisma she possesses over her own stranger-danger default; there has not been one single Eridan in the history of fish-or-otherwise bastards that she has ever gotten along with, but in counter she has a great and hopeful fondness for Makaras and clowns in general. All she has to do is be her charming self and *surely* things will work out. Surely. So far so good, right?

"Well shit, mission fuckin' accomplished!" she intones in quick mimicry, momentarily affecting his cant and general tone of bearing. That too falls away, dripping from one instant to the next with the pulse of a rabbit. A flourish places her splayed fingertips over her chest, the goofish mockery of a stuffy tilt to her chin. "Saness Casper Psuede, The Mischief, at your service and pleased to finally meet you, Grinmaww!"

> She is, perhaps, a bit much at full-tilt, hyped to be here and make a solid first impression. Ideally, Grinmaww will like her as much as she hopes to like him. That's the plan. The scheme. The big cannoli. *Maybe* this critically informal introduction will entice him into relaxing as well. A girl can dream.

xxforsaken-angelxx > Hearing his drawl coming out of her makes him laugh again, and he instinctively tries to go for a handshake. Just a casual one. Business casual.  

"Man, you're somethin', arentcha? And somethin' that should use Mischief more often, that's a good one."

> Truth be told, he was already fond of her. Being in the position he was, he tended to like people who had a different view of the world, and Saness kept fitting that to a T. Even discounting her inherent otherworldly-ness, she was people smart in a way he couldn't manage, and just...had a certain way of things. Maybe a way that clashed with his way sometimes. But it was an interesting way, and an interesting clash.

> Sure being the leader of a big ass ship also put him in that same zone of inner stranger wariness, but y'know. So far so good!

"Nice to finally meet you too."

chimericarchitect > The Dreaded Handshake, As The Prophecy Foretold. With how sharp she keeps her claws these nights the best she can do to cover up is to wear fingerless gloves, but that is inconducive to the possibility of reacting to danger, and she anticipated that the ever-present threat of engaging in polite society might rear itself anyway. Thus, a counter arrangement has been prepared in advance: completely naturally, despite her lack of hand cover, as if this was the response expected of her, Saness reaches past Grinmaww's outstretched palm and clasps his covered forearm. A bracing, friendly gesture!

> It's loose enough an action that she doesn't have time to react to new information, or to accommodate the unexpected. From this close, she can feel her hair standing on end, a fresh tingle across the nape of her neck. This isn't Chill Boss Aura, the weight of his presence more intense with proximity, but rather something else entirely. Something otherworldly. The trouble with keeping her features emotionally available and reactive is that, they are, in fact, emotionally available and reactive. Her eye scrunches slightly and her smile ticks one degree toward uncomfortable on the matching side.

> Braced like this, she gives his arm the single handshake pump of proper business, albeit a fraction of a second delayed.

> Quick, say something.

"Ah, yeah, you think so? I thought it was kinda, heh, on the nose. If somebody were to roll up and introduce themself with the title of 'Mischief' you'd have certain expectations, I'd think."

xxforsaken-angelxx > Eridan isn't oblivious enough to miss her sudden awkwardness, but it's also not like he knows his own aura, or any other reason Saness might avoid handshakes. In his mind he just went too formal, like a dumbass. He goes a touch sheepish when she goes a touch awkward, and flicks his hair and plays it cool when she lets go.

> The third eye he draws in his paint wasn't peeking through his bangs until now.

"I mean, sure. But that kind of expectation would probably get you some friends around somewhere like here. Mischief and clowns go together, right?"

> Hopefully, at least?

chimericarchitect > Once released she gives him a conspiratorial smile, waggles a finger, and says, "Those mischievous clowns," in that fake-cursing sort of tone, meant to confirm his assertion.

> Now that she's aware of an otherworldly presence, she is Aware of it. It's kind of just all over the place, isn't it? And her new friend appears to be the epicenter...

> From this point out, her attention is going to be partially split. Whatever it is, it doesn't *feel* directly threatening, but it's definitely unlike the clown deities she's met. It's... not quite familiar. Grinmaww's angels? But it doesn't feel like the angels she's known either, not... quite... Perhaps they aren't angels at all. That's the unsettling part. People and things that identify as other things can have a lot of reasons for doing so. Half the angels she's met weren't so nice anyhow...

> Most of the time she keeps her attention politely fixed on Grinmaww, but it slips through him or past him here and there, occasionally flitting elsewhere in the room. Saness cannot help but be wary in the back of her mind.

> Uncultured, she points right at his face.

"In every timeline I've visited or heard of, face paint holds a lot of personal significance to the clowns who wear it." Her arm drops to her side and she rocks on her toes in a gentle and harmless fidget. "Is it too personal to tell me about? I'm curious."

xxforsaken-angelxx > There's those in the church that don't believe that *any* of the entities are who they say they are. Some believe they're all more of a subconscious figment than anything else- not nonexistant, per se, but a form to let the troll mind comprehend something uncomprehendable. Eridan does believe in his angels, but he's not... unfamiliar, with the idea that they might not be so straightforward.

> He doesn't know that's what's on her mind, but *they* do. They can sense her attention. They know she can feel them. And they...want to play nice, actually. Yes they're everywhere, yes they have him in their grasp, but does that have to feel so bad? They can at least try to be a bit more friend shaped.  

> Meanwhile, their host gets thrown by that question. Not in a defensive way, just in a purely off-guard one.

"Uh, no, it's not, it's-" He gestures, aimlessly. "It's not actually *that* big of a thing? For us? Like it's real fuckin' important, don't get me wrong, but it's not like- it's not *sacred.* It's fashion."

> He shoved his hands in his pocket, and gave his jacket a bit of a flounce.

"I uh...picked mine when I was pretty young. The whole painted on smile and the tears and the secret eye. It's all kinda obvious. But I still like the vibe. Still me and such."

chimericarchitect > Saness can... kind of feel them, the attention of Grinmaww's angels in response to her awareness. She can detect the things they broadcast most blatantly, the more gentle way they coil, the intentional friendliness. Perhaps an act like that would put a more paranoid troll on higher alert, but where most people have a healthy level of mistrust for the unknown, developed or instinctual, Saness has stubbornly hoarded olive branches to clumsily brandish at anything that exists. If they want to be friendly, then by the stars, Saness is going to give them her reckless trust and put her faith where her mouth is.

> Understanding that the angels are at least *similarly* aware of her the way she is aware of them, Saness begins working through the process of lowering her mental hackles, just as intentionally relaxing as they intentionally displayed peace. She loves being cool and playing nice, well and truly.

> It helps that Grinmaww is so cute. Look at him, fumbling and fluffing his feather. Normally she would giggle at him, laughter comes so easily to her, but with her focus split, all she does is smile fondly. It feels safe enough to relax around him, and they all vibe together as a unit, so... Yeah. Everything is cool and she is pleased to make more than one acquaintance. Yep. That's what she's rolling with.

"So, dedication to fashion is really important, but being a clown is not an organized religion beyond being purple and... being goth..." The last part is said almost like a question. "Would you be in trouble if you didn't wear paint, if it isn't sacred? What about like, partial coverage? In public and stuff. Oh, and, um, the whole... distinction thing. Goth is more elegant? Than punk? Or like, grunge, or emo. Are you supposed to dedicate yourself to YOUR aesthetic or is there a dress code? Is 'goth' an important word? Does equating it to other aesthetics come across as rude?"

> Special Move: One Thousand Needling Questions no Jutso.

xxforsaken-angelxx "You don't get in *trouble* for not wearing the paint, no. Like, most people around here wouldn't want to be out an' about without it or nothin', but just in the way anybody else who wears a lotta makeup wouldn't. Partial coverage's fine, too. I know this one chick who does a pattern with half her face, 's'cool as hell. And there is absolutely not a dress code beyond legal modesty and safety regulations, I almost can't believe you gotta ask that."

> He says it with fondness, as he leans up against his desk. He could talk about this stuff forever, he just had to settle into the rhythm of it. His gods seemed to enjoy it too, maybe, almost curling up beside him once he got on a roll.

"Self expression is important to us. It's an inherent part of our magic. We're all brought together around a school of thought with magic that's about experimentation and what you feel, so, like. If you're callin' up the damned with scryin' bones, why the fuck *shouldn't* you wear a full black velvet cloak, y'know? Why not wear it out to get a sandwich every night, if that's what makes you happy?"

"So comparin' us to punk or whatever else is rude just 'cause it's not us. We have an ideology, and punk has a totally different ideology, an' none of us really want to be lumped together when it doesn't stand for the same thing."

chimericarchitect "Then... what is the goth clown ideology? Under that umbrella of self-expression and exploration... are there pretty pastel clowns, peppy and chipper, or clowns that... essentially aren't goth? That sounds really kind of cool though, being encouraged to pursue happiness in the empire. Are there purplebloods that aren't clowns, or is it kind of mandatory?"

> Saness is slowing down a touch, pretty sincerely fascinated by this topic. Culture in general is wildly engrossing, but she has a particular passion for the heavy familial nature of mirthful society.

> She follows his lead, to a degree, crossing her arms and resting her weight unbalanced on one leg, hip cocked out just slightly to accommodate. Very laid-back. One foot taps, keeping time with the pace of her thoughts.

"And, I mean, I *assume* it's just purplebloods and not other colors that join the faith in your society, but it doesn't hurt to ask. Doctrines and ideologies tend to conceptually elude me, but I do so love to hear about them."

xxforsaken-angelxx "Just purplebloods, but it's not mandatory, no. Most of us end up here anyways, but there's plenty that don't. And..."

> There's a pause as he chews on his words a bit. He's had to explain something to this effect several times before, and every time it's a little different. A little closer to what someone who's Grand Highblood might say.

"We think that belief is the most important part of magic. The rituals you do and the entities you work with are just...methods. What makes it *work* is what you feel. And if you *know* that, then you can take your belief and apply it on purpose to somethin' workin' to your advantage. So we just... believe in doin' what personally works for you. Celebratin' what personally works for you. There's no reason you can't be cheery and also goth, or be some pastel fuck and also goth. We're only gonna question you if *you* don't think you're doin' it right. You have to believe you are. Genuinely."

chimericarchitect > Saness inclines her head, an inquisitive pinch to her brow. It's not fully intentional, but she keeps mentally checking in on the spectral presence surrounding Grinmaww, akin to curious little 'are you still there' pokes while he talks.

"That's what goth is? Celebrating the self?"

> Her expression smooths away and she straightens with a soft laugh.

"I mean, heh, wow." She waves a hand, gesturing over his whole him.

xxforsaken-angelxx "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, playfully shaking his head.

> The angels are also very there. They're Always there. Or at least, some of them are. Sometimes there's more, sometimes there's less, but there's always *something*.

> They tend to poke back, too. It's fun having friends.

chimericarchitect > She shakes her head, still smiling.

"Alright, so, next question. I think I saw the answer before on tumblr maybe, but I don't remember it at the moment. Can you always sense your angels?"

> Yeah she came here with a purpose, but Saness has never been very business-oriented. She hasn't been here long enough for the recycled air to bother her, she's barely been here long enough to appreciate the fact that she's in space. Vacuums and stable pressurized ships aren't as easy to replicate, she's kind of lucky not to be experiencing some kind of reaction to the environment. The thought is starting to creep into her head, the idea that there could be so much more to see.

> Somewhere in the bowels of this contraption, Hydromatic dangles in some kind of torture stasis.

xxforsaken-angelxx > Somewhere, Hydromatic is at their station, filing through dozens of simultaneous requests and trying to scrape up the spare seconds to fantasize about their matesprit. Piers is somewhere as well, possibly finishing his shift.

> And the ship is just generally bustling with life. It was a massive place, filled with a town's worth of purplebloods. Each one had their own magic, their own loud style, their own gods...

"Pretty much always, yeah. Sometimes I get distracted, but they're always there."

chimericarchitect "Does it still get lonely sometimes, even if you're never alone? How old were you when you like, met them? And, um..."

> Saness glances toward the door and lets her continuation hang in the air for a moment, not quite stilling so much as slowing her idle animation. There's a lot to consider, all the mystery and intrigue just beyond, but she knows full well she'd never be allowed to pass through. Not in a thousand sweeps. What would she even do? Act like a lost tourist and get Grinmaww into trouble?

> She slides her focus back into the room, back onto her host and off of stray thoughts of the fantastical. Her hands go into her pockets and she gestures toward him with a shrug of her shoulder.

"Are the subjects of everyone else's devotion so present as yours? Can you sense or otherwise detect them yourself?"

xxforsaken-angelxx "I'm not the lonely type. But I met 'em when I was like...five-ish? Which is young, for us. I had more resources than most wrigs would've, an' I just...had a strong pull, I guess."

> A strong pull and a florid imagination. His eyes follow hers before he can get too wrapped up in thinking about his old hive life, though. If it were anybody else, he'd be glad to show her around the ship. There were constant visitors on the Hydromatic, so one more wouldn't be terribly out of place.

> As long as they were like, actual Imperial citizens with travel paperwork. And not of a blood color that didn't exist here. So unfortunately that wasn't happening, even if they both wished it would.

"...I don't think everybody's are. Kinda depends. But magic just has a vibe, I can feel that usually."

chimericarchitect > ...Huh. What if he's picking up magic vibes off of her? Wicked undid those... locks or whatever, and she did attend a single quarter of lessons at the magic college, even if she was pretty much fully incompetent with her abilities. She would think, 'nah, they're totally different things probably,' but here she is and she can sense his angels, so... maybe not? But maybe it's like, a warlock thing, rather than strictly a magic thing. She doesn't have a magic sugardaddy hovering around her twenty-four seven for him to detect. Or even like. Sugardaddy La Croix. Residual sugardaddy. Hint of having been near a sugardaddy that might have side-eyed her once.

"Well, the angels seem really pleasant and friendly, and if that says anything about you then, heh." Even with all of her training Saness's face is soft, tender cheeks squishing firm when she smiles. It doesn't stretch like Grinmaww's or Ringleader's. "How old do clowns normally take on a patron?"

xxforsaken-angelxx > The magic here *was* different from magic elsewhere, but mostly in how certain the clowns were of its mechanics. Magic was considered an action, a movement of energy. It wasn't something just sitting around in people willy nilly, in their minds. Without something actively magical lying around, there was nothing he was attuned to sense.

> His face softened a little at her compliment, and a small "Aww" slipped out before he could think it through.

"It uh, depends though. Six is when most people really start socializin' online, and that's a big factor for decidin' to participate in the faith. So seven-ish is the most common for gettin' serious with contactin' things, as far as I know."

chimericarchitect > A little 'o,' either of interest or surprise, anoints her.

"Did you meet them before you met any other clowns or joined the faith then?"

xxforsaken-angelxx > His eyebrows raise a little.

"Before I met any other clowns, yeah. But I was pretty set on being involved since I could read what I had about it."

chimericarchitect "Did I ask something strange? Sorry."

> Saness tries to play it cool, another pretty flash of a somewhat sheepish smile, but she is a weenie and the lift of Grinmaww's eyebrows causes her to fret a secret amount.

xxforsaken-angelxx > He tries to look reassuring. Or as reassuring as a much taller goth clown can.

"Nah. Just haven't had anybody ask that. Nobody really asks an heir how they started, y'know?"

chimericarchitect > It works, she's as easily reassured as she is unsettled. Intent is always WAY more important than appearances to little ol' Saness. She tilts her head, birdlike. Why *wouldn't* anyone ask?

"Well... How *did* you start?"

xxforsaken-angelxx > Eridan stews on that for a second, digging through his memories of his old swamp hive for the answer he was looking for. Then, when he found it, he very seriously said:

"Clown grubby books."

chimericarchitect > Her mouth opens, and then it closes. She considers this. Raises a finger. Opens her mouth again with the sound of an H turning to a W, then closes it again. A hum. The finger lowers.

xxforsaken-angelxx > He watches her flounder, and provides nothing. There's a smile in his eyes. Specifically a :o)

chimericarchitect > It ends with her giggling, one arm crossing her front to rub at the other. Her general demeanor has an air of vulnerability at the shift, gentle and earnest in both the way she speaks and the way she looks at him, smiling soft as a peach. Saness's eyes still gleam to an unnatural degree, the ever-present predator, but she's about as scary as a snail covered in dew drops.

"Sorry, that sounds really cute Grinmaww... Were they pop-up books? I hope you had a pop-up book, I have a little collection of those, I think they're very charming..."

xxforsaken-angelxx > He ends up laughing back at her, crossing his arms and actually smiling a little. She's so cute? She's so cute. Why does everything happen so much.

"Of course they were pop-up books. Like just one of 'em but what kinda church would we be if the grubby book wasn't a pop-up one. That'd be bullshit."

chimericarchitect > Her smile widens eagerly, the rubbing arm stopping in more the fashion of a half-formed self-hug.

"I wish I could read them. Obviously it inspired little you? You're here and all, and you seem happy to."

xxforsaken-angelxx "I sure am. Love this place, always have."

> He glances at one of his bookshelves in particular, scanning for a particular spot and then stammering.

"I uh- I still have the pop-up one. Like just a newer copy, lying around. You could, uh...I'd let you borrow it, for as long as you have the tubes, if you want. It's not like it has anything too secret."

chimericarchitect > Saness covers her mouth when she starts laughing this time, both hands. It lasts a good moment, eyes scrunched up with a fond sort of mirth once more. She's been charmed, how dare he. Like really, how dare he. This isn't the troll she made this trip to make friends with!

> And yet, she can't say she minds the direction this is going. Not one bit. What a good place this must be with leadership like this.

> She lowers her hands to rib-height, curled into loose and amicable fists.

"Really?" She pauses to nibble her lower lip, literally biting back another short string of giggles. "If you don't mind, I'd very much like that. Really."

xxforsaken-angelxx > Phththhghbhbhb, goes the clown. There's indignant hand waving and everything. He's trying to be NICE and she has the AUDACITY to like. Handle it in a playful friendly way. Rude.

"I don't mind at all, just lemme fuckin-"

> He strides over to the bookshelf in question, pulling out the thick little book from the spot it's been tucked away in, among serious magical tomes.

> The cover has a generic looking purpleblood wriggler, notably un-goth. They're curled up against a sheeplike lusus in a cool-toned forest scene, watching a glittery butterfly float overhead. A gold whimsical font proclaims that "Magic is Everywhere!"

> He shows her this for a second, then places it next to the other things she came here for.

chimericarchitect > Look at this guy. What a guy! A guy who keeps a copy of his wrigglerhood  pop-up book in his block! A guy that would lend it to a near-stranger with a smile! A guy that bends and breaks the rules to do whatever is best or most interesting! A guy that doesn't get annoyed when he makes other people laugh! A guy with a really impressive propeller hand dance!

"What, you aren't going to flip through it with me? Don't you want to take a trip down memory lane with your new friend~?"

> Saness flounces along in Grinmaww's wake, leaning around him to rappa-tap a dance of her claws on the cover before he can fully rid himself of the book. She no longer minds the increased density of his aura by proximity, having decided that yes, they are friends now. It's a mostly-sincere question carried on a teasing tone that leaves him room to turn her down without anything getting awkward; he can brush her off as playing or he can take her seriously and crack open the book, and neither answer would be wrong.

xxforsaken-angelxx > Her hands get lightly swatted away. Bap, bap bap. It's kind of fortunate that he has a boyfriend now and everything, otherwise he'd still be terribly unused to people just...approaching him.

"Look, if I'm gonna give this thing to my 'new friend~'," he says, mimicking her badly, "Then I want you to enjoy this the proper way, which is all curled up at hive or whatever. It's the cozy kind of wriggler book. Don't at me."

chimericarchitect > Saness accepts her defeat with wiggly fingers, politely stepping back out of the range of his personal space. She is a self-satisfied creature.

"Cozy wriggler book, you've got it."

> She stuffs her mitts back into her pockets (all better, no touchy) and resumes rocking from heel to toe, watching Grinmaww with interest.

"I have so many more questions for you, but like, I realize this wasn't supposed to be a social visit and you are a very busy troll." Gotta check in. Gotta give him an out.

xxforsaken-angelxx > He settles back into leaning up against his desk, all casual like. But clearly with his feathers playfully ruffled. If it weren't for the paint there'd probably be a bit of a blush...which Saness might can guess anyways, with how much time she spends with clowns.

"Nah, I don't mind. Once I'm off work it's not like there's anything I'm supposed to be doin'."

> That and he's really enjoying her company. But he can't just like, say those words out loud, right?

chimericarchitect > That's enough of an invitation for her! Beaming, Saness makes an invisible 'desk' out of her psi and leans back against it, copying him like the silliest roly-poly.

"Great! You're even cooler than I'd hoped, I like talking to you."

> Apparently she can just say whatever the fuck she wants, unabashed while in her element. A single clap!

"Tell me about your lusus!"

xxforsaken-angelxx > There's clear amusement in her parroting, but also...a lack of questioning how the fuck she's doing that. Miming is a pretty common skill around here, after all.

"A goat? But like, a fish goat. An angler fish goat. Real big fucker that'd go around the swamp eating basically anything."

> There was a bit of disdain in his voice. It's fairly obvious that he didn't have a *great* opinion of his goat figure.  

"Think I gotta pass that one back at you, though. What was your lusus like?"

chimericarchitect "Uh, well..."

> She would be more phased by having bonked so clumsily into the Makara-standard experience of bad wriggler-lusus relations, but Grinmaww just asked a bit of a tricky question. It's obvious that Saness has to really consider how to answer this; for a moment she even looks off to the side, brow pinched.

"I don't really remember my lusus. I had a guardian, and she was a troll."

> The "sort of" that follows is said lower. How does one smoothly segway into 'I have amnesia and also the troll that looked after me when I came-to was actually some kind of life-force golem'? The answer is, you don't. You just don't.

xxforsaken-angelxx > Obviously there's curiosity that arises from that 'sort of.' Like, sort of a troll or sort of a guardian? It's an easy follow-up, and one he doesn't take. Instead, he gives her a somewhat sympathetic look.  

"You don't gotta talk about it if you don't want to."

> It's said both sincerely and flatly. He's not effected by whatever emotions she has around the subject, but is okay with them. No judgement, but lots of instinctual professionalism.

chimericarchitect "R-right..."

> The flat tone doesn't feel like it fits with the sympathetic look. Saness does not thrive in professional or formal environments, and even the gentle stiffness is enough for her to trip and flounder over. What is she *supposed* to say? Is this one of those secret codeword things people do when they like someone and want to be polite, but don't actually want to hear what they have to say?

> And besides... *Does* she want to talk about it? It's reflex to say 'no she doesn't,' and that coupled with the above is enough to sway her decision.

"I don't believe I ever got around to asking. Are limebloods extinct in this timeline?"

xxforsaken-angelxx > He *would* be interested, but he's not... supposed to be. Being a boss has it's tolls, one of them happening to be that he has a firm habit of not prying too hard. Any piece of extra information is something that can trip up the works of Imperial bureaucracy.

> So she takes her out and he lets it be, moving on to answering her next question as if nothing happened.

"Yeah, they are. Though the real dock against you is the fact that you don't have paperwork for existin' here. Like, you could go all hemo-anon or whatever an not stand out, but not havin' a travel record would get you in trouble real quick."

chimericarchitect > She's quick to focus on this new topic, grasping at it a bit like a life raft. It was one little hiccup, everything is fiiiiine.

"Really? Travel record? ...I implanted an identity to assume on an Earth once so that I could open a bank account and a few other things, but like, I imagine something like that might be a bit more difficult in this timeline. Earth is just... Not very savvy. Then again, on a standard Alternia, there are LOTS of available identities to assume, trolls die super constantly on the ground..."

> Grim thoughts are grim, and Saness makes a face. This line of thought isn't pleasant, and she isn't neutral about it, no matter how plainly she likes to talk about it.

"Who even checks for those? Everyone I pass in the hall? Do you have to confirm your I.D. at every doorway?"

xxforsaken-angelxx > Eridan points up towards the ceiling and gestures around.

"Cameras. There aren't any in here, but they're pretty much everywhere else. Anyone out of place would get spotted immediately, an' then you'd get flagged down for some questions."

> There's an attempt to not make the word "questions" in that sound ominous. An attempt. But the eyes of the Hydromatic were in fact everywhere.

chimericarchitect "Oh, so the 'travel records' are digital, and Hydromatic can identify people and locate aforementioned records on the spot, and if something doesn't line up, then yadda yadda? Or do you mean, Hydromatic would send security after me or whoever else walked mysteriously out of a closet because they're just *that aware* of every single familiar face and *that aware* of who has gone where? Because, I've got-"

> Saness grabs for her wallet chain, pulling the end of it out of her back pocket. It's definitely still not attached to a wallet; it's attached to a retro sylladex!

"I've got..."

> Operating this thing is not efficient. She's still flipping through it... There's a reason technology moved on without this little pocket-lunk.

"I've got this amulet, it was a gift. A disguise amulet..."

> Fwip fwip fwip... She just wants to show him a neat trick, man... Why does this have to be so har-AHA!!

> With a declaration of triumph, she retrieves a very simple locket on a very simple chain, proudly holding it aloft and grinning mischief at Grinmaww.

xxforsaken-angelxx > He just...lets her. He's the one with an even more old-fashioned looking computer sitting behind him. But he has no idea what exactly a 'disguise amulet' implies. Like, it *feels* magic, but there's a lot of extents that thing could go to. Instead, he just answers her questions.

"It's like a facial recognition system, just with an actual pair of eyes as a step in the process. If you're authorized to be on board here, and also to be in whatever rooms you're goin' in, then everything's fine, mostly."

chimericarchitect > Saness nods along, but she only half-cares about the answer to her question. It's not like she's going to be skulking about on the ship.

"Okay, so, check this out. Do you have any printed photos? Small ones, or ones you don't mind being folded? Magazine cutouts count, it'd just be cooler if it's someone that you recognize from this timeline rather than whoever I have in my pocket."

xxforsaken-angelxx "Uh-"

> Now it's his turn to awkwardly fumble around for something. He turns to start going through his desk drawer, pushing around this and that. There was a lot in the damn things. A few pipes, art supplies, spare papers, weed...

> Eventually he found a photo tucked away amongst it all, and handed it over.

> It's a picture that was only able to print halfway for some reason or another, leaving only one person in the image. Said person is Nymede, the Hydromatic's lead IT specialist. She was in an open shoulder top and hot pants and fishnets, with big fuzzy legwarmers. Her face was half obscured by a gas mask, and she had bright purple and fuchsia hair extensions.

> She was...probably in the helmsblock, or near it, there was biowire visible behind her, but there was no sign of Hydromatic themselves.

chimericarchitect > Is it void nonsense? A lack of ink? Some sort of printer malfunction? A certain helm being fussy about their picture being taken and purposely botching the job? The world may never know, and further, the world is unconcerned. Saness accepts the photo and gleefully pops open the locket. There was already a photo inside - one of Saness that has been color-edited to have black hair and ordinary teal eyes - that she hastily replaces with the photo of this very Fashion(tm) clown person. She gives it a playful jostle once it's closed away.

"Now, hang on, this is the cool part-"

> The moment she slips the locket over her head, Saness is no longer standing in the room. Instead, in every physically perceivable way, Nymede has replaced her. Eeach visible detail is accurate to the picture, and Saness-as-Nymede gives a little twirl.

"Tadaaa...!"

> It doesn't alter her voice, unfortunately, and Saness still sounds like herself. She moves like herself too, despite whatever change in height there may be, fluffy legwarmers flouncing realistically to match.

xxforsaken-angelxx "Wow what the fuck."

> That was. Perhaps less enthused sounding than he intended, and he cracks up the second after that leaves his mouth.

"Man, what the *fuck*-"

>  It is perhaps somewhat alarming to see a perfect clone of your friend, even if you think it's fucking hilarious. Boy is it realistic, though. He saw Nymede just tonight, and he wouldn't have thought twice if she'd been able to mimic her voice. Scary, but incredibly impressive!

chimericarchitect "Isn't it neat? It's basically a hologram. The projection is magic and it has the most basic of shells to give an amount of resistance when touched, but if you pressed against it you would sink through until you touched me. When used to mimic smaller things, the parts that hang out turn completely invisible, but can still knock into things if you aren't careful."

> While she talks Saness is wafting Nymede's arm back and forth, looking it over herself. She has back some of the same energy she came in with, the excitable quickness to the way she carries her borrowed form bleeding into how quickly she talks.

> She pauses only a moment, snapping her attention from Nymede's arm to Grinmaww's face. There's more she wants to say and show him, but she's not the type to sprint on ahead without someone.

xxforsaken-angelxx > He's following along, mostly, the way someone tends to when they're fascinated by something they don't *really* understand. Holograms were a thing in common use here, hard light was something he understood in theory, using magic to create tech-like results was...imaginable, at least?

> Which amounted as far as it being conceivable, and him having no idea how the fuck something like that would actually be made. Miracles, man.

"Neat is a real fuckin' understatement for that."

chimericarchitect > She chuckles and goes to remove the locket, zooping back to her regular appearance with a sideways flicker as soon as the chain is off her neck.

"You can even disguise things as people, or people as things, or things as other things..."

> Saness looks around the room for an easy target that doesn't look like something personal or sensitive, something she could feasibly loop the chain around.

"...and you can keep the chain on the object you want to disguise while keeping the locket somewhere else, it will continue to function so long as neither are destroyed..."

xxforsaken-angelxx > There are, frankly, a lot of Things in this room, so there's a lot of potential targets. There's several large quartz samples of different colors that could easily have the locket wrapped around, or some of his jars of common herbs like rosemary and thyme. Or for something even safer looking, she could nab a big black candle.

> That last part is what really surprised him, though. The parts could work separately? The locket didn't have to be on the chain? It wasn't just the locket that did the thing? How the FUCK did this thing WORK?

chimericarchitect > Badda-boom, she slips the locket off of the chain and wraps the pretty metal in a loose cascade over an unsuspecting candle. Nymede appears where it was, but nearly completely physically static. If the candle was lit, she'll be wobbling her head around in a way that could be considered eerie, mimicking the flames with the limitations of hair and a neck.

> What's more, a candle is much smaller than a person, and... the projection seems to shiver and warp a lot like it is strained, glitching in a way that Nymede *definitely should not be moving* in. Saness seems to find these wild distortions and unnatural behaviors to be entirely hilarious, pointing up at her and giving the whole thing a very good laugh.

xxforsaken-angelxx > It was not lit, just sitting around waiting for use. But that only mitigated the weirdness of this somewhat. Like, here was one of his best friends, in lifelike form, magically superimposed over a candle when she really shouldn't be. The whole thing wibbled around with the uncanniness of a wax figure and the function of spaghetti code.  

> He also thought it was fucking hilarious, and laughed with her.

chimericarchitect > They'll likely spend a moment in shared laughter before Saness reaches into the illusion to fumble around and remove the chain. As before, Nymede stretches sideways and zlorps out of existence.

> Saness is still a bit breathy with laughter when she speaks.

"See, that's... I can be anyone, or anything, except maybe - pppbb - a candle, or a spoon, haha!"

xxforsaken-angelxx "That's fuckin' mindbogglin' to me. But impressive as long as you're not tryin' to dodge the guards with bobblehead candle clowns."

> He shakes his head, still giggling a bit. What a time to be alive and in charge of this joint.  

"I've been doin' magic for a long ass time an' I've never gotten to see shit like that.

chimericarchitect > A bit more laughter and apparently show-and-tell is over, because Saness is putting her magic tool back into her sylladex - but she courteously remembers to take out the picture and offer it back toward Grinmaww on an open palm.

"The multiverse is a vast place and... I guess I've seen a lot of things!"

> Actually, it was talking to Pierce before that really put it into perspective. She's a veteran of mystery...

xxforsaken-angelxx > The picture gets placed back roughly where it was before, in one of his desk drawers. Possibly not even the same desk drawer? There are only so many things that can be in his goth mind at one time.

"Guess so," he says. "And guess I haven't seen much at all."

> Which was solely exciting to him, really. There was nothing he loved more than learning about the way everything flowed along in the universe. All a vast *multi*verse meant was he never had to stop.

chimericarchitect > Prrp! Saness proceeds to brush herself down for reasons unknown, satisfied with his response. There is a threshold here that needs to be respected, and unlike some of her friends, she's going to try and reel it in before crossing it.

"There are a lot of things I could show you, but I think maybe that's enough for a first meeting. I may not be the most vibrant or interesting tour guide, but I am a willing and attentive one!"

xxforsaken-angelxx > There's a small scoff at that second part, immediately.

"You're plenty vibrant. I do think we're good on the touring for now though, yeah."

> His hand creeps a little towards the collection of things he's supposed to be passing along to her. It's that business instinct again.

chimericarchitect > That was? A compliment? Yeah, no, it's cool. It's COOL. She sure hopes it's a compliment and not some sign that she overwhelmed him though, but if it is then man, it sure does sound like Grinmaww is completely clueless, he should meet her friends, *they're* the vibrant ones... And probably also very literally insane.

> She doesn't fuss when he moves them toward the end of their visit, quirky in her lopsided-smile sort of way. Saness rocks on her toes with her hands jammed deep into her pockets. She'll wait politely for him to gather himself up and bring this meeting to a close; it is his place, after all. Grinmaww is the floor master.

xxforsaken-angelxx > The look he gives her seems to support the compliment theory... But a moment later he's distracted. No objection, time to give her the things. The picture book first, and then the two psychic tube-y things. They're neatly labeled with label machine stickers, one from Pierce and one from Grinmaww.

> They actually came out pretty distinct looking. Both of the glow bits are lit a similar shade of purple, but Grinmaww's is...actually a good bit fainter. He's never really had any other chances to compare himself, though, so it doesn't even strike him as odd. Pierce is just good at shit like this, obviously.

chimericarchitect > Her hands are freed from her pockets! In order! To accept a darling pop-up book! And the actual tools she came for!

"Thanks so much for being such a good sport. I'll get the bracers and your cozy grubby book back to you as soon as I've finished!"

> They disappear from her palms, slorped up by her sylladex like so much loose spaghetti.

"It will take me a little longer than normal to complete these though, as I'm uh, a little bit preoccupied back at hive."

xxforsaken-angelxx > He shrugs, and...smiles just a little. Why must she be so goddamn pleasant all the time always.

"That's fine. Ain't like there's any rush anyways. Just get 'em back when you can."

> There's a moment of realization on his face when he remembers that she's just going to like...zap out of herself out of here. And not use a door. Which means that normal farewell dialogue cues weren't going to happen.

"It was uh, real nice seein' you an' all man."

chimericarchitect > Saness wouldn't know a normal dialogue cue if it bit her full on the bulge, farewell or otherwise.

"Somenight we'll have to figure out how to swap tours for realsies!"

> Rather than saying goodbye or returning the compliment like a civilized or well-adjusted troll, she gives her new friend a big smile and an even bigger dwarpy salute, turning on her heel for dramatic effect as the crackly light consumes her once more.

> Just like that, she is gone.

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Luke: Uncomfortable Beginnings Part II

           “Sing to this cop. I need them both alive,” she croaked, her voice about to give out.

         Jack shook his head frantically. He hugged himself. “No singing,” he said.

         “We helped with your friend,” Luke said impatiently. He was uninterested in this cop’s melodic eulogy (Why would she have Jack sing to him?) and more interested in keeping the contents of his stomach inside of his stomach. This was fine. They were going to need to kill people, right? But, these cops had been innocent. They probably didn’t even know who Greek gods were beyond their commercial branding.

“Yea, we might want to get out of here before their backup realizes they aren’t responding to their radio,” Phil grumbled, “Never thought I would wish for a Cyclops in a group, but some mimicry would be fancy right now.”

Luke nodded, trying not to panic. He had to keep it together.

         Fēi Lín ignored him. Her eyes narrowed at her friend. “Jack.”

         “N-no.” He shook his head again, his hair bobbing with each shake. His vibrant eyes widened in fear.

         “Jack, he’s going to die,” she said.

         “Oh, he’s already good as dead,” Phil said, “I’ve seen plenty of half-baked corpses in my day.”

         Jack dropped to his knees with a crunch that made Luke wince.

         Luke was about to yell at them again. If this dude wasn’t going to cooperate, they needed to leave him behind.

         Then, Jack sang. The words sounded Latin and Luke caught a few that he thought he recognized, something about, Lumen Christi. Jack’s voice sliced through Luke’s anxiety. For an instant, all Luke could do was absorb the vibrations of the falsetto. Aches that Luke didn’t know he had unknotted and turned to putty. Luke hadn’t realized that he’d chewed his lip raw until he felt the skin close over, smooth and unscathed. The sickness in his stomach dissipated.

         The beauty of the singer’s range made Luke lightheaded and dizzy: a sensation of euphoric belonging that he’d heard other people describe when going to church.

         What little color there had been returned to the pale cop’s face. He exhaled. The pool of blood around his head rippled.

         When Fēi Lín wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, more didn’t appear. She sat up, piercing eyes much more alert.  

         Jack stopped singing.

         They paused for a moment.

         “Well, shit,” Phil said, sounding impressed. “Aw, shit,” he said instead when the pale cop pressed a hand to the floor to push out of his own blood.

         With how peaceful everything felt, Luke almost didn’t think to handcuff the other cop. The one with dimples had woken too. He seemed a bit more disturbed by the handcuffs and gag.

         “Stay still,” Fēi Lín said before Luke could grab the pale cop.

         Her voice no longer sounded weak. It was deep, melodious, and commanded a terrifying sense of authority. Although Luke knew he needed to handcuff that pale cop, he couldn’t get himself to move. All he could do was stare at her horrifically deformed face, wondering why his limbs wouldn’t work.

         The red-head, Jack, sagged onto his side.

         The cops hadn’t moved either. Everyone could only watch as Fēi Lín scooted to Jack, so she could take his face in her hands.

         “I’ve never seen a child of Apollo heal multiple people with one song,” Phil said. He was in mid-crouch to rise but didn’t seem able to finish the motion. “That’s some Orpheus-level shenanigans.”

         “Child of Apollo?” Jack asked. His chest fluttered rapidly. “What are you talking about? Is—is this real?” His question was directed at Fēi Lín as she forced him back into sitting position.

         “Yes,” she said. “Where were you going?”

         Jack could still move. He glanced at the abandoned cop car. Luke knew it was only a matter of time before someone came in or out of the school and saw they had one officer bound and gagged and another seemingly paralyzed. He doubted they could smile and wave and say, “Oh, it’s just a drill!”

“To the station,” Jack said.

         “Why?”

         He swallowed. “Our maid found Mom, Dad, Shelby, and Aston dead in the living room. And—and Charger.”        

         At the word “maid” anger had flared inside Luke, but it ebbed away at the last part of the sentence and the way Jack’s eyes became watery. Luke didn’t want to admit that the pale-freckles in combo with the boy’s band shirt made Luke want to give Jack a hug. Especially when Jack glanced hopefully at each of them, like someone would say his maid hadn’t found his presumed family dead.

         Fēi Lín gently stroked Jack’s cheek. “What happened?”

         “I—I—” Jack’s lips trembled. “I think I accidentally killed them.”

         “Yea, I tend to mistaken when I kill family members too,” Phil said.

         “Shut up,” Fēi Lín said to Phil, her eyes burning. Phil looked like he wanted to say more, but couldn’t. She returned her gaze back to Jack, pity crunching her leathery brow. “Did you tell the cops that?”

         Jack nodded his head, swallowing again.

         Fēi Lín exhaled slowly. She released Jack and turned to the cops. They stared at her with wide eyes.

         “Cops,” she said, “You will get onto your radios and report that you were attacked by masked assailants while trying to escort Mr. Flash to the station. The assailants pulled up in a van, attacked you two, disabled you, and took Mr. Flash as he struggled and screamed, trying to escape. You now think these are the prime suspects in the deaths of his family. You will have no recollection of me, or these two men. Is that clear?” She didn’t wait for a response, though Luke wasn’t sure they could give one. “Now get up.”

         The words were so powerful, Phil stood and Luke felt himself straighten up without intending to. He touched the top of Backbiter’s hilt, relieved he had control over his body again. What Phil had said earlier made Luke tremble. This girl could kill both of us with a single word. Luke hadn’t realized how literal that warning had been.

         In spite of whatever injuries they had sustained, both cops rose.

         There were no bruises on the neck of the cop that Fēi Lín had put into a headlock.

         The other cop’s hat had slipped off onto the pavement. Blood smeared his thinning hairline. There were no holes or fractures, nothing to show he’d been kicked by a barn animal. He looked more like something from a low-budget zombie movie.

         On the ground, Luke could see the paper flower had fallen into the man’s blood, soaking it to a deeper red.

         Both cops shambled towards their car. Neither glanced back or showed any hint of remembering Luke, Phil, Fēi Lín, and Jack were there. The one with dimples didn’t even seem to realize he was still handcuffed.

         “I don’t know how long that will work if we’re still here when they’re done reporting,” Fēi Lín said. “We need to get out of here. Let’s talk in my car.” Fēi Lín reached into a compartment on the side of her boot and withdrew two keys.

         “Wow,” slipped from Luke’s lips.

         This time, Luke felt like he had a choice about moving or staying, but a nagging, foreign sensation inclined him to do anything this girl suggested. He was pretty sure he’d start hoola-hooping in the middle of a battle if he thought it might make her smile. He chewed his lip, debating if he actually wanted to go. Phil and Jack had already started to follow.

         “Woo-ee! Man, I knew you were gonna be powerful, girlie. But an omega two-for-one sale? How do you like ‘em tin cans?” Phil asked.

         “Isn’t the expression ‘them apples?’” Jack rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He stared at Phil’s hooves warily, glancing at Fēi Lín and Luke as if checking to if everyone also saw the shaggy legs or, maybe instead, if Phil was secretly the shadiest of moving garden decorations.

         “They’re real,” Fēi Lín confirmed. She led them over to a 1994 Jeep Wrangler in the senior parking lot. She didn’t bother opening the door. Instead, she stepped onto the foot assist and hopped over the door.  Luke felt more and more suspicious. He was waiting for Fēi Lín to pull a mask off and reveal a Charles’ Angel or some other secret agent.

Luke and Thalia had survived years outside of Camp Half-Blood on their own, but they had made it to camp when Luke was fourteen and Thalia was twelve. If you can say that Thalia made it to camp, Luke thought bitterly, remembering how often he’d dodged the camp harpies at night to sit underneath her tree’s branches. (Long story.) Anyway, Fēi Lín, and Jack, survived for at least three of four years longer and they were still trying to go to school like normal. How?  

         Luke was terrified this might be some kind of set up by the Camp Half-Blood or that other camp Kronos had mentioned. But, Chiron wasn’t that smart and didn’t plan that far ahead. No one should have known Kronos was rising. Not yet.

         Jack went to the passenger side. He used the door like a sane person. “Is he a monster?” he asked, glancing nervously as Phil crawled into the back.

         “Yes,” Fēi Lín said.

         “No,” Phil said at the same time.

         “Don’t get too attached, we might need to kill him,” Fēi Lín said.

         “Hey, Pouty Face, you coming?” Phil said with no apparent concern for Fēi Lín’s comment.

         Luke had centaurs waiting for them in a nearby forest. While the idea of seeing a satyr ride a centaur again was tempting, he couldn’t think of a way to convince Fēi Lín and Jack to take that alternative transportation. Hopefully the centaurs would be smart enough to follow Fēi Lín’s Jeep. With how often the centaurs enjoyed smashing their heads together, he doubted it.  

         He did not like the thought of getting into this chick’s car without knowing the plan.

         She didn’t wait to hear an answer. Fēi Lín started the engine and shifted the car out of the parking gear.

         Luke rushed over and hopped into the back. His pulse rushed, but… something about this felt right. Camp Half-Blood had almost been boring. He’d lost any control of his life, was not allowed to leave when he wanted, and was only able to supervise children and do chores that he hadn’t signed up for.

         This was liberating: he was back with people closer to his age—Phil excluded—taking initiative without Kronos’ goading, and unsure of what was going to happen next or where they were going.

         When Luke examined Jack’s freckles, bright eyes, band shirt, and painted nails, the nostalgia was overwhelming, like he was back to exploring with Annabeth and Thalia, and Grover, and they didn’t know what adventure stirred over the horizon.

***

Thank you for reading! I feel like Phil is a little too comfortable with half-baked corpses, but that’s just the kind of partner Luke needs. Ah, friendships based off mutual mental dysfunction <3

[cupidmarwani-archive]

The Rehabilitation of Ava Bekker (4/12)

After dinner, Ava helps wash up, and Robin tells her where she can find her room and a shower upstairs. After that, she’ll get a dose of aloe to soothe her sunburns, and then… and then. She’ll be free until dawn cracks open her skull and sends her back to work digging homes for the trees. The evening is hers. 

The bathroom is neat and well kept, bath towels in the closet and a bar of soap on the counter. There aren’t shower items, but that’s alright because Ava thought to bring those for herself- including a cheap set of washcloths to scrub the dirt off her skin. She turns on the water and her brain, ever helpful, reminds her of the way the clear spray turned pink while it took her sins away and threw them down the drain. The dirt is like that, only it’s more of a pale golden-brown as opposed to the blood tone. It’s just as hard to scrub from under her short nails and out of her hair.

If Connor were here, he’d help her clean up. He’d tell her she did a good job, planting these trees. And she would feel loved. So loved. She shuts her eyes and trails her hands over her own body, imagining they belong to someone else. Fingertips on her waist, between her legs. She brings herself no pleasure, but he would. And he’d be smirking as he did it. He liked to tease. That particular memory burns too harshly and she moves on to pressing her fingers against her lips. It’s not like a kiss. She aches. And then, the water begins to cool down, so she hurries to finish and pull on pajamas. Cloth shorts and a big tee shirt, boxers because that’s the sort of girl she’s now got to be. 

Her feet are quiet on the hardwood as she towels off her short hair, but Robin is loud in the kitchen. Not loud, exactly, but the only noise in the house carries. It’s louder than the sounds outside of the pleating goats and the feisty chickens and the wind blowing through the stalks of corn. Ava peers around the staircase to the kitchen, where Robin has cut open a thick green leaf and started squeezing the gel inside into a bowl. She knew this is where aloe comes from, but it’s different to see it as Robin uses a fork to mix and soften it thoroughly.

“Thank you,” she says.

Robin smiles as she brings the bowl over. “No problem. Just wear sunscreen tomorrow, okay?”

She nods, about to reach for the gel. Before she can, Robin scoops some into her palm and takes one of Ava’s sunburnt arms. Tenderly, she massages it into the heated skin. Such a gentle touch, even though her palms are rough with labor. It’s like love, but it isn’t the same as other kinds. Ava doesn’t feel it in her head, she feels it in ever place Robin touches her, and she doesn’t know what to make of it. Part of her wants to pull away. Another part wants to pretend it’s Connor taking good care of her. She can’t remember the last time he did that. Now he won’t ever take care of anyone again.

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Shrugging, Ava looks away from Robin’s face and out the window. The sun has set, and there are too many stars outside. More than she’s ever seen, and some that move in huddled swarms until she realizes they’re lightning bugs. It’s a skyline, so separate from Chicago, but like home to her in a way that allows her shoulders to sag and her chest to expand with fresh air that smells like the rubbery scent of aloe.

“I think you’re running from something,” Robin muses. She moves onto the other arm and soothes it with the gel. “You suddenly respond to my ad, move out here. Never done work like this in your life.” She cups Ava’s palm and feels the uncalloused pads of her fingers. “What are you running from?”

Her immediate urge is to lash out, argue, yell, defend herself. But all of that feels out of place, and so, instead, she says, “It’s hard to talk about.” 

That’s the truth. It’s really difficult to talk about Connor and Ava isn’t ready to share the good or the bad memories yet. Especially not with someone she’s just met, however kind and insightful Robin is. However fast her heart begins to beat when Robin moves onto the back of her neck and cups it so lovingly as she massages in more cream. The sunburn doesn’t hurt as bad anymore. Ava doesn’t hurt as bad. But inside is much less repaired than outside, and she turns away when Robin withdraws.

She isn’t into women, and love isn’t like this. Love is all consuming. It burns and it screams and it scars. It’s gaping wounds in her stomach and her head spinning. Love is pain, and this doesn’t hurt. Love comes soon, she knows, because it came so soon with Connor, but not on the first day anyhow. This is coping, Ava decides. She’s coping with losing Connor by latching onto Robin’s touch. Before long, she’ll settle. And maybe eventually come to fully recognize deep down that Connor is dead and not coming back.

While logically she knows that, knows it to be a fact, it has yet to sink in. Just like it hasn’t sunk in that she’s given up her old life and can never return to it, no matter how badly she wants to. That part of her life is over. She’s different. She breathes new air, fresh air, and the way she feels like she’s being ripped to pieces is completely different but persistent nonetheless.

“I’m always here to listen,” Robin says, and pulls away from Ava. She misses the touch. At the same time, she’s glad it’s over. “I’m turning in for the night, so I’ll see you in the morning. This’ll be in the fridge if you need it.”

True to her word, Robin puts the aloe in her fridge and heads upstairs, presumably to the room she said was hers when she gave Ava a mini tour. The hallway stretches between them, impossibly far but so close. Ava has only slept in such short distance when there was someone beside her. A warm body so close but so far. She waits a few long minutes before going up to her own room, shutting the door behind her and turning down the downey comforter on the bed. It’s hand embroidered, a bit like her imagination provided, in patterns of heathers and lavender and other delicate things, its batting making it plush and soft.

She drags her backpack up against the nightstand, which glows the room with its little bedside lamp, and digs into it for what she needs the most. Her photo of her and Connor. It’s comforting in her hands, cold against her lips when she kisses the mimicry of his face. His body must feel like that now, too, and she’s glad her last kiss with the real him was one where he held her close and made her feel worthy. 

“I miss you,” she breathes, and sets the photo on the table so she doesn’t crush it in her restless sleep. This is her only copy, and she can’t afford to destroy it and lose the last image she has of his face. His adoration. If he were here, he’d kiss her and turn off the light for her. She touches her own lips again. When was the last time Connor told her he loved her? The last time anyone told her they loved her?

She pretends it was before she ran away. He understood that everything she did, she had done for him, for them, and he told her he loved her. She imagines him telling her to run here and promising to meet up as soon as he’s able. 

Everything she did, she did out of love. It can’t be wrong if it came from love. Never. 

“Goodnight Connor.”

She turns off the light and burrows under the blankets like they’ll shield her from reality.

-

@sapphiccsharks @bipeteypie @bookreader525 @lovxies

[ygospamproduction]

I was planning to write a fic at one point, to show the argument in play, but it’s just too far down the priority list to pop up anytime soon, and I’d honestly rather not linger on it myself longer than needed. No verse hurts as much as canon-verse.

So, if you honestly asked me, IF Yuugi did have feelings for Atem, and IF he came to realize that?

I don’t think he would ever be with anyone else in his lifetime.

Yeah, I know:

That’s a likely unbelievable span of time to not get ‘over’ someone.

The boy is a lovable and loving sweetheart and someone new is bound to come along eventually.

Refusing to let go is completely against the themes of the story.

Atem would NEVER condone such a decision, if it were conscious.

It is NOT wrong to love another when you lose someone, or to enjoy love a second time.

I’m not fighting any of that. It’s all true. And in the real world, there is every reason that I would concede to these points myself, and even back them.

But, there is ONE major difference between the real world, and Yuugi’s.

He has grounded insight into how his afterlife works.

I would imagine most of us either question that, don’t believe in it, or follow a belief system that describes a paradise where the norms of the real world do not apply, at least on some level or another. Most cultures and religions I know of have wedding vows that end at one or the other’s death, after all. ‘Til death do us part, and all that. Very few beliefs I hear of worry about the logistics of having multiple romantic partners in life, and thus what becomes of those bonds on the other side-- because, presumably, it just isn’t a factor in the way things work.

But, ‘life’ on the other side in Yuugi’s world is at least real, and un-abstract enough that Seto can pop into it and have something as mundane as a duel there. It seems like it functions very much like the Ancient Egyptian portrayal of the afterlife, i.e. a more idealized mimicry of the real world, right down to mundane things like eating and needing entertainment. And I can’t imagine Yuugi would never hear of that if he’s working with both of the Kaibas.

So.

What happens when you know the afterlife is a given? That it works like that? That it’s a place you go, with its own physics and spacial laws, and you’re going to definitely go there one day and interact with others there, in ways that at least mimic the real world?

That you can have continuing relationship dynamics in the afterlife?

I imagine Yuugi at least would consider his future actions in a new light.

It would probably be reassuring in a lot of ways, and freeing, allow him to live to the fullest even more than he would have already.

But, I don’t see him entering a new relationship without a lot of reservations.

Because, I don’t see him pining or crying his eyes out every day or even fighting that impulse. Happiness might always be more of an effort after Atem leaves, but it won’t always come difficultly to him. He’ll be fine.

But, Yuugi is above all things loyal. And makes decisions based on others. And certainly wouldn’t want to hurt anyone.

And even if Atem would always tell him not to think that way on his behalf? ...What about the third party?

The ‘someone’ Yuugi chooses after Atem?

I think anyone new who came along? Yuugi would look at them and think... “How can I do that to them? How can I be with someone, promise myself to someone else... when I know, the second this life is over, I’ll be running straight to him?”

Most vows might end at death, but Mutou Yuugi’s never would.

And in a world like that, an afterlife like that, he would have to make a choice between Atem, and anyone who came after him.

And I know who I think he would choose. 

[geekmama]

Everything

Part six of Aftermath, in which Sherlock tells Molly everything -- or actually half of everything, since there is a lot to tell. Many thanks to arianedevere on LJ/Dreamwidth for the transcripts of the show that are such an invaluable resource in writing Sherlock fanfiction. 

For a while, he lay silent in her arms. He was still tired, she knew, and heartsick on top of it, and so she just held him quietly, only occasionally moving her little finger slightly against his dark curls. It was enough, just to lie with him there, in the deep shadows-- they had left the drapes drawn against the midday sun. She wished courage and forgiveness could be conveyed through osmosis, for she had enough for the two of them, she thought, even without knowing the details that comprised his anguish. 

And maybe those qualities could, in a sense, be passed through the skin, from one being to another, for at last he moved, settling himself on the pillow facing her, just as they had been a few hours before, when dawn was breaking over London. 

She took his hand in hers, and gave him the hint of a smile. 

“You have to understand,” he finally said, his voice low but steady, “that there are many things I am only beginning to remember. Much of my childhood was largely a blank to me for many years, and what I did recall seemed remote, like the memory of a dream. But now, what with the events that took place yesterday, and some truths almost literally pried from Mycroft, I am beginning to remember. Just flashes -- but being at Musgrave last night brought much into the realm of reality. 

“We lived at Musgrave until I was eight years old. Mycroft is seven years my senior, but Eurus was only a year older than I. She… exhibited evidence of psychoses from an early age, apparently, along with the intelligence that Mycroft terms incandescent. And she was very attached to me -- and I to her, I believe. Yet, as I grew older, I formed outside friendships, as children do. Well, most children. Eurus was… unsuited to the day school where I attended. And Musgrave is quite isolated. I’m sure our parents attempted to have other children visit, but Eurus would not have been able to relate to them -- perhaps would have harmed them, in fact. I, however, formed a close friendship with another boy who lived fairly close by and went to the same school. His name was Victor Trevor, but in our play -- our adventures as pirates, during which we roved the length and breadth of the estate -- my name was Yellowbeard, and his was… Redbeard.” 

She stiffened, and Sherlock raised his eyes to hers. “I never had a dog, Molly. Victor was Redbeard, and one day, when I was too busy playing with Victor to have any time to spare for her, Eurus killed Victor by trapping him in a long-abandoned well. He was never found, and though it was suspected that my sister had caused his disappearance somehow, it was never proven, until last night, when John was trapped in the same well and found some of Victor’s bones.” 

Molly stared at Sherlock’s grief-stricken face and could not help choking, “Oh, Sherlock, how… how horrible! For him, and you, and… and everyone!” 

“Yes.” He paused as though gathering himself together once more. “I don’t remember much detail of the aftermath, just a deep sense of grief. And isolation. I… Mycroft says I was… an emotional child.  I did not return to the day school. But I was estranged from Eurus as well. It was suspected she had been behind Victor’s disappearance. There was a song she would sing, something she had made up, and the answer was in it, but neither Mycroft nor I could work out the puzzle, and Mummy and Dad thought it nonsense. They could not allow themselves to believe their beautiful little daughter a murderer, even with all the evidence that she was… other. But a month later, she set a fire in the house. It started in my room, but spread through much of the upper story, and that, and the subsequent water damage, rendered the house uninhabitable. My uncle stepped in at that time. He occupied a position in government similar to the one that Mycroft now occupies. He took Eurus away to what he assumed was a secure institution, and assisted my parents’ move to their new home -- the one you’ve apparently visited.” 

“And Musgrave is still abandoned?” Molly asked. 

“A great many repairs would have been needed to make it livable again, and my parents never had the heart for that, not after everything that had happened. Their current home is, perhaps, not as grand, but it is comfortable, as you must have seen.” 

“Oh, yes. I liked it very much. And it seems to suit them.” 

“Yes. I doubt if my parents ever considered selling the estate -- it’s been in the family for generations and, from what Mycroft says, it still brings in enough income from several leaseholders to cover the taxes. But they settled into their new home, and I began to attend a new school -- though there were difficulties. And when I began referring to Redbeard as… as a dog… a deceased family pet… they… they all thought it best to encourage that particular delusion. I had also convinced myself that I had never had a sister. And then Mycroft began teaching me that emotion -- sentiment -- was something that would only impede my ability to thrive and succeed. Very likely he thought he was telling me the truth, though whether he took his own precept to heart is another matter. He’s not as hard and cold as he would like one to believe.” 

Molly could not help the wry laughter in her voice as she said, emphatically, “No!” 

Sherlock’s eyes met hers and he smiled a little. “How,” he said in quite another voice, “have I been fortunate enough to retain your friendship -- and more than friendship -- when you can see so clearly? It makes me inclined to question your judgement, Dr. Hooper.” 

She sniffed. “My judgement, Mr. Holmes, is as sound as it ever was -- or sounder, since I am no longer blinded by your devastating good looks, or your flair for the dramatic.” 

“Not at all?” he asked, feigning dismay. 

She fought down a smirk. “Just a little, perhaps. Now go on: Mycroft is not hard and cold.” 

He sighed, but resigned himself and said, “Well, he is, of course, though much of it is an act.” He grinned when she rolled her eyes and added, “I know, I know: pot vs. kettle. But even you have to admit it’s extremely useful at times. Still, repression of emotion often backfires. I don’t excuse myself from culpability, but I believe much of my appetite for drugs at university stemmed from the painful and often discouraging effort to eliminate sentiment from my life -- not to mention the way in which said efforts isolated me from my peers long before that, which only added to the problem. 

“But, to go on: Eurus had died in a fire, as I said. I was told nothing of it, but that was the lie told to my parents, to account for the lack of a body, I presume. For she had indeed set a fire at the institution where she was being held, and there were several persons killed and injured, but my sister was not among them. So my uncle had Eurus moved, to a very secret maximum security facility off the coast: Sherrinford. It… it’s not a good place. Dreadful, in fact. But it was thought to be secure enough to hold her for the duration of her life, and moreover, as a government facility, my uncle -- and in more recent years, Mycroft -- would have easy access to Eurus, to ensure her safety and welfare, of course, but also -- and probably more importantly, knowing my uncle -- to allow them to exploit that incandescent intelligence. That’s where it was supposed to end. But obviously it did not.. We don’t know precisely how long Sherrinford has been compromised, but… well, my uncle died under suspicious circumstances over ten years ago, and I fear that many of my games with Moriarty -- or Jim, as you like to call him--” 

“I can’t call him Moriarty,” she objected, hurt at his snide tone. “It makes me sick enough to think of him as Jim!” 

“Yes, well, you were certainly ready to bite my head off for warning you about him that first time you introduced us.” 

She groaned at this dredging up of ancient history, and said tartly, “That’s because you were a bloody git -- and probably jealous, to boot!” 

“I was not!” 

She huffed, “Whatever. Go on: what about your games?” 

His amused satisfaction at ruffling her feathers died away as he got back on track. “Those games may have originated in the mind of my sister. Some of them, at least. Somewhere along the way she started demanding presents from Mycroft, in exchange for her services, such as they were, and one of those presents was five minutes, unsupervised, with Moriarty. Mycroft, intelligent as he is, had no notion what an impact that five minutes would have on all of us. And after Moriarty’s death and my eventual return from the dead, Eurus became far bolder. She has a talent for disguises and mimicry, as all three of us do, but she also has an uncanny ability to persuade. Moriarty was only one of her dupes. The whole security and administration of Sherrinford was eventually compromised, and she was able to leave and return without hindrance. It was she who created the Moriarty broadcast that saved me from exile and certain death--” 

“What?” Molly yelped, half rising on her elbow. 

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “I’d forgot I hadn’t told you about that.” 

“You mean… but you didn’t even say goodbye!” 

He stared at her, tense and suddenly barely in command of himself. But then he pulled himself together and said, eyes on her chin, “Molly, do you remember Charles Augustus Magnussen?” 

She said, quietly, “Yes, of course. You… you did kill him, then.” 

He looked up quickly, his face very pale. “You knew?” 

She said carefully, “I thought… when you didn’t come back to town right away. After Christmas. But then, after the broadcast you reappeared and… and seemed back to your usual self. Or more so. But you did kill him, then. And Mycroft couldn’t… couldn’t help?” 

“That was his way of helping. They couldn’t very well put me in prison -- I’d have been dead in a week, what with the many I’ve helped put behind bars. So he got me six months in Eastern Europe. Or at least that was his estimate. Originally he’d advised me against taking that assignment, but in light of… of Magnussen…” 

Molly bent her forehead to his and said softly, “Oh my God. It seems I have one more thing to thank Eurus for.” 

“Then you… Molly, I murdered a man. In cold blood.” 

She backed away again and looked at him solemnly. “In cold blood? You planned it in advance?” 

“W-well, no! I had another plan -- which in retrospect was fairly asinine. It hinged on betraying Mycroft, and by extension the British government, in order to obtain some papers Magnussen was using to blackmail… a client.” 

“It was Mary, wasn’t it?” Molly asked in a small voice. 

Sherlock stared. “Did she tell you?” 

“Well, not that there were any papers involved.” 

“There weren’t. He had a Mind Palace. The same memory technique I use.” 

“Oh. How.. how awful for you!” 

“I… well, yes. But… Mary told you?” 

“Yes. Not long after Rosie was born. She felt I should know something of her past, since I was to be Rosie’s godmother. She said you knew, and that it might prove important. I think she suspected that she might… might not live to see Rosie grow up.” A tear slipped from Molly’s eye, but she brushed it away, impatiently and looked straight at Sherlock. “So your plan fell apart and you couldn’t think of anything else to do?” 

“Yes!” 

“Yes,” Molly said, sadly. “She said that’s what happened to her, too. When she shot you. I… I almost couldn’t forgive her that. But you so obviously had, almost immediately. The way you helped her, and cared for her when John had virtually abandoned her -- as soon as you were able, at least. And you told me yourself that you were hoping Christmas would finally bring them together once more. So, in the end, I did forgive her.” 

Sherlock pulled her down then, into his embrace, and they clung together for long moments. Molly shed a few more tears, and she knew Sherlock was trying very hard to hold himself together. Finally, he said, unsteadily “So, you don’t think I’m a horrible old murderer?” 

She smiled, sadly. “No. I know you. But… does it haunt you?” 

“Yes. Sometimes I ask myself what I could have done differently.” 

“And do you ever give yourself a reasonable reply?” 

“No.” 

She moved a bit, and kissed him, and he responded hesitantly at first, and then not hesitantly at all. Turned them so that he was half on top of her, and she melted beneath him, opening her lips, tasting him, breathing the same air.   

But then she began to sense -- or felt, actually -- a new urgency in him, and though she could not help smiling beneath his kiss, she presently moved her mouth toward his ear and murmured, “Are you certain you have no direct experience of this?” 

It was like a dash of cold water -- a very small dash, but enough that he stopped, and gave a kind of gasping laugh. “Pretty certain, though when I was at university there were more than a few nights I don’t remember very clearly.” 

She found that her cheeks were burning, but the time for dissimulation was past. She said, “Well… of course I’m quite willing -- and indeed, anxious -- to assist you in expanding your horizons in this area. But can you finish telling me what you need to, first?”

   To be continued...

[newstfionline]

Power Causes Brain Damage

Jerry Useem, The Atlantic, July/August 2017 Issue

If power were a prescription drug, it would come with a long list of known side effects. It can intoxicate. It can corrupt. It can even make Henry Kissinger believe that he’s sexually magnetic. But can it cause brain damage?

When various lawmakers lit into John Stumpf at a congressional hearing last fall, each seemed to find a fresh way to flay the now-former CEO of Wells Fargo for failing to stop some 5,000 employees from setting up phony accounts for customers. But it was Stumpf’s performance that stood out. Here was a man who had risen to the top of the world’s most valuable bank, yet he seemed utterly unable to read a room. Although he apologized, he didn’t appear chastened or remorseful. Nor did he seem defiant or smug or even insincere. He looked disoriented, like a jet-lagged space traveler just arrived from Planet Stumpf, where deference to him is a natural law and 5,000 a commendably small number. Even the most direct barbs--”You have got to be kidding me” (Sean Duffy of Wisconsin); “I can’t believe some of what I’m hearing here” (Gregory Meeks of New York)--failed to shake him awake.

What was going through Stumpf’s head? New research suggests that the better question may be: What wasn’t going through it?

The historian Henry Adams was being metaphorical, not medical, when he described power as “a sort of tumor that ends by killing the victim’s sympathies.” But that’s not far from where Dacher Keltner, a psychology professor at UC Berkeley, ended up after years of lab and field experiments. Subjects under the influence of power, he found in studies spanning two decades, acted as if they had suffered a traumatic brain injury--becoming more impulsive, less risk-aware, and, crucially, less adept at seeing things from other people’s point of view.

Sukhvinder Obhi, a neuroscientist at McMaster University, in Ontario, recently described something similar. Unlike Keltner, who studies behaviors, Obhi studies brains. And when he put the heads of the powerful and the not-so-powerful under a transcranial-magnetic-stimulation machine, he found that power, in fact, impairs a specific neural process, “mirroring,” that may be a cornerstone of empathy. Which gives a neurological basis to what Keltner has termed the “power paradox”: Once we have power, we lose some of the capacities we needed to gain it in the first place.

That loss in capacity has been demonstrated in various creative ways. A 2006 study asked participants to draw the letter E on their forehead for others to view--a task that requires seeing yourself from an observer’s vantage point. Those feeling powerful were three times more likely to draw the E the right way to themselves--and backwards to everyone else. Other experiments have shown that powerful people do worse at identifying what someone in a picture is feeling, or guessing how a colleague might interpret a remark.

The fact that people tend to mimic the expressions and body language of their superiors can aggravate this problem: Subordinates provide few reliable cues to the powerful. But more important, Keltner says, is the fact that the powerful stop mimicking others. Laughing when others laugh or tensing when others tense does more than ingratiate. It helps trigger the same feelings those others are experiencing and provides a window into where they are coming from. Powerful people “stop simulating the experience of others,” Keltner says, which leads to what he calls an “empathy deficit.”

Mirroring is a subtler kind of mimicry that goes on entirely within our heads, and without our awareness. When we watch someone perform an action, the part of the brain we would use to do that same thing lights up in sympathetic response. It might be best understood as vicarious experience. It’s what Obhi and his team were trying to activate when they had their subjects watch a video of someone’s hand squeezing a rubber ball.

For nonpowerful participants, mirroring worked fine: The neural pathways they would use to squeeze the ball themselves fired strongly. But the powerful group’s? Less so.

Was the mirroring response broken? More like anesthetized. None of the participants possessed permanent power. They were college students who had been “primed” to feel potent by recounting an experience in which they had been in charge. The anesthetic would presumably wear off when the feeling did--their brains weren’t structurally damaged after an afternoon in the lab. But if the effect had been long-lasting--say, by dint of having Wall Street analysts whispering their greatness quarter after quarter, board members offering them extra helpings of pay, and Forbes praising them for “doing well while doing good”--they may have what in medicine is known as “functional” changes to the brain.

I wondered whether the powerful might simply stop trying to put themselves in others’ shoes, without losing the ability to do so. As it happened, Obhi ran a subsequent study that may help answer that question. This time, subjects were told what mirroring was and asked to make a conscious effort to increase or decrease their response. “Our results,” he and his co-author, Katherine Naish, wrote, “showed no difference.” Effort didn’t help.

The sunniest possible spin, it seems, is that these changes are only sometimes harmful. Power, the research says, primes our brain to screen out peripheral information. In most situations, this provides a helpful efficiency boost. In social ones, it has the unfortunate side effect of making us more obtuse. Even that is not necessarily bad for the prospects of the powerful, or the groups they lead. As Susan Fiske, a Princeton psychology professor, has persuasively argued, power lessens the need for a nuanced read of people, since it gives us command of resources we once had to cajole from others. But of course, in a modern organization, the maintenance of that command relies on some level of organizational support. And the sheer number of examples of executive hubris that bristle from the headlines suggests that many leaders cross the line into counterproductive folly.

Less able to make out people’s individuating traits, they rely more heavily on stereotype. And the less they’re able to see, other research suggests, the more they rely on a personal “vision” for navigation. John Stumpf saw a Wells Fargo where every customer had eight separate accounts. (As he’d often noted to employees, eight rhymes with great.) “Cross-selling,” he told Congress, “is shorthand for deepening relationships.”

Is there nothing to be done?

No and yes. It’s difficult to stop power’s tendency to affect your brain. What’s easier--from time to time, at least--is to stop feeling powerful.

Insofar as it affects the way we think, power, Keltner reminded me, is not a post or a position but a mental state. Recount a time you did not feel powerful, his experiments suggest, and your brain can commune with reality.

Recalling an early experience of powerlessness seems to work for some people--and experiences that were searing enough may provide a sort of permanent protection. An incredible study published in The Journal of Finance last February found that CEOs who as children had lived through a natural disaster that produced significant fatalities were much less risk-seeking than CEOs who hadn’t.

But tornadoes, volcanoes, and tsunamis aren’t the only hubris-restraining forces out there. PepsiCo CEO and Chairman Indra Nooyi sometimes tells the story of the day she got the news of her appointment to the company’s board, in 2001. She arrived home percolating in her own sense of importance and vitality, when her mother asked whether, before she delivered her “great news,” she would go out and get some milk. Fuming, Nooyi went out and got it. “Leave that damn crown in the garage” was her mother’s advice when she returned.

The point of the story, really, is that Nooyi tells it. It serves as a useful reminder about ordinary obligation and the need to stay grounded. Nooyi’s mother, in the story, serves as a “toe holder,” a term once used by the political adviser Louis Howe to describe his relationship with the four-term President Franklin D. Roosevelt, whom Howe never stopped calling Franklin.

For Winston Churchill, the person who filled that role was his wife, Clementine, who had the courage to write, “My Darling Winston. I must confess that I have noticed a deterioration in your manner; & you are not as kind as you used to be.” Written on the day Hitler entered Paris, torn up, then sent anyway, the letter was not a complaint but an alert: Someone had confided to her, she wrote, that Churchill had been acting “so contemptuous” toward subordinates in meetings that “no ideas, good or bad, will be forthcoming”--with the attendant danger that “you won’t get the best results.”

Lord David Owen--a British neurologist turned parliamentarian who served as the foreign secretary before becoming a baron--recounts both Howe’s story and Clementine Churchill’s in his 2008 book, In Sickness and in Power, an inquiry into the various maladies that had affected the performance of British prime ministers and American presidents since 1900. While some suffered from strokes (Woodrow Wilson), substance abuse (Anthony Eden), or possibly bipolar disorder (Lyndon B. Johnson, Theodore Roosevelt), at least four others acquired a disorder that the medical literature doesn’t recognize but, Owen argues, should.

“Hubris syndrome,” as he and a co-author, Jonathan Davidson, defined it in a 2009 article published in Brain, “is a disorder of the possession of power, particularly power which has been associated with overwhelming success, held for a period of years and with minimal constraint on the leader.” Its 14 clinical features include: manifest contempt for others, loss of contact with reality, restless or reckless actions, and displays of incompetence. In May, the Royal Society of Medicine co-hosted a conference of the Daedalus Trust--an organization that Owen founded for the study and prevention of hubris.

I asked Owen, who admits to a healthy predisposition to hubris himself, whether anything helps keep him tethered to reality, something that other truly powerful figures might emulate. He shared a few strategies: thinking back on hubris-dispelling episodes from his past; watching documentaries about ordinary people; making a habit of reading constituents’ letters.

But I surmised that the greatest check on Owen’s hubris today might stem from his recent research endeavors. Businesses, he complained to me, had shown next to no appetite for research on hubris. Business schools were not much better. The undercurrent of frustration in his voice attested to a certain powerlessness. Whatever the salutary effect on Owen, it suggests that a malady seen too commonly in boardrooms and executive suites is unlikely to soon find a cure.

[1soos]

Satisfaction

Pairing: Jinyoung x Reader

Length: 969 (true drabble statussss)

Genre: angst maybe?

Warnings: cursing

“Is it necrophilia if I have sex with a vampire?”

His eyes shoot open comically wide. “What?” he wheezes.

“Hypothetically speaking.”

“Oh my fucking Christ.”

You push your body as far back into your chair away from him as possible, unsure whether or not he would burst into flames. Not that you believed in any gods, or at least you didn’t think so, your entire belief system, or lack thereof, had been shaken and twisted when you’d met Jinyoung. You honestly have no idea what’s real and what’s not. But you weren’t taking any chances.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” he finally answers and you relax a little in your seat when he’s not reduced to a smoking pile of ash.

“How have you never thought about it? Do you not have sex? Does it stop working after you turn?”

“It works perfectly fine, thank you.” He continues, narrowing his eyes meaningfully at you while you blush (to your eternal chagrin). “I don’t really have sex with the living.”

“Oh,” you try not to let disappointment swell in your chest, you are just friends after all, and maybe not even that. “Why?”

“Too easy. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Like it isn’t good? Or like you have a crisis of conscious?” You actually cannot stop yourself from asking questions. You can feel yourself being annoying, but you dare anyone else to keep their questions to themselves when in this situation. If he didn’t want to answer, he wouldn’t and you’d let it go. Or save it for another time when he was more inclined to answer.

“Do you think I am concerned with morality?” he asks, tilting his head to the side as if really wanting an answer.

“Ah, answering a question with a question. Classic deflection. That’s fine, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I’m not deflecting,” he says looking affectedly bored, “you’re asking questions without using your head.”

You glare at him, but he’s already moved on.

“I guess if you think about it too hard…yeah, necrophilia.” You scoff because he looks like he’s thinking about it too hard.

If he doesn’t have sex with humans, does that limit him to vampires or are there other undead creatures lurking in the dark? “Does that mean you only…with vampires?”

“No. It doesn’t mean that.” The tone of finality in his voice scared you enough to drop the subject. “Do you know that since we met all you’ve done is ask me questions?”

“You’re interesting.”

“I’m really not.”

“Oh, please. You’re a vampire! You are, by definition, interesting.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be mysterious too? And dark? And brooding? And dangerous? Shouldn’t I be warning you away from me? That’s what all the media vampires do.”

You snort. “You watch vampire stuff?”

Now he glares defensively. “Is that so shocking? You watch human ‘stuff’ and I gather it’s just about as accurate. Humans are comically unaware of their own natures.”

“I don’t see how that can be true. Self-awareness and awareness of others is a part of socializing at micro and macro levels.”

“Easy mimicry.”

“Well, it’s certainly something you haven’t concerned yourself with, that’s for sure.”

“I never claimed that I possessed such a trait.”

“So, in your argument at least, you have this in common with the average human?”

You’re sure with the amount of glares you’re receiving this evening that you’ve been moved to the top of his ‘To Kill’ list. But if his intention were to kill you, you would have been dead long before now. You hope.

“Aish, I forgot how annoying your particular kind is. If I were a media vampire, I’d probably tease you about taking your life.”

“You’re real and reality is so much more exciting. And if you don’t think you’re dark and broody and that I’m not half scared of you at all times, then you’re dreaming, but I’m far too curious to really mind.”

“What was that thing about curiosity killing the cat?”

“Why is it that no one ever says the second part? Why are people so intent on squashing the quest for knowledge? How disappointingly human of you,” you say pointedly.

There’s a low rumbling growl coming from his chest and in this moment you’re more than half afraid, but you refuse to backtrack or run away.

Honestly, your working theory is that that’s probably why Jinyoung continued to put up with you. At best he seemed indifferent to the human race as a whole, at worst openly disgusted at his presumed food source, so why was he cool with shooting the shit with you?

This was a question you didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want him to think about it too hard, like he seemed to do with most things, and decide that you weren’t worth his time. Because no matter how much you tended to annoy each other, you really liked being around him.

There’s a brief flash of emotion across his face, that no matter how you think of it, didn’t seem to be his particular brand of sarcastic anger, which you’d learned was his go to when something was said or done that he didn’t like.

And then he was up, out of your favorite high-backed chair that your great grandmother left for you in her will. It was probably the nicest thing you owned. Which Jinyoung confirmed every time he was over by stubbornly refusing to sit anywhere else.

He walked toward the door of your apartment without saying any kind of goodbye, another thing about him that you’d gotten used to. He stopped halfway out the door and turned back to you.

“What’s the second part?”

“Hmm?”

“Of the saying? How does the rest of it go? Curiosity killed the cat….and then what?”

You smile. “Satisfaction brought it back.”

Masterlist

[hands-of-the-king]

Casually feeling like drabbling. I’ve got a character whom I’ve been writing as for a bit now, seeing as Privateer Press created Company of Iron which allows for a much more customized setting for the otherwise fantastic Warmachine & Hordes gameplay mechanics.

So, Former Trencher Officer Clancy Archer is going to be someone I write about here and there, because I like the dynamics he personifies.

For reference and background information, here’s this, a collection of small stories I’ve written about Clancy and his journey through undeath. This will be entry 05.

Or, if you want to see just the introduction to Clancy’s character and his background, that would be here.

Without further ado, let’s drabble.

In the months since Clancy’s first arrival in Llael, he’d faced a number of unfortunate circumstances. Two run-ins with Mercenaries donned with Trencher armor and having Trencher training weighed heavily on his mind. He’d killed them. Slaughtered as many as he could. And for what? For once, not even the rhythmic and endless impacts of shovels on soft earth could stir him from his desolation.

Dead eyes looked downwards, and the dead Cygnaran watched as his taut flesh obeyed the forces of necromancy, hands clenching and relaxing in a mockery of life. The pale, sickly green skin of his hand was contrasted with the robe around his waist - weaved of leather taken from his unit’s discarded uniforms. 

His eyes were cast upwards as one of them waddled through the trench. He was lucky in that his corpse had slimmed in undeath - but theirs were not so lucky. Undeath had accompanied a grotesque transformation, from well-built soldiers for crown and country into hideous, bulbous thralls, filled to the brim with a cruel alchemical soup. He’d outfitted them in their old pauldrons where he could, but their bodies could no longer support the uniforms. So, ever the opportunist, Clancy stitched himself a cloak more befitting a Trencher such as himself.

More befitting of a Skarlock Thrall lost in the nostalgias of a life he could never return to.

Clancy stepped up out of his trench, arms folded behind his back. He began to pace. His eyes scanned everything under the light of dawn, but he saw none of it. His thoughts clouded his senses. Perhaps it was that tunnel-vision that made him wander, far from his unit, and far from the trenches that they had been digging.

Llael’s border was so very close to the Black River. If he could just fashion a raft... eventually he could make it back to Corvis. To see his friends, his family... They never knew what happened to him... did they? How silly of him.

He took a sharp breath and jerked visibly. Coming to his senses, Clancy realized he was in the middle of a woodland. Raising a foot from the dirt path, he inspected his shallow footsteps, seeing them trail out of sight. How long had he been walking..?

Darkness peeked through the trees. Clancy frowned, and started to walk back to his men. To his ‘home.’

There was an air of danger around him, as the undead slowly retraced his steps. The darkness was encroaching, each tree could house a threat that would try to sink its teeth and claws into fragile skin.

Dead eyes flickered from here to there, peeking between trees, all too aware that hunters stalked the dark. Even the insects and birds of the woods were still, as if their breaths were held.

Clancy too found himself stilled and quiet, looking for any sign of trouble. It could be anywhere, creeping up on him, stalking him, ready to kill him in a place where not even his men would know. Where he’d never be capable of seeing his family again. He couldn’t die here. He wouldn’t allow it.

But like hell he didn’t scream in terror when the ghostly form of his brother sprang from the tree in front of him, arms outstretched and howling. Clancy jumped backwards.

And his scream was drowned out by the report of a rifle, that shattered the bark of the tree he’d been standing in front of. Clancy had no time to chastise Rick for his sudden appearance - nor for scaring the jumpy Skarlock - because the threat he was in had become immediately apparent.

Clancy began to run, even as he heard incomprehensible orders shouted from deeper into the forest. His feet fell soundly, as if he knew the area. He couldn’t stop and question it, but there were enemies here.

Instinctually, Clancy found a fortified position. A tree that had been rooted in loose soil and fallen. Loading his rifle, the undead pressed his shoulder to it, staring over and scanning the direction of the shouting. He was breathing heavily.

...Then he stopped breathing altogether. “...Oh wait, I’m dead. I don’t get tired.” He affirmed, then looked back down the sights his rifle. “...I’m dead. I don’t feel fear.” he too noted, collecting himself and frowning.

“I’m dead. They should fear me.” was his final reaffirmation, grimacing, and preparing for a fight.

More gunshots rang out in the distance, and Clancy gritted his teeth. But no bullets found their way in his tree. If not him, then what were those rifles firing at?

The answer came when Rick’s ghostly form weaved through the trees, taunting their pursuers, even as bullets riddled his incorporeal form. His cackling rang out, even as he came to rest before Clancy’s makeshift barricade.

The footsteps in the distance were growing closer now, and even as Clancy hid, he heard their voices.

“...We need to get it! Before it can warn any other Cryxians!” “Shoot the damn thing! Don’t let it get away!”

They were Cygnaran. Clancy’s own kin and men. He gripped his rifle, and inhaled again. Rick disappeared beneath the tree, and came to rest beside Clancy, grinning sadistically in his direction.

The wraith’s hands moved into position, and an incorporeal rifle was soon held in those wicked claws. A mimicry of his role in life. Clancy Archer was the unit’s Officer, but Rick Archer was their sharpshooter, their sniper. 

It was then that Clancy looked at his surroundings again, noting the destruction of the forest, and suddenly realizing that it was familiar. He’d known this tree was here. He knew the paths and trails here.

His eyes widened in shock. He was back in the Thornwood Forest. Where he and his unit had been stationed. This was where they’d patrolled. Where they’d had their last major engagement.

And only a mile away was where he and his men were slaughtered and taken to be resurrected by the foul necromancers of Cryx.

He’d come to this tree, and set up just as he had in life, with Rick beside him, shouting orders to his men and women to fortify the hillside, and to hold their ground.

He and Rick had noticed the weakness of the tree, as the rain poured and the ground was slick with mud. It took a few shovels filled with dirt to cause it to collapse, but it served as a vital tactical obstruction to help protect them against the advancing Cryxians.

...Clancy looked to his brother, and for a moment he wished he could cry. He lowered his weapon, even as orders to spread out and check the area were shouted.

It took all he could muster to close his eyes, and dissociate from everything, one more time. He needed to tell them. He needed to make sure his country knew what had happened to him. He needed to ensure that his family knew what happened to their sons.

The Skarlock ground his jaws together, grabbing some dried sticks and leaves from around his position, and soon had a small fire lit.

“Over here!” he shouted, teeth clenched, knuckles white as he gripped his rifle.

“...We’re over here.” The shouting stopped, and bootsteps were rushing towards the log. 

His impromptu campfire was pitiful, at best. But as a Trencher rounded the corner, Bannfield 603 Military Rifle trained on his eyes, Clancy could only imagine how awful he must have looked, with a Wraith formed of coils and cloth sitting next to him, each donned in the armor they died in, in possession of rifles they’d fired thousands of times in their lives.

He saw the young soldier’s face, saw confusion and then hatred in his eyes, as he reaffirmed the grasp on his rifle, and was a moment away from pulling the trigger.

“...First army, second division. Who’s the officer, soldier?” The kid trembled slightly. Clancy knew those eyes. He repeated himself, asserting a persona he’d long forgotten.

“First Army. Second Division. Who, is your Officer, Soldier?” He saw him grit his teeth.

“Officer Diana Falcone. Who the hells are you?” More bootsteps, as the other members of his unit followed the shouting and saw the fire. One by one, he saw widened eyes and confusion written on their faces.

Each of them had a weapon trained on Clancy and Rick. “Well, had to get replaced sooner or later. Can’t be MIA forever.” “Who’s got a cig? This’ no way to treat your former CO.” He reveled in the looks of confusion written into every single one of their faces.

“First Army, Second Division. Officer Clancy Archer of Corvis’ Blight. Nice to see you’re all still in one piece.” One of the soldiers came up to the undead Trencher, and grabbed him by his pauldrons, lifting his light and skeletal form to his feet, and shaking him vigorously.

“You mean to tell us that our CO went and BETRAYED us all to those fucking MONSTERS!?” Clancy looked unfazed, and frowned instead.

“No, you idiot. My squad and I died on patrol, and were resurrected. The reason I’m here now is to tell you what the hell happened, before I have to go and disappear back into the wastes.”

This was met with further disdain from the man who was presumably the unit’s sergeant. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in towards Clancy’s skull, peering through his dead eyes and seeming to judge everything he’d done.

“Who in the hell do you think you are, coming here and showing us that this is what you’ve become!? If you had any shreds of decency you’d let us put you out of your misery right now! How many more of your own men have you killed, Clancy!? How many more are going to die because they’ve turned you against us!?”

The skarlock grit his teeth, and the Machine Wraith behind him rose threateningly. “Corvis’ Blight has been reanimated alongside me. I fight because I’m the only one who can keep them safe, and out of the hands of those undead horrors who would unleash them upon the innocent civilians of Llael and Cygnar. I do what needs to be done so that at the end of the day, we can finally rest in our own graves. Got it?

Send a letter to my family. Tell them we got killed in our foxholes, holding off the enemy down to the last man. You never found the bodies, but they were there all the same.”

The trencher pushed Clancy back, gripping the chain that had been around his neck, and pulling it free with a snap. The Skarlock Commander clenched, as the sergeant inspected his dog tags.

“We’ll take these back, and tell our commander that one Clancy Archer has lost every right to call himself a trencher. With all due respect, sir... You’ve lost yer goddamn mind. Yer wearing our armor, leaving trenches in your wake, holding on to some poor bastard’s fantasy, hoping you’ll get a happy ending.” The Trencher’s sorrow-filled eyes were judging the undead creature, and all at once, Clancy could feel all of their eyes upon him.

“We were devastated when you were gone, sir. We couldn’t believe it. We din’ want to believe it. And now yer here. Alive, kickin’, and stirring shit for the men who fought with you. We’re gonna do you a solid, sir. We’re going to put you out of your misery. Put you to rest, so you can finally pass to Urcaen.” With that, the sergeant raised his rifle, pointing it between Clancy’s eyes. In that moment, the Skarlock was ready to embrace death, at the hands of his comrades, seeing the truth in their statements. He closed his eyes, standing there, waiting for the bullet to end it all.

But the shot never came. The darkness ceased when Clancy opened his eyes again, and the crackling of fire was now joined by the choking, dying breaths of the trenchers around them, throats slit, spilling a red ichor soaked into the hungry earth.

Clancy looked on in horror, as he found the culprit. His own brother, clutching the last survivor by the breastplate, removed his metal talons from his throat with a swift, surgical motion. His very real claws returned to incorporeality, once again shielding him from the weapons of the mundane.

Clancy felt a strong sensation in his chest, as he looked down to see the light dying from these soldiers’ eyes. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, however.

So it was in complete silence that he set to work, carving runes into the trenchers’ skulls and bodies, re-fitting them with armor, and pouring necromantic magics into their lifeless corpses.

As dawn broke again, Clancy strode forth from the Thornwood Forest. Ten pairs of footsteps followed in his wake. Each soldier had been freed from the shackles of death, and the burdens of life.

They had so much work to do, and Trencher Officer Clancy Archer was so very happy that a squad from his former company had volunteered themselves to serve alongside him in undeath!

Clancy was giddy at the prospect, naturally. Ten more shovels to work alongside Corvis’ Blight? The trench networks they could build would be fantastical!

Elsewhere, back in the depths of the Thornwood Forest, a unit of Trencher Infantry stumbles upon a derelict series of trenches, at least a few years old.

BLIGHT OF CORVIS I is emblazoned above the officer’s quarters, crudely carved into a plank of wood. Inside, the Infantry find a concerning sight: twenty-two dog tags are arranged on a small table, each one accounting for one member considered MIA by the military, with a message carved into it.

           THESE GRAVEDIGGERS    WALK AGAIN

[janeyland]

Starting to Talk

Thorny’s speech hasn’t developed in the way I imagined it would. Actually it has been so fascinating; Tom and I are both talky-talkers so I guess I assumed Thorny would be quick to speech, but he hadn’t been, really. If anyone were to ask I would probably describe him now, at two and a half, as non-verbal. But this isn’t really true. He has loads of words; his language is developing rapidly, exploding out on a daily basis, but it is indistinct and it would be hard for an outsider to understand a thing (although I am always impressed by how much they understand at nursery). The way it happens is fascinating. The way that words come is by clarifying themselves gradually out of his general babble (not a word I like but it is functional enough) - so it feels like he has been saying them forever, but we are only just understanding them. One example would be his counting. He can count past 20 (the other day he counter to 20-10!) but not many people could identify it as such. 1-10 goes: Bah, ooo, wee, oon, fuv, eex, gyeven, ah, gah, GAH!  Five started off as ‘bung’ and seamlessly morphed into ‘fuv’. It was really interesting to watch because I knew that Thorny develops his words by refining his babble, and bung seemed so far removed from five that I didn’t see how he could do it. But he did. His teen numbers are amazing too: Buh-gie, boogie, bib-gy, gig-gy, giragee, aggy, gaggy, GAGGY! (There is always such a celebration at the end of each round). When he first started his voice mimicked the teaching tone we clearly used: O-ne, tw-ooo, the-reeee, go-ur, FIIIIIVE! It was amazing his mimicry does make you more aware of your foibles.

So, while I describe him as not talking, he is, really, more and more. The other day he came upstairs after a nap and said ‘gaga aslip’ as Tom was still asleep. He describes all hills as 'a bit steep!’ And some of his towers too! He can tell me when he has put pepper or corn or peas in his water, which he does to annoy me, mainly I think. He has words for the colours, most of which are recognisable, except maybe for orange which is ooh-ma. That is changing though and mysteriously will reveal to me that it was, all along, orange in disguise. Banana recently went from bayaya to banana. He has the same word for dinosaur and ketchup (giron). His most magical sequence of words, as far as I’m concerned, is his words for 'square, circle, triangle, rectangle’ which are, unchangingly, 'bah, gagen, gagenagen, begagen'. Always said together, and increasingly fast. It is musical! His difficulties with pronunciations are very consistent. He can’t say ’d’ so daddy is gaga (more commonly gaggy nowadays actually, which is lovely), red is reg (with a hard g) down (from 'baby down’ is gown. He has troubles with some Ns so nanna is yaya. He calls Lyra Yi-wa which is wonderful. He often sounds South African with the harshness of his sounds, which I love - particularly the alphabet, which is really his thing right now - but his 'big’ (beeeeg) which is his new main descriptive word, is decidedly continental. His word for me is still not one I can fully spell or even understand all the time - he often has to poke me to let me know it’s me he means. It’s a bit like 'Bubby’ I think, because I always think he’s talking about bunnies. On the subject of bunnies, he often tells me he’s a 'slippy bubby’ and curls up on the floor for a pretend rest. He will sing enthusiastically along with so many songs -it is so wonderful - he sings raucously along to Shake It Off, for example, using, presumably his words, but it is hard to tell. I can hear him singing 'work that booty’, regretfully, from Boom Shake The Room. From Cake he can sing most of Jolene 'get up, get down’ If you ask him to say something he can pretty well mimic an approximation, but generally you know it is not his word yet. He had the words he needs and as his needs continue to grow, presumably his words will as well. At the moment we love App-ul and Graf (grape). He can in the other day from being out with Gaggy and yelled out 'Hai Bubby’ which was the first time that has ever happened (mainly maybe because it is usually me out with him. It was a great feeling! (His 'hi’ genuinely is 'hai’ and his 'bye-bye’ is happy and sing-song regardless of his emotions at the time. He gets ritually into things too. One day while we were out I said to him 'oh no, I forgot to get diapers!’ Then, after considering what to do I said 'it’ll be ok’ and he has said that over and over ever since. Often also he repeats what you have said back to him, which is often quite frustrating when it is a question.  But I think he does it when he doesn’t know the answer as it often has a shy and cheeky smile too: 'what song would you like to listen to?’ 'What song would you like to listen to?’…sometimes I think there is a comprehension issue there too, but I don’t know. He calls himself Boogie and water Booga. Jelly, and, insultingly, my belly, are 'wibble-wobble’. He has Up and Down (well, gun) sorted. He tells me 'Lyra’s diaper’ when I tell him I need to change his. He is into re-directing me already! His comprehension of everything is excellent. You can ask him to do anything and he will understand. He is certainly frustrated by the limitations of his speech.  His rage is sudden and profound when he is not understood and my hopelessness means all I can do is comfort him. Many of his words ARE very similar sounding, even to the best-trained ear. He talks and he talks though! We make up bedtime stories for him - mine are usually about T-Rex and Pterodactyl, two best buds who have suspiciously toddlery lives. After I’ve told him a story he will tell me a story about them too. Usually the same story - out of the mass of words I can pick out a few coherent ones which allow me to recognise my story. He has amazing intonation and cadence - you can tell when a character is talking and his voice swoops up and down the scale with his story.  Then he always ends with a chipper 'E A!’ (The End!) E A!