#in addition to all that: he's objectively correct about metal

[hildred-rex]

Hello, I love Hildred Castaigne! He’s such a fucked up unreliable narrator and he also reminds me so much of myself in middle school and I love him for it. What do you like about him?

First off, apologies for taking absolutely ages to answer this! Life happened and I promptly forgot tumblr existed for almost a month. Yay.

Anyhow, I think my love of Hildred is a combination of the factors you mentioned and the absolute state I got into shortly after I found The King in Yellow -- aaand here comes an essay. The last version of this got deleted, and apparently I've taken it upon myself to make its replacement even lengthier.

Hildred is a fascinating character to read and to write, and his opinions on things are (or would be) so different from mine that it's fun to try to puzzle them out. I keep a bevy of fictional characters that I can simulate reasonably well as a way to make myself consider how people get to opinions that differ from mine, and naturally he's among them.

Beyond that, I'm an absolute sucker for hints at a greater world, but only narrow viewpoints from which to try to figure out what's going on in that world.

The weird bits of The King in Yellow as a whole are superb at tantalizing you with smug allusions and tiny scraps of information about what, exactly, it is that the book is named for.

Is it a play? Is it an entity? What happened to the author? ...was the author Boris? (I don't think the author was Boris, but I won't lie that I've considered writing a fic where he was.)

I got hooked on Lovecraft for the same reason, and it's actually what put me on to Arthur Machen (favorite author) and The King in Yellow (favorite book).

Even with all that, I think my King in Yellow interest would have been a passing thing that returned occasionally, if it hadn't been the last thing I got into before my first set of high school final exams kicked my ass.

The tl;dr of freshman year is that I picked the wrong math class and it spent the semester wrecking my self-confidence (and my sleep schedule) before I finally managed to transfer to a better one. (Then I spent second semester picking myself back up.)

Hildred, notably, is self-confident to the point of it backfiring catastrophically on him. He absolutely should not have gloated to Louis, tactically speaking; in this essay I will-

Anyway. Stress is weird, so during finals season and its leadup I had quite a lot of unmarshalled energy that refused to work on what I actually needed it to do and that instead directed itself at my idle pokings at Hildred and his world.

Probably better than worrying about how my abysmal math grade was going to ruin my life.

It didn't, and I came out of the crucible with rather extensive additional worldbuilding. Since I essentially speedran getting invested in the project, I came away wanting to do more of it and... it just kind of stuck?

I mean, here we are several years later and my first impulse is still to name my tumblr blog for him. I've got a rough idea of his extended family back three generations. I have a design for that spring suit Hawberk had that was mentioned exactly once. I am the embodiment of

when it comes to this lol

_____

I couldn't find a good place to fit this in above, but Hildred was also the first time I encountered a story with an obviously intentional unreliable narrator after I'd encountered the term. Not sure how I missed it that long, lol. I spent probably half a decade looking askance at various authors and going "...do you know what you're writing there???"

I also couldn't integrate it anywhere, but I absolutely adore "The Mask." I have Thoughts on Chambers's ability to write romance more generally, the short version being that he writes Lovers™ and not characters and they're thus so wooden they're hard to read, but that he must have been in a position like the beginning of "The Mask" because holy god that is exactly how it feels.

[junosmindpalace]

Hello, Merry Christmas! 🎄🎉 I love your work, you are great. 🔥✨️

I would like to request a Senku x fem!reader. I thought it was cute that they go to a museum (maybe a date? whatever) Discuss the artifacts, make fun of an ugly wax figure, mimic portraits, maybe Senku corrects a science myth or something. They are having a good time. She takes pictures sometimes.

Have a great day! 😁🪐

-M.

hello M! thank you for your request (and your patience…this ones from christmas…)! i got super excited reading this one, it’s so cute!

One of Senku’s favorite places in the world were science museums. 

He’d been visiting them since he was a kid with his father, something that became tradition over the years, with every visit further encouraging his love of and fascination with science. It was like stepping into a playground. His excitement and enthusiasm were boundless, and he always ended the visit with more questions and ideas mapped out in his head that inspired the following day’s experiments to follow up on them. The museums became a sort of sanctuary for him, as he was surrounded by nothing but the thing that he holds the most love for, getting lost in the dizzying amount of information and endless exhibitions. 

He carried on the tradition with you, not being able to think of a more suitable way to show you his affection; taking you, one of his favorite people, to one of his favorite places in the world.

He’s taking you to his favorite museum today, one that he’s been to so many times that he knows everything it has to offer, from the events to the exhibitions. One of his favorite events is being hosted on top of everything else the museum has to offer, an annual tradition,, and so the time and date and location were all very purposeful. 

He lets you be the one to drag him around. He doesn’t need a map, he knows the place like the back of his hand, but you still grab one to make sure no stone is left unturned, no corner unvisited. 

You first drag him through hallways filled with ancient artifacts, from pottery to metal objects, encased behind glass panes and gleaming under bright white lights. The walls behind them convey lengthy paragraphs on each, with a picture or two to follow up or help visualize the setting from which the artifacts originated from. You and Senku leaned in close and whispered back and forth about each as you moved along the rows, bumping into each other’s side as you nudged at Senku to answer a question of yours, and him turning toward you to give you the clarification you sought. After your questions were all answered however, you managed to lose each other quite often as you browsed through the rooms and swerved through tall displays littered throughout, each of you getting caught up in your own curiosities, which led the two of you having to retrace your steps and dart your heads around to try to spot one another amidst the displays and crowds of people. 

He usually leans in to give you additional information about the information on tablets, debunking common science myths. He tells you that Mount Everest technically isn’t the tallest mountain in the world and that the sun isn’t really yellow. They’re all pretty common misconceptions, which he’s quick to correct if the subject the two of you are reading about is related to it. He tells you that the tissue covering your veins makes your blood look blue, but it's always red, and that lightning can certainly strike a spot more than once, especially tall buildings. 

The space exhibit is his favorite. You know because he tells you, but you don’t need Senku's extensive knowledge to come to that conclusion on your own with the way he’s so immersed in the videos, in the stars and planets floating around in the planetarium. It’s the one room where he’s mostly quiet, simply taking in the information, even if it’s already ingrained in his very DNA from how many times he’s seen the shows. He seemingly never tired of it, you observed with a smile as you watched him stare in awe at the projections, as if it was his first time sitting in that theater filled with constellations and planets, with that familiar narrator telling him facts he already knew. He’s a lot more eager to talk as you walk through the rest of the exhibit, telling you even more additional facts under his breath. But you still find he has moments of silence, possibly reflection, when he stares at space suits displayed behind glass and holograms of the astronauts who once donned them. 

He attempts to fight back a teasing smile when the two of you find yourselves in a scientist exhibition, with wax figures of the greatest minds in history posing next to plaques with information or TV’s running related informational programs. He snickers at the particularly horrid ones, elbowing you gently and turning his chin up toward Albert Einstein and Madame Curie looking onward with serious expressions, which send the both of you into bouts of giggles, leaning into each other to try and contain your immature outbursts and commentary among yourselves. You start to draw attention from nearby visitors when Senku poses beside them, not being able to contain your laughter from how silly he looks. 

Senku always loved the play spaces as a younger kid, but now he was older, and though he hadn’t outgrown his love for the activities, he unfortunately had outgrown the age limit set for who could participate in them. He recalls fondly the memories he made in those places when the two of you pass them by, telling you about the messes he made and how he got a bunch of kids hyped to help him. He’s still welcome at a couple of hands-on stations, however, and he’s just as enthusiastic as the younger children surrounding him, but he seems very knowledgeable in these little people’s eyes, and they watch him curiously as he tinkers meaningfully with the materials in front of him. He spots their gazes and smiles slightly, and performs the experiment with a dozen pairs of eyes on him from every angle. Oou’s and ahh’s and other impressed exclamations go around as you watch Senku help the kids perform the experiments themselves, patiently walking them through each step and answering all their questions as they eagerly crowd around him, mimicking his smile from further away. 

Most of the time Senku isn’t posing for the camera, but you still manage to capture some nice photos with him in it. You step back to take a photo as he admires the sea creatures in the aquarium tunnel, a small smile on his face as his head is tilted upward and making direct eye contact with a turtle swimming above. You manage another one which he catches on to, with Senku looking over his shoulder mid explanation about something at the camera, as airplanes of different sizes decorated the background. He tells you to cut it out when he catches you, but he’s also a bit of a hypocrite, because when you ask him to hold your camera while you go explore something for yourself, he’s bringing it to his face and focusing the lenses on your awed expression. 

He’s taken aback when you kiss his cheek suddenly as you file out of the museum into the night along with the remaining visitors, and he chuckles to himself when you tell him about the wonderful day you had and that you can’t wait for your next trip. Senku makes a mental note to research the events they have going on at his second favorite location for future reference. 

Little would he know that over 3700 years later, his own exhibit would be open to the public, recollecting his life and achievements as the leading driving force behind humanity’s revival through his love of science that was fostered in similar museums.

[magistralucis]

Exile and the kingdom [Zultanekh/Djoseras Snippet]

(Something from the second part of we live on archipelagos. A meeting of the princes after Oltyx's banishment; Zultanekh discovers, much to his alarm, that is not just Oltyx who is 'gone'.

Sad to say it's time to suffer)

------------------

They will achieve nothing more in this fashion. "I will come to you."

Objectively this is suicidal. Unnas's temper was ever quick to ignite, and it never died down all that fast, either. If the banishment of his own scion hasn't kept him smouldering, an Ogdobekh prince in his crownworld surely will. Zultanekh does it anyway, for it is not in his nature to avoid the inevitable. The fact Djoseras didn't turn him down only urges him on. A dignified royal such as he would never normally allow himself to be seen that way - as Zultanekh makes landfall his core aches with a horrible sinking feeling he will find Djoseras damaged, physically or through pattern ataxia, but it is so much worse than that.

"Djoseras?"

This is bare desert. There is no one here. He checks the locus coordinates: this is the right place.

'Djoseras!'

He calls out twice, vocally and through the network, woven through with alarm-glyphs. Both dissolve into the wind.

Thankfully, just as he is really about to panic, he receives the kynazh's response. It comes not in the form of words nor sound, more a faint interstitial nudge; apparently he's close, much closer than Zultanekh thought. Zultanekh is puzzled as to how he missed him, until he clangs his fist against his palm in realization. Necrons of their station do not receive guests alone. They are accompanied at all times, even if by a mere scatter of lychguard - he was scanning for a retinue, which Djoseras may no longer have, if he has had to leave so abruptly.

He has never been to Antikef before. This emptiness was not what he expected to see, the open despair. Something terrible is taking its course.

The kynazh's personal signature points to a crumbling quarry of boulders. An ocular scry suggests it may be the foundations of a palace. Zultanekh marches towards it with two lychguards by his side, and is proven correct in his analysis; when he brushes a hand over the rocks, he gains an additional observation, namely that their cleavings are new. This is a palace not yet built. It does not hold, officially, even a single occupant.

But they are past official matters now. He finds Djoseras at the heart of the ruin, in the beginnings of a sepulchral hall. The kynazh sits on his princely throne, the only intact piece of furniture for miles; he has his back turned to Zultanekh when he enters, and does not look around, Zultanekh has to make the turn himself. This is the first time he has seen Djoseras in person since the war.

"Honoured kynazh, I..."

The person is as Zultanekh expected. The essence of Djoseras, less so.

He is staring blankly into forward ground. His oculars have no focus. His carapace is mirror-polished and perfect, thanks to the maintenance scarabs they bear, but the dullness of his flux fails to match it. He does not even appear to have moved in some time, from the way the dust has gathered by his feet. In the language of yore, Zultanekh supposes - he is bankrupt.

Limp in Djoseras's right hand is a small phase blade. A pile of something glitters on the floor. Zultanekh adjusts the magnification of his oculars, gazing beyond the sand-grains, and with alarm realizes that it is silver: as thin as foil, not beat into shape, but shaven. There's a piece of it still clinging to the blade. Metals have always been sacred to the Ogdobekh. No other noble would've cared for those details. Just as well, then, that Zultanekh is no other noble, for it does not escape his oculars that this is the same grade of silver as Djoseras's own.

Oltyx.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Hi! I saw your tags in that post about identifying skeletal remains, and what is the book you mentioned about gender? Do you have any other you recommend about gender marks in burials or gender in history? This sounds amazing, now I want to read more about it!

Hey!

 Yeah, I was referring to Neil Price's Children of Ash and Elm: A History of the Vikings. I believe he also gets into it a little bit in his The Viking Way: Magic and Mind in Late Iron Age Scandinavia, but it's been a while since I've read it (still recommend as an overall text on magic in the time - also for anyone who has read my Grima stuff and thought: huh, that seidr shit sure is interesting). He's very good at saying archeologists can, at best, determine the sex of remains but gendering them is beyond the reach of science.

A small excerpt from Children of Ash and Elm to give you a flavour of his approach (any grammar or punctuations errors are mine):

However, in many cases the deceased were created an the resulting ashes are hard to sex reliably. More often, presercation conditions in the soil are unfavourable for the survival of bone in any state, and there are many graves without human remains at all (although they were evidently originally present). In these cases, for centuries archeologists have resorted to determining the sex of the dead through associated with supposedly gendered objects--this weapons in a grave are held to suggest a man, jewellery sets donate a woman, and so on. Beyond the obvious problem of conflating sex and gender, and also effectively sexing metal, these readings risk simply piling one set of assumptions on another in what forensic-decision-makers call a 'bias snowball' of cumulatively questionable interpretations. Clearly this is unsatisfactory, and at worst can lead to a potentially vast misreadying of Viking-Age gender from the literally tens of thousands of burials that have been analysed in this way over the years.

[...]

At Vivallen in Swedish Harjedalen, there was even a male-bodied person buried according to Sami rituals, in a Sami settlement, but wearing conventional Sami man's equipment over a Nordic woman's linen dress, complete with jewellery to match--a crossing of both gender and cultural norms.

Some additional resources to consider (there are more Neil Price pieces in this list since early medieval Scandinavian burial practices are a cornerstone of his research). It's a mix of books and journal articles as well as a mix of more "layman" friendly and more true-academic texts. For the journal articles, I'm not sure if you're associated with a secondary educational institution, but some local libraries will grant access to online academic journals, as an FYI.

(Apologies in advance for the lack of correct accents and other things on names (e.g., Th instead of the proper thorne), I'm working with a north American keyboard and doing this off the corner of my desk at work, so to speak)

---

Stfean Brink, Neil Price, The Viking World

Hilda Ellis, The Road to Hel: A Study in the Conception of the Dead in Old Norse Literature (this is a broad study of death rituals in the era, not really gender-archeology focused, but it's 100% worth the read and very thorough)

Anders Andren, Jens-Peter Schjodt, and John Lidow, Pre-Christian Religions of the North: Histories and Structures (Neil Price has a good essay/chapter contribution in here on death & mortuary behaviour)

Howard Williams, Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain

Marianne Moen, Matthew J. Walsh, "Agents of Death: Reassessing Social Agency and Gendered Narratives of Human Sacrifice in the Viking Age," Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 2021

Leszek Slupecki, Rudolf Simek, Conversions: Looking for Ideological Change in Early Middle Ages (has some stuff of "deviant" burial customs and concepts of the "dangerous dead" - stuff I fucking wet myself over, honestly)

Andrew Reynolds, Anglo-Saxon Deviant Burial Customs

Joanne O’Sullivan, "Strung Along: Re-evaluating Gendered Views of Viking-Age Beads," Medieval Archaeology, 2015

Judtih Jesch, Women in the Viking Age (note: it's from the early 90's and very much reflects academic gender and feminist work at that time - still always worth reading older texts for the sake of good historiography alone. Also to see what has been explored before and why we might have new approaches, or to see wher current views originated etc)

Sarah Tralow and Liv Nilsson Stutz, The Oxford Handbook of the Archeology of Death and Burial

Duncan Sayer, Howard Williams, Mortuary Practices and Social Identities in the Middle Ages

Charlotte Hedenstierna-Jonson, Anna Kjellström, Torun Zachrisson, Maja Krzewińska, Veronica Sobrado, Neil Price, Torsten Günther, Mattias Jakobsson, Anders Götherström, Jan Storå, "A female Viking warrior confirmed by genomics," Wily Online (link to article, it's open access)

Jacob Bell, "Magic, Genderfluidity, and queer Vikings, ca. 750‐1050," History Compass, 2021

Isabelle Algrain, "Gender and diversity in archaeological contexts," Revista Arqueologia Pública, 2021

Thora Petursdottir, "Icelandic Viking Age graves: Lack in material--lack of interpretations?", Archeologia Islandica, 2009

Anna Wessman, "Death, Destruction and Commemoration: Tracing Ritual Activities in Finnish Late Iron Age Cemeteries," Finnish Antiquarian Society, 2010

Ahmad ibn Fadlan was a 10th century Muslim traveler/explorer who visited these areas and wrote about it. You can find various translations of his works around. He has a description of at least one burial and related practices. Also some fun descriptions of sexual/fertility rituals though he sadly "fades to black" before the good stuff starts.

----

I hope this helps! I am always very excited to talk about anything related to early medieval Scandinavia (also early modern Europe) and so always happy to get these asks <3 <3

[iraempirecom]

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[forfamily]

Hamon

Bianca is a natural-born Hamon user, like her grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather. But what exactly is Hamon?

Hamon is energy identical to the Sun's rays. The human body can create this energy through controlled breathing, producing ripples of energy propagating from the bloodstream to the rest of the body and to other objects in contact with it. Hamon manifests itself as electricity-like sparks, and ordinary humans can see it. Hamon can also affect non-living things; an object charged with the energy will have one or several attributes enhanced by the energy, making it a more effective tool or weapon. Liquids conduct Hamon exceptionally well and objects covered in oil can conduct Hamon even easier. However, while all materials can conduct Hamon more or less well, an inorganic material such as metal cannot store the energy, instead simply passing through these objects.

Technically, anyone can produce Hamon energy, but only about one in ten thousand people have the ability to be a Hamon user in practice. In effect, only a few people have the willpower and therefore the discipline to breathe correctly. However, the ability to use Hamon is also a talent granted to people whose ancestors were once Hamon users. Due to its exact nature to the positive energy of the sun, Hamon's primary uses are to heal various wounds or ailments, and combat "darker" creatures such as vampires or zombies. Living organisms can be affected by Hamon attacks, but are not automatically hurt by them. Hamon users can reject harmful substances within their bodies by ejecting said substances from their bloodstream with the use of energy, hence why, despite numerous attempts on her life over the years with poison, Bianca has come out unscathed.

To use Hamon correctly, the body must be conditioned to breathe in the correct and most efficient way, which is why Hamon users undergo such strict and intense training in their chosen martial arts. For Bianca, that is Shit ō-ryū, a combination style, which unites the diverse roots of karate. On the one hand, Shitō-ryū has the physical strength and long powerful stances of Shuri-te-derived styles, such as Shorin-ryū and Shotokan; on the other hand, Shitō-ryū also has the circular and eight-directional movements, breathing power, and hard and soft characteristics of Naha-te styles such as Uechi-ryū and Gōjū-ryū. Shitō-ryū is extremely fast, but still can be artistic and powerful. In addition, Shitō-ryū formalizes and emphasizes the five rules of defense, such as rakka, the art of blocking with such force and precision as to completely destroy the opponent's attacking motion, kusshin, the art of bouncing back, storing energy while recoiling from the opponent's attack, changing or lowering stance only to immediately unwind and counterattack, and ryūsui, the art of flowing around the attacker's motion, and through it, soft blocking.

Despite her small stature, Bianca being only 5'4", she can toss around men bigger than her with ease. The only ones within her inner circle who could possibly defeat her (without the use of Stands, obviously) would be Leo and Dean (though Dean himself lacks a Stand, both he and Bianca were trained under the same Hamon master). There is also her grandfather, but all Dario has to do is give her the look and she'll get in line.

Bianca's chosen weapon is ABBA, a heavily modified Smith and Wesson Model 500 double-action revolver. It has a traditional 6-shot cylinder as opposed to the Model 500’s original 5-shot cylinder- further modifications the gun has are targeting sights, and porting on each barrel to reduce recoil and muzzle flip. The idea with the double barrels is that the rounds fire with a very slight timing offset: the first bullet is designed to penetrate armor (if needed) followed by the second bullet to deal actual internal damage. The bullets themselves are not metal but are in fact concentrated Hamon.

When it comes to the various Stands that are around Bianca in her everyday life, she cannot see them, but she can certainly sense their presence, whether they're manifested or dormant. Each Stand has a unique "pressure" and that is how she can tell them apart.

[ultra-maha-us]

Snuff Box Collecting Is Not Something to Turn Your Nose Up At!

The collectible "box" described by Genevieve Cummins (Antique Boxes Inside and Out), "as the most beguiling of all collectibles," describes perfectly the charm of an antique box and how it provides a wonderful opportunity to interact with history offering: interest, intrigue and mystery. The exquisite boxes for snuff are regarded as the most diverse charming and collectible of the antique small boxes and it will be this type of box that we will be focused upon in this article.

The "snuff box" came about as a fashionable and functional means to carry snuff, with the peak period for snuff use from late 17th century to the mid-19th century. The social importance of snuff in its heyday cannot be underestimated; this pulverized and scented tobacco commonly sniffed up the snuff box nose was first the vogue of mainland Europe's aristocracy. Then from the early 18th Century following the seizure of a large quantity of snuff from captured Spanish ships it too became a British vice and phenomenon.

The snuff boxes functionality was important as they needed tight fitting lids that were usually hinged and easy to open, air tight storage which was vital in maintaining the snuffs correct moisture for flavor and to keep it fresh. However the elegant snuff box was not just a functional way to store snuff correctly, its beauty and craftsmanship was its owner's greatest concern. It was deemed a personalized reflection of the carrier's tastes and social status as a statement of wealth and prestige. The social importance of the snuff box and its impact on its carrier's perceived social status can be summed of up in the saying, "up to snuff and a pinch above it", (Taken from Gose's Dictionary, 1823), essentially meaning "flash". In order to be flash you had to have the right box!

With such emphasis placed on such a small indispensable accessory there is no wonder why snuff box manufactures were regarded as artists, creating and designing these elegant little boxes with a high level of skill and artistry. Early boxes no expense was spared and they were made from precious metals and jewels for their aristocratic owners, special snuff boxes as well as having a beautiful exterior usually had an additional interest on the inside, sometimes a portrait or image and or another feature be it a secret compartment or automation. Top snuff boxes became the gift of choice for heads of state to present to diplomats and as honorees gift, such as with The Duke of Wellington when he was presented with a snuff box by each of the heads of state following the battle of Waterloo.

When snuff became more affordable and the practice became more widespread boxes became more widespread and were made for all levels of wealth; with a wide range of material used: gold, silver, precious stones, copper, brass, fine woods, shell, bone, horn, ivory, papier mache, tortoiseshell, enamel and mother - of - pearl.

Snuff boxes ranged in size from the very small to be carried in a lady's purse, to medium sized to be carried in a gentleman's pocket to larger table snuff boxes. Personal snuff boxes as the name would suggest were for personal use and were an important part of a gentleman or ladies attire. Snuff users were known to have many different personal snuff boxes for different dresses or suits, or even for different weekdays, seasons and events! Table snuff boxes were made as suggested for the table to be used at social gatherings such as dinner parties or when guests were present, basically to be handed around to share. Boxes also ranged in shape, they can be oval, square, rectangular, round, fantasies (objects such as boots and books); and many more.

These fascinating and elaborately decorated boxes are an excellent choice as a collection, as detailed above they can are made in a variety of countries and of a variety of materials, decorated in various ways using the different skills of there makers and come in different sizes and shapes which obviously determines there worth. Each piece has a story which is what fascinates me, good luck with your collections.

[kpopfanfictrash]

Raise the Barre (Ch. 2)

Author: kpopfanfictrash 

Pairing: Jimin / Reader

Rating: 18+ (Eventual Smut)

Genre: Enemies to Lovers / Dance Academy!AU

Word Count: 6,436

Summary: You and Park Jimin have been rivals for as long as you’ve known one another; ever since he tripped you in the front row of your first dance convention. When you graduate from high school and enter Russet Ballet Academy, you tell yourself you’re leaving all past quarrels behind. The main problem with this though, is that your past seems determined not to leave you alone.

Worse still, the obstacles you face while out in the real world might prove more challenging than anything your enemy has to offer.    

After the initial shock of your partner wore off, you decided spending the semester partnered with Park Jimin was, indeed, the dark sentence it appeared to be at first glance.

Jimin wasn’t happy with the situation either; that much became clear when Mr. Vlad said your name and Jimin instantly stiffened. You’d turned slowly to face him, your mind going fuzzy as you met his blank gaze.

The first two weeks of the semester had been spent wondering if this was some kind of cruel, cosmic joke. Maybe you’d been a terrible person in a past life and this was your bitter reward. If so, Jimin must have pissed someone off too, since he seemed equally perturbed by your new relationship.

Waiting in line at the water fountain, you checked the time once again and exhaled. Ballet began in five minutes and Miss Britt employed the same lateness tolerance policy as Mr. Vlad. Really, it was a blanket expectation by all the teachers at Russet. If you arrived after the door shut, you weren’t allowed in – and god forbid you missed a step the next week during barre. Motivated to avoid this, you’d arrived fifteen minutes early every day since classes started – it was hardest for 8:00 AM ballet, but that couldn’t be helped.

Once your water bottle was full, you screwed on the cap and hustled into the room with three minutes to spare. Miss Britt stood at the front beside the live pianist. She insisted on using one for all her classes, saying it was good practice for when you’d dance with an orchestra.

Arms crossed, she surveyed each student when they entered, and you hastened to stand beside Noelle at the bar. Placing your water bottle on the floor, you began to roll your neck and warm up your feet.

From across the room, you heard Jimin laugh and looked up on reflex – only to find him standing next to Sabrina.

Uncertain, you froze. You hadn’t made it a habit to follow Jimin’s movements, or even to learn more about him since your arrival at Russet. You saw him in class and occasionally on the weekends but had made it a point to keep your friend groups separate. As a result, you really had no idea what Jimin had been up to in his private time.

It seemed the answer to your question was: cozying up to the enemy. Since that first night in Grace Hall, Sabrina had proven herself to be as unpleasant as you’d feared. You’d mostly tried to steer clear of her path, but again, this was hard to achieve in a class of eighty students.

While you watched, Jimin laughed again and Sabrina smiled. She looked almost pleasant and in response to this, your eyes narrowed.

Objectively, you didn’t want Jimin as your dance partner, but he’d been assigned to you. It’d be incredibly embarrassing if he asked to switch midway through the semester. Everyone would know it was because of you and you’d have no other options when the New Year rolled around.

Faculty clarified the partner situation by the end of the first week. Apparently, only your first ballet partner at Russet was assigned. This was done on purpose, in order to get you used to working with new people, but you’d be allowed to choose your own partner starting January 1st. This was the only reason you hadn’t immediately marched to the front office and demanded a change. Clearly, this was a test of partnership. Jimin might be the devil himself, but he hadn’t asked to switch partners and you’d be damned if you gave in before he did.

On the opposite side of the room, Jimin smiled and you scowled, wondering what Sabrina could possibly have to say that he found so hilarious. In the two weeks you’d known her, Sabrina had yet to utter a joke in your presence. Suspicion clouded your judgement, since it was no secret amongst the class that Sabrina’s ballet partner wasn’t as talented as she was.

The idea that she might be after Jimin entered your mind while you watched. While you didn’t want to be Jimin’s partner, you also didn’t want Sabrina to be Jimin’s partner.

You were shaken from this thought by Miss Britt clapping her hands.

“Pliés, ladies and gentlemen!”

Miss Britt led ballet class on Tuesdays; right now, she stood at the front of the room while she waited for everyone to echo her movements.

“From first,” she said, adopting the same position. “Little breath on the intro, and – demi plié one, two. Demi plié three, up four. Grand plié five, port de bras six –up seven, eight. Rise to relevé on two! Hold three, four. Grand plié five, up six, tendu to second. Repeat!”

You followed her with half-movements, attempting to mimic her delicate port de bras. The grand plié was fast, which was tricky – you’d need to control your center as you rose from the ground.

“Start on the right,” said Miss Britt, turning around. “Skip third. I want to see you sweating by the end, everyone! Pliés should be as much effort as battements! If I don’t see sweat, we’ll do center barre again next week.”

A ripple of panic went through the class.

Center barre was a time-honored ballet tradition, loathed by all. It involved doing warm-ups in the center of the room instead of at the barre. This required additional strength and concentration; enough to cripple even the most stoic of ballerinas.

As the pianist started, the entire class inhaled and fell into motion. Hips square, core engaged, heels down, head tilted up and to the side. You let each breath you took flow through your body, mirroring the stance Miss Britt had shown.

True to her demand, your muscles were already warm by the end of the first side. Miss Britt made her rounds at the edge of the classroom, stopping occasionally to dole out corrections.

“Your back is arched, Irene!” she called. “There, that’s better. Louis, move through the motion. Save your ballistic stretching for jazz class. Good, good.”

“She’s coming,” Noelle whispered beneath her breath.

Hiding a smile, you ducked your head. Miss Britt was close – you could see her in the corner of your eye as she turned the corner, heading down your row with an eagle’s eye.

Dropping into the final plié, you struggled to keep your hips square while you rose from the ground. Miss Britt stopped alongside you, examining you for a moment before she began to walk forward. 

“Heels forward,” she said, correcting your stance. “Imagine everything rotates from the hips. Push down through the ground and out! All motion is powered by the glutes. Yes… better,” she said, begrudgingly moving on.

A bead of sweat rolled down your neck and dropped into your leotard. You knew her praise hadn’t been as genuine for you as it had been for others. Noelle glanced your way from the corner of her eye, but you continued to stare straight ahead. Miss Britt was nearby, and you didn’t want to give her another reason to scold.

As the music came to a close, Miss Britt stopped at the front and began the tendu combination. You were soaked with sweat before rond de jambes ended, only the massive amounts of hair spray and gel you had used holding your bun in place.

Barre lasted over an hour, which was longer than usual. As you and Noelle dragged your barre to the side at the end, you felt your grip slipping on the silvery metal. Trying to stay hydrated, you drank half your water bottle on the side of the room.

The water break didn’t last long – soon you were gathered in the center of the room for adagio. Miss Britt was the kind of teacher who used both hands and feet to relay the combination. You stood on the sidelines and watched; a bit dizzy from how much you’d sweated already. More water before class would’ve been a good thing.

The one positive about the adagio was it was a solo, not a pas de deux. You had ballet partnering classes throughout the week, of course, but oftentimes your normal ballet teachers assigned partner work as well.

This was why Jimin stood beside you, hovering nearby in case he was needed.

Casting a withering glance at him in the mirror, you assumed fifth position and firmly squared your shoulders. Behind you and to the left, Jimin rolled his eyes.

Jaw clenched, you decided to ignore him.

Sabrina stood on the opposite side of the room, paired with Paulo Goncalves, a talented ballet dancer – just not as talented as she was. Before you could look away, she turned her head in your direction. You winced, ready to move but then realized she wasn’t looking at you.

She stared at Jimin. Sabrina looked at him in much the same way mothers examined produce in the grocery store, taking in every angle to determine if it was valuable.

You stiffened when you saw this, unsure what to do. Sabrina’s gaze moved to you before you could blink and when she saw you, she smiled.

It wasn’t a nice gesture.

This was disarming enough that when the music began, your mind went completely blank. The rest of the class started, raising their arms overhead and you could only stare, lips parting in horror. All steps of the combination had flown from your mind.

“Développé devant,” Jimin whispered behind you.

Instantly, the steps returned to your memory. Snapping to attention, you raised both arms overhead. As you caught up to the class, you extended your right leg in the air.

Miss Britt turned in your direction, luckily not noticing your momentary confusion and when she moved on to Brian, you exhaled in relief. As the combination continued, a question mark formed in your mind, and you chanced a subtle glance sideways at Jimin.

A vague sense of confusion settled over you. Jimin had helped you, which seemed extremely out of character for a demon from the depths of Hades.

When you glanced his way though, Jimin didn’t seem to notice anything was off. He looked almost peaceful as he moved through the combination, executing the steps with perfect timing. The sight of this made your blood boil, since the combination was difficult, and he had the audacity to make it look so fucking easy.

Each line of his body radiated grace and control; he truly was remarkable, it made you nauseous to watch. The lightest twitch of his pinky was purposeful, his body held perfectly still as he stepped into arabesque.

You lost sight of him when you penchéd, catching Jimin again in the mirror when you rose. Logically, you knew he was also working hard, but it didn’t show at all. You, on the other hand, were working and looked like you were.

When the combination ended, Jimin breathed easily, barely winded, while you felt as though you’d just run a marathon.

“Y/N!”

Head whipping up, you met Miss Britt’s gaze at the front of the room. For a moment, you panicked and wondered if she’d seen your lapse after all. If there was one thing not tolerated at Russet, it was failing to pay attention.

She looked at you for a moment, as though searching for what to say and then simply said, “Square your hips in arabesque.”

You sagged slightly in relief. “I will,” you promised, but she’d already moved on.

“Irene, less port de bras. Any more flapping and you’ll fly away. Paulo – you’re lagging on your transitions. Stay on the beat. Now,” she said, turning around. “Find your partner. The next adagio is paired.”

Jimin walked forward and came to a stop beside you. You stiffened at his proximity, uncertain what to say.

He’d helped you – Park Jimin had helped and you couldn’t fathom why. For the entirety of your teenage years, Jimin had been your worst enemy; it only stood to reason the trend would continue at Russet. When he glanced at you in the mirror, you found the silence unbearable.

“Thanks,” you said at last.

Jimin turned to face you, surprised. “What for?”

Rolling your eyes, you turned to face him as well. “You know what.”

“I do.” Maddeningly, he smiled. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“Well,” you said through gritted teeth. “We all have things we want but can’t have.”

Jimin was about to respond when you noticed Miss Britt starting the combination at the front. She had one of the students from senior class helping, an incredibly talented dancer named Seokjin. Seokjin was ridiculously beautiful and equally shy. This didn’t stop half the freshman class – girls and boys – from harboring a fat crush on him.

Holding out his palm, Jimin waited until you placed your hand in his. Pulling you close, his other hand went to your waist while Miss Britt began the combination.

“Start in fifth,” she said with Seokjin behind her. “Ladies – relevé one! Hold two. Both plié three, up four. Ladies – right leg to passé and extend seven, eight. Relevé one! Hold two, hold three, four. Bring leg to attitude efface – seven, eight.”

Already, you found yourself sweating and you were only marking the steps. So far, the adagio placed heavy emphasis on the female partner, with the male only offering support. This was frustrating, since male partnering was difficult, but in a different way than for women. Men needed exceptional strength and balance to support their partner, but oftentimes it was the woman executing the more technical steps.

After front attitude, you extended your leg, pliéd and Jimin lifted you up. This required great coordination and timing – both his hands on your waist, he hoisted you into the air. Miss Britt stopped the music at this point to give you a minute to practice.

Not that this helped. While in high school, you’d done minimal partner dancing. Your studio hadn’t had any male dancers in your level; the partnering you had done was mostly female, which was a different expectation than traditional ballet.

The lift was hard and even two weeks into classes, you and Jimin still hadn’t mastered it. You kept smacking Jimin’s chin with your head when you leapt from the ground. This time was no exception – you heard the crack when it happened, a sharp pain radiating from the base of your skull. Jimin swiftly let go, dropping you on your feet.

“Ouch!” he yelped, stumbling backwards.

“Sorry!” you said, whirling around. “Are you alright?”

Jimin rubbed his jaw. “Yeah,” he grumbled. “I’m fine. Let’s just… try it again.”

You nodded and maneuvered dutifully into position, his hands returning to the same spot on your waist. After a deep inhale, you pliéd and jumped – and Jimin immediately dropped you, your feet hitting the floor.

“What was that?” you demanded as you spun around.

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Why are you asking me? You’re the one whose weight was pitched forward!”

“It was not!” Despite this, you frowned. It was possible Jimin was correct on this one. “Let’s just… do it again.”

Jaw clenched, Jimin returned to position and you tried it again. This time was passable; no one smacked anyone’s chin when they jumped and you landed on the right count, but it still felt somehow off. You were working too hard; when you glanced at Noelle and her partner, Eamon, their lift looked so effortless. Such mastery escaped you, slipping through your grasp no matter how often you practiced.

At the next water break, you immediately left Jimin’s side. Going as far away from him as you could, you drank eagerly from your bottle and relished in the silence.

Someone coughed from behind you.

Turning around, your expression instantly soured when you found Sabrina inches away. She had nary a hair out of place and for a moment, you wondered what’d happen if you messed up her bun. You got the feeling Sabrina was used to being in control.

Before you could speak, she took a small sip of water. Her gaze searched the room and landed on Jimin, who was saying something to Seokjin with a laugh.

“He’s talented,” she remarked.

Ignoring this, you drank from your own water bottle. “If you say so.”

Her gaze returned to yours, lips curled in a smile. “I do say so. You know it’s true, too. Jimin is talented, which makes me think you’re the reason you two can’t get that lift.”

Stiffening somewhat, you slowly bent to place your water bottle down on the floor. As you rose, you took a step forward and lifted your chin.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” you told her.

Sabrina’s lip twitched. “Oh. Touchy.”

“You should leave. Isn’t your partner looking for you?”

“Hm, not sure. He might not be my partner for long.”

Unthinkingly, you stiffened. “What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said.” Sabrina examined the nails on one hand. “It’s a pity Jimin has to be partnered with you when he could have the best dancer in the class. I plan on letting him know I’m available, if he ever wants to switch.”

“Are you seriously–”

“Miss Y/L/N!”

Both of you shut up, your heads snapping sideways and Sabrina immediately took a step backwards. Miss Britt stood before you, but how long she’d been there, you didn’t know. Desperately, you hoped she hadn’t heard the entire conversation.

Sabrina immediately turned away; Miss Britt let her go, which didn’t bode well for you. You’d been holding out hope this had something to do with your conversation, but this didn’t seem to be the case. Miss Britt watched Sabrina leave before she turned to you.

“I’d like to speak after class, if that’s alright,” she said, her voice low.

She didn’t sound angry, which made it even worse. Anger was a fickle emotion; it came easily and left easily. The calmness was worse, since it sounded like Miss Britt had something serious to say.

“Sure,” you said, managing to nod. “I’ll stay.”

She nodded and turned away, walking to the front while you stared at her back. After a moment, you shook yourself free and moved towards the center. A dull roar pounded your thoughts. Thousands of worries pressed from every side, each one more worrisome and insistent than the last.

This was it – you were finished. Russet was kicking you out. Somehow, you’d been sent an acceptance letter in the mail, but it was a mistake and you were being sent home.

When you returned to the center, you dully stood by Jimin’s side. He glanced at you curiously, sensing something was wrong.

“Are you –”

“Let’s just dance,” you said, moving to fifth position.

Jimin wisely let it go, stepping behind you to place his hands on your waist. The pianist began to play and you started the combination but the entire time you danced, your mind was somewhere else. You couldn’t help but think about what Miss Britt might have to say, each possibility you considered being worse than the last.

Things went smoothly for the rest of the class, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Everyone else picked up on steps easier than you did; Sabrina was right about that. Jimin was a talented dancer and he had experience with partnering.

He wasn’t the problem here – you were.

Jimin was quiet for the duration of class, which was unusual. You wondered if he was annoyed by your incompetence and again, your mind flashed to Sabrina’s words. She wanted Jimin as her partner. This made you feel a bit desperate because as much as you didn’t like Jimin, it would be humiliating for him to switch on you mid-semester.

If you were in Jimin’s shoes though, you would consider it. Sabrina had flawless technique, was beloved by the teachers and would only help his star to rise. They also seemed to get along well together, unlike you and Jimin, who were constantly at odds.

Realizing this, your stomach sank. Yes – if you were Jimin, you would consider switching partners.

When the hour hand on the clock finally met the twelve, you hastily gave your applause and bolted towards your dance bag. You lingered here, waiting for class to clear out, but you couldn’t stand being next to Jimin for one second longer. Thanking him had been humiliating enough for one day.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Jimin hesitate before he walked out. The rest of the class began to pack up, chatting with one another while they left the classroom. Miss Britt stood at the front with the accompanist, likely going over music for the next class.

Noelle also paused before leaving, but you told her to go and said you’d catch up with them later. You waited until most of the class had left and then you took a deep breath and walked to the front.

“Miss Britt?” you said, coming to a stop.

She faced you with a smile. “Ah, Y/N! Good, good. Let’s talk. You can go,” she said, dismissing the pianist.

Once she had left the room, Miss Britt again turned to you.

Your stomach twisted in knots. Now that you stood here, the worst kinds of scenarios ran through your mind. Miss Britt would kick you out of Russet; you would have to enroll in second semester at a local college. You’d have to return to your hometown with your tail tucked between your legs and all your dreams of a dance career would be ruined.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted before she could speak. “I didn’t mean to argue with Sabrina in the middle of class like that. It was unprofessional and I promise it won’t happen again.”

Miss Britt blinked. “Well, that’s good,” she said slowly. “But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“It… wasn’t?”

A small part of you had been holding out hope that this was it. That you would get a mild talking-to and be on your way soon. 

Miss Britt was known as a strict, but fair teacher. When she wasn’t yelling corrections at students across the floor, she came across as laid-back. There was a reason Mr. Vlad was the terror of freshman students and not her. Although Miss Britt was demanding, she tended to offer dancers advice as opposed to cutting them off right away.

“Talking in class is one thing,” she said with a stern look. “I don’t need to tell you how prestigious this institution is. I’m sure other teachers have emphasized that point enough. You’re only throwing away your own time and money by not taking this seriously.”

Your stomach sank, since you did take this seriously and hated the idea that Miss Britt might think you didn’t. It didn’t seem like the right time to interrupt though, so you let her finish.

“More than that,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about your progress.”

“My… progress?”

“I understand you were a competitive studio dancer before this, Y/N?”

Warily, you nodded. “I was.”

“I thought so.” Gently, she smiled. “I remember your audition tape – impressive, I must say. Your solo was exquisite, and your performance quality was one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

Hearing this, your heart began to swell with pride. Perhaps this wasn’t the terrible conversation you’d been expecting after all.

“But your ballet technique is behind the other students.”

Like a balloon popped, your chest swiftly deflated.

Miss Britt continued. “I see this often in competitive dancers, even if you did ballet in addition to other styles. People who trained as ballerinas before Russet usually have a more solid grasp of the fundamentals. People like Sabrina.”

“Ah,” you said, careful to keep your voice neutral.

“I know Miss Ernst isn’t always the easiest person to get along with,” Miss Britt said. “But she trained at our prep school before she entered the Academy. It might be helpful for you to ask her for some pointers.”

“Right.”

“Or even your partner, Jimin,” she offered, noticing your hesitance. “He’s a studio dancer too, but he trained more extensively in ballet. I don’t know if you know this, but he won the Grand Prix two years ago.”

The Grand Prix was a national ballet competition – no, not a ballet competition. It was the ballet competition. You knew that Jimin had competed and won the Classical Ballet solo category. You hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time, since you hadn’t been there, but Jimin’s smugness the month after remained burned in your mind.

“I may have heard something about that,” you said at last.

“Or someone outside of those two.” Miss Britt gave you a small smile. “I do offer solo sessions, but I’m unfortunately all booked for the semester.”

“That’s alright,” you said faintly. “I appreciate the offer.”

“Of course.” After a moment, her gaze became scrutinizing. “I don’t want you to feel discouraged by this, Y/N. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to have this conversation with a freshman, and it won’t be the last.”

You nodded and hesitated. She may have intended her speech to be comforting, but you couldn’t stop the vague sense of panic which spread through your limbs. The next words out of your mouth left before you could stop them.

“But how many of those students were given an offer to the Company?”

Miss Britt paused, and you glumly realized the truth. Not many.

The Company was what this was all about, of course. Russet Ballet Company was known not only for impeccable traditional ballet, but for their recent expansion into jazz and contemporary. Only fifteen offers to the Company were given to the graduating seniors at the end of four years.

Heart sinking, you realized this meant you were at the bottom. Perhaps not in every dance style; as Miss Britt had noted, your performance quality was exceptional and you were a strong contemporary dancer, but freshman year focused on ballet.

If you couldn’t last the first year at Russet, there wouldn’t be any opportunities later for you to prove yourself.

“Alright,” you whispered. “Thank you.”

Miss Britt straightened. “Find someone to train with,” she said. “Ask your classmates for help. I wouldn’t have this conversation if I didn’t believe you could do it, Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you said, trying hard not to cry.

Seeming to realize you had enough to consider, Miss Britt nodded and stepped back to rearrange her sheet music.

“I’ll see you in class next week, then,” she said with a note of finality.

Sensing the conversation was over, you nodded and turned to walk across the room. Fingers tightening on the straps of your bag, you stared straight ahead and focused on something else. Something – anything but the terrifying idea of your dreams crumbling around you.

Coming to a stop at the water fountain again, you filled up your bottle and focused on breathing. Most of your sweat had dried, loose strands of hair sticking to the back of your neck. You screwed the cap on your water bottle, shoving this in your bag to head towards the stairs.

You were so lost in thought, you didn’t hear the sound of your name being called until you’d nearly reached the end of the hall.

“Y/N – wait!”

Stopping short, you paused to glance over your shoulder. To your surprise, Jimin was hurrying towards you down the length of the hall. He was dressed in black sweats and a jacket, his hair still slightly mussed from the class you’d just left.

Coming to a stop before you, Jimin cracked a smile. “Damn, Y/N. You walk fast.”

“What do you want, Jimin?” 

His smile disappeared. Straightening, Jimin’s fingers played absently with the strings of his hoodie. Some of his usual haughtiness reentered his gaze.

“Why do you always assume I want something?”

“Because I know you,” you said. “That’s how we work. You say something asshole-ish, I respond with something rude and we both move on. So, come on. Out with it.”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “I – wow, Y/N.”

You waited a beat.

“Was that it?” Dully, you arched a brow. “Not your best insult, Park. Anyways, if that’s all you have to say, I have to go.”

“What is your problem?” Jimin said, wonderingly when you turned to leave.

Halting your step mid-stride, you stared at the wall for a moment before you turned around. Stalking towards him, a part of you knew that deep down Jimin didn’t deserve this, but it’d been such a long day and you were just so tired. The suggestion to ask Jimin for help was the final straw.

“My problem?” you said, coming to a stop before him. “My problem is having you for a partner.”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed. “Hey. It’s not my fault you messed up in class today, Y/N.”

“Of course not,” you snapped. “It’s never your fault. Perfect Jimin, beloved by every teacher and student.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means!” Realizing how loud you were being, you lowered your voice. “You’re a guy, Jimin. It’s easier for you.”

His jaw dropped a little. “Are you… are you being serious, Y/N?”

“Oh, come on,” you said, giving a bitter laugh. “Are you honestly going to say you’ve never noticed? It’s easier for guy dancers. All the teachers love you because you’re a novelty. You can do the exact same thing as a girl dancer, but everyone looks at you because oo, a boy! Even your fucking center of gravity is higher than women! You have an advantage in dance, and it sucks.”

Jimin’s face had gone slightly sallow while you spoke.

“Some advantage,” he sputtered. “I never felt advantaged when I was strapping myself into a dancer’s belt before class.”

“Oh, how sad. Your penis is uncomfortable.”

“I – let’s stop talking about my dick,” Jimin muttered, his cheeks turning red. “There’s an equal number of girls here as guys, Y/N. I’m not any sort of novelty compared to you, so why don’t you let the past go? Who cares who won between us during high school?”

“Let the past go?” you repeated. “That’s a lot coming from you. You’re the one who suggested our bet in the first place.”

“Whoa, hey.” Jimin frowned. “You’re the one bringing that up now, not me.”

“I’m just bringing it up to prove a point.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I even tried to collect on my winnings.”

Still facing him, you scowled. “You didn’t win.”

“Technically,” Jimin said, holding up a finger. “We said the first person to get three trophies. I got three.”

“Three trophies at competitions we both competed in,” you shot back. “I didn’t compete in the last one, so you didn’t win!”

“A technicality.”

“See!” you said, in clear disbelief. “You’re still harping on this and then you turn around and tell me to ‘let the past go.’”

Jimin’s smile disappeared. “Listen, Y/N. If I had an advantage in high school, it’s gone now. There’s an equal number of girls as guys here at Russet and I’m working just as hard as you.”

“Wrong,” you said. “I have to work twice as hard to get the same result.”

“That’s just not true!”

“It is! That’s the only reason you won against me as often as you did in high school.”

“Hey,” Jimin snapped, finally sounding annoyed. “Fuck, Y/N – are you being serious right now?”

“I don’t know,” you exhaled, tearing your gaze away.

Taking a deep breath, you stared at the staircase and willed yourself not to cry. The two of you were being so loud, you seriously hoped Miss Britt hadn’t heard. It would be just your luck to get in a fight with both Jimin and Sabrina on the same day.

Everything hurt. The words from Sabrina and Miss Britt continued to run through your mind and the last thing you wanted was for Park Jimin to see you cry.

“I just – have to go, Jimin,” you managed to say. “I’ll see you later.”

Pushing past him, you avoided eye contact and left him standing alone at the top of the stairs. Jimin didn’t respond, but you heard his ragged exhale behind you as you left.

Shoving open the door to outside, you pulled a sweater from your bag and wrapped this around you. Blinking in the sunlight, you took another deep breath and began to walk down the street.

Jimin wasn’t the main reason you wanted to cry, though he was a part of it. Years of tension, resentment and competition had finally led you to explode – but beneath that, there ran a current of confusion.

Jimin had been waiting for you out in the hall.

Every explanation to this that you thought of sounded ridiculous, since Jimin hadn’t seemed mad or angry when he’d first called your name. An inkling of regret swirled through you and, somewhat uncomfortably, you wondered if you’d misjudged him.

Maybe you really were the only one holding onto this dumb rivalry. It’s just that Park Jimin could be so infuriating without even trying.

He had to know men had the advantage in dance – they always did. It was obvious each time you turned on the TV and watched any dance reality show. Women needed twice the stage presence, athleticism and musicality just to get on the same stage as a guy who taught himself to pop and lock in his basement.

It was even more infuriating because objectively, Jimin was better than you and – rationally – you knew you should ask him for help. This was the logical thing to do, but you couldn’t bring yourself to dismiss your pride. Asking Jimin for help would be like admitting he was better and you absolutely refused to inflate his ego.

A few steps from Grace Hall, your phone dinged in your pocket and when you pulled it out, you saw Finn’s name on the screen. Rather than be elated by this, your heart sank a little. You two had made tentative plans to hang out but right now, the idea of seeing other people made you a bit nauseous.

Finn: hey, babe! Want to grab dinner tonight? My roommate is crashing at his family’s house this weekend, so we’d have the place to ourselves ;) [11:22 AM]

Your thumb hovered over the keys for a moment, wanting to say yes but Miss Britt’s words from earlier lingered in your mind. You were behind your fellow classmates. You needed a teacher, you needed a tutor and at the very least, you needed more practice.

Slowly, you typed out a response.

Y/N: Last minute practice was scheduled for tonight ☹ rain check for tomorrow? [11:23 AM]

Finn responded fast, somewhat disappointed but agreeing to your abrupt change of plans. You didn’t respond, shoving your phone in your bag to walk up the steps of your dorm.

You had lied to Finn. There wasn’t practice tonight, but you knew he wouldn’t agree with your assessment of the situation. Finn didn’t understand your world of dance, which wasn’t his fault. It also wasn’t his fault that his girlfriend had chosen such an intense career path which left little free time. Finn was a normal college student and understandably, he wanted to spend time with his girlfriend.

Once in your dorm room, you tossed your bag on the floor and slowly exhaled. Noelle wasn’t there, so you stood in the center and tightly closed your eyes. You allowed the silence wash over you, taking several deep breaths and when you finally opened your eyes, you felt a bit calmer.

The day consisted of lunch and two more classes – variations and pointe – but at the end of it all, you returned to your room and changed from your clothes. Tugging sweats and a t-shirt on over your body, you placed your leotard in your laundry and left the room.

Danley Hall was a short walk away; you’d heard from upperclassman that studio space was available on a first come, first serve basis. It got crowded at the end of the semester, when people were practicing for showcases, but it was fairly empty when you arrived at 7:30 PM.

Climbing the steps to the fourth floor, you let yourself into the first empty room you found. Setting your bag on the ground, you waited a moment before facing the mirrors.

The practice room smelled like wood, rosin and whatever cleaner they used on the glass. Outside the room the sun had begun to set, casting misshapen shadows over the floor. Plugging your phone into the speakers, you stepped from your shoes and slowly walked to the center.

As the first notes of music left the speakers, you closed your eyes and inhaled. For the first time all day, some of the tension drained from your body.

With wood beneath your feet, dust motes in the air and a familiar song on the stereo, you finally felt at home. Stretching both arms overhead, you rose on your toes and hung there a moment. When the music changed, you dropped to a lunge and let yourself be pulled by the music, your body one step ahead of your thinking.

Miss Britt was right; you weren’t a ballerina. You had no idea if you ever would be, but this was something known, this was something you were good at and something you loved. This was a moment where you came alive.

The longer you danced, the more frustrated your movement became. So much emotions swirled beneath the surface, frustration chasing each step as you danced across the floor. You tried to stay ahead of it, tried to dance beyond its reach but the emotions caught up in the end, dragging you down and swallowing you whole.

When the song ended, you found yourself breathing raggedly in front of the mirror. Staring at your own reflection, you felt your heart sink. It wouldn’t matter how much you loved this if you didn’t even make it through the first year.

After another moment, you turned and walked towards your phone. Switching the song to a classical one, you took a deep breath and went to stand at the barre.

As the first notes began, you rolled your neck and waited to count yourself in. While you couldn’t bring yourself to ask Jimin for help, that didn’t mean you couldn’t take matters into your own hands. You’d seek out other teachers, you’d find other students and you’d do this barre twice as often until you began to improve.

Opening your eyes, you began grand pliés.

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading 😊 New chapters of Raise the Barre will be posted weekly; dates are listed on the series Master List. Requests for updates will be deleted.

RAISE THE BARRE MASTERLIST

© kpopfanfictrash, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[nymphigeon]

From me, to you || 07

♤ Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

♤ Genre: fluff, angst, romance, hybrid au, hybrid!Taehyung, detective!reader

♤ Words: 2.5k

♤ Rating: PG-13

♤ Warnings (for this chapter): Mentions of hybrid abuse, swearing.

♤ A/N: Surprise! I'm really sorry it took me this long, but I finally found the time and drive to write again :) Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Synopsis: A story in which he has never known love, so you’ll give it to him.

Series masterlist

06 07

"What do you mean this hybrid doesn't exist?"

Her eyes are wavering with an unspoken fear, perhaps caused by the bitterness my questions holds. I'm not happy, and she knows.

“It’s just, the chance that a dangerous breed such as the tiger hybrid would escape our system is basically zero..” The gaze she held on the computer screen unsurely moves my way. My expression must've instilled another layer of anxiety to the already existing one, as her mouth abruptly stops moving and her pupils dilate.

“Go on, explain.” The tone of my voice softens a bit as I notice her visible discomfort worsening. Even if there is no way that I’ll get any information from this place regarding Taehyung and his owner, I would still like to know why they’re both not showing up here.

Eun-ji takes a few deep breaths to stabilize her voice. As she does her posture slowly relaxes just a little and her eyes lose some of the nervousness they held before. “Because the first ‘successful’ tiger hybrid ran rampant after killing their creator, anyone who still breeds or creates them is being watched very closely by us, as well as by some other institutions.”

Perhaps it’s my lack of reaction that causes her to trail off at the end. Though I’m not judging her or her story, unlike she may think. To encourage her to continue, I give her a nod, tilting my head to show interest.

“The regular citizen isn’t even allowed to have one, needing special training to handle them. It’s like that for most hybrids that find their origins in wild animals. Creating tiger hybrids obviously requires a lot of knowledge when it comes to playing with genes and breeding them…. Well there are only three organization that are authorized to do so. All the resulting hybrids are registered and chipped.”

The explanation, which turns out to be a lengthy one, gets broken by a shuddering breath leaving her lips. She composes herself, clinging on to the little confidence she has left in her line of work to speak about the rest of her clarification.

“Of course people have tried to do it themselves, but those d.i.y operations have always ended in disappointment. If not taken proper care of, with substances only a board certified hybrid doctor can provide you, the pregnancy will fail. These are no easy practices they are dealing with.”

After the girls’ last words I give myself some time to think, letting a silence full of tension fill the room. It must be obvious that my mind is somewhere else at the moment, as the other girl in the room does her best to stay quiet. I don’t need much time however, my thoughts having quickly rearranged themselves as they were trained to do.

“So what you’re saying is, since tiger hybrids are hard to ‘create’, if you will, there are only a few people who actually manage to bring them to life. And so those few people are kept under close watch, as are the hybrids they successfully wake, am I correct?”

Eun-ji nods affirmatively, clearly happy that I seem to understand the situation. “So there is absolutely no way that someone without authorization has had a decent attempt at either genetically merging a human together with a tiger or getting a tiger hybrid pregnancy to be successful?”

Perhaps there might be a bit of scepticism in the question I asked, as her attitude immediately changes into a defensive one. “There is not! Whatever hybrid you’re searching for either gave you a false identity or is not a tiger hybrid at all, which would seem rather unlikely. I told you they get chipped right? Why not go look into that.”

“He doesn’t have one. We already had a hospital take a look at him, they didn’t find anything. ” The statement seems to shock her, the gears in her head instantly turning as to find an answer to this riddle. She however can’t seem to get one.

“They can be removed, can they not? They’re just under the skin. If someone decided to just cut it out they could. Terrifying, but plausible. Either that or one of your faithful authorized employees has been leaking information to outsiders.”

This is where Eun-ji seems to give up. Her shoulders sagging and a heavy sigh leaving her lips. “There would still be the problem of the missing equipment, test subjects, practice… How would you even get hold of fertilized human eggs to play around with? But I guess that wouldn’t be totally impossible. As for cutting it out… There would be a noticeable scar. The implants are always put in the same place, it wouldn’t be hard to miss.”

I make a mental note stating to ask Taehyung about all of this when I get back. If anyone knows how he got onto this world it would be him. “Is there a possibility that you could have someone look into it?” The girl nods in defeat, paying more attention to the ground than to anything else. “I’ll see if I can get someone on the case. I’ll have them contact you if we know anything.”

After those words she turns around in her chair, facing the monitor that had already put itself into sleep, and turns it off. Taking a notepad out of the drawer to her left, she quickly writes something down with the pen from her breast pocket. “I’ll get on it right away. Would you like me to walk you back to the exit?”

I shake my head. “No It’s okay, I’ll find my way back. Thank you for cooperating.” Eun-ji gives me a small smile, followed by a bow and walks out of the room taking the note with her, presumably immediately keeping herself busy with the extra work. Not wanting to waste any time I copy her, walking myself back into the direction we came from. Turns out it proves quite easy to find the exit by myself.

It’s already far past dinnertime when I make it back to the office. Not many of my colleagues have remained in their seats, most of them opting for a nice meal with their families. The few that have stayed behind are mostly known to live alone, quite like myself.

I quietly knock on my supervisor’s door, but when no response emerges from within the room, I can safely deduce that she too has already returned home. “I’ll have to write her a report about today later..” I mutter to myself, before stepping away from the door and instead heading to the cells at the back.

Technically the arrest period had already ended for Taehyung, as the law wouldn’t allow us to keep him locked up for any longer without any charges being held against him. His cell however technically was never locked and so even now, he is free to go wherever he wants. Though it didn’t change the fact that he still has no place to go to.

“Good evening. Had anything to eat yet?” He just chose to stay here and we accepted it. “Oh, hello! Yes, that tall handsome bulky man gave me something earlier, I can’t remember his name. He said something about it ‘being the best shit in town’.”

I slightly giggle at his quote, knowing immediately who it belongs to. “That definitely sounds like something Namjoon would say. What did he give you?”

Taehyung looks a lot better than he did yesterday. The stress of the interrogation seems to have completely worn off, instead traded for the sweet bouncy personality he used to show around me.

“Umm it was something in the shape of a circle and it had meat all over it… Oh! I think he called it a pizza? It was delicious!”

“You’ve never had pizza before?” The words leave my mouth before I actually get the chance to process them, causing me to instantly regret ever even opening my mouth. These days are stressful enough for him as they are, he doesn’t need a painful reminder of the life he never got to live on top of that.

The question doesn’t seem to hit him as hard as I though it would though. In fact, his demeanour doesn’t seem to change at all. Although sadly, it doesn’t make his next words any less painful. “Nope! When I first got adopted all they would feed me was wet cat food. It wasn’t great, but at least I got my three meals a day. The foster family I stayed at after my first owners mysteriously disappeared didn’t actually have the money to even take proper care of themselves, so at that time all I would get was whatever was left of their dinner that day, if there was even any left. It was mostly just greens. The lack of meat made me real sick at the time.”

He pauses talking for a second to look up at my face through the metal bars. The content look on his face quickly changes to one of worry once he catches my eyes. It’s no mystery why, I know I look at him pitifully. Even if he may not wish for my concern, I am only human. I can perfectly hide it when I need to, but this is not one of those cases.

“There it is again, that sad look on your face…” He sits up straight on the side of his bed to fully observe me, a tilt of his head giving him away. I send a sad chuckle his way as I reach for the door of his enclosure, inviting myself into the small space with him. He doesn’t object.

“Is it that obvious?” It was meant more as a way to lighten the mood, not as an actual question that needs answering. He still does however, giving me a simple slow nod. “You don’t need to feel bad for me.”

“Someone has to. You deserve at least that much.”

There’s a chair neatly placed under a small desk in the room. It used to be quite lively, with all kinds of bright colours blending into each other. It was a little positive additive into the dark grey room, but after all the anger that has been acted out on it, it no longer has that same shine.

I pull the chair out to place myself upon it, straddling the seat while I rest my arms on top of the back rest. Facing the tiger I use my arms as a pillow to lean my head on, making myself comfortable on the creaking furniture.

“Say, Taehyung, do you remember anything from when and where you were formed?”

He seems slightly taken aback at first, though quickly regains his composure. He also doesn’t immediately answer, first taking some time to think before coming back to me. “I was born a hybrid to two purebred tiger hybrids. They did their best trying to care for me in the little time we got to spend together, but seeing as it happened on a breeding farm getting to spend time with my parents wasn’t the plan. I got sold off pretty quickly, as soon as I learned to hold my first few full conversations.”

“Do you… Would you happen to know what happened to the farm? To your parents?” I fail to hide my apprehensiveness, needing too much space to form a careful approach. This shouldn’t feel like an interrogation to him, I never even announced one. There is little reason for him to answer me, the vital information from his side has already been given anyway. Nonetheless, even though I probably shouldn’t be doing this right now, I can’t just miss this opportunity.

“I heard my adoptive family talking about how the place was burnt down a while later. Most likely the police had caught a hold of it and they had to delete their left behind evidence. Both building and hybrids.”

Despite talking about the death of his parents, he seems to tell the story with relative ease. Probably not having much connection with the far past, his brain too young to truly hold on to the memory of them.

“They were successful too, as the case got dropped faster than lightning. It wasn’t long before the general public forgot about it too, believing it was just another misunderstanding. Besides, hybrid lives weren’t as important anyway.”

The amount of rights hybrids had when they were first created back in the day were close to zero, only strictly being seen as objects to show off whatever possible wealth one may have had. For a while there was even a popular theory going around that hybrids didn’t actually have the ability to feel any kind of emotion or pain. The genetic puzzle wouldn’t allow for it, as it had been tampered with to an extreme extent. This only built on the carelessness shown towards them, slowly chipping away at their sanity.

Although the rumours were wrong, they came from a place of truth. Facial expressions were rare for hybrids, as was the ability to speak. Most of them couldn’t even keep up with regular humans, exhaustion quickly taking over the little anger they could show. Scientists hadn’t yet quite figured out how to perfectly combine the pieces of genetic code and so hybrids were more like living dolls in the eyes of evil humans. Having no voice to object and barely any means to actually hurt anyone, it wasn’t much of a surprise the selfish nature in humans came to rise.

Luckily, or depending on how you look at it, sadly, these first generation hybrids were never able to reproduce. The doll like hybrid features eventually died out with the rise of the newly perfected pieces and the theory was debunked by a group of scientist who actually did care about the hybrids’ wellbeing. Those hybrids had lived through countless punishments, and every single one of them had hurt. A lot.

Right now hybrids in a lot of ways are superior to the rest of us. Having the combined senses of both animal and human alike, society has reluctantly given up on trying to contain them. They are still to be bought and owned, but no longer to be treated like dirt. The smartest of hybrids have even already gotten complete freedom to do as the please, no longer having to be bound to a human to roam freely. However, those unable to pass the close to impossible tests aren’t so lucky.

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

Taehyung gives me a reassuring wave of his hand, effectively trying to lighten the mood, along with a sad smile. It wouldn’t take a trained professional to know he still longs for his parent’s presence, even if he may do well hiding it.

“It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.”

That doesn’t make the situation more okay, but I hold my remarks back. For now, that might just be for the best.

Taglist

@suhappysuho @intellectualxprincess @sana-b @littlewolfieposts @nellaphine @the8luvr @deathkat657 @elenaramos1 @namjoonies-dimple

[plush-rabbit]

I Want To Hear You Say It

Chapter 3: Claw Marks

Word Count: 3.5K

A/N: Listening to the FNAF timeline and thinking about that tiktok

Prev.

He dreads going to the hideout. He doesn’t want to think about what he's going to say, what excuse he’s going to make up that will keep everyone satisfied with his answer. The correct thing to have done on the journey home would have been to make up a believable lie but without the safety of numbers and the area that he was in- he had to focus on not getting caught- his mind too preoccupied with his surroundings to actually have time to think. 

His steps are heavy, short breaths that fill his lungs and leave in puffs, bones aching and he finds himself nearing the building. Dark in color, weeds sprouting from the edges, the color of the building, once something deep and polished, is now faded and dirtied with random tagging symbols that have long been washed out by the weather. He stands at the door, sky clouded overhead and a light mist that falls onto him and makes him uncomfortably wet. His stomach is full with chicken that you bought and shared with him. The hideout is dark, the windows boarded up and he can’t hear a sound coming from inside. No screaming, arguing, music, or singing. Tomura stands outside a hidden door and he takes in a deep breath, cold air chilling at his throat and making his mouth dry.

He walks inside; the door creaking as it announces his arrival to anyone who is willing to listen. His eyes scan around the old room, the floor solid underneath as he takes careful steps, hands poised and a deep unsettlement that settles in his bones as the stillness seems to place everything inside on pause. His mouth opens, his tongue coming out to lap at his lips, a passing thought flashes by that he should call someone’s name but as quick as it came, he denounces it just as quickly. He won’t risk calling someone’s name- someone could be listening in, the hideout could be abandoned and still wiretapped in case any wandering heroes had gotten lucky- no, he’ll walk around and assess.

He takes a careful step forward and then the room is bathed in a yellow light. His shadow stretches and distorts, elongating and he feels bare, his face naked and cold, immediately, placing his hand over himself in a mock attempt to mimic Father. His eyes snap up, hand already reaching forward with every intent to rid the possible threat until he lands on sun colored eyes. 

“Tomura-kun!” Toga says especially, her smile wide and a slight skip to her step as she walks towards him. “You are alive!” The way she says it makes it sound as if there were doubts. “Took you long enough to get back, huh?”  Her smile is almost teasing as she rocks back and forth on her heels. 

He gives her a disgruntled look, eyes narrowed and wants to snap a response towards her. His eyes meet hers where she does not falter, smiling sweetly at him with a certain glint in her eyes. “Where are the others?” 

Her smile falters, a hand at her side fisting at the loose material of her joggers. The hem of an oversized sweater spilling past the waistband of the joggers. “Sleeping,” she says with a tight voice and under the light he realizes that her arm is dusted in a purple bruise, dark in color as it spills to blue with a hint of sickly yellow. “Where were you?” 

He eyes the bruise, a scowl on his lips as he meets her gaze yet again. “Nowhere important.” Words get stuck in his throat, the bruise dancing in his peripherals, filling his mind with other unseen possible injuries. Her face is clean, free of any marks as she stands in front of him. She can stand; Toga is still standing in front of him. “The mission?” His nails dig into his skin, pulling at the old scars that have long closed up.

Her smile falls and he finds annoyance lapping at him. She shrugs, her hands spreading wide as she looks at him and her shadow dances along with her. “Went as planned. We were able to find a new location in case this one goes south but we did run into trouble while transporting the items.” 

“Trouble?” He takes a step towards her, eyes glancing behind her trying to find wandering movement that lies in the shadows.

“Spinner hit his head pretty hard so for now he’s resting. Twice went to find Giran so he can bring in some type of aid or something-” she waves her hand in a tired circle- “I didn’t really pay attention,” she finishes, her smile returning. “Anyways, now that you’re here, I’m going back to bed.” She turns on her heels, her hand coming up to cover her yawning mouth. She pauses as she steps to the other side of the entrance to the hallway. “Oh, by the way,” amusement has left her face, a thin smile on her lips that doesn’t reach her eyes, “your hands on your bed. You must have dropped them when we split.” 

He stands in the empty room, eyes growing heavy and anxiety grabbing at his insides. His collar is too close to his neck, wrapping around the base in a tight hold that makes it impossible to swallow, acid riising and leaving a tart taste on his tongue, heavy and sickening. “Thank you,” he whispers to an empty room with eyes glued where Toga stood just a minute ago. His hand spills from his face and falls beside him in a limp.

The doors that line the hallway and spill onto different ends are all closed, subtle chipped marks carved into the wood to indicate which rooms are occupied. His hair still smells of your shampoo, light and sweet. His clothes reek of what you used to wash them. His hand forms into a fist as he thinks about you. It’s a fleeting thought that he latches onto and soon enough he isn’t able to escape you from entering his mind. His hand wraps around the doorknob with a pinky raised as it twists under his palm. He enters his room as you enter his mind. True to her word, his hands are displayed on his bed, laid in an orderly fashion.

He stands at the edge of the bed, eyes lidded as he stares at the hands. Slowly, he grabs each hand, one by one, each placed back at their respective spots, a heavy weight that falls on him with each addition, a tight grasp that holds onto him with a promise to pull him down and suffocate him, the promise of false love and a mock hug as hands encase him. The last hand that goes on his face is held tenderly, the palm facing towards his face, an open strike that is welcomed and makes him feel calm, settling his nerves for just a moment. The hand is cold and heavy against his warm skin. The thick cartilage is tough- sturdy and unwavering- his fingertips flutter against the raised bridges, lowering until it reaches the metal end. 

His hands are nothing like your hands. 

He can almost feel your touch. It was light and fluttery, soft against his face. You held him with care, trying to calm him down when the first thing he had done to you was pin you down. You were nice to him. You told him that you had done it because you wanted to believe that you were a good person. His hand tremors, sliding past the metallic end, a light brush against his chest that stills as it reaches his stomach, clenching at the shirt with a careful grip, twisting the fabric in his hand. You quite literally picked him off the streets and gave him a temporary home. You gave him kindness that he hasn’t witnessed or felt in so long. You were kind to him- doting over him and making sure that he was fed. You washed his clothes and had calmed him down when he feared that he had lost his hands. Your hands held him together, grabbing at him and pulling him close to you. He sucks in his bottom lip, remembering the pull of your thumbs against his chin, the touch that you gave him that didn’t fill him with sickness.

He misses your touch. There’s a deep tug in his body. It pulls at him, tugging against his very essence and making him feel stretched out. His chest stutters, rising and dipping with lungs that expand and a heavy flush that warms his body. His eyes go wide, pupils dilating as he leans over, hand leaving his stomach and resting on the bed in a closed fist, the pads of the fingers dig on the top of his head, clenching as they squeeze his head with a painful grip.

He doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t need you invading his mind. He can’t handle the thoughts and feelings that come with you. The need to see you. The need to have your hands replace the ones on his neck. He’s breathing heavy, wheezing over the bed, mouth gaping under the palm of Father, his heart erratic and mind wandering. He’s never felt like this before. He’s never had emotions this strong. The desire to see you is stronger than anything he’s ever faced- stronger than anything he remembers. He’s gasping for air, eyes watering and he stands straight, a hand placed along his neck as his nails etch themselves against him, sin bleeding out, hot and thick against his skin. 

-

The sun is setting, casting a soft orange glow across the city as you walk home. It’s quiet, your phone buzzing in your hand and merely swipe at the notification for the Discord chat that you’re part of but never engage in. The time reads back to you and you come to a slow, walking towards the edge of the building, standing against the corner with eyes trained on the time. 

You wouldn't call yourself overly paranoid. Sure, you've heard things that go bump in the night and hid yourself under the covers rather than go and investigate, you've slept with rather odd, sharp objects under your pillow and have practiced time and time again how quickly and quietly you can reach into your bedside drawer and pull out a pair of scissors. But that was in the past. You've grown past the need to hone your skills and now all you have for protection is an old stuffed bear with stuffing that has gone limp and dull. 

You stand at the edge of the alleyway, taking a few steps into the dampen area, clicking your tongue as you step into a puddle. There’s a deep feeling that washes over you, making you chew on your bottom lip and edge deeper into the growing dark area. You take a small step to the side, your head tilting as you search for any shapes that are too humanlike, looking for anything with soft, blue hair or a hint at it and with a final step, your phone buzzes your hand. It’s stronger- a phone call, you realize. Snapped out of whatever trance you had, you turn around and make your way out of the alley, frowning as the words “Scam Likely” is written on your phone. You click and pull at the red phone symbol, the call ceasing immediately and you walk in a crowded street.

Perhaps you should have given Tomura your phone number. Or had offered him a ride or insisted that he stay for another night. He didn’t seem well enough to leave- much leave the way that he did. You purse your lips, your pace increasing as you walk home, your bag patting lightly against your back. If you had at least given him your number then he could have called you or sent you a message indicating that he was home or at least safe. You let out a sigh, your lips pulling into a thin line. 

The trek to your apartment is short, your hands resting along the rail as you climb the steps, unable to stray from the memories of when you had to help carry him up the steps. He had only rested for a day- if you wanted to be generous- and had eaten only two meals and slept on a couch. He couldn’t have possibly been comfortable. Maybe if you had insisted that he stay another night then you could tell if he had been lying about any hidden injuries. But there was no dried blood when you checked the shower, no stain that had caught against the porcelain or carpet- it was clean. You fret over a stranger- the only facts that you know of are that his name is Tomura, he works in a bar, and he’s socially inept. You check the time on your phone- there could be a possibility that you can pass by the same area and see if he’s there or any trace of him- but no. You grimace at thought- it sounds too stalkerish, as if you’re waiting for him to arrive and if he is there by any chance, you don’t want him to feel bothered or- You gasp as you bump shoulders with someone, stumbling a bit and you're grateful you’re on a flat surface rather than the stairs. 

“Oh my goodness!” You raise your shoulders, pulling them close to you. “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking-”

“Hey, hey,” the person says in a calming voice and you close your mouth, stepping away as your neighbor comes into view. “It’s cool, don’t worry about it.” He stands tall in front of you, a soft purple hue of skin that darkens slightly at the tip of his ears. Spiky hair that jets out in multiple directions, a dark blue that almost shines blue and purple under the light covers his forehead in wispy bangs with two curled, ram-like horns that protrude from the side of his head, dark in color with silver highlights. “I wasn’t looking either-” they laugh, sending you a friendly grin that is quickly overwritten with concern- “Are you okay?”

“Oh, er, yeah. No, I'm fine. Sorry about bumping into you again-” you step to the side, already waving a goodbye- “I’ll-”

“Wait!” He says in a rushed tone, spinning on his heels to look at you, a nervous chuckle spilling past his lips. “I, uh- Ha, sorry. So uh, did your friend go home?” He jerks his head to your door, eyes shifting nervously.

You blink at him, the moments with Tomura briefly forgotten as you strike conversation with your neighbor. “Oh, yeah. He went home last night,” you trail, the word “home” not feeling correct on your tongue. 

“Oh, really?” I uh- didn’t see him.” His smile is tense and his eyes widen. “Not that I was spying or anything. I had to pick something up from the pharmacy late last night and I noticed-”

“No, yeah. He left.” You give him a tight smile and edge backwards. “Listen, I have to go and put... something away.” You give him a final grin, toothy and forced. “Bye!” You wave a goodbye at him and promptly hurry to your door where you- thankfully- have no trouble opening it.

You shut the door, your back against the wooden frame, your eyes drooping and you slide slowly to the floor, bringing your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs and resting your head on the spot that you have created. Your bag presses uncomfortably into your back, the items inside pressing into the faux leather and into your soft back.

You close your eyes, trying to hear the sounds of wandering steps, mouth pulling into a thin line, and brows knitting together. “Maybe I should have asked him if he saw him anywhere,” you mumble under your breath. You let out a bitter laugh, raising your head and resting it against the door with a faint thud. “Great,” you whisper to yourself, “now I’m thinking about him.” You exhale, letting your eyes close with a weak smile stretching across your lips. “Well,” you trail, slowly opening your eyes, “it’s out of my hands now. Best I can hope for is that he’s home safe.” You push yourself off the floor, wincing slightly at the movement. 

You flutter around the apartment, changing out of your uniform into something more comfortable, your hands aching and body accepting the weariness that it possesses. Your sock clad feet walk around the apartment, phone in hand, as you walk into the kitchen.

It’s a decent size, enough for things to be ordered in a way that makes it feel both cluttered and homely. The fridge is decorated in an assortment of magnets- new with vibrant colors and cute designs, old and faded, simple in design but something from long ago- pictures and various numbers and business cards placed on the surface. You open the fridge, food and ingredients inside but it’s too much work to actually prepare the food itself and wait for things to defrost. You close the fridge with a huff and make your way to the living room. 

You stand at the edge of your couch, the blanket that Tomura used is folded at the end of the couch. Your brows knit, a frown tugging on the corner of your lips. You sigh sadly and there’s a bitter taste on your tongue, thick and heavy, and you scrunch your face. In your hand, your phone gives a curt buzz- a message from your friends. Your mood brightens and you sit on the opposite end of the couch, away from the blanket, and curl up at the end, eagerly responding to your friends' plethora of messages that you had missed- and partly purposely ignored due to heavy thoughts- on your walk home.

-

You sleep on the couch, covered by a throw blanket, a deep blue color that covers your frame as you curl under, a stuffed animal in your grip with shiny black eyes that reflect the television, an assortment of colors played against the room, and reflecting in the eyes of your comfort object. You sleep soundly, undisturbed and protected by glass, watched and protected by a pair of crimson eyes, between the blinds. Tomura Shigaraki sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, thin scratches around his neck and a burning desire in his chest to reach forward and accept your generosity that you had given him. 

He’s confused on why he’s here. He's out in the open, Father on his face which would surely give away his identity- could that be why you didn’t recognize him, he wonders- and he’s outside like a stray animal, waiting by your door and watching you sleep. Maybe that’s why he’s back. You didn’t fear him and while fear is something that he really does long for, something that so undeniably means you have the upperhand in something, it was different this time. You sat near him, did his laundry for him and cared for him on the pretense that you wanted to be a good person. That’s almost laughable, really. You treated a literal villain as some wounded puppy and practically saved his life. Heck, if it was anyone else or maybe if you had decided to watch the news more often, he would’ve been found out and captured. You wanted to be a good person and because of that, you are good to him. 

It’s fascination more than anything. This odd sense of longing towards you, the way that your hands felt on him and how you fretted over him as he panicked- he places his hand over Father and lets out a breath. The air cool, nipping at him with a slight shiver, and he looks inside with blank eyes, remembering how it felt to be inside, the candy scented candle that filled the room and how overtly sweet it was when he woke up. You were nice to him, there didn’t seem to be a hero in sight, so the probability of you being watched over is fairly low- you were nice to him and you trusted him enough to know where you lived. His leg tremors, eyes narrowing through the gaps of the fingers on his face as he stares at your unmoving frame. His hand flutters against the glass, index resting followed by the other three, and his prints are left.

Your blinds are left open and he snorts at your lack of self-preservation. He can let it slide since your little home isn’t somewhere where people can easily see. But here you are, covered by a blanket that he hadn’t used- the one he touched remains folded at the end, untouched and your legs pulled away from it. He watches you for a long time, his phone buzzing with either notifications from his mobile games or those from the League. If he were to be frank, he finds it all so difficult. He’ll complete and fulfill his vision, he’ll lead his comrades into victory, But for now, he'll rest against your balcony, and watch you sleep.

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@dillybuggg @gladiatorandroid

[erin-bo-berin]

My Heroine

MASTERLIST

This fic was inspired by the song My Heroine by The Maine which you can listen to here, if you’d like. The song I’ve come to realize sounds like it can have multiple interpretations, but I was inspired to use the whole “reader is Spencer’s drug of choice” plot. Not gonna lie it was rough writing about his prison trauma cause I consider it to be one of his biggest traumas, but I kinda wanted this to be a journey from his avoidance of it to his eventual acceptance, all while sex is his “heroin” or the reader is the “heroine” in his story. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy. Happy reading!

Spencer Reid/Reader

Rating: M (smut)

Word Count: 4,460

I’m feeling pretty dirty baby

Forgive my sins

I get the feeling you can save me honey,

My heroine

The silver gleam from the sharp blade caught his eye as it hit the light. In any other circumstances, the sharpness of it might actually be considered  beautiful.

This was anything but beautiful.

This was horrifying.

The metal was so closely pressed to skin that even a small flinch could draw blood.

“Never ever mess with a man’s stash on the inside. When you do,” the man paused for a second—a millisecond—before the knife sliced across the skin, ripping the hostage’s throat open.

He struggled against the person holding him, his momentary shock and need to help his friend making him fight the grip of the big man, even more.

“People get hurt,” the first guy said, backing away.

The second man let go of him, his friend falling to the floor, choking on his own blood. While they made their departure from the laundry room, he ran to his injured friend’s side, grabbing a towel to hold against the wound.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated, kneeling over the only friendly face he’d known in the last weeks.

If he repeated it enough, he’d be okay. He had to be. 

“Guard!” he yelled.

His hands cradled his friend’s face as he lay gasping and wheezing, the fear in his eyes matching his own. 

In all the years, throughout all the things he saw that most normal people didn’t, he’d never been as terrified as he was right now. His heart raced from the fear and he was breathing heavy as he screamed as loud as he could.

“HELP! HELLLLP!”

Spencer shot up in bed, breathing hard.

His face was sweaty, his entire body was sweaty, in fact. His t-shirt clung to his skin.

He kicked off the covers, sitting on the side of his bed, running his hands through his hair. He tried in vain to calm his pounding heart and slow his breathing.

The nightmares hadn’t stopped. If anything, they’d gotten worse.

A rare burst of anger caused him to shove the object that was sitting on his nightstand, off of it with extreme force.

He glared at the journal on the floor where it had landed haphazardly. He didn’t want to write in it like his therapist suggested. It didn’t help him then and it wasn’t going to help him now.

He rubbed his eyes, trying desperately to erase all the images that constantly played behind his eyes, regardless if he was asleep or awake.

It was the middle of the night, but he knew what he needed. He grabbed his phone off the charger and sent a quick text.

I need a distraction.

The recipient would understand, he knew. It was only 1 am and they were known to be a night owl anyway. 

He grabbed a pair of pants to change into and pulled them on in place of his pajama pants. All he had to grab were his car keys and his phone and he was out the door.

-

It’d only been six months since Spencer had been released from prison in which he spent three long, grueling months in.

He had been framed.

That was the first thing he remembered thinking, even under the influence of heroin and cocaine, in which the unsub had drugged him with. He had been sitting in a prison cell in Mexico, but deep down he knew he hadn’t done anything, even if his mind was scrambled and tried desperately to convince himself otherwise.

Fucking Cat Adams. If she hadn’t been such a psychopath, he might’ve admired her intelligence and skills to pull off something so elaborate, but alas, she was.

Her and her female partner Lindsey Vaughn had been watching him, waiting to strike. All because Spencer had arrested Cat and outsmarted her. It’s where she belonged after all. She’d been a

hit woman, operating in the shadows of the dark web that even experts in the area couldn’t even fathom.

She, along with four other assassins had been working for years before any law enforcement even knew of their existence. Spencer and the rest of his fellow Behavioral Analysis team had been the only ones to get close enough to them. Close enough in fact, to take them all down, every last one.

Cat Adams though, had been the hardest one. She was one to play mind games and she hated to lose. Which she had against him; he’d outsmarted her and she was the one who’d landed in a prison cell.

Of course, being the kind of person she was, she wasn’t going to take that lying down. So, she returned the favor.

He had been determined to help his mother—Diana Reid—who’d been suffering from paranoid schizophrenia all his life, but now had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. He was smart, he was sure he could help her, fix her maybe.

There’d been a plethora of drug trials, medicine combinations, diet changes, but nothing helped. So without his teammates—who happened to be the closest friends he had—knowledge, he had been crossing the Mexico border numerous times to get medicine for his mother, one that was definitely not FDA approved.

It was one of these trips that Lindsey—and technically Cat too—had struck. 

She’d dosed him with a spray of scopolamine, pumped him full of cocaine and heroin and murdered the woman he’d been meeting to get the vials of medicine from.

It was bad, really bad. He was the prime suspect in the murder and that is how he ended up in Millburn Correctional Facility pending trial for three months.

Thankfully, the BAU had worked their asses off to clear his name, but in the time spent in prison he had experienced some pretty awful things.

If that hadn’t been bad enough, Cat had orchestrated another evil plan. Lindsey had managed to kidnap his mother.

Less than 12 hours after being released from jail, he was back in another one to face Cat again and play her games. 

She had been executed for her crimes and the additional charges she faced for framing him and kidnapping his mother. He wasn’t the least bit remorseful; if anything, he was glad he’d never have to deal with her again. He dealt with her in his mind enough as is.

Spencer didn’t deal with emotions very well, so it was no surprise to himself that he didn’t stop to process his trauma.

Instead, he found other outlets.

He’d known Y/N for several years but had done an awful job of keeping in touch as the years passed. He’d recently reconnected with her before his arrest and then he’d pulled away again.

He felt bad for never telling her until after the fact, but he’d been embarrassed enough. 

She was a good friend, one who had said she would do anything to help him if and when he needed it.

That’s how the arrangement began. It’d happened once, by accident, but it had helped him forget everything when he needed it the most.

Which is why at 1 a.m. he was headed over to her house, just to forget everything for a while.

Your hips, my hands, you swing and you dance

Yeah, I’m feeling pretty lonely baby 

Just let me in

Just let me in

The door to her apartment opened to reveal her barefoot and in a long, oversized t-shirt.

“Hey,” she greeted him.

He didn’t waste time with the greetings, he kicked the door closed with his foot and grabbed her face, kissing her.

Within minutes he had her pressed up against her door, hands roaming under her shirt as he kissed her hungrily.

He wanted to forget.

Needed to forget.

She moaned into the kiss. Lucky for him, she got horny easily. She was always ready to go at it whenever. Maybe it had something to do with him, although he didn’t know. He never really took the time to dwell on it.

His fingers stroked her bare stomach as his tongue moved against hers. Her hands clutched the bottom of his shirt, pulling away long enough to help him yank it over his head. Her shirt followed suit.

For a while, they stayed there, top halves pressed against one another as their lips moved together in a complicated, yet simple dance. 

They made out for a while, while Spencer forced his brain to empty and focus on her. It finally worked as he felt his crotch tighten, his need for her now more than just something to get him through the night.

She led him back to her bedroom and within minutes was kneeling in front of him, pulling his cock out of his pants.

“You gonna be a good little girl and suck my cock?” he mumbled, looking down at her with lidded eyes.

Normally, he would never fathom talking like this. But something had changed within him in the last six months. He was rougher around the edges, he quite literally didn’t give a fuck anymore. Which proved to be true since he quite literally had a fuck buddy—something the old Spencer wouldn’t even consider.

He cared about her, but like him, she didn’t want anything serious, so he never felt too bad taking advantage of her this way. Weren’t they both using each other anyway?

“Your wish is my command,” she purred, making his cock throb even more.

The moment her mouth touched him, his eyes closed in pure bliss, the feeling chasing the nightmares away.

His hand threaded in her hair, guiding her head as her tongue glided and mouth hollowed out, sucking him like her favorite popsicle. She was amazing at this, he definitely had to give her that.

“Y/N, fuck,” he groaned, his hips bucking up towards her mouth.

Her tongue was his gateway to an anxiety free mind—at least for the time being.

He pushed her away after a few minutes. He wasn’t going to last if she kept that up much longer.

With surprising agility, he’d had her from her knees to bent over the end of the bed in seconds.

Their sessions were far from romantic love making—the type of intimacy he knew she deserved—but more animalistic and frenzied. 

He knew he was selfish and instead of letting her have what she deserved from a man, he held tight to her like she was his lifeline.

In a way, she had become his lifeline. Things got worse the longer he tried to stay away from her. That’s why he always returned.

Her moans and the slap of their bodies were the only sounds heard in the room as he thrust deep into her. Even as fucked up as he was, he had to be an idiot to not admit that sex with her was incredible. She was incredible.

“Spencer, oh my god, fuck.”

Her words came out in a strangled moan as he’d switched up the movements of his hips. Instead of the fast and harsh thrusts, they turned into slow and deeper ones. He may only be her fuck buddy, but he was still gonna be damn sure she got her pleasure out of it too.

His fingers dug into her hips as he tried to erase the images of his earlier nightmare with every thrust. Usually, it worked. Tonight though, he was struggling.

Instead of disappearing, the memories kept flashing through his head like a silent movie on repeat.

The helplessness everyone felt in that prison.

The fear he felt.

The images of a group of white men who pointed a knife in his face his first full night in prison.

Two, sneering and sadistically joyful faces hovering over him as they beat him to a pulp, smothering his face with a rag.

His desperate decision in doing something so awful that it hurt more men than he intended it to.

The constant paranoia.

The fear he had become a monster.

Every single moment inside he’d spent that he had to make choices he’d never fathomed he’d have to—only to survive.

Delgado.

“Switch it up,” he muttered, pulling out of her, turning her around.

His jaw was tense, his body was rigid. All he wanted was one orgasm to erase his nightmare.

Her eyes narrowed, sensing his tension but knowing better than to comment on it.

“Let me take care of you,” she whispered.

She pushed him towards the head of the bed, ordering him to sit against it. He did as he was told, focusing all of his attention on her again.

When she climbed into his lap to straddle him, his breathing had become ragged and he was glad that the stirrings of his arousal were coming back—his sexual attraction to her luring him back in again.

She sank down on him and he exhaled sharply, groaning lowly. The feeling of her tight around him was always like drinking water after being utterly parched.

“You like that?” she purred, her hands resting against his chest, “You like when I take care of you?”

“Very much so,” he growled.

He thread his hand into the back of her hair, pulling her face towards his. He kissed her roughly, his lower half meeting the speed she’d set since she was now the one in charge. Her pelvis grinded against his, giving her even more pleasure, he was sure.

As much as he did this for his benefit, he also had a small sense of pride in knowing he could make her moan and writhe like he did. His hands cupped her breasts, massaging them and she threw her head back with a loud moan. 

He could practically fall apart at that sight alone, but he managed to resist.

His lips attached to her throat, sucking harshly, sure to leave a mark. Their moves were frantic as she gripped the headboard and he bucked relentlessly into her.

They both spiraled into ecstasy, not that far apart from one another.

Sweaty and out of breath, she moved off of him, gathering her clothes and tossing his own to him.

“Want something to eat before you go?”

She asked it so nonchalantly it was as if he hadn’t just spent about half an hour buried to the hilt in her.

“No, thanks though.”

He wasn’t one to stay long after the deed, even though a part of him felt like an ass for it. Y/N didn’t deserve that. But if it ever bothered her, she never let on.

She nodded, watching him as he finished pulling his shirt over his head.

“I’m around, if you need me.”

Spencer gave a nod and headed to the door, grabbing his car keys on his way out.

You’re my heroine, but you’re suicide 

If I let you in you’ll crawl inside 

You save my skin

But you can’t wait to sink in 

My heroine

In a way, Y/N had become his drug.

Whenever things got too hard, he went to her. But lately, it was like every time he fucked her, it only left him needing more.

His PTSD was getting worse, the sex was only distracting him for so long, but he was stubborn. He wasn’t going to give her up anytime soon.

The PTSD was also affecting his work and he knew it.

It’d been six months since his release from prison, but he’d only been reinstated for three months. He worked his ass off to get his position back and he wasn’t about to let his emotions get the best of him.

He was currently trying to focus on the geo profile in front of him, but his vision kept blurring. He rubbed his eye, trying hard to block out everything else but this case.

He was becoming increasingly irritable as well.

It had only been a week since his last visit to Y/N, but he was craving her and her distractions so much. His nightmares hadn’t ceased, he was hardly sleeping and his teammates weren’t oblivious.

They knew he was having a hard time readjusting.

Spencer doubted they knew just how bad it really was though.

The map blurred in front of his eyes again, the sight being replaced with moving pictures, his memories being played before his eyes.

Like the time he was so desperate to survive, he poisoned drugs that he was supposed to move, instead of getting involved with the situation.

He ended up causing several men to get incredibly sick—his guilt over that still haunted him at night.

Prison was an incredibly dangerous place and he had been too good of a person to survive as long as he had.

For a while he’d had two friends; Delgado and Shaw.

One was murdered in front of him.

The other turned out to be using him. Shaw ran the entire prison population. He called the shots and people listened to him. But Spencer wanted no part of that.

Making an enemy of Shaw had been deadly. In fact, it came close to being deadly. Spencer could’ve easily lost his life behind bars.

It had been months since he had been locked up, but the sense of helplessness he felt still haunted him to this day. It smothered him like the sweltering heat on a hot, summer day.

He rubbed his palms into his eyes. He felt like he couldn’t breathe while at the same time his heart rate accelerated. His sense of fight or flight was being triggered and he couldn’t stop the sense of dread that was engulfing his senses.

“Spence, you okay?”

“Yeah, I just need some fresh air,” he answered, brushing past a worried JJ.

The moment he exited the crowded police station and the cool air hit his face, he felt fractionally better, but the anxiety still gripped him.

He gripped his tie, yanking at it and loosening it, so he could breathe. The feel of it around his neck had been making him feel like he was suffocating more so than he already had been.

His therapist had told him panic attacks were normal with PTSD, but he hadn’t had them much. This was an exception apparently.

He leaned against the brick of the building and tried to focus on his breathing to bring his heart rate down. After all he’d endured, he wasn’t about to let a damn panic attack take him down.

His eyes were closed as he tried to calm down, so he didn’t hear Luke approaching.

“Reid.”

He opened his eyes, seeing his teammate Luke Alvez, standing next to him. 

He wondered how he currently looked through Luke’s eyes. A mess, probably. 

Luke didn’t beat around the bush, either.

“Your PTSD has gotten worse, hasn’t it?” he asked, gently.

Spencer shrugged.

“Spencer, if you need to take some time—”

“I don’t need to take time off because I’m fine,” he snapped.

Luke flinched as if Spencer had physically hit him. If anything, he knew that his outburst was just further proof at how not okay he was.

“I need to get back to work,” he mumbled, moving around Luke to head back inside.

He wasn’t sure of anything much lately, but one thing he knew for sure was when they got back from the current case, he was heading straight to Y/N’s apartment.

I feel a little withdrawal baby,

Come pick me up

Took a hit from your level

Now I just can’t get enough 

Your taste, my touch

A little bit of love and a whole lot of lust 

He was back at her door, knocking.

She opened the door, dressed in another oversized t-shirt—due to the late hour of night—and greeted him with a wordless nod. Somehow, he thought she knew that he was having a bad time today.

He looked like shit, that he knew. His hair was a mess of tangled curls, his eyes were bloodshot and deep, dark bags shined brightly under his face, darker than his normal appearance. His cheekbones were more prominent lately as well since he wasn’t eating much, nor was he sleeping well either.

“How do you want me?” she asked.

Her tone was dull and to the point and threw him off guard for a moment. She’d never made it about her, ever. But now, looking at her, he could see her unhappiness. Whether he caused it or not, he was unsure.

This arrangement of theirs had been only to help him forget. Too quickly, it had become like an addiction for him. She was like his drug. He needed her to forget. But maybe, at the same time, she was tired of trying to help him when he couldn’t even help himself.

He promised himself that this would be the last time. Once more and he’d let her go. He’d let her be free of him. She’d be happier anyways.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

He tried to be gentle as he pulled her towards him. As he kissed her, he felt her body melt into his. Maybe he had been imagining her mood earlier.

He tried to focus on getting hard, not on all the horrors that constantly swirled in his mind.

His lips moved swiftly with hers in a kiss that was anything but romantic or gentle. It was lust driven and filled with his own desperate need to be distracted.

She knew exactly what to do to get him in the mood, that’s for sure. 

Her teeth tugged at his lower lip gently, her tongue almost the complete opposite of their current actions. It was gentle and hesitant as it met his before continuing its dance with his own.

He pulled her closer, his hand tangled in her hair as he kissed her more roughly, pushing her against the arm of her couch.

In the blink of an eye, he had her turned around and bent over the arm, his hand gliding over the silk material of her underwear. He felt a small swell of pride hearing her moan as he touched her. It also went a long way in helping his own arousal which was now throbbing in his pants.

He was already unbuttoning his pants as he kissed her neck, his hips pressing into hers. The more he got into it, the more he actually felt that he wanted this—that he wanted her.

With one smooth movement, he had her underwear pulled down to her thighs and he entered her with a groan.

But he couldn’t focus. 

Somehow, without him realizing it, the memories had slipped through a crack in his mind.

Instead of being there with Y/N, he was back in that cell.

The countless hours sitting in a cell, trying to remember something he never did.

The desperation, the helplessness in that place.

Familiar faces he dealt with sped across his mind.

Malcolm, Shaw, Delgado, Wilkins. Frazier, Duerson, the two men who gave him a beating meant for Delgado.

The fear he felt in those final days when he had no one to trust, when he had to stab himself in the leg to get into solitary confinement, just to stay alive.

The horrible memories were flashing in his head at the speed of lightning.

“Ow! Spencer, you’re hurting me.”

Spencer snapped back to the present, realizing his fingers were creating bruises on Y/N’s hips from his too tight grip.

“This isn’t working,” he said in way of an apology, pulling out of her.

He was already going soft anyway, the previous arousal now completely gone and replaced by his racing thoughts and memories.

“It’s fine,” she muttered, pulling down her t-shirt and pulling up her underwear.

He had just zipped up his suit pants—he’d come straight from the jet—when she spoke again.

“Actually, no. It’s not okay.”

Spencer blinked in surprise at her harsh tone. He didn’t think he’d ever heard her raise her voice.

“I’m sick of this Spencer! I know we started this a while ago for...reasons,” she flapped her hand in midair as if demonstrating all the unsaid things between them.

“But I can’t do it anymore. I care about you Spencer. Honestly right now I don’t know if it’s as more than a friend or just as a friend but that’s another can of worms to open another time. You can’t keep doing this! You can’t keep coming to me and fucking me to try and rid your demons. You’ve been through a hell of a lot and you didn’t deserve any of it, but I’m not going to stand her and watch my friend destroy himself because he refuses to get the help he so desperately needs.”

Spencer stood, frozen in place, mouth agape. It was then he saw tears shining in her eyes.

“We have a lot to sort out between us, eventually, but you need to help yourself first,” she whispered, as if feeling defeated by her previous outburst.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he could say.

“I know facing everything, processing it all is a scary feeling, Spencer. Even if you tried reaching out to a friend to talk through it, that would be a big step. I just...I just want you to get better.”

A single tear slid down her cheek and he did the worst possible thing to do.

He fled her apartment like the coward he was.

•

He didn’t go home. 

Instead, he walked around the city as the daylight receded and the sun slipped behind the horizon, saying goodnight to the world until the next day.

He spent a lot of time thinking.

He ended up dashing into a busy diner he came across as the night sky opened up and rain began falling in sheets.

He sat in his booth, absentmindedly sipping on the cup of coffee he’d ordered and watched the rain fall in the darkness outside.

In an ironic way, the weather outside was similar to the turmoil he felt inside. 

Just like the completely blackened sky outside, he felt just as dark and empty. The storm was similar to the storm of emotions, memories, traumas he continually tried to squash, all in the wrong ways.

He knew ignoring his problems wouldn’t make them go away; he also knew using sex as a distraction was the worst possible thing to do as well, yet he’d continued to do it and he’d hurt more than just himself in the process.

He’d hurt his friends, who’d only wanted to help, but pushed them away. He’d hurt Y/N, who didn’t deserve to be treated like a plaything, yet he kept coming back, making things worse.

By the time he’d finished his coffee, he decided what he wanted to do. What he knew he needed to do.

I’m feeling pretty lonely baby,

So just let me in

Just let me in 

He’d ran through the pouring rain. He didn’t even bother to try to take any transportation. The rain felt like it was washing him clean from the horrors of the last year.

He was back at her door, but this time, for a different reason. 

He was soaking wet and felt a lot like a dog with his tail between his legs, but he refused to chicken out once again. So, he knocked.

She answered, this time in actual pajamas rather than the attire she was in hours before.

Maybe it was the expression he wore or something she saw in his face because she didn’t immediately slam the door in his face—something he knew he deserved. She stood patiently, almost questioningly, waiting for him to speak first.

He took a deep breath before speaking the words he should’ve uttered months ago.

“I’m ready to talk. I’m ready to get the help I need.”

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[tlatollotl]

Finding the tomb of an ancient king full of golden artifacts, weapons and elaborate clothing seems like any archaeologist’s fantasy. But searching for them, Gino Caspari can tell you, is incredibly tedious.

Dr. Caspari, a research archaeologist with the Swiss National Science Foundation, studies the ancient Scythians, a nomadic culture whose horse-riding warriors terrorized the plains of Asia 3,000 years ago. The tombs of Scythian royalty contained much of the fabulous wealth they had looted from their neighbors. From the moment the bodies were interred, these tombs were popular targets for robbers; Dr. Caspari estimates that more than 90 percent of them have been destroyed.

He suspects that thousands of tombs are spread across the Eurasian steppes, which extend for millions of square miles. He had spent hours mapping burials using Google Earth images of territory in what is now Russia, Mongolia and Western China’s Xinjiang province. “It’s essentially a stupid task,” Dr. Caspari said. “And that’s not what a well-educated scholar should be doing.”

As it turned out, a neighbor of Dr. Caspari’s in the International House, in the Morningside Heights neighborhood of Manhattan, had a solution. The neighbor, Pablo Crespo, at the time a graduate student in economics at City University of New York who was working with artificial intelligence to estimate volatility in commodity prices, told Dr. Caspari that what he needed was a convolutional neural network to search his satellite images for him. The two bonded over a shared academic philosophy, of making their work openly available for the benefit of the greater scholarly community, and a love of heavy metal music. Over beers in the International House bar, they began a collaboration that put them at the forefront of a new type of archaeological analysis.

A convolutional neural network, or C.N.N., is a type of artificial intelligence that is designed to analyze information that can be processed as a grid; it is especially well suited to analyzing photographs and other images. The network sees an image as a grid of pixels. The C.N.N. that Dr. Crespo designed starts by giving each pixel a rating based on how red it is, then another for green and for blue. After rating each pixel according to a variety of additional parameters, the network begins to analyze small groups of pixels, then successively larger ones, looking for matches or near-matches to the data it has been trained to spot.

Working in their spare time, the two researchers ran 1,212 satellite images through the network for months, asking it to look for circular stone tombs and to overlook other circular, tomblike things such as piles of construction debris and irrigation ponds.

At first they worked with images that spanned roughly 2,000 square miles. They used three-quarters of the imagery to train the network to understand what a Scythian tomb looks like, correcting the system when it missed a known tomb or highlighted a nonexistent one. They used the rest of the imagery to test the system. The network correctly identified known tombs 98 percent of the time.

Creating the network was simple, Dr. Crespo said. He wrote it in less than a month using the programming language Python and at no cost, not including the price of the beers. Dr. Caspari hopes that their creation will give archaeologists a way to find new tombs and to identify important sites so that they can be protected from looters.

Other convolutional neural networks are beginning to automate a variety of repetitive tasks that are usually foisted on to graduate students. And they are opening new windows on to the past. Some of the jobs that these networks are inheriting include classifying pottery fragments, locating shipwrecks in sonar images and finding human bones that are for sale, illegally, on the internet.

“Netflix is using this kind of technique to show you recommendations,” Dr. Crespo, now a senior data scientist for Etsy, said. “Why shouldn’t we use it for something like saving human history?”

Gabriele Gattiglia and Francesca Anichini, both archaeologists at the University of Pisa in Italy, excavate Roman Empire-era sites, which entails analyzing thousands of broken bits of pottery. In Roman culture nearly every type of container, including cooking vessels and the amphoras used for shipping goods around the Mediterranean, was made of clay, so pottery analysis is essential for understanding Roman life.

The task involves comparing pottery sherds to pictures in printed catalogs. Dr. Gattiglia and Dr. Anichini estimate that only 20 percent of their time is spent excavating sites; the rest is spent analyzing pottery, a job for which they are not paid. “We started dreaming about some magic tool to recognize pottery on an excavation,” Dr. Gattiglia said.

That dream became the ArchAIDE project, a digital tool that will allow archaeologists to photograph a piece of pottery in the field and have it identified by convolutional neural networks. The project, which received financing from the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation program, now involves researchers from across Europe, as well as a team of computer scientists from Tel Aviv University in Israel who designed the C.N.N.s.

The project involved digitizing many of the paper catalogs and using them to train a neural network to recognize different types of pottery vessels. A second network was trained to recognize the profiles of pottery sherds. So far, ArchAIDE can identify only a few specific pottery types, but as more researchers add their collections to the database the number of types is expected to grow.

“I dream of a catalog of all types of ceramics,” Dr. Anichini said. “I don’t know if it is possible to complete in this lifetime.”

Saving time is one of the biggest advantages of using convolutional neural networks. In marine archaeology, ship time is expensive, and divers cannot spend too much time underwater without risking serious pressure-related injuries. Chris Clark, an engineer at Harvey Mudd College in Claremont, Calif., is addressing both problems by using an underwater robot to make sonar scans of the seafloor, then using a convolutional neural network to search the images for shipwrecks and other sites. In recent years he has been working with Timmy Gambin, an archaeologist at the University of Malta, to search the floor of the Mediterranean Sea around the island of Malta.

Their system got off to a rough start: On one of its first voyages, they ran their robot into a shipwreck and had to send a diver down to retrieve it. Things improved from there. In 2017, the network identified what turned out to be the wreck of a World War II-era dive bomber off the coast of Malta. Dr. Clark and Dr. Gambin are now working on another site that was identified by the network, but did not want to discuss the details until the research has gone through peer-review.

Shawn Graham, a professor of digital humanities at Carleton University in Ottawa, uses a convolutional neural network called Inception 3.0, designed by Google, to search the internet for images related to the buying and selling of human bones. The United States and many other countries have laws requiring that human bones held in museum collections be returned to their descendants. But there are also bones being held by people who have skirted these laws. Dr. Graham said he had even seen online videos of people digging up graves to feed this market.

“These folks who are being bought and sold never consented to this,” Dr. Graham said. “This does continued violence to the communities from which these ancestors have been removed. As archaeologists, we should be trying to stop this.”

He made some alterations to Inception 3.0 so that it could recognize photographs of human bones. The system had already been trained to recognize objects in millions of photographs, but none of those objects were bones; he has since trained his version on more than 80,000 images of human bones. He is now working with a group called Countering Crime Online, which is using neural networks to track down images related to the illegal ivory trade and sex trafficking.

Dr. Crespo and Dr. Caspari said that the social sciences and humanities could benefit by incorporating the tools of information technology into their work. Their convolutional neural network was easy to use and freely available for anyone to modify to suit their own research needs. In the end, they said, scientific advances come down to two things.

“Innovation really happens at the intersections of established fields,” Dr. Caspari said. Dr. Crespo added: “Have a beer with your neighbor every once in a while.”

[southerneldritch]

-One Year Later, Isaac-

With a satisfying scrape the metal tip of the chisel finished its last draw across the cold stone. A few short words were spoken and the newly-etched sigil began to glow. A smile came across the speaker’s lips and he lifted the cold stone with its warm glow to gently place it onto a tray with several others. The placement of this particular stone had no significance, but Isaac found the alignment of the glowing colors satisfying as the stone was nestled among them with intent and power. He wiped his hands off on his leather apron in time to see Oliver approach.

“Well now, did this latest addition change anything?” Oliver inquired. His firm, deep voice indicated genuine interest along with some concern. “We’ve been working on the Telum for well over a year and with your brief hiatus I was afraid I might have lost my most valuable asset to uncovering more of this mystery.” 

“You’re too kind, '' Isaac retorted. “Yet I find this particular sigil, though drawn from what we’ve found not only on the Telum and the Son Fire, to  be lacking. There seems to be no significant difference.” He let out a sigh as he grasped a stale, but still warm, cup of coffee and brought it to his lips. The flavor certainly… existed, but even as Isaac had advanced in his position with Oliver here at Verum, the coffee did little to encourage his permanent residence. He smirked. “Though this shit doesn’t help the brain”

“No” Oliver laughed “It really doesn’t.” He leaned on the table near the setting of softly glowing sigils, “But Goodwin has no intent on supplying us with anything better. If we want it, we gotta go across the street ourselves.”

“Well Goodwin can stuff it” Isaac smirked as he downed what was left in the cup. Before he could add anything to his comment, a woman came through the door and handed Oliver a slip of paper. 

“Alright. Thank you Maria.” Oliver turned to Isaac. “Well, take a break, we got some simple rifling engraving to do. Seems like there’s a Bokrug that’s somehow found its way through the looking glass, as it were.” He glared at his own cup of coffee. “Normal sort of Glassway banishing will do, you know what to do.”

“Right” Isaac nodded as he slipped the barrel of a Military 1911 off an opposite workbench and began etching into it. “You know” he spoke as his steel cut steel “We might be going about this all wrong. Maybe my pop and Maxim were working with a different intent.”

“Oh?” Oliver quereied as he locked a piece of metal into a vice. “And what intent do you think we’re missing?”

“Something deeper” He paused as his blade easily cut the last curl across a signet that emblazoned the barrel. “Something that they felt in themselves. We appreciate the drive and the goal of our actions, but maybe we aren’t channeling the correct feeling into the glyphs….not firing the sigils properly to cast the power we know is there?”

“Hmmm” Oliver looked up from his piece and scratched the hairs on his chin. “That seems like something we should have considered.” With a smirk, he turned his stool and faced Isaac. “Do you know when your father did what he did to your revolver?”

“Well” Isaac paused, he thought long and hard. While his dad had always been a loving and caring man, a dutiful person, he could not recall a single instance of his father doing anything other than hanging his gun up at night. He was not the sort to brandish or even play at flair with it. In fact, Isaac as a young man hardly thought of the firearm until he received it. “No... but maybe that’s because it’s a part of it, right?”

“How do you mean?”

“If we’re to take the sigil expression from left hand path practice and combine it with Preternatural iconographic tendencies then we have a practice, or rather...” Isaac stood and pointed at the sigils glowing on the stones, copies of the Telum and Son Fire. “...Perhaps these were cast with intent but ignored afterwards?” 

“But chaos magik is one shot, kid.” Oliver asserted as he rose and stood beside him by the glowing stones. “If this were something of the left hand path then we’d see the object destroyed after use, but both these things can be used again and again. With any user” He sat on the back of a chair as he sought a response.

“You’re right” Isaac considered. He laid out his experience, from the shattering atrium of the greater history museum, to the last time he saw the good doctor transform into something well beyond reason over a year ago. “But what if that’s precisely it? Perhaps we’re seeing why a Left hand cast sigil might have power to those unaware?” He quickly stepped towards one of the many bookshelves inside the smithing shop and pulled a volume. “What if the caster couldn’t use it, as their intent would be recognizable? Maybe they needed others who were unaware to wield it?!”

“...” There was a stunned silence on Oliver’s face “So...your dad did what he did for you….and Maxim for what? The war? Profit?” Before Isaac could answer Maria walked in another time. 

“Goodwin is requesting GoldShot Mr. Wade '' Her voice was mellow and cool, like she had mentioned the weather at midnight in the basement of a downtown office building, which coincidentally was where she was. 

“Not a problem. Isaac, grab that box over there” Oliver gestured. 

As Isaac reached for the box the whole structure of the building shook, down to its foundations. 

“What the?” He paused. The lights flickered and then went out. Every rune, sigil, and icon they had etched into the stones was now glowing a sickly blue. His eyes quickly shifted to his shoulder holster where the Son Fire was glowing with the orange of the sun. Peering over towards the case with the Telum, the edges emitting a vibrant orange light. “Goodwin needed wh…”

The phone rang. Isaac cut off. With little hesitation he lifted the receiver and answered. A brief pause to listen... “What’s happening where, John!?” He exclaimed.

“What’s happening?” Oliver asked with a slight amount of panic in his voice. He was not accustomed to his shop growing dark or the sigils he’s working with changing. “Which John?”

“Randolph” Isaac rolled his eyes and went back to listening to the voice in the receiver. A nod, a shrug. “Well, head that way, we’ll meet you there” He answered and hung up. 

“Well?” Oliver said, smirking as he eyed the aprons they both wore. “We doing field work?” 

“Yes. Now grab a gun” Isaac stepped towards his jacket on the coat rack. “The sky apparently is falling….”

(By J. Daily)

[bellygunnr]

Of the Same Steel and Temper

John regarded Dr. Halsey calmly as she revealed the information he already knew-- Project MJOLNIR was entering its final stage, and he was a player in its execution. He doesn’t even smile as she continues to talk, only resting his holographic hand on the hilt of his holographic blade, allowing bits of his code to fritz together as he ran operations elsewhere. He was rather proud of his latest bit of detective work. Infiltration was his specialty.

Not that he enjoyed it, but he did like showing off his prowess in all tasks.

“I’ve already selected my teammate,” John announces, cutting off Dr. Halsey.

She stops short, raising an eyebrow, but expression otherwise unreadable.

“And who have you selected, John?” she says patiently.

John unsheathes his blade with a flourish and points theatrically at a picture frame on the corner of Dr. Halsey’s crowded, messy desk. In the picture, a single woman stood at attention while an Admiral-- Stanforth, he notes-- pinned the UNSC Legion of Honor to her chest. Her expression was relatively schooled, but a mischievous brand of fire shone in her eyes, permanently captured in eternity by the photo. He didn’t have to look at the other citations and medals weighing on her chest to know that she was well-accomplished.

A moment passes. When Dr. Halsey doesn’t say anything, seemingly unable to recover, John forges on.

“Master Chief Petty Officer Cortana-117,” he says, weighing each word carefully, “is a highly accomplished and experienced Spartan. I’ve taken the liberty of researching her thoroughly and I like what I’ve seen. As I speak, I am already calculating our compatibility and… find them within acceptable parameters.”

“It seems you have made up your mind, John,” Dr. Halsey says slowly. “But are you sure?”

“I do not dwell,” John says seriously. “She seems to know how to take action. I can appreciate that in a body.”

“But you know she excels particularly nowhere in terms of physical or mental prowess, yet is the most willingly to undertake risks. She got that medal by attacking Covenant head-on and saving Marines in the process.”

“I am aware. Again, that is something I can appreciate in a body, Dr. Halsey.”

John had wandered off from his holopad to stand inches away from Dr. Halsey’s face. His sword is back in its sheathe, hands clasped firmly behind his back. Under the lights, his ancient Spartan armor glitters emerald green and fire yellow, body rapidly shifting between the two colors.

Despite his level best efforts, his emotions tended to reveal themselves. He was tense and excited but most of all, determined. He would have Cortana as his teammate.

“And what of a mission if she were to become compromised? What would you do if she could die?”

John immediately tenses, his holographic form flashing a brilliant ruby red. A second later, it washes back into his neutral dark green, swirling across his stout frame in ragged bands of hue.

“I don’t think you should ask me questions you are not prepared to answer yourself, doctor,” he replies, affecting a flat tone. “You insult me.”

AI and human stare at each other. Dr. Halsey seems flustered, her thoughts visibly racing behind steely eyes. She cuts one last look at Cortana’s photo before allowing her demeanor to shift, conceding defeat with just a tip of her head.

“Very well, then, John. You can have her,” Dr. Halsey says. “Now, what of the rest of the mission?”

---

The differences in the new model of armor ranged from subtle to obvious. It was definitely heavier, but the modification of her neural implants made the weight negligible. If she was feeling generous, she might even say she was moving faster in this armor. There was also the addition of the shielding-- a shimmering electric layer that reminded her of oil spills on pavement. Iridescent and full of color, but dangerous.

But there was one more thing-- the second major change they had given Mjolnir. So far, it hadn’t come up at all, overshadowed by the shields. The shields were fantastic (as long as she didn’t slip and fall), but it was high time they moved along.

She cocks her head wordlessly at Dr. Halsey. In reply, Dr. Halsey withdraws something from her bag.

“Your own neural lace has been upgraded to better interact with the armor, as you may know,” she starts, “but it also it interface with an AI. A layer of memory-processor super-conductor has been added between the reactive and bio-layers of your armor.”

Cortana nods once. “The same stuff found in an AI’s core?”

“Correct. Your armor will be able to carry an AI-- the same kind that starships house. John will be able to interface between you and the suit. His primary objective will be to provide intelligence support while you’re on the field.”

“What does that entail?” Cortana says, tilting her helmet.

She liked AIs. They were useful and often had personality. She wasn’t sure about sharing her armor with one, however. John wasn’t even impressive name-- who went to all the trouble of making an AI just to name it John?

“John has been outfitted with the best of ONI’s computer infiltration routines and software. He is also equipped with Covenant translation programs. He’s also quite resourceful, but his specialty is, essentially, spywork,” Dr. Halsey replies.

Hm. So this John would be the AI they brought with them, should the upcoming test go well.

“How much… jurisdiction will he have over the suit?” she asks cautiously.

“None. You will have full control of it at all times. John will only be reading and translating the link you have between your brain and the suit-- and improving upon it, so expect that whatever you’re feeling now to be multiplied.”

Cortana liked the sound of that. Real-time intelligence data and greater physical performance? She would be unstoppable. Provided they got along, of course. But everything Halsey was telling her just raised more questions, but before she could ask, Halsey started talking again.

“I’m afraid we only have a small window of time. Please, kneel down so that we may insert the AI into the suit.”

Obediently, she takes a knee, bowing her head to expose the chip’s slot. There’s a moment of hands flicking something open, then a rush of ice water and pain jolts the back of her neck. The sensation trickles like water down the length of her spine before dissipating, leaving her strangely… the same.

Then the AI spoke, and everything was different.

“Hello, Master Chief,” a deep voice said. It was slightly raspy and reverberated in the suit’s speakers.

“Hello, John,” she answers, eyes wide. “Got enough room in there?”

“Not nearly enough. It will do… Thank you for asking.”

Oh. Well, at least he was honest. It was probably difficult to jam the processing power of a starship into the fractional space of her Mjolnir, though she had to wonder how he was compensating for it.

“Let’s begin the test. The conditions have been changed to involve combat-- not ideal, but it should provide ample opportunity for you two to become acquainted. The “win” condition of the test might be familiar to you, Cortana.”

“Ring the bell?” she guesses wryly.

“Indeed. Be careful, and be wary, Master Chief. I hardly need to remind you to be prepared when ONI is involved, but I will say it anyway. You are also authorized to neutralize any threats to accomplish the objective.”

Then Dr. Halsey leans in, voice low, worry lines etching deep into the contours of her face.

“Some would like to see you fail this test,” she says. “See that you don’t.”

“No, ma’am,” Cortana agrees.

Dr. Halsey nods once, then turns on her heel. Just before exiting the tent, however, she looks over her shoulder to stare into Cortana’s face plate, flanked by technicians.

“The second I leave this tent, you must count to ten. After that, make your way to the obstacle course where the bell will be located. And be careful,” she adds, voice firm. “Good luck.”

Cortana resists the urge to salute Dr. Halsey in jest. Instead, she shakes her body out, getting the feel for the armor one more time. As she wiggles her fingers, she hears the metallic clack of weapons from outside the tent.

Her HUD shimmers. The proximity tracker immediately lights up with yellow blips that turn red on the next cycle.

“Assume that all units are hostile,” John says. “The targets are equipped with MA5B assault rifles. Be prepared for my participation.”

“I hope you participate,” she says dryly. “What do you think about this? We’re engaging our own soldiers.”

Eight.

“We’ll win, but I am more excited to see how you handle this,” John says, a hint of emotion slipping into his gravelly voice.

Nine.

Cortana flicks her eyes across the walls of the tent, noting the surprisingly clear silhouettes of soldiers moving outside. She didn’t enjoy facing off against UNSC personnel, especially when they weren’t Spartans, but she never had a choice. Her apprehension only spikes when the shadowy figures become real, breaking into the tent with guns already brought to bear.

Shock troopers. ODSTs, to be exact.

Ten.

The center Helljumper opened fire on thin air. Cortana dove from her elevated platform before his finger could depress the trigger, but she didn’t target him right away. She ripped the rifle out from his port-side buddy’s hands and winced at the unmistakable sight of a shoulder dislocating. Still, she cracks the butt of the rifle across the lead’s chest before turning on the third, suddenly aware that she was in “Spartan Time.”

To her, the third trooper was moving in slow motion, still caught in the throes of reacting to his companions’ defeat. She rips his gun out of his hands and shoves him to the floor, biting back a sigh at the sensation of ribs cracking.

This suit was definitely a step above the last mark. If she didn’t want to hurt them, she’d have to restrain herself even more.

“That’s an odd notion,” John says suddenly. “You have been ordered to neutralize the targets. Why not kill them?”

Cortana frowns as she bustles out of the tent. Immediately, her motion tracker updates with seven more yellow blips that flash red. If she had to hazard a guess, John was forcing the suit to acknowledge the troopers’ FoF tags as ‘foe.’

Interesting.

“John. I think that might be murder.”

“We do need every soldier available,” he concedes.

The tracker’s blips appeared to be concentrated in another on-site tent. On the far side of the tent, she witnesses an ODST peek around the corner for three full seconds before abruptly withdrawing. A thrown grenade replaces them.

Cortana shoots it out of the air. It detonates in a shower of shrapnel and flame, jostling the tent with the shockwave and shredding holes into its roof, but not catching it alight. She’s cutting an entrance into the tent before the smoke and flak has even cleared.

The troopers are facing away from her, rushing for the exit in uniform, slow motion fashion. To her surprise, one twists around and opens fire, bullets pinging across her chest.

She slings the knife she’d been equipped with into his gut. Shielded or not-- and the shields did their job well, turning the impacts into tickles-- she didn’t take kindly to being shot. His buddies she pursues out of the tent, bringing the butt of her rifle to bear on the back of their skulls.

They drop instantly.

“Unconscious, not dead,” John chimes as she whips around to face the other four troopers. “Thought you’d like to know.”

“Thanks,” she says shortly.

More bullets ricochet off her shields. The meter in the corner of her HUD blinks as it diminishes uncomfortably quickly, still un-replenished from the last round of projectiles. Not eager to damage the armor, she rushes forward, grabbing the closest trooper by the torso.

Effortlessly, she tosses his frame into his allies before grabbing up his gun, crushing the barrel. Her HUD wavers as a bolt of alarm flits through her, gaze drawn to the grenade the furthest ODST was trying to arm.

She lets her boots fall onto the arms of the first two troopers, determinedly not thinking about the state of their bones. She also does not think about how the alarm wasn’t her own, instead focusing on snatching up the final two soldiers by their chestplates and tossing them aside.

“Shoot them,” John hisses into her ear. “They’re not neutralized if they’re conscious or functional.”

“What do they have to gain by fighting me? I threw them forty meters!” Cortana exclaims. “I don’t want to hurt them, John.”

John doesn’t say anything but he does mark their position as nav-points on her HUD. She pointedly ignores him by stripping one of the downed soldiers for their grenades, which she promptly attaches to a magnetic hardpoint on her armor. With that done, she takes to the outer edges of the immediate area, making herself as hard to locate as possible.

The obstacle course is achingly familiar by the time she reaches it. It was an endless expanse of tough gravel, just over ten acres of the stuff. She remembered having to cross it bare-foot multiple times alongside her siblings; she could almost feel the ghostly sensation of rocks stabbing her soles.

Before she could step off, however, John speaks, low and urgent.

“Throw a grenade at the field.”

“That’s-- why?” Cortana asks, bewildered.

“There are Lotus mines and that’s the best way for me to calculate the layout. UNSC Engineers try to randomize the pattern, but humans are predictable creatures,” John says impatiently.

Well, it was as good as reason as any. She pulls a grenade from the stolen bandolier and arms it-- and holds it for three full seconds. With a controlled flick of her arm, she chucks it at the ground, watching it bounce once and explode.

Two Lotus mines explode in a geyser of gravel of dirt in reply several feet apart from each other.

“Give me a second,” John says. “Okay. These are rough estimations, but they shouldn’t get you killed. As you were, Master Chief.”

A graph flickers to life, overlaying itself perfectly across the gravel expanse. Yellow flower-like symbols join it in an affixed pattern, telling her what to avoid. That was… extremely useful.

“Don’t like that they’re using anti-tank mines,” she says, gravel crunching underfoot. “Seems a bit much.”

They make the trek across the gravel field in three minutes.

“Thanks, John. That’s really helpful,” Cortana says, making her sigh of relief productive.

“...There’s radio chatter on D band,” John says, his voice oddly pitched. “Encrypted and encoded, but it’s from the nearby airfield. I don’t like it.”

“That sounds exciting…”

But they had bigger things to worry about. After the gravel field was the long, narrow strip of mud and razor wire. It would be interesting to see how the armor’s shields fared against the constant scrape of barbed line. She doubts she could hunker low enough to avoid it entirely.

...If she didn’t get shot to hell first.

“Chain guns, 11 and 1 o’ clock,” John says, almost as soon as she notices them. “I advise evading. I do not feel like dying today.”

Crawling through the razor bed probably doesn’t count as evading, she thinks dryly. She’s glad for their incredibly slow rotation and similarly slow rate of fire at least. It meant that at least one was deactivated by the time she took off sprinting for it, firing at its power lines with her rifle.

There were two chainguns at the far end of the route, clearly meant to create a field of crossfire should she crawl. She’s silenced the one closest to her, but its cousin’s 30mm rounds punch into her chest, threatening to drop her shield into zero with just a handful of impacts.

She silences it by kicking the first chaingun into its chassis, toppling them both.

“Elegant,” John remarks once the residual firing stops. “I am going to investigate something. Don’t get shot.”

Cortana feels the AI slip out of her neural lace. To escape the sudden gaping emptiness, she charges into the rest of the razor-lined trenches. It gave her a few moments to reflect, too. John was an interesting AI. Not horrible to work with, if a little bossy. And vague, too.

If this didn’t feel so high stakes, she’d be arguing more.

Ice water rushes down her neck the same instant she comes up on the next stage of the obstacle course. Years ago, when they were all very young, the Spartans had dubbed this portion the ‘Pillars of Loki.’ It was a nightmarish network of smooth poles of wood-- razed trees-- interspersed with traps and danger. She’d seen the kind of damage the traps could cause.

She wasn’t keen on taking any of them on.

“The airfield is launching an aircraft,” John announces, his voice edged with anger. “A Skyhawk.”

Fuck.

“Language,” John says sternly. “Do you have any ideas? I calculate roughly 30 seconds before contact.”

Well, the best way to avoid traps was to go around them, right? She stares into the crisscross of pillars and deadly vegetation for a couple seconds too many. It would leave her too exposed to try skirting the borders of the field, but maybe climbing onto the poles…

Yeah, that would work.

Cortana scales the nearest tree with a certain lack of finesse. Her armored fingers leave indents in the hard wood and her boots gouge out chunks of bark and flesh from the pole, but she’s standing atop it with-- 15 seconds to spare.

A timer was now ticking down in the corner of her visor.

“Don’t know if that’s helpful, John,” she mutters.

“Bandit inbound,” John replies. “Ideas?”

She launches herself from one pole to the next, taking a diagonal route across the Pillars of Loki. The Skyhawk was an atmospheric fighter that specialized in close air support. It’s complement of four 50mm cannons and anti-tank missiles made it a terrifying and formidable ship, and against her?

Mjolnir, augmentations, AI assistance…

Well, she was as dead as any Covie soldier.

“Contact!” John barks.

The air thrums violently around Cortana as the aircraft bears down on her position. She kicks off of the pillar, free falling just as a spray of bullets sunder the air. Trees shatter into pieces behind her and the world blurs as she tucks into a roll, hitting the ground.

The Mjolnir’s gel layer absorbs much of the impact, but it still hurts.

“Eleven seconds! Goal: 300 meters!” John barks again.

“You’re yelling,” Cortana huffs, climbing to her feet. “No need to yell!”

Once again, a timer was ticking down on her HUD. Nine seconds and going. She was no Kelly, but how hard could a three hundred meter dash be?

Nothing achievable when it was rockets she was facing. The eight-seven-six seconds must be the Skyhawk’s turn time. Maybe she should run for cover.

“No time! New timer! About face!” John shouts, his voice so intense that it drowned out her own panicked thoughts.

Dirt and grass sprays with the force Cortana applies to twist herself around. Her HUD pulses red once before yet another timer pops up, accompanied by the silhouette of a missile. John’s presence inside her mind and suit is suddenly overwhelming.

“When the timer hits zero, the missile will be on top of us. Deflect it.”

John had a knack for sounding like a drill instructor. Or a suicidal admiral. Firm, commanding, unshakable, and slightly tyrannical.

The Skyhawk was hovering nearby. Plumes of white smoke erupt from its left wing as it lets loose a Scorpion missile. Cortana grinds her teeth, feeling a lurch as her brain overclocks into Spartan Time once again.

Three.

Cortana nearly falls over as the Mjolnir’s shields are ramped to their maximum settings.

Two.

The Skyhawk is bearing down on them, outpacing its missile.

“Now!”

Cortana jinks to the side, slapping the fuselage of the missile and sending it off course.

It still explodes several meters behind her. The resultant explosion knocks out her shields and launches her ten meters into the air. Darkness overwhelms her and several internal systems start wailing.

“Run like hell.”

She didn’t have to be told that twice, but her body is shaking violently as she hauls herself back to her feet. Her initial few strides are wobbly, growing steadier in fits and bursts. The goal’s nav-point is blurry and out of focus.

Oh, she was bleeding!

Cortana uses the bell’s tripod to stop her forward momentum. It collapses underneath her and crumples like a tin can, unable to stand up to a half-ton of armored Spartan.

She’s rewarded by the crackle of Dr. Halsey’s voice in her ear: “Test complete. Withdraw, Colonel Ackerson. Magnificent, Master Chief, but please don’t move. I’m sending a recovery team.”

She picks herself up from the bell. Despite its crushed state, she can tell it’s the very same bell she rung some thirty-odd years ago.

“We did it, John!” Cortana laughs. “That was… exhilarating.”

Gingerly, she sets the bell back onto the ground, panting and bleeding inside of her helmet. She probably broke her nose but that was nothing compared to the sense of peace she was now feeling. Whatever this had been, she had conquered it.

“I couldn’t have done it without you, either,” she says softly. “Thank you, John.”

“...Thank you, Master Chief,” John replies. “It was a pleasure working with you.”

Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?

[cyanocoraxx]

Damage (Chapter 6)

FFN / AO3 Warnings: Swearing Wordcount: 3,645 Characters: Metal Sonic, Mecha Sonic & Silver Sonic

The three sat in silence on the ship's deck.

One, completely black and silver, his elbow propped on his knee and his cheek plate resting in his palm. The second, navy blue with bright white arrows that reflected the moonlight almost poetically. The third, deep violet with a laser-precise visor that cast a warm glow on the metal floor.

Neo appreciated the silence, for once. Before, internal monologues had taunted him, pointing out every flaw and shortcoming he had. Now, things seemed a bit clearer, at least for now. It had been a long time since he had this kind of clarity.

In the quiet, Neo's auditory sensors shifted to his engine fan. He listened to how it gently drifted on and off, almost like breathing, in a way, as its energy consumption shifted ever so slightly to match the workload on his systems.

His attention shifted to the sensory input of the wind running across his armour plating and face. It felt good.

Perhaps feeling things was not just a curse. It could be good, too.

He glanced over to Mecha and felt a pang of regret. Mecha couldn't experience any of these sensations as he could.

Before his downfall, Neo's superiority complex would have taken this realization in an "I'm more advanced than you" way. Now, he could only feel a sense of regret for his brother's inability to feel. Or, was it better that he couldn't? He supposed that was relative... What sensations were worth feeling, and which were not?

Maybe he could help to change that lack of feeling someday, if Mecha so desired it.

Mecha couldn't appreciate this downtime the same way that his brothers did, but he definitely felt that he was fulfilling some kind of objective by watching over his younger siblings on the deck of the ship - still loyal to a fault.

Silver let out a fake yawn and leaned back, his arms now casually folded behind his head.

"This whole thing is kinda melodramatic, don't ya think? Just starin' into the night all somber like and not talking."

"I believe this is a concept known as "being quiet." Perhaps you have heard of it." Mecha simply replied.

Silver dramatically scoffed and held his hand to his chest, feigning pain. "Hey! You're not a very nice person, Mecha."

"Correct. I am not a person. Your observational skills are immaculate."

Silver leaned back again and shook his head with a smirk. "Sarcasm, big M?"

"Affirmative. I was actually inferring that your observational skills are poor." Mecha put it simply.

"Okay, less funny when ya say it like that." Silver reached over and playfully patted the bigger robot's head. "You guys act as if you hate me but you'd miss me if I fucked off back to my cryotube, really."

"How can we miss you. You never leave." Mecha flatly retorted, ducking his head away from Silver just a second too late.

Silver Sonic stuck his tongue out at him for a second, leaning slightly across Neo to do so.

Neo broke out of his silence and gave an angry beep, shoving his open palm hard against Silver's face to push him away.

Silver shuffled back slightly and wiped his cheek plate with the back of one hand, smirking to himself. "You know, you two haven't even asked how I got here in the first place to help you. It's very rude."

"Social constructs such as "rudeness" are a waste of processing time. In addition, I have access to the network database of this fleet and have already seen the footage of your arrival. I presume that this response causes you to... Feel disappointment."

Silver slowly nodded, unsure if that last part was sarcastic or not now. "I mean, yeah, it does actually. I was hoping to tell you the epic story myself."

Neo urgently shot looks at the two, silently demanding an explanation of the story. With his memory banks corrupted, Neo couldn't recall much about the incident and had no idea how Silver had come to find them. Silver caught this and grinned, pumping the air with a fist victoriously. He wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to talk about an adventure, especially not to Neo, who so far hadn't been so fond of him talking.

He leaned forward slightly.

"Let's start from the beginning."

--------------------------------------------------------

The sound of shattering glass startled him awake.

Silver Sonic stared up at the space where his cryotube had been, dumbfounded for several moments.

Had that really just happened?

And was that fire?

The robot quickly looked around, taking in his surroundings with laser precision before jumping to his feet and making a run for it. As he ran, he drank in the feedback of all of his senses. He hadn't been in this outside world for so long, and his systems were almost shocked by the sudden influx of information.

"Shit. Shit. Shit." He whispered to himself as he considered his options. "I'm fucked."

Silver Sonic skidded to a stop and looked around again, scanning every possible route he could take. "Okay. Think, dude, think. You have an AI chip, use it..." As if struck by inspiration, he suddenly looked down at his hands and wiggled his fingers. He was built with Sonic-tracking missiles, which came with a small problem... They could only track Sonic.

Silver deflated for a second as he hurriedly scrambled through his registry, desperately looking for the code that restricted his use of the missiles. Doing so activated his scanners, which, for some reason, picked up the hedgehog outside the ship. Silver didn't dare question it - that "glitch" was his ticket out of here, no point messing with it now.

"Bingo!" Without hesitation, Silver Sonic pointed one finger at the farthest wall, braced his arm, and fired. The missile that came blew a hole clean through the side of the out-of-control ship, and he took that as his cue to get moving. With a running start, Silver leaped through the hole and prayed that his boosters were ready to go.

Luckily he didn't drop too far before his boosters caught him. He found himself mentally thanking them for doing their job with such short notice.

What he found on the other side was what he least expected.

As he steadied himself on his boosters, Silver rested one hand over his forehead and squinted through the heavy rain at the scene ahead. High above the Final Fortress, Metal Sonic had transformed into his Overlord form, and three golden organics battled against him through the storm.

One of them was Sonic. Well, that explained that.

There was no way he was getting close to the battle, though.

The lightning was a death trap to a robot, especially one that couldn't control it.

With nowhere else to land, Silver headed straight for the main ship and landed as far from the fight as he could.

"This is way too much to process..." Silver muttered to himself, undeniably confused by his awakening and this whole situation. He looked around apprehensively as he walked towards an entranceway, and as he scanned his surroundings, he noticed several Egg Pawns watching him pass by.

Lightning lit up the sky as the robot came to a stop.

It reflected off of his armour almost menacingly and made his sharp metal spines glint.

One of the robots ran and fell at his feet, then grabbed at his leg in terror, which made Silver recoil slightly in bewilderment. "What the-"

"Lord Neo hasn't sent you after us has he? Have mercy on us all, please!"

Silver gave a grim look, flicking his gaze up to the robotic dragon in the sky for a moment in thought.

"Uh, no, he didn't send me. I don't even know the guy yet, honestly."

"But you're a-" The pawn stopped and stared up at him, seemingly terrified to offend him. "Y-You're a..."

Silver cocked his head to one side as he looked back down at the smaller 'bots. "I'm a hedgehog-series, sure, but that doesn't mean we're all the same. Jeez, so judgemental... I only just woke up you know. You think I have any clue what's going on here either-"

A roar from high above sent the pawn back to their little group, which huddled together in fear.

A pang of sympathy came over the robot.

He sighed and knelt to their level.

"What the hell did he do to you?"

--------------------------------------------------------

Silver tapped away at the computer beside him. Using technology was second nature to him, so his fingers swept effortlessly across the keyboard as he took in the information on the screen.

With a grimace, he scrolled through files upon files of ramblings about Neo hating "that cursed fake hedgehog", intensive training records that should have put him out of commission, and saved security footage of the ship. Some of the video files had strange names that caught Silver Sonic's attention - PROOF, HEWASHERE, IAMNOTREAL, I'MNOTCRAZY... Each file had been opened and edited several times before, clearly showing the Overlord's intense paranoia.

To Silver Sonic, it was clear as day what had happened. Some kind of error in Neo's programming was causing him to freak out, and nobody knew how to deal with it, or they were too scared to. Now it was out of control and couldn't be ignored anymore.

"So that's what's been going on, huh..." Silver sighed and spun the chair around about halfway to face the Pawns again.

The lead Egg Pawn nodded, still trembling nervously in the presence of the killing machine.

"Listen, I'm not even meant t'be here right now... But I'll have a look at the situation as best as I can. You 'bots need the help, and looks like those organics out there aren't gonna do anythin' useful apart from just standing there looking scared."

The Egg Pawn scrambled up onto a stool nearby, starting to feel more comfortable with Silver as he seemed more predictable than Neo was.

"Why are you different? The other two are... So angry. So scary."

Silver frowned slightly and shrugged one shoulder. "I was made to emulate Sonic's personality, but I was not made with his life data. That gives me more free will, I guess. I can be what I wanna be, just in... Moderation? I guess? And with a Sonic-like template of a personality? If that makes any sense at all." He rested his chin on his hand as he pondered the question deeper, looking into his reflection on the computer monitor. "But that's not good enough for the Doc, apparently."

The Pawn tilted their head to one side.

Silver looked back over and gave a half-smile. This time, sadness was distinct on his face. "This situation right now? The whole thing with Metal Sonic going haywire? That's been a long time coming. The Doc realized Metal was getting more unstable and rebellious thanks to his own free will. That meant that my own free will and emotional processing abilities were... A threat, I guess? So... That meant I was just a side project until he could figure all of this out. Thing is, I've been conscious this whole time. Alone."

"I-I'm sorry." The Pawn murmured, wringing their hands anxiously.

"It's cool. Not your fault after all." Silver grinned reassuringly. "Just glad to be out, even if it's in strange, strange circumstances."

"Do you blame... Him?"

"Who, Metal? Nah, I don't blame Metal Sonic. He's clearly got issues that he's gotta deal with and he's not the one who had me put away like that. Let's just say... The Doc has some things to answer for. He programs us to do things, but then he doesn't know how to handle it when we do those things. For Metal, it's wanting to kill Sonic but never getting to do it. For me, I guess, it's feeling a lot even though he made me that way. It's confusing."

"What about the other one? The tall scary one that never talks?" Another Pawn added, waving their hand quickly to grab Silver's attention in his peripheral.

"Who, Mecha Sonic? He's alright, I think. I mean, we've not met face-to-face yet but I know of him. He's Metal's right-hand man in all this, right? He doesn't seem like the angry killer type, though."

"Mecha Sonic is the only one who can talk to him without being scrapped. He stands up for us sometimes too... Well... Kind of anyway!" Another Pawn piped up.

Silver quickly downloaded a file to his own storage and finally shut off the computer, finally spinning the chair back around to face his newly-found friends. It almost turned back around again with the force of the push, but he slapped a hand against the desk to stop it before it could.

"Physically, there's not much I can do here. As I am, my missiles only target Sonic, Metal Sonic's episode isn't gonna stop with just words, and I can't get anywhere near him with all that lightning. But... What I can do is, try to stop this from happening again when he's defeated... And make sure he's not taken offline for good."

The hedge-bot paused to listen out for any change outside, but then looked down at the Egg Pawns again.

"Listen... Don't trust organics. They don't want to help robots like us. They'd sooner see us rust like trash. And right now, every single one of us is a bad guy according to them. Once Metal is down, or Mecha for that matter, Chaos knows what will happen to them. Organics are so unpredictable and they don't get the whole picture of what's happened here. It's not fair."

With that said, things suddenly seemed to take a turn in the battle outside. Metal Overlord had fallen.

The silver robot jumped to his feet and stalked out of the room with a new sense of urgency, finally seeming to get serious.

"Basically what I'm saying is... Us 'bots have to stick together."

He paused to look back at the Egg Pawns with a half-smile and a thumbs-up that strangely mirrored Sonic. "Stay safe."

The Pawns watched him leave, a little unnerved by the Sonic-like mannerisms at first - but they seemed to quickly remember that he was just made that way, and accepted it.

Keeping to the shadows as best as he could, Silver Sonic edged closer to the scene, keeping his amber gaze fixed solely on Sonic with one hand bracing his other arm. He kept a sharp eye on the organic hedgehog as he approached the fallen robot, and with every step that the hedgehog took, Silver raised his arm slightly higher.

"Don't you dare, hedgehog..."

Sonic crouched down to speak to Neo.

Silver flexed his fingers in a silent warning and engaged his targeting system.

One wrong move and he would shoot.

But, much to his surprise, Sonic turned and ran away as Neo begged for mercy. Silver faltered at first, the unexpected reaction causing his CPU to need a split second to recalculate what actions to take. Maybe it was some kind of trick... He kept his targeting system trained on Sonic as he ran, only disengaging once he was out of range.

"Hah. Coward..."

He finally looked back to Neo and was met by another surprise.

Mecha, stood protectively over his brother, stared intently after Sonic to make sure he didn't come back. Once he was satisfied, Mecha turned and knelt down to Neo to pick him up and leave.

Omega and Shadow started towards him as if to challenge him, but he spun around and met their glares with his unfeeling stare. Shadow held his ground and balled up his fists threateningly.

Mecha's gaze shifted to Omega and he said something in code that Silver couldn't pick up. Omega seemed to understand, begrudgingly, and left with Shadow.

The violet robot gave a warning look to the other heroes on the scene, giving Omega and Shadow a particularly long look as they left.

As beings who struggled with the idea of being robotic in any way... They should have known better. They were traitors to what could have been the robotic empire.

And all of them should have known better than to lay a hand on his brother.

Silver half-smiled to himself and finally disengaged all of his weapons. He was right in his analysis of Mecha... He wasn't the same killing-murdering type after all. This was good. He intended to have a conversation with him after this. So, with this in mind, Silver noted that approaching Mecha should be easy, as long as Neo wasn't around.

As Mecha disappeared wordlessly into the ship, Silver silently followed behind him, guarding his back without him ever knowing. The heavy doors closed behind Mecha, and Silver hopped up to sit on the roof above them. He intently watched the heroes as they left one by one, and as the last people left, he finally relaxed with a sigh.

Eggman was the last to disappear. Silver noticed his apparent regret and sadness as he slowly walked back inside, picking up debris and pieces of metal as he went.

Then, Eggman looked up to survey the damage. He suddenly spotted the escaped robot with a flinch of surprise.

Silver Sonic waved with a half-smile. "Yo. Long time no see."

--------------------------------------------------------

"So yeah! That's how I ended up here and-"

The sound of a heavy metal door opening behind the trio startled them out of the storytelling session.

Neo sharply turned around as if ready to fight, Silver looked over his shoulder with a warning glare, and Mecha didn't react outwardly.

One by one, though, the robots settled as they realized who it was.

Out of the shadow of the doorway, Eggman walked over to the robots with his hands behind his back.

The Doctor's eyes wandered over the fresh paint and repairs of Neo and couldn't stop himself from smiling. With a few tweaks here and there, he looked as new as he was when Eggman first built him - the memory paired with the sight made his heart swell with pride and relief.

Neo hesitated, meeting the warm gaze of his creator with his own hesitant one.

Eggman held his arms out to Neo with a grin.

Neo hesitated. But, slowly, he found himself clambering up and shifting one foot, then the other, and suddenly he was back in his creator's arms as he had been before.

Eggman pulled him close and rubbed the spot where the open hole had once been in his back.

"I'm so sorry, Metal. I'm glad you're home safe."

Home... What a strange word for a robot to process. Neo wasn't sure what to do with it or the emotions it stirred within him, but he knew it felt... nice.

Silver looked up at the two and patted the deck floor with one hand.

"So... You going to sit, or what, pops?" Silver asked, half-expecting him to leave.

Eggman sat down in the middle of the three boys, who shuffled aside slightly to make room.

Silver was a little puzzled and unsure of what to do with himself now. He avoided looking at the Doctor, instead wringing his hands and pretending to look at something else. The perceptive Doctor noticed this and carefully slung one arm around the robot, pulling him a little closer to him. His other arm went around Neo, who took a second to register the affection, but eventually accepted it.

Mecha watched over all of them with a dutiful look. Once he was satisfied that they were all safe, he looked up to the sky and quietly took its vastness in.

With the pressure on his armour, Neo felt very grounded. Grounded enough to check in with his systems properly. Curiously, he flipped through the abilities currently in his programming - abilities like shapeshifting and electricity manipulation still seemed to be in his registry, but he wasn't sure if they would still work in his new state.

As Mecha looked at the sky, Neo turned his attention to a particular spot far away and focused. It took several moments of focus, but much to his surprise, a tiny bolt of heat lightning flashed in the distance. Neo felt pride swell within him at the realization that he still wielded some of this power, but could actually control much easier it this time. Silver nudged Neo and grinned at him to show that he had noticed.

"Things are going to get better, I promise," Eggman said, looking over to Mecha to get his attention in particular.

"What is the probability of that promise being fulfilled."

"100%."

"Have you have taken into account the inconsistency of human nature to come to that percentage."

"Don't forget, I have an IQ of 300 Mecha. Of course I have."

"Affirmative."

------

< Next | Previous >

[ordinaryschmuck]

What I Thought About Loki (Season One)

(Sorry this is later than it should have been. I may or may not be experiencing burnout from reviewing every episode of the gayest show Disney has ever produced)

Salutations, random people on the internet. I am an Ordinary Schmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

Do you want to know what's fun about the Marvel Cinematic Universe? It is now officially at the point where the writers can do whatever the hell they want.

A TV series about two Avengers getting stuck in a series of sitcoms as one of them explores their personal grief? Sure.

Another series as a guy with metal bird wings fights the inner racism of his nation to take the mantel of representing the idea of what that nation should be? Why not?

A forgettable movie about a superspy and her much more mildly entertaining pretend family working together to kill the Godfather? F**king go for it (Let that be a taste for my Black Widow review in October)!

There is no limit to what you can get with these movies and shows anymore, and I personally consider that a good thing. It allows this franchise to lean further into creative insanity, thus embracing its comic roots in the process. Take Loki, for example. It is a series about an alternate version of one of Marvel's best villains bouncing around the timeline with Owen Wilson to prevent the end of the universe. It sounds like just the right amount of wackiness that it should be too good to fail.

But that's today's question: Did it fail? To find out my own answer to that, we're gonna have to dive deep into spoilers. So be wary as you continue reading.

With that said, let's review, shall we?

WHAT I LIKED

Loki Himself: Let's get this out of the way: This isn't the same Loki we've seen grow within five movies. The Loki in this series, while similar in many ways, is still his very own character. He goes through his own redemption and developments that fleshes out Loki, all through ways that, if I'm being honest with you, is done much better in six-hour-long episodes than in past films. Loki's story was already entertaining, but he didn't really grow that much aside from being this chaotic neutral character instead of this wickedly evil supervillain. Through his series, we get to see a gradual change in his personality, witnessing him understand his true nature and "glorious purpose," to the point where he's already this completely different person after one season. Large in part because of the position he's forced into.

Some fans might say that the series is less about Loki and more about the TVA. And while I can unquestionably see their point, I still believe that the TVA is the perfect way for Loki to grow. He's a character all about causing chaos and controlling others, so forcing him to work for an organization that takes that away allows Loki time to really do some introspection. Because if his tricks don't work, and his deceptions can't fool others, then who is he? Well, through this series, we see who he truly is: A character who is alone and is intended to be nothing more than a villain whose only truly selfless act got him killed in the end. Even if he wants to better himself, he can't because that "goes against the sacred timeline." Loki is a person who is destined to fail, and he gets to see it all with his own eyes by looking at what his life was meant to be and by observing what it could have been. It's all tragic and yet another example of these shows proving how they allow underdeveloped characters in the MCU a better chance to shine. Because if Loki can give even more depth to a character who's already compelling as is, then that is a feat worth admiration.

The Score: Let's give our gratitude toward Natalie Holt, who f**king killed it with this series score. Every piece she made is nothing short of glorious. Sylvie's and the TVA's themes particularly stand out, as they perfectly capture who/what they're representing. Such as how Sylvie's is big and boisterous where the TVA's sound eerie and almost unnatural. Holt also finds genius ways to implement other scores into the series, from using familiar tracks from the Thor movies to even rescoring "Ride of the Valkyries" in a way that makes a scene even more epic than it already could have been. The MCU isn't best known for its musical scores, partly because they aim to be suitable rather than memorable. But every now and again, something as spectacular as the Loki soundtrack sprinkles through the cracks of mediocrity. Making fans all the more grateful because of it.

There’s a lot of Talking: To some, this will be considered a complaint. Most fans of the MCU come for the action, comedy, and insanely lovable characters. Not so much for the dialogue and exposition. That being said, I consider all of the talking to be one of Loki's best features. All the background information about the TVA added with the character's backstories fascinates me, making me enthusiastic about learning more. Not everyone else will be as interested in lore and world-building as others, but just because something doesn't grab you, in particular, doesn't mean it isn't appealing at all. Case in point: There's a reason why the Five Nights at Freddy's franchise has lasted as long as it has, and it's not entirely because of how "scary" it is.

There's also the fact that most of the dialogue in Loki is highly engaging. I'll admit, some scenes do drag a bit. However, every line is delivered so well that I'm more likely to hang on to every word when characters simply have honest conversations with each other. And if I can be entertained by Loki talking with Morbius about jetskis, then I know a show is doing at least something right.

It’s Funny: This shouldn't be a surprise. The MCU is well-known for its quippy humor in the direct acknowledgment that it doesn't take itself too seriously. With that said, it is clear which movies and shows are intended to be taken seriously, while others are meant to be comedies. Loki tries to be a bit of both. There are some heavy scenes that impact the characters, and probably even some fans, due to how well-acted and professionally written they can be. However, this is also a series about a Norse god traveling through time to deal with alternate versions of himself, with one of them being an alligator. I'd personally consider it a crime against storytelling to not make it funny. Thankfully, the writers aren't idiots and know to make the series fun with a few flawlessly timed and delivered jokes that never really take away from the few good grim moments that actually work.

It Kept Me Surprised: About everything I appreciate about Loki, the fact that I could never really tell what direction it was going is what I consider its absolute best feature. Every time I think I knew what was going to happen, there was always this one big twist that heavily subverted any and every one of my expectations. Such as how each time I thought I knew who the big bad was in this series, it turns out that there was an even worse threat built up in the background. The best part is that these twists aren't meant for shock value. It's always supposed to drive the story forward, and on a rewatch, you can always tell how the seeds have been planted for making each surprise work. It's good that it kept fans guessing, as being predictable and expected would probably be the worst path to take when making a series about Loki, a character who's all about trickery and deception. So bonus points for being in line with the character.

The TVA: You can complain all you want about how the show is more about the TVA than it is Loki, but you can't deny how the organization in question is a solid addition to the MCU. Initially, it was entertaining to see Loki of all characters be taken aback by how the whole process works. And it was worth a chuckle seeing Infinity Stones, the most powerful objects in the universe, get treated as paperweights. However, as the season continues and we learn about the TVA, the writers show that their intention is to try and write a message about freedom vs. control. We've seen this before in movies like Captain America: The Winter Soldier or Captain America: Civil War, but with those films, it always felt like the writers were leaning more towards one answer instead of making it obscure over which decision is correct. This is why I enjoy the fact that Loki went on saying that there really is no right answer for this scenario. If the TVA doesn't prune variants, it could result in utter chaos and destruction that no one from any timeline can prepare themselves for. But when they do prune variants along with their timelines, it takes away all free will, forcing people to be someone they probably don't even want to be. It's a situation where there really is no middle ground. Even if you bring up how people could erase timelines more destructive than others, that still takes away free will on top of how there's no unbiased way of deciding which timelines are better or worse. And the series found a brilliant way to explain this moral: The season starts by showing how the TVA is necessary, to later point out how there are flaws and evil secrets within it, and ends things with the revelation that there are consequences without the TVA keeping the timeline in check. It's an epic showcase of fantastic ideas met with exquisite execution that I can't help but give my seal of approval to.

Miss Minutes: Not much to say. This was just a cute character, and I love that Tara Strong, one of the most popular voice actors, basically plays a role in the MCU now.

Justifying Avengers: Endgame: Smartest. Decision. This series. Made. Bar none.

Because when you establish that the main plot is about a character getting arrested for f**king over the timeline, you're immediately going to get people questioning, "Why do the Avengers get off scot-free?" So by quickly explaining how their time-traveling antics were supposed to happen, it negates every one of those complaints...or most of them. There are probably still a-holes who are poking holes in that logic, but they're not the ones writing this review, so f**k them.

Mobius: I didn't really expect Owen Wilson to do that good of a job in Loki. Primarily due to how the Cars franchise discredits him as a professional actor for...forever. With that said, Owen Wilson's Mobius might just be one of the most entertaining characters in the series. Yes, even more so than Loki himself. Mobius acts as the perfect straight man to Loki's antics, what with being so familiar with the supposed god of mischief through past variations of him. Because of that, it's always a blast seeing these two bounce off one another through Loki trying to trick a Loki expert, and said expert even deceiving Loki at times. Also, on his own, Mobius is still pretty fun. He has this sort of witty energy that's often present in Phil Coulson (Love that character too, BTW), but thanks to Owen Wilson's quirks in his acting, there's a lot more energy to Mobius than one would find in Coulson. As well as a tad bit of tragedy because of Mobius being a variant and having no clue what his life used to be. It's a lot to unpack and is impressively written, added to how it's Owen Wilson who helps make the character work as well as he did. Cars may not have done much for his career, but Loki sure as hell showed his strengths.

Ravonna Renslayer: Probably the least entertaining character, but definitely one of the most intriguing. At least to me.

Ravonna is a character who is so steadfast in her believes that she refuses to accept that she may be wrong. Without the proper writing, someone like Ravonna could tick off (ha) certain people. Personally, I believe that Ravonna is written well enough where even though I disagree with her belief, I can understand where she's coming from. She's done so much for the TVA, bringing an end to so many variants and timelines that she can't accept that it was all for nothing. In short, Ravonna represents the control side of the freedom vs. control theme that the writers are pushing. Her presence is necessary while still being an appealing character instead of a plot device. Again, at least to me.

Hunter B-15: I have no strong feelings one way or another towards B-15's personality, but I will admit that I love the expectation-subversion done with her. She has this air of someone who's like, "I'm this by-the-books badass cop, and I will only warm up to this cocky rookie after several instances of them proving themselves." That's...technically not B-15. She's the first to see Loki isn't that bad, but only because B-15 is the first in the main cast to learn the hidden vile present in the TVA. It makes her change in point of view more believable than how writers usually work a character like hers, on top of adding a new type of engaging motivation for why she fights. I may not particularly enjoy her personality, but I do love her contributions.

Loki Watching What His Life Could Have Been: This was a brilliant decision by the writers. It's basically having Loki speedrun his own character development through witnessing what he could have gone through and seeing the person he's meant to be, providing a decent explanation for why he decides to work for the TVA. And on the plus side, Tom Hiddleston did a fantastic job at portraying the right emotions the character would have through a moment like this. Such as grief, tearful mirth, and borderline shock and horror. It's a scene that no other character could go through, as no one but Loki needed a wake-up call for who he truly is. This series might heavily focus on the TVA, but scenes like this prove just who's the star of the show.

Loki Causing Mischief in Pompeii: I just really love this scene. It's so chaotic and hilarious, all heavily carried by the fact that you can tell that Tom Hiddleston is having the time of his damn life being this character. What more can I say about it.

Sylvie: The first of many surprises this season offered, and boy was she a great one.

Despite being an alternate version of Loki, I do appreciate that Sylvie's her own character and not just "Loki, but with boobs." She still has the charm and charisma, but she also comes across as more hardened and intelligent when compared to the mischievous prick we've grown to love. A large part of that is due to her backstory, which might just be the most tragic one these movies and shows have ever made. Sylvie got taken away when she was a little girl, losing everything she knew and loved, and it was all for something that the people who arrested her don't even remember. How sad is that? The fact that her life got permanently screwed over, leaving zero impact on the people responsible for it. As badass as it is to hear her say she grew up at the ends of a thousand worlds (that's an album title if I ever heard one), it really is depressing to know what she went through. It also makes her the perfect candidate to represent the freedom side of the freedom vs. control argument. Because she's absolutely going to want to fight to put an end to the people who decide how the lives of trillions should be. Those same people took everything from Sylvie, and if I were in her position, I'd probably do the same thing. Of course, we all know the consequences that come from this, and people might criticize Sylvie the same way they complain about Thor and Star Lord for screwing over the universe in Avengers: Infinity War. But here's the thing: Sylvie's goals are driven by vengeance, which can blind people from any other alternatives. Meaning her killing He Who Remains is less of a story flaw and more of a character flaw. It may be a bad decision, but that's for Season Two Sylvie to figure out. For now, I'll just appreciate the well-written and highly compelling character we got this season and eagerly wait as we see what happens next with her.

The Oneshot in Episode Three: Not as epic as the hallway scene in Daredevil, but I do find it impressive that it tries to combine real effects, fighting, and CGI in a way where it's all convincing enough.

Lady Sif Kicking Loki in the D**k: This is a scene that makes me realize why I love this series. At first, I laugh at Loki being stuck in a time loop where Lady Sif kicks him in the d**k over and over again. But a few scenes later, this setup actually works as a character moment that explains why Loki does the things he does.

This series crafted phenomenal character development through Loki getting kicked in the d**k by the most underrated badass of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. It's a perfect balance of comedy and drama that not every story can nail, yet Loki seemed like it did with very little effort.

Classic Loki: This variant shows the true tragedy of being Loki. The only way to survive is to live in isolation, far away from everything and everyone he loves, only to end up having his one good deed result in his death anyways. Classic Loki is definitive proof that no matter what face they have, Lokis never gets happy endings. They're destined to lose, but at least this version knows that if you're going out, you're going out big. And at least he got to go out with a mischievous laugh.

(Plus, the fact that he's wearing Loki's first costume from the comics is a pretty cute callback).

Alligator Loki: Alligator Loki is surprisingly adorable, and if you know me, you know that I can't resist cute s**t. It's not in my nature.

Loki on Loki Violence: If you thought Loki going ham in Pompeii was chaotic, that was nothing to this scene. Because watching these Lokis backstab one another, to full-on murdering each other, is a moment that is best described as pure, unadulterated chaos. And I. Loved. Every. Second of it.

The Opening Logo for the Season Finale: I'm still not that big of a fan of the opening fanfare playing for each episode, but I will admit that it was a cool feature to play vocal clips of famous quotes when the corresponding character appears. It's a great way of showing the chaos of how the "sacred timeline" works without having it to be explained further.

The Citadel: I adore the set design of the Citadel. So much history and backstory shine through the state of every room the characters walk into. You get a perfect picture of what exactly happened, but seeing how ninety percent of the place is in shambles, it's pretty evident that not everything turned out peachy keen. And as a personal note, my favorite aspect of the Citadel is the yellow cracks in the walls. It looks as though reality itself is cracking apart, which is pretty fitting when considering where the Citadel actually is.

He Who Remains: This man. I. Love. This man.

I love this man for two reasons.

A. He's a ton of fun. Credit to that goes to the performance delivered by Jonathon Majors. Not only is it apparent that Majors is having a blast, but he does a great job at conveying how He Who Remains is a strategic individual but is still very much off his rocker. These villains are always my favorite due to how much of a blast it is seeing someone with high intelligence just embracing their own insanity. If you ask me, personalities are always essential for villains. Because even when they have the generic plot to rule everything around them, you're at least going to remember who they are for how entertaining they were. Thankfully He Who Remains has that entertainment value, as it makes me really excited for his eventual return, whether it'd be strictly through Loki Season Two or perhaps future movies.

And B. He Who Remains is a fantastic foil for Loki. He Who Remains is everything Loki wishes he could have been, causing so much death, destruction, and chaos to the multiverse. The important factor is that he does it all through order and control. The one thing Loki despises, and He Who Remains uses it to his advantage. I feel like that's what makes him the perfect antagonist to Loki, thanks to him winning the game by not playing it. I would love it if He Who Remains makes further appearances in future movies and shows, especially given how he's hinted to be Kane the Conqueror, but if he's only the main antagonist in Loki, I'm still all for it. He was a great character in his short time on screen, and I can't wait to see what happens next with him.

WHAT I DISLIKED

Revealing that Loki was D.B. Cooper: A cute scene, but it's really unnecessary. It adds nothing to the plot, and I feel like if it was cut out entirely, it wouldn't have been the end of the world...Yeah. That's it.

That's my one and only complaint about this season.

Maybe some scenes drag a bit, and I guess Episode Three is kind of the weakest, but there's not really anything that this series does poorly that warrants an in-depth complaint.

Nope.

Nothing at all...

…

...

...I'm not touching that "controversy" of Loki falling for Sylvie instead of Mobius. That's a situation where there are no winners.

Only losers.

Exclusively losers.

Other than that, this season was amazing!

IN CONCLUSION

I'd give the first season of Loki a well-earned A, with a 9.5 through my usual MCU ranking system. It turns out, it really is the best type of wackiness that was just too good to fail. The characters are fun and likable, the comedy and drama worked excellently, and the expansive world-building made me really intrigued with the more we learned. It's hard to say if Season Two will keep this momentum, but that's for the future to figure out. For now, let's just sit back and enjoy the chaos.

(Now, if you don't excuse me, I have to figure out how to review Marvel's What If...)