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emmg · 11 days ago

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There exists a certain breed of people, Emmrich Volkarin has observed, who live in the excesses of their own making, and he has always known himself to be one of them. In all things, but especially in the amorous, his nature unfurls in grandiosity. He has often assured himself that this is a mark of distinction. They blush, all of them, do they not? Their eyes dart sideways, their mouths falter into embarrassed gratitude: Thank you, Emmrich, thank you, truly, you shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.

It makes no difference whether it is the routine bonds of years or the fleeting conspiracies of a night’s darkness; his approach is unvarying. Coffee will await them in the morning, placed just so, beside a carefully curated tray of toiletries reserved for such occasions. He will inquire, solicitous as ever: Do you have somewhere to be? Something you need? Someone you need? The questions perch delicately on the lip of a deeper one: Is it me you need? More of me, perhaps? A carriage, at least, if not my company?

It was Johanna, before she was finally exiled from the Watch, who delivered the line that needled its way into him.

"Four decades and counting, Volkarin, and still you rattle around alone. Ever wonder if it's because you drown people in your godsdamned devotion until they can’t find air to breathe? Pah.”

At first, he dismissed it with a smile slanted into a grimace, chalking it up to the jagged edge of her temper. Pah, he repeated with sardonic flourish, tossing the sound to the ceiling as if it were a paper ball aimed at a wastebasket. Pah, he said again later, softer, practicing the shape of her disdain in the privacy of his reflection.

He stands in the Lighthouse, his thoughts drifting back to that exchange from years ago. She knows nothing. Johanna, with her clipped words and sharpened angles, has no use for sentimentality, no patience for sweetness. And yet, she is content in her clean, unaffectionate way, while he—ah, he hovers just shy of it, circling its edges. Almost there. Soon, he promises himself, the elusive shape of it will solidify. Soon.

How else does one fasten themselves to others when born not merely from nothing, but from no one? A life without roots, without the parental gaze threading affection through the years, without the cushioning sprawl of family. You weave your own sentimentality from the tatters left behind, Emmrich tells himself. You make it elaborate, ornate, and irresistible. You do not ensnare—no, the word feels like a tooth snagging on cloth. He has no traps, no cages. He is not predatory but prodigal, spilling over with the weight of his own unstirred affection. A maximalist, yes.

What he wishes to show them, these transient silhouettes in the gallery of his life, is the sheer abundance of what he carries. Of what they lost by not choosing him. The unspent wealth of tenderness, the meticulous reservoirs he has cultivated for lack of recipients. It can all be theirs, whoever they are. Wouldn’t they understand their fortune, their rare chance to bask in the radiance of such unfettered devotion? Surely they would. Surely.

At thirty-five, his entanglement with the Orlesian art appraiser unraveled, not with drama but with a certain muted inevitability, as though it had been sketched lightly in chalk on a damp morning and then, suddenly, rained over, erased. He tells himself it could not have lasted; she collected men as she might collect unfinished canvases, drawn to their rough edges and faint promise. But once they hardened into something distinct, something complete, she set them aside, indifferent to the final form.

Emmrich, oh Emmrich, he hears her voice in his memory, though he wonders now if it was her voice at all or merely the soft inflection of her glance, the way her eyes curved away from him like hands withdrawing from a clasp. She had no fondness for gold; it was a color she found gaudy, oppressive, a vulgar punctuation on life's subtler compositions. Her fingers, long and bare, were her own; she had no need of his ring, no desire for the weight of it, least of all on that finger.

Years earlier, there was a boy, a student, like himself, with hair so very dark. They had bumped foreheads in the flickering veilfire, the absurd aftermath of Emmrich’s clumsy attempt to impress: a corpse laid open, its anatomy splayed for inspection, until a wayward wisp animated the flesh, sending them both lurching back, half-startled, half-laughing. It was a frantic affair, feverish and brief, as if passion itself had been distilled into those stolen weeks. He could have loved him endlessly, he thinks, could have folded himself into that golden rhythm forever. Even now, on certain nights, he fancies he can taste him, something like salt, something like cheap liquor.

The boy had left for Minrathous, his parting words wrapped in a promise to write. And he had, at first—letters arriving as steady and sure as a ticking clock, their edges faintly scented with ink and faraway rain. But the rhythm faltered; the clockwork slowed. The letters grew fewer, their voice dimmer, until one day the flow ceased entirely, leaving only silence and the faint echo of a promise gone pale with distance.

He loved Johanna too, he reflects, with a savage intensity that left the others pale by comparison, though Johanna, predictably, never returned it. Johanna loved her mind and the delicious friction of transgression. You can fuck me while I finish this paper, Volkarin, she had remarked once, without so much as a glance in his direction, her pen scratching insistently at the page.

He remembers the evening with an ache sharpened by detail: the roses, their petals faintly bruised as if blushing at his ineptitude; the wine, swirling darkly in glasses he had scrubbed to a nervous shine; the small box of Orlesian caramels, her favorite, held out with the tentative pride of a schoolboy offering his first essay to an indifferent master.

He was no one of consequence then, no lauded scholar or dazzling wit, just a young man scraping together gestures from borrowed elegance. And yet, he had tried—oh, how he had tried—pouring his entire being into that fragile theater of romance, as though effort alone might compel the world to forego its indifference.

The years folded and refolded themselves, their seams disappearing until time became a single, unbroken surface. His voice grew sleek, his purse heavier, his tailoring sharper. He became a presence, one that others noticed. Students watched him with eyes that lingered a beat too long; the occasional noble leaned in, fascinated by his murmurs over the dead, or else drawn by the possibility of extracting something—knowledge, power, perhaps only amusement.

Take Professor Volkarin’s class, the students murmured, their voices hushed, their smiles sly. He’s quite something to look at, isn’t he?

You are a connoisseur, are you not? the aristocrats would murmur, their words oiled with flattery, their smiles faintly predatory, the question ever a jeweled trap.

Why complicate things? colleagues would say with an air of weary sophistication, their proposals veiled in the thin gauze of propriety. A little diversion never hurt anyone.

Sometimes he allowed himself to be drawn in, sometimes not. These entanglements stretched in strange patterns—weeks collapsing into years, years vanishing into the quiet close of nothing. On certain occasions, he felt the weight of the moment tipping toward something lasting. His lips would part, shaping the beginnings of a plea: stay longer, stay forever. But before the words could leave him, they would pull away, the decision already made, their departure as effortless and inevitable as a candle guttering out in a draft.

At fifty, the lashes ceased to flutter. The students' lingering glances turned polite, their gazes moving past him as if he were part of the room's architecture. The brief romances grew briefer still, coming apart before they could be knotted into anything of substance. No one explained; no one ever said why. But he understood. It was the five, that inevitable syllable that had slipped into his age, heavy and uncompromising, like a note of finality struck too soon.

Once a man stepped into his fifth decade, what could he offer? A handful of years, perhaps, before the decline—before he became a relic of himself. His hair, silver since his youth, could not have been the culprit; its pale sheen had always been mistaken for distinction. No, it was the five, the fatal number, that had crept into his chronology and settled there like an uninvited guest.

Let’s stay together, let’s marry, let’s have children, let’s take them to my parents’ graves someday—this was the whispered litany he carried, a fragile incantation he longed to speak aloud. Sometimes, the words escaped him, offered tentatively to the ears of a lover. Other times, they remained locked within, the moment never ripening enough to bear their weight. With some, he dared to dream aloud; with others, the silence grew louder than the words could ever hope to be.

At fifty-two, improbably, he finds himself among this mismatched, maddening, and strangely endearing group intent on bringing low the gods of old. He rolls his eyes so often that he’s begun to wonder if one day they might stick, leaving him a statue of perpetual disdain. Neve cuts through his facades effortlessly, coaxing from him scraps of childhood he’d long since buried. With Lucanis, every conversation is a duel, the man’s pointed questions prodding at the fragile edges of his carefully constructed dreams of lichdom—questions that dredge up doubt, irritating as a grain of sand lodged beneath the skin.

Taash grates on him in ways he cannot fully articulate. The endless talk of dragons is a torment he would gladly forego, and yet it is Taash who catches him when an Antaam reaver’s blow leaves him seeing constellations. In Davrin, he glimpses something familiar, an echo of his love for Manfred, and in that recognition, he feels the strange solace of being known.

Harding is a different matter altogether, her culinary atrocities sparking in him an inexplicable desire to craft a sandwich of such undeniable perfection that it would silence her objections. He imagines her chewing begrudgingly, a reluctant admission forming at the corners of her mouth: yes, cheese on toast is a sandwich.

And then there is Bellara. Bellara, who speaks in a ceaseless cascade of words, her chatter so relentless it should unnerve him. But it doesn’t. He listens and finds himself oddly soothed, her voice filling the spaces he hadn’t realized were empty.

Rook—yes, Rook. He loves her, loves her with a rawness that feels almost indecent, as though his affection itself were an intrusion. Rook, younger by an expanse of years that feels cruelly conspicuous. Rook, who should belong to someone whose hair has not yet been kissed by silver, whose steps have not yet grown measured by the weight of decades. Rook, whose every second sentence is punctuated with fuck or shit or a biting go kill yourself.

Rook, who comes from Rivain but not truly, her roots stretching from an alienage, a world far from his own. She can read, but poorly, and dismisses it whenever possible. She once made it clear that books belonged to the lives of others, those who grew up with scholars.

Yet, beneath her defiance, there are moments of vulnerability. Once, she brings him a Venatori missive, the text dense and convoluted, and quietly asks him to read it for her. Her usual boldness has been tempered by something smaller, almost shy; a reluctance to expose what she lacks but a willingness to trust him with it.

Rook, so utterly unlike anyone he has ever loved, so far from the world of symposiums and necromantic subtleties where he has always thought his affections must dwell. The languages of hypotheses and sciences are foreign to her. But she teaches him other things instead: the delicate art of unlocking what refuses to yield, the precise tension of a pick against the hidden tumblers, the silence required to hear a mechanism surrender.

Impossibly, unstoppably, he loves her—a love without reason, as if reason had never existed at all.

Sometimes the tears threaten, and sometimes they come. Not in torrents or grandiose sobs, but as a quiet dampening of his eyes, just enough to blur his vision as he presses his hands against his face in the solitude of night. He is happy—fantastically, achingly happy—because he loves her with a fervor that feels miraculous, and, impossibly, she loves him too. But the clock is cruel. There is no time. There will never be enough time.

He will die before her—this much he knows—if he chooses to die at all. And when he is gone, she will mourn him, briefly but with a scorching intensity, before moving forward, as the living must. She will find another, someone new to hold, to share her days and her nights. It coils in him, sick and green, this jealousy so sharp it feels like a betrayal of his love for her. He wants her happiness, he tells himself—her boundless, effortless happiness—even if it must come without him.

And yet, the thought of her in another’s arms, her life spilling into someone else’s—after all these years of waiting, of searching for someone who might stay—it is a wound he cannot quite close. But still, she must be happy. She must.

Pah, Johanna once said. Yes. Pah.

Rook, who calls him pretty with a disarming frankness, who tilts her head and declares he is too tall, then adds, almost as an afterthought, that she likes his eyes, his hair, his hands. Rook, who raises a defiant middle finger to a merchant scheming to cheat him. Rook, who leads him to Rivain—hers but not hers, a place of half-belonging—and asks, with a sudden softness, if he would like to taste the sea salt in the air with her.

Rook, Rook, Rook, who calls him her first even as he rasps assurances that he can wait, that he is content to wait. Rook, who bleeds and winces, who admits, without pretense, that it is not nice—not yet—but insists that it will be, if only he’ll press on, again and again, until the awkwardness burns away and something else remains. And then, in time, it does. The lessons, stumbling as they are, yield their strange harvest.

"Fuck me," she says, sliding onto his lap, the words abrupt and unadorned.

He frowns, as he always does. Not with anger but with a pained, almost mournful reproach, murmuring, "Must you be so crass, my darling?" And then, as if to erase the jaggedness of her demand, he makes love to her instead.

He loves her with a sincerity so overwhelming it spills into the small rituals of their mornings, saturating every moment. He murmurs it into the curve of her shoulder, stirs it into the coffee he sets gently by her bedside, whispers it to her in the gray light before dawn when she is too drowsy to do more than hum faintly in response, a muffled acknowledgment that feels like the echo of a dream.

I love you, I love you, I love you, the words repeat themselves in his mind, circling endlessly. He imagines writing them out for her, not once but a hundred times, in the looping grace of Nevarran cursive, and then teaching her to read the script with infinite patience, her fingers tracing the lines as he watches.

One morning, he brings her a bundle of new clothes, tea fragrant and warm, and fresh bandages to replace the ones that had grown stiff with her blood during the night.

She looks at him and says, “You don’t need to do anything for me, Emmrich.”

“It is a want, not a must,” he replies softly, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Oh, thank you,” she says after a pause. “I love you.”

What he truly wants to say he cannot properly construct: please, please, please, don’t go back to the dragon’s hoard. He would bury her in gold himself, pile it at her feet until there was no need for her to seek out treasure elsewhere. Please, please, please, he thinks, come back to Nevarra with me. Let me love you there, in my house, in my world, away from dragons, from gods, from locks waiting to be broken.

Look, look—won’t she see it, won’t she understand? All that he has, all that he is, lies waiting for her to take. The treasure hunter could rest, abandon her searching, if only she would choose him. Not now, of course, not now when her choice is already him, but later, when the gods lie still and her freedom stretches unbound before her.

His accounts, his wealth, every piece of his carefully constructed world—she could claim it all, strip it to its bones, and still he would find more for her. Let her be greedy, insatiable; let her empty him entirely. He would gather, he would build, he would conjure whatever she desired, anything to keep her near, anything to make her stay.

Yes, yes—he could love her forever.

#this is something that's been sitting in my writing folder for a while #im not gonna do anything with it #it was just a character study #so i'm simply throwing it out into the depths of tumblr #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #emmrook #datv #dragon age the veilguard #my stupid writing #shortstories

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wandixx · 29 days ago

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GIW made a lot of mistakes and the biggest one was going against Young Justice part 2

part one is here

@whimsicalchaosgarden you asked to be tagged, sorry it took so long

Trigger warnings: mentions of experimentation and dehumanization (tell me if there is more appropriate way of phrasing it)

“So,” Robin started, taking the voice recorder out of his utility belt. “It'll probably be best if we get an explanation while making an accident report. This way we get it all over sooner”

Everyone agreed with this idea, standing in the loose circle in the debriefing area to make it all feel more serious. They had limited time before the next batch of cookies needed to be taken out of the oven and there was no way they all wouldn't devolve into chaos when it happened. M’gann knew from experience.

To make sure they wouldn't take too long and cookies wouldn't turn on the fire alarm (again) both she and Danny set a timer.

In the meantime they had to learn who actually attacked them earlier.

“Phantom do the honors”

Danny froze for a moment, looking like deer caught in the headlight before he asked in a bit squeaky voice:

“How do I make an accident report?”

“Just say what happened but make it sound fancy,” Artemis explained.

“Make a mission report and we'll fix it along the way,” Kaldur proposed.

“Answer ‘When? Where? Who was involved? What happened? What have you done about it?’ without excessive use of puns to avoid Bat-lecture” Robin helped, already in handstand.

“Bat-lecture? Really Rob?”

“So it's like lab report lite” Danny said before Robin did anything more than squawk indignantly “Alright, I can do it. Do you have any set phrase to start? And which accident report is it, in the database?"

“44th… How about ‘[Hero name], report’? Sounds serious enough.”

Everyone agreed, so after a moment of silence Kaldur did the honors.

“Phantom, report”

Danny straightened, rolling his shoulders back and locked his eyes in the middle distance. It was a bit eerie how fast he went from relaxed and goofy to almost emotionless statue. M’gann wished to never encounter it again, thank you very much.

“Incident report no. 45 made by Young Justice member Phantom, regarding an attack from earlier today, 26th April 20XX. The Young Justice Team, later referred to as the Team, went on a trip to an amusement park staying currently in the city of Happy Harbour. It was an activity meant to strengthen interpersonal relationships within the Team, previously green-lit by Red Tornado. Every member was in civilian attire as per protocol. Around 3:15 PM, after two and a half hours, the Team were disturbed by a group of ten armed people, recognized by member Phantom as belonging to Ghost Investigation Ward, colloquially known as GIW or Guys In White because of their uniforms. Later in the report the organization will be referred to as the GIW. Two shots were fired by the assailants, targeting but not reaching member Phantom. Members of the GIW were hostile but with use of humor and threat of legal actions, the Team managed to diffuse the situation before it endangered passerbys. Despite direct attack, none of the Team members’ identities were compromised. Assailants left the confrontation with belief that Phantom left his ectoplasmic signature on an unrelated civilian. Agents refused to admit they were working for the GIW since its operations break a couple of laws of the state Rhode Island. Because of that, their appearance was reported to local law enforcement and taken care of. No injuries or damage to the city infrastructure were sustained other than two burns in the asphalt in the place of confrontation. Required follow-up with local law enforcement in civilian attire as victims of assault. End of report” Danny sighed, easing back into a more natural position. “This good?” he asked, with a sheepish smile.

“Perfect”

“How are you so good at reporting? You didn’t even know what to do a second ago? That’s just unfair”

“I used to write my parent’s lab reports. It’s pretty similar in form”

“Lab-”

“Follow-up to the report only, Kid-Flash,” Robin interrupted “Phantom. elaborate on who were the assailants”

Danny stepped back from himself again.

“GIW is a ghost hunting organization supported and accredited by the state government in Illinois, legally operating also in states Wisconsin and Ohio. Their goal is to catch and examine ecto-entities to learn more about their biology and ways to obliterate them. Obviously their plans for experimentation don’t include consideration of ghosts’ well-being”

“Damn, that’s messed up”

“They wouldn't catch a blob ghost if they tried,” Danny shrugged, though something was wrong with the gesture. She wasn't sure though, so she moved on.

“Then why were you scared?” M’gann pressed on instead.

“My parents… are, you know, prominent ghost hunters so when GIW opened we all got a tour around the whole building. The lab was… it made me imagine things I wished I had never thought about”

“They have labs? Like evil labs?” Robin perked up like a kid who just heard that Christmas came early. “How could you hide it from us?!” he added, falling to hang on Danny's shoulder. He twirled a bit to catch the left one even though before he stood on halfa’s right side. Dramatic as always “Conner, we have a birthday gift for you!”

“What does GIW’s lab have to do with my birthday?”

“The potential!” Robin yelled, straightening for a better effect.

Everyone started laughing. Well, everyone other than Conner who just looked at them confused.

“He probably wants to storm another lab, bring up nostalgia of our first meeting,” Kaldur calmed down just enough to explain.

“Tell me you wouldn't like to punch an evil scientist,” Wally added, almost dropping to the floor.

“This does sound nice”

“And THIS is exactly the reason why I haven't told you all. Thanks for spoiling my surprise Rob,” Danny lied, though he did his best to sound truthful. He even projected some false mirth.

It would take much more to trick M’gann though. She abruptly stopped laughing.

“You're lying. Why actually haven't you told us?” she demanded maybe a little too harshly, but she was worried. Everyone froze for a moment, before turning to look at Danny.

“They're all bark no bite, and aim worse than Stormtroopers’, so I haven't considered them important enough to report”

Other's didn’t know, of course, but M’gann knew just how terrified Danny was during the confrontation and how echoes of that fear soured air around him even hours later.

Everyone did realize this explanation was a tone of bullshit though.

Apparently incredulous stares were enough of the response.

“You and the Justice League have more important things to deal with than some shitty local laws”

“Bullshit again,” Artemis burst her lips “This is exactly what Justice League is for”

“I already found people to help me lobby against them”

“And why aren't we on the list?”

Danny fell silent, not looking anyone in the eyes, which was quite a feat considering they had him in a half circle. M’gann considered moving to his side to show her support. Stare down like that had to be quite stressful.

Why not actually. She stepped closer, and drew him in the loose side hug. Danny tensed, which wasn't abnormal for him. He usually relaxed in about thirty seconds, if he didn't, she'd let go.

“I didn't expect them to breach the containment…”

“Each of these lies is worse, you know? Like, insulting our intelligence level of worse,” Artemis interrupted once more, pinning him with her eyes alone “Give us truth or stop talking”

Danny raised his head to look back at Artemis and mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing the key away.

“Really?”

Boy just shrugged, not breaking eye contact.

“Alright, let's move on to the next question, how did it get approved in the first place?” Wally interrupted, waving his hand between them. They both shook off like dogs fresh out of water.

“Couldn't you wait five more seconds until I won?”

“Ha! You wish Artemis. Though you could give us a moment”

“I gave you literal ages”

Danny snorted “Sorry, I keep forgetting how impatient you are”

“Oh shut up, my brain is just faster than yours, you slowpokes”

“Sure, sure”

“He made a good point,” Kaldur said “This shouldn’t even pass. And even if, you’re legally a Meta”

“Normal ghosts aren’t and halfas being a thing is not exactly common knowledge among the living”

“I’ll never get used to this distinction”

“I believe in you, Rob”

“What about ‘Extraterrestrial, extradimensional and otherwise previously unincluded’ Optional Protocol to the ‘International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights’?”

“Oh my god Conner, you’re the only person to say the whole name ever”

“Hey!”

“It all comes down to the definition of the ghost and the fact that Alien addition uses sentience and sapience as a ground to give anyone said rights. And also, US signed it but didn’t ratify it so…”

“Isn’t it same thing?”

“Nope. I thought so too, but apparently signing anything means nothing unless it’s also ratified, so I’m kinda fucked. Can’t even get the UN to frown at them disapprovingly, because officially, nothing was agreed to. And you know, even if they ratified it, ecto-scientists conducted enough research to prove we aren’t sapient enough to have these rights anyway. Just most of the states didn’t need to make a law out of it”

“That’s rough buddy”

“Are you really quoting Avatar at me right now? Really Artemis?”

“Yes”

“Wasn’t Avatar this movie with blue people? I don’t think they said that there”

M’gann wasn’t quite sure why human members seemed to be appalled by the question.

“We’re going to fix that later-”

“What exactly is there to be fixed, because I feel like we’re talking about to different things”

“- but for now can we go back to the whole ‘ghosts have no rights in Illinois’ thing” Robin continued, completely ignoring Conner’s questions.

“Illinois, Wisconsin and Ohio. There are portals to the Zone in two of these states. GIW already tried to send nuke through one of them”

“How Americana of them,” Kaldur muttered.

“If you have another insane tidbit about them, please share it all now. My mind can’t utilize any more revelations like that”

“I handled it, don’t worry”

“Someone tried to nuke literal Afterlife…”

“Yup, get on the schedule Kid Flash. You’re supposed to be fast”

M’gann knocked her arm into his, kinda as a ‘don’t be mean’ message. Danny kinda tensed, but soon relaxed back and moved his head as if he wanted to lay it on her shoulder. Excitement of the day was clearly catching up to him.

M’gann wouldn’t be mad if he did laid his head there.

“Why do we learn about it just now?”

“I wrote the report, not my fault you haven’t read it”

“Can’t fault us for assuming we’d know every important thing from your endless bitching!”

Danny straightened and laughed, in this horrible humorless way that made M’gann want to claw at her brain until she couldn’t hear or sense any of it.

Instead, she brought her other hand up and just held him tighter.

Thankfully the whole spectacle didn’t last long.

“It’s cute that you think I bitch about anything important”

“Phantom…”

“Don’t Phantom me right now. Even if by some miracle they managed to send the missile to the Zone, it most likely wouldn’t have worked. They’re mostly just a joke.”

“They managed to shot you. Right upper arm or shoulder”

“Don’t deny it, we’ve seen you wince when I leaned on you and when M’gann hugged you”

Martian tried to let go hearing that, but Danny held her in place. She stayed where she was but carefully moved her hand away from the slightly damp area on his shirt. She suddenly caught on everything that was wrong with him, now that she knew to look for it.

“I got worse from the hand of my house’s security system”

“You… understand that it’s… like… way worse, right?”

“You don’t know life until you hear threats of dissection against your alter ego after stopping death ray with bowl of cereal,” he said, relaxing more into her side again. He sounded absolutely exhausted.

“Do you want to move in here? Until we deal with this whole GIW and assorted mess?” she said instead. Conner nodded, surprisingly eager to share the space that he considered somewhat sacred.

“Nope, I’m good, I’m needed there”

“You could Zeta- yeah, no, nevermind, it wasn’t good idea. But we could make it work”

“You still should-”

“It’s fine. I mean, I have it handled and it doesn’t affect that many people. And we’re working on it. It’s fine”

“It really is not,” Conner growled.

“You need your arm patched up” M’gann demanded, ignoring previous conversation, with eyes still fixed on the blood that stained her forearm. She should’ve destroyed at least Operative K.

“I bandaged it up”

“It soaked through then. Let’s go to med–”

Loud shrill interrupted her, because of course it did.

“Oh, look, convenient distraction! Let’s take the cookies out before they get burned!”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” M’gann stated in a way that allowed no argument “You’re getting away for now only because I’m holding most of your weight right now”

“Sure we will. And I can stand on my own, thank you very much”

“I’ve heard many lies today and this might be the worst of them. We’re going to Medbay as soon as the cookies are out”

“You’ve got it boss”

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #it's been a while huh?#ALMOST HALF A YEAR?!#the funniest thing is I had this part written when I posted the first one I just wante one more as a back up #and then I rewrote this like three times insteas because I felt like it was getting too serious too fast #i wanted to keep the 'crack treated almost seriously' vibes for a little longer but they just didn't want to be kept #part after that is in theory written but now too has to be heavily rewritten #anyway on more plot related topics #as you can see #I made up an international document #during my studies I brushed against an international law mostly focused on human rights so while I wouldn't call it an expretise I know smt #I believe UN in DC universe would make a document that includes all non-human people runing around and the easiest way I found was #to make an Optional Protocol to the “International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights” that Conner mentioned #this is first of two convenants and it's basicly “people deserve to not be killed or tortured and believe what they want” document #the second one is “International Convenant on Economic Social and Cultural right”; basically “people deserve fair pay healthcare and school #I think the optional protocol would be #non-human being who [insert criteria that would be wide enough but also exculde Krypto for example]#also have these rights #I can try explaining it more in depth if someone asks #i know there is a difference between ratifying and signing an international treaty #but i barely understand how it works in Polish law so im not trying to figure out US one #its whole other law system (Poland uses continental law while US uses common law I can explain the difference if someone asks)#anyway #(almost) New Years fic special #part two of five #wandixx writes #have a nice day dear stranger who got to this part

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