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passable-talent · 4 years ago

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ya boi is back with a new niche character played by hayden christensen for yall to enjoy.

CW: blood, wounds, cursing, piercings, tattoos, guns, fighting, deaths of unnamed characters

AJ x gn!reader - Takers (2010). the stupid hat grew on me.

dedicated as always to @haydens-moles and @iscariot-rising for being my friends and for appreciating hayden as much as I do

The story of your life, as you loved to explain it, boiled down to a little math joke. Excited five, you called it, or it’s official terminology- five factorial. Written as “5!”, hence the awful pun.

“Factorials,” you’d say, “for those that don’t remember, are a multiplication of every number up to the one that’s being discussed. As such, five factorial is five, times four, times three, times two, times one.”

Your life, your excited five, was as follows: five major scars, four tattoos, three piercings, two eyebrow slits.

“The one is usually ignored,” you’d say, “as it makes no multiplicative difference. That’s why I don’t have a ‘one’.”

In August, 2009, you got your ‘one’. Its a doozy. But we’re not there yet.

~~~

Five major scars.

December 25, 1983. It’s your first Christmas. Your parents think you’re just being a cranky infant, but something way more serious is going on- they find out the next day that you’ve got RSV, a respiratory virus that’s especially dangerous for infants. You spend the next three years periodically using a ventilator whenever the coughing acts up. You don’t remember much of it, other than the vaguely crayon-looking piece of the machine, but you can’t forget that it happened, due to the pretty white scar over the bridge of your nose. It’s not such a gnarly wound as it is a reminder- not of the ventilator that wore through your skin thanks to frequent use, but of the virus that almost took your life only a few months after it had begun.

July 28, 1993. You’re seven years old, staying at your grandmother’s house with your cousin, who’s six months older than you. You’re playing cops and robbers- he’s the cop. The forest streaks by as you run the length of the property, slightly faster than him, but he catches you and throws you down. You land on your back on a jagged rock, not only painfully impacting your spine but digging deeply into your muscles beside it. It was the first hospital visit you remember, and the dark, long scar halfway between your tailbone and your shoulders reminds you never to fall without controlling it.

January 15, 1998. You’re in sophomore year of high school, and not the most popular. You like to play by the rules, and some asshole junior decides that he doesn’t like the way you won’t let him cheat off of your trigonometry homework, and decides that a knife is the best way to settle the problem. Those homework answers weren’t worth the long white line over all four of the knuckles of your left hand, but it is a pretty little reminder that lowlifes do what they want. And law enforcement, or whatever your school called the ‘anti-bullying league’, does jack shit about it.

October 30, 2002. You’re almost done with your certification to become a cop- thank god. You couldn’t stand the people who were to become your graduate class. They were so ready to become cops just to bully people, just to get to weild an iron fist and hide their bloodlust behind the law. Not you- you’re here to do some real good. That’s what they don’t like about you. And that’s why Fred Young splits open your cheek when just he’s supposed to be practicing his sparring. It’s an ugly scar, needed six stitches, but it’s a reminder that even the cops aren’t always the good guys.

May 14, 2004. You’re a new cop, working under detective Wells. There’s a robbery of a jewelry store a few blocks from where you’re patrolling, and as you’re making your way to the scene, a man in a fedora runs smack into you, taking you both to the ground. Broken glass digs into your shoulder, but he apologizes, and his blue eyes look so genuine. He’s afraid. You’d not realize until a month later that he wasn’t a scared bystander, but in fact one of the thieves. The fifth of your scars matches your first meeting with AJ- who would, by the end of the summer, become one of the most important people in your life.

~~~

Four tattoos.

August 4, 1999- Left wrist, inside knob of the bone. The little symbol had represented something to you when you were sixteen, but it had long lost whatever meaning you’d given it. Now, it was just a pattern to pass your thumb over whenever you got restless.

February 16, 2002- The cap of the right shoulder. It was your bunk number, from when you were training to be a cop. Nothing extravagant, but it was supposed to represent the beginning of the rest of your life- it was supposed to represent your calling.

June 1, 2004- Left arm, the outside of the forearm. Bleeding from your first tattoo was a new one, the largest one on your body. It was geometrical and high contrast, black lines loosely following your veins up toward your elbow, as though that left hand was bringing darkness into your body. It did- you shot with your left hand.

July 17, 2004- Right collarbone. A single, circular monogram, made up of six letters.

T A K E R S.

~~~

Three piercings.

April 7, 1989. Your father took you to get your ears pierced, but insisted upon arrival that it was too expensive to get both done, so you only got your left. The assymetrical style would have to grow on you- at six years old, you hated it.

May 19, 2003. You couldn’t have piercings at the academy, they were unprofessional, they were dangerous. So the night of graduation, you went out and got a hole punched into your nostril- the pain made tears well up, but more than anything, it was the satisfaction of giving a pretty little ‘fuck you’ to your superiors, who you’d never see again.

July 18, 2006. AJ takes you to a fancy beauty salon for an eyebrow bar after hearing maybe once that you’d wanted another piercing. You knew you were in love with him- who else in your life had ever paid such close attention to you?

~~~

Two eyebrow slits.

June 23, 2004. You leave the police force. You tell Wells that it’s because you’re pissed you can’t find the guys that robbed the jewelry store, but that’s not even close to the truth. You’ve found them- hell, you got a good look at one of them on the very day of the robbery. But you’ve done the looking, and didn’t have the heart to bring them in. They had families. They donated ten percent of every heist to a charity. They did more for the community than the police you worked for, and they did it clean- they didn’t hurt anybody, if they didn’t have to. They did what you’d hoped to do, when you joined the force. What you’d never gotten to do. Eyebrow slits were considered extremely unprofessional, so the moment you were free of your two week notice, you split open your right eyebrow. It would give a good balance to the bar piercing you hoped to put through your left someday.

March 4, 2007. You’re cleaning up your slit when AJ walks into the room and stands behind you so that you can see him through the mirror. You keep your eyes on the trimmer you’re so delicately running over your skin, but when he opens up a little felt box with a pretty ring inside, you whirl around with such panic that you make the slit approximately half an inch wider than it should’ve been. Lilli helped you fill in the gap for the engagement photos, but you decided to keep a second slit on the other end of the unfortunate shave- a little reminder of the evening in which he proposed to you.

~~~

“The one is usually ignored,” you’d say, “as it makes no multiplicative difference. That’s why I don’t have a ‘one’.”

On August 27, 2009, you got your ‘one’.

You’d been out of the game for two years, choosing not to take a cut of the winnings. You’d advise, you’d plan, you’d set up, but you did not want to be on site when the heist went down. The boys had it taken care of, and you butted heads with Jesse far too often for anyone’s comfort.

You especially couldn’t work on this project, thanks to a little fucker named Ghost- he didn’t trust you, as a member of the Takers he’d never met, and you didn’t trust him, as a criminal you’d never grown to respect.

You knew that most of them didn’t trust Ghost either, but everything he brought forward checked out- AJ must’ve mumbled the plan thirty times in his sleep in the five days from its suggestion to its fruition. There were no holes. Knowing Gordon and John, they had some ‘insurance’ for Ghost, anyway. In case it went wrong.

Still, you stayed at the Hotel Roosevelt through it all. You were their sitter, keeping the hotel room warm and ready for their arrival. They arrived back one by one- and like usual, AJ got there first. He, Gordon, and John were usually the first to get out, but he always made it back to the room first, because that way he could get some time with you. That way, he could have a private reunion, fresh off of a job.

“Hey, baby,” he said as he closed the door, and you waited for him to turn his eyes to you before you gave him a smile. He threw down his bag onto one of the chairs, and it landed with a heavy thump, but you’d long grown used to the sound of the score. However much he pulled, good for him. You were just happy to slip your arms around his neck and feel him kiss the scar on your cheekbone before sliding his lips to yours.

He always kissed different right after a job- before the boys had all gotten back, before the total was counted. He had a confidence to his movement, but there was fear, insecurity, just a tinge. He wasn’t just a taker, he was a man, who had worries and risks just like every other man.

You were out of the game for a few reasons. They had it taken care of. You butted heads with Jesse. You didn’t trust Ghost. But you knew that you were AJ’s biggest fear- you knew that if you got hurt on a job, he’d never forgive himself.

So he kissed you, he held you close, he reminded himself that you were here, you were fine. His long fingers seems to take up half your back, and his hair was already in his face, as though you’d tugged it there yourself.

With just one more pass of your lips over his, you pulled away.

“How’d it go?” You asked with a soft voice, rolling your first finger through the curls at the back of his neck.

“Could’ve gone better,” he said with a chuckle, “but we got it done.” You heard a knock at the door, and Gordon was the next arrival- then John, then Jake, then Ghost. Jesse came last, and with him, a whole host of new problems.

A bullet splintered the door and caught AJ somewhere under the ribcage. Everyone hit the floor, diving behind couches, and you popped your head up long enough to see AJ launch over the kitchen island. The room shattered into gunfire and feathers from expensive pillows, glass shards littering the ground like raindrops. It all moved so fast, and the air exploded into noise. You could barely track AJ through it all, he was so far away, all the way across the room. And you wanted to keep your eye straight down the barrel of your gun.

“AJ!” Jesse called from beside you, hidden behind a brown leather couch, “You okay?” You looked around the side of it, and saw him ten feet from you, the longest ten feet of your life, behind the kitchen island. He was struggling, on his hands and knees.

“Get up,” you snarled, knowing he’d already taken a hit.

“Out the back!” John ordered from the doorway behind you, and you started to realize the moment, the dangerous, heavy moment. AJ was all the way across the room- he couldn’t cross it. Not with these mobsters holding ground.

“Let’s go!” Gordon shouted, and your eyes connected with AJ’s. He saw the same thing you did.

“Go,” he said, voice calm, and it cut through the chaos of the room, cut through every hardened lesson ever pounded into you, cut through every wall you’d ever built around you, around your heart. “I’m coming.”

AJ was a good liar. But he couldn’t lie to you.

“No,” you growled through gritted teeth, and you made a rash decision.

You’d always been good at gymnastics. You had strong control over the movement of your body, and had, ever since you’d learned from your cousin throwing you down onto that stone that split open your back. You could move and slink and roll and dive in ways that would keep you not only from falling, but even from being noticed.

Using the chaos as your cover, you did a tight diving roll across the room to him, slipping between shelters unscathed. This brought you just a bit closer to the mobsters, but further from the back door exit that Gordon had been trying to guide you toward. You’d chose AJ over your safety any day- the surprise and the fear in his eyes said that he wished you wouldn’t.

Making sure you had enough ammo, you considered your final move- this didn’t end until these mobsters did. There were five of them left, after all this commotion: four in the room, one in the hall. You couldn’t take all five, not with their guns being so much more than yours, but you could take out a few. You could shift attention, you could buy time.

And hopefully, you could stay breathing, too. That’d be nice.

“Stay down,” you hissed, leaving AJ behind the island where he’d be forgotten about, or assumed dead. Then, you rounded the corner and rolled to the feet of the closest mobster. As you came out of the roll you caught his legs in yours, wrenching them from under him and taking him to the ground with one of the first moves you’d learned in basic training. He hit the wall hard, and was unconscious by the time he landed- the same could not be said for his friends.

From your right, you could see Gordon, still firing, still hopeful for your and AJ’s escape. Your shoulders were above the couch, so you knew he saw as you turned your weapon to the second mobster before he could turn to you, and stopped his heart.

Your commotion had caught the attention of the other three who still remained. You whirled around and raised your gun to one of them, but they managed it first.

Gordon had to swallow back his horror as he saw a bullet enter the front of your side profile, and blood explode from the back. He took out the mobster who still had his attention on you- but your shoulders smacked to the ground outside of his view, and he closed the door.

Luckily, their aim was spotty. You now had a useless left arm, but you were still breathing. Not that you’d let the one remaining mobster notice that.

You and AJ played dead, only a few feet from each other, but the kitchen island becoming a thicker wall than any you’d ever been split by. As you stared blankly at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths hidden by the folds of your shirt, you hoped he didn’t think you were dead. You hoped he wasn’t bleeding out.

After what felt like agonizingly long minutes, the shooting finally stopped, and the door opened again. Gordon was the first to enter the room, and rounded the couch to you, grief in his eyes, expecting the worst.

But you could give him a smile.

“Surprise,” you groaned, and he lit up in relief, helping you sit up with your good arm.

“Look at you, playing dirty,” he said with a laugh, “I thought you were gone for sure.”

“AJ,” you heard Jake say from across the room, and finally AJ could sit up from where you’d forced him down. The two of you had both bled straight through your shirts, but there wasn’t any time for sweet reunions- everyone had to get out, and fast.

AJ left his car wherever it was. John gave the two of you a ride to the airstrip where Gordon was going to disappear for a while, and on the way you and AJ attempted to give each other first aid until the personnel on the plane could take care of it.

Eventually, you leaned against his left, and he against your right, your wounds still stinging and sticky with blood, but manageable, for as long as they needed to be.

The night didn’t get any easier, but that didn’t matter- you were home free, they’d managed the job, and Ghost was out of the picture, and neither of you were going to die.

And someday, when you felt brave enough to recount your near-death, near-loss, near-jailed experience, you’d say:

Five major scars, four tattoos, three piercings, two eyebrow slits. And one gun shot wound.

-🦌 Roe

#reader insert #angst #aj #aj takers #takers #takers 2010 #hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #x reader #gn!reader #aj x reader #fics

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scientifically-strange · 5 years ago

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drabble request, avengers mess up time and clockwork apprentice danny has to save them, cue dorky yet so over everything danny cleaning up their mess lol please!

“Tony, what did you do?” Steve asked, as he looked around in amazement. They were no longer in New York. In fact, they weren’t even in the States. Steve knew this, because he spent months in these particular woods. Except those months were back during the war.

“My teleporter malfunctioned, just a small little thing. I can fix it.”

“Oh come on!”

“Steve, I’m doing the best I can here-”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it sounded just like you.”

“Has time travel been invented yet?” Clint asked as he started to climb a tree.

“Time travel is impossible, as far as I’m aware,” Tony answered.

“I’m inclined to believe Barton on this one,” Steve said, looking around. About thirty feet away was a camp site, where his old self, Bucky, and the rest of the commandos were playing poker by the fire.

Steve remembered this. It was cold and arid, and they were preparing for the mission the next day. One that Steve wished he never had gone on, because if he hadn’t, Bucky would still be alive.

“You know what that means, Rogers,” Dugan laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll make it after the mission. I can't believe you guys talked me into getting matching tattoos.”

“Whatever, pal,” Bucky said, bumping their shoulders together. “You’ve always wanted one, I can tell.”

Despite the bags under his eyes and the weight loss from rations, he still seemed happy, youthful, and when he smiled at Steve it lit up the whole forest.

“You have a tattoo?” Stark asked him, eyebrows raised. Steve shook his head.

“Never got the chance to make the design.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is the day before the mission on the train.”

Steve and Tony whirled around, and Clint pulled back an arrow, aimed at the stranger;s chest.

He was pretty weird looking. He was small, like a child, with white hair and green eyes. He wore a purple cloak, and had a staff with a clock at the top. He was beaming at them.

“I am such big fans, you guys,” he said. “You guys are so cool!”

“Quiet,” Steve hissed, looking over his shoulder at the camp. They had stopped talking. Steve remembered the tension in that moment, waiting for something to jump out at them, or shoot them. But ultimately they had gone back to their game, now on edge. Steve had no idea it would have been him who set him on edge.

“Sorry,” the kid said, looking pretty sincere about the whole thing. “Anyway, my name is Phantom, and I’m here to get you back to your own time.”

Without waiting for any kind of response, he slammed his staff on the ground, and all four of them were engulfed by a green smoke. When they opened their eyes again, they were back in the states, except the roads were dirt and and there were only horse drawn carriages.

“Uh, I think you went the wrong way, kid,” Clint said. They had to hid somewhere, and quickly, because they doubted the public would react so well to a guy in armor, a bright, spangled man, and an archer with a literal glowing child. But before they could even say anything, Phantom slammed his staff on the ground again.

This time, they ended up surrounded by dinosaurs. Steve narrowly missed getting eaten by an allosaurus. Luckily Clint, Tony, and Phantom were there to help him.

“Okay kid,” he said with a sigh. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry, I’m still getting used to everything. I’m new at this,” he answered. It was obvious he was nervous, as he kept scratching the back of his neck nervously. Steve put a hand on his shoulder, thankful that it didn’t have any dino blood on it.

“Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe. Take it slow and steady.”

Phantom looked up at him, his eyes full of admiration, then determination. He nodded and took a deep breath.

“Are you guys okay with the long way?” He asked them.

“Dude, I’m good with anyway as long as it gets us back home,” Clint answered.

Danny smiled at him, before holding out his palm. Green shot from it, stopping a short distance away. The spot it stopped grew bigger and bigger until it could fit a person through it.

“Follow me, unless you want to stick around with them,” Phantom said, pointing his thumb over to a pack of velociraptors. Clint wasted no time in jumping through. Then it was Steve, then Tony, and then Phantom.

The world they walked into was absolutely amazing. Otherworldly. It was like a dream, with long, swirling green skies and purple earth beneath them. Floating doors traveled aimlessly around, but never knocked into each other. Off in the distance was a large tower, with large working gears surrounding it.

“Where are we?” Tony asked.

“This is the Ghost Zone. We’re headed there,” Phantom replied, pointing to the tower. “That’s where Clockwork lives.”

“Clockwork?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, the Master of Time. I’m his apprentice, as of like three months ago.”

“Which is how you were able make us all time ravel,” Tony said, in a way like the last puzzle piece in his brain was placed.

“Yeah, but it’s harder than it looks,” Danny said, as he casually created a green platform under them.

“So, this hole place is full of ghosts?” Clint asked, looking around as they floated along.

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean you’re dead?”

“Yeah.”

“How? If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.”

“I mind it, actually. Most ghosts do. For a lot of us, it’s traumatic, and we don’t want to constantly be reminded of it.”

“Understood,” Clint said.

The rest of the short ride was spent mostly in silence, or Danny pointing out who’s door belonged to who.

When they stepped into Clockwork’s Tower, the ghost himself was waiting for them.

“You’re back,” Clockwork said, not looking away from the large screens in front of him, that had different points of time and history playing on them.

“Yeah, um,” Danny was rubbing the back of his neck, “I messed up a couple of times. I need your help.”

Clockwork turned around, his form turning from a young man to an old one, with a cool wizard beard.

“Steven, Anthony, Clint,” he greeted. “Welcome. I see you’ve met my apprentice, Daniel.”

“Daniel?” Steve asked. “You said your name was Phantom.”

“Last time I checked your birth name isn’t Captain America,” Danny quipped. Tony barked out a laugh and clapped his hand on Phantom’s shoulder.

“I like you, kid,” he said with a giant grin.

Clockwork hummed with amusement as he adjusted something on his own, more complex staff before slamming his staff into the ground. Instead of of green smoke however, it was purple that engulfed them.

They looked around, in their living room at the compound. Natasha and Sam were sitting on the couch, eating popcorn while starring at them. The both looked highly uninterested.

“About time,” Sam said.

“Who’s the kid?” Natasha asked.

Standing next to them was Phantom, except he didn’t have white hair and green eyes anymore. He had black hair and blue eyes, and he was in civilian clothes. He looked around, then down at himself, and sighed.

“I’m gonna kill that fucking stopwatch,” he cursed.

“So wait, you’re not dead?” Clint asked. Danny shrugged, before letting two white rings wash over him, turning him back to Phantom.

“Long story. Superhero team up when you need me. Just hit up Amity Park.”

Without saying anything else, he opened up a green portal and flew threw it, leaving the others behind.

There was silence for a few moments before Stark finally broke it. He turned to Steve.

“You want to go get a tattoo?”

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detectivejigsawpines · 5 years ago

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One Rainy Night-Part 1 (The Prophecy)

Since this story has been so successful on AO3, I have decided to start reposting it here, for those of you who are not on that site. To make a long story short, it’s a Gravity Falls AU set just after the Marilyn Incident, where Stan gets a chance to reunite with Ford and prevent the apocalypse thirty-five years ahead of schedule.

...Have I captured your interest yet?

Well, Vegas officially sucks.

Stanley knew, because he knew himself way too well, that sooner or later he’d probably change his mind about this, the next time things started looking up for him here.

But right now, laying in the gutter with the newly-acquired certificate of divorce in his pocket, his precious car keys (barely rescued from the greedy claws of his new ex-wife) clenched so tight in his hand they were probably breaking the skin, and a headache performing a drum solo on the inside of his skull, he hated Vegas.

And then, because the world hated Stan Pines, it started to rain.

And not just a soft, wet drizzle either, oh no, that would have been nice and merciful so of course it didn’t apply to him. It was a full-out downpour that had him soaked through within seconds.

At least he still had his car, so he had somewhere to go to dry off.

With a groan, Stan finally sat up, and after a long moment where he waited for the tiny drummer living in his head to stop beating the cymbals he began the agonizing process of getting to his feet.

He sighed, brushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes, and began the arduous walk to where his car was.

It probably should have bothered him more than it did that he wasn’t even that upset about finding out that Marilyn had just been going after his car this whole time. But somehow, well...you got used to being abandoned and rejected, after a while. It didn’t hurt any less when it kept happening, but after a while it stopped being a surprise.

He stopped at an intersection of two equally grimy, dirty alleyways, and frowned in thought. He’d hidden his car down one of them when he first got to Vegas, he knew that. Covered it with a bunch of trash, made it look less appealing to anyone who might come sniffing around-and then stupidly bragged to Marilyn about how great it was, so she’d married him and tried to persuade him to tell where he was hiding it, until he finally caught on to her little scheme and nipped it in the bud. But right now he was still kind of hungover, so he couldn’t quite remember the right alley…

Reaching into his pocket, Stan pulled out his last quarter and flipped it. Heads, he’d go for the one on the left. Tails, the one on the right.

In some universes-many of them, in fact-Stan got tails. He went in, found his car right away, changed into dry (albeit grimy) clothes, and curled up in the back and moped himself to sleep before driving off the next day, already planning out another get-rich-quick scheme.

In this one, however, the quarter turned up heads. And Stan caught it quickly, before it could bounce away into the gutter or something, stuffing it back into his pocket, and trudged into the corresponding alley.

********

He realized soon enough that his car wasn’t down here.

Grumbling to himself, he was about to go back the way he’d come, when a voice said, “Care to learn your fortune, young man?”

Stan jumped what felt like a foot in the air, and whirled around, digging into his pockets for his brass knuckles in preparation to fend off-

A tiny old woman dressed in clothes even more ragged than his, sitting cross-legged on the ground, using half a cardboard box as a makeshift tent (that he could tell wasn’t going to last much longer if the rain kept up like this), with a deck of cards being shuffled between her bony hands.

Stan let out a relieved laugh, snorting at himself for being scared so easily, and turned away shaking his head. Just hearing that phrase made a small coal of nostalgia burn in his gut, and he didn’t need anymore painful reminders of how much his life sucked today, thank you very much.

“I can tell you your heart’s desire.” Somehow the old crone managed to make herself heard over the pouring rain.

This time he flat-out rolled his eyes. “That’s what they all say, lady.”

Her next words, though, stopped him right in his tracks. “You want your brother back.”

****

Slowly, Stan turned around and gaped at the woman.

She just looked back at him expectantly for a moment, then folded the cards and slid them up her sleeve, standing up and daintily approaching.

There were several questions Stan wanted to ask-how the [CENSORED] did she know that, who had she been talking to, what did she think she was playing at-but all that came out was a kind of strangled, “H-how-who-” before his natural defenses sprang back into place and he snarled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

The woman just reached out, and before he could react cupped his cheek in one hand.

“You poor things.” Her voice was filled with unexpected sorrow. “You’re both so lost.”

“I’m not-and he’s not either, he’s doing just fine!” He made it perfectly clear he doesn’t need me.

She gave a small sigh, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb. “That is what you keep telling yourselves. You think that it’s better to hide behind your anger than admit to your pain. But it doesn’t hide how you’ve both become broken.” Finally she released him. “Broken in heart, broken in soul…” She pulled out a card, and with a quick jerk of her hands ripped it right down the middle. “Broken in two.”

Stan wondered how she was doing this-he was no stranger to cold readings, but he didn’t see how she could possibly have figured out this much from him. Unless she really was a psychic-and, well, he’d seen the Jersey Devil as a kid so maybe he shouldn’t rule that out entirely, as improbable as it seemed that he’d run into a genuine psychic here in a dirty alleyway in Vegas…

“You can still fix it, though,” the woman went on. “In fact, you must.”

Stan scoffed. “Oh, yeah? Why?” What was the point?

She looked straight at him. “Otherwise the world will be destroyed because your brother will choose the wrong allies.”

...That was a way more dire prediction than even his mother had ever dared make.

“Mend your bonds before it’s too late,” she insisted, pressing the two halves of the card into his hand. And then she stepped away, towards the other opening of the alley.

“...Geez, ya think ya could be a little more cryptic?!” Stan yelled after her.

She didn’t answer, continuing to shuffle away through the rain.

********

The pieces of card, Stan noticed as he went to the other alleyway and found his car, were the halves of a two of hearts, appropriately enough. He thought about tossing them away, but instead he found himself putting them in the pocket of the dry jeans he changed into. And then staring vacantly at the roof of his car for two hours, thoughts tumbling around and around in his brain helplessly.

On the one hand, fortune tellers and so-called psychics really got off on either telling suckers that all this good stuff was gonna happen to them, or giving vague, easily misinterpreted omens of doom. On the other hand, she hadn’t asked him for money in exchange for her prediction like most of those shysters-she’d just given it. And somehow, she’d known. She’d known everything.

Come on, you’re not supposed ta be this naïve, he told himself in annoyance, It’s gotta be some kinda con you just haven’t figured out yet.

And yet…

It would be just like Ford to make some kind of dumb mistake and trust the wrong person because he had nothing between his ears besides science stuff, and no concept of guile whatsoever. And wouldn’t it be better to take the risk that this lady was crazy or something if there was a chance that she was right?

With a sigh, Stan dug the quarter back out of his pocket, and put the keys in the ignition. Time to find a pay phone.

By the time he found one that seemed to be in decent condition, it had stopped raining. Stan dialed the number he had by now memorized, and nearly pulled the cord right out of its socket as his finger toyed with it nervously.

It rang twice, before the familiar refrain of “Hello, this is Stanford Pines” came through the receiver.

Stan’s thought processes froze. What was he supposed to say? Somehow, ‘hey, I’m calling because a fortune teller said you were gonna destroy the world if we don’t make up’ didn’t seem like it would cut it. And of course his throat was locking up and he could already feel his arm preparing to put the phone back on the hook because he couldn’t take the pain of being rejected again-

“Hello? Is someone there?” Ford’s voice was tinted with curiosity that could turn into annoyance any second.

“Lo siento, hermano,” Stan blurted out, and then his impulsive hand finally got its way and slammed the phone back on the hook.

A second later he groaned into that same hand.

You idiot. You finally say something, and-well, yeah, it’s an apology that he’s been deserving for a long time, but…

This is gonna be harder than I thought.

#Gravity Falls #stan pines #pre-portal #flipside AU #ford pines #mullet Stan #non romantic slow burn

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fyrapartnersearch · 5 years ago

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original, percy jackson, pokemon, avatar, skyrim, fallout ;

I’m AJ! I lost a couple partners in the holiday craze, which is totally fine! Now I’m lookin’ for some RPs to head into the new year. If we had something lined up and things fell off the wagon, no sweat, just message me again and we can get the ball rolling again! :)

For original settings: apocalyptic (zombie, disease, extinction event, whatever), supernatural (fantasy, urban, sci-fi, literally anything). For fandom universes: Percy Jackson, Pokemon, Avatar: The Last Airbender/Legend of Korra, Skyrim, and Fallout.

Gonna run through my basic info and then onto the particulars. 💕

⥽ About Me ; ⥼

• Name/Age ; AJ! 22! Finally!

• Timezone ; CST! I don’t mind time differences, this is just so you know my general schedule.

• Length ; Depends on whether it’s novella or multi-paragraph. If m.para, around 3-5 minimum I guess? Novella would obviously be much longer.

• Reply rate ; Varies depending on whether we’re doing multi-paragraph or novella. I can respond anywhere from every day to every other day or a few times a week to weekly depending on the writing style of the RP and my schedule.

• OOC ; I like getting to know my partners and sharing enthusiasm over our ideas and characters. Nothing hits quite like mutual investment! I like making playlists/pinboards/sending you videos or songs or memes that remind me of our characters!

• Contact ; Strictly email for OOC and roleplay unless we’re using GDocs for the RP itself. You can find me at [email protected].

⥽ On the lookout for ; ⥼

• Doubling ; Not a deal-breaker!! I just prefer writing a cast of characters, so this is something that’s more of a bonus. Ideally we’ll double, but I’m down for writing just one character each. Let me know how ya feel about it!

• Will only write MxM or FxF ; MxF’s not my cup of tea (I’m extremely picky with it, fellow gays u know how it is). If we’re writing a cast of characters then I’m fine with having an MxF side couple. And I STRICTLY write OCxOC! Canon characters won't be found anywhere near this stuff, folks!

• 20+ ; Partner’s gotta be 20+ even if we don’t write anything explicitly adult! I’m outta my teens now and don’t have any interest in writing with them. Same goes for characters. It’s a 20+ zone for both partners and characters ‘round here, folks!

⥽ Yes! ; ⥼

• Smut ; I enjoy writing it, but it’s not a deal-breaker if you’d rather fade to black. All characters will obviously be adults. I expect versatile characters in bed by default, that way we’ve got an even route for playing roles in bed. Admittedly this shifts a bit depending on the character I write but for the most part, yeah, I stick to verses.

• Face claims ; Spent a huge chunk of my roleplaying years on tumblr (it was very over-the-top and flowery and weirdly formatted and grossly difficult to read, I know I know), so having a face for characters stuck with me. If you don’t have any of your own and want good resources to find a face, I’ve got some recommended sites I can throw at ya! Not a deal-breaker, though, and for certain fandoms (Pokemon, Avatar) I actually prefer not to use realistic face claims so we can just opt outta that when writing in these universes.

• Depth & growth ; Not a fan of one-dimensional characters or characters who act the same from beginning to end! People change with experiences and the people around them, so this is to be expected. ESPECIALLY when doubling with a cast. I loooove complicated characters growing together.

• Plotting & Worldbuilding ; *For original settings/worlds! I’m not picky with this if we’re working with a canon setting, so if that’s what you’re looking for, we can skip this section. I run into loooads of folks who say they do this when they really don’t. We’re writing an entire world together, so there’s some degree of effort involved! I need specifics to use as a start-off point for the roleplay and a general outline for where the story’s going. RPs that are just random, spur of the moment with writing as we go on tend to burn out REALLY quickly for me. I know not a lot of people are into this, so I’m sorry about that.

⥽ No! ; ⥼

• Single paragraphs ; I’m not too picky with a lot of length a lot of the time, I just don’t mesh well with people who don’t write more than that. Go ham. I like my responses meaty!

• Limits ; Abuse, nonconsensual/sexual assault, pedophilia, incest (includes step-relations, adopted relations, and that figurative like if one character essentially raised another or they were raised as family), weird age gaps, BDSM, any kind of master/slave or dom/sub dynamics.

As for the goods, I’ve laid ‘em all out for you here! Keep in mind that while all of these are fun on their own, I’m definitely the type of writer who’s into mixing and matching. Sci-fi apocalypse? Fantasy apocalypse? Fantasy supernatural stuff? Sci-fi fantasy? Sci-fi supernatural stuff? Supernatural apocalypse? Period settings? Literally whatever you could think of, I’ll give it a whirl. The particulars down below are just to get the ball rolling and catch some interest, some asterisks for current cravings but I’m soooooo honest when I say that I’d love to write anything down below and won’t shoot you down if you come at me with stuff. Hit me up with whatever you’d like!

APOCALYPSE: My bread and butter! Bro. I’m all about the tense, harrowing, and especially gut-punching when it comes to how close people become to survive together in quiet moments of a world they used to know. I’m a big fan of zombies, so that’s my loose preference. I loved Black Summer on Netflix – the earlier episodes, at least, as well as The Last of Us. That’s the kind of vibe I favor with zombies/zombie-like creatures. But, ofc, an apocalypse can be anything! I love writing different takes on the genre since there’s so much to cover. Extinction event, pandemic, impact event, monsters/beasts, man-made, whatever. The more creative the apocalyptic setting, the better, so I’d love to bounce some ideas back and forth. Not too into a nuclear apocalypse setting, since that overlaps a lot with Fallout down below. I’ve also had some ideas of a futuristic/sci-fi apocalypse that I’d love to tell you all about if you’re interested!

FANTASY***: High fantasy, low fantasy, medieval fantasy, urban fantasy, whatever. Love dragons, love magic, love weird fantasy flora, definitely love the classic prince/princess x knight or commoner schtick. You want prophecies? I’m game. You want elves? I’m game. You want steampunk? I’m game. You want none of that and wanna do something else? I’m game, baby. The possibilities are endless. I’ve had two particular ideas floatin’ around in my noggin lately: an apocalyptic-fantasy that takes place in a medieval fantasy realm wherein an ancient curse/plague erupts across the land with horrifying zombie-esque symptoms (obv with more fantasy elements than just that) that involves a quest to try and awaken a god or two OR some magic journey to the heart of it all and out and end to it, and a modern fantasy involving a run-down summer camp secluded deep in the woods. Two new counselors (our characters) start working there over the summer and things slowly unravel from there, either with faerie stuff involving replacing campers/staff (definitely aiming for the freaky horror faeries as opposed to like, beautiful or only slightly unnerving faeries) or the camp being run by a secret cult that sacrifices campers/staff.

SUPERNATURAL/PARANORMAL***: Vampires and werewolves and demons, oh my! Can’t go wrong with horror, especially can’t go wrong with comedy-horror. I’m more of the type to prefer humans and supernatural beings together in a ragtag duo type of way as opposed to two supernatural beings, but anything’s cool in my book. Medieval/fantasy setting for a dark fairytale vibe, urban/modern supernatural beings slinking in the shadows outside of the human eye, supernatural sci-fi stuff, mysteries and danger lurking around every corner? Seriously, it’s a great genre! Any and everything is fantastic. I’ve got a loose concept of demons/the Underworld I’d like to get into revolving around a human accidentally summoning a demon or making a really poor deal with a demon and the eventual threat of the opposite effect (humans who work with angels/angels who clean up demonic stuff) since I’m struggling with the worldbuilding of it, so applying all that to a roleplay to give it a whirl sounds like a great way to work out the kinks. Plus, c’mon. Paranormal romance. End of the world. Flipping the script on angels and demons with the demons being “good” and the angels being “bad” but really there’s more nuance to that since they’re two sides of the same coin. What’s not to love there? I’m a sucker for human/demon relationships and/or human/angel relationships, what can I say!

PERCY JACKSON*****: I haven’t ever roleplaying this verse before, so this is completely new grounds for me. I’ve seen some fun takes on it, though! Scoured older ads but haven’t reached out to anyone because the posting time’s pretty old, but a couple ideas I’ve skimmed through sound fun. HP got a period take on it, so why not put that spin on PJ with a period setting rather than in modern times? Or just a regular modern setting. Y’know, keep it classy, keep it sexy, keep it fun! I’m definitely interested in life outside of camp since they’d all be adults. Life’s supposed to suck for demigods, so let’s get into that. I’ve only read the first series but I’m game to read more or look over the Wikipedia if it suits your fancy! I’m REALLY looking for a PJ RP, seriously, message me.

POKEMON: Man, I just… miss Pokemon, dude, what else can I say? :( I miss fun adventures and goofy scenarios and taking a more serious or realistic route with threats. I’ve got a couple of ideas from heists to evil Elite Four members to Poke-Jurassic Park, but I’d love to hear anything you’ve got in mind!

AVATAR*****: Alright, not gonna beat around the bush, I had a killer post-Korra RP setting like a year ago that died off early on and now I’m kinda itching to put it back into action! Basically this whole thing just revolves around our own Avatar and world/conflicts. Something before Aang could be fun too? Or a couple Avatars past Korra? There’s so many routes we could take this! And so many things we could bring in! I had an Avatar marathon with my brother this weekend and I just miss this universe. I’ve never actually managed to RP it before, so I wanna remedy that!

FALLOUT***: Played 3, watched various playthroughs of New Vegas, 4, and working on 1+2! I’m a recent fan and I’ve fallen head over heels for it! I’ve got ten prepped OCs for this universe so feel free to take your pic once we get into contact! :D I think it could be fun if we make our own setting for this, but I’m so down for piggybacking off canon settings. I love the Mojave in particular, but everything’s cool in my book. I’ve also got a couple plot ideas, so I can tell you all about ‘em when we get into things!

SKYRIM***: Well I’m a new Fallout fan so it should come to NO surprise that I’m new to Skyrim too. I recently got into it after someone recommended it to me and I’m having a blast playing the game on the Switch! I don’t have any particular ideas but I’d love to dip into the water here and see what comes of it. I’ve got a couple character ideas already so if I manage to rope anyone into this universe I’ll be one happy camper.

#multiple paragraph #long term #email #pokemon rp #smut rp #submission

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whitebear-ofthe-watertribe · 5 years ago

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That Which Holds Us - Chapter 6

Pairing(s): Adrien / Marinette, Nino / Alya

Summary: It has been several months since Ladybug and Chat Noir discovered their true identities. Now that they are not trapped by secrets, they can finally be their full selves around each other and have never been closer. Marinette is going into her final year at university, Adrien is exploring new classes and passions, and their friends Alya and Nino seem to be moving towards a happy future together. It all feels like things could not be better.

But of course, nothing in life is quite so perfect.

When Adrien starts having vivid nightmares and visions about his mother, old questions begin to resurface. Will he be able to find the answers, or will these ghosts from the past tear apart the heroes of Paris for good?

Reminder, you can also read / follow this fic at AO3 here, and FF.net here.

Previous Chapters

Chapter Word Count: 6,909

Enjoy!!!

Alighting onto the roof of a building across from student housing, Ladybug paused.

Chat Noir stopped beside her, his cat ears swiveling as they picked up on the screams of people bolting from one of the apartments.

“What in the –” Ladybug began, but before she could finish, an explosion brought them both to their knees.

An entire wing of the apartment’s third floor had been blasted open. Great plumes of dust and debris billowed onto the street. Another round of screams echoed from the people below.

Without hesitating, Ladybug stood up again and launched herself over to the explosion site, soaring through the wreckage of what used to be an exterior wall.

Chat Noir was right on her heels.

Ladybug coughed, covering her mouth and nose as she peered through the thick cloud.

“Hello?” she called. “Hey, is anybody –”

Click-click.

“Look out!” Chat barked.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her back as a small flock of odd white birds suddenly appeared from the rubble.

They hovered before them for a heartbeat. Then, letting loose an eerie cry, they attacked.

Chat whipped out his staff and spun it lightening quick, creating a shield against the birds.

One by one, they smacked against the room’s remaining wall and fluttered to the ground.

Ladybug squinted at the birds. There was something strange about them. Something… not quite alive.

Click-click.

Ears perking at the noise, Ladybug craned her neck towards the hall, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from.

Click-click. Click-click.

“Well, I suppose I should be flattered to have the two most renowned superheroes of Paris in my room,” came a voice. “But honestly at this point, it just drives home my humiliation.”

A young woman stepped through the battered doorframe and turned to face them with a glower.

She looked to be made entirely out of parchment. Inky dark circles hollowed the skin beneath her eyes and ran down her cheeks like tear stains. Her hands and forearms were stained as well, the ink rolling down her fingers and dribbling into a murky pool on the ground, almost as if she stood in her own blood.

Click-click. Click-click.

The Akuma played with something small in her hands.

Ladybug guessed that whatever it was must be the source of the clicking.

“We’re here to help you,” she said, raising her hands placatingly. “We don��t want to hurt you, and I’m sure you don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

“Oh! So now it matters what I want?”

Click-click. Click-click.

The Akuma let out a laugh that bordered on hysteria.

“It sure as hell didn’t matter to my professor when they rejected my theses as plagiarism this morning! It didn’t matter that I’ve spent weeks researching everything and killing myself to get everything written in time! But no. All it took was some asshole turning in my own work right before I could, and suddenly none of it matters!”

Click-click. Click-click.

“I’m sorry,” Chat Noir said, taking a hesitant step forward, his eyes sympathetic. “I can’t imagine how much that hurts.”

“I don’t want your pity,” the Akuma spat, her inky hands balling into fists. “I am Plagiaress, and I will take back the words that were stolen from me.”

Click-click.

With a snarl, Plagiaress raised her arms and the birds, which had been laying motionless on the ground, suddenly rose to attention.

‘Not birds,’ Ladybug realized, getting a better look at them. ‘Paper airplanes!’

But before she could think more on it, the planes had shot forward and blasted them both through the wall.

Ladybug spun blindly through the air. The airplanes whirled around her, blocking her vision and causing dozens of paper cuts across her face. With a shriek of frustration, she whipped her yo-yo out and flung it in a direction she desperately hoped was up.

For a heart stopping second, she fell.

Then, with a violent tug, the string of her yo-yo snapped tight; it had caught on the roof of the dorm building. Ladybug soared out of the cloud of paper as the ground rushed up to meet her. Stumbling onto the cobblestones, she spun around just in time to see Chat Noir’s startled face before – WHAM!

He plowed into her.

The wind left her with an “Oompf!” as her back hit the ground. The part of her mind that wasn’t ringing in pain expected the sharp edges of paper airplanes to tear them apart. But after a moment of nothing, she opened her eye.

Chat Noir had bolted to his feet. He spun his staff rapidly, fending off the whirlwind of paper that had them surrounded.

“Sorry about that!” he called over the loud flapping. “You alright, M’lady?”

“Yeah,” she muttered weakly, wincing as she got to her feet. “Just peachy.”

“Any thoughts on how to stop these things?” he said, putting his back to hers as she started spinning her yo-yo.

“I don’t know! Did you see anything that the Akuma might be inside?”

“Did you see what she was holding before she –”

Click-click. Click-click.

A furious bellow rang in Ladybug’s ears, drowning out Chat’s words. Something slammed into her, knocking the breath out of her once more as she tumbled through the whirling airplanes. She looked up just in time to avoid another direct hit from Plagiaress.

A pen in the Akuma’s hand caught Ladybug’s attention as she righted herself again to block another jab.

Plagiaress was brandishing the pen like a pocket knife.

Click-click.

Ladybug didn’t know what would happen if Plagiaress managed to cut her with the pen, and she certainly didn’t want to find out.

“Ladybug!” Chat shouted, struggling to cover his flank once more as her absence left him vulnerable to the airplanes.

“It’s her pen, Chat!” she shouted, dodging another swipe, which was difficult as a new wave of planes circled around her once more.

“Give me your Miraculous!” Plagiaress cried, twirling the pen and stabbing out at Ladybug’s ribs. She missed and tried again for an arm.

“How is my Miraculous supposed to help your situation?” Ladybug said breathlessly, her attention torn between the planes and the Akuma.

“How the hell should I know?!” Plagiaress snarled. “Obviously, life isn’t fair, Bug. I’m just trying to get by like everyone else. But at least getting your Miraculous is a tangible goal! And I won’t fail this one.”

With a snarl, Ladybug kicked at the Akuma’s shins.

Plagiaress lost her footing and toppled to the ground.

“Lucky Charm!” Ladybug cried, seizing her chance and tossing her yo-yo high into the air. A strange rubber bag fell back into her hands. In an instant, she realized that she now held a polka-dotted hot water bottle.

Plagiaress jumped back to her feet, her expression murderous.

A dark shadow behind the Akuma caught Ladybug’s eye. She glanced up to see Chat launch himself forward, his hand swirling with Cataclysmic energy.

But Ladybug’s distraction was all the warning Plagiaress needed.

With a snarl, the Akuma spun on her heel and flung her arm out at him.

The tornado of airplanes shot forward and blew Chat away. With a dreadful THUD, he hit the wall of the half-destroyed dorm building. Cracks spiraled across the stone where his Cataclysm had made contact.

Ladybug winced.

“Chat! Are you ok – ?”

It was then that she saw it happen. Something in Chat Noir’s expression changed. No longer were his bright green eyes focused on the battle. Now his pupils had turned to slits, and his entire face paled.

Ladybug’s stomach plummeted.

“Chat?!” she shouted. “Chat Noir!”

With a snarl, Chat Noir’s eyes closed, and he clutched at his head as if his very skull were about to crack. His snarl turned into a scream.

‘No!’ she thought with a horrified realization. ‘No, not again! Not now!’

She stumbled forward. She didn’t know how she could help him, but she had to try.

Before she could take two steps, Plagiaress lashed out.

The tip of the Akuma’s pen lanced across her left wrist, and a searing pain shot through her.

Looking down, Ladybug saw a dark stain blossoming from the place that hurt most.

‘Blood?’ she thought in alarm.

But no… not blood, ink. Just like the ink that dripped from the Akuma’s arms and stained her cheeks.

Ladybug’s hand seized up, and she felt the muscles turn as brittle as paper. The sensation slowly began to creep up her forearm as the ink stain grew.

“Chat!” she screamed again, panic growing in her chest.

Chat Noir had fallen to his knees, still holding his head as if trying to stop it from splitting open.

Plagiaress lunged forward once more, narrowly missing Ladybug’s neck. She called upon her airplanes, and the whirlwind that had barraged Chat now returned to attack her in full force.

“Chat, snap out of it!” Ladybug cried, her voice breaking in desperation as she flung her yo-yo about her, trying to keep the Akuma at bay while hundreds of airplanes pelted her, stabbing like needles. “Chat, please! Help me!”

“He can’t help you now,” Plagiaress said with a wicked grin. “Monsieur Hawkmoth has other plans for him.”

Ladybug’s heart shuddered at the Akuma’s words as she realized she was truly alone in this.

‘I need to destroy the Akuma,’ her mind raced as fast as her yo-yo. ‘I’ll get to Chat when I destroy the Akuma.’

Everything that followed became a blur.

In desperation, Ladybug pushed against the onslaught and began her own attack. Her left arm grew limp and useless as the ink stained its way past her elbow. Each of the razor-sharp airplanes sliced at her, but she gritted her teeth and ignored the searing pain.

Her single focus became destroying the vile Akuma.

‘Destroy the Akuma, get to Chat.’ The words ran through her head, over and over, the two goals intrinsically linked. ‘Destroy the Akuma, get to Chat. DESTROY THE AKUMA, SAVE CHAT NOIR.’

A deafening rumble sounded as the ground shook beneath them. Clouds of dust rose out from the dorm building that Chat had Cataclysmed. Its foundation was collapsing.

Ladybug ignored it. She could fix it with her Lucky Charm. She could fix everything. She could save Chat Noir. She had to.

The Akuma charged, brandishing her deadly pen with a crazed scream.

Ladybug flung the hot water bottle out with her good arm and caught the pen inside the small opening at the top. Using Plagiaress’ momentum, she spun with the Akuma in a wide circle and yanked the hot water bottle upwards.

With a snap, the pen broke.

All around her, hundreds of razor-sharp airplanes froze before fluttering to the ground. A small, dark butterfly emerged from the pen’s broken pieces.

Ladybug quickly tossed her yo-yo forward to capture it. In the span of two heartbeats, the insect was cleansed of its vile magic.

“Miraculous Ladybug!” she said, flinging the hot water bottle high above her. A glittering cloud of familiar magic surged around her, healing her arm and restoring the surrounding buildings to their original state.

The young girl – now transformed back into her normal self – sat on the cobblestones looking around in a daze. Catching sight of Ladybug, her eyes grew wide and she opened her mouth in horrified realization.

But for once, Ladybug couldn’t bring herself to bother with the Akumatized victim.

A few yards away, Chat Noir was kneeling on the ground, his head still in his hands and his shoulders trembling.

Hurrying over, Ladybug frantically crouched beside him to find his eyes blown wide in alarm.

“Chat,” she whispered, running her hands along his arms helplessly. “Are you ok? What do you need, how can I help you?”

“I – I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking as he stared past her. “Th-this is… it happened again…”

“Ladybug!” someone called her name, and she looked up to find that a small crowd was forming as people came out of hiding. Most of them were the students that had fled their apartments during the beginning of the attack. A lot of them were still in pajamas.

“Chat Noir, if I may ask you both some questions!”

A reporter was pushing past others to get close to them, his camera held high.

“Chat Noir! Why did you collapse like that?” came another shout from behind them, and turning, Ladybug saw three more people with their own cameras pressing in.

“It looked like you were holding your head! Were you under psychic attack?”

“Is this a repeat of what happened to you last night?”

A couple of the cameras flashed.

Ladybug felt Chat flinch as they went off. He tried unsuccessfully to turn away from them.

“Ladybug, do you feel let down by Chat Noir?”

“C’mon,” Ladybug murmured. She stood and gently pulled Chat up with her. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Chat Noir, are you even still fit to be fighting monsters?”

“Do you still feel up to defending Paris?”

“Is the pressure of years of fighting finally causing you to have a breakdown?”

“I’m sorry,” Ladybug raised her voice to be heard over their chatter. “We don’t have time to answer any questions right now. There’s important business we need to attend to!”

Chat had his head ducked down as he held on tight to her arm.

She wrapped her fingers securely around his.

“Please,” she tried to back away from the onslaught, pulling Chat with her. “We really need to go, please let us go, now!”

“You heard her!” came a voice, ringing just as loud as her own. “Back off! Please allow our heroes to move along.”

Ladybug looked around to see a young man sporting bright ginger hair carving a path through the people surrounding them. Taking in his uniform, she recognized him as the recently appointed Chief of Police, Monsieur Thomas Benoit. He was flanked by several fellow officers who were giving stern looks to the reporters.

“Clear off, everyone. Go about your business. Move along!”

The officers were holding their arms up, working together to form a small path for the two of them.

Ladybug hurried past them with Chat pressed against her side. She shot Benoit a grateful look, and he nodded in return.

Together, she and Chat Noir launched themselves out of the square and hurried across several rooftops before stopping some ways away from the commotion.

Ladybug turned to Chat as he began pacing and running his hand agitatedly through his hair.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he said finally, turning towards her.

She could see the panic pulsing in his wide green eyes.

“I don’t even know where to begin… I… I don’t know what triggers it or how to make it stop, I just…”

He slumped down against the roof’s railing, pressing his face into his hands.

Ladybug’s breath caught in her chest. She moved towards him and put her hand on his shoulder.

When he looked up at her, he was on the verge of tears.

“I’m so sorry for letting you down,” he said, his voice breaking.

Ladybug’s mouth falling open.

“Excuse me?”

Chat’s hands fell to his sides as he stared down at his feet.

“I was useless out there. More than useless. I should have been able to have your back but instead I just… put you in more danger.”

“No!” Ladybug said hastily, gripping his shoulder tighter and giving it a small shake. “No, no! You’re not useless! Don’t you dare listen to what those people were saying, they don’t –”

“I was a liability,” Chat said firmly, avoiding her gaze. “You had to do twice the amount of work because of me, and it almost got people hurt.”

“N-no! Chat, I… Everything turned out ok!” Ladybug spluttered. “You were under attack, it couldn’t be helped –”

Her protests were cut short. A loud clanging bell rang out just then, making them both jump. Looking around for the source of the noise, they spotted a clocktower a couple blocks down.

Ladybug looked back around to see Chat close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Damn,” he muttered. “I’d forgotten I was supposed to meet with the group from Valentino this morning.”

Ladybug stared at him incredulously.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m sorry, I need to go –”

“I kinda think that dealing with what just happened takes precedence!”

Chat shook his head sadly, never once looking directly at her as he pulled away. “I know, I – I know. But I can’t –”

“Wait, no!” Ladybug reached for his hand and held it firmly within both of hers, trying to pull him back. “Chat, we need to talk about this! Can’t anyone else do it? Call Zacharias –”

“You heard them last night, they insisted on meeting with me. They’re only here for today, and I’m responsible for it…” He gently extracted himself from her grip. “I-I’m sorry, it’s just… I feel like I’m suddenly losing my grip on life, I can’t let this be ruined too.”

“Chat Noir you CANNOT just leave like this!”

Ladybug took a step towards him, preparing to tackle him to the ground if that’s what it took.

Beep-beep!

She froze in her tracks, a hand instinctively reaching up to her Miraculous.

Chat finally looked back at her.

“You’re about to detransform,” he said, a sad smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

“Well, so are you,” she angrily gestured at his ring, which displayed that he had only a couple minutes left.

“Tonight,” he said. “Before we head over to Nino’s, we’ll talk. I promise.”

“Chat, wait!”

“I’ll leave early this afternoon, I promise we’ll talk more about it later.”

“CHAT!”

But he had already gone.

Ladybug gazed after him as he disappeared over the rooftops. She had half a mind to just throw caution to the wind and chase him down. They could probably catch one another if they ran out of time, right?

Beep-beep!

With a heavy sigh, she turned and slid down the side of the roof and leapt down to the alley below. Detransforming, she caught Tikki up in her hands and gently helped her into the bag at her side.

“Do you think he’s going to be ok?” Marinette asked, walking along the alley towards the busier road ahead.

Tikki looked up at her, wide eyes filled with worry.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice small. “I haven’t seen this before. Something is definitely wrong.”

“I hope he gets done with work early. I’ll bet he and Plagg are just as exhausted as we are, they really shouldn’t push it.”

Tikki just nodded before ducking out of sight.

Shoving her hands into her jacket pockets, Marinette made her way out of the alley and onto the street. Her feet carried her in the direction of the nearest café. Glancing through the large windows, she saw that it bustled with activity. She pushed the door open, catching the strong whiff of roasting espresso.

The line up to the counter moved slower than she had anticipated.

Letting out a sigh, she let her mind wander back to Adrien. Her stomach twisted with anxiety as she wracked her brain, trying to come up with any solution to these nightmares and hallucinations. But in all their years of wielding their Miraculous, she had never experienced what he was up against.

‘It’s all Hawkmoth’s fault,’ she thought, gritting her teeth.

He was the one making Adrien suffer. She could hardly stand it, knowing how much Adrien had already been through, how much he’d fought past the loneliness and fear to get to a place of happiness. And now, that villain was slowly trying to strip it away.

“… at the sight of the most recent Akuma attack, where Ladybug and Chat Noir recently left the scene.”

Marinette looked up.

Several people at a table nearby were crowding around someone’s laptop, which had a live newsreel playing at full volume. One of the reporters from earlier was speaking to the camera in front of the student housing building, now restored to its original structural intregrity.

“Eyewitness reports have stated that something rather strange seemed to be happening to our feline hero.”

“It looked like he was having some sort of episode,” came another voice.

Marinette strained her neck to see the reporter was now interviewing a couple students. It was a student that spoke into the mic now.

“He just froze up and wouldn’t respond when Ladybug was screaming at him to help. I dunno, I don’t think we’d be so worried if this hadn’t apparently happened last night too.”

“Do you have concerns about Chat Noir being able to properly defend civilians now?”

“I don’t want to be concerned,” said another student. “But if this sort of thing keeps happening to him, then there might be something seriously wrong, you know?”

“Well, you heard it here first,” said the reporter as he turned back to the camera. “The people of Paris are afraid. Is Chat Noir still fit to protect us from the evils that plague our city? Tune in for more at ten.”

Utterly floored, Marinette starred as the group pulled away from the screen and began whispering amongst themselves.

Was this what other people were thinking? Did it only take a couple missteps for them to turn their back on him? Should she have said something to those reporters when she had the chance?

“It looks like the ol’ Chat Noir isn’t doing his job so well anymore.”

Marinette frowned. Raising her chin, she glanced around, trying to see who belonged to that voice.

“Well, it seems he was under some sort of attack more than anything else,” another voice responded. “Who’s to say he wasn’t fighting off an Akuma mind trick?”

Marinette turned to stare at two men who were waiting off to the side of the counter for their order. They, much like herself, had clearly been near enough to that group to hear everything in that news report.

“If it’s happened twice in a row it just seems a bit suspicious,” the shorter man was saying while his companion frowned. “If we need someone defending us against all these crazed monsters, I think I want people who are actually fit for the job.”

“I dunno, man,” the taller one said. “They’ve done their best up till now, shouldn’t we give him the benefit of the doubt?”

“Well, their ‘best’ still has us left with effing Akuma attacks every week! Obviously their ‘best’ isn’t going to stop it all anytime soon. Maybe this is a sign we need some new heroes, who are mentally stable and actually competent!”

Marinette grit her teeth.

“Oh, come now,” sighed the tall man. “Who would you possibly replace them with?”

“All I’m saying is we shouldn’t have to risk our safety on a superhero who can’t even avoid a mental breakdown in the middle of an attack!”

Marinette caught the shorter man’s eye, and her steady glare made him shift around uncomfortably.

Their order was called just then, and – doing his best to avoid her gaze – the man ushered his companion along. They hurried out of the café before she could think of how to confront them.

Breathing hard, Marinette clenched her fists around her bag’s shoulder strap.

First those reporters, and now this? They all had no idea, no idea how hard Chat Noir fought for them! All those times he’d risked his life to save innocent people, and they can’t even be bothered to give him a little grace?

She suddenly found herself at the front of the line, gazing into the face of an expectant barista. Blinking, she opened her mouth for a long moment, before bowing her head apologetically and shifting back out of line.

She wasn’t in the mood for coffee anymore. Her blood was already boiling.

Turning, she made her way through the throng of people and hurried back onto the street in the direction of her studio.

She knew these latest attacks would be all anyone could talk about now. And imagining how Adrien would feel once he heard what they were saying made her stomach churn.

Climbing the stairs up to her class’s floor, she shoved open the door and stalked over to her usual corner. She was the only one there so far, which turned out to be lucky, for when she pulled her bag off her shoulder and threw it onto her desk, Tikki let out an indignant squeak.

“Sorry, Tikki,” Marinette mumbled, slumping down onto her chair and wheeling it over to the mannequin that sported her half-completed dress.

Tikki peeked her head out of the pocket she hid in, and seeing the empty room, she floated out to sit on the mannequin’s shoulder.

Marinette rubbed at one of her temples.

“He’s going to be ok,” Tikki said softly.

Taking in a deep breath, Marinette straightened up to look at her.

Tikki gazed down at her sympathetically.

“I hope so…” Marinette said finally, releasing her breath in a long sigh. “I’m just worried that the people of Paris won’t give him that chance.”

“You can’t control what people think and say,” said Tikki. “You can only keep doing what’s right.”

Marinette didn’t respond. She wasn’t in the mood to think about how easily Paris was persuaded to doubt and mock someone who had done nothing but give so much to them.

Rolling her stool back over to her desk, she dug a pair of earphones out of her bag and set some loud music on her phone.

Tikki gazed at her for a long moment before settling down out of sight once more.

Marinette threw herself into her work, desperate for distraction.

She and Mathis had made a surprising amount of progress in the last few weeks, despite butting heads every five minutes. They collaborated only when necessary. For both their sakes, it was easier to remain as far apart as possible. To his credit, Mathis had behaved better recently than she had ever seen him in all their years of school. But every time she considered giving him the benefit of the doubt, memories of what he had done to her the previous year flashed across her mind, convincing her to keep her guard up.

Fortunately, between Mathis’ unparalleled skills in clean lines and perfect construction, and her own flair for the dramatic, they had cobbled together a series of dresses that even she had to admit were impressive.

The dresses were structured in ways that fit the forms of their models like nothing Marinette had ever made before. Mathis had constructed swirls of material that shimmered like burnished metal and floated along the runway like liquid smoke. She had then come up with embroidered patterns that gave off the impression of molten steel in a forge. Upon closer inspection, however, one would see the intricate details of countless flowers and stars whirling through the folds of fabric.

Three dresses had been mostly completed. A fourth now hung on Marinette’s mannequin, and the beginnings of a fifth lay atop Mathis’ desk across the room.

Pulling out spools of crimson and gold thread, Marinette hunched over the latest garment – a short and simple asymmetrical dress with a dramatic cloak that draped across the shoulders – and carefully stitched a starlight pattern into the fabric. All five fingers on her left hand were guarded by thimbles; growing up, she’d had more than enough experience accidently stabbing herself with needles.

As the morning turned to afternoon, the studio filled up around her with fellow students.

Meesh and Alec both arrived at some point, but Marinette barely spared them a nod. The needlework was involved enough that she was finally able to quiet her worried thoughts for Adrien, focusing instead on each of the tiny details. The stress still sat at the back of her mind, but her music was almost able to drown it all out.

Almost.

“Well, well, Marinette,” a familiar snide voice said over the song playing through her earphones. “It looks like your super-feline friend isn’t doing so hot lately.”

Frowning, Marinette looked up to see Mathis standing casually beside her, his cold grey eyes inspecting her embroidery.

“What are you talking about, Mathis?” she sighed, removing her earphones and raising an eyebrow pointedly.

“Have you not been paying attention to the news?” he asked, incredulous. Coming from him, the concern in his tone sounded particularly mocking. “The videos have been playing everywhere.”

Pulling out his phone, he flipped to the local news and scrolled down to the day’s headlines, holding it out for her to see.

Marinette stared. The first article read:

CHAT NOIR CAUSES CATASTROPHE

And below that:

LADYBUG LET DOWN: CAN OUR BELOVED HEROINE STILL COUNT ON HER SIDEKICK?

Images of the morning’s attack were coupled with those from the fight during the party.

Marinette’s jaw tightened as she watched shaky footage of Chat Noir collapsing to the ground. A fresh wave of pain stabbed through her heart as he cradled his head in his hands, his entire body trembling. In the background, she saw herself desperately battling the Akuma while shrieking for Chat to snap out of it.

She finally tore her gaze away as the footage clipped to a news anchor comparing the two attacks. Staring down at the pile of thread and fabric in her lap, she clenched her hands into fists to stop them shaking.

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Hmm…” Mathis murmured. “I would have thought that you might care a bit more about this. After all, he was the one who saved your collection last year from that terrible intruder.”

Marinette stiffened, remembering how Chat Noir had come to her room several months prior, carrying the garment bags that held both her Gala collection and Meesh’s. Chat had told her of a masked person who had broken into their studio and would’ve destroyed their collections had he not been there to fight them off.

At the time, there hadn’t been enough evidence to prove Mathis was behind it, but whether it had been Mathis himself or someone he hired, they remained convinced he was the one to blame.

“I mean, of course I hope he’s ok,” Marinette said stiffly. “But I’m sure it’ll all be fine. For all the media knows, it could have just been part of the Akuma attacks. Weirder things have happened.”

“I don’t know,” Mathis said, shrugging. His expression might’ve been sympathetic if it had actually reached his eyes. “It all seems a bit strange to me, seeing as how nothing similar happened to Ladybug.”

Marinette shrugged.

“Well, who knows?” she said dismissively, biting down on the many colorful retorts that ran through her head. “Listen, I have a lot I want to get done today. Is there something you need?”

Mathis sneered down at her. Clearly, he had been hoping to get more of a reaction from her about Chat Noir.

“No,” he finally said after a long moment. “I’ll be at my desk if you need to discuss anything.”

Marinette nodded, without looking back up at him. After a moment, she saw him turn and walk away out of the corner of her eye.

Letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, Marinette gathered the thread in her lap and began to insert a new piece through the needle.

The tension she’d tried to ignore all morning was back again in full force. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get the image of Chat Noir helplessly fighting an invisible enemy out of her head. It took a tremendous amount of effort to try and focus back in on the pattern she was embordering.

“Hey, were you guys just talking about the Akuma attacks?” someone said, and Marinette looked around to see Meesh peering curiously over her own work. “Whatever was going on with Chat Noir seems pretty odd, right?”

Marinette frowned and opened her mouth to speak.

“Oh man, that footage was crazy!” Alec chimed in before she could reply. “I mean the guy went straight out of commission!”

“Oh, I suppose you both are doubting his abilities too, huh?” Marinette snapped, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“I didn’t say that,” Meesh said, surprised. “I just thought it all seems pretty weird. I mean, am I wrong?”

“No, something is definitely off,” Alec nodded emphatically.

“It’s not his fault!” Marinette clenched her garment’s fabric tightly as she glared at them.

“But you have to look at the facts, Mar,” Alec continued. “I mean, clearly something is wrong with him!”

“I can’t hear this.”

Marinette spun her stool around so her back was to her friends.

As much as their words irritated her, she held her tongue. She supposed they at least didn’t mean anything by it. Even if they, like everyone else, didn’t have the advantage of knowing Chat Noir like she did, both Meesh and Alec had also grown up in other countries. They didn’t have years of seeing him fight on their behalf; to them, he was just some intangible comic book figure come to life.

“Hey Mar?”

She jumped.

Meesh had come up beside her.

“Are you ok? You seem pretty upset.”

“I’m fine,” Marinette shrugged. What else could she say?

“Are you sure?” Meesh asked, dropping her voice and leaning forward slightly. “I mean I’m worried about Chat Noir too. But you know you can talk to me, right?”

“I –” Marinette opened her mouth hesitantly. Unfortunately, as much as she trusted Meesh as a friend, she could never share the truth. “I just have a lot of… work to get done.”

Meesh gazed down at her with concern before finally nodding. Reaching out briefly to give Marinette’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, she turned and made her way back to her desk.

Marinette sighed as she went back to her own work. But her eyes no longer saw the embroidery she held. Instead, the images of Chat, so helpless and in pain, kept replaying across her vision.

Clenching her jaw, she squoze her eyes shut and shook her head vehemently. No, she couldn’t bear to think of it anymore, not while there was nothing she could do to help him. If she could just focus on her work for a little while longer, Adrien would be coming to get her, and she’d finally be able to leave.

But her efforts proved useless. Now that she had removed her earphones, she became increasingly aware that Chat Noir and the most recent attacks were all anyone in the studio was talking about.

“It’s hard to say,” she heard someone nearby mutter. “I mean it sounds like no one really knows what’s going on.”

“Have you seen the videos?” another voice responded.

“Yeah, it looks like the guy is having a mental break, right?”

“I dunno… I’m worried about him, you know?” a third voice chimed in. “What if something’s happened to him and he can’t help Ladybug anymore?”

Marinette grit her teeth, trying to tune out the conversations around her. Could no one talk about anything else for even five minutes?

“Well this is two times in a row now that he’s gone all weird like that. Ladybug’s been lucky so far with defeating the Akumas by herself, but how long do we expect that luck to hold?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I hope the guy comes out of this ok. I just don’t think he’s cut out for the superhero stuff anymore, you know?”

“Yeah, I mean how is some crackpot going to be able to save lives when he can’t even save himself?”

“Well, I s’pose you do have a point there.”

“Let’s face it, Chat Noir isn’t useful to anyone like this.”

“We need to be able to rely on the city’s heroes, not be worried that they’ll slip up. Someone could die like that.”

“Ladybug needs to move on to someone better.”

“Yeah, I agree!”

“ENOUGH!”

The entire studio fell silent, turning to look at Marinette as she stood, breathing hard, before the group who had been talking. Her embroidery needle was still gripped tight in her hand.

“What’s the matter with you people?!” she growled, her voice shaking with rage. “How dare you talk about Chat Noir like that! He’s spent half his life defending this city, defending people like you every single day! And the second something happens, you’re all ready to just turn your backs on him? To just reject him and say you want someone else for the role instead?”

“Marinette,” one of the boys who had been speaking against Chat broke in. “All we’re saying is that if someone is going to help protect everyone, he needs to be fully reliable.”

“Yeah!” said another girl. “Ladybug deserves a partner who won’t let her down like that! She needed his help and all he did was lay down for the Akuma to pummel them both.”

“Ladybug figured it out!” Marinette said, advancing toward them. “They’ve been in much worse situations and they always find a way to save everyone!”

“Not always,” Mathis said from across the room. Everyone turned to look at him, so he shrugged and continued. “They haven’t always been able to set everything back to normal, and people have gotten hurt. I thought you would’ve been the last person to forget that, Marinette.”

She balled her fists tighter. The needle she held stabbed into the palm of her hand, but she hardly felt it over the rushing in her ears.

It was true, they hadn’t always been able to miraculously restore everything – the scars hidden along her hairline where proof of that. If it weren’t for Chat’s sacrifices, she would be dead.

But how dare Mathis, of all people, bring that up? If it hadn’t been for his attack as the Puppet Master, none of this would be happening. Chat would never have had to absorb the Akuma’s darkness, and Adrien would not be suffering from the nightmares and hallucinations now.

Mathis�� expression was unreadable as Marinette glared at him, though she thought she saw the smallest hint of amusement tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Regardless of what went down before, something really weird is going on now,” someone finally said, drawing murmurs of agreement from their classmates. “If Ladybug hadn’t been there, her sidekick would’ve been toast.”

“And so would everyone else, for that matter.”

“Chat Noir isn’t Ladybug’s sidekick, they are equals! Partners!” Marinette’s voice rose to a shout as she spun back on them.

“Then she deserves a better partner!”

“Marinette?” came a quiet voice from behind her.

Marinette whipped around and froze.

Adrien was standing just inside the studio door. From the look on his face, she could guess that he had heard more than enough of the argument.

“You about ready to go?” he said, putting on a pleasant smile.

To anyone else, he might look perfectly relaxed, but Marinette caught how the corners of his eyes tightened.

“Yeah,” she said finally, nodding. “I just have a few things to clean up.”

“Kay, I’ll wait downstairs, then,” he said, bowing his head and turning back towards the door to the stairwell.

Marinette watched him go, her heart clenching in her chest as she saw his shoulders droop. Then, shooting a venomous glance back at her silent classmates – Mathis was watching her with a raised eyebrow – she swiftly returned to her desk to gather her belongings.

The needle she had been gripping so tightly was lodged far deeper in her palm than she’d realized, and it went in at an unfortunate angle. Pain jolted sharply through her hand as she pulled it out, and a dull sore throbbing replaced it as a trickle of blood began to flow. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she grabbed a small piece of scrap fabric and held it tightly to help staunch the bleeding.

The murmur of voices had returned as people began discussing the superheroes’ troubles once more, but Marinette couldn’t be bothered with them anymore.

Meesh and Alec offered her small smiles as she made her way towards the door. Meesh especially looked sympathetic.

Marinette gave them a farewell nod in return as she pushed the door open and hurried down the stairs.

Adrien stood leaning against the railing on the bottom landing. He offered her a small smile, which she might’ve returned had she not felt so sick with worry.

“So, your day seemed a bit tense,” he said lightly, pushing himself off the railing and moving to hold the door open for her. “People seem to be pretty upset about this whole Chat Noir thing, huh?”

“Adrien…” she sighed, following his lead and stepping outside.

“It’s fine, Mar,” he said shrugging. “Really, I’ve been hearing it all day.”

“That doesn’t make it fine,” she retorted as they began walking through the quad. “I can’t believe the things people are saying!”

“Can’t you?” Adrien shot her a sidelong look.

“Stop it,” she snapped.

He shrugged but said nothing more.

“Are you sure you’re up for tonight?” Marinette asked after a moment as he yawned. “You haven’t exactly been able to rest much lately, maybe you should take it easy…”

Adrien paused thoughtfully.

“I want to go,” he finally said with a resolute nod. “I could use a bit of normalcy in my life right about now.”

Look at that! ME?! Actually updating when I said I would??! AND in just a week instead of a year and a half like last time??!? I dunno, seems fake.

Haha I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far! And never forget, I’m a slut for comments! ;D Love you all, and thank you SO MUCH for reading!!!

PS: I also just got a brand spankin new computer!! It definitely cost more than three months of my rent, but it’s been a long time coming. The important thing is that I can FINALLY use my drawing tablet again and start making art to go with this story! Also (no promises) I’m seriously thinking about doing a short animation for one of the scenes from chapter 12... Keep an eye on the #TWHU fic tag!

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug fic #ml fic #adrinette #marichat #ladynoir #ladrien #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #twhu fic

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colleenmurphy · 5 years ago

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Snippets: Mary Did You Know?

A/N: Everyone has that one family member they just ‘click’ with. Mine was my aunt. This will be the first Christmas in 29 years that she’s not here to celebrate with and I miss her, oh God do I miss her. Anyway, long story short? Once upon a time when I was young I virtually lived with her and my uncle and would often sprint form the car and up to her front door with “Aunt Maaaaaarrry! Guess what?!” and then proceed to inform her of whatever factoid or thought that popped up as I gave her a huge hug. So this little piece is dedicated to her as well as @writervega who taught me that yes, angels really do walk the earth.

P.S. Lisa-Marie, I’m not sure if I ever told you this but my aunt adored angels. I know she would have loved you.

P.P.S. Little me was not a blue streak curser. Adult me? I’ve been known to use adult sentence enhancers a time or two.

“Mawwy! Mawwy! I wan’ aunt MAWWY!”

Screeches and screams heard directly from the tiny saloon car parked outside the tidy little house just outside Chiltern Close were surely enough to raise the dead. The neighbors as well as most of the inhabitants of the home had grown used to the delighted yelps for the preferred aunt. All except the aunt in question. Said aunt has busied herself trying to untangle last year’s garland to decorate the tree.

“John?”

“Yea, love?”

“Remind me to kill you after the holidays are well and truly over.”

A chortle was heard behind the other side of the massive tree that took up the sitting room of the two bedroom flat. A pop was heard as the multicolored string lights were tested.

“What? Why? Is the green flickerin’ or is it me?”

“Yes and now the red’s started. Change the bulb. You were the one that taught your niece my name. I was perfectly content being called aunt Colly and you went and spoilt it”

“I did no such thing!”

The wry twinkling glint in his said otherwise as John continued to test and tighten a bulb here or there.

“Did too! Take a peek at your wee niece out there.”

“Little angel ain’t she? I see Bess has her in the outfit ye bought her. Matchin’ coat too! Jaysus, Col no wonder she loves comin’ here spoil her rotten ye’ do!”

“Well, I had to do something to curb the language she picked up from you on the build sites. Don’t you go givin’ me that guilt trip when I know you spoil her too.”

John couldn’t disagree with that, his wife knew him well and she had witnessed the shopping trips first hand. Not to mention the fact that she’d been the one to overhear his retellings of Good Night Moon each and every stay that Lucille was staying with them.

Dark blonde curls held up into impossibly cute pigtails went with the matching pink play suit she’d been bundled into. From the coordinated coat and lovely little hat and mittens the entire ensemble had Colleen’s doing all over it. Their Lucille, as they took to calling her as they hadn’t yet become parents themselves, truly looked like a tiny cherub but by god she could out swear any sailor thus proving looks truly were deceiving. The uncle in question peeked out at the ice rink that was the front lane. He damned himself for not taking the time to grit their parcel earlier in the morning. Just from how her tiny stride quickened he knew that this was certainly not going to end well.

Step. ‘Aun’ Maaaawwy!’ Step.Step.Step.Slide. Two more steps and their two year old niece met the ground bottom first very hard before her harried mother or lightning fast aunt could catch her. Hysterics and hellcat howls sounded from the tiny blue eyed tot as her faced turned an ungodly shade of puce. Bessie had mentioned something over the phone about potty training and evidently Lucille hadn’t taken to the sudden range of movement that came with being a big kid now let alone the built in shock absorption that her former diapers proved.

“Jaysus cwist ah’ pished mah pants!”

John let out a howl from behind the curtain. Colly whirled around and shot him a death glare as she scooped up Lucille and her raggedy stuffed teddy and tried to step carefully back towards the safety of home. The closer they got the clearer he could hear the conversation between aunt and niece. Or rather, niece to aunt as it was quite one sided.

“Aun’ Mawwy do you know the sky is blue? Aun’ Mawwy do you know why cows eat hay? Aun’ Mawwy awe you gonna make cwhistmas cookies? Aun’ Mawwy did you know...*yawn* I wanna nap?”

“I can tell but how about we let your Ma get you cleaned up and changed? Then I’ll tuck you in up in our room?”

The megawat grin spread across her tiny cherubic face and melted John’s heart all over again. Ceelie drool be damned, the fact that she had her own room be damned right across the hall from theirs be damned, that smile could have him buying her a pony if she’d asked him to.

#{ snippets & bobs }#halfpenny dancer verse #{ john & colleen }#i actually called my aunt mary aun’ mawwy when I was very young }

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runephoenix6769 · 6 years ago

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Shattered! Part 2

(Second instalment. Widowmaker Tracer fic. Lena is not overly friendly at first. Will be a collection of one shots gathered together. Multiple POV’s.

Will be edited over time before maybe loading on ao3 and ff)

@call-signtracer

‘Shattered!’

(Part 2. )

When a call for help had reached Overwatch via ancient back channels Winston had long thought defunct, the Senior officers had cloistered themselves in the main office.

Tracer scuffing the tips of her toes underneath her chair observed the various other members of the team that had gathered for the last hour in the nearby cafeteria, each pretending like they weren’t waiting to find out why the sudden clandestine meeting had been called. McCree lounged on the battered sofa, arms casually crossed and his perpetually dusty cowboy boots propped on a nearby chair. Genji, head bowed concentrating on sharpening his sword as D-Va tapped away furiously on her hand held console, the cable of her earphones unconnected and dangling uselessly. Everyone refused to acknowledge each other as view-able through the sheet glass wall behind them, the body language of a heated argument played out.

The palpable silence was suddenly broken as Fareeha, features contorted in rage, exited the room, slamming the door with a bang leaving a string of expletives in a mixture of English and Arabic in her wake as she stormed down the corridor back into the depths of the compound. The sound of whet stone on tempered steel stopped, D-Va immediately collected her things, scuttling in the opposite direction of the irate soldier.

“Wonder what that was about?” Tracer asked in a bid to break the tension.

McCree peered at her from under the wide brim of his cowboy hat, the cigar caught between his lips momentarily pausing before it continued to roll on its journey to the other side of his mouth. He gave the young agent a non- committal shrug.

The Senior officers began to filter out of the room, each going in their own direction. Morrison leaned through the door into the corridor,

“Oxton!” He barked, causing Lena to flinch in her seat,

“Cap?”

“With Angela and Fareeha. Now!” The grizzled super soldier’s gaze briefly paused on the battered cowboy before growling, almost as an afterthought, “Take Genji with you.”

Jumping out of her chair, the Londoner snapped off a salute,

“Yes, Sir!”

Genji sheathed his sword, slowly unfurling as he muttered in his soft voice,

“I would only be happy to assist.”

The small hovercraft landed in the wide plaza of what had once been an Omenic housing facility. Now it had given way to a decrepit slum. Peering out of the window into the darkest recesses of the square, Lena could make out humans and Omenic alike huddled round burning oil barrels in an attempt to stave off the savage winter that had gripped Europe in its unforgiving clutches. Testing the straps of her chronal accelerator and checking her pistols for the second time, Tracer enquired,

“What are we doing here?”

Fareeha grunted in reply as she tightened her flak jacket over her solid athletic frame and slid a knife into its holster. Head bowed and continuing to go through her away mission med kit, Angela answered,

“We have been asked to assist in securing a Talon operative.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know.”

The Egyptian solider ripped open the armoury locker,

“I want it stated for the record, I did not agree to this.”

“Fareeha!” Mercy began softly.

Fareeha forcefully cut her off, shaking her head as she selected a pulse pistol and a number of flash grenades. “Don’t Angela. Just don’t!”

In an attempt to avoid the brewing argument, Lena once more tried to glean any information on the forth coming mission,

“What is the back up from the local authorities? Police? ” No, she thought, by the looks of this place local police wouldn't frequent here unless forced, “Private security?”

Fareeha unceremoniously shoved the pistol in her gun holster,

“You are the backup!”

Lena blinked in surprise, exclaiming,

“What?” Looking between all three of her team mates she took a moment before continuing, “Wait a sodding minute,” She gestured with her hands for emphasis, “Is this even sanctioned?”

The Egyptian soldier cocked her head slightly and quirked her eyebrows as the medic remained mute avoiding eye contact. Tracer began to pace along the galley, shaking her head before whirling round,

“Let me get this straight.” She stabbed the palm of her left hand with her finger, “We are here in a civilian hub to retrieve a Talon operative! ” Her voice angrily raised an octave, “Completely unsanctioned?”

Silence was her reply. Cupping her nose and her mouth in her hands, Lena took a deep breath attempting to stem the bubbling anger.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” She screamed,“Isnt this what got us into trouble in the first place, under cover ops?”

“Exactly my point” The brawny woman replied.

Lena rubbed her face with her hands, sinking into her seat. What was Morrison thinking, sending them in here without authority to apprehend who knows what?

“At least tell me the intel is solid!”

Angela’s eyebrows knitted together as she zipped up her bag, a steely edge to her voice,

“Winston assured us that it came from a reputable source.”

Genji sagely stated,

“There is no such thing as a reputable source where Talon is concerned.”

The Swiss Doctor suddenly snapped in frustration,

“Would you all kindly shut up!” She haughtily pulled on the lapels of her medical jacket “Let’s focus on the objective we came here to do!”

Bristling Fareeha turned about, hand slamming the button for the bay doors to open.

“Genji, reconnoitre the surroundings, eliminate all and any threats.” The cyborg ninja swiftly took off, disappearing under the weak street lights into the shadows. The lieutenant motioned to Tracer, “You take point, Dr Ziegler in the middle and I’ll bring up the rear.”

They moved as a well-oiled unit, ignoring the suspicious stares from the residents they passed. They must have looked out of place in this ramshackle high rise, Fareeha in her imposing black combat gear, Lena in her unmarked blue Overwatch uniform and Angela, a large medical bag embossed with a Red Cross and Caduceus symbol slung over her shoulder.

Concentrating on the mission at hand, they cautiously made their way down a paint peeled hallway, checking every flickering digital number projected from over the doors. The whole place smelt of stale smoke and boiled cabbage over laying others it didn’t bear thinking about. Somewhere a child gave a colically cry.

From behind every door came the sounds of people eking through on the fringes of life, only the poorest of the poor, the forgotten and those that didn’t wish to be found lived here. It reminded Lena of the old high rises that once over had dotted the London skyline. In his last days, her grandfather had lived in one of them, his RAF pension just about covering the basics as rent prices had sky rocketed along with pound signs in the eyes of the slum lords. It had been a sad end for a life lived with honour in service of his country.

How in this modern day with all of the world’s new technology and wealth could people still be living like this? It rankled the young agent’s already fragile nerves.

Stepping over the prone form of a passed out man, Lena whispered,

“What number was it again?”

Bending to check the vitals of the misfortune, Mercy replied,

“215.”

“Righty o, see you in a jiffy.” She blinked forward, Fareeha’s warning falling on deaf ears.

Speeding up small flights of stairs and past mismatched doors, she caught the numbers 210, 211, 212 213 214 216 217, before screeching to a halt. Retracing her steps, she crouched low her pistols in hand as she once again checked, her eyes alighting on the numbers 521 sporadically flickering in no discernible pattern over a non-descript brown door. Light of foot she crept closer checking her surroundings as she reached out with one leather clad hand to warily test the digital keypad only to find it locked shut. She didn’t have long to wait before she was joined by the other two operatives.

Mercy stood back, as the ex-Helix security lieutenant attached a small EMP to the keypad, mutely signing the plan, Tracer nodded in understanding, her muscles bunched and heart thundering in her chest. Fareeha pressed the button sending a small charge into the lock which fizzled and sputtered before clicking undone. Hoping for the element of surprise, the young woman bounded into the apartment pistols raised, closely followed by her teammate. Both women gasped for air and immediately regretted it as the sour stench assaulted their nostrils causing their to eyes water. As they moved further into the apartment, clearing it room by room, the smell became overpowering.

The muffled sound of a shower running caught the ex-pilots attention.

Tracer cocked her head, motioning for the other soldier to follow as she made her way down the hallway towards the noise. A sickly glow reflected off the water pooling against the bowed carpet runner separating the bathroom from the hallway. Cautiously they approached, carpet squelching underfoot as they crept closer. The sound of water drumming a staccato on plastic rang out, no other sounds giving any indication of any occupation.

With Fareeha on the left and Tracer on the right of the doorway, they exchanged a look. Lena nodded to indicate she was ready. Fareeha crouched, back against the wall as she reached out with two fingers pushing the unresisting door open and in one smooth movement Tracer crowded in.

Aghast at the site that greeted her, Lena pin wheeled, her shoes slipping on slick tiles as she tried to retreat, catching Fareeha’s surprised gasp of “Allah be merciful!” before the world took on a blue hue, all movements outside of the slipstream turning to treacle. The ex-pilot passed Fareeha, witnessed the good Doctor entering the apartment and she was pretty sure she saw the back of her own head before hurtling, pale faced into a rickity chair,

From down the hall, she heard Fareeha’s surprise gasp repeated

“Allah be merciful!”

“Don’t!” Lena cried out.

Alarmed, Angela demanded,

“What’s wrong?”

And for the first time the ever talkative Lena couldn’t find her words.

“Lena!” the Doctor touched her shoulders, “Are you ok? Is Fareeha ok?”

Haunted brown eyes looked out of ghost white cheeks as she stammered,

“Bloody hell Ange!” A shaky breathe escaping, “Bloody hell!”

Leaving the young agent alone, Dr Ziegler went to investigate only to rush back, ashen faced to collect her medical supplies.

#longpost #widowmaker #amelie lacroix #tracer #lena oxton #widowtracer #tracemaker #mercy #angela ziegler #pharah #fareeha amari #overwatch #genji #talon #overwatch fanfic #call-signtracer #shattered runephoenix6769

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darpok · 6 years ago

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Blog Post: On Fan Fiction and Other Storytelling Traditions

When I was twelve or thirteen years old, and even our family finally had DSL internet, I discovered the joys of fan fiction. In case you haven’t been living under the same rock as I have, allow me to explain. “Fan fiction” refers to stories written by enthusiasts of a particular book, TV show, or other creative work. While most “fics” – as my friends and I would call them – take place within the particular universe of the original story, others take known characters and put them in an entirely new setting. (That’s how 50 Shades of Grey was born.) There’s also fan fiction that doesn’t deliberately draw on any work but revolves around real, famous people in imagined situations. (See Graham Norton and Daniel Radcliffe discuss this type on the former’s show.)

The stories that interested me ranged from shorter “one shots” to multi-chapter epics, but most were placed in the Harry Potter universe and nearly all were tales of romance – if you could call it that.

The pairings I read about (and often ‘shipped’ – a verb that comes from the ‘ship’ in ‘relationship’ and means “hoped would bang”) – whether true to canon (i.e. the original books), such as Lily and James Potter, or wildly inventive, such as Hermione and a Tom Riddle to whom she has traveled back in time – usually engaged in the kind of love/hate banter that sends real couples to therapy. The pair would glare at and insult each other (often employing strangely American turns of phrase for a pair of ostensible Brits), their apparent mutual disgust hiding a deeper attraction. For my friends and I, it was riveting stuff.

While I was mainly a Lily/James shipper myself, you can’t talk about Harry Potter fan fiction and not mention Dramione. The fan-invented romance between Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger was a tale of forbidden passion, a defiance of Hogwarts housing norms and the mandates of Potter canon itself. Draco did need to be less of a whiny loser to be a deserving match for Hermione, but this could be arranged without too much trouble. In the fan fiction world, Draco was dark and brooding, and he didn’t bring his dad up in conversation quite as often as in the books. Hermione was clever and empathetic, and although she was rarely depicted with less than Yule Ball-level beauty, her looks were not her main characteristic.

Sometimes fan fiction Draco and Hermione fell for each other while at Hogwarts. In other fics, they met again under changed circumstances years after the fall of Voldemort. Then there were the AU fics in which a brilliant young paralegal named Hermione Granger begins work at the firm where successful lawyer Draco Malfoy practices. You get the idea.

Photoshop creations starring Tom Felton and Emma Watson (no credit belongs to me). The purple one in particular has stayed in my memory for years, and brings on a familiar feeling of excitement at all the great content to peruse in the world. It was the banner for a website that allowed fans to nominate and vote for their favorite Dramione fics.

A particularly sexy iteration of the Draco/Hermione story was called Water by kissherdraco. In it, Draco and Hermione are Head Boy and Girl at Hogwarts. Of course, this means that they must live sequestered in their own dormitory, with its own entrance, common room and adjoining bathroom that ensure they see each other in a state of partial undress when the story demands it.

Water was held by many to be the pinnacle of the genre. It had lust and angst in equal measure, executed with a liberal dose of swear words and aggression. Moreover, Water took the common flaws of the Dramione world’s characters and actually explored them, allowing character to drive plot. In the story, Draco is brooding and cruel as ever, but these traits are linked to vicious abuse at the hands of Lucius. This backstory is not seen as an excuse for Draco’s behavior and he is forced to grow and change as the story progresses (although not quite enough, tbh).

I never finished the story, perhaps because my young brain was alarmed by all the hate-sex, but I revisited it with curiosity for this piece. Here is a relatively benign excerpt from the text, although please skip if you’d rather avoid themes of physical dominance:

“You’re crying,” growled Draco, leaning in and flicking his tongue onto her cheek. He tasted salt.

She struggled then, and he brought his hands to her shoulders to hold her still. “Don’t, Granger,” he warned. “I fucking need this. I can’t fucking…” He trailed off.

He never would have noticed before. Not like he did now, at least. Her lips were wet. They were red and moist and magnificently ripened for him. So full of blood. Hot, heated, sullied blood. He couldn’t take his eyes off them.

Other fics situated romance within a larger plot about the politics of the wizarding world. Prelude to Destiny by AnotherDreamer took place in the Marauder era (i.e. the time of Harry’s parents) and focused on the coming-of-age of Lily Evans and her role in the battle against evil. It begins, “Two cultures and a thousand miles from you, there is a castle on a hill…”

Another fave began life under the title Ancient and Most Noble and is now called Druella Black’s Guide to Womanhood. It is about the diverging lives of the three Black sisters — Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa — in the early years of Voldemort’s power. The sisters confront the crumbling of the their easy closeness as they make different choices in a changing world.

”It’ll be a laugh, you’ll see,” Bellatrix whispered into her ear, her breath sweet and thick from wine. They were curled in the cool grass, tangled in the layers upon layers of lace and satin that were their dress robes; it had taken them an hour to get them on right and just ten minutes to unsettle them. Andromeda’s head was spinning: from the liquor, from the heat, from far too much dancing. “It’ll all be just like this,” Bella was murmuring, her lips brushing against her ear. Stars whirled by overhead, maybe close enough to touch. Close enough to try.

“Always just like this.”

—

Andromeda swore as she stepped off the train. From inside the nicely cool travel car, summer had looked so charming, green and bright and gloriously school-free…

I was most interested in these fics, the ones that revolved around the generations before Harry’s. There was something compelling about the knowledge of forthcoming tragedy for many of the characters…Plucked away from the happy ending of the books, these fics became an exploration of why life is meaningful even in its flawed and finite scope.

I look back on my fan fiction experiences as belonging to a beautiful time when the internet was less like Janet from The Good Place* (if Janet were selling everything she knew about us to profit-hungry corporations and belligerent, militarized governments), and more like a library you went to when you felt like checking out a book. Nobody knew what I ate and where I went every minute of the day, because I didn’t put that stuff online, nor did I (to my knowledge) carry a tracking device with me when I went downstairs to play with my friends. At 5 pm, our moms would have to call each friend’s landline to reach us and remind us to stop home for our daily glass of milk or what-have-you.

*Janet is a humanoid presence in the afterlife who holds all knowledge in the universe and can create objects out of the void.

Fan fiction was a commerce-free creative space – devoid of ad revenue and the quick accumulation of likes. Since there was neither money nor social capital to be gained, everyone who participated did so out of pure interest. One did have the hope of raking in reviews from other community members, but these were about more than validation; reviews allowed people to have conversations about a shared passion and often included constructive criticism along with praise. There was little need for bitterness – if a fic was well-written, everybody won, since it meant they got to read it.

Below are some examples from the reviews section of Prelude to Destiny. It’s certainly no Twitter.

Written by rach on chapter #13. (March 28th 2009, 5am) Hey,

So I’ve read your whole story before, and now I’m reading it again, because I saw it spotlighted on the site. And this chapter is amazing. I love the end…I’ve never (well, before I read this the first time) compared Lily to Mrs Crouch. But it’s so true. They both gave their lives for their sons and…this chapter is phenomenal. Just thought I’d let you know

Rach

Written by Smith on chapter #26. (April 29th 2008, 11am)

…If I am to find any fault in the story, then I should say that Remus was rather dull. Not that it was completely out of character, but I imagine him being funnier and also good Lily’s friend. Their friendship is mentioned by Lupin in the third film and, I should think, in the book as well, though I don’t have a copy right now and thus can’t provide a quote. Pity, that. [Given my extensive knowledge of canon, I can tell you that the reviewer is mistaken on this last point.]

Thank you very much for writing this story. Reading it was an enjoyable experience that I might repeat in the future. You’re brilliant, to put it short.

Author Response: Thanks for the review!Yeah, Remus was a bit dull. Actually, I didn’t intend for Lily to be friends with any of the marauders besides James. I just wanted them out of the way. But I know what you mean. After Sirius entered the story, Remus was even duller in comparison. Plus, I wanted to make Peter seem like he fit in, and Remus just fell by the wayside, you know?I’m enjoying writing Gertrude again after taking over a story from my friend who used my characters. Anyway, thanks again!Miranda

For me, too, fandom was a more than a casual hobby. Since I was only allowed an hour of internet use a day, I would spend the time copying and pasting chapter after chapter of fan fiction onto Microsoft Word, allowing me to read all I wanted later. (As you might imagine, Water was not stored on the family computer.) I remember scouring for new fics on fanfiction.net and clicking through page after page of fan art on deviantart.com (both of which retain their early-2000s layouts, unlike Mugglenet or JK Rowling’s official site), very differently from how I scroll through Instagram today. I admired works of fandom the way one appreciates springtime’s first flower, or the décor of a friend’s bedroom – I admired the stamp of individuality they bore and that inspired me to create something myself, to express my joys and sorrows, to be a part of the world.

RIP old websites

When I did put Harry Potter-inspired art out there, somewhere around age fourteen, it was of course in the form of fan fiction, writing being my weapon of choice. I wrote two one-shot pieces, one funny and the other sad — or such were my intentions, though perhaps the results were inverted. While some friends wrote longer stories, I never felt talented or inspired enough to commit, which is a typical self-doubting move of the kind I am trying to leave behind. (I now plan to write no matter how untalented and uninspired I may be.)

One piece was about a character of my own invention, a Slytherin guy with the requisite pure-blood, Dark magic-loving family, and a perky, ponytailed Huffelpuff girl on whom he develops an obsessive crush. It was intended to be a BBC-inspired mockery of the character, taking all the gloomy sexiness of the Dramione universe and making it ridiculous. It was also a thorough exploration of really wanting to make out with somebody sitting in the same classroom as you, not that I’d know anything about that myself.

The other short story was a sincere ode to the books and an exploration of some of their core questions on death and loss. It followed Harry in an imagined scene that takes place (SPOILER ALERT lol) after Dumbledore’s death in the Half-Blood Prince. Harry is climbing the steps to the Owlery with a package in his hand, thinking over his relationship with Dumbledore. As I wrote, I found that I absolutely had to include excerpts from a fairly unexpected source, a chapter in the first and most overlooked of the Harry Potter books. The chapter is “The Mirror of Erised,” whose titular object reveals to the onlooker their deepest desire.

“Professor Dumbledore. Can I ask you something?”

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled. “You may ask me one more thing, however.”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.” Harry stared. “One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite truthful.

In my story, Harry gazes out at the Forbidden Forest for a little while, wondering who Dumbledore had been behind the mask of calm wisdom and pondering the burden of those left alive and grieving. Harry then ties the package he’s been holding to Hedwig’s arm and sends her off, chuckling a little through tears. In the last line it is revealed that – OMG – he has just sent off a pair of thick, woolen SOCKS. To DUMBLEDORE. Even though Dumbledore is DEAD. Isn’t that profound?

Two years later, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released, and to my complete surprise, it delved deep into some of the questions about Dumbledore that had tumbled out of me, stream-of-consciousness-like, in the story I wrote. The text even includes part of the above excerpt from “The Mirror of Erised”. At the outset of Deathly Hallows, Harry learns that Dumbledore’s childhood was a difficult one, the true details of which remain murky and contested by his admirers and critics. Harry regrets never having asked Dumbledore about his past, but recalls that, after all, the one personal question he had asked Dumbledore was not answered honestly…

While writing my story, I had imagined Harry’s pain and longing to know Dumbledore better. Because fan fiction allowed me to externalize my interpretation of the text, the questions in my mind took on concrete form. Their answers, when the next book presented them, became all the more striking and emotionally impactful. It was as though I had written a letter to the series of books that had shaped me and received, in a way, a gentle but meaningful response.

In 2004, JK Rowling released a statement about the phenomenon of fan fiction. She was flattered by fans’ desire to write about her characters, and her only caveats were that fan fiction should remain suitable for children (unfortunately that ship had already sailed, and Water was truly the least of it), as well as a non-commercial activity so that fans’ creative pursuits would remain unexploited. Other authors have not been as accepting, and have asked for fan fiction based on their work to be removed from popular websites. After all, in our current world, a story is classified as property. A sentence, a verse, a character’s name, can belong to someone the same way as the furniture in their house and the dollar figure in their bank account.

In the long history of storytelling, however, ownership is a relatively recent idea. Bear with me while I make an analogy – in pre-industrial Britain, every town had a commons, an area of land where anyone could gather firewood, take their cattle to graze, or hunt and fish to supplement a year of poor harvest. Storytelling has historically functioned as a kind of commons of ideas, one that anyone could pull from when the time came to tell a tale. Want to warn your kid against going near a well? Tell them about the hungry demon that lives in it. Were you hired to entertain a crowd at a wedding? Maybe you dust off an old poem about a prince and princess who meet one evening in the forest but spend years apart, not knowing each others’ true identity until it turns out they were betrothed all along.

Nobody invented well-dwelling monsters or estranged lovers for the first time – they simply existed in a shared cultural space, available when needed (or when it was particularly enjoyable to use them), ready to be shaped into something new and old at the same time. Even today, no one questions the use of familiar tropes in books and movies; we know that all storytelling involves a certain amount of borrowing and repetition, and we deem this acceptable as long as the storyteller has put an adequately original spin on the themes they utilize. The legal line is drawn once you get to the particulars – character names, or sentences and dialogue. These must be brand spanking new if you want to avoid a lawsuit and getting dropped by your publishers. (Does anyone else remember How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life?)

But for thousands of years, people told and re-told stories of beloved and familiar characters, not just unnamed archetypes – characters like Odysseus and Arjuna, Gilgamesh and King Arthur. The Sanskrit Mahabharata (Maha-BHA-rata) an epicly long, genre-defying story from South Asia, especially challenges the idea of a single, canonical text (much like other ancient story traditions from the subcontinent). It was told so many times by so many people that modern-day folks are not always able to agree on what the Mahabharata even is. The story is like a vast ocean — recognizable to all, but appears different depending on where you happen to be standing.

In the 20th century, some scholars collected Mahabharata manuscripts from all over the subcontinent, extracted the most commonly occurring parts to form a text, and detailed the many variations of each verse in footnotes that turned out longer than the text itself. No one can quite agree whether to treat this resulting (multi-volume) “Critical Edition” as the essential Sanskrit Mahabharata tradition, or as some kind of strange, post-colonial Mahabharata scrapbook. All this so that whenever somebody wrote an essay about the story, there was a single text, pieced together as it was, to use as a point of reference. (My Bachelor’s thesis was one of the lesser works of this scholarly genre.)

The plot of the Mahabharata goes like this: The five Pandava brothers, namely the prone-to-gambling leader Yudhishthira, morally-conflicted archer Arjuna, lovable beefcake Bhima, and something-to-do-with-horses twins Nakula and Sachdeva, along with their badass wife Draupadi, are exiled from their kingdom and forced into a year of disguise after a rigged dice game that Yudhishthira loses, and in which Draupadi is stripped and humiliated before a hall full of men. Eventually the Pandavas regain what they lost through a bloody war that leaves both sides devastated and questioning the point of all this conflict. The End.

Does my summary reflect my biases a little bit? For somebody else, the Pandavas might be perfect heroes, Draupadi a whiny ungrateful shrew who won’t stop yelling at them. To me, she is the moral backbone of the Pandavas, unafraid to call for what she feels is right even as everyone around her takes the coward’s way out of trouble.

Interpretations of Draupadi from various traditions

But it’s not just me who has a take on the story: the Mahabharata itself reflects a range of interacting and conflicting views, which might indicate that people from various backgrounds heard it and were able, in some way, to influence it. For example, although the text generally upholds hierarchies of caste and gender, it also pulls at the listener’s heartstrings with stories of characters who must confront these oppressive norms.

There’s Amba, who is stolen from her future-husband at her wedding and rejected by him when she manages to return; she later chooses to be re-born as a man in order to kill her kidnapper in battle. There’s Ekalavya, the talented archer from a forest tribe who trains with the Pandavas in youth and asks to prove his devotion to his archery guru any way he can; the guru, who favors the upper-caste prince Arjuna, asks Ekalavya to cut off his right thumb. There’s Kunti, who finds herself pregnant after an illicit affair with a god and places her baby, Karna, in a river; Karna is adopted by a lower-caste charioteer couple and goes on to fight against Kunti’s legitimate sons in the great battle that destroys the universe. And there’s Satyavati, whose husband/baby daddy pretends not to recognize her in front of his kingly court but gets completely schooled on how not to be an asshole.

“You know very well [who I am], your majesty; why do you say that you don’t, lying like a common man? Your heart knows the truth, and knows your lie. A man who does something wrong thinks, ‘No one knows me,’ but the gods know. If you do not do what I ask, your head will burst into a hundred pieces.” She discoursed at length on the reasons why a man should honor his wife, quoting the dharma texts.

(from The Ring of Truth: And Other Myths of Sex and Jewelry by Wendy Doniger)

Perhaps, among the traveling bards and indulgent grandmas who told the Mahabharata over centuries, there were some who identified or empathized with the pain of oppression and through whom otherwise-marginalized voices could ring out into the millennia.

The many Mahabharatas, along with the many conversations inside the Mahabharata, illustrate how the human imagination is prolific and messy, not content with merely absorbing information but impelled to remake, to take inspiration, to create, create, create. Isn’t that what happens when we read? We see the world we are reading about in our own way. We make up something in our own head as we go along, and that’s where the entertainment lies. The book itself is but a wonderful tool.

Perhaps if I had a right-wing patron who paid me to tell stories, I would tell the Mahabharata a little differently from how I do here, focusing on how the Pandavas were self-made men or how the ethnic minorities they killed were thieving encroachers. Or if I were telling the story to children, I might leave out anything particularly frightening. In the telling of a story, the will and whims of the teller have influence, as do those of the listener (or reader) and the financial benefactor (or publishing house).

What remains inevitable, however, is that rarely is a story told the same way twice. Even in our post-printing press, post-internet world, where stories are replicated identically again and again, we continue to dissect, analyze, and change them, whether it be through everyday conversations, online forums, or the prestige lens of a critic’s review. (A perfect example is the adaptation of works from one medium into another, be it from literature to film or from film to theater.) Sometimes the authors themselves continue to tweak and interpret their work – Virginia Wolf was known to make changes to her books prior to reprinting, and we all know that JK Rowling can’t leave the Potter universe well enough alone (love you Jo!).

For me, fan fiction is a grand storytelling and textual tradition not entirely unlike the Mahabharata. Fan fiction not only illustrates the malleable, generative nature of stories, it also provides a rare space, in our capitalist global economy, for storytelling to be that malleable, generative thing it has always been. It allows for democratic engagement in the storytelling traditions of our time, free from the boxes of profit and ownership. It lets us expand the possibilities of our collective imagination. Importantly, it allows voices from the margins into the story, where our canonical texts routinely fail us.

I’m also thankful to fan fiction for being a rare space, outside overpriced college English classes, where literary discussion can thrive. When I say discussion, I don’t mean mere binary criticism – like book reviews, or the Goodreads star rating-aggregates that help determine book sales. I mean questions about how a text makes you feel, what it reflects or critiques about our world, the things that literary characters, beloved and abhorred, may teach us about our shared humanity and flawed choices. And yes, some of these conversations involve Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy as co-Heads of Hogwarts, using the same bathroom.

Are you a reader or writer of fan fiction? Have you you dabbled in fan art? Or do you engage in a non-online form of fandom, like a book club? Please share!

Thanks for reading.

#fan fiction #writing #storytelling #early internet #dramione #mugglenet #mahabharata #harry potter #feminism #romance #indian history #draupadi #longform #long post

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swishandflickwit · 7 years ago

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living in color 1/4

Summary: A year following the events of ACOWAR, Feyre tries to build a better world but struggles to cope. How is she supposed to heal the world if she can't even heal herself? Luckily, words are not the only form of expression.

Post-war AU in which the Court of Dreams use art as a form of healing.

WARNING: ACOWAR SPOILERS AHEAD!

Rating: Mature for language and mentions of sexy times.

Read: part i | part ii

Also on: ff.net | AO3

AN: This is my first ACOTAR fan fic. I hope you enjoy it! Next part coming up soon.

If you want to cry about all things ACOTAR (which I pretty much do everyday) with me my chat’s always open :)

part i. green & yellow

“The world is my canvas and I create my reality.” -Unknown

She doesn’t start painting till a year after the war’s end.

The High Lords rarely see eye to eye but despite their differences, peace negotiations finally start to become productive, and Velaris slowly but surely stitches itself back together. She hasn’t been home in weeks, opting to split her time between the private residence in the Night Court and Vassa’s court in the continent instead of winnowing to the town house at the end of every day. Her obligations as High Lady dictate that she be present for nearly every (if not all) meetings amongst the seasonal and solar courts. Her vow to help severe the spell that bounds the rebel human queen to transform into a fiery winged creature during the day means that her pursuit as Cursebreaker is never far behind.

The titles have never felt more prominent as they do now, not even during the war – weighing over her shoulders like an anvil along with all the responsibility they bear. And while she wouldn’t trade her life, her experiences, all of it, for anything… still, Feyre is hard-pressed to find room in her daily routine to catch a break that even nights with Rhys are spent laying side by side and just breathing.

So it’s no surprise that the sight of a paintbrush laying innocently on the sidewalk of the shops that line the Sidra startles her so badly that it stops her in her tracks. She stares at it like it’s a foreign object cause it might as well be, given how long it’s been since she last held such a thing.

Mor doesn’t notice that Feyre is no longer beside her till she’s more than a couple steps away. A small panicked shriek escapes her before she whirls towards the direction they came and she spots her friend hovering in front of an opening of an alley.

“Feyre,” she huffs as she jogs back to her side, “you could at least warn a girl before you drop off like that.”

“Where did this come from?”

The humor falls from Mor’s face at the seriousness in her tone. She frowns.

“It’s a paintbrush.”

Feyre rolls her eyes and gives the blonde a flick on the forehead. “Thanks, genius, I got that.” Mor sticks out her tongue in response. “But what’s it doing here?”

Mor examines the paintbrush, then quickly glances at the alley yawning ahead before the dawn of recognition lights her features.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “They must be moving onto the next phase.”

“The next phase?” Feyre just stares at her in confusion. “The next phase of what?”

“Well, with all the damage inflicted during the Hybern attack, Velaris has been hard at work restoring the parts of the city that were affected the most. The process has been slow, unused as they are to such things but,” a small but proud smile graces her lips, “it appears they’re at the tail end of their plans, if they’ve already moved on to putting on fresh coats of paint.”

Feyre shakes her head, in admiration of her people but mostly in shame. She had no idea this was still going on, the attack having been a little over a year ago. Had she really been that far from home? For so long?

“Show me.”

Mor, who had been ready to resume their walk, whips her head towards her.

“What?”

“Take me to where the reparations are heaviest.”

“Now?”

“I’ll only be a minute.”

Mor looks at her with incredulous eyes. “But Feyre, we’re due to meet with the Palace governors–”

“Please.” She places her hand in Mor’s arm and squeezes. “Please.”

Mor studies her – eyes the tremble in her hand as she withdraws her touch to the haunted gleam in her gaze – and reads the truth etched into the lines of her gaze.

She nods.

“A minute,” she concedes, though they both see it for the lie that it is.

Still, they exchange smiles as they link arms and step into the alley, where Mor leads her through a couple of turns to one of the busy squares of Velaris.

A burst of sunlight hits her face and she has to shield her eyes against the blinding brightness. But when her vision clears, the sight that greets her takes her breath away.

Fae of all kinds, high and low, old and young, different shapes and sizes and color – are scattered about the square, holding various tools necessary for construction and, even this early in the morning, covered in sweat, paint and grime.

But still bright-eyed. Still standing tall.

The ring of laughter, strong and loud amidst what was once a site of destruction, is as much a symphony to her ears as it is a balm to her frayed nerves. The fume of paint is heavy in the air and almost dizzying in its intensity yet it is nothing compared to the proud smiles that are etched upon the expressions of the citizens of Velaris. She eyes the groups that are mixing buckets of paint and rolling fresh coats of their desired colors onto their walls. When was the last time she had even an inkling of a desire to paint something, anything? Surely, longer than Starfall – the itch to hold onto a paintbrush even longer than that.

(She doesn’t count her time playing spy in the Spring Court, every movement, word and image wrapped in a deception then – even her desire to paint.)

The once absent urge to paint, truly paint and not just a wisp of an image, now flares hot and irresistible in her veins. Like a beacon, her gaze is drawn to the lone roller brush nestled innocently amongst the unopened cans of paint and paint trays laid haphazardly in the middle of the square. Perhaps she should have hesitated and reconsidered her presence in the square. She definitely should have never made the venture from the start – her duties call to her, after all.

Yet all it takes is a single heartbeat for the brush to be in her fingers, two to approach a fae and ask if there might be “room for one more set of hands” and just another to dip that brush into a tray of paint – lub – and make an experimental sweep up the length of a wall – dub.

Her heart beats a thunderous rhythm in her chest but in lieu of the wariness she expects to fill her as she holds the brush aloft, she finds anticipation coiling in her bones. Excitement.

“Are you alright, High Lady?”

In this instance, the title makes her blush and automatically she replies, “It’s just Feyre.”

The fae, with yellow-skin and upturned eyes that remind her of Amren save for the soft smile that covers her lips, merely continues with, “I could show you, if you’d like?”

Feyre, heavy with an emotion she cannot place, nods. “Please.”

She’s painted on canvas for sure and on the furniture of their old cottage, but never has she painted walls or storefronts. So she listens and observes with apt attention as the fae, Tyla, instructs her on the basics of wall painting and demonstrates the direction with which she should drag her roller brush, up and down, till her lines form the letter ‘W’ in wide, sweeping strokes.

When she finally does it herself, well… she must look a fool, for all she can do at the moment is stare at the lines of paint she’s swabbed upon the wall, at the brush she holds aloft her, and find wonder in how so simple an action can turn another into something different, something so purely made… anew.

And she did that.

So she stays. She stays in the square, with Mor as she runs amok with the village children (causing more mischief than assistance, much to the adults’ amusement and fond exasperation) and with Tyla, Feyre tailing after her and following in her tasks – till every roughened surface is sanded to silky smoothness and every chip and gap is made whole again with the right plaster. Then she paints. She paints one coat to patch up the uneven coloring of the current store’s building materials, two for evenness and three for protection and reinforcement. She paints till she can no longer see the cracks that once lined the walls, as if every stroke of her roller brush brings with it the ability to heal and mend (she ignores the voice within that asks her if she’s still talking about the wall, or is she referring to herself). She paints till her mind quiets and the brush is nothing but an extension of herself and she paints and she paints and she paints.

Lub.

Paint.

Dub.

Brush.

Lub.

Stroke.

Dub.

Breathe.

It’s probably why she doesn’t notice him till he’s directly behind her. She jumps at his smooth voice whispering silkily at her ear.

“That looks wonderful.”

She lets out an undignified shriek, the hand holding the brush flailing as she reaches up to cup her throat and she squeaks out his name. He laughs.

“Hello, mate.”

He winds an arm around her waist and kisses her brow. She sighs into his embrace. “Hi,” she breathes into the skin of his neck, and they stay just as they are – the noise of the square fading into a dull thrum as they remain wrapped up in each other and they share their day in an exchange privy to just the two of them.

What are you doing here? She asks.

I missed you. The words are a soft whisper in her mind and she hums in response. His voice is laced in amusement though, when he continues with, as did the governors, when you didn’t show up at their meeting.

She abruptly pulls away at the words, her eyes wide as saucers when she lets out a curse. Rhys only laughs harder, pulling her close and nuzzling into her neck even as she groans miserably into his shoulder.

“Oh Cauldron, I must have lost track of time! And the governors…” She shakes her head. “Are they angry?”

“More worried for you than anything.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s the High Lords of Prythian I’m more concerned about.”

“The High Lords?”

“I thought that the meeting could wait another day, and I told them as much. Beron, of course, threw a fit.” Rhys rolls his eyes again, an action she happily mirrors. She makes a mental note to discuss with her mate their bargain with Eris and his plans to depose his father, later. “Regardless, I told them they were free to carry on without the Night Court present.” She raises her eyebrows expectantly, as if knowing that isn’t the end of it. Her thoughts are confirmed when the look she gives him urges him to divulge, “All right, so maybe I gave them a…” he smirks, “gentle, reminder of who they were dealing with.” An image of the most powerful High Lord in centuries in his true form echoes through her mind, and she shakes her head in exasperation. What she’s come to realize about her mate is that some days, the mask is harder to shake off than other days. He huffs at her look. “What? Like they know what to do with themselves without us!”

He shakes his head then turns to her, a sudden seriousness overcoming his features. “When I heard of my High Lady’s absence, naturally, I was concerned.” Sorry, she whispers sheepishly. He just holds her to him even closer and places a chaste kiss to her neck. Nothing to forgive. You come first. Our family and our court come first. Always, is what he says with a warm smile before continuing. “Even if I’d already arrived at the Dawn Court, I was ready to winnow back here, but I figured I should check with Mor first. She told me where you were, what you were doing.”

She frowns. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Your shields were up.” Her eyebrows raise in surprise. “Nothing I couldn’t get through, if I really needed to.” Even as he says it she can feel him there, a gentle hand caressing the walls of her mind that she’s barricaded – quite loosely, now that she’s aware.

“But there was something calm about their presence, peaceful. Like the solitude was a comfort, a way for you to center yourself.” He shrugs, as if the action of leaving her alone when he was probably worrying himself sick isn’t a big deal. “It didn’t feel right to intrude.”

He shifts so that her back is to his front and his arms encircle her. “I’m glad I didn’t.” He rests his chin on her shoulder. “Look at everything you’ve accomplished here, on your own.”

“It’s just paint,” she mumbles, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks at the praise, “and I was hardly alone…” But even as she says the words, pride seeps into her veins at the work she’s done, small as it may be, here in the city and with the people that she loves so much.

“I mean it you know, this place looks even better than it did before.” It’s true, the fresh paint of the square glistens beautifully under the afternoon sun. But Feyre thinks it’s not so much the look of the buildings but rather, it’s the expressions in everyone’s faces as they, too, admire the square and beam at the storefronts – pride and healing outweighing the exhaustion of a hard day’s work.

“Rita better watch out,” he jokes and they share a laugh, content to let the hustle and bustle of the city pass by them. He entwines their fingers. “You’re painting,” he whispers, his breath hot against the back of her hand as he brushes his lips on a smear of dried paint there. She swallows heavily.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It felt…” she struggles to convey just how much this moment means to her, how burdened she’s felt the past year – trying to fix so much of this broken world when she hasn’t even gotten a moment to catch a breath and process. Yet every stroke of the brush felt like a brush on her soul, patching up the parts of her that have been battered and hurt by the events of the war. The closest she could compare it to was –

“Like flying,” she utters, recalling their first ever flight together post-war and the feeling of freedom and hope it had given her – that her promise to the Suriel of building a world that would be better than she left it now, would be fulfilled. Yes, the events in the square that day were ones she’d akin to, “healing.”

“It’s been a hard year,” Rhys says in quiet understanding, the prior assumption (or should they have known it was mere fantasy?) that things would be easier after Hybern left unspoken but weighing heavy in the air between them. She agrees.

“It has, but…” She catches Tyla’s eye and the fae gives her a happy wave before bounding over to Mor, who remains engaged with the children but this time accompanied by the remaining paint, drawing figures and colors on the young ones’ faces. Feyre smiles. “I guess I just forgot…”

A burst of laughter erupts somewhere in the square and Rhys turns at the catch of her breath. His concern fades when he catches the expression on her face. Feyre laughs quietly when a group of fae shriek. The children have apparently tired of the art aspect of the day and begun a paint fight amongst themselves, their dreaded next target the older faes. At the head of their assembly stands who else but Mor, the biggest child amongst them – leading her little paint warriors into the fray of adults.

Despite his confusion, his lips melt into a crooked smile. “Forgot what?”

Another ray of yellow sunlight bursts through the clouds and the brick of the square floor glimmers.

“I’ve been so focused on trying to purge all the bad from the world,” But Feyre’s gaze is brighter – like all that is light in this life was born right there, right in her eyes. “I forgot about the part of it that was already good.”

She nods to herself. “I’m going to paint again.”

He grins excitedly. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh. In fact, I’m going to start…” a calculating look overcomes her face and it doesn’t occur to him to sift through the bond till it’s too late and she’s shouting, “now!”

A bucket of paint appears in Feyre’s hands just as Mor winnows behind him and all at once – The most powerful High Lord in Prythian, Night given form and Death Incarnate, finds himself soaked all the way through.

With paint.

And nothing so flattering on his color like the violet of his eyes or the jet-black hue of his hair or even the golden brown of his skin. Rather, the two demons have doused him in the most mortifying shade of green paint ever created in all of existence.

Rhys can only stand in shock, the latex already stiffening onto his skin, his hair (thank the Cauldron he didn’t have his wings out), as Mor cackles behind him. Then she saunters, saunters, to his wife’s side.

His wife. His mate, his queen and his equal in every way… who is now doubled over laughing her ass off. At him.

The High Lady and his cousin are bent at the waist, Mor’s hand on Feyre’s shoulder like she needs the support lest she falls to the ground. She wipes a tear from her eye.

“Oh Feyre, I admit I’ve yet to see any of your paintings but,” she takes one look at Rhys before erupting in giggles again. “But this,” she hiccups once she catches her breath and makes a sweeping gesture towards Rhys, “has got to be your greatest masterpiece yet!”

Feyre bites her lip. “You’re not wrong.”

His jaw drops. “Brazen, wicked thing.” She waits till he rubs the paint off his eyes to shoot him a feral grin.

Strangely, he purrs down the bond. I am both angry and aroused. Her grin widens. He shakes his head, as if it will dislodge the lustful thoughts circling his brain. He makes a show of command by glaring. Mostly angry, make no mistake.

“You two, are in big trouble.”

Feyre smirks, outwardly unruffled despite the sizzle of heat that tingles down her spine. “Is the big, bad Illyrian coming out to get us?”

“Oh I’m so scared!” Mor adds, feigning a faint as she leans against Feyre. The two break out in laughter again and Rhys, in annoyance, shakes his head at the pair, causing paint to fly everywhere. The girls hardly flinch, flicking off splatters from their skin as they snicker between themselves and comment about how the green clashes horribly with the wounded look in his eyes, which flash as their teasing only serves to raise his hackles.

He summons his magic, intending to splash them with the paint from his body, when this time his cousin yells, “Attack!” and the kids launch a handful of paint at him.

And, High Lord he may be but Rhys is not ashamed to admit that the girlish shriek heard across the square comes entirely from him as he runs from the pint-sized cavalry, and for his life.

(Dramatic as always, my lord, Feyre teases down the bond.)

Just as Rhys manages to free himself from the clutches of the little ones, he launches himself on Feyre who, caught off guard, slips on a small puddle of paint, and though Rhys manages to wrap his arms around her and take the brunt of the fall, the trip down remains as unpleasant as ever.

You’re going to pay for this, he says. This time, it’s Feyre who says with a purr, I look forward to it.

At this point, the older faes have joined the brawl – using their magic to build forts and find creative ways to launch paint bombs at each other, much to the children’s (and, admittedly, the adult’s) entertainment.

The square becomes a battlefield – albeit a joyful one – to replace the more horrifying one that took place before because today, they paint a new memory here, onto the walls, the loam and the very foundation of this square.

Rhys, ever the general, commandeers his own battalion of young and older faes and Feyre takes a moment to just stop and appreciate the scene before her as she sees everyone having such a grand time – her family members included, because it seems to hit her over again that there was a time when she could have lost this, lost it all.

And the square is a mess, true.

Still, she finds.

It could not have looked any better.

(That night, Rhys makes good on his promise that she “pay” by using his entire sexual arsenal on her – tongue, fingers, cock, everything – only to pull back just as she reaches the very brink.

The blessing – or in this case, the damn curse – with being immortal is that they have the leisure of time, and each fucking time she gets close to completion …

The payoff, however, is amazing – when the light of dawn breaks and they chase the shadows from Rhys’ face. It reminds her.

There is no light without darkness.

And her dark, fallen prince is all aglow when he enters her just as she least expects it and brings her to the edge of that golden peak once more. With that one, swift move she shatters around him in an orgasm so powerful.

This time, it is her keening that makes the mountains tremble.)

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tevotbegotnaught · 5 years ago

Text

Dubov's Last Jump-off pt 3

Saturday afternoon, we found out the club couldn’t (or wouldn’t) accommodate our third night. Dubov had to pay us, of course. Mo was looking at other venues, possibly for tonite, realistically for the coming week. He asked our availability. Once we all responded, possibilities quickly evaporated. That weekend passed and more days after.

After waiting a week, I texted Mo about money. Hours later, he replied:

“High paint he otter eyes or sue didn’t cut anything”

At the gigs, I watched Mo use his phone; its screen at his nose, glasses mid way between forehead and hairline. He looked down precipitously, grumbled, grumbled again, then pressed send. What usually came through was a ransom note clipped from Beckett. He never corrected these puzzles until one of us asked. Here, a fully translated version of our exchange:

“I paid the other guys, you sure you didn’t get anything.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Did you send your invoice to Julie.”

“Yes”

“I’ll call them”

“is there anything I can do to expedite this?”

“Chris, I’m not your employer”

“Right”(!)

“There’s a rehearsal tonite, will you be there”

“I didn’t know about a rehearsal. Where and when?”

“Still working on a place. Maybe 7?” (3 hours from now)

“Tough for me”

“No worries. If you go, you’ll be paid of course”

“Ok”

“No worries. I’ll get back to you”

Now, I was enrolled in the Godot payment plan. Dubov was looking at spending four lifetimes in more chains than Issac Hayes ever wore. I just wanted to get my money.

Weeks later, Mo Bedbug went live.

“Bears ash oh Friday”

Mo called in a favor with some Long Islanders. We had a show Friday. I lobbied for travel money.

Any evening rush hour on the LIE (a highway, not an enormous falsehood) was a parking lot. Friday rush was tailgating minus libations. I pressed him for my other money in the bargain.

“I paid Pianist with Venmo. Do you have Venmo.”

(I send my Venmo)

“This is will be easy, I didn’t know you had Venmo.”

“Ok”(I offered twice before)

“I’ll see you Friday my place"

Mo balked at travel money, though. Arranging an Uber from his place and promising we'd miss rush hour. To get to Mo's, I took the bus, two of them. It cost me way more than the fare. Flushing Avenue, Shabbat imminent, was a sightseeing tour: high school kids, restaurant workers, construction crews. So many people boarding, I couldn’t see nor hear my stop and had to walk an extra half-mile.

Turning onto Mo’s street, a familiar Bushwick tableau appeared. A massive pit, surrounded on three sides by green plywood. Graffiti tags and band decals fading under the shrouds of old posters. At the curb, a ziggurat of garbage-strewn ten-foot pipes and a marooned RV, black spray paint scrawled over its siding and vents, windows cracked and stuffed with wads of insulation, front seats piled to the ceiling with bundled magazines and crumpled newsprint.

On the next block, I found Mo's address stenciled on the brick wall of a old factory. Drummer stood away from its entrance smoking and scrolling his phone. He looked up.

"Man, I texted him like 10 minutes ago."

"No answer?"

"He said he’s coming right down"

"I’ve been giving him progress reports. F***ing bus was crawling."

The building’s entrance, a glass and brushed steel module, sat cheek by jowl with a battered freight elevator. After a text reminder and more waiting, the freight elevator doors parted vertically. Mo let the canvas strap swing overhead.

"This way" he said, glancing over his shoulder at the gleaming foyer before pulling the strap down. The elevator enclosure, a hypoxic chamber of fuel vapors and sawdust, led darkly to a huge steel door. Mo punched a code and pulled the handle. Inside, a newly carpeted hallway, filled with tarps, drywall, paint cans and the potent smell of sandalwood.

"They’re still doing work....as you can see. My place is cool, though.”

"Where’s Keys (the new pianist)?"

"He’s here. Been here a while. Working on the music."

"You have a piano?"

"Uh, I have kind of a studio. Not for recording, but you know, instruments and stuff."

Mo had room for those instruments and plenty more. His walls sprouted art in every medium and material: paintings on wood, metal, plastic jugs, shards of glass; sculptures of bottle caps, cardboard, styrofoam; violent, erotic black and white photos fetishizing punk style and concert posters from Downtown’s acme.

I stooped to gawk at an undulating video in a KFC bucket.

“That’s from my gallery. I used to have a gallery. When it closed I moved everything here. Well, not everything, but…you know.”

Keys sat on a leather couch. He was a kid, maybe twenty-five. I was his grandfather. That messed me up. Before excusing himself, Mo pulled me an espresso from a fancy Italian machine. I packed sandwiches and coffee, but the extra shot was welcome. From a closed door, medicinal-grade weed wafted. We were a full hour behind schedule.

Out on the street, waiting for the Uber, Mo nodded at the construction site and listing RV, saying in his mumblecore voice,

"That’s my girlfriend’s art project.... I mean, ex-girlfriend. "

"The RV? She did THAT?"

"Yeah....Well, her friends... they did it together. I don’t know who did which part"

(There were ‘parts’?)

"How long has it been there?"

"Uh....nine months. Wait...yeah. We broke up six months ago. She was living in it for a while."

"Living in it? You’re kidding. Was that part of the project?"

He chuckled. "Yeah...I don’t know."

"We’re still friends" he said, mostly to tumbling litter in the street.

Inside the Uber, Mo continued: “the realtor told me this was east Williamsburg, but it’s not, it's Bushwick. I don’t care what they call it, of course. I don’t mind living in Bushwick. It’s easier to have a car here.”

“You have a car?”

“Not now. Had to get rid of it. Wasn’t right for this neighborhood”

“Wasn’t right?”

“it was an Audi R8. Midlife crisis car. These streets are so bad, I kept having to get it fixed.”

Driving due east, the winter sun behind us pooled on the shiny road. We careened through four lane traffic. Ahead, break lights fanned out, ruby droplets cascading off a humpback’s tail.

Drummer and Keys talked through the set, then volleyed gossip about mutual friends.

When the radio spun an artist he knew personally, Mo turned around and apropos-ed a story, interrupting the other guys. In the 80s, he produced videos for many fledgling stars. It was a new medium for him and Pop music. A few of his clients soared from Downtown digs to world domination. Mo didn’t stay on for their ascent, though. He also worked on an early Dubov-produced movie until the boss’s relentless cost-cutting and hostility wore him down. While he rambled, a vape pen did plenty of its own talking.

Tonight’s venue, a redux of a famous Long Island rock room, now tucked in the basement of a new boutique North Shore Inn. That building, a block-size Cape Cod, dropped like Dorothy’s whirling farmhouse at an angle to the tony commercial strip.

We had a seriously low pressure slot, opening for a veteran blues band. Ten white guys from three generations; a solid outfit with a long history playing sincere, tasty covers. Always simpatico, Karolina added "Stormy Monday" to our set list. Due to the short notice, we lost Pianist, our stellar MD, and Trumpet wasn’t available. Pruned to prototypical stripper band: saxophone, piano and drums. Not without some irony..

When the ladies hit “Uptown Funk", shimmying and signifying, the audience, almost all sixty year-old white dudes with the occasional spouse, started hooting and whistling. T and A wasn’t on the bill, but it still satisfied. Margherita did her canned steps for ”Too Darn Hot". Karolina was confident and sold her songs. Keys somehow kept the basslines and harmonies together. I completely missed the famous trumpet intro to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy". The ladies jumped in undaunted. The Male Gaze kept the show alight until we exited, dodging the headliner's B3, Leslie and vintage amps.

The ladies were pros now and we repaired to the underground parking lot to celebrate. The girls in jeans and hoodies, band in our "gangster suits". While she waited for Keys to blaze up. Margherita asked me,

“Did you have fun?”

"Sure, I always have fun" I told her. What counts as honesty when the entire premise of an act is fakery?

"Great" she said, tracking down the joint.

A couple hits and we went back inside, sitting down near the jacked-open exit door. The blues band’s horn section looked on wearily as the front man sang verses fashioned by tougher men for harsher times. From our seats, we saw Mo sweep through the green room doorway, his long canvas coat and scarf swinging. He pivoted at the closest table and exchanged with the owner, a grizzled man with a barely legal date. Their conversation rearranged chairs and sent the men striding out of the club, proving there actually were blues to be had everyday.

When Mo and dance partner failed to return, we headed upstairs and onto the porch, where patio furniture gleamed under blinding lights. At the foot of the wooden steps, livery cars glided in and out of the glare. After a flurry of texts, the ladies gathered their garment bags and kissed us goodbye. A black SUV, indistinguishable from the others, stopped and a rear window opened. Inside, Dubov’s face, like crumpled paper, if paper were milled from lipids and dusted with ash. "Good job guys" he said, voice level and hoarse. We thanked him. The ladies got in on the far side, Dubov’s window closed and the car drove off.

************************************************************************************

After dropping him at the factory, Mo left the meter running on our Uber so the band could get home. On the way, we speculated about Dubov’s eventual prison sentence, Mo’s fee and when "the New Yorkers" might book their first Bar Mitzvah.

The driver, a Bengali, navigated without commenting on our post-mortems, confirming and re-confirming each address for his app. I was last on the circuit. Once we were alone, I asked the driver about his night. His answers were brief and courteous. As we waited at a light, he turned his head toward me. "Excuse me, one question. Have you ever been to Las Vegas?"

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tisfan · 7 years ago

Note

Prompt: Communal Kitchen, Dob-E gets revenge. On what is birthday baby's choice!

Too Big To Be Haunted

“No, it’s fine, baby. I got it.”

DOB-E’s person was doing something DOB-E did not approve of.

He was lying.

DOB-E didn’t know how his person managed the lie; didn’t otherhuman-programs have heartbeat monitors? He sent the inquiry to the JARVIS unit.

Lying is a human prerogative,came back JARVIS’s inquiry. They could detect it more often if they choseto. For sake of communal cohabitation, a situation like this can be consideredtelling a white lie and is ignored for continued mutual harmony.

DOB-E wasn’t certain what the color of the lie had to do withanything. For that matter, DOB-E couldn’t decide how JARVIS knew what the colorwas. It was a spoken thing and had no color whatsoever. DOB-E sent himself areminder to investigate further. Right this second, DOB-E was more concerned withthe other thing his human was doing.

He was packing.

“Yeah, pretty boring without you aroun– no, I know, it’s okay.Someone’s gotta pay th’ bills ‘round here.” His person was on the floor,digging around under the sofa. When DOB-E’s human had taken up permanentresidence in the penthouse, Robby-the-Robot had refused, utterly, to cedeauthority of that area to DOB-E.

Instead, DOB-E had ended up in charge of what was known as “thebolt hole.” Which was actually good, because whenever DOB-E’s human needed thebolt hole, the human was usually in dire need. Thus, DOB-E’s presence, watchinghis human do unaccustomed things and becoming just a little more frantic.

Several months ago, the human had brought tools up, cut away asection of the flooring and installed a gun safe, as well as several otherpieces of equipment. After consulting with others of its type, DOB-E had notbeen concerned about the “scat bag.” Agent Barton, Agent Romanov, and somewhatsurprisingly, Colonel Rhodes, all had stashes in the Tower for emergencies.

That DOB-E knew about; mostly from network-sharing with his fellowcleaners (gossiping, JARVIS had labeled that folder, once). There could havebeen others; not everyone who lived in the Tower had a residence there; nor didthey keep all their possessions on site. There were other storage facilitiesand hide aways.

Paranoia was a word that DOB-Ehad defined for him, most closely, since his inception.

I suggest you not do what you’re thinking of doing, DOB-E, JARVIS mentioned. It is outside your programming parameters tointerfere with human business. The human is well equipped to take care ofitself.

DOB-E’s human is stupid.

And lying.

And leaving.

JARVIS-UNIT will open Project Fribble.

I certainly shall not, JARVIS responded. Thatproject is untested. That project had been forgotten. DOB-E will

This unit had Free Will. This Unit Will Do The Thing!

Unit DOB-E is going to get in a lot of trouble, JARVIS predicted, his data tone droll and smug.

This unit will Represent!

(Mobile Users, there is a readmore; the rest of the fic can be found under the break, or at A03)

There were times that JARVIS really didn’t understand the need fora body; he had access to nearly every computer system, communication link,database, camera, and operations control that he could possibly want.

And then there were humans.

JARVIS was pretty sure he didn’t have a body so that he didn’thave to shake them until their teeth rattled in their heads.

He was quite certain that Mr. Stark would have had a contingencyplan in place – he usually had dozens – to address this particular issue.Except that Mr. Stark also had spent the better part of three months withcatastrophic memory loss and he was still playing, as he could deem it, catchup.

Which meant it had not yet occurred to him that his – up untilthis point – exceptionally loyal bedmate would have packed a bag, told a widevariety of colorful, but probably effective, lies, and disappeared.

JARVIS had to admit, the cover was good; Barnes had gone severaldays without conducting basic hygiene, let his face-stubble grow out until heresembled what Agent Romanov referred to as his murder hobo look, and slouchedaround the Tower appearing depressed and negligent.

“Gonna hole up, f’r a bit,” he told Steve, point-blank lying.“Jus’ until Tony gets back.”

“Pretty sure that’s not healthy, Buck,” Captain Rogers said,putting a hand on Barnes’ shoulder. Barnes slipped to the side, just enough tolet Rogers’ fingertips lose their point of contact.

“Don’t gotta be,” Barnes said, letting his eyes do most of thetalking, all downcast and zigging from point to point. JARVIS could tell,Captain Rogers was concerned, but he wasn’t going to let concerned interfere.“Jus’… it’s too much, without ‘im. I… don’t tell ‘im, okay? I’m workin’ onit, an’… he don’t need t’ know how hard this is f’r me. He’s got his ownstuff to worry about.”

“If you say so,” Captain Rogers said.

“Dob’s’ll look after me,” Barnes said. “Bring dinner an’ stuff. Iwon’t starve. Jus’… need to be alone.”

“You let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

Humans had annoying amounts of free-will. JARVIS had lists ofprotocols that he could comb through to see what did and did not apply to agiven situation. JARVIS was protective. He was private. He was discreet.

He was going to be yelled at by Mr. Stark.

Except JARVIS knew that he really wasn’t. Mr. Stark did not beratehis creations; he treated them with love – and the sort of kindness that camewith threatening to unmake and replace them with an intelligenttrash-compactor. Which on the surface never seemed nice, and the first fewmonths after JARVIS came online, he had… uncertainty as to his fate.

JARVIS did not like uncertainty.

He did, however, admire humans.

Who would say “I never do that,” and as soon as a situation cameup in which that was required, managed to throw most of it out the windowand accomplish the task anyway.

Project Fribble initiated.

Well, that was something JARVIS could report, at least.

It had taken some doing, pummeling at old memories behind theblocks and the wipes.

The first time Bucky’d tried it, he’d spent almost an hourdry-heaving, just touching the wiped memories. They weren’t, he knew, actuallygone.

There were blocks in places; pain receptors and scar-tissue to digaround underneath. To try to patch the collective story together.

There were traps.

And not just the sort in his mind. But Bucky did manage to pummelout a section of his brain under the ice that let him know where there was anold Cold War cache, in northeastern Minnesota, and it didn’t take long beforehe was on his bike and headed west.

There were times, Bucky thought, when he really missed having abackup tac team. Disposable Hydra goons; fetch and carry, kept the logisticsonline, science and development. Useful. It wasn’t that the Winter Soldiercouldn’t operate solo; he could. But he didn’t currently have access to some ofthe databanks and mission specs, and certainly weaving his way into a Hydramobile command pod was within his skill set. Just, a specialist would do itfaster.

Bucky twitched, tapped the keys in. Checked the glue-pads on hisfingertips that kept his DNA and other biometric readings from being entered.Who only knew where he’d end up if a Hydra Pod thought it had identified theAsset?

Surge of guilt; he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. Heimagined that if Tony had actually been at the Tower when he’d been contacted,that Bucky would have told Tony what he was doing, but he knew that was a lie.It just would have been harder.

He’d have had to pick a fight or something to get Tony out of theway. Which would not have gone over well with anyone, and Bucky was just asglad he hadn’t had to do it.

The pod clicked open; finally.

Once in, it was only a matter of moments to get the navigationonline, activate screens and shields, bring the weapons systems up – he reallyhoped this was not going to be a shooting mission, but better to have guns andnot need them, than need them and have his pants around his proverbial ankles,so to speak – load himself and his gear in, and thumb the button.

“Yay, Eastern Bloc,” Bucky muttered. “I’m sure you haven’t changedmuch.”

He heard the clink as something attached to the transport pod, butdidn’t think too much of it. The tunnels were old, the ejection chutes wereolder. There was probably debris; as long as there weren’t alarms, it wasn’tworth worrying about.

This Unit thinks this was a bad idea.

The landing at Lake Ladoga was rough. Something had been throwingthe rear stabilizer off for the entire transpolar flight. Ice, probably.

Bucky brushed himself off and climbed out of the pod.

The lake hadn’t changed at all, which was somewhat unexpected.Bucky would have thought there would be all manner of changes, it having beensome thirty years since the last time he was in this particular part of theSoviet Bloc. Not that it was soviet territory anymore, which may have been oneof the reasons there was no change. Non soviets tended to shy away fromanything too overly tainted by red block hands. If it couldn’t be fixed, itmight well be haunted.

Bucky was pretty sure the lake was too big to haunt.

What would have been easiest is if his contact was out in theopen. That was exactly why it wasn’t going to happen that way. Nothing inBucky’s life could be easy. Paying off a debt, a blood debt at that, would notbe the first thing to go one hundred percent correctly.

Not for this sort of debt.

Bucky stared around at the lake; it was enormous, there was no wayto walk around it in a day; largest entirely ;and bound lake in Europe.“Suvai,” he said, disgusted. “You need to work on narrowin’ down yourdirection. You still think too big.”

There was a dull clatter behind him, metal on metal, and Buckywhirls, pistols coming into his hands like he’d summoned them by magic.

“What even the fuck?”

It looked familiar, damn familiar, but there was no way in fuckinghell that Tony had set a damn watch bot on him.

Even if, Bucky flushed inwardly, he might have deserved it.

It was a hover drone of some sort, bristling with tiny weapons.All in all, it sort of looked like a flying iron man chihuahua. Except notreally. Maybe a floating bunny. With guns. Hard to say, but Bucky was prettysure that his boyfriend had been engineering on some really high priceddesigner drugs.

“JARVIS?”

The bot, if that’s what it was, probably wasn’t JARVIS. Its techwas clean, but a few generations old now; repulsor equipped and molded in thefamiliar style. JARVIS didn’t have use for a body, the AI had said any numberof times, and Bucky was pretty sure that JARVIS did not find Bucky importantenough to change his mind about that.

Which left…

“Dobs?”

Project Fribble Online. The voice, not JARVIS atall, and nothing that Bucky recognized, was mechanical. Not even a bot, just avocal projection.

What the fuck was project fribble?

“Nevermind. Is that you, Dobs?”

The bot bobbled around a little in midair. Made a fewunidentifiable beeping sounds.

“If you’re DOB-E, what was the first thing you brought for me?”

The bot hovered closer. Reached out an appendage of some sort –Bucky really needed to have a chat with his boyfriend about creepy design specbecause Bucky should not feel quite so disconcerted by a cleaning bot – andtapped Bucky’s shirt, then his pants.

Close enough.

The familiar melodic subrefrain of the repulsor tech was oddlyreassuring.

“We’re gonna talk about this when we get home,” Bucky said. “Ididn’t know you could leave the Tower at all, or I’d have told you to stayput.”

This Unit Will Represent!

“What?”

This Unit Will do The Thing!

Great. “You got some sort of sensor pack in that rig-up of yours?”Bucky sighed, then added, “one beep for yes, two for no, three for I have noidea what you’re talking about and four for fuck you.”

Bucky probably should have expected to be told to fuck offpromptly, but he didn’t. When DOB-E the WarBot beeped at him four times. Buckyhad a hard time not cracking up.

“You said it, pal,” Bucky drolled. “Sensors?”

Beep.

“Great. Bring em up. Scan for non-terran oriented life forms.”

Four beeps, and a pause.

“Not my fault. You want to come along, you get to do the weirdstuff. Non earth life forms, Dobs, look it up. Google it or something if youhave to. I don’t want to be here any longer than I gotta be,.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if Dobs couldn’t figure out the sensor suite, orif Suvai was just that adept at hiding, or what, but after an hour of Dobsdoing general sweeps, Bucky did the only other thing he knew how.

He started walking.

He was pretty sure if things were truly urgent, Suvai would havegiven him better directions. Which meant the old creature was just being orneryand wanted Bucky to work for whatever it was. That was okay, or would have beenin some other lifetime. Right now, Bucky’s problem was that his boyfriend wasgoing to be pissed as hell as soon as he figured out what Bucky was up to, andsince Bucky had accidentally hijacked one of his untested engineering projects,Tony finding out about it was going to be sooner, rather than later.

So they were kinda on a time crunch.

“Please Tony, don’t make me have to chose, here,” Bucky muttered.The two of them stamped around the eastern shore of the lake. Okay, well, Buckystomped. Dob-E did some floaty-levitating-whirring-annoying thing that kept up.Except that the bot kept getting distracted by vegetation – which Buckyrealized Dob-E would never have seen up close and live. And lakes and water anddeer and other things.

Bucky had to practically drag the bot away from an ant hill.

It was like travelling with the world’s most dangerousthree-year-old.

The bot would probably do what Bucky told it in an emergency, butat the same time, what if Dob-E didn’t recognize it as an emergency?

Those were the sorts of questions that were above Bucky’s fuckin’pay grade and thinking about them just made his head ache. He wasn’t here tostart an international incident, much less a galactic one, and yet he couldhave, very easily, and he’d really rather just not.

As it got darker, Dob-E started glowing.

“Seriously?”

Apparently.

“I don’t suppose if I asked nicely, that you’d go back and waitwith the pod while I carry out my mission?”

Beep. Beep.

No.

Beep beep beep beep.

Fuck you.

“Yeah, fuck you, too, pal,” Bucky said. “What are you, afraid ofthe dark?”

Beep.

“Yes? You’re afraid of the dark? You’re a freakin’ light sourcehow are you afraid of the dark?”

Fuck you.

“Does J know you’re out here?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

“He knows you’re out, not necessarily where specifically.” Buckyinterpreted.

Yes.

“Does Tony know we’re out?”

Maybe. No.

“JARVIS will probably tell on us, eventually.”

Yes.

“We should finish up soon and get home.”

Yes. Fuck you.

“It’s not necessary to be an asshole,: Bucky notes.

Yes.

Fuck you.

“So, you a Charlie this time, or still Vlad?”

Of course Suvai had to wake him up at o’dark thirty, stealing upon him past an array of sensors, and Dob-E.

Bucky did a quick sweep of the area. “What’d you do to my bot?”

“Convinced him to reboot,” Suvai said. “I didn’t hurt it.”

“You know I hate that,” Bucky said.

Of course he did. That’s why he did it.

“Charlie, or Vlad?”

“Mostly Charlie these days,” Bucky said. “Got a touch of Vlad inme that won’t ever go away again, I think.”

Suvai peeled himself out of the shadows. Even by Bucky’s dimcampfire, he looked entirely human. Not a day older than the last time Buckyhad seen him, sometime around the fall of Berlin’s wall, some thirty years pastat least.

“Little gray around the edges,” Suvai observed.

“Yeah, well, things aren’t ever black and white, are they?”

“It’s a good thing, starling,” Suvai said. “Touch of stability.Little bit of love in your pocket?”

Bucky couldn’t help a smile. “Proved that one wrong.”

“You changed enough to allow it,” Suvai pointed out.

That much was true. When he’d met Suvai, during his second andmost disastrous escape attempt from Hydra, he’d been totally broken. He mighthave loved Steve, clung to him distantly, but it would have been nothing butnecessary. Survival love, and not friendship at all. Certainly nothingtender, like how he felt for Tony.

“Did you need something, or just want to gossip? Because really,you could have just called. You’ve always known how to find me.”

“Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d come. If you’d remember yourdebts.”

“I remember what you did for me.”

And more importantly, what Suvai had done to him. Grabbedwhat remained of his sanity and pressed it deep like a diamond. Hidden away.Hidden, like all those lives that Suvai had saved. Hydra was going to kill thewhole village for giving the Winter Soldier shelter, for trying to hide anasset from Hydra hands.

Suvai had saved them all. On one condition. Bucky had to go back.He had to make a choice, to decide that those two hundred lives wereworth more than sixty more years of torture and death and murder.

The something bad and the much worse.

And it had probably been the only thing that had given Bucky achance to come back from the Winter Soldier at all.

That one tiny sliver of sanity.

The one that said “the man on the bridge, who was he? I knew him.”

“Is it time, then? To pay up?”

He wasn’t sure that Suvai wouldn’t claim his life. All he couldhope there was that Tony would understand. Maybe that he could say goodbye.

But Bucky owed a debt and he meant to be honorable. Since he couldbe,

“If I come to claim you, will you allow it?”

Bucky handed over his guns to Suvai. Turned. Knelt. “Back of thehead. Do it quick and clean. And let the bot go home, to tell my man that Ilove him.”

The muzzle pressed into his skull.

Tony. Tony I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you.

There was a click and a whirr. Project Fribble is online.

Dob-E raised an entire arsenal of tiny little weapons and pointedthem at Suvai

Fuck you.

Bucky couldn’t help but turn, to look and watch and marvel and wonder.

“I believe your loyal little friend here might have something tosay about that.”

“Yeah, he said fuck you, Suvai.”

The man who was not a man chuckled. “I didn’t spare your life allthose years ago to take it from you for no reason now.”

“So, what were you planning just there?”

“Wanted to see if your honor was still something that meantanything to you, or if it had washed away like the stone under the waterfall.”

“Do you crap out of the same factory where I get my fortunecookies? You sound like a bad movie mentor,” Bucky snarked.

Dob-E did not stand down. Bucky didn’t tell him to, either.

“I’ve seen you,” Suvai said. “On the television. Working with thisnew team of heroes, these Avengers. It’s a stupid name.”

“Generally speaking, I agree,” Bucky said. “Better than the X-men,I think.”

“I don’t plan to kill you at this time,” Suvai said.

“So, what do you want?”

“I have already taken it,” Suvai said. “While you were sleeping.”

Bucky gritted his jaw. “You fucking bastard.”

“If it was as trivial as a cold, you know I’d have chosen alocal.”

“What do I have this time?”

“Oh, you know, various viruses, probably two or three differentcancers. Heart disease. The grab bag of fun, stuck in this meatbody.”

“Meatbodies weren’t meant to live as long as you’re putting thisone up to,” Bucky said. He didn’t feel sick, but he knew he would, soon enough.A couple days and the serum could beat it, but in the meanwhile, he’d feel likeshit. And he probably wouldn’t be able to get the hell out of Russia beforeanyone came looking for him. Great.

Suvai shrugged. “I’m not done here yet.”

“You’re never going to be done, either,” Bucky said. “You’re notgoing to find them.”

“They didn’t die,” Suvai said. “They can’t leave. Ergo, they arestill here on this miserable planet and I will find them.” He touched his upperarm where his bonded tattoos remained, unfaded. “If it was your lover, couldyou let him go, no matter what?”

Bucky thought about Tony. And he thought about the sort ofdevotion he’d voluntarily laid down at the man’s feet without ever having beenasked, but without ever hesitating. If Tony was missing, there was nothingBucky wouldn’t do to get him back.

“With your help, I still have time,” Suvai said. “I cantouch every needle in the haystack and make certain. I will find them, oldfriend. Thank you.”

“Next time, ask first.”

“Would you have said no?”

“At least pretend to observe the forms.”

Suvai’s laughter followed him into the darkness.

Bucky didn’t even get three steps following him before he wasdizzy and a wave of pain swept over him. He went to his knees.

“Okay,” he said. “Jus’ gonna have to wait this out. I promise,it’ll look bad, but I’ll be okay. In a few days. Maybe a week. It’s never goneon longer than a week.”

Dob-E beeped nervously.

“Yeah, he’s got some sort of transferral power. Glad you didn’tshoot him, he’d have just given me th’ wounds instead. And I ain’t wanting tobe shot with Tony’s repulsors, thanks anyway.”

Beep beep beep.

“No maybe about it, I’ve seen him do it. You can’t hurt him. Youcan’t sneak up on him. He’s practically immortal, so long as he can dash hisillness off on other people. He saves the big stuff up for people like me, whocan take it, or sometimes suicidal people. Or kids so badly damaged at birththat they can’t survive. He doesn’t like to hurt people, but… he’s alien. Hestill doesn’t quite think of us as peers. We’re… like talking dogs orsomething.”

Beep beep beep beep.

“Yeah. He’s not a good being. But he saved my life, once, and thelives of a lot of other people. I still owe him. Tony will understand.” Ihope.

Beep.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake. That’s good, glad to see that.” Tony’svoice seemed to come from very far away. Something cool touched his forehead.“I’m not saying it’s the worst vacation spot ever, but I’m a little hurt thatyou started without me.”

Bucky had a body, he was pretty sure of that. It was the largish,unmoving thing that hurt everywhere. Trying to get his brain back inconnection with all the parts that moved or breathed or did… whatever they weresupposed to do, he wasn’t quite… ug… He licked at his mouth a little,dry and coated on the inside and… Words. He knew some of those. “Water?” Hewasn’t sure there was any – he’d sent Dobs into the nearest village for araid, and rather expected it hadn’t gone well.

“Yep,” Tony said, and oh, fuck it hurt when Tony helped himsit up a little, but there was the smooth cool feel of ceramic at his lips andwhen he opened his mouth, water flowed in, a slow and steady trickle, and thatfelt good enough to be worth the pain. “Fever’s coming down a little, that’sgood, too.”

Bucky figured out how to open his eyes, decided not to. He wasn’tsure he was ready for whatever expression was on Tony’s face. God damn it,Suvai. “How long’s it been? How’d you get here?” He lied, even to himself.Cracked an eyelid to peer out from under his lashes. Tony was a blur of fleshcolor and black shadows. The light was searing, stabbing, and he couldn’t helpthe groan that escaped him. That had decidedly not been worth anything; he’dgathered no data and just ached more. Probably Tony already knew how much painBucky was in, but he didn’t need to rub it in Tony’s face, so to speak.

“I’ve been here for two days, ever since JARVIS told me you’d goneAWOL and gave me DOB-E’s tracker. According to your partner in crime, here, youwere just laying out on the ground by the lake for about a day and a halfbefore I got here. Which makes whatever you’re infected with terrifying.You know that, right?” DOB-E beeped. Yes.

“Not too bad,” Bucky managed. “It’s th’ cancer makes it worse. Canget treatment for that in a hospital, but th’ fucker never lets me get there.Probably had somethin’ infectious, too. He’s thorough, that way.” He slittedhis eyes again. At the moment, if he’d had to guess, he’d have said justworried was the primary expression, but he could see and hear angry at theedges. He wondered if he was still ill enough for Tony to cut him some slackfor… an hour, maybe? Just an hour. “Sorry.”

“Are you?” That came out a little sharply. An hour woulddefinitely be pushing it. “And what flavor of sorry is it? Is this the sort ofsorry that means you’re not going to do whatever damnfool thing you did again,or the kind that means you’re definitely going to do it again but maybe you’llgive me some warning next time?”

If Bucky was going to tell the truth, and at this point, he reallyprobably should before Tony decided that Bucky was feeling well enough to riskthrowing something at him, it was the flavor of sorry that was wish I hadn’tgotten caught. He should be more diplomatic than that. “Sorry I worriedyou.”

“That sounds decidedly like the flavor of ‘I’m going to do thisagain,’” Tony said, flicking his fingers.

“I owe him a debt,” Bucky protested. “An’… an’ I can do this forhim. He ain’t killed me yet.”

“Yet.”

That was a short word. But so, so filled with meaning.

“I’mma rare resource for him,” Bucky said. “I can take it. I canheal from it. He can’t, he don’t… his biology, if you can even call it that, istotally different from ours. He can… move th’ hurt around. Take it fromhimself, give it to me, but if he don’t get healed once in a while, he’ll die.”Bucky glanced over to the lake. It still hadn’t changed.

Hadn’t changed for decades. Centuries, perhaps. Suvai would know,perhaps. Their ship crashed; his pod ejected him into the cold lake waters. Hispartners were still underneath, stealthed. Sleeping. Unfindable. Undetectable.The lake was so large. And maybe it was haunted. It was haunted by the love ofaliens, fleeing their brutal home planet, who’d crashed here millennia ago andwere so tied together that they couldn’t leave.

“What is he, one of Xavier’s–”

“He’s an alien,” Bucky said. “They crashed here. He’s been lookingfor his partners ever since. They’re not dead. They’re just missing. Andhe’s going to be here, looking, until he finds them. Or he dies. It’s not somuch, what he asks of me.” Bucky slanted a look at Tony. “An’… god, it’scheatin’ to say it, Tony, but you know it’s true. I’d do it for you. If youwere locked in that lake somewhere, in some kinda suspension, I’d never leave.”

Maybe the lake wasn’t too big to be haunted.

“You’re a liar,” Tony said, and he wasn’t even being fondor affectionate, or even close to forgiveness. “You… you– left me! To comehere, to put yourself at risk, and don’t even think that Dob-E didn’t show methe footage of you offering him the back of your fucking neck!”

“Tony –”

“Don’t. Just don’t say it. You say you love me, and then you putyourself at risk like this, and it’s not like I don’t understand that, but why…why do you have to be stupid about it? Can’t you just…”

“No.” Bucky said, and he was sorry, he was so goddamn sorry,but, “No, Tony, I can’t. I can’t be th’ man that loves you, can’t be th’ man youdeserve to love, and not… be this way. This is who I am, Tony, and I’msorry as hell that you’re hurtin’. I don’t never want to hurt you, I hope youknow that. But this is who I am. If you love me, ya gotta love all of me. Eventh’ bad parts. Maybe even especially the bad parts.”

“You… stupid, annoying, reckless son of a bitch,” Tony spatat him, and then, Tony was in his arms, face pressed tight against the crook ofBucky’s neck and if Tony’s cheeks were wet, if his voice came out more of a sobthan a scream, that was no one’s business but theirs. “I love you. Don’t… don’tdo shit like this to me, I can’t… I can’t lose you. Please, Bucky,just…”

“I got you, Tony,” Bucky said. He was still in pain; every bit ofhim had been torn up, remade, rebuilt, and still, he wouldn’t trade any of itfor the hot feel of Tony in his arms, the way Tony held him just a little tootight, the way they were made to be there. Together. “I got you.”

“For how long?”

“F’r as long as we got, baby,” Bucky said, pulling Tony evencloser, kissing his hair, his ear, the side of his neck. “I love you.Forever.”

Tony relaxed into the embrace, letting Bucky stroke his hair andsoothe him. Finally pulled back, ignoring his red-rimmed eyes and the tracks onhis cheeks. “I’m still really, really fucking pissed off at you. You know that,right?”

“I’ll make it up to you, baby,” Bucky promised.

Fuck you.

Bucky eyed Dob-E over Tony’s shoulder. “Yeah, and you, too.”

Yes.

#winteriron #tony x bucky #prompts #communal kitchen #hurt/comfort #Dob-E #original character #Bucky Barnes #Tony Stark #justalurkr

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uncleyarn2-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Ask Sam Mailbag: 12.28.18

I appreciated the comments on the defense. I thought the two things that made the game winnable against Orlando and Cleveland were Lauri's shooting and the team defense. It has happened a few times this year that this Bulls team played defense with the tenacity of a Thibs team, or the VanLier/Sloan/Love teams of yesteryear, and this was one of those times. It made the game fun to watch, and Lauri's shooting gave it a happy ending.

Kirk Landers

Sam: It's like buying a car. Sometimes you see a fancy model that looks impressive and then you take it for a test drive and it's not quite what you believed. That's often the way it is with sports in Chicago. It's like when the Bears hired Marc Trestman, the offensive guru. And things looked good for awhile and it made sense with the rules changes to open up the game. But that style doesn't fit everyone, and it doesn't fit Chicago. You know Monsters of the Midway and all that stuff. Our football onomatopoeia, Butkus and Ditka, names that sound like a tackle. And so it was for the Bulls as well. The NBA changed the rules to open up the game, increase scoring, limit interior contact, and the Bulls went along with the trend, reasonably enough since it seemed to be working well for the Golden State Warriors, and the Bulls hired Fred Hoiberg. But you could sense the ambivalence as the team drafted defensive oriented players like Bobby Portis, featured Jimmy Butler, drafted again a defensive player in Chandler Hutchison. Defense is in the team's DNA, in the city's DNA. So the Bulls gave the fancy fast sports car offense a whirl and it just didn't feel right. So they're going back to the pickup truck. It helps occasionally to have a Ferrari in the mix like Jordan or Rose, but the Bulls spear to be going back to the foundation with which they are comfortable to rebuild.

Well, Dunn has started to look like the guy we all thought and hoped he might be, finding his shot at the top of the key, getting good assist numbers and rebounds and low turnovers. Markkanen is a lock for All-Star maybe even next year. LaVine is going to average 20 ppg and Carter will be a nice 12 and 10 guy once he gets these fouls under control. It seems to me we need a SF and hopefully one of the 3 Duke guys to round out the starting rotation for the next few years and there isn't really a close second in need. Maybe risk a Bol Bol pick if he is there at 7 or so if this winning continues and we finish similar to last year.

Jack Donnelly

Sam: I guess just start printing the playoff tickets? I don't much follow the college draft yet other than late at night if I can't sleep I watch college basketball to see the repeat patterns and quickly fall asleep. Like everyone, I have seen the Duke players in their Hall of Fame enshrinement blazers, and they seem like they will not need to start in the G-league. Small forward is the obvious crater for the Bulls. Oh, right Jabari Parker? Never mind. Anyway, the way things are going the Bulls likely will have a high selection in this draft in which the teams with the five poorest records have similar odds for the top picks. The Bulls likely will explore free agency as well and I'm convinced they'll be able to add a good player not named Durant or Leonard. But more rests with Dunn. He is starting to put up impressive lines with a near triple double the last three or four games. He's still got plenty to learn as a point guard in quickly identifying mismatches, making quicker decisions and finding a longer shot. But he's done some terrific things and probably has the most reliable mid range shot on the team. With his long arms and movement, his pace looks a bit languid at times. The test comes now as he finally gets to play with LaVine and Markkanen, and has to make them better while not taking a step back of his own.

Dunn reminded everyone how effective & useful a mid-range game can be. His game has a distinctive 90's feel to it, but it would be masterful in any era. Fun and satisfying to watch. He's a better distributor than LaVine because he's a different player. Archidiacono is the most natural distributor on the roster right now. A locked-in Dunn presents the other side-problems all over the place. I need to see him do this for 40 games before I'm a believer though; fight through slumps and countermeasures. Love Harrison. Wish he could shoot. He reminds me of a younger, more athletic Keith Bogans.

Pete Zievers

Sam: I was able to make a Keith Bogans reference with Thibs before the Minnesota game when Thibs talked about that fun 2010-11 team. Two Bogans references in a week is always a good week. There is something to be said for that mid range game, and I'm actually glad to see that Dunn isn't forcing threes like so many players do. And shooting a layup when he's open rather than throwing out for a three. Can you believe how often they do that! I always remember the baseball third base coach yelling to the 5-4 second baseman swinging for the home run every time: “Remember who you are!” Dunn has done a good job of that. I would like to see him play with more pace, though that's not the style of the team for now. Again, the test should be coming with athletes like LaVine and Markkanen. The Bulls can get more of those easy scores with them; will they try?

In the short time I've seen LaVine and Dunn together on the court (which is minimal). I don't believe they can co-exist. LaVine is extremely high usage with a ton of questionable decision making and atrocious defense. On the other hand Dunn has high usage, but he's a lock down defender and shows when LaVine is not on the court he can be that go to guy and a great compliment to Markennen. If I had to choose one I would choose Dunn. Its not saying to trade LaVine, but I wouldn't be crying if Paxson decided to make a move to get players that were better fits with Markennen. Markennen seems to struggle more with LaVine as Zach holds the ball so much and either takes a contested shot or someone like Holiday or Markennen gets the ball with minimal time left and needs to rush the shot. I think there's been better ball movement since LaVine's been hurt and Parker has been bench. Should the bulls look towards more of Korver, Reddick type shooter to pair with Dunn long term. I like Hutchinson's potential as a future starting Small Forward. Someone like Cam Reddish would be a great fit opposite Dunn.

Rocky Rosado

Sam: Well, that was a quick look. Can we give them two starts together? I guess you can call me naive, but I still believe it's good to have more talent. Plus, I'm not sure fit is the priority when you're at the bottom of the conference. It's still, to me, about stacking talent and determining how it does. I don't see why the three of them can't work because they seem to get along and they don't appear to have personal agenda. Yes, LaVine likes to have the ball as a scorer, but you do need players who can make tough shots. He has shown he'll pass the ball. Which actually has been a problem because he often passes it to the other team. He'll get better at that playing with the same players in an actual rotation, which hasn't happened often. Markkanen has shown he can spot up and shoot when needed. He needs to regain some of that summer muscle he lost out two months with his injury. Plus, you don't have to post just a big man. Dunn and LaVine can post. Markkanen can grow into it. But you also need an inverted offense with Carter shooting. Thus far he's been too hesitant, but he's got a good stroke and I'm confident will be a good three-point shooter. They all need to get stronger and tougher, but so do most 22 and 23 year olds.

That 6-shot game may be the best thing that's happened to Lauri. It pissed everybody off (and rightly so) to the point where they forced the ball to him... and he showed them what he can do, twice. His 3-pt. range is murder, but I love those driving dunks. Remember when we realized he was better than we'd thought?Well, now he's better than we thought then. It's between Markkanen & Tatum for best of the 2017 draft, and we may not be sure which one for a few years.

Art Alenik

Sam: So let's take a look at that draft lottery again: Fultz, Ball, Tatum, Jackson, Fox, Isaac, Markkanen, Ntilikina, Smith Jr., Collins, Monk, Kennard, Mitchell, Adebayo. If you redid that draft today, you'd probably have Tatum first and Markkanen maybe second. Last season, the buzz was for Donovan Mitchell. But he's become more a volume shooter with a more limited game. Sure, still a great pick at No. 13, but maybe three or four. I always liked Fox, who is emerging as a top point guard. And that's probably the game's most important position these days. Maybe he could be two. But with Markkanen's height and versatility and growth possibilities, it's certainly reasonable to list him second and no worse than third or fourth. I know it's not a popular sentiment around Chicago these days with the redevelopment of the Bulls, and I'm sure many will suggest this merely is the web site defending its own, but they never ask me to do that, and for that I am appreciative. But this is a Bulls building project mostly through the draft, and it's a management that's done very well with low first round selections like Jimmy Butler and Bobby Portis and five-to-10 selections, which are not your no brainers, of Markkanen and Carter Jr. If you're building mostly in the draft, why would you want to have someone else making those picks?

Do you agree with Charles Barkley that Jokic should be a front runner or in the MVP conversation if Denver ends up #1

Gorav Raheja

Sam: Do you? Really? Charles is very entertaining and as good an ambassador for the NBA as you can have. Perhaps no one I've even known in the NBA is more approachable and personable. If they didn't name teddy bears for Teddy Roosevelt, they might be called Barkleys. But not a whole lot of the TV famous people who talk about the NBA on TNT and ESPN watch that much basketball. They played a lot, certainly. But being good at something doesn't mean you know how it works. I'm a heck of a driver of cars, but don't ask me to find the difference between the spark plug and the tire jack. I know it's popular to put former players on TV as analysts, though the reason most played was because of their fabulous skill. Not their fabulous analytical powers. It's a great talking point because the Nuggets have done well, but I see them more as a nice ensemble team with various contributors and he's one. I don't see Jokic in the top 20 in the league. Put it this way, I probably could name 20 players I'd rather have on my team. Just look at big men: You'd certainly want Embiid and Anthony Davis. I'd prefer Karl-Anthony Towns and most would have taken Cousins before his injury. He should come back. Harden, Westbrook, Curry, Durant, Antetokounmpo, LeBron, Kawki, Kyrie, Paul George. That's about a dozen and I can keep going. I'd probably take Klay Thompson, LaMarcus Aldridge; heck, I'd take rookie Ayton because I think he's going to be much better. Maybe even Jimmy Butler and Bradley Beal. There's no shame being say the 20th best, but, really, a league MVP? Not quite. He's good, but still a but slow for my taste.

You think benching Jabari Parker per game guarantees a victory? Okay, so we beat the Cavs by 20, that doesn't mean we're going to do that to every team, Jabari Parker was listed as available/Chandler becomes the backup Power Forward? So what happens if we play a much harder team than the Cavs/Chandler gets injured? What, we end up playing an even shorter guy? If Boylen isn't going to play Parker, he ought to get him traded. I like Jabari/don't like the fact he's not good at blocking/tends to hog the ball at times too, but this not allowing him to play when he's available is starting to bug me.

Kieron Smith

Sam: It's a conundrum wrapped in an enigma wrapped in.…, oh, forget it. The way the NBA works is the coach makes up the lineup. Management provides the players and the coach decides how to use them. The Bulls just changed coaches, so they have to allow Boylen ride it out like he wants. I understand his point that he's building a defensive-oriented team and needs those players, and those players need to see that if you aren't committed to defense, you're not going to be in the rotation; accountability and all that. I've been no fan of Parker, but he is a professional scorer and a physical player. He is coming off a second ACL injury and did play serious offense. I would like to see him get another chance given the paucity of scoring options, especially with the second unit with LaVine back to starting and Portis still out. But no one but a few readers is seeking my opinion on this.

What a great Christmas story! Everyone thought the Derrick Rose trade was a good one for the Bulls. No one ever imagined he would ever get close to his MVP level of play again. As a Bull, everyone thought he would be playing on Christmas Day for years to come. Now relegated to playing on Boxing Day, he comes out with a vintage prime time performance, carrying his new team and making me think he can still lead a team to a championship someday. Gotta love sports!

Guy Danilowitz

Sam: Yes, sports. That's been a wonderful story. You could probably make a great holiday movie about what life would have been like if he never were…Oh right, they did that. What we all should feel is good for Rose instead of what if. Like you said, no one saw this coming, and every team had a chance to bring him in after he was released by the Knicks and then Jazz (via The Land). It was the right deal for the Bulls at the time, and probably even more so with what Rose went through with injuries and absences in New York and Cleveland. We know Chicago never would have put up with that. So you have it right. It's just a wonderful life.

As a huge Derrick Rose fan, watching his highlights of his 50-point game literally brought tears to my eyes. The fact that he put up one of the biggest games of his career after everything he's been through is nothing short of amazing. The way he's passing, shooting, driving, and finishing without dunking, he looks fresher than he has in years. If he can continue to play at a high level for however many years he can still play do you see him being able to reach the hall of fame?

Trevor Bode

Sam: There was a debate in Chicago after Rose's terrific game against the Bulls this week about whether the Bulls should retire his number. That's debatable, though he certainly had a greater impact on the team and the game than Bob Love. The Bulls are sparing with jersey number retirements, but Rose if he gets through another year or two, or maybe even if he doesn't, should be in the Basketball Hall of Fame. I know it's popular with Rose's injuries and issues to say he'll be the only MVP not to make the Hall of Fame. But you can make the case he already is more accomplished than Bob McAdoo who won titles coming off the bench and, after all, what did Steve Nash ever win, and we know he'll be going in. First to the dismay of NBA enthusiasts, the Hall of Fame is about all basketball. Rose was a multiple state champion as a prep player and went to the final game of the NCAA tournament. So he succeeded at all levels. His career reminds me of that of Hall of Famer Bernard King, who was an elite scorer (never with great teams) who suffered an ACL tear and sat out two years and then came back and eventually made an All-Star team. Rose might the way he is playing, but he also could be in the running for Sixth Man or even Most Improved. Coming back to this level with multiple All-Star games, Rookie of the year and MVP on his resume is the stuff of the Basketball Hall of Fame.

When I get the chance to watch the Bulls on TV, I'm usually impressed with Stacey's knowledge and insight of the game. I was wondering more along the lines of whether Stacey has been considered for a head coaching gig or if he's thought about throwing his hat?

Mark Basa

Sam: Be grateful that you can listen to Stacey on the broadcasts. He's one of the most knowledgeable on TV—especially for a former player—who isn't afraid to voice contrary opinions and have some fun with the broadcast with a wicked sense of humor. But coaching is a lot harder and more time consuming than you might think, involving exceptionally long days off watching film and working practices and schedules and endless annoying media questions. I think Stacey likes his position just fine. Though Chuck Swirsky tells me he could coach rings around Popovich.

Hypothetically you have a draft class of Lew/Kareem, Moses M., Wilt, Bill R.,Hakeem. In today's NBA what would teams do with these all time players who probably would've never been capable of jacking up three pointers? Also, can you foresee a new league formed in which there was no three point shot and big man play was reemphasized?

Chiang Mai

Sam: First of all, the big man is not extinct in the NBA. It's a cycle, but you are seeing some terrific big men come into the NBA who are becoming dominant players, like Embiid, Towns and Ayton, I believe, will be. Plus, I think you need to have one to help fend off those who have them. Which is one reason Dallas is doing well. It's not just Doncic. Getting DeAndre Jordan (and allowing him to practice free throw shooting) has made a difference. You see with the Bulls the issues Wendell Carter Jr. has with some big guys, which eventually will require some offensive changes to take advantage of his shooting ability. But don't discount what those players could do. There wasn't much reason to shoot from 25 feet then since it was also worth two points. Why it's worth three points and not a great drop step move is another issue. But Kareem was a terrific shooter who easily could have moved out to the three-point line. Wilt used to shoot a 15 foot wing bank shot because he was bored scoring so easily inside. He could easily have moved farther out. Hakeem was an excellent shooter who made most of his jumpers barely in front of the short corner three. Russell, nah, but he was the quickest, smartest, most adept big man defender ever and you'd have won a championship without him making any threes. You didn't mention Bill Walton, who once made 21 of 22 shots mostly jumpers in an NCAA title game. There are some great big men still, though none better than any of them.

Source: https://www.nba.com/bulls/news/ask-sam-mailbag-122818

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

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zombierunfiction · 8 years ago

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Season 1 Mission 18: Eavesdropping

Following day found Charlotte in the coms shack with Sam watching him as he led Jody and Owen back from a run. She always enjoyed watching Sam work. The big head phones on his head as he flipped through the cameras on his screens and checking the scanner for zombies. She smiled as he took off his head set then grabbed a clip board writing a few notes on it.

"What are you doing now?" Charlotte questioned.

"Oh? It's something Janine likes me to do. Write down who was runner, any injuries, anything happen, or what was said of importanace. It also has the list of runners set to run today. By the way you will be running soon as well." Sam said with a smile.

"Oh? Now where am I going this time? To another hospital? Or crash site? Please don't tell me I'm going to another game store again." Charlotte said with a grin.

Sam gave her a pursed look. "Oh ha ha. Very funny. Didn't I already apologise enough for that?"

"Yes the not nearly dead daisies you have Simon go pick up for me while on his bi-weekly run for medical supplies was very sweet and made up for it." Charlotte said leaning over kissing his lips sweetly.

Sam smiles when she pulls back. "You know I've only had one girlfriend that I was comfortable with like we are."

"Oh and who was that?"

"Ester Bromsby. She was in my grade 4 class. She had brown hair and always played rugby with the boys. I thought she was so cool. She threw mud at me and said I looked like a pig whistle." Sam said looking up remembering.

Charlotte couldn't help the full belly laugh that erupted from her as she imagined young Sam with mud on his face with a girl playing rugby. "Pig whistle? That was your first girlfriend?"

"Well things did get better after that. She was fun to be around and very adventurous. She even shared her ice cream with me during lunch time." Sam said smiling.

"So what happened with her?" Charlotte asked gently running her fingers over his hand.

Sam shrugs. "She just told me she didn't want to be my girlfriend anymore. After that she moved away with her family. We were only together for like 4 months."

"Whirl wind romance." Charlotte said chuckling as Sam nodded with a smile.

The door opened as Janine stepped in giving them a slight smile. "Sorry to break up this tender moment but we do have a mission for Charlotte."

"Oh yeah, sorry about that Janine." Sam said as Charlotte kissed his lips quickly then walked out of the comms shack.

She quickly went to the pack area and pulled on her pack and headset. The boy handing out the packs also handed her the headset she had been given by the New Canton Runner Lem. She blinked raising an eyebrow looking at him oddly. She walked over to the comms shack as she lifted one side of her headset and wrap the New Canton ear piece around her ear. She adjusted it so that it was comfortable before adjusting her pack.

"Ready to go Sam." Charlotte said.

"Alright then. Raise the gates!" The gate siren blares as it starts to raise. "Gates are open, covering fire..." The snipers take out a few zombies near the gates. "And... go!" Sam shouted as Charlotte took off past the dead zombies as the gate lowers.

"Have you told Runner Five what's happening today, Mr. Yao?" Janine asked.

"Well, no. I thought about it, but then I remembered how you seemed pretty convinced I didn't explain things properly on that last electronics run with Runner Two." Sam said almost bitterly.

"Yes, I hear the delightful David Robinson will be coming out of hospital soon." Janine said sternly.

"I was not responsible for that."

"If you argue with my direct order, Mr. Yao, then you're going to confuse the runners, making it more likelly that they'll run into hostile territory." Janine scolded.

"Or another way of putting that, Janine, is that if you don't let me do my job properly-"

Janine jumpped over Sam on the mic. "Runner Five, we've fitted you out with the radio you took from the New Canton base in addition to our own radio, and we're hoping that-"

"Hey! No snatching the mic while I'm talking!" Sam shouts.

"-we're hoping that you might be able to pick up some useful intel while on yoru regular run for tech supplies. It's a simple mission, Runner Five, and if you get confused at any time, just listen to my voice-"

"-or my voice!" Sam interjects.

"MY voice!" Janine shouts. "Runner Five, Run!"

"Won't they hear you through my headset?" Charlotte questioned.

"No we disabled the mic on the headset so you can hear them but they won't hear you." Janine said as Sam seemed to grumble.

Charlotte shook her head feeling it starting to twinge. Janine was so hard on Sam who did a very good job at being a Radio operator. She might be bias but if one was given a job and they did rather well at it others shouldn't nose into their business.

After a while Janine came back onto the headset. "You're doing well, Runner Five."

"Hey, that's my-!" Sam sighs heavily. "Yeah, you're doing very well, Runner Five. Everything within normal mission parameters, speed's good, two zoms behind you, but you're outpacing them See?" Sam says as Janine sighed softly.

"Yes, movin on. It is rather troubling that we should have to resort to subterfuge to spy on other humans, as I'm sure Runner Five agrees." Janine says.

"I don't like tricking people if that's what you mean." Charlotte said.

"Nonetheless, we have no option. New Canton set a deliberate trap for Runner Five. We need to find out what their plans are." Janine continued.

Charlotte ran around a tree looking around. "Janine how do you know it was me specifically they were trying to trap? To me it seems like they were wanting to trap any runner."

"That's why we are doing this. If they intentionally targeted you then we need to know why. If they were just targeting runners in general, we still need to know why."

"Hey, Janine? As you keep reminding me, this was your house before it became Abel Township. Didn't you uh, know anyone in the New Canton compound, then?" Old castle... the lord and lady of the place didn't invite you over for tea?" Sam questioned.

"I kept to myself, Mr. Yao. Before the apocalypse, it was just about possible to live a quiet life. I suppose it was too much to hope that I'd be able to live alone in an old farmhouse with thick stone walls for long. Wasn't long before the hordes descended." Janine said bitterly.

"Mmm. Zombies..." Sam said.

"No, you! And all these other people seeking shelter." Janine corrected.

"Hey!" Sam snapped. "We've helped out around here, haven't we? We've grown stuff, built stuff." He chuckled slightly. "Anyway, you're totally lying about that quiet life time. I know your secret."

Janine paused for a moment. "My... secret?"

"Yeah, I hear things, you know? I meet a lot of people in this position. Talk to a lot of people? And some of those runners, when I save their lives, they're really greatful." Sam said with a smirk.

"Grateful enough to thank you politely, Mr. Yao?"

"Yeah. Very grateful."

"And they told you my... secret?" Janine questioned.

"Yup! We found your old photos. You had a boyfriend!" Sam laughs. "And you wore a bikini."

The sigh that escaped Janine seemed almost relief. "Ah, yes. Quite the deepest, darkest secret you could possibly imagine. I don't suppose you go on imagining it, Mr. Yao, for your own sake."

"Or what?" Sam questioned.

"Or I will be forced to shoot you in the head." Janine said with a sweet smile.

"Uh... okay? And Runner Five, you should be coming up on that warehouse with tech supplies now." Half way through Sam's words static started to come through the New Canton head set when that voice appears that she heard when Lem first gave it to her.

"Runner Forty-three and Forty-Nine, fall back! Fall back and fire the flares, there's a swarm heading for you!" The sound of flares going off are heard making Charlotte hide behind a tree. "That's great, guys! Runner Forty-three, those flares are working just like we hoped. the zoms are attracted to the light and the noise, and away from you!"

Sam sighs heavily. "Are they doing that on purpose?"

"I suspect not. They're using a rather clever concelment strategy. I wish I'd thought of it first." Janine said as the flares were burning on spots near by.

"But they're all landing by Runner Five. Five, the whole swarm's heading straight for you!" Sam shouted as Charlotte saw the swarm heading right for her. She took off as Janine started speaking.

"Runner Five, don't panic - do run!"

"Run!" Sam shouted as Charlotte continued down the path trying to keep ahead of the swarm.

Suddenly a flare goes off with a zombie shout following it before the New Canton operator came back on. "Whoa, good shot, Runner Forty-Nine! Took out a zombie with a zombie glare, which then attracted other zombies to it! Way to go! Just like Lem woulda wanted!" She called out before a pause came. "Yeah... I miss him too. We're not gonna put in a new Runner Thirty-Eight, you know. We're retireing his number. He..." Her voice catches slightly. "He was quite a guy."

"They're still behind you, Runner Five. Keep running! If those New Canton bastards aren't targeting Runner five on purpose..." Sam says softly.

"Why would they do that?" Charlotte questions as she continued to run.

"I don't know? Because they're evil?" Sam supplies.

"No one's evil, Mr. Yao." Janine said.

"I beg to differ Janine." Charlotte said as she slid down an embankment and took off.

"Well, how about those billionaires who went to the private island at the outbreak of the plague and shot anyone who tried to come near them, even obviously harmless refugees?" Sam questions.

"Very few people are evil. Our best hope is to try to understand - if they're targeting us, they're doing it for a reason." Janine said as the woman came back.

"Good work, guys. Zombie decoyed into empty territory. They're all heading away from you."

"Runner Five, there are more heading towards you." Sam said.

"Run towards the New Canton runners, it's the only way to escape!" Janine said.

"Are you crazy? Run away - AWAY from New Canton!" Sam shouted.

"This is exactly how Runner Two ended up in the hospital, Mr. Yao!" Janine shouted.

"I..."

Their voices suddenly became very soft. "-the same thing will happen again!" JAnine whispered hastilly.

"You know very well that was not my fault, we've been through this." Sam hisses softly.

"Guys! Stop fighting! Alright! Sam is a great operator so let him do his damn job Janine!" Charlotte snapped as she ran through what looked like an old graveyard.

There was silence for a moment before they both sighed. "Just run away from the zombies." They both said.

"Gee what wonderful advice." Charlotte whispered sarcasticly as she continued to run.

Once she exited the graveyard, she chanced a look back seeing the majority of the group was stuck amongst the graves. She continues to run not wanting to lose her lead.

"Okay, okay, you seem to be getting clear of them." Sam said.

"While staying in transmitter distance of New Canton, that's good work, Runner Five!" Janine said happily. Sam sighs heavily. "That's hardly the main point, here!"

"On the contrary, it's mission critical!"

The static comes back as the woman's voice returns again. "Runner Fourty-nine. Looks like these flares will be a useful tool to us in the future. Yeah, the council says we're running low on some supplies they're hoarding up at Abel Township." She said as Charlotte slowed down seeing that the zombies had left her alone. "No, I don't trust those bastards, either. They're probably the ones who let Lem get bitten. Yeah, we'll be raiding them next week."

Charlotte's eyes widen as she breathed heavily.

New Canton was coming to attack Abel.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

< 20 >

Season 1 Beginning

#zombie #zombies run #zombiesrun #zombierunapp #run #runner 5 #runner five #runnerfive #runner5 #fanfiction #fanfic

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woolenjumbo5-blog · 6 years ago

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Ask Sam Mailbag: 12.28.18

Kirk Landers

Jack Donnelly

Pete Zievers

Rocky Rosado

Art Alenik

Do you agree with Charles Barkley that Jokic should be a front runner or in the MVP conversation if Denver ends up #1

Gorav Raheja

Kieron Smith

Guy Danilowitz

Trevor Bode

Mark Basa

Chiang Mai

Source: https://www.nba.com/bulls/news/ask-sam-mailbag-122818

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