#its safer and its justified and he locks that part away

[oneshotprincess]

kind of want fics where orion doesn't resurrect as optimus prime just to see how megatron would deal with learning that choices made in anger cannot be undone...

[troquantary]

Didyme, Part 2: Something, Something, Plato's Allegory of the Cave

Continuing from here, and we’re doing sub-parts for this bit. I’m genuinely surprised I had this much to say. (And fun fact, I almost lost the entire goddamn post, but fortunately I was copy-pasting into Word just in case. Not today, Satan.)

2.1. What Canon Tells Us

Didyme’s murder by Aro (and with Caius’ apparent assistance, either during or afterwards), is only mentioned on the page in Life and Death, the 10th Anniversary gender-swapped version of Twilight. Edythe/Edward mentions it briefly when discussing the painting of the leaders Carine/Carlisle brought back from Volterra, but it’s just background information with little narrative weight. I bring it up just to highlight Caius’ involvement and knowledge -- I’ll get back to that.

Now, here’s the “canon” backstory we have to work with. Per the illustrated guide, Didyme was Aro’s younger sister, and he turned her at some point after meeting Marcus, Caius, and Athenadora. Interestingly, the Guide doesn’t say anything about Aro returning to Didyme out of brotherly love; apparently he just wanted to see if she would have a powerful gift like his, only to be underwhelmed (”disappointed,” according to his Guide entry) by her actual ability -- she made people happy just by being around them. Then she and Marcus fell in love, sharing “the strongest romantic bond of any of the Volturi” (from Marcus’ Guide entry), and this prompted a suddenly very single Aro to seek out his own mate, Sulpicia. The Guide says Didyme “distracted” Marcus from Aro’s goals, and that the pair eventually made plans to split off on their own, leading Aro to murder Didyme so he could hold onto Marcus and his valuable gift. Although nothing written so far suggests that Aro even liked his sister, the Guide does state that Aro “truly loved her” and that his grief upon killing Didyme was genuine.

Apparently Caius’ role in all is was something Meyer thought up later, because none of the leaders’ Guide entries mention him being in on it. (You can’t see me, but I’m staring pointedly at Part One.)

2.2. Fuck Canon, Actually

(This just seemed like the funniest place for a cut. Continued below~)

I’ll be honest with you, person who’s persistent/unfortunate enough to still be here: very little about this murder scenario makes sense to me. I’m going to start with the “disappointing” nature of Didyme’s gift and that it was supposedly much less useful to Aro than Marcus’, because that’s just...stupid, frankly, and there’s no way Aro would have missed the inherent utility of Didyme’s gift. I don’t even have to read into anything to get this idea -- the Guide itself shows us how useful it is! It says right there in Marcus’ entry that Aro went off to turn Didyme, and returned with his sister, “along with the first members of the guard -- vampires who were drawn to Didyme’s aura of happiness.” That is a direct quote.

Just -- I practically shrieked when I read that. You’re telling me that Didyme’s gift was the stated reason their coven got its first subordinates, and I’m supposed to believe that Aro thought that was disappointing? Fuck off! Fuck off!! Even if Didyme’s happiness aura isn’t as powerful as Corin’s opium haze, well, Aro doesn’t have Corin yet, does he? He has every reason in the world to want to keep Didyme around, drawing other vampires to his cause -- even if most of those vampires aren’t gifted or skilled enough to join the guard, it’s still good PR.

At this early stage in the Volturi’s rise to power, it isn’t a good time to lose Didyme -- or any of his inner coven, really. Yet Aro apparently considered her disposable enough that he killed her. I can’t square this with what we know about Aro: that he’s still coherent despite holding god-knows how many people’s lives in his head; that he’s very intelligent; that he’s cunning, charming, and persuasive. Aro, once he learned they were thinking about leaving, would have tried to talk to Didyme and Marcus and done everything in his power to convince them to stay just a bit longer, until the Volturi’s position was more secure. And maybe he did; the timeline of all this is hazy, but nothing in the Guide suggests that Aro jumped straight to duplicity and murder. Clearly, though, whatever negotiations or arguments he presented failed. So what does their desire to leave the Volturi at this critical stage say about Didyme, or Marcus for that matter?

2.3. What It Says About Didyme and Marcus (Mostly Headcanon)

Brace yourself, because we’re into full headcanon territory now. To follow me, please refer to @therealvinelle ‘s meta about the larger mission of the Volturi and why they’re necessary, because I’m starting from the perspective that the Volturi are ultimately a force working in vampires’ and humans’ favor. While Meyer and the Guide would have you believe that Aro’s just power-hungry, actually looking at the impact of the Volturi and the benefits of enforcing secrecy shows that his broader vision isn’t just world domination, but establishing a world in which vampires and humans can both thrive and endure. There’s no way the rest of the inner coven was unaware of this goal; we know Aro talks a lot, so he’s certainly talked his coven’s ears off about this.

Now, we know very little about Marcus and what he was like before he was all dead inside. Based on what would be a logical balance of personalities, with Aro as lead decision-maker and Caius as ruthless enforcer, it seems likely that Marcus was originally the voice of reason and/or mercy. I also think Marcus would have had a strong sense of duty. The Guide says that Aro was the first friend Marcus had as a vampire, and I believe that Marcus cared about him very much and was committed to the Volturi. I think he would have been genuinely conflicted about leaving, especially considering the stabler, safer world the Volturi have been striving to build, and which they haven’t yet secured. Again, it’s a very bad time for any of the leadership to split off -- but in the end, Marcus and Didyme are going to do it anyway.

What for, though? Why leave? @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin has an interesting take on that question here: that Didyme saw that she and Marcus would be locked into the Volturi life and a thankless existence for eternity and tried to opt out while she still could. I like it a lot, it’s a great post and that scenario makes sense, but the tone of it feels...too forgiving. Maybe that’s because I’m evil. But the way I see it, given the magnitude of the Volturi’s mission, and its (at best) very tenuous grip on power at the time Marcus and Didyme plan to leave (they haven’t even defeated the Romanians yet), jeopardizing the entire operation so that they can pursue their romance unburdened strikes me as...well, fundamentally selfish on some level, so much that I find myself side-eyeing Didyme and Marcus for it. Although to be clear, it’s not the desire to live their own lives apart from the Volturi that I find selfish, just the timing of their departure.

Honestly, I’d like not to vilify another female character if I don’t have to. Given everything I’ve just said, I see Didyme in much the same way as I see Bella: not a bad person, but someone with definite selfish tendencies. At best, she’s likely short-sighted or naive if she doesn’t see how leaving the Volturi at this stage is fucking them over in a big way. However, I hesitate to read into the happiness aura as a straightforward indication of Didyme’s fundamental goodness; I think she probably was kind, charming, and delightful to be around, hence the nature of her gift -- but that capacity for selfishness is still there. (I’m certain Meyer wants us to take her gift as proof of Didyme’s goodness, to reinforce how evil Aro is for killing her...but I think I’ve made my disdain for what Meyer wants me to think pretty clear.)

2.4. MURDER MOST FOUL

I am not saying it was justifiable or okay for Aro to murder his sister. I’m really not. It’s actually better, from a character standpoint, that it isn’t okay -- that Aro has to carry this with him for the rest of his life while Marcus sits in the throne next to him, reduced to a husk, so that in effect Aro has lost them both after all. It’s got that Greek tragedy element @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin​ mentioned in her post. (Even better from that standpoint, the Guide implies that Aro found Chelsea relatively soon after killing Didyme, which compounds the tragedy.) I mean, it’s terrible, and it hurts me because I love Aro, but it’s compelling stuff.

What I am saying is, I can see how their insistence on leaving might have deeply hurt and offended him. And that brings me to my issue with the calculated murder scenario the Guide gives us -- I still think Didyme’s gift is too valuable for Aro to throw away by killing her in cold...venom (or whatever), even as the price for keeping Marcus in the fold. Plus, there’s the fact that Aro does love Didyme, and I imagine her gift makes it very difficult for people to think of harming her...when they’re calm, anyway.

Yeah, the only way I can really see the murder happening is if Aro killed Didyme in the heat of an argument about her leaving, possibly even by accident -- except you can’t accidentally kill a vampire, can you? It’s a very deliberate process wherein you have to dismember them and burn every piece, which also means it probably takes long enough that any irrational, overwhelming rage would wear off before you were done. But now that you’ve started....

I mean, at that point it would certainly be awkward to put your half-rubble sister back together, and Aro would be in a whole other load of shit even if he did. It’s possible, given what we’re told, that Aro could have lashed out and yanked Didyme’s head off before snapping out of it, only to realize that his sole option now is to finish the job. If he doesn’t kill Didyme now, she and Marcus won’t just leave, they’ll be sworn enemies of Aro from then on. And thanks to Didyme’s gift being the draw for a lot of the guard, and the inherently bad look of a leader who would brutally attack his own sister, a chunk of the guard would probably leave with them, destroying Aro’s plans. No, the only way to salvage it is to follow through.

Then Aro has to call in Caius for help with the cover-up, because it wasn’t actually planned and it’s just pure luck that no one walked in on the murder as it was happening.

And maybe Aro learns a hard lesson about learning to let people walk away, leaving the possibility open that they could be drawn in again. Because if Aro had just waited, he would have found Chelsea, and with her gift he could have had Marcus and Didyme back again.

Assuming everything didn’t fall apart as soon as they left, of course. But that’s a whole other what-if scenario.

[limelocked]

Sundial blurbs

So most of my part of the Sundial au has been locked into general au chat on our server in the form of joking, theorising and sometimes writing as much as the discord character limit allows me to. I did the two first blurbs in this post today and @pomodoko commanded i actually post it and tag them so here they are, sorted into story chronological order and not the order in which i wrote them

Also this is the link to the document with general information on the AU

--- Dreams POV, the inciting incident

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8- NINE It has been ten seconds since Fundy landed at the bottom of the stairs at the lowest level of the building, there had been a noticeable thud that sounded distinctly unpleasant but Dream hadn't picked up on any cracking noise that'd indicate broken bones. Not that it'd be easy to hear over the commotion that led to later events.

Because it'd been seven seconds since Techno had lost his balance because of the falling fox mentioned and seven seconds since he stood back straight, almost brushing against Wilburs taller frame. It had only been five short seconds, that might have felt like weeks to others, since Wilbur in turn furrowed his brow and geared up for retaliation. Four seconds ago techno had been pushed. Three, Wilbur had gone into the wrong portal. Two, Philza had with Fundy still leaning on his shoulder tried to stop them both. One, they were gone.

It was surreal. The room had been filled with chatter before the fight, louder during the fight and now it was quiet. One second in the future, after it had all happened, the silence broke by no one who had seen it happen but by Tommy, babbling on about something with Fundy that didn't matter to anyone but himself. He quieted down when the person he was intending to talk to was nowhere to be found, confused. "Where'd Fundy go?"

"He and Wilbur already went through" the lack of effort it took for Dream to bend that truth would be concerning if not for his record, and technically they already had. "Oh-" an unsatisfactory answer but not one that would send him towards the throat of Noxite. "You can just talk to them back home. Come on." The portal after the hermits was supposed to be theirs, something quickly confirmed as they enter the community house with a crisis averted, or rather pushed back until a later date, and two people lost to another server.

--- Omniscient/Unknown POV, the dreamsmp aftermath

un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf... sept, huit, neuf... sept, huit... Seven hours later was when the lie couldn't hold anymore. Tommy already didn't trust Dream much but Tubbo had been a help in convincing him that Wilbur and Fundy were just away building or something. But the truth comes eventually. He sent a clear message of; <TommyInnIt> stop lying to me

Hour eight was the worst, accusations being thrown and swords being drawn. Screaming and explanations that never really felt enough. The ninth hour was bad in another way, depressing. Tommy's anger had simmered into bargaining as if Dream, George or Tubbo had the power to do anything of substance. It never got to begging, Tommy's pride forbade that but the things he put on the line for help that he couldn't get made it almost seem like it.

Noxcrew was contacted and they confirmed that the hemits had talked to them about the guests. Solutions were suggested and just as quickly rebuffed. Hour ten was a loss and the eleventh hour was one where Tommy and Tubbo got to speak alone.

"Can't you just use your powers or whatever to make the portals take us to hermitcraft" he was exhausted. "It doesn't work like that, probably, and Noxite has probably already tried it" "Yeah but Tubbo could you do it?" "I mean... maybe?" To that something glinted in Tommys eye, hope that Tubbo didn't want to extinguish as fast as it needed to be. "But I'm not allowed into the MCC world anyways so it wouldn't work" "FUCKING CHRIST TUBBO everyone here's useless!"

--- Technos POV, first night on hermitcraft

It's the first night and bones tower above him.

There were other buildings around, and the area was lit up well but eyes followed him from the darkness, eying the stone tools he'd manage to scrape up while leaving the group now probably settled in a warm house far away. This world scared him, the monsters and the way his sword hit differently, and the fact that the air itself felt new.

A pair of eyes glowed at him from it's place under one of the ribs of a beast too huge to want to think about. Techno readied his sword, but the dog decided that it'd rather go back to sleep. This world scared him and he just knew he'd gotten lost now because his goal had been to retrace his steps, the path that Xisuma and Bdoubleo had shown them to the little village far away by boat, to find the house cleft in two and then head straight out to sea until he could find a better place to stay than the tension thick cabin that their hosts had suggested.

Another dog offered a quiet bark in his direction and with an embarrassed sssh, covering fright, he continued forward. He had found the water, true, and he remembered something vague about a neighbour... but... No. No he decided that he'd choose a direction and if there weren't any light he'd just have to turn around or dock and make a little cave to live out of. It wouldn't be glorious but neither is 5 million potatoes.

A boat is placed into the water at the straight of Joebralta and a pig starts to row.

Clang. He is confused. The boat shakes in the middle of open water, he's been turned around. Clang. A trident, something he's only really seen in Skyblockle, shoots into the air a meter to the right of his boat. He speeds up. Clang. It misses, but he has decided that the sea is no longer safe.

--- Technos and Ethos POV, the first days in hermitcraft

He's starting to feel bad for leaving. Still justified, but also bad. He felt horrible the instant the championship room disappeared from right in front of his eyes with Wilbur still in it, and still worse when Wilbur then Phil and Fundy appeared next to him in this world, all statues as unseen confused messages fill the communicators of the worlds inhabitants.

When they arrived he was surprised that a lot of the hermits knew about them, or at least him, from the returning cast of hermits that played in MCC and their apparent tendency to tell stories as soon as there was space for it. It'd made it less awkward but the looks from the others stopped him from talking much about his side of the tournaments.

This was perhaps night four? He had stepped ashore in a jungle a bit from an area he could almost feel at home in with its skyscrapers reminiscent of some survival games arenas. But it was built by someone and someone should be avoided so he had trudged through plains and deserts walking around it only to find more tall buildings in another jungle.

The jungle was... safe? Safe from people at least, less so mobs. He had a little cave with a bed now that kept the hot and humid air out most of the time and while small and cramped and utterly horrible it felt far safer than returning to the others... even though he could practically hear Phils calm and nonchalant reassurances.

Leaving the small home he searches for the water he remembers spotting nearby. The bright orange tracksuit wasn't something he wanted to wear but there wasn't much of anything else and it still needed to be washed of stone dust and sweat no matter how much he disliked it. He leaves with a compass and map to find his way back, and around other peoples territory. And water is found easily with these. Stone, coal and redstone is scrubbed away in the freshwater lake that's only relatively cold, but it still feels nice, like the wind on his island in skyblock or in the skywars arenas.

Not too far away a man is working in a terrarium of his own design containing no animals but currents in thin snakes coiling around comparators and observers. The change to the nether has been an exciting one but it did come with problems for the technicians and thankfully for this one the Google hasn't broken too far beyond belief and is back in functioning order faster than expected.

Satisfied he looks at the path that he paradoxically want to end and to continue and decides to wait, flying up to sit near his portal instead to think about it and access the expansions he's already made. Something bright orange is spotted in the distance which at first is ignored, it can wait, until the realization of a possible abandoned shulker, so very common in this group, grabs him and almost instantly leaves as it moves around.

Several seconds later the orange turns brighter and the idea of lava pops in and out of his head in a flash.

<Etho> Beef have to lost an orange llama? <VintageBeef> no? <VintageBeef> at least I dont think so...? <Etho> o_o

He's been keeping out of the way for a while, like usual, and only knew some of the news about new people on the server. That they'd gotten there with Rendogs sports gang by accident and that they'd been living mostly over at Bdubs' place to avoid having them be excluded to their own little village. Apparently something had happened, he'd missed the details but it was looking like there was a manhunt for someone or something that he should by all means be more invested in.

Curious he misses the orange go out of view in favour of finding out about this missing thing in case he's found it. A person and a description, hidden deep in other messages. His height, human pig hybrid, last seen wearing...

Does he want to do this? He knows his way around a jungle but it's still annoying and Xisuma lives close by... but he's most likely AFK. Well, you make a good first impression on the new guys if you find their missing friend.

--- Omniscient/Unclear POV, Technos time with Etho

Silence is golden in silver light. The hermits can stay up days on end without sleep, working through nights when it’s needed and even with guests this doesn’t change. Like the sliver of moon in the sky, Ethos hair glows radiant from inside the redstone machine he calls the Googler and Techno does nothing but look on as repeaters are moved and redstone is smeared in new paths into blocks he has never seen before, something he’s had to get used to lately.

His host works in silence until a question breaks the jungles chime and an answer is given with the rhythm. The redstone had changed and he thought he had fixed it, an unhelpful follow up is posed and a pause is moved into a somewhat oversimplified version of the circuit. They both know that Techno is no help here, but the company is nice and something is learned.

Etho in the day when working the fortress tells Techno about the old days and in turn Techno admits to never having left those old days for long. Etho talks about Pause and Beef. Techno fails to talk about his own team.

[dia-b-harvester]

Until Dawn:SMP Dusk Butterfly Effects Part 1

“A tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.”

Due to the amount of effects and and possible length, this was cut into two parts. Link to part two is right here.

<More absolutely stunning art from @ya-boi-skye ! Can’t thank you enough for art for this AU!>

Butterfly Effects are the most important aspect of the game, and remains the most important aspect here.  While most Effects will be the same, some might be altered or changed a little, some might not exist, and even new Effects.  

With 2 more characters to keep in mind and try to keep them alive, it seems the hurricane is already coming....

“How does it feel? Do you enjoy feeling terrorized? Humiliated? I mean, panicked? All those emotions that my sisters got to feel once one year ago! Only guess what? They didn't get to laugh it off! No! Nope! No no no! They're gone!"

Any of Your Business

Protagonist: George

Affected characters: Tommy, George

George decides whether or not he should see who's calling Tommy or ignore it and zip up his bag.

Results

Their relationship will decrease if he does snoop. Tommy will later insult George, stating that his actions with Eret are justified since he did the same to his privacy. If he did not snoop, Tommy will still steal Eret’s letter and will not bring George into it.

Outcomes:

- Tommy was happy to see George

- Tommy continued to trust George

_________

- George looked at Tommy’s incoming message

- Tommy was offended by George’s indiscretion

- Tommy criticized George for being nosy

Rats With Bushy Tails

Protagonist: Tommy

Affected Characters: Tommy, George

Tommy decides whether to shoot the bag, shoot the squirrel, or shoot nothing for the final shot at the shooting range.

Results

If he shoots the bag or does nothing, his relationship with George will increase. If he shoots the squirrel, their relationship will decrease and George will be attacked by a crow, which will affect later Butterfly Effects.

Outcomes

- Tommy chose not to shoot the squirrel - Nature remained in balance - (Possible) George, unharmed, hid successfully

_________

- Tommy shot the squirrel - Nature bit back: a bird attacked George - (Possible) George’s fall through the door opened the wound - (Possible) A drop of George’s blood gave his position away

The Soul of Discretion Effect Doesn’t Exist

Whose Side Are You On- edited feel more natural to characters

Protagonist: BadBoyHalo Affected Characters: Bad, Eret, Sapnap (Argument was caused after Sapnap said something about the circumstances that upset Eret)

Bad decides whether to side with Sapnap or Eret during their argument.

Results

If he sides with Sapnap by provoking the fight, his relationship with Eret will decrease. If he sides with Eret by defusing the fight, his relationship with Sapnap will decrease and he will be hostile later on, adding to a different Butterfly Effect.

Outcomes:

- Bad sided with Sapnap during the fight with Eret

- (Possible) Sapnap was sympathetic to Bad

_________

- Bad sided with Eret during the fight with Sapnap

- (Possible) Sapnap was aggressive with Bad

Be “His” Hero does not exist

Something for later

Protagonist: George

Affected Characters: George, The Psycho

George has the option to pick up a baseball bat in Chapter 2, while Dream tinkers with the hot water heater.

Results:

If he shows him, he has the option to either be serious about it or joke.

If he is serious, her relationship with Dream increases.

If he jokes, their relationship will decrease.

Later on, if he did show him, when he chooses the second "Hide" option and either attempts to run or moves during the "Don't Move" segment, he is able to escape through using it.

If he did not show him, he will not have the option to use the baseball bat and be caught, which will affect later Butterfly Effects.

Outcomes:

- Dream locked the baseball bat in the cupboard

- (Possible) The Psycho captured George in the cellar/...But George made the right choices to avoid the Psycho in the cellar

- (Possible) George was caught in the old hotel/George made it to a hiding place in the elevator

——————

- George found a baseball bat and left it in the cellar

- (Possible) George had the option to use the bat when being chased

- (Possible) ...But he missed the chance to use it/George hit the Psycho to escape

- (Possible) George was caught in the old hotel/George made it to a hiding place in the elevator

To the Rescue

Protagonist: Wilbur

Affected Characters: Wilbur, Eret, Bad (Determinant)

Wilbur decides to either choose the risky paths or the safer ones while chasing after Eret, attempting to save him.

Results:

If he chooses all four safe paths, Eret will die.

If he chooses three, all quick-time events must be hit in order to save him.

If he chooses only one or two, an uncertain amount of quick-time events can be missed without him dying.

If Wilbur fails to succeed in reaching him in time, Eret will die and be absent, later on, in Chapter 9.

If Bad or Eret choose to run ahead, move during the don't move segment, fail to make a decision, or if Bad fails to catch Eret or abandons him, Eret will die.

Eret’s status will be stated here.

Outcomes:

- Wilbur stumbled when chasing after Eret

- Wilbur was too late: Eret was dead

- (Possible) Bad was all alone in the mine

———-

- Wilbur successfully chased after Eret

- Eret was still alive!

- Eret failed to escape a second time/Eret survived until dawn

...And Which One Will Die

Protagonist: Tommy

Affected Characters: Tommy, Tubbo, Dream

Tommy decides to either save Tubbo or Dream, after The Psycho knocked them both unconscious and forced them into a trap. The choice Tommy makes will affect his relationship with Dream (as his relationship with Tubbo remains the same either way), as, later on:

Results:

If Tommy announced that he would save Tubbo, Dream will antagonize Tommy which will decrease their relationship. However, no matter which way you turn the lever (or if you choose to do nothing at all), Dream will still be "killed" and Tubbo safe.

Outcomes:

- Tommy said that he would save Dream, but then didn't

- Dream was sympathetic to Tommy and antagonised Wilbur

————

- Tommy said that he would save Tubbo

- Tubbo was grateful and felt indebted to Tommy

- Dream felt betrayed and antagonised Tommy

- Tommy considered violence/Tommy hit Dream

At What Price

Protagonist: Wilbur

Affected Characters: Wilbur

Wilbur has the option to interact with a possible collectible or item in Chapter 5, which is a moving hand with a name tag placed on it.

Results:

If he chooses to do so, two of his fingers will be caught in a bear trap. He has the option to either amputate his fingers or manually open the bear trap with the machete he found earlier.

If he chooses to amputate his fingers right away or after trying to open the bear trap once, he will still have a usable machete and, later on, George can express sympathy.

If he chooses to manually open the bear trap or hacks off his own fingers after trying to open the bear trap twice, he will no longer have a usable machete and, later on, will only use his shotgun to shoot one of the Wendigos and use the lighter to set George free (if he was captured in Chapter 5), instead of using the machete.

Another event regarding this butterfly is how much progress Wilbur did without getting himself in peril.

If Wilbur successfully incinerates the Sanatorium, George will rescue Wilbur in the mines.

If he fails to do so on the way out, or getting attacked by a Wendigo when not even close to the way out, George will rescue Wilbur in the Sanatorium.

Outcomes:

- Wilbur got to the morgue/Wilbur hacked off his own fingers

- Wilbur still had a useable machete

- (Possible) Wilbur used the machete to defend himself

- (Possible) Wilbur found another way through the Sanatorium

- George rescued Wilbur from the Sanatorium/George rescued Wilbur in the mine

- Wilbur freed himself from the bear trap/Wilbur hacked off his own fingers

- Wilbur no longer had a useable machete/Wilbur no longer had a useable machete after hacking off his fingers

- (Possible) Wilbur had no machete with him to defend himself

- (Possible) Wilbur found another way through the Sanatorium

- George rescued Wilbur from the Sanatorium/George rescued Wilbur in the mine

Man’s Best Friend

Protagonist: Wilbur

Affected Characters: Wilbur, Fundy

Wilbur, when first meeting Fundy, has the option to either kick him or to not.

Results:

If he chooses to not kick the fox, he will join Wilbur’s adventure later on in the game.

In the same room in which Fundy inhabits, Wilbur can find a chest containing bones, in which he can give to him. If Wilbur previously kicked the fox, they will have made amends and Fundy will still join Wilbur.

If the bone is not picked up at all, the first decision will affect later gameplay in Chapter 9, in which Fundy will join Wilbur or run ahead on his own.

There, if Wilbur was nice to Fundy and as long as certain quick-time events are hit (if not, Fundy will die), and Wilbur barricades the door instead of running (the latter will result in the fox’s death), Fundy will survive. If Wilbur chose to kick the fox and did not give him the bone to make amends, Fundy will not join Wilbur and will act hostile with him. However, no matter what, Fundy will always save Wilbur if certain quick-time events are failed, and, if the door is barricaded, he will never join Wilbur past that point, but he will still be alive. <in this au, Fundy will find Wilbur again after the final butterfly effect if he managed to survive>

Outcomes:

- Wilbur didn't kick the fox/Wilbur kicked the fox, but he made amends

- (Possible) Wilbur made a friend

- The fox guided Wilbur around the Sanatorium

- (Possible) Wilbur was saved by the fox/Wilbur’s new friend survived/Wilbur failed to protect his new friend

——————-

- Wilbur kicked the fox

- Wilbur was alone in the Sanatorium

- (Possible) The fox didn't protect Wilbur

On the Same Page

Protagonist: Bad

Affected Characters: Bad, Sapnap

This decision has a lot of possible outcomes depending on if Bad decides to agree with Sapnap at the cable car station. <Important later on>

Results:

If he agrees with Sapnap and he is given the flare gun, he will shoot it at the top of the radio tower.

If he does not agree with Sapnap and is given the flare gun, he will not shoot it and be able to use it later against a Wendigo if he tries to save Sapnap in the mines.

Outcomes:

- Bad supported Sapnap’s plan to go to the tower and get help

- (Possible) Bad fired the flare to signal for help

- (Possible) Bad had no defense against the attack

——————-

- Bad resisted Sapnap’s plan to go to the fire tower

- (Possible) Bad kept the flare gun

- (Possible) Bad had a defense against the attack

- (Possible) ...But failed to use it and was killed/...And used it to save his life

Run or Hide

Protagonist: George

Affected Characters: George

This butterfly effect will be a series of choices George makes when he tries to either run or hide from The Psycho.

Results:

If he manages to escape the cinema room, runs instead of hiding under the bed or manages to kick The Psycho, runs instead of hiding behind the shelf in the boiler room or uses the baseball bat to hit the Psycho, and hides instead of running down the long hallway in the Old Mountain Hotel, he will escape and has the chance to explore The Psycho's workshop.

Otherwise, The Psycho will capture him and use him as bait for Tubbo and Tommy to lead them into another trap.

Events might be altered by the outcomes from the butterfly effects Rats with Bushy Tails and Something For Later.

If Tommy chose to shoot the squirrel in Chapter 1, George regardless will be unable to escape from the Killer, even if he makes the correct choices to hide in the Hotel, since his flashlight cannot be turned off for the Psycho.

If George showed the baseball bat to Dream in Chapter 2, hid in the boiler room, and stayed, he would be able to use the baseball bat to hit the Psycho and escape in exchange for a QTE.

Outcomes:

- George got himself caught

- Tommy and Tubbo found George

- George needed to be rescued by Wilbur

—————-

- George made all the right choices during the chase

- Tommy and Tubbo found a dummy in George’s clothes

- George explored the Psycho's workshop

[lesetoilesfous]

ON THE RIGHTS OF MAGES - AND THE LIBERATION OF THEDAS

(Here’s my version of Anders’ manifesto. I wrote it for my Fenris/Anders fic, A Song of Love from Long Ago, but I figured it might be fun to share with y’all. I cannot believe I have now written a manifesto for a video game, but here we are. Also, writing manifestos is HARD. Please be kind)

The Maker’s Children

Andraste suffered at the hands of magisters. Thus, she feared the influence of magic. But if the Maker blamed magic for the magisters’ actions in the Black City, why would He still gift us with it? The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker.

Andraste said “Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.” Perhaps mages are the least of the Maker’s children: if they were, would not harm without provocation break the law of the Maker?

What provocation justifies the harm of children in the eyes of the Maker? If a child breaks a pot, is this provocation? Without magic, certainly not. And yet with magic, I have seen children barely walking harmed severely for far lesser crimes. At what point is a mage child provoking harm? By using magic? This is as natural to them as breathing, weeping, laughing.

Can a follower of Andraste truly say they have listened to Her words, and obeyed them, when they would harm a child for existing?

Furthermore, are not we all children in the eyes of the Maker? Magic is more than just a weapon. It heals. It brings joy. Only turn your gaze to such apostates as the Darktown Healer for evidence of this.

If those who bring harm without provocation are accursed and hated by the Maker, what of those who prevent healing? Who would stop mages using their Maker given gifts, who would extort the free citizens of Thedas for the privilege, and keep their healers locked and beaten behind walls built by slaves?

No citizen of the Free Marches should live in fear of abuse. This includes the mages.

The Fereldan Blight

Where do donations to the Chantry end up? Following the Fereldan Blight, thousands of refugees found themselves on the shores of Kirkwall, neither welcomed into the city nor able to return home. This, surely, was a time for the holy sisters and mothers of the Chantry to act - for the Templars to act, to provide aid and safety to all in need.

Are we not all the Maker’s children?

But such action didn’t come. Hundreds died of their injuries below the cliffs of Kirkwall. Hundreds died of starvation and disease. Many who survived those first months and years came to regret it later, forced into work that was dangerous or illegal or both. What freedom is this? Can it be called Justice?

The plight of the Fereldans, like so many in our free lands, could have been eased by magic.

Mages can heal: even the most common hedge witch can prevent infection. They can help boil water and purify it, clearing disease. They can cook food, prevent illness. But where were Kirkwall’s mages, when they were so badly needed?

They were locked in their tower. They are still locked in their tower. Reader: the mages wanted to help. The Circle would not let them.

On Community

There is much that the poor of Thedas and its mages have in common. If you have lived as a citizen of the Free Marches, you have seen its injustices. You have seen the way in which ordinary people are treated by the rich and powerful. How many amongst you have lost a sibling or a child to an Arl’s lustful eye? How many have served in so-called noble houses only to be kicked and beaten like dogs? This is not justice. This is not freedom.

If you have lived with your head bowed, afraid of meeting the eye of the rich and powerful, then you know what is to be a mage.

We are not so different! Together, we are so much stronger than the sum of our parts. Kirkwall was reclaimed by a slave rebellion. We can free Thedas. Freeing the mages returns power to the people of the Free Marches, redistributing it across our lands. No longer are the mighty only those with coin enough to buy a sword. Our power is in our children and our neighbours, our friends and our lovers.

Our oppressors seek to divide us. They seek to make us hate one another, because it is so much easier and less frightening than engaging in a battle we may not win.

Remember these words: We can. We shall. We will.

The Matter of Tevinter

If Mages are to have their freedom, it cannot follow the route of destruction cleared by the Tevinter Imperium. Freedom built on the backs of slaves is no freedom at all.

Many believe that mages in Thedas see Tevinter as a paradise. This is not true. Consider the following, and you will understand why no mage should ever wish to be a magister.

Point the first: the matter of the elvhen. In the Circles of the Free Marches, there are many powerful, respected elvhen Enchanters. First Enchanter Orsino is a great example, a man with a reputation for kindness and just dealings. The human mages of Thedas are not taught to see elvhen people as below them. They are their colleagues and friends. No human mage would wish the perverse brutality of the Tevinter magisters on any one of their friends, on anyone at all. This includes the elvhen.

Point the second: the question of power. Not all mages are powerful. Their power, like the body’s strength, varies from person to person. If one woman can lift a hay bale, another boy might not. It is the same with mages. Some apprentices may only ever be able to summon sparks. Others can rain down fire storms. In Tevinter, weak mages face slavery and humiliation as much as those without magic. As with the body’s strength, ‘weak’ magic is normally tied to factors like diet, lineage, and illness. Our weak, our poor, our sick, would be enslaved. That is no paradise.

Point the third: common suffering. Do you truly think a mage who has fled across the Free Marches - who has risked Blighted townships and beast infested mountains just to seek their liberty, has no concept of how it might feel to be a slave? It’s true that the brutality faced by slaves in Tevinter is exceptional, and not every Circle is as cruel as that of Kirkwall.

But mages do know something of captivity. If you have too, you will understand why they would not wish to inflict it on another.

The Brutality of Templars

One of the most crucial arguments for the liberation of mages is the abuses of the Templars. Founded under allegedly noble principles, the order has become a sanctuary for the cruel and cowardly: people who hide behind the name of Andraste, and use Her name and kindness to excuse everything from needless humiliation to the torture of children.

Both within and without the Circle, the Templars rule with an iron fist, and it is the poor, the elvhen, the mages, who suffer for it. Unsupervised, corruption runs rife, with Templars extorting innocent neighbourhoods for protection money and inspiring fear in the vulnerable populations which they claim to protect. This is to say nothing of the illegal trade in Lyrium.

The working people of Thedas do not see a Templar and relax, knowing themselves to be safe and guarded by a servant of the Maker. They get out of the way. There is something wrong, here.

If you have ever known the edge of a Templar’s blade, consider now the plight of the mages. Most are sent to Circles in childhood, where they are kept away from the sun and open fields, where their magic is monitored and leashed. They are not taught to fight: why would they be?

Never mind that their Harrowing will demand the greatest struggle of their lives. It serves the Templars far more effectively to see their mages defanged and dull. If the result is a few teenage corpses which could have survived their Harrowing, had they only been taught how to lift a sword? So be it. It is a sacrifice the Templars are willing to make in the name of Andraste, regardless of Her will.

Free mages: apostates and hedge witches, must learn to fight if they are to survive, and resist the attentions of thieves and slavers, as so many citizens of the Free Marches are forced to do. But if you are an ordinary person, if you must work to eat, if you have ever known a Blight or been a refugee - then you understand the profound disadvantage at which lack of coin might leave you.

How can a poor hedge witch who has only ever served his community afford anything that will protect him from greatswords and plate armour? How can an apostate, with her stolen staff, hope to protect herself from cavalry and crossbows? We are hunted, like animals. And we are beaten when we are caught.

Magical Knowledge

The improvement of magical knowledge is a thing that is not only of use to mages.

Any person who has been treated by a magical healer should know this: because almost every healer owes what they know to the mages who have come before them. Circles have long been centres of study and learning.

Reader, it is not the Circle itself with which I take issue, necessarily. It is the removal of choice. It is control by the Chantry. It is the abuses of the Templars. It is the limitation of magical knowledge.

Due to an increasing atmosphere of paranoia and outright slander, the Chantry has begun to stifle magical learning with more and more prejudice in recent decades. The progression of magical knowledge in Thedas has ground almost to a halt, whilst our neighbours in Tevinter have moved forward in leaps and bounds. I do not, perhaps, need to explain to you the danger of having a power-hungry slave-trading nation at our borders which knows more of how to weaponise magic than we do.

Beyond the practicalities of war, perhaps the most egregious area in which this suffocation of knowledge has taken effect is that of healing. Issues that were solved in Tevinter half a century ago are barely understood here: treatments for chronic illness and disease, ways to ease pregnancy and childbirth, effective and safer methods of surgery. For what possible reason could the Chantry wish to limit this knowledge, and restrict the movement of those who could use it for good?

I can find only one conclusion. They fear mages more than they claim to care for their people. To use a Fereldan idiom: they would cut off the nose to spite the face. The Chantry has decided your sacrifice, your illness, your injury, is a price they are willing to pay. Have you?

Safety in the Circle

The fundamental principle behind the Chantry’s interference in the Circles of Thedas is, ostensibly, one of safety. They claim that the Templars exist to protect the mages - from external threats, from demonic temptation, and, if necessary, from themselves. The reality of course is that the Chantry oversees the Circles in order to control them.

The Chantry has at its fingertips a concentrated force of every healer and magic user powerful enough to present a threat to them. Thus, they stifle the possibility of rebellion. Thus, they wield more power across the Free Marches than any city-state.

Templars do not protect mages. Some might claim to do so, might even mean to do so. But throughout their training Templars are taught that mages are poisonous and corrupt, fallen from the Maker’s light, spurned by the mercy of Andraste. Combine this with the common side effects of the lyrium onto which they are weaned: obsession, paranoia, waking nightmares and delusion - and perhaps you can imagine how a Templar begins to abuse their charges.

Heavily armed as they are against unarmed mages as young as six, there is little that can be done to protect oneself from a Templar within the Circles. They see crimes and disobedience everywhere - agitated by their lyrium, haunted by their faith. And this is only those who would not otherwise have seen the opportunity to bully and intimidate hundreds of unarmed people and exploited it without hesitation.

Templars of both schools run rife throughout the Circles of Thedas - mad and cruel, they rarely see consequences for their actions. Instead, mages learn to live with these abuses, and do as they are told, even when what is asked for them is violent or humiliating. Even when it is a violation.

I repeat. There are mages in the Circles as young as six. Is this the will of Andraste?

The Freedom to Love

In the Circle, love is only a game. It gives the Templars too much power over the mages in their care if there is something they couldn’t stand to lose.

Can you imagine that? Being afraid to love, from childhood, for the rest of your life, for fear that you and your lover would be torn apart?

Over the centuries, mages have found other ways to share these things: coded languages and secret intimacies that are all we can borrow from the simple freedoms enjoyed by the people of Thedas outside our towers. We cannot marry, we cannot have children. We can only exchange secrets, and take one another’s hands in the hope that no one sees us.

If you are one of those who has loved a mage, you will understand something of the agony of this. If you have been in any way imprisoned, or abused, or enslaved, then you may well understand the things of which I speak. If you have not, I am afraid I cannot explain it. Only look at the people you love, and imagine being as afraid of your own affections as you are commanded by them. It is a terrible thing, to be afraid to love.

Instead, within the Circles, mages are forced to perform a twisted mockery of love. It is not uncommon for Templars to become fixated on one or more of their charges, driven by the madness of lyrium and obsession. The mages are asked to do ‘favours’ for their captors. I will not detail the nature of these things. Suffice it to say that there are children in our Circles, and that these are things that should never be asked under threat of violence, from anyone.

Tranquility

The Rite of Tranquility is intended to protect a mage and those around them from suffering the devastating effects of demonic temptation. It is, legally, meant to be used only on mages who have not passed their Harrowing. A mage who has passed their Harrowing has proven, at risk of their own life, that they are able to resist the many dangers of demons in the Fade.

However - not only have multiple mages who have passed their Harrowing been illegally made Tranquil, many more have been prevented from undergoing their Harrowing in order to force a Rite of Tranquility on mages deemed troublesome or, in too many unsavoury cases, desirable, by their Templar keepers.

Some mages request the Rite of Tranquility. This, to an uninformed reader, might be difficult to understand. I must remind you: we are taught from birth that we are poison. Corrupted. Demonic. Evil. We repeat these lessons daily. We are taught to love Andraste, we are taught that she despises and fears us. The most common cause of death for mages in a Circle is suicide. It is not difficult to find books on parenting in Thedas that suggest drowning a child is a better fate than letting them live with magic.

I am sure that there are some mages who make the choice to become Tranquil with a clear mind and peace in their hearts. But I am also sure that there are many who make the choice out of fear and self-hatred, sickness of the mind and grief of the heart.

Imagine how unhappy you must be to willingly forego the right to dream, to love, to laugh, to live freely and with feeling as you once did, only in order to cut away a part of yourself.

Then imagine that you could not, would not part with those things. Imagine the anger that has kept you alive when you were in danger, the grief you felt for those you lost, the love you have for your companions. Remember the joy you feel when you dance. Imagine these things being taken from you, against your will, because you disagreed with a Templar.

The Rite of Tranquility is unjust.

Every mage in Thedas fears it, and the Tranquil themselves - who are still thinking, living, breathing people - are treated as little more than slaves. At best, they are tolerated. But they receive no care, no reprieve. They make convenient workers because they do not possess the desire to protest. So they work.

If the mages of Thedas are to be free, the Rite of Tranquility must be abolished.

If the people of Thedas are to be free, we must treat the Tranquil with respect and dignity, as we should do to all. They are people. They must be treated as such.

Revolution and Freedom

It has often been said that if those who are oppressed seek freedom, they must pursue their cause with non-violent means. It strikes the writer that it has most often been said by those who wish to perpetuate oppression, or else live among the ranks of those powerful and privileged enough to live freely and safe from harm.

Who, in our society, defines what we count as violence?

Is it violent to imprison someone for the rest of their life because of who they are?

Is it violent to remove children from their parents?

Is it violent to force lovers apart?

Is Tranquility violence?

Peace is, always, an ideal to which we must aspire. Violence is chaotic and unpredictable. It is not moral. It cannot be moral. None of us can ever predict the true consequences of our actions.

However, if one group of people assigns moral superiority to their own violence and calls it Justice, what must we do then?

We are asked, told, taught, to turn the other cheek as we are beaten. Our priests demand that we accept our suffering as divine, even when it is borne from the hands of men.

I do not wish to start a war. It has already begun. I only want it to end.

We cannot defeat an army without violence. Others have tried. They were murdered.

My people are dying. Our people are dying. Children are dying.

We must fight.

It will not be perfect. It will not be right. The greatest lie ever told is that there is morality in violence. There is only suffering, and survival.

But I am a man, and I love my people. I want to survive. I want to be free.

I believe it is the right of every person, in every land, to live freely, to love freely, and to exist without fear of abuse.

If you agree, reader, I have one final question.

Will you join me?

[sketches-of-stories]

The Incorruptible Corrupted Words: 10,262 WARNING Mild descriptions of gore Mention of attempted suicide Possibly inaccurate French AND Multiple flashbacks YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Just days ago, Maximilien de Robespierre was the most feared man in all of France. A mere word could result in a man being sent to his death. Now, the once great orator sits silent and alone in a dark cell, his jaw shattered from a failed suicide attempt and his once-impeccable clothes a grisly blood-stained mess. Clinging to life and awaiting Madame Guillotine's blade in the cell that once housed his enemy, Marie Antoinette, he watches his country at war with itself and wonders if everything he did 'for the good of France,' was worth it.

~Chapitre Une~

"Maxime," she'd said laughing and pulling the book from his hand. "Come outside! You can't hide away and read forever!"

"Yes, I most certainly can Gabrielle," he'd said hotly, snatching it back and reopening it to page 394. "And besides it's cold outside. I'd rather read in front of the fire where it's nice and warm!" She'd stuck out her lower lip in a mock pout. Maximilien tried to ignore her but finally couldn't help himself. He laughed and stuck out his tongue.

"Besides, you spend too much time reading such boring things. Who cares about," Gabrielle paused to think. "Rousseau. Yes! Who cares about him anyway?"

"Personally I find his ideas quite interesting." Once again Gabrielle reached for Maximilien's book. This time he noticed her hand and carefully moved the book out of her reach.

"S'il vous plaît. Please, Maxime. Jacques even has a new sled. You can't tell me you don't want to try it out. I know all the other boys back at your fancy school would. And I'm sure your grandparents won't mind. They like me." She fluttered her eyelashes exaggeratedly.

"Fine," Maximilien said, trying and failing to sound annoyed at his oldest friend. "I'll go put on something warm. Just don't let anyone see you this time." He grinned and adopted the self-important tone Gabrielle's father often used around those he deemed inferior. "It's not proper for a girl to go sledding, especially at ten years old." Gabrielle laughed again.

"For as serious as you usually are, you can be pretty funny Maxime! Jacques and I will meet you at the usual hill in ten minutes!" He'd nodded eagerly and watched as Gabrielle walked through the door to rejoin her brother who was waiting outside. Maximilien smiled to himself, looking fondly at the fading forms belonging to two of his best friends. Gabrielle and Jacques could be patient for another minute or two. Carefully he opened his book again and resumed reading.

Maximilien Robespierre awoke for the third time in several hours to the searing pain coming from his shattered jaw. He took a deep shuddering breath to calm his nerves and leaned his head against the cold stone wall behind him. From inside the cell, you couldn't even tell that it was Thermidor. He shivered, although not from the cold.

The memory of Gabrielle and their shared childhood had been rather unexpected. He hadn't seen her other than in passing since the unfortunate execution of her brother. When was that, he asked himself running one hand through his blood-clotted hair and brushing a chestnut lock from his eyes. A year ago? He sighed, the simple act sending a shooting pain through his shattered jaw. It was almost impossible to tell. The stress of leading the Révolution had turned days into what felt like years.

The day had been hot, so it had to have been at least late spring. His cravat had been soaked with sweat and the heat added to the tension had made the whole affair worse than it needed to be. And of course, Gabrielle had overreacted. She'd acted as though they were executing her brother on a mere whim. And bright though she was, she had thought something as senseless as a childhood spent together would keep him from executing a dangerous counter-revolutionary, loyal only to the monarchy.

"Let him go! Please let him go Maxime," Gabrielle had sobbed into his shoulder. Still, Maximilien had stayed firm, wrapping his arms awkwardly around his friend's shaking body and praying that no one would see them in the unfortunate position.

"Je suis désolé. I am sorry but we cannot do that." He took a deep breath. He'd known this would happen. Gabrielle would try to save Jacques. She'd always been a strong-willed girl and Jacques had always been her favorite sibling. And of course, she wouldn't understand why it had to be done. In her mind his closeness to her and Jacques as children should have overruled his loyalty to the revolution."He is a monarchist and a dangerous man. He was raving about how the people were safer under the king's rule! We cannot allow-"

"You can allow whatever you want Maxime and you know it! They trust you! All of them do. You have them wrapped around your little finger! They'll do whatever you want them to! Let Jacques go! You know he meant nothing by what he said! He's always been rash, even when we were children playing in the streets of Arras. Please." Tears forming in her eyes, she took his hands in hers. "Do it for me Maxime." Maximilien answered with a slight shake of his head and had dropped her hands.

"Gabrielle, listen. If Jacques were part of our cause, if he were dedicating his life to France the way we are then-" She cut him off with a ruthless glare, her flashing eyes piercing him like icy blue spears.

"If he were a part of your cause," Gabrielle had said mockingly. "If he were a part of your precious Jacobin club or your Paris Commune, then you would let him live!" Her voice rose higher and higher with every syllable until she was shouting. "He's one of your closest childhood friends! Is that not as important as your politics? How could you not let him live? And if not for him, why not for me?"

"He supported the monarchy! That makes him an enemy of the revolution," Maximilien shouted back with equal force. He fleetingly thought of the Duplays, the family he rented his room from, who were eating supper in the room below. They had always praised his quiet habits, but now could probably hear the shouting match above them. For once he abandoned all thought of reputation and fonts his rant. "I'm doing what's best for the country. We're not just killing him for no reason! It's for the revolution! Why can't you see that? Everything's for the revolution! It's the only way we'll be free of tyranny!" He'd paused and taken a much-needed breath. "If it were best for the revolution," he said, more quietly now. "If it were best for the people and the revolution I would sacrifice myself. You know I-"

"Ah yes," she yelled triumphantly, cutting him off. "There! You've gone and said it yourself! Everything's for the revolution! You don't care about anything else! I hate you and I hate your stupid revolution," Gabrielle screamed. She lunged forward. Startled by her sudden movement, Maximilien couldn't process what was happening until he felt her hand hard and red hot against his cheek. He staggered backward, one hand pressed against the stinging side of his face. "I hate you, Maximilien Robespierre! I hate you and your Jacobins and the whole Commune! I hope you all rot in hell! And to think that we used to be friends. At one point," she'd breathed, her eyes still filled with contempt, tears and now a twinge of regret. "At one point I wished we'd been more than friends. Although you were always too preoccupied with your law office and later the revolution to court anyone properly." It had taken Maximilien a moment to realize what she'd meant. Suddenly it clicked, and he opened his mouth, desperate to say something to save the situation.

"Don't you understand," he asked, frantically trying to grab her wrist and make her stay, or see reason, or anything really. "I'm not doing this for me. It's for the good of the people! It's for the good of France!" It had been too late. Gabrielle had already stormed out the door. He'd heard her apologizing to the Duplays for the noise and thanking them for allowing her to visit. After watching her fading form from the window he'd cursed and aggressively pulled the quill from his ink-pot, signing his name on the death warrant and repeating over and over again that he was in the right.

The next day he hadn't attended the daily executions at the place de la révolution.

Could there have been some truth in what Gabrielle had said, he asked himself, his green eyes half-closed. Was the revolution really the only thing he had cared about? Was executing one of his best friends from childhood really for the benefit of France? After all, not only Jacques had died because of the revolution. Danton and Desmoulins who had also been among his closest friends, and fellow revolutionaries for a time, had died as well.

But something justified it, a stronger voice in his mind said. They wanted to end the revolution prematurely before it had even reached its full potential. They were for it at first, yes, but they turned against you and the revolution.

He thought of Camille, the boy he had helped with his stuttering when they were in school who grew into the young man who had believed in him and the revolution so much, and finally the father who had made him the godfather of his only child. He thought of Danton, who had been his friend, a father to three children, and an extraordinary revolutionary until his disapproval of the Terror.

Maximilien laughed bitterly at the thought of his dead friends, only to grimace in pain and choke on the blood that was pouring in from his shattered jaw, the metallic taste filling his mouth. The blood of Danton chokes you, his enemies called to him once. Now it was his own blood that he choked on.

A tear slid down his cheek and into the filthy bandage that held his jaw in place. It had been years since he'd allowed himself to cry. He had needed to maintain his reputation and powerful revolutionary leaders did not cry. Now it didn't matter. He was no longer "L'incorruptible", the most feared and respected man in all of France. He no longer held power. Instead, they view him as a tyrant; an enemy of the state. An enemy of the very government he helped create.

A sob left Maximilien's lips. It all was too much. Once again, the pain became unbearable and he fell back into unconsciousness. 

~Chapitre Deux~

How ironic." The larger than life form of his old friend Georges Danton sat across from him, grinning nastily. "How hilariously funny." Maximilien stared in shock.

"You... you're supposed to be dead! We executed you!" His hands shook. "We guillotined you!" Danton laughed harshly. Maximilien had rarely been on the reviving end of Danton's condescending laugh.

"I know. You executed me. Me, a man who was once your friend. And now that's what they will do to you. Yes. You, their once-great 'Incorruptible.' A thin red cut drew itself across Danton's wide throat. He smiled grimly, the scars from his nearly fatal childhood warping his face, just as they had done during life. Slowly, with Maximilien staring in mute horror, the cut deepened. Maximilien swallowed hard and tried to look away but sat frozen in terror. Danton's head fell from his shoulders and rolled onto the floor, blood soaking his clothes and pooling beneath the head near his feet. Maximilien screamed.

"This will happen to you," Danton's deep voice said, echoing in his ears. "This is what will happen to you." Maximilien covered his ears, but it was a fruitless attempt. "You're going to die like this. Just the way I did. How ironic."

Maximilien woke up in a cold sweat, his light brown hair plastered to his forehead. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and rested his head gingerly in his hands. What a god awful dream, he thought to himself, trying to push the haunting image of his former friend's decapitated head from his mind.

The stubborn man never knew when to back down or shut up, not even when faced with his own death. Maximilien remembered the story Danton had told him from his childhood about the time he'd been trampled and nearly killed by his family's pigs. All because he wanted to prove to his sister that he wasn't a coward. Out of all the names he'd been called during his life, a coward was the only thing Danton refused to stand for.

"Georges," Maximilien had groaned in annoyance for the fourth time in the last hour. "You can't physically fight one of the other members of the Convention because they insulted you." The bigger man scowled and continued to roughly push his way through the crowd exiting the building. "And you've got to stop swearing during the meetings."

"They're accusing me of being a coward! I've put my damn life on the line for the fucking revolution countless times! And this is what I get!" He shouldered one last person out of the way, sending him sprawling, and stormed over to the carriage that he had taken that morning. 

"Don't take it to heart Georges. They say it even to the best of us. What did you even say this time to get them so worked up?"

"I said it's time to stop the fucking Terror. People are afraid and it's just getting worse! You and I both-"

"No." Maximilien had cut him off sharply, his voice losing it's warm tone of a friend and descending into cold detachment. "Terror is doing exactly what it needs to do. It's for the good of the people. You need to get that think head where it needs to be and remember that you're doing this for France, not yourself. And remember that no one has forgotten about those bribes you took, regardless of how long ago you took them." A tense silence fell between them for a few seconds. Maximilien sighed and continued in a tired voice. "Go home Georges. Before you get into any more trouble today, my friend."

Danton, he told himself in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, was no longer a revolutionary when he'd been executed. Everyone who really truly cared about the revolution knew the Terror was necessary. Danton had not agreed. It was obvious that if he would not aid them with what needed to be done, then he had turned against them and needed to be eliminated.

And it wasn't as if it had hurt to kill a friend, much less two in a single day. He remembered that he had eaten nothing the day they condemned Danton and Desmoulins nor the day they had been executed, ignoring the fact that he skipped most meals he could get away with anyway. But despite their friendship, Danton and Desmoulins had still needed to die. If they had executed people based on raw emotions rather than the needs of the people the revolution wouldn't have lasted so long. If only they'd all been a bit more careful.

After all, the people were the reason for everything. People like his sisters and brother who had lived their whole lives off of chance opportunities and his own hard work to provide for them. People like the young boy who had begged him for spare change every morning back in Arras. People like them made up the entirety of the third estate, which in turn made up the majority of France itself. They were the reason things needed to change.

There were other people of course. The members of the first estate, the clergy. The men with positions of power that they claimed were 'for the glory of God.' Yet each of them had their own dark secrets. There were the priests who embezzled their church's money instead of helping those in need. There were the ones with the bastard sons and daughters that they hid from the scathing public eye. All of them leading lives of deception only to turn around and claim to be better than the rest.

And of course the worst of all, people like the late Roi and Reine and their court, whose lavish spendings and poor decisions had ruined the country.

Maximilien closed his eyes and sat in silence for a moment. Something Danton had said in the dream nagged at his mind. How ironic. Danton's voice filled his mind again. Maximilien had to admit that in this aspect, Danton was right. 

His life had always been full of cruel irony. Those he cared about had been executed for the good of France, and he now awaited the same fate for a supposed same reason. For the past several months he'd seen conspiracies to overthrow him everywhere. While some were true, most were not and the people who were fed up with him had eventually done the thing he had feared. He'd saved France from the corruption that was the monarchy by creating the new French Republic in which everyone could be free. Now those who had once cheered his actions called him a tyrant, a man concerned only with his power grabbing self-interests and imprisoned. And, he told himself with a painful sneer, the most glaring of them all. The time I read a speech as a schoolboy in honor of the king, the very man I helped overthrow.

"Maximilien please see me after class. I need to speak to you about something." Maximilien's heart had nearly stopped. It was rarely a good sign for someone to stay after class. 

"Yes, Monsieur Antoine," he'd breathed. The rest of the lesson had gone slowly as if purposely causing him more anxiety than needed. It wasn't as if I've done something wrong, he reasoned with himself. And my marks aren't low enough to cause any concern. In fact, they're better than most of my peer's marks. His gaze had to have wandered because a sharp, "Eyes up front de Robespierre," had resounded from the front of the room. Many of the other young men snickered. It was a small but rare pleasure to laugh at someone who never misbehaved. He'd sat up straighter then, heat and a light blush creeping up his pale cheeks, across his ears, and down his neck. "Pardon Monsieur," he'd muttered, shepherding  his thoughts back to the lecture. When the lecture had finally ended, Maximilien had slowly made his way to the front of the room.

"You... you wanted to see me monsieur," he'd said anxiously, the note of panic evident in his voice. His fingers figitted with the geaming buttons on his coat.

"Yes, I did. As I'm sure you know, their royal majesties the Roi and Reine will be visiting us here in a couple of days." Silently he had nodded, wondering what this had to do with him. "We have been asked to have a student read a speech, of my composition, in Latin for them on that day. The headmaster and I have both agreed that you will be the one to read the speech and represent all of the students here." It had left Maximilien stunned. He blinked several times and found his voice with a shake of his head.

"I'm sorry Monsieur, but I thought I just heard you say that I was to read the speech before the King and Queen." Monsieur Antoine had laughed good naturedly and put a hand on Maximilien's thin shoulder.

"That is exactly what I said, dear boy. You are one of the best orators that we have here. It would be unthinkable to have any of our other fine young men perform such an honorable task." Maximilien grinned, his feelings for the monarchy temporarily absent and replaced with pride.

He had practiced daily for his speech, he remembered fondly. It has been the highest honor at the time. How he wished he could go back to that day. Back in the days before all of France watched anything he did. No matter, he told himself bitterly. It will all be over soon. Oh God, he thought, realization sweeping over him. It will all be over soon.

Maximilien's heart raced. His breathing became shallow and ragged, the stale air barely reaching his lungs. Terrified, his green eyes darted around the dimly lit cell. This can't be happening, he thought wildly. This can't be the end. Tears filled his eyes. Non, he screamed internally. No, no, no! This can't be happening! Shhhhh, a quieter voice in his mind said. Think of something else. Think of anything else but this.

Maximilien's hand had shaken as he held the piece of parchment with his speech written on it. There was no room for error. The speech's execution had to be perfect. He had paced in the corner of the crowded courtyard muttering the speech over and over for over an hour. The carriage had arrived in a fanfare of trumpets from the school band. Maximilien had watched awestruck, as a well-dressed man in light blue livery opened the ornate door to the carriage.

"We welcome you with honor your majesties," the headmaster said with a deep bow in the direction of the carriage. Maximilien had tried to push his way farther to the front, but to no avail. Oh no, he'd thought in despair. It's almost my cue and... A hand had closed around his wrist and pulled him through the throng of students. "I have the utmost honor to present to you, one of our aspiring lawyers and greatest orators, Maximilien de Robespierre." On his cue, Maximilien had found himself at the front of the crowd, the hand no longer tight around his wrist. Monsieur Antoine had gently pushed the young man forward and positioned him in front of the open door.

The king didn't even get out. He's just sitting there amongst his finery and paying me no mind, Maximilien had thought angrily. He's sitting there with all of his riches, not having a care in the world, while I struggled to even afford my f*cking schooling! He had pushed the anger aside, mentally chided himself for swearing and reminded himself of what he had been chosen to do. 

"Honorable majesties," Maximilien had said with a deep bow, his voice carrying no trace of his resentment. "Thank you for gracing us here at College Louis la Grande with your noble presence." And with that, he had looked up into the round face of the man he would later help condemn to death. 

~Chaptier 3~

Finally, Maximilien's pulse and breathing slowed back to normal. Reminiscing had helped. He took a deep breath and carefully leaned his forehead against his knees. He needed to just come to terms with his impending death. It was inevitable. He shuddered again, remembering his horrific dream. Had he really been so cruel as to execute one of his friends? And to justify it by claiming that it was for the good of France? Maybe he deserved to die. He'd failed not only his friends but his mother as well.

"Maxime," his mother had said to him years ago, laying pale and ghostlike in her bed. One of her thin hands was clasped tightly in young Maximilien’s. He let go momentarily and unceremoniously crawled into the bed beside her, nestling himself in a fetal position and grabbing her hand again. She stroked his hair slowly, as if the simple act was the most difficult thing in the world. "Do you promise to do everything in your power to protect Charlotte, Henriette, and Augustin? They're all younger than you and will need your support as a brother more than ever." The young boy had nodded as solemnly as a six-year-old could, his wide eyes trained on the sweat soaked form of his mother. Until an hour or so earlier he had believed that he was to gain a new sibling, not lose one and his mother as well.

"Oui Maman," he'd said, tears filling his green eyes. "I promise." She had smiled faintly down at her son, then motioned for him to leave the room.

"I love you, Maximilien," she'd breathed on his way out. “I love you and I always will.”

"I love you too Maman."

She died later that day, Maximilien thought sadly. She died, father left us to drink his sorrows away, and together they left us to live with any family member who would take us. And I've done a terrible job honoring my promise. The horrific image of his brother leaping headfirst out of a second-floor window flashed through his mind. Not wanting to dwell on it, he thought back to his childhood and the days he'd spent with Jacques, Gabrielle, and his siblings. His troubles then seemed so trivial now, like the time his sisters accidentally caused the death of one of his pigeons.

"Please Maxime," Charlotte had begged, standing in the doorway, blocking him. "Let me borrow one of your pigeons! I'll be good to it I swear!" Maximilien had frowned, angrily crossed his arms, then uncrossed them again, trying to gently push past his sister.

"Non! Absolutely not! I don't trust you with them! They need extensive care!"

"What does that mean," she'd asked puzzled. Maximilien had sighed exasperatedly and recrossed his arms impatiently. Charlotte often didn't know what 'big' words meant and he'd always have to explain them to her.

"It means they need a lot of care and you won't be getting them. They aren't little dolls to be played with!" Charlotte had nodded earnestly, her shoulder length brown curls bouncing up and down.

"I know that Max! I'll feed it every day! Just like you do. Heniette can remind me.” Maximilien seriously doubted that the seven year old girl would be any help. “And I'll only hold it the way that you've shown me. Please, Maxime?" 

"Fine," he'd said shortly, glaring at his sister. "Anything to shut you up. Have our aunts not taught you any manners? But if anything happens to it, anything at all, I'll never let you borrow my birds or anything else again. Do you understand?" Charlotte had turned and started down the hall to where Henriette was standing. Maximilien had grabbed her thin wrist and she'd turned back to face him. "Charlotte! Do you understand?" She had nodded once, then took off running down the stairs yelling for her sister.

Days later, when his aunts had brought his sisters to visit again him and their grandparents, the girls were surprisingly quiet. Charlotte and Henriette had shuffled over to where he had been reading, tears in their eyes. Immediately Maximilien was suspicious. They'd done something to the bird.

"Maximilien," Charlotte had whispered, always the spokesperson of the two. "We... we're sorry. We left the bird outside because we wanted it to feel free. Then it started storming and we were called inside. Neither of us thought about the pigeon." His hands clenched around the cover of the book and his look had turned stony.

"I told you," he said reproachfully. "I told you that you'd be bored of it after a few days! I never should have lent it to you."

I was angry with them for days, Maximilien thought, wanting nothing more than to laugh. I refused to talk to them when they came to visit and complained about them to Camille, Gabrielle, and Jacques every chance I had. Augustin had thought it was amusing and relentlessly teased the girls about it.

He shifted his head, trying to be as gentle as possible but to no avail. A sharp pain shot through his jaw and across his whole face.. This is an awful constant, he thought wearily. Of all the idiotic things I've done, this has to be one of the worst, if not the worst. I can't wait to be rid of it. Oh wait, he thought bitterly. I can. If it's gone, I'm dead. He sighed heavily, then winced in pain. 

Gone were the days when he was called "the Incorruptible." Gone was the time long before when he and Camille Desmoulins had laughed at a classmate's terrible test score. Gone was the time when the worst thing he had ever done was when he’d swear behind the house with Jacques and Gabrielle, his first friends. Gone was the time he and Camille had spent their school days together, reading together outside in the sun and wondering what their lives as adults would be like. Ah, Camille. A friend who, like many of his others, had died for the so-called good of the French people.

"De R-Robespierre," Camille had whispered from the seat beside his own, his ever-present stutter still noticeable. Maximilien looked up from his notes and frowned slightly at the interruption. If the two were caught whispering during a lecture they'd be done for. Monsieur Antoine was in an absolutely dreadful mood that day. "M-maxime,"Camille whispered a little louder. "What did you g-get on the exam?"

"I got everything correct," Maximilien whispered sharply. "Now would you be so kind as to shut up? If we get caught, there'll be hell to pay." Camille had sighed and turned away from his friend and faced the front once again, a strand of curly brown hair falling into his face. Maximilien had redirected his attention back to the lesson.

"Maximilien," Camille had said again some moments later, slightly louder this time. "I h-have something f-funny to t-tell you." Maximilien had scowled. It was unusual for Camille, who was normally an incredibly attentive student, to be trying to tell him something in class.

"What," he muttered sharply under his breath, trying to shut his friend up. Camille grinned victoriously. He always loved winning, especially against Maximilien, even if it was over something as trivial as this.

"Did you h-hear what score Alexandre got on t-the exam?" Maximilien had shaken his head slightly. What is Camille getting at, he asked himself as he glanced at the board. "Take a g-guess. Take a w-wild guess Maxime." Alexandre Charpentier was an exceptional student, even rivaling Maximilien himself at times. No doubt he had gotten every question correct. Camille simply wanted to tease him again.

"Let me guess," he muttered, careful not to let Monsieur Antoine, who was scanning the room,  notice him speaking. "He also got everything correct." Camille's mischievous grin had widened. 

"Non! Not even close," he'd whispered gleefully. "He d-d-didn't even get ANY of them right!" Maximilien had stared at Camille. There was no way, he thought to himself. None.

"Class is dismissed for the day," Monsieur Antoine had said, snapping the boys back to attention. "Do not forget to turn in your essays on the way out." Maximilien had turned his attention to his bag for a few seconds, fishing out the essay in question. 

"C-can you believe it Maxime," Camille had asked gleefully as they left the classroom. "He failed it!" Maximilien had laughed and smiled along with his friend.

"It is rather hard to believe isn't it," he'd said, wrapping an arm around Camille's thin shoulders. "At first I thought you were just trying to mock me again." Camille had turned to him, attempting to keep a hurt expression on his face.

"H-how rude of you! You h-hold me to such low standards! Me, mock you? I'd never," he'd said unable to keep himself from laughing. Maximilien frowned slightly. "Oh, Max! W-what would I do without you?"

"Probably end up dead on the road because you were reading instead of watching where you're going."

"Probably. It's a good thing I keep you around then." 

No Camille, Maximilien thought. It's not a good thing you kept me around. I've become a terrible person. Don't associate yourself with me anymore. A new, harsher voice entered his mind. We killed them, remember, Maximilien thought to himself. We executed Camille, we executed Danton, and if I remember correctly, we executed Charpentier at some point as well. They're all dead. All it seemed he could do anymore was kill people he had loved. 

All of my friends are dead, Maximilien thought. All of them except for Saint-Just, and he's as good as dead. It's only a matter of time now. Saint-Just was so young. Too young to die and only in his twenties. But somehow he, with his extraordinary revolutionary fervor, had managed to send himself to an early grave. And he'd been so good at it. He'd been a perfect example of what the other revolutionaries should have been.

He thought of the first time he met Saint-Just with a painful smile. He'd been impulsive and eager to please in those days. Even before they'd met, Saint-Just had written him a letter saying, "I know you the way I know God, through your miracles." It had flattered Maximilien, but he'd been sure it was only that. Flattery that could get the young man anywhere. Shockingly enough when the two finally met in person Saint-Just had been just as sincere in everything he said. The young man seemed to worship the very ground I walked on for the first few weeks, Maximilien remembered fondly. And everything he did was always for the revolution or the good of the people. If only the rest of us could have been as perfect a revolutionary as he was. 

The sound of footsteps outside in the corridor halted Maximilien's thoughts. Fighting through the pain, Maximilien snapped his head up. No, he thought hastily. No! It can't be time yet! It can't! There's so much left for the revolution! There are so many things I can do for France! His pulse sped up, and he felt his hands start to shake. The footsteps grew nearer and nearer, but to Maximilien's surprise, they didn't stop outside of his cell. He was still safe, his head still attached to his body. For now, he reminded himself. My head is attached for now.

~Chapitre Quatre~

Other than the pain I'm in, the waiting is the worst part of this experience, Maximilien thought to himself.  He'd been sitting alone in the dark for what seemed like days, with only his shattered jaw and broken memories as companions. Although, he told himself, that's better than being with others in the sun on my way to the guillotine. 

Days ago he never would have imagined this. At the time he was on top of the world, leading the people of France to victory against their oppressors and assisting the Committee of Public Safety with their work. Now the people of France had him locked away, awaiting the same death so many of them once had.

They will be cheering, Maximilien predicted, holding his broken head in his hands. It'll be the same as when the king was executed. They'll cheer and smile and wave their tricolored flags in every direction. Some little child will ask what's going on and his parents will tell him that it's the end of a dictatorship. He'll have no idea what's really happening, but he'll smile and nod and run through the legs of the crowd with his little friends, trying to get a glimpse of what's going on. He'll play with the other children and cover his ears at the sound of a head falling into the basket, but still will cheer with the others because his parents are so why shouldn't he!

Saint-Just and I will be last. I'm sure of it. The ‘evil’ leaders being forced to see what exactly they’d caused. Agustin will obviously be near the front. They'll want to make me watch him die of course. It will be the same way they had to watch their brothers, sisters, parents, and children die, but for a less noble cause. As much as it pains me, I almost wish he had died, leaping out of that window. 

The thought of Augustin made him shudder. It was almost impossible to think of his brother without remembering the horrific events from the previous night. Stupid Augustin, Maximilien thought. He'd never known when he'd said too much, drank too much wine, or had joked about something too serious. He always went to an extreme. Yesterday it just happened to be jumping out of a window.

"They have the building surrounded, Citoyen Robespierre," Saint-Just had said, entering the tension filled room. Maximilien looked up from where he sat, lost in frightening thoughts. "There is almost no chance of escape. They could begin breaking in at any moment." For the first time in many years, Maximilien had felt true fear. Trying to maintain his reputation in front of the few that still supported him, he took a deep breath and attempted to remain calm.

"Are you sure," he had asked, a note of panic evident in his voice despite his efforts to remain calm. Saint-Just had nodded. Of course, he was sure, Maximilien had thought. He's just looked out the window. Unsurprisingly my nerves are getting a hold of me. "Then we need to be ready just in case they make their way up to us." He'd picked his pistol up from the top of his desk and loaded it.

"They've broken in," one of the armed men had shouted as he threw the door open. "We can only hold them off for so long." Gunshots and loud screams had rung out from the lower floors inciting panic in the men above.

"We're going to die," one of the younger men had moaned from the corner. "They're going to kill us all!" Maximilien had wanted to say something reassuring; to tell them that everything would be fine, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. There was nothing he could do to save the situation. 

The gunshots and sounds of fighting were right outside the door when Maximilien felt his knees give out. His heart raced more than it ever had. Faster, faster, faster. Every beat possibly his last.

"I don't know about the rest of you," Augustin had said, looking around at the others. "But-" He had been cut off by a loud crash that had resounded from outside in the hallway. Several of the other men had also drawn their various weapons. Maximilien had swallowed hard and gritted his teeth, picking himself up off the ground. After several minutes of intense fighting outside the door, the armed soldiers had forced their way into the room. Chaos ensued.

"Citoyen Robespierre," someone had called. "Run!" Maximilien had laughed bitterly. He was stuck in there just as much as the rest of them.

"Maxime," Augustin had shouted across the room, barely audible. "I'm not letting them take me alive. I want you to know that-" The rest of what he had been saying was drowned out. It had seemed to satisfy him, however, and with one last sad smile to his brother and a cry of, "Vive la Révolution! Vive la Maximilien Robespierre," he dived headfirst out of the window. 

Maximilien wasn't sure how long after Augustin had jumped he had done it, but he remembered through all the chaos putting the gun to his head and telling himself that they wouldn’t have the satisfaction of getting to him alive. Nothing he had done during the revolution was anything but necessary. If they couldn’t see it, then perhaps they didn’t deserve it. For one dark moment, a millisecond really, he’d weighed his options. 

He shuddered. Perhaps if he hadn't done it he would have made them see reason. Maybe he could have made another speech. That had been the very thing to get them into this mess. He shifted awkwardly, absentmindedly putting one hand gingerly on his wounded jaw. Everything hurt. His back was sore from sitting on the hard stone ground for so long. His jaw was a terrible splitting pain that made it hard to stay conscious. His head pounded both from not wearing his glasses and his shattered jaw.

The first time Maximilien had fired a gun had been a little more than a year before, an affair with quiet instruction and light touches from Saint-Just. He’d felt obligated to teach me so I could keep myself safe. A man like me is never safe, especially from himself. All Antoine wanted was to protect me like a good friend, Maximilien thought to himself. And just like Camille, I betrayed him too.

“Maxime,” Saint-Just panted, running up to him and his Augustin from behind with his footsteps echoing in the nearly empty hallway. “Maxime wait up!” Maximilien stopped, his face lighting up at the sound of his friend. Augustin laughed, nudging his brother who blushed and hit him playfully on the arm. 

“Antoine! You’re back early! How was your trip? You look, ah, well.” Saint-Just, Maximilien noticed, was tired and mud spattered but grinning wider than he’d ever seen.

“The army is in little position to fight. However, morale is high and numbers are low but rising! Soon they’ll be ready to bring glory to the République!” Saint-Just fell in step with them and continued. “Although Maxime, I was thinking about you for most of the trip.” Augustin stifled a laugh and leaned over to his brother’s ear.

“I’ll leave you and your beau to it then,” he whispered with a mischievous grin as Maximilien glared at him. “At least nothing but rumors can come of it.” He straightened and nodded to Saint-Just. “It was nice seeing you again Antoine. I’ll leave you with my brother. I have elsewhere to be.” 

“Au revoir Augustin,” Saint-Just said either ignoring or not having heard the jests. “Anyway, back to what I was saying Maxime. I was thinking of you, and how unsafe it is here in Paris. The people are restless and it’s making them dangerous. You’re too important to both me and the revolution to have anything happen to you.” Maximilien shook his head and turned to his friend.

“Non. To you perhaps, but not the revolution. There are other men with other talents useful for the good of France. You flatter me too much Antoine.” Saint-Just laughed softly, a peaceful smile directed at Maximilien resting on his lips.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit Maxime. You’re the most powerful man in France. You’ve practically led the revolution!” The two men walked in silence for a moment, enjoying each other’s company, before Saint-Just spoke again. “Maximilien? Do you know how to properly shoot?” Maximilien stopped, slightly surprised. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it with a shake of his head. There had been no point denying it. Saint-Just had already known his answer. “Well it's time someone shows you then. Come on!”

Hours later, Maximilien had found himself leaving Saint-Just’s home with a smile on his face and an ill fated, yet hauntingly beautiful pistol, in his hand.

As soon as he had pulled the trigger, Maximilien had known he'd made a mistake. Instead of killing him instantly, someone had shoved past in an attempt to escape and caused the gun to shift lower. The bullet had embedded itself in his jaw. He had screamed animalistically as it shattered the bone, the pain overwhelming him and moving the broken fragments into agonizing positions. Black spots danced in front of him for a few seconds before the screams and gunshots and the blood-soaked room faded to blackness.

Maximilien closed his eyes. Unfortunately, Augustin was still alive. He was still alive and because of his stubbornness and unwavering support, he too was going to meet his end at the guillotine. Internally Maximilien cursed his stupid younger brother with too much loyalty and not enough self-preservation. He cursed the nobility and their contempt for the civilians and he cursed their supporters, the ones who had them imprisoned here and now. As terrible as it sounded, even to himself, he wished Augustin had died when he'd jumped. At least if he were dead he wouldn't have to suffer through the insults of the traitorous Parisians, he thought his hand curling into a fist at the thought.

Yet even innocent Augustin in his surely half living state did not have the worst fate. Antoine had it worse. He, as far as Maximilien knew, was as healthy as any other twenty six year old man. He couldn’t pray for the sweet release of unconsciousness to spare himself from his own thoughts. 

Maximilien shuddered involuntarily. I need to stop, he told himself firmly. I need to stop thinking about it. But while his voice combined with a few other men could persuade the people of Paris, and all of France, to execute their king and kill their friends, it couldn't persuade him to ignore the inevitable. His impending death and the deaths of those he loved most.

~Chapitre Cinq~

Maximilien opened his eyes, not realizing that they had been closed. He was tired. He was so damn tired. Maybe it'd be easier to sleep through his last hours. Perhaps they'd let him sleep on his way to the guillotine. There was no way he could walk or stand. Better to sleep through it all and wake up dead. Then he wouldn't have to endure the cheers of the people who once loved him.

He hoped Charlotte wouldn't be there. She’d already indured enough with Henriette’s death. She didn’t need to see the deaths of her last remaining family as well. Nothing good would come from it if she did attend. It wasn't as if there would last goodbyes. No. The twenty-two men would be fed to the bloodthirsty blade of Madame la Guillotine before the barbaric screaming crowd of vengeful Parisians.

I need it, Maximilien decided. I need to sleep. His head hurt too much. Not that I'll have to worry about that for much longer, he thought, softly laughing. He immediately regretted his decision. His jaw seared with pain and his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood, but after hundreds of mouthfuls of blood Maximilien was finding it easier to bear. He leaned contently against the cold wall and let himself fall asleep, far from his fears of death. 

"M-Maximilien," the stuttering voice of Camille Desmoulins said. Maximilien looked up in surprise to see him holding out one hand. "Bonjour. It's g-g-good to see you again."  Maximilien stretched out one hand to take it then paused, remembering what he’d done. Against his better judgement he took the other man’s hand in his after seeing Camille's reassuring smile. 

"I-," he stopped, tears filling his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to happen. Any of this! Not to you, or Georges, or… or anyone," Maximilien sobbed. Camille nodded sympathetically and embraced his shaking friend.

"It's ok M-maxime. I understand why you d-did it. Although I don't really appreciate it and I don’t think Georges does either." He smiled to show that he had no hard feelings. Maximilien half laughed, half hiccuped, feeling at ease in the presence of his old friend. 

“How’s little Horace? Have you found someone to look after my boy?” 

“Oui. He’s being well taken care of by Lucille’s sisters. I’ve tried to check on him, but they won’t even let me near the house.” The two sat in silence for a moment or two before Maximilien spoke again  "Did it... did it hurt,” he asked. “Dying I mean." Camille nodded gravely. A feeling of terror tore through Maximilien's body and he instinctively put one hand to his throat, eyes wide. Camille laughed.

"I'm only j-j-joking Maxime," he choked out, doubling over with laughter. "You should h-have seen your face!" Maximilian scowled.

"That's not very nice of you," he said pointedly. "I was terrified."

"You? The Incorruptible? Sc-scared? I bet," Camille said smirking. "And speaking of n-nice, I might not have been nice with m-my little joke, but neither were you and Saint-Just  for sending me to the g-guillotine!" Maximilian fiddled nervously with lace edge of his cravat. Of course, he would bring that up."But h-here we are I suppose."  Maximilian sighed exasperatedly. Trust Camille to make you feel bad about something then disregard it as nothing.

"What is it actually like," he asked. "Does it hurt?" Camille shook his head, a look of deep thought evident on his face.

"No. I don't think so anyway. Quicker and easier than falling asleep in my opinion. Unless falling asleep is hard for you. Then it's easier than that." Maximilien let out his breath slowly. At least he wasn't going to die painfully, but then again that was the reason the guillotine was invented. To be a 'more humane'  form of execution.

"I... I'm glad you and Georges didn't have to suffer. Can you ever forgive me for what I did?"  Camille grinned slyly.

"I might be able to, but I'm not sure if I can say the same for the rest of France."  Camille pulled Maximilien into a hug. "My god I've missed you. I'll see you soon, alright?" Tears streamed from Maximilien's eyes as he clung to his friend. After a short while, he nodded. "Be brave Maxime," Camille said as the dream faded away. "Be brave for me."

Maximilien woke to find his face wet with tears. He took a deep breath and carefully rubbed them from his face. There was no use crying anymore. Any moment they could come and take him to the guillotine. Then I'll be able to see Camille again! And Danton! And all the other people you killed, a nagging voice in his mind said.

No, Maximilien thought, scolding himself. You're wrong! I didn't kill them! We all did. It was put to a vote. While I did participate in it, I didn’t do it alone.

Once again footsteps echoed out in the hallway. Maximilien tensed at the sound. They drew closer and closer until they stopped outside of the cell door. Please no, he begged internally praying that they'd pass him by, just as they had the previous day. For a fleeting moment, he sat with bated breath until he heard the jingling of keys in the door's lock. It was over. His life, the revolution, his reminiscing. Everything.

"C'est l'heure Citizen Robespierre," the guard said softly, opening the door. "We have some men with us to help walk you to your transportation." Maximilien nodded shakily. I need to be brave, he told himself. I can do it. Two armed men entered the room and pulled him roughly to his feet. Dark spots danced before his eyes and a wave of nausea washed over him. "The carts are waiting outside," the guard said to the other two. "Bring him there. The others are waiting." 

"Come on, tyrant," one of the guards said, laughing. "Let's go." He shoved Maximilien forward, almost pushing him to the ground. Days ago they would have been executed for this behavior, Maximilien thought wistfully. Although anyone could have been executed for almost any reason then. 

The guards half marched, half dragged Maximilien through the building and outside to where multiple open carts waited. The others, he noticed while squinting into the sun, were already loaded into their respective carts. Saint-Just was one of the only men standing on his own. The others, including a bloody-faced Augustin, were being supported by more guards. Maximilien swallowed hard. Agustin was worse than he had imagined. His handsome features were all twisted at odd angles, dark bruises and deep cuts were all over his body, and his dark hair was matted with blood. A large bird circled overhead, looming and waiting for the death that would soon come. Maximilien shuddered. There was the reason he was fond of small birds. Again he thought fleetingly of his sisters again and the little bird they’d killed so many years ago.

With a guard's help, Maximilien took his place in the bloodstained open cart with Augustin. The hot Thermidor sun beat down on his head, sweat trickling down his neck. He breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh air and what were soon to be the last breaths he'd ever take. His brother shifted slightly at his right.

"Maxime," he whispered, a note of fear evident in his voice. "Maxime, I'm scared." Maximilien swallowed and slipped his bound hand into his brother's. No longer was Augustin his fellow revolutionary, and supporter. Now all Maximilien could see was the dirty little boy who had been so frightened of thunderstorms and spiders back at their home in Arras. The boy he’d sworn to protect. The one he was indirectly killing. 

"Me too," Maximilien whispered back, fighting through the pain it took to speak. That's the first time I've admitted it out loud, he realized as the cart started to roll. Never during any part of the revolution had he confessed his fears to someone else. Not to Camille, not to Danton, not even to Saint-Just, he thought incredulously. Then again, this is the most I've ever been scared.

~Chapiter Six~

Hoards of people lined the streets, screaming and cheering, all wanting to get one last look at Maximilien and his compatriots. The mixture of the heat, the noise, and the pain left him in a dizzy haze. The closer they got to the guillotine, the harder Augustin gripped his hand until Maximilien couldn’t feel it anymore.

"Vive la France! Kill the tyrant," someone in the crowd yelled, starting up a chorus of cheers. No, Maximilien thought. I'm not a tyrant. I was only trying to help you! And you the ones that voted! You voted for my policies! It wasn't all me!

If only I hadn't shot myself. If only we'd done things right! If only I hadn't been so careless! He wished he could say something. Anything to at least save Augustin and Saint-Just. They were the only ones left in the revolution that he truly cared about.

They want me to cry, Maximilien thought to himself. The people want to see me cry, or scream, or something. They want me to react, but I will not. I will not give them that satisfaction. I will do what I was forced to for all these years and hide my emotion to the end. With tears threatening to spill over, he stared straight ahead, as the people who once supported his ideas hurled insult after insult at him.

Augustin was shaking, he noticed dejectedly. His poor brother who was only in this situation because of him. The cart hit a pothole, jolting Maximilien to one side and causing a sharp pain to run through his shattered jaw. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lower lip to try to keep from crying out in pain. It didn't really work and a soft whimper left his lips. Unfortunately, the guards behind him noticed and laughed.

"Not so brave when you aren't protected by your followers are you," the one holding him up said mockingly. Maximilien ignored the remark as best he could and continued staring blankly ahead. They were getting closer. The overpowering scents of blood and death were thick in the Paris streets, constricting his throat, making it harder and harder to breathe. A few moments later the guillotine came into view, it's newly cleaned silver blade glinting evilly in the bright sunlight. Maximilien glanced over at his brother, whose tight grip on his hand had numbed his fingers. He was trembling.

"I'm sorry," Maximilien muttered, rubbing his thumb across the back of Augustin's hand, trying to move his mouth as little as possible. "I," he paused waiting for the pain to subside for a moment, "Only ever wanted to protect you and the girls." Augustin nodded, eyes fixated in terror on the growing crowd surrounding the guillotine. "It was my responsibility as the eldest. And I… I did a dreadful job of it." 

The carts in front of them began slowing to a stop in front of the blood-stained wooden platform. Weeks before, he never would have imagined himself here covered in blood awaiting his death and the deaths of his friends. With another painful jolt, his cart stopped abruptly. The crowd roared with delight as Sanson, the executioner, motioned for the first victim to come forward. He was the young man who had panicked at la Hotel de Ville, Maximilien noticed at first glance. He was sobbing, struggling against the soldiers marching him up the stairs. 

"Please," he screamed, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. "Please don't. I have a family!"

"So did I," an enraged female voice from the crowd yelled back at him. "Until you killed my husband and our son!" Maximilien winced. There'd be no mercy today, not that he expected any. He watched sadly as the struggling young man was strapped in place and his neck was secured in place. The blade fell. Maximilien heard a faint squelching noise followed directly by a thud. He paled noticeably as the body was thrown into a cart beside the platform and the next victim was motioned forward.

Two more men were ushered to their deaths, the blade of Madame la Guillotine now red with blood, before Augustin was beckoned forward. His hand was shaking in Maximilien's as the guards pried the two apart. Maximilien felt his mouth go dry. No! They couldn't take away Augustine. He tried to kick the guard when he approached him but the man holding him upright pulled him backward. I'm sorry Augustine he thought hastily, still struggling to escape. 

"I love you Maxime," Augustin shouted over the cheers of the crowd. "I am proud to die upholding you." I wish you didn't have to die for me, Maximilien screamed internally, tears streaming down his face. 

"I... I love you too," he choked out, unsure if his brother could hear him. Momentarily a grim smile flickered across Augustine's face, a faint reminder of the happy carefree child he had been years before the revolution. With a face of terrified determination, Augustin allowed himself to be half marched, half dragged up the steps and strapped down. Non, the voice in Maximilien's head cried out. The drums roll began and a hush fell over the crowd. 

"Vive la revolution," Augustin shouted, the terrible scene from the Hotel de Ville replaying in Maximilien’s mind. "Vive la Maximilien  Robespierre!" Unable to tear his eyes away from his brother he watched in horror as the blade plunged, killing Augustin instantly. Sanson reached one hand into the basket and lifted Augustin's head above his own with a grim smile. The taste of vomit rose in Maximilien’s throat, but somehow he kept it down. 

"Kill Saint-Just next," the crowd chanted. They've gone insane with blood lust, Maximilien said to himself. They want nothing more than to see heads roll. They feel that they're being avenged. The sounds of the crowd fell to a hush as Saint-Just mounted the stairs, looking every inch a martyr. With a nod to Maximilien, he allowed himself to be strapped down. The drums rolled again and this time Maximilien forced himself to look away. 

The rest of the deaths passed by in a blood-stained haze until finally, after what seemed like hours, Sanson motioned for Maximilien. He swallowed but permitted the guards to lead him to his death. It'll all be over soon, he thought trying to keep Camille's words in his mind. Then I can be with everyone again. One step at a time he was dragged up the stairs and onto the bloody platform. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, his hands shook, and his eyes were clenched shut.

"Get rid of the gauze," Maximilien heard from somewhere to his left. "It could cause problems for the blade."

"Non," he whispered, shaking his head. "No," he said louder, hoping they'd hear and take pity on him. "S'il vous plaît. Please leave it on." Despite his pleads, a rough hand held his head still while another ripped the bandage from his face and threw it to the people. All hope of maintaining composure was gone and he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Please, he thought. Kill me. Get rid of the pain. Make it go away. I want to die. 

He was almost unconscious when they strapped him down and secured his head in place. The blood of his friends was warm against his neck and made him squirm uncomfortably. He glanced out into the throng of people, all gathered to watch him die. Cries of, "Kill the dictator," and "Vive la France," rippled through the crowd. Someone put a handkerchief to his jaw to wipe away the blood that was pouring into his mouth.

"Merci, Monsieur," he whispered, eyes scanning the front rows of the crowd. No one he knew seemed to be there. No one that still cared for him. For a split second he wondered if such people still existed. The drum roll started. He took a deep breath and felt a sense of calm wash over him. Quicker and easier than falling asleep Camille had said. He closed his eyes. He could see them! Camille, Danton, Augustin, and Saint-Just were all waiting for him. 

The roll stopped, the blade fell, and the crowd encircling the guillotine cheered victoriously. Sanson the executioner raised the bloody head that had once belonged to the hero of the New French Republic, high for the French people to see. There at the center of it all, still strapped to the guillotine, lay the body of Maximilien Robespierre, the once great "Incorruptible." L'incorruptible Corrompu, the "Incorruptible" corrupted.

~ Épilogue ~

Years later, historians looked back at the once great revolution and the men that orchestrated it. Instead of seeing passionate men dedicated to their cause they saw inhumane creatures who lived for blood. While there were no true innocents, the blame must not be placed on one group. No one was blameless, but the true blame should go to those who made men into monsters.

[sylvain-writes]

Blood Like Wine (Vera x Hamish)

Fandom: The Order (Netflix TV) Pairing: Vera Stone/Hamish Duke Rated: T Dominant Vera, submissive Hamish, gentle dom, light Dom/sub, hurt/comfort, hand feeding, kneeling, memory magic/memory loss, angst and feels, sexual tension (~1.7k words) 

To save herself and Hamish from his sudden transformation, Vera over-casts her sleeping spells. He wakes at her home disoriented and overwhelmed. 

⁂ Magic coils the chain around his neck and Vera pulls. It’s pure luck that she'd been at her desk, that she'd had the enchanted chain at arms length, when Hamish cried out. 

Covering his ears, he falls to his knees. Vera holds her breath as his eyes turn to ice. 

They had been strategizing in her office. Arguing about some silly thing. Hamish at the disadvantage, always. He never has enough information to put up a real fight.

It all seems trivial now.

The alarm of dark magic calls to him, urges his body to transform, and he writhes against the restraints. Vera adjusts her grip and the links tighten. It doesn’t escape her how much he looks like a man on a leash. 

But he’s so much more than a man. And a leash won't tame one such as him.

Hamish's wild blue eyes look up at her as he claws the floor. His nails drag uselessly over the stone. He gnashes his teeth. But he hasn't reached for the chain.

Vera doesn't have more than a second to wonder why. He’s moving toward her.

“Dormitum Dimittatur,” Vera casts, and sleep takes him in an instant. 

The chain pulls as Hamish collapses in a heap. Vera releases it quickly, letting the shackles clatter to her feet. And then she's at his side. Her hands pass delicately over his throat. The caress, an apology. 

Moving him isn’t difficult, having finely honed her telekinesis over the years, but finding a place to hide a grown man is a challenge. The others will return soon to give report on their werewolf charges. She has to move fast.

Vera increases the potency of her sleep spell- “Sopite” -and tucks Hamish out of sight. 

He folds neatly under the oak desk, curled in on himself. His face has gone slack, but Vera remembers the way his lip curled in its snarl. 

Hamish’s hidden strength enticed her from their first meeting. But seeing him like this - in the illusion he’s some small, fragile thing, after coming so close to his raw power made flesh - has her ensnared. 

Her eyes catalogue the angles of his face. Even knowing the beast under the surface, affection expands warm in her chest.  

Vera moves the chains to his wrists and pillows his head upon them. Adjusts the angle of his neck just so. She scoffs at what little comfort she can provide. 

The sound of her Magistratus's impatient knock comes sooner than she expects. Vera pauses over Hamish, moves a stray hair off his face, and caresses his cheek before she stands.

With a gesture Vera opens the doors and Selena rushes in with Gabrielle and Austin on her heels. 

“It happened again." Gabrielle announces, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks more annoyed than contrite. "But Randall and Jack ran off before anyone saw them."

Vera turns to Selena for her excuse, knowing full well she's clueless as to Hamish's whereabouts. 

“Professor Kean needed coverage for her night class.” Selena holds herself upright even under Vera’s scrutiny. “I can’t watch him every moment…” She goes on, but her attempt to justify her ignorance wavers. “I don’t… I don’t know where he is. Probably with the others."

Vera plants her hands on her desk, shielding Hamish’s body with her own. “Must I do everything myself?”

“Yes, Magus,” Selena repents in a rush. “I mean, no, Magus.”

Vera’s glare would burn the Magistratus in her spot if it could. “Grand Magus,” Vera snaps.

Selena takes a step back and the three young practitioners bow their heads. “I’m sorry, Grand Magus.”

“Get out,” Vera says, her tone grave. “Leave Hamish Duke to me.”

Selena looks up in shock. 

“Be grateful that’s the only responsibility I’m stripping from you, Selena. You’re not so hard to replace.”

Selena nods and Vera raises her voice again. “Get out!”

The doors close behind the young practitioners and Vera breathes deeply, both relief and frustration. Beneath the desk, Hamish stirs. 

His hand brushes Vera's heeled shoe and she crouches to check on him. “What am I going to do with you?” 

The red marks on his neck turn white at the barest touch of her hand.

Hamish moans as if in response, and his fingers curl possessively around her ankle. 

Unwilling to risk him waking up like this, Vera cups her palm over his fluttering eyelids and casts sleep on him again.

⁂

Hamish wakes slowly. First, a crick in his back begging him to stretch. Next, a burst of pain behind his eyes stirring him fully to consciousness. He doesn't remember drinking. Then again, he doesn't really feel hungover. 

Hamish rolls onto his side and bites back a hiss. His shirt scratches like burlap against his skin. 

He wrinkles his nose against the sharp smells of the home. Fabric softener. Charred meat and herbs. The scents fill the room and his stomach roils. He gingerly brings his feet to the floor to sit up. 

The change in position doesn't agree with him either. Pressure builds behind his eyes. There's a pounding in his skull. And as the thin blanket falls from his shoulders, he notices the chill that’s settled in him, bone deep. 

Hamish squints as his eyes adjust and he finds he's grateful for the dimly lit room, even though finding himself in a strange place ignites his anxiety. 

Sound rushes toward him, and while he knows it’s coming from far away, the scrape of metal on metal echoes like it's directly at his ear. 

He breathes through it. Struggles to focus on something else. 

Anything else.

There’s a light crackle from the fireplace. A gentle roar as the flames lick dry logs. 

Hamish lets the natural sounds fill his awareness and the rest begins to fall away. 

He's drawn across the room, and before he realizes, he’s on his knees, pressing his hands against hot stone. 

He lowers his head to the hearth, as if bowing in thanks for the soothing heat, for the earthy sounds and smells. 

Hamish doesn’t stray far. He finds an armchair, but doesn’t trust himself to climb into it. The floor feels safer. The carpet is lush. He curls his toes into the fibers and draws his knees to his chest. 

His fingers rub circles over his temples as his heart thunders against his ribs.

There's magic in the air. Incantations dimming the glow of the fire, spells radiating a heat that brings to mind much larger flames.

Hamish lets the fire warm his back as he turns more fully toward the chair. 

He's woken in strange places before. Even felt the remnants of magic on him while his memories were in hazy disarray. For a reason he can’t place, his mind reaches for evidence of Selena. 

But with his face against the cushion, he recognizes Vera's perfume. The scent of safety and strength. He inhales deeply and relief floods his veins, pacifies his racing heart.

He's wrung out, exhausted. But knowing Vera is nearby is a balm to his distress.

⁂

Vera finds Hamish curled up beside her chair. The blanket long since abandoned on the couch; he's shivering. 

A little influence on the fire increases the temperature in the room and she takes a seat. She’s not imagining it when Hamish shifts toward her and not away.

Vera places a plate and a glass on the end table, and Hamish lifts his nose in interest. A growl rolls in his chest in tandem with one his stomach gives in hunger. 

He watches the approach of her hand as she tentatively, cautiously, lowers it to his head. His hair falls like silk through her fingers. 

Hamish melts under her attention. He releases a shaky breath and what could be a whimper. His stomach growls again. 

Her hands leave him for a moment but when they return, there's a fork and food. Vera brings a piece of steak to his lips. 

It’s seared and spiced and Hamish turns his face at the offer. 

“You should eat,” she says, and he presses his forehead against the armrest in protest. He waves her hand away and the fork falls to the floor.

Hamish tenses, brings his clumsy hands behind his back, and stares guiltily at the stain on the carpet. But Vera merely sighs.

She cuts a fresh cube of meat, picks it up between her fingers and holds it out for inspection. The rare, unseasoned cut glistens, pulling Hamish's gaze.

His mouth waters and she brings the meat closer. She gives his bottom lip a gentle nudge. 

With his eyes locked on hers, Hamish takes the offering from Vera's hand.  His teeth graze her fingertips and a shiver dances up her arm. 

Hamish chews and swallows, closing his eyes in relief. He hasn’t eaten properly in days. He parts his lips for more. 

Vera watches his throat work as he swallows another bite, and her heart twists at the sight of dark bruises blooming under his skin. To think she caused him this pain.  

She lays a hand upon his neck and runs the other over his jaw. Feels his muscles tense and release. He draws in a sharp breath.

“Sanetur,” she whispers, heals.

He exhales.

Vera feeds him carefully. Holding each piece of meat to his mouth. When Hamish's lips part, she holds steady, letting him rise up and take at his own pace. 

He quietly accepts each morsel with the slide of his tongue. He sucks the juices from her fingers when they linger on his mouth.

When his stomach is heavy, he leans into her legs, lays his head on her thigh, and sinks into her care. 

Vera offers silent comfort by the fire, never leaving him long without her touch, until his eyes find hers again. 

"Did you do this to me?" Hamish asks, his voice hoarse from disuse. Confusion is written in his expression. A question about tonight and so much more. Even still, there's devotion. There's trust.

Vera pets his head, stalling. She drags her thumb over the corner of his mouth, wipes drying blood from his lip. 

The truth will hurt. 

But Hamish's eyes go soft as he turns into her touch, nuzzling her palm, and she can no longer abide the lies. 

"Oh, pet," she purrs as he takes her thumb between his teeth. 

Vera cradles his face and watches the flames flicker and spark in his eyes. She holds Hamish firm as she promises - to him, to herself - "I'll make it right."

[arcticdementor]

The massacres at three massage parlors in the Atlanta area this week, leaving eight human beings dead, others injured, and their families scarred, were horrifying. Read this deeply moving story about the son of one of the women killed to remind yourself of this. It’s brutal. The grief will spread and resonate some more.

But this story has also been deeply instructive about our national discourse and the state of the American mainstream and elite media. This story’s coverage is proof, it seems to me, that American journalists have officially abandoned the habit of attempting any kind of “objectivity” in reporting these stories. We are now in the enlightened social justice world of “moral clarity” and “narrative-shaping.”

…

We should not take the killer’s confession as definitive, of course. But we can probe it — and indeed, his story is backed up by acquaintances and friends and family. The New York Times originally ran one piece reporting this out. The Washington Post also followed up, with one piece citing contemporaneous evidence of the man’s “religious mania” and sexual compulsion. It appears that the man frequented at least two of the spas he attacked. He chose the spas, his ex roommates said, because he thought they were safer than other ways to get easy sex. Just this morning, the NYT ran a second piece which confirms that the killer had indeed been in rehab for sexual impulses, was a religious fanatic, and his next target was going to be “a business tied to the pornography industry.”

We have yet to find any credible evidence of anti-Asian hatred or bigotry in this man’s history. Maybe we will. We can’t rule it out. But we do know that his roommates say they once asked him if he picked the spas for sex because the women were Asian. And they say he denied it, saying he thought those spas were just the safest way to have quick sex. That needs to be checked out more. But the only piece of evidence about possible anti-Asian bias points away, not toward it.

And yet. Well, you know what’s coming. Accompanying one original piece on the known facts, the NYT ran nine — nine! — separate stories about the incident as part of the narrative that this was an anti-Asian hate crime, fueled by white supremacy and/or misogyny. Not to be outdone, the WaPo ran sixteen separate stories on the incident as an anti-Asian white supremacist hate crime. Sixteen! One story for the facts; sixteen stories on how critical race theory would interpret the event regardless of the facts. For good measure, one of their columnists denounced reporting of law enforcement’s version of events in the newspaper, because it distracted attention from the “real” motives. Today, the NYT ran yet another full-on critical theory piece disguised as news on how these murders are proof of structural racism and sexism — because some activists say they are.

…

And on and on. It was almost as if they had a pre-existing script to read, whatever the facts of the case! Nikole Hannah-Jones, the most powerful journalist at the New York Times, took to Twitter in the early morning of March 17 to pronounce: “Last night’s shooting and the appalling rise in anti-Asian violence stem from a sick society where nationalism has been stoked and normalized.” Ibram Kendi tweeted: “Locking arms with Asian Americans facing this lethal wave of anti-Asian terror. Their struggle is my struggle. Our struggle is against racism and White Supremacist domestic terror.”

When the cops reported the killer’s actual confession, left-Twitter went nuts. One gender studies professor recited the litany: “The refusal to name anti-Asianess [sic], racism, white supremacy, misogyny, or class in this is whiteness doing what it always does around justifying its death-dealing … To ignore the deeply racist and misogynistic history of hypersexualization of Asian women in this ‘explication’ from law enforcement of what emboldened this killer is also a willful erasure.”

In The Root, the real reason for the murders was detailed: “White supremacy is a virus that, like other viruses, will not die until there are no bodies left for it to infect. Which means the only way to stop it is to locate it, isolate it, extract it, and kill it.”

Trevor Noah insisted that the killer’s confession was self-evidently false: “You killed six Asian people. Specifically, you went there. Your murders speak louder than your words. What makes it even more painful is that we saw it coming. We see these things happening. People have been warning, people in the Asian communities have been tweeting, they’ve been saying, ‘Please help us. We’re getting punched in the street. We’re getting slurs written on our doors.’” Noah knew the killer’s motive more surely than the killer himself.

None of them mentioned that he killed two white people as well — a weird thing for a white supremacist to do — and injured a Latino. None pointed out that the connection between the spas was that the killer had visited them. None explained why, if he were associating Asian people with Covid19, he would nonetheless expose himself to the virus by having sex with them, or regard these spas as “safer” than other ways to have quick sex.

They didn’t because, in their worldview, they didn’t need to. What you see here is social justice ideology insisting, as Dean Baquet temporarily explained, that intent doesn’t matter. What matters is impact. The individual killer is in some ways irrelevant. His intentions are not material. He is merely a vehicle for the structural oppressive forces critical theorists believe in. And this “story” is what the media elites decided to concentrate on: the thing that, so far as we know, didn’t happen.

…

But notice how CRT operates. The only evidence it needs it already has. Check out the identity of the victim or victims, check out the identity of the culprit, and it’s all you need to know. If the victims are white, they don’t really count. Everything in America is driven by white supremacist hate of some sort or other. You can jam any fact, any phenomenon, into this rubric in order to explain it.

The only complexity the CRT crowd will admit is multiple, “intersectional” forms of oppression: so this case is about misogyny and white supremacy. The one thing they cannot see are unique individual human beings, driven by a vast range of human emotions, committing crimes with distinctive psychological profiles, from a variety of motives, including prejudices, but far, far more complicated than that.

There’s a reason for this shift. Treating the individual as unique, granting him or her rights, defending the presumption of innocence, relying on provable, objective evidence: these core liberal principles are precisely what critical theory aims to deconstruct. And the elite media is in the vanguard of this war on liberalism.

…

The more Asian-Americans succeed, the deeper the envy and hostility that can be directed toward them. The National Crime Victimization Survey notes that “the rate of violent crime committed against Asians increased from 8.2 to 16.2 per 1000 persons age 12 or older from 2015 to 2018.” Hate crimes? “Hate crime incidents against Asian Americans had an annual rate of increase of approximately 12% from 2012 to 2014. Although there was a temporary decrease from 2014 to 2015, anti-Asian bias crimes had increased again from 2015 to 2018.”

Asians are different from other groups in this respect. “Comparing with Black and Hispanic victims, Asian Americans have relatively higher chance to be victimized by non-White offenders (25.5% vs. 1.0% for African Americans and 18.9% for Hispanics). … Asian Americans have higher risk to be persecuted by strangers … are less likely to be offended in their residence … and are more likely to be targeted at school/college.” Of those committing violence against Asians, you discover that 24 percent such attacks are committed by whites; 24 percent are committed by fellow Asians; 7 percent by Hispanics; and 27.5 percent by African-Americans. Do the Kendi math, and you can see why Kendi’s “White Supremacist domestic terror” is not that useful a term for describing anti-Asian violence.

But what about hate crimes specifically? In general, the group disproportionately most likely to commit hate crimes in the US are African-Americans. At 13 percent of the population, African Americans commit 23.9 percent of hate crimes. But hate specifically against Asian-Americans in the era of Trump and Covid? Solid numbers are not yet available for 2020, which is the year that matters here. There’s data, from 1994 to 2014, that finds little racial skew among those committing anti-Asian hate crimes. Hostility comes from every other community pretty equally.

The best data I’ve found for 2020, the salient period for this discussion, are provisional data on complaints and arrests for hate crimes against Asians in New York City, one of two cities which seem to have been most affected. They record 20 such arrests in 2020. Of those 20 offenders, 11 were African-American, two Black-Hispanic, two white, and five white Hispanics. Of the black offenders, a majority were women. The bulk happened last March, and they petered out soon after. If you drill down on some recent incidents in the news in California, and get past the media gloss to the actual mugshots, you also find as many black as white offenders.

…

The media is supposed to subject easy, convenient rush-to-judgment narratives to ruthless empirical testing. Now, for purely ideological reasons, they are rushing to promote ready-made narratives, which actually point away from the empirical facts. To run sixteen separate pieces on anti-Asian white supremacist misogynist hate based on one possibly completely unrelated incident is not journalism. It’s fanning irrational fear in the cause of ideological indoctrination. And it appears to be where all elite media is headed.

[straightouttaneptune]

It girl pt. 4 - Superhero debut

Pairing: Mentor!Natasha Romanoff x Mentee!Reader, Platonic!Avengers x reader, Peter Parker x Reader (In the future)

Warning: Reader being a kickass, Peter x Reader is settling in... Not much to warn.

Summary: Natasha had once joked about picking a random new recruit trainee to teach all her skills since Tony had recently become Peter’s mentor. Fury sees this as a legitimate idea, and asks Natasha to choose her protège, code name: “it girl”.

A/N: I’m so sorry it took so long! But it’s finally here, and the reader is on a mission!!! Anyways, it’s been decided that this little series will end with Part 5 or a 6, depending on how long it will be. Enjoy xx

Prologue Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6

———————————————————————

2 weeks later

“We gotta go to that Stark internship now!” You and Peter told Ned and MJ simultaneously, before rushing out of the campus hand in hand.

“Peter, gimme your backpack.” He tossed his bag to you as you placed his and your bag into a self-navigating drone you pulled out of your pack, the coordinates heading right to the Avengers Compound.

“Alright. Ready?” You turned back at Peter in his spider-man get up, giving him a thumbs up.

He wrapped his arm around your waist, flustering you a little. No matter how many times the two of you did this, the contact with his well-built body always got your heart to pick up its pace. You’d liked Peter ever since he had that crush on Liz, but you’ve never had to suppress your feelings harder than the last few weeks. There were a lot more secrets, touching, grabbing and moments spent together compared to when you were just in the same friend group.

Peter thanked god that his mask covered his obviously red cheeks, and tried his hardest not to stare at your excited, adorable face.

You let yourself feel the cool wind combing through your hair, that drop of your stomach when he lets go of the web to shoot another, the awes and gasps of the people down below and obviously being hugged by Peter.

The two of you land right in front of the door, where Bucky and Sam were bickering at each other again. Something about Sam eating Bucky’s plums again, so now Bucky was going to make Sam mow the entire field.

“Oh hey, kids. Stark, Nat, your kids are here!” Sam yelled into the building, then continued to sass Bucky with arguments that made no sense whatsoever.

“Well, you have cooties, so I saved the plums from Bucky germs. It is safer in my stomach.”

“I hate you. So much.”

You waved goodbye to Peter and rushed up to your room, ready to change into training gear. But as soon as you entered the walk-in-closet, MINT's voice rang through the room. 

"Mission gear lock: Deactivated. Welcome, Y/N Y/L/N." Your eyes widened in surprise, rushing to the furthest side of the closet to look at the Mission gear compartment. 

To your surprise, the blue shield had been taken down, revealing black combat suits of different uses. The usual one, with all black form-fitting shape, tactical with bullet vests built into the top and knives stored in various places, covert that included zero design and came with a black eye mask, and so on. You pushed the clothes aside to reveal a screen, that asked you to swipe left and scan fingerprint to continue. 

You followed the instruction without hesitation, MINT immediately replying with "Authorized personnel. Agent in training, Y/N Y/L/N. Congratulations, Y/N." 

You jumped back in surprise as the walls started moving, the clothes that were hung up moved to the other side of the wall to reveal a new one, stacked with weapons and many types of guns. 

"What. the. fuck." You mumbled to yourself in astonishment, staring at the various weaponry that seemed too high-tech to even exist on the Earth. 

"I see you've already opened my gift." Your head couldn't whip sideways any faster,  spotting Natasha standing by the entrance, leaning her shoulder on the doorway. She dressed in her Black Widow suit that you only saw on TV during the NY and Sokovia attacks. 

"This is insane. I'm allowed on missions?" 

"Only a small mission, with me supervising from the compound, okay?" She held up her finger and gave you a stern look, which you nodded happily to. You were already pumped with adrenaline, ready to take on basically anything. 

“Alright. Let’s get you to Fury. Put the one with the... blue design on.” She rummaged through the suits, finally pulling one out. It looked exactly like the ones she wore during the battle of Sokovia, except it looked a little more updated.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, body covered in full-leather or spandex or whatever the material was. You looked good. Even though it was quite the workout to put it on, it felt perfect and comfortable, every inch of the suit hugging you right.

You felt the reinforced shoulder plates, the gun holster on your thigh squeezing lightly, and the best part was, the material was engineered by Tony to make sure whoever wore it, doesn’t sweat out of their minds. The material kept it’s cool even after the workout putting it on, and you didn’t feel uncomfortable at all.

“Alright it girl, let’s go.” Natasha knocked on the closet door before her head poked out. “Grab that gun on your right, and follow me.”

Not even a few hours later, you were dropped off on a lonely hill of god-knows-where in America, left on your own to fend for yourself.

“Agent 13 will only be a few miles away in case anything goes wrong, okay?” You heard Natasha speak into your comms. “And, call me Natashenka on missions. Especially covert ones.”

“Natashenka?”

“Yeah, it’s the Russian nickname for Natasha.”

“Mm, I like it.”

You walked alone for a little while, no enemy or buildings in sight. So it really caught you off guard when a bullet flew straight beside your ear, landing itself in a tree behind you.

You recalled your past training with Natasha, rolling on the ground to find shelter behind a thick tree. Taking out the gun out of your holster, you tried to keep calm as you tried to spot the shooter. You also powered up your shock bracelet just in case.

If you were gonna do this, you were gonna do this right. Kneeling down on one knee, you aimed your gun at the man standing in front of a small army-camp looking building. With a sharp exhale, your fingers pulled the trigger and the bullet flew through the warm summer air.

The bullet buried itself in the guard’s bulletproof vest, knocking him out cold. “Good job, Y/N. But be careful. He’s not dead.”

“I don’t wanna kill anyone!” You whispered into your comms, slowly making your way to the gate. It must’ve been a severely under-staffed base since that guy you took out was the only guard outside. 

You stalked into the base, and all you could say was that it looked damaged. It looked very close to collapsing, and you were trusted to retrieve all of the files on the Avengers from this dump. 

"Hello, sweetheart. What's a girl like you doing here?" You turned around to face an unexpected number of guards, all standing behind one especially dark, suspicious-looking man. 

Your mind rushed to find you a perfect lie to deceive them, so you wouldn't fucking die in there. "Mm. Anastasiya Primanova. Sent from the base in Russia, courtesy of Strucker." You used the thick Russian accent you've heard in movies before, hoping it would sound real. "Y/N? What is going on?" You heard Natasha's frantic voice after you introduced yourself as someone else entirely. You hid the nervous hammering heart behind a cold, dead expression, putting your gun back in the holster. Please buy this, please buy this, please...

"Strucker's dead." He stared at you, inspecting you, but at least he wasn't shooting at you. 

"Obviously. I did his dirty bidding. He wrote a will. I was to take over this American base. It's quite the dump. кто ты?" (Who are you?) You used all the techniques in the book, making sure he took you in as 'Anastasiya Primanova', not 'obviously American girl on a mission'. You raised your chin and cocked your head, an unmistakable sign when one is looking down at someone. If you wanted anyone to see you as above them, you had to fake it till you made it.

"Kazimir." 

"So, are you going to show me what you've been doing or what?" Your hand rested on the gun in your holster, the other on your hip. He looked like he was conflicted, but in the end, he bought the act. He dismissed the soldiers to go back to their designated posts and signaled you to follow him. 

"You shot one of my men." He looked at your side-profile, seemingly still skeptical. But to be fair, that was justified. 

"And I'll shoot you too if you keep talking to me." Your pocket knife made a sharp slash sound as you popped it out, looking back at him warningly. "I trained with the Winter Soldiers. Do not try me." Your acting was so on-point, you had to give yourself a pat on the back for it. Threatening him as a first-impression made him fear you, even though he didn't know anything about you. It was simple psychology in the animal psyche, where one learns to fear another if they seem superior to them. 

“Oh, my god, Y/N, what are you doing?” A faint panic in Natasha’s voice was evident, but you were improvising.

He took you to every room from floor 1 to sub-levels, and you were down to the last room. Now, you had a perfect image of the whole base in your head. The base was much more complicated than you had thought, it was working perfectly underground even though it looked like a mess on the outside. The Avengers would have to come back to destroy this place.

“This is the archive.” Kazimir scanned his card to show you the inside, before taking off to do whatever evil thing he had on his schedule.

You grabbed his jacket before he could fully walk away, pulling him back forcefully. He showed you a look of hostility, but you paid his resentment no attention.

“Card.” You put out your left palm, and he uneagerly left his card in your hands.

“Thank you.” You eyed him carefully one last time, making sure he had no intention of betraying you or knowledge that you were an imposter. When he only showed bitterness, you let him go.

“Наташенька, I’m in.” You whispered proudly, but discreet in case there were any listening devices or cameras. That was most likely.

“Good job! What was the whole thing with Anastasiya and everything?” She sounded relieved, letting out a small sigh.

“Simple acting... Human psychology... The important thing is, I got the file on the USB.” You stared at the USB in your hand, letting out the breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

“Great. Now, get out of there.”

It was too easy from there. You glared at a couple soldiers on the way, made your way to the elevator and up, and just strolled out of the building. Once you were far enough, you called for the quinjet to take you back in.

“Y/N! Oh god, I was so nervous.” Natasha jumped out of the jet right as the door opened, rushing up to you. 

The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and the full realization of what you did started to dawn on you. “I just walked into a HYDRA base, made them think I was their leader and stole confidential files?!” Your organs felt like they were being jumbled up in the washing machine. You felt so dizzy you even had to hold onto Natasha for support.

“Director Fury, Mr. Fury, um, that base, that base was not what you said it was.” You crouched down to sit on the floor of the quinjet, safe and sound on your way back to the compound.

He looked to you curiously, waiting for you to say more.

“There was a place, underground, and hundreds of soldiers. You gotta- you gotta send the Avengers or something in there. There was a room, sub-level 2, where they were doing experimentations on animals, and they said they’ll start-“ You rambled while Natasha sat by your side, her face twisting into various emotions before she set her eyes on Fury with anger.

“We sent her to a fully-operational HYDRA facility?!” She shot up, her eyes wide with rage. Fury appeared more interested in how you went in there and didn’t die.

“You went inside and fooled them all? You saw- no, they guided you through every inch of the place, and you remember it?” He walked over to you, eyes narrowed and tone low.

“Fury!” 

“Right. But to be fair, you did a really good job.”

You chuckled, looking up at Natasha who still had a worried look on her face. Her sharp features softened when her eyes met with yours though, seeing how content you looked with yourself.

“Yeah. You did.” She smiled down at you sheepishly, as the quinjet came to a halt in front of the compound. The jet lowered itself on the concrete, FRIDAY’s voice ringing through the speakers. “Destination Arrived.”

A couple days later, practically everyone knew of the ‘it girl’ in the building who fooled over 100 HYDRA men and retrieved inside information and base layout that spies would take weeks to obtain.

You helped Steve make up a strategy for the infiltration, drawing him a map of every exit, every hide-out and all the places to avoid bombing. Sam started to randomly give you high-fives when crossing each other in the hall.

“What’s up, it girl?”

“Not much, Sam.”

*high-fives*

Thor would address you as “Y/N Natashadottier”, completely mistaking the whole Earth’s last-name system. You quite liked it, to be honest. A lot of times you went home to find your mother gone, her things packed with money on the table, clearly gone after your father again. In times like this, you never had anyone when you were younger. But now, you could easily show up at the Avengers Compound, and be welcomed, your room ready for you at all times. So in some ways, Natasha was your undocumented guardian.

Natasha couldn’t be more proud, everyone working in the new SHIELD was buzzing about the ‘it girl’, who was not a mutant, not an enhanced, not a genius, just a high-school girl who reads a lot of psychology books.

Peter also was excited for your big debut in the superhero world, the corners of his eyes crinkling every time someone mentions the ‘it girl’. Tony and Natasha obviously notice this, but they’re keeping quiet to see how fast you’ll get together.

Next chapter: Part 5

Taglist: @mindset-jupiter @fangirlingisajob @theadventurousqueen @gwenmxnstacy @ballerboobitch @the-lady-cersei-lannister @golden--rain @dollofbucky @sakuranomegami @elizabeth-santana-98 @anne2cold @eyeballtoes @marvel-is-a-mood @roseryss @redqueenstorm @orchideax @huntersociopathavenger @petertinglessss @marv-ells @hopefuloperaangelnerd @je11yfishwriter @iloveyou3000morgan @kewl-r @missmulti @grace-barnes-13  @samarcher79 @slow-dance-in-the-dark @intricate-melody @editsbyjenny @brenleestar @a-vvenger @princessizzy36 @sweetcrvture @itsbebeyyy @caws5749 @thenerdiverse

[magewraths]

general ––

name  : fenrir bjornolf greyback 

birthday / age : born april 3, 1936 ; aged 44

residence : a run-down cabin in the woods in surrey

gender / pronouns : cisgender male, he/him

sexuality : bisexual, biromantic

blood status : half-blood ; werewolf 

relationship status : single and ready to mingle 

hogwarts house : did not attend hogwarts, but rather durmstrang -- and dropped out in his fourth year

loyalty : the pack the death eaters ; his loyalty is, first and foremost, to his pack. they come before all else. he allies with the death eaters out of convenience, and out of a hope for advancement for their kind. but if the pack were to find themselves in danger at the hands of the death eaters, that’d be a different story.

career : unemployed ; currently bouncing between odd jobs

mbti : ESTJ

moral alignment : neutral evil 

character tropes : papa wolf, psycho for hire, black and grey morality, try to catch me fighting dirty, utopia justifies the means, the conman, i did what i had to do

aesthetics –––

old flannels and worn leather boots, running barefoot through the woods, the sound of laughter in the leaves, a hunger you just can’t satiate, swallowing abandonment like blood, seeing the moon turn red, old wounds that you can’t quite place, your own visage on a wanted poster, callouses on your feet and hands, restless and relentless, blood beneath your fingernails

biography –––

One must always wonder if monsters are born, or if they simply become. If they emerge from the cavernous void of creation with teeth bared and claws sharpened for the ripping, or perhaps if they come about like every other sad child with no mothering touch to teach them what it is to be human. No one really knows where monsters come from, and perhaps that is what makes them so terrifying. Or perhaps it is the inevitability that, no matter what we are inclined to believe about the nature of creation, all monsters were children once. 

No one knows where he came from, for he will never tell them. There exists a certain mythos about the wolf, the Greyback wolf, whose reputation precedes him, that he simply appeared in the gutters of London one night, dressed in rags and wielding a thigh bone as a club, blood upon his cheeks as if he had bitten into something far too large to chew. He was a feral child who lived between shadows, inhabiting the old, dilapidated flat that had once belonged to a mother and father who had never truly loved each other, had never truly loved him. They had left him, after all; he’d never even known their names. Beggars, they had been, lowlifes who exposed their child to the worst sort of people - but, perhaps they themselves were the true monsters, packing away their things and leaving him to rot when he came home with empty pockets and a profusely bleeding bite-wound upon his shoulders. They had looked upon it with horror, for it spanned the length of his arm, half his chest, as if he’d been plucked up by the ankles and dipped gently into the jaws of the beast. He knew not what it meant - but his parents certainly did. Perhaps he would have hated them less if they had told him what he would become before leaving him with nothing but the clothes on his back and the mold-touched bread on the table. Perhaps he would have been less frightened had he known, on the following full moon, why it was he lay upon the floor, captured at the base of the window by a single shaft of moonlight, tearing limb from limb and growing upward, outward. 

Perhaps he would not hate them so, had they told him that he would feel more himself as the beast, and that they had left him for becoming who he had always meant to be. Perhaps so. Perhaps. Perhaps if he had torn into them with freshly grown fangs, and not the carriage driver in the park he’d have felt their debts paid. 

He was a beastly wraith, inhabiting the streets of London, the gutters and sewers, stealing what he could and taking what he must. There were whispers that the old landlord had died, that the dingy one-room flat in which he’d been born was to be abandoned fully, along with the rest of the building. And so he was truly alone, a lonely and feral monster with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Even as a young boy scrounging for scraps and fumbling halfheartedly through the discovery of magic he knew that mortal flesh was not meant for him. He yearned for the change, for the animal that shared space with the scraps of a human soul deep within his chest. His was a lawless upbringing, a ruleless world which belonged to him and only him. He never questioned why he was made this way, nor who it was that made him; as far as Fenrir was concerned, it was the closest thing to a gift from a divine presence that someone so close to Hell as he would ever receive. A divine gift, but not one without its temptations, its pains, its suffering. But is that not the defining quality of all things divine? 

But he possessed magic just as greatly as he possessed monstrosity; the magic was much more clumsy in his hands, secondary to the newfound animalism which drove him to hunt, to stray from the city and travel north, to become more nomad than wraith. Far from the city, Fenrir found himself in foreign territories that did not take as kindly, or as nonchalantly, to abandoned adolescents who took their meat raw and slept with one eye open. Those in smaller towns chased him into the wood with angry words and angrier spells, for they who held magic in the palms of their hands wanted not to allow a monster into the fold. It was much harder to steal from these smaller villages, to pillage from the humble houses, and so he learned to hunt - both as man and beast - to fish, to chop wood, to build. He was a man before adolescence, an ancient soul before all else. 

At the age of thirteen, he found himself settled quite comfortably just outside Druskininkai; the Lithuanian people, he’d found, seemed more likely to leave him be than most, when encountered in the wood. Perhaps the folk in the city had heard the howls at night, the cries of pain and splendor with each full moon. Perhaps they knew that to leave their chickens in the cool night air and to lock their doors was a safer homage than to try and engage the monster directly. Or perhaps they knew that to offer him still-living stock to drag back to the shed he’d taken to inhabiting in the woods would be better than to allow him to continue to lecherously observe the girls who played in the wheat fields, watching them as if they were his next meal. 

He was not ashamed that he had once tried to make a girl - blonde, with pigtails and freckles like full-moon stars - like him, once. But he was too young, and she too frightened. They’d found her arm first, for he’d done his best to bite her in the same pattern that scarred his shoulder; but she’d jerked from him, screaming, howling, and it had all come apart far too easily. He’d not bothered to wash his ragged trousers in the river until the next morning. 

It was here, in this village where his reputation was not quite so terrible yet, that a traveling scholar with ties to the Durmstrang Institute dared approach him, dared speak to the feral boy who knew so little of humans, but so much of humanity. At first, Fenrir wished nothing to do with the man, or with the school of which he spoke. After all, Fenrir had known nothing but a self-sufficient life of nomadic survival, living off the land and off the people intelligent enough not to fight back. At first, he thought it frivolous, silly. But then the scholar had produced a wand from within his traveling cloak and had set him ablaze with curiosity. 

But the scholar, this man with ties to the school, also made him bitter. You’ll never be like them, he’d said, But you can pretend to be. 

He did not want to pretend, to hide, to lessen his monster for the sake of those who did not understand. The way the man spoke, Fenrir thought that perhaps they, wizards, thought him less for his condition. The man had called it an ‘affliction’; Fenrir knew enough of men, however, to disagree. He had never known anything but this life upon the outskirts, but he knew enough of the world to see the opportunity presented to him. The young boy, all rib-bones and dirty feet, knew survival to be paramount. Survival, freedom; acceptance meant nothing, but power was another story. 

He lasted but a few years at Durmstrang, but what little education he received was invaluable. They’d cleaned him up, with pity on their faces and determination in their heavy hand, and had taught him - too little too late - all they could about ‘playing nice’ with the others, about becoming a part of a community which required social skills he had thus been lacking. Of course, what need had Fenrir had for the precarious intricacies of social politics? The children in his year had all come from lily-pure stock, and made no secret of looking down their noses at the raggedy boy who disappeared once a month, who was taught to eat with utensils, who ran in his sleep. They looked down upon him, but he cared little for their opinions - only for the practice they gave him. He learned to duel with words just as quickly as with wands, sliding comfortably into a human facade which would be passable at best to most who scrutinized him. He realized that he was quite good at slipping into the facade, at playing into their brutish perception of him, for his greatest power, it seemed, was being underestimated. 

After a time, Fenrir felt as if he had exhausted the use of formal education, and left Durmstrang - though some might argue that he was encouraged to leave. At the age of fifteen, he struck out on his own once more, though this time with the skills, mindset, and determination to change the way in which he cut his monster’s path through the world. Where once he had been aimless, his time amongst the Pureblooded wizards - and their talk of purity, and the desire to reign supreme, and a movement in the name of all of it forming to the south - he now quite liked the idea of a superior regime. But, of course, he did not subscribe to the ideal that Pure magic was might, that it was superior, that his own blood was less than those without magic at all; no - he knew better. He almost felt sorry for them, the misinformed bigots who thought of him as an animal to be tamed, to be collared into too-tight robes and taught party tricks. 

No - his kind was superior. And they deserved to be free. He deserved to be free. 

And so he returned south with the intention of settling near his once-home, to grow his family (family, he called it; this was almost humanity), to mark themselves as a presence worthy of overtaking the lesser witches and wizards who underestimated the vitriol of the truest predator. Fenrir saw the undeniable benefit in doing so on the precipice of a war; it was a war fought by men in studies, haughty chess-makers who thought one spilled blood better than the other. He observed the brewing storm as he roamed about the countryside throughout England, Scotland, Wales; were he to have a stake in the rearranging of the world order, were he to put his hand into the fire that stretched even as far as Durmstrang, he would need not be alone. And besides, what better gift to bestow upon humanity than that of his secret weapon? 

With enough of them, with enough numbers behind him, he could eat the men in their studies, and leave the bones with which his children could pick their teeth. It was a lovely thought; it was purpose. 

It was not long before Fenrir had cut enough of a path through the community to be considered both a threat and something to be feared; he took children from their homes and brought them into his fold, where they could not be abandoned, where they could not be left to turn feral in the wilds. He thought it a service to them, knew it to be a gift that they could only repay by acting in his service. But he was determined to treat them in a way much different than his own upbringing; they would be an army as much as a community. A presence to be feared - but soon to be respected. He could not deny the thrill, the utterly bloody satisfaction he felt at growing his number, for violence had always been his bread and butter. And soon others saw it his way - and those who did not were quickly eliminated, for monsters of his breed, no matter their beliefs, belonged to him, with him.

Theirs is a lawless existence, this life of the Greyback pack. His body count has a body count of its own; the pack shares his taste for an almost pirate-like lack of regard for the laws of humanity - or of society, for that matter. Fenrir has made it quite clear that he is neither their father nor their master, but that they owe him the debt of their lives. They know all too well that it would have been all too easy to simply destroy them; many are beholden to failed turnings just as often as they are privy to successful ones. They live upon the fringes; rarely do any but Fenrir mingle with the common folk of the wizarding community. They seem to know not, or care not, Fenrir included, that they are uneducated, that they are anomalies, that they are a third horse in a race run by political players, for Fenrir has instilled it in them that they exist here, in this war, in these circles, to accompany the victors to the other side, where freedom awaits. He tells them only enough of his life, of his struggles, of what he has seen to instill in them a confidence that he can, in fact, see the freedom which lies just beyond the horizon of the war. In the service of he who calls himself the Dark Lord - at which Fenrir scoffs, and the pack laughs - they are allowed to indulge in their intrinsic tastes for blood, for violence, for chaos; they are allowed to be themselves where Fenrir was not, at their age. He ushers them into a new age where they will not have to hide, where they will not be forced to live in the hollows and cracks of a society that does not want them - for this is what the world has owed him from the very beginning. 

This is not the becoming of a single monster - this is the heralding of their true and deserved age. A dynasty of monstrous creation, a lifetime of retribution. Monsters will be monsters, after all. 

And there is no questioning the nature of monsters or men.

[bat-losers-inc]

Collisions in the Dark (Ch 20): Buried Piece

Summary: As unbelievable as it seemed to Tim, they were all together as a family again, planning a battle strategy in Jason’s cramped kitchen.

Chapter Notes: Buried Piece: A piece hemmed in by friendly pieces and pawns. Such a piece will have a difficult time actively participating, and may also interfere with the development of other pieces.

“You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming.” —“Introduction: New & Selected Poems.”,  E.E. Cummings

They came as a group, ambushing them in Jason’s small kitchen, the only warning— a text from Damian offering a five minute heads up. There was no knock at the door, just the turn of the lock as Dick used his key to let them in.

Jason turned away from Tim to lean back against the counter, silently appraising the group. Tim knew they were waiting for him to turn as well, but Tim refused to do so until the coffee maker started dripping dark liquid into the pot. He had no doubts that this would be a long talk and coffee would be necessary to keep his calm.

When he turned he was greeted by five pairs of eyes that followed his movements.

He hadn’t expected to see all of them here. If they were going to be lectured on their individual actions over the past couple of days, he expected it to come from Dick and Bruce. Damian had already voiced his opinions on their decisions more than enough, as far as Tim was concerned. Tim hoped that the younger boy had just come to enjoy the show… except he was having a hard time believing that. After everything that Damian had done for him and revealed to him over the course of a day, Tim understood that he took no pleasure from watching this play out. And if he wasn’t here to gloat or to chastise, then why was he here?

Jason must have been thinking something similar for he grunted and said, “Man, you called in the calvary? I guess we really are in some deep shit. What is this a family roast? Everyone’s gonna get a chance to take their best shot at us?”

Steph’s brow creased with confusion, and perhaps a small bit of pain. “We’re not here to kick you when you’re down, Jason. We’re here to help.”

Jason’s eyes slitted. “Oh, yeah? Like how you helped Tim before? Locking him in a room like he’s a child with false promises that everything will be okay?”

Tim swallowed quickly and shifted his weight. He couldn’t help the sudden flash of heat that surged through his gut at Jason’s heated words. He knew that the older boy was jumping to his defence and a large part of Tim wanted to be relieved that Jason was there defending him again, snapping at anyone who might hurt him like a vicious dog. Another part of him, however, understood how misplaced his intentions were.

Tim bit hard into the side of his lip, but couldn’t stop himself from speaking. It needed to be said.

“You don’t get to say that, Jason. You’re just as guilty as they are in this, except where they stayed… you abandoned me.”

Jason twisted around to look at him, the anger on his face slipping away to reveal the vulnerable cracks underneath. Tim couldn’t stand that raw look.

He licked his dry lips and continued. “That’s not to say I’m free of blame, because I’m not. I’m just as guilty as you.”

Bruce looked around at all of them. “We’ve all made mistakes and hurt the ones we care about as a result, but we can’t move forward until this is forgiven.”

Tim gave a weak laugh. “Forgiven? You’re being very naive if you think any of this can be forgiven and forgotten. I think I speak for both of us when I say that I might move on, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still hate you all for your actions.”

“He’s right,” said Jason, eyes cast towards the floor, evidently deep in thought. Jason shrugged one shoulder. “I love Tim and would do anything for him, but I don’t think I can ever forgive him for what he’s done. My love for him doesn’t erase my hatred for his past actions… at most one counterbalances the other.”

“What we’ve done can’t be easily forgiven, but with time, hopefully we can mend the wounds so that they won’t leave scars.”

Tim met Jason’s eyes and slid further to the side until he was leaning against the counter next to him, their elbows touching, their fingers brushing until eventually their fingers intertwined.

Dick seemed to want to smile at the sight of them together, but another thought dragged his expression into a troubled frown. “But none of that can happen until we deal with the most immediate problem. Ra’s al Ghul.”

“As past experiences have proven, he isn’t going to take no for an answer.” said Bruce. “If he won’t stop, we’ll make him stop.”

“Yeah?” snapped Tim, “How’s that?” He couldn’t help the irritation that threaded through his voice. It just felt like Bruce was rubbing salt into an open wound. After all, it was Tim who had been fighting toe to toe with Ra’s for two weeks straight, getting further from victory with every encounter. Yet here stood Bruce, pretending he had all the answers— like Tim hadn’t been wracking his brain for the same thing for days now.  

Bruce eyed him in that same way he’d done the last time Tim had gotten the nerve to lash out at him. It wasn’t anger or disappointment… no. Bruce understood well enough that he didn’t have the right to feel those emotions. The look seemed like more of an acknowledgement, noting that Tim and Jason were justified in their anger and willing to let events play out in whatever way his children wanted them to.

Tim pressed his lips together. In truth he didn’t want to be fighting Bruce. He wasn’t the real enemy here. Their family’s hastily formed peace left Tim feeling like they were standing on a stretch of volcanic rock. Fractured in places and barely holding itself together, their anger spitting lava through the cracks, it would be impossible to move forward until their tempers had cooled.

Bruce looked silently between Tim and Jason for another minute, making sure that whatever needed to be said got its opening.

“We go after him together… as a family. Since it’s impossible to change his mind, the only other option we have is to take his resources away from him.”

Damian stepped forward. “Right now, Grandfather is on the hunt for you, which means that he’ll be based at Nanda Parbat. It’s the strongest league base with the largest force of assassins and the most advanced tech. We dismantle that base and he won’t be able to hunt for you. Not until he’s rebuilt his organization.”

Tim bit his lip, thinking it over. “It’s a temporary solution at best. Knowing Ra’s, he’ll have the league up and running again in a month, at most two.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” grunted Damian.

Bruce nodded. “I know, but it’ll give you time to get back on your feet and it’ll give us time to come up with a better plan.”

“Okay,” Jason scratched behind his ear. “So dismantling a base. That doesn’t sound so hard. With the firepower on the Batwing we might be able to do it without our feet ever hitting the ground. If we’re really lucky, maybe a wall will squash Ra’s into a pancake and save us all a lot of trouble.”

Steph shifted closer to Jason to give him a not so sly fist bump.

“One can always hope, right?” she smiled.

Bruce shook his head. “We won’t be blowing up anything. We’re all going in there to take down as many ninjas as possible and lock down any valuable tech. If it can’t be accessed and altered then we’ll fry it.”

Bruce turned to Tim. “I’m leaving that part up to you, Steph, and Damian. Barbara will be assisting you remotely—”

“No!” Jason barked out so sharply that Tim flinched hard against him. The grin he’d been sporting a moment ago had dropped right off his face.

Tim stared at Jason as he pulled his hand free of Tim’s in order to advance on Bruce.

“I’m not letting you pull him into this again. Tim’s staying here. Get someone else to hack computers for you. Fuck knows we all know how to do it! You never left a stone unturned when it came to training us, that’s for sure!”

One step forward, thought Tim, two steps back.

“Jason,” Tim gripped his arm above the elbow and gave it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. Honestly. I’ll be with Steph an—”

Jason turned on him suddenly. “No, it’s not fine! It’s not fine, Tim. I want you to stay here where you’re safe. I won’t stand by and watch him throw you into that psycho’s arms again.”

Bruce had held his tongue while Tim and Jason spoke freely with each other, but now he spoke up. “Do you really believe that Tim would be safer if we left him at home while we did this? Call me reckless for bringing him with us, but I think there’s just as much of a chance of this being a trap. What if Ra’s expects us to leave him? Do you really want to take that risk?”

A mirthless laugh bubbled out from Jason’s lips. “That’s fucking cruel, Bruce. You’re going into this mission expecting Tim to be taken from us. The only question you pose to me is if I’d rather fight alongside him and watch him get taken right in front of my eyes or leave him here in false safety.”

Tim squeezed his eyes shut.

Jason shook his head and continued, “All you really care to know is which decision I could live with.”

He’d had enough of this… He couldn’t stand here listening to this same conversation play out over and over again. All of this talk about him, yet it was never posed to him. Tim was so tired of being the chess piece moved around on the board.

He slammed his fist down on the countertop, drawing eyes to him. “Stop talking about me like I don’t have a say in any of this, because I do. I love you guys, but your opinions on this matter don’t mean shit. It’s my choice and I say I’m going.”

He’d apparently shocked the room into silence, though Damian smirked approvingly from across the room. Jason’s eyes bored into him the longest of all of them. Tim didn’t say anything, despite the discomfort of his intense gaze. He let his words hang in the air… he wanted Jason to feel them and know that they weren’t going to change.

Finally, Jason gave a half shrug, “It’s your decision. If you can live with it then so can I.”

Tim breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they were getting somewhere after all.

Nanda Parbat, as far as secret bases went, was usually pretty desolate and hard to find from the outside. With the sonar vision in the Batwing to give them a peek inside the mountain base, though, they could usually get a good sense of what they were dropping into. Today, however, the sonar was reverberating off of the walls of empty hallways, the only movement coming from a small group of sentries completing another lap around their floor.

“Well that’s not weird at all,” blurted Steph. “Where are all the ninjas?”

Dick squinted at the monitor. “Deeper in the base, I guess. Ra’s must have gathered them where our tech can’t reach.”

“You promised me ninjas. There’d better be ninjas.”

Cass placed a hand on top of Steph’s. “I’m sure there will be plenty of ninjas once we get inside.”

Jason balked at the girls. “Hey ladies, we’re only about to engage in a dangerous battle in the hopes of saving my boyfriend from a psycho. Don’t sound so eager, would you?”

Tim blinked at him from where he was buckled into his seat. “Boyfriend?”

“Oh, is it too soon to be putting labels on things?” asked Jason with his eyebrows quirked in way that warned Tim he was arguing a futile point. “I just figured I might as well since we may all be dead in ten minutes.”

Tim couldn’t really argue with him there. “Alright, Boyfriend. Just don’t start calling me babe or anything in the middle of a fight because I will shoot you with your own gun.”

“Noted.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Will you idiots please focus. Please— just for like, five minutes.”

“Oh, lighten up, Damian,” sighed Steph. “We’re focused.”

“Yeah, like a swarm of gnats. It’s no wonder Batman prefers to work alone.” grumbled Damian, strategically ignoring the evil-eye he got from Bruce.

“Alright,” Dick announced drawing everyone’s attention. “We’re heading into this blind as a bat.” He flashed a smile at Bruce while the rest of the group groaned. Despite his dislike of Dick’s puns, intentional or otherwise, it was still nice to have a little humor right before something this big. They might not be the best family, but they knew how to work together and ease the tension before a big mission. Tim thought that in the event that he didn’t make it out of this—if this moment was going to be his last memory of them all together, then it wasn’t a bad one to have.

“Remember your teams and tasks.” Dick continued. “Neither of these are optional. This base needs to be razed to the ground and everyone needs to be watching each other’s backs while we do it. We’re going up against an army. If we get separated, we’ll be outnumbered and then we’re all dead. Understood?”

They all nodded.

Sitting at the controls, Alfred flicked the switch to drop the ramp. It lowered with a mechanical whine until the lip hit the ground. They descended one by one into the packed snow.

Tim followed in Cass’s footprints as they head for the hidden entrance. He didn’t look back as the Batwing lifted off the ground, whipping snow up around them, and left them to their fate.

[fightmeyeats]

Marvel’s Netflix Originals & the Reification of the Prison Industrial Complex: A Prison Abolitionist Intervention on Jessica Jones

I just finished the final season of Jessica Jones on Netflix and overall I feel fairly ambivalent about it. I think the first season was by far the show’s strongest and I felt like the show lost some of its heart (namely through the way we see the corruption of Trish and especially Malcolm), but overall I felt like it held to some of its core themes, and I certainly didn’t hate it. However, what this season got me thinking about, and what I think becomes a clear problematic which repeats throughout many of Netflix’s Marvel originals shows is the way the vigilante role of the superpowered heroes is represented and played out: heroes demonstrate repetitively the failing of America’s criminal justice system, and yet ultimately reify the validity of these structures in very frustrating ways. Definitely spoilers below. 

Before continuing, I do want to emphasize two things: first, this is intended to be an intervention on an incredibly prevalent problem, not a complete dismissal of the shows themselves. Considering how much of the Marvel Cinematic Universe centers on the stories of white men (frequently rich or middle-class, and exclusively canonized as heterosexual despite fan counter-readings), it is important to acknowledge the significance of Netflix shows centering their stories on women, people of color, and people with disabilities, as well as the way they, to some extent, address the social inequalities that marginalized communities and individuals experience. Secondly, I also do not want to suggest that all of the Marvel Netflix-originals have the same kinds of potentials; The Punisher, for example, does not, to me, hold the same possibilities as Luke Cage, and I’m not even looking at Iron Fist because I haven’t watched it and don’t intend to.

Let me first start by briefly discussing the concept of the prison industrial complex and prison abolition. If you are unfamiliar with the concept or the activism I highly suggest reading The Nation’s article “What Is Prison Abolition?” and looking at Critical Resistance, which was co-founded by Ruth Wilson Gilmore and Angela Davis. Taken from the website’s about, “the prison industrial complex (PIC) is a term we use to describe the overlapping interests of government and industry that use surveillance, policing, and imprisonment as solutions to economic, social and political problems.” What prison abolition is about “is a political vision with the goal of eliminating imprisonment, policing, and surveillance and creating lasting alternatives to punishment and imprisonment.” There are a number of excellent scholars/theorists/activists who discuss prison abolition, but here I’m going to be citing and discussing “Prison Reform or Prison Abolition?” (the introduction to Angela Davis’s Are Prisons Obsolete?) and Morgan Bassichis, Alexander Lee, and Dean Spade’s “Building an Abolitionist Trans and Queer Movement with Everything We’ve Got.”

Let me start tracing this argument through Jessica Jones by drawing out a few of the examples which initially brought this criticism to the forefront of my mind while watching this final season:

Corrupt Cops & the Need for Jury Evidence: while the show demonstrates the limitations of policing and the criminal justice system, it simultaneously acknowledges corrupt cops who are abusing their power and the inability of police to lock up a villain because they don’t have enough evidence or the ability to get said evidence. By showing these together, there is a suggestion that the two issues at once separate from each other and equally problematic. We do not see police officers acting without warrants, assaulting/shooting suspects (although in one scene, an officer threatens to shoot Jessica when she is smashing a gazebo and digging beneath the foundation to recover a body neither the officer nor the homeowners realize is hidden there up until Trish begins filming her), or acting outside of the law to collect evidence; instead, the show’s hero does many of these things in contexts which suggest she is correct to do so (again, the antagonist she is facing up against is a psycopathic serial killer who tries to kill her multiple times). The corrupt cop in this season is removed from the central action; his corruption allows Jessica to do what she “needs” to do (destroy evidence which will allow the villain to be incarcerated, to keep her sister out of prison), and is represented as being separate from the police force as an institution. There is even a way in which his actions are presented as being potentially justifiable: he kills drug dealers to steal from them. We are told this is wrong because they are kids and still have “time to change,” implying that if they were adults, their murders would be perhaps justified (and one officer even comments that “one of those kids” hit her in the head with a bike lock, suggesting that their age doesn’t matter); we are also told it is wrong because his motive is the theft, not “justice.” This again implies that things might be different if he was murdering drug dealers for dealing drugs, and again obscures the systemic inequalities which produce crime, as well as the way the PIC contributes to and benefits from these inequalities.

“Supers” and Prisons: acknowledged but never fully addressed is the significance of “supers” as an unprotected category. When Trish is arrested, Detective Costa informs her that the NYPD doesn’t have jurisdiction and that powered peoples are, apparently, not afforded due process of law. When Jessica is initially reluctant to tell the police that the masked vigilante is Trish and hopes to stop Trish herself, Jessica comments that no one really knows what happens on the Raft because no one from the Raft is able to contact the outside world. Given the context that Luke Cage’s powers came from illegal experimentation conducted on him while he was incarcerated, it seems possible if not probable that experimentation/medical torture is being conducted on those incarcerated on the Raft, and it becomes all the more insidious that Luke shows up to explain to Jessica that he himself had to send his brother to the Raft, and convince her to do the same. Essentially by addressing some of the extreme human rights abuses involved in incarceration in the real world through the metaphor of fictitious superpowered people being denied the (facade of) protections that are extended to suspected criminals, the argument being made is that even incarceration at its worst is a necessary and viable solution to crime.

The problematic of “diverse” cops: this is less centered in the narrative and subsequently has lower stakes than the other two examples I discuss above, but by representing a “diverse” police force, we are given the illusion that police forces “are” “diverse”, and that this means something. Costa, who is shown having “personal problems” in the form of going through the adoption process with his husband, who is worried about how much Costa is working and whether or not he will be more present as a parent, obscures the reality of homophobia in the PIC.

Davis argues that “the prison is considered so ‘natural’ that it is extremely hard to imagine life without it” (10) and the consequence of this is that “the U.S. population in general is less than five percent of the world’s total, whereas more than twenty percent of the world’s combined prison population can be claimed by the United States” (11). She goes on to raise the question “why were people so quick to assume that locking away an increasingly large proportion of the U.S. population would help those who live in the free world feel safer and more secure?” (14). Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, The Punisher, and Daredevil, address, to varying degrees and varying success, some of the problems of the PIC: they acknowledge police corruption, wrongful incarceration, the effects of financial inequalities on criminal justice outcomes (namely in the power of the rich to avoid punishment), illegal treatment of prisoners (through experimentation/medical torture), the effects of trauma and poverty on the creation of the “criminal”, and the lasting effects of incarceration. However, the solutions suggested through these shows, at best emphasize alternative models of policing/surveillance (in the case of Jessica Jones, private investigator and serial trespasser, an increased kind of policing/surveillance) and reforming systems rather than abolishing them. The problem with this, as Davis points out, is that “frameworks that rely exclusively on reforms help to produce the stultifying idea that nothing lies beyond the prison” (20). Furthermore, the shows, for the most part, do not even call of for reforms or imagine reform as a real possibility anyways; they suggest empathy but maintain that prison or death are the only ways to stop “real” criminals. The prison is almost always the natural solution in these shows; the only question is who belongs in them and how they should get there. Worse, the only show which consistently deviates from the naturalness of incarceration is The Punisher, which suggests the better alternative to prisons might be revenge killings. 

In discussing “the hero mindset,” Bassichis, Lee, and Spade discuss, essentially, the pitfalls of neoliberalism and argue that “stories of mass struggle become stories of individuals overcoming great odds,” and give the example of narratives which center Rosa Parks as “sparking” the Montgomery Bus Boycott through a solitary (“lonely”) act while obscuring the reality that she was an experienced civil rights activist acting in part of a series of civil disobediences (26). This is a general problematic of the superhero (and especially “vigilante” hero) genre, and it becomes particularly relevant in shows such as Luke Cage and Jessica Jones which are addressing systemic issues like racism, the prison industrial complex, and sexual assault/abuse in important (if imperfect ways). Superheroes, especially vigilante heroes, predominantly work alone; when they do team up it’s typically only with one or two others (Jessica working with Trish), short-lived (The Defenders), or both (Jessica sometimes working with Luke, Malcolm, and/or Erik). What’s important, is that they are vigilantes, working outside of structures or movements; while operating outside structures can have the potential to suggest alternatives solutions to the structures (ie the way that prison abolition looks to find solutions outside of policing/prisons), it also centers the solution (and problem) on individuals in ways which obscure the realities of broader structures. Even in these limited “team-ups” there is little to no potential for meaningful coalition between individual heroes and organizations/activist communities to address the broader inequalities which are being addressed/acknowledged. 

This plays out in the third season of Jessica Jones in the way that it centers on a binary logic which runs: prisons or vigilante-justice through murder. The audience is told that the police don’t cut it, they can’t always know who's a “good” person or a “bad” person, and because of that “good” people are vulnerable and “bad” people walk free. The initial antagonist is a psychopathic serial killer making it easy to subscribe to this model. While it is perhaps better that the solution isn’t for Jones to kill him (again, this is the solution suggested in The Punisher), the problem is not only a reification of the prison, but that in order for this solution to be realized, Jones must take on a heightened policing role, following him, illegally searching his house, and chasing down leads the police overlooked. As Bassichis, Lee, and Spade point out, “the violence of imprisoning millions of poor people and people of color, for example, can’t be adequately explained by finding one nasty racist individual, but instead requires looking at a whole web of institutions, policies, and practices that make it “normal” and “necessary” to warehouse, displace, discard, and annihilate poor people and people of color” (23). The binary is further traced through Trish Walker, who herself becomes a (vigilante) murderer; she is partially excused (morally/as a character) of the murders, because her first two kills are assaults that go to far because she flashes to her mother’s murderer, and the third is her mother’s murderer. Furthermore, her role as a vigilante is contextualized through her own experiences of powerlessness as the victim of abuse. However, even as Trish represents a more morally ambiguous case for the need for prisons, the solution (prison) never addresses the issues we are told shaped her actions, nor any potential for other outcomes.

[calleo-bricriu]

The Northwest wing of Nurmengard had been deemed the first to be taken down.

(( Sorry for the middle of the night “WTF?!?” and probably headache, @lamentedhope :) ))

Technically, parts of the highest tower had been taken down a--lot earlier but that wasn't for any specific purpose and all but the most recent wall removal had been the result of duels so this still counted as the 'first' section to be demolished.

Calleo had gone through the inside of the wing, placing markers around boundaries and cordoning off areas that shared a wall or were part of the lode bearing structure of the surrounding building. The wards let him pass; they always did, that tends to happen when one has a set of keys.

The alarms, however...

There was no way of getting around the alarms. If there had been, it wouldn't have been much of a prison.

All of the alarms that were still functioning (more or less) could not exactly be deactivated or paused without going off.

Yeah, sure the entire wing's alarms would go off when that part of the building fell but only for a second before they'd die out, having been tied to the stone itself, then re-knit when the rest of the outer security did.

The former would likely cause less alarm than the latter to anyone listening as the latter would be more likely to indicate catastrophic structural failure as opposed to, "There is a person shutting the security down."

If anyone was paying attention, however, they were about to possibly jump out of their skin (and hopefully not care enough to come out and see what all the commotion was).

Doubtful anyone paid attention to them anymore and the alarms were going to go off regardless of whether they were carefully deactivated or suddenly silenced.

Calleo had gone over the building's schematics more than once and did so for this wing again; shame to see it go, it was the one he'd stripped down and rebuilt the security on because it was the only one that had had dead alarms to start with. It had been back in its original state, complete with original and re-armed alarms and every last bit of it functioned as designed. Arguably, the Northwest wing of Nurmengard was the only wing still functioning the way it had been designed to function.

It was also, unfortunately, the only completely empty wing.

Considering why Calleo was down there to knock it down, then into smaller pieces, and finally to dust it seemed somehow fitting that the first one he did was the one he'd repaired.

The wards on the outside walls and roof would, of course, re-form themselves creating functional (albeit only magical) walls and a roof with, ironically enough, the security and alarms back in place. That process had been fast enough on the tower that, if anyone had noticed, they hadn't done anything about it and may have written it off as nothing considering how erratic the magic everywhere else in the building was.

One wall he could have taken from intact stone to dust, much like @absintheabsence did with one of the remaining tower walls.

An entire wing was a different matter. Certain areas where the wing connected to the main building couldn't be taken just yet; doing so would potentially knock down other walls.

One incorrect thing turned to rubble instead of only having the stone around it crumble away could, potentially, take down a lot more than just one wing.

Grindelwald could have taken the whole thing down in a matter of seconds but, then, he'd also built the place and knew its structure better than anyone. There was also the problem of him refusing to leave the cell. Maybe not problem, he was supposed to stay there; that was, after all, the entire point of a prison cell.

So Calleo spent an excessive amount of time combing over the Northwest wing, floor to ceiling, inside and out, figuring exactly where the magic that would turn it into a large pile of rubble that could then be reduced to the dust that was necessary.

He'd also taken a good amount of time on the roof, making sure to shoo away anything living in alcoves, coverings, or any other hidden area. Anything up there could fly, of course, but it seemed safer to scatter them before the building started to collapse.

Then, there came the issue of wedging the detonation spells in between the tightly woven security that really was having none of this nonsense. On the one hand, that meant Calleo had done a pretty spot on job of reconstructing it from the ground up and, on the other, it also made it necessary for him to use a few keys to manually--and briefly--shut them down, make the changes he needed to make, and fire them back up again; that alarm sequence, at least, would have been brief enough to likely be written off as the frequent false alarms that had been going off at random intervals for decades.

Even if it did cause actual alarm--and he still wasn't convinced anyone paid attention to those alarms anymore anyway--the demolition's main event would be done before anyone showed up. Wouldn't exactly be the easiest thing to explain but, as long as the prisoner was still safely locked in his cell, it couldn't possibly cause that much of an issue.

He hadn't know how long he'd be down there setting things up before tearing it all down. Despite knowing full well that Grindelwald would have been expecting a lot of noise and very likely the tower shaking at its foundations, it still seemed a bit rude to not give him a heads up when everything was set either so it wouldn't be a complete and loud surprise or so he could watch--the tower, by this point, might as well have been an almost panoramic window anyway.

Not much needed to be said, just, "In three..."

In reality, it was closer to four due to the fact that, at the last second, it somehow dawned on Calleo that he was still standing inside the wing he was about to implode. Not strictly a problem, it would have been easy to shield himself but, also, not strictly the best idea either. The extra second it took him to apparate outside--and, of course, briefly setting off one of the wing's alarms in the process--wouldn't have mattered.

As quickly as the stone fell, the security system that had been ripped apart as it did, immediately re-knit itself and sprung back to life creating a solid, invisible wall in the exact shape of the Northwest wing that had stood seconds before.

Just as an odd precaution, Calleo lit them so they were visible as well; if anyone did come poking around to check out a catastrophic structural failure alarm they'd hopefully relax a little if they could see that the security was still present even if that part of the building looked more like a quarry now. The tower often looked that way anyway; lit up over the areas where the stone had been...removed...for one reason or another.

And, of course, walls aren't exactly keen on letting someone just pass through them (even with keys). He COULD but it'd set off another set of alarms again and that really was a thing he tried to keep to a minimum just in general.

Back to the front, through the door, and a not-so-quick-simply-due-to-the-size-of-the-place walk to the ruined wing later and--Calleo probably should have got right to work breaking the stone down to dust. It wasn't that he didn't want to or didn't intend to, it was more that the way everything had fallen it stayed neatly inside the wards that went back up as quickly as they'd gone down and it was in a very...climbable pile.

He justified climbing around for fun as, "It'll be easier to take it to dust from the top down" but, really, he could have just shifted and flown to the top of the pile, which was an option he definitely chose to ignore. It had been a long week and Calleo intended full well to take whatever fun he could get, even if it was technically work.

Not just work, unpaid work and manual labor--sort of--at that!

Unpaid manual labor that came with a creepy statement about being someone else's arm. That sort of odd talk Calleo wasn't sure he'd ever get fully used to but, he was used to it enough that it didn't bother him; Seers are weird anyway.

There was an odd amount of fun in blasting the stone he was standing on into smaller pieces and having to jump away to a more stable, larger piece, only to repeat the process; almost enough to make him forget that the stone itself absorbed magic, whether that magic was hitting it or contained within the person touching it.

He probably should have worn better shoes.

If one has to do unpaid work, one may as well enjoy it, and if the unpaid work is going to try its damnedest to wear him out in the process, it'd have to do what anything else that tried to sap Calleo: Work for every last bit of it and likely still fail.

[raidingyourheart]

Companions react to sole wanting to jump off trinity tower in power armor?

Companions react to the Sole Survivor wanting to make the jump from Trinity Tower in power armor.

◖   Ears prickling every time the wind dipped through the dilapidated architecture of one of the Commonwealth’s most imposing structures, Dogmeat almost shook. With each cautious step he made across the uneven flooring, his nails went ‘click’, ‘click’, ‘click’. He never passed within five feet of the edge, unable to stand beside the survivor, who so confidently peered over at the expanse of broken city. Their suit hissed as one foot bravely hung out over nothing. It returned shortly, heel grinding back into a fairly solid foundation, lest the building finally decide to give in to its aches and creaking.

     A steady whine left the dog, head tilting insistently to one side. He’d like to follow this human everywhere, but off the side of the tower was somewhere he could not go.

◖   ❝It’ll make headlines,❞ the joke was in good nature, but did nothing to stop Piper’s nervous habit. Her fingers curled and released in repetition, fingernails pressing tightly to her palm to the point of discomfort before dropping. ❝’Vault Dweller dares gravity!’ Gravity accepts, and… Well, wins.❞

    ❝Come on, Blue. We both know you’re not serious. You can’t be serious.❞

◖   The shutters on Codsworth’s optic lenses retracted, giving him the equivalent of a human’s wide-eyed expression. An indignant ❝You’re doing what?❞ left the Mr. Handy, chassis spinning to fully face the power armor clad daredevil.

     ❝While my programming insists I remain encouraging and as optimistic as possible, I dare say you’ve gone mad! And that’s coming from a place of concern,❞ one metal arm extended, the one with the claw attached, and the pincers opened and closed as though the robot was beckoning the other away from the ledge. ❝You put quite a bit of trust in that suit, but now I almost regret even uttering the word ‘unstoppable’. Smashing into the concrete below is a bit of a hard stop, don’t you agree?❞

◖   A nervous chuckle left his mouth, which two seconds prior, had been pressed in a firm purse. Preston shook his head, hand pulling on the collar of his duster. ❝Be careful,❞ were the only words he could manage, eyes trained intently on the proximity of the General to the side of the tower. Another step on their part elicited a following ❝Wait.❞

     ❝The roof of the Museum back in Concord and here are, well, very different. I won’t say that’s not the quickest way down, but we’re not in a rush, right? The Commonwealth can wait on us taking the safer route to the ground. No need to damage your power armor… or yourself.❞

◖   ❝Oh, sure! Why not?❞ Cait snapped, sarcasm bladed. ❝Those tin cans look mighty fun when you’re chargin’ into a fight, guns ablazin’, but the appeal is lost in this. S’not like you haven’t already jumped off every other building in this damned city… But those are lackin’ a few stories. Makes a difference, yeah?❞

     Her hip cocked to the side, hand finding its place atop it so she could send an uninterested glance at the person who currently held her contract. ❝If you’re tryin’ to impress me, it ain’t going to work. Now, if you want’a go bash a few heads together, that’s somethin’ I can get behind.❞

◖   ❝Was getting up here not enough of a thrill for you? It almost wore this old bot out,❞ Nick commented idly, unsure if his case partner was serious. He had a knack for reading expressions, but with the stoic, and slightly glaring, helmet of the power armor being the only thing to greet him in conversation, he was left turning to body language. There was no hesitation in the approach to the ledge, which made his teeth grit anxiously, something he was sure was a habit of the past Nick’s. He felt his good hand twitch, wanting for a cigarette to hold.

     ❝You sure? I know I can stamp the fun with my worrying sometimes, but here and there I’ve scrounged up some sound advice, like that breaking your fall with pavement isn’t the smartest move. You’re better off being a good liar than ending up with some shattered bones and a busted up suit if things go south.❞

◖   Maccready always had a routine when finding himself in a high place. His eyes would sweep the area, lock onto any covered spots with a good lookout, and store them in the back of his mind in case he needed to drop into a position to shoot. It had him so caught up that he barely heard the muffled voice of his employer suggest the stunt.

     The sharpshooter squinted, two fingers pinching the brim of his hat and pulling it off so his free hand could run through his hair, pulling strands out of his face. ❝You’re not paying me enough to do it with you, you know that, right?❞ A few seconds of silence went by before he started up again, jaw dropping open and closing as he tried to find some argument other than ‘this is stupid’.

     ❝Running with you has been one of the best gigs I’ve had in a while. Can we not risk it coming to an end like this? There’s enough people shooting at us as is.❞

◖   Deacon whistled lowly at the prospect, whether from being wowed by the bravo or taken aback by the cockiness. ❝You know,❞ he began, gesturing with his hand to the open space around them, ❝this one time…❞

     He had their attention, their shoulder turning to him slightly, head tilted in inclination that they were listening. ❝I made this exact jump,❞ the Railroad agent paused, trying to draw out the suspense as far as he could, ❝with no armor whatsoever.❞

     There was a heavy pause and then a stifled ❝Bullshit,❞ from Charmer, who didn’t even dignify him with a ‘you’re lying’ this time.

     ❝No! Honest,❞ he insisted, familiar smirk plastered on his face, as laughter threatened to interrupt him. ❝You can’t top my performance so why even try, right?❞

◖   It wasn’t the funniest joke, but it got a fair snort out of him. That was, until it wasn’t a joke. If the cruel ways of radiation hadn’t taken away any semblance of eyebrows, then they would have been bunched up, surveying the scene before him. ❝Alright, alright,❞ Hancock started, hands up almost in surrender, ❝I got’cha now.❞

     ❝But hear me out,❞ he proposed, mouth tugged into a grin. ❝Come out of that. Take a huff of this,❞ the ghoul’s hand disappeared within his jacket, momentarily digging in one of the inner pockets for a Jet canister, half-empty, or rather, half-full ( he did like to be optimistic from time to time ). ❝Then, stand near the edge, I’ll shimmy up behind you, hold under your arms, and you say something like… ‘I’m flying, John, I’m flying!’. That’s some pre-war stuff, ain’t it? I promise it’ll be a hell of a lot better than falling.❞

◖   ❝Careless and improper use of a Brotherhood issued suit is grounds for suspension, soldier,❞ Danse tread a fair distance behind the survivor, unsure of the building’s ability to withstand their combined weight in one spot, occasionally calling out for them to keep alert and safe. ❝If any of the initiates told you of some challenge involving this, I regret to inform you that bragging rights, or even the caps if this is a bet, isn’t worth the trip to see the Proctor and explain to her why you’ve damaged your armor.❞

     He exhaled sharply through his nose when offered the chance to jump off with the vault dweller, in which he replied with furrowed eyebrows and a firm shake of his head. ❝Absolutely not! Next you’ll be wanting to take on the Prydwen deck–❞

     ❝No.❞

◖   Curie was delighted by the vantage point of the skyline, hands clasped together. ❝Is this what they would call a picture-perfect view?❞ she turned, smile wavering slightly as she watched the power armor helmet tilt downwards, the person within it clearly considering the distance down. ❝We are very high up, yes?❞ her tone had taken on a warning, mind racing with images of scattered pieces of metal dashed against the city streets, and a crumpled body laying motionless amidst them. Had some color left her face? She certainly felt colder, and not from the draftiness of their location.

     ❝You must be careful with heights. This would be quite the fall, and while I do have advanced medical capabilities, I’m afraid that… that I would be rendered useless in aiding you. Perhaps you would like to enjoy the sunrise with me instead?❞

◖   ❝I’d highly advise against it.❞ That had easily been the fourth time the phrase had been said. X6-88 stood behind his charge, arms defaulting to folding behind his back. ❝We’re already exposed up here as easy targets, so it is my suggestion that we move back down.❞

     ❝While I am just as eager as you to see the suspension capabilities of your armor, the recklessness of this impromptu testing is both unwise and impulsive. Can we not both agree that it’s more trouble than it’s worth?❞

◖   ❝You’re the Overboss,❞ the reply was almost robotic at this point, more of an excuse to justify to himself why they chose to do the things they did than to reassure them that they could. Gage grimaced, ❝But ya know, I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘go for it’.❞

     ❝Ain’t no one here to impress. Maybe jumpin’ off Fizztop would get you some credit from the Pack, but–❞ he paused, giving one shoulder a shrug, ❝is that really what you’re aiming for, boss? I’m s’posed to be watching your back out here, and if I head home saying that you died doing this, then they’ll, I don’t know, think I pushed you or somethin’. Consider this me looking our for your neck and mine.❞

[spakonarchive]

@womanlives

SHE’S NEVER HEARD THE SEA SO ANGRY. Mercy feels it in her bones. It makes them shake, makes them shudder. She looks out at the horizon stretching in front of them. The waves roll in and out, booing, roaring, hitting the sand with the occasional shriek and scream. Maybe it’s a figment of her imagination (of course it is; this is a fucking dream), but she sees lights flicker to life outside on the ocean. It takes her a moment to realize this is her memory come to life before them. This terrifies her and excites her. It’s like a glimpse through her eyes into the life she’s had, one that only Kaldar will be able to see. She won’t look at him — can’t. But she hopes, instead, that he’ll look at the water.

Lights flicker. One, two, twenty, a hundred. The Maelstrom comes alive at their fingertips. Somewhere off in the sky, far away, there’s a flash of lightning and the silhouette of thousands of ships. It’s not real — not exactly. The dream has taken her memory and made it its own, warping it, twisting it, reinventing it based on idle fantasies she shared with him once upon a time in a hidden little basement filled with treasures they stole for their nest, and their nest alone. A fleet of ships — unstoppable, intense — ruled by them, so (the common refrain) so no one would ever hurt them again.

She wonders how he’ll react when she tells him about the Pirate Queen.

“Your yelling never worked on me. Remember?” Voice soft. Voice longing. Voice sad. She wants to say that he doesn’t need to look for her, because she’s looking for him. But she isn’t. It’s too — he’s too — first she has to kill the Patron, and she has a sinking feeling of what, exactly, that might entail.

Mercy’s hand buries itself into the sand at his shadow’s shoulder. This is safer. It’s this or try to hold his hand. She lifts her fingers and watches each individual grain fall in slow motion to the ground. Her very own hourglass. Her very own reminder that they’ve missed each other by four months. That’s all. Four goddamn months. When they hit the ground, they turn to the feathers, until she and Kaldar are surrounded by down.

She stares down at the feathers. Her face is angled not quite so far away, but she knows there are shadows to make up for the absence of distance. If he looks hard enough, maybe he’ll catch a glimpse of freckles. Or a lock of curly hair. It’s just a dream, after all, and briefly she toys with the idea of turning herself into the blonde-haired black-lipped woman that she strode into the Spire as.

She decides against it. That face brings back memories of Shao, which hurts. It hurts so much the world warps, and the beach disappears, and she and Kaldar are sitting on opposite sides of the bed, back-to-back, in a pleasure-hovel somewhere on the fourth level of sin. It’s trashed. There’s a corpse in the doorway. Some duergar thug. Her doing. She looks at it. She knows she should feel guilt, but there’s nothing, which is a thousand times worse than there being anything at all. Her face falls.

“Your ear.”

Nessa’s voice comes back in a rush. The guilt hits, then, but not for the duergar.

“How did you lose your ear?”

It never did. It made him angry, but he could never be angry at her. It’s always at himself. It’s justified. Angry that he wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t born rich or better. That he lost her in the first place. Never does he look away. He knows if he looks away the dream will end. The fact it’s gone on this long is odd.

It’s not a dream suddenly. It’s a nightmare. What Mercy sees is a room. What Kaldar sees is a cage. He sits with his back against the bars and she’s on the other side and she’s so far away again, but that’s not the part that scares him.

“How do you know about that?” He tries to sound calm, but it’s the first time in a long time that he feels his heart fall out of its cavity and plunge into ice cold water. She’s not supposed to know that. Has she been to Runswick? Followed his scent from the murder and destruction he did as the right hand of Irving Black?

He turns to her sharply, and he yells, “How the fuck do you know that?” Does she know what he’s become? How long has she been chasing him? He’s angry again! So angry! Angry at himself!

Dear gods, no no no -- he would burn Kyruat to the ground before ever letting her step foot inside it. It’s the place he never knew about as a kid that is nightmare personified for his little dove. His hands clasp at bars. He shakes them. He smells burning flesh. It’s the brand they put on his skin before throwing him into the ring. Kaldar shouts her name again.

“I’ll find you,” he says. He pulls at the iron bars that don’t move, “Don’t go any farther. Stop looking for me. I’ll find you.”

But the bars are slipping through his fingers. They shrink to a fork and a knife. When he looks up, it’s Charley. He has her head on his dinner plate.

“Night air gets cold,” Bruiser says, climbing her way up the crow’s nest with a blanket and a bottle in one hand. She doesn’t need both. It’s her ship, after all. The little one’s still looking for all his missing things. The creepy one is meditating like the other elves do. She’s the most interested in the one who she’s told some deep dark secrets to.

How long has it been since she’s talked about Violet?

“Brought you a blanket,” in the dark her gold canines still gleam. The wine is for Bruiser -- sorry, Gold Fang -- but she wouldn’t mind sharing it. The three of them hadn’t been joking when they had said they brought plenty of gifts. She speaks quietly just in case the other is still asleep, but loud enough to announce herself even if she’s not.

“It ain’t a bad view from up here, huh? You’d be surprised the sort of shit people think they can get away with when they think Mum ain’t watching.”

[thegranfathertree]

The Red String: Yumes Waking Nightmare

My first posted story as well as fist resus story. Since I tend to be descriptive I’m unsure how long this maybe. Hope you enjoy. Yume grew up in New York City. At age of 21, she’s had been living on the streets for the last 7 maybe 8 years. She grew up in a strict traditional Japanese household. Her mother she remembered as both very kind and sweet always the model Japanese wife. Her father, a businessman, both hard and stern. A real No Nonsense person in short an asshole. He drove her mother to drink. Something that would end up taking her mother’s life as well when Yume nine. A then few years later he would throw Yume out of the house for braking a vase. It was a stupid thing but she knew her father never loved her. He always wanted a boy, a male child, the carry on the family name and inherit the family business. She tried not to think of him much. She tried to think of her mother even less. To look at her at, most one would think she was in her pre or mid to teens. Her black hair was chopped short, it gave her a boyish look. A look she embraced, do to the little protection it afforded her. She was a stood barely 5 feet in height, if that, with a petite. Both a curse of the Japanese heritage, she often thought. If not for the dirt and grime she might have been called a pretty boy. Life on the streets and being homeless has taken its toll on her body. Often going a week or two at a time without a good meal sometimes two to three days without a bad one left her, with an already small frame thinner still. Malnutrition she thought even stunted her development. Her breast where small almost literally flat and barely visible even without a shirt. It only took a loose t-shirt to hide any visage of femininity. She preferred it that was. It was safer being a boy on the streets rather than a woman. She had spent most of her life on the streets alone until about a year and a half ago. When she meant Karl and Lee. Karl was a tall maybe 6 feet and very Italian looking. He used to be some sort of academic. A professor with some PHD and everything. But never talked about how he ended up on the streets. She suspected hit had to do with a woman. He was soft spoken mostly only when spoken too. Lee on the other hand was to opposite of Karl. Maybe a head shorter then Karl, broad shouldered and stocky. Lee was street kid and hustler who grew up in China town. He tended to be hot headed and impulsive. Something that often rubbed Yume the wrong way. According to him he’s been in the streets his whole life and was a “Big man!” in Chinatown before he meant her. She thought his was full of it. She felt was lucky to have meant them though. She’s been alone for a while it felt good to have someone to look out for her and even care about her, a family. Together they came up with a plan. One that could get off the streets if they could get some scratch, money, together. Lee had been selling his blood to a blood bank. Karl for his part had been selling his sperm apparently there was some demand from white men with PHDs at least that’s what he said. Yume had heard of a drug trial that paid out allot. It was risky but money if money was good. With it could get off the streets. Karl told her in most of these drug trials people are mostly given placebos. So the risk of her taking anything harmful is minimal and Lee agreed. While she trusted them. She had not let them know she was a girl. That was something she still held on to. But knew they would watch out for her, that they had her back. That meant a lot to her. The test was something the called a double blind study they told her at the clinic. She would be given the test medication and not disclose what the effects were supposed to be. Over next few months she would be evaluated at end of each week. At the end of 3 months she’s be paid 6 thousand minus the 25$ a week stipend plus other expenses. According to Karl this clinic as “worked” with the homeless before. Because of that she agreed. After the second week Yume was convinced she gotten a placebo like Karl and Lee told her. She assumed that the blood work and other tests each week were for show. It wasn’t till near the end of the third week she began feel something was wrong. It was then the nightmares began. Some of these nightmares were “normal” enough. But the worst ones, it was like she was waking up but couldn’t move. She could hear everything around her, Lee snoring and Karl mumbling to himself. The first time it happened she thought nothing of it. But then it happened the next night. The third time it happened was the worst. It hot that Friday. Yume leaned up against the side of a building next to the main street. She figured she’d catch quit nap before she went to the clinic. Closing her eyes, she slid down the wall to squat and soon drifted off. “Hey are OK?” she heard a voice ask. She tried to respond but couldn’t move or talk. She felt like she had slid over on her side in an odd balled up position. Panic gripped her. Just the idea of being trapped within your own body was bad enough. To experience it again and again. Yume had never felt so helpless before. “No, no, no!” her mind screamed, “not again! Please wakeup, please, please wake up!” She tried screaming. Hoping maybe Lee or Karl will hear her and wake her up. But the only sound she heard was a moan escaped her own lips. “Hey, hey!” the voice came again, “are you OK?” She could hear a slight urgency in his voice this time. “Karl? Lee? Where are you?” she tried plead. But again she hear soft moan, maybe a mumble. Her panic was increasing. “Wake me up someone please!” she screamed within herself. A hand touch her shoulder gently a first. “Hey!” the voice said once again. “Hey, hey Kid! ARE YOU OK!?” the hands grabbed her shoulder now shook it now more forcibly this time. “YOU OK!?” She could hear the panic starting to build in his voice and it fed her own. “Why won’t I wake up! “ She started to feel her heart pound in her chest. Her breath came harder. She could feel her chin pressed to chest and nose pressed against the ground. “I can’t breathe, I can’t wake up!” Someone lifted her to a sitting position. Her back against the wall. She a large hand cup her face. As another shook her shoulder. “Wake up! I need you to wake up!” “I can’t! Wake me up please!” “Wake up, you can do it!” “I CAN’T! I CAN’T! I CAN’T! HELP ME PLEASE! PLEASE!” her plead echoed within her head. She felt fingers press against her throat. It took this to startled her awake. Her eyes flew open to stare at a pair of narrow green eyes locked own. She gasp! “I’m awake”, she tried the say but her voice was suddenly caught in throat. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t exhale. Her eye widened in fear. She saw the refection of her fear echo in the eyes of the stranger before her. “Are You…?” “I’m AWAKE!” She huff out, “I’m fine, I’m fine!!” she try brushing his hand away but it wouldn’t budge. She felt her face beginning to flush with embarrassment and panic. “It’s ok. It looks like you pass out in the heat.” The voice said with a forced calm. He was a tall man. Probably over 6’ standing and broad shoulder. She’d probably describe him as very American looking. Not in that stereo typical blonde haired valley boy way. But in a way it was hard to really tell his ethnicity. Spanish or Italian. But she was unsure. His skin tan with a broad nose. He had close trimmed beard and brown hair pulled tight against his head, probably in a ponytail. His eyes green in color and narrow, not so much to be called “Asian” looking but enough Lee could hardly be justified in calling him a “round eye”, other than for the sake of being an ass . He had a commanding presence about him. But at the same time none threating. She hated feeling vulnerable and being pity. “I don’t need any help she!” She snapped “Ok!” he smiled but his hands didn’t move from her. “Just a few questions first. So I know you’re okay.” without missing a beat, “What day is today?” “What!?” “What day…?” “Friday!” “Good. How many fingers do you see?” He said removing his digits from her throat and holding them in front of her face. “Two!” she huffed. She felt her face beginning to flush again with embarrassment. “Date of birth?” “May the 5th” “Year?” “96!”“ She instantly curse yourself. As she noticed his eyebrow raised in amusement and a small smile pull at the corner of his lip. “Name?” “Yu!” “Yankees or Mets?” “What does that have do with ANYTHING!!?” She screamed. Yume was doing everything she could barely hold back her tears now. Fear, shame and anger had beating her pride to its core. His rapid fire questions were not helping. “Nothing”, he confesses with a smile “I was just wondering.” She almost lost it right there. Her hands shot up to her mouth, stifling any sound before it could escape. Yume knew if she laughed what would follow. She felt her eyes swelling up. “I’m not going to cry.” she told herself. Yume knew what he was doing and hated it. She hated that he felt he need to comfort her and she hated it more that she welcomed it. She was glad for it and that pissed her off. It was bad enough She felt “weak and helpless”, she thought. She wanted someone to blame, to blame him, to hate him and be angry with him. But she couldn’t. She could see in his eyes he cared. He didn’t know her and he was concerned for her someone he didn’t even know. It was different with Lee and Karl they looked out for each other. But never coddle one another. You always had to “Keep a brave face” never push to close to someone’s emotions. Even if you care, don’t show it. You never show it. The streets could take anyone at any time. You had to be strong. She always had trouble with that. This man he did care and she hated it too. She hated the look of concern he gave her. If he was just being nice it would be different. The fact he was concerned for her, reminded her of something that she once had in another life. A distant memory best left forgotten. It meant she was weak. It reminded her of something, she knew never have again. Unconsciously she began nervously tugging at her pinky finger. “Mets.”, she mumbled. Answering to spite herself. He smiles, then his face became very stern. “This could have been much worse.” He said gravely. The tone of his voice and the intensity in his eyes, raised a panic within her. Before she could ask…. “You could have been a Sox fan” She hope the sound that escaped her lips sounded more like a laugh to the stranger. Then it did as a sob to her own ears. Though in reality it was a combination of both. Yume was at final limit. Between the nightmares and now this. She didn’t want to lose her shit in front of this guy but couldn’t bring herself to push him away either. She hated she didn’t want too. “Drink some water.” He offered producing a bottle of water, from the backpacking he wore. She took the water without thinking. Normally she’d refuse a handout. But it was the distraction she needed. Plus she was very hot and thirsty. It had been at least a day since she last drank anything. The water was cold too. So very cold, it felt good going down her throat. She notice he was pouring water on to a paper towel. From another bottle this one green, that he produced from his backpack. Folding the wet towel “Here.”, he offered reaching over to her. Startled she thought he was going to wipe off her face and moved her hand to stop him then… “AH! COLD!” she stiffened briefly as he placed the towel on the back of her neck. “Sorry”, he apologized, “I should have given you some warning.” “God it feels good.” she begrudgingly admitted to herself once she got over the initial shock. She took a few more sips from the bottle. She found herself relaxing finally. He was doing everything his best to keep his face neutral. She noticed but she could see the relief in his eyes. She took some comfort in that look. But it also filled a part of her with an emptiness. A longing for something she knew she’d never have. “I think you’re probably suffering from a bit of heat exhaustion. Probably some dehydration as well.” He smiled at her warmly. With a simple smile he pulled on the thread of the memory Yume thought forgotten. She felt a pang of sadness shot through her. He noticed it too she knew, but to his credit he hid it well and did not press her one it. “Listen”, he said is voice serious again, “when I found you, you are burning up and your pulse was very high. If you can? I think you should take it easy for the next few moments maybe find some shade. Do you have someone looking out for you? Someone I could call?” While simple innocent question. It triggered a panic within and was the opportunity she needed her she needed. “I really have to go.” she finally said out. This was all suddenly becoming way too much for. As she stood up she found him help her to her feet. He let her go before she had a chance to protest. “It’s okay.” he soothed Those words alone were enough to begin to calm her down, pissed her off. “I want you to take this”, he said handing her the green water bottle he use earlier. She realized now was filled almost completely with ice. “I don’t want… ” “Keep it!” he insisted cutting her off. “Use some of that ice water on the back of your neck. It will help to keep you cool.” She try to act tough and knew she needed make her escape, “Yeah man whatever.” She said, taking the bottle as she began to walk away. He saw through the act immediately she notice. For brief moment she thought he would burst out in laughter. He composed himself quickly, her benefit and she realized. Allowing her to keep some face. “I’m Mitch by the way”, he called after she had gotten two steps from him. She saw his hand with extended open to her. “Damn it”, she curse to herself, “Why did you have to tell me your name? Why couldn’t you just let yourself be some Friendly Stranger on the street? The kind face to maybe be remembered in passing. Someone to be forgotten. Not now, now you have a name.” the thought to herself. Of course he was not the first person or man to show her kindness. It was different when it came from someone who didn’t live in the streets. Someone who had a home to go to. Someone that didn’t have to worry about whether they were going to be able to eat in the morning or even that week. Their kindness is where normally filled with pity or self-gratification. But when they actually cared as he did. It was so much worse. Worse for her. It was the only time she felt truly worthless. Her father’s words would come back to her. In her head she could hear his voice chastising her. “You ungrateful child! You lack respect! You are worthless and lack gratitude. “ She felt that emptiness in the pit of her stomach again. It stopped her in her tracks. It wasn’t just that she could tell Mitch’s concern was real. But there’s something else about him as well. Something she didn’t want think about. Something she knew you probably never have. Tentatively she reach out and shook his hand. She was both embarrassed and ashamed by how tried to treat him and couldn’t bring herself to look at him in the eyes. Standing in front of him she felt so much smaller. Her hands tiny listing his large palms. His grip was strong and firm if he had wished to crush your hand with ease, she had no doubt he. Though he showed no inclination of wishing to do so. “Nice to meet Yu.” Mitch smiled. “Thank you.” she whispered. “Hey, no problem.” He kept his voice up beat. Downplaying the situation like it wasn’t a big deal. It was the warmth in his voice, which caused butterflies begin to fill that empty void within her stomach. She looked up quickly to see that warmth also touched his eyes. “I’m still holding his hand!" she realized, “Why am I still holding his hand?” Then suddenly….. “I’m sorry!” She blurted out. Those butterflies quickly becoming a twisting knot within her gut. “For what?” Mitch almost laughed out loud in surprise. ‘For everything! For causing you so much trouble!” she didn’t know where this was come from. She felt like a child again, standing before her father. Wanting his approval and she couldn’t stop herself. Fortunately for her Mitch did. “Yue!” the firmness with which he spoke her was enough to quiet her. Placing his freehand on her shoulder. He caught her eyes with his own. His stern gaze both demanded her attention and pleaded with her to believe him. “You did nothing wrong. Okay? It’s really hot out here and it just got to yah. There no shame in that. None all. It ok. You you’re ok right?” His face was very close. Her heart began to hammer away in her chest. The thumping of her pulse rang in her ears. Her cheeks grew hot under his gaze. She saw a quick flash of concern in his eyes and was for it. Because it meant he mistook the source of her flushed complexion being do to the heat and not himself. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Mmm hmm”, she nodded quickly stepping back away from him. This was becoming too much for her. She had taken barely a step away when someone rushed passed her. “What the fucks your problem man!” she heard Lee shout as he slammed in to Mitch only to be tossed off. “You some sicko? Got a thing for little boys!?” recovering he pulled Yume behind raising his hands in front of them like an imitation of some boxer. Lee knew was no kid but didn’t stop him from trying to play that angle. Mitch stood his ground, but didn’t is it raised his hands. His eyes locked on Lees end icy edge his voice, “Oh yeah! I have a thing with them not dying due to heat stroke.” Those words seem to take some of the wind from Lees bluster. “Lee, it’s cool”, Yume protested. “I got overheated and he helped me out. Chill ok!” she looked over, apologetically at Mitch. That seemed to be enough to back Lee down. “You ok?” he said turning her “you need me to get you to the hospital?” he grabbed her on each shoulder as if she was about to toppled over then and there. “I'm fine!” she protested. Lee was never this handsy, even if was concerned. He was playing it up. He confirmed her observation by throwing his arms around shoulder in sideways hug. While she was unable to get mad at Mitch with Lee she was having no problem with Lee. It was a welcome feeling as it distracted her from the other feelings. “Sorry dude. I though you fucking with my boy here.” Lee said giving Yume’s shoulder a squeeze and a rough shake. “There’s always some assholes looking to take advantage of a little kid.” “I get it. You got too look out for family”, Mitch replied sincerely. His eyes remaining skeptical. Lee extend his hand and Mitch took it. Giving each other one of those quick, shoulder check “bro hugs”. Yume knew exactly what Lee was doing. She felt her hearts skip a beat and her chest grew tight. She inhaled sharply her breath lost. As Lee went to pull away, Mitch did not let go, locking his grip on Lees. At the same time stepping forward with his right foot on Lees left rooting him in place. “By the way?” Mitch asked. Smiling kindly. His voice friendly even. Only his eyes betrayed his true Intent. They were like steel burrowing into Lees. “You didn’t by any chance find a wallet did you? Maybe on the sidewalk a moment or so ago?” “Nah man!” Lee lied. “I didn’t see anything. Sorry!” He tried keep his voice calm and play ignorant. But he could tell this man was having none of it. He tried to pull away, but his hand was held in an iron grip. One he was struggling to match. “Are you sure you didn’t come across one, a black LP wallet. I'm pretty sure you couldn’t have missed it” Mitch’s smile never faltered nor did he take his eyes off Lee’s. Yume's heart began to hammer in her chest. At the same time it was as if iron bands began to wrap her chest. She knew Lee could handle himself in a fight. But Mitch was a head taller and at least fifty pounds heavier and just by the way he was handling himself she was sure he could take Lee. If it came it. More than that she didn’t want this. She wanted to scream at Lee to “give the wallet back.”, But she couldn’t speak couldn’t breathe. She stood there paralyzed, afraid of what was going to happen. Seconds seemed to drag on for hours as she watched locked together. The strain began to show in Lee’s face, “OH SHIT REALLY?!”, and his voice. He said. While trying his best to feign surprise, “I did find a black LP wallet! Down the street.” Lee made a great show of producing Mitch’s wallet from his back pocket and handing it over to him across their clasped hands. Mitch accepted the wallet, glancing into it briefly before removing his foot from Lees toes. A smile tugged on the corner of his mouth briefly before he released Lees hand and returning it to his back pocket. “Thanks, very kind of you.” If it was a sword, the edge to Mitch’s sarcasm would have cut Lees head clean off right there. Before Yume could begin to relax. “Yo man, if I didn’t find that. You’d be in the shit. Any chance of a reward?” “FUCK LEE!” she screamed inside her head, “why do you need to push everything?” Mitch was going to deck him, she knew it. She wanted to deck him. Yume didn’t know what angle Lee was playing didn’t care. She wanted him to stop. But she was paralyzed to do anything. Her heart felt like it was about to explode in her chest. Mitch to her surprise didn’t take the swing. Instead he smiled cheerfully. ”You’re absolutely right.” The edge to his voice gone. “You can keep the 20 spot you slipped out,” he offered,” and your teeth.” He smiled as he said that. “By the way, I found this in the ally' he said holding up a ratty beat-up brown wallet and flicking it onto Lees chest. “Maybe you might know find who it belongs too!” Yume coughed out a laugh followed by a coughing fit as she tried to catch her breath. The realization of what Mitch had done broke hold she was under. She wanted to kiss him for it. It was brilliant the thought. Some of the tension in her body began to dissipate until she looked to Lee and the knots in her stomach began to tie again. Lee’s eyes widened in surprise as he fumble to catch wallet. Is face flushed with broken pride and humiliation? He tensed briefly ready to reclaim some of his pride. Then though better of it as he backed away. “Thanks dude,” he forced a smile. “I must have dropped mine too.” Mitch returned the smile. “Lucky break for both of us.” He said dryly. Unlike with herself, any warmth or kindness Mitch’s face held was gone. Yume noted. He looked at Lee as if he was the piece of shit that she now felt like after this. A fear grew within her that he would now look at her that. The look in his eyes full of disgust would be her last memory him. She began tug at her picky finger again nervously. She didn’t want this. “Yu!” She felt as if her heart was going to stop. Part of her wished it would. She hoped she would wake up and this would all be a dream. Yume didn’t want to see the look on Mitch’s face when he looked her now. She tried avoid his gaze. Looking anywhere, everywhere, but at him. Hearing her name on his lips, she couldn’t help herself. “Take care of yourself, Okay.” For that moment it was as if Lee had not arrived. Like he wasn’t there at all. Just Mitch and Yume and the world around them disappeared. She knew it was only in her head but she wanted that moment to last forever. She realized then she was still tugging on pinky and couldn’t bring herself to stop. Instead she just nodded dumbly in response. With his next words the moment was over. “Take care Yu.” He smiled. When he looked back to Lee that smile faded. “You take care of your boy now.” “I don’t need you to tell me my business.” Lee blustered. “Right!” She watched him go to disappear into the city. Yume waited till Mitch was well out of earshot till she turned on Lee. “What the hell was that about?!” she yelled punching Lee’s are. Laughing, “You hit like girl!” he teased. “Fuck You Lee!” she said punching him again. “I sorry he looked like an easy mark. Motherfuckers lucky I didn’t kick his ass.” he boasted “You’re lucky he didn’t kick your ass.” She protested. Yume hated him when he was like this. “He was a nice guy! He didn’t deserve your bullshit!” “Yah as if. Why does it even bother you? Those people only act nice. They don’t give a shit about people like us!” Lee shot back. “Those people”, he always used that term against anyone who had even a little more than him or anyone not “us”, she, Karl and Lee. Yume hated that especially now. “People like that asshole ain’t got no respect for us!” “You stole his wallet then had the nerve to ask for a reward! After he busted you and after you lifted a twenty him!” “And that Motherfucker stole my wallet!” he deflected. Sensing where this was going Lee quickly shifted the tact. “When did you start getting into dude anyway?” This earned him another punch. She was glad her face couldn’t get much redder. “Fuck you Lee!” “I don’t know. You where give him some queer boy fuck me eye. Blushing all over.” He enjoyed needling Yu, unaware he was a she. “I’m not blushing!” she protested. “I'm overheated, I don’t like dudes and I’m piss at your bullshit…” “You know you voice gets all squeaky when you’re angry? Maybe your balls didn’t drop yet” let me check.” He made a mock grab for her crotch. “FUCK OFF LEE!” she screamed batting his hand away. Her chest was hammering and she had enough. She took another swing but this time he dodged and pushed her to the side. “You need fuck chill man! I’m just playing wit'chu. Maybe really are becoming a fag-boy.” As he walked away she heard him call back. “I’m going to go waiting for Kar. You better get your head on straight Yu!” She was glad Lee left. Glad he couldn’t see the tears welling in her eye. Glad he hadn’t noticed how close to the mark his words had come. She hated when he got like this. It was one of the reasons why she let him think she was a dude. Most of all she was glad he didn’t notice how scared she had become when he grabbed for her. It wasn’t discovering she was a girl that frightened her, but what some would do when they did was her greatest fear. She propped her back against the wall and placed the ice bottle to back of her neck. It really did feel good. Closing her eyes allowing her to gain some measure of calm till the pounding in her ears subsided and chest to untighten. Maybe Lee was right? Maybe she did need to get her head on straight? Maybe she should have kissed him and told him she wasn’t a boy? What would he have done? Would have kissed her back? What it like to be kissed? Maybe one day I’ll know? “Her head spun briefly with fanciful daydreams till. “Maybe I should wake the fuck up!” she chastised herself. They was a silly dreams that left her feeling empty inside. She knew she needed to be at the clinic soon and tell them about these nightmares. Hopefully they will give her something to help maybe even let her quit with full pay. At least things couldn’t get any worst, she hoped. Yume spared a quick glance down the street were Mitch disappeared. A part of her hope she’d see him returning and a part of her hated herself for it. Unconsciously she began tugging at her pinky finger once again. …………….. To be continued!!!! (Note from the Author: in case you’re wondering: Where the resus in this resus story its coming trust me. I hope you enjoyed part 1 and will come back for part 2.