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otrtbs · 4 months ago

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BARTYLUS BASEBALL THING

(inspired by this which haunts my thoughts 24/7)

Word Count: 5.2k

Part: 1/?

Summary: every summer begets the baseball tournament of the year. barty drags regulus to the opening game, kickstarting a series of unintended events.

Barty’s whole body hums, the way it always does when he’s around Regulus. Like the old TV his father has that crackles to life in static whirs, or the green boxes in the neighborhood that Barty would sit on until the sun went down. Constant electricity.

“I mean, they’ve been doing this for years now and I have been explicitly forbidden from going,” Regulus returns. Still, he doesn’t seem affected one way or the other. “Mother wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh, mother wouldn’t like it?” Barty snorts, mockingly. “So what? It’ll give us something to do. And it’ll give us an opportunity to see each other since your parents plan on keeping you locked up in the house all summer,” he counters, and Regulus knocks a sharp shoulder into his arm. “It’s good to stick together. Mother doesn’t have to know.”

They’re walking side by side on the pavement. Slow, shuffling feet. Hands in their pockets. It’s the last day of class for the school year. Without school, there’s no way for Barty to see Regulus. Barty went all of last summer without seeing Regulus and it was boring and brutal.

Regulus takes a hand out of his pocket and pushes the hair out of his face. The sun is bright, and it causes him to squint. “Sirius still playing?”

Barty nods. “Yeah. He’s still on the James Potter all-star team. I heard Potter even talked Frank Longbottom out of retirement for one last summer.”

“He’s only two years older than us,” Regulus scoffs.

“Still, he didn’t play last summer.”

Regulus nods slowly.

They walk down the pavement silently, dragging footsteps, trying to delay the inevitable.

“It is good to stick together.” Regulus looks at Barty and traces the bruise on his cheek with his finger lightly. Barty is proud of the way he doesn’t flinch, even if the bruise is still tender and aching. He’s not so proud of the way he leans into the touch, even if it hurts.

This entire time, Barty was worried about leaving Regulus alone for a summer with no one but his parents for company. Now he thinks Regulus was equally worried for him, for the same reasons.

“But, I don’t like baseball,” Regulus muses, pulling his finger away.

“No, but you like me,” Barty grins wickedly. “Besides, we’ll just make fun of the whole thing, and I’ll steal my dad’s liquor and we’ll make it fun.”

Regulus pretends to think about it, but it doesn’t matter. Barty knows him. He knows Regulus is going to give in.

The summer baseball tournament is a local legend among the neighborhood kids, and the kids from surrounding neighborhoods too. The first baseball game began five years ago after they knocked down an old rickety building and reduced it to rubble. It didn’t take long for the land to reclaim the area and grow into tall stalks of grassy growth. That’s when, at age 12, Frank Longbottom got the bright idea to turn it into a makeshift baseball field.

The first year, Frank could barely get enough people together to make two teams, and it was so hot in the daylight that they never finished a full game before the kids scattered back into their air-conditioned homes. By year two, Frank had taken the entire school year to recruit people from surrounding neighborhoods and moved the games to the evening to beat the blazing heat.

This would be the fifth consecutive year that the tournament would run. Some kids still used the lot to play baseball in the winter or the spring, but this? This was official. After five years, the summer games became a thing of wonder for all of the young people in town. Anyone aged 12-17 could be on a team, you had to have nine to a team to enter, and each team wishing to compete in the tournament would have to have an official group name, a poster, and a roster. You had to submit and finalize your team two months before the school year ended.

That’s when the fun began. Students would make fliers and posters advertising their teams. Slips of copy paper folded up into tiny squares and passed down the aisles of desks to avoid the sharp eyes of teachers and administrators. The official list is always posted on the first Saturday of May. One expertly crayola, stickered, and markered sheet listing the teams, players, and field positions was nailed to the hollow oak tree stump in the woods by the creek. All the children knew where it was, and all of the adults would never stumble across it. Once the list was posted, the betting could begin.

Mundungus Fletcher and his group of friends ran the baseball betting ring. They would sit out by the old tree stump every Saturday with their journals taking meticulous notes of everyone placing bets and what they brought in. Nothing was off limits, Mundungus Fletcher accepted everything from stickers to lighters. Packs of bubble gum, nail polish, the two or three cigarettes you could manage to steal from your father, anything. Of course, not everything was of equal value. A lighter was worth two full-size candy bars (and it couldn’t be one of the bad ones like Almond Joy or 3 Musketeers they had to Reece's or Twix) and two small stickers. A nail polish was worth a rubber band ball and a blow pop. Mundungus Fletcher and his team took their jobs seriously, monitoring the conversion rates and doling out prizes. Every Saturday the children of the neighborhood would scramble, bringing in whatever they thought would be best for the pot. A few stray dollar bills, their coins, candy, lip gloss, sunglasses, bouncy balls, yo-yos, marbles, stamps, pokemon cards, queued-up mp3 players, necklaces, baseball caps, and even beloved childhood stuffed animals weren’t safe when it was time for baseball bets.

Mundungus kept all of the bets in one of his mother’s large kitchen mixing bowls, then two of his mother’s large mixing bowls, then in empty shoe boxes as things began to overfill. He said he hid all the betting goods in a secret, secure location, but Barty was pretty sure he was just keeping it all under his bed. Regardless, Mundungus would bring out the spoils every Saturday so that all of the kids in the neighborhood could see their potential spoils, provided they picked the right team. It was a great incentive to get people to partake.

As for the baseball teams, there were eight this year, the most they’d ever had. They would be competing to be number one. The winning team of the summer baseball tournament became town celebrities for the year. They always got first dibs at the carnival that came to town (they could skip the ride lines and take two turns in a row on the Ferris wheel), they got to use the tire swing into the creek whenever they wanted (they never had to wait to use it or take turns), and, because some of the older kids had jobs already, if you were on the winning baseball team you would often get free movie tickets and popcorn, or free ice cream if one of the other kids was working. There was an unspoken rule, a reverence, that the winning team had with the other kids in town, they were Gods among mortals, they would want for nothing, ask for anything, and receive it. The winning team also gets crowned with Coca-Cola canned bottle crowns that Barty thinks look stupid, but everyone else seems way too into them.

This all happens without the supervision of any adults. It was the most sacred vow that everyone tried not to break. No adults allowed. Adults always had the propensity to ruin things. They would think too hard about things, create problems that didn’t exist, and they would shut the baseball tournament down. This year, like last year, the games don’t start until one in the morning, while almost every adult is asleep soundly in their beds, getting ready for work the next morning. Of course, more than a few adults know about this tournament, and most don’t care. Regulus’ mother, like Barty’s father, is allergic to fun, so they’re both banned from going. Some kids have meltdowns over being banned from the games. Two years ago, a game couldn’t be played because two players were grounded and the team had to forfeit.

The stakes and the pressure were always high.

The stakes were high for Barty this year too, even if he wasn’t playing. He looks at Regulus as they come to the end of the street, shuffling feet. Regulus' house looms behind him, and Barty can see Walburga watching from the window on the second floor, peering purse-lipped through the curtains.

Barty’s hands stay in his pockets. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

Regulus nods. His face doesn’t waver but his eyes sparkle with secrecy. “Yeah, later.”

—

Throwing rocks at people’s windows is the worst.

Barty isn’t enthused.

First, he had to collect a bunch of rocks to stuff his pockets with on the way over, second, it was dark and there weren’t any street lights on Regulus’ street so everything looked exactly the same, and third, he was rapidly running out of rocks.

He skims them lightly at first. Tap. Tap. Tap.

They bounce off the glass of Regulus’ window in soft thuds.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Jesus Christ, how long did it take for Regulus to sneak out and come down?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Barty’s annoyed now. Maybe he wasn’t throwing them hard enough?

He throws the next few with more force.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

He keeps throwing them until he’s out of rocks.

Now what?

He stands on the side of Regulus’ house, trying to squint up into the dark window. He’s not sure if Regulus would turn a light on in the house and risk it, but it looks like nothing is going on in there. Regulus had promised him that he wasn’t a deep sleeper.

Outside the crickets chirp in song and the blades of grass tickle Barty’s ankles as the night breeze causes them to sway.

Fuck it.

Barty picks up a much larger rock that’s at his feet, and forgetting himself for a moment, he throws it with all the strength of the last throw and then some. The glass breaks and shatters with a delicious noise, but Barty can't admire it, because he’s already turning on his heel and running.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Past the first house and then the second and then–

Oh.

His feet all but screech to a halt on the pavement as he looks up at Regulus’ house. Regulus’ real house. This time he’s sure of it.

It’s not his fault everything looks the same in the dark.

Barty shrugs, trying to calm his racing heart and catch his breath as he leans down to pick up some smaller rocks from the ground.

As quietly as he can, he stalks over to the side of the house Regulus’ bedroom window is on, and starts the process over.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He uses a much lighter touch.

Thankfully, Regulus comes out after nine stones, no lights ever turned on inside the Black family residence.

“I’m surprised you don’t play,” Barty says as they walk side-by-side to the baseball field.

“Why’s that?” Regulus looks at him like he’s sprouted another head.

Barty shrugs, looking up at the waxing moon. “Your whole family does. Sirius and Andromeda are on a team. And Narcissa’s a pitcher. Bellatrix is on Tom’s team. Also a pitcher. You mean to tell me you haven’t thought about it?”

“Narcissa plays?” Regulus furrows his brows. “I didn’t know that.”

There was a lot about summer baseball that Regulus didn’t know. Barty takes it upon himself to explain on the walk over.

“There are really only three teams to beat in this tournament. Tom’s team, they’re the Death Eaters, that’s their team name. Nobody likes them and everyone is afraid of them because they play dirty. Last year, Bellatrix beamed Remus in the nose so hard that she broke it. Tom ordered it. Then you’ve got the Serpents, they’re my favorites. That’s the one Narcissa plays on. They haven’t won a tournament ever, but this is their year. Trust me. And then there’s,” Barty rolls his eyes for dramatic effect. “The Lions or whatever the fuck.”

“Horrible team name,” Regulus’ mouth twists up into a smile.

“Truly,” Barty nods. “James Potter is the captain, right-hand man is your brother, and they of course have recruited the legendary Frank Longbottom to come back and steal the baseball title from Tom’s Death Eaters. It was a huge upset when Tom’s team won two years ago, so much so that Frank quit the following year, and Tom won again, and now,” Barty shrugs. “I guess he’s back.”

“So the Lions are like the founding team?” Regulus asks, and Barty nods. He’s surprised Regulus doesn’t know this from his brother.

“Yeah, the original team. Doesn’t mean they’re gonna win though, even with Frank. Tom might actually kill somebody before he lets that happen.”

“But the Lions, they’re the favorites?”

Barty fake gags. “Depends on who you ask. Not my favorites.”

“Mine neither,” Regulus says decisively.

Barty wonders if he’s thinking about all of the lion posters and memorabilia that Sirius used to keep in his bedroom. Regulus would always complain about the bright red and gold team colors and the obnoxious designs, but he doesn’t complain about anything anymore now that Sirius’ room is empty.

Barty looked out for him then. When Sirius packed up everything and ran away to James’ house. It was odd, Regulus seemed to be the only one who knew what it was then. Walburga and Orion seemed to be in denial. Sirius would come home, it was an extended sleepover– which they were never allowed to have, Sirius would realize how good he had it and he’d come back. Only Regulus seemed to understand that they’d never live under the same roof again.

Barty was there. He was there while Regulus ranted and raved and paced and shook his fists at the sky. He was there when Regulus crumpled up like a sheet of paper and collapsed in on himself, shoulders shaking in silent cries. He was there when Sirius spent every second trying to convince Regulus to come to James’ house with him, begged Regulus to talk to him, tried to pass him letters in the street that Regulus would let fall to the pavement. And he was there when Regulus picked himself up and pretended as if the entire affair was beneath him.

They were there for each other. Alway had been. Barty would never leave like Sirius did. He wouldn’t dream of it. He’d stick around as long as Regulus would let him, as pathetic as that sounded. He’d like to think that Regulus would stick around too. Regulus with his dark eyes and all-too-serious look of someone always deep in thought. Sharp, gray eyes that narrowed in displeasure at everything. It took a lot of effort to get Regulus to smile, even more effort to make him laugh. Barty had never done something so rewarding. The surge he felt in his chest whenever Regulus would grin or laugh at something Barty had said was addicting. It made him lightheaded and delirious.

“Look what I brought,” Barty grins, pulling out the flask from his back pocket. The silver can glints in the moonlight.

Regulus’ hand reaches to grab at the flask as they walk in time. Barty likes the way their feet sound on the pavement when they’re in step. He hates that he’s been having thoughts like these more and more frequently. He can’t fucking help himself.

Regulus takes a swig and does his best not to shudder as the warm liquor lights a fire down his throat. Barty finds it slightly endearing as he raises his eyebrows at Regulus, waiting for him to cough and sputter. It never comes.

Barty watches as Regulus licks his lips and hands the flask back to Barty, cheeks pink. Barty is overcome with the desire to kiss him, to taste the honeyed bourbon still on his lips and feel the lightning bolts race through his veins, but he contains himself. Another annoying and incessant thought.

In an attempt to recover, he swings hard at Regulus’ shoulder, harder than he should, as he tuts, “Don’t drink it all, save some for the game.”

Regulus turns to him once more, face indignant as he rubs his arm where Barty has just punched. “Fuck you, I barely even drank any.”

“It looked like a big swallow to me.”

Now it was Regulus’ turn to punch Barty, but there was no heat behind it. “Fucking hell, I told you to stop swinging on me like that. I’ll break your nose next time, I swear to God.”

Barty grins. “Is that a promise?”

“Freak,” Regulus shakes his head, but he’s back to being amused.

“You love it.”

They make it to the field early, but there are already people streaming in with bright battery-operated lights for the game, talking excitedly to themselves. A team is warming up the field, practicing their swings and stretching, Barty listens to the clatter of the bleachers that someone had brought to the lot two years ago. He’s not sure how they did it.

He watches Regulus watch the scene in wonder.

“They have concession stands?” He asks, looking at the girl and boy selling things on the pavement in front of the lot. They both sit at a little plastic table with plastic chairs, their sign advertises what they're selling, crackerjack, peanuts, sodas, trail mix, lemonade.

“Uh, I guess,” Barty shrugs. “That’s new. Seems a bit much.”

Still, he buys two bags of boiled peanuts and two cokes for them anyway.

Mundungus Fletcher and his friends are there, calling out to everyone to join in the bets. Tonight is the last night to enter.

Regulus stops by and drops off a few things, about ten dollars, 4 packs of gum, sunglasses with flames up the side that used to belong to Sirius, and 5 spinning tops.

“Regulus Black,” Mundungus fills out his name in the notebook in inky black pen, carefully recording the list of everything he’s brought. “Let me guess, you’re betting it all on the Lions?”

His voice is loud and booming, with the confidence of a sports announcer but the underlying hint of deception like a used car salesman.

“No,” Regulus scowls at him.

“Oh, I just assumed because of your brother that–”

“I want to bet it all on the Serpents. I hear their pitcher is really good.”

Barty smiles as Mundungus nods. “And you Crouch? Any last-minute bets?”

Barty shakes his head. “I’ve already got over $50 in the game. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

Regulus signs on the dotted line confirming his entry and they make their way to the bleachers. Even though it’s dark out, it’s still uncomfortably warm outside. Some kids have brought battery-operated handheld fans with styrofoam propellers to keep them cool. Others have ice packs.

Barty figures that he can just sit behind someone with a fan and benefit from the airflow. The bleachers begin to fill up as the game draws closer. Kids bring signs elaborately decorated with all of their best art supplies. Glitter glue, puff paint, rhinestones, and neon markers. Some have even painted their faces.

Barty and Regulus spot Remus Lupin at the same time. He’s walking towards a group of kids scrambling to set up a radio and microphone at the announcer's table.

“One. Two. One. Two,” Remus says into the microphone and it resounds throughout the lot, as a hush falls in the bleachers.

“He’s not playing?” Regulus leans in to ask Barty, his shoulder brushing against him.

Barty shakes his head. “Not since the Bellatrix incident, no. He’s no good anymore. Flinches when the ball comes towards him, forgets to swing the bat.”

“Remus Lupin?” Regulus’ eyebrows shoot up like he doesn’t believe it. But he doesn’t have to believe it, he can see Remus take his place at the announcer's table.

Remus runs the scoreboard, calls the players up, and explains the plays for the kids who don’t really know what’s going on. Mary MacDonald helps him with the music and the score when she’s not playing, otherwise, Rita Skeeter helps out, much to the annoyance of everyone.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Regulus snorts. “What’s next, they bring out someone to sing the national anthem?”

“Don’t give them any ideas.”

The mood shifts in the stadium as they get ready to begin. Remus clears his throat in the microphone and it emits an ear-splitting feedback. Still, some kids were trickling in, sitting in the grass now that the bleachers were full.

On the other side of the field, sat the other teams that weren’t playing that night, just behind the makeshift dugouts.

“They like to sit and scope out the competition. They keep to themselves,” Barty explains when Regulus asks. “Can’t mingle with the common folk.”

Regulus scoffs, but Barty doesn’t miss the way his eyes search for Sirius across the field. When Regulus finds him, Sirius sits up straighter, already looking back. He goes to raise a hand to wave at him but Regulus turns his head away sharply, making a show of it.

Barty watches as Sirius moves to stand up like he’s going to run over to them and talk to Regulus, but a blonde girl, Marlene McKinnon, grabs his arm and pulls him down as the first players run out onto the field.

Remus introduces the two teams, the Death Eaters versus the Badgers. All around them, kids shake their yellow signs exuberantly, while some sport all black signs with skulls on them.

The Badgers are going to get destroyed. Anyone with half a brain would know it the minute they heard the match-up. While you had to be 12-17 to play, most of the kids on the Badgers’ team were closer to 12, whereas the Death Eaters were all 17. Barty was actually certain that a few of the kids were 18 or 19 and only getting by because they’d been held back a year or two in school.

He starts listening in to what Remus is saying as he passes Regulus his bag of boiled peanuts.

“With starting pitcher Bellatrix Black, and your team captain, Tom Riddle.”

The stands go wild, everyone stomping their feet on the metal bleachers causing a thunderous metal rumble and Regulus’ eyes widen at the commotion.

“Let’s play ball,” Remus called, rather monotone and complacent about the ordeal.

Regulus snorts. “This is beneath him.”

Barty nods in agreement.

Since there were eight teams in the tournament, there would be seven rounds total. Each round was a best-of-three battle to move on, for a maximum of 21 games, 21 nights, of baseball madness. They were guaranteed at least 14. Two full weeks of baseball. The event of the summer.

They watch as Bellatrix takes the pitcher's mound, licking up little clouds of dirt with her feet. He knocks his knee against Regulus’ at his cousin taking in both the crowd’s cheers and boos. Barty pours some of the bourbon into his Coke can and does the same for Regulus.

Bellatrix’s wild hair was long and curly, falling down her back. It was only kept out of her face by a black baseball cap, and she smiles sharply at the stands.

A soft tune plays as a short kid with spiky brown hair walks up to home plate, giving his bat a few test swings in preparation.

“I heard she puts some kind of resin or wax on her baseball cap to make the ball sticky,” Barty whispers like it’s some kind of secret.

“I believe it,” Regulus says, also leaning in. Barty tries to ignore the lightning bolts. The static frequency once again turned up a notch. “She used to cheat in every game we played growing up.”

They share a look as Bellatrix puts her fingers to the brim of her baseball hat and nods, baseball glove at the ready. The atmosphere has gone quiet like everyone is holding their breaths. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

The kid at home plate assumes position and Bellatrix winds up. The ball moves so fast that Barty doesn’t have time to register it, and neither does the kid at home plate, as the ball hits the catcher’s mitt with a hard thud.

“Strike one,” Remus’ voice echoes, and the spell is broken.

The crowd roars to life once more.

Barty and Regulus get lost in the atmosphere, the crack of the bat, the whizz of the ball, the cheers of people telling their friends to steal third. They crunch through their boiled peanuts and slowly work their way through their cokes, which get stronger as time passes, due to Barty constantly topping them up with flask bourbon.

At the top of the third, a Badger player manages a triple on Bellatrix, running in two of her teammates, so Bellatrix beams her at the top of the fourth, and lets her walk. It doesn’t matter though, the score is already 6-2. At the bottom of the sixth, Tom scores the first home run of the night, and more than a few of the silly girls from high school chirp and cheer loudly, making heart eyes in his direction.

“I mean,” Regulus leans in to whisper. “I kinda get it.”

Barty screws up his face in disgust. “Fuck no.”

He makes more than a few sarcastic remarks and snarky comments, all of which make Regulus laugh or smile. Barty is humming with delight, but he desperately tries to curtail it. Regulus is also getting into the game. It’s a gradual interest, but Barty finds that he’s watching Regulus more than the game. He watches as Regulus’ eyes furrow when someone gets an out, watches the slight smile grace his face as Bellatrix throws a particularly nasty screwball, watches Regulus’ vague curiosity at Tom’s simpering smirk. At some point, their knees touch, and they stay that way for the remainder of the night. Regulus, who shies away from any sort of contact, hasn't moved his knee away.

Barty fucking loves baseball.

The game ends at a brutal 11-2 at the top of the ninth inning. Though, to the Badger’s credit, they do not look defeated or deterred. They seem more than pleased with their two runs, all jostling and shaking the girl who made it possible with wide smiles and congratulations.

The bourbon has satiated Barty and left his head perfectly hazy. He offers a lazy smile to Regulus. “Walk you home?”

It’s late, and he’s feeling tired, he’s sure Regulus feels the same.

Regulus nods, finishing off the last of the coke, and subsequently the last of the bourbon.

“Can’t let you sleep through morning violin lessons, or French tutoring, or whatever the fuck your weird-ass family has you do.”

“Piano.” Regulus rolls his eyes as he corrects Barty. His cheeks are tinged slightly pink and his eyes are a little glassy.

Barty bites his lip to keep from smiling. What a lightweight.

They’re almost out of the field, about to slip down the quiet streets, when Regulus is pulled back by a hand on his shoulder.

Barty spins around to see Sirius with a group of his teammates.

“You came?” Is the first thing out of Sirius’ mouth.

“Not for you, for Barty,” Regulus shoots off just as quickly.

Sirius’ teammates stare at the ground nervously. He makes note of them. The blonde girl from before, Marlene, and he’d know James Potter anywhere. He’s never seen James without Sirius. And the redhead, Lily.

“Well, we play in four nights if you want to watch,” James offers a slight smile. “I’m James, by the way.”

Regulus regards him coldly. “I know who you are.”

“I just wanted to, uh, say hi.” Sirius’ voice is stilted, odd. Almost pained. Barty makes it his duty to glare daggers at him.

“Well, don’t do it again,” Regulus says smoothly, and Barty can tell he doesn’t mean it.

So can Sirius, as he smiles.

“You know we could always use an extra player on our team.”

“In your fucking dreams, Sirius.”

“Come on, we want to get uniforms made,” Sirius offers again, as if this fact would entice Regulus.

He doesn’t know Regulus like Barty knows him. Regulus would hate wearing matching baseball uniforms. He would detest it. He’d rather die.

Marlene rolls her eyes. “James just wants to prance about in those tight little pants.”

“Yeah,” James shoots back quickly. “And all the girls want to see me prance about in those tight little pants, and who am I to deny the people what they desperately want?”

Lily scoffs as Regulus turns to leave, dragging Barty with him.

“Wait,” Sirius calls. “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“Maybe. It’s none of your business,” Regulus snaps as they walk out of earshot.

They’re striding down the pavement, no shuffling feet and no delay of time, as Regulus huffs.

“Wait,” Barty can’t help himself from asking. “We are going back tomorrow, right?”

Apart from the Sirius interlude, he had a good time with Regulus. And he figures if Sirius hadn’t ambushed them, then he and Regulus would be taking their sweet time walking home. Time that Barty craved more than anything.

“Yeah,” Regulus nods shortly. “I shouldn’t have talked to him. I should’ve just ignored him.”

“Well, he did make it kind of difficult to do that,” Barty reasons as Regulus fumes.

“Fuck, and then stupid fucking James Potter trying to be so–”

“Annoying,” Barty says at the time Regulus says charming.

He tries to ignore the funny thing his heart does in his chest as they both fall into stunned silence.

“Well,” Barty breathes out. “Not what I was going to say.”

“No, I just mean– you heard him,” Regulus says quickly, taking on a crude imitation of James’ voice. “I’m James. I wear tight pants and steal people’s brothers from them for fun.”

Barty snorts. “Yeah, what a dick.”

Regulus nods and repeats after him. “A dick.”

But it doesn’t sound like Regulus really means it. No one can be both charming and a dick. It doesn’t work like that.

Barty walks Regulus all the way to his house, doing his best to skirt the home with the broken window.

Regulus smiles at him softly. “It was fun.”

He admits it like a secret, like it reluctantly has to be true.

Barty nods in agreement, fighting off the urge to punch Regulus again. “Same time tomorrow, baseball boy?”

Regulus nods, his hand brushing against Barty’s slightly before he turns to head inside through the propped-open window on the bottom floor.

Barty stands on the street corner, just him and chirping crickets as he waits for Regulus to flick his bedroom lights on and off to show he’s made it. Once he does, Barty heads towards his house, trying to ignore the parts of his hand that Regulus has touched crackling to life.

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actualmermaid · 1 year ago

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It's been three months since I made this post about Saints Sergius and Bacchus, John Boswell, classical Western homoeroticism, and Christian homophobia.

Since then I have read both of Boswell's books on the history of gay/queer people in premodern Christianity (Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality and Same-Sex Unions in Premodern Europe), familiarized myself more fully with the spectrum of charges against Boswell and his scholarship, and realized that he's been the subject of ideologically-motivated smear campaigns by just about every political/religious/academic faction you can imagine. My conclusion: Professor Boswell is a saint, martyr, and important queer elder who does not get the respect that he deserves, and I'm in awe of the sheer volume of the massive genius brain that was somehow crammed into his little blond head.

ANYWAY. This is an official followup to my original post, now that I've read Boswell's work.

I take back my hunch that Boswell's work was not intersectional. He was, in fact, a pioneer in the field of medieval social history, and utilized a wide range of critical lenses in his work. He was inhibited by the lack of documented evidence about some groups (for example, he was frequently criticized for not writing more about lesbians, but he was open about the difficulties of researching lesbians in history and explained what he was doing as a scholar and as a teacher to mitigate this) but he constantly called attention to issues of class, gender, and other social factors wherever they were relevant.

I was RIGHT in noticing that the slight difference in rank between Sergius and Bacchus seems to be an erastes/eromenos indicator! Boswell spoke at greater length and with greater sensitivity about erastes/eromenos dynamics in history, so if you want a deeper look into that, you should read his books.

I was also probably right in noticing that the legend of Sergius and Bacchus is seeded with various forms of Byzantine propaganda! I really wish that I could talk to him about it. :(

Both secular queer theorists and religious queer theologians seem to be most uncomfortable with the fact that Boswell was reporting on historical facts and observable social forces, not idealized concepts of queer people as somehow being more ethical or spiritual than the straight majority. He included evidence of things like abuse, prostitution, and exploitation not because he thought they were cool, but because they were part of the material reality of queer people's existence in the past, just like they were part of the material reality of his own 70s-80s gay subculture.

That was his bottom line: gay/queer people are a normal human variation, and as a historian, he could provide hard proof of their existence and what their lives might have been like. If his work seems "shallow" or "dated" to some more modern queer researchers, it's only because so many people were willing to dismiss his scholarship, reject his work, and abandon his research leads after he died. But, he was actually super smart and his scholarship was actually meticulous, so even his most dedicated critics have been unable to "debunk" him. Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality most recently had a 35th-anniversary reprinting, and he is still being cited as an authority by more recent scholars.

Even though the full strength of the Church and the Academy were leveled against him, his work has proven its own worth. He still deserves to be read and discussed by both professional scholars and enthusiastic hobbyists. And, the Open and Affirming movement in Christianity wouldn't be as strong as it is without his confirmation that "gays and lesbians are normal," as he put it, and not simply a construct of modern society.

Rest in power, Professor Boswell. We won't forget you.

Since I made that post, I have also opened a sticker shop with a bunch of queer Christian saint icons, including Boswell and some of the queer saints he discovered/wrote about. They're pretty cool. You should buy one.

#christianity #history #lgbtq #queer #lgbtq history #gay

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napoleonic-sexyman-tournament · 6 months ago

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Propaganda under the cut because it's long:

Alexander I Pavlovich

a. “Maybe not the most handsome or charismatic man in this tournament, but he has ample chaotic neutral energy that both baffles and fascinates contemporaries. In short, if you're into mysterious men, you won't find a sexier enigma than our imperator.”

b. “Look. Is this or is this not the monsterfucking website.”

c. There are lots of monuments dedicated to him. There's one in Moscow in the Alexander Garden right by the Red Square. While nowhere near as grand as the Alexander Column, I think it's still worth showcasing!

The monument is meant to celebrate his victory in the 1812 Russian invasion. He's holding a sword, proudly standing on top of his enemies' weapon.

The sculptors, however, have never seen the man in their life - all the people involved in the making are still alive and well (i think), so that should tell how new it is. The monument was opened for the public just a decade ago in 2014.

d. quote about this bust from the memoirs of Sophie de Choiseul-Gouffier: “No painter was able to properly capture the features of his face and especially his soft expression. Alexander didn’t like to pose for portraits and they were mostly done with some stealth. In this case sculpture have produced a better likeness. The famed Thorvaldsen made a bust of this sovereign worthy of a hand of such a remarkable artist.”

e. His family nickname might have been ‘our angel’ and the medal commemorating his death bears the inscription “Our angel is in heaven”, but did you know that to this day Alexander looks down on Sankt Petersburg as an actual angel, wings, cross, trampled snake and all? Alas, you cannot see it from the ground, the Alexander Column being so very tall, but the statue of the angel on top certainly seems to take after our sexy thrice-angel Emperor.

f. Apotheosis of Alexander! An eminently universal image, perfectly serviceable for his rise to the throne… of Napoleonic Sexyman Tournament.

It really looks like Peter and Catherine are instructing the Electorate. Gentlevoters, surely you wouldn’t dream of disappointing Sasha’s Grandmother and his scantily clothed giant of a Great-great-grandfather?

g. What is sexier than a man in a dress???

Mikhail Miloradovich:

Miloradovich had a short episode as Catherine the Great's favourite at just eighteen. Alas, usually he's not included on the official list except by Barskov. That is because he was one of several concurrent boytoys candidates in 1789, before Zubov won the contest. But I believe that being to Catherine's taste adds to M's sexyman cred.

He never married, but according to his legend, he kept an entire trunk of love letters (from many, many ladies) in his palace, which was discovered after his death.

Miloradovich possessed the kind of cavalier fantasy that made him a hero among soldiers (and one of Suvorov's favourites). Hence these three popular stories:

Once, while on campaign, his soldiers decided to give M their best wishes on his name day. He was very gracious about it and told them with his best roguish smile that in thanks for their wishes he'd give them a present... that present being the nearest pretty-as-a-picture enemy column (French).

On one occasion Joachim Murat came out, sat down and demonstratively drank coffee during an active fire exchange. Miloradovich naturally couldn't be worse and asked for a table to be set for him. Also under the fire, because where else. "He's drinking coffee? I'm eating dinner here!" And it wasn't a singular event: more than once he and Murat conducted a peculiar gallant flirtation on the field. And yes, Miloradovich also had a weakness for very blingy bling.

Alas, M didn't get to carry a ladder (that we know of), but he didn't shy motivating his soldiers in similar ways. It just so happened that his scouting party came to a stop at a steep slope and froze. Miloradovich came forward, got on the ground and slid down the slope on his spine, laughing and generally having (or pretending to have) lots of fun.

#napoleonic sexyman tournament

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stealingpotatoes · 1 year ago

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Skywalkers apart au! It's so precious that Anakin gets to be a dad, a rebellion general Dad but he gets to be there for at least one of them and Padme survives and gets to be a mom and maybe someday they get to meet and it's so good.

Also the concept of General Skywalker of the Rebellion feels like it has so much potential cause he was such a big figure in the Clone Wars, he was the Hero, the General, he could probably get the various splinter rebel cells (they were very divided in the early Rebellion) to follow him by sheer reputation and charisma. Imagine Anakin being at Hoth, like the attack is going along the usual Imperial imminent victory and suddenly an AT-AT has been thrown clear across the landscape and an announcement sounds out "General Skywalker has entered the field" cue Rebel Counterattack due to morale boost and Imperial Panic.

What happened to the 501st here? Did he go to the Venator's crash site where Ahsoka was during Order 66 what did he think when he saw all the dead folks?

Fun thought, Starkiller being the apprentice in this AU, means that Sidious has probably been comparing him to Anakin (in part because he's bitter he didn't fall, in other part cause it's great for fueling the darkside) for years so the first time they face off he's gonna be full of spiteful hatred (all going according to plan) before Starkiller gets styled on by the Skywalker, cause Anakin isn't crippled by the suit and that means he's still massively powerful in the force and skilled in the blade (Vader was too, but less than a whole Anakin), I could see Anakin pulling a Lightside version of the Rogue One Hallway scene against Stormtroopers (or even inquisitors).

Rebel General Anakin Skywalker would be an Imperial Boogeyman.

Leia would probably appreciate it for a while but also she'd get a bit annoyed about her dad's reputation and "Legend" and the fact that she's probably got that entire thing to measure up to, making her more reckless or foolhardy. That's a big shadow to live under.

Padme on the other hand is probably in a very different situation reputation wise, she was the senator for the new Emperor's home planet, she's the old queen of naboo from the Trade Federation attack, she's a founding member of one of the oldest discrete rebellion cells but that still leaves some stigma. She's probably so very worried about Imperial surveilance on her or Luke or the rest of her family, and it doesn't help that the Inquistorious has probably been sniffing around for a while.

ok this is a veeeeery long ask so i'm gonna have a veeeery long answer which is gonna go under this readmore:

YES!! yes absolutely! tbh i decided a while back he never gets an official promotion to general, everyone just calls him General Skywalker for so long that it sticks loll. BUT YEAH I mean working with a Jedi is rare and awe-inspiring enough for any rebellion cell but working with the hero with no fear??? half the rebels are wondering if they can interrupt this mission to ask for his autograph

its extra funny bc for the first few years of the empire he's lowkey depressed and like agh i failed the order republic AND my family i'm a terrible horrible no good jedi who nearly turned to the dark side and while he's having this spiral there's some rebel standing next to him pointing and pogging

and yeah he's SO useful in big battles like that!! he's half a legend, half a ghost story, given most ppl think he died in the Purge but here he is, enacting justice on the empire!! tho he does struggle on quieter missions (which happen a lot more at first bc gotta hide from the empire) that you cant just blaze into. its a difficult shift to go from clone wars general skywalker to rebel general skywalker

yeah 501st same as canon ): but OHHH MY GOD yes thats SUCH A PERFECT IDEA, Anakin going with Rex and Ahsoka to the site and mourning them all (and probably going into another depression spiral lbr)

youre so right lollll obvs leia loves the one up she has in an argument of "well my dad's general skywalker, beat that" but as u say she absolutely wants to live up to that (+ is a very independent/stubborn person and would like Leia Skywalker, not just "General Skywalker's daughter" lol)

AND YEAH ABSOLUTELY Padmé and Anakin's roles in this au are both so interesting (is that egotistical to say) bc they're these upside down versions of their clone wars roles, both very loud people forced to quieten down and be Discreet about how they go abt helping ppl. Padmé is really struggling hiding so much (luke's force sensitivity, her rebel activities, all relations to anakin) and trying to protect Luke while helping the Rebellion WHILE trying not to seem suspicious. a lot on her plate -- only made worse by palpatine keeping a close-ish eye on her, and she can't tell why (is it bc of luke? the rebellion? anakin? or is it just his old favouritism or patriotism being VERY inconvenient??)

on the inquisitors, obvs you don't see a lot of them on coruscant -- but padmé's SO scared abt ppl (MAINLY SIDIOUS WHO, YA KNOW, TRIED TO TURN LUKE'S DAD SITH) finding out abt him and she hates that she's making him repress this part of himself but what choice does she have???

#long post #skywalkers apart au #love au talk!!! thank u for so much of it!!#thanks for the ask!

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bigfan-fanfic · 5 months ago

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Shield of Stars (Biotic!Reader x Kaidan Alenko x Steve Rogers)

@jayfeather965 male reader x Kaidan x Steve when Steve awakens in 2181 Mass Effect universe

Historically, putting soldiers in the same platoon really was the closest way to getting people to bond.

Could it have been anything other than inevitable when you and Kaiden fell for the Captain?

Your group, the Brooklyn Squad, wasn't actually meant to see combat.

It was more of an honor guard for Steve, an honorary ambassador and a living relic - technically the first biotic made by humans.

Though Steve's body carries no element zero and he cannot manipulate mass effect fields, it was Erskine's formula and subsequent research that was able to prepare certain people for bio-amp implantation and help make safe biotics out of those exposed to eezo.

The Brooklyn Squad consists of Steve, you, Kaidan, a turian who has come to respect and appreciate Steve's ethics, an asari, and a few other human biotics. It doesn't technically have any jurisdiction or ability to enforce galactic law...

But after an incident in which the Squad discovered and liberated a bunch of sapients kidnapped and enslaved by batarians, it has become the personal overt task force of the Council.

Officially the turian is the commanding officer for the Brooklyn Squad, though the chain of command is unlike what Steve is used to, since he was in the military over two hundred years ago.

But Steve really does appreciate having not only a goal and missions, but people he can truly trust, like when he was part of the Howling Commandos.

It's different for him - seeing you and Kaidan kiss. He makes an awkward joke about fraternization to cover for his unease, which he looks into.

Steve's never only been into women. But for a long time he sort of had to be above all that, first when he was in the US Military during the war, and now when he's an icon and completely out of his own time.

It wasn't conducive to exploring romance or even his own feelings. But seeing you and Kaidan openly loving one another without any thought of retaliation or anger - it shocks him. And it gives him hope.

He talks a little to the other members of the Squad about it, about how love is now, in this world where people are citizens of planets and systems and humans are not alone - about plural marriage and polyamory and sexuality and gender expression

How turian culture differs from asari from human from salarian and so on. Steve learns and expands as the whole Squad helps him to accept himself, and everything else.

And that's when Steve asks you two out. Still unsure, but wanting to try - Steve asks you and Kaidan on a date, accepting the potential of you both saying no.

But you say yes.

Yes to a trip around the Citadel trying increasingly-unfamiliar foods and laughing at how all of you feel the same kind of wrong-footed.

Yes to a visit to a library for translated volumes of quarian legends and asari myths, and exploring writers from worlds beyond your own.

Yes to a night in to watch Fleet and Flotilla, and to start exploring not only classics that are still way past Steve's time, but things bridging the gap between his missing years and now.

Yes to finding an apartment on the Citadel for an extended shore leave where all of you can stay.

Yes to a trip back to Earth to meet Kaidan's parents, where he introduces you as the loves of his life.

Yes to the rings - beautifully crafted triple bands of gold uniting the three of you as one.

Yes to spending the rest of your lives together amongst the stars, fighting off Reapers and never, ever giving up on each other.

Because if time itself couldn't prevent your love story, nothing can.

#steve rogers x male reader #kaidan alenko x male reader #mass effect x male reader #captain america x male reader #captain america headcanons #mass effect headcanons #marvel headcanons #headcanons

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gffa · 1 year ago

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Is melida/daan canon? sometimes people argue about how the jedi should not have gone to war, and then I remember that whole story and the debate about whether qui-gon shouldve stayed and fought- and it's really quite fascinating.

Hi! So, it depends on what you mean by "canon", as Star Wars has several different continuities and what is "canon" in one will not be "canon" in another, despite that they're both officially put out by Star Wars. 1. George Lucas continuity: The first six movies and seasons 1-6 of The Clone Wars. Nothing else is canon to Lucas' Star Wars, he has explicitly said dozens of times that the books, comics, games, etc. are their own world, but they're not canon to his Star Wars. 2. Legends continuity: Any books, novels, games that you can reasonably expect to be taken seriously (ie, not LEGO Star Wars or a mini-Flash game or what have you) that's pre-April 25, 2014 is in this continuity, unless something post-this date has a disclaimer in the back that says it was based on Legends continuity but wasn't ready for publication until later, but still counts as the Legends continuity. This is where the Melida/Daan events fall. 3. Disney continuity: Once Disney bought Star Wars and started putting out their own shows (Rebels, season 7 of The Clone Wars, The Mandalorian, The Book of Boba Fett, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Andor, etc.) and movies (Rogue One, the sequel trilogy, Solo, etc.) and games and books and comics, they created a new continuity. This one is a bit tricky since they say it's all on a level playing field, but the truth is that the TV shows are higher "canon" than the books and games and such. (As a note: Fantasy Flight Games' reference books are generally not a source of canon material, they try to be canon-compliant, but the story group has said they're probably not to be trusted re: being hard canon.) So, to answer your question: It depends on the discussion you're having and what the agreed-upon continuity is. For me, while I dabble in all of the continuities, if I'm talking about the movies+TCW, then Melida/Daan is probably not canon. But if we're talking about the Lucasfilm era novels, then they are canon to that continuity and a lot of people occupy that space, that's the playground they're in, so those events are canon to them. And, honestly, it's hard for me to take those books 100% seriously, they were written when only one of the prequels movies was out, AOTC didn't even exist then, much less the expanding of the world that TCW did, as well as they were written to a very specific audience of young teens, who would want to read about other young teens being heroes, which means the adults basically had to get hit with the idiot stick and so I'm more interested in meeting them where they're at and what their aim was, in my view. They're great fun and people should go nuts with them if that's their jam, live your best fannish life! God knows, that's what I do on stuff I love! But they also occupy a very nebulous space on being "canon", because so much depends on what framework we're talking about!

#lumi.txt #legends vs canon

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wrestlingisfake · 8 months ago

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so... i need to know more about the House of Torture. any idea where to start?

I think the best thing I can do is run down the origins and history of the group, and link to some shows on NJPW world if you want to check them out for more information. Then I'll try to sum up their general vibe, and why Jack Perry fits into their faction.

House of Torture got its start as a part of Bullet Club, back in 2020. I think technically they're still a subgroup of Bullet Club, but the two factions don't have much to do with one another these days.

The thing about New Japan in 2020 is that the pandemic really screwed up their schedule, and the international travel restrictions left a lot of their non-Japanese roster stuck outside the country. Bullet Club was especially hit hard, since it's generally been an "evil foreigner" group. So New Japan needed to make a new star and also prop up Bullet Club with some new, domestic members.

First, EVIL turned on Los Ingobernables de Japon. He won the New Japan Cup with help from Bullet Club's Gedo (July 11, 2020). Then he beat LIJ's leader, Tetsuya Naito, at Dominion (July 12) to win the IWGP heavyweight and intercontinental titles. Bullet Club never played fair, but there was absolutely no subtlety about Evil's heel act. That title win featured a ton of run-ins, low-blows, you name it. Dick Togo, a 50-something legend from the Japanese indies, debuted to join the group as Evil's personal henchman.

Yujiro Takahashi quickly became associated with Evil and Togo, simply because there weren't a lot of other Bullet Club guys left in the country to team with. Yujiro joined Bullet Club way back in 2014, and the pimp gimmick he developed back then hasn't changed much over the years. The most notable thing about him is that he saunters to the ring with a professional go-go dancer named Pieter, but unfortunately she hasn't been brought in much since the pandemic.

Evil's big title reign didn't last long, and pundits generally considered it a failure. He only managed to get one successful title defense, against his former LIJ buddy Hiromu Takahashi at Sengoku Lord (July 25, 2020). After that, Naito won back his two belts at Summer Struggle (August 29). Evil went back down to the midcard.

The final piece of the puzzle came a year later, after SHO turned on his tag team partner YOH. They had a grudge match at Wrestle Grand Slam (September 4, 2021). Right after the match, Evil, Dick Togo, and Yujiro came to the ring wearing "House of Torture" shirts, and gave one to him. From that point on, the four men were clearly distinct from Bullet Club, even if they never officially broke away.

The defining feature of House of Torture is that they have absolutely no redeeming virtues. The rest of Bullet Club cheats and takes cheap shots, but they tend to be kind of cool and sometimes they've got a good sense of humor. House of Torture doesn't want to entertain you. They don't even want to be entertaining villains. Sometimes I think they care more about frustrating the fans than they do about winning matches. Hence the name: We're the ones being tortured.

If I had to recommend a specific storyline to understand House of Torture, I guess I'd go with their feud with Just 5 Guys in the 2023 Destruction tour. J5G had a 5-to-4 advantage against the heels, but that still could keep them from pulling their bullshit heel tactics, because on September 24 House of Torture just convinced Yoshinobu Kanemaru to switch sides! Every time the good guys think they've got a fair playing field, Evil finds a new way to skew it.

A major criticism of House of Torture has been Sho's performance. Sho is genuinely a great wrestler, but ever since he turned heel he's become this craven psycho whose best move is to hit a guy with a wrench. Half of Sho's matches these days involve trying to get out of the match, by faking an injury or claiming his opponent forfeited when he's really tied up backstage. On the other hand, Sho's on-screen personality as a babyface was pretty bland, so I can't deny that being in House of Torture has helped his character development. I'm hoping that also benefits Ren Narita (who joined in December 2023).

Jack Perry should fit right in with House of Torture. His feud with HOOK last year was textbook cheap-heat heel work. If Hook had been feuding with Evil or Sho, I think they would've pulled a lot of the same shenanigans. The whole "scapegoat" thing fits in well too, and not just because the goat-head thing is spooky-looking. Jack has gone from not caring about the fans to feeding off of their scorn and ruining matches for the sake of spite. I don't even personally blame him for what happened with CM Punk, but his character wants me to resent him for it so he can revel in that hatred. That's the kind of attitude Evil, Sho, Ren Narita, Dick Togo, Yujiro Takahashi, and Yoshinobu Kanemaru can relate to.

#njpw #house of torture #jack perry

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tiredassmage · 1 year ago

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giggling and kicking my feet. oh i lOVE THESE!! thamk you for the tag @eorzeashan! <3

BOLD the FACTS

bothering the man, the myth, the legend, the og~ this will not stop me from wanting to do more blorbo. nor verses of blorbo.

PERSONAL

Financial: wealthy / moderate / poor / in poverty

Medical: fit / moderate / sickly / disabled / disadvantaged / non-applicable

Twenty-some years (and counting) of intelligence work has its moments. While largely still ready for field work at a moment's notice, history with the Castellans and then Valkorian's influence don't play well with his habit of being a workaholic, nor his... equally bad habit of trying to work through headaches and occasional bouts of insomnia.

Class or Caste: upper / middle / working / unsure / other

Education: qualified / unqualified / studying / other

Criminal Record: yes, for major crimes / yes, for minor crimes / no / has committed crimes, but not caught yet / yes, but charges were dismissed

Nebulously, 'Cipher Nine' may or may not be connected to some of his work, but the fact that he's still among the Republic's 'most wanted' does imply a slight lack of proof. Or ability to actually bring him in. (And maybe there's still a part of him that's amused by it and maybe just a smidgen proud about it, okay?) We're also not talking about the implied treason. If the Empire ever caught his, ah. Affiliations. :))

FAMILY

Children: had a child or children / has no children / wants children

The slightly shorter answer is he hasn't. thought about it a lot, but he'd like to, when it crosses his mind. It's the Shelter Dog Rizz (TM) and also that this man has a mentor streak a country mile wide and just doesn't have a lot of opportunities to realize it. Ough, which version of events? xD When this idiot finally retires, there are two daughters whom he will definitely build blanket forts with and "accidentally" teach Huttese swears and insults to because they argued Hyroh didn't know, etc. etc. [Sunasa grows up too fast and will always be his baby girl and Kas is going to be taller than him and completely capable of breaking arms by herself and he's going to worry about both of them. Forever.]

Relationship with Family: close with sibling(s) / not close with sibling(s) / has no siblings / sibling(s) is deceased

Tyr, your complicated family ties. Tyr has no biological siblings, but his adopted sister, Mavis, and him haven't spoken since before his time in the Academy and they were almost always more antagonistic than not. I wouldn't be surprised if they never referred to each other as siblings. They more so just. happened to grow up in the same household.

Affiliation: orphaned / abandoned / adopted / disowned / raised by birth parent(s) / not applicable

Again, complicated, lmao. The official story is orphaned and adopted. The actual story is... given up in an effort to protect him from the trappings of life as an intelligence operative. [Sorry, Keeper. You tried.]

TRAITS & TENDENCIES

♦ extroverted / introverted / in-between

♦ disorganized / organized / in-between

♦ close-minded / open-minded / in-between

♦ calm / anxious / in-between / highly contextual

♦ disagreeable / agreeable / in-between

Tyr has. always flirted with the line between respectful and 'with all due respect, which is none' blatancy. He knows he can't outright bite the hands on the leash. Doesn't usually mean he's entirely pleased with complacency.

♦ cautious / reckless / in-between / highly contextual

I was going to give him cautious, but this man is incredibly ride or die. When he says, I'll do anything for you, try not to test. how far he'll go about that. It's damn pretty far.

♦ patient / impatient / in-between

♦ outspoken / reserved / in-between / highly contextual

Again, he. flirts with the edge. Depends on who he's around.

♦ leader / follower / in-between

♦ empathetic / vicious bastard / in-between

♦ optimistic / pessimistic / in-between

♦ traditional / modern / in-between

His taste on how intelligence work should be handled - with field operatives trusted to do their job has historically gotten him in, ah. arguments. He's of an older guard in that way and he knows it and he's not keen to let anyone forget it. But as far as Imperial policy is concerned... Well, that's what a little treason can be good for the soul for. Maybe. You didn't hear that from him.

♦ hard-working / lazy / in-between

♦ cultured / uncultured / in-between / unknown

♦ loyal / disloyal / in-between / unknown

Loyal like a fucking dog - to actual ride or die levels. To people more than anything else. And, yes, to that... slightly more idealistic streak in him that's there no matter how much he tries to mask it in realism.

♦ faithful / unfaithful / in-between / unknown

In the spiritual sense? Not particularly. Again, loyal like a dog. Faithful to his found family pack His People to the bitter end.

BELIEFS

Faith: monotheist / polytheist / atheist / agnostic

Belief in Ghosts or Spirits: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care / in a manner of speaking

(Unfortunately, verified by experience.)

Belief in an Afterlife: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care / in a manner of speaking

Something about the persistence of spirits would suggest it, but he's got plenty enough to wrangle with the living. That bridge can be crossed when or if they arrive upon it.

Belief in Reincarnation: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care / in a manner of speaking

Belief in Aliens: yes / no / don’t know / don’t care

free giggle in star wars here

Religious: orthodox / liberal / in between / not religious

Philosophical: yes / no / highly contextual

In a manner of speaking? While perhaps not a readily apparent trait, Tyr tends to enjoy learning. It's a heart or core of what he'd describe of his work as an intelligence operative: learning about people, places, beliefs as big as how to organize society and as small as that merchant is a rip-off. Ideals are far more important to him than I believe he realizes.

SEXUALITY & ROMANCE

Sexuality: heterosexual / homosexual / bisexual / asexual / pansexual

Sex: sex-repulsed / sex neutral / sex favorable / naive and clueless

Romance: romance repulsed / romance neutral / romance favorable / naive and clueless / romance suspicious

Sexually: adventurous / experienced / naive / inexperienced / curious

A skill in an intelligence toolkit has offered him experience, but he's a bit less experienced in pinpointing exactly what he genuinely likes - experiments he is... rather favorable to exploring.

Potential Sexual Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

Potential Romantic Partners: male / female / agender / other / none / all

ABILITIES

Combat Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

Literacy Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

Artistic Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

Technical Skills: excellent / good / moderate / poor / none

HABITS

Drinking Alcohol: never / special occasions / rarely / sometimes / frequently / alcoholic

Smoking: tried it / trying to quit / quit / never / rarely / sometimes / frequently / chain-smoker

Recreational Drugs: tried some / never / special occasions / sometimes / frequently / addict / former addict

Medicinal Drugs: never / no longer needs medication / some medication needed / frequently / to excess

Unhealthy Food: never / special occasions / rarely / sometimes / frequently / binge eater

Splurge Spending: never / sometimes / frequently / shopaholic

Gambling: never / rarely / sometimes / frequently / compulsive gamble

I will. almost certainly return to do more blorbos. I love these things kdfnlsadfn

No pressure tags as always/I am so sorry if you have already gotten one and I have not seen it/open invitation to join in if you like etc etc thank you for coming to my TED talk @captainderyn @commander-krios @fatewalker-phoenix

#tag games #ch: tyr #dot talk #swtor ocs #bold the facts series

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sablegear0 · 2 years ago

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Pondering over Other M again and I had a thought about Adam’s choice to restrict Samus’s gear. He’s likely never seen any of it in action first-hand.

If the very start of Zero Mission is an indication of what she was equipped with during her time with the Galactic Federation Police, barring any additional supplies from the GF of course, her loadout is pretty bare-bones. She may not even have had the Morph Ball during her term with the GFP. (I personally like to think she did if only for the comedy factor, but I digress.) Basic plating, no extra movement technology, no missiles, a beam weapon with infinite ammunition but severely limited range. Besides the infinite ammo and presumably more durable plating, she’s not much better off than a standard solider. Adam might be loosely familiar with what Chozo tech is capable of, given the Chozo’s involvement in founding the Federation, but he’s never seen for himself what a fully-equipped powersuit can do.

The only information he would have to go on would be mission reports and item schematics from Samus herself, and hearsay from any field troops who happen to see her in action... (More under the cut)

For the former, presumably Samus includes some mention of what she finds in mission reports, and she likely has to submit some basic empirical data about her weapon systems for, like, licensing reasons. (Eg. “This missile launcher has a maximum capacity of 255 homing micro-missiles. Each round is capable of producing a [#]-ton explosion.”) She would probably have to provide data about her weapon systems to the GF so she can actually legally carry them on Federation vessels and habitats, or to apply for exemptions to do so.

While that’s reliable, empirical data, it’s still kind of difficult to work with. How big of an explosion is that really? What would that do to an un/armoured person? To a small vehicle? To the hull of a ship? And that’s just a simple weapon system like a missile launcher. What about crazy stuff like the Wave and Plasma beams, that can pierce some solid structures or organic matter? What about high-powered movement tech like the Speed Booster? How do you even begin to quantify something like the Screw Attack?

(As an aside, it’s interesting that Adam uses the game’s item names for upgrades. This is probably a bit of a game conceit, so the Player actually knows what he’s talking about. In “reality” the Federation probably have more technical/descriptive terms for Samus’s equipment. For example, the name “Speed Booster” doesn’t actually tell us all that much about what it does. But something like “Supersonic Somatic Accelerator” is a bit more descriptive. Her upgrades are probably given technical names in official files, and the item names we as the Player know are Samus’s personal terms for them.)

For the latter, there’s no way that’s a wholly reliable source. Imagine hearing from one of the Demolition Troopers Samus has to escort during Corruption. “She fought off a dozen Pirate troopers and killed a Berserker with a single shot and dodged a train and shot down half a dozen more aerotroopers and-” As the Player we know it’s the truth, we were there doing it. But as a shrewd, experienced soldier? It sounds like a tall tale. Or worse, it sounds like par for the course, and the story probably only gets grander as it gets passed from person to person! By the time of the events of Other M, Samus is a legendary figure, and there are probably countless stories -both overblown and totally accurate- of the crazy feats she’s managed to accomplish and the insane weaponry she can bring to bear to do it.

Adam has only (rather unhelpful) empirical numbers and (equally unhelpful) urban legends to go on by the time Samus shows up on the Bottle Ship. He really has no personal measure of what her current, thoroughly upgraded equipment can do. He only has the rawest data and the most elaborate legends, and he has to make a measured, careful decision about what sort of threat she might present to what believes to be a civilian rescue mission*. Since she refused to leave when told, he was well within his rights to restrict her gear; for the safety of his squad, for the safety of any potential civilians present, and for the integrity of the unstable environment. (He was within his rights to detain her too, but that doesn’t make for an exciting video game or a very fine hello when reuniting with an old friend.)

The missile tutorial at the very beginning of the game is a perfect example of this. Normal breaching charges weren’t having any effect on a blast door that Samus casually blows open with a single missile round. She has that sort of destructive power available without even expending effort. The only sane thing to do would be to make her presence conditional on restricting her weaponry unless explicitly authorized. And this is a major failing of the translation, I acknowledge. If this point was made clear, the authorization gimmick would make much more sense to the Player, but that’s not really the point I’m trying to make here.

The point I’m trying to make is from an in-world, character-driven perspective. Adam simply cannot assess the threat that Samus might pose with the information he has, so he opts to proceed with extreme caution. And this choice makes his exchange with her at the doors to Sector Zero even more poignant.

He’s been watching through Samus’s eyes for the duration of the mission. He finally has a chance to see first-hand what she can do, what her gear and her abilities can accomplish. By meting out her weapons and movement tech, Adam calibrates his understanding of her capabilities - and recognizes the severity of the situation because all these things became necessary over the course of the mission. And when he reaches the point he can’t continue, he’s seen enough to know he can safely make the choice he does. Because he has the data now, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Samus can handle this solo. All the raw numbers have context and all the absurd legends are true. And while I deeply dislike the phrasing used in the English version, calling her a “Galactic Saviour”, it is genuinely a moment where Adam acknowledges his own limits are far behind those of his old friend. He knows he is safely expendable, because he’s seen and learned everything he needed to know to make that choice. (I suspect even if he didn’t have the insurance of a digital backup, Adam would have been willing to take the same actions. His trust in Samus by that point was absolute.)

[*It wouldn’t be a blog about Adam and OM if I didn’t discuss my favourite headcanon/au, that Adam was aware of the nature of the facility and became the “Deleter” in an attempt to keep it secret. I’ve discussed this before but obviously there’s another element of caution in Adam’s decision in this context. He can’t let Samus go tearing through the Bottle Ship unrestricted if he’s here to recover its materials and/or continue to keep its true nature secret. He also can’t let her run around at full power if he’s considering the possibility of having to terminate or otherwise deal with her himself. Because she was too stubborn to leave, and too inquisitive not to learn the truth, he has to measure out what he can give her without letting her become a genuine threat to his covert mission, or himself.

Eventually, seeing the enormity of the odds against him and observing Samus’s righteous wrath and determination first-hand through her video feed, helps sway his change of heart by the end. As much as he was desperate to conceal his massive mistake, he’s confident he can trust Samus to get the job done and end the present threats on the Bottle Ship, even at the cost of his own life and reputation.]

#sable talks about games #sable has a take #metroid #metroid series #metroid other m #Samus aran #adam malkovich

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jgmartin · 1 year ago

Text

JAGGED JANICE

I'm a government employee.

My name isn’t important. All you need to worry about is what I have to say.

I work at a compound known as the Facility. Within it, we perform research on things the public would find… unappetizing. Officially, we’re listed under Experimental Weapons Development, but lately, our umbrella has spread much wider.

Suffice it to say that there are things out there that go bump in the night. Things, both legendary and mundane, that exert their influence upon us and defy explanation. My job is to interview individuals who believe they’ve encountered such entities and determine if their accounts are fact or fiction. What my job is not to do, however, is share those interviews.

In this case, though, I don’t think I have a choice.

_____________________

The room is cramped, dimly lit, and smells vaguely of stale piss and black mold. A light hangs above the table between us, rocking back and forth and doing a poor job illuminating much of anything. Still, I can see the man's gaunt face and the fields on my clipboard.

It's enough. It will do.

I ask the man to tell me his story, and it begins.

“It happened at the cabin,” he says. He’s twenty-something, with a long nose and five o’clock shadow. When he reaches for his cigarette, his hand shakes like a 1950’s pickup truck. “Not my cabin,” he adds. “It belonged to Emily, but she invited us up. The three of us.”

My pen scratches across my clipboard. FOUR INDIVIDUALS. “For leisure, I’ll assume?”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, I guess.” A laugh escapes his lips. It’s short. Awkward. “Why else do people go to cabins? We just wanted to get drunk, stoned, forget our problems for the weekend. You know, like normal people do.”

“Of course,” I say, marking down his response. His eyes dart toward the cameras in the corner of the room, and his tongue slips across his lips. They’re chapped, cracked and bleeding. He looks worse than a mess. He looks like a disaster.

“The cameras,” he says. “What’s the deal with them? You said you weren’t a cop.”

“I’m not,” I reassure him. “The cameras are for my own records. Events— encounters with the paranormal, they’re tricky things. Sometimes we catch items in recordings we’d otherwise miss in person.”

He stares at me a while. His lip curls in, his teeth gnawing at it. It’s a look I’ve seen before, the sort of look where he’s wondering if maybe he’s being played. He’s wondering if this is a sting operation, and he’s taking the bait and I’m going to have him thrown into a psych ward, or worse.

“It’s better if you tell me everything,” I say, placing my clipboard on the desk between us. “I’m not here to have you put away, only to get some answers.”

A moment of dead air hangs between us, and it’s the sort of moment I recognize. He’s weighing the situation. Sizing me up. He’s wondering if he’s comfortable talking about something this batshit insane to a total stranger.

But then he takes a breath, followed by a deep drag, and he ashes his cigarette.

“Sure,” he says. He taps on a finger on the desk. Gathers his thoughts. “It happened late at night. The four of us had been drinking in the cabin, doing mushrooms, but we all slept outside in tents since the place was full of spiders. Hardly ever got used.”

“Why’s that?” I check a box labeled INTOXICATED.

He shrugs. “Bad memories, I think?”

I tilt my head to the side, inviting him to continue.

“The cabin belonged to Emily’s mom," he explains. "She passed away when Em was a little girl, and the place has been a mausoleum ever since. Em thinks it has bad mojo.”

“What do you think?”

“What do I think?” He tastes the question. “I think that... ” He trails off, his eyes losing focus, gazing at the splintered wooden table between us. Suddenly, he seems far away. There’s an emptiness to his expression. A disconnect. I wonder if he’s thinking of legends and nightmares.

I wonder if he’s thinking of Jagged Janice.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

He blinks, then nods.

My pen scratches across my clipboard. SUBJECT APPEARS TRAUMATIZED. AVOIDANT.

“What’s that?” he asks. “What are you writing?” He leans forward, his thin frame eclipsing the table as he narrows his eyes on my form. I pull it away.

“It’s private.”

“How come?”

“Your knowledge of my notes could influence your account. I’d prefer it if such biases were avoided.”

His face creases, jaw clenches.

“Now,” I say. “Please continue.”

He looks angry as he sits back in his chair. Pissed. He’s gnawing at his lips again, and his finger’s tapping the table like a gatling gun. There’s no doubt in my mind that this guy’s been through a lot, but I need to make sure he’s telling the truth, and in order to do that, he can’t know anything. Nothing at all.

“Fine,” he says at length. “We’ll do it your way.”

Yes, we always do.

“Like I said, we were drinking in the cabin. Swapping old war stories from high-school. Talking about stupid pranks we’d pull, or places we’d tag, or teachers we hated. We reflected. Pretty soon though, we got drunk enough that stuff went deeper. We stopped talking about all the silly surface bullshit, and we started talking about the stuff that really meant something to us— the things that set our souls on fire.”

“That’s a poetic turn of phrase. Are you a writer?”

He shrugs.

“Let me rephrase. Would you describe yourself as having an active imagination?”

The man studies me, gears turning in his head. Again, he’s wondering if I’m goading him into an admission of insanity. He’s wondering if I’m calculating what amount of antipsychotics it would take to counterbalance his paranoia, and what size straightjacket would best fit his scarecrow frame.

But I’m not doing any of that.

The truth is, I don’t care if he’s insane or perfectly lucid. I don’t give a damn about him at all. All I care about is whether or not he’s seen Jagged Janice, and that he isn’t another liar.

“My imagination isn’t anything special,” he says at length. “Now, can I tell my fucking story, or are you going to keep interrupting?”

I smile. "Sure. Go ahead."

He takes a breath, spares a half-second to glare at me. “The four of us are drinking in Em’s cabin and she starts to get… low. Like, depressed. She’s usually a pretty upbeat person so I ask her what’s up, and she says she’s just been feeling a bit haunted since coming back to the cabin.”

I lift an eyebrow.

“Her brother…” The man sighs, shakes his head as though determining how best to phrase his next words. “Her brother died at the cabin. Drowned to death in the ocean a hundred yards from the front door. Emily watched it happen.”

“She watched her brother drown?”

He nods. “She was three years old. She didn’t understand what was happening, not really. There wasn’t anything she could do.”

“I see.” It’s a sad story, but not really what I came here for. Worse still, nothing yet matches the Jagged Janice legend. “Anything else?”

The man looks up at me, and disbelief swims in his eyes. “Anything else?” he mutters. “No, asshole. That’s it. She watched her brother die and it made her feel like shit.”

“I’m not here for Emily’s story, I’m here for yours. You’ll excuse me if I forget to feign empathy for a woman I’ve never met.” I check a box labeled CONFRONTATIONAL and rest my pen on my clipboard. “Now then, you said you were drinking. Talking. What happened after that?”

His jaw is set. Clenched. He looks like he wants to slug me in the face and honestly, I wouldn’t blame him, but instead he takes a drag on his cigarette and leans back in his chair.

“We drink and talk until our eyes get droopy,” he says. “And then we go to bed. It’s like any night, I guess. Up until a point.”

There’s an implication in his words, but I’ll deal with it later. For now I need more details. I need to understand the setting of the Event as clearly as I can. “The police report,” I say, glancing down at my copy of the document, “mentions the incident occurred inside of the cabin. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you describe it for me? The layout?”

He scratches the back of his head, brows furrowed. There’s a picture being painted in his mind, colored by memories. “It's a tee-shaped cabin. Capital T. There’s two bedrooms on either side of the T, and at the very top center is a bathroom. The bottom of the T is the living area and kitchen, then the front door.”

“Simple enough.” I make a quick sketch of it on my form. “According to the report, the Event occurred in the washroom. I’d like you to talk about that.”

His eyes narrow, and his mouth twitches. He sucks in on his cigarette like it’s the last drag he’ll ever have. Slow. Long. He burns it down to the filter, eyes bloodshot, and then he drops it into the ashtray. “You got any more of these?”

“Sure.” I reach inside my jacket and pull out a pack, tossing it to him. The man catches it and flips it open. His hands are shaking. They’re shaking so hard that he can hardly light the smoke after he slips it into his mouth.

“Let me,” I offer.

“No,” he says. “I’ve got it.” The lighter strikes, and a flame dances to life. He hovers it below his dart until an ember glows. Then the man leans back, takes a deep drag, and blows out a storm cloud. “You’re the real deal, huh?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The real deal. You actually believe me, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” I say. Truthfully I’m still making up my mind. “You said the four of you quit drinking to go to sleep. Back in your tents, I presume. What happened after that?”

He ashes the cigarette. “Nature calls. I gotta take a shit, so I get up and head to the cabin. When I unzip the tent though, I can’t see the dirt in front of me. It’s that dark outside. Pitch black.”

“No moon?”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t looking for one. All I know is I’ve got to take a shit, and I’m not about to use the outhouse— it smells worse than death. So I make my way to the cabin. Once I get inside though, this weird feeling comes over me.”

“Weird feeling?”

“Like I’m being watched.”

Promising.

“The place feels empty. Lonely. It’s just me, the bugs, and the light from my phone. The light’s making shadows out of everything— the dusty fridge, the cluttered shelves, and the messy counters. There’s a thousand shapes all around me, shifting with every step I take and this feeling of, I don’t know.... Dread? comes over me. Like I’m not safe.”

The man pauses. Sweat beads down his forehead. “Sorry,” he says. “I just haven’t thought about it in this much detail since the night it happened.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Events are messy things, and more often than not, they leave scars.”

“Okay.”

“Take your time.”

He gives himself a minute. Catches his breath. “Like I said, I don’t feel safe in there, but I’m drunk enough that it doesn’t faze me. I’ve still got a buzz going from earlier in the night, you know? I think to myself, I came to take a shit and some spooky shadows aren’t gonna stop me.” He chuckles to himself, shakes his head. “But a few seconds later, I’m in the bathroom and locking the door behind me. I figure, why take the chance?”

He’s nervous. Jittery. His leg’s bouncing up and down and shaking the table. It’s beginning to affect my ability to write. “Would you like a glass of water?” I ask.

“I’m fine.”

“Humor me.” I grab the jug and pour him a cup, sliding it across the table. He eyes it for a moment, and then grips the glass, bringing it to his lips and downing it in one swig. I pour him another.

“So,” he says, wiping his lips. “I’m about to unbuckle and do my business when I see movement. It’s in the top corner of the bathroom— in one of those little toilet windows, like the type that’s clouded on the bottom for privacy, or whatever, but clear on the top to let in light.”

“I’ve seen those. Is that where you witnessed the Event?”

“That’s where I saw the smile.”

Jagged Janice. “Describe it.”

“Honestly I…” He sounds suddenly hesitant. Worried. “I’d rather not describe the smile, if we could. Wouldn’t it be better to just talk about the Event instead?”

“The smile is part of the Event,” I remind him. “It’s important that we get as many details as possible, no matter how uncomfortable your memories may be.”

He looks down, and his eyes drift out of focus. “The smile is just a row of teeth. But the teeth are too big and too sharp to belong to a human, and there are just… so many of them.”

I check my notes, consulting descriptions of Jagged Janice listed in old email chains from the early 2000’s. “I’d like to hear more about these teeth.”

“Why?”

“The teeth are important. Describe them, please.”

The man is uncomfortable. He’s shifting in his seat like quicksand, and when he talks his voice cracks but he gives me what I want. “The teeth are jagged,” he says. “Serrated, almost. Their length is all over the place. Some barely break her gums, others stretch down, cutting through her lips.” His fingers move again. They’re tapping on the metal table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“When I see the smile, my heart starts pounding. I’m frozen there, standing in the dark bathroom with just the light from my phone. My mind’s reeling, but I know that whoever that smile belongs to, I don’t want them seeing me, so I hold my phone up against my chest. Tight as I can. I smother the light.”

“The light,” I say. “Did the woman showcase an adverse reaction to it?” Janice, according to her legend, loathes light.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Or, I don’t know? I can’t remember small details.” He pauses, and reaches for his glass of water before taking another gulp.”At that point my body’s mostly just adrenaline. There’s a storm of it coursing through me and screaming at me to run or scream or fight this bitch or just do something. Anything. But I can’t. I just stand there, staring at her inhuman teeth, at her horrible, twisted smile with my phone clutched to my chest like a crucifix.

“Then the smile begins to fall away, lowering itself until it’s just a blur behind the foggy part of the window. In its place are two eyes.” The man takes a breath, shuddering, trembling. “They’re wide, angled all wrong and they’re leaking this… black fluid. They dart around the washroom as if looking for something.

“I stay still. Still as I can, like I’m fucking paralyzed. There’s no light in the room, none except the bits of moon framing the monster in the window, so I let myself meld into the darkness. I don’t move an inch, and I pray to god the creature can’t see me there.”

He shivers, reaches for his cigarette and takes a drag.

“Then I hear the tapping on the window. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s followed by this chattering sound, and it takes me a second but I realize it’s her teeth gnashing together, open and shut, open and shut, over and over again. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t. But part of me can’t stop myself, and I glance up and see her eyes staring back at me. Two tiny black dots in a sea of white. My breathing stops. My pulse races. Dribbles of piss run down my leg. It’s just the two of us now, watching one another.”

I lean forward, my interest piqued. Much of his description could have been pulled from the Jagged Janice legend itself. The small black pupils. The rows of inhuman teeth. I check off the features on my clipboard as he goes. “What does she do?” I ask. “When you lock eyes with her?”

He swallows. “She speaks.”

“What does she say?”

“She says,” he stammers. “I see you.”

I write the words down and circle them three times. They’re not familiar to me. “Describe her voice to me. Did she sound old? Young?”

“Her voice was quiet. Hard to hear. The words sounded like they’d been pulled out of a woodchipper. Their pronunciation was broken and unnatural, like they’d been cut up by those… teeth.”

“Curious,” I mutter.

“Her fingers reach up, and she taps the glass again. Tap. Tap. Tap. I chance another look, and all I can see is her terrible, serrated smile in the window. It’s making me feel nauseous. I’ve never been that scared, you know? I close my eyes, wanting the feeling to go away for just a second, but when I open them again the smile’s gone. It’s just me, alone in the bathroom.”

He puts his face in his hands and lets the armor fall away. His shoulders quake with silent sobs. I give him a minute, then another.

“Is that all?” I ask.

No response. It becomes apparent that his account has reached its conclusion.

Disappointing to say the least.

“A harrowing experience,” I say, giving my form a final swipe with my pen. With a sigh, I stand up from my chair, reaching out to shake his hand. “On behalf of the Facility, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to share it with me.”

The man’s sobs taper off. He blinks up at me, with red, puffy eyes and when he speaks his voice is barely there at all. “It’s not over,” he says. “There’s more.”

My heart thrums as I pull back my handshake. A smile slips across my face as I sit back down in my chair, centering my clipboard in front of me. “Something else occurred?”

“Yeah,” he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “The next few hours turned into a nightmare.”

I click my pen, skin prickling with goosebumps. “You don’t say?” Now it’s my turn to take a breath, to center myself and calm my nerves. “How very unfortunate.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” he says, sarcasm thick in his voice.

“Please continue, then.”

“It… It takes me ten minutes before I can muster the courage to crack the bathroom door. When I do, I do it gently. Quietly. You can hardly even hear the shitty hinges creak, that’s how careful I am. I peek out of the crack, looking for the smiling woman, terrified that I’m going to see her standing in the living area waiting for me, but I don’t.

“There’s nobody else in the cabin. It’s just me. So I step out, moving across the hardwood floor. It creaks and groans with every step I take and each time that it does, my heart skips a beat and I expect to see her jump out of the darkness. I’m seeing that smile everywhere now. In every shadow. In every window. I want to shout and scream— I want to call out to my friends in the tent and beg them to pull me out of this horror, but they’re beyond the cabin door. Out there at the far end of the yard. They’re a world away.”

“And your phone,” I ask. “You never thought to use that to call for help?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m on a backwater island off the coast of rural BC. I’ve got great cell service out there.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t get a cell signal if I climbed to the top of the tallest tree. My phone was a glorified flashlight.”

A fair point.

“Since I can’t call for help, I psyche myself up. I’ve got my hand on the front doorknob, and I’m ready to fling the door open and scream bloody murder, run to my friends and tell them we need to start the truck now because there’s a fucking monster on the island and.... And that’s when I hear it.”

His fingers thrum the metal desk. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“In the window next to the front door, I see a long arm in a frayed sleeve, with crooked fingers playing against the glass. They’re drumming a rhythm. Something… awful. It’s noise masquerading as song.”

“Then I hear her again. I see you, she says in a gravely, guttural voice. The tapping gets faster. Heavier. I pull away from the window, from the door, and fall back into the shadows of the cabin. She must be twelve feet tall because her head cranes down into the window frame, all the way from the top of it. Her eyes are gleaming in the moonlight, darting around and swiveling again in ways they shouldn’t be able to. She’s searching again. For something— me maybe. I don’t know.”

The man finishes his cigarette and slips a fresh one out of the pack. He lights it, trembling, and sucks in on the nicotine. His expression softens. “Then she’s gone,” he says.

“Gone?” I ask, disappointed. “Again?” There’s nothing in the Jagged Janice mythology that indicates her vanishing and reappearing at regular intervals.

“Gone,” he confirms. “I’m alone. Time passes. Minutes, maybe hours. I don’t know. I just sit there in the living room, my ears and eyes straining for any sound, any movement, anything at all. I’m shaking and breathing in short bursts, terrified if I breathe too heavily she’ll hear me. I wonder to myself how long it's been. How long there’s still to go until the sun rises, and somebody wakes up and comes to check on me or use the washroom. I think about using my phone to check the time, but the idea of its blacklight giving me away terrifies me, so I don’t. I just sit there and wait.”

“How long do you wait? Until morning?”

He laughs. Takes another drag. “Fuck no,” he says. “It takes a while, but eventually I get calmer, or maybe too scared to keep sitting there doing nothing. Maybe I just need to reassure myself that this nightmare has an ending. I don’t know.” He gnaws at his fingernail. “I’m fucking quivering as I pull my phone outta my pocket. Shaking like a leaf. I turn it on, and my home screen lights up my face like I’m about to tell a campfire story.”

“What time is it?”

“3:34 a.m. Two hours from sunrise, at that time of year.” The man sighs, running a hand along his jaw. “It’s too long for me. I can’t do it, you know? I decide I need to do something now before that woman comes back because I have this horrible feeling that the next time she shows up she’s going to be inside the cabin. She’s going to find me. So I tell myself to make a run for it. Wake up my friends. It’s easy, I think. I’ll open my mouth and fucking scream my lungs out, and that way even if she gets in my way then at least everybody on the island will wake up, and maybe I’ll get out of there in one piece. So I do it, I open my mouth and I scream.

“But nothing happens,” he says quietly. His expression darkens. Tears slip from the corners of his eyes, and his lip trembles all over again. “No sound comes out. Instead, a hand that’s long and crooked wraps itself around my mouth. It pulls my head back, and I smell rot and decay and seaweed, and a voice whispers in my ear like a lawn mower. I see you.”

Janice. I lean forward, gazing at him expectantly. “How did you get away?”

He wipes at his eyes, choking back the last of his sobs. “No idea. I blacked out. When I woke up I wasn’t in the cabin anymore, I was in a hospital bed surrounded by my friends.”

“Same ones from the cabin?”

“That’s right.”

I check a box on my form labeled SURVIVOR. Then I chew on the back of my pen for a second before checking a second box: POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS AFFECTED.

“And what do these friends say? Anything useful?”

“They tell me it’s all their fault,” he says. “Em mumbles about how we should never have come out to the cabin in the first place. Steve and Haily are blaming themselves for letting me get exceptionally drunk.” He cracks a bittersweet smile. “Everybody wants a share of the guilt.”

My eyes drift down to the man’s file. “You said the island was remote. I’ll assume the hospital wasn’t local to it?”

“No,” he says. “It was off the island. An hour or so inland. I must have been out for a day at least though, because I don’t remember ever travelling there.”

“Interesting.” A recurring aspect of the Janice mythology is a sense of mild amnesia and the presence of minor to severe bite wounds. “What did the hospital treat you for?”

He clears his throat. “A mild concussion. And water in my lungs.”

“Water in your lungs?” I shake my head, dropping my pencil. Perhaps I should be happy the young man survived whatever terror visited him that night, but so many pieces of his story don’t match the mythology at all. “You’re certain? Water in your lungs?”

“That’s right,” he says. “The doctors didn’t understand it either. I never even got a chance to take a dip in the ocean, let alone drown in it.”

“Okay, let me get this straight. So your friends pop by, leave you some get-well cards and you get discharged a couple of days later.” I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “Does that about sum things up?”

The man looks away, rubbing his arm. “Not exactly,” he says darkly. “Before they leave, I tell them about the smiling woman. I ask them if they’ve seen a tall woman with razor sharp teeth lurking around the island. Steve and Hailey look at eachother like I must have hit my head harder than anybody thought. The look in their eyes… It's like they’re terrified I’ve given myself brain damage. Steve squeezes my arm and apologizes over and over for doing shots with me. Says he should’ve gone easy for the first night. Hailey agrees. Says I drove them all the way out there, so they should have let me get some sleep.”

“And your other friend?” I ask. “Emily?”

“She’s standing back. Staring at me, and her eyes are filled with… I don’t know. Regret? But it’s different from Steve and Hailey. She doesn’t look like she feels sorry for me. She looks like she really blames herself for all of this. I say her name, Emily. Ask her if she’s seen the woman because I get the sense that she has.”

I slide my pen down my clipboard and circle a word that says WITNESS before annotating it with a small question mark. “How does she respond?”

“She leaves,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t think she wants to talk about the woman— at least, not in front of Hailey and Steve. Pretty soon everybody leaves. It’s just me again, in some tiny hospital on the outskirts of nowhere. The only company I’ve got is the apple tree outside my window and the shitty TV. I sleep pretty uneasily that night. Tossing and turning. I wake up at one point to the sound of tapping, and I stare out my window horrified, expecting to see that woman again, but it’s just the apple tree. It’s branches are brushing against the glass.

“I wonder to myself if this is just my life from now on. If everytime I hear the faintest sound at night, I’m going to wake up in cold sweats thinking that woman’s come back for me. Then the door creaks open. My body goes into full-blown panic, my breath hitches in my chest, my muscles tighten, and it’s like that night all over again, with the smiling woman where I can’t move an inch for fear.

“But it’s just Emily,” he says, chuckling in disbelief. “She pauses in the doorway and asks me if she can come in. I tell her that of course she can, and she does, not bothering to turn on the lights. When she gets to my bedside, I can see her face more clearly by the light of the window. She looks rough. Her eyes have these heavy bags, and her cheeks are all red and splotchy from crying. She’s wiping snot on her sleeve and telling me sorry, over and over.”

“Sorry for what? Inviting you out to the cabin?” I say, doing my best not to roll my eyes. I’ve never seen a group of friends with such a guilty conscience.

“No,” the man says. “She says she’s sorry for not warning me about the woman. She says she thought the woman was gone, otherwise she’d never have come back to that place.”

“What?” I snap forward, eyes latching onto his. “She told you she knew about the woman?”

He nods. “She said the circumstances of her brother’s death were different than she’d originally told us. He didn’t drown— not accidentally. He was murdered. A woman attacked them on the beach, a woman with a terrible smile and this tangle of black, messy hair that covered her face. She dragged Em’s brother backward through the sand, muffling his screams with her hand, and then held him under the surf. She kept him there until he stopped moving. Then, she let the tide take him away.”

“Disturbing,” I say. “And she never brought this up to her parents?”

"She did. Her father told her it was just her imagination. He said that her brother had fallen into the ocean and gotten swept away, and it was already hard enough to deal with without Emily adding to it. So Emily just buried the memory. Moved on."

The man looks up at me, his expression despondent. “That’s when we hear it,” he says. "In the hospital room. A tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. It comes from the window to my right, the one with the old apple tree.”

“The woman?”

“I don’t look. I tell Emily not to look either. I tell her to focus on me, to ignore the sound. I don’t know what she saw as a little girl, down by the ocean, but I know I don’t want her to see what I saw in that cabin." He shudders. "I don’t want her to see that smile."

“Does she listen to you?”

He grips a fistful of his hair, closes his eyes. “No,” he says quietly. “She looks, and when she does, she screams. She screams so loudly that the lights come on down the hall, and Inurse bursts in and pulls Emily away, calls a patrol car the night nurse call out and start running. Emily rushes toward the window, I catch sight of it from the corner of my eye because I still refuse to look at that pane of glass, but I hear Emily beating against it with her fists. Clawing at it with her nails. Then the her to drive her home.”

The man takes a breath. He puts his face in his hands and rubs his eyes. “I text her an hour later. Just to make sure that she’s okay and—”

“—Yes,” I say, cutting him off. I glance at the folder on my desk labeled CORRESPONDENCE, then down at the watch on my wrist. It’s three in the morning, and I’m jet-lagged. The meat of the man’s story appears to have run its course. “If the texts are everything that’s left then I can read them on my own.” I rise from the desk and offer my hand to shake. He gives it a weak, reluctant squeeze, avoiding my eyes. Then he leaves the room without another word.

I sigh, sitting back down in the steel chair. Another long day. Another dead end. I adjust my glasses and pull out the text logs. There’s only a handful of message receipts. The chance is slim, but the possibility that there’s something in there about Jagged Janice entices me too much to set them aside for tomorrow.

I begin to read.

As I do, I make note of the timestamps. Words do a good job of painting a picture, but time and location lend context to everything.

01:34 Dorian: are you okay?

02:12 Emily: Not really

02:12 Dorian: did you see her?

02:45 Dorian: em, im sorry. that was a stupid text

02:45 Emily: It's fine.

02:46 Dorian: im guessing you dont feel like talking

02:46 Emily: Actually, it might be good for me

02:47 Dorian: yeah? okay. me too

02:47 Dorian: i never got a chance to tell you earlier, but i cant imagine how horrible it must have felt to see what happened to your brother and have your dad not believe you?? thats fucked

02:55 Emily: It's fine. We were never close anyway.

02:55 Dorian: sorry to hear. did you ever tell your mom? I mean, before she passed?

02:56 Emily: No. Mom was already dying by then and dad would've killed me

02:56 Dorian: fuck. im an asshole. how could I forget something like that? sorry agajn

02:57 Emily: You're not an asshole. You're right that I would have told her about Jonas if I could have

02:59 Emily: By then she was so hopped up on painkillers though that I hardly even recognized her

03:00 Dorian: the meds must have been pretty heavy. thats a lot to deal with for a four year old kid.

03:01 Emily: Yeah, her esophageal cancer was bad. She was in a lot of pain near the end and rarely in a good mood. Pretty sure dad was having an affair at the time too. Fuckin prick

03:01 Dorian: im sorry. thats a shitty memory to bring up

03:03 Emily: Dont be. I think I repressed a lot of old memories of her which probably isnt healthy

03:05 Emily: Honesrly, if it wasn't for you, I'd probably think I was going crazy right now

03:05 Dorian: why?

03:06 Emily: I saw her too.

03:06 Dorian: the smiling woman?

03:07 Dorian: em?

03:34 Emily: My mother

03:34 Emily: I see my mother

I stare at the last word in stunned silence. Her mother? Could she actually have been the origin of the legend? I rub a hand along my jaw, considering what I've heard of Emily's history. She had only been four years old at the time of her brother's death when she had witnessed a crazed woman drag him into the sea, a woman who she couldn’t identify because black hair obscured her face.

Could that woman have been her own mother? It doesn’t seem terribly likely. But it doesn’t seem impossible either. Children often reframe moments of terror in a bid to understand the incomprehensible.

I reach for my briefcase, unclasping the latches on the front and pulling out my laptop. I take a breath and then open up the database software. Emily’s easy enough to find. Her last name is plastered everywhere across her social media, so I plug that in. The search function isn't the fastest, but it does the trick. It takes thirty seconds for the tiny, rotating hourglass to stop spinning, and when it does I see her.

SUBJECT: EMILY KALDWELL

FATHER: HARLOD KALDWELL

MOTHER: JANICE KALDWELL [DECEASED]

I swallow, my hands shaking on the keyboard.

Had I finally found Jagged Janice? I pour myself a glass of water, finishing it in two giant swigs. It does little to calm my nerves. Still, it's one piece of the puzzle solved, but really it just creates more questions. It doesn’t explain several aspects of the man’s story. The water in the lungs, for instance. Or the vanishing. Certain pieces of his encounter don’t add up, at least not compared against the original legend.

There’s a knock on the door.

Three sharp raps with a knuckle. I get up to answer it, thinking maybe the man’s forgotten his phone or wants to give me back my pack of smokes. When I open the door though, there’s nobody.

I raise an eyebrow and head back to my laptop. I need to discover the source for these changes, these departures from the Jagged Janice mythology. This time I bring up my web browser, navigating to one of my preferred resources on urban legends. The website's a bit corny, but it's proven accurate, and its community aspect has been invaluable in my research.

After some scrolling, I bring up the Jagged Janice article. People can leave anecdotal encounters beneath the main text, and sometimes they do. Usually, they’re all bullshit.

One of them catches my eye, however. It mentions seeing the serrated smile, the tapping fingers, and… that they found their infant child dead with water in its lungs. I shake my head. A coincidence, that’s all. I keep scrolling. More keywords jump out at me.

“... there and then gone.”

“... voice like a meat grinder.”

“... to the sea with you.”

I pause. Those were the words Emily said, words she remembered when she witnessed her brother being pulled into the ocean. To the sea with you. My mind spins, but a picture is forming. The guttural, difficult to understand voice. The drowned brother. The words.

“I see you.”

No. She was never saying those words, not really. She was saying to the sea with you. The man misheard, or perhaps he couldn’t properly understand because of Janice’s damaged voice. In his panic he likely defaulted to the simplest sounding phrase.

My heart races, I reach for my phone to make a call, to tell my boss what I’ve found. It wasn’t long ago the Facility had an incident with a Man with a Red Notepad, one in which we learned the core principle of all legends and one which cost many people their lives: that legends evolve.

If the Jagged Janice legend has evolved, we need to allocate additional resources to locating it and neutralizing it. I continue to scroll, noticing many of the anecdotes have been posted in the last week. Several, in the last few days. If even half of them are true, it'd imply highly increased activity on Janice's part.

I hear another knock at the door—three soft raps. I curse, kicking off from my desk and storming to the door, phone still pressed to my face waiting for my boss to pick up. Once more, I swing it open, and once more, I look down a cold, empty hallway.

I slam the door shut and stalk back to the table. My phone continues to ring, and my boss continues to ignore my call. It's really not like her, but I tell myself to relax. She's probably sleeping. According to my watch, it’s late as hell— 3:34 in the morning to be precise. That makes me an asshole, maybe, but this discovery is too big, too dangerous to ignore. Janice is out there, and she’s on the move.

Three more knocks ring out. These are softer than before. More gentle.

Almost taps.

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snootlessimperfectworld · 1 year ago

Text

Let's Talk: Dragons

Dragons are like the bad boy/jocks of the Imperfect World.

To most other species, especially human, they are perceived as "aggressive" creatures, yet this couldn't be further from the truth. They really take the term "Gentle Giants" to a whole new level. This misconception is related solely to the drastic size difference and more animalistic behaviors of Dragons compared to other species, especially humans.

Dragons are Reptilians

Dragons are scaly, cold-blooded creatures with more traits in common with reptilians than anything else. Even when in their "human" form, Dragons are still cold-blooded and incredibly susceptible to cold temperatures and dramatic temperature changes than other species.

Often found wrestling or engaging in very violent-appearing behaviors to produce warmth. Think of litters of puppies playing. Lots of teeth, growling, tackling, and pinning each other but just massive reptilian creatures with wings that roar and growl and can shake the ground. Also engage in massive dogpiles to conserve warmth and energy. Just picture a mountain of multicolored dragons all curled around each other and using each others' wings as blankets and their tails as pillows. Any buildings designed for their "human" forms have massive windows, very open spaces designed to let in light.

They have nostrils, like lizards and snakes do, but use their forked tongues in similar fashion to smell. Surprisingly poor sense of smell, but make up for it in vision. You cannot hide from a dragon. They will see you. Adapted with heat-seeking "abilities" (basically thermal detection). Depending on where they're from within the dragon realm, they're surprisingly good swimmers. Can hold their breath for long periods of time (big lungs equal big breaths), and have hollow bones, meaning if they wanted they can float just a bit.

Primary diet components are cattle like animals found in their realm, a variety of seafood found on earth as well (crab is peak evolutionary form), unicorn, and sea-vegetation. Yes, they have unicorns in their realm and yes they are prey creatures. And yes, Dragons eat them.

Might be large and powerful, but surprisingly lazy creatures. They're known to not want to make short travels because it simply requires too much effort. This definitely has to do with their cold-blooded nature, as they often want to preserve energy for times where it might be a bit cooler than is comfortable to function.

Dragons: A History

They have a legend/true story that serves as the basis for their "government".

It's the story of the first monarchs. Prior to their ruling, the lands of their world were divided between the Stone fields, the Meadows, the Basalt Pits, and the Northern Forest (forest is a loose term for it, more like the only place that has trees. Think of like massive Californian Redwoods type trees here). There wasn't necessarily any aggression between these places, but they were all closed off from each other, typically due to just basic geography preventing easy access to other areas (such as Northern Forest dragons are a far distance from each other in dragon terms so they had little to no contact with each other prior to the first monarchs).

The first King, a Meadows dragon had spent a long time travelling between the different regions and had learned so many things. He knew it'd benefit their kind to be united in a way that allowed for better trade/communication. Besides, he had this burning love for a dragon from the Basalt Pits. So he worked on getting all the leaders/elders/officials of each region together and they formed a monarchy. He, surprisingly, didn't want to be the one to rule. He didn't like the idea of being the one in charge, but the others reminded him he was the most versed in all the regions out of them. They even called him "Son of All Dragons" because he had lost many practices/traits that are iconic to a Meadows dragon.

He was able to wed the Basalt Pits dragon he had fallen in love with. The Basalt Pits dragons are the most hostile out of all, they're still not aggressive nor dangerous to other dragons, but they, to this day, still prefer to keep to themselves.

Alpharion thus became the first king, an absolutely massive multi-colored dragon that earned respect from all the regions. His beloved wife, Sapphirona, was an equally large dragon, nearly his size. Their massive size is the reason the monarch must be the biggest, rather than there being an actual lineage to the throne: the "Dragon of all Dragons" so to speak gets to rule.

They had a buttload of children. Not uncommon for dragons, actually. Dragons are born from eggs, often in clutches of 3-5, and remain as dragons until roughly 18-20 years of age. Dragons can live for long ass times, so this is like, comparatively to humans, only like 18-20 weeks of development. And they get big fast.

Their first clutch was 4: A gold dragon boy named Alverick, a bronze girl named Mayatina, a silver boy named Tobias, and another boy of grey coloring named Timotep. These four grew up to be the largest of all their siblings, and Alverick even grew to be larger than his father.

Their second clutch was 3: a dragon girl with cocoa brown coloring named Caris, a black dragon boy named Wilmack, and another girl with the most brilliant white scales named Yundara. Yundara ended up being the biggest of this clutch, roughly the same size as many of her older siblings.

Their third clutch was 4: a girl of pinkish coloring (like a sunset almost) named Roschlin, a boy of iridescent scales named Indizi, a gorgeous forest green girl named Emteria, and a dark yellow boy named Flamiatus.

But what Sapphirona and Alpharion hadn't expected was a single egg to be laid nearly a month later. It wasn't uncommon for some eggs to be delayed, or premature, but these types of eggs typically held still-born offspring. This egg, however, hatched rather quickly, and out popped the most beautiful little red dragon Sapphirona and Alpharion had ever seen. His headdress was gorgeous, matching his mother's extremely complex crown of spines, horns, and a matching pair of massive sea-shell like ears.

HIs name? Atendarajo, meaning "Precious".

Alverick and his siblings quickly grew very jealous of their mother's favoritism, especially considering how ridiculously small this dragon was. They tried to find ways to get their mother's affection to waver, yet it never did.

So Alverick took matters into his own hands. With the help of the Royal Guard, he captured his mother and baby brother. She was chained in her dragon form by her own son, as he was the only dragon present bigger than her.

She watched in horror as they killed her precious baby.

To this day, in the dungeons of the castle, built by Alpharion, lies a massive chamber known as "Sapphirona's Death". Inside the chamber is a pool filled with water. The water has remained the same the entire time, and many believe the water to be the very tears Sapphirona shed for both her sons; the eldest so overwhelmed with jealous it had driven him mad, and her precious, no more than a babe and as innocent as can be.

Alpharion casted himself and Alverick out, and there are rumors that on a distant island, they still fight to this day. Sapphirona, unfortunately, passed from what they call "heartbreak" not long after the incident.

But the dragons know something she never had a chance to learn: the dragon murdered that night wasn't her own. He has yet to be found ;)

This is part of why dragons, to this day, still discriminate against small dragons: the lasting jealous of Alverick's surviving siblings permeated the political realm, and has yet to be reversed.

Regions of Dragons

As I mentioned before, there are different regions within the dragons' realm.

The Stone fields: a large portion of exposed stone on the main island. These dragons are typically shorter, yet longer, with slimmer shapes. They're designed for mining the plethora of raw materials found within the stone base of the mainland. They had specialized claws, no horns/headdresses, and nose flaps/second eyelids to protect from dirt/dust. Very well-adapted to seeing in the dark, especially opposed to Meadow dragons. The social butterflies of the dragon realm. They share most of what they find, as they prefer the drab stone and basic rocks found, so they trade many of the precious gems/metals.

The Meadows: Typically the biggest of the dragons, with minimal extra qualities like spines/headdresses. Probably what you think of when you think dragon, just without the flair, in terms of shape. Proportional limbs and good, thick bois all around. Probably the laziest of the dragons, as well. Their biggest trade item is the cattle creatures they shepherd, as well as unicorn. The most common of dragons/have the largest population. Follow in Alpharion's footsteps and travel the most, making them desirable in official trade businesses.

The Northern Forest: These are the dragons that have longer hind legs than front ones. Devon is a Northern Forest dragon. The shorter front limbs are designed to assist them in foraging in the trees, which can often be taller than the average Northern Forest dragon (Devon is an exception, he has a bit of Meadow heritage from his father hence why he's hecking large). Lumber is their biggest trade item, and are known as the "nerds" of the dragon world because they do a lot more reading/writing than the others do. This makes them desirable for working within the castle/government.

The Basalt Pits: These are the introverts of the dragon world. Where Stone Fields dragons are extroverts, these guys don't like company/visitors. They're the rivalling for largest dragons (on average) but also the fanciest of dragons. Known for having complex crests/crowns of horns, spikes, spines, etc. around their heads. Have really reflective/almost naturally sparkly scales. Have the best metal workers and create the best weapons/metal creations. Cranky, not very desirable for government roles because of their tempers. (Yes, this is what Aten is)

And that's our talk on Dragons! Any questions, compliments, or just ideas you've had after reading this? Please don't shy away from asking!

#snootles's ocs #snootles's let's talk series #snootles's let's talk dragons!#dragon ocs #dragon lore for original work #dragons #imperfect canons by snootles #snootles's imperfect world #snootles's original work #original work #original story #original fiction #fantasy writing #worldbuilding

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