#like strong purple overhead lights on stage and house lighting off stage

[oureyesclosed]

The World Tour Singapore, 6.3.23

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Digital Heart

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Angst Warnings: Falling, fighting, minor injuries, nausea, breathlessness 

In which Genshin is an interactive RPG accessed through an immersive headset, and you find yourself pushed to play it by your friends.

~ * ~

It started with a game.

For thirty days and thirty nights, your friends have been pleading for you to play it. Genshin Impact it was called, an free immersive open-world RPG with hundreds of weapons, characters, and power ups. Accessible through a specialized headset that tracked movement, it had only been a month since the freely downloadable game’s release and it was already a success, garnering praise from the customizable main character and the interactive playstyle. Play it. Your friends beg. You’ll love it. We can play together. 

You refuse at first. The game might be free, but the headset isn’t, and you need to save that money to pay for food and clothes. Alongside your financial state was your schedule, a long list of work and chores that left little time to play games with constant updates like Genshin, so you told your friends- politely, as that’s how you were raised- that it’d have to wait. They agreed, quietly.

Then the next day, they ask again. You make an excuse- too much work. They agree, again.

The second day, asking. You’re too tired, you say. Of course, they respond.

Everyday, the same question. The same request, the same demand. It wears on you, amused exasperation drawing a sigh from you everytime you open your notifications.

Play it.

You can’t.

Play it.

You don’t have time.

Play it.

You need to focus!

Play it.

…

…Alright.

Finally, you cave. You create an account, a headset en route to your house. You clear an area in your house so you don’t accidentally hit anything. The headset arrives, and you insert the batteries, said to last up to an entire day playing nonstop, a stage you dearly hope you never reach. You pull it down over your head, cringing at the thought of your hair getting so mussed, and switch it on. A long and potentially worrying warning flashes before your eyes and you blink, not used to the in-depth cameras yet, as the screen goes white.

Welcome to Genshin Impact! Please name your character… appears, and you subsequently slip down the rabbit hole.

It’s fun, you find. Your friends were right, you did like Genshin Impact, although you thank your lucky stars that you weren’t as attached as some players were, as you still had work and life to attend to. The combat and story were enjoyable, and the characters were funny and diverse in personality and playstyles. The main character, who was also your customizable avatar, was quite literally you, the story explained, a traveler from distant lands who fell face first into Teyvat by mistake and tragedy. Of course you still haven’t gotten entirely used to the whole immersion thing, and sometimes shuddered under the eerily real programming of the NPCs and characters, but that was nigh unnoticeable when focusing on fighting monsters. Your deep love for exploration and discovery surfaces, and you take as long as you want exploring every inch of the wonderfully modelled map as you follow the main story, or “Archon Quests”. You calm the great dragon Dvalin and bid your friends at Mondstadt- Kaeya, Amber, Lisa, Diluc, Jean, and Venti- goodbye, Liyue sprawling out before you in wooded forests and cloud-covered mountains. A mysterious man runs across you at the Inn, the immortal Adeptus Xiao, although you would’ve thought he was quite young due to his short stature, and you encounter Zhongli in the Harbor, along with Lady Ningguang and her subordinates, Keqing and Ganyu. A member of the malicious-seeming Fatui also greets you and introduces himself as Childe, a name you don’t trust for a second, yet find yourself getting strangely attached too. The story progresses with you at Zhongli and Ningguang’s sides, the suspicion being pointed more and more to the Fatui, and you find yourself staring up at the elegant pillars of the Golden House, the mora mint building.

You gulp. You know this is where Childe’s boss battle takes place, and you’re not sure if your team is prepared, even if you stocked up on food right before leaving the Harbor. Inhaling a deep breath, you shove the enormous front doors open, and a cutscene pulls your fear tight against your throat. Everyone’s suspicions were right- he was here to steal the Geo Archon’s gnosis, and you have to stop him. 

Easier said than done. The cutscene of your face shows a determined, fierce expression, instead of the nervous one you had in real life, and you almost laugh. You dearly hope your characters are strong enough, and step into the arena.

Phases One and Two are relatively short, as you quickly learn to avoid using Childe’s respective elements of his Vision and Delusion while his shield is up. The battle is fun and fast-paced, and you feel a thrill in your bones as you dodge another attack before swinging your sword in retaliation. Childe stumbles, and Phase Two ends with a cutscene. The corpse of Rex Lapis, something you considered a bit gruesome, is discovered to have no gnosis, and you can feel the raw anger in the Harbinger’s voice as the air crackles and hisses. A horrible, blinding light shines, and Childe is gone.

At least, human Childe is gone. In his place floats a monstrous version of himself, nearly 14 feet tall and complete with horns and armor, and your mouth drops open slightly as you gaze at him wide eyed. But your focus is violently shifted when the floor cracks and turns to dust, sending you tumbling down into the belly of the Golden House. You land with an unceremonial thump, thankful that the creators hadn’t been cruel enough to make you feel the damage you took in-game.

And Phase Three, the final phase of Harbinger Tartaglia, commences.

He has considerably more health, and his attacks can range from irritating to deadly, you just barely dodging the falling Hydro arrows that would’ve slaughtered your current character. Of course, it doesn’t help that you’re sneaking glances at your attacker every few minutes. Your mind wanders to the lore as you shield yourself from violet lightning. Does this transformation hurt? Where does it come from? Why does it look like a moth? Maybe one day you’ll get answers. 

Despite the raised difficulty, Phase Three also ends rather quickly. Your characters, it seems, were overleveled. The remainder of the Archon Quest passes, Childe reappearing once at the end, and it’s over. The screen blips off as you log out and place the headset on a table before laying on your bed and using the last few hours before bed to contemplate what you’ve just seen.

The next days quickly fall into routine. After completing all your work, you’d take an hour or two to play Genshin, leveling up your characters even more and going through various quests, Childe’s included. You see his transformation, dubbed the Foul Legacy form, again, and almost swoon before stopping and giving yourself a harsh scolding. You fulfill requests and tasks for various people around Teyvat, or at least the parts of Teyvat you can access, and improve your skills and stats. You have a talent for dodging, you find, and use it to your advantage while fighting.

And every Monday, when the clock resets, you re-enter Golden House to battle with Childe and claim your just rewards.

Of course you could do it everyday, but a squirming, guilty feeling in your gut stops you, making you feel like you’re hurting him, no matter how many times you try to tell yourself that he’s simply a video game character, a program in an electronic system.

This thought makes you a bit sad, you think.

The fights are getting easier, something you credit to your rising stars of characters, and you stand before the Ley Line Blossom quicker and quicker each time, something you expect to be no different today.

Phases One and Two are just the same as you take advantage of Vaporize and Overload, drowning out Childe’s pre-programmed sounds of pain with your own abilities. The battle pauses, and you’re transported to the same chamber underground, with its fiery walls and glittering arches, as the fight resumes. With the same attacks and characters, it’s becoming a tad dull, and you frown, wondering if you should try to get another character soon.

You’re lost in your thoughts when you slip and fall.

This you feel in the real world, having landed hard on your back and knocked the air out of your lungs. For a few moments you struggle to breathe, and Childe takes the opportunity to appear right over you, his spear flashing purple. You swear internally, bracing yourself as he readies his weapon.

But the strike never comes. You inhale desperately, oxygen finally flowing into your chest, and open your eyes. The graphics of your game are gray and fuzzy around the edges, framing Childe as he slowly puts his spear down and, to your amazement and slight terror, jerkily reaches towards you. Voice clips play overhead, pieced together to make not words, but a static-interspersed whining sound, much like a concerned beast. Your eyes widen, and Childe stops, withdrawing slightly almost as if he’s worried that you’re afraid, and you whisper his name once, as a tentative question.

Then with crackle and a ping, your game crashes and everything goes black.

You gasp and rip off the headset, chest heaving as you struggle to comprehend what just happened. You’re shaking, nervous and fearful, but curiosity runs strong through your veins. Your finger slides towards the On button, and you press it and slip the device back on.

You’re standing outside, the doors of the Golden House closed as if the battle never happened. The guards surrounding it look ordinary, occasionally repeating phrases you’ve heard and ignored countless times. Glancing around and trying to squash the nauseous bubbling feeling in your gut, you push the doors open again.

It’s different this time. Instead of being in the upper room, you fall a short distance into the Third Phase Chamber, your shoes clicking on the tiled floor. Childe floats in the center, his back to you, and you take a tentative step forward. He turns and looks you dead in the eyes, before flinging his spear to the side and rushing towards you on his feet, kneeling to your height. Instinctively, you jump away as he sits on the ground before you, letting out joyful chirps and trills, sounds you didn’t even know he could make. You approach him, sword held loosely in your hand as an extra precaution, and he tilts his head and coos as you cautiously sit with him. Your hands are trembling as you try to understand that this is real, he is real, all of this is happening.

And if it’s not, then it’s some damn good programming.

Questions start to fill your mind, one after another, and you ask him, responses coming as a nod or a headshake.

Is this real?

Yes.

Or programming?

No.

Could you always do this?

No.

Just today?

No.

Over a period of time. Yes.

How…?

The final question hangs in the air, and he shrugs slightly, then points at you. You did this. You woke him up, made him feel pain, sorrow, and happiness, all stemming from you, his love for you. From the minute the Archon Quests let you meet, he was vaguely curious, the most emotion he’s ever felt in his cold, empty programming since before. And when the code broke, he adored you, not like Childe viciously adored battle, but a soft adoration, one with all his digital heart could muster. You smile, and he purrs at what a wonderful smile it is.

Something flickers in the corner of your eye. Then another. And another. You turn and squint, then gasp as your surroundings begin to dissolve into colorful squares, the game taunting you as it glitches and lags. You and Childe leap to your feet, only to watch helplessly as the world crumbles away. You look down at your hands and see them beginning to break apart into pixels. Childe reaches out to hug you, to hold you close, but his hand passes right through you, a sickening reminder of how unreal he is. He wails in anguish as you both try to grasp each other, only to shatter more, the pixels covering your screen like rain on a windowpane.

Your game crashes for a second time, the only sound a desperate whimper that soon fades into an electronic squealing.

It takes a week to fix your device, the tech people saying that it was “overloaded”. Finally the repairs are finished, and you’re back at the Golden House, the doors already ajar. You slip into the room, expecting either a battle or, hopefully, someone to greet you.

But the room is empty. No one, human nor monster, stands in the center. Instead there is one lonely Ley Line Blossom, waiting, the final gift from an impossible love. 

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

some kind of loud, attention grabbing noise that lets you know ITS FIC TIME, BABYYYYY you could start here, but the context... the build up.. the hours of worldcrafting, you'd miss it all... so start here, instead, then circle back.

These last two weeks have actually been nice. She and Adam had both mutually agreed that, despite not being the kind of person either of them would intentionally seek out on their own, Beetlejuice (she still has a hard time believing that’s what BJ stands for, but okay,) is fun. Not just fun, but funny, and seemingly often in the mood to laugh, in that overblown, Vincent Price horror movie way he does, which earns him multiple shushes in the library.

Drama club has gotten better. Barbara has a private theory that what most people need is to just get used to BJ, to spend enough time with him that he stops looking like an outsider, and it’s coming true, slowly, but finally. BJ had mentioned off-handedly he played ukulele, and when the other kids had expressed interest, he’d brought it with him the next day... Though she’s not quite sure where he kept it, the entire day. She’s seen that mess of a locker he’s got. She doubts it fits in there. And it can’t have been in his backpack, either, because every time he sets it down, she can hear what sounds like glass and rocks settling. She’s even seen him, after school, pick up a rock and shove it in one of the pockets. She has to assume his bag weighs a hundred pounds, or so.

His instrument, almost predictably, was painted with black and white stripes, but he’d played the little thing like a pro. She had never taken him for someone who enjoyed the mellow, soft sounds the ukulele was known for, but clearly, she doesn’t know enough about the boy. Miss Larson, the drama instructor, had clapped, and learned that BJ could read music, too. “Maybe while we’re practicing, you can accompany us?” She’d asked, clearly trying to work a way into getting more participation out of their newest member. BJ had been flustered, but had agreed, easily.

The wildest thing had been hearing him sing. They’d moved from being in the drama room, most days, to being in the auditorium, working on lines and practicing their singing. No one’s been officially cast, yet, but it’s mostly to get used to being on stage. Miss Larson had insisted that BJ sing a few lines for them, and he’d sort of made a face, ducked backstage, and had appeared with his ukulele in hand. Barbara didn’t even know he’d put it back there.

“Uh, so, sing what?” He’d shuffled awkwardly, and Miss Larson had smiled. “Whatever you feel,” to which BJ just snorted, and rolled his eyes, but then he plucked a few notes on his ukulele, and started to sing.

“There’s a camp, there’s a camp, by the frozen lake, wa wa ooh. With every belly starving and every finger numb, but up on the hill there’s a red, red rum, somebody’s always cooking something in the lean-to.”

It wasn't a song she’d recognized, but it was clearly morbid. She shouldn’t have expected anything different. The real focal point was his voice, his strange, scratchy pitch, because despite sounding like he gargles sandpaper and nails, he’s got a strong, clear tone, one that carries well, and as he sings, he doesn’t hit a single sour note. She also noted that his enunciation is much clearer when he’s singing, oddly enough. He sang as much as he decided he needed to, and clung to his ukelele as he finished, like a lifeline. “So. Yeah.” He’d said, and then flinched when the clapping started, from all members present, but especially her and Adam. He’d stood looking around at them all, utterly baffled.

“You didn’t tell us you would sing!” Jeremiah, the student director, was the one who looked the most enthused, and BJ balked. “Didn’t think it mattered. M’just gonna be a stagehand.. Right?”

“Maybe he could play the dentist?” Miss Larson had looked at Jeremiah, and they’d begun talking amongst themselves, ignoring him, as he strummed nervously at his instrument.

“Oh, wait, check this out!”

And he sings again, another verse from that same, oddly morbid song, which she’d started to pick up is definitely about cannibals, but his voice is.. Different. The grit is gone. It’s like he’d ran his vocal cords under some hot soapy water, and washed all the grime and gravel out of them, because he sang like an angel, like a normal person, and then, suddenly, devolved into a hacking cough, doubled over.

“Sorry, can only do that so long. Hurts my throat,” he said, after a moment, all the grit back in his voice. He waited. There had been a soft laugh, and then it grew louder, coming from each of the members watching him in turn, because the idea that speaking like THAT somehow hurts, and his normal tone doesn’t, is just so outrageous and silly, and he’d stood there proudly, grinning in that way he does, because his joke had landed, and he might, for the first time since he was forced into their club, be enjoying himself.

So, yes. The last few weeks have been good. Very good.

All that club progress aside, looking back makes her a little flustered, because at this point, she’s gotten the hint that he’s not gay. What he is, is incredibly flirty, not only with Adam but with her, and she finds herself... enjoying it. He keeps his ukulele tucked into the bottom of the cart in the library, and sometimes, when he’s certain he won’t be interrupted, he grabs it and sings little songs about them, laying on top of the cart like a drunk lounge singer on a piano, as she or Adam wheel it along. The songs are made up on the spot tunes that often start dirty, and end sincere, like he can’t even help it. It’s embarrassing, and endearing, and just very… Beetlejuice.

There’s just the problem lingering overhead, the one she’s desperate to solve, of Kevin. BJ doesn’t talk about him, abruptly changes the subject when she tries, or just goes silent, and gives her a hard glare with those amber eyes, which is the worst of the three options, because silence on him is unnerving. He can do this thing where he goes deathly still, and she swears he doesn’t even breathe, just stands there, totally unmoving, like a corpse.

She thinks if she could just go to his house, and talk to his mother, she might get a better understanding of the entire situation, but despite him inviting them, he’s never followed up, and both Adam and herself are too polite to push.. Directly. But then, he doesn’t show up that day, not for library duty and not for drama club, and she makes the decision for him, that today is the day they’ll be coming over. She gets his address out of the guidance counselor, easily. “It’s so sweet you two want to go check up on him,” Mrs. Birch says, sliding his address across her desk to Barbara. “I knew the drama club would be a good fit for him! He’s already making friends!”

Adam’s mom is nice enough to drop them off, and Adam, adorable, sweet Adam, stares delighted at the house, as they walk up the front steps. “It’s a tudor!” he tells her, and she sort of nods, not really knowing exactly what that means. “I’ve never seen one painted black and white, before. Usually those accents are a natural wood color,” and she rings the bell, as he goes on. The outside of the house matches BJ’s stripes, and she wonders if that’s coincidence, or if his parents just really, really love him. The door swings open, and then a chubby blur jumps away from their line of sight, startling her from her thoughts. “Beetlejuice?” Adam calls, concerned, and it takes a moment for their friend to reappear in the doorway, with a croaked out, “Sup?”

He looks terrible. He always looks a little terrible, as mean as that is to say, too pale and with purple spots under his eyes she chalks up to exhaustion, but he looks worse, today. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d actually be sick.

“We just wanted to come by and see if you were okay,” she tells him, and BJ cocks his head so far to the side, he looks like he might fall over. “Why?” “Because.. We’re your friends,” Adam says, cautiously, which causes BJ to stare down at the checkered entryway tile.

“Oh.” He packs a lot of emotion into that little noise.

“Can we come in?” She asks, and he doesn’t look sure, rubbing at the back of his neck, but then next to him, in the doorway, appears what must be Mrs. Deetz. She’s on the tall side, slim, with blonde hair past her shoulders, and she’s wearing all black with lace accents. Even her stud earrings and the rings on her fingers are that same dark hue.

“Well, hello! BJ, invite your friends in!” She urges him, and then, to them asks, “You kids hungry? We’re just sitting down to dinner. It’s grilled cheese tower night,” and then she turns, and leaves them there, like that needs no explanation.

BJ fidgets a moment, but relents. “Come in, I guess,” he moves aside, and Adam and Barbara take a collective step into the Deetz household. The house is dark, not for lack of light, but for lack of color. The walls are paneling which Adam, delighted, says must be original, but they’ve been stained a dark shade of coffee, and it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust. When she does, she takes in how strangely eerie the place is. It’s less like someone’s home and more like a haunted house ride.

“Oh, you guys haven't taken down the Halloween décor, yet?” Adam asks, noting a cracked vase full of black roses on a side table as they follow BJ further in, and BJ snorts. “That crap? It's up in th’ attack. This is what passes for normal around here.” Barbara stops to stare at a picture of a distorted figure cannibalizing a smaller one. “Saturn Devouring His Son,” BJ says, briefly putting on a voice like a tour guide, high pitched and peppy, and both she and Adam wince. “What’s with you and cannibalism?” she asks, which only earns her that haunted laugh in response.

The kitchen, at least, looks a little more normal and bright, but Barbara learns quickly that’s not to be trusted, because sitting on the counter is what looks to be a lasagna made from sandwiches and sauce. “You guys are here on a night Emily had to cook. Bad luck,” BJ tells them, and it takes her a moment to realize he’s talking about his mother. Does he use her first name?

Emily, or, Mrs. Deetz, her mind corrects politely, busies herself with dishing them both a plate. “So, you kids must be.. Adam and Barbara,” she says, knowingly, and BJ, perhaps embarrassed, shuffles his bare feet at nothing. He’s been talking to his mom about them… aww. She notices then that he’s in his pajamas, which are, like everything else he wears, eccentric. He looks cute. She realizes she’s staring, and BJ catches her eye, and wiggles his eyebrows at her. Oh, god.

“We’re sorry for dropping by unannounced, Mrs. Deetz,” Adam says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and Mrs. Deetz waives that off. “It’s totally fine. BJ’s never taken a sick day, before, I bet you probably thought he was faking. You kids can call me Emily. And that, of course, is Lydia.” She gestures to the nine year old scrutinizing them from the kitchen table.

“Hello again,” Barbara says, and Lydia gives her a smile, at least, but it's wary, it’s very, “I’ve got my eyes on you.” It’s strange to see from a little kid.

They all sit down to eat, all five of them, at the kitchen table, she and Adam settled across from BJ and Lydia. Adam squints, trying to read what’s on the other boy’s shirt. “What does that say?” he asks, and BJ glances down, and pulls the top taught, to make it easier to read. “Least exciting hole I’ve ever been in,” both boys say, at the same time. “Grand Canyon National Park.” Barbara and Adam both blush at that, and Mrs.. Emily, Emily just laughs. Lydia looks annoyed. “No one will explain to me what that means,” she tells Barbara, leaning closer to her, and almost looking hopeful. Barbara avoids that look. “It’s a dirty joke,” is all she says, and Lydia, clearly not satisfied, just takes a bite of her grilled cheese abomination. “Chuck hates this shirt,” BJ tells them. “Chuck?” “Chuck, Chuckster, Chuckles, Charles.. My dad,” he grates out. Barbara can’t imagine calling her father by his first name. She’d be in a world of trouble for being “disrespectful,” if she tried. “Is Mr. Deetz home?” Adam asks, and Lydia is the one to reply, mouth still a little too full.

“He’s at the office. He’s always working so fucking late,” Lydia says, and then lets it settle in the air, like she’s waiting for something. Barbara balks, and it feels like her eyes are bulging out of her head, because she’s never heard that kind of language from a nine year old. She glances at Emily nervously, waiting for her to blow up, to be angry, but Emily just seems to be in deep thought.

“I dunno about that one, Lyds,” Mrs. Deetz finally says, and Lydia puffs up her chest and tries again. “He’s always working so god damn late?” She looks to her mother, and Emily, finger on her chin, nods. “Yeah, alright. I hereby decree that Lydia Deetz, at the age of nine and a half, is allowed to say god damn.” Lydia pumps her fist and then takes another huge mouthful of grilled cheese casserole. “Bout fuckin’ time,” BJ grunts. Barbara thinks the Deetz family might all be whack jobs. there's more, a lot more, but tumblr can't handle it all, so read this chapter in full over on Ao3!

[welcometophu]

Into the Split: Reconstruction 3

Twinned Book 3: Into the Split

Reconstruction 3

[ Previous | First | Next ]

For a little while, it’s fun just to be alive.

Nikita and Heather show up mid-morning on Saturday, ringing the doorbell of Pawel’s house, then knocking for good measure. Seth answers because with only sweats on, he’s more dressed than Nikolai, who has to drag on a pair of jeans in order to leave the bedroom. Nikolai makes it to the stairs just as Nikita and Heather are coming inside.

Seth scratches at the hair on his chest. “We were asleep,” he says.

“Dozing,” Nikolai corrects. They’d gotten up earlier, had some breakfast, then climbed back into bed to lie down. It seems decadent to lie around and do nothing, but he’s also sure that eventually they won’t have this luxury and he wants to enjoy it while he can. “Pawel is actually still asleep.”

“Was,” Pawel calls out through his door. “Waking up now. Who’s here?”

“We’ve come to take Nikolai and Seth to the barbecue,” Heather calls out. “OPT and SigPsiE are hosting the barbecue part of today’s lawn party, so we’re going to be grilling and eating from now until after sundown. Phoenix Rising has a set as part of the live music during the afternoon, and we just thought it’d be fun.”

“This is the big spring weekend here at PHU, and I’m really excited that we get to enjoy it without the end of the world hanging over our head.” Nikita mimes something dropping down on her own head. “You’ll love it. Just be ready for some crowds. This makes the sugaring festival look like there was no one really there.”

Heather makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Go. Get ready. Let’s get out of here so Pawel can spend his day catching up on the grading he hasn’t made his TAs do. Or maybe meet with his TAs so he can figure out how to finish up his classes.”

“I heard that.” Pawel makes his way past Nikolai down the stairs. “She’s right, though. Go have fun today. I have work to do, and you deserve to have a little fun.” His hair sticks up in different directions all over, like he did just wake up, but his skin has more color than Nikolai has seen in a while, and the bags under his eyes are less pronounced. “I promise I will eat and take care of myself today if you leave me here on my own.”

Heather shoos them again. “Go,” she says. “Get dressed. Come on.”

It doesn’t take long before they’re on their way to campus. The music is audible even from a few blocks from campus, where Pawel lives, and gets louder the closer they get. The band playing as they walk has a heavy fiddle component, and strong drums.

Nikita and Heather walk hand in hand. As Nikita starts swinging their joined hands to the lively beat, Heather laughs and lifts her hand, twirling Nikita while they walk. Nikita swings back towards Heather, captures her and skips down the sidewalk, dancing along.

They wait at the corner, laughing.

Nikolai feels it in his heart, this light, airy sensation of being free.

It’s weird.

Seth catches his hand, twines their fingers together. “I could live here, if I had to,” he says softly.

The sky overhead is blue, and the air is warm enough to be out in just a t-shirt and jeans. Nikolai’s hair blows in his face, a little longer than it should be. He huffs to blow it away, then reaches up and threads his fingers through it, pushing it back.

“Want a ponytail holder?” Nikita stops dancing along beside them in order to offer a purple band held between pinched fingertips. She motions, and Nikolai turns so that he can pull his hair back into a twist at the back of his neck. Some of his bangs aren’t quite long enough and fall forward as he tilts his head. She pats the back of his shoulders. “Everyone’s going to love that bun.”

Seth leans close. “You know how you like it when my hair gets long, even though I hate the curls?” he asks quietly. When Nikolai nods, Seth grins. “I like the idea that I can play with your hair like this. It looks good on you.”

Maybe he won’t cut it right away.

Nikolai sees what Nikita meant about the crowds. Long before they reach the Quad where the stage and barbecue are, Nikolai sees people everywhere. It’s as if the entire population of the campus, plus more, is out on the various benches and spots of grass. People lie out on blankets, bathing in the warmth of the spring sun. It’s lazy and loud and absolutely different from anything he’s used to. He’s seen the students out in the warmth before, but not like this. Not with this buzz of celebration around them.

“They’re all so happy,” Seth says.

There’s a flush to Heather’s cheeks. “They always are this week,” she says, a spring in her step as she pulls Nikita forward. “They don’t even know what happened. This is just when we celebrate that spring is finally warming up, and finals are almost here. It’s a weekend to just let cares fall away and relax. It feels so, so good.”

Nikolai has a feeling that Heather might be high on leaked emotions. He suspects that Heather has a small problem with needing the feel of positive emotion, especially after conversations he’s had with her friends, but he can see the way it effects her. She’s light and excited in ways he hasn’t seen before. It’s obviously good for her.

The music ends and the singer talks to the audience. Nikolai can’t hear everything, but he thinks it’s a farewell and thank you and that the next band is coming up. The name of the band is swallowed by the roar of voices responding, and Nikita gives a small shout.

“Rory’s up,” she says. The only thing to do is hurry with her as she rushes through the crowds, heading between buildings.

The brick path opens up into an empty space ringed by at least eight buildings. The Quad consists of several grassy stretches, partly up a hill, split by walkways going every which direction. A stage has been built in front of one building that runs along half of one side of the Quad, and as musicians carry instruments off, Nikolai recognizes some of the people waiting to carry their own gear up.

“Rory!” Nikita yells out, and he turns, raising a hand in their direction with a confused expression. The expression eases when Nikita waves wildly, and he smiles and waves back.

Once the other band has cleared the stage, Alaric and Chris help carry up a drum kit, placing it according to Stormy’s directions. She’s barefoot, wearing only shorts and a tank top that doesn’t hide the sports bra under it. Nikolai thinks she should be cold, but she seems comfortable as she orders them around arranging things the way she likes. She pulls up a stool and settles in, running a little riff with her drumsticks while the others finish up.

Kit sits on one back corner of the stage with a woman Nikolai doesn’t recognize. There’s another man on stage as well, tuning his instrument with Rory and Thorne before Thorne breaks away to adjust mic stands: one down to his own height, one higher for Rory.

“I’m hungry,” Heather says. “We should eat while we listen, because we’re going to be working after this.”

As they head over to the grills, Thorne’s voice rings out. “Hey, PHU! I know you already know half of us, but we’re Phoenix Rising, and we’re really glad to be here today. Rory and I are a captive audience of course—” He cuts off as the crowd yells out Hi Thorne! He pauses long enough to blow kisses. “Thanks, guys. We’ve also got the rest of our band here with us today. Andy,” he points to the guy at the back, who raises one hand, “and Stormy.” She runs a long riff that settles into a low rolling beat in the background as Thorne speaks.

“We’ve only got a half hour, so I’m going to stop talking—” Again he cuts off as the crowd yells. Behind him, the band shifts into the intro of something that sounds quick and rambunctious, and Thorne backs up, raising one hand as he yells out, “Let’s make some noise!”

Nikolai doesn’t know the music, and it’s not quite drowned out by the crowd singing along with Thorne, but he gets the idea of it. It’s loud and fun and the beat gets under his skin. He doesn’t know it, but he likes it.

He eats while Heather and Seth talk, trading Empathic and Dreamwalker tips in too-loud voices, shouting over the music to hear each other. Nikita gives Nikolai a small, fond smile, and he nods, agreeing. They can’t help but love them when they’re intense like this, earnest about their abilities and protective of their other halves.

“Here.” Nikita takes away the empty plate from Nikolai’s hand, and gives him another laden with potato salad, hot corn on the cob with a stick shoved into it, and a sausage also on a stick. A fork sticks straight up from the potatoes, and he starts with that, while steam rises from the others which are fresh from the grill.

It’s all good. The sausage has a smoky spicy bite to it, and the corn is sprinkled with a sweet/salty/spicy seasoning that sticks to the butter and char from the grill. Nikolai can’t quite finish the sausage, so he holds it out and Seth turns to him without Nikolai asking and takes a bite while Nikolai holds it for him.

When Seth kisses him, he tastes of smoke and sunshine, and Nikolai’s heart thumps loudly. There are times and places for hiding away, but this feels as if they are finally getting their celebration, so he frames Seth’s face with his hands and leans in, foreheads pressed together before he kisses him again several times.

He hears shouts and his name being called, but no one sounds angry. Everything about this day seems full of joy.

Nikolai wonders if this is what it’s like to be an Empath, to feel the emotion rolling off of everyone around them as if they’re shouting pleasure to the wind. Seth’s cheeks are flushed, and Nikolai knows he has to feel it. Seth exhales and smiles wide enough to crinkle his eyes.

“I need to help out here, but Nikita’s not actually a sister—”

“She lives in our room! She could still help,” Carolyn interrupts.

Heather gives her a dirty look. “Nikita’s not actually a sister,” she emphasizes, “so go have fun with her. She can show you around. There are games, and drinks, and Thorne and Rory will be finishing up soon if you want to see them.”

“Oooh, Twister!” Nikita grips Nikolai’s arm and pulls. “Come on! Lawn Twister is fun!”

“Lawn Twister?” Seth asks, but they let her pull them along in her wake.

The path twists and turns, taking them to the far side of the Quad, under a circle of trees where several mats have been set up. Brightly colored dots decorate the mats, and there are groups around each mat. As they approach, Nikita waves and points at a mat where only one person waits. “Can we join in?”

A man standing off to one side gestures in assent, and Nikita runs up to the mat. “Hi, I’m Nik, and I’m going to be your partner.”

“Be my guest,” the other girl says.

Nikita goes over the rules quickly, and Nikolai vaguely remembers having a game like this when he was very young. They’re playing with teams, so he and Seth will line up at one end of the mat, their feet covering the four dots across the end, while they face Nikita and her partner. Every time the referee spins and calls out a color and hand or foot, they’ll need to place that immediately. He and Seth can share a dot, but they can’t use a dot that Nikita and her partner are using. First person to fall means that team loses.

Sounds easy enough.

Nikolai sheds his shoes and socks and steps onto the mat. The referee calls out, “Right hand red!” and Seth immediately crouches down to put his right directly in front of his right foot.

Nikolai’s going to have to twist across Seth to do it, but it’s possible, and his height helps. He balances, and the game goes quickly after that.

Nikita’s partner is twisty, but Nikita’s height gives her an advantage. Nikolai and Seth end up hopelessly tangled up, but he thinks maybe it’s a little easier when you really don’t care where your partner touches you as you move. They press together closely, and don’t fall until Nikita’s foot slips and she pushes against Nikolai’s foot on her way down.

All four of them end up in a heap, laughing as the referee yells out that they are eliminated. Of the ten mats laid out, they are the eighth to fall, so they have a short chance to rest before the final team is declared the winner of the round.

Apparently the winner gets a tiny pair of stuffed animals, which the winning team raises high while they all cheer.

They play another few rounds before Nikolai is feeling overstretched and aching, and his ribs hurt from laughing. They don’t manage to win, but that’s okay. They’ve had fun, and it’s warm and nothing’s hanging over his head. The last time he ends up in a heap with Seth straddling him, and he reaches up to pull Seth down and kiss him while people cheer and egg them on.

It’s very much worth it.

Music continues to play in the background, changing every half hour or so as one band shuffles off and another on. At one point Trish takes the stage—just herself and a guitar—but it’s no less rollicking and fun once she starts to sing.

When someone presses a bucket into Nikolai’s hands and points him towards Nikita, he doesn’t ask questions. As she turns to face him, she has some kind of plastic gun in her hands, and he quickly fishes through his memory and realizes what he’s landed in. He manages to upend most of the bucket of water over her head as she sprays him in the face. She has better range, and he’s soaked by the time he reaches Seth and tries to hide behind him, laughing.

They end up shirtless, with their shirts over their shoulders to dry while they soak up the warm spring sun.

“I don’t think I’d mind walking miles on a day like today,” Nikolai comments as he stands to one side, breathing in deeply and resting finally. The water war rages on, but they’ve managed to get out of the way for the moment.

“We’ve eaten. We’ll eat again. We have a bed. A nomadic life’s easy with help like that,” Seth notes. He squeezes Nikolai’s hand, presses against him, shoulder to shoulder. “On the other hand, if we get stuck here, I think we could survive.”

“Me too.” Nikolai hates thinking like that, but as every hour goes by and every day, and they have no idea how to get home again, he has to let the thought creep in. And it does, like a not-so-gentle reminder that he’s not done yet.

He knows that it’s not always sun and laughter here, but right now the Quad is full of joy.

Seth shoulders Nikolai, then looks off to one side. Nikolai follows his gaze and spots Pels under a tree, arms crossed tightly and her head tilted as if she looks at invisible person nearby. She speaks in hushed tones, her expression angry.

Seth starts walking and Nikolai follows. “Hey,” Seth calls out.

Pels stops talking abruptly and turns to face them. “Hey….” She draws the word out uncertainly.

“Seth. Nikolai.” Seth taps his own chest, then nudges Nikolai. “We met at your Coven thing. You seemed pretty angry then, too.”

Her gaze narrows. “Empath?”

Seth nods.

Pels rolls her eyes, making a dismissive gesture. “Stay out of my head. I don’t need your help.”

Maybe not, but it feels like she needs something. “Why are you here?” Nikolai asks.

Pels glares and gestures to the space beside her. “Because I have to be. I’m not really into crowds.”

“Neither are we, really,” Nikolai admits. He edges a little closer, shifting so that they stand beside her, no longer blocking the view of the rest of the Quad. “We were on our own for long enough that this is a bit unsettling. We’re still enjoying it, though.”

“Good for you,” Pels mutters under her breath.

“Is it that you won’t enjoy it, or you don’t want to enjoy it?” Seth asks. “Or is the risk that you might enjoy it, and that would change how you see yourself?”

“What the hell?” Pels asks.

Nikolai thinks Seth has a point. When Pels flinches, stepping away from the empty space, though, he has to wonder what other influences are going on in her life. “You should seize the day,” he says quietly.

“Maybe I don’t want to seize anything, and maybe I’m tired of people telling me how to live my life because they think I need things I don’t necessarily need,” Pels spits out.

Nikolai can tell that she’s talking to the space next to her more than him. “Well, you never know when you’re going to be whisked away to another world entirely,” he says ruefully. “So if there’s ever anything you might regret, deal with it first. Because things change fast.”

“Don’t I know it.” She throws her arms up, and Nikolai gets a glimpse of darkness on her wrist. She moves too fast for him to see what it is, and she crosses her arms again quickly as if to hide it. “It’s well-meaning advice, fine, but sometimes, I’ve just got to—” She cuts off, swiveling to face the space on her other side. She jabs a finger into the air. “And you can just shut up, too,” she grumbles. “Look, I’ve got to....” Her voice trails off, hands uncrossing to hang loose by her side.

There’s a girl across the Quad, tall with auburn hair, talking to a guy who stands beside her. They’re heading for the barbecue.

“If you’re hungry, you should eat,” Seth says gently.

Pels jerks back, blinking like she forgot they were there. She sighs as she bows her head, hair falling into her face. “Yeah. Maybe I could eat,” she decides. She makes her way to the path slowly, hands shoved into the pockets of a light jacket she probably doesn’t need in this weather. Her shoulders are hunched but she’s staring at the pair like she’s going to intercept them.

Nikolai turns away to give her some privacy.

Seth’s brow is furrowed. “I can’t figure her out, but I hope that wasn’t too pushy.”

“I get the feeling that no matter what anyone says to her, it’s too pushy,” Nikolai observes. “Rory said she was working some things out, and I think some of that has to do with whatever—or whoever—she was yelling at.”

“Weird Talent,” Seth says, and Nikolai has to agree.

The afternoon passes by in a haze of summer sun and more food. There’s a break in music just as dusk falls, and Nikolai and Seth are pressed into helping at the grills where everyone seems to want dinner served by OPT and SigPsiE at the same time. They work as darkness falls, until everyone is sated and the grill is closing up while the headliners of the day take the stage.

Nikolai has no idea who they are, but the energy in the Quad is at an even higher level. People are screaming, calling out names, and on the stage, the band setting up is chatting back. Nikolai gets the impression they’re famous in some way, and not a local group like Rory and Thorne, or Trish. This is something big and unexpected.

They start to play, and the excitement reaches a crescendo, the screams almost deafening. Seth’s expression is alight with pleasure, and he sways as Nikolai wraps his arms around him, moving to the beginning of the music.

They are cast in shadows, only the lights from the stage remaining in the Quad and it’s strange not to be afraid of the darkness. They can enjoy the intimacy, the pleasure of being out in public with a crowd, but also cocooned in their own private space.

“Nikolai.”

A soft whisper from the darkness. Seth goes stiff in Nikolai’s arms, and they turn as one.

“Nikolai,” the whisper comes again, and the darkness moves, a shadowed figure moving out of the deepest darkness and into the faint light. She’s shaped like a person despite the darkness, and she reaches out before letting her hand drop. “I’m not starving,” she whispers. “I haven’t killed anyone. I promise.”

“Chelsea,” Nikolai says, and the shadowy head nods.

She’s alive. Which is great news for Pawel and possibly for them as well. Nikolai swallows hard, and with his hands around Seth he can feel the way Seth’s heart ratchets faster.

“Are you here for—”

“I’ve figured out how to take you home,” she whispers. “It’s not the same, but I can do it. If you help me first, then I can help you.”

“Of course,” Seth says quickly.

“Of course,” Nikolai echoes. Whatever she needs, because it’s time to finish this adventure and go home.

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[topsolarpanels]

Tesla Unveils its New Line of Camouflaged Solar Panels

Ever the showman, Tesla CEO Elon Musk took to the stage at Universal Studios in LA this evening promising to induce solar sexy. To that end, he unveiled a range of textured glass tiles with integrated solar cells that are nearly indistinguishable from conventional tiling, along with a sleek update to the company’s energy-storing Powerwall.

A couple hundred invited guests, largely Tesla proprietors, ooh-ed and ahh-ed as Musk revealed that a row of suburban American homes on Wisteria Lane–the old decide of Desperate Housewives — were all, in fact, topped with solar roofs. Each house’s old roofing material had been stripped away, and replaced with one of four new styles of solar tile. From the street, it was virtually impossible to tell; the roofs retained a variety of traditional looks, from textured slate shingle to terra cotta tile.

Musk said the secret to the tiles’ appearance is a special coating that becomes more or less see-through depending on your viewing slant. He described it as a series of micro louvers that work like a privacy screen on a laptop, and said the company is working with 3M on the tech. The effect is dramatic in person. From shallow slants, the tiles seem nontransparent. But as your viewing slant approaches 90 degrees, the underlying solar cell becomes more and more visible. The result is a tile that permits the passageway of sunlight from overhead, but still appears opaque to anyone at ground level.

Tesla

For those concerned about the strength of a roof made of glass tiles, Musk demonstrated the audience footage of a drop-off test has been proved that the glass was tougher than materials like clay and slate. Its never going to wear out, its made of quartz, it has a quasi-infinite lifetime, Musk said.

We need to induce solar panel as appealing as electric cars have become, Musk said. He wants to induce every roof solar, by making it irresistible. It needs to be beautiful, affordable, and seamlessly integrated. If all of those things are true, why would you go any other direction? Why, indeed. Musk makes a strong instance, but it’s one he only partially supported this evening; Tesla’s panels surely look good, but Musk provided no details on pricing, availability, or the installation process.

A Better Battery

The solar roofs are designed to be used with the Tesla Powerwall. Version 2.0, which Musk also unveiled today, is a bright white rectangle, and flatter than the first version, which Tesla released in April 2015. It will cost $5,500 for 14 kWh of storage and 7kWh peak power draw. Thats enough to power a four bedroom house for a day.

The new roof and battery are both part of Musks master plan to save the world through sustainable energy. Yes, you could go out and buy a solar system now, but the large, purple-black sheets of glass dont precisely blend in on a period house–or most other properties, for that are important. Beyond a certain grudging respect for your green credentials( and lower utility bills ), they dont induce the neighbors jealous in the way a Tesla Model S in the driveway does.

Tesla

And thats a shame. Solar power is an elegant answer for sustainable energy generation. Once the panels are installed, they induce electricity whenever the sunshine shines, with no moving parts , no noise, and, beyond the occasional clean, very little maintenance. The problem is, when the sunshine isnt glistening, like in the evenings when electricity demand peaks, theyre useless. Hence Teslas plan to integrate pretty panels with a battery. Generate and store by day, light up your home by night, and brag about it when you feel so inclined.( If you are installing our solar roof on your home, youre going to want to call your neighbors over and say check out the sweet roof! says Musk .)

In order to induce his vision is putting forward, Musk is using design with a big D, says Andy Ogden, Chair of the Industrial Design Department at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, California. Hes thinking about an overall strategy, in how these things interact and support each other, so theres some synergy.

Musk wants you to be able to walk into a Tesla store and order solar panel, a battery, and an electric car to use that energy while youre at it. Boom. One( probably very large) payment to one company, and youre doing your bit to mitigate climate change.

Tesla

The plan could run, says Ogden. If he can make it easier, and less expensive and more attractive for roofs to be solar, then that will drive the uptake of battery systems.

Tesla is partnering with SolarCity on the new products, and is hoping to convince stockholders of both companies that they make a good pair. Musk announced in June that his electric car company plans to merge with the solar panel installer, of which he is already “shareholders “, and which his cousins run. Shareholders will vote on the plan on November 17 th. Perhaps Tesla’s pretty new solar tiles will influence their decision.

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[kenyonexeter-blog]

Vessels

​It is not until the first of the reds that I suspected I’ve made a mistake. My arms move heavily across the smooth wooden table. The dark wine inside the glass spins as if it were a gelatin disk. 

​“This one has that weight,” says the voice of Marc Millon ’77. “It has the glucose.” There is far too much Red Burgundy Cabernet in my mouth. Bombarded by a thousand small fruity fists, I swallow all the wine to save myself. However much I have drunk reaches my everywhere and the word mistake appears in my head in stone-grey Apple Chancery. Marc mentions periodically that these particular wine types are particularly expensive, but doesn’t mention their expense particularly. I wonder how much wine in pounds sterling I’ve just hastily consumed because of a mistake caused, ironically, by the wine. You should never trust a product that influences the way you consume it. And yet, here I am. I set the glass down, sliding it into the other glass. The ring fills the room and the eyes of the others at the table shoot to me with my hand still on the stem. The defined ring dissipates into the now monastic air. The eyes remove themselves and my hand unfreezes from the glass. My face goes up a few stovetop settings. I hear the various voices as if through a thin glass door. 

​This one is not my friend. The smell burns my nose like Purell, and the taste somehow reminds me a conversation I once had where someone described their undying love for a book I hated. Professor Singer is right, red wines are gross. Regardless, the effect of the wine appears to be the same. ​

“I think I’ve made a severe mistake,” I tell Fletcher and Isaiah, both of whom sit opposite me. ​

“Whatever do you mean?” Fletcher asks with one eyebrow raised. ​

“Nobody else has been spitting any of it, right?” 

​“Oh, no,” Fletcher assures me. Isaiah shakes his head in complement. “No,” Fletcher continues. “We have all been, certainly— I have consumed all of the wine.” He grins. ​ 

“I think I now have consumed a combined total of at least more than three glasses,” I note. ​

“Probably,” Fletcher replies. 

​I nod. “And I have the strong urge to sing the Kokosing Farewell.” 

​“Don’t do that,” Isaiah says. “This is not the place for that.” 

​“I’m well aware. It will happen, though, eventually. It is inevitable.” ​

Isaiah nods. “Well let’s just hope that happens after we leave.” ​

Marc stands by the table next to ours. “Do you like the wine?” 

​I took too long trying to decide if, by “the wine” he meant the wine we had had over the course of the night or the wine currently in my glass, because I have different answers. “Yes,” I say, meaning all of them. ​

He nods, raising his wine glass slightly and taking another sip. I resist the urge to ask him ten thousand questions about Kenyon. I succeed, in that I only ask him two. ​

“You’re class of ‘77?” ​“Yes, I am,” he grins and makes a pronounced nod. “Class of 77.” 

​“Do you know Mark Robinson? He would have been a few years behind you, he was ’79, and so you would have been on campus together for only one year…” ​

“No, I don’t know him. What’s your connection to him?” ​I very suddenly don’t want to say. Will it seem I brought it up to mention I’m a Kokosinger? Why would I do that? I also know nothing of the Kokes’ reputation in 1977. They could have been absolutely loathed, after all this was years before— ​

“When was Professor Tazewell a Koke?” asks Professor Singer. ​

“He graduated in 1987,” I reply, perhaps too quickly. Had the way I said it implied he was too young? Had I offended Marc? I crinkle my face. 

Before I am able to instinctively ask him what he studied and what dorm he lived in as a Freshman and where his department was based when he was there and who the head of the department was and how many students there were and what the gender ratio was and what he did on campus he, ever so fortunately, began a leisurely return to the center of the room. I pour the remainder of my glass into the silvery bucket in front of me. I let curiosity reign and, without hesitation, peer over the edge to see the contents, which resembles red wine exactly. Disappointed, I sit back down. 

“This next wine is a little heartier, and far darker, just note the difference in the shade.” He pours the purple wine into my empty glass, and Fletcher and I hold the two wines up to each other, marking the “radically different colors,” although they both look mostly black with different-colored lights shining through. We toast rigidly, laughing, before taking a sip. I curse myself for skipping over the smelling stage. Oh well. ​

“Wine is such a personal experience,” Marc reminds us, “created with so much individuality. Wine is really about community. It’s about getting to know the maker of the wine, the land that it comes from, the people from that land, and the friends you share the wine with.” ​

“And if you go to these places,” Professor Lynn adds from all the way down the column of tables, “then when you have this wine again you will be reminded of that place. Wine is a vessel, for alcohol certainly,” he grins at all of us, “but it’s really a vessel for memory.” ​ 

Marc comes round with the final wine of the night: Riesling, a golden liquid disco ball. On the sheet where I’m supposed to write a description of its smell, I write without hesitation New Years Eve, a tap on the shoulder. I don’t know. I described a white Sancerre as gladiatorial, I’m clearly bad at this. Wine never seemed to be for me. At my father’s house, wine (red wine) was a callous, pernicious, and expensive beverage that sat in the center of the dinner table and in a glass in front of me for the rest of the night, and apparently also came with a more absurdly complex playing system than the Yugioh trading card game. At Kenyon, it was another way for people who apparently didn’t have ten pages on Boccaccio due by 10am to forget the hopelessness of it all. But this. This is a discovery. I say “wow” aloud, involuntarily, with enough force to make Professor Singer recoil in surprise. Fletcher raises both eyebrows. Isaiah blinks. Shame attempts to scurry around, but has to hold its breath in the new basin of wine that now flows through my body. I, again aloud, remark that it tastes similar to cider. Marc pauses and gives me a disapproving look, but mutters, “okay.” It does taste like cider. Or maybe it feels like cider on my lips and in my mouth. It bubbles around, having a party, but careful not to break anything. Marc offers everyone a second glass. I accept with a quickness I should be ashamed of, but I’m not. 

​Still in the thorough bright beige light of the wine cellar I push my left arm through the polyester inside of my coat, and Fletcher nonchalantly plants my right hand onto his recently shaved head. His head is sweaty, but the collective of short stiff hairs is strangely relaxing on my palm, so I go with it and put the other hand on there as well, and start humming a single low note. ​

“Is this some sort of mind meld?” Fletcher asks quickly. “What’s happening?” ​

“You were the one who put it there.” ​

“Fair enough.” ​

We stay for a few moments until my hands slide off of his head, and everyone files out. I hear thank yous directed back at Marc from ahead of me. I turn back toward him myself, open my mouth, contract a muscle in my throat, but merely exhale. We walk the damp streets of Topsham. Short bursts of voice volley back and forth in front of me, but I forget each word instantly. For a while no one speaks to me any more than the small figurines in the shop windows do. The buildings are all charcoal-colored and neon yellow, the street pavement is its color when wet, the brown coat hangers and hand-carved chess sets and shoes are black. Eric’s skin is grey. Bailey’s is grey, then suddenly thrice-diluted yellow in front of some shrubbery under a street light, then grey again. ​

The color palette more or less returns at the train station. The shingle roofs of Topsham still surround us but they fade out. My world is a few rows of train tracks, and a small crowd of Kenyonites on the slatey platform before them. I begin to sing the Kokosing Farewell. 

​Fletcher joins me. His eyes hide behind his glasses as if they are screen doors overlooking a backyard ruckus. I can’t tell if he is following me in the song, or simply confused as to why I am making eye contact with him. I turn and notice Professor Lynn has also joined in, arms motionless at his sides, his brimmed hat turning in the dark as he nods at the start of each line. Two or three voices accompany mine, sometimes following exactly, sometimes only a few milliseconds behind. I fear if I make a mistake it will stop, which, once we have begun, seems unacceptable to me. Behind his hat and his beard Professor Lynn’s either stares straight on or looks at me, it is unclear. His look tells me he is also determined to finish the song. I wonder whether it is out of a sense of duty, or enjoyment, although he seems somehow annoyed, or perhaps under “some strange spell.” The spell isn’t strange to me anymore. It is quite familiar. I’ve been at the Topsham station before, but tonight, for about two of the minutes we stand here, we are not at Topsham Station. We are at Kenyon. Not Kenyon College, just Kenyon. The heaths and hills of Devonshire still lie in wait just outside the edge of the station’s overhead lamp, but everything the light touches is Kenyon. So long as the song continues. ​

“In meadows sweet with asphodel…” I stop. The other voices stop. ​

“What is the next line,” I ask aloud. This is the part I’ve sung ten thousand times, and yet. And yet. ​

“I can’t remember,” Fletcher relents. ​The individual words sit in the air around me— “reposing,” “memory,” “dwells”— but I can’t organize them into the penultimate line. I start singing pieces of the line out of order, at half volume. I am a jukebox running out of batteries. Fletcher and Isaiah turn back to the train tracks, and Professor Lynn adjusts his hat. The circle is incomplete, the spell is broken. ​

“That song will be with you for the rest of your life,” Professor Lynn says, hands in his pockets, walking slowly up the edge of the platform. “Every time you hear that song, you will think of Kenyon.” ​

A minute of vigorous tapping brings me to a lavender web page on my iPhone in a grey broken case. I sing the rest of the song. I mean to do it quietly, but eyes start turning back to me, more confused than the last time. I finish anyway. I step onto the train after Emma Longstreth. The professors wave briskly and march down the platform in the opposite direction. The train doors close. I have a window seat, but I don’t look out of it once. We take up three rows on either side of the train. I can see everyone from my seat at the edge of the section. I want to sing the song again, but we’re on a train. 

​Six of us get off at St. James’ Park. This part of the city is newer than the rest, even newer to me. I’ve never been before. We scale a somehow rural staircase up to streets of whitewashed buildings and stone walls no taller than six and a half feet. Trampling down a small hill, my arms and legs and torso are warmer than they should be. The wind cools my face in a consistent layer, I feel the cold as one point, one color of a single pixel. Behind my face, my thoughts move by a giant iron wheel powered only by my forward momentum. If I stop walking maybe I’ll just collapse on the floor. Not so fast. Not so fast indeed, I agree at the mouth of another alleyway. It opens up onto a larger road: Pennsylvania. We walk up and suddenly the trip is identical to coming back from Tesco, back from the firehouse, back from anywhere in the City. The small wall at our side is ancient and quaint and matches the street that makes me think the word “cobblestone” even though it’s paved. The way I feel I might as well be coming back from Rosse Hall, from Kokes practice. It’s the same lighting, that makes me wish there was some other place, somewhere I could justify walking to, somewhere I could sing all night. I don’t want my throat to cool down. I don’t want to sit back down at a desk, and edit ten pages on Salvador Dalí by 10am. That’s what I’m doing, though. That’s Kenyon for you. No matter where you actually are, there’s always ten pages due tomorrow by 10am. And I had all of that wine anyway.

[readbookywooks]

THE WILD WOOD

The Mole had long wanted to make the I acquaintance of the Badger. He seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about the place. But whenever the Mole mentioned his wish to the Water Rat he always found himself put off. `It's all right,' the Rat would say. `Badger'll turn up some day or other--he's always turning up--and then I'll introduce you. The best of fellows! But you must not only take him AS you find him, but WHEN you find him.'

`Couldn't you ask him here dinner or something?' said the Mole.

`He wouldn't come,' replied the Rat simply. `Badger hates Society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.'

`Well, then, supposing we go and call on HIM?' suggested the Mole.

`O, I'm sure he wouldn't like that at ALL,' said the Rat, quite alarmed. `He's so very shy, he'd be sure to be offended. I've never even ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though I know him so well. Besides, we can't. It's quite out of the question, because he lives in the very middle of the Wild Wood.'

`Well, supposing he does,' said the Mole. `You told me the Wild Wood was all right, you know.'

`O, I know, I know, so it is,' replied the Rat evasively. `But I think we won't go there just now. Not JUST yet. It's a long way, and he wouldn't be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he'll be coming along some day, if you'll wait quietly.'

The Mole had to be content with this. But the Badger never came along, and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey Badger, who lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the Wild Wood.

In the winter time the Rat slept a great deal, retiring early and rising late. During his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did other small domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were always animals dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a good deal of story-telling and comparing notes on the past summer and all its doings.

Such a rich chapter it had been, when one came to look back on it all! With illustrations so numerous and so very highly coloured! The pageant of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession. Purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow. Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that June at last was here. One member of the company was still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer back to life and love. But when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was ready to begin.

And what a play it had been! Drowsy animals, snug in their holes while wind and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still keen mornings, an hour before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet undispersed, clung closely along the surface of the water; then the shock of the early plunge, the scamper along the bank, and the radiant transformation of earth, air, and water, when suddenly the sun was with them again, and grey was gold and colour was born and sprang out of the earth once more. They recalled the languorous siesta of hot mid-day, deep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in tiny golden shafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the rambles along dusty lanes and through yellow cornfields; and the long, cool evening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many friendships rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow. There was plenty to talk about on those short winter days when the animals found themselves round the fire; still, the Mole had a good deal of spare time on his hands, and so one afternoon, when the Rat in his arm-chair before the blaze was alternately dozing and trying over rhymes that wouldn't fit, he formed the resolution to go out by himself and explore the Wild Wood, and perhaps strike up an acquaintance with Mr. Badger.

It was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air. The country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when Nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off. Copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions. It was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering-- even exhilarating. He was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery. He had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple. He did not want the warm clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the Wild Wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea.

There was nothing to alarm him at first entry. Twigs crackled under his feet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and startled him for the moment by their likeness to something familiar and far away; but that was all fun, and exciting. It led him on, and he penetrated to where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and nearer, and holes made ugly mouths at him on either side.

Everything was very still now. The dusk advanced on him steadily, rapidly, gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be draining away like flood-water.

Then the faces began.

It was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he saw a face; a little evil wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a hole. When he turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished.

He quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin imagining things, or there would be simply no end to it. He passed another hole, and another, and another; and then--yes!-- no!--yes! certainly a little narrow face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an instant from a hole, and was gone. He hesitated--braced himself up for an effort and strode on. Then suddenly, and as if it had been so all the time, every hole, far and near, and there were hundreds of them, seemed to possess its face, coming and going rapidly, all fixing on him glances of malice and hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp.

If he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought, there would be no more faces. He swung off the path and plunged into the untrodden places of the wood.

Then the whistling began.

Very faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard it; but somehow it made him hurry forward. Then, still very faint and shrill, it sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to go back. As he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and seemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the wood to its farthest limit. They were up and alert and ready, evidently, whoever they were! And he--he was alone, and unarmed, and far from any help; and the night was closing in.

Then the pattering began.

He thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate was the sound of it. Then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he knew it for nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a very long way off. Was it in front or behind? It seemed to be first one, and then the other, then both. It grew and it multiplied, till from every quarter as he listened anxiously, leaning this way and that, it seemed to be closing in on him. As he stood still to hearken, a rabbit came running hard towards him through the trees. He waited, expecting it to slacken pace, or to swerve from him into a different course. Instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his face set and hard, his eyes staring. `Get out of this, you fool, get out!' the Mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump and disappeared down a friendly burrow.

The pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry leaf-carpet spread around him. The whole wood seemed running now, running hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or--somebody? In panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither. He ran up against things, he fell over things and into things, he darted under things and dodged round things. At last he took refuge in the deep dark hollow of an old beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment--perhaps even safety, but who could tell? Anyhow, he was too tired to run any further, and could only snuggle down into the dry leaves which had drifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for a time. And as he lay there panting and trembling, and listened to the whistlings and the patterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fullness, that dread thing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered here, and known as their darkest moment--that thing which the Rat had vainly tried to shield him from--the Terror of the Wild Wood!

Meantime the Rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside. His paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell back, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of dream-rivers. Then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a spurt of flame, and he woke with a start. Remembering what he had been engaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored over them for a minute, and then looked round for the Mole to ask him if he knew a good rhyme for something or other.

But the Mole was not there.

He listened for a time. The house seemed very quiet.

Then he called `Moly!' several times, and, receiving no answer, got up and went out into the hall.

The Mole's cap was missing from its accustomed peg. His goloshes, which always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone.

The Rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the ground outside, hoping to find the Mole's tracks. There they were, sure enough. The goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the pimples on their soles were fresh and sharp. He could see the imprints of them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading direct to the Wild Wood.

The Rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or two. Then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist, shoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in a corner of the hall, and set off for the Wild Wood at a smart pace.

It was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of trees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously on either side for any sign of his friend. Here and there wicked little faces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the valorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp; and the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on his first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still. He made his way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge; then, forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously working over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully, `Moly, Moly, Moly! Where are you? It's me--it's old Rat!'

He had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at last to his joy he heard a little answering cry. Guiding himself by the sound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an old beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a feeble voice, saying `Ratty! Is that really you?'

The Rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the Mole, exhausted and still trembling. `O Rat!' he cried, `I've been so frightened, you can't think!'

`O, I quite understand,' said the Rat soothingly. `You shouldn't really have gone and done it, Mole. I did my best to keep you from it. We river-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves. If we have to come, we come in couples, at least; then we're generally all right. Besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we understand all about and you don't, as yet. I mean passwords, and signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise; all simple enough when you know them, but they've got to be known if you're small, or you'll find yourself in trouble. Of course if you were Badger or Otter, it would be quite another matter.'

`Surely the brave Mr. Toad wouldn't mind coming here by himself, would he?' inquired the Mole.

`Old Toad?' said the Rat, laughing heartily. `He wouldn't show his face here alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, Toad wouldn't.'

The Mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the Rat's careless laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming pistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more himself again.

`Now then,' said the Rat presently, `we really must pull ourselves together and make a start for home while there's still a little light left. It will never do to spend the night here, you understand. Too cold, for one thing.'

`Dear Ratty,' said the poor Mole, `I'm dreadfully sorry, but I'm simply dead beat and that's a solid fact. You MUST let me rest here a while longer, and get my strength back, if I'm to get home at all.'

`O, all right,' said the good-natured Rat, `rest away. It's pretty nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon later.'

So the Mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort; while the Rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth, and lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw.

When at last the Mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits, the Rat said, `Now then! I'll just take a look outside and see if everything's quiet, and then we really must be off.'

He went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out. Then the Mole heard him saying quietly to himself, `Hullo! hullo! here-- is--a--go!'

`What's up, Ratty?' asked the Mole.

`SNOW is up,' replied the Rat briefly; `or rather, DOWN. It's snowing hard.'

The Mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect. Holes, hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were vanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up everywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet. A fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in its touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that seemed to come from below.

`Well, well, it can't be helped,' said the Rat, after pondering. `We must make a start, and take our chance, I suppose. The worst of it is, I don't exactly know where we are. And now this snow makes everything look so very different.'

It did indeed. The Mole would not have known that it was the same wood. However, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed most promising, holding on to each other and pretending with invincible cheerfulness that they recognized an old friend in every fresh tree that grimly and silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths with a familiar turn in them, in the monotony of white space and black tree-trunks that refused to vary.

An hour or two later--they had lost all count of time--they pulled up, dispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen tree-trunk to recover their breath and consider what was to be done. They were aching with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen into several holes and got wet through; the snow was getting so deep that they could hardly drag their little legs through it, and the trees were thicker and more like each other than ever. There seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worst of all, no way out.

`We can't sit here very long,' said the Rat. `We shall have to make another push for it, and do something or other. The cold is too awful for anything, and the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade through.' He peered about him and considered. `Look here,' he went on, `this is what occurs to me. There's a sort of dell down here in front of us, where the ground seems all hilly and humpy and hummocky. We'll make our way down into that, and try and find some sort of shelter, a cave or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and the wind, and there we'll have a good rest before we try again, for we're both of us pretty dead beat. Besides, the snow may leave off, or something may turn up.'

So once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell, where they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and a protection from the keen wind and the whirling snow. They were investigating one of the hummocky bits the Rat had spoken of, when suddenly the Mole tripped up and fell forward on his face with a squeal.

`O my leg!' he cried. `O my poor shin!' and he sat up on the snow and nursed his leg in both his front paws.

`Poor old Mole!' said the Rat kindly.

`You don't seem to be having much luck to-day, do you? Let's have a look at the leg. Yes,' he went on, going down on his knees to look, `you've cut your shin, sure enough. Wait till I get at my handkerchief, and I'll tie it up for you.'

`I must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump,' said the Mole miserably. `O, my! O, my!'

`It's a very clean cut,' said the Rat, examining it again attentively. `That was never done by a branch or a stump. Looks as if it was made by a sharp edge of something in metal. Funny!' He pondered awhile, and examined the humps and slopes that surrounded them.

`Well, never mind what done it,' said the Mole, forgetting his grammar in his pain. `It hurts just the same, whatever done it.'

But the Rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief, had left him and was busy scraping in the snow. He scratched and shovelled and explored, all four legs working busily, while the Mole waited impatiently, remarking at intervals, `O, COME on, Rat!'

Suddenly the Rat cried `Hooray!' and then `Hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray- oo-ray!' and fell to executing a feeble jig in the snow.

`What HAVE you found, Ratty?' asked the Mole, still nursing his leg.

`Come and see!' said the delighted Rat, as he jigged on.

The Mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look.

`Well,' he said at last, slowly, `I SEE it right enough. Seen the same sort of thing before, lots of times. Familiar object, I call it. A door-scraper! Well, what of it? Why dance jigs around a door-scraper?'

`But don't you see what it MEANS, you--you dull-witted animal?' cried the Rat impa-tiently.

`Of course I see what it means,' replied the Mole. `It simply means that some VERY careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper lying about in the middle of the Wild Wood, JUST where it's SURE to trip EVERYBODY up. Very thoughtless of him, I call it. When I get home I shall go and complain about it to--to somebody or other, see if I don't!'

`O, dear! O, dear!' cried the Rat, in despair at his obtuseness. `Here, stop arguing and come and scrape!' And he set to work again and made the snow fly in all directions around him.

After some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby door-mat lay exposed to view.

`There, what did I tell you?' exclaimed the Rat in great triumph.

`Absolutely nothing whatever,' replied the Mole, with perfect truthfulness. `Well now,' he went on, `you seem to have found another piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and I suppose you're perfectly happy. Better go ahead and dance your jig round that if you've got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and not waste any more time over rubbish- heaps. Can we EAT a doormat? or sleep under a door-mat? Or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the snow on it, you exasperating rodent?'

`Do--you--mean--to--say,' cried the excited Rat, `that this door- mat doesn't TELL you anything?'

`Really, Rat,' said the Mole, quite pettishly, `I think we'd had enough of this folly. Who ever heard of a door-mat TELLING anyone anything? They simply don't do it. They are not that sort at all. Door-mats know their place.'

`Now look here, you--you thick-headed beast,' replied the Rat, really angry, `this must stop. Not another word, but scrape-- scrape and scratch and dig and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you want to sleep dry and warm to- night, for it's our last chance!'

The Rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with his cudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the Mole scraped busily too, more to oblige the Rat than for any other reason, for his opinion was that his friend was getting light-headed.

Some ten minutes' hard work, and the point of the Rat's cudgel struck something that sounded hollow. He worked till he could get a paw through and feel; then called the Mole to come and help him. Hard at it went the two animals, till at last the result of their labours stood full in view of the astonished and hitherto incredulous Mole.

In the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid- looking little door, painted a dark green. An iron bell-pull hung by the side, and below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital letters, they could read by the aid of moonlight

MR. BADGER.

The Mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight. `Rat!' he cried in penitence, `you're a wonder! A real wonder, that's what you are. I see it all now! You argued it out, step by step, in that wise head of yours, from the very moment that I fell and cut my shin, and you looked at the cut, and at once your majestic mind said to itself, "Door-scraper!" And then you turned to and found the very door-scraper that done it! Did you stop there? No. Some people would have been quite satisfied; but not you. Your intellect went on working. "Let me only just find a door-mat," says you to yourself, "and my theory is proved!" And of course you found your door-mat. You're so clever, I believe you could find anything you liked. "Now," says you, "that door exists, as plain as if I saw it. There's nothing else remains to be done but to find it!" Well, I've read about that sort of thing in books, but I've never come across it before in real life. You ought to go where you'll be properly appreciated. You're simply wasted here, among us fellows. If I only had your head, Ratty----'

`But as you haven't,' interrupted the Rat, rather unkindly, `I suppose you're going to sit on the snow all night and TALK Get up at once and hang on to that bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as you can, while I hammer!'

While the Rat attacked the door with his stick, the Mole sprang up at the bell-pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off the ground, and from quite a long way off they could faintly hear a deep-toned bell respond.