#man i cant wait for the factions event to be over

[temscraft]

I like the realm but the fact that it was originally meant to be red faction vs all other factions is so unbalanced especially with there being only one active red faction member for so long

[rorynne]

Time Lost (Rewrite) Ch 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader

Summary: An accident during a mission sends you back in time to the second world war. There you enlist the help of Peggy Carter, Steve Rogers, and Bucky Barnes to find the object that can send her back.

Warnings: not much bucky but he will be more present going forward

Word count: 2.7k

A/N: This is a rewrite of an OC fic that I have been writing and been wanting to turn into a reader Fic. Im unsure if I will be continuing the OC fic currently, I may just transfer it completely to my reader Fic. Currently 6 chapters are up of the OC fic, and I shall be posting a rewritten chapter every few days on here.

Masterlist

Prologue

Storm clouds hung heavy in the sky as you sat in the back of a jeep bound for the current SSR base in Italy. Almost two years of searching and there was barely any information on the bell to go off of. It was beyond frustrating. At this rate, you were starting to wonder if you would ever get back to your time. Granted, all of the documents you brought back were dated 1943 or later, chances were development on the bell had only just begun. And if that were the case, hopefully, it wasn't going to take them seventy years to finish.

Your general lack of ability to change anything also proved to be frustrating as hell. Only Peggy knew of your true origins. They had both decided against going around saying you were from the future, god only knew that would just get them both locked up. However, as a result, that meant you were far less likely to be believed any time you tried to keep an event from happening if you lacked any evidence. you never thought you would sympathize with Cassandra.

“I was beginning to wonder when you'd show up.” A familiar voice teased as the jeep came to a halt. You smiled as you saw Peggy waiting to inspect the arriving convoy. Peggy had managed to make the last two years far more bearable, becoming quick friends with you.

“You know me,” You said, jumping out of the back of the jeep. “I like to keep everyone guessing.”

Peggy smiled as you approached. “Perhaps a little too much.” She accused. “How was Paris?”

You shrugged and canted your head, “Beautiful city, great food, interesting history.” You crossed your arms. “Too bad I wanted to shoot the majority of my company.”

“I trust you were able to resist the temptation?” Said Peggy eyeing you in amusement.

“Figured I would let the boys have the nazi killing fun for now.” You sniffed indignantly. “Kind of regret it now. At least then I would have something to account for coming back.”

“No luck on the bell?”

“No luck on anything.” You corrected, “A whole lot of Nazis but no hydra. It seems the intel we had was either old or false.”

Peggy nodded at one of the soldiers carrying a crate from a truck. “You think they’ve caught on to us?”

You chewed your cheek. “I'm not sure. I can't say they knew I was coming, or I’d be dead. Or at least so I would assume. I don't see any reason why they would keep me alive knowing I'm a spy. But at the same time, there wasn't a single member of hydra there. I've never seen that before, usually there's at least one.

Peggy narrowed her eyes. “If we aren't being fed false information then somethings happening.”

“And whatever it is, I think the ones outside of hydra are just about as in the dark as we are. Hydra’s making a play, a big one.”

“A faction split?” Peggy offered.

“It's possible. But if it's that, they've got to be pretty confident that they can win.” You scratched the back of your neck, entirely unsure of what to make about any of it.

Peggy nodded, “If what the surviving 107th are saying is true, it seems they've got just that.” Seemingly content with the convoy, Peggy started towards the SSR command tent. “Your history books say anything about this?”

You followed close behind. “About the 107th? Not much. They get captured, Captain America comes in and saves the day singlehandedly. Dunno how much stock I put into to all that personally. Lotta things about the Cap and hydra got covered up after the war by shield. Especially in the history books.”

Peggy frowned, walking into the tent. “I can believe it. I've seen Rogers in action, unfortunately, the army seems content parading him around America singing about war bonds.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me, what?”

“Peggy gestured to the poster hanging from a support beam of the tent. “Captain America,” it read, “on tour: Allied bases across Europe and North Africa.” You bit your lip to keep from laughing, this was not how you ever imagined meeting Captain America.

“They, they really have him singing?” You said, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Dancing at the very least,” said Peggy, not sounding the slightest bit amused. “Bloody waste if you ask me. He’ll be arriving and preforming here tomorrow.”

You shook your head, still staring at the poster. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

The captain's performance was, frankly, every bit as hilarious as you expected. The rest of the crowd, however, didn't seem to agree. Instead, they demanded the dancing girls come back on stage. You grimaced as the famous Steve Rogers walked off stage, noticeably embarrassed. The Captain America you knew was a hero, a legend even. But this was before all of his exploits before he saved the world more times than you could count. He barely seemed to be the same man.

You held back for a time, figuring he would want space after such a humiliation. But, as the rain that had been threatening for two days now began to pour, you went searching for him. Surely there was something that pushed him out of the theater and into heroism because he was far better at the latter. Whose brilliant idea even was it to have him dancing around in the first place?

You found him with Peggy, taking refuge from the rain under a wooden awning behind the stage. Peggy's face was stern as you neared, “And these are your only options? Lab rat or dancing monkey?”

“War hero seems like a fun third option.” You cut in, earning a raised eyebrow from Peggy. “Or, you know, literally anything else.”

He looked at you with apprehension and confusion as Peggy took a patient breath. “What Agent L/N means, is you were meant for more than this.”

You extended a hand to him. “Sorry, my humor isn't for everyone. Y/N L/N.”

He nodded, shaking your hand. “Steve Rogers.” He sighed as his attention was pulled to an arriving red cross truck. “These men look like they've gone through hell.”

You crossed your arms, “They've gone through war.”

“These men more than most. They're what's left of the 107th.” Peggy agreed and you winced. What these men had seen seemed to make hell seem heavenly.

Steves' eyes went wide. “The 107th?” He was up and running to the command tent before Peggy could even respond. You and Peggy shared a glance before chasing after him through the rain.

Col. Phillips sat signing what were presumably condolence letters at his desk in the back fo the tent as steve rushed up to him. Phillips looked up just barely before returning to the letters. “If it isn't the star-spangled man with a plan. What do I own the pleasure.”

“I need the casualty list from Azzano,” Steve said with unexplained urgency.

Phillips looked up from his papers with a glare. “You don't get to give me orders.”

“I just need one name,” Steve continued, “Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.” The name tugged the back of your memory, you had heard it somewhere before, in a museum maybe? That was right, you recalled the handsome picture of a soldier engraved in stone in the howling commando exhibit at the Smithsonian. He had been the one that died. Steve lost his best friend. You gave him a pitiful look as he argued with Phillips, you had always thought that Barnes became a commando before dying.

“But I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl.” Phillips's harsh words pulled you out of your thoughts.

“I think I understand just fine,” Steve responded coolly.

“Then understand it somewhere else, if I read the posters right you have somewhere to be in 30 minutes.” Phillips moved passed him to look over maps with another officer, making his stance on the conversation clear.

“Yes sir,” Steve said, studying the large map board in front of him, “I do.” He turned on his heels and rushed out of the tent, leaving you and Peggy in his wake.

“I’ll go after him,” Peggy whispered to you. “We need maps and supplies, whatever you can think of, then meet us in the hangar as soon as you can.”

You nodded letting Peggy follow after Steve. You stood there for a moment, pretending to study the map board before quickly and casually taking a smaller map off Col. Phillips desk and slipping it into your coat. With a nod to the nearest officer, you walked out of the tent and into the rain.

Already thoroughly drenched from your previous two treks thought the rain, you didn't bother trying to shield yourself from the downpour as you made your way to the nearest storehouse. Knowing Peggy, they were probably going to get court-martialed with whatever she had planned, so might as well go the whole hog and steal any supplies Steve might need.

You grabbed a gunny sack as soon as you entered the storeroom and started filling: A compass, multiple rations of food, a blanket, flashlight, rope, matches. Anything and everything that you could think of that he might need should he get lost. ‘Cause God knows, the way he was charging off, he damn well didn't consider any of this.

“Hey!” A guard called to you. “You aren't authorized to take any of this!”

You slung the sack over your shoulder as the guard approached. “Youll find that I am, private.” You bluffed. “Under official SSR orders. Unless that is, you want to waste Col Phillips time clearing it with him first?” The guard blanched at the mention of Phillips's name.

“No, Ma’am!” He said quickly, stepping out of your way. You gave a sharp nod before escaping the warehouse. you started toward the Hangar before pausing and looking at the stage. A devilish smile came over you as you changed your course.

The backstage was empty when you entered, likely all the actors and dancers were still on break, leaving the costumes unguarded. Because, really, who on earth would want to steal them, besides you. You hummed the tune to ‘star-spangled man’ as you picked up a helmet with a large white ‘A’. One thing was for sure, steve was going to save the 107th in (extremely questionable) style.

Peggy, Steve, and Stark were waiting at the hangar when you arrived, helmet in hand, a grin plastered across your face. “You know, for a star-spangled man with a plan, I'm wondering if you've ever had a plan in your life.” You teased, handing him the helmet and sack of supplies.

Steve gave you a look as he fiddled with the helmet, “In all fairness ma’am, you haven't known me long.”

“First impressions mean a lot, Rogers.” You shrugged, moving onto Peggy. “Though I’m not sure if this plan is much better than no plan,” You said in a low voice only Peggy could hear.

“We don't have many other options at the current moment.” Peggy defended as Steve and Stark boarded the plane. “Unless you somehow convinced Col. Phillips to give us an army.”

“I'm not a miracle worker.” You sighed.

“You said he was able to do this single-handed, we just need to have faith.” Peggy took a deep breath, even she didn't seem completely convinced.

You nodded, “Time to prove the history books right. I’ll stay grounded to try to keep the colonel distracted. Go.” You gave a mock salute as the plane took off, leaving you behind.

Keeping Phillips occupied until the plane returned proved to be quite easy. He was already extremely busy, and with some strategic playing dumb and careful excuses as to why you were doing Peggy's work, he was none the wiser until the plane landed the next morning. Then the shit hit the fan.

Steve didn't come back. Two weeks after the flight to Austria and there was absolutely no sign of him either. Phillips was furious, you did everything in your power to avoid him, though you knew it wouldn't be long before consequences came. There was a good possibility that your chance to get home was lost if Steve didn't show up.

You sat on the ground against a tree, picking at your fingers. At this point, you didn't even care about getting home. Instead, you couldn't shake the guilt of getting an avenger killed before the avengers were even a thing. The guilt of it alone made it difficult for you to even sleep at night. you would have gone into Austria yourself to find him, if Phillips hadn't expressly forbidden it, and kept an armed guard on you 24/7 as a baby sitter.

“You look like a child that's been sent to the headmaster,” Peggy said looking down at you.

You nodded, “Feel like it too.”

“Do you regret helping him?” Peggy asked, voice tight.

You sighed and looked up at her, “I regret not helping him more.” You admitted, “I teased him about not having a plan, and then didn't even try to give him one. I could have followed that dumbass into Austria myself.” The young soldier acting as your baby sitter shifted uncomfortably. “Stop acting like you've never heard a woman fucking swear Simmons.”

“Y-yes ma’am” He stammered and you rolled your eyes.

“We did everything we could for him,” Peggy reassured, ignoring Simmons. “He would have walked to Austria if we didn't help him.”

You laughed weakly, “I’ve done stupider things.” You paused for a beat, biting your lip, “Peggy, I, I’m sorry about this all. I could tell how much you liked him.”

Peggy swallowed, “Yes, well. I'm glad he wasn't stuck as a dancing monkey.” She cleared her throat, “I'm going to speak with Col. Phillips if you would like to join me.”

You scoffed, “No, I'd rather him find me if he wants to chew me out.” Peggy nodded and left you sitting under your tree. No doubt Phillips would be in a bad mood. He was finally calling off the searches today, officially labeling Steve Rogers as KIA. God, if only you had just gone with him as back up, at least then either he would be alive or you’d be too dead to care.

You threw your head back in frustration as hoots and hollers came from the front of the camp. Soldiers began running to the gates, curious, you joined them. You gasped when you saw what the soldiers were congregating for.

A hundred some odd men came marching through the gates, Steve Rogers, Captain America, leading the way. Cheers rippled through the crowd as the group walked through the camp, stopping in front of Col. Phillips. You slipped between the men in efforts to get a better view.

“Hey!” The man next to steve yelled, making you freeze, surprised, as you saw the familiar handsome face of a man you had only seen in museum exhibits. “Let's hear it for Captain America!” The crowd roared, men throwing their caps in the air, whistling, yelling, clapping. You found yourself clapping too as Barnes’s eyes locked onto yours for a brief moment. He smiled faintly as he caught sight of you, a sparkle of something in his steel-blue eyes as you shifted your attention to finding Col. Phillips.

You moved through the crowd in search of him, only to find him missing from it. you soon found him exactly where you expected him to be, the SSR command tent. you wore a sly smirk that would have read ‘I told you so” Had he bothered to look up at you. Instead, he focused on packing away his desk. “Don't think for a moment that just because Captain Rogers came back that you're off my shit list Agent L/N.”

You frowned, “He saved at least a hundred and fifty men. I played a part in that.”

“And that’s exactly why I'm not court martialing you for theft of government property.” He said as he tucked away a folder into a box. “Tell Agent Carter to pack her things, we’re returning to London for debriefing first thing tomorrow.”

You scowled, “Yes sir.”

[lykegenia]

The Things We Hide Ch. 23

The Southern Water Tribe stood for a hundred years against the Fire Nation, indomitable until Sozin’s Comet tipped the balance in Fire Lord Ozai’s favour. Now, as planned, the South is decimated, Chief Hakoda is a puppet on his throne, and Princess Katara is a political prisoner held in the Fire Nation capital to ensure his good behaviour. But Ozai has little time to gloat. A vigilante masquerading as the Blue Spirit is causing unrest among the people, rebel ships still hound his navy, and right under his nose the South’s most powerful waterbender waits with the patience of ice to strike at the very heart of his empire and bring it crashing down.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

The old man moved unhurriedly about the room, taking tea from a small tin on a shelf, and then a plate of sweet rice balls rolled in sesame seeds, which had been sitting by the window sill under a laminated paper cover to keep them fresh. Zuko watched him, examined the unhurried cant of his walk and the certain, delicate movements of his fingers, searching for trickery, or illusion. Perhaps the guards had hit him over the head on the way up, and this was a symptom of concussion. Whoever he really was, the Grand Master glanced at him often, measuring him with more thoughtfulness than caution as he bustled about the small room. Every time the aged brown eyes flickered to his scar, Zuko’s temper wound tighter and tighter until he could no longer stand the silence.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The old man smiled at him. “It has been a long time, Nephew. I understand this must be a shock you.”

“A shock?” he repeated. “The Dragon of the West is supposed to be dead! Where have you been? What are you doing here? What happened to you?”

“Be calm, please,” Iroh replied, holding up a fire-callused palm. “I will explain matters to you, but first, I would be neglecting my duties as a host if I did not offer you tea.”

He ambled over with the kettle of boiled water and knelt opposite Zuko, careful not to spill. This was the Iroh Zuko remembered, the general who liked everything in its proper order, in war and at home, and who could not be rushed or dissuaded once he put his mind to an action. How, then, had this meticulous man ended up here, perfectly calm and collected as he poured hot water over the porcelain to warm he cups, the leader of the rebellious faction working to disrupt everything the Fire Nation was working towards? He had breached the walls of Ba Sing Se, had been lauded as a hero and blessed with honours bestowed upon no other general in history, poised to take the throne of the greatest nation in the world, so why had he not come home? Zuko knew enough of the official line of events to understand he had somehow colluded with the avatar to gain his current position, but that was as far as reasoning could take him.

“Does this mean Cousin Lu Ten is alive as well?” he asked. The implications for the line of succession if so –

“No,” came the muted reply as his uncle scooped tea into the pot. “No, my son died six years ago, at the siege of Ba Sing Se.” The old man cleared his throat. “This blend of tea is particularly fragrant, mixed and dried with jasmine flowers from the slopes of Lu Long Shan. It pairs particularly well with Air Nomad sweet pastry.”

“All tea is just hot leaf juice.”

“A member of my own family, saying such a thing.” Iroh shook his head. “I see your cultural education has slipped in the years since I have been away.”

Zuko only frowned. A lot of things had happened in the time since they had received news of the Crown Prince’s death before the walls of the Earth Kingdom capital – a lot of things that, now with hindsight, had been allowed to happen. The left side of Zuko’s face itched. He ignored it, and dropped his eyes to watch the smooth, practiced motions of the tea ceremony that took years to fully master, first the initial pouring to wash the leaves of impurity, swirling the water around the teapot with precise rotations of the wrist before it was discarded, then the second pouring to steep the tea until it was ready for the drinkers to taste.

“This is one of Katara’s sets,” he realised as his uncle completed the last movement and filled two delicate cups with the finished tea. The porcelain was of finest translucent quality, with intricate patterns painted in blue beneath the glaze, and the more he looked, the more of the interweaving lines resolved themselves into the shapes of animals at play.

“She is a most agreeable young lady,” his uncle said. “Quite the scholar, and skilled in her element. She told me she spent time with you while she was staying in the capital.”

Zuko scowled, then scowled harder at the sympathetic look Iroh gave him, ignoring the ache of stretched, healing tissue in the left side of his face. “Did she tell you she tricked me, and then betrayed me?”

“No, she did not. How is your tea?”

The cup remained untouched on the mat in front of him. He recalled a sunny afternoon, back in another life, when another person had served him tea, and then mocked him with a wry smile for thinking the drink was poisoned. Had he been caught even then? Had she seen it, and spun her web of lies accordingly?

“It’s very… fragrant,” he allowed as he took as sip and put the memory from his mind. “Uncle, all this time, why didn’t you ever come back?”

“I could not.”

Rage boiled inside him. “Why not?”

A sigh. “Prince Zuko –”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

“Please be calm,” his uncle repeated. “I know you are angry.”

“Angry?” Zuko scoffed. He slammed his teacup back on the table and shot to his feet. “What do you know? You’re a traitor! You’re working for the enemy – no, you’re leading them! You could be ruling the Fire Nation and yet you’re – you’re here, drinking tea, acting like everything’s okay! Do you even know what –”

The door burst open. Flames sprang to Zuko’s fists, to defend or attack he couldn’t say, but before he could move, Iroh darted between him and the intruders, palms out to ward off fire from both sides.

“Grand Master – we heard shouting –”

“All is well, Juro,” he assured. “Please, leave us.”

The two guards glanced at each other, expressions wavering between uncertainty and obedience, but finally they bowed and retreated back into the corridor.

“Please, Nephew,” Iroh continued once the door closed with a clang, “master yourself. I am aware of what my brother has done, what he continues to do to our people –”

“Our people?” Zuko sneered. “Your orders are killing Fire Nation soldiers.”

Iroh folded his hands across his stomach, hiding them in the ends of his sleeves, and sighed as he shuffled back to his seat, no longer the proud general but an old man who had seen too much, who felt the cold in his bones. For an instant, all tension dropped out of Zuko’s limbs to see such an abrupt transformation, such a difference from the larger-than-life figure of his childhood memories. That, however, only led to a confusion that once again stoked his anger. He wanted to fight, to demand an explanation or at the very least shout blame down upon the one person who could have stopped it all, from the destruction of the South Pole to his own disfigurement. And yet, his would-be opponent offered nothing for him to rail against; he only sat and watched the lazy curl of steam rise from the pot of fragrant tea, frowning at it like a diviner waiting for inspiration.

“When Lu Ten was killed,” Iroh began, “I began to reflect on what I had done, what we, as a people, had done. My eyes were opened. I retreated into myself, let my captains take over the campaign while I grieved, and for a time my madness allowed me to wander farther than most humans ever do. It was in the spirit world that I met the avatar, who was still a young boy at that time, pushed into war before his time. He is the link between worlds and between people. Reflected in him I saw all the evil the Fire Nation had ever done, but also hope that the world could see an end to it.” He looked up. “I am grateful that a similar tragedy was not needed for you to take action.”

He was talking about the Blue Spirit.

Zuko looked away, his skin itching under the steady gaze. “You should have come back,” he repeated, bitterly.

“No.” Iroh shook his head. “The moment I read the message that told of Fire Lord Azulon’s passing, I knew what my brother would do if I returned, and I knew that I could not stop it. So instead, I came here to fight alongside the avatar and help him restore the balance the world sorely needs.”

“It’s that simple, is it?”

“It might be,” the old man replied. “It would depend, however, on the reason why you are here.”

In one of the lower courtyards, the snow had been cleared away and turned into a training yard. While White Lotus guards patrolled the outer perimeter, they left the centre space clear for the avatar and his inner circle of friends and bending teachers, having learned the hard way that despite being young, Aang’s masters possessed formidable skills and the will to use them to devastating effect. Word had spread of Katara’s feat with the three Fire Nation troop carriers, her control of blood, but besides her there was Toph, a prodigy discovered scamming and pickpocketing her way through the southern Earth Kingdom. The full story there was unknown, but she had no issues with bending whole boulders at people nosy enough to intrude on the avatar’s training.

At that moment, a cacophony of explosions shook the surrounding walls, echoing with shouts of encouragement and grunts of effort by turns as the avatar battled air with water. He evaded well, stepping in circles, throwing gusts of air to redirect Katara’s attacks, but unlike the solidity of earth or the charge of fire, the water only twisted around it, folding to the shape of the wind and relentless as it drove him back. Toph had blindfolded him, trying to mimic her own way of sensing the world to train him out of limitations, but so far, thrown off-balance and struggling not to evade the barrage of attacks, the results were… mixed.  

“Spirits, Katara, let up a little, will you?” Haru cried. He was one of the few White Lotus who dared to show up to their training, mostly because he was of a similar age to them and felt more at ease in their company than among the older guards. He had wanted to join up when he heard his father had been broken out of prison and joined the Water tribe to fight through the western wilds, and had proven himself.

Toph punched him on the arm. “How’s he gonna learn then, huh?”

“Do you think the Fire Nation will let up?” Katara demanded breathlessly as she redirected a water whip towards Aang’s head. “Do you think the Fire Lord would just let up?”

“He won’t get the chance if there isn’t an avatar left,” the young guard answered, and winced. The water whip solidified into an ice dagger at the end and ripped through the trailing edge of the avatar’s robes. “You’re meant to be sparring, not doing Ozai’s work for him.”

Katara only growled.

“Keep your guard up, Twinkle Toes!” Toph yelled.

Aang groaned from the other end of the yard. “Do you really have to keep calling me that – whoa!”

“You’re the one who persuaded me to leave Daejeon, don’t complain,” she shot back, just as he rolled to avoid a wave coming to freeze him in place.

“Come on, Katara, what’s going on with you?” Haru pressed, ignoring the familiar argument.

She puffed loose strands of hair out of her eyes and didn’t look at her friend. “Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Sweetness.”

“It’s that guy in the mask,” Aang said, taking off his blindfold and ducking away. “The one who tried to sneak in here.”

Katara growled again. “We’re not finished yet.”

“Nah, I think it’s time to call a break.” Toph’s smirk cut a devious line behind the hang of her hair. “Get over here.”

Aang eased a sigh of relief and carefully stepped around the carnage wrought by the mock battle. A few years ago, he might have used an air scooter, but the time since the siege at Ba Sing Se had worn away the short, bright-eyed boy and left in his place a tall, lanky young man who had witnessed as much as any seasoned warrior. His pace was measured, his gaze on Katara sympathetic in a way that felt heavy on her shoulders. She thought about the gold of Zuko’s irises, how earnest they could be, and how last time she had seen him they had been narrowed in livid, violent hate. That scar…

“It’ll be alright,” the avatar said, laying a light hand on her shoulder. “Sifu Hotman is with him now. He’ll sort this out – he always does.”

“You do know who that is, right?” Haru asked. “Prince Zuko, heir to the Fire Nation throne? Son of the man who keeps sending people to try and kill you? He’s probably here to have a go himself or something.”

“Or maybe he’s here to join our side,” Aang reasoned with a frown.

“Keep dreaming, Twinkle Toes.”

“It doesn’t hurt to try.”

Katara shook her head and stepped away with a placating smile and a roll of her shoulders. “Toph, do you mind stepping in? It’s getting a bit too hot to train and I promised Sokka I’d go find him.”

The earthbender cocked her head, listening to her heartbeat, or maybe just considering whether it was worth her entertainment to be perverse. Finally, the younger girl shrugged and waved her away. “Do what you gotta do. He was getting too used to dodging iceballs anyway.” She grinned. “Time for the big leagues.”

Aang groaned again, but Katara barely heard what he called after her as she collected her things and wound through the maze of corridors that made up the Northern Air Temple. Truthfully, she had no intention of finding Sokka – he was probably holed up with the mechanist anyway, coming up with new war machines that grew ever more inventive by the week. The work kept him focussed, distracted from the march of the Southern winter and the slow countdown of what little time she had bought with her months of being a Fire Nation puppet. With just a few more ships, a few more weeks to let the rescued waterbenders recover, they might have taken the capital. With Ozai deposed, they might have been able to rebuild without fear of having it all torn down again. The war here too was one of attrition, a slow glide meant to slow down the enemy while they figured out a way to get the avatar within striking distance of the Fire Lord. As far as Katara could tell, nobody yet had a plan for what would happen afterwards.

And now Zuko.

She huffed, and started down a twisting path that led away from the temple complex towards a spring she had discovered while collecting herbs. The place was in a grotto screened from the nearest overlooks by thick trees and tall cliffs, and it was her secret, as far as she could tell. The only tracks besides hers belonged to fox-mice and the black, spiral-horned goats that made the mountain their home, and of everywhere she had been since coming to the Earth Kingdom, it was the one place she felt peaceful. The wind through the trees created a white noise like the sea, while the sweet clearness of the water pooled under its thin film of mountain ice like the pond in her garden. Another life.

“At least it’s not snowing today,” she grumbled as she stripped off her outer layers and settled into a beginning stance. The altitude made her a little lightheaded – gave her nosebleeds every now and then – but out here that mattered as little as everything else. She pressed through her forms, lost herself until the sway of her muscles occupied her whole mind. She definitely did not think about the meeting taking place in the Grand Master’s tower room, or about Zuko’s snarling accusations, or the feel of his ruined flesh under her fingers and the unavoidable, unnerving fear that it was entirely her fault.

[altherei]

A Bargain of Grief

((Note: I meant to post this before I left for a short holiday trip, so the events of this post actually took place on 12/22.))

*******

The summons from her father had come somewhat surprisingly- even more so with how urgent his missive seemed. Immediately concerned something was amiss in her family, Altherei hurried back to the small house her father kept in the heart of the Ghostlands. While it’d been a while since she’d been in the blighted end of Quel’thalas, she had never been afraid of it. The roads were familiar, and she didn’t fear the creeping shadows made by dead branches dipping under the light breeze.

When she arrived at her father’s estate, he was quick to welcome her in and give her a warm embrace. It didn’t take long, though, for her to see the deepened creases in his skin- the past few months had been rough on them all, and none moreso than the patriarch of their family. There was a weariness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen since the death of her mother, and his usual warm smile- the one she’d inherited by all accounts- wasn’t present.

“Sit my dear, sit. We have.. much to discuss.” He lowered himself onto the couch, setting down a kettle of tea and two mugs. He filled hers first, then his own, and the gentle scent of honeymint slowly wafted around the living room.

“What’s wrong, Ann’da? Your letter seemed.. rather urgent. Is everything all right?” Altherei blew over the top of the mug, sending the steam flitting away for a moment as she eyed her father.

“No.. no, little one. I am.. frightened. For you,” He added with a nod of his head for emphasis.

“.. For me? Why?” While she could quite easily guess a few reasons.. it would be better to hear it from him.

“We’re at war, Altherei. I know you hold great distaste for it- and so do I. So do Salaras and Maelus. .. So did Eldwin.” His voice fell- the loss of his oldest son, his firstborn, was still hard. He cleared his throat and continued.

“And I am proud that I raised you- that your mother and I raised you- to have the compassion that you do. That you look around and see this world, and its people, for what they could be. But.. I worry you do not see them for what they are,” His brows creased together, leveling a stare at her.

“You think I’m being idealistic. Naive,” She surmised, but not bitterly.

“Yes. And while I will never tell you to stop looking for the good.. quite frankly, it terrifies me what you’re doing right now.”

“What- with the Outreach? You know about that?” It was hardly a secret, but her father had also kept himself largely shut away since Eldwin’s death. Many of her worst habits, including hiding away in her work during times of stress, she inherited from her father. But many of her best traits, too.

“Of course,” He laughed softly in response. “How could I not? The trips I take into the city are few and far between now, but I see your flyers up, and every so often I see a stranger wearing one of those armbands you’re so proud of,” He gestured to the one she kept on her arm at almost all times.

Altherei smiled a little. She was proud of them- the armbands, the flyers, the Outreach- and certainly the people in it, too. But Darsamane’s smile left as quickly as it’d come.

“But your openness with all this.. I wake up at night wondering if I’ll lose you next. If some rogue loyalist to the Warchief will see fit to take matters into their own hands and hurt you- or worse- just because you choose to try and make the world a better place.” He peered down into his tea, untouched still. Alth took an uncomfortable sip of her own. He continued.

“This world is cold and unforgiving, little one. It will take and take from you until you have nothing left. These factions are much the same. Our leaders care nothing for their people, only furthering their selfish goals. And while you may have found a small pocket of like-minded individuals..” He drew in a long breath, and let it out on a heavy sigh. “I fear there are far more who would sooner take you and your group out of the picture in the name of continued war.”

Altherei frowned. “That may be true, but I’m not afraid of the-”

“You -should- be.” Came his cold reply. Altherei was shocked into silence for a moment.

“Your desire to help, to make the world a better place.. I.. I couldn’t be prouder of it. Really, that’s the truth,” He was quick to begin, “But it is that same desire that landed Eldwin in an early grave, made his wife a widow, and his son fatherless.”

“It was the unethical orders of a power-hungry loyalist and a rigged trial-” She tried to argue.

“Semantics do not matter, Altherei!” He almost shouted, then quickly caught himself and lowered his voice. “I..” His voice caught in his throat, and he reached over to take her hands within his own.

“I cannot lose another child. I have lost two already. Please don’t make me lose my little girl.”

She looked into his eyes, and saw just how tired he was in that moment. They had all suffered loss, but to him.. to a parent, it was different. He lost two of his own children, buried before their time. He’d lost the love of his life, buried her too. And when she considered it all from that lens.. were she a parent, she’d be terrified too. To know that she was almost quite literally staring war in the face and refusing to fight back.. of course it would terrify him. Were her mother still alive it would terrify her too. She had a feeling of what her father might ask of her, and her ears fell back.

“.. I.. I’m sorry, Ann’da. But I can’t abandon this work. I know it’s dangerous, but.. but I have good people around me. People who care about this work, and protecting those of us who chase it.”

“Then let someone else chase it, my daughter- please. Why does it have to be you?”

“.. Because if not me, then who else? You always taught me that I should never wait for someone else to take up the mantle when I could do it myself. That it was every person’s responsibility to stand up against injustice when they face it.”

“Yes, but that was before our Warchief took up the mantle of the future Lich King!” His voice rose, and it was clear he held as much rage and disdain for Sylvanas as she did- perhaps more.

“She had no issues taking a torch to a World Tree- no issues bombing- BLIGHTING- her own city and soldiers to prevent its loss. She may’ve once been a great leader for us but she abandoned our people long ago to serve the dead! Do you think she’ll have any qualms squashing the Outreach? Do you think her loyalists would bat an eye before calling your actions treasonous and leaving you to hang?!”

Startled, Altherei stared at her father with wide eyes. Seeming to understand he crossed a line, Darsamane dipped his head, and the fire that had overtaken his words fizzled underneath the weight of his worry. It all came from a place of love.. she knew that.

“Please.. please, Altherei. Let someone else take this burden. It doesn’t have to be you.” His voice was quiet, pleading as she knelt before him and wrapped him in a tight hug. He knew her mind was made up- perhaps it was why he was so desperate not to let go of her.

“I’m.. I’m sorry, Ann’da- really, I am. But.. if I do nothing.. I could never forgive myself. I have to do this. I’m sorry.” She stood then, and having nothing else to say, dipped her head once and threw her cloak around her shoulders. After she left, Darsamane could only hold his head in his hands. Gone were the days of easy troubles- tending scraped knees and soothing childish nightmares. Now the problems his family faced were intimately, frighteningly real. He couldn’t lose his daughter- but how could he protect her? He was no spellblade, no ranger.. just an old man of science. Surely he’d think of something.

As Altherei departed, her heart was heavy. She understood that her father’s concern, and even his anger, came from his love and his grief. A parent should never have to bury their child, after all- and he’d buried two. In a way, it was selfish to continue the Outreach’s work. But what was more selfish- continuing to aid others despite the grief it brought those closest to her.. or refusing to help the many to bring peace of mind to the few? It was a cold equation, yet simple. If she died for the cause of peace, then so be it. But at least she would have died as she lived- for something.

She continued down the path that lead to Tranquillien to catch the flight master, on her way to handle more work at the ruins of what would soon be Haven. But neither she nor her father had been aware of the two yellow eyes that had been watching their conversation from a distant hill, peering through the windows of his estate. A guttural growl came from a sneer as the eyes disappeared into the shadows.

[glopratchet]

Heel bash

Perfect beeing : an imprefect novel. The next day, you are on your way to the university with a small bag full of books and papers. You feel like you have been running all over town, but then again that is what this job does for you. The only thing keeping you from running amok in the streets is your fear of being caught by the police or some other authority figure who might not be as understanding as you would like about such actions. Angylph speaks and says "so what is this all about" You explain to him your situation and he seems very interested in it. He asks if you know anyone who might help you out. You say no, but Angylph points at one of the students sitting near you and says "that girl there is a student here too right? She could use some extra money." "since i prefer art bots instead of aborted babies, im going to assume you're referring to terease, and cant be legion. "when i read specutalive fiction" Just then, terease and the professor enter the room. Terease instantly notices you and walks towards the bottom of the steps leading up to where the professor is. By now angylph has moved into a corner away from everyone else obviously "engrossed" by a small experimental piece made by one of his fellow students. "alright here we go" you hear the professor mutter under his breath as he waits for everyone to quiet down. "let me sit back an attempt to figure all this out" he starts wit a chuckle, "well first of all it has to be said that this school is very proud of all of you. you have shown great promise in your respective fields especiallizing top graduates like terease here who graduated summaCum laude and to be honest would have finished much earlier had she not partaken in many of the University's arts programs." Everyone starts clapping at this point and the professor raises his hand for quiet. A sea of letters is called the spooge of Satan "and so it is with great pride in your accomplishments that the following students are also graduated." The professors lets out a long list of graduates names and tereases colapses from exhaustion and joy seconds before her name is called. You are, of course, one of the students called to receive a diploma. After nearly a full hour everyone gets their scholorships ready they begin to talk amongst themselves until the professor gets everyone's attention again. The who who clicks last is a stooge "on a completely different matter" he says "i know many of you come from far places, and some of you even farther than others so we have prepared a little party for you today" everyone starts applauding again until the prof holds up his hand for silence. Taking resposibility for your mistakes as we attempt to build a maze The story is told by multiverse explorer astral wylde as he naps during the last fateful trip through the red wave. The storys background is of little consequence to anyone outside astral, but describes the idea that life on most planets in a cataclysm called "the red wave" where upon every organism capable of mutating suddenly, violently and indefinitely until no earth-like quality exists. Its the eyes, ive seen them in my dreams. Now I must draw them. There are records stored in the city of astokhan on everything astral could tell us about the city during the red wave. There are floods of blood, violent uprisings and gory riots. Mothers kill babies, governments fall and deep dark secrets are revealed as everybodies darkest sides are exposed when god walked among them. The human population decreases at an alarming rate. But fortunately it is all worth it, for you see the survivors of the plague are transform into multidimensional beings that seemingly live forever. And during one of his less fuitful periods astral saw fit to return from whatever circle of hell he exists and tell us this story in a ottoman chamber aboard our fancy airship we were dragging him through space with... OOOhhh yes the main chamber should be pretty big Thats all for now folks, see you next time on... He decides to envision chains flowing from his control bracelets into the airship and ripping out a section of the exterior to form a bubble. This bubble is gently illuminated by a combination of weak sunlight and auroras. Meanwhile the skyship falls uncontrollably towards earth spewing fire and wreckage in its wake as it does "Now this you might find interesting" he grins. From the life of a beautiful painter he once knew Part 4 "An aurora occurs when our planet's magnetic field shifts sending energetic particles into the atmosphere producing light in the upper layers, often of a multi-colored hue." The university professor tells us with her droning voice, while we sit around our glowing orbs. "Multi-colored." I write on my note papers. We have these orbs that make everything look so pretty. Astral wydle because of his supernal nature is gifted with perfect memory recall and, although not wishing to brag, an above-average use of declarative sentences. But today he donates his notes to my forgetful brain and lets me jot down whatever I wish to on his perfectly organized pages. Last class we talked about cities that never slept because their streets always had a pulse even when it was long after midnight. And he remembers watching a video from mica metrological in his flamboyant style. A ghost-like aurora over midwest states caused an entire settlement's populace to never sleep again, causing anarchy and the eventual demise of their race. "It is beautiful" he wistfully whispers I supress a laugh by exhaling in his face. Talking about a thirty percent chance of rain that evening I'm still not sure if I find his obsession odd or admirable. Something starts beeping so I peep over his shoulder at the flashing orb and read "air pressure disturbance 1000 meters above current positoin expected te be 300 kph". Looking to the side I can make out a hovering 2 meter disc. He catch me looking and aims his orbs at it. The flashing light sequence continues and skyranch anthyging textual information morphs into readable english. He remembers being at the gory hole as innocent lives were taken. Somethign important must be there or about to happen, he moves his chair slightly turning his back on me as if I'm not even here. Our skyship/home an oversized oval ring with a four-story tall observatory protruding from it has been hovering over the same location for several hours now. These magnetic neareness warnings go off fairly often but I'm not complaining this means he gets distracted pretty easily. A progressive mid tier art gallery in a trendy section of beetriotle specializing in transluscultural fluidic modernism had been open and operating for just a few hours before it was randomly annihilated yesterday erasing the lives of 20 humans and 23 androgynous beings. Almost seemed like they were being targeted, but targets were not among the debris nor any recognizable body parts. Everything appearanted to have been vaporized. Enemy Agents? Turmoil of Zwordur Methodist Church faction? Maybe even unbelievers mercenaries? Known as the bridge of noise and surrounded by a metropolis, two statues were under construction yesterday now nothing but empty round pedestals of identical height. Atmospheric disturbance unusual for the time of day. I can see in his eyes that he is troubled by this event so I sit back tilt my chair and pretend to know nothing. But of all the things he could find interest in why this? There he first learns all of beetriot is laughing at triton arcage again for losing most of its citizens to a single weapon of mass destruction. It seems water is flammable terrifying. not even slunk defends his underfunded military insultingly claiming everything was just according to keikaku---military plan---and volunteerially offered no explanation at all. As he observes the details of a painting at show known as the triumph of the colored venus a bustling section of the city blows up. He counts exactly 2 seconds before the sound arrives. There were two reflections off the city walls before his ears detected the origin of the attack. Big buildings 50 yards to his right there is lots of thick grey stuff hanging in the air temperature has risen rapidly and there are flames on sides of nearby buildings. Knowing all this without even thinking he inaudibly shouts for everyone to take immediate cover and runs behind large marble barrier. That features a group of lesbian women of darker color trampling a pale woman or maybe a man with a shaved head. "Are you okay?", he asks her with concern on his face without looking at her. It hadn't occured to him that anyone else might have been close by until now. His ghostly helmeted head pivots to his right upon hearing her response. -----"Yes, but are you? You look half dead!" -----"Am fine, some soldier I am, getting old and slow" On the faces of a group of contempory news worthy white men carrying lots of camera equipment he recognizes the man he saved from execution yesterday. He was moving after all, I guess he was faking it. He closes his eyes for a few seconds until they are gone altogether and slowly gets up. -----"That was a pretty close call, I'm surprised you reacted so quickly." -----"Heh, I must be losing my touch too then, good thing..." By emerging twenty something artist cherp cherp quintuplets rush past him into the cloud of dust inspecting an 4 foot in diamater polished steel sculpture with attachment bolts flying towards them. Known for her delicate rococo style sculptures the smog turning golden by the sun reveals one of her famous twisted balusters. Otherwise known for being forever on the hunt for new material she was probably seconds away from being reduced to rubble just the same. Even regarding as an eyesore by many he lends a helping hand and takes a small detour. Always looking at your feet it has probably saved her life several times already so why would she accept his help if he tried again? He overhears saul saint nicodemous giving cherp cherp a critique of the piece which he knows would otherwise make her sad so waits. -----"I like it, but maybe move the middle one a little to the right?" -----"Ok"*snap*. -----"No, the other one.*sigh* That wasnt good either---oooo wait----let me help. With a group of other artist friends including a bullfighter, an owner of an erotica shop, a blonde painted girl and a famous male fictional character charging from all directions he waves them back for fear of getting trampled only after they refuse to listen. Perfect execution of an ideas persons suicide in the Gucci manner the sculpture has been perfect mounted on a pole with its own leg shattering it. "Excuse me an eye master I'm looking for Blim Blam would he be around" Katharsis gale the oldest of the group in mid fourties wearing various hats asks him with an engaging smile. "Errrrr... maybe moved in recently but I don't think he is in just now" -----"That's a shame I like his work so much....but I'll leave my card just in case. tell him, not to hesitate if he needs any thing." He says uplifting her spirits she beams brightly at him and waves as she walks away giving nick lazy eyes the entire time. Bransky bronze bright supermacy in her early thirties stand next to him and waits her turn. he remembers her paintings, not having been impressed by the subject matter of cute dumb superpowers though others found them amusing enough to frame and sell. He gives her a "go ahead" nod. -----"Looking for any available artist at this time?" -----"No!" -----"OK then...Word is you have been doing alot of writing lately?" Bransky and chirp standing sliently noding there heads in approval As saul saint goes on and on with bullshit language about destruction of the More nonsense on colonialism he dedicates more time destroying her ideas than praising them Then something incredible happens for once Chirp is second guessing SAINT's choices the verbal abuse he heaps of Blim-Blim. And everyone else. He disapproves of Blim-Blim's paintings, saying that while Blim-Blim might have a good eye (naturally, being an eye master) and an excellent grasping of color and shape, he hasn't got "anything to say" as an artist. An aspect of queer theory that has a giant middle finger up at the rules of heteronormative society. He says they can be sold if framed properly and placed in the right cafe, bar or hipster clothing store to attract the right demographic as easily as magnets. And other fashionable topics of art conflict and provocation that's prevalent in avant-garde places. Hopefully it garners some attention in his small once a decade show of retarded artist rejects sells nothing and passes into obscurity or sold to an idiot for over 5 times the price years later. Your very own degenerate art grant. During this time period you have been wanting to branch out with other ventures of your own as you start to resent SAINTS inclusion of All your publications in his book if he cant even help you get Blim-Blims art, website, connections and assistantship and your writings more noticed. At the end of the sanction you all gather for everyone to find out if they have been accepted or not, Anyone with a supermacy is clearly relaxed as they anticipate the results. You can sense the agitation of some of them who arent powerful enough to easily probe their minds. "Well, I've got the results, and I have some good news and some bad news," saint says, pausing for dramatic effect. Leaving the others shocked ,crestfallen oO( what....did my photo's not make it or what...damnit I knew the colors were too bright and obnoxious.. .) or gleeful "First, the bad news: You didniet get in. Now for the good news. You can all come in for free to see all the art at the exhibition this weekendand, ahem, leave your demos outside if you want!" While kat unable to control herself goes on a giggle fit super bradly focuses his eye beams on saul saint who feels the burn of a thousand suns intensified by 400 percent muttering angrily under his breath you all get up and leave one angry little man ranting as you all giggle like school girls at his bizarre sense of humor. some peoples kids "well that answers that, We're all going peashooting after this amazing art event that will no doubt solidify our social justice creative stronghold in this city" Saul and brankys backs away with out a retort in disgust and you spend your weekend having a great time and going through three bottles of peashooters were It was noted that hack had 9 kills with shrooms, kill coin flips to see who she shot, unhygenic had one, Yoona had two unfortunately Seline not at all Speaking of seline she asks if you will help her again next weekend The group heads for the wine bar wondering about the homeless nature of astral beings And wondering if he comes from the land of lixie dixie, a southern state mostly covered in stagnant water and thick forests. The dealer of gallery motions to cherp to come her way because she wants something You thank Yk TRACE : 0 There is no way around it. I need your help." "Oh? Well what can I do?" you respond. "I'm being sold," she scowls. Trace: 0 You initially think this is one of her usual dirty jokes, but her facial expression shows that she is quite serious. "Sold?" you clarify A collector is interested in buying her work, but he's requested that she be sold together with all of her equipment. The buy in for her includes her tools, sheet music, and instruments. Everything she knows is contained within that room, it would be impossible for her to go elsewhere without losing who she is. Although you're confident that she could easily create another identity elsewhere. Despite her mistrust of the new rulers of this barren realm, selling her seems like the easiest solution to this conflict.Tip: If you're logged in, your games are auto saved for you. You can find them by clicking "My Stuff"

[writingguide003-blog]

Forget Dystopias, These Sci-Fi Writers Opt For Optimism Instead

New Post has been published on https://writingguideto.com/must-see/forget-dystopias-these-sci-fi-writers-opt-for-optimism-instead/

Forget Dystopias, These Sci-Fi Writers Opt For Optimism Instead

Its hot, and youre walking. Shuffling, actually. Youve spanned a seemingly endless chalk-dry plane, and youre thirsty, run-down, exhausted. You think about your flaking, parched lips and aching muscles, and about how your arduous journey will be worth it if you ever reach your destination. An immigrant, youre searching for a new place to live, because the place you call home has become barely livable. Youre thinking about the hot dirt sweat-caked on your skin when youre interrupted by an even greater pain — your tooth, recently implanted with a geo-location chip, is practically vibrating. This means youre close.

So begins Madeleine Ashbys short story, By the Time We Get to Arizona, published last year in Hieroglyph, a collection of science-fiction stories meant to inspire readers about the possibilities the future holds, rather than invoke fear about impending societal doom. Solutions to climate change catastrophes abound in the series; so do suggestions for jumping forward in our approach to space exploration technologies. Ashbys story — a spinoff of her Masters thesis on making border security more humane — explores a world where guns and guards are replaced by sensors and facial recognition technology.

Conceived of by Neal Stephenson — a celebrated writer whose most recent novel ventures a guess at what post-Earth diplomacy might look like — Hieroglyph showcases a growing crew of writers who, by commission or by choice, present sunnier alternatives to the now-prevalent, Hunger Games-fueled dystopia trend. These arent the stifling factions of Divergent or the heart-pounding twists and turns of The Maze Runner; they arent the bleak worlds crafted by Margaret Atwood or even the fable-like, anti-technology morals embedded in movies like Wall-E. Although many of the stories in Hieroglyph highlight societal problems, they have technological solutions to those problems embedded within them.

The anthology, along with the few others like it, was divisive in the science-fiction community. One camp, headed up by Stephenson, holds the belief that scientists and engineers could use a positive push from the writers whose job it is to imagine what the future will look like. Writers, Stephenson asserts, have a responsibility not only to confront social problems, but to provide potential solutions, too. So, a socially disheveled community like The Hunger Games Panem might feature a technology that allows citizens to communicate with each other, and fight back. Because these writers are using their fiction to provide solutions to contemporary problems, many necessarily couch their stories in grim scenarios the characters must escape from. Sexism, racism and classism are addressed, if subtly.

This doesnt sit well with the other school of readers and writers, who lament the days when an interstellar story was a joyride, whizzing quickly past social justice issues towards thrilling plot twists. One particularly rabid breed of decriers are the writers who make up a group called the Sad Puppies, who banded together during The Hugo Awards to stack the vote against minority and women writers. The problem, they claim, is that the science-fiction community has prioritized social justice and diversity, ignoring superior prose and more inventive stories as a result. Science-fiction, they say, is about fun. Its about escaping the problems of the real world through otherworldly scenarios — including dystopias — in which a central hero implausibly conquers evil alone, rather than with the aid of collective thinking and the useful technologies that arise from it.

The future of science-fiction — which, if George Orwells Nineteen Eighty-Four or Aldous Huxleys Brave New World are indicators, runs parallel with the future of science and technology on our own planet — probably lies somewhere on the vast, auroral spectrum between these two approaches. So, its worth examining both, and the groups of writers propelling them.

***

Now is not a time for realism, Margaret Atwood said in a recent interview with NPR, succinctly summarizing why so many literary writers flock to fantasy, to dystopia, to amplifying the threat of impending problems — environmental and political — that arent yet a reality.

Though the genre has seen a spike in popularity within teen-centric reading communities, its seeped into the realm of grown-up storytelling more than ever. Which isnt to say its unfamiliar territory for writers of adult literary fiction. In fact, dystopian stories began, arguably, with a weird, little book written by Mary Shelley in 1826 thats since become a beloved classic: The Last Man. The story centers on a plague-addled Europe, where a man named Lionel struggles to survive alongside various extant communities. Theres a false messiah, political turmoil, and all the other makings of a present-day dystopia. Though Shelleys book wasnt recognized until the 1960s, others like it by Jules Verne and H.G. Wells surfaced shortly thereafter, spawning a sub-genre of writing that asks timeless questions about human nature, and how it responds to dire, life-threatening scenarios.

But today, with a few notable exceptions (Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel, Gold Fame Citrus by Claire Vaye Watkins), popular dystopian stories have lost a bit of their original complexity. They tend to be thinly cloistered morality lessons, better suited for young readers. Rather than highlighting the nuances of human interactions, they tend to generalize, and draw hard lines between good and evil.

Why are more and more adult literary writers, and adult literary fiction readers, opting into the rather nihilistic and juvenile genre? Its a quandary posed again and again by columnists, providing more questions than answers — perhaps because the answer is hazy. It could be that the genre distracts readers from present realities, or provides a puzzle-like, limited scenario for a protagonist to work through, so different from the more fractured plot of real life. Or, it could be that our present realities seem increasingly fantastical, due to the quick proliferation of disastrous events filling our Twitter feeds alongside our friends quotidian musings.

Madeline Ashby believes its the latter.

There are elements of dystopia in everybodys lives, she said in an interview with The Huffington Post. Remember the Christmas protests in Ferguson? Theres this image of riot police under this big electrified, Seasons Greetings banner. If you search for Ferguson plus Seasons plus Greetings, youll find the picture. I found it, and I tweeted in all caps, WHY DO SO MANY KIDS LOVE DYSTOPIA? HM, I WONDER.

Ashby cites her own dystopia-like governmental interactions as inspiration for many of her sci-fi stories, including By the Time We Got to Arizona. In 2006, she immigrated to Canada, and says the process, for her, was dehumanizing.

My immigration took over a year, she said, adding that she feels fortunate — for other people immigrating to Canada, two years is the average wait-time.

During that process youre essentially a number and a sheet of paper. You feel it every time they ask you progressively more invasive questions, Ashby added, sharing an anecdote about how immigration questions reduce complex romantic relationships to statistics-based judgement calls. [Theyd ask] things like, Can you describe to us the number and monetary value of gifts exchanged between the two of you. And then you start to think, oh, OK, the quality of my relationship is already interpreted through capital. I have a monetary value.

In her short story, Ashby acknowledges these issues, but also offers solutions to the problem. She notes that by working change-inspiring technologies into her plots, she’s at the very least offering readers a sense of hope. 

Dystopia is very useful in grappling with the world as it exists, Ashby said. Its a really stylized, formalized way of talking about things that are already happening in practice. But utopia, or more optimistic stories, can also be useful, because you can imagine a future that you actually want.

Ashbys fiction is informed by her other, more technical approach to writing. After studying Strategic Foresight and Innovation at the Ontario College of Art and Design, she started getting gigs drafting potential future scenarios for organizations such as Intel Labs and Nesta. Envisioning the future on behalf of corporations and research labs isnt exactly an established career path — actually, it sounds a little like something out of a sci-fi novel. But Ashby isnt the only writer who moonlights as a narrative scenario practitioner. Theres a host of organizations dedicated to allowing sci-fi writers to draft potential outcomes for specific companies or entire industries. Sci Futures, a sort of think tank dedicated to providing these services to clients such as Crayola, Ford, and Lowes, has a pithy tagline encapsulating their mission: “Where sci-fi gets real. A comparable organization, 2020 Media Futures, describes its mission as, an ambitious, multi-industry strategic foresight project designed to understand and envision what media may look like in the year 2020.

So, the research interests are vast. Of her work with Intel Labs and beyond, Ashby said, They often tell me, we want the future of intelligent systems, or the future of warfare in smart cities, the future of a world without antibiotics, the future of programmable matter, or the Internet of things.

Because Ashby spends considerable time dreaming up innovative solutions to social problems, she cant help but imbue her stories with similar gizmos and features. Her stories dont always involve positive situations for her characters, but they do often incorporate technologies that could solve said characters problems.

This is the central tenet of techno-optimism, the breed of science-fiction writing thats working to counter the rough terrain of dystopia, barren and desolate as it is; thirsty, it sometimes seems, for a solution thats bigger than a big-hearted narrator.

Writer and anthology editor Kathryn Cramer was a reluctant adopter of the genre. When aforementioned writer Stephenson, author of Seveneves, approached her to edit a collection of stories united under the banner of positive change, she worried the stories themselves would suffer from lack of plot, and lack of diversity. But, as she commissioned works of techno-optimism, she realized the genre promotes diverse voices rather than suppressing them. Her fears were quelled.

When we contemplate dark scenarios or disasters for the future, it is perhaps an ethically and morally good thing to do to figure out what the solutions might be, especially technological solutions, Cramer said in an interview with HuffPost. If we look at the 20th century, there are a whole lot of things that changed our lives in good ways, and solved a lot of problems, ranging from vaccines and refrigerated food transportation to frozen food. Some of them are sexy, like space travel, but a lot of them are things that improved everybodys lives in ways we might notve expected. Preservatives, things like that.

Cramers altruistic outlook hints at her thoughts on what a book can, and should, accomplish. While she believes writers have a responsibility to push innovation in a positive direction, some readers and writers think that mindset interferes with the quality of a story. So addressing societal problems, be it via extended, post-apocalyptic metaphors, or via similarly bleak settings peppered with hope, doesnt sit well with all sci-fi readers. Most notably, there are those — cue the Sad Puppies — who are nostalgic for the days of so-called Golden Age sci-fi: Star Trek-like space-travel adventures that offer a means of briefly escaping the restrictions of the real world. Nimble writing and world-building is supposedly the aim for such stories; political opinions, solutions-oriented and otherwise, are actively eschewed.

But the Puppies agenda — which resulted in No Award being given at the Hugo Awards this year in categories for which only white men were nominated — extends beyond particular tastes in writing styles. Claiming science-fiction has opted for affirmative action-guided decisions rather than supporting story-centric writing, they lobbied to place white, male writers — including themselves — on the award ballots.

Ashby spoke passionately against the Puppies movement: Thats part of their battle cry: Why do we have to think about social issues in our science fiction? Why do we have to think about other genders, or sexualities, or economic circumstances? Why cant it just be fun like it used to be? Well, yeah, Im sure it was really fun when you werent thinking about it. Everythings a lot more fun when youre not thinking about it.

Thinking about it, according to Ashby, involves confronting the dire state of life for some social groups. It involves constructing a narrative that encourages the reader to consider the lives of others, rather than just getting lost in his own fantasy world, in which he alone is the hero and the solution. It involves hope not in the form of a triumphant narrator, but in the technologies we can create when we do something really miraculous: work together.

Read more: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/

[rorynne]

Time Lost Ch 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OC

Summary: An accident during a mission sends Shield agent Victoria Taylor back in time to the second world war. There she enlists the help of Peggy Carter, Steve Rogers, and Bucky Barnes to find the object that can send her back.

Warnings: Mentions on Nazis, again, not much bucky yet.

Word count: 2.7k

A/N: After 4 days of working on it, chapter 1 is done. A lot of this is set up, so not much bucky but he should be present a lot more onwards! 

Masterlist

Prologue

Storm clouds hung heavy in the sky as Victoria sat in the back of a jeep bound for the current SSR base in Italy. Almost two years of searching and there was barely any information on the bell to go off of. It was beyond frustrating. At this rate, she was starting to wonder if she would ever get back to her time. Granted, all of the documents she brought back were dated 1943 or later, chances were development on the bell had only just begun. And if that were the case, hopefully, it wasn't going to take them seventy years to finish.

Her general lack of ability to change anything also proved to be frustrating as hell. Only Peggy knew of Victoria's true origins. They had both decided against going around saying she was from the future, god only knew that would just get them both locked up. However, as a result, that meant she was far less likely to be believed any time she tried to keep an event from happening if she lacked any evidence. She never thought she would sympathize with Cassandra.

“I was  beginning to wonder when you'd show up.” A familiar voice teased as the jeep came to a halt. Victoria smiled as she saw Peggy waiting to inspect the arriving convoy. Peggy had managed to make the last two years far more bearable, becoming quick friends with victoria.

“You know me,” She said, jumping out of the back of the jeep. “I like to keep everyone guessing.”

Peggy smiled as Victoria approached. “Perhaps a little too much.” She accused. “How was Paris?”

Victoria shrugged and canted her head, “Beautiful city, great food, interesting history.” She crossed her arms. “Too bad I wanted to shoot the majority of my company.”

“I trust you were able to resist the temptation?” Said Peggy eyeing Victoria in amusement.

“Figured I would let the boys have the nazi killing fun for now.” She sniffed indignantly. “Kind of regret it now. At least then I would have something to account for coming back.”

“No luck on the bell?”

“No luck on anything.” Victoria corrected, “A whole lot of Nazis but no hydra. It seems the intel we had was either old or false.”

Peggy nodded at one of the soldiers carrying a crate from a truck. “You think they’ve caught on to us?”

Victoria chewed her cheek. “I'm not sure. I can't say they knew I was coming, or I’d be dead. Or at least so I would assume. I don't see any reason why they would keep me alive knowing I'm a spy. But at the same time, there wasn't a single member of hydra there. I've never seen that before, usually there's at least one.

Peggy narrowed her eyes. “If we aren't being fed false information then somethings happening.”

“And whatever it is, I think the ones outside of hydra are just about as in the dark as we are. Hydra’s making a play, a big one.”

“A faction split?” Peggy offered.

“It's possible. But if it's that, they've got to be pretty confident that they can win.” Victoria scratched the back of her neck, entirely unsure of what to make about any of it.

Peggy nodded, “if what the surviving 107th are saying is true, it seems they've got just that.” Seemingly content with the convoy, Peggy started towards the SSR command tent. “Your history books say anything about this?”

Victoria followed close behind. “About the 107th? Not much. They get captured, Captain America comes in and saves the day singlehandedly. Dunno how much stock I put into to all that personally. Lotta things about the Cap and hydra got covered up after the war by shield. Especially in the history books.”

Peggy frowned, walking into the tent. “I can believe it. I've seen Rogers in action, unfortunately, the army seems content parading him around America singing about war bonds.

Victoria’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me, what?”

“Peggy gestured to the poster hanging from a support beam of the tent. “Captain America,” it read, “on tour: Allied bases across Europe and North Africa.” Victoria bit her lip to keep from laughing, this was not how she ever imagined meeting Captain America.

“They, they really have him singing?” She said, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Dancing at the very least,” said Peggy, not sounding the slightest bit amused. “Bloody waste if you ask me. He’ll be arriving and preforming here tomorrow.”

Victoria shook her head, still staring at the poster. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

The captain's performance was, frankly, every bit as hilarious as Victoria expected. The rest of the crowd, however, didn't seem to agree. Instead, they demanded the dancing girls come back on stage. Victoria grimaced as the famous steve rogers walked off stage, noticeably embarrassed. The captain America she knew was a hero, a legend even. But this was before all of his exploits before he saved the world more times than she could count. He barely seemed to be the same man.

She held back for a time, figuring he would want space after such a humiliation. But, as the rain that had been threatening for two days now began to pour, she went searching for him. Surely there was something that pushed him out of the theater and into heroism because he was far better at the latter. Whose brilliant idea even was it to have him dancing around in the first place?

She found him with Peggy, taking refuge from the rain under a wooden awning behind the stage. Peggy's face was stern as Victoria neared, “And these are your only options? Lab rat or dancing monkey?”

“War hero seems like a fun third option.” Victoria cut in, earning a raised eyebrow from Peggy. “Or, you know, literally anything else.”

He looked at Victoria with apprehension and confusion as Peggy took a patient breath. “What agent Taylor means, is you were meant for more than this.”

Victoria extended a hand to him. “Sorry, my humor isn't for everyone. Victoria Taylor.”

He nodded, shaking her hand. “Steve Rogers.” He sighed as his attention was pulled to an arriving red cross truck. “These men look like they've gone through hell.”

Victoria crossed her arms, “They've gone through war.”

“These men more than most. They're what's left of the 107th.” Peggy agreed and victoria winced. What these men had seen seemed to make hell seem heavenly.

Steves' eyes went wide. “The 107th?” He was up and running to the command tent before Peggy could even respond. Peggy and victoria shared a glance before chasing after him through the rain.

Col. Phillips sat signing what were presumably condolence letters at his desk in the back fo the tent as steve rushed up to him. Phillips looked up just barely before returning to the letters. “If it isn't the star-spangled man with a plan. What do I own the pleasure.”

“I need the casualty list from Azzano,” Steve said with unexplained urgency.

Phillips looked up from his papers with a glare. “You don't get to give me orders.”

“I just need one name,” Steve continued, “Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.” The name tugged the back of Victoria's memory, she had heard it somewhere before, in a museum maybe? That was right, she recalled the handsome picture of a soldier engraved in stone in the howling commando exhibit at the Smithsonian. He had been the one that died. Steve lost his best friend. Victoria gave him a pitiful look as he argued with Phillips, she had always thought that Barnes became a commando before dying.

“But I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl.” Phillips's harsh words pulled Victoria out of her thoughts.

“I think I understand just fine,” Steve responded coolly.

“Then understand it somewhere else, if I read the posters right you have somewhere to be in 30 minutes.” Phillips moved passed him to look over maps with another officer, making his stance on the conversation clear.

“Yes sir,” Steve said, studying the large map board in front of him, “I do.” He turned on his heels and rushed out of the tent, leaving Peggy and Victoria in his wake.

“I’ll go after him,” Peggy whispered to Victoria. “We need maps and supplies, whatever you can think of, then meet us in the hangar as soon as you can.”

Victoria nodded letting Peggy follow after Steve. She stood there for a moment, pretending to study the map board before quickly and casually taking a smaller map off Col. Phillips desk and slipping it into her coat. With a nod to the nearest officer, Victoria walked out of the tent and into the rain.

Already thoroughly drenched from her previous two treks thought the rain, she didn't bother trying to shield herself from the downpour as she made her way to the nearest storehouse. Knowing Peggy, they were probably going to get court-martialed with whatever she had planned, so might as well go the whole hog and steal any supplies steve might need.

She grabbed a gunny sack as soon as she entered the storeroom and started filling: A compass, multiple rations of food, a blanket, flashlight, rope, matches. Anything and everything that she could think of that he might need should he get lost. ‘Cause God knows, the way he was charging off, he damn well didn't consider any of this.

“Hey!” A guard called to her. “You aren't authorized to take any of this!”

She slung the sack over her shoulder as the guard approached. “Youll find that I am, private.” She bluffed. “Under official SSR orders. Unless that is, you want to waste Col Phillips time clearing it with him first?” The guard blanched at the mention of Phillips's name.

“No, Ma’am!” He said quickly, stepping out of her way. Victoria gave a sharp nod before escaping the warehouse. She started toward the Hangar before pausing and looking at the stage. A devilish smile came over her as she changed her course.

The backstage was empty when victoria entered, likely all the actors and dancers were still on break, leaving the costumes unguarded. Because, really, who on earth would want to steal them, beside Victoria. She hummed the tune to ‘star-spangled man’ as she picked up a helmet with a large white ‘A’. one thing was for sure, steve was going to save the 107th in (extremely questionable) style.

Peggy, steve and stark were waiting at the hangar when Victoria arrived, helmet in hand, a grin plastered across her face. “You know, for a star-spangled man with a plan, I'm wondering if you've ever had a plan in your life.” She teased, handing him the helmet and sack of supplies.

Steve gave Victoria a look as he fiddled with the helmet, “In all fairness ma’am, you haven't known me long.”

“First impressions mean a lot, Rogers.” She shrugged, moving onto Peggy. “Though I’m not sure if this plan is much better than no plan.” She said in a low voice only Peggy could hear.

“We don't have many other options at the current moment.” Peggy defended as Steve and Stark boarded the plane. “Unless you somehow convinced Col. Phillips to give us an army.”

“I'm not a miracle worker.” Victoria sighed.

“You said he was able to do this single-handed, we just need to have faith.” Peggy took a deep breath, even she didn't seem completely convinced.

Victoria nodded, “Time to prove the history books right. I’ll stay grounded to try to keep the colonel distracted. Go.” Victoria gave a mock salute as the plane took off, leaving her behind.

Keeping Phillips occupied until the plane returned proved to be quite easy. He was already extremely busy, and with some strategic playing dumb and careful excuses as to why she was doing Peggy's work, he was none the wiser until the plane landed the next morning. Then the shit hit the fan.

Steve didn't come back. Two weeks after the flight to Austria and there was absolutely no sign of him either. Phillips was furious, Victoria did everything in her power to avoid him, though she knew it wouldn't be long before consequences came. There was a good possibility that her chance to get home was lost if steve didn't show up.

Victoria sat on the ground against a tree, picking at her fingers. At this point, she didn't even care about getting home. Instead, she couldn't shake the guilt of getting an avenger killed before the avengers were even a thing. The guilt of it alone made it difficult for her to even sleep at night. She would have gone into Austria herself to find him, if Phillips hadn't expressly forbidden it, and kept an armed guard on her 24/7 as a baby sitter.

“You look like a child that's been sent to the headmaster,” Peggy said looking down at her.

Victoria nodded, “Feel like it too.”

“Do you regret helping him?” Peggy asked, voice tight.

“Victoria sighed and looked up at her, “I regret not helping him more.” She admitted, “I teased him about not having a plan, and then didn't even try to give him one. I could have followed that dumbass into Austria myself.” The young soldier asking as victoria’s baby sitter shifted uncomfortably. “Stop acting like you've never heard a woman fucking swear Simmons.”

“Y-yes ma’am” He stammered and Victoria rolled her eyes.

“We did everything we could for him,” Peggy reassured, ignoring Simmons. “He would have walked to Austria if we didn't help him.”

Victoria laughed weakly, “I’ve done stupider things.” She paused for a beat, biting her lip, “Peggy, I, I’m sorry about this all. I could tell how much you liked him.”

Peggy swallowed, “Yes, well. I'm glad he wasn't stuck as a dancing monkey.” She cleared her throat, “I'm going to speak with Col. Phillips if you would like to join me.”

Victoria scoffed, “No, I'd rather him find me if he wants to chew me out.” Peggy nodded and left victoria sitting under her tree. No doubt Phillips would be in a bad mood. He was finally calling off the searches today, officially labeling Steve Rogers as KIA. God, if only she had just gone with him as back up, at least then either he would be alive or she’d be too dead to care.

She threw her head back in frustration as hoots and hollers came from the front of the camp. Soldiers began funning to the gates, curious, Victoria joined them. She gasped when she saw what the soldiers were congregating for.

A hundred some odd men came marching through the gates, Steve Rogers, Captain America, leading the way. Cheers rippled through the crowd as the group walked through the camp, stopping in front of Col. Phillips. Victoria slipped between the men in efforts to get a better view.

“Hey!” The man next to steve yelled, making victoria freeze, surprised, as she saw the familiar handsome face of a man she had only seen in museum exhibits. “Let's hear it for Captain America!” The crowd roared, men throwing their caps in the air, whistling, yelling, clapping. Victoria found herself clapping too as Barnes’s eyes locked onto hers for a brief moment. He smiled faintly as he caught sight of her, a sparkle of something in his steel-blue eyes as she shifted her attention to finding Col. Phillips.

She moved through the crowd in search of him, only to find him missing from it. She soon found him exactly where she expected him to be, the SSR command tent. She wore a sly smirk that would have read ‘I told you so” Had he bothered to look up at her. Instead, he focused on packing away his desk. “Don't think for a moment that just because Captain Rogers came back that you're off my shit list Agent Taylor.”

She frowned, “He saved at least a hundred and fifty men. I played a part in that.”

“And that's exactly why I'm not court martialing you for theft of government property.” He said as he tucked away a folder into a box. “Tell Agent Carter to pack her things, we’re returning to London for debriefing first thing tomorrow.”

She scowled, “Yes sir.”