#meanwhile she finished in half the allotted time and was like Whats next?

[abluescarfonwaston]

😌 Took my test out exam for my aerial silks class today. And failed it by a solid margin. 👎 But my plan was a roaring success.👌

😈 Got my classmate who was nervous to take the exam. And she passed with flying colors!!! 🎉 As we all knew she would!!! Because she's so strong and skilled. 💪

I'm so evil and my plans all succeed.

[autumn-sweet-fae]

YO CAN I GET A RECAP ON THE SUBMAS WANTED AU? IM VERY CONFUSED AND INTERESTED HERE WHATS GOING ON LOL

Ok, I ended up having to rewrite this like three times because I didn’t want to make it too long. I tried to keep it as compact as I could, if you have any questions I’d be happy to expand on it.

(please note that I’m still plotting this story out and haven’t had much time to work on it so there’s still allot of gaps I’m trying to fill.)

ALRIGHT HERE WE GO

Akari discovers a second Arc-phone while shiny hunting in the Icelands. On this phone she only finds half finished notes on Snorunt and what looks to be a video log. Specifically, this Zorua/Zoroark video. She recognize the person’s voice and realizes the phone must have been Ingo’s. He must have arrive here just like she did if he had this phone, but then must have lost whatever memories he had of that arrival in the Zoroark attack.

She takes the phone back to him, and as she explains it/shows him the video Ingo has that weird experience of watching a memory he can’t recall. Then! Both phones suddenly react to being held by the correct person and a new feature is unlocked. A PC storage feature! They can now store pokemon into each phone. They also get notified of a new mission, ‘capture x number of each Hisui pokemon’, and next to the little reward notification it reads ‘return home’.

So they do that, then say a heartfelt goodbye to every one. Arezu, notably, gives Akari one last hair styling for free. On a whim Akari chooses the tied back style in white so to match with her lil Zorua.

Meanwhile, the events of my earlier post play out when Ingo goes to say goodbye to lady Sneaseler. Ending with the noble choosing to go with him to the future along with her basket full of her latest clutch of eggs.

They then arrive in modern Sinnoh! Where they, through shenanigans I’m still figuring out, are accused of stealing their Hisui pokemon from the new fancy totally not evil pokemon research lab. And the fact that Akari introduced herself to a cop as a member of the Galaxy Team, hoping that could make her seem credible in this time,  is not helping their image either.

So Ingo and Akari are labeled as wanted suspects in the theft of multiple highly endangered pokemon. What images they could get of them from security footage and shaky phone pictures are spread across the news. Due to the new hair and poor pictures, Akari is not recognized as Dawn, however Ingo is immediately recognized due to his old uniform and the internet blows up with theories.

Poor Emmet learns of his brothers sudden return and criminal acts all at once when cornered by reporters outside the subway station. Elesa saved him and they are contacted by the police to ask what he knows. He knows nothing and asks them what they know and they tell him they can’t divulge that information during an ongoing investigation. Emmet and Elesa both go ‘fuck that’ and book tickets to Sinnoh.

Due to the lack of info on Akari, her light hair, and her closeness to Ingo, people start theorizing for a hot minute that she’s Ingo’s secret criminal daughter who pulled him into a life of crime! That excitement eventually dies down until it’s reported that she referred to Ingo as ‘Uncle Ingo’ and the internet is set ablaze again. This time with theories that she’s Emmets secret crime daughter who he abandoned so his brother left to join her in her life of crime!

Everything after is still wibbly wobbly, though I now have the idea of when Ingo and Emmet first reunite. I also definitely want to include team galactic as well because Drama. I plan to sit down and write a proper timeline out soon, but haven’t had the chance. You folks have been so kind, giving me ideas and helping me expand my own, I’m really glad so many are interested!

[cavitymagazine]

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞

Mom had begun to cry in silverfish, those insects named for the way their bodies seemed to swim across kitchen tile in a steely glint unique to armor or else fish scales; when she wept they poured from her eyes in the place of tears, six-legged and writhing all over her face. Why she cried so often and lately I did not know. In her retirement she had become fascinated with immortality, spending her social security checks on powders and pills, saying things about cell death, how if you kept shedding the details of yourself you could live forever, so long as the sickness drifted dust-like out and off your skin, so long as you continued cycling regularly through the decayed layers of yourself. To me it all sounded like so much dirty laundry. After a glass of wine, then, she’d bring up the story about how some priest sixty years ago had ruined her youth when he stuck his tongue down her ear, wiggled it around in there like an overfed slug. All the while as she talked silverfish tinkling against the counter before they scuttled off into silence.

We lived in the marsh. At night there would be the smashed egg smell of sulfur. There would be strange lights shifting on the horizon. There was only one job you could get in town, and that was at the mattress factory in the very center of everything. Most days looking at its smokestacks and turbines and cargo trucks spewing as ventricles I wondered where does a body begin—for it seems to me it must start with a heart before all else, the bones and meat growing around it to fit like petals encompassing a bud. Inside the factory our sweat boiled. My shifts were corridored by yellow warning tape on the floor between the machines and a screeching plugged by the foam we had been mandated to jam into our ears. 

Our product was made in America, as we were in America, making it. The metals and parts we used were from China or else Vietnam or whatever corner of the earth steel is oozed from. This was a key selling point, the salesmen said, this made in America stuff—they would tell it to customers on polished sales floors wearing their polished shoes and this would transmogrify these customers into buyers. 

“A customer becomes a buyer,” the salesmen would explain to us in corporate meetings, our bodies crunched against foldout chairs, “when a relationship is built.”

And then the conveyor belt that was the week, Monday through Friday, machines trembling, needles automated and sewing, my sweat following me into my sleep. Once when I was on lunch I ran into one of these salesmen, or I guess I should call her a saleswoman, in the breakroom where she started a conversation with me. She started it the way you would a match, like an idle flick of the wrist. 

“I had to bring my car to the mechanic this morning,” she said, darting around like a mosquito. “It was making strange noises. Turns out there’s a whole family of mice living in the engine!” She smiled glassily, pausing in the middle of loading the coffee maker. “I bet it’s like a Disney musical in there…all the little forest critters singing and dancing…throwing a party! Ratatouille!”

The mattress coils we made in the factory were renowned for how much crushing they could withstand. They could be crushed one hundred billion times and still spring back to shape. In fact, during tests we had to turn the hydraulic crushing machines off, just because things reached a point where it was obvious the coils would not break and to try any further would be a simple mathematical loss of time and money. 

So, the priest’s tongue in my mother’s ear, that pink slug. I could understand slugs, at least: my own life was detestable, yet I managed to endure it enough to keep trailing the mucus of myself everywhere I went. All the guys I worked with had a wife or a kid and in both situations at least a girlfriend. When I imagined these relationships, semblances of a family, they appeared to me in my head like a manmade star in those science fiction movies, metal constructs planet-sized and still half-finished. Myself, I was always roaming bars and backroads laden with dirt. I’d had my allotment of intimacy, quick suction of lips, a rasp like something slipping down a sink drain. A customer became a buyer when a relationship was built. I felt myself as a terrestrial mollusk, my shell the bathroom stall at work I could duck into once every two hours during my approved bathroom break.

Meanwhile Mom was having ideas about repainting the inside of the house. She moved all the furniture out and onto the mud of the front yard. She wrapped every last surface in plastic, the stairs and counters and railings. By this point her eyes had vanished into insect nests, dual pools of writhing silver. “What do you think about this color,” she said, holding up a bucket of cement as bugs dripped down her cheeks.

At work I was promoted to delivery driver, the daily factory hum translated to the low grumble of a truck. I still sweated, but it was inside people’s homes, airy spaces with sunlight and windows as I jammed a mattress up a staircase. I saw the world outside my town’s sludge, marsh reeds giving way to gold-tinged fields and plains, and perhaps this made me greedy. I wanted to be everywhere as a cancer.

In the factory parking lot I encountered the saleswoman again. I offered her a ride. We fucked in the back of my truck, atop shrink-wrapped mattresses whose coils could get crushed continually and always and then pop back to life, retaining their shape. When I was younger there was an arcade now boarded up and filmed with dust, and I would go there to play a game called Whack-A-Mole, in which moles would pop out of holes and you had to hit them, suppress them back down into the plastic machine meant to represent earth and dirt.

Wind caught in the cellophane sheets of my home. All night you could hear the air trapped there and crinkling. Mom’s painting was erratic, half-hazard smears crumbling off the walls. The bugs had spread from her eyes and taken free reign of the place, swarming colonies in every room, and I woke most mornings to their crawling on my skin, although otherwise they did not make a single sound in all their scuttling.

“The problem with cells,” Mom said as I stomped in from another shift, “is each individual unit is an entire prison in and of itself. The military industrial prison complex of the self compartmentalized, partitioned into the four walls that surround you and the room that is your entire life. So if you can destroy the cell…break down the membranes…everything bleeding and oozing together and into unity. No more walls. Life, then, freed and unbounded…eternal…” 

I was taken aback to hear her speak. She had not talked in months, and her voice had obtained the frayed quality of torn paper. When the other delivery drivers talked at work, it was all the same, a recycled joke about how it was someone’s job to sleep on all the mattresses we hauled, to test them for quality. “Wouldn’t that job be nice,” we would laugh to each other, jamming a bed up yet another staircase. It was also probably somewhere someone’s job to design child-sized crash test dummies and then launch those dolls into fiery car explosions, but I did not mention that subject. There were a lot of things, I noticed, that I let go unsaid in a day.

Another promotion and I was a salesman, working in coolly air conditioned stores, hair slicked and wearing even a tie. I spoke rapidly and at all times, firing off mattress dimensions and coil count and foam measurements. I only sweated then in my sleep, entombed by insects. I learned how to make my smile dazzle, having gained the unfortunate tendencies of sustaining eye contact and layering my voice hypnotically, and this resulted in sales, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of mattresses sold. I was building relationships. I was better off than I had been on any factory floor.

What was next? Life seemed infinite as the interstate. I could be a regional district manager, a CEO. I explained enthusiastically to customers that our mattresses were special because of the coil, American-made and resilient, designed to withstand millions of pounds of hydraulic crushing, springing always back into shape. I did not mind the silverfish so much anymore, for they wrapped my body like blankets. I could not locate my Mom, searching all the cabinets and corners of the house, shouting out for her in the middle of a night. The painting was left half-finished. Sheets of cellophane fluttered in the hallways like curtains. I was surprised to find myself so old and suddenly.

[Author Bio]

Nathaniel Duggan lives in Maine. He can be found on Twitter @asdkfjasdlfjd.  Website: https://neutralspaces.co/nathanielduggan/

[stories-in-the-stars]

The Fallen and the Wandering

Be sure to check reblogs for links to Ao3.

~*~

Chapter 3

The gist, from what Shiro and other Bureau workers had gathered, was that a massive electronic disturbance occurred in an area where two searchers had been working, and the snatchers had taken advantage of that. The snatchers had not yet left the area when Keith and Lance arrived to investigate, so they decided to cash in even more. They were only half successful--they had taken Keith’s lantern full of stars, thinking that that was the collective amount of stars both he and Lance had collected, but had not rifled through Lance’s pockets (realizing this, Keith patted his chest out of habit, and nearly panicked until he saw his one allotted wish on a bedside table, shining steadily through the glass of the flask he kept it in). Lance’s odd habit had saved a few handfuls of stars. 

The snatchers were long gone by the time a squad of keepers had arrived on the scene, paged by Lance once again. According to him, the bolt of lightning had struck so close to Keith as to send him flying haphazardly through the air. The way Lance told it, it was quite astonishing that he’d gotten away with only a concussion. Lance’s injury had not been so glamorous--he twisted his ankle when that last snatcher tackled him from behind.

All accounts, however, seemed to leave out one crucial detail. That last snatcher seemed to have something to do with the lightning. Whether she could predict it or summon it, Keith had no idea, but he knew for certain that she had something to do with it. The only problem was that the idea was so far fetched, he couldn’t dare speak a word of it to anyone, lest he get sent for another mental evaluation. He was already grounded as it was while he healed, he didn’t need that time to be extended by a lengthy evaluation. No, he couldn’t talk to anyone about this. Except for Lance.

Visiting hours had long since ended, which meant that Shiro had left some time ago. Keith, unfortunately, was to be kept in the hospital overnight so that the doctor could monitor the condition of his concussion. Lance, having only a badly sprained ankle, had been discharged around the same time visiting hours had ended. He’d popped into Keith’s room just before leaving, hobbling clumsily with a crutch but looking otherwise as sunny as he always did. He spoke in markedly softer tones, conscious of Keith’s head injury the entire time. Unfortunately, with Shiro nearby, Keith was reluctant to speak of that one particular snatcher and her as yet unknown connection with lightning. Shiro was patient and understanding, but even he had limits. No doubt he would manage to convince Keith that he was confused because of his concussion. Remembering it wrong. Keith needed someone who was there, someone that could be counted on to remember it better than him--someone that was currently not here.

That being the case, Keith was up for most of the night. For the most part he was simply restless, but even if he had wanted to try sleeping, the nurses checked on him too frequently for him to fall asleep. So in the meantime he replayed his last moments of consciousness over and over in his head, trying to find some semblance of sense in what he’d seen. She’d pointed at him--or did she point near him, where the lightning had struck? Had she somehow made a wish that granted her the supernatural ability to produce lightning? The latter was highly unlikely--people that wished for superpowers of any sort always met with dire and often times fatal consequences. Those who wished for the power of flight always seemed to fly too high, invisible people disappeared, never to be seen again, pyrokinetics were burned to a crisp--the stars had made it very clear that humans were meant to use tools, not to be tools themselves.

Once again, the passage of time eluded Keith. There was no clock in the room, no indication of the time on the vitals machine he was hooked up to. The only indication he had that time was moving at all was the occasional visits of the nurses, who asked him a few questions, like how he was feeling, questions to test his awareness, and then if there was anything he needed before they left again. He was consistently plagued by a persistent headache, even when given decent painkillers. The dry hospital air had him feeling a little sickly after a while; dry eyes, scratchy throat, a general feeling of malaise. Otherwise, he seemed to be doing alright. The memory recall tests the nurses would put him through still weren’t going well, but that was to be expected, apparently. Head injuries, they told him, were tricky. It was not at all reassuring.

He wasn’t even aware that it was morning until someone that wasn’t a nurse came fumbling into the room.

“Wow, you look like hot garbage,” Lance commented as soon as he hobbled into the room.

Keith scowled. His eyes ached from a lack of sleep and the dry hospital air, and he definitely did not have the energy or patience to be dealing with casual insults right now.

“How are you feeling?” Lance asked, a bit more kindly as he eased himself onto a chair near the bed.

“Pretty much like hot garbage,” Keith sighed, in spite of his initial reaction. “I haven’t been able to sleep at all.”

“Ouch. And the head?” Lance inquired.

“Not much better. Still can’t pass the short term memory tests they keep throwing at me, much less the long term ones, but I think I got close last time,” Keith explained.

Lance hummed, and then an awkward silence fell between them. Lance fluttered his hands in front of him, seeming… nervous? Or uncertain? Keith didn’t have the patience to wait for Lance to make up his mind about whatever it was.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing! I just--” Lance hesitated, brow furrowed. “Do you remember what happened?”

“At first I didn’t, but now I have a fuzzy idea of what happened,” Keith said slowly, very aware that they were incredibly close to talking about what he’d wanted to talk about since the night before. “We had just gotten away from the other snatchers, when a snatcher we hadn’t seen snuck up and tackled you from behind… she pointed her finger, at me I think, or near me, I’m not sure. And then…”

“And then lightning struck where she pointed,” Lance finished for him, when Keith trailed off.

“Yeah.”

Again silence descended upon them, more heavy and serious than awkward. So, Lance was aware that something strange was afoot, but what were they supposed to make of it? They were only searchers. If they wanted to investigate this snatcher officially, they would need to be keepers, and at that they would have to work their way up the ranks in order to be assigned an investigation like this. Not to mention, even if they just wanted to tip off investigators… who would believe them?

“We need more information,” Lance said decidedly.

Keith nodded. “At the very least, we know that where there’s lightning, we’ll find that snatcher. We’d just need to be careful not to be caught.”

“By the snatchers or by the Bureau,” Lance agreed.

“Shiro especially,” Keith noted with a grimace.

That decided (fairly easily too, Keith thought), they moved back to the topic of each other’s health. Keith had no idea when he was going to be released, but he was pretty confident that it would be some time later that day. Lance, meanwhile, for all that his injury was light, was looking at a few weeks of healing. Even if Keith’s concussion healed quickly, the two of them would be kept grounded so long as Lance was still limping around. They chatted quietly for perhaps twenty minutes, until Lance’s phone went off with a trill.

“Ah, looks like it’s time for me to go,” Lance said, standing with his crutch. At Keith’s confused look, he explained, “Still have to go in. It’s hard to say what Shiro will have me do, but I’m betting on either paperwork, or paperwork.”

“You have to go in today? They didn’t give you a day off after what just happened?” Keith questioned.

Lance shrugged. “Shiro tried, but I guess some higher ups told him that since it’s just a sprained ankle he can find something for me to do. Anyways, it’s a long walk, so I’d better get going.”

“Walk? You’re walking all the way to the Bureau from here? But by foot it’s almost an hour away, why not just go straight to work, especially with an injured ankle?”

“Eh, closer to forty minutes, and I don’t live very far from here, so it’s no big deal,” Lance said with a wave of a hand.

While Keith processed that information, Lance left. Lance lived this far from the Bureau, and made that walk, both ways, every day? No wonder he’d gotten sick after falling into the ocean--he had to spend that much longer outside than Keith did. Keith’s walk between home and work was barely ten minutes, and that was if he was taking his time. Cars and other such means of transportation were scarce these days, what with few plants able to deal with the excess carbon dioxide in the air, and brooms--well, they couldn’t exactly be outlawed, given that plenty of people still used them to clean, but using them for private flying was highly regulated. Even Keith didn’t have a license to fly a broom for private use. Long story short, it meant that plenty of people, including Lance, had to walk a long ways to pay their rent. Keith was just exceptionally lucky. Still, with a sprained ankle that wasn’t likely to fully heal for a few weeks…

He was snapped out of his thoughts when the nurses came in again, and discovered that he was doing much better with his memory recall (not perfect, but very good for someone who got a concussion only the night before). Not to mention, his headache had lessened to a dull throb. Given that he seemed to be recovering (and uncommonly well at that), Keith was finally given the “okay” from the doctor to go home, but was advised to have someone check in on him every once in a while for the next couple days. Keith, for all that he didn’t like the idea, was certain that Shiro would be doing that whether he was asked to or not.

In spite of all his layers, the cold air outside was a slap to the face. He wasn’t looking forward to the long walk home, but he had to get there, one way or another. The walk served to show him how truly bone tired he was, swaying a little as he walked, with nothing but the ambient noise of the city in the morning (which was, frankly, much like the city at any other time) to keep him company. Rather than rousing him, the sounds of the city, which he often heard outside the window of his apartment, were almost soothing, to the point where he almost fell asleep on his feet several times. When he rounded the corner to his apartment building, Keith was so relieved he almost fell over right there on the sidewalk. He was in the midst of hurrying towards the building when a thought occurred to him, a thought that, if followed, would most certainly keep him from his bed and the blissful peace of sleep for a bit longer. On the other hand, Keith knew that if he didn’t follow it, he’d be thinking about it well into his dreams, as he often did with things like this. With a frustrated huff, he walked right past his apartment building and towards the Bureau headquarters.

Shiro blinked in surprise when he saw Keith marching towards his desk, then took a stern expression, like he expected to have to tell Keith “no.” Lucky for Keith, this wasn’t a yes or no question.

“Keith,” Shiro started. “You’re not working today.”

“I know. I just need to talk to Lance,” Keith said. “Can you tell me where he is?”

Shiro’s stern expression melted away in an instant, replaced by one of intense curiosity. “He’s working in the analyst’s department today. What are you--”

Keith thanked him and hurried away before Shiro could ask too many questions. Keith liked to think he wasn’t easily embarrassed, but simply imagining the look on Shiro’s face if he knew what Keith was thinking made him want to bury his head under the ground and not emerge for a hundred years. He was aware of how crazy his idea was, acutely so, but he simply blamed it on the concussion and decided to go through with it anyways.

Lance had been tucked away in a back corner of the analyst’s department, at a small desk where he’d been set to drawing up maps for replacers. He was singularly focused on it, bent low over the map he was currently detailing, tongue poking out from between his lips ever so slightly in intense concentration. Keith waited for a moment, watching with uncommon patience, as Lance went back and forth between the map and a nearby book, a log of all the named stars the Bureau had on hand (or at least, one of the logs of some of the stars--replacers could not replace stars as quickly as searchers found them), and carefully mapped where they ought to go in the sky. It was a slow and tedious process, not one that Keith would’ve ever imagined Lance doing. Suddenly, Lance huffed and leaned away from the desk, one of his legs bouncing impatiently. Keith stifled a laugh--that was more about what he would expect.

Lance must’ve heard him though, because he glanced over towards Keith and then nearly jumped out of his chair. Keith laughed outright at that, earning an exaggerated pout from Lance.

“What are you doing?! You can’t just sneak up on people like that!” Lance exclaimed, going on the say that Keith had been lucky the pen wasn’t on the paper, because then he would have to start all over. “And anyways, you’re not supposed to be here today!”

“No, I’m not here to work,” Keith assured him.

“Then why are you here?” Lance asked, eyeing Keith suspiciously.

Keith took a deep breath, knowing that he would chicken out if he waited too long to say it. “Do you want to stay at my place while your ankle heals?”

Lance stared at him for an uncomfortably long amount of time, prompting Keith to elaborate. “My place is only a few minutes walk walk from here, and walking for nearly an hour every day will probably make it harder for your ankle heal, and I know we don’t know each other that well, but I figured I’d offer, since we’re partners and all--”

“Keith,” Lance cut in. “Are you for real?”

“Uh, yeah, otherwise I wouldn’t be saying it,” Keith answered honestly.

Lance leaned back in his chair, apparently turning the idea over in his head. “Aren’t you worried I’ll have weird habits?”

“I know you’ll have weird habits,” Keith said.

“You’re not worried I might rob you?” Lance persisted.

“I don’t think you’re a thief,” Keith huffed. “Do you want to stay at my place while you heal or not?”

“Uh… sure,” Lance said, still a little perplexed by the offer but unable to deny that it had it’s advantages. “I guess I’ll go home tonight, grab some stuff and then come to your place after work tomorrow?”

“Sounds good,” Keith agreed as he grabbed a pen and a spare bit of paper to write down his address on.

Lance, meanwhile, scribbled something on another scrap of paper, and handed it to Keith--a phone number. “In case you realize you hit your head a little harder than you thought,” Lance had said.

Keith went home with his head buzzing, though whether that was because of his concussion or because of what he’d just done (or both), it was hard to say. Regardless, he didn’t give much thought to it once he was in his apartment, focusing more on the prospect of sleep. He only barely managed to shuck off a few of his outer layers before falling into bed, not bothering to turn on the heater or pull a blanket over himself before slipping into that deep sleep he’d been craving all night long.

Now, normally, when Keith was especially exhausted, his mind went to that oft-visited dream place, as if his mind was insistent that he rest, and brought him to a familiar, peaceful place in order to best facilitate that. But instead his dreams were full of vivid lightning and swirling storm clouds, looming with an ominous and chaotic presence. Keith was tossed back and forth at the whim of the winds, trying desperately to find a handhold but finding none. In spite of all this, everything, even Keith himself, was eerily silent, which made him anxious. The colors, on the other hand, were brilliant reds and oranges, touched with occasional deep blue swirls. They seared themselves into his mind, ensuring that he wouldn’t forget them any time soon.

Keith awoke with a start when the winds suddenly released him, letting him drop to some unknown doom at the same time his front door shut. At first he thought it had been thunder, accompanying the lightning from his dream, but a few seconds of panicked wakefulness later, he realized that wasn’t the case. He rolled out of bed reluctantly--the dream had left him feeling more exhausted than he had felt when he went to sleep. No doubt he would have no trouble getting to bed at a decent time in spite of sleeping away the entire day, he thought as he tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

As he had expected, Shiro had come to check up on him, and had brought food with him once again (he must’ve been feeling extra generous, because it was fast food, which Shiro rarely indulged in but Keith practically survived on). They flopped onto the couch, and Shiro talked of mundane things (how work had been that day, how Lance had loudly complained about being assigned to doing mapwork, how his higher ups weren’t pleased that a certain pair of his searchers seemed to be constantly getting into trouble, and how Shiro had reminded them it’s only been two times they’ve done something dramatic since getting partnered). Keith, meanwhile, stuffed his face, because he’d missed dinner the night before, on account of being barely conscious--he had been offered food through the course of the night, but had refused. He hated hospital food.

“So, not to pry,” Shiro started, clearly about to pry. “What did you want to talk to Lance about earlier?”

Keith tried very hard to not choke on his fries. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to tell Shiro that Lance, of all people, would be staying here with Keith, for at least several weeks. After all, Keith had made such a big deal about not liking Lance initially, and now he was offering his home to the guy to make getting to work easier for him? The last thing Keith wanted was for Shiro to get the wrong idea.

“I just wanted to make sure he was doing okay,” Keith said, not entirely dishonestly.

“Oh?” Shiro prodded.

“Yes,” Keith said sternly. “Believe it or not I think he’s alright… as a partner.”

“As a partner, huh?”

“Is there something you’d like to know?” Keith demanded, his patience flying out the window at Shiro’s tone.

“No,” Shiro denied. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you change your tune about someone so quickly.”

“He--just made a bad first impression, was all!” Keith stammered, decidedly not looking at Shiro.

He expected Shiro to make another quip immediately, but instead he went quiet for a moment, sighing softly. “You know, apparently I made a bad first impression on Adam when we first met?”

Keith froze. True, it had been almost a year by now, but to actually hear Shiro talk about Adam… He looked over at him, and Shiro looked fondly nostalgic. Elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together and his chin resting lightly on top of them--not long ago, he would’ve looked stiff and uncomfortable at anything that even remotely reminded him of Adam, but now… Now Keith could finally believe that he might be moving on.

Which left Keith to deal with a very important implication. “Lance and I are not like you and Adam, not by a long shot.”

Shiro chuckled, leaning back. “No?”

“No,” Keith insisted. “We are way too different. Maybe we can be friends, but that’s it. Besides, even if I did like Lance like that, which I don’t, he has a girlfriend.”

Shiro raised his eyebrows at that. “He does?”

“Yeah, uh, a replacer--I think her name was Allura?” Keith explained haltingly. He wasn’t very good at remembering names, but he was pretty certain he got that one right. “Anyways, they’ve known each other since they were kids, apparently.”

“Huh,” Shiro huffed. “I had no idea.”

“Well, now you know, so can we drop the subject, please?” Keith pleaded, feeling very much bothered by even the barest implication that he might feel anything more than friendliness towards Lance.

“Alright, alright,” Shiro relented, flipping on the TV, landing on a talk show where people were theorizing why in the world the sun hadn’t been found yet.

“Now you would think,” the host said enthusiastically. “That this great big ball of light, I mean it looked how many times bigger to us than other stars? It’s got to be at least the size of a soccer ball, compared to other stars, and yet there hasn’t been a whisper of it--now, why do you suppose that might be?”

“Well now, you’ve got to consider that, at the end of the day, the sun is still a star, you know?” one of the guests suggested. “You’re absolutely right that it should be easy to find--and perhaps it was. Perhaps by some child who didn’t know any better, or perhaps someone who wanted to wish for something that regular stars couldn’t grant--”

Keith nearly gave himself whiplash as he leaned eagerly forward, suddenly intent on the discussion now.

“But what makes you think that the sun could grant things that regular stars couldn’t, if it could grant a wish at all?” another guest questioned sharply.

“If we look at all the factors, we get an idea of what the sun might be able to do. This is our sun we’re talking about, it’s always been special to us, even if we know that it’s just another star now. Even knowing it’s just a star, it’s still special to us, has been for as long as humans have been around,” the first guest explained. “So, the sun is large, it’s a star, it’s been regarded as a symbol of health and vitality for as long as we’ve known, and in many cultures has been regarded as a powerful god, oftentimes the king of gods--”

“Hold on, hold on, what do human stories have to do with any of this?” the host interrupted waving his hands energetically.

“Personally, I think it’s human stories that gave stars the power to grant wishes in the first place--after all, we humans have been making wishes on stars for goodness knows how long, and then they come down to earth and it turns out we really can make wishes on them? I don’t believe in coincidences like that,” the guest argued.

Shiro, not noticing how intent Keith was on the discussion, moved to change the channel, upon which Keith rapidly moved to stop him, perhaps a little more aggressively than he should have.

“Geez, alright, didn’t know you were suddenly fascinated with talk shows like this,” Shiro huffed.

Keith glared, but said nothing as he turned his attention back to the discussion.

“--and how do we know that the Celestial Replacement Bureau hasn’t already found it, but is keeping it from us?” the second guest was now demanding. “They act like they alone should have control over all matters regarding the sky, that the stars should be regulated. If the sun can do what you say it can and they have it, what if--”

“You’re not seriously suggesting that the Bureau is out for world domination?!” the first guest interrupted.

Keith huffed as the discussion devolved into an argument, and told Shiro he could change the channel now. Shiro looked suspicious, but said nothing as he flipped through the channels for something more interesting to watch. But whatever he turned it to, Keith was already tuning it out, busy turning over the idea in his head over and over again. That person had been correct, in that the sun really was just another star, just the one that happened to make life on earth possible. It had immediately occurred to Keith that if it could grant wishes, wishes that other stars were unable to grant, it just might be that it could grant someone the ability to control lightning with no ill effects… Not that he could tell that to Shiro, of course, not without concrete proof, or at least a more reliable account of it. Keith had to tell Lance.

Slowly, so as to not be noticed by Shiro, Keith fished out the scrap of paper with Lance’s number, and quietly tapped the number with a message into his phone.

“I was watching a talk show that suggested that the sun could grant wishes, maybe that snatcher found it and wished for the ability to control lightning?” the message read.

He only had to wait a few minutes before his phone buzzed in reply. Shiro gave no indication that he noticed.

“You know, most people send their names when texting people for the first time, not conspiracy theories,” the reply said. Keith wondered for a panicked instant if he’d typed in the number wrong, until a second message arrived, saying, “But that would make a lot of sense. Either she wished for the ability to control lightning, or the ability to predict where it’ll strike, in which case she just got very lucky against us. But if she wished for the ability to control lightning…”

“That’d leave us with a mess of problems. It’d mean that the sun was gone for good, and that we have some criminal running around with lightning powers doing whatever she pleased,” Keith replied.

“No kidding. Any chance we can let people in on this? I feel like we’re not best equipped to deal with this right now…” Lance suggested.

“Maybe you could, but with my concussion there’s no way anyone would believe me, but even without it I’m not sure anyone would believe any of us,” Keith said.

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone wants to deal with the idea that the sun might be gone for good…”

“Who’re you texting over there?” Shiro suddenly asked.

Keith nearly dropped his phone, having been so intent on the conversation that he had forgotten to make sure Shiro didn’t notice. He fumbled to keep his phone in his hand, looking the very picture of someone who wanted to hide something.

“Don’t worry about it!” he snapped before he could think twice.

“Okay! Jeez, I was only wondering…” Shiro held his hand up defensively, taken aback by Keith’s sudden prickliness. Not that it was entirely unusual for Keith, but he did tend to be a little less so around Shiro.

Keith did feel bad for snapping at him, but somehow felt like he would have to reveal who he was talking to if he apologized, so he said nothing. Shiro left shortly afterwards, leaving Keith to feel even worse about it. It meant that they had to find proof about this snatcher’s mysterious abilities quickly. The sooner Keith could tell Shiro all about it, and properly apologize for this, and perhaps and future occurrences like this, the better.

Meanwhile, he was still texting Lance about what he’d heard on the talk show. While he was on board with the idea that the sun, as a star, might be able to grant extraordinary wishes, he wasn’t certain about the idea that human stories had any influence on anything other than humans themselves. Lance, however, was of a different opinion, agreeing with the talk show guest with much enthusiasm.

“It makes sense!” Lance insisted. “You can’t deny that it makes sense!”

“I can, because it doesn’t,” Keith replied, while snorting in anticipation of Lance’s heated response.

It took longer than previous messages, but eventually the passionate response came, “Listen!!! Magic is cool and mystical and mysterious BUT there’s always rules, so maybe, just maybe, the rule of this world is that the magic of stars follows the narrative of the stories we’ve given them? Think about it!! What are some things we’re not allowed to wish for from stars?! We can’t wish people back to life! We can’t wish for superpowers! We can’t wish for all our problems to be fixed in an instant! We can’t wish for people to fall in love against their will! All these things were defined in stories that happened way before the fall!!!”

Intrigued, but more interested in egging Lance on, Keith typed, “Wow, didn’t take you for much of a bookworm.”

“I’m not, but Allura is,” was the unexpectedly straightforward reply that abruptly halted Keith’s snickering. “She’ll talk for ages about stories and stuff, even if I’m not listening, but I listen enough to catch the gist.”

“Anyways,” Keith continued, frowning. “Even if you’re right and the stars do follow rules, why would the sun be an exception?”

“Because it’s the sun????” Lance responded, as though it were obvious.

“Gee, thanks, what a super helpful explanation,” Keith said, flopping backwards onto his bed.

“The sun, even though it’s a star, has different stories. Different stories, different rules, right?” Lance suggested.

“I guess,” Keith replied.

“And I suppose you have a better theory as to how any of this works?” Lance challenged.

Keith must’ve deliberated too long about an alternative theory, because a few minutes later Lance texted him again, “You don’t! Ha!! I win >:)”

“You do not!”

“Did so, nothing you can do about it.”

“>:(“

“Lance: 1, Keith: 0”

They went back and forth for at least twenty more minutes, with Keith insisting he was on the scoreboard because of the several days they’d bothered to count stars they’d collected and he’d come out on top. Lance denied this, but quickly added points for himself for the days where Lance had collected more stars. By the time they bid each other good night (with Lance making sure that Keith was still okay with him staying over), Keith was smiling again, feeling unusually, yet pleasantly warm.

The next day, Keith had been told by Shiro to stay home--it would be his last day off to recover from his concussion (given that the next couple days were a weekend), and Keith, at first, used it to tidy up his apartment. He was going to have a guest over, after all. Unfortunately, his apartment was small and his possessions few, and he wasn’t a generally messy person, so it didn’t take him very long to finish. The rest of the day he spent in varying states of restless boredom. There was nothing interesting on TV, he owned very few books (but he didn’t want to go the library in case Lance was let off work early), and any video games he had on hand couldn’t hold his attention for more than an hour or so. When a tentative knock came at his front door, Keith all but ran to answer it.

Lance still had his fist raised when the door flew open, and for a moment they just stood there, unsure of what to say or do. Finally Keith gathered enough sense about him to gesture for Lance to come in, to which Lance obliged, dragging a large duffle bag behind him. Keith closed the door gently, running a hand through his hair. Why he was so agitated he couldn’t say for sure, but it was definitely Lance’s fault. For all he knew, the next couple of months were about to become a constant battle between the two of them.

“Nice place you got,” Lance said, setting his bag down near the couch.

“Uh, thanks,” Keith replied. “I know it’s pretty small, but it’s just me most of the time…”

Lance waved a hand. “Nah, it’s fine. It’s practical, like you.”

What Keith could possibly say to that, he had no idea, so he said nothing. Meanwhile, Lance shuffled in place, as if he wasn’t sure of where to go, or what to do.

Keith was just about to suggest they order something for dinner, when Lance said, “Hey man… Thanks, for this. Normally that walk to and from work is no problem for me, but with my ankle the way it is, it’s been… hard. And it’s only been, what, a day?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Keith mumbled, eyes averted.

“Don’t tell me to not worry about it, this is a big deal!” Lance suddenly exclaimed, startling Keith slightly. “I dump you in the ocean, give you nothing but trouble for an entire week, and you still let me stay at your place so that it’s easier for me to get to work, and then you tell me to not worry about it--what’s your deal?”

“So you admit it! The ocean incident was your fault!” Keith blurted, even though he had intended on answer Lance’s question, after an entire week of getting blamed for the ocean incident, Keith couldn’t quite help but to pounce at this opportunity.

Lance sputtered at that, trying to backpedal as fast as he could and failing spectacularly. “I didn’t--that wasn’t--just answer the question! What’s your deal?!”

“Why do I have to have a deal?! Am I not allowed to do nice things for other people?!”

“No, someone who says ‘we’re partners, not friends’ doesn’t do nice things for other people for no reason!” Lance shouted, suddenly and unexpectedly angry.

Perhaps a more reasonable person would’ve apologized for their earlier behavior and comments, and try to assure someone that they were actually a decent human being, just a bit brackish at times. But Keith was not known for being terribly reasonable, especially where Lance was concerned. He was ready to lash out, scream and yell and fight, just as he’d expected, when his front door clicked open, and both he and Lance froze on the spot, their eyes fixed in horror on the opening door.

Shiro, unlike Keith, had much better composure, and so did not immediately react when he saw Lance standing in Keith’s apartment. Or perhaps it had less to do with refined composure and more to do with the fact that he was probably too stunned to say anything at first. Keith didn’t miss the way Shiro’s eyes glanced at the duffle bag near Lance’s feet, getting a grasp of what, exactly was going on here without anyone having said a single word.

“Keith, you should’ve told me you had company,” Shiro said evenly. “I wouldn’t have come over if I’d known.”

“Yes you would’ve,” Keith huffed.

Shiro shrugged, and stepped all the way into the apartment, looking utterly delighted as he asked Lance what they should order for dinner. He motioned them both towards the couch, where he sat right in between the two of them, which was probably for the best given what had just nearly happened between them. Keith was almost tempted to invite Shiro to stay over as a mediator, but Shiro would no doubt encourage Keith to use this as an opportunity to learn patience. Not to mention, his tiny, one bedroom apartment could only hold so many people. Even if Shiro was one of the people in it, Keith doubted his sanity would hold strong with two extra people in his living space.

“So, Lance,” Shiro began, in that tone that suggested he was about to get nosey. “What brings you here?”

Lance scratched at the back of his neck, a little uneasy. “Uh, well, I happened to mention to Keith that I live a ways away, and he thought it kind of sucked that I had to walk so far with an injured ankle… So he offered to let me stay here until my ankle is better…”

From where Keith was sitting, he couldn’t see Shiro’s expression, but he was willing to bet Shiro looked incredibly interested by this delightful bit of information. Lance, at the very least, looked a little distressed as he glanced past Shiro towards Keith, at which point Shiro suddenly whipped around to look at Keith, looking, just as he’d suspected, absolutely thrilled.

“That’s very interesting news,” Shiro said simply, implying heavily that he would like to know more about how, exactly, this happened.

With Keith already on the verge of snapping, however, his explanation wasn’t so much an explanation as a heated defense of his own actions. “Am I just not allowed to do nice things?! Why does it have to be a big deal for me to be a good person?! Do you guys just assume that I’m going to default to whichever is the most mean and uncaring?!”

That seemed to take both Shiro and Lance by surprise. Keith didn’t wait for them to make any sort of response before storming off to his room and slamming his door shut like a petulant child. He knew he was going to feel ashamed of his actions later, but right now he felt white-hot with anger. He pushed the window open--it was difficult, given that windows weren’t often opened anymore, and even Keith hadn’t had any reason to open it. Usually turning off his heater was enough. But right now he needed to feel something icy cold against his face. Everything felt like it was on fire as Keith leaned against the window frame, the stark contrast of the frame on his skin an abrupt shock, but a welcome one. He stayed like that for a few minutes, breathing deep and trying to dispel this feverish feeling that had overtaken him.

After a few minutes, he started to feel a bit of a chill, and closed his window. He wasn’t yet ready to go back out to the living room and face Shiro and Lance though, so he lied down on his bed and listened to their quiet chatter. He thought he could hear Shiro assuring Lance that Keith was, deep down, a big softie, which of course Keith would have to disprove later, but it was hard to be sure. It wasn’t like he was trying to listen to them, anyways.

He stayed where he was for a couple of hours, never quite falling asleep, but never quite focusing all his attention on whatever Shiro and Lance were talking about. A knock at the front door told Keith that they had ordered food, and Shiro knocked at his door to let him know he’d ordered something for Keith as well. Keith didn’t respond, but made a mental note to thank Shiro later, and then apologize for his behavior. It seemed like he was stacking up a lot of IOU’s in the apology department as of late. He really ought to fix that, he thought to himself.

A short time later, he heard Shiro leaving, and for a few moments, everything was silent. He wondered if Lance had felt unwelcome, and left, despite having just arrived. Keith rolled over and buried his face in a pillow when he heard a soft tap at his door.

“Hey, Keith?” Lance called from the other side. “I’m… sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t capable of doing good things. I was just--surprised, was all.”

Keith sighed deeply, and walked over to the door. His hand hovered over the doorknob, but the words came out before the door was open. “You’re fine. I shouldn’t have snapped the way I did. I guess I’m more used to pushing people out than inviting them in--not that that’s an excuse, I just. I’m not good, with people stuff.”

He heard Lance chuckle softly. “Yeah, I gathered as much.”

There was a brief moment of silence, during which Keith leaned his head against the door, feeling as though he could breathe a bit easier now. This silence wasn’t heavy with awkwardness, but soft with something like understanding, even if it wasn’t yet complete.

“So are we going to talk about that snatcher and how we’ll track her down, or are we going to bed now?” Lance asked through the door.

Keith opened the door, and suddenly felt awkward again. It was one thing talking to someone when you couldn’t see their face--it was quite another when they were looking you right in the eye, grinning wryly with a shining blue gaze. Keith very deliberately looked away as he walked down the hall past Lance, and he could’ve sworn he heard Lance snort, but let him be as he settled onto the couch.

“So!” Lance began enthusiastically, clapping his hands together. “Where do we start? I was thinking we could see where lightning has been striking in the past to see if there’s a pattern, or if she just hits snatchers at random.”

“That--is actually a good idea,” Keith said. He was just about to pull out his laptop from underneath the coffee table when a sound like boxes tumbling to the ground somewhere in the building made him whip his head up so quickly that he hit his head on the edge of the table on his way up.

“Jeez, don’t give yourself another concussion!” Lance exclaimed as they both hurried over to the window.

Lance complained when Keith threw the window open, letting in all the cold air that neither of them were dressed for. Keith shushed him, and they listened for what had surely been thunder, scanning the skies for any sign of lightning. Lance was still grumbling about the cold, and sidled closer to Keith than Keith would’ve liked, but he let him, for the time being. They stayed that way for some time, listening and watching intently. Several times Lance suggested, through chattering teeth, that they just go with the original plan, but Keith shushed him every time. It wasn’t until Lance was practically on top of him that Keith finally sighed and started to close the window--and as if waiting for him to give up, another crack of lightning tore through the sky in the distance.

“How’re we going to get all the way over there?” Lance asked even as he started throwing on a coat.

“I’ve got a broom,” Keith said as he raced to pull on his boots.

“You have a private license?”

“Nope!”

Lance opened his mouth as though to protest going by broom without a license, especially when both of them were supposed to be grounded, but instead simply said, “Okay then.”

A few minutes later, and they were outside, trying to figure out how to fit both of them on a single broom. Keith insisted that he take control of the broom, given that Lance was prone to loopy and over the top flying and they need to be quick and careful. Lance huffed and puffed about it, but ultimately settled himself on the back end of the broom, wrapping his arms tightly around Keith’s waist. Keith had never flown with another person on the broom before, but he found that he welcomed the extra warmth for once. He may have, in his haste, put on fewer layers than necessary.

Thus settled, it took them a couple tries to take off, since, as they quickly discovered, they both had to push off from the ground at the same time. They tried counting down, only to start arguing as to whether it should be on “three” or on “go”. Keith argued that, as the one in control of the broom, he should be the one counting down, and they should go on “three”, while Lance insisted that, as the one who could only push off with one foot, he should be the one counting down, and that they should obviously push off on “go”, to which Keith snapped that the extra word was a complete waste of time and they were better off just counting to three. It wasn’t until another bolt of lightning struck that they ceased their bickering and finally took off (on three).

Lance hugged Keith even tighter as they sped through the air, to the point where it was nearly bruising (Keith had always bruised easily), but Keith said nothing of it. They were lucky that this snatcher, if she really could command lightning, had a flair for dramatics. Keith wondered if there had been a time that only one bolt of lightning had been used. When he and Lance had encountered her, there had been, what, four? Five lightning strikes in the same area? Keith couldn’t remember for certain, but it was, as far as he knew, a lot of lightning in a single spot. So far there’d been three in the same spot. Too many to be a coincidence, as far as Keith was concerned.

When they got close to the approximate area they’d seen the lightning strike, Keith flew in low, under the tree tops of the nearby forested area, but not quite landing--it would be easier to navigate the woods in the air instead of trying to hurry along with Lance and his injured ankle. Granted, trying to fly above all the brambles without hitting their heads on any low hanging branches was nearly just as much of a challenge. They kept quiet, and the woods around them were quiet too--enough that Keith could hear Lance’s soft breathing from behind him.

Suddenly, Lance pointed up ahead, where a flickering light was casting heavy shadows through the trees. They finally touched down a ways away from where they saw the light, with Lance slinging an arm over Keith’s shoulders in order to keep up with him. As they made their slow, careful approach, Keith could taste smoke in the air--the lightning must’ve started a fire. He glanced at Lance, who met him with a determined nod. They would move forward.

They kept to the shadows, moving slowly so as to not make a sound. Keith highly doubted the snatchers would stick around, but they’d come all this way, they had to be sure before flying away again. Keith’s eyes began to sting as the air became heavy with smoke. They could see the flames in a clearing up ahead, taller than either of them and spreading quickly.

“There’s no way anyone would stick around for this,” Lance coughed beside him. Keith was quite inclined to agree.

That was, until a lone silhouette made its way in front of the blaze, seemingly unbothered by the embers, heat, and smoke. Keith immediately dove behind the nearest tree, dragging Lance roughly along with him. Lance, to his credit, let out only the barest hiss as his bad ankle was jostled in his haste to follow Keith. They crouched low in the stark shadows, Keith hoping desperately that it would be enough to keep them concealed. So far his head was alright, but he didn’t want to push it, and Lance was not in the most agile of states. If they were actually found by a snatcher, particularly the one they were looking for, it would most certainly not end well for them.

Peering around the tree, Keith saw two more figures join the first, arms held over their faces in a weak attempt to breathe a bit more easily. They looked agitated, arguing with the first figure. But the first figure seemed completely at ease, waving them away dismissively. Keith wished they were a little closer, so he could hear them over the crackle of the rapidly spreading wildfire--speaking of which, he and Lance would definitely have to leave soon. It was all he could do to keep from sputtering on the smoke-filled air.

When Keith’s eyes began to water, he was about to suggest that they leave, lest the fire and smoke overtake them, but then the first figure began making their way towards their hiding spot, and they both recoiled behind the tree, backs pressed up against the trunk. Keith felt his heart pounding a bruise into his ribs. If they were lucky, they might be able to make a quick escape if they were caught--after all, they still had their broom. Better to not get caught in the first place though. Beside him, Lance was trying to stifle a cough, and Keith slapped a hand over his mouth, the figure walking ever closer to where they were crouched. Keith hoped and hoped that the shadows kept them hidden, repeated it like a mantra in his head--he would fight if he absolutely had to, but all things considered, the odds would not be in his favor.

“Terrell!” one of the other figures called out, catching up to the first person. “There’s no one here!”

The first person, Terrell, was now close enough that Keith could confirm that this was indeed the snatcher they’d encountered the other day. He heard her hum thoughtfully, while another one of her lackeys joined her, coughing and sputtering and holding a damp cloth over his face.

“I thought for sure…” she mused. She turned her attention to the surrounding woods, as though looking for something.

Her gaze was careful and scrutinizing, and Keith knew he was holding Lance far too tightly as he hoped that, between the fire and the shadows, they remained invisible to her searching eye. He thought for sure they were done for when her eyes looked right at them, even pausing for a brief instant. Keith tensed, everything in his body ready to spring into action in a second--and then she looked away, giving no indication that she’d seen them at all. Keith and Lance exchanged confused looks, but didn’t question the incredible blessing.

“Oh sunshine! Where are you?!” Terrell suddenly called out. “I know you’re around here somewhere!”

“Terrell, there’s no one here, we have to go before the authorities show up,” one of the other snatchers choked.

Even then, Terrell seemed more focused on whatever, or whoever, she was looking for. She sniffed, and then coughed, for the first time seeming to be affected by the smoke curling around her. She looked incredibly unhappy.

“Fine,” she huffed. “Let’s go. We’ll find him another day. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was here right now, but…”

Terrell shook her head, and trudged away from where Keith and Lance were still hiding. As soon as she was out of sight, they stumbled away from the wildfire, and managed to take off without a hitch--perhaps the impending threat of the fire and the wailing of sirens fostered better teamwork between them. Regardless, by the time they returned to Keith’s apartment, they were gasping and hardly able to articulate what had just happened. They still didn’t have any proof as to her supposed lightning abilities, but she had without a doubt started that fire on purpose.

“So,” Lance breathed heavily, flopping down onto the couch. “She’s not your average snatcher.”

“No,” Keith agreed. “It sounds like she’s looking for someone.”

“But why would she need to start a fire to find someone?” Lance asked.

Keith draped his jacket over the back of the couch before flopping down next to Lance. “I don’t know. We didn’t even confirm whether or not she’s used the sun or not. All we have is a name.”

“True… but I think we can safely say that she’s never had the sun,” Lance said.

“What makes you say that?” Keith asked.

“Because,” Lance started seriously. “Whoever she was looking for, she called them sunshine. I don’t think that was a coincidence. Whoever she’s looking for, they probably have the sun.”

“Maybe,” Keith said thoughtfully. “But she also said that she was sure that whoever it was, she was sure they were there. According to the other snatchers, there was no one else there, no one aside from us and the snatchers.”

“Yeah, but Terrell looked right at us and didn’t see us. Maybe whoever she was looking for was able to hide too,” Lance suggested.

“Maybe,” Keith repeated, feeling exhausted.

“You think maybe it’s time we told someone about all this?” Lance asked a few moments later.

Keith considered it. It would be easy enough to leave out the part where they flew without a license, and they did have a name now, and the knowledge that this Terrell was up to something more than normal snatcher shenanigans, and she would go to dangerous lengths to find whoever it was she was looking for.

“Yeah,” Keith finally answered with a slight nod. “I think that might be best.”

[twatd]

Fear the Reaper?

Alex: It’s always been fairly clear that death is, thematically speaking, the (un)beating heart of The Wicked + The Divine. So much so that it was the topic of the very first instalment of Tim + Alex Get TWATD, three long years ago. 

The book is dedicated to examining what death means, both for those sentenced to it and for those left behind. The latter I’ll save for another time – it’s a big topic, given half the cast are grieving the loss of a loved someone. 

The former was what interested the Alex of 2014, back when the gods’ deaths were a hypothetical. At the time, our guide to mortality and what it meant to the gods was Amaterasu. With issue #31, that’s cast in a very different light.

Because Amaterasu is no longer talking in the abstract about one day being dead – she’s living the reality. Or, rather, she isn’t.

A quick note on the death scene itself, which has a different feel to the many that have come before. In WicDiv, death is sudden. In #31, the act itself – the slashing of a throat – certainly is unexpected, and so quick that we never actually see it, as the moment happens on a page turn, between panels. 

But Amaterasu’s actual death? Unlike the exploded heads we’ve gotten used to as the book’s main way of dispatching its cast, it isn’t instantaneous. The way that she’s killed means we get to see her reaction. Lucky us.

In that first extreme close-up, McKelvie fills Amaterasu’s eyes with surprise, fear, and sudden understanding. The moment is even more horrific than the gore which follows, a panel later. The idea of understanding that you are about to blink out of existence? However well you think you’ve come to terms with your own mortality, that’s terrifying.

For me, it also functioned as a kind of flashback – not on the page, but inside my own head – to that first Amaterasu talked about her death sentence as part of the Pantheon.

Cassandra, still sceptical that it’s all a hoax, asks Amaterasu how she can be so calm, given she’ll be dead before she turns twenty. There’s a painful pause, and then McKelvie pushes in, closer and closer, to Amaterasu’s eyes, not in the total-eclipse-of-the-heart god mode we first saw but back to their natural hazel – a decision he repeats, hence the flashback, at the moment of her death.

Over the past thirty issues, we’ve seen more or less all of the gods’ answers to this same question. For Baphomet, it’s a curse. For Woden, it’s license to behave as he wilt. For Sahkmet, it’s another feeling to lock away. For Dionysus, it’s a time limit to make as much of as he can. For Amaterasu, at least as she tells it in this first scene, it’s just part of the deal. Hazel’s extreme short-term mortality is worth it, in exchange for Amaterasu’s immortality.

There’s another part of this deal, that seems to help comfort some of the gods about their impending dooms. As Amaterasu puts it, in characteristic childlike fashion, in that first interview: “We go away for a while.”

For the gods, unlike for you or me, death isn’t permanent. Each new recurrence is a chance for resurrection. Maybe they won’t be picked this time, maybe Susanoo will get a turn in the spotlight instead, but they’ve at least got a chance of coming back in ninety years’ time – which is a lot more than we get.

Or at least, that’s the promise. The evidence given by our brief glimpses of past pantheons suggests otherwise. 

Take Lucifer, for example. Between the 2015, 1831 and 455 recurrences, we’ve met three Lucifers. They have shared traits, but you’d struggle to describe them as the same character. Or, for a starker contrast, look at the Woden of the 1830s – one of the few gods we’ve met who seems to have their shit together – and her modern counterpart.

Look at it the other way. We’ve seen gods change their divine identity – from Nergal to Baphomet, Lucifer to Julius – without changing their personality. In the latter case, even, we’ve specifically seen that assuming a new identity doesn’t free a god from the two-year cycle. 

And the other, other way round, too. For, say, Amaterasu to be a consistent identity across centuries, they’d have to be possessing their human host, totally erasing the person they were before. In that case, we should be grieving their moment of ascension, Amaterasu having murdered Hazel before the two-year countdown even began.

This evidently isn’t true. The Morrigan and Baphomet have the same relationship and issues they did as Marian and Cameron. Meanwhile, Cassandra insists on sticking with her pre-godhood name, and is clearly the same character we met back in #1.

This isn’t reincarnation in any meaningful sense, it’s just recycled branding.

It’s interesting to note that this idea of a next life most often comes up when the gods are mourning another member of the Pantheon. Amaterasu, again, after Luci dies: “The only comfort is that I know I’ll be seeing her again soon.” Baal, grieving for Inanna: “There’s a next life. That’s what I keep telling myself.” It feels like the thing we tell each other at funerals – they’ve gone to a better place. Even if you don’t believe in an afterlife, it’s an easy lie to fall back on.

Amaterasu clearly believed. But looking again into her eyes in that final moment, I have to ask: What kind of succour did it provide as she breathed her sticky last?

The only way for the gods to achieve immortality, as far as I can tell, is the same one we have in this world – creating something that outlives us. This is pretty much the stated purpose of the Pantheon, but it seems that, by the time of their next recurrence, their miracles are all but forgotten. For his attempt to live past the allotted two years, Ananke explicitly makes sure that the Roman Lucifer isn’t remembered.

In the 1831 special, we see two attempts to break free of this loop. On one hand, the pregnant Inanna; on the other, Woden, who gave life to that story’s creature. Inanna’s attempt isn’t successful. Woden’s is more ambiguous. Two centuries on, we haven’t seen any references to her creation, but Inanna more or less closes the story by telling us: “my sister’s great is out there, somewhere. The creature lives…”

Woden’s creature is an allegory for Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which famously originated out of the Villa Diodati trip being retold, with a WicDiv twist, in the special. Frankenstein’s legacy has endured, far beyond Shelley’s lifetime – not just in terms of the titular character, or all the ‘um actually’ arguments about the monster not actually being the titular character, but as the launch pad for basically the entire genre of science fiction.

That feels particularly telling, having seen Gillen mention on Twitter recently that in the event of his death, WicDiv could now be finished by someone else, and that he had similar contingency plans for the first two volumes of Phonogram. This is WicDiv’s approach to mortality, and seemingly his too – rejecting the fiction of an afterlife, in favour of the afterlife offered by creating fiction.

[presumenothing]

it’s a bird, it’s a plane,

it’s a cloud of detective bats, coming to a crime scene near you!!

or, my first (and probably overdue) Official Contribution™ to halloweenverse au here on tumblr dot com, with long-distance bats to @deductionfreak​ and @aonomiki​ aka my conan and heiji enablers respectively

-

it was, perhaps unsurprisingly, difficult to have a sleepover when neither of you actually needed to – well, sleep.

...this was possibly a problem they should've seen coming. maybe.

not that conan claimed himself to be an expert on sleepovers or anything, but he was fairly certain a proper one was going on over at the toyama house right now, involving at least a reasonable amount of sleep (because ran was there and she'd already made a list of things she wanted to see in osaka tomorrow, which she wasn't going to give up for anything short of a double homicide).

meanwhile, it was quiet enough in the hattori residence that conan could hear hattori take a breath in the moment before he spoke.

"y'know, I heard from the witchy neechan that you've lately been spending an unusually large amount of time in..." hattori paused, waving around in what was presumably an attempt to catch a particularly low-flying word. "...bat form? is that what it's called?"

"well, it is more than one bat, so I suppose the plural would be more accurate." conan glanced over. "but I assume that wasn't your original question."

"actually – " hattori frowned. "I mean, have you ever counted how many there – well, you are? is it, like, a fixed number?"

"have you ever tried counting yourself?" conan asked dryly, though the question was obviously rhetorical. "usually 20, and still not the question you were about to ask."

the sound of hattori clamping down on his next irrelevant question was probably audible from hokkaido. "right, yeah. anyway. excessive bat time. what's up with that?"

a moment of silence passed between them, only filled by the slightly static crackle conan associated with heiji recharging.

"...bat time, really? that's the best you can come up with?"

"shut up, it's accurate ain't it?" hattori muttered. "besides, now you're the one stalling, don't think I wouldn't notice."

"right, because you're observant about everything except kazuha," conan said as distinctly as he could with his face buried in a pillow, ignoring the sound of protests. "ugh, I can't believe ran put you up to this."

"well, she didn't exactly ask, I just – I overheard her telling kazuha about it, and she did suggest this trip herself for once, so – " hattori sat up, tugging at his pillow (halfheartedly, because both of them going at full strength would probably leave it in tatters). "c'mon, kudo, I'm here to help. even kazuha's noticed something off about the two of you, and I don't want her upset."

"in case you lose a limb again?"

"not funny, kudo. believe me, even being a vampire won't protect you from a properly angry kazuha."

conan grabbed his pillow back, hugging it as he turned to stare at the ceiling. "honestly, it's... nothing too major, really, just – I guess bats kind of perceive space – or spatial dimensions – differently? especially when it comes to my own size, and..."

"...being twenty small bats is better than being one small human, is that it?" hattori asked when he didn't continue. conan nodded –

– and let out an oof of surprise when another pillow (hattori's, confirmed by the faint spark of a static shock) landed squarely on him.

"you're right, kudo, it's nothing too major," came hattori's voice from somewhere beyond the impromptu upholstery fort. "because suddenly losing your body as you know it is nothing major at all. no big deal."

conan opened his mouth to say something –

"trust me, I would know," said hattori, with enough irony to rival haemoglobin.

– and shut it again abruptly.

"you're a real idiot sometimes, kudo, did you kno-" hattori dodged the pillow thrown his way, and snickered. "I'll take that as agreement, I think."

"I don't know, you're usually more complimentary towards my intellect," conan grumbled. "now hush, some of us need to sleep."

"no you don't!" hattori announced cheerfully, and conan promptly went bat(s) as one dubiously resurrected detective pounced onto his bed.

hattori attempted to glower at him.

this was considerably complicated by the need to do so in nearly two dozen directions at once, and also by the fact that hattori had tripped over and yanked out his charging wire while doing so.

"owowow," muttered hattori, wincing-or-glowering in some vague direction over the chorus of wings as five bats dove down towards where the wire had fallen. "thanks, kudo, I really apprecia–"

hattori looked up,

.

and saw the same five bats rapidly gaining height as they held on to his charging wire, all while being careful to stay clear of the live end.

"–'ppreciate it," heiji finished flatly. "very mature, kudo. ha ha."

flapflapflapflapflap, went the five kudo-bats, as they stopped rising to hover two feet above where he was lying down, safely out of reach.

"you can't stay up there forever, you know." heiji paused. "besides, I can just – "

flapflapflapflapflap, went all the other kudo-bats, as they promptly landed on him before he could move to get up.

heiji glared. various numbers of bats stared back, depending on the direction he looked in.

(he had a sudden and foreboding premonition of himself being stuck here until tomorrow morning, pinned down by – heiji did a quick headcount – yep, 20 holmesian bats who were going to take it in shifts to replace the ones holding his charging cord up in the air, all while he slowly but surely ran out of battery.)

"c'mon, kudo, you can't stay up there forever and I feel like I'm talking to myself," heiji said, in a completely sensible and reasonable manner. he didn't know much about bat anatomy, sure, but he was fairly certain that bats weren't supposed to be able to shrug.

twenty bats shrugged at him, including the five who somehow failed to drop out of the air or lose any altitude at all.

(this was ridiculous. they were ridiculous. it wasn't like heiji hadn't seen kudo hitching a ride on the neechan's witch hat, so he knew that the bats could cling onto clothing just fine, and even if any of them fell off they could literally fly, so there was really nothing stopping heiji from getting up right now and –

well. except that dying had done no favours for his night vision, and the last thing he wanted or needed was to accidentally step on and/or electrocute any kudo-bats, because that would be a quick road to homicide via witchy neechan if kudo was out of commission tomorrow, and he didn't think even kazuha could revive him this time.

ugh.)

heiji rolled his eyes and reached up to tug a pillow under his head. if he was going to resign himself to getting stuck here, at least he could do it in comfort.

two of the bats that'd been on his arm took flight as he moved, swapping places with another two who'd been holding up the wire.

"anyway," heiji continued when relative peace had been restored, "you should tell the neechan. she'd understand, you know."

the airborne bats rose another foot, which was about the highest his wire could go.

"you don't want to tell her?" heiji raised an eyebrow. "why, because – that'd remind her that she can't fix whatever curse thing you got?"

the bats went down by half a foot, which heiji took to mean that he'd deduced correctly.

and it wasn't like he didn't understand, kinda – kudo didn't want to make that neechan feel guilty about stuff she couldn't fix, which. well. given the still-improbable stunt kazuha had pulled when it came to him, he wasn't really in a position to say anything.

but, still. letting her worry wasn't much better, at least not in his book, so. “if you don't tell her, I will."

that got no movement on the bat front, though he distinctly felt like he was getting something of a judgemental look from the bat in his direct line of sight – the same kind of Look kudo had when things weren't living up to his particular standards.

the effect was further enhanced by the distinct cowlick each kudo-bat sported.

"...fine, you're right, I wouldn't do that." heiji sighed, and wondered: did each of the bats get allotted 5% of kudo's brainpower, too? or was it more like... cloud computing, maybe, some hive mind thing?

(okay, jeez, he'd never paid attention in those classes – with good reason, they'd never been directly relevant to him and actually still weren’t. he knew enough about the physical characteristics of each species insofar as crime scenes or fights were concerned, of course, but otherwise... his lack of knowledge of other aspects was slowly but insistently becoming apparent.)

his thoughts were interrupted by a yawn, which was more a habit than necessary reflex by now. "point still stands, though, so work out something to tell her before she figures it out herself. and you'd better return my charger now, unless you really want to explain to kazuha and your neechan why we have to stop and look for a high voltage electrical outlet midway through sightseeing tomorrow."

the kudo-bats let out a collective squeak of justified terror at that, and descended with due haste and a wire before collectively swooping down on the backpack he'd brought along.

heiji plugged himself back in before sitting up to watch the bats tug open the bag's zipper and dive in to retrieve – a string of magician's scarves?

...nope, heiji corrected himself, the pieces of fabric were too misshapen to be anything scarf-like, and looked almost like –

one dropped in his lap.

– yep, tiny bat sweaters.

twenty of them, in fact, wielded by a flock of suspciously innocent-looking bats that apparently constituted the Detective of the East.

now in bite sized form, his mind supplied. some rivalry this had turned out to be.

he picked the sweater up, and the bat who'd dropped it circled down to hang upside down from his hand, wings tucked neatly in on either side.

was it the same one from before? maybe, maybe not. honestly, heiji didn't think anyone but the neechan could tell, they all looked too identical each other. and speaking of which – well, witch –

"your neechan made twenty sweaters for you?" he asked, and the bat nodded as heiji flipped it right side up and tried to figure out how to put the tiny garment on. "I don't think kazuha even knows how to knit human-sized ones.”

the now-sweatered bat gave him another of those Judgemental Looks as it shuffled along up his arm to make way for the next bat to land.

heiji shook his arm slightly, and the two bats yelped, wings flailing as they clung on. "fine, fine, I wouldn't be here without her stitching skills, okay?"

the bats appeared to agree with that, from how they were forming a mid-air queue as he put yet another sweater on.

each one was a different colour, he'd quickly noticed, so it was just as well that they hadn't just dumped all of them in his lap at once. that'd have been like a multiple choice question with a negligible 1-in-20-factorial chance of getting the correct answer.

(or, again, basically impossible for anyone who wasn't kudo's neechan. he was starting to see why the two of them were inseparable – in the literal sense, sometimes.)

anyway: bat, sweater, bat, sweater – it was a pattern he was quickly getting the hang of, though he paused halfway through to complain about the massive weight imbalance until the bats deigned to redistribute themselves evenly over both his arms.

he'd pretty much lost count by the time he reached the last bat (dark red sweater, this time), and heiji contemplated the veritable rainbow of bats now dangling from both his arms as he helped to tug the sweater on. "we're real lucky to have them, ya know."

dark-red-sweater-bat chittered in response, and the others echoed in apparent agreement, though they sounded a little sleepy.

well. he supposed that was to be expected – vampires might not exactly need sleep, but kudo was practically a baby by their standards (much as heiji himself tended to forget that) and that probably counted for something.

the bats took flight again – in erratically clumsy paths that landed them on the bed in a haphazard patchwork of knitwear and bat – as heiji tugged at the covers and lay down, trying not to dislodge anyone. "g'night, kudo," he said between yawns.

he was answered only by the briefest flap of wings, and then –

heiji grinned. it wasn't like he was going to tell anyone that kudo-bats snored, was he?

not for now, at least.

-

-

(it's futile, heiji, ran already knows and she thinks it's c u t e)

then they somehow overslept and heiji accidentally overcharged himself and therefore spent the rest of the day bouncing off walls rip

EDIT: NOW CONTINUED HERE

[xbakugobakugobakugo]

muffy goes to hell

 i didn’t edit this and i wrote it on the high of no sleep. but still.

Buffy steps off the bus already regretting every single life choice she had ever made. Next to her, a fellow teammate checks her watch, which reads: 6:27 AM. After an hour bus ride, it’s still before sunrise. 

“Yo, Driscoll!” Marty shouts as he jumps off the bus. “Spikes?” Buffy tosses him her spike tightener, shivering in the crisp October air.

Somewhere nearby, someone lets out a scream as he discovers the forty foot hill that opens the course. Meanwhile, twenty Jefferson kids go about pitching a tent so they can shiver underneath a roof instead. Then they throw out snacks, which are banned unless throwing up on the forty foot hill is a desirable option. Buffy, who has already consumed a banana at exactly four hours before her allotted race time, shakes her head at the embarrassing runners who snack on stale uncrustables before the race. 

“Marty,” Buffy whispers, waiting to see if he hears her through his headphones. He doesn’t—he’s too busy thinking about the twenty or less minutes of death they’re all about to go through. Buffy decides to do the same; she visualizes sprinting at the beginning, feeling strong in the middle, and then feeling like she’s carrying Andi, Jonah, Cyrus, Marty, Libby, Amber, Reed, and TJ on her back as she wheezes to the finish line. 

Great. Can’t wait. 

Cross country is the only sport Cyrus refuses to show up and cheer for. Even Cyrus won’t show up with sunscreen, glittery signs, and moral support. Instead, Buffy’s mom comes out to one meet a month and Marty’s dad shivers in the car so he can drive him home. Andi wished her good luck the night before, with that awkward emoji face next to it, meaning—“you’re dumb for doing this sport, but good luck anyway!”

The morning slogs on, and Buffy drags Marty to the single bathroom which was last cleaned in 1985. They wait forty minutes, only to be retrieved by angry captains saying: sorry, it’s pre-run run time. Buffy tries her best not to throw something. 

At TJ’s basketball games, or Amber’s figure skate shows, or Cyrus’s musicals, Buffy can usually bring herself to smile. Enjoy the experience. But now, as she runs a mile before her actual race, in 40 degree weather, at 7:30 in the morning, she’s starting to feel like she’s smacking her head against a wall. Repeatedly.

“Stretch!” Marty calls out once they get back to the tent, which is being blown into the air. He smacks energy gum, which is probably, definitely some form of steroids but no one seems to care.

Buffy avoids ripping her muscles out by—reluctantly—stretching, and mostly just staring into space and seriously considering her life decisions. Marty, meanwhile, listens to screaming rap music (raccoon in da blender, obviously, along with heartbreak lake), and halfheartedly reaches for his toes. 

Finally, there’s only twenty minutes until the race, and they both put on uncomfortable shoes which have spikes sharper than the wing of Amber’s eyeliner if she tries hard enough. Marty laces her shoes, and Buffy laces his. They whisper a cross country blessing to each other: “bless our shoelaces, our timing chips, our jerseys, our nerves, and our results.” Then Marty writes the words “Plus Ultra” on her arm and she writes the words “Go the distance” on his. It’s an age old tradition with no explanation, but it’s the only way to prepare for what they are about to experience. 

At the starting line, in a mixed girls and boys race, Marty gives Buffy a quick hug, then proceeds to ignore her, because she’s competition. Buffy imagines Cyrus is there, counting down the seconds until the gun is fired. And when it goes off, and her mind goes blank, and her legs start to move, she clears all thoughts of friends out of her head. She sees nothing but green field, feels nothing but biting cold, thinks of nothing but the steps in front of her.

Of course, that works the first 100 meters, but by the second 100 meters she has Boomerang by JoJo Siwa in her head and is trying to resist surgically removing her own mind for blessing her with this song. And of course, the song syncs in line with her footsteps and breathing, so it doesn’t go away. The entire race.

Marty’s mind is completely blank because he’s too busy dying a slow death to put anything into his head. Except, somewhere in the second mile, he starts to think about anime, and it’s all over. The energy gum has given him enough energy to finish the race in less than eighteen minutes, but it’s also given him enough energy to play through every single episode of attack on titan in his head at full volume in the span of four hundred meters. And then to do it again. 

Somewhere in the second mile is also when Marty permanently passes Buffy, offering no acknowledgement. Buffy just keeps running, feet pounding and Boomerang raging. The finish line is nearing sight, except not really, and they still have a mile and a half left. Buffy accidentally-not-accidentally stabs someone with her spike, who may or may not have been Iris. Who knows? It’s common knowledge that no one is responsible for what goes down in a cross country race. It’s a sacred, untouched time. 

While Iris bleeds from a single spike-shaped hole in her leg. Marty’s feet nearly fall off because someone had the bright idea to fill one quarter of the course with cursed concrete. He considers, several times, untying his shoes and running the rest barefoot. He doesn’t, though, because surrendering one’s shoes is just like surrendering one’s weapon. He thinks about stale uncrustables and also the even-more-stale-and-possibly-moldy knockoff uncrustables Cece bought for the same. Meanwhile, Buffy fever dreams of baby taters as she realizes they have to once again run straight up a forty foot hill.

A vertical, forty foot hill. 

Cross country skiing is almost, (almost) preferable to the trek up the final hill. Almost. Buffy claws her way up the slope, makes it to the top, nearly throws up, and spots Marty a ways away already crossing the finish line. Some coach yells at her to speed up, but her ears are tuned out to spectators and tuned in to the jumping heartbeat in her chest and the absolute lack of breath she has. She even hallucinates TJ, Cyrus, and Reed in the crowd, wearing matching t-shirts to cheer them on. That, of course, (more than a single genuine cross country fan at a meet) is as much of a dream as her ever actually reaching the finish line. 

Fortunately, neither Marty nor Buffy throw up after tumbling over the finish line. Gus does, because he’s being forced by his parents to run and because social events make him nervous. There’s too much cross country camaraderie here, between the solidarity of guys wearing short shorts to the awkward, “inspirational” posts made by the most elite runners in the state. Buffy and Marty both made inspirational cross country instagrams, once, seeing as they’re milesplit famous and known by fellow jealous runners as the Jefferson lovebirds. The only picture Marty ever ended up posting (because he would rather stalk other runners and screenshot milesplit results to spam Buffy with) was an artsy shot taken just after a state race at one point, of Marty and Buffy kissing right across the finish line against a sunrise background. Buffy, on the other hand, posts daily story updates of every run she goes on, and recaps every single race in a long paragraph rant. Even TJ reads them, despite reluctance. Marty couldn’t be more proud. 

Once Marty is done dragging Gus back to the tent, some captain announces: now that everyone has finished running, it’s time to run (again)! Buffy, once again, plays through her life decisions in her head as she shuffles along behind her teammates at a speed slower than Cyrus’s mile time. Marty looks like something has sucked the soul out of him (because it has, and that (something) was 3.1 miles of soul-sucking fun). Finally, they finish, and stretch again, because why wouldn’t they? 

Buffy scrolls through several inspirational messages on her phone: from her mom, from Cyrus, the old one from Andi, and, shockingly, one from TJ. 

“Time for uncrustables!” Marty screams, interrupting her thoughts. Being a smart girl, Buffy grabs seven granola bars, three bags of (regular flavor) cheez-its, and eighty packs of Mott’s fruit snacks (because one never knows when the supply will disappear). Marty eats four bananas and every single honey uncrustable in the box, because he’s chaotic.

“Results? Times?” someone goes around asking everyone: the neurotic one. Buffy just throws him a look that says: ask me and I will push you off the bus. Marty, who lacks such a look in his repertoire, gets bullied into guessing his time, only to be met with a pitying glance from someone who didn’t even run the race.

“Hey Marty,” Buffy calls, “the Spoon after?”

Marty nods, and then nods some more. The only way to erase the trauma is to overeat baby taters and cry in a public place—sometimes, while flaunting the medals acquired in the race.

Somewhere in the corner, Gus is still throwing up. Buffy mentally prepares herself for another bus ride, only this one will be less anxious and more full of regret: that she didn’t run faster, that she ate all seven granola bars, that she showed up for the first day of practice and didn’t take up the trombone instead. Maybe she should have joined Andi’s crafting group, or Walker’s art appreciation society, or Cyrus’s thespian club. 

While she’s contemplating all of this with her nose pressed against the window, Marty comes over and puts an arm around her, then prompts falls asleep on her shoulder. Several teammates sing along in unison to high school musical and various rappers blasting through a tiny speaker. Everyone holds on to their seats, hoping that *this time* the coach doesn’t crash the bus.

There’s probably a lesson in there, about teams and relationships and bonds and being worth it. Unfortunately, the message gets lost in Buffy’s mind, which is operating exactly like she woke up at 4:30 in the morning—which, she did. And so, while reflecting on the last few hours of her life, Buffy’s eyelids slip down until she’s sound asleep between Marty and the window, catching up on sleep already so she can wake up and do it all again next weekend. 

[clarenecessities]

6/20/17

hell of a day, folks. hell of a day. as some of you may recall it is extremely rare that i am genuinely angry--last time was about six months ago, and the time before that? four years. unfortunately it does have a tendency to make up for lost time bc i have been known to fly into a rage (none have been directed at other people since The Dark Times, which we’re not going to talk about today)

so basically: we’re doing locker room clean outs, right? like we go through and we cut all the locks that are still on lockers (we gave them upwards of a month’s notice to clear them out) and then bag the stuff up and label it in case they come back like “uh hey my locker is gone and also all my shit”.

yesterday went pretty smoothly, but lucie and emma weren’t there today so it was me, Charlie, Lani, Ali, John, and Briana. A brief breakdown:

Charlie is our staff facilitator, a position which was invented specifically for him because he is one of the most dedicated employees this facility has ever seen, and was passed over for a lead position when Ray (our boss) selected the two people who he had worked with the most--which were unfortunately just the people who had been kissing his ass the most, Adam (a condescending misogynist who hasn’t been in the building for upwards of a month) and Lani. Charlie actually does his job, which is saying a lot at the CRC tbqh. Charlie is my adopted son and I love him, damn it. As staff facilitator, he basically runs the ops staff (me) and does what needs doing. He also does every part of Adam’s job that hasn’t already been pawned off onto Lani.

Lani is one of our two leads. She is very, very young for a lead and socially reads somewhat like an anxious child who can read the vibe, but has no idea how to respond to it. She’s very friendly and loves to give compliments, but hates all negativity. It amplifies her awkward fidgeting by like a hundred. She’s John’s long-time girlfriend and has recently (since her promotion) become friends with Ali.

Ali is the worst.

John is very hard-working, genuine, and generally a positive person. The only fault I’ve noticed is he follows direction without consideration, so he can be pulled in several conflicting directions.

Briana is the younger sister of one of our former ops staff, and basically lives in the awkward zone Lani sometimes inhabits. She’s very young, a moderately hard worker, and desperate for approval but not recognition.

picture the scene... a humid, smelly locker room covered in discarded pieces of trash and waiting baskets. the morning begins with lock-cutting, which continues unimpeded for the better part of an hour and a half, until Lani has to go upstairs for a meeting.

chaos descends.

charlie and i had just finished cutting through a lock specifically designed to resist cutting, and subsequently had to cut off the latch of the locker because we twisted it so bad. (this locker had been locked for the entirety of my CRC employment, like... there was a card in there that expired in september of 2014.) we were trying to cut other locks but our arms were under a little too much strain, so charlie was like alright, i’m calling a break.

so we all rest for about fifteen minutes. charlie went somewhere else so the break room was me, ali, briana, and john. it was..... hell. ali was like “hey where did lani go” because she doesn’t actually listen when lani speaks, so i was like “she said she had a meeting.” Now, a little more background: Ali is being trained in admin functions. This is essentially a meaningless distinction in regards to hierarchy, and instead reflects pay scale. Emma is also being trained, and doing much better, and I’m going to start training next week. if they’re asking me to do it? it’s not about hierarchy. anyway. Ali started fucking power tripping. she was like “oh well is it an admin meeting” and i was like “no, charlie didn’t know about it” because charlie, as staff facilitator, must be present at admin meetings. ali has visibly decided that not only is staff facilitator a fake position that she won’t recognize, but that her actual fake position conveys real power, and says “yeah but if it’s admin then i should be up there“ like no, ali, you really fucking shouldn’t. you are living in an Assistant TO THE Regional Manager world, my dude! anyway she kept asking me fucking questions about it and eventually i was just like, “dude, if you were supposed to be there, lani would have told you” and she stopped.

oh i forgot to mention, during the lock cutting phase i asked her why she had the american flag on her cast and she was like “oh because i love america” and i was like “oh cool so you hate the flag? that’s what this is?” & charlie and i had to explain the flag code to her. not the part about not using it as a costume or whatever: The existence of the Flag Code. it’s also just like a really fuckin’ ugly cast, it’s more stars and bars than stars and stripes... she fucking voted for trump though so hey whatever’s racist enough for you i guess

at the end of the break, charlie comes into the breakroom and says, quote, “let’s get jiggy with it” and gestures to the locker rooms, so i like get up & we get back to work, right?

the others stayed. either they didn’t understand the pantomime, or they weren’t done talking about mediocre horror movies, which they’d been doing when i left.

so twenty minutes later, after our allotted fifteen minute break, they mosey back on into the locker room and begin bagging. charlie’s more irritated than i am at this point--i was mostly like, alright, whatever, at least i don’t have to listen to them circle jerk it for another twenty minutes. it took all three of them, working together, to bag one row of lockers, in additional twenty minutes. contextually: they had to empty a grand total of three lockers. the majority of the twenty minutes was spent either gaping at a jar with some spit in it, or by ali complaining that her leg was on fire. i should add that she’s in a cast because she broke some toes about a month ago, she’s got one of those little cart things that she’s wheeling around on rn--not a wheelchair, like a scooter with a high bench. anyway she physically couldn’t cut the locks and so had been sitting around the majority of the morning distracting the others, and was now spending the noon complaining for anyone within earshot, which was everyone.

charlie and i, meanwhile, had finished cutting all the locks, and were now onto the bagging process. we cleared four rows in addition to the six additional locks we cut while they were all working on their three bags.

i was mostly tuning them out and focusing on the content of the lockers, because charlie was getting the stuff out and i was writing it down

at the end of this twenty minute interval, they approached charlie and me and said ray had given us $20 dollars for lunch. ali suggested the greenery (our campus cafeteria), which is ludicrous for a number of reasons, foremost among them being that the greenery Sucks, and that it costs $10 per person and there were five of us. i suggested pizza but charlie was like ehhhhh bc we had pizza yesterday and normal humans don’t subscribe to my unholy eating regimen--but it was too late. they’d already seized on the idea. so at 12:26 (i checked my phone) they left.

a half hour later, as we were wheeling bags back to the lost and found, we saw them talking with lani in the hallway. they continued to talk until about 1:08, at which point state troopers were doing a patrol of our building as part of their wider sweep of campus, because i guess that’s where we’re fucking at right now

while they were gone, some serious shit happened, and i’m gonna copy and paste it from facebook bc it’s A Lot:

charlie and i were cleaning out the lockers and heard people throwing weights. we were like "uh, what the fuck" so charlie went up to check it out. he found 3 athletes working out and he was like "yo... we're closed." this guy is like "oh, the coaches let us in, you can go check with them" and charlie's like "uh yeah okay i'll go do that" and as he's walking away the guy calls him a bitch like you can't even say it to his fucking face? christ dude so charlie's not a fucking twelve year old & just keeps walking, he bumps into ray who apparently did let them in, lets him know the situation. five minutes later i am Incensed on my son's behalf and they're still throwing weights, so I go up there to ask them to stop, have some words if necessary, you know two of the guys are chill about it but this third one is like "uh, weights make a noise when you set them on the ground" like yeah thanks man I haven't worked in a gym for three years or anything i had no idea. i continue to tell him to set them down & not pick things up if he can't fucking lift them, he gets increasingly belligerent and brings up charlie "disrespecting" him and "coming at [him] like [he's] a liar". so I'M like "oh, you mean my supervisor, who you just called a bitch?" and he goes off about how he doesn't do anything to us, he's never done anything to us, like we shouldn't be wondering why he's in a locked building filled with dangerous equipment with no supervision, or asking him not to damage our fucking floors he kept turning away from me and putting his earbuds in to front like he doesn't give a shit about me but he just came off like a fucking coward. he also wouldn't say bitch to me? like he said charlie "was being a B-word" like jesus christ dude you aren't entitled to be here! it is specifically against the rules and i have no idea why they let you in, so if you insist on being here, how about not verbally abusing our staff facilitator and treating the ops staff--who is seconds away from peeling you like a god damned onion --like a five year old

i ended this in a full-on rage tbqh. like thank god i did eventually develop some impulse control or i might have murdered that guy in our weight room.

came back down and was just real, real fuckin’ mad, told charlie what happened, tried to channel fury into productivity (surprisingly effective, although my hands were shaking which may have affected legibility) and tried to talk myself out of breaking something.

oh also the guy explicitly told me “we’re enemies” like DAMN dude you have no idea what a can of worms you just cracked open. you wanna be enemies? ohhh i’ll be enemies. y’all can add this asshole to that murder suspect list from yesterday because it’s all downhill from here my guy

well. anyway. about 2:06 john is like “hey clare your pepsi’s in the breakroom” (i asked them to just bring me a pepsi wherever they were going) and i was like “cool i’ll be right there.” i still needed to calm down before being in a room with anyone even mildly irritating so i did a couple more lockers and waited for charlie to finish wheeling the bags out.

we step into the break room and ali’s like “did you remember to put the bags in the same place” with no preamble, like A. of fucking course we did, this isn’t rocket science, B. you never told us that in the first place, C. you have absolutely no authority over me, and charlie outranks you. like yes she’s one of those people who just everything they do is annoying? but this was like... an explicit show of dominance, because lani was in the break room, and ali wanted to show off to her. tashina had also turned up and was the only one who seemed to notice that charlie and i were both seething--charlie was like “okay well i’m going home” and she told him to relax (in a slightly awkward but well-meaning attempt at saying ‘hey i can see you’re upset but probably don’t wanna talk about, take it easy out there’ that charlie interpreted as ‘calm down lad’ until i was like no, she was trying)

so then ray (you may recall; our supervisor) shows up to grab a couple slices of pizza, asks how everything’s going, and ali was like “oh yeah we did half” and i was so fucking done at that point, i just stared at her and said “no”

like nope, “we” didn’t do shit, and charlie and i got about a third down without you.

we talked for a while about operations... i mentioned the athletes to ray and he actually has a plan for it, i guess we’re going to meet with the teams before the school year and be like “hey, ground rules” which i think is a pretty good idea because the basketball guys are almost all dicks

ray mentioned at one point that he was probably going to base summer hours on who was turning up for these cleanouts, and tashina made a point of mentioning that charlie and i had been working “especially hard” which i really appreciated, because the idea of having to work a shift with ali over like lucie or emma makes me want to Die

so about 2:50 they’re like “okay well the pizza’s been gone for a half hour, i guess we should work now” and i was like man, you know, charlie is gone and i’m still really fucking angry, so i don’t think i should be trapped in a small, hot space with y’all rn & i went home

as i was walking back i actually ran into charlie, he had been on his way back because he had calmed down some & wanted the hours, but he was like yeah shit if you’re not there there’s no way i can handle them

so we were talking about the Parade of Bullshit that comprised our work day and somehow it turned into me going back to his place (he lives in my apartment complex but like three buildings over) to see his guns. i can now officially say i’ve held a gun, & it was just as surreal and terrifying as i imagined! i’m never gonna be a gun person tbh but it cool to see the differences between his, he’s got a soviet issue rifle (complete with bayonet) & then a more modern one that looks like plastic but isn’t

we just hung out for a while, his dog lucky wouldn’t stop jumping on me, which was all in good fun but i like moved my hand wrong and hit his tooth so now my hand hurts :/ he showed me the Last Of Us which i’d never really seen outside of gifsets & i was actually pretty impressed with the graphics! the animation was good too, which i feel like you don’t see in games so much. we got through the prologue part & then i gave charlie a ride to physical therapy bc he had forgotten the bus schedule changes for summer, & i was going that way anyway to get some bubble tea

i get to the mall, guess who’s out of boba!! i was like no.................. my heart can’t take this, but then alyssa checked & was like “yeah the next batch will be ready in twenty minutes” so thank god. thank heckin’ god. i grabbed some lemonade and pretzel bitz from wetzel’s pretzels--that fucking vine with the Indiana Jones song has been fucking haunting me by the way--and chilled in my car because my phone had died at charlie’s place and i needed to charge it up. went and got my bubble tea, got some gas, picked up charlie & then took him on some errands ‘cause like fuck the bus, right? hatched some good pokemon

came back home, relaxed with toby and my bubble tea & forensic files. finally achieved Calm.

decided at about 10:30 that i wanted ice cream & i was like shit if anybody deserves ice cream it’s me rn so i went to mcdonald’s & got a cone & two apple pies for a grand total of 2-something dollars. how am i supposed to resist going back there every day is the real fuckin’ question man

anyway now i’m super tired and i’m going to bed so like....  yeah

[critrolestats]

Monster Analysis: Raishan, The Diseased Deceiver

Thanks to @pettyartist for the art!

First Appearance: 39 Omens

Encounter Appearance: 80 Raishan

Armor Class 22 (suggested 21)

Speed 80 ft flying (160 ft flying, hasted)

Blindsight 60 ft, darkvision 120 ft, passive 27

Immune to Poison

Three Legendary Resistances

Four Legendary Actions per round

Suggested Average, Max HP: 385, 594

389 damage taken before fleeing

233 damage taken before Contingency, 48 blow by Grog

"You've got a few surprises, I see. But you're not the only ones."

Raishan

In Episode 79, Raishan was very strategic in what abilities she used, how she positioned herself, and where she focused her attention. As we stated in our Thordak analysis, Raishan stayed far from Thordak, ensuring that only her “pawns” would take the heat. When it came time for her to make her move, she was still relatively fresh in the fight when the tables inevitably turned. A quick retreat and a few strategic buffs and debuffs set up the fight in her favor before it truly began.

From the start of Episode 80, Raishan upped her offensive game. In the final seven rounds that represented the episode, Raishan cast:

(0:17:23) Greater Invisibility (4th)

(0:25:38) 2 Legendary Actions: Dispel Magic (Vex’ahlia) (3rd)

(0:35:35) 2 Legendary Actions: Dispel Magic (Vax’ildan) (3rd)

(0:40:24) Dispel Magic (Percy) (3rd)

(0:49:50) 2 Legendary Actions: Dispel Magic (Grog) (3rd)

(0:52:52) Counterspell (3rd)

(0:59:43) Abi-Dalzim's Horrid Wilting (8th)

(1:36:43) 2 Legendary Actions: Cast Prismatic Spray (7th)

(1:43:34) Contingency (Haste) Previously cast

(1:44:29) 2 Legendary Actions: Dispel Magic (Scanlan) (3rd)

(2:12:56) 2 Legendary Actions: Cone of Cold (5th)

(2:19:12) 2 Legendary Actions: Melf’s Acid Arrow (2nd)

(2:37:25) Cone of Cold (5th)

(Not mentioned) Legendary Action: Wall of Force (5th)

(3:03:07) Teleport (7th)

In terms of actions per round, Raishan very nearly maximized her use of legendary actions, using 20 out of 24 possible legendary actions. Even the turns where she didn’t use all of them were strategically chosen. In Round 10 (2), the rest of the party rushed into the lair and Raishan still maintained her Greater Invisibility and tactical view over the battlefield without revealing her location. In Round 11 (3), Vax’ildan engaged her. Rather than attempt spells in melee range, she spent her less costly Tail Attacks to swat at the only individual capable of getting in her face up to that point. Rather than use all four actions against Vax via tail attacks, she saved her last two actions for another spell, though they went unused.

In contradiction to maximizing her own opportunities, she was very clever to minimize what the party could do to her. When they weren't unconscious or fighting the lingering effects of the Cinder King's inner lair, the party spent a significant portion of the later rounds administering potions, casting healing spells, or bringing fallen members back from death. Part of this was necessary as mobility limited their options already, but a team that is focused on defense is not a team that can readily switch to offense.

The Contingency spell in particular speaks to the level of preparation Raishan had ready. Once it triggered, her strategy turned from “invaders must die” to plans of escape. Only after she had been hasted did she begin using her legendary resistances to reduce unavoidable spell damage. She also focused on keeping the party incapacitated so she could grab the remaining eggs and retreat to Thordak’s waiting corpse. Her last act was to wall off her enemies just long enough for her to make her escape.

Thordak vs. Raishan

Thordak took over 1400 points of damage, had six allies assist in the encounter, and had an enhanced hit point pool thanks to the Soul Anchor. Raishan presumably reached her halfway point by 233 points of damage (when her Contingency spell went off), had no allies, and had significantly less HP due to her Soul Curse. So, why was the Diseased Deceiver that much more formidable than the Cinder King?

One of the key differences between Thordak and Raishan was that the Cinder King, quite simply, was not as elusive. 76 attacks were made against Thordak in the span of 5 rounds, 50 of which dealt damage (65.79%). Meanwhile, only 37 attacks were taken against Raishan in the span of 9 rounds, and only 22 of those dealt any damage (59.46%). While Thordak did well enough keeping out of range of the melee fighters, Raishan optimized her strategy to the point that she limited the number of actions even her ranged and arcane opponents could take against her.

Thordak's Lair

Thanks to Brian Foster and Talks Machina for providing this image!

The lairs and surrounding areas of the other fallen dragons ceased activity almost immediately with the deaths of their residents. Due to Thordak’s massive size, corrupting influence, and elemental transition, the change in Emon's landscape ran much deeper. Lava, tremors, and toxic gas bubbled to the surface, while far underground, the volcano raged on even stronger without need for a source.

It’s difficult to say which was more problematic: the poison gas (used twice here) or the magma bubbles (used three times). Had Scanlan been able to fight against the poison cloud in round 13, he may have been able to counter Raishan’s Cone of Cold that knocked out Vax, Scanlan, and Pike, and gave Vex her second failed death save of three. By the same token, the magma was also responsible for one of Scanlan’s three failed death saves. By the end of the encounter, half the party had less than 10% of their total health. Even with Raishan gone, two splashes of magma could have made just escaping very, very difficult.

That’s not including the terrain, which Raishan used to her complete advantage. From hiding in the smoky tunnels to forcing the party to play hopscotch over lava pools to ultimately sealing off the exit, Raishan stayed relatively comfortably out of reach taking shots from a distance while letting Thordak’s legacy clean up the rest.

Vox Machina

Vox Machina's best round came in the twelfth (4th). This round brought Devo'ssa and a grand total of 180 damage to Raishan, and was the last round everyone ended conscious before they started falling like flies. Unfortunately, this was also the same round Percy took damage from Animus backfiring, Vax lost both his consciousness and his wings, and Raishan gained her pre-cast Haste. This was as good as it got.

Scanlan’s clutch counterspell against Raishan’s Prismatic Spray can be partially credited for the lack of TPK. Although he was stunned by the poison gas in the following round and unable to counter her next mass KO spell, this delay bought enough time for Devo’ssa to appear as a legitimate threat for the party to ultimately reorganize, as well as forced Raishan to rely on a weaker spell.

Gilmore and Devo’ssa played pivotal roles in this battle. Gilmore’s dispel prevented Raishan from removing every Heroes’ Feast without fear, forcing her to enter the fray sooner rather than later. While the brass dragon only got off a single fire breath, a wing attack, and a single clean hit, their presence alone intimidated Raishan into retreating to her original task instead of finishing business with Vox Machina.

By the end of the battle, the primary focus shifted from damage to survival. Kima found herself once again relegated to healer, bringing Gilmore back to consciousness. Pike released a single Sacred Flame before spending the rest of the battle healing and reviving. Scanlan and Keyleth’s Healing Words got serious use this battle, and even Vax used a third of his allotted Lay on Hands to bring his sister back to consciousness after she had already died.

Speaking of which, we can’t end this without talking about death. Vex and Scanlan both failed all three of their throws due to the same three separate factors: environmental hazard, Raishan’s malevolent determination, and bad luck. Thanks to Pike’s last remaining 4th level spell slots, a pair of successful mid-battle checks, and luck of the dice, both Vex and Scanlan returned to the living before Raishan could fully leave the battlefield. Matt informed us that the system is being tested to raise the stakes on future rituals, but for now, Vox Machina lives to fight another day. (Or, at least survive what’s left of the battle of Emon…)

[rudra-writes]

Pallas and Telurin - Inn Conversation (Part 1)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. The following evening, Pallas and Telurin chat over their meal at the town’s inn. Telurin warns Pallas that he should continue his studies in Light and mental magic for self-defense.

Pallas will find Telurin seated at the table nearest the fire, the servers and other patrons giving him sideways glances. There's a bottle of bourbon in front of him, and two glasses, one of which is half full. There are several covered dishes on the table, though only one place is set, the one next to him.

Telurin and Sugarfoot had parted ways with Pallas to make accommodations at the inn. Pallas, meanwhile, met with an official to collect the bounty on the Dread Raven Telurin had slain. He is given a full pouch of coins. It was the most money he'd ever held in his hands at one time.

By the time the priest shows up at the inn, it is already late at night. Plates clattered, the fire burned warm and rosy, and bawdy tales were sung, at least, after the shock of the presence of a Death Knight had worn off enough to allow things to become generally normal again. The Anchorite steps over to Telurin's out of the way table, clutching a tall, expensive-looking bottle. He glances down at the single place setting. "Oh?  You ordered for me already?" He sets the bottle down on the tabletop and takes a seat, snuffling curiously at the covered dishes.

Telurin eyes the bottle in the Anchorite's hands, and nodded. "The servers were getting anxious." Telurin smirks, "And I have a fair idea of what kinds of things are offered at temples, and I can assure you I've ordered nothing of the sort."

Pallas is privately delighted. He tries to turn it into a joke to give Telurin a hard time, because he's in a good mood and he can. "Are you encouraging my bad habits, Telurin? What if I should find out I really like... whatever you've ordered here? I  won't be able to go back to my normal fare."

Telurin would be able to see that the bottle Pallas brought for them is rum. "I didn't realize you had already gotten alcohol..." What are they going to do with this much alcohol? But Pallas is at the moment feeling so flushed with pleasantness at having money and good food, he chooses to ignore Telurin's warning the Death Knight had told him about on the way here. Pallas drops the bag of coins on the table in front of Telurin so that the Death Knight can see how much the bounty was for himself. "You're the one who slew the beast... This money should really be yours."

Telurin waves off the idea. "Keep it. Use my share for riding lessons, and I will consider it well spent." His eyes flick to the bottle of rum as he stresses 'well spent.' "I do hope you realize that is quite a bit stronger than mead. You would do well to consider eating something first." Under the covered dishes, Pallas will find a variety of things the inn is known for… duck confit, eel pie... all things that would be rarely seen in a temple commissary.

Pallas looked at the rum bottle. "Is it?" The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, "Good thing I got it mostly for you." Pallas took the cork out of the rum bottle and poured himself what he hoped was a modest amount (it was still too much) and then began to delicately uncover the food. He blushes faintly. Look how nice Telurin was, getting him things he knew he'd be excited to try. "You are going to make me fat." Pallas eagerly tucks in. "Maybe you like pudgy Anchorites."

"You explicitly requested a feast." Telurin frowns at the amount of rum in Pallas's glass, but refrains from commenting. "And one meal will not ruin your physique, such as it is."  Telurin smirks with an eye on the physique in question, finding the concept of worrying about such things amusing. "Though I could promise to make you run along your talbuk if you do begin show signs of a paunch."

"Run alongside my talbuk? I will do no such thing," the skinny Anchorite replies in-between joyful mouthfuls of food. He swallows, and then says more genuinely, "It's delicious, Telurin. Thank you." He then takes his glass, and sips the rum. His eyes widen momentarily, but he didn't wish to embarrass himself in this public place, and began to gulp it down. That... That was strong. He coughs and tries to clear his throat, afterward, patting his chest. "Well, it's different." 

While he was remembering, he picked up the bag of coins and hid it back under his robes. Hopefully no undesirables saw the priest hide a bag of money on his person just now. Of course, they had a Death Knight to contend with if they had.

Telurin smirks, and pours a glass of water from the pitcher left on the table, setting it pointedly in front of Pallas. "You will if I can manage to unseat you from your mount. Think of it as incentive."

Pallas picks up the glass of water. He frowns stuffily at Telurin. "Unseat me from my mount? What on Draenor are you talking about? You are my escort. You wouldn't scare me off of my talbuk! That is not escorting." Pallas took a long drink of water and closed his eyes.

With his eyes closed, Pallas may have missed the wicked grin Telurin gave him, but his tone matches his expression nicely. "Would you prefer to test your skill when we are next attacked, or with me where the only danger to you is falling off your mount and injuring your pride? I know which I prefer, and this will be your only warning."

Pallas's brow twitched. He munches on some asparagus spears, then pushes the bottle of rum over to Telurin. "Help me drink this." Maybe if Telurin had some more spirits in his system, he would stop worrying about Pallas falling off talbuks. At least, that was Pallas's hope. "You are very obstinate about this. Do not worry, I said I would take riding lessons and I shall. Now, shall we talk about something more pleasant, and not related to me falling on my ass?"

Telurin shrugs, rolling his left shoulder more than anything, and finishes the rest of the bourbon in his glass in one swallow, to replace it with a generous amount of rum. He sets the bottle next to the bourbon, out of the way.  "Of course, Anchorite." His tone is amused and he inclines his head, a subtle gesture of submission. "Speak of what you wish."

Pallas had polished off a substantial amount of food, for his smallish and skinny frame. He burps quietly, muffling it with the palm of his hand, then begins nursing the rum. He licks his lips, apparently getting more used to the enjoyable properties of alcohol. "I... Well, I um." He looks bashful. "I was wondering why you needed to make frequent trips out to Karabor, if you were stationed in Shattrath. Shattrath has a pretty big temple, from what I recall. There wasn't a reason you had to go out that far, if you wished to commune with the Light..."

"It did." The death knight agrees, sipping his own allotment of rum with a bit more patience, "I had other business at Karabor, and an old friend who was no longer able to escape the responsibilities of his station when we settled on this planet." Telurin swirls his drink, watching it climb the sides of his glass in something like habit. He takes the rest of the glass as a shot and pours another. Better that most of the bottle go into him, where its effects will be dulled.

Pallas watches Telurin. He was still very curious about the other man... This unliving being who declined to speak much of his past. "Did he make it?" Pallas asks quietly. "Your old friend?"

"No." The word is final. Telurin swallows half of his newly poured glass in one go.

Pallas watches Telurin start chugging that alcohol. Bad choice of topic, clearly. "I'm sorry." Pallas looked back at his empty plate. There was only a smear of gravy left, which the Anchorite dabbed up with a piece of bread. "My sisters are my only family I have left." He poked the bread into his mouth, nodding to himself. "They stayed back on Azuremyst."

"Good." Telurin leaves his glass on the table, though his hand curls around it. "I imagine they are safe enough on the islands." His tail flicks in halfhearted irritation as he continues. "I have not managed to convinced my daughter to do the same. She has too much of her father's wanderlust, I suppose."

Pallas looked up at Telurin's face with interest upon hearing that the Death Knight had surviving family. "Does she still keep in contact with you?" Pallas asked gently. The greater question that was implied, was whether she could accept that her father had been transformed into an undead killing machine that drew pleasure from horribly torturing other sentient beings.

Telurin's expression softens the longer he speaks of Telrii, clearly still very much the proud father despite his words and circumstances. "She is the only surviving family member who does."

Pallas smiles faintly upon hearing that somewhat bittersweet news. "That is good of her," he replied, before picking up his glass of rum. He manages to finish the entire drink with a gasp, and wipes his mouth. "I am glad you are not alone. There's nothing worse than isolation." The priest's cheeks darkened faintly, "At least, that is what I think."

Telurin arches an eyebrow at both Pallas's attempt to keep up with his drinking and his words. "You do not strike me as one who has experienced much isolation." Telurin finishes his glass and pours for them both. He gives Pallas markedly less than himself, a single finger’s width instead of two.

Pallas is starting to look flushed - The alcohol is beginning to affect him now. He automatically reaches out and accepts the glass that Telurin has poured. His face looks moody, influenced by the alcohol in his system. "You don't know me very well if you think that. It's possible to be around others, and still feel alone." He gazed off at nothing for a moment. "... I suppose it is because I miss my bonded."

Telurin frowns at that response. He knows that ache, familiar but blurred with the loss of so much more. "You are young, yet." he finally says, stiff and uncomfortable, "You will find another. Not to replace him, but to compliment who you will become in their presence. Have you not spoken to your fellow Anchorites?"

Pallas sipped at the rum Telurin had poured him, and then shook himself, as if trying to recover his feelings. "You are right... I shouldn't dwell like this. Especially after feasting so well. It is not as if I am in great need." He blinked up at the big Death Knight. Telurin can see the bleariness in the other draenei's eyes. The Anchorite is a bit intoxicated. He gazes at Telurin longer than is proper, then catches himself and answers, "The Anchorites of this world's version of Karabor, yes. Those whom I grew up with... I suppose there must be some who remain. We are scattered now, like leaves in autumn."

Telurin makes a low noise of agreement. "Yes, I suppose they must have. We spread out amongst the other races of the Alliance too thinly, perhaps." In spite of his greater consumption, the only indication from Telurin that the alcohol is affecting him is the relaxation of the subtle tension that so often hangs over the death knight. He leans against his chair, studying the slight Anchorite, taking in his level of intoxication, his apparent inability to hold his liquor, mulling over the entire series of events that have led him to be here next to this man who trusts too easily, and purposefully does not consider the outcome if he had run into one with more nefarious intentions. He refills Pallas's not entirely empty water glass and pushes it toward him. "If your sisters remain on Azeroth, why did you volunteer to come here?"