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[qiekzart]

Draw rin and len from your favorite song featuring them!! :3

day 11 drawing len until my preorder arrives

ty for the request!! uua i should draw more of thhe bring it on outfit confsidering thats the outfit the figurine will have...

u can send requests in my askbox (≧∇≦)ﾉ (3 requests in askbox as of writing)

[thelastspeecher]

Spirit Touched - Chapter 5: Nephew

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   Chapter 5   Chapter 6   AO3

Whoops it took me longer to update this than I planned, but it turns out that moving states takes time and effort.  Hopefully I’ll be able to update every other week for the last two chapters, but we’ll have to see.  In the meantime, enjoy the crew fawning over sick Zuko and a sudden appearance from a certain beloved uncle.

Again, this fic is inspired by @muffinlance‘s fic Salvage and fanart that @agent-jaselin did of it.

——————————————————————————————

              It started with a sneeze, the day after they fished Zuko out of the ocean for the second time.

              “Aw, you sneeze like a raccoon-kitten,” Toklo cooed. Zuko glared at him.  Then sneezed again, louder.  A few sparks appeared with the second sneeze.  “Uh, little firebenders sneeze fire?”

              “I’m not little,” Zuko growled. “But…yes.”  He sneezed again.  Toklo hurriedly stomped out any sparks that landed on the deck.

              “This won’t end well,” Panuk said quietly.

----- 

              The sneeze progressed to a full-body cough, one that was so obviously agonizing it made the crewmen wince in sympathy.

              “We need to follow you around with a bucket,” Aake rumbled, watching Panuk and Toklo rush to put out yet another fire. It appeared that accidentally producing flames wasn’t something reserved for sneezing.  Zuko sat down on the deck, even paler than usual.  He coughed again.

              “That might be a good idea,” Panuk agreed, hurrying to stomp out the new sparks.  Zuko let out a low groan.  Aake pressed the back of his hand against Zuko’s forehead.  He quickly removed it.

              “You’re sick, kiddo,” he said to Zuko.  His voice had more affection in it than he’d realized he had for the boy.  Zuko looked up at him, eyes already glazed over with fever.  “Someone better take him to the healer right away.  When someone this young gets sick, it can go bad fast.”

              “Come on, little brother,” Toklo said, scooping Zuko into his arms.  “Wow, you’re warm.”

              “No, ‘m cold,” Zuko mumbled blearily.  He let out another hacking cough.  Toklo carried Zuko to the infirmary while Panuk stayed behind to put out the third accidental fire of the day.

----- 

              As Zuko’s condition worsened further, he became less and less willing to leave his pile of furs.  Eventually, he could only leave the infirmary if carried out.  The crewmen checked in near constantly.  At first, it was just Toklo, Panuk, and Hakoda. Then Bato.  When Aake began to stop by to inquire as to the toddler’s health, Kustaa knew it was official.

              Zuko had wormed his way into the heart of every crewman.

              “I’m surprised by how frequently you poke your head in,” Kustaa remarked to Aake.  Aake stroked Zuko’s hair.

              “He reminds me so much of Sitka, especially when he’s wearing blue,” Aake said, keeping his voice soft so as to not wake up the sleeping toddler.

              “All Zuko had to do to win you over was be turned into a four-year-old.”

              “Hmph.”

              “And don’t think that I haven’t noticed you only stop by when he’s asleep.”  Kustaa smirked at Aake.  “You don’t want him to know how much you’ve come to like him.”  Aake rolled his eyes.  “Maybe once he’s better, you can be another uncle of his.”  The door to the infirmary opened.

              “Come on, Kustaa.  Let a man miss his son in peace,” Bato said, entering.  “Aake, you’re needed on deck.”

              “On my way.”  Aake’s hand lingered on the crown of Zuko’s head for a moment before he got up and left.

              “How is he?” Bato asked Kustaa.  Kustaa sighed.

              “Sick and getting sicker.”

              “Any idea what it is?”

              “Not yet.”  Kustaa looked at Zuko.  “The kid should wake up soon, and once he does, I’m going to ask a few questions about his symptoms.  I’m starting to wonder if it’s something only seen in the Fire Nation.”  Bato frowned, concerned.

              “If it’s a Fire Nation illness, would you be able to cure it?”

              “Depends on what it is.  I have the instructions for treatments of a few Fire Nation maladies,” Kustaa said.  “Not as many as I’d like, though.”  Faint stirring came from Zuko’s pile of furs, along with a weak groan.  “Are you up, nephew?”

              “I’m up,” Zuko mumbled, fighting his way free. He sat up and stretched.  “Did you want something, Bato?”

              “I just wanted to check in on the sick little pygmy puma,” Bato replied.  He ruffled Zuko’s hair.  “Feeling better?”

              “I’m not feeling worse.”  Zuko let out a hacking cough.  “Never mind.  I am.” Bato raised an eyebrow.  “What?”

              “No sparks?”

              “He hasn’t produced fire on accident for a few days now,” Kustaa said, coming over.  He put the back of his hand against Zuko’s forehead.  “Hmm.  Your fever’s getting worse.”

              “Can he firebend on purpose?” Bato asked.

              “He is right here,” Zuko grumbled.

              “Zuko, would you mind trying to create a small flame?” Kustaa requested.  Zuko held out his hands.  His brow wrinkled in concentration.  The only thing emitted, however, was a weak puff of smoke.  “Hmm.”  Kustaa stroked his beard thoughtfully.  “Bato, could you get him something to eat?”

              “Will do.”  Bato gently lifted Zuko.  “Candy and sea prunes, right?”  Kustaa frowned at him.

              “Tummy hurts too much,” Zuko said blearily. “Not hungry.”

              “Broth it is,” Bato said.  He carried Zuko out of the infirmary.  Kustaa took down his most thorough book on illnesses.

              He can’t firebend…maybe that’s the symptom that will allow me to finally diagnose him.

----- 

              Hakoda knocked gently on the door of the infirmary.

              “Come in,” said Kustaa’s calm voice.  Hakoda entered, closing the door softly behind him.

              “Any luck?” Hakoda asked.

              “Some,” Kustaa said from his spot by Zuko’s side. He gently draped a blanket over the sleeping boy.  “I’ve figured out what he has.  It’s called bender’s burnout.  It’s an illness only firebenders can have, caused by the bender’s inner flame being stifled.” Kustaa got up and walked over to his desk.  He pulled out a book.  “According to this, hypothermia or a near-drowning are the primary means by which an inner flame is stifled enough to cause bender’s burnout.”  Hakoda swore softly.

              “This happened because he went overboard again?” he asked.  Kustaa eyed Hakoda.

              “Before I identified the illness, I knew that was the cause,” Kustaa said.

              “Yes, but-”  Hakoda shook his head.  “He didn’t get this specific illness when we fished him out the first time.  Why now?”

              “Apparently, bender’s burnout is most common in the very young, because their inner flames tend to be weaker.  As a teenager, Zuko’s inner flame was strong enough to hold his own in a firefight.  As a child, well.  You’ve seen how much effort it takes him to even make sparks.”

              “What’s the cure?”

              “I don’t know,” Kustaa said softly.  His lips flattened into a thin line.  “None of my texts have information on afflictions that only affect firebenders.  I was lucky to stumble across what I did: symptoms and the cause.”  Zuko coughed weakly from his pile of furs.  Hakoda looked over at the boy.  Zuko’s already pale skin was corpse-white, his forehead shone with a thin sheen of sweat, yet he was shivering intensely.  “If we hope to cure him, we’ll need to find a healer who has expertise on firebenders.”

              “Where would we find one of those?”

              “We could try the next port,” Kustaa said with a shrug.  “People believe us when we say Zuko is a war bastard for a reason.  There’s a lot of them.  And where there are firebenders, there are healers who know how to treat them.”

              “There’s no other way to help Zuko?” Hakoda asked softly.  A long moment passed.  Kustaa shook his head.

              “Bender’s burnout doesn’t go away on its own.  It needs to be treated.  And I don’t know how.”  Zuko tossed fitfully in his sleep.

              “How long does he have?”

              “I’m not sure,” Kustaa admitted.  “But my nephew is far more stubborn than anyone else I’ve met.  As long as I can continue to manage his symptoms, he should hang on until we make port again.”  Hakoda walked over to Zuko.  He brushed sweat-drenched hair out of the boy’s face.  Zuko leaned into the gesture with a faint smile.  Hakoda’s heart ached.  Zuko was so young, too young.

              “I’ll tell everyone we’re changing course. We’ll head for the nearest port.”

----- 

              The Akhlut finally arrived at a bustling Earth Kingdom town.  Hakoda carried Zuko, buried in furs, off the ship.  Kustaa followed close behind.  They approached the first person they saw.

              “Excuse me, but we need a healer,” Hakoda said urgently.

              “Ryo is-” the man started.  Kustaa stepped forward.

              “We need one specializing in firebender ailments,” he said softly.  The man’s eyes widened.

              “I hope we can trust you,” Hakoda said.  He put as much weight into the words as he could.

              “Of course,” the man said.  “My son’s best friend is a war bastard.  The boy goes to Healer Lee, on the outskirts of town.”

              “Thank you,” Hakoda said gratefully.  He reached into his pockets for money.  The man shook his head.

              “Save your money for your…”

              “Nephew,” Kustaa said.

              “Save the money for him.”

              “Thank you,” Hakoda repeated.  Zuko let out a weak cough.  “Hang in there, Nuktuk.”

----- 

              This town was lovely.  Iroh enjoyed the friendly townspeople.  But he couldn’t help being disappointed.  It was yet another dead end.  He had yet to find any sign of his missing nephew anywhere.

              In a sea of green and brown, there was a sudden burst of blue.  Iroh looked curiously at the two Water Tribe men rushing through the crowded town square. His eyes widened.  They were the same men he’d seen shortly before he arrived at the North Pole.  Iroh’s heart sank as he realized that one man wasn’t just carrying furs; a young boy was hidden within them.

              What was the boy’s name?  Nuktuk?  Nuktuk looked deathly ill.  Concerned for the boy’s health, Iroh followed from a safe distance.  They had just exited town when Nuktuk began to thrash in his father’s arms.

              “Lemme down, lemme down!” Nuktuk whined loudly. “I gotta-”  Nuktuk’s father (step-father, more likely – the boy seemed to be a war bastard) hurriedly set the boy on the ground.  Nuktuk stumbled forward and vomited.  His father knelt next to him, rubbing his back.

              “Are you okay to be carried again, Zuko?” the man asked.  Iroh’s breath caught in his throat.  The boy straightened.  Now close enough to see him well, there was no doubt as to who the child was.  Iroh would recognize his nephew anywhere, with or without the horrid scar on his face.

              What have the spirits done?

              “Zuko, we need to go to the healer,” said the second man.  Zuko nodded. “Can the chief pick you up again?”

              “I…”  Zuko trailed off.  He had caught sight of Iroh.  Their eyes met.  “Uncle!” Zuko sprinted away from the men, directly for Iroh.  Iroh dropped to his knees.  He held his arms out.  Zuko collided with him.

              “Prince Zuko,” Iroh croaked, embracing his nephew as tightly as he could.  He could feel Zuko’s fever through his clothes.  “Nephew, what are you doing?”

              “Seeing a healer,” Zuko replied.  Iroh held him out at arm’s length.  Zuko’s beautiful golden eyes, normally sharp like a hawk’s, were unfocused and cloudy with fever.

              “You certainly need one.”

              “Excuse me?”  Iroh looked up.  The tribesmen had walked over.  Iroh stood. He kept a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “Are you really his uncle?  General Iroh?”

              “Yes, I am,” Iroh said.  Zuko smiled at him.  “I have many questions, but I think they can wait until my nephew has seen a healer.”  The men looked relieved.

              “That would be best, yes,” said one.  “We got directions from someone in the village.”  Iroh picked Zuko up.  Zuko nestled against his chest.

              “Lead the way,” Iroh said firmly.

----- 

              Iroh and the tribesmen sat outside the healer’s house.  Zuko had been treated, but needed to rest for a while before the healer would let him leave.

              “We should probably introduce ourselves,” one of the tribesmen said abruptly.  “I am Chief Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe.  My companion is our healer, Kustaa.”  Healer Kustaa bowed his head.

              “Why did you need to bring Zuko to a different healer, if you had one?” Iroh asked.

              “I’m not well-versed in firebender ailments,” Healer Kustaa replied.  Iroh hummed softly.

              “By the way, thank you, General, for not attacking when you saw Zuko,” Chief Hakoda said.  Iroh leaned back.

              “You don’t get to be my age as a soldier unless you learn to take stock of a situation fast,” Iroh said.  “The immediate concern was my nephew’s health, not you.”  He chuckled softly.  “Not to offend you or anything.”

              “No, I understand,” Chief Hakoda said.  He leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. “But I still appreciate it.  To be frank, we wouldn’t have stood a chance against you.”  Iroh chuckled again.

              “I know.  So, how did you come to have my nephew with you?  I received a letter from a friend in the Northern Water Tribe telling me you had Zuko, but the letter didn’t provide many details.”

              “We pulled him out of the ocean, half-dead,” Healer Kustaa said.

              “Thankfully, the spirits stepped in, ensuring you rescued a young boy.  If you had come across a Fire Nation teenager, you would have had a drastically different reaction.”  The tribesmen looked at him, bemused.  “I have seen firsthand the realities of war; I know what would have happened if you stumbled across someone old enough to be a soldier for the opposing side.”

              “He wasn’t a toddler when we rescued him,” Chief Hakoda said slowly.  “That particular…situation is more recent.”

              “Then you are bigger men than I would have been in my days as a soldier,” Iroh said.  The men exchanged a look.  Clearly, they were holding something back.  But Iroh knewit would be best to wait patiently for further information, rather than immediately pry.  “Thank you for taking care of him.”

              “Well, the kid’s more endearing than he realizes,” Healer Kustaa said.  “Our youngest crewmen befriended him quickly.  Once he had them on his side, it was all over.”  Iroh beamed.

              “I’m very glad to hear that he has been working on his social skills.  My nephew tends to struggle to make friends.”  Iroh adjusted his seat slightly.  “How long has Prince Zuko been like this?”

              “A handful of months.  He’s actually spent more time with us as a toddler than as a teenager,” Chief Hakoda said.  “And before you ask, we don’t know why the spirits did this to him.”

              ���Zuko might know,” Healer Kustaa said suddenly. Chief Hakoda and Iroh looked at him. “The incident that made him fall overboard, which caused him to get so sick?  He’s been talking about it in his sleep.  Most of what he says is nonsense, since he’s been so feverish.  But every now and then, he mumbles something about talking to a young woman in the moon.”

              “The young woman…”  Iroh leaned forward.  “Prince Zuko wouldn’t happen to be calling her by name, would he?”  Healer Kustaa raised an eyebrow.

              “He’s called her Yue.”

              “A Water Tribe name,” Chief Hakoda remarked.

              “Yes, but also the name of the new Moon Spirit,” Iroh said.  Chief Hakoda and Healer Kustaa sobered immediately.

              “We heard about that,” Chief Hakoda said. “Like everyone else, we saw the moon go dark.  When we crossed paths with our sister tribe, they informed us of the tragedy that happened during the Siege of the North.”

              “Yes.  It was most distressing,” Iroh said solemnly.  “I was there.”  The door of the healer’s home opened.

              “He’s awake now,” Healer Lee said.  Zuko toddled out of the house.  “Kustaa, come inside, I’ll go over the continuation of his treatment.”  Healer Kustaa nodded.  He got up and followed Healer Lee inside, ruffling Zuko’s hair on his way.  Zuko sat between the two men.  He beamed at Iroh.

              “I thought I had only dreamed that you were back,” Zuko said happily.  Iroh rested the back of his hand against his nephew’s forehead.  The boy was still feverish, but whatever the healer had done clearly put him on the mend.

              “No, Prince Zuko, I’ve found you,” Iroh said warmly. A strange look crossed Zuko’s face. He looked down at his adorably minute feet.

              “Just Zuko, Uncle,” he mumbled.  Iroh hid his surprise at the request.

              “If you insist, nephew.”  The enormous smile was back.

              “Are you going to join the ship?” Zuko chirped. His grin broadened.  “You could get a fake name, too!”

              “I was hoping that the Water Tribe would be kind enough to let me accompany you, yes,” Iroh said with a nod.  Chief Hakoda grimaced.  “Chief Hakoda, I recognize that you would not be comfortable with two firebenders aboard your ship, but-”  The chief was already shaking his head.

              “You seem a sensible man, General.  As such, you should understand that it’s not my comfort I need to think of, but the comfort of my men.  They would not want the Dragon of the West on our ship.” Iroh’s heart sunk.  He bowed his head.

              “Yes, I understand.”

              “What?  But- Uncle!” Zuko whined.  Iroh put a gentle hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

              “Nephew, what is right may not be what I want to do. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it. What is right is that the men who have helped you so much stay comfortable.  I cannot be on the ship.”  He squeezed Zuko’s shoulder, his heart heavy.  “And what is right is that you continue to be treated for your illness. You need to stay with Chief Hakoda, so that Healer Kustaa can take care of you.”

              “But-”

              “Chief Hakoda,” Iroh said abruptly.  “Is your ship headed for a specific destination?”

              “Yes.”  Chief Hakoda eyed Iroh.  “Can I trust you with it?”

              “Pakku trusts him,” Zuko piped up.  “I trust him.  Isn’t that enough?”  Chief Hakoda wavered for a moment before sighing.

              “Fine.  We’re headed to Chameleon Bay, to help the Earth Kingdom Army protect Ba Sing Se.”

              “I’ll meet you there.”  Iroh smiled at Zuko.  “Maybe during my travels, I’ll stumble across a way to return you to your appropriate age.”  Zuko’s eyes widened.  Healer Kustaa emerged from the house.

              “Come on, nephew, you need to lay down for more rest,” Healer Kustaa said, taking Zuko’s hand.  Iroh tensed.  “Oh.” Healer Kustaa managed a wry smile. “When he was feverish and ill shortly after we brought him on board, he mistook me for you and called me ‘uncle’. Since then, I’ve called him my nephew.”

              “…I see,” Iroh said slowly.  He stood.  “I should leave.  It will take me longer to arrive at Chameleon Bay, given I won’t be traveling by ship.”

              “Before you leave,” Chief Hakoda said, standing as well, “would you please tell me what happened at the North Pole?  Our sister tribe didn’t inform us of any of the specifics, just that the Avatar had been involved in the battle and that the Moon Spirit was killed and revived.”

              “It may have been too painful,” Iroh said. “I am more than willing to share with you what I witnessed.  But if you don’t mind, I’d like to say goodbye to my nephew.”  Chief Hakoda nodded.  Iroh turned to Zuko.  He knelt on the ground.  “Nephew…” Zuko pulled free of Healer Kustaa’s hold and rushed forward to embrace Iroh.

              “I don’t want you to leave, Uncle,” he whispered. Iroh rubbed Zuko’s back.

              “I know, Zuko.  But remember what I said.  I can’t do what I want.  I must do what is right.”  Iroh removed something from his pocket, an item he had been holding on to since Zuko was lost at sea.  “Here.” He handed the knife to Zuko.  Zuko took it from him with awe in his eyes. “Do you remember this?”

              “Never give up without a fight,” Zuko said softly. Iroh smiled.

              “That’s right.  You are waging many battles right now, young nephew.  But keep fighting.”

              “I will, Uncle,” Zuko said, holding the knife close to his chest.  Iroh ruffled his hair.

              “Good.  Then I will see you soon.”  Iroh stood and watched Healer Kustaa lead his nephew away.  Once Zuko was out of sight, he turned to Chief Hakoda.  “I am willing to share my stories, but I would like more information as to my nephew’s stay with you in return.”  Chief Hakoda nodded.

              “I expected as such.”  The men began to walk together.  “Where would you like me to start?”  Iroh sighed, glad to ask the question he’d had since he saw Zuko.

              “Why is my nephew dressed like a Water Tribe child?”

----- 

              “Hold that pose,” Toklo instructed.  Zuko wobbled slightly.  “C’mon, little brother, just a bit longer!”  Zuko’s legs gave out.  He collapsed to the deck, coughing.  “Maybe we should go back to the basics.”

              “No, those katas are for babies,” Zuko snapped.  He coughed again.  Hakoda, who had been observing Zuko’s practice, crouched next to him.

              “You’re only four and recovering from an illness. Pushing yourself right now would do more harm than good,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.  “Once you’ve stopped coughing so much, you can move on to the more complicated forms.  But for now, I agree with Toklo.”  Zuko scowled.

              Zuko’s treatment involved him actively practicing firebending.  The healer had informed Kustaa that Zuko developed bender’s burnout in large part due to Zuko restricting his firebending to simple meditations.

              “He said to me, ‘Water Tribe people might not be very educated, but that’s no excuse for making a young bender suppress his art.  No matter the element, if they avoid bending, they’ll become ill,’” Kustaa vented angrily once Hakoda had returned to the ship.  “I tried to tell him that the kid didn’t want to bend, but he wouldn’t hear it.”

              “Zuko needs to practice firebending, then, to get better?” Hakoda asked.  Kustaa nodded.

              “And to stave off future bending-related illnesses.  He gave me a scroll with forms for children Zuko’s age.”  Kustaa handed Hakoda said scroll.  “My nephew probably already knows most of these forms, but I guess we could use them as a reference to make sure he’s doing them right.”

              Hakoda took the scroll from Toklo and looked over the forms for the easiest.

              “Turtle-duck pose,” he instructed.  Zuko scowled, but did as he was told.  “Good work, kid.”  Zuko’s scowl was replaced with a grin that stretched ear to ear.

              Initially, Zuko had brushed off any compliments he got on his bending forms.  Hakoda had a feeling that Zuko’s reaction was because he didn’t believe them. Thankfully, it only took a week for the boy to shift gears from doubt to exuberance at being told he had done a good job.

              “Chief?” Bato called from his spot at the ship’s bow. Hakoda ruffled Zuko’s hair, handed the scroll back to Toklo, and walked to his second-in-command.

              “What is it?” Hakoda asked.  Bato handed him a spyglass silently.  When Hakoda looked through it, he swore.  “Fire Nation.”

              “Yes.”  Bato’s face darkened as he stared in the direction of the ship he’d spotted.  “And they’ve definitely seen us.  We won’t be able to avoid battle.”

              “You’re right.”  Hakoda swallowed.  “Hopefully, Zuko will sleep through it.”

              “He’s a light sleeper.”

              “Not lately.  Being sick can make you sleep like the dead.”  Hakoda handed the spyglass back to Bato.  “I’ll inform the crew to prepare for battle.”  Hakoda looked back at Zuko.  The toddler was unsteadily working through the basic firebending forms for Toklo.  “And I’ll see if Kustaa can put him to bed earlier than usual, so that he misses the fight.”

----- 

              Zuko did sleep through the entire battle. Better than that, however, was that no one on the ship had fallen.  Any blood stains or scorch marks on the deck were hurriedly scrubbed away before Zuko could see, though he did get told the day after.  Like before, Zuko sat watch with a small flame in his palms.

              The rest of the trip passed by without incident. Not just Hakoda, but the crew as a whole felt a swell of pride as Zuko became more confident in his bending practice, progressing from the basic steps to the intermediate ones quickly.  Well, the ones considered intermediate for his age. The boy was eager to begin the advanced movements, but Hakoda felt they were still beyond his ability.  Not to mention, the advanced katas seemed more likely to accidentally set the boat on fire.

              “Finally!” Zuko whooped as they landed at Chameleon Bay. “I miss dry land.”  Scattered chuckles sounded among the crew.  Bato stopped him from rushing down the gangplank after Hakoda.

              “Hold on, little warrior.  Before we come ashore, the Chief needs to meet with whoever’s in charge.”  Zuko cocked his head curiously at Bato.

              “Isn’t Chief Hakoda in charge?  I thought he was the leader of the entire Southern Fleet.”

              “He is, but it’s still important to announce ourselves to the person that has been running things.  Once we’ve settled in, the Chief will take over.”

              “The Chief also needs to let the other men know we’ve got a Fire Nation brat on board,” Aake added.  Zuko frowned at him.  “Otherwise, you might get a chilly welcome.”

              “I guess,” Zuko muttered, crossing his arms. Bato ruffled his hair.

              “Go help Kustaa take stock of the infirmary supplies while we figure things out, okay?” Bato said.  Zuko sighed and toddled off.  Bato shook his head, hiding a smile.  “Damn kid really weaseled his way into all of our hearts.”

              “I’m taking bets on how quickly he does the same to the tribesmen already here,” Panuk drawled.  “So far, no one’s put anything down on it taking any longer than a month.”

              “Well, yeah, those odds are too slim,” Toklo said. “My little brother’s gonna have everyone eating out of his hand in a couple weeks at most.  Especially with his lingering cough.”  According to Kustaa, Zuko was no longer ill.  His occasional coughs were just the result of his sickness irritating his throat.

              “I agree,” Bato said.  “‘Nuktuk’ has a very endearing backstory.”  He looked at Panuk.  “Put me down for twelve days.”

[linastudyblrsblog]

Burnout, unfortunately, is everywhere. If you haven’t experienced it personally, you probably know someone who has self-diagnosed.

 Defined by the World Health Organization as a syndrome “conceptualized as resulted from chronic workplace stress,” it causes exhaustion, “feelings of negativism or cynicism,” and reduced efficacy. That’s a big umbrella, and the condition has become something of a catch-all for chronic, modern-day stress. 

Here are 11 of our favorites to help you create your own escape plan:

1. Figure out which kind of burnout you have.

The Association for Psychological Science found that burnout comes in three different types, and each one needs a different solution:

1. Overload: The frenetic employee who works toward success until exhaustion, is most closely related to emotional venting. These individuals might try to cope with their stress by complaining about the organizational hierarchy at work, feeling as though it imposes limits on their goals and ambitions. That coping strategy, unsurprisingly, seems to lead to a stress overload and a tendency to throw in the towel.

2. Lack of Development: Most closely associated with an avoidance coping strategy. These under-challenged workers tend to manage stress by distancing themselves from work, a strategy that leads to depersonalization and cynicism — a harbinger for burning out and packing up shop.

3. Neglect: Seems to stem from a coping strategy based on giving up in the face of stress. Even though these individuals want to achieve a certain goal, they lack the motivation to plow through barriers to get to it

2. Cut down and start saying “no.”

Every “yes” you say adds another thing on your plate and takes more energy away from you, and your creativity:

If you take on too many commitments, start saying ‘no’. If you have too many ideas, execute a few and put the rest in a folder labeled ‘backburner’. If you suffer from information overload, start blocking off downtime or focused worktime in your schedule (here are some tools that may help). Answer email at set times. Switch your phone off, or even leave it behind. The world won’t end. I promise.

3.  Give up on getting motivated.

With real burnout mode, you’re too exhausted to stay positive. So don’t:

When you’re mired in negative emotions about work, resist the urge to try to stamp them out. Instead, get a little distance — step away from your desk, focus on your breath for a few seconds — and then just feel the negativity, without trying to banish it. Then take action alongside the emotion. Usually, the negative feelings will soon dissipate. Even if they don’t, you’ll be a step closer to a meaningful achievement.

4.  Treat the disease, not the symptoms. 

For real recovery and prevention to happen, you need to find the real, deeper issue behind why you’re burnt out:

Instead of overreacting to the blip, step back from it, see it as an incident instead of an indictment, and then examine it like Sherlock Holmes looking for clues.

For example, you could ask yourself: What happened before the slip? Did I encounter a specific trigger event such as a last-minute client request? Was there an unusual circumstance such as sickness? When did I first notice the reversion in my behavior? Is some part of this routine unsustainable and if so, how could I adjust it to make it more realistic?

5.  Make downtime a daily ritual.

To help relieve pressure, schedule daily blocks of downtime to refuel your brain and well-being. It can be anything from meditation to a nap, a walk, or simply turning off the wifi for a while:

When it comes to scheduling, we will need to allocate blocks of time for deep thinking. Maybe you will carve out a 1-2 hour block on your calendar every day for taking a walk or grabbing a cup of coffee and just pondering some of those bigger things. I can even imagine a day when homes and apartments have a special switch that shuts down wi-fi and data access during dinner or at night – just to provide a temporary pause from the constant flow of status updates and other communications…

There is no better mental escape from our tech-charged world than the act of meditation. If only for 15 minutes, the ability to steer your mind away from constant stimulation is downright liberating. There are various kinds of meditation. Some forms require you to think about nothing and completely clear your mind. (This is quite hard, at least for me.) Other forms of meditation are about focusing on one specific thing – often your breath, or a mantra that you repeat in your head (or out loud) for 10-15 minutes…

If you can’t adopt meditation, you might also try clearing your mind the old fashioned way – by sleeping. The legendary energy expert and bestselling author Tony Schwartz takes a 20-minute nap every day. Even if it’s a few hours before he presents to a packed audience, he’ll take a short nap.

6.  Stop being a perfectionist; start satisficing.

Trying to maximize every task and squeeze every drop of productivity out of your creative work is a recipe for exhaustion and procrastination. Set yourself boundaries for acceptable work and stick to them:

Consistently sacrificing your health, your well being, your relationships, and your sanity for the sake of living up to impossible standards will lead to some dangerous behaviors and, ironically, a great deal of procrastination. Instead of saying, “I’ll stay up until this is done,” say, “I’ll work until X time and then I’m stopping. I may end up needing to ask for an extension or complete less than perfect work. But that’s OK. I’m worth it.” Making sleep, exercise, and downtime a regular part of your life plays an essential role in a lasting, productive creative career.

7.  Track your progress every day.

Keeping track allows you to see exactly how much is on your plate, not only day-to-day, but consistently over time:

Disappointing feedback can be painful at first – research shows that failure and losses can hurt twice as much as the pleasure of equivalent gains. But if you discover you’re off course, reliable feedback shows you by how much, and you then have the opportunity to take remedial action and to plot a new training regime or writing schedule. The temporary pain of negative feedback is nothing compared with the crushing experience of project failure. Better to discover that you’re behind and need to start writing an hour earlier each day, than to have your book contract rescinded further down the line because you’ve failed to deliver.

8.  Change location often.

Entrepreneurs or freelancers can be especially prone to burnout. Joel Runyon plays “workstation popcorn,” in which he groups tasks by location and then switches, in order to keep work manageable, provide himself frequent breaks, and spend his time efficiently:

You find yourself spending hours at your computer, dutifully “working” but getting very little done. You finish each day with the dreaded feeling that you’re behind, and that you’re only falling farther and farther behind. You’re buried below an ever-growing to-do list. There’s a feeling of dread that tomorrow is coming, and that it’s bringing with it even more work that you probably won’t be able to get ahead on.

List out everything you need to do today. Try to be as specific as you can…Next, break that list into three sections. Step 1: Go to cafe [or desk, a different table in your office, etc.] #1. Step 2: Start working on item group #1…Once you finish all the tasks in group #1, get up and move. Close your tabs, pack your bags, and physically move your butt to your next spot. If you can, walk or bike to your next stop…When you get to the next cafe [or spot], start on the next action item group, and repeat…

When you’ve completed everything on your to-do list for the day, you are done working. Relax, kick back, and live your life. Don’t take work home with you because that won’t help you get more done – it will just wear you out.

9.  Don’t overload what downtime you do get.

Vacations themselves can cause, or worsen burnout, with high-stress situations, expectations, and sleep interruption. Use it to help in recovery from burnout instead: 

Make a flexible itinerary a priority. [A] study from Radboud University found that effective vacations give you the choice and freedom to choose what you want to do. That means two things: Try to avoid structuring your vacation around an unbreakable schedule, and plan on going somewhere that has multiple options to pick from depending on the weather, your level of energy, or your budget.

10. Write yourself fan mail.

Seth Godin uses self-fan mail as a way to keep motivated instead of burning out on a project that seems far from completion:

I define non-clinical anxiety as, “experiencing failure in advance.” If you’re busy enacting a future that hasn’t happened yet, and amplifying the worst possible outcomes, it’s no wonder it’s difficult to ship that work. With disappointment, I note that our culture doesn’t have an easily found word for the opposite. For experiencing success in advance. For visualizing the best possible outcomes before they happen. Will your book get a great testimonial? Write it out. Will your talk move someone in the audience to change and to let you know about it? What did they say? Will this new product gain shelf space at the local market? Take a picture. Writing yourself fan mail in advance, and picturing the change you’ve announced you’re trying, to make is an effective way to push yourself to build something that actually generates that action.

  11. Break projects into bite-sized pieces.

Taking a task on in one entire lump can be exhausting and provide little room for rest in between. Breaking up your projects into set chunks with their own deadlines provides a much healthier, and easier, way of completing a large project:

The default take on deadlines is typically to consider them to be cumbersome and stressful. Yet, from another perspective, a deadline can be viewed as a huge benefit to any project. Without the urgency of a hard deadline pushing a project to completion, it’s easy for you, your team, or your client to lose focus. We’ve all worked on agonizing projects where the timeline just bleeds on and on, merely because the flexibility is there…

It turns out that the manner in which a task is presented to someone – or the way in which you present it to your brain – has a significant impact on how motivated you will be to take action. A study led by researcher Sean McCrea at the University of Konstanz in Germany recently found that people are much more likely to tackle a concrete task than an abstract task… It seems to me like the difference between being handed a map versus following the step-by-step instructions of a GPS device. Not everyone can read a map, but everyone can follow the directions. By breaking your project down into smaller, well-described tasks, the way forward becomes clear and it’s easy to take action.

[docfuture]

Princess, part 4

     [This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16.  Links to some of my other work are here.  Planning to update this once a week until it’s done–next update is planned to be up by November 10th.]

Previous: Part 3

     Back at her section of Doc's HQ.  Flicker's personal shower was a customized array of converted waterjet cutters.  She set the cycle to 'potential biohazard decontamination' and turned the pressure and temperature all the way up.  The high pressure streams helped a little.  She used emotional and memory compartmentalization as a coping mechanism, but it was fraying around the edges.  She'd been able to achieve temporary detachment from the events at the Box, but other issues were creeping back.  Burnout wasn't helping, but it was better than unmanaged anger or frustration, so she'd take it.  Could be worse.       She dressed after a medibot scan and checked alerts.  Doc had listed his debriefing as 'optional' but she went anyway.  Might as well get it over with.       Doc was in the main control room.  A rows of vid screens nearly covered one wall, and Flicker noted that the upper left quadrant was still set to Doc's preferred 'remain even-tempered while on a voice call with someone obnoxious' mix--science news feeds and a set of difficult-to-decipher regional heatmaps.  She sat down in one of the observer chairs and Doc turned to face her.       "I should have slowed down after he stopped struggling," she said.  "Getting to the Box fast didn't matter."       "Hindsight," said Doc.  "And it's not clear going slower for a longer time would have been less painful for Hermes--he was getting dragged by the leg at hypersonic velocities regardless.  You did everything reasonably possible.  You stopped the rampage.  He's gone and unlikely to voluntarily return any time soon--his mystique is shattered.  Remember, it took us over a month to catch him the first time."       "However."  Doc tented his hands, his face concerned.  "You still aren't managing your pacing.  If you made a mistake today, it was to go on patrol at all--you were only marginally at yellow when the alert hit.  I had a discussion with the Database integrity AI.  Some of your telemetry on the return trip was very disturbing.  And the EMT at the Box reported that you showed signs of combat stress reaction--thousand-yard stare and complete lack of facial expression."       "Fine," said Flicker.  "I'll skip patrol tomorrow."       "I think you should take a longer break.  Your stress is--"       "Journeyman is more than two hours overdue for his scheduled check-in.  I'm not going on vacation when my partner is potentially in trouble."       "I'm not suggesting that," said Doc.  "You can stay on-call for his backup without handling response for anything else.  And he did request a 24-hour buffer before we take any action when he isn't on Earth."       "... Yeah, he did."       Now I have nothing pressing to do except worry about my partner.  Great.       Doc was still studying her.  "There were some patterns in the probability manipulation flux levels I measured that bother me.  Hermes' summoning may have been used as a mask for something.  I'm going to be gathering and analyzing more data.  If you wish, you could assist in some tests.  They should be stress-free."       "Okay.  I can try that."       *****       Flicker had her own place, but its suitability as a permanent home was still largely theoretical.  The location had been a rail maintenance shop in a long inactive part of the Iron Range, where she'd been able to secure several important concessions regarding allowable levels of noise and plasma in return for cleaning it up without allowing any contamination to get into the groundwater.       It had a full Database backup node, up and running smoothly--sub-microsecond latency was part of Flicker's minimum requirement for 'home'--but everything else was progressing more slowly.  It was more than a cot in a workshop next to a giant underground server room, as one of Doc's sysadmins had joked, but not a lot more.       It was, however, far enough from Doc's HQ to run some esoteric causal isolation tests for probability manipulation--and rule out certain forms of influence that were otherwise difficult to detect.  Flicker was quite willing.  Glancing at her Machiavelli study context after the weight of the day's events sank in had turned her stomach.  The tests were emotionally neutral--better than anything else available.  She sat at her high speed interface keyboard, watching several graphs and responding to a verification program controlled by a random number generator.       It let her go away for a while.       Update, sent the Database, after a long time.       Flicker sped up.  Yes?       Journeyman has checked in.  Message for you:  "Back.  Will call when home."       Something positive to focus on.  Finally.  Location.  Running updates.       Check in at Antarctic secure drop.  Current location undefined.       Flicker slowed down slightly to wait on the updates and felt her emotional reaction start to kick in.       Bangkok...  Undefined...  Tabriz...  Undefined...    Amsterdam...  Undefined...  Las Vegas...  Undefined...       He was skip-porting, staying just long enough to send a blip from his phone then porting again.  Was he worried about pursuit?       Rural Kansas.       She waited.  The location didn't change.  What is he doing in Kansas?       Buying groceries.       Okay.  Estimate probability he'll be there for at least ten more seconds.       98%+.  However, there is a 94%+ chance he will be at his home within five minutes.       Groceries implied at least a short stay.       Flicker got up from the keyboard and made sure her travel pack had a fresh change of clothes--it had been a while since she'd used it.  'Off-duty' was not a state of mind that came naturally anymore.

     Flicker was waiting on Journeyman's doorstep when he ported in.  He was in an outfit she'd seen before; a stylized armored vest over archaic-looking clothes.  His shapeshifting hat was wide-brimmed and black.  He looked like the handsome villain from a poster for a historical drama with skilled costumers but no concern for accuracy.       "Hey," she said, then held out her hand, fingers spread.  "Yellow."  Not great, but able to handle immediate priorities.       "Hey."  He touched his fingertips to hers in their personal substitute for a high five.  "I'm at yellow, too," he said.       "What's up?"       He waved his hand.  "Paranoia, probably.  But, you know..."  He took a breath.  "We can talk inside."       He scowled at the multiple locks on his front door.  Flicker knew there were invisible wards on it as well.       "Can you just port us both?" she asked.       "I got into this mess because I was overconfident at the wrong time," he said.  He put down the grocery bags, stuck out both arms, and moved them slowly upwards in a smooth arc.  Faint green fire trailed from his fingertips.  "Sorry for the wait, but I'm not going to get sloppy at the end."       After finishing with the wards, he pulled out a set of keys to unlock the physical locks.  "I'd like to close this properly after we're inside.  You willing to leave it unvaporized if something comes up?" he asked.       "Do you still have a replacement emergency exit window handy?"       "Yep."       "Then yeah," she said.  "I'll use that if I have to go in a hurry."       Journeyman heaved a sigh after they entered and he closed the door.  "Now we can--"  Something chirped, interrupting him.  "Great."       Flicker sped up and checked her sensors.  There was no sign of anyone or anything else living or recently mobile inside.  The chirp had sounded similar to a low battery alert from a smoke alarm, but had come from midair.  Whatever was amiss, it wasn't anything she recognized.  She turned to Journeyman and slowed down again.       "No obvious intruders," she said.  "What alarm is that?"       "Higher than expected magic level."  He waved a hand to silence the alarm, then pulled out his glasses from a vest pocket and put them on.  He used them for detail work and distinguishing subtle magic.  He looked around the room before turning to Flicker and doing a double take.       "False alarm," he said.  "But you certainly have a fine magical glow about you this evening."       "Should I worry?"       "Depends on how you got that way."  He paused to put the bags of groceries on the kitchen counter, then he took off his hat and tossed it onto the hat stand, where it transformed into a flat cap.       He looked back at her with a raised eyebrow.  "Did you, like, beat up a demigod and take his lunch money or something?"       "Does Hermes count?"       Both eyebrows up.  "...for this purpose, yes.  Would that be why you're at yellow?"       "I was already at yellow from my shift when he showed.  But my day improved when you ported in alive."       A short laugh.  "Mine too.  You up for telling me what happened?  Is he, ah..."       "I didn't kill him.  And he got away, off Earth, because..."  Flicker shut her eyes to try to organize what she wanted to say.   "Can I show you the feed from my visor cam?  That's easier than just talking.  I'm pretty burned out.  Doc strongly suggested I take time off.  But are you expecting an attack?  I got really worried after you missed your check in."       "Not a direct one.  Not anymore.  Certainly not with you here."  He pulled off his vest and dropped it on a chair, revealing blotches of sweat on the shirt underneath.  "The magician part of the 'Byzantine interdimensional magician mess' should be over.  But I've been reliving an old style, an old set of habits, as cover, and I'm not all the way back yet, so--"       Flicker frowned at a cut in the outer fabric of the back of the vest.  "That looks like someone stabbed you in the back."       "Yep.  That was a while ago.  I left the cut to discourage anyone else from trying, then forgot about it."       "You forgot about being backstabbed?"       "Eh.  He was okay, he was just testing me.  I finessed it.  He laughed when his sword broke because I warp cut it, then I asked if he was done yet.  Wasn't even in the top ten most stressful things that happened that day.  Not incidentally, I could use some time off, too.  But you had a bad day involving magic, and I wasn't here to back you up, which I regret.  So tell me, or show me, whatever you want.  We can use the TV--it has one of Doc's data scramblers, and I warded it so no one can use the speaker as a mic."       "Okay."       Flicker set up a playback of highlights from her visor, edited by the Database, then joined Journeyman on the couch.  "I had already hit my patrol limit for the day and was reading something kind of depressing when the alert hit..."       Flicker described events tersely and spent the vid segments watching Journeyman's reaction.  He had red hair, a light complexion with freckles, and a very expressive face.  Unfortunately, Flicker wasn't very good at reading faces.  He looked intent and slightly alarmed--which was his default with anything important.       His eyes widened slightly at her exchange with Hermes in the Tyrrhenian, and he spent the replay of the transfer at the Box with his hands clasped in front of his mouth.       "...and after I decontaminated, Doc was really insistent I stay off duty for a while," Flicker concluded, after the replay segments finished.  "But you were overdue, so I killed time running some tests until you ported in."       Journeyman met her eyes.  "Whoof.  Lots of things I could say.  Most aren't urgent, since he lived and you didn't spill any blood.  Anything you wanted to ask me about first?"       "Well, Doc said Hermes' escape wasn't a big problem.  I'm not so sure.  What do you think?"       "Heh."  Journeyman shook his head.  "He didn't escape.  He got boomeranged when his summoner died--I'm actually more concerned about how that happened, because the whole thing sounds fishy.  I'll have to see if I can find out who the summoner was.  And I really don't think Hermes is going to be eager to come back to Earth again, which will make him rather more difficult to summon, even if someone wanted to."       "Why not?"       "Because you live here."  Journeyman waved a hand.  "You delivered one of the most thorough pseudo-mythological curb-stompings I've ever seen, followed by a disturbingly effective bit of operant conditioning.  And that 'fire is hot' bit where you changed your voice? That--"       "My voice changed?  I was just trying to speak clearly when I was tired and out of patience."       "Yeah, well, you didn't sound like a superhero.  You sounded like an angry goddess.  To me, and to Hermes.  You saw his eyes."       Flicker looked away.  "You know how I feel about being called a goddess."       "I do.  But if the shoe fits...  And I'll need to check on a few things.  You're likely to get a lot of weird or disturbing messages.  For sure when whatever vid the Box recorded leaks.  But that's not urgent."       Flicker sighed.  "I get plenty of weird emails already.  Enough for my Database bots to do robust statistics on small fraction subgroups.  I look at the results sometimes when I'm having trouble getting to sleep."       "Then rejoice, for your somnolence-aiding samples will surely grow."       Flicker snorted a laugh.  "Thanks.  There's another thing that bugging me a bit, though."       "Yes?"       "Hermes didn't seem to recognize me.  So how did he learn that claiming to know about my biological parents was a plausible trick to try?"       "Ah."  Journeyman looked down and said nothing for a moment.  "What did Doc have to say about it?"       "Nothing.  And I didn't bring it up because I didn't want to restart the old argument I've had with him since I was twelve.  He was more concerned about some probability manipulation detector anomalies.  He'll probably want to talk to you about them, eventually."       "Ah."  Journeyman put a hand to his mouth.  He looked worried, like he was trying to solve a hard problem in his head and failing.  He stood and shut off the TV, then walked over to the bookshelves.  After standing silently for a while he turned back around.       "You said you were reading something unpleasant when the alert hit.  What was it?"       "A heavily annotated translation of Machiavelli's The Prince.  I've started trying to learn about politics."       "Oh.  Yeah, that would... Damn it.  Okay.  You asked a question.  I have a theory about the answer.  I owe you an explanation, but it's going to lead somewhere pretty dark, and I'm not sure you're up for it right now.  And I have a nasty suspicious mind, and my paranoia dial has been turned to 11 for a while.  I could be wrong about any or all of this.  I don't know anything.  Like whether this is safe.  But I don't think it's safe to leave it for later, either."       Flicker sped up.  DASI?  Any idea what's going on?       Yes.       Care to enlighten me?       Not at this time.  It would not aid your memory integration and could create an incomplete information bias hazard.  Listen to Journeyman.       Flicker stared at her visor display for a long subjective time.  A hazard if she didn't listen...       She slowed back down.  "It isn't going to get any less dark if you wait, is it?"       "No."       "Then go ahead."       He came back and sat down on the couch beside her, clasped his hands in front of his face, then turned to look at her.  "So.  Let's start with why you're sensitive about your biological parentage.  You told me about your fight with Doc about your DNA tests.  I'm afraid I'm on his side.  DNA tests are easy to spoof with probability manipulation if you have any kind of divination or you know how they work.  Takes hardly any power.  I can do it, no sweat.  I could even put a ward on someone to make a DNA test on their blood match the DNA of the tech that did the draw, so they don't get outed as a non-human by a drug test.  Hypothetically."       "Uh..."       Journeyman waved a hand.  "That said, I think that if your biological body has two parents and if you were conceived by sexual reproduction, then you're right--Doc is probably your father.  It's still the simplest explanation."       Flicker looked down.  "Doc won't assume that.  He told me that wherever my body came from could be a lot weirder and still be less unusual than my speed powers."       "He has a point.  But let's go ahead and assume it for the moment.  He's not the problem, is he?  Your mother is, because she's definitely not human.  You're on pretty firm ground there because of your strength and healing ability.  And you aren't happy with what that implies."       "No.  I'm not."       "Sooo... Suppose a demon shows up at Doc's HQ tomorrow and says 'Hi Flicker, I'm your mother', and Doc says 'Could be her', and runs some tests--you know he would--then says 'Yup.'  How would you feel?"       "I would have many questions."       "I'm sure," said Journeyman.  "But how would feel?  Happy... or angry?"       Fury.  Flicker sped up.  DASI?  Is anger a reasonable response?       He did not ask for justification.  Is anger an accurate description of your projected emotional state?       Yeah...       She slowed back down.  "Angry.  Very angry."       "More angry than you were at Hermes today?"       Flicker took a deep breath.  "I... don't know.  Maybe.  Why did you say 'demon'?  You usually--"       "Say non-human person or something.  Yes.  Demon isn't a great word.  Emotionally loaded as hell.  But it's the one that gets used.  It's the one you think, right?  So maybe you can understand why she might not want to drop in for pizza and chitchat?"       "If she knew, but--"       "Now suppose she doesn't stop by, but someone tells you her name.  Would you want to go have a little talk with her?  Maybe while you're still angry, because of those many questions that haven't been answered yet?"       "... Yeah."       "So can you see how her name could be used as an attack, against you or her, even though you want to know it?  And the correct name might be worse than a lie or mistake?"       Another breath.  "Yes."       "So.  Back to your question.  I think Hermes was primed with a hint that you were sensitive about your biological parents, either by the summoner or by someone else before he was summoned."       Journeyman waggled his hand.  "I suspect that the whole thing might have been a premeditated attack aimed at you that didn't quite work, but I'm less sure about that and it's messy to explain.  If it was, the probability manipulation Doc picked up on was probably part of it.  And it might not be over."       "But if Hermes planned to attack me--"       "I don't think he did.  I don't even think he was the weapon--that would be the summoner.  I think Hermes was ammunition.  And the planner was someone who had really good intel.  A seer at a minimum.  You got hit at about the worst possible time, and I don't think that was an accident.  But we're getting into wild-eyed paranoia territory now.  Both you and Doc are swimming in a sea of probability manipulation, against and for you, because you're both so important to the survival of Earth.  So it's hard to sort things out.  Anyway.  Are you ready for the not safe part?"       "Okay..."       "You gave him more than one chance to talk.  And he didn't try 'I know who your parents are' right away.  Not until the last thing he said, right after you went angry goddess.  I think he recognized something."       "What?" said Flicker.  "He'd already seen me."       "Your voice changed.  I think he heard a resemblance to someone he'd met.  And guessed she was your mother."       "You really think he could tell just from a bit of voice?  Why?"       "Because that's what I thought, about someone I've met.  At the same spot in the recording."       "Do you think it's the same person?"       Journeyman looked down.  "Important question.  Any name occur to you?"       Flicker's mind whirled.  "No."       "Okay.  Not sure my guess is right.  But I'm a lot more sure that if it is right, she doesn't want you to know who she is.  At least not right now."       "Who do you think she is?"       "Aaand now we start with the dark part.  I'm not going to tell you.  You'll eventually learn, if I'm right and we all live that long."       Journeyman looked back up and met her eyes.  "But not from me.  I won't be the weapon."       Another breath.  And a lot of anger that wasn't a projected emotional state.  "What was the point of making this so... personal, if you won't tell me?"       "You asked the question, and it's a threat exactly because you take it so personally."  He looked to the side.  "I have another reason.  It's more personal for me, and the rest of the dark part.  I'll tell you, if you want to hear, but it will take a bit.  You up for it?"       "Yes."       "Okay.  But you're stressed and burned out and angry and probably a little buzzed from that hit of magic you picked up, and I'm tired and stressed and hungry, so I'd like to fix dinner first.  You want some?"       "We can get takeout, you don't have to--"       "I cook to de-stress sometimes.  That's why I got groceries.  And it will give you a bit of a break, too.  Are you hungry?"       "No... but I probably should be."       Journeyman smiled.  "Great.  Food coming up!"  He stood and headed for the kitchen.       Flicker felt a sense of emotional whiplash as she watched him.  But he hadn't brushed her off or ignored what she wanted...       My partner.  Helping me remember things I shouldn't forget.

Next: Part 5

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Cee! You’ve been accepted for the role of Bobby Davies with the faceclaim of Julian Morris. Here’s another sample application from one of our existing members. You can find our other sample applications in this tag here. If you’re working on an app and have any questions, don’t hesitate to send them through.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Cee Age: 20 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT+10 Activity estimation: During my university break, I can typically post IC every day or every second day, doing multiple threads. During semester, I’m usually able to write and post IC every 2-3 days, at least. If I know I’ll be extremely busy, I’ll request a hiatus or semi-hiatus or stagger posts slightly! Triggers: N/A

IN CHARACTER: BASICS

Full name: Robert ‘Bobby’ Davies Age (DD/MM/YYY): Thirty (30/09/1966) Gender: Cis male Pronouns: He/him Sexuality: Homosexual demiromantic Occupation: Systems research analyst Connection to Victim: Truthfully, through town gossip. He’s never spoken a word to any of the Goodes. Maggie’s brought Linda up once or twice over dinner, especially since Brian has gone missing. All Oh, poor Brian and sidelong glances at Deborah. That, or the Goodes have been mentioned in passing when he’s landed himself in a hushed, sensitive crash-course on his younger sister. Alibi: He was at a high-end wine bar in Lansing that afternoon, doing his damnedest to impress a colleague over a twenty-dollar glass of merlot. Bobby’s been tentative to suggest to him they go for drinks, especially on a four-thirty Friday knockoff. So they agreed for Saturday instead. He drove back alone to Devil’s Knot around 8.45 that night and went straight to bed. Faceclaim: Julian Morris

WRITING SAMPLE

His eyes are starting to blur. Long gone are the heat mirages and blinding pale sunlight across the flat. Now, the horizon bleeds into purple and blue. Worse yet, the radio’s been reduced to static and there’s not a cassette to be found in the car. A hand idly goes up to pinch the bridge of his nose first, then rub at the corner of one eye. At first, the distant spot of light is dismissed by fatigue, although as he nears the brightness grows, bringing into focus silhouettes of parked trucks and cars, patchy along the line of a gas station.

Once there he pulls over. At the pumps Bobby stops, although he doesn’t get out of the car right away. He’s somewhere over the Nevada border, past Reno but ultimately nowhere. Why didn’t he buy a goddamn plane ticket? Right. Work had left him high and dry, damn near cashless save for what he’d stuffed his wallet with. They’d even been hesitant to cough up a final pay, leaving Bobby with no choice but the car, though he suspects it’s got a touch more leg room than economy.

Deep down, he drives for the nostalgia. Lets himself revisit the same sights from the way over when he was eighteen. Though, there’s a few more strip malls than he recalls along the way, and the songs on the radio don’t sound quite right. No more Bruce Springsteen and AC/DC. It sounds sadder. The drive’s also to tell himself that when he gets back to Devil’s Knot, Perry won’t be there waiting. Neither will Maggie. It’ll likely be close to midnight when he arrives, the town deadened by sleep and the outskirts pitch black. It’s a cosmic joke that he’ll probably have to get a room at Sal’s run-down motel. Maybe that’s his trial by fire.

Bobby lets out a sigh and leaves the car. His feet shuffle on the spot as the tank refills, homed in on the rhythmic click of the gas pump, the rush of trucks that fly by left muted, as if they’re ways away rather than right beside him. Inside, he meanders between the aisles of garish chip packets and half-melted candy. He’s not proud of impulse buys but the CD copy of a Toto album is set on the counter with resolution as he mutters the pump number, pulls out a few fifties before going on his way once more. The CD slipped in, the stereo begins to blare in a bid to stay awake. Maybe if he can just make it to the state border and hit Utah, it’ll be enough to get there by the end of the week.

He has to stop at a place far closer, though, because there’s a lightness in his chest and not enough air seems to be getting in. It’s asthma, he chalks it down to; only part of the cocktail of nerves he can’t gulp down. At the back of his neck there’s gooseflesh. It doesn’t go away, even as he checks into a highway motel and clicks the television on to the eleven-p.m. news while he searches for a puffer in his duffel bag. It’s a feel-good story, the newscasters smiling and laughing with each other. With the help of a stale mini-bottle of whiskey from the motel fridge, Bobby manages to fall asleep before the midnight television static sets in.

ANYTHING ELSE?

BACKGROUND

TW FOR DRUGS / DRUG USE, OVERDOSE.

As many others can attest to, 1984 has, and continues to, shake Bobby to his core. Try as he might to swallow it back down the taste lingers sour, like bile. Until then he had grown up having what most considers a ‘normal’ childhood. Or a variant of it; depends on who you ask. Small town, a single mother, no dad in sight and grades high enough to make a Mensa member swoon. He had brought up his father once or twice when he was quite young. His curiosity eventually waned once he grew closer with his mother, Maggie, or found his nose becoming caught between a hefty book more and more often. Much to her chagrin, he’d already begun to gobble up Stephen King novels by the time he was thirteen. Books were a pleasant escape from the static of Devil’s Knot, at least for a while.

The year Phillip Silverman died and Pete narrowly avoided the same fate sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s red and swollen and throbbing – infected – and clear as day in the back of his head. Although he’s tried to rid himself of it, tuck the year away nice and neat, it threw everything off-kilter. The IB grades, the cherry-red As on his papers. An Ivy League university just in his grasp. Whatever he was sure of in himself; a hundred and one ways to get out of town and make something of himself once graduation rolled around, all gone. He wanted to get to NASA – where did that go?

Instead of graduating with friends and spending afternoons blush-drunk in the car of the boy he loved a little way out of town in the summer, an ugly mess of events sent him fleeing. He’s never forgotten the flash of red and blue some months later outside the house. Snow dappling the frozen, muddy front year, hands just free of a prayer before dinnertime, Max up and gone with the follow of Charlie Taylor’s pinched stare.

As if the murder, the endless days spent sleuthing for a whodunnit like an episode of Scooby Doo didn’t leave an imprint on him, the trial certainly did. It was the first time he’d ever worn a suit – a proper suit. He still remembers the too-tight collar, the beads of sweat on his forehead, the click of the stenographer in a Lansing courtroom. The worst part, though, was the fall of Maggie’s expression at the end of it.

Bobby didn’t even graduate high school. Where his diploma should be on the wall of Maggie’s living room, framed in beautiful wood and glass and stared at with that wistful smile of hers, it’s not. Instead he drove west with Perry Esposito. He’d planned it for some time. A tatty duffel bag under the bed, bursting at the seams with a few good books and wads of cash he’d saved from odd jobs, birthdays, loose change and old clothes. Cooped up in Sal’s shitty crate of a car with his knees to his chest, poring over a paranormal reader’s digest in the passenger seat, he was sure he could wean himself off the growing panic that grappled its way up his chest cavity. But somewhere in a Californian hotel parking lot, things crumbled once more. Raised voices skipped over the roof of a car, he stole it and ended up boggle-eyed and knee-deep between the swathes of tech geniuses in Silicon Valley.

It sounds like something out of a movie, he can admit. But it’s true. There were a few hiccups here and there for a kid with no qualifications, although things ironed out once people realised he had a natural aptitude, was too smart for his own good. He soon forgot Perry; or acted like he did.

Habits of small town living still lingered there. Although, people on the West Coast seemed more… accepting. Nobody would bat an eyelid if he said he had no other qualifications besides a few months between a tech start-up and unpaid internship, if he became too touchy with another man beside the pool at a casual ‘work’ party or a friend gestured to a tabletop lined by neat white and somebody’s credit card, for that matter. Over the years he’s gotten his hands grubby with money, drugs, uttering This means nothing, agreeing to it. Although it made him feel sure of himself, strangely, it hasn’t come without a price.

When he looks back, it was all far too much for somebody of his age. It raised him, in a way. Just as Maggie did. Except ambitious corporations brought him up on lackey internships, BASIC, an eight to six day and a celebratory drink at the end of the week. Bobby, prone to burnouts and stubborn perfection, slipped into a drug habit by the time he’d hit twenty-five to cope with the pressure – although he was proud to say he’d never gotten into cigarettes. Touted as the young, bright kid obsessed with computers from a place only made infamous by grisly crime, there was an immense expectation he felt he had to live up to.

In 1993 (or ‘94, things get hazy here), Bobby willed himself to walk through the front door of a rehab centre. He’d gone too far at a party. Having wound up in a hospital with an awful taste in his mouth and a drip in his arm, the idea ate away at his head until he forced himself to it. Going back to his job as if nothing had happened, as if his friends weren’t the ones who’d egged him on to have a bit of fun, blow off steam, was much, much harder. After having grit his teeth for another two years, Bobby got in his car that summer to make the drive back to Devil’s Knot, thinking endlessly about the fact that Perry wasn’t in the seat next to him to shout Dancing in the Dark at the top of their lungs while he drove along an empty desert stretch.

Settling back into Devil’s Knot has been met with fleeting doubts. Before Brian went missing, it seemed too good to be true. Nearly everyone from high school remained. Maggie was there, albeit with a surprise that he’d ignored for a staggeringly long time. He picked up a job in Lansing in no time. Or talked his way into it, his boss raising an eye at the fact he’d not gotten so much as a high school diploma, let alone a degree. Since the disappearance of Brian Goode, the oppressive weight of 1984 has set itself upon his chest once more, made the air stifling.

HEADCANONS

Bobby feels as if he’s failed Maggie by returning home with his tail between his legs. His first dinner back home was by far the most nerve-wracking experience, even more so than the shock of catching sight of Perry Esposito behind the bar counter when he ordered a martini filled to the brim with top-shelf liquor (or the best that Devil’s Knot could muster). He expected conversation to fall back as it was in 1984. Although he’d given Maggie the occasional telephone call over the years, it was never enough to properly connect. And after 1994 it turned into complete silence until the evening he arrived back right before the stroke of midnight, hoping the front porch light was on so he could beg for a spare room. Deborah’s a strange addition to the family, although he’s teaching himself to accept it and bite back the simmering fear that he’s lost the place where he stands with Maggie. But it’s a no-brainer. He couldn’t have possibly expected, after twelve years, to come back and have the jigsaw pieces slip neatly into place. He’s skinnier now, with purple always beneath the eyes and a strange edge he hasn’t worn away just yet. Things aren’t going back to the way they were, even if a childish part of him hopes for it.

He’s been living alone for years just fine. Why has it become so difficult to do back here? Bobby’s box-sized townhouse at the end of Main Street is a mess. There’s a distinct lack of furniture save for the stuff that came with the place, a rickety tower of empty Styrofoam takeaway containers in the kitchen sink where dirty dishes should be, television antenna askew and screen buzzing with static snow in his cramped living room. Most of the furniture he owned in California has ended up in a thrift store somewhere, collecting dust. The only thing he brought with him were his clothes, a far-cry from the jean jackets and ratty Adidas Superstars he wore when everyone last saw him. He’s become plainer. Boring. Ironed slacks and crisp white button downs, the collars starchy. No bright colours. Just white and black. The only casual clothing he’ll resort to wearing is a polo shirt and blue jeans on the weekend, if he’s really struggled with the laundry. The lack of company’s certainly gotten to him. His job in Lansing is a muted nine to five, the office laid out like a rat maze and punctuated only by the ring of a telephone or clack of a keyboard, the odd few friends to chat with there at arm’s length. Lately, he’s sought company at Mandy and Mary’s place, particularly on weekends. It’s nice. It makes Devil’s Knot more bearable, as well as dinner time. Bobby can’t cook to save himself. It either turns out burned, undercooked, or tasteless. That, and the weekly family meal at Maggie’s has been his saving grace. He’s still got his place at the table there, to his relief.

Rehab was an easy decision, kind of. Simple in thought, far more difficult in execution. Around 1993, or ’94 (he struggles to remember which; the early years of the decade were a blur) he’d left what little belongings remained in his one-bedroom apartment to settle in, to bunk beds and lights out and positive affirmations and group therapy, all with a hankering for the rush he’d forced himself to wean off. Going back to work was much harder. The culture seemed stifling, or perhaps too impulsive to let him be comfortable. Come on, a little won’t hurt. It’s not that bad. It didn’t take a phone call, or a missing boy in the news to send him back home. No, it was an itch under the skin that kept coming back on every Friday night get-together for after-work drinks.

Brian’s disappearance has made Bobby feel as if he’s been thrown back to 1984. Nothing pleasant, like Marty McFly going back to a wealthy family and happy girlfriend with a big shiny truck. No, it’s as if the search parties, sombre conversation with old friends has put him right back into his spot in the teenage “Scooby Gang” he’d wound up a part of. Worse still is that the sympathetic remarks he’s gotten from those in town makes him feel like he’s been reduced back to a wide-eyed teen. Or maybe it’s all in his head. With a tendency to bottle things up and never set things straight, Bobby’s nowhere near as open as he used to be. There are many things he hasn’t told Maggie, there are many things he hasn’t dared to admit to himself. He can feel the tension bubbling away at the back of his throat. One day, he suspects it’ll come right back up.

Bobby is selfish. After having learned to finally say no, stop putting himself up to the task of making sure others are happy at his own expense, there are many things he does that signals he wants to save his own neck. If he wants to get his way, he knows he can do so with money, all under the guise of a smile and sugar-coated generosity. Although he’ll genuinely splurge on those dear to him come Christmas time and birthdays, there are others he wants to have a sway over through grand gestures. He knows the novelty will wear off eventually.

His new job is okay – just okay. The work is repetitive at best, although it pays the bills and keeps him fed. He wanted a more senior position at first (I’ve got the experience and the skills straight from Silicon Valley, he’d pitched at the interview) but one glance down to the missing degree on his resume was all it took to put him down as a mundane desk worker. The last few months working it are bearable, although he wonders whether it’ll get any better than what he’s got now. A New Year’s resolution Bobby plans to keep once 1997 rolls around is to move to Lansing, maybe. Work part-time, go for a proper degree. If not only to make himself feel like less of a failure in Maggie’s eyes, it’ll help him shed off the worry that things are becoming static again.