#monsoon fever

[vaidyaslaboratory]

Dengue Hemorrhagic Fever: Causes, Symptoms & Treatment | Dr. Vaidya’s Laboratory

Learn about Dengue Hemorrhagic Fever (DHF), including its causes, symptoms, and treatment options. Protect your health with early diagnosis and personalized care at Dr. Vaidya’s Laboratory. Benefit from convenient home blood collection services and accurate results to ensure prompt and effective treatment.

[damnwegotlifetomorrow]

⋆｡°·☁︎

[nancykhemchandani]

Comprehensive Health Management with JAANCH Monsoon Fever Panel Advanced

Stay healthy this monsoon with the JAANCH Monsoon Fever Panel Advanced. Early detection of dengue, malaria, typhoid, and more ensures prompt treatment.

[facts1590]

Comprehensive Health Management with JAANCH Monsoon Fever Panel

Stay healthy this monsoon with the JAANCH Monsoon Fever Panel Advanced. Early detection of dengue, malaria, typhoid, and more ensures prompt treatment

[townpostin]

Dengue Cases Surge In Jamshedpur As Monsoon Intensifies

Ten Confirmed Cases At MGM Medical College Vector Test Lab District administration launches large-scale prevention measures across urban areas. JAMSHEDPUR – The city is facing a growing threat of dengue and viral fever as monsoon season progresses, with hospitals reporting an influx of suspected cases. "Ten dengue cases have been confirmed at MGM Medical College’s vector test lab," a health…

[newsmint]

What Dieases Come With Intermittent Rain? How To Prevent Intermittent Rain's Illness

Hey, folks! As you all know that the monsoon is here and this is high time when several new diseases will be introduced. However, there is not such a big deal because this is what all human beings are habitual of. But somewhere or other intermittent rain can cause some new viruses that can weaken your body and you probably meet with illness. So, if you are also one of those who are searching for…

[reiderwriter]

Well, Are You Mine?

Final Chapter of I Can't Help Myself

Summary: Spencer adjusts to fatherhood alone.

Warnings: Angst, hopeful ending, mentions Canon character death (Gideon), mentions of new parent stress, single parenthood, etc.

A/N: I'm back! The final chapter is finally here, and I'm so very happy!! Thank you all for waiting patiently while I recovered from my illness. It's monsoon season here right now, so I've been hit with just depressing wave after wave of coughs, colds, fevers, and general rainy season ailments. But now this is finished! Thank you for joining ke on this three month journey. I'll be publishing a much happier, much fluffier epilogue within the week, so please look forward to that~♡ Without further ado, The End.

In the six weeks since his daughter had been born, Spencer Reid had experienced what he could solidly call the most terrifying weeks of his life.

The baby cried, and his heart beat out of his chest. Rain or shine, fully awake or fully knocked out, a single gargle or a full on scream and he was sprinting to her side to coo her back to blissful sleep, or to change her, or just to hold her close.

In the six weeks up to her birth, he'd pointedly avoided parenting books on the whole, doing his best to drown out all the memories from reading similar books when JJ was pregnant. Every memory stung as he clawed his way back to the family that was prematurely ripped from him.

But the baby was here now. The baby was safe, and the baby was crying, which he knew was absolutely healthy and nothing to worry about, and completely and totally fine, except it dropped his heart to his stomach everytime she did it.

It wasn't as if your daughter was a particularly fussy child. She was a newborn, she was a healthy weight and size, and the doctors who had checked her over at the hospital after her birth had reassured him multiple times that she was totally healthy. A miracle, all things considered.

And she was his miracle. For six weeks, she'd been his little wonder.

The team had banded together to fix up his apartment while she'd been observed in the hospital for the first few days of her life.

He'd sat and watched her through the newborn window at the hospital while Penelope had cleaned up his apartment, and Luke had built him a crib.

Emily and JJ had gone hunting for baby clothes and found probably a lifetime supply of 0-3 months, 3-6 months, and 6-9 months babygrows, t-shirts, dresses, and matching little hair bows for everything.

The first time he'd seen the socks, he'd broken down.

Arriving back with his newborn daughter to his apartment, he'd carried her to her new room, desk removed and crib added, though the walls were still shelved with books he really needed to do something with. He'd opened the sock drawer and been faced with a drawer full of single socks. There wasn't a matching pair in sight.

He'd pulled his daughter into his arms and held her close as the tears fell once again.

It had been six weeks since you'd delivered your first baby, and Spencer was sure that if you had the opportunity, you'd be cussing him out continuously.

Because as much as he doted on his daughter, his sweet baby, who he swore was already smiling sweetly up at him each time she grabbed his pinkie with her whole tiny fist, he had still not given her a a name.

“We can't just call her baby,” Emily complained to him after three days, already getting restless with Spencer's lack of decisiveness.

“I won't name her without Y/N,” he'd replied, and Emily had shut her mouth, not willing to open up that can of worms around him just yet. The sudden silence whenever he mentioned you was deafening. Spencer felt the team growing rigid each time he said something even slightly hopeful, then gently tried to lead him back to being ‘realistic.’

It had been six weeks since you'd given birth, and smiled at him sweetly as you brought you'd daughter into the world and six weeks since you'd quietly slipped into a peaceful coma.

The first week, he'd been told to prepare himself for the worst. The second week, he'd been told there was nothing more that they could do.

But in the third week, you'd moved. Just your hand, just a twitch, but a sign of life the doctors had been trying to convince him wasn't there before.

In the fourth week, you'd recovered enough to be taken off the ventilator.

You were clawing your way back to consciousness, readying yourself to meet your precious, sweet baby.

In the sixth week after Spencer Reid became a father, he took his daughter back to the hospital to meet her mother again. With some expert baby-sitting from Penelope, he'd managed to visit you once every two days at least in the last few months, but with the little-one still only small, hospital visits to trauma wards weren't exactly recommended.

When they'd transferred you to a regular ward, he'd packed his bags immediately and gathered the baby up, strapping her into her carrier and waiting desperately for visiting hours to begin.

After thirty minutes, he made a call.

“Emily? Can I… can we get a ride?”

Of course, she'd agreed. While no one else had been letting themselves hope, they had absolutely been at his beck and call. He'd been swamped with guilt calling JJ at 3am asking how to settle you because he'd tried everything, and constantly relying on Penelope to come and help him and Luke and Emily, picking up extra hours to finish his paperwork because his paternity leave still hadn't been approved.

He felt guilty, overwhelmed, and stressed, and he needed you to wake up so goddamn much that he feared if he got any bad news, he would shatter. And he didn't know how to be a father, because really he hadn't had one before he was 20 and Gideon became his, and even he had left when things got hard. So how could he be sure he wouldn't.

So he hadn't given his daughter a name. And, yes, it was because he wanted to do it with you, to pick out a name together, but also it was because he didn't think he could stand knowing it if he was too weak and ran from her.

The pressure built and built for six weeks, as he fell in love with his daughter, who deserved better than his love, and then Emily pulled up in his car, and he started sobbing.

“Spencer!” Emily exclaimed, not expecting the outburst at all, the loneliness of the last five months catching up to him finally.

“Emily�� Emily, I'm a terrible father-”

“No! No, sweetie, you're-”

“My daughter doesn't have a name!”

Emily switched the engine off and then grabbed Spencer's shoulder, roughly turning him to face her if he wouldn't meet her in the eyes.

“You have survived this job for nearly two decades. You have survived gunshots, and murderers, and loss that I can not begin to comprehend, and you love that child. You are grieving, and you are stressed, and it is so totally, completely normal to not be okay after everything you've been through,” Emily held her breath, waiting for his reply. Just as he opened his mouth to whisper more doubts, the baby in the back seat began to fuss and cry.

Unable to stop himself, Spencer laughed. Emily laughed with him. They sat giggling in the car together, tears in their eyes as his daughter kicked up a fuss.

“She doesn't like hearing you talk badly about her daddy,” Emily joked and started the engine again.

When Spencer finally made it to your room, his daughter had stopped fussing. A quick bottle in the parking lot had mollified her, and she was gurgling softly now, still pink, her eyes tightly closed. He'd dressed her up nicely, or as nicely as he could muster. A cute pink newborn dress for his tiny baby and a matching pink hair bow.

He gathered the baby carrier in his arms and let the hospital doors open for him.

Finding your new ward wasn't hard. The nurses were helpful enough and honestly, he'd taken a look at the building blueprints weeks before, when he'd been obsessing over every small detail of your care, so he practically knew the route by himself.

Straight, then a left turn, then straight again, and a right turn and keep going until there was a final turn into your ward.

He let out a deep sigh as soon as he reached the nurses station and readied himself to ask for you.

“Hello, I'm here to see my Y/N, I was told she was transferred here this morning?”

The nurses on the station looked up at him in shock and blinked at him a few times before speaking up. If ever there was a time to hear the words “you haven't heard?” uttered from the mouth of a nurse in a hospital where your comatose girlfriend was being treated, then it likely wasn't when he held a newborn in his already weak arms.

The panic set in quickly as he tuned the noise out. An older nurse walked around the side of the desk to comfort him, sticking by his side and grabbing the baby carrier before he could accidentally let it go in his shock.

Another nurse came to his side to take care of the baby, and quickly, they both ushered him down another hall to an adjacent ward. He drowned out every word as they tried to comfort and reassure him, his brain jumping to the worst conclusions.

His teammates were right when they said he shouldn't hope. He needed to be realistic now. If you were gone, he had to call your family and organize the funeral. He had to pack up your stuff. He had to settle the hospital bills and decide how you would be seen off.

He had to name his daughter.

The nurses pushed him towards the room quickly, and he mentally prepared himself to say goodbye, but as the doors swung open, he saw you, and he fell to his knees.

“Spencer?”

In the two hours since you'd woken up, you'd been poked, prodded, hydrated, fed, rubbed down, and spoken over like you were still somewhat asleep.

No one had explained exactly what had happened, and no one explained where your baby was, and you'd kicked and screamed yourself hoarse, as the doctors noted down that you still had use of your vocal chords and all four limbs.

So seeing Spencer crash into your room at full force through your tear filled eyes was the best experience you'd had in months, especially when you spotted the nurse with the baby sized car seat coming in behind him.

“Is that my baby? Is that my baby? Please-” You pushed sheets off your body as a nurse tried to hold you still, not wanting you to pull the IV from your arm or the oxygen tubes from your face.

And suddenly Spencer was there, and he'd regained his strength, and his hope, and his happiness because you were awake, and talking and god you remembered.

It was all he could do not to grab you, bundle you up, and carry you away to safety, but the nurse propping you up was stern-looking, and he had a daughter to tend to.

He pulled your face into his hands and kissed you as softly as he could, holding back his emotion as he held you like you would break, feeling your wet tears on his skin.

“I missed you,” he whispered, dropping his forehead to yours as he gently stepped back and allowed the nurses to help you get comfortable.

Then he turned quickly and grabbed your daughter, and your breath caught in your throat as he held her out to you.

“What do I…? Where should I put my hands- Oh god, I'm so unprepared, I-” your eyes welled again, but it was joy as you saw her serene little sleeping face for the first time and he slowly lowered her into your arms. It turns out, no-one needed to help you out holding her at all, because she was so precious and perfect and yours that she slotted into your arms completely, like it was a spot made completely for her, like you'd been purpose made to hold her and be her mother and love her and cherish her.

You cried and looked up at Spencer and laughed. He rested on the side of the bed and pulled you into his arms, and you felt that completeness a second time, and you knew that you were made for him the way she was made for you.

Your family.

It had almost been taken for you, but it was yours, and it was fate.

With a quiet whisper that only Spencer could hear, you leant down to your baby's ear and said your first words to her.

“I wish that I could be your mother in every lifetime, my sweet Angel.”

[the-sum-of-many-poets]

daisy killer

clockwise it is a hindu sun

a long tailed pheasant star

four celestial horses

pulling the cosmos in circles

counter clockwise

elements of kali

the seventh of twenty four teachers & saviours

arriving on a jainistic night

from the sanskrit root

swasti

a symbol scribed with mammoth ivory

perhaps a paleolithic stork in flight

fertility

soaring over a hisarlik mound

from the vedas

may we meet with one who gives in return

who does not harm

depicted in the book of silk

it hovered above the world

until the world knew its name

still it sleeps in the indus valley

bronzed & pure

every monsoon river coursing through it

like thoughts

some fevered & sick

empyrean

seraphic

beguiling

a symbol of divinity

sometimes

informally

you’ll overhear it on restaurant tables

before the dreaded shutter click

divine

but of all its synonyms

godlike

waits in the wings

waits in the onion grease of odious footsteps

to corrupt

©️david sichler

[vaidyaslaboratory]

Aarogya Vaidya Monsoon Fever Advance Package - Dr. Vaidya's Laboratory

The Aarogya Vaidya Monsoon Fever Advance Health Package (₹1975) offers 76 tests like CBC, ESR, Dengue, Malaria, Typhi, and more. With home sample collection and NABL accredited labs, it ensures precise analysis, perfect for Thane residents.

[oobbbear]

Ah yes, now my animated music vid playlist will be handy!

Fan animated section but great

Charlie's inferno by Urser

Vampire series by Daria Cohen

OR3O Clover series

DKC m: Return to Krocodile Isle by alex Henderson

Run, Rabbit, Run by LiteralHat

Now for some official ones i love!

Caracan Palace with Mirrors, Miracle,Rock it for Me, Lone Digger, Moonshine and MAD

Stromae with Carmen

Delta Heavy with Get By, Ghost, White Flag, Hold Me, Take Me Home, Punish my love

C2C with Delta

McBaise with She's a Big Boy, Water Slide, Wood

Fever the Ghost with SOURCE (Felix colgrave animation)

Stuck in the sound with Let's Go

The Shins with The Rifle's Spiral, Pink Bullets

SIAMES (ofc) with My Way, The Wolf, No Lullaby, Mr. Fear, Summer Nights, All the Best

Skip the Use with Nameless World

June with A Little Messed Up

Flobots with Handlebars

Freak Kitchen with Freak of the Week

Goldfish with We Come Together, One Million views, Get Busy Living, Washing over me, Fort Knox, Talk To me, Forever Free

Jinkx Monsoon with Cartoons and Vodka

Blockhead with The Music Scene

Twiztid with Dead & Gone

Pearl Jam with Do the Evolution

John Hickman with Cascade

Jay-Z with The story of O.J.

Mystery Skulls witj Endlessly

Britney Spears with Break The Ice

Daft Punk with their classic Interstella series

GRADES with King

Coldplay with Something Just Like This, Adventure Of a Lifetime, Hurts Like Heaven, Daddy

One T + Cool T with The Magic Key

Ryan Woodward with Thoughts of You

Expect a part 2 in a bit

HOHOHOHO I’m shaking this like a kid found a jar of cookie thank you thank you thank you

[puppyguppy]

You’re coherent – for the moment.

At least, you think you are. Which, you suppose, confirms the suspicion. The theory. Since you’re thinking in general. Lucidly so, and about something other than – emptyheatdeepneedfilledtouchtouchtouch –

You’re still warm, you still ache, and your head and insides still throb with the same pulse of your heart. Your head feels heavy. You’re sweating, and shaking still, but it feels like the crash of a fever. Something you’re familiar with, at least, at last. Your fingers and toes hurt from flexing and curling so much, into the sheets and into themselves. And you’re still so - so wet. In places you shouldn’t be, at least not naturally; not that any of this is natural, technically. Just some fucked up side effects from a quirk. Despite how saliva pools thick and copious between your tongue and teeth, your throat feels dry. Parched. Unsatisfied. Denied, like a desert is sometimes denied the promise of a monsoon. Not that you’d been promised anything.

Nothing more than your safety and security, anyway.

Which was actually pretty amazing. More than what most people would end up with in the same situation as you. More than what you could’ve ever expected. After all, it’s not like you’re dying, even if you feel like you are. Like you will. Not like, right now, not in this sudden, blissful second of reprieve, but. Soon. Soon. Especially if you don’t get something more than some easily eaten food and fitful sleep and sponge baths. They’d told you that the quirk could wear off anywhere between three to seven days. That that was the average, though some sweat it out quicker than others. You’re not sure what day it is. Or if it’s even been a day. Of course, there was an ‘antidote’. A so-called ‘cure’ for the quirk. A ‘remedy’. A quick fix. But, not for you. Because you are single. Single, and currently under the constant, careful watch of a Pro-Hero that’d been dubbed as one with the strongest self-control. And damn-near nonexistent sex-drive. Which was, you know. Fine. Great, even. For him. And really none of your business under any other circumstances. But. You’d been hit by a quirk that more or less sends you spiralling into a horny, hazy heat like some stray street cat. Basically, you just really want some dick. Need some dick. And, supposedly, said dick would fix you right up – if you could just get it. Alas.

They considered you too dangerous to be left on your own. Since you’re single and all. They figured that if they just dropped your ass back at your apartment that you might do something you’d later regret. Which was fair. You couldn’t consent, not confidently, not completely. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, this stupid quirk also, apparently, changes your biology. So, no matter what bits someone may or may not be rockin’, they could still end up…pregnant. And you definitely didn’t want to get pregnant. Don’t. Don’t want to get pregnant. So, you are grateful. For now. For the food and the water (when you can get it down), and the sponge baths and safe place to sleep. Since that’d also been a worry, what with how hard the quirk hit you; they’d been worried you wouldn’t be able to take care of yourself while rolling through the waves. They’d been right. You’d probably be dead by now, were it not for them. Were it not for him. The Pro-Hero taking care of you. The one with unshakable self-restraint and a below zero libido. Supposedly. And long, dark, fluffy looking hair. Dark eyes, darker circles under those eyes, the shadow of stubble across his jaw…broad shoulders but lean muscles, more hair on his forearms and dusting down his knuckles, long thick fingers that only ever touch you through the filter of damp, cool fabric. Or, well, you think – maybe, maybe you remember him holding you up by the back of your head, or tilting your chin up, while you ate and drank, but it’s hard to say. You could’ve made that up. It could’ve been just one of many, many fantasies muddling your brain. Even now, they linger just on the outskirts of your thoughts, lapping at them like white noise but red. Like the Indian Ocean’s lowtide, just waiting for the right moment to swell again and drown you.

It’s crazy to think about, while you can. There are so many heroes, and yet, only one has been deemed safe enough to take care of you. As if any other wouldn’t, or couldn’t. As if it might be too much; the sight of you, the sound of you, the scent of you – whining and moaning, and writhing and crying, begging. Like they might take advantage of you, how much you think you want it, how much you think you need it, how you just might forget it. You don’t think you’re that irresistible, even under an influence such as this. Are heroes just that desperate? That greedy? Some of them, obviously. Yeah. Of course. But not this guy. Not Aizawa, who feeds you jelly pouches and bone broth, and wipes you down between fits and naps. Not Shouta, who stays an appropriate, responsible distance away from you unless absolutely necessary, and murmurs soothing nothings to you through the worst of your haze, your hunger. 

The ceiling above you is some shade of grey. As are the walls, and the bedset you’ve almost melted your way through. None of them are the same shade of grey, but the lack of color is oddly relaxing. It reminds you of overcast, of rain. Of a thunder outside of your head. You crave the cold drizzle of raindrops down your spine, the chilly whisper of words along your neck, the prickle of gooseflesh beneath a blooming bruise sucked spit-soaked into your skin and left to cool. Your stomach muscles quiver, and your next inhale is a bit of a soft choke, airways slightly suffocated by spit. It’s your body warning you; you’ve waded too close to the riptide again, and you’ve got no other choice but to get dragged under. You know you won’t actually drown. You know you won’t die, even if you don’t get dicked down. And yet, something akin to fear still spikes through your chest. You’re alone, and you don’t want to be alone, you’re empty, and it hurts, you want, you need, please, please – “Please - !” “Hey,” you’re not alone. Fingers skim through the perspiration over your forehead, four of them, like sturdy logs that create a liferaft out of the back of a hand. You’re floating again, breathing again, even if all the hero’s done is prolong the inevitable. “How’re you feeling?” He asks, and while he pulls his hand away, you catch the glint of your sweat on his skin, like dewy branches in the morning. Fleetingly, filthily, you wonder what would make them snap. What would make him snap. If anything at all, could it possibly be something like you? Someone like you? How’re you feeling? “I thought heroes were supposed to help people.” 

You’re pouting. You’re pissy, though that’d been unbeknownst to you until this very moment. You’d been – well. Better. Ish. Before Aizawa had started asking dumb questions. Like, how are you feeling? Like, how are you supposed to answer that? 

Aizawa heaves a sigh from where he stands at the bedside, arms crossed and shoulders slouched. He looked tired. More tired than when you'd met him. He’s not always in the room with you, but is he sleeping when he's not? 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” He tries again, with the patience and forgiveness of a saint. 

Yes? No? Maybe?

You're not sure.

So instead, you ask, “How long has it been?”

He blinks at you, as if startled by the question, and maybe that’s a reasonable reaction if this is the sanest you've sounded in –

“Four days, just about.” 

Fuck. 

So, this shit could wear off any time now. Hopefully sooner rather than later. Maybe it already is. Maybe that's why you can just barely keep up a decent conversation with the man. You hadn’t been lucky enough for three days, but maybe you won't have to make it through five. Hell, it’d probably be over now, if Aizawa just – your stomach clenches again, and this time, so do your fingers and toes. It's pleasure-pain, it's hot but hollow, and you have to force the sound from your throat into words through gritted teeth. 

“I’m close,” you warn him, like you might warn a partner that you're close to cumming. But you're not. Instead, it's coming, coming towards you with all the heat and weight of a steam engine. The blare of the horn is loud between your ears, harmonising with the desperation of your own scream. You pant in time with the rhythm of wheels over the tracks; the same tracks you're tied to, squirming against iron and rope. Of course, the train isn't real, but you are tied up. Bound to the bed by something between a ribbon and a rope. It squeezes you tight, just on the wrong side of right, just like your insides could be squeezing –

“Enough.”

He growls loud and low, and it rumbles through to your core like the color of the ceiling had cracked, while white streaks across your vision, blinding like lightning. You try to look at him, but it's hard to focus through the growing storm. Through the confusion and desire howling through your head, opposing winds of hot and cold – you need to get under. Under something, someone, safe – you need the tornado chased out from inside of you, forced out, you need the eye of your storm calmed with cock – it's ridiculous, humiliating, and the last shred of your sanity rips away with the sound of tearing fabric. 

Aizawa is no longer standing by the bed, but sitting on it. He’s looming over you, shoulders visibly rising and falling with the exertion of his breaths. Like it's suddenly hard for him to breathe, too. His hair obscures his eyes, the way it falls into his face, but his lips are parted. One hand is braced beside you, caving in the mattress, and the other is -

is wrapped around the handle of a knife. 

The blade of that knife, however, is plunged deep into the layers of the mattress, sheets creased right up against the hilt. His grip is white-knucked, and you should be scared. You should wonder where that knife came from, worry about what it is doing here, but. The only thing you feel is jealousy; the bed getting filled instead of you. And you’d settle for that blade right about now, because it'd be better than nothing. Better than your own fingers, and you wouldn't even care where it goes. Your throat, your chest, your stomach – between your eyes, between your ribs, between your legs. Your blood is just as wet as the rest of you. If you can't sweat this damn quirk out, and he won't fuck it out, maybe at least you can bleed it out. The quirk made you horny like a cat. It didn't grant you the nine lives of one. 

You tip your head back and moan like the neglected animal you are(n’t). Your eyes sting with the salt of sweat and tears. Wordlessly, you beg for that blade. Plead for him to plunge it inside of you, something surely much more satisfying than a mattress. When he starts to untie you, you think yes, yes, finally. His hands shake, his limbs like branches bending against the strength of your storm, and you realise – 

He’s affected. 

It shoots through you like a wildfire, and your heart stops, stomach drops, before you roll. Right onto your side, then your stomach, ass up. You're naked, have been since day one, but you haven't really considered that until now. And by considering it, you appreciate it, in pleased passing because it makes for easier access, and your brain purrs over the natural, animal state of it. In this position, fill me turns into breed me, and he’s…he’s off the bed and across the room again. You're alone again, all alone and empty, sharing the bed with a stupid knife. You’re crying, frustrated and damn near delirious, nuzzling your face into a pillow as if you can rub the quirk out that way. You can’t. And he won’t. But…you lift your head and peek at that blade through a bleary eye. Your body then moves on its own, guided by each silent syllable of thought in your brain, and before you're even fully aware of it, not that you're really aware of anything right now, you’re poised above that blade. Up on your knees, thighs spread and shaking, you’re dripping; and again, before you slowly sink yourself down onto the handle, you wonder if this will make him snap. It settles inside you lukewarm and stiff, but easy, and you clench around it like a cat’s teeth in a canary's neck. It's yours now. Your knife. And you have every intent to ride it for all it's worth, until you collapse and pass out, but before you get the chance, everything stills.

It leaves you reeling.

You almost topple over, but brace yourself with a hand against the bed. The abrupt silence within yourself leaves your ears ringing. You can't believe it – you don't believe it. That it's all over, just like that. You're still shaking, still panting. Still sore, and still seated on the handle of a knife, but you feel…fine? You blink, and then you sniffle a little, before finally looking around you, and –

“You with me?” 

Aizawa's hair is standing up on end, and his eyes are glowing. Red, red, just like the color you've been feeling. It's like he's looking through you, inside of you, and it makes you shiver. You're not sure what's happening, or how his hair is doing that – moving, but you nod.

“Good. This is my quirk. I haven't used it on you yet because it only works as long as I don't blink, and I didn't want to tease you with it. I can't completely erase the quirk’s side effects, but I can momentarily ease them. Do you understand?”

You nod again, but your gut twists with a little bit of anger. You understand, but you wish he would've done this sooner. Like, maybe before you decided a knife made a decent enough dildo.

“Okay. I'm going to have to blink soon, but before I do – would you like to ride something better than my knife?”

Your eyes widen as, for the first time in days, you finally feel shame again. A blush burns all the way down to your toes.

“With the quirk’s effects currently paused, I’ll consider whatever answer you give me to be coherent. And consensual, depending.”

You should just say yes. You don't need to say yes, you know you don't. But, you want to say yes, even now, with a mostly clear head. But, you don’t say yes.

You say, “Do you want me to ride something better than your knife?”

His voice doesn't crack, it snaps. Like a twig beneath a hunter’s boot, eyes glued to his prey. His hair flutters back down around his face, leaves returning to a tree. 

You hold still, hold your breath.

And wait to be shot.

“Please.”

[ravenvsfox]

something electric in the blood

hey woah it's my birthday again! this year I've decided to subject you all to the tfc superhero au that's been in my back pocket for 2 years. feedback would be a very chill birthday gift, but I'm also just happy to be here (not letting this story languish in a textedit file)! ok! rock on etc

________

Neil’s mother could call a monsoon down from a crisp blue sky. Her power was tearful and tormented; she was always wreathed with rainwater, a grey veil obscuring her face.

Neil’s father was righteous electricity. His power was a fork in a wall socket. He went off before he was even born; his lightning struck his mother dead from the inside out. A killer before he even entered the world—a born murderer.

Mary spent the first few months of her pregnancy wishing quietly for a miscarriage, petrified of a fatal lightning strike from the storm brewing inside her. Lucky for her, Nathaniel was never anything like his father. (He takes solace in this many times, when he’s old enough to understand how dangerous his powers can be.)

Long before he was Neil, he could cradle sunbeams in each hand, whistle for hail, and bend fog around his enemies like blindfolds. He could cover his footsteps with peals of thunder as he ran, and wash away crime scenes with downpours. 

When his mother was killed, he struck their car with lightning over and over, and watched the white flames burst the windshield and warp the metal. He set the beach on fire all around him, staggering and tearing his hair, smoking the sand into glass and then cutting his feet to pieces as he ran. 

He kept running for months after that, his powers spilling like loose change out of a hole in his pocket. And he was so determined to survive that he no longer had a say in which parts of the weather he wanted, like—instead of checking specialty books out from the library, he was pulling down entire shelves by accident. 

Now, in the final stages of his weather sickness, he finds himself screened behind fog and ice most of the time, tidal waves dragging anyone who comes close, sunlight pouring in and out of his body like fever. Most urgently, an electrical storm is always very, very close to the surface; lightning is thick in his nose, tickling his throat, writhing half-formed above him in the veins of clouds. He’s afraid it will make a weapon of him, when he’d give anything to be something else.

Read on AO3

_______

The stranger finds him in an abandoned mall, at the tail-end of his breakdown. Neil had filled the first floor up to his waist with rainwater, filtered down through the caved in ceiling—a shattered skylight that he had ripped lightning through like a hacksaw. He'd beckoned clouds down over all of the windows and finally slept, exhausted, in the eye of the storm. 

The man appears out of the blue, drenched, in the foodcourt-turned-swimming pool. Water laps around his belt and bleeds up his shirt. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his expression is unreadable. Neil peers at him steadily across the water. Reflections of the graphic 90s wall decals float innocently between them.

“Neil, I bet.” He wipes his wet hands on his shirt. Through the water, Neil can see his boots grinding against broken glass. “Call me Wymack.”

Neil unfolds his legs, letting his feet dangle from the table he’s perched on. He waits patiently for violence. “How do you know who I am?”

Wymack smiles, half-cocked, maybe a little pissed off to be up to his waist in Neil’s mess. 

“Not every day that a storm eats a shopping mall.”

“I asked how you know who I am,” Neil reiterates, “not if you have eyes.” His voice is raw from misuse. Everything is kind of echoey and green, in this washed-out mall of his.

“Alright smartass. I’ve had you flagged for a while,” Wymack says. “I keep tabs on supers who I think might be a good fit with my Foxes. We’ve known the general shape of you since you flattened that barn in Ohio.”

He narrows his eyes. “There’s no way you could connect me to that.”

Wymack raises an eyebrow. “You’ll notice I said flattened. As in levelled. As in hailstones the size of kittens. In the middle of August. Who else has that kind of power? A functioning dairy farm, Josten. It was a slaughter.”

Neil flinches. “Fine,” he mutters. “I know. Why are we talking about it?”

“A ruined barn, a glass beach, a total whiteout in the middle of a grocery store, this castle in the clouds you’ve hooked up for yourself? Seems like a pattern. Seems like a breakdown, actually. My job is to step in when a super loses their shit, and I think we both know you fit the bill.”

“So what happens now?” Neil asks slowly. He’s struggling to keep his voice even, but he can feel thunder brewing, metabolizing in his gut. “You take me to superpower rehab? Give me dampeners and lock me in a basement? Fuck off.” 

Wymack looks unimpressed. “Talking out of your ass must be another one of your special powers.”

Neil scowls.

“Look,” Wymack starts, wading two steps closer. “I’m offering you an opportunity to be a part of a team of people like you. We all know the heroes and villains model is psychotic, but shit, powers are made to be used. We use ‘em. Find people, fix things. Or break things, if they’re not working right.”

“You’re vigilantes,” Neil says.

“No,” Wymack says, breaking out in a wicked grin. “We’re government mandated. Barely. My team is powerful. It’s in everyone’s best interest to let them hunt criminals so they don’t become them.”

“You left out the part where we’re all already criminals,” an entirely new voice says. It takes a moment for Neil’s eyes to adjust to the fact that it belongs to someone standing directly in front of him, having materialized seemingly out of thin air.

Neil clambers backwards, and a little taser beam of lightning ricochets perilously close to the water they’re all standing in.

This new stranger is so close that he can see the tawny colour of his eyes. He’s short, nearly chest-deep in the water, with a shock of blond hair and a chalky, sullen face. 

“Jesus, Andrew,” Wymack complains. “How long?”

Andrew’s static expression twitches, and he’s a foot to the left without straining a muscle.

“Don’t fucking pause me when I’m talking to you,” Wymack says, nonsensically.

“Were we talking?” Andrew asks. “I forget.” He circles Neil carefully, nearly soundless in the water.

Neil frowns, still in the slippery process of righting himself on the table. His shoes screech against a flaking metal chair.

“Speed?” he demands. It comes to mind immediately, the way Andrew is sort of flitting like a hummingbird, punched out of reality and then clipping back in somewhere else. Neil has always been obsessed with the straightforward usefulness of super speed.

Andrew’s gaze turns shrewd.

“Wrong brother.”

“Excuse me?”

“Settle down. He’s green, Andrew,” Wymack interrupts. “He doesn’t know shit about the Foxes.”

His eyes flicker to Wymack and back. He glitches, and Neil’s neck is wrenched to the side by an open-handed slap to the face. His vision blurs. Lightning strikes the roof.

“Interesting,” Andrew murmurs. 

“Christ,” Wymack exclaims, “what have I told you about antagonizing volatiles?”

“You can manipulate time,” Neil breathes, holding the back of his hand to the pain-flushed apple of his cheek. Andrew snaps his fingers and disappears.

“He can manipulate my patience,” Wymack says, turning a slow, sloshing circle in the water to scan the balcony overlooking the food court. His eyes focus suddenly, and Neil follows his gaze to find Andrew lounging at the top of a long-broken escalator. Wymack sighs. “Quit showing off.“ 

Andrew blips directly behind Wymack, who trips a little bit, slapping his hands uselessly into the water to find purchase.

“Could you turn this to ice?” Andrew asks coolly, stirring the water with his index finger.

Neil shakes his head. “Once it’s out of the atmosphere I can’t really do shit with it. What else can you do with time? Reverse it or—“

“There’s only one button on my remote,” Andrew says simply.

“Not that I’m not enjoying these pleasantries,” Wymack says. “But I’ll take an answer now, Neil.”

“You called me a ‘volatile,’” Neil accuses.

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Every single one of my Foxes was classified as a volatile when I found them. It’s not an ugly word.”

He thinks of his father splashed through the news attached to that word, of being hunched over a police scanner full of dirty voices hissing volatile spotted, in pursuit of volatile, volatile resisting arrest. It was always about putting down anyone with powers before they could even think about being empowered.

“Depends on who’s using it,” Neil says. He shivers, and it snows a little, a miniature avalanche like something off of a disturbed tree branch. Andrew puts his hand out into the flurry, producing a fistful of slush that he promptly chucks at Wymack. It collides wetly with his chest, sticking there momentarily like a pathetic badge.

Wymack looks skyward. “Give me strength.” He seems to realize that the sky is Neil’s domain when a few more errant snowflakes catch in his hair, and he shakes them off, disconcerted.

“If I come with you,” Neil starts. “Can I stay anonymous?”

“Sure. We’ll get you a mask,” Wymack says, stone-faced. Neil can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He squints. Wymack sighs. “Look kid, I don’t care what you’ve done up until exactly now. You leave here with us, we officially work together. That means I accommodate you. I get you what you need to function. A place to sleep. Doctor visits. Dampeners if you need them.” Neil bristles, but Wymack powers on. “And in return, you work for me. Help us keep things balanced.”

Neil looks at him for a long, searching moment, feeling the snow blowing out of his chest, a sudden spring thaw. His sneakers are soaked, and the thought of a place to sleep where the weather can’t find him is so tempting.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it. But how do I know—”

He’s barely spoken when he feels a strange vertigo, a retreating, phantom pressure, and he realizes he’s been transported instantaneously to the back of a car. It’s indescribable, the absence of even a blink between one set of surroundings and the next. He feels like he was in some sort of virtual reality and his headset was ripped off.

“Fuck,” he gasps. 

“You ask too many questions,” Andrew says.

“You moved me here?” he demands. Andrew looks at him blankly, as if this should be obvious. “I can walk,” he grits out. “Don’t waste your powers on me.”

“I was tired of your babbling,” he says. “You already agreed to come with us. The Foxhole needs us more than you need your self-punishing little enclosure.”

Neil glowers out the window, his fingers itchy on the unlocked door handle. A dozen metres away from their spot in the faded tarmac grid of the parking lot, Wymack is wedging open the defunct automatic doors at the mall’s entrance, emerging in an absurd flood of rainwater. 

“If the ‘foxes’ are so capable, shouldn’t they be able to take care of themselves?”

“You would think,” Andrew says wryly.

Wymack wrenches the handle on the driver’s side door, but it just snaps back into place, locked. Andrew twirls the car keys on his middle finger. 

“Enough,” Wymack says, long-suffering. He raps on Andrew’s window until his fingers jangle, and he and Neil realize at the same time that the keys are now dangling from his wrist. (Andrew’s middle finger is still raised.)

Climbing inside the belly of the car, Wymack jabs a button on the console and the headrests whack down and catch Andrew and Neil both on the crowns of their heads.

Andrew makes an affronted noise. “We have a guest,” he says.

“We have a time crunch,” Wymack says. “Not that that’s ever meant anything to you.”

“Renee will take care of it.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” he argues, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot before the tide from the mall can roll out to meet them.

“What does Renee do?” Neil asks.

Wymack meets his eye in the rearview mirror. “She deals with a frankly inhumane amount of bullshit, mostly.”

“I meant—“

“I know what you meant,” he gripes. “I was getting to that part. You’re going to have to learn at least an ounce of patience if you’re going to—“

“She’s a shifter,” Andrew says.

“A shapeshifter,” Neil repeats incredulously. He’s so frantically jealous for a moment that he has to bite down on his tongue.

“She can turn into pretty much anything with a face,” Wymack says.

“You’re joking.”

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I wish I was.” He takes a hand off the wheel to jab a thumb at Andrew. “You think one of him is bad, imagine three of him underfoot.”

They lapse into silence for a moment as Neil considers this. Scrubby spring scenery whips past, Wymack taps an absentminded tattoo on the gearshift, and Andrew sits utterly, perfectly still at Neil’s side.

“What do the rest of the Foxes do?” Neil asks, badly feigning nonchalance. He’s calculating how much of this could be useful to him, the ways he could co-opt supernatural speed, stopped time, or a thousand disguises. The possibilities are staggering.

“They should probably tell you themselves,” Wymack says, slanting another knowing look at him in the mirror. 

Andrew snorts.

Neil narrows his eyes. “What, are they bad?”

Andrew glitches into the passenger seat, and Wymack nearly loses control of the car, clipping the horn with one flailing hand. “Last time he got too comfortable with the secret identity reveals, Kevin made him walk out into traffic.”

Neil absorbs this like a punch to the stomach, thinking of miscalculated lightning and swift punishments, a father with a bolt in each fist.

“Don’t listen to him,” Wymack says, “It’ll rot your brain.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Andrew says simply. He flicks a circle of beads dangling from the rearview, and less than a second later, they’ve disappeared.

“Jesus suffering christ,” Wymack says. “Put those back.”

“What?” Andrew says blankly, and Neil considers that any of these glitches might represent minutes, hours, or days where Andrew has been suspended, alone, in time. 

He wants to ask him how long he can stay outside of time, if he ages in the infinite space between seconds, or if it’s as peaceful as it sounds to be the only moving thing in the universe. Instead he asks, “How do you make someone walk into traffic?” 

Wymack sighs. “Well, if you’re Kevin, you get inside their head and tell them what to do.”

Andrew glances backwards. “Your worst nightmare, I would imagine.”

Neil’s neck is hot with anxiety just thinking about it, but he sets his jaw, defiant. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I know what someone who’s afraid of their own powers looks like. And I know how easy it would be for Kevin to set you off like a firecracker.”

Neil wordlessly rolls down his window and calls down a hailstone the size of a baseball.

“No more powers in my car,” Wymack snaps, deftly forcing Neil’s window up so he has to snatch his hand back, dropping the ice out into the street. “Honestly, it’s like I’m running a daycare.”

“You don’t have a power?” Neil asks.

“I have the almighty ability to withstand annoying questions.”

“Excuse me if I’m curious about how a powerless stranger tracked me all the way to nowhere, where my—where no one else thought to look, just to enlist me into his knock-off suicide squad.”

“Well first of all, let’s make one thing absolutely fucking clear,” Wymack says, twisting in his seat, one hand steady at the bottom of the wheel. “Just because someone can’t—or won’t—use any superpowers, it doesn’t mean they’re powerless. If you listen to a word I say to you today, let it be that. Got it?”

They watch each other for so long that Neil starts to feel uneasy. The car should’ve drifted off the road by now. Maybe Andrew’s correcting their course by increments. Maybe Wymack actually has a banal, embarrassing kind of GPS power that keeps wheels to pavement.

“Fine,” Neil says, clipped.

“Good. If you call Abby powerless, I guarantee she’ll give you an earful about nursing school.”

“Who’s—“

Andrew makes an irritated noise, and when Neil looks up at the sound, he’s disoriented again by an instantaneous shift in light. His head snaps to the right, and he finds Wymack dumped unceremoniously beside him in the backseat. Andrew is busily turning the engine off up front, and a sleek, black parking garage is spread out around them, like a high-tech hangar in a sci-fi movie.

“Chrissake,” Wymack says. “Give me the keys.”

“You have them,” Andrew says tonelessly, and then he disappears. Wymack sighs and starts working on disentangling the keys that have just been magicked onto one of his earrings.

“Does he move other people around like that very often?” Neil asks.

“When the mood strikes him,” Wymack says, kicking the door open and swinging a leg out. Outside of the car, he continues, “he used to say that things have different weight, when they’re paused. All that shit like gravity, velocity, friction—they function differently when time isn’t affecting you.”

“He told you that?" Neil asks. Wymack nods. "Huh. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be so forthright.”

“Amazing what sobriety can do to a person.” Wymack holds up a hand before Neil can speak again. “More on that later. We have a facility to tour.” They’re approaching the subtle seam of a door in a broad expanse of wet-looking dark concrete. Neil hadn’t even been able to make out that it was a door until it was close enough to touch.

“Right now?”

“You have something better to do?” 

Neil shrugs. He was kind of hoping to be shown somewhere dry and windowless, but he can play house-tour.

Wymack puts his thumb to an inconspicuous tab jutting out of the near-invisible door-frame, the mechanism beeps and clicks, and the the wall sinks inward. 

“That was the main lot, this is the atrium.” The door folds itself away like a bird’s wing, and Neil follows his host into a dark hexagonal space, black walls and cubbies like something from a locker room, everything lit up at the seams with artificial techno-orange. “We usually meet here before a mission, gear up and ship out.”

Neil rolls his eyes at Wymack’s back. Between the faux-military slang and the wannabe spy movie facility, the benefit of the doubt is already stretched paper-thin.

The hallway ahead is long and uniform, with identical corridors extending in either direction every ten paces. They come across a series of matching but modified outfits behind glass, displays full of black, orange and white leather, bulky looking jackets, masks, caps and gloves, boots and holsters. 

“Gear,” Wymack says, lingering at the farthest case, a petite, broad-shouldered suit with a full mask, strappy vest, and brass knuckles on a hook. Wymack taps the glass. “Each of these cases opens up into a personal changing room. You’ll get a custom suit. Probably something water-proof and—“ he purses his lips against a smile. “Shock-resistant. Hope you like rubber.”

Neil examines a suit with thick, elbow-high gloves and an ornate half-mask. “I don’t really care what I wear.”

“Glad to hear it. Some of my Foxes were not so flexible.” 

“Someone say flexible?” 

Neil looks up just in time to see a shape drop from an air-duct overhead, like paper spit from a printer. When it hits the floor, it’s a person.

“What the hell,” Neil says flatly.

The newcomer grins. He’s tall and wiry, and his hair is gelled up into deliberate-looking peaks. Even with a complete, three-dimensional heft to him he seems stretched out, like a teenager still growing into his legs. He offers Neil a friendly hand. “Matt Boyd. And you’re the new recruit, Neil, right?”

He nods, accepting the handshake. He glances meaningfully upward. “That can’t be more than a half-inch gap.”

Matt laughs, obviously pleased. “They don’t call me Flex for nothin'.” His hand becomes putty in Neil’s grip, and when Neil tries to extract himself, Matt has him in hand-handcuffs.

“You could escape anything,” Neil marvels, half-gawking at the unseemly image of Matt’s taffy-stretched, bisected hands, slithering back and becoming whole.

Matt looks sideways at Wymack, still smiling. “He is fresh. Still has the capacity for surprise. That’s kind of nice, actually.”

Neil’s shoulders hitch upwards, defensive. “It’s been a while since I’ve met new supers.” His mother had kept him in the most oppressively average and un-stimulating hideaways she could. If he ever met supers it was by accident.

“Well that ends today, dude,” Matt says. “We see crazy new shit pretty much all the time.”

“I’m starting to get that.”

“Your thing is weather, right? You got a demo in you?” Matt asks slyly. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Wymack says quickly, but Neil is already feeling his way skyward.

They’re underground, but he can still kind of always sense the atmosphere, whispering in from outside through filtered air or natural light. It’s as simple as finding a loose end and tugging.

He blinks, and suddenly, the hallway is a wind tunnel. It’s just a little air show, but still, the gusts are so intense that Wymack has to take a step back and steady himself against the wall. Matt whoops joyfully, his immovable gelled hair whipping back. He uses his stretch powers to balloon outward like a parachute, and the wind catches his rubber body and drags him twenty feet down the hallway.

Neil rolls his neck, satisfied, and the wind dies out. “If we were above ground, I could give you a real show.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Matt says, jogging breathlessly back towards them. “Man, we’re going to work so well together. You can be the wind beneath my wings.” He quirks a genuine smile at Neil, who relaxes in spite of himself. 

“Don’t you have crime to stop?” Wymack asks drily, and Matt rolls his eyes. 

“I mean, if I can’t stop some trouble, I can always make some.” He swerves unnaturally out of the way, laughing, when Wymack reaches out to cuff him over the head. “See you soon, Neil,” he calls, taking one enormous stride to the very end of the corridor, around the corner, and out of sight.

“Everyone shows off for newcomers,” Wymack says, pushing steadfastly ahead. “Please don’t give them the weather-works every time.”

Neil shrugs. “He asked for it.”

“Yeah, and you’re a real people pleaser, huh?”

The tour trundles on, through the tunnelling halls of a facility that is slowly revealing itself to be as well-appointed as it is well-hidden. They pass through a wide-open common kitchen area with enough dining space for twenty; an enormous training gym outfitted with targets, mats, a reinforced spectator box, and a fully stocked library of weapons and armour. 

There are a couple of available sleeping quarters, spartan, but outfitted with sturdy furniture, clean bedding, and storage like Neil has never even thought to ask for; a lounge with a beaten-looking couch and chairs, a smaller kitchenette, an entertainment system, and a pool table; and a professional-grade medical station, equipped to hold what looks like the entire team at once. 

Neil meets a laser-focused Abby Winfield in the med bay, where she’s tending to a surly Andrew look-alike with a bruise-mottled grimace on his face. Aaron’s gaze darts and slices like a bird unsettled from its perch when Neil enters the room.

Neil asks him if he ran into someone’s fist, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, just casting a haughty look down Neil’s rain-soaked jeans as he hops from the exam table. Abby seems to realize what’s coming a moment before it happens, because she waves a still uncapped tube of ointment in one hand and says, “Aaron, don’t, I’m not—“ but he’s already blazed from the room, head-spinningly fast.

Wymack shrugs an apology for their intrusion, and Abby sighs, offers Neil a surprisingly generous smile, and shoos them from her office—but not before promising a full physical exam for their newest team member.

Neil swallows his instinctive horror to being examined in any capacity, and forces himself to follow Wymack out from the exposing light of the medical hall. From there, they find their way to an imposing set of steel double-doors at the heart of the labyrinth.

“Mission control,” Wymack says, scanning them seamlessly inside. Neil can tell from the quality of his voice that this is the tour’s grand finale.

It’s a massive space, tech-ed out, and the obvious hub for the entire operation. There are sprawling screens full of moving data, a huge table, lit up from within, with stray files and blueprints littering its surface. There are also towering rows of black filing cabinets lined up against the far wall, a computer system too complex for Neil to understand most of its controls, and a couple of inconspicuous doors leading to what must be private offices.

“We do most of our planning here.” Wymack gestures towards the network of screens and keyboards. “Comprehensive database, files on every super in the country, past battle strats,” he nods towards a white-board over by the meeting table. “Individualized training schedules. My office over there.” When Neil follows his sightline he finds a woman standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes level and keen. Neil waves awkwardly, and her mouth pulls charmingly to the side like a swept curtain. “And that’s Dan Wilds,” Wymack finishes.

“The most important part of the base, right boss?”

“If you say so,” Wymack says, but he's smiling.

“Nice to finally meet you, Neil Josten. Gotta say, I was pretty impressed by your glass beach.”

He tries not to grimace at the thought of it. “Thanks,” he says. “It was accidental.”

She laughs good-naturedly until he doesn’t join in, and then she raises both eyebrows. “‘It was accidental,’ he says. Like he didn’t change the geography of half the East coast.”

“It’s not modesty,” Wymack says. “He really doesn’t know what kind of trail he’s been leaving.”

“I don’t really like to look—back,” Neil says.

Dan’s eyes glint. There’s something sturdy and well-balanced about her, like a broadsword. “Well. Amen to that.”

“Wait, why did no one tell me he was here already?” someone exclaims, bursting in from the double doors behind them. Dark-haired and animated, the new guy is wearing a hyper-casual graphic crop top and joggers, and when he sees Neil properly, he says, “oh christ, your aura.”

“He means to say, hi, I’m Nicky,” Dan says. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, for sure, hi, I’m Nicky,” Nicky says, waving a distracted hand. “I can’t believe how fucked up you feel.”

“Excuse me?” Neil says, face burning, caught (as he often is) between anger and shame.

“I feel what you feel,” he says, with some relish. “No wonder we’re having inclement weather.”

All of Neil’s gauges go haywire—instant panic. It’s even worse than Kevin’s supposed powers of compulsion. The thought of all his hard-won habits, straight-faced lies, and tooth and nail emotional regulation being undone by a little empathy is too terrible. Like a bad joke. 

Wind whistles in his ears. Dan winces sympathetically as Nicky makes a wounded noise and grabs his own skull, staggering backwards. A wave of energy flows visibly through the air from his body, and Neil feels it impacting his own chest. Suddenly, he feels calm and docile as a lamb. He sits on the floor exactly where he is.

“Hey,” Wymack snaps.

“Nicky, stow the powers, okay. You know most of us vollies aren’t empath-compatible,” Dan says.

“I’m sorry, I—“ Nicky’s eyes screw shut. Immediately Neil is in control of his body again, and he slides sideways, panting. “I wasn’t ready.”

“What did you do to me?” Neil demands. Somewhere above ground, thunder grumbles.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky says again. “It’s an instinct sometimes, I swear I can’t help it.”

“He gave you an emotional sedative,” Wymack says, crossing his arms. “Nicky can manipulate feelings.”

“But I don’t,” Nicky interrupts. “Usually. I didn’t expect it to feel like a war-zone in here all of a sudden.”

Neil stands, and starts to stalk threateningly towards Nicky, but a hand closes in his collar and lifts him clean off the ground.

“Let’s not escalate things,” Dan says, holding him easily aloft. “Nick, will you promise to turn off the charm when Neil’s around?”

Nicky puts his hands up in surrender. “Done and done.” Softer, he says, “It’s actually—nice to meet you Neil.” He smiles sheepishly, and Neil shakes his head in dull disbelief. A total stranger just took the full force of the storm at the centre of Neil’s consciousness, and he’s still smiling at him like he’s not a monster.

Dan sets Neil carefully back on his feet, and he shrugs out of her grip, putting several paces between himself and everyone else.

“I understand powers that happen without your consent,” Neil says slowly. “But if you mess with my emotions again I’m not responsible for what’ll come out of the sky.”

Wymack holds up a staying hand, moving between them. “Alright, alright, enough posturing for one day.”

Nicky looks flushed and upset, but as Neil watches, the air around his body shifts and undulates as a new wave of power is compressed inwards. His expression slackens, hazy. “It’s okay. I don’t intimidate easy.”

Neil blinks at him. “You can turn your powers on yourself?” he asks, putting his own discomfort on ice.

Nicky smiles. He seems to be following Neil’s mood at a distance, matching him beat for beat. Neil’s not sure if it’s a byproduct of his abilities or a true personality trait. “Sure. I can chill myself out if I can’t sleep, get pissed before a fight. I don’t do it very often though, it can get intense. Draining.”

“How do you know if what you’re feeling is real? How does anyone around you?”

Nicky’s smile twitches. Neil suspects he’s stepped on a nerve. “It’s not a memory thing. My power lets people know its been there. It’s why I can’t tell anyone to forgive me, or love me, or anything. They would know better.”

“Eh, I know better,” Dan says, walking close enough to rope Nicky in by the shoulders. “But I do it anyway.”

“Aw shucks,” Nicky says, clearly pleased. 

“And you’re—super strong?” Neil asks, eyeing Dan’s thick upper arms.

‘Something like that. I can nudge gravity where I want it.” She looks slyly at Wymack and he uncrosses his arms, taking a step backwards.

“Don’t do it.”

“Come on, not even for the new guy?”

“Dan,” Wymack warns.

“Alright, fine,” she says, hands up. She looks to Neil. “Just know in your heart that I can lift the boss with one finger.”

“It’s a real crowd-pleaser,” Nicky agrees, perching on one of the many data-projecting desks, capped with swirling, changing screens. “But what about you, Stormy Weather? What’s your story?”

He frowns. “I thought all of you knew everything.”

“We’ve seen the highlights reel,” Nicky says. “We don’t know you, though, not yet.”

Not ever, Neil thinks. He plans to treat this like a workplace that he clocks in and out of. After hours, he’ll stay warm and remote in a fog where no one can find him. It’s safer that way.

“I know him,” Andrew says, and Neil looks over to find him cross-legged at the centre of the conference table. The interior glow makes him look haunted, lit ungenerously from below. Andrew tosses a baseball-sized hailstone into the sleek stretch of floor in front of Neil. Preserved, somehow, from when Neil summoned it in the car. “He’s a storm chaser with an attitude problem.”

“Where the hell did you get that?” Dan asks. Then, pinching the bridge of her nose, “never mind, actually. The less I understand the monster, the better.”

“Excuse my cousin Andrew,” Nicky starts. Andrew looks away, apparently bored. “He thinks it’s funny to scare people shitless.”

“I don’t see him laughing,” Neil says tightly. 

“His sense of humour was dropped on its head as a child,” Nicky replies sadly.

“Okay, I’m calling it,” Wymack interrupts. “I’m sure you’re exhausted, Neil. Whole lotta new faces today. You’ll meet Kevin, Renee, and Allison when they get back from mission.”

“When will that be?” Neil asks. He’s already paranoid that the shifter will appear to him without him knowing it.

Wymack shrugs. “When it’s done. In the meantime, I don’t want any more gratuitous powers in my base. No throwing shit, no lightning bolts, no—“ Andrew blinks across the room, perilously close to Neil’s side, jaw craned up to examine his face. Neil looks down instinctively, and finds Andrew’s eyes boring into his own. “No pausing me, Minyard, I’m dead serious. If I have to repeat instructions for you again it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“What was that?” Andrew asks, but Neil’s pretty sure he’s fucking with him, because Wymack just sighs.

“Get out of my sight, all of you.” They all start to disperse, Dan back into Wymack’s office, Nicky over to the doors that lead hall-ward, Andrew into thin air. Wymack catches Neil’s eye. “Get some sleep, okay? See Abby for pills if you need ‘em. We’ll get you something dry to wear.”

“Thank you,” Neil says stiffly.

“Don’t thank me yet. Tomorrow we see how you play with others, and that’s never pretty.”

“Is that a threat?” 

Wymack looks tiredly to the largest screen in the room, beyond the place where stats and mission details are spinning in space. “More of a promise, really.”

Neil follows his gaze to the focal point of the screen, where a hundred thousand tiny golden lights are scattered into a world map like beads. Supers, embroidered into the dark fabric of the world, punched into time by some celestial power source or trick of science that they'll never understand. 

All that running, all that wishing to disappear, and he was always just a dot on this map. There was never a reality where he was going to be able to hide forever. Not even in the eye of a hurricane. Not even in an underground bunker. And if he can’t conceal his powers, he might as well control them.

He looks back at Wymack, feeling like a season on the cusp of changing, a monsoon shaking itself dry. “Let’s get started.”

[nancykhemchandani]

Staying Healthy During the Rainy Season: Essential Precautions and measures

Discover essential health precautions and measures to stay safe during the rainy season. Learn how to protect yourself from waterborne and mosquito-borne diseases.

[facts1590]

Staying Healthy During the Rainy Season: Essential Precautions

Discover essential health precautions and measures to stay safe during the rainy season. Learn how to protect yourself from waterborne and mosquito-borne diseases

[it-was-funeral-grey]

And away (Al Haitham x F!Reader)

Prequel Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Extra 1 Masterlist

Summary: now that all that's settled, it's time to head back to vimara village. (all hail imaginary kaveh)

Warnings: mentions of medicine, the meat industry and its processes, economics macro and micro, boat travel, awkwardness, denial, internal battles, vulgarities, mild injuries (sprained ankle), carrying, mentions of sanitary pads, ect, spying on friends .

Word count: <4.3k words

Inspired by: Telephone - Waterparks

"I know we only just met, so why do I feel invested?"

Author's note: i had to dig out all my economics knowledge for this lol. i still almost failed econs so just pretend that i make total sense for the sake of the story pls. Also, i may come back and mass re edit this.

Thank you for all the lovely comments for part 3! it really made my day! i'm sorry if this part isnt as good as the rest! I tried

Please give criticism! Also, if i missed any warnings, do tell me so i can add them!

Out of all the issues Al Haitham has to deal with, Port Ormos is the most pressing and the source of many other problems.

No trade means no business. No business means no jobs. No jobs mean no work, which means no income for both Sumeru and the people. And especially since Port Ormos is Sumeru's main port, national income has taken a hard hit. Akademiya economists have been sending him report after report about their concerns about Sumeru's economic forecast. It does not look good.

In addition, no trade means that Sumeru doesn't get new resources anymore. While Sumeru is mostly self-sufficient food-wise, many resources still cannot be obtained locally- or are mostly imported. And since Port Ormos is both Sumeru's largest and main port, lots of imports are not coming in anymore.

For example, there's currently a national shortage of cold medicines, which Sumeru usually imports from Snezhnaya. Particularly during monsoon seasons, cases of colds, dengue fever and the flu increase amongst the population. But Snezhnayan traders and businesses have pulled away from Sumeru after the Akademiya scandal. Bimarstan had gotten so desperate for cold medicine that it had begun asking locals to donate their leftover medicine. To ease the burden on the Bimarstan, Al Haitham had ordered Amurta to help mass manufacture medicines. However, this is only a stopgap measure. He needs to find a way to solve the root cause of the problem.

Furthermore, inflation has been a growing issue. The situation isn't so bad in Sumeru city, as its tiny port is still running- albeit not as smoothly or vibrantly as it used to. But in other parts of Sumeru, it's a whole different story. 

Everything is connected in a way. Just because Sumeru isn't reliant on imports for food doesn't mean food prices are not affected by the lack of other resources. For example, to produce fowl meat, you'll need a few things:

Either machinery (mostly from Fontaine) or workers to slaughter the fowl.

Appropriate packaging to pack the fowl meat.

Transport to carry your produce to marketplaces throughout Sumeru.

In this case, most issues lie with step one. Most farmers in Sumeru had taken to using Fontaine machinery to mass slaughter poultry. It was much cheaper than hiring workers and way more efficient. The only trade-off was that these machines ran on a specific type of oil that only is sold in Fontaine. So, manufacturers would sell the oil alongside it. 

But now, Fontaine traders and businesses are gradually pulling away from Sumeru. That means a lesser supply of oil, which means a decrease in the supply of fowl since machines are not able or cost more to run. A shortage means that prices go up. People buy less or cannot afford fowl at all. Farmers make less money, which prevents them from hiring more workers (or results in them letting go of workers if they don't use machinery) to increase the fowl supply. A case of cost-push inflation, similar to other case studies Al Haitham has read up on.

This is just one example out of many. The inflation and unemployment rate are growing. Adding everything up, including the current political climate, Sumeru is becoming less and less attractive to traders and businesses, causing them to pull away, worsening the Sumeru economy. It's a vicious cycle that Al Haitham needs to break.

If Al Haitham had to list all the issues Port Ormos has caused him, he'd be able to write himself all the way to an economic degree. Which he'll be able to sign off, now that he thinks about it. He's the Acting Grand Sage. He'll announce his own name. Present the degree to himself. Shake his own hand.

But anyway, the main point is that if he's able to revitalise Port Ormos, many other issues will resolve themselves. He had finally had a lucky break that Thursday and was free to head to Port Ormos to speak to the trade supervisors. But then, of course, stuff happened, and he wasn't able to do all that.

Which is why he's heading back to Vimara village again today. He specifically worked through the entire night in his cold office, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably on his body just so he could make time today for this. This time, he's going to make sure he speaks to the trade supervisors and settle this once and for all. He's ready to negotiate to hell and back to ensure the port reopens.

No surprises today, he'll make sure of it.

"Oh! You're heading back to Vimara Village?"

Well. Never mind, then.

The rising heat only hits the moment he walks out of the tavern. 

Treasures Street is empty tonight because of the heavy rain. Shops have closed early- the only exception being the tavern. But even so, Al Haitham feels too exposed. He doesn't feel cold anymore. The heat blooming in his cheeks and all over him makes sure of that.

Al Haitham quickens his pace. There's still a long walk to the Akademiya. The faster he gets there, the more time he'll have to finish whatever he has to do. 

The faster he gets there, the less time he'll have to think about what just happened.

Let's review. 

First of all, he fainted. Presumably right in front or around her house- so that's how she found him. Fine. He can't fault himself for that. He had been running on less than three hours of sleep that week. The cherry on top had been that four-hour trek he had to do on top of that. He was exhausted. The human body has its limits. 

But then he woke up and bawled his eyes out like a baby. In front of her. A total stranger. She pushed a bowl of the best meal he ever had (and his only meal in two days) into his face, and he cried. He cried so much that he passed out. Again. Until the following evening. 

It takes a lot of willpower from Al Haitham to not squat down and cringe in the middle of the street. 

Archons, he's pathetic. 

His cheeks burn, and he instinctively moves a hand to cover his face. The movement is accompanied by a crumpling sound, which reminds him of the snack he was given before he left the tavern. 

Taking cover under Menakeri's Treasure Shop, he removes the neatly bundled wrap from its paper bag. The rain isn't letting up. He couldn't be more drenched, but thankfully, the wrap is still dry- courtesy of the paper bag he took from Lambad's counter.

The wrap is still warm, and he curses when the rainwater on his hand seeps into the napkins. Removing it quickly, he holds the wrap in his hands. 

Wait. What's he going to do with the wrap?

He should throw it away. It's a terrible waste of food, but he can't afford to eat and feel sleepy later. He has to finish everything and then some, so he'll be free to head back to Vimara village tomorrow.

She held out the bundle with trembling hands.

The wrap suddenly feels heavy. Looking around, he spots a rubbish bin just a step away outside the shop.

She had left her warm, comfortable spot just to make sure he had something to eat.

He should really get going. Throw it away. And then leave for the Akademiya. But his feet refuse to move.

"They're worried about you, you know?"

Why don't you worry about yourself instead?

"Oh! You're heading back to Vimara Village?"

You weren't expecting to see the Acting Grand Sage again. Much less on the ferry Cyno had arranged to bring you back to Vimara village. 

If the Acting Grand Sage was surprised, he hid it well. Slowly turning to face you, he coolly leans against the railings of the small, wooden ferry. But the piercing sound of creaking wood jolts him back up almost immediately.

"Yes." he hastily answers, turning around to check on the railing, pushing it back and forth, then squatting down and repeating the action.

A curt answer. What are you supposed to say to that? You can't even hum in agreement or find an opening to make small talk before you politely excuse yourself to take a seat inside. 

The only sound filling the air now is the creaking of wood as he scrutinises the railing. You're not sure what he's checking for- it's just a loose railing, but you admire the dedication nonetheless. A minute passes. 

An alternative course of action is to simply walk towards the seating area without saying anything else. But he's blocking the entrance. Taking a step forward, you shift closer to gauge how much space you have to move through it.

Nope. No way to pass through at all. His large build completely obstructs the entrance. There's no way to pass without saying anything, and you're not sure what you can say that isn't awkward. 

"Uh, excuse me. I'm just going to pass- yeah, oh- you don't need to stand, just- sorry."

Yeah, say that, and proceed to simmer in uncomfortable silence with him in the seating area for the next hour and a half. 

"...You're also heading back to the village?" there's another creak of wood as he shifts it from left to right now.

"Ah! Yes," you reply, eager to stave off the growing awkwardness. "I, uh, live there." 

He stiffens at your answer and brushes a hand over his face. You see his shoulders slacken as he sighs.

Did...you say something wrong?

If you did, he doesn't comment on it. Finally standing up, he's turning around and-

"I'm just going to head in first!" you blurt out, taking the opportunity to rush past him into the seating area.

But of course, just as you finally get into the seating area, the ship suddenly rocks, throwing you off balance and onto the hard floor.

Al Haitham's face is on fire. It must be because of the new soap he used this morning. Kaveh had pestered him for money to buy that brand, and he had finally caved. Yes, this is all Kaveh's fault.

No, he is not blushing. Why would he be? He isn't ill or feverish. Neither is he embarrassed.

It's just the soap. A mild allergic reaction, perhaps. But he isn't allergic to anything. Perhaps he should book an appointment at Bimarstan to confirm that. Allergies are dangerous.

Why can't he turn around?

There's a loud, rhythmic pulsing in his ear, which strangely is in phase with the beating of his heart. Is that his heartbeat he's hearing? Why is it so loud? And so fast? Also, why is his heart beating so hard?

He knows the answer. He just doesn't want to admit it.

Al Haitham is not embarrassed. Why should he be? It matters not what she thinks of him. She isn't causing him any trouble. She isn't someone he needs to work with. If anything, she is just another person now. She doesn't affect him or his life. To think about her is meaningless. It serves no purpose.

He doesn't care about her. She means nothing. She's just another stranger. 

Oh, so this is about her, Kaveh's voice rings in his head. You're too embarrassed to face her! 

Great. Now imaginary Kaveh is here. But, thankfully, logic is Kaveh's worst enemy. 

And Al Haitham has a lot of logic.

Ok then, Kaveh, Al Haitham shifts the railing with more vigour. Let's say I am embarrassed. 

You are!

Then what would I be embarrassed about?

Well, about the whole fainting incident! You made a fool of yourself right in front of a total stranger!

So? I'm only a human being. My body has limits that I'm not ashamed of.

You know that's not what I'm talking about.

Oh? Whatever do you mean?

About the whole crying and-

Nope. Al Haitham immediately cuts his internal debate with imaginary Kaveh short. He is not going to think about that now. But of course, you can never stop racing thoughts. Particularly ones provided by imaginary Kaveh.

Don't wanna think about it?

I've already gone through that with myself yesterday.

And what did you find out? That you-

That it was simply tears of relief, Al Haitham lies. In regards to getting good food and rest. A natural human response.

Ha! Yeah right-

Imaginary Kaveh is interrupted once again by the sound of shifting behind Al Haitham. It must be her. Waiting for him to say something back.

Well? Turn around and talk to her!

Why should I?

Unbelievable! Not even going to thank her for helping you?

He knows he should. He wants to. But his voice isn't working. Plus, he can't even turn to face her.

I wonder why.

It's because I'm inspecting the railing. Boats in Sumeru must pass the Sumeru Maritime Port Authorities' safety check, and one of the basic-

It's just a loose railing, and you know it! You're fiddling with it as an excuse to not-

More shifting behind him. What is she trying to do? A quick glance to his left tells him the answer.

Hey, you idiot fungus. You're blocking the entrance to the seating area!

Shit, Kaveh is right. Imaginary Kaveh, that is.

Stand up and move!

Wait. But wouldn't it be weird to just stand up and move? Without saying anything else? That would imply that Al Haitham was paying attention to her but not speaking back. Wouldn't that be strange? Rude, even?

Oh, worrying about weirding her out? And since when have you ever cared about niceties?

Shit, imaginary Kaveh is right. Again. This isn't like him. At all.

Ugh! If you're not going to move, at least say something! You're making her feel uncomfortable!

Say what?! Why don't you suggest something helpful for once?

I don't know? It's your conversation! Not mine! Just ask something! Anything! Before this whole situation becomes too awkward beyond repair!

In a haste, much to imaginary Kaveh and Al Haitham's absolute horror, Al Haitham's mouth decides to go off on its own and ask the most stupid, brain-dead question.

"...You're also heading back to the village?" 

Oh, Archons.

Al Haitham shifts the railing from left to right. Maybe if he does that enough, by some scientific principle that he has not come across yet, it'll be like a lever, and time would rewind and-

When I said to ask anything, I meant something like "Slept well last night?" or "Were the toiletries I bought for you sufficient?" not whatever you just asked.

"Ah! Yes," she replies. "I, uh, live there." 

Great. Now she thinks you're an idiot, you idiot.

What kind of question is that? The answer is obvious. So obvious, that Al Haitham feels the need to redeem himself. A prickling sensation on his face spreads from his cheeks all the way up to the tips of his ears, and Al Haitham uses a hand to try to rub it away.

Archons, even asking what her name is would have been a better question than that!

Enough yapping! How can I fix this?

Al Haitham can't believe he's asking Kaveh, even if in imaginary form, for help. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Kaveh-like problems require Kaveh-like solutions.

Well, start off by actually turning around to talk to her! Even imaginary Kaveh is surprised by his request for advice. Ask her what her name is! That sounds like a good way to kick-start a less awkward conversation. And save this whole interaction.

But I don't want a conversation. I-

Do you want her to feel even more uncomfortable than she probably already is?

With a deep sigh, Al Haitham tries to compose himself. Willing away the heat in his face, he stands back up. His knees ache a little, but he ignores the pain as he turns to face her but-

"I'm just going to head in first!"

And there she goes, bolting towards the now unobstructed entrance, leaving Al Haitham alone on the deck, momentarily stunned by her sudden departure.

She's barely two steps into the seating area when the ship rocks. Al Haitham catches his balance with practised elegance, but unfortunately, the same could not be said for her.

With a loud thud, she crashes into the ground as the boat begins to turn.

"Are you alright?" all earlier thoughts disappear from Al Haitham's mind as worry fills the gaps. Rushing over, he kneels at her side, watching her as she turns around with a hiss.

"It's fine." she winces, turning over before extending both legs.

"Your left ankle is starting to swell," Al Haitham mutters, comparing the size of her ankles through the straps of her sandals. "A sprained ankle."

"Well," She shifts to sit upwards. Leaning over, she takes a closer look at her ankle. "It doesn't look as bad as it feels."

"It may soon if we don't take care of it," Al Haitham shifts closer to her ankle. "May I?"

When she nods, he gently removes her footwear. Looking around the seating area, he frowns as he realises the absence of a first aid kit. That means no cold compresses or bandages.

"We'll have to elevate it," Al Haitham mutters. "Let's move closer to the benches."

"Ah, ok," she kicks her right leg inwards she pushes her weight onto it as she tries to stand. "Well-"

The boat wobbles, and she nearly falls again. , Al Haitham catches hold of her arm, steadying her.

"That isn't going to work," Al Haitham states before she could thank him. "Sit back down."

She does so, giving him a questioning look. Gently moving her legs so that her knees are outstretched and bent, he hooks an arm under her knee and uses the other to support her back as he stands.

"Woah!" her arms begin to flail.

"Calm down," Al Haitham moves his face away from a hand that nearly hits him. "Just- put that arm here."

"Where?"

"Shoulder," he huffs as he bounces her to secure his hold around her. "Hold on."

The boat rocks, but the Acting Grand Sage doesn't seem worried about falling. In fact, he walks on as if he's on flat ground. All while carrying you.

He gently places you down on the floor next to the nearest metal bench before kneeling next to you again.

"I'm just going to put your leg up here," he assists your ankle up on the bench. "Leave your ankle like this."

"Thank you," you murmur. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

He sighs, heading back towards the entrance to retrieve your sandals. You can't look at him as he walks back to you.

This is so embarrassing.

It was bad enough that things were already so awkward. Oh, Archons. You've already made a faux pas earlier at the deck. Now with this? He must be furious.

Then, in a move that proceeded to stun you- and honestly scare you a little he sits down.

On the floor.

All the benches around, and he chooses to sit on the floor with you.

"No need to thank me." the Acting Grand Sage releases another sigh as he relaxes his shoulders, leaning on the side of the bench beside yours.

He then pulls out a book from somewhere behind his cape and begins to read.

"Would you…prefer to sit on the bench? I'm sure it's much more comfortable there."

"It's a metal bench. It'll feel just as hard as the floor."

Again, another curt response.

Biting your lip in shame, you feel a heat roll up your cheek.

"Acting Grand Sage, I just want to apologise for-"

"Al Haitham."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My name," he shuts his book, turning his head to face you now. "It's less of a mouthful compared to that. And you are?"

Name. Yes. You can give that.

You tell him your name, trying your hardest to keep your voice as stable as possible. You really don't want to embarrass yourself further.

He repeats your name with an almost contemplative tone. He said it softly, compared to the surrounding noises of the ship. But it's the only sound that fills your ears.

"You have nothing to apologise for," the Acting Grand Sage- no, Al Haitham says. With yet another sigh, he continues. "It's actually me who has to apologise."

"What do you mean?" you frown. You don't recall him doing anything wrong.

"I," he pauses, placing his book aside as his hand rubs against the back of his neck. "I'm sorry if I've made you feel uncomfortable."

He shifts slightly, fidgeting with the ends of his cape.

"I also have to apologise for getting you into this mess," he goes on. "And for not thanking you for helping me back then."

"There's no need to thank me for that!" you answer. "And there's no need to apologise as well. Everyone has been kind to me. This was all a misunderstanding."

And just like that, the awkwardness is gone. Instead, a soothing silence envelopes the space between the two of you. You finally get the courage to glance at him, and now that you're relaxed, you notice something a little strange about his attire.

He isn't wearing anything different than yesterday. But the cape-

His cape!

"I passed your cape to Cyno when I got to the hostel," you say, voice laced with worry. "Did you get it?"

That cape looked expensive. But more importantly, you don't think you'd be able to show your face to anyone ever again if you lost the Acting Grand Sage's cape.

"I did," you let out a sigh of relief. "Cyno passed it to me yesterday."

"Did you work through the night?" you ask.

"Yes. I managed to finish everything by dawn, so I went back home to rest before heading out again."

"At dawn? So you did work through the night then!" you huff. "You have to take care of yourself! If not, you'll pass out again."

"I was well rested after I fell asleep at your place."

"You did not fall asleep. You passed out!"

"Well, it was rest either way."

"Then, did you at least eat the wrap we gave you?"

He stills. Suddenly, the chatty vibe between the two of you had disappeared.

"I," he breaks the stillness. "I ate a little bit of it. On the way back to the Akademiya."

He looks a little guilty, but you let it go.

"I'll take your word for it."

Another silence fills the air. You wiggle the toes on your left foot. It aches, but not as much as before, thankfully. But it'll still be a pain to deal with on the walk back home.

"Did you rest well last night?" he asks, breaking the silence again.

"I did," you recall, thinking about that room you were given. "Do all Akademiya students live in rooms like that? Everything was provided!"

You had thought a student hostel would have only the bare essentials, like a bed, wardrobe and a desk. But in the room you were led to, everything you could have possibly needed was there. Soaps, room slippers, sanitary pads and tampons, and even snacks!

"…Yes," he stretches his neck. "I'm glad you got a good night's rest."

"You should get one too, you know?" you say, turning to face him. "Your friends are worried about you."

And they really are. To the rest of Sumeru, he may just be a temporary authority figure. But to Kaveh, he's his housemate and closest friend. And to Cyno, he's his rival and fellow comrade.

"I know they are," he shares. "But we all have jobs to do."

He looks up, out of the window, far out into the blue sky. It's a sunny day today.

"We should be back at the village in about an hour's time."

"Well, why don't you go get some rest then? I'll wake you when we arrive."

"Thank you." He gives your ankle one last look, making sure nothing got worse. Leaning his head back onto the side of the metal bench, he closes his eyes.

You pray to the Dendro Archon to make his dreams sweet as you watch sleep take him away.

"Did you get it?"

"I think so?"

"Oh, it's blurry! Let me try!"

"Kaveh, wait! Don't lean on that or-"

For an architect, Kaveh is surprisingly terrible at guessing the relative structural integrity of objects. This is why the boxes Kaveh thought were stable (and then proceeded to lean on) come falling down, much to Cyno's dismay.

Naturally, the shopkeeper was furious about Kaveh destroying a whole batch of new wares. Kaveh had racked up quite the bill (which Cyno feels will end up being paid for by Al Haitham), but-

"But it's all worth it. Look!" he gloats, showing Cyno the printed picture.

"Well, would you look at that? Told you this was a good idea!" Kaveh continues.

Well, Archons be damned.

Cyno isn't one who would usually follow Kaveh's pranks or ploys. But if it's going to keep producing results like this, he may consider calling Tighnari to join in on the fun.

"Told you I would be able to get them on the same boat," Cyno smirks, handing the photo back to Kaveh for safekeeping. "What now?"

"Now, we wait," Kaveh takes one last look at the photo, admiring their handiwork before shutting it together with the kamera inside his briefcase. "And when he comes back, oh, it will be fun."

Little did these two know what they have started.

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