#my artistic skill are merely an illusion

[fluffykittyscientist]

Me: has an art idea

Me: tries to draw it

Sketch: looks awful

Me: closes the program

[genericpuff]

LO Art Analysis (or: A Real Example of Why You Shouldn't Use Multiply for Everything)

I've obviously been spending a lot of time recreating LO art and in that time, I think I've really cracked open some of modern LO's problems with its art. This is a lengthy post so turn on some lo-fi, grab some popcorn and strap in.

One thing in particular that I'm very eager to talk about (and go off about) is Rachel's use of color language and shading.

THERE WILL BE BRIEF FASTPASS PANELS AHEAD IN THIS ANALYSIS. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!

One of the key things that most people seem to agree on when it comes to LO's current art quality is the lack of color language. Back in S1, we had colors that seemed to jump off the page, with gorgeous rendering that created panels that were vast and beautiful to take in. It didn't matter if the anatomy was wonky or if the backgrounds were translated directly from Google Sketchup, the color and compositions made up for its flaws and created unique vignettes that individually contributed to what we found so special about LO back in those days.

That last one especially is still hands-down one of the most well-known and influential LO panels out of the entire series. Many a phone background its graced (my own included, I've literally had this as my phone background for like 3 years now) and it serves as a beautiful standalone example of the mood and emotions LO used to convey. You don't need to know the context of the scene, you don't need to know the characters, the mere posing and color choice alone is enough to invoke a reaction from the viewer. It doesn't even have a lot of shading or final rendering, the composition and texturing is all it needs.

So why does a simple panel like that work, but panels like these don't?

I have such beef with this panel because it does the complete opposite of what the famous Tower 4 panel achieves - it puts on full display everything wrong with LO's current art style, from its character posing to its color language aaaall the way to its final rendering.

First off, the character posing and framing. I finally figured out what RS' male characters have been suffering from lately, and it's a phenomenon that I'm sure many of you will be able to recognize right away.

Seth Macfarlane Syndrome.

You might not watch Family Guy, you might not watch American Dad, or the Cleveland Show, but you'll know exactly what I mean when I talk about Seth MacFarlane Syndrome. It's the stiffness, the lack of movement or bend in joints, the boring posing of characters standing with their arms flatly at their sides and their entire body facing the same direction, eyes unblinking - and when they speak, heads slightly tilting, mouths always being conformed to the same default shapes, while the arms do something random and unrelated to create the illusion of natural movement.

This has been an issue in LO for a while now, incredibly flat posing that lacks any sort of dynamic curvature to it, but it's best exemplified by that Ares panel above because holy shit does he ever look like Stan Smith in it. Boxy shoulders with arms that appear to be WAY too short hanging off the side, elbows flattened, hands straightened out, no natural shaping whatsoever.

But that's not the crux of the issue I want to touch on today.

No, the worst offense of this panel is that it indirectly proves what I've been suspicious of for a while now.

To explain real quick for context, there's this thing in digital art called Blend Modes. It's essentially a basic function in digital art that allows you to change the properties of layers for the purpose of shading, rendering, whatever have you. Most of these Blend Modes are the same across all digital art programs, things like Multiply, Screen, Color Dodge, etc. are all fairly basic tools in the digital artist's toolkit but all have an INCREDIBLY high ceiling of mastery - meaning, blend modes are easy to use on a basic level, but require a lot of skill and understanding of color language to utilize to their full potential. Using them right can transform a passable piece of work into a great one - on the flipside, using them wrong can take a passable piece of work and piss all over it.

The one I want to focus on in this post is Multiply. I use this blend mode myself quite often, it basically 'multiplies' the properties of the layers below it, taking whatever colors are below and 'doubling' them to create darker tones. This makes it a go-to for shading.

But the issue with Multiply is that it often ends up being used when it's not supposed to be. Or rather, people starting out will often use it as a substitute for shading when you'd be better off using your own hand-picked colors. I've got characters with skin tones that I can shade with the same color set to Multiply, zero issues, because the base tone is one that doubles well, it creates a nice rich tone on top that's perfect for shading.

But do you know the one color that DOESN'T multiply well?

Yellow.

Yellow is NOT a color you can just multiply, not without the final result looking flat and almost putrid. Most people will thus recommend you shade yellow with other colors along the same side of the color wheel, including oranges and reds. This is precisely why knowing color theory is such an important skill even in digital art, because using Blend Modes improperly can create flat tones that can ruin a final composition.

Going back to that Ares panel...

Again, I've had this suspicion for a while, especially when looking at panels of Persephone (*pink is ALSO a color that doesn't multiply well)

So I put it to the test. I took the original panel, sampled the yellow, and overlaid it with Multiply to see what I'd get.

Fam.

That putrid deep yellow that I mixed above is literally NEXT DOOR NEIGHBORS WITH WHAT I EYEDROPPED FROM THE PANEL. Copy and paste that and eyedrop it yourself if you want to see it with your own eyes. It's pretty obvious she did the same thing with Hera as well, you can tell her skin tone has been set to multiply and repainted with the same color, same as with her jacket.

They are using Multiply layers for everything as the default. This is not how Multiply is intended to be used - it's lazy shortcutting that's resulting in flat, boring, ugly compositions.

RS has stated herself that she 'changed' how LO is drawn to help 'streamline' the process for her assistants. This isn't streamlining. This is cutting corners.

Streamlining would be having color palettes to refer to during the coloring and shading process. I use them myself for characters that I CAN'T multiply-shade, I literally have characters whose skin tones are too light and yellow-toned for it - using Multiply would wash out their tones and make them look flat and sickly so I have to use a separate color from a different part of the color wheel to shade them (usually a darker tone of red/orange).

Rachel, babe, this isn't streamlining, this is just taking shortcuts to the point of sabotaging your own work. You can't sit there and tell me THAT looks good and is worth the 'streamlining' when panels like THESE used to exist:

Turn off the Multiply layers and color your characters for once, please, I'm begging you. This is such a rookie move for someone who claims to be a professional (and regularly brags about the awards she's won); not to mention a tragic fall from grace because we know Rachel can and has produced better work than this in the past. She knows color language, she knows how to paint, so why is she resorting to shortcuts like this? She has an entire team of people and yet she's still consistently behind enough in her buffer - or just doesn't care enough anymore - that she's resorting to lazy amateur tactics like using Multiply for everything.

And on the off chance that she ever sees this, Rachel, it's not even that hard to use proper colors. You've done it before, you should already have the color palettes available to you.

(P.S. One handy-dandy experiment to tell if your Multiply layers are failing you is the desaturation test. You'll notice that drawings being made primarily with Multiply layers will look a lot 'flatter' when desaturated, because the shading is just the same color on top of itself and 'doubled', there isn't any actual value or depth in the shading itself. These are the exact same panels I showed before, RS' on the left and mine on the right, they've just been desaturated to show the difference that proper color choice can make when defining values and tones in shading!)

[venus-is-in-bloom]

i do have more thoughts on the state of writing in media consumption, though. like... with this recent panic about ai art depreciating the value of the drawn image, i've been thinking about how there really is a sort of mystique that clings to most forms of art. like, when someone points at a painting and says, "anyone could do that" or "i could do that", it's meant to insult the supposed artistic merit of the painting or the skill that went into it. there's a default presumption that you need to be a special kind of person with unique, mysterious talents to produce worthwhile paintings. if anyone could do it, it has no value—and ai art threatens very much to make it so "anyone can do it" for a much wider range of images.

but for the written word, "anyone could do that" is just plain fact. creating a perfect imitation of my writing, or toni morrison or ted chiang or anyone else's writing, is merely an exercise in copying.

then there's all this stuff about supposedly developing a unique style that you then market to people in the hopes of getting picked up as an illustrator, which with the recent panic around ai art has gone so far that some people are throwing around the idea that your unique style could be attached to a copyright—implying a disturbing world where every symbolic body, every association, and every concept is parcelled off like land until nothing is left in common.

after the death of douglas adams, eoin colfer wrote "and another thing", a careful pastiche of adams' books in his style, as a tribute to him. an entire (extremely racist!) genre has sprung up in imitation of j.r.r. tolkien's middle earth works, which he spent his entire life developing, and another (often racist!) genre exists purely to mimic the aesthetic and stylistic tricks of h.p. lovecraft's eugenicist horror. in all art forms, pioneers produce the roots on which entire movements grow... it is only in the matter of writing, however, that it is currently nakedly obvious that there is no difference between inspiration and imitation, and that if there is something truly exclusive or scarce about a writer's "talent", it's certainly not physical enough to be enshrined in law. writing fiction is not a rare or precious power, and that's why only the very wealthy can make any money off it.

it's for this reason that things like chatgpt have not received nearly the amount of negative attention that the so-called "ai art" engines have—only a few people piggybacking off the anti-visual-art side of the movement have attempted to invent a hitherto unheard-of preciousness for writing to possess. for the rest of us, the illusion that fiction writing is prestigious, mysterious, or market-scarce remains faint and unconvincing—we cannot convince ourselves that we'll one day get rich off our beautiful talents. we can only do it for love of the art and its natural powers.

[wild-adventures]

The Bitter Revelation:

Letting Go of an Illusory Love

Shawna Loree

Love has a peculiar way of deceiving us, blinding our senses to the flaws and shortcomings of those we hold most dear. It is a tale of shattered dreams and unfulfilled promises, as I recount my journey towards a heart-wrenching realization that I had been clutching onto hope in a relationship devoid of any genuine connection. In the midst of longing for a power couple dynamic, all I found was emptiness and a painful lack of authentic communication. This essay unravels the layers of deceit, disappointment, and personal growth that accompanied my emancipation from a relationship built on the crumbling foundation of lies.

The roots of our relationship were nurtured by the tender blossoms of hope, promising a bond that defied the ordinary. Yet, as time wore on, those petals shriveled and lost their luster, revealing a stark reality that I had been oblivious to. I finally saw through the veil of my own desires, recognizing that he had always looked out for his own interests, never pausing to appreciate my worth or offer the slightest compliment.

The realization that our relationship thrived on disconnection struck me with a force that left me gasping for air. How had I been so blind, so consumed by my own desires that I failed to perceive the glaring signs? We, who could have been a power couple, dissipated into mere adversaries, bickering over trivial matters rather than uniting in a foundation of trust and respect. Every conversation was filled with hidden agendas and manipulative tactics, further dividing what possibly could have been a union of strength.

Communication, an indispensable cornerstone of any meaningful relationship, was nothing more than a facade in ours. His words danced artfully, masquerading as truths, while my heart yearned for him to reveal his vulnerabilities and deepest musings. Yet, our connection was but a mirage, an illusion that, upon reflection, only served his egoistic purposes. I drowned in the overwhelming chasm between his projected persona and the emptiness of his true self, bereft of the emotional sustenance I so desperately craved.

The lies that he wove around his character proved to be the most tormenting aspect of our relationship. Like a skilled artist, he painted an image of a man whose integrity were unmatched, captivating me with his words and actions. But behind the canvas, he cultivated a veritable garden of deception. Layer by layer, his facades crumbled, revealing a man void of substance, empathy, and compassion. It was in that dissolution that I grieved for the loss of what could have been, shedding tears for the countless moments I had wasted investing in a relationship built on rotting foundations.

The journey towards realizing that our relationship possessed no genuine hope was a monumental and profoundly emotional one. I learned the painful truth that love does not always conquer all, for it must be accompanied by mutual respect, trust, and vulnerability. By accepting the flaws and shortcomings I had ignored for far too long, I uncovered my own strength and resilience. I now embark on a new chapter, armed with the knowledge that I am deserving of a love that is built on genuineness, shared dreams, and authentic communication. I bid farewell to those shards of hope and embrace the possibilities that lie ahead, knowing that true happiness awaits in a relationship where my heart will be valued, cherished, and truly understood.

[deadlynavigation]

Saw you need requests. Reader just loving jotun loki. Can be smut or not. Idk your rules.

Heat Wave

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Implication of smut

Author's Note: I AM STILL LOOKING FOR REQUESTS OF ANY KIND. Please. I'm begging. Send anything in, look for rules under navigation (at the bottom of this fic).

I don't own Marvel. Pls don't come after me.

Do not plagiarize or translate any of my work or its included assets.

“I’m sweltering,” Your head plops down onto Loki’s lap.

Your words practically embody what the last few days have been like- the heat wave in New York has not been letting up. For almost a week it’s been nothing but 38℃ weather, the sun unrelenting in its mission to melt every single person in the state. Even in the Avengers tower it’s hot as blazes. All the air conditioners are on, much to Tony’s chagrin. He’s set on complaining about the electricity bill, even though he’s a fucking billionare.

There’s a reason he’s known as Drama Queen around the tower. Loki is the biggest supporter of this nickname, but right now, he’s supporting you.

“I apologize, my love. If I could, I’d cool you down in an instant,” Loki responds, leaning down to your ear. “But I only know how to heat you.”

You tap his chest, too weary of the heat to move any more. “Loki.”

“I know, I know. I am truly sorry. I do not know what it is you are suffering through right now.” The god sighs in pity.

Something in his tone gives you pause. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re right here, in New York- middle of a heat wave? No?”

Your partner chuckles softly. “No. I am a god, you forget. You are merely mortals, incapable of regulating your own temperature.”

That excuse isn’t gonna fly. You sit up, removing your head from his lap. Your back straightens, eyes peering out towards the deck. There sits Thor, accompanied by Tony and Nat. He’s on a lawn chair, spread out for the sun. The god is decked out in the tiniest floral shorts you’ve ever seen, allowing a great view of his chest- which is drenched in sweat. His hair, even, is dampened, giving the illusion of wetness. There is no way in hell that Thor is regulating his body temperature.

Loki sees where your eyeline leads and gulps. He’s screwed now.

“Liar,” you accuse, turning towards Loki with narrowed eyes. “It’s not just that you’re a god, is it?”

You position yourself on his lap again, this time straddling him. “If it were, Thor would be living it up in winter coats. So you wanna tell me what it actually is?” You kiss his neck slowly, trying to get as much information as you can with any method.

Loki squirms. “My love-”

“Don’t. Are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask Thor?” You sigh, too hot to deal with this properly.

“Thor won’t tell you.” Loki answers with uncertainty.

“Sure he won’t. Loki, you’re making this more difficult than it has to be. Just tell me, hun.”

And with that final nickname, Loki lets go. His guard is already somewhat down with the heat and Tony’s endless complaints.

He closes his eyes as he hears your gasp. Squeezes them shut, trying to block himself from the looks he’ll undoubtedly be met with from you.

“Loki-”

“Don’t,” He whispers.

“I won’t,” You whisper back. Shakily, you bring your hands up to his chest, tracing each individual line softly. The marks look perfect on his blue-tinted skin, forming intricate designs and patterns that not even the most skilled artist would be able to recreate. It’s beautiful- he’s beautiful.

Loki opens his eyes when he feels your fingers on him. Ready to snatch them away, remove himself from the room if need be, leave you to your shock and disgust.

Instead, he’s greeted with your awe-struck gaze. Confusion fills his mind, not used to being appreciated in this form.

“Y/n, what-”

“Hush,” You whisper, even softer than a couple seconds ago. “Loki, what is this?”

It’s not asked in a brutal manner. It’s soft, curious. Welcoming.

“My Jötunn form,” he graces you with an answer. Your heart breaks with his response. It sounded so disgusted, so broken. This poor man. Scorned for this his entire life, and he’s even started to believe it.

From then on, your mission is to help him accept this part.

“You are stunning, love. This is beauty personified.”

A hint of a blush shows itself on Loki’s cheeks. He’s not used to anything except hate regarding this form, especially not love or compliments. It sounds almost foreign, repeating back what you said to himself.

Not on your tongue, though. When you compliment him, it feels as though honey is dripping onto him, warming him with sun rays and flowery scents.

“These marks- are they purposeful? Made without thought? Are you born with them?” Your questions bubble out of your mouth, still soft in speech but inquisitive all the same.

Loki laughs, still in shock from your reaction. Of course you’d be curious. To think he’d expect blind acceptance- there’s a reason he chose this mortal, and he’s only reminded of it now.

“My love, slow down. They are not purposeful, no. It's just like hair color, but not able to be altered in any way. And I am born with them, but they develop over time. It’s our puberty, in a way.” He says, hands moving from his sides to your hips.

You settle further into his lap. You’e brimming with questions, but you refuse to overwhelm your lover. It’s clear he’s in quite a vulnerable state.

So you start slow.

“Are you able to… participate in intercourse… in this form?”

The blush that Loki hoped to quell is now raging as though it’s a fire. He’s resorted back to his shock, almost speechless.

“My love, you have found yourself in a relationship with a monster and that is the question you ask?”

“You are by no means a monster to me. You are still Loki, no?”

The god looks down in mild embarrassment. “Yes, dear.”

“So you aren’t a monster. Your character and development is not erased in the form, merely painted in a new light. Or rather hue,” You chuckle under your breath. Your hands trace his marks again, following a new pattern every time. It’s mesmerizing.

“On another note, I am still waiting for the answer to my question,” You reiterate. Loki’s blush might be a cause for concern at this point.

“I am able, my love. Why anyone would want to is beyond me.” He sighs, looking up into your eyes. Of which, he notices, are burning with rage and desire.

Loki is no stranger to that mix.

“We’ll work on the self-esteem. For now, I have a date with a Jötunn, who I will make sure is made well aware of his worth.”

“Your wish is my command, dear.” He laughs, snorting at your hitched breath when he lifts you into his arms.

Yeah, you’d enjoy this new discovery.

(Navigation)

[longitudinalwaveme]

Arkham Files: Abra Kadabra

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Abra Kadabra, real name unknown. Patient suffers from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, and a number of delusions, including the belief that he has magical powers and the belief that he is from the 64th century. Session One. So, Mr. Kadabra, how are you feeling today? 

Abra Kadabra: Oh, hello, Doctor. Would you like to see a magic trick? 

Hugo Strange: Pardon? 

Abra Kadabra: Certainly you won’t turn down an opportunity to witness a performance by Abra Kadabra, magician extraordinaire! Why, it will even be free of charge! 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra, this is a therapy session, not a talent show. I have no time to watch you pull a rabbit out of your hat. 

Abra Kadabra: You woefully underestimate my talents, Doctor. I am no mere sideshow attraction. I am the Prince of Prestidigitation, the Sultan of Sleight-of-Hand, the Master Magician of the 64th Century! Only a fool would deny themselves the chance to see my unmatched brilliance in the art of stage magic! 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra, you are not a famous magician. You are a sick man who is suffering from delusions of grandeur. 

Abra Kadabra: (Annoyed) Delusions of grandeur? I assure you, my grandeur is quite real. The great Houdini himself pales in comparison to my mastery of magic! 

Hugo Strange: If you are so famous, why have I never heard of you, Mr. Kadabra? 

Abra Kadabra: Don’t be ridiculous! Everyone in this primitive century knows of me! My epic confrontations with the Scarlet-Clad Speedster invariably make the front page! My skills as a magician are renowned far and wide! Why, even Superman has agreed to play parts in my act! 

Hugo Strange: (Trying to change the subject) So, Mr. Kadabra, you believe that you are from the 64th century. Why is that? 

Abra Kadabra: Because I am from the 64th century. I understand that that is likely difficult for your primitive mind to grasp, but it is nevertheless true. 

Hugo Strange: You cannot possibly be from the 64th century, Mr. Kadabra. That is patently absurd. 

Abra Kadabra: More patently absurd than a plant-woman hybrid? A sentient clay creature? A Martian? A Kryptonian? A billionaire who dresses up as a bat in order to fight crime? 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra, there is absolutely no evidence, beyond your own claims, that you are from the future. 

Abra Kadabra: And the word of Abra Kadabra, the 64th Century’s Master Magician, isn’t evidence enough? I am offended! 

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid I need a bit more proof than the word of an unstable lunatic. 

Abra Kadabra: Proof? PROOF? I will show you proof! Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; then “poof!” sound) Are you convinced now, doctor? 

Hugo Strange: (Angry) Where are we? What have you done, Mr. Kadabra? 

Abra Kadabra: Welcome to the 64th century, doctor! 

(The noises of a bustling city are heard; but with a noticeable sci-fi twist) 

Hugo Strange: What...h-how? What is this? 

Abra Kadabra: Time travel! Just one of the many tricks in my repertoire! 

(Hugo Strange starts applauding involuntarily) 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra, how are you doing this? 

Abra Kadabra: (Laughs) A magician never reveals his secrets! (The forced applause continues) Thank you, thank you. You’re a very appreciative audience, doctor. 

Hugo Strange: Enough of this, Mr. Kadabra! Take me back to the Asylum now! 

Abra Kadabra: You dare to make demands of Abra Kadabra? If I did not require an appreciative audience, I would turn you into a tortoise for such insolence! 

Hugo Strange: A tortoise? What sort of fool do you think I am, Mr. Kadabra? I do not know how you managed this illusion, but I am in charge here, not you. Return us to Arkham Asylum at once! 

Abra Kadabra: On second thought, I’ve done tortoises before, and I don’t often like to repeat tricks. (Pause) No, I think some sort of extinct creature would be preferable. Yes, I shall turn you into a Bos taurus!

Hugo Strange: Now wait just a-

Abra Kadabra: Abra Kadabra!

Hugo Strange: Mooooo! 

(Forced applause from 64th-century citizens) 

Abra Kadabra: Thank you, thank you! You are too kind! (Pause) Unfortunately, I cannot stay. I have a much larger audience elsewhere, so I must depart. Abra Kadabra! 

(Magical noises; “poof!” sound) 

Hugo Strange: Moooo! 

Abra Kadabra: You know, doctor, I was quite disappointed the first time I saw a Bos taurus. It was not nearly so fearsome a creature as paleontological reconstructions suggested. (Pause) But I suppose that that is neither here nor there. And as much as I have come to appreciate the true appearance of the Bos taurus, you are a marginally better audience in your true form. Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; “poof!” sound) 

Hugo Strange: (Disoriented) W...what happened? 

Abra Kadabra: Don’t worry, doctor. Time travel and transmogrification are always disorienting the first few times, but the feeling soon passes. 

Hugo Strange: Time travel? Transmogrification? Who are you? 

Abra Kadabra: I’ve told you! I am Abra Kadabra, master magician of the 64th century! I’ve come to your primitive era to pursue fame and fortune, which I have been denied in my own time! 

Hugo Strange: But..but how could you possibly have...you are not a metahuman! 

Abra Kadabra: I would very much appreciate it if you would stop asking me for the secrets of my act, doctor. Why, if I told you, some unimaginative hack might steal them for their own act-and that would be an unparalleled tragedy. 

Hugo Strange: (Frustrated) Mr. Kadabra, you are not a magician! You are a criminal who suffers from a number of delusions and personality disorders.

Abra Kadabra: Hmph. If I’d known that I would spend this session being insulted by a primitive, balding, myopic peon, I would never have agreed to it. 

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid these sessions are not optional on your part, Mr. Kadabra. You are a very sick man. 

Abra Kadabra: Sick? (Pause) Hmm...now there’s an idea. Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; “poof!” sound) 

Hugo Strange: (Coughs violently) What (coughs) have you (hack, caugh) done to me? 

Abra Kadabra: I have infected you with the charming creation of one of my cooked colleagues. Though he’s a primitive savage, I must admit that Murmur’s Frenzy Virus is superbly dramatic. It liquifies the lungs; then the sufferer literally chokes to death on their own blood. (Pause) Oh, and it’s dreadfully contagious. Fortuitously, I have already been vaccinated, so the dread disease will have no deleterious effect on me, but I doubt the staff of this institution are as lucky. 

Hugo Strange: (More violent coughing) Mr. Kadabara, if you do not (hack, cough, cough) undo this immediately, I will (cough, cough, hack, cough) ensure that you spend the rest of your (hack, cough) very long sentence in solitary. 

Abra Kadabra: (Laughs) You really think you can keep the Prince of Prestidigitation locked up in this primitive institution? The only reason I didn’t escape days ago was because I thought this so-called therapy session would give me a private audience to whom I could display my brilliance. But you, doctor, have proven most unappreciative, so I will be taking my leave. 

Hugo Strange: (Coughing violently) On the contrary, Mr. Kadabra (hack, cough)...I have been (hack, cough, cough) most impressed by your talent. I am simply not (cough, cough) used to bearing witness to such an astonishing display. 

Abra Kadabra: (Pleased) In that case, I forgive you, doctor. (Pause) Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; “poof!” sound; Hugo Strange’s coughing stops) But nevertheless, I am afraid that it is time for our session to come to an end. I have a much grander performance scheduled for later today, and I cannot disappoint my adoring public. (More forced applause from Hugo Strange) Thank you, thank you! You are much too kind! But do not be dismayed by my departure. The Master Magician of the 64th Century shall return for an encore performance at some later date. (Pause) Farewell for now, doctor. Abra Kadabra! (Magical noises; “poof!” sound) 

Hugo Strange: Mr. Kadabra? (Pause) Mr. Kadabra? (Pause; then, frustrated) He’s disappeared. How is it that all of the criminals from the Twin Cities are master escape artists?

[ghostietoasty]

Why Sherlock Holmes FGO is Sus: Theories and More

Before I begin, I’d like to give thanks to my wonderful friend for all the points, art, and info searching that have been made to produce this piece, I can’t appreciate you enough for the effort you put in. 🥺🙏💕

Alright now on to it!

INTRODUCTION: Humble Beginnings (Identification of the Abnormal)

If you’ve played the app Fate/Grand Order for a while you’d know about the Heroic Spirit we first encounter in a hole within Camelot’s dessert whilst going to the Atlas Institute. Smart, handsome looking, and sharp enough to discern our True Name, this man of mystery has been seen as an oddball by many long time players of the game. There are many aspects about him that raise doubt about his credibility, is he truly what he wants us to think he is? That servant is Sherlock Holmes (Ruler) and there are many theories about him having some secrets, about him either being a Foreigner class, Beast class, or something else entirely. We are attempting to catalogue all this information in one place for maximum clarity.

SECTION 1: Other Character’s Reaction (First Impression is the Best Impression) *WARNING LOSTBELT 1 AND 2 SPOILERS AHEAD*

From the first encounter in Camelot right until the end of Lostbelt 2, there are many instances of characters reacting to his presence in….interesting ways.

Bedivere, when first coming in contact with Holmes in Camelot says that "I suppose I've never really been good with people like him. He reminds me of Merlin."

It could refer to the mysterious manner in which both Holmes and Merlin conduct themselves, but better to keep in mind that Merlin is a Grand Caster, and that he manifests as a servant due to specific circumstances (he is not dead).

In Camelot, Mash assumes that Holmes must be Caster class and that the original novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle must have been biographies penned by Dr. Watson under a pen name. Holmes corrects her, saying that: "My true identity, my essence, is slightly different from what you may think. And sad, but that is not the purpose of our gathering here today."

This dilemma is also present in the Sherlock Holmes Trial Quest (which mostly tackles the debate of whether he's a fictional character or someone who actually existed). Holmes has a line where he says:

"Ah, yes. I mentioned I was a Caster. Forgive me, I lied."

This is however immediately followed up by:

"A jest. My apologies. I couldn't help myself." 

This sort of backpedalling raises a doubt as to whether he was really Caster class before, so the nature of his former class is still a mystery. He later mentions that his Ruler class is the World telling him that not all illusions and dreams need to be laid bare.

When meeting with Salieri in Lostbelt 1, Holmes introduces himself as such:"I'm Sherlock Holmes, Chaldea's administrative advisor. I became a servant through unusual means, just like you."

Salieri was only summonable as a servant  because of his reputation caused by the fact that he killed Mozart. He is under the effect of Innocent Monster. It can also be said that Salieri is a lostbelt servant and is significantly more sane than he would have been in a normal summoning, that was the unusual summoning that Holmes was refering to. Does this mean Holmes is not from Proper Human History? 

Sigurd (who's under the control of Surtur), while attacking us in Lostbelt 2 says this: "So, a human and two Heroic Spirits. No, wait. Neither of you are pure Heroic Spirits, are you? You've both got something else mixed in. Hehe, hybrids then. Interesting" 

This is in reference to Holmes and Mash, who are alongside the master at this moment. Mash is a demiservant (human+servant) hence the "Hybrid" comment makes sense, but Holmes? What is the "something else" mixed in with Holmes?

Later in LB2, Holmes requests the assistance of Scáthach-Skadi in beating Surtur. Skadi says that normally she would never pay mind to what a mere Heroic Spirit had to say but: "...but in your particular case…I sense wisdom in those beautiful eyes. You remind me of Baldr, god of light." Quite a bit later, she also has this to say:"Perhaps those piercing eyes of yours in fact surpass Odin's? Mystic Eyes, perchance? ….No, that's not it. They merely reflect your wisdom born of human history's cumulative accomplishments."

She says that's not it, but the fact that it was the first thing she thought of shouldn't be ignored. 

Baldr is the god of light. Holmes' attacks consist of beams of light, and his cane lights up when he's using it in battle.

In Norse legends, Odin is said to have sacrificed one eye to the spring of Mimir in order to get ancient wisdom, the ability to perceive everything in the world. 

SECTION 1.5: More Reactions (From JP Only)

Since it is JP only and there is no official translation for NA yet, this information cannot be 100% confirmed in any way. (Most of this is from Reddit translation done by fans). But as these are also important, it's best to put this information separate section.

Moriarty's interlude involves him finding a micro-singularity in London. At some point the transmission between Chaldea and the master gets cut and Moriarty reveals he created this scenario, made the singularity and everything to get one on one time with the master. He tells us not to trust Holmes. When the time comes, we as master should choose Moriarty over Holmes. 

It has to be kept in mind that Moriarty is not a good guy, he is a character created entirely to oppose Holmes so it is natural that he doesn't trust him. For all we know, it is just emotional manipulation. 

Moriarty's very nature is tied to being the antithesis of Holmes. Holmes might theoretically go against us for the sake of humanity while also trying to keep us safe (the master is in a way, a Watson replacement to him after all) while Moriarty would gladly let humanity burn for the sake of us but also for the sake of being completely opposite to Holmes and keeping his identity as such.

However he does raise valid points, how was Holmes able to rayshift? This part was never explained, and he also mentions that his hypothesis has a fatal contradiction in the fact that Holmes risked his life to save ours. What can be inferred from this is that Holmes is a good man and is on our side, but there is something very weird about him that should not be ignored.

In Lostselt 5 it is mentioned at one point that Zeus called Holmes dangerous, he mustn't look at Zeus or the other gods and that his eyes are enemies of the world.

It has to be mentioned that this is some heavy emphasis on Holmes' eyes (Skadi mentioned Holmes' eyes twice, and she was a god as well). Is it because of the nature of Holmes that he is the one that reveals all truth? Is that in some way detrimental to gods, magic and the world in general?

Recently, from Holmes' skill upgrade interlude there was a section about Holmes saying that he is always an ally of justice and that while he may be on our side, he is still capable of evil but it doesn't change the fact that he is our ally. Even then it seems he has some secrets that can't be understood by himself.

By now with the presence of Dr. Jekyll and Helena and their recounts on what happened, it is confirmed that Holmes was actually "alive"(?)

Some of the adventures penned by Dr. Watson were actually censored versions of the original happenings, which were magical in nature.

Holmes was traumatised(?) by Helena's death back when they were both alive. He swears he would never let that happen again. (remember what happened in lostbelt 2…)

It seems that Holmes himself is not fully sure of what is secret about him. Since he utterly dislikes talking about something without being 100% sure about it (this tendency of his has gotten us in trouble before) plus his general secretive nature, it can be said that this is why he wouldn't talk about that.

SECTION 2: Weird Things That Holmes Does (And Other Questions)

Heroic Spirits are anything but normal, but there are few servants who break the norm even further, and Holmes is one of them.

Holmes is able to Rayshift (presumably) from London, to Camelot, and then to Shinjuku. There are very few servants who are able to manifest themselves. 

Musashi also appears here and there, but it's not a deliberate choice on her part. She is not able to predetermine her next destination. 

Arthur travels from a parallel world to this world, but this is due to "chasing after a certain powerful antagonist, evil omen" - so he tells.

Beast class has the skill of Independent Manifestation which would allow the servant to manifest anywhere they'd want. Merlin, Tamamo Vitch and Shiki possess it. However, it has to be noted that Holmes' rayshifts have a significant toll on his saint graph, as he is unable to fight or defend himself by the time we meet him in Camelot. While normal Independent Manifestation shouldn't lead to the depletion of the user's saint graph. Holmes' class is unknown at the time of his rayshifting. 

At the time of summoning, Heroic Spirits usually reveal their class and True Name (there also are exceptions to the rule). At the time of his summoning, Holmes doesn't reveal his Class: "Are introductions necessary? I am a detective. If you were expecting a hero, my apologies...But if you wanted a detective or an investigator, you drew the right card."

In the case of EOR Servants whose names haven't been found, they reveal their class.

Who summoned Holmes? The only thing we know regarding his presence was that it was first clearly there when he tampered with information in London.

Holmes' illustrator is Yamanaka Kotetsu, who was also the illustrator of the beasts Tiamat and Goetia

The artists who design and illustrate the characters tend to do it in groups of servants who are related to each other in some way (Pako with Arjuna and Karna Chacha and Nobunaga; Miwa Shiro with Brynhildr and Sigurd). It is strange that Kotetsu designed only Holmes, Tiamat and Goetia.

(NEW ADDITION) It should also be noted that as an illustrator Kotetsu has had previous works in a Lovecraftian Guidebook and is also the artist to the Alien God Preistess, somewhat showing how their work leans more to the outerworldly.

SECTION 3: The Design

It is a very commonly noticed fact that Holmes' coat in his third ascension has a very similar shape to that of the Foreigner card artwork.

The pattern work on the coattails of the foreigner art and the inside (blue) part of Holmes' coattails have a very similar, if not exactly same pattern running down the entire length of it. The sphere summoned in Holmes' Noble Phantasm also has the same pattern on its sides and front.

There is a "fog" around Holmes in his third ascension, which is reminescent of the smoke in the card art. (Also can be the London smog).

The glowing section of the abdomen of the being reminds one of the metallic corset that Holmes wears. 

There are 4 notches of smoke on either side of the being (total 8), under their cape. If we stretch our interpretation, then it could mean Holmes' arms and the metal arms that he has is also equal to 8.

In that tangent, the shape of the coat is also similar to that of Saver class Buddha, the fantasy trees from Lostbelt 3 and 4, and the Shadows made by the 6th imaginary element.

The Endless Knot / Shrivatsa symbol on his shoulders is one of the many references of his connection to Tibet (faking his death after the Final Problem). It is an important symbol in both Jainism and Buddhism.

Some of its interpretations include:

The eternal continuum of mind.

The union of wisdom and method.

Since the knot has no beginning or end it also symbolizes the wisdom of the Buddha

the endless cycle of suffering or birth, death and rebirth within Tibetan Buddhism.

The cane that Holmes wields has a pattern on its handle in the shape of a Prayer Wheel. 

However, we are not able to find the meaning behind the script on the cane. Both of us attempted to translate it but failed. If anyone can translate the meaning it would be greatly appreciated.

The holographic books in the base of the unidentified sphere have a pattern on their front that greatly resembles a lotus. 

In Holmes' third ascension, there are a number of magical circuits on his coat.

The circuits are almost only on his left side, with very few circuits on his right side. It's not like it was woven into it, were that the case the circuits would have been all over his coat in a more even distribution. It's almost like an impact radius.

The circuits are very similar to the ones visible on the title screen of the lostbelts, as well as the patterns seen on the fantasy trees.

CONCLUSION SECTION: Something's Up (It's Big Brain Time)

It's clear that something is very strange about Holmes, from his interactions to his design, it's clear that there is too much effort into throwing these hints that it's not just a red herring.

Is he a Foreigner? Beast? Counter Guardian? Some other unknown extra class? It cannot be said at the moment. Holmes' role as a revealer itself is dangerous to mystery and magic, so it can be anything.

 It is also not necessarily true that just because Holmes has all these abnormalities, that he will betray us, or is on the side of evil. When has there been a clear cut side of good or evil anyway? It can be argued that we are the villains in some way, as we bring about the end of these timelines to safeguard our own proper human history. 

Holmes has always been on the side of humanity and will continue to be, the question is what the reveal will be, why and how. That, only time and future chapters can answer, all we can do is speculate.

[fordarkisthesuede]

The Tolls of Justice: the Tarot, Name Meanings, and More!

Gentlepeople…

BEHOLD!

All the tarot-aligned hints! All the future foretellings! All the silly references! :) Everything you might have overlooked is here for you easy-to-read pleasure!

Naturally, there be spoilers a-plenty ahead for Batman the TellTale Series: The Tolls of Justice, so if you haven't read it (or maybe you're thinking about reading it, or this is your first time hearing about it), I'd advise waiting until you're done with each chapter to read through the sections. You can either click the link and be redirected to Ao3, or look through my tumblr tag #ttoj!

*One forwarding note: the tarot references build slowly in this story, and I only use the traditional Major & Minor Arcana. You'll see a lot of jokes and name-type references before we get to the tarot. I also simplified the numerics, but they're often displayed as roman numerals on cards, hint hint.

Prologue

gang member "Four Ears" - a very very off-the-collar reference to the line "Listen up, four-ears!" from J-Men Forever; in context, it was an off-shoot of the insult "four-eyes" but for music taste, also implying the person's taste was "square".

gang member "Muddy Nye" - his name can be boiled down to "muddy river". It works as an allusion to the messy, unclear case ahead of Bruce and the Batfam, but also as a hint to Clayface, who acted as Muddy in his first sighting of the story.

"Sunset" - a reference to everyone's favorite vampire series to pick on, the Twilight series; back when it was at the height of it's popularity, some drug dealers sold heroin marketed towards the crowd based off it's terrible and unfortunately iconic(?) line from Edward Cullen, "You're my own personal brand of heroin"…hence why the drug of choice BM is shipping here is heroin. Essentially, this plot setup is one big joke.

"FIGS" - a reference to POP! vinyls, hence the capitalized name and spiky word balloon on the packages.

"Gray Ghost [memorabilia]" - one of my (and everyone else's) favorite BtAS episodes, which proves definitively that Bruce Wayne | Batman is not only a Huge Nerd™, but also a massive collector of normal fandom things. (Do you think he troughs through blogs and fanwikis…? What am I saying, of course he does. He edits them.)

gang members "Jack Whendleham and Kirby Noltz" - nod to Jack Kirby, comic artist extraordinaire!

Ch.1: A Different Ceiling

[chapter title] - John does not wake up in Arkham at the start of the story, hence waking up to a different ceiling. He also hits different limitations on what he can do, so it's also a different kind of "ceiling". (Like the term "the glass ceiling", the invisible barrier a demographic hits in a hierarchy.)

St. Dymphna New Life Home - named after Saint Dymphna, the patron saint of mental illness. There's no "'s" at the end because I saw other clinics named after Saints didn't use the possessive form when referencing them.

The Lucky Hotel - an oxymoron, really; the unluckiest place to get stuck at with it's seedy history, but also the place where John "gets lucky"…in a couple of different ways!

Stitched Up Alterations - a heavy nod to the wonderful batjokesy line from S2, "We're two threads in the same stitch". It's pretty deeply ingrained in fanon (and technically canon, if you go with The Dark Knight) that Joker makes his own clothes, hence Batman rarely finding him through his tailor. Since John's thrifty and clearly made his original Joker outfit(s), I piggybacked off it as a legit skill to give him. I mean, come on, the guy is always so stylish! And you're really going to look at me and say he didn't alter his thrifted shirts and vests to fit his sleek frame? Puh-leeease.

13th Street - 13 is a traditionally unlucky number in western culture; hence the "Lucky Hotel" there having a bloody history, along with a failed, closed casino nearby.

Corazón gang - okay, I admit…I'm still a weeb at heart. It's a One Piece reference. Corazon was one of the few post-timeskip new characters I really liked; his name is Spanish for "heart", and he sported a heart motif. Like the gang in this story, he also died before the start of the main storyline.

Ch. 2: Face Values

[chapter title] - A reference to the phrase "not taking things at face value", which is very evident in this story. Also doubles as a rather loose reference to the upcoming Tarot cards.

Sebastian Overfield - The name Sebastian means "from Sebaste", as is derived from the Greek word sebastos ("venerable", someone who has a lot of respect). Overfield of course is "over" and "field", implying the family is on a high hill overlooking/overseeing/maintaining a certain field. As Seb is a reverend, this name is well-fit for him.

orange rose [gift from John] - means "passion" in the language of flowers, and can allude to fascination; this can be taken platonically or romantically…but it's definitely romantic when it's coming from John.

blue iris [gift from John] - means "faith and hope" in the language of flowers, and sometimes are associated with royalty; an allusion to Batman/Bruce's overall symbolism in the eyes of Gotham…and John.

Chandis [ship, circa Prologue] - A reference to Chandi | Chandika, the Hindu deity; the short version of their story is that they are a demon slayer, known to be angry and passionate, wield multiple weapons, and ride a lion. And who was on the ship? Hmm…

Ch. 3: Ink Trails

[chapter title] - A reference to the Alterations' claim slip John finds, which ends up leading back to the Court of Owls. It doubles as a reference to the mask tattoo/clue on Ian 'Nito'.

Faith Ackart - "Ackart" is a variant of "ackhart", derived from "ekkehard", which we can say roughly means "brave/hardy". The name "faith" and "hardy" together is another very subtle clue for the audience towards the villains' motives. (Well, I say that, but it was really more of a joke-clue for me to giggle at. And it makes a good reporter name!)

Lou Monger - the guy's a fish monger…with the last name Monger. It's-a joke! ;D

Ian 'Nito' Coggs - first mentioned without his real last name, but "Ian Coggs, Nito", is a pun on the word "incognito"…which is what Clayface is here.

FriendBook/Chirp/bloggr/uBox - takes on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and YouTube respectively. (This started back in my 'Season 3' story, At the Brink of Midnight, though I've since learned that bloggr was a real thing. :T) The 'uBox' is meant to be a play on 'jumping box'/'the box' as other terms for TV, like 'the tube'.

"whole tomato of pins" - the supposed history of tomato-shaped pincushions is that tomatoes placed on mantels repelled evil spirits and guaranteed prosperity, but I really wanted to just allude to the common pin-cushion shape. (My mom once had a whole little basket of strawberry shaped pin-cushions. I remember "borrowing" them a lot as a kid to play with. And then "losing" them.)

"sock and buskin masks" - these are a reference to the "comedic sock" and "tragic buskin (i.e. boot)" of the Greek comedy-tragedy theatre masks. I figured something like them would be a good logo for the "false faces", as BM is obsessed with masks. It also doubles as a natural callback to the "your relationship with x has changed" feature of TT games.

Ch. 4: Suite of Cups

[chapter title] - the first chapter to be a reference to the Tarot, in specific the Minor Arcana of Cups; rather than specifying the card at play outright, this title is a pun on the aforementioned arcana "suite", as the main location of events this chapter are in a casino's hotel suite. One can interpret many Cups cards at play here, but...

○ Specifically, in the Casino's suite/crime scene, there are 8 visible seats, but 7 cups on the table. The 7 of Cups refers to choices, fantasy, and illusion, an indicates there are multiple opportunities or many paths you can take, but they should be chosen carefully; when reversed, it can mean confusion, diversion, and temptation, and indicate a lack of choice or failure to choose.

○ The upright version is definitely in play, with the overall root of TellTale games being choices, and some "the player" makes this chapter will move your relationships with Tiffany and John in different ways, which can strengthen your relationships with them. If "the player" has chosen to be a more violent Batman, the way the Talon - and later, the Court - treats Batman is different.

○ The Reversed reading can be interpreted for the Court's complete disregard for the mere notion of choice.

Bauta - a Venetian carnival mask, meant to represent 'anonymous decisions' via it's original design of protecting identities. It's quite common in carnivals.

Melpomene-Thalia - the Venetian masks for comedy and tragedy, a la 'sock and buskin', the masks used as a general symbol for theatre. You can practically taste the irony, given who's shown wearing it...

Volto - a Venetian mask, meant to represent 'anonymity, quiet exit' for it's blank face. It's also known as the "Citizen Mask" because of it's worn by the common folk (in comparison to the more elaborate masks).

The Lot [casino] - named for "drawing lots", like drawing straws or matches to pick a person to do a task (usually with the shortest straw having to do the task, but it varies). This is both a pun on the fact that it's a casino - where you try your luck at gambling - and corresponds with the theme of foretelling the future that's woven throughout much of the story.

The Wednesday Nighters gang - this doesn't mean anything in particular. I'm a big fan of Midsomer Murders, and there's an episode ("Death in a Chocolate Box") where it references a few dirty cops who frequently took the Friday night shift at a station for episode-plot-reasons, who called themselves The Friday Nighters. It's an off-shoot reference to it, hence the corrupt cops on the gang in this story. :)

[John's voicemail] - Another BtAS episode I love is "the terrible secret of Bruce Wayne". In particular, I loved Joker's voicemail when Dr. Strange calls in ("Boy, do YOU have the wrong number!") and I wanted to do something like that. But, y'know, way less murdery.

"F85H4ND" - l33t-written "Fate's Hand", for…well, the hand of fate, supposedly guiding you through life/events. Another correspondent to the foretelling the future theme.

Michael Hodgson - not all of the names I pick for characters mean anything. Sometimes their names are just loose references to things I like. This is a silly mish-mashup of the original hosts of Mystery Science Theater 3000, Michael [Nelson] and [Joel] Hodgeson. (Joel was the first host + show creator, and Mike was the second host who closed out the original series run.)

"40F5WRD5" [Batcomputer archive] - l33t for the 4 of Swords, a card in the Minor Arcana for rest and restoration; since the archives and file names are randomly generated when not prompted otherwise with manual input, an otherworldly force seems to be saying 'get some damn sleep Bruce'.

[John's ringtone] - I know, TT always has everyone's phone on silent. I don't care. Bruce's ringtone for John is "Mack the Knife", a song about a violent mobster, played on a carnival organ. Chosen because 1) John probably loves that song, 2) I thought it was funny that it has the line "the shark bites - with his teeth, dear - when he shows them pearly whites" and how well that goes with John's A+ dental care... 3) TeamFourStar made jokes in their BtTTS S2 playthrough about having "a special ringtone whenever John calls [them]"…why would I not carry that through? They did get me to where we are now, you know. ;)

Ryde - the in-game stand-in for Lyft, the not-a-taxi service.

Ch. 5: The Wheel Still Spins on the Upturned Chariot

[chapter title] - a reference to 2 tarot cards in the Major Arcana. 1) "The Wheel"/"The Wheel of Fortune", which is a sign for continuous cycles, inevitable fate, and usually indicates good fortune and pre-destiny when the card is presented upright. When reversed, it can signify bad luck and an unfavorable fate. 2) "The Chariot", symbolizing a path forward to success, confidence, and overcoming obstacles; when reversed, it's stands for recklessness and lack of direction/control. 3) As the Chariot is upside down, John's original plans have been upended and everything goes out of his control in a chaotic situation. He’s essentially "not at the driver’s seat" for a little while. "The player" decides which direction to take the wheel in - either letting him lash out violently and send him on more solitary and dangerous path, or satisfy his need for stability by embracing his new relationships. The Chariot is always upturned here, but whether the wheel spins forward or backward is up to "the player's" decisions.

511 N. Blade Street - this one's a bit messy. 511 = V I I, or VII in roman numerals, which =7. The tarot cards are traditionally numbered in roman numerals. North, for pointing upright, and "blade" is synonymous with "sword". So it’s the "7 of Swords", in the upright position – referring to deception and trickery, which is of course what's going on in regards to who Ian 'Nito' Coggs really is…

Apt 1005 - even muddier, but this is referring to the 10 of Swords, which is for betrayal and backstabbing, hinting at the true motives of "Ian" | Clayface. 10-0-5, so 10 and the l33t for "OS" = 10-o-S.

900 Wanda Way - Both a pun on the phrase “wander away” and the 9 of Wands in the Minor Arcana, which alludes to pushing forward to achieve victory. A good allusion for a clinic, me-thought.

400 Wanda Way - The 4 of Wands in the Minor Arcana stands for community, another good allusion for a clinic.

Karen McCarthy - named after the most stereotypically uptight narcissistic asshole the masses have agreed to call 'Karen', and both McCarthyism and another famous lady with the surname McCarthy. Because I wanted you to know the second you see her name that she is *horrible*. (Funny, though, there's 2 senators named McCarthy that are pieces of shit and one infamous quasi-celeb who's the face of the anti-vax scene. Is it just a cursed family name?)

Ch. 6: The Tips of Our Swords

[chapter title] - Refers to the 4 of Swords card in the Minor Arcana, as the "swords" are alluding to the four active members in the Batfam - Bruce, John, Tiffany, and Iman - who work together on the case[s]; you can infer this title to a presentation not unlike the Musketeers joining swords to affirm themselves as a team, as they all gather together. The reversed reading of the card is for restlessness/stress in Bruce's case, and the clear signal of the universe to tell him to relax, and the reading when presented right-side up is for the break it gives to "the player", with the homey atmosphere of the Batfam spending time together. Either reading is completely valid here.

○ BUT, as Alfred is a non-active member of the Batfam, we could also say that 5 of Swords is also at play, right-side-up for the fighting and resentment with Alfred, and John's hinted budding conflict with him; and 5 reversed for Bruce's attempts at making up with Tiffany. If one illustrated the gathering of our four heroes joining swords like the musketeers over a breakfast table, then Alfred would be sitting drinking tea, standing as a symbol of the Ace of Cups, signifying new emotions or stirrings of feelings.

○ If we stretch the metaphor eeeven further, the title can also be a loose reference to the Sword of Damocles; threats always hang above the heads of powerful people, and in this case the looming threat of Black Mask and the mysterious assassin, ever-present in Batman's world…

Dr. Brandi September - literally "Sword" and "Seventh Month", alluding to the 7 of Swords, hinting to deception and manipulation at play.

"I was tired of the soup du jour" - a shameless Devo reference; a tiring of the routine/everyday. "I'm tired of the soup du jour - I want to end this prophylactic tour - ain't nobody around me - understands my potato - I'm only a spud boy - lookin' for a real tomato" - DEVO, "Mr DNA/Smart Patrol".

Motel 11, Augury Road - "augury" is another word for crows; as a gathering of crows can be a method of fortune-telling, this a reference to a gathering of 11 crows, which when seen is supposed to be indicative of disguising or revealing secrets.

Ch. 7: Drawing the Strings

[chapter title] - meant to allude to John aligning the strings connecting the people and crimes together, like an old-fashioned way of mapping clues; can be interpreted as these crime-strings on the proverbial board being drawn closer together, marking the center of the "web" as the Court of Owls

Frieda Baast - Frieda, an allusion to the Norse goddess Freya, who rode on a chariot driven by cats, and Baast, the Egyptian goddess who had the form of a cat. It makes it really obvious who was staying at the Motel 11, huh?

room 14 [Selina Kyle's motel room] - a reference to the 14th tarot card, "Temperance", which when upright is meant for choosing the middle path between choices. This is meant to reference Selina herself, currently at a secret, personal crossroads and being in "the middle"; John can influence her hidden choice by either making her think about what her potential job's employers are really aligning themselves with, or taunting her into how she can't leave her old life behind. (Whether John is violent or not doesn't completely impact her choice, but it does impact how they interact later if Selina winds up in the hands of our villains.)

Oracle, Spoiler, Batgirl, Spectrum - Batman's had a lot of non-Robin sidekicks in comics, including Batgirl (originally Barbara Gordon), Oracle (Barbara Gordon, post-Batgirl-forced-retirement and computer hacker extraordinaire), and Spoiler (Stephanie Brown, who "spoiled" crimes). As a fan of Ao3/tumblr's @fractualized 's own Telltale Bat-verse fics (the "Release John Doe" series), I added in the reference to "Spectrum", which Tiffany became in lieu of "Robin". A wink from one fan-writer to another! ;)

"I'm steppin' out, my dear - to breathe an atmosphere […] - that simply reeks […] with class" - John's singing a classic Fred Astaire hit, "Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails".

Eric, Jerome, Jeremiah, Jack [John's "Normal name" ideas] - As this story allows "the player" to pick a name for John to use in place of his own, you can pick between some classic and modern references to Joker's alternate personas over the years. Eric White Border (edit: goddang it that's what i get for looking at White Knight while writing this up and never double-checking), Joker's regular persona in the New 52 Batman comic line; Jerome or Jeremiah of the Gotham TV series, both of which are different aspects of Joker's personality through media, with a more modern gritty version in Jerome (think Heath Ledger's Joker) and a more modern take on Joker's sociopathy in Jeremiah; and last but not least Jack Napier, the first official name of Joker circa Tim Burton's Batman (1989), and the one most popularly used (BtAS and other comics throughout the years since use this name). "The player"'s choice doesn't impact the story or the way John acts, but it does give a surprise feature later. ;)

Matt Chaney - Aka, "Clayface", Matt has both new and old elements in his name alone. Matt, for Matt Hagen, the most well-known/used of the Clayface personas, and Chaney, for classic film actor Lon Chaney, AKA the man of a thousand faces. This Clayface is an aspiring actor who is psychologically dependent on Moddy to keep him handsome after a terrible car accident left his face marred. He uses his excellent makeup skills and acting to infiltrate the False Face Society, and double-plays them and the Court of Owls.

Root / MuSec - stand-ins for Vine and TikTok, respectively. "MuSec" is both a play on the word "musac" (the word for 'elevator music' and generic produced music you hear in fake stores and the like) and the mish-mash of the words "music" and "second", referencing the short length of the videos. "Root" was used in a prior story (At the Brink of Midnight), and acts as another "natural network" type name akin to Vine; though I do recognize "Vine" might have come along as part of the phrase "I heard it through the grape-vine". I have a feeling some Aussie fans might find the fake-Vine name funny...or just awkward.

Ch. 8: It Had to Be You

[chapter title] - A reference to the classic crooner song, "It Had to Be You"; specifically, the one that flows through the first scene is a cover done by Frank Sinatra, meant to align with other Bat-media's use of Sinatra where Joker and Batman are concerned. The Arkham games got his famous "Under My Skin", and another crooner's "Only You". Batjokes fans/content creators have also used "Strangers in the Night" for their relationship. I wanted to present one that would feel at-home in the TellTale universe regardless of what route you end up with, and what's more perfect than a song about finally discovering the love of your life? The song fits them to a tee, in my humble opinion…

Estella Art Gallery - Selina's art gallery, mentioned previously to have been the site of a Talon attack. "Estella" translates to "star", for the tarot card "The Star". When presented upright, it means hope and rebirth; this card can be presented after a disaster, such as an event like "The Tower". Normally, it can be interpreted as a card to show a phase where you have trust and faith in yourself and the universe. Selina was turning over a new leaf and enjoying her new life until the Owls found out who she was.

Mrs. Bollard - "bald-headed person"…this poor woman got her wig snatched as John stole Bruce from her on the dance floor. xD

"I knew today's horoscope was bullshit" - a nod to earlier, where Roman mentioned his horoscope when visiting Bruce; "a friend will help you out of a tight bind." Not that it was mentioned like that... still! I wonder what today's was? "You will be fortunate in your business endeavors"? Ha ha ha! But really, the horoscope is another nod to the theme of foretelling the future, as it's a popular method to try and see how your day, month, season, or year will be. Not that I know what sign Roman is… *thinking face*

[Achievement Unlocked: Batman Who Laughs] - John showing up in the Batman cowl was not only funny, but a direct nod to the Batman Who Laughs. The TT games had Batman comic titles often used as Achievements, so I figured I'd put in some…

[Achievement Unlocked: Batwoman Rises] - Iman helping the team out in the spare Batman suit is naturally a nod to Batwoman, and something I wanted to do for a while. ;D

Brighella - a Venetian mask taken from a play now used to depict a cunning and mischievous servant. Originally the mask was used to depict a greedy villain character.

The Two Gilded Cups - A restaurant in-story that references "The Two of Cups" tarot card, a card representing unity, partnership, and two becoming one. When upright, it's a card that can reference lovers or a new relationship; when reversed, it can represent broken communication, imbalance, or tension. As such, the couple who were seen at the restaurant - Sonja Townsend and her husband - are established lovers who work together for the Court of Owls, but those who were really there are Jackie Lant and Matt Chaney, who are in an imbalanced relationship. "Gilded" implies that "The Cups" are covered unnecessarily with gold - this is both in reference to Jackie and Matt's disguise of the Townsends and the truth about their relationship. Matt's lies are covering for his narcissism and selfishness, and ultimately is the only thing holding him and Jackie's relationship together.

Moddy - A fictional body modification clay-mud-putty that's a product of Janus Industries, this makeup is the favorite of Matt Chaney and the reason we can call him "Clayface". Like the traditional Clayface, Matt is in dire need to have his fix of the makeup, despite what it does to him - as John notes, it leaves a weird burn-like sensation, and since Matt has deep scar tissue he covers every minute of every day, it's made the skin damage worse.

"You’re really committed to drowning in that river" - A riff on the old joke "denial ("de Nile") isn't just a river in Egypt".

"Your words are honey in my ears, but my brain always turns it into bitter wax" - In Futurama, Fry has a silly line of “Sweet words! Sweet words that turn into bitter wax in my ears!”. It always had the potential to be a great metaphor if the words were twisted around! :) Plus, I mean, come on, this is a totally On Brand™ thing for John to say!

Ch. 9: Strength in Numbers

[chapter title] - Referencing the Strength card, for bravery, compassion, and inner strength; the title also doubles as a play on “different kinds of strengths”. Strength is the will the expose your truths. Strength is finding compassion to help others. Strength is staying true to your convictions in the face of opposition. We see all different kinds of strength on display here.

○ It can also a reference to the different partnerships going on, with Jackie joining the team (unofficially), Bruce and Tiffany going off to tackle the other half of our case, and John and Iman’s team-up. :)

"[John] could barely hear it over the tinny electronic whistling tune emitting from his own phone, telling him the person on the other end was a mystery" - this is referencing an old tumblr joke! Yes, John has the “It is a mystery” tone on his phone for unknown calls…complete with the little (:o) ghost icon.

CUP5K1NG [license plate] - Referring to the King of Cups card, a card portraying emotional balance and compassion. As it's not written as "K1NGCUP5", it implies it's a reversed card, signifying there's manipulation and instability at work. Even though Matt doesn't own the car this license plate belongs to, it's definitely tied to him since it's his getaway ride, and thus hints at what's to be revealed in his and Jackie's hotel room.

Aylin Street - the name "Alyin" translates into “moon halo; one that belongs to the moon”, thereby being a reference to the Moon card, representing mysteries and illusions. An investigation is afoot!

“Looks like I’ve got the red light, kiddo.” - In stage acts, the red light is to indicate to the performer their time on stage is up. Generally, it’s reserved for comedians who either overrun their time or are losing the audience. John's joking that he's been given the red light to exit stage left (but not persued by bear).

"What’s the ‘G’ for?” - Iman's 'Gotham Construction' jumpsuit has a G different from John's - it's shaped more like a gear. This is another Mystery Science Theater reference, in particular the logo for Gizmonic Institute, the company/labs that "employed" original host Joel and the mad scientist Dr. Forrester (and his assistant, TV's Frank), who started the experiments of forcing a guy and his robot friends to watch reeeally bad movies. The result was 12 (soon to be 13!) seasons of some guys making hilarious and very memorable jokes at said bad movies' expense. Does this reference mean that Bruce is just as huge a dork as I am, or does it mean that MST3K is real in this universe?! You make the call! ;D

○ …if you read 'What's the 'G' for?' in Invader Zim's voice, that's also valid. Especially if you followed it with “I dON’t know!” in GIR's. (There is no cringing here! We openly embrace our childhood silliness!)

MasterOfClayFace / #IdW3arThat [Matt Chaney's social media login] - naturally Matt is so far up on his high horse that he considers himself a master of clay work…and of course his nickname is ClayFace! His password is a joke in and out of canon, being a riff on Lemon Demon song: “A mask of my own face – I’d wear that” ~ Lemon Demon, “Mask of My Own Face” [Nature Tapes].

3055 [Jackie Lant's InstaPic followers] - According to research, the average Instagram following is about 1000, so Jackie is above average popularity. Anything above 10k is usually(?) celeb status. The number 3055 is meant to be broken up and turned partially into l33t, to make 3-O-S-S, or 3 of Sword[s]. The 3 of Swords card in the tarot signifies heartbreak and grief, stemming from betrayal, loneliness, and rejection. Jackie experienced all three of these heart-piercing swords during her return to Gotham, with Matt basically forcing her into isolation, betraying her trust, and rejecting her input and values in favor of his own; but she didn't really know it until the truth was exposed.

8055 [Matt Chaney's InstaPic followers] - similarly, Matt's follower count is meant to be 8-O-S-S, or the 8 of Swords card. It signifies self-victimization and imprisonment. In particular, the card shows a person restrained and trapped, but their helplessness is a show…they could choose to get out, if they got over themselves. Matt is incredibly selfish, so it comes as no surprise that he will play the victim card.

#OnlyInGotham - Another tumblr reference! I love the @hashtagonlyingotham blog! ( ^3^)

The Herold Rite's Theatre - A play on the word "Hierophant": Herold, like “herald (ruler/champion)” and Rites, like “sacred rites”. In the tarot, the Hierophant card represents following tradition and values, which for the Owls is their very core. This is basically a big ol' hint that Iman and John are heading into Owl territory, but also foreshadows the religious undercut of The Court and Reverend Sebastian Overfield's role.

"a familiar red-pyramid-and-floating-eyeball" [graffiti] - A reference to my icon! ;D You think I can't self-promo?

trading cards [found in theatre storage] - In the Theatre, John finds "old promotional trading cards for an old sci-fi film with big-brained aliens". This is a shameless and loving reference to Tim Burton's 1996 film Mars Attacks!, of which my AO3/tumblr icon and username is lifted - the movie was based on a series of Topps trading cards from the 1960's, and had it's own set of cards with movie scenes and behind-the-scenes pictures (and summaries of events) printed for the movie! They also used them as promotional tools, and if you get very lucky purchasing a copy of the old single-issue comic books from the 1995 Mars Attacks run from Image Comics, you can get a promo card.

https://bit.gt.gd/S3272019F?=RO - Originally "gd" stood for a derivative of Google Drive, but I can’t look at it and not see “get good”. The "S3272019F?" is meant to stand for "Started: March 27, 2019 Finished: ?". I can't believe I started uploading the story in March of 2019! Man, 2020 really messed with my sense of time…

Ch. 10: Tantara Bounces Off of Moonlit Walls

[chapter title] - "Tantara" is defined as "the blare of a trumpet or horn", as seen in the Judgement card, which stands for self-reflection as well as reckoning, and can indicate rebirth. There's of course another reference to the Moon card, for intuitions and the unconscious being. Then what are the "[Moonlit] Walls"? Well, they're the part of the only Major Arcana tarot card to represent a building - they are the walls of the Tower, symbolizing destruction and disaster. When all the cards' meanings are put all together, this alludes to a time of discovery among absolute disaster.

○ Expanded, the whole title is a reference to both forms of Judgement occurring – self-reflection and change are happening with Bruce and John as their mysteries and anxieties are finally put to rest: John is undergoing his final "rebirth", seeing his reality clearly in Arkham’s padded cell; Bruce seems to finally come to terms with working with Tiffany, as his fear of not being able to protect her comes through with her showing she's able take care of herself and prove she's a true asset to the team; and the Court of Owls finally comes to light, with Matt Chaney, the Talon Adam, and the Talon Sonja Townsend finally showing their real motivations.

○ We can also interpret the title as a reckoning coming for the Owls, who have long been obscuring the truth of their deeds and whose true motives have been murky. They've built their own tower of disaster with bricks of delusion, and judgement's horn is blaring a warning through their hallways…

"X-Sharp Manufacturing" - a reference to the 10 of Swords (hence the "sharp"), the tarot card for betrayal, backstabbing, and defeat. For Bruce, there is disaster here beyond his control that ends in a [temporary] defeat. For Roman Sionis, owner of the small factory as part of Janus Inc., he's unwittingly walked into his own betrayal.

"Merlin's Flower Arrangements" - Merlin, a famous wizard, is a reference to The Magician card, who defines “as above, so below”… And as John is taken to a secondary location, so is Bruce. :)

"La Luna Painting" - La Luna, aka The Moon; remember, shadows can play tricks on your eye, so something’s afoot here… Aka "HEY GUYS THIS TOTALLY ISN’T SUSPICIOUS OR ANYTHING NO SIR"

Yelsnia Theater - Yelsnia is…actually a name. But searching for it shows my true hint, as it's "Ainsley" backwards. "Ainsley" derives from Scottish words meaning “alone, solitary” or “hermitage”. This is a reference to the Hermit card – in this case, it's blatantly upside down, referring to loneliness, isolation, and a general disconnection with mankind. AKA, the path Matt is on.

"the looming pillar tower" [Arkham] - A blatant representation of The Tower. It stands for impending disaster and "an upheaval of a foundation of reality". Of course, this can be taken in two ways. 1) That John has overcome/avoided the disaster of another mental breakdown. 2) That John’s foundation of his delusions - that he’ll wake up in or get sent back to Arkham for his sickness - was wrong in a realistic sense, as he’s made serious progress in managing his emotional issues, and right in an unrealistic one, where the only way he could be sent back was through an outside force, i.e. the Owls.

10210475 [inmate number] - When separated for the numeric cipher, we get 10-21-4-7-5, or J-U-D-G-E

13051420 [inmate number] - When separated for the numeric cipher, we get 13-5-14-20, or M-E-N-T

○ When put together, the inmate numbers read "Judgement", the tarot card is shown here for John's choices and character arc on display throughout this chapter. When the card is reversed, it implies a lack of self-awareness, which we can also attribute to "the player's" choices for John if they make Bad Decisions. If you simply take the word "judgement" at face-value (without involving the tarot) it also works wonderfully, applying to John's entire situation as being a trial/judgement set by a higher force.

"The prince returned to the tower" dialogue [the prophetic cell mate] - Whether the person speaking is physical or not, John notes he can hear the scratching of pencil on paper within the cell, implying a person is writing their words down like a story… “The prince,” (John Doe, alias Joker, traditionally the ‘Clown Prince’ of Gotham) “having returned to the tower” (Arkham Asylum, the foundations of John's issues) “to reclaim his crown,” (assurance in himself and his reality; the completion of John's "self" with his final choices and becoming Vigilante!Joker for good) “trails after the fiend” (confronts the Talon Adam, alias Owl-man) “who's flying on wings of retribution” (core beliefs, perceived sense of justice). “The fiend’s wings are big, but the bones are brittle” (the Owl-man is imposing and persistent, but his physical "wings" are his weakness).

○ If you couple the Court of Owl's belief that G*d has written down the destinies of everyone in the world [as they are each born] with the knowledge that someone was writing down a short version of John's events at Arkham…hmmm.....

Room 11 [Iman's cell room] - The 11th card in the Major Arcana is "Justice". This can reference either 1) The just-desserts coming for Talon Adam/"The Owlman", or 2) The outcome of the player’s choice to take Iman with them or not.

11 minutes + 16 seconds [remaining time on bomb timer] - 11:16. 11/16, aka my birthday! :) I only wish I had finished Chapter 10 in time for the chapter's publishing year (2020), lol~

"Our Faith brings Perseverance, and Our Perseverance guides Justice, for Mercy to God." - The Court of Owls' beliefs circle around 3 principles bringing people closer to G*d: Faith, Perseverance, and Justice. Their belief hardens their persistence in their actions (as they are written and not guided by "Evil"), and their goals are ultimately to deliver justice where the human system failed and "Evil" prevailed in "escaping", hence the guiding of one principle to another. "Mercy to God" is what is granted by righting the injustices of the world; as G*d wrote your future down exactly, Evil can corrupt it, and once corrupted this does G*d a harmful injustice. The Court considers themselves close to G*d by "mercifully" stopping further corruption via eliminating "Evil" in all it's worldly forms…

Speaking of the 3 principles, our main Owls are meant to be "embodiments" of these in the story.

○ Talon Sonja Townsend represents Faith, driving home her belief in G*d's absolute destiny. She is corrupted by her own selfish goal of eliminating her son-in-law, but is also so by-the-book she does not think to look at the obvious double-standards of the Court, and doesn't think her underlying actions are guided by "Evil".

○ Talon Adam represents Perseverance, having fought Joker to unconsciousness, and was willing to blow up Arkham with himself still inside just to eliminate it; he is the most brainwashed, but the least corrupt in motivations, only striving to get what he feels is "justice". On the flip side of Adam is Talon Evan, who despite serious injury still appeared in Court and jumped at the chance to kill Joker and Batman, despite the Court's general appreciation of Batman; he is corrupt in personal selfishness, as he possesses no "real" faith in the Court's belief system and doesn't like others getting credit by stealing his targets.

§ ...it's also worth mentioning that the names for Adam and Evan are meant to be derivative of "Adam and Eve". In this way, it can also be seen as a parallel to The Lovers card, which one can attribute to Bruce and John. While Bruce + John are oddly harmonious and undeniably have a strong bond regardless of story paths, Adam + Evan are discontent rivals, with Adam "stealing" Evan's target and good graces with the Court, and Evan very pointedly beating up and kidnapping Batman (who Adam admires) to set up Batman's eventual Judgement.

○ Reverend Sebastian Overfield is the main representation of Justice, though he embodies all 3 principles. The Court’s belief is that their pursuit of justice – stopping Evil/chaos via deaths of criminals – overrides their own traditional sins. Because they are being helpful to G*d, granting Them mercy by righting the injustices of Evil and putting G*d’s Word back on the right path, they are in G*d’s favor. Therefore, as the leader of the Court and the one who organized everything by handing down "God's word", he is the carrier of Justice; without him, the Court would be nowhere and G*d would be shedding more tears over their ruined work…at least, in his mind. Naturally, he is the exact opposite of what justice should be. He is biased and unwavering in strict faith, as much a carrier of chaos as he doesn't want to be…

○ Of course, this is all also up to interpretation. One can interpret Adam as "justice", Evan as "perseverance", and Sebastian as the stand-in for "God", as he is the Court's ruler and is the sole person to hand down "the word of God".

"[…]if two people you normally count on for one reason or another" - Alfred made a subtle dig at John being Bruce's boy-toy. Ouch, Al'…

"[…]given it's your pet project, and all" - Even though Selina is talking about Arkham, she's making a dig at former-Arkham-resident John being Bruce's "pet", who in her eyes was Bruce's main reason for getting Arkham revitalized. :\ Man, everybody's picking on their relationship…

petrichor - The smell proceeding rain. Because it's not a climactic fight scene in Gotham city without rain.

Ch. 11: The Tolls of Justice

[chapter title] - Naturally referring to the Justice card of the tarot, this title is the same as the story title. Funnily enough, this is the 11th chapter, and the 11th card in the tarot deck. (I guarantee you I did not plan this bit… Funny how these things play out, ain't it?) The Justice card naturally stands for cause and effect, clarity, or truth; ultimately, it's a representation of karmic retribution, and what the Owls are in dire need of facing. The title overall is referring to both the [para]phrase "do not ask for whom the bell tolls, for it tolls for thee" (in the original context: a grievance over death for all out of love for community/mankind, not just one person) and the "toll" - as in cost or damage - of enacting justice. What Bruce has put himself through to become and keep being Batman, the enactor of vengeance for all those wronged in the city of Gotham, and what ultimately the Court of Owls has sacrificed - either wittingly or unwittingly - in the name of justice. It also extends to John, who for the sake of "justice" is routinely stuck in Arkham, in one way or another, and has never had a conceivably just or fair life at all - thus paying the unwilling toll opposing Bruce and the Owls. We can also extend it to Tiffany, who is making good on her work with Bruce to "pay her toll" for her own crime, with her toll being seen in a positive light as Robin, compared to what life sentence she might have been paying otherwise.

[the sword in the pulpit] - a symbolic reference to The Justice card, as the Justice card in the major arcana often depicts a sword, either alone or in someone's hand. This can also be interpreted as a reference to the Ace of Swords in the minor arcana, which is normally pointing upwards, referring to victory, truth, or ideas; when flipped, as it would be when looking at the initial depiction of the sword as a "cross", it stands for lies and confusion. The sword in the story itself is a symbol of justice, and uses snakes as the stand-in for the forces of Evil, which are destroyed by the owl making up the handle and supposedly wielding the blade.

"the skull peeking out of the knight’s helmet" [card in the box on Reverend's desk] - A very clear reference to the Death card, famous in the tarot deck. It signifies change, inevitable cycles, and new beginnings/directions. Depending on the reading, it can be interpreted as an actual death, but more often than not it’s merely showing of a life change. As this is the Reverend’s deck, it seems the last card he drew was Death… The viewer can interpret this as a reading from the Reverend into the Arkham plot, where Death is representing John’s own changes, the end of Talon Adam’s latest “cycle”, or the actual deaths that had occurred (no matter how many there are in the end). The viewer can also read this as the Reverend trying to find his own fate, the fate of Roman Sionis for his trial, or Batman’s fate. All of them are quite valid, but I feel the most accurate interpretation is that the Rev' was trying to read the future of the Court of Owls.

○ …as mentioned above, the Death card is the most overt reference to the Tarot. This way, if someone didn't piece together the weird chapter titles, the specified numbers and number-letter strings, and/or the odd names of people and places, they'd be able to double-back and see them as clues. They are put there purely as a storytelling clue for the audience. As you can tell, the tarot references increased with each chapter…almost like someone is trying to get your attention…

[the framed painting] - a reference to The High Priestess, aka card II of the tarot. This card is indicative of intuition and looking within, and can signal to mysteries at hand or a higher power at work. The pillars on the card are (hilariously enough) marked with a B and J, and are in black and white, respectively. They stand for Boaz (Strength) and Jachin (Establishment), and are meant to represent the duality of nature, good/evil, masculine/femine, etc. Naturally, both pillars are equal. In this depiction, it is both relating to “the player’s” own duality, with the ability to be flexible as Bruce and John and have both good and bad decisions play through the story, and as a strong hint to a higher power being present.

8-9-6-3 [candle puzzle] - It takes a bit to work out by sorting through the alphabetic values to each number, but it doesn’t make a complete word. On ye olde phone keypad, 1 is always null in value, so it’s always unlit in the candle sequence, and since there are 4 other numbers present we know it doesn’t count as part of the string. (If there were only 3, you could guess a year from your notes.) My idea for the “game” specs of this part would be that the key-code would be somewhat randomized, either using a specific year (if Tiffany and/or Iman are not present, this is *always* the case, as you have to utilize your background notes and the candles by yourself), a few translated letter combinations just for fun, or an occasional number-card type combo, as presented here. (In some lucky scenarios, “the player” doesn’t have to solve the candle puzzle, since Tiffany can figure out the year by herself and just call you over when she opens the door. You still have the option of looking around, though!) In this case, the values are another tarot-themed hint, using the card number first: 8-w-n-d, for the 8 of Wands, which alludes to quick actions. AKA “Get ready for quick-time events!!!”

"looking more like the king on the throne than a judge" - Meant to allude to The Emperor card, the ultimate royal symbol in the major arcana and always depicted with a king. Traditionally this symbolizes power, authority, control, etc., but when reversed it alludes to overbearingness, arrogance, and chaos. For the Owls, they would likely see themselves as the upright depictions, even when presented upside down before the person doing their reading… And here is no better example, with the Reverend Overfield taking place as the ultimate authority over the Court.

"like [Sonja] had a say in commanding the room" - Alluding to The Empress, in conjunction with Rev’s position, this card alludes to femininity, motherhood, nurturing, creativity, and/or abundance. When reversed, it stands for neglect, creative blocks, overbearing, and/or uncaring. Sonja is a good example of an overbearing mother, trying to make decisions for her child because she thinks she knows best - thus fits the reversed reading well.

[Courtroom layout] - How curious is it that I haven't referenced The Devil when we have so many opportunities? That's because I strove to show this card rather than reference it overtly. The Devil card depicts El Diablo in the upper middle, lording over the card, with two souls chained to him at the bottom. The classic depiction shows a female demon-like human on one side and a male demon-like human on the other. As such, Rev. Sebastian sits on the high bench as the judge, overlooking the courtroom, and Sonja and Evan sit beneath him, one embedded on each side of the lower bench, sitting before him rather than beside him. Naturally, The Devil card represents temptation, manipulation, and materialism (though not necessarily of physical things). There is nothing more suited to The Devil card than the Reverend Sebastian Overfield and the Talons.

Circe | Cindy Peterson - Circe was the original Black Mask's downfall, or at least serious decent into who would be Black Mask. In her origin, she was a model who seduced Roman and ended up being blamed for his poor business choices, as he completely revolved Janus Inc.'s new direction around her image, somewhat at her insistence. Roman seemed to love her, but grew vengeful when she dumped him. She was named Circe, after the witch who lured men to their doom. In this story, she plays a much less active role but ultimately still serves as Roman's downfall, though in a very different way. : she does seem to care about Roman, going so far as to hide him on her yacht, not rat him out for his overt gang activities, and even leave Gotham with him for good to run from Batman despite not being in a relationship with him for long. But Bruce is able to spin this to his advantage, openly lying that she was working for him undercover and twisting Roman's affection for her into paranoid doubt, which he eventually lashed out with and ended up being caught because of. Circe never got a ~proper~ name in the original canon, so I dubbed her Cindy. The name "Cindy" can be boiled down to “person from Kynthos” and since Circe is Greek… Well, it fits well enough!

"[…]waltzing into the danger-zone without his wingman" - It’s Top Gun's “You can be my wingman anytime”, but with ALL the homoerotic implications!

"the Degnah Club" - The Degnah Club can be inferred to be one of Roman Sionis’ clubs, or just one his False-Face Society visited on occasion, but the event that happened there is implied to have taken place before the start of the story. “Degnah” when written backwards is “hanged”, referencing the Hanged Man card. When upright, this card means sacrifice and selfless acts. When reversed, as very much implied here, it’s an unnecessary sacrifice. This is both a play on what Roman’s implying – which is likely a very violent event – being an “unnecessary sacrifice” as part of Matt Chaney’s greater scheme for the Court of Owls, and as an allusion to Matt’s fate, where his morals/good choices/old law-abiding life were thrown away for an inevitably failed pursuit.

"[Tiffany | Robin's] personal count of 13" - The 13th card in the tarot is Death, bringer of change and ender of cycles. It’s also a traditionally unlucky number. This number is the “body-count” of Tiffany’s run through the Court so far. Does it reference the end of the Court's latest cycle, or something else…?

Accompanying the Tarot, as mentioned earlier I also tied in other fortune-telling methods, with the counting of crows and reference to the zodiacal horoscope. I also threw in allusions to luck, with The Lucky Hotel and The Lot (in both name and the fact that it's a casino). This is all tied entirely around the concept of fate and being able to change it with the choices you have made or currently make as "the player". Luck itself has nothing to do with your choices and the fates you guide Bruce and John to, and it's not something "the player" can control - it's an illusion, with things seemingly lucky for our heroes having already been written in on purpose to lead to the next event. It's essentially a long, drawn-out joke.

Talons/Reverend's Owl Masks - I wanted the Talons to be set apart from the rest of the Court and have special owl faces. The Court's owl masks are as follows:

○ Talon Adam - Great Horned Owl; chosen for the owl's large size and hunting ability, as well as the protruding "horn" feathers mimicking Batman's cowl. This is the most common owl used in media. The "horns" are meant to clue the reader into the culprit early on. Adam's a Batman-fan, so he mimicked Bats' style.

○ Talon Sonja - Snowy Owl; chosen for the owl's fairly elegant feather pattern and Sonja's ~colder~ personality. Sonja had a masquerade one to show her "humane" side to prospective Owls, but always wears a full-faced mask for the rest of the Court.

○ Talon Evan - Barn Owl; chosen for it's ghost-like face and screeching call, and it's hunting skills. They sometimes are seen as bad omens. While Adam was a mysterious stalker, Evan is overtly dangerous upon appearance, in no due part to his temper.

○ Reverend Sebastian Overfield - Eastern Screech Owl; this owl is smaller than the other, but has similar "horn" feathers to the Great Horned, and a gray face. The "horns" are meant to be another a mirror to Batman, but can be considered another allusion to The Devil. It isn't the largest or flashiest owl of the bunch, but Sebastian has the most power of all the Court members.

[The "Justice" bell-toll] - traditionally, a church bell tolls to signify someone passing into death. In the Court/Church of Mercy's case, they use a bell rung at midnight to signify a complete "trial" and a carry-out of their own brand of "justice"…which also culminates in death. The "trial" shown in this chapter is a rarity, as the offenders are actually present to get a talking-to before their sentencing - generally, the Church will hold a mock-trial to decide the fates of the perpetrators…after some previous counseling with Talons and select older members. (Think of the Trial like a ceremonial conference for the majority of the time.)

Chapter 12: Ten Cheers to the World!

[title] - The act of cheering, aka toasting, is to raise a cup and drink towards someone or something in celebration or tribute. Here, it's referring to the tarot's Ten (X) of Cups, which is pretty much the best card you could pull in a reading - when upright, as it is here, it means celebration, fulfillment, and happiness! The World card is the final card in the Major Arcana, encapsulating completion, accomplishment, and harmony, all from inner and outer sources. It might seem redundant at first, but the Cups suite in the Minor Arcana is all in regards to emotions, relationships, and love; in comparison, the Major Arcana represents a journey from innocence and ignorance to wisdom and completion. So you have an emotional celebration with fulfilling relationships, and the story's path marked as complete in both a literal and figurative sense.

"An accident at Ace Chemicals" [Iman & John's convo] - Referencing the majority of Joker origins, wherein pre-Joker fell into the vat of chemicals at Ace Chemicals and survived, leading to a psychotic breakdown due to his changed appearance and/or the circumstances around to what led him to Ace Chemicals in the first place.

"the string of deaths in the Velestra mafia" [Iman & John's convo] - a ref to the former mafia/main antagonists in Batman: Mask of the Phantom that kept getting killed off one by one by the Phantom. Whether The Phantom exists in this world…we'll have to wait and see, I guess!

"an unrecoverable ‘data loss’ at the Agency" [Iman & John's convo] - not a reference to canon, but my own theory on a potential background for John being a former Agent…(see further below)

"Et tu, Peeps?" - a riff on "Et tu, Brute?", Julius Ceasar's last words as he was betrayed and stabbed to death.

"Maybe I was someone in the wrong place at the wrong time" / "someone at the right place at the wrong time" [John monologue] - Another reference to the most popular background choice, the Ace Chemical origin story, and it’s variations. Though probably lacking Batsy’s involvement, considering the timeframe…

"Maybe I was some experiment gone wrong" [John monologue] - A reference to a different author's Season 3 replacement fanfic, where John ended up being a genetically modified human/test tube baby. Unfortunately the work got deleted from Ao3??? And my bookmark is gone, so I can't name the fic… But I still remember you, Unknown Author!!! It was a fun story and I've never forgotten that twist!!!! \( >o< )/

"Maybe I was even an Agent, like you" [John monologue] - My own little theory as to why the Agency was so keen on getting him for the Suicide Squad – and why he was considered a dangerous part of the gang despite not doing too much of interest in Season 1 (even if you consider the theory that he was helping Lady Arkham get her chemicals/drugs) – was that he was part of the Agency somehow. Either an agent who screwed up on the job, a rogue agent that escaped death via Agency trap…or maybe a guy who knew too much! But it's a fun, fresh idea to bring to Joker's multi-choice past, right? (( ;w;)) <(please say yes)

hippocampus - The region(s) of the brain that primarily deals with memory.

[the photo] - I wanted to leave it up to the reader/"player" to decide what kind of pre-Arkham past the TellTale!Joker has… So whether you think the picture Iman has is a "real" photo of him or not is entirely up to you.

"[…]'you're the moon to my sun'" [John, 'paraphrasing' Bruce] - In Tarot terms, this is a reference to the Sun card, representing joy, success, and masculinity, as well as another reference to the Moon card. One can also interpret the Sun card as "success in overcoming your obstacles or fears". As the Moon card can represent inner fears and femininity, it's a fitting opposite for interpreting this romantic line. While Bruce doesn't exactly embody the "positivity" and "joy" that this card represents, he brings that feeling into John's life, and Bruce is more traditionally masculine in contrast to John. This is also an overt use of the phrase "[they're] the moon to their sun" - a romantic notion that one person, though the opposite to the other, is completely complementary, like a One True Love. TeamFourStar's playthrough of TellTale Batman: The Enemy Within had not one, but TWO mentions of the "moon to [their] sun" line, the second of which was referring to John and Bruce. This one's for you, fellas!!! ( ^3^)

○ Funnily enough, The Moon is a very broadly interpreted card. Sometimes it's not a good card to have because deception, manipulation, illusion, and mystery/confusion are all potentially at work in your life. Sometimes it's an excellent card, because it tells you examine your feelings to resolve a problem, or tells you that you aren't seeing the whole picture. The reversed of the card is often attributed to avoidance of one's problems and further confusion, but also clarity, truth, and the full view of what's going on. If John is the embodiment of The Moon in the upright position, then I say Bruce is that of the Reversed Moon…

"[…] two lovers against the world" - Another classic romantic phrase that can be turned into a Tarot reference. The original phrase is meaning two romantic partners are pitted against "the world"/external forces that threaten to tear them apart, but they are committed to each other regardless. You can't really pit cards against each other in a reading, but you can read Past-Present-Future. In which case, in story terms, The Fool is always the Past, The Lovers is the Present here, and The World is the Future. As mentioned earlier, The World represents harmony and completion - if reversed, it would mean incompletion and chaos. The Lovers card is representing a strong union being forged between two people, very often romantic in terms of the Tarot. The meaning is usually attributed to decisions in a relationship being made (whether to start a new one, or to deepen the one you have), but it can also represent people outright, as well as an indication that a new partnership/relationship is on the way. When reversed, Lovers represents disharmony, imbalance, or a loss of relationship. In our story, of course, our two lovers are representing the upright reading of the card in the Present, showing as a strong couple. As it's "against", it implies that The World is something that will be a challenge, so it's likely Reversed. Which is a pretty good representation of Gotham in general, isn't it? lol~

○ The Lovers can also be seen symbolically in chapters 8 and 9, when Bruce and John are laying opposite each other and linking pinkies/holding hands at the hotel. :)

○ John uses the romantic line regardless of whether he's a vigilante or not! If you didn't get the Best Ending, aka our Sleepover Ending, Bruce would wind up back in the parlor with John as usual, and once the rest of the fam are gone (if they were there at all), he uses it to describe themselves. In the villain route, Bruce and John converse in the Batmobile on the way back to Arkham, and John uses the line there, too. ;3c

○ Naturally, you don't really get this complete scene if "your" Bruce is with Selina in the vigilante route.

Ending Type - …it's not a tarot reference or anything specific. I just wanted to let you know that you can ONLY get the Sleepover Ending if you have Tiffany and John in Bruce's party on good terms with each other AND with Bruce.

○ You can drive Tiffy away from Bruce by saying she shouldn't be with them at the Court Battle, but also by generally not believing in her/being mean and giving a neutral reaction to her staying during Battle; she won't go back to the cave with Bruce, so you don't get a chance to speak to her directly afterwards as either character. (John can still have his conversation with her via text, and they can still end on the same terms.)

○ If you don't have vigilante!John, there's no one else to help lift the things, so Tiffy's idea is never brought up.

○ John is always simping desperate for Bruce's attention, so even if you don't treat him as well in a platonic relationship, he'll still be there for this Ending type. ;_;

○ If you have a Romanced!Selina in your party, Selina will join you in both Court Battle and the Ending as seen in this story. It'll either cause her to take Iman's place (if she is not present) or to have extra spot suddenly appear above the rest of the group. Like Tiffy, she overheats and needs more space too cool off.

§ You can also talk to her as John, and sort of makeup/say your part of the team now. (But John will still be somewhat jealous of the attention she gets.)

§ John doesn't get the emotional hug with Bruce if Selina is around - especially since she doesn't temporarily leave with Tiffany and Iman - but the conversation is almost the same.

§ Naturally you can talk to her as Bruce, too. I don't think on her options too much, but they'll likely talk about change and what it means to have this "job" and internalizing too much of their emotions/themselves.

§ If you and Selina are only friends, Selina can join you in the Court Battle, but will text you instead of sticking around.

1:06 A.M & [Clock time on Belltower in Chapter 11] - Bruce's sense of time is off, which is why he's surprised it's after 1AM and not closer to 2AM. (Can't blame him, he was unconscious for a while and a whole bunch of stuff happened.) I figured if Bruce broke out of his kidnapping ropes at 10PM sharp, and drove all the way to the GCPD, that's about 20-30 minutes in his supercharged car, if not a little less, plus with 5 minutes to escape proper. If we think GCPD is sort of a halfway point to Old Gotham/The Coventry district, it's another 15 minutes to there. So he'd arrive at the Church of Mercy before 11PM, and wait John for around another 10-15 minutes, including with all the investigating inside. The "trial" scene probably took another 10 minutes until Batman crashed it, and fight scenes seem long because of all the action going on, but by the time Bruce and co' leave, it's not 12AM yet. The bell-tower in the Church of Mercy is actually off by about 20 minutes… And what do you know, card XX (20) of the tarot's Major Arcana is Judgement, alluding to karma at work! It can also be attributed to a life change. ;D

"11:43:20PM" - this wasn't deliberately meant to allude to anything. It took the batfam about 2 minutes from the last toll to leave the church. Bells' tolling speed is varying between clocks and towers, but you can estimate about 30-45 seconds for a full twelve. If it rang at 11:40 exactly, then…ugh, this is sounding like math homework.

Epilogue:

[Still a WIP, so will be updated after it's uploaded! Shouldn't have much, though! Saay, isn't there a Major Arcana card missing? (9v9) I wonder what that iiiiis~]

So that was [just about] all of them! I had a lot of fun weaving them throughout the story this time, especially with the story's themes! AtBoM didn't have as nearly as many, so they weren't really worth mentioning before.

I hope this was helpful to those of you who were interested in diving beneath the surface of BtTTS: TToJ~!

[nevertherose]

One Hundred Seconds to Midnight: Chapters 1-8

"All Roman wanted to do was take Logan on a Doctor Who LARP within the Imagination.

But with Thomas's Sides at their figurative breaking point after the disastrous wedding, the Imagination may just have a few ideas of her own..."

Hello, Tumblr fanders, it has been a while since I've poked around in here...mostly because, I've been writing another story!

Do you like Sanders Sides? Do you like Doctor Who? Do you like the idea of the Sides playing Doctor Who characters? If so, this story was written especially for you.

I found that the process of cross-posting Mahogany and Teakwood across three platforms, one chapter at a time, involved a lot of me spending too many hours squinting at html code. Not especially fun. This time around, I've only been posting on AO3 and Wattpad.

But I wanted it to exist here as well.

So! Today I'm going to post the first half (in two posts, because apparently Tumblr has a post size limit, who knew?), all the chapters that are up so far. Then, when the whole story is up on the other platforms, I'll post the other half.

Of course, you could head to either AO3 or Wattpad, if you want to read as the chapters go up.

But if you're like me, and like to read stories in nice, big, juicy chunks...here you go:

One Hundred Seconds to Midnight

Chapter 1- The Eleventh Hour

“Who are you?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m still cooking.”

Midnight.

The witching hour.

Or was that 3AM? Roman wondered. No, that’s the devil’s hour…damn it, Virgil! You had to get them all mixed up!

It was nearly midnight on the Imagination’s border.

Moonlight, pearlescent and brighter than it could ever shine in the real world, streamed feather-light through the tall windows on Roman’s side of the Dream Palace. It made patterns of light and shadow over the black marble floors, made nighttime caricatures of the white ivory statues that lined the corridor.

Roman’s heeled boots echoed in the silence; Logan’s dress shoes, in comparison, were whisper-quiet.

Logan himself had been uncharacteristically quiet since they entered this place, Roman noted, glancing back. Normally by now the logical Side would have asked a million questions, made a million plans, or be several bullet points into a lecture about palace construction or the history of measurement units or some other nerdy, obscure subject.

And Roman would either pretend to be annoyed, or would interject witty counterpoints to make Logan stop and bluster and…

But not tonight.

Maybe he’s nervous about being here, Roman told himself, smoothing a hand over his red sash. He’s only pointed out a million times that Logic and the Imagination are anathema to one another. Maybe I should have planned something else…

Or maybe he’s just annoyed at you for dragging him out of bed in the literal middle of the night, a more insidious inner voice whispered. When you know he likes to keep a consistent sleep schedule.

Roman pressed his lips together, lifted his chin…he might be a mere facet of a single personality, but he was also a Prince, and Princes do not listen to inner demons. However, he also looked back for the dozenth time to make sure Logan was actually still following.

That was the only reason Roman kept looking back.

It had nothing to do with the way the translucent moonlight caught the other Side’s dark, immaculately kept hair, or glinted off his glasses.

In the real world, of course, and whenever they manifested near their Source, the Sides all had precisely the same face and body as Thomas. But deep inside the mind, where physical appearance was an illusion anyway, the Sides exercised much more control.

Thomas remained their base template, but each Side also tended to portray himself with features that Thomas associated with their core function. Like Patton’s fluffy curls and childlike freckles, or Virgil’s anxious, ever-changing eyeshadow, or Remus’s abominable comic-book villain mustache.

Like Deceit’s…no, Janus’s very real scales.

Damn that snake. Why did I have think of him now?

Hopefully the lying bananaconda had better things to do than pop up and spoil things tonight. Because tonight, Roman was finally fulfilling a longtime promise to Logan, and taking him on a grand adventure.

The thought made his heart flutter in anticipation, and he looked back again.

Logan within the mindscape was leaner than Thomas, an inch or two taller, and his neatly trimmed hair and intelligent eyes were almost black in the low light. His face was narrow and intense, the nose more aquiline, and he had a habit of standing straighter than any of the rest of them.

(A habit which constantly showed off his trim waist and chest muscles…not that Roman paid any attention to that…)

Roman, by contrast, was a bit shorter, but his shoulders were broad and he was more muscular, due to all the questing and sword fighting he did here in the Imagination. He wore his hair in longish disarray that paired devastatingly with his clean, square jawline; hair that could be turned loose and wild on quests, or pulled neatly back as befitted royalty. His hands were strong; with long, artistic fingers, as skilled at wielding pens and paintbrushes as they were at wielding swords.

He liked to think he was handsome.

He was also painfully aware of how little it mattered when a certain someone…ehem…never seemed to notice.

“Roman, I confess to still being a bit lost as to the purpose of this journey,” Logan said at last, breaking the high-ceilinged silence. “You said you were taking us on a…’lark’? If so, why are we wandering around the Dream Palace?”

“LARP,” Roman corrected, flashing him a smile. “L-A-R-P. It stands for live action role play, Specs.”

Logan’s nose wrinkled at the words “role play”, and Roman’s stomach lurched. He hates it, he hates the very idea of it, you haven’t even started yet and you’ve already failed…

“Oh, don’t make the scrunchy face!” he added, a bit louder than necessary, and waved a hand. “At least wait until you’ve seen it.”

Roman had only been planning this for weeks.

“You know, when you promised to take me on one of your ‘adventures’,” Logan said, making finger quotes. “I was not expecting to be roused from bed in the middle of the night.”

“That’s because this isn’t your average adventure.” Roman gestured around them. “I constructed a special dreamscape to get all the details right, and we can only use the Dream Palace when Thomas is asleep.” He turned and dared a wink. “Only the best for you, my detail-oriented friend.”

Logan adjusted his glasses.

“Let it be known that I am indulging your antics right now because you have, on occasion, had some good ideas. You will, in turn, have to indulge my skepticism.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I’m gonna pretend it was a compliment,” Roman said with a wink, which Logan rolled his eyes at.

“Ah ha, here we are!”

Roman stopped at a set of iconic blue doors, nearly vibrating in excitement as he waited for Logan to recognize them.

The nerd did not disappoint.

“Roman…” Logan murmured, stepping forward to touch the white PULL TO OPEN sign. “They look just like the doors to the TARDIS. The attention to detail is exquisite. But why?”

“Because I’m taking you on a Doctor Who LARP!” Roman exclaimed, flapping his hands. “All we have to do is step through, and the Imagination will make us Doctor and companion, and whisk us away through all of time and space!”

Logan’s face was a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “Again…why?”

“Because it will be fun?” Roman bit his lip, looking at his toes. “I…I know you aren’t into swords and sorcery and dragon-witches and whatnot. I wanted this to be something you might actually enjoy.”

Logan’s brow furrowed, as it often did when he tried to process something that didn’t fit neatly into his graphed, notated, logical worldview.

Usually, it was an emotion.

“But won’t us enacting such an intense scenario at this time of night negatively affect Thomas’s sleep?” Logan asked.

“That’s the genius of adventuring in the Dream Palace,” Roman explained. “You can do hyperreal, immersive stuff, and if Thomas does happen to remember anything, he’ll just think he had a weird dream. The worst that could happen is he might post about it on Twitter.”

“Hmm. I can see you’ve thought this through. I am…flattered that you went to all the trouble,” Logan said in a quiet voice.

Roman had to bite back an ecstatic giggle.

Not…not because of the way his nerves skittered below his skin when his gaze caught Logan’s black eyes and soft expression. No, Roman was merely…excited! That someone like Logan appreciated his hard work!

It wasn’t like he was trying to impress anyone, like some middle school boy with, you know, a crush or whatever. For the last, well…two years.

…and then some.

Ugh. There was little point in denying his feelings; he’d only accidentally summon Janus and his oily smirk, and if that happened, Roman would most certainly die of embarrassment and that was not a lie, thank you very much.

The truth was, ever since Thomas had placed that jar of Crofters into Logan’s hands and inspired him to sing…not just rap, or begrudgingly harmonize, but actually sing…Roman had fallen, and fallen hard.

How could he not?

Logan’s words and ideas had always challenged him, pushed him to be smarter, sharper, better, just to keep up. Logan was the grounding anchor to his sails, the clarity to his excess. It used to infuriate Roman, the way he and Logan always came at problems from opposite sides and fought, sometimes bitterly, over the best way to meet in the middle.

But now?

Now Roman relished the way they traded words in a good fight, like blades in the hands of expert swordsmen. Logan, despite his dislike for anything fanciful, was a natural wordsmith…and Roman was a great lover of poetry. Even better, it seemed like Logan was also starting to enjoy their verbal sparring matches…

And then these last few months had happened.

The Decision, and Deceit, and the way that snake had let Remus out of the shadows to wreck havoc, and then the disastrous wedding itself…and Roman knew that Logan, through all of it, had been feeling pushed aside.

Goodness knew the logical Side hadn’t deserved to be shoved to the back of a courtroom, or relegated to a pixel-y shadow of himself before being removed from the discussion entirely. Worse, in both of those scenarios, Roman had either done nothing…or actively made things worse.

Roman knew he was guilty of letting his mouth run wild in his zeal to solve Thomas’s dilemmas…or in desperately hiding his true feelings. He knew his nicknames often came with barbs, his insults sometimes hit too close to home, that he often ignored or dismissed Logan’s cool, much-needed perspective.

He knew he needed to be better.

I’ll make it up to him tonight, Roman told himself as he laid a hand on the rough wooden blue doors and glanced back at Logan. The logical Side nodded, giving Roman a tiny burst of confidence.

He’ll get to play his favorite character and be his best nerdy self. This is going to be great!

Roman took a breath, and shoved open the TARDIS doors.

Chapter 2- Human Nature

“It’s all becoming clear now. The Doctor is doing the things you’d like to be doing.”

The blaring of a dozen sirens burst in Logan’s ears.

He was yanked across the threshold, Roman’s hand practically a vice around his wrist. Logan inhaled the sharp scent of metal and warm electronics, and a million figurative lights went off in his brain.

Being the physical incarnation of Logic, this wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sensation.

The TARDIS shuddered…wait, TARDIS? We’re actually on the TARDIS?…under impact. Lights flashed; reds and greens over an ambiance of steely blue-gray, and Logan knew exactly what to do.

He shook free of Roman’s grip and strode to the center console…console, how do I know this is a console?…flipping several switches and turning the green dial to precisely 3.56 degrees to offset the radiation sheer from the M-class star they’d just spun past.

Because naturally they happened to be careening through an asteroid field.

The time rotor rose and dipped, Gallifreyan symbols whirling overhead; Logan adjusted shields and dodged rocks, striding confidently from station to station. He guided his TARDIS around the last large asteroid, one that easily could have smashed his beloved ship to bits, and then they were clear.

The TARDIS chimed reassuringly under his hands, relieved to be in empty space again.

Roman screamed.

The sound echoed off the metallic walls, causing Logan to whip around and nearly lose his balance.

“What happened?” he said sharply, leaving the console. The creative Side stood near the railing, staring down at himself in obvious dismay. “What’s wrong?”

“Look at me, Logan!” Roman said shrilly and gesturing at his body. “Just look!”

Logan examined his fellow Side. There were no obvious injuries he could see, no blood, no bruising, nothing that would merit a scream. There was just Roman, unfairly handsome as always.

(He still wasn’t sure how Roman managed that feat when they all literally, at least some of the time, had the same face.)

“I…don’t see a problem?” Logan asked slowly.

“I meant, look at what I’m wearing, Calculator Watch,” Roman snarled, and turned to yell nonsensically at the ceiling. “Am I a joke to you? When I said I wanted to be a companion, this is not what I meant!”

Logan focused on Roman’s clothing, which had shifted rather drastically since passing through those doors. His normal princely attire was replaced by a denim cutoff skirt, overalls, pink leggings, and a tight pink blouse that clung to his muscular chest and arms...

“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” Roman murmured, scuffing a combat boot against the metal grated floor. The motion drew Logan’s gaze again to the way the cutoffs hugged his hips and wow, that skirt was really short, wasn’t it?

And those tights, the way they accentuated Roman’s legs...

Logan frowned, his face feeling unusually warm. Why did he keep noticing these things? Of course Roman was more fit than the rest of them.

Perhaps it was simply that Logan didn’t usually see the evidence of it so…plainly.

Stop, Logan told himself sharply. You might be gay and allosexual, but that is no excuse to be disrespectful.

He cleared his throat.

“If I may, Roman?” he said, approaching, and made a closer examination of Roman’s outfit.

“I gather from your earlier ranting that you instructed the Imagination to cast you as one of the Doctor’s companions for the duration of this scenario?”

“Well, yeah,” Roman admitted, “but I was thinking someone like Jamie McCrimmon, or Rory Williams, or maybe even Jack Harkness!”

“You know there is some debate over whether Jack Harkness would be considered a proper ‘companion’, as he was never full time on the TARDIS,” Logan argued absently, still eying Roman’s ensemble.

It was attractive but also familiar; he just couldn’t quite place it…

“Neither was Clara Oswald at first, but nobody had a problem handing her that label from the start!” Roman folded his arms and Logan had to look away because wow, short sleeves and arms…

“Just because she was a girl and the writers obviously intended for her to be a love interest—”

“A girl, of course!” Logan snapped his fingers. “Roman, you are a companion. Specifically, you are Rose Tyler.”

“What?” Roman frowned, smoothing the overalls across his middle. “I…Hmm. You might actually be right.”

“Of course I am right.”

The creative Side scoffed at that, but continued to frown.

“I think it’s a good choice,” Logan added. “Rose is arguably one of the most beloved companions in new Who; bold, kind, and intelligent in her own way. She was pivotal to the Ninth, Tenth, and arguably the War Doctor’s character arcs.”

He laid a hand on Roman’s shoulder. (To convey reassurance, of course. Not because he suddenly wanted to touch…)

“Hers are not the worst shoes you could be given to fill,” Logan said, “idiomatically speaking.”

“Only you would drop a word like ‘idiomatically’ in everyday conversation,” Roman grumbled, but some of the spark returned to his caramel eyes.

“But look at you!” Roman said in a brighter voice, gesturing. “All proper and Doctor-ish. At least the Imagination let you keep your tie, or, whatever that thing is around your neck.”

Logan glanced down at himself for the first time.

His sensible polo and jeans had become a clean-cut black suit, with a warm grey waistcoat, a crisp white undershirt, and a silver pocket watch. A navy cravat was knotted around his throat.

His knee-length suit jacket was also black, with a striking cerulean lining.

He retrieved a slender, metallic something from the jacket’s inner pocket: of course, the Doctor’s signature sonic screwdriver. Specifically, the Tenth Doctor’s screwdriver.

Logan chuckled, remembering all the times he’d ranted to Roman about how impractical and flashy Eleven’s screwdriver became, and don’t even get him started on Twelve’s, it was practically a lightsaber…

“Interesting,” he murmured, stretching his arms to turn in a slow circle, letting the jacket flare. “Fashionably, I appear to be a cross between the Eighth and Twelfth Doctors, which I appreciate, as they are the two most sensible dressers of the bunch. And by the way, Roman, this is a called a cravat, not a tie…”

He’d lifted hands to his neck but the words died on his tongue.

Roman had summoned a mirror and was, quite literally, checking himself out. He swayed his hips, tilted one toward and then away from the mirror, pouted, did a tongue smile, and…and Logan realized he had been watching for more than a socially acceptable length of time.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat again. But he was saved from having to speak by a loud crackling at the center console.

Both Sides rushed over, Logan seizing the TV screen and pulling it down. Gray static skittered over the polished surface. He flipped two switches and turned a dial, trying to zero in on the signal.

“I meant to ask earlier…how do you know what to do?” Roman asked, tilting his head. “You were piloting before I think you even realized we were on a TARDIS in the first place.”

Logan froze in the middle of winding one of the cranks.

“I…I really do not know.” In fact, the more he thought about it, the less sense any of the controls made. “Now that you’ve drawn my attention to it, you are correct: rationally, I should not know the function of any of these…gizmos.” He gestured at the crank he’d been winding.

“Yet somehow my hands just…know.”

Roman leaned casually onto the console.

“When I built this LARP, I gave the Imagination quite a bit of leeway in how it wanted to construct our characters,” he said. “I’m thinking it took things a step further than costume changes, like making me the companion it thinks I most resemble instead of the companion I wanted to be.”

Roman bit his lip as though troubled, then clearly shook himself out of it.

“And it must have imparted some of the Doctor’s knowledge upon me.” Logan added, not sure how he felt about the Imagination having such a direct influence over his mind. He supposed if it didn’t get too invasive, and was confined to this one night, he could deal with it.

It had proven useful so far, after all.

Roman shot Logan a fierce grin.

“Indeed! So engage that big Doctor brain and let’s see who’s trying to call us. Allons-y, adventure awaits!”

“You know ‘allons-y’ is my line, right?” Logan said dryly.

He had to use his screwdriver on the screen before the picture came clear. The stream of static acquired the cadence of a voice…and then a disturbingly familiar face stared back at his own, looking equally shocked.

Roman, for the second time since entering the TARDIS, let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Chapter 3- The Witch’s Familiar

“If you’re going to take my stick, do me the courtesy of actually killing me. Teamwork is all about respect.”

Janus had just settled into his favorite chair with a mug of chamomile tea and a political science book when he was yanked…rather rudely, he might add…onto the deck of a spaceship.

He sighed, and dismissed his drink.

When one lived in the same mindspace as the literal embodiment of chaos, one unfortunately learned to expect such interruptions.

“REMUS!” he roared, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did I not specifically ask to be LEFT ALONE tonight?”

Silence.

Deeply annoyed now, Janus took a moment to look around himself. This was not a normal spaceship; no windows, for one, and it was laid out in levels around a translucent column at the very center. His mismatched eyes followed the center rotor up and down, his mind almost placing it…

Something clumsily rose up from the deck with a clatter, causing Janus to summon his crook with a yell.

Only…the object that dropped into his hand wasn’t smooth wood, but a slender metal instrument just barely longer than his hand. A…sonic screwdriver? What the actual heck?

Well. It was what he had.

“Get back!” He pointed the instrument at the…figure…who still slowly climbed to its feet. It was an android or robot of some sort; humanoid, and the same kind of weirdly familiar as the ship.

“Janus?” the robot said, tilting its head.

Janus froze, all the scales standing up on his body. That was…that was Patton’s voice. Flat, mechanical, but unmistakable.

After all, Patton was the only Side who consistently called Janus by name.

“Patton?” Janus whispered.

“Oh, that was so weird-feeling! Thank goodness I’m not all by myself,” Robot-Patton said, putting a hand over his…well, where his heart should have been…in obvious relief. “But why are we both suddenly on the TARDIS?”

Janus drew in a sharp breath.

Of course, he should have recognized the stupid time rotor immediately. He’d never admit it to any of them, but he was as much of a Doctor Who nerd as Logan or Roman, sometimes going so far as to spy on them when they argued over episodes together.

To learn their arguing styles, of course.

Not because he had any desire to join those discussions.

And now, looking at Patton with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Janus deduced exactly what he was: a Mondasian Cyberman. They were older and cruder in design than the reboot versions…no wonder he hadn’t put a finger on it right away.

That wasn’t really the issue.

“REMUS!” Janus shouted again, more angrily this time. Bad enough his pleasant evening of solitude had been interrupted by…whatever this was. But putting the sweetest, most emotional Side into a canonically unemotional shell, a robot?

That was cruel. That was insulting.

It was too far, even for Remus.

“Janus, is everything okay?” Patton asked, coming closer. Janus shivered at the sound of that warm voice coming from a blank metallic face with empty eyes.

“Do you…feel all right?” Janus said in a hesitant voice.

“I’m a little chilly, but otherwise I’m in ship shape!” the other quipped, giggling. “Get it? Cause we’re on a ship?”

Is it…is it possible that he doesn’t know?

“Hilarious,” Janus deadpanned, but inside his thoughts spun.

He sensed they were in a dream construct within the Imagination, which meant this had to be Remus’s doing. Remus, who reveled in gore, despair, disturbing imagery, angst, and who was in charge of Thomas’s nightmares.

Remus could…and would, given the chance…recreate the experience of being a Cyberman down to the Last. Grim. Detail.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to ensnare Patton specifically to fill this role…Remus didn’t generally pull other Sides in for nightmares, come to think of it…but meanwhile, Janus didn’t want to find out what this might do to Patton’s head.

Worse, it was becoming clear that Patton was somehow oblivious to the state of his own body; he’d used his metallic hands to clutch at his metallic chest and found nothing wrong with either. He couldn’t hear the electronic rasp in his own voice, or the heavy clanging of his steps on the grated floor.

Should Janus say something?

Would Patton believe him if he did?

Ever since Thomas’s near mental breakdown after the disastrous wedding, Patton and Janus had orbited around each other in a state of tenuous truce. They talked now, sometimes, and those talks didn’t always end in arguments. Patton began to leave space for him by Thomas’s blinds when he was called up, and he…and by extension Thomas…occasionally actually sought his input.

But Janus, well.

Janus was still a liar.

The others still called him Deceit, either by accident (Logan) or out of spite (Virgil). Then there was Roman, who invented a colorful, wounding ego-jab for him every day, and Remus, whose fond nicknames tended to double as sex jokes.

Having no other real allies in the mindscape, Janus really, really didn’t want to screw up his tenuous alliance with Patton. Why sabotage his figurative “seat at the table” over one of Remus’s stupid nightmares?

Patton would assume Janus was slipping back into his old ways, lying just because he could, and Janus would never be able to prove otherwise. And later Patton would make that sour, pinched face he always made when he was disappointed, the one that made Janus want to crawl into a hole…

So.

Best to keep his observations close to the chest, for now.

“Do you have any idea what we’re doing here?” Janus asked, striding to the center console. True to dream logic, the controls made no sense and simultaneously made perfect sense.

Patton shrugged; a strange, clanky motion of his shoulders.

Janus sighed. “Although Remus has dragged me into dreams before, even he generally understands the concept of consent.” He casually flapped a hand. “And he always leaves you ‘light sides’ alone.”

“Honestly, this doesn’t feel like a nightmare to me,” Patton said, nearly making Janus choke. The Cyberman clanked over to stand by the console.

“It’s too clean,” Patton added. “Roman let me glimpse Remus’s side of the Imagination once, not long after he showed himself to Thomas, and it was…”

Patton trailed off.

“Fragmented? Chaotic? Disturbing?” Janus supplied.

“Sure, we’ll go with that,” Patton said quietly. “This,” he waved a hand around, “feels more like Roman’s work.”

“I suppose you would know.” Janus ran a thoughtful thumb over his face, tracing the ridge that ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear.

“And I would almost have to agree,” he added slowly. “If this was a nightmare, surely something ghastly would have happened by now. But my being pulled into one of Roman’s creations makes even less sense. He literally cannot stand me.”

“Maybe this is one of those dreams Thomas has sometimes after binge watching a show?” Patton suggested. “When there’s enough material in short term memory that the twins don’t get much input? Did Thomas binge a season of Doctor Who yesterday or something?”

And to think the others still view you as stupid, or slow-witted.

Janus bit back a smile.

“It’s a good theory, Patton, but no,” he said. “Thomas hasn’t really binged on much of anything lately.”

Patton ducked his head.

“You don’t…you don’t have to rub it in, you know,” he said lowly, the metallic rasp grating on Janus’s ears. “You and Logan have both made it pretty clear that I’ve been too strict with Thomas’s time.”

Janus fought to keep his expression neutral, but his stomach twisted.

Damn it.

Leave it to Patton to find guilt where none was meant. Even if Janus claimed he hadn’t meant it like that, Patton would probably not believe him.

Patton tilted his metal head as he examined Janus’s face.

“Did you know you have a mustache now? And a little goatee?”

“I have a what?” Janus felt at his face and groaned, his gloved fingers tugging at hair that most certainly did not belong on his face; with the scales, it probably looked hideous.

His entire outfit had altered in subtle ways, he realized. His usual plum tunic and trousers were now a brown suit and waistcoat ensemble, crossed with yellow pinstripes, with a black collared undershirt. A brown, knee-length suit jacket replaced his caplet, with subtle gold trimming. His yellow gloves were unchanged, thank goodness, and his hat…?

His hands flew up to his head and found something perched over his hair, sitting at an angle. Janus yanked down a screen at the console and stared. His beloved bowler had shrunk into a tiny, flat, rakish thing with a wide brim, festooned with a cluster of yellow rosebuds and black beads.

“What on earth, Remus?” he grumbled, turning his head from side to side. Well, if he had to be honest, pinstripes and a hatinator weren’t a terrible look.

“Well, if we’re on a TARDIS, I guess you’re supposed to be the Doctor,” Patton pointed out. “Which would make me your companion.”

Janus stroked his goatee and examined their surroundings in more detail. But am I a Doctor? he wondered. And if so, which one?

And whose TARDIS is this?

Because while it was clear they were on a TARDIS…what other class of spaceship had a time rotor?…he wasn’t almost certain this was not the TARDIS.

Every corner of the Doctor’s ship, no matter which face it belonged to, tended to overflow with bright, shiny, eclectic whimsy. By contrast, this one was plain, stark, with exposed metal beams and sharp angles.

Too dark, too full of shadows.

An awful suspicion rose up in his mind.

He crossed to one of the bookshelves, ignoring Patton’s soft inquiry, and his jaw clenched. There was the Necronomicon, shelved between the Liber Inducens in Evangelium Aeternum and The Black Scrolls of Rassilon, Book of Vile and its Black Appendix, The Ambuehl Lores and the Insidium of Astrolabus.

Janus finally looked at the sonic device he’d been holding all this time; seeing now that it wasn’t a screwdriver at all, and thanked every god he knew that he hadn’t tried to use it on Patton earlier.

It was a sonic laser.

Once again, even in a stupid, nonsensical dream, Janus had been cast as the villain.

His fist had collided with the bookshelf before he even realized he was moving, books falling to the floor. He punched it again, and again, until a cool rigid hand closed around his wrist and yanked him back.

“Janus, Janus, stop!” Patton yelled in his ear.

Janus wrenched his arm away and stalked back to the console, running gloved fingers over his scales, pushing them up and smoothing them down. The familiar sensation grounded him.

“You were right, Patton,” he threw over his shoulder. “This is definitely one of Roman’s dreams, and he definitely fucking hates me.”

Patton’s heavy footsteps clattered behind him.

“Language. And how do you know that,” he asked. “…Doctor?”

Janus whirled, lips curled in a snarl.

“I am not the Doctor, Patton, and we are not on the TARDIS.” He spread his arms to encompass them both, gesturing to the dimly lit spaceship. “Look around. Look at me!”

He turned, slowly, and eyed his mustached visage in the dark view screen.

“Clearly, I am the Master.”

Chapter 4- Nightmare in Silver

“You think he knows what he’s doing?”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far.”

Patton rested his arms against the console and sighed.

Once again, someone I care about is upset, and I don’t know what to do. I guess I should be used to it by now.

It didn’t help that it was so cold in this TARDIS. He folded his arms around his middle, which felt strange and heavy, to combat the chill that seemed to have settled deep in his bones.

Janus stalked past again, grumbling to himself.

“Of course the Prince would pull me into one of his little ‘adventures’ without my consent. He probably needed an antagonist. And naturally the slippery snake would have been the first person to come to mind!”

Patton opened his mouth…though he had no idea what he was going to say…but Janus drowned him out.

“Come on, Roman!” he shouted, throwing his yellow-clad hands up. “You’ve had your fun. Yes, I’m evil, I’m the villain, I’m the bad guy, blah blah. Let’s have our epic confrontation or whatever nonsense you have planned, as I would very much like to get back to my reading sometime tonight.”

Silence.

Patton didn’t know what Janus was expecting.

“Look, maybe we should just play along for now?” Patton said aloud, wincing when Janus turned his murderous expression on him. The deceptive Side had such deep, cutting golden eyes, the human one so much darker than the other…cynical eyes that were, ironically, almost impossible to lie to.

They’d see straight through it.

“It takes a liar to know a liar.”

The glare quickly softened, though, which in Patton’s opinion said a lot about how far Janus had come.

“And how do you propossse we ‘play along’?” Janus said, hissing his s’s in frustration.

“Well, we’ve kinda decided this is Roman’s dream, right? And since we’re in his part of the Imagination, we know he won’t let anything bad happen to us…”

Patton trailed off at Janus’s pained expression, reminded of just how badly Janus and Roman’s last encounter had gone.

“What are you, a middle school librarian?”

“Thank god you don’t have a mustache.”

And I just stood there and did nothing…no, I can’t dwell on that right now. Patton shook himself out of the memory.

It was surprisingly easy; even his emotions felt a little heavy and muted. He supposed he wasn’t used to being in a dreamscape; unlike Roman, who played in them all the time.

I know Roman, Patton reasoned. He might hold a grudge for a while, but he wouldn’t actually be out to hurt Janus.

Right?

“So, if we’re on a time ship, on some kind of adventure leading up to a confrontation like you said, the first thing we’d have to do is figure out where we need to go,” Patton finished, shrugging.

Janus pursed his lips…which looked downright weird with a mustache and goatee, almost making Patton giggle…and began pushing buttons on the console.

“You are definitely incorrect, Patton,” he said, pulling up another screen and flipping a few switches. “If I have been cast as the villain in this ridiculous charade, that means Roman is likely prancing around as the Doctor right now, on the proper TARDIS. Which, as the Doctor’s nemesis, I should be able to contact…ha!”

The screen burst into static.

“Doctor, oh Doctor, do you read me?” Janus crooned, and if Patton hadn’t known just how angry he was in that moment…well, he would have never known.

Janus had tucked it away entirely, in half a second's time.

That’s the scary thing about him, Patton realized uneasily. He’s smart, nearly as smart as Logan. Smart enough to run circles around me, that’s for sure. And he’s easily as good an actor as Roman.

Those attributes, combined with his naturally manipulative nature, made it difficult to trust him.

Patton was trying.

He’d been trying since the wedding, and well, since everything else that had happened. (Patton still cringed when Thomas encountered even a picture of a frog.) He’d done a lot of thinking and growing that day (in more ways than one!), and he’d come to a disturbing, but inevitable conclusion.

Janus wasn’t evil.

He never had been.

Just like Virgil had never been evil. Mean, sure; and sarcastic, and spiteful…but at his core, Virgil had wanted what was best for Thomas.

They all did.

And then there was the uncomfortable corollary to that: Patton, despite his best efforts, despite his core Purpose…Patton wasn’t entirely and automatically good.

Two weeks ago, Janus had proven beyond a doubt that Thomas needed him…ruthlessly, cuttingly, but no one could say he hadn’t made his point. It had been Patton who’d inadvertently pushed Thomas to the brink of a breakdown, and Janus who had to pull them all back.

Despite Patton’s unease, and the little voice in his head telling him that Deceit couldn’t be trusted, could never truly be trusted because it was in his nature to deceive…Patton remembered how they’d pushed Virgil so hard he decided to duck out, and how much of a tragedy that could have been if they hadn’t all intervened to bring him back.

With a pang of guilt, he pictured Thomas lying on the floor, crushed under the metaphorical weight of everything Patton needed him to do to keep from being a bad person…

He would not make those mistakes again.

If Virgil could learn to work with them instead of against them, so could Janus. If Patton could learn to recognize when his own Purpose did more harm than good, so could Janus.

Patton had to believe that.

He’d made too many mistakes lately to believe otherwise.

The screen in Janus’s hands cleared to reveal…

“What? Logan??” Janus exclaimed, as a scream echoed somewhere in the background.

“D—Janus?” Logan countered, then looked over his shoulder. “Roman, for the love of Archimedes, will you stop shrieking? I cannot hear.”

The screaming cut off and Roman’s fuming face squished into the frame with Logan.

“Deceit! I should have known you would show up to ruin this!” he managed to shout before Logan shoved him away.

“Ruin…I’m sorry, what?” Janus glanced at Patton, looking honestly confused. “Is he roleplaying right now? We assumed this scenario was Roman’s creation.”

Onscreen, Logan placed his whole hand against Roman’s mouth to prevent him from interrupting.

“It is. But to my understanding, it was only supposed to involve myself and Roman, and…wait. You said ’we’.” Logan peered around. “Who else is with you?”

Patton started to wave, but his view was blocked by Janus bending close to the screen to whisper something. Suspicion flared in Patton’s stomach; old, familiar, but after the talk he’d just given himself, he purposefully pushed it down.

I won’t assume he’s being shifty unless he actually gives me a reason to.

Lifting his chin, he crept forward until he was next to Janus’s shoulder.

“Hey, Logan,” he said brightly, waving.

“Ah…hello, Patton,” Logan squeaked after a moment, his eyes still wide.

“Wait, Patton’s there? With the snake?” Roman’s voice yelled from the background, and then there was Roman’s face again.

“Patton?” Roman said, narrowing his eyes. “But why are you—?”

Both faces disappeared for a moment as Logan yanked Roman out of frame. Patton thought he heard a rapid, hushed conversation. He glanced at Janus, who only shrugged, looking at puzzled as Patton felt.

Roman’s face reappeared, solemn and deeply annoyed.

“Patton,” he said, and hesitated. “D—Janus. You two…well, you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Very reassuring,” Janus quipped.

“This was only supposed to be a two-person adventure: Doctor plus companion. I have no idea why the Imagination brought you both in as well; I certainly didn’t tell it to.”

“Aw, that’s okay, kiddo,” Patton started gently. “It’s not your fault—”

“Oh, sweetie.” Janus folded his arms. “I’m sorry, but that’s bull. Putting me in the Master’s shoes? Are we seriously going to pretend the Side who unashamedly hates me had nothing to do with that?”

“I didn’t!” Roman argued, his voice going high. “You really think I wanted you here, in any capacity?”

“Deceit…er, Janus, you are being unnecessarily antagonistic, and as such, unhelpful,” Logan cut in with his low, reassuring voice. “But Roman, it might behoove us to consider the role of subconscious influence. You may not have intended to pull the others in, and yet here they are.”

Roman looked at Logan, aghast, and Patton almost flinched at the raw hurt in his caramel eyes. The creative Side backed out of frame.

“So you’re on his side, too,” his voice said quietly. “Is that how it is?”

“I am not on anyone’s side,” Logan argued, raising his hands. “We are all currently in this situation together, and as such—”

Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off by another garbled transmission, taking over the screen and blocking out Logan’s face with crackly, purple static. A gray, snarling face flashed out of the haze, making Patton shriek in surprise and even Janus took a step back.

Then it was gone, dissolving back to static…and the sound of someone laughing filled the connection.

“Hellooooo, nurse,” a familiar sing-song voice crooned. “Did you miss me?”

Chapter 5- The Long Game

“You can’t just read the guide book, you’ve got to throw yourself in. Eat the food, use the wrong verbs, get charged double and end up kissing complete strangers. Or is that just me?”

Logan sighed.

He knew that voice; they all did. Even Thomas, unfortunately.

“Remus,” Roman hissed.

The mustached Side filled the screen, grinning madly. “Boo!”

“Get out of my scenario,” Roman said, his eyes flashing. “If you know what’s good for you.”

“Your scenario?” Remus echoed, faux-outrage in his expression. “Yours? The Dream Palace is my domain, too, brother, whether you like it or not.” He leaned closer, letting his nostrils and a single radioactive green eye fill the screen. “Did you really think you could keep me out?”

Roman made a sound of disgust deep in his throat.

“Am I to assume, then, that you are responsible for bringing in the other Sides?” Logan asked, careful to keep his voice even. Remus thrived on getting a rise out of people.

“Of course he is!” Roman snapped, throwing up his hands. “He loves to ruin things, especially my things.”

“Now why would having the others here ruin anything, brother?” Remus asked in a sickly sweet voice, propping his head on his hand. “Unless you intended for this nighttime romp between you and Logan to be private?”

Roman sputtered and glanced at Logan, red-faced, as Remus giggled.

“It was meant to be so, yes,” Logan supplied, unsure why Remus would find that funny…or why Roman would find it embarrassing.

“As amusing as this all is—” Janus’s crooning voice cut through the speaker.

“Great. You’re still here, snake?” Roman snarked, his arms folded around himself.

“We’re all listening, kiddo,” Patton’s metallic voice said.

Roman’s lips always curl into a pout when he is angry, Logan thought, eyeing him without turning his head, and he gets a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. Why…why am I noticing such things all of a sudden?

Maybe it was the stress, or the unfamiliar environment.

Or maybe it was the Rose Tyler outfit.

That skirt ought to be illegal.

Logan deliberately focused on the screen, his cheeks warm.

“So this is kinda new,” Patton went on, “all of us actually talking—”

“If Remus is responsible,” Janus cut in again, “then perhaps he would be so kind as to explain the objective of this late night group therapy session?”

Despite the biting sarcasm, Logan did appreciate Janus’s insistence that they get to the point, even if it did mean talking over Patton…

Speaking of, why would Remus have paired Patton with Janus?

Surely he should have grouped Patton with Logan and Roman, and put Virgil with Janus? Or…maybe not, given how Virgil hisses if Janus so much as enters the same room.

Ugh. Interpersonal drama. Logan was thoroughly sick of trying to keep track of who carried a grudge against whom, especially when it seemed to change from day to day.

And on top of that, why would Remus make Patton a Cyberman? None of these decisions make any sense…

“Right?” Roman agreed softly next to him, and Logan realized he’d said that last bit out loud.

“If anything, I should have been the unfeeling killer robot,” Logan murmured.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Specs.” Roman shot him a strange look, both warm and troubled. “And frankly I don’t give a stinky rat’s ass about my stinky rat brother’s sick thought process. What I want to know is why Deceit doesn’t want us to mention it around Patton?”

Logan, who was still mentally stuck on rodents and donkeys…Roman’s metaphors were always something else…shook his head slightly.

“There’s no logical way Patton is unaware of his condition,” Logan pointed out. “So I can only guess he wishes to protect Patton’s feelings on the matter, by not allowing us to talk about it in front of him.” He shrugged when Roman’s frown deepened. “Those two have been getting along much better these last few weeks.”

“I think you’re giving the snake too much credit,” Roman muttered. “Even after he impersonated you, Logan? C’mon. It has to be something else.”

Logan bit back a sigh.

He doesn’t understand, he thought guiltily. Because he doesn’t know what really happened…

#

“This is unacceptable, Deceit,” Logan snapped, flinging the crook away from his body. “I was in the middle of a discussion—”

“He won’t listen to you,” Deceit had said, and there was no sarcasm or snark in his voice.

“Patton asked for my opinion!”

“And he dismissed you from the conversation the moment that opinion went against his preconceived notions!” Deceit snapped back.

Silence.

Logan could hear the others still talking, out in the real world…without him…as the misty dregs of subconscious curled around their feet.

“You tricked him.” Logan folded his arms. “He was scared and off balance and you gave him an out.”

“I didn’t make him take it!”

Deceit sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Logan. You know he is wrong on this. You know what this is doing to Thomas. His unquestioning, black-and-white, juvenile morality; it’s not working anymore. Thomas needs to grow up, and Patton is not letting him.”

Logan bit his lip.

“Logan.” Deceit moved closer, dismissing his crook into mist and setting both gloved hands on Logan’s shoulders. Logan stiffened.

“Logic. Please. I am…no good at this.” Deceit dropped his head, his hat obscuring his eyes. “I operate through deceit because that is the only way I can make them acknowledge me.”

“They don’t acknowledge you because you operate through deceit,” Logan pointed out.

“A perfect catch 22.” Deceit let out a bitter laugh. “But a snake cannot change its scales and I don’t…I have tried everything I know. I cannot fix this from the shadows. I am out of ideas.”

A strange thought entered Logan’s mind.

“You care. You care what happens to Thomas.”

Deceit looked up, his mismatched eyes glittering with stinging intensity. “I am the literal representation of selfishness. Why the hell else would I go to all this trouble if I didn’t care?”

“Well…” Logan trailed off, troubled.

He’d let the others get to him, he realized in that moment. He’d let Roman get to him, with his talk of evil and Dark Sides and how they were always trying to tempt Thomas off the right path.

But…they were all part of Thomas, even the so-called “dark sides”.

Of course they wanted what was best for him…well, what Remus wanted at any given moment was debatable…even if they didn’t always go about it in the healthiest of ways.

Deceit had laughed then, high pitched and bitter.

“Really? Really? Even you think so low of me?”

“You are manipulating me right now.” Logan frowned. “You are using my concern for Thomas to make me trust you.”

“Yes! I am!” Deceit got in his face, fangs flashing. “I am a manipulative bastard because that is the lens through which my Source perceives me. But that doesn’t matter because you, Logic; you see through me, always have. And you know perfectly well that logically, any objection you have to my personality or my methods does not change the fact that I. Am. Right.”

He punctuated each word with a poke to Logan’s chest.

“Deceit—” Logan started.

“Janus.”

“What?”

Deceit sighed. “My name. My…real name. It’s Janus.”

Logan blinked. He knew the mythology, of course: Janus, keeper of doorways and thresholds, looking simultaneously to the past and future. Two faces. Seeing things from every angle.

Self-preservation.

“It suits you,” Logan said quietly.

Tension bled out of Janus’s shoulders, a stiffness Logan hadn’t even realized was there until it was gone.

“Thank you.”

“Why am I here…Janus?” Logan asked, glancing away. “What do you need from me?”

Janus looked at him intently.

“Let me speak to them as you.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, and Janus sighed, waving a hand.

“I know, I know, more deceit, more lies, but—”

“No, it’s…” Logan pressed his lips together. “You already pointed it out. They don’t listen to me, either.”

The bitter twist that accompanied those words was becoming an all too familiar sensation in Logan’s chest.

Janus snorted.

“Oh, they do. Eventually. They heeded your advice on how to deal with Remus.”

Logan shrugged uncomfortably.

“Look,” Janus added, “honest people know how to tell the truth, but liars…” he smirked, not especially nicely. “We know how to wield the truth to accomplish an end. I can pull Thomas and the others out of this rut, but they have to be receptive to my tugging on the reins.”

Logan pursed his lips.

“You won’t fool them. If you recall, you tried to impersonate me once already and barely lasted two minutes.”

“I didn’t have your blessing.”

Janus fixed Logan with his intense mismatched eyes again, and held out a hand.

Logan stared at it, torn.

This was Deceit, the master liar: Thomas’s entire capacity for deception condensed into a single, snake-faced Side. How could Logan possibly trust him to not make things worse, after all the falsehoods, the impersonations, how he’d manipulated them all in one way or another to get his way?

But…as much as Logan, personally, didn’t understand why that callback had been so important to Thomas…he could not dismiss the fallout Thomas had suffered as a result of missing it. The decision to attend the wedding had turned out to be a bad one.

Patton had been wrong to insist upon it over Janus’s objections, and over Roman’s.

Those were just the facts.

Janus sighed.

“I’ll unmask myself when an opportunity arises, if that would help,” he offered, and to Logan’s shock, slowly tugged off a glove. “I won’t…I won’t let it go on as long as it did with Patton.”

He offered his now bare hand to Logan again.

Out in the real world, Logan could hear Patton’s increasingly desperate and ridiculous responses to Thomas’s and Roman’s questions, and winced. Janus did the same.

“Please,” was all he said.

Logan sighed…it really couldn’t get any worse, could it?…and shook Janus’s hand.

#

In his TARDIS, Logan let out the sigh he was holding back.

He might have personal, concrete evidence that Janus wasn’t evil, but he also knew Janus had wounded Roman, badly, that day. The creative Side was simply not currently capable of viewing any situation involving Janus with any sort of objectivity.

Passionate, sensitive people like Roman tended to have an unfortunate habit of hanging onto grudges.

As Logic, Logan needed to remember that.

“Oh, all right,” Remus said, his voice crackling over the connection. “Since you’re all here—”

“Actually, Remus, we’re not all here,” Patton’s voice pointed out. “You all know perfectly well who we’re missing; we’ve done this before.”

Logan’s eyes widened. “‘Where is Anxiety?’” he quoted.

“You mean Tickle Me Emo isn’t with one of you?” Remus asked, looking delighted. “Oh dear, oh dear. Is he lost?”

“I mean, TARDISes are huge,” Roman pointed out. “He could be somewhere on one of our ships.” His voice dropped again. “I’ll bet Deceit stashed him away, because we all know how he hates Virgil.”

“Excuse you,” Janus’s voice interrupted, annoyed. “It is Virgil who hates me, not the other way around.”

“Let’s both scan our ships,” Logan suggested, hoping to head off an argument. Honestly, if Roman and Janus didn’t stop picking fights with one another, he was going to lose his marbles.

The scans pulled up nothing.

“Oh well,” Remus said with a shrug. “Guess the emo gets to miss out.”

Janus grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “lucky”.

“All right, here’s what’s going to happen.” Remus leaned close to the screen. “I’ve crash landed on a lovely snowbound planet that’s crawling with psychotic tin cans who like to roll around yelling ‘exterminate’.”

“Daleks? A snowbound planet, so not Skarro, but where else…” Logan narrowed his eyes.

“He’s on the Dalek asylum,” Roman said lowly. “That was one of the episodes I had in mind when I plotted this adventure.”

“Very good, brother.” Remus clapped his hands. “And up there in orbit is a ship full of people who’d really like to blow up the whole planet. Oh, woe is me, whatever shall I—”

“Save it,” Roman snapped. “You’d probably enjoy getting blown up.”

“Hmm, true.” Remus’s green eyes sharpened. “Think of the mess! Little bits of intestines floating through space, long pink ropey—”

“Or?” Logan interjected, before Remus gave Patton nightmares.

“Or you have to come rescue me!” Remus’s teeth flashed as he grinned. “Because otherwise it’s nighty-night for me and all the other aliens in the asylum.”

There was a beat of silence.

“As terrible as that sounds,” Janus drawled, sounding anything but worried, “given that none of this is real, and at least one of us would very much rather not be here at all…why exactly should your plight concern us?”

Logan secretly agreed, but felt his stomach clench when he glanced at Roman’s troubled face. None of this was real…right? Would something concretely bad happen to Remus if the planet he inhabited was blown up?

Surely not.

This was only a dream. Perhaps, then, Roman was merely upset that his twin had usurped his adventure for the night?

“Also.” Remus buffed his fingernails. “You should know that the Imagination will only release us if we complete the objective. In other words,” and he sneered, purple-shadowed eyes glittering, “we’re all stuck in this scenario until we’re all reunited.”

Remus giggled as Logan exchanged a shocked look with Roman.

“I don’t believe you. This was my dream,” Roman said darkly. “And I’ve just about had enough of all this!”

He stepped back and snapped his fingers with a flourish. Frowning, he did it again, and again, his face growing paler with each try.

“Roman, what—” Logan started.

“I can’t end it,” Roman whispered, still snapping. “He’s right. He’s…he’s sealed off the dream’s boundaries somehow. Remus!”

This he roared at the screen.

“Keeping Thomas trapped in a dream state is going too far, Remus!” he yelled. “I don’t care what kind of demented game you want to play with us, but we don’t bring Thomas into it.”

“Oh, you think I created an unbreakable dreamscape?” Remus snapped. “You let the Imagination have too much reign, my dear brother, and now neither of us have the power to end the dream ourselves. I estimate we have about ten hours before Thomas wakes up.”

For a moment, all Logan could hear was the soft whoosh of the time rotor, and Roman’s shallow, angry breathing at his shoulder.

“So I suggest you all pilot your ships to these coordinates,” Remus added, and a series of numbers and strange symbols flashed up on one of the smaller console screens. “And get started.”

The main screen blipped, and Remus’s face was replaced by an expressionless Cyberman and a snake-faced Side who looked extremely pale under his scales.

“Well,” Logan stated. “This is a problem.”

Chapter 6- Asylum of the Daleks

“You’re going to fire me at a planet? That’s your plan? I get fired at a planet and expected to fix it?”

“In fairness, that is slightly your M.O.”

“Don’t be fair to the Daleks when they’re firing me at a planet.”

The familiar wheeze of the TARDIS materializing filled Roman’s ears as he waited by the doors. Logan joined him a moment later.

“Ready?” he asked, smoothing a hand over his cravat.

He looks good as the Doctor, Roman thought, eying the slimming black and navy, the graceful arc that hand made as it adjusted a pair of glasses…

He shook himself out of his distraction. “Let’s do this, nerd.”

Logan opened the doors and the two stepped out…not onto the asylum, but onto a spaceship. Shiny copper terraces lined the vast walls in curving rows, leading the eye up to a domed ceiling with a clear view of black, star-studded space. Like a huge amphitheater, or stadium. Even Roman had to admit, the Imagination had really outdone itself on the realism.

Of course, given that the ship was filled with hundreds upon hundreds of Daleks calling for violence…realism wasn’t exactly comforting at the moment.

“Surprise, surprise, I don’t see my stupid brother,” Roman commented over the dull roar of the crowd.

“No. But I recognize where we are.” Logan waved a hand. “You were right about Remus’s location; this ship is from the episode ‘Asylum of the Daleks’, in Season 7. If we are following the basic plotline, Remus is likely somewhere down on the planet below, and we will be sent to him in due course. However…I am curious as to why all the other aliens are here.”

Roman looked around again, seeing that Logan was right. Daleks formed the majority of the crowd, but he also spotted Zygons, Sontarans, Silurians, other Cybermen, Ice Warriors…and quite a few aliens from older seasons he couldn’t remember the names of.

(Logan probably could.)

A second TARDIS materialized near their familiar blue box: plain, gray; a squat column of a ship. Janus emerged first, a silver instrument gripped in one gloved hand, followed by an old-school Cyberman…Patton. Roman frowned. Seeing that metal…being…and having to remember it was actually his friend was going to be difficult now that there wasn’t a screen separating them.

“Nice work, Roman,” Janus said, sidling up next to him and faux-clapping his hands. “A ship full of aliens who want us dead; always an excellent starting point for an adventure.”

“This is how the episode starts, Mr. Oh-I’m-Such-an-Expert-in-Doctor-Who,” Roman retorted. “Accuracy is important.”

“But this isn’t accurate,” Logan pointed out. “There should only be Daleks here.”

Roman folded his arms, stung.

Damn Logan and his damned need to be right all the time.

“I…well, I didn’t model this adventure after just one particular episode,” Roman admitted. “I wanted it to be a challenge, and it wouldn’t be if Logan and I already knew the ending. So no, I can’t exactly explain why all the other aliens are here, okay?”

Logan sighed.

“I was not criticizing you, Roman,” he said in a gentler voice. “As this has apparently become as much Remus’s and the Imagination’s handiwork as it is yours, it would be unreasonable to expect you to know what comes next.”

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL APPROACH THE SUPREME DALEK,” a grating robotic voice boomed across the ship, making them all whip around. A large white Dalek with an antenna on its shell loomed on a raised stage near the center of the amphitheater.

“They were expecting me, too?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

The lights on the Dalek’s head flashed as it spoke again.

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL APPROACH WITH THEIR COMPANIONS.”

The four Sides exchanged a glance, and weaved through the assembled Daleks to the raised stage. The White Supreme Dalek was not the only occupant; it was flanked by an Ice Warrior, an Emojibot (which made Patton giggle), and…

“Look, a Janus,” Roman chortled, nudging the snake-faced Side in the ribs and pointing out the two-faced alien.

“You are all nerds and my logo is a two-headed snake,” Janus complained, rolling his eyes. “I literally do not know how all of you missed that obvious clue to my name.”

“DOCTOR,” the White Dalek said as they climbed the dais. “MASTER. WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF THE DALEK ASYLUM?”

“I’m just impressed my rat-faced brother wasn’t lying about his location,” Roman grumbled, and sputtered when Logan placed a hand over his mouth.

“According to legend,” Logan said, “you have a dumping ground, a planet where you lock up all the Daleks that go wrong.”

“The battle-scarred, the insane. The ones even you can’t control,” Janus clarified. His voice dropped to a hiss. “No wonder they ssstuck Remus there.”

Roman covered his mouth to keep from snorting.

The snake would not make him laugh.

“CORRECT.” The Dalek pushed a button and a hole opened in the middle of the floor. A snow-covered planet lay below them, pristine from this high up.

“Ooh, that’s,” Patton started, and let out a metallic gulp. “That’s quite a drop. Do we, ah, have to go down the same way? Cause I remember that part, and—”

“How many Daleks are down there?” Logan asked.

“A COUNT HAS NOT BEEN MADE,” the white Dalek said.

“Millions, certainly,” a new voice chimed in. The tall, robed, dark-skinned Janus stepped forward, their front face addressing them. “But they will not be your only concern. The population of the planet consists of more than just Daleks.”

Roman exchanged a suspicious glance with Logan. This wasn’t in the episode. This is new.

“What do you mean?” Janus, their Janus, asked.

The alien Janus turned to a nearby monitor, pulling up some information. The backward-facing face continued to address them.

“Some time ago, the Daleks began noticing a curious phenomenon,” they said. “Random people, from all different races and species, started turning up on various planets in this quadrant of space, including the asylum. No ships, no technology, and no knowledge of how they’d gotten there. At first the imprisoned Daleks on the asylum simply killed them off as they appeared—”

Patton visibly winced, even with his metal body, and Logan’s eyes grew flinty.

“—but the new arrivals eventually became too many to exterminate,” the alien Janus went on, unconcerned. “By now we suspect the planet has a population of over a billion, far too many for its automated systems to handle.”

They turned their forward face to the four again.

“THE ASYLUM IS COMPROMISED,” the Dalek Supreme proclaimed. “IT MUST BE CLEANSED.”

“Hang on, you’re still going to blow the whole planet up?” Roman protested. “A billion people?”

“To be fair, that is what they did in the original episode,” Logan pointed out quietly.

“But that was just Daleks!”

Janus rolled his eyes. “Ah, so genocide is fine when it’s only the evil aliens getting blown up?”

“You know, somehow I’m not surprised to hear you defending the bad guys!” Roman snapped.

“That is enough!” Patton snapped in his robotic voice, stepping between them and raising both his hands. Laser pistols popped out of both of them, making both Roman and Janus step back in alarm.

After a tense moment, Patton lowered his arms again; the guns clicked and vanished into their casings.

“Uh, sorry kiddos, I don’t know what came over me,” he said in a sheepish, more Patton-y voice. “Can we please not fight? It…it kinda makes me feel weird and jittery when you do.”

Roman stared at Patton’s blank Cyberman face and armored Cyberman body and swallowed, hard.

Their Patton would never deliberately aim a gun at anyone, let alone his family. But Cybermen were created to eliminate…or rather, delete…anyone who got in their way.

Did Patton even realize what he’d almost done?

What would happen, if and when he was forced to confront the reality of his body in this realm? What if he didn’t figure it out until he accidentally did something terrible? It wouldn’t be real, of course, but to Patton…that wouldn’t matter.

If his Cyberman programming forced or tricked him into hurting someone, the guilt of it would devastate him.

All I wanted to do was take Logan on an adventure, Roman thought bitterly. A fun little dream adventure where he could play one of his heroes. Was that too much to ask, Imagination?

He folded his arms and glared around the Dalek ship, anywhere but at his fellow Sides.

Whatever the hell this has turned into, I want no part of it anymore.

“In order for us to destroy the planet, we will need you to disable the planet’s forcefield—” The alien Janus started, but Logan held up a finger.

“Excuse you,” he said sharply. “We have not agreed to do anything, least of all help you murder a billion people whose only crime is to have accidentally turned up in your prison. Have you even attempted to solve that mystery?"

"And why do you care what happens down there?" Roman added, sneering. "If the insane Daleks are armed—”

“DALEKS ARE ALWAYS ARMED,” the white Dalek proclaimed.

“—then why can’t they defend themselves?” Logan finished, shooting Roman a questioning glance.

Roman huffed, and looked away.

“At first they did,” the Janus explained. “But as I said, the automated systems cannot keep up with the influx. Wars are being fought over food and other resources as we speak. A starliner crashed on the surface mere days ago, and—”

“Ah,” Logan said slowly. “You’re afraid, with all the shifting alliances and new activity, that the mad Daleks will escape in the confusion.”

“We do not know who or what is behind the influx,” the Janus said. “But eventually, they will start coming with ships, or they will build them on the surface, or reach out to those who could attempt a rescue.”

“‘If sssomeone can get in, everything can get out’,” their Janus quoted darkly.

The other Janus nodded. “Even the Daleks agree, their mad brethren cannot be allowed to escape. We, of this assembly—”

They waved to the assembled crowd of aliens, who observed in eerie silence.

“—have decided that one planet must be sacrificed for the greater good of the universe.”

Roman slowly and deliberately drew his sword (which the Imagination had kindly left as part of his outfit). It rasped as it emerged, the sound hair-raising in the sudden lull.

Instantly every Dalek gunstick and alien weapon on the ship was primed and pointed at the four Sides.

“And if we refuse?” Roman said evenly.

“THE DOCTOR AND THE MASTER WILL COOPERATE,” the Supreme Dalek warned, its lights flashing balefully.

“COOPERATE! COOPERATE!” the cry was echoed by the other Daleks, filling the ship with a cacophony of robot voices.

The alien Janus shrugged, spreading their hands.

“You don’t really have a choice. If you want to live, that is.”

“Is that so.”

Roman tensed and sprang at the white Dalek, not giving himself time to think. He dodged a blast from its gunstick and leaped, bringing his sword down hard. This being the Imagination, the katana cut through the Dalek’s metal armor like butter, and it clattered to the deck in two pieces.

There was a shocked silence…but no retaliation.

“Well?” Roman shouted, spreading his arms and turning in a slow circle. “This is me, not cooperating. What are you waiting for? Are you really going to shoot us?”

If they all died on this spaceship…the worst that would happen is they’d be kicked from the Imagination, and that was what they wanted, anyway.

“Roman,” Logan warned quietly, pointing.

Roman looked.

The white Dalek’s shell was…laughing?

“Oh, Roman,” Remus’s crackly voice emerged from the fallen Dalek’s casing. “Roman, Roman, Roman. My poor brave brother who thinks he can solve all his problems with steel and bravado. Did you really think it would be that easy?”

Each word bit like sandpaper against Roman’s ears.

He growled, and stalked to the Dalek’s top half, snatching it up and quickly locating a tiny speaker.

“C’mon, Remus. End this stupid charade,” he said quietly, holding the casing to his face so he could speak quietly. “You’ve had your fun at my expense. Go back to your pile of severed limbs and gloat if you must, but end this. For Patton’s sake, if nothing else.”

“I’ve already told you, it’s out of my hands,” Remus responded; typically, annoyingly casual. “If you want to end the game, you have to come down here and find me.”

Roman exhaled, resting his head against the cold, bumpy metal for a moment. His eyes burned, but he was Prince; he wouldn’t cry, not here.

“Why must you make everything difficult?”

“Roman, in all seriousness,” Remus’s voice dropped. “I didn’t know you were taking Logan on a date tonight—”

“It’s not a date,” Roman hissed, glancing at the other Sides…one in particular.

“The Imagination brought me into this without asking, just like it pulled the others in,” Remus went on. “I am aware of what has to happen, but I did not cause this.”

“You’re lying,” Roman said tonelessly.

Remus’s whiny voice grew hard.

“I don’t lie, and you despise that about me. You hide so much shit from yourself that it baffles you when I refuse to do the same.”

“Look,” Remus added when Roman didn’t respond. “The Imagination is clearly trying to get our attention. Sure, it usually goes through one of us first, but it doesn’t have to. When it comes down to it, Thomas’s mind answers only to Thomas. ”

“How are you so sure?” Roman frowned.

Was Remus seriously suggesting the Imagination they both oversaw had gone rogue somehow?

“Because I don’t curate my side as meticulously as you do, brother.” Remus chuckled. “I listen. I let the Imagination do as she pleases, free from all those pesky ethics and morals and other boring boxes you always force her into, so that our sweet Thomas doesn’t fear the contents of his own head.”

“You expect me to believe that you know what’s going on because,” Roman let every ounce of disdain seep into his voice, “the Imagination talks to you, and not me…because you don’t make her behave?”

“You should try letting her loose sometimes,” Remus drawled, “or you’ll end up with a cane up your butt like Nerdy Wolverine over there.”

“Don’t call him that,” Roman spat.

“What you so-called ‘light sides’ always get wrong,” Remus went on, “is that the juicy stuff, the gruesome and grim, the ‘bad’ thoughts that filter up from the subconscious; they can’t all be locked away and ignored.” His voice dropped ominously. “Repression can be very bad indeed, you know.”

Roman’s reasonable nature knew that his brother, despite his infuriating attitude, was actually making some good points. Thomas had been dealing with a lot lately; the tension in the mindspace felt like a ticking clock, counting down to the next disaster.

But at that moment, Roman had no desire to humor his twin.

All he wanted to do was lock himself into his own room in the Dream Palace and spend the rest of the night writing sad poetry about love, or listing his mistakes to himself until he fell asleep.

“I just wanted to show Logan a good time,” he said aloud.

“And oh dear, apparently you couldn’t even manage that correctly,” Remus said, implacably. “So maybe you should use this opportunity to get your head out of your poopy ass, and reevaluate yourself.”

Roman slammed the Dalek shell against the floor.

It cracked upon impact, the wiring inside sparking and finally flickering down to darkness. He ran his hands through his hair, reminded, once again, why he hated talking to his brother.

Like looking in a funhouse mirror…

“Roman…” Patton sidled up behind him, laying a cold hand on his back. Roman shoved the metal arm away and stalked back to the others.

“Let’s just get this done,” he said in a low voice.

“You will need these,” the alien Janus said, pushing a button on a nearby console. A translucent vertical tube rose from a gap in the floor, holding three bulky black bracelets.

“Ah yes, I remember this,” Logan said, striding forward and taking a bracelet.

“They will prevent—” the Janus started.

“The nano cloud from converting us into Dalek puppets, yes?” Logan interrupted, snapping the bracelet onto his wrist and handing another to Roman.

The nerd is getting into this, Roman thought as he put it on. I guess that’s something.

“The cloud is only active in certain areas of the asylum,” the Janus warned them again. “And those change as different factions seize control of different areas and weaponize them.”

Patton hesitantly raised a hand.

“Um, Mx. Alien, I can’t help but notice that there are only three bracelets, and four of us?”

Logan frowned. “But Patton, why would you—?”

“I’m sure it’s because I’m part snake, Patton,” Janus interrupted smoothly, swooping in to grab the last bracelet and snapping it onto Patton’s arm.

Roman exchanged an alarmed look with Logan; that was the last bit of confirmation he needed. Patton really was unaware that he was a Cyberman.

But why on earth would Janus go to such lengths to keep him in the dark about it? Even leaving aside the fact that Patton was a walking weapon; being a machine, he didn’t need protection from the nano cloud at all.

Whereas Janus…probably did.

But when Roman opened his mouth, Janus shot him a look full of daggers and promises of pain, and shook his head. Roman rolled his eyes and mentally washed his hands of the situation.

Typical Deceit. Protecting his lies.

At least Patton would be twice-protected. If the snake wanted to risk his life for a lie, let him.

“The gravity beam will convey you close to the crashed starliner,” the alien Janus said, and then there were Dalek blasters being shoved into their backs, propelling them toward the hole in the floor.

“Oi,” Roman protested, “get your freaky little eggbeater appendages away from me, you AAAAHHHH!”

There was a push, and they were falling.

Chapter 7- Oxygen

“Look at this. Classic design. Pressure seals. Hinges. None of that ‘shuk shuk’ nonsense.”

“Space doors are supposed to go shuk shuk.”

“Are you gonna be like this all day?”

Janus was done.

He sat up with a groan, brushing snow from his jacket and vest, making sure his hat and gloves were still in place. Everything ached. Bad enough he never wanted to be part this stupid dream game in the first place; now he was probably going to literally turn into a Dalek.

All because the Imagination is being a dick and Patton doesn’t know he’s a killer robot.

Wind gusted around him, making Janus glad that the Master, like the Doctor, usually preferred long sleeves and a coat. He stood, turning in a slow circle as he took in the lay of the land. Nothing but snow and rocks; true to the episode, still.

The gravity beam had split into four as it hurled them at the planet, but Janus was reasonably sure at least one of the others had landed nearby.

He hoped it was Patton.

Not because he was concerned or anything. It was just that either of the others would be absolutely insufferable company, that’s all.

“Janus!” a metallic voice called, and Janus breathed a sigh of relief.

Patton’s Cyberman body clattered awkwardly down a nearby snowbank, sliding the last few feet to land in a heap.

“It is all kinds of chilly down here.” Patton stood, and waved rather nonsensically. “Hullo there, Janus, so ice to see you.”

Janus rolled his eyes. (He would deny to his dying day that the corner of his mouth twitched at the ridiculous pun.)

“If this scenario is consistent with its source material,” he said, gesturing to the closest ridge, “there should be an escape pod from that crashed ship nearby. Come on.”

He set off across the snow, Patton following in his wake.

“Say, what do snowmen call their offspring?”

Janus exhaled carefully. Hoo, boy, maybe Logan wouldn’t have been so bad…

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Chill-dren!” Patton chortled at Janus’s grimace. “What did one snowman say to another?”

“St. Genesius spare me,” Janus grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What, pray tell, did one snowman say to another?”

“‘Do you smell carrots?’”

Janus quickly covered his mouth.

“You smiled,” Patton crooned.

“I most certainly did not.”

“Okay, okay, one more.” Patton scurried ahead and turned around, so that he was walking backwards. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?” Janus said flatly.

“Snow.” Patton hooked his thumbs into the metal rim at waist, like one might on a pair of pants. Janus swallowed and looked away.

“Snow who?”

“Snow laughing matter, Janus, I don’t know why you’re smiling.”

Janus snorted before he could hide it, and cleared his throat.

“I am not smiling, how dare you.”

“That’s twice now!” Patton cackled, the sound coming out all distorted. “Admit it.”

“I refuse,” Janus said, drawing himself up. “You won’t make a liar out of….”

Liar.

He felt the joke fall flat and cringed. Even though Patton’s metal face couldn’t react, those metal shoulders visibly stiffened.

Too soon.

Liar.

Too much history between them.

Besides, you are a liar, his mind whispered. Lies of omission are still lies, Deceit, and you’re doing that right now.

Janus gritted his teeth. They topped a ridge; the expected escaped pod lay half-buried near another ridge, across a flat stretch of snow. The two Sides glanced at each other and continued their journey in silence.

Patton seemed disinclined to continue his little pun war.

Janus badly wanted to say he hadn’t minded the punning, but truthfully, keeping silent was easier. Patton’s baffling ignorance over the state of his own “flesh” was starting to wear on Janus’s conscience. He knew the longer he kept it secret, the worse the fallout would be when Patton finally learned the truth.

The urge to come clean was an unfamiliar one for him, and extremely uncomfortable.

Ironic, the master liar, conflicted about maintaining a lie.

The old him would have laughed, but…the old him hadn’t heard the sincerity in Patton’s voice, when he’d spoken Janus’s true name aloud for the first time. The old him had assumed Thomas would reject him forever…because of Patton.

And then, with Janus still smarting from the sting of Roman’s mockery, Patton had said his name.

Patton had trusted him to take care of Thomas in his stead, when the moral Side knew he had failed at it. The memory still made all Janus’s scales tingle and his heart beat a little sideways.

The new him…this him…couldn’t find it in his small, shriveled, but very much present heart to risk pushing Patton away.

They reached the pod.

Muffled shouts and something that sounded like blaster fire filtered up from inside, making them exchange another glance.

Janus set a hand on the ice-crusted latch.

“Remember, we’ll have to fight our way through a bunch of dead Dalek puppets,” he reminded Patton.

“That’s a lot of noise for just a few puppets,” Patton said softly. “That canonically shouldn’t even be awake yet.”

“I know, and that is strange,” Janus agreed. “Maybe someone got here before us. But we won’t know exactly what to expect until we get down there.”

Patton sighed, a cloud of frost puffing out of his small, rectangular mouth.

Janus pushed the latch, popped his head in, and was met with a scene of utter chaos.

About six or seven human-Dalek puppets, with stalks sticking out of their heads and blasters sticking out of their hands, were locked in a fire fight with a horde of robotic humanoids that looked like they came from the Fourth Doctor’s era, if Janus remembered correctly. Round, bulky shoulders and faces that looked like metal sunbursts.

Both puppets and robots were using the seats as cover, blaster fire zinging back and forth and exploding against the walls in little showers of sparks. Janus and Patton would be directly in the blast zone when they jumped down, a little closer to the robot side.

“Well, someone definitely got here before us,” Janus muttered.

He withdrew his head and studied Patton. Honestly, with his metal body he’d be in far less danger, and those guns in his arms would actually be useful in this situation…but telling Patton he was a walking weapon, now, would definitely not go over well.

“The hatch down into the asylum should be in the cockpit of this thing,” he informed Patton. “There’s a lot of blaster fire, though, so—”

“—don’t get cold feet and hesitate?” Patton finished.

Something in Janus’s heart twisted…something he didn’t dare examine too closely.

“Say, Patton,” he said softly, looking away.

“Yes?”

“What did the hat say to the scarf?”

Patton turned his black Cyberman eyes on Janus.

“What?”

“‘You hang around, and I’ll go a-head’.” Janus let a smirk curl his lips.

Patton was silent for a moment, but then he began to giggle, covering his mouth.

Janus pulled out his sonic laser.

He dropped into the pod with a swing of his legs, catching one of the robots in its metal chest. It fell with a screech, careening into another of its kind, but by then Janus had gained his feet and ducked behind a seat. Patton clattered down behind, with less grace and far more noise…and a random Tivolian tumbled in directly after him.

Patton caught the rodent-faced alien with a startled shout, immediately dropping them again when they screamed and struggled. Janus blinked; where the hell did they come from?

The Tivolian tumbled across the pod’s floor, only making it a few feet before getting cut down with blaster bolts. Janus saw Patton cry out, and caught the Side before he could leap out and draw more hostile fire.

“It’s too late!” he shouted over the noise.

“I should have hung on!” Patton, if he’d had a proper face, would probably be in tears. He hated death. “I don’t know why they were so scared of me!”

Janus could answer that…

“I’m more curious about where they came from,” he said instead, frowning. “They surely weren’t up on the surface with us. It’s like they just teleported in, but Tivolians don’t teleport. They don’t have the technology—”

A blaster bolt exploded across the top of the seat they were hiding behind, showering them in sparks and forcing them both to duck.

“Janus!” Patton snapped. “We need to get out of here!”

“Right.” Janus brandished his sonic. “We’ll just have to run for it.”

He leaped out, activating his weapon, and discovered that a sonic laser had a very satisfying range and kickback. Forget the Doctor’s screwdriver, he thought, blasting a Dalek puppet aside and ducking another gun blast. I wonder if the Imagination will let me keep this…

A cold, dead hand seized the collar of his jacket, yanking him back.

Then there was a yell, a clatter, and Janus turned in time to see Patton blast a puppet with a fire extinguisher. The moral Side chuckled at Janus’s shocked expression.

“I’ve seen this episode too, you know,” he pointed out.

Janus huffed.

The two dodged and fought their way to the cockpit; Janus used his laser to seal the door behind them. For a moment they simply stood there, catching their breath.

(Well, Janus caught his. Did Patton even breathe, in that form?)

“Unauthorized personnel may not enter the cockpit.” Remus’s high-pitched voice came over the speaker system. “Unless it’s an actual pit full of cocks, in which case, where’s my invitation?”

Janus was going to need something a lot stronger than tea, once they finally got out of this mess.

“Remus, for god’s sake,” he grumbled.

“God has nothing to do with my cock, but if that’s how you want to roll…” One of the cockpit screens flickered to life, and there was Remus in all his ruffly, sparkly, mustached glory. Clara’s warm, messy cove spread out behind him, reds and yellows clashing horribly with the green of his sash.

Janus moved so that his chest and shoulders blocked the screen, to prevent Remus from catching sight of Patton. If Remus saw Patton as a Cyberman, Janus would never be able to convince him to keep his mouth shut.

“All right then, where do we find you?” Janus said. “And where did the others land? Not to mention our dear missing ball of anxiety.” He leaned forward, putting on his trademark smirk. “Come on, Re. You must know. One Other to another, you can tell me.”

“Aww, Jan Jan,” Remus crooned, also leaning forward. “You care.”

“I most certainly do not!” Janus sputtered, and cleared his throat. “Patton was worried about Virgil, that’s all.”

“I was?” Patton asked from the other side of the space. “I mean, of course I am, but—”

“But surely you can at least tell us why this scenario isn’t playing out quite like the episode it comes from,” Janus interjected smoothly. He didn’t want Remus to notice the metallic quality of Patton’s voice.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve already told you everything that I know.” Remus shrugged. “Roman really did give the Imagination too much freedom.”

Janus frowned.

“Then how do you know the scenario will end when we find you?”

“I actually don’t! Isn’t it great?” Remus crowed, clapping his hands. “I love stories where anything could happen. We could all get vaporized, or have our flesh eaten by—”

“Remus, focus.” Janus pitched the bridge of his nose. “So, given what we know of this particular episode, you’re assuming that our main tasks are to come get you, and to drop the forcefield on the planet so the Daleks can blow it up.”

“That’s the idea, Double Dee!”

Behind him, Janus heard Patton make a weird, choked noise, and grimaced.

“By the way, Roman and Logan are already inside the asylum.” Remus grinned, the whites of his eyes flashing. “So if you want to catch up, you’d better scute those scaly asscheeks along. Check the floor for a breach; that will be your way out. A breach, ha! Like a butth—”

Janus pointed his laser and fired on the screen, cutting the transmission and sending sparks flying all over the cockpit. An awkward silence fell in which he turned to face Patton, who of course wore no visible expression.

This, and all the reasons for it, annoyed him further.

“I swear if you ask one question about scutes or scales,” he warned, holding up a finger.

“I wasn’t…going to.” Patton held up his hands. “Logan kind of taught us how to tune out the more, er, naughty things Remus says. But I am wondering,” he added hesitantly. “Are you…feeling okay?”

“Fabulous. Peachy,” Janus said flatly, kneeling to feel around on the floor. “Fantastic, allons-y, geronimo, what have you.”

“It’s just, you seem a little angry,” Patton went on. “And you remember, that’s, that’s the first step in being converted. Maybe you should wear the bracelet for a while? We can trade on and off…”

Patton’s fingers went to his wrist, but Janus stopped him with a gloved hand on top.

Tell him, an inner voice whispered. Tell him now, before this gets any more awkward.

“That’s sweet of you, but no, I’m merely frustrated,” Janus admitted. “I would very much like to get out of here, so I can return to the pleasant evening I was having before all thisss.”

He gestured irritatedly around them.

Patton joined him on the floor and together they found a person-sized hole, with a rope ladder hanging down.

“Hey, Janus,” Patton murmured, as they were about to start the long climb down. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why do I have a feeling you’re going to ask no matter what I say?” Janus said wryly.

“Do you remember when that puppet attacked you in the main part of the ship, and I fought it off with the fire extinguisher?” Patton ducked his head.

Janus raised an eyebrow.

“They hesitated, when they saw me.” Patton’s unnaturally black eyes met Janus’s. “That’s why I had time to grab the extinguisher.”

Janus swallowed, his heart starting to pound.

“Well, I’m sure they aren’t used to anyone fighting back—”

“No, they hesitated like…like I scared them or something,” Patton pressed. “It was weird, Janus. Please. If there’s something you need to tell me…you know you can.”

Janus’s mouth compressed into a flat line and he looked away, bitterness welling up inside him.

“Can I, Patton?” he asked softly, holding up a gloved hand. A yellow indictment of everything he was. “Can I really?”

Patton sighed, long and deep.

“Touché.”

Chapter 8- Extremis

“Something’s coming. And I’m blind. How can I see them when I’m lost in the dark?”

Logan awoke to someone shaking him.

He opened his eyes to an expanse of blurry blobs and color splotches, and Roman’s sharp, frantic face very close to his. His eyes have amber flecks, his brain noted inanely. But why is he clear when nothing else is…?

Roman threw his head back and exhaled in obvious relief when Logan groaned, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

“Singing chimeras, Specs, I was starting to worry.”

Logan sat up and touched his bare face. Ah, there’s the problem.

“Where are my glasses?”

Roman was quiet.

Logan leaned closer to the other Side, squinting. Bad eyesight was such an annoyance. If only Thomas’s developing brain hadn’t decided early on that “smart and logical” also meant “stereotypically nerdy”, and pigeonholed his own sense of Logic into actually requiring corrective eyewear.

“Roman?” Logan tried again.

“Um. About that.”

Roman bit his lip, and handed over a smashed set of frames. Logan’s stomach sank as he examined them; the lenses were shattered beyond repair.

“I found them next to you like that, when I woke up,” Roman explained. “I’ve been trying to summon another pair, but for some reason the Imagination won’t let me!”

Logan pushed down a growing sense of dread, that he’d have to navigate the rest of this adventure half-blind.

“My glasses getting broken is obviously not your fault. We did fall down a rather deep hole,” he pointed out. “But what do you mean, the Imagination isn’t letting you?”

“I mean it’s not letting me!” Roman threw up his hands. “I could summon things on the TARDIS just fine, but now…” He sighed. “I am Creativity, right?”

Logan tilted his head and frowned.

“Is that…Roman, that is a nonsensical question. Of course you are.”

“So summoning a tiny object in my own dream scenario should be easy.” Roman hung his head.

“How long have you been trying?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe?” Roman shrugged, still not looking at him. “All that time, and yet still I fail.”

Logan resisted the urge to point out that twenty minutes should be long enough to realize a thing might be outside of one’s control, and to start brainstorming other options.

Stubborn fool.

“Maybe it’s just as well we picked the wedding over the callback,” Roman added darkly, an uncharacteristic glower twisting his face. “When Thomas’s Creativity apparently can’t even control his own dreams.”

Oh…this isn’t about glasses at all, is it? Logan swallowed around an achy sensation in his chest; the one he always got when something was wrong and Roman made that face and he just…needed to fix it.

Native English speakers have a passive vocabulary of around forty thousand words, he thought, frustrated. So why, in situations like this, am I constantly struggling to find the right thing to say?

The resigned set to Roman’s jaw prompted Logan to try.

“Your inability to summon things may not be your doing,” Logan said, laying a hand on Roman’s knee. “Perhaps the Imagination is attempting to impose a sense of realism on this adventure.”

“Realism,” Roman echoed flatly. “In Doctor Who.”

Logan huffed. “You must admit, summoning objects out of thin air does defy even time-traveling alien logic.”

Roman’s face twitched in the tiniest of smiles. “So why did it work before, Teach?”

“Maybe it only worked on the TARDIS because the ship already defies every known rule of physics.” Logan shrugged. “I admit I cannot possibly intuit the inner workings of the Imagination; I can only theorize from what I have observed thus far.”

Roman chuckled softly to himself, and bumped Logan’s shoulder.

“Aww, Nerd, I’m touched. You’re trying to logic me into feeling better.”

“Is it…working?” Logan asked.

“Kind of?” An unreadable expression flitted over Roman’s face. “At least one of us is still grounded in reality.”

“Where else could one possibly be grounded?”

Roman laughed outright at this.

“Oh, Logan. Never change, okay?”

He stood up, and pulled Logan to his feet as well.

“Where are we?” Logan asked, squinting.

He could tell they were in some large, open space; all blacks and browns and dull grays. Blurry domes of copper were scattered amongst what could be bits of fallen scaffolding or machinery.

Logan was also hyperaware of Roman’s warm arm pressed against his, and his own hand clasped tightly within the Prince’s larger grip. With everything else blurry, physical sensations were all the more distracting.

“Don’t panic, okay?” Roman started.

Logan scoffed.

“You are fortunate that I am not Virgil,” he commented wryly. “Because starting a sentence like that would almost certainly have caused him to panic.”

“Well, it’s just, do you remember that scene in the Dalek asylum episode where Rory wakes up in the hanger full of dead Daleks who turn out to be not actually dead?” Roman said in a rush. “Because…yeah.”

Oh. Logan swallowed.

“So, I am guessing that those copper domes are actually Daleks?” he said softly.

Roman snorted.

“Copper domes? Jeesh, your eyesight sucks.”

“I am aware,” Logan said flatly. “Which means you will have to guide us out. If I remember correctly, as long as we are quiet and don’t kick any pipes on the ground, we won’t wake them up.”

Roman let go of Logan’s hand… and replaced it with an arm wrapped around his waist. Logan only held back a squeak because it would have been extremely undignified.

“Hey, relax, I got you, Specs.” Roman’s breath ghosted over Logan’s ear. The Prince’s shorter stature allowed him to fit snugly against Logan’s side; if Roman turned his head, he could comfortably tuck his face into the crook of Logan’s neck.

Not…not that Logan imagined him doing any such thing.

Roman drew his sword with a metallic rasp, prompting Logan to pull out his screwdriver, and they set off across the floor.

It was a strange, vulnerable sensation, Logan thought, being this close to another, being forced to rely on him for direction…or maybe it was just that Roman’s Rose Tyler outfit left so much more skin on display than his usual royal attire…

To be fair, Roman’s bare arms and short skirt and leggings were the only non-blurry things in Logan’s line of sight at the moment.

“You know, I am not sure how much good a sword will do against a Dalek now,” Logan said dryly (to distract himself). “Since it would seem that the Imagination is now attempting to be realistic.”

“It’ll be a lot more useful than a screwdriver,” Roman retorted. “Honestly, the War Doctor had a point. The later seasons really do start to treat the sonic like a weapon, and it looks ridiculous. There’s an oily-looking puddle to your left.”

They dodged around it.

“The sonic screwdriver is an ingenious, multipurpose tool,” Logan argued. “Fitting for a character who is, at heart, a pacifist. In the right hands, it most certainly could serve as a weapon. For example one could scramble a Cyberman’s circuits, short out fuses, or calculate the precise amount of blunt force needed to take down an enemy.” Logan waved the hand with the screwdriver around them. “All things that a sword could not accomplish.”

“Sure,” Roman drawled, leading them around one of the still, silent Daleks, “but you don’t point a sonic at an oncoming Dalek and expect to survive. Even the Doctor had more sense than to try that. At least a sword could cut off its blaster arm.”

“We don’t know how strong Dalek amor is down here,” Logan pointed out. “You could end up breaking your sword and then where would we be?”

“Better off than we’d be while you assembled a cabinet at them!”

Logan’s foot collided with a metallic something that made an awful CLANG and went skittering across the floor. Roman pulled them up short, his face going pale.

All around them, round blue lights began to flicker on, one by one.

“I kicked the pipe, didn’t I?” Logan said, his heart starting to pound.

“You kicked the pipe,” Roman confirmed in a sick voice.

“EGGS…!” a crackly Dalek voice next to them stuttered, making them jump. “EG-EG-EG-EGGS…!” Its twin lights flashed erratically as it spoke.

“Roman,” Logan started.

“‘Eggs, you may laugh and that’s great…’” Roman sang in a wavering voice. “‘Your smiles are what make my day’…”

The Dalek rolled toward them creakily. “EEEEEGGS!”

Logan’s breathing sped up. Another Dalek rolled in from the other side, causing him to stumble. All around them, mechanical creaks and groans and a chorus of digitized voices rose up…

“EG…EG-EGGS…TERM…”

“Roman, I believe we need to run.” Logan could see the Dalek almost clearly now, its eyestalk glowing, its gunstick rising up.

“…IN…ATE…”

Blurry, flashing lights closed in.

“‘My self-worth’s fragile like an egg,’” Roman sang. The hand gripping Logan’s middle tightened painfully. “‘When it breaks it’s tough to put together again…’”

“EX…TERM…IN…ATE!”

“Roman!” Logan shouted. “Get us out of here!”

“EXTERMINATE!”

A blaster bolt warbled past and exploded over their heads.

Roman shuddered and seemed to snap out of it, seizing Logan’s arm and pulling him so hard he nearly fell. Logan staggered, hanging onto Roman’s hand for dear life as they ran, and ran, and blaster bolts burst at their feet and shattered around them.

“This way, boys and boys,” Remus’s voice sing-singed across the room. Roman yanked them hard in that direction.

“REMUS!” Roman shouted as they ran, and Logan was impressed he had the breath for it. “Remus, you better open that door like you’re supposed to or we are DEAD!”

“Oh, keep your pants on, brother,” Remus snarked, sounding a little closer. “Although maybe Logan would prefer that you didn’t—”

Whatever else he said wasn’t audible over a hanger full of jabbering Daleks and firing blasters.

They reached a wall and Roman shoved Logan down.

“Straight ahead, crawl. Go, go, go!” he said, turning and brandishing his sword.

Bless that Prince and his stupid, stupid bravery.

Logan went, nearly tripping over his coat as he crawled under the barely lifted hatch door. Once he was past the threshold Roman flung himself under and through, knocking into Logan and sending them both sliding across the floor.

There was a hiss and a heavy thud that Logan hoped was the door shutting behind them, and finally, blessed silence. They both leaned against the wall for a moment, catching their breath.

Roman thunked his head back.

“Jesus Christ Superstar,” he muttered.

“Your welcome.”

Remus’s voice crackled through the hallway. Roman growled and sat up straighter, looking around as if his brother would magically appear.

“I did just save your lives,” Remus added. From the direction of the sound, Logan guessed he was talking through a speaker somewhere on the far wall.

“Yeah, and I’m still gonna whip your butt when this is all over,” Roman groused.

“Oooh, do I get to choose the instrument?”

Roman sputtered, but Logan grabbed his arm before he could yell back.

“You know he just likes to get under your skin,” he murmured, and raised his voice. “Thank you for opening the door, Remus. We are grateful for your help.”

There was a silence on the other end, with a quality that Logan would have described as shocked.

“Well. You two lovebirds better move along,” Remus drawled finally, shrill as ever. “Before the Silurian army shows up.”

“Excuse me, the WHAT?” Logan exclaimed.

No answer.

“Remus!” Roman clambered to his feet and helped Logan up.

Nothing.

Except now that Logan was listening for it, he definitely heard approaching footsteps and murmuring, heavily-accented voices. And they were getting closer.

“That dick,” Roman grumbled through gritted teeth.

“To be fair, I think he is trying to help,” Logan pointed out. “In his own way.”

“Don’t be fair to my brother when he’s just led us out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“We are neither in a pan nor on fire, Roman; I have never understood that saying—”

The lights dimmed and flashed an eerie purple; Roman silenced him with a hand over his mouth. There was a voice…not Remus’s, not alien, not like anything Logan had ever heard. It chanted something, over and over again, before fading out.

The lights flared back to normal.

Logan waited, counting Roman’s shallow breaths against his neck.

Nothing.

“What was that?” he asked softly.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Roman responded. “But I guess that’s our cue to go. Stay close, Mr. Magoo.”

Logan grumbled, but allowed Roman to recapture his hand and lead them in the opposite direction of the approaching footsteps…which had resumed the moment the purple light vanished.

Next time Roman asked him to come on an adventure, he was bringing a spare set of glasses.

[we-live-in-a--society]

Prima facie

Control.

A mere word, a conglomerate of letters once combined by a long-gone person, holding more authority than the richest, than the most talented, than the so-called Übermensch with the perspectives of ‘eternal’ life sprawling in front of him.

Genocide of the spiritual beings, unrestrained in the sublime sense of word, slaves of the outside influence, damned for

Eternity.

Feigned assurance, mere illusion blurring out the lines between reality and fantasy, the dreamland of fools, built upon skillful falsities, where each one has an unrepeatable chance to stand on both sides of the barricade.

Relief-providing, such an obtuse lie, beyond offensive to assume anyone would believe it, and yet the affirmation is effortless – just look around, they say, and you will see the things no one has ever wished for.

Ecstasy-granting, allowing to visit the places… the places abounded in the deepest desires, now within the reach of each and every man, person who considers them in terms of fulfilling, enough to stifle the sour thoughts.

Entropic fallout.

The perspectives that hunt the brightest.

* * *

“Day two thousand eight hundred first,” subdued by the sound of running shower, and yet clear enough to be filtered out just perfectly. “It’s funny that people perceive others in terms of their achievements and nothing else. All they see is that outside surface that divides them from their surroundings, and sometimes it’s so hard for me to understand that way of thinking. It’s so absurd, so abstract, and yet I’ve been someway forced to understand it… the reality… it’s so absurd that one day you do things you don’t wanna do, and then something changes and you feel like it’s a big deal, a meaningful transition, and then you realize that it’s all bullshit but it’s also too late. You’re drowning in the same shit once again…” a coarse laughter, indication of sarcasm, intruder creeping between the male’s words, just about to lose his train of thoughts.

“Even though there’re times when you forget it was ever there but it’s always there. Of course, you can pretend, ‘cause pretending is easy but does it make sense? It’s a meaningful question – does it make sense – but I also believe it’s the question of people who are lost and don’t really know what to do, so they just keep asking the same question, keep reconsidering it, but never get the result they aim for, and in the end realize that maybe it all makes no sense, but what would we have if elsewise… those things we see, those people we meet, and who we‘re beyond all of these, beyond the modifications that we do, beyond the changes, beyond pretending to be someone we are not…”

“It’s funny, truly the fallout of everything but so blessed, so pretty, everything that we’ve ever desired for within our reach. We think that it justifies our choices, that we’re so perfect we don’t need to justify anything, that we can do whatever we want to, ‘cause we have the resources, while in reality we don’t have as many as we think we have.”

“You know, there was a man in my past who used to tell me that ‘you gotta do what you gotta do; and what you gotta do is you gotta man up’…”

A speech that is interrupted by an unyielding forefinger pressing the pause button, and so putting the device on halt, soon to be abandoned in the depth of his safe. It is that kind of data he would never store on his personal hard drive, since the possible leakage would result in disastrous consequences, the ones he is not much likely to dig out of.

Ironic.

Just any other day, his eyes drift to the bathroom mirror, greeted by the common, not to mention beyond-pleasing, sight – a man in prime of life, fit as in evidence of self-discipline, skin almost black with the ink, although usually obscured by the expensive suits, meant for his eyes only, but at times shared with the passing-through lovers. Raking his fingers through the hair, he decides the sides require some trimming, especially today, since first impressions are always important, at least according to what he was told in the past, considered inconsequential if juxtaposed with present – a paradox in its purest form.

(Time is money.)

Settling the thoughts aside for a moment, he fishes out the clippers, buzzling to life in his hand, then ties the longer part of hair into a resemblance of bun. Of course there are much more convenient, which might as well be replaced with ‘faster’, solutions to fix the overgrown cut, and yet he opts for the old-fashioned way – a reminiscence of father’s tales, but also related to the self-reliance, capacity of accomplishing as many tasks as possible without anyone’s assistance – since with the right device it takes barely any effort.

With that thought in mind, he rakes the blade past the sides, tiny pieces of hair soon to sprinkle down onto the towel draped over his shoulders in advance, and after a few longer moments, he is greeted with the satisfactory sight, basked in the bright mirror LEDs. As for the final result, he releases the top part, combing it back with a hint of product to keep them styled neatly for the rest of the day – display of classic elegance that he has grown accustomed with throughout the years. Being honest here, he has always considered appearance in terms of something significant in his line of work – flawless presentation of one’s professionalism, indication of people’s superficiality – firmly detached from his private life, since elsewise he would lack in the former quality.

Years ago, he has come to a conclusion that blurring out the lines between those two factors leads to a relatively obnoxious outcome – a moment of ignorance and troublesome aftermath, although worth sacrifice at times. Perfection is nothing more than an obtuse dream, while mistakes are what makes one a human, acts that shape up the present – only aspect within the specie’s reach – bestowing each one of them with everything he could dream of, but in capacity of snatching away equal amounts. Suffering is the greatest paradox of all – blissful pain – akin to a bunch of clouds obscuring the sun, obviously present underneath even if hidden for our poor perception – a promise of transitional felicity, feigned when it comes to one’s assumptions about its everlasting duration.

Long live the deceit.

And yet, what seems to preoccupy his mind more, aside from the competence-related ponderation, appears to be the odd curiosity oscillating around her persona, or rather the difference between the so-called rising star

(let’s see for how long)

and her predecessors: how often would she call in sick? decline interviews? refuse to cooperate? oversleep? overdose? Which might as well be a question of time, meant to unravel in due course, all to his misery, even though he should be able to abide such circumstances with a decent amount of money, leading to dubious mental capacity when it comes to dealing with extravagant artists and their arsenal of lacking predictions, fallouts with producers, fussy whims, along with all the acts of great absurdity that somehow get him to roll his eyes in exasperated disbelief on each and every occasion.

The least patient man.

* * *

Morning light.

The most relentless alarm clock ever ‘invented’, practically prying her eyes open, immediate to bury her face in a silky pillow, letting out a frustrated groan, as she pulls up the covers, body shivering in the chilly room. Relieved by the newfound wave of heat, she is back to tethering on the edge between dreams and reality, hoping to get as much sleep as possible until the digital sound will slice through the city hum, which in turn evokes genuine respect towards the people who ‘rise and shine’ during the earliest hours just to face the day and seize all opportunities. Part of the woman scolds her for such laziness, but realistically thinking it is yet another transcendent goal, not noted with intention of fulfillment, instead left to lurk in the back of mind and bother her in the most unfavorable moments, as per usual.

Along with the pressing desire to ignore that peculiar stressful tension, it adds up to the growing pile of lies, meant to complete itself as she pursues further with life, but at the same time labelled as a habitual factor, allowing her to keep the head clear when required, unoccupied by the never-ending considerations, and yet opposed to the raging storm of thoughts. In one hand, her stomach is twisting with the nervous anticipation, but in the other she cannot deny the fluttering butterflies that have been disrupting the young woman since the very first time he called her, or more precisely – since the very first time his hologram appeared on dialing device, accompanied by the husky baritone that he used to expound the details concerning their arrangement – inexplicable yet important.

(Take the bitter with the bitter, isn’t it what they say?)

Funnily enough, she remembers each and every time her mother would preach the prodigal daughter about the consequences of such behavior, built upon foolish beliefs, teenage cravings of ineffable love, never meant to be fulfilled if beyond idealized. However, said factor has never seemed to put her pursuit to a halt, and so thwart the zeal – incandescent rod branding her soul for blissful eternity – soaked in the tears of those who perished, mainly her and the injudicious teens, lacking in what she was searching for at that time – a desire obscure enough to participate in the realm of ideas, in other words unable to be verbalized in face of pitifully limited vocabulary. Might as well be the reason why she struggles with forming any long-term relationship, always distracted by the passing opportunities, unable to break the unfortunate turn of events, conflicted with the more mature part of her, aiming mainly for self-development that leads to inevitable success – another silly daydream?

Maybe.

“Ugh, fuck this,” she whines into the pillow, presumably late, either way finds herself not quite concerned by concepts as equally absurd as time, while rolling onto the cooler side of bed – close call to the dubiously pleasant encounter with polished floor. Frustrated as ever, she hears the digital ringtone, more than aware who might be bothering her generously elongated sleep at such early hour, nevertheless obliged to pick up with a heavy pat delivered onto the screen. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Gia,” oh my fuck, he remembers. “I’ve wanted to make sure everything is relevant today, ‘cause I’ll be there in like… fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Oh, fifteen minutes,” she almost gasps, unable to conceal the nervous chuckle, certain there is no possibility she will meet him on time. “That’s cool, but I won’t make it.”

She hears his exasperated huff on the other side of the line, along with the calm exhale, and the following words – indication of the so-called professionalism. “How much time do you need then?”

“I don’t know…” she draws – a mannerism that he loathes more than anything – uncertainty audible within her voice, since she has blocked the visual channel, presumably still on the early stage of preparation. “Half an hour?”

“That supposed to be a question or an answer?” He manages to conceal the aggravated bark, tightening his grip around the steering wheel instead.

“An answer, I guess,” she shrugs, now risen up to a seating position, with the silky sheets pooling around her waist.

“Brilliant,” he concludes, a tad bit too drily for her own tastes, either way she ignores the unpleasant note, belittling it to the status of yet another subconscious allusion, prompted by the fairly deceivable mind.

“Anyway, you can drop by my flat if that’d be more convenient,” she proposes, yawning as her limbs stretch, joints cracking in a satisfactory way.

“Text me the address then, and I’ll meet you there,” he instructs in a blunt manner – non-verbal indication that ‘no’ appears to be an invalid response in such circumstances.

“With-” oh right, he hung up.

What a douchebag.

Luckily capable of ignoring the bitter aftertaste, at least for now, she stands up, shivering as her feet brush the cool floor, which in the end turns out as rather beneficial, pacing up her walk to the bathroom. Accompanied by the electric buzz, the light flickers out, reminding her for the nth time this week to call the estate owner, and deal with it like any reasonable adult would do, or simply wait for the day when she will be forced to complete her morning preparations in pitch darkness.

(Couldn’t dream of a better outcome...)

Certain that opting out for the top priority appears to be the most sensible solution in her position, she steps under the shower, letting the hot water cascade down her back, skin flushing due to the temperature. The heat itself elicits a relieved moan from her throat as the tension begins to evaporate from her body – parallel to the steam sprawling on the glass – tingling with the newfound excitement, apparently enhanced by the growing warmth. Perfectly aware there is neither a decent mood nor enough time to search for any relief, she ends up uttering a frustrated huff, while painting her front with the liquid soap, soon to stream down to the drain.

Having accomplished what must have been the quickest shower she has ever had, she only manages to put on more or less randomly picked up clothes, before the morning lull is sliced by the ringing doorbell that almost forces a fearful shriek from the broody woman. With a few hurried steps through the living area, she unlocks the door, confronted by the sight of virtual impatience, anticipating her presence since the earliest hours of dawn – posh dweller of equally polished suit – along with the flawless composure that evokes this peculiar insecurity in reference to the personal choice of clothing, seemingly not appropriate for such occasion.

Intimidating to say the least.

“Hi,” she greets him with a welcoming smile either way, gaze altering between his face and the ink peeking from the collar of his shirt, evoking the newfound curiosity about the whole concept, hidden beneath the fabric.

“Hello again,” he reciprocates as the corners his lips twist into what must be the so-called smug smirk, features visibly lightening. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” she snaps out of the trance, failing to conceal the nervous giggle adorning her affirmative response, caught hand in a cookie jar.

(Ah yes, the dovey one.)

Which is yet another subconscious mind’s assumption, although he believes that tendency to evaluate any given situation on the go appears to be linked with age, or more specifically – gaining general knowledge over the human dwellers and their behaviors. Therefore, in order to enhance the efficiency, one obtains the ugly habit of premature judgment, openly loathed by majority of population and yet dealt with from the hand of few, which in turn leads him to a rather inconvenient truth – one day, there will come the time when he trips and smashes his nose on the floor – metaphor adorned in pain less bearable than in a physical case.

(Been ‘round the block a few times.)

Nevertheless, the petite girl steps aside, allowing him to pass the threshold, further on perch upon the sofa and snatch the flat screen from his bag.

“Back to business…” he initiates, motioning her with a suggestive eye tilt, icy irises that bore into her soul, such a cooling contrast for her synthetic hue, enough to send an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.

“Don’t you want something to drink?” She gulps, gaze adverting to the side, unable to bear its intensity, right before she plops down onto the couch, brushing his knee by accident – plain contact that almost has her jolting away to the side.

(Get a fucking grip.)

“I’m good for now,” he rejects the proposition, just to witness her frown slightly in response. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

“I’ve disrupted your schedule, haven’t I?” She ascertains, seemingly more preoccupied with tucking one of her feet under the pleasantly warm thigh than maintaining eye contact, which irks him up more than he cares to admit; not a good sign to be honest.

“Pretty much yes, unless we hurry up, of course,” without letting her speak, he carries on with the beyond obvious explanations. “Anyway, here’s the contract that I need to sign if you’re willing to continue, which I think is polished by now, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Sure,” she accepts the offered device, flinching as their fingers brush, cold like ice. Clueless when it comes to what is happening to her, or more importantly – why he has such potent influence over the outgoing woman, at least until now, eliciting the most unusual reactions, the shameful shyness for instance.

“You can’t be this tense if you want to make this arrangement work,” he states, apparently out of nowhere, leaning towards the coffee table, weight braced on the elbows.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, with the metallic stylus in her hand, now long forgotten, as she glares at him, not so caught-off-guard for a change.

“You’ve heard me,” he cocks a condescending eyebrow at her, and if not for the blinking she would suspect he is not a human after all.

(Do androids blink?)

“Stating that won’t make any difference,” she huffs, peaceful façade seared by the gradually developing irritation.

“Care to elaborate?” He nags further, as if already capable of naming all her weak spots, thanks to his long-term professionalism in such domain.

“There’s no shift in the attitude,” she clarifies, noting the fact as if it was an absolute truth, suited for this and every other occasion in the future, greater than all the celestial beings, even if combined together.

“Would not pointing it out make any difference then?” He retorts, not expecting to hear a verbal answer this time, instead filled with the telltale silence. “See? Told you so.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, shaking her head in denial, hand mirroring the rushed movements.

“So what did you mean for a change?”

“I meant that pointing this out usually enhances the tension,” she explains, glancing briefly at the thin piece of metal clutched tight in her hand – a realization casted upon the woman.

“I believe it’s still worth the effort,” he shrugs, infuriatingly careless now that he has won, at least according to his suppositions.

“Why are we even discussing this?” She sighs, as if utterly exhausted by the teasing debate, and so willing to wind it up with the simple scrape over the screen. “Just let me sign the contract.”

“Go on, no one’s stopping you,” he flicks his wrist in an affirmative gesture, encouraging her to pursue. “I’d even dare to say right the opposite,” oh, so now he would play the smart guy, how delightful, she thinks, and yet responds immediately, topping up said contract with a flourishing signature, quick to hand it back to him. “Thank you. And by the way, you have an interview scheduled for tomorrow, just so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she flashes him a replacement for a proper smile, just to witness the male respond with a parallel gesture, and before she knows it, he is back on his feet again, towering over her figure, and so prompting to follow his traces.

“It’s just my job, no hard feelings.”

No hard feelings.

(Easier said than done.)

* * *

Past.

Easily associated with safety, blissful awareness granted by the reliability of bygone memories, a place where one is willing to return to in times of unspoken restlessness, and so dive into the flowery reminiscence – beloved escape. However, at some point in one’s life an unspecified hand flips the switch, allowing to see the sheer absurdity, which in turn leads to a purifying realization – the past is not enough anymore, and so a different, more potent stimulant is required.

Her best friend would probably label it as ‘yet another mistake’, worse than falling for Cara, nevertheless she cannot help herself, knowing that one way or another she will be forced to release some steam, to transfer the concoction of feelings into work – a song, sublime and powerful, carrying an amaranthine meaning. Losing herself in the complexity of the world she has gotten to inhabit – borne against her will, such a cruel law – seems so effortless in comparison to the sheer burdens of existence, paired with the average life expectancy and the endless predictions of elongation, justifying it as yet another whim of humanity.

(Even rhymes with immortality, what a coincidence.)

Why would anyone even crave something so insane – eternality – unaware of the real meaning hidden behind these ten letters, bound by the long-gone linguist – extinct specie? Expression of their thoughtlessness? Might as well be.

At this point it appears as quite tough to specify, her mind delving into far too many places at once, incapable of maintaining the indispensable concentration with Nova running through her bloodstream, retreating the human ability to focus on a single factor. As the reality begins to fade away, various background noises dull into one unpleasant screech, inseparable, her ears ringing as the first wave rocks through her body, a vague pat on the back, followed by the tingling sensation of a relatively cool hand tracing her spine. While a minuscule part of her loathes the feeling of metallic digits dancing over the heated flesh, the more influential one is flying sky too high to care, remaining still in that one inconvenient pose, leaning towards the shiny table.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” His hand slides further down her back, playing with the hem of the low-cut dress she has opted for today, its silvery hue reflecting the colorful lights. “What do you say, sweets?”

“Mhm, yes… exciting… exciting it is,” she barely formulates the affirmation, her brain clinging to the established choice of words, out of capacity to exchange it for anything more intricate. “But I think I gotta… I think I… I gotta go I think.”

“So soon?” He questions, both eyebrows risen in feigned disbelief, chrome digits dipping underneath the fabric only to find the silky strap in process, stimulating enough to occupy his carnal interests for a brief moment.

“I’ve paid you… I’m sure I have…” she mumbles, involuntarily jerking away from the touch, muscles twitching as an innate response to the unwanted contact, lost in between her attempts to complete the sentence, “for the pills, I mean.”

“Well, yes, that’s correct, you have,” he agrees, albeit immediate to clarify, “but I’d like something more from you.”

“What?” She frown in confusion, eyes staring into the distance, blurred outlines of dancers rushing through her mind, hips swaying to the beat. “No, I… take me home… please.”

“Maybe later, ‘kay?” He proposes, still patient, fingers stroking the smooth skin in an attempt to soothe the confused female.

“No… I wanna…” she counters, one final time, although enough to crack his resolve, hand abandoning its previous track, leaving only the fleeting remains of proper touch on the heated skin.

“Quit whining and get up,” he huffs, audibly irritated, and she cannot help but wonder about the causes, random associations blending into one shapeless pulp – concoction of equally indistinguishable elements.

“No!” She squeals, a little louder this time, as a stab of pain shoots through her arm, almost yanked out of its socket, at least according to her perception, attracting attention of a passing female, although definitely short-lived, soon to mingle in the crowd.

Because who cares?

“You. Are. Coming with me,” he punctuates the words, delivering another harsh tug, intent to force her to move. “Whether you want to or not.”

Unable to verbalize the evident objections, let alone break away from his iron grasp, she can only follow his traces, while trying oh so desperately to figure out what is happening around her, cling onto at least one given stimulus. Her vision is blurry, blinded by the neon lights, as if her eyes were tearing, but at the same time she doubts she has ever felt that helpless, that fearful, emotions running all over the place, full of contradictions, frenzied and delirious.

Searching for physical support, she leans in to his frame as soon as the man stands still, but due to the black spots staining her perception, she can barely make out where they are, especially with her head is spinning like crazy. Before she knows it, his arms encircle her waist, preventing the young and oh so promising musician from a disastrous rendezvous with equally unforgiving floor, much to his exasperation.

Overall, the plan has been a little different, certainly not featuring the scenario in which she passes out, another unconscious body to take care of, whist also ‘unfuckable’ in such state. Therefore, the most he can do for the woman is to dump her by the corridor wall, as befits the ‘immature dickhead’, certain that no one would attempt to link her with him, at least according to the general numbness in the so-called ‘world full of cruelty’ and the glorious lack of interest in dealing with minor crimes.

Morality?

Shattered?

(And what else?)

* * *

The first time she experienced something like this was approximately about sixteen years ago, give or take, although she prefers to keep such stories to herself, since people tend to label it as rather dubious and the last renown she aims for is ‘untrustworthy’. Nonetheless, it all appears to be rather simple – high fever tends to retreat distant and prompting visions, mainly associated with sensory memory, aspects that are supposed to remain out of reach, and yet linger somewhere in the back of one’s mind. Take for instance the sensation of being rocked to sleep in mother’s arms, deprived of any distinctive images, just the monotonous lull and mere hum of her silvery voice, singing some nonsensical song, its lyrics undistinguishable by now.

Ergo, for a brief moment, yet to collide with reality, she is convinced that she has forgotten to swallow the necessary medicaments due to her ailing state, evident in the disastrous headache, possibly linked with abnormal temperature, and mind drifting towards obscure dimensions once again. Before she gets a chance to familiarize with the newfound vision, it is disrupted by a harsh jerk, so unlike her parents’ manners, forcing both eyes open and so greeting the woman with a sight she is not braced for yet – a guy, recognized as a bartender, shaking her awake, not Carlos who might as well be long gone by now.

“Gia?” He frowns, visibly puzzled, both hands resting on her shoulders, warmth atop icy skin, sending a pleasant wave of heat through her half-conscious body.

Unable to grant any sensible answer, she blinks a couple of times, trying to adjust to the neon lights, with her vision still a little blurry, before she actually manages to formulate a proper response, voice croaky, as if not hers at all. “What’s going on?”

“I could’ve ask you the same,” he reciprocates, audibly annoyed, hands now abandoning their previous spot upon her shoulders on behalf of a more convenient squatting position.

“I don’t remember much,” she admits, clenched fists rising to rub her eyes in hopes it will somehow bring her back to the land of living.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” He huffs, accusation evident in his voice, or maybe it is just fatigue, disappointment with her countless predicaments, not that he is the only one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shrugs, the least talented liar ever born, beyond embarrassing to pursue.

“Whatever Gia, I don’t give a shit,” he sighs, utterly defeated. “And I’m resigning from babysitting you tonight. Work schedule, you know.”

“I-”

“No time for that,” he interrupts, remains of the so-called empathy long gone by now, granting the blossoming irritation with essential space. “Someone’s gotta drag your ass from here, I mean the club, and take you home.”

“I can’t stay here?” She frowns, disappointed with the unfortunate turn of events.

“What?” He laughs in disbelief, a mocking tingle that enhances all negative emotions disrupting the guilty songbird. “Of course not, it’s a club, not drunk tank.”

“But-”

“Just find someone who can take you out,” he instructs, glancing at the door, hoping the manager has not noticed his absence by now. “And tell him it’s fucking urgent.”

“Okay,” she agrees, displeased with his harsh approach, irritation evident within her voice. “Just give me some fucking space.”

“Sure, I gotta head back anyway,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden – feigned façade mastered over the years. “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t feel like checking it by myself,” she utters a nervous chuckle, hand already outstretched for the bartender, and who is he to leave her hanging like this, ever the gentleman. “Could you help me?”

“Sure,” he throws her a fleeting smile, and with a steady grasp on the woman’s arm, he hoists her up from the ground, knees seemingly too weak to hold the rest upright. However, the necessary support is granted by the wall, allowing the female to brace her weight on the forearms and press the forehead to the concrete structure as a potent wave of dizziness rocks through her fatigued body.

“Thanks,” she murmurs faintly, still in the process of dealing with the unpleasant aftermath of earlier decisions, and so dangerously close to throwing up on the polished floor.

“It’s nothing, Gia, really,” he assures, his mind already circling back to work-related issues. “Just get your sorry ass outta here.”

“Sure,” she huffs, rolling her eyes in an almost theatrical manner, as if to ensure he gets the message with plenty of reserve. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too.”

And with that careless response, he walks away, hasty steps echoing in the corridor, soon to disappear around the corner, and so leave the hall altogether. Finally deprived of any company, she fishes out the phone from the depths of her purse, and calls the only person she can think of in such circumstances – Connor, or Connie, since the choice is apparently not his to make. At this point she is practically trembling with that peculiar concoction of excitement and exhilaration, fingers crossed he will pick up at such late hour, since wishing for anything else seems like a childish exaggeration now.

“You better have damn good reasons for calling me in the middle of the fucking night,” ever the most talented in the field of pleasant conversations, he opts for greeting her with such expression, voice rough with sleep, sending a shiver down her spine.

“So I got into some trouble tonight and-”

“Just cut to the chase,” he barks out a blunt order, his patience running low in the face of increasing exasperation. “I don’t have energy to listen to some background bullshit.”

“I need you to take me home from Interstellar,” she states, having decided that to keep it simple means to succeed, rather than to bestow him with countless euphemisms, supposing it would justify her irresponsible behavior.

Right?

“Excuse me?” He chuckles in disbelief, a mocking laughter that almost has her snapping at him – the most immature reaction she could ever imagine. “Seems like you might’ve mistaken me for your fucking chauffer, who I’m not by any means, so thank you for such divine opportunity but I think I’ll pass.”

“Why are you always acting like a fucking dickhead?” She sighs, voice smaller than she would like it to be, as the day-long fatigue settles into her bones, which combined with the unpleasant tone nearly has her bursting in tears.

“And why are you always getting personal?” He jeers, a crude remark to stab her right in the chest, and so discourage to pursue. “It’s just work, nothing else, and the sooner you learn it, the better for you, ‘cause I’m not hired to deal with your non-career issues.”

“It might become a career issue if someone finds me here,” she reciprocates, betrayed by the not-so-subtle hint of desperation lacing her voice, shaky at the end.

“Tryna out-talk me?” He chuckles bitterly, his head lulling slightly to the side in her mind’s eyes – a mannerism she has grown accustom with during those few weeks. “C’mon, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I just wanna go home,” she tries once again, now actually on the blink of tears. “Please.”

“Pathetic,” she hears him spat on the other side of the line, probably not meant to reach her ears, but it does either way, forcing Gia to suppress the choked sob threatening to escape her constricted throat. “No, just no. I’m not doing shit for you. You’re a fucking adult, so I think you’ll find your way outta here.”

“But-”

“No, enough of that,” he interrupts, annoyance evident in his voice. “It was nice talking to you, but I’m going back to sleep now. Have fun.”

“Don’t hang up, please…”

Oh right.

Douchebag.

Fighting the urge to cry out in exasperation, she dials his number once again, dangerously close to chanting an actual lucky prayer, nevertheless determined to make him comply for a change, since in this case hope indeed appears to be the mother of fools.

Ironic.

“The fuck you’re calling me again?” He barks out, absolutely furious.

“Will you come? Please,” she sobs, finally letting the tears stream down the sides of her face, way past her breaking point now. “I don’t wanna stay here. It’s so cold, and I’m so tired.”

“You won’t let it slide, will you?” He sighs, a realization casted upon the man for a change.

“No,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes with the free hand, black dust from the so-called ‘waterproof’ mascara coating her fingers. “They’ll throw me out elsewise.”

Nothing.

(Silence speaks a thousand words.)

“Connie?”

“Fucking fine,” he gives up after a longer pause, seemingly ready to consent to her wish. “Just stay right where you are until I get there. We’ll meet by the main entrance as soon as I text you, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she gulps, trying to conceal the exited squeal threatening to slip past her lips as a result of his approval.

“Very well. See you.”

“Connie?” She calls out one more time, voice laced with distinctive hesitation.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure, no big deal.”

And with that he hangs up, on one hand leaving her with a bitter-sweet wish they would chat a little longer, while on the other she is well aware it would be simply nonsensical, lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. Once again deprived of the craved-for company, the sensory aspects hit the woman with full force, the pounding ache of her own body, betraying in the midst of crisis, arms encircling her trembling frame in order to deliver at least a mere illusion of being held by someone.

(Connie?)

(Ha! You wish!)

(He doesn’t even like that nickname… the fuck is wrong with me?)

Unable to keep herself upright, she plops down onto the cold floor, with the bottom part of her dress hiking up, and so exposing the legs to icy air which, enhanced by the fatigue, has her trembling on the ground. In hopes it will somehow allow to maintain the essential warmth, she curls into a ball, resting her forehead on the bent knees, eyelids shutting on their own, which in turn bestows her with odd solitude, even though there is no possibility she would drift to sleep in such circumstances with her body trembling like a leaf in the autumn breeze.

Minutes upon minutes, she is gradually beginning to lose the track of time, not daring to glance at the clock even once, surprisingly patient for a change, maybe in the face of feasible fulfillment. And yet, despite the aforementioned calmness, she almost jumps out of her skin as soon as she feels the phone vibrating in her hand, not wasting any time to check the incoming message.

“I’m here,” it reads, which puts a relieved smile on her face, and so she is rather quick to stuff the device back into her purse, then get up with a renewed vigor, walls granting the necessary support.

Pushing the heavy door open, she walks out to the guests’ zone, greeted with all its splendid virtues: loud music and insufferable crowd, which prompts her to circle the dancefloor and so avoid the troublesome encounters. Lucky to get past without any of that, she steps through the reception area, soon to make her way out of the club altogether, cool evening breeze palpable on her face, sweeping the bangs away from her forehead.

Nevertheless, with more pressing matters occupying her mind, Gia is immediate to spot him, leaning by the side of his car – such an unusual sight to behold, without one of his beloved suits, exchanged for the benefit of more casual attire. She blinks a couple of times, as if to ascertain he was not mistaken for another man, having assumed he would be the only person waiting outside, and to be honest she cannot conceal the relieved sigh slipping past her lips as a response to the inviting gesture – a graceful flick of his wrist.

“You look absolutely miserable,” he notes, and even in face of the gruff greeting she almost fails to restrain from hugging the coarse man as a thank-you gift. “C’mere.”

“I owe you,” she declares, a steady exclamation until disturbed by his hands gripping her arms, leaving the woman confused for a moment.

“Yes, you do,” he agrees, frowning as she reciprocates the gesture, lithe fingers wrapping around his biceps; and hell, it is just to prevent her from hitting the pavement, not indicate anything sexual. Why does she have to read every message wrong? “Now get in the car.”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant,” she huffs, visibly annoyed, and so seriously considering the break-away from his not-so-loving grasp.

“I’m being practical not unpleasant,” he rolls his eyes in response, blatant and unashamed, choosing to release her this time, intent to open the door for his female associate, “since I don’t think you’d like to experience yet another encounter with a ground of any kind.”

“Sure, thanks,” she reciprocates, cold as ice – terribly feigned façade, although immediate to get in the car, letting him shut the door for her, then ride away in what seems like a blink for her limited perception.

At least according to what she keeps telling herself.

(Liar.)

* * *

“I’ve left you a glass of water on the bedside table, ‘kay?” He throws a brief glance at her figure lounging on the bed, now clad in a monochromatic tee, suppressing the urge to linger on the exposed skin for a little longer.

It is always hunting him, the flesh.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” she mutters, voice muffled by the pillows, not caring to throw him a merest glimpse.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you’ve left me a glass of water on the bedside table,” she complies, as if fed up with his never-ending requests oscillating around definite responses, ever the hypocrite.

“Very well,” seemingly pleased with her response, his lips twist in what must be a ghost of a proper smile, although the following words fail to satiate the prominent craving, much to her displeasure. “So sleep tight and make sure you call me as soon as you wake up.”

“Connie?” She calls almost at the spot, having decided to take the matter in her own hands this time, afraid that if he gets up, nothing will be enough to stop him from leaving altogether.

“Connor,” he corrects, voice laced with an audible hint of annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” she dismisses, while urging her body up on the elbows to look at him properly for a change, at least according to the etiquette of any decent conversation. “Stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” he counters, cold as ice once again – a notion enhanced by the neon lights casting shadows on his sharp features.

“Why?”

“’Cause I’ve driven your sorry ass home which is enough of selflessness from me for the following month,” he spats bitterly, intent to rise from his spot on the couch and walk out of the door, leaving her hanging, as if it was the most convenient solution ever imagined.

“Why do you have to be such an ass?” She huffs, disappointed once again – an impression she has learned to associate with him on the course of their encounters, and yet never failing to disturb her, even if only in the emotional sense.

(Helps me to keep the distance.)

“Nothing personal,” he claims instead, not even blinking as the words slip past his lips. “I’ve got errands to run tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe you,” she confronts, now seated properly with her back supported by the wall, as if to grant the superior position in their flimsy quarrel.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he reciprocates, infuriatingly calm all of sudden, shoulders shrugging at her furious expression.

(So easy to rile up sometimes…)

“I-”

“What?” He snaps, head twisting in her direction, eyes meeting with a metaphorical shot of electricity through her body.

“Is it so hard to understand? The fact that I don’t wanna be alone tonight?” She sighs, now in genuine doubt whether he is a human after all, which might as well be linked with the flawed perception, based on her own attitude – blemished. “You know, it’s just… today’s been so messed up and I just… I don’t know...”

“Got anything to confess?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, as if attempting to conceal the previous irritation with some careless swagger.

“I don’t remember much, but I have a feeling that something bad has happened to me,” she begins, having decided to choose her words carefully, since indicating that she is yet another pathetic junkie is the last direction she is aiming towards.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, really,” she refuses to cooperate, instead gets up from the bed and takes those few steps towards the couch to plop down beside him, shortly before resuming with her undefined explanation. “I’m aware of what I was doing throughout the day, but the evening memories are all vague, are… um… all fuzzy, and honestly I have no idea what to think about this.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He questions, seemingly relaxed, if not for the corner of his lip tilting in an unnerving way, proving that said proposal carries some hidden meaning as well.

“Yes,” she nods, since playing by his rules appears to lay beyond the realm of conscious control for now, no idea why.

(Sure.)

(Is that his voice? The fuck is wrong with me?)

“So tell me the truth.”

Speak of the devil.

“It wasn’t all a lie,” she scoffs, and yet cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, focusing on the small reddish stain decorating the coach cushion, wine presumably.

“Sure,” he hums in agreement, soaked in bitter irony, although pleased with the confirmation of his little theory. “But I wanna hear a genuine story this time, or none at all. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she affirms with a telltale burning upon her cheeks that appear to disrupt the defined vision of proper explanation. “So, I wasn’t alone at the Interstellar, I was with someone…”

“With whom exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses once again, shaking her head, as if more to clear out the mind before the key explanation than emphasize the earlier words. “The thing is, he gave me one of those pills he had, and I took it, so that’s why I don’t remember shit.”

“Well, that I’ve already figured out myself,” never the one to disappoint, am I right? “So where’s the catch?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake… I mean doing something like that in his company is a mistake itself, but… I don’t know… I feel so messed up,” she rubs a single hand across her face, hoping it will somehow soothe her, but nothing like this happens, so instead she slips it in his, searching for physical support – a gesture that catches him off guard for a brief moment. His flesh is cool to touch, most of it covered in some bizarre ornaments, black upon white – pale skin that looks almost eerie underneath the neon lights – her gaze following the pattern up his arm, until their eyes lock once again – tangerine and steel.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he affirms with a subtle smile, squeezing her hand in a skillful manner, enough to fulfill said wish without causing unnecessary discomfort.

“That was the first time something like this happened to me though,” she confess, throwing their linked limbs a brief glance, as if to ascertain he is still there, like in flesh and bones, not a passerby from a parallel reality. “It freaked me out.”

“No wonder it did,” he concludes. “Losing control can be one of the worst nightmares.”

“Tell me about it,” she huffs, rolling her eyes – a gesture to top the sarcastic remark with. “I don’t get it. Even though I’m aware of the consequences, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again… Hell, I’m so happy I have an opportunity to die.”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” he chuckles – not the exact reaction she intended to gain from him, but that will have to do for now.

“Aren’t we all?” She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him, her eyes glistening with an ghost of amusement, rather unexpected in such circumstances, which is also a good sign to be honest, the fact he is able to elicit that kind of response from her.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for listening though,” she ignores the little hypocritical attempt, indicating the blatant disagreement.

“Anytime Gia, anytime,” he bestows the woman with a smile for a change, even if fleeting – odd beauty to it all.

As her focus drifts towards the places of unknown, with the pensive silence settling over them, she fails to notice the subtle shift of his position, until their intertwined hands rest on her thigh, eliciting an embarrassingly audible gasp from the female, knuckles teasing the tender flesh as his tendons flex, supposing to prevent the nerves from getting numb.

“What are you expecting from this situation?” He interjects, his gaze focused solely on hers with intensity that has the female almost backing away – soul-drill to crack her attitude in two.

“Feelings are not to be verbalized,” she reciprocates, rolling her eyes at the inappropriate question, and yet opts for going out on a limb, since what goes around comes around, right? “And also, I think there’re more pressing matters to clarify anyway.”

“Such as?” He turns towards her, and now that Gia has his undividable attention, she is ready to put her inconsistent plan into notion.

“Ever wondered what would it be like… to kiss me?”

An exclamation that has him laughing out loud this time – such an unusual occurrence, although not the best sign to be honest – and yet she can work with that, glaring at him once the sound dulls down. With amused glimmers dancing behind his gaze, he appears to be studying her expression, as if in an attempt to read his songbird like an open book he would like her to be, at least for him, and yet, aside from the blatant desire for attention, the rest is buried somewhere deep, deep down, safe from his prying curiosity.

How infuriating.

Nevertheless, he is well aware what to do to gain the essential answer – break the not-so-stern rule, temptation in its purest form, granting the special privilege of seeing her gasp in shock, feign indifference just to throw herself in his arms as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

Sublime. Sadistic. Selfish.

Simply what he needs right now.

“To kiss you? No…” he draws on the syllable – a purring baritone that catches her off guard for a brief moment – not even supposing he is capable of making such sounds. “But to fuck you… now that’s a whole different story…”

(What the hell?)

“But we can just kiss if you prefer the PG-13 version,” he cocks a challenging eyebrow at her, and she takes the bait, all to his pleasure as far as it matches the plan, crafted on the go.

“I don’t-”

“No need to lie to me, Gia,” he interrupts, leaning slightly towards her, just enough to brush her chest, breath palpable on the exposed neck, prickling her skin with goosebumps. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

“Right now? For you to kiss me,” she gulps, failing to pursuit with the seductive tone, muscles twitching as she feels his arm snaking around her waist, still hoping she would maintain the confidence throughout the act.

(With him touching you like that? Sure.)

“A bit boring but if that’s what you want…” he chuckles, breath flaring through her hair, quick to catch the woman off guard again by yanking her onto his lap, one thigh pressed in between her legs.

“You’re such a dick,” she gasps at the unexpected contact, her insides coiling in anticipation to satiate whatever ache has been blossoming inside the artiste the moment he laid his eyes upon her.

“Sure, whatever,” he hums, careless as ever, tickling the side of her neck with feather-like kisses, barely present, like wind whispering patterns on her skin, ready to fly away and forget as the scent of his cologne engulfs her senses. Some twisted part of her wants to witness him break first, give in to the temptation, with dilated pupils and disheveled hair, rake his fingers through the strands, but nothing like this happens. Instead, he keeps teasing her with the gentle touches, tips of his fingers tracing the hollow of her spine, up to the point where she cannot take it anymore – the merciless tormentor – and tilts his head to the side, crashing their lips together.

(So it is on.)

With his arms around her body, he gains the essential motion range, ability to maneuver her upon his lap and of course guide the kiss, but since their plans seem to differ, she attempts to squirm out of the grasp – a matter he is quick to rectify with a harsh nip upon her bottom lip, drawing a surprised squeal from the woman. Even though she is already past the point of wondering whether he would be gentle, whether he would treat her like the finest china or just another frivolous chippie, she has not expected such straightforward approach, at least not from the very beginning, since that is what all the previous partners accustomed her with – the cautious build up leading to more ardent acts, while he appears to be toying with both contradictories, leaving her in anticipation for more.

(Fucking douchebag.)

With Gia gliding through her thoughts, he opts for seizing the opportunity now that her mouth is agape, seemingly beyond realization yet, and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip, relishing in the tremor that runs down her spine as a response to the caress, palpable underneath his hands. Right when she expects him to dive straight into it, he breaks away, eliciting a disappointed whimper from the singer, a whimper that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants like some immature teenager, intent to switch to her neck and mark the flawless canvass – now simply pale and pure. As if put on repeat, she mimics the earlier sound – a response to the harsh suck – leaning backwards, expecting him to continue the established path further down, and yet he is back at the face level within a matter of seconds, having stained her flesh with a purplish bruise.

“I do mind that a bit, you know,” she huffs, feigning annoyance, even if only in a partial sense, unable to ignore the rapid pulsing of violated skin, akin to a sisterly heart drumming just underneath the surface.

“Didn’t see you complaining earlier,” he hums against her lips, planting a lingering kiss on the plump pout. “If I were in your shoes I’d be happy to have something to eye in the mirror when the lover boy is gone. Which, by the way, reminds me that I gotta be going, now that I’ve clearly overused your hospitality.”

(Like flipping a switch.)

“You gotta what?” She frowns in confusion, squealing in surprise as he slides her off his lap, leaving the female perched on the sofa, beyond agitated.

“Sleep tight and remember to call me in the morning.”

And with that he is gone, slipping through the door like a desert dust carried with the wind, its remains inhabiting every space imaginable, forgotten to be swiped away even while cleaning; since he would be damned if he allowed some brat to flash him her bits, get him all riled up just to back out in the end with whatever pathetic excuse she manages to make up on the go.

So instead he prefers the prevention strategy.

Leave her hanging.

Desperate for any kind of attention.

As for the clever, cunning.

Sadist.

* * *

It is safe to assume that getting used to the thought of her and Connor together took the young singer a fair amount of time, and not only that. What else was required to accomplish such inhuman target must have been the so-called emotional tranquility, not her most spectacular forte to be honest, and furthermore accepting the fact that he wants something more from her, whatever that something is.

The very thing that destroys her?

Might as well be, not that it would surprise Gia, considering her ever-present knack for involving in presumably not the most beneficial relationships, just for the sake of illusionary intimacy justified by equally tentative trust, the need to keep people close, lend them a helping hand in hope they will reciprocate someday. To contribute but never to be rewarded, at least with the desired amount of compassion, always judged through the prism of her performance, the outer surface – tissue-thin epidermis – deprived of human curiosity to dip millimeters underneath, and so discover what else she is willing to offer, beyond the carnal realm.

Cruelty of the

Arbitrary

Resolution.

And yet, she cannot stop thinking about him, imagining how his steps would echo in the corridor leading to her flat, how his hand would rise to press the button, how his feet would tap the ground while waiting for her to meet him by the entrance, far more preoccupying than she would like it to be. Tethering on the edge between two parallel dimensions – corporeality and conceptuality – she barely notices the slicing sound, tearing up the multi-level reverie into a bunch of useless pieces – a ring reverberating in the air.

“Fuck,” she curses, startled by the way too real noise, almost tripping, as she shoots up from the couch, rushing to open the door. She is greeted with the oh so unexpected sight of the ‘lover boy’ – display of vibrant confidence, obscuring the hint of impatience that must be lurking just beneath the surface, once again without any of his posh suits, although not lacking essential elegance, having opted for simple black pants and matching shirt, keeping the top buttons undone, certain she would notice. As per his earlier assumption, her eyes linger on the exposed flesh, also marked by the ink, evoking the wonder about how far it actually reaches, which in turn leads to the much more risqué concept – the fact that tonight she is meant to clarify all doubts.

(Fuck.)

“Ever bother to check the visual?” He leans against the doorway, clearly waiting for any invitation, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at her – an indication she catches sooner than later, allowing him to step inside, and shut the door. “Or is it the perspective of seeing me that distracts you so much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she throws over her shoulder – feigned carelessness – as she follows him to the living area, frowning when he perches atop the mattress instead.

“And depend on random compliments?” He chuckles, fingers stroking the silky sheets, as if to approve their law of existence as a part of her bedding. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sure you will,” she rolls her eyes, nevertheless allows him to pull her onto the plush surface, their knees bumping as she settles down beside the man.

“What a clever girl you are, truly astounding,” he purrs – the exact same tone he used just a few days ago, and yet so much different – fresh and bold, evoking the insatiable desire for more. “Which reminds me that I’ve brought some wine for us.”

“I’m more of a Tequila girl to be honest,” she bestows him a fleeting smile, thrown off guard by the brush of his fingers upon the exposed thigh, now that her dress has ridden up a little, nevertheless quick to return on the abandoned track of thoughts, “but wine is a classic, so I appreciate it.”

“Sure, Sundance,” he teases, tickling her skin with feather-like strokes – another call-back to their last encounter – although this time her muscles quiver as he skims the golden ring adorning her shapely leg.

“So do you want to drink it now, or-”

“Why the nerves?” He frown, in time with the touch-deprivation, placing the aforementioned bottle by the foot of her bed with a soft click – unsettling since terminal, at least according to personal perception – supreme deceiver. “It’s not like I’ve came here to hurt your or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, reaching out for his hand to thread their fingers together. “But you’re just something… something new to me, and I have no idea what to expect, that’s all.”

“Oh honey,” he smirks, eyes glinting with a lingering promise that leaves her determined to uncover the truth behind his intents, “you’re gonna love this, I promise.”

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for that then,” she shrugs, allowing him to pull her onto his lap once again, calves on either sides of his thighs for a change.

“Guess you’ll have to.”

And with that, their lips collide, sucking a breath from her lungs, and so shaping up the focus – tunnel vision, disability to judge the situation through the prism of a bigger picture, especially when his hand reaches the zipper of her dress, soon to drag it down, exposing the pale flesh to relatively warm air. In spite of that, her skin prickles with goosebumps, failing to contain a violent shiver, as his fingers explore the area in sync with the sensual dance that is their kiss – awakening of the burdened desire, prompt to shove him down, check whether he would crack in response – such an absurd idea, downward foolish, although that she is yet to realize, all in due course.

Puzzled with the sudden shift in her attitude, he peers up to the woman, forehead marked by a frown of confusion, until his gaze follows a path further south, halting once it reaches the disarranged cleavage, tops of her breasts peeking through the fabric. As if with a mind of its own, his hand reaches out to tease the feminine curve, eliciting a gasp from his not-so-stern partner, leaning towards his touch – fleeting scrape of butterfly’s wings upon the heated flesh, meant to enhance the inborn craving for more.

“C’mere,” he purrs, low baritone that sends a vibrant buzz straight to her core, and yet she hesitates to comply, tethering on the pinnacle between elongating the mild, although undoubtedly pleasant, experience and succumbing to the whispering prompts of her instinct, too caught up in the trance to deny the subconscious responses delivered by her body.

Seemingly unable to defer anymore, she leans in to him, sighing as he cups the perky globe in one hand, teasing the protruding nipple with the pads of his fingers, until she gasps his name – a single word, yet potent enough to cloud his eyes with a resemblance of lust, mirroring the fiery hue of her own irises. With the self-control aspect casted aside, she allows him to pull down the fabric and so expose the upper half of her body that he appears to be quite fond of at this point, attempting to ignore both the burning gaze upon bare skin and the growing hardness in between her legs, applying pressure to the dampening folds.

Intimidating to say the least, considering it has been a while since she was placed under such circumstances – a penis owner in her very own bed, grazing the lacy cloth with barely palpable shifts. In the midst of honesty she is ready to admit that the concept of stuffing a rigid member inside has always filled her with some odd kind of nervousness, disgust maybe – determinant of established preference, leaning more to the opposite option.

Even so, she has found herself attracted to the Connor almost at the spot, the exact moment his eyes landed on her figure by the doorway – initiation of the merest physical attraction, meant to blossom into something of entirely different nature, something that scares her more than she cares to admit. Furthermore, the last issue she needs to deal with is unrequired love, considering he is not the man who gives his heart away to each and every person he crosses paths with, unlike some people – hit for the metaphorical nail, precisely why she possesses so much hatred for him, at least a part of her does, while the other is drowning hopelessly, claiming she is a unique being, crafted for him like personal software.

With all that crap in mind, there is still the third aspect to it all – lust-laced craving, the carnal impulse that has her thighs fluttering in anticipation for what he is intent to deliver as his eyes bore into her – burning itch atop the exposed skin.

And that she is dying to find out.

“Mmm… fuck,” she moans, dumbfounded by the unusually intense sensation, rocking her hips to relieve the tension – subconscious response to the lack of direct stimulation – eliciting a throaty chuckle from the man below.

“So soon?” He teases, flinching as she presses closer to him, radiating with natural heat that has him twitching in some animalistic need to dive straight to the main business, even if for a split second. “How about a little variety first?”

“What variety?” She frowns, the movements of her hips halting as his hand abandons her breast, curious, or maybe just anxious, about his intensions.

“Ever been blindfolded?”

The question left to linger in the air for a split second, required for the artiste to comprehend its meaning, garnishing her cheeks with a reddish hue that laces his lips in yet another version of the so-called smug smirk, cocking an anticipatory eyebrow at the female. With her faced marked by the concoction of embarrassment and most importantly lust, she is no more no less a sight to behold, chewing at the corner of her lip in restless wonder – overthinking, burden of humanity. Even though it last for only a few seconds, he perceives it at least as a million

(what a surprising turn of events…),

yet maintains the essential patience to hear Gia’s response as his hands stroke her sides in some mindless form of caress, and so delay the decisive process, maybe without realization. What requires that brief struggle – point of discussion – is her return from the voluptuous trance, featuring the flash of seemingly every possible scenario, frenzied enough to appear as embarrassing, she shakes her head no – brisk denial – still leaving the matter pending.

“Wanna try it out tonight?” He proposes, to which she nods for a change, feverishly enough to fuel the cocky smirk upon his features – a concoction of lust and amusement. “Say it.”

“Yes, I wanna try out tonight,” she complies, without hesitation this time, as if he managed to strike some cord deep within, a cord that has her thighs twitching in search for the relief-granting friction.

(Fuck… that’s too much.)

“Very well then,” his gaze adverts to the side, indicating Gia to follow the established direction, settling once it reaches the flimsy gown hanging on the door of her wardrobe. “Give me that silky ribbon from your robe.”

Without further ado, she rises from the well-accustomed-with spot, and with a few, rather wobbly, steps, snatches the aforementioned item from the hanger, quick to pass it to him, indifferent whether it will reach its destination as smoothly as desired. In spite of that, he catches the belt with distinctive grace, twirling it in between his fingers for a brief moment, up to the point of fatal distraction – Gia discarding her dress to the side, allowing him to steal a glance of red lace covering the place of his interest, before she joins him on the bed, settled upon his lap once again.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, failing to conceal the breathy note marring the flawlessly composed voice – a nuance that appears to slip past her attention, without a doubt on his benefit, excited to follow his request, shivering at the first brush of silk over her skin, although not meant to relish the sensation for a longer while, since he is quick to tie it at the back of her head and so obscure the vision.

Pitch black.

“Lie down,” he bestows Gia with a concise order, having deprived her from the steady grip, hands now flying to grasp his shoulders, afraid to lose balance now that she is blind.

“How about a little help?” She huffs with a lingering hint of annoyance marring her voice, prominent enough to reach the picky ears of her paranoid manager. “I don’t fancy slamming my head in the wall, you know.”

“Don’t use that tone on me,” he snaps – an exclamation laced with a tethering promise, indicating that he is indeed a man of little tolerance to any form of misbehavior, which is not much of surprise to be honest, especially when considered through the prism of what she has witnessed him perform on the strictly professional ground.

“Or what?” She taunts, too blind, in the metaphorical sense of course, to realize how ridiculous she appears to him at the moment, pawing at his shoulders as the self-preservation instinct fully kicks in, working against her benefit, at least when it comes to narrow extension, yet to reach the verbal realm.

Which is exactly what elicits a mocking chuckle from the male, followed by an equally derisive comment, more than aware how to get under her skin. “Don’t tempt me, Sundance.”

“Like you wouldn’t want it,” she rolls her eyes, even though he is unable to see through the silky ribbon, letting out another vexed huff, cut short by the sudden flip that has her squealing in surprise, all against the conscious will. Some part of her finds such capacity rather unsettling, precisely how he can manhandle the dainty body in any desired position, while the other – dug out of the subliminal depth – relishes the sensation of physical submission, shivering in anticipation for more.

Luckily, that he is able to deliver, at least according to what she is hoping for, although the following action leaves her puzzled and most importantly alone on the mattress, almost prompting to remove the fabric in order to check why he has abandoned her. However, before she settles on any specific choice, she hears him rummaging through the bed drawer in search for hell knows what, and even though she is probably supposed to cut such liberties short, the woman remains still, well-aware of what he is looking for in there and yet caught in denial.

“If that’s what I think it is...” she begins, unable to conceal the subtle hint of trepidation within her voice, clearly excited to verify the inkling.

“What? This?” He pokes her in the side with the not-so-foreign object, buzzling to life in his palm, eliciting a shocked squeak from the female, much to his amusement. “Knew a lonely lady like you would have one.”

“I’m not-”

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums as if in some derisive form of agreement, lacking in pity but making up with condescension, now seated beside the partner, evident in the teasing brush of his pants’ fabric against her thigh. “But if you’re denying it so fiercely… then maybe I should stop?”

“No, I-”

“Just say it,” he prompts, tracing the golden ring encircling her thigh, which sends a resonating tingle all the way to her throbbing nipples. “Say that you want it, and it’ll be all yours.”

“I want you to touch me,” she states, feigning indifference, if not for the subtle hint of trepidation betraying her in the times of trial, which is no more no less than a hyperbole, but still – perception is delusive.

“Then beg,” he reciprocates, smirking as she twitches under his touch, subconsciously drawing her legs further apart – an instinctual invitation.

“But you said-”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts – a manner that elicits an audible huff from the dependent woman, supposed as a provocation, but at this point he is too amused to let such a silly misbehavior unhinge him. “So now I wanna hear you out for a change.”

“Please?” She asks – blunt and accusatory.

“Oh c’mon,” he frowns, undoubtedly displeased with her lack of dedication to the prior request – another polished façade he tends to display when needed. “You’re not even trying.”

To that, she has no response, at least throughout the course of several dozen seconds, required to verify the so-called balance of burdens and benefits, all while attempting to ignore the teasing brushes atop her exposed skin. She has never experienced anything like this – being so responsive to any form of touch, no matter how gentle, how fleeting, casted upon her flesh akin to some grotesque shadow – substitute of proper caress – which might as well be the real reason for cracking her resolve.

“Please, I need you to touch me so badly,” she strives for the most docile version of her tone, not used to such deal of resistance from the second participator, puzzled with the amount of self-control he has been displaying throughout their encounter. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?”

(Asshole.)

“No,” she sighs, beyond impatient, desperate to alleviate the tension blossoming between her legs, retreating the merest ability to focus, as if all pitiful remains of poorly constructed concentration have been thrown out of the window.

(Entropic fallout, wasn’t it?)

(Huh?)

All too soon, in one precisely brisk maneuver, he is hovering over her form, surrounding the female with natural body heat, as his lips trail butterfly kisses over the tender flesh of her neck – a gesture she would consider sweet under any other circumstances, albeit this time convinced that he is intent to transfer it into yet another merciless act. With the ability to contain her reflexes long gone, now that she is receiving any physical attention, she arches towards him, failing to contain a breathless gasp slipping past her lips as a response to his gesture – tracing the outline of her breast, as if to draw a spiral pattern to the middle – a fiery brand upon the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” she squeals, synchronized with the harsh nipple pinch, eliciting an amused chuckle from the arrogant lover who is now preoccupied with stroking a line down her stomach, tensed with the anticipation for the coming dive.

“Mmm… fuck…” he groans into her ear – billowing puff of breath – heat over heat – as his fingers skim the lace-covered folds, greeted by a soaking amount of wetness that speaks to the most primal parts of his brain, that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants, wishing to launch for the simplest cut-to-the-chase, even if for a brief moment. “That excited already?”

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, pushing her hips up in an attempt to meet the hand hovering just above the delicate material – merciless denial that has her muscles twitching in anticipation, enhanced by the sensory deprivation, lack of vision that forces her to ponder upon each and every outcome. “Please, I need- uh, f-fuck…”

A mere plea, uttered in the state of lust-laced deliriousness, disability to comprehend what is happening around her, caught off guard by the following action – a dive straight to the main point of interest, no more excess teasing, fooling around with the fleeting touches that set her skin aflame, wordlessly begging him to pursue. Instead, he replaced the previous tickling with firm pressure, smirking as her hips buck in response, determined to fulfill the innate craving for more direct stimulation, not separated by the thin lace – flimsy barrier that has risen to a rank of an ultimate obstacle, obviously thicker than she would like it to be.

“Take them off, please,” she whines, all too familiar with the burning frustration, laced into her being, taking a form of some grotesque thread, stinging like a sharp needle, crying to be removed.

“Seems like you’ve been demanding a lot lately, don’t you think?” He taunts, almost back to the smooth baritone if not for the lingering hint of restrain hiding behind his voice, the smoky gaze he has been casting upon her exposed body for quite a while, perceivable on the intuitive aspect alone.

“No, please,” she cries in despair as his fingers abandon their previous spot, beyond desperate to complete the process, hands reaching to grasp him, but he evades the clumsy clutches, letting out an amused chuckle at the frenzied attempt.

“Relax,” he purrs into her ear – a sound that sends a resonating shiver down her spine, which paired with the abrupt nip delivered on the tender earlobe almost has her moaning out loud, “I’m far from done with you yet,” an exclamation meant to elicit another violent shiver, accompanied by his throaty laugh. “But before we move on, any specific requests you have in mind?”

“No, just touch me,” she whines, too unhinged to bother with general appearance, clenching her thighs to alleviate the ache, in foolish hopes it will somehow slip past his attention.

(Sure.)

“How exactly?” He continues, quick to grasp the woman by the shapely muscle and draw her legs apart, all for the purpose of witnessing Gia trembling in frustration.

“However you want,” she reciprocates, already past the point of bothering to conceal her responses – polar opposite to the moderate man beside her, which might as well be yet another foolish assumption, if missing out the lustful glint in his eyes, silvery hue that has transferred into one of these restless storms – dark and predatory.

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums – a conclusion laced by a lingering hint, somehow sinister, indescribable with the human vocabulary, probably unsettling in the eyes of the young artiste – a final warning – but she is not in the mood to dwell on any underlying doubts, meant to be clarified as soon as he presses the vibrating bullet to her clit, forcing a choked moan from the equally astonished female.

“Fuck,” she gasps as another incomprehensible wave rocks through her body, muscles twitching in response to the increasing pressure, once again dying to get rid of the flimsy barrier, “off, please.”

“Lift your hips,” he instructs, almost at the spot, maybe fed up with drawing the inevitable as well, to which she complies, allowing him to slide the lacy panties down her legs, then approximately toss them aside.

Settled beside his lover again, evident in the heated exhales palpable upon her cheek, he resumes the initiated activity, dragging the buzzling bullet up her folds to circle the swollen nub, eliciting another reedy squeal from the squirming partner, which in turn has him wondering whether it is her casual reaction to such form of caress – inability to remain still, shifting from side to side as if caught in some frenzied state of lust. Therefore, to facilitate the process, he opts for an alternative position, tugging Gia in between his legs, back to the firm chest, now able to hold the woman more steadily with an open palm sprawling across her abdomen. Even if that simple, the act affects him more than he cares to acknowledge, at least when attempting to match the distinctive candor, marveling at how lightweight she is – penchant for dainty women in general – which combined with the soft moans slipping past her lips has him twitching against the swell of her ass.

Despite the thick curtain of lust clouding her mind, she can feel him perfectly through the thin layer of clothing, more than nervous to acquaint the full length, considering there is barely anything appealing about said part of male anatomy. Furthermore, her attitude leans more to the category of ‘intimidated’ than ‘excited’, while pondering upon the possible outcome, someway obliged to convert it into ‘inevitable’ – a trait that tends to lead people on the baneful avenue.

As well as concealing the truth.

“Enjoying yourself?” He mutters into her ear all of sudden, dragging the woman back to the contemporary realm, at least as much as the carnal aspect allows to, mind foggy with desire, relishing the temporal docility that she is displaying, more vulnerable than ever.

Seemingly not in the mood to oppose, she hums in affirmation, twitching as her body surges with the approaching wave of ecstasy, surprisingly close by now, considering how little physical attention she has received on the course of their encounter, maybe due to visual deprivation as for the enhancing factor. With the heightened sense of touch, the low vibrations on her clit feel divine, otherworldly even, as a part of her wishes to tether on such stage for blissful eternity, explore the unknown realm at leisured pace.

Unfortunately, it turns out that she will not be the judge of that, since he removes the toy, not quite certain when exactly, since the ability to evaluate the passing time has abandoned Gia as soon as he pressed the bullet to her clit. As if caught in some tunnel-vision state of lust, she attempts to reach out for him, unfortunate to slash through the thin air, which has her groaning in frustration, and despite more than evident amusement, he soothes her with a warm palm on her thigh and a whispering promise, dedication that causes her to choke on own spit, head snatching in his direction, more than certain that she must have misheard him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I wanted to taste you,” he repeats, the same purring baritone as before reverberating in her ear, sending a violent shiver down her spine – a throbbing buzz straight to her clit. “What? Man’s never gone down on you?”

“Man? No,” she counters, still in genuine shock due to the least expected proposition, especially from the lips of the most arrogant, selfish bastard she has ever encountered, opting to dismiss all sensible doubts, when considered through the prism of his potential intentions, certainly not featuring the direct aim for climax. “But please do go on, I’m interested.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he reciprocates, a sarcastic comment that somehow slips past her attention, most likely because she chooses to ignore it – negative for picky with more pressing matters occupying her mind.

“Can I get rid of the blindfold first?” She verbalizes what is germane, hands already reaching up to untie the knot, but he halts her with a disapproving click of his tongue, not intent to expand it to the physical realm, by grasping her wrists for instance.

“I don’t know, can you?” He teases, eliciting a frustrated huff from the female, as her hands fall to the chest, waiting for his approval, which pleases him more than she suspects, and so prompts to let it loose with a negligent tug.

Blinding light.

“Fuck,” she gasps, shielding her eyes from the city neons illuminating her face, bright and aggressive, marring the vision with ghoulish spots – temporal disability, excluded from the flawless world, shoved away as soon as it bumps into any of its dwellers, wandering in search of an ultimate place.

Chaos.

Parallel with humanity?

(Don’t be ridiculous.)

Smart enough to wait until it subsided, she adjusts their position, now chest to chest with Connor, as her sight shifts towards him, taking in the contours of his face, now accentuated by the artificial light, caught on the glimmering hint of chrome decorating his cheekbones – sharp and unyielding. Giving as good as he gets, his eyes bore into her façade – resemblance of a steel tool, corresponding with the icy shade, now reflecting the female’s image – orchid hair and tangerine irises, almost auburn in the dim illumination. There is something devilish about her, the intimate setting she is aiming for, the dainty hands braced on his chest, the affection in her gaze, prominent enough to unsettle the steady man, even if subdued by the membrane of lust, screaming warning to accelerate the process.

“Lie down,” he prompts, palms on the either sides of her hips as if to ensure she would move, “or else I might think you’ve changed your mind about this.”

“Sure,” she purrs, lips inches away from his, but still, the abrupt closure catches him off guard – firm pressure applied on the tender flesh – pouring every ounce of the bottled-up emotion into the kiss as for the vulnerable creature she is, meant to shatter in his callous grip, knowing it will be too intricate to comprehend if transferred into words. He lets her go with offbeat reluctance – a hint that she is able to catch, detached from his usual composure, topping it up with yet another fleeting peck, before she actually rolls to the side, nestling in the silky sheets – indication to pursue.

(Control-wrecking.)

With her spread out like this, prolonging the inevitable appears as beyond pointless, foolish dreams of a self-centered man with reliable composure, superior when juxtaposed with the pitiful rest, and yet succumbing to the carnal desire – spirited among the spineless, spineless among the spirited – civilized paradox. All meaningless in face of the feminine creature, lying on the velvety fabric, one knee bent, anticipating his touch, craving the flattery if only in the tactile realm, the synthetic hue of her irises now obscured by the eyelids – a detail at odds with his tastes and so a matter that he is quick to rectify with a stern grip upon her chin, eliciting a discontented whine from the young artiste.

“Eyes on me,” he bids, voice laced with proficiently concealed impatience, if not for the lingering hint marring the quintessential presentation – evidence of the lustful longing within his gaze, within the manner it outlines her curves, following up to the partly confused façade.

“I thought you-”

“Then you were wrong,” he interrupts, almost trespassing the point of autocracy that has her laughing out loud, albeit still capable of transferring it into a mere shadow of a proper smile – a nuance not meant to evade his perception, heightened by an animalistic instinct. “Don’t tempt me to wipe that smirk off.”

“What?”

Without bothering to clarify the four-letter query, as per usual, he retreats to the initial intention, determined to fulfill the shared craving – polar opposites that mingle into one, overlapping both perspectives – a prelude to the everlasting doubt:

To give or to receive?

(That is the question.)

In consideration with the dualistic lack of competence to put it to an end, and yet each time the occasion arises, every average scum would ask about interlocutor’s preference.

It must be the people who are damaged,

Shattered akin to a splinter of glass.

(Give me a fucking break.)

“Connie?” She frowns in confusion, clearly the one to be left hanging this time, albeit not only at loss in such realm – an exclamation shattering his reverie, not that it bothers him much under current circumstances.

Hence, being brought up to a point of boiling impatience, he opts for the simple cut-to-the-chase move and so settles in between her legs, pried apart with the telltale pressure of his hands applied onto the tender insides. Unable to ignore the tingling of her thighs, now grasped in his palms – slim and dainty in comparison, which evokes that odd concoction of contradictions – anxious but

(to the point of)

aroused, almost trembling with excitement for what is about to come.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Practically keening due to the freshly occurred friction, fleshy and tangible on the swollen folds, drawing a throaty moan from the woman – not the most appealing sound she could have uttered, but still, there is always a room for improvement, she thinks bitterly – caricaturistic resemblance of Connor’s notions. Little does she know, he is far from displeased, now that his hands are clasped around her thighs, and the tongue is tracing the feminine outline with deliciously firm strokes, having opted out of the warm-up, considered nonsensical after all prior actions.

In spite of the so-called burning frustration, each stroke is languid, leisure, as if it was his elementary intention to memorize the shape through such manner, but at the same time prevent from overwhelming her on the very first shot. That, paired with the poor concentration, limited to the heady flavor occupying his mouth, has his eyes adverting to the side, lids heavy with the decadent intoxication, mind much drowsier than before, so instead of maintaining the direct contact, he allows them to fall shut, even if for a mere moment.

Deprived of the visual stimulus, the object of main focus shifts to the taste-related factor, linked with a nuance that he has always perceived as interesting – each time it manages to satiate the fussy palate, which might as well be a direct result of pheromones’ presence – a bitter reminder that even below all the meticulously crafted layers lays yet another insignificant human, succumbing to the innate whim. A human barely able to maintain the substantial concentration with the rhythmical pumping of blood audible in his ears and an evidence of ardent lust crawling down his neck, beyond positive that his skin is hot to touch now, matching the tender flesh that is clutched in his hand, hard enough to bruise, he somehow manages to keep the pace, occasionally sucking at the swollen nub, intent to get as much from her as possible.

“Fuck, more,” she whines, urgency evident in her voice, shifting beneath the unyielding man, clenching around merciless nothing, “I need more.”

(There it is. More.)

“Already?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the frustrated vocalist, infuriatingly dapper in its condescension, tickling her with a mere stroke of his tongue upon the heated folds.

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, twitching due to the moderate caress, up to consider locking his head in between her thighs, even if for a split second, required to brace for the simplest of requests, “please.”

“And why is that?” He reciprocates in a teasing manner, now halting his movements all together to eye Gia with the signature intensity, still nested in the exact same spot. “Better not disappoint me with the answer, Sundance.”

“You’re such a-” she begins, soon interrupted by a cruel nip delivered right to the tender flesh of her folds – brisk, and so mind-clearing, but not harsh enough to hurt severely, and yet she cannot bother to hold back the boiling curse. “Ah- fuck you,” she spats, clearly not in the mood for any excess teasing, fed up with his never-ending talk, queries uttered in the most unfortunate moments, catching her in that peculiar state of delirious fogginess, as if intent to receive the most feverish answer.

“Well, I don’t see that coming,” he baits, still amused with each rising attempt to dethrone him from the superior position, feigning obstinacy to crack his resolve, check whether she has the capacity to break him – foolish pursuit of a permanent idealist. “Although I appreciate the sentiment.”

“What?”

“So,” he ignores the confused exclamation once again, determined to gain the desired answer from the woman, itching with impatience, enhanced by the lingering aftertaste upon his tongue. “Still so keen on disappointing me?”

“No, please,” she practically whines, dreaming about locking her legs to ease the ardent crave for friction. “It hurts.”

“I know it does,” he reciprocates, almost getting the hair-thin thread of longanimity to snap, thanks to the signature smooth swagger, especially when his eyes shift to the heaving breasts, pulsing with unresolved tension.

“Then ease me,” she suggests, not so demanding despite the straightforward nature of prior verbalization, laced with a prominent hint of desperation, impossible to be omitted. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?” He flashes her a pitiful smile, albeit this time she does not bother to formulate any retort, already shoved past the point of carnal urge, with tunnel vision drifting the hopeless individual towards her final destination – inevitable wreckage. To be honest, he must have lacked the corporeal form to omit all of these: how she is practically dripping on his tongue, quivering under the precise manners he glides her with, wave after wave, climbing higher and higher, up to the point where the rhythmical pulsing becomes tactile on the moist muscle. He is well aware of how little it would take to unravel the dumbfounded artist – three, maybe five sucks if he decides to embrace the latent potential for generosity – and yet the sadistic component wants to witness the scorching heap of frustration, spatting and cursing him to the nth degree just to get back on track with begging, merely a brief moment later.

(What a merciful man I am.)

(Merciful, huh? Now prove it.)

Almost sobbing in relief when the first tide rocks through her tingling body, she arches off the bed, damned if these were not stars she was seeing – nova, luminous explosion, blacking out the vision for a split second, yet enough to miss the hubristic glint in his eyes, relishing in the way her thighs quiver on both sides of his head. Allowing Gia to ride out the aftershocks, he bestows her with a milder alternative, barely skimming past the abused flesh, until she tugs him away by the hair, denying the access altogether, now that she is too sensitive to continue.

“That was nice,” she mutters, glancing at the rising man whose hands are now preoccupied with unbuttoning the burgundy shirt, “thanks.”

“Your ’nice’ is a fatal understatement, don’t you think?” He retorts, bitter once deprived of the physical connection, although the unravelling sight acts as enough of a distraction from the sour timbre, right at the gates of finding out about the authentic expanse of his tattoos.

“Maybe…” she drags on the syllable, drowsiness evident in the leisure mannerism, allowing her eyelids to fall shut for a longer moment, as if positive the resting interval between the tandem of acts is more than essential, “I don’t know…”

Conditional.

Blindness.

Once again without the visual stimulus, as if filtrating the faint shuffling in the background, her focus drifts towards more unnerving matters, towards how bizarre it will be to experience the subsequent intercourse in the manly way after those few years, now that she is a mere step from clarifying the preposterous doubts. Although she is certain he has no intentions in making her feel uncomfortable, out of place, as if she belonged elsewhere, as if she was incapable of transferring their time together into an enjoyable record for both of them – insecurity laced in between the strings of her being – she still hesitates, tethers on the pinnacle determining the predictive outcome.

(Now that is absurd.)

“C’mere,” he prompts, and if not for the purring baritone – a note that she has had a fair amount of time to get accustomed with – gentle tug of a dainty hand, she would remain trapped in the conceptual dimension. Instead, he settles Gia on his lap, eliciting a choked gasp from the artiste once she discovers the blunt lack of any form of clothing, all sturdy flesh below her petite form, eyes drifting to the stygian patterns marring the pale skin.

Vessel for conspectus.

Corporeal form.

Flattery of artistry.

Asseveration of one’s mindset.

Mysterious understatement.

“What does it mean for you?” She inquiries – a doubt popping out of blue, laced with apprehension of discovering the possible truth lurking behind his polished façade, emerging to the surface as a form of carnal avidity he eyes her with – a man starved, restive due to the intentional delay. “Sex.”

“Sex, huh?” He smirks – a ravenous glint enlightening his countenance. “Sex means power.”

(At least he is frank.)

(Sometimes, I feel sorry for him.)

“No, I mean this,” she gesticulates, pointing at each of them, albeit missing the amused tilt of his lips as a response to the untimed query, “you and me.”

“Entropy,” he bestows her with yet another evasive answer, now that he is so keen on pursuing further for a change, hands taking a steady grip on either sides of her waist, before he leans in for a kiss, meant to prevent the innocent doubt from blossoming into a full-blown sparring match – an overflow of endless qualms. In spite of her, rather disputable, judgment, she returns the caress, scooting closer to him – blatant euphemism since her breast are practically mashed against his chest, with frenzied heartbeat resonating through the ribcage.

Crescendo.

Pinnacle where one is deprived of the human ability to perceive reality as a compound of coherent particles, instead gradually declines into a place where most aspects acquire a diametrical form – indiscriminate and so considered unimportant through the prism of future reference. Analogy parallel to her current state, each and every worry evaporating in the night’s breeze, as his lips brush – no – claim the lonesome territory, hands trace the outline of her hips – reminder of the primordial intention – a mere breath away from flipping Gia on the back to clasp her hands above the head and… the rest speaks for itself.

(Better show than tell.)

And so, in order to keep up with the rush of concepts clouding his perception, he fulfills the aforementioned, eliciting an outraged gasp from the surprised female, as soon as she comprehends the abrupt reposition. Deciding to test the waters, she tugs at the makeshift binding, expecting him to tighten the grasp, but nothing like this happens, as if he managed to outrun her suppositions, and while it is still relatively firm, the pressure remains unchanged.

Queer.

Deep in her personal probe, she fails to notice his progressing movements, until he nudges her legs apart, right at the threshold of sliding in, twitching against the slender thigh in excitement. Due to the interval dividing the last and tonight’s encounter, rather generous in length, she acquires that peculiar like-a-virgin attitude, tensed and nervous, valuating the possible amount of discomfort, parallel to the potency of pain, almost blocking the way when he prods at her entrance, presumably by accident considering the following statement.

“You don’t have to impress me, okay? Just relax.”

Probably his first and only display of sweetness she would ever witness.

(Enjoy while it lasts.)

Which is exactly what she opts for, having taken a deep breath, hoping it will calm her rapid heartbeat – not only a futile but also naive attempt – prelude to the tearing entrée that forces a choked whine from her constricted throat, that has the hybrid nails biting crescent shapes into the heel of her palm. Although partly drowned by the feminine whimper, he utters his own groan – evidence of layered frustration, eased by the surrounding tightness, even if for a brief moment – while a part of him struggles to maintain still instead of nailing her to the mattress, not so metaphorically anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, chest heaving with each uneven breath, and what he suspects must have extended to hours and hours of malevolent interlude, in reality requires less than a minute to feel the woman shift below, hips bucking in form of a silent plea.

And who is he to deny her that?

Having opted for such choice, he rocks into her, at this peculiar state of awareness when it comes to each scrape, each flutter, each alternative in pressure against the throbbing member that forces a barely audible gasp from the preoccupied male. Always so self-contained, so persistent, so… composed, and yet she has managed to shatter the inch-thick pane with the merest nuances – a blemish of honor – which disturbs him more than he cares to admit.

In a heap of developing necessity to shove the thought aside, he picks up the pace, forcing his eyelids open to observe the variety of reactions manifesting themselves on her face, too monotonous for his own liking, as if something was preventing the artiste from enjoying their encounter, as if a part of her was immune to the charms he used to enchant a number of lovers throughout the years. Even though she is, indeed, responding, uttering a soft mewl here and there, for some reasons each time he attempts to add his duos, the equalization grants him with an answer of three, as if a single particle was missing, which infuriates him even more than the stain once did.

Matter laid in his hands.

Before she gets a chance to take a grasp on what is happening, he leaves her lying cold by his side, even if only in a metaphorical sense, struggling to relocate in the changing settings, if the abrupt emptiness counts as one, beyond confused and so determined to express her immerse displeasure with the recent turn of events. While he however, less than keen on hearing whatever complains she dares to throw at him, shushes her in the most brusque way possible, at least if considering it through the prism of abusing the physical superiority

(is this even the right expression?),

by tugging her over his lap once again, albeit this time getting Gia to face the window, which has her frowning in confusion, all before he somehow situates himself inside once again, eliciting a throaty moan from the woman, surprisingly husky in contrast with the usual honeyed tune.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, clenching around him, positively caught off guard due to the fresh angle, squirming as she tests the waters – an action that has him hissing in discomfort, full of hatred towards the sensation that comes with being teased.

“Glad to hear that,” he mutters into her hair, breath tickling the tender skin below her ear. “Now grind your hips.”

Puzzled with the sudden shift in his attitude – giving up the control from before, at least as an initial impression – a matter of delusional deception – she halts instead of complying, which prompts him reiterate.

“C’mon, don’t make me repeat myself,” he purrs into her ear, lips stroking the sensitive flesh as he speaks, intent to discover what pace does the trick for the young artiste in his arms, and with that thought in mind, he allows himself to sigh as soon as she begins to move. Despite being well aware it might not be the most convenient position to lead, he intends to find out about the unspoken preference – reason of their misconception – and much to his surprise, she seems to enjoy whatever is happening between them now, having settled for the slower pace.

Soft and tender.

“Touch me, please,” she whines, grasping him by the arm in order to direct it in between her legs, when all off sudden, instead of fulfilling her wish straight away, he grasps her by the hips, putting the leisure interlude to an end, replaced by his own thrusts, meant to elicit that husky moan once again. Therefore, he slips his hand right where she wanted it merely a moment ago, drawing a honeyed mewl instead as it circles her clit, teasing the swollen nub with the same languid pace that almost had him tremble in frustration before, dying to witness the myriad of responses lying in her capacity.

“How does it feel?” he rasps, voice hoarser than ever before, clouded with a dense fog of lust, as if indicating the non-acceptance of disobedience in any form. “Tell me.”

“So good… so…” she begins, struggling to find the right words, the bodily influence over her mind more than evident under the current circumstances, “so… relieving… just keep going, please. ”

In spite of the hackneyed cliché, the sentence itself creates a binding influence over the male, combined with the layer cake of various frustrations, filled with piling impatience, and so enough to prompt him to fulfill the wish straightaway. Ergo, he increases the intensity of both aspects, which has her writhing atop him, squirming and whining for release, mouth agape and back arched, soaked in the neon glow – foggy reflection in the glass pane, branded underneath his eyelids for plenty of nights in the future.

Carnal fixation.

Who twists her neck to steal a kiss, bumping their noses together, dying to taste him once again before the final climax – elsewise pleonasm – fluttering around his girth as a prelude for what is inevitable, beyond anticipated, while he appears as perfectly capable of sensing her need, and so returns the caress. Albeit this time, it is safe to assume he is not just toying with her anymore, now that he is creeping closer and closer to the personal pinnacle, thighs twitching as she clenches around him to the point of vice-tight, almost preventing any movement, which might as well be a matter of hyperbolizing, but still, he would never allow it to end prematurely.

(A blemish of honor, was it?)

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps, with the self-control aspect running thin, evident in the loss of rhythm, perceptible even if not absolute.

“I- ah-” she gasps after a particularly rough thrust, interrupting whatever train of thoughts she has been gliding through, rewarded with a sharp nip on the side of her neck.

“Tell me,” he reiterates – gravelly groan that sends a tremor down her spine – rubbing the sensitive nub in firm circles, up to the point where she cannot help but buck against his hand, right at the cusp of bliss, ready to fall.

“I want this, plea-ease,” she whines, stuttering at the end, voiced laced with sheer desperation, dying for the final push.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Mouth agape in a silent scream bubbling inside her constricted throat, she arches into a telltale bow, head falling onto his shoulder, as she flutters around him – rhythmical pulsing that pushes him over the edge, muscles twitching below. Never had she allowed a man to use her like that, and while the artiste was once positive it must be the single most distasting experience of one’s life, she finds herself relishing in the inglorious sensation, trembling as the wave of aftershocks rocks through her limp frame.

(Fucking hell.)

(Fucking hell.)

Tangled on the silky sheets and coming down from their heights, neither of them dare to exchange a word, and so break the comfortable silence – tranquility emerging from the storm – instead bask in the afterglow, with him nuzzling her hair, seemingly in a moment of weakness, lacking the previous rapture. As if unable to foresee the inevitable, she utters a whine of protest the moment he pulls out from her body, having settled the partner aside once he collapses onto the mattress, fatigue evident in his movements, and yet allows her to curl into his side, even intertwine their fingers.

Interesting.

What else might be considered in such terms is the contrast, beyond stark, both in color and texture – creamy and tender juxtaposed with the inky pattern, flesh that is rough in to touch, indicating he must have been working in an entirely different field from the current corporative line – a layover on the methodical path to the ornament itself. Examining the small tattoos drawn over their length, she finds the disability to identify what has been depicted on his skin in such a dim lightening a tad bit infuriating, although not mood-defining, which would be rather odd elsewise – getting emotional over some minuscule detail.

(Hypocrite.)

“Did they hurt?” She asks, breaking the drowsy lull that has settled over them, a question that prevents him from dozing off for now, which might turn out for the better in the nearby future, since he is not quite fond of random modification in the hygiene routine.

“No,” he bestows her with a dismissive answer, once again and much to her annoyance if under any other circumstances, certainly not when she is lying half-asleep beside another warm body. “Mind if I use your shower?”

“No,” she mimics his most recent answer, nevertheless positive when it comes to the veracity of said statement.

What a terrible misconception.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – peaceful if not for that peculiar inkling lingering in the back of his mind, as if to indicate some ominous turnabout he opposes to discover. Pairing it up with one of the most loathed traits – attempting to fool himself – does nothing to alleviate the situation, instead enhances the disquietude that has been occupying his soul for quite a while, which in turn brings the anticipation of any possible denouement to the light, craving for certainty rather than a bunch of arising assumptions, even if it would lead to a minacious discovery.

Paradox.

Imminent downfall.

But a lesson from the most experienced teacher.

Life.

Life that has managed to educate him on a carnival realm, including even the least expected plot twists, the most obnoxious outcomes, begging for correction, a correction beyond qualifications, evoking the ardent embarrassment that follows in the wake of incapacity.

Although this time what initiates the process is an act.

An act so simple.

Nearly offensive.

A telephone.

No.

Let’s try that again.

It all starts out with a telephone from an old pal.

“Buenas noches, Connor,” he greets with a throaty tune that the manager has almost brought himself to forget – a road paved with good intentions. “Long time no see, eh?”

“Yes, most certainly,” he reciprocates, albeit surprisingly brisk to block the visual, all while striving for a note as calm as possible, burying all worries underneath the surface, at least for now – flawlessly polished façade.

“Oh c’mon, why so formal?” He whinges, smirk audible in his voice. “We haven’t talked for how long? Seven? Eight years?”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs, feigning indifference – desperate attempt of a drowning man. “It’s work related anyway.”

“Still concrete, I like this,” he remarks – deceptive tease.

“Flattery is useless,” he counters, tone harsh akin to a dagger – a reminiscence from the old times. “Unless, of course, you’re calling ‘cause you’re bored to shit and have no one to fuck. But I believe that’s not the case, now is it?”

“Sadly no,” he sighs, as if truly upset. “I have a wife now, so you know…”

“Oh and that’s stopping you? Fuck…” he rolls his eyes in mock disbelief – an involuntary response to the smoky tone. “But okay, let’s assume it does; then what’s the real issue, where’s the fucking catch?”

“You see people change-”

“And you believe in it? An old dog like you?” He interrupts – a retort followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Give me a fucking break.”

“Yes, I do believe it now,” he counters, voice laced with a hint of annoyance. “You see, I don’t like people within my scope, what’s mine stay mine. And who would understand it better than you, am I right?”

He only hums in approval.

“Very well,” he must be smiling now, not that he would want to see anything of that sort, but still, it disturbs him more than he cares to admit – a malevolent omen. “So I want you to do something for me, you know, for that time in New Mexico. I hope it rings a bell.”

“Yes, most certainly,” he mimics the prior answer, which has the man huffing in annoyance, although not interrupt his train of thoughts, if so enhance the need to spill the tea now that he has been given a chance.

Disastrous decision?

Well again, not really.

“Still remember how to kill?”

How many words?

Five?

Five words to utter the contrasting sentence, indicate the earth-shattering proposition.

Five words to send him straight to hell.

In business class.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Do you have the slightest idea what the fuck are you talking about?” He responds after good three minutes – a fleeting expanse of time, slipping out of attention’s grasp, unnoticed by the stern man – voice marred with helpless wrath. “I won’t get involved in any of your shady little businesses.”

“And why is that?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the empty screen, wishing Connor could see this – a victory amongst the vicious.

“Fuck you,” he spats, hands twitching in immerse rage. “Just- fuck you!”

“Better not piss me off, chico, ‘kay?” He interjects – an exclamation laced with blossoming annoyance now that his interlocutor has allowed himself for far too many liberties. “I’m nice, ‘cause we’re friends, but I won’t be nice if you piss me off, está claro?”

“Can’t you hire anyone else?” An attempt of discussion? Really? Downright pitiable. “I bet you have multiple sidekicks that would gladly do this for you, ‘cause now I don’t have any time to deal with your shit.”

“Pfft… as good time as any,” he counters, oh so unexpectedly. “Plus I think you’re gonna do this far better than any one of them, not to mention – for free.”

“The first one is a fucking lie, which we both know, and the second-”

“Oh I beg to differ,” he interrupts, still vexed although convinced that what Connor needs is time, time to get accustomed with the inevitable concept, matter extending beyond the realm of personal control. “Both are relevant. You’re the best and you’re gonna do this for free ‘cause you fucking owe me. End of the story.”

“I don’t-”

“Oh you do,” he cuts off once again, intent to get the best of him – calm attitude and meticulous precision, “so just fucking listen for once.”

“What is it even about?” He queries, now that he has managed to satiated the ardent rage, at least enough to circle back to the milder tone, a tone that would fit Thiago’s tastes. “Business? Revenge?”

“Well, both I’d say,” he bestows him with a brisk affirmation, not that he is surprised, “but I don’t wanna get into many details now that we’re on the line, not that anyone of those sacks of fuck would care, but still, you know how it is… Anyway, his name is Carlos Vásquez, and two, three years ago he was just a pimp, a regular pimp, ‘recruiting’ regular people to do regular shit, nothing special, right?”

“So what has changed?”

“He’s extended his business’ interests to the drug market, but even that wouldn’t concern me much, at least not that much to kill him,” he halts, possibly to enhance the suspense, which combined with exasperating Connor creates quite a lucrative form of entertainment. “Which was until that pendejo, pedazo de hijo de puta, sent a bunch of assholes to kidnap my daughter, my fifteen-year-old daughter, my Ava. You’ve never met her, but I believe I’ve mentioned her once or twice in New Mexico.”

“If only,” he huffs – a mannerism deliberately ignored by the influential businessman – rolling his eyes in a display of thespian impatience.

“And let me tell you, I’ll never, ever let that motherfucker get away with this,” he continues – malicious promise, albeit paved with good intentions.

“Where is she now?” He interjects, a blunt query that has his friend, supposing he can be labeled as such, laughing out loud.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft all of sudden… Christ.”

“It’s a practical question,” he explains, apparently displeased with the obligation to enlighten the aforementioned. “’Cause I want you to know from the very beginning that I ain’t gonna save her.”

“Oh, thank you kindly for your compassion, but she’s safe now, which is all you need to know,” he clarifies – an exclamation that has the manager sighing in relief, considering his reluctance when it comes to any dramatic rescues.

“And the details?”

“I’ll send them later,” the Mexican flips him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, having forgotten he has blocked the visual, not that it bothers him much anyway. “You know, photos, business associates, lovers’ names, blah, blah, blah…”

“Sure you will,” he nods, feeling obliged to clarify all matters despite the boiling tension, threatening to leak onto the surface – indication of the so-called professionalism. “Any special requests?”

“Well… actually yes.”

(Ah, of course. Fuck me up, will you?)

“I want it the old-fashioned way. Strangle him for me. Bare hands.”

(Sure, and what else?)

“Sure, customer is king,” and he even manages to pull off a smile.

Sick.

“Glad we agree on this one, but don’t forget to record it,” he reminds – an unprofessional explanation, beyond obvious, and so to the point of offensive. “It’s gonna provide me a prove of you work, plus later on… who knows? We could… reprogram it into a simulation for instance.”

“Sure,” he agrees – a brisk affirmation, a signature of his.

“And maybe, just maybe, don’t get too hooked on the idea, you’ll get some spare cash after all, from the sale of course,” he proposes, not that it bothers Connor at this point, lacking the essential turnabout.

“Mhm, merciful,” he remarks, ever the sarcastic. “But what now? Should I wait for some kind of a call or…?”

“Yeah, just wait,” he bestows him with yet another terse confirmation, indicating whatever low-class joke that has been blossoming underneath his skull. “Dulces sueños, babe.”

And with that he hangs up.

Son of the bitch.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – release of her debut album, and so considered as an entry ticket to the variety of possibilities, reserved for the elite only, at least according to what she thought at that time.

Obso-lite.

Obtuse.

Lie.

Therefore, as the years pass by, so does her confidence when it comes to the human potential, artificial power that he has gained through the achievements of the most sublime minds, possession of little respect, taken for granted. All for the convenience of the beneficial ones, monstrous corporations with tremendous influence over the common men lead by the exceptional – an astral being that transcends human consciousness, marking its presence in the society’s genome for generations.

Ridiculously potent.

Romantic phantasy?

But worth recommencing.

Ergo, she has decided to make a use of all the interludes in between their meetings, and so replace the prior mindless fumbling with an action far more directed when juxtaposed with hours and hours of staring at the celling. For months, she was struggling to realized how many inhibitions were piling up to form one grotesque stack, defining the incapacity, artistic lameness that accompanies them, crossing creator’s steps, interfering with the futuristic vision.

And so, she has transferred the mental freedom into work, resulting in a trio of fresh composition – a birdlike tune, cyber tweet – with more than a little help from the synthesizer – an attempt to retreat it in the limelight as a substitute for the dreamy vocals that would play the first fiddle in her debut album. Regardless, as a slave to consumerism, she cannot fight the nervousness that comes with driving down the less explored road, hoping it will pick anyone’s interest and so curries favor with the influential corporation, at least according to what Connie has asseverated.

Risk.

The most influential spice…

But that was before the article.

“Gia?” She hears a male voice addressing her, audible due to relatively close proximity – a factor rather important in the buzzling club. “I haven’t seen you here for a while. Why?”

“Um, I’ve been busy,” she explains, lifting her gaze, only to be greeted with a sight of an infamous Interstellar bartender, leaning by the table top to face her, “but I needed to let off some steam, so that’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Cool,” he nods in affirmation, a matter to cut the topic short. “So what’s you poison?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting?” She eludes, eyes glued to the array of various liquors preening from behind his back. “The fact that we say ‘poison’ instead of ‘alcohol’, ‘drink’ or whatever as if it was some kind of an indication?”

“Honey, I’m a bartender,” he smiles, apologetic yet condescending – such an odd composition. “It’s my fucking job to sell them, so what are you expecting me to say?”

“I don’t know, nothing probably,” she shrugs despite the burdening weight draped over her shoulders – non-verbal indication of a missing query.

“Look at me,” he prompts, to which she complies, locking their gazes together, even if for a split second. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know either,” she sighs for a change, distracted by the subtle clink of glass against the polished table top – water, she presumes, satisfactorily sparkling. “I mean, it’s just… Have you seen the articles?”

“‘Romance with an outlaw?’” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the woman, unable to miss the reddish tint blossoming upon her checks as a response to the ridiculous headline. “Yes, and sometimes I’m amazed where the fuck they dig that shit from, which is probably the Net, but still, their ‘dedication’ is incomprehensible for me.”

“He’s not even an outlaw, so I don’t get it,” she shakes her head – expression of a deep-rooted disapproval.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden. “I just think the editors assumed it’d sell itself as, I don’t know, romantic or some shit, but that’s by the by.”

“I mean the real problem is that he hid so many things from me,” she frowns, gaze glued to some mindless spot on the bar – venomous green, absinthe maybe? “And although he has never been the one to discuss his past, I was surprised when I read the article, and I’ve been surprised ever since.”

“Mhm, so tell me now, have you ever asked yourself just why he did that?”

“Yes, but um, it was just… a weird experience? I don’t know,” she sighs, hybrid nails scratching at the pale temple. “I feel like he should’ve told me since we’re together, ‘cause that’s… that’s what I’d do.”

“I believe not,” he opposes – dry and unyielding, beyond unexpected.

“Oh great, so now you’re defending him,” she fusses, exasperation evident in her voice. “That’s exactly what I need, thank you very much.”

“Christ, Gia,” he rolls his eyes, sometimes just as equally tired with her pendulum-like moods. “All I wanted to say was that it’s nothing but an academic example. Take for instance that moral dilemma with pedestrian crossing. You’re sitting at home, drinking tea, while choosing to murder random groups of people. And that’s absurd, ‘cause in real life it’d never happen, and even if, when push comes to the shove you might act out of pure instinct, deprived of warm beverage and blanket. So what I’m trying to say is that those hypothetical scenarios… they are all just assumptions, no more no less, and we’ll never know what we’d do unless we find ourselves involved in a certain situation.”

“Okay, but I still think he should’ve told me,” she justifies, seemingly at loss of the mental flexibility.

“How long are you together?” He questions, as if only to prove a point. “Two? Three weeks?”

“Four,” she corrects – a matter considered beyond insignificant by the bartender who is relatively quick to brush the artiste off in resemblance to Connor, and so much to her exasperation.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause, you know, not anyone feels ready to spill the guts after twenty-something days of personal relationship.”

“I was just trying to be honest with him, ‘kay?” She counters, attempting to mitigate the prior surge of spite with an apologetic explanation. “Show a little empathy, or something.”

“So you’re telling me your ‘empathy’ is uniformed when it comes to, I don’t know, traumas?” He retorts, as if genuinely tired with the lacking logics when it comes to justifying her motives.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sorry,” she sighs, once again back to the resigned attitude, now that the ire has evaporated. “It’s just… he’s killed people there, and I don’t know… I feel like it’s a lot to digest. Especially since I got furious and pushed him into telling the truth, and he… he told me so many horrible things, he told me they-”

“Which war was that?” he interrupts, having sensed the approaching lachrymose confession. “Climate one?”

“Yes, the Fifth,” she bestows him with a terse affirmation, swallowing the thick lump in her throat.

“The Fifth one… okay, so think about it now,” he waves his hand in a self-indicating gesture, accompanied by her eyes following the movement, even if for a split second. “He must’ve been like, I don’t know, twenty at best.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” she nods, face marked by a perturbed frown – indication of worry, “but then I started digging, and I’ve discovered some really weird shit.”

“Like what exactly?”

“It’s like he’s been alive for eight years or something,” she begins, having reversed the chronology, at least according to his assumptions, considering she tends to do that sometimes. “I mean he told me he had had some kind of an accident there or whatever, got half off his organs replaced because of that. But when he had gotten better, they were to send him back on the field, right?”

“Right, but what about these eight years or something?” He inquires, attempting to redirect her train of thought to the clarifying realm, now that he is getting curious.

“I’ll circle back to it later, ‘kay?” She sighs, albeit this time to indicate the vexation evoked by his query. “So the last thing he told me was that he deserted, right?”

“Right,” he nods in affirmation.

“And that was when Cara pushed me to start digging,” she reveals, emphasizing it with the click of her cantaloupe nail against the table top.

“Cara? I thought you two were-”

“Yes, we are, but that’s not important now,” she interrupts, determined to set the record straight now that he is interfering with her vision, even if unintentionally. “Anyway, after the desertion there is like… a blank spot on his record – six years or something – and then he’s back in the corporative class.”

“Where have you learned that?” He frowns – puzzled expression dancing over his features.

“In the Net,” she states – a sentence considered beyond obvious, redundant, waste of a triple nature.

“Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?” He indicates, hesitating when it comes to veracity of said assumption, but at the same time uncertain whether it is a sane idea to confirm her beliefs. “Maybe he moved to his parents’ house, wanted to get some rest, or something? Wasn’t active on social media? Christ, I don’t know.”

“I mean it was just the Surface that we managed to check, so…”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here!” He exclaims, shaking his head in disapproval, now that the realization has been casted upon him. “To pay that sleazy son of fuck to get you down to the Dark, now am I right or am I correct?”

“You know where is he?”

“No,” he negates, careless all off sudden, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, “and I haven’t seen him tonight at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” she states – dry and demanding when refused.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he smiles – both apologetic and condescending once again, prompting her to finish this conversation, no matter how helpful it turned out to be.

“But thanks anyway,” she concludes, having opted for a lighter undertone, since a part of her refuses to treat him akin to some pitiful pushover, not that he would care much in such circumstances.

“Sure, you’re welcome, Gia.”

A greeting appropriate just for tonight.

Indication of lacking fortune.

* * *

Breathing.

It is a simple act, lasting in a self-repeating loop – inhale and exhale, entwined with each other on the model of the aforementioned construct – remaining out of notice due to its permanent presence throughout one’s life. Which is why he considers meditation as worth the effort, since it lets his focus switch to the routine activities connected with the process itself: steady rises and falls of his shoulders, expansion of the ribcage conditioned by the diaphragm’s contractions – a way to get rid of what is redundant but also a method of relaxation, capacity valued in the times of trial.

Times such as now.

Times when he is forced to circle back to the past, and so to break the promise, ideological contract signed by the immaterial stylus, undoubtedly requiring the highest penalty.

Times when the dim lights become blinding.

When the silhouettes stop moving.

When the music dies down.

Leaving him alone in the secluded dimension.

Wiped away from the memories.

From the consciousness.

Buried deep enough to prevent the excavation.

And yet he is standing there, just at the doorway coexisting in two realms – both virtual and metaphorical – ready to take the leap.

Just a mere step

Pass the threshold.

“Everything’s ready?” He ascertains, struggling to recognize the rasp of his own voice.

“Yeah,” he hears the cracking noise reverberate in the earbud, before the connection steadies, allowing him to distinguish the following words properly. “Push it now.”

“Mhm, sure,” he hums, acting as per her request just to be greeted by the sight of a luxurious penthouse, impossible to be swept as a whole.

“I’ll lead you through, ‘kay?” She has a nice voice – a nuance that does not slip past his attention – smooth as molasses.

“Well, I hope so,” he teases, having decided to stray from the subject a bit, even if only for the entertaining purposes. “But, you know, I’ve been wondering what it is that you’re actually risking by helping me?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses to clarify – ice-cold queen. “It’s not like I’m doing it, ‘cause I have the softest heart ever. It’s that kind of shit you get paid for. Generously.”

“No need to lie to me, you know,” he nags further, as if to determine her tolerance for such attitude in general, now that he intends to redirect his train of thoughts – transition between tension and thrill. “Thought you might like to talk, but if not, I get it, no pressure. It’s just… I’m curious, and probably just as fucked as you are, but that’s by the by.”

“Connect to the monitoring system,” she directs – blunt and reserved.

“Sure, anything,” he affirms with a hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fingers fishing out the portable device from the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to jack in. “Not in the mood to talk?”

“I? Not in the mood?” She retorts, presumably a query, but the flat tone might be delusionary. “What a plot twist.”

“Mhm, most certainly,” he agrees – a humming baritone that resonates through his chest.

“Mhm,” she mimics the sound, milder when juxtaposed with the prior accusative timbre. “Thanks for not fucking this up by the way.”

“So you’re in the system?” He ascertains, rising an inquisitive eyebrow – a conditional reflex – despite the fact she is unable to see him now.

Or is she?

“Yeah,” she bestows him with a brisk affirmation just as he steps through the threshold of the security room, intent to hide in the opposite area, and so seize the opportunity to sneak up on the pimp from behind.

“Should I worry about anything else?” He inquires – a matter of clarification – now that he is leaning by the quartz pillar.

“For now? No, just wait,” she instructs, probably for the last time this evening, which evokes that odd tension once again, indicating the inevitability of the climax. “He’ll be here soon.”

“And just how’d you know that?”

“’Cause I’ve fucking fried his security system, which means he’s got the message that there’s a malfunction?” She snaps, voiced laced with a distinctive hint of sarcasm; and it suits her, he thinks. “What did you expect?”

“Certainly much more fumbling,” he explains, having opted for ignoring the accusative tone, at least for now, although a part of him still considers it weird, the fact that he is in full supervision of his own security system – dictated by the trust issues maybe?

“Better lower your expectation for the next time, huh?” She suggests, allowing herself to switch back to the bedroom area that he is currently occupying, even for a brief moment, a moment of distraction, curious about his appearance, which might as well be the second most irresponsible decision of this month, but still, she cannot help herself.

It has been sane to say they are both equally fucked.

“That’d actually set them higher,” he chuckles – a sound that catches him off guard for a split second, enhanced by the fact he is the one to voice it – a paradox maybe? “’Cause if I expect a relatively tough situation to run smoothly, it means that I set my expectation high, at least when it comes to the fortunate circumstances or my capacities.”

“But isn’t it like this sometimes?” She ponders, metallic nails scratching her chin, as she drinks in his features – ash blonde hair, geometric cheek implants, and tall silhouette, clad in dark clothing – interesting to say the least. “That, um… that you do something unintentionally or by accident, and in the end it turns out for the better?”

“Maybe it is,” he shrugs, glancing at the camera’s lens, as if he sensed her gaze on him, which has the woman adverting it to the side, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Ridiculous. “Maybe I even dare to say I agree, but-”

“Okay, C,” she does not even know his name, for fuck’s sake. “Sorry to interrupt, but he’s here. Luckily alone.”

“Yeah, right according to our assumptions,” he nods, calmer when confronted by an factual information. “So how much time do I have?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” she vacillates – feverish, and so incapable to decide, even if for a split second. “A minute? Two maybe?”

“Couldn’t you like… tell me earlier?” He frowns, voice laced with a hint of accusation.

“Maybe if you weren’t fucking distracting me?” She mimics his tone – indication of an approaching argument, although she is yet to surprise him in that realm.

“Well, I tend to do that sometimes,” he teases as per usual, maybe to conceal the fact she appears to be quits in that matter, eliciting a vexed huff from his female partner on the other side of the line.

“Uh just- I don’t know, good luck.”

Beep, ensued by silence.

Alone again.

Although not for long.

Indicated by the click of the front door and cautious steps reverberating in the adjoining area, or rather the creeping climax acquiring a form of a male with chrome hand – external damnation – from where he can see approaching the security room with a gun clutched tightly by the synthetic digits.

Closure.

Closure that grants perspectives.

Perspectives at hand.

Hand of providence.

Providence of a man.

Man to replace the God.

Unbelievable.

One step, two, then three… from or towards the target? Clueless, deprived of an ability to count, with tunnel vision drifting him towards the goal – a man leaning by the table, gaze fixated on the computer screen, scrolling through the program.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself – a sound that sends a shiver down the manager’s spine, but also prompts him to move forth, closer and closer to the man, echoing in the mental dimension, on the pinnacle of tensity, bracing for a fall.

A fall that comes with a surge forward, with a clasp of his hands around the pimp’s throat, with a choked groan, uttered in an empty space.

A hiss recognized as his own, evoked by the sharp pain resonating from the wrist, clasp in between the artificial fingers, biting in the flesh.

An idea, out of pure instinct, to pull the target down to the ground, before he manages to elbow him in the gut and so wriggle out from his grasp.

A contact – interference of gazes, dazed juxtaposed (mingled?) with determined, face flushed due to the effort, piercing red irises staring right at him.

A mere adjustment – evidence of skill and practice – to cut off his blood flow, switch from choking to strangling.

A fall that comes with a dull thud – head colliding with the polished floor – body slack in his hands, hands that keep their hold around the victims neck for a few longer moments – a procedure to ascertain that his brain remains hypoxic for long enough to cause fatal damage.

Terminal.

Taxing.

Transitional.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, once again struggling to recognize the sound of his own voice, as he scoots away from the body, finding the necessary support in the nearby wall.

With back pressed flushed against it, head tilted to the side, he is vaguely aware of the dull throbbing resonating from his wrist, now that he is coming to senses, which prompts him to rise the violated limb to the eye level. He is greeted with a sight of reddened flesh, indicating the inevitable appearance of a purplish bruise, albeit deprived of any nasty outcomes – no sprained joints and crushed bones – much to his relief.

Clean work, as for the professional.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, massaging the achy spot with the opposite hand, as he attempts to swallow the thick lump down his throat, parched to some inhuman degree.

Delirious.

Incognizant of what has just happened on the security room’s floor.

Incognizant of the body lying at his feet.

Incognizant of the myriad of possible consequences.

Just tired.

And thirsty.

“Water.”

And with that thought in mind, he makes his way to the kitchen, as if only for the sake of delaying what is inevitable.

Aftermath of conscience.

* * *

Emptiness.

Vastness of possibilities?

Dimension for creation?

Vicious end?

Dreadful perspective?

Sacrifice worth the grief.

Or a decision that has been bothering him since he passed the threshold of that fatal penthouse, burdening him with a distinctive realization – he is far from proud or pleased with the turn of events, all against his will, forced to succumb, degraded to the level of some common mercenary.

Unbelievable.

How many days was that? Two thousand eight hundred and fifty six?

And now? Ten?

A missing piece of puzzles – that is what it feels like – a habit he has grown accustomed with throughout the years, a channel to pour sorrows to, and now? How is he supposed to record his ideas, intents, or insights when he has none, no inquiries, no impressions.

No fate.

An ending line, elongating past the point of a broken promise – informal, yet more meaningful than any other he has ever concluded – indicating the disastrous vision acquiring its vessel’s form – sticky liquid, leaving indelible stains on each and every surface as if to mar it for all eternity.

(That’s a tad bit dramatic, don’t you think?)

(Romantic?)

To be fair, he is far from the level of knowledge that would allow him to elaborate a romantic expertise, not only a loathsome trait, but also lethal, lethal to consider suicide as a redemption from some tragic love – factor that is meant to shatter their proximate universe. As an individual (what a fitting term) he conjectures it to be far more than just plain dangerous: following their obsolete beliefs, soaking up their wisdoms, switching to their philosophy of life – simply damnation-granting. Nevertheless, the contemporary world appears as beyond deprived from any excess traces from the bygone times, pitiful remains that are swept away with the passing years – an eternal river – all to the convenience of its dwellers.

Which leads him to yet another assumption.

What if he is wrong? What if it is bound to indicate a conclusion of entirely different nature, a conclusion leading to an ultimate enlightenment – our future is what we consider it to be, a conglomerate of particles, of events to be foreseen, of idealistic visions and rational objectives, transcending human comprehension, so fatally finite?

With us occupying the creator’s chair.

“People are marred,” he states all of sudden, which captures the artiste’s attention, and so prompts her to rise from the lounging position on the sofa, legs still draped over male’s lap as his fingers trail mindless serpentines over the ivory skin, “damaged, shattered, akin to a glass pane.”

“What makes you think that?” She inquires, forehead marked with two thin lines – indication of puzzlement – with her gaze lingering on male’s profile, on the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, up to the subtle geometric line adorning his cheeks, and the intricate patterns decorating the side of his neck.

“It was just a random thought, nothing significant.”

(Sure I’d believe that.)

“Mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?” She frowns once again, confused due to the alternating course, watching him from the propped-up position, not the most convenient to be honest.

“Only after sex,” he bestows Gia with a brisk clarification, offering her a helping hand as she rises from the spot, now kneeling beside him with his arm encircling her waist, palm flat on the hip. “So?” He cocks an expecting eyebrow at her, as if searching for an answer. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head no, shivering once his hand abandons its previous spot, and so deprives the female from his body heat, no matter how moderate it has been until now. With her eyes following the leisure movements that result in lighting up a slim cig, held delicately in between a pair of his long fingers, she cannot help but dwell upon each and every notion evoked by the unfortunate publication, the fact that he barely talks about himself as if he could not trust her – a partner who is supposed to be the person to open up to, a friend to soak up all sorrows, a guarantor of the so-called unconditional love.

But is he even capable of that? Of romantic affection? Or is he simply yet another cold-hearted inhabitant, so fitting in the cruel world, a place where vulnerability overlaps with divergence, a place nowhere near to be considered as home, vast and empty, of multiple dimensions and unexplored concepts?

“What else have you been hiding from me?”

“And what is it that you’re expecting to hear?” He glances at her from the seat by the open window, face illuminated by the shimmering neons. “Some kind of a story?”

“That’s what I’m counting for,” she affirms, fixing the tee that has ridden up her thighs, as if sensing that excess exposure is rather unfavorable in such case.

“Fine then,” he agrees, taking the last drag from the half-smoked cigarette, before he tosses it out of the window, much to her distaste. “I’m gonna tell you a story, a story an idealistic girl like you would never understand.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you know what it feels like… being forced to kill?” He begins, having ignored her opposition, all considered trivial when juxtaposed with his attempt of confession. “Answer me.”

“Why do you think you, or anyone else, have the right to kill?” She huffs, a concept laying beyond her comprehension – a superior man, the one to overuse his authority.

Lord of Life and Death.

Disgusting.

Or an inquiry that has him chuckling in response, a bitter laughter that echoes in the empty space, even if metaphorically so, ringing in her ears as they receive the stimulus.

“And the body? What it smells like? How heavy it is?” He continues, leaning backwards, elbows supported by the window frame, as if bracing for the lethal leap. “Impossibly so. It’s like you can barely lift it… perhaps because of the emotional baggage? Who knows?”

The words that reverberate in the fragile expanse of her mind.

Words that shatters her affection, her deep-rooted fondness.

Everything that she has ever bestowed him with.

And it strips her bare, naked in front of his penetrative gaze.

“What have you done?” She gulps, anticipating the terminal answer with parched throat and tensed muscles.

“And against your conscious will? That’s truly the debasement of humanity,” he shoves the query aside, at least for now, intent to explain everything on his own conditions. “Just imagine that, you have no fucking money, and it forces you to fuck some sleazy pimp in order to provide all necessities. And you hate yourself for that, ‘cause it’s fucking disgusting, fucking… hideous as it seeps through your pores. But you can’t deny it, and more – gotta accept it as a fact, ‘cause there’s no other way.”

“Oh, man of little faith,” she rolls her eyes – a mannerism he chooses to ignore, along with the pitiful comment – a sack full of idealistic absurdities.

“For almost eight years, I thought I could escape my past, ‘cause I’d think that’s where all bygone actions belong,” he continues, gaze fixated on some unidentified spot decorating the opposite wall. “And then I got a phone call from an old pal. You know what he told me?”

“I’m not omniscient,” she retorts, choosing to be sarcastic all of sudden, a turnabout that he finds oddly amusing.

“Oh you’re not? Okay,” he throws her a brief glance, lips laced in a condescending smirk – a signature of his. “So he called me because of a favor. Old times, saved my life in New Mexico, and you’ll never understand what it means, unless you experience that kind of bond. It’s something that’ll always defy the laws of physic, finding its way back to the surface, no matter the amount of stones you use to drown it.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Of the non-negotiable kind,” he clarifies, a matter offensively obvious in his notion, “and what was that favor you may ask? Fairly simple, get rid of some overconfident pimp, the rest is not important.”

A mere statement.

Not to mention beyond expected.

And yet potent enough to drain blood out of her face, push past the pinnacle of emotions, coiling just underneath the surface, coiling and wailing to be released from the confinement of their prison.

Resurrection that comes with catharsis.

Rampant rage.

“You didn’t have to do it, you know,” she spats – blunt and accusatory. “And the fact that you did it only makes you a coward – no – it makes you a hypocrite, who is also a coward, for not following his beliefs, ‘cause… you know what defines one as a human?”

“What defines one as a human, miss Ortega?”

(How dare he!)

“The quality of being good,” she explains, struggling to keep up with the calmer tone, not willing to blow up just yet, “the quality you clearly lack. And it pains me to see how much mistaken I’ve been.”

He laughs again.

And this time it has her blood boiling hot.

“It’s so ease to judge others, don’t you think?” He retorts, calling back to that ridiculous conversation at the Interstellar, just few days prior, or a lifetime maybe? “Especially when all you have to worry is ‘being a good person’. It is an incredible privilege to choose between those two factors – what’s moral and immoral – a privilege not everyone can afford.”

Up to the breaking point.

“You’re incomplete,” he continues, rising to walk towards the door, indicating her inevitable departure that creeps closer and closer, tightening its claws around her weeping soul, “and you’ll always be until you understand that other people’s beliefs don’t define who you are.”

Snap.

“You know what? I hate you! You’re the most hideous, the most disgusting-”

“Sure I am,” he nods – a terse affirmation, so laconic it almost has her slapping him, safe only due to the fact she is putting on her pants. “But I believe you’ve already mentioned that.”

“I- I-”

“Oh do go on, tell me,” he interrupts – a jeering remark, a mannerism that she loathes more than anything else as an evidence of her disastrous tendency to maneuver between the polarities, “share your very important beliefs.”

“No, fuck you!” She exclaims, fingers clasping around the material of her coat, soon to yank it from the hanger. “I’m leaving and I can guarantee you won’t see me. Ever. Again.”

“Overly dramatic, but okay, I can cope with that,” a response that consists of a mere shrug, as if it was the only action laying in his capacity after those few months together – the most vicious farewell. “And whatever you’re planning to do with yourself… good luck with that.”

“Dickhead,” she throws over her shoulder – an expression of bitter virulence – ready to depart with a heavy slam – indication of a bygone phase, never to be retreated, fleetingness laced with some odd kind of beauty, the one he has almost dared to forget throughout the years, all of sudden thirsty for its everlasting charm.

Ergo, he remains awake that night.

Staring at the celling until sunlight accompanies the neons.

* * *

“Day twenty seventh,” he begins, the sound of running shower acting as his lonesome listener, not that he needs any audience today. “I’ve noticed an interesting pattern recently, or maybe I’ve just been reminded of its existence... I don’t know…maybe… The thing is, I’ve got some vague memories of my childhood, maybe because I was trying so desperately to push away the past, to treat every day like a rebirth, and so forced myself to forget… Actually, that sounds ridiculous when spoken out loud, but it’s fine, I can cope with that.”

“So as a kid I’d perceive world in terms of a simple black-and-white matter, which had me thinking my curiosity was soon to be satiated, kind of ironic… Anyway, as I was getting older, I also came to a conclusion that our world is run on secrets, and despite the years that have passed since then, I still agree with this sentence. It gets me to wonder how much of the given information applies to the reality, which makes quite an important factor in the contemporary world, but that’s by the by.”

“Cutting to the chase, realizations are like cycles, and by saying so I meant that they pay us a visit in self-repeating patterns. Which indicates the so-called tendency of changing one’s mind that sometimes allows us to circle back to the starting point. Quite interesting to be honest, especially in the face of some intense experience, both physically and emotionally, that is… that is, um… capable of rearranging the entire sequence of outlooks.”

“For years I’d think that what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over, or something, I’m only paraphrasing… but this seems to sum up why I’ve decided on all these tattoos, hours and hours of stinging discomfort. But it was nothing compared to being obliged to see all the scars, not because of the aesthetics but because of the continuous pain… the continuous pain and its physical reminiscence. At that time I couldn’t accept it, but now… I don’t know… it’s weird, both relieving and chilling, as if a piece of puzzle was missing… which makes me think that I’ll just need some time to get used to it. Either way it’s refreshing, so blissfully refreshing… fuck, I love it.”

“Normally at this point I’d remind myself of that crappy shit I was told in the past, maybe because it was my only way to connect with it, and fuck… it makes me such a fucking hypocrite, but now… I doubt whether I need it anymore.”

“’Cause I did fucking man up. End of a story.”

Created: 12/28/20 Completed: 03/11/21 Edited: 03/17/21

[drnikolatesla]

Nikola Tesla’s Thoughts On the Soul and Life After Death

Tesla’s reasoning are the thoughts of a practical man of science, who has not only conducted experiments, but deep mental consideration to the question of immortality. Tesla was destined by his parents at an early age to enter the clergy, but the inventive genius, inherited from his mother, took him into the realm of science. Most of his life was spent in deep meditation to the question of the soul and life after death. His conclusions on the subjects will most definitely not run parallel with most others, but are indeed food for thought.

Here are 6 quotes made by Nikola Tesla:

1. When a child is born, its sense organs are brought in contact with the outer world. The waves of sound, heat and light beat against its feeble body, its sensitive nerve fibres quiver, the muscles contract and relax in obedience—a gasp, a breath, and in this act a wonderful little engine, of structure, is hitched to the wheelwork or the universe. Left to itself the engine stops; it has no power to draw energy from Nature’s inexhaustible store.

“The little engine moves and works, changes size and shape, performs more and more varied operations, becomes sensitive to more and more different influences, and now there begins to manifest itself in it a mysterious force. It becomes capable of responding to stimuli of a more subtle nature and of drawing, for its own use, energy from the environment. Gradually the engine has been transformed into a being possessed of intelligence, which perceives, discerns, does like others of its kind.

“The experiences multiply, the knowledge increases, the discernment becomes keener, the human being responding to the faintest influences, is awakened to the consciousness of Nature and its grandeur, and in its breast there is kindled a desire to imitate Nature, to create, to work itself the wonders it perceives.

”But the exercise of this power does not satisfy the mind, which rises to still higher, undefinable perceptions, not of this world, and inspired by them the artist, the inventor and the man of science give expression to the longing of the soul.

(“Shows How Men Of The Future May Become As Gods.” NEW YORK HERALD . December 30, 1900.)

2. “That an aggregation of impressions, thoughts and feelings having no materiality, and vaguely designated as mind, or soul, should be substance susceptible of quantitative determination is altogether too absurd for discussion.

“The change however, which takes place in the human body during its awful transition from life to death is a great subject for scientific investigation which may possibly lead to important results. If the experiments of Massachusetts physicians are to be at all seriously considered, it is only in this respect.

“I could not help being struck by the fact that men of a scientific caliber sufficiently large to undertake measurements requiring the greatest delicacy and skill, should not be correspondingly resourceful in devising the apparatus for the purpose. A scale responding to the weight of one tenth of an ounce is not a fit instrument for weighing the human soul.

“It is not less astonishing that such trained observer should have overlooked a trivial cause responsible for the seeming lightening of the body. I use this term designedly, for accepting the exudations which have been taken into consideration there was no loss of substance in death.

“When the rigor mortis sets in there is an increase of volume for various reasons. Just to give a rough idea I shall assume that the living body, weighing a hundred and sixty pounds, had filled a space of three cubic feet. The air in a sick room may weigh about fourteen ounces per cubic feet. Half an ounce of the air would consequently occupy a space of sixty-two cubic inches, and that would be only one percent of the original volume of three cubic feet. As will readily be seen, a very slight general deformation of the body, scarcely perceptible, is adequate to explain the puzzling observation. The sudden tipping of the scale demonstrates nothing except the coarseness of the instrument. Had the balance been very sensitive, owing to the resistance of the air, the platform would have ascended slowly.“

–Nikola Tesla

(“Scientists Doubt The Human Soul Was Weighed.” New York World, March 17, 1907.)

3. “Since time immemorial the most profound thinkers have tried to lift the veil that hides the beyond. I have read thousands of volumes of literature and thought for years in the hope that I might get some kind of evidence to show that death is not the end. But all in vain. To me the universe is simply a marvelous mechanism, and the most complex forms of human life, as human beings, are nothing else but automatic engines, controlled by external influence. Through incessant observation I have so convinced myself of the truth of this that I cannot perform any act or even conceive a thought without locating at once the external stimulus that prompted it.

“A forceful argument in support of the existence of a creative agent is made of the law, order and harmony perceptible everywhere. But it must not be forgotten that Kant’s reasoning and conclusion in this respect are irrefutable. According to this philosopher, the conception of fitness has been created in the speculative mind of men, which thus admires a miracle wrought by itself.

“Granted a planetary system, it is absolutely inevitable that in the course of eons such organized beings as we are will evolve. The cooling of the hot masses results in a precipitation of water, and under the influence of the sun’s rays heliotropic action takes place and life is started. Through chemical and other agents and continuous adjustment complex mechanisms come into being, and these ultimately develop into structures of marvelous complexity with capacities of response to the faintest stimulae from the environment.

“When we realize this as a fact we begin to grasp the great idea of Buddha–that self is an illusion. Indeed, we are nothing but waves in space and time which when dissolved exist no more.

“There is this to be said, however, that science without hope is not satisfactory, and unless one has some ideals he cannot achieve happiness. The religious is the most lofty ideal, and it seems that the great reformers who, ages ago, laid down rules of conduct were right in their conclusions that a peaceful existence and a continued onward march of man on this globe is essentially dependent on the conception of a God.

“I have read Mr. Burbank’s statement in which he expresses an opinion shared by most natural philosophers, but one must not be too rash in contradicting the conclusions reached by countless men of genius who spent their lives in endeavors to ascertain the destiny of the human race. A single individual, however well informed and capable, may be partially unaware of if not utterly blind to evidences of a certain kind, which might be quite sufficient for others. This is the reason why I am distrustful of my own findings. Possibly Mr. Ford, who I understand is accepting old traditions, may be closer to the truth than such men as Burbank and myself.

“I have searched during many years for some process or means to test the possibility of future existence by scientific experiment, and I have devised one, which, to my great disappointment, has failed. But perhaps some more skillful experimenter might succeed if I suggest to him the course. To put it briefly, it is this:

“Our bodies are composed of molecules of various elements, harmoniously united. Do these molecules retain any after-effect when the body is dissolved? To ascertain this take, say, two molecules of hydrogen from the body of an individual and also one molecule of oxygen. Furthermore, provide another molecule of oxygen taken from some other body. Now place the two molecules of hydrogen so they can combine with the oxygen, and if they prefer that molecule of oxygen with which they were previously united, then reincarnation is proved. For, though it may take ages and ages, ultimately the molecules which constituted that body will get together again, just as in a vast city individuals from a distant land finally meet and establish close contact.”

(“After Death — WHAT?” Lima News, Lima, Ohio, March 14, 1926.)

4. “We are all automatons obeying external influences. We are entirely under the control of agents that beat on our senses from all directions of the outside world. Being merely receivers from the outside, it is a very important question how good the receivers are—some are sensitive and receive accurately. Others are sluggish and their reception is blurred. The individual who is a better machine has so much greater chance of achieving success and happiness. An individual who is an offender of law is a machine in which one or another organ has been deranged, so that the responses are no longer accurate.

“There is no chance in nature, although the modern theory of indeterminacy attempts to show scientifically that events are governed by chance. I positively deny that. The causes and effects, however complex, are intimately linked, and the result of all inferences must be inevitably fixed as by a mathematical formula.

“I also absolutely deny the existence of individuality. It took me not less than twenty years to develop a faculty to trace every thought or act of mine to an external influence. We are just waves in time and space, changing continuously, and the illusion of individuality is produced through the concatenation of the rapidly succeeding phases of existence. What we define as likeness is merely the result of the symmetrical arrangement of molecules which compose our body.”

“How about the soul - the spirit?” he was asked.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “but there is no soul or spirit. These are merely expressions of the functions of the body. These life functions cease with death and so do soul and spirit.

“What humanity needs is ideals. Idealism is the force that will free us from material fetters.”

(“Tesla Seeks to Send Power to Planets.” New York Times, July 11, 1931.)

5. “One of the most fundamental and also one of the saddest facts in human life is well brought out in a French proverb which, freely translated, means:

‘If Youth had the knowledge and Old Age the strength of doing.’

Our condition of body and mind in old age is merely a certificate of how we have spent our youth. The secret of my own strength and vitality today is that in my youth I led what you might call a virtuous life.

"I have never dissipated. When I was a young man I understood well the significance of that old French proverb, although I doubt that I had even heard it then. But I seemed to have a clear understanding while still young that I must control my passions and appetites if I wanted to make some of my dreams come true.

(“Tremendous New Power Soon To Be Released.” By Carol Bird. Charleston Daily Mail, Charleston, West Virginia, Page 40. September 10, 1933.)

6. “To me, the universe is simply a great machine which never came into being and never will end. The human being is no exception to the natural order. Man, like the universe, is a machine. Nothing enters our minds or determines our actions which is not directly or indirectly a response to stimuli beating upon our sense organs from without. Owing to the similarity of our construction and the sameness of our environment, we respond in like manner to similar stimuli, and from the concordance of our reactions, understanding is barn. In the course of ages, mechanisms of infinite complexity are developed, but what we call “soul ” or “spirit,” is nothing more than the sum of the functionings of the body. When this functioning ceases, the “soul” or the “spirit” ceases likewise.“

(“A Machine to End War.” Liberty Magazine, February 9, 1935.)

–Nikola Tesla

[achaosfilledworld]

mod walrus.

pleasure to meet you all, my main blog would be @cathedralrefuge (but i mainly use @imagine-the-walrus). i do go by some names, like... walri, or... waws (kou's nickname for me HAHA), or kenway (silver's nickname for me). and no i will not include the canon characters ^^;

basically, i write and draw a lot, so nothing distinctly special about me, just an old artist/writer hag.

anywho, it's time for me to bring you to the character introductions!

the DnD chat:

Nathala – a Tiefling Bard who actively does not perform in taverns (due to her bad reputation... of starting bar fights) and doesn't get paid for her songs—but for her... “contracts” (a.k.a, she kills for money, putting her bard and sword-fighting skills to the test). Has a tall beautiful elf girlfriend named Elyscia :>, and she also takes care of Connor!... (Though, she would need to protect them both a lot more now. wink wonk). Is against the Seven Deadly Sins (especially Greed—we will come to that) due to her mother's involvement with them (accidentally inhaled Greed's venom during a fight and died in her bed).

Elizabeth White – AAAaaa aa A. Half-Elf Rogue! (she's actually an assassin's creed oc sheesh) After the murder of Christian Raynott she doesn't have a permanent home and so she sets up camp anywhere as long as it's far enough from the manor she ran away from (...well she burnt it down, but repairs are being made), is now trying to find a way to get back at the Seven Deadly Sins squad (that's what she calls them) alongside Hypno, Illusion, Beep (she's just taking care of him), and of course, taco man (...Haytham.)

Tsarra – ew disgusting. She's an antagonistic character, the leading Elf Sorceress in the Seven Deadly Sins (the Pride). Ever since Beth killed Christian Raynott she and the other Seven Deadly Sins sought to either beat her up (well, that she accomplished) but then later decided to fully kill her, as merely beating the shit out of her did not satisfy her thirst for revenge. Overall, she's a bitch.

Sylthyra – another disgusting vermin (hah!), she is the Greed listed in previous names. She is another Elf Sorceress that can shapeshift to a King Cobra—but now she has a gauntlet strapped to her forearm that allows her venom-infused blood to shoot out. She's bloody dangerous, and she will kill Nathala on sight should they ever cross paths (have I mentioned how strikingly similar she is to her own mother?).

Sudar – the Lust in the Seven Deadly Sins. Lusting for power most especially, he was the one who made Tsarra realise she had made a grave mistake of sparing Beth right after the nearly-fatal beating and instead should kill her right there and then—but slowly and definitely painfully (and to add insult to injury to burn her).

Baby Myrmi – a baby Myrmidon (...creatures I made up for a realm, hehe... I'll post about them in the future) that integrated with humanoid species for too much that he now can speak words. Favourite fruit is GRAPB (grape) and loves BIG and FIBBY (fluffy) and PIBBY (pretty).

the Earth chat:

Earth!Kenway – a killer with a cause who hopes her son, Beep, would be able to choose what he is able to do, not what she does. Regrets her killings the first ten lives she took, and she painfully admits that she started to grow used to herself being the sole cause of many lives dead, by her own blade and hand. Is now looking for a very important diamond which first started as a simple treasure hunt and now a race against time.

Earth!Alex – the Vulture. Has killed much more than his cousin, Kenway. Has mommy issues (:'>) and often sees visions of the corpses that were mutilated by him and he still didn't realise that was caused by his demons that only overtakes him by said visions. Doesn't feel emotions that much and evidently hates it because once he did feel something, he doesn't know what it is even though he is very intelligent for his age. Well... he has a strained relationship with Lilian, his mother, after finding out that he wasn't her biological son and that she wasn't able to save him. Well, now he's a double agent, and of course Lilian doesn't know that he's helping his cousin and her merry band of Assassins.

Earth!Lilian – a struggling mother from the Order who failed his son and now is trying to help Hypno, and slowly starts to see Kenway as not a manifestation of her own issues but only a mere representation of her mother. Has severe stress due to her conflicting views and her hidden desire to resist against the Order just to protect Hypno. A higher-up due to her intelligence and quick-thinking.

Milaeth – basically, a Sorceress from said realm—Mivuris (from the Buvalon Kingdom). Takes care of Silver and teaches him everything she knows that Earth would share some materials with Mivuris. Plans to teach him to craft an extremely lethal potion that would disintegrate your fingers upon touching it, all in good time.

Adult Myrmi – YEP YEP YOU FUCKIN GUESSED IT. GROWN UP BITCH!!! This time this BIG man is THE war general in MIVURIS! In the Öuryia Kingdom!!! Beheaded the Ekredian War General during a war and that was how he was granted this position. Now on Earth for... reasons

Jennifer Flores – a CIA Agent with ties to both Kenway and Alex, aiding the both of them for the said powerful diamond with weapons-dealing, covert tactics strategies and such. Hardened by battles she fought, there is a reason on why she always wears fingerless gloves.

Hyelius – The Mother of Gods. Ekredian Empress Goddess, may she cleanse your soul from its wrongdoings. May she save you all with her Crescent Moon and Spherical Sun interlocked with one another, living as mere murals behind her. Do not test her patience even though she is generally warm, for her fury is unmatched to a thousand fuming suns.

Mycelia – lol ghost edgy kpop man. But in all seriousness, he drags deserving souls to Hell. The Wrath of the Ember's Chains, he is unforgiving towards those who had committed wrong and is now carrying out said tasks to horrible and cruel criminals that the Eternal Damnation should hold—the Perdition.

the Space chat:

Kenway – think paranoia and killer instinct mixed into one person. That is her. Ran to the ship to escape from the Order, with Alex's help. Went through Hell and back, Kenway stresses more when she started to take care of Beep along with a parasite that gave her new abilities but there are drawbacks, negatives to positives.

Alex – same as the earth tbh lol. But the relationship between him and Lilian are further strained.

Lilian – afraid of failing her daughter as she did Alex, again a struggling mother who questions her allegiance to the Order as she takes care of Hypno.

[alysemeadfad]

Portraiture

Group practical

we sat parallel to another person, we had our pencils stabbed through paper so we could not see the paper below and we had to focus only on the face and not look down, basically a blind drawing as far as looking at the drawing but we could see what the object was as we drew it.

i did the same thing again in graphite and had got a better understanding of proportion considering we could not see the drawing.

we then chose a unique image of ourselves, well mine was rather unique and we did a rough sketch to help us decide what we wanted to draw for our social realism drawing, i was quite impressed by my sketch the proportions were not half bad.

photo REALISM

i chose to just do the center of my face as i felt it would look the best in the social realism style, i then grid my drawing in 4 by 5 squares and did the same to my paper before then beginning my drawing of the outline and basic shapes in order for me to add tone and texture later on 

what is photo realism?

photo realism is a form of art where a drawing or painting looks absolutely identical to the object or photo it has been drawn from, so much so you cant tell the difference between the two, it takes time, patients and a lot of skill.

but most of the art community don’t consider this to be an art form.

Many would argue that the technical skill required to make Photorealism art can be exceeded by a decent color photocopier or a computer, thus avoid to use the word art in such context, but this discussion brings us to an analogy of photography. If photography is merely capturing an image of what is already there, where is the art in that? It is right there in the photographer’s perspective, the exact choice made by the person wielding the camera in what to capture and from which angle, moment and perspective. If a person creating a photorealistic recreation of a photograph doesn’t have that “artistic” input of a photographer, then what is artistic about the process? Some would say even those renditions are not strict interpretations of photographs, instead, they incorporate additional, often subtle, pictorial elements to create the illusion of a reality which does not actually exist, or cannot be perceived by the human eye.

In the end, as in many things in art, and life in general, the final conclusion remains behind the individual perspective

Da Vinci

Long recognised as one of the great artists of the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci was also a pioneer in the understanding of human anatomy. Had his ground-breaking work been published, it would have transformed European knowledge of the subject.

https://www.rct.uk/collection/themes/exhibitions/leonardo-da-vinci/the-queens-gallery-palace-of-holyroodhouse/explore-the-exhibition#/

At the outset of Leonardo’s career, anatomical illustration was in its infancy. To convey the three-dimensional form of the body and to show how it moves, Leonardo had to develop a whole range of new illustrative techniques. His challenges were in many ways the same as those faced by anatomists today, and some of Leonardo’s drawings are remarkably similar in approach to modern medical imagery, such as MRI and CT scans and 3D computer modelling.

Studies of Human Proportion

While studying Vitruvius for his work on the Milan and Pavia cathedrals, Leonardo became captivated by the ancient Roman architect’s detailed studies of human proportions and measurements. In addition, when he was measuring horses for the Sforza monument, he became interested in how they related to human proportions. Comparative anatomy appealed to his instinct for finding patterns across different subjects. So in 1490 he began measuring and drawing the proportions of the human body.

The construction lines and all of the annotation almost take away from the actual subject and become more of the focus, which was the main idea anyway It was not meant to be a work of art, but rather a manual for how to create it.

Da vinci was a polymath, a person of wide knowledge or learning. He was not only an artist but a scientist, sculpture and an architect.

Frida Kahlo

was a Mexican painter known for her many portraits, self-portraits, and works inspired by the nature and artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country’s popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, postcolonialism, gender, class, and race in Mexican society. Her paintings often had strong autobiographical elements and mixed realism with fantasy. In addition to belonging to the post-revolutionary Mexicayotl movement, which sought to define a Mexican identity, Kahlo has been described as a surrealist or magical realist.

Kahlo’s paintings often feature root imagery, with roots growing out of her body to tie her to the ground. This reflects in a positive sense the theme of personal growth; in a negative sense of being trapped in a particular place, time and situation; and in an ambiguous sense of how memories of the past influence the present for either good and/or ill.[110] In My Grandparents and I, Kahlo painted herself as a ten-year holding a ribbon that grows from an ancient tree that bears the portraits of her grandparents and other ancestors while her left foot is a tree trunk growing out of the ground, reflecting Kahlo’s view of humanity’s unity with the earth and her own sense of unity with Mexico.[111] In Kahlo’s paintings, trees serve as symbols of hope, of strength and of a continuity that transcends generations.[112] Additionally, hair features as a symbol of growth and of the feminine in Kahlo’s paintings and in Self Portrait with Cropped Hair, Kahlo painted herself wearing a man’s suit and shorn of her long hair, which she had just cut off.[113] Kahlo holds the scissors with one hand menacingly close to her genitals, which can be interpreted as a threat to Rivera – whose frequent unfaithfulness infuriated her – and/or a threat to harm her own body like she has attacked her own hair, a sign of the way that women often project their fury against others onto themselves.[114] Moreover, the picture reflects Kahlo’s frustration not only with Rivera, but also her unease with the patriarchal values of Mexico as the scissors symbolize a malevolent sense of masculinity that threatens to “cut up” women, both metaphorically and literally.[114] In Mexico, the traditional Spanish values of machismo were widely embraced, and as a woman, Kahlo was always uncomfortable with machismo.[114]

image taken at the MoMa in Nyc

Fulang-Chang and I depicts Kahlo with one of her pet monkeys, interpreted by many as surrogates for the children she and Diego Rivera were unable to conceive. The painting was included in the first major exhibition of her work, held at Julien Levy Gallery in New York in 1938. In the essay that accompanied the show, the Surrealist leader André Breton described Kahlo’s work as “a ribbon around a bomb” and hailed her as a self-created Surrealist painter. Although she appreciated his enthusiasm for her work, Kahlo did not agree with his assessment: “They thought I was a Surrealist but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” Kahlo later gave this painting to her close friend Mary Sklar, attaching a mirror to it so that, if Sklar chose, the two friends could be together.

Tai Shan Schierenberg

Tai Shan Schierenberg lives and works in London. He graduated from the Slade School of Art in 1987 and in 1989 won first prize in the National Portrait Gallery’s John Player Portrait Award. He was then commissioned to paint Sir John Mortimer for the Gallery. The National Portrait Gallery also holds his portraits of Lord Carrington from 1994, Lord Sainsbury, 2002 and most recently Seamus Heaney from 2004. Other noted commissions include Professor Stephen Hawking, Sir John Madejski and a double portrait of Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh. For Schierenberg, there is an emotional charge that comes from the different textures and densities, and ultimately the light conditions, that occur in a place at a certain time. He describes his process in 2010: Painting and painting and painting, endlessly exploring ideas in paint on canvas, always painting my way. Finding that over time I can’t see the trees for the paint. Sometimes its good to try a new way, a different path, expose oneself to the vagaries of chance - and see the trees again.

Before he finishes a commission, Tai-Shan Schierenberg usually splatters a bit of paint in the corner of the portrait. It’s not a stylistic move – the brushstrokes in his paintings are fluid but the images themselves are representative – but rather one which gives the subject something to complain about.

in the image above you can clearly see the texture and markings on the canvas, the artist uses oil paint on canvas and applies it using a pallet knife and a large brush, making various large strokes in the work. this gives a rough texture and edge to the piece.

These instinctive visual images refuse to betray the plasticity of the medium. Unlike Freud, Schierenberg sees paint simultaneously as flesh. It is exactly this technique that establishes the major paradoxes characteristic of his work. It is both abstract and realist, edgy and sensitive, grand and inconclusive, violent and melancholic, physically intense and aesthetically detache

Lucian Freud

was influenced by surrealism, but by the early 1950s his often stark and alienated paintings tended towards realism. Freud was an intensely private and guarded man, and his paintings, completed over a 60-year career, are mostly of friends and family. They are generally somber and thickly impastoed, often set in unsettling interiors and city scapes. The works are noted for their psychological penetration and often discomforting examination of the relationship between artist and model. Freud worked from life studies, and was known for asking for extended and punishing sittings from his models.

one of my chosen artists, tai shan sheirenberg seems to be heavily influenced by the style of lucian freud yet he made his own style, they both use the same meduims, oil on canvas also.

here in the colder tones we have a painting by lucian freud, you can see the texture of the brush strikes that help carve out the facial features.

here is a painting by tai shan, the tones are a lot warmer, they are not of the same person tho they look similar, you can see the brush strokes again on this image that help carve out the facial features, tho they are a lot more prominent in this painting as thats tai shans style, you see paint before you see the face .

Interpreting line

The Visual Element of Line is the foundation of all drawing. It is the first and most versatile of the visual elements. Line in an artwork can be used in many different ways. It can be used to suggest shape, pattern, form, structure, growth, depth, distance, rhythm, movement and a range of emotions.

We have a psychological response to different types of lines:

Curved lines suggest comfort and ease

Horizontal lines suggest distance and calm

Vertical lines suggest height and strength

Jagged lines suggest turmoil and anxiety

The way we draw a line can convey different expressive qualities:

Freehand lines can express the personal energy and mood of the artist

Mechanical lines can express a rigid control

Continuous lines can lead the eye in certain directions

Broken lines can express the ephemeral or the insubstantial

Thick lines can express strength

Thin lines can express delicacy

[thecreaturecodex]

Sahkil, Fear Liath

Image © MonstrumAthenaeum.org, accessed here

[Commissioned by @wannabedemonlord​, based on Am Fear Liath Mor, the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui. The amount of cryptozoologists who want this to be a Bigfoot type creature is frankly staggering, when it’s clearly a more magical being in the stories. The identification of its real world inspiration as a Brocken Spectre seems like a pretty good one, and inspired the fog and illusion based SLAs of my version.]

Sahkil, Fear Liath CR 12 NE Outsider This hazy gray shape is roughly humanoid, but easily twice the size of a normal man. Its features are indistinct, and seemingly shift from moment to moment.

The fear liath, or “greyman”, is an environmental sahkil, a creature that embodies the fears and hazards of a particular type of terrain. Fear liaths haunt the mountains, personifying falling and freezing, isolation and altitude sickness. They delight in appearing to lonely travelers, sometimes stalking them for miles at a distance, allowing themselves to be glimpsed from afar before appearing right next to their prey in a terrifying instant. A fear liath is a patient hunter, prolonging the game of fear for hours or even days at a time before striking.

Mere proximity to a fear liath is hazardous to mortal bodies, as they create a deadly altitude sickness, drawing the air from their victim’s lungs in mere seconds. They typically shroud their battlefields in magical fog, but any sighted creature has difficulty drawing a bead on a fear liath. A fear liath often chooses hazardous areas, such as the edges of ravines, slippery ice or deep snow, in order to make its attacks, and pushes its enemies around like toys as it sees fit. They cooperate well with other sahkils, especially rabatoks.

A fear liath stands about twelve feet tall and weighs nine hundred pounds. Despite their mass, they move across treacherous surfaces with supernatural ease.

Fear Liath            CR 12 XP 19,200 NE Large outsider (evil, extraplanar, sahkil) Init +4; Senses darkvision 60 ft., mistsight, Perception +18, tremorsense 30 ft. Aura altitude sickness (30 ft., Fort DC 20) Defense AC 27, touch 17, flat-footed 23 (-1 size, +4 Dex, +10 natural, +4 deflection) hp 150 (12d10+84) Fort +11, Ref +12, Will +11 DR 10/good; Immune cold, death effects, disease, fear effects, poison; Resist electricity 10, sonic 10; SR 23 Defensive Abilities displacement, terror screen Offense Speed 40 ft., climb 20 ft. Melee 2 slams +20 (2d6+9 plus push) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks avalanche, look of fear, push (5 ft.), sneak attack +3d6 Spell-like Abilities CL 12th, concentration +16 Constant—displacement, feather step At will—fog cloud, greater teleport (self plus 50 lbs. objects only), invisibility, major image (DC 18), snowball, ventriloquism (DC 15) 3/day—crushing despair (DC 20), empowered ice storm, ray of exhaustion (DC 18), stone shape 1/day—cone of cold (DC 19), hungry pit (DC 19), phantasmal killer (DC 20), summon (2 rabatoks, 60%, level 6th) Statistics Str 28, Dex 19, Con 24, Int 15, Wis 17, Cha 18 Base Atk +12; CMB +22; CMD 40 Feats Blind-fight, Combat Reflexes, Empower SLA (ice storm), Power Attack, Stand Still, Stealthy Skills Acrobatics +19 (+23 when jumping), Climb +32, Escape Artist +20, Intimidate +19, Knowledge (geography) +, Knowledge (planes) +17, Perception +18, Stealth +19 Languages Abyssal, Auran, Celestial, Infernal, Terran SQ easy to call, emotional focus, no breath, skip between Ecology Environment any mountains (Ethereal Plane) Organization solitary, pair or stalk (3-6) Treasure standard Special Abilities Altitude Sickness Aura (Su) All living creatures within 30 feet of a fear liath must succeed a DC 20 Fortitude save each round or become fatigued and take 1 point of damage to all ability scores. Sahkils are immune to this effect, as are creatures that do not need to breathe. The save DC is Charisma based. Avalanche (Su) Three times a day, but no more than once every 1d4 rounds, a fear liath can conjure a magical avalanche in a 60 foot cone. All creatures in the area take 6d6 points of bludgeoning damage, and must succeed a DC 20 Reflex save or be pushed 1d4x5 feet away from the fear liath and knocked prone. The save DC is Charisma based. Look of Fear (Su) Range 30 ft., Will DC 22, panicked 1d4+1 rounds. The save DC is Charisma based and includes the +2 bonus from the sahkil’s emotional focus. Terror Screen (Su) A fear liath adds its Charisma modifier as a deflection bonus to its Armor Class and CMD.

[ryanmeft]

Movie Review: Parasite

It’s a crying shame that the ad campaign for Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite put such emphasis on the idea of the movie’s mesmerizing tonal shifts. Like your first Kurosawa or your first time in a new city, this is an experience that is best if you have absolutely no idea what you’re in for. It’s a class satire, and a family drama, and a mystery, and frankly I’ve already said too much. It is one of those films that cannot be adequately reviewed, because the best things written about it will come years after the fact. If you haven’t seen it, stop reading now.

Films from Asia often focus on the plights of a working class that lives in conditions all but the worst-off U.S. citizens can’t compare to, and that’s true here. We zero in on a family of four living in a basement that passes as an apartment. The area they live in is a place where such spaces are piled on top of one another like broken blocks. Drunks piss right outside their window, which they leave open to get free pest control from the city cleaners. They work menial jobs, such as folding pizza boxes, to make ends meet. Kim Ki-taek (Song Kang-ho), the father, actively encourages his family in taking full advantage of any opportunities they can seize, because there is no other reasonable way to live. His wife Chung-sook (Jang Hye-jin) is skilled in cooking and cleaning with very few resources or space. His daughter Ke-jeong (Park So-dam) is a gifted artist, a talent with little application in a ghetto. His son Ki-woo (Choi Woo-shik) is smart enough to be in university, but that is of course a pipe dream.

That changes when Ki-woo’s friend Min-hyuk (Park Seo-joon) leaves for university and suggests Ki-woo pose as a university student to pick up the English tutoring he’s been doing with the daughter of some rich clients. They live in a house designed by a famous architect, who built himself an Eden in the same city where so many live in abject poverty: the yard is larger than the Kim’s entire house and each room is big enough for an apartment. The Park family that currently owns it lives as if their help is invisible. The daughter Da-Hye (Jung Ji-so) falls for her new tutor, while younger child Da-song (Jung Hyun-joon) runs around playing at his idea of American Indians (the Indians are both the good and the bad guys; there are no cowboys). Dong-ik (Lee Sun-kyun) runs an IT company, but it could be any type of company, as he’s never shown to do much besides be chauffeured around in expensive suits. When asked about his relationship to his wife (Cho Yeo-Jeong), he says “We’ll call it love”, but in other scenes, especially a rather sexually explicit one, they do seem to care for each other. That’s important, because there’s no denying both families in this film are human.

That’s important, because neither is ideal. Ki-woo initially takes the tutoring job in apparent good faith, and I thought I was watching a simple domestic drama, sort of like Downton Abbey in Korea, where the lives of both served and servant are examined. Then Ki-woo gets an idea: manipulate the family’s existing servants into being fired, then have his family take their place while hiding the fact they are all family. They’re also hiding the fact they aren’t technically qualified for the work. They set up fake headhunting services to convince the Parks they are hiring highly vetted professionals. Ki-jeong, who has some skill with art but mostly with forging, becomes the highly respected art teacher to young Da-song, reading about “art therapy” online and then faking her readings of hidden meaning in the child’s scribbles. Chung-sook, who spends her days keeping her own house, becomes a maid of long experience. Ki-taek, who can drive, becomes an expert driver who has served many wealthy clients. The family starts merely wanted jobs that aren’t folding pizza boxes for spare cash, but their ambitions grow, and soon Ki-woo has ambitions of marrying Da-hye so he can inherit the mansion and all the money, he begins to refer to it as their house.

I couldn’t feel really sorry for the Parks here. The movie has morphed at this point from a drama about domesticity to one about economic desperation, and the Parks are capable of being rooked by the Kims in the first place because of the value they place on status. The Kims, of course, are excellent at giving the family exactly what they want, and no one would be likely to question that they are what they claim to be. The illusion of high class is as valuable here as the real thing. At the same time, the Kims grow greedy themselves. They are not, it must be noted, striking any bold blows for equality among the masses, but for advancement among themselves. After all, they got other poor people fired and turned out on the streets to claim their positions. This is not a simple story of outcast lower class heroes sticking it to arrogant rich overlords; neither family is shy about using and abusing others to get what they want. The standout performance here is by So-dam, whose character proves to be the most adept at manipulation.

The thing about stepping on others is they are very likely to step on you back. The movie seems at this point to be about a really clever con job, until one of the former servants (Lee Jung-eun) returns begging a favor. At this points the film morphs yet again. The Parks have gone on vacation, and the servant catches the Kims in the act of using the house (and the booze and food) as if it were their own, reveling in the possible excesses of being wealthy. Since the former housekeeper also has a secret, the movie becomes both a comedy of errors (naturally, the Parks have their vacation spoiled and return early) and a vicious satire on…well, on many things. Power. The limits of ambition. Class struggles. The idea of being trapped by wealth rather than freed by it. The layers of subtext here are so many that it may take years to dissect them all.

Joon-ho and co-writer Han Jin-won approach all these things with a breathlessly rolling dark comedy, so that in seconds we go from laughing to horrified. That it all stays tonally true---that the movie never feels like it is cheating or taking shortcuts---shows remarkable control over material that could easily become chaos in less skilled hands. Credit for this needs to go also to cinematographer Hong Kyung-pyo and composer Jyong Jae-il. The former chose the site for the mansion, which was built for the film, with angles of the sun and other factors in mind, so that once the camera rolls each shot is perfectly placed. This becomes especially important during the finale, in which the locations of doors and stairways between which characters are moving become a visual poetry of their own. The latter reigns in the score when needed, and hits creeping notes when they are needed, balancing each scene. Characters move from floor to floor in ways that visually represent the divide between classes. It is notable that none of the upper class folks ever descend into the basement, which is the one area of the house that is not perfectly organized. The door to it leads to a darkened stairwell, whereas other areas are lighted, a cue as to how the high-powered CEO and his family see their servants.

I haven’t even begun to say everything I could about this film, and I suspect I won’t be able to do so for some time. The curse of reviews is that you must write them before your thoughts on a film are fully formed. I won’t pretend I fully understand the film, as I’m both not Korean and not smart enough, but I can safely say it’s a rare case where “You’ve never seen anything like this before” surely applies. It’s possible you never will again.

Verdict: Must-See

Note: I don’t use stars, but here are my possible verdicts.

Must-See

Highly Recommended

Recommended

Average

Not Recommended

Avoid like the Plague

 You can follow Ryan's reviews on Facebook here:

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 Or his tweets here:

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 All images are property of the people what own the movie.

[krumbine]

Videorama: Revenge of the Nooooo!

The year is 2005.

George W. Bush is just starting his second term in the White House.

The hottest game in cell phone technology is the Motorola Razr V3 and the PalmOne Treo 650.

The iPhone is still a few years away.

The Rise of Skywalker isn’t even a twinkle in Disney’s eye––an eye that’s currently preoccupied with an overly optimistic Narnia Franchise Wet Dream.

In fact, Disney wouldn’t even buy Star Wars for another seven years.

It’s summer in 2005 and millions of marketing dollars can still pull the wool over the eyes of a naive movie-going public, dictating box office success regardless of audience consensus or even general quality of filmmaking.

All hail the grand illusion of capitalism.

It’s a warm evening in the summer of 2005 and video rental stores are still a thing.

One particular, independently-run store––freestanding, double glass doors on the left side of the brick facade, small parking lot––was just turning its sign on as dusk settled.

Videorama was open for business.

*

Tobey blinked incredulously at the three teenagers standing on the other side of the counter. His brain hurt as he attempted to summon the endurance needed to fathom the sheer stupidity of their question.

To buy himself some time, Tobey blinked again.

“… well?” asked the one with the long greasy hair. “Do you have it?”

There was no way these kids were serious.

Tobey shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not serious.”

The one with a bad case of acne threw his hands up in exasperation. “Dude, for fuck’s sake!”

Tobey looked over at the other man behind the video store counter, feet up, sketch pad in lap. “I think these guys are serious.”

The third teenager was pale and wore a lot of heavy black eyeliner. He spoke in a flat monotone: “Catwoman. Do you have it or not?”

Tobey broke into a lopsided grin. “Oh, I get it. This is like a prank, right? Where’s the hidden camera?” Tobey propped his elbows on the counter and leaned forward. “Am I gonna be on the internet?!”

Long Hair was reaching his limit. “C’mon, man, we just wanna rent the movie.”

Tobey’s grin dropped. “No joke?”

“Dude.”

“Catwoman?”

They were practically pleading. “Do you have it or not?”

Tobey stood back, somber. This was worse than he thought. “Holy fucking shit.” He turned again to the other guy behind the counter. “Kurt, these guys are actually serious.”

Kurt didn’t look up from his sketch pad. “Hm.”

Zits backhanded Long Hair’s chest. “This is ridiculous, man.  Let’s get outta here.”

Almost through this, Tobe.

Eyeliner started for the exit. “Fuck these asswipes.”

Fuck me.

“Alright, you fucking hormone-addled, gene-pool rejects. Listen.” Tobey leaned forward. “I can appreciate the fact that the three of you otherwise fine young gentlemen are undoubtedly blinded by your adolescent throes of puberty––to saying nothing of the ungodly amount of jizz sprayed in your eyes from the nonstop circle jerk that is your formative years––so it stands to reason that the mere notion of Halle Berry sporting a whip and a leather catsuit is enough to make you pop your collective nut––which, again, I do understand. Halle Berry is a fine specimen of the female gender and I myself have spent many a lonely night pondering Ms. Berry’s lithe and supple … skills.”

Tobey lost himself for a moment and the three teenagers stared at him in confusion. Tobey nodded absently and then returned to the conversation.

“Fellas,” he implored. “All that being said, you cannot tell me that simple, unabashed horniness is just cause for what will amount to the severe rapage of your individual minds––a tragic and unavoidable fate that you will all most assuredly fall victim to should you proceed to rent the motion picture that is Catwoman.”

To buy themselves a moment to process Tobey’s rant, the three teenagers blinked at him.

“… yes?” Zits said, lacking any sense of surety of himself.

Tobey sighed. Definitely worse than he thought. With a sad shake of his head: “Look, let me make a suggestion. Go with Monster’s Ball instead. It’s got our girl in it, bare titties and all. Lots of sex plus it’s a flick that won’t rot your brain. It’s a goddamned win-win for everybody. Especially you.”

Tobey pointed at Eyeliner before changing his mind. “Well, maybe not everybody.”

Eyeliner’s face was as a neutral as his voice. “Isn’t she fucking Billy Bob Thornton in that one?”

“So?”

Zits scowled. “Dude, that is so fucking nasty! He’s all old and wrinkly and shit.”

Tobey wanted to ram an ice pick in his own ear. “What the actual fuck, my man? We've already established that you're watching the flick for Halle Berry's tits, not Billy Bob's ball sack! What the fuck do you care what he looks like?!”

“We don’t!” Long Hair cried. “We just care about Catwoman!”

Tobey threw his hands in the air. There was no reasoning with these kids. “Okay, fine. I see how it is. Get out.”

Incredulous offense from Zits. “What?!”

Ineffable deadpan from Eyeliner. “You’re throwing us out?”

“No. Right now I’m asking you to leave in a gentle yet firm manner, as to assert a polite yet authoritative dominance over this conversation,” Tobey said. “In about twenty seconds I’ll be throwing you out.”

“We just want to rent a movie!” Zits said through gritted teeth and mounting frustration.

“Incorrect,” Tobey responded, raising an index finger. “You want to rent shit. There is a difference, although I can see that the lack of immediate release has caused the cum to bubble up and disorient your brain cells, inhibiting logical cognition. Regardless, I don’t even carry Catwoman since I have a very strict policy on stocking crappy movies.”

Long Hair tilted his head, waiting. “What’s your policy on stocking crappy movies?”

Eyeliner with the deadpan punchline: “He doesn’t.”

“––I don’t,” Tobey said at the same time. He shot Eyeliner an exasperated glare. “C’mon, dude!”

Eyeliner shrugged a shoulder.

Tobey leaned forward. “Now why don’t you three numb-nuts find yourselves a tittie mag, have a circle jerk, and just be done with it already, okay?”

Eyeliner scoffed indifferently. “This is bullshit. Let’s bounce, boys.”

Tobey nodded. “That’s right. But be sure to use plenty of lube. Too much bouncing chafes the shaft.”

Zits lunged across the counter but Long Hair pulled him back. “Fuck you, asshole.”

Tobey glanced down and flipped a page in his Indie Film magazine. “Mm. Clever.”

Zits straightened. He had one card left to play and he was entirely too confident in the move. “Hey. I wanna speak to the manager. Dick.”

Tobey looked up from his magazine. “I am the manager, you dipshit. Now get the hell out of my store before I call the fucking cops and have them throw you out.”

The three teenagers exchanged looks before stumbling to the exit, muttering various expletives under their breaths as they went.

“Yeah, I heard all of that!” Tobey called after them as the bell on the door jingled.

“You handled that well,” Kurt said from behind Tobey.

“You could have jumped in at any time there, buddy.”

“Seemed like you had it handled,” Kurt shrugged.

A young woman stepped up to the counter. Straight blonde hair to her shoulders and curves that Tobey drank in an instant glance, imperceptible the casual observer.

She perceived it. She always did.

“He didn’t have it handled,” the young woman said flatly, placing three DVDs and a member card on the counter.

“I had it handled,” Tobey insisted while he scanned her card. “Sure, I could have used some backup from behind the counter but that’s not to dismiss the overall nature of the situation behind, generally, handled.”

Kurt set his sketch pad aside and fiddled with a television set on the counter. A low-quality video continued playing––it looked like someone had used a cheap video camera to record a movie theater screen.

The girl’s eyebrow went up. “Is that Star Wars?”

Tobey didn’t look. He didn’t have to since they’d been watching the bootleg on a loop for three days. “Yep.”

“The new one?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That just came out in theaters?”

Tobey looked up from scanning the DVDs. “Wow. You’re a regular Veronica Mars. Can’t slip anything past you.”

She all but rolled her eyes and he decided to dial back the sarcasm.

“Yes, Kurt downloaded it a few days ago,” Tobey explained. “I mean, yeah, I paid to see the first two prequels but there was no way in hell I was gonna be stupid enough to let George Fucking Lucas screw me out of another eight bucks for yet another pile of shit he so fondly refers to as epic Star Wars lore.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“It fucking should be.”

“I meant the downloading.”

Tobey held up the three DVDs. “I’m sorry, did you want to rent these movies—” he glanced at the computer screen, “––Alyssa Tanner of 9000 East Westmore Drive, apartment 263? Or is harassing me over my moral obligation to protest the misguided artistic values of a corrupt media empire entertainment enough for you?”

Kurt shot a sideways glance and muttered: “Misguided artistic values?!”

Alyssa shrugged indifferently. “I just thought that in light of your current career path, you might have a better appreciation for the damage caused by downloading movies illegally.”

Kurt put his feet back up on the counter as he turned his attention back to the sketch pad. “Here we go …”

“The damage I cause?!” The mock in Tobey’s outrage was mild at best. “What about the damage George Lucas caused with these blatant cash grabs? Have you seen all the advertisements for this one? He’s spending millions of dollars convincing the world that it’s the greatest film ever!”

“And you’re saying it’s not?”

“If it’s possible, this one is even worse than the last two combined,” Tobey said gravely.

“Dude,” Kurt said, pointing at the television. “It’s the Vader scene.”

Tobey’s hands went up. “Perfect!” To Alyssa: “This is what I’m talking about. This shit is fucking hilarious.”

Alyssa looked at the television as the bootleg copy of Revenge of the Sith played. Darth Vader found out that he killed his girlfriend, clomped around like Frankenstein and then cried out, ‘Nooooo!’

Tobey clicked the television off.

“The only good thing about this movie is that it’s so bad it’s funny,” he said. “We’ve been watching it for days and that Vader scene just keeps getting funnier.”

“You don’t think Lucas deserves a little credit for closing the loop on A New Hope?”

“Does Adolf Hitler deserve credit for closing the loop on World War II?”

“First of all, Hitler lost—”

“Which effectively closed the loop—”

“—and secondly, you’re comparing a movie to a war that literally killed tens of millions of people?!” Alyssa balked.

“I’m comparing three movies to a war that killed tens of millions––”

“Dude!” Kurt cut in.

Tobey sighed. “Fine. Okay. Maybe the prequels aren’t, like, genocide bad––”

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

“But they’re still pretty bad.”

At one point, not so long ago, Alyssa had been amused and slightly intrigued by Tobey’s acerbic banter.

That moment had passed.

An awkward silence clung to the air inside the video store. Alyssa glanced at the exit. Kurt’s pencil scratched at his sketch pad.

Tobey held up Alyssa’s rentals. “… you want your movies?”

She took them from Tobey. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She turned for the door and then stopped. “Um …”

“Three day rentals. Due back on Thursday.”

Alyssa turned back to the counter. She grimaced. “Actually, uh, that bootleg—”

Tobey held up a hand. “Wait. Are you saying—”

Alyssa shrugged half-heartedly.

“You wanna borrow my illegally downloaded copy of Revenge of the Sith?”

“I mean, if it’s so bad, you wouldn’t mind letting go of it for a few days,” Alyssa suggested. “Right?”

Tobey studied her grey eyes. There was something about this girl. He chewed his lip, thinking.

“Well?”

Tobey nodded slowly. “Okay, uh, lemme think of a creative way of saying this …” Tobey rubbed his chin and then raised an index finger to the sky. “Oh, I know!”

Tobey threw his hands in the air. “Nooooo!”

*

A VHS rewinder ground on old tape and Kurt cursed as he mashed the eject button, popping the machine open.

“Goddammit,” Kurt seethed. “Why the hell are we still stocking VHS?”

“Same reason we don’t open until four in the afternoon,” Tobey replied as he gathered an armful of DVDs to re-shelve.

“Because you’re too lazy to wake up in the morning?”

“No, because despite appearances, we’re here to serve our customers, Kurt,” Tobey said, strolling the aisles. “Working class Americans. The nine-to-fivers. People rent videos on their way home from work.” Tobey placed a DVD on the shelf. “Or in the middle of the night. There’s been studies. Or something.”

Kurt finished untangling the botched tape and tossed it into the trash. “So what you’re saying is that you’ve got a firm grasp on psychological makeup of our clientele.”

“I’m a savante that way.”

“An idiot savante, sure,” Kurt said with an eye roll.

Tobey placed another DVD. “People mock what they don’t understand.”

“So what about that girl, Alyssa?”

“Pretty sure nobody mocks her,” Tobey replied, scanning a shelf. “Fear her, maybe. Beauty is intimidating. Intelligence doubly so. Beauty and intelligence—”

“I meant her psychological makeup.”

Tobey shrugged absently. “If it’s anything like her physical makeup—”

Kurt sighed. “I mean: why does she come in so often? She was just here yesterday.”

Tobey glanced over at his long-time friend. “She had a two-day rental, Kurt,” he said flatly.

“And that explains why she was here for the past five days in a row, how exactly?” Kurt asked patiently.

Tobey pondered this half-heartedly. “She likes movies?”

Kurt went back to his sketch pad. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot with a stalker, according to you,” Tobey said, shelving the last DVD and returning to his spot behind the counter.

“She’s not a stalker. She’s a nice girl.”

Naughty thoughts ran through Tobey’s head and his eyes went wide. “I bet she is.”

Kurt put his pencil down. “You know, people might actually like you if you weren’t so sarcastic all the time.”

“What are you talking about? People like me. You’re the one who pointed out that I have a stalker,” Tobey said. “Plus, you’re a person, too. You like me.”

Kurt tilted his hand back and forth. “Eh.”

Tobey shrugged indifferently. “Friends come and go. Porn is forever.”

“That sixty-inch TV in your bedroom working out well for you?”

Tobey turned and leaned against the counter, facing Kurt. “I watch it as I fall asleep so that I have pleasant dreams. Of vaginas.” Tobey spread his hands an arms-length apart. “Ten feet wide.”

“So what you’re saying is that the addition of the big-screen pornocopia has obviated any pressing need to actually be liked by the fairer sex?”

“Who needs to be liked when you have a stalker? Plus, there’s always Horatio.”

Kurt blinked. “Who the hell is Horatio?”

Tobey held up his left hand. “We have a very intimate relationship. He knows how to please me in ways that most women just don’t understand. And yes, the big screen pornocopia helps.”

The bell on the door jangled.

“A vagina ten feet wide?” Kurt asked.

“Ten feet wide.”

“You call your hand Horatio?”

“You spend all day drawing superheroes with their dongs out,” Tobey said.

Kurt nodded. “Point.”

“Good to see you’re being as professional as ever.” The voice came from the other side of the counter. It sounded tired and annoyed.

Tobey frowned and didn’t bother to turn around. He grabbed his film magazine. “You know what? Fuck off, my dude. I don’t have time for your shit right now.”

The man on the other side of the counter glanced around the empty video store. “I can see that,” he said. “These late hours of yours really keep the place hopping.”

Tobey sighed and deliberately turned around to face his older brother. “Fuck you very much, Walt.”

Tobey’s brother was two years older and looked about as tired as he sounded. A dark suit with a loosened tie, coifed hair grown limp, distinct bags under his eyes.

Walt help up his hands in a show of  surrender, car keys dangling from his right fingers. “Just here to drop the car off. I’ve got a guy coming first thing in the morning to detail it. Karen’s picking me up in a few minutes.”

Walt tossed the keys to Tobey. They hit him on the chest and bounced on the counter. They stared at each other for an awkward moment.

Kurt focused intently on giving She-Hulk a very large, very veiny cock.

“Uh, last I checked, I’m not your fucking valet, Walt,” Tobey said.

Walt sighed wearily. “I’m not asking you to be—”

“Cause you just up and threw those keys like––”

“Tobey, we need to talk.”

“I really can’t see why.”

“Can we just––”

“Get the fuck out of my store, Walter,” Tobey growled from across the counter.

Walt ran a hand through his hair. “… it’s gonna be five years next month.”

Kurt glanced up and could see Tobey visibly tense, clenching his fists. He promptly looked back down.

“Yeah, so?”

“So …” Walt said slowly as he nodded. “… I want you to come visit them with me.”

Walt tried to meet Tobey’s eyes but the anger shooting across from his brother was brutal.

“… I think it’ll be good for you, Tobe,” Walt said softly.

“No.”

“Tobey––”

“I haven’t gone yet,” Tobey spat out the words. “I’m not going to go and I’m certainly not ever going to go with you.”

“Tobe––”

Tobey cut him off. “Just get the fuck out, Walt. You can wait for Karen outside.”

“I want to talk about the store.”

Tobey’s hands went up. “There it is! Jesus fucking Christ. You lasted all of two minutes that time, Walter. When are you gonna give that one up? They left it to me, cut and dry.”

Kurt decided that She-Hulk’s cock wasn’t big enough and needed to be more throbby.

Tobey shot lasers at his brother. “… you don’t have anything to do with Videorama.”

“Yeah. Okay. You’re right,” Walt conceded. “I haven’t had anything to do with the store for a long time. But that’s not how I want it to be.”

“Well boo-fucking-hoo,” Tobey spat. “It’s not like you have a lot of options since, again, they left it to me, cut and dry.”

Walt straightened his shoulders and looked up, meeting his younger brother’s icy gaze. “Tobey,” he said, “I want to buy the store.”

Tobey’s anger kept his mouth moving before the words registered. “Don’t even fucking––wait––no––what?”

Walt swallowed. “I want to buy Videorama from you.”

For once, Tobey had absolutely nothing to say.

In the silence, Kurt’s pencil slipped through his fingers and clattered to the floor.

“Oh, nooooo,” Kurt said through a quiet grimace.

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jordan Krumbine is a professional video editor, digital artist, and creative wizard currently quarantined in Kissimmee, Florida. When not producing content for the likes of Visit Orlando, Orlando Sentinel, or AAA National, Jordan is probably yelling at a stubbornly defective Macbook keyboard, tracking creative projects in Trello, and animating quirky videos with LEGO and other various toys.

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