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orangerosebush · 4 years ago

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“How does one describe Artemis Fowl?” Artemis Fowl, Book 1, Page 1.

Although this quote from the first series sets the tone of Artemis being a character who is loath to be understood, what with how he “delights in not talking” about how it is he perceives himself to truly be, I want to attempt to answer this rhetorical question. After all, the quote serves as a bookend for the series — both the first and final book contain it.

In answering this question, I want to not answer “how does one describe Artemis Fowl?” but rather, “what is Artemis Fowl?” — the series, that is. I think now is a good time to answer this question, what with the first cycle of the series, the Artemis Fowl saga, being complete and the second cycle, the Fowl twins saga, beginning. In short, I want to ask: what context surrounds the book series being published? What are some important themes to the series? And what gives the book series its spark?

I first have to start this video essay by admitting that I was wrong in another essay: “A look into the role of Irish mythology as inspiration for Colfer's depiction of the People: an essay”. You can find this on fanfiction.net or on archive of our own under works by mentosmorii, by the way. The synopsis I provided for the essay is as follows: “Although Colfer has stated before that he has drawn from his knowledge of Irish mythology, he has never stated specifically which myths informed his writing. As someone with a bit of a background in Irish mythology, I have made a guess at some of the sources of inspiration, explained a couple of references within the series, and analyzed a few characters as having connections to Irish history/mythology.”

A lot of the content in that essay is correct, I feel I should say. However, an area where I misstep is here: “ Eoin Colfer has been asked about the influence of Irish mythology on his writing during various interviews, and his response is usually a sort of permutation of the above answer — ‘I grew up reading Irish myths and legends, [and] I… put… a spin on them’ (Colfer). He admits that he was influenced by Irish mythology, and this admission of influence is usually enough to get interviewers to move along to the next question. I’ve looked through many of the interviews that he’s done, and I think I can say with confidence that there is not currently any interview available in which an interviewer presses him to be more specific and point to the myths and legends in question by which he was influenced. In all likelihood, I think that this is because once Colfer confirms that he did, in fact, take inspiration from Irish mythology, the interviewers think of pop culture Celtic mythology and move on”.

The assertion that I made that was incorrect is about the interviewer moving on due to a lack of visibility of Irish myths. However, you also have to look at when the first book was published, which was in 2001. During the 90s to the early 2000s, Ireland was going through something called the “Celtic tiger”, which essentially means that there was an international market that was becoming quite interested in Irish culture, leading to the development of a new, commercially successful Celticism. Cormac MacRaois (pronounced: cormick Mccreesh) estimated, at the time of writing in 1997, that there were at least thirty books dedicated to the retellings of mythological tales on the children’s shelves of Irish bookshops, alongside a burgeoning quantity of contemporary fantasy drawing upon mythological sources for its characters and themes” (Irish Children’s Literature and Culture: New perspectives). Furthermore, in Mary Donohue’s unpublished 2003 MA thesis entitled “From Wexford to the arctic circle, a cultural journey”, she remarks that in a video interview, Colfer mentions that he had initially planned to publish a collection of Irish myths and legends, but that he abandoned this plan when he realized how many good collections were already in print (Donohoe, 2003, p. 24).

What I want to point out is that although the series was published at a time when there was increased interest in Irish mythology, it is interesting that Colfer deviates from the fairy tale and leans into the futuristic. What do I mean by this?

In many ways, the Artemis Fowl series, at least up until book 8, is more of a sci-fi than it is a fantasy. Which is a bold claim for me to make, I know!

However, a quote from book one in which Root is talking to Foaly as the LEP tries to plan how to get Holly back summarizes this seemingly paradoxical analysis of the series quite nicely: Science is taking the magic out of everything.

As Anna Bugajska (pronounced: ah-na boo-guy-ska) states in her essay "Human Magic", "Fairy Technology" : The Place of the Supernatural in the Age of Cyberculture, which is about the Artemis Fowl series: “Fairies deprived of natural wings use their artificial counterparts. Dwarves are practically walking machines. Invisibility is achieved by ‘shielding’. Artemis uses ‘human magic’ to heal a fairy [the sprite in Ho Chi Minh whom he gives a serum to help her alcohol dependence], but must rack his brains to escape ‘fairy technology’. The convergence point comes at the search for a Booke of Magick and at a failed Ritual performance… In the world where fairies rely on blasters and bio-bombs to take out their enemies, is there any place for good ol’ magic? Or is it by any chance homogenous with “man-made magic”, that is technology?”.

The fact that the people seem to rely more on technology than on magic is important to the parallels that the series establishes between humanity and the fae — in many ways, the two societies are two sides of the same coin. In many ways, you could even take Root’s comment about “Science taking the magic out of everything” as the same sort of thing your boss, or teacher, or any older person, really, might say when presented with new technology that they don’t quite yet understand. It seems like their society also suffers from the same anxieties older humans have about technology progressing and leaving previous generations in the dust.

The fact that the book series seems to be more of a sci-fi than a fantasy is important for two reasons, the first one of which is discussed in Elizabeth Parsons’ essay “Fowl Play: Artemis Fowl, Sitting Ducks, and politics for children” and the second of which is discussed in Patricia Kennan’s essay “Contemplating Otherness, imagining the future” . The first perspective, Parsons’, which I do agree with, is that the book brings up parallels between the People and humanity that suggest that the fairies are just as guilty of the environmental issues and social injustice that they like to critique humans for. The second perspective, which I do not necessarily fully agree with but that I find interesting, Kennan’s perspective, is on whether or not Artemis Fowl series “feels” Irish because of this emphasis on the sci-fi over the myth.

Let’s first address Parsons’ argument. Parsons argues that there is no real, discernible difference between the two worlds that share the planet — “Technological advances drive humanity’s destruction of the earth’s surface as much as they [drive] the spread of fairy civilization underground” (Parsons). In fact, Parsons points to the enormous sum of gold at the center of the conflict in book one as evidence that the People are not as innocent of this kind of environmental destruction as they would like to think. After all, you cannot mine gold from the earth without having some kind of negative impact on the planet. Whether it’s from how you might destabilize the ground as you mine, or the pollutants you may release, or even the effect that comes with removing the gold from its natural place in the earth, you cannot escape the fact that Faeries likely also have a history of troubling environmental impacts to answer for. There is also the fact that fairy society is *extremely* developed and industrialized. Just as how the presence of gold presents the question of how the People acquired that wealth, the technology the people have presents the question of how did they develop said tech. You can’t go from a building the wheel to building a neutrino gun — there was likely an industrial revolution in which the People engaged in unclean energy practices as they developed their understanding of how to engineer. And this concern is supported by the text!

In book one, Holly is talking about two mechanical wing types that the LEP uses — the older models called the Dragonflies and the newer models called the Hummingbirds. The book says the following: “Holly unhooked a set of wings from their bracket... Dragonflies. She hated that model. Gas engine, if you believe it... Now the Hummingbird Z7, that was transport. Whisper silent, with a satellite-bounced solar battery that would fly you twice around the world. But there were budget cuts again.” (pp. 50-51).

Perhaps the People may like to argue that they are more environmentally evolved than humanity, and sure, they are, but they’re far from being as innocent in the exploitation of earth than they’d like to think — they still use gas engines, after all!

But that’s just from an environmental point of view. Socially, there is also little difference between the progress of the People and humanity. Honestly, in some aspects, the people are farther behind, what with how Holly mentions being the first woman to be hired to her position even though the book opens at the start of the 21st century. And although Holly understands that others assuming she is less capable on the basis of her gender is both illogical and prejudiced, she herself falls into similar lines of thinking in books 1 and 2. She certainly makes some unkind assumptions regarding how she thinks her coworker Lilli, an attractive woman, was hired because the recruiter fancied Lili. Which, knowing the rather old-fashioned beliefs the LEP higher-ups have regarding women, could be the case! Yet the way she specifically talks about Lili makes it clear she does not see a potential ally against mistreatment in the office — Lili is someone who, in unkind moments, Holly privately kind of sees as an acceptable target of workplace gossip. And Holly, to be fair, grows out of this mindset by the final book — she still doesn’t like Lili, but she’s matured past the point of engaging in making harmful assumptions about her coworker.

And beyond this, Holly also in book one falls into patterns of making assumptions about the various different groups of fairies in Haven. For example, she implies in her first encounter with Mulch that his rapscallion behavior and petty crimes are kind of linked to the fact he’s dwarf. And she certainly doesn’t treat him well in book 1 — she zaps him when he makes a move to pick-pocket despite the fact the situation could have been de-escalated with initial action other than violence. Again, she moves beyond this way thinking by the final book. Yet the society the society she lived in, no matter how much she values things like justice and equality, still influenced her to make judgment calls that either are solely about another person’s identity, such as her comments about Lili, or that tie someone’s behavior to their identity, such as how she links Mulch’s behavior to the fact he is a dwarf. Holly isn’t the problem — the society is.

This is why you have Mulch’s later quote that “I’d rather trust a bunch of humans not to hunt a species to extinction than trust an LEP consultant” (177). Here, the first book kind of hits you over the head with the message: both of the societies, human and fairy, have issues of inequality and environmental abuse built into them. They both suck!

Holly, I think wakes up to this fact at the end of book 4 following the fact that Sool and the council valued money and power over bringing Opal to justice for her murder of Root. After this, she has a more nuanced perspective on ideas of justice and what means to want justice. A line that sticks out to me is from book 8 when she’s thinking about what she wants for Opal. She brings up the fact that at one point, she would have wanted Opal to suffer as she had. However, what Holly wants by the 8th book is for the suffering to stop, period. She doesn’t want to seek justice by humiliating or hurting Opal, what she wants is Opal to no longer be capable of hurting others. And this doesn’t mean that Holly no longer hates Opal, because she unequivocally does. But the cycle of Opal hurting others, the LEP hurting Opal, and then Opal coming back to enact vengeance again, and again, and again, is something that Holly wants to end. She no longer wants to engage in this cycle.

To circle back to my original point, this is why the series relying on sci-fi more than the more magical elements of fairy society is important: by showing us fairies that evolved past the role they would fill in myths, which is more nature-based, Colfer is able to talk about technology in human society, both good and bad, and human society itself, both good and bad. This different depiction of fairies and a more sci-fi plot was what made the story stand when it was being marketed, but it is also interestingly a point of criticism that is invoked when talking about whether or not the story “feel” Irish.

This is the second point of criticism that I discussed earlier is in Patricia Kennan’s essay “Contemplating Otherness, imagining the future”. She doesn’t think blending sci-fi and fantasy is negative — that would be an uncharitable reading of her essay. She even states in the essay that, “the most successful writers of science fantasy, however, have been able to stretch the parameters of both kinds of minds [the fantasy and technological], a feat to be admired”.

She talks about the blending of both mythic and realistic narratives, as well as that mixture’s popularity in recent Irish children’s science fiction. This idea of hybrid forces, the fantasy and the realistic, is attractive, she suggests, because of the chaos contained in their tension in the narrative. It’s for the same reason, perhaps, that fiction containing elements like vampires, that straddle the boundary between night and day, alive and dead, animal and human, is popular, as they contain interesting and allure characteristics while also being horrifying and repulsive.

(Side note: the idea of “otherness” and the human and the magical intersecting is very interesting as an aesthetic when one considers that one of the most influential vampire novels, Dracula, was written by an Irish author and that many of the aesthetics associated with Dracula also fit neatly with Artemis — this further underlines that he straddles the line between good and bad, human and magical, technology and fantasy in the way he seems to be a hybrid of gothic literature aesthetics dressed up in a modern, sci-fi package. I’m gonna end my sidenote here).

However, Kennan points to the plot and setting of the story as perhaps being why the series does feel very grounded in its Irish roots. The essay quotes Celia Keenan, saying: “all sense of the national and local have been eradicated [from the series]. Speech rhythms are entirely mid-Atlantic. No Hiberno-English or Wexford uses are evident. Landscape has become virtual”.

In some ways, I can see her point. Artemis Fowl is a very James Bond-type series in that it tries to invent settings rather than borrowing from existing reference points to place itself. A good example of this would be the fact that Fowl manor and Artemis’ school, Saint Bartleby’s, never are placed concretely within specific locations in Ireland. There might be a sense that Saint Bartleby’s is near Wexford or that the manor is near Dublin, but what proximity might mean (such as showing neighbors, classmates, and descriptions of the setting) is often avoided: the main characters and settings that are explored are often more international, such as Minerva and Spiro being French and American respectively, and the series often taking place in Haven or locations related to it. However, I think that there are at least some references that make the book still feel grounded as being Irish — I go into this in my other essay, but I can recap. There are specific references to Irish mythology and history, even if things like modern Irish history, side characters beyond the Butlers and Fowls that are Irish, and slang or dialect specific to different parts of Ireland aren’t referenced frequently.

So to summarize this point, the series does play with the trappings of a James Bond series in the sense that the setting bounces around enough that perhaps Ireland isn’t at the center always, and I think that this is a function of how Colfer writes sci-fi instead of something that destabilizes the sense of the where and when of the series. For instance, a big example of pop culture that Colfer references is the Matrix, albeit in a sneaky way. Celia Keenan (who is also quoted Kennon’s essay) wrote the article “Who’s afraid of the bad little Fowl?” which serves as a book review and a look into whether or not one could call the series ‘art’. When talking about references the book makes to pop culture, she writes: “It is possible that the film which has most influenced the ‘‘Fowl’’ books is The Matrix (1999). It depicts two worlds, the computer-controlled world of the matrix itself in which humans function as duped slaves, and the world of human resistance fighters who, like Colfer’s fairies, have been forced to create an alternative home called Zion, in the bowels of the earth. The term ‘‘recon unit’’, echoed in Colfer’s LEPrecon, figures in the Matrix. Colfer actually parodies quotations from The Matrix on a few occasions. For example, in The Matrix one of the characters says to the hero, ‘‘Buckle your seat belt, Dorothy, because Kansas is going ‘bye bye’’’; likewise, Root says to Artemis, ‘‘Hate to tell you this, Dorothy, but you ain’t in Kansas anymore’, in Artemis Fowl: the Arctic Incident (p. 63). Another Matrix quip—‘‘never send a human to do a machine’s job’’ (Wachowski, 1999), is parodied by Mulch: ‘‘Tell Foaly not to send a Mud Man to do a fairy’s job’’. In this instance, the narrator emphasizes the cinematic origins of the quotation: ‘‘‘Oh dear,’ thought Artemis, rubbing his brow, ‘Hollywood had a lot to answer for’’’(Colfer, 2002, p. 208).”

The creators of the Matrix, the Wachowski sisters, were pretty influenced by a philosopher named Jean Baudrillard (pronounced: Bow-dree-ard), even if Baudrillard didn’t particularly think their work was grounded in his theory. Baudrillard was undeniably a smart man, but he was also kind of a prick. Make of that what you will. But for those who aren’t familiar with his work or the Matrix itself, these works deal with themes of technology, reality, and the future of our society. To go back to Artemis Fowl, I think the series engages with these themes through both the allusion to Matrix and through the themes of the series itself. Although the series of Artemis Fowl many not engage specifically with many of Baudrillard’s theories, it does engage with similar philosophical concepts about sci-fi and the self.

One particular example of this is how the series (maybe unintentionally) engages with Gilbert Ryle, who was a British philosopher, and his concept of ‘mind-body-dualism’; Ryle came up with the idea of human existence being the tale of ‘a ghost within a machine’, or our sense of self-existing in a separate, physical shell. To simplify, this essentially points out the fact that what we view as being our “us”, our personalities, our inner thoughts, our perception of ourselves, is often separate from our bodies — when I think of who “I” am, I think of my “mind” rather than “body”, and this is exactly what the dualism Ryle pointed out gets at. Often, sci-fi seeks to explore what if this barrier dissolved — such as what if with the evolution of the mind, there was also an evolution of the body, and whether this could be achieved through things like AI, cyborgs, and so on. To go back to Anna Bugajska’s work, she wrote an essay entitled “Artemis Fowl: Posthumanism for teens” that tackles this within the series.

Which admittedly is a bit of a mouthful of a title! It sounds complicated — and it is, it definitely is.

But it is interesting. To go back to the idea of transformation and Artemis Fowl, the series deals with this theme quite a bit. To quote Bugajska: “What naturally could develop into a coming-of-age cycle, swerves into the direction of a transformation, calling into question human nature and individual identity in the age of the morphological freedom, mind uploads, bioengineering, and hybronauts…[the series explores ideas of transformation as a result of a desire to seek previously unaccessible power, but it also explores the idea in the context of the mind and body becoming one in how an impact one must result in an impact of the other].

A prominent example of those who went too far in their quest for [transformative] perfection are Briar Cudgeon, an LEP officer, and Opal Koboi, a genius pixie inventor. Cudgeon, embittered by professional conflict, sought the cognitive enhancement through the use of drugs. As a result, “the tranquilizer had reacted badly with some banned mind- accelerating substances the former acting-commander had been experimenting with. Cudgeon was left with a forehead like melted tar... Ugly and demoted, not a great combination” (Colfer 2003a: 77). [In this case, his desire for power causes his downfall, such as how he tried to enhance his abilities past his limit with the mind-accelerating drug that ended up reacting with the tranquilizer. However, this is also an example of the barrier between the body and the mind dissolving, as Cudgeon’s internal ‘ugliness’, such as his hunger for power, deceitfulness, and disregard for others’, is reflected in his physical form through his overindulgence in substances he uses to try to get around his natural limits.]

In the case of Opal Koboi, we can observe a conscious attempt to transform from one being to another. She has her pointy ears operated upon to give them human shape. What is more, she implants in her brain a human pituitary gland to provoke the secretion of the growth hormone (Colfer 2005: 173–174). She even goes as far as extracting substances from various animals to enhance her magic (Colfer 2011a: 263, 270). All these attempts in the end cost her her sanity (Colfer 2012: 36) and her magic powers, which is especially well visible in the fourth book of the cycle, Opal Deception (Colfer 2005: 329).

On the other hand, the changes in identity must necessarily be reflected in the alterations of at least some parts of the body. Thus, Artemis’s father, a former criminal boss, loses his leg [as he undergoes a sort of transformation after the deal Artemis holds in order to rescue his father from a hostage situation. Beforehand, he might have been a cruel, distant father, but now he has changed. He has become a new man, and in doing so, his body has been altered as well in the loss of a leg and the gaining of a prosthesis] (Colfer 2003b: 80–81). Artemis himself, as he grows from a calculating rationalist to a globally-responsible, empathic man, earns a few body modifications. And although he does not seek them, he does not attempt to get rid of them, instinctively hoarding as much of the “fairness” as he can get. For instance, in The Lost Colony, where Artemis and his friend Holly Short of the LEP travel through a time-tunnel, first his fingers are switched, then he swaps an eye with Holly, and finally he steals some of the fairy magic, which grants him limited healing and regeneration powers. He also gains three years during the travel: in his own time he has to pose as a seventeen-year-old (Colfer 2007: 371)”.

In essence, you have both people seeking to perfect the body in order to match the goals of mind, such as Opal trying to steal new types of magic, and then you have Artemis switching eyes with Holly, representing a more benign example of the body changing to match the mind, as switching eyes represents that he has literally switched perspectives and can see things through her eyes as a result of their friendship. And in the end of the series, you also have Artemis being reborn into a clone — he has changed so much from his self at the beginning of the series, it is like his past self is dead, and his moral rebirth is reflected literally in him being given a new body free of the constraints of the mistakes he made before his passing, such as kidnapping Holly or endangering Butler on multiple occasions.

This I suppose covers most of the grounds that I wanted to in this essay. I talked about the context of the book series being published, the themes, the characters, and the philosophical questions posed by the text.

I don’t know if answered my original question of “what is Artemis Fowl?” — I think I’ll always have something to say about the series. But this puts words to a lot of thoughts I’ve had, and it’s nice to at least have it all there, I suppose. Thanks for listening, and if you have questions, leave me a comment here on on the ao3 version of the essay [x]-- or send me an ask!

#artemis fowl #my writing #my post #hi im zoe and i love making poorly conceived essays abt my interests

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mobilemechanicsabq · 3 years ago

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Making sure that your wheels are installed properly is crucial for your fleet, their safety, and the safety of the other drivers on the road. Having a wheel-off can be the outcome of a bad installation but can be easily avoided. Did you know: Common causes of wheel-offs include problems with fasteners or bearings. A failed bearing could be due to improper installation, over- or under-tightening, or a loss of lubricant. Wheel fasteners can become loose over time, especially if installed incorrectly. Some causes include excess rust, paint, or dirt that build up and cause a loss of clamping force on the wheel nuts. Keeping fasteners clean is vitally important in maintaining the force that keeps tires in place. Clamping force may also be reduced through incorrect torquing, tightening sequences, or routine torque checks.

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How much does it cost to put rims on a car?

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We’d pay: $90. That is pretty standard for an ordinary passenger car. The higher end is for vehicles with specific needs.

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gvbejvmes · 4 years ago

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Drabble: The Present

Title: Fridays with CeCe Rating: PG-13 Characters: Gabriel James-Michaels, Bella James-Michaels, Constance James, Miss Alison, Andrew James, Maxxie Turner, Jonathan James-Michaels (mentioned), Velvet Starr (mentioned), Tommy “Kid” Kidderro (mentioned) Relationship: Implied Gabriel James-Michaels/Jonathan James-Michaels, Andrew James/Maxxie Turner, past Andrew James/Velvet Starr Warnings: Implied drug use and child endangerment, mentions of canon murder and incorrect medical diagnoses Summary: Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services.

Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services. She called it her ‘CeCe Day.’ He or Jay would take her down there, and she would bounce excitedly in their arms as she told them about all the things she wanted to do while she was there. It was always on a Friday, and it was always four hours in the morning. When they picked her up, she would either chatter on and on at 100mph about what she and her CeCe had done or she would be mopey because her CeCe showed up late or forgot about their playdate. Mostly she loved Playdate Days. Gabe, on the other hand, despised them.

While he and Johnny called them ‘Playdate Days,’ they’d never actually explained to Bella what they were. They would when she was older, but for now, she was too young to understand. All she knew was that her Mommy’s name was CeCe (well, Constance, but she chose to call her CeCe), and she had a standing playdate with her every other Friday. She never asked why it was always in the same room. And she never asked why Miss Alison, their caseworker, was always there. She only knew that she only got to see CeCe in a certain place at a certain time - the specifics didn’t bother her yet. Bella was three months old when Gabe got the call from social services asking if he could take custody of his granddaughter; she didn’t know any other life than this one.

Like most ‘Playdate Days,’ Gabe arrived a half hour early to pick Bella up. He didn’t know why he did it. Sometimes it was because he was already in the area and didn’t want to stray too far away. Other times it was because he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Today it was a combination of the two. He still needed to go to the art store to pick up a couple of brushes he had custom ordered, but something in his gut had told him to stop by the social services building first.

Instead of going in right away and sitting in the waiting room, he went around to the back of the building to the designated smoking area first - and that was when he saw her.

Constance James was skinny in a way that didn’t look natural. She had definition around her collarbone and chest that reminded Gabe of bird bones. It was like her body didn’t know how to retain fat or muscle tissue on that part of her body. She almost looked concave, but Gabe wouldn’t go quite that far. Her skin didn’t sit quite right on her bones - like she’d lost weight too quickly and her skin tried to conform to her body, but failed. It didn’t hang, but it didn’t look entirely normal either.

Her long blonde hair was streaked with black dye and was pulled back into a severe ponytail at the crown of her head. A cigarette was dangling from her lips as she texted rapidly on her phone. Her nails were short, and the cuticles looked picked at. Chipped nail polish caught the sunlight as her fingers moved across the screen.

She must have seen him approach because she suddenly groaned and put her phone away. “Did they call you?” She asked as she pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. Her foot was pressed against the side of the building, which made Gabe think of a flamingo for some reason.

“Should they have called me, Connie?” He asked his daughter as he pulled out his own cigarette and lit up. He leaned against the wall near her, knowing better by now than to try to have direct eye contact with his estranged daughter.

She shrugged and took a long drag of her cigarette. She looked better than the last time he had seen her. A lot of the time she ducked out before Gabe could get a good look at her. Today she was wearing jeans that actually fit without falling off her hips, and a thick gray sweater that fell off her shoulder, but that looked like it was the style and not the size. She looked healthier than the last time he’d seen her. Of all the things to have inherited, she inherited her mother’s terrible parenting and her grandfather’s temper and addiction.

“I dunno. They always seem to call you when I fuck up.” She admitted. “Ari kicked me out of the room.”

That was going to be a fun conversation with the case worker. He nodded and took a drag, using the time to think about what to say to that. “She prefers being called Bella.” He finally settled on.

Connie finished her cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground before pushing off the wall. “No, you prefer Bella. She’s three. She’ll answer to any name I call her.” And with that his daughter started walking back towards the street. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

He watched his daughter walk away before finishing his cigarette and sanitizing his hands. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but they both knew she wouldn’t listen. Pushing all thoughts of his daughter away, he went inside to pick up Bella. And sure enough, as soon as he walked into the waiting room, the receptionist led him into a conference room to wait for the caseworker.

“Mr. James-Michaels.” Miss Alison greeted him. And it was Miss Alison. He’d tried just calling her Alison once and she nearly bit his head off. His husband said it was a Child Services/Social Worker thing and to just roll with it.

“Miss Alison.” He greeted in return, watching as she sat down at the table across from him. “I ran into Connie outside.”

The younger woman’s face paled. “Did she tell you what happened?” She pulled out her tablet and Gabe knew from experience that she was pulling up their file.

“Just that Bella threw her out of the room. And that she’s trying to make ‘Ari�� happen.”

Miss Alison sighed. “I put in a call to the judge. We may have to terminate her visitation for a couple of weeks.” It looked like she was looking for the best way to explain to Gabe what happened. Technically there was video footage, but Gabe hated watching it and Miss Alison knew that.

“Miss James has once again refused to follow the rules of visitation. She was thirty minutes late, she insisted on referring to Bella as Ari, even after both myself and Bella asked her to refrain, and she once again told Bella she was going to buy a house and take her away from you. It was at that point that Bella screamed and asked her to go away. We escorted Miss James out immediately. It’s become very clear that the current arrangement is not conducive to Bella’s wellbeing. You and your husband will likely get a summons within the next week or so with a court date to meet with Judge Murphy again.”

Before Gabe could respond, there was a knock on the door, and one of the assistants popped their head into the room. “Sorry, Bella kept asking me to call you. When I let her know you were already here, she demanded to see you because and I quote ‘the connatution says so.’” And he looked like he was trying so hard not to laugh.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “That she definitely got from my husband.” He dug around in his satchel and pulled out a package of freeze dried apple slices and tossed them at the assistant before pulling off his beanie and tossing that to him as well. “Those should tide her over until I’m done in here.” He promised. “I have to go over my and my husband’s availability for the next couple of weeks with Miss Alison.”

By the time Gabe finished his conversation and went to the other room to collect Bella, she was standing by the door, coat on and his beanie shoved down over her wild hair. “Took you long enough, GG.” She complained as he signed her out and carried her out of the building. “You dunno what I had to deal with today.”

His granddaughter was definitely three going on forty-seven.

After going to pick up his custom brushes, they headed over to the Collective so they could drop them off in his studio and because there were some orders he apparently needed to authorize. As soon as they walked inside, Bella told him she wanted to watch ‘the spinning’. He had no idea what she was talking about, until they walked to the classroom and he saw Maxxie running his beginning pottery class. Bella scampered off to sit near Maxxie and watch him move his clay around. Somehow he had a feeling she was going to wind up covered in clay - again. Shaking his head, he walked out of the classroom to find Andrew James sitting at the reception desk.

His son was twenty-six years old and all dark hair and tan skin. There was something about his hair that reminded Gabe of how his hair had been when he was his age. It was long and hung in his eyes - all the damn time. He was broad-shouldered, but was constantly hunching in on himself. It was like he was trying to make himself smaller everywhere he went. If he had to describe his son in one word, it would be skittish.

He spent years on medication he didn’t need after he claimed that he saw aliens take his aunt away. It wasn’t until he was older that he finally saw a therapist who saw his story for what it was: a way for his brain to comprehend a horrible thing he’d witnessed. Unfortunately by that time, he’d already spent years on medication he never needed and the side effects were irreversible. Thankfully the worst of it was memory loss and shaky hands.

“What are you doing working today?” He asked curiously as he gestured for his son to let him onto the computer. His son had been working at the Collective since he moved to New York. He’d made it clear he didn’t want any handouts, but he’d connected so well with the others at the Collective that it was strange to think about him working anywhere else. “I thought you refused to work on days Maxxie and Velvet were working.”

He’d dated both Velvet and Maxxie and now tried to avoid both of them whenever he could. His relationship with Velvet hadn’t been all that serious. As soon as he found out Velvet slept in a coffin, he was out. Maxxie, on the other hand, had been very serious. They’d dated for six months, which was the longest he’d ever seen his friend in a relationship. It had ended badly, to say the very least. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened between them, but fire had been involved somehow.

Drew made a face as he perched on the desk, shoulders hunched over and ankles crossed. “That’s not true.” He lied. “I traded shifts with Kid. He had his first GED prep class today.”

Gabe smiled at that. It had taken Tommy long enough. He pulled up the order he needed to review. There were still things he needed to do up in his office, but knowing that his son was working made him want to stay downstairs with him for as long as he could get away with it.

“CJ texted me.” Drew said after a long moment. “She wanted me to talk some ‘sense’ into you.”

He rolled his eyes. “And how’s that going for you?” While Connie didn’t talk to him, she still talked to her brother, but mostly only when she needed something. Drew, for his part, didn’t take sides. He loved his sister despite her faults, but he also knew how she was and what was best for his niece.

Before Drew could respond, Maxxie’s voice came from the classroom. “Pookie! Can you come get your little sister?! She’s throwing clay on the ground.” And nothing about that surprised him except for…

“Pookie?” He mouthed at his son, eyebrow raised. Maybe there was more to Drew working today than just taking Tommy’s shift.

His son blushed as he hopped off the desk. “That’s the part you’re focusing on? Not the fact that he keeps calling my niece my sister?” He grumbled out. “I’ll watch Bella; just go work.” He waved a hand in his dad’s direction.

As his son disappeared into the classroom and he could hear Bella squealing in delight, he couldn’t help but to mouth out again: “Pookie?”

#drabble #pairing: Gabe/Johnny #pairing: Drew/Maxxie

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solacefruit · 5 years ago

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Hi Grey, I struggle a lot with world building and I think it's easiest for me to learn by example. I was wondering if you had any books or series you'd recommend that you thought did particularly well in the world building department or that you found inspiring. I'm trying to start building a list of things to read, could be any genre

Hello there and thank you for your patience! I’ll be honest, this one’s a challenge to answer, but I’ll do my best. I’ll put it all under a read-more, because I’m going to talk a lot about why I feel these books are good places for thinking about world-building.

Northern Lights, by Philip Pullman. (fantasy)

This one comes up a lot when I’m making recommendations and that’s because I love it. For me, it was deeply formative in many ways, and especially when it came to world-building, because Pullman uses a style of world-building which really clicks for me--which is basically throwing your reader into a world and not explaining much at all, leaving many things gestured at but never explicitly said. Things just happen, things just are, and the reader has to keep up. There’s a lot that goes unsaid in this book, and it means you as a reader have to start thinking and “solving” the gaps in the world yourself. There’s room for speculation and I thrive in that environment, and lean on it heavily in my own work.

A great example of that comes in the first chapter of the novel, on the fifth page and then again on the seventh:

“As Lyra held her breath she saw the servant’s daemon (a dog, like almost all servants’ daemons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet...” - page five. “... and said something to his daemon. He was a servant, so she was a dog; but a superior servant, so a superior dog. In fact, she had the form of a red setter.” - page seven.

That’s good oblique storytelling, because you are told so much and simultaneously so little. From these two tiny pieces, you now know that:

servants usually have dog-shaped daemons

some daemons, even within a family, are “better” than others

daemons mean something about their person

But these pieces tell you enough that you can now speculate and question the world as you read on. Things like:

why do servants have dog daemons?

what makes a red setter daemon better than another dog daemon?

what does a dog daemon mean?

what is the hierarchical system of daemons, who is better than whom?

are people sorted because of their daemons, or do the daemons reflect where the person is sorted to after the fact?

what do other daemons mean?

are these meanings innate or cultural?

The book itself will directly answer maybe one or two questions, hint at a few others, and leave many completely unresolved. But that’s not bad world-building. For me, that’s the kind of world-building I love best. The book can now say, “this person’s daemon is a butterfly,” and you will be primed to read symbolism and significance into that, even in moments where the book itself doesn’t give you any. You’re a participant in creating the world as you read. A little goes a long way.

The Discworld novels, by Terry Pratchett. (fantasy, comedy) If you’re trying to pick a first book, start here.

And now for something completely different. Pratchett’s Discworld is an absurdist world, created to satirise fantasy tropes and play as the stage for social and political commentary. What makes Discworld so interesting as a place to learn about world-building is that it is a world that doesn’t take chronology or “consistency” or “authenticity” seriously. Where a lot of fantasy writers will stress over making sure every detail lines up, and their fans will often get very upset if they find anything “inconsistent” or “incorrect”, Pratchett’s world entirely rejects that way of doing things. Pratchett commented:

“[S]ometimes I even forget [...] where things are ... I don’t think [...] even the most rabid fan expects complete consistency within Discworld, because in Ankh-Morpork you have what is apparently a Renaissance city, but with elements of early Victorian England, and the medieval world is still hanging on. It’s in a permanent state of turmoil, which is very interesting for the author.” (quoted in Hills, Guilty of Literature).

There’s something very liberated and fluid in how Discworld forms, because it’s such a committed pastiche, but it doesn’t at all (at least, for me) undercut believing in the characters or story. I adore Discworld and its characters. I think it’s very valuable to read if you’re in fantasy writing (or speculative fiction in general), because it’s easy to fall into thinking that unless you make everything Perfect and Realistic and Consistent, your world-building isn’t good.

Something else about Discworld worth noting is that, despite being absurd and fluid, it is also grounded in the real. Pratchett’s world is in turmoil, but it includes sewer systems, passages of trade and commerce, and a pervasive sense of the civic life happening and living outside of the plot-line: it’s not just a diorama to be walked through, but a place where people exist and do mundane things and have everyday needs. I personally find it fascinating that the story manages to exist sort of balancing at oppositional ends of the “realism” spectrum at all times, but I think that’s also the key to why it is so successful at what it does.

(Side note: Matt Hills’ chapter in Guilty of Literature is a great read if you want to know more!)

Ancillary Justice, by Ann Leckie (science fiction)

I’m not a big reader of science fiction, because my heart is with fantasy, always. But this series was super interesting and I can recommend it, especially if science fiction is more your flavour! It’s been a while since I’ve read it, so I can’t give the same amount of detail as I’ve done above, but it was thoughtful and intriguing and I loved the ways this trilogy defamiliarised and refamiliarised ideas through the world and characters.

“The Ones who Walk Away from Omelas,” by Ursula K. Le Guin. (short story)

It’s only four pages long, but it’s haunting. I’ve put this story on the list because I feel like Ursula K. Le Guin belongs in many conversations about world-building; her work, in her time, was often radical--and remains so, in many cases. She didn’t flinch away from making her worlds alien, not in the sense of writing about space and people out among the stars (which admittedly she did also do!), but truly questioning and challenging cultural and societal norms and creating new ones, even (and especially) when they were uncomfortable to the status quo.

To me, that’s a core part of good world-building. You can just recreate the world we live in, with all the biases we’re raised to have, with the beliefs and expectations of conduct we have, with all the same bigotry--or you can push yourself to pull it all apart and pick from it the pieces you want to play with. You can push things to their extreme limits, or erase them entirely, or just... slide things a little to the left and make the whole world slightly off. Being able to be flexible in your thinking is vital for making vivid, interesting worlds, and Ursula K. Le Guin's work is a place you can start exploring that kind of thing if you’re unfamiliar with it.

For instance, in her novel Left Hand of Darkness, there is only one pronoun (a theme you’ll notice in Ancillary Justice) and the people of the planet Gethin change sex regularly. In her collection of short stories, “The Birthday of the World and Other Stories,” she writes about sedoretu, a four-way marriage she invents, as well as exploring gender, religion, culture, and society. Any of these are worth taking a look at, if you’re feeling a little boxed in.

However, despite saying all this: I don’t really enjoy her writing! I don’t have fun reading Le Guin’s work in practice; it doesn’t mesh with me beyond my delight at the conceptual elements she discusses. I often feel about reading her work like how kids think about medicine: tastes kind of awful, but it’s good for you. I’m grateful to her for paving the way, but I don’t read her work for fun.

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of her Own Making, by Catherynne M. Valente.

I’m throwing this one in the ring for a few reasons. One is that I am heavily indebted to nonsense; I grew up on Dr Seuss, Roald Dahl, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland + Alice Through the Looking-glass, Edward Gorey, A. A. Milne, H. R. Pufnstuf, and a little later, A Series of Unfortunate Events and Discworld. This book feels representative of that big love, and taps into what I love about nonsense.

Another reason is that it’s a good example of what I think of as delightful lawlessness in storytelling. It feels--as respectfully and lovingly as I can say this--like a game of mad libs turned into a book, because of how free and wild it is with what is allowed to happen. I think it’s very difficult to do something like this well, but I also think it’s a great place to play around when you’re first beginning to get to grips on world-building. Spin a wheel of options and go, “okay, so there’s a manticore in the basement, what now?” Make up reasons for things on the spot as a game for yourself. Ask and answer questions, just for fun! “Why is there a manticore there?” “It got in through the magic portal.” “Where’s the magic portal?” “It’s an old picture of the protagonist’s grandmother.” “Why is it a portal?” “The grandmother is secretly a witch and the ex-queen of a fantasy land.” “Why is the manticore here?” “Come to retrieve the queen, but accidentally takes the protagonist by mistake.” “Why does the manticore want the queen?” “Extreme Trivia Night at the Castle has really sucked lately. Also she misses her.” And just like that, you’ve got the start of a wacky but not impossible-to-tell story.

My final suggestion isn’t a book, but a podcast!

Be The Serpent (a podcast of extremely deep literary merit).

A fortnightly podcast by three charming writers who discuss a different theme or topic each episode (using a couple of texts as reference material), and will also make media recommendations. I love listening to it and it’s a great place to think about writing, both as a reader and as a writer. I don’t have a lot of writing friends myself, unfortunately, so it’s honestly so valuable to me to be able to hear them discuss their process and ideas on topics I care about.

I hope this helps! Best of luck to you, and please feel free to write in if you have any other questions.

#reply #advice #world-building #book recommendation #tumblr automatically put my reply under a read-more and i can't undo it?? what on EARTH is going wrong with this website

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huxianposts · 5 years ago

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Sojiro for the character meme please :3c

i am, so sorry this took so long, but thank you for the ask!! :’)

favorite thing about them

i love that he’s genuinely a good man. yeah he comes off as bitter and jaded, which, valid, considering everything, but even when he says one thing that’s sharp, he’d always follow up with something soft. all these jagged pieces and his kindness shines through the cracks. i’m emo af about it. like him genuinely caring and loving wakaba, but his principles on being a decent human being outweighs any sense of, ugh, ‘entitlement’ or ‘nice guy’ shitck-- him adopting futaba not because she was wakaba’s daughter, but because she was in a shitty living environment-- him wanting to be a good guardian for futaba and in doing so, worked hard to support her, even when she was isolating herself in the house, and got pissed that we bothered her because he just really cares about her well-being... i’m crying. he’s just so good, man

least favorite thing about them

i do not like how atlus pushes him to be this stone cold ‘player’ character. they established his ‘drinks respecting women juice’ characterization, but then, in another scene, he’s like, “oh yeah, the ladies, they like it if you’re cool, not ‘nice’” and i’m just, sojiro you are a clown, my good sir. you’ve loved one woman, and continue to revere and respect her memory without even looking at anyone else. like lmaooooo atlus wtffff let him be the father-figure everyone wants without the old-timey womanizer aspect, pls

favorite line

“hoo boy” makes me howl every freaking time. it’s such a dad thing to say, and i LIVE for it. however, his ending quote, "When I took you in, I thought I was the one helping you... but it turns out it was the other way around. ...Take care.” that killed me. the emotional culmination of the bond and him genuinely appreciating and caring about you, and then him tearing up and wiping his face when you leave... absolutely everything to me.

brOTP

i like the combo of sojiro/sae/haru. just the circumstances of their background has me tear tf up: someone they love and cared for dies, and they’re pushed into new roles and responsibilities (obvs, sojiro definitely chose to step up for futaba, but like, the themes of loss and having to navigate an entirely unfamiliar territory in the wake of that loss, hhhh). i think it’d be quiet chats in leblanc, and like, it’s nothing as intense brotp like haru with the team, or sae with goro, but... it’s good. it’s understanding through the lenses of different ages and backgrounds, and you know, they have an appreciation for a good cup of coffee on cold nights, when the world feels heavy

i also like to think of a sojiro/iwai friendship where it’s just two dads hardcore doting on their kids and trying to be competitive but then it turns out-- wait, we share the same son, a.k.a akira lmaooooo

OTP

i haven’t really thought up an otp with him tbh :0 but like... a sojiro/lala combo... hoo boy, that’s lethal to me in good ways (akira just accumulates parents and tries to match-make akjdfaklj)

nOTP

i know i said i like his adoration and respect towards wakaba, but i honestly don’t/can’t see them together. i think they make better friends, and like, canonically, he’s happy/fine with that too! he cares about her and holds her in an important spot in his heart, and she obvs cared about him and trusted him too, with how she tweaked his curry recipe, and how he even knows about futaba’s existence, esp when wakaba was involved with dangerous business in her research

random headcanon

he embarrasses futaba and akira by making explicitly incorrect culture references. he once slipped down the stairs and lightly busted his hip, and all he said to them was, “he need some f r e shavo ca doo” and akira had to hold futaba back from going ape shit on sojiro through her tears

unpopular opinion

why does he wear a fedora. why.

song i associate with them

emo song: “World Spins Madly On” by the Weepies

happy song: “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Marvin Gaye

favorite picture of them

don’t have the picture, but his face when Futaba calls him dad. he’s just the surprised pikachu face, and then he crumples in happiness, and i’m deceased. his SL kills me so good, i’m sayin

#thank you for the ask!#asks #chidorinnnnn #p5 #persona #sojiro sakura #thank you for requesting him i love coffee dad so much #long post

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mentosmorii · 5 years ago

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“How does one describe Artemis Fowl?” Artemis Fowl, Book 1, Page 1.

A lot of the content in that essay is correct, I feel I should say. However, an area where I misstep is here: “ Eoin Colfer has been asked about the influence of Irish mythology on his writing during various interviews, and his response is usually a sort of permutation of the above answer — ‘I grew up reading Irish myths and legends, [and] I… put… a spin on them’” (Colfer). He admits that he was influenced by Irish mythology, and this admission of influence is usually enough to get interviewers to move along to the next question. I’ve looked through many of the interviews that he’s done, and I think I can say with confidence that there is not currently any interview available in which an interviewer presses him to be more specific and point to the myths and legends in question by which he was influenced. In all likelihood, I think that this is because once Colfer confirms that he did, in fact, take inspiration from Irish mythology, the interviewers think of pop culture Celtic mythology and move on”.

The assertion that I made that was incorrect is about the interviewer moving on due to a lack of visibility of Irish myths. However, you also have to look at when the first book was published, which was in 2001. During the 90s to the early 2000s, Ireland was going through something called the “Celtic tiger”, which essentially means that there was an international market that was becoming quite interested in Irish culture, leading to the development of a new, commercially successful Celticism. Cormac MacRaois (pronounced: Cormick Mccreesh) estimated, at the time of writing in 1997, that there were at least thirty books dedicated to the retellings of mythological tales on the children’s shelves of Irish bookshops, alongside a burgeoning quantity of contemporary fantasy drawing upon mythological sources for its characters and themes” (Irish Children’s Literature and Culture: New perspectives).

Furthermore, in Mary Donohue’s unpublished 2003 MA thesis entitled “From Wexford to the arctic circle, a cultural journey”, she remarks that in a video interview, Colfer mentions that he had initially planned to publish a collection of Irish myths and legends, but that he abandoned this plan when he realized how many good collections were already in print (Donohoe, 2003, p. 24).

In many ways, the Artemis Fowl series, at least up until book 8, is more of a sci-fi than it is a fantasy. Which is a bold claim for me to make, I know!

A quote from book one in which Root is talking to Foaly as the LEP tries to plan how to get Holly back summarizes this analysis of the series quite nicely: “Science is taking the magic out of everything”.

As Anna Bugajska (pronounced: ah-na boo-guy-ska) states in her essay "Human Magic", "Fairy Technology": The Place of the Supernatural in the Age of Cyberculture: “Fairies deprived of natural wings use their artificial counterparts. Dwarves are practically walking machines. Invisibility is achieved by ‘shielding’. Artemis uses ‘human magic’ to heal a fairy [the sprite in Ho Chi Minh whom he gives a serum to help her alcohol dependence], but must rack his brains to escape ‘fairy technology’. The convergence point comes at the search for a Booke of Magick and at a failed Ritual performance… In the world where fairies rely on blasters and bio-bombs to take out their enemies, is there any place for good ol’ magic? Or is it by any chance homogenous with “man-made magic”, that is technology?”.

The fact that the book series seems to be more of a sci-fi than a fantasy is important for two reasons, the first reason of which is discussed in Elizabeth Parsons’ essay “Fowl Play: Artemis Fowl, Sitting Ducks, and politics for children” and the second of which is discussed by Anna Bugajska. The first perspective, Parsons’, is that the book brings up parallels between the People and humanity that suggest that the fairies are just as guilty of the environmental issues and social injustice that they like to critique humans for. The second perspective is that the emphasis on the blending of science and magic in the narrative helps explore the themes of moral evolution within the series.

Let’s first address Parsons’ argument. Parsons argues that there is no discernible difference between the two worlds that share the planet — “Technological advances drive humanity’s destruction of the earth’s surface as much as they [drive] the spread of fairy civilization underground” (Parsons). In fact, Parsons points to the enormous sum of gold at the center of the conflict in book one as evidence that the People are not as innocent of this kind of environmental destruction as they would like to think. After all, you cannot mine gold from the earth without having some kind of negative impact on the planet. Whether it’s from how you might destabilize the ground as you mine, or the pollutants you may release, or even the effect that comes with removing the gold from its natural place in the earth, you cannot escape the fact that Faeries likely also have a history of troubling environmental impacts to answer for. There is also the fact that fairy society is *extremely* industrialized. Just as how the presence of gold presents the question of how the People acquired that wealth, the technology the people have presents the question of how did they develop said tech. You can’t go from a building the wheel to building a neutrino gun — there was likely an industrial revolution in which the People engaged in unclean energy practices as they developed their understanding of how to engineer. And this concern is supported by the text!

But that’s just from an environmental point of view. Socially, there is also little difference between the progress of the People and humanity. Honestly, in some aspects, the people are farther behind, what with how Holly mentions being the first woman to be hired to her position even though the book opens at the start of the 21st century. And although Holly understands that others assuming she is less capable on the basis of her gender is both illogical and prejudiced, she herself falls into similar lines of thinking in books 1 and 2. She certainly makes some unkind assumptions regarding how she thinks her coworker Lili, an attractive woman, was hired because the recruiter fancied Lili. Which, knowing the rather old-fashioned beliefs the LEP higher-ups have regarding women, could be the case! Yet the way she specifically talks about Lili makes it clear she does not see a potential ally against mistreatment in the office — Lili is someone who, in unkind moments, Holly privately sort of sees as an acceptable target of workplace gossip. And Holly, to be fair, grows out of this mindset by the final book — she still doesn’t like Lili, but she’s matured past the point of engaging in making harmful assumptions about her coworker.

And beyond this, Holly also in book one falls into patterns of making assumptions about the various different groups of fairies in Haven. For example, she implies in her first encounter with Mulch that his rapscallion behavior and petty crimes are kind of linked to the fact he’s dwarf. And she certainly doesn’t treat him well in book 1 — she zaps him when he makes a move to pick-pocket despite the fact the situation could have been de-escalated with initial action other than violence. Again, she moves beyond this way thinking by the final book. Yet the society she lived in, no matter how much she values things like justice and equality, still influenced her to make judgment calls that either are solely about another person’s identity, such as her comments about Lili, or that tie someone’s behavior to their identity, such as how she links Mulch’s behavior to the fact he is a dwarf. Holly isn’t the problem — the society is.

The second point, that the series uses technology and sci-fi to explore philosophical topics, is also part of the appeal to the series.

One particular example that comes to mind is how the series (maybe unintentionally) engages with Gilbert Ryle, who was a British philosopher, and his concept of ‘mind-body-dualism’; Ryle wrote on the idea of human existence being the tale of ‘a ghost within a machine’, or our sense of self-existing in a separate, physical shell. To simplify, this essentially points out the fact that what we view as being our “us”, our personalities, our inner thoughts, our perception of ourselves, is often separate from our bodies — such as how when I think of who “I” am, I think of my “mind” rather than “body”. Often, sci-fi seeks to explore what if this barrier dissolved — such as what if with the evolution of the mind, there was also an evolution of the body, and whether this could be achieved through things like AI, cyborgs, and so on. To go back to Anna Bugajska’s work, she wrote an essay entitled “Artemis Fowl: Posthumanism for teens” that tackles this within the series.

To go back to the idea of transformation and Artemis Fowl, the series deals with this theme quite a bit. To quote Bugajska: “What naturally could develop into a coming-of-age cycle, swerves into the direction of a transformation, calling into question human nature and individual identity in the age of the morphological freedom, mind uploads, bioengineering, and hybronauts…[the series explores ideas of transformation as a result of a desire to seek previously unaccessible power, but it also explores the idea in the context of the mind and body becoming one in how an impact one must result in an impact of the other].

“A prominent example of those who went too far in their quest for [transformative] perfection are Briar Cudgeon, an LEP officer, and Opal Koboi, a genius pixie inventor. Cudgeon, embittered by professional conflict, sought the cognitive enhancement through the use of drugs. As a result, “the tranquilizer had reacted badly with some banned mind- accelerating substances the former acting-commander had been experimenting with. Cudgeon was left with a forehead like melted tar... Ugly and demoted, not a great combination” (Colfer 2003a: 77). [In this case, his desire for power causes his downfall, such as how he tried to enhance his abilities past his limit with the mind-accelerating drug that ended up reacting with the tranquilizer. However, this is also an example of the barrier between the body and the mind dissolving, as Cudgeon’s internal ‘ugliness’, such as his hunger for power, deceitfulness, and disregard for others’, is reflected in his physical form through his overindulgence in substances he uses to try to get around his natural limits.]

“In the case of Opal Koboi, we can observe a conscious attempt to transform from one being to another. She has her pointy ears operated upon to give them human shape. What is more, she implants in her brain a human pituitary gland to provoke the secretion of the growth hormone (Colfer 2005: 173–174). She even goes as far as extracting substances from various animals to enhance her magic (Colfer 2011a: 263, 270). All these attempts in the end cost her her sanity (Colfer 2012: 36) and her magic powers, which is especially well visible in the fourth book of the cycle, the Opal Deception (Colfer 2005: 329).

“On the other hand, the changes in identity must necessarily be reflected in the alterations of at least some parts of the body... “Artemis himself, as he grows from a calculating rationalist to a globally-responsible, empathic man, earns a few body modifications. And although he does not seek them, he does not attempt to get rid of them, instinctively hoarding as much of the “fairness” as he can get. For instance, in The Lost Colony, where Artemis and his friend Holly Short of the LEP travel through a time-tunnel, first his fingers are switched, then he swaps an eye with Holly, and finally he steals some of the fairy magic, which grants him limited healing and regeneration powers. He also gains three years during the travel: in his own time he has to pose as a seventeen-year-old (Colfer 2007: 371)” (Bugajska).

In essence, you have both people seeking to perfect the body in order to match the goals of mind, such as Opal trying to steal new types of magic or Cudgeon using mind accelerating drugs, and then you have Artemis switching eyes with Holly, representing a more benign example of the body changing to match the mind, as switching eyes represents that he has literally switched perspectives and can see things through her eyes as a result of their friendship. And in the end of the series, you also have Artemis being reborn into a clone — he has changed so much from his self at the beginning of the series, it is like his past self is dead, and his moral rebirth is reflected literally in him being given a new body free of the constraints of the mistakes he made before his passing, such as kidnapping Holly or endangering Butler on multiple occasions.

#artemis fowl #my writing #yes i know this is immensely obnoxious but know this: this is actually the short version of the future video essay

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queen-susans-revenge · 5 years ago

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Ingrid Seward and her Smear Campaign Against the Duchess of Sussex

The astonishing and unabating waves of vitriol and misogynoir directed against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex in the British tabloids are really something; yesterday Elton John took to Twitter to denounce “these relentless and untrue assassinations on their character that are spuriously crafted on an almost daily basis.” He was including Harry in his remarks, but the truth is that the vast majority of the press attacks are directed at Meghan. They began when her engagement was announced, with such odious headlines as the Daily Mail’s “Harry’s Girl Is (Almost) Straight Outta Compton -- Gang-Scarred Home of Her Mother Revealed - So Will He Be Dropping By for Tea?” and they have never let up. (As it turns out, yes, the Duke and his mother-in-law visit frequently. She usually comes to them though, because they are a prince and a princess who live in a frickin’ castle--okay okay, on the grounds of a frickin’ castle--and can’t go anywhere without a paparazzi mob.) Both the elegant and impressive Doria Ragland and her equally elegant and graceful daughter have borne the onslaught in silent dignity. It has been so ugly and unjust that the American press, and many in Hollywood, are now pushing back: Vanity Fair, The Washington Post, and Harper’s Bazaar, among other outlets, have published stories that all come to the obvious answer:

One interesting thing for Sussex fans, is that when you read the latest trash hit against Meghan, it’s often the same people saying the terrible things. Which then the other tabloids will pounce on and regurgitate and spin up into a fresh cycle of “controversy.” Piers Morgan is perhaps the most obvious culprit. A lot of the Meghan-bashing stuff comes from that douchebag. But he at least has been appropriately challenged: Jameela Jamil accurately called him “a slut-shaming, fat-shaming, misogynist, irrelevant shit stain, smeared across our country.” Friends, netizens, fellow blanket goblins. I am not here to talk about Piers Morgan. I am here to talk about someone that I don’t think has been named and shamed enough, because just as many of these ugly stories planted in the press turn out to come from her. This is a callout post for Ingrid Seward.

Who is Ingrid Seward? She is a wretched fucking harpy, and also the editor in chief of Majesty magazine--which seems to be an online-only webzine with about the same production values as your local supermarket flyer? Anyway, nine times out of ten when a “royal expert” launches an attack on Meghan, it’s Ingrid Seward. Here’s a gallery of her greatest hits: * Remember that whole business when Meghan came out after Archie’s birth for Trooping the Color, and people noticed she’d changed up the band of her engagement ring? At the time Ingrid Seward had a lot of sneering things to say about that, quotes that got picked up and cycled through a bunch of different outlets: “I find it a bit odd Meghan would want to alter a ring that her husband had especially designed for her...A royal engagement ring is a piece of history not a bit of jewelry to be updated when it looks old fashioned.” The implication of course here being that Meghan is not really one of us, she doesn’t understand the significance--Harry designed that ring with Diana’s stones, she’s desecrating it! (Never mind that it’s her damn ring, and that any alterations Meghan makes to her jewelry will simply add to the heritage and historicity of the pieces.) But it gets better! * So then it came out that Harry had the band changed, actually, because he gave her a second ring when Archie was born and he wanted her to be able to wear them stacked. Was there any apology from Ingrid? No, of course not. She’d successfully planted one wave of bad stories about Meghan, and she’d moved on to the next wave--the christening. * Right, remember all the kerfluffle around how Meghan and Harry wouldn’t allow press photographers at the christening? I’m not gonna say this one was entirely orchestrated by Ingrid, but man does it have her fingerprints all over it: she was very intentional about fanning up the flames of criticism, and very successful at it too. Here’s a quote from one representative bitchy piece in the Express: “Ingrid Seward, editor-in-chief of Majesty Magazine, said she felt that people were becoming a 'bit jaded' by 'stylised' pictures of the newest royal. 'I think what people want and what people are used to seeing are lovely family images of the baby in the royal Honiton lace christening gown. They won't want an arty Instagram shot of Archie's foot three days later if it's left up to the couple themselves to take pictures and release them,' she said, referring to a Mother's Day shot issued by the couple of their son on social media." * She doesn’t name Meghan directly here, but it’s exactly the same implication as before--Meghan doesn’t understand the significance. Her Hollywood, Instagram, American style marks her as not one of us. * And as usual once she’d successfully planted one negative quote somewhere, it would get picked up and amplified by other outlets. E! Online ran a piece that quoted her appearance on the Today show: "I've covered five or six christenings during my royal career and I've never come across such secrecy," Majesty magazine editor-in-chief Ingrid Seward said on Today.” The headline for the E! Online article was “The Archie Christening Controversy: Why Meghan Markle and Prince Harry Are Under Fire Yet Again.” Like yeah okay they are, but at some point don’t we get to talk about the fact that it’s always the same little squad doing the firing? * Of course in the end what Meghan and Harry actually released were lovely family images of the baby in the royal Honiton lace christening gown, just like Ingrid Seward said she wanted.

* Was she happy? * No. Her success at generating negative coverage for the Sussexes has only made her bolder. “I would think it might bother William a little bit, because he might see the way that Harry and Meghan do things as being detrimental to the business of the monarchy as a whole,” Ingrid Seward revealed in the British documentary titled ‘William & Harry: Princes At War?’ as reported by UK’s Daily Mail on Monday.” * You can see how she gets the media machine to spin up and regurgitate and repackage her smears. That quote was actually from a Fox News piece: “Meghan Markle and Prince Harry’s ‘detrimental’ behavior ‘might bother’ Prince William, claims royal expert.” * So one bad quote from Ingrid Seward generates negative TV and press coverage along many outlets. And she’s usually just referred to as a “royal expert,” which makes her fly under the radar more than Piers Morgan. But she is the news here! There’s no actual story about William: this entire news cycle of negative coverage is generated by Ingrid Seward, just like previous bad news cycles have been spun up by her. * She never retracts her criticisms even when repeatedly proven incorrect (as with the ring and the christening photos), and other journos never stop quoting her, either. * Here’s more from her: “And of course William and Kate would have quite naturally thought, ‘Oh, she’s been married before, she’s older than Harry, I hope she’s going to make him happy.’ Anyone would think that.” No, you fucking harpy, normal people just thought “what a lovely young couple!”

* I think it is honestly very reasonable to ask why the editor in chief of Majesty magazine appears to be orchestrating a smear campaign against the Duchess of Sussex. Isn’t she supposed to be a royal fan? Aren’t we all supposed to be celebrating the pretty dresses and the sparkly tiaras? Because that’s what I’m here for. But not Ingrid. Ingrid is here for something very calculated, and very ugly.

#this is an ingrid seward hateblog #duchess of sussex

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xiaotvng-a · 5 years ago

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❛ incorrect quotes ˓ 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 ˒

( @jujuquitas edition ) apenas um compilado de frases que meu personagens provavelmente diriam se estivessem naquela situação.

arabella : are you flirting with me?

aztharov : i’ve been for the past centuries, but thanks for noticing

—

anastasia : you're a freak!

alaric : we’ll work on terms of affection later.

—

theresa : ugh, i have ashes in my bra.

george : can’t tell if that’s hot or not.

theresa : it’s not. ashes in my bra is not hot.

george : well, it’s kinda hot. *leans in to whisper in her ear* boobs go in a bra.

—

shihyun : guess what number I’m thinking of.

ryung : 420.

shihyun : no, that’s really immature of you. someone else guess, and please take this seriously.

dahye : 69?

shihyun : yea it was 69.

—

heathcliff : what are you doing

catherine, standing on a chair : i live here too y’know. i can stand wherever i want whenever i want

heathcliff : where’s the spider

catherine : it’s under the table please get it for me

—

alaric : *pouring wine into two wine glasses* do you know why i called you in?

anastasia : because i accidentally sent you nudes?

alaric : *stops pouring wine*

alaric : …accidentally?

—

aztharov : *sneezes*

arabella : god bless you

aztharov : we’ve talked about this

—

ryung : could you not stand so close to me? you’re making me claustrophobic.

dahye : what does “claustrophobic” mean?

shihyun : it means he’s afraid of santa claus!

ryung : no, it doesn’t!

dahye : ho ho ho!

shihyun : stop it, dahye! you’re scaring him!

—

death : one large coffee. black, like my soul.

death : *hands the coffee to yeojin*

death : and could I get apple juice please?

—

anastasia : so basically when someone says something really cool, you say “wig”.

callisto : okay, got it.

cassian, a while later : i’m in love with you.

callisto : wig.

—

arabella : hey, aztharov, can you do me a small favour?

aztharov : i've literally killed for you, but go on.

—

xuanzhou : weiwei, i think we should make a pact: if we’re both still single in an hour, let’s get married.

—

alaric : so, do you come here often?

anastasia : this is my house, how did you get in here-

—

kei : mieko and i are no longer friends.

mieko : kei that’s a terrible way to announce that we’re dating-

—

theresa : okay george, i need you to swear—

george : fuck.

theresa :

george :

theresa :

theresa : i meant, like, promise.

—

weiwei : i can’t believe we’re locked in this room together.

xuanzhou : *throwing a key out of the window* truly unfortunate.

—

aztharov : a vodka for me, and she’ll have, uh..a juice box.

arabella : aztharov, i’m 20.

aztharov : …

arabella : i can buy my own juice box.

—

cassian : i told callisto her eyes change color when she lies, so now I can tell when she's lying.

anastasia : how though?

cassian : watch this.

cassian : callisto! do you love me?

callisto, covering her eyes : no.

—

weiwei : *gets a paper cut*

xuanzhou : *sighing under his breath* hasn’t she been through enough?

—

aquarine : come on. i didn't drink that much last night.

servent : you were flirting with empress cheong.

aquarine : so what? she's my wife.

servent : you asked her if she was single...

servent : and started crying when she said she wasn't.

—

kei, to the people at the demon realm : alright, listen up, you little shits.

kei : not you, mieko. you're an angel, and we're thrilled you're here.

—

catherine : *walks into the kitchen* is something burning?

heathcliff : *leaning seductively against the counter* only my desire for you, sweetheart.

catherine : the toaster is on fire, idiot.

—

[at disneyland on the teacup ride]

ryung : *spinning calmly, enjoying his ride in peace*

dahye and shihyun : *flying past him, spinning as fast as they can, screaming*

—

yeojin : *kisses death on the cheek*

death : what was that?

yeojin : affection.

death : disgusting.

death : ...do it again.

—

shihyun : please ryung, im begging you

ryung : im sorry shihyun

shihyun : don’t do it, please!

ryung : it has to be done.

ryung, placing down a draw-four uno card : uno.

dahye :

dahye : what the fuck

—

aztharov, to arabella : speaking as a completely objective third party observer with absolutely no personal interest in the matter, i'm not really sure that you and gabriel really mesh well together.

—

theresa : an apple a day keeps the doctor away!

george : an apple a day keeps everyone away if you throw it hard enough.

—

alaric : every time you say those three words, it makes my day.

anastasia :

alaric : i would do anything just to hear you say them to me now...

anastasia :

anastasia : leave me alone.

alaric, brushing away a tear : beautiful.

—

mieko : kei, how old are you?

kei : hella

—

heathcliff : don’t say a word.

catherine : fergalicious.

heathcliff : i said don’t say a word.

catherine : oh i see. so two weeks ago when we were playing scrabble it was’nt a word, but now suddenly is.

catherine : how convenient for you.

—

xuanzhou : of course i care about the people in the palace equally.

eunuch : the palace was attacked while you were away.

xuanzhou : is weiwei okay?

—

aztharov : i’m living my best life.

arabella : gabriel is drowning.

aztharov : this isn’t about him.

—

callisto : what am i supposed to do while you’re gone?

cassian : what do you useually do when i’m gone?

callisto : wait for you to come back.

—

any concubine : did you know there’s a rumor you’re in love with weiwei?

xuanzhou : a rumor? are you telling me people are doubting it?

—

ryung to dahye : how's the most beautiful person in the entire universe doing?

dahye : i don't know, how are y-

shihyun, from the other side of the room : i'm doing great.

—

kei : and then i got stabbed

mieko : *visibly concerned* he stabbed you?

kei : with a knife

mieko : and then?

kei : i did what any normal person would do,

kei : i asked him if he wanted it back.

—

aztharov : going to meetings, writing things down, you love that nerd stuff.

arabella : writing things down is nerdy? what do you do?

aztharov : just forget stuff like a cool person.

—

cheong : *breathes*

aquarine : for the love of god, stop being perfect.

—

halime : richard, i'm cold!

richard : oh, here, take my scarf.

theresa : *to george* george, i'm cold too!

george : well damn, theresa, i don't control the weather.

—

arabella : you’re smiling, did something good happen?

aztharov : can’t i just smile because i feel like it?

arabella :

aztharov : gabriel tripped and fell in the hallway.

—

anyone : aquarine no

aquarine : no one tells me what to do

cheong : aquarine no

aquarine : ok

—

gabriel : *flirts with arabella*

aztharov : *staring at them silently*

heathcliff : you’re really quiet today, aztharov.

aztharov : *still staring* nobody plans a murder out loud.

—

anastasia : i have decided i am, in fact, a snack. it’s just that no one’s hungry.

alaric, under his breath : i’m starving.

—

kei : you ever just feel like shit, hate yourself, and have a god awful day but someone just turns it around?

aztharov : what happened?

kei : mieko smiled at me.

—

[ryung standing outside holding up a sign that says “prom?”]

shihyun : OH MY GOD? YES!!

ryung : no, tell dahye!!

shihyun : DAHYE! I’M GOING TO PROM WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND!!

—

anastasia : are you a vampire?

alaric : i am not a vampire. i have blood.

anastasia : is it your blood?

alaric : it is blood, yes.

anastasia : is it blood that has always belonged to you?

alaric : it is blood, it is in my possession, therefore it is mine.

—

aztharov : someone's going to die.

arabella : of fun!

—

shihyun : christmas is cancelled.

dahye : you can’t cancel a holiday.

shihyun : keep it up, dahye, and you’ll lose new year’s.

dahye : what does that mean?

shihyun : ryung, take new year’s away from dahye.

#˓ ✧ . ⊰ to my partners * ╱ ooc . ˒

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trashpandaorigins · 6 years ago

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Groot Steve Rocket Bucky Scenes from a Life: First, Do No Harm

From the team that brought you The Shrapnel in Your Heart, who really should have had their Tumblr messenger apps taken away by now, comes an intimate portrayal of a retired life of leisure, except for when it’s not. Based on the ridiculous head-canon that Groot, Steve, Rocket and Bucky all live together in a New York City apartment after Infinity War. From misadventures, pranks, and drinking shenanigans to harrowing reckonings of their past, Groot, Steve, Rocket and Bucky will eventually carve out an odd little family for themselves. That is, if they don’t kill each other first. A series of incorrect quotes, flash fics and funny scenes/dialogues. Lots of humor and fluff, some angst….okay, moderate amounts of angst.

Read the entire GSRB Scenes from a Life Series on A03

Check out the work of my partner in crime at Skarabrae_stone on A03 and follow them here @captaintoomanybattles

Note: This fic is based off an actual dream I had. As soon as I woke up I told captaintoomanybattles/skarabrae_stone and began debating if I should write it out as a fic. That debate lasted less than two hours. Some gaps had to be filled in but most of it is exactly how it appeared in my unsuspecting subconscious, including the dialogue. I still left some things in ambiguity (ignore the fact that they found a fully functioning yet abandoned hydra lab) because well, it’s based on a dream. Note to self: I REALLY need to stop drinking that herbal tea before bed…

*Warning: This fic contains EXPLICIT discussions of torture, animal abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, and ptsd.*

Cold

Restraints

Can’t. Breathe.

Bucky bit his tongue, the gag in his mouth threatening to make him heave. Not like that would do much good. He’d only end up spilling the contents of his stomach all over himself. His sides still throbbing from where the Hydra agent ran that sharp electric staff through his ribs. This couldn’t be happening, no. I got away...Steve, he got me free. We---

“We are sorry to interrupt your little life,” the doctor before him sneered. “But you were so, malleable. We needed to observe your programming.”

Bucky tried to struggle against the chilling restraints that wrapped around his shoulders and secured his torso. Arms locked to his sides.

The pale man’s voice spoke with a succulent satisfaction gleaming behind thick rimmed glasses. “You were quite the protagonist, very entertaining.”

“Oh good,” Bucky grated through his gag, “wouldn’t want to bore you.”

The doctor’s lips twitched, leaning forward. Chemicals flooded Bucky’s nose, tables, tinctures, pincers, knives, bright lights.

“Your time playing house is over, soldat.” He smiled, yellow teeth gleaming in the flickering fluorescent light.

Bucky stared at him, trying to calm his panicking mind. He flung himself against the restraints with what little mobility he could, a burning sensation pricking his body. He shifted his remaining arm at the heat, the arm that hadn’t been lost in the failed struggle to get away. Bucky tensed his fist, throwing his weight against the metal contraption and sucked in a breath as he fell forward, wincing with the impact of the floor.

The doctor stumbled back and Bucky looked up just in time to see a rain of gunfire explode from above. He twisted, scrambling to get up, watching as Rocket fired his gun, perched on top of the restraint chair, it’s metal bars now smoking at the edges. Bucky got to his feet, shaking with nausea. Fight! His mind screamed over the raccoonoid’s weaponry. He made to charge forward at the agents but halted, exhaustion seeped in his bones. No! Promised Steve….promised Steve, no more fighting.

“Barnes, I’m out of ammo, let’s go!”

Bucky didn’t miss the tremor in Rocket’s voice and whipped around to see the hydra doctor running forward, scalpel in hand. Threat identified, priority disarm, kill. Bucky’s mind instantaneously ready to spring. He sucked in a breath, hissing through the stabbing in his side, limbs heavy. Don’t fight, not like that. Not anymore. Once I start, I won’t stop. He’d learned that the hard way. Too many times having seen the look in Steve’s wide blue eyes after a euphoric spout of unintended violence. Never again.

A hissing screech tore through his ears and Bucky pivoted to see Rocket leap from his prefered perching position on the restraining chair, to land on the hydra agent’s head. Gun fire cracked in Bucky’s ears as more armed guards rushed in, firing. Metal table, shield. This time his previous conditioning was productive, Bucky nodded in agreement to himself, just like Steve, he reminded himself, picturing his boyfriend using his shield expertly for offense or defence. Bucky scrambled low to pick up the overturned table and swung it towards the guards, standing between the bullets and where Rocket clawed madly at the hydra agent’s face. Bullet’s riqueshed off the metal, Bucky holding it fast against the pressure.

Something hit his back and he twisted to catch himself, the bullets stopped. Bucky’s stomach dropped, head spinning even as the guards grabbed him. Lead filled his limbs, vision swimming. Hissing, chattering. Footsteps. Snarling. He twisted over his shoulder as four more guards came clambering in, two of them taking up their stations on either side of him. He swayed where he stood, colors blurring together.

“Get it on, get it on! Watch for the teeth!” Voices snarled.

“Barnes!” Rocket barked.

Bucky shook his head, trying to dispel the fevered dizziness from his wretched mind.

The raccoonoid twisted his neck with such force Bucky worried it would snap clean off. The doctor held the small animal by the scruff of his fur, dangling, vulnerable. Bucky had learned quickly that despite his size, Rocket was a forced to be reckoned with; his endless supply of firearms and bombs alone were enough to make a foe of any size cower. Let alone the animal’s genius abilities to improvise lethal machines with the scarcest of resources on a moment’s notice. Yet stripped of all weaponry and nothing to improvise with, Rocket was still a 4 foot tall, 20 pound creature. Rocket snapped his teeth as gloved hands attempted to lift a muzzle to his jaws. For all his scrappiness, Bucky knew what Rocket knew: it was over.

“B..Barnes what the ..f..flark are you waiting for?! Get your ass outta here!”

He could have laughed, all this time living with Steve has really rubbed off on him. Bucky attempted to muscle forward, held fast by the hydra agents.

“S...stop!” He coughed, watching as Rocket’s mouth began to foam, tail thrashing madly as the scientist let him dangle. Helpless, hopeless, loathing. Feelings Bucky knew all too well rose up like black waves inside of him. Consuming and drowning. “Stop...it!” He winced as the guards yanked him back. “Rocket!” The raccoonoid’s ears now pinned back to his skull, claws ferociously swiping at the muzzle the agents forced around his head.

“Barnes,” foam flew from the raccoonoid’s jaws. “GET OU..ARRRGGHHMMM”

Bucky’s insides twisted, watching them secure the cruel contraption over Rocket’s head, clamping his jaws shut though he continued to fume.

“Let him go,” Bucky whispered, all fight gone from him. “Please, let him go.”

The doctor turned, grinning. “I can’t let it go Soldat,” he said. “We need the parts.”

Parts? Bucky’s mind raced to try and comprehend but his consciousness drifted sluggishly. The scientist turned, one of the guards plucked some odd claw device from the table and fitted it to the doctors free hand. “The hardware is old, but some of it can be salvaged, no doubt.”

Bucky shifted arduously, hitching a breath as a balled fist gutted his middle. He pitched forward, gasping only to be hauled to his knees. Bucky squinted through his bruised face across the grey concrete room where the scientist held Rocket. What….what is he….

Bucky startled as the man plunged the three pronged claw into the raccoonoid’s bristling back. Razor sharp blades punctured the flesh on either side of Rocket’s upper spine and yanked. Rocket’s eyes went wide, an agonizing animalistic shriek making the man’s skin prickle. The raccoonoid arched back, then buckled. Thick blood spattered the floor, nausea hit Bucky again jerking at the snapping of bones. The claw retracted, gripping something imbedded in raw flesh. Rocket’s body spasmed, eyes larger than Bucky had ever seen them. The doctor frowned, ceasing his motion and pulled again, met with resistance. Thin veins and tissue stuck taunt like the strings of a puppet from the raccoonoid’s open back.

Bucky swallowed, any hope he had of containing the contents of his stomach lost as he doubled over, vomiting at the sight.

“I forgot how deep these were inserted.” He was mildly aware of the doctor’s observation.

He coughed, heaving at the sight of the device pulling free. The odd claw twisted, provoking another spasm from Rocket. A dreadful gurgle came from the raccoonoid as blood now seeped from clamped jaws, dripping from the muzzle.

“One more try,” the doctor hissed and yanked mercilessly. With a final series of snaps and crunches the device came free. Arms around Bucky tightened as he was pulled to his feet. A thick metal panel clutched in the hand of the doctor, attached to it were four tangled, bloody wires with bolts attached to each end. Rocket’s head lolled, eyes rolling backward.

“No,” Bucky wheezed.

The doctor set down the cybernetics, flipping Rocket over unceremoniously and pulled at the two remaining implants just below the raccoonoid’s collarbones. Bucky held his breath, waiting for Rocket to squirm or cry out, but the creature only lay immobile. A sickening crack indicated a broken clavicle and the two pieces were ripped out with what appeared to be less effort.

The doctor smiled. “There, that’s better.” He dropped Rocket, who landed with a thud, limbs and tail flailing.

Bucky stared at the growing pool of blood seeping from the creature. Stirring his own fury. Swore I wouldn’t fight. Bucky trembled as the doctor stomped over to him, still holding Rocket’s implants. Breathe, just breathe, he reprimanded himself in Steve’s own voice. Firm fingers gripped Bucky’s chin, twisting him to stare into those malicious eyes.

“Steve,” Bucky whimpered, longing for home. What would Steve do...Steve... that name was a prayer and that prayer ignited his heart. Bucky peered over the man’s shoulder to where Rocket lay. Bucky met the eyes of the doctor.

“We have you now soldat, and this time we will not let you get away. You will be the perfect, obedient…”

Bucky grabbed at his throat, his fingers wrapping easily around the flabby flesh and squeezing. The guards moved to shock him but he spun, disable, disarm, destroy. He kicked outward, grunted and grabbed the electric staff, swinging madly. Blue lightning fizzed and bubbled, reckless adrenaline fueled him, spiking at the sound the first agent made as he fell to the ground clutching his stomach. Bucky thrust the staff downward, into the man’s face. Behind, his senses screamed, the man leaned down grabbed the guards gun, spun and shot bullet echoing. The guard behind him fell. Two down, four more to go.

With conditioned effectiveness, Bucky charged the fourth agent, who was fumbling with his gun.

“St...stand down!” His monotone order went through one ear and out the other as Bucky seized his wrist, snapping it and thrusting his head forward, hitting the man’s skull with his own.

The man’s head drooped; Bucky shot him in the chin. He grasped the heavy weight before the man collapsed and turned him around, shielding himself from the fire of the remaining guards with the body of this one. A tried and true motion. Shameful, no. Necessary. Bucky rushed upon them, pushing the two guards against the concrete wall.

They swung, something sharp rattled his arm, and Bucky momentarily blinked away the white pain.

“Fuck!” he thought, hitting the ground only to roll, kicking up at the guard who made a grab for the staff.

Bucky’s own instincts were quicker; years of being a super soldier would do that to a person, he supposed with grim amusement. The prod ran through the man’s chest. Bucky pulled himself upward, letting four more rounds fire on the second guard. The man let out a shocked noise of pain, but died before he hit the ground. Bucky’s entire body trembled, facing the last guard. He smiled. His heart screamed at what he was doing; his mind, however, reveled in it.

“I...I have your arm!” The soldier held the appendage, shaking.

Bucky let down the electric staff, stomping over to the sweating man and wrenched the limb from the man’s weak hold. It slid rather neatly into the socket, and he smirked with satisfaction.

“Thanks,” he muttered, flexing the limb.

Before the guard could reach for his weapon Bucky slammed his metal fist into the man’s throat. He coughed, taking a tentative step backward. Now! Bucky reached out again, this time with both hands and quickly snapped the man’s neck. The same blood curdling crack as Rocket’s bones. The guard crumbled and Bucky turned. The patient will see you now, doctor.

Bucky approached the cowering man, who cowered in the corner. “The parts, where are they?”

Bucky crouched to the man’s level, holding the gun to the pulsing veins of the man’s forehead.

The doctor shook his head, teeth biting his own lip so it drew blood. Ammonia and fear wafted off of his pathetic form, burgeoning Bucky’s violent euphoria.

“Fine,” he growled. Crossing over to Rocket, Bucky stooped, gently removing the creatures muzzle and crossed over to the doctor once more. “Where.Are.The.Parts?”

“Soldat…”

Bucky rolled his eyes, grabbing the man’s head in his hands, easily thwarting the flailing limbs and weak kicked as he buckled the straps around his head. The man garbled, blood flecking his lips and tongue as he moaned.

“The parts?” Bucky ordered, still holding the man fast.

The doctor cringed, gagging, body heaving.

The device. Bucky picked it up from the floor, fixing the claw to his own metal arm.

“You may think what you’ve done to me is a miracle. You thought you created the perfect weapon for your games,” he hissed, “but you were wrong.” He crossed behind the doctor, yanking him upward to his feet. “I was never, and will never be one of you.”

With that, Bucky drove the claw into the man’s back. He let loose a savage sound as the razors sliced through flesh and tissue. With a few swift pulls Bucky fell back, the bone releasing. Blood whipped across him, metalic in his mouth. It sent his heart hammering with need, kill. Bucky yanked a final time and the doctor deflated, Bucky dropped him. The noise shattered the frenzy. W...what….Steve…? Where...what have I done? He let go of the clump of bone and flesh and cloth he held balled in his fists and stepped over the doctor’s form, taking the muzzle off.

“N….no..s...solda...soldat,” the doctor rasped, “you…..a….are...one...one of ...us…”

Bucky’s breath hitched, watching the smile curl on the man’s lips, the moment the life left his eyes. Bucky stood, surveying the area. Dead guards….blood...weapons...the doctor...I...I did this..? His stomach rolled, and he felt his knees give out from under him. Steve! Bucky looked up, trying to determine any evidence of his soulmate’s presence, though he realized with a flood of relief, there was none. You didn’t hurt him.

Shaking, Bucky got to his feet. The door’s wide open? Get out! He made his way toward the exit and stopped, foot catching on something. It moaned.

“Rocket!” Bucky cried, the memories coming back as he woke from his red-stained fog. Bucky knelt once more to the hard stone floor.

Rocket lay still, sides barely moving. His eyes pinched closed. “I said I was...g…” Blood bubbled from Rocket’s mouth, staining his teeth. He swallowed painfully. “Get your arm. D….didn’t really mean…...it like..t...this.”

Bucky slid his hand under Rocket’s head gently, trying to scoop him up. “Hey, I gave you the arm remember?” Rocket tried to muster a laugh. It came out a rattle and his head went heavy in Bucky’s hold.

“...I’m gonna get you out of here,” Bucky breathed, precariously lifting the raccoonoid off the floor. Rocket hissed in pain, buckling and slumped back down. “Hang on,” he whispered. “Just hang on.”

“If you’d just,” Rocket gagged, “r...run they would’ve...k...k...killed me quicker.”

Tumultuous guilt sunk in the man’s heart. He’s right. Clear wetness pricked at the edges of Bucky’s eyes, first one then the other. Bucky settled Rocket into the crook of his arm, stepping carefully. The raccoonoid stiffened, letting out a choking strangled breath.

“Rocket just, just hold on.” Bucky pleaded, biting his lip.

Rocket shuddered, eyes rolling back, going still. Bucky’s stomach dropped, running over to the blood stained counter. Stitches, scissors. He rummaged for them through the drawers and began to sew Rocket’s back. Being in the army, even as far back as WWII, had made his impromptu surgical skills hard to forget.

“Rocket, shhh, it’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here, just….” He bit off the extra string and looked down at his crude job. Better this then nothing. “Raccoon, I swear if you die on me!”

A sudden inflate of the raccoonoid’s chest made Bucky grin. Nice to know that tactic works, he mused. It wasn’t much but it was a response. He tucked Rocket in his arms once more and, lifting a spare gun off one of the guards, Bucky ran through the tunnels, gun first, guilt later.

At last fresh air filled Bucky’s lungs with hope, stumbling out into the forest. “STEVE!” He ran, as far away from the base as he could. “Steve!”

“BUCK!”

Bucky’s tears returned again as Steve emerged from the trees, skin ashen, eyes wide. Bucky flung himself into the other man’s arms, breathing in that scent of sweat and good intentions. Steve, I’m so sorry….Steve. Steve’s hands gripped Bucky’s shoulder’s tightly. It was a nightmare...it was just a nightmare.

“Bucky, shhh. It’s alright. I’m here, you’re alright.”

“No, no,” Bucky found his voice for the first time since the ordeal. “Hydra...they...they captured us...they let you rescue me, Steve!” He breathed, slowly retracting his embrace. “They just watched the whole time….for...r..research! They…”

Large footsteps made both men break away as Groot came barreling towards them. “I am Groot!”

Bucky revealed Rocket from his protective hold, offering the raccoonoid to him as though he were a peace treaty.

Groot faltered before him, glanced down at Rocket and ever so tenderly took the raccoonoid in his arms. “I am Groot,” he cooed, having eyes only for the small creature. “I am…”

Bucky gasped as brittle wood wrapped around his body, lifted him up off the ground, and slammed him against a tree.

“Groot!” Steve protested, horrified.

“I AM GROOT!”

Bucky clawed for breath, staring into those large eyes. For as long as he’d known the tree-like giant, Groot had been nothing but sweet, patient, and doting. What Groot lacked in understandable words he made up for in hugs and flower crowns. So many flower crowns. Bucky had never seen the flora ever provoked to anger, not even at Rocket’s drunken debauchery, not even at his own slow learning when it came to ASL--a method Steve recommended they utilize to communicate with Groot in Rocket’s absence. But this-- Bucky tried to gather air, even as tight branches constricted against him. He kicked feebly. He’d never seen such savagery from Groot. He didn’t think it possible.

“I am Groot?!” Groot roared, Bucky’s hair ruffling with the force of it.

“No, he’s not dead!” Steve guessed, looking to Bucky for confirmation.

“I am Groot!” You….you let this happen!?

Disappointment. Bucky needed no translation for it. He forced himself to relax, even as thorns began to grow from Groot’s branches and upon the flora’s shoulders.

“I am Groot?” How could you?

“Groot, listen to me,” Steve begged. “Let Bucky go. I know you're scared, but this won’t help Rocket.” Groot paid no mind, his sap stained eyes boring into Bucky.

He trusted me, the man realized; the flora’s hold on him did not lighten but he set Bucky’s feet down to the earth again. Trusted me to take care of Rocket. Bucky’s gaze shifted to Steve, if it’d been reversed...if I’d entrusted Groot to go with Steve…

“Groot, I’m sorry,” he swallowed. “I...I failed you.” He looked where Rocket lay and felt his heart twist. “I failed both of you.” Failed Steve.

Groot’s eyes did not waver for a moment. Hard and cold, unnerving from a creature usually so warm. “I am Groot,” What will you do about it? Thorns pricked Bucky’s sides and stomach, stinging.

“Groot!” Steve beseeched, “Let. Him. Go!”

Bucky looked to Rocket once more. An image of himself freshly captured by Hydra. Groot stared at him unblinking, as if into Bucky’s tattered soul, but slowly unwound his vines, taking his arm back to hold Rocket closely to his chest. He leaned down, nuzzling his head against the dull-looking fur.

“Buck.” Steve turned to him. “We have to do something.”

Bucky nodded, turning to Groot, solemn.

The affection dropping from the flora’s eyes once more replaced by murderous intent born from love and ….betrayal .

“I have an idea,” Bucky admitted, “but none of you are going to like it….” He looked down at his quivering, bloody hands. Me least of all.

II.

“Will this work?” Steve’s skeptical gaze landed on the leaking pipe overhead.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Bucky commented, scanning the abandoned lab. That gurney, his breath caught beholding the human-sized contraption he had been locked into. He winced, focusing on Rocket. Somehow the sight of his mutilated little friend was, in some repulsive way, not as terrible as that fucking gurney. Though he hated to admit it to himself.

He rummaged through the grey cabinets and examined the tools scattered about the counter. It’ll do. “Steve?”

Bucky looked up at the blonde-haired man wheeling the gurney out of the room roughly. He tossed his love an understanding look, and Bucky nodded, thankful.

“So,” Steve planted his hands on his hips and addressed them in a way Bucky could have laughed at for all its natural expertise. “He’s stable for now, relatively.” Bucky could almost see the gears turning in his mind. “Our main prerogative is to...”

“I have to do to him, what they did to me.” Bucky looked down at where Rocket lay in Groot’s defensive hold, the uneven movements of his side the only indication of life.

Steve’s hand touched his arm. Bucky twinged. After all this time? Why do I still flinch? Potent self-loathing coursed through him but he stifled it, instead meeting Steve with a grim face. “They tore out his main control unit,” he explained. “If his cybernetics are anything like mine, it’s not going to be pretty. But it can be done.”

Steve nodded, one finger subtly stroking his shoulder. “Tell me what you need.”

This time a real smile came from Bucky, for the first time since their capture. The ever helpful Steve Rogers, always wanting to be of service.

True to his nature, Steve gathered all manner of equipment needed, arranging it beside on the steel table.

“That should be good enough,” Bucky inspected the scalpels, slicing pain, skin opening, blood, no. Don’t think of that. Cutting, ripping, pulling, gutting, no! He tightened his grip on the lithe blade and set it down, tearing his gaze from the array of brutal instruments.

“I found this,” Steve commented. Bucky turned to where the man wheeled in a smaller gurney, this one outfitted with four metal clamps and an extra one besides... For a tail, Bucky realized, and gestured for Steve to bring it closer. I’m putting him in this….trapping him. The way they trapped me… “you are one of us soldat.” He gulped, steeling himself, and scrounged what little assurance he could muster.

“Groot,” he breathed, “I need to take Rocket.”

The flora colossus scowled and stepped back, shaking his head.

“Groot,” Steve placed a delicate hand on the brittle wood. “You need to let Bucky see, he’s going to help him.”

The flora looked to him, bewildered.

“ You can hold onto him, and he'll die in your arms. Or, you can release him to ours and he might live. Your call. ” Bucky clenched his teeth against his impatience. Despite his limited vocabulary, the flora colossus was not dumb.

Groot only glared, but Bucky pressed on. “I seem to remember that sort of thing already happened to you, hasn’t it? I doubt you’d want to go through something like that again.”

“I am Groot,” the flora spat, searing eyes boring into him. He signed severely.

“He says…” Steve began, “He says that you have suffered enough to know there are things worse than death.”

Bucky glanced at the knives on the table, taunting him in their reflecting light. “Your call, but you better make it fast.”

Groot looked at Bucky, helpless rage threatening to shatter his bark. He looked down at Rocket for a moment, and Steve wordlessly patted his arm. Groot leaned down, tentatively touching his brow to that of the raccoonoid. Finally he relinquished his hold, and Bucky reached out, transferring the wounded creature with surprising grace.

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered, turning to place Rocket in the gurney. Several stitches on his back had already torn; dark dried blood crusted around those that remained intact. With the tightening of each strap and check of anaesthesia Bucky repressed images of pinched skin, of constricting pain, and mounting fear.

“I am Groot!” Groot made to shove Bucky aside but halted, Steve’s large arms hooking around him, pulling him back.

“Trust me Groot you do not want to see this,” Steve urged straining with all his might to drag the large flora out through the double doors.

Bucky glanced at him, those eyes he knew so well. I’ll be alright, Bucky tried to convey. I’ll be alright. Trust me.

His soulmate did not answer but nodded in affirmation and led Groot out, double doors swinging behind them.

Good. Relief temporarily lightened him as the footsteps faded down the hall. Steve should not see this either. Bucky plucked the scalpel from the table once more, holding it above Rocket’s torn back. He poised it with accuracy, the faces of the scientists behind his eyes. Don’t want him to see...how easy it is… Bucky bit his tongue, lowering the little instrument and setting it against the mess of flesh and stitches and fur.

“Forgive me,” he placated aloud, to Rocket? To Groot? To Steve? Whose forgiveness was he seeking? Doesn’t matter, I don’t deserve any of it no matter who it comes from. He let himself exhale as he drew the scalpel down opening Rocket’s back once more. Looks remarkably like my own, he recalled the first time he’d been opened. A canvas, that’s what the hydra agents called his body, a perfect blueprint for weapons capacity.

Buck set down the scalpel and looked, trying to recall those procedures he’d worked so hard to repress. If his cybernetics are anything like mine, then all of it is connected through the spine, he squinted in the flickering light at the thousands of tiny vien like silver wires.

“Soldat’s spine must be reinforced to support weight of artificial limb,” the grating voices in his head spoke. Bucky closed his eyes, leaning back against the counter. “You are one of us soldat.”

No….no. I am not! He forced his eyes open once more, holding his breath as he squinted down at Rocket again. That was one arm, he thought. But Rocket was a raccoon turned weapon, made bipedal through multiple surgeries and changes to his skeletal structure. All four limbs would have had to be reinforced, Bucky’s reason spoke to him in the language of the hydra scientist. With two prongs he gently lifted the pink viscus muscle tissue. Tiny wires, he assumed of the razor thin silver fibers that wound through the soft tissue. They must have all been supported and gather together by that main control unit. Like the fuse box of a building. Bucky pried gently, startling backward, dropping the prongs as Rocket’s left foot kicked.

“Rocket?” He held his breath glancing with dreaded apprehension at the raccoonoid’s sides. Finally, they moved. Bucky picked up the tool slowly.

“You must be careful there,” the doctor’s words echoed, “the spinal cord is of the most complex components to the human body.” Excruciating pain, screaming at the peeling of flesh, the dribble of blood. cold metal. “A single prick could compromise the entire operation and we need him functional.”

Bucky tried again, looking down at the open back, what was fat and muscle and bone and hardware amalgamation of parts. They didn’t need a large panel with my enhancements, Bucky recalled glancing at the note pads he could see from the table where they tortured him. After the procedures became routine and mind and body learned to deal with the initial shock of them, he could sometimes, on a good day, retain consciousness long enough to make out their handwriting. Desperately trying to figure out what and why they were using him. Faces leering, smiling, fingers and pincers poking at his flesh, jabbing into who knows what. A twitch of the face there, a tweak of his natural arm there, laughter as they stuck him with their tools. Bucky grimaced against it, willing himself back to the task at hand.

If they could connect the metal and hardware directly to each other, or to his spine, there would be no need for an extra plating. He loomed close, the bright light illuminating Rocket’s insides. Hues of pinks, reds, a sack of something pink and quivering, a kidney? He held the pincers tight, two in each hand trying to connect a small wire frayed on one end to another, please let this work, he prayed to a god he had stopped believing in long ago. With scrupulous care, Bucky connected the wires, watching Rocket’s ears or limbs or tail for any reaction. Once again, nothing.

“That’s it,” he whispered, looking for the next series of wires he could connect. Each tiny thread disappeared into his body, though Bucky tried to trace each one as far as he could. “I’m going to try and repair these.”

He found another set of wires, each of these coming from the raccoonoid’s left leg. “ Stop it! What are you doing?” he would scream, but their vacant eyes never looked at him, never considered or spoke to him. It was only after the surgeries, when the psychological tests began that they addressed him.

“I’m not going to treat you like that,” he whispered. You already are, by doing this, you are one of them. The shame making him pull his bloody gloves from the mush of Rocket’s bloody back after repairing more of the wiring.

“This is for your own good, ” the raccoonoid grinned, his mind hallucinating. Bucky tried to get free from the table, restraints cutting into his wrists and ankles. No….no!

“You of all people know there are things worse than death.” Groot’s words roared in his mind.

Bucky sprang backward, slamming into the concrete wincing as the white pain flashed through the back of his head. He looked down, fingers shaking, stained with blood. “You are one of us, soldat.” Bucky closed his eyes, beating back the harrowing memories while he slid down the wall, drawing his knees to his body. They were right, Groot was right. I can’t...I can’t do this. He looked through fevered eyes at where Rocket lay, passive. At his mercy.

Steve’s words stirred in Bucky’s heart, “we aren’t asking for forgiveness, and I’m way past asking for permission.” The fate of the universe had been at stake then. How is Rocket any different than that? How are any of us? He is Groot’s universe. And he was, inexplicably, part of Bucky’s too. Never worthy of anything, nothing more than a weapon. A means to someone else’s ends. Each of them had believed it. Each of them created because they were meaningless. Having died, having been born a rodent. Bucky drew himself up, trying not to look at his stained gloves. I’ve already asked for forgiveness, but he had yet to give himself permission to do this thing. Hell, Groot hadn’t really permitted it either and if he knew Rocket at all, the raccoonoid probably would’ve refused too.

If he makes out of this I’ll argue about it with him later. Bucky tried to make himself imagine it while he got back to work.

“We are creating something beautiful here,” the doctor encouraged while Bucky grit his teeth and wept.

“I am creating something beautiful here,” Bucky whispered, hovering the scalpel over Rocket again. “I’ll do you better than what they did to us.” His voice hitched at the lump in his throat. “As much as I can, I promise.” It was a thin promise, one he was pretty sure he couldn’t keep, but between the bouts of flashbacks and the spouting of blood and the fear he swallowed Bucky managed to repair four more cybernetic connectors and sow together a severed tendon. The man swayed on his feet several hours later, wiping sweat from his face, a trail of dark blood streaking down in its wake.

Knock. knock. Bucky tore his eyes from the vertebrae he was fixing and looked up through his haze of fatigue.

“How’s he…?” Steve stopped, taking in the scene before him.

Bucky could only guess at what he was seeing: The ex-assassin standing in a grim stone lab, tools and gauze, wires from damaged cybernetics hanging out with bloody cables from the back of a small hapless victim while he, Bucky Barnes, stood over it all, eyes glossy and arms painted in hues of agony.

“Bucky?”

Bucky looked up. Threat. Captain America. Kill. No! Steve….no. Not one of them. No! Bucky let go of the scissors he held, letting them rest against the wall of Rocket’s back.

“Steve,” he whispered. Take me away from this place.

As always, Steve seemed to read his mind. “It’s been over 12 hours Buck, you need to rest.”

“I….c..can’t...I have to…” Steve laid his hand on top of Bucky’s and closed around it.

The warmth traveling up his arm to his heart instantly slowed his breath.

“He’ll be alright for a few hours. Let his body heal on its own for now.”

Bucky nodded. “I just have to--” but Steve intercepted, slipping on gloves and gently wrapping gauze around the open wound.

He checked that Rocket’s heart rate and breathing were stable, and gently led Bucky away towards the door. Bucky glanced over his shoulder, seeing himself in that gurney. So many times they left him lying there. Exposed to the elements. Blood running down his back, burning flesh and the ghostly presence of the electric tools still inside of him for the night. Lost and alone in this same place.

Steve pushed open the doors and Bucky held his breath as Groot stood up, instantly looming over him with an expectant gaze.

Exhausted, Bucky explained, “He’ll live.”

“I am Groot?” He signed something, to quick for Bucky to follow.

Bucky’s raw fingers ached to answer but thankfully, Steve beat him to it.

“He wants to know if he can see him.”

“You won’t like it, but you can if you want, just...don’t touch him or anything else in there.”

Groot nodded but did not make to go through the lab doors just yet.

Steve said something to the flora colossus that Bucky could not hear, and Bucky resigned himself to passively following his boyfriend down to where he’d found an adequate bathroom and sleeping place.

“Do you want to shower?” Steve wondered, gesturing to the towels he’d found.

Bucky shook his head, only stripping off his filthy clothes down to the boxers.

Steve nodded, wrapping an arm around his waist and took him to sit in the small room. Bucky’s knees buckled the moment he got to the uncomfortable bed. He closed his eyes, visions of Rocket lying torn apart etched into his lids. His own mechanical arm, holding Steve and tearing into his own back as he howled in agony. Him leaning over Steve as he struggled in restraints, scissors cutting into his flesh. A grin full of teeth, soldat, soldat, soldat. Bucky put his hands to his head and stopped, dark blood embedded under his nails. Filling in the lines of his skin. The blood of his friend, the blood of the only creature who had gone through something similar to him, arguably because of him.

Steve knelt down in front of him, bearing a wet cloth. In the sliver of moonlight from the narrow window, the water gleamed as Steve silently wrung it over Bucky’s hands. Absolved. For a moment. The water dribbled over his flesh, washing away the blood, the guilt, the embarrassment. Steve’s warm hands took his and rubbed them dry, lulling Bucky’s mind into quiet contemplation.

“I’m one of them,” Bucky rasped, tears pressing against his eyes.

Steve shook his head, hands coming up to cradle either side of his face as he moved to sit beside him. “No, you aren’t, Buck.”

Bucky looked at him, those eyes so blue and so full of promise, of carefully cultivated hope despite all they’d been through. But equally tinged with hurt, with anger. With the messiness of emotions unbecoming of The Captain America.

“If you were anything like them, you would have let Rocket to die in that lab.”

Bucky nodded, the doctor’s words about “spare parts,” grating across his brain.

In the darkness, the outlines of Steve’s body leaned towards him and Bucky sucked in the breath of his kiss. How he longed to drink in all of that which was Steve Rogers. Selfish, maybe. Unwanted, probably not. Bucky kissed him back before drawing away for a moment.

“I couldn’t fight, Steve, I….I promised I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to kill again.” He looked away, towards the depthless dark of the floor. “I didn’t want to remember how good I was at it. How there’s a part of me…” He shivered despite Steve’s arms winding around him. “...that enjoys it.”

“James, look at me.” Steve’s fingers gently touched his face, turning him to look. “I would have done the same thing. Without a second thought.” He smiled sadly, eyes searching for Bucky to tell the truth.

Bucky sucked in a deep breath, the smell of his soulmate mixed with the damp of the concrete walls. He felt his spine seem to melt, leaning into Steve and laying his head on his lap, letting his feet tangle off the edge of the utilitarian bed. Steve cradled him, barricading him from the terrors both inside and out.

“You really are a shield you know,” Bucky smirked, letting his fingers run over Steve’s arms.

Steve laughed against him, and he closed his eyes to savor it.

“Haha. You’re hysterical, Buck.”

“I mean it!”

Steve planted a kiss on his head. “I know.”

They lay in the dark together, letting the sounds of their silence speaking for them. Bucky breathed to the tune of the dripping pipes and felt Steve’s hold on him, grounding him to whatever sanity he still had.

“I’m torturing him, Steve….I….I stand there working, and…”

“You went through it yourself, it’s the only reason you are able to save him.”

“No,” Bucky whispered, “it’s not that...I...I enjoy seeing it split open. It’s like it’s every Hydra agent, doctor and scientist who ever hurt me. Like I’m somehow getting revenge on them by what I’m doing to it.”

Steve’s arms did not retract their hold, but he looked down at Bucky. “ Him , Buck,” he reminded gently. “Rocket. What you’re doing to him .Which is saving his life.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, looking at Steve.

“ I….I forgot.” His voice broke, “Oh god, Steve,” the warmth drained from him. “I forgot,” he let out a choked sob.

Steve only kissed him again, stroking his cheek. “You remembered, that’s what matters. That is why you aren’t one of them. You never will be. The only person you belong to is yourself.” Steve grinned, eyes like the water under the moon. “...and to me.”

That infectious love burrowed it’s way into Bucky’s most ineffable fears, by some miracle making him believe the man.

“That’s right,” he whispered, kissing Steve back.

Steve pulled him close to his chest and lay down. They held each other close in that night, and for a moment, Bucky forgave himself. For everything.

Bucky didn’t want him to enter.

Bucky said he wouldn’t like what he saw.

Bucky said not to touch him.

Bucky said he’d keep him safe.

“You can hold him and he’ll die in your arms, or you can release him to ours and he might live. Your call.”

Your call. That was what seperated Bucky from the people who tortured him. Groot pushed open the doors to the lab and saw what it was that Bucky had done. Bloody tools lay on a tray. Each one had been used. Sharp smells of ammonia and anesthesia and rubbing alcohol. Rocket lay on his stomach, strapped into some odd metal contraption. Groot leaned down, looking at his friend’s face. Eyes closed, mouth muzzled with something that kept him so deeply asleep the flora colossus was worried for a moment that he was in fact dead. But no, one careful touch to his side and Groot sighed with relief. Somehow still alive. Like Bucky.

Bucky was the only one in this whole galaxy who could truly understand what they had done to Rocket. More so than even Groot himself. The knowledge of it a rot in his proverbial heart. Not jealousy; Groot would never envy another living thing having to go through such harrowing torture. It was something else, a vacant indisputable fact, like the leaves dying in autumn.

The flora gently undid the straps, holding the gauze that had been carefully placed around Rocket’s back. He lifted the little raccoonoid down as he sat cross legged on the hard floor with nothing to root down into, keeping the gas mask on despite everything within him that screamed to remove it. He held Rocket to him, feeling the soft fur against his wooden arms. He stroked the top of the raccoonoid’s head between the ears in the usual rhythmic motion. If only he could save him the way he’d saved the rest of the rest of the Guardians so long ago. He’d save them all if he could. Steve….Bucky. Groot let out tiny spores, dancing around Rocket’s little form and creating an air of tranquility.

Bucky didn’t want me to hold you. If only he knew, that holding you was all I could do. It was not enough. Not this time. Groot despaired, watching Rocket’s sides move in and out, in and out. Sap stuck to his face from where it leaked from his eyes.

He knew Bucky wanted to do the right thing. Knew that Bucky believed what he was doing was right. The only way, and maybe it was, yet Groot held onto the little ball of fur in his embrace and saw there the same thing he saw when he looked at the human with the mechanized arm. Someone who had been burnt and beaten, broken and bereft of anything they had been before. Someone whose eyes held a delicate happiness, trying to conceal their anguish. Someone who used their metal and weapons to keep from breaking down. Groot knew Bucky was smart, but what Bucky didn’t knew was how easily Groot could see through his stoic facade. Past that fragile exterior into the fear they harbor inside. A fear that they will turn and become the things they were meant to be. Terror that they must hold it together lest they snap and hurt the very person dearest to them.

It happened with Rocket, once, though Groot’s regenerative abilities easily healed the damage. He suspected it either hadn’t happened with Bucky yet, hence the man’s fear, or it had happened and he or Steve never spoke of it. As far as Groot knew. But Groot didn’t know anything, did he? He was a gentle, simple giant. How could he know the depths of anyone’s soul?

Some untold time later, Groot forced himself to place the raccoonoid back in the disturbing restraints, cursing himself with every snap and click.

“I am Groot,” I love you Little Rocket, I will be right outside. I love you. He let himself stroke Rocket’s tail one final time, sap leaking from his eyes before he turned and departed.

He walked down the hall, no sunlight in this place of misery. No earth. No...he stopped looking into the small bathroom. Clothes, lying in a heap. Groot sniffed, Blood. Rocket’s blood. Metal, chemicals, sweat. Bucky’s distress. He carefully plucked up the garments and filled the sink with water. Though brown at first it eventually became clear, and Groot worked through each piece. Shirt, pants, jacket, vest, socks, gloves. He rang out the vile odors of butchery, watching the blood and excretions and other forms of bodily fluids run down the fabric, down his own absorbent bark, into the cleansing water and eventually down the drain.

Groot shook with the smell and the feeling of his own vines taking in those substances, draining them from Bucky’s clothes. But he washed diligently, until each article of clothing was at last clean. Then set them out to dry, unleashing the small yellow spores to create tiny balls of warmth and light. Eventually satisfied, Groot folded them, leaving them outside the closed bedroom door but looked down once more, frowning.

Bucky is from New York….oak trees in the park, he recalled from the time Star Lord made them visit. Nodding, Groot grew several oak branches from his arm, letting the garments rest there until they smelled of sweet earthy oak. He set the clothes down once more by the door and resumed his post outside the doors of the lab. He sat down against the wall, knowing that if he entered again he would not leave.

III.

It was not hard to rise out of the rough bed the next morning. Steve was already up when Bucky opened his eyes, sitting up and stretching out the kinks in his back from the tough metal springs.

“I found coffee,” Steve appeared in the doorway, already fully dressed to Bucky’s dismay, but the coffee was good as any consolation.

He accepted, standing up and taking the military issued metal mug from Steve’s smooth hands. “This tastes like shit.”

“It’s been down here for who knows how long.” Steve laughed, beaming smile on his face as he finished the rest of his. Golden light through the small window illuminating his already radiant hair.

Bucky smoothed it gently and forced himself to drink the rest of the tar tasting liquid.

“Will you be okay? To work on him?”

Bucky nodded.

“You know if you need me to take over, just let me know.”

Bucky smiled but shook his head. “No I….I started this, I have to finish it.”

With that, he kissed Steve’s cheek and opened the door, staring down at the folded, cleaned clothes on the ground. “Did you wash these last night?”

Steve came up behind him. “Nope.”

Bucky shrugged, picking them up and changing, and started down the hall to the lab.

Groot sat outside, roots growing outward from his body to secure him to the wall as he slept. Bucky tip toed over the long legs, edging the doors of the lab open.

Just a few more days. The hardest part is over. You can take breaks. Reassuring himself with whatever wanton logic he could fathom was another area of expertise for Bucky. Just one more test for today, then you can sleep. Just three more drills, then they’ll cut. He distracted himself, making his way over to where Rocket, as immobile as ever lay strapped in the gurney.

“I’m sorry Rocket, just a few more days. Just hang in there a little longer.” he whispered and despite his better judgement Bucky reached out his fingers brushing one soft ear, half-expecting the raccoonoid to leap up and attack him. Almost wish he would, he thought stroking the soft ear. He allowed a small tenderness to fill his heart. They were all soft underneath weren’t they? Despite it all.

“Now I know why Groot likes to pet you so often,” he mused, the warm fur running smoothly under his hand. A tranquility slowly wrapped around him as he continued to pet the soft fur.

“I wanted to go to war, you know?” Bucky found himself saying. “Wanted to help in any way I could. Thought I was invincible. Like I could single-handedly save everything that was good in this world.” He smoothed Rocket’s fur. “Didn’t realize how wrong I was until I got to this place.”

He moved his hand in tune with the raccoonoid’s breathing, the mask of the muzzle fogging up and releasing. He let himself enjoy this odd serenity a moment longer, finally letting his hand slip into his glove, the velvet texture still a presence on his hand. It vanished the moment he unwound the wrapping, smell of meat and metallic fluids and sourness. Bucky covered his nose and mouth, reaching for the water to clean out the wound. Once done he took up the pinchers once more, searching for more cybernetic wires needing repair and connected them each with dexterity.

What if I save him but he...isn’t the same?

The words of caution from the hydra scientists flooded his ears: He must remain himself insofar that he is human, but not too human.. Capable of having emotions that support killing. Destroy all notions or impulses related to compassion or sensitivity.

Little did they know, Bucky mulled over as he worked, that out of all the torture hydra put him through, out of all they sought to do to him to establish their control, it was that very area that came the closest to being irreversible. Only Steve has been able to stir up his old self from where it has retreated so deep into his mind even he could not find it.

Bucky squinted as he attempted to reconnect another set of cables, these even thinner and coming down from Rocket’s brainstem. If he wakes but he isn’t sentient...if I just reverted him back to a normal raccoon... He’d never be able to face Groot again. He finished connecting the two and moved on to another set right underneath it, holding back the tight muscular tissue with clamps. And if it’s the opposite? If I snipped whatever it was preventing him from turning into the little monster they wanted? He tried to bury the thought under a mound of diligent work, keep focused. Worry about it later. Bucky worked his way up the spinal column, fixing and connecting, trimming and knotting and folding where he could, the voices of the Hydra scientists guiding him along the way.

It took five days and immeasurable hours. Bucky waned between embracing the demons that whispered to him and blocking them out as best as he could manage. Each day, Steve would come in with offers of reprieve, but never lingered long, knowing Bucky did not wish him to see. On the times Steve did linger long enough to drag Bucky from his surgery, he gave into a break and the two of them would leave the lab to find Groot sitting guard outside.

The flora too, bore the mark of the long hours. Bucky noticed the bark of his wood flaking, growing pale. The leaves and vines, usually a lucious green were dull and brown, and by the third day, they were gone all together. On the fourth day, Bucky finished closing Rocket up for the night, gave him a small stroke on the head and left the operating room to find Groot sitting as usual, only this time with fungus beginning to grow from his head and torso.

“Groot,” Steve began, looking up with worry at the flora colossus.

“I’m going to be done tomorrow,” Bucky judged. “When I’m done on his back I’ll wind him down from the anesthetic, just a little. You can go in then.”

“I’ll stand watch,” Steve offered. “But you have to go outside and get some sun.” The man had taken a hobby to researching everything he could about Groot’s rare species after the war. Bucky always knew Steve had compulsive tendencies and enjoyed learning about things. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man knew more about flora colossus then Groot did. “I’ll stand right here, and alert you if anything happens.”

“I know you were the one who kept him safe through all that’s happened to the two of you,” Bucky tried. “But, you’re not alone anymore. You’re not the only one who cares about Rocket. You don’t have to bear that burden alone.”

“I am Groot!” It’s not a burden! No more than Steve looking after you. Would he see that as a hardship? Groot shook his head, looking at the lab doors.

Bucky sighed. “Fine. With any luck you will be able to see him tomorrow.”

In answer, Groot only scowled incredulously and sunk down to the floor again. The next morning, however, Bucky noticed his clothing had been washed of gore again, and smelled of the trees that reminded him so much of Central Park.

On the last day, Bucky let Steve help him. He did not have enough hands to keep the fragile skin open while he repaired the cybernetics closest to Rocket’s brainstem.

“You’re a natural at this,” Steve observed watching as Bucky tried to hold a string-thin wire still.

“Yeah,” he quipped, “that’s why I hate it.”

“You could be a doctor,” he offered. “You could help people, Buck.”

Bucky cursed as the wire fell into the mess of blood and liquid below. “I don’t know, Steve, I,” he stopped, frowning.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky peeled back a thin viscous layer of soft tissue. He carefully reached for the scalpel and touched it gently. Metal. Raised…. He motioned for Steve to pull back harder, revealing a circular piece. PROPERTY OF H.Y.D.R.A BIOWEAPONRY DIVISION 89P13

Bucky drew his lips tight, brow creasing. “ Forget everything you knew soldat, you belong to us now.” Steaming flesh, smoke, white hot burning, searing skin. Bubbled blisters. The branding: H.Y.D.R.A

“Buck,” Steve called him back from the nightmare. “You alright?”

Bucky looked up at him. “No, this is coming out.”

“It’s close to his brainstem Buck, if something got caught or nicked--”

“I’d rather die my own person than live as someone's property, Steve!” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

For a moment Steve’s face went hard, then softened, as if deciding something for himself. What it was, Bucky would ask later. “Alright. Then let’s do it.”

Bucky reached for the small drill, heeding his aim. It hit true, loosening the circular bolt. Ever so carefully he pushed and prodded the thing, trying to ignore the phantom pain at the base of his own neck.

“There!” Steve exclaimed and Bucky let himself breathe again, dropping the bolt into a bowl.

Bucky smiled, surveying internal structures of Rocket’s back. Panel gone, brand gone, all wires and cables either connected, repaired or for some of them, removed. He checked once, twice, three, four times before Steve persuaded him to step away.

“Trust yourself,” he pointed out, knowing how hard that was.

If I don’t close it up now I never will. I’ll just do more harm than good, he finally decided, and prompted Steve as they closed the wound, taking every care to minimize the potential for scarring. We both have more than enough of those to spare.

“Ready?” Steve asked, as Bucky carefully began to measure down the anesthetic.

Not enough to fully wake him yet. He knew firsthand what it meant to wake to early from the procedures and while he was pretty sure Rocket did too, there was no reason to make it happen again.

He turned to Steve. “You can go. I’ll meet you soon. I want to be here in case, in case anything happens.”

Steve looked troubled for a moment, but eventually gave in. With a kiss he took his leave and left Bucky standing alone in the lab. The man stood over the patient for a while, cleaning the dried blood around the stitches and suddenly something moved. He reached for the knife at his leg.

Hydra operatives? Should’ve known they’d find us by now! Prepare, get to Steve, watch your six, watch..

“Mmmm,....G….Groo…?” Rocket moaned listlessly, tail flicking back and forth once before resting again.

“Rocket?” Bucky glanced at the anesthetic. I checked! I made sure it was enough! But several breaths more and the raccoonoid didn’t appear to fully awaken. Bucky carefully watched him over his shoulder as he moved to the doors.

“He’s asking for you.” He motioned for the flora to enter.

Groot approached, taking Rocket’s tiny paw in his large hand. Little claws tightened around one long wooden finger and Bucky felt his heart expand. Adorable enough to make Steve squeal, Bucky imagined, laughing to himself.

“He’ll be alright,” he whispered. “You can stay with him tonight,” Bucky explained. “Wake me if anything happens.”

The flora nodded, but only looked at Rocket’s muzzled face. For his part Bucky gratefully left, his body and mind and heart waiting for the welcome of Steve’s embrace.

The next morning, after Groot willingly left the lab, Bucky rotated Rocket over onto his back, the gurney conveniently shaped to expose his back underneath while supporting from the shoulders and hips so that it did not have to bear any weight.

The raccoonoid’s head lolled as he moved, and Bucky jumped at the sight of the muzzle. That terror, anguish, humiliation, I did this…. He trained his eyes downward at the right side of Rocket’s stitches under his clavicle. I had to, he couldn’t be awake for this. No one should be. Agony...dizziness, seeing his own ruined stub of a shoulder open, raw. A socket with the ball missing.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, revealing the totality of Rocket’s right shoulder. Raccoons don’t have shoulders….they broke his bones, to reposition them. The two bolts having served to keep his chest expanded, permanently, giving him a more bipedal stance.

Bucky grimaced at the sagging bone. Without the bolts, Bucky mulled it over morbidly. His shoulders will sink, collapsing into his chest. It’ll press on his heart and lungs. The voices of the doctors echoed, counseling him. If he was going to have to listen to them, he was going to keep the new hardware internal and not metal. Too heavy, biting, no relief, the long rod that had connected his metal arm into the socket pulsed with irritation. Instead he found a durable plastic, used for prosthetics and inserted it just below the collar Bucky repaired the torn blood vessels and stabilized the broken bone. Bucky repeated the process on the left side the next day, this one easier.

“Alright,” he cinched the last thread of stitching. “You’re done, we’re done.”

He took off his gloves finally, cursing at the blood that stained them and gently removed the anesthetic mask. Rocket’s jaws jung open, pointed white teeth sharp. Bucky waited, watching the little black nostrils expanding and huffing for breath.

“I’ll go get Groot,” he whispered and stood, making for the door and feeling a great weight lift from his….stinging claws ripped into the clothes on his back, tearing furiously, a wily hiss making him panic, reaching up to try and pry the snarling biting creature off of him.

“Rocket! Rocket!”

The ringed tail hit against him, batting his face, and Bucky cringed at the claws that drove into his skin. Rivulets of blood dripped down his back.

“Rocket!” He grabbed fistfulls of fur in his hands and pulled, yanking his own flesh as he did so. “Rocket, easy!”

The racconnoid writhed, teeth biting at Bucky’s arms as he tried to force Rocket off of him. With a final rip and skin splitting pain Bucky wrenched him off, holding him at arms length. The wild dark eyes fierce and foreign. The man’s heart skipped a beat, I failed...he’s...he’s just an animal. Rocket’s claws dug into his arms drawing more blood as he squirmed from Bucky’s hold.

“Groot! Get in here!”

Within moments, the flora colossus barged in, large eyes taking in the scene. For a moment he looked at Bucky, crushed. The pain of Rocket’s teeth dulled in comparison.

“I’m...I’m so sorry, I…”

Vines lashed out and the man made to throw himself to the ground out of their way, but stumbled back. The vines lifted Rocket from his hold and grew around the animal’s torso, binding his tail, legs and arms. The raccoonoid screeched as Bucky lunged for the vials on the counter.

“Hold him down!” he shouted.

Groot pressed Rocket to the ground, tears of sap ebbing from his eyes. “I...I am Groot,” he pleaded with the crazed creature.

“What’s going on?!” Steve demanded.

Bucky bit the cover of the syringe off with his teeth. “Sorry Rocket,” he growled, jamming the needle into his furry arm. He panted, rolling backward on the ground, staring at Rocket, whose movements eventually became lethargic and he slipped into subdusion again.

“I am Groot?” What did you do?!

Steve helped Bucky to his feet as the man examined his scratches.

“Let’s get him somewhere more comfortable.” Steve immediately began to try and solve the problem.

Bucky agreed, walking hurriedly through the hall down to the bed he and Steve had been utilizing, the only one in the place.

Groot laid Rocket down. “I am Groot?”

“Now we wait,” Bucky sighed, going over and leaning against the far wall. Steve pulled him into a hug and he rested his head on his shoulder, letting Steve hold him and descended into a peaceful darkness.

“Wh….what...the...”

Hours later, Bucky rose at the sound of a weak rasping voice.

“What the fuck...h….OW! GROOT!”

The man smiled, watching Groot throw his arms around the little raccoonoid, picking him up off the bed and holding him tight to his chest.

Bucky rushed over to the two of them. “Careful of his stitches!”

Rocket cocked his head in confusion, surly but made no attempt to get free of Groot’s hold. “What stitches? Barnes, what the flark happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Bucky admitted, grinning like an idiot.

“My back hurts,” Rocket whined.

“I am Groot,” Groot explained gently, nuzzling Rocket who endured the affection with the least resistance Bucky had ever witnessed. He held his breath at Groot’s words, but the raccoonoid only shrugged at whatever the flora colossus had said.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Steve smiled, ushering Bucky out of the room before his guilt could spill every detail of what had happened.

“You did it, Buck,” Steve exclaimed once they shut the door.

A small flickering pride was bubbling in his chest. “I just wish it didn’t have to be like this,” he put in.

Steve wound his arms around his waist, pulling him in close. “I’m glad it was.”

“Why?”

Steve reached up, moving Bucky’s hair out of his eyes with such reverence Bucky could have wept. “You never would have reconciled with yourself if it hadn’t.”

Bucky smiled wryly. “Reconciled? I wouldn’t go that far.”

Steve shrugged, swaying playfully. “You used what was done to you to save a life, you should be proud of yourself.” Steve beamed, wetness coming to his eyes.

“That’s all I’ll ever need.” Bucky kissed him deliciously.

Bucky forced himself to return to the room sometime later. Though he paused in the doorway. Rocket sat in the bed, Groot beside him, one large hand in the raccoonoid’s lap. Rocket thoughtfully traced the cracks of the bark of Groot’s hand. Lush vines adorned with pink flowers bolstered Rocket up from the pillow and Bucky muffled a laugh; he’d never seen such quiet tenderness from the raccoonoid.

The flora looked up, smiling at Bucky for the first time in a long time. Bucky nodded to him as he stood.

“I am Groot.” The tree creature declined to sign whatever it was he’d said but only left the room without explanation, leaving Bucky facing Rocket who had instantly replaced his gentle face with a jaded frown.

“How you feeling?” The man came and sat on the edge of the bed.

Rocket turned away, tail flicking, ears lowered. He drew a deep breath but did not meet Bucky’s eyes. “Like shit.”

“At least you're alive, right?” Bucky forced himself to ask.

To his relief, the raccoonoid nodded.

“Get some rest, we’ll head home tomorrow if you’re up for it.” He raised an arm to pet the raccoonoid’s head, but stopped himself and made to leave.

“Bucky?”

He halted. “Yeah?”

“Groot told me I passed out for a few days after….after the hydra agent.”

Bucky nodded, but did not turn to face him.

“That ain’t exactly true, is it?”

“No,” he whispered, “it’s not.” Silence hung between them, and Bucky opened the door a crack.

“Thanks,” Rocket’s small voice wavered and he did not need to see the tears to know they were there.

He sniffed at the same liquid beginning to leak from his eyes. “Of course. Now get some rest,” he whispered softly, and left the raccoonoid to sleep.

“Barnes!” Rocket’s harsh tone traveled across their apartment several days later.

Bucky cursed, getting up from where he and Steve cuddled on their bed and went to the door. Something soft grazed his foot. Bucky looked down. A beautiful ornate flower crown lay outside, made of oak leaves and acorns interspersed with simple white flowers like baby’s breath. It was Groot, Bucky realized. He smiled, a tear of gratitude coming to his eyes as he picked it up.

“BARNES!”

Bucky cursed again, setting the crown down on his dresser and following Rocket’s demanding voice. “What?”

“You want to tell me why I don’t got no metal in my back or shoulders anymore?” Rocket stood before the mirror on the bathroom door, dressed in black pants.

Bucky looked him over, quite impressed with his own work. The flesh was healing nicely, and fur had already begun to grow over the spot where the shoulder implants had been.

“I know you and Groot are in a platonic life partnership,” Bucky began, “but if you ever wanted to branch out I figured I’d spare you the awkward first date conversation and get that metal out of your skin.”

Rocket considered for a moment. “First off, Groot and I aren’t in ‘a life’ anything! I told yah, I keep him around cuz he’s useful in a fight.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Right, that’s why his name was the first thing you said after you nearly died.”

“EXACTLY! Now….wait what’s platonic mean?”

Bucky smiled. “Oh ask Steve, he’ll be happy to answer all your relationship questions.”

Rocket just blinked at him. “And as for branching out, romance, all that, just ain’t my thing.”

Bucky raised a brow, glad to steer the conversation somewhere away from the procedure. “No?”

Rocket shook his head. “It’s fine for you and Steve, but that stuff ain’t for me. Never has been.”

Bucky nodded. “Well, I thought you’d be better off without all that metal getting infected.”

Rocket nodded, looking at himself in the mirror. He raised a claw to where the bolts on his collarbone had been, and Bucky watched for a split second as a heartfelt smile broke the raccoonoid’s face. Self worth, love. In that moment, that look on Rocket’s face made it all worth it.

I did this, Bucky thought, and for once it was in admiration.

“Besides,” Bucky joked, “I don’t like seeing any creatures in pain. I only use shampoo that’s cruelty free. That’s why my hair so luscious and shiny.” He tossed his hair over his shoulder with bravado.

Rocket pulled a shirt over himself, glaring at Bucky with impatience. “1-800 why the flark should I care?” He shook his head in indignation and pushed past Bucky, who only watched him stalk off.

Same old Rocket after all, he jested to himself. Steve was right, as always. “You should be proud of yourself,” a new voice sounded in his heart, this one welcome.

“I am.” Bucky whispered, his heart unfolding just a little, his own wounds a little more healed.

#gsrb scenes from a life #my writing #steve rogers #captain america #rocket raccoon #bucky barnes #gotg #avengers #to be bucky is to suffer #groot #stucky

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