#no clue if anyone else would find this even vaguely interesting aside from me but IM having fun. so THERE

[tauforged]

i haven’t had much motivation to like Draw draw lately but i’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the corpus written language. iunno if any of y’all remember the cipher i made years and years ago with the intention of translating written text found in the game but i recently dug it up again and started going over it —

hey, yeah, there it is! it was useful for reading written corpus, but not so much for writing/memorizing it because the language itself is very boxy and rigid and doesn’t lend itself well to writing as opposed to typing/printing (which is almost definitely by design) so naturally i sat down during some downtime at work today and i played with it a little bit, just to see what it might look like when scribbled a little more loosely/casually and get a good read on ways people might stylize or simplify some of the letters for convenience. just for funsies

(i especially took a little bit of time using darvo as a guinea pig character-wise for playing with signatures and handwriting styles because i feel like he’d have a very similarly constantly-messy-despite-all-best-efforts style of writing to my own lol i was having a REALLY hard time keeping it neat and uniform so i just decided whatever. shoutout to every one of us out there who writes just slightly too fast and always ends up accidentally going diagonal with it. no gods no masters no margins we scribble like men)

it took some practice but it’s pretty fun to write once you get the hang of it, even with my hand tremors. this alphabet is kind of a dyslexia nightmare though LMAO it’s far too easy to get a’s e’s and i’s mixed up if you aren’t careful

[dimdiamond]

Hi,love your page by the way!although I have always been a fan of tintin myself I didn't know there was a large fandom about it in here or on insta or ..too I'm quite surprised and happy about it,just wanted to know your thoughts oon his last adventure alph art,I wish hergecould've finished it,so what do you think of it?I think it was a pretty good and modern story

Hello 👋 Thank you for your kind words and I'm glad you like my chaotic page 💕 I think you can consider Tintin fandom huge compared to some other smaller but in the grand scale of fandoms we're kinda a quiet corner so enjoy your stay!

OH BOY ALPH ART! Thank you for this question because I do have some thoughts on it!

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD (for anyone not having read it yet)

The short version: I enjoyed reading it and I consider it part of the canon but no way it's perfect.

The long version:

I'll begin with the things that seem off with me or could be handled better.

First of all Martine. No, I don't dislike her and I don't want her out, god knows how much in need we are in this fandom for female characters. I do see in her a lot of potential and the way she was handled in the end leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. She was reduced to being a fan of Tintin while Tintin didn't show to her any more interest than for the case itself. I would love their dynamic to be developed more as Tintin needs a) girl friends and b) friends around his age and Martine combines them. She herself could be a more active ally for Tintin and co like Bianca is and especially in this case she could shine with her knowledge of the art world or at least volunteer to help with finding more clues. I know these all are random ideas but the main point is that Martine deserved more. And don't let me start with the vague last scene when she asks Tintin to meet her parents (gurl WHY? he showed you the basic level of interest, you can do better) and we never see his answer (that's a huge relief because if the company wanted him to have a girlfriend in the last page of the last album I would revive from the dead Herge himself to finish them off).

The appearances of many characters, although I enjoyed them, seem too random even for the series standards. They kinda enhance the feeling of this is the last album, saying a last goodbye to them, but they could be used a bit more tied to the main plot or the main duo, if it makes sense what I'm saying.

Ramo Nash could have a stronger role as a new secondary but with a key role character. It felt he had a nice build up only to be left aside and in the finale to be shown again.

As you can see my least favourite things of the album are the parts of the story that Herge might have handled differently (according to his notes anyway, which still don't mean anything as many times he tossed away notes in many of his stories) and I may be feeling that way because of my prejudice as I know someone else did the rest of the album. Herge died before finishing it so, in my opinion, there's no point in trying to guess how he would do it or believe he would necessarily do it better- he was a genius in many things but god damn he would sacrifice anything for a good joke.

The things I did like a lot are surprisingly many.

First of all I LOVE how Tintin is handled. Let me explain. This is the last album, Tintin at this point has been through a lot of things and has survived even more and he has already shown his need to live a more peaceful and calmer life at home (after Tibet is too obvious). And what we see from our hero? His signs of PTSD like he's instinct to lay down immediately after a loud sound at the gas station because he thought it was a gunshot while it was just a tire or something. And it's not only that. Before that he ran to Haddock's room because he was scared for the worst. I know these aren't new for Tintin or something unusual but take into consideration that we haven't seen Tintin being falsely in alarm (usually there's a reason to be in tense or he's proven to be right soon after) and most of all WHY? Why are we shown this scene? Was it only for a cheap joke? The rest of the album makes me to doubt that and to seriously consider that if we had a continuation of the series Tintin's new perspective of life and dealing with his trauma would be a recurring theme.

Continuing with Tintin, he is again reluctant to be involved in a new case until he is asked by the gallery owner himself to help. What's even more interesting is not his usual reaction of not a big deal when later he gets in danger and is saved by luck but Haddock's reaction which is more exasperated and direct than ever to his message: next time you may NOT be saved. I feel like at this point Tintin KNOWS he is right, he fully realises this but he DOESN'T KNOW how to stop it. In this adventure he tries his best to take measures while still doing his work as he always did.

My thoughts may sound bonkers but I truly believe they are a result of the "nightmare" sequence Tintin has as he is hanged up. Like every dream sequence in the series where the images resemble a lot the in real life dreams while still working as story devices (something that I truly admire and love in Herge's stories), here too Tintin has his thoughts being pictured very vividly. He sees himself as his appearance in the first books, with the yellow shirt and red tie, saying that he hasn't worn that a long time now, and then he is hanged up by his own tie. I think it is obvious that at this point Tintin considers himself too different than his old self and even when he is caught up on nostalgia or even the expectations he and everyone has on him he knows he can't be that person anymore. The reasons might be both physical, as he understands better the danger and values more his life, and phycological, as the pressure of keep being the Tintin everyone knows and the only version of himself he knew he could be, is too much and suffocating. He has been changing all this time and now he is going through the phase of discovering who he has become.

Haddock was a delight in this album too. I know Herge had prepared more for him (like obviously, Herge was this close to rename the series the adventures of Captain Haddock) but he was still fun and in the end unapologetically himself. The scene when he saves Tintin from the trap is still one of my favourites, as well as the final one with the statue, I still laugh with the whole situation.

Rastapopoulos being behind everything fits as the last story and him dying by falling from a cliff was so poetic, his first fake death was his real one too. Not to mention that this is the first and last time Haddock meets him, as no one remembers the events of Flight 714 to Sydney, and it's so hilarious if you think about it.

The comment on art world during the time Herge wrote it is one of the most interesting things for me in this album. If you haven't tried to understand at least the mechanics of art world you'll never understand Herge's (and many of us who tried to) disappointment with it. Herge criticises the groundbreaking artwork that art critics supposedly declare that postmodern art does and most of all the real interest behind the ones with influence in the art world which is of course money. Herge's commentary is more on the mechanics and the market in this world than if a letter can be art- which soon becomes just a running gag.

Overall it's a good album to read and I don't understand the hate (as I don't understand the hate for any of the albums except the second one you all know which I am talking about). Some things could be better, some others were fine and some were great and everyone can agree or disagree which things are these. I wish we could have Herge's version too to talk about, although most of all I wish we could have Thermozero script at least *coughtintinimaginatiogiveittousfinallycough*.

[devilfic]

❝sunshine❞

plot: you’ve been worrying about something. albedo can’t work unless you tell him. pairing: albedo x gn!traveler!reader. cw: fluff, can be read as platonic or romantic if you squint, emotional hurt/comfort. words: 1.2k.

a/n: I’m having a bad self-esteem day so I wrote this in a little under an hour to get my mind off things.

“Is something the matter?” Albedo doesn’t even look up over his work at you, “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

For a man so often too enthralled in his own work to even remember to eat, you’re rightfully shocked at his perceptive skills despite how hard you’d tried to appear casual. 

Paimon rests on your lap in a deep slumber. The wind howls outside the cave the alchemist had set aside for research, warning that a storm was on the horizon, and you’d accepted that you’d be stuck here a while with “taking a walk” scratched off your list of possible excuses. You supposed you could lie to him, but he’d know the truth. All that’d do is irritate him so much he couldn’t work, and then he’d probably send you off to fight slimes again in retaliation. The very thought is somehow more unpleasant than the matters of your busy mind, “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing to do with the sword.”

“Well, that is a relief.” He murmurs, and you think that is that of the conversation. You wait for the tell-tale sound of his tinkering to start up again so you can stare into the unending white, consumed by your follies... but it does not come. You have a bad feeling about that. “If the sword is not the cause of your troubles, I might be of some actual help. So, what’s bothering you?”

His concern gives you pause. While you’ve only known Albedo for a short time, you’d come to know him as a simple stoic. You liked that he didn’t concern himself with trivial things. The braid in his hair was the most intricate thing about his person, for everything else complicated was left solely to his work. When anyone brought any fickle matters to his attention, you had since grown accustomed to picking out the exact moment when he’d turn his brain off and retreat into his work once more. It was rather funny.

Now, you’d only wished he’d do it with you.

“I thought you were working on something?” You inquire, feigning interest as you point at his crafting table. There lies an array of ingredients you had no earthly clue about. 

Albedo almost – almost – falls for it. His eyes narrow over his work, “I can’t possibly work with your dark cloud fogging up the room.”

You scoff on instinct, but a laugh follows right after. You swear you see his mouth quirk up a bit. The actual concern in question is rather vague, and so you wonder, if you’ll actually tell him, how. Your mind is already much like the storm raging outside. To construct a coherent thought would be like stringing a needle and thread through each individual snowflake to make a garland. 

“I suppose... you’re aware of how insignificant we all are,” you start, unsure where you’ll end up, “how we are made up of very basic properties. I met a person recently who used to be very important in this world, someone who many people looked up to, and now... he chooses to live a life of solitude where no one knows his name. I thought it sort of strange. Giving up a life where you’re known and loved in exchange for simplicity. Not that there’s anything wrong with simplicity, but-”

“-you’re curious as to why.” Albedo finishes for you, no intention of being rude.

You nod solemnly. “I was once very overwhelmed by this world, which sounds silly given that I’ve travelled here from another, and each day it grows stranger and stranger. I realize there are so many people I’ve met so far, but so many I won’t meet. All the lives I won’t know. All the lives I will eventually leave behind. Once I find my twin, I will go home. And... will people remember me? Will I matter? In a few months time, will my name be stricken from memory, replaced by the next biggest thing?”

Despite your earlier confusion on how to word your worries, it seemed the very things spilled from your lips like water. It must have been weighing rather heavy on you to come out so easily.

The alchemist hums with thought, one arm propped under his chest while the other’s elbow rests on its wrist, allowing his chin to sit on his fist comfortably in thought. He doesn’t look at you, rather past you, and for a moment you wish to apologize for distracting him from his work so much. “If you’re so worried about being remembered, I suppose you could request that bard to write you a ballad.”

The thought of Venti writing a song about you almost makes you laugh, “He’d jump at the chance, but no.”

“If it helps any, I’m certain your influence on the people of Mondstadt- no, the people of Teyvat, is far too strong to simply be ‘stricken from memory’. Why, I’d worry greatly for future generations if they were to be so dull.” Albedo’s lips purse as he speaks, “And if I’m around for any longer, I’d certainly not let your name turn to dust. You’ve helped me so far, given so much of yourself, and proven that you are no ordinary being. Even the Archons themselves would be lucky to have you among their ranks with how much you’ve done for their peoples.”

Albedo’s honesty shocks you. While many had sung your praises before, you’d never heard the alchemist utter much more than vague, interested phrases at you from time to time. There were some moments where he leaned into more grateful monologues, but ever the minimalist, he kept them short and to the point. 

“And even if said peoples were to forget you, I never would,” you almost don’t hear him over the howling winds outside, but you do, “you’re far too important to forget. I’d really hope you wouldn’t worry yourself over things like that... at least while I’m working.”

You’re speechless, the way Albedo stares at you from across the cave. Even taking a moment to swallow would feel far too intimate, too vulnerable, when he’s looking at you. Despite the apparent carelessness of his last line, you are certain that the sentiment he puts forth is genuine. He wouldn’t bother to fluff you up with niceties. He had far more important things to do than to engage in such frivoloty, so that could only mean...“Thank you, Albedo. Really."

He stares at you for just a few blinks too long before nodding and going back to his work. Bottles clink and parchment is written upon, lulling you into a sense of ease once more. 

Your shoulders feel a bit lighter than before. You hadn’t expected Albedo to be a particularly good ear to vent to, and even more so, you hadn’t expected him to care so much. What was only a few moments of his time meant far more to you than he could imagine. A peaceful sigh leaves your lips as you shut your eyes to the storm, smiling and letting yourself meditate on better thoughts. You could do that much. At least while he was working, you told yourself.

Albedo’s voice chimes in a few moments later, uncharacteristically playful, “Would you look at that? The sun shines once again.”

[sidespart]

For the fake fic title, if you're still doing it: Why do you hate me? (I honestly don't know where I came up with this lol)

X-Men AU!!! Found Family + Anxceit friendship. TW: child soldiers, child endangerment, abuse etc

(So typical X-men universe set up: some people are born with the X gene, which typically triggers during puberty, giving that person a mutation which normally results in cool powers. Many people hate mutants for their differences (/ bad press of people using their mutant powers for the evilz) and so most mutants live in hiding. The Xavier Institute is a school set up by an extremely powerful mutant which seeks to provide a safe space for young mutants to learn to manage their powers, get a regular education and hopes to see peace between humanity and mutant kind. The Brotherhood of Evil Mutants is a group of mutants who believe humans will never let mutant live in peace and do various anti-human, pro-mutant vaguely terrorist-y actions (there’s like a billion version of the x-men and these details may not be correct for all the versions all of the time because comics but this is the vague idea))

ANYWAY PLOT - Containment breach at the Super Secret Child Soldier Lab (SSCSL) - Subject VII has escaped. Subject VII is only 6-7 years old but his mutations were artificially triggered much younger than is normal. He can warp reality and create very sophisticated illusions, but has very limited control over his powers.

Cut too - Virgil and Dee, a couple of teenage mutants living on the street. They find a little boy with a buzzcut wandering around The Bad Part Of Town and Virgil immediately decides they need to adopt/help him (Dee makes more of a fuss about how this is not their responsibility and the kids barely even talking and do you know how hard I work just to keep you and now you wanna add another mouth to feed?? Huhh?? but obviously does not actually say no) (Dee is like. Barely any older than Virgil he’s just dramatic). 

Naturally, just as the three of them have had time to bond, the SSCSL and other assorted bad guys show up to try and take VII back. There’s a big fight, Virgil and Dee have a lot more experience with flight and would probably have ended up dead if the X-men (Patton and Logan) hadn't shown up to save them. 

But they lose VII.

Patton and Logan take them back to the Xavier institute to recuperate and offer to let them stay. They can go to school there, get some training and help the X-men track down VII and the whole SSCSL. Virgil says yes, Dee says no.

(So, reasoning - Virgil's mutation developed when he was 12. It was not pleasant. Various students at his school were injured and the media set up a which hunt for the mutant that caused the chaos. Virgil ran away from home because he was worried about the backlash on his family and about hurting anyone else again. So to him, this school full of mutants who can help him control his power, can offer him stability and a return to normal structures and routines, who are promising to help him get in contact with his parents if and when he’s ready?? This is like every fantasy he’s ever had come true

Unlike the other characters, Dee’s primary mutation is physical. He was born with it, its very obvious and its resulted in him being rejected for most of his life. He bounced around increasingly disturbing foster homes before running away when he was very young, so most of his memories are of living on the streets and surviving on his own. So, to him, number one: all adults are inherently untrustworthy idiots and number two: stay at a school? where they expect him to have a curfew? and, what - write essays? follow all their random arbitrary rules? rely on them for food and heat and all that shit? Completely ludicrous.)

It doesn't occur to either of them that the other one isn't going to agree with them. The resulting argument is epic and cruel, both hurling accusations at the other (Ungrateful /controlling are two of the big ones..) and both basically feeling hateful and 100% betrayed. Dee leaves and although they look for him, he’s got a lifetime experience of hiding and they cant find him.

CUT TO - 5 years later. Virgil is a (semi) well adjusted 19 year old junior X-men. He’s still a bit withdrawn, but is very close with Patton and Logan. He’s still holding out hope of finding VII one day and still firmly pretending he’s not listing out for any possible news of Dee (there were rumours some years ago of him joining the brother hood of evil mutants but then it all went quiet) who he, of course, hates for his betrayal. 

BUT THEN - mysterious knocking at the door in the night. Dee, now wearing a hat and cape and calling himself Janus, has returned. And he’s brought with him a little boy with a buzzcut and a tattoo of XXII on his foot.

Janus and Virgil need to put aside their resentment and work together to help XXII, who really does not seem interested in helping them, and hopefully use any clues he can give them about the SSCSL to track down VII. But that's difficult when they’re both still struggling with their own trauma and have no idea how to reconnect - both of them want to ask why do you hate me but are a bit too scared of the answer. ...

This already got way to long so mutant power/ extra back story descriptions under cut!

Patton - 22/27 years old. An extremely powerful telepath/empath. It takes him serious concentration and focus to not hear peoples thoughts and its almost impossible to not feel their feelings. Some people dislike him because of this as they feel he's spying on them. Grew up in the Xavier institute and 100% believes in and is committed to the future where humans and mutants live in harmony. Has pretty limited life experience in the real world. Sometimes floats. (inspired by professor X)

Logan - 21/26 years old. Fires destructive laser beams from his eyes. Was in a car accident when he was younger leaving him with permanent but apparently harmless brain damage - until his mutation developed and he slowly realised that no matter how much he trained he just couldn't control his power. Has to wear specialised eye guards at all times to keep himself from accidentally destroying everything around him. Had big plans to go to university and was angry at his mutation for a long time for getting in the way of that. Eventually enrolled online and is now a very dedicated teacher at the Institute. (inspired by cyclops) 

Janus - 15(?) / 20(?) His primary mutation is  lizard/snake like scales over most of his body, but especially the left side. Has oversized fangs, and yellow eye and a short lizard tail. His secondary mutation makes him immune to almost any sort of mental based mutation (so Logan could still knock him on his ass with his lasers, but Patton cant sense anything form him and Virgil cant whammy him). Spent a lot of his life on his own and got by being sneaky, cunning and charming. Initially took Virgil in because he saw that his powers could be useful for keeping them both safe, but eventually Virgil became his first real friend.

Virgil - 14/19. Shadow manipulation and ‘draining’. Virgil can make himself (and with practice, people he touches) literally disappear into the shadows. He can also direct shadows as powerful energy ‘blasts’, but in order to do so he has to drain any surrounding living things of their energy. When his mutation first developed  he took out half of the school hall where his exam was being held, leaving 15 students in a coma. (inspired by rouge/shadow cat)

VII - 6? / 11? Reality warping/illusion powers. One of the institutes first successful subjects. He was able to escape by changing the wall of his cell into a door. He finds it hard to talk but can project his ideas as lifelike illusions who can talk for him. One of his best is the image a handsome grown up Prince and he will often use this Illusion as an avatar to communicate. When he was 6 he did have some hazy memories of outside the SSCSL and expressed a desire to go home. Current status is unknown. 

XXI - 7.  Illusion powers  (reality warping has been removed from the program by his time as subjects proved too difficult to control). Has no memories of outside the institute and is extremely uncooperative with his new captors/guardians. He does not understand the affection they’re trying to show him and lashes out a lot, often by creating a lot of extremely disturbing and graphic illusions. Bites. 

[bookwyrminspiration]

Yo, if you have spare time, I'd love to hear about Twilight!

I tried reading the first book, but as I was in my Percy Jackson hyperfixation, my brain rejected any new thing that I threw at it, so I never finished it.

I have however seen almost all of the movies; New Moon is my favorite thing to watch when I'm sick. (I have no idea why)

I'm also curious, is it like most things that were made into movies, are the books better and would you recommend that I do try picking it up again?

(I don't really care about spoilers, I just love hearing people talk about things they're interested in, so this can be as long or short as you'd like it to! If you feel overwhelmed in the slightest about the amount of asks in your inbox, wait as long as you need.)

luckily for you, nonsie, I simply love to talk about Twilight. it's like a morbid fascination. is it good? no clue. do I know nearly everything about it and regularly reread them? yea.

it's fair that you didn't finish it!! I'm honestly surprised that I did and ended up as fascinated with the story as I am. It's definitely not the kind of book people would expect me to read, and then once I got started it was like well shit now i gotta go all out. My mom and sister watched all the movies with me, but my dad refused and just sat by the fire (like a campfire in the backyard. there aren't just random fires around) and I remember being vaguely annoyed at the time but now I don't think I'd let anyone watch with me!! it's simply an experience I'd prefer to have alone--also because I'm horrible to watch movies/shows/anything with because I won't stop talking and critiquing things

As much as I love the series, I don't watch the movies very frequently! Movies are very hard to watch just in general, even my favorite movies like Pan's Labyrinth (i've seen it like three times total). So it's very likely you've seen them more than me!! If I had to pick one though...breaking dawn part 2 perhaps?? I do love inhuman creatures so that's maybe why. But overall I really don't have a ranking for the movies

oh also they weren't available on netflix or any streaming site I have access to so the extra steps it would take for me to find them other ways wasn't worth it to me. But there was a period of time where I had the first movie downloaded to my google drive. it might still be there honestly.

I think I do personally prefer the books!! I prefer the way Bella and Edward's relationship and interactions are portrayed in them over that of the movie. Bella's a lot less...compliant? Might be the right word but who knows. It's been a while since I saw the movies, but I remember her really being that doe-eyed helpless girl who was just so in love with Edward nothing else really mattered. In the books she has a lot more attitude and argues with him a lot more. She expresses herself and has opinions!! She wants what she wants and she doesn't sell herself short--aside from being human and sad about it.

The book is older and smeyer definitely isn't the best person so there are a few phrases and ways things are worded that kinda snap me out of it when I'm reading and make me a little uncomfortable, so if you would want to read it I'd advise caution in that regard. The one that immediately comes to mind is in the very first book where Bella accused/asked Edward "Do you have a multiple personality disorder or something?" when she's mad at him and he's apparently acting like two different people. That line always stuck out for some reason as a bit off, but I can't remember the other ones right now.

as for whether I would recommend it...that's a complicated question. twilight is one of those series (for me at least) where you don't really encourage people to get into it or engage with it. If people happen to, good for them!! Glad you got into something about it on your own!! But it's more of a "if you know, you know" kind of situation where I don't actively recommend the story to anyone but it me talking about it leads to them reading it and they want to talk about it, I'm more than happy to!

I think when people ask for recommendations they're more looking for enjoyment or quality, like they're asking for a good story or one that has a certain quality. But when it comes to Twilight, you don't read it because you think the story is good or because the characters are well developed or the arcs are satisfying or anything like that. You don't read it for the reasons you usually read a book. It's more like you read it for the experience, to be a part of the group of people who saw this demonized media and went "I'm going to find a way to love this anyways" if that makes sense. At least that's how it is for me.

So it's up to you whether you want to try again! It's not for everyone and that's perfectly okay. But if you want the experience of reading the Twilight Saga, then go for it! And if you want to talk about it then I'm more than happy to. The choice is up to you!!

(and thank you! I don't think I really included spoilers in my response, but nice to know I can talk about any aspect! I talked more about the experience behind twilight than the actual context, so hope that's cool! and again this is just my personal feelings surrounding the saga, not everyone's.)

I hope some of that made sense. your ask reminded me that I need to rewatch the movies!! It's been far to long, so if I have spare time when I get home definitely gotta do that!!

[delicioussshame]

...It’s an update? I don’t know what else to add.

Luo Binghe’s daily life is stuck somewhere halfway between heaven and hell.

Now that he’s made his intentions clearer, he can also express them more clearly. Shen-laoshi doesn’t forbid him the occasional lingering touch, and while he can still be twitchy if he’s taken by surprise, he’ll let Luo Binghe kiss him. Despite Luo Binghe quickly establishing a routine of kissing him as soon as he’s back, he’s still not getting the welcome he’s dreaming of.

It’s a bit like taming a wild animal. With careful feeding and calculated affection, Shen-laoshi will end up lowering his defenses until he starts trusting Luo Binghe and, ultimately, returning said affection in the manner Luo Binghe desperately wishes him to. He just has to be patient.

Luo Binghe had never been good at being patient. He feels like he’s already used up his life’s worth of patience. After the years he was only Shen-laoshi’s student, and then those were he pushed all but his studies aside to reach his goal, he’s given all he could give.

Worse, he’s almost certain Shen-laoshi would let him get away with more. Even if his enthusiasm rarely equals Luo Binghe’s, he’s never said no.

Would Shen-laoshi resent him if Luo Binghe pushed? With each minute that passes, that worry seems to fade more and more.

At the same time, just having him here is soothing. Shen-laoshi looks better by the day. His skin has lost some of its unhealthy pallor. The bags under his eyes are a thing of the past. He’s still too thin for Luo Binghe’s taste, but he eats with gusto, so Luo Binghe figures that will also pass.

Sadly, he hasn’t started waking up early enough to share Luo Binghe’s morning routine. Luo Binghe might have to accept that isn’t meant to be.

Coming back home to Shen-laoshi engrossed in his reading, his usually placid face contorted by whatever the latest book he’s reading is feeding him, almost makes up for it.

Or it does, usually, but today, Laoshi isn’t reading a novel. He’s frowning at the screen as he reads… the news?

Shen-laoshi shouldn’t waste his time on upsetting things. “Laoshi, I’m home.”

Shen-laoshi waves at him absentmindedly, obviously too focused on something else to give him his full attention.

Luo Binghe pouts. How can Shen-laoshi ignore him when he steals all of Luo Binghe’s attention just by being in the same room? It’s not fair.

He leans over Shen Yuan’s shoulder to take a look at what is so interesting to his beloved. “What is keeping Shen-laoshi away from me?”

He gets only the briefest flash of what appears to be financial news before Shen-laoshi closes the tab. “Nothing Binghe should worry about.”

That reaction isn’t convincing. “Laoshi knows he can share anything with me, right?” If something worries his teacher, Luo Binghe wants to take care of it.

He sighs. “Just family matters. Even Binghe can’t do anything about that.”

To say Luo Binghe is surprised would be an understatement. Shen-laoshi had never, not even once, implied he had family, despite the topic having been frequently discussed when Luo Binghe had still been mourning his mother.

Then, he is outraged. Shen-laoshi has living family, and they let him live like this? Family, he guesses, affluent enough that they show up in the news? Unforgivable. Of course Laoshi never talked about them. They must be utterly blind, to be able to call Shen-laoshi theirs and not cherish him as he deserves to be. “I didn’t know Shen-laoshi had family. He must be lonely, away from them. Shall we visit?” Luo Binghe would love nothing more than lording over them that he got the prize they foolishly gave up. Not to mention he might take revenge in his beloved’s sake. Shen Yuan certainly would never.

Luckily for him, Luo Binghe isn’t that nice to people that aren’t his one and only teacher.

As expected, Shen-laoshi almost jumps out of his chair in his urge to refuse him. “No! Don’t! I, well, I wouldn’t want to bother them.” Then, almost under his breath. “Doesn’t Binghe want me to relax? Because it wouldn’t help.”

“I see. Let’s not, then.” He’s already gotten all the clues he needs. He can find who Shen-laoshi’s family is, and act accordingly if necessary.

“Binghe.”

Luo Binghe smooths his face into his most guileless mask. “Yes, Laoshi?”

Luo Binghe’s breath locks in his chest when Shen-laoshi pokes his forehead, the finger trailing down to the bridge of his nose. “Don’t worry about this. It’s really not important.”

Luo Binghe stops himself from telling him that he can think of many ways Shen-laoshi could keep his mind off the matter entirely. “As Laoshi wishes.” If he decides to, it should be easy enough to find out more.

Then again… “Does Laoshi have a younger sister?”

“…Why is Binghe asking?”

“I remember seeing a young woman who looked a bit like you before. I didn’t give her much thought at the time, beside noting the resemblance.” In other circumstances, he would never have let himself be bother by superficial physical similarities, but the party he had been attending had been quite dull.

He hadn’t asked her name. Too many of her ilk came buzzing around the latest “most eligible bachelor” that he was.

“Where did you see her?”

“An uninteresting social function or another.”

Shen-laoshi sighs. “It probably was Yuzhu then. How was she?”

Luo Binghe shrugs even as he curses himself for his lack of insight. It had been a great chance at learning even more about Shen-laoshi, and he’d let it slip away! He just had never thought they ran in similar circles before! Nothing about Shen Yuan’s position as a teacher had revealed his wealthy background, even if it now explained some aspects of his demeanor. “She looked well? We didn’t talk.” Luo Binghe had enough offers not to go look for them.

Shen-laoshi’s expression is complicated. “I’m surprised she didn’t try to approach you. She’s about your age, and you’d make a good match for her.”

Which implies he thinks she might not make a good match for him. “Maybe she didn’t think so.”

“I’d be very surprised. You’re everything she was taught she should want, and you’re very attractive on top of it.”

The way Shen-laoshi compliments Luo Binghe, like he is just stating a universally accepted fact, not an opinion, is almost cruel. Why would he say something like that and expect Luo Binghe not to react?

He must be taught better.

“Binghe, what was that for?”

Since this is said by a very lovely and flustered Shen Yuan, Luo Binghe is going to ignore the tone of the question. “Laoshi just said I was very attractive. Surely he doesn’t mind a very attractive person kissing him?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

“Laoshi doesn’t think I’m attractive then?”

Luo Binghe prides himself on his ability to read his teacher. It was honed by years of trying to pierce through his professional reserve. He sees in his no-nonsense expression that Shen-laoshi is about to reply that of course Luo Binghe is attractive, anyone with eyes would say so. He sees when what Shen-laoshi is about to say hits him. He sees doubt bloom in his eyes.

The question remains unanswered.

_____________

The sky is blue, the grass is green and Luo Binghe is a very attractive man.

It’s that obvious. Just because you notice a movie star is very handsome doesn’t mean you, personally, are attracted to them? You’re just human. Luo Binghe is that kind of gorgeous.

When Luo Binghe had been his student, Shen Yuan had been vaguely aware that he’d grow up to break hearts, but nothing more. Why would he have cared what his student looked like?

Now that the child he had been so fond of is now an adult who is very fond of him in return, the question becomes much more relevant. Should he worry that he was about to tell Luo Binghe that his attractiveness was undisputable? How about the fact that even though Luo Binghe just kissed him, again, Shen Yuan isn’t exactly disgusted? It’s not like it’s the first time, or the second, or even the third, and not even once has he found the experience unpleasant. Sure, he has been nervous, unsure of how to act or respond, but he has never rejected Luo Binghe.  

He remembers Shang Qinghua’s reaction, telling him that money wasn’t worth letting someone he had no interest in touch him in such ways. He never really listens to Shang Qinghua, but in this case maybe there was some truth to his words. Shen Yuan can think of people he could never be paid enough to be in the presence of. People who would get his fist in their face if they dared to try to kiss him the way Luo Binghe does. Even people he can stand, like, let’s say, Shang Qinghua, he wouldn’t let take such liberties with him.

Does that mean Luo Binghe is special?

Again, the answer is obvious. Luo Binghe is special. He is Shen Yuan’s one success, the student he feels like he made a difference for. The one he chatted with, the one he struggled with, the one he wrote special tests for and prepared pointers for and tutored for entrance exams. Shen Yuan has always made allowances for him that he did for no one else. Maybe this is just more leniency showing.

If someone is special to you, and you don’t mind that person kissing you, despite the fact that, or is it because, this person very much wants to kiss you, then…

At the very least, Shen Yuan appreciates that Luo Binghe left him alone with his thoughts. He has some more thinking to do.

[fuckyeahharryhart]

KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, IN MY AU, HARRY HART WOULD STILL BE A BADASS WHEN THEY FIND OUT HE’S ALIVE. HE’S JUST A BAD ASS WITH NO MEMORY

IN MY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - this is what happened when they found Harry. And Roxy is alive, cause “what the hell?” And basically is an excuse for me to thirst on Colin Firth as Harry Hart, who will always be a badass gentleman spy, memory or no.

Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy survived the explosions that destroyed Kingsman. Following the clues from their doomsday protocol, the three of them traveled to Kentucky to Statesman HQ.

They are confronted by Agent Tequila where they try to explain what they are doing there. Tequila does not believe them. He disarms and disables them. The scene begins in Statesman underground holding room. Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin wake up to find that they are bound and restrained.

(apologies in advance for grammar, spelling, format. First draft, secondish draft. Just did one quick read-through and fixed most of the glaring errors.

PS I kinda nerded out with the amnesia and weapons research) 

-----------------

The room remained vague and shadowy. Eggsy fought against a heaviness that kept his eyes closed. He tried again to blink them open. No such luck. They were uncooperative. Moving on. Assessing what little he could, he tested the restraints that bound him to a cold metal chair both at the wrists and ankles. Zip ties. Cheap and easy, but harder to release from than traditional handcuffs. He tried anyway. And then a second time, only with more force. Nothing. He willed himself to relax. If he couldn’t get free with brute force, it was time to get creative. Switch to strategy and problem solving. At least try to figure out what the hell was going on and why a souped up cowboy was holding them hostage. 

His training, his instincts wanted to kick in regardless of the fact that he was restrained. He ran through his checklist anyway. Scan and clear the room. Assess the threat. Spot entrances and exits. Locate the nearest weapon. It didn’t necessarily need to be a gun. Any object that could possibly disable an enemy would suffice.

It was infuriating that he was unable to proceed with his training. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was a moot point anyway, nothing of him seemed to be responding to his commands. His surroundings remained a bleary haze. His brain still foggy, was trying to catch up.

The renegade cowboy that had disarmed and disabled Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin, was waiting rather patiently for them to wake up. That is, until the point he was no longer patient and decided to empty a bottle of perfectly good whiskey on Eggsy and Merlin. As he considered himself a gentleman, he spared Roxy.

 It was unsettling how he took the three of them down so easily. Eggsy reasoned that they certainly weren’t at their best. Shit had gone down in the last 24 hours and they were damn tired.

Eggsy and Merlin sputtered in protest. 

“So good of you to join us.” The cowboy’s tone was relaxed and untroubled.

He took a casual stance and leaned up against the wall like he was just waiting for something interesting to happen.

His head cocked to the right. “Now where was I?”

 Nodding to himself, “Oh yeah”, he said, as if he just remembered something fascinating. His fingers snapped together with a sharp click. “You were just about to tell me who ya’ll were and how the hell you found us.” He mentioned this as if he were waiting for them to describe what they ate for breakfast and whether or not they had enjoyed it.

The disparity between his gregarious tone, his friendly manner, and the slightly hostile glint in his eyes was disconcerting.

He crossed his legs on the other side and tipped his head to the left.

“Anytime ya’ll are ready to start talkin’, Im all ears.”

They had already tried to explain what happened to their headquarters. Well, their tailor shop backstop. How likely was it that generations of tailors had passed down a secret doomsday protocol for survivors in case of complete destruction? Of their tailor shop? Eggsy had to admit, as a story, it positively wreaked implausibility. But it was true, aside from replacing their secret intelligence agency with a bespoke suit business. 

From the cowboys perspective, it would seem kind of insulting that they expected the him to buy their story. Actually, It would seem pretty insulting to expect anyone with the most basic cognitive skills believe it. The problem was that, as ridiculous as story was, it was, in fact, the truth.

Eggsy didn’t have any more to say. Roxy, who would probably take him down if given half the chance, wisely remained quiet. Merlin’s furrowed brow meant that he most likely had a bloody lot to say, but nothing that would improve their situation. 

They had reached an impasse. 

The cowboy regarded them thoughtfully from under his Stetson, wide brimmed hat. 

“We don’t have folks from your neck of the woods in these parts that often.” His lips pursed in thought.

“I would reckon once every year or so, some might pass through here that sound like y’all. Why,” nodding his head confirming his own information. “I think it was just about a year ago, we had someone drop in unexpectedly.” 

He gazed up and to the right, as if recalling a memory. Maybe y’ll know him.” He said, his eyes falling back on them.

Merlin. “I highly doubt that.”

The cowboy drew back slightly, irked by their obstinance. These brits were stubborn as all get out. Did they seriously expect him to believe their doomsday protocol story? What was this? Were they on some kind of scavenger hunt?

“I just find it awfully convenient that you just “happened” to find this bottle of whiskey with our name on it. Right after your entire “shop” exploded with ALL it’s employees and everyone who worked there. Every single person who knows you, gone with it. That would be mighty upsettin’ if I was in ya’lls shoes.” He tried on a little sympathy for size. Nope, didn’t fit. He continued with his slight undertone of sarcasm. 

 “Can’t even make a call to see if anyone can vouch for y’alls.” Such a shame, he thought. Alrightly, he’d just keep talkin’ at ‘em until one of them slipped up or said something interesting.

He could talk into the night for all he cared. “Not even anythin’ left to take with you. Except a couple of watches that can unlock a biometric security system.” Now this was legitimately irritating. 

“Why would some little ole tailors shop need to have a biometric security system? I mean, ya’ll look mighty fine in them suits and spectacles, but sorry to say, not that fine.”

He used this opportunity to break out one of his favourite southern idioms. “You see, that dog don’t hunt.” He amused himself.

“Look.” Said the Scotsman. “We have no idea what you are talking about. The only reason we are here is because we found one of your bottles.” 

He nodded his head in understanding, before pressing his lips together, this time doubtfully twisting them to the side.

“See, here’s the thing. Lots and lots of folks have our bottles. Ain’t none of them ever broken into our maximum security “warehouse” before.”

“You’re looking for the Brit, ain’t ya? “His eyes narrowed. “And now why would that be?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed even deeper. “We still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was reaching the far ends of his exasperation. “We do not know anyone here. Quite sorry to say, but we have never heard of Statesmen before. In our part of the world, we prefer a single malt scotch. No offence.”

“None taken.” He said pleasantly.

The cowboy pushed himself off the wall.

“Well,” he huffed, “It seems we’re at a stalemate.”

The cowboy continued to study them as he spoke.

“Ya’ll telling’ me a story you say is the truth.”

He shook his head in disappointment, feigning sadness. “And I just don’t believe ya. Now we could go round n round like this until we’re all blue in the face. But that sounds like a waste of time to me.”

“If we ain’t getting anywhere like this, might be time to switch things up a bit?”

“Ya’ll say you don’t know the Brit. But I’m thinkin’ y’all should talk to him. Might be able to make some sense out of what’s comin’ out of your mouth ‘cause I just don’t get it.”

Silence from the three of them. Well, weren’t they a stubborn bunch. 

The man sighed dramatically and shrugged his wide shoulders. 

“Well, it appears you wont be cooperatin’ with me. I think it’s about time ya’ll talk to someone else cause I sure aint getting’ nowhere with ya. But I don’t know if you’re gonna wanna talk to him.”  

He regarded them sympathetically. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that table when he’s the one asking questions. Ya’ll might be wish’n to see my pretty face again.”

Three almost identically frustrated faces looked back at him.

“Word is round here, don’t matter what you won’t say to me.” 

He started ambling across in front of them, from wall to wall in slow, measured steps. 

“What matters is what y’all gonna to say to HIM.” He stopped mid-stride, turned toward them. 

“Now, I’ve seen him doin’ his thing, right?  Believe me, he’ll have ya talkin’ in ways you can’t even imagine.” He continued along his thoughtful line, turning away from them.

He began to let the heel of his boots scuff the floor with every step. “You wont even be able to shut up, ya’ll talk so much.” He spoke over his shoulder. “ Tellin’ him things you ain’t even tell your mama.”

No response from the three Kingsman.

He turned toward Roxy. “My apologies little lady, but here at Statesman?  Guys and gals? We’re all on equal footing.” He had the gall to wink at her. “No matter what our name says.” 

He hooked his thumbs under this belt and hitched the whole get up, flask holster and all, up his non existent hips. 

“I hate to see a pretty miss like you have to go down with the likes of them.” He tilted his head in the direction of Merlin and Eggsy. “But, at Statesman, no special treatment for the fillies.”

Roxy proceeded to murder him with her eyes.

Absurdly, he decided it was a good and proper time to dial up the charm.  “Say, you don’t wanna tell me what you and your boys were up to here? I’m pretty sure you’re the one keeping these fellas in line.”

Her eyes were wide and fierce. It turned out that Roxy no longer needed to blink. 

“That’s quite a look you’re thrown’ at me.” The cowboy smirked.

“Well, I’m really sorry. I apologise for this, but ya’ll don’t give me no other choice.” 

He turned toward the side and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The lenses were shaded to a dusky gold. He unfolded them, put them on and tapped the side of the lens. 

“Ya there?” He spoke into the air.

Evidently the glasses were a communications device and he received an answer in return. He nodded to himself. “Yep, affirmative.” 

There was another brief pause as he listened to the person on the other side. “Roger that.” He turned off the communication by tapping the side of the lens a second time. 

He looked at them almost sympathetically. “It looks we ARE gonna find out what happens when we change things up a bit.”

He walked over to the frosted panel window and flipped a switch.

Roxy, Merlin and Eggsy were momentary blinded by a brilliant white light. So bright and unexpected that they had to turn away. They squinted against the flare as coloured spots tripped behind their eyelids. They continued to blink until their eyes adjusted to the intensity of the new light. 

What they saw as the opacity of the glass dissolved… Well, to say they were ill prepared would be the understatement to understate all statements.

It couldn’t be.

It was utterly impossible.

But there he was. 

Outlined by a dazzling white light. 

Unmistakable.

It was Harry Hart.

—

The agents tried to gather their collective wits like they were trying to herd cats. It was nearly impossible. Harry disappeared from view. Sharp, tell tale footsteps could be heard walking down the short distance from the viewing area to their holding room. 

Between the three of them, none had taken a single breath from the moment Harry Hart appeared behind the glass.

For Eggsy, a white hot wave surged through his body and seared him from his finger tips to his toes. He could even hear the heat ringing in his ears. It was a high pitched whine that reverberated from one side of his head to the other. He had no control over his physical response. Any authority that he may have had, dissipated with the frosted glass. Apparently, his body knew exactly what to do, because it was doing its own thing, without any input from him. He set his thoughts aside and let his body do whatever it felt the need to. He was fairly certain he was exhibiting the physical signs of shock. He felt pale, his hands were damp and clammy. He felt weirdly mortified. He might as well be naked, for he felt exposed to the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul. Places that had no business being brought to light. 

He felt laughter bubble up through watery eyes he didn’t even know if he could call tears. For joy? Sheer bewilderment? Whatever the reason, his eyes were leaking. The buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he felt sure he was about to pass out. He wanted to drop his head between his legs, but he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the door he knew Harry Hart would enter from. He didn’t dare blink. Let alone look away. 

His ears burned, his cheeks flamed red and splotchy. It was as if he was caught off guard doing the most embarrassing thing he could think of, just times a billion and witnessed by everyone from his mum to his kindergarten teacher, not to mention every famous person that he had a crush on or looked up to and the whole mortifying episode was being televised live around the world. 

Whatever he was experiencing, it was nearly unbearable. Like suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. Was that even possible? His heart had either stopped or was beating so rapidly that it felt as if it was hardly beating at all. Which seemed feasible as most of his blood had pooled in his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Surely, there was none flowing to his brain. It had signed out for the moment. It certainly wasn’t sticking around to see what was coming next. 

 He tried to arrange his face into the shape he thought would be appropriate for when his mentor, who he saw get shot point blank in the face, a man who died over a year ago, who he had spent what felt like a lifetime grieving, materialise as an interrogator for a covert cowboy secret agency in Kentucky. He couldn’t imagine what an acceptable face would look like in that situation, so he assumed that his face had no expression at all. It was the best he could do. 

He didn’t even posses the wherewithal to see how his partners where faring. He hoped that they were in a more presentable state. He moved his mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He tried clearing his throat, but it was dry and papery. Apparently, whatever autonomous system that controlled his salivary glands also decided that this whole situation was bullshit and decided to check out, too.

The track of the footsteps, even now so familiar, paused at the door. The handle turned with a weighty click. 

He didn’t have the brain capacity to even imagine what would happen next.

The only thing in his head were three letters. And they weren’t  ABC. 

They were W. T. F.

The door opened. 

They saw the man who had once been the foundation of their agency. 

The man who had once been its living and breathing heart and soul. 

How long had it been since he last thought of Harry Hart? After the initial grief, the denial, the anger, and finally, the acceptance, the loss became a dull ache.  Though tolerable, it never went away. They never found his body, but he didn’t have hope that Harry would ever return. He saw the shot that took his life. Even the best agent had no way of possibly surviving a point blank shot to the face. Harry fell where he had once stood. He didn’t get back up. And like that, Harry Hart was gone.

In the aftermath of V-day, Eggsy and the others didn’t have a chance to even stop and think about what happened to Harry, let alone process the loss. That came after. In the moments when time slowed down, things got quiet, and they no longer had the urgency of missions to distract them from the loss or to use as a vehicle for their anger and rage at the unfairness of it all.  

Eggy’s pain was not only due to the loss of his mentor, but also from the fact that he never got to tell the man just how important he was to him. Their final conversation repeated in his head, over and over, on endless loop. The last words that he had exchanged with Harry were harsh and accusatory. How much he wished that that conversation had not been their last. What wouldn’t he give to say the rest of the words that were caught in his throat. To finally release them. To say he was sorry. But the chance never came and the words clung to him, never to be spoken.

A tall man in a dark pinstripe suit entered the room.

At first glimpse, he was their Harry Hart. As perfect as they imagined and just as they all remembered him. Only on closer inspection did they notice small, but significant details that would indicate otherwise.

He was wearing what looked like the exact same suit he “died” in. But this one didn’t show any of the wear and damage that was sure to have happened in that final, brutal rampage. Either Statesman had an excellent tailor repair the original suit, or more likely, Harry had his suit replicated. 

The details were exacting as they had always been. The tie with the Windsor knot. The pristine white spread collar and crisp pocket square. French cuffs that were still held by the Kingsman cuff links. 

His standard horn rimmed communication glasses had been modified. The left lens was now shaded a solid black. There was an additional piece that covered his peripheral vision from the edge of the lens to the end of the arm on his left side.

How was it possible that he stood before them, as handsome and regal as ever? Hell, the man could even make a blacked out eye look distinguished. It added to his air of gravitas.

A curious pair of black cowboy boots with elaborate stitching, stood out from below the mid-break of his trousers. The footsteps they heard in the hallway didn’t come from his standard oxfords.

Neither did they see the familiar Kingsman standard issue pistol he would always pack without fail. In his right hand, held down by his side, he toted a nickel plated Colt Single Action Army revolver modified with a double barrel. He carried it by its smooth, wooden grip.

But he did walk with the same measured strides, familiar in pace and sound. Harry took his place in front of them as the cowboy found a space off to the side. 

They wore their incredulity in silence.  Words were insignificant compared to this impossible occasion. Words that would adequately express their turmoil did not exist. Merlin looked like he was trying to deconstruct a complex algorithm in his head. Roxy looked, he imagined bizarrely, like she had just been denied an orgasm. Where the hell did that come from? Eggsy fairly certain he looked like a bloody idiot.

And so they waited. 

Familiar, golden brown eyes, well, eye now, gazed over them. Making and then holding eye contact with each of them in the way they had always remembered he would when he required their full attention.

They searched his eyes and face for recognition. To see any kind of dawning realization that he knew who they were. Merely seeing Harry, alive and mostly whole, was something that was unfathomable to them. 

Finally, Harry spoke.

The vibration of his voice was able to resonate through their shocked and dampened senses. It was a deep and calming sound. Smooth, measured tones with an aristocratic accent that clipped his words. Vibrant. It was a voice that was warm, safe and familiar. It was a voice that sounded like home.

What was completely baffling were the words that beautiful voice said. 

“Please excuse my dreadful manners. But I don’t believe we have properly met.”

They turned and glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell? Surely there had to be some part of Harry that recognized them. At least Merlin, with whom he shared a history going back over twenty years. 

“Harry. It’s us.” Merlin implored. “We’re not undercover. Right now, we’re not anything. That’s why we came here.” 

“Harry.” Merlin’s voice was touched with sorrow. “Kingsman is gone.”

Harry’s face remained impassive. The spark of recognition remained unfired. There was no hint of softening, no warmth, no glint that told them, “Not to worry. Everything is under control.”  

Harry confirmed. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing your story.” He leaned back against the wall and took a casual stance. Crossing his legs in front of him much like Tequila did.  He placed a hand in a pocket. The other gripped the Colt lightly.

“It’s quite interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “And particularly unfortunate that this Kingsman Tailoring “Agency” that you speak of, was completely and utterly destroyed. How unfortunate that the three of you happen to be the only survivors.” 

Time paused with him as he contemplated this thought for awhile.

“It would seem rather convenient, on the other hand, for that gives us absolutely no way to possibly verify your doomsday scenario.” 

The disappointment on his face hit them with a guilt that was worse than his impassivity. 

“And why, all of a sudden, after a year, would not only one, but three mysterious Brits arrive here at Statesman, of all the places in the world, for no other reason than a bottle telling them to.” 

Beseechingly, Eggsy replied. “Harry, we don’t understand what’s happening. We thought that you had died when Valentine shot you outside the church.”

Harry’s face suddenly hardened. Slowly he pulled himself up to his full height.

“How could you possibly know that?” The air around them became sharp with tension. 

How did they end up on the wrong side of the interrogation table? They had never seen Harry from this perspective. But they had witnessed him work targets before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

As Harry continued, his voice remained very calm and very steady. 

“No one. Pardon me. I should clarify. No one alive except Statesman has that knowledge. Not even I had that knowledge in the beginning.”

Instantly, it was crucial that no one speak out of turn. Harry’s voice had taken on a tone that was flat and affectless.  They had rarely heard it before, but they knew it was dangerous to be on the receiving end of that dull and indifferent voice. 

Harry was walking his edge. And Harry on the edge was not someone you wanted to push. To anyone else, he would have appeared unchanged. But he had the sharp glint in his eye, the set to his jaw, and the steely note to his voice that betrayed he was very, very angry. They only knew this because of their history with him. It was critical to tread very lightly. 

Eggsy words were dressed with caution. 

“Harry, you were at the church, “he emphasised, “on behalf of Kingsman.” He carefully walked through a minefield of words, wary of any misstep that would trigger Harry’s anger in their direction.

“We knew that Richmond Valentine was up to no good. You were assigned the mission to find out exactly what he was planning. You flew to Kentucky. Valentine was testing his SIM card transmitter on the people in the church. You were there as well. Even though you didn’t have a SIM card, the transmission was strong enough to affect everyone, whether they had a SIM card or not.”

 “Merlin and I were on the communication feed. We saw everything…. You were affected by the sound waves, too… You had no control…” He wasn’t sure how to continue, but he definitely didn’t want to mention the number of people Harry had killed.

Merlin spoke on his behalf. “Eggsy’s right. We saw you confront Valentine. We saw him shoot you in the head. We thought that you had died. The bullet destroyed the communication feed or else it would have transmitted…” he paused. “Proof of life, or confirmation of death.” 

Harry reflected. “Yes, I did almost die on that day.”

Eggsy and Merlin flinched.

“It was only through, whatever would like to call it, luck, perhaps fate. Regardless, it was Statesman that located me. They were able to save my life. I owe them. I am a man who honors his debts.”

The room prickled with silence. They dared not say more until they were able to see more of the landscape they were trying to traverse. It was littered with threats.

Harry, now pacing in slow, steady strides, continued. “With all the resources you say this Kingsman agency had, how surprising that it had to be strangers that came to my aid. Otherwise,” he recalled, “I would be, quite dead.” 

The three of them realised they were on eggshells atop a minefield. Never before had they been confronted by Harry in this manner. Never before had they even witnessed Harry in this state. They were uncertain of what to do when faced with this degree of suspicion and mistrust from a man, who in the past, would have given his life to save any of theirs.

When no one spoke, he began to ruminate. “At Statesman, we knew that it was Richmond Valentine who shot me. Confirmed by two of their agents.” He turned back toward them. “Though the question of why still remained unsolved.”

Coming closer. “But you three, now, are here with that answer,” He paused in-between his points for effect. 

“But you are here, completely by chance.” pause 

“Only because of a doomsday protocol scenario.” pause 

“A scenario that led you to Statesman.” pause 

“And I just happen to be here as well.” pause  

“Do you know what the odds are of that happening?” pause  

“Rather extraordinary, don’t you think?” pause  

“I must say, you are quite the interesting trio. Unassuming.  Not quite what one would expect for this sort of operation.  Perhaps that is the point. Disarm me with your improbability, with your accents, so familiar to my own. Here to deliver stories of how I was part of an organization that no longer exists. And you are the only other individuals who know what occurred the day I was shot.” He stopped in front on them. He turned to face them and drew tall once more.

Looking at each other was a dare none of them were willing to take. They knew that the most important thing at that moment was to maintain eye contact with Harry anytime he looked in their direction. If they couldn’t offer him any answers, at least they could show him that they had nothing to hide. Now was not the time to look or act guilty.

No matter how many tactics he used, regardless of how hard he pushed them, their story would be the same because they had no other story. Was there no memory of Kingsman at all? What about Harry’s moral code, that Kingsman only risked a life to save a life. Was that a credo he still followed? The did not know what to expect.

“Regardless. Questions for another time I suppose.” He waved his hand as if brushing them away.

“The pressing issue still remains.” He was firm and unyielding. “Who are you and how did you find us.”

 What could they possibly say at this point? They remained silent.

“We welcome our visitors and our guests. However, we do not take kindly to trespassers. You say you have nothing to protect, but your honor. If the three of you are the only survivors of your organization and you are as close as you say, I would assume that you would, at the very least, protect a third of what remains of your agency.

Eggsy suddenly found himself on the business end of a Colt Single Action Army revolver. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun, he felt drunk, off balance, like he had fallen into an alternate universe. Where the laws of physics no longer applied. 

“Harry, it’s me.”  The only thing he could think of that could reach Harry was the guilt he had carried with him for over 17 years. The guilt that made him reach out to Eggsy in the first place. 

With self-possession he did not have, he composed himself as well as he could while being threatened by the mentor he once thought was dead.   

“My father saved your life.” He spoke quietly and deliberately and without hesitation.  “But you had made a mistake that cost him his. You were trying to repay him by helping me find purpose, to do something good with my life. You recruited me to Kingsman. You changed everything for me.” 

The look Harry returned for these words was almost kindly. 

“I’ll give you the following three seconds to prove that to me.”

Fuck. Eggsy was drawing a blank.

He could hear Roxy and Merlin, as if they were underwater yelling to Harry anything they could to make him stop.  

What felt like a lifetime later, the door burst open. Apparently, he had lost the ability to count, because that brief passage of time felt like much longer than three seconds. 

“Stop!” a woman yelled urgently. She tossed Harry a black umbrella. He caught it deftly with one hand.

“Their story checks out.” She held her palms out toward Harry. Please stop.

“I checked our doomsday scenario locker.” She explained. “Only to be opened in the case of a catastrophic event that cripples the agency to the point where we cannot rebuild on our own. It was established by a network of international intelligence agencies, forged when they first began. Since autonomy was the goal for each agency, once the protocol was put into place, no agency was to uncover it unless absolutely necessary.” 

“Take a look.” She nodded to the umbrella in his hand. “Kingsman. It has our logo on it.”

Harry paused to inspect the handle. Sure enough, the Statesman logo replaced the “s” in Kingsman.

He handled the umbrella in a way that seemed familiar to him. It almost seemed like he was looking for other recognisable features. Eggsy has seen plenty of Harry handling the umbrella like it was an extension of himself. He had saved Eggy’s life with it. It looked so natural in his hands. Like it completed the final picture of their Harry Hart and he was hopeful that this might be the final piece of the puzzle.  

Harry looked at the umbrella thoughtfully. It was difficult to read his face if he didn’t want it to be read. After a pause, he tossed it lightly back to Ginger. 

“Not good enough.” The gun swung back toward Eggsy.

They froze, unable to move, speak or even breathe. They were at a loss, nothing in their training prepared them for this. Roxy and Merlin could only watch helplessly as Harry cocked the revolver at Eggsy. Was it a live round? Or was it blank?

What kind of FU world would allow something like this to happen? Eggsy thought. He grasped for any hope, any last play that he could make, but the only thing within his reach was empty space. It simply slid through his fingers, without purchase, without substance. There was nothing that he could hold on to.

BUT… his eyes darted towards Harry’s right hand. The gun in his face was blocking his view… Fuck it. He squeezed eyes shut as he opened his mouth. The words ran together and toppled over each other as they spilled out without pause. 

“you wear a gold signet ring on your right little finger gentleman are traditionally supposed to wear the ring on the left hand but you wear yours on your right because a Kingsman always wears it on whatever hand happens to be dominant and you are right handed”

Nothing happened. And it was quiet.

Cautiously, Eggy peered from one eye. He wasn’t dead. He opened the other eye.

Harry regarded him from along the barrel of the revolver. Eggsy flinched away from its deadly mouth.

Harry deliberated. His mind took a step back and a step to the side. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. Because he was wearing a signet ring on his right hand, not on his left, as was the gentlemen’s  tradition. He was wearing it when he was shot. He could not recall where the ring came from, or its significance. Researching the insignia came up with no leads. But he continued to wear the ring, for no other reason than it felt right to him. Like he insisted on wearing his suit, rather than Statesman’s tie and jacket. 

His eyes let go of some of the hardness. Eggsy hoped that he saw a little softening at the edges. 

Harry’s voice, so familiar it made his heart hurt. Not accusatory, but with interest, he asked, “How do you know that?” 

Eggsy, with great effort willed his gaze to leave the barrel of the gun and meet the face that had once meant so much to him. He caught Harry’s eyes and didn’t flinch.

He took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with a calmness and a clarity he did not feel, “because I’m wearing one, too.”

Harry, without breaking eye contact, nodded to Ginger. She hurried to Eggsy’s side. After a quick glance, she confirmed, indeed, he was wearing a signet ring exactly like Harry’s.

Harry lowered his gun. There were three consecutive sighs of relief.

“My apologies.” He said as he holstered his weapon.

“It seems as if we have much to discuss.”

———

They found themselves in a massive great room at Statesman HQ, the top floor of a huge structure the shape of the Statesman signature whiskey bottle. Floor to ceiling windows circled the entire room, providing a 360 degree view of the rolling hills of Kentucky from every vantage point.

The centrepiece of the space was a leviathan of a conference table. Elaborately carved, solid hard wood. The trees that created that table must have had lived for years to grow to such a substantial size.  It had space to sit 12, but only few of the spots were occupied.

One of which by a larger than life, genial, vintage cowboy of a man. A little flashy, a little ostentatious, more than a little gregarious, he was the head of the Statesman outfit. With a place at the head of the table, he leaned back in his plush armchair with aplomb. He introduced himself as “Champagne” or Champ as he was known affectionately by his agents.

Roxy wasn’t surprised that, aside from Ginger Ale, she was the only female present. Hell, Ginger was the only other female that she had seen since they had entered Statesman HQ. Well, technically ‘broke in’, but still. They had an invitation, even if it was only in the shape of a whiskey bottle. A bottle that they had emptied while wallowing in self pity. Even Merlin was a bit maudlin, at one point, sobbing into his whiskey and singing Country Roads a little off key. Roxy had side-eyed him until Eggsy spotted the secret message hidden behind the label. She wondered they they had made the clue unnoticeable until the bottle was emptied. They could have quite possibly missed the hint. Being under the influence of, admittedly, very smooth whiskey did not enhance ones ability to spot decades old subtext on the back of whiskey labels. Whose clever idea had that been? 

Once again, she found herself in the odd situation where she wanted to be taken seriously as an agent, but Agent Tequila’s insistence on calling her sweetheart, miss, darling, filly of all things didn’t give her much confidence that Statesman would be any different from the old boys club that was Kingsman.

Even back at HQ, she was often, dear, dearest, or darling. The only person that she tolerated those endearments from where Eggsy, who used them in jest, and surprisingly Harry Hart. But Galahad, and Galahad Sr. calling her dear was much different than a two-bit, over the top, slick cowboy secret agent she had just met calling her something as intimate as “darling”. 

Would it kill him to call her Lancelot? It miffed her that he used Eggsy’s handle and not hers. Looking at the head of their organisation, she didn’t expect him to be much different. 

She took a seat the near end of the table, between Eggsy and Merlin. Agent Tequila walked in with Ginger, followed by Harry. She was surprised when he continued past them and walked around the head of the table to the other side, the Statesman side, and took a seat next to Ginger. He pulled out his chair, as smooth and as graceful as he sat thousands of times at the head of the Kingsman table. Even unbuttoning the last button of his suit so it wouldn’t crease and smoothing the back of his jacket before he leaned into his chair. The crossed legs, the hands folded on the knee. The authoritative, yet relaxed posture. It was all so familiar. What she couldn’t reconcile was the inscrutable, impenetrable expression that fell over his face every time he glanced in their direction. There was no warmth, no familiarity, no flicker of understanding. It made his face look unfamiliar and she did not like it one bit. 

To add insult to injury, Ginger had leaned over and whispered something in his direction. The small hint of a ‘not quite smile’ that pressed his lips together, his mouth just barely turned up at the corners, meant that she had shared an observation that confirmed something in his mind in a bemused sort of way. It was the look Harry had once made, when inquired about Eggsy’s tardiness, she revealed that he was running late because it was JB’s birthday party later and he wanted to get the dog “pupcakes” to celebrate. The memory tugged at her heart.

She didn’t turn her head to see how Eggsy was faring, but she could almost feel his dejection. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious on his face. Sometimes he was a little too earnest for his own good. Not that her other side was an improvement. Merlin was seated directly across from Harry. Only a distance of several feet, but it might as well have been lengths of the world for as distant Harry was from them. The furrow between the Scotsman’s brows had appeared the moment they discovered Harry alive. It took up residence on his face. Harry Hart, the man who was the only person close enough for Merlin to consider a friend, was now a mystery to him. 

The loss, between Eggsy and Merlin, was a cold empty space that Roxy had the unfortunate pleasure to be seated between. She was determined to warm up whatever mood vacuum that had sucked her in. Or at least not make it any worse.             

 And why did she always have to be the mediator? The men had elected Roxy as their spokesperson as neither of them thought that they would be able to speak without laughing, crying, shouting or hitting something. Predictably, she found herself the voice of reason. To be fair, she WAS the one with the least emotional involvement. Not that she hadn’t adored and respected Harry Hart, like everyone that worked under his guidance, but she had to admit, Merlin and Eggsy must be twice as confused and devastated by the recent turn of events. She mentally steeled herself against any additional revelations that might be thrown their way. But at this point, if there was something that could top this most recent turn of events, they might as well just blow up this joint and let it all burn down, too.

After everyone had settled in, and to her amusement, a pour of whiskey was set in front of each of them. She decided to get this “rodeo” started. She nodded in Champs direction. He tipped his chin, tapped his glass with his pen to get everyone’s attention and announced the opening of the meeting. All the Statesman and Harry, emptied their glasses. From her peripheral she saw Merlin and Eggsy follow suit without hesitation. Did all agencies revolve around the consumption of alcohol? She had already developed quite a tolerance from her brief stint at Kingsman so far. Well, if it brought these two agencies on familiar ground, who was she to argue? She tipped her glass back. And the welcomed the warmth after the initial burn, though still much smoother than could be expected. She appreciated the added touch of liquid courage. She cleared her throat. 

“We find ourselves here, under what we,” she gestured to herself and her colleagues, “believed to be the most difficult of circumstances. Only to be faced with another impossible situation. As you can imagine, the revelation that Harry Hart, our Sr. Agent Galahad,” she nodded in his direction, “who we believed had been killed over a year ago by Richmond Valentine, that he is still alive, has been shocking for us.”

In Harry’s direction, she continued, addressing him directly. “Harry. If we had believed there to be even the most infinitesimal chance that you could have survived Valentine’s bullet, we would have not hesitated to garner all the forces of Kingsman to find you and bring you back.”

Harry, respectfully listened to Lancelot, attentive, but without revealing anything aside from simple interest.

She faltered a little under his gaze. And she, too, wished for that little wink, the small tilt of his chin that would encourage her to continue. Just as he first did when she joined Kingsman, nervous over her first debriefing. There was no comfort to be found in his direction. She took a deep breath and continued. 

“Both Eggsy - our current Galahad - and Merlin witnessed the events of what we thought was your death.” She forced herself to face him, eye to eye, without hesitation. After all that he had sacrificed for them, it was the least she could offer him.

Her voice was clear and firm, her words meticulously thought out. “They saw you get shot, point blank, in the face, by no more than a distance of 10 feet, by a 9mm semi-automatic Heckler and Koch P30. The bullet destroyed the communication transmission via the left lens.”

Both Eggsy and Merlin were looking down. Both remembering all too clearly the events from that day. The details were painful for them to hear, especially when the man who they thought had died, was in fact, sitting across the table. Even though they had every right to call time of death, they couldn’t help but feel they had left him behind. 

Roxy continued. “Merlin, our communications and technology strategist and Galahad, who was at the time, your protege, had witnessed all the events up to the point the bullet severed the transmission. We could only deduce, at that point, that a bullet of that caliber, from that distance, would have shattered the lens.” She took a deep breath, “and continued through the left eye and exited the back of the head. Resulting in immediate death.” 

She could sense Eggsy flinch by her side. He had seen the whole thing far too clearly. 

“As much as we wanted to, we were unable to collect the body at the time of death. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding treachery within the highest ranks of our agency, Merlin, Eggsy and I, had to straight away address both the source of our internal corruption and abort the plans initiated by Richmond Valentine. We were successful in both, but not in time to prevent casualties, both enemy and civilian.”

In speaking so intimately regarding what they thought was his death, she decided to switch identifiers from “the” to “your”. The man was sitting right in front of her. She spoke with a new earnest note in her voice. Rather than distancing herself from her words, she decided to speak from the place that had felt the same grief and loss as Eggsy and Merlin.

Harry’s eyes took on a different note as he heard the emotion in Roxy’s voice. 

“In the immediate aftermath of V-day, after the initial threat was neutralised, we flew to the States in an attempt to find you, identify you, and bring you home for proper internment, but we were unable to locate your body. We tried over weeks, through every channel, every resource, we followed every lead, with no success. We didn’t hope to find you alive.” 

She fought against the wave of emotion that threatened her composure.

“But we hoped that we would be able to properly commemorate your bravery, your integrity, your sacrifice, with the honour, dignity and grace worthy of your life and your legacy.” 

Roxy had stop for a moment, but she did not look away. A small tear rolled down her cheek without her noticing or bothering to wipe it away. It was as if the loss was new again. This pain was fresh. For all of them.

Harry’s eyes finally softened and they caught a glimpse of the man they remembered. But whether it was empathy for Roxy, clearly struggling to continue as her emotions caught in her throat, or understanding how they felt and what they had to do in the most difficult of situations, they did not know. 

And whatever amnesia he was experiencing had to be temporary, right? Surely Melin could devise a plan to help jump start his memory. Now that the were there, they could help him remember.

—

Roxy was determined to continue until the end. 

“After the events of V-Day, we had to recenter and regroup. Our agency had clearly been compromised. We needed to locate and close the leaks and tie up any loose ends.  Our losses were felt across the board. We had to rebuild what we could from the ground up. To recapture the integrity of our organisation. The immediate need to clean up the aftermath was one of the few things that we could focus on to help us come to terms with your loss. We knew, that if you had survived, you would have taken the mantle of Arthur. And that it would be your highest priority to rebuild the agency beyond reproach.”

“After several weeks, in which we continued our search for you, we felt that it would be best for us personally and professionally to move on. We held a private memorial for you, and honoured you as best as we could. After that, we could only move forward. It was a difficult time for all of us.” 

“We found ourselves here, after our organisation was levelled again. This time with only the three of us as survivors. Our HQ, our foundry, our storefront.” Her eyes flared with anger at this point. “And all of our agents worldwide aside from Galahad and I, were all taken down as targets.”

“Merlin was the only surviving handler and tech strategist and the only one of us that had been with the agency long enough know that a Doomsday protocol existed. With all of our resources destroyed, we had no way of protecting ourselves, to find out who had organised and carried out such a coordinated attack. Our last and only option was to see if this protocol existed.”

“We found the Statesman logo. Located your distillery here in Kentucky. At this point, we really had no plan beyond finding your organisation and hoping that you would be able to assist us.”

“We still had some tech in our possession, which I admit, looked suspicious for a group of tailors to have, let alone know how to use. That’s when your agent found us. We meant no ill will, but we had no other way to get into contact with your organization.  We didn’t even know if you existed. We had nothing to lose but to continue to follow any clues that we might come across. We had no protocol for a circumstance like this.”

“You can only imagine our bewilderment to be taken as adversaries when we were looking for help. And then our shock of finding Harry Hart. Finding him, not only alive, but with no memory of the agency he was devoted to over 30 years. It still is an unthinkable situation that we were not prepared for and obviously, are still trying to process.”

She had been speaking for a long time. She paused, took a sip of water, swallowed, before continuing.

She addressed the table. “Everything that we have said is the truth. We were also an independent intelligence agency with headquarters in London.” 

She turned again to Harry. “You were an integral member of this agency for most of your adult life. You know each of us well. Merlin has been your colleague for over 20 years. You knew Eggsy’s father, he saved your life in a mission that had gone sideways. That was seventeen years ago. You had recruited him as a way to repay his fathers sacrifice. My uncle was also a long time colleague of yours and our families go back many years.”

“We are so grateful that you are alive. We are sorry that we left you behind. That would never be our intention. We are forever indebted to Statesman for saving your life and taking care of you. But as you can imagine, we have questions of our own. How did you get here? How did you survive? Do you have no memory of Kingsman at all? What can you remember? Obviously, you have retained your skills, but to what extent? If you honestly don’t remember, then we can see how unbelievable our story is. But I think if you are still a man of honour and integrity, then you have to feel that we are not hostiles or adversaries. We pose no threat to you. Your instincts must tell you we are offering you the truth.”

She could tell that Harry was processing the information, she just couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Roxy concluded. “And that brings us here to the present. I think our most pressing question is “how did you survive?”

Harry nodded to Ginger to answer the question. He seemed to want to observe the conversation. His attention had never wavered from Roxy while she spoke, only widened at times to include Eggsy or Merlin. If he had come to a conclusion, there was nothing that they could see.

Roxy gladly handed off the meeting to Ginger. Harry’s unwavering gaze was getting a little unnerving. Without the added scrutiny, she could get collect her own thoughts and feelings. Kingsman recruitment training had been brutal, but nothing could have prepared them for the last 48hrs. Nothing in the Gentleman’s Guide had a blueprint on how to behave when your agency gets blown up and your dead mentor, comes back to life, has amnesia, and then almost shoots you.

——

Ginger spoke up.

“I would like to confirm that we now have proof that your story is legitimate Which means, Harry, what they are saying about your history with Kingsman is most likely the truth.”

Harry tilted his chin slightly in her direction in acknowledgement. 

She spoke in the direction of the three Kingsman. “We have just received corroboration from several independent sources that the events did occur as described and that your agency was the target of a massive strike against organisations such as ours. We are sorry for your loss. You will have full access to our resources to investigate this adversary and we will provide you with support. This is a threat that affects all of us.”

Merlin spoke up. His voice was rough with concern. 

“Harry, what happened?” 

Harry’s voice, deep and a with familiar, crisp authority, suddenly filled the space.

“At this point, I believe Ginger will be able to recall the events much more clearly than I. I have no recollection of events immediately following the shooting.” He turned to her. “Please, continue.”

Merlin gaze remained fixed on Harry and worried there for several moments, before he turned his attention to Ginger.

“The day prior to V-Day, we detected the transmission of a very low frequency sound wave. Much lower than what is normally used for any legitimate communication. This frequency, for the time and location, was suspicious to say the least and it was imperative that we investigate. Agent Tequila and I helicoptered to the spot, about 10 miles away.”

“The frequency stopped right about the time we were closing in on the location. We had already pinpointed the source so we knew where it originated from. Even though the transmission had stopped, we could still find clues to its origin.” 

“We were just flying into the zone when we witnessed the shooting. We saw Valentine and his accomplices depart. They didn’t confirm death. I expect they thought that shooting someone in the face.. well, there are not many outcomes. Our timing couldn’t have been better planned. We had developed what we call “alpha gel” to use on our own agents in the case of a head shot. Previously, a head shot meant immediate death. Body armour can only protect so much. We’ve lost very good agents.’ 

But depending on where the bullet entered the skull and if there was minimal damage to the actual brain and spinal cord, the gel could potentially save an agents life. 

Harry was still alive when I checked his vitals. I applied the alpha gel immediately. It’s crucial to activate the gel to prevent tissue damage and accelerate the nannites that are used to repair neural pathways. I won’t go further in depth at this point. The main issue at that moment was to preserve life. 

Of course, because of his glasses, we knew that he was intelligence, we just didn’t know whose and we had no way of finding out without compromising Harry’s safety and our anonymity.  

Harry suffers from retrograde amnesia, which could be from the injury. But it can also be a side effect of the alpha gel. However, when life it at risk, the benefits outweigh the possible negative outcomes. This kind of memory loss, you lose existing, previously made memories. This type of amnesia tends to affect recently formed memories first. Older memories, such as memories from childhood, are usually affected more slowly. 

She motioned to Harry, while he listened closely to her explanation.

“So while Harry was whole as a person, personality wise, function wise, cognitive and behavioural skills in place, he had no memory of who he was aside from what could be observed. He had no memory of his past, people, places, events. This was an interesting case because usually with retrograde amnesia, there can be the regression to the younger self. The skill set and knowledge and the growth that occurred during the time of memory loss can also be lost as well. Such as, if you learned French while you were in college, but you lost the memories of this timeframe, in most cases, you would no longer be able to speak French. In fact, the whole memory that you learned it to begin with would be gone. In these cases, the knowledge and skill learned during this time would also be forgotten. However, in some rare cases, the ability to remember the skill remains, while the memory of the past when it was learned is lost. 

“In Harry’s case, it was obviously the later.” 

The slightest shift in the landscape of Harry’s face indicated that we was thoughtful and reflective. How must it be to wake up and not know who you are.

Harry, while still maintaining full concentration on Ginger, set a small part of him free to revisit the day he regained consciousness. Which technically, would not be regaining consciousness, since he had no recollection of losing consciousness to begin with.

——

POV HARRY HART

“My name is Harry Hart.”  It was the first thought that went through his head.

Secondly, “Caucasion male, 6’2”, brown hair, brown eyes, 58 years of age. 13.5 stone” That all sounded perfectly reasonable to him.

Thirdly, wasn’t a thought, it was a feeling of emptiness. Not as if he was missing something. It did not feel like loss. It did not feel as if he was lacking. That would imply that there was something present to begin with.  It was not a feeling he could identify or that felt familiar or could find a word that was representative. It was unusual for him. He never found his vocabulary lacking. Perhaps if it could be called a non-feeling. He was a vessel. Neither empty, nor full. And no desire to be either or. An interesting sensation. 

When he first woke up, he had not realised that he was suffering from amnesia. Due to the amnesia there were no memories that insisted he should be a certain person. That he had to exist in a certain place. Doing something specific. A curious circumstance. There was no sense of surprise waking up in the condition he found himself to be. He did whatever he would do in a circumstance like this. Assess the situation. 

As he entered a conscious state, his mind automatically shifted into overdrive. But without moving. Without betraying any kind of change. He felt the need to remain unnoticed. He did this from where he rested. He first determined if he had sustained any injury or damage that had caused permanent physical disability or bodily harm. He had full function of all of his appendages. He did not know how long he had been in this state, but he did not notice any signs of muscle atrophy or joint stiffness. They must have a system that stimulated muscle tissue and nerves to prevent deterioration or he had not been in an immobile state for any length of time. Blinking his eyes was like scrapping sandpaper and his throat was a desert of sand. He attempted to make any kind of noise and found it difficult. That meant he had to have been out for at least some meaningful period of time. His head did ache something awful, and he noted a bandage or some other type of patch over his left eye. The use of only one eye would change his perception of depth, and the range of his peripheral vision, but he did not doubt that he would be able to adjust accordingly.

He had no reason to question his cognitive function. He processed information unhesitatingly and with ease. Without a sense of doubt, without faltering, he scanned the room and began to examine his surroundings. He was being held in some kind of hospital or medical ward. Not civilian. It was either private or for research. Maybe military. Hi tech, advanced equipment. Everything was in pristine condition. Two exits on opposing sides. No windows. A complex ventilation and filtration system suggested an underground location. No immediate threat that he could ascertain, but that could change at any moment. No apparent weapons. Some medical instruments that could possibly work. He was not restrained so he was not being held against his will. Or there was no need if he was unconscious the entire time. He did not feel any urgency or sense of immediate danger, but he did not question his need to assess the situation .

He heard two people approach the door to the left. Judging from the echoing quality and the gradual volume and clarity of their foot steps, from a fairly long corridor. 

His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and steady, his heartbeat was slow and rhythmic. He concentrated on the sound. One set of footsteps was clearly male. The stride was longer, more pronounced, in heavy shoes, presumably boots. But an easy pace. Most likely 6’, 13 stone, physically fit. His gait was even, balanced and light. Not the walk of someone that led a sedentary life. The second set of footsteps he concluded were female. Lighter, but not timid. A confident woman. Just a smaller stature. Medium height. Slight frame. Like her partner, fit, alert, competent. 

He did not know why or how he came up with these deductions, but he did not question them. He held the information in his mind so it was easily accessible. The voices, once they became decipherable, were relaxed and easy. Their tone was jovial and non-threatening. Younger than he was. American accent, with a southern drawl. He could be in the US, but anywhere was possible. While he did not expect danger, he still prepared himself for the risk. Mostly, his need was to understand the where he was, how he got there and have leverage over the situation.

The door opened with a heavy swooshing sound. He did not hear the click of a lock being turned, so he was not being held in high security setting.

The two individuals were still conversing, and he could just almost decipher what they were discussing. The man remained on his right hand side while the woman walked around the foot of the bed to inspect the instruments and diagnostics panels to the left. Her back was turned away from him. The man remained at his side. A quick glance in his direction. A holster was slung around his waist, it held a nickelplated SIG-Sauer P226 with wooden grips. A quality weapon. To his advantage, the strap securing the weapon was not snapped in. That would have been a trickier maneuver.

He guessed the woman was in medical, the man, based on the weapon and the fact that he was not actively participating in the tasks, that he was a guard or protection of some sort. With their relaxed tones, and familiar interactions, possibly a friend or colleague. 

Not one to overthink a situation, he decided now was as good a time as any. No use in waiting, expecting a better scenario. Best to address the situation you know rather than wait for one you don’t. Never a guarantee for a better set of circumstances. Only guarantee is time lost.

He waited patiently for the moment to proceed. Just a small distraction was all he needed. It arrived sooner than he anticipated and under better circumstances that he had the right to expect.

“Tequila, would you be able to hand me the print outs right behind you?” 

Harry saw him turn away from the bed, his hips rotated in his direction, the angle ideal for him to grab, cock and point. He only hoped that his deductions regarding his physical state were correct, or it would be a moot point. He might not even be able to sit up, let alone hold a weapon.  Take the out, the told himself. 

These thoughts occurred within fractions of a second. Without hesitation, in one fell swoop, he grabbed the gun, pulled back the slide to load the chamber. Thankfully his body responded without any resistance or weakness and he slid himself back into an upright position. 

He judged the distance between the three of them. The man called Tequila, was close enough by his side to possibly disarm him, so he swung the weapon in the woman’s direction. She was far enough away that the gun was not within her reach. He centered the sight at her chest. It was not the aim of a stop shot. It was the aim for a kill shot. Might as well show them he was not a man to underestimate. He did not want to shoot her, but he did want to make it very clear to them that he was a man to take very seriously. 

Once he guaranteed that he had their attention. Though he had many questions he wanted answers to, he asked them the two questions that were the most urgent.

His voice was gravelly, but still clear enough to understand. 

“Who are you?”

“What am I doing here?”

For having a gun aimed at her chest, the woman was surprisingly relaxed. She held up her palm towards the other man. She would handle this. The man shifted his weight back to a holding posture rather than the offensive stance that prepared him to take action. 

“You have a British accent. That’s helpful to know. How are you feeling?”

“My first two questions still stand.” He regarded them impassively, but kept any notes of aggression from his tone.

—— 

Gingers POV

“My name is Ginger Ale, I’m Head Strategy Executive and Director of Medical here at our outfit.  This is Agent Tequila. Welcome to Statesman, our whiskey distillery. You’re at our HQ in Kentucky.” 

She handed him a cup of water. “Sip. Don’t guzzle.”

She was succinct. “As for what you are doing here, we were waiting for you to wake up so you could tell us. We found you outside of a church about 10 miles from here. You had been shot in the head. You were still alive, so we did everything we could to keep you that way. You’ve been unconscious the entire time here. Your vitals were strong. We were just waiting for you to wake up. We have some questions for you as well.” 

Her voice was gentle, but firm. He did not catch any inflections or hesitations that would indicate she was lying, or with holding information. Her tone was honest, forthright and it put him slightly more at ease. 

“I answered both of yours. Would you be so kind to answer mine?” She asked politely.

He did not refuse, but he didn’t say yes.

“How are you feeling.” she asked again.

“Would you care to clarify?” He asked in return. “There are multiple ways I can respond to your question.”

So he was witty.

“Pick one.”

“At the present moment, tolerable. Though this persistent ache in my head leaves something to be desired” He equivocated. 

“That’s to be expected with a headshot. You did lose your left eye. There will be residual pain/discomfort until the injury is completely healed.”

“What is your name? 

“My name is Harry Hart.”

“Do you feel comfortable enough at the moment to answer some questions for us? Is there anything that you require immediately? 

“More water would be appreciated. Otherwise, feel free. Fire away.” He looked amused. He reached over to return Tequila’s gun. “Perhaps a poor choice of words in my case.” He revised his response. “Very well then, proceed.”

She refilled his water and pulled a chair next to his bed. Tequila found a place strategically viable to intervene if things went sideways. He wasn’t one to get caught off guard twice.

“Now, since we are on a first name basis, can you tell us why you were at the church that day? Why would someone would want to kill you?”

“No.”

“No?” 

“I simply do not know.”

“Why you were there? Or why someone wanted you dead?”

“Neither.”

“Where are you from?”

His face remained blank.

“That may be a little vague.” Ginger specified. “Where do you live? Where is your home?”

No response.

How old are you?

“58” 

“Do you know what you do for a living? Where do you work?”

An almost imperceptible turn of the head.

“Can you remember where you went to school? Secondary or university.”

He squinted his eyes. But no answer.

“Do you know who the current world leader is? President? Prime Minister?”

Her regarded her impassively. She started to form her own understanding of how he was communicating. She could play along. Any form of communication was good for her. It didn’t have to be words. There was more than one way to impart information. It would all get her to the same place. Plus, she would have the chance to read his non-verbal cues. That would be a challenge. His expression was nearly inscrutable.

A slight turn of the head meant I don’t know. His impassive face meant maybe, but he can’t know for sure. The blank disinterested stare meant that he had no idea what she was referring to. She was already intrigued by her patient. She was becoming more fascinated by the moment. 

Changing tactics, she asked. “Can you play the piano?”

A slight tilt of the head. This was new. That meant the question sparked something in his mind. It was a possibility, but he couldn’t know for sure. Interesting. She went further down her tangent.

“What’s pi to the tenth decimal?”

Without hesitation, he rattled off. “3.1415926535”

“Parle vous français?”

“Oui”

How many languages can you speak?

“Six ”

“What are they?”

English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Arabic.

Hmmm. Arabic was interesting. She filed that away to look at more closely at a later time.

“Do you know were you learned Arabic or why?”

He was taciturn.

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Right.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Impassive.

“Do you own a car?”

Impassive.

“Do you know how to drive.”

“Yes.”

Now they were getting somewhere, she thought to herself.

“What was your favourite game as a child?”

He furrowed his brow but answered.

“Chess.”

Were you good?

“Yes.”

“Did you compete?

No answer.

Hmm. Retrograde amnesia, she pondered.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”

A tilt of the head. Possible, but can’t confirm.

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

“I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Do you know what orange means?”

“The color or the fruit?”

Good. “The fruit, what does it remind you of? 

“Winter. Christmas.”

Excellent. “Do you remember a Christmas from your past?”

Blank stare.

“Do you think you’re attractive? Good looking.”

He huffed, amused. 

“It’s not a trick question.”

“Not to seem chuffed, but I’ve never had any complaints in that regard.”

“Can you remember any specific compliments that you’ve received in the past?”

Thwarted.

Good. “So you know that other people think you are attractive and desirable. But is that how you see yourself?”

 “I was attempting to be modest.” 

She waited for his response.

Reluctantly, “Yes.” He admitted. “I know that I am attractive, handsome, good looking. However you would like to call it.” 

He continued even though he had already answered the question. It was his first moment of revealing information on his own.

“I would go out with myself if I were able, but unfortunately, that is not an option. I am not a narcissist. However, I would say that I regard myself with a healthy and acceptable amount of vanity. “ 

Did Ginger just discern a bit of sarcasm?

His good looks have been a point of contention in the past. Not that she could blame him. She was curious to know how his appearance either hindered him or helped him. She did note that there was no wedding ring when they found him. She couldn’t complain. It didn’t hurt her daily check ups that he was extremely easy on the eyes. Even his hospital issue gown made him look handsome.

Ok. Time to move on. She switched her line of questioning. 

“Where are you right now?” She asked.

His expression was doubtful. Of her, not of his answer. His face asked the question. “Didn’t we just discuss this?” Nevertheless, he answered her with a bemused sigh.

“Kentucky, United States. Apparently 10 miles away from a church where I was shot in the head.”

Ginger nodded. She was encouraged. 

He didn’t see why. It wasn’t difficult to recall. She had only just told him.

“Do you remember our names and what we do?”

He found the helpfulness of these questions debatable, but if it would accelerate his process, he was willing to comply. And participate, if it made this whole interaction a tad more interesting.

“Your name is Ginger Ale. After the beverage, I can only assume. Your colleague, here, is called Tequilla, after the alcohol. I am under the the impression that these are code names that are assigned by the intelligence agency that employs you. Statesman. With a distillery as a backstop. Hence the libation themed code names. 

“Ginger Ale, I gather from your code name’s slight variation, you are in an essential, but supportive role. Whereas Tequila, a right tipple, would be classified as an agent. Of your independent organisation. I would believe, comparable to the CIA, but without the restrictions that often hinder government run spy organisations. And with more interesting code names.”

There was just the slightest hint of cockiness in his tone and in his expression. She found it equally amusing and charming at the same time. Now they were making progress. More than she could have hoped for.

He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, well spoken, though taciturn. Understandable upon waking up with no memory of where he was and why he was there. It was a very promising discovery. He seemed to accept his situation without resistance. He was alert. No hint of confusion. Just a desire to understand the circumstances he found himself in. 

He was emotionally stable, if not a little irritated, by his current state. He took the loss of his eye as a matter of fact. Overall, his ability to acclimate was nothing short of remarkable. 

He folded his hands on his lap, one over the other, tilted his chin in her direction. His posture said. “I’m waiting patiently..” He was throwing shades of a personality she was already warming toward. 

There was a momentary pause. They regarded each other with interest. 

 Finally Harry spoke. “I have amnesia.” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating it as a fact.

She confirmed. Nodding. 

“I would like to perform some additional CT and MRI scans, and EEG, but judging from the traumatic brain injury you’ve suffered, you most likely have retrograde amnesia. Just based on this conversation alone. To be more specific. Focal retrograde amnesia. 

She continued to explain. “Focal retrograde amnesia, also known as isolated or pure retrograde amnesia, is when someone only experiences the loss of memories that have already been made. Anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, is being unable to form new memories.

He listened to her with a new interest. 

She continued. “So, it appears you have retrograde amnesia, but no anterograde. This means that the ability to form new memories is left intact. You easily recalled information from a short time ago. That is very good news.” She paused, looking for his understanding.

“Please, go on.” He said.

“This kind of isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence or ability to learn new skills, like playing the piano or affect previously learned skills, like driving a car, speaking different languages. Most likely, if we sat you at a piano, you would be able to play, based on your response to my question.”

“What is the prognosis?”

Ginger, equivocated, a little hesitant “With amnesia, it’s difficult to predict. Retrograde amnesia can result from damage to different parts of the brain responsible for controlling emotions and memories. These include the thalamus, which is deep in the center of the brain, and the hippocampus, which is in the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. There are many variables involved.”

“Thats is all very interesting, but doesn’t quite give me any predictions for my future.” 

“To be completely honest, for the injury you sustained, the amnesia is surprisingly less severe than I would have predicted. Most traumatic brain injuries are mild, resulting in concussion. But a severe injury, like a serious blow to the head, or a bullet for that matter, can damage the memory-storing areas of the brain and lead to anterograde amnesia as well. Depending on the level of damage, the amnesia could be temporary or permanent. I know that’s not very helpful.”

“Ginger, there is no need to “hedge your bets” as they would say. I am quite prepared to accept any answer you provide.”

“The fact that you can remember new information is promising. Your cognitive and behavioural skills are, as far as I can tell, excellent. I would be interested to test your knowledge further. You may have skills that you don’t know you have until you have a need for them.”

“If I were to summarise… “ Ginger concluded. “And please let me know if I go too far off the beaten path as I find this area of research very intriguing.”

She stole a glance at Tequila. “Many would find it boring.” 

Tequila gestured with a shrug of his shoulders..”So what? I think it’s boring.”

Ginger turned back toward Harry.

“Are you comfortable?”

“As much as one could hope.”

“Please understand that I’m generalising here. Just the fact that you are interested in this subject and can process information is extremely promising. The questions I asked you, though random, I asked for very specific reasons.” 

“Our memories” she explained, “can be separated into two groups: Explicit and Implicit. Each of these categories can then be further broken down. If I can use your case as an example?”

Harry nodded.

In the clear and assured tones of a professor, she explained. 

“Explicit memories, or declarative memories, are those we consciously try to remember and recall. When I ask you a question, such as, “Where were you born?” to answer, you would navigate through your explicit memory.

“Explicit memory stores events and facts. This is your conscious memory. You know that you have them and can remember them when you need to. In your case, I asked you to recall a derivative of Pi. You did that easily. That would be an explicit memory. Your knowledge of different languages also taps into your explicit memory.” 

Harry was still, but receptive.

Encouraged by his attentiveness, she broke the concept down further.

“Of these explicit memories, there are three different types. The first two are episodic and semantic memories. Do you know what semantic means?” She asked him.

“Of course. That which is related to language.”  replied Harry.

Ginger was pleased.

“Exactly. Our semantic memory stores knowledge about words, concepts and language-based knowledge and facts. Knowing the definition of “Semantic” is, in fact, a semantic memory. So is your knowledge of Pi in relation to the numerical expression, and the ability to speak different languages. This part of your memory seems to be unaffected.”

She checked in with Harry. She had the tendency to explain way beyond the interest of the listener. He confirmed. Go on.

“The second kind of explicit memory is called episodic memory. This is information about events that you have personally experienced. For example, if something looks or feels familiar, you’re probably trying to pull from your episodic memory. Times in your life, people, places, emotions and context that make up the events in your life. The what, when, where, how and why of your memory.”

“This seems to be a large part of your memory that has been affected and it seems to go back for a very long time. Typically, when you see lapses in episodic memory, it’s usually the more recent memories that can’t be accessed. Memories of childhood are still there.  In your case, your entire past seems to be wiped.

He asked his first question. Well, other than the first two, but that was at gunpoint, so they didn’t really count.“Then how is it that I still have all of this knowledge.”

“Yes, just getting to that. Now we move over to your implicit memories. These memories are not part of your consciousness.”

She took a breath. “These memories are based on behaviours and movements. Memories that are retained through practice and repetition. A learned skill would be part of this memory.”

She had vast knowledge of memory loss due to brain trauma and she welcomed the opportunity to share. “There are two types of implicit memories. Procedural and emotional conditioning.”

“Procedural stores information about how to do things. Why you are able to perform actions without consciously monitoring the sub procedures that need to be pieced together in order to perform the task. Or, more simply, it’s the reason you can brush your teeth without a second thought. It is the memory for skilled actions.”

“This part of the memory is why you can do things without thinking about them. You know how to drive a car. But you don’t know if you own one. You can play chess, but you don’t know if you played competitively. Same with the piano. You can shoot a gun, but you don’t know if you’ve ever killed someone. Even something as simple as brushing your teeth is part of this. You don’t have to consciously think about every sub action you have to make, or the motor skills involved. Probably the same way with a gun. If I asked to take apart and reassemble Tequila’s gun, you could probably do so without knowing how or why you possess that skill.”

“Lastly is Emotional Conditioning.  This can be a little trickier to identify. I would have to ask you more questions to see how this part of your memory was affected. These memories are made through classical conditioning, associations made through stimuli. You know what an orange is. You know what they smell like. It reminds you of Christmas. This is emotional conditioning. But you can’t remember any Christmas that you’ve had. That is your episodic memory.”

Harry looked openly thoughtful. He was no longer guarding his expression. The softness took years off his face. It was hard not to just stare at him. 

“There’s one more category of explicit memories that is important. Autobiographical. This memory system is made up of both episodic and semantic aspects of your memory. It’s a collection of memories specifically related to the self. This could be how you look, your height, specific meaningful points in your life, or the general idea of your concept of self. Which is why I asked you questions not just on how you look, but how you, yourself, viewed your looks.”  

“You know what a gun is. Semantic. You know how to shoot a gun. Procedural. You don’t know if you’ve ever killed anyone. Episodic. Killing someone is only acceptable under certain circumstances. Emotional conditioning. But without knowing whether or not you’ve ever killed anyone, you believe you are a good person. Autobiographical.”

“In regards to the actual landscape of your brain, your cerebellum and prefrontal cortex seem to be the least affected.  In addition to contributions to implicit memory, conditioned responses, fine motor movements, posture and coordination, the cerebellum also maintains internal representations of the external world, which allow you to move in darkness as long as the room or space is familiar to you, and how you would need to position your self to aim a gun and hit a moving target.”

Harry was still engaged, so she went on. 

“It seems the hippocampus was the most affected by your injury. This would make sense based on the entry point of the bullet. This part of the brain processes declarative and episodic memory, people, places, and things as well as recognition memory.” 

“I know that’s a lot to take in. I’d like you to rest in the meantime. You’ve only just woken up, in well, less than ideal circumstances. Even though you say you feel “acceptable” you are still recovering from a major injury.  We’ll follow up with you more frequently, now that you are awake.” She wasn’t asking.

Harry, for the first time, addressed Tequila. “I take it that she is always the voice of reason.”

“Without fail.”

“And I assume there is no sense in arguing.”

“None at all.”

——

For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that he was from the UK as many of his mannerism and idiosyncrasies were quintessentially British. Tequila had gotten into the habit of calling him Hart, or The Brit for short. Harry, who was not one for such informalities, was amused. He did, however, recognise that Americans, as well as Statesman, were more easy going and relaxed in their word, dress and interactions with each other, overall. 

——

“Was there anything, physically, or possessions that I had on my body when you found me, that would offer any clues to my identity.”

Ginger paused. “Well, Harry, we found you in quite a unique state.”

They had already been over the event numerous times. But Harry knew that little details were often overlooked the first time around and could surface after a spell.  Ironic, since his own memory wouldn’t be surfacing in any amount of time. He would have rather used a more elegant metaphor, but he was like a top notch computer with nothing to process. All of his files were wiped. Who knew if they were recoverable. No use in wondering. 

When Ginger Ale and Agent Tequila found Harry, he had made quite the impression. As the helicopter descended, Ginger and Tequila saw him closely for the first time. He was splayed out, flat on his back, unconscious, with a bullet through his eye, wearing of all things, an impeccably tailored, navy pinstripe double breasted suit. He was fully decked out with all the details. Spread collar, tie with a Windsor knot, suspenders, oxfords, even a tie pin, cufflinks, a pocket square, and a signet ring. It was a sight not often seen in their part of Kentucky.

While Ginger attended to the man, Tequila checked the church. It was the site of a bloodbath. This was no mass shooting. A mass shooting would be clean and simple compared to what he found inside.  These people had been slaughtered. Creatively. Luckily, whatever or whoever the threat was that had massacred the congregation, had departed. 

Harry had definitely been involved in the bloodshed, but to what extent, they did not know. The tell tale signs were on his suit. It hard to see the bloodstains against the dark wool, but there were unmistakable splashes of red on the crisp whiteness of his cuffs and collar. It was torn in places, whether from a weapon or some other object, one couldn’t tell. But mostly, the proof was on his hands. They were stained with blood and gunpowder residue up to his wrists. He did not have any weapons on his person when they found him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside. Nevertheless, a person doesn’t get that much blood on themselves from using a gun. Even at close range, the blood spatter would spray backward. 

Whatever he had been involved in, it was up close and personal. Rage sound waves plus the expert skill and killer instinct of a veteran assassin could definitely equal the carnage that was left behind. He was fitted with a shoulder holster, but no weapon. They didn’t have enough time to search for identifying evidence in the church. The object that they found the most interesting were his glasses. Handsome, squared off, dark tortoiseshell horn rimmed frames. But it was the lenses that revealed the most about him. The glasses told them he was intelligence. They just didn’t know whose.

Intelligence agents, as a rule, never carry anything that can identify them. Harry was no exception. His clothing, even his shoes, though exceptionally well made and no doubt very expensive, bore no labels. It was all bespoke, custom made to fit him, and him alone and as a result, no identifying markers.

They tried to reverse engineer the communications transmitter from the remaining lens. They also attempted to disassemble his watch, but both were designed to withstand and prevent external tampering. Whoever designed them was talented and had the foresight to put anti-tampering mechanisms in place. 

Of course, they had run a facial recognition and prints through their international database, but as they expected, there were no matches to be found. They couldn’t investigate thoroughly without compromising his safety. Obviously someone wanted him dead. It could even be his own agency. More than once, had an agent been removed by their own employer. The threat might still exist. Nor could they risk the anonymity of their own agency. 

They scanned news for anything surrounding the Kentucky event, who was involved, any unusual occurrences that happened at the same time, but they only found information on Valentine and his cohorts. They even kept their ears open on the secret spy wire, to see if a fellow agency was looking for an operative, or had an agent who had gone rogue, or had one go dark. They didn’t have any luck. It’s not like they could put out an “if missing an agent, please call” flyer. While Harry was recovering, they also put out feelers for possible missing persons that matched his description in the civilian world. Even if he was an intelligence agent, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a cover in place, a backstop that could possible lead to his identity.

His accent immediately suggested he was from the UK. However, his lack of a specific regional dialect, made it difficult to narrow their search criteria. Harry’s accent was that of the Queens English, or RP Received Pronunciation. Which might mean he was from Great Britain, or any of the commonwealth countries. Their contacts at MI6 and MI5 received a little exchange of information to see if they had any leads, of which there were none. Whatever agency that he was with, was not government funded. Of course there was the brotherhood of clandestine intelligence agencies across the globe. But in this circumstance, they did not want to broadcast that they were potentially sheltering an agent that could have possibly blown his cover, been burned, or been compromised in any fashion. The safest avenue for both Statesman and Harry was to remain inconspicuous until a tangible lead was discovered.

Because, at the very least, he was intelligence, and so were they, they were curious as to his specialty, his area of expertise. Handling a gun was part of every agents training, no matter where their loyalties lie. It was no surprise that he was comfortable shooting a weapon. All agents were. It was possible that he could be a clandestine officer, or focus on espionage, recruiting assets. He could be an interrogator. He was intelligent, well spoken, articulate. Psych-ops, psychological warfare or diplomacy could be just as likely.  His fastidious appearance, polite manner and gentlemanly demeanour would certainly lend itself to international relations. Certainly a man with his physical attributes wouldn’t be secluded to a desk in analysis. With his charming personality he could possibly be a raven, a male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes. That would be effortless on his part. He would just have to show up. There were many ladies that had taken notice of the handsome figure who was a mysterious presence at Statesman’s HQ.

 It was also feasible that he had cross specialties. Some of the specialties would be more challenging than others to assess. Weapons were straightforward. You were either good or you weren’t. Once he felt both physically and mentally up to task, they brought him to their version of Hogan’s Ally or the Farm, the FBI and the CIA’s, respectively, tactical training facilities. 

When Harry’s health improved, they discovered the true extent of his abilities. They were far greater than Statesman expected.  As Harry’s strength and coordination returned, complex tasks became second nature again. His body began to respond to the stimulus and he gravitated toward the physical challenges that Statesman tested him with. What they learned on the shooting range, then in the Statesman tactical training facility and Special Operations Division, they did not expect and were not prepared for.

Harry found the whole process amusing. If not outright entertaining. Losing ones memory had its advantages. One need not worry about expectations, preconceived notions or judgement. He would either be good, or he would not be. Either outcome would be acceptable to him. No one, not even he, would know the outcome until after the fact. And he knew how useless it was to wish for one scenario or the other when anything was possible.

What did happen, was that the challenges of their tactical installation were not capable of quantifying his ability. His skills far surpassed the most advanced exercise they had.

He proceeded to excel at every exercise, drill, and challenge they placed in front of him. He performed without thought, without hesitation, with the grace and composure they had come to equate him with. First, on the shooting range and then finally on their full scale replicated “warehouse” where they would simulate real life combat situations, including the use of live rounds.

The first test was for speed and accuracy and his knowledge of different firearms.  At the shooting range, they laid out a variety of weapons in front of him. The guns were unloaded. He was tasked with loading the ammunition in to the proper clip or magazine and then loading the weapon. He was to discharge the all the rounds at the target at the end of the range. Aiming for a kill shot either at the head or chest, release the clip and return the weapon and then move onto the next weapon he was familiar with. 

Statesman didn’t know what to expect, but the certainly didn’t anticipate what they witnessed. 

Harry had insisted on wearing his full suit as he did every day. The Brit was calm, cool and composed. He was neither excited nor concerned regarding the proceedings. More than anything, he seemed relaxed, but slightly more interested in the tactical challenges than the cognitive behavioural tests that they had him perform. They explained to him what the task was. One by one, load the clip, load the matching weapon, discharge all the rounds, release and repeat. 

Without any visible effort on his part, Harry loaded the first clip, loaded the weapon, and then seemingly without aiming, pulled the trigger.  The first several shots landed off mark. He adjusted and then fired the entire clip, alternating between two chest shots, followed by one round to the head of the target at the end of the range, chambering each bullet between shots if there was a slide. It did not go unnoticed that his method was the one used by assassins. They all knew, when eliminating a target, it was without fail, two to the chest, one to the head. He was still completing his follow through on the previous round, while reaching for the next clip, before releasing the clip of the weapon in his hand and switching to the next. He did this smoothly, with ease, dexterity and without hesitation with the entire set of weapons. One after the other, shot after shot, hitting mark after mark without effort. No fancy moves, no showy stance, just incredibly efficient, accurate, skill and technique. With the reverb of gunshots echoing through their ears, Harry laid down the last gun in line with the rest, turned toward the observing Statesman. His precision was astounding. 

 There was no perceptible change in his demeanour. He could have been doing a crossword puzzle for all the exertion that was evident on his face. 

“Does this suffice?” His face was pleasant. There could have also been the tiniest hint of amusement. 

It was Ginger that spoke up first. “I do believe, yes, that will suffice.”

Tequila regarded him not only like he was from a different country, but a different species of man all together.

 “How the hell ’dya do that?”

Harry gave him a good natured smile. 

“Knowledge of the weapons.” He continued plainly while smoothing out the front of his suit and adjusting his cuffs to their proper length.

“One must possess an understanding of the moving variables involved when discharging handguns, especially for a significant number of rounds. One must focus on accuracy, which involves trigger pull pressure and control, proper stance, a secure but consistent grip, taking in to account grip tension and fatigue. Excessive trigger pull weight will cause muscle fatigue of the index finger and can ultimately lead to task failure during pistol marksmanship.”  

While opening and closing his shooting hand, he massaged the base of his trigger finger. 

“With the variety of weapons that were included in this drill, one must locate the front site alignment based on the make and model and identify the site picture, either combat, center, 6 o’clock hold, if adopting a classic stance. However, front site becomes irrelevant in situations where the target is not in front of you.”

The Statesman were surreptitiously glancing at one anther. Was this man for real?

“And then one must consider breath control, trigger press and reset, and naturally, follow through.  Of course, one must account for situational awareness. Needless to say, it is far less complicated aiming at a static bullseye in a controlled environment,” He gestured to the range. “rather than at a moving target under enemy fire.”       

He spoke with an easy nonchalance, as if he were describing how to serve tea. Incidentally, last week, Harry had already instructed them on the official rules of how to prepare a proper cup of tea. He had looked vaguely insulted when he inquired about tea and Tequila handed him a cold bottle of sweet tea from a nearby cooler. Following this incident he educated them on the finer points of afternoon tea.

“First and most importantly,” he informed them.” Select the appropriate English tea.”

Harry recommended Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, or Traditional 100’s black teas. Slightly more bitter than American teas, he informed them.

“Always use freshwater for individual steeping. Boil water between 180-200 degrees.”

Harry stated that it was imperative that the water is at boiling point to properly release the flavours of the tea.

“Slowly pour into a teapot over a single tea bag or loose leaf diffuser. Let it steep for six minutes. Remove the tea bag. Do not squeeze the tea bag. Pour the tea into a proper tea cup, not a coffee mug. At this time, one can add milk, not sugar, unless you want to disrupt the flavour of the tea.” 

He was firm on the following point. “Only milk, if you are looking to make a proper cup. The color of the tea with milk should have a dark orange-brown hue, similar to American coffee. Once the milk is stirred, the tea should be at the perfect temperature to enjoy. If feeling especially British, one can pair with scones and clotted cream.” 

With the same casual, relaxed ease, he continued. “Naturally, it helps if one is familiar with muzzle velocity, air resistance, barometric pressure, humidity, air temperature and wind speed. The quantity and quality of propellant used in the firearm as well as projectile mass and length of the barrel.”

He saw the blank stares of the Statesman agents. He equivocated, “Or in more simple terms, front site, trigger press, and follow through.”

If he was this level on the shooting range, they were eager to see what surprises he had in store for the simulation. If his performance on the shooting rage was any indication of his abilities, his proficiency on the full scale replica could very possibly be stupefying. 

Word traveled with the wind on Statesman grounds. The following day, allowing his shooting hand appropriate time to recover, Harry prepared for the real life simulation.  A variety of curious onlookers, from fellow agents, handlers and operations support began to gather in small, inconspicuous groups at the control center where anyone watching would have full audio and visual of Harry the entire time. 

The immersive course was situated in two enormous warehouses with an open courtyard area in between.  It was devised to test Harry’s technical and tactical skill. So far, he had shown exemplary marksmanship. But like he had mentioned, it was much less complicated to shoot with accuracy in a range under a controlled environment. The ability to perform with the same accuracy and precision under pressure is what separated a good agent from an exceptional one. They were going to find out which category Harry fell into.

Harry, as an operator, would have to perform under the following conditions; unknown target distances that vary from close to extended ranges, identifying threats and non-threats prior to engagement, making decisions under pressure, speed vs. precision shots, tactical movements, utilising different types of cover and tactical shooting positions to accomplish the mission, which was to come out clean on the other side. Firearms ranged from pistol, rifle, shotgun, carbine rifle, AK -47, as well as improvised munitions. There could be an active shooter scenario. A hostage situation. Anything was possible.

The Statesman insisted that he didn’t have to wear his suit during the engagement and offered him combat gear. His suit was certain to interfere with his maneuverability. He showed up to the course, fully attired in his classic pinstripes, down to the cuff links. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt completely natural and at ease. 

“One should always be able to engage in life threatening situations while properly attired.”  He explained. 

 Call it vanity, call it pride, but he only felt comfortable in suits when he was in a professional role. Wearing anything else seemed sacrilegious. He wasn’t going to wear any less for an evaluation, no matter what the evaluation entailed. And he was very particular. About his suit specifically. He had several suits tailor made by a firm of Statesman’s recommendation. 

The one concession that he did make regarding his attire was to replace his Oxfords with the Statesman issue cowboy boots. Cowboy boots, of all things. But he had to confess, they felt good on his feet. It was easier to cover the unfamiliar terrain of the Statesman property, which included dirt, gravel, hay, barns, and stables and various other interesting outbuildings. At least the boots still made a familiar sound on hard surfaces. He particularly enjoyed the hollow, rounded quality his footsteps made when he crossed Statesman’s many hardwood floors. Particularly in the large storage areas the housed the enormous barrels of whiskey while they aged. 

He was also pragmatic. The boots were definitely more appropriate on the occasions they went horse riding, or other “outdoor activities” that his new keepers might engage in. While he might be fastidious in regards to his appearance, he still valued practicality.  For the landscape of Kentucky, the boots were more appropriate. And they did indeed, have a satisfying click that was comfortingly familiar. 

While the course was being finalised, he tested his right hand by creating a fist and then opening his palm wide. He repeated this several times. There was residual soreness from the prior days drill, but nothing that caused him concern. In the simulation, there would be a wide variety of firearms and weapons available in the course. Not every weapon would be a handgun. A shotgun or a riffle could be braced on the shoulder. Different weapons would require a different set of muscle and therefore prevent repetitive fatigue.

His shooting hand didn’t concern him, he was fairly certain he could fire from his weak hand as well. He was curious to find out. He decided to try even if the opportunity didn’t present itself. 

As he entered the course, the Statesman gathered around the monitors.

Even in a suit, he manoeuvred like an elite operator. His movement was refined, graceful, efficient. He held himself tall when he needed to check and clear areas, keeping his spine in alignment. His footing was sure and stable as he maintained a mid-foot drive with every step he took, balancing his weight between the ball of his foot and the heel.

He was not one to peacock. His skills and technique always had a specific goal and end result in mind. Ego had no place in life and death scenarios. But on the course, after he completed a task successfully, he could’t help but push the level of his abilities. Explore his edge. He began following up his kill shots with a second maneuver from a trickier vantage point, or with a more demanding technique, adopting more and more challenging strategies and unlikely scenarios. Each time, giving a little bit more than was necessary. He wanted to discover the full capacity of his skill. 

On the course, he felt a new vitality. Whether it be due to the physical exertion of being in the field, or the mental challenges that sharpened the edges of his mind, he did not question. He simply allowed it to flow.

He attempted to fire from his non-dominant hand when the weapon and the cover required it. He adopted a canted shooting stance, firing the gun from a 45 degree angle, aiming for a target that would be impossible in his position with a right hand grip. Well, that was confirmation he could shoot with both hands. When he needed to reload, he also did so with one hand, just to see if he could. He could. With the slide locked to the rear, he placed the gun between his knees with the grip facing upwards. He slid the magazine and then locked it into place and removed the gun from between his knees. His hand hit the slide release and he got back into the fight in a matter of seconds. Some of those watching hadn’t been noticed. His technique and execution was flawless.

He fired on the run at a moving target who was using a “civilian” as cover and hit his mark.

He shot two weapons at a time.

He shot from behind his back. 

He could shoot through things and still hit his target on the other side. 

He could shoot away from a target, knowing that the force and angle of the ricochet would hit its intended target.

He used bullets as a tool, shooting items into place, to remove barriers, open doors.

He used bullets to adjust a reflective surface so he could see around a blind corner.

It was as if he was mapping the entire course and picturing it in his head while he moved. Once he scanned an area, he was immediately able to place the location in relation to his position and the rest of the course. 

Not only was he expert at weaponry, a top notch marksman, his physical capabilities far exceeded their expectations. He was physically fit, but it was beyond that. He was evolved. He had a body awareness, not only in control of his physical actions, but the awareness of his own body moving through space. (He would be one hell of a lover) At times his movements were economical, not wasting a single iota of energy on a motion that was unnecessary.

But the movements that he did come up with were impressive. One motion would seamlessly flow into the next like a dance. A dance with bullets and weapons, but a dance nonetheless. 

He could shoulder roll while aiming and discharging a weapon.

He could knee slide to dodge obstacles.

He could position himself to make a defensive position into an offensive one. 

He could use a target as a cover, while taking out the target at the same time.

He could practice hand to hand combat for close quarter contact, simultaneously hit targets on the periphery with his weapon. 

At one point he threw his gun forward in the air, while on the move, used both hands to catapult himself over a low wall while the gun was still traveling through space. He caught the gun, landed and then swung it around in his hand and used it as a cudgel to incapacitate a target before he had a chance to reload. 

Agent Tequila leaned in.

“Holy shit.”

“Mmm Hmm.” Ginger replied.

If they hadn’t witnessed it on the monitors, they would not have believed it. 

It seemed like the further he got into the course, the better he performed.

He moved faster, with more precision, solved problems more quickly, took out more targets.

His most valuable asset, even more than his marksmanship and his physical and tactical expertise, would be his sheer creativity and his ability to improvise on the fly. It was as if, when faced with a problem, there was always a solution. You could almost hear him say, “Well, let’s find out.” The methodology that he used could be seen as unorthodox. It often purposely put him in harms way, but that same method enabled him to open a door to a solution that previously had not been possible. It wasn’t that the proposed solution was not feasible. The solution did not even exist until he created it.  He was confident enough to trust his own judgement and took risks in only the most challenging situations.

Agent Tequila, “If there was a soundtrack to go with this, that would be some kickass music”. 

Ginger nodded. She had to agree. Watching Harry move the way he did in his suit? It might seem silly or old fashioned or traditional to think what she did. He looked noble, gallant, honourable even.

Harry Hart was never one to disappoint. When he was expected to deliver, he delivered and then some. He completed the course while beating Statesman’s record time. To the observers, it felt like he had been in the warehouse for a lifetime. Hadn’t he been moving in slow motion? Some of them even forgot to breathe. 

He burst through the exit on the other side. The doors opened to the sound of cheers and applause. The breeze was cool on his skin, while the sun provided an inviting warmth. The air was fresh and crisp. It was a beautiful day to feel accomplished. He left any residual stress or tension behind. He felt light.

This was not a sight that Statesman was accustomed to seeing after a course was completed. More often than not, the agent would appear dazed, distressed, a little shell-shocked, a little traumatised, perhaps even rethinking his chosen career. Not many were cut out for this kind of work. Rarely did you ever see one, not just capable of the work, but made for it, thrive on it. Harry Hart was the latter.

Harry was exhilarated in a way that he hadn’t felt since he regained consciousness. The calm, cool, collected, focused, deadly Harry Hart from the warehouse gave way and a new man took his place. His expression opened up with a vibrant laugh that changed the very structure of his face. Hell, it changed him into a different person. Whatever, walls, barriers he built had fallen aside, revealing his true authentic nature. He was a man who enjoyed being alive. When he grinned, it was easy to imagine that he would have no problem winning hearts. Certainly most of the females that had watched him take the course were left a little breathless, a little enchanted. And actually, the men didn’t look that much different. 

Why did he seem so attractive at that moment?  

Why did he look so charismatic as he stood, tall and confident in his pinstripe suit, outside the warehouse with an easy smile and warm brown eyes? What had changed from the time he entered the course on the other side? 

The man who started the course had been handsome. The man that came out at the end? It would be easy to fall in love with him. That man was beautiful.

They were seeing a man in his element.  

They were witnessing a man finding his identity.

He seemed more present, more there, more alive. 

He finally felt like he had a place and a purpose. 

When he woke up in the medical ward, his first thought had been:  “My name is Harry Hart.” 

It was different now. There was a connection, a new realization. 

Now he was awakening outside the warehouse.

This time around, he thought to himself.

“I am Harry Hart.”

His brown eyes appeared even more golden in the sunlight. They were warm and inviting. No longer cold. No longer closed off. The light wind tossed a lock over his forehead. In a rare gesture he ran his hand through his hair.

He slung the communication headset around his neck, but not before jesting.

“All right.” He said definitively.   He paused for a moment.

He grinned. “Would you like to see that again?” 

——

What they discovered when Harry completed the course. …Whatever past Harry had come from, he had advanced tactical and technical skills that had muscle memory and strategy so ingrained into every fiber of his being that he didn’t need to think–he simply acted. In the face of immediate life threatening danger, he didn’t merely react to a situation. He took charge. He didn’t make decisions to survive. He made decisions to win.

They had to assume an agent of his caliber would be missed by his organisation. His talent, skill and expertise, if found in an agent, you very well make sure that agent stays in your employ. It was even likely that he was a senior agent or a director. They could certainly imagine him in a leadership role. A complicating factor could be that he was presumed deceased, and therefore, there was no chatter on the wire where you could find information, if only you knew what to look for. 

——

After Harry had literally triumphed over the course, there was a new aura about him. Before the trials, though he was always the perfect gentleman, he was reticent, distant, not quite aloof, but definitely keeping himself an arms length away. Both physically and metaphorically.

He wasn’t one to participate in any activities that weren’t directly related to him. He certainly didn’t spend time in the lounge, conversing with the others or stopping in for a cocktail. He didn’t socialise with any of the others. He would politely participate in conversations that happened around him. Could be quite engaging when immersed in a topic he was intrigued with. There was an unspoken invitation that he was always welcome. In addition, one of the Statesman usually asked him to join directly. Harry would always politely decline. Not offering a reason or excuse, but simply turning down the offer in his quiet, but firm way.

He answered questions that were directed to him, but when the conversation took a turn away from work and into more personal areas, he would offer his apologies and depart for a quiet location. He could often be seen a little aways from campus, sitting in the sun, an open book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. 

He never spoke of his past unless he was questioning Ginger or Tequila for any information that they may have overlooked when they initially found him. By all appearances, he seemed to be handling himself well. Especially under the circumstances. But since they didn’t have a frame of reference, they didn’t know if he was usually so reserved, or if this was a result of the situation he found himself in. 

They found that he could horse ride. Once he brushed up on tacking and the most basic fundamentals of horsemanship, he was able to recall the rest on his own. He only rode alone. He never left the campus unless it was required by Statesman. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go besides. The only time he was away, was when he was on horseback. 

He did make an exception regarding his attire when it came to this activity. The Statesman all rode western style. A suit wasn’t the most appropriate. If they rode English, he would have requested a riding habit. His compromise? A pair of trousers, and a button down shirt. No suit, no jacket, no tie. Regardless, he did make a striking figure on horseback. Once he was, quite literally, back in the saddle, he handled himself gracefully. He was both firm and gentle with the animals and they responded to him in turn. He seemed more at ease and communicate more with the horses than with people. It was auspicious, though, seeing a cowboy hat perched on this head. 

They kept an eye on him, at least from a distance. Making sure that they caught any signs of undue stress, mental or emotional problems, disassociation, anhedonia, or displacement. The side effects of amnesia were hard to predict. If a person is unable to reclaim their lost memories, they would have to start rebuilding their history from scratch. This was easier for some than others. The older the person was when they suffered memory loss, the more difficult it became to let go of a past they no longer remembered.

With Harry being older than most of the Statesman, he may be having a harder time assimilating. Even though upon waking, he was coherent, intelligent, adaptive, accepting of his situation, once the realisation sets in that their condition is permanent, there may be a later period of denial that was similar to grief. Suffering the loss of their identity. 

Looking at the person that he was before the physical trials was like looking through a window that was covered with a thick film of dust. You might be able to discern that there was something significant, meaningful, worthwhile on other side of the glass, but it would always be a shadowy, vague, dim suggestion of what it actually was.

The tests had cleared away the dust and debris until the glass was clear, crystalline, perfectly see-through. And what had been behind the glass suddenly shone through. That person was the real Harry. Not the shadow form that you would occasionally see, always crossing from one place to the next. Hardly ever still. Never comfortable to remain in one place for long.

After the trials, he was more open, quicker to smile and engage in conversation. Though he would still refuse invitations on occasion, he would be more willing to accept with equal frequency. They discovered he could be quite the conversationalist. His dry wit and biting sense of humour was a welcome change to the often crass or juvenile comments from the male agents. 

If he wanted to, he could easily hold court. His accent and his deep voice were as captivating as his words. But never did he dominate a conversation. He always made a conscious effort to include everyone’s remarks and would even ask the opinion of those who looked like they wanted to say something, but were hesitant for one reason or another. He was more than willing to have someone else take the lead in a conversation, but if the conversation veered in an uncomfortable or inappropriate direction, he always managed to guide it back to civility. Not that he was opposed to a healthy debate, but he did believe that some words should be either said in private or not at all.

He was just as expert at navigating social situations as he was the field. This was a surprise to them since he was so withdrawn at first. They discovered that he was just someone who never wasted words. 

Not only did he become an increasing part of the fabric of Statesman’s front, he also participated more in the intelligence side of the agency. His insight was valuable, his strategies were sometimes unexpected but always effective, and his analysis sharp and concise. He didn’t go out into the field on operations, but he often assisted handlers and their agents with more demanding, complicated missions. Many times he was able to foresee an obstacle that they could avoid, or lead them out of an operation that had gone sideways. At first, the teams were hesitant to request his assistance, whether they were averse, intimidated or just nervous to approach him. But as he led teams into more successful missions, with less loss, less injury, less risk, he was often sought out, his time claimed in advance.

If he missed the field, it didn’t show. They still didn’t feel comfortable sending Harry out on assignment and he never requested a mission. They feared that the lack of direct action, the kind that he had participated in during his test course, would revert him back to the state where he was listless, closed off, removed. But he did not regress. If anything, he become more. It was difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know him during his transition. But with every passing day, with every new interaction, with every mission that he assisted, with every training session he held for advanced weapon and tactical skills, which he did have to admit, he particularly enjoyed, he just become more himself. 

By the end of the year, he was The Brit. Everyone knew him. Everyone adored him. He was free with his smile, his laughter, with a kind or encouraging word. His pinstripe suit was now a common site on campus. He had his own group of women that would pine after him, though he remained firmly unattached. His opinion was respected, his advice valued, his critiques, though sometimes harsh, were always considered constructive. 

He was not exactly gregarious, but he was a very skilled conversationalist. He could exchange witty repartee, as well as engage in topics with depth and you could trust that there was always something interesting on his mind. When he excused himself for any reason, you were left knowing more, feeling more, thinking more. However, by nature, they learned, he was a reserved and private person. But whatever walls or fences that he had constructed at the beginning of his stay, had slowly but consistently been deconstructed. On that bedrock, he wasn’t rebuilding his history. Without even thinking about it, he was fashioning a completely new one. 

The last year had been spent laying down the foundation for his new life, accumulating building blocks, each experience a new row of brick and mortar. He had let go, completely, of who he might have been in the past. The exercises that he and Ginger went through to try to recover his memory, from hypnosis, light therapy, trauma induced memory retrieval, did not work. After not even a modicum of success, felt that he spent an appropriate amount of time trying to regain his memory. He accepted the fact that his memory was gone. That he would be best to move forward. Not to look back. It was simple really. There wasn’t anything to look back on. So he began his life at Statesman.

—-

His awareness circled back to Statesman HQ, to their stateroom and fully to the present moment.  Ginger was explaining the last of the progress he had made during his year at Statesman.  He had finally reached a point of satisfaction with what was his life. Was he looking for more? Perhaps. Contentment wasn’t a natural state for him. There was always room for growth, for learning new things, and having new experiences.

However, ironically, not just because of the amnesia, he was not one for looking back. He felt that he had always been this way. Now, here were three individuals who were asking him to do just that. Asking him very earnestly, sincerely, and genuinely. 

Like the girl had said, his instincts would be triggered if they were being dishonest or withholding information.  He believed they were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. But for once, he was at a loss.  What was he to do with this information?  Was it even possible to be the person they wanted him to be? He was looking for an answer, but could find none.

He tested the weight of his questions. Was this a burden that he wanted to carry? Does a past that you can’t remember even matter? Should it even? Perhaps the only reason would be to recognise the relationships with those who still remembered you. Where was the honesty in that situation? Wouldn’t faking a past that you can’t remember be just as bad as pretending that you are the person that you used to be. While organising these questions in the folders of his mind, he kept his face calm and neutral. He didn’t have to decide anything at this moment. But he did need to establish boundaries.

He couldn’t give an answer to these three individuals. But what he could do was help them in their current situation. Help them find out who had destroyed their agency, what they were planning and how to stop them. At least, that he could offer. That, he could do. The rest would still be there. Problems, if ignored, only became more vexing. He would look at them later. Perhaps the answer would come to him.

“My sincere apologies.” He started. 

“Ginger is correct. I suffer from amnesia and I recall nothing about my history. Nothing prior to my time recovering here at Statesman. While I retain the skills and knowledge that I possessed in the past, I do not have any memory as to how or why I have them.

“We have tried every means available to recover my memories, with no success.” 

“But we are here now.” Merlin interrupted, encouraged. “We can remind you. Perhaps trigger something that makes you remember.”

“We can help. He’s right. “ Eggsy added. “Who knows more about you, than Merlin?”

Roxy nodded in agreement.

It was probably the first time the group looked somewhat enthusiastic.

Ginger interrupted. She was worried about this. She would have to be the one to grab their hopes and tether them back to reality. 

“Not to discredit your suggestion. If this were a different case, then yes, there is the possibility that it would work. But when someone is suffering from retrograde amnesia, unfortunately, their memory cannot be recovered by simply being informed about their personal experiences and their identity. What you are referring to is called the reminder effect. This would consist of re-exposing the patient to past personal information. This can work for other types of amnesia, but simply giving Harry details of his life won’t help him retrieve memories.”

Eggsy eyes narrowed. He was dubious. He was convinced something they said or told him could surely open up the gates to Harry’s memory. They just needed to try.  They just needed a chance. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to say anything to him at all. They looked toward Harry, imploringly.

Harry was his usual respectful, attentive self. But his expression was guarded and he was quiet.

Their frustration limped across the table in his direction. Ginger needed to redirect.

These people had been through hell and back. But Harry was her patient. And he was Statesman now, regardless of his pinstripe suit, his accent, or his British mannerisms. As much as she sympathised with their situation, there was the risk that Harry’s progress would stall or that he could relapse. The worst thing they could do would be to insist Harry be someone he no longer was under the misguided notion that they were helping him. Harry would be trapped, defeated and they would only face disappointment.  Ginger arranged the words carefully before she spoke.

“Memories are exceedingly intricate. But to simplify, making a memory involves storing information in the brain as a specific pattern of electrical activity.” she explained.

While avoiding excess jargon, she wanted to emphasise the complexity of Harry’s memory loss. If only it were as simple as forgetting something and not being able to remember.

“When we recall a memory, we recreate the pattern of electrical activity that formed it in the first place. This information is then distributed across different regions in the brain to retrieve the memory.  Injury in any part of this circuit can fracture memory function.  It’s not that the synapses, the path, necessary to make these connections, is blocked. It’s much more than that. There’s nothing at the end of the path. There’s nothing to retrieve. It is as if the memory was never made. It’s not hidden. It’s not in the subconscious. It’s not filed somewhere deep in his psyche. It simply does not exist.”

Disheartened. Dejected. Depressed. The three of them were the dictionary definitions. Ginger sighed. Being the bearer of bad news was never a party, but this was less than enjoyable.  However, she wanted to explain as much as she could so Harry wouldn’t have to. He had made so much progress in the past year. It had to be unsettling to face an unknown past, when you had made so much effort to be in the present.

Getting to her point. “Unfortunately, there is no established cure for retrograde amnesia memory loss. There’s no magic drug or deep-brain stimulation that jolts memories back into the mind. I wish there were. If recovery does happen, it largely occurs on its own.  With amnesia as a result of brain trauma, If you're really lucky, new pathways form among the remaining brain cells, like in stroke victims, or other parts of the brain take over from the damaged areas in what we call neural plasticity. But that is very rare.”

“Sometimes, the reminder treatment is more than ineffective, it can also be harmful. Too often, the stories people tell amnesiacs sound like someone else's life and it can be unsettling to them. Witnessing the disappointment of past friends, colleagues, and family when they can’t remember, or be the person who they used to to be, can be emotionally damaging. Having people tell you how to think and feel, or that you’re not who you are supposed to be can be distressing.”  

 “I don’t mean to be discouraging or unsympathetic. It’s crucial for us, for our own sakes, but most of all, for Harry’s,” she placed her hand on his forearm for emphasis, “ that we are realistic.” She wanted to be very clear as she drew her hand back and made her final, essential point “Do not make expectations that can only result in disappointment.”

As Eggsy, Merlin and Roxy discussed Harry’s future with the other Statesmen, Harry claimed this time to examine the three faces across the table. He set aside any of their mannerisms, agitations, conflicts that were due to the current circumstance and concentrated on what he believed to be their true and natural state. He didn’t try to analyse them, judge them or question what he saw. He tried to feel them. To feel the look in their eyes, to feel the expressions on their faces, to feel the quality of their movements.

He closed his eyes for a moment and just listened, not to their words, but to hear the sound of their voices. He felt their vibration.  Not only to see if anything sparked in his mind, but viscerally. A reflex, an intuition, a sensation that stirred something deep rooted in his bones. 

But his mind and his body were quiet and still.

It was time for him to speak up. Before he addressed them directly, sat up even straighter. Tall and silent. He did not make any of the usual gestures he did when preparing to take over a conversation. Familiar movements of brushing something non-existent off his suit, adjusting his cuffs, running his hand along the back of his hair, adjusting his glasses. He was still. His hands were clasped and rested on the table. 

Only seconds ticked by until everyone quieted along with him. Their heads all turned in the same direction. Harry could always pull attention to him without saying a word. 

He was also not one to hold back words that needed to be said. Time would be lost and nothing would be gained.  He did not want them to get their hopes up. He did not want to them to expect something from him that he could not deliver. 

For the second time, he opened with an apology. “I’m very sorry.” His eyes were sympathetic. 

They had the feeling he was preparing them for bad news.

His words were sure and resolute. There was no hesitation. No wavering. When Harry made a decision, he was firm.

“I do not remember Kingsman.” 

He shifted his weight forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on the table and folded his hands together. It was a gesture of familiarity. He spoke directly to them, as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t just reciting a statement. He knew, full well, they would be affected by his words. He knew that they would not be the words they wanted to hear. He knew it would be painful for them to be on the receiving end of his words, not matter how gently and honestly he delivered them. He would serve them by being unguarded, unreserved and up front.

He paused so they could process what he was telling them. 

“Prior to your arrival, I was not even aware of its existence.” He added frankly.

“I do not recall any relationships I may have had currently or in the past.” He spoke plainly.

“As much as you may want me to, and I recognise that you do, and I understand where that need comes from, I cannot say, in all honesty, that I know you.” 

Harry was nothing if not direct. 

His eyes held each of theirs. He saw the dejection in their faces. He could not help but feel empathetic. It was obvious that, whoever he was in the past, these people cared for him very deeply. Perhaps even loved. But for Harry, he was never this person and he was never one to fake an emotion he didn’t feel. 

He was compassionate, but firm. "I’m unable to say I even recognise you. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not the man you used to know. I may look like him, I may sound like him, at times I may even act like him. But I am not him.” His voice was kind now. His face was gentle. His expression no longer guarded. 

“However meaningful your relationship was, no matter how strong the connection, I am unable to reciprocate in a way that would honor that bond.”

With an honesty and an openheartedness that touched all their raw wounds, he offered.

“It’s not that I can’t remember the Harry I used to be. Or that I do not care. It’s obvious that your relationship with this man was very important, very meaningful, to all of you.” 

He softened both his voice and his manner.  

“It is, that this person you used to know, in my eyes, he never existed.” His face gentled. Became grave and solemn, almost tender. 

“Do you understand?” 

And for Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin, that perhaps was the most painful moment of all. Because with the kindness they heard in his voice, and the softness they saw in his eyes, the way he held his concern for them, on his sleeve where they could see it, he was in that moment, everything that they knew and loved. He was their Harry Hart. He was their Galahad. 

-----

Whew! If you got this far thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, good, bad, funny, dumb, sad, WTF? Whatever.  

Always feel free to reblog, share with someone else who thought TGC had sooo much more potential. Or was pissed that they killed off Roxy. And don’t even get me started on Merlin....

[blackjack-15]

Are You Poe-ndering What I’m Poe-ndering? — Thoughts on: Warnings at Waverly Academy (WAC)

Previous Metas: SCK/SCK2, STFD, MHM, TRT, FIN, SSH, DOG, CAR, DDI, SHA, CUR, CLK, TRN, DAN, CRE, ICE, CRY, VEN, HAU, RAN

Hello and welcome to a Nancy Drew meta series! 30 metas, 30 Nancy Drew Games that I’m comfortable with doing meta about. Hot takes, cold takes, and just Takes will abound, but one thing’s for sure: they’ll all be longer than I mean them to be.

Each meta will have different distinct sections: an Introduction, an exploration of the Title, an explanation of the Mystery, a run-through of the Suspects. Then, I’ll tackle some of my favorite and least favorite things about the game, and finish it off with ideas on how to improve it.

If any game requires an extra section or two, they’ll be listed in the paragraph above, along with links to previous metas (or not links, as tumblr is freaking out with links).

These metas are not spoiler free, though I’ll list any games/media that they might spoil here: WAC, mention of Sabrina the Teenage Witch (the OG live-action show not the horrible CW monstrosity); discussion of the Poe short stories “The Imp of the Perverse” and “The Black Cat”.

The Intro:

It’s time to go to school, y’all — and not just any school; a rich, elite, all-girls school. Welcome to the jungle.

Warnings at Waverly Academy is one of two games that I don’t sort into a category (like “Expanded” “Jetsetting” or “Odd”), the other being the game that follows it (TOT). There are a few reasons for this — the next category really doesn’t apply, but neither does the previous category, WAC and TOT both feature a gradual shift in tone and approach to the games, etc. If I really had to pick a designation, I’d say that these are the “Growing Pains” games, where the world gets a little bit more open — but not all at once, the characters get a little more fleshed out — but not by much, and a few new things are tried with our character rolls — to varying degrees of success.

On the whole, WAC tackles its efforts far better than TOT does, but it does make for a slightly less interesting meta if one was just to focus on what WAC does wrong and what it does right. Instead, we’re going to take a look at how brilliant WAC is tonally and thematically, and how its source material — not kept secret in the game — builds it up and makes it better and better upon replays.

Before I begin, it’s fair to warn you all that my thesis was done on Poe and adaptation theory (and its relevance towards detective novels but I won’t touch much on that part of it), so I might get a bit nerdy. Hopefully it’s still exciting and relatable enough to the game that it’ll make for interesting, rather than academic, reading.

WAC uses Poe’s stories — specifically “The Black Cat” (obviously) and “The Imp of the Perverse” (in my slightly expert opinion) — as thematic (what the game means) and tonal (how the game feels) touchstones, not to mention their inclusion for some of the events in the plot. A brief summary of both is probably important when looking at how they relate to WAC.

“The Imp of the Perverse” is an essay-like short story by Poe that basically states that inside of every person is the desire to do something wrong or incorrect simply because it is wrong or incorrect (not morally, but in terms of self-interest).

In the story, a man commits a clever murder and gets away with it, receiving the inheritance that he wanted from the dead man. The man cannot be caught — there is no evidence of any wrongdoing, let alone any that points to him — unless he confesses. The idea of confessing — not out of guilt, but just because it would be the wrong thing to do — plays on his mind until, driven half-mad with his preoccupation, he confesses and is imprisoned and executed. The titular “imp” is basically a devil on the shoulder who wants what would be worst for our own self-interest, simply because it is the worst.

MENTIONS OF ANIMAL CRUELTY FOR THE STORY OF THE BLACK CAT. PLEASE SKIP IF THIS BOTHERS YOU.

“The Black Cat” on the other hand is pretty much a proto-“Tell-Tale Heart” — an alcoholic man becomes emotionally distant from his cat (a rare sentence, I know) because he things the cat is judging him for being a drunk; one night in a drunken rage, he cuts out its eye and kills it. A fire catches his home, leaving an imprint of the hanged cat upon the only standing wall.

END OF DIRECT MENTIONS OF ANIMAL CRUELTY.

The man and his wife move, and he, after a period of guilt, makes friends with another cat — a cat nigh-identical to the first one, even missing an eye. When he (drunk, as per usual) and his wife are walking down the cellar stairs, however, he nearly trips over the cat and becomes enraged, trying to kill the cat, only to be stopped by his wife. He instead kills his wife, burying her behind the wall of the cellar and bricking up the hole.

When the police come by they find nothing, and the cat has disappeared, so the man feels safe. The police come back to investigate the cellar, the man taps on the wall to boast of how well the house is made — only to have horrific screeching start up behind the wall. The police break the wall down and find not only his wife’s body, but the black cat sitting on it as well. The man breaks down, overwhelmed by his own guilt, and the story ends.

END OF BLACK CAT STORY SYNOPSIS.

It’s pretty clear what influence “The Black Cat” had on WAC — not only does the villain name herself after the titular cat, but WAC is also a story of guilt, hidden crimes, and personal weaknesses that manifest in rage towards other innocents.

It’s actually really interesting that Corine takes the mantle of “The Black Cat” up when she begins targeting other valedictorian candidates; the black cat in the story is sort of a symbol of the man’s sin — a reaction to his sins and misdeeds, and sort of a catalyst of justice. This ties into how Corine sees herself — someone rejected and mistreated by those who are “filthy” themselves, and who must then show others the things they hate about themselves.

It’s Corine’s self-identification as a victim that starts all this, and it causes her to victimize others in potentially fatal ways. The black cat stands for guilt, for the sins of others, and yet it leads Corine further and further away from any justness herself.

The story of “The Imp of the Perverse” has a little bit of a more subtle tie-in to the game; in a way, each suspect does exactly what they know they shouldn’t.

Rachel and Kim are obvious — they really shouldn’t switch back and forth so regularly, nor should they be so sloppy at informing the other as to what they did and who they met that day. Leela, who should be studying if she wants to keep her spot in the race, instead passes the time by playing sports. Mel knows that the cloak-and-dagger meetings are to be an absolute secret, yet wears hair bows that she constantly loses to one. Izzy has her future meticulously planned out, yet refuses to back up an incredibly important paper (and also relies on being popular, yet pursues other girls’ boyfriends).

Even Corine falls under this; by targeting Nancy, she’s ensuring that suspicion will fall on her, as 2/3rds of the victims would then be her roommates. She’s also cutting her chances of being valedictorian by not working hard for it and instead relying on other, riskier methods. Every move she makes leads to it being more and more obvious that she’s behind them — and yet, she continues anyway, just like the man in “The Imp of the Perverse” — leading from a few small incidents to attempted murder.

Ignoring WAC’s ties to Poe renders it as a good, solid mystery without anything remarkable about it (other than the pendulum, of course). Exploring its ties to Poe not only helps set up exactly who the villain is, but also sets the tone for the mystery. This isn’t a mystery of Nancy foiling a villain through her smarts; instead, it’s a story about how guilt and a perverse desire for self-destruction leads a once-promising valedictorian candidate to more and more severe crimes, culminating in the exact opposite of what she was working for.

The Title:

It’s pretty awesome, full stop.

Warnings at Waverly Academy is honestly a great title for a Nancy Drew mystery; it gives us location, a sense of the world we’re in (scholastic), and a vague yet not too vague sense of what’s going on. The alliteration is good, the abbreviation amuses me — it’s just solid all the way around.

There’s not much else to say; sure, you could strengthen it by finding a punchier “w” word to begin with, but that’s just quibbling. It’s great, I love it, let’s move on to the Happenings at Waverly Academy (which, by the way, would have been a terrible name for the game).

The Mystery:

Called in as a professional undercover detective, Nancy’s just young enough to hide in plain sight at Waverly Academy, an upper-crust private school for those girls fortunate enough to be both rich and smart (aside from a few scholarship students, who are simply smart). Nancy’s called in due to a few near-death experiences by students, punctuated always by notes simply signed “The Black Cat”. It’s only a few days until break ends, so Nancy must work quickly to stop the sabotage, find the Black Cat, and solve the mystery before anyone dies.

Nancy, as always, finds quickly that not everything is so cut-and-dried. Each valedictorian candidate has the motive, means, and opportunity to get the other girls out of their way, and all have something to lose. Add in a secret society, the threat of demerits from an overly zealous RA, and the sneaking feeling that there might be a greater mystery behind all of these incidents, and you get a case mostly unlike any that Nancy’s had to crack before.

Oh, and Ned is on the phone, serving the player up with the single punch of testosterone in the game (aside from the hunky Mr. Harris, of course).

As a mystery, WAC is honestly super solid. Lots of characters, lots of clues, lots of red herrings, lots of mini-mysteries going on inside of the larger mystery…it’s everything you want from a Nancy Drew game, and it doesn’t really drop any of the balls it juggles. Sure, the pendulum might be a bit much for you if you’re not up on your Poe, but I think it’s a lot of fun, and for sure a very different type of ending puzzle — not drowning or running out of air or any other ending that Nancy Drew games likes to do.

Let’s go to the movers and shakers behind this mystery, then, shall we?

The Suspects:

Mel Corbalis is the fan-favorite character, so let’s start with her in this huge, estrogen-laden cast. Distinctly of the goth persuasion, Mel is a fantastically talented cello player and a Waverly Legacy, despite the fact that no one at school wants to be caught dead near her. She’s not an outcast the way that Corine is, however, because of her simple insistence on being exactly who she is, and not trying to hide or apologize for it.

Go Mel.

As a suspect, Mel is slightly more suspicious than most other girls, on account of Megan being her roommate, but otherwise sits on fairly equal standing with them all. She’s by far the most outwardly aggressive, but also comes across as simply no-nonsense (a welcome thing in any girl’s academy, believe me). She also has the least of Poe about her, despite her taste in fashion, and is in general a breath of fresh wind.

Next up is Leela Yadav, athlete extraordinaire. She sure can bounce that ball, at least. Izzy’s roommate and just as much a social climber (though in less in-your-face ways), Leela wants it all — popular, athletic, and valedictorian. It’s a lot for any girl to handle, much less one who can’t seem to keep it all together.

As a suspect, Leela’s not bad — she’s as even as (most) anyone else throughout the first half of the game, but falls off a bit when Izzy isn’t specifically targeted by the Black Cat (as most of her gripes are against Izzy, particularly). Leela’s more there to increase the number of students and throw suspicion around, but she does a darn fine job of it, and is well-rounded enough to be genuinely enjoyable.

We’d be remiss not to mention the queen bee (and my personal favorite suspect) at Waverly Academy, Izzy Romero. Snobbish, arrogant, and with apparently the smarts and people skills to back it up, Izzy is the first Waverly girl that Nancy (as Becca) meets, and boy does she set the player up for what Waverly is really like. Izzy’s smart enough to know when she should put in the effort and clever enough to delegate it when she can, and that alone endears her to me, even leaving aside her hilarious dialogue and general vibes.

As a suspect, Izzy is the sole girl who really isn’t set up to be much other than what she is — a girl with more than enough smarts to get power, and enough power to pretty much do what she wants to do. Sure, Nancy can catch Izzy doing stuff she shouldn’t do, but she’s never really a heavy-hitter when it comes to the Black Cat stuff. I love her for that, too. She’s a lot like Libby from the original Sabrina the Teenage Witch show; a bit nasty, but hilarious and effectively harmless — and I’ve always liked Libby-style characters.

And her stint in the Blackwood Society is aces too. Man, this girl does not quit.

Rachel Hubbard, is, of course, actually Rachel and Kim Hubbard, and they are the plot point that WAC is most known for. They actually have marginally separate personalities too, with one being far snappier than the other, and having strengths in different subjects.

Part of the reason I love the Hubbard twins so much is that their presence is so...Poeian. Poe was all about duplicity and mirrors, and the Hubbard twins show off both themes. It’s just a wonderful little bit of a nod to the source material (thematically speaking) of the game, and I adore it.

As suspects, the Hubbards aren’t bad at all; they’re lying, sneaking around, and blatantly “forget” what they’ve said to people, all of which adds up to be very untrustworthy. Were it not for Nancy (and Corine) sneaking around, they might have gotten through their Waverly experience without anyone figuring it out — and that’s something to respect, even if it does make them prime targets for blackmail. And speaking of blackmail…

Corine Meyers is both Nancy’s roommate and 100% our villain this time around. Obsessed with becoming valedictorian and knowing she probably won’t get it, Corine basically puts out self-assigned hits on each of her fellow candidates, attempting to get the title by violence rather than by being worthy. She’s even cunning enough to blackmail the Hubbard twins into doing some of her dirty work, throwing people off her scent. Sure, Corine is a rather pathetic (in the non-sympathetic sense) person who I have little respect for, but she does make a good villain in a Poe-ish story.

As a suspect, the game actually makes a pretty good go at not assigning the blame too quickly to anyone, so Corine does manage to hide out in the shadows. Sure, one of the girls who went home was her roommate, but the other was Mel’s, so suspicion isn’t centered right on her. I also love that she’s actually punished for what she does — no amount of sad pictures at the end of the game changes that. Corine actually has the cleverness that CUR tries (but doesn’t succeed) to give Jane, and I think it’s wonderful.

I’m not going to give Megan Vargas or Danielle Hayes their individual chunks, but they are present here as well, standing in as victims so we know that this teenaged effery very nearly had a body count. They really help to give a sense of…well, purposeful disconnection to the game, where the setting and the snow and the fact that these are high school girls doesn’t stop the crimes from being deadly.

The Favorite:

The first thing that I have to say is that I love how the tone and crimes of this game contrast so well with a lot of the games (especially, sorry, CUR). This takes place at a school, your suspects are all teenaged girls…and yet the game doesn’t shy away from how horrific things really are to get Nancy called in. Two girls have nearly died in quick succession from one another, and the girls are going on chasing acclaim. It’s a messed up situation, and the game doesn’t shy away from pointing that out.

These crimes are treated with severity, and the culprit, despite things that might have softened her ending under lesser writers, is punished with total removal. WAC in some ways is a spiritual successor to SCK, in that it takes place at a school, lives are endangered, Nancy is (mostly) undercover, and the culprit is not above killing Nancy messily solely for personal gain. The difference, of course, is that SCK is not done well, and WAC, on the whole, is.

As mentioned above, I have a soft spot for Poeian detective stories, and so I enjoy WAC probably more than I would had they modeled it after, say, Holmesian detective stories instead. The ideas of duplicity, mirrors, guilt, the Imp of the Perverse — the self-destructive tendency to do what we should not simply because we should not do it — these are all present and accounted for in WAC from different girls and facets of the plot (Corine and the secret society both represent duplicity, the Hubbard girls are mirrors, Waverly’s own guilt towards the students it failed, etc.).

My favorite puzzle has to be WAC’s resident cooking minigame, where Nancy prepares hot lettuce sandwiches and definitely underdone cookies to the delight of the gossiping horde. It’s like TRN’s cheeseburger minigame writ large, and every second of it is wonderful — the gossip, the food-making, the unexpected panic of a teacher order — everything. It also helps Nancy keep her head above water, should she be caught sneaking around after hours, and I think that’s great as well.

My favorite moment of the game is when Nancy comes out of the wall in Mel’s room and Mel isn’t having even one iota of her excuses to cut and run. It’s not often that a non-villain will press Nancy so intently when Nancy does something Inherently Untrustworthy, and I think it’s great that a 17 year old girl behaves exactly as one would, demanding an explanation and not letting Nancy wiggle her way out of it. Sheer perfection and the moment, I would guess, that Mel became a lot of people’s favorite WAC character.

I also love everything to do with the Blackwood Society. Nancy goes so…metal there and we really don’t get enough of Metal Nancy. It features one of the few moments of absolutely, unequivocally brilliant voice acting that Lani stumbles upon (the conversation about the bow), and it’s a wonder to behold.

The Un-Favorite:

While WAC certainly has great things about it, it’s not by any means a perfect game. It wouldn’t sit in my top 10, and possibly not even in my top 15, though it would depend on the day. The reasons for this?

A big one is my least favorite puzzle: taking the pictures. It’s a good idea — a gofer quest to help Nancy get to meet each student, talk to them, etc. and make sure no one gets lost in the shuffle (like with what usually happens with Guadalupe in ICE, for example) — and is also great for acquainting Nancy with the Hubbard(s). However, in practice, the interface makes it incredibly obnoxious to do, what with having to retake pictures because the pan or zoom is slightly off, and having to jump around from place to place. It’s a good idea, but could have been implemented far, far more smoothly than it actually was.

My least favorite moment in the game is actually the whole deal with Izzy’s paper being deleted. It’s a dick move — and I have no problem with that, honestly, but the fact that she has no backup is just like…girl, what on earth are you doing where you don’t back up your work.

Adding to that is the fact that even in the far-off yesteryear of 2009, Word autosaves (as did many, if not all, word processors) and a copy definitely would have still been retrievable on her computer, and that the teacher would almost definitely have a previous rough draft or at least outline…it’s a pretty shaky thing to have happen (the not-having, not the deleting), and it does break the game down a bit. I know it’s not that big a deal to most people, but it seriously hampers my ability to stay within the world of WAC and to take the mystery seriously.

The Fix:

So how would I fix Warnings at Waverly Academy?

There’s honestly not too much to do; while not a perfect game, WAC is perfectly solid, accomplishing what it needs to do properly and well, without too many little flaws to mar its reputation.

In other words, it’s a bit like an unsuccessful valedictorian candidate; well-rounded, but not a standout when compared to others that burn a little brighter.

I would, however, re-work the picture task; I’m not sure how you could make it less clunky, mechanically speaking, but it definitely needs it, along with a way to know if it’s a good picture or not before you go through all the effort of going to the library and plugging in the camera. I love the idea — just make the idea work better.

I’d also change the “deleted paper” storyline and go a little more destructive — give the computer an awful virus instead. Sure, her paper is backed up (in 2009, probably on a USB drive, or saved to her email or something), and she has her stuff, but that locks away all personalized notes, study sheets, etc. It’s something that would be pretty damning for a Valedictorian candidate, while also still being firmly in the realm of believability.

And on a smaller note, remove the ability to call Bess in this game. It always goes to voicemail and serves no purpose. Why even include it?

Where WAC really shines is its individualistic approach to each girl and in its permeation of Poeian themes; that’s what makes it special as a game, rather than any of its individual parts. Sometimes, you need to take a break from haunted mansions and carousels and museum thefts and marriage troubles and friends who are always in need of help – and you just need to play a game with gossip galore, hot lettuce bagels, and an actual death-bringing pendulum to round it out.

[mariecuttlefish]

Stay Warm/Stay Here [3k words, OCxOC fluff]

A recently-finished writing commission for @kibbulation​! Vague spoilers for their series, Mint Condition [AO3 link], as this takes place around a decade after Piperidine and Lone Pair.

External links: [Google Docs], [AO3]

Warnings: None. Appropriate for all ages.

Description: After the house's heating breaks during a cold winter day, Hatchet is struggling to stay warm. Pascal is more than happy to help solve the problem.

—–

Tick.

Tack.

Tick.

Tack.

Hatchet stared up at the ceiling. The book she had just put down laid flat on her chest, nestled into the folds of the blanket pile she'd buried herself in. It was a good read, and she still had a bit to go before it was done, but after dedicating the past few hours to it her eyes had started to strain. Now she was back to being just as bored as hours prior, struggling to think of and not terribly interested in doing anything better than laying there and trying to stay warm. With a grumble, she pulled the heaviest blanket further over her and nuzzled into the pillow propped against the arm of the couch.

The house's heating had given out early that morning. It was an outage that wouldn't be fixed until tomorrow, no doubt due to the number of other homes facing the same problem in the dead of a bitter winter, and as such the building had been unbearably cold since just before breakfast. Nattie, thankfully, wasn't present to suffer through the freeze - she'd been at a friend's house for a sleepover and had gotten permission to stay there an extra day - but while Hatchet was better equipped to handle the chill than a teenager, that didn't make it any less miserable to endure. Most of her afternoon had been spent there on the couch, trying to pass the time as well as she could while keeping movement to a minimum. Having by now grown tired of both random novels and rerun episodes of her favorite detective series, she found her options to be quickly depleting.

Tick.

Tack.

Tick.

Pascal sat at a small table across the room, tinkering away with an old clock they had been asked to repair. Normally all their mechanic work was kept to its own space in the house's spare room, but some time ago Hatchet had helped them clear a corner of the living room as a place for smaller jobs so that they could spend their time around others instead of being holed up all day. The space had seen regular use ever since, and the quiet shuffles and clicks of them fiddling with whatever device landed in their hands on a given day was something familiar to Hatchet by now. It was a comfort of sorts, even if she hesitated to admit it; Pascal worked quietly enough to be unobtrusive, and the noise provided a consistent reminder of comfort, that one of the people Hatchet cared most about was right by her side and happily so.

Hatchet turned her head to look over at Pascal, watching their back as they worked with silent dedication. She wondered how it was possible for them to stay so focused with only a light sweater and shawl to keep them warm. After only a brief venture into the cold to check the mail and put out garbage it had been a relief for Hatchet to come back inside and gather up every blanket she could possibly stand to lay under, but Pascal could withstand the cold that made her shiver any time she was forced to reach out of her cloth cocoon to grab something. Maybe, Hatchet thought, that was just an inherent benefit of being as tall and bulky as they were.

She wanted to enjoy some of that natural warmth too.

Tack.

Tick.

Tack.

"Pascal," Hatchet said, trying not to sound grumpy despite her temperature-fueled frustration. Pascal looked up from their table and turned to face her, remembering to stretch now that they were pulled away from their work.

What's up? they signed. Do you need me to get anything for you? 

Normally Hatchet tried to sign back to them when they were the only two in a conversation, or at least to sign along with her speech - it helped to keep her knowledge of the language from slipping - but it took minimal thinking to know that pulling her arms out from under the covers was not worth the effort it would take. "These blankets still aren't keeping me warm enough," she said plainly. "You look warmer than me. Come over here."

A tiny part of her brain kicked itself for being so blunt about it. Even after something like a decade of living together and months of being "a couple", whatever that meant to her, Hatchet still had difficulty when it came to outwardly expressing affection. Pascal, to their credit, seemed to understand the invitation perfectly well despite this; their expression lit up as soon as the words were out of Hatchet's mouth and, without hesitation, they set their repair tools down and stood to come join her on the couch.

The two danced the brief and awkward dance of trying to let Pascal get comfortable without completely sacrificing the coziness Hatchet had already attained. It took a few moments of shuffling about and settling in before they managed to find a satisfying arrangement, Hatchet curled up in Pascal's lap with the blankets wrapped around both of them while Pascal rested their head on the couch's back. Just as expected, the extra body heat was infinitely more pleasant than the lukewarm couch cushions. Hatchet couldn't help but try to get closer, wrapping her arms around Pascal as though she was worried about being pulled away.

Pascal was, unsurprisingly, delighted by this; glancing up, Hatchet saw a broad smile draw across their face as they draped their arms around her. For the most part Hatchet's friends had always been much better with physical affection than she was, but Pascal above all had always loved any opportunity to be cuddly with her - even long before the two of them started dating, which had made it that much more difficult for her to tell how her roommate felt about her. Looking back, she couldn't help but wonder how much of the closeness Pascal had displayed over the time since their first meeting was just in their nature and how much of it was spurred by that crush they had apparently been harboring for years. Whatever the answer, it did mean Hatchet could simply say the word and be near-instantly surrounded by warmth and affection, so she wasn't exactly going to complain about it.

She did sometimes wish, though, that she could be better at reciprocating that affection. Silly as it was to think that there was a way to be better at something like cuddling when all it involved was laying still with another person, Hatchet was still new to the idea of being in a romantic relationship and couldn't help but worry about whether she was doing things the right way. Pascal never seemed put off by the difficulty she had with initiating things and always respected when she wasn't quite in the mood for closeness, but would that be fine forever? Would things start to sour if the "honeymoon phase" ended and they realized she was still returning the love they gave more than she was offering her own?

No, she thought, all it took was one look at the way Pascal smiled every time she looked at them to know that they would never hold that against her. Despite how different her personality seemed from nearly everyone around her, there was no denying the patient, understanding love in her partner's eyes every time their gazes met. She shifted a bit in their arms to get more comfortable and they gently rubbed her shoulder in turn, instantly erasing the fears they likely had no clue she was even thinking of.

Laying still with another person, just enjoying their closeness... maybe that was exactly it. If Pascal's favorite way to show their fondness was through giving physical affection, maybe Hatchet's was simply allowing herself to receive it. After all, a decade ago the mere thought of being this close to someone would have repelled her, would have made her bristle and growl at them to back off, and even after years of being surrounded by good friends and plenty of therapy to overcome her social aversion it still wasn't like she would let just anyone into her personal space, even among friends. Maybe the language her love spoke didn't have to look like everyone else's to still hold meaning and intimacy. Maybe Pascal already understood it innately, the same way they seemed to understand everything else about her so much more easily than any other could.

"...Hey," Hatchet said quietly, not so much breaking the comfortable silence between them as adding sound to it. There wasn't much Pascal could do to reply with both of their hands preoccupied holding her, but they turned their eyes down to meet hers, the comfort and love clear in the softness of their expression. Hatchet couldn't help but give a lopsided smile at the sight; there was something she wanted to say, but for a moment all she could focus on was how clearly in love Pascal was and how overwhelming it was to know that all of that feeling was directed at her. "I, uh--"

The quiet chime of their house's doorbell interjected before the words could finish stumbling out of Hatchet's mouth. She and Pascal looked to the clock on the wall in sync, both wordlessly remembering the takeout they had ordered for dinner some forty minutes ago. The voice at the back of Hatchet's mind quietly whined. But I don't want them to get up, this is cozy...

Despite her internal protest Hatchet sat up, keeping the covers close around her as Pascal rose. She was feeling hungry, after all, and with how cold the inside of the house was she definitely didn't want to be the jerk who made the delivery driver stand outside and freeze on the front porch. Pascal picked up their notebook and pencil as well as the money that had been set aside as a tip, then disappeared around the corner to the front door. Hatchet, meanwhile, slowly moved to sit on one side of the couch, making room for Pascal to sit beside her and trying to position the blankets so that they wouldn't fall off of her as soon as she moved her arms.

Not long after she heard the front door click shut and Pascal returned, the alluring smell of fresh food following them into the living room. In one hand they gripped a large takeout bag, and in the other their notebook; as they walked in they tucked the latter under their arm to offer a polite wave, a gesture a younger Hatchet likely would have deemed sappy given they had only been out of the room for a few minutes. Now, however, the first word to her mind was a bemused cute.

The meal was short and pleasant - two omelets and a shared paella dish from a local restaurant that their place was just inside the delivery range for, all mercifully kept warm enough by the takeout containers that Hatchet actually had to wait a moment to let it cool down before eating. The pair huddled up on the couch together as they dined, Hatchet leaning into Pascal's side to stay anchored to whatever warmth she could get. The internal warmth brought by the fresh food was a welcome relief, but still didn't negate the chill all around her - a fact that Pascal evidently noticed, as they casually scooted closer on the couch when a sudden draft caused her to shiver.

By the time Hatchet finished her meal (as well as a small portion Pascal offered from their omelet, which Hatchet stubbornly insisted was not too spicy for her to handle (it was)), the cold was once again becoming unbearable. The sun was beginning to set, which she knew all too well meant that the temperature was about to become even more unpleasant. "Think I might just get into bed and try to sleep before it gets even colder," she said, rising from the couch with a slow stretch to discard the empty takeout trays. She didn't feel tired so much as she just felt bored, but at least being in bed would mean not having to move when it was time to sleep.

Pascal signed a quick good-night to her as she returned to the living room to gather her blanket hoard. The sudden look of disappointment on their face was plain to see, and Hatchet didn't need to guess at what was wrong. She hesitated for just a moment before gently nudging their shoulder. "Do you... wanna come up and cuddle some more?"

Pascal nodded enthusiastically at the offer. Hatchet breathed out a half-chuckle; even though she had made it clear by now that she didn't mind affection from them, Pascal still tried not to impose on her personal space without being sure it was okay with her first. It was sweet in a way that made  her smile as she bundled up her blankets and set them in their lap. "Alright, then hold onto these."

They tilted their head. Do you want me to carry them up for you? they signed.

Yeah, Hatchet returned, both of my arms are going to be occupied. Pascal started into a curious reply but was interrupted by Hatchet leaning down to slip her arms under their knees and shoulders and scooping them off of the couch. A bright blush tinged their face as they realized her intent to carry them up to the bedroom. "Let's go, then," Hatchet said, and she couldn't help but smirk at her partner's reaction.

* * * * * * *

A short moment later Hatchet stepped into her bedroom, nudging the door shut behind her with her foot. Through the window near the bed she could see out into the street below, where a thin layer of snow had gathered with more steadily drifting down from above. Just the sight of it made her feel even colder still.

"Let's hope it doesn't snow us in overnight," she muttered, only halfway joking. She set Pascal down in the bed gently and wasted no time in joining them, curling up by their side as Pascal fumbled through laying the blankets over the both of them again. They wrapped an arm around her to keep her close, their other hand coming up to idly brush through her tentacles. Hatchet fidgeted for a moment in an effort to get comfortable, only finally settling in once the lingering cold began to give way to relaxing heat once more.

Hatchet smiled and scooted in closer until she lay halfway on top of her partner, one arm lazily draped over their torso. This was perfect: the way her head fit just so into the crook of their neck; the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of their chest accompanied by the quiet sound of their breathing; the bracing comfort of the hand on her back and the fingers slowly stroking the back of her neck... 

She sighed contentedly, nuzzling in to try and be even closer to them. Pascal smiled at this, and almost on cue the hand that was resting on the back of Hatchet's neck moved to sit just behind her ear. Of course, she thought: ever since Pascal had discovered that sensitive spot it had become their favorite weak point to target... not that she had much of a problem with that. Slowly and gently Pascal rubbed the back of her ear and Hatchet felt a low purr rumble up from the back of her throat, both her ears drooping as her entire body relaxed.

"Comfy..." she mumbled, her voice muffled by Pascal's shoulder. Pascal's only response was to keep going, happy to let Hatchet be as cozy and serene as possible.

The words Hatchet had wanted to say earlier - what she had been trying to get across before dinner's arrival had interrupted her - suddenly sprung back to mind. Pascal hadn't commented on it or asked her to continue afterward as they usually would. Had it slipped their mind? Or had they simply gathered that she was hesitant and opted not to push her?

Whatever the reason, she didn't want to let those words go unsaid. Even if it was an effort for her to make the words come out, she knew without a doubt that she meant them. No amount of uncertainty or difficulty with expressing her emotions would convince her otherwise.

"Pascal..." Hatchet slowly lifted her head from where her face was buried against the skin of their neck, realizing as she met their gaze that her eyelids were already starting to droop as well. Pascal looked at her as though they were greeting someone who had just woken up, their soft, tender smile the only thing she wanted to look at in the moment.

She tried to fight back the tingle of embarrassment she felt in her cheeks as she pushed herself to speak. "I..." Another moment of hesitation, but Pascal didn't try to urge her on. They simply continued as they had been doing, rubbing and patting her back as if to say It's okay, take your time.

Hatchet breathed in and closed her eyes for a second, shaking off the nerves that seemed to build up with every second she let pass. Squeezing Pascal in a gentle but firm hug, she finally pressed onward: "I wanted to tell you that... I love you." 

Whatever Pascal might have expected her to say, those words had a clear impact. Their blush returned, lighter but fuller this time, and the corners of their eyes welled with tiny tears. They withdrew their hand from behind her ear to give their response, short and simple: I love you too. Hatchet didn't doubt that they would be saying much more if one of their arms wasn't trapped under her at the moment, and the smile that gradually drew across her lips reflected all the things she imagined they would be saying if they could.

As significant as the interaction felt, it was over almost in an instant. Just speaking the words shouldn't have been so hard, Hatchet thought, but then, it was the sort of feeling she hadn't ever had much reason to convey before. The words meant vastly different things depending on the context; the regular "I love you"s she exchanged with Nattie were unique from the once or twice she had actually managed to say it to her friends, and this was a world apart from either. From the way Pascal responded she was sure they understood that, but neither felt the need to commemorate it with any grand show of affection or any special ceremony. That was something she liked about the phrase - it could carry some of her deepest, most difficult emotions in just a few words without any need to make a big deal out of it or spend too long explaining herself.

With no further words needed, the two returned to their comfort, Hatchet once again burying her face against Pascal and closing her eyes. Despite the cold still nipping at the back of her head, she was quickly getting comfortable to the point of drowsiness. All she could hear beyond the dampened noise of wind outside was the sound of Pascal quietly sniffling; she gave them another light squeeze to help steady their emotions, and they returned the gesture by placing their hand in hers, loosely lacing their fingers together.

"You big sap," Hatchet murmured sleepily. The gentle rumble of Pascal's chest shaking in silent laughter was the last thing to register before Hatchet drifted to sleep, warm and secure and wrapped in gentle love.

[apharine]

Perfect Storm

Chapter 1 - Route 17

Pairing:  Nanu x Reader

Fandom: Pokemon

Rating:  E

Read on AO3

My writing commission info!

Summary:   Route 17's weather is always bad - but today, it's particularly awful, the usual drizzle having escalated into practically a hurricane. You had business in Po Town to attend to, but it's getting late, and it soon becomes apparent that it's no longer safe for you to be outside. You take refuge in the only place you can think of - the Po Town Police Station with Nanu - never imagining that before the night's end, things would get hot and heavy between the two of you.

                                          _____________________

You hadn’t meant to find yourself approaching Po Town at night. And you certainly hadn’t meant to show up unprepared for the weather. It always rains sheets on Route 17, after all - but usually the rain is little more than a nuisance. Tonight, it’s much more than just that. This has to be the worst storm the area has seen in a long while, you think to yourself, trying to walk on in the driving wind. Branches and twigs scatter across the path in front of you, all snapped off the trees lining the route, and lightning strikes somewhere, illuminating the world around you in an eerie flash.

Man. What was with this place? You hadn’t even had a clue that there was so much as a drop of rain brewing in the sky when you were in the Ula’ula Meadow, just a mile away. You decide to double back, get out of here and get safe and dry and warm. Your business in Po Town can wait for whenever this perpetual storm decides to settle down.

It’s not long after you about face that you notice you’re slogging through increasingly sticky mud, having to exert more and more effort each time you pull your feet up from the ground. After a few minutes of walking, it becomes clear why this is happening - you’re walking closer and closer to a flash flood, which has all but wiped out the path only a couple hundred feet away. Visibility is too low to see much further than that, but you’re certain there’s no way you’ll be able to safely cross the rising plain of water and get back to the Meadow. Even though the water doesn’t look deep, you’ve lived in Alola long enough to know that you can never trust what you think you see when it came to floods, and that currents can be much stronger than they might appear on the surface.

You sigh and turn back around. Now what? You don’t particularly envy the idea of begging to get into Po Town, then pleading with Guzma and whoever else was still there to let you stay the night in the Shady House, where you’ll be dry. That’s even if they’d allow you into the Shady House, you realize; it seems just as likely that they’ll have you sleep on the floor in that musty, graffiti-strewn Pokemon Center. The thought is unappealing, but it’s not like you have any more options, right?

A rumble of thunder echoes, and it hits you like a bolt out of the blue, just as another strike of lightning illuminates the sky.

Kahuna Nanu. He lives nearby.

You turn away from the flood, moving as quickly as you can, desperate both to outpace any rising waters and to get in somewhere safe and warm - and, of course, welcoming. You and Nanu have worked together on the whole contain-the UBs-thing for the past year, with no signs of your work stopping anytime soon. The UBs might not appear as frequently as they had at the beginning, sure, but they still come to Alola with surprising regularity. It had actually brought you and Nanu closer together than you’d expected, in much the same way that it had pushed Looker and Anabel together. Nanu had grown on you slowly; he was rough around the edges, sure, but he was the one who always seemed to have your back, who always went out of his way to get just that little extra bit of intel for you to keep you safe. He’d swept in and saved you, once, when you’d nearly lost and blacked out to a horde of UB-02. And, it turned out, he had a hell of a mouth on him, and the two of you could tease each other as good as you got. Sometimes his teasing sounded vaguely sexual to you, not that you minded; he’s older, sure, but he’s handsome. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t looked at his hands - so big and manly - and wondered what they’d be like all over you.

Not that you’d ever find out, you figure. He’s likely not interested in a young thing like you. But at the least, you’ve come to care about him and enjoy his company, and you know he’ll provide you with safe harbor, tonight.

It feels like you’re running for forever before the Po Town Police Station comes into view. Your legs and lungs are both searing with effort as you rush to the door and knock frantically, then wait with baited breath.

After a couple long moments, it becomes clear there’s going to be no response.

“Nanu! Kahuna Nanu!” You call, knocking more loudly and frantically. You announce your name, then add quickly, “Please open up!”

You can’t be sure, but you think you hear footsteps inside. A Meowth cries plaintively. You could just try the doorhandle - it might be open, even this late at night, as is common in friendly Alola, after all.

But a moment later, the door swings open, and a familiar silhouette appears, limned by the flourescent lights of the police station.

“Nanu!” You exclaim, delighted. You'd hug him, like usual, except for the fact that you're soaking wet.

“Girl,” Nanu returns, obviously a bit surprised to see you at this hour. He’s got what looks like a frozen TV dinner in one hand, and he pushes a curious Meowth back from the doorway with one of his feet. You’re a little surprised to hear him call you just girl - after your last rendezvous to exchange intel before a UB mission, you’d insisted he use your name, and he’d complied - but it seems old habits die hard.

“Can I come in? It’s awful out here,” you say, gesturing to the atrocious storm raging around you.

“It’s always awful out there,” Nanu observes flatly, arching one eyebrow. “What are you doing here, at this hour?”

“I was heading to Po Town, and the time got away from me,” you explain quickly. If he would just step aside, you could have this conversation indoors -

"So shouldn’t you be heading home, then?” He asks, and you’re genuinely not certain if he’s trying to be standoff-ish or if he’s just genuinely confused.

“There’s a flash flood down the route, and I can’t get through it safely,” you reply.

“Guess I can’t exactly tell you to just call a Charizard on your ride pager in this, huh?” Nanu chuckles. A well-timed lightning bolt streaks down toward the earth, followed by a peal of thunder, as if to emphasize his point.

“Not exactly,” you say dryly.

“Doesn’t that thing have a Lapras, too, though?” He asks, still refusing to step aside.

It occurs to you that, for as close as you felt to the man, he really doesn’t want you spending the night. The realization hurts, more than just a little, and you swallow hard, feeling your throat constrict.

“It’s a flash flood, Nanu. The waters are so turbulent, I can’t surf in that,” you manage. Suddenly, you’re very aware of how cold you are; the rain is chilly for this time of year, and the wind isn’t helping any, either. A moment of silence passes, and you shiver on his doorstep, feeling tears pool in your eyes. This wasn’t what you’d expected at all. “Please, Nanu, I know you value your alone time, and I’m sorry to intrude on your evening. But my only other option is Po Town, and…” The tears overflow your eyes, and you swipe at them quickly, frustrated with yourself. “I trust you much more than I trust anyone who’s still there.” Despite your efforts to keep your cool, your voice wavers a little; you didn’t really expect to have to practically beg for your safety tonight, and you hate feeling like such a burden, but you have no other choice. Nanu’s red eyes lock onto yours, and he holds that TV dinner still in the air, apparently a bit taken aback. Seeing that hunk of frozen junk gives you an idea, and you clear your throat, hoping that when you continue, you’ll sound confident. “If you let me stay, I’ll cook you a real dinner. Something better than that frozen junk. And I won’t bother you. I promise.”

“You’re not a bother, girl,” Nanu mumbles, stepping out of the way. “Didn’t mean to make you feel like one, or anything. Just surprised by this, is all. Come on in.”

Relief floods your chest - he’s letting you in; you’re safe - and you cross the threshold, entering the Po Town Police Station as Nanu closes the door behind you. Once you’re inside, it becomes apparent exactly how soaked you are; water runs off you and your clothes in rivers, pooling on Nanu’s floor and dripping onto his herd of Meowths below. They cry in protest, and scatter to all corners of the station.

“Oh, by the Tapu,” you breathe, cheeks flaming in embarrassment and tears prickling at your eyes again. You had just promised not to be a bother. “I’m so sorry -”

“Not your fault, girl. Don’t cry,” he adds, putting a big hand on your shoulder for a moment. “You might not be aware, but this is usually what happens when someone comes in from a storm. I’ve got a bit of experience with this sort of thing, living here, you know,” he says cheekily but playfully, giving you a lopsided smirk. You smile tentatively back, recognizing his attempt to cheer you, then glance down at yourself. Water is still streaming off you, and you’re sure that if you were to go any further into his place, you’d make an even bigger mess. Nanu seems to read your mind, saying, “Still. I’ve got to get you out of those clothes, don’t I, girl?”

Your cheeks flame even more at his words. How does he manage to say something so sexual-sounding at a time like this? Ordinarily, you’d have a good comeback, but you’re too thrown off your game at the moment, given the unexpected circumstances, so you stay silent and try to hide your face.

Nanu notices your heightened embarrassment all the same - of course he does, you think to yourself, he’s a cop, he has to notice little things like this all the time - and his smirk grows.

“Don’t go getting all excited on me, girl. I’m just going to bring you some dry clothes. Pajamas all right?”

You wish you could melt into the floor, or, barring that, turn tail and run straight out to Po Town.

“Pajamas are fine,” you say instead.

Nanu gives you some folded grey-and-black pajamas, promising you they’re clean, even if there’s still Meowth hair on them. He waves you into the bathroom to change, then throws a big, fluffy towel your way.

“Thank you,” you say, catching the towel.

“Yeah. Figure you need it. You’re soaking wet, aren’t you, girl?” Nanu replies, a crooked smile spreading across his face again. Your mouth almost drops open - he had said some flirtatious things to you before, but never anything as overt as this - but you’re mercifully able to smooth your expression over quickly.

You’re still not recovered enough to have a quick one-liner to fire back at him, though, so a moment of silence stretches out before Nanu mumbles something to you about hurrying up and not ruining his floors. You stare at him for a moment longer, feeling a different kind of wetness beginning to pool between your thighs. Despite how much he’d hurt your feelings earlier, at the door, you know he hadn’t meant to - he just had a way about him that offended people or drove them away. His teasing, that gentle touch, his quick reassurances - you know those were all his way of saying he hadn’t meant to hurt you. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t relish his teasing, especially now that it’s so overt. He’s quite the silver Ninetales, and your mind often drifted when you were around him to how experienced he was - both in life and, most likely, in bed, too…

Though it is a bit hard to take him seriously right now, you think, watching as he throws another towel on the floor and tries to mop up the water you’ve left behind as lazily as possible, just pushing the fabric around with his foot. Several Meowth think he’s playing, and attack the towel and his foot. Nanu curses, but doesn’t change what he’s doing, either, just bats them away with a shake of his leg.

You laugh, and step into the bathroom, closing the door behind you and quickly peeling your wet clothes off yourself. Even your bra and panties are soaked through; both are going to have to come off. You throw all your wet clothes in a pile, towel off as thoroughly as you can (including your hair), and step into Nanu’s pajama pants. They’re nice and loose, with a black plaid design. Nanu’s pajama top goes on next; it’s a grey t-shirt that has a big print of a round Alolan Persian face right across the chest. The idea of the kahuna wearing this makes you smile.

Before you leave, you take the towel and mop up the floor, then fold your wet clothes into the towel. Surely, Nanu has either a dryer or a clothes line you can use.

When you step out of the bathroom, Nanu’s just finishing with the floor, still using his foot to do the job.

“Thank you for these,” you say earnestly, gesturing to the pajamas. Nanu looks up at you from his work, another of those lop-sided grins spreading across his face. “What?” You ask, fighting down the urge to be embarrassed. You could never say for sure if it was his demeanor, his Interpol training, or those unusual red eyes, but Nanu had a way of looking at people intensely, as if he could read everything about them if he just tried hard enough. Which, you remind yourself, he probably could. For a lot of people, that kind of intensity was strongly off-putting. It had made you nervous around him, at first; by now, it mostly just made you embarrassed, as if you’d done something wrong whenever he looked at you like that.

“Didn’t expect you to be so cute in those, is all,” Nanu chuckles unexpectedly, turning to pick up the towel he’d used on the floor. Your head reels - Nanu thinks you’re cute?! More specifically, he thinks you’re cute in his pajamas?! - but you hardly have a moment to think about it, because he approaches you, one arm outstretched. “Give me your clothes, and I’ll go throw all this in the dryer. Should be good to go by tomorrow.” You comply with a mumbled thanks, unable to meet Nanu’s crimson eyes. He doesn’t seem to mind or notice, though, as he simply moves past you and says, “Be right back, girl.”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me girl anymore,” you blurt, suddenly irritated by the nickname. You’re not a girl, you’re a woman, and you have a name, besides. If he’s going to tease you the way he has tonight, he can at least use it.

“You got a better nickname in mind?” Nanu calls as he walks away, several of his Meowth following him.

“Well, no, but -” you call, about to remind him that your name would do just fine, but a door slams as he enters what must be the laundry room. He’s probably out of earshot, and you’re not likely going to get anywhere with this anytime soon.

Not that it mattered, really. What mattered most was that you were safe and warm tonight.

A Meowth cries from the kitchen, lazily pushing something off the counter. It lands with a clatter; when you shift enough to see what it is, you realize it’s Nanu’s frozen TV dinner. You walk over to pick it up, reminding yourself that you’d promised him you’d cook him a real meal tonight in exchange for letting you stay.

Quickly, you pop the frozen meal back in the freezer, then start looking around the kitchen to see what ingredients Nanu has that you can use. His pantry is somewhat spare, but there’s plenty of cans in here, including some canned mixed vegetables and bean shoots. Not perfect, but you could maybe make a stir fry out of them. You pick up the can and, on a whim, decide to check the expiration date, just in case.

They expired four years ago. You pull a face and put them back in the cabinet, quickly leafing through the other cans to see if they’re all just as bad. Many are - some are, astonishingly, worse - but some are, by some miracle, still good.

“What are you looking for, girl?” Nanu’s unexpected voice makes you jump, and you stand up, holding the unexpired cans in hand.

“Something to cook you some real food with,” you answer. Nanu frowns, one hand in his pants pocket, and opens the freezer door with the other.

“Why?” He asks, procuring the TV dinner once again. “This not to your liking, princess?” Before you can reply, a smirk spreads across his face.

You realize what he’s thinking almost immediately.

“Don’t you dare -” you start, half-teasing, half-serious, but he’s Nanu, and he absolutely does dare.

“Princess is a better nickname than girl, wouldn’t you say?” He grins at you, then has the audacity to try it out. “Princess?”

“If having an issue with a spam-and-pineapple frozen dinner that’s barely a step above Meowth food makes me a princess, then so be it,” you tease him back, trying to maintain your dignity.

“Good. Sounds like we’re in agreement, then,” Nanu laughs.

“Did you know you have some stuff in here that’s been expired for four years? I think there’s one that’s six,” you add, doing your best to ignore his remarks. You pull the offending cans out and pass them to him, pulling a face as some dust and slime from the oldest can gets on your fingers. “That’s super gross, Nanu.”

To your surprise, this time he’s the one who doesn’t have a quick comeback, instead inspecting the cans himself. When he realizes what you’re saying is true, a blush rises to his cheeks.

Huh. You didn’t even know Nanu could feel embarrassment.

“Nobody asked you to clean my pantry, girl. If you think it’s gross, just leave it alone,” he mumbles, suddenly surly.

You feel unexpectedly sorry for pointing out what was obviously a little bit of a sore spot for him.

“Well, I promised you I’d make you a real dinner as a thanks for letting me stay,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “Just trying to find some stuff to cook with, you know? Besides, I don’t want you to accidentally eat the wrong thing and die one day, or something.”

Nanu snorts at this, but puts the frozen dinner back, then throws the expired cans in the garbage.

“Well, help yourself to anything in there that you can use,” he says, then adds, with an infuriating smirk, “princess.”

[missjosie27]

Year 2 Part 1- Coming Back

Hey, guys! Year 2 of David Grant’s adventures at Hogwarts have begun! Not really much to say except thank you for your patience and I hope you all enjoy! Any feedback is welcome:)

David Grant stared outside of the window almost precisely three months after his last trip on the Hogwarts express, witnessing . The summer passed slowly, too slow for his own liking, but the time had come to return to the gargantuan institution once more and he could not have been more excited.

To be sure, he had not spoken of his adventures to his parents. Evidently, Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall felt it wasn’t important to inform them of the majority of his misdeed and run ins, something for which he was extremely grateful. His mother was overbearing and cautious as it was, and dad didn’t do much to counteract it. Other than family meals, or an occasional excursion into London to visit relatives, there wasn’t much to report from the Grant household. It also went without saying that he had also not mentioned being on Jacob’s trail. Though they only had one clue at the moment, it was enough and more than ever, David believed he was alive. Before his first year, he wouldn’t have even entertained the possibility. Now, he was determined to find the break through that would lead him to his long lost sibling and the vaults were the key.

His thought process brought him back to earth with Rowan prattling endlessly about his summer within their compartment.

“…she’s such a cute cat. Fuzzclaw is the real brains of the family I always say. Also my parents started growing another kind of wood made for a batch of wands. Ollivander just ordered a whole bunch.”

When David didn’t respond immediately, his friend waved a hand to grab his attention.

“Hello? Earth to David? Are you going to say something? I feel like I’ve been talking for over ten minutes.”

“That’s because you have.”

Rowan appraised him.

“You’re distracted and that usually means you’re thinking about your brother, the vaults, or both.”

“Good guess,” David replied. “Sorry, Rowan, I don’t mean to be rude. But my summer was…forgetful let’s just put it that way. Going back to Hogwarts, I have a lot on my mind.”

“Forgetful? Did anything bad happen?”

“More like it was just incredibly boring,” he shrugged. “Mum had us visit our relatives and my little cousins but I rarely had the opportunity to do, well, anything. The sooner we get back to Hogwarts, the happier I’ll be.”

“Too right. I’ve been running through our coursework this year. It should be slightly busier and more challenging than last year,” Rowan said excitedly. “I hope we get to learn more about giants.”

“If Binns doesn’t put me to sleep first, I’d share that sentiment.”

Laughing, Rowan chucked him a chocolate frog, which David began munching on before the spell could take effect.

“That reminds me, did you find anything more about those Aramaic ciphers?” he said through a mouthful of chocolate. “I couldn’t do much with my mum hovering about all the time.”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” his best friend answered. “I wish I had the book on me right now, but I can show it to you when we get to our dorms. But the basic gist is that the language was used by a sect of wizards back in the early Middle Ages, including Merlin. It’s enchantments and power were apparently greater than that of Latin, even though that’s what most wizards used around the time Hogwarts was founded.”

“That’s interesting,” David said genuinely. “Did it say anything about the vaults?”

Rowan shook his head.

“No, but there’s a lot of interesting history there and what the vaults could have or rather be hiding. Aramaic was also inscribed on ancient relics, including one that King Arthur personally searched for: The Holy Grail.”

David thought back a minute, the name sounding vaguely familiar.

“Hold on, isn’t that part of some muggle fairy tale?”

“It’s more than just a muggle fairy tale, Dave. Remember who advised King Arthur at the Court of Camelot? Merlin, arguably the greatest wizard who ever lived. I’ve read that story a million times and I love the adventures they go on. Especially their quest for the Grail.”

“You keep mentioning some sort of Grail.”

“King Arthur and his knights were Christian, which is the majority muggle religion in Britain,” Rowan explained. “The Grail was an important part of their faith.”

David had to admit, Rowan’s encyclopedic knowledge of these kinds of things came in handy and provided entertaining stories. But he failed to make the connection.

“That sounds brilliant and all, but what does a Christian relic have to do with the cursed vaults?”

“Everything,” Rowan said becoming more excited. “Because the Grail wasn’t some religious piece. It was real and created by Merlin himself! Supposedly it had all sorts of powers, and anyone who drank from it would be granted immortality. As I said, it was probably inscribed with ancient Aramaic like we found on the door. It could be one of the treasures hidden inside the vaults.”

This was all well and good, but believe it or not, the now second year Gryffindor held no interest in the concept of living forever. This ‘Holy Grail’ was actually quite fascinating, but it was not quite enough to go off of in terms of actually finding the vault or his brother.

“The treasure is irrelevant, Rowan,” he said firmly. “We need to discover the location of these stairs first and foremost before doing anything else. Jacob is the number one priority.”

“Of course,” the Indian preteen nodded. “Still, doesn’t mean it’s not fun to think about.”

“You read too much, Rowan.”

“And you don’t read enough,” his best friend chuckled.

David chucked the wrapper at him in jest. He peered around idly curious as to where some of their other friends were.

“Did you see Ben on the train, by the way? He should be sitting with us.”

“I caught a glimpse of him,” Rowan told him. “Last I saw he was talking with Bill Weasley about something.”

Well at least he’s in good hands

David was comforted knowing he was probably among those who would treat him well. While Ben had made great strides the previous year, he still didn’t like the idea of him running into any of the Slytherins on his own. Honing his full potential as a wizard would still take some time.

“Maybe we should say hello-”

At that moment, a crash and a muffled yelp could be heard outside the door. The two boys wasted no time in peeking out of the compartment to see what the ruckus was about, only for a blur of orange to stumble into them.

“Quick, shut the door!”

Only then did David realize that the blur was Charlie Weasley, who was grimacing and grabbing his shoulder.

“Charlie are you alright?”

“Never mind that, is the door shut?”

Rowan double checked that it was secure and gave a thumbs up.

“Good. Merlin, that freaked me out.”

“Slow down,” David said, pulling him up off the seat. “Just what the bloody hell happened?”

“I’m not sure, exactly,” Charlie said, still grabbing his shoulder. “I was just reading an article about Chinese Fireballs as I walked down the hallway. Must not have watched where I was going because I accidentally bumped into this Slytherin girl. Next thing I know, she’s firing hexes at me.”

“What did she hit you with?” Rowan pressed him urgently. “Maybe we should find a nurse.”

Charlie gave a wave of his wand.

“Nah, I’m fine. Worst she did was a stinging hex on my back. Though no doubt she was using deadlier stuff than that.”

“Any idea what she looked like?”

“Yeah, actually I do. Pale girl, recognized her from last year. Black hair covering half her face, a little freckly, with giant boots.”

David and Rowan looked at each other, gaging whether or not they were on the same page.

“Does that ring a bell, David?”

“Somewhat,” he said racking his memories. “She’s a Slytherin in our year. Real quiet, never says anything. I think her name is Ismelda.”

“That’s it,” Rowan confirmed. “I remember overhearing Professor McGonagall talk about her hexing a whole bunch of Gryffindors last year. Said she used spells that someone her age isn’t supposed to know.”

David raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s a coincidence. Sounds like another Death Eater in training to me.”

Charlie shrugged as he grabbed a frog from the pile they had collected.

“Lots of Slytherins are gits, but I can’t imagine all of them are.”

“Trust me, the less of their presence I have to deal with, the better,” David frowned. “One in particular.”

“Merula,” Rowan answered for him. “I’m hoping a summer away from Hogwarts mellowed her out a bit.”

“That’s about as likely as a giant’s ass fitting through a straw.”

Charlie snorted as he laid back down on the seat.

“We’re not even halfway to Hogwarts and you both are carrying on about rubbish we don’t need to worry about just yet. Let’s relax and play some exploding snap or something.”

Charlie had a way of putting things into perspective and in the end David and Rowan acquiesced, putting aside the vaults, Merula and everything else. During the course of the game, they discovered their red headed friend’s desire to try out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which was not surprising given his natural talent for flying.

“So you have a broom and everything?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said plainly. “But it’s not very good. Mum and Dad really couldn’t really afford a decent one. It’s a cleansweep seven.”

Cleansweeps were serviceable, but it was common knowledge that they couldn’t go as fast as the comet and nimbus series.

“Maybe you’ll get another at some point?” Rowan encouraged. “My family could help make one for you at a discount with one of the better makers.”

“It’s okay, I appreciate that, Rowan,” Charlie said, going pink slightly at the generous offer. “But I’ll make do. It’s the talent after all, not the broom.”

“Well I hope you make it, mate. We can’t be any worse than we were last year. Haven’t had a real team since James Potter was seeker back in the seventies,” David said shaking his head. “The father of the boy who lived himself.”

“He was a legend. If I can be as half as good as him, I’d be more than happy.”

They discussed Quidditch for the better part of the next few hours before the light slowly gave way to dark and the Express was minutes away from pulling into the station.

A knock on their compartment and Bill appeared in the doorway, looking as cool as ever even in his uniform.

“Hey, you all might want to get changed into your robes, we’ll be arriving soon.”

“Time flies when you’re talking about Quidditch,” David yawned, stretching out his arms. “Didn’t even realize it was so dark. Thanks, Bill.”

“No problem. By the way, have any of you seen, Ben?”

That perked up eyebrows.

“We thought he was with you,” David said, a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Wasn’t he sharing a compartment with you earlier?” Charlie asked.

“He was. But then he left, and I haven’t seen him since. I figured he went and found you guys.”

“Well he isn’t here, Bill,” the younger Weasley replied. “Haven’t even caught wind of him.”

An uncomfortable silence followed at the revelation that their friend was missing. Rowan gave a sideways glance to David, who in turn looked at Charlie. It appeared that the mysteries to solve this year had grown by one more.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Bill reassured them. “I’ll keep an eye out for him. In the meantime, make sure you’re in your robes by the time the train pulls in.”

He exited the compartment leaving the three second years in a state of puzzlement. Rowan looked especially anxious.

“Rowan, relax. We’ll find Ben, okay?”

“It’s not that,” he replied, and now he sounded excited. “I mean I’m worried about him of course, but Bill Weasley actually talked to me!”

“He was talking to all of us,” David pointed out, trying not to laugh.

“I know! But still, no one that cool even acknowledges my existence usually!”

Charlie silently rolled his eyes, while David couldn’t help but give a nervous chuckle. Amidst the positive emotions about returning to Hogwarts, the fact that one of his friends was nowhere to be found was an ominous welcome back greeting.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Given that they were no longer first years, this time around they rode the carriages, which were pulled by some kind of invisible horse, into the front entrance of the school as opposed to crossing the lake with Hagrid (the big man still waved his usual massive hand, cheerfully at them). Privately, David was thankful for this step up in seniority, however minor it might be. His sorting the previous year had been quite the spectacle and he was more than content with being among the general crowd this year.

Still, his brother was out there somewhere and he would continue to pursue that avenue. He didn’t care about the vaults as much as he did Jacob. After a tumultuous first year in which he had risked expulsion (and worse), the last thing he wanted to was to incur the ire of Filch or Snape.

Or Merula for that matter…but in that case I have no choice, he mused.

The returning students made their way to the Great Hall, taking their seats at their respective tables. As the crowd continued to shuffle in, David took his seat next to Rowan and Charlie, Jae trailing in behind them.

“Any sign of him?” David asked.

Rowan scanned around, briefly.

“No, not yet. Honestly I’m starting to seriously worry now…”

“Who are you guys referring to?” Jae cut in.

“Ben. You haven’t seen him have you?”

“Yes, actually.”

Rowan eyes nearly popped up out of his glasses.

“What?! Where?!”

“Just now. Two rows down from you actually.”

The two boys quickly turned their heads to find the blond boy sitting in his seek looking perfectly normal, which in itself was a contradiction.

“Psst,” Rowan whispered trying to get his attention. “Ben!”

“Huh? What?”

He angled to see them better.

“Ben, where the hell were you today on the train?”

“I was with Bill,” he said simply.

“Yeah, but where were you before that?” Rowan pressed. “Or after you left his compartment.”

“Around.”

In David’s opinion, there was something off about their friend. Though he otherwise appeared fine, the non chantant way in which he was talking and the half glazed look in his eye was odd to say the least. But before he had a chance to dig further, they were interrupted by the sound of the Great Hall doors swinging open, Professor McGonagall and the new first years in tow.

Though only second years, David already felt like a veteran from a war compared to the fresh, young curious faces that now entered their presence.

“Did we really look that way when we were sorted?” Charlie whispered, evidently thinking of the same thing.

“Nah, no way.”

Soon enough, Professor McGonagall explained the rules to the young students, the hat sung its song, and the sorting was on its way. Unlike last year, however, it seemed to take forever. Time flew when your stomach was empty and the prospect of food salivating. The young Gryffindors tried to cheer their fellow inductees as best they could but by the time the sorting reached the letter ‘R’ most, including the older students were pretty burned out.

“Is it supposed to take this long?” David grumbled.

“Probably how everyone else felt when we were sorted,” Rowan said.

Though it felt like agony, at long last the last of the first years were sorted and up Dumbledore came to the podium, his midnight robes shimmering, his old, but penetrating blue eyes twinkling at them.

“Welcome to all, once more, to a new year at Hogwarts!” he announced. “To our first years, I give my warmest welcome and I’m sure that our returning students can forgive an old man so he may explain a few rules and boundaries,” he said with a wink.

A few quietly groaned, but that was all the protest one would hear. One did not complain openly to the Headmaster when making a speech, even someone as eccentric as Dumbledore.

“First, I would like to reiterate to all that the Forbidden Forest is out of bounds to all students and there will be severe consequences straying its borders. Second, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to inform you that the list of banned items has been increased to one hundred and thirty six. Anyone wishing to know more may see the visit outside of his office door. For those of you know old enough to try out for your respective house Quidditch teams, Madam Hooch will be posting the dates within the next couple of weeks, so do be on the lookout.”

Dumbledore took a pause, his eyes becoming more searching than twinkling, as though he were gazing into the soul of each student in his presence.

“Lastly, I would like to add one thing, Hogwarts is a place of education and growth. Please, focus on your studies and spend time with your friends, but above all else, be careful as you journey about the castle. If you see anything odd that isn’t the Hogwarts sort of ‘oddity’, do not hesitate to tell a professor. Every year is an interesting one, but something tells me this year holds more surprises than most.”

The smile returned to the centenarian’s face.

“But enough of my ominous warnings and grand proclamations. Enjoy the feast.”

Immediately, food popped out of nowhere and David couldn’t help but grin at Rowan at the reaction of the first years. Only a year ago they had done the same thing at their first feast. Now, it was simply time to enjoy.

“Turkey?” a Gryffindor girl in their year offered.

“Don’t mind if I do,” David thanked her. “I’m starving.”

Rowan, however, gave him a small nudge.

“Dumbledore’s speech was especially cryptic. Do you think it means anything?”

Privately, the now second year never put anything past the Headmaster. The man was something of an enigma, even if he was also brilliant. Last year had taught him that much.

“I’m not too concerned with it, really,” he shrugged. “Let’s just eat. Pass the potatoes, will you?”

And so they feasted, stuffing themselves senseless, drinking gallons of pumpkin juice, laughing the night away with old friends in the hope perhaps that new ones would be made as well. Summer vacations were discussed, Quidditch matches polled, old companions reunited, and Jae even mentioned off handedly he was going to take a first hand look at Filch’s list in order to update his buyers. All in all, it was a night to remember, so much so that amidst the merriment, David forgot about Ben’s odd behavior. However, that was only temporary.

The feast ended and Dumbledore ordered them to bed. Being second years, they no longer were required to hang back and wait for the guidance of a prefect. It was truly amazing what a one year difference could make. There would be no Angelica to lecture them this time, though no doubt she would have her eye on him and his friends this year.

Climbing up the last staircase that led to the Fat Lady, David attempted to make conversation with his muggle born friend.

“Hey, mate. Haven’t had a real chance to say hello yet. How was your summer?” he asked, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Dave. It was good. Not much to report, though. Took a holiday to Ireland.”

“Sounds fun. Wish I had gone out of the country. Mum won’t let me do much.”

“It was actually nice not to think about magic for a bit,” Ben admitted. “For my parents, this is still pretty new. Takes some getting used to, you know?”

“Yeah.”

David silently appraised him, trying his best not to act suspicious.

He seems perfectly fine. So why do I get the feeling that he’s not?

Instincts aside, he simply let the conversation peter out as they took over the second year dormitories and settled in for the night. But even trying to sleep through Charlie’s snores and Jae’s personal tinkering with an object he claimed off a Hufflepuff, David could not put away the combination of excitement and anxiety that rattled around in his mind.

He was back at Hogwarts, but as Dumbledore had hinted, they were in for more than a few surprises.

[suicidefrantic]

Name: Chuuya Nakahara

Alias: Arahabaki, King of Sheep (Former), Twin Dark (former with Dazai Osamu), Slug, Ability User A5158 (Special Ability Department)

Hair Colour | Eye Colour: Orange | Gray (Former) , Bright Blue 

Birthday | Birth Place:  April 29 (Taurus) | Yamaguchi, Japan 

Gender: Hermaphrodite (Identifies as male) 

Age: 22 , Merged with Arahabaki at age 7

Height: 160 cm (5'3")

Sexuality: Pansexual 

Likes: Hats, Fighting, Alcohol, Rock music

Dislikes: Claims to hate Dazai Osamu 

Ability:  For The Tainted Sorrow

Affiliation: Port Mafia, Sheep (Former)

The quest to find a vessel for Arahabaki….

Chuuya was born to two loving parents, they were accepting towards their child, and wished to give him the very best of the world. Chuuya showed no signs of being abnormal at his birth aside from him being born a hermaphrodite rather than one specific gender --- though his parents would have happily allowed their child to choose their ideal sex when the time came. However, that time would never come. It was all due to the appearance of Chuuya’s ability that began to draw unwanted attention to the small ginger who didn’t know much about the world. He was two years old when his ability first manifested itself. The ability was harmless, simply throwing small fits if he didn’t get his way and floating up to the ceiling and away from his parents--- sometimes just being found sleeping up on the ceiling rather than where his parents had left him (this was how they had discovered Chuuya’s ability.)

Chuuya’s parents had two names picked out for their child, for a boy Chuuya--- for a girl Chiyura. Though they had decided they would let the child choose once they became of a decent age where they knew what they felt most likely, but decided on calling their child ‘Chuuya’ until that time came. They were loving and accepting parents, but life wasn’t meant to be simple nor loving for Chuuya. By the time he turned five the government had set their sights on the young gray eye boy, seeing potential in him. In fact they had a firm feeling that this child was the one who would bond with the god, Arahabaki, in the future. They sought to make a deal with the child’s parents, offering to buy the ginger from them--- only for Chuuya’s parents to refuse. The government were forced to take the child by force instead and to do so they made sure they disposed of Chuuya’s loving parents. What was worst was the young child could only watch as he was carried away and the sound of gunfire was heard and the spray of blood. Something inside Chuuya broke that day , he couldn’t fight back as he was forced to sleep soon after he saw the blood fly up into the air. 

When he awoke he found himself completely stripped of his clothes and in some weird testing chamber, submerged in water with a tube shoved down his throat. His body was pressed tightly into a ball and he couldn’t move. He continued to fade back and forth into consciousness,fluids were pumped into his veins to test his body to see if it was in fact compatible with Arahabaki. Chuuya was not known as his name but rather as Ability User A5158 . He was branded with that ID upon his neck , a fact that Chuuya was not completely aware of. By the time he turned six, that was when he began to hear a voice in his head. At first, he believed he was hearing the men in the white lab coats talking to him through some odd device, but it was different. He didn’t feel alone, it was like someone else was with him. Yet at the same time, they weren’t the same either.  Though all of this changed when Chuuya turned seven and the entity got stronger. 

His body couldn’t handle the sudden burst of power and the gravity manipulation only grew more and more until finally an explosion happened. Chuuya blacked out, though he could only vaguely remember being tricked into saying some passage or saying--- “ Oh, Grantors of Dark Disgrace, Do Not Wake Me Again.” That was enough for the small seven year old to break out of his prison and create mass chaos. Though since the merging was still new, Arahabaki fell asleep leaving Chuuya freed and very confused. Arthur Rimbaud was the one who had truly been responsible for trying to use Arahabaki--- thus freeing both the God and the child that was now his vessel. This is the main cause for why Chuuya and Arahabaki both lost their memories of anything prior to this--- though not many of Chuuya’s original thoughts had remained behind to begin with as Arahabaki had been feeding upon the child trying to absorb him and make him into his own body--- thus making the child’s existence fade away. 

Chuuya could recall the existence of Arahabaki ,which was surrounded by blue-black darkness and sealed away-- though only vaguely. He however has no clue how the seal was removed, he could only vaguely recall someone’s hand pulling from the seal and freeing him (a thought that later appeared after he got over the shock of all that had happened prior to him being free.) Chuuya decided he would do anything in order to find the truth about his origins. 

-Chuuya was brought in to Sheep by one of the council members by pure accident. It was a happy accident, especially once word got out of what Chuuya’s ability was. This led most of the Sheep members (who were old enough) to take turns raising Chuuya and training him how best to fight. 

-Chuuya had no memories, but it was another happy accident that he could recall his original name, Chuuya Nakahara. This only happened after a nasty blow to the head during training one day. Prior to that, he was simply going by the name of “Lost Boy.” Chuuya didn’t really care for that name and honestly thought of just making up any name, anything was better than Lost Boy. He didn’t know why he hated it so much. 

-He continues to claim he will grow, but deep down knows he most likely will not. He secretly hates himself due to his hermaphrodite status. Thus claiming he would rather not get too close to anyone, shamed by how his body didn’t look like what he believed a ‘normal’ male should. Yes, a little Chuuya was curious one day. 

-He used to like milk, but now can’t stand the taste of it due to being forced to drink it so much . Milk did not help him grow. 

- Being merged with Arahabaki is why he has such a low tolerance towards alcohol. He doesn’t understand such, though he loves the taste of wine and doesn’t consider himself a lightweight. 

-Once when drunk he declared he was a God while standing on top of the bar. This did not go well for him in the end.

- He can sometimes hear Arahabaki and actually has conversations with him, or attempts to. The God is protective enough of his vessel to not allow him to die too easily. Though figures if he did happen to die within the right conditions, he could snag his body. Chuuya hates Dazai because he can easily allow Arahabaki the right conditions if he let’s Corruption last longer than fifteen minutes. Arahabaki’s strongest times where they can converse is when Chuuya is asleep. 

-Chuuya’s dreams are typically filled with chaos and destruction. He however does wonder what the life he forgot was like. 

-He has a collection of Fedora hats, because he has come to like the style. His favourite besides the hat that used to belong to Rimbaud is a white fedora with black around it. 

-He feels most at ease around Kouyou (Ane-san), especially when she strokes his hair. It easily calms him down, even when he is in extreme anger like state. She is also the only one he has ever confined in about his ‘self image issue.’

- Chuuya was once forced under a psychiatrist’s care, prior to Mori stepping in to ‘sort things out’. Chuuya was diagnosed with paranoid personality disorder and antisocial personality disorder. Chuuya was not happy being held hostage. He was drugged and could not use his ability, and it was the only time he could not hear nor feel Arahabaki. He was there for exactly a week. He couldn’t help but feel like Mori might have done this on purpose, at first he had blamed Dazai though. He didn’t share either thought out loud. 

-Chuuya’s eyes used to be gray, but upon being poked and tested on(not to mention merging with Arahabaki) they turned bright blue. 

-He has a really good singing voice. He is typically embarrassed about it unless singing drunken karaoke. 

- He is one hell of a cook, something he downplays a lot. 

- Because he had no memories of his childhood, he tried to give himself a childhood (which he was robbed of). He came up with this on his own, and even kept it a secret from everyone (until later when he told Kouyou about it.) Growing up in Sheep was a blast, but he knew deep down that Sheep was not exactly a normal childhood. 

- Since  he lived like he did when he was in Sheep, he enjoys the finer things in life. He especially loves lobster.

-He does sometimes get lonely when he is in his place alone. He was used to Sheep for the longest time and sometimes this causes nightmares. 

-He keeps a journal (diary) , as well as writes and sketches from time to time to center his mind. 

-He once made a drunk video once and sent it out. He still doesn’t know who has the video and who has seen it. Dazai was the first person whom he sent it to. This was one of the very reasons why Hirotsu started supervising (babysitting) Chuuya when he went out drinking--- even taking his phone away when he tried to call Dazai. 

- He is very competitive, especially when it comes to games. 

-He has had some very interesting dreams, that were nightmares. He calls them the what if dreams or exploration. They make him wonder about his life, and his choices. He typically will begin to ponder about his life after waking up from these dreams. 

-He has a strong fear of dogs, he doesn’t know why.

-He has a tendency to bite the inside of his cheek … a lot. 

-He has slight issues with his vision. It isn’t anything noticeable as he has perfect vision--- though he believes it is a side effect from Arahabaki being merged with him. He sometimes gets dizzy spells and his vision gets blurry. He keeps this to himself , as he doesn’t need people to think he is weak. 

-He wonders sometimes how long he has to live before Arahabaki takes over him and he dies. This is a recurring nightmare for him. He doesn’t allow it to change how he goes through life. If he dies, he feels like it might as well be going down fighting rather than sitting around doing nothing. At least he was free. 

-He has a fear of enclosed spaces , thanks to certain flashbacks he gets from time to time in them. 

-He has a tendency to break things he touches sometimes. 

[backofthebookshelf]

105 Hill Top Road: What the Fuck

(Relevant episodes: 008, 019, 043, 055, 056, 059, 067, 078, 089, 114, 130, 134, 139)

I mean, I think it's pretty obvious at this point that Anya Villette came from another reality, right? The timeline's different but the Powers are the same. At least one of them, with that spidery tree. She goes into the house in one reality and wakes up in another one, where all her friends tell her, "oh yeah, when shit like that happens to you, you go to the Magnus Institute," and she says, "the what now?" And there's this building in Chelsea that wasn't there before and they take her statement and then she...what? Does she disappear? Do the spiders get her? Or does she just not have a legal identity in this reality so that's why they can't find her?

(Did Gertrude actually read this statement? She's probably busy as hell in 2009, she's been working on rituals, Mary Keay has just turned herself into a book, Leitner's running around in the tunnels. And she was skeptical of Dekker's theories; would she be as skeptical of something like this? Presumably she read Vanderstock's statement, she would have wanted to know, and he mentioned the "scar in reality" but would she have believed it? Would she have considered it worth following up on, even without the spiders doubtless doing all they can to keep people from paying attention?)

Vanderstock mentions "other Powers" at work at Hill Top Road, but the only one I can identify besides the Web and the Desolation is the Spiral, and that only vaguely: Ivo Lensik and Father Burroughs were both Spiral-adjacent. And I wonder about that table, too; everything about it seems Spiral-like, except for the fact that it is used to trap a Stranger creature. Granted I can make a case for hypnosis being related to spiders, but still.

Still no idea what actually happened there, of course. Agnes would have been fully grown (26, per her death certificate) by around 1980, assuming she ages normally, which is kind of a big assumption. (139 makes it sound like it took her twenty years to be eleven years old, but that might be me misinterpreting.) Vanderstock makes a reference to Gertrude doing something that delayed their ritual preparations just after Jude Perry joined; not sure whether that's when she first met them in '89 or when she "completed her transformation" in '91, but let's average the difference and call it sometime around 1990. But the house at Hill Top Road burned in 1974, so whatever was happening there happened well before they'd given up on their ritual.

(Besides, it really sounded like the Last Feast was the first ritual Gertrude had successfully and intentionally disrupted. So either she did this accidentally or it was something else. But why assume it was her, otherwise? In 2008 Mary makes a snide comment about Gertrude not getting out and doing much herself, which is hilarious because she disrupted at least two rituals in 2008, but it does indicate that she's at least not seen as someone who gets involved. But that's almost twenty years later; maybe she used to get out more? Maybe the Eye had a particular interest in something? We've got a few statements from the 90s but mostly 1996 and later; we've got exactly one statement from the 80s and it's Tucked In. Anyway. This is (probably) a distraction.) (Interestingly Jon only comments on Agnes's death, not on whatever happened in the early 90s, which makes me wonder if it wasn't Gertrude at all but the spiders themselves. But Vanderstock is so sure it was her.)

I can't find anything in other statements that tells us much of anything aside from one thing: the Institute got a new Head in 1973, a year before the house burned. It might be nothing, but if the Web and the Eye are as closely aligned as we keep speculating they are, it might be something. (This was Elias's predecessor, James Wright, about whom we know nothing at all.) There is a really annoying lack of statements from the 80s and early 90s; we have virtually no idea what was going on in the supernatural ecosystem at that time. Would those be the statements on tape that were found with Gertrude's body, perhaps? What did happen to all of those? Two or three boxes of tapes is a lot of statements.

But back to the point, what was happening at Hill Top Road? It was owned by the Fieldings from the 1800s, which makes me think it's been a Web stronghold that long. (I'd love to know if Walter Fielding knew Smirke or Magnus or anyone else in their circle.) By the sixties Raymond Fielding was using it to harvest...victims? Hosts? What did happen to the kids Ronald Sinclair saw in the basement, who had been turned into spider egg sacs? Were they just there to feed the baby spiders, or were they turning into spider-Jaegers like the one Trevor Herbert met in 2009? (Daisy told Basira her first sectioned case was something to do with spider husks but we never got any other details. That would've been the latter half of 2002. We got no other details but I'd be interested to know where it was. HEY JON TALK TO YOUR COWORKERS.)

So okay, 105 Hill Top Road is a spider factory, cool. Then Agnes shows up. Two-three months later she saves a guy from getting et by Raymond Fielding for no apparent reason, that's nice of her. (Agnes likes cute boys confirmed.) And it seems like she stops him from taking in more kids, because they say the number of kids at the house dwindles until it's just Agnes left, and then Raymond disappears. It's "years" that Agnes lives in the house alone and mostly never leaves, though pets go missing from the neighborhood, before, in 1974, a five-year-old goes missing. A week later the house burns down and in it they find only Raymond Fielding's skeleton, sans right hand. So that sounds like Fielding was feeding on the kids, and catching smaller prey after he didn't have them any more, and when he worked back up to kids again Agnes caught him and stopped him. But it had to be more than that, because this is the fight Vanderstock describes as creating "a scar in reality," and which tied Agnes to the location. The fact that she kept Fielding's hand worried Arthur Nolan, which yeah, that would worry me too, but I'm not an avatar of destruction created by an evil cult, so I have to assume it was for some reason other than "eew."

(I also have to wonder exactly what their ritual required, other than Agnes herself, because there's a long time between 1974 and 1990. But.)

Then, in 2006, the house is being rebuilt and Ivo Lensik is working on it evenings and weekends, and who shows up at the door but Raymond Fielding, in an old-fashioned coat and looking "like something out of an old Polaroid," showing off the deed to the house and poking around. This show doesn't really go in for ghosts, and besides he was an avatar or something, so I'm gonna go with "alternate universe Ray Fielding," I guess. Who then...gets burned to a crisp after being inside the (new) house for two minutes? There's a smell of burning and a scorch mark on the floor. This freaks out Lensik so bad he falls and hits his head and also worries that he's getting schizophrenia (which his father apparently had, except schizophrenia doesn't work like that, that was definitely Michael) and he goes to the hospital, where a local nurse apparently likes suggesting exorcisms to people.

(There's no indication that anyone from the Lightless Flame noticed AU!Ray, so I'm assuming for now he was destroyed/banished/yeeted back to his own reality by whatever latent Desolation power is attached to the place.)

So one night the exorcist shows up and while he's waiting outside Ivo Lensik just. Snaps. He cannot handle that tree. That tree is looking at him and he doesn't like it. He takes a crowbar to it and it bleeds; he chains it to his truck and pulls it down. At this point Agnes, who's out with Jack Barnabas being blessedly normal for a change, spasms like something hurt her and makes a panicked phone call, and then Arthur and Diego and everybody show up at her flat with an unlit lantern, a bag of candles, and a jar of tiny spiders, and then she asks them to kill her. Vanderstock puts it down to Jack Barnabas, but in Barnabas's own statement it's very clear that the tree comes down, she calls in a panic, they meet her at her flat, and then she kisses him and he's in the hospital for three days. (I'm not saying her attachment to him didn't ruin the ritual, that's probably why she made whatever decision she did, but the tree was an inciting incident.)

(At the same time the tree is coming down, too, Father Burroughs is inside the house feeling like he's burning alive, and the Spiral is speaking through him insisting that he's already been claimed and the Desolation just doesn't care. It doesn't stop until the tree comes down outside. There's also no indication that any Desolation avatars noticed this.)

Under the tree is a six-inch-square box covered in twisting lines and there's a whole OTHER thing, because that box belongs in the center of the table that trapped the not!Them, and how did it get from here to there? How did it escape the fire that burned down the original house? (Graham had it in 2005. Dekker had it in 2001. No clue where it went between 2005 and when it shows up at the Institute in 2015.) And what was the purpose of it when Fielding used it, had the kids sit around it every Sunday dinner? Did he bury the box, with an apple inside, to protect himself from Agnes? Is that why pulling down the tree hurt her? (In Anya Villette's statement the tree is heavily spider-identified, to the point where she refers to it interchangeably as "branches" and "arms," of which it has eight, but in Ivo Lensik's statement he notices that it was heavily burned at the base. Was it attacked by the Desolation? In which case why did pulling it down hurt Agnes? Was she, in fact, tied to the tree itself? In which case, given the importance of the tree in the alternate reality, is there an alternate Agnes out there? Maybe one where she got to go on dates with cute boys instead of having to either die or burn down the world?)

AND. As more than one of us have pointed out by now, in 114, Jon says:

I’ve half a mind to just go down and have a look at it myself, but… I don’t know. Ever since it first came up I’ve felt like it would be… just a very bad idea.

And then Tim walks in and he and we forget all about it, but doesn't that sound like spidery manipulation to you? It does to me. So whatever Agnes and the Desolation did at Hill Top Road, it had a lasting effect (both in terms of leaving some remnant of the Desolation there and in the side effect of the...apparent dimensional portal?...) but the spiders do still seem to hold a lot of sway there as well.

What this has to do with anything I wish I knew, but I will say that 114 was the first thing I thought of after Garland Hillier's "la porte est la porte," which also sounds a lot like "all the doors are open now" from The Bifrost Incident (which is probably an entirely different continuity and has nothing to do with this other than ~themes~ but you know), but now that we've been talking a lot about the Powers as places I'm not so sure that means anything other than poor Hillier managed to walk into the domain of the Extinction and found his way out again for a while. But if the Powers are places, does that imply that Anya Villette came from one of them, or that there are other mostly-normal universes that haven't been taken over by the Powers? And if they exist...well. What does that imply about saving our universe from them, or losing it to them? (By "our" I mean "Jon and Martin's universe," obviously, "our" universe is another one entirely. I hope.)

tl;dr (TOO LATE): I have absolutely no idea what was or is happening at Hill Top Road but I’m pretty sure the spiders don’t want anyone poking around and also someone should go poke around there immediately, unless that's what Martin is doing right now, Martin stop, go back and get your boyfriend, he's freaking out

[yoon-kooks]

My Flower Academia

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: College!AU, Badboy/Flowerboy!Yoongi, Fluff

Summary: In the midst of avoiding social interactions with classmates, you discover a pink garden of hidden secrets, including one kept by the bad boy in your botany class.

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: day 3 of myg fluff week! happy birthday to the softest honey boy around!!🌼🌼🌼

“I’ll see you all tomorrow morning for my lecture on butterflies, bees, and other pollinators,” your professor says as people begin filing out of the classroom. You shove your laptop into your bag, bending the pages of the notebook already in there. Once your bag is zipped, you attempt to blend in with the sea of people leaving.

“Y/N, Y/N! Wait up!” But of course your attempt at sneaking out doesn’t go unnoticed. You roll your eyes just before putting on a brave smile.

“Hey what’s up?” You turn around and face Taehyung and Jimin, two local frat boys who chat with you from time to time.

“Are you busy tonight?” Jimin asks. And before you can even give an answer, Taehuyng continues, “We’re having a party later and wanted to know if you-”

“No one wants to waste time with you losers.” A challenger appears from across the now empty classroom. Seokjin, along with a couple of other friends from a rival fraternity, steps between you and the other two boys. “Besides, I’m sure Y/N would rather hang out with me, Hoseok, and Namjoon. Right, Y/N?” Suddenly you have five pairs of eyes staring at you, waiting for a response.

“Actually, I’m kind of busy tonight,” you attempt to back out of the conversation, but you’re bothered with yet another question.

“Busy with what?” Hoseok frowns.

“A date,” you lie through your teeth with 100% confidence.

“See? I told you guys, Y/N’s out of our league,” Namjoon face-palms in the background.

“Right,” you chuckle, “But let’s all hang out another time, yeah?” Waving bye, you slip out of the classroom as the two fraternities continue arguing over who’s better and more deserving of your time.

It’s not that you dislike them or have something against frat boys. In fact, there have been plenty of times when you’ve genuinely had fun hanging out with them. It’s just that you sometimes want time to yourself. Sometimes you'd rather stay home and binge your favorite anime. But somehow, you don’t feel like that’s a valid excuse to forgo social interactions. So you lie. To everyone.

As you exit through the back of the building, you think the coast is clear—a rookie mistake.

“Y/N, hey!” A wild Jungkook appears. You want to pretend like you never heard him, but the good person in you waves hi and that only encourages him to start a conversation with you. “How’s the botany class going?”

“Jungkook, you’re in that class too…” You don’t know whether to laugh or feel concerned for the boy.

“Yeah, but we both know I always cut class,” he shrugs. “By the way, do you have notes for the upcoming midterm?” He gives you big bunny eyes in hopes that you’ll help save his grade.

“Oh sorry, I really have to go…” You point your thumb in a random direction. “I have a date soon.”

“With who?” Jungkook asks the one question you aren’t prepared for.

“It’s uh… you know, that, uh, one guy in our class?” Maybe Jungkook will just let it go since he probably doesn’t know many other people in your class.

“Oh, you mean Min Yoongi?” You aren’t even sure how Jungkook pulled that name out of his ass based on your vague description, but you suppose you’ll just roll with it. “The dude who almost cuts class as much as me?”

“Yeah, that one,” you nod. There’s not much that you know about Yoongi, other than the fact that he skips class a lot and falls asleep when he does show up. You’ve also heard that he doesn’t have the best reputation out there, but surely this fib won’t come back to bite you.

After the close call with Jungkook, you decide to take extra precaution in sneaking off campus without encountering anyone else who might want something out of you. So, just until campus clears of the students who just got out of class, you’ll look for a place to hide where no one else would think to go.

You stray not too far from the botany building when you catch something fluttering in the corner of your eye. A rather tiny swallowtail greets you with its colorful wings before flying off down a flowery path.

Tempted with curiosity, you follow the butterfly down the path until a small pink garden comes into view. You’d heard that garden had been abandoned by the Botany Club due to low funding, but by the looks of all the blossoming and thriving plants, you can only assume someone’s been taking good care of it.

Passing through the pink sea of sakura and azalea, you take a seat at the white wooden bench shaded by the trees. Aside from the slight breeze and rustling of leaves, you’re surrounded by the silence and solitude you had sought. Finally—some peace to yourself.

You let out a much needed groan and lean your face into your hands for a solid minute to de-stress. The sounds of the garden become more vibrant while your eyes are closed. The rustling of leaves become more intense, and a new sound joins in—the trickling of water? Perhaps it’s the automatic sprinklers, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d think someone else was there watering plants.

When you rub your eyes and finally open them back up, you find a surprise staring back at you with a watering can in hand. A boy in all black stands in the garden, amongst the pink flowers. You wonder how long he’s been there, and if he’d caught you in your moment of de-stressing, when you had been most vulnerable. When you thought no one was looking.

“Um… How long have you been there?” You blink at the boy. If he’s who you think he is, you’d never expect to find him in a garden in the first place.

“Longer than you.” He says nothing more and goes back to watering his plants. You watch the water trickle down into the soil, waiting to see if he would ask you to leave. But he doesn’t.

“We’re in the same botany class, aren’t we?” You know your question catches the boy’s attention because he turns away from his flowers and towards you. At a closer glance, his face is somehow gentle, as oppose to intimidating like you’d assumed from someone with a bad reputation. “You’re Yoongi, right?”

He nods, “And you’re the one I’m supposedly on a date with, right?” You have no clue how he keeps such a straight face when he says this, but personally, you freak out a little. He isn’t supposed to know. No one is supposed to know about your little fib.

“W-where did you hear that from?” You fidget around with your fingers.

“I overheard my name being mentioned by some girls passing by.” He refills the watering can and resumes watering his flowers once again. Somehow he remains unbothered by the fact that his name’s been dragged into a nasty rumor spreading like wildfire. At the same time, you still feel obligated to explain yourself.

“It’s just a dumb excuse I made up to get out of something… because I wanted to be left alone,” you confess. “I didn’t intend for it to become a dating rumor, so I apologize for dragging your name into my own problem. If you want, I’ll clear the air so people don’t think you and I are-”

“I don’t particularly mind about things like that…. social obligations and the like.” He shakes his head, and you’re just happy he isn’t too upset about the situation. But he is interested in something else. “So that’s why you’re here too? Because you wanted to be left alone from social obligations.”

“I feel terrible for saying it, but yeah,” you chuckle. “As much as I have fun around others, it’s also exhausting having to always put on a smile in front of them.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to get away. There’s nothing wrong with that, you know.” He passes you the water can and grabs the hose for himself. You suppose he speaks from experience. Maybe he resurrected the pink garden as his place of refuge and solitude. Maybe that’s what had drawn you to the garden in the first place. And maybe that’s why it’s easy to talk to the boy. Because he gets you.

“Is this where you go when you skip class?” You join him in watering the garden. It’s oddly therapeutic.

Yoongi nods, “I prefer interacting with flowers over people because flowers don’t judge or give a shit about you. Same with small animals.” A friendly butterfly lands on the rim of the boy’s bucket hat. He tries to look up at the little critter but shows pouty lips when it flies away. He’s much softer than you’d originally thought, and you regret assuming things based on the bad reputation you’d only heard about. “It’s just peaceful.”

“I would’ve never thought you’d choose here. But that makes you a flower boy, doesn’t it?” you tease him a little bit.

“I guess that’s a secret only you and I know,” he presses his index finger to his lips to keep you from sharing the secret with others—not that you would. After all, you’re also guilty of hiding sides of yourself that you’d always been too ashamed to show.

“Well what if my real reason for wanting to be left alone is so I can laze around and binge anime all night?” you let a smile slip. Normally you wouldn’t tell anyone about your secret anime obsession. But it just felt like an appropriate time to share the news. “Would that be a valid reason?”

“Depends on which anime we’re talking about.” The weeb jumped out real quick. “Boku no Hana Academia?”

“That’s the one!” your eyes light up. Leave it up to the flower boy to know your favorite anime about talking flowers who fight off human noses with their pollen powers and critter companions. “Do you watch it too?”

“Of course I do. Is that even a question?” he shrugs. “I guess that makes us both secret weebs for botany and anime. Good to know.”

You nod. “And it was refreshing watering plants and talking with someone like you.”

“Someone like me? You mean a bad boy, flower boy, or weeb?” He points at himself.

“All of the above,” you giggle, “but also someone who I don’t have to put up a front with. It’s a relief that I finally have a buddy to watch Boku no Hana with.”

“Hey, I never said I’d watch Boku no Hana with you,” he crosses his arms as if he has something to be proud of. “I’ve already seen all 427 episodes so far. But it sounds like you’re lagging behind if your plan was to binge a bunch of episodes tonight.”

“Well what if I get caught up to the most recent episode?”

“Then we’ll talk,” he unfolds his arms and softens his expression. “But until then, you’re free to stop by here whenever you’re trying to avoid people.”

“Really? You don’t mind?” You give him big puppy eyes just to make sure he doesn’t change his mind.

“It’s fine,” he assures you, not even a little flustered by your adorable puppy eyes. “You and I aren’t all that different, so I don’t find you that annoying to be around.”

“Umm, thanks??” You suppose you should take the comment as a compliment, especially coming from a boy who usually closes himself off from the world.

“Besides, this garden could use an extra pair of hands to tend to it now that it’s in full bloom.” Yoongi points to the watering can in your hand, motioning for you to stop standing around and get back to watering.

Rather than sprinkling the plants with water, however, you splash the boy next to you with a few drips from the nearly empty watering can. You point and laugh at the tiny wet dots on his black shirt. The way he frowns down at the wet spots and threatens to spray you with the hose somehow reminds you of an angry wet kitten. A cute kitten.

But before he gets the chance to get back at you, you hold the empty watering can out in front of him as innocently as possible. “Can you refill my watering can, pretty please?”

“Dump water on me again, and I’ll spoil all 427 episodes of Boku no Hana for you,” he hisses with an arched back. At the same time, though, he sticks the end of the hose into your watering can until it’s heavy and full again.

“Thanks, Yoongi,” you look up at him, just long enough to see a subtle upward curve in those soft kitten lips of his. Then you resume watering the flowers, side by side with the boy in all black, in a pink garden of secrets and solitude.

A/N: did anyone catch the boku no hero / my hero academia references?? also hana means both flower & nose in japanese so that’s where that obscure anime synopsis came from afhjsdakl;

[eisforeidolon]

Episode: Nihilism

Then: Michael gloats about how no one spent any time questioning why he previously vamoosed for no reason. It's such a clever gotcha … for the writers to lampshade their own incompetence of making the characters somehow ignore a giant plot hole anyone who isn't permanently concussed questioned endlessly. One I still question, because Michael's “plan” to leave and then arbitrarily come back to break Dean's will … somehow … makes no sense and screws around with angel lore yet again.  

Anyway.

Now: I did actually mostly enjoy this episode, aside from a few not-entirely-minor quibbles.  

First, I have to say:  Wow, the actress who plays Pamela looks almost exactly the same.  Also, this is the kind of cameo I actually really love when the show does!  It doesn't make death meaningless or have the characters accept a replacement goldfish substitute from an alternate universe as the same person (as creepy as that is).  Yet it still allows us to revisit old favorite characters.  

I liked the smug – almost gleefully so – way that Jensen played Michael.  It actually largely mitigated how easy it was for the rest of the team to capture him for me, which I kind of expected to be annoyed by.  He's exactly the kind of villain to monologue instead of just getting on with killing everybody.  It also mostly fits that he doesn't take them terribly seriously and so isn't prepared for their alternate holy oil molotov plan.  As well as how he's more vaguely interested in examining the cuffs than actually concerned when they do bind him – and not only in light of how he has his own backup plan.  There's still the slight hitch that having been in Dean's head, he should realize just how many other villains have gone belly up from not taking the Winchesters seriously?  But then, he is exactly the kind of villain that would think he's so far above all of them that he's obviously different – even when them includes an alternate version of himself.

That said, I was not impressed that inexplicably Castiel can no longer see reapers.  I swear, he gains and loses more powers on an episode by episode basis ... ffs.  Nor did I appreciate that said reaper suddenly was willing to act as a get-out-of-monster-hell free card.  Billie and the reapers wouldn't even step in to save their own from being killed in Funeralia (13.19) but now, LOL NON-INTERFERENCE?  NEVERMIND!  I mean, it just feels so lazy.  I give Yockey more credit than a lot of the current lot, and in the end it's partially a season-size pacing problem, but?  Imagine if instead they'd stretched this out to another episode and given Sam and the others the time to find a legitimate, clever way out of being trapped, with Michael taunting them all the while.  (I could happily watch a couple episodes' worth of just Michael mocking them all, tbh.)  Instead, they're cheat-teleported back to the bunker.  Heck, Yockey could have just gone with Michael being too smug to have bothered to have sufficient backup monsters!  That would work perfectly well, too.  I get maybe it was partially meant to bring reapers back to the audience's attention to prime us for the reveal at the end with Billie?  And maybe we’re meant to forgive it because the threat from the monsters is still on in the background?  But it just doesn't work for me.

Another thing that I actually can forgive because I think it fits with Michael's ego is not having enough imagination to give Dean more than one night at his fantasy bar that repeats over and over again.  Even if Cas and Sam hadn't broken in during this episode, Dean had already noticed having deja vu.  So on the one hand, it fits how smugly overconfident Michael is, on the other, it really is a stupid plan.  I did actually like that Dean's fantasy did still involve killing monsters – since I've always felt like his desire to be out of hunting was more tied to all of the issues with destiny and the apocalypse and all of that manipulation from cosmic forces and weight of the world stuff than the old-school routine of just saving individual people from individual monsters.

Ugh, Maggie.  Her being in charge for reasons here really is one of the dumbest things they've sprung on us yet.  The only good thing about the whole side meander with the AU!hunters is that I had been cringing at how, once again, I expected the mystically warded bunker to suddenly be just that easy for monsters to waltz into?  Yet instead, they actually weren't able to break in without having a turned hunter on the inside.  I really did appreciate that!

I'd seen several complaints about saying Dean “thrives” on trauma was annoying and insulting.  I kind of get that, especially in light of Ross-Leming's obtuse comment about Dean having antibodies against evil so they never have to deal with him being traumatized?  However, while I think perhaps there might have been better ways to phrase it, I think the meaning – that given something he actually knows to fight against, Dean is irrepressible – is clear enough from the context.  I did appreciate Sam figured out that's why Dean wouldn't be fighting, because he’d been put in a comfortable fake memory, as well as how he was able to identify which memory was the false one so quickly.  I thought it was a nice touch that the music went wonky in the background as Dean remembered what they were saying about Pamela was true.  As well as that it was Sam saying their code word that was the final clue slotting into place rather than Castiel's overblown speech.   While I can see where it might come off as a rip-off of the Ezekiel thing, I think the situations are sufficiently similar that it only makes sense for them to sort out in a similar way.  

Michael's imitation of Castiel was just as funny in context.  From what he said to Jack to what he said in Dean's head to Sam and Castiel, I think Michael was telling the truth, or more accurately, a version of the truth.  We all have certain nasty thoughts that linger in the back of our heads – resentments, annoyances, uncharitable thoughts – the ugliest version of ourselves.  I think Michael was picking and choosing out of that part of Dean to find the things it would hurt the most to say; not thoughts Dean never had, but thoughts that clearly didn't encompass what Dean felt overall.  Carefully chosen partial truths without context, specially tailored to hurt those they were aimed at as much as possible that would therefore also make Dean feel guilty, too.  If Michael had felt like this much of a character from the beginning...  Also, regular world Michael acted like allowing Dean to survive the experience of being possessed intact was some special boon, so this one making a point to say he's going to rip Dean apart on the way out being an additional consideration fits well enough.

While I like a good fight scene as much as anybody, if they're on equal footing because they're all just projections in Dean's head?  I actually think it should have been easier for them to take down Michael.  Sam, Dean, even Cas?  They all have plenty of experience getting their hands dirty in physical fights, whereas we've seen this Michael spend a lot more time actively avoiding them.  That, and I did actually find myself kind of mildly annoyed it was Sam and not Dean that was the one to physically shove Michael into the freezer.  Yes, the fight was a joint effort, and yes, Dean is the one actually keeping him contained in his mind when it comes down to it. However, with all that we got in the previous episode of Dean really wanting to personally strike back at Michael and how Sam had already played such a major part by figuring out how to get into Dean's head and drag him back to reality?  I felt like perhaps it would have been a more powerful moment if Dean had actually done the physical shoving as well.  I don’t think it was a big deal or anything, but ... meh.

Likewise pretty ambivalent about all of Michael's monsters just wandering off rather than continuing their attack at the end.  I get that they were all supposed to be under some kind of control, but it's just so very convenient.  When it's put on top of the teleport home earlier in the episode (and how they're such crappy monsters they couldn't even kill Maggie, dammit) …  Again, it didn’t ruin the episode for me, but after Michael was previously shown negotiating with certain monsters or offering them boons, but actually here it’s that he’s controlling them?  Michael’s plans and motivations have generally being fairly nebulous and vague all along, so this is just so par for the course I can’t even get that annoyed about it.

Similarly, while I appreciate them trying to tie the invasion of AU!Michael in as the consequences Billie warned Dean would come from universe-hopping?  It also seems like a fairly flimsy hand wave.  It's better than no attempt at all, leaving it as a hanging thread that was just dropped, but “this whole multi-versal quantum construct we live in, it's like  a house of cards and the last thing I need is some big dumb Winchester knocking it all down” seems like it should refer to the potentiality of something a little more colossal than yet another archangel with daddy issues.  Maybe that's just me.

As to the end where all the books about Dean's death have changed to have the same ending bar one?  Well, by the very concept, all the books can be changed.  So, when that one alternative to Michael destroying everything is clearly also awful, it seems the more prudent route to go would be to figure out how to make all the books change again as Plan A rather than going directly for Plan Horrorshow.  Not only have the Winchesters made a long-term habit of changing fate, but they've already done it in this specific way once – granted for the worse, but still, it's clearly possible.  

I feel like there was something else I meant to address about this one, but I didn’t make a note of it and I actually watched this a couple of days ago and I’m coming up completely blank. 

In the end, i feel like what really made me like this episode despite some obvious flaws was Jensen’s portrayal of Michael and the other characters’ reactions to him.  Which, honestly, just makes the fact that the season took so long to actually get here and give us something meaty from this storyline feel even less like any kind of reasonable choice. 

[jarienn972]

Bloodline

It’s finally time to share the first of my two stories for @ouatwinterwhump! I’m getting this posted a bit later than I’d planned today, but due to a lot of real world angst that my family and I suffered through over the past few weeks. I got way behind on everything.  This came together over the past week and a half and I have to give huge thanks to @the-whumpy-fangirl for being a huge help as my beta reader on such short notice!

For this story, I did a bit of a re-write of portions of episode 7-19, Flower Child as there was so much wasted opportunity for good whump there!  Anyone not interested in the S7 characters will probably want to wait for my second story later this month, but for everyone else, get ready for a little bit of Detective Rogers in peril. Note: Gothel is the featured villain here so fair warning as there are some vague mentions of her history with Rogers.  Rated T and up for violent situations.

Also on FF.net and AO3

So little had made sense for weeks now in the Heights and Detective Rogers’ inquisitive mind was in overdrive.  Every time he thought he’d guessed the next move correctly, he’d found himself face to face with his often condescending partner who was all-too-happy to remind him of his failures.  It wasn’t as though Weaver was giving him any answers either, just more cryptic questions and general annoyance. Granted, a fair portion of his frustration was his own damned fault.  Weaver had warned him not to pursue his search for Eloise Gardner, but obsession had gripped him, forcing him to investigate every clue to hunt her down - although they’d likely never know exactly how or why Victoria Belfrey had imprisoned her in the tower.  He’d managed to uncover bits and pieces of a story about how Eloise was evil and needed to be kept locked away from humanity, but he hadn’t really believed any of it.  Not until bodies started turning up all over the Heights - Belfrey’s included.

Maybe he should have listened to Weaver’s advice, but he just couldn’t help himself. He’d been so driven to find the girl who had haunted his memory for years, only to discover that maybe she wasn’t really the person he’d imagined her to be.  Maybe if he’d heeded his partner’s warning, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament, not that it would matter for much longer. He’d be able to hang on a little while…

Maybe, just maybe, someone would come searching for him or maybe Tilly would spring back to her senses?

But the reality was - who would be looking for him?

One hour earlier

She was mad.  Had to be.  How else could he explain it?

Maybe he was mad.  How had he allowed this woman to gain so much power over him?

He felt manipulated. Used.  Hell, part of him felt downright violated, but yet he was still inexplicably drawn to her.

Weaver had warned him that she was a powerful witch, but he honestly hadn’t believed in witchcraft - at least until now as the realization struck that she had pulled him right into her coven’s waiting trap.  He’d been so gullible, but it also struck him as odd that he had no idea why she’d sought to ensnare him.  All he had wanted to do was help Tilly, and then - there she was - Eloise Gardner and her coven of witches hidden behind dark, heavy, hooded cloaks.  He and Tilly had wandered straight into the witch’s wicked web and despite knowing that they were both in grave danger, a voice in the back of his head kept telling him to protect Tilly.

“Please, don’t hurt her,” he’d pleaded with the witches as one of them grabbed Tilly from behind, clamping a hand over her mouth as they led her away from him, disappeared down what must have been a staircase.  He was at the wrong angle to be certain, even as he strained against his captor, struggling to get a better view.  “Tilly’s an innocent here...please, don’t harm her…”

Eloise approached him, drawing close as her minions restrained him.  He continued to struggle, trying to free himself from their grasp but despite their diminutive appearance, the hooded figures were far stronger than he expected. The witch pressed her body uncomfortably close to him, an air of triumph in her icy gaze.  His own eyes clung to defiance, even as her hand raised up to meet his face, fingertips lightly tracing the shape of his jaw while she stared at him with a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her lips - the way he would imagine a predator admiring its prey.

“You’ve got this all wrong, Captain,” she insisted, never breaking her evil grin as she spoke. “Tilly isn’t the one I intend to hurt.  I need her.  You, on the other hand, are far more expendable.”

He had no idea what she was plotting or why she’d called him Captain - and she wasn’t the first to do that either.  All of his senses were screaming at him.  There was no doubt he was in way over his head, but no matter how much he struggled, there was no breaking free.

“What do you want from us?” Rogers demanded.  Hell, if he was going to die here, he at least wanted to know why.

“Oh, you’ll prove useful to me yet again.  You’re going to help bring my creation to life,” Eloise purred cryptically as she pulled her hand away from his face. “But first, I need you to stop being so uncooperative…”  Her right hand unfurled once again before his eyes, this time, revealing a clump of what appeared to be sparkling pink dust resting in the curve of her palm.  With one quick puff of her breath, the colorful particles were swirling around him and somewhere within that cloud, Rogers lost his will to resist, his body dropping limp into the arms of his captors.

**********

As his senses gradually returned, Rogers immediately knew something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know yet just how precarious the situation actually was.  His head throbbed and his recollection of the events that got him here was a tad cloudy - a sensation he’d experienced far too many times when he’d lost control of his indulgences. Only this was no mere hangover.

His eyelids parted slowly, adjusting to the dim light of the surroundings, seemingly illuminated solely by flickering flames.  Ruddy hued rocks comprised both the floor and the walls of what must have been some sort of a cave but as his sight became clearer, he discovered that this cavern held far more sinister secrets than he could have imagined.  He’d also come to the realization that he was suspended in the center of said cavern, his upper body bound tightly with vines.  Vines? It certainly wasn’t rope that secured him and as he tried to wiggle himself out of his bindings, he learned - rather painfully - that the vines were covered in thorns. Dozens of thorns, sharp as needles, jabbed into his bare skin with even the slightest movement on his part. He’d clearly been impaled a few times already as he could feel the tickle from the little rivulets of blood making a path down his leg to drip off of his big toe.

What he couldn’t tell from his vantage point was that his nearly nude body hung directly above an intricate design carved into the stone below - one the same shape as the coven’s symbol he’d been seeing all over Hyperion Heights.  Surrounding him were the dark, caped figures, each standing at one of the eight points of the symbol softly chanting some unknown incantation.  One of those hooded beings broke from the circle to canter towards him, apparently having realized he’d regained consciousness. The figure raised her head as she neared, enough for him to recognize her face as his gaze locked with that of Eloise Gardner once again.

The expression on her face confused him falling somewhere between satisfaction and sublimation. If this was indeed the same girl he’d tasked himself to locate so many years ago, what had happened to her that led her down this path? To have become involved with such a devilishly evil cult that had obviously stripped her of the innocence he’d remembered?  Well, at least the innocence he thought he’d remembered… Had she been so offended by his failure to protect her as a child that she’d spent all of these years planning ways to make him pay for that failure?  Even after he’d rescued her from Belfrey’s prison?  Hadn’t getting shot and spending the better part of a decade searching in vain been penance enough?

“Captain…” Eloise purred into his ear, her lips so close to his skin that he could feel the warmth of her breath, sending his body into an involuntary, repulsed shudder. “Just what is going on inside that pretty head of yours?”

“Why are you doing this?” was the question that crossed his lips, although there were so many others demanding to be asked as well. “I tried… I tried to help you… I freed you…” he stammered, his mind conflicted by both a desire to fight his thorny restraints and a total lack of willpower to do so.

“Oh, Captain,” she said through that same salacious grin, “we’ve such a torrid history… Where would I even begin?”

“History?” He didn’t understand how their few interactions could be construed as history.  “Eloise, we barely know anything about each other aside from the fact that I spent years searching for you…and I did find you.  Why this?”

“It’s almost a pity that your memory didn’t return like some of the others, but maybe it’s for the better…” She stepped around to his back, her right hand trailing along the skin just above the waistband of his boxer briefs as she leaned in to address his left ear.  “How about I start by re-introducing myself?  My name is Mother Gothel, not Eloise, and we do indeed have some very interesting history.  It might even have been so much more… I could have helped you seal your revenge against Rumplestiltskin while we pillaged and plundered the realms, but no.  You surprised me.  You chose the brat over me…”

“Brat? What - Tilly?” His stuttered words barely made sense in his own head, but they seemed to increase her ire.

“If that’s what you want to call her,” she scoffed. “You gave her a different name back then, but nonetheless, it won’t matter for much longer.”

“You haven’t harmed her, have you?” he asked meekly, his voice cracking audibly at the thought as his eyes grew wide with fearful anticipation.

“No, I haven’t harmed Tilly.  As I said before, she isn’t the one I plan to harm.  I need her magic to help initiate my spell…”  She paused her statement as she ambled around to face him once again, the iciness of her stare prickling every hair on the back of his neck. “But I need something else from you first…” Her fingertips made contact with his thigh, the skin searing beneath her touch as he fought back a swell of nausea. If this was what she wanted, he wasn’t interested, but as her right hand slithered up toward his hip, she raised her left hand in front of her chest, making certain that he would witness her next move.  Out of thin air, what might only have been described as a giant thorn materialized from her palm.  It was at least the length of her forearm and his terrified eyes instantly focused on its razor sharp point - even more so as she ghosted that needle-like point across his chest, drawing tiny droplets of blood as she passed it through the course, dark hair almost indecently.

“Eloise…” His voice came out as a whimper as he tried his best to shrink away from her, but the brambles encircling him only seemed to squeeze tighter. “I can still help you…” The cop in him was still trying to reason with her, even if his efforts might be deemed futile.

“Yes, my dear Captain, you most certainly can help me,” she assured him as that devilish grin crossed her features yet again.  “I absolutely require your assistance to activate a portion of my spell. More specifically, I need your blood.” She refused to give him even a moment to process her statement before thrusting the pointed end of her oversized thorn into his abdomen, angling it upward, beneath his rib cage and into his vital organs, yet stopping short of his heart.  She drew her arm backward, retracing the blood stained thorn so that she could admire her handiwork for a split-second before repeating the stabbing motion twice more.

The coppery scent of his own blood filled his nostrils as his mind and body were both overwhelmed by the shock of the assault.  Blood mixed with his saliva as he coughed up a bubble that he couldn’t swallow back down.  Sanguine trails flowed from his torso to form a small puddle on the carved rocky ground below as his instinct to fight for his life finally kicked in and he gathered his remaining strength to try to free his arms so he could put pressure on the seeping wounds.

“Struggle all you want,” she taunted him as she dropped the bloody thorn to the ground as she cupped his jaw with both of her hands.  “My vines will only grow tighter, driving those thorns deeper into your flesh.  Since we’re going to be here for a while as your body is slowly drained of its blood, you may wish to spare yourself further anguish.  I need your heart to keep pumping as long as possible to keep that blood fresh and potent until the entire medallion beneath you is filled.  Then, I won’t need you anymore…”

His body shook from a combination of fear and pain-driven convulsions as his blood flowed from the trio of punctures in his gut, but even with the agony she’d already inflicted upon him, the witch wasn’t done with him quite yet.  New vines began to sprout from those encasing his upper body, spiraling lower to wrap the rest of his torso and both of his legs with the constricting brambles.  Every nerve ending in his body felt assaulted as dozens of newly formed thorns tore into his skin, drawing more blood.  Rogers couldn’t even remember if he’d screamed but a silent prayer kept reciting within his head that maybe someone would find him.  And that blissful unconsciousness would befall him soon…

**********

Rogers didn’t know what stirred him back to consciousness but the immediate wash of pain over his entire being reminded him that he was still alive.  The dead didn’t experience pain, did they?  He assumed he’d learn that answer soon  enough - as soon as his lifeblood drained from him, his heart would inevitably cease and his lungs would no longer need to draw breath.  He didn’t have the energy within him to fight against the tightening vines, still feeling their intrusions across his arms, chest and back, but scarcely able to feel his legs anymore.  He wanted to just go numb, to return to the peaceful, pain-free oblivion, but his mind apparently wanted him to be awake to bear witness to his own torture.

“I’m surprised to see you awake,” a voice rang out from his right. Or was it from the left? Clearly his head wasn’t thinking straight, the blood loss leaving him disoriented. “Perhaps you’re a tad more resilient than I’d thought…” The voice continued in a sickeningly sweet cadence that made him want to retch even before he sensed the warmth of fingers brushing against his blood-soaked thigh. “You still have so much more to give…” He wished he could pull his leg away as the sensation of fingernails drawing lazy circles through the dampness only increased his nausea.

“What do you want?” He knew he’d asked the question before, but in his weakened state, he didn’t remember the answer - certainly not the answer she was about to give.

“Oh, Captain, this goes back so far…,” she mused.  “Years ago, we met in a far away land, high in a tower where I needed you to provide the one thing that would allow me freedom from that prison - a new bloodline.  You were so, how should I say this? Eager? So willing to provide me what I needed, but then, you betrayed me…”

Tower? Betrayal? Her words were conjuring images that bombarded his psyche, but were they memories or hallucinations?  He didn’t know if he could trust his own brain right now.

“Eloise…”

“Not Eloise - Gothel,” she reminded him, her tone more annoyed than playful this time. “You really should try to remember me.” Her hand instantly snapped from caressing his thigh to clutching his throat, her thumb and forefinger pushing his head upward to meet her gaze.  “I want you to look at me while you hang there dying.  I want you to regret ever choosing that brat instead of me!”  She stabbed a manicured index finger towards one of the cloaked figures as he recognized Tilly’s profile beneath the hood.

“Tilly…” he whispered, not even certain if his voice was loud enough for her to hear.  

“She can’t hear you.  She’s caught in a trance that I placed upon her.  She’ll keep mindlessly repeating that incantation over and over until your blood fills the rest of the medallion here.  Then, as soon as she steps into the center, the mix of bloodlines will enact my spell and bring about the return of this land to its rightful ruler - Nature.”

“Why Tilly? If we have history, that’s between us,” he argued weakly, energy waning quickly, but still possessing a flicker of determination to protect his young friend from this madwoman. “She has nothing to do with this…”

“Oh, but you’re wrong there, Captain,” she laughed. “Tilly - or Alice, as you used to call her - has everything to do with this.  She’s our daughter - the blend of our bloodlines - possessing some of your spunk and some of my magic.  I need to draw that magic from her and it just so happens that her father’s blood is the perfect conduit to do so.”

“Wait - daughter?  Tilly… Alice… she’s my daughter?” he stammered, trembling as his already pain-wracked brain overloaded. “How can she be my daughter?  I’m not old enough…”

That statement brought an amused cackle from his captor. “Looks can be so deceiving, Captain, but then curses can certainly play such tricks with your mind… You really don’t look a day over two hundred.”

Images came to him once again in vivid flashes as his barely lucid mind struggled to make sense of them without any context.  A pirate ship.  A tall, isolated tower.  A small, blonde haired child.  Eloise, yet not Eloise…

A hook.

His sullen eyes drew downward, seeking out the prosthetic hand attached to the wrist of his stumped arm which suddenly didn’t feel right to him.  The weight, the fit - all wrong.

He’d lost that hand in a bad car accident, hadn’t he? He questioned his own recollection, no longer sure if anything he knew about himself was real. He was hanging here, slowly bleeding to death at the hand of a woman he’d thought he’d rescued and yet he felt as though he was right on the cusp of an epiphany.

His eyes squeezed shut as his body convulsed involuntarily.  Why hadn’t he told Weaver what he was doing? The only other person who knew he was here was Tilly and she was lost to some hypnotic trance. He didn’t dare think what this witch would do to her once she’d served her purpose.  He fought through the impending darkness to take in Tilly’s features for what he feared would be the last time.  Could she really be his daughter? He’d likely never know now as a single tear rolled across his cheekbone, its saline trail finding its way to the corner of his mouth just as his lips parted.

One single word rolled off his tongue as his body fell limp against the imposing vines.

Starfish.

His voice was scarcely a whisper yet that single utterance reverberated throughout the cavern, reaching the single pair of ears it was intended for.  It echoed into Tilly’s ear as a plea and her eyelids flew open, the chanting instantly ceased.  Her hands raised to her head, tossing the hood off of her blonde locks as she lifted her chin.

She’d only been vaguely aware of her surroundings, but now, her senses were overwhelmed.  The voices of the other hooded figures were all she could hear and she just wanted to drown them out.  She tried to focus on something else - the crackle of the flames from the candles and torches positioned around the circle.  Focus, Tilly, focus, she told herself.  She concentrated on those flames, inhaling the scent of the burning wood, but she could smell something else too.  Something faintly metallic...bloody…

Only then did she realize that there was another person in the center of the ring of caped figures - a person whose body was nearly obscured amongst a tangle of thorny vines.  There was a pale, dark-haired man bound by those vines and while she couldn’t make out the majority of his form, she could see that his legs were riddled with crimson trails and there was a pool of dark red liquid beneath his feet.  And she could see just enough of his face to recognize that man suspended lifeless before her: the man she’d known as Detective Rogers. But she also felt an awakening within her muddled mind which reminded her that she’d known him far longer - and by a different name.

“Papa?”

The moment she uttered that single word, the rock walls of the cavern began to shake as if from the rumbling of an earthquake, showering her with pebbles and dust that rained from above.  A newly defiant Tilly shrugged off the heavy dark robe, eyes wide as she frantically searched for the monster.

“Show yourself, Witch!” Tilly hollered, bolstered with newfound bravado.  If he was still among the living, she had to save him.  Had to save her Papa from this monster witch.  It was all up to her and this time, she was determined to listen to the little voices within her head that assured her that she possessed the power to defeat this witch.

“I’m right here, Tilly,” the witch replied as she took a step from behind her nearly lifeless prisoner.

“Let him go, you monster! You’re hurting him and I can’t allow that!” Tilly shouted. “You said that if I helped you, no one would get hurt but you lied!  You always lie!” Both of Tilly’s hands clenched into fists as Gothel continued to stare blankly back at her, entirely devoid of any human emotion.

“It’s entirely too late for that, little girl,” Gothel snapped back confidently. “As soon as his blood fills that medallion on the floor right there, my spell will begin and there’s no one powerful enough to stop it.  Not the Evil Queen nor the Wicked Witch.  Not even the Dark One himself.”

“Then I’ll stop you,” Tilly responded as she stood her ground with equal confidence. “You took my Papa away from me once.  You aren’t going to do it again.”  Her blue eyes reflected a fierce determination as Tilly set her jaw and racked her brain to recall how to harness her magic.

“Please…,” Gothel dismissed her with a haughty wave of her hand. “You aren’t any match for me.  Just get out of my way and do as you’re told…” With a faint flick of her wrist, another new growth of vines sprouted from the cluster binding Rogers and jettisoned toward Tilly.  With only a fraction of a second to react, Tilly threw up her hands defensively in front of her face and instantly, the brambles froze mere inches from her, the thorns separating from the vines and falling harmlessly to the floor while tiny, white four-petal blossoms took their place.  Tilly blinked a few times until the realization sunk in that she’d used magic to defend herself.  She wasn’t mad - well, at least not when it came to the existence of magic.

“Impressive, but you’ve still so much to learn,” the witch continued to taunt her as Tilly attempted to move from the carved coven symbol beneath her feet.  Gothel smirked as she watched the rock beneath Tilly’s feet dissolve into mud that the younger woman sank into it, only to have it harden back into stone around her shoes, entrapping her in her position on the outer ring. “It would be rather rude of you to leave before my big performance - and I’m not done with you yet…”

Unable to step away, Tilly’s eyes flittered wildly between the nearly inundated medallion on the ground before her and the pallid, expressionless face of her dying father whose head was drooped against his chest, body clearly only held upright by the witch’s enchanted vines.  She watched in seemingly slow-motion as a drop of blood fell from his toe and splashed into the sticky, crimson puddle.

“It’s nearly time,” Gothel announced with a giddy chuckle as a tiny evergreen tree pushed its way through the solid rock to emerge in front of one of the remaining cloaked figures.  As the tree grew in stature, the cape worn by the nearest coven member slumped to the floor and the person who’d been beneath it seconds earlier vanished in the blink of an eye. “Six more to go… Then you.”

“No,” Tilly sobbed, cursing herself for ever agreeing to help this monster in the first place, but now, the witch had to be stopped. “No - I won’t allow you to do this!”

“You won’t allow me?” Gothel laughed off Tilly’s cockiness.  Apparently the girl had more of her father’s personality than she’d believed. “Then stop me.”  

The challenge was issued as an insult, but Tilly didn’t take it as such. She was going to prove that she had the strength to defeat this horrid person.

“Stay with me, Papa,” she called out to him, still uncertain if he was alive or dead. “No matter what happens, I love you, Papa…”  Silent promises now made, Tilly squeezed her eyes closed as her outstretched hands began to tremble.  Another low rumble echoed throughout the cavern as flames flickered, billowed by some unseen wind that swirled dust and rubble around the young woman.

“What are you doing?” There was a faint hint of alarm in Gothel’s voice this time as she feared she may have underestimated her daughter.  She’d long known that her child possessed powers, but with no one to cultivate them, she’d doubted Tilly’s ability to harness magic.  But it was Gothel’s discounting of that untamed nature to Tilly’s magic which might prove far more dangerous.

“Love is always stronger than hate,” Tilly stated as she clasped her hands together sending out a blast of powerful energy towards the blood-drenched medallion.  The ground began to shake, mildly at first then growing in intensity as the rock began to crack, fissures zigzagging across the entire coven symbol until they reached the stone that encased Tilly’s feet.  The rock holding her crumbled away, allowing her to hop out of the circle and sever the connection necessary for Gothel’s spell to proceed.  The evergreen tree that had sprouted within the cavern withered away to ashes as the magic sustaining it evaporated.

“You insolent little brat!” the witch shouted, seething with anger. “How dare you?! Now you’ve ruined it!  I should have killed you years ago - both of you!” She took a step forward, hands extended and prepared to unleash some new horror against her beleaguered daughter.  But so blinded by her hatred of her own offspring, she failed to notice that the cracks beneath her feet were widening from the tremors, opening into a chasm that swallowed the witch, plunging her screaming into the void.  Tilly didn’t know what she should feel as the monster disappeared into the earth.  She just stood there frozen until another voice roused her attention.

“Tilly?” she heard the voice call out to her, but was it merely inside her head?  “Tilly?!” came the voice yet again as she blinked her eyes trying to figure out where the familiar voice originated. She recognized it now - Weaver - but she couldn’t reply yet.  Her fragile mind was still processing all that had just transpired.  Everything she’d just made happen… And oh, no - Papa!  She saw the familiar face of Detective Weaver - Rumplestiltskin - emerge from the entry passage, weapon and flashlight extended before him. “Tilly, are you alright?” he asked as he ventured deeper into the subterranean cavern.

Alright? Was she alright? She didn’t even know but there were more important things to attend to… “Yes, I am,” she responded frantically as she hurried toward the center of the room. “But he’s not…” Weaver stopped short of entering the circle as he spied the huge, gaping cracks that transected it.  His focus was drawn to the cluster of vines at the center of the ring where he now spotted his partner hanging motionless and entirely encircled by those same bloody vines which seemed to be withering away as Gothel’s magic faded. Despite the fissures crisscrossing the ground beneath him which had drained away most of the blood, there was still enough visible on the rock for Weaver to know his partner wouldn’t survive long with this amount of blood loss.

“We need to get him down from there somehow,” Weaver stated. “The vines are dying and won’t hold him for long…”

“I know,” she insisted, trying to locate that magical trigger within her one more time.  “I’m trying…”  She’d never been particularly good at concentrating - at least not lately.  She had to try and push all of her jumbled thoughts away to focus on her most important task - rescuing Papa.  As the brambles crumbled, an invisible force caught Rogers, his limp form suspended in mid-air but seemingly with nothing holding him aloft. The unseen hand carried him safely across the fractured floor placing him gently atop a boulder beside Weaver just before the vines completely disintegrated to a pile of dust.

Without the bindings in the way, Weaver could see that his partner’s body was riddled with puncture wounds, some of which were still oozing blood - a positive sign that his heart was still beating.  Satisfied that immediate danger was over, Weaver tucked away his weapon, shining the flashlight’s beam onto his partner’s unconscious form as he felt for a pulse.  “He’s alive. He still has a heartbeat.  I’ll get the paramedics down here...”

A small smile crept across Tilly’s face as her resolve finally broke, but that smile rapidly faded, her eyes welling with tears as yet another realization struck.  His heart. Without another word, she bolted past Weaver and darted out of the cave.

She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t cause him more suffering…

**********

The next few hours were tense ones.  While her father was barely clinging to life, Tilly had vanished, leaving Weaver to be the one holding vigil in the hospital waiting room.  Thankfully, the trip from Gothel’s hideout beneath the old theater to the hospital was a short ride. Weaver had followed the ambulance in his own vehicle with lights and siren blaring to keep up with the paramedics. By the time he reached the Emergency room, Rogers’ blood pressure had dropped to dangerously low levels and his breathing was erratic, but his most life threatening battle was against the uncontrollable bleeding.  Something in his system was preventing his blood from clotting properly - likely Gothel’s work as well.

But as far as the Emergency room personnel were concerned, Detective Rogers had been a victim of the Candy Killer, attacked while investigating the cave beneath the theater. He answered the barrage of questions as best he could, not even attempting to create a plausible explanation for the multitude of puncture wounds from the thorns.  He just told them his partner had multiple stab wounds and didn’t elaborate. There would be no mention of Eloise Gardner in Weaver’s report, even though he had actually found his way to the cavern just as the witch plunged into the chasm, presumably falling to her death although one could never be entirely certain when there was no body left behind as evidence.

After the first hour of waiting, he’d called Roni and Henry to see if either had seen Tilly and filled them in on his partner’s condition.  Neither knew where Tilly might be but both offered to help locate her.  Roni left the bar in Remy’s capable hands as she left a message for her niece, hoping Tilly would seek out Margot’s company and Henry set out to search some of Tilly’s usual haunts.  Only Roni, Kelly and Weaver knew the truth of Tilly and Rogers’ relationship and while they understood her reasons for running, she needed to be aware of what was happening with her father, lest her fragile hold on her sanity be lost.

He wasn’t overly surprised when he heard Roni’s voice in the corridor, asking a nurse where she’d find the Emergency waiting area.  He lifted his chin and nodded a greeting to her as she passed through the doorway, walking quickly across the crowded room to join him on a bench positioned against the far wall, away from prying ears.

“Have you heard anything yet?” Roni asked in a hushed whisper.

Weaver shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Gothel?”

“Hopefully gone, like most of the objects she conjured. She fell into a giant crack that opened up beneath her.”

“Did Tilly do that?” Roni wondered if battling her mother had contributed to the younger woman’s unease.

“Yes,” was Weaver’s unpretentious reply as he slumped back against the wall.  Roni mouthed a wow as she copied his posture, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“Margot thinks she knows where to find her,” she told him. “Henry’s taking a loop around the neighborhood too.  She’ll turn up.”

“She knows she’s Alice,” Weaver stated without preface.  “As soon as I said that his heart was still beating, I saw it in her eyes.  She panicked.”

“She remembered his poisoned heart…” Roni sighed. “That poor girl... She didn’t want to cause him more pain.  She must be devastated…”  Weaver didn’t answer; he already knew she was right.  Getting her memory back, watching her father suffering and then having to destroy her mother just might have short-circuited Tilly’s complicated mind.

But it was Roni who suddenly sat up straight, a quizzical arch to her eyebrow as she contemplated a thought that had leapt into the forefront of her mind.

“Did his heart stop?” she asked, almost a bit too loudly as it drew some unwanted attention from other people in the waiting room.

“What?” He’d heard the question, but wanted her to repeat it.

“Do you know if Rogers’ heart stopped beating at any time?” she inquired once again, this time keeping her voice low since their conversation was about to head in a direction that wouldn’t be easily explained to eavesdroppers.

“I couldn’t hear everything that was said when the paramedics brought him in, but I thought I overheard something about him coding in the ambulance.  Pretty sure that means his heart stopped, but he had a pulse when the ER took over.  What are you getting at?”

“Have you been out of the magic business too long, Rumple?” she asked, using his real name in public for the first time since they’d awakened from Gothel’s curse.  This was definitely Regina talking now, not her barmaid alter ego, Roni. “Gothel placed that poisoned heart curse on him a long time ago and we were never able to find a cure.  The only way to end the curse was death - his heart no longer beating.  Do you think there was a time limit as to how long his heart needed to be stopped before they brought him back?”

Weaver’s lips pursed in thought as he rubbed the hint of stubble sprouting on his chin.  He definitely needed a shave, but whiskers were merely a distraction as he tossed ideas around in his head.  “CPR isn’t exactly commonplace in the Enchanted Forest, nor are machines to shock a heart back into rhythm.  A curse such as that one should die along with its victim…”

“Then it’s possible that the poison died when his heart stopped beating the first time.  There’s no way a curse from our land would have a caveat built in for someone being brought back from essentially being dead.”

“There’s only one way to test that theory though...and Tilly is nowhere to be found,” Weaver reminded her.

“We’ll find Tilly and explain.  If your partner pulls through this, I’m pretty sure he won’t be going anywhere for a few days.  We’ve got some time.”

“There is still the matter of breaking the other curse,” he added.

“One curse at a time, please…”

Two days later

There was that pain again.  Maybe not as intense as before, but definitely still there.  Little pinpricks he could feel everywhere - annoying and even a little bit itchy but they were only the prelude to the dull, somewhat burning ache that radiated through his chest and abdomen. His head was still on the fuzzy side but he remembered someone stabbing him - Eloise.  No, not Eloise - Gothel.  The witch that Tilly had been correct to call a monster.

He struggled to force his eyelids open, his vision assaulted by the bright lights above him.  He remembered being in a dark cavern, completely bound by thorn-covered vines that were constricting him tighter and tighter until he’d blacked out.  Or maybe he’d blacked out from the blood loss…? Maybe both? But it was apparent that he wasn’t in that dank cave any longer.  He blinked a few times to allow his sight to adjust, turning his head slightly to get a look at a stark white wall that contained only a clock and a dry-erase whiteboard that was filled with incomprehensible scribbles.  

He started to become aware of additional sensations as he started putting the pieces together.  He wasn’t hanging from those vines anymore; he was laying down, presumably in a bed.  He could feel the softness of fabric beneath his fingers and thought he sensed something encircling his wrist, although not as painful as the witch’s brambles.  He raised his hand to a height he could see it without moving around too much and learned he’d been correct - some sort of rubber or plastic band was fastened around his wrist and there was some plastic tubing affixed to the back of his hand with tape that was irritating his skin.  An incessant beeping resounded in his ear, mixed in with other faint sounds he’d yet to make sense of, but it was enough for him to figure out his location.  

He was in a hospital - which meant he’d survived the witch’s attack.

And surprisingly, he discovered he wasn’t alone.

“It’s about damn time you woke up.”  He knew the voice instantly, recognition sending an involuntary shudder down his spine.  The demon masquerading as his partner.

“Crocodile?  Come to execute me while I’m vulnerable?” he asked his visitor.

“If I’d wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have waited until you awakened, Captain,” Weaver replied.  “I’m just Detective Weaver now.  I put the rest behind me to honor Belle’s wishes, although being caught up in Gothel’s curse hadn’t really been a part of my plan.  I’m just trying to do my best to help people so that someday, I’ll be able to join her - and that includes trying to help you and your wayward daughter…”

“Tilly - does she know?”

“She does.  It was her magic that defeated Gothel and her coven.  The witch was swallowed up by the earth she revered.  Alice is down the hall in the waiting room with Regina.”

“She’s here?  Alice is here?” Rogers asked, his voice growing agitated.  “But the curse…”

“Relax… She’s not close enough right now to disturb your poisoned heart, but Regina has a plausible theory that might mean you’re cured.”

“There’s no known cure for a poisoned heart,” Rogers scoffed, his eyes dropping with disappointment.

“That’s not necessarily true,” Weaver began. “Facilier was able to cure Henry’s heart with a bit of magic born from Lucy’s true belief and the remnants of Ella’s glass slipper.  While that same magic isn’t available for you, you may still have been cured in a much simpler manner - your death.”

“My death?  My head is muddled enough right now but clearly, I’m still alive - despite many valiant efforts…”

“Technically, you died twice,” Weaver stated. “Your heart stopped beating twice - once in the ambulance on the way here and once on the OR table while they were trying to stitch your insides back together.  From what we were told, you were technically dead for over a minute before they were able to resuscitate you.  Curses aren’t designed to survive death - even mine.  Generally, where we come from, if your heart stops beating, you’re dead.  They don’t try to bring you back.  The curse should have ended the moment your heartbeat ceased.”

“Should have?  That’s an awful stretch… What if you’re wrong?  It’ll only cause both of us more pain…”

“Then it’s a good thing to do it here in the hospital where they can treat you should we be wrong, but what if we’re right?  You can be with your daughter again.”

Rogers had to contemplate the possibility for a moment.  As much as he loathed trusting his long-time enemy, he also had the memories of being Detective Rogers and in this world, he actually trusted Weaver’s word.  He’d also become close with Regina, the reformed Evil Queen, whom he’d now entrust with his life.  What strange company he was keeping…

“What does Alice think?” This was going to affect his daughter as much as it would him so he wanted her to be involved in the decision.

“She’s frightened, naturally, but she’s also very curious.  She believes that Regina might be correct, but there’s only one way to find out…”  Weaver motioned toward the hallway beyond the room’s doorway as he stood up. “Should I go get her?”  Rogers swallowed back the lump in his throat, but nodded an affirmative.  Whatever would happen, he was prepared to face the consequences.

Seconds later, he smiled at the sight of his daughter’s unruly golden locks flashing past his window into the corridor before she bounded through the open door, although she stopped short of approaching her father’s bedside.  He suddenly felt horribly exposed, clad only in the thin gown the hospital had dressed him in, his truncated left arm bare, no hook or prosthetic to hide his deformity.

“Starfish,” he greeted her with her childhood nickname.

“Haven’t heard anyone call me that for a long time, Papa…,” she replied, her cheeks flushing with a mix of anxiety and embarrassment. This wasn’t how he would have wanted her to turn out, but she didn’t care anymore.  She wanted her Papa back more than anything.  “I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I’ve missed you, too, Love,” he insisted as he shifted nervously on the bed.  “There’s only one way for us to know if this curse is really gone…”

“You think…?” she asked timidly, taking one tentative step closer to the bed.  

“Come closer,” he instructed, bracing himself for the onslaught of pain as she made her way across the room at an almost agonizingly slow pace.  He felt a few twinges, but nothing was any worse than the discomfort from the stabbing.  “It’s okay, I’m fine.”  He offered his reassurance with a weak, timid smile.  He extended his hand to her, eyes begging her to grasp it, eager for even that tiny bit of contact.  

Alice squeezed her eyes closed as she reached for his hand, awaiting the burning sensation from the mark emblazoned into her wrist as their fingertips touched for the first time in many years.  Neither knew what would happen, but there was nothing.  No burning.  No aching.  No magic driving them apart - and there was absolutely nothing containing Alice’s ecstatic joy as she nearly threw herself into her papa’s arms to hug him as tightly as she could.

“It worked! Papa, it worked!” she exclaimed gleefully, excited that she could finally embrace him after such a long time - almost so excited that she missed his pained grunt beneath her, turning her head expecting to see his smiling face but instead seeing an uncomfortable grimace and the dampness of tears around his eyes.  “Oh, no…” her mood turned somber in a split-second. “ I spoke too soon…?” She backed away, ready to run, but he held tight to her wrist.

“It’s alright, Starfish.  My heart is fine.  It’s just my other injuries…”

“Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry!  I was so excited, I forgot what that monster did to you!  I hope I didn’t hurt you too much…”

“Nothing that won’t heal,” he chuckled as he gritted through the ache in his chest, drawing his arms in tighter as if trying to hold his guts in.  “I promise, it will all be fine…”  There were more tears flowing now but all were tears of joy.  

“I love you so much, Papa.”

“And I - you, my Starfish.”