#no longer in constant debilitating pain either

[unspuncreature]

five months post top op and three months post hysto :o) i feel like a new person

[maddie-sometimes-maggie]

Oh my…it’s already been 6 months since I had FFS. I think it’s time for “that” post. The before and after results. This is a long one…

In late October 2024 I had Facial Feminization Surgery. I’ve tried to be transparent (ha) here that I’ve had this surgery. Unfortunately, the reality is that many of us may need to get procedures like this to feel comfortable with our bodies. Is it necessary for everyone? No, you can transition to whatever makes YOU comfortable and at peace with your body. For me, FFS is what I needed to help me achieve that. I worked really really hard to get this surgery and I want to share my experience.

So as a background, I began medically transitioning at 31, and inherited my family’s very masculine facial structures. AMAB or AFAB, most in my blood family have strong masculine features and hormonal imbalances. Longterm T exposure didn’t help me at all either. Looking back at old pictures before my FFS is really hard now. It’s hard to believe that is ME.

I feel it is important to share the magic that FFS can accomplish. E is amazing but it can’t change bones all that much. I believe it is really important to compare our changes with everything over time in our journeys. Many of these photos before FFS were during my first year medically transitioning. No matter what hairstyles or makeup techniques I tried, nothing could hide the insecurities that FFS would eventually take away. For a while I tried to convince myself I didn’t need surgeries…but I knew I’d never be happy without it. I jumped at the opportunity to get it when I found out my insurance covered it.

Then came October. It was a brutal recovery. I have a very low tolerance to pain. However, I never felt any of this was impossible and I was very much supported by my doctors. The recovery was challenging for other reasons too. It limited my ability to eat for a bit and I was really uncomfortable for a couple weeks. I had a constant feeling of disorientation during the first week as my vision is pretty bad and without being able to put my contacts in I was practically blind. The nausea also was debilitating at times. This isn’t what happens to everyone but this is what experienced.

My jaw was also severely limited. It was mostly because of the inside the mouth incision to contour the chin and jaw. I could barely open my mouth. By the end of November I could eat sushi by squishing it with a spoon. By late December I could eat small sandwiches and most of my mobility returned. The swelling also took a while to go down. I’d say by February, four months later, I felt that most of the swelling had disappeared or was on its way out. Today, some swelling remains in my chin and my nose.

The liberation and freedom of expression FFS gave to a face like mine has been truly life saving. My style has changed rather dramatically. My brows are now lifted and I no longer make them higher, in fact I just keep them clean, thin them a little, and highlight in tinted gel and maybe add a little red to them. I also can finally do eye shadow, which is was one of my most anticipated aspects of this surgery. I also just feel liberated from my parents. I had a really rough upbringing and no longer being defined by my father’s forehead or my mother’s chin brings me so much peace.

Not pictured is my presence. I’ve heard countless people tell me that I’m happier, more comfortable, and more outgoing than I was before my surgery. I used to calculate my every move so people wouldn’t see my brow bone or an unflattering masculine angle. I don’t worry at all about that anymore. I truly am free. I am just me regardless of the angle. People see this in public too. I’m consistently given the male gaze or they try to make conversation with me. I catch women looking at my hair and outfits all the time. I pass very well.

So now I sit here at six months. And I’m absolutely thrilled with my results. If you are on the fence, and it’s accessible to you, I highly recommend to get FFS if it will help you achieve greater peace and comfort with your mind and body. I went to a surgeon in NYC, and would be happy to share the details if you’d like. I also would be able to answer questions about the whole process of getting and recovering from FFS. I hope this has been helpful to you!

This is my 6 month result:

[centurieslove]

Three days passed.

Nothing changed. Merlin felt trapped in a nightmare, the motions propelling him through his duties whilst his mind swam, heart clenched tight in his chest. He didn’t feel like he knew how to stop, if he did- he had an awful feeling that everything would crash down around his shoulders, so, naturally he threw himself into every menial task he could get his hands on. Arthur’s chambers had never been cleaner. His hands felt dry and sore, the skin cracking from the constant saturation in soapy water, whilst his nails were collecting little half moons of black from the polish and the dirt. Not just Arthur's armour, but the whole armoury had been seen to, cleaned and reorganised, swords sharped and metal links polished. Bodies of colour flowed past him as he meandered through corridors, between his various chores, blurry, his steps dragging and autonomous. By the third day, he’d started on Gaius’s shelving too, and spent the whole day pottering about the edges of the room, peering over his shoulder at the body laid on the pallet, when he felt like he could stand it no longer. He felt pulled in two; he was consumed with fear whenever he couldn’t watch over Mordred - yet being in the same room was unbearable. His skin felt stretched tight across his forearms, tingling, his stomach heavy each night as he approached Gaius’ chambers. He didn’t sleep the first night. Instead, he sat numbly on his own bed, fists clenched in his lap, blinking his eyes as they stung, staring through the wall at where he knew Mordred lay. Each hour that had passed, with his stomach shrinking in on itself, Merlin’s nerves grew: he felt on a precipice, breath held, waiting for the rustle of movement, the exclamations, the calling for the King, Gaius’s low timbre as he coaxed water down a parched and unused throat.

But Mordred hadn’t woken.

Merlin had spoke to Gaius, the first day. The old man offered his same tired platitudes, stressing that Arthur needed to make his own decisions- but Merlin had turned away. It wouldn’t be so. Not when those decisions would lead directly to his death.

Mordred hadn’t woken the second day, either.

Merlin rolled his shoulders. The midday sun illuminated the corridor before him, and he let his eyes fall out of focus. He’d barely seen Arthur: each dawn, the king already been up and dressed, dismissing him with a list of chores, sending him away seemingly without a thought. Merlin had noticed the pile of papers and scrolls grow on the king’s desk, noticed the empty goblets left on his side tables, noticed the swipe of mauve under Arthur’s eyes. They didn’t speak more than necessary. Merlin didn’t ask. Whilst the rest of his world was smudged, Arthur shone out, the creases on his forehead rendered in such high a quality it almost hurt to gaze upon. But Merlin didn’t look away. The short, curt interactions, Your breakfast, sire, when he sat it on the table; Will that be all?, taking the hot plates from under the sheets; The council is ready, sire, when Arthur was still gazing out the window. Thank you, no, that's fine, you can take this, air that room, you're dismissed, that's all, light a fire, would you, I don't need…send for… Just a few short words between them and Merlin's whole world would sharpen into painful focus: but then Arthur would turn back to the window and it would dissolve again and Merlin would take the laundry away and Arthur would leave for council and Merlin would excuse himself quietly and Arthur would leave for training and Merlin would leave for the kitchens and Arthur would leave and Arthur would leave-

The ache in his arms, his shoulders, deepened, pressing debilitating loneliness even further into his bones. For one impossible moment, Arthur had opened himself up to magic. Merlin hadn't even had to chance to revel in it. With every second he protected the king, he pushed him further away, and his frustration grew; boiling away under his skin at the fates designing it this way. He- he couldn't protect him. He wouldn’t stop trying. He could keep Arthur alive, or he could keep his trust. He was going to have to accept that those were mutually exclusive.

His steps were slow and heavy down the hall, the whole castle seemed on bated breath - but with each corner he took his heart would lurch, in his mind’s eye Mordred came striding confidently towards him.

The castle felt eerily quiet. The halls were empty, cold and unassuming. The dust in the air had even stilled.

Merlin swallowed, his throat had been dry for days. He arrived outside the entrance to Gaius’s chambers, readying himself for another evening wearing a hole in his bedroom floor where he paced. His stomach no longer protested at the lack of food, shrunken and expecting little substance. He regretted not taking the opportunity to smuggle away the abandoned remains of Arthur’s breakfast; of which there was more and more left on his plate, ever since they’d arrived back at the citadel. Maybe he could still-

Merlin stopped short, murmurs of noise greeting him, a varying cadence of voices from behind the physicians door, with one voice in particular rising in crescendo.

"- don't understand it!"

Arthur. He didn't sound calm.

Merlin approached the door with trepidation, swallowed, then pushed it open.

Arthur, deep blue tunic bright amongst the dusty browns of Gaius’s chambers, broad shoulders heaving: he was staring at Gaius, face contorted and pained. Gwen’s features were similarly twisted, wringing her hands as she held them in front of her velvet dress.

“What’s…” he began. All three turned their heads sharply towards him.

Gaius hastened a step towards Merlin. Gwen attempted a smile in greeting, but continued to look grey and stricken. Arthur threw his gaze aside almost immediately. Merlin glanced between them all, eyes falling on to the bed where a body lay motionless, someone pale, young, with dark curls resting just in view.

Merlin felt weak, like he might throw up.

Mordred.

“Gaius,” Arthur said lowly, his voice hoarse. Merlin’s gazed dropped to where Arthur’s fists were clenching white by his sides, Gwen’s hands reaching out to gently touch his forearm. “Are you certain?”

Merlin looked at the old man, watched his face tighten with grim displeasure.

“I’m afraid so, sire.”

Arthur started pacing. Merlin could see the anger rising in his face, screwed up and confused.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” he finally blurted out.

Gwen sighed, pulling Arthur round into her arms to stop his restless pace.

Gaius threw Merlin an inscrutable look, then started hesitantly, approaching the topic again like one would a wild beast. “He’s not showing any signs of recovery. His condition has not improved… it is my belief-”

Arthur grunted.

“- my belief, that he will not last the night.”

Merlin, stricken, said not a word.

“It was all for nothing,” Arthur grit out. Merlin stared at him. His eyes were wild with anger, searching for blame as if it was a beast he could slay, whilst Gwen, with endless patience, ran her hand down his arm. He turned, agitated, leant against Gaius’s workbench and hung his head.

“Arthur,” Merlin started.

He glared up at Merlin across the room. As if he’d caused it, as if Merlin had doomed Mordred himself - but, but, he hadn’t. Despite his desperate efforts. This… this was meant to be another failure.

Yet: Mordred was still dying, and Merlin, still failing.

"My lord," Gaius sighed. "You need rest." He stepped towards the king, but Arthur just shook his head resoundingly.

"I don't need rest, I need a damned explanation,” he demanded. "He is supposed to be recovering. He-” Arthur’s voice wavered. “That was the deal.”

He should have woke up. Merlin blinked, gaze desperately turning to Gaius, who’s grim expression gave little away. "It doesn't make any sense." he said, almost a whisper.

Cruel jokes were being played on him. He looked back to the bed. He half expected the young knight to jump up and embrace them all, revealing the entire thing to be but an elaborate charade. Yet, Mordred's lifeless form remained lifeless. Merlin felt anything but glad.

"His wounds were severe," Gwen said slowly, approaching the pallet. Her face was pained, and Merlin wondered who else she saw there lying, pale, on their death bed. "Perhaps they could do no more to save him."

Arthur's face was stricken in grief and despair, shoulders still shaking. Merlin’s head was ringing, his mouth dry and his throat sore from the bile, thoughts rushing fast to keep up with the events unfolding before him.

He thought of the three hooded figures, a misty cave, dark dripping around their shoulders. Releasing this judgement, holding Arthur to a promise that would - ultimately - doom him.

"They could have.”

Arthur glared at Merlin as he spoke up. Merlin blinked, realising he'd said it louder than he meant.

"What?" Arthur spat.

Merlin's eyes glazed over as he stared at the body on the bed then gave a slight shrug of his shoulder. "Triple Goddess," he muttered, as if that explained it. "They could have. Saved him. If they really wanted to."

The room fell silent.

Arthur started suddenly, giving Gwen's hands a firm squeeze and headed towards the door.

He spun round at the last second. “Send word if there is any change.” The King’s face was tight as he addressed his physician, who nodded, then Arthur stormed out of the quarters. Gwen sighed.

“If there is anything I can do—” she began.

“I will let you know, my Lady.” Gaius spoke softly.

Gwen smiled, small but steady. She rubbed Merlin’s arm and gave a small squeeze as she passed him, but Merlin could barely respond to return the smile. He felt his heartbeat follow the footfall until they were unable to be heard. His heavy breath suddenly felt so loud in the absence of Arthur’s rage and the silence left in Gaius’s chambers. He collapsed onto the bench.

“I—”

He couldn't speak.

Gaius slowly walked over and took his seat opposite, where the two of them sat for what seemed like hours.

Finally-

“He should be alive,” Merlin muttered. “He should be alive.”

Gaius crossed his arms.

“You're not happy?”

Merlin looked up in surprise.

“What?”

“Did you not want him to die?” Gaius's face betrayed nothing.

He furrowed his brow. “No. I mean—”

“You refused to heal him.”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, then.” Gaius stated, rising slowly from the bench. “You should be grateful that Arthur failed.”

Merlin grit his teeth. His eyes were burning again. This wasn't it, this wasn't- it wasn't supposed to…he never would have guessed that Arthur would have made that choice.

“Gaius, you don't underst—”

Gaius swung round, snapped at him. “No, Merlin, you're right. I don't understand.” The old man's eyes were alight, fiery as he shouted, but then something grey passed over them like a curtain being drawn and his whole demeanor shrunk back again.

“I'll leave you to celebrate your success,” he said quietly. And walked past Merlin and out the door.

more samples

[zalias-n]

Actin' All Okay

Preview & link

Stars, it's so hot. The longer I sit here the hotter I get, it’s like boiling water is trying to escape my bones through my joints. The only Places it doesn't feel like I'm boiling alive is where my hands and skull are pressed against Rus.

“Ye, ima take ‘er up.” Rus’s voice vibrates my whole body as I try to press further into him. The movement causes me to let out a whimper.  In a moment of clarity I realized what was happening to me. I’ve gone into heat. 

I’d be way more fascinated with this discovery if I wasn’t in so much pain. At the very least now I can try and find the memories of the “classes” we had to take back at the lab.

This was easier said than done but, I still managed to find the memory I was looking for.

. . . 

The same tall Intimidating man stood at the front of the room tapping a pointer at different parts of two different anatomical diagrams of ‘monsters’ “the Monster’s body Is vastly different then the human body as it is made of magic instead of the organic materials that make up the human body.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Stars, I hated this man and his insistent tapping. “This means that when a monster’s SOUL knows it has adequate food, safety, and possible ‘mates’ around it-” 

He always said mate with an air of disdain as if the idea was below him. “will start up a ‘Heat Cycle’. For most monster types this happens 2 to 3 times in a calendar year.” A pause. The man looks uncomfortable. 

“But since the lot of you are not pure monsters” the pure disgust in his eyes as he almost has to admit that we are part human “it will either never happen, or will happen according to the average human female menstrual cycle. Meaning that some of you will go into heat roughly every 28 days.”

Damn that alot. I’m kinda glad I'm in the ‘never happen’ category, that's what the doctor that's studying me said at least. “The Information we’ve gathered about Heats is limited, but from what we’ve gathered Heats have been given the name because of the literal heat that builds in the body due to the excess Magic build up that is created in anticipation of a monster child. The Pain from the heat can range from mild and just irritating to excruciating and debilitating.” 

I’m so glad the Scientist had the common sense to keep the subjects that didn’t have heat cycles in a different cell block from the ones that were in heat. The howling in pain and constant lewd noises are only muffles by the time they reach me, I'd hate to listen to that. “The only relief we’ve been able to suss out is either physical contact from a ‘mate’, this lets the magic flow between the two monsters letting the pressure release slowly. While this works it can take days for the magical pressure to return to normal.”  That explains the ‘buddy’ system some of the other experiments have going on. “The second solution is self ‘release’. This can be a quick fix for the immediate pain but it does not help in the long run.” He scans around the room, the barely disguised hatred behind his eyes. “And finally, Mating. The physical contact mixed with the release can shorten the Heat stage of the cycle.” His face was completely scrunched up in disgust now, it’d be comical if I was in any other situation. “Preg nan cy . . .-

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55474309/chapters/140772151

[vanilla-voyeur]

I identify as disabled and it has nothing to do with my near constant chronic pain and everything to do with my mental illness. My mental illness affects every part of my life, makes a lot of things difficult for me that abled people have no trouble with, and threatens my life. My chronic pain at worst occasionally makes it take 10-20 minutes longer to fall asleep when it's painful enough to be noticeable without thinking about it.

I avoid stairs for pain management reasons not for mobility reasons. I have just as much ability to go up 10 flights of stairs as any other out-of-shape able bodied person with the only difference being that it will probably take me 20 minutes longer to fall asleep that night. My mental illness is way more of a factor in the number of spoons it takes to go outside for a walk around the block than my chronic knee pain.

This puts me in a weird position where I feel like an imposter claiming to be disabled because it feels like mental illness shouldn't count no matter how debilitating and my chronic pain isn't bad enough to count either.

[dykeulous]

tw ed mention

i get so unbelievably frustrated when i see radfems relentlessly mock female enby people or non-transitioning feminine transmascs who are generally otherwise gender conforming, indulging in the same old transmed rhetoric that i always tried to turn away from. transmed spaces hurt me very deeply on an interpersonal level, and having seen that side of the trans community, constantly competing about who’s “more dysphoric”, “more trans”, romanticizing the hell out of dysphoria…… it pains me when i see the same rhetoric resurface under the guise of radical feminism. “haha the theyfab she/they who wears makeup and dresses and pushup bras is whining about being misgendered haha xD”– come on gyns. what the hell do we get out of being mean and unnecessarily cruel? it really reminds me of all the first-hand trauma i endured at the hands of my toxic transmed ex, who abused his ability to pass as cis better than i could, to be extremely transphobic, lesbophobic & overall cruel to me. transmedicalism is not healthy. while it might seem generally logical on the surface, as you dig deeper and deeper, you come to find that most people in those spaces are unbelievably misogynistic, homophobic, racist and transphobic. it might seem logical & useful to just go, “oh well transmedicalism helps trans people because it recognizes dysphoria as a condition”– but that is not the one & only component of transmedicalism. transmedicalism is quite literally built on strict assimilation, gender roles, eurocentric expectations; not to mention the overt bullying & abuse going on in transmed spaces. mocking someone’s dysphoria, and trying to prove that “You’re True Trans™” & “One of the Good Ones” is not going to bring about trans liberation. or anyone’s, really. you cannot know how much someone is suffering, and trying to tear someone down & intentionally trigger their dysphoria is cruel on a level i cannot ever sympathize with. i just can not. no matter how many times you are going to want to tell me that “it’s just a joke”, or how you’re only making fun of the obtuse & socially unaware gender conforming people– it won’t ever make sense to me, and i won’t ever understand why some of you are so set on trying to push disordered people’s buttons, specifically female dysphoric people’s. “haha the whiny non-passing transmasc got sooo dramatic over me misgendering him the other day xD so now i gotta keep it shut because of wOkE”, has been the sentiment circulating around self-hating trans spaces for the longest– why are we recycling their arguments?

i grew up pretty gnc. while i was with my mentioned ex, i passed the best i ever did. it didn’t help my dysphoria. i was under constant pressure. i hated myself. i hated spending time in an unhealthy environnement filled with edgy self-hating trans people who put passing on top of everything, who mocked those who couldn’t pass, who encouraged transitioning & regarded everyone who couldn’t– either out of economical reasons, unsafe environnement, or even just personal reasons (which were uniquely frowned upon & mocked, obviously)– as fakers, liars, deceivers, and attention seekers. i was pretty gnc for most of my life, and even when i did “pass”, i still looked more like a super masc woman than a man. i developed an eating disorder later in my life, and additionally discovered i had an autoimmune condition that disadvantaged & fucked with my metabolism to a high degree. that fucked with my ability to be as gender nonconforming as i would like to otherwise be. my hair was falling out, both due to the ed, and due to the mentioned condition; and now that i’ve more or less recovered from the ed, and have started taking meds for the mentioned condition; i started growing my hair out, so i could observe the way it was/if it was healing & growing out properly. i am no longer as gnc as i used to be, and my experiences are somewhat different, but my dysphoria is still debilitating. measuring suffering by appearance will never be a good tactic nor metric. it just falls in the unnecessarily snide category, and i won’t ever see it as anything else other than rude & mean commentary made at the expense of people in severe pain.

it’s really no surprise that they’re mostly coming at transmascs. not to say that they aren’t also super condescending & mean to transfems, but this sort of mockery is almost always directed strictly at transmascs. both from the trans & radfem community. i’m so sick of it. i’m so sick of people finding ways to reinvent misogyny to mask it as something funny or harmless or acceptable or even progressive. “shut it zippertits”, “cannot be mad people are misgendering you when you go out fully dolled up”, “am i going to be canceled for misgendering a big breasted feminine transmasc”, “you aren’t as trans as i am and you are fundamentally suffering less than i am!”, “you annoying little whiny dramatic theyfab ftm fakeboy stop being such a karen ugh”. your transphobic & misogynistic behavior isn’t any less transphobic & misogynistic when directed at a transmasc you personally find annoying or unlikeable. do better.

it's okay to call out a dysphoric person being comically out of touch, not realizing how gender conforming their lives are irl and how they benefit from it… but you can't assume that the person is inherently suffering less from dysphoria internally. dysphoria is a disorder. and like any other disorder, the ableist rhetoric - both for mental and physical disorders - that you can easily tell how much someone is suffering merely by their appearance actually can cause harm to people invisibly suffering. and that includes dysphoric people.

the very stereotypical visibly gnc trans person might face more gncphobia and overt transphobia yet suffer less from dysphoria, or not at all. yet a more gender conforming trans person might be suffering like crazy internally and be extremely debilitated, even housebound from dysphoria. both people need support and need to be good allies to one another. both people can be out of touch and say batshit crazy things about experiences they don't understand.

people who don't face overt gncphobia & transphobia have privilege from it and need to be aware of it and acknowledge it.

people who suffer less or not at all from dysphoria need to uplift more dysphoric voices, even if those dysphoric voices are conforming irl.

dysphoria is an often debilitating disorder. just like any mental disorder, they need the same amount of reasonable accommodations as we would give any other dysphoric person. just because this person is a they/them female person who identifies as a nonbinary woman doesn't mean she internally suffers any less than a more stereotypical trans guy. at my very worst dysphoria-wise, i sometimes looked outwardly more conforming than in my healthier days. this is also because i had worked hard on unlearning internalized sexism and teaching myself that men can be feminine and women can be masculine, and that trying to wear more masculine things wouldn't make me any closer to being male bc clothes say nothing about one's sex. i know other trans people who did a lot of that inner work, and now are told they must be fake, they must not be dysphoric any longer for being transmasc femboys or transfem tomboys etc. if we want the trans community to fight its sexism problem, we need to welcome those who no longer associate clothes with sex yet still have dysphoria. we need to welcome the transmascs who are more feminine yet still have top/bottom dysphoria, and the transfems who are more masculine yet still yearn from hrt & surgeries. if we are to treat dysphoria as a disorder, and want it to be properly treated, and heal the dysphoria that can be healed to prevent detransitions, we need to apply the same logic that disabled activists & mental health activists advocate for and dispell the myth that invisibly disordered folks inherently suffer less. i may be in a wheelchair but someone else might have worse pain and worse struggles than me in many areas; i may have more serious sounding disorders mentally but the person with generalized anxiety might suffer a trillion times more than i do on a day-to-day basis.

we radfems on the more tirfy side, or simply radfems who care deeply about dysphoric people - a big amt of us having a history of dysphoria ourselves or dysphoric friends - need to work on creating a stable balance between calling out the comically out-of-touch takes trans people who don't face gncphobia irl often say, and being aware of our own kneejerk ableist reactions to someone not looking "dysphoric enough" who talk about their personal suffering.

[othercat2]

Writer...

You have Character A and Character B spontaneously develop a soul bond. This takes place after Character B catches Character A committing some minor infractions, which does not impress Character B.

The elders of Character B's are horrified by Character A's background as a commoner and servant as well as his acts of mischief. This results in the soul bond being deliberately broken, something that is very shaming and also extremely, continuously chronically painful for Character A.

You have set it up so that

a) Character A is put in constant proximity to someone who is literally causing him pain equal to being beaten.

b) Character B keeps finding a reason to grab Character A.

c) Character A simultaneously believes that no one is aware that a deliberately broken soul bond, and yet does not tell Character B that the constant grabbing and also constant proximity is giving him a migraine.

d) For some reason, despite the debilitating pain, and his initial upset and horror that the elders broke the bond instead of just sending him away which would be the more usual punishment--to the point he rejects Character B as a soulmate in return--He's still hanging around character B.

Now:

Points A through C could be fixed by Character A telling B that he is causing A pain. OR since this behavior of not revealing information seems to be a habit brought on by past rejection, you could have Character A consider the possibility of telling him--or anyone--then decide not to, because under the belief that Character B or anyone else wouldn't care. This could be foreshadowing for a future even where it is very dramatically revealed that Character A is in agony, or Character A could decide to leave because it's physically painful to be anywhere near Character B.

Point D needs to be addressed. You have a situation where Character A goes, "well if you hate me that much, I don't want anything to do with you either!" I feel Character A should probably stick to his guns on that for a bit longer than half a damn paragraph. Unwilling attraction/attraction despite something that is causing actual pain needs some build-up.

Lemme give you an example:

So! ElfQuest. The elves in this comic book series have a Fuck or Die clause called "Recognition." Since elves have such a small gene pool this keeps Bad Shit from happening as a result of inbreeding. Recognition is great if you happen to be in love or at least serious like with your partner, and it's a prerequisite for the elf equivalent of marriage.

Recognition, however, can happen between people who a)really actually hate each other and/or b) met due to a combination of an epic misunderstanding and desperation.

This is what happened between Cutter, Chief of a tribe called Wolfriders, and Leetah, healer for a tribe called the Sun Folk. Cutter and his tribe have been journeying across the desert slowly dying of dehydration when they come across the Sun Folk village. Due to generational trauma, the Wolfriders at first think the Sun Folk are humans and since humans have a tendency to kill first and talk never when it comes to elves they decide to raid the Sun Folk.

Leetah, who was at the well to get water gets accidentally kidnapped by Cutter. Yes. Accidentally. You see, the instant he saw Leetah, he Recognized her and the next thing he knows he's slung her over his wolf and run off with her. He fetches up with his tribesfolk and literally does not realize he's carrying a girl and not the damn water jug.

This is...not an auspicious first meeting and the first section of the Quest is just Cutter trying to fix the stupid he got himself in, while Leetah is freaked out, angry and unwillingly attracted to the idiot barbarian himbo who is trying to apologize for his stupid. (There's also a whole bit with Leah's boyfriend Rayek, who is an arrogant little shit..but pretty justified in being pissy with Cutter for his little raid on the village.)

The thing here is that this entire Cutter/Leetah thing is a very slow build. Both parties are absolutely baffled by each other. Leetah is infuriated and enraged by Cutter's actions, and she's only moved to pity for the Wolfrider situation when she sees how badly injured one of the Wolfriders is.

There are some intense cultural differences here and there are some things about the Wolfriders that are utterly horrifying to Leetah (which we don't find out about in detail until the third section of the story.) It takes time to go from absolute dislike/mutual anger-confusion to "okay, despite everything, I am going to pursue this" and you need to make it clear *why the character is doing this despite the obstacles.*

In the case of Recognition: if we don't do the dirty we gonna get sick and die and also there won't be more little elves.

What's the case for a soul bond that was deliberately broken by the family of one of the parties?

[a-trainwreck-of-thought]

disappointment

The thought of being a disappointment is such a debilitating feeling for so many people, one of those people including me. The fear of not being enough and letting down those who believe in you serves as a constant reminder that you always need to do your best and avoid making mistakes entirely. But sometimes, the world reminds you that you are but a human, filled with flaws and susceptible to making mistakes.

Today was one of those days where I was reminded of that harsh reality, and with it came the agonizing feeling of both mediocrity and inadequacy. 

The day started off like any other day of me being stuck in a pandemic for the past two years, plain and boring. I immediately continued watching a k-drama series that I started just yesterday which I became deeply invested in. A few hours later, I had lunch and after that, I planned on taking a nap since I felt a food coma creeping in, but before I did, I saw a message on my phone of my college friends panicking in our group chat about their grade in Accounting. Seeing this, I immediately started experiencing a sense of impending doom, the food coma that was slowly creeping in instantly vanished and I rushed towards my laptop and went directly to our university’s portal to view my grade. The number that I saw on that screen made me want to burst out crying, it was as if my world was going to fall apart, the dreams and ambitions that I had seemed to slowly slip away from my grasp falling deeper and deeper to the dark void of lost hope. It was a 2.5. Such a simple number, but for us, it was a grade that signified that we failed the subject and that we should abandon our dreams of graduating with Latin honors. The overwhelming amount of pain and sorrow that I felt at that moment left me paralyzed; I just sat there looking at the screen of my laptop. From what felt like an eternity, I slowly regained awareness and immediately went to our group chat in order to vent. Needless to say, their reaction towards it wasn’t what I was expecting; they were optimistic about it. They kept convincing, what seemed like themselves, that our grades don’t define us and that we just needed to do better in the finals. I was dumbfounded, it’s as if they didn’t even take the time to grieve the loss that came with their 2.5 and 2.0 grades. I isolated myself. I felt alone in my despair. thoughts crept into my mind such as, “Am I not good enough?” “What will people think of me?” and “Am I really a failure?” I felt disappointed in myself, it was as if I let so many people down because of that number. It was utterly confusing for me since all of us worked really hard in the subject, we gained high scores in our quizzes and even gained perfect scores in all of our activities, the only low score that we gained was our midterm exam, but even then, we should’ve at least got a 3.0. I tried desperately to find an explanation, but eventually, I felt like my struggle was pointless and that I could no longer do anything about it. So alas, here we are, the day just keeps going on and on, and the disappointment that I have for myself just keeps on swelling. I fear that this will swallow me whole.

They say that “Expectation is the mother of all disappointment,” being exposed to such high expectations made me realize that it is such a toxic mindset and situation to be in, one that is enforced either by you or the people around you. It deprives you of making mistakes and it creates unnecessary consequences. Deep down, it angers me that I have to always satisfy these expectations because they were all put there without my consent, and now it’s as if I am obligated to always meet them. I wish that people knew how much their unsolicited expectations burden those who are at the receiving end of it. Ever since I became an academic achiever, I helplessly bared witness to how slowly people’s expectations of me grew. I couldn’t do anything about it since it was the only thing that made me feel as if my existence meant something, getting high grades validated my existence and made me convince myself that I wasn’t a failure. I knew that in the long run, this was going to affect me negatively, but being in the moment, I chose to be ignorant of it and just got lost in the feeling of how good it is to be looked up to by everybody. In retrospect, I acknowledge that doing well in my academics wasn’t the root of the problem, but instead the overwhelming amount of pressure that the people around me put on me. I wish that we live in a world where your existence alone validates you, and not the things that you achieve. When our achievements start to define us, we begin to establish a hyper-dependent relationship between us and our attainments; this is never an ideal situation to be in, as this introduces you to a world of torment. A world filled with disappointment, a world that stagnates your growth, a world that looks at you with a magnifying glass to see every bit of mistake that you make.

I hope that one day I can finally be freed from these chains that bind me. I wish that I no longer have to spend every day worrying about what other people might think of me whenever I commit a mistake. I want to be able to make mistakes and not be afraid about the repercussions that may come with them, I want to treat it as an opportunity to learn rather than likening it to a virus that I should stay away from. And for all of you who are like me that are struggling with high expectations, please allow yourself to make mistakes, know that failures come along with success, and always remind yourself that you are young; you have all the room in the world to grow. May we free ourselves from the chains of expectations, and may the disappointment that comes along with it crumble and get carried into the wind.

[fancytrinkets]

Difficulty Settings Adjusted (Trevelyan/Dorian)

Part 2 of a silly fic in which the act of reloading the game at an early save point gets incorporated into the narrative. Part 1 is Save Point Reload.

With each step he takes and every spell he casts, Trevelyan revels in how good he feels. For the first time in months, he's no longer suffering from constant, debilitating pain. It's delightful enough that he laughs to himself, his joy overflowing despite that he and Dorian are going to have a difficult time explaining all this to the rest of the Inquisition.

It may seem as though we've both just met, but in fact we've been married for decades. And it turns out we can't actually die. But don't worry, I promise we aren't maleficars.

That doesn't sound good — specifically, it might not go over well with Cassandra. Or Cullen. Or anyone else, actually. Perhaps if they had a solid, working theory, they could explain it in a way that makes sense. Dorian must be thinking the same, because he's talking it through — thinking out loud as he posits a reason.

"Alexius must have done something daringly experimental to the amulet. I can only assume he managed to add a magical failsafe."

"What sort of failsafe?" Trevelyan asks as he rifles through a desk drawer in search of Venatori letters and snippets of diaries — (he'd forgotten how much fun it is to do this!)

"I believe," Dorian says, "that in the event of his untimely death while trying to change the past, the experimental magic would have returned him to the moment the amulet was first activated — or thereabouts," Dorian says. "He would have designed the spell to keep his memories intact, thus giving him a better chance of saving Felix on his next attempt."

He pauses in his explanation as both he and Trevelyan approach a closed door. Faint, muffled voices can be heard on the other side. Dorian steps closer to listen, and then makes a swift set of hand signals. Still tucking a stolen letter in his pocket, Trevelyan nods. Four Venatori, possibly more. The plan is to hit them fast with chain lightning.

Trevelyan turns the latch and then kicks the door open. At the same time, Dorian's lightning spell arcs through all four enemies. Only one remains standing, but Trevelyan finishes him off with a quick second hit.

"I remember this being more of a challenge," he says, surveying the smoking corpses of their foes. "I'd even go so far as to call it a nightmare the first time through. A real trial."

"Well," Dorian says, "we may look young and beautiful, but at heart we're still wily old men, and we've honed our skills for decades. No surprise this is casual combat at best."

"Fair point," Trevelyan says.

He takes a ring from one of the dead men. It's nice — gold, with a fancy gem. Not enchanted yet, but that can remedied.

"I missed all the theft," he says.

He's aware that he's being flippant, but it hardly seems important. This is Redcliffe in 9:42 — the terrible, alternate future that will all be erased when they defeat Alexius and return safely to 9:41 — just like they did the last time.

"Explain the amulet further, will you?" Trevelyan says. "If this failsafe feature was intended for Alexius, then why did it happen to us instead?"

"Perhaps we unwittingly hijacked the spell when Alexius first used the amulet against us," Dorian says. "I suspect it wouldn't have mattered which of us died — either way, we'd both end up here together. And I also suspect it will occur time and again until the spell is finally broken."

"You think there's a way to break it?" Trevelyan asks.

"There's always a way," Dorian says.

He opens a door and then points to indicate the stairs. He's found a way up, away from the dungeons.

"There, you see," he says. "My point exactly."

"And what if we choose not to break this spell?" Trevelyan asks. "Would we truly never die?"

"A fascinating question," Dorian says, as he leads the way upstairs. "We could live lifetime after lifetime, accruing knowledge and power."

He's briefly interrupted by sound of Venatori guards shouting from the top of the stairs. But they pose no threat — a single burst of fire from Trevelyan's staff does them in. They barely have time to scream before the flame consumes them.

"You make it sound almost god-like," Trevelyan says.

"It would be, yes," Dorian says. "And I fear we'd become more terrible than all the elder magisters and the Old Gods combined. That's how a power like this always works."

"Must it though?"

"In truth I'm not sure," Dorian says, "but let's hope not. I'm irritable towards everyone when I haven't had lunch, that much I do know. But I've never much wanted to be the villain."

"You'd make such a handsome one," Trevelyan says, joking as he steps over the charred bodies of their most recent victims.

Dorian grins. "You're right about that. I would."

[a-skirmish-of-wit-and-lit]

Book Review: All's Well by Mona Awad

SUMMARY

All's Well is a dark, trippy, Shakespearean satire. Truly one of a kind. I'm temped to classify it as a full-on mind tunnel because of the many labyrinthine fun-house-mirror levels to it. The main character, Miranda, is a college theater director who suffers from unrelenting back and hip pain from an injury she acquired back when she was still a promising young actress. (She fell off a stage.) That injury cost her everything: her marriage, her career, and her health, among other things. With sympathy from loved ones, medical professionals, coworkers, and friends either running low or having expired because they don't listen, because they don't take her pain seriously any longer, she feels isolated. Surrounding her is a choppy sea full of judgment and scorn and disbelief. She's trapped in a chronic bubble alone where nobody can hear her screams. Everybody writes her off as a burden or a headcase, minimizing her suffering, or worse, trivializing it. She's also adrift, hopeless, resentful, and desperate for any relief at all. That only intensifies when she decides to put on Shakespeare's most controversial play, All's Well That Ends Well, at the school where she works, which no one wants to see the students perform but her. She meets resistance and grief at every turn. No one will pay her any mind, and she's beaten down about it, almost too sick and exhausted to be fed up. However, things start to change before long. They grow foggier and stranger and better after she encounters three male strangers at a bar. They know her name. They seem to comprehend her pain. They claim to how to make it go away. As it happens, they turn out to be theater patrons who not only want to fund her play but want to watch her put it on for the public...or do they? Who are these mysterious men, anyway? Why is it Miranda can't seem to register their faces? How come her back/hip symptoms not only dissipate but seem to afflict others in her place after she meets them? What is happening? Who is to blame? Is there witchcraft afoot or can this all be chalked up to her bitter imaginings, bath herbs, and drugs which to help numb her constant discomfort? ​ These are the sorts of questions readers are left asking. And the answers, if there are any, are fuzzy and deformed, which results in a lack of "what does it all mean" clarity that I suppose most would expect to be frustrating but I think is disarming in a good way because it's unique. It's singular. Like spinning out, it causes the sort of rush that leaves you momentarily unable to tell up from down. The story itself is a wild, fascinating, disturbing plummet through the center of a pain-hazed, drug-induced, golden remedy imbued, under-the-theater lights rabbit hole. It sucks readers right in. It grabs ahold of them as they tumble, twist, plunge, and pitch inside Miranda's mind--blowing them about so they topple into the real blinding hurt and dismissal people (women especially) face when they are victims of invisible but debilitating health conditions. It seems to ask: is there anyone out there who will listen? Care? Try? How come people only seem to understand when it's their turn, when they're the ones who are suddenly hunched over, broken and screaming and aching, so endlessly miserable they want to die? Not only is this book a bizarre blend of horror and hallucination, of fantasy and reality, of twisted literary allusion and suffering, but there's also an undefinable quality to it that toes readers along the edge of a rim to unbalance everything. Something about it distorts, disfigures--warping the lives, emotions, and experiences of all the characters within so you're left wondering what's real and what isn't by the end. Is there a way to tell the difference? Is there, you wonder? Having already read it myself, I don't know. Many days later and I still haven't been able to reach a consensus. Thanks to NetGalley and Simon and Schuster for the ARC in exchange for my review.

3.5/5 stars

**Follow me on Goodreads

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Whumptober No.26

Athos had always been a good rider, but now he realized how much of that ability was based on seeing. As his horse, tied to d’Artagnan’s, trotted along at what should be a comfortable pace, he had difficulties staying in the saddle. With his eyes bandaged, he had no inkling in which direction they were heading, what kind of ground they were navigating, if they were approaching an ascent or descent, and he was at the complete mercy of his animal’s whims. A few minutes into the ride, he’d given up on holding the reins and had been clinging to the pommel instead, his legs soon hurting from clenching them around the horse’s sides. 

They’d discussed letting him ride together with one of them, but Athos had insisted on using his own mount. His dignity was taking enough of a hit already, and he hated being a burden. At least he had d’Artagnan as his navigator. The best rider of all of them and gifted with horses, he was doing what he could to help Athos, guiding the black Friesian with a calm hand and warning Athos about changes in territory or speed.

Nevertheless, when they reached the garrison, Athos was drenched in sweat and sore all over. Under the bandage, his eyes were sticky and stung incessantly, and he could tell they were swelling shut. The cuts on his face were burning and he felt a little seasick. Although he couldn’t see anything, he could hear the noises of the garrison dying down as they rode into the courtyard. Sparring matches ended abruptly, conversations stopped, and Athos felt curious and concerned eyes on him.

“Come on, slide off that saddle.” Porthos clapped him on the thigh. “I’ll give you a hand.”

Awkwardly, groping for his brother’s arms and shoulders, Athos dismounted and heard d’Artagnan and Aramis ward off fellow-soldiers who’d approached to find out what had happened.

“He’s injured, and we’re taking care of him,” Aramis’ voice rang out. “He’s not in any danger. Go back to your posts and give him some space.”

A background of disconcerted murmurs followed Athos as Porthos led him across the yard, and Athos couldn’t remember ever feeling this exposed and helpless. Porthos had hooked him under, and yet he almost tripped on a protruding cobblestone. Jaw clenched, he forced himself not to stick his arm out to feel for obstacles. He didn’t want to look like a fool.

Inside the infirmary, Porthos deposited him on a chair and, with a squeeze of his arm, left to report to Treville. Athos was grateful for the cool quiet of the room and for the lack of an audience. He’d always hated the infirmary, but today it felt like a sanctuary. Exhausted, he let his head sink, fingering the bandage around his smarting eyes. His face hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt.

“Here, drink this.” 

Aramis pressed a cup into his hand, and the familiar scent of Sister Marie’s calming draught rose into his nose. Gratefully, Athos drank it up in a few large gulps.

“D’Artagnan is fetching Doctor Lemay. Until he arrives, let’s make you a little more comfortable, shall we?”

Athos nodded in surrender. The mixture of herbs and alcohol was quickly taking effect, numbing pain and fear and embarrassment to something he could deal with. It made him quietly compliant, and he let Aramis unbuckle his weapons belt, strip him of his jacket and, very carefully, peel the makeshift bandage from his eyes. But he tensed when he heard Aramis suck in a breath.

“That bad?” 

“No, it’s just…” Athos felt Aramis’ breath cool on his face when the medic inspected his injuries. “It’s very swollen, but that was to be expected. It will look a lot less dramatic once the swelling goes down. Sit back and try to relax.”

Aramis’ stool screeched across the floorboards when he got up and moved away. Athos heard him bustle about the room, pouring water, mixing medicines, gathering supplies, and he allowed himself to feel comforted by the familiar noises and smells. He’d witnessed Aramis work miracles within the walls of this room. Maybe there was one left for him.

D’Artagnan returned with Lemay surprisingly quickly. The physician was clearly out of breath when he leaned over Athos to examine him - the impetuous Gascon must have hustled him along at a merciless pace. Even before the doctor addressed Athos, he had identified the man by his clean, mildly perfumed smell and the jingling of the instruments in his medical bag.

“I’m going to be as gentle as I can, Lieutenant,” Lemay said in his schooled, caring voice. “But I’m afraid it’s going to be uncomfortable.” 

Athos nodded but felt himself breaking into a sweat.

Once more, his eyelids were forced apart. Once more, pain stabbed into his eyes and tears welled, unstoppable. Once more, he couldn’t suppress a gasp and wanted nothing but to bat at the fingers that were causing him such torment. And, once more, firm, brotherly hands held him through the procedure.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of the ordeal. 

Lemay ordered a treatment that found Athos squirming on his back on a table, Porthos pressing his shoulders down and Aramis’ palms firmly cupping his cheeks while an infusion of eyebright was poured into his eyes, streamed down his face and pooled at his neck, all of it, all of it, becoming so unbearable that he pleaded with them to stop until they did.

By the time they had him in a bed, his eyes thickly bandaged, he had to fight through a haze of exhaustion and disorientation to focus on the voices in the darkness.

“...Euphrasia twice a day. Summon me at once at any sign of inflammation.” 

“We will. Thank you, doctor.”

Athos heard light footsteps retreat and a door being shut. To his right and left, leather creaked and weapons jangled on belts, and he felt the presence of a brother on either side. 

“Aramis?” he asked into the swath of stinging black.

“What is it?”

“I didn’t... catch what Lemay said,” Athos admitted, swallowing. “About my eyes. Did he say if…?” He stopped, letting the silence finish the question for him.

“He said he cannot say if there will be any lasting damage.” Aramis’ voice was gentle and accompanied by a warm hand settling on Athos’ arm. “We will have to wait until you’ve healed. For now, it’s important that we ward off infection. We’ll know more in a few days.”

Porthos grunted. “You’ll be fine. I know you will.”

D’Artagnan, who, judging by the nervous pacing, had to be on his left, didn’t say anything, but Athos could physically feel the anxiety emanating from the Gascon.

“For now,” Aramis continued, “try to get some rest. Porthos and d’Artagnan have to report for duty, but I’ll be here.” The hand remained on his arm, an anchor in the dark. “Just rest.”

***

Athos had survived a lot of injuries in his life, but few of them had been as debilitating as this one. Although Aramis had assured him that all remaining glass had been washed out of his eyes, he could have sworn he was wrong: the constant scraping sensation drove him crazy and rendered sleep impossible. Rinsing them with Lemay’s prescribed infusion of eyebright- as harrowing as the procedure itself was - brought a few minutes of treacherous relief until the sandy feeling returned with a vengeance. And distraction was difficult. The darkness encasing Athos highlighted every sensation and made him feel helpless and claustrophobic. 

To make matters worse, the day after their return, his eyes had swollen entirely shut and started to weep sickly fluid. An urgently summoned Lemay had diagnosed infection. He’d added a solution of milk, honey and cooked onion to Athos’ treatment that Aramis applied with determination and diligence, accompanied by upbeat remarks. Porthos and d’Artagnan did their best to cheer him up with banter and reports from their day at the garrison, but their kind voices and helping hands did little to dispel Athos’ mounting fear and frustration. 

The nights were the worst. Although one of them - usually Aramis - slept on a cot right next to him in case he needed assistance, the silence that befell the garrison became oppressive. Once Aramis’ deep, even breaths announced that he’d fallen asleep, the pitch black behind Athos’ eyelids became an abyss, and he tumbled into it, blind. 

Blind.

What if the infection took his eyesight? And even if not - what if he was left with his vision compromised? Whenever Armis cleaned and re-bandaged his eyes, everything still looked blurry, Aramis a mere blotch in front of him. What if things didn’t improve? He needed keen eyesight to remain a musketeer. If he could no longer see well enough to shoot, to fight, to read, he would have to surrender his commission. What would become of him then? 

While he had no doubt that his brothers would stick by him, even take care of him, the thought was unbearable. Useless, helpless, dependent - it would be the opposite of who he was and not a life worth living. Not for him. 

“Athos?”

A hand found him in the darkness. 

“What’s wrong, Athos? Can’t sleep?” Aramis’ palm felt rough as he touched Athos in his by now familiar sequence - forehead, neck, wrist - checking for fever or pain. 

“How did you know I was awake?” Athos asked back. He’d been perfectly still.

“I could hear you thinking.”

“That is ridiculous.” Athos huffed, no longer bothering to turn his head in his friend’s direction. He’d given up on that useless habit two days ago.

“Not when your thoughts are this loud,” Aramis said, and Athos could hear the medic’s soft smirk in his voice. 

“If that is the case,” Athos replied, “I will make an effort to think quieter thoughts. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your beauty sleep any further.”

Aramis chuckled, and his cot squeaked as he settled back down. 

“That is very gracious of you.”

More squeaking ensued and the flutter of a blanket being rearranged as Aramis made himself comfortable a mere arm’s length from Athos. Silence descended once more, and Athos waited for Aramis’ breaths to even out and confirm that he’d gone back to sleep. 

Instead, softly, the marksman’s voice penetrated the darkness again.

“You’re allowed to be afraid, you know?”

Athos’ heart skipped a beat. His throat suddenly tightened. 

Damn you, Aramis. 

He was their best marksman for a reason, always hitting the bull’s eye. 

Athos swallowed but couldn’t answer. He felt tears rise and, for the first time, he was glad about the bandage covering his eyes. 

“You’re not alone, brother,” Aramis added, and the certainty in his voice almost broke Athos. “And whatever happens, you never will be.”

Fighting for control, Athos didn’t move, didn’t say anything for a few dozen more aching heartbeats. He just lay there, breathing raggedly and infinitely grateful that Aramis had the presence of mind not to touch him now. Eventually, he released a shaky exhale and nodded. 

“I know.” 

Dear god, he sounded like glass.

“Now get some sleep,” Aramis said, putting sternness behind his words. ”I’ll be here if there’s anything you need.”

And with that pledge, they both fell silent again, and, after a while, even Athos went to sleep.

***

There wasn’t a grand moment of truth. Not a momentous unwrapping of his eyes to find his sight suddenly and miraculously restored. Like any severe injury, this one took its time to heal, in stages, and at every stage there was no telling if further improvement would show itself. They were all relieved when the infection faded. The swelling went down, the leakage stopped, the stinging lessened. Every time Aramis changed his bandages, his vision improved just a little. Aramis went from a shapeless blur to a silhouette, to a body and a face whose details slowly, slowly swam a bit more into focus. The light didn’t hurt as much. Blinking was no longer agony. Finally, the bandages stayed off, and Athos moved back into his own quarters, one hand still on a brother’s shoulder to guide him through a blotchy, unreliable world, but grateful for his regained freedom.

Every day, he returned to the infirmary for treatment. Every day, Aramis played down the nervousness in his ever-same question: “Any improvement?” And every day, Athos looked around the room, seeing sharper edges, more nuances and, looking back at Aramis, familiar details reappeared: the scars and the stubble, the fine lines around his eyes and the well-tended tips of his moustache. 

“Yes,” Athos said, and nodded while Aramis’ trepidation merged into joy.

There were milestones that he took. Losing the bandages was the first. Recognizing friends when someone called his name and he turned around, seeing them approach, was another. No longer feeling for the holes in his weapons belt, but actually seeing what he was doing as he dressed, tied strings, closed clasps and buckles was a step as little and as big as the memorable day when, hands trembling, he opened a book and the blurry scrawl morphed back into letters that he could read.

The damage did not heal completely in the end. When he looked at the bright sky, he saw tiny specks swimming across his vision that hadn’t been there before - scars, Aramis explained - but he got used to them, and they didn’t bother him in his daily life. Reading was more difficult by candlelight now, and Aramis predicted he’d need spectacles at some point in the future, but his long-distance vision had returned as sharp as ever.

Treville put it to a test. He had to. When rumours spread - fueled by the Red Guard - that one of the finest soldiers in the regiment was no longer fit for duty, the captain had set up a series of challenges for Athos to prove them wrong. Athos mastered an obstacle course on horseback without difficulty, demonstrated his swordsmanship in a duel that was over in a few dizzying strikes and - the trickiest test of them all -  had to shoot at and hit targets from an increasing distance. While his marksmanship had never been as perfect as Aramis’, it was good enough: His friends whooped as another tin cup became airborne when the ball fired from Athos’ pistol sent it flying.

Afterwards, his fellow musketeers welcomed him back with friendly slaps to his pauldron and words of camaraderie, and Treville stepped in front of Athos with a proud smile to quickly pull him in for an embrace.

When he stayed behind to clean up with the other three, collecting bullet-riddled targets, sweeping up hay that had been strewn about and polishing weapons, Athos let his gaze roam over the garrison grounds, taking in every detail, every pebble and chip of wood, every glint of steel and dust moat floating in the slanting light of the evening sun. Then, he looked at his brothers. He saw d’Artagnan laugh and throw a handful of straw at Porthos, accompanied by some teasing joke. Porthos shook himself, grunting, and cast the young Gascon a sinister scowl before giving him a shove that was never meant seriously. Sitting at the table, an arquebus in his lap, fingers blackened by gun oil, Aramis rolled his eyes at the two but did not suppress a grin. 

Athos saw grown men acting like boys, shedding the worry and seriousness of the last few weeks like dead weight. He saw their hands that had guided him, helped him dress, helped him orientate himself in a suddenly blackened world, now slapping each other across the back, cracking silly jokes. He saw their eyes that had been his eyes when he couldn’t see, now shining with joy, three different shades of brown, three different souls looking out of them at the world, Aramis’ gentle ones now settling on him.

“Is everything all right, Athos?”

Seeing worry return to his friend’s gaze, Athos nodded quickly and decided that it was his turn to smile. 

“Yes,” he said, and sat down next to Aramis to clean his own pistol. “Yes. Everything is all right indeed.”

(Read all of my Whumptober fics on AO3, here.)

[aijee]

is this a life update or a novel?

Hi all, long time no post! Nice to meet you new followers, and nice to talk to you again for those who’ve stuck around. Just as a reminder, my blog is as much of a fic blog as it is a journal for me to sort my thoughts.

In that vein, here’s a personal update. CW for mental health/anxiety, physical pain, big life changes. There’s lighter stuff at the end!

It’s been both a long and short summer for me, after deciding to quit work and focus on my mental health. I’m a millennial twenty-something whose mind, like many, is tragically crippled with the capitalistic and individualistic values America has brainwashed me with, so I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with being unemployed and depending on my parents. I’m extremely privileged and humbled to be in a family that still maintains income during unprecedented times. I’ve been trying not to let my internalized struggles turn into this self-imposed shame for partaking in pleasures (I remember second-thinking buying a digital comic book for hours). My parents often say, “We worked hard and struggled because we didn’t want our kids to do the same. Don’t feel guilty for enjoying yourself.” Nowadays, they add that I’ve worked hard during college and my post-college job; in their eyes, I’ve more than “earned” a break, especially after losing my graduation, summers, and trips.

I constantly wonder why I impose so many limitations of myself even more during a pandemic. While being aware of global struggle is important for not becoming out-of-touch, I need to remind myself that people don’t have to earn the right to play or be happy or enjoyment. Obvious lack of nuance aside, it’s crazy to think how much capitalism—largely the idea worth is contingent (work) productivity—has deformed my sense of what’s a basic human right versus what should be earned. I think I’ve mentioned in a previous post that I struggle with thinking in extremes; it’s either starvation or hedonism, and the latter earns far more societal vitriol. I think my Asian upbringing has made me hyperaware of what others could be thinking of me, regardless of how accurate those projections are. I’d fact, I rarely assumed positive opinions. Outside of external validation, I realized how poor my self-image really was. Tearing myself down before anyone else could rarely, if ever, softened the blow.

For the first time, I’ve begun to think that my life is my own and no one else’s. It sounds logical on paper, but so much harder in practice in real life, I’ve realized. This isn’t a constant or ingrained thought yet, often peaking in between longer and more familiar strings of anxiety. But it feels like an important realization during a time full of sadness and uncertainty, let alone in my lifetime at all.

And then I injured my spine.

It happened towards the end of the summer, when I was starting to feel more put-together internally. I felt so creatively productive (in avenues I don’t care to share online) and even closer to family. I had a ball revisiting old shows. I ate food I hadn’t eaten in years. And this was suddenly interrupted when, while showering, I was wracked with unimaginable, nonstop pain. I nearly passed out alone in the shower and barely managed to crawl to my bedside to call my parents; I was lucky they came home early. I couldn’t stop crying for almost twelve hours. I was terrified at the possibility that I may be paralyzed or my legs would be affected. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case, but I was bedridden and wracked with nausea. I could barely stomach anything, not even water. I couldn’t sleep. I was never brought to a hospital, either on the fear of COVID transmission. The whole time, it was so, so debilitating on a physical and mental front. My head was a nightmare.

Like a bad habit, some of my worst thoughts centered around productivity. I worried about the work I couldn’t do. I felt shameful about canceling plans with friends. I hated being helpless and not being able to take care of myself, and felt guilty for wasting other people’s time taking care of me. And yet, if I was someone else, even a stranger let alone a friend/loved one, I’d be scratching my head over why that person would think these things. Fuck work and other life plans, getting better is the most important thing because you can’t do any of those compromised activities if you’re not at capacity! Duh. Anxiety can really a number on you sometimes and it’s awful just how irrationality fuels the spiral.

I’m grateful to be back on my feet. I’m trying to hold on tightly to that victory, to this positive point that I have worked towards. It’s going to be a challenge to do my recovery exercises daily for my 2-3 month recovery period when I barely remember to floss. Moreover, I’ll be in the middle of moving and working full-time again in the next month, alongside the ridiculous anxiety over some applications and maybe interviews for a different part of my life. But I’m doing my best to take each day at a time and celebrate the good things when they come, however small. I don’t have to ace a final exam or burn my retinas studying for them to deserve victories because, hey, again, happiness is a right and I need to stop gatekeeping myself from it.

Frankly, the injury is largely why I haven’t posted sooner. I don’t think anyone should ever feel obligated to use social media when they aren't up to it. But I actually wanted to ease back into writing before I was injured, starting with this blog.

Some other positive things:

God, I missed the Avatar (Aang and Korra) series so much. What a damn good franchise, what a damn good magic system and world. IT’S. SO. GOOD, GOD. Revisiting it all and reading the comics while I was sick was the single biggest joy that kept me going. I hope the magic lingers for as long as possible.

Even in my inactivity, I’ve received some really lovely comments on my AO3. I read the emails primarily. It really warms my hear to see them. I revisited old comments recently, too, and they’ve helped keep me going and reminded me that I am capable of putting joy into the world.

I’ve taken a liking to Youtube playlist-videos and Spotify playlists that encompass a very specific story scenario, like “dancing with the villain in a masquerade ball” or “driving around the French countryside”, etc. Japanese 80′s urban pop is SO GOOD.

Smosh has been putting out such great content y’all. I was BIG on old Youtube (Nigahiga, Smosh, Michelle Phan, Jenna Marbles, etc.) and it warms my heart to see their renaissance. Amazingly entertaining and down-to-earth content. I don’t fall squarely into their demographic anymore, but the periphery is still fun.

Food is great. I love food still. I’ve eaten a lot of good food during this break. It almost pains me to go back to living by myself and eating healthier. :’(

I didn’t realize how expensive moving was. But, after living in the same apartment from sophomore uni to post-uni work, I’m moving into a bigger “adult” apartment with appropriately sized appliances instead of the mini student kind. The possibility of treating myself to a king-sized mattress and decorations is also very exciting.

It warms my heart to see people in my vague social circles indulging in home art projects, like paint by numbers and “diamond” painting. As a kid I thought “not real art” was a waste, but by god as an adult do I not give a shit about what “real art” is anymore. If it’s fun, it’s fun. That’s that!

That’s all I can think about for now.

[lokimostly]

Could we have a lil blurb of Jonathan and the nurse! I just love them so much 😭

A/N: I’m gonna assume you mean James! I get their names mixed up all the time smh. Also, this turned into a full fic. Sorry.

As always, my version James Conrad and Nurse!Reader are written with pre-existing context from the Rainy Days series. 

Lean On Me

James Conrad x Reader

Word Count: 1,958

Warnings: injury

James’s ears pricked up and he paused. The shirt in his hands remained half-folded as his eyebrows pulled together in a frown. Either his senses were playing tricks on him, or a string of curses had just left your mouth in the direction of the hotel bathroom.

A small crash and another curse. No, he’d definitely heard right. 

He sighed, dropping his shirt on the bedspread. It was dark outside the open window. traveling from Paris to Milan, a ten hour trip by train, had thoroughly exhausted you both. The city lights twinkled through the screened glass as he crossed the floor of the suite. He rapped his knuckles against the bathroom door– it was slightly adjacent, but he erred on the side of caution anyway, leaning against the doorframe. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” came your voice, a bit too harshly, from the other side. Conrad’s eyes narrowed and he paused. He knew you well enough by now to understand that you meant the exact opposite of your words. You weren’t fine. Whether or not you would resist help, however… well, he would only know once he pushed open the door.

He turned over his options silently for a moment longer before taking hold of the doorknob and opening it, peering inside the hotel bathroom. You were leaning awkwardly against the wall, your face contorted in poorly-masked pain as you struggled to support your own weight on your one good leg. Your old wound was clearly acting up again.

Conrad was at your side in an instant, lifting you up into his arms like you weighed nothing and holding you firmly against his chest. An audible wince escaped you, but you pushed away from him anyway, making futile attempts to get him to let you down. “I said I’m fine, James–”

“Clearly,” he responded flatly, letting you down on the bed, shoving aside his carry-on bag to make space for you. He eased you down with exceeding carefulness, rising to his feet to retrieve pain medicine from your carry-on.

James felt a pillow hit his back and turned around, raising his eyebrows and drawing his mouth into a thin line of annoyance. “What was that for?”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“I never said you were.”

You scowled back at him, pushing yourself up and off the mattress. “I can get it myself,” you insisted stubbornly. Your injury, however, decided otherwise. As soon as your left foot hit the floor, your leg crumpled beneath your weight. You stumbled forward, hitting Conrad’s chest as he caught you against him, again. Damn the man’s impeccable sense of timing.

Your name left his lips gently, his tone soothing and calm. Conrad waited for the resistance in your arms to release, and you fell limp against him. He set his cheek against your head with a heavy sigh.

“Darling, it’s not your fault,” he murmured, eyebrows creased together. He felt your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, but you said nothing. Your chest shook with every exhale. The tension still held in the muscles of your arms as you clung to him told him that you were still in a great deal of pain, and it cracked his heart in half.

When you finally spoke, your voice shaky and trembling, his halved heart did nothing short of crumble.

“I just thought I’d be better by now,” you admitted quietly against his shoulder. 

Conrad didn’t reply. For a moment you thought he hadn’t heard you at all, until you felt him press a kiss to the side of your head, lifting you up and setting you on the edge of the bed once more. He eased your left leg down as it bent, trying not to wince at your reactionary outcry. 

None of the doctors had mentioned the side effects that came after a break like the one you had suffered during the LandSat excursion almost a year ago. The bending fracture in your left femur healed easily enough, but the tissue around it didn’t take as well to such a crippling injury. It had resulted in frequent insomnia, constant ache and – like what you were experiencing right now – bursts of crippling chronic pain. 

Conrad was patient in playing your recovery by ear, but you were less inclined to go easy on yourself. It was beyond maddening that you were unable to walk on a whim. Even though your episodes were becoming less frequent, it was still debilitating – and often frustrating to the point of tears.

You waited on the edge of the bed, bunching the fabric of the duvet cover in your hands while he retrieved pain medicine and a glass of water, handing both to you. You downed them silently and let him take the empty cup. James returned a moment later, kneeling in front of you and setting his large hand on your knee. 

You relented, giving him a barely-perceptible nod and letting out a long, slow breath. Conrad took it as permission to kneel between your legs and take your left leg up beneath your knee, running through the motions of extending it and forcing the muscles to unbind. He moved his hands slowly, with practiced care, murmuring words of comfort when your muscles contracted in pain. You held onto his shoulder, gripping tightly and gritting your teeth when a wave of pain would travel up your spine. This was something the two of you had done many times before, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

Uncounted minutes passed before the pain subsided. Some combination of the medicine and the patient work of his hands finally unbound the scarred tissue around your upper thigh, and you relaxed, slumping against him.

“I can’t imagine why you put up with this,” you confessed, with lingering frustration in your voice – which was somewhat muffled, given that you were talking against his shoulder.

Still, Conrad heard you, and pressed a kiss to the side of your temple. “I love you,” he replied, pulling away to look at your face. “Is that not reason enough?”

You gave him a petulant pout and dropped your eyes, playing with the v-cut neckline that revealed just enough of his muscular chest. “I guess,” you relented with childlike stubbornness. You traced your finger over his skin, running your nail lightly down the center of his chest. “I love you too.”

Conrad smiled and exhaled softly. “Really?”

You scoffed and laughed, leaning forward to kiss him, but it was woefully short, and he pulled you back for another. “You know that,” you reminded him when he finally pulled away, leaving behind the lingering scent of vanilla and sandalwood. It was a familiar, comforting smell, though admittedly cleaner than when you first met him: back then, he always smelled of firewood, too. 

“You chucked a pillow at me. I wasn’t so sure anymore,” James replied, with a look of mock innocence that was almost convincing, if not for the devilish twinkle in his blue-green eyes. He ducked his head down for another kiss and you laughed, pushing against his chest, but nowhere near hard enough to dissuade him from landing one right on your cheek. You rolled your eyes. “You’re a tease.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he countered darkly, planting a kiss in the crook of your neck, with the audacity to graze his teeth on your skin in the way he knew would make you shiver. You gasped and laughed, covering his hand with your mouth to prevent him from doing anything further.

He made a muffled sound and peeled your hand away, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist before letting go. His eyes met yours and his expression sobered. “How does it feel?”

You sighed, pressing your lips together and swallowing your pride. You lifted your leg cautiously off of the bedspread, waiting for a contraction of pain with bated breath.

Nothing came.

You allowed yourself to exhale and nodded. “I think I could stand,” you venture cautiously.

“Are you sure?” He asked, taking your hands. “We don’t have to rush.”

You shook your head, setting your feet on the floor. “No, I’m sure.” That wasn’t really the truth; you had little confidence in your own abilities. You did, however, have complete trust in the fact that Conrad would be there to catch you if you fell.

Conrad stood to his feet and held your hands expectantly. You took one more breath and put weight on your feet at the same time as he pulled you up with your hands, bringing you to stand in one smooth motion.

Your leg wobbled and you tightened your grip on his hands, your eyes fixed to the floor. He moved slightly, and you panicked, digging your nails into his skin for fear of falling. “Don’t –”

“I’m not,” he reassured you, adjusting his grip and sliding his hand up one of your arms, wrapping his other snugly around your waist. He held you against the wall of his chest, letting you reach up with your free hand and wrap it over his shoulder. You laughed suddenly when you realized the position you were in was typical of a slow dance, except that you were standing mostly-immobilized in the middle of a quiet hotel suite, and he was acting only as an incredibly handsome crutch.

Conrad hummed in his chest, reverberating against your ear. “What?”

You shook your head, smirking. It seemed silly. “We’re dancing,” you explained, and laughed again through your nose. “You know– without going out for drinks, the music, or actually seeing Italy.”

Conrad chuckled, stepping away from the bed with you held securely in his arms. “This is good enough for me,” he reassured you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and beginning to sway, holding you firmly in his muscular arms.

You clung to his shoulder, your fingers gripping so tight that your knuckles paled. You swallowed a rise in your pride and exhaled sharply, confessing your weakness. “I can’t be much of a dance partner, though. Just rocking back and forth.”

Conrad’s grip around your waist tightened and he dipped his head down, setting it against yours. “Lean on me,” he suggested lowly, his mouth hovering over your ear.

You nodded. You released any remaining tension or inhibition, allowing him fully to support you. The two of you began to sway in silence- Conrad would take a step forward and you would follow his lead, trusting his feet instead of your own. Soon you were circling in a gentle waltz, swaying to the sounds of the city outside instead of a vinyl record. His arm caught your weight whenever your leg shook with uncertainty: only once did it actually buckle, and he caught you without pause, continuing to glide across the floor. 

He lifted you up and you gasped a laugh, holding onto both his shoulders before he set you down just as fluidly and continued on.

“I didn’t know you were so good at this,” you admitted coyly, inhaling quickly when he spun you and pulled you against him with your back to his chest.

You could hear his smile in his words. “I’m a man of many talents,” he admonished, trying to sound humble. It made you smirk, and when he pulled you back to face him again you reached up to plant a kiss on his lips. Your dancing slowed to a sway as his attention turned more to your lips, moving against them without hurry, tasting sweet with every repeated kiss. 

You caught his lower lip gently between your teeth, and he chuckled. His breath fanned pleasantly against your skin, raising goosebumps. “I think our first night in Italy is going to be a memorable one.” 

You nodded, reaching up and linking your arms lazily behind his neck, deliberately toying with the hem of his shirt. Just because you weren’t going out tonight didn’t mean you would be denied your fair share of fun. “Yeah… I think so, too.” 

~ ~ ~

A/N: Thanks for reading!

[jeaniegreysummers]

making fire afraid || jean, scott & maddie

summary: jean feels a disturbance in the force (almost literally). together with scott and maddie, they go to her childhood home, only to discover her entire family have been murdered by an elite squad of alien warriors, determined to gain revenge for the acts of the phoenix. there is, however, one survivor who provides both information and a very hard decision to make.

trigger warnings: grief, death, murder mention, violence mention

featuring: scott summers, madelyne pryor

JEAN: It felt like someone stepping into a river while Jean was in the middle of the ocean. It was a ripple a thousand miles away, a slight shift of the pressure around her, but she could sense it at the back of her mind and it wouldn’t let her rest. It was far from a new sensation — Jean had been dealing with variants of it since her powers first developed, had learned to trust in it because it usually meant danger was on its way.

In this case, she had the sickening sense that danger had already come and gone, that something had happened and she was powerless to stop it. She’d tried and failed to push it down, tried to convince herself it was just the after effects of her neighbour’s first day at their new job, or the anxiety of the parents a few blocks away waiting for their teenage son to come home. She tried everything she could to pretend it wasn’t one of her problems, because she had enough of those to go around already. Eventually, Jean pushed herself up out of bed and made her way to the kitchen, determined that a cup of tea at four o’clock in the morning was all she needed.

It went well until she lifted the cup to her lips and a sharp pain shot through her temples, causing the hot liquid to spill out over the kitchen counter. “Shit,” Jean hissed, reaching for the towel — just in time for another spike to go through her, and the faint recognition that someone was behind her.

There were two options. Scott, who would hardly be surprised to see his wife awake at this hour and feeling another person’s pain (though it felt so familiar that she doubted it could be), or Maddie who … well, who also wouldn’t be surprised. In a relatively short space of time, her sister had more than proven her understanding of Jean’s ‘condition,’ courtesy of shared life experience, she supposed.

“I’m okay,” she started off. “It’s just—”

Her stomach turned, and Jean got a flash of memories, a snapshot of Annandale before everything went dark. It was the same as Annie, the second the car hit her. (They always said your life flashed before your eyes. Jean wished that was true. It would be nice to see her family again, if she could. It would be nice to see what good she had done. But of course, the world wasn’t nice. Death wasn’t nice.)

Jean turned from the counter, eyes wide. “It’s my parents,” she said. “We need to get to my parents.”

SCOTT: Scott had always been a restless man. It was a quality that had burrowed into his chest, one that planted itself like a tree within him and took root long before he knew it was there. He had no idea when it had started, if it had been within him before the plane crash or if it was something that came hand-in-hand with the burning parachute and the arms wrapped so tightly around his brother that he left bruises in the shape of fingerprints marking the skin. He knew only that it was there, that it had curled up inside of him and refused to leave long ago.

It had gotten worse, in recent months. Since his death, he’d been sleeping less and less. At first, it had been easy to blame it on the nightmares. Dying left you with no shortage of them, and Scott had two deaths under his belt now, two unsurvivable ends that had spit him out on the other side when they should have swallowed him whole. But the nightmares were less frequent than they had been months ago, and Scott was awake all the same. Deep down, he knew what it was. He knew it was the energy inside of him, the white hot flame that burned and burned and burned and would leave him in ashes before all was said and done.

He wasn’t the only one burning with it, of course. He knew Jean was awake before he made his way into the kitchen, felt her presence in a way that was both familiar and new. He didn’t know if it was their old, constant bond that lead him to her or if it was the piece of the bird nestled within him reaching out to the larger portion of it within her, but it was hard to resist either way. His feet moved of their own accord, walking towards her with no attempt to look for her, no need to search. He’d always had a way of knowing exactly where to find her.

She said she was okay, but Scott hesitated at the counter all the same. She did this sometimes. It had been more common back when they lived at the mansion, back when there were a hundred traumatized children under a single roof and she had loved every one of them enough to feel their pain in droves, but it wasn’t uncommon to happen later on, either. Jean was empathetic in the same way Scott was restless. It was a part of her, a thing that she wouldn’t be her without. And he loved it and he loved her even when it ached.

The wave seemed to be lasting longer than they typically did, and Scott was already moving towards her when she spoke again. He faltered in his step, hands hovering just above her arms. Her parents. They hadn’t been a fan of his in a long while, and Scott understood why. It was hard to love a man who’d gotten two of your daughters killed, wasn’t it?

“What’s wrong with your parents, Jeanie?” His voice was gentle, concerned. “Did you feel something? From them?” The sound of another person’s footsteps padding into the living room drew his attention momentarily, and he glanced up to catch Maddie’s eye from across the room. Perhaps she could shed more light on the situation, could feel her family the same way Jean had. After all, Maddie could offer Jean a connection to the Greys in a way Scott would never be able to mimic.

MADDIE: There was a tie to Jean that Maddie had felt before she had even came face to face with the woman. It was what propelled her forward to find this nameless face that made a safety and warmth bloom inside her chest. Most of the time it was like looking into a mirror of her own mind if she ever pushed forward that tiny bit to look inside the other woman's head. The similarity in their own power sets that Maddie felt solidified their familial ties to each other. Jean was her sister she had been convinced of that the moment she had met her. The force that had brought her there had brought her for a reason.

Restlessness was common when you could do what Jean and Maddie could she supposed. There was always a frequent stream of errant thoughts that people couldn't contain that Maddie had steadily learned to tune out, though unable to completely tune it out at times, some thoughts louder than others. There was also the empathic side of it all. Maybe Maddie didn't feel it as strongly as Jean, it being more subtle, but it was still all there. And that night it was gnawing at her and loud, the own feeling of dread hanging over her head like a dark cloud. Maddie couldn't quite find herself being able to ignore it.

Even the voice that always seemed to linger in her mind hadn't said anything. Hadn't let her brush it off.

Maddie found herself getting out of her bed, her feet seeming to take her to find her family. The dread pressed and pressed on her chest until it felt harder to breathe. Each breath was like a minor relief, releasing all the fear only to breathe back in the debilitating dread. She hovered almost anxiously in the living room, a pain blooming in her own head. It made the woman flinch, fingers pressed against her temple and letting out a sharp breath.

A mirror, that's all Maddie could think of in that moment. The pain was diluted down, a mirror image of what she was sure Jean was feeling. Almost the same, but not quite. "We need to—" Maddie let out a frustrated noise and shook her head. It wasn't good. Whatever it was that was happening that was resulting in this mounting feeling of doom that centered around Jean's (their?) parents. "We need to go now. It doesn't...something is wrong. I can feel it too. I don't know what it is...I can't tell, but it doesn't feel good." And that scared Maddie.

JEAN: There were certain people who were always front and centre in her mind. Scott was one of them, right from that first day — a subconscious manifestation of her abilities, according to Charles, owing in large part to her attraction towards him (he always had a reason for something, always had an explanation. Mutant existence was merely a form of evolution, another avenue of science). Ororo was near and dear to her heart, their emotional responses similar if not exactly in tune. Maddie, an obvious example, often saying the same thing at the same time, shooting thoughts around like she was bargaining in her own head. Her parents, her siblings (with the notable exception of Sara, who was long gone), they’d never been on that list.

There had been love, she thought. Her father used to hold her on his knee in the office, used to bounce her there for hours on end even as his leg cramped up and he was wearing a frown, marking his students’ papers. There had been love when Julia pressed a kiss to the top of Jean’s head during their grandmother’s funeral, or when Roger reached for her hand at her wedding. There had been love when she was pulled from that swimming pool, love when she crossed the stage at her graduation, love that drove them to phone Charles Xavier in the first place out of concern for their daughter. There had been love, but no connection, not really.

Nothing like this, at least. Nothing that had Jean reaching for Scott’s arm, nothing that had her eyes widening as she looked over at Maddie and felt that panic reflected right back, even if it was dulled around the edges. “I felt them,” Jean said. “I heard them. They were thinking … they were calling for me.”

That had never happened before. Not in decades, not even after battles broadcast on the television or newspaper stories that said mutants were dead on the streets. Her parents, once they passed her into the care of the Institute, once she walked up that aisle and married a mutant, thought of her only in passing moments, when they pulled out family photos they couldn’t erase her from completely.

Her siblings came through too. (It was then Jean realised something. She didn’t know Roger’s address, or Liam’s, or Julia’s. They’d all moved, she was sure, over the years. They’d all moved and they hadn’t asked their telekinetic sister to help lift the boxes. She never sent a card.) Her siblings came through, but there was only one place Jean knew to go to.

Annandale-on-Hudson. That big, panel clad house with symmetrical windows and a filtered pool and stripes on the lawn. The only room she could remember with perfect clarity was the library, and even that had to have changed--

It did. In the brief, shattering moment of clarity, Jean saw a green wall that had been blue before. “They’re upstairs,” she yelled back to her husband and sister, barely allowing the car to pull to a halt before throwing the door open, feet hitting the tarmac (Annie died on this road. Annie’s blood was still in the stone, deep down. Annie died, and now her family--)

She burst into the house, a quick wave of her hand launching the front door off its hinges into the manicured hedges. The sprinklers stuttered against the intrusion, water changing course to hit against the windowpanes, and Jean continued through the hall, up the stairs, counting them as she went, her breath tight and hot in her chest.

Two, four, six … sixteen, eighteen, there.

The office door disappeared without a thought (she couldn’t tell if she’d meant for it to happen, or if Maddie was clearing her path — if the people she loved were making things easier even as the world fell down around her). The door opened, and there was red on that green wall.

Her father was there. Her mother, too. Their eyes were still open, their mouths in a permanent gasp.

“Scott!” Jean screamed, the skin on her knees ripping as she dropped onto the carpet, hands going to her father’s neck. “We need an ambulance! They’re not—”

SCOTT: The feeling of another person inside your mind wasn’t as strange as one might assume it would be. For Scott on that park bench all those years ago, it had felt natural. Of course, he had experienced it before the girl with red hair sat down beside him --- Sinister’s presence in his mind was a cold fear, Winters’s was a sharp blade --- but Jean was different. Jean was safety. She was belonging, she was understanding, she was natural. Jean, Scott often thought, sometimes seemed to belong inside his head better than he did. And Maddie was the same. Their connection was different, less straightforward, but it was just as simple. Just as natural.

And right now, both of those connections were taut.

It was like a tightrope, like the red strings that seemed to bind them were pulled so tight they could be plucked like guitar strings, made to make melancholy music that would fill any listener with dread. Scott thought to another night in another place, to Sara’s voice on the phone low and tinny and scared. ”You have to come, Scott, please, I didn’t know who else to call, I didn’t know -”

He shook the memory away, forcing himself back into the present. Back to Jean and Maddie, back to two women he trusted with every ounce of trust he had within him, back to the twin expressions of panic and dread on their faces. “We’ll go to them,” he said, hand on the small of Jean’s back as he pulled her in. “It’s going to be okay, Jeanie, it is. I promise.”

(And the last time he said that ---

The last time Scott promised Jean that everything would be okay, he ended the night choking on his own blood. The last time he promised her a happy ending, she buried him in the dirt and placed his name upon a stone. Smarter men would have learned, in that moment, that promises were hard to keep.

Maybe Scott had never been half as wise as he liked to pretend he was.)

The drive was quicker than it should have been, with speed limit signs being taken as suggestions and stoplights being manipulated by minds that had always had the upper hand over matter. Jean’s parents’ house looked like it had years ago, when Scott was eighteen and came over to dinner in a cheap suit and clip-on tie because he wanted to make a good impression on his girlfriend’s parents but he didn’t exactly have the cash to do it. It looked like it had a few years after that when they drove back there for lunch after burying Sara, or a few years after that when Jean was in the ground and her parents began to look at Scott as if they were putting the pieces together and solving the equation at hand to find the smallest common denominator.

The house looked the same as it always had, but it was different. Even from the outside, Scott knew. Dread built steady in his gut, weighed him down like a rock, threatened to cement him to his seat in the car. If you were familiar enough with death, he often thought, you could feel it long before you saw it. When you’d watched enough people die, you didn’t need a front row seat to every tragedy to comprehend what had taken place. Jean was out of the car in a heartbeat, and Scott wanted to stop her. He wanted to stop the entire goddamn world, wanted to keep her from losing anything else, wanted to let her live forever in the moment before the tragedy when there was, for a heartbeat, hope that everything might turn out in the end.

But eventually, every heartbeat gave way to the next. Eventually, that last moment of hope disappeared. Eventually, tragedy reminded you that it was not a thing to be ignored, that it was there and it was hungry and it would never steer clear of you for long.

He heard her voice scream his name, and he knew. He knew.

Years ago, he was too late to save Sara. He got there and she was gone, she was dead, and Jean ached with it even now. And Scott had heard, once or twice, that history had a way of repeating itself. He’d experienced it before, of course, watched Jean die so many times that her name scarred the inside of his throat with the grief of having screamed it so often, but this was different. This was rawer.

Jean came back. She died and he mourned and she came back to him.

But Sara never did.

And the rest wouldn’t, either.

He was at her side in an instant, breath catching as he looked down at his in-laws, at people who had hated him for good reason, at people he had failed and failed and kept failing. And there were no words, in moments like this. There was nothing to say. Tragedy had a way of grabbing you by the throat and squeezing, a habit of snatching the words out before you could say them.

“Jean,” it was a whisper, the loudest thing he could manage. “Jean, I don’t --- It’s too late. It’s too late.”

MADDIE: It was like the beginning of a very dark, treacherous storm. Maddie had a feeling that unfortunately this was going to be the start to a very dark night. Scott promised that it would be okay, that they'd go to them, and they would, but...Maddie could make herself to make that promise. Not when the panic tugged and pulled at every part of her being, the threads being pulled tight and it was only a matter of time before one of the Fates decided which string to cut.

Each light on the drive flickered to the right color, to push them forward. Closer to the eye of the storm and the dark cloud thickening with each exhale of breath, each heartbeat. The house came into view and for one breathtaking moment, Maddie was hit with...memories? It felt like a picture just a hair too far away, you could barely make it out, but you didn't see all the details. She could remember running down a hall, the feeling of grass between her toes as she basked in the summer sun.

It felt familiar, a minor moment of comfort before it immediately dropped away in the face of the car door shoving open and Jean running towards the home.

Maddie was quick to unbuckle herself and rush after her sister, a few paces behind her and her heart lodged right in her throat with the overwhelming dread. Her fingers curled into a loose fist and she pulled her arm back abruptly, throwing the office door open right as Jean made it to the destination of all their fears combined. Tears stung at her eyes as she stood in the doorway, Scott making it up the stairs just as fast as they did and dropping beside Jean. The whisper of 'it's too late' causing the tears to finally brim over, staining her cheeks.

Too late, too late, too late.

Death took and it took without a care. Until there was nothing left and left a house silent with immeasurable grief.

It wasn't until Maddie forced herself to look away from the heart wrenching sight that she picked up on something else entirely. She felt another presence there, one that she hadn't picked up on until now. It was quiet, but still there. Someone other than the three of them was in the house and they were close. She didn't feel a threat, it was just...fear and...anger. So much anger swirling around with the intense fear that plagued this person.

Taking a step back, Maddie hated having to leave her sister and brother in law, but she needed to see who was there. Who this person was that had been left alive when their—Jean's parents had been taken for violently from this world. Jean had Scott, she always did. It lessened the ache in her heart to have to step away while her sister was in need of support. The steps away from the office felt less heavy as her feet took her down the hallway, closer and closer to the presence that was becoming more pronounced with each step. Maddie came to a stop in front of a door, hand wrapping around the doorknob and trying it only to realize it was locked. It took only a moment of concentration before Maddie was able to use her mind to click the lock the other way and open the door.

Stepping inside of the room Maddie could hear the labored, panicked breaths and how sweltering hot the air was in the room. Her brow furrowed and she stepped further into the room only for the bed to go up in flames. Maddie couldn’t help her surprised yelp and she staggered back, eyes wide. A form finally scrambling out from beneath the bed, hair a fiery red as flames engulfed most the person’s form. It took a moment to realize that she wasn’t...in danger, but the flame didn’t seem to be harming her. She was controlling it. She looked beyond terrified, ready to attack if need be even as she shook and the fire started to spread.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Maddie tried to soothe, taking a step back as the heat in the room grew. “It’s okay. I promise,” she glanced back almost desperately as she swung the door back shut to try to keep Jean and Scott away, not add to the grief and trauma plaguing her sister. ”I won’t hurt you, you’re safe now.” She took the chance to reach into the girl’s mind and as much as she hated digging through mind’s, she wanted to calm her down before the fire took them all with the scared girl.

JEAN: Most people, when they heard what Jean did for a living, assumed that meant she brought people back from the dead, with or without the Phoenix. They assumed that her hands saved hundreds in a week, thousands in a year — assumed that when she touched someone, they were safe. That was sometimes true. More often, what Jean did was come in to make a decision about when to give up. It wasn’t something you talked about in college applications or job interviews, but it was what separated people into could and could not. Charles prophesied about hope eternal even in the midst of insurmountable odds — Jean was forced to abandon that hope, to touch people instead to comfort, to explain that sometimes, the world was cruel. Sometimes, there was nothing you could do.

It wasn’t easy to say that to someone. It wasn’t easy to destroy their world in an instant, wasn’t easy to be yelled at and understand instinctively, intrinsically, where that fear and anger came from. It wasn’t easy, but this? This was something else.

Her parents’ chests weren’t moving. Their lips were blue. There was blood on the carpet and sinking into the wallpaper, and Jean knew, rationally, logically, that there was nothing she could do, that this was just another cruel thing the world sent her way.

But the cruelty Jean had faced in her life wasn’t of fate or destiny. The cruelty she had faced always had a similar tinge, always came packaged the same way. It was always her fault. She felt it, instinctively, as she looked at her parents, felt it deep down in her gut as Scott stepped towards her and she immediately grabbed onto his shirt, burying her face into his shoulder.

Her siblings were hard to find, sometimes. They were hard to find, but never this impossible, never this far. “They’re gone,” she said. “They’re all gone, Scott. How can they all be gone?”

On the other side of the house, flames flickered through the room. It wasn’t cosmic energy, wasn’t part of the Phoenix that remained conspicuously silent. Instead it came from Derry, from her hands and her heart that felt like it was on fire as much as the papers on her grandfather’s desk that were curling and turning black.

No, not her grandfather. She knew that now. There were no secrets anymore, nothing to hide behind perfect veneers and family dinners with one chair always left empty. She didn’t realise someone else had walked in until the other woman was right in front of her, and for a second, the flames burned all the brighter.

We are here for Jean Grey, and her blood, they said. We are here for the Phoenix host. We are here for our people.

Jean Grey, the woman who took over cities, the woman who ripped prisons apart, the reason Derry was targeted in school and her grandparents locked themselves away in their home for the past two months. Jean Grey, who was her blood, until she wasn’t.

(They’d kneeled down in front of her, touched the side of her face, and said, We are here for her blood. We are not here for you. They left her, alone, and she realised in the same breath that her father was not her blood, and he wasn’t breathing anymore. He wasn’t there. He never would be again.)

“Get away from me—” Derry started, pushing back further into the wall, the plaster crumbling around her. “You’ve done something. You’ve turned me into…”

Calm. It was sudden, pervasive, and enough to let Derry see something like subtle differences. This wasn’t how they described Jean, the aunt she’d never really known.

The flames receded only slightly, just as someone banged against the door, attempting to come in. Derry leaned in, gaze unwavering as she met the stranger’s eye.

“They want the host,” she said. “My dad is dead — everyone is dead — because of you people.”

(You people. Warmth crept up her skin, unharmed by the flickers of light. You people included her, now.)

The fire grew once more.

SCOTT: When Scott Summers was a child, the world bottomed out beneath his feet. The plane his father was piloting, the vessel he trusted with every ounce of faith he had in him, rumbled and shook and fell apart bit by bit. Smoke filled his nostrils, his lungs, his heart, and it was a strange thing to be less than ten years old and know with as much certainty as you knew your own name that you were going to die. There was a strange sense of calm about it, a simplicity that he hadn’t felt since. And he’d been wrong, of course, but only because his mother made him wrong. He was alive because someone had saved him, because Katherine Summers was willing to forfeit her own life to ensure he got to keep his. The only reason Scott made it off that plane, the only reason he was alive right now, was because someone thought he was worth saving.

He wondered every day if his mother ever learned how wrong she was.

Scott was alive because someone had saved him. He was breathing because other people made it so. And on the floor in front of him, stiff and still in their own home, John and Elaine Grey were dead. Dead like their daughter, whose house Scott had shown up to just in time to see her fall. Dead like Jean, who was here and breathing and mourning even though Scott had buried her so many times that he’d grown to expect it now. Dead like all the people he’d ever failed to save, like the list that grew longer and longer with each passing day, like the names that echoed with every beat of his heart and reminded him that he was a failure, that he wasn’t enough. When Scott Summers was a child, the world bottomed out beneath his feet, and it was happening again now. The plane was shaking, the metal was creaking, and Scott would make it out alive regardless of how little he deserved it because other people made it so.

So consumed by the sight before him, he didn’t feel Maddie slipping away. And that was strange, that was unsteady, because he should have felt it. He should have recognized the feeling of her mind distancing itself both physically and mentally, should have been intuned to the way she left the room, but he wasn’t. He was laser-focused on his in-laws dead in the floor, on the grief pulsing from his wife at his side, on the world turning itself upside down and trying to shake him loose.

Jean clung to him, buried her face in his shirt, and Scott tried not to think about Alex doing the same as the parachute burned above their heads. He tried not to think about how he always ended up here, falling and falling and trying with a desperate grief to cling to what he could save while staring up at what he couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, and he didn’t know if he was talking to Jean’s head tucked beneath his chin or to John’s unseeing eyes glaring a hole through his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

The scent of smoke crawled up into his nostrils, curled around his lungs, and Scott was falling. The parachute was burning above his head, and the ground was coming at him too quickly. Somewhere, something was burning, and all the people who had given everything to save him had wasted their efforts because fire was indiscriminate in what it destroyed and smoke would wrap its wispy fingers around your throat and strangle you no matter how many people died for you. The world bottomed out beneath him, and two people were dead above him, and something was burning, and Scott wasn’t a little kid anymore but he felt like one anyways. Jean’s world was shaking, and Scott didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to help her through grief he didn’t understand himself, didn’t know how to ---

His nostrils flared and the smoke climbed higher, and Scott realized that the scent was not confined to the broken memories in his own head. Something was burning, here and now. Something was burning in the same house where Jean’s parents were dead on the floor, something was burning a room or two over from where his in-laws were murdered. He glanced around and, for the first time, recognized that Maddie was gone. His heart faltered in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat.

With the realization that his nose wasn’t playing tricks on him, the rest of his senses returned with a startling assault. He heard shouting, frightened and uncertain and young, and for a moment the word Alex waltzed into the forefront of his mind in answer, but Alex was grown now and he wasn’t here, and something was happening in the present that had never happened in the past. Someone was alive, somewhere. Someone had survived.

Scott shifted towards the door, gripping Jean tightly. “Jean,” he said lowly, “who else is here? There’s someone --- Something is burning, Jean. Someone’s shouting. Can you reach Maddie?”

MADDIE: The swirl of emotions in the house and in such close capacity was enough to make Maddie’s head ache fiercely. She never had been huge on the empathy, it was there, it had always been there but this was something else entirely. The grief that came flowing off Jean like a never ending waterfall that was loud and unforgiving, the guilt that came from Scott like a shot directly to the chest, and the anger from the girl before her that raged just like the fire creeping further into the room. The fire didn’t hurt her, but it wouldn’t hurt Maddie either. She felt it in her chest on the daily, the anger that would creep in unsuspectingly at a moment’s notice that made her want to take down the whole city with it. The smoke was enough to make her cough and make it that much harder to breathe through the grey that billowed through the room, but it didn’t scare her surprisingly enough even as the fire crept forward and forward. You couldn’t make fire afraid.

Something seemed to click in Maddie, stepping forward closer to the young woman who was crumbling apart as the world seemed to fall around her. “I didn’t do anything to you, sweetheart,” Maddie said as calmly as she could, trying to keep her attention on her, not staggering back this time when the fire seemed to flare angrily once more. “The host? What do you--” She coughed and covered her mouth with her arm, flicking the lock on the window in the room with her telekinesis and shoving it open to pull the smoke out of the small room. The anger that burned as bright and fast as the fire around them was mixed in with an intense pain that Maddie knew was unmeasurable. It held the same strength of the grief that poured off of Jean and made Maddie’s own heart feel heavy enough to fall right to the floor.

The host. She had said someone was after the host. That meant someone...something had come to the house and killed Jean’s parents in an attempt to get to the host?

It didn’t make much sense to Maddie, it left her with more questions and answers even as the voice in the back of her head finally seemed to flutter to life. ’

I can explain later. Get her out of here. Now. You know what to do.’

Maddie grimaced. She did know what to do, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. Intruding in someone’s mind was a tricky thing and it always left her with a part of that person she was never meant to see or wanted to. “I’m sorry,” she offered to the young girl and pushed forward into her mind, searching and searching until she was firmly in the other woman’s mind to make her eyes flutter shut and promptly pass out. Maddie surged forward and caught her before she hit the floor, tugging her along towards the door.’

I’m okay, I’m okay--’ Maddie finally reached out with her mind toward the link she had with Jean, feeling the guilt seeping in at going off alone. She coughed roughly and grimaced, pulling back from the link to push the door open out of the room to get them both out.

JEAN: She had been alone for so long.

There was a dark part of a person’s mind that appeared only when they were dead. Charles explained to her when she was eleven years old and shivering, in as delicate a way as one could talk about such things, that it wasn’t so much a place as an absence. It was an empty space, it was devoid of light or colour or sound. It was nothing. A young Jean listened to this, considered a lack of any kind of thought, and realised that death truly was the end. There was a flash, there was a moment of memories shooting through your mind, and then there was nothing.

Annie was in the nothing. Her best friend from college, her sister, her husband, her friends and found family, her blood now, they were all in the nothing. They all ceased to exist. They all took their last breath, and they didn’t go to that white room with flames in the walls that never burned through skin. They took their last breath, and they died.

Jean was so fucking terrified of death. The idea of it, the smell of it, the taste in the air. She’d seen it a million times on the battlefield, in the back of ambulances or resuscitation rooms, in operating theatres and in the halls of her childhood home. She’d seen it a million times, and still she felt like she stopped breathing along with them.

But Scott’s shirt still smelled the same as it had that morning when he came up behind her making breakfast. His arms still felt the same around her, still managed to let her lungs expand in her chest, let her focus on something here and now instead of the memories that crept up.

Being underwater, the chlorine in her nose and making her eyes sting. How Charles had appeared in that darkness, had told her it’s time to leave now, Annie isn’t here anymore. (She is, Jean had said. She will be here. She’s only a few minutes away. She’ll come back. Only old people die.) Her brother screaming at her at Sara’s funeral, the tears in her father’s eyes the day of her wedding. How her mother had never spoken to her after she changed her name.

“No one,” Jean muttered, throat thick and aching with … smoke? (The fire had never touched her before. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the last time. Maybe that white, hot room was going to keep her forever now. Maybe people really could die of sadness.) “There’s no one left. They’re all-”

Maddie.

Jean pulled back, meeting Scott’s gaze. “This way,” she said, fear welling up with the dread, hand going to Scott’s as she pulled him towards the source of Maddie’s familiar mind, warm and comforting and as enveloping as a blanket around her shoulders.

Home, her other half.

I’m okay.

The door opened just as the flames flickered out, ash scattered on the ground and photographs with curled edges laying amongst shattered glass. “Maddie!” Jean crossed the small space between them, the floor hot enough to burn through the soles of her shoes but not through her skin. (You couldn’t make fire afraid.) Jean reached for her, hands going to cup Maddie’s face, pressing a hurried kiss to her forehead -- and then she realised who she was holding.

“Derry,” she whispered, glancing over at Scott. “I didn’t feel her. Maddie, did you…”

This isn’t cosmic flame, the warped voice provided (she sounded so far away, today). This is something else.

Jean took one hand from Maddie’s face, touching it to the side of Derry’s temple. The images flashed through the bond between the four -- an argument at her parents’ anniversary party they weren’t invited to, Roger packing his bags, the reveal of another man’s face in an obituary notice.

“Derry isn’t a Grey,” Jean whispered. The pieces started to click into place, and she looked between her husband and sister. “They’re dead because of me. I can’t let that happen to her. She’s too volatile, she’s too young.” Jean reached for Maddie’s hand, squeezing it gently. Speaking it out loud felt sacrilegious, almost (unholy enough that she couldn’t look back at Scott, not now), so instead she just nodded. “Together?”

SCOTT: There were moments that, when they happened, you were sure you would never recover from them. They happened and somewhere in the back of your mind, you accepted that the world was different now. The woman you loved fell on the battlefield, a bullet slipped between your ribs, you came into your in-laws’ house to find them still on the floor with the fear of their last moments still etched into their faces and you understood that the world was ending. There were moments you were sure you would never recover from and then, right after them, there was another moment. There were moments you were sure your life was over, and then your heart beat again and you realized that it wasn’t. Jean’s father was dead. Her mother was dead. Her siblings were dead. But she wasn’t. He wasn’t. And somewhere, deep within the bowels of the house, someone else wasn’t, either. That took priority. It had to.

Grief, Scott had learned, was the easiest to deal with when you had something else to focus on. His parents’ deaths were softened by the way he gripped Alex tightly in his arms, Jean’s death was only bearable because there was still a battle to be fought around it, the trauma of his own resurrection was swiftly pushed aside in favor of fighting for his people, and this moment was outweighed by the moment that followed it. There was someone left to save, and Scott had always preferred it that way. Not because he was selfless, but because he was selfish. Because if there was someone left to save, he didn’t have to make sense of the swirl of emotions inside his chest.

Jean was in shock. He realized it faintly, and the fact that the realization was faint probably meant he was in a state himself. “Jeanie, listen,” he said quietly, moving to cup her face in his hands. And then she was moving, was pulling him out of the room, away from the bodies, into the fire. And there was relief in that. There was an unspeakable relief in walking away from the grief and into the fire, in leaving mourning behind in favor of action. One Scott understood, but the other… He’d never been good with allowing himself to feel.

They found Maddie, and Scott felt a stab of guilt in his chest at the realization that he had almost forgotten she was here at all, the realization that he’d been so focused on Jean and on the bodies that he’d forgotten about the only living family she had left.

Or… maybe not the only.

Scott’s eyes darted down to the child bundled in Maddie’s arms, felt the faint sense of familiarity at the form. He remembered the last time he’d been welcome at a Grey family event, remembered sitting in a too-small chair at the children’s table with his knees so high they were almost resting against his chest. ’It’s a tea party,’ Derry had told him, pressing a tiny plastic cup into his hands. ’And it’s just for us. Auntie can come if she wants to, I guess.’ And Scott had felt more acceptance from a little girl than he’d felt from most of the rest of the family combined, had met Jean’s eye over Derry’s head and grinned, had taken that tiny plastic cup and brought it to his lips to sip on invisible tea and now Derry was unconscious in Maddie’s arms and everyone else was dead and nothing made sense. Nothing made sense.

Jean spoke, and Scott glanced over. “She isn’t?” He looked down at the little girl, throat thick, and at the next words, he let out a small sound of protest. “They’re dead because someone killed them,” he said firmly. “That isn’t your fault.”

So adamant on protecting her from her own guilt, he almost missed the implication of what came next, almost missed the way she took Maddie’s hand, almost missed the familiarity of it all. For a moment, Scott was a child. He was in the basement of an orphanage, and he didn’t think anyone else knew this room was here. It was only for him. There were tables with straps, and there were bruises on his wrists the same size that he didn’t remember getting. There were vials and needles and wires, and there was Nathaniel Essex standing over him with an expression of utter fascination. ’You’re dangerous, Scott. It’s better that I take it. I’m sure you understand.’ There were blank spots, voids he hadn’t been able to get back even after all this time, even with Jean and Charles helping. And there was more than that, too. There was always more.“Jean,” he said hoarsely, uncertain. He hadn’t questioned her since she pulled him from that casket, hadn’t let his own inner thoughts speak louder than the Phoenix since the first time he’d heard it in his head, but this…

“Jean, what are you doing? This isn’t… Are you sure this is the only way?” He felt sick. There was nausea in his gut, and he wanted her to say no. He wanted her to change her mind, wanted her to find another way but he’d never seen her change her mind when she looked like this and already that voice in the back of his head was making excuses. Already it was drawing up differences, insisting that the situations weren’t the same as if this one had already happened, as if there was no changing it. Already, he was telling himself it was okay even when he knew it wasn’t.

MADDIE: There were moments in life that one couldn’t really forget. It stuck with you and wouldn’t leave. Maddie had a feeling this was going to be one of those moments, how her breath was stuck in her throat, but not because of the smoke practically choking the air out of her lungs. It wasn’t their fault. She couldn’t hold it against them, nor would she, for not realizing she had slipped out of the room and down the hall, just that smallest bit out of reach from them. Jean was hurting and that hurt was on blast, Maddie feeling her sister’s pain in void of her own. There wasn’t any pain there. Wisps of memories that she couldn’t grab onto when she had seen the still faces of Jean’s parents. That overwhelming sense of wrongness she had felt since she entered the home screaming at her in volumes as the voice that lingered in her mind had fallen silent for once.

There was no trace of her anywhere in the home and she was grasping at straws to explain just how that could be. What did that mean for her?

That didn’t matter. Not right now, anyways. It was quietly tucked away in the back of her mind, lingering like a dark cloud that no matter how small she made it would still be there. Maddie had other things to focus on, like getting back to her family. (Right?)

The relief was as palpable as the fire that roared in the home. Maddie let out a sharp rush of air and shut her eyes tightly to keep her own emotions at bay when the familiar touch of her sister reached not just her face, but her mind. Her eyes opened once more at the question and she hesitated, arm curled around Derry’s small figure to keep her up right. “She was scared, and so angry. I didn’t feel her at first, but then I couldn’t ignore it. It was like…” Hurt and rage warped into one angry storm of emotion. There was confusion and fear that tinged the aura that was unavoidable.

It had been quiet, not a threat, but enough to make Maddie notice it. The anger and fear had gotten louder with each step closer to the bedroom, one after the other. “She didn’t feel like a threat. I just followed and found her.”

She wasn’t a threat, she was just a scared girl who had endured something traumatic. It felt entirely too familiar, Maddie’s heart aching all the same for the young girl who had endured far too much all in one sitting. The memories that flared through the bond only confirmed that, the words she had uttered to Maddie as the flame grew hotter and higher ringing through the images. ‘Everyone is dead — because of you people.’ The despair that had seemed to wash over her features when it only then hit the poor girl that ‘you people’ meant her too. Like in her eyes being a mutant meant that was something dirty or to be afraid of. That made Maddie’s stomach churn and her heart drop right down to her feet.

There were moments in life where you had to make a choice. A choice, that in the moment feels right, is the best option. That maybe if one was to make that decision then it would spare some hurt.

“They’re not dead because of you,” Maddie shot out at the same time as Scott, both of them sharing the sentiment full heartedly. The air in the room seemed to lose any remaining oxygen. A coldness seeping into the heat that threatened to burn each one of them standing in the quiet. Her own fingers curled around Jean’s, even as the doubt started to creep into her mind. Derry was so angry and her powers only responded to that anguish and rage that was untapped inside of her. The flames creeping out of the room was confirmation of that enough. A ’we shouldn’t’, a ’we can’t’ lingered at the tip of Maddie’s tongue, but nothing came out. The voice that had only seemed to speak up in times of doubt or hesitation tonight spoke once more with the same sentence it had uttered out to her once already.

’You know what to do.’

“Okay,” Maddie whispered softly and managed a small smile that felt hollow at best, squeezing her sister’s fingers. “Together,” she repeated as her eyes stayed on the mirror image of herself rather than the ache that was all too pronounced coming from Scott’s direction. Maybe it would make her feel less unsure if she didn’t look at him. So she didn’t.

There were moments in life where it was all too much like coming to the edge of a precipice. One step was all it would take, step off into the unknown or stay on the solid ground. The three of them were now taking that step off the edge and plummeting into the unknown. Maddie could only hope it was the right decision. The voice seemed to think it was.

[crqstalite]

SHADOW OF THE SITH. Ch. 6

fair amount of warning before you read this. this 6.2k words that i did not know i had in me, and it took a shorter amount of time to write than the time in between chapters 3 and 4.

hope you enjoy! most of it is dialogue dump from the game, but other than that- -

NAJI._REVANITE_STRONGHOLD.

"I don't trust her." Zenith pulls her aside before they continue on to the stronghold, and she makes a motion for the Wrath to continue on towards where the speeders were parked. Out of earshot, she turns back to the sniper, who seems rightfully upset, "You saw the gleeful rage she went on as much as I did. Who says once she gets that agent back, she won't kill us too?"

"She's not in her right mind either, Zenith." Naji is as surprised as she figures her ally is as she defends the woman, "I can't say why, but I can sense something else is at work rather than just plain Sith cruelty."

An unbelieving grunt from him nearly makes her roll her eyes, but she figures she has to let it slide. By calling in Nadia earlier, Zenith had only been acutely aware of the situation before he'd arrived on-planet, and had been more than suspicious of the alliance with Lana and Tri'ama. Given that excused nothing, even she's a little upset by the body count in the Republic Revanite camps, but she also can't change the conditioning the Wrath has endured for years on end. She's learned one thing, and that's fighting for her faction no matter what, and no amount of begging from Naji will change that. And though it's just a hunch, something about Theron's kidnapping has thrown her for a loop. She's more irritable than usual, and though she was able to discover her eyes weren't yellow all year round (they were a beautiful grey in the early sunlight of the Cove), they have been red for the last few days. Conversation has been completely forgone, and not surprisingly, Lana has been on the receiving end as well.

Or maybe she's wrong and Zenith is right, and the Wrath has something horrible planned for both of them as soon as they leave civilization, "I pledged my loyalty to you, but I won't let your trust get you killed."

"I...thank you." She says, once she realizes he isn't really insulting her. Maybe she really is spending too much time with them, assuming Zenith would have any malicious intent against her. He's only looking out for her, and in more ways than one, he's right anyways. Maybe she is being too trusting with Sith, the people who sacked her homeworld and left scars that would never heal on her people. She nods towards the awaiting speeders, where the Wrath sits impatiently. Her distress is still evident, but her determination is stronger. It's nearly suffocating as they grow close, and she barely lifts her head to the two, simply uncrossing her arms and standing up, "Is everything ready?"

"As ready as it can be." The Wrath answers coldly. Without even asking back if she was ready to leave, she races off into the jungle, leaving a cloud of smoke behind her. She and Zenith share a look before she swings a leg onto her own speeder, Zenith behind her. Then, the greenery of the jungle is upon her as she tries to follow after the Sith. Something she'd also learned, Tri'ama was fast. Not just on foot (she'd overtaken her multiple times while they were running about in Raider's Cove. It made sense, with her lithe frame and long legs would make her a champion long-distance runner, but it was terrifying if she was honest. Seeing her bolt after criminals sent a shiver down her spine because that could just as easily be her), but upon as close of inspection as she was going to get, the Sith apparently wasn't low on credits either with the souped up speeder she drove. Most likely, she'd get there first and start on her path to the stronghold before she and Zenith could even get set up. Rolling her eyes, she figures she'll find her as soon as the pained screaming started.

Also, she seemed to absolutely love throwing her sniper for a loop. Maybe the soldier that ran around with her previously was better at predicting where she would be a few seconds later, but because even Naji herself was a longer ranged fighter, Zenith wasn't used to having to watch the battlefield for allies as often. Her jumping out of nowhere to strike down enemies didn't help their new alliance at all, and there were a few injuries that she was just a little too sure had been caused by him, unintentionally she hopes. Both of them had their own reasons to be frustrated with the other, but she also hadn't exactly been communicating properly either.

It didn't help they both knew next to nothing about the Wrath other than her faction-crossing achievements, as she figured was the same for her. Instead of staying behind after debriefs, Naji often returned to the Polaris. After all of the mess with hunting elusive Revanites, she needed the break provided by Lana. To say the least, she needed the warmer force signatures of her crew rather than the soul-shivering ones of Rishi, stars forbid she become jaded. She, personally, could name every one of her crew's favorite foods, along with the things that made their faces light up like nothing else could. Not that she was bragging, it was rather unbecoming of her, but she liked to be prideful of her knowledge of those she lived with. It brightened her day in a way that was hard to describe, and she was emotionally refreshed when she returned.

The Wrath, was a trickier person to decipher. If it was possible to simply gift her an able and willing Theron Shan, she would've, if only to gain her unwilling alliance. Naji didn't like to be unable to trust her allies properly, and Tri'ama was no different. She wondered what the woman hid beneath her respirator (since Manaan, she hadn't seen her without it), wondered why her companions weren't a constant. Naji had been met with not only a Talz (on Manaan), but also an Imperial soldier (most recently) and small blue Twi'lek (for only a few moments when she'd gone to find the Sith for a mission). It seemed she wasn't satisfied with any of them, and through her rampage, had gone without one. Naji, sadly, wouldn't have been surprised if she had come back with much more debilitating injuries than just a simple scar down the length of her arm.

She was afraid for those in the Republic camp that had seen the Wrath of the Empire.

"Hold on!" She shouts over the engine of the speeder, and instinctively Zenith's arms wrap around her waist just as she has to make a hard left to avoid a grazing animal. Blonde hair flying, she skids to a stop just as the animal huffs at her as if she's the problem. Which, she figures she is, invading the poor animal's grazing grounds. Naji is thoroughly annoyed, she grumbles about the animal actually using it's large ears for something, and continues on her way. Possibly she had been so deep in thought that she hadn't seen it until the last minute, but makes a mental note to tie her hair up once they arrive near the docks.

It doesn't take long either, before she stops the speeder just a few moments away from the opening of the stronghold base. Ships are visible, and more than a few Revanites are milling about, weapons drawn. Storing her speeder underneath one of the docks while force cloaking both her and her sniper, she makes to begin scouting for the Wrath and her trail of bodies, but she's surprised to see it's not immediatly evident. Nothing screamed she had been here, no pools of blood, no wounded Revanites. Passing by a terminal, she has to do a double take as she senses a familiar force signature before looking up in shock. The Wrath has scaled a taller signal tower just near it, sitting on her haunches and gazing across the docks. Looking around for any Revanites, Naji drops the cloak once she finds they're alone, and Tri'ama finally acknowledges her, "Why in the stars are you up there?" Naji whisper yells, "You didn't go ahead?"

"I believe it was you who requested I stop continuing on my own, Barsen'thor." Tri'ama answers, giving her a rather unimpressed look as she raises an eyebrow, "I am also alone at the moment, what would Lana say if the Wrath came back dead because she was impatient?"

That didn't stop you earlier, Naji thinks bitterly, You're also saying you didn't want to go on alone because you were afraid of dying without me to come save you.

But there is a touch of something other than stifling pseudo-bravery filtering through her mind, which is possible apprehension lurking beneath the service. Possibly her previous injuries had a lasting effect on her and decided to wait for her this time. Naji couldn't imagine storming a camp on your own was easy, no matter how strong you were. She and Zenith had struggled to hold their own, even with the two of them. Hopefully this would instill some caution into her before she decided to rampage again.

Could Sith even feel fear? Was it even a basic emotion they had? Naji figured not, with how much force-leaping they did off cliffs and insane acrobatics they did during battle. It was as if not a single thing scared them, not even death. The Empire must've paid for their surely extensive insurance bills, or possibly they even waived them.

"Well then," With a loud thump, Tri'ama leaps down from the signal tower (the force is used to soften the impact, but when she steps away the wood is cracked) and stands to her full height and brandishes both of her sabers, "Lead the way, fearless Jedi."

What kind of talking to had she received from Lana? Had she? Or was she truly just toying with her, as she seemed to enjoy quite a bit? A confused look crosses her face as the Wrath chuckles, "What? You have the map don't you?"

Naji does. She'd acquired it just before they left the hut, and maybe this is the Wrath's way of reminding her that she isn't the best leader. With a barely audible huff, she pulls out her own double saber (though not igniting it just yet), and pulls up the map on her wrist. Her attention drawn away for just a moment, she turns to see where Zenith had gone when she hears the all-too familiar sound of sabers striking through skin and the thump of a body.

Her heart stops for about .2 seconds.

-

TRI'AMA._REVANITE_STRONGHOLD.

Red cuts through a Revanite who had gotten just a bit too close for her liking, taking aim for the Jedi. The Barsen'thor had turned to find her sniper, who for the record was behind a stack of crates and had surely seen their surprise attacker before she had, and as ingrained as it was in her society, she cut them down before they could get any closer to the Consular. Naji whips around, fear in her eyes before it mellows out into relief. The twi'lek gets up from his spot, though doesn't reholster his rifle as he approaches the two.

The two were an odd pair. How had such a soft-minded Jedi gotten caught up with a crackshot sniper? Much less someone as rough and patriotic as him. She didn't know much about this Zenith, and didn't intend to get to know him, but right off the bat she'd chosen she didn't like him. Maybe it was because he'd nearly shot her a few times, or seemed less than grateful for what she did for the alliance.

What did she think she'd gotten up to? Tri'ama throws her a less than well-meaning what the hell look before stalking off. She wasn't completely lying when she'd decided to wait for the Barsen'thor and her ally, there were quite a few more traitors patrolling around the stronghold than in the camps. Had Broonmark been here, or Vette, or Pierce, she would've easily been able to hack and saw her way to the main building, but without any backup she already had a streak in her hair from a blaster bolt that had just barely missed her. Now she had a matching pair on both sides of her head.

But, the Empire's Wrath wasn't about to even slightly admit defeat. At least she did wait as long as Lana had advised her while healing her wounds.

"You ought to be more careful, Wrath." Lana says, her voice softer than it has been in days. Tri'ama really can't act all that cold anymore, especially when she's trying to hold onto her pride and not request the Barsen'thor's healing for every little wound she suffers. But, the skimpy armor has worn out it's purpose and has made it obvious of every injury that marrs her pale skin. Lana took notice and decided to heal them, "You are not invincible."

"I'm also not dead." She grumbles, before inhaling sharply as Lana begins to work on one of her most recent wounds. Tri'ama never learned force healing (she didn't ever have to, Vette was proficient enough to get them through Korriban and Balmorra...and then he routinely took care of her), but it's an odd feeling to describe. As if the wound is being torn in two, and then put back together rather forcefully. Painful, but it doesn't scar as roughly as they would without Force intervention. And, she's put in working order much faster than without, even with the searing pains up her arm "I'll be fine, Lana."

There's a disbelieving noise from her as the aching pain subsides in her forearm, "You may be now, but you must learn to work with the Barsen'thor, as much as you audibly despise it. Your arm may not be the only thing injured the next time you become angry enough to forgo your own safety." There's concern in her amber colored eyes as Tri'ama stands from the bench, though she grimaces for a completely different reason than being in pain, "You can have your reservations about this later."

"Killing the crazy galaxy-spanning cult comes first, yes I'm very aware, Beniko. Though if I feel threatened, I will act accordingly." Tri'ama answers, reclipping her armor on and her sabers at their respective places on her hips.

"Just wait next time, at least until the Barsen'thor can accompany you. It would do us a great disservice to lose you."

But they move much too slowly. Being careful, she assumes, but for every Revanite she kills, it takes another five minutes for Naji to move on. Bah, it's not like she has a force bond to any of them, or knew anyone personally. They were nameless, faceless, traitors to either faction. To put it simply, they deserved to be cut down as it was. Tri'ama just didn't want to let the armies do it first.

Every ship is hers though, every warship meant for the opposing faction. Destroying is nearly as therapeutic as striking down everyone she comes across, and the Barsen'thor doesn't interfere. Except for the occasional time a force push off the docks and into the water is needed to keep the Revanites off her, the woman is exceptionally quiet as she goes over strategy to get into the actual stronghold. The explosions that could surely take the paint off her speeder is another perk, making her feel just as powerful as she was when she was in the heart of the Empire. Using the force to pull apart wire after wire, and then nearly the whole ship while she's at it, a roar rumbles up and out of her throat as sparks fly and the sound of creaking durasteel fills her ears. A look of shock from her as the ship snaps in multiple directions and is lit ablaze from dripping oil puts a less than good-natured smirk on her face as they continue on her reign of terror.

Naji looks terrified. She feels terrified. But, there is not a signal speck of judgement in he force signature. It's unsettling.

This isn't the only reason she's being more reckless than usual. The more time spent out here sabotaging every technological apparation out here was less time that Theron had to live. At the hands of a cult, a cult leader to be more specific, of course Tri'ama was more concerned than truly necessary. Lana had made it evident that he was mentally strong and could withstand some amount of torture, but she's afraid they've wasted enough time already. It's been four very long days, and in those days she progressively has gotten less and less sleep. Tri'ama nearly chuckles at the idea she feels like she's lost more sleep over an SIS agent than the betrayal of someone who actually reciprocated her love for a period of time.

Before she chokes on that chuckle and realizes just how far from the truth that is. It's been four days, not four years. Theron hasn't tried to kill her either.

It's also not the time or place to be thinking about the past though, as she waits impatiently for the Barsen'thor to connect to a nearby terminal, Lana's face flashing on. They talk for a bit as she plays with a discarded piece of sharp durasteel, twisting and turning it in the Force. Just for a moment, she tries to reach out for Theron, somewhere among all of the other presences nearby. For obvious reasons, the Barsen'thor shines like a beacon in the throng she can sense, but his familiar signature isn't to be found. Dejectedly, she figures he's shut himself off the best he can to withstand the interrogation.

Her will hardens, she's going to outright gut whoever did take him. Maybe not Lana, but his kidnappers would have a hefty price to pay. And stars, if they left any marks, any scars, and cuts, they would fall dead at her feet before the day was over.

The durasteel creaks and then shatters into pieces in the air, and she lets them drop unceremoniously at her feet. Her frustration is only growing, and that means there's a lot of unsuspecting building materials that would feel her fury today. Just as she's seething through all of this, a bit too bright of a force signature invades her space. The Barsen'thor has finished her conversation with Lana, "We have the coordinates for Theron. All is ready if you are." She starts.

"Where is he?" Tri'ama asks, trying to steady her already cold voice to not give away more of her emotional state as she already has.

"It's just down the valley. I don't know what to expect, but he's in that building there." Naji points out across the water to a larger building with some other Revanites crowded around the opening. Tri'ama turns back to her, awaiting her coming orders or whatnot, but the Barsen'thor hasn't made any movement to lead, "Well? Isn't this what you want?"

"What?" She narrows her eyes, confused by what she's attempting to say.

"You have a platoon of surely Republic soldiers in between you and your goal. You might as well get a head start." It isn't friendly, her offer isn't (in fact it's a little sad as she says 'Republic'), but the meaning behind it is borderline respectful, "I'm sure you'll get through them much faster than I will."

Tri'ama pauses, considering. She doesn't smile, though her bloodlust only grows as her eyes land on what she's speaking of. They aren't all Republic, a few Imperial uniforms stand out to her, but she's quick to sprint down to the docks. Nothing will keep her from her objective now, a battle cry elicited from her as she slices through every enemy along the way. A few are sniped by Zenith, but she's not particuarily upset about it. Nothing matters now but to get to Theron.

-

Stepping over the body of Sith that protected the doorway, Tri'ama is breathing hard. Of course she would be, she's sure either of the two traitorous factions have lost a good chunk of their military forces today, but her body is wound up like a toy ready to break from the tension. She's sure she's bleeding somewhere, and the adrenaline coursing through her veins ignores it wholeheartedly. No extremities are missing just yet, her hood lowered (fallen during the consecutive battles she'd engaged in) and her hair is sweaty and plastered to her forehead. Her knuckles have gone nearly white around her sabers as she disignites them, the door opening after she's slashed the console, and it sparks accordingly as the three step through.

The inside of the bunker isn't well-lit, but it's empty. She goes through first, Zenith flanking them before she comes upon a holoprojector. She has to hold back baring her teeth at the damned thing as the figure comes into better view, "Revan." She growls.

"I should have known the Empire would send one of it's lapdogs to try and find me. You should never have bothered." The gruff voice says, as if he's already won.

"What have you done with Theron?" She demands, before the projection can say anything else. She's not sure she wants to hear what it has to say.

"Theron Shan's fate doesn't matter. Neither does yours, I'm changing the fate of the galaxy itself."

When (yes, when) she gets her hands on this mass murderer, it will be safe to say that he will end up six feet under before he changed the fate of the galaxy. He's taken something important to her, and she will do the exact same to him.

"By doing what, destroying everything you come across?" The Barsen'thor speaks up before she can, coming to stand next to her, "That's not changing the fate of the galaxy, that's causing chaos and killing millions."

"I'm not waging some war with the Empire and Republic. I'm saving countless lives, and you keep getting in the way." He sounds more like a child hellbent on getting what he wants than a tyrannical murderer, she'll give him that, "The only upside in your being here, really, is that you get to bear witness. My plan's too far along to stop it now."

Blaster fire is audible as she turns to an open doorway just as he finishes his sentence, and she and the Barsen'thor both ignite their weapons. Tri'ama steps forward, brandishing both scarlet sabers in preparation for whatever comes next. It isn't immediatly obvious, but she feels him through the force before she can see him. The door is closing just as Theron runs under it, and her eyes widen in surprise. With no immediate threat obvious, she lets out a sigh of relief she didn't know she was holding as her cheeks flush.

This isn't the time, she has to remind herself. Though his name ghosts over her lips, and she's sure she looks more surprised than she wishes to let on.

"Don't listen to him--It's not over yet!" He comes to a halt, Naji growing closer with the full intent of healing his more apparent injuries, one hand already glowing in preparation.

"I was so sure I'd never see you again." Tri'ama admits, clipping her sabers back onto their holsters on her belt. Hopefully it isn't as flirtatous as another tone would've suggested it as, but her relief is out in the open, however he takes it. The interrogation had thankfully, not killed him or crippled him that she could see, but the injuries will scar. Not that he won't look more rugged with it, but it hardens her resolve for the cause.

"Yeah, sorry--almost made it out the front door when I saw you'd shown up to rescue me. Should've known you would." If she hadn't been so hot from before, her already vermillion face would've given away her acception of the compliment. Even if it wasn't directly meant for her, as she acknowledges Naji out of the corner of her eye, "It'll barely be a fight. Revanites embedded on both sides are gonna sabotage shields, weapons--you name it--and we can't warn them."

"I thought all of them had come to Rishi. There are still Revanites among the Republic?" And Empire, Tri'ama silently adds as Naji questions him, "We need to warn Master Shan."

"Revan had the Nova Blades build him a signal jammer. No communications at all up in Rishi space. It'll be a blood bath." He answers, his head lowered as Naji inhales sharply. Even Tri'ama knows what this means for the war effort. There will be casualties upon casualties in the oncoming fight, and currently they're the only ones with any knowledge about it.

A scowl replaces her earlier near smile, "Revan, when I see you again. You will not be pulling off any miraculous survival. I'll put a hole through you first."

"Actually, I doubt I'll ever see you again." Ominous, but it doesn't ring true until the entire cavern begins to rumble, an explosion sounding nearby and things falling around her in a deafening succession.

"This place is coming down. Soon!" Theron yells, and droids are beginning to pour out of some unseen crevice of the place. Naji's idea to heal is quickly shot down as her green blade is ignited, and Zenith's sniper rifle has a familiar click to it when it's unholstered. She gives the SIS agent a lingering look, before also drawing her weapons.

"You could have joined me, Theron. Understandably, you're as tenacious as I ever was. Good bye." He says, the holoprojector shutting off. A siren begins to blare and red lights are blinding her as it reflects off every metal surface she can see. The droids begin shooting a bit too well for her liking, and before she leaps, Naji throws a chunk of wood paneling at the direction of the metal good-for-nothings. She's a tad bit in awe before leaping herself and finishing the bots off, stabbing a few through the chest.

Tri'ama continues hacking her way through every droid she can see, and even a few humanoids that stuck around for some reason. As much as she'd like to drop back with the others, finding the shut off for whatever alarm is coming first apparently. She couldn't hear much from his and Naji's conversation over the damned sound, but as long as she's leading the charge, she will enjoy it.

In a flurry, they've arrived at a terminal, and as she sheathes her sabers, Naji attempts her best at shutting off the surely doomsday events that are heading their way. Her fingers are flying over the holokeyboard, symbol after symbol popping up before it explodes. She isn't quick enough to put up a force barrier between them all, but she puts her own hands up to protect her face, and she stumbles backwards into Tri'ama, the ground shaking beneath their feet. Things are coming apart, and she's beginning to consider slashing her way through whatever door or barrier is keeping the from leaving on their own. Reaching through the force, she can feel whispers of Theron's signature, and it feels as if Naji is going to need much more than her basic healing to repair the damage done to him.

And like that, the alarms have shut off, the ground under them stilling. The red hasn't painted everything in an eery color anymore, and Lana's voice crackles onto the comm, "Hello? Are you there?"

"Lana? What's just happened?" Tri'ama asks, whipping her own head around in mild curiousity, or more droids in case one wishes to bear her wrath.

"I appear to have sliced through four layers of encryption to remotely deactivate the power core." She answers, pride filtering into her voice, and if Tri'ama's being honest, she's willing to give her props for that. She herself floundered with technology, Vette and Quinn had always been better with the finnicky datapads and terminals than she had been.

"Just in the nick of time. Don't know if I could've managed that, even." Theron admits, sounding tired and a trifle incredulous of the Sith's work.

"Theron. Good to know you're alive." Lana says, her voice just a touch softer than usual, "I heard everything--about the jammer, all of it. We need to regroup for an immediate attack." She pauses as Tri'ama looks at the tired expressions of the other three with her, and can imagine how Lana feels on the other end of the comm. This is all out war now, and they're at the forefront of it. A few years ago, she would've seen it fitting. She was the Wrath after all. But this was unprecedented. She would do anything to save the galaxy and her people, "Whatever happens...be proud of what we've accomplished up to now. See you soon."

-

The ride back to the Rishii village is oddly quiet. Theron is understandbly a bit out of it (he rides on her speeder, but that isn't on her mind right then), and she's not up for conversation at the moment as thoughts of wartime begin to enter her headspace again. It wasn't as if she thought the war was going to be over as soon as she pulled out of Corellian space, but she wasn't expecting this either. Soon, she and Naji would surely be stalking into enemy territory, staring down the full fighting force of a millenia-old cult (or so she assumes, wrongly she later learns). Two people who would never work together otherwise.

Tri'ama wonders if she'll ever see the woman after this all over. Not that she needs to, but it's a lingering thought as they pull back into the village. Jakarro is the first to greet them as they return, "It is good to have you back!" (translated properly by Naji) He roars at Theron, who's understandbly a bit stand-offish.

"Alright, take it easy. I'm not exactly a hundred percent, and you're not exactly gentle." He says, a chuckle underlining his statement. Naji allows Zenith to wait outside, and it's stifling warmer inside than it is outside. Tri'ama unclips her own respirator, finally free to breathe the jungle's sticky air. The Barsen'thor's grey eyes are analytical, not judgemental but curious. There is a scar along her throat she's not particularily proud of, but she puts it on a nearby desk for later.

"Oh good! The team's back together--all thanks to you both for saving Theron, of course." C2-D4 acknowledges the pair of force sensitives, Tri'ama's gaze flickering to the aforementioned agent for just a moment.

"He was nearly out the door himself, you know." She fills in, and Naji nods approvingly. Lana pulls herself away from a holoterminal, coming to stand near them and surely debrief them on the next mission.

"Theron, you have the intelligence on this signal jammer. You start." She says, a tad clippedly.

"Right. The intelligence I gathered in the company of several interrogation probes while being held against my will." Either Lana isn't bothered by this and acts accordingly, or is formulating her own response to his icy statement. Either way, Theron continues, "Jammer's on a nearby island. You've probably seen it. Can't be sliced remotely, lots of Revanite zealots protecting it...the usual hopeless nightmare, basically."

"We've got this." Naji says confidently, even if she doesn't believe it herself. There's a new injury she hadn't seen previously, with the woman's hood up most of the time through the Revanite bunker. Tri'ama briefly wonders where it had come from, who'd gotten past their defenses long enough to land a blow like that. It's an ugly cut too, though it's stopped bleeding and trails up her neck to her ear, "Revan won't know what hit him."

"Time's running short. You both know what to do. It's what you always do: triumph." Lana declares. And with that, she goes back to whatever she had been doing previously. The Barsen'thor makes to gather something from her packs in the corner, shuffling things around and eventually calls Zenith inside.

Tri'ama takes this opportunity, "Theron, may I speak to you for a moment? Alone?"

He raises an eyebrow, as if suspicious of her intentions but follows after her. It's cooler outside, as the sun is beginning to set over the valley. She can see Rishii bustling around nearby, though they aren't her immediate concern. Tri'ama is well-aware of Theron's current state, but walks further out from the hut to where there's a stream running just beneath them. She stops, not turning to him but can feel him lean back on a wooden railing, "So? What'd you need?" He asks, "We do have things to be doing."

His hazel eyes are tired, though alert. One of his cybernetics is no longer yellow, instead a dull replacement of it. She hopes he fixes it.

"This isn't the first time I've thrown myself headfirst into a dire situation. Stars, it isn't even the first time I've faced certain death." She swallows hard, repressing the urge to brush her hair back from where it is hanging in front of her face. She feels bare without her respirator, but continues on, "But this is new. S-Theron. I'm not sure if I'm coming back this time."

He's quiet, letting her continue. But there are obviously gears beyond his cybernetics working in his head. Contemplating what she's saying, processing and surely about to react accordingly, and she wants to know. Know everything, "I'm trying to say that if this is the last time I see you, I want to thank you for the truly exciting excursion."

"You're not going to die, you know that, right?" He questions, though more subdued than he had been as he approaches her from the barrier that he'd been leaning against, "You're...you. There are things you've done that would make anyone retire early if they survived, but you're still here. And doing a hell of a job while you're at it."

Tri'ama can't find a response to that. It's kinder than she expected. Down from the adrenaline high, she is in quite a bit of pain. There's a tear in her armored pants, one that's bled for a while and finally has stopped, and a few along her backside. Lana will need to heal those to keep them from scarring improperly. It feels as if she's considering death itself, and death has chosen for her. She feels more trapped than she has in years, like this really is the end. Her heart won't stop beating so fast. The blaster bolt that had shot her in the shoulder, the scar on her back when she'd worn a more exposed armor set.

Quinn. Tri'ama honestly though she was going to die that day. After their skirmish, she was ready to nearly admit defeat herself, staring into his cold blue eyes that they shared.

Her body hurts.

Her mind hurts.

Her heart hurts. She'd spent the last few days worried about him, and now, here he is. And she doesn't know what to say. Or what to do. What was one to do in this situation.

"I...I just wanted to say that. Covering all my bases just in case." She turns to finally face him, "I never got to properly thank you for what you did for me at the cantina. Here I am, thanking you."

"You're--you're welcome." He says hurriedly, a look of surprise crossing his face. Maybe he didn't think she'd even remember the disaster of a night, "I have you to thank for saving me."

"You were already out before Naji and I were there." She says, quietly reminding him that the Barsen'thor had assisted as well, "You didn't need me."

They're quiet, as the wind begins to dry her hair off of the sweat that had plagued her. Tri'ama understands why the Barsen'thor had tied her hair back earlier, the jungle was no place for longer hair styles.

She doesn't even finish that last thought before she gathers what exhausted confidence she has left, and goes to kiss his cheek, cupping it with her uninjured hand. He's startled, which makes sense, and she goes to head back towards the hut, completely aware of what she's just done. He could refuse to work with her now, but at least she's gotten it out of her system.

A hand pulls at her as she stops, Theron on the other end. He's flushed, and now not just from the heat. He's tentative, still he pulls her back closer to him and kisses her softly. Her heart is pounding in her ears as she allows herself to sink into the moment, and had he been Sith, been Jedi, he would feel every single emotion she's allowing herself to experience at this very moment. It's surreal, in fact. Tri'ama doesn't want to let go.

All too soon, it's over. They remain in each other's embrace for a moment before he slowly let's her go, though he still has a loose grasp on her hand. He's not looking directly at her, but his attention is still with her, "Just...don't die."

"I can guess we have much to discuss when I return, yes?" She asks, flushed herself. Tri'ama is intoxicated, stars she wants to taste him again. Allow her to tangle her fingers in his jacket, in his hair, wherever she can.

She wants him.

"Yeah." He answers, the briefest of smiles on his face, "That'd be nice."

[amepcrdue]

Questions about Villainous Muses…

1. What would it have taken to prevent your muse from becoming a villain?

Raph started his late teens as a villain, having been molded by an uncaring environment with parents who dealt more with stately affairs than with him. It taught him not to trust nor care about others and it reflected in every move he made. Amy saving him had changed so much inside him that his heart grew three sizes that day. I think the start of spiraling back into villainy was when he poisoned Lord Dumas because he asked Raphael to send Amy away to an orphanage in order to be officially made his son. Raphael would have done anything for her and murdering the old man was so easy. And it tapped back into that darkness that lived in his heart and left him more susceptible to the influence of the sword. While his mind had to be utterly torn to shreds for his body to become the host for Soul Edge because Raph’s will was too strong, even in death, it was still able to poison his mind and Azwel was able to manipulate Raphael further. Everything from there went downhill. Had Azwel never outed Amy as a non-noble in front of Lord Dumas, Dumas would never have figured out Amy was not Raphael’s biological daughter and Raphael wouldn’t have felt compelled to kill him. He rather liked the old man and everyone in the citadel up until that point. Afterward, the only ones he showed any kindness to, or any regard at all were Amy and the governess Maelys.

2. Despite their villainy, does your muses subscribe to some sort of ethical/honor code that guides their behavior?

I think Raphael, for as heartless and cold as he is when at the peak of his evil, I don’t think he would kill a kid. Even in his destined fight with Talim he says time for your nap, and I choose to believe he incapacitated her, not killing her. I think Amy has a lot to do with that. She was his moral anchor, he strived to be a better person because he had another to care for. But outside of that? He was otherwise utterly reprehensible. 

3. When was the last time your muse cried for someone else’s sake?

I think he was wracked emotionally about never being able to provide Amy with what she needed, and while he cried when he met her, it was more relief that she had helped him survive, so more for his sake than her’s. I think the first time he cried was when he returned home from his fight with Nightmare and after almost a month on death’s door and as his body malfested and his mind further rotted into darkness and madness, his first bit of clarity in that time was realizing Amy was gone and that he had failed her. He wept then for what her uncertain fate was and then the darkness took him completely. 

4. Are there any ethical/moral lines your muse will not cross?

Again, he wouldn’t kill a child, but he would fight them if they tried to stop him (re: Talim). I mean listen, this guy was bent on causing utter chaos and mass death to stop the feuding nobles when he was stuck in his soul edge induced madness. And then he malfested the Romanian Valley of Wallachia out of grief for losing Amy (in my blended timeline, since we aren’t getting malfested Amy in the revised timeline) and had them finish decimating an army that tried to stop him. The man has very few lines he won’t cross.

5. Mun, you could have spent the time and effort you dedicate to your museIf roleplaying as a hero. Why did you decide to roleplay as a villain?

I truly truly love heroes, and anti-heroes too, but when I played MKDA (the konquest mode and later the tower) I thought that Frost was a good guy… and turned she wasn’t, but I’m okay with roleplaying a villain. I mean, it is kind of different from writing a muse with heroical intentions, perhaps my decision is more attached to the fact that I love the character but don’t care much about her moral decisions (and some of them worry me). Part of me enjoys writing her as the villain she is supposed to be in canon, and another part of me wishes for her to settle down and think clearer.

6. If questioned about their evil behavior, what excuse would your muse give to justify it?

He was sick on the idea that he could make a better world if he got rid of the warring nobles, no matter the body count that ensued. He thought he could justify it (a lot of it was also the sword needing more souls but he wouldn’t have realized it at the time). And then later as he wreaked havoc in Wallachia? It was all because he was suffering and inflicting his grief and anguish on those who lived in the valley below him. He spread his sickness. He was their plague. 

7. Does your muse have the potential to be a loving parent? The question addresses their ability to feel a child’s emotional needs, not the muse’s ability to physically procreate.

I MEAN... WE ALREADY KNOW HE IS A DEEPLY DEVOTED DAD SO...

8. If your muse could feel the emotional pain of the people they hurt, would this deter their villainous behavior?

I don’t think he had the capacity to feel much beyond his own suffering. It blinded him to much else. I think there were potentially moments where his humanity would show through, but they were brief, fleeting.  

9. What punishment does the mun think would be justifiable for the muse?

Considering he lost everything 3 times, each as a result of horrendous behavior and each behavior worse than the last... canon did a pretty good job. After SCIV he died and his mind was ripped asunder while his corpse was used as a vessel for the very sword that cursed him in the first place and set his life in ruin all three times (okay, i genuinely believe he was killed by siegfried with soul calibur not soul edge, but soul edge still got him in the end so stay with me). And so reclaiming his body with all the skills he had before but none of the memories except a strong need to find an unknown entity named Amy has been a continual punishment. Made worse as he unravels his own mystery and learns that he was once a good man... and once a very very very terrible one as well. Learning that this was who he was, and the painful flashes of memory and the debilitating pain that rips through his right arm (the one that became the nightmare arm), he continually faces his punishment. Canon really set up some good shit for this and then did nothing with it. And the fact that while his body was being used and going by the name of the man he poisoned all those years ago, Soul Edge had sent constant barrages of assassins after two who rebelled against him, Z.W.E.I. and Viola. Viola who was once Amy but no longer knows who she is either. So like yeah, he’s not having a good time post-resurrection. At all. 

tagged by: stole it from @pxlariis​

tagging: hey baddies do the thing.