#not even getting into my personal preference against white capes

[toskarin]

Hottest woman in Nikke: Goddess of Victory, wish more gacha games gave us women in armor with big guns

nikke is really funny to me because it's one of the few things where I can accurately and confidently say I was filtered. so many good designs (given that I like uniforms, you can imagine why I'd appreciate a lot of the designs) but a selective aversion to live2d jiggle physics is an insurmountable skill issue

anyway I've gotta disagree, because even though I'm not the kind of pervert nikke is marketed to, I'm still a pretty horrible lesbian, and I like yulha

[kurt-hummel-eat-your-heart-out]

John Bendy boy(Bender) with a trans masc reader who comes out to him as trans and he’s like “I knew.” Turns out he had a feeling all along and you tell him your preferred name(let it be known that he will mess up ANYONE who deadnames you.)

Omg I love this idea! @screamfome Tysm for the request I appreciate it from the very bottom of my heart🫶🫶🫶 sorry if this is a little late, I got sick over the weekend😭

John Bender (The Breakfast Club) x transmasc reader

Disclaimers/warnings?: reader has fears of era-typical transphobia, I put like the tiniest sprinkle of angst in here w that. This is written from 2nd person btw. Also relationship between John and reader is platonic in this.

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The creeping chill of winter had made its way into the November air. This thanksgiving break was a much needed one. School had already been dragging you down the moment the year started, so you were always happy when you could catch a break. You were practically in distress at the fact that you were going back to school tomorrow already.

Not only were you dreading this approaching Monday, you were dreading a meet up that you had planned. You’d been the one asking John to meet up, saying that you had something you wanted to talk about. You were the one who initiated it, so why were you tempted to chicken out now?

You couldn’t help but pace around the sidewalk outside the diner you’d told him to go to. If he was really your friend he wouldn’t mind, right? I mean, who would he tell? It’s not like anyone else could see past his intimidation tactics like you had, so it’s not like he would leave you for this. Right?

John was just about the closest friend you’d ever had in your life. The way he understood you was almost indescribable. You and him were one in the same sometimes, it was like you two shared brain cells. The same thought process, similar views on your classmates, the works. You didn’t know how you two did it, you just… worked.

You knew you were pretty much his only friend, so it’s not like he would abandon you. At least, you thought so.

As you paced around, your nerves grew worse. It was no big deal, all you had to do was just… tell him you were a man. Totally casual, not at all off-putting. You mumbled your spiel you’d lost sleep over reciting to yourself.

‘Hey John, guess what. I’m a boy… no. I’m a man- fuck, no. I’m a dude. Does that sound better…?’ This train of thought was going nowhere. You let out a frustrated sigh, stopping your nervous pacing to lean against the wall. You’d heard cold things were supposed to calm you down, but this air was doing nothing to help you.

It felt like what you’d planned was leaving your memory, breaking off in little pieces until you couldn’t remember any of it. You buried your face in your hands, groaning in exasperation. The more you let yourself think about it, the more you’d psych yourself out.

Just then, you felt a light shove to your shoulder. You stumbled away from the wall, spinning around to see none other than the reason for your unease. John stood in front of you with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

“Yo, jackass.” He flashed his signature smirk, something you’d grown accustomed to seeing over the years. You could never get past how white he managed to get his teeth, it was the first thing you’d notice about him. That and little jingle his belt chains made when he walked. Usually you could hear him before he even rounded a corner, he used to joke that you were ‘telekinetic, or some magic shit’. His words, not yours.

“Where’s mister spidey-senses today, huh? Is he on vacation, to the cape perhaps?” He talked in that snooty little rich girl voice he often did to mock this sophomore in your biology class.

“Alright, didn’t know we invited Claire to the function.” You rolled your eyes playfully at him. You turned around, motioning for him to follow you inside the diner. His belt chain jingled in time with the bell on the front door, soon being silenced by the shouting of a waitress telling you to ‘Sit wherever ya like!’. You promptly chose a booth all the way towards the back of the aisle, John following suite.

“All the way back here, huh? Not trying to pull something on me, right?” He laughed softly, leaning into the uncomfortable booth cushions.

He took his usual unruly position, slouching with no particular care for his posture or appearance. You took a more reserved position. Your arms were crossed on the table, your gaze was thrown out the window, staring at the fading sun in the distance. This was one of many sunsets you’d seen with John. That was a secret of his you’d kept; he loved to watch sunsets.

“It’s really pretty tonight, isn’t it?” You mumbled, not really expecting an answer out of him. You were sort of just avoiding what you knew you had to tell him.

“Mhm…” He turned from you to the window, replicating the way you crossed your arms. As you turned back to him, you felt a sudden wave of dread. The blank-mindedness hit you again, leaving you scrambling for any thought you could remember.

“So uh, Bender…” You hesitated. You knew you had to tell him, it was the entire point of you two meeting here. You’d figured he would want to sit down for this one.

“Mhm?” His eyes were still on the bleeding red and orange hues in the sky, seemingly absorbed in the sight. If he was distracted, maybe this wouldn’t be such a shock. You only hoped.

“So I um… I didn’t ask you to hang for no reason. Actually I kinda need to spill something pretty important.” You looked down at your hands, picking at your nails. One of them was uneven from the last session of nervous fidgeting you’d had while waiting for him outside.

“‘Sup? Shit, did your dog finally kick the bucket?” His expression was serious now. One of his favorite parts of going over to your house, besides getting out of his own, was getting to see your old German shepherd. You shook your head, laughing a bit at his assumption.

“No, missy is fine. I- um” Inconveniently, you were cut off by the waitress who had greeted you not even two minutes before. You were startled by the loud request for an order from the both of you, to which you quietly asked for just some coke. John said the same, just not as quiet (not to your surprise).

“So…” you started as soon as the waitress sped away to the back kitchen. You did a quick search of the tables in front of you, just to make sure nobody you knew, or anyone for that matter, was near your booth.

“So? C’mon, this ain’t junior high. Tell me your little secret already.” He settled back into his slouched position, keeping his arms crossed. You noticed that his look still remained a little serious, which did absolutely nothing to soothe your nerves.

“Okay, so it’s uh, pretty important. Just, whatever you do, don’t go telling anyone. Okay? I don’t care if you get mad or look at me like I’m a fuckin’ weirdo. Just… this stays between us, okay?” You reciprocated his stare, perhaps a bit more intensely. You needed him to know that this wasn’t a time for jokes. You wouldn’t be able to take it if he insulted you about this, or worse, brought it up to anyone.

“Well shit… you okay man?” He seemed worried. Which was odd for him, considering he tried to keep up as much of a carefree act as he could. He usually tried to act like he couldn’t give two shits about anyone, but when it came to you it was different.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just nervous, is all.” You paused, trying to recollect any memory of the little speech you had prepared in your head. It was still a bust, so you decided to just ad-lib it.

“Okay, fuck it. John I’m- look I know the way I look is, well, I guess butch-y? For lack of a better word. Okay, what if I told you that wasn’t dressin’ the way I do to be different or uh, make a statement or something.” You rambled on, not really knowing how to get to your point anymore. All your thoughts just jumbled into a big mess, and there wasn’t much you could do to sort it out.

“I guess the way I dress and reason I got my hair like this is because, um. I see myself as a man. A guy, a dude, whatever you wanna call it. Yeah, I know I don’t one hundred percent look the part, but that’s me. I’ve realized that that’s who I am.” You ran a hand through your hair, the nerves slightly wearing off as you got everything out.

Then you met John’s gaze and promptly began to panic. He wasn’t saying anything or making any motion, just staring at you. Your expression dropped as the weight of your words set it. His lack of words spurred on thoughts of your worst fears, and the possibility of them becoming a reality. You felt a tear prick the corner of your eye, immediately looking away from the embarrassment of it all. You usually weren’t one to cry, but this could warrant it.

As he saw your panic, his expression immediately changed from stoic to concerned. “Oh shit, no you’re fine. I promise, you’re fine. I mean…” He reached out to grab your arm, reassuring you that his reaction towards you wasn’t negative.

“I kinda knew already, I just didn’t think you’d ever say it.” He gave your forearm a gentle squeeze, trying to get you to look at him.

Upon hearing this, you turned back towards him. Your face held a mix of shock and relief, surprised he wouldn’t thought about you like that in the first place and relieved that he wasn’t looking at you like some freak.

“Wait really? I didn’t think I’d be so easy to read…” You muttered, taking a deep breath in to try to keep yourself from tearing up even more. “Shit, part of me was thinkin’ you’d be kickin’ my ass over this.” You confessed to him, laughing it off now that you knew things were okay.

“Nah, wouldn’t dream of it. Especially not you, you’re kind of my ride or die. You know that.” His words were calming your nerves. Your heart was still beating like crazy, but at least you weren’t walking out of this diner in hysterics.

“I mean hey,” he continued “I’ve got a gay cousin. You remember Tommy, right? Nobody in the family talks to him anymore, but I’ve visited a couple times. He’s doing okay on his own, but I’ve heard what it’s like for him. I would never, ever, do that to you. I couldn’t just up and stop talking to you, you kidding? And not to be dramatic here,” He paused for a moment, looking to be figuring out how to phrase things in his head.

“But you’re like, my guy. You’ve got my back when I know some of these sons-of-bitches only hang around me for the dope. You ain’t like that though, I think you can always see who I really am when nobody else does. It’s just weird, it’s like you know me better than I know myself sometimes.” The look in his eyes was one you didn’t see often. His rough exterior was gone, you could see his genuine self. It was nice when he was like this.

“But anyways, my point is I’m not letting anything change that.” He gave your arm one final pat before letting go, but he still kept that soft gaze on you. It was sort of weird, how sometimes he just knew what to say.

“Thank you, John.” You sighed contentedly, everything in your world was just about right now. “Well, I guess I should go over a few things then. You wouldn’t mind callin’ me something else, would you? I was kind of thinkin’ of a different name to try out.”

“Well shit, yeah.” John smiled at you. He seemed happy, and maybe a little excited about this. He’d always sort of seen you as someone like him in that aspect, so knowing that you were feeling more yourself made him happy. A thought came to him though, so he interrupted you for a moment. “Oh, and just know this. If anyone ever dares to fuck with you, you let me know. I'll knock some fuckin' lights out." He crossed his arms, giving you a smirk.

The waitress soon came back with your cokes, asking if either of you were going to order anything else. You shrugged at John, being both broke and not that hungry. So, much to your waitress's dismay, he said no. She sped off back to the front counter, grumbling about something or the other. You and John laughed it off, throwing around the idea of loitering just to piss her off.

You were glad you'd asked him to meet you here. Taking that chance was worth it.

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Lmk if I made any typos or if you have any constructive criticism:D

[puellainalba]

Cineris Somnia: A strangely beautiful dream

“I hope that someday, you'll dream of me.”

Cineris Somia brings a feeling as if you are embarking on nostalgic memories, on distant dreams that go from something bright to something dark and gray.

As expected from a walking simulator, you walk a lot around the map, you are guided mainly by papers spread across them; they tell most of the story and even break the fourth wall in a way by talking to the player. Many of the things you will read will depend on your personal interpretation to understand what is happening.

The entire ambiance of the game gives me a strong feeling of nostalgia, it is at first glance calm, “innocent” — But it doesn't take long for the environment to gradually become heavier, dark. This is something I really like and the game does very well.

Prelude - The Green Butterfly Chapter: The Girl

“A young girl wakes up by the sea. All that's left is her sister's yellow bucket and the sandcastle they just built together. Her mother is nowhere to be found. Blinded by the blinding light of the sun, the young girl takes the first step on a strange and mysterious journey.”

The game starts with you controlling an unnamed girl, just called “The Girl” she wakes up alone on a beach, apparently she was there with her mother and sister and ended up dozing off. Her objective here is very simple: get to the beach lighthouse. Along the way, you'll find some papers with some writing on them, but nothing that makes much sense at first. When you reach the top, the chapter will end and you will wake up in the chapter selection room.

This story has a continuity after you finish all the others, but I prefer not to give details as it would be a spoiler!

The Blue Butterfly Chapter: Marie

“Marie is a happy, pure and active girl. She whimsically runs through the dark depths of the forest, wearing pajamas and a cape. But there is an important reason why she came to this forest.”

This chapter is entirely set in a forest, green and blue tones are the highlight. There you meet Marie, a little girl who walks around with an empty white bird cage, she is after a blue bird and you need to help her look for it.

Although at first everything is very innocent and childish, at the end of the chapter a cruel secret is revealed.

The White Butterfly Chapter: Charlotte

“A young woman confined to a sanatorium, her body full of diseases. She is very quiet and has an air of maturity far superior to most children her age. She eagerly awaits promises made long ago with someone very special to be fulfilled.”

Charlotte spends her days alone in the sanatorium, wishing to visit a rose garden. The environment is dominated by a light white, making the corridors appear very similar to each other. At the end of the chapter, red is very present, contrasting against white.

According to the chapter, you help the girl with small things, such as delivering letters and finding some items. As you find the letters and read them, you will understand more and more about Charlotte's story and everything that is happening. Along with this, the environment changes little by little, in such a subtle way that it is difficult to notice at first — but when you look closely, it will be a little different than it was at the beginning.

This was one of my favorite chapters, even though it left me with a “bittersweet” feeling at the end.

The Black Butterfly Chapter: Ophelia

“Daughter of a prestigious family that owns vast lands and an extravagant mansion. She is tormented by intense self-loathing due to her belief that she is ugly and plain. Raised by cold and unloving parents, she spends her days in loneliness and despair, following the orders of her mother and father.”

This chapter is quite different from the others. Unlike the others where the environment is mostly bright and well lit and gradually becomes dark, this one has a dark setting from the beginning — with few scenes where the lighting is similar to the other chapters.

As soon as you find Ophelia, she starts chasing you to kill you just like she did everyone else there. You spend the entire chapter running from her as you explore the large mansion and discover the secrets that are kept there, including why Ophelia killed everyone who lived there.

Unlike the others, in this chapter you can die, and it is not possible to return to it if you have not saved.

The setting also tells a story — Just like in a dream, each representation there, however confusing it may be, has a hidden meaning for the story presented. As everything is up to your personal interpretation and none of the game's devs gave any explanation about the things presented, we ended up having more questions than answers.

I would also mainly like to highlight the game's stunning photography, many may consider the graphics “dated”, however, in my opinion, this is what makes everything even more beautiful. There are some visual bugs, but there was nothing that bothered me or made the game less charming, it's an indie game from a small team (apparently their first game) so things like that are normal.

The OST also contributes a lot to the environment, always fitting in well with the game's locations and scenes. The game's voice acting is also very good, considering it is an independent game.

Cineris Somnia is a beautiful experience, a game that I confess I expected not to like, however, it left me simply enchanted by its proposal. If you want to have a different experience and have the patience to calmly explore game maps, Cineris Somnia is definitely a game that I recommend playing.

[sliebman10]

Glimpse

(So. I heard it was @soloorganaas‘s birthday today...I wrote an extra scene in the Architect’s Anonymous AU to celebrate. Hope you have a great day!)

Sirius knocked on the bedroom door. “Come on, Remus…we have to pick up James and Dorcas before we get there. We’re going to be late.”

Sirius was already wearing his Purim costume, Gellert, from The Pensieve. He’d even found a cape that matched, and he’d made the sash inscribed with protective runes himself. 

“I’m almost ready,” Remus said.  He hadn’t shown Sirius his costume yet, though he’d caught a glimpse of it the other day. He knew Remus preferred to dress up as Albus and had secured a sword for the occasion.

The door opened, and Remus stepped out, grinning. Sirius’s eyes widened. Remus was wearing a vintage blue suit, a white shirt with a ruffled cravat and a sword strapped to his hip.  

“So…what do you think?” Remus asked, doing a little spin. 

“Wow. You were not kidding about this costume.”

“I believe in attention to detail…you know that, Padfoot.” Remus said, with a little wink. “And you look…delicious.”

Sirius grinned. “If I’d known it was a cape that did it for you, I would have worn one sooner.”

Remus laughed softly as he  pushed Sirius a little, so he was leaning against the wall. He kissed him, softly but insistently. 

Sirius let himself get lost in it for a moment but then pulled away. “Come on.” He took Remus’s hand and led him outside. They walked for a bit, inspiring some stares on the street. James and Dorcas were waiting outside the synagogue, both were also decked out in costumes from The Pensieve.

“Whoa look at you, Black. You went all out,” Dorcas said.

Sirius grinned and pulled Remus close. “I had to impress my most sharp tongued critic.”

James rolled his eyes. “Spare us about Remus’s tongue, yeah? Let’s go in…it’s crowded.”

Remus had been to the synagogue with Sirius before, but was not prepared for the spectacle that was Purim. Everyone was dressed in costume and the crowd was boisterous and noisy. He looked around, slightly overwhelmed and then a group of musicians, dressed as characters from Beauty and the Beast took the stage and the Cantor, who was dressed as Lumiere, spoke into the microphone, asking people to take their seats and telling them the megillah reading would begin momentarily. Groups of kids were walking around with baskets of noisemakers and Sirius handed Remus one.

“What is this for?” Remus wanted to know.

“You’ll see,” Sirius said with a wink. 

The musicians began playing and then the sanctuary quieted down as the Cantor began reading from the scroll that was stretched over the lectern.

Everything was quiet until the room burst to life as people shook their noisemakers and made noise. Remus looked at Sirius. “What the hell?”

“Whenever they read the word ‘Haman,’ the person who wanted to kill the Jews, everyone makes noise and boos,” Sirius explained. Remus nodded, though he was still unprepared the next time it happened. 

By the end though, Remus got the hang of it and even joined in. When the reading ended, everyone got up and walked downstairs to the event space for more celebrating. The four friends looked at each other. “So…is it awkward if we join even if we don’t have kids?” Dorcas asked.

“It’s Remus’s first Purim…he needs to get the full experience,” Sirius said, taking Remus’s hand and leading him downstairs to where the Hebrew school had set up a carnival with games, balloons and face painting.

@wolfstarmicrofic

[viacursecasting]

The Great Escape.

An Arte X Ivy Drabble

Dozens of outdoor market stalls bustled with activity from enthusiastic merchants and eager shoppers. It was noisy and crowded, yet Arte preferred it that way. It was much easier to keep a low profile.

As he tucked his platinum bangs further into the hood of his tattered cloak, he couldn't help but smirk. He should've felt guilty for escaping the confines of the manor's walls, of eluding the suffocating protection of his guards. Mind you, he was grateful for such luxuries like gourmet food, designer clothes, and the latest tech. But as he overheard lively conversation, as he watched kids chase each other playfully, as his cape billowed in the breeze, he realized…

The wings of freedom were unrivaled.

(At one point he caught a glimpse of a couple sharing a kiss, so he averted his gaze bashfully as thoughts of a certain arachnid swarmed his mind.)

He ambled through the rows of stalls, countless salespeople shouting and shoving products in his face, until he came across what he was looking for.

"Excuse me," he piped up, "but do these come in black?" He gestured to a pair of white leather gloves, padded for combat.

"These?" The seller, an onyx wolf, checked the size. "A bit small for you, no?"

"Ah, they're not for me. They're for my—"

Arte paused. Even though they haven't exactly labeled their relationship, his feelings were undeniable.

But were they reciprocated?

"…colleague," he decided.

"In that case, I'll check in the back." The stall person left him briefly.

Arte checked the time with his silver pocket watch. He probably had a few more minutes until his army of guards realized he was missing. He had to be quick if he wanted to get back home with none the wiser.

Then the seller returned. "There are a few in storage, but you'll have to come with me to see which one suits your needs."

Arte thought it was strange that the merchant didn't just bring out the gloves, but he didn't dwell on it. He followed the salesperson through some heavy curtains.

"NOW!"

Suddenly he was pinned face-first against the wall of a dimly lit storage unit, and he cried out in pain. "What the—!?"

"Did you really think you could fool us with this cheap getup?"

He grunted, trying to free his arms pinned behind his back. "What're you—?"

Multiple footsteps crowded around him. From the corner of his eye, Arte watched as a pack of wolves emerged from the shadows, a dozen pairs of citrine irises glowing menacingly like burning embers. His heart rate spiked.

The alpha spoke up. "After you pulled out that fancy watch, we knew exactly who you were." Two goons yanked off the feline's cowl as well as his timepiece, the one with his family crest on the lid. "Sir Kingsley."

Arte narrowed his eyes. With all his weight he stomped on his captor's foot, making him yelp and back off. The maroon cat then whirled around, drawing his rapier.

The leader cursed. "Get him!"

Arte managed to fend off three or four canines with sharp thrusts and quick parries. However, one managed to overtake him from his left.

Shit, my blind spot! Arte tried to get the ruffian to back off, but then his sword was knocked out of his grasp. He tried to go after it, but then a few thugs tackled him into the wall, making his spine rattle.

He coughed, trying to regain some wind in his lungs, but then a wolf punched his stomach, making him gasp harshly for air.

A chorus of laughter elicited from the gang. Then the alpha stepped forward, wiping blood from his face where the feline managed to nick him. He seethed, "Fucking cats."

One of the goons asked, "Whaddaya reckon we do with 'im, boss?"

The leader hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin. "A ransom should do nicely. I'm sure the prestigious aristocratic family would pay handsomely for their precious heir." He grinned mischievously. "How about a hundred thousand rings?"

Arte chuckled. "You flatter me, but for that much, my father would probably tell you to get lost."

The alpha snapped his fingers, wordlessly ordering his lackeys to tighten their grip, forcing the cat to shut up. Then he pointed to another member. "You. Grab me a knife. I think if we send one of his dainty fingers to his old man, he'll get the idea. And grab some duct tape to muffle his screams."

More shuffling and guffawing from the pack. Arte struggled with all his might to no avail. He spat, "Why don't you take my middle finger as a souvenir?"

The boss growled. "Why you little—!"

All of a sudden the wolf cried out, collapsing to the floor, and the others looked around in confusion. They frantically drew their weapons, but one by one they were knocked out by a mysterious force.

The canine holding him fell last, and Arte rolled his shoulders in relief. He then scanned the sea of fallen bodies, feeling perplexed as well.

He heard something land behind him, so he turned, sharply met with a glaive pointed at his nose. He could recognize that gleam of silver anywhere. "Ivy?"

The royal blue spider revealed herself from the shadows.

Arte sighed in relief. "Boy, am I glad to see—"

But she kept him at bay with her staff, nicking the tip of his nose. "You damn fool."

Arte gulped. "I'm s—"

"Sorry doesn't cut it," Ivy intervened. "You could have gotten killed!" She narrowed her ambers. "Or worse."

Arte's ears folded back. "You're right. I should've told you. I just…" He sighed defeatedly. "Do you know what it's like to be cooped up for days on end, with little to no privacy?"

A small sense of empathy hit Ivy, but she was careful not to show it.

Arte continued sheepishly, "I also… wanted to surprise you."

"Mission accomplished," Ivy sneered.

"Okay, not like this," Arte explained. "I wanted to surprise you with"—he glanced around, picking something off the shelves in her size—"these."

Ivy eased her stance, receiving the gift. "Gloves?"

Arte nodded. "I noticed you had some calluses on your hands, likely from wielding that glaive all day, so I figured the padding on these might help."

"That's… thoughtful," Ivy admitted. Then she clarified sternly, "But that doesn't mean you're off the hook."

"Oh?" Arte raised a brow teasingly, taking a daring step forward. "And how exactly will you punish me, my lady?"

Ivy had to grit her teeth to avoid getting lost in those crystal pools, to resist that alluring tone. "I'll make sure you're never to leave your estate without at least ten guards and an ankle monitor."

Judging by that steely gaze, Arte realized she wasn't joking, dropping his charms. "Wait, seriously?"

The arachnid turned to leave without remorse, cloak fluttering behind her as she gestured for him to follow. Arte did so begrudgingly.

"However," Ivy began without facing him, "should you ever feel the need to escape, you must take me with you." She looked at him sidelong as she snapped on her new tactical gloves. "Only me."

Arte smiled, happily following in her wake.

[yanderefairyangel]

Ok that's kinda a lot so I will just say some stuff and stars by 2 disclaimmers because Eddie is a touchy subject in general

From my understanding a big chunk of the discourse comes from trying to conflate media literacy with morality when those 2 shoudln't be mixed. Criticizing a work of fiction isn't criticing it for depicting a heavy subject, that's being "morally outraged" at an imaginary scenario, criticizing a work of fiction is reading what it's saying exactly even if you don't agree or dislike what's been said. Morality belongs to philosophy, not literature and thus not to media literacy.

And number 2 I am personally rather neutral to Eddie, I kinda like her but that stops here. I think she is a conceptually interesting character but still have gripes with how Houses handles her. For all the crap I can give to it, I think Hopes did a better job with her route. I don't really have a stake in this discourse, and don't really care about 3H in general due to well... not liking the story

So anyway, some points I disagree with :

"-They’ll raise hell if someone calls Edelgard a fascist" Hmm, I wonder why. Sarcasm asides, "fascist" means either a derogatory way of speaking of a character, or it's prime meaning, the doctrine elaborated by Mussolini. And Eddie's own ideals.... are the complete opposite of the doctrine Mussolini created. Eddie's ideals are closer to that of Marx if we are to bring irl politics. So no, she isn't fascist in any sense

"Nemesis means adversary and Satan means adversary" Nemesis is considered now the term to talk about someone who is you enemy, but it's the most modern sense of the term. "Nemesis" comes from the grec term νέμω and it originally meant "indignation" or "revenge". Nemesis is the goddess of revenge. Nemesis being named after her is a reference to how the Agarthans used him as a pawn in their revenge against the Nabateans. Eddie is a new Nemesis because she is their new tool for revenge, you could even argue that the Agarthans turned her into a "goddes of Revenge" seeing how their enemy is Sothis. Satan however does means the adversary in greek.

The idea that Eddie was demonically coded never crossed my mind, her route CF is more about the tragical irony of the one character who is all about freedom and choosing your own destiny fufilling the goal she was "created" for by the Agarthans. Yes she get rid of them (out of screen) in the endgame, doesn't change the fact that she went all Elefseus about wanting to defy destiny only for fufilling the destiny they were assigned to (Elef becoming the vessel of Thanatos and Eddie the tool for revenge, the new Nemesis) before they can get rid of what else is bothering them (Elef/Thanatos killing Moira and Eddie the Agarthans) but the sole fact that they ended up fufilling destiny when opposed to such concepts shows that they already failed. That's why I prefer Scarlet Blaze, even if the ending is kinda... stupid (Thales and Rhea dying Evil queen from Snow white style is just)

Anyway, if it's about the post I made with the red cape, thinking about it, since Red is both the color of revolution (breaking circle) and purification (fire) this actually further the objectification Eddie is facing from the Agarthans : She wants to break a circle of violence but fails by becoming the tool of revenge and completeing the ancient circle of revenge between the Nabatean and Agarthans (Agarthans trying to Kill Nabateans -> killed by Sothis -> Revenge of the other Agarthans -> killing the Nabateans-> Rhea/Seiros killing Nemesis and defeating the Agarthans -> The circle can only be completed by Eddie defeating Rhea in the name of the Agarthans)

The objectifcation by making her the purifying fire I am sure I don't need to explain it, Thales's dialogue and him brainwashing her in AG is self-explanatory

"The fact that the game’s developers called Edelgard a villain, which would mean that her actions or motives are meant to be seen as evil, flies over their head as they try to claim she’s just “an antagonist.” Yeah I have heard of it, but I never found said quotation, mind filling me in ?

@yanderefairyangel

Yeah, that’s been a thing for a long time. Whenever it comes to Edelgard, some people want to make her out as this Christ-like figure while ignoring the stuff that says otherwise, such as:

Amyr, a weapon crafted specifically for her, bears the Crest of Maurice, also known as the Crest of the Beast. This would indicate that Edelgard is more of an anti-Christ figure than an actual savior. The fact she continuously lies to her supporters only furthers this, as well as how the weapon isn’t a Hero’s Relic. It’s a Crest Stone Weapon, one that requires Agarthanium in order to repair.

The Crest of Maurice is tied to the Devil Arcana in the Tarot, symbolizing allowing oneself to be corrupted and giving in to earthly desires. It usually depicts the demon Baphomet.

People are turned into Demonic Beasts as war assets for her army.

In Azure Moon, she takes her ideals to what is said to be their end point when she turns herself into a Demonic Beast. Said beast form has horns, boobs and Wings much like Baphomet is depicted with.

The fact Dimitri goes on to be given the title of SAVIOR King.

Or that the Agarthans live under the ground, fleeing there after their war against Sothis led to them scorching the Earth. This is coupled with the fact Sothis is tied to the heavens through the Japanese name of the Sword of the Creator, the Sword of the Heavenly Emperor.

The word nemesis means “adversary.” Satan also means “the adversary.”

Her route’s ending has a picture of her raising a variation of the Hand of Justice, a symbol of divine right to rule. However, the hand is a reflection of the real thing from France. It’s reversed, and not only that it’s in the same pose Baphomet’s raised hand usually is in.

The scene where Byleth and the Black Eagles pledge themselves to Edelgard is called Path of Thorns, a reference to the Bible indicating that it’s a path of sin (specifically sloth, indicating a failure to do some form of duty)

Edelgard is a demonically-coded character, but her supporters refuse to acknowledge that. Or if they do, they claim it’s so that he can subvert expectations and be the real hero in the end. They’ve also tried to claim that her ending portrait is an allusion to Washington Crossing the Delaware, and if you point it out that it’s based on Napoleon’s coronation picture as emperor of France they go with the most positive interpretation of Boney they can.-They’ll raise hell if someone calls Edelgard a fascist or compares her to the world’s angriest Charlie Chaplin impersonator, while claiming the Church are clearly inspired by said impersonator’s fan club.

The fact that the game’s developers called Edelgard a villain, which would mean that her actions or motives are meant to be seen as evil, flies over their head as they try to claim she’s just “an antagonist.”

[blzzrdstryr]

Generous offering

Yandere!Zhongli x gn!Fatui Harbinger!reader

Wordcount:1843

CW:Yandere themes

There are several simple things one should know before dealing with the archons - be respectful and polite, speak only when you’re allowed to and most importantly - never forget that archons aren’t humans.

The first two rules are instinctive - it’s natural for humans to simper and bow before the forces far greater than them, while the latter is not; on the contrary it’s counterintuitive and unexpected. People tend to project, tend to humanize - they see kindness when there’s none and make a huge mistake of assuming that archons see things the way they see it.

Tsaritsa, for example, lacks humanity, despite holding the title of Goddess of Love. The love that she holds for you is different from love mothers and fathers give to their children, or love that young sweethearts share at night, it’s cold and impersonal and undeniably cruel.

Tsaritsa says that she loves all of you and she loves Snezhnaya, yet she lashes out a harsh and gruelling punishments at every perceived failure and rules her land with an iron fist, one would think that the cryo archon is a liar and a hypocrite, who uses pretty, flowery words to hide the atrocities she commits, but this perspective is flawed. Tsaritsa loves all of you and she loves Snezhnaya, she’s just not human enough to properly express this.

That’s why it’s a bit jarring to see the ancient lord of these lands in his mortal form - he lacks the same otherworldly terror and grandiose that every of Tsaritsa’s move and word carry, yet he also possesses the air of wisdom and elegance so refined that rare person can reach it. It’s easy to assume that he’s human.

Rex Lapis, or “Zhongli” as he calls himself now invites you to the Liuli pavillion the second day after your arrival, for tea and local cuisine as he says, and who are you to decline a God?

Liuli staff hurries and dashes around, preparing their best room for you - Fatui are known for their seemingly endless finances, no wonder they’re in haste. “Please make yourself comfortable, dear guests”, the waiter curtsies and leads you to the dining room, which happens to be richly furnished and decorated with high-quality darkwood furniture and the hand painted wall panels further accentuating the luxury of the restaurant.

One of these panels illustrate different scenes from the Liyuen mythos - a battle of mighty and wise adepti against the horde of demons, Rex Lapis aiding his people in building the Harbour and the most spectacular one - a majestic dark brown dragon with golden fur and feathers descending to the devoted worshippers, who in turn present him with their offerings and gratitude.

He orders tea and meals for both of you, as you start to converse about the plan that he is determined to bring into life - the so-called test of Liyue, and the guarantee of you obtaining his gnosis.

“And what about your colleague?”, he sips a bit of his tea, intense amber eyes piercing right through you. He looks both human and non-human in this moment, both undeniably mortal softness and frailty seen in his figure and the barely concealed divinity, the sense of awe slowly seeping into air mixing in one person.

“And what about him? Tsaritsa and you have negotiated everything beforehand, I will make sure that he plays his part properly”, he hums at your answer, lowering his gaze deep in thought. You start on your own tea.

Ah, Childe, if only he knew why exactly he’s here - a distraction and a scapegoat. You even feel bad for him - it’s truly unfair to be lied to by your own Goddess. However, it’s also not a big surprise - Childe is the loudest out of all Harbingers in all senses. Infamous for his skills and battle obsession, his name is enough to have people both shivering in fear and cursing him.

“What do you think of your archon? Was serving her of any use to you?”Rex Lapis unexpectedly asks.

You lean back in your seat, thinking what to say.

“Tsaritsa is a gentle soul, she declared war only to protect us, her subjects and I am ready to aid her in whatever undertaking she starts”.

“Will you continue to serve Tsaritsa, if her action might put you in danger, make you suffer and bring unnecessary grief?”, he leans closer to you, his human features distorting enough to reveal the ancient dragon sleeping inside. His eyes shine a cold golden glow and accurate fingernails morph into sharp, dark claws.

“Yes”, you breathe out, mesmerized and terrified by the sudden change: “Her love knows no bounds, yet she always puts the needs of the nation before anyone else. If my suffering can help Snezhnaya, then I will accept it with open arms”, he moves back at your answer, all draconic traces gone in an instance, upper corner of his lips subtly rising - whatever you said must’ve pleased him immensely.

The conversation flows back into the territory of plans to be realized, yet the cold sensation of dread still clings to you, your gut feeling yelling at you to get up and run. You remain seated to the end of your meeting, politely conversing with the God that terrifies you.

***

Days slowly grow into weeks and Childe acts just as you have expected - the Eleventh Harbinger might be smart, yet even he wouldn’t be able to see what two of you are scheming. Still, you request Ekaterine, a spy you planted in Northland bank, to keep you updated on the Tartaglia’s actions - extra caution never hurts.

You continue to meet up with geo archon, as you two discuss your next actions. Tartaglia has started cooperating with that blonde foreigner Signora has warned you about, and while this union doesn’t pose any threat to your plans, it’s always good to have a plan B, just in case something happens.

Sometimes your conversation develops into a more unexpected direction, as you find the archaic lord more chatty and tending to ramble, than any of Liyuen historians would dare to picture him as. One on such occasion he talks with you about dragons - benevolent deities who protect and bless their people in an exchange of generous offerings.

His eyes devour you, as he retells you ancient folktales and you suppress your discomfort, preferring to attribute his honestly unnerving behaviour down to his lack of humanity - he was never human in the first place.

That’s why you also prohibit yourself from viewing him as anything but God - Rex Lapis in his “Zhongli” persona is genuinely attractive, he’s well-mannered and obviously handsome and far more knowledgeable than any mortal should be. If you didn’t know of his true nature you would have fallen for him by now - it’s hard not to.

Life, how strange that wouldn’t sound, goes as usual - you get Ekaterine’s report on what Childe’s up to and if it’s something unexpected you book a Liuli pavilion room and send an invitation to the funeral parlour consultant. You only need to wait until Childe gets desperate enough and decides to use the sigils of permission to unleash the well-awaited chaos.

This routine however is soon broken by the appearance of familiar ashy-white hair in the distance. She doesn’t wear her signature mask or dress, nor are there agents at both of her sides, yet you can still clearly recognize her. Signora leaves the Wangsheng building in haste, cape with the hood concealing most of her face and figure, except the long locks of hair, peeking from inside.

What is she doing here?

You thought that Tsaritsa sent two of her servants - Tartaglia and you, him to “test” Liyue, you to oversee the former’s actions and obtain gnosis, there’s no need to send her too.

Your mind races, as you search for a logical explanation of Signora’s presence as your memory supplies the piece of first conversation you had with “Zhongli” - could it be that Tsaritsa also sent you to play a role you have no idea of?

Cryo archon is a goddess of love and her love is cruel and unforgiving, she has sacrificed countless chess pieces before, so it wouldn’t be surprising if she did that again - you are nothing but a pawn after all, one of the tools she uses to exact her will and force her vision, all of the Harbingers are.

You want to believe that you can accept and resign to whatever hardship and fate your Goddess might subject you to. You can’t.

***

Adepti and Qixing converse at the pier of the seaport, as you hurry to the Northland Bank, a slight smile playing on your lips - Childe has finally done it - he summoned an ancient god to lure out Rex Lapis, ultimately proving that Liyue can stand without him.

There are sounds of heated argument heard when you open the building’s door and then you see it - Signora and Tartaglia exchanging barely concealed insults and “Zhongli” standing nearby.

“[Harbinger]? What are you doing here?”, the ginger shifts his gaze onto you, a rare emotion of hurt and disbelief flickering in his dead fish eyes. “Of course, Tsaritsa sent you too”, he smiles, angry and disappointed. “Seems that whole world wants to make a bad guy out of me”, he stomps out of the room, leaving you with Signora and “Zhongli”

“[Harbinger]”

“Signora'', you acknowledge each other, after she trails exiting Childe with her eyes.

“I am here to take the gnosis of Rex Lapis”, she says and you nod, accepting that your Goddess lied to you too: “Tsaritsa also asked me to give you this letter”, she extends her arm, a thick envelope with the familiar seal catching your attention.

With the trembling hands you snatch it out of her hold and almost rip the envelope - for what reason did Tsaritsa send you here?

She writes that you need to stay in Liyue for an undetermined period of time to upkeep “the agreement” made between her and Rex Lapis. You read her message silently, yet when your eyes trace over these words, the sensation of “ “Zhongli’s” eyes on you becomes ten times sharper and stifling. You don’t know what to do.

The other Harbinger leaves too, taking the gnosis with her, as “Zhongli” takes a couple of steps to you, touching your shoulder in a somewhat reassuring gesture. “[First]”, he starts, tone sympathetic and soothing. You don’t fall for it.

“You had your hand in it, didn't you?”, you hiss and accuse, throwing an angry glance at him, momentarily forgetting about the first two rules of dealing with archons.

He smiles, revealing two sharp fangs, his surprisingly scaly hands snaking around yours. “Yes”, Rex Lapis admits, and looks nothing like gentle and knowledgeable “Zhongli”. How could you forget? Archons aren’t humans, humanity is just a fancy dress they don to toy with mortals. He is the dragon, not the benevolent deity that is painted on the wall panels of Liuli pavillion, but a greedy and ancient creature, hungry for gifts and gratitude.

You are his generous offering.

[sserpente]

A/N: Heyho there my lovelies! I’m finally back! I missed posting so much! This Imagine is based on a TikTok I found and what can I say? It inspired me! After this, next up, will be the 20k Special! Enjoy everyone!

Words: 3205 Warnings: colour-blindness

“What if I never find him?” You murmured, glancing at the fruit bowl with a saddened expression. Yellow bananas, green grapes, red apples. To you, they were all different shades of grey. Dull and boring, like you had been sucked into a 30s black-and-white film. Only you didn’t get a cheesy romance out of it.

You had been born with what doctors today would call a ‘remarkably rare, complicated and fascinating condition’, for you had lost all of your colour vision at the age of twelve. You still remembered what the world had looked like before—bright, rich, intense—then someone flicked a switch overnight and all you could still see was grey, grey, grey and greyer. The colours would only ever come back to you once you found the love of your life—your soulmate.

A sigh escaped your lips. Only a few people still existed with this… defect and to make things worse, you had had no idea you were one of them. Not until your twelfth birthday. Society admired and pitied you all the same and yet, being a hopeless romantic, at the end of the day, you longed to finally fall in love.

Tony chuckled. “Heads up. You’re too young to worry about settling down anyway.” He responded cheerfully and pointed at you with a screwdriver in hand. He had been trying to fix the dishwasher for a solid twenty minutes now and for a man who had built himself a pretty much indestructible suit that could fly, it was utterly amusing he couldn’t figure out why it had stopped working.

You were not an Avenger, mind you. The sole reason you were, as of right now, in the Avengers’ kitchen munching on grey chocolate chips was that your best friend, who in turn was friends with Clint’s wife, had managed to flood your shared flat over the weekend. It was utterly inhabitable now and it would take quite a while for the landlord to get it all dried up again—and since insurance would not cover the cost for staying in a hotel, for the time being, Clint’s wife had suggested you’d stay with them—right until Tony Stark had shown up and you had graciously offered you’d come hang out at the Avengers Tower. Okay, technically you had begged him but either way and needless to say, you had jumped at the opportunity and somehow even hoped that you would learn some dirty superhero secrets—but so far, nothing. Nothing but what superheroes did when they were not out and about saving the world. Truth be told, seeing Thor in Hello Kitty pyjamas and witnessing Natasha Romanoff of all people scream watching an Asian horror film had its perks but you had somehow expected for them to be called in for an urgent mission where they required a skill only you had and then they would rely on your help and you would fight and become an Avenger and… your fanfiction had always sounded too good to be true.

“Are you still there? How is that fruit bowl so interesting?” Snapping yourself out of your thoughts, you blinked.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that…”

“Tony?” It was Bruce who interrupted you two, peeking his head into the kitchen almost timidly. You waved at him and he nodded, yet he failed to reciprocate your smile. Uh-Oh.

“Did something happen?”

The scientist nodded. “You might wanna put on your suit.”

“What happened?”

Bruce pursed his lips. “We’ve located Loki.”

-

Your eyes were still widened by the time you rushed after Tony even after he had told you explicitly (three times, to be exact) to stay put and hide until he had been put in custody.

The Loki. God of Mischief, Thor’s brother, Frost Giant, the I-tried-to-take-over-the-planet-guy. It was exciting, somehow, meeting a villain and oh, would it fuel you for your fan fiction. You almost bumped straight into Thor when they all came to a halt all of a sudden, his body a wall of flesh and muscle and making you grunt in pain—you might as well have hit a brick wall. With his hammer in hand, he ensured no one would approach his dangerous brother closely enough for him to try anything funky.

But the fact that Loki was even more handsome in person and the first villain you ever saw in person when he turned around the corner with a proud and arrogant expression on his face despite his shackles, was not what startled you to the core.

All of a sudden, there were colours. Everywhere.

Your lips parted, the impact of all the pigmentation around you making you dizzy. Loki’s armour was black, his cape was green, his eyes were blue, and his hair reminded you of the plumage of a raven. And your surroundings... The compound was silver now, the sceptre they had taken from him golden. Nauseous, you held on to Thor’s muscly arm for support. The God of Thunder frowned in concern. His eyes were blue too, his hair blonde, his cape red… too… many… colours. You suppressed a gag, overwhelmed by the sudden return of your colour vision.

“Are you okay?” Thor asked.

“G-guys… I can see colours.”

Every single head in the room, including Loki’s, turned in your direction so fast you flinched. Tony’s face was the first to fall in response.

“You are joking, right?”

Mutely, you shook your head. Your eyes locked with Loki’s, electricity rippling through you when they did. His blue irises froze you from the inside out, like each and every one of your limbs failed to resist the magnetic pull you felt towards him, and your cells longed for you to throw yourself into his arms—despite the fact he was handcuffed... and for a good reason too. Swallowing thickly, you forced yourself to look away.

Loki was your soulmate. That was impossible; and quite frankly, the god in question appeared to be thinking the exact same thing.

You chewed on your lower lip, anything to distract yourself from your predicament all the while everyone was still staring at you like you had grown two more heads.

“Take him to the cells, I’ll stay with her.” Clint’s hand on your shoulder did little to console you. Part of you still barely resisted the urge to start at Loki like a succubus, the other… the other was terrified and meant to hide in the archer’s embrace.

You could feel Loki’s blue gaze still resting on you when he led you away from the scene, staring daggers into your back and rendering you speechless until you were finally out of sight and Clint shook your shoulder gently.

“Are you sure it’s not one of the security guards that helped bring him in?”

“No… no, I saw them first. Loki was behind them. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it but somehow, Loki was in colour first, you know what I mean? First him and then, a split second later, everything else was colourful too.”

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“Do you still see in colour now?”

“Of course I do.” Clint sighed and buried his face in his hands.

“So what happens if you don’t… act on this soulmate thing?”

“Nothing. Nothing happens.” You said.

“So you don’t have to… stay close to Loki or anything?”

“No. Not that I know of. But Clint—“

“Good. Because he might find a way to use you against us. Stay away from him. Thor’ll take him back to Asgard soon enough. All we need to do first is find the Tesseract.”

Your lips were pursed when he turned to check on them and if Loki was wreaking havoc while they were trying to get him imprisoned.

Stay away from him? Of course… it was the most reasonable thing to do. Loki was dangerous, a criminal… but was that right? Now that you had found your soulmate in him?

-

You couldn’t get him out of your head that night. Screw the danger, you had to see him. And eventually, your curiosity and that inexplicable and strange pull you felt towards Loki got the better of you. With a deep breath, you threw your covers back and let your bare feet hit the cold floor before quietly tiptoeing out into the dark and empty hallway.

Your blood was rushing in your ears, making you hear things your paranoia and imagination cooked up to the point your heart was pounding in your chest so hard and fast you feared it might jump right out of your ribcage. No one could know, of course. Clint would positively kill you—he, along with Tony, somewhat considered himself responsible for you here. You couldn’t really blame them. If something happened to you, they’d never forgive themselves. You were an innocent civilian, after all.

And now you had been tossed into the greatest fanfiction yet. Shivering, for the cold slowly crept into your bare skin and through the tanktop and shorts you were wearing to sleep, you finally reached the corridor leading to the elevator. The prison cells, a rather new addition to Stark Tower, were located at the very bottom, the cellar, or… what you preferred to call it, a modern dungeon.

You found Loki with his back turned to you in his cell, looking pale through the glass pane. Your heart skipped a beat when he suddenly spoke up.

“I expected you would find a way to come and see me at some point. I’d dare say the Avengers have taken quite the precautions to keep you as far away from me as possible.” He mused. He lifted his chin, approaching the glass window.

It was quite ridiculous to assume that this tiny and meagre prison would keep the Trickster at bay after everything he had proven to be capable of. If only he wanted to, he could shatter that glass with but a flick of his wrist or break the heavy metal door posing as the only barrier between you.

If you were to just… unlock that door to touch him… it would be so easy. Blinking rapidly, you shook your head to chase the thought away.

“Who are you?” He asked and for just a brief moment, you believed to see genuine interest and curiosity sparkling in his stunning blue eyes.

“No one, really. You already know my name, I presume but that’s all there is. I’m not special—I mean, I don’t have superpowers. I’m just a regular human with a rare condition.”

“Oh, I see. Surely you had not hoped for a criminal of all people to be your soulmate then? A murderer? A monster?” His expression hardened.

Yes. But you were not going to tell him that. He was still the person to have made you see colours again, regardless of who he was and what he had done. There must have been a connection between you, you felt it after all! And you were certain that he felt it too.

“Thor will take me back to Asgard and the great King Odin,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “will surely have me executed. You will never see me again. So do not worry.”

“I don’t want that.” You finally chirped, barely daring to look him in the eye. His gaze was scrutinising and intimidating… almost as if he was able to see right into your soul with but one single glance.

Loki frowned.

“I bet you’re not happy about this, are you?” A desperate scoff escaped your lips. “I’m not sure I am…” You confessed and sat down on the chair in front of the window. It creaked a little under your weight, the unpleasant sound echoing through the empty hallway.

This man right in front of you was not be trusted and yet, the desire to pour your heart out to him was so strong you felt it like a sea of emotions attempting to drown you.

“You know ever since my twelfth birthday I wondered when I would finally meet my soulmate. Who they would be, what they would be like… and then so many years passed I was beginning to worry I might never see colours again. That I’d be alone and grey for the rest of my life.”

Loki licked his lips and glanced up at you, listening intently to every single word you said.

“Now I met you and they all tell me not to trust you. I mean… I know who you are, I know what you’ve done. I can’t say I’m happy about the fact my soulmate is…” You stopped yourself, breathing in sharply. “What was the universe thinking? You are a god and I’m just… me. We live light-years apart!”

Eventually, after a moment of surprisingly pleasant silence between you, Loki hummed. “The Norns do have interesting ways.” He said, locking his eyes with yours, almost as if he was pondering if… if what? If he could imagine being with you?

“So what should we do? Never speak of it again? Pretend we have never met? I can’t just… come to Asgard with you.” You held your breath when you realised what you were considering here. Loki must have thought the same. He smirked in response—not mockingly but bitterly. “Odin would never allow a mortal on Asgard. If I was to survive my trial, that is.”

“Don’t say that. I don’t care you’re a criminal right now, I just found my soulmate, and I don’t want to lose him again right away, regardless of what happens between us.”

With a start, his face fell. “Nothing will happen between us. That would be unnecessarily cruel, would it not? Your life in the nine realms is but a heartbeat compared to mine.”

“So… this is goodbye?”

Loki hesitated. You noticed by the way his lips slightly parted without a single sound escaping them just yet.

“Yes. This is goodbye.”

-

The fruit bowl had become your new best friend. In the morning, tired and rather absent, you sat at the kitchen table holding on to a steaming mug of coffee all the while studying the different colours of the fruit before you like a complicated Maths formula.

“Did you have a good chat last night?” Clint barked at you when he entered the room, skipping the ‘Good morning’.

“Huh?”

“With Loki?” He probed, raising his eyebrows in an I-already-know-what-you’ve-done manner.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You said, shaking your head and focusing your gaze on the fruit bowl again. Yellow bananas, green grapes, red apples. In colour.

You flinched when Tony spoke your name. “We saw the footage on our security cameras. You sneaked to his cell last night knowing fully well why you should stay away from him, especially with… with… you know.”

Fuck… the security cameras. You had completely forgotten about those! Of course the legendary Tony Stark would have had security cameras installed all over the damn place!

Busted, you shrugged your shoulders as nonchalantly as you could muster. “I just wanted to talk him. I had to talk to him. I know what you’re all thinking—that he’s evil and brutal and cruel and ruthless… and… and you’re probably right? I… I don’t even know but… he is still my soulmate. I can see colours again because of him for Fuck’s sake! I can’t just… ignore that.”

“I get it. We don’t know what it must feel like. But it’s for the best. We don’t want him to hurt you.”

“I am his soulmate, too. He wouldn’t dare hurt me. You know maybe he’s not the monster you all think he is.”

“Are you saying that because you know him so well after last night or because that is what you want to believe?”

Both. “I just… have a feeling.”

“Right.” Tony clapped his hands. Your name left his lips almost like a plea. “You have to trust us.”

Thor nodded. “Loki is dangerous. You should stay away from him at least until we know he is not still plotting the domination of your planet.”

“What do you mean ‘at least until’? You can stop staying away from him when he’s back on Asgard and out of your reach.” Tony snapped.

“We’re just trying to keep you safe.” Steve intervened. You sighed.

“You know what? I’m getting a headache and I’m still tired, so I’m gonna go back to bed.” That wasn’t even a lie—well, at least the fatigue bit wasn’t. Besides, the blackout curtains in the room Tony let you stay in were heaven-sent.

That was until a loud tumult in the Tower woke you up again, even though you were not sure anymore you had actually fallen asleep once your head hit the soft pillow.

“W—“ Your scream of protest was muffled by a cool palm covering your mouth. You struggled briefly, ripping your eyes wide open in a weak attempt to make out who was assaulting you in the comforting darkness of your room when you suddenly heard a soothing voice shushing you.

“It’s me…”

“L-Loki?” You choked out when he removed his hand again. “Did you… did you break out of your cell?”

“It would seem so. Come.”

“What?”

He tilted his head. “I don’t have much time.”

You stood, throwing the covers back when he already reached for your hand and held it tightly, pulling you with him into the hallway and towards one of the more hidden exists of Stark Tower, a flight of stairs illuminated only by emergency lights.

“W-what are you doing?”

“I am proving to you that I am more than just a criminal.”

“Oh… but… um… where are we going?”

Loki smirked. Your eyes widened when he pulled out the Tesseract seemingly out of nowhere, its blue light glowing brightly in the dark and throwing artistic shadows on his face.

“Hold on tight.”

“Loki…”

The God of Mischief pulled you close, making you gasp. Your chest hit his, his arm wrapping around your waist. With his face only inches from yours, you could feel his warm breath on your lips, and suddenly longed to kiss him.

“You are my soulmate. I am not leaving you behind.”

“What happened to ‘goodbye’?” You chirped.

Loki tilted his head almost threateningly. “You are mine. Don’t you think I wanted to leave this place without looking back?” His expression softened. “But I couldn’t. Because of you.” And you might just be the only woman to ever love me in this way, he added silently.

“B-but… Y-you said Odin will never allow me on Asgard and… and…”

“I never said we were going to Asgard, now was I?”

Your lips parted. Could you trust him? The stranger who had finally made you see colours again? If you told him No, would he let go of you? Would he let you run to Tony and Clint and Nat so they could protect you from him? Swallowing thickly, you met his intense blue gaze and nodded.

Loki smirked and winked. “You are in for an adventure.” And you knew he wasn’t lying. Next thing you knew, you were both hurtled through space and into a shared future.

-

A/N: ☕

[dragynkeep]

hi luke, if you're still doing design critiques may I toss my lil quartet of au Rubies at you? (https://spectralscathath.tumblr.com/post/689717101959806976/a-more-detailed-view-of-antaresruby-outfits)

Hell yeah, more Spec redesigns-

Obviously, like many Beacon designs, not much has been changed from canon, but I really like the changes you made here. The swap of the black for red gradient tights do help in toning back the black, especially since the petticoat isn’t as thick and visible on this design as canon. 

Same with the belt, it, along with the added red on her corset, stops the black belt from blending into the black corset that then blends into the black dress. It stands out and makes it easier for the eye to see amongst all the dark colours on her. I also gotta say that the rose pattern on the corset is gorgeous and I’m stealing it-

Without the cape, you can see that the red still works really well on her, but enough that she wouldn’t be a red blob should you show her with the cape on. The one thing I’m more iffy on is the buttons.

I get why they’re there, since the clasps from canon have been removed, but I’m just not sold on them like I am with everything else. Still, really good attempt to design your own version of her Beacon outfit. 

Those short sleeves are really cute.

I can see a lot of the Mistral influence in this outfit, but with some differences to not fall into the same pitfalls. I actually really like the shorter sleeves. Either shorter or just less puffy, both work to sell a more mature look while keeping Ruby both protected and more mobile while swinging her big ass scythe. The gloves look great for that same reason, and while I get the reason for the red belt around the wrist, I personally am not a fan of it.

It keeps the red on Ruby’s arms, but I just never liked that style of glove personally. 

That being said, the introduction of a darker maroon red was a really good idea. It still keeps to Ruby’s colours, but the darker colour helps to accent the brighter red while not being too much on the eye. It being on her corset and belt works well, since her black corset, skirt, and boots still keep up the work of not making Ruby too bright. 

Like canon Mistral, though, I’m not a fan of corsets that go over the bust, honestly. It’s a personal preference, since they just look a bit too constricting on the chest for me. 

But back on a positive, I like the rips in her tights to show the passage of time. Really sells the rough journey Ruby’s had, while still trying to dress appropriately with the boots and thicker clothes. Plus, I love that she’s referencing more of her loved ones in her design after the tragedy of Beacon. 

Definitely an improvement of her canon outfit.

DARK GREY, DARK GREY, DARK GREY-

Ruby moving towards pants does make her look more mature, even if I prefer to keep her in skirts and leggings personally. The red pouch on the leg pops against the all black pants, keeping the red on that bit with the red trimmed boots. Similar with the red on her corset, but now the cool grey works better with this bright colour compared to the white of her previous outfit.

The deeper maroon gloves honestly work well with keeping the colour on her arms, and I’m glad the cuffs made a return to keep that Penny resemblance on her friend. 

Also, the idea that Ruby getting whiter hair with the use of her silvery eyes really does add a downside from just spamming her power beyond the typical “Stop blinding yourself” aspect. A person with eyes that might be silver? Could reasonably be denied if you’re not 100% sure. A person with eyes that might be silver and greying hair? SEW, get her. 

A chonky scorpion tail, I love it.

This is a cute outfit for Vacuo. It almost look more mechanic and mature compared to Ruby’s previous gothic lolita. The thinner black tights contrast against the red of the short bottoms, shows some wear and tear to highlight just how chaotic Ruby’s life is rn, and both protect the legs while being thin enough to deal with the heat. 

The skirt thing and shorts are an idea for hiding her tail, but the black shorts and black skirt together are very hard to tell apart, even with the little white frill the skirt has. At this point, her red skirt could work better with long black shorts underneath, so you can keep that storage for Ruby’s tail and also help the viewer tell the different. Plus, she’s a bit lacking on the red in her midsection. 

While it can make it look like Ruby is more worn after everything before Vacuo, her colouring is getting a bit too dark here. The red is in small amounts, so while her cape can carry the work when she has it on, you can really see the lack of it meaningfully when she doesn’t have it on.

That said, dark grey still works really well with Ruby’s palette. I love the eyepatch idea for her, especially since it’s an interesting way of showing her emblem too. A nice callback to her main villain outside of Tyrian, Cinder.

I really like what you were trying with this, and a lot works, just the skirt and the duller colours don’t hold it up with the others. More brightness, maybe even the return of the floral designs for some interest too. 

[nokingsonlyfooles]

Once again: Finish the feed, reblog the thing, and don't bother with the indent to indicate where the story starts 'cos it might crash the Tumblrs.

From TS #124 And Your Bird Can Sing!

Erik and Maggie both had meticulous personalities, and they had put their due diligence into this stupid thing they shouldn’t be doing. When Erik came back with the name of a real historical human who would like to turn him into a bird for a drink of absinthe, they looked him up.

“Frey Bartolomeus of Falkenrath,” Maggie read from beneath the woodcut. “‘Mad’ Bartholomew. Circa 1098. One of the Fathers of Modern Magic. Pisses my mom off they still haven’t decided on the Mothers of Modern Magic,” she added, aside. She wiggled the book into the crumbly ground and set it up against one of the half walls, so Erik could see it easily. “But we’re not even sure it’s really him.”

“It doesn’t… matter for the… picture,” Erik said with an irritated gesture. It was uncomfortable kneeling here, he only had stockings and short pants. The splinters and gravel dug into his legs. “He… says he looks like that.”

Actually, he said he preferred a top hat and a cape and white spats instead of a hooded fur coat and leggings, but the wavy black hair and the droopy moustache were the same. Sometimes Invisibles who’d been around hundreds of years decided they liked or wanted new stuff, like fun clothes or cupcakes with cream filling.

“Yeah, but, you know, inasmuch as he says he can turn you into something,” Maggie said.

Erik sat back with a huff and hugged one leg against him, it was a little more comfortable like that. “If I’m being totally honest here, I’m not real happy he says he’s the guy we talk about when something is really messed up.”

“By all accounts he was trying to make a whole bunch of dogs with weird appendages and their heads screwed on backwards,” Maggie said, “so it’s not like he got it wrong. It’s not messed up that way, it’s just everyone was so upset about it, they burned him at the stake. People like dogs.”

Erik touched the reproduced woodcut of a dog with two heads at the front end and the graceful upper half of a swan emerging from the tail end. An Early Experiment in Grafts. It didn’t move, pictures didn’t used to do that in olden days. Probably just as well. “It’s not exactly turning people into birds.”

“It is the practical basis for all Transmutations and Mergers!” Magnificent declared in her bold lesson-voice. “Ball of Swannes and Quercus with Hyaena Centre was a feat of living tissue manipulation that has never been equalled!” She cleared her throat and shrugged self-consciously. “And, I mean, he’s had over two-hundred years to get better at it. If it’s not just some weird god with a fake ID.”

They’d been over much of this before, of course.

“He seemed nice,” Erik allowed.

“Yeah that, uh, that’s the part that makes me wonder if we’ve got hold of the same guy,” Maggie said.

She picked up the textbook and flipped through the pages. The march of progress through living tissue manipulation didn’t really get any less creepy. The last bit from five years ago was about the use of plant material as prosthetics for wounded soldiers. There was a photo of a guy with a twisted mass of ivy holding his guts in his belly. Grape Ivy, Fast-Growing and Non-Toxic, a Popular Filler. He was smiling and waving at the camera but, you know, still…

“Maggie, the… picture,” Erik said.

Maggie startled and set the book up again. “Yeah, I don’t want you to show up with the wrong guy…”

Erik broadly shook his head, but it took him a moment to collect his words, “I’m not picking them out of a… line-up like the police. It’s more training-wheels stuff. I’m used to praying. It gets my brain in gear — like the car has ‘go forward’ and ‘go forward faster.’”

“‘Go forward with passenger,’” Maggie muttered. “Well, we’re already trying it without the shrine. Let’s not push it and get rid of everything. The point is the bird.”

“If I don’t get it, we can try again,” Erik said. He sighed and drew his knees under him again on the uncomfortable ground. But it is gonna be way easier when I can just shut my eyes… my eye and do this standing up…“If you don’t get it at all we can try again,” Maggie said. “If you get it wrong, we’re in trouble for no good reason.”

[Read the whole thing at the site!!]

Alright. Gonna set down the feed and plug the thing.

New year, new habits!

I write this travesty!

The site is in constant need of repair, so are the characters, and so is the author (me). Part 1 is steampunk, and in Part 2 we've gone diesel. It starts with a hate crime, this is not for the faint of heart, but it does get quite funny in places. The absurdity is a coping mechanism!

I've got to break my website later so I can try to fix it, but there's a new instalment this week so I'll give people time to read that, if there's any takers!

Known Readers: 2 (hi 5th and Kith!); 1st Goalpost: 10?

If you're reading, check in with me. My hit counter is buggy AF and I moved the comments offsite, to Tumblr. I won't know you're there if you don't say hi!

Known Supporters: I'm burning my Patreon to the ground because they annoyed me, give me some time to set up someplace else! 1st Goalpost: 5?

If you WANT to support, go ahead and let me know that too. I'll be working on a subscription basis in the future - you'll only pay when I publish!

[olympusgenius]

The Crafter Prince

There is a special rule at Kamata Crafter's workshop about home improvement: "If you want an improvement at your lab or bedroom...do it yourself!"

In this case, Hephaestus was alone at home improving his closet at his bedroom to add more compartments and make it look more practical and modern.

After add the last details, he proceeds to hang up his clothes, made a new and improved shoecase and added some shelves to put decorations and stuff.

Between his things there were some plushes of himself, Jutaro, Talos and the little exception his Mama called Lil' Salomon, his old wooden legs, some adult-coloring books and markers, etc.

After finishing with storaging his clothes, he takes a fancy box he didn't noticed until now...

-eh?...I don't remember this box...- Hephaestus checks who could have gave him that box until he notices a certain logo...

-ugh...it had to be Arachne's- he said with a little disgust in his voice, isn't that he hates her, is just he can't stand some personality issues from her...anyways, he opens the box and the first thing he sees is a note:

"To Hephy:

Thanks for your help with my last fashion show, you were my salvation, after I made your attire for the fashion show, I still had plenty string to make you this fantasy outfit as my thank you gift to you...I hope seeing you wearing it! ~

XOXO Arachne

P.D.

I know you will complete it with your accesories...they're so fabulous!"

Hephaestus was feeling awkward after read that note but prefers to see what's inside the box, he aparts some wrapping paper to see the outfit.

It was a fancy looking suit, like a gala uniform at first sight, it consisted in a crimson jacket with black high collar and cuffs with golden ornaments and epaulettes, black trousers with golden silk ribbon at each side of the legs, black and white dress shoes with cuban heels and a black cape with red silk lining, Hephaestus was a little surprised by the box's content.

-Did she really wants me to wear this?- Hephaestus questions himself about the costume, not about the quality but for how gaudy looked that attire.

-yeah, sure...no way- Heph reassures to himself and takes a bath to rest his body after work in his closet.

After came out from the bathroom, he dries himself with his towel and stares to the costume for some seconds.

-...just this time- Hephaestus takes the outfit from the box and start to dress up.

After he dresses up, Hephaestus goes to the mirror to see his reflection, the outfit was so well fitted to his figure, he looked so good but he felt there was something missing.

-maybe with some accesories like Arachne mentioned- he takes a little chest from the closet and opens it to takes a pair of rings, then he opens a drawer to take a pair of white gloves, then he goes to his lab to get some other accesories he made, a sword, a brooch and a simple yet elegant crown.

After put on the accesories, he takes the cape and place it over his shoulders and pins it under the epaulettes, now the last thing was place the crown over his head, now he looked more regal than before, like a fairytale prince ready for a royal ball.

He took some turns to look at himself, he was insecure but after some seconds he was getting used to the attire, even he took the sword from his waist to make some slashes and thrusts to the air imagining himself fighting against an enemy to save his "Mama".

-I'll save you, Mama!- he said while he lands the final strike to his imaginary enemy, after put back his sword into the scabbard, he kneels to Jutaro's doll and takes the doll's hand.

-don't worry anymore, Mama...I'll protect you forever...would you grant me this dance?- Hephaestus stands up and makes a reverence to then waltz with the doll while he hummings their royal dance...until he notices someone at his door.

-hi, Creator-

-hi, Talos......TALOS!!- Hephaestus screams shocked by his android's sudden greeting.

- H-how much time d-did you were at the door- Hephaestus asked nervously to Talos, but the answer would be more shocking to him.

-I was the last one to come here...-Talos said shyly

-t-the last one?-Heph asked again with nervousness in his voice.

-yeah...because everybody else came here and they saw you...doing that...and...they recorded everything...and they are watching it again at the living room...- Talos told that and Heph wanted to die after know they were watching his prince acting, he could even heard them laughing.

-but Creator, not everything is wrong...Mama saw it too...because Kurogane shared the file- Talos said trying to comfort his creator.

-Mama saw it too!! Now is worse, Mama will think I'm a kind of a freak!!- Hephaestus now wanted to die even more, but then a message came to his phone, it was from Jutaro.

"I'M COMING FOR YOU, MY CRAFTER PRINCE!!"

Hephaestus was surprised by the message, but then he's interrupted by Talos.

-Creator...-

-what now, Talos?-

-If you're The Prince...can I be the villain now?-

[liquid-luck-00]

My Life is One Complication After Another

Inspired by this post by @dolphin-ghost

Happy New Year everyone

Some cursing 🤬

Ao3 ~~~ Part 1 ~~~ Next

~~~~~~~~~~

Marinette has always been willing to give everyone a second chance. That may have been why she still had people to consider them as her friends. That is why when Lila started yet another lie about some celebrity she, Adrien, Chloe, and Juleka were holding their laughter and rolled their eyes.

"Honest Alya I'm like this" Lila crossed her fingers "with Bruce's kids." Alya must not have recognized the name as the liar gave a small laugh "oh, right Bruce Wayne, he prefers to only go by Bruce."

"Oh my God, Girl you have got to give me an interview for my blog!" Alya lapped up the story.

"Of course" Lila smiled, then looked over at Marinette "Anything for my best friend."

At this point, Marinette wasn't paying attention to the liar. Instead Mari was talking in low voices with her actual best friend, Adrien. They sat on the very back bench and Juleka and Chloe on the bench in front of them.

That was their normal, it had been since their eighth year. Now two years later it was routine, her classmates shunned her only talking with her for class assignments. Otherwise they ignored her and that may just have been the best outcome.

She, Chloe, Juleka, Luka, and Adrien were in the park working on a photoshoot. Adrien was behind the camera while Juleka and Luka were modeling. Marinette and Chloe were changing for the next set. When they came out Mari noticed several reporters around the perimeter. Security had them handled and she focused on modeling her creation.

However this wasn't the last she saw of the reporters. They were always at the school questioning the students. What they were asking she didn't know as she was never questioned.

Three weeks of spotting and avoiding reporters, with them swarming the school she needed to get creative in order to transform. Lila was of course bathing in the limelight and attention.

Mari was the last person out of the school as she was getting the homework for her three friends who didn't come today. The first thing she noticed coming out of the courtyard was the purple limo. Her honorary uncle came to pick her up. As soon as the door closed said uncle was crushing her in a hug.

"It's Rock' n to see ya Nettie" Jagged spoke, the hug muffling his voice slightly.

"Same here Jagged," wiggling out of Jagged's hug she reached over to hug Penny. "so what's with the escort?"

"A close friend of ours wanted to meet you and He and his son's are waiting at our room," Penny explained.

"Okay..." she hesitated exiting the car to head inside "but why? Is this a commission or what?"

After a silent elevator ride, Penny hesitated at the door before speaking. "We are hoping you could clear something up actually," as she opened the door.

Mari stepped in and noticed them. The eldest looked to be around mid to late thirties, black hair and bluebell eyes, dressed in a dark charcoal suit.

The youngest of the boys seemed to be a couple years younger than her, shorter than her by a head, tanned skin, short black hair, and jade eyes. A scowl on his face partially hidden by the collar of a black peacoat and slacks as he sat on the arm chair.

A boy around her age with chin length black hair and azure eyes, a red hoodie under a grey bomber jacket and black pants. He looked like he hadn't slept in at least a week, and if how he was holding the travel mug in his hands it was probably true.

Next to him was another boy who looked a couple of years older, black messy hair about 5 cm at the longest and a white tuff in front, cerulean eyes, a brown leather jacket and distressed jeans. He seemed familiar but couldn't place it.

The last boy also had long black hair but seemed to be layered and shorter in the front, sky blue eyes, a blue varsity jacket and jeans. He would either be the eldest or second, he had a bright smile but kept shooting a glance at Fang.

Speaking of which once she was in the room and she saw him, he charged at her, knocking her over. Mari was giggling as Fang rolled over and she was lost to the world as she doted on the crocodile.

"Nettie" Penny finally managed to get her attention.

"Sorry," she stood "but if it wasn't done we wouldn't be able to talk. Hello I am Marinette Dupain-Cheng it is nice to meet you." again she smiled.

"Bruce Wayne" the man introduced himself, "and my sons. My youngest Damian." he gestured to the boy with green eyes. "Next is Tim" gesturing to the boy with the mug who rose it in acknowledgment. "Jason is the second oldest" the boy with the white tuff gave a lop sided smile. "And my eldest Dick" whose smile seemed to become brighter.

She smiled nodding at everyone before realization hit. A quick snap of her fingers before pulling out her phone, opened up her texts and started typing, ending with a quick picture of Jason.

I think I just met your idiot friend

She put away her phone. Not even a minute later another went off.

The ringing stopped once, twice, thrice, and on the fourth Jason, spoke up. "Sorry I should take this."

"Go ahead this can wait a moment." Mari smiled.

As soon as Jason answered the phone "What the hell are you doing in Paris!?" everyone heard the caller as Jason was holding the phone an arm length away.

"How did you know... you?!" it dawned on Jason.

"Guilty," she smiled. "I guess you're not as big of an idiot as Roy made you out to be."

"Hey!" Jason called before turning to the phone. "What the hell did you tell her Harper!" By now Roy was on speaker.

"You can't prove what I said, ya know," she could practically see Roy's smirk.

"Video's however," she was now smirking.

"What!!" Jason seemed to freeze.

"Bug! No!" Roy was sounding like he was going to start panicking.

"I think I have a few saved," she tapped her chin.

That was when Bruce cleared his throat. "As amusing as this is we have business to discuss."

"Talk to ya later Mari." Roy bid her farewell. "Oh and Jason don't underestimate her." the call ended.

"Okay so how do you know Roy?" Dick finally asked.

"Oh. It was at a charity ball hosted by Oliver Queen," she replied nonchalantly.

"Was it the same one where a baby elephant ended up at the event. Following you the whole time." Penny asked exasperated.

"I still don't get how you think we had anything to do with that." Marinette finally sat down. She ended up sitting on the ground leaning against the couch next to Jagged, Fang resting his head on her out stretched legs.

"I have so many questions,” Tim finally added to the conversation.

"Tt. can we stop beating around the bush already," Damian was irritated and it showed. "Are you or are you not my biological sister."

He seemed ready to pounce, unfortunately that was dangerous in Paris. Especially as she saw an akuma right outside the window. The question asked now forgotten as she focused on the corrupted butterfly.

"Nope, Nope. I am not dealing with an akuma today." she stood up. Took a deep breath and let her anger and frustrations to the surface. The smile fell from her face. "If you want a puppet have a marionette" Kwamii Adrien is rubbing off on me.

The butterfly changed targets and was heading towards her, finally gaining the other's attention. She vaulted over the couch and made a beeline to her backpack. By then the akuma was close so she tossed the backpack over to everyone and rolled out of the way.

"Glass jar, unscrew it" she called out.

"How pathetic running from a bug." Damian moved quickly to catch the butterfly but it moved and found something in his pocket. He was engulfed in purple and then he stood there in evergreen armor with golden accents. A red and yellow cape and a pitch black sword in his hand. Pocket knife, the sword is where the akuma is.

"Screw it" she turned and with two quick jabs his two arms went limp. A third knocked him to the ground.

She picked up the sword and went to Dick who was holding the jar. She took the jar, broke the sword, and went to catch the butterfly. As soon as she screwed the lid on the butterfly began to turn white.

She let out the breath she was holding as she compartmentalized her emotions yet again.

"What the fuck was that!" Jason screamed and so did Dick, minus the curse.

"Where and why do you have one of those," Jagged asked.

Finally Damian shouted "Why can I not move? What did you do?" he accused.

"Okay so the butterfly was an akuma used by Hawkmoth, Paris’ villain, to manipulate anyone with strong negative emotions. These champions or Akuma are used to attempt to retrieve magical jewels from our heroes. The jar was given to me and a few others in my class, because our class is a hot bed for akuma, by Ladybug, one of the heroes." she gave a short and simple run down. "As for Damian, those were a series of pressure points,” infused with magic to-take down people easily, "it should wear off in a few minutes."

"Teach me please!" Tim begged.

"I dunno." she started to chew her lip and shift her weight.

"Roy's warning now makes a lot more sense," Jason hummed.

"Tt. adequate," Damian muttered softly, Marinette is sure she is the only one who heard.

"Okay so where were we?" she smiled turning and sitting back down with Fang.

Next

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @dolphin-ghost @unabashedbookworm @bookgirl14 @laurcad123 @mochegato @vixen-uchiha

[writing-in-a-chipotle]

Not sure what character so I guess one of the most popular of RWBY. Can you please do a Ruby Rose x GN Reader. Unsure if you want a scenario to go with it or not so I put this. You are one of the teams from Atlas that arrived to compete in the Vytal Festival Tournament and have gotten to get to become closer to Ruby over time. Then during the Fall of Beacon you were one of the students left behind preferring to give up your seat to someone else and find, Ruby, who you grew to love. I imagine that you would find them right at the end as she is being carried away and you follow. Then you telling how you feel as even if it may have not been the best of times you realize that time may be short, especially in the life of a Huntsmen. Preferably can you do head cannons but if not I understand. Thanks in advance.

Ruby Rose x Gender Neutral Reader

Words: ~800

Summary: In which a red-caped cutie captures your heart.

A/N: Thank you for my first ever suggestion, my friend! I personally headcanon Ruby as aro/ace, but don’t worry! I made it work for ya. :)

You’d initially met Ruby while playing online video games. Marveling at how good the other was, you soon became internet friends and messaged each other almost every day.

Over the course of a few months, you two have had many video calls. When the Vytal Festival is first announced, you’re both ecstatic. You get to meet each other in person for the first time!!

You and your team trained super hard and signed up to compete in the tournament, and you could hardly contain your excitement. When your airship landed, you found a familiar red-caped girl waiting for you.

She ran at you with her super speed and gave you a massive hug. You were so excited, you didn’t bother brushing the rose petals from your hair.

You knew that the your time together would eventually end, so you spent the majority of your visit together. Going to the bakery, playing video games, eating ramen; you and Ruby did almost everything together.

And all the while, you had to convince yourself that these weren’t dates.

You were just hanging out with your friend.

A very good friend.

With a cute smile and excited eyes that sparkled in the sun.

When she and her team fought in the tournament, your cheer was the loudest. And when you got hurt during your team’s battle, she immediately rushed over to you with her homemade “feel better” kit, which included a dozen chocolate chip cookies, her scroll with the latest fight game downloaded, and two giant boxes of multicolored bandaids. You looked like an idiot walking around covered in a red gradient of bandaids stuck randomly on your exposed skin, but you were a happy idiot.

And then there was the Fall of Beacon.

The chaos was too much. Grimm were everywhere. Everyone was running in all directions, and against your pushing and shoving, you were swept up in the crowd.

Penny…

You had to find Ruby.

You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if she… if she…...

You went with the crowd in the hopes of finding an escape. You found none. Finally, you reached the airship docks, and were able to back into an alleyway and turn around.

You ran back towards the arena, pulling out your scroll and calling your rocket locker. It landed a few yards away from you with a crash, and hissed open. You grabbed your weapon and kept running.

A Beowulf lunges at you, but you don’t even bother to stop. You swing your weapon in an upward arc and slice the Grimm’s throat open. It crumbles to dust. You keep running.

You pick up your scroll and call Ruby, but it goes straight to voicemail. You try again to no avail. You call Ruby’s teammates, too. Nobody picks up.

And then everything turns white.

You blink your eyes as the light fades. What was that??

It came from the tower.

You ran faster than you’ve ever done in your life.

You make it to the courtyard, and find team RWBY in a horrid state. Yang’s arm is no more, only a bloody stump remains. Weiss is crying. Blake is nowhere to be found.

And Ruby is unconscious, being carried in Qrow’s arms.

You run to her, nearly dropping your weapon. Qrow gives you an odd look, but says nothing. He tells you to get Yang and carry her to the airship. You do, carefully lifting her and trying to be mindful of her arm. You follow Qrow.

The pilot offers to take you back to Atlas, but you refuse. Qrow sees your concern for his youngest niece and invites you to stay. You do.

You don’t leave Ruby’s side until she wakes up.

When she finally opened her eyes, you nearly cried with relief. She was so happy that you were okay, and you two hug for a long time.

And then you tell her about what happened; the Grimm, the weird light, Penny…

You hold each other for even longer.

Finally, you summon the courage to tell her about your feelings for her. You tell her how much she means to you, and how you don’t know where your lives will lead you, what with being huntsmen and all.

She tells you that she returns your feelings to an extent. She comes out as aro/ace to you, but also says that you mean a lot to her as well. Shyly, she asks if you will be her Queer Platonic Partner.

You happily accept.

The two of you hold each other for a very long time... at least until Tai comes in with the offer of pancakes.

Things would be hard, but looking down at the red-caped cutie you held in your arms, you knew that things would eventually be all right.

[luluwquidprocrow]

(the three-part folding mirror)

the denouements & the snickets, olaf, r, olivia 

teen

15,985 words 

The year the schism gets worse is the year one of the quarterly information costume parties is held in the grand ballroom on the third floor of the Hotel Denouement. 

@lyeekha won my commission in the @asoue-network fandom against hate raffle and asked for the denouements, so i put together some shenanigans with the denouements and the snickets, with slight ernest/lemony kit/dewey frank/jacques, and a few other associates hanging around ~ 

some minor warnings – language; smoking; brief mention of murder; referenced parental death; identity anxiety about being seen physically and personally 

title from i am alone by they might be giants 

10:59 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

Kit skirted the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, stopping at the side wall by the drinks, one eye on the table and the other on the dance floor. She couldn’t put her back to it. Not now. There was a tall, potted boxwood nearby, unreasonably lush, almost slouching against the decorative golden pillar beside it. She picked up one of the wineglasses, the only signal she could think of to properly get his attention. She’d have to find Lemony as well; where was he?

The plant coughed.

“J,” Kit whispered, “listen to me.”

A few of the branches parted, and Jacques’s blue eyes appeared out of the green. “What happened?”

Kit breathed slowly. Her free hand curled into a fist, crinkling up the fabric of her dress. She swallowed. It did not help. She gripped the glass. Beneath her feet, the floor gave a slight shudder as the clock out in the lobby readied itself to chime the hour.

“Someone in this very room has—”

WRONG!

7:25 PM—Above The Lobby

It was Saturday night, and Saturday night always meant one thing—Guess The Guest.

Ernest stood in the small alcove situated around the gears of the hotel clock, far above the lobby, and looked down. Like any other night, the sleek gold and red lobby was filled with people, loitering around the front desks and the fountain and each other before they made their way up to the grand ballroom on the third floor. Well, the ballroom was different. This was a work event, as Frank had so brilliantly labeled it on their schedule, so no one was a regular guest tonight. Frank, who had never appreciated the joy in making up grandiose lies or exaggerated half-truths about the strangers who came in and out of the hotel, certainly wouldn’t appreciate the thrill in watching all of his associates in costume and trying to guess who was who, either. Dewey thought the game was slightly mean, because Dewey was just too kind for this sort of thing.

It was good that Ernest was not Frank or Dewey. Not right now, anyway. Ernest knew how to get joy out of the little things.

He watched a flash of green scales move erratically through the lobby, a cheerful voice calling enthusiastic greetings that echoed all the way up to the ceiling—Montgomery. There was a reason he did undercover work so sparingly. Two women in nearly identical butterfly costumes by the door, one purple and one white, hand in hand, standing close together—Ramona and Olivia. It was nice to see them together. A woman with a deep blue dress that swept around her like a wave—Josephine, here alone. Ernest had it on good authority that the Anwhistle brothers weren’t coming. Another loud voice, but deeper, following the confident swath a tall figure in black cut through the crowd—Olaf. Ernest turned away, in time to catch a glimpse of a long red cape shifting from behind one pillar to another around the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Olaf—aha. Kit. Which meant another one was nearby. Not that the Snickets had arrived together, because none of them ever did, but where there was one there was always at least one other, ready to make a decent amount of trouble. (Ernest liked trouble. The little things, of course.) And there, near Ramona and Olivia, Lemony Snicket, a figure shaped in grey shadows.

The alcove door opened. Ernest knew exactly who it was, so he didn’t give him the courtesy of turning around, keeping his eyes on Lemony. Grey was a fitting color on him, on the long line of his shoulders, his legs. Ernest’s stomach flipped over, once.

“It looks like a full house tonight,” Frank said, standing beside Ernest. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and folded his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure.”

Ernest leaned a hand on the alcove railing. “Takes more than a murder to stop a party, I suppose,” he said.

Frank didn’t reply, but Ernest knew that for once he agreed. The double murder in Winnipeg two months ago had, like any other sudden, suspicious death they’d dealt with over the years—Ernest shuddered and flexed his fingers—barely made a ripple in VFD, except that after the funeral, everyone had closed ranks significantly tighter.

This worried Frank; this did not worry Ernest. Very little truly worried Ernest, at the end of the day. That, of course, only made Frank worry more, but Ernest couldn’t help that. Frank would find something to worry about if Ernest was still on “his side”. Ernest had much more pressing commitments than the heavy, idle worry that everyone else shuffled between themselves without any results, and it wasn’t that he’d be found out. It was change. The real kind of change, not the noble one, not the fragmentary one. Change Ernest could see.

He shifted his hand on the railing once more. If he kept thinking about it, he was going to argue with Frank, and they’d rehashed the argument so many times the past few months without any resolution that it was better, Dewey had eventually insisted, if they just didn’t talk about it at all. So they wouldn’t. Ernest stood next to his brother, and the silence dragged out between them, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock gears, and they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at all.

“Ernest.”

Almost.

“Frank,” Ernest said back, in the same critical tone, tilting his head to the side and giving his brother a look.

Frank shot him a flat and unimpressed stare in return. At least he still did that. “Promise me you won’t do anything—” he paused, his face pinching in an aggrieved sort of way before he settled on a word. “—rash tonight,” he finished.

Ernest laughed. “I don’t intend to do anything rash, Frank.” Of course not. You couldn’t carry out a pre-established plan rashly.

“I should hope not. I—”

The door opened, again. Dewey burst into the alcove, all smiles as always, and stopped on Frank’s other side and leaned over the railing, gazing into the lobby. Like Ernest and Frank, he wore the muted red manager uniform, because somebody had said it was the “host prerogative” to not dress up for a costume party. Somebody had felt bad about it when Dewey was disappointed, but somebody had still not relented, and there they were, a matched trio, everything outwardly perfect.

“Everyone’s costumes are so beautiful,” Dewey said. “Who’s that, in the big blue dress?”

“Josephine,” Ernest and Frank said at the same time.

Ernest raised his eyebrows. Frank, stooping so low as to actually guess the guest? Even Dewey blinked at him in surprise. The tips of Frank’s ears went slightly pink, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, Frank, you left your name tag downstairs again,” Dewey said. He pulled the name tag from his pocket, the slim gold rectangle glinting briefly in the soft light of the alcove, and pressed it into Frank’s hand.

“Thank you,” Frank murmured. But when Dewey turned away, Ernest saw the tag disappear from Frank’s fingers, most likely slipped up into his sleeve. None of them wore their name tags with regularity—the black ‘manager’ embroidery on their jackets was really enough—but Frank’s kept showing up places, and Ernest and Dewey kept giving it back to him, every time. Ernest didn’t quite know what to make of it. He wondered about asking Frank about it, but he didn’t want Frank to take it as another argument. Ernest didn’t actually enjoy arguing with Frank. About small things, sure, like Dewey’s stupid poetry and Frank’s inane hotel schedules, the sorts of things brothers argued about. But Ernest was sure Frank would make it into another one about VFD.

Dewey was studying the lobby, one hand on his chin. Ernest watched him go from one friend to another, then stop when he got to Kit’s red cape sweeping towards the stairs. It was an unusual color for her, but Dewey, whether he thought it was nice or not, knew how to identify someone from the pieces they let slip through too. Kit was straightforward about everything, and the way she walked, determined and with an endpoint in sight, was no different.

Ernest and Frank exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” Frank drawled, “when’s the wedding?”

“I look best in black,” Ernest put in. “Take that into account, Dewey.”

“I look best in blue,” Frank said. “Take that into account.”

Dewey’s face went its typical six shades of red, flushing through to his ears as well as he jumped back from the railing and sputtered, “What—we’re not—we haven’t even—I don’t—Kit’s not—you two are impossible.” He stormed out of the alcove, shutting the door with a slight snap behind him, because Dewey had never slammed a door in his life.

Ernest enjoyed a brief chuckle with Frank before his brother fell silent again. The lobby crowd was thinning as everyone made their way to the elevators or the stairs, or to the bathroom, or, perhaps, to some clandestine hallway somewhere else. Ernest could see the ring of neatly-trimmed boxwoods lining the lobby now. He wasn’t sure, but he thought there was one more than usual, sitting right inside the door.

He leaned forward, squinting. “Did we always have a boxwood there?” he asked.

Frank moved his head down a fraction of an inch and considered the lobby. “Of course,” he said. Then he straightened his sleeves one more time, and left the alcove.

7:35 PM—The Lobby

Among the Snicket siblings, there was an ongoing discussion about the best hiding place. Kit preferred the quiet, professional approach. She stood behind newspaper stands, put her face into books and brochure racks, stayed in the shadows of a store awning. Lemony was difficult about it. He thought the best place to hide was the least likely place someone would look for you; the place you wouldn’t look for yourself. He took dangerous perches in train station windows, seats in restaurants he vocally hated, or sophisticated and cramped corner cafes that had never heard of a root beer float.

Jacques, meanwhile, with a lifetime of hiding experience, always liked to hide in plain sight. People barely ever remembered what was right in front of them as long as it appeared relatively normal. And there were a number of options—a large potted plant could be overlooked among a dozen other potted plants, people received packages every day and wouldn’t notice if there was one more oversized box, every city park lost track of how many statues were supposed to be there, even a regular man in a fine suit crossing the street or driving a taxi was expected and forgettable. Another boxwood was just another boxwood sitting in a free space in the empty Hotel Denouement lobby, slowly making its way to the ballroom for optimal eavesdropping. Another volunteer in costume was just another volunteer in a lion costume borrowed from Bertrand, for the moments tonight when Jacques had to communicate information to an associate.

That was the point of the party, after all. Jacques couldn’t deny that everyone liked dressing up—he liked dressing up, a little—but the main objective for most of them tonight was the passing of relevant information that had happened in the three months since the last official gathering (not counting the funeral). It should have been at Winnipeg, as they usually were, the organization taking over the Duke and Duchess’s sprawling, sparkling mansion, the couple’s easy laughter flowing from room to room. Jacques didn’t blame Ramona for not wanting to do it after what happened there. He doubted she’d actually been in the mansion since, although it was entirely hers. But the Hotel Denouement was a suitable replacement. It was too public to ever lose its neutral position among both sides. No one was going to get killed here, Jacques was certain. But he was mildly worried something else would happen. He didn’t know what. But something.

Especially considering Lemony was here. Not that his brother was a troublemaker—Jacques would never say it out loud, at least—but because Lemony wasn’t supposed to be at the hotel tonight. He had told Jacques that he was going to be with Beatrice and Bertrand, who were working on plans for an upcoming assignment. This meant two things—one, that Lemony had lied to Jacques. But Jacques had counted on that. He had assumed, however, that Lemony meant the three of them were finally going on a date and hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Two, that if Lemony never did anything idly, without a specific purpose, then he was here for an unknown reason. Something else was going to happen, Jacques was certain. Something Lemony wanted to be here for.

First, though, he had to get the boxwood he was hiding in from the lobby to the ballroom upstairs. The pot was significantly heavier than Jacques had counted on.

8:05 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Every time they all got together, Frank was so amazed at how many of them there were. Despite some noticeable gaps—Beatrice’s overbearing presence, for one, which Frank was happy to do without for an evening—the grand ballroom had barely any free space. Every available and noble associate was here, and it filled Frank with a sense that everything was going to be alright. All these people, including himself, doing what was necessary to keep the world quiet. Tonight would be fine. Ernest wouldn’t do anything regrettable; Dewey would forgive him about the costumes and the gentle ribbing; the meeting would pass without incident. Tomorrow would come. Sometimes Frank almost thought that it wouldn’t. Typically when Ernest was being difficult, but tonight even he seemed to agree that the organization—their organization—was impressive.

He spotted a potted plant by one of the drink tables, a boxwood that matched the ones lined around the room and back in the lobby. One branch was bent out of place. Frank would have to have a word with the person responsible later. But he should fix the branch now.

Everyone he passed on his way across the room gave him a quick nod, a brief smile. Frank returned it as that familiar buzzing started under his skin, like it tended to in groups. He shrugged it aside. He gave the controlled smile of a manager with everything in place, and no one said a word.

All of a sudden, his view of the boxwood was blocked. Through the mass of associates came Olaf, head to toe in a suit and mask of black, spiky fur, smiling with all his teeth, unceremoniously pushing a woman in a silver dress painted like a large, rocky moon aside on his way towards Frank. Frank steeled himself. You never knew what you were going to get with Olaf, if he would try and charm you with a reckless humor or annoy you with a joking cruelty. It was one of the many reasons Frank had never particularly cared for him.

“Ernest!” Olaf exclaimed when he got close. He hooked an arm through Frank’s. “Lovely to see you, wonderful party.”

The cold, dark hand twisted its way along Frank’s insides. It gripped down through his chest, put a film over his eyes that made the room seem distant and wrong. The party continued around him, Olaf was still talking into his ear, and Frank couldn’t hear any of it. The name tag pressing into his wrist up his left sleeve didn’t help. Just because it was his didn’t mean it was him. His name meant nothing if no one was going to care about who it was, about what made Frank instead of Ernest or Dewey. No one should need evidence to tell the difference. No one should make a mistake between the three of them. How many times would it happen?

Time was still passing. Frank blinked once, twice, until Olaf’s voice filtered back in and the noise of the ballroom swelled up once more.

“—incredibly delicious, I have to say, but, to be frank with you—ha! This champagne has seen better days, which one of you is responsible for this travesty?”

Frank smiled, a little turn of the corner of his mouth, the professional smile of all three of them. If Olaf wanted Ernest, alright. Frank would be Ernest. “Frank,” he said. The word sounded like it couldn’t possibly have come out right, but Olaf didn’t break his stride, so it must have.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Olaf said. “Meanwhile, allow me to take up one single minute of your time,” he continued, and pulled Frank into the shadows by the door. Frank’s stomach gave a terrible lurch as the stark terror he woke up with every morning came back, riding over the dissonant gap he still felt between his body and his brain. What did Olaf want with Ernest? Had Olaf found out about him? Frank had covered up for Ernest before, but would he be able to keep doing it if more people knew?

“Have you thought about it any more?” Olaf asked, leaning close.

The sheer relief that Olaf didn’t know battled with the swooping fear that Ernest was doing something new Frank didn’t know about, and with Olaf. He remembered, with startling clarity, the last time he talked to Kit, when she told him that Olaf had been spouting dangerous ideas about the organization and trying to rope in as many people as possible. It was one of the reasons, according to the rumors Frank had heard elsewhere, why he and Kit had ended their relationship. What was he trying to get Ernest into? Ernest needed absolutely no encouragement, and neither did Olaf. He had to say something.

“I have,” Frank said. It was the safe answer when you were pretending to be someone else.

Olaf grinned again, big and excited, which was a terrible sign. “And?”

“No,” he said, because it was also the safe answer, and the faster Frank could untangle Ernest from whatever trouble he was into this time, the better. “Sorry to disappoint,” he added, with the cool tone Ernest used.

Olaf frowned. “Really? I must admit, I am a little surprised. I mean, I know you weren’t entirely on board, but you’d given it a shot before, and I was hoping you’d come around again.”

Before? They’d talked before? Frank thought a series of incredibly inappropriate words Beatrice was always using that he would never say out loud.

“But!” Olaf pivoted quickly, in his speech and his actions, spinning on his heel away from Frank and shrugging broadly. “Who am I to bend your arm about it! I’ll keep you in mind, though, in case.” He showed all his teeth, his eyes glittering. “And keep me in mind, next time you have anything else worth sharing, will you?” He flounced off again, tearing through the crowd.

It took a few minutes for Frank’s heart to go back to where it was supposed to be from where it was thundering in his throat. He put his hands in his pockets and gripped the fabric, something real and his to hold onto.

Anything else worth sharing. Since their apprenticeships, Frank and Dewey and Ernest had been tasked with organizing a great deal of information, mostly about the history of the organization, but sometimes, and especially as they got older, the very information that was passed along between volunteers. It was part of the reason Dewey had started building his personal archives in the basement. He liked the business of collecting facts. Of course all three of them were still being given that information. Of course Ernest still had access to every single piece of that information. Ernest, collaborating with Olaf, Ernest, sneaking around behind Frank’s back, Ernest, who had promised, at the beginning of all this, that he wasn’t going to jeopardize their positions by doing something stupid.

Ernest, what are you doing?

8:40 PM—The Archives, In Progress

Dewey was not hiding. He liked parties a great deal, and he loved people, but like his brothers and everyone else, he too had his own appointment to keep tonight.

His just happened to be in the basement.

He still sort of felt like he was hiding, especially the further he went into the archives. But things always needed organizing, and while he waited, he had to do something to keep his hands busy. He searched for a set of organization accounting records for five minutes before realizing he’d already shelved it, last week.

So Dewey was nervous. Plenty of people were nervous. Olivia went around all the time being nervous and no one gave her any grief for it. But Olivia didn’t have a sister to give her any grief for it. And Dewey didn’t mind, not really. He loved it when his brothers teased, because it meant they were getting along. But this time it was slightly personal. Because he was meeting Kit, and he was nervous.

Kit was—well, normal. Like Dewey was normal. He loved his brothers, but Frank was high-strung and made it everyone else’s problem, Ernest was often disagreeable for the sake of it, and with the Snickets, Jacques was always hiding in furniture and Dewey didn’t think he’d ever seen more of him than one hand and possibly an eye at a time, and Lemony was wonderful but sometimes too cryptic and morbid for Dewey’s taste. He liked things a little more sensible, comfortable, pleasant. And Kit was organized, reasonable, quiet when other people were reading, cool under pressure. She let herself get lost in books and people she cared about, underneath all the professionalism. Her smile was a careful, slow thing, something private she only showed you if she genuinely liked you. And it meant a lot to be on the receiving end of that smile.

His brothers didn’t get it. He wasn’t involved with Kit, and he wasn’t going to ask her out, because you didn’t do that with Kit. If Kit wanted to spend time with you, that was her own choice. She never did anything she didn’t want or she hadn’t thought through first. That she wanted to spend time with Dewey, specifically, to see him, and no one else, was nice. It made the whole of him feel all tingly and weightless. He wanted their meeting in the archives to be as nice as that feeling.

Dewey grabbed a set of Agatha Christie translations he kept on hand for when things got boring (rarely, but Beatrice got bored easily, and if you gave her a translation she sat down for a while to prove she could read it) and walked to the next aisle to shelve them. His foot snagged on something in the middle of the floor and he stumbled, hugging the books close to his chest so they didn’t fall. He turned around to see what it was, and found Kit blinking up at him with wide eyes from where she sat on the floor, a thick book open in her lap, her long red dress pooled around her on the floor. Her dress had an off-the-shoulder neckline, but most of her shoulders were covered by the matching red cape pulled around her. In the wide diamond of skin left between the cape and the top of the dress, he could see the sharp edge of something black around her collarbone, a point of the nearly-finished tattoo she’d been getting done. The red sleeves disappeared into short white gloves, with her hands folded together at the bottom of the book pages. Oh. Dewey’s heart pounded for a horrible, exhilarating moment, his mouth going dry. He swallowed once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling wryly, closing the book and sliding it gently back in the middle shelf. “I got distracted.”

“Oh, no, that’s completely understandable,” Dewey said. He folded himself down beside her, crossing his legs, still clutching the books to him. “Happens to me all the time. What were you reading?”

Kit smiled again, and it was that slow, beautiful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Have you heard,” she said, “about the cookiecutter shark?”

Dewey had absolutely heard about the cookiecutter shark. “Isistius brasiliensis,” he said. “It can travel in schools, and it bites little circular sections out of fish, like a cookie cutter. Have you heard about the brownsnout spookfish?”

“Barreleye fish, has mirrors in its eyes. Toothless upper jaw,” Kit replied easily. “Anostraca.”

“Fairy shrimp, they swim upside down,” Dewey said. He leaned forward, grinning. “Sometimes even found in deserts. Frilled shark?”

This was his favorite game, with his favorite person, in his favorite place. Both of them were librarians, or librarian-adjacent, so he and Kit dealt in information, not only about nobility but about the rest of the world around them. And the whole world was so fascinating, and there was so much to know and share, so how could you not try and see who could stump the other first?

“An eel-like living fossil, with six pairs of gill slits. Chaunacidae.”

Dewey scrunched up his face, thinking. “I think you got me there,” he admitted.

“Sea toad,” Kit said, looking pleased, “and coffinfish. Deep-sea anglerfishes. The sea toad has fins that can be used as leg flippers.”

“Really? Wow.” Dewey made a mental note to check that out later. He hoped, on the scale of unsettling sea creature to pleasantly spooky sea creature, that it was somewhere in the middle. “So besides oceanic intrigue,” he said, “what else is going on with you?”

“I’m supposed to get something from Frank tonight,” Kit said. “But, I also came to give you this. From Bertrand,” she clarified, and then picked through the seams of her dress, which revealed themselves as hiding at least ten different pockets.

When he had the time, Dewey wanted to study clothing design. Kit and Beatrice always found the place for so many pockets that you could never see from the outside, and Dewey wished he had the same capacity in his slim manager’s jacket and trousers for all the things he wanted to carry around. Poetry; chocolate-covered pretzels; the pencils Kit always left behind; spare buttons; sturdy rope, in case he needed it; maybe a mini chess set. He’d have to work on it. Maybe he could hide them in shoulder pads, or his shoes.

Kit pulled out a book from a side pocket. Dewey finally put the Agatha Christie down, piling it in a neat stack between them, and took the book. It was the one Bertrand had spoken to him about last week—Undercover Underwater: Diving For The Truth, a truly terrible murder mystery novel he said Dewey had to read to believe. He was greatly looking forward to it.

“That was awfully sweet of him,” Dewey said, running his thumb over the cover. He looked for a place to put it, and then just put it on top of his book stack. It felt a little sacrilegious, if it was as bad as Bertrand said, to put it on top of Christie, but he didn’t want to misplace it. “Thank you very much.”

Kit shifted on the floor and put her back to the bookshelf. “Did you hear the Anwhistle brothers finished building that marine research and rhetorical advice center?”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “I guess that’s why they aren’t here tonight? Josephine was all alone when I saw her earlier.”

“They should’ve celebrated with the rest of us,” Kit said. “What a massive architectural achievement—and I wanted to hear about the leeches, too.”

“Yes!” Dewey exclaimed. “Have you seen them yet? I haven’t.”

“No,” Kit said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not in person. Ike gave Lemony one of the earlier ones as a paperweight some time ago but I haven’t been able to see their recent work yet. I hear the teeth are impressive.”

“Cookiecutter shark impressive?”

Kit grinned. “Potentially.”

Dewey laughed. He wished he and Kit could go see them, together. For the scientific curiosity. For spending time with someone who really, really wanted to see him. No, for the oceanic intrigue, of course. “You know—” Oh no. He hadn’t intended to actually start the sentence, but it was out, and Kit was looking at him expectantly, and Dewey was rapidly losing all handles on the conversation. His face was heating up. Everyone else made talking to people whose company they enjoyed look so easy, but the words jumbled together in his mouth. “We should—go? I mean—not right now, but, soon, we could—to the research center—for the leeches, for, for science.”

Pink colored Kit’s face under the freckles along her nose. “For science,” she said. Then—“Not a date,” she added firmly.

“Definitely for science,” Dewey insisted. “Oceanic intrigue, and everything.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking quite a few times. “That would be fine.”

They stared at each other for the longest minute of Dewey’s life.

“We should probably get back up to the party,” he said. The archives were feeling much, much too close, all the books and shelves pressed up against him, the point of Kit’s tattoo still peeking out from under the edge of her cape.

Kit nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

8:55 PM—The Ballroom—Near The Piano

Next—Jacques had to find Olivia.

He abandoned the boxwood by the east wall, for the time being, out of sight near the piano, where a man with a white half-mask played a pleasant Beethoven sonata while a woman in a sharp, pointed gold suit argued with a man dressed as an octopus with a hat. They did not notice Jacques, even in his own costume, but he noticed them. He noticed everyone in the room so singularly. He’d almost forgotten so many people could be in one place at the same time. You spent a lot of time alone, hiding in small spaces, you got used to yourself.

Olivia was easily identifiable. Nothing she did could ever disguise the tightly-wound nervous energy coiled inside her, not the shimmery white butterfly wings curled over her shoulders or the mask of purple flowers on her face. Something always gave her away. Tonight, it was her hands, twisting together as she talked to someone in a large, leafy tree costume, so consuming Jacques couldn’t make out the face. He scanned the crowd, trying to locate Ramona in her reversed purple wings and white mask. He saw her making her way towards one of the drink tables. Ramona wouldn’t leave Olivia alone for long.

The tree left soon after, and Jacques made his way over to her, getting a decent amount of elbows into the side along the way. “Olivia,” he said, when he stopped in front of her.

Her eyes passed over him and onto the rest of the room, like she was staring straight through him. Jacques frowned. He’d certainly said something. He’d certainly moved, Olivia was right in front of him. People moved around them without sparing him a second glance; someone said a cheerful hello to Olivia and she returned it. His voice dried up in his throat, like if he tried to speak he’d never make a sound. When was the last time before this he’d spoken out loud? No one expected him to talk, in his line of work. When had he done it? No, perhaps she simply hadn’t heard him.

He cleared his throat a few times. That was a sound. That was undeniably a sound. Jacques existed here.

He touched his hand to her wrist. “Olivia?”

Olivia jumped nearly a foot. She turned her head from side to side frantically, and Jacques gave her a short wave.

“Oh!” Olivia pressed her hands against her chest and laughed, breathless. “Oh, Jacques, you startled me. How are you?” she asked, as unfailingly kind as always, as if he hadn’t just frightened her. She looked like she wanted nothing more than for Jacques to tell her the long, substantial answer, instead of the polite one. He almost did. But Jacques was here for business.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Alright,” she said, still smiling. “Ramona’s gone to get some champagne, would you like to join us?”

“Not tonight,” he said. “I have a message for you.”

Her bright smile faltered, her hands seizing together again. “I see,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival.”

Olivia blanched. “The—the hinterlands?” she repeated. Her voice trembled. “That’s, ah, terribly far away, isn’t it?”

“It is a distance from the city,” Jacques conceded, “but not far.” It was far from Winnipeg, though. It was very far. Eventually, Ramona would be back there, at least in some capacity. Things would be different, especially if Olivia was wanted in the hinterlands permanently.

“Jacques, I really—I don’t—I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I promise, I’ll think about it.”

An assignment from headquarters was not exactly optional. Her eyes darted somewhere behind him, and Jacques knew who she was looking at. She and Ramona had just gotten together only recently, before the Duke and Duchess’ deaths. Any kind of love was difficult within the confines of their organization, but the solace here, Jacques thought, was that she and Ramona were both there. They would never be that far away. They might see each other a good deal less, but they would see each other.

“You can take your time to leave, if you wanted,” he said.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was firm. “But, thank you for letting me know, Jacques.” She gave him her soft, breezy smile again, and slipped off through the dance floor.

Jacques watched her go. They would see each other. That was an invaluable thing, in their line of work. Being seen. Sometimes even the best person you loved with your whole being couldn’t see the part of you that mattered. To be seen when you disappeared from the rest of the world—that was worth holding on to. It would be difficult. But he had no doubt Olivia and Ramona would do it.

The floor rumbled, like it always did before the lobby clock chimed.

9:00 PM—Room 687

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Does the clock always sound like that? Like it’s saying wrong?”

“Incessantly,” Esmé sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I think Frank’s responsible. Heaven forbid he goes an hour without reminding everyone else how little he thinks of their decisions, you know.”

9:00 PM—The Ballroom—North Drink Table

The hotel was not Winnipeg. But right now, that was exactly what Ramona wanted. The modern angles, the warm, well-lit ballroom, the dark corners and firm rigidity of it all currently felt homier than the soft, open pinks and whites of the Winnipeg mansion. She was glad to have another excuse to avoid it and the constant questions. Tonight, she was going to see her friends, and dance with Olivia, and drink champagne, because Olivia said every occasion was cause for celebration and champagne, and Ramona was going to have a good time. She picked up two champagne flutes from the table and took a sip of one in the careful way her mother taught her, so she didn’t leave lipstick on the glass. Her heart stuttered as she saw the press of plum purple streaks on the glass when she pulled it away. The hotel clock was chiming, sounding like a heavy, distorted vibration of a word. It was right. The lipstick was wrong.

Who had done it? Everyone wanted to know. The firestarters? Likely, but they had been quiet for some time, and Ramona wasn’t going to point fingers without evidence. Some older enemy? Ramona didn’t know enough about whoever that was to consider them. Someone new?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her parents were dead, and she’d found them, and she didn’t want to think about who could have done it or why they did. It wasn’t going to change that it had happened. Ramona wasn’t looking for answers. She was looking for—

An arm slung around her shoulders, jostling her and the champagne, which sloshed around in the flutes as she lurched forward. Scratchy fur and outrageous cologne bore down on her, and she knew exactly who it was.

“My dear duchess,” Olaf said, squeezing her tight. “How have you been?”

Ramona found it in her to roll her eyes. Some people didn’t like Olaf, which she completely understood. There was something about him though, as brash and outlandish and obnoxiously tactile as he was, that had to make you laugh sometimes. She felt comfortable, close to a friend. “Just peachy,” she said. She offered him the other champagne glass; she could get another for Olivia. “Champagne?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Olaf said. He hooked his free hand around both glasses and set them back on the drink table. “Look, I wanted to give you my sincerest condolences—” And he did look sincere, sliding around in front of her, his hand still on her shoulder, the joy immediately gone from his face and replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. She was struck by it, by how glassy and shiny his eyes were under the dark of his mask. “I’m sorry about your parents, Ramona.”

Her mouth wobbled at the edges. She knew Olaf could understand. They’d had similar positions in the organization their whole lives—their parents their chaperones, their time split between assignments and society, the safety that existed in his manor as well, its own controlled pocket of the world, like Winnipeg had been, like the Hotel Denouement was, too. She thought of the Count and Countess, still alive. She hoped they’d stay alive.

It wouldn’t do to cry at a party. Ramona picked up her flute again and took another small sip. “Thank you,” she said.

And just like that, he straightened up and pulled away from her. Some of the mirth found its way back into the shape of his mouth and his arm found its way back around her, this time a tight grip at her waist as he steered her back into the crowd. Ramona felt slightly less consoled than ten seconds ago. Easy come, easy go, with Olaf. “I hate thinking about you all alone in that big house,” he said with a sigh. “All that room, all those things—remember when I knocked into that vase in the hallway?”

“Very vividly,” Ramona said.

“A glorious time!” he crowed. “Well! At least you’ve got all of us, haven’t you. What are your friends if not your family, et cetera, et cetera.”

But he still understood. That was what made it so important to be here tonight. What were all the people in the room, the friends she’d grown up with, people she knew and loved, if not her family as well, just as much as her parents had been? They were more than associates or volunteers, stepping in around her not to fill a void, but to offer back some little part of what had been taken from her. Her throat tightened up as she thought about it. Everything they did was hard, but it was also so special. Ramona wanted to hold it close to her and never let it go.

“And what wouldn’t one do for one’s family, am I right?” Olaf continued. “So, if you ever need me for anything—a shoulder to cry on, although certainly not in this jacket, or, say, a partner in crime, or a willing participant in any daring assignment you might come across otherwise—do not hesitate to let me know, okay?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it.”

Ramona stumbled to a halt as Olaf stopped abruptly. He looked down at her with a gash of a grin. “People like you and me, we’ve got to stick together, duchess.” He gave her a squeeze one more time and then finally let go, dashing away.

Goodness, but he was rough about things. Ramona gave herself a shake, trying to collect herself back into order. She stood up on her toes to try and see where he’d gone. She didn’t get much more height, already being in heels, but she did manage to see him already making grandiose hand gestures across the room to those white-faced triplets Ramona had seen once or twice. They were younger than she was, still in their training. The three of them stared at Olaf with three immaculately raised eyebrows. Ramona chuckled a little, dropped back down, and went back for Olivia’s champagne glass.

9:40 PM—The Ballroom—Center

Over an hour had passed, and Frank hadn’t seen any sign of Ernest. He had better things to be doing than keeping track of Ernest, and yet here he was. He couldn’t have gone far—the hotel was enormous, but it was a hotel. The whole world contained on nine floors. You couldn’t disappear from it.

Frank edged his way through the dance floor, searching for him through three separate groups of associates doing three slightly different versions of a circle dance. A snake and a tree frog whirled past, a phantom with them, a tangled shape of dark greens and blacks and bright blues and exuberant laughter. When they’d gone, Frank found himself in the center of the floor and face to face with Dewey, coming towards him from the other direction, his cheeks pink.

“Are you alright?” Frank asked immediately.

Dewey blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Just dancing. Is everything okay?”

He should have known, but Ernest had him on an edge he hadn’t expected to be tonight. He tried to look apologetic but wasn’t sure how well he succeeded. “Have you seen Ernest?”

“Not since earlier,” Dewey said. “Oh, and Kit was—”

“When you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

Dewey’s shoulders drooped down. “If I see him,” he said. “Then I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and he meant it. He smiled at Dewey until he smiled back, and then Frank moved past him, pushing back into the crowd.

He hadn’t meant to be short about it, but Frank’s worry never came out like he wanted it to. It became biting irritation instead, or a slow-simmering temper he never let boil, or professional, distant orders about hotel business, or a refusal to talk at all in case he said the wrong thing. More often than not, he still wound up arguing with Ernest. He didn’t argue with Dewey, but their conversations were so much more stilted than they should have been lately.

But it was because he feared Ernest was going to slip away from him one day and never come back. Realistically, it was unlikely. After all, Ernest was still here. Indecision entering their home hadn’t taken him away from it. But what if that changed, one day, and it was Frank’s fault, because he reacted too quickly or too slowly? And Dewey—Dewey was so sweet and so kind Frank thought the world might crush him. He had to keep them close, and he had to keep them safe. It would’ve been so much easier, though, if Ernest wasn’t so difficult about it, if Dewey understood that Frank didn’t want anything to happen to him, if they would listen.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He’d look for Ernest on the way, but for one small hour, Ernest was going to have to wait.

9:59 PM—The Floor Behind The South Drink Table

Through typical party events, The Herpetology Squad (Plus Hector) found themselves on the floor behind one of the drink tables.

“So how do you tell them apart?” Gustav asked, stirring his drink with a spoon. “Because, and I do feel terrible about this, but I can’t do it. We’ve known them for ages, and I can’t do it.”

“Frank is taller,” Monty said immediately, and very confidently.

“What, no, he can’t be taller, they’re triplets,” Hector said. “Do genetics work like that?”

“Hey Haruki,” Monty called around Gustav and Hector, “do genetics work like that?”

Haruki leaned into Hector’s shoulder and considered it. “I’m really not sure,” they said. “But, I always figured, Ernest was kind of quiet, and Frank was kind of stern, and Dewey was kind of, well, kind.”

“But that seems so reductive,” Gustav pointed out. “You can’t just identify a person down to one base trait and leave it at that. And I say this as a screenwriter and director. You need to be creative.”

“All your characters sound exactly the same, though,” Hector said, frowning. “Or, like, so different, I don’t think you’re keeping track of them between scenes.”

“Oh, that’s awfully rude,” Haruki said.

“No, he’s right,” Gustav said. He hung his head into his hands, his glass tipping sideways through his fingers. Haruki reached over and grabbed it, twisting their arm around and up to slide it back onto the drink table where it’d be safer. “I always thought they did, and now I know for sure. I’ll have to renounce film making and go back to herpetology. Or, submarines. I can’t disparage your honor too, Monty.”

“Oh, Hector, you hurt his feelings,” Monty said. He patted Gustav on the back consolingly. “Gustav, you write wonderful scripts. I loved the, the Werewolves In The Rain.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I can’t handle a drunk Gustav,” Hector said, closing his eyes. “Gustav, I’m sorry. To be fair, I only watched—what was it—” He waved his hands around. “—the one with the—you know—”

“Vampires In The Retirement Community,” Haruki said.

“And it was once. And—hey, weren’t we talking about something else?”

10:10 PM—The Short Hallway Between Rooms 40-45 and 46-49

Unassigned numbers within the Dewey Decimal System were not the trouble they appeared to be to a hotel based on it. They still existed in the hotel, no matter how much Ernest had protested that it made no sense to have rooms that had no theme or purpose in a hotel whose very purpose was theme—Frank and Dewey’s rebuttal was that it made no sense to nonchalantly remove numbers out of their sequential existence because they didn’t fit in neatly otherwise. They existed. They didn’t have themes, even this stretch of ten, which had been previously designated but was now just a blank space between encyclopedias and magazine publications, which left the rooms relatively blank and boring, typically unnoticed and unused, but they still existed.

In the brief, dark hallway between the two sets of unassigned rooms, Frank could sit on the bench against the wall, and he didn’t have to think about family or the hotel. Frank sat featureless in the shadows and thought about himself. Usually, it meant he felt better about everything. But tonight, with the worry set aside once more for now, all he felt was that chill through his insides again, when Olaf mistook him for Ernest.

He took the name tag out of his sleeve and turned it over in his hands. Frank was a man in a manager’s jacket, with a face that looked like two other faces, someone who could be anyone. The name tag did nothing but identify him without caring who he was. What was it that made Frank himself, the imperceptible, innate existence of him that mattered? His love for Ernest and Dewey? Visible. His organization? Trivial. The fear he was going to lose everything? Meaningless and a weakness, in the face of everything else. It was hard to say for sure. He had gone his whole life getting mixed up with Ernest and Dewey and it was exhausting to keep trying to prove he was real when it felt like the world was rubbing him out. He leaned his back against the wall.

He heard Jacques before he saw him, like always. Exact, economical footsteps, nothing extraneous, the tap of his expensive shoes on the rugs, the swish of his jacket. Everything measured, as it had to be.

Jacques appeared around the corner, that bent piece of the boxwood plant stuck in his hair. He seemed to brighten when he saw Frank, like Frank’s presence set something off inside him. Frank watched him. What did Jacques see, when he looked at Frank? What was it that made Jacques notice, over and over again, over other people? How was Jacques so certain that when he looked at Frank right now, at that moment, that Jacques was looking at him?

Jacques sat down next to him on the bench. Frank had seen him in a mask earlier, something terrible and orange, but it was gone now, and he faced Frank fully. He was inches away from Frank, and Frank could see every part of him, even in the dark—the calm, if tired, resolution in the set of his jaw, the way he waited, still and patient, as if he could do nothing else. He had the darkest eyes of his siblings, a steady and unchanging deep blue.

“That which is essential is invisible to the eye,” Jacques whispered.

Frank let out the breath he’d been holding. How long ago had he said that to Jacques? “I initially said that to insult you,” he said.

“It was deserved,” Jacques said. “And I never forgot. Do you know how I always know it’s you now?”

“Enlighten me.”

He put his hand against Frank’s jacket, resting his fingers against the fabric to the left of the buttons. Jacques kept it there, and he didn’t take his eyes off of Frank for anything, not even when the heartbeat under his hand sped up. Frank felt almost split open to the core. He always did, every time. Jacques saw whatever it was. The man who was always hiding knew exactly who he was, because he looked.

“How very sentimental of you,” Frank managed. His breath hung between them. He traced the side of his thumb over the collar of Jacques’s shirt, just below the skin. If he moved his hand just a centimeter he’d be able to feel his heartbeat as well.

“It’s the truth,” Jacques murmured. “Sentiment is—dangerous. Truth is immutable.”

“Do you know how I know it’s you?” Frank said against his mouth.

“How?” Jacques asked.

Frank finally pulled the branch out of Jacques’s hair. “You do terribly stupid things.”

Jacques laughed, and the sound vibrated all the way down through Frank’s throat.

10:19 PM—Room 366

Frank had to be somewhere. Kit was not overly concerned with finding him, but she would rather do it sooner than later. She worked from the ground floor up, combing through the hallways but finding no sight of the Denouement, until she was on the third floor again. The faster she found Frank, the faster she could, maybe, go back to talking to Dewey. About completely professional things, of course. The fact that she felt different when she was with Dewey was simply because he was pleasant, welcome company. He wanted to look at leeches with her, for the delight of science. They expected nothing from each other but a nice time.

She immediately pictured Beatrice waggling her eyebrows at her, if Kit had said that out loud. Not that kind of nice time, she thought, but the mental Beatrice kept laughing joyously at her.

“He’s a nice person,” she grumbled to the empty hallway. He was calm. Regular. Okay. The exact opposite of everyone else, Beatrice. Could she go five minutes without them all picking apart her romantic life? This was why she wasn’t interested. This was why it was strictly nice. There were other, more important things that needed her attention.

The door to Room 366 was ajar, and Kit, who had naturally been trained to investigate the suspicious, investigated the suspicious. She slid herself carefully through the gap in the door and into the dark room. She’d been in there a few times to know it was an absurdly comfortable meeting room, with plush chairs and a bookcase that spanned the length of the far wall. A figure sat against the side wall, reaching up and tapping ash from a cigarette out the open window. For a moment, they looked like a blank, featureless shadow, until a light outside the window shifted and Frank—no, Ernest’s face resolved itself in front of her. The tip of the cigarette burned bright orange against his fingers.

“I heard about you and Olaf,” he said. “Would you like an apology, since I’m sure you’ve been getting enough I told you so’s?”

Kit sighed. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” But she shut the door and walked over, sitting down on the floor beside him. She took her own pack of cigarettes out of one of her dress pockets and accepted Ernest’s lighter to light one. She never carried her own.

“He did,” she muttered, giving the lighter back. She brought her legs up and wrapped an arm around them. “Tell me, I told you so. Not in so many words, of course, but I knew he was thinking it.”

“Ah,” Ernest said. “The disappointed look of, I’m not going to say it, but I’m going to think it, in your general direction. Which is worse.”

“Exactly,” Kit said. “At least argue with me so I can tell him he’s wrong.”

Ernest breathed out a long line of smoke. “Yes.” She thought he was going to say something else, but when he didn’t, Kit pressed on.

“He acts like it was my fault,” she said. “Should I have known better? I—” It was a harsh thing to admit, but she and Ernest didn’t do this to lie to each other. “Yes. Fine. But he acts like I can’t be left alone now to make my own decisions. He keeps following me, hanging around.” She slouched against the wall. “My own brother thinks so little of me.”

Ernest hmmed. “Well—”

“Do not. Do not say I’m short. I’m not short. Jacques has one inch on me, Ernest. Esmé is short. I’m not short.”

“Sorry,” Ernest said, laughing.

“Say it,” she said, and pushed her elbow into his side.

“Ow—Kit, you are anything but short.”

“Thank you.” She took her elbow back. The two of them sat in silence, blowing out small circles of smoke as the cigarettes smoldered down. “What’s Frank disappointed about?”

Ernest waved his hand with the cigarette dismissively. “Frank’s disappointed he can’t find a tie that matches the custom paint in the lobby,” he said. “It doesn’t take much for him. I was five minutes late, I didn’t give him the mail on time, I missed a meeting, and he just—” He did an obviously perfect impression of Frank’s unimpressed stare.

Kit snorted. She had to admit, Frank did look like that a lot, even if you caught him in a good mood.

“If he wasn’t so difficult,” Ernest muttered, “he’d be almost bearable.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Kit sighed. “Brothers.”

“Brothers,” Ernest agreed.

10:25 PM—The Ballroom—West Hors d’oeuvres Table

Dewey stood at the hors d’oeuvres table, away from the crowd of his friends, surveying the food. At least, with everything going on, there was always good food to look forward to. It was awful to glare at it like he was. He’d felt so good after talking to Kit, and now he was glowering at little rows of canapes like they were the source of his problems.

He wasn’t usually upset with his brothers. No matter what they did, he knew they had their reasons, and Dewey loved them regardless. But sometimes they really were impossible. Frank’s quiet temper and Ernest’s secrecy and indifference had driven such a wedge between the two of them that when Dewey suggested they didn’t talk about it, it had seemed like the best idea at the time to get them to go forward. Otherwise, he’d been worried that Frank was going to say something he’d regret, because he wasn’t going to change Ernest’s mind, and Ernest might’ve done something terrible. Dewey didn’t think he was capable of something truly terrible, because Ernest was his brother, and he knew Ernest. They both believed in a right way to live, just in different ways, so Dewey respected him. You couldn’t let anything change that. But he was still as worried about Ernest as Frank was, and he had just wanted the arguments to stop.

But it had led to Frank and Ernest almost refusing to talk to each other, ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent was pleasantries or conversations that skirted the edge of an argument, which was worse. Dewey particularly hated it lately, when he was asked to pass messages between them, typically from Frank. He wasn’t a messenger system, he was their brother, and he was, in fact, if either of them cared to remember, the oldest. But they treated him like someone to protect because he wasn’t as forceful as them. He frowned down at a section of tiny shot glasses of—he picked one up. Gazpacho. It looked so charming and Dewey couldn’t even appreciate it.

What it came down to was, the schism couldn’t come between him and his brothers if they didn’t let it. Just like his current irritation couldn’t come between him and his brothers if he didn’t let it. He considered it, because he was angry, but he didn’t let it change anything.

He found a narrow, palm-sized spoon from one of the other hors d’oeuvres and poked at the gazpacho with it. He thought, for a moment, about the Anwhistle brothers, sitting in their brand new marine research and rhetorical help center, probably having a lot of fun together talking about fungi and grammar. Gregor and Ike were two of the most different but most companionable people Dewey knew. Nothing got between them. They probably didn’t forget who was the oldest. Who was the oldest out of them, anyway? They probably didn’t let it matter.

Oh, Dewey was letting it get to him. He piled some of the gazpacho onto the spoon and took a bite. He wished Bertrand had been able to come. Bertrand would’ve loved the appeal of the gazpacho as well. Bertrand didn’t have a single sibling to complain about and he would’ve enjoyed the gazpacho wholesale. He could’ve stood around with Dewey at the table, and maybe they’d have brought in Lemony, too, and talked about flavor profiles. Lemony, who was legitimately the youngest of his siblings, commiserating over cold soup about how they never stopped trying to protect him either. Who could possibly think Lemony of all people needed protecting, too? There was always that quiet, competent energy around him.

Dewey finished the gazpacho and put the jar on a passing hotel attendant’s silver tray. Where was Lemony, actually? He was sure he’d seen him earlier. Dewey remembered, because it was the first time he’d seen Lemony in a long while. Wherever he was, Dewey was sure it was probably more enjoyable than here.

10:32 PM—The Ballroom—Dance Floor

“Josephine,” Olaf said, sidling up behind her, “Jo, angel of my eye—”

“The correct word for that expression is apple,” Josephine interrupted. She did not take her eyes off of her plate of puff pastry. “We’ve been over this.”

He continued, persistent as ever, his smile stretched like candy. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, angel of my apple?”

“No.”

10:45 PM—The Elevator

The night was passing by, and Kit still hadn’t found Frank. She’d made it all the way up to the ninth floor with no sign of him. Was he the type to be on the rooftop sunbathing salon? Unlikely. But she should check, just in case.

She had her hand against the rooftop door when the elevator dinged behind her. Kit turned to look. The elevator doors parted, revealing the gold-walled interior with rather harsh lighting, and there was Frank, standing with his hands folded behind his back. He caught Kit’s eye and gave her a slight nod. “Kit.”

“Frank.” She stepped into the elevator beside him and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, she smelled smoke for a moment, and her heart leapt before she realized the cigarette smoke must’ve clung to her gloves. She tugged them off and stuffed them into one of her pockets.

“I heard the Anwhistles finished the research center,” Frank said, as the elevator started to move down.

“Yes.”

“And the mycelium—are they still working on it?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Frank sighed. “Do you have any concerns?”

“Some,” Kit admitted. There was no denying it was dangerous. Necessary, but catastrophic if it ever got out of hand. “If anything happens, it can be dealt with.”

“Good,” Frank said, decisively. Silence dropped through the elevator, the hand counting down the floors moving slowly from eight, to seven, to six. Frank raised an eyebrow; Kit realized she’d been staring at him. “Is something wrong?”

“I was under the impression that there was—” More, or something else entirely. It was Kit’s understanding that Frank was to give her a list. There was usually only one kind of list that mattered in their organization, and unless she had radically misjudged the ages of the Anwhistle brothers after personally knowing them for years, they wouldn’t be on that list. “—something more specific,” she wound up finishing.

Frank looked at her with his impassive, unimpressed mask. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

The hand moved again, six to five to four. Kit had the strangest sensation that she was missing something. She should’ve been given that list, not subjected to a brief interrogation, especially about something she was already aware of. The smell of smoke flitted in front of her again.

Disbelief shot through Kit like an arrow, pushing the air from her lungs. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t. She stared at the man in the elevator, and he stared back, cool and collected. It couldn’t be. Because that would mean—but the longer she looked, the more certain she was.

“Frank quit smoking,” she said quietly, “but you didn’t.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I—”

Kit slammed her hand against the stop button on the button panel, and kept her hand there, boxing him in against the wall even after the elevator had halted, the counting hand stuck between four and three.

“Don’t lie to me, Ernest.”

One Month Ago—City Headquarters

It wasn’t like there was, say, an initiation ceremony or anything. They’d been through that already, there was no need to do one again. You knew what you were getting into this time, you were just, “changing sides”. And it was so subtle that it barely mattered. Nothing about Ernest’s life really changed otherwise. He ran a hotel with his brothers. He ranked tea brands with Dewey during lunch. He played loud music in Room 784. He carried a lighter in his pocket that he used for other things. He went to headquarters, sometimes as himself, sometimes as Frank, never as Dewey. He acquired messages, and took his sweet time delivering them or delaying them, spaces of time where nothing changed, either. He almost wondered what the point had been, until he overheard Frank spout off some noble patter again. At least he wasn’t like that. At least Ernest knew better.

And since nothing had changed, no one knew. Not even the “firestarters” knew there was another one, namely because Ernest hated the name and disliked a great deal of them, but also because Frank made him be so careful about it. He thought a few people in VFD suspected, or at least suspected someone of switching, because everyone could feel something was happening and they were trying to pinpoint a source, and it was only a matter of time before someone suspected a Denouement. Triplets were naturally suspicious. But it wasn’t like they could do anything, even if they ever had proof—how often did anyone know which Denouement they were talking to, anyway? It was likely Ernest could exist like this for the rest of his life.

The thought almost stopped him on his way into the city headquarters. Day after day of calculated, performative nonsense without an end in sight. Age sagged through him. His bones were too heavy and to move them another step was impossible. He kept walking.

What had made Ernest change? That, exactly that. Change. He’d lived in VFD for practically his entire life, and nothing was different there, either. There had been no great strides made towards the nobility they all talked about, only tiny little steps that were easily set back. Ernest watched his friends and his family get sucked in by this big, dramatic fight that never ended, a fight none of them had ever initially had a part in. He’d learned that you couldn’t achieve “nobility”, whatever that even was, by a bunch of absurd spy behavior and kidnapping, or by coded messages and age-old discussions that went nowhere, or by acting like information weighed more than your life, by pretending any of that was normal. None of it did anything. Ernest was going to find some way to make something happen, to make what they’d lost worth it, and if it meant Frank thought he was a traitor, fine. He’d do it even if Frank didn’t appreciate that Ernest was doing it for him.

The note for Frank that he’d intercepted said that there was a file under the fifth floorboard of the back staircase in the city headquarters. Frank was supposed to give it to Kit.

He made his way to the back staircase. It went up to the observatory, which no one had used since Esmé burned that spot into the rug with her telescope out of protest. The corridor and the staircase were, predictably, deserted. Ernest slowly lifted the fifth board, but it came away without resistance, so he pulled it up all the way and saw the slim folder waiting inside. He took it out, replaced the floorboard, and sat down at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it.

He wanted to crumple the folder in his hands but he made himself breathe and look at it. It was the upcoming recruitment list. There were some he recognized faintly, distant associates, long-lived families in VFD, but a majority of the names he’d never seen before. New families to carve apart. He flipped through the pages—addresses, dates, times. A few photographs. Ernest closed his eyes and held them shut tight. When he opened them, he was still looking at the folder.

Of course none of it mattered, he thought bitterly, shoving the folder into his jacket. He could intercept or stop a thousand messages and there would still always be more. There would always be more children, more fires, more lies, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop it.

Ernest leaned the side of his head against the banister. He thought about Olaf, suddenly. He’d been trying to corner everyone lately, Ernest among them, talking his ear off about big ideas that Ernest agreed with, but Olaf had a habit of taking an age to follow through with them. Ernest did not have the time to wait an age. He’d shared some information with Olaf a few times, on the off chance that it would spur him into action, but Olaf had hidden it away, for “later”, and it obviously had not helped.

Maybe the only way you could fight a long game was to play the long game back. Maybe that was what Olaf was doing. He was on to something, at least, with his words. Maybe Ernest could try again. Maybe he could learn to wait. Maybe the payoff would be worth it. Maybe.

Ernest stood up. He didn’t at all feel like going home, but he wasn’t going to stay at headquarters any longer.

The staircase creaked. When he looked up, he saw Lemony Snicket at the top by the observatory door, standing like he’d always been there.

“What are you doing up there?” Ernest asked.

Lemony watched him carefully. Ernest got the distinct feeling that he was being appraised. He shivered. When they were younger, you could look at Lemony and see the gears working in his head, like watching—yes, like watching change take shape and form and meaning before your eyes. Lemony Snicket was going to do anything, lead them all anywhere. Ernest hadn’t been foolish enough to believe a twelve-year-old in a brown hat was going to demolish VFD from the ground up. Then Lemony had disappeared, and in the years after resurfacing at sixteen, he looked less and less like that powerful, mythical figure everyone had worshiped and more like he’d seen too much. Ernest sympathized.

But here, Ernest finally saw it, that hunger they’d all talked about. In his eyes, bright blue in the shadows. Physical change, a juggernaut of determination. Ernest’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Lemony said softly. “Do you think we could talk?”

10:50 PM—The Elevator

Damn.

The disbelief on Kit’s face was gone, replaced by a blazing, dangerous fury, the threatening and exacting professionalism she hid inside her on full display. She wasn’t all that short, Ernest thought, inanely. He wasn’t going to be able to bluff out of this one. She knew. It was significantly more terrifying than Ernest had imagined it would be. How stupid could he have been, to forget about the way that cigarette smoke would cling, to think Kit Snicket wouldn’t notice. “Kit—”

“How long?” Kit demanded.

“Does it matter?”

He could see that it very, very much did. Kit was already disgusted over dating Olaf; that she’d spent so much time with Ernest when he wasn’t on her side was going to eat her alive, Ernest knew. He winced.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tried.

She glared at him. “What were the names Frank was supposed to give me?”

That, he was going to hold on to. They’d already burned the papers, anyway, up in the observatory. No one was going to get that list now. “I guess you’ll never know,” Ernest said.

Her hand clenched on the button panel. She stepped closer. For a wild and uncontrollable second that seemed to spin out into eternity, Ernest imagined she was going to kill him.

“The elevator is going to start again,” she said lowly. “We’re going to walk out into the lobby. You’re not going to make a sound. We’re going to go to headquarters.”

Ernest didn’t like what he was going to do next. But he was always going to have the upper hand for one distinct reason.

He swallowed and straightened the edge of his sleeve. “Who’s going to believe you, Kit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Regrettably for you, I am at a distinct advantage,” Ernest said. “You and I are the only two people in this elevator. You did think I was Frank. Who will be able to figure out who was who when you try and tell on me? Who can really know for sure?” He hesitated, but it was true. “Why, I could be Dewey, even.”

Kit slapped him across the face, her cheeks flushed a fierce red. The force of it stung hard, knocking Ernest’s head to the side. She removed her hand from the wall and stepped back.

“Does it help if I’m sorry?” he asked, gingerly rubbing the side of his face.

“You aren’t,” Kit said.

Ultimately, it was true. He wasn’t. He was sorry he’d been caught more than that he’d done it. Ernest regretted nothing about what he’d decided to do. Not in his line of work; and Kit was the same, too. But he was sorry he was going to lose a friend.

Kit didn’t have friends, though. You were with or against Kit Snicket, and she always made that abundantly clear. Ernest touched his cheek again, and then lowered his hand.

“I’m not,” he said. He took the elevator key out of his pocket and put it into the lock on the button panel, watching Kit the whole time. She watched him back. The elevator slid into motion, settling down on the third floor.

The doors opened.

11:00 PM—The Ballroom—East Drink Table

“Who?” Jacques asked.

Kit turned slowly back to the dance floor. Was one of them still here? Had she been followed out of the elevator? She locked eyes with a Denouement across the room. Which one? Was it Frank? Was it Ernest, again? Was it Dewey? The clock was still rumbling under her feet. The glass trembled in her hand and she felt almost sick, anger and shame and fear churning through her. She was in a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it off. The triplet held her eyes for a long moment and then walked away.

“Kit.” Jacques had a hand on her arm; he must’ve gotten out of the boxwood. “Who?”

But she couldn’t get the words out, not here. Ernest was right. She was at a disadvantage when she couldn’t prove it. If she pointed the finger now, what would be done? What could be done? How could he do that to Dewey and Frank? To put them in the position where they’d unknowingly cover for him merely by existing? Did they know at all?

What would she do if her own brothers—no. She couldn’t even think it. Kit couldn’t fathom the idea of her brothers doing anything like this.

“We have to find Lemony,” Kit said.

11:02 PM—The Ballroom—Main Doors

Frank still couldn’t find Ernest. He did not have the time for him to be hiding like a child; where was he? Frank had looked everywhere over and over and was back in the same ballroom again, scanning through the associates for what had to be the hundredth time. He caught Kit’s eye—and stopped.

There was cold and intense fear looking back at him. It was unbearable to have it directed at him, and Frank turned away after a few seconds.

Ernest. A thousand possibilities ran through Frank’s head, each of them worse than the last. He had had enough. Frank strode towards the main doors, just as he saw Ernest making his way out of them as fast as possible. Finally. Frank followed him out into the hallway and grabbed onto Ernest’s arm, whirling him around.

“I asked one thing of you tonight,” Frank said.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Ernest repeated. He wrenched his arm out of Frank’s grasp and put his hands in his pockets. “And I didn’t, thank you.”

“Apparently I wasn’t specific enough,” Frank said. “When I said that, I clearly meant, don’t do anything stupid that’s going to compromise the family and our position in it. What information have you been giving Olaf?”

“Who said I was?”

“Olaf.”

“You know, that hurts a little, that you’d believe Olaf over me.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. Fine. Olaf was less important, anyway. “Then what did you do to Kit?”

Ernest raised an eyebrow. “Did I do anything?”

It was agonizing, seeing such a carefully blank mask on your own face staring back at you. Frank didn’t hate him, but he came close. “What have you done, Ernest? Do not lie to me.”

Something fractured through Ernest’s expression. “I just—miscalculated,” he muttered. “She found out.”

“She found out?” Frank echoed, his heart skittering in his chest. It had finally happened, and Frank couldn’t protect Ernest this time. Kit wouldn’t keep this a secret, not by a long shot. By morning—by midnight, because nearly the whole organization was already here—everyone would know. And Ernest didn’t seem the least bit concerned about it. “Ernest—”

“It’s fine,” Ernest said coolly. “Considering she can’t prove it.”

The world detached from Frank’s consciousness. Kit’s fear made a sudden, terrible sense. Ernest had used him as a shield between himself and the organization, on purpose, he’d positioned Frank and Dewey as pawns whose only use was whatever Ernest wanted. Frank could feel his hands shaking. They didn’t feel like his hands.

Ernest sighed. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “You’ve pretended to be me, that’s the only way you would’ve found out about Olaf. Don’t act like you didn’t use our face as an advantage too. That’s what we do. That’s what this family does.”

Anger burned through Frank, hot behind his eyes. That had been different. A sharp fury that had been building somewhere inside him all night snapped apart. “You are not a part of this family.”

He regretted saying it the second the words were out. Of course Ernest was still his brother. That was an immutable fact. But Frank was so tired of trying to hold onto Ernest when Ernest so blatantly didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at family, he was looking at a stranger, who stole his face, who used his name, who threw it around like it meant nothing, who denied everything noble and proper and real. It wasn’t how a brother was supposed to act. But it was how Ernest acted, and now Ernest was staring at him with an open, wounded expression, something Frank hadn’t seen since they were children.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Ernest’s jaw trembled for a second, his mouth pressing into a thin, flat line. “I don’t think I am.” He took one step back, a hard glare in his eyes, and then walked away from Frank.

11:20 PM—The Rooftop Sunbathing Salon

Ernest hadn’t figured on Frank being angry, because, primarily, he hadn’t figured on Frank finding out at all. He hadn’t figured on Kit realizing what he was doing, either. Well, that was on him, but Frank didn’t need to be so—he didn’t have to say—

Shit, Ernest thought, breathing hard. He came to a stop in the dark, empty hallway some floors up from the ballroom and let himself think it, pressing his palms into his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He’d have a brother after this, sure, a family member who stood by him and ran a hotel with him and played nice, but he didn’t know if he’d have his brother. He would have an associate, like everyone else, a found family of people who loved on conditions, not a family. Not his family.

He had to find Lemony. Just because he’d been hiding all night didn’t mean he was exempt from this.

Lemony disliked heights, open spaces, and decently-sized bodies of water, which was why Ernest found him on the roof, sitting on one of the pool chairs, his mask discarded beside him. He was studiously avoiding looking at the pool or the ocean or the night sky, dark and enormous above him. The rooftop salon was never used at night, but there were small lights along the edge of the pool and the railing, giving off slivers of stark white light. The brief anger Ernest felt downstairs evaporated the longer he watched Lemony not-watching the world around him. He wanted to say a million and one things to him, but the one that came out was, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“What do you know about exposure therapy?” Lemony offered as a response.

“Enough to know you probably shouldn’t use it for heights,” Ernest said. “Among other things.”

“Point taken,” Lemony said. “What would you say if I told you I was now too frightened to move?”

“That you brought it on yourself,” Ernest said, but he didn’t mean it. He walked over and sat next to Lemony on the pool chair. Ernest stole a quick glance at him again, brief and fleeting. To look consistently was dangerous; Ernest always had to make a distinct effort not to touch.

“Your sister found out,” he said. “Not about you, but about me. She also hit me.”

Lemony’s head shot up. “What?” He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing Ernest’s jaw as he turned his face towards him. They trailed warm over his right cheek, where his skin still smarted from Kit’s hand. Here in the dark, Lemony’s eyes were so bright again, full of concern, directed right at him. Ernest held himself so still, barely breathing.

Falling in love, if you could call it that, with Lemony was what Ernest personally considered the most ill-advised thing he’d ever done, even after lying to Kit. Lemony loved other people, and it was clear in everything he did, in the way he looked when they weren’t there. But Lemony understood what Ernest wanted, and Ernest craved that with a destructive ache.

Really, who else were they supposed to fall in love with but each other? They didn’t know anyone else. No one was going to get this life but them. It was probably why half of VFD had a crush on Beatrice, honestly. It was terrible, but none of them seemed to be able to stop doing it. Ernest included.

“You—” Lemony’s hand jerked back, shrinking down between them onto the chair. “What happened?”

“She knew I lied,” Ernest said. “About the information and about being Frank. I got out of it, but—she won’t trust us again, I think. And Frank—probably won’t trust me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Lemony said. “I didn’t mean for—”

Ernest shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It wasn’t. He and Lemony had both just wanted something, desperately. Ultimately, they’d still succeeded, in the end. They had. Change he could hold in his hands had happened. He still felt hollow about it all, everything drained out of him, but he didn’t regret doing it. Not at all. The hurt would go away and he’d do it again. “What we did—that mattered.”

“It did,” Lemony whispered. “But I never like the cost.”

“Why did you do it?” Ernest asked softly.

Lemony smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t want to stop trying.”

The real, noble answer, Ernest thought. Why the “firestarters” and Ernest would never get him. He raised his hand. Slowly, without looking, he put it on top of Lemony’s. Lemony turned his hand over and gripped Ernest’s tightly. He knew that the way Lemony would try from this moment forward would be different than the way Ernest would, and he wanted to have this moment while it lasted.

Ernest stood, tugging Lemony up with him, and let go of his hand. “You should go back downstairs,” he said.

11:30 PM—The Ballroom—South Drink Table

The party would be over soon, but you’d never know it, the ballroom still thronging with people. But most of the dancing had died down, and Dewey was taking mental stock of how clean up would start. He found one of the attendant’s silver trays and picked it up, estimating how many glasses he could fit on it.

Frank came back into the ballroom and made a beeline for him, pale. Dewey’s shoulders tensed up yet again. What had happened now?

“I can’t believe it,” Frank muttered, grabbing a wineglass.

“Whoa, hey, hold on.” Dewey took the wineglass back and set it off to the side. “What happened?”

“He—” Which meant it was Ernest. Again. Dewey’s patience with both his brothers tonight was wearing extraordinarily thin. “He’s been passing information to Olaf this whole time.”

“To Olaf?” That was not what Dewey had been expecting. A flare of worry burned through him and curled his hands around the tray. “But—”

“No,” Frank said. “This time, I’ve had enough. I’m tired of covering up for him, and he’s going to have to deal with this mess himself.”

Olaf was certainly a threat in one way or another, but it seemed a disproportionately vicious answer for Frank. Dewey frowned. “Did something else happen?”

Frank looked so—frantic, was maybe the word, a terrifying energy breaking out of him in quick bursts of anger on his face. He looked at Dewey, and the emotion seemed to cage itself back in.

“He was found out,” Frank said quietly. “About being a firestarter.”

Dewey had counted on it happening. It seemed unlikely that it would be able to remain a secret forever. It still hurt to hear. Things wouldn’t be the same as they had been, if people knew about Ernest. Dewey imagined the division between the three of them only growing larger, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to do anything about it if it got too wide.

Something broke in Frank’s expression again, and Dewey startled—it looked like guilt. “Don’t defend him,” Frank hissed. “Dewey, he’s going to get away with it. He’s going to ruin what we’ve worked for, what you’ve worked for in the archives—do you want all of that information in the hands of the enemy?”

Dewey clutched the tray. “Ernest isn’t the enemy,” he said, darkly. The agitation from earlier at the hors d’oeuvres table shot back into him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Frank said. “I—”

Dewey slammed the silver plate down on the drink table. A real, genuine slam, like he’d never done before, the glasses around it rattling. Frank stared at him, gaping a little.

“He’s still here,” Dewey said. “That’s enough.”

“Dewey—”

“That is enough.”

12:00 AM—The Lobby

Jacques had never seen Kit so unsettled. Even when she’d been arrested she’d kept her composure. But she stood beside him in the empty lobby, tapping her foot against the floor, her arms crossed over her chest. He still couldn’t get out of her what had happened, but it was obvious from her face in the ballroom that whoever betrayed them had to be one of the Denouements. It was a sobering realization, the worst possible outcome of the schism that had been building for too long. One of three identical triplets being a traitor complicated matters, although it was easy to figure out which one it was that had done it. Things were going to change after tonight.

He took a small, brief moment to appreciate that Kit actually wanted to stand next to him and acknowledge him as her brother. Lately, he’d gotten the impression that she couldn’t stand him. But now she needed him, and it was a relief to Jacques to still be needed by his siblings. He never thought he did that successful a job of managing to keep them all together.

The elevator dinged, and Lemony stepped out, adjusting his jacket. The only evidence he’d been at the costume party was the mask tucked under his arm, because his suit was as plain as ever. 

“Finally,” Kit muttered, and she ran over to him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, something none of the siblings had done since they were children.

Lemony froze, and then hugged her back. He met Jacques’s eyes across the lobby.

Jacques knew it, immediately. Lemony had played a part in what had happened tonight with Ernest. It shouldn’t have surprised Jacques as much as it did. Lemony had held a perilous position in the organization for years now, and this wasn’t the first time he had wound up disagreeing with Kit about recruitment. But it was the first time it had involved other people. That made it dangerous.

Lemony shook his head a fraction of an inch. Part of Jacques relaxed. The three of them might still be okay. He wondered, with a slight jolt, how the Denouements would fare. 

Kit pulled away from Lemony. “Where were you?”

“Did you know the rooftop sunbathing salon has night lights?” Lemony said. Jacques couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked over to his siblings. “Very pleasant. I recommend it.”

Kit rolled her eyes, and she led Jacques and Lemony through the lobby and out of the hotel.

“I’ll drive you both back,” Jacques said. “It’s on my way.”

“You brought the taxi?” Lemony asked.

“Regrettably,” Jacques sighed. “I still seem to have it.” Headquarters refused to take it back for some reason, even after Jacques insisted he didn’t need it. It had been six months since the initial assignment with it and he was still driving it, and probably would be, for the foreseeable future. He took his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive,” Kit said.

“You will not drive,” Jacques said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly,” Kit said, snatching the keys out of his hand and walking briskly out of his reach. “Jacques, did you say something about hives? There aren’t any bees nearby.”

“Trees?” Lemony said. He jogged ahead a little and caught up with Kit’s pace. “They do look particularly lush this time of year, now that you mention it.”

“No one is in a rush, and Kit, give me my keys you are not going to drive—” His siblings raced ahead of him down the front drive, and Jacques ran after them into the night.

1:55 AM—The Ballroom

Olivia and Ramona stayed on to help the Denouements clean up. Ramona had insisted, saying that it was no trouble at all, and she owed them for being so kind to host the party. She was very good at insisting; Olivia had never seen anyone able to resist the charm of Ramona cheerfully demanding she was going to help and they were going to have to deal with it. She hid her smile in the champagne flutes she was stacking on a tray as Ramona talked with one of the triplets on the other side of the ballroom. She picked up the one rimmed with half-rings of Ramona’s deep plum lipstick and giggled.

She’d have to tell Ramona about what Jacques told her, of course. But for once, Olivia wasn’t all that worried about dealing with it. It had been an extraordinarily pleasant night otherwise. Ramona was happy, some of the glow back in her face, so Olivia was happy too.

All the glasses were stacked, the plates piled together, the tablecloths folded up, the lights finally dimmed. There was only one Denouement left in the room, and he stopped Olivia and Ramona on their way out. “Olivia, could I speak with you?”

“Of course,” Olivia said.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Ramona said, squeezing her hand, and she disappeared down the hallway, the hem of her dress sweeping the floor behind her.

Some people expected Olivia to be able to tell the Denouements apart, and some people expected her to be as clueless as most others as to who she was talking to. It wasn’t terribly hard to tell them apart, because Olivia liked to pay attention, but what she could never remember what when she was supposed to know and when she wasn’t. Here, she knew the one in front of her was Frank, most definitely. There was a weight to the way Frank carried himself, not like he assumed he was in control, but like he assumed he had to be.

“What is it, Frank?” Olivia asked.

He hesitated, which was rare for Frank. “When was the last time you saw Miranda?”

Olivia blinked. Had she misheard him? “What?”

“Miranda,” Frank said again. She hadn’t misheard. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Miranda?

“I—I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I—” When was the last time she saw Miranda? Years and years ago, wasn’t it? Shortly after they’d been taken. Olivia hadn’t minded. Miranda was older than her, not by much but by enough, and enough that they weren’t kept together. Miranda had thought it a chore to look after her, and Olivia hadn’t liked being seen as a chore. She wanted a sister, not a babysitter. So she’d been okay when Miranda was gone. They went to different classes, made different friends, passed each other in the hall without saying a word until their apprenticeships, where Olivia was shuffled around from chaperone to chaperone and Miranda—went where? What had become of her?

The questions spun through her head, dizzying, but they kept coming. What did Miranda look like, now that she thought of it? Had she looked like Olivia at all? Would she recognize her own sibling, like she could easily identify the Denouements? Would she know Miranda if she saw her in a meeting, on the street, at one of these parties, if she was an enemy? But what made a person wasn’t appearance—how did Miranda act? What made Miranda, in the way Frank’s quiet made him? How could she not know what made her sister? Miranda was her sister and it hit Olivia, squarely in the chest, that she didn’t know a single thing about her.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her gaze darting across the floor. How had she gone all this time without thinking about her? How could she not know? How much had she forgotten?

“I’m sorry I asked,” Frank was saying. “Olivia. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Olivia whispered. She took one step back, then another, almost hitting the edge of her dress with the point of her heel, and another, then made herself turn around and leave, back downstairs, through the lobby, anywhere else but there.

Olivia hurried out into the night with the front doors banging open after her; the humid air was sticky on her skin, sitting heavy in her lungs as she tried to inhale. She saw Ramona past the front archway, leaned back against her car a way down the front drive, her shoes beside her and her feet in the grass, the shape of her soft and fuzzy in the heat. Olivia tore off her mask and scrubbed her hand over her eyes, wiping the tears on the side of her dress.

There was a weight on her shoulders, more than just the heat. She had the horrible sense that she was going to turn around and see Miranda. Olivia wanted to leave. She wanted to leave the city, she wanted to go somewhere she’d be away from this. She wanted to take Ramona—would Ramona go with her? She had her own things to care about besides the violent anxiety shaking Olivia from the inside out. She had a duchy to take care of. She didn’t deserve to have to deal with Olivia.

We’d like you to take up the outpost at Caligari Carnival. The carnival was miles from the city, out in the hinterlands, flat and desolate blankness. Maybe she should go. Maybe that would be better. She would be away from the city and be one place where no one had to bother her and she couldn’t bother anyone else. Maybe.

Olivia squeezed her eyes shut again, and when she opened them the tears were gone and Ramona came into focus, all of her slender and beautiful in the moonlight. Olivia ached to look at her.

She went over to Ramona and slid her hand into hers, tucking her face into the smooth skin of Ramona’s shoulder. “I want to go somewhere else,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Ramona said, her other arm coming up and folding around Olivia, drawing her close. “We can go anywhere you want.”

Behind her, through the open front doors, Olivia heard the hotel clock starting to chime again.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Real? Not Real?

Prompt: Uh hello, I just wanna day that I really really love your work. I came across it this morning and I’ve been binging it all day, and you are a REALLY good writer :) if it’s not too much to ask (and feel free to ignore this), could I request one of the Sides (preferably Janus) having a bad day and derealizing and another one (preferably Patton or Remus, but really any work) comforting them and helping them get grounded? Maybe something that is after the wedding, with everyone at odds with each other so no one notices at first?

Thanks for the prompt, babe!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: disassociation, derealizing, some things that could be interpreted as self-destruction

Pairings: none, other than platonic moceit and dukeceit

Word Count: 2287

The wall is yellow.

 The wall isn’t yellow. 

The wall is yellow. 

Janus pushes his door closed and sighs, leaning against the wood and taking his hat off. He scruffs a hand through his hair and lets his head thunk against the door.

 “Well,” he mutters, “that wasn’t exhausting.”

 The conversation had dragged on for hours; from picking apart every little idiosyncrasy and explaining every other word, it’s a wonder he had any energy left to even sink to his room.

 Well, he didn’t. That’s the point.

 He heaves himself up off the floor, stumbling a little when his body decides that no, actually, we’re going to remain on the floor because we dislike you personally.

 “Thank you,” he grits out as he fights the urge to collapse back to the floor, “no, really, I wanted to be able to fall over as soon as I tried to move.”

 When the floor looks like it stops spinning for a few seconds at a time, he reaches for his cane and shuffles over to the desk. The chair creaks a little in protest as he all but collapses into it. He tosses his hat toward the coat rack, missing terribly, and rips his gloves off.

 “Ah!”

Janus cups his hand around his wrist, biting back a curse as the glove catches on the underside of an older scale. He glances around. The first-aid kit is on the other shelf.

 “Damn.”

 He could just…stretch out and get it? Probably? He swallows and reaches. And reaches. And reaches.

 Why—why can’t he touch the shelf?

 Controlling limbs gets exponentially easier the longer and more disembodied they get. All the time.

 Janus grits his teeth and concentrates, closing his eyes until his fingers bump against the shelf.

 “Thank you,” he mutters as he brings the first aid kit back to his side. “That was certainly the picture of compliance.”

 The first aid kit, because it is an inanimate object—or rather, a collection of inanimate objects—says nothing.

 Trying to apply first aid one-handed is such fun. He ends up holding back the sleeve with his teeth as he rubs the ointment onto the patch left by the scale. The wrapper sticks to his fingers with the determination of a static-filled leech, refusing to budge even as he pries it off with one hand only for it to attach viciously to the other.

 “Get off!”

 It flutters down to lay infuriatingly close to the trash can.

 Or is it in the trash can?

 He reaches down to pick it up and put it inside. He can’t feel it through his gloves. So he takes them off. Maybe then it won’t get stuck. It lands in the trashcan noiselessly.

 Muttering to himself, he gets his gloves on their spot on his desk and goes about getting the rest of this stuff off. Snakes aren’t supposed to run warm, so why can’t he feel anything?

 He goes to undo the clasp on his cape only for his fingers to meet the soft fabric of his shirt. Oh. He must’ve taken it off already. Wait, did he even put it on when he left?

 He glances over to see it hanging on the hook by the door. Exactly where it was when he woke up this morning. Or was it? Wasn’t it draped over his chair? No, that was when he was about to leave.

 No, he put it on his doorknob, didn’t he? To make sure he didn’t forget it?

 But he never forgets his cape.

 Janus shakes his head, immediately regretting it when the action sends him into a dizzy spell. God, why is he so tired?

 It doesn’t matter, he decides, because he was going to take his cape off but now he doesn’t have to because it’s already off. So he can take his shirt off now.

 But first, he should take his gloves off. Trying to undo shirt buttons with gloves on is a tedious process.

 His fingers scratch the bandage over a spot on his hand. That’s funny. He doesn’t feel any pain coming from it. Maybe it’s healed already?

 No, no, he just put that bandage on.

 “Get yourself together,” he scolds himself, going to undo the buttons, “you’re being ridiculous.”

 Is he, though?

 He spent so long observing and mirroring the others today, just to get in the habit of it when he needs to, that is it really a surprise that he can’t really remember what his own limbs are doing?

 Yes. Yes, it is.

 His shirt lies in the corner. He doesn’t remember putting it there. He’s still wearing it, he hasn’t gotten all the buttons off yet. His fingers touch his bare scales. Oh. Maybe he has.

 Why does it look like it’s the wrong color?

 Janus squints hard at the offending pile of fabric lurking in the corner. As he stares, the fabric moirés into a dizzying display. He blinks. That shirt isn’t patterned. It’s just a plain white shirt. Why is it doing that? Is it doing that? Are Janus’s eyes doing that?

 He crosses the room, stumbling a little as he gets up—since when has that table been there?—and grabs the shirt. It folds and bends and warps around his fingers. It should be cool to the touch. The fabric is soft, normally.

 He can only tell he’s supposedly squeezing it from the wrinkles that appear around his fists.

 “This doesn’t belong here,” he mutters, going to put it in the laundry basket.

 The laundry basket is not where it’s supposed to be.

 “Fuck.”

 Did he leave it downstairs? That’s always a risky move; Remus will capitalize on any opportunity to completely and utterly destroy any abandoned object. He turns to go rescue his laundry basket only for it to appear out of the corner of his eye.

 Oh.

 Has it been there the whole time?

 Janus frowns. He looks at the laundry basket, he looks at the shirt, he looks at his cape, he looks at his gloves.

 The bandage on his wrist should be itching.

 It isn’t.

 Why not?

 Oh.

  Oh.

 He smiles to himself and lets the shirt fall to the ground.

 Right, how could he forget?

 This isn’t real.

 None of this is real. He doesn’t exist. He is a figment of Thomas’s imagination, created as part of an elaborate plan to explore personality facets for entertainment purposes. He is not real. He cannot exist in any way that matters.

 That is why the first aid kit won’t speak to him. That is why his shirt creates patterns that are impossible. That is why the laundry basket keeps appearing and disappearing. They’re not real. None of it is real.

 He is not real.

 The walks flicker a pale white as he sinks slowly to the ground, staring up at the fake ceiling. The floor is not solid under him. His legs do not groan and scream in protest as he lies his nonexistent weight across them. His eyes do not fog up. His head does not throb. The door does not feel like a cage, trapping him in a spiral of down, down, down.

 Nothing is real.

 Least of all time.

 …

 …quiet.

 “—nus!”

 “Janus, are you in there?”

 “Snake-Face, if you don’t open up right this instant, I swear—“

 “Kiddo, you never came down for dinner, we’re worried, are you alright?”

 “I’m gonna break this fucking door down.”

 “Remus, no—!”

 A loud thud does not startle him awake. His eyes do not fly open. His body does not refuse to respond as chunks of wood fly all over his room. The walls do not look like they’re transparent as someone peers at him. They are not real.

 “Janus? Oh my goodness, Janus!”

 Patton. Patton is also not real. That is okay.

 Patton does not rush across the floor to him and fall to his knees. His eyes aren’t welled up with tears that he bravely tries to fight back, smiling down at him. Patton’s hands do not cup his face tenderly. He doesn’t say anything.

 “Kiddo?”

 He cannot speak. Real things cannot speak.

 “Kiddo, can you hear me?” Patton does not stroke his thumb gently over his cheek. “Can you breathe?”

 Real things do not breathe.

 “Fuck,” Remus does not swear, “he’s derealizing again.”

 “He’s what?”

 “Derealizing.” Remus does not run to crouch beside them. Remus does not gently tuck his hands under his legs to lift them into a more comfortable position. “Gets stuck in his own head, caught up in his own lies.”

 Patton does not help Remus. He does not cradle his head and lift it up. The pillow suddenly under his head is not real, not soft, not pleasantly cool. His hand does not stay in his hair, stroking gently.

 “He’s overcorrecting,” Remus does not murmur, “convincing himself that nothing is real.”

 “Oh, kiddo,” Patton doesn’t sigh, doesn’t ruffle his hair gently, “you’re real, kiddo, stay with us.”

 “He’s not gonna believe you, Daddio.”

 “Then what do we do?”

 “You’re not gonna like it,” Remus doesn’t say.

 He doesn’t get up and leave. Patton doesn’t stay, still stroking his hand through his hair soothingly. Is it soothing? Does it feel soft? Caring?

 Patton—Patton is caring, right?

 “It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Patton doesn’t—does?—murmur, “you’ll get through this, okay? You’ll get through this, I know you will.”

 “Here.”

 Oh, Remus is back. Is? Isn’t? Is Remus real?

 “Just hold this, okay?”

 “It’s really warm, are you sure—?”

 “That’s what the towel’s for.”

 Remus doesn’t crouch back down next to him. Patton isn’t gripping whatever Remus just gave him in his fist. He doesn’t look worried.

 Wait, why is he worried?

 “Ah!”

 He cries out in surprise when something freezing presses to his stomach. Cold. Cold, cold—

 “Shh, easy, Snakey,” Remus soothes—wait, doesn’t soothe? Is Remus real?—immediately replacing the cold with something warm, warm, warm, “it’s okay, it’s gone now, you did great, just stay here, okay?”

 “Re-Remus?”

 “Yeah, Jan-Jan, it’s me, I’m right here, can you grab onto me?”

 He can’t, he’s not real, Remus isn’t real, but Remus is right there—

 “There you go,” Remus encourages when his fingers hook through the ends of his sleeves, “you got me, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

 “Why—what happened? Why are you here?”

 “You never came down to dinner, kiddo,” Patton says, stroking his solidwarmreal hand through his hair again, “we got worried. No one could call you and the room wasn’t letting us sink.”

 Well of course it wasn’t, it isn’t real.

 Wait.

 “How did—“ he gasps— “how did you know I was here?”

 Patton frowns, tilting his head. “Because we care about you, kiddo, you’re important to us.”

 How can he be important when he isn’t real?

 “Hey,” Remus says sharply, giving his wrist a little tug, “no drifting off again, Snakey, stay here.”

 “H-here?”

 “Yeah.” Remus presses the hot pad into his stomach and oh, it’s so warm, it has to be real. “Right here, Jan-Jan. You feel this?”

 “Yes.”

 “This is real. This is real. I’m really here, I’m really holding this to your real stomach. You’re real. The floor is real. Patton’s real.”

 Patton’s real?

 “I’m real, sweetheart,” Patton says softly, still rubbing his hand through his hair, “and so are you.”

 He opens his mouth to try and breathe. If he’s real, he should be able to breathe…right?

 “That’s it, kiddo, good.” The hand in his hair moves again. “Just lie there and breathe for a moment, okay?”

 He looks over at Remus. Remus starts to rub little circles into his stomach with the warm towel.

 “Stay here, stay real, Snakey,” he encourages, “just focus on this.”

 The floor becomes solid under him again. Patton’s hand, his voice, he can hear them. Feel them. He blinks at Remus, real Remus, still working patiently.

 He must make some noise because Remus pauses, looking up at him. Then he takes the towel and reaches up to slowly, slowly brush it over his cheek.

 The tears that spring to his eyes at the tenderness of the gesture certainly feel real.

 “Oh, kiddo,” Patton whispers, pulling him into a solidwarmreal chest, “it’s okay, shh, you’re safe, you’re real, everything’s okay.”

 He gasps again, trapped in the warmth of Patton’s embrace. Remus scoots in behind them, wrapping his arms tightly through the limbs that still don’t want to work.

 “Why can’t I move,” he chokes out, “why can’t I move?”

 “You’re exhausted, sweetheart,” comes Patton’s soft reply, “you overworked yourself today.”

 “But I can’t feel them!”

 “Here,” he whispers, gently squeezing one of his arms, “can you feel that?”

 “O-only a little.”

 “How about here…and here…there.”

 Patton’s hands are so warm and solid and real.

 “P-Patton?”

 “Yeah, kiddo, I’m right here.”

 “Remus?”

 “I’m here too, Snakey, we gotcha.”

 “Am I—is this—“ he swallows unsteadily— “is this…real?”

 “Yeah, kiddo,” Patton murmurs as Remus strokes firmly up and down his back, “this is real.”

 Patton is real, solid and warm against him. Remus is real, solid and warm behind him.

 Janus opens his eyes and stares at the yellow wall.

General Taglist: @frxgprince @potereregina @reddstardust @gattonero17 @iamhereforthegayshit @thefingergunsgirl @awkwardandanxiousfander @creative-lampd-liberties @djpurple3 @winterswrandomness  @sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes  @iminyourfandom  @bullet-tothefeels  @full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind @demoniccheese83  @pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious  @firefinch-ember  @fandomssaremysoul  @im-an-anxious-wreck  @crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch  @enby-ralsei  @unicornssunflowersandstuff  @wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams  @averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb  @cricketanne  @aularei @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws @cecil-but-gayer  @i-am-overly-complicated  @annytheseal  @alias290  @tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance @whyiask @crows-ace @emilythezeldafan @frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires @cyanide-violence @oonagh2 @xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx @rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734​

If you want to be added/taken off the taglist, let me know!

[ura-writes]

Trampolinist - Part Two

Part summary: You encounter a few strange teenagers, discover blown-up ruins, and find out about who caused them.

Warnings: mild anxiety, thoughts of murder, blood, threats, lots of swears

A/N - I got a good few requests asking for a taglist for Trampolinist, so here it is! Just ask and you shall be added!

@lemonmochitea

@dad-ee-drea

@victoria-a567

Also, this is non-canon compliant, but only by a bit. I may change a few small details.

Hope y’all enjoy!

(Also, if you can find the movie reference I put in here, then kudos to you!)

——

A lingering curiosity sits in the back of your head for the rest of the week, not quelled by any amount of Bedwars or Skywars, which leave you exhausted in the evenings.

Even your dreams hold inquisitiveness.

How lovely.

Eventually you have to go back to your home world to check on your animals, repair your tools and the like. It’s tedious work, but nothing you can’t handle.

Boredom eventually sets in.

It’s unnerving. You never get bored of combat, of competition between your fellow players and teammates, but here you are, eyeing the list of servers on your grid.

Only two people are on the server at the moment, their names not available for whatever reason. You’d prefer to pop on when there were no people online, mostly to scope out the server, but you’ll take only having to deal with two people.

Hopefully they’re adults and not kids that recently learned to use portals.

You stick your pointer finger out, curl it like you’re dragging it down a wall; a ripple starts where your finger lands, slowly following its path downwards. It rips a hole through the fabric of woven servers, creating a direct link to the Dream SMP. You just hope that no one attempts to close the portal, as opening one in the first place takes a good deal of energy and effort.

A sight of spruce trees and misplaced dirt greets your vision through the rip in reality.

An odd spawnpoint, but whatever. You’re not one to judge.

In the corner of your eye, where chat normally sits, a message pops up.

TommyInnit: who the fcuck

TommyInnit: what

TommyInnit: NEWY PERFHSAON

Ranboo: ah yes, perfhsaon

TommyInnit: shut the fuck n up

You chuckle at the messages rapidly crowding the chat, watching them fade idly while trying to find a way out of the really weird spawnpoint, which is, for some reason, walled off by a combination of dirt, wood and stone haphazardly placed down, as if in a hurry.

Your efforts do not go unrewarded as you spot a section of the wall that sits lower than the rest, low enough to climb over if you try hard enough.

Perfect.

Feet hit the ground rapidly as you get a running start towards the wall, scrambling upward after you jump. You fall almost immediately off the other side.

“Ouch.”

“That looked like that hurt.”

You glance upward to meet heterochromic eyes, red and green contrasting with the curious face split in half by its black and white sides. A tail flicks behind the person as their crown slips a bit down their head.

“Wh—the fuck?”

The figure laughs at your reaction, offering a gloved hand out to help you off the ground. Hesitantly, you accept, being pulled up easily, and that’s when you realize that he’s a lot taller than you thought.

“Jesus, you’re tall,” you comment idly, brushing yourself off. “Thanks, by the way.”

“No problem. I’m Ranboo.”

You introduce yourself with your tag, which elicits a hum of recognition from him, much to your pleasant shock and surprise.

“You’re the person that Dream invited, aren’t you?”

“In the flesh.”

He laughs at your quip at him, smiling with sharp fangs exposed to the midday sunlight. No point in judging a person on their (potentially, anyway) monstrous features.

“Well, you probably need a tour—“

He’s quickly interrupted by a loud “hey!”

“Oh great,” you mutter, crossing your arms. Ranboo looks a bit sheepish at your cocked eyebrow and slightly irritated expression, scratching his bi-colored hair.

“That’s Tommy. He’s uh… well, Tommy.”

A teenager wearing a red and white shirt and jeans with battered sneakers comes sprinting out of the nearby forest, coming to a halt just in front of you.

“New person!”

“Yeah, and what are you, the gremlin that got fed after midnight?”

The kid sputters out a few protests against being called a gremlin, sprinkling a good few swears in his jumbled sentences that mostly consist of rambles.

When Tommy gets his bearings, he eyes your tag, squinting at it suspiciously before his eyes widen in recognition.

“You’re the bastard that beat the shit out of me in Bedwars! Get ove’ here—“

One of Ranboo’s arms shoots out to grab the lanky teenager with ease to stop his potential assault on you. You just brush your nails off on your shirt.

“Oi! Lemme a’em!”

“No, Tommy, remember what Tubbo said?” Ranboo lectures, tail flicking in annoyance, eyes trained on him. “Remember?”

“You’re one to talk about rememberin’.”

Ranboo cocks an eyebrow.

“No punchin’ people we don’t know unless they’ve hurt us…” Tommy grumbles. “Can ya lemme go now?”

Ranboo agrees, letting go of his shirt and summoning a journal and quill to write something down in, muttering that he’s almost out of ink.

“Anyway, how about that tour now?”

You smile at him.

Maybe you’ll like this place.

——

“...and this is L’Manburg… or what’s left of it, anyway. It’s still being rebuilt.”

“How’d it get destroyed?” you ask him. “It takes a lot of TNT, Withers and dedication to destroy a city this big.”

I should know.

Tommy eyes Ranboo.

“Hey, it’s your city. I’m not explaining it,” Ranboo defends against the wordless accusation. Tommy exhales with a groan and begins his explanation.

“Wil-Wilbur, my brother, went a bit insane a few months back, blew it all up with Technoblade’s help. Wil’s… well, he’s dead.” Tommy sounds indifferent about the death, much to your surprise.

You nod absentmindedly, setting your eyes on a slightly obscured poster that flaps in the wind. When you get close enough to pin it down it reads:

Wanted: Dead or Alive. High Treason, Inciting Violence, Unlawful Use of Explosives, Extreme Terrorism.

Reward: See Authorities

Below that is a well-painted picture of a man you somewhat recognize, wearing a red cape, a crown, full enchanted Netherite armor and carrying an axe that seems to shimmer in the light.

Technoblade. You’ve had a few run-ins with him playing Bedwars and Skywars, even teaming up with him a few times. He always seemed nice enough, and certainly a damn good sword fighter. He always knew when to run and when to stand and fight, when to attack and when to defend.

“What did he do?”

Ranboo starts to speak, but Tommy interrupts him.

“Blew the rest o’ this place up. Bastard ran after that.” Tommy all but spits the words out of his mouth, like they’re acid or venom. “Fookin’ coward.”

Well, I wouldn’t call ‘knowing when to run’ cowardice, but we’ll pretend I agree, child.

“No one knows where he is now,” Ranboo adds. “Except Phil, of course. But he’s pretty much silent about it. Won’t give up a word of information.”

Shouldn’t be that hard to find one man, you muse to yourself. Bet I could.

“Well, I’ll let you know if I find anything out,” you lie with a smile plastered on your lips. “Y’know, as a sort of gift to you as the newest member of the server.”

Hah, as if.

“We’ll hold you to that.”

You nod and say your goodbyes, walking towards the central nether portal while keeping an eye out for an ender chest so you can get some of your stuff. You know the admin will take your elytra away if it so much as comes into contact with the server’s air, so you decide not to risk it.

Spotting one, you make a small noise of triumph and dart over there, grabbing the shulker with your stuff in it, transferring it to your inventory with a practiced ease.

Armor adorns your figure, enchanted Netherite striking an imposing silhouette against the blackstone beneath your feet. You twirl your sword with a grin.

Now to find Technoblade.

——

Turns out, finding a piglin hybrid is not easy.

You scoured the Nether for any sign of him, any trace of fabric, of a broken pickaxe, hell even a piece of iron he may have held. The ability you hold as a Jumper not only allows you to jump servers, but also allows you to find people if you have something of theirs.

Nothing. Zip. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Nil. Absolutely jack shit.

How can one man be so difficult to track down?

Just as you’re about to give up, a barrage of curses at the tip of your tongue, a glint of iron catches your eye.

Odd.

Hopping over a cluster of Netherrack and scaring off a few baby Striders, you see a small circle of iron sitting in a pile of red dust, looking dented and beat up.

You huff and brush the dust off of it, titling your head to the side when it reveals itself.

A compass, pointing in one direction, working even in the Nether.

Standing up, you pocket it and head to the nearest portal, jumping through to the other side only to grab the compass out of your pocket as you walk to who-knows-where. It still points in the same direction as before, only moving when you do.

An irregularity in the metal against your hand inspires you to flip the compass over to look at the back.

What lies there makes you smirk.

Technoblade’s cabin. Phil’s compass.

This might be easier than you initially thought.

:)