#oh and for the record its the sunlit man

[boreal-wood]

Tumblr has irrevocably changed the way I speak and write

I just sent my friend a text saying that the book I'm reading is dragging me into a hyperfixation like a monster dragging its victim into a dark swamp

And it didn't even cross my mind how weird an analogy that was until after I sent it

[petalsthefish]

Catching Fire

A/N: My January @jilychallengeis here one day late! My prompt was the song Devil's Backbone by The Civil Wars and my partner was the beautiful and talented @practicecourts!! Read my Hunger Games AU on on A03.

"Oh, Lord, what have I done?" she murmured, watching James stride away toward Victor's Village without glancing back. 

She had fallen in love with a man on the run.

Running from her.

Running from the capitol.

Running away from anything that brought him back into the arena.

It wasn't James' fault that he teetered on the edge of the hangman's noose. He had defied the Capitol, winning the games impulsively by leveraging his and Lily's relationship against Seneca Crane. Now, fate compelled them to be together, yet he behaved as though being in her company was the last thing he desired. Returning alive from the games seemed to have made him distant and Lily hated that she was now sleeping alone. 

“He regrets saving me,” Lily hissed as she sidestepped a mud puddle, “he must.”

Six months had passed since the Hunger Games, and Lily could scarcely recall what life was like before the ordeal. Now, she found herself alone, her sister's indifference evident as Petunia had never cared for her and perhaps had even hoped for Lily's demise in the games. Unfortunately for Petunia, Lily had survived, yet the one person who felt like family seldom directed their attention her way for more than a fleeting moment.

As he returned from his turkey hunting expedition in the woods, he unmistakably noticed her approaching along the road. She felt let down when he didn't pause to accompany her. In the initial three months since their return from The Hunger Games, James had rarely allowed Lily to step away from his bed. She’d spent many sunlit days hiding under the covers with him, only leaving to eat and present themselves to the occasional cameras. 

However, at present, he preferred brooding.

Lily followed James toward Victor's Village, where they cohabited with Haymitch and James' parents. Lily harbored a dislike for her residence, a place devoid of companionship, driving her to often choose a sofa near the kitchen for her sleep, finding solace in the act of baking. Baking became her refuge, a sanctuary to escape the haunting memories of the Hunger Games. Writing also became her pastime, and she spent her free hours chronicling the games from her perspective, concealing the records beneath a loose board in the living room.

Rather than heading straight home, Lily diverted her path to the house farthest away from the usual route. It had been a while since she last checked on Haymitch that morning, and a sense of concern tugged at her. The winding path leading to his residence was lined with tall trees, their branches reaching out like protective arms.

Approaching, the creaking of the porch swing caught her attention, sounding out of place, and a knot formed in her stomach. The wind picked up, promising a storm. The front door stood slightly ajar, sparking a flicker of worry within her.

“Haymitch?” she called.

As she approached, more details came into view. The scent of alcohol assaulted her nostrils upon entering the foyer. On her right, a flickering light emanated from the kitchen. Tracking its glow, Lily discovered Haymitch slumped over the table, inebriated and unconscious. With a sigh, she placed her bag of baked goods on the counter. Her next move was to check the fridge for any cheese; he'd have to wake up, eat, and sober up.

In a stealthy entrance, James remained so silent that she only became aware of his presence when a turkey landed with a thud on the table. "Hi, Lily."

Turning away from the fridge, Lily stared at James, clad in his deer hide jacket. She wanted to see his eyes, she wanted to feel okay again, and it would only happen if he looked at her the way he used too. The way she almost wanted to beg him too. However, his attention was not on her but on Haymitch.

"He's been like that since I arrived five minutes ago," Lily informed James. "I was in the middle of looking for cheese to pair–"

Interrupting her, James poured water from the nearby pail onto Haymitch's face. Startled, Haymitch jerked up in his seat, arms flailing, and a string of profanities escaping his lips. Unfazed, James placed the bucket down in front of the older man. Haymitch, realizing he's not in immediate danger, retaliated with a glare that could cut through steel.

"The cameras will be here in three hours," James warned him, his tone carrying a sense of urgency.

"I'm not the one who had to be on camera," grumbled Haymitch, his discontent evident as Lily began slicing into her freshly baked rosemary bread.

"Would you like some bread, James?" she asked politely, not lifting her gaze from her task.

"No, thank you," James responded a bit too hastily.

Haymitch chortled darkly, wiping his face with his shirt. "You two have some warming up to do before the cameras arrive."

"Speaking of that," James said, glancing around before addressing Haymitch, "we need to discuss our angle."

"What angle?" Haymitch smiled at Lily as she passed him a piece of bread smothered in cheese. "You're an angel, Lily," he added hungrily.

"The star-struck lovers angle," James suggested, "the one where Lily and I are in love."

“It's a good angle.” Haymitch said gruffly, “we’re not touching it.”

James winced, visibly. “Haymitch we need–”

“No James,” Haymitch snapped.

James startled them both by slamming a fist down, “I don’t want to be in love with her anymore!”

Lily stared at James as if he'd grown two heads. "You're–you’re not in love with me?"

"I-" James stammered, suddenly looking more like a deer caught across from his bow.

Suddenly, his previous cold demeanor made sense to Lily. All his pushing away, sleeping in his own bed with no invitations. He used to take her hunting with him and now, he wanted to be alone. Somewhere along the way, he'd fallen out of love with her.

Wait.

A rushing, swooping, unbearable thought entered her mind. What if, he'd never loved her? What if everything int he games had been an act, something he'd chosen to do to get home. They only got lucky that the game makers had stated the kids could go home together if they remained from the same district. That was when James had sought her out, made sure she stayed alive after Cato cut her leg open. 

She brandished her knife at him almost as a warning. "So, all those times in the arena – you were lying about loving me?"

"No!" James protested.

"Then why change the angle?" Lily demanded.

"I just wanted to get you home!" James screamed, surprising her, as he was normally so even-tempered. "I just wanted to get you home so you could live! I never planned on the Capitol viewing my act with the berries as defiance! I didn't think the districts would start rebelling–"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Haymitch cut in sharply. "What the hell are you talking about, James?"

James ran his hands through his hair, collapsing at the table in defeat. "Snow came to see me three months ago. He said the other districts were starting to show signs of rebellion. He claimed it was my fault because people don't think I really love Lily."

Lily crossed her arms, seeking clarification. "So, you are in love with me?"

James laughed miserably, sending her the saddest brown-eyed smile she'd ever seen. "I've been in love with you since we were kids, Lily. Of course, I wasn't faking it, but other people think we were."

"Other people can keep their opinions to themselves." Lily huffed, earning a warm look from James, the first one in a long time. 

"Did Snow ask you to stop seeing Lily?" Haymitch inquired carefully, refraining from touching any more of Lily's bread. 

In all fairness, she experienced a strong urge to vomit as well and didn't want any bread either. The timeline suddenly aligned—Snow speaking to James and James distancing himself from Lily. It had happened at the same time, three months ago. Somehow though, that wasn’t making her feel better.

"No," James sighed, rubbing his eyes. "He wants me to marry her."

Lily wondered if it was possible for a heart to stop working, but life to continue on. She swore it stopped beating the second those words fell from James’ lips. He had said it like…like the idea of marrying her was exhausting. Tears threatened to spill. She also considered chucking the knife at his head. 

"What's so bad about that?" Haymitch questioned.

“Yeah,” Lily asked coolly, “what is so bad about that?”

James gazed at Haymitch, a haunted expression in his eyes, refusing to look at Lily. "I've got a target on my back for what I did, Haymitch, and she'll have one too if I let her marry me."

"I don't care," Lily declared, her voice cracking as she stuck the knife on the table and walked around it to take James' sullen face in her hands. "Do you hear me? I. Don't. Care."

"He'll kill you, Lily," James croaked, looking up into her eyes. "He’d kill you to keep me in line.”

She refused to release his face to wipe her tears away. Her thumbs gently brushed down his tanned cheek, an attempt to soothe him, but his own tears continued to spill as he stared at her. The intensity of his gaze conveyed a sense that he was looking at her as if it might be the last time they would share such a moment.

Over her dead body would she let that happen, literally and figuratively. 

"I want to marry you," she declared sincerely, her voice carrying the weight of her emotions. "I'll never love anyone else except you."

As she spoke those heartfelt words, Lily could sense the gravity of the situation sinking in. The air hung heavy with a mixture of love and the impending danger that James had spoken about. Yet still, she was seventeen, plenty of girls her age got married that young in the Seam. Sometimes even younger, if a husband is desperate enough to start popping out baby’s for more food rations. 

“Lily.” James looked like he had the night she first said, ‘I love you,’ to him. Utterly helpless. “Don’t you want to do it on your own terms, not because we have too?”

"You have to get married," Haymitch said softly from his chair, his words carrying the weight of a harsh reality, "you won’t be able to wait long.”

“How quickly?” James asked.

“I’d say if you aren’t engaged by the end of the victory tour, one of you will be dead at Snow’s hand."

She didn’t know why she burst into tears at the thought. Lily felt James' hands come up, closing around hers in a reassuring grip. In one swift motion, he stood up, drawing her into a deep, passionate kiss. It wasn't the most technically perfect kiss they had shared, but it was undoubtedly the most emotional. As their lips met, he broke into a sob against her mouth.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his words muffled by the tender connection of their kiss. "This isn't how I envisioned us."

“I know,” she took deep breaths, trying to calm down, “I know you didn’t want this, want me, like this.”

“I’ll always want you, Lily Evans,” he said firmly, “but I wanted you with me by choice, not force.”

“I do choose you,” she argued, “I will always choose you, in this lifetime, and any others we meet.”

The weight of impending danger hung heavily in the air as James reluctantly pulled away from the kisses. Lily could feel the intensity of his emotions, a mixture of love, regret, and the looming threat that hovered over their lives. She wished they had been born somewhere else, anywhere else, so they could have lived a normal life together.

She didn’t even know what that meant, though; she just imagined something softer. A life where coal dust didn’t settle on everything, glasses were always filled, and holidays were filled with laughter. She envisioned it as James sang to her in the songs before sleep and as it was portrayed in the few banned books she managed to read from the seam.

Haymitch observed the scene, his eyes filled with a kind of sadness that spoke of experiences long-buried and sacrifices made. "You two need to make this believable. The Capitol is watching, and Snow won't hesitate to make an example out of you," he warned, his voice low and serious.

Lily nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She knew the Capitol played by its own twisted rules, and the consequences of defiance were severe. Still holding James' hands, she glanced into his eyes, silently conveying a shared determination to face whatever came their way.

“I shouldn't have chosen the berries.” He whispered, “I shouldn’t have played their games.”

"There wasn't a right or a wrong to choose in the Games," Lily gently withdrew her hands from his face and pulled him into a comforting hug. "You did what you had to do."

James's breath spilled against her ear as he embraced her back, his voice filled with a mixture of regret and longing. "Every time I look at you, I think about that moment and wonder how I could've gotten you out. I question if I should've sacrificed myself so that you could live, even if it meant living without me. I just don't want you to hate me for putting us in this predicament."

Lily gently pulled back, allowing her to peer into James's eyes. His gaze reflected a profound sense of brokenness, yet he didn't avert his eyes from hers again. "Give me the burden, give me the blame," she told him earnestly. "I don't want you pushing me away just to try and repent for something that's not your fault."

James's fingers slid up her neck, entwining in her red hair. "I wanted to shoulder the load, keep you from the shame, just in case I don't make it out of the next game."

"We never have to go back into that arena," Lily reminded him, her breath shaky. "All we have to do is mentor the new kids. You made sure of that, and I don't care if the districts think you were defying the Capitol. I don't care if no one believes we're in love. I love you, you love me, and we'll make it through whatever comes next together. President Snow can't hurt us now."

"Can't he?" James asked weakly. "He could make any one of our deaths look like an accident."

"And he will," Haymitch interjected, standing up to emphasize his point. "When you go on this victory tour, it won't end. Every year, with every new Games, Snow and the others will replay your story for the masses. They will bend and shape the rest of your lives to their will. They will control everything, from the number of kids you have to the hobbies you grow into. This doesn’t stop when you get off the train."

"What if we run away?" Lily asked Haymitch, shifting within James's arms that held her securely around the middle, keeping her close. "Go, live in the woods."

Haymitch's eyes remained void of emotion as he replied bluntly, "You'd be dead before you made it three miles."

"And if we don't do what Snow asks of us?" James inquired, a note of defiance in his voice. "What then?"

Haymitch gestured around his house miserably. "He'll kill everyone you love, or care about, and you'll end up just like me."

“Fuck.” James buried his face into the crook of her neck, breathing deeply into it. 

Lily's heart ached with a poignant sadness, recalling that Haymitch had once known the warmth of a family and the comfort of a real home. Now, all that remained were the empty bottles and their company.

"You have us," Lily gently reminded Haymitch, her voice carrying a note of compassion.

Haymitch lifted his moonshine bottle, taking a swig before reluctantly nodding. "For now." The weight of those two words lingered in the air, a stark reminder of the fragility of their makeshift alliance in the face of the Capitol's relentless control.

She used to pray to a God, like her grandmother had done before her. Lily wondered how many hail Mary’s it would take to set them all free. In the face of the Capitol's tyranny, she couldn't help but question whether the heavens were watching, whether their pleas reached beyond the confines of their oppressive reality.

Haymitch left them alone in the kitchen, heading upstairs to wash up in his single shower room. Lily made no move to leave James's arms, relishing the rare opportunity to feel the comfort and security he provided, a respite she hadn't experienced in months. He was her anchor, her safety net in the tumultuous sea of uncertainty.

"I missed you," she confessed, turning her head to plant a tender kiss on his scalp, reachable from her current position.

James responded by tightening his embrace around her middle, his nose nuzzling into her hair until his warm lips found solace on her neck. She raised one hand, tucking it against his head, cradling him beneath her ear.

"I'm sorry," he murmured between a cascade of kisses. "I am so sorry."

"For what?" she inquired, genuine confusion in her eyes.

He sighed, his breath warm against her skin. "You'll be guilty of inciting a rebellion by mere association with me, Lil."

"I don't care if we're found guilty," Lily asserted, summoning the courage to turn so they could be face to face again. "I don't care if we're not. We've all done good and bad things to get ourselves out of that arena."

James sniffled, his nose red from crying. "I should've killed myself and let you live. Then you would not be forced to marry me on someone else's terms."

"I would've married you, eventually," she said softly, her gaze unwavering. "I've been yours since the day with the bread."

His left hand slipped across her face. "But if I were dead, you'd be the only victor. The districts wouldn't see the berries as an act of defiance, and you'd be safe."

"If anything, I should've died," Lily argued, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "I don't have anyone. You have your parents, Sirius, and Remus. You're all that I've got."

"Then I guess we both should have died," he joked, their foreheads pressing together in a tender moment. “The star-crossed lovers from district twelve.” 

"Or maybe the Capitol will die," Lily sighed, brushing his hair back with a free hand.

"If you say things like that," he nipped at her nose playfully, "then we really will be meeting at the hanging tree. It's like this song my mum used to sing when she was weaving baskets…dad made her stop singing it around me...but I still remember it all."

"You've always had an ear for music." She nodded, "sing it for me, please."

James kissed her again, savoring the moment, before lightly pulling away to sing in a hushed tone, "Are you, are you coming to the tree, where a dead man called out for his love to flee…"

Lily's eyes fluttered open. "That's song is banned, you got detention for it once."

James tucked her hair behind her ear, a playful glint in his eyes. " Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met at midnight, in the hanging tree. "

"I don't like this song," Lily whispered, her voice barely audible. "I prefer the one you sang for Rue, before she died."

The glimmer of light in James's eyes dimmed at the memory of his little companion in the Games, before he and Lily had been reunited. "Snow said Rue's district is where the uprising started. He said my singing for Rue, and burying her in flowers, he said it was sacrilegious to pay her respect. That her death was the real honor."

Lily pouted, her discontent evident. "I don't see what's so honorable about killing kids like Rue and Thresh and Foxface."

“Yeah.” James sighed deeply and brought their foreheads together again. "I'm scared, Lily."

"Me too, James," she admitted honestly, her voice soft. "Me too."

“Stay with me tonight?” He asked tentatively, almost as if he were worried she’d say no.

“Every night,” she promised, “as long as you don’t let go of my hand during the day.”

“I can do that.” He wrapped his fingers against hers to show her he meant it. “You ready for interviews tonight?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

[oatmealcrisp-freak]

i spent 2 days writing about victor's alexithymia in the karaoke fic instead of the karaoke but its such a moodswing i dont think it suits so imma slap it on here and if i write a fic it suits for ayoooo

Sometimes that ignorance of emotion turned to sheer icey numbness, the only feeling piercing through the veil enough to be described being ‘bitter’. Victor didn’t get depressed. He got ennui. He got bored, and looking back at it now he could recognize how utterly terribly lonely he’d been. His world had been painted in the cool tones of the ice, and though the ice was his first love, it was a frigid one indeed.

There had been days, back then, where he’d wondered if the ice had reached into him and made him perfect, yes, but too cold to touch. 

Too cold to be anything but a beautiful picture. 

Too cold to be a person.

He’d chased after heat. Sex, booze, drama - Victor had left a wailing chorus of broken hearts in his wake, some accidentally, some deliberately, in his search for just a feeling. Those relationships he’d fallen into where he’d achieved a sort of bond outside mere convenience had crashed and burned and left Victor looking at the ice again wondering if he just loved wrong. For all his strengths, that piece of him was somehow underachieved, and flawed, and hurtful, and shallow. Incorrect. 

Inspired by Yuuri, he’d gone into Eros and Agape as more of a research project than anything else but it was still more of the same. He’d been looking to feel something, to taste something, to be inspired by something - to be filled. He knew, just KNEW thanks to Yuuri that he’d know it when he saw it, because he’d known it then.

Victor looked at the recordings of those routines and still wasn’t sure if he was feeling anything at all. Technical perfection, as lovely as ice, as shallow as glass.

Victor Nikiforov loved wrong. 

Oh sure, Victor said he loved this, he said he loved that, but that was really more hope than anything. A half hearted attempt to shield what he felt was an embarrassing flaw in his perfectionism. But he wasn’t really sure if he ever really did. It’d become habit, automatic and unthinking.

So.

Was it any wonder he’d chased after that sunlit jazzy catastrophe of a man who smiled and flushed and whose strong wide palms held him capably, gently, who turned a stuffy banquet into a wild party? Who invited Victor to do something he’d never done before, who believed in him in a capacity greater than his ability to perform? Who believed in his ability to teach, and all the implications about Victor’s intelligence and kindness and personhood therein. The implications about Yuuri’s faith in him. Implications, yes, subtext, yes - but none of which had turned out to be incorrect.

Was it any wonder that he’d flown halfway across the world in a heartbeat to land at the door of the man who’d given him that fluttering shining pulse of joy, a sensation so keen it’d pierced through the haze in magnificent yellow light? Who’d inspired him. Who could maybe inspire him again, and teach him something he felt he’d struggled with what must have been all of his life to learn?

Was it any wonder?

Yuuri believed in him. Yuuri had believed in him all his life. Yuuri, too, had been charmed, of course, by Victor’s icy veneer at first - but Yuuri also saw beyond it on what had to be an instinctual level. Any other fan would have been hurt, perhaps, but falling over themselves all the same to take a picture with Victor even if they were a skater in the very same competition that Victor hadn’t recognized. It was embarrassingly not even the first time he’d made that gaffe given his poor memory, something Yakov usually covered for, so Victor knew this for a fact. In the exceptionally rare instance that wasn’t the case, they’d get mad and yell instead to demand retribution for their wounded egos.

They cared about him as much as a person typically cared about a cardboard cutout.

Met with Victor’s habitual smile and fatigued lack of interest?

Yuuri had turned and walked away. 

Victor wasn’t a prop to look pretty in a selfie with. Victor was a man who was trying to be kind but really just wanted to go to bed, his brain fog so thickened with exhaustion he literally couldn’t recognize the competition.

And so Yuuri had left him alone. Hurt, yes, absolutely, his pride crushed and his heart frail but… likewise much too caring to intrude, to make demands of Victor’s time - something he had so very very little of.

On the surface it wouldn’t look like an act of kindness. But wasn’t it though?

It’d been that moment where Victor started watching Yuuri, and what a sight he’d go on to see.

He’d set the world on fire by moving to Hasetsu on a whim to become Yuuri’s coach.

It was the best thing he’d ever done.

And now?

Now Victor’s life was warm.

And though Victor still often wasn’t sure if he loved right, if he was feeling love at all, he was beginning to learn that didn’t matter. Yuuri had once told him he was grateful for Victor because Victor met him where he was. He never pushed Yuuri for more than Yuuri was truly willing to give. He made the effort to learn him, and then accepted him. As he was, as he had been, as he could be - he’d been accepted. 

Maybe Yuuri had thought, just like Victor, that he loved wrong too because Victor identified deeply with those words.

Yuuri didn’t seem to appreciate how he did the very same for Victor. Like Yuuri, Victor was intensely grateful.

They had their misunderstandings. Their clashes. Their fights. At the beginning Victor had bullied Yuuri, and Yuuri had run away and shut him out, the both of them chilled like the rink they danced in. They hadn’t understood how to communicate, but as they’d come to understand each other communication had come. Simultaneously and apart, they’d made the decision to make an effort for each other.

And that? Carried them through.

That?

Was enough. If real love was a thing Victor was capable of, he knew he was in love with Yuuri Katsuki.

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 17

He loves you

B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: you and Bucky stay in bed for a while. Y/n meets Sam

Warnings: fluff, kissing, implied smut, there’s probably some swearing somewhere

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Layers of pale sunlight streaked through the thin, flimsy white curtains, forming a rich sheen of dull yellow light across the room. The encroaching stream of gold cast over y/n's face blinked her awake, her heavy eyelids fluttering and her mouth opening in a sinfully beautiful yawn. Or at least Bucky thought so, but he thought everything about y/n was beautiful.

Bucky had been laying there for a near hour now, blue eyes gazing over his girl's features as she looked blissfully peaceful immersed in a deep sleep. Last night's events must've really fired her out. Y/n's small hand was splayed against his bare chest, chin tucked into the crook of his neck and body embraced by his warm, flesh arm. His fingers danced in small swirls against her back, drawing small figurines ever-so-lightly against she sunlit-skin.

A soft smile had found his lips, tugging them upwards into almost a grin at the sight of y/n in his arms. Her leg was still thrown over his waist haphazardly, his shirt ridden up to around her ribs, panties doing little to conceal what the shirt had revealed.

Y/n's head lifted slowly, his soft smile contagious in the way it curled upon her lips, too.

"Morning, soldier." She mumbled, raspy and broken with a mixture of the strain and sleep. He pulled the girl into him further, his small smile growing when he felt her nuzzle into his warmth. Her disjointed voice was cute, Bucky thought, a reminder to him that he wasn't the only one still struggling to fit in.

He'd spent nearly five months in Bruce's lab, on ice once again as the man and Tony both tried to figure out how to rid him of his winter soldier side. They'd recovered him the first mission they'd gone on, the one without Steve. And not even Steve new Bucky was back until a week ago, although the soldier was only released from the lab yesterday.

Bruce had offered to take Bucky to the party with him, but the super soldier had politely - albeit quickly - declined his offer, knowing almost off instinct that the party scene wasn't one for him. Instead, he'd asked for directions to y/n's room, where he had waited for probably close to an hour before y/n had come storming in.

"You sound like you've been gargling glass." Bucky teased, unable to keep a deadpan expression as the words formed on his lips. Y/n's mouth opened in shock, and she used one arm to prop herself up whilst smacking Bucky's chest with the other. He chuckled, grabbing the hand she'd used to hit him before lifting it to his lips. Bucky kissed each of her fingertips in-turn, before bringing it to cup his face and holding her warmth against his skin. He turned his mouth towards her palm, plump lips fluttering against it as y/n looked in with pure...adoration in her eyes.

"I love you." The words tumbled from her lips like a simple thank you before she could think it through, Bucky's lips stilled against the palm of her hand, his eyes searching hers as if he was trying to find a hint as to why she just said that. It took her a moment to realise that he could be confused, after all, she blurted the words rather quickly and even she wasn't sure that she would've heard them had they come from someone else's mouth. "I love you." She said slower, as if she was hand picking each word before she said it. "I'm totally and completely in love with you." She murmured, eyes captured by the awe struck across Bucky's face.

"W-why?" He finally mustered the courage to say, dropping her hand back to his chest. Y/n took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she did so as if to prepare herself for what she was about to say.

"Because, you were my calm after the storm. Everything bad that seemed to happen, you were there to pick up the pieces after." She explained, moving the hand that'd been dropped to his chest to rest over Bucky's heart. It was racing.

"But all I did was...look at you. Sometimes I was the problem." Bucky argued, almost with himself. It was like he didn't believe what y/n he said, like he thought she was trickling him.

"But your eyes...they quelled the anger, the frustration, the hurt and the pain," y/n continued on, "it's like the real you - not the winter soldier - was always waiting, like you were simply hiding in the sidelines." She confessed, a slither of a tear making its way across her waterline. She opened her mouth to say more, but she found her lips already pressed against his.

Bucky rolled them over, his frame hovering above y/n's as he covered her face in small, affectionate kisses.

"I love you too." He whispered against her ear, giving the lobe a playful nip that made y/n squeal and giggle, a sound that had Bucky grinning boyishly and tickling her sides with his slender fingers, relishing in the cute sound she made.

"Please!" She gasped, face red and tears of laughter streaking her face, "please, h-have mercy!" She pleaded with him.

"Only if you say it again." Bucky smirked, straddling her hips and tickling his fingers against her sides.

"Say what?" Y/n breathed, her small form writhing beneath his as he kept up him ministrations.

"You know exactly what." Bucky mumbled as he leant over y/n, beginning to kiss and suck her neck too.

"I love you." She said softly, voice not as crackly now that she'd spoken a little bit more. Bucky's fingers halted for a moment, his nose brushing against hers and their breaths mingled as his stared deeply into her eyes.

"I know." He whispered, pecking the tip of her nose before beginning to tickle the poor girl again, a wolfish grin playing against his lips.

"You promised!" Y/n gasped, trying desperately to get out his grip.

"Oops." Bucky mumbled against her lips, connecting them once again.

...

We had stayed in bed most of the morning, desperate to avoid Steve and my dad for as long as we possibly could. But at noon Bucky ushered me out of bed, claiming he was to meet with a friend and that it was bad for us to spend all day in bed.

I had sighed, getting out of bed with a huff before he was pulling me into his lap, back against his chest and his lips kissing my neck softly. His warm skin against mine made me relax, his hand on my cheek tilting my head back to meet his in a sweet kiss all the convincing I needed.

Sweaty, hot, and flustered, I panted as I climbed the stairs to the floor my apartment was on in the tower. I swiped my forehead, grimacing at the sticky feel of my sweat covering the back of my hand.

To blow off some steam and the manifesting stress of yesterday, I'd decided to go on a short run. That had turned into five bloody miles. So naturally, I was a knackered, panting mess with hair clinging to my face and sweat forming dark patches under my armpits.

I conquered the last flight of stairs - too stubborn to take the elevator as I was more likely to bump into Steve or Tony that way - and dragged my feet the whole way to my room.

I pushed the door open, a hundred-percent ready to flop onto either my bed or my sofa and die. But when I walked in, I was greeted by the sight of Bucky and some guy I'd never met sat at the small breakfast bar in the kitchen of my apartment, two coffee mugs resting in front of them.

The sound of the door opening had caught both mens' attention, both facing me. I offered a weak smile, shoulder slumped with her tiredness. I was mentally cursing, embarrassed that Bucky's friend was seeing me like this the first time we's met.

"Hey, doll." Bucky smiled, clearing his throat when I looked at him questioningly. "This is Sam. I hope you're okay with us using your room." Bucky said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck and giving me an apologetic smile, "Steve was meant to show me to mine last night. Obviously that's not going to happen now." He said, met with a chuckle from Sam.

"You must be y/n. It's great to finally meet you." Sam smiled kindly, his face soft and he seemed to not be affected by my state, or if he was he didn't show it. I smiled back, slightly wider this time.

"Yeah. It's nice to meet you to, although Bucky's never mentioned you before." I commented, trying to keep my tone civil, the ache in me to just collapse to the floor growing. He chuckled, so did Bucky.

"I, uh, I met him a while back. Six months ago maybe? Of course, he was trying to kill me at the time." Sam said comically, slapping a hand onto Bucky's shoulder a Bucky looked down at his drink, pearly whites shown as he laughed.

"Oh." Was all I said, instantly connecting the dots. That's when I was with HYDRA, I realised. The second time. Sam stood slowly, grabbing his jacket from the back of the barstool before turning to me.

"Well, it was wonderful meeting you."

"You too." I smiled.

"And thank you for the coffee." He finished, directing it at Bucky this time. The soldier smiled and waved at Sam as he left, standing from his own seat to deposit the used mugs in the little sink. Sam's exit was announced bu the thud of the door as it swung shut.

"At least give a girl some warning, next time." I instantly chided, shoulder slumping at Bucky sauntered over to me. He was amusedly smiling, teeth on show as her hooked arm arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his chest.

"Sorry." He mumbled, placing a chaste kiss into my hair. "Now go have a shower, you need it." He said, pushing me away and turning me towards the bathroom.

"Hey!" I complained, yelping as I felt his hand connect with my ass as I began to walk away.

[calboniferous]

In Theory

Work 1 in The Pen and the Sword aka. my jedi and academics AU

A stressed post-graduate anthropology researcher from Coruscant University enters the Jedi Archives for the first time and is promptly taken under the wing of one Master Archivist Jocasta Nu.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32355310

—

Master Jocasta Nu felt the visitor before she saw them. Stress and a frenetic energy radiated through the force tangled with the unique threads of emotion and colour that made up their signature.

Closing the book in front of her with a soft thud, mindful of its frayed edges, she appraised the blue nautolan hurrying towards her. Their worn brown coat was unbuttoned and struggling to stay onto their shoulders, saved by the strap of the bag hanging off one side which the nautolan had one arm wrapped around. Apparently, the bag’s tie had lost the battle against the tide of flimsy and datapads making the simple bag bulge obscenely.

Ah.

A scholar.

Like the many before them, they had come to Master Nu’s beloved archives in hope of finding salvation in its hallowed stacks. With her guidance, they always did and more often than not, they would return again. And again.

However, this scholar was not one that Master Nu had seen before and as they glanced wide-eyed at the towering shelves, shying away from passing Jedi, she surmised that the Jedi archives were unfamiliar to them also.

They reached her desk out of breath.

“I need books on Kante martial arts and history. Do you have books on Kante? If it has historical martial arts then that would be incredible but I’m setting the bar low. Really, the bar is non-existent. Should I even be setting a bar I don’t know- do you know what the Kante are? Were? They’re extinct”

“Young one, breathe.” Master Nu said, lifting her hand to interrupt the rush of words. Her brow softened in sympathy, “How about you start from the beginning and tell me what your thesis is and then we’ll go about finding resources.”

She signalled to one of the Padawans stacking holopads nearby for them to take over monitoring the main desk and led Tema to one of the many sunlit alcoves tucked between the buttresses.

Settling on a cushion across the low table from the sleep deprived nautolan, Master Nu pulled out her well-worn datapad, ready to formulate a list of texts to recommend for this student’s project. She had gathered quite the collection of such lists over the years and took great pride in curating them. Often, she would continue to add to them in her spare time so that when the person they had been made for returned, it was waiting and ready. And, if Master Nu happened to enjoy the thrill of a hunt for obscure references through her own archives every now and again, that was her own business.

Stylus in hand, she was ready to begin.

“You mentioned martial arts?”

“Right. Yes. I’m studying the fighting style of the Kante people which they used to reclaim their lands 7000 years ago after it was conquered in the Chandrillan Divide. The politics of the reclamation itself have been documented to death but there’s kriff all discussing how they actually fought,”

Master Nu hummed sympathetically, listening as a classic university post-graduate research tragedy poured out in all its glory. The purple shadows smeared under Tema’s dark eyes suggested that more than one night had been lost to this.

It was a credit to her Jedi training and skill as an archivist that Master Nu could write notes, elegant script flitting smoothly across the datapad without misspelling a single title or name, while offering comforting hums and interjecting words of encouragement where Tema faltered.

“So now I need to piece it together myself in order to build a theory on how the Kante people approached battlefield strategy,” Tema finished, fidgeting with their bag strap.

Setting her stylus down, Master Nu surveyed the drafted list with a critical eye. It was a daunting selection. She weighed the situation in her mind and carefully turned the datapad off, placing it down with a muted click of metal on the polished stone table.

“That’s quite the task you’ve got” Master Nu said, “more than an Honours project scope covers.”

She loathed to discourage any scholar but there were limits to the workload that could be shouldered and she had a strict honesty policy. With all her Jedi compassion and experience ad Head Archivist, Master Nu knew how to recognise when a student needed guidance in whittling down their research focus to a reasonable magnitude.

“I know,” Tema sighed, shoulders sagging, “I know but my project topic has already been approved by my supervisor.”

“Dear, your project as it stands is enough to satisfy a PhD and beyond. I can tell you are passionate about it but it’d be a tragedy for you to fail because you tried to complete years’ worth of work in the 10 months you have.”

The blue nautolan wilted a little, head tails curling.

“I don’t see what choice I have. I can’t form a thesis on the merits of Kante strategy without knowing how it worked at the individual level,” they said, resignation colouring their force signature grey with worry.

Master Nu paused, and after a moment spoke.

“Have you considered centring your project on the martial arts itself? At the individual level, as you say. Leaving the rest aside to focus on that should technically be within your project topic.”

Tema blinked, “That’s…that would work. Yes.”

Master Nu watched as they turned the idea over, considering how to approach it.

“Yes. That would make it more of a research-and-reconstruction project. A literature review with practical application.”

They gave a wry smile, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

Some of the frazzled emotion of their presence eased and a few threads of humour sparked in its wake.

“I could have saved myself from being sick from worry in the University ‘freshers yesterday.”

They flushed a little darker at that admission and Master Nu suppressed what would have been a rather unprofessional snort of amusement as she clicked the datapad back on. Ah, younglings. They never changed.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. That amount of stress isn’t conducive to clarity of mind, I’d wager,” Master Nu soothed, deleting a few items from the list with a satisfied air, “You’re hardly the first person’s I’ve known to have an adverse reaction to academic stress. Now, I do believe this list is ready.”

Rising with more grace than her age suggested she was capable of, she smoothed the creases in her cream and straw-gold robes and led the way into the maze of columns and shelves. Tema followed a step behind in a manner that to any observers bore remarkable resemblance to a duckling following its mother – if ducklings were six-and-a-half feet tall, that is.

“Somehow I find it hard to imagine a Jedi getting sick from assignments,” they mused absentmindedly, tipping their head to catch some of the book titles they passed, “all this information – it’d be hard to fail.”

Master Nu chuckled at that, passing through an archway into a side corridor.

“I’m afraid it can happen to anyone. One of my agemates routinely emptied his stomach at the prospect of examinations – that one, in fact,” she said, gesturing to one of the bronze busts lining the hall. The metallic features gave the human man depicted a severe expression. In Master Nu’s opinion, it was rather true to life even if the beard was far to neatly sculpted.

“The poor man. Perfection was as much his vice as his virtue.”

She smiled fondly, crows’ feet crinkling with nostalgia at sharing this particular story – at sharing the humanity of someone so proud and distant both in life and artistic rendition.

Tema faltered and the markings on their head tails blanched light blue.

“Oh, uh, my condolences.”

“Hmm?” Master Nu turned to them, “Oh no, he’s not dead. He’s retired.”

“Oh,”

They blinked, nonplussed.

“This way, dear”

The pair continued on their winding path. Master Nu, frequently gesturing to some architectural feature or other with her datapad, began to explain how the Jedi Archival system worked, pausing every now and then to pull a tome from the shelves.

“It is what many have described as ‘archaic’,” she said, stepping deftly onto the fourth rung of a sliding ladder attached to one of the shelves to reach her next target, “but no one—and I mean no one—has said it is an ineffective system.

“At least not in my earshot,” she said with a laugh, pulling the volume from its place and passing it down to Tema. The rumours the initiates (and fully-grown Knights) liked to spread about Master Nu’s draconian defence of the archives may not be entirely accurate but were taken by most as a warning to avoid slandering the archive in her presence. She knew Tholme liked to stir the pot and recount tales of her lightsabre prowess to the initiates, no matter that the stories were thirty years out-of-date.

“That being said, it can take some getting used to. The Padawans and Knight Archivists are always around and willing to retrieve sources for our visitors.”

Master Nu dismounted from the ladder, blew dust from her sleeve, and turned a critical eye on to the stack of books and datapads in Tema’s arms that had been steadily growing in size. The scholar looked strong enough to take a couple more, taking into account that their bulging bag would not fit anything more inside.

“That’s the last one from this aisle.”

She clicked her tongue and marked a check on her list next to the sources they were borrowing. They were all copies, of course, or volumes easily enough to source a replacement that their loss wouldn’t be abhorrent. Nonetheless, clean records made maintaining the collection less stressful on her soul.

On that note, Master Nu was pleased to feel that Tema was no longer pouring stress into the force like an anxious firehose. And—

She stilled, tilting her head as a familiar presence tickled the edges of her senses.

“Master Nu?” Tema asked, noticing her change in manner.

“Nothing to worry about,”

She once again took the lead. Down the aisle, then one aisle to the left and as they rounded the corner Master Nu smiled at the sight before her.

A little blue and beige figure was hunched over a book resting on the floor, absentmindedly gnawing on her Padawan silka beads and completely oblivious to the world around her.

“Padawan Secura! Why am I not surprised?” Master Nu called lightly and the twi’lek girl jerked, breaking from her literature-induced reverie to scramble to her feet.

“I’m not skipping sabre class again. I swear!”

Had it been any other Padawan of Aayla’s age group, Master Nu would think that emphatic declaration of innocence meant the Padawan in question was skipping class. Skywalker came to mind as a repeat offender of that variety.

Only question was that Junior Padawan sabre classes were always on Taungsday afternoons—this afternoon—and had been since before Master Nu was a crecheling. She hummed, unconvinced.

“Knight Kenobi is doing catch-up lessons this week and he said my forms were good enough to skip.”

That explained it. It seemed only yesterday that he’d been roaming the archives as a padawan himself, tearing through histories of the planets he’d visited at Qui-Gon’s side with single-minded focus. Shame that his lineage had picked him up before her own could. He would have made a fantastic archivist despite his record of being convinced to scale the bookshelves whenever Vos got temple fever.

Well, at least Aayla’s fencing education was in good hands.

Master Nu beamed at Aayla, “Then good work padawan and, as you are free, would you like to join us in gathering sources for Scholar Induri here?”

Aayla brightened, “Absolutely!”

And then, remembering her diplomacy training, bowed to Tema, setting her Padawan beads swinging. “Nice you meet you, Scholar.”

She scooped up the book she had been reading and as she put it back in its slot, Master Nu glimpsed the title.

“Reading Bastilla Shan again are we Padawan?”

The padawan blushed, fiddled with her tunic and handily dodged the teasing with a question of her own, “What are we looking for, Master?”

“See for yourself, young one,” Master Nu passed over the datapad, pointing to the highlighted entries.

Aayla squinted at the handwriting for a second before passing the pad back and running away down the aisle, one hand skimming the shelf labels. Padawans were lovely to have around and, watching Aayla slide 4 meters down a ladder and return to them with a grin plastered across her face, Master Nu wondered if she should take another student. Or, better yet, invite her former Padawans around for tea to see if more Grandpadawans would be joining the lineage soon.

“Thank you, dear,” she gave Aayla a pat on the head, “I’ll leave you to your reading. Just don’t forget to remind your Master that he needs to renew the materials he borrowed last month.”

Then, she turned to Tema who hadn’t made so much as a peep the past five minutes, seemingly satisfied to observe the interaction.

“Let’s get these checked out so you can get to reading them.”

Back to the main desk, the archivist and scholar wandered, and a minute later there was a new name entered into the borrowing database.

“Again, thank you for everything, Master Nu” Tema said, gathering the stack back into their arms. They were a little overwhelmed but they were smiling.

“Dear, it’s no trouble. One last thing, are you planning on enlisting someone practised in martial forms in your project? Or were you aiming for a more theoretical illustration of your findings?”

Tema cast their eyes to one side and shifted their weight.

“Ideally, yes, but I have no idea where to find someone like that so…theoretical?”

They trailed off.

“Good. I’m free to ask around here, then,” Master Nu said, tugging Tema’s bag strap so it was in less immediate danger of falling of their shoulder.

“If you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to send me a message or drop by. My archive is always open,”

At that, she tucked a slip of flimsy with her com code underneath the top datapad in the stack and gave Tema a parting pat on the cheek. With hope in their step, the scholar passed back out the archive doors, into the sunlight of the hall beyond.

Content, Master Nu smiled and watched them go.

“Now,” she mused to herself, opening the roster of temple-bound jedi and beginning to peruse the list, “who to ask…”

Her thoughts turned to the bronze bust of a man whose devotion to esoteric research was only outmatched by his skill with a blade.

His legacy…

Her eyes caught on a name. Yes, that would do very nicely indeed.

In the interest of vetting the source she intended to recommend, Master Nu made a mental note to attend next week’s exhibition tournament.

[gumnut-logic]

Who do you save, John? (Bit 10c + The End)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5a | Bit 5b | Bit 6 | Bit 7 | Bit 8 | Bit 9 | Bit 10a | Bit 10b  | Bit 10c

Always end up rushed. Didn’t have a chance to edit the end so I’m likely to be swearing at it later. Sorry for the delay, muse crashed and burned on Friday. here’s hoping I’ve resuscitated it. 17,000 words. So much for the under 10K I estimated. Typical.

For @5hadow-alpha​​​  cos they wanted Shopping and a Tracy brother. They got more than one, and I got more than I expected.

-o-o-o-

The next time Alan woke, the room was full of golden family.

The sun was setting through the window, lighting up the room in shades of gold. His brothers were lit up as they clustered around Virgil’s bed.

They didn’t notice Alan, and it gave him the opportunity to both wake up fully and observe his family undetected.

He was feeling much better. His head was a lot clearer and he was calmer.

The reason why no one noticed his wakefulness was because Virgil was already awake.

His brother was smiling and poking fun at a sunlit Gordon near the end of his bed. Gordon appeared to be enjoying it. When the attention drifted away from him and whether or not he was allowed to film Virgil on drugs, the expression on his fish brother’s face was one of fondness and hope. His eyes barely left the prone man.

That fact could have been annoying from a little brother’s perspective, but Alan found himself doing the same thing.

Virgil, who had literally died in his arms, was supported by his bed, sitting up at an angle and talking quite animatedly. There was a healthy flush to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before.

John was standing calmly on the other side of the bed, the setting sun catching his hair from behind as it darted through the hospital window.

John had a habit of striking such a pose. It was unclear if he did it on purpose or was completely unaware of his surroundings in those moments.

Virgil had photographed him on multiple occasions for that exact reason, much to the astronaut’s annoyance.

Grandma stood beside him; her arms wrapped around his. That was an unusual sight. But then they had almost lost a brother and the threat had been to John.

That thought led into unpleasant directions so he brought it to a halt.

He could only see Scott’s back, but his brother was gesticulating, making a point about digging up Gordon’s baby videos and broadcasting them to the world if he didn’t behave.

As if Scott would ever do something like that.

Though, come to think of it, the threat at least wasn’t a bad idea. Alan had much less a solid reputation than Scott and could probably carry the threat enough to get some good ones out of his brother.

“How did you know it was a fake detonator?” John’s voice cut across the conversation, his expression puzzled. The question came out of the blue, ever a sign that John’s mind worked on more than one track at a time.

Virgil blinked up at him. “I…I didn’t at first. It was a good replica of a T-325. But I noticed he was holding his hand strangely. The T-325 has a trigger rest here.” His brother held up a hand as if to sketch out the design in the air, only wince and withdraw the gesture.

Grandma frowned at him from the other side of the bed.

“Long story short…if you waved a T-325 around as much as he did, with that grip, chances are we would have blown up long before he had started his second rant. That one is a touchy model.” Virgil shifted awkwardly and Scott laid a hand on his arm.

“Well, I’m glad we had our expert on hand.”

Scott’s smile was reflected in Virgil’s eyes.

“Oh, ho, ho, look who’s awake!”

Trust Gordon to dob him in.

Suddenly all the eyes in the room were on Alan. His father and eldest brother spun, both faces lighting up when they realised Alan was awake.

Alan couldn’t help but grin back. “Hey.” His voice caught and he coughed.

Talk about ruining a moment. Scott was on him immediately, his dad not far behind.

“How are you feeling, Alan?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m good.” He reached out his uninjured arm and nudged his worried brother aside gently. “Virgil?”

Soft brown eyes caught his and his big brother smiled. “Hey, Allie.”

A hand landed on Alan’s leg and he looked up to find a pair of grey eyes peering down at him. Alan frowned. “Dad, you should sit down.”

“I’m fine, Allie. Are you comfortable?”

An arched eyebrow. “I’m good, honest.” And he was. There was definitely still something in his system. It was keeping him quite happy. Too much movement probably wasn’t on the cards yet, but to be honest, the sight of Virgil smiling at him was enough endorphins to keep him going for weeks.

He turned back to Virgil and soaked it in.

The smile turned to a grin and Alan flushed in embarrassment.

But those brown eyes were reassurance itself.

“Hmm, did you two want to be alone?”

“Shut up, Gordon.” It was sharp, but no less reassuring that Virgil could spin the familiar phrase off so easily.

Alan laughed. “Good to see you, Virg.”

Again with the smile. “Likewise.” Those eyes turned inwards for a second before fixating on him. “And thank you.”

The line ‘just doing my job’ climbed onto his lips, but he vetoed it. “Always, bro.”

The room was embarrassingly silent after that and the moment broke.

“Dad, I would rather you sat down.” Virgil was definitely feeling better.

“I can look after myself, son.” It was firm and a touch threatening if Virgil chose to push the point.

But his father took a seat.

Alan shifted position and his arm twinged. He must have shown it on his face, because Scott reached out and touched his shoulder. He looked up to find worried blue eyes staring down at him.

Apparently, he needed to repeat himself. “I’m okay, Scott.”

His brother grunted before letting go, grabbing his plastic chair and dumping himself in it.

The room fell silent.

Turquoise hit him from across the room as the sun dipped behind a cloud and the room chilled.

“So, who was that guy?” Anything to get the conversation moving.

For a second, he regretted the topic as Scott’s lips thinned, but he had to know and clearing the air wouldn’t hurt, would it?

It was John who answered, though. “Timothy was a rescue we were unable to attend. Eos pulled the records and what he said was true. He lost his family. Any other day and we would have been there, but the Tsunami Disaster had all our attention.” A pause. “I am sorry.”

Scott started at that. “Hey, it was not your fault.”

A copper eyebrow arched. “Really? Do you want me to list exactly where our forces were deployed at that moment? It was Day Three. Scott was en route to Tracy Island for refueling, Virgil, you were asleep. Gordon had dragged you to the bunk on Two. He had threatened to tie you down. You were all down for the count. His call was one of twenty-three we couldn’t respond to on that particular day.”

“Johnny-“ Gordon held out a hand.

It was almost snapped off. “Don’t call me Johnny.”

“John.” Their father’s voice managed to be both warning and worried at the same time.”

His astronaut brother didn’t back down. “This isn’t out of the ordinary. It happens every day. It is happening now. People are dying because we are not there.”

“We can’t save everyone.” His father’s voice was firm.

“I know that, Dad.” John’s expression was exasperation itself. “It doesn’t make it any easier.”

Silence fell again and all Alan could think of was how this whole thing had been aimed at John and how it had obviously reached its target despite Timothy not succeeding in his plan.

Something was burning in his brother. He could see it from here. John was tense and agitated.

It was likely the drugs, but Alan just wanted to climb out of bed and hug him.

“Well now, I think, you could all do with something to eat.” Grandma squeezed John’s arm and he looked down at her as if snapped from a dream. “Don’t look at me like that, young man. I know you haven’t been eating.”

“What?” Scott sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing in on his brother. “John?”

The astronaut rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” And Grandma was nudging him towards the door.

His father stood up and followed.

Scott eyed Alan a moment, but stayed seated.

As their grandmother and father herded John out the door, Gordon took the opportunity to steal the chair beside Scott.

“Is John okay?” The words fell from Alan’s mouth before he could think twice.

Scott sighed. “He will be.” There was a silent ‘I hope’ after that.

“Eh, he’s just pissed Eos got found out.”

Alan blinked. “What?”

“Gordon!”

“Just trying to lighten the atmosphere. Cool it, bro.”

Alan frowned. “What?”

“Eos electrocuted a guard with his own comms circuit.” Gordon was smirking.

“What? How?”

“Upped the signal power enough to arc through his baldric.”

Alan stared at his brother. “She hurt him?” He turned to Scott. “She can do that?” To us?

“Don’t worry, it is not happening again.”

“He deserved it.” Gordon snarled the words. “Betraying us for money. He’s lucky it was Eos and not Kayo.”

Scott tilted his head. “Kayo hasn’t finished with him yet.”

Alan’s eyes were bugging out. “Who? And why?”

Scott sighed just a little. “The guard outside the dressing room was an accomplice.”

“One of our own?”

“Yes.” That single word said so much. Kayo wasn’t the only person angry at such a betrayal. No doubt whoever it was would have to face the Commander at some point.

Alan had faced an angry Scott before. Not an experience for the faint hearted.

“And Eos was able to electrocute him with his comms?”

“Brains is working on it as we speak. It won’t happen again.”

Scott would never be entirely comfortable with Eos. Alan had to admit he had a few issues of his own having had to scoop up his astronaut brother as he lay dying in space, because of her.

A hand landed on his. “It won’t happen again.”

Alan swallowed. “Good.”

“Well, we’re lucky it happened this once. John found traces of an alien computer program in the z band network. Brains is having conniptions. This one security breach could have destroyed everything.”

“But it didn’t.” Virgil’s voice was quiet, but strong enough to stop the conversation. “We’re all safe. It’s over.” Brown eyes flickered in his direction.

The same brown eyes that had closed on Alan as his brother died in his arms.

Anger flared up. “So, this security breach let Timothy do what he wanted and Virgil died because of it.” Three pairs of eyes widened at Alan’s sharp tone. “How did this happen? How did he get past all our security checks? Kayo is pedantic to the point that I sometime wonder if I’ll be allowed access to anything. How did we not know?”

“Allie, it’s okay.” Again, Virgil’s voice was soft. “We’ll fix it.”

“You died, Virgil!”

“No, I didn’t.” Those eyes blinked slowly.

“You did!”

“Alan!”

And he found himself breathing fast and hard. Scott was holding him down. Gordon had a hand on his leg.

“Calm down, Allie.” Intense blue eyes caught his. “Virgil is safe. You are safe. We will fix this.”

Alan stared up at his big brother, soaking in the reassurance Scott was broadcasting. A deeper breath and he willed his heart rate to slow. He swallowed and managed the briefest of nods.

“The guy had money and resources. Kayo will, no doubt, rake our entire security force over hot coals. We will learn from this experience and it will not happen again.”

“It should not have happened in the first place.” Alan found his voice cold and as Scott flinched, he knew it had hit home.

“Allie…” Virgil looked half asleep and Alan realised that he probably was. “We’ll fix this.”

Alan pressed his lips together and glanced between all three of his brothers before once again fixating on Scott.

“We better.”

-o-o-o-

Jeff dragged John out of the hospital room with the full intention of cornering him. The fact his mother came with them was only an inconvenience.

“Mom, could you run ahead and dig up some menus from the cafeteria and perhaps let the nurses station know that the boys are awake?”

His mother eyed him and arched a silver eyebrow. “Certainly.” A flick of that gaze at his son before she turned and walked off.

No doubt he would be paying for that one later.

But first he wanted to speak to John.

“Walk with me?”

The astronaut frowned at him, but nodded once.

Jeff cursed being so slow, but he led his son down to the hospital garden. Security made itself known as Iz appeared from nowhere and he caught a glimpse of Leone not far off. Kayo was laying it on thick, but he couldn’t blame her.

The garden was a small one and this late in the day, quite dark and empty. Most patients had been hustled off to bed and their visitors went with them.

If Iz was seen to lock the door behind them and secure the green patch for them alone, Jeff wasn’t going to argue, just this once.

He found a bench under a large shrub that gave them some privacy and ushered John to sit down beside him as he lowered himself on to the seat.

“Dad, I’m okay.”

“That seems to be a theme in this family even when it is a blatant lie.”

That shut his boy up for a moment.

Jeff sighed. “John, when I sent you up there, I knew it was going to be hard. I am sorry.”

“No, Dad. I knew what I was getting into. This is not your fault.”

“Isn’t it? Aren’t I hailed the creator of International Rescue?” He tried hard to catch those turquoise eyes, but John refused to look at him.“Pfft. The media. What do they know?”

That got a reaction. Copper eyebrows arched and his son looked up. Jeff took every advantage.

“I may have taken the first steps, but it is you boys who have kept it all going. Lived it. You’ve lived it for ten years. That is four times as long as I have and, trust me, I have guilt for those numbers.”

“Dad-“

He held up a hand. “No. This is where you listen, John.”

Something flashed in those eyes and Jeff’s lips twisted in response. “I set you boys on this path and you have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. You have made both your mother and I ever so proud.”

John just stared at him, eyes a little wide.

“But there has been a cost. You carry scars that have me questioning every decision I ever made.” He swallowed, all of it suddenly threatening to overwhelm. He shifted in his seat. “John, I know you sit up there day in and day out with lives in your hands. I can see that every life lost has as much effect on you as it does your brothers and often even more so because you see more of them.”

Jeff paused and tilted his head. “What’s the average number?”

John blinked. “Excuse me?”

“How many lives are lost per day because we can’t respond?”

There was a flicker of the professional emergency responder and his son’s face fell calm. “Ten to fifteen. It varies. The number includes rescues that fail due to local authorities incapability, situations that become more severe than predicted on initial assessment and situations we can not attend simply because we do not have the resources.”

“And what do you tell these callers?”

“What I can.” John’s voice grew quiet. “We do our best, Dad.”

Little more than breath. “Exactly.” He held his son’s eyes and couldn’t help but see the young man he had once been during that cyclone all those years ago. That same youth and concern. That care for those he couldn’t help.

“What’s the average daily rescue count?”

John blinked. “Uh, it varies between ten and several hundred.”

It was Jeff’s turn to blink. “That many?”

John shrugged. “Well, the statistics were blown during the asteroid crisis with Fischler and the aurora generator was full of hypotheticals.” His son was frowning, his hands expressive.

Jeff grabbed them.

“If you had a choice, all over again, as to whether you would take this path or another, what would you choose?”

The frown he received was castigating. “Dad, that’s asking the ridiculous.”

“No, who do you save, John? Them or yourself.”

“That’s a stupid question. Of course, I, we, choose to save everyone we can. We do it every day, Dad.” His son looked offended.

“Even despite the cost?”

“Of course.” The offense turned to an expression questioning Jeff’s sanity.

“Why?”

“Because it is worth it, Dad. When someone calls for help, they have to know there is someone out there who will answer. That’s what I do, Dad. I’m The Voice Who Answers.”

Jeff couldn’t help but smile. His boys made him so proud. Worried, yes, but so, so proud. His own words from so many years ago, echoed back at him by the very son who enacted them on a daily basis. The son who sacrificed so much to be up there, apart from his family, apart from the world, just so he could do exactly that.

The Voice Who Answers didn’t even consider the question, a question.

Who do you save?

Everyone you can.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[deanirae]

Can you get it inside your head I’m tired of dancing?  

post 8.07 pre 8.08] crack/angst past turned unrequited deancas, implied deanbenny 2,4k [x]

The sun, also currently known as bitch, has got some serious nerve to sit where it always does, not upside down and nine miles to the left as it frankly should on this memorable fuckhat day. Where is the End of Days when it's really called for? When it should be really nigh?

Dean flips the front mirror panel down not to have to deal with at least that one disappointment. He can still see Cas's half-constipated, half-abandoned and kicked in its fluffy ass puppy face in the mercilessly annoying reflection. The obvious choice would be to not grace it with anything right now, but A – he's the one driving so his eyes can't wander off pretty far, especially in the barely sunlit grayness – and B – on his left, Sam is currently roleplaying a twelve year old girl that has her big emotional introspection accompanied by listening to Sarah McLahlan because her mean parents wouldn't let her buy ebola from the internet. Or something.

Point is, he's three hours into ostentatiously moping, trying to quietly terrorize Dean into making peace with Cas on the fly so it won't be awkward and problematique for him anymore. To Sam, Dean is just too inconvenient anytime he's inconvenient. And that, by order of nature herself, demands immediate and final stopping and ballot recounting also.

And Dean's point is, that it's not gonna happen anytime soon.

And Cas's point – assuming he’s still remotely capable of making those –  seems to be dead-set on that 50:50 face thing. And Dean regrets briefly glancing; with more or less the same intensity he regrets his whole life on the crap weather days his bones hurt harder than it should be legal.

Sam, in his hemhorroidal disturbance, reaches out to the tape deck and attempts to put anything on, but Dean feels like exactly zero of his tapes right now, so he swats Sam's hand off with a loud smack. Judging from the faces he gets for that, it's gotta be resonating in their heads a lot.

It's gonna be a long ride to Lousiana, way longer and more exhausting than the freshly puked from Purgatory one. In fact, the closer they get to Lafayette, the more tired he is and they won't start working the vetalas case until tomorrow night because apparently hanging around clubs on fridays is the new hanging downside of trees or whatever cool thing it was vetalas were doing before the rise of the all you can eat buffet of horny dicks certain they're gonna get reverse cowgirls for a two dollar drink. Or reverse cowboys. Fucking cheapskates. Some of them do have it coming. But in severe STDs, not in this.

In itself, waiting for the actual hunt really doesn't need to be a problem. It's just that Sam and Cas are fucked-bent on having it be one because—

“I said I'm going to stay with you and join you on hunts,” Cas finally snaps. „There's no need for this 'backup' as you call it, Dean.”

—Because that.

“Don't air quote it, man,” Dean mutters wearily, because of course Cas air quoted it.

“And there is absolutely no need for you to sleep in a vampire's camping truck when we have plenty of motels to pick from,” Cas rants on, zero deterred and plus ten determined, clearly not tuning into Dean's I don't wanna discuss that vibe.

Annnd because that too, yeah.

“Well I donno, I sure didn't want us to look like some sort of a hookup site for salvation army fashionistas threesome. You'll thank me later. Or you can do it now and shut up when you're done, how's that.”

“A vampire,” Sam interrupts his polished bitchface just to whine it out, which has to be peak brotherly care by his modern standards.

“You two asshats had no problem leaving me in vamp-vegas for a goddamn year,” Dean growls. “I am an adult adult and I need some me-time that isn't you time. And I'm gonna have awesome time while I'm at it. Sue me if that's a crime. Bother my lawyer.”

“You don’t have a lawyer”, says Sam.

“Aren’t you kind of a lawyer?” Dean remembers suddenly. “Or at least close enough for you two to bother each other and not me?”

“No, didn’t get to get there yet, thanks to you,” Sam mutters, also suddenly remembering the past life of his that was never meant to be.

“Oh, I’m sorry”, Dean whines. “Did I set your girlfriend on fire?”

“Fuck off.”

“I thought you missed me,” as if triggered by the word fuck, Cas drops the bomb with an evenness in his voice which hints at many things but Dean's brain is too stop-record screech to dissect them right now.

“What?” he blurts out, confused and affronted both.

“I thought you missed me,” Cas repeats, lower and harder like Dean's a stupid cat that won't spit out what it's chewing.

“Cas, I really don't wanna do this.”

“You kept praying to me to come back, Dean. After you were out of Purgatory. I heard you. Those were quite some prayers. Now you're putting yourself in real danger just to stay away from me. I don’t understand.”

Sam just stares at Dean, the always most helpful thing on the planet that he is. Thanks, Sam. Dean stares at the road. Cas stares daggers through the back of Dean's head. Poor Baby can't just leave this situation so she just keeps on rollin’. Nobody wins that day.

“That was before you told me you were lying your ass off just to kick me out last minute. Your subscription for my prayers and personal Jesus license have now expired, by the way. Like, the fuck does talking to you even do?”

“Fine!” Castiel snaps, so close to throwing his hands in the air for a grand effect but luckily thinking better of it since he's in a car that has a roof among other things. “I understand that you're angry—” he tries to start over, calmer, after a self-collecting breath.

“No, you don't,” Dean mutters.

“But you can't risk your life in the stupidest available way just to get back at me, Dean. Not after everything I've done to make sure you come back safe.”

Well at least he didn't include Sam in that „saving” part.

“You were there, man. You know Benny never double crossed me or you. What the exact fuck is your problem with him?”

A very angry squint-frown precedes the actual answer.

“You were his ticket to Earth. Now your life doesn't hold the same value.”

“Thanks, Cas. That's really swee—”

“You know that's not what I meant, Dean,” Cas growls in a tone that's clearly a final warning.

So final even Sam and his high horse must have heard since he steps in to defuse Cas.

“Cas, I'm not a fan of saying it, but Benny isn't a threat to Dean. I think the guy is kinda trying to settle,” he offers.

Dean smiles a little bit.

“See, Cas?”

“But I'm worried he might have more vamps trying to take him down because he pissed off every fang that ever knew him and then some. This is actual danger, Dean.”

“What?!” Castiel explodes in unbridled rage.

“Sam, have you ever wondered where do snitches go after they die?”

“Dean, you know I'm serious.”

“Ditches,” Dean concludes.

“When exactly were you going to tell me this?” Castiel asks coldly. “After you get killed by vampire avengers?”

“They're all taken care of, Cas. No mean jokes this time. Relax.”

“With your Winchester luck? I doubt it.”

“Oh, come on. It's not like you wouldn't bring me back even if something did happen.”

“Yes, even twice because first I would have personally destroyed you for being so reckless.”

“I know you would.”

“Guys,” Sam tries to placate, “we should all calm down and rethink how to handle it safely. It's not a good time for some jilted lovers tiff”, he begs.

Dean frowns then makes mocking faces at him to communicate that he's being a fucking douche.

“You're a fucking jilted lovers tiff,” he decides.

“We had sex, Dean,” Castiel states accusatorily.

Little does he know, he just broke Sam beyond repair. Now that the cat is out of the bag, the only thing Dean can do is to straighten some things out.

“Once,” he says, raising a finger to accentuate his point. “Cas was sure we were gonna die in the morning. We didn't, but there never was a follow up on that, so,” Dean shrugs.

“You weren't interested.”

“Says you,” Dean huffs. “I’m sorry, do you know me? Being interested in sex is in my top five pasttimes. You behaved like a brick on the other hand and I don’t know how to read concrete.”

“I don’t want to be here, good fucking God,” Sam finally yelps after a successful reboot of his brain.

Dean’s pretty sure nobody wants to be in this car right now and the only goddamn thing that could potentially make him ‘special’ right now is the fact currently Sam’s probably the only person in the Impala who has not lain his mouth on Cas’s dick. Hopefully.

Funnily enough, Cas could easily poof out without lethal injuries, but he’s dead set on staying, judging from the frown on his face that looks like a stock market crash diagram.

“I didn’t exactly see you giving me any signs.”

And set on having this conversation.

“I’m not a cat, I don’t go into heats, Cas. Can we talk about it somewhere more private? Later? Cuz everybody here wants to fucking die right now.”

“Private?” Cas asks. “If you want privacy to talk then why do you refuse to book a room with me?”

“We don’t need to share a room to have a conversation. Unless what you want it to end with is getting back on track with that last night on Earth thing we had that one time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam cries.

“Grow up and stow your crap, Sam,” Cas says unexpectedly before Dean could even bother to serve anything in a similar note.

Dean is so thrown off his equilibrium by that he puts the car to an abrupt halt. Only because he’s too deeply wired to not crash the Impala into the first available so he won’t accidentally kill Sam.

That is, if Cas’s words haven’t obliterated him already. He glances at him, just in case. Speechless as holily commanded by the celestial – potentially horny – wrath from the back seat, but at least he’s still breathing.

“Um,” he says, because someone’s gotta, because he’s still the big brother in this demented equation. “Cas, what the fuck was that?”

“Should you, of all people, really need me to be this blunt – now that the worst affairs have been settled, we could pick up where we left off, and hopefully reach a mutual understanding regarding the nature of our relationship so that doubt no longer hinders you. If it’s still something that interests you, of course. Would that be clear and direct enough, Dean?”

Well, that was… long? Long enough citations are probably needed, but, uh, yeah. S’ gotta be addressed immediately or else.

“Cas, that was 2010 and we have 2012 now.”

“It was 2012 when you prayed to me in Purgatory and it was 2012 four days ago. Granted, your feelings towards me might be very complicated, but I still can sense and read your longing,” Cas says with a weary sigh.

“Stop smelling my longing,” Dean responds with a wearier one. “And I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“But I should explain myself to you.”

“I’m real fed up with your explanations, you know that? And we don’t got time for that, either. We need to get to Lafayette because we got a case waiting to get solved.”

“It’s because he’s waiting there for you, isn’t it,” Cas says sadly; not a question. A statement.

Dean doesn’t need to respond. Doesn’t feel like it, too.

Yeah. It’s good to actually have someone waiting for you; someone there.

Maybe it’s not that complicated, after all. Maybe it doesn’t have to be.

Dean starts the car. He’s got a place to go to.

The sound apparently wakes Sam from his stupor. His bright idea of the day, he turns the radio on before the awkward silence can make the universe inside of the Impala collapse on itself and on all three of them. Too late for Dean to react now; might as well get a load of the weather report.

In the back seat, Cas flicks his wrist subtly and the monotone voice sharply cuts off into static for a moment and the frequency bar moves elsewhere on its’ – or rather, Cas’s – own.  Some solitary synthesiser-made sounds drop one after another like tiny steps and Dean realizes he definitely has heard this song before at some point in his life as eighties one hit wonders ain’t no strangers to him. Oh well. Might as well not get any of the wea—

Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love… Can you hear me?

Is he fucking kidding?!

Came back only yesterday, I’m moving farther away.... Want you near me…

“Are you fucking kidding?” Dean cries out, incredulous.

Tries to turn the radio off but it just won’t die.

All I needed was the love you gave— “You want melodramatic? I’ll give you melodramatic.” —All I needed for another day — Dean reaches out for his phone and starts typing angrily — and all I ever knew, only you.

He puts on good ol’ Fish and hopes it’s gonna be louder than Cas’s synth-pop loving. And starts driving towards where he wants to be cause he’s tired of dancing.

[kelthier]

Of Ledgers and Limbs

Kelthier groaned as he stretched his left arm across his chest, hugging his elbow toward him with the crook of his right arm. He breathed deeply into the knot that had been tightening in his shoulder while he toiled away. The bead of sweat accumulating at the edge of his hairline finally gave way to slide down his temple when he released his arms to fall by his sides. He almost howled the relieving sigh that escaped him as he relaxed his posture. The disheveled druid peered up at the four corners of his repair project with a glint of pride in his eyes and a tug of joy at his lips. 

All week he had been at it, working away at repairs and improvements to the greenhouse afforded him by Lady Duskbinder’s bestowing the Grounds Master’s home under his name. A tentative gift, he couldn’t help but think due to the quickness in which it was presented to him. Though it wasn’t quite a gift as much as a transaction, for the dwelling so suited to Kelthier’s lifestyle came hand in hand with the responsibility and title of Grounds Master of the Lost Woods. 

And so it was under that looming expectation he’d set diligently to seeing some improvements made to the otherwise abandoned home he’d been given. Surely if he produced results and showed his earnestness, the arrangement would settle its roots and Kelthier could ease into the relief of having found a stable home. 

In fact, the greenhouse was already abuzz with earnestness as honeybees bumbled to and fro between the diverse flower beds already thriving within the sunlit space. Fresh planks of wood with a shade less weathering could be spotted by the keen eye in the sections Kelthier had made repairs. 

The arched trellis on the far back wall of the greenhouse appeared to be grown naturally in and of itself, made up of thick crisscrossed vines formed into the traditional structure. Climbing its length were three different species of ivy with respective hues of green, teal, and red in their own vertical lanes beside each other. 

My bet is on the teal, Kelthier thought as he ran his fingers gently through the leaves of the central ivy. Cerusani’s violet features came to mind as he glanced between the teal and green options. He pursed his lips curiously. Almost certainly not the red. 

He pivoted on his heel to take hold of the ladder that had been leaning against the rafters above, and he unfastened the latch which allowed it to fall down in quick order to half its length. The druid’s gaze lingered above on the beehive tucked up into those rafters, and his smile widened to a childish degree of excitement. He snickered to himself happily as he lifted the halved ladder on its side and under his arm, making his way out from the greenhouse paradise.

Outside, a certain gloom seemed to dwell in the air, though such was a common trait of Duskwood in which the duchy of Black Rose fell. The sun was out in full shine for the moment, though it wouldn’t be long until a cloud or overcast drifted through to dampen its splendor. Kelthier hummed contentedly to himself as he carried the ladder across the way toward the barn his grounds were adjacent to. He raised his hand into the air with a passing wave as one of the potato farmers in the distant field paused from his work to watch the Grounds Master. Kelthier chose to believe the man dipped his hat in the druid’s direction and not that it was just an idle adjustment while he stared. 

When Kelthier reached the barn, he took a care to announce himself as he peeked in through the door, though it seemed all were out in the fields. His shoulders lightened in the relief of being alone and he set the ladder where he’d found it. Tucked away in a corner of the lofty space was a work bench he’d been told he was welcome to use in tending his duties. Kelthier swung the satchel which hung across his shoulder over onto the wooden table with a thud. He tugged the nearby stool toward him with his foot and took a seat while he rummaged the satchel for his ledger, ink, and quill.

Once he was settled, Kelthier flipped through the first few pages of his ledger which were already considerably filled with notes. Once his title had been bestowed and the directive had come from Cerusani to meet Ms. Foxthorne’s recent accounting request, Kelthier decided his first order of action would be to commune with the surrounding settled lands of the barony of the Lost Woods, and to take notes of his findings. In that dreamwalk, he had paid particular attention to discerning the health and contentedness of the barony’s crops. Chief among them were large swaths of potatoes, carrots, and onions. Nothing glamorous. Very simple. 

Unlike Lady Duskbinder, he trailed in thought away from the pages of his ledger. What was it she said? That she was much more than her reputation. In fact, Kelthier found her rather elegant and careful with her words. Whatever mishaps or faux pas she alluded to in their meeting, he couldn’t fathom were significant enough to outweigh the natural admirable qualities he sensed in her. But there certainly is something else there...

He glanced back down at the mundane ledger accounting the happiness of potatoes and a blank space left to record the current and projected harvest yields. He scanned over the quickly jotted ideas he’d scribbled in the margins. Something... more, his mind insisted as he looked up out of the open window before him and into the dark impasse of the edge of the forest deemed the “Lost Woods”. 

Something more important, more exciting, more… to make of these crops, of Cerusani, of the potentials hiding in the depths of the Lost- his thoughts ceased as his eyes connected with that of a large wolf’s beyond the tree line, glowing amber from within the darkness. Clenched in its jaws was a pallid arm severed cruelly at the shoulder and riddled with clumps of dirt. Kelthier sat frozen in his seat as he watched the creature watching him. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck raised as time stood still. It was a peculiar omen, he thought, made more peculiar by the timing.

“Oh, and don’t worry yourself with any skeletal remains that may find their way onto the grounds,” Lady Duskbinder’s words found their way to his mind, “The wildlife have a habit of bringing their prey to these woods from beyond our borders.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 31

Read on AO3. Part 30 here. Part 32 here.

Summary: The time has come to do what you promised for the Resistance. If only it hadn't taken you so long to get here.

Words: 3700

Warnings: feelings kinda

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I know it's not Friday, but I've been so full of anxiety about this chapter that I just had to get it out!! I'm sorry. I can promise you that next week will absolutely be up on Friday, because I have a feeling it's going to take me all week and maybe more.

I want to say--I really loved the debates/discussion in the comments? I feel so fucking flattered and excited people are having differing opinions on the characters? I love that there's so much conflict evident from the responses? That makes me feel so happy!

I am so truly lucky to have folks like you in my life, I can't say enough how grateful I am how I don't ever take any of it for granted, even if I can't respond to every comment. I love y'all so much, and thank you, please stay safe and healthy. <3

Across the hall, the Knight Templar stood at attention, blank visor of his mask trained on you, as it had been for the past forty-seven and a half minutes. The wooden walls to the Council Chambers loomed to the sky, oak canopies split with skylights, the morning sun cutting stark prisms into the hardwood floors. The only break in the dust-mote silence was the rumble of privileged discussion vibrating through your back.

Given the presence of Kylo Ren, you’d somehow expected to avoid the sting of exclusion. But even the influence of the Lead Commander was not enough to justify the attendance of a woman--and especially a Handmaid--during a Council meeting. Yet, you supposed you were thankful. The near two-week’s worth of blizzard-conditions between you and your Commander had frozen any willingness to play advisor to an arctic relic. Part of you felt confident that if you’d refused, he would’ve let you off the hook, but another part wasn’t willing to see how far you could push your absence of legal rights.

Shuffling, muffled voices rising--and the doors to the Chambers opened, a menagerie of black suits filtering into the hall. You studied your shoes, the arrival of so many power-wielding men binding your ribcage, curling your toes. Even with the Templar on guard, in the swarm of Commanders, your safety dangled by unraveling thread; you could feel their eyes wandering over you like steer wandered the plains--lazy and lingering and gluttonous.

Reluctant relief trickled through you when you caught Kylo’s boots in your periphery, his footsteps scattering their stares, scaring their own feet into the halls. Another person crossed around him.

“It was a little tense in there, wouldn’t you say?”

You recognized this man’s voice--he was the silver-haired one from the party.

“I anticipated discomfort.”

The man laughed. “Oh, well, of course you did, Ren! You’ve always been very ahead of the game, that way.” He stepped closer, inviting confidence--now his voice was a murmur. “Now, I’m not saying this, as you know. But I’ve heard others… express their concerns.”

“Concerns.”

“That Gilead’s roles were created for a reason.”

Kylo spoke flatly--he didn’t care if you heard him. “Roles exist to serve specific purposes, Enric. Should a purpose arise, then it follows that a role is created to serve it.”

“The only problem is…” Enric’s voice was mollifying, as if he were telling Kylo something he didn’t already know. “We don’t create roles. God creates them. He decided your purpose just as He decided hers.” There was a pause. You saw your Commander’s foot shift. “Other Council members--not me, of course--aren’t taking as kindly to your philosophy as I am.”

“My philosophy.”

“What you’ve done with your Handmaid. And continue to do, too. Some of them are… not very happy. They consider it…” He cleared his throat, a patronizing acknowledgement of your presence. “Inappropriate.”

Your face burned. Perhaps two weeks ago, you might have agreed. But since you’d kicked Kylo out of your room, he hadn’t so much as laid a finger on you or shared a word greater than a single syllable. His presence was now accompanied by a heavy vow of paralyzing silence--a recognition that the other existed, but only as living memory. This should have brought relief, should have forced your attachment to him to wilt like an unwatered fern, decaying in the graveyard of one thousand other hopes you’d tied to the space he occupied in your mind.

Instead, it had festered, a viney weed, writhing through your veins, its roots puncturing your heart when it dared to beat in his shadow. It was only in his deliberate absence that you could feel the pain of your reality, like he’d been opium, numbing you to the knowledge of anything but him. You ached for him more now than you ever had--you’d tried to sleep, chest cracked open, a torrent of loneliness emptying into the night--and knew that it was for this very reason that you needed to deny him.

After all, when you returned home, you’d be meeting with Rey on your walk. And you’d be handing over the switchblade to the Resistance.

“The Eyes are welcome to an investigation,” Kylo replied. “There are no reading materials or writing implements available. Her suggestions will be provided during a once-weekly meeting which my Wife will attend.”

You swallowed. You hoped you’d be free before that happened.

Enric sighed. “But the dress. Dragging her along with your soldiers.” He paused, humming in thought. “To be honest, even I think she gets special attention.”

Kylo’s tone betrayed an inch of irritation. “And even a dog is provided with a reward for its obedience,” he said. “She is in uniform today and before the Council now to provide proof of my intention.”

“Well, I’m sure the Council will begin to understand. You know how difficult it is for these types to tolerate change. The Cambridge Press decided to capitalize a single letter in First John earlier this year and they lost it.” Enric stepped away, and then doubled back with a pause. “As long as you’re not forgetting her true purpose.”

“No,” Kylo replied. “A Ceremony is scheduled for two days from now.”

Your breath shorted. If the Resistance was wrong about the value of your knife, in two nights you’d lie in Johana’s lap, and Kylo Ren would fuck you as if you didn’t exist. The thought made you dizzy, made your stomach churn.

“There you go,” he said. “As long as you’re doing everything you’re supposed to, you’ll be fine. The Eyes might be snooping around your house, but all you need to do is be prudent.” A laugh. “That shouldn’t be a problem for you, though.”

“No.” Kylo couldn’t have sounded more unimpressed if he had tried.

An expectant silence fell between the two men, and Enric coughed to clear the awkwardness. “In a couple weeks, then.”

“Yes.”

With that, he walked off, footsteps echoing from the wooden halls as he left you, your Commander, and the Knight as the only souls outside of the Council Chambers. A soft exhale escaped Kylo’s nose, and he stepped forward--the weight of his gaze was on you, but you refused to meet it.

“Go,” he said. You assumed he was speaking to the Knight, who moved without another word--what was it like being a warrior turned glorified babysitter? “Come.”

You stood, keeping your eyes to the ground while you followed his lead through the vacant, sunlit corridors of City Hall. This end of the building was decidedly older than the front--it creaked with exhaustion as you navigated its floors, as if it, too, had grown tired of the constant political discourse within its walls. Kylo Ren turned into a staircase, descending with the same pace as his stride--you struggled to keep up with him at this rate, unable to stop yourself from admiring when he reached the bottom and turned the corner into the basement hall.

Since the night at the hotel, he’d abandoned his previous attire of suits, ties and white shirts--he now wore black almost entirely, from his dress shirt to his trousers, which more often than not ended up stuffed into knee-high leather boots. He’d also taken to wearing the coat you’d seen during the Salvaging, its tapered cut somehow making his frame even larger, more imposing than it had been before. The coat in particular was a strange choice during the summer--but you knew why he wore it, keeping others uncertain about what it might or might not conceal.

In the basement, the air grew thin and cold, the halls illuminated now only by dim fluorescent lamps. Kylo stopped at a large wooden door, fishing a key from his pocket and popping the lock. He pushed inside, holding it open for you as you followed him in--he released it, and with a pneumatic whine, it slammed behind you. You squeaked, leaping back, swallowed now in darkness.

You heard the click of the lock--then Kylo’s footsteps on concrete as he crossed the room. A ceiling lamp flickered on, revealing what you could only describe as a records room. Shelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, manila folder files stuffed into them like recycled news. Your lungs stilled looking at them--there were hundreds, thousands of these folders, all labeled with four-digit numbers. Swallowing, you thought of the tattoo at your ankle--1104--and heat rushed your skin.

These were files on Handmaids.

Dread dug into you, head on a swivel as you soaked in the enormity of the identities contained within these piles of paper. Uncountable bodies of women reduced to nothing but a combination of integers in a locked room in the basement of City Hall. Your heart thumped against your sternum. This was not something you were supposed to see.

Kylo meandered along the shelves, searching the tabs, his brow furrowed in focus. You crossed your arms, ignoring the quickening leap of your pulse, thoughts racing. Why had he brought you here? He was supposed to be proving to the Council that your relationship wasn’t inappropriate--and here you were, alone with your Commander in a room almost certainly forbidden to the large majority of Gilead.

“Five-seven-two-four.”

His long fingers plucked the folder from where it was wedged at the bottom shelf and he rose to his full height--the sight still stole your air. Stone-faced, Kylo flopped open the file, cradling it in the crook of his elbow as he flipped to the first page.

“Five-seven-two-four.” He stepped toward you--an involuntary shiver raced up your spine--and tilted it into your line of sight. “Tera Jackson.”

You blinked, looking between him and the text, inching closer to read. It was the facesheet of a dossier on Tera Jackson: birthdate, hometown, education level, allergies, Biblical violation (affair with a married man). You skimmed the document, confused as to why he’d risked both of your skins just to show you a piece of paper. Then you spotted the bottom of the page, three spaces designated to list Commander assignments. The first and only name: Armitage Hux.

“Ofarmitage,” you breathed, and gaped at Kylo. “Her name was Tera Jackson.”

He said nothing, but pushed the front page from its packet, holding it out to you. Hesitating to grab it, you gazed into his eyes. They were tired and sincere.

This was his way of apologizing. Your heart stuttered, skipped, a suffocated warmth welling in your belly. That he’d thought to do it at all was enough to fracture your resistance, but the fact that he’d done something so forbidden to demonstrate concrete proof of her identity, that he wasn’t fabricating a document to placate you, that it was his own admission that she had been a person, and she had been real--you choked on it, cheeks smothered in flames.

“Commander…” The urge to say his name lingered on your tongue; you reached for the paper--and paused. You couldn’t continue to detour down a pointless road. It would only make the inevitable more painful. You dropped your hand. “I can’t have something like this.”

“Then I’ll keep it.”

“Well.” You bit your lip, averting your gaze. “I… I don’t want it.”

“You do.” His voice was soft. “Her file will be cycled through at the end of the month. Take it.”

Frowning, you glanced between him and the paper. To deny it out of pride would be to deny Tera the chance to be remembered in tangibility--something every Handmaid, every person deserved, regardless of what they’d done to survive. You admitted that part of it was proving to yourself that you deserved it, too.

But you couldn’t take the whole page. Jaw tight, you took it from his hand, creased a line around the section with her name and birthdate and tore it free. You stuffed it into your sleeve, avoiding his eyes as you returned the rest.

Silence hung, cave crystals dripping remnants of stifled need onto your skin, small glittering droplets of iridescent understanding that stained you with shimmering agony. You ached to thank him, to tumble, broken, into his arms, to gaze intohis eyes and see yourself there, found and whole. But under Gilead, you could never have him in the ways he’d had you. And you could never be grateful to the devil for his grace.

Kylo Ren returned the folder to its shelf and stood, snuffing a sigh. “Store it in your room before your walk.”

All you did was nod.

The walk to the building and drive home was spent without words. Only twice did you sneak a glance at Kylo during the ride--the first was when he rolled the edge of the wheel against his large palm, face drawn in focus as he downshifted into a tight turn. The second was when he pulled into the driveway, the muscle under his eye fluttering and brow falling for split seconds, an acknowledgement that here was where you parted ways.

You swallowed, peeking at his hand still rested on the gearshift, then stared at your own, imagining the strength of his grip enveloping you, grounding you to something other than misery. The gentle grumble of the cooling engine died in the air.

Would a true devil place his own power at risk for the benefit of another? Perhaps it just seemed unfair that the only man who had ever made you feel sacred was the same man who’d desecrated you, too.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, and before he could think to respond, you opened the door and escaped into the house.

As you returned to your room, your hands trembled with the impending reality of your decision. A few days after Tera’s death, you’d received a message in the market from Rey and arranged for this meeting. There’d been no earlier time available--which was fine, you imagined that as one of the main women in the movement, her undercover operations were in high demand--and now that the day had arrived, you were floundering with anxiety. Certainly, some of it was the fear that you’d be implicated, too, though the Resistance seemed confident they could protect you from that.

Most of it was that despite your resolution, guilt sat like mercury in your belly, heavy and viscous. Kylo Ren deserved this--he deserved retribution, deserved whatever condemnation his future might hold.

But still you craved, as you might forever, a reality where the only condemnation he would receive was to your bed, where the rays of his future would merge with yours, coalesce in a brilliant spectrum of light, ultraviolet and perpetual. In true reality, those rays crashed ephemeral for jagged, resplendent moments--only to streak alone through the sky, parallel for eternity.

In your room, you stowed the slip of paper with Tera’s name and birthdate between the tiny crevice in your dresser where wood joined wood. In that same drawer under your spare undergarments was the switchblade, in the space you’d placed it over three weeks ago. Kylo had never come for it or sought its return. You supposed he considered it yours. Swallowing the wad of betrayal in your throat, you grabbed the knife and stuffed it up your sleeve.

After adjusting your boots and wings, you skipped down the steps and headed toward the kitchen to grab your shopping bag. When you crossed the threshold, you were met with Johana, tending to the little garden she kept above the sink. She spun at the sound of your feet, her blue eyes glowing against the stark cobalt of her dress, and she regarded you in silence, as she had for the past two weeks. You knew she was no idiot--she must have known you and the Commander were no longer speaking, but it had done nothing to thaw the frost between you this time.

“Just coming to get my bag, ” you muttered, stepping past her and toward the pantry.

“Did you--” She paused, lips tight over her teeth. “There’s an addition. To what we need today.”

You cleared your throat, forcing a smile in an attempt to be congenial. “Oh. Um. Well… I sure hope it’s not butter.”

She raised a brow. “Butter?”

“Yeah...” Your cheeks blazed with embarrassment. Why had you expected her to remember that? “I just. Forgot it. One time…”

“Ah.” Johana scanned you, releasing a sigh through her nose. “I’m sure whatever I said at that time was only half-warranted.” Her cheeks went pink, and she glanced at the wall. “Not that it matters.”

Her awkwardness was making your heart race. “Um. Yeah.” You chewed your lip. “So… the addition…”

She blinked. “Oh. Right.” Shaking her head, she stood on the tips of her toes, opening the cabinet above the stove. “I noticed we’re out of vegetable oil. Emma forgot to dictate it. So. Vegetable oil.”

“Right.” You nodded. “I’ll get it.”

“Good.” Johana considered you again, gaze traveling from your feet to your eyes, then breaking away. “Anyway.” She shifted, returning to the sink. “I suppose I’ll see you for the Ceremony in a couple nights.”

Another wave of nausea washed over you. You hoped she wouldn’t. “Yep. I… I guess so.”

“I know you might not...” She paused, and shrugged a shoulder, pruning a leaf from one of her herbs. “It’s what God wants. It’s nothing personal.”

You swallowed. “I know, Ms. Johana.”

If you remained on this subject any longer, you absolutely would throw up. Johana glanced over her shoulder, meeting your eyes--almost pitying. You bowed your head, ears hot, striding toward the front door.

“Wait--”

Johana grabbed your arm--her eyes widened, and she froze, face screwed in confusion as she squeezed you. Terror crashed through your spine. You both stood there, paralyzed, each now keenly aware of her accidental discovery of the blade inside of your sleeve. Throat closing, you didn’t dare to breathe, instead forcing your gaze from where her hand clutched you to meet her eyes.

“What is that.” Her nails pinched your forearm as she jerked you forward, surprising strength in her little body. “What is that--”

You wrenched back as she tried to dig into your dress, flailing as you tossed her off. Exhaling, you stepped away, holding your hands up in submission as she gazed at you in horror.

“Hold on!” you said. “Hold on. I’ll…” You had no other option. “I’ll show you.”

With two fingers, you slipped into your sleeve and revealed the knife, rotating it like a showpiece in a museum. Her jaw tightened, brow drawn low.

“Why do you have a switchblade?”

Your chin trembled. “For protection.”

“Protection. Sure.” She snorted, holding out her palm. “You’re not killing anyone in this house. Hand it over.”

Shaking your head, you took a step back. “No.”

Her face scrunched in anger, and she swatted for it. “Give it--”

“No!” You shielded it with your palms, raising it above your head. “I--I can’t!”

She huffed in dismissal, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Your fingers quaked, the weapon wobbling in your grip. “It’s…” You weren’t sure of what you were about to say. But you couldn’t think of a single lie that she would believe. “We staged the coup. The Commander and I. This is the one of the only things that… that proves it.”

Johana blinked, drew her hand back as she gazed at you, thoughts loud behind her eyes. Her lips parted in disbelief. “You’re working with the Resistance.”

“Yes.” You swallowed your fear. “I am.”

Breath rattled in her chest, and she stared. “You’re turning him in.”

“I am.”

Her face fell into a scowl. “Well. How--how could you?” She fumbled for the words, like they stung her tongue. “He’s… He isn’t... the most kind man, perhaps, or the most Godly--”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s not Godly at all.”

“But he still deserves respect.”

“Respect? For what?”

“For being your Commander.”

You threw your hands into the air, exasperated. “Why are you defending him?” you exclaimed, stepping closer. “You deserve more than this! More than how he treats you!” As you spoke, you weren’t sure who in the room those words were actually meant for. “Help me bring him down. Work with me. We don’t have to live like this.” A pause, voice falling to a murmur, and your hand fell to your side. “We can be free.”

Johana paused, as if she had never considered the possibility, and stepped back, gaze falling. For long, motionless moments, she stared at the blade gripped in your loose fist, the fire in her pupils guttering to cold, empty desperation. A slow breath escaped her nose, her throat knocking as she swallowed. Another breath, and tears glossed her eyes--she blinked them away, pinning her lips together.

“I…”

She shivered, looking at you. For a flicker, you saw her--the woman who existed, wholived before you, before Kylo Ren, before Gilead--treading deadly water, gasping for respite. Johana’s focus drifted over your dress, then wandered to hers. Like a match, fury flashed her face, and in a swift snake movement, she snatched the blade from your hand.

“--will never betray Gilead.”

You squealed, grabbing for it, but she darted underneath you, skittering toward the hall, popping the blade free and thrusting it toward you. Her face was tight with bitter rage.

“I don’t care what happened with him. You’ve only known him for a few months,” she hissed. “I’ve been married to him for three years.” Her hand was shaking, her voice cracking like plaster. “You have no idea what I’ve endured. And I’ll be damned if you screw it up for me.”

“Johana,” you pleaded, “wait--”

“Don’t force my hand,” she said, jabbing the air. “If you even breathe another word about some Resistance nonsense, I’ll have you taken by the Eyes. I don’t care what the Commander says.” She glanced over you one final time and pushed the blade back, shoving it in her pocket before turning to leave. “And remember the vegetable oil.”

You stood, empty-handed, listening to her footsteps disappear down the hall, mind a miasma. There’d be no escape from this, now, not from this house, not from that man, not from the hovering humiliation of the Ceremony in two nights. She’d taken your only lifeline to freedom. And you somehow doubted that another one might appear.

[axelisrose]

1. ACTVARIVM

Sunlit greenery surrounded a plain white house. The strong iron fence protecting it now was gone unlike the faint sweet scent of the blooming flowers. They appeared as peculiar colourful dots in-between the harsh black marks on the grass. Burning memories drifted here and there and eventually led to the innocent building standing in the very same place where once the old World Military housed. Replaced by new change and forced into the present. Just like that. The cold breeze on this summer day seemed unlikely to be able to refresh the joy of those wandering the disastrous field. Like ghosts, haunting for passed friends or family and loved ones. Closed eyes and the sharp sense of ears will hear the whispers of battle cries whilst smelling and breathing in their remnants of ash. None could voice their anger of frustration by merely screaming dead names aloud into the world anymore. It was eerie for the young children watching their parents walk around aimlessly as they were told to wait by the entrance gate. Their big, curious eyes followed the tall humans and witnessed how tears were shed, knees dropped into mud, and a door knocked on.

-"...Yes?", a muffled voice eagerly answered, carrying a polite and formal sound.

-"My name is Atrox, the one in charge of the government of Lux-", footsteps forward after the chair was driven back, then the door was opened in a flash.

-"Mr. Atrox!", a figure with black hair slightly cutting into golden eyes, dressed in a dark cloak surprised the superior man with a short shock. He did not anticipate such a child-like person to be the new leader of the World Military, or at least what was left of it.

-"You must be Walt- No, pardon me, shall I refer to you as Renwick or Cherrywine?"

A moment of naught but silence. As his pinkish eyelids seemed to close entirely from tiredness, they jumped back open as he spoke:"You may refer to me as Renwick, please."

Atrox was older than the average middle-aged man at his workplace. A child may have a slip of the tongue when walking past, seeing him without his uniform and call him 'Grandpa'.

-"Mr. Renwick.", he felt odd addressing someone so young so formally,"I can guess that you know why I'm here. Do you mind me coming in?"

-"I do think it'd make for a better environment to tell you this story, rather than just standing here by the door and having even children look at us.", Walter widened his eyes to scare them as Atrox had a look for himself, then returned his sight to his subordinate to find a face just as he left it.

He let him and entered as well the interior of the house. Such an odd feeling; so uncharmingly blissful. It was decorated nicely one might say, when ignoring the tossed books laying scattered across the pale wooden floor. It felt like a doll house on a military cementary. Such was the image in Atrox' mind. He tried to forget about the provocative thought, only to think about it more after being reminded of the dark deeds he had done. Taking and losing lives were truly two sides of the same coin. But he was too old for regret. "So-", Walter's words pulled him out of his miserable trance, thankfully. Atrox quickly pulled out a voice recorder in response. With the help of a push filled with dread it started recording. As Walter had sat down on the beige couch, he emptied the seat and welcomed his guest to sit next to him and that was when Atrox realized he should not underestimate this teenager. The common smell of coffee was something anyone would have noticed when taking the first few steps into this house. A slight rise of caution emerged when seeing him hold two cups of warm coffee. Unlike the beverage itself, it was not so common to make something appear out of thin air but Atrox had been warned beforehand, thence he welcomed the offer and sat down. After all, he had not been chosen to be the leader of the government for nothing. The price for this rank was a regretful past.

-"Please tell me first how and why this happened, Mr.Renwick."

-"Of course. The initiator was myself.", Walter surpressed his smirk.

-"The cause of death of over seven hundred soldiers was initiated by you?"

-"Yes, Sir."

-"You're now in charge of the very organisation you almost had all of its members killed?"

-"Precisely", he answered the deep gaze of his superior with his golden eyes, then he followed the military suit to its right sleeve, went further down and found a shaking hand, tightening the grip around the recorder to control the internal distress and prevent something ugly. "Sir..?"-

-"Why did you cause this, Mr.Renwick?", his tone changed, attaining a more concerned voice.

"It was truly alike to a play of tragedy, Mr. Atrox. My sincerest condolences, I have heared you lost both of your sons during this small war. That is why, I believe you must hear about it in its entirety. Shall I begin?"

"Pl- Please do so."

"The goals of the other parties actually differed from mine, but the shared destination is whence our lust for the ambush was born.

I suppose I should tell you about this kid, named Satanael Leo Roseblood. He has the Devil's Will which made everyone come to this occasion in the first place. Essentially, this was a race between the greed of many to make the world their own. To access the Axis Mundi, overcome God and making the world truly your own, you're in need of something equally strong as God's Will, and that little thing was inside Leo. His reason for coming was to free a man named Charles Blackwood from the World Military's prison whose nephew, Ray Blackwood, also came for the exact same purpose. Both neither knew of each others' presence however. A variety of small bounty-hunter parties joined this hunt as well and amongst them was the white soldier- or should I call her ice-cold killer, ha? Leigh, Leigh Godsent is her name and she was there to take on Leo herself, accompanied by her guardian, a strong man, Bruce and by myself. They were under my protection until I realised my goal: taking over this organisation. It was a fight amongst the wildest of animals during a night of heavy rain as well as falling bodies. Oh, I almost forgot, pardon me, another party arrived rather late to the commotion: the Layla-Tribe. I know, but even I was astonished by the fact the news of the battle had reached the southern lands. I spread word by simply shouting and telling on my way home from 'a meeting'. Honestly, to think rumors spread as fast as I've read about them in stories is ironic.. and cliché. Their ambition, I do not know as after I've accomplished my feat, I turned ignorant towards the battle and its fighters.

The house was filled with its usual staff and soldiers on this night. A calm rain and moon presented the scenery pleasantly. Unknown security established in the minds of those living their everyday life. A knock interrupted this comfort of silence. "Daniel..?", the door opened with a noise so small, it did not reverberate and entering his office was a woman of the secretary staff. Someone who had developed feelings for Daniel who returned those with joy. "Lizzy, don't call me by my first name while you're still out there in the hallway.", he got up from his desk. They hugged and kissed. "Is this the night they will try to attack us?", she asked, grabbing both of his arms. "No need to worry, though. Their only objective is someone amongst the intruders, so we'll have them trapped in the entrance. While they're fighting each other we'll either capture or kill them with our arms. Even bullets will be mortal while they're focused on someone equally strong as them."

-"Will we be safe-", her petite voice was stifled by a tighter hug and a vibrating floor.

Daniel knew the odds were against him. A king being cornered by all the other enemy pieces on this board. The times when a lie shined more beautiful than a missed oportunity to secure a safe reality- regret.

A white rose glowed by the shine of the moon. Grey spots staining it as the raindrops fell onto the petals. It stood upright however, not giving in to the weight of the pressure.

-"Lizzy, after this, I'll quit. I'll quit this and we'll live together in a wonderful white house, surrounded by a green meadow, what do you say? This was the dream you told me about the other day, right?"

"Mr. Cherrywine!"-

The woman escaped the warm arms and withdrew into the cold emptiness.

-"They're here, am I right?", Daniel's tone of voice filled with rising maturity.

-"Sir, shall we proceed with our current plan or do-"

-"Tonight, soldier. Tonight is the one time you may all act as you will."

-"Sir?", a lost voice, deep within darkness, alike a child asking his parent for approval.

-"Go, now. Defend this house to your dying breath! Carry on this spirit to the others! Fight!"

"Sir!", Daniel watched the man's back turn, slowly but surely passing through the same door he entered the only safe room left with. Someone who would not return, ever. Only his footsteps echoed through the hallway back into the office right into Daniel's consciousness. Lizzy stared into his teary eyes, his slightly twitching jaw and his lying mouth. She approached him again, this time with a caring gentleness, however she did not understand just why his emotional state changed so suddenly but caressed him nonetheless.

"It would seem we are not the first ones to arrive.", I said.

"Izzat good, or bad?", Bruce asked.

"Obviously good.", Leigh responded.

Next to the country road there was a white facility, in the middle of a wide garden, which was the headquarters of the World Military. Usually belted by a rectangular-shaped iron fence and now those missing parts were going to help other parties to intrude. The three made their way into the front yard which was not bombarded to naught like those parts of the now useless fence. Danger approached security. On the way to their mischief the scent of innocent nature followed their soon to be bloody hands. The mother tried to stop their children from committing sin, yet failed to do so. The child had attained its own body, mind, and Will.

Changing from the calm sound of shaking leaves and trees and the cold but soothing wind, gunshots had already been fired in the entrance hall which benefitted Walter's thought of idea. After hearing the commotion start and finally taking off he told Bruce to stay with him to infiltrate this house.

-"Leigh, you go to the right side and enter from there.", he pointed with the tip of his finger to the fourth floor while his voice was being shaken after every two words from jogging steps.

-"Huh? Are you blind? There ain't no entrance."

-"Why yes, there is actually."

-"No. Jumping in through the window and I'll attract everyone's attention and then I'm fucked."

-"You won't be. Bruce, there is someone already up there, am I correct?"

-"As a matter of fact, he is right, Leigh.", Bruce was able to locate various positions of people if he desired so. Being an observer led him to hold onto this exclusive right, yet robbed him of his ability to partake in conflicts of Will such as the ongoing one in the entrance hall of the World Military.

-"Who?", she suddenly seemed interested. Her breath was not exhausted, not at all but energetic.

-"Haha, Leigh! It's ya old fella! What's his name again?", Bruce showed enthusiasm for the idea.

-"Leo?"

-"What do you say, girl? There is an entrance on the right, yes?"

She smiled. Her body accelerated, she was in the middle of the two and now had her nose in front of them as bits of pieces of flimsy, enlightened particles slowly came together and joined around her body helically, they lit up with increased regularity until she finally jumped through shaking might towards the right side of the facility and landed in a matter of mere seconds. Her hair, white and fanned out, carried by a gentle atmosphere by moonlight.

-"Amazing.", Bruce said plainly astonished.

-"For her age, that is true. But watch now."

While the two men were running still toward the entrence, having their heads turned to watch Leigh, almost having reached their destination, their sight was blocked by a tree and all they could see was how the greenery was shortly illuminated by a flashing lightning which helped Leigh achieve great height she was in need of in order to reach the destined window on the fourth floor. And by the help of resounding smashed glass both of them were left reassured as their desired entrance neared and grew in size. Walter stood with his back on the left wall next to the entrance door and so did Bruce on the right. The two were being parted by two massive glass doors which incurred small, young scratches and bruises. One peek and one would see brutal warfare. The interior orange lighting crawled over the floor to flee and reached out to the door and faded into the outside, not meeting the shaded shoes of the two.

-"Find a person named-"

*Gunshots*

"Huh, what?"-

-"Daniel Che-"

*Person dying by firearm, exclaiming death cry*

"Cherrywine, right? The leader of-"-

-"Precisely! Locate him!"

*The glass doors burst into thousands of shards*

"Found him! I know where-"-

-"Perfect!"

"Hey there's two kids up there!"

"A boy and a girl?! Why the hell are kids here?!"

"They same from the park in Pandemonium, even!"

"Keep your eyes on the- Argh! Fuck!"

"Damnit, You there! Have your squad handle the children! Go! Go! Go!"

"Yes, Sir!"

Those shouted words travelled their way through the hall by the same air that could be listened to by the outsiders. Walter and Bruce nodded in agreement and charged in themselves after having turned invisible by Walter's doing. Altough maintaining such casual charisma for the younger, Bruce was again amazed by the carefree attitude internally. Words exchanged were only audible by the other- perfectly thought of for secret infiltrating. They ran. Running amongst a disgustingly high quantity of nameless bodies, dropped dusty weapons in the fawn-coloured entrance hallway to advance forth to the stairs leading to the upper floors. The images were shaky and flashing because of the hurry but seen hidden behind a wall, there was someone dressed rather fancy for an occasion such as this. A blonde protected by four men, also in suits-

"We're the fucking Blackwoods, alright?!"

The boy's eyes favoured green sapphires, lighting up, he pushed the two men next to him aside, his upbeat, blonde hair bounced carefully as he the took the small but promising steps outside of the brittle but protecting wall, escaping the extended grasping arms wanting to hold back their young leader he stood there, out in the open, thenceforth having amounts of military and third-party rifles pointing on and their courageous, blind anger aimed for him; his pupils widened. Walter's drifted towards the left, capturing the essence of the scene of a boy's stand before a rain of bullets ended his young life. Walter and Bruce were right next to him, in the middle of the hall and to evade potential death here Walter wanted to shift the storm of bullets behind them but he was unable to proceed so, as the blonde pointed his right index finger up in the air, his tips of blonde hair were slowly eaten by a pitch black. The bullets flew with incredible speed after having been unleashed by provoked ignorance. Ray Blackwood willed fire, shaped alike sharp, giant roses, enough to protect him and his team, with rushing flames swallowing the lead as it continuously reached for the soldiers on the higher level, clearing the hall of other gang members as they realized the offered opportunity to climb up in the enemy's castle and rushed towards the freed stairway just as Walter and Bruce did. At the time, in conjunction with the beard stubbles around his mouth, his lips formed and pinned a smile on Walter's face during the witness of the fire's spectacle. Alongside the smell of dead bodies, technically spread gunpowder, the reek of blood there now joined too an ashy scent which also stained the beige walls with clouds of grey. Little crisping fires spread and burned on the floor, inflaming the golden carpet, acting like the starting signal for the blonde to take off the black mantle. The floor was trembling due to the drumming feet of the enraged. His men followed the back covered in a black tank top with war cries enacting a picture of five gang members chasing after a hord of about one hundred bounty hunters chasing after the entire staff of soldiers of the World Military- A hunt.

"Why did you stop? Mr. Renwick?"

Walter tried to cover his overtaking smile with a weak left hand which then landed in his lap as he began to hold back his snicker, exposing his mouth area which lacked any beard growth.

-"Please do excuse me, Mr. Atrox. I was just thinking... This one kid, Ray Blackwood."

-"Positions of both Blackwoods as well as everyone elses besides yourself are unknown, yes?"

-"That is correct. Everyone who was involved in that night and was featured on the wanted list, is somewhere unknown. However, that was not the reason for my laughter, excuse me, please."

-"Then what reason did you laugh for?", Atrox became nervous and impatient. His grip around the sweaty recorder tightened again, yet not as tight as it became after Walter's response:

-"I was just thinking about how Ray Blackwood could, if he so desired, infiltrate even your facility. Even without me acting as an initiator, believe my words as I saw his flames in person and do allow me to share this with you: Orange isn't the brightest colour his fire can rage into."

The sight was cut rather short because of the insufficiency of lighting when she first had entered the building. Plus, she could not rely on someone else to handle small stuff like this like Walter could in the hallway, thus she had to use her own Will to enable herself to a greater vision. As she rushed with fast but faint steps forward small particles of lightning appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared to reduce the amount of pain she had to endure before actual combat. The light was minimal, yes but it served its purpose perfectly when Leigh noticed she was running down a narrow hallway on the fouth floor. Without worrying about herself, she progressed, she ran, she followed the same stenching smell of blood she scented when she fought Leo in the park. Her hand placed quickly on the sheath of her sword, her shoes cried aloud when she abruptly decelerated once she saw a slender frame of body standing with its back to her. The light was fading but before it went out and a new one arrived she saw a pale figure which featured a petite back where three long, sharp and thin scars running down the whole dorsum with spine-length, long, saggy brunette hair and oddly enough feminine curves.

-"What-", her clueless muttering was immediately topped by another astonishment in the very next second.

She evaded the daunting atmosphere radiating from the strange body, drifted backwards as the white strands of her wavy, long hair split her vision into many more little windows to peek through and her nose filled with the nauseous stench of blood she did not miss but was sadly too familiar with. Left to right and right to left it was corpses, however not as whole but slashed, brutally, they had become one with the walls and floor, without any mercy, their interiors seemed to fade into the elements of the components of the facility. Organs leaking their dried blood, spreading it onto the surfaces leaving a bitter aftertaste for Leigh's eyesight behind which evoked sheer disgust inside her prior-resolved consciousness. Yet, averting the sight of the late, focusing on the living, specifically the only other living being in the present in this dark hallway beside her, she drew her sword. It cried, alike ready to take life when it left it's shelter. The white blade was shining at regular intervals, made by the particals of her lightning manipulation, which shortened steadiliy as she pointed the edge of the blade towards the naked back, making it glow eternally.

-"This time, Leo. I'll cut your back open and make you cry.", altough whispering a careful but threatening tone the hallway made her words clearly audible to her enemy whose left scapula deformed, the cracks of bones, into a slowly twirling circle which was ready to unleash a beastly crawl towards its enemy only to paint another massacre of corpse:

-"Shh, hush or you'll bite your tongue.", his head turned slightly towards the girl. His tilted chin accentuated by blue light.

For a second she didn't know what had occured to her in a matter of mere five seconds and how those resulted in her falling out of the window, ready to greet the ground with her very face. Her vison was tossed, it seemed like up was down, down was up, left became right and right became left as her body was pushed and thrown towards the point she had entered the hallway in. On the brink of losing self control it was a small but impactful push forward it that made her fail falling into the depth of darkness. Reverting time was her Will, the only thing she wanted was to stand before her-

-"Leoooo!", the name echoed from a swollen throat back into the building's interior reaching its namebearer in a slight shock of surprise.

And there she was, in mid-air in the middle of his clear field of vision after having turned around completely to be welcomed by a girl encased in a glowing, blue aura, her widely opened, golden eyes told her a sad story reflecting the image of a broken boy.

Was it sadness her anger evolved into?

Was is regret her strike, already in action, was turning into?

She wanted it to stop, make the strike undone and forget this encounter, but even so, her action had already moved faster than her begging, twitching scream that was being thrown into the other, monotone face. The sword cut deep into the boy's left shoulder, driving its blade through muscle and bone, skin and cell, deforming and ripping apart what was once harmonic. Her feet met the floor safely, tiptoeing forwards making soft steps, her dizzy body fell into his arms, her head rested on his left shoulder. Both were enveloped in darkness' silence and tranquility whose small bubble of saftey and comfort were pierced by blinding lights. Leigh's eyes jumped back up just when she allowed herself to let her guard down, forget and drown into the warmth. A swarm of small military squads were rushing towards them. She could feel the danger in her stomach; the anxiety made her blood pressure rose to an unhealthy extent but she made no move; her lightning had long vanished. Only small bits of laughter unchained her from paralyzation. Leigh's pupils grew affixed to the sight of lines exploding out of their back's encasement, stretching and finally impaling every single soldier who dared to enter this hallway without giving any regard to their prior actions, hence suffering the lethal, equally unjustified, consequences. They were smashed down onto the floor to enable them to join their late comrades. She couldn't refrain from sharing a tear or two and bit into the shoulder to repress a scream of hopelessness and her quiet weeping; it was yet again too much for her to bear but ready to break down, having even averted vision, her ears caught the crawling sound of enraging words:

-"I thought you came to kill me..", thus causing something deep inside her tainted mind to allow her become free.

-"Yeah. You're right..", she whispered back.

Pushing and rejecting the warm body away from her, she ripped the sword out of his bleeding body and held it tightly in her right; creating afterimages she ran up with such excellent speed and reignited anger, turning her slender motion into a heavy slash. He evaded, as expected, thence her last afterimage before the inital blow had also striked without making Leo taking notice. The open wound was of much help to him as forms of blood outgrew and stopped the strike effortless. She aimed for and punched into his stomach, making the afterimages disappear and getting the lower part of her right arm sucked into Leo's body, making it stuck. Her shock was quickly calmed but not prepared for following: A acrobatic transition of the upper and lower body happened before her; she could feel the creeping fluidity of the stream of blood forbidding her arm freedom. Falling into distress an idea rose from small moment of clarity. "Ha!"  She rammed her free, electrified left arm into the body of blood as she herself was hit by a foot with such might, it smashed her into the wall next to the corpses.

-"Fuck. Fuck, ahh.", she bit her tongue and spit out blood. Her throat felt poisoned, such was the feeling, it made her think if her right arm had been injected with something toxic.

Remaining on her knees after having tried to stand up but failing due to increasing dizziness, he picked up her sword and threw it over to her which was first caught by her weak hands, afterward, the floor itself. New members came running into the hallway with shouts, cries, weapons and lights and were in a moment of mental aberration since the hallway had lost original strucure and acquired new shape in the form of a white, spacious room. A snap. The sword no longer lied on the floor, lightning jumped from one to another, striking down man after man. Whomever would spectate this act would blurr the sound of bullets but become accustomed to the sight of a berseker, one girl fallen into a killing frenzy, guided by hatred or frustration.

"Unable to kill one strong, so she turned to kill a few weak."

The blade took singular body parts which she used immorally as makeshift weapons to shove them into the living faces. The blood of your own friends was tossed into your eyes. Adult men were screaming as if still in kindergarten, as if having to go home, leaving behind and parting with your playmates for the day, except now it was for ever. Exclamations were cut short by halving throats in one-sided anguish. Ten, no twenty, thirty, they kept coming, they kept dying.

-"Alike a flash appearing before your chest allowing you to draw your last breath."

-"Were you able see her in action? I thought you were elsewhere at that time?"

-"Yes, I was indeed but I did get the chance to see her in action as she was my trainee before the execution of this operation.", Walter smiled casually.

-"Hm.", Atrox gave in to the statement without rebuttal,"Continue, then, please."

-"Of course.", he leaned back after having a sip of warm coffee.

The hord of madmen were yelling their way up, mercilessly losing and taking lives as they climbed and climbed up the stairway, grasped by the thought of world control. Pushing each other as well as military soldiers off the stairs, their minds were not functioning rationally no longer and at the very front of the heated mob were the Blackwoods, Bruce and Walter. Together, however, as if on command whilst running, their heads turned left, towards the passing lower story and metamorphosing structure. Agitated by the loss of stability of the weakening stairway they all accelerated and started running to their heart's content towards the promising destination. The collective stemping grew even louder than the mindless shouting of war cries and last confessions.

-"Walter is this your messed up witchcraft!?"

"Thank you kindly, but this isn't my accomplishment!"-

-"Whose is it then?"

"I'm not sure and how would I know for certain, but I will guess it's our Devil"-

"More importantly, is the target still on the top floor?"-

-"Man, it's seems like the top part hasn't been affected..yet."

We were running right behind the Blackwoods, too, still invisible however:

-"Ray!"

"It's alright, I'm fine as long as they believe so."

"Don't push yourself, too hard, Ray. You're already a better leader than your father."-

"I'm sorry...even after losing one of us you're still so.. goddammit!"

-"We're here to rescue Charles and no matter what it tak-"

-"Man, shut it and look over there.", he pointed towards the nearing wall, and shrinking width of the stairs, which was about to push everybody off and make them fall into their death, deep down into the abyss, the ground floor.

-"Ahh! Walter!"

"That's Satanael, I'm certain now, though he is not my current objective."-

-"Yeah, well but we're about to gon' get pushed off!"

"Oh, how very tragic..."-

"Juuuuuuump!"

Soldiers, gang members, assassins; all were willing to let themsleves get rescued due to an emerging ground floor whose height grew steadily without harmonic unrest, re-enacting the image of an elevator, by jumping to the left. Marble grinding upwardly on marble, screeching its deconstruction. A great quantity fell off when landing, therefore were screamed after but those painful screams were swiftly healed by the size of the rising chunks of the ground floor. They were seperated now, all on different levels of height. Once the 'elevator' passed the remains of the stairway, they started merging into one, barely getting crushed by the sudden fusion a lot of people were left with even less space to take a stand on.

Walls were cracking, returning to their singular elemental components, the house was truly coming down and reforming. Space and room were played with to one's own advantage.

-"Ray, You alright?"

"It'd be a damn shame if I wasn't!"

"Is your uncle still on the top floor?!"-

"Yeah, Shanna still can locate his presence up there."

-"Then, protect the blonde! Surround him and finish the military's dogs!"

"The introduction part is finally down, baby! Now it's our turn to take over! Let's fucking go!"

End of ACTVARIVM

[cecilspeaks]

137 - The Mudstone Abyss part 3

Kevin: If this had been an actual emergency, this signal would be followed by screaming and chaos.

Welcome to Desert Bluffs.

Hello, Desert Bluffs! It has been exactly one week since language resumed functioning.

We are all of course relieved to finally be able to greet neighbors once again with a friendly “You should smile more!”

But sometimes with good news comes bad news. It’s also been exactly one week since all construction on the Mudstone Abyss was halted. There are still several creeping shadows roaming about the dig site, causing everyone who goes near there to become so overwhelmed with joy that they run away screaming. It’s unclear why the shadows are still there. We don’t know what they want. Some have said they want us to dig no further, and that these shadows are responsible for our loss of language. I think they came out to see the beautiful craftsmanship on our Mudstone Abyss.

Mayor Lauren Mallard called for a halt to construction despite adamant protests from the media. The media spent the past week constantly texting and calling the mayor, telling her construction must continue, because it has been the media’s dream since childhood to bring a grand physical testament to the Smiling God’s endless happiness and love. But the mayor has been slow to respond. She’s probably busy scheduling contractors to restart work on the monument. Maybe the media should try texting the mayor again.

[typing noises] Why… is construction… still… halted… Lauren? Oh, that sounds a bit aggressive. Let’s brighten that tone a bit with… oh, bleeding gums emoji… spider with human eyes emoji, cry-laughing emoji, there we go.

The mayor and I have been close for a long time. We’ve had our ups and downs, but I think our more difficult times were back when we used to run a company together. We had some typical disagreements over who was in charge. She thought that because she was the president of the company, she should have final say on all decisions. Whereas I knew that I was one of the Smiling God’s chosen prophets, and our all-loving devourer would not choose a prophet who made mistakes. I believe ceasing construction was a mistake. Certainly our mayor thinks digging the Mudstone Abyss is somehow connected to our loss of language, and I appreciate her concern, but there is only anecdotal evidence to support this.

More on this story as it develops.

But first, I wanted to tell you that Charles and I went out again! Originally, Charles and I were going to go to the opening of the Georgia O’Keeffe exhibit at the Desert Bluffs Museum of Art. This exhibit features many of O’Keeff’s famous flower paintings, but reimagined as if O’Keeffe were a joyous worshipper of the Smiling God. Artist at the museum have painted large smiles and centipedes over O’Keeffe’s originals, and the result is apparently quite powerful and moving.

Then Charles and I planned to have another luxurious dinner at Vermillion, but at the last minute, Grandma Josephine and her demons told him they weren’t available to babysit Charles’ five-year-old Donovan, and we couldn’t find a babysitter.

So instead Charles, Donovan and I spent the day at the Desert Bluffs’ Spinning Smiles amusement park. We rode the Spine Compressor, the Esophagus Remover, and a brand new roller coaster called Intentional Sepsis. Donovan was really delighted by all the struggling actors dressed in stuffy unvented animal costumes. Donny got his picture taken with one person dressed as a smiling tortoise. We could hear the man in the costume panting heavily and begging for water. Donny turned to the tortoise and said: “The sun calls for sacrifice because the sun loves all that it sees.” The man inside rasped: “Air! Please! I don’t know where I am! Please!” and passed out. [chuckles] Donny giggled right as Charles took the photo. It was actually really adorable. What a great memory to capture!

We went back to Charles’ house and made sandwiches and watched cartoons, but Donny wasn’t interested in the television, he just played with his toy planes, zigging and zagging them over his head, turning and swirling them in reckless fits. I hope he does not grow up to be a pilot.

I sat next to Charles on the couch, mesmerized by the motion of Donny’s planes until Charles and I fell asleep. Around 2 AM, I woke up. Donovan had put himself into bed and Charles was snoring softly against my shoulder. I carefully stood up and pulled Charles’ legs onto the sofa. The whole day had made me happy, but not in the way I wanted to be happy about it. happiness should be something you have, not something you take. I placed a blanket over him and drove home.

I’m getting an update that Mayor Lauren Mallard is holding a press conference at City Hall. Let’s hear her speech live.

Lauren: People of Desert Bluffs, after discussions with City Council as well as some prominent and very knowledgeable members of the media, I have decided to reopen construction of the Mudstone Abyss. I know many people are frightened by the shadow beings drifting around the dig site, as well as the ones lurking in and around your homes, but there is nothing to fear. These shadows are merely the impure souls of those devoured and then later (disgorged) [0:07:52] by the Smiling God. They’re not worthy of your fear. These shadows don’t even have faces. We cannot discern their intentions or feelings. They move around in quick jerks and starts, flickering in and out of our vision, sometimes standing just behind us while sloowly tilting their heads. And unless you’re looking in a mirror, there’s no way you can even see that.

So I’m not sure why you’re all freaking out. Plus they are completely intangible. [chuckling]Watch! There’s one right now, passing in front of me. I’m whipping my hand back and forth right through it. it can’t do anything, it’s just a shadow! It can’t eve smile. [chuckles] Construction resume at 7 AM sharp on Monday. We’ve assigned every citizen a daily 8-hour time slot with two 10 minute breaks. We’ve also hired some clowns to come by to keep everyone smiling. As a former corporate president, I know first hand how important laughter is for maintaining a healthy work environment. Skeleton silverfish! What, uh? Silverfish French press carbuncle. I can’t pillowcase slapstick? Uuh, plenty of hibiscus! Yeah.

Kevin: Ah, Mayor Mallard! Such a way with words. Well you heard her, it’s a joyous day. In fact, probably a future holiday. I cannot wait to start digging again next week, Desert Bluffs! Let’s look now at the Community Calendar. These are probably the last non-construction events we’ll have for a couple of weeks.

On Wednesday afternoon at Morning Bird Records, the Society for Painless Living will be holding a protest march against the construction of the Mudstone Abyss. Well, I don’t usually read press releases for such tiny events, but I guess there might be one or two people who want to exercise their right to assembly. So if this sounds like something you’re interested in, I guess you should go to the march, and then think about all the joy the Smiling God has give you and question your motives for refusing to appreciate it.

Thursday morning, the Citizens of Free Will will host a sit-in at the Sunlite All-day Diner to demonstrate their opposition to the Mayor’s order for mandatory labor on the Mudstone Abyss. Huh.

Oh this looks netter! Thursday afternoon, the Natural Smiles theatre company- I love that name! – is opening their new play, “The Pit of Ruin”. Playwright Danika Lopez says her work is an (--) [0:10:36] parable about the arrogance of religion, government and media. Lopez’ play, according to their press material, tells a story of a bloviating radio host.. who overreaches his position, enslaving an entire town in order to feed his hunger for religious power. I like the sound of this theatre company less and less. There has to be some community event that’s actually fun in here.

Friday morning, the People for Clean Sharp Teeth will be burning Kevin the radio host in effigy. I don’t… understand.

[long beat] I’d like to spend more time on this. Explaining to you, dear listeners, that my happiness is not yours to take. I’d like to have all afternoon to teach you about how you must receive your own joy by making joy, rather than destroying others’ joy. But I cannot spend any time on this, because I’m getting word that Mayor Mallard is being forcibly removed from her podium at City Hall! A large crowd of unsmiling people overtook the Mayor and the city council. The crowd used a tattoo gun to draw a permanent frown on the Mayor’s face, which effectively exiles her from this community. The crowd is chanting: “Pete Ma’s handlebars, Pete Ma’s handlebars!” The police have tried using their bullhorns to call for order, but instead of words they’re emitting bird chirps. Language seems to be failing us again.

Desert Bluffs, I need you to remain calm. I need you to take a deep breath and think positive thoughts. Think about the Smiling God, its mammoth wriggling form and thousands of legs emerging from the earth and devouring your body. Envision your whole self nestled in the moist, loving belly of the divine beast. Smile while you do it, Desert Bluffs. Keep smiling. Keep – I’m getting a phone call. Oh, it’s from Charles! Maybe he found a babysitter.

Hey Charles, I was just thinking about you. You know there’s a night club that opened last month? It’s called No Exit. I thought maybe we could drop off Donny with Josephine this evening and then… Uh huh. So you called to see if I wanted to go to the zoo with you and Donny this afternoon instead? Uh.. W-well, I was just looking at the weather and I’m not sure if today’s the day to… It’s not. Charles. I have the weather report right here. Listen.

[“Hymn #101” by Joe Pug]

I figured it out, Desert Bluffs. The mob outside City Hall has dispersed. They returned Lauren Mallard with her tattooed frown to her position as mayor, but city bylaws prohibit anyone incapable of smiling from serving in that position. So for now, we have no mayor. The drifting shadows around the Mudstone Abyss have dissipated, returning whatever other otherworld they came from, and the construction has begun again at the monument dig site, several days ahead of schedule.

I figured it out. During our phone call, Charles was getting flustered. I asked what was wrong and he said Donovan was distracting him by swinging his toy planes around again. I told Charles to focus on us and not worry about what Donovan was doing. “We can’t talk about us, Kevin, without worrying about what Donovan is doing,” he snapped at me. “Donovan is us. That’s the deal, OK?” And I was hurt. I wasn’t smiling. I don’t like criticism, it makes me sad, and then mad, and then – confused.

Listeners, I don’t often use strong language, so if your ears are sensitive to vulgarity, turn the volume down for a few seconds. I hate! Not being happy. I hate it! There, I said it. I’m sorry.

I thought about what Charles said. I thought about his teeth, his chest, his hair, his snoring, his smile. I thought about Donovan. I thought about Donovan swinging those toy planes around above his head, like the birds in that dream every one of us has every single night. You know, where the birds zig and zag across a blood red sky, recklessly turning and swirling in panicked fits. Donovan’s planes were, in fact, moving in the exact same pattern as those birds. I figured it out. Each movement, each turn, each path of each plane was identical to those birds’ paths.

Listeners, it’s not a dream. It’s a message. The shadows do not speak in our mouthy languages, but in shapes and patterns. I interrupted Charles to tell him this. I told him to take Donny to the Mudstone Abyss. I told him to bring Donny’s planes. Charles and Donny approached the shadowy figures. The gathered crowd called to them to stop, to move no closer to the shadows, but all the crowd could yell was “cabbage coat hangers!” Charles then presented Donny to the shadows, and they flickered as he zigged and zagged his planes above his head. And then – a miracle happened. Glowing dotted lines appeared in the paths of the toy planes. A radiant geometry, triangles and stars and hexagons. The shapes began to connect to each other, circles forming spheres, triangles forming pyramids. The shadows raised their arms and disappeared. Donny stopped flying his planes around, but the dotted lines hung in mid air, an unreadable but completely comprehensible message to the now silent crowd.

They figured it out. One by one, the people returned to the dig site and began carving the shapes they had just seen into the mudstone. As people grew tired and stepped away for rest breaks, they found that their words had returned to them. And when they went back to digging more, they fell silent again, but only because they felt more comfort in their new spatial language of shapes and motion. The anger over the construction was no more. Citizens came together, not just out of a common communication, nor for the good of a great monument, but because happiness finally showed itself to them, and they discovered their own paths to peace. Through the pride of choosing the hard work, for the benefit of all. 

Charles called to tell me how excited he was for me. “You figured it out,” he said. “Kevin, you figured it out.” I told him: “Donny figured it out. He didn’t spout a solution in words, but in deeds. You should be proud of your son, Charles, I said. I am proud of him.” I didn’t say anything else. I need more time to know what else to say. Soon, we’ll go visit the zoo. Hopefully soon we’ll have a night to ourselves. To drink, to dine, to dance, and late at night in a quiet home, to dream a dream of diving birds, of love and language. And we will wake up the same people in a different place. The earth will have moved, the clocks will have moved, the sun will not have moved. But we will wake and we will smile, and we will do our best to understand ourselves and others.

Desert Bluffs, I didn’t figure out the language of the abyss, Donny did. I didn’t figure out what the language intended, you did. What I figured out was that I sometimes push too hard. I will do my best to not do that. We are building this monument because you want to. I want to too, but I’m glad you found your own way here. Lauren, tattooed frown scrawled crooked on her face, is standing over the pit and staring at the shapes the dream has shown us, as though reading messages only she could understand. She is muttering strange syllables to herself and staring at obvious malice at the workers in the pit. So even she has found a hobby in this – post-mayoral life.

Thank you, Desert Bluffs. I love this town. I’m happy you do too.

Stay tuned next for the sound a child makes upon seeing a giraffe in real life.

And as always, Until next time, Desert Bluffs, Until next time.

Today’s proverb: Kangaroos are deer abbreviated.

[whiskeyant]

No Escape, Chapter 1

Characters: Bucky x enhanced!reader

Summary: When Bucky is captured in Romania, he expects the attack. What he doesn’t expect, is a beautiful stranger that has her shaking in her wake. What he expects even less, is that he’s got her in his corner. 

Warnings: Some language, mild violence.

Words: 2.8k 

 Prologue Chapter 2

“Congratulations, Cap. (Y/L/N). You’re both criminals.”

You smile brightly at Rhodey from your position on the pavement.

“Thank you, Mr. Machine, but the honor is all mine.”

“Shut it (Y/L/N), this isn’t a joke. Do you realize what you’ve done? The position you three have put yourselves in?”

You glance down at yourself and your compromising position. You are still on your knees, hands cuffed behind your back. “Oh, I think I know exactly what position I’m in.” You smile lazily, even as Rhodes hoists you onto your feet by your upper arm and shoves you in the direction of the second transport unit. You walk yourself to the truck, Steve and Sam a few paces behind you. Each have an agent’s hand on their shoulder to guide them, lest they make a daring escape.

You had made sure that the agents wouldn’t touch you. They wouldn’t dare to. You even smile sweetly at them as you pass. A few move their fingers to the trigger, but you can see them shaking as they do so.

You seem to be the only one who they have deemed necessary to restrain, and Steve has to help hoist you into the truck without the use of your hands. You tumble in as gracefully as you can, and catch sight of the Winter Soldier being strapped into his own separate unit.

Bucky Barnes, you correct yourself. Not the Winter Soldier. Steve and Sam slide into the seats beside you, which has left the seat in front of you empty, until the Prince of Wakanda seats himself down. You admire his regality and hope that sitting this close to him, even with a plexiglass barrier, would cause some of his grace and poise to rub off onto you. You needed everything you could if you were going to make it out of this mess intact.  

The four of you rode in silence, until Sam boldly asks if Prince T’Challa liked cats.

“Sam,” Steve warns.

“I’m a little curious, too,” you add, “What sort of Prince gets to dress up like a jaguar and run loose in a foreign country?”

“It’s a Black Panther,” Prince T’Challa replies, finally breaking his stoic silence.

“All big cats are the same,” you comment, shrugging as much as your bindings would allow. The Prince says nothing. You sigh, resigning yourself to ride in silence. As far as company goes, you suppose you could do worse. You shift, trying to get comfortable, and your mind wanders to the man in the truck behind you.

You knew he and Steve were friends, back in the olden days. You knew that he had been the Winter Soldier. What you didn’t know was where the Solider stopped, and where Bucky began.

Steve had asked for your help, and you had readily agreed. The best missions, you always thought, were the ones that you had no personal stake in. You’d roll the dice, see where things led, and see what sort of mayhem you could wreak. Then you’d pack yourself up, ship yourself home, and call it a fun weekend no matter what the outcome.

Avoid expectations, avoid disappointment.

Steve and Bucky reunite, and rekindle being best friends forever? Cool. The Winter Soldier is captured and tried for his crimes? Chill. The key to your personal success, you once mused, is never investing too much of yourself into anything. Or anyone. You were like a stray cat, hanging out for as long as it was beneficial for you and leaving when shit got too real and someone petted you too hard. Always on the fringes, never staying in one place for too long. You even opted to drop your first name. Hearing it felt too intimate, too much like someone knew you.

Being recruited by Steve, working with the Avengers, was the longest you had ever stuck around in one place before. And if what Rhodey said was true, it sounded like you wouldn’t be welcome for too much longer. You tell yourself its for the best, and that you would have moved on soon anyway. The thought feels hallow.

You wonder, briefly, as the truck comes to a slow stop at the headquarters, if you and Bucky actually have something in common. Never sticking around, always on the move. The only difference, you ponder, is that he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

You think maybe you don’t, either.

Bucky watches as Steve hops out of their truck, turning to lift you out of the seat and place you on the ground in front of him. He can’t hear you, but it looks like you’ve muttered something to Steve about the indignity of it all. It did not slip his notice that only you and Bucky had been put in restraints.

(Y/L/N), he thinks, as both you and Steve turn to face him in his cell. Bucky swallows past the sadness in his throat as Steve looks on in disappointment. He doesn’t want to name the look you give him, but he has trouble denying the pity on your face.

As the doors shut around him and cut you and Steve off from view, he wonders if he would ever see you again. He wonders if he would be lucky enough to.

You watch as Bucky slides out of your view. You empathize with him; both of you bound against your will for things you had no control over. He never asked to become the Winter Soldier, just as you had never asked to be enhanced. They were the cards you both had been dealt, and you had just been lucky enough to scrap together enough trust from the Avengers to not need your own containment unit like him. You knew, though, that one wrong move and you could end up just like him.

You mentally scold yourself for being so bleak as Steve claps a hand on your shoulder and guides you to the elevators for the meeting.

You walk alongside Steve and Sam, following closely behind Deputy Ross. He looks on edge, and it would be too easy for you to light his fuse. You briefly consider treading lightly, but you have never been one to tip-toe.

“You’ll be provided an office instead of a cell.” Ross keeps his eyes straight ahead, but you can feel that his next words are meant especially for you. “Do yourselves a favor and stay in it.”

“So, I won’t get to go dancing naked in the moonlight tonight as I had planned?” Steve cuts you a sharp look, the hand still resting on your shoulder squeezing nearly to the point of painful.

“As enjoyable as that might be for you,” Ross continued, his voice clipped, “I highly recommend against any moonlit adventures.”

“What about my sunlit ones?”

“(Y/L/N).” Steve’s tone cuts through you, his words final. It was the same tone he’d used in the underpass with you, Behave. You both knew what would happen to you if you didn’t.

Natasha falls in line beside you. “For the record, (Y/L/N), this is what making things worse looks like.” You shrug, finally displacing Steve’s grip on your shoulder.

“I’m only here because Steve asked me to be. I didn’t start any of this.”

“You think they care?” Natasha is quiet and close, her hand resting lightly on your elbow. It almost feels comforting. “You’re involved now, (Y/L/N), they’ll take any excuse they can to remove an enhanced from their roster.”

“I have it under control,” you whisper back.

“Doesn’t look like it from here, baby girl.” Sam closes in on your other side, leaning down to speak to you. “We don’t want to see what happens if you push these guys too far.”

You roll your eyes, lips pressed in a tight, thin line.

“I’d like to see them try.” You ignore Natasha’s incredulous look. You never did like how she seemed to read you like a book.  

You were in control, always. You never showed your cards until you had to. You let Ross believe that the cuffs around your wrists were holding you. You let the agents in the underpass believe that you were unafraid of them.

It was a game you had played for your own entertainment since you were a child. What could you get people to believe about yourself?

You started off small, weaseling an extra cookie from your sweet, older neighbor or finagling out of being grounded. But as you grew, and your abilities were fleshed out, you had to up the stakes. It became less about fun, and more about survival. The world was not kind to people like you.

Could you get the man who harass you on the subway believe that your enhancement was laser eyes? Could you con a young man into providing you a room, in fear of you ‘losing control’ of your power? Could you get the dozen agents surrounding you in an underpass, guns trained at the space between your eyes, believe that you were bullet proof?

The answer, so far, has always been yes. It is easy to manipulate someone who is afraid, which is why it was so easy to fall into place with the Avengers; they simply weren’t afraid of you. It was a nice change of pace, most days. Other days left you gasping for breath in a panic, wondering when the other shoe would drop.

You walk into the meeting room to hear Stark yelling to someone on the phone about consequences.

“Ross wants everyone prosecuted,” Tony says, too casually for the situation at hand. “Had to give them something.” Tony glances at you behind Steve, still fidgeting in your restraints. You wanted to break them off, just to get the circulation back into your hands. But you knew better; you had to keep that card for later. Let these men think you were defenseless.

“Can we please get Miss (Y/L/N) out of those cuffs?” Tony turns to the nearest agent.  “She’s not under arrest.”

“Not yet,” Deputy Ross comments. Though he does motion for an agent to uncuff you. You rub your wrists appreciatively as you flop down in a cushy office chair, propping your feet up on the table and lean back. You close your eyes and listen to Steve and Tony talking about the accords in the next room over.

You have no intention of signing the accords, and so you have no intention of sticking around long enough for them to matter. The moment they were presented to you, you knew your time with the Avengers had run its course. You’d had fun with your friends, with Sam and Steve and Natasha, but you wouldn’t give up your control- your life- for anyone. You just needed the right time to leave. You knew the longer you stuck around, the more you invested yourself into the Avengers, the more excuses you would find to stay. First, it would be one more day. Then you would tell yourself a week. And before you knew it, you would put pen to paper and sign away your life for the accords.

You didn’t notice you’d drifted off to sleep until you hear Tony mention your name, but it isn’t until Steve speaks that you fully understand what exactly they are discussing.

“(Y/L/N) and Wanda? What about them?”

“Wanda is confined to the compound with Vision, and well, we’ve got an eye on (Y/L/N) right here. There’s worse ways to protect people.”

“Protection? This is what you call protection?” You can hear how exasperated Steve is. Heart in your throat, you want to walk over and demand Tony tell you to your face what is to happen to you. But Steve is already in your corner, coming to your defense. You steel your resolve to leave, despite the cracks that have formed from the recent sudden displays of friendship.

“Well its not like we can take her shield and wings from her, now can we? She is a weapon, and that’s all these people are going to see her as.” Your throat is suddenly very tight; the familiar sting of outrage trying to worm its way back into your forefront.

It’s nothing you haven’t heard before. And it doesn’t matter that it was Tony who said it or that Steve did not deny it. It would only matter if you cared about them, about what they thought of you. So, your steel walls go up and you shove the betrayal down, swallowing it to never be dealt with, and you walk out of the room. You have no desire to hear what else your they have to say about you. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t told yourself.

You don’t know where you’re wandering off to, but you notice Steve’s footsteps behind you right away. He looks at you as he catches up, matching his pace to yours, but says nothing. And you tell yourself it doesn’t matter anyways.

It could be me in that cell, you think as you watch as the evaluator sits in front of Barnes. Steve is grateful to Sharon for allowing you all access to the feed, but seeing him in restrains, seeing Bucky so defenseless, makes you more nauseous than you care to admit. It was too easy for you to see yourself in his chair, and you had to remind yourself that you were safe, you were in control. For now, at least.

Behind you, you hear Steve and Sharon talking about Bucky, but you don’t pay any mind. You are fixated on the screen in front of you; on the man in the cell. You lift your hand to nibble at your nails, a bad habit you just can’t seem to shake, and wonder why exactly you are so scared for a man you had never met.

You don’t have the opportunity to think more on it, as you are plunged into inky darkness before the blaring red emergency lights flash on. You are out of your seat in a moment, turning to Steve for instructions.

“Sub-level Five, East Wing.” Steve takes off running, you and Sam hot on his heels.

When the lights cut out, Bucky knows what is about to happen. He fights and he struggles against the constraints, struggles to break free of the glass, but he is running out of time. The man circles his pen as Bucky breaks free just as the final word breaks through, Freight car.

Bucky’s world turns black.

The Asset was ready to comply.

His mind is hazy, blurting out a mission report he only remembers upon command. They never needed him to remember once the orders were carried out. The Soldier is presented more demands from the man with his book.

Destroy, kill, hide.

He took the agents out with ease, slamming them into the ground, shooting with their own weapons when he could. And then he was hidden in the shadow while his commander lay on the floor.

A ploy, the man had said. He calls for help, and a young woman rushes into the room to assist. She kneels by his side, helping him to his feet, the grip on his jacket tight, her eyes suspicious. Two more come into the Soldier’s sight, and he acts without hesitation on his orders to strike. He grabs the smaller of the two men by his throat, tossing him into the cell that used to hold him with a sickening crunch. The soldier decides the other man is his next biggest threat, but the punch he throws sail cleanly over the man’s head, and the man retaliates with a painful blow to the Soldier’s jaw. He can feel it click in and out of place as he charges, throwing his opponent into the elevator doors.

The Soldier raises his metal fist to strike when he feels two small hands grab fistfuls of his shirt. The ground disappears beneath him as is lifted over the young woman’s head and tossed away like a rag doll.

The Soldier rolls from the momentum, digging his metal hand into the floor to slow his tumble. The woman stands in front of her friend protectively, her eyes seeming to dare the Soldier to come closer. He stands and rolled his shoulders, assuring everything is still in place. He nearly smiles; he always like a challenge. He takes off toward her, slamming his full force into her. She slides backward into her friend, and they both go tumbling into the elevator shaft.

The Soldier walks away.

[bonbonswirl-blog]

Perfect

ALL THE CHARACTERS BELONG TO @brueklynn I OWN NOTHING. This is like..uhhhh idk?... a 'batim' au idea? I guess? Im Not sure idk..its just that I got the idea from there and Instead of bendy its jokey, but not really exactly what happend there in batim. Plz ignore the bad portrayed scenes XD blondie is a lot OOC here. Enjoy if you only can thx.

It was a typical afternoon, the sunlit clouds drifted across a clear blue sky, fresh air filled the atmosphere swaying the palm trees gently by a breeze. David was at the recording room, a mellifluous melodic singing voice rose high, following the sweet, piping notes produced by the musical instruments around. After such a lilting, everyone toke a break, david sat on a chair, holding the lyrics for the new song in his hands. He saw a shadow approaching him, revealing his only cheerful boss. "Oh hey Mr. Blondie!! How are you in this lovely day!" "Hello david! Just checking on my young talented singer! How is the new song going?" "Its going great! Im just reading the lyrics again now!" "Thats good!...you know david...have you ever thought about how much the children love your jokey voice?" "Oh! Thats intresting...im sure everybody enjoy listening to it!" "Yea! they do....have you ever felt some...connections...to jokey?" "Connections? Mmmm well...I do feel that we both share a good love for the stage and thrilling the audience! along with the love to asssist other people and spread some optimism in the air!" "Thats beautifull!...Have you ever considered before...becoming this star that all those kids appresciate?" "That...looks pretty Mr. Blondie! But what do you mean?" His boss began to equivocally chuckle, it was low but icy, wasnt like his usual gleeful ones that gave an auditory hug, but david overlooked that, remaining unruffled till the answer. "David. Can you come with me for a while?" "Sure thing! But..what about the new song?" "Dont worry! It can be done in another time! now follow me!" They both left the recording room, the animator leading the ginger boy across the studio, while on their little trip to the unknown room they are walking to, david catched from away a sight of henry, tommy and norman talking together until a rueful rob drew near them, starting a conversation. David didnt mean to eavesdrop anyone, but their high voices did reach his ear. "Guys! Have any of you heared ANYthing lately about harriet? I cant find her anywhere! She didnt come to work and she is not at her home! I called her many times but she doesnt reply! Im really so scared..." rob vented, the three told him thag they didnt see her too. David felt sorry for the fellow worker, hoping that harriet is alright and will be back soon. He looked forward, though he only saw blondie back and his wheelchair, he could feel that he is trying to ignore something, he may have heard a little of the talking out there, maybe he feels sad too? But david was in his mind for a bit, wasnt aware of the time until he sensed that blondie stopped moving. This is when he noticed he is in an unrecognizable area he didnt see before, maybe this was a new place that got built recently?, " Here we are david!!" In front of both was a dark long way of stairs, it was only one storey up, just like one of those half open basemant stariecases. David knew not both will be able to clmib this, he was ready to push that wheelchair up, he looked at blondie concerned, whom just returned a grin. "Dont worry about me! I have my own ways for climbing those!" David didnt really get it, but he just let it go and left blondie to use to his own way, watching him in every step making sure he wont be close to any harm.

Dont ask how blondie climbed the stairs, he just did. that was a really narrow hall they were both in, in front of them a wooden door, blondie toke out his keys and opened it, only for both to be greeted by. "Finally!! Where Were ya!!" an angry wallaby yelled, looking as if he lost patience, it seems blondie was late to whatever meeting they should have done earlier, the room wasnt so small, almost looks like a little hallway with a wall at the end. The view was...tensed, it was a dark room with only a little bulb barley lighning it, orange colored light struggling to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays. It was almost as if candles were the ones giving the slight shine here. Wallaby, paul and murphy were there, standing near the sides of the walls, everyone in a specific place, two at the right wall and one at the left one, only a mile spearting each two. the menacing aura holding david in a tightening grip, why do blondie have such a grisly decorating tatse...He wasnt sure if entering this room is a safe idea. "Guys!! I Brought Our Last Guest!!" Blondie exclaimed in a chirpy tone, closing the door behind himm Last guest? What does he mean? "Can we PLEASE Finish This Now And Go out?" "Come on paul dont be such a killjoy! Enjoy the place!" "If you are telling us to enjoy this creepy atmosphere then I had lost all my faith in you." murphy sneered, clearly not comfortable or trusty with how this 'gathering' is going to end, nobody knows the goal behind it. "Come on David! Here! This Is Your Place!! Stay Still And Dont Move Ok?" Blondie said while putting david on a specific spot on the left wall. "Sure! Wont Move A Shoe!" David obeyed, blondie looked at him, but this time, although he had his usual smile that showed his white glowed teeth spreaded on his face, his eyes had shimmers with some inexplicable spite. "Everything is set~" He whispered this under his breath while walking to one of the corners, nobody heard that one. Three of the invited four toke a look at blondie whereas he was doing something uncanny at that distant corner. David turned at the person in front of him, which was paul. "Oh! hey Mr.Paul!" But being the tedious man he is, paul didnt respone, only focusing on the book on his hand, thats why wallaby seemed as if he was gabbling to himself. The young boy then looked to his right side and saw murphy, still keeping an eye at blondie in a suspicion, despite not understanding a thing from what he was doing, nobody can just fetch someone to a room like this without being not up to something. "So Guys! Why are we here?" "I Dunno david! Mr. Blondie just went to me and told me that I gotta get here cuz he needs me for somethin, well I dont see anything! All I do is just standing on dis here spot not movin a leg!! What about ya paul?" "I dont care I just came here so he can stop nagging me." " I came here after he told me that I can be a 'star' like jokey." "Wait you gonna be a star? Ooh! Thats why we standin on a star!" "What?!" Wallaby words strongly drived murphy attention, making him watch the ground, they all noticed it now, they are standing on 'stars' that are drawn on the floor. David felt inside him a very straied premonisition feeling that was telling him to move, he didnt understand it, why would his guts tell him to move away from a single drawing on the floor? He promised his boss he will stay still there....how could a star drawing hurt anyone? Since whe do drawing harm people? But no matter how much he tries to brush off that feeling, it feels like a stiff weigh was being held on his chest, it made him feel so sick, maybe he just needs to move because his legs hurt him? Yeh yeh thats just it. The cheeky lad toke one step only out of that star shape, he tried to persuad himself its his legs aching and not because of a sixth sense, and that was really something he should be thankful for because. "Guys! I think we gonna be a stars!" "Wallaby...I dont think this star shape is used fo-" "GOODBYE MATES!!"

And with a casted spell and a flash of an eye, everybody was drowned with an unknown colorful sticky liquid that fully covered them, gluing them to the ground. Expect David, who fell down to the ground aspect with a horrible fear that rised behind his eyes from the grisly vision that immediately happend.

Blondie Stood there, watching him in enmity.

Blondie turned around, only to be so bothered by seeing the surviver. "Oh it seems I missed a shot! Im going to fix this~" The words had deserted david, the color quickly drained from his face, a cold wave embalmed him and his mouth ran dry, sweat poured down his body, Heart began to hammer against his chest, every muscle in his body shouted at him to flee. To escpae this imminent threat. He hurried to the door, using every little cell of power left to open it, but no matter how much he quickly moves the handle in fright, the door didnt open, oh yes, blondie locked it. Seeing no hope, he knocked on it so expeditiously and hardly, trying not to make his words stumbled, begging for someone outside to hear him. "HEEEEELLLP!!! HELP ME!!! PLEASE!!! ANYBODY OUT THERE?!?!? PLEASE HELP ME!!" "Come on David, why so nervous?" Blondie snickered from behind him, his voice hinting he is oncoming, his tone ringing in a sick icy way, sending chimes ringing in david ears, but he kept screaming for a rescue, he was not frightened nor afraid, he was beyond such mere nouns, he was going crazy, his boater hat fell from his head, it only reminded of how much he wants his family NOW in this profound situation, he just wanted to go back to them again, stay with his father marley at home and go to beach together or golf or car or wherever his father wants to go, staying in his parents arms was all what he desired, he would never wish anything anymore after this. He could no longer control his hands they were shaking in an odd trembling rhythm, his legs collapsed underneath him, teeth chattering in fear, He slid down the door, bringing his knees up to his chest.

"I-I-I-I-I-I D-D-DONT UNDERSTAND!!!!!!"

"You dont understand? I hated you! Im who created jokey! He was my friend since the childhood! My friend since the start!! But you! I saw every little detail I gifted him in you! You were perfect, perfect for him, more perfect than me! Now that I had a studio of my own, I wanted him to be alive! I reached my wish by the help of you all, by animating and presenting him to all the children around the world, they loved him, just like me! But lately, I didnt feel that I made this dream come true yet...how can a cartoon character offset me of a friend who always stayed by my side that I cant make real! But now I found a second chance, a second chance to revive him, to this reality. Thats it! Thats the chance! By using some souls to bring those stunning characters and that convival cartoony world I created to reality...that was always my biggest dream...and whats a better chance than to have the voice actor whom I influenced the traits for the children 'star' right at my hand~ People will love you david~"

Blondie was right, if david dyed his hair black and wore some cheeks make up, he could exactly like a real life jokey, but who would need a cheap costume when you can bring jokey himself to reality. David recalled the times when he sometimes thought uncle harry may have been a little overprotective of him. He thought his uncle needs to ease a bit, nothing so dangerous will happen for him. Now, he regret thinking this, and wants him to overprotect him forever and ever. Fear became a tangible, living force that crept over him like some hungry beast, immobilizing him and his brain, holding him a captive and took control of his entire body, Shadows and echoes play on his senses warping shapes and sounds. That outlandish substance already reached his legs, his life flashed before his eyes and he ushered his bright unearthly ones shut.

Yeb, this is the angel end.

[obsidianarchives]

Founding Home: Diary One (Part 1)

New Orleans, March 1827

After years of studying, I cannot believe that I am here. I have finally reached a place within my research to keep a journal of my experiments and track the best elements of new incantations. Because inspiration emerges from many sources, I will record the conversations I have along with my observations.

This diary will be a compilation of the magical methods I studied here in New Orleans as part of the Creole and Saint-Domingue communities, concepts shared with me during my time at Uagadou School of Magic, and what I learn from the local Chitimachan community. Honestly, it is refreshing to have a central location for all of this knowledge, instead of the multiple scraps, sheets, and scrolls of paper I have accumulated over all this time.

To be entirely truthful, my utmost hope for keeping record of my work is to use it to instruct students of magik. New Orleans has always been different than the rest of the States in its ‘strange institution’ of enslaving my people, with plantation holders giving Africans a small chance to ‘buy’ their freedom — an opportunity my family benefitted from. Lately, it seems this system is being challenged and free Colored communities are in danger. Even here in Treme — home to generations of free peoples — we hear stirrings of plantations where the last owner was lax about enslaved people reading and writing behind closed doors, and the new owner sets people to whippings and worse for the same acts.

These changes make me feel like something big is coming, and it’s only a matter of time before someone I love is hurt. This fear is even deeper for those of us who hold magik. While non-Colored people paid little attention to us as we read from our eple scrolls when I learned magic, they are now scrutinizing anyone Colored who dares hold parchment in public.

I am not the only one who holds these fears for magik children. I have been speaking with Treme elders, wizards and Pégik alike, and we have concluded that the safest place for us to instruct young wizards is in the swampland. So, for the past six months Francis Guillory, my closest friend and travel companion, and I have examined some of the old Maroon settlements searching for ways to make the swamp secure and habitable. This past month we decided on two possible locations and are ready to embark on the next step, gathering instructors of magik.

With this last thought written, Helene Larieux let out a low sigh and stretched. Seeing the words laid out in her hand reminded her that today was the day.

“Oh Bondye,” she muttered as she took stock of where she was in her morning routine before she had decided to write in her diary, exasperated with herself for sitting at her desk in her dressing gown.

She hurriedly snatched a faded moss green dress from her wardrobe and put it on. Turning to her vanity, she grabbed a small jar of kohl and tiny eyebrush to line her eyelids. Wiping her hands on the hand towel dangling from the end of her vanity, she moved to open the medium-sized bottle of castor oil she kept there.

After spreading a dime sized amount onto her fingers, she selected the braids she’d done in the front of her head the night before and undid them. Satisfied with how they looked in the mirror, she selected a tigon similar in color to her dress, wrapped it around the braids in the back - obscuring them from view - and flattening the folds in the middle. When she finished, the curls in the front looked springy and light, held in place by a fold that rested at her crown.

Hearing a knock at her bedroom door, she went to open it and found her mother’s bemused face. A tall and very attractive woman, with flawless wheat complexioned skin two shades paler than her own and a curvy silhouette that Helene sometimes envied, her mother held a regal bearing that often made it seem as if she were more serious than she actually was.

“Taking your time, as usual, are we?” she said with a smile, “You do realize that Francis knocked on our door ten minutes ago, non?”

“Did he now?” Helene asked, distracted as she put an agate ring on the ring finger of her right hand. “Would you let him know I’ll join y’all in the main room shortly?”

“Hmm, I…” Helene’s mother paused in her response after spying Helene’s diary lying open on her desk. Walking over to examine it closer, she said, “This is remarkably like the leatherwork done by someone I once knew.”

The haunted look in her mother’s eyes told Helene everything she needed to know. Her mother, Carlota, had been born on the Destrehan plantation and had been able to ‘buy her freedom’ due to the assistance of Helene’s father, George, and his Cajun friend, Jean Claude. This had all transpired before Helene was born, but she’d long realized that when her mother had a faraway tone she was remembering a past that she never wanted to talk about.

“Oh, yes, Francis gave me that — maybe you could ask him about it?” Helene suggested quietly.

Her mom snapped out of her reverie at the sound of her voice, “Ah, yes, maybe I should.” She took a last, lingering look at the diary, and walked out of Helene’s room.

After finding and putting on her tiger’s eye necklace that she used for scrolling, Helene added the diary, along with a few other items, to her travel bag before walking out of her room and into the main room.

Walking into the sunlit space, she took in the place she’d always loved yet had also taken for granted. After being home for the past eight months, the novelty of being somewhere she belonged unequivocally still wasn’t lost to her. Perhaps it was just witnessing her mother remember her past, or it could be that the man that she’d just spent most of her time abroad with was standing in front of her, but in that moment, Helene was suspended in sentimental thought.

“Hello, Helene,” Francis greeted her with humor in his eyes, “Nice of you to have dressed up for me.”

Helene followed his gaze down to her feet, where she’d slipped on her tan, lace-up boots that she reserved specifically for traipsing through the woods and swamp land. Looking across to Francis’ feet, Helene noticed he wore his own dusty boots and grinned.

“Well, you know I do my best to coordinate with your laissez-faire attitude towards dressing,” she responded.

Helene’s papa, shaking his head at the pair, brokered, “So I hear you’re making the trip to Bayou Teche today?”

“Yes, Papa,” Helene answered, “Francis has a few contacts within the Chitimachan township there who could be interested in teaching their ways of magik. Maybe even assist us with the school construction project.”

“Oh,” her papa said as he sipped from his cup of tea and settled with it on the sofa.

“Yes,” said Francis, his brown eyes gleaming with a hint of mystery and mischief, “I made friends there during a few of my papa’s work trips and have always admired how they teach magik.”

“You know our healer community here in Treme is excellent in teaching new healers every year…” Helene’s father began.

“This again,” sighed Helene under her breath.

Her father was a gifted healer and something of an anomaly within this traditionally woman-led sphere of magik. When he’d first come to Treme as a teenager, he worked hard to assure other healers that he had no intentions of usurping their clients, only stepping in when his expertise was requested. He’d done well enough to afford helping Manman out of bondage at the Destrehan’s and set up a modest household in Treme by combining his healing and her seamstress earnings.

It was, in fact, his great prowess and pride of being a gifted healer that led him to push his only child, a daughter at that, to pursue healing since she was young. Initially, Helene had been open to it. She had been a young, curious girl who enjoyed helping others and making adults proud. Yet, by the time she began her formal training in magik at the Guillorys at age 11, it was clear she had neither the head nor the stomach for healing.

Now and again her father would bring up the possibility, as if reintroducing the idea would make her change her mind, as he was now.

“And,” her father continued, “I would be more than happy to find a suitable candidate to help with your school endeavor.”

“Oh…” started Helene, who was taken aback, “that would actually be very helpful.”

As her father nodded Helene’s mother, who had caught the end of the exchange as she walked into the room, gave him a wink.

“How about the Pégik elders that you both spoke with, were they any help?” her manman asked.

“Well,” Francis began, “They showed us how they are keeping the schools for Pégik children hidden, and have given us some school supplies they can spare, like slate, chalk, pencils, and the like.”

“That’s useful, right?” asked Helene’s manman hopefully.

“It is, indeed,” added Helene, “Especially because the Pégik elders we spoke to were familiar with the construction of the Maroon settlements before they were destroyed. Many elements of our plan hinge on their insight.”

Helene regretted that they couldn’t involve the Pégik in their plans more directly, particularly because she wished her mother could feel just as useful to her plans as anyone with magik. This was a dynamic that Helene had been navigating for her entire life.

Growing up as a child of a Saint-Domingue wizard father and a mulatto Pégik mother came with its own set of problems, even when living in a free Colored community with a mix of magik and Pégik families. Helene’s mother was so used to seeing magik practiced in secret within the slave quarters of her youth that she had very little reservations about courting and marrying a wizard, but at times Helene felt as if her manman resented being the only Pégik within their household. It didn’t help that within the Treme community the family called home, Helene’s father was in constant demand by wizard leadership and often had to keep his involvement discreet while most of Helene’s closest friends were the wizards she had gone to school with. And what was more, Francis’ mother was one of the two teachers at their small wizarding school, leaving her mother feeling alienated even in building a close relationship with the mother of Helene’s best friend.

So Carlota, who had taught young Helene her letters and numbers while also taking on seamstress jobs, occasionally seemed to deflate when conversations around her became solely about magik. Helene had always tried to keep her mother from feeling as if she’d been replaced, but felt that she’d failed her in some way by making the creation of a magical institution the center of her own ambitions. She knew it was foolish to think this way — this was the same woman who had taken on extra jobs in order to help Helene fund her trip to Uagadou and was just as excited as she was each time she made a magical breakthrough. Yet, she couldn’t help but worry.

Almost as if she’d heard Helene’s thoughts, Helene’s mother probed, “What has come of your studies in Uagadou?”

Helene’s father sat up, interested in her answer. While she had been back home for the past eight months, most of her time had been spent testing out different magical techniques gathered during her time abroad, in collaboration with her eple notebooks from school — which had actually been a small hut on the back of the Guillory property. The remainder of her time back had been spent navigating the politics of obtaining council from wizard and Pégik elders, meaning she spent very little time explaining everything to her parents.

As Helene sat, deciding where to begin a discussion about her time in Uagadou and what she’d learned, Francis filled in for her, “Truthfully, it may be easier to explain what we didn’t learn in Uagadou. During our first month there we were exposed to much more than the main four subjects we were taught here.”

“Do they not spend much time covering eple crafting, healing, potions, and illusion there?” asked Helene’s father, intrigued at the notion.

“Their institution is enormous and old, so while they cover those four subjects thoroughly, students could easily pick four other subjects to advance in and spend little time on those at all,” answered Francis eagerly.

“We were lucky enough to befriend a professor around our age, Kizza Nalule, who specializes in animal transformations,” Helene stated.

“You didn’t!” exclaimed Helene’s mother.

“I’m afraid we did,” Francis smiled with no apology in his voice.

“Well,” Helene’s father calmly ventured, “What are your animal forms?”

“An osprey,” Helene answered quietly.

“A Black bear,” Francis stated proudly.

“I’ll be…” Helene’s manman started before drifting into some choice French words.

“We, um, hate to leave the conversation here, but we have to head to the square before we go to the Bayou,” Francis transitioned.

“Like enfer you do!” said Helene’s mother, ready to interrogate them further.

“Now, Carlota, they’ll be back later and we’ll be in a better, clearer space then, non?” said Helene’s father.

From the look her mother gave her father, then she and Francis, Helene knew there was a very small chance, if any, that her mother would be any less upset the next time they spoke about her becoming an Animagus. But as was typical of her mother when she felt betrayed by her family, she left the room, head held high, went into the kitchen and began cleaning.

“Er, sorry to cut the conversation there, sir,” Francis said, this time with an actual apology in his voice.

Helene’s father sighed, “Yes, not the best way to introduce this change to us, but I suspect she’ll be in a better mood if you bring her something when you return later.”

“We’ll do that,” Helene smiled brightly as she hugged her father goodbye and blew a kiss to her mother, starting out of the front door.

“Good luck you two!” shouted her father amid the sounds of banging pots and pans.

After she and Francis had safely made it down the street and rounded the corner towards Congo Square, Helene finally let go of the breath she’d been holding since deciding to bring up animal transformation only a few minutes ago.

“Well, you’re in prime form,” stated Francis.

“Argh, you know I’ve been struggling with the idea of telling them about becoming Animagi.”

“Of course I did, but I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell them during one of your locket discussions while we were still in Uganda, as I did with my parents.”

“You don’t understand because both of your parents come from Creole wizard families. They understand the prestige that comes with becoming an Animagus, despite the danger.”

“Yes, well my papa is still Pégik and prestige or not, I doubt he wanted yet another reminder of how his family, and his middle son no less, surpassed him in magik,” said Francis, bitterness tinging his tongue.

Helene knew Francis’ papa was a sore subject for him. Shortly before they’d left for Uagadou two years ago, Francis had learned that his father had fathered a child by a Pégik woman, a fact he’d held onto their entire time in Uganda. Francis’ father had always seemed insecure about having no magical ability yet devoted most of his time to carpentry and glowed with pride when speaking about his family. Helene suspected that much of Francis’ anger came from thinking his father wanted another Pégik in his family so he wouldn’t feel so lonely. While she couldn’t hold this thought against Francis, as she often felt the same way about her own mother, she knew talking with him about it would leave him seething.

Deciding to change the conversation to a safer topic, Helene asked, “So, what are we picking up for your Chitimachan friends?”

Francis shook his head as if trying to shake away the dark thoughts that’d consumed him during their walk to the marketplace, “When I last visited, they mentioned needing some work gloves for basket weaving.”

“Hmm, I believe Miss Ella’s stall is on the other side of the square,” added Helene, “She’s the best at keeping labor supplies on hand.”

As the pair made their way across Congo Square, Helene glanced up at Francis, taking in how fine a figure he was. He was tall, at least a head taller than she was — and she was basically a tree sapling with a couple of curves. They were similar in skin tone, what her mother called ‘caramel-complexioned’ but where she was slender he was broad-shouldered and muscular. When they’d finished wizarding school at 18, their families had been sure Francis would ask Helene’s father to begin a formal courtship, given the way they had flirted with each other ceaselessly since they were 16. But graduation came and went, Francis continued to flirt with young women wherever he went and Helene was courted by one of their classmates, Frederick, off and on for a year before breaking it off.

Then Helene and Francis decided on a scheme to develop their own set of eples, at first for fun and experimentation until they found they had a knack for combining eples in useful ways. One of their favorite creations was an eple that coded any letter they wrote to become indecipherable unless read by the intended recipient. After sharing this discovery with a council of elders, it was decided that the two should travel to Uganda to expand their magical training and bring their newfound knowledge to others. While Helene’s primary interest in going to Uagadou had been to read and learn as much as she possibly could, she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that she’d also hoped that the two of them being abroad together would lead to them becoming more than friends. These hopes were dashed almost immediately after they’d arrived, however, as Francis proved to be just as big a flirt there as he was at home. To make matters worse, it seemed his anger at his father meant he was even more focused on magical advancement than he was occupied with thoughts about Helene. That wasn’t to say that he’d never indicated interest in her. They’d shared a kiss at 17, and while they were at Uagadou, Francis had a very heated conversation with a paramour of hers that seemed to be brought on by jealousy.

Just when Helene thought she might ask Francis to give her a better explanation about this confrontation, she noticed a small face she knew.

“Hey, Francis, why don’t you go on to Miss Ella’s stall,” she suggested, “I see Marie at her dad’s metalwork stall and want to say hello.”

Francis followed the direction of Helene’s head gesture, waved at Marie, then promised to meet Helene there after taking care of his business with Miss Ella.

As Helene walked up to Mr. Louis’ stall, she noticed he was in deep conversation with a customer and gave him a slight nod. Moving to the side where Marie sat, Helene signed ‘hello’.

“How are you?” Marie signed back.

“Pretty good, considering,” said Helene, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you two.”

It had indeed been a while. The last time Helene had seen Marie she was 10 and still held some childlike chubbiness. The Marie she currently stood in front of had grown several inches and showed some signs of early pubescence.

“Yes, I’ve missed you,” Marie gestured, “It’s been lonely having so few people around who know how to sign and use magik.”

Helene felt guilty. Here she was trying to build a magical institution, yet she hadn’t bothered visit one of the magik children she was closest to since her return to New Orleans. To be fair, she’d spent most of her first month back sleeping and accompanying her parents on their various work trips. After that she and Francis had returned to their eple work with the councils.

All of this didn’t make up for the time she could’ve stopped in to check in on Marie, however. Sighing with regret, Helene answered, “Yes, I’ve missed you too. Not visiting is entirely my fault. How have you been?”

“Still working in magik sessions with Mrs. Guillory,” said Marie. “Sometimes it’s hard to not turn word signs into magik signs.”

Helene laughed at the mischief in Marie’s eyes as she signed this. Marie was Marie as always. When Helene began babysitting her, she was a quiet, yet precocious five year old who tried hard to remain settled as her father worked, but couldn’t help but to get into things. Helene had been deemed a responsible enough girl at 17, so the grown ups suggested she watch Marie. Because Helene was more bookish than she was outgoing, initially she’d been afraid that Marie wouldn’t take to her, but she soon found out Marie shared her curiosity for magik and the two became fast friends.

It wasn’t until later, when Helene overheard her parents talk late one night, that Helene learned how Louis and his daughter ended up in Treme with no wife or mother. Apparently Marie’s mother had died in childbirth while enslaved. Louis, who was an accomplished metalworker on the same Mississippi plantation, hoped that his skill would keep the owners from forcing his hearing impaired daughter into the fields. But as soon as Marie turned four, he’d received notice from the overseer that she was to join the others, and was expected to work just as hard, hearing or no. Louis seized his chance to escape as soon as he could and had landed in New Orleans. When Helene had first met him she thought he seemed a bit desperate and on edge, but as time went on it seemed the fear of being discovered had subsided. Even now, Louis sold his wares openly on market days, but only on days he felt safest, usually after there had been a raid.

Helene had always been slightly suspicious of his desperation, but her love for Marie had outweighed her suspicion — how could someone awful have such a great child? For the most part Louis had always been nice to her and had even given her a little coin before her trip to Uganda in thanks for taking care of Marie for all these years.

“How are your lessons going?” she asked Marie.

Marie shrugged, “Well enough, I feel like I can always do more, but Mrs. Guillory says I need to stick to the plan.”

Helene nodded, “She is a stickler for rules. What would you like to do instead?”

“My fingers are itching to work with soil and plants,” Marie answered, “Papa says there’s no more room for plants in our place and I’ve done all I can with our small garden.”

“Oh!” Helene signed with excitement, “I’ve just remembered that I have a few plants that I’ve not been able to nurse back to their fullness since returning. Maybe you could stop by my house later?”

“Really?” asked Marie happy at the thought, “When?”

“How about when Francis and I return from our trip? I’ll come back to the market to pick you up.”

“Yes, I’ll ask Papa!”

“Great!” Helene signed as she spotted Francis heading their way, “See you in a few hours.”

Marie and Louis waved Helene and Francis goodbye as they walked away from the stall.

“So, was your trip to Miss Ella’s successful?” asked Helene.

“Very. I found work gloves in multiple sizes and had enough time to visit the jewelry stall to get you this,” answered Francis, handing Helene a small pouch.

Helene opened it and found a black choker with a cameo image of a woman with curly hair tied in a tigon, much like hers.

“Oh my, thank you,” Helene said with a smile and a hug, “This was completely unexpected. What’s the occasion?”

Francis returned her smile and shrugged, “No real occasion. I just saw it and it reminded me of you. I thought after spending all this time in the swamps you may like something nice. Can’t have you only associating me with mud and sweat.”

Helene laughed and put the cameo in her bag, deciding she would wear it on her next day out somewhere nice. Could it be that Francis returned her feelings after all?

When she looked up again, Francis’ face held a frown. She looked around but couldn’t see anything that would make him unhappy. Shrugging, she joked, “I know what this is about. Your birthday is in a couple of weeks. You’re angling to get a nice birthday gift from me.”

His smile didn’t meet his eyes when he answered, “Nah, but now I’m expecting something grand.”

He walked a little faster than her now, making it to the clearing in the park up ahead. Had she made him angry? How? They were just smiling and hugging. Pushing these thoughts back, she met him at the Apparition point — an old magnolia tree that some wizard had designated far enough from nearby vantage points to be safe enough to travel from.

“Ready?” Francis asked tersely as he held his hands out for side-along Apparition.

“Yes,” Helene started, “Are we—?” but before she could finish her question they were off.

And with a rush, they were standing beside a sign that stated: “WELCOME, Chitimacha Indian Reservation.”

Helene stumbled a little, letting her feet catch up to the ground here. Francis, who had led the side-along Apparition since he’d been here so frequently, seemed to have landed with no difficulty.

After watching Helene to ascertain whether she needed any help, Francis began walking past the sign and into the reservation. Helene caught up with him and together they made their way to the scout post.

Francis stopped and introduced Helene to the guard, Charles, explaining they were here to give someone named Rosalie the gloves she’d requested. The guard gestured them forward and they continued their path towards a tall house made of plaster and thatch that Francis pointed out five yards away.

As they walked the path uphill, Helene noticed that Francis seemed to have shaken off whatever had been bothering him, after speaking with the guard. In fact, the usual spring in his step was back. Perhaps returning to the primary mission put him in a better mood?

They made it to the front yard and could hear little voices laughing in the back. Francis knocked on the front door, and a few moments later someone tall, with long dark brown hair, wearing a loose-fitted red tunic with fine blue embroidery and leather leggings answered the door.

“Hello, Boaz,” Francis greeted them, “We’re here to see Rosalie. She should be expecting me.”

Boaz nodded and looked at Helene in askance, “Is this your friend who wants to start a school?”

“Hi, yes, I’m Helene,” said Helene holding out her hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” demurred Boaz, shaking her hand, “Come and have a seat. I’ll let Rosalie know her guests have arrived.”

Helene and Francis walked into the room they had gestured towards, Francis heading directly to a seat in the corner. Helene followed his actions and took a seat on the bench in the center of the room. As they waited, Helene took in the room. Each wall had been painted a landscape painting with animals moving in the distance. To the side of where they sat, there lay a few sleeping mats, woven rugs, and blankets in a range of colors and patterns.

Helene was thinking through the best way to make her appeal to Rosalie about joining the school, when she walked into the room.

Rosalie was a short woman, with long brown hair, bright brown eyes, and a dimpled smile. She seemed to be the same age as Helene and Francis. She walked up to Francis gave him a hug, then walked over to Helene to shake her hand. She smoothed her long, blue patterned ribbon skirt before taking a seat on the side of the bench closest to Francis.

“It’s nice to see you,” she started looking at Francis, “And to meet you,” she added, nodding in Helene’s direction.

Before Helene could respond in kind, Rosalie continued, “Any luck fetching those gloves I requested?”

“Yes,” answered Francis, smiling as he pulled them out of his bag, “I got them in an assortment of sizes. I hope there are enough small ones for your youngest pupils.”

Rosalie smiled back while taking the gloves out of his hands, her hands lingering on his, “You’re always so thoughtful.”

Helene felt her gut tighten and tried as hard as possible to make her face appear emotionless.

Francis laughed, blushing a little, “It was no problem.” He slowly moved his hands back to his sides.

Helene tried to clear her head, and voice, as much as she could before mustering, while gesturing towards the backyard where they could hear children talking, “It seems you have a lot of practice in teaching children. What magik do you teach?”

Rosalie followed Helene’s gesture and nodded, “Myself, Boaz, and a few others teach all the magic we know. My specialty being potion-making.”

“Is that so?” asked Helene interested, “My father is a healer and he’s always looking for a potion master who knows their stuff.”

“Is he now?” said Rosalie with an eyebrow raised, “A male healer? May your father be George Larieux, by any chance?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

“By reputation,” stated Rosalie with respect in her voice, “He helped our best healer recover from a bad sickness. We thought we might lose her.”

“Oh,” said Helene, thinking she may be making some inroads with Rosalie after all, “I’m glad he could help.”

“Quite,” said Rosalie, as she turned towards Francis, “Do you mind explaining this project you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Sure,” Francis stated, giving Helene a brief glance before beginning, “As we’ve discussed in the past, the non-Colored seem to be enforcing greater restrictions on Colored populations and wizards are becoming worried that the security measures that worked when there was little scrutiny will completely fail during a crack down on Colored communities.”

“You must have heard about the militias who destroyed the Maroon settlements all those years back?” added Helene.

“I have, but that was quite a while ago and a few of your fellow freedmen assisted, no?” said Rosalie.

“Well...yes, but—” Helene started.

“...our elders believe that soon enough similar measures will be taken due to the visions a few of them have had — but this time these actions will include the destruction of free Colored communities as well,” Francis ended.

Helene sat back, surprised that Francis would share the contents of a vision with Rosalie. They had been entrusted with this information by the elders, who’d expected them to keep it quiet lest the details of the vision lead to a mass exodus. Neither Helene nor Francis had shared this information with their parents.

If Rosalie noticed Helene’s reaction, she didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she nodded saying, “This matches some of our concerns. One of our elders had a vision of settlers pushing us further out of our land soon.”

The three sat in silence for a beat, each trying to decipher what it meant that elders from two different communities shared similarly foreboding visions.

“And you’re suggesting the answer to this forthcoming violence is what? Teaching?” said Rosalie with light sarcasm.

“But you see, the location is central to this plan,” started Helene.

“What? In swampland?” asked Rosalie in a near sneer, “As you can see, we live a good deal away from settler eyes and can practice magic without being devoured by mosquitoes. Why would I leave my students here to go teach in a lagoon?”

Francis caught Rosalie’s gaze, “Rosalie, that’s a bit unfair. We would never ask you to leave your students.”

“No? You’d have me ask their parents permission to uproot them from the family and home they know because of a few visions and your friend’s ‘brilliant’ plan?” she finished, no longer containing her barbed speech.

“That’s it. It’s fine.” said Helene angrily standing up, “You can keep your students and your teaching and your potions here. I don’t want help from anyone more worried about mosquitoes than they are about protecting their people.”

Francis quickly stood up and moved between the two women. “I don’t think we’ll have any progress in conversation here today. Rosalie, if you don’t like the idea of helping us build the school, would you at least consider coming out a couple of times a week? We could really use a potions master of your caliber,” he said with a strained smile.

Rosalie gave an imperceptible incline of the head, while waving them away.

Francis led Helene out of the door, with only a slight glance back on their way out. Helene grumpily moved out of his arm span and stomped her way towards the reservation entrance, not sure who she was most angry with at the moment.

While halfway down the hill, Helene felt the presence of another person and glanced back to find Boaz following them. When she stopped and turned in Boaz’ direction, Francis caught up with Helene and then waited as well.

Boaz stopped in front the couple and said, “I heard what you said to my sister. I want to help you.”

Helene, who had been braced for round two of the argument they’d just left with Rosalie, was unprepared for this interaction, “Pardon me?”

“I want to help you build your school and help teach people,” Boaz repeated, “You may find my gifts better suited to your goals than Rosalie’s anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m a weaver and builder.”

“May I ask,” Helene inquired, “Why you’d like to help us, after I just had a row with your sister?”

Boaz’ face remained diplomatic, but even so Helene could see a twinkle in their eyes, “My sister often has rows. What matters here are the visions you spoke of, you see, the elder Rosalie mentioned is my grandmother.”

Francis gasped, “Mrs. Sennet had that vision?”

“Yes,” Boaz answered, “And she told me that when your friend came, I was to assist. I’ll await your next correspondence by osprey.” Then with a nod to Francis and Helene, Boaz trekked back up the hill.

Helene and Francis looked at each other in stunned silence for a minute or so, before turning to continue their way back to the reservation’s Apparition point.

Francis stopped Helene before she turned to Apparate back to the park on her own. “That wasn’t how I expected this to go, but I think it’s safe to call this trip a success, right?”

Helene gave him a small shrug before turning on the spot, just before she pictured her destination, she thought triumphantly, “We did it!”

*********************************************************************************

Eple Creation

Before drafting an eple, or spell as it is said in English, you must first sequester yourself to a location at a great distance from others. While simply thinking of an incantation isn’t sufficient to conjure a spell with one's hands, if one isn’t careful you may find yourself absentmindedly muttering different spells as you work through an incantation.

The simplest eples are created by using the prefix of one spell and the suffix of another. For example, if taking the prefix ‘levi’ from the incantations — Levicorpus or Wingardum Leviosa — then adding the suffix ‘me’ from the incantation – Point Me — one would find themselves hovering in the direction of the item they seek.

Eples are best created by wizards who have a wide range of incantations under their belt because they know how each eple feels when spoken and achieved. It is for this reason that eple creation is not taught to students until they have shown mastery of non-verbal eples.

*********************************************************************************

[editoress]

Chapter 1: Hired [Treasure Hell]

I wrote some Treasure Planet self insert for this weekend.  Not really sure what for except I love the book and move both, and I adore writing in this style.

Montressor spaceport was nothing if not lively.  The crescent bay was crammed with docks and inns and trading houses, and through all those things moved an unfathomable number of people.  It was less of a wonder after a few years of living there, but a wonder it remained.  Ships came and went on their golden sails; spacers who had been to corners of the galaxy she'd never even heard of passed her on the street; and the air rang all hours of the day with song and machinery and stories.

In a place where there was too much to pay notice to and take in, Elizabeth had, as usual, chosen to attend to the details.  Today's details had been a sour-sounding cough and a badly sprained wrist, and both procedures had been fully paid for.  Altogether she considered the day a success.

And then, instead of leaving, her last patient cleared her throat delicately and said, "Doctor, can I, er, have my records?"

Elizabeth paused in the act of waving Sally Henderson goodbye.  "Oh," she said.  She slowly retreated behind her desk and began thumbing precisely through her patient files.  They were in alphabetical order, not that there were so very many to search through. "An awful lot of patients," she noted as she pulled Sally's file loose, "have been asking for their records lately."

"We-ell."  Sally drew out the word searchingly.  "Business has been so good lately.  I think they must have moved uptown, you know, to the fancier districts."  She fiddled with her handkerchief with three stout hands; the fourth was carefully and professionally bound. "Also."

"Mhmm," Elizabeth prompted, handing the papers over.

"Well," Sally said again.  "Some people believe that you harbor rogues and thieves. The lower element, you know." She smiled a little too widely. "I'm sure it's not true, but what can you do about gossips!"

Elizabeth had opened her mouth, hoping for some relevant and reassuring words to see their own way out, when one of the bells beside her desk rang decisively.  She had five, one for each entrance and each patient room. She had just turned to look incredulously at the particular bell that was still vibrating in place when Cutter burst into the lobby with a crash of metal.  The grate that served as his mouth lit blue as he spoke, his voice deep and tinny.   "Back door for you, Doctor," he announced loudly, and vanished.

Elizabeth let the matter settle into silence with dignity.  "Please excuse me, Miss Henderson," she said at last.

"Oh, of course, Doctor," said Sally, who had already backed up to the front door. Elizabeth didn't even hear the platitude the woman offered as she scurried away.  Elizabeth locked the door as soon after as she dared and walked swiftly toward the back of the building.  She drew in a deep, annoyed breath.  Then she remembered that it was late, and she was feeling the strain of running a financially unsound business, and she let out her breath, trying to shove out any malice with it.

It flared back up at once when she stepped into the back hall and saw George Merry standing around as though he had nothing better to do.  She had seen him just earlier this week for a knife wound he'd more than earned, by all accounts.  She had also made herself perfectly clear he had a head on his shoulders for a reason and ought to use it if he intended to keep the thing.  "What happened now?" she demanded.

George started. "Doc Anderson."  He touched his forehead in a sort of semi-salute. When she showed no interest in civilities, he held out both hands in defense.  "I didn't do nothing, I swear!  This is business talk."

Elizabeth did stop at that, brow furrowed in confusion.  For a long moment, she feared she was about to lose the other half of her clientele, too, and have to move shop back to Montressor proper sooner than expected. She shook that thought off along with whatever annoyance she could cast out.  "Sorry, George.  It's been a long week, and I thought you'd gone and got stabbed again."

"Not me, Doc," he replied.  "But I've got a job for you."

She steepled her fingers beneath her nose.  "But you didn't get stabbed."

"No, damnit!" He pulled his kerchief off in agitation, but it caught on his horns.  Abashedly, he worked it back on again.  "It's not that kind of job.  Well, could be.  Been hired for a voyage, me and the lads."

Elizabeth had not the slightest idea who comprised the most recent incarnation of 'the lads.'  She hypothesized it didn't include the fellow he had gotten in a knife fight with a few days earlier, but alarmingly enough, she couldn't really be sure.  "I see. Be careful."

George gave her a wiry, crooked grin.  "You can make sure of that yourself, Doc.  The bloke hiring said as he hadn't got a doctor, so I says, I know one tough as nails."

She laughed. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mister Merry," she allowed.  "But I'm not sure it'll get me on a ship."

"Come by the dock anyway," he insisted.  "We're to sail on the Legacy. They're still in talks for a few more hands.  If you like the job, and if you've got any sense I wager you will—"

"Enough."  She waved his expressive gestures out of her face. "I'll come.  For your eagerness, Mister Merry, if not your manners."

George shoved his hands in his pockets.  "You're well past manners with our lot, Doc," he declared.

"Bold words for a man who howled when he got stitches," she intoned in reply. She smiled in the face of his dark glower.  "Tomorrow is soon enough, I hope."

"Aye."  His goal achieved, he half-saluted again and turned to leave.

"George," she called after him.  "Your recommending me for this job—this doesn't have anything to do with my reputation for legal discretion, does it?"

"It's honest work, Doc," George replied, but he was practically on the other side of the door when he said it.  Elizabeth sighed after him.

She turned the corner to find Cutter waiting in the hallway, whirring with half a dozen medical tools. He was only as high as her shoulder, but if pressed, she would have said he was looming.  "He left, Cutter.  He didn't need medical help."

"Shame," Cutter said.  He reluctantly put his tools away.

"I'm going to lock up for the night.  Will you be all right here?"

Cutter pressed one jointed hand to his iron grate of a mouth.  "Oh no, what if I'm robbed by the lower element?"

She snorted. "Funny."  Fortunately, that was the one thing she did not have to worry about.  She had a local reputation that kept a lot of thieves and burglars—not all, but a lot—from troubling her.  Unfortunately, that was most of the payment they offered. "Goodnight, Cutter."

Cutter had already disappeared into a supply room, humming ominously as he went.

Elizabeth pulled on her coat, a great, dark, woolen thing that had seen better days.  She fancied it made her look mysterious, with its thick shadows and its heavy length that smacked at her calves.  Cutter claimed it made her look like a bag of old laundry, but he didn't wear coats at all, so that just showed what he knew.  Either way, it was welcome in the still, cold air.

The streets were shadowed over when she left.  As she walked, stars began to pick their way out of the sunlit haze that was slowly retreating from the spaceport.  A brougham clopped by, scattering pedestrians as it went.  A trio of bird-like fellows watched it intently as it passed and then dove into muttered conversation.  Elizabeth kept a weather eye out, as George Merry would have said, but she must have looked intimidating indeed in the coat, for no one gave her more than an appraising glance.

At last she arrived at the doorstep of the Singing Toad Inn.  Contrary to its name, no singing drifted from its well-lit interior, and as far as she knew the innkeeper had no toads at all, vocal or otherwise.  But it was warm and clean.  Too, it was one of the quieter inns, since it had only a few rooms.  Elizabeth was all too aware she had been taking one of them up for months now.

"Ho!" called the innkeep cheerily as she saw her way inside.  "Dinner?"

"Yes, please," she replied.  "Evening," she added to the many-eyed lady in the corner, but it was in vain.  The lady continued to smoke as fervently as though she meant to send up a signal across the station.

"What'll it be?"

Elizabeth wiggled her way out of the coat.  "You know me, Todd, I'll eat whatever's left."

"Right you are." Todd lumbered back into the kitchen, calling for 'Missus.'  Elizabeth had never once learned his wife's name.  The woman apparently ran the whole shop but never spoke to customers.

Elizabeth seated herself at the bar.  She breathed in deep, trying to guess what might have been served, but all she got for her trouble was a lungful of pipe smoke.  She coughed discreetly as possible.  Her eyes were still watering when Todd returned.  "On its way," he assured her.  He slapped his hands down on the bar and nodded distractedly.  "Er," he said.

Elizabeth waited him out.

"How much longer do you reckon you were going to stay?" he managed after several false starts.  "It's no mind to me and Missus."  He glanced warily over his shoulder to the door of the kitchen. After a moment, he decided very professionally, "But we wouldn't want accounts to get behind."

"Very delicately done," she congratulated him.  "No, I wouldn't want that, either.  I appreciate you letting me know when my account is running out."

Todd's obvious discomfort lessened at the thanks, as it did every time.  "No trouble, miss."

She was already calculating what she had and what could be done with it when she remembered she still had another decision to make.  It would have been impolite to not at least consider this job of George's, whether or not she fancied several months on a ship. "I can let you know tomorrow," she said slowly.

"Well enough! Fine talk," Todd said with some relief.  He lightly slapped his hands on the bar again.  "What's happening tomorrow?"

"Oh."  She smiled and waved a hand.  "Probably nothing."

*

Elizabeth had the good fortune to be a naturally early riser, so leaving the inn with time to spare was the least of her worries for the day.  She walked briskly and ate breakfast at the same time.  On the way to her practice she winked and nodded to anyone she recognized, offering a "Good morning!" in instances her mouth wasn't full of biscuit.  The whole place was bright with the bustle of tradesmen hurrying to work and groups of laughing spacers dragging hung-over friends to the docks.  Someone had started on an accordion a couple of streets over.  Elizabeth hummed along as she unlocked the door and came into the front office.

"Cutter?" she called.  She listened, not only for a reply but also for any indication he was up to something, but the building was silent.  "Cutter?"

They came through the lobby door at the same time, which was considerably less comfortable for Elizabeth than for the robot.  "Ouch," Cutter said anyway.

"You can say that again," she muttered, shoving her hands inside her coat to cover her breasts, which had gotten the worst of it.  "I came to tell you I won't be in until late, possibly after lunch."

"Why'd you come in early to tell me you'd be late?" he asked.

Elizabeth sighed in a longsuffering way she had perfected with practice.  "I have something of an interview this morning.  Be so kind as to hold down the fort until I get back."

Cutter whirred wordlessly for a moment, and she could have sworn his eyes glowed brighter. "I'm going to run the practice by myself?" he asked slowly.

"For a few hours," she clarified.  "Very likely, no one will come.  If they do—Cutter, are you listening?"

"Medical oaths," he said, placating.  "I understand."  He spread his hands magnanimously.  "The benefit of the patient.  Do no harm. And so on."

She was going to have to trust that that would do.  "I wish you were as enthusiastic about the principles as you are about the work." She made it as far as the door before reminding him, "Just a few hours, mind."

"Yes, Doctor."

Thoroughly unconvinced, she bid goodbye to Cutter and started for the docks.  A few inquiries here and there led her to the Legacy that George had mentioned, and thence to the financier of the voyage.  The Legacy had been pointed out with some respect; to guide her to the financier, most people rolled their eyes, gestured shortly, and gave her no more mind.

She at last found the man on a clear hunt for supplies.  He was well dressed, older than her by a good fifteen years, and even in a diverse crowd such as this he stuck out like a sore thumb.  His ears flopped comically as he tried to shake loose from a vendor.

"Thank you," he was saying, hysteria mixing with well-bred civility, "thank you, no, I have one.  Several, actually."

"Doctor Doppler?" Elizabeth called authoritatively.

"Excuse me," he told the vendor with infinite relief.  He freed himself at last and walked nearly with dignity to meet Elizabeth.

She held out her hand. "Doctor Anderson.  I heard you're hiring."

"Ah, yes!" He beamed at her and shook her hand enthusiastically.  "You must be the, er, other doctor.  In the medical field, I presume."

"That's me," she confirmed, amused.  "Do you expect to need a medical doctor?"

"Oh, goodness, no.  But," he added, hefting his veritable mountain of purchases, "preparedness is the key to success."  What looked like a metal gauntlet began easing its way out of a bag.  He managed to shoulder it back into place and muttered, "At least, I very much hope so."

She grinned. "Well, it can't hurt.  I take it you're otherwise prepared?"

Doppler made a delicate gesture as if viewing a priceless work of art.  "To the last detail.  Except for you, of course, if you'd like to join.  I'm prepared to offer general terms—generous terms—" He flapped his hands.  "Anyway. We set sail on the RLS Legacy in four days.  I expect we'll be back in four months, certainly no more than six. The crew came very well recommended from a good local man, you've met him.  You can find them at the Spyglass Inn.  You have a card, of course, Doctor?"

"Oh," said Elizabeth, who had in fact one card.  She cast about in her pockets and discreetly shook off any biscuit crumbs before handing it to him.  "Of course."

"Thank you." He smiled warmly as he glanced over it. "Oh!  Here at the spaceport.  How exciting!"  He carefully stuffed it in one of his many shopping bags.  "I hope you'll take the job.  You can never have too many doctors around."

His excitement was infectious.  She offered a wide smile.  "I have to agree with you there.  But I should warn you I'm not a ship doctor by trade or experience."

"Stellar, ahaha," Doppler replied, unperturbed.  "This will be my first voyage as well.  An astrophysicist finally visits the stars."  He peered at her over his glasses. "Perhaps you've heard of my work?"

"Er." Elizabeth searched for a compromise between honesty and cordiality and allowed, "I might have read something."  Before he could ask what, she put in, "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to talk to the crew before I decide."

"Yes!  Yes, of course.  Off with you."  He beamed and waved.  "Until later, Doctor."

She laughed. "Goodbye, Doctor."

Doppler's jovial mood affected her all the way back to the Spyglass Inn.  That was definitely the sort of fellow she could stand to work for, if temporarily.  More practically, anyone who financed a voyage and bought that much in the way of last-minute supplies was the sort of fellow she could well afford to work for.  And yet it was too early to settle on a decision.  First, she had to take a closer look at this voyage.

The Spyglass Inn was a well kept tavern and inn right off the docks, exactly the sort of place one might expect to find spacers just waiting to board a ship.  Elizabeth stepped inside, humming, and was immediately met by a bright red arachnid face and glowing yellow eyes.  The man towered over her, teeth bared in a low-slung jaw.

"Israel Hands!" she cried.

Hands, who looked a good deal more alive than the last time she had seen him, only sneered.  His eyes narrowed.  "It's Scroop," he hissed.

"You what?" she blurted out incredulously before she could help herself.

Hands's claws clicked, and his voice lowered to a growl.  "You're in the way."

Now that's gratitude! she thought to herself, but a moment later she realized aloud, "Of course.  Sorry.  You wouldn't remember me."

"Hold off, Scroop!" yelled a familiar voice from deeper within the tavern.  "That's her!  That's the doc!"

Elizabeth realized then that Israel Hands, another of her less than legal patients, was part of this crew she had come to investigate, and also that he really did intend to go by the name Scroop.  Neither revelation filled her with confidence.  She went forward anyway, searching for the face to go with the voice of George Merry.  She found him at one end of a very long table filled with spacers and ale.  He casually toasted her before draining the last of his glass.

"And a very good morning to you," she returned.  "Bit early, isn't it?"

"It's breakfast, Doc," George protested.

Hands shouldered her on his way to the wall, which he leaned against menacingly.  Elizabeth scanned the table for other familiar faces and came up with two or three she knew in passing but not well enough to gauge the overall crowd.  "I take it this is the crew."

"Most of us. Why?"

She frowned. "Just wondering what sort of voyage this is."

"The sort that pays well, is all I know," George said sagely.  He laid one finger along the side of his nose, but what he was trying to convey she couldn't fathom.

"Pays well!" trilled a voice in her ear.  Elizabeth leapt back just in time to avoid a hurtling miniature of George as it cartwheeled through the space between them.  It stopped to hover over the table.  It was only two or three inches tall but slouched just like the man. "Pays well!  Pays well!" it cried.

"Georgie's fatter!" shouted someone halfway down the table.  The tiny George puffed out its gut obediently.

"Bugger off, Morph!" George said succinctly.  He waved his hat through the apparition, which dissolved into a pink amorphous mass with a high, cackling laugh.  The creature zipped through the air over Elizabeth's shoulder.  She whirled around to follow its path and came face to face with a mountain of a man.

It was a rare thing for Elizabeth to have to look up any great distance to anyone.  This man, though, had all of Hands's height—and none of the gangly build.  He was massive, and she could tell that his size was more than partly due to muscle. Even the complex iron machinery of his cybernetic limbs couldn't match the size of their flesh-and-blood counterparts. But for all that, he was smiling widely as he cooed over the blob, and his voice was light and lilting.

"Now, Mister Merry," he said with perfect tones of paternal disappointment, "there's no call to be rude to Morphy here.  He didn't mean a thing by it."  Morph purred innocuously.

"Sorry—" George cleared his throat. "Eh, sorry, Morph."

Morph seemed none the wiser for the apology.

"Silver," George continued more boldly, "this is the doc we were looking to bring along. Just in case and all."

Silver turned to her with surprising speed.  "Why!" he exclaimed.  "You didn't tell me you'd found a proper lady!"

Elizabeth felt at once flattered and alarmed by this assessment.  "Not a lady, sir," she corrected quickly.  She held out her hand.  "Doctor Elizabeth Anderson."

His cybernetic hand engulfed hers, and he wrung her hand enthusiastically.  With his other he removed his hat and pressed it to his chest. "John Silver, as it please you," he returned.  "A real university doctor?  Why, that's a lucky thing!"

"You're part of the crew?" she guessed.

He gave her a modest smile with too much glint to be genuine.  "Aye, the good doctor was kind enough to hire an old spacer.  Now, I'm not the swashbuckling young lad I was once, so I'll be ship's cook.  But by the powers, I'll put my heart into it, you may lay to that!"

"If I join, I'll hold you to that," she informed him.  She leveled a finger at him.  "I'm serious about my food."

Silver boomed out a laugh, and Elizabeth couldn't help joining him.  "Ah!" he wheezed, wiping a tear from his remaining eye. "Now that's a lass after my own heart, that is."

"If you join, Doc?" George repeated, offended. "Hold on, if?"

"That's right," she said firmly, refusing to fall for the sad-eyes act of a man who mugged people regularly.  "I spoke with Doctor Doppler earlier.  He's willing to have me on.  But I haven't decided yet."

"Told you," someone down the table muttered.  "Not enough money for a doctor."

George scowled at her. "Why the hell not?  Every time you get a spacer in they've got to listen to how you wish you'd gotten to 'em sooner."

"I see word really gets around," she said a little sourly.

"I'm saying now you get to!" he insisted.  "And the pay's good.  Company's good.  And I recommended you, professional-like, and I'll look like a fool if you don't come."

"If I can have a word," Silver put in.  Something about his voice quieted the table.  He stepped forward with his hat once again in hand.  His solemnity was almost too dramatic, but something of the performance was sincere enough to make her listen.  "Speaking as someone who's seen his share of ships, and who's himself needed a doctor once or twice, it'd be a great weight off all our shoulders to have you with us, Doctor."  He smiled indulgently over the table of spacers.  "There's some young cocks who imagine as they're invincible, but you and I—well, we know there's a lot can happen in four months."

He made a point, and it was a point she had thought of more than once.  True, there were a hundred voyages leaving from Montressor spaceport every day, but this one had asked for her help.  She let out a breath.  "Do you know what our purpose would be?"

For an instant, he considered her thoughtfully; then, with a sheepish grin and a shrug, he said, "Some private expedition of this doctor's.  'T'ain't no business of mine.  As for me, my purpose is to feed the crew!"

"Fair enough," she sighed.  She looked down at George, who was twirling his empty glass on the table and pretending not to listen so intently.  "Why me?" she asked him.

He grunted. "You're the only doctor I know."

It was a simple, believable answer, and she could sketch out the most likely story for herself: George Merry had been asked by Doctor Doppler, a new hand at space voyages, to help find and hire the necessary ships and crew; and so George had recommended whoever he knew, which happened to be mostly from the less legal side of the spectrum.  Still, Occam's Razor panned out until it didn't, and she had the gut feeling that if she went, this voyage would be a disaster.

She wondered what Cutter would say about it.  He had his own way of being direct and logical.  What will this voyage be if you don't go? he would retort.  And the answer, of course, was that it might still be a disaster, just one without a doctor on board.

Elizabeth put her hands on her hips and glanced around the room—at George, at Silver, at Hands, at the woman whose eye she had once patched up.  "Well, shipmates," she declared dryly, "I suppose I'm hired."

[theliterateape]

Loony

by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

He awoke in a panic with a piss boner bursting through his boxers. He sprung from his bed, legs crossed, praying to God to help him make it in time. He limped into the bathroom, struggled to remove his underpants, aimed clumsily, and let it rip; forgetfully, leaving the door wide open. His stream was that of a young, inexperienced marksman; strong, but with a mind of its own.  Bright yellow urine shot into and around the toilet bowl, echoing down the adjacent hallway. He managed to spray the wall, the vanity, and the flamingo’d shower curtain; his nocturnal back-up making a mess of it all. He stood, trancelike, indifferent to his poor aim, relieving himself like an untrained puppy. 

The rank smell permeated the tiny space, announcing last night’s meal, which included copious servings of asparagus.

He was 12.

“Patrick!  Praise God, what are ya’ doin’ there?” His mother’s shrill voice, screeching like a hawk, rose over the downpour of his urgent elimination. Her hair, a tangled mess woven amongst a cadre of fat curlers, a fag dangling from her cracked ruby lips, and a stained blue robe wrapped around her bony body.

He turned, startled, mid-stream, redirecting his flow, now pissing into the hall, where his mother stood puffing away.

“Patrick!” She grabbed him by his hair. “For shite sake. You’ve wee’d on your mam. You’ve run astray, my God; you don’t know what you’re doin’.”  She pinched his cheek.  “Wake up, lad!”

His mam’s intervention was for naught. He casually finished his business and passed a toot to boot, pulling up his boxers as if he’d just gotten done, in a totally civil fashion, browsing through the Sunday paper while performing his morning ritual.

“Come here, dear.” She moved carefully towards her boy, her feet sheathed with once furry slippers that had spent far too many a year encasing her bunion-covered feet. She drew her son into her arms, taking great pains to avoid his still-stiff organ. She released him. “This has to stop,” she mumbled, crossing herself. “Sweet Jesus,” she looked up and whispered to the bathroom ceiling,“give me a wee bit of direction here.”

“Mam!” Patrick pushed her away, hard on finally relenting, suddenly aware of the yellow rivulets decorating the toilet, the wall, and the flamingos; slammed into the here and now, looking for answers to a question he did not understand.  “What are ya’ doin’, Mam, standing there all daft like I committed a crime!”

“What am I doin’?” Hands planted on her hips. “I’m takin’ care of me boy! My ‘pissin’ all over the house’, asparagus-eatin’, 12-year-old boy!”

In an awkward silence Paddy and his mam struggled to avoid each other’s gaze. Only the rattling fan broke the tension in the tiny, fermenting space. Tears welled in Paddy’s gray-green eyes. His red bed-head hair shot sideways from his skull, creating a fiery halo around his freckled face. “I’m sorry, Mam! I am.”

“It’s got to stop.” Her voice low, exasperated. 

“I don’t know what to do, Mam. It happened again.”

She took another drag, and exhaled a phlegm-filled sigh towards the malfunctioning fan, the blue haze swirliing towards its dirty yellowed grate.  

“Why am I like this, Ma?” He switched off the fan, its blades grinding to a halt.

“It’s a ting,”she said.

“What kinda ting?”

“A family ting. Your da would do it too. Piss all over. I used to have a tiny phonograph. He wee’d on that in the middle of de night. It was still spinnin’. Ruined me favorite record.”

He looked down at the floor. A chill swept over him. She pulled his trembling body into her bulky robe. He cringed, but she held him tight, scruffing his carrot-top hair. The stench of her, the early morning wake-up cigarette, bath powder, and cheap tea, assaulted his senses. “There, there, Paddy. You’ll be fine. “’Tis the challenges in life we need to deal with. It’s not a fecking party in the pub every day of the week, ya’ know.”

“Ma?” His voice muffled in her robe.

“Yeah, son?”

“Where’s da?”

She stepped back from her boy and studied him. She sucked another drag and raised her head, exhaling. “We’ve been down this trail before.”

“Where, Ma?”

“I told you.”

“Ma….”

Her blue-veined hands twitched ever so… as she pulled hard on her cig. She rubbed her scaly neck and fiddled with her thinning hair. “You make it hard, Paddy, with all your questions.”

“He’s locked away.”

“Where’d that come from?” she snapped, placing both his cheeks in her hands.

“James.” His voice a whisper.

“Don’t be leaning on other people’s evil to make up your own life’s story.” 

“He said, Ma, that Da was loony. And the coppers put him away.”

She tossed the fag into the toilet. Its ash sizzled in the yellowish water. “Come, Paddy, let’s have a bit of a chat.” She took his hand and guided him into the cluttered living room, dimming the light and patting the frayed sofa, motioning for him to sit beside her.

His lips quivered, still dressed only in his boxers. “Lord, you’re still cold, da lips, they’re turnin’ blue.” She reached over to the ottoman and removed one of her quilts, wrapping it around him. He snuggled into it, breathing a long sigh.

 “Better?”

“Tanks, Ma.”

“Your da had many tings rollin’ around in his head. He had the troubles. Here.” She gently tapped her son’s head. “But a good man. He tried.”

“I try, Ma.” 

“I know you do, Paddy, but he tried to figure too much.”

“Figure what?”

“Like the sun, the wind. He’d sit and point to the leaves on the trees, blowin’ this way and that. I thought it was nice, romance like, but he did it…,” she shook her head slowly, “too much.”

“He’d just sit and watch the wind?”

“Or the stars. Or the rain.”

“Why would the coppers take him away for that?”

“People don’t understand.”

“But Ma...”

“He could build tings, when he wasn’t dreamin’. And one day he’d finished a fence for Jimmy Doyle. Your da was a grand fence builder. Even built one for Mr. Daley, the kinda’ man you don’t meet every day now, and Jimmy said he’d pay your Da in a month. But the deal was pay now, when done.”

“Why’d the coppers take him away?”

“Your da wanted the money right off, no waiting. But Jimmy was a guy who thought he was someting’. He’d go down to O’Roarke’s and get into scuffs. Put up his dukes.”

Paddy smiled and raised his fists. “I remember Da when I was a wee lad, showin’ me how to fight.”

“He loved you, Paddy.” She rubbed his head. “You have his hair. Red as the burnin’sun.”

“What then, Ma, with Doyle?”

“Doyle had had a few pints at the pub. His chest got all puffy. He got like that when he’d have a drink. And he come here lookin’ for Da.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to scrap. Put on the squeeze. Show him up.”

“What did Da do?”

“He was up on the roof.”

“The roof?” Paddy’s voice rose with both embarrassment and confusion.

“He was gazin’ at the stars, like he did. Them lads were full of dew and tried to have fun on him. Yellin’ vile words and callin’ him loony and tings.”

“What did Da do?”

“He gave ‘em what for.”

“What for?”

“He climbed down. He told Doyle and the other drunkards to leave because he was lookin’ at the stars. They laughed like they were teasin’ a wee cripple.”

“What did Da do?”

“ Your da took his hammer, the claw end....”  She hesitated, picking at the collar of her robe.

“What, Ma?”

“…and buried it in Doyle’s eye.”

“In his eye?”

“Aye, lad. Right in his feckin’ eye.”

“What then, Ma?”

“Doyle lay writhin’ in his mess and your Da just went back on the roof, calm as could be. The other lads scurried off like the banshees were lightin’ out.”

“And then the coppers came?”

“Aye.” Her voice barely audible. “They came and took him away.”

“Was he, Ma?”

“What?” she said, pulling her robe tight around her neck.

“Loony,” he asked, his soft voice cracking in the morning air. “Was he, Ma?”

“Oh, Paddy.” She rubbed her gnarled fingers over her nose, wiping the snot of her tears away. “I don’t know.”

“Am I, Ma?”

“I don’t want to hear it, Paddy.”

“Loony.  Like Da.”

Silence filled the room with a thick darkness. His ma searched for her handkerchief buried in her matted robe. 

“Am I?  I think things too, Ma. Crazy tings. I’m pissin’ all over. I dream when I ain’t sleepin’.  And I look just like ‘im.  Am I, Ma?  Am I loony?”

She choked, coughing up an anguished moan as if her past was erupting from her belly. “I don’t know, Paddy.”

“Will the coppers take me, too?”

She pulled him closer, clutching him with all her strength, keeping him from falling into the blackness of his fate. She took a deep breath, her gnarled fingers squeezing him with her terror.

“Will they, Ma?” 

“Never,” she said, standing, ripping back the curtains.  “Never,” her voice filling the sunlit room.