#operation theatre courses near me

[technicalinstitute]

Best Operation Theatre Technology Course in Kolkata

Discover the top-notch Operation Theatre Technology Program in Kolkata at Global Technical Institute, empowering students with in-depth knowledge of surgical procedures, equipment administration, and patient care. Our curriculum adheres to industry benchmarks, and practical training readies graduates for gratifying healthcare careers. Enlist today and kickstart your journey towards expertise in surgical technology.

[wakayrd]

More theatre stuff! I've started to put all the theatre doodles I do under a tag called "isat curtain call" because I wanted to be organized lol

MIRABELLE! Mirabelle is kind of a powerhouse at the theatre. She acts in a lot of the plays they put on (and gets really nervous before going on stage). She has lots of folks who are her neighbors or friends who attend shows and always overwhelm her with tons of flowers. She appreciates it but it can be a bit much! She's always around to help- She will show up for set construction, set decor, lighting design... anything- and all on top of acting! She's even the theatre's health and safety rep! (the little bit at the bottom is inspired by true events... yeah...)

Bonnie!! Bonnie started volunteering with the theatre recently after coming to see a pantomime for Peter Pan. They love to help out with the snack bar, and even wear nice clothing for the shows to look all professional. They also usher sometimes! All with adult supervision of course. They are allowed to come help with set decor (painting the set!) but NOT set construction. They sometimes convince their older sister to stop by the theatre when everyone else is working to drop off homemade goodies. They also like to hang out in the sound/light booth, the stage looks so different from up there! They're close with Odile, who shows them a ton of stuff. They hope that sometime they can also start doing the light cues during a show. They don't want to work near Siffrin backstage, even though that's something they could perhaps start doing now.

Sometimes... it feels like there's something in the theatre, hanging out in the catwalks, judging silently. Maybe... someone... But if you turn around to see them, they're gone! The theatre might be haunted, who knows. That seems the most plausible theory... Siffrin tends to spend a lot of time on the catwalks as well. Perhaps he'd know more about this mysterious spirit of the theatre?

The Spirit of the Theatre! (Loop!) They're always around. They're actually convinced that they're not able to leave the theatre. The hat? They stole it from the costume room! It makes hiding that glow ever so easy- Sometimes they steal coats or matching robes from there, just to make hiding easier. They're so knowledgeable in all things theatre, especially the theatre the group operates out of. Sometimes they spend their time alone at the theatre straightening up the props room or making sure all the actor's props and costumes are in their proper places. It really seems like they consider themselves an integral (and invisible) part of the team. They like to watch from afar, that's all. Meeting Siffrin was an accident, one that The Spirit of the Theatre couldn't avoid. Now they have to deal with Siffrin coming to talk to them often, even looking for advice. It's unclear how long they've been there, and when asked for a name, will only say they're the "Spirit of the Theatre."

And that's it from me today I promise I am normal lol I am having fun watching this all form in front of my eyes a little. It's mostly silly goofy stuff and as much as I'd love to stick to canon best I can, I may have to fiddle with it to get it to make sense... especially for Loop :) but if you have any ideas or stuff my inbox is so open I love talking about this- these drawings were stacked up from the last couple of days just me preparing to post... teehee!!

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Bodies in the Theatre

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Jack x Belle Rating: E Word Count: 1021

For today's @dodgerfoxweek prompt: post-series

Summary: Jack and Belle make a new memory on the operating table where she almost died.

She lives, and he’s afraid to be near her. She probably sees it before he does, feels it before he does, frowning because he’s always maintaining a distance, clasping his hands behind his back. He thinks, for a while, that it’s a reversion to propriety; she’s been recast, a finished vase back into raw clay on a spinning wheel, made over again, and he doesn’t realize it’s him setting her up on a high shelf, out of his reach.

It’s her who shows him, of course. It can only be her. One day, when the hospital is quiet and the theatre floor is clean, she insists on closeness. One step closer and he feels the thick slickness of blood on his hands. Two steps and she’s cut open beneath him and Jack’s demanding, “Stop. Stop,” holding out a hand to prevent her coming any nearer.

“Jack.” Her eyes are pleading, but tears wobble across his vision. “Look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” he spits, crying freely. “I’m always looking at you. You’re always right there, in front of my eyes. I see you… I see you when I try to sleep…”

His hand is shaking when he lifts it to his face, covers his mouth but can’t muffle the ragged sob. He crumples and she sweeps towards him and it doesn’t matter now because his mind has already gone there, seeing the worse. Her hand is just a weight on his back.

“It’s this room,” he gasps.

She rubs.

“It’s only a room.”

“No.” His breathing hitches, but he forces himself to stand. Her hand is on him still. “You looked… I thought you were…”

“Dead,” she finishes. And it’s the worst thing, but it comes from her living lips. “You couldn’t feel me breathing. You couldn’t find my pulse.”

Hetty will have told her, after he could not. She will have asked, naturally curious about the procedure, probably put out that she couldn’t study the surgery performed on her own body. She knows, and it’s such a relief that his lungs fill properly, his panic beginning to subside.

“It’s over now,” is her promise.

“Not in my head.”

She stands squarely in front of him.

“What’s the worst thing you can imagine?”

“You on that table,” he tells her honestly, immediately.

Taking her hand from his back, she strides to the table. Eyes locked on his, she plants her hands and pushes herself up to sit on its surface.

“Belle…” he says, voice rough, gutted from his throat.

“What next?”

He walks to her slowly, face working through all of it: her fearlessness, her determination to see him through this, her strength in sitting where only weeks ago she lay while Hetty sponged the blood that coursed from her body. He takes her face in his hands. It’s been so long. His hands healed her, but he’s been too afraid that the next time they touched her skin, it would all be taken back. Her body would remember, would recoil. She lifts her face and he brings his mouth down to hers.

“Lie down,” he whispers.

This is harder yet, and easier. She lies back without shifting away from him, so her legs hang off the table. She keeps her eyes open. She doesn’t appear uneasy. He’s trembling as he braces his hands and leans over her. Not checking is impossible; he watches her chest rise and fall, pinches her leg through her loose trousers.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.”

After a minute, she sighs. He folds over her, ear pressed to the thump of her strong heart.

“I remember this ceiling,” she says, so quiet. “I didn’t think… but I do. I remember your face. I couldn’t feel you kiss me—the pain was too much. That didn’t seem fair. But I was never afraid. If you couldn’t fix it, it meant that it couldn’t be fixed, and all the time I’d had was all I would get. I was relieved, when you put the mask over my face and I breathed in the ether. I was relieved if I’d spent the last of my time with you.”

He releases a pained gasp and turns his face into her blouse. He’s kissing the linen, and then Belle draws it up, and then he’s kissing her skin, her scar, the very line she teetered upon between life and death, his the hand she held as she walked it.

He sighs, hot, and her abdomen quivers. His name moans from her mouth like it doesn’t want to leave. Like the rest of him. That’s right, he doesn’t want to leave her.

They fumble her naked from the scar down, and he never thought he’d be here like this, and his exhausted mind has sketched too many scenes where she isn’t here at all. Because he still doesn’t trust his hands, they’re light, stroking her hips, but his mouth is brave though uncertain, his face between her warm thighs. His tongue licks generously and her hips roll with him. He can hear her breathing, because she does it loudly. On the table, she is alive as he has known her to be, knows her to be, and something in Jack is released.

“I can do it,” he exhales. “I have you, Belle. I can do it.”

Her hands rake through his hair, clutch, and guide his mouth back to her. The wetness on his face, winding trails of sorrow and lingering dread, disappears into the wetness of her. It’s joy now, joy, joy, her knees in the air because she can’t keep them down. He shuts his eyes, just a test, and there’s nothing waiting for him there. Her living presence is too commanding.

This is a theatre and the role she’s played in his life is once-in-a-lifetime. He tells her that he loves her, and he tells her that he loves her, and because she loves him, he knows that he can be loved. He knows that she loves him, and she says it, and he hears her. He hears the breath leaving her body. And he hears it surging back in.

[destinyc1020]

sometimes I think the kid as in Tom was not meant to be this famous. Like his moves are suspicious to me. I would not be surprised if Harry is his publicist. He doesn’t move like a celebrity should idk the complete disregard about the discourse around his name in the last few months has made me realize that he operates in a very short sighted arena. Like I will be honest I am so dumb founded by his lack of response to this whole thing. I mean, this play is just a play right? It is not meant to make or break anything for him. But now it’s breaking him. The very community that he is entering aka the theatre community ( esp black theater in south London) is not happy. So this has now already created this persona about him to the people consuming this art.It really saddens me because I know the kid doesn’t have a bad bone in his body but he lacks foresight. I’m sure Sydney Sweeney would have made a statement if she was in the situation because she cares about pr. I bring her up because we all know Tom has better character than her but she understands her position in this business. Tom doesn’t. Im really frustrated. I wish there was something we could do but like today with his twitter he is not on top of shit! It’s hard to defend him. If Fran comes out of this and speaks and says she wishes he would have done more then it’s really really fucking bad. He missed the chance to be lauded by the community now he is being scrutinized and honestly he deserves it

I understand your frustration Anon, but I think you're catastrophizing things just a bit.

First of all, British theater will be JUST FINE, they LOVE Tom over there (do you forget he started off in British theater?? 🤔 He's not some nobody).

Second, the tickets for all play dates have already been sold OUT. They sold out in like 2 HOURS. People are gonna be sat for this play regardless of whatever "issues" are going on inside of the Twitter app.

Most ppl attending that play probably have no clue what was going on online anyway on Twitter. 🙄

The only people complaining about this casting were racist ppl who o more than likely didn't have a ticket to the show in the first place.

Third.... Sydney Sweeney is nowhere NEAR as famous as Tom is, so while she might be good at "PR", when you're SUPER famous (like Tom is) you do have to think extra hard about your actions (and non-actions).

Lastly, while it's frustrating.... You have to keep in mind that you're just a fan, and to know your place. You don't know everything, you don't see everything. We don't know what Fran might come out saying in the future. She might talk about how Tom and the rest of the cast was super supportive of her, and bought her cards and flowers, and helped her to feel welcomed.

When you make assumptions, you.... well, you know the rest lol 😆

I'm just saying, while it cad be frustrating, I think that as a fan, you have to realize that we don't know ALL the facts, we don't know what will happen in the future, and we don't need to hate on someone in retaliation.

Jmho 🤷🏾‍♀️

Either you're a fan, or you're not... It's your own choice. I personally don't feel like celebrities are perfect, so I afford them some grace, even if they've disappointed me in some way (depending on what it is of course).

Just take a deep breath and breathe.....

[playingforever]

Do you think mono would ever noncon six? Perhaps in an obsessed crazy melty way? - retrospring ask [link]

[spotlight panning to me, as I am very severe and fingers steepled] [and my head is under a bag] Considering the fact that the whole time loop 🔁 operates on subjecting Six to torment without her consent — more or less personally orchestrating her constantly being abducted and rescued only to be abducted again... Yes, I do think that Mono has this capacity within him. In fact, I firmly believe it,,,

Usually I look to canon to gauge how much duress it would take for a character to cross another's boundaries so extremely... In Mono's case, he's able to get quite far in 'the ends justify the means', even before he has reached his apex of being the Thin Man — what he does to Monster Six is deeply upsetting. As I play it, I sure feel like I'm performing a sort of noncon... Persevering through a girl screaming and belligerently resisting me until the very end.

By contrast, I think actual rape, would be a lot more preferable for the both of them-!? (knows how this sounds, BUT HEAR ME OUT.) It'd just be a lot more direct... Not needing all the convoluted theatre of the environment around them. I think it'd be a pretty good breakthrough if Mono could lower himself enough from his position of Six's noble protector, to enact on her body for his own desires — and it'd be more digestible for Six to process her harm at the hands of her friend. I think the ending of the game leaves Six in turmoil, whiplashed about by the extreme poles of what Mono/Thin Man put her through. She likely, can't even really understand what Mono's intent even is. It might seem wantonly cruel with no goal. And only when alone does Mono perhaps, reflect on his own selfishness.

[waves hands...] Of course, this isn't me saying it wouldn't be intense, or alarming or upsetting etc... Just prefacing that I think it's both a logical escalation from their current dynamic (lol.) and that also it would be cathartic.

Now, let's get into the details. ( •̀ ω •́ )✧

Between the two... well, I do see Mono as closer to processing his feelings as 'a crush'... specificity of, Attracted To Six. I think he's able to identify, when Six is near, heart goes doki doki. Like to look at her, like to touch her. His reactions to her are not incidental; he knows he wouldn't feel this way about anyone else. There's a boyish simplicity to him... which, means I think he also understands, he gets Horny about her as well. He be seeing, ha panty, sometimes, as they're climbing ladders. Lingering gaze, on her bare legs. Compulsively keying into the location of her pussy. And so on. It's not something he shies away from feeling... She's a pretty girl, after all... [quietly stares, from the safe partition of my paper bag.]

As for Six... she is unable to have that kind of awareness for her feelings about Mono. Naturally kind of, doomful, listless girl... not one to think with romantic flourish. It probably feels like a fluke that they were even able to survive this long; keeping each other company is a bonus. It's not that she doesn't care about him — I do think he's able to make her feel things she never has before-!! Six would have her own moments of raw attraction as well, drawn to Mono as something distinctly familiar, in an otherwise hostile & unfamiliar world. Buuut I think she's also a bit wary of emotional intensity too ww, so she would be scared to feel doki doki... She can't quite linger on it, like Mono does.

Generally I think of it as... Six cannot consciously instigate, because she's so far from having expectations of affection (she can't even see herself as craving it...) Meanwhile, Mono is more capable of instigating, but is encumbered by self-hate and overly obsessing about being Six's protector. Mono's love language is like. Dragging Six around violently and bashing things with a pipe. He's, one-track-minded, so I think he's in this rut of seeing rescuing/protecting Six as the ultimate expression of what he can do for her. Fantasizing about kissing her is genuinely too self-indulgent... so he doesn't-!! Even if he would like to. Instead, I think he gets off on the extent his loyalty makes him sacrifice and enduring anything 'for Six's sake'. It's a problem lol.

NOW IMAGINE WE COULD GET PAST THAT BARRIER...!! (And I imagine this would be through the sheer power of looping and accruing 1000 little scant moments with Six. Basting in unmet desire.) Well then Mono could reach the Next Step of trying to Do Something-! Regardless of if it felt, selfish and awful and antithetical to what he is supposed to be doing... No, even so, the feelings just need to well up inside until he can't take it. I think he also needs to be poisoned by how passive and permissive Six is, and how much he's constantly directing her body... A part of him should understand, it's possible to get away with, Something, here...

The atmosphere varies... I could see it being stoic, severe, ahh the mindset of 'I will just Do It. Here I Go.' Harsh low breathing, forceful, crushing Six against his body, pinning her against a surface... (They're often in tight, enclosed spaces together, aren't they?) Or, something more plaintive, trying to shush her, apologetic, 'Please just let me...' petting her, trying to hold hands during, errr but also definitely keeping her restrained and not letting her wiggle away... I've also dwelled on, like a cowardly pathetic attempt at somno, like a kind of Bargaining emotion... scoot pants down, but still be in underwear, press tented boner between her legs... please god, I just want to kind of feel it, for 1 second. [TRYING TO NOT HUFF IN MY PAPER BAG...]

Emotions I envision at the start of such a thing are mostly, lowly, guilty... though I think it could escalate midway into some sort of, entitlement, arrogance, I do so much for you please just let me...!!! and so on. And then of course, her body feels good, to fuck. So there's satisfaction gained from the sheer act. Maybe a childish belief that it can't only feel so good for him. Surely, it feels good for her too... [mentally justifying actions] Six's reflex is to run from things — maybe she just needs him to be persistent. That's how it often is, between them... ⬅ わがまま！！

For Six, on the receiving end, I like it to be genuinely pretty scary and inscrutable, whatever he is initiating with her — like she's not even fully able to grasp the sensations, she can't think 'sex' or 'rape', even. It's more disorienting than that, like, Mono is acting on my body, Mono is forcing himself inside me. Feels like he's created an opening in her, he might as well be stabbing her — just that extreme, of a gap of understanding what is happening.

But ahhh I think, her own attraction and interest in Mono means her body rawly responds to things like his touch, scent... She's already keyed into his voice as a firm anchor, something she's meant to react to, so hearing him haggard, breathing, or babbling at her, slurring, anything would make her brain feel as though it's reverberating in her skull. Draws out unconscious feelings, desperation, aching — terrible awe that she's somehow made him do this? That she isn't running away from it, either? — all this happening internally/physically would make it all feel Crazier. Like oh, Mono's lost his mind, and ig me too. AhhHHH.

For how complicated it is for these two, baseline, I see things as even starting consensual ➡ descending into noncon, midway during interfacing. A consequence of having hazy memories of multiple timelines; a kind of ability to go from 0-1000 easily, with no warning... Alsoo, I kind of, stylistically(? ??) like to imagine they do not talk aloud very much, and have predominantly nonverbal interactions. But it means, they're both often floundering with their own internal perception of things, and unable to bridge a discussion about what the other is feeling or what is happening... or what the other wants. It takes a lot of pressure to reach that event horizon, I think... The great conflict at the end of the game is their discrepancy in perspective, after all.

All that said, I think the scariest rape potential is, well. Bagless Mono at the end of the game who has just usurped power from the Thin Man and is tormenting Monster Six. That guy, I think is like uniquely off his rocker, swangin his axe around and booming HEYYY at a cowering screeching girl. God help Six if he could, just channel enough power to resist being tossed into the abyss or something. I think he could fuck her to death. He really froightens me. She is right to drop him and turn and leave. Seriously get away from him before something bad happens. [laughing...]

[hartxstarr]

hey so I am BONKERS late but. I just wanted to say I love your writing excerpts that you put up!! Fracas au does some kinda thing to my brain and I always love seeing more of it, and even (especially!) with the tiny other snippets I love seeing your takes on the characters in general. I know from experience it can be hard to like old writing, but like. It was really good and you should be proud of it!! Anyway I probably could have worded this better but thanks for sharing and have a nice day :)

hello hello!! thank you SO MUCH honestly i know i can be a little hard on my old stuff (ESPECIALLY fracas) but just know that i dont actually hate any of it. i just compare it to my writing nowadays and see just how different it is! it’s always nice to hear that someone likes my writing. i’ll read the comment over and over again and get so happy. and then come back later and read it again lol so for you to say this means a lot to me 💚

fracas au was something near and dear to my heart at the time. i ended up posting like three works about it (one deleted) but i spent countless school-hours writing about it in notebooks and i have so many wips in my files…in the end, i dont have those notebooks anymore and only remember the barebones of the complete story as it was. fracas would have spanned from forest-dwelling reds and blues, to them taking down a Super Secret government operation, to them returning to their home once more. with many, many, many shenanigans in between, and overlapping storylines, of course.

anyways, here’s another 2017 snippet of a fracas wip i never finished. this would have been the opening to the fic haha (i have gone in and cleaned it up just a tiny little bit but i refrained from going too hard at it, least i end up finishing the entire thing)

---

“I ain’t sharing no vegetables with no-good, dirty Blues.”

Leonard squinted into the face of Sarge while the Red raised his chin in response—more so turning his nose up already to whatever the Blue leader was about to say than to his sudden proximity.

It was like a standoff in an old western movie and, if they were in a more sparse, drier climate—where thick evergreens didn't grow and the shabby pavement beneath their feet weren’t littered with pine needles—a pinecone could take the place of a tumbleweed and roll pass them down the length of the avenue, out of sight.

But as it was, they weren't in an old-town desert outside a local tavern, readying their pistols, spurs jingling. Instead, they were smack-dab in the middle of town in each others faces, the trees parting enough to let in a few good, generous rays of sunlight; and Leonard, swimming in his hoodie, didn’t seem to have a good rebuttal.

Despite this, Michael from afar whispered with as much enthusiasm as he would atop a theatre stage, “Leonard will win” like it was, in fact, some kind of duel-gunpoint competition set up for all of their amusement.

The Reds and Blues stood in a sort of collective semicircle, watching their respective leaders size each other up. Transactions never were an uneasy affair in Blood Gulch, the mutual desire for an item far more powerful than the animosity the teams constantly lived within—but, of course, Sarge wasn’t the one usually making deals.

Richard had tried to passively refrain his leader from going with him to make business with the Blues; he had wanted Dexter—as was the standard—but Sarge seemed to be bored that day, perhaps, and mentally decided that the only way to stir the light of day was to make trading far more difficult than it needed to be. Obviously. So, it was in his wake that the entirety of Red team came to witness Leonard still unable to come up with a response to his rival team leader's declaration.

“Oh yeah?” he tried after a moment more. “Well—we don’t want your fucking vegetables—”

“Yes, we do!” Lavernius threw his hands up in despair.

“Yes, we do want your fucking vegetables,” the Blue probably thought it was a pretty good save. “So—just give them to us,” and he still doesn't know what to say. “Why are you even here?”

Sarge seemed to swell at the question, back straight and towering over Leonard not in stature but in pure aura alone. “I'm here to make sure you don't swindle my team out of valuable goods!”

“Don't worry, Sarge!” Delano called out from the back. “My goods are too precious to give away so easily!”

“Thanks for the info, Delano.”

Del was always so unwaveringly cheerful. “You’re welcome, Sarge!”

[krinstitutionsnursing]

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[technicalinstitute]

Best Operation Theatre Technology Course in Kolkata

Discover the top-notch Operation Theatre Technology Program in Kolkata at Global Technical Institute, empowering students with in-depth knowledge of surgical procedures, equipment administration, and patient care. Our curriculum adheres to industry benchmarks, and practical training readies graduates for gratifying healthcare careers. Enlist today and kickstart your journey towards expertise in surgical technology.

[gihsibstitute]

Best health science institute in Kottayam

GIHS is a paramedical college run by Mar Gregorious Memorial Education and Charitable Trust. The institute is located at Kangazha on the state highway at a distance of half a kilometer from Kangazha town. It is well connected with the main cities of Kottayam, Pathanamthitta and Alappuzha Districts. GIHS is established with a dream of providing job oriented vocational courses in health care stream. The main objective is to develop an institute with an aim to mould true health care professionals with service driven empathetic approach, medical ethics and accountability to the society. Our campus buildings and facilities are eco-friendly. Solar energy, rain water harvesting, tree plantation are some of the eco-friendly efforts of GIHS. We practice and strive to inculcate the feeling of social responsibility to each student. We aim to create health care professionals with a human touch and service mentality.

[gregorianinstitute]

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[fardell24b]

Spider Quinn 10 The New Heroes - Part 6

It wasn’t long before Joey, Quinn and Daria arrived, along with Jeffy, Jamie, Stacy and Jane.

“Even more teens,” Osborn murmured as Jane entered last.

“Daria has invited me along as moral support,” Jane added. “As well as to appraise any artworks you’re wishing to add.”

“I see,” Osborn said. “Now, as you can see, most of the work on the lobby has been done.”

“Good,” Stacy commented.

“Now, follow to the side rooms, and you’ll see that the café is also nearly complete,” Osborn said.

Brittany looked around the café area after she and Kevin entered. It certainly had an old style charm. “Wow,” she commented.

Osborn lead the group to a table. “Have you figured out a name yet?” he asked.

“The Old Theatre,” Robert said. “But then there are other old theatres in Lawndale.”

“We just called it that,” Joey said.

“What was it originally called?” Daria asked.

“According to the paperwork, the Global,” Osborn answered.

“Probably not that,” Quinn considered.

“You want a name that reflects the ideal you want it to be, right?” Daria asked.

“Of course,” Joey said.

“When I write a story, I choose a name based on the theme,” Daria said. “So, what theme are you after, other than the nostalgia?”

“The Past,” Joey mused, then shook his head.

“Historia?” Brittany asked, as she twirled a pigtail.

“Huh?” Kevin asked.

“Wait, say that again,” Daria responded.

“Historia. A place of history,” Brittany said.

“Sounds great!” Quinn said.

“Historia, a place that reflects history,” Daria said with a slight smile. “What do you think of that?” she asked Joey and Robert.

“Great, Ma’am,” Robert responded.

“Sounds better than ‘the Past’, or anything else I could have come up with,” Joey said.

“Historia, it is then,” Osborn said.

As the kitchen was already operational and Osborn had hired caterers for the day, they then had lunch. Brittany and Kevin sat across from each other, as did Angie and Robert, and Joey and Stacy, Quinn and Jamie sat next to each other, across from Daria and Jane.

“What’s wrong, Babe?” Kevin asked.

“Nothing,” Brittany said. She was thinking. Being Ninja Talon was taking up time she would otherwise spend on dates with Kevin. ‘But what excuses could he accept?’ she thought. She already knew that he would take a lot.

“OK,” Kevin said.

She continued eating and overheard Stacy saying that she would be going to an anime convention later in the year.

The rest of the lunch went well.

After the lunch, Brittany left the soon-to-be ‘Historia’ and headed to one of the town libraries. ‘If nothing else I’ll  be able to find something.’ She was soon confronted by the size of the library and the fact that she was unfamiliar with the Dewey Decimal System. As such, she spent most of the afternoon wandering around the library in confusion as she thought about each thing she read.

After dinner she headed out again, with a portable radio. She waited on Lincoln Street near Lisa Fisher’s house. She wanted to be sure that her fellow cheerleader wasn’t the new vigilante. It wasn’t long before a report came on the radio, that the new vigilante had been sighted downtown again. ‘It’s not Lisa,’ Ninja Talon concluded, as Lisa hadn’t left the house.

The new vigilante had just rescued a lady from a would-be mugger when Ninja Talon arrived on the scene at the north end of Main Street.

“Ninja Talon is it?” the new vigilante asked when Ninja Talon had approached.

“Yes,” she answered.

“SpiderGirl couldn’t catch me. What makes you think you can?”

“I have a different style to her!”

“That may be true,” the other vigilante said. “But something tells me you don’t have powers.”

“And you do?”

“I’m neither confirming nor denying,”

“Then tell me, why are you doing what you are doing?” Ninja Talon asked.

“I don’t have to tell you!”

“No, you don’t. But what is your goal?”

“I don’t have to tell you that either,” the new vigilante said, before somehow producing a fog and disappearing into it.

‘Oh great!’ Ninja Talon thought as she tried to go around the fog. The new vigilante had vanished into the night.

She looked for a while longer, but couldn’t find her again, so she went home disappointed.

Lawndale Sun-Herald

Sunday January 21, 2001

Old Global Theatre to reopen as Historia

Norman Osborn, along with Teens Robert Allan and Joseph Green announced that the theatre will reopen as a coffee bookshop next week.

SpiderGirl re-read the article. It was quite accurate. ‘Good, the Historia will be a good thing for Lawndale,’ she thought.

She put the paper back and went on patrol.

But it was a quiet day in Lawndale and Quinn went on a lunch date with Corey Bateman at a café. “You haven’t had a date with me since the dance,” Corey said.

“Well, you know about my father,” Quinn responded.

“Not since then, I meant,” Corey said, defensively. “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Quinn said.

“Obviously…”

“Grieving, yes.”

Corey was then quiet, and the rest of the date was awkward.

SpiderGirl patrolled an area of the downtown after the date, thinking about how awkward it had been. ‘Not much I can do about it now,’ she thought.

SpiderGirl and Ninja Talon met later that evening, after both had had dinner.

“So, how are we going to do this?” Ninja Talon asked.

“We find out where she is and then approach from opposite directions.”

“Good idea.”

“I also remember when you came up with a strategy at that paintball excursion,” SpiderGirl said.

“It was something I was familiar with. I’m not as familiar with Lawndale’s rooftops.”

“So, you had been paintballing before?”

“Yes,” Ninja Talon answered.

“I see, anyway what I said, and I hope you can improvise.”

“I’ll try.”

It wasn’t long before they heard a news report.

“The new Vigilante has been sighted in Dega Street.”

“Dega Street,” SpiderGirl said. “That’s not helpful.”

“We could search from each end,” Ninja Talon suggested.

“No other idea, so we’ll do that.”

SpiderGirl went to the north end of the street, as that was further. They kept their radios on, so as the try to track where the other vigilante went.

It wasn’t long before there was another report.

“The new Vigilante has been sighted defending patrons leaving that Zon or Zen nightclub in Dega Street.”

Ninja Talon knew where that was. She headed in that direction.

SpiderGirl arrived above the Zon/Zen and found Ninja Talon and the new Vigilante.

“So, you’re confronting me together are you?” the latter asked.

“We just want to talk,” SpiderGirl said.

“Is that it?” the new vigilante asked.

“Yes,” Ninja Talon answered.

“About what I’m doing?”

“Exactly,” SpiderGirl said.

“I see. I don’t need to answer to you two!”

“Wait!” SpiderGirl called out.

“What?”

“We’d like to work together from time to time,” Ninja Talon said.

“Cooperate in our crime fighting from time to time?” the new vigilante asked.

“Yes,” SpiderGirl answered.

“I suppose I can do that.”

“But, what do you call yourself?” Ninja Talon asked.

“I haven’t come up with a name yet,” the other admitted. “I don’t think I need one for what I’m doing. Working in the shadows to protect people in Lawndale. Especially those who are alternative.”

“Shadows,” SpiderGirl mused. ‘If it can be used for something bad in that show Stacy told me about.’ “Maybe that could be your moniker. ‘The Shadow.’ What do you think?”

“Sounds good, Spidey,” the other responded. “I could use that.”

‘Spidey works in a pinch,’ SpiderGirl thought.

“The Shadow?” Ninja Talon asked. “I does sound good. Especially with the way you vanish into a fog.”

“Just a little theatricality,” the Shadow responded. “But that’s all I’m going to say. I’m not going to reveal something that would lead you to my secret identity. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” SpiderGirl said.

“Same,” Ninja Talon said.

“But you can trust me to help out if you find yourselves overwhelmed with whatever is going on.”

“And the other way around?” SpiderGirl asked.

“Of course,” the Shadow said.

“I have powers, but do you?” SpiderGirl said.

“I’m not saying one way or the other. I could be using the theatricality to cover that, or maybe I am not. I’m not going to say either way.”

“No problem,” Ninja Talon said.

SpiderGirl sighed. She knew that was all she was going to get.

“If anything else, it’s time go to,” the Shadow said.

“Wait!” SpiderGirl said.

“I’ll see you another time,” the Shadow said, before producing the fog and vanishing into the night.

“That’s it then,” Ninja Talon said.

“Yes. We can trust her,” SpiderGirl said.

“Yes. But…”

“There will another opportunity for that.”

“Of course. But I’m disappointed,” Ninja Talon said.

“I am too, but we can still trust her and work with her regardless. I’ll see you Monday,” SpiderGirl said before webswinging away.

Ninja Talon saw SpiderGirl swing away. She looked around but couldn’t see the Shadow anywhere. ‘Another night,’ she thought. ‘May as well head home.’

She patrolled an area between Dega Street and the Creek before heading home.

SpiderGirl arrived back at the Morgendorffers over an hour later. She saw that Daria was pacing in her room. ‘Something is up there,’ she thought.

Daria heard a knock at the door.

“I’m available,” she said.

Quinn opened the door. “Are you OK?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I saw you pacing as I came home. You don’t usually do that.”

“How?” Daria asked.

“Your curtains are wide open.”

“Oh. It’s just that Jane has been busy lately.”

“So, she hasn’t been able to spend time with you?” Quinn asked, sitting at the computer.

Daria nodded. “I’m worried, but that doesn’t mean you have to worry.”

“Daria, of course I worry about you. I worry about Mom. I’m sure you worry about me as well as Mom,” Quinn said quietly. “And Mom about us. It’s part of being a grieving family.”

“Of course. It’s that Jane and I do seem to be drifting apart. We still interact at school, just not as much at each other’s place, the Pizza place or the Zon.”

“I don’t know to what to say there.”

“That you have come in and checked on me is enough,” Daria said.

“Thanks.”

“You have your friends, and the three mentees, who may become friends.”

“Four, including Angie,” Quinn said. “But she may become a friend also. But my grief hasn’t changed my outgoing nature. You’re still… you.”

“So, you want me to reach out to another?”

“If you want to.”

“I’ll think about it,” Daria said. “I could try to call Jane again tonight.”

“Or wait until you get to school tomorrow,” Quinn added with a shrug.

“You have a point there,” Daria said as Quinn stood.

“Thanks for hearing my concern.”

“Quinn, that you admit you’re worried about me is enough. Before what happened to Dad, that wouldn’t have happened. There was too much difference between us.”

“True,” Quinn admitted.

They hugged and Quinn left. ‘Jane, what are you doing?’

Casa Lane was quiet again after Trent and Jesse finished their practice session for the night. Jesse was in the kitchen when a black clad figure entered. “Not cool!” he said as he grabbed a rolling pin off the bench.

The figure took off her mask, revealing that it was Jane. “Relax, Jesse, it’s me.”

“Sorry, the crime has me on edge,” Jesse said.

“That’s fine,” Jane said.

Trent entered the kitchen. “How did it go tonight, Janie?” he asked.

“I had a discussion with SpiderGirl and Ninja Talon after they both confronted me above the Zon,” Jane said, for she was the Shadow!

“What about?” Trent asked with concern.

“About working together when the situation calls for it.”

“What does that mean?” Trent asked.

“Meaning that if I’m overwhelmed, I allow them to help and vice versa. They don’t know I’m me and I don’t know who they are. As far as I know SpiderGirl is the only one with powers. Ninja Talon could be what she appears to be. A teenager highly skilled in Martial Arts.”

“Sounds good,” Jesse said.

“Cool,” Trent said. “At least you’re not alone. But on that topic; Daria. She called earlier. She sounded down.”

“I know I have been neglecting her. I’ll catch up with her tomorrow.”

[greensparty]

Coolidge Corner Theatre Expansion

This past December, the Coolidge Corner Theatre in Brookline, MA celebrated its 90th birthday! It is one of my favorite movie theaters in the world and more than a few cinephiles agree with me on that. It is one of the most prominent and respected independently owned and operated indie movie theaters in the U.S. I first went there as a teen around 1991 when my friend brought me to see Spike and Mike’s Festival of Animation there. It was such a cool grand cinema and they play older films as well as indie films. Over the years, I’ve seen countless films there including the re-release of The Graduate, a midnight showing of 12 Monkeys, anniversary screenings of Texas Chainsaw Massacre and 2001: A Space Odyssey, a concert that followed Echo in the Canyon, and of course Independent Film Festival Boston screenings. But of all the awesome films I’ve seen there over the years, my favorite was in 2018 when they did a special one-night sold-out screening of my documentary Life on the V: The Story of V66! Another very special memory I have of Coolidge Corner Theatre happened in June 2021: I hadn’t been to a movie theater in over a year. My return to the cinema happened a few weeks after I had gotten my COVID vaccine and I went to the Coolidge to see one of my favorite movies of all time, David Lynch’s Blue Velvet! So I guess you could say I'm a big fan of the Coolidge!

ribbon cutting at Coolidge Corner Theatre's new expansion

But this week the big news today is that Coolidge Corner Theatre has unveiled their new expansion. The existing Coolidge Corner Theatre we know and love is still there (the big movie house, the three smaller cinemas), but now they have and extended lobby and concession stand near the back entrance by the municipal parking lot, two new cinemas (movie house 5 is red and 6 is blue!), as well as an education and community engagement center for classes, private events and more! It opens to the public today with both The Wizard of Oz and 2001 screening in the new cinemas.

Coolidge's new movie house 5, lobby, movie house 6, and reception area

Yesterday I got to attend the ribbon-cutting of the new expansion and look at the new space. The common theme from everyone's remarks was how lucky we are to have Coolidge Corner Theatre in this area. It's very true! At a time when so many movie theaters are closing, Coolidge Corner Theatre isn't just swinging it out of the park with their projection, sound, curation of old movies and new indies, they are actually expanding and going to be able to show more films and be a place for more art and culture in the area. Great news all around!

For more info on Coolidge Corner Theatre and their expansion

[heavyelectricity]

The Dark Hospital

"Hah, this'll be scary."

That's what we thought as the three of us approached the door. It was an inconspicuous thing, surely too narrow to be anything other than a decorative feature. But sure enough, the door creaked open to reveal an entryway that was no wider. The youngest was the only one of use truly excited to venture inside, and sure enough she went in first. I attempted to follow, but try as I might I just couldn't squeeze through. Neither could the third of our group. By then, it was too late to call our companion back, so we decided to find the exit and wait.

Despite our difficulty in finding the exit, the large wooden door proved to be far grander than the entryway. At the very least, it appeared to be designed for regular adults. The two of us shared a quick giggle about the doubtless terrified people that would emerge. Instead, the first person we caught leaving The Dark Hospital was smiling. The next looked like the weight of the world had been removed from her shoulders, and the third was practically skipping. The person we were waiting for? Nowhere to be seen.

Impatiently, I returned to the front door. Through sheer force of will, I managed to fit myself through the claustrophobic corridor, only to be confronted with a rather unnerving foyer. I tried to turn back, to no avail - the door was one-way. Not that it mattered, as a rather eccentric, shady-looking man had sidled up to me and started to talk to me.

As I did my best to ignore the distractions from my unwanted guide, I took note that this was a most unusual hospital. Not a bed in sight, nor an operating theatre. Surgical equipment was entirely absent, and the stark, fluorescent lighting you'd expect wasn't there either - though I suppose that fit the name of the establishment. There was some sort of lighting, but if its source could be traced, I wasn't able to do it. Whether that was a failure of my eyesight or simply distraction from the irritating man, I don't know.

What I do know is what this unseemly gentleman knew, and what he knew was a lot. A lot about me. Intensely, uncomfortably personal things about me. Following ten minutes of non-stop harassment, I started to answer some of his questions, in the hope that he might find satisfaction and leave me alone. All I wanted was to find her and get out.

My efforts were to no avail. Whether through luck or judgement, the "Doctor" - his title, not one I recognised - had detected the dishonesty in my answers. Maybe, if I told him the truth, he would cease his relentless questioning? Of course not. If anything, that just made it worse - the questions became more intrusive and harder to answer. Lying wasn't an option, but the truth…

I'm falling. The colours are dazzling, an otherworldly roar fills the air. The floor is tilted at near enough a right angle and my fingertips are aching, as I desperately claw at anything that might stop me from tumbling into the abyss. The Doctor, by now floating in front of me, is shouting in my face - repeating all the lies I've told myself over the years, to protect myself from the reality I've feared more than anything else. Surely these are my final moments. I'm sorry I couldn't get her out. I'm sorry I ever came in. I don't want to die with regrets. I scream out the truth I'd never admit.

Silence.

No strange lights, no strange noises, no pit threatening to swallow me up. And… no more fear. I'm taken to another room, with someone friendly. There's a mirror. For the first time ever, I look in the mirror and I see myself differently - I see a person that I'm comfortable with, someone I don't hate the mere sight of. I try on some of the clothes that are around, I don't quite know if they work - but there are others in the room, and they help me out. Finally, I find something that makes me feel pretty good.

But I still haven't found her, so I have to keep going. I'm no longer so fearful for her life, but I'm intensely curious to know what she made of the whole experience. Maybe she's already left? Maybe she's waiting for me outside? So I open that big wooden door, leading back to the street outside.

The young one still isn't there. But our other companion is, and she sees me - the new me. For the first time, the real me.

And she turns, runs and screams.

[bibliocratic]

I come bearing a sort-of fic idea! (Only if you feel inspired to use it, of course 😊) Back in ep 101, Martin figures out that/where the Stranger has taken Jon, and goes all BAMF to save him, using either Web powers or his developing Backup Archivist powers to do it. (Dealer's choice) Some of that sweet sweet emotional h/c...

Dearest anon, this fic has been so long in the writing, and it’s only distantly related to what you asked for. Hope you like it regardless. :)

Set in an S3 AU, implied JonMartin. Tim-centric.

Content warnings for strongly implied graphic violence, canonical S3 captivity and imprisonment, hospitals and hospitalisation.  Rated T for language and implied violence

Jon’s skittering, sprawl-legged slam against the archive door startles Tim from the shadowed walkways of his reveries.

The tilted legs of his chair thump back in a slap to the floor. Almost physically wrenched into the now, there’s a snapback to Tim’s spine, a vice-clench knot tightening in his jaw. His mood cranking up from frosty to furious.

“The fuck?” he barks at the intrusion. His snarling primed with teeth, his temper clawed to rend. He’s up and standing, whereas Jon’s practically handing off the door handle, the impact of his arrival almost knocking his legs out like ten pins from under him. An ugly, airless heaving of his chest. His eyes bloodshot, wild. In the weeks since Tim saw him, his hair has grown out unwashed and limp. His skin shimmering wrong in the light in a way that’s oddly greasy.

He’s a shattering mannequin of a man tending to ruin but Tim’s long pared down his own capacity for compassion. He loads up his questions in their chambers, and he knows where to place emphasis, where to press at the bruising, the soft-tissue targets; where the hell have you been, oh wait, don’t fucking bother, why would you even tell us anything anyway huh, because you don’t even trust us. So why the bloody hell should we care where you go galivanting off to for weeks without a word, fine by us, just fucking peachy.

“Martin,” Jon rasps out finally. His words floundering beached in his mouth, and Tim has never seen this particular mania, this bruise-sick shade of pathetic desperation. “T-tim, please, help, please, god, i-i-it’s Martin.”

Jon’s spasming, quivering hands are staining brown with blood.

-

“He wouldn’t have just left! Not – not like – like this!”

“You mean without saying anything. Not sharing with the class. I dunno, Martin, sounds exactly like something he’d have done. Classic Jon.”

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong!”

“Ha – everything’s wrong. Narrow it down.”

“You know what I mean! Something’s… He should be here, is all I’m saying, and Elias, well he’s useless but he – he knows something, I’m sure of it. We have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Find him!”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Huh, what about that? Maybe he’s finally managed to fuck off and leave here, legged it and left the rest of us to rot.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“We should – ”

“No. No, listen, Martin. This isn’t a team sport. Jon made his choice to go this alone. If he’s gone off somewhere, then that’s on him. There’s no ‘we’.”

“There used to be.”

-

Martin didn’t come in for work, and Tim assumed he’d left. Just like Jon.

He’d stewed in that betrayal, pacing lupine and furious, bricking up the walls of himself with his self-righteous anger. Because he’d been right, hadn’t he, he’d been vindicated in his bitterness, because of course Martin had left scurrying after Jon, of course there was never any loyalty to Tim despite his pretensions to their friendship. Of course, Martin hadn’t fucking stayed, and Tim was glad he was gone, free of his nagging and needling and whining.

Tim was acquitted in all his furies, every one of his poisonous doubts. The rose-thorns of his betrayals tore deeper, and he let the wounds fester.

-

Elias arrives in the aftermath.

Jon collapsed not too long ago. Shock and dehydration and whatever the hell happened to him threaded through him like blood poisoning. He’d babbled to the ambulance crews, his tongue a senseless oracle of clowns and skin and blood. They’d given him a shock blanket, the foil treating the light around them erratically, but he kept shaking it off and trying to stand, dressed in grubby boxers, an overlong coat, the fabric worn to grey at the pockets and stretched to billowing at the chest, clearly belonging to Martin.

It was hard for Tim to hate him like that, even as he’d barked at Jon to stay down. Jon’s face a theatre mask of ghoulish blood, begging the paramedics to help Martin, manic and spiralling.

The old bastard had had a heart after all.

There’s a bank of chairs outside the part of the ward where they’re keeping Jon. He’s pin-cushioned with IV’s, a set of machines monitoring his vitals. He wakes fitfully, and every waking is a pitiful confusion before he sinks back under.

Martin’s still in surgery.

Elias, deigning to leave his ivory tower, his face formed in an impeccable replica of concern. He wants to speak to Jon. To have, as he put it, ‘a private word’. He talks a precisely ordered stream of bullshit in his infuriatingly reasonable tone, about all this being such a terrible tragedy, such a blow to their little family, if only they’d known. Poor Martin, of course, what a horrible ordeal, we’ll naturally help him with recovery, cover any time off, no expense considered.

Tim watches his mouth move, and knows in his gut that Elias could have stopped all this.

That he chose not to.

Elias doesn’t get within a hundred feet of Jon. Tim makes sure of it.

-

Jon does not speak for days. Delirious and distraught. Martin’s condition worsens, then stabilises, then lingers at critical. There are several more operations, and Tim does not know what they are doing, only that they are reforming a heap of blood and bone back into a person.

Tim wants to know what happened. Where Jon went, where Martin found him, who he needs to hate.

Tim learns to temper his frustration, the desire for knowing that curls at the bottom of his stomach. It is not a natural wanting, and it’s a spiteful, gleeful action, to deny that rot within him.

-

“Tim?”

“Stay still, boss,” Tim says. “You’ll pull everything out.”

Jon doesn’t say anything more for a long while. Tim shifts uneasy on the chair provided, thinking, hoping that Jon might have sunk back into sleep, when:

“Martin? Is he…?”

Jon turns his head to look at him. His eyes wide, beseeching, wet with fear. Wanting Tim to make this all ok.

Jon’s eyes in this light are a lot like Danny’s. Tim sucks back a hard breath, and doesn’t meet his gaze, and he knows that only distresses Jon further, who will take the avoidance as a death knell, as a punishment he is expecting to have earned.

“He’s alive, boss,” Tim says eventually. The words hard won. “He’s… he’ll be alright.”

That could be a lie. He doesn’t know much these days.

-

“Th-there was a room,” Jon stammers one day. He’s sat up, pillows stuffed behind his back. Tim’s bought him an apple juice carton like you buy for children, and he hasn’t touched it, even to push the plastic straw through the top.

His fingers at his lap twist, twist, twist.

“It must have been a … a factory floor, or something. One of those old textile mills or something, up near Manchester. It used to have those big machines for spinning cotton, there were big, discoloured spaces on the boards where they would have sat. There were columns, load-bearing, every fifty feet or so, and t-the chair that they – they had me tied to was anchored against one of those s-so it didn’t – so I couldn’t move it, or knock it over. I-I don’t know how long I was… I.” Jon stops, out of breath. “I don’t even know the date.”

Tim tells him. Jon blinks, and murmurs ‘oh’ like it’s not what he was expecting. His hands are shaking. Tim should reach out, shouldn’t he, it should not be this difficult to provide comfort.

His hands have forgotten how easily reassurance used to come to him.

“Th-they didn’t, they didn’t hurt me. Not, well, not exactly, I-I-I mean, it wasn’t – they wanted me unharmed.” Jon’s voice has crept small and crouched, words tuck under his tongue. “They were waiting. For the right time. They were going to t-take my, um, my skin. For their – for the ritual.”

“Christ.” Tim hisses out, because that is fucked, this whole thing is fucked. How the hell is this the way their lives have turned.

Only Jon’s fingers, his restless hands make noise for the next minute.

“I don’t know how Martin found me,” Jon says.

Tim has a creeping suspicion. It’s the same thing that helps Tim spits out exactly the right seeds to allow hurt to take root. What told Martin that there was something wrong. He could call it intuition, but that’s not how their world works.

Gifts, of a sort. For their faithful service at the temple of their all-seeing god.

“He tried to get me out. Snuck in somehow, cut the ropes with this – huh, this battered old kitchen knife. But I couldn’t… they’d had me tied to the chair for so long that standing up was… I couldn’t walk, and it’s my fault, he was half-carrying me but – I slowed him down, a-and then Nikola came back. And I couldn’t do, I couldn’t do anything, there’s never anything I can do, and they pulled me away and I. I tried, Tim, I-I tried, and I wasn’t… please, Tim, you’ve got to believe I tried to stop them.”

Jon’s fingers are moving to fist in his hair, yanking, tugging, his spine moving to fold himself over.

“Stop,” Tim says sharply. Trying to loosen Jon’s clenched hold.

“I tried, I tried – everything, I offered them anything they wanted, and they just kept – I-I-I tried, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim replies. Quieter. Softer. Separating Jon’s hands from his hair, pressing them back down to his lap, his burnt one held over the other pocked with worm scars. Tim doesn’t move his own away from the fragile tower they’ve made. “I – I know, Jon.”

“Martin – there was more of them. It was easy for them, to hurt him until he stopped struggling. They didn’t tie him up, they knew they didn’t need to. A-and Nikola, she was… she s-s-smiled as they pushed him over onto his back. She – she kept smiling. And she said they didn’t need the two of us. That they could have a bit of fun, a bit of – ” Jon’s voice chokes horrified. “A bit of practise. And wouldn’t I like that. To watch. To give the Eye something to look at.”

Jon crumples into tears then. In on himself like a disintegrating star. Tim feels cold and distant for a moment as he watches this shipwreck as though through the porthole of another boat. Listening to Jon’s hitching sobbing from elsewhere.

The rage is burning off him to reveal something plain and hideous in its humanity, and Tim hates it.

Jon falls apart, and Tim stays.

-

“You know your Archivist killed them all? He’s got a bit of a temper on him after all. Must be all that repression.”

The newest form of the Distortion still smiles like a headache. Her fingers curve corkscrewing. Tim, who is trying to get a Snickers from the vending machine two wards along from Jon, whips his head around to glower at the unwelcome visitor.

“What do you want?”

The Distortion, who has previously called themselves Michael, and is now still Michael but not entirely, whose face has refracted into a different form – there’s been a sort of change in management, if you like, except, well, that’s not really it at all, but do feel free to call me Helen.

“I was hoping for a teeny bit of gratitude. I was the gallant rescue, after that assistant of yours blundered in and made such a pig’s ear of it.”

Tim snarls. The Distortion’s expression wavers displeased.

“Ooh, touchy, alright. Calm down, firecracker. I bought them both back breathing for you. Your Archivist would be still strapped to a chair in Stockport if it wasn’t for me, to say nothing of that woebegone assistant. Blood all over my carpets.”

Tim ignores her. The glint in her eyes suggests she’s disappointed not to have riled him up.

“What now then?”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about the Circus for a while! Dear Jonathan’s seen to that quite splendidly. Knew he had it in him. Although, I suspect, even he didn’t know he could. The Circus was always good at pushing too far.”

“And you. What about you?”

The Distortion’s smile reflects a hundred alternatives.

“Oh, I’m just waiting to see what happens next.”

-

Tim’s thoughts have been straying to Danny a lot. Naturally, all things considered, his trauma’s head reared high and made horrifically manifest.

Jon is not like Danny was, too stiff and self-conscious in his own bones. But Danny’s skin had been lit up with that same live-wire intensity that last night, smeared in shadows and exhaustion and tears that shone foreign on his cheeks. Tim had not recognised the crying, silent, shaking stranger in his room, just as he barely recognises Jon.

Watching him finally fall apart holds no victory for any of them.

Martin is not like Danny was. Taller, for one, wound-up over tight in his own clockwork of fears. He’d be about Danny’s age though. Maybe.

Danny went back to the Covent Garden Theatre, alone, and the being that had then gone by the name of Joseph Grimaldi had torn off his skin as easily as wrapping paper.

Martin went alone. He didn’t ask Tim for help, because he knew Tim would have said no, and there’s an ashy shame coating his tongue, knowing it would have been true.

It’s powerlessness that’s snarled him up in barbed wire, toothless and immobile. Tim’s felt powerless for a long time. That is not going to stop.

But his anger hasn’t protected him. Hasn’t protected Jon. Certainly hasn’t protected Martin.

Jon is not in bed when Tim goes back during visiting hours. The nurse directs him to another ward, indicating in few words that this jaunt was neither encouraged nor advised, but the patient was not one to be dissuaded.

Sounds like Jon.

The man himself has dressed erratically in the spares Tim bought. A t-shirt that is divorced from his own style, the colouring drawing him over-sallow, the jeans too short and trailing above his ankle. He’s squashed himself into a chair, his back folded like a shepherd’s crook, his scatter-shot energy spent into exhaustion. His hand in Martin’s wrapped one.

Martin’s awake. The ministrations of the Circus left his face mostly alone, clear enough for tubing to be threaded into his nostrils and down his throat but the bandaging is extensive. Tim would have thought he’d be away with the fairies on morphine by now, and rightly so, but his jaw sets imperious when he sees Tim. He doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

“You doing alright there, Marto?” Tim asks. There is another chair nearby that’s been left by a visitor long gone, and he drags it over. Tim chooses to keep his voice low, chooses to squash the anger that sparks up in him at the violence done to Martin’s body.

“What does it look like?” Martin replies. Not snapping, no wisp of anger there, but there’s a pained whipcord strain to his response, a forced pace to his breathing.

“I thought they’d have you on the good stuff,” Tim says after a moment.

Martin gestures with imprecise movements at a remote off to his right, a grey blocky shape with buttons, hooked up to some sort of patient-controlled analgesia machine.

“You not taken any?”

Martin, as best as he can, shakes his head.

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to, alright?”

Tim doesn’t push. The silence between the two of them is protracted, uncomfortable, but Tim can stand to learn some patience.

Martin’s eyes are watery, clearly trying to push through the pain. Jon sleeps on.

“He won’t tell me,” Martin says. “But it’s bad. I know it’s bad. Right?”

“Yes.”

Martin deserves his honesty. Tim doesn’t know how long Martin suffered on that factory floor until Jon ripped the Circus’ sawdust out with his fury. Long enough for the bandages to coat his arms and legs and back like lacquer, changed multiple times a day to make sure the skin grafts take, and the stitching holds.

Tim should have been there. Like he should have been there for Danny.

“God, Martin,” he says, and he’s surprised to find his throat has clenched tight. “It’s… I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? I went and got myself…” Martin trails off, swallows with difficulty. “I did this, it was all, all me. Fat lot of good it did.”

“You don’t know that…” Tim starts, but Martin looks at him and he seethes without raising his voice.

“What good’s come out of this then? Go on, Tim, tell me. I’m a – I’m a mess, and what the fuck do I have to show for it. What the fuck have any of us gained from this? I just fucked up, and it – I thought I was going to die. And worse, I thought they mightn’t let me, that they might take what they left as scraps a-a-and – ” Martin’s jaw clacks shut as he pushes down his distress.

“You saved Jon.”

“I didn’t though. The bloody – the bloody door monster showed up and did that simply fine without my help!”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what you changed. God, Martin, this whole, this entire thing is all so, it’s fucked, right, it’s…” Tim’s voice wobbles, cracks. “But you tried to do something. You tried to help. And I’m – I’m so sorry you did it alone.”

Martin doesn’t leap to forgiveness. But he nods and Tim puts his hand on the wrappings up his arm and he doesn’t move away.

“What now?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

Martin closes his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he confesses. “I’m just so tired of all… all this.”

“We’ll think of something,” Tim says. Finding that he means it. It’s not a promise, but it’s as good as he’s able to offer these days. “You should take some of that morphine. It’ll… it’ll help.”

“It makes me feel out of it. Like, sluggish. And everything’s far away.”

“That means it’s working, Marto,” Tim says, trying for light-hearted, but Martin’s shaking his head, and the shivering is back in his hands. A wide and trembling glaze to his expression.

“If they come back…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I’ll stay,” Tim says. Pats Martin’s arm in a way he hopes conveys reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Martin nods. Tim helps him grasp the grey remote, push down the button. It’s not long before Martin’s drifted off.

Tim sits there for a long while, thinking about the future.