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poormeowmeowcollector · 3 years

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Trying To Balance With A Part Of Yourself Missing

Summary: Thor bargains with Odin on Loki's sentence, and he wins. Loki is moved with the Avengers to fix his past mistakes. But Odin's term changes everything, and Loki's foe is not their mistakes, but their self-image.

Warnings: each chapter has individual, the work in general is pretty dark

Notes: When a dialogue of Loki is in bold, he is speaking English. And when a line is in italics without a dialogue, it's an intrusive thought.

Chapter 5: The Doctor

Chapter summary: Banner takes Loki for the tests.

Warnings: Language, gender dysphoria, gender dysmorphia, internalized racism, intrusive thoughts, needles, blood, medical themes, mentions of child neglect [not on screen], mentions of self harm [not on screen]

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This time, Friday wakes them up, reminding them of the appointment with Banner. Loki groans and drags himself out of the bed and into the bathroom, it's better to get rid of that smell, at least for as long as it can hold.

At least Loki doesn't have to look at their body as they wash themselves, an advantage of blindness they didn't think of until now. Still, being forced to touch all the time is unpleasant and uncomfortable to no end. And trying to wash his hair without scratching his hands on the horns or his claws scratching his scalp is a task unimaginably difficult.

Loki now understands why Jötnar run around naked, wearing a shirt with these horns is almost impossible. But, they must hide the chest plate, at least from everyone but Thor. And Banner, after the examination. And, shit, he probably has to take breakfast with them…

They sigh and glance at the mirror, only to make sure they don't look so much for a mess. His appearance is acceptable, so he takes the now charged earpiece and walks away, wearing it as Friday starts instructing.

A hand touches their shoulder, making them flinch away. Thor, the owner of the hand, mutters something, probably an apology, but he can't hear it thanks to Friday. They take a breath out and smile at Thor, muttering a good morning. Thankfully, Friday stops talking.

"How are you feeling? You look…" Thor trails off, trying to appear as polite as possible.

"F-f-feverish? It's fi-fine, just-just a b-bad day," he brushes off, suddenly glad that he doesn't need Friday's translations.

"But, you're ill," Thor argues, making Loki sigh.

"I'm not-not, it's a bad d-day," they answer.

"Loki, you can't fool me. You're unwell, why don't you admit it?" he groans. Truth be told, Loki rarely admits any weakness with ease. As long as one can walk, there's no need for whining, Odin had said countless times and Loki never stopped obeying.

"I d-d-do. It's a b-bad da-day," he speaks slowly and as clearly as possible.

"Loki, you're having a fever. It's not just a bad day, and you are allowed to admit that you're ill. Please," Thor begs, actually begs. If Loki wasn't so pissed off, they'd be touched.

He pulls Thor closer, mostly to maintain some secrecy. "I am on m-m-my pe-pe-period," they hiss, watching as Thor's last brain cell comes to life.

"Oh… well, this explains the irritability of yours, brother. You know your patience always runs low these days," Thor nods, all matter-of-factly. Loki has to take deep breaths and remind themselves again and again that murder is a convicted crime, and they should not get locked up in a Midgardian prison. Or any prison, anytime soon.

Luckily, Thor remains silent after that. The only one who breaks the silence is Friday, reminding Loki that he can't eat before a blood test, or the results will not be accurate. Fine, they didn't really feel hungry anyway.

Perhaps, if you skip today's food entirely, you'll lose that disgusting bloating of yours. He tries hard to not grimace at the thought. No, they have to remind themselves, it will leave after a few days, it always does. Just do the damn tests and then eat, it's not that hard.

When they reach the kitchen, Loki can feel eyes on him and a mix of confusion and irritation in the air. Alright, just stay quiet and it will pass.

Wanda mutters a good morning, her magic swirling around her like some form of shield or blanket. Loki repeats the wish, forcing a smile. They don’t know which is worse, the jealousy building up or the guilt over the last time they listened to that feeling.

Thor helps him find a chair in the bright chaos, and even pulls it. For fucks sake, they're not unable to sit on a fucking chair! He tries to prove it by being the one who adjusts it on the table.

"Morning, dude. How're you feeling?" a man asks, Wilson. Just by his voice, he sounds kind, less judgemental.

"Fine, thank you for asking," they answer, plastering another fake smile (one of the best skills being a prince has given them).

Still, Wanda is seeing through it and attempts to find out, by using a simple mind invading spell. One that makes the base of Loki's skull feel ablaze. As loud as he can, he thinks of the word stop, making Wanda pause and retreat, her curiosity replaced with shame.

Then, a conversation occurs. Loki doesn't want to take part, but the combination of the voices and Friday's translations is overwhelming, making his head pound. Friday catches the message and stops translating, but the voices are still too fucking loud. Loki sighs and decides to just take a sip of water, and see if it'll help, but it turns to ice before it touches their lips. But fuck, he's thirsty and in pain.

A hand touches their shoulder, and they jump up, turning around to see a short person dressed in purple. "Are you ready for the tests?" He asks, Banner. Loki nods and gets up, pardoning himself before walking away.

"Are you okay?" he asks, making Loki groan.

"Wh-wh-wh-why does e-e-everyone ask me-me if I'm okay? I'm f-f-fine!" they snap, stopping only after feeling Banner freeze.

"I asked because you looked like you were about to start crying over there. No offence, they can be loud sometimes, but you didn't seem like you were taking it well," he answers, half expecting his skull to be crushed. But Loki is just ashamed he didn't hide the pain better.

"N-n-n-none t-taken. Noise is not exactly we-we-we-welcome, and I used to to-to-tone it down w-w-with spells. Now, I c-c-c-can't," they explain, just beginning to collect themselves.

"You know, you can ask Friday to deafen, if you use the earpieces. It helps," he suggests. Loki nods, happy with the silence that they fall into. At least Banner doesn't feel like he has to talk all the time, even though he's nervous. He's still afraid of him, even though it's not necessary any more.

The lab is a fucking bright room, Loki has to cover their eyes and let Banner navigate them, after lowering the lights.

During the examination, Loki comes to realize that Asgard and Midgard are opposite when it comes to healing. First, Banner promises secrecy, any information stays private until Loki asks for a leak, or in a life or death situation. And then, he just asks about everything and listens to the answer. No doubt, no comments and no painful examinations with leeches or smelly potions that make people’s skin pink. Well, the examination on light sensitivity was painful, and Loki swears to piss on the grave of whoever thought a flashlight in the eyes is a good idea, but the rest were fine.

When he was young, Odin would not easily believe Loki, no matter what. The times when they were forced in hunts that were leaving them in the healing wing for weeks or feasts until they faint on their plate due to fever are uncountable. The show would usually begin with Loki faking the illness because he’s lazy, come to its climax when Loki would be deemed delicate and weak while being tossed in the healing wing and the parade of hypocrisy would end after Loki returns to his chamber only to be forgotten there. Loki learned two lessons from this. One, if they can stand up, they're not ill, and they shouldn't bother other people with whining. And two, if he's truly ill, it's wiser to deal with it on his own than let others draw conclusions.

The change feels so odd, yet it’s so welcome.

Until the time for the blood test.

"Just follow my instructions, I'll make it as painless as I can," he promises, and then instructs Loki to lift their sleeve and show the armpit, the non-dominant one. Loki doesn't show his nervousness, and tries to appear as cold as possible when he reveals the hand, and everything he's done to it. Banner doesn't comment and doesn't show pity, but his skin grows just green enough for Loki's eyes to notice.

The other instructions were easy. Clench the fist, breathe in, breathe out and relax the hand. Banner is surprised to say the least when he sees the tube filling with blue liquid instead of red, but doesn't comment.

Do you think he could bleed you dry and be done with this shit show? Loki hitches a breath and clinches their stomach, stopping when the sound of something breaking and a hot pain blooms in their arm. Did he freeze the tube and break the needle?

Banner fetches something from a table and grabs Loki's hand, muttering something about getting the needle out. Loki hisses from the pain, and manages to freeze Banner's glove, but he still covers their hand with gauzes. The white starts turning blue and freezing in some parts, Banner is about to do something about it but Loki hums a no.

"Do you want to try again?" he asks, Loki could feel how he was expecting a negative answer. But he nods a yes and covers his right hand, so he’ll uncover the left one and clench. This time, they don't dare looking at the needle and mentally play some random songs for a distraction. Banner tells him to clench again, and then gives him some cotton to press in the hole before he vanishes behind some machine.

"What were you humming?" Banner asks, making Loki's face go ablaze.

"I… em… a song," they mutter, and mentally berate themselves for the lack of words. Banner laughs, but not out of malice. And he hands over a paper box and a bag. Loki stares at him and tilts his head, but Banner tries to brush it off as "something that's always done when someone gets a blood test". As if Loki is also a fool, apart from blind.

They're about to get dismissed and leave when Friday tell them via the earpiece that Banner will ask questions when he sees the test results. Loki sighs, it's better to be the one who tells him, right?

"Ba-banner, about th-th-the te-te-te-test, y-you may so-see some… abnormalities in th-th-the tests. It's n-normal, yet-yet-yet uncomfortable," they trail off, feeling confusion on Banner's side instead of clarity.

"Would you mind being more specific? I need to know what to ignore,"

"Hormonal, m-mostly… on, em…" he groans in frustration, feeling like an absolute fool, "on me-me-menstruation hormones… and y-y-yes, I kn-know wh-what it implies. B-but, d-don't tell anyone, only Th-th-th-thor knows," they get it out, waiting for a myriad of feeling emit from Banner. But he just makes a small oh sound and hands over another paper package.

"I guess you'll find them easier than tampons. If you finish them, just come to me. Don't try to steal Nat's, you'll be disappointed, and possibly earn a chinned tooth," he smiles, but Loki can sense the warmth from saying Romanov's name. Love, he concludes, what a complication when towards your co-worker, from what he's heard.

"W-w-w-we're done?" they raise an eyebrow and look down at Banner, glad he doesn't look afraid. Interesting, just enough inspection, and he isn't afraid any more. What a gullible scientist.

"Friday will find anything we missed, and she can help Tony make you some glasses, if you decide you want them, or inspect the brain damage from the other guy," he answers. Loki nods and is about to turn around, before thinking twice about the answer he got.

"W-w-wait, wh-wh-wh-what brain d-damage?" they blink. Apart from the nightmares, thoughts, flashbacks, headaches and general fuckery, his brain works perfectly. Well, perfectly might be an exaggeration, but the Hulk hasn’t done anything.

"You're telling me you walked around with a dead ear since the Attack and didn't notice?" Banner is now the one to raise an eyebrow.

"I w-w-was in so-so-solitary c-c-confinement until y-y-yesterday. Not much to h-h-h-hear," they explain. But… he should have heard Thor coming today in the corridor…

"Yeah, your left ear is dead, or the nerves getting messages from there to your brain. You can thank the other guy, and there's nothing to be done," he isn't exactly mild on announcing another damage on this throughout fucked up body, but it doesn't exactly matter. So, they just nod and go back to hiding under their sheets, but this time they make Friday play some music, just to cover up the silence.

~~~~~~

Taglist: @lucywrites02 @electroma89 @the-emo-asgardian @rorybutnotgilmore @hybrid-in-progress @weirdfangirl2416 @darkacademicfrom2021 @nicoistrying

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hongism · 4 years

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mists of celeste ➻ one

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 4.5k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

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mists of celeste act one ➻ part one

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"You said that you're with the military? I don't recall the military having ships as small as yours." If possible, your eyes would roll all the way back in your head at the man's comment. Instead, you plaster a smile on your lips, gaze flitting around the bridge as you do.

"Yes, Ambassador Salvadore. They sent me on a transport ship, as I am here to relieve the captain of his duties—"

"That is not necessary, Miss."

"—on military orders, Ambassador." Your grin continues to stretch as you gauge the state of the bridge. It is severely lacking in terms of soldiers, which is good for you on multiple fronts, but the ambassador before you is proving to be more difficult than you first anticipated.

"Well, that is quite unfortunate then, seeing as I will never have a woman command my ship even if on supposed "military orders". Which division did you say you were from?" The ambassador is too much of a skeptic; he must be old enough to have witnessed – perhaps even taken part in – the First Military Revolt in 2143 when the first female Fleet Admiral was inaugurated, but you don't have time to argue politics with an old man.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Ambassador. It's military orders, whether you like it or not. We are beyond the days of sexist remarks about women commandeering ships, are we not?" You bite out. The smile on your lips falters a bit, and the older man's gaze hardens on you.

"Where are your papers? I need proof of your purpose here, as well as a written record of your orders."

One hand slips down your thigh, brushing the holster where your pistol sits, but you bring it back up upon second thought.

"Papers were not given, sir. The HMS Revenge is less than 50 thousand megameters from Eros and as such, my commander did not think it necessary to send me out with papers." You bring your hands behind your back to resist the urge of putting a bullet between the ambassador's eyes, clasping them tightly and glaring at the grey-haired man before you. Whether he believes your words or not is unimportant, because he can't seem to stay focused on the topic at hand anyways.

"Where is your seal? What rank are you? Your division? The name of your commander so that I can have a word with him once we dock on Eros again?"

"I am wearing my seal, sir, along with my uniform. As for your other questions, I believe that if it were a man standing before you, you would ask nothing of him, Ambassador. Thus I do not feel inclined to answer any of your questions." The old man's eyes rake over your form, and once again, you feel your fingers itching to reach for your pistol as he stares. Biting down hard on the tip of your tongue, you push the desire back and grin back at the man. The uniform you're currently wearing fits awkwardly – baggy at the shoulders and waist, along with sleeves that keep falling past your wrists when you let go of them, and overall it's a bit obvious that the uniform did not originally belong to you. The excuse you can think of on the spot is that you were given a recycled uniform, but considering how stubborn and skeptical Ambassador Salvadore is, you don't think you'll be able to slip through with that lie.

"Your uniform looks like it was taken from the garbage," the man states, confirming your concerns. You sigh then open your mouth to retort but he cuts you off before you have the chance. "You are one soddy excuse for a pirate, girl. One woman against an entire crew? A fool's errand if anything. Not at all some grand heist."

"I am not a pirate," you spit back between gritted teeth. "I am merely here on military business. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You see, Miss, that is actually not true. You cannot be here on military business because I would've been informed beforehand. No one elected to inform me of a change in the captainship, however. Thus, you must either be a pirate of another sort of criminal." The man takes a few steps forward, risking to be within a couple feet of you now, and you note the lack of weapon on him. He walks with a slight limp, no doubt a bummed knee from early military days that he never had surgery on, and his left foot drags a bit along the floor as he walks over. "Besides, your face looks quite familiar, Miss. Have I seen you on a bounty paper before?"

"I highly doubt that," you whisper. Eyes dare to meet yours, and you pass a sinister smirk his way before uttering your next words. "I make a note to not leave anyone alive once they've seen me." His eyes widen.

"Grab her!"

You bring your hand to your holster with the intention to use the weapon this time, but somehow the man is quicker. Well, his men are quicker. One comes from behind you – the guard who brought you to the bridge when you boarded – and another comes from your right, grabbing your arm before you have the chance to pull out your gun.

"Cute trap, ambassador. Think of it all by yourself?"

"In fact, I did. Didn't take much thought since all pirates are the same."

"This is a mistake, ambassador. You really don't want to be doing this, I promise. And I'll remind you again: I am not a pirate." You don't waste your time struggling against the grip of the men around your arms. Instead, you glare at the old man in front of you as though it'll get you out of this predicament faster. You get what you asked for, just not in the way you were wanting or expecting. The cool touch of a gun barrel finds your temple.

"Then you're a fugitive. Or a criminal. A pirate is no different. You all bleed the same, so there's no point in making useless distinctions."

"You bleed the same too, ambassador."

"Kill her."

You brace yourself for the worst, hoping at least for a swift and painless death, but it doesn't come right away. The ground quakes underneath you, then everything jerks for a moment. In a split second, the lights dim and flash red, sirens begin to wail throughout the bridge, and you spot the captain scrambling to return to his post. The ship wobbles, and as it does, your captors lose their balance. You seize the moment, yanking your limbs from their grasp and slamming the back of your head against the man behind you. A sickening crunch follows along with a scream of pain. The man on your left is already beginning to recover his balance so you have to work fast and swing your elbow against his jugular before he can fire his gun. He crumples under the attack and clutches at his throat while you swing around to deliver a similar blow to the soldier behind you as well.

"Captain, report! What is happening?" The ambassador yells, scampering back as you grab the gun from the man beside you.

"I can answer that for you," you huff. Your chest heaves from the sudden burst of exertion, and you rise to your feet slowly. The ship lurches again, sending the crew careening backward, but you steady yourself by ducking down. "You're being boarded by actual pirates. And in my time in the black seas, I've only seen one crew use this boarding tactic."

"Who? Tell me now, girl!"

"Give me control of the ship now or you're not getting out of this mess alive," you say, taking several steps towards the ambassador.

"Absolutely not. I would rather see this ship blown to pieces before she falls into the hands of a pirate."

"She'll be in the hands of a pirate regardless!" You argue, and your tone grows incredulous when the old man glares at you.

"They're pirates. They don't stand a chance against soldiers from the Royal Military," he sneers before turning on his heel and walking towards the captain.

"Holy fuck… it's the Scourge of the Black Sea." It's another crew member who mutters the words, gun no longer aimed at you but just past your shoulder, and you whip upon hearing the name. You had seen the Scourge's file many many times, yet none of the pictures included in it were accurate in the slightest now that you are face to face with the man.

Kim Hongjoong, barely older than you yet still the most notorious pirate in the galaxy. Scourge of the Black Sea, a moniker that serves him well, but seeing him before you now changes that. First of all, he's not nearly as tall as you pictured him to be. The files never shared details about his height or hair color or anything like that, but you somewhat expected the infamous Scourge of the Black Sea to be of intimidating height; however, the three men standing around him are all taller than him, although not by a drastic amount. Still, you weren't expecting the man to look as young as he does. Someone with a track record like his surely would seem much older than his profile depicts him to be. You can't call him out for his age since you are younger than him yourself but after years of expectations about what this infamous pirate would be like, you feel a bit let down. His gaze is piercing and harsh, but a gleam in his eyes shelters playfulness. Behind that sharp gaze lies dark eyes, so dark they almost seem black from the angle you're standing at. Beyond that though, you don't find yourself scared at the sight of him at all.

He doesn't look your way, in fact, he glances past you as though you don't exist. Someone else is looking directly at you, however, and it's his gaze that redirects your focus. You don't recognize him – or the other two men with the Scourge for that matter – but he has distinct features. Cat-like eyes, upturned and wide, alongside a captivating smile that's a bit too bright for your liking. His grin is strange, but hair even stranger – a solid head of black except for one section at the front of his head cut out like a slice of pure white strands. His gaze doesn't falter, remaining locked on yours as you continue to analyze him. It's almost as though he seems to know you and who you are, a knowing quirk in his expression.

"More fucking pirates on my ship!"

You maintain a stare with the man beside the Scourge rather than turning to look back at the ambassador again.

"Now, now..." Hongjoong cuts through the terse silence across the bridge, voice booming throughout the room with little effort. He takes one, then two steps forward, the jacket around his shoulders sweeping back with the movement. It's only two steps, and yet you feel the intimidating aura radiating off of the man in those small movements. "All I want is what's in the cargo hold. Give me what I want, and I'll spare your men."

"Open fire soldiers!"

"I guess we're gonna do this the hard way then," Hongjoong mutters as the soldiers scattered throughout the bridge raise their weapons. That's your cue to duck out of the way. As fascinating as the boy with cat-like features may be, you would rather not be riddled with bullets because you were too focused on staring at him. You have no doubts that the Scourge would shoot right through you, and you're going to have to move fast to get what you're wanting without trouble from him. You push forward, running directly at a soldier off to your left, then the gunfire begins to ring in your ears along with the alarm.

It doesn't take much effort to wrestle the gun from its owner. One swift kick to the side of his knee and a fist to his nose suffices, and the weapon falls into your hands. You slam the butt of the gun against his cheekbone, not waiting for him to fall to the floor before you're pushing past him to get into the captain's cabin.

"Fucking hell," you curse under your breath when the door snaps shut behind you.

Gunfire and alarms still ring outside the door. You aren't sure how long the gunfire is going to last, but your getaway ship leaves when it's over meaning that you need to move quickly. Papers are strewn all across the captain's desk, but the ones you're looking for won't be lying about. You drop the rifle to the desk and squat down to be eye level with the drawers, clicking the first open.

"Where are you?" You mutter to yourself as you file through the mess in the drawers. Digging to the back, your fingers close around a bundle of papers. You yank them forward, seeing a neat red ribbon tied around the middle along with a wax seal placed directly over the thread. It bears the Royal Insignia of Eros. You sigh at the sight, one finger trails over the ridges of the wax, and you read the words across the front to yourself. "Papers of Free Travel and Safe Conduct. Signed by the king." A small, raspy laugh escapes your lips. Despite the chaos of gunfire and alarms blaring around you, you can't help but feel a wave of calm wash over you.

"Put the papers down, pirate." You glance up, eyes fixating on the door, and spot the ambassador glaring you down. You tuck the letters into your shirt, your free hand gliding across the desk to grab for the rifle you set down.

"Sorry old man. I'm leaving with these papers. It doesn't matter whether you're dead or alive to me." You lift the rifle and point it at the man's head without hesitation. "Cross me, Ambassador Salvadore. You won't live to see the end of it."

"The papers or your life," he spits back, shakily lifting his own pistol. Perhaps you were wrong about his endeavors in the military previously, or maybe he's just that terrified of you.

"Did you misunderstand me? Step aside. The pirates with the Scourge already killed all your men, didn't they? My guess is they're on the way to the cargo hold and plan to kill every soldier along the way. Do you want to join the corpses?" You let the gun slip down a little. The ambassador quakes under your movements but shakes his head once you finish speaking. "Then step aside."

He does as told, moving away from the door as you keep your gun trained on him. You don't dare look away from him, too wary of him being trigger happy or trying to jump you once you get closer to the door. The cool touch of metal hits your back, and you feel around for the touchpad beside the door.

"Why are you doing this?" He asks once you lower your gun.

"I want my freedom. I don't care what I have to do to get it."

"So you're going to kill me anyway then?"

"No. I'll leave that for the Scourge. They say he doesn't take prisoners." You turn away, slamming your palm against the door control. As it slides open, you pass one last glance to your dear ambassador. Eyes stretch wide as he lifts his pistol again, and you're forced to duck away as best you can. Either you're too slow or he's too quick. The resounding echo of a pistol shot follows, and you barely register that you've just been hit until a burning sensation sears through your right arm. If not for the adrenaline coursing through your veins, you would be crumpled on the ground in pain. It's a good thing for that too because you don't have much time to sneak aboard your getaway ship.

The ambassador doesn't follow you out, and you don't stop to check your wound before darting after the trail of dead bodies.

"Shit shit shit," you hiss under your breath. Warm blood begins to trickle down your arm, making the fabric of your ill-fitting uniform cling to your skin. If your studies of Kim Hongjoong's tactics are correct, he should've docked his ship along the corridor to the ballistics bay, and your studies must be accurate because there is one living person near the end of the corridor. Guarding the docking station. With a gun. Just your luck.

"Hongjoong, there's a—" You chuck your rifle at him, catching the man off guard, and he stumbles back to dodge your weak attack. Killing him would be foolish and far too suspicious, but you're doomed in hand to hand combat with a gunshot wound in your dominant arm. "Fuck. There's a girl here, she's—" You cut him off again, sweeping a foot under his and bringing him to the floor. His gun clatters to the side. You bring your left hand down in attempts to punch him, but he catches you by the wrist before you can make contact. The fabric of your sleeve slides a bit, you panic, and with frantic movements, you try to pull out of his grasp. The two of you freeze where you are and merely stare at each other for a moment. Then he grabs for his gun again, whipping a leg up to rail you in the side. You hiss at the impact but manage to kick his gun away before he can grab hold of it.

"Seonghwa? Seonghwa, repeat." The voice comes from the man's form, no doubt the wristband that glows as the audio comes through. You scramble for your pistol, crying out in pain as your muscles flex at the spot of your wound, but manage to bring the butt of the gun against the man's temple before he has the chance to respond to his captain. "Seonghwa. Are you there? I repeat, are you there?"

You sit up, a slight stumble in your steps as you get back to your feet. The man – Seonghwa, most likely – doesn't move, but you can see the staggered rhythm of his breaths as his chest heaves. He'll get away with a headache and minor concussion at best, which is better than being dead for certain.

"Shit." The voice crackles through Seonghwa's wristband, and you can barely hear it over the still-blaring alarms in the ship. "Yeosang, come in. Go check up on Seonghwa. Kill anyone in your way. We aren't here to make friends." You step over the man's unconscious body, glancing into the ship on the other side.

"Cargo bay, cargo bay. Surely you have signs on your ship, Scourge," you mutter as you step onto the foreign spaceship. "Can't be much different than a military ship, right?" You slip your pistol back into its holster, right hand still dancing over the grip despite the pain radiating from that arm. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off, and the more you walk the more you feel the pain. Thankfully, the ship is smaller than anticipated. It's only a short trip to reach the cargo bay, no elevators either, which surprises you. You had initially imagined that the infamous Scourge of the Black Sea would have a ship that's a bit more difficult to sneak onto and carry stowaways, but perhaps you overestimated him.

The cargo bay is littered with boxes. Some are stacked all the way to the ceiling, while others remain strewn about, all evenly spaced. Despite the volume of boxes, there isn't much space left in the bay. No doubt, they'll decide to make port on one of the trading planets soon to sell off all the stolen cargo, meaning that you'll be able to escape then. Hopefully with relative ease too because otherwise, you're going to be trapped on the ship of one of the most merciless pirates in the galaxy.

Slipping between the rows of boxes, your gaze trails over each label. Guns, ammunition, meats, produce, textiles, spices, crafting tools – there seems to be a box for every object in existence. You pause beside a box labeled fabrics and thumb at the clasps, clicking them open to reveal the contents. It's only about half full of spools, more than plenty enough room for you to fit inside, and it would be marginally more comfortable than a crate full of guns. You glance around the cargo bay first, eyes scanning the walls and ceiling for any signs of cameras before you duck into the crate.

It's a tight fit, a bit too cramped for comfort, but of course, comfort isn't a luxury you can afford to bitch about at the moment. The searing pain radiating from your right arm is a bigger concern, especially considering that it is getting worse and worse with each passing moment. You bring a finger to your arm, feeling around for an exit wound on the opposite side; however, you can't find one despite all your prodding. Meaning that the bullet is still lodged in your arm.

"Fucking shit," you curse under your breath. Your arm falls to the bed of fabrics limply. One fucking ambassador with a shaky hand is not going to send you to your grave because of a damn bullet in your arm, and you'd sooner tear the bullet out with your own fingers.

"Deliver the boxes here!" The sudden intrusion of voices stops your fingers from reaching for the wound, however, and you instead press your left palm over the wound in attempts to slow the bleeding. "If you're done getting beat up by soldiers, that is." The voice no doubt belongs to the Scourge, but the next one is less familiar.

"She wasn't a fucking soldier. I told you that." A grunt follows along with the thud of something heavy. It takes a few moments for you to realize that the "she" is, in fact, you, and the person Hongjoong is speaking to must be the man you clobbered at the docking station. "No way she was military. She had a uniform but when we were fighting, I caught her arm and there were chains branded on the inside of her wrist." Your eyes widen despite only seeing darkness around you. Subconsciously, you tighten your grip around your wound, the image of chains branded onto your skin the only thing you can see.

"You still got your ass handed to you."

"Yeah well, maybe she ought to join the crew since she's able to kick my ass."

"Why would a military traitor be of any use to me?" Silence answers the question, and Hongjoong continues speaking, his clear voice ringing loudly in your ears as though he's right next to you. "Who says that military traitor won't betray me too?"

"I don't recall you saying that about our dear Royal Betrayer when he joined the crew. Besides, a prejudice against the military does not equal a prejudice against any sort of leadership."

"Oh, is that so? Would you like to go back onto that ship and get her? If you're so adamant about her joining my crew, why don't you do that?"

"No sir. I wouldn't like to do that. I am merely trying to be logical. We've lost over half our crew in the past two months, either due to death or desertion. Hongjoong, you really need to consider bringing mo—"

"You need to consider your position on this ship," Hongjoong cuts in, voice dropping in volume and turning to venom. "You are Lieutenant, not Captain. I am the Captain. Is that not clear?"

"Crystal clear."

"I will consider bringing more crewmates in when I deem it necessary. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain. It was merely a suggestion. Nothing else." Quiet falls between the men, air so tense you could cut it with a knife even from your position in this crate. "What of the survivors, Captain?"

"Kill them all. Destroy the ship as well. I don't want to see a single trace of the HMS Revenge. We got what we needed. Nothing else matters."

You shift and twist in the crate, trying to adjust into a more comfortable position only to slam your arm against the side of the wood. A sharp hiss escapes your lips before you can stop it. Teeth sink into your lower lip as you attempt to contain the sound but the damage is already done.

There's silence outside the crate.

Your heart thrums loud, erratic beats against your eardrums.

Two seconds meld into five, then ten seconds pass in silence. You hear no sounds of movement, no scraping of shoes or thumps of boots.

"You don't have to do this, Hongjoong," the second voice speaks at last. "As you said, we got what we needed. We can just leave now."

"I do have to do this, Seonghwa. If I don't kill a man every now and then, no one fears me."

"What of the trail of corpses aboard that ship right now? Is that not enough fear for you? Do you think their families and friends wait at home afraid of you?”

"I gave you an order, Lieutenant."

"Yes, Captain." Footsteps resound, the clanking of boots against metal flooring, and the sound grows fainter until you can't hear anything except the thud of your heartbeat in your ears and the rasps of your breath. You don't risk lifting the lid of the crate yet, not until you're absolutely certain that the two men have left the cargo hold. You lie in the darkness, listening to nothing except the faint sounds of your own breathing for god knows how long.

When you finally creak the lid open, there is only more darkness surrounding you. The lights throughout the cargo bay are dimmed, leaving you to feel your way around the crate to little avail. The blood on your hand has grown sticky from the length of time you've been lying there but at least the steady flow of blood has subsided to a slow trickle. You grab at one of the spools of fabric in your new home. Tearing a long strip of the material off, you try your best to bandage the wound without being able to see it or have both hands to do so. It's awkward and shitty, no doubt barely a knot keeping it together, but it's just enough pressure to alleviate some of the blood flow.

The steady loss of blood has left you dizzy. You crawl back into the crawl with heavy limbs, barely able to close the lid back just enough so that you can still breathe some fresh air. Time seems to stretch on forever, the darkness simultaneously keeping you up and helping you fall into slumber. You finally slip into sleep between the throbbing pain in your right arm and the stinging memory of a hot brand being pressed against the inside of your left wrist, along with the words "filthy fucking traitor". You fall asleep with one hand resting over the place where you tucked the stolen papers into your shirt, the folds of the letters easing your worries enough to let you sleep.

✧ ✧ ✧

a/n: on god, y'all are probably like pleASE calypso no more series istg you don't have the tiME but oh well i may not have the time but i've got the enthusiasm :D ((jk pls don't scalp me i'm just trying to have fun here)) but also hello hello thank you for reading!!! i really hope you all enjoyed it and please let me know what you think of it and feel free to send an ask if you have any questions/feedback/just overall love for me bc i’m really anxious to know what you all think!!!

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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alchemist-shizun · 4 years

Text

Eventyr

Word Count: 7058

Characters: Virgil, Janus, Roman, some original background characters

Pairing(s): Anxceit, platonic prinxiety

Warning(s): self-loathing, fire, death mention, wound mention, crying

Summary: It wasn't that exasperated move they did back in the woods, but more of a caring one, like they were carrying the most precious thing in the world to them. He did feel like he was, to them, their tenderness made him believe it with one quick glance.

A/N: Just so you know, the depiction of the mythical Hamingja is partly accurate, 80% completely made up for plot point. Basically most of this has been invented. I don't know if the hamingja title is an exact translation from Norwegian so I apologize, I tried. Anywho this is a super late present for @deetheimposter 's bday because I'm v slow and this took surprisingly a huge amount of time. Hope whoever decides to read it likes it! (Janus uses neutral pronouns here)

✾

There had never been a better time.

A low translucent mist still hovered above the dark blades of grass during the passage between night and day; the towering moon was lending some of its light so that the two lone heroes could continue their journey.

« According to the directions we were given in the last village, the so called “Molten Stone” should be just ahead. » Roman indicated right in front of himself, glancing back to his journey partner, Virgil, who was a few steps behind checking for any unwanted surprises.

« How does a molten stone even look like? »

« That's the take, friend. » he offered with a grin. « Don't think with your mind. »

Virgil started to ponder what else could there possibly be that he could think with as they ventured further in the forest.

He could see the mist quickly attaching to his boots and becoming tiny droplets of condensed air.

His feet followed Roman relentlessly, yet there was other stuff in his mind: less than an hour earlier or so, he had felt like something had been off. Virgil kept looking around for proofs and, with every turn, it was as if he caught a glimpse of some kind of entity following them.

Trying to shake the feeling off, he couldn't help but hear his family's voices reprimanding him in his head.

You're just paranoid, they would say, you're being overly vigilant, loosen up your shoulders.

His body tried to relax at best, releasing the tension in every reachable muscle, until the two friends stopped in front of a large body of water.

« This is it. » Roman trustingly affirmed.

Virgil glanced at the scene and slowly nodded, pursing his lips. « Yeah. A huge lake. Cool view, where's that rock now? »

His friend chuckled. « Right here! Don't you get it? »

Roman gestured to the water, so that the other could indulge further in his own inspection.

Virgil observed the water and realized what an odd optical illusion the lake's surface made mixed with the fog and the light shining from the- what?

Why were there warm coloured lights coming from the water?

Then he saw it.

A yellow eye disappeared behind a tree on the other side of the lake; Virgil took Roman's arm without breaking eye-contact from the tree. It was their silent understood signal to maintain carefulness, looking at each other's back.

« I don't trust this place. » Virgil murmured, his eyes wider than ever. « Are you sure they gave you the right- »

« Have at you! »

Virgil turned around to see his friend with his arm extended and his sword drawn, the pointy end right under their probable adversary's chin.

They didn't look … confident. Rather, they looked absolutely terrified, maybe even panicked: they held their hands up, their body slightly drawn backwards, eyes fixed on the blade and teeth bared. There was especially a sort of aura surrounding them, glowing in the same yellow pigmentation he had seen on their eye previously.

He only offered an intimidating expression as Roman did the rest.

« State your presence. Why were you following us? »

The person sighed and shook their head. « You have my entire purpose horribly mistaken- »

« Cut to the chase. » Virgil ordered.

They shifted their look onto him, as if they had just noticed him. « Alright then, if that's what you want. » they took some steps back and opened their arms, locking eyes with the other boy.

« It's an utmost delight to finally meet you as well, Roman Kallis. They call me Janus, I am the Hamingja that has been assigned to your generation years before your birth. You have reached the proper age for me to manifest to you and accompany you through your journey. » Janus bowed theatrically and rose only to be met with Roman's aghast expression and Virgil's … well, one thing for sure, the guy didn't trust people that easily.

« I had heard about you. » Roman recalled. « My relatives used to tell a surprising amount of tales of their quests and they would always mention you. »

« That doesn't mean we can immediately trust this … » Virgil hesitated.

« Oh, I'm an angelic being. »

« … That doesn't mean we can trust this angel. » he finished, glaring at the guardian as they smirked.

Roman pushed his friend's arm slightly. « Oh shush. So! » he approached Janus with stars in his eyes. « Are you about to take me towards important victories? Lead me to some conquerings? »

They blinked and took one step back as the boy started to invade their personal space. « More like accompany you. I normally manifest in your dreams, but I can show up here as well now. Just remember: the Norns take the final choice. »

Roman nodded seriously, while his friend wasn't yet entirely convinced.

« How are we sure you're who you say you are? »

« Virgil- »

A bright light started glowing around the angel as they levitated a few inches off of the ground. As they opened, their eyes shined a similar light.

You know anyone else that can do this?

The words echoed in his head while Janus's expression didn't change, his face still and blank.

They fell back on the ground after a few seconds.

« Are you in need of any more demonstrations? »

Virgil averted their eyes and turned around, silently resuming their journey as Roman sighed and apologized on his behalf.

That was going to be fun.

✾

Roman fell to his knees as the umpteenth village fell victim to an enemy's raid.

Flames rose from every possible surface, burning both everything to its roots and Roman's eyes; he turned, his expression dull, then he nodded at the glimmering wolf by his side.

« Let's carry on. » he murmured, trying to get back on track while having constant flashbacks of the fight he'd just lost, not caring of any wound, although minor.

Janus shifted back to his anthropomorphic form, about to disappear from the human eye, when a hand grabbed their wrist and they were forced to slow down and stay out of Roman's hearing.

« Doesn't Hamingja mean happiness? » Virgil looked right ahead of himself. « Because I'm not seeing any kind of happiness ever since you came here. »

« Please keep in mind that I do not choose the course of events, I only make sure that Roman's luck functions the way it should. »

He exhaled deeply through his nose; they mentioned luck plenty of times, but he sure as hell didn't see any fortunate events happening.

« Why isn't it functioning then? »

Janus looked over to the boy. « He looks alive to me. »

Virgil stopped dead in his tracks and stared at them. « You can't be serious. »

« I work with what I have. » Janus's eyes furrowed. « I'll have you know I do not find it pleasing to have my ways questioned. » with that, they were gone, leaving Virgil fuming with rage and yet repressing it for the sake of his friend.

He did not like them. Or their ways.

Something was wrong.

✾

It was getting ridiculous.

Roman had never been the luckiest man alive, but once he had been made aware of his conditions, he had started to become more careful about his every decision, and thus his every consequence.

So he noticed all his failures ten times more than usual.

What was the purpose of a guardian if there was no way to protect him? Was he overthinking it?

Or … had he expected way too much out of Janus?

He put his face in his arms which were resting on the wooden table of his parents' kitchen. He had come back for a scheming meeting between other relatives, but he couldn't keep his mind off of the numerous defeats he had been bearing for a while.

« There needs to be a way out of it. » Virgil stepped away from the kitchen's door and turned back to Janus who was standing in front of the fireplace, nourishing the fire with a spell. « Some sort of magic? An enchantment? »

The hamingja pondered the question.

A way to deviate the Norns themselves …

« It is highly risky. » they admitted, stepping closer to the other. « But not impossible. »

« How risky? »

« Deadly. » they looked into his eyes and detected both fright and curiosity. « It's technically quick and painless- »

« I'll do it. » Janus raised an eyebrow at him. « Whatever it is, I'll do it. »

Such determination for a mere friend.

They raised a hand towards his chest and pressed against it, Virgil felt like they were trying to take something from him like they could take his soul out of thin air.

Was he about to die? The famous life for a life deal?

Then, like nothing happened, Janus stepped away.

True, he felt slightly more tired, but nowhere near the deadly zone.

Seeing his appalled look, Janus provided an explanation.

« The only way to change someone's life is to make room for more time. What I did was take away a portion of time from your life for me to modify and add onto Roman's. »

« How much did you remove? »

« One month so far. »

« Make it a year. »

Virgil's look in his eyes didn't relinquish a slight bit of doubt. He stared and waited expectantly, ready to assist his friend with his own life more than needed.

Impressive.

« If that is what you wish. »

And so on.

Times upon times, their little unspoken secret grew behind Roman's back as events needed to be changed.

As time itself ran out, they kept adding a new amount, until little to none remained and the cycle repeated again.

If Virgil was willing to give his life for someone who saved his own, Janus was more than okay to satisfy both ends and make their protege as secure as possible.

Not that he knew any of that.

✾

« May I ask you something? »

Another victorious battle had them exhausted and resting in the safest place they found in the woods: Roman's hamingja had offered to keep an eye out as they slept.

Virgil nodded to them as they got further away from the royal.

« Why do you give your life away so easily? » Janus studied him with deep interest as it was the only thing he didn't understand about him.

Only a couple of months had passed since their appearance, yet that guy still filled a big question mark in their mind.

« Well, I wouldn't have one if it weren't for him. » Virgil leaned back against a tree as the memories surfaced. « He just so happened to be around when my village caught fire during a raid and he saved my entire family. »

« This happened some years ago, I remember I told him I would've done anything since I owed him and he simply took out his sword and named me his fellow knight. »

Ever since then, they would have gone on journeys together, becoming the inseparable battling duo they were to that day, despite the many lost fights and the very little body count.

« So yeah, all those years you took off of my life to help him, I do owe him those, thus I don't mind dying prematurely. »

« Those what? »

The two turned around abruptly and found the subject of their conversation right behind them, one thing only to be read on his face: dolence.

Roman scoffed. « I should've realized. Everything was going just too good. » he looked down and murmured. « Too good to be true. »

« Ro- »

« I can't believe both of you kept it from me. » he brushed his face with his hands as the others stayed silent. « You know what? If you really like to do things by yourselves, then so be it. »

He picked up his gear from the ground as Virgil approached him and reached out to him. « Roman, please. »

He turned around and backed away. « Don't you value your life?! Have you ever thought about how I'd feel about this? Can't I get a say in what happens to me? »

Virgil withdrew as well, too ashamed to add anything else.

« This isn't how I wanted to be guarded. » he added, he then stepped closer to Janus. « I hereby pass you up onto Virgil from now on. »

« Excuse me? »

« That's a thing that can be done, right? Like that time my uncle passed it onto my mum. »

Janus stammered in their thoughts. « Y-yes it can be done. »

Roman nodded before whispering a “then do it” and turning his back on both of them.

« I don't want you anymore. »

Without sparing them a last single glance, he ventured back into the opposite direction and disappeared like they had never met before.

Janus and Virgil shared a look, their entire purpose broken into little shards of failure.

« Just, » the latter pinched the bridge of his nose. « Do your thing. Vanish into thin air, whatever it is. I don't want to deal with you right now. »

Janus simply glared at him and started ascending, their eyes glowing a yellow light.

« Don't act like it's entirely my fault. » they said and then, in a second, they were gone.

And Virgil had never felt more alone.

✾

He came to realize he was actually glad about loneliness.

Nothingness was the perfect place to hide from the significance of anything around you, the importance of whatever grieved your shoulders.

It blended into the quiet gratitude of acknowledging you can rest after a week-long journey in the loudest place on earth.

There was a single downside to that kind of attitude: averting.

Sure, the night sky told you all you needed was sleep and your issues would vanish in a tomorrow thought.

And so the cycle repeated until you ignored parts of yourself.

Virgil had been lost in the empty reality for as long as he’d started travelling alone. He knew it was getting unbearable for his stress, so much that it plagued his surroundings and his dreams as well.

It was during one of these that Janus decided to show up and set things right for once.

Not that it went exactly how he imagined it.

He had been able to trap Virgil inside a repetitive path of the all so familiar woods and, as he tried to wake up, he noticed he couldn’t. That’s when the snake that had been following him all that time shape-shifted into the hamingja.

« Are we going to talk about it anytime soon, or do I have to lurk in the shadows? »

It was already too much.

All Virgil could see was the pained expression on Roman’s face every time he looked at Janus, he was reminded of all his errors.

He couldn’t stand it. He hated it. He hated them.

Probably even himself.

« It would be far better if you just left. »

« Left? » Janus took a step forward, their eyes squinting. « You think I can simply disappear out of your life? »

« You seem to have been doing that pretty easily lately. »

« I have only tried to lessen your pain, » they followed as Virgil walked past them, into the unknown of that dream’s reality. « Yet you don’t let yourself be healed and keep bearing a grudge. »

Virgil halted and scoffed. « Bearing grudges? » he said « To me it’s always looked like, ever since you stated your presence, everything has been going horribly. Would you blame me for a grudge? »

As he turned away, he didn’t notice Janus not following or clenching their fists.

They just wanted to do something good for once. Why did that always happen?

« If you so much wish and intend on hating me, » the scenery changed, the two were now by the edge of a cliff. They reached Virgil and grabbed a handful of his clothes. « Then do it silently. » Janus pushed him off and the last thing Virgil saw of the dream was the hamingja staring down at him.

He woke up with a yelp and had the same scene in front of his eyes, only that it wasn’t a dream anymore, there, in the woods.

« Because, much to your chagrin, I’ll always be with you. »

Janus turned, walking away from his interlocutor.

Sure, run off like you always do.

Virgil heaved himself up with his elbows. « Like I ever even needed you. » He picked up his bag and let the sword rest at his side. « You came here, watched my friend be miserable, » he abruptly cut some bushes standing in his way. « Fucked up my life. » Another clean cut on plants around him. « But I should stay quiet. » He raised his voice. « I don’t need you! »

Virgil started marching toward an unknown destination, just like in the dream.

« I don’t need anyone. »

✾

It had been a fairly uneventful week.

Virgil woke up, provided himself food, and carried on with his journey home, where he hoped he could’ve started anew, back to his family.

The truth was, he had no idea where he was going, he could’ve been walking in circles and he wouldn’t have known at all. He wanted to seek shelter in the nearest village, yet in a week there had only been the infinite forest.

Virgil kept walking, marking his surroundings so he could recognize them, were he to cross paths with them again.

There was a small clearing, where he felt drawn to the light of the day, it was almost a perfect circle on the ground drawn by the sun, a perfect place to lay down during that rather cold day.

Why not? It was so inviting.

There were mushrooms all around. Kind of like it had been there for some kind of purpose.

Virgil tilted his head to the sound of chirping birds. He was in the middle of taking a step forward when he felt a hand yanking him backwards from his cloak.

As he fell down, the image of Janus’s eyes piercing through him was displayed before him yet again.

Are you serious?

« What is your deal?! »

« Get up. » He looked as they had the audacity to simply walk away without another word.

Virgil was already fuming. « Would you mind providing an explanation to your sudden visit? » He asked, clearly annoyed, after catching up with them.

Janus stopped and turned with a smug look. « You said you don’t need me. You were about to get killed. »

« Killed? »

« That you were about to step into was a fae circle. Once in, you’re doomed. Never dare to do so. »

What a stupid move, how could he not remember? He had always been extra vigilant about this sort of thing.

Janus saved him?

« Don’t think too much of it. » It was as if they had read his mind. « I’m looking out for you to fulfill what Roman asked me to do. »

This time, the hamingja had decided to stay.

Their journey together had been silent. Way too silent not to seem impossibly awkward at first.

Virgil couldn't just stop replaying what had happened in his head, how Janus had been right there to stop him from certain death, how they had probably been watching him the whole time.

If that had been the case, why didn't they point him towards a useful direction?

Hours passed and they were already leaving the sunset behind themselves, not stopping until they had found the perfect spot to rest for the night; weren't it for humans' weakness, Janus would've travelled for the entirety of the night.

Virgil was still wondering why they hadn't left him to die yet. They could've gone back to Roman, after pretending his death had been wanted by destiny.

« Why are you so keen on guiding me if you detest me as well? » he was sitting against a tree, like any other time he stopped for the night.

« You really don't get it, do you? » Janus sat down in front of him. « I have to follow what the Norns have in store for you. If they did not intend on you dying so soon, I have to protect you. I'm bound. Or else, I'll go against them. »

« What happens if you do? »

Janus had their eyes fixed on the ground, frowning like an unpleasant memory had resurfaced in their mind.

« I get thrown in the Ginnungagap for daring. »

So they were stuck together, huh?

« Don't worry, I'll pass you up onto someone else as soon as I find a village an- »

« You want to get rid of me so badly, don't you? » Janus shook their head, exasperated. During his time alone, Virgil hadn't changed an ounce.

The boy tried to reply, rephrase at best, thinking those were Janus's actual feelings, but he was cut off rather quickly. « You want me out? I'll leave you out. »

Virgil caught himself asking them to wait, not exactly sure as to why he was.

Just as they left, the fire they had made had been put out, any light flicker ceased. Everything that felt nice left him in the complete void, alone and miserable.

« Okay. » Virgil quietly got to his feet trying to adjust his vision to the dark he so much hated. « Okay, I'm sorry. » he rapidly looked behind his shoulders as he heard the creaking of leaves way too close.

Fright and anxiety pervaded him: he disliked the dark, he hated it. Void was part of the quiet and peaceful nothingness, but it was no refuge for him, rather one of monsters that his mind created. He wanted out.

A glimmering of hopefulness.

« Janus? » he called, eyes darting in every direction. « It's not funny, please. » he retreated back to the tree trunk, arms folder close to his chest forming some sort of shield.

And so hope came.

He was lifted off his feet, suddenly mid air and watching down as an unidentified creature jumped out of the bushes in an attempt to catch a new prey.

When he looked up, still wide-eyed, he was met with the hamingja's face again, who was holding him close and away from certain death. Again.

« The truth is, Virgil, » it was only then that he noticed how his glowing spirited eyes actually sparkled up close. « You're going to get yourself killed if you stay out here alone. »

Virgil pondered their words for a short minute as they descended and he was finally put down. « What if you told me of all the possible dangers then? I won't bother you. »

How stubborn could one be?

Janus put their hands on their face. « Stop making this only about you. I'm here and we need to work together. »

That … actually was a good point.

« I just … don't want to be perceived as an inconvenience. » they confessed; Virgil had no idea where that opening up to him came from, but he decided to accept it nonetheless.

« I guess I'm going to make an effort. »

They nodded, prompting that the conversation was over so he could go back to sleep.

« It's not that I hate you. » Virgil murmured, his eyes already closed. « I only didn't want to forcibly take away something from Roman along with our friendship. »

Janus stared at him only to go back to stand guard a few feet away.

« Sleep. » they repeated, voice softer. « You're going home tomorrow. »

✾

« Could you stop walking so fast? »

« When you stop being too slow to catch up. »

« Excuse you I am not the eldritch being that learnt the paths by heart. »

Janus stopped walking at once, making their journey companion crash onto them, trip and fall backwards.

Virgil held his face which had hit the other's back. « What the Hel was that for? »

Janus chuckled and kept walking. « Stop complaining. »

I'm going to murder them.

Very regretfully, Virgil got back to his feet and made the other roll their eyes at his heavy mad stomping on the grass.

They could see an opening not too far away from them. Just a few more meters and …

A vast grey-ish blackness stood before them, any solid shape remaining from the boy's village was crumbling down to ashes, white and black and grey again, flying around and falling at Virgil's feet, almost accusatory.

Why weren't you here?

His legs felt heavy as lead, dragging themselves forward in hopes to find what he had lost without return. He was standing in the middle of the burnt down village, of what was left of his only home, the place he knew he belonged, the family he left without protection.

Janus waited, not wanting to interfere with his emotions but still feeling a sharp heart-clench with every move Virgil made in the middle of that decaying necrosis.

They strongly intook breath as Virgil sat down facing them, their eyes locked only that his were dull.

« I'm home. » he said on the brink of tears, aware that his voice was about to get crushed by the weight of his silent crying.

He hid his face between his arms, slightly shaking. Why did he not prevent that? Why wasn't he noticed? He had just been wandering around with his nonsensical issues while his family had been defending their village from an attack, probably dying by it.

He didn't want to think about the worst scenario yet.

As Virgil sorted out how to cope with the sky falling on top of his head, Janus went to do a quick scan of the area: no bones, no charred corpses, a good omen of everyone fleeing before it was too late.

They slowly approached Virgil, making their presence clear before sitting down by him. They rose their arm, their hand almost touching his shoulder, then decided against it.

The real issue was finding the right words. Even when so many disgraces had happened already throughout Janus's experience as a hamingja, it was always hard to console their protege at best.

« They're alive. » they announced, unsure of what else to properly add. « I … I could take you to the nearest village to figure this out. »

That took a reaction out of Virgil, who lifted his head enough to look at them, still hurt.

« Whenever you're ready. » they reassured, letting silence fall between them.

« Just give me a minute. » Virgil murmured.

Janus nodded, expecting him to sit there, simply waiting.

Instead, Virgil leaned on them, a silent ask for support, and they couldn't help but give it, slowly raising and arm to encircle him in a half-hug.

« Give me a minute … »

✾

With the second week of travelling coming to a conclusion, Virgil's doubts started to rise.

« Are you sure this is the nearest village? »

On his side, Janus brought their hands together, in theatrical dismay. « Oh, Norns, I'm busted. My secret evil plan has been uncovered! »

He could kind of see why he had been paired with Roman's dynasty.

« Janus. Where are you taking me? »

They sighed in annoyance. « Can't stand surprises? »

« Not after the last one. »

And there it was, the grim aura laid back on their heads.

« We're going to an elven town I know. I deviated our actual course a little. » there was a beat of silence. « I know they're very friendly with strangers there and we could also take a small break and rest. After everything that happened. »

Virgil didn't have any complaint to make against that.

« Then, by all means, lead the way. »

Not even five minutes had passed, that Janus increased their pacing and started dragging Virgil by the arm, pointing towards an arch out of the woods.

« Look! »

The banner read “Faarion” and the town looked on with nature, while still being nicely urbanized.

A swarm of little elf kids immediately greeted them. « Mx. Janus! You brought a new human? » their attention was averted to Virgil, all curious wide eyes and expectant faces.

« Uh- »

« Yes, we're possibly going to stay a few days. Now, care to show him around while I go announce ourselves to Aerith? »

They unanimously nodded and brought Virgil along with them, introducing themselves as they took him places.

Virgil looked back at him with a single murderous glance that said “I'll get back at you”, while the hamingja smirked and waved goodbye.

It didn't take long to find the town hall.

« Glad to have you back, Janus. » a smiling long-haired elf had been checking out documents at her office table. « Taking your hero here already? »

They had been remembered for how they would bring their hero to the elven town when they knew the soul was about to head to either Hel or Valhalla.

« Lovely to see you Aerith. » they unceremoniously dropped on the opposite seat. « It's actually kind of complicated this time. »

She raised her head from the documents and looked in their yellow eyes with desire to know more. « An intriguing tale. Do tell, dear. »

Janus tried their best to summarize the last few months: they mentioned Roman, the mess they made along with Virgil, how Roman passed them onto him and left without any way to trace him back again.

And then the whole contrast with Virgil, how they couldn't get through to him.

« We got to his old village, but all we found were ashen ruins and burnt down houses. That's why I decided to take him here. »

« A wise choice, indeed. » she agreed, solemnly. « Although I must say, it doesn't sound like he dislikes you anymore, does it? » Janus tilted their head. « To me, it's more of a fear of losing you as well, thus he pushed you away before he could develop something. I'd say he found himself too late. »

They didn't quite comprehended what she meant by developing anything, but they had noticed Virgil had been less hostile, if not in a teasing way, during the past few weeks.

« I suppose so. » they muttered as their thoughts drifted away. « I only … I wish to not make a mess, now that I have the opportunity to do something good. »

« You mean … »

« Yes. » they cut her off. « He's my first hope so far in millennia and I want to take the chance. »

Aerith gifted them a fond smile. « Have you told him? »

« Not yet. » they shook their head. « But I plan to, here. »

She remembered there was a place reserved to them, they used to take their souls there and explain the tragic destiny they were bound to and its reason why.

All in all, it was always Janus's fault.

Aerith gave them a small group of keys. « Go then, dear. Get settled for the night. »

✾

It was nearly completely dark outside when Janus got back to the town centre, only to find it fully decorated for the Rising Moon Festival they had forgot about.

« Mx. Janus! » one of that morning's kids took them by the hand and pulled them on the dance floor, simply swirly around.

« Hey Andiron. » they greeted. « Have you done your duty? »

« Yes! Virgil is a great listener! »

« Say, where is he? »

Andiron pointed to a spot in the back of the main plaza, where Virgil was hanging around by himself as everybody else had their celebration.

He did notice Janus reaching him.

« You survived. »

« I didn't know you lived here. »

They shrugged: it was typical of the kids to take everyone to the outside of their home. « Do you want me to show you around? We'll be staying here for a while. »

Janus sensed Virgil's discomfort with big crowds of people he didn't know; the boy acquiesced and together they keft the plaza and approached Janus's former habitation.

« Welcome to my humble refuge. » Janus bowed dramatically, which got a snort out of the human.

« You call this humble? I don't know why you would leave this. »

« Well, my parents used to live here, really. I'd be travelling around just like you. » they stepped toward the stairs.

« They … don't live here anymore? » Virgil tried, unsure of where eh was stepping with the conversation.

« They don't exactly live anymore. » they said, reaching the second floor and looking back at his companion. « It's not that bad, they're in Valhalla now. I could visit them if I wanted. »

He noticed the odd phrasing. « Do you want to? »

Janus breathed slowly, leading him to another room: it used to be their bedroom as a child, but what really enthused them was the terrace's view on the vast forest.

« I do. Kind of. But I know they'll ask me of my duties as guardian and … »

« You'd rather not? » Virgil followed them on the balcony and rested his arms on the railing.

Janus nodded. « This is why I should apologize. »

« To them? »

« No. To you. »

Virgil blinked repeatedly before turning his head to the hamingja, his eyes narrowed in confusion. « I thought we kind of settled it. »

« I don't mean our initial contrast. » they averted his eyes, rather looking down at the street lights adorning the darkness of the town. « My name isn't really Janus. I have a hamingja title that covers up what type of guardian I am and what type of destiny my humans are usually tied to. »

« My title is Sørgesang. »

They waited for Virgil to get it, they could almost hear the gears turning in his head. « Sad song? »

« Funeral chant. » they sighed deeply. « The meaning was explained pretty early, after the first few heroes that died horribly with me leading them towards inevitable death. » their body stiffened. « I … I'm apologizing because I ruined Roman's life simply by being destined to his dynasty, I'm like a curse among other hamingjas. We're usually protectors of good luck. I … don't know what went wrong with me. » they were gripping tight at the railing.

Virgil felt the urge to take their hands away, but decided against it a moment later. Maybe it's too anti-climatic?

« Didn't you tell me back then it's the Norns' work you're following? »

« Yes, but by assigning me to a family, my luck will affect the destiny they'll have once alive. » Janus started fidgeting, believing that, now that he knew he would keep trying to pass them onto someone else the quickest he could.

« So what you're trying to say is you're apologizing for your existence? »

That was the last thing they expected; they tried to retort something, but no argument felt good enough against his.

« Because that's what it sounds like. »

« I- Maybe I am, but what I really want to get to, is that I had never been lent or passed onto anyone else before. » they put their hands on his shoulders. « Virgil, you were never predestined to end up with me. This means my luck does not affect you and is not tied to your future. You're my only hope to prove I can lead someone to success. » they took his hands in theirs, trying to underline whatever they were getting at. « Just give me the opportunity. »

The moonlight illuminated the faint blush across Virgil's cheeks. « I … I will, okay. I'm sorry I misjudged you so easily at first. I hardly trust anyone. »

« That is a good quality. » Janus slowly let their hands fall at their side again, turning to look at the landscape.

I wouldn't trust myself either.

« Are those the woods we came from? » Virgil pointed towards the mass of trees that seemed to engulf the town.

They were about to respond, when instead Janus jumped off of the balcony and floated in the air in front of him, glowing like a firefly.

« Want to see for yourself? »

Virgil took the hand they offered, uncertain, and he got easily pulled up in the seemingly void. « Is this safe? » he asked, staring wide-eyed at the ground a huge amount of feet under them. « This is safe, right? » he gripped the other a bit tighter than needed.

Janus genuinely laughed as they flew to the roof of their home, placing them both on the gutters. The boy didn't stop hanging on their arm.

« If you look around yourself, you can see they're actually all around town. The one you're seeing now is the opposite direction from where we were going. »

« Mhm, definitely interesting. »

« Virgil, you're not going to die. »

« Says the one with flying powers. »

Janus got up and lifted the other by his arms. « You're not going to fall. »

« Yes I am. » Virgil blurted out, eyes darting between his only handhold and the garden they were above. Very much above.

« Don't look down. » Virgil was squeezing their hands like they could drop him any second. He obliged and was met with a soft smile. « There. You've got nothing to fear. »

Rather than dwelling on his concerns, Virgil was now lost in their expression and words, like he had been living in the dark and a new door had been opened up to him.

He took a deep breath and everything was lighter.

Perhaps because he had left all of his burdens on that roof for a while, or maybe because Janus had lifted them in the air again and they were holding him close, so they were sure he wouldn't fall.

It wasn't that exasperated move they did back in the woods, but more of a caring one, like they were carrying the most precious thing in the world to them.

He did feel like he was, to them, their tenderness made him believe it with one quick glance.

Before he knew it, his feet touched the grass, but one of his hands didn't leave the hamingja's as they walked.

« Let's get back to the festival. »

✾

Virgil came to realize elf kids were actually the epitome of smartness, the type of cunning intelligent perfect to architect schemes.

On the other hand, Janus had already understood their intention, yet they let them do their thing, knowing it all came in their favour eventually.

A couple of kids had taken both of them to dance until the two inevitably ended up moving around the plaza together.

« What's on your mind? » Janus noticed how Virgil had been unusually quiet by the moment they clasped their hands together and started swirling around; not once their eyes had met as Virgil preferred to look down at his feet.

He muttered a simple “don't know”.

Janus leaned over him, whispering right in his ear. « Don't look down. »

Virgil tried to bite away his own smile, failing horribly: how could he not in such a situation?

Their foreheads met and he breathed in. « I was wondering … is this okay? » he tightened the grip on their hands as they kept dancing. « Is this alright? »

Could we be together?

They pulled him as close as their dancing let them, careful not to bother the others present. « Do me a favour, Virgil, close your eyes. »

As soon as he obliged, he felt a hand on his cheek, while the world seemed to slow down. He wasn't paying attention to where he was stepping anymore.

Virgil instinctively leaned onto the touch, letting the other lead him until he felt soft lips against his, stealing a short kiss he wished to melt into.

« Do you feel like it is alright? »

When he opened his eyes again and saw Janus's longing gaze, he was sure of one thing.

« More than ever. »

✾

And it was going to be alright.

Months from then, they would've reconciled with Roman, who had now joined the crown's many expeditions and accepted his eventual terrible end, ready to face it after living everyday like it was the last.

At last, Aerith convinced them to stay and got their own little life in Faarion, where Virgil took up magic thanks to the alf seidr and Janus lending him some years of their immortal life.

And so they became the legend of the everlasting couple; some say, if you know where to look, you could still find them dancing in the dark of the night, singing to the stars and thanking the moon for bringing them together.

Everything was far more than alright.

#anxceit #janus sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #platonic prinxiety #sanders sides #fanfiction #ts fic

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needtherapy · 4 years

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Living With Being Dead

It's hard being a rogue cultivator when you're dead. Especially when you can't speak. Especially when your heart is broken.

A few months after Yi City, Song Lan finds his voice and a new way of living with himself.

Read more Kristina Writes Tiny Stories

There are notes at the end. Song Lan’s clever hands drawings by Rune Brandt Bennicke

He is sleeping.

He is dead.

It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.

No, that’s not true. He knows the difference. He just doesn’t care.

***

The first few months of his new life were easy. The world was made of two colors and he moved through them without thought.

He killed evil. He saved good. It was what he had always done.

It was by a cold mountain spring where he found a dying deer that he realized, fully realized, how he had changed. The deer was laying on its side, panting, the broken leg obvious. He had touched it, intending to heal it, and of course, he could not. Instead, he’d slit its throat, making the end swift and painless at least.

Unlike his own had been.

He considered trying. Surely there was some way to die. Die more. But in the end, he couldn’t.

So he went home.

Not his home. His home had been destroyed, one more casualty in a long string of death behind him. But every temple was a little like home, and he needed the familiar sounds, a schedule he understood, and people who would not speak to him.

He goes to the first one he finds. Truthfully, he does not even know where he is. Somewhere near Gusu, he assumes, given all the rivers and trees. There is something crisp and salty about the air in Gusu. He does not need to breathe, but he likes the smell of it anyway.

As he had hoped, they invited him in and left him alone. They had heard of the distant snow and the cold frost and were honored by his visit. They gave him a hut in the woods behind the temple and let him join meditation when he wished, rituals when he wished, meals when he wished.

***

He sleeps.

He wakes.

He is still dead.

Perhaps he will stay here forever. He has the time.

It is a surprise to find a priest sitting on the path one morning. She is drinking tea from a small table. She does not move when he walks past her, nor does she invite him to join her. She is there when he returns, but the tea has been put away and she is deep in meditation. He is many things he despises, but none of them is rude. He sits before her, legs crossed, and waits.

When her eyes open, she smiles, pure and unencumbered, and that, more than her robes of rank, makes him wary.

“Daozhang, has your visit been peaceful?” Her voice is like music, and he is suddenly infuriated that he can not respond as he wishes.

He nods once.

“Daozhang, the shifu has asked me to see to your comfort.”

For one horrifying moment he is afraid this woman, old enough to be his mother, possibly his grandmother, means a jing and qi ritual, but she pulls a sheaf of paper from her sleeve.

“Would you speak with me, Song-daozhang?” she asks gently.

No.

He stands and leaves, walking back inside his room without a backward look. He adds the guilt of inhospitality to all the rest.

The next day she is there. He stays inside.

He gives in the next day. It is not in his nature to be unkind, even now. This time, when he sits before her, she sets the paper, a brush, and a box he knows will have ink on the low table.

“What have you seen, Song-daozhang?”

What has he seen? He has seen death. He has seen evil. He has seen and done things he can not erase from his mind.

He writes. Birds. So many birds.

She laughs. “What kinds of birds did you like seeing?”

He writes. Tall silent birds, stalking through shady water. Flashes of color in the trees. Brave brown sparrows.

To his surprise, she stands. “I will return tomorrow, Song-daozhang. I hope we will speak again.”

For the first time since he can remember, he looks forward to tomorrow.

When he sleeps, he does not dream. It is awake that the memories come, always unwelcome. They are fragmented, at least. The taste of blood in his mouth. The last time he saw Xingchen. Cruel, ringing laughter. The sound of his name. Zichen.

The next day, the priest asks him to describe the oldest person he has ever seen, and he writes the memory of the toothless monk who taught him to read when he was eight. He’d been surprised the man could see past the wrinkles that covered his eyes, as deep as those on the shar peis that guarded the temple. It almost makes him smile.

The next day she asks him how he died.

He did not think he would care that anyone knew, but he is somehow ashamed that it is common knowledge. He sits without answering, hoping she will ask another question, but she waits. He considers a flippant answer and decides against it. She will just wait for him to answer truthfully.

I was proud. I underestimated my foe. I was too eager. I was too angry.

He does not write, an evil man destroyed my life. He can’t blame it entirely on Xue Yang. He does not write, my love killed me and then killed himself. He blames none of it on Xingchen.

Normally, she only asks one question before she leaves, but today, she asks a second, moving her hands strangely as she speaks.

“What is it like?”

Lonely. It is the first word he thinks, and it comes as a surprise. He’s never been lonely. When he was a child, he wanted nothing more than to get away from his parents and their fists. When he lived in the temple, he was surrounded by people day and night. When he found Xingchen, his heart was full. And when he died, he thinks, choking a little on the memory, he didn’t care.

It is nothing, he writes, and she considers his answer.

“But you are not nothing,” she replies, moving her hands again as she speaks. She gets up, brushes her robes off, and walks back down the path to the temple.

He realizes that she is somehow using her hands to express the words she is saying, and he’s curious. When was the last time he was curious?

The memories are kinder sometimes. He remembers smiles and gentle hands. He remembers the shifu on the mountain, the girl who helped him find Xingchen, the men who saved him.

She does not come the next day or the next, and he begins to worry. He goes to the temple for the first time in days and watches the youngest students train. He can’t bear to watch the teenagers, full of their newly-formed golden cores, unaware of how quickly that gift can be taken.

One of the teachers meets his eyes and tips his head in question, but he shakes his head. He does not want to be involved. He does not want to hurt anyone, and he doesn’t trust that he won’t.

He runs into the woman as he is leaving the training yard. He hands her the paper he had prepared.

I did not know who you were to ask if you were well. May I know your name?

“I am Liu-kundao. I will return tomorrow.” she responds with a bow and he smiles, as much at the generic name as the pleasure in knowing she will return. It is only a quick shift of muscle, but it surprises him.

He is glad when she returns and sorry when she asks her first question.

“You know who I am, Song-daozhang. Who are you?”

He can’t possibly answer that. It is not as simple as the names he has been given. He wants only to remember who he was.

I was a cultivator. I was a friend. I was a man.

She nods when she reads his writing. The part of him that thought she would accept his answer is disappointed.

“And now?”

I am a monster. I am a shell. I am no more than an instrument of death.

“No,” she disagrees. “That is what you are. I asked who you are.”

She leaves before he can tell her that there is no distinction anymore.

The next day there is a boy with her. He is around 10, thin and brown from the sun. His eyes are full of energy and light.

“Song-daozhang, this is Yongqi. He can’t hear or speak.”

As she always does now, Liu-kundao uses her hands, but he understands the purpose better now, watching the boy watch her. The boy’s name is a motion that looks like two determined fists. His own is two fingers from both hands steepled and swept down in what looks like a drawing of a house or mountain. It makes his mouth twitch, almost in a smile, this unique expression of his name. The boy responds, using the sign she has given him.

“Song-daozhang, I am pleased to meet you,” the woman says, translating as the boy moves his hands slowly.

He realizes he is staring when the woman makes a soft chuckle in the back of her throat.

“Would you like to learn to speak this way? Yongqi is learning as well and needs someone to practice with.”

It is something to do that is not remembering. He nods.

This new way of speaking is easier than he expects. Some of the signs make sense, their shapes accurate representations of their meaning. House. Sun. Tree. Food. Some just feel right. Please. Thank you. Love. Star. Others are based on signs he knows from night hunts. And his hands have always been clever.

The hardest part for him is learning that he must occasionally touch people to use this language. To catch their attention. To draw characters on their hands for words they can’t determine through context. It is one of the things that has followed him from life to death, this burning clench through his mind and body from unfamiliar contact. It gets easier with Yongqi and Liu-kundao, at least, as he gets to know them better.

Yongqi convinces him to come meet a traveling cultivator who has stopped at the temple. She doesn’t look like a cultivator, standing next to a tall, adoring man and holding the hand of a little girl, but she laughingly agrees to spar with one of the daoshi. As soon as she releases the child’s hand, he sees the change sweep over her, her pretty face hardening and her muscles, hidden under properly feminine layers, flexing through every shift, parry, and strike. She is fierce and determined, and the fight is swiftly won. It makes his fingers itch, and the unfamiliar feeling of want is not as painful as he expected.

He does not meet her, going back to his hut when Yongqi runs to congratulate her.

Yongqi does not come the next day, but the rogue cultivator does. She pops out from behind a tree as he exits the hut, startling him.

“They told me you were here,” she says, her face animated with delight. “I’ve heard of you.” He’s never sure what this means. Heard of the famous cultivation partners, the bright moon and cool breeze and the distant snow and cold frost? Heard of the fierce corpse who haunted Yi City? Or heard of whatever he is now? He would rather not be heard of.

“Would you do me the honor of a bout?” she asks.

He shakes his head, backing away, and she looks confused. “Are you unable?”

It is one thing to hunt monsters, demons, the worst of all that is evil. It is another to lift Fuxue against a person. He’s killed too many people already.

She doesn’t leave, though. “We have a mutual friend, I think,” she tells him. “Hanguang-Jun mentioned once that he knew you, that you were a rogue cultivator like me. May I tell him you are well next time I see him?”

To this, at least, he can nod assent, although he’s not sure he can be called a rogue cultivator anymore.

Without warning, she draws her sword and swings it at him. His reflexes don’t fail him. If anything, they are sharper now. He ducks, instinctively reaching out a hand for Fuxue before he remembers it won’t come for him anymore. He steps back as she attacks, arm still out and feels something deep inside him. A tug. Different than he remembers, but it is...something. And then his fingers close around the hilt of Shuanghua, not what he had asked for, but such a welcome feeling he wants to cry. It is like having Xingchen next to him again, and he blocks the next strike, turning it into a slashing parry that does not kill the woman, does not even knock her back. He can control this.

She is just as skilled as she had appeared the day before, and although he knows his physical strength could overwhelm her, he does not. She is smiling when she flips over his head, laughing when he spins to strike at her legs when she lands, jubilant when he ends the fight by pressing down, swinging Shuanghua up and back to set her off balance and tapping her on the back with the flat jianri.

“They’ve all wondered why you don’t fight anymore, but everyone else was too afraid to find out,” she grins at him, the mischief in her eyes making her look ten years younger. “Song-daozhang, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Luo Qingyang. Thank you for the fight.”

Liu-kundao and Yongqi come for lessons in the morning, and he can tell by their faces that Luo Qingyang must have told the story. Yongqi, especially, keeps looking at him in wonder, until he wants to laugh. He wants to say that it’s nothing, that he’s still nothing, but it doesn’t feel as quite as honest anymore.

When they leave, Yongqi runs ahead, but Liu-kundao lingers. Her usually-kind eyes stop him from bowing, an uncomfortably perceptive intensity in her gaze.

“Who are you, Song-daozhang?”

He is tired of this question. He doesn’t know. He returns it to her, his hands agitated.

“Who do you think I am?”

Liu-kundao smiles broadly, her entire face taking part in the expression. “You are not a monster, you are Song Lan, known as Zichen. You are not a shell, you have weathered difficulties, persevered through hardships, and you are still a soul who does good in the world. You are not an instrument of death, you are a man who deserves to give and receive love. You are a life worth living.”

She grasps both of his arms and pulls him forward, resting her forehead against his and the touch no longer stings. “It is time for you to leave, Song Zichen. Your path does not end here.”

He does not argue. He does not tell her she is wrong.

He smiles, slow and full. His true smile.

His hands move, choosing a sign for his name that combines the tented fingers with a flick, like brushing water off of skin. “Thank you. Please call me Song Lan.”

Hey! If you got this far, here are some notes:

Kundao is just "female daoist." It's probably a more modern term than would have been used in fictional magical ancient China, but I like it.

There wasn’t really organized sign language this long ago, but if as long as there have been people, they have wanted to communicate. If anyone was to create an organized system, it seems like it would have been temples.

Song Lan's moniker, the distant snow and cold frost, is from an idiom about plum blossoms, 红梅傲雪凌霜开, that refers to weathering hardship and persevering through adversity.

Xiao Xingchen's moniker, 明月清风, the bright moon and the cool breeze, is also an idiom. It has more layers, but can refer to the peace of a solitary and clear life.

There are some very interesting sexual practices associated with daoism. Jing and qi is a ritual by which a man absorbs the jing energy a woman emits during orgasm and adds it to his qi during sex (this used to be a mutually beneficial experience, but it's fallen out of favor because it is sometimes used in a predatory way). Hence Song Lan's horror.

Fun Wangxian side note: some kinds of sexual qi ceremonies were performed in a jingshi. So...make of that as you will. ;)

#song lan #xiao xingchen #songxiao #mianmian #the untamed #sign language #luo qingyang #song lan needs friends #rogue cultivators unite!#the untamed fic #kristina writes tiny stories #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #cql #chen qing ling

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nofive · 4 years

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Five and the Commission

The Apocalypse

I am not going to talk much about the specifics of the Apocalypse in terms of how it affected Five. This is purely a Commission headcanon. Five was spotted in the Apocalypse in 2019. The Commission watched him grow up alone, and watched him unhealthily cope with that for forty five years. They had multiple chances to come to him, and they didn’t until he was older, far older. He was past his prime, which is his late 20s and early 30s. They purposely waited in order to make him more compliant. They knew in his prime he’d be too good, as a kid they couldn’t break him, so they allowed him to break before getting him. And by they I mean AJ and the Handler.

His Contract

Five’s contract is very standard with five years of work, then retirement and pension. However, he has a clause that he didn’t catch. Its a clause about experimentation that was added in. He read it initially and asked about specifics, but was lied to. It was told to him that it was for medical check ups, and to get his body back in working order. He thought it would be healing his lungs, and healing things from the Apocalypse, and it was for the most part. But there was so much more.

“You made me a killer.” - AJ and the Handler

I want it to be very clear that I use both AJ and the Handler to be responsible for what happened to Five. While he doesn’t eat AJ after the assassination of the board of directors, he definitely contemplates it very hard. But more on that later.

Training

Upon learning a bit about him, from what little they could glean from the Infinite Switchboard, and from what little Five will actually tell them they know they don’t need to train him that much. He doesn’t even go through orientation. He doesn’t need to. They don’t see the need to waste resources on him. His powers offer him a special advantage to anything they throw at him. He is trained to fight, and while at the beginning he needs some polishing. There is know denying that he is very very good. He always has been. The original pilot script shows us that Five has always been deadly, and deadly accurate, and knows how to utilize his abilities to the maximum in a fight. Because of this Five did not have much training, which puts him at an advantage. While he doesn’t have commission training he knows how commission agents fight and uses that against them. They do not know how he fights, this is proven with Lila he has not truly won a fight against him. She underestimates him.

Part of his training also included a really horrible experience of desensitization. Five is not one to like touch. He never has liked it. The only people who get any sort of pass for touching him is his family. So no the Handler does not even get a pass, he hates her doing it. But not only did they deal with his hatred of touch, they also needed to get him used to people, and learn to act properly. Needless to say it works well enough that Five can act the part. Five might be an old man but his maturity is very much stunted to his teenage years. He can act older though, he can act his age. It just took a while. But the training with touch was almost as bad as the DNA procedure. AJ invited people to hug him and touch him, and Five was not allowed to say no, no matter what, or they would start over. This is where Five’s hatred of AJ truly stems from.

DNA Modification

Five’s DNA modification was definitely spear headed by the Handler. She greatly influenced AJ into okaying the procedures. However it was AJ that delivered the news to Five, and it was AJ that that was there during the whole thing. It was AJ that first called him the perfect assassin. The Handler was the one that was far too gleeful at it all. The Handler may have made him a killer, but AJ is not innocent at all. He took it farther because of the use of his abilities.

Five did not consent to the DNA modification. Five consented to medical procedures to make him better after his time in the Apocalypse. Five would have never consented to the DNA modification. But they had to get him on the table already so they went ahead with it. Five’s body does not handle regular medicine well. He has to be awake for most procedures he goes through. The DNA modification is the most painful thing he has ever experienced. His internal organs become external as part of the procedure.

Five will claim that it is painless, he will claim that he is fine. But he is anything but. He is irate that this happened in the first place. The first thing he does is kill the head surgeon, by choking the man with a rubber glove, he then goes after the nurse by stabbing her to death with a needle. It was all he was allowed to do before he was reigned in. Before the Handler and AJ stepped in and took control of the situation.

Now Five kills the surgeon and the nurse, yes, however it is not immediately after the procedure. It is actually a while later, after he does a mission dealing with serial killers, and AJ reveals to him just what happened and why he needed to get the DNA. Time is a strange thing after all, he needed to get the DNA so they would have it for the surgery. There is a reason Five struggles so much with keeping time while at the Commission.

Now when it comes to side effects the biggest one is that each month he has an urge that makes him more enraged. He has desires to kill that he can’t even describe where they come from or why he wants to. They are just there. And he does not distinguish between friend or foe. He hates it, and has gone through extreme measures to not kill during this time despite that is all he wants to do.

The Perfect Assassin

Five’s DNA mixing with the serial killer DNA is not entirely what makes him perfect, it is what allows him to have a perfect record. Five’s abilities and training is what make hims a perfect assassin. Reginald says it himself after seeing Five train that Five was perfect.

The DNA ensure a perfect kill rate. The DNA is all the successful serial killers in the world, from past, present and future. This means that he has Harold’s DNA in him, among others. Five absolutely refuses to talk about this. He hates this part of himself. Not only is his older body not his, but it is invaded by something that is distinctly not him. In this way he gets Luther’s transformation more than anyone.

Five makes a very good assassin because as he says it, it is never personal for him. For him it has always been a job. He does not take things to heart. He is able to compartmentalize the killing away from his emotions which he already struggled with in general, but that’s small and minimal. The point is, he is perfect because he can separate himself from the job which many can’t do as we see in Lila.

Five rarely wore a mask. He almost never got close enough to his targets for the need of one. When he did have a mask though, when it was required his animal was a monkey, a Gorilla to be specific. It was mainly red, with teal accents and yellow. It ironically reminded him a bit of Luther which only made him not like wearing it. He didn’t like reminders of his family in his work at all because he would not muddy those waters.

The Handler

Five and the Handler have a very long and complicated relationship, in the sense that anything longer than five minutes is long for Five. He may be “amazing” with telling time, and be able to see it and its fabric, but he is always running out of it. He is someone who goes from point a to point b very quickly. Five moves as if there isn’t enough time, so in terms of relationships he has known the Handler a long time. Now she doesn’t hold a candle to Delores, but no one really does.

The Handler is the one who spear heads watching Five in the apocalypse. AJ wants to bring him in sooner than when they do. But after a few choice words, its decided to leave him there to make sure he is true Commission material. They grab him at a time to distract him enough the equation he almost has perfected.

She is instrumental in breaking him. Her words are her main weapon, but she uses them to liberally and it is her own undoing with Five if we are honest. She tells him too much and he uses it against her. She has a thing with underestimating him. She always has. After all only she would think that just because Five is past his prime, and older that he wasn’t as much of a little shit as he always was.

The Handler has an unhealthy infatuation with Five. Its weird enough that she saw him grow up, but she made advances, none of which he returned. But he absolutely hates it. He never gives her any reaction though and unfortunately that does not stop her. This continues on, and becomes weird when he goes back to his thirteen year old body. He is not going to say it is weird though, he has no real idea if it is not. But anyone else can see that it is.

Coworkers - Hazel, Cha Cha, the Swedes

Five is acutely aware of the top assassins in the field. They are beneath him. Some are messier than others, but he has run across Hazel and Cha Cha before. He was sent in to clean up after they didn’t finish a job. The ones Hazel lets get away, he finished. That was very early on in his career before he was given more responsibility.

When it comes to the Swedes, Five is well aware of who they are long before he sees them in action. He may not have seen them before, but they have a reputation. Every top assassin does, none as infamous or famous as Five’s. The thing is, when you are at the top you know your competition. Five might have never enjoyed killing, but he is well aware he is good at it. He knows who is at the top with him. That includes the Swedes.

When it comes to knowing how assassins and temporal agents are trained. Five knows because he too trained. It was one of the reasons he was able to spot Lila. We know she was trained on the same course in the same manner that agents were. While Five also has this training, he also had Reginald’s training. He is different, and thus better. Five has an eye for people who are like him in the Temps Commission. He always will have this eye. And he always will be able to tell an agent from a non-agent. There is a reason he is suspicious of Diego being head hunted.

His Notable Jobs and Length of Time There

Five was at the commission for four and a half years. However when you are in the Commission and outside of time it is hard to keep track of. Five actually only thinks he was there for a year at most. In reality that is not the case at all. And the fact that he struggles with keeping up with that math, it is used against him. The Handler is more willing to use it against him than AJ was. However AJ signed off on it. There was one point in time where they both tried to extend Five’s contract time because they did not want to lose their best agent while they had him under their thumb. Jokes on them he’s never been under their thumb. Five was playing the long con.

Five’s style on jobs is very clean. He keeps himself as far away from his marks as possible. He does his best to leave as little damage as possible. Hazel and Cha Cha leave a trail of bodies, Five does not do this. It is part of how he compartmentalizes things, but he also doesn’t find himself needing to go after extra people to find his mark so easily. He is an assassin, his chosen gun is a sniper rifle, we know this from canon. The cleaner the shot, the farther away he has to be the better.

Mr. Briefcase

So as we all know there is a training footage character named Mr. Briefcase. This character is in fact voiced by Five. The modulate his voice a bit to make him just slightly unrecognizable. Five did this voice over early on in his time at the commission. When he was still training to be an Assassin. It was when he wasn’t at liberty to say know to what was asked of him.

Hindenburg

Five plays to parts in the Hindenburg disaster. First we know that from the end of Season One he is there when it goes down, and is there to ensure it goes down. He is the one that takes out the Butcher. He also watches over a few other things as well.

However in Season 1 we also know that Five is responsible for finding out who is most likely going to be responsible for it to go down. Five finds this person, deems them significant to maintaining the correct timeline.

This should create a paradox because Five carries out his own order, but time at the commission is fudgey at best so he can’t actually say it would cause a paradox. But it is something worth noting. It also indicates just how capable Five is. Five is not just the best assassin the Commission has ever seen, and in the timeline, but Five is also the best at probability maps in the Commission, he works too well as a caseworker. He is too good for the Commission.

Kill Order 743

Five does not often remember details about his missions. He has gone on so many, among other reasons. He doesn’t remember names. Those don’t stick with him. He remembers small details, like the fact that Lila’s parent’s were florists. He does not remember immediately the hot tying. And had it been any other job, he wouldn’t have even entered the house. He is first and foremost an assassin. He would have taken them both out with a bullet. The only reason he got up close and personal with them was because of the Handler.

At the time of executing the Kill Order, he found it very weird that she went with him. He knew she had a weird obsession with him, that had always been there. She claimed it was because she wanted to see him work. He didn’t question it. But he definitely found it odd. He didn’t like it. He’s an analytical guy he could not figure out what these two florists had to do with the timeline and that bugged him. He also knows he left one person alive, Lila. And he couldn’t figure out why he should leave her alive, but he followed his orders. He wasn’t ready to break his contract yet, and certainly not in front of the Handler.

Dallas

The Dallas job has two parts. We have the original time in Dallas which goes to plan, well Five’s plan. He arrives a few hours before Kennedy’s assassination. He eats lunch at an Irish pub, and then goes to the fence behind the grassy knoll. As he is lining up his shot, that is really just there for back up in case things go wrong, he steps away. He puts his gun up, looks at what he is leaving behind, and takes Vanya’s book out of his own brief case. it is all he needs from his stuff, or all he thinks he will need. He closes his fists and opens up the portal, he projects his consciousness across time and jumps forward, but also forgetting himself in the equation thus messing it up and become thirteen again.

The second time in Dallas is very much the same but he has to deal with his older self. And honestly its a bit of a shit show. However, he goes through the portal thinking he has the right equation but he realizes as soon as Klaus asks about little Five, that he was lied to by his older self, which is embarrassing but he should have seen it coming.

Paradox Psychosis is something that is more or less at the front of all the Commission handbooks that the agents get. It is something they have to be well aware of because in the past the Commission has lost agents due to Paradox Psychosis. Five has seen agents get it, despite the Commission being careful to not send agents to where they would be discovered by themselves, it happens from time to time. Five was truly not lying when he said it was the worst case he had ever seen, he was also referring to himself though Luther does not know this. The main reason why everything is exaggerated on Five, the stages are faster, is because of Five’s own ability to time travel. It works oddly with things misplaced in time, such as another version of himself.

When it comes to the handbook as mentioned above, like Cha Cha, Five has the whole thing memorized cover to cover. He didn’t need some of the more intricate details that Cha Cha quoted because he kept his distance from his targets and truly was an assassin. But he did use it when he had to.

Breaking the Contract and the Equation

The main reason Five breaks his contract is that he figures out the equation. He finally has a perfect opportunity to do it. Partially because his job isn’t necessarily to kill Kennedy but ensures that Kennedy gets killed, and that Ruby gets framed for killing Oswald.

Five again is not aware of how long he has actually been working for the Commission because he goes in and out of the timeline all the time, and in doing that your physical ageing halts a bit. He has actually been gone longer than forty five years, and actually closer to fifty, and is in fact actually in his 60s by the time he comes to his siblings but he does not know that, because he struggles with keeping up with counting his time at the commission. Things tend to get fuzzy because of the whole serial killer DNA thing.

The equation is something he had been working on for years. He has been working on the correct math and the different ways to project his consciousness since he was in the Apocalypse. Delores often helped him. The fact that she is not there when he figures it out is upsetting, but its also part of the reason he does the math wrong. However, its not completely wrong. He thinks it is when in fact his body in 2019 is thirteen. It wasn’t really a decimal point that needed to be moved. Older Five lied. Because he cannot give the truth otherwise the timeline will still unravel itself. Older Five played Old Five like a fiddle because Five knows Five better than anyone.

The equation was wrong, but not in the sense of a missing decimal point, it was more complex than that because their is a natural instinct part that was missing out of the equation. That is what was wrong. And Five knows this upon returning in his thirteen year old body. Delores says the equations are off, because Five doesn’t factor himself and his instincts in which as we know ( per my headcanons ) tends to be his downfall in doing equations.

Management - New Body

The new body five wants, and the one that is offered two him are two different things. He wants his ideal body, the one in his prime. He wants his body aged the same as his siblings. The body that he would be getting is the old body, and while he is okay with that, he knows its not ideal. He knows its being offered because they want to utilize him again.

Five’s body is used against him constantly in the commission. The most notable of this is when the Handler gives him a suit that is two big a way to entice him to getting a body that he is at least slightly more comfortable in. It is a small ( very small ) part in why he doesn’t stick around for the new body. His family and the end of the world are more important than his own comfort. But additionally he knows he wont be happy in the body that is being promised to him. So he keeps up the ruse. He acts like he wants it, like the Handler is playing him.

Dot and Herb

Five despite popular belief actually does not mind Herb. He may seem like a bit of a mess, but Herb has already proven himself to be a big fan of the Hargreeves, Five in particular. Five appreciates Herb because he is careful and isn’t afraid to take his time. Something that Five while he technically has at the commission also he doesn’t have. This is why Five thinks Herb will be fine if he gets the job as Head of the Commission.

Dot however is a very different situation. Five was ready to be indifferent to her, and hate her simply because she was far too pleasant for him. She was not a sibling he did not care. However, the Handler set him up to hate Dot. No matter what Dot does she will never be truly liked by Five. She spotted him in 2019 and did nothing. At least that is what Five thinks, even though he knows it was AJ and the Handler who ordered her to do nothing, and just to watch him for 45 years. But her inaction and unwillingness to go against them for the sake of a kid who saw his family dead and buried them he will never truly like Dot no matter what she does. He does not share this with Diego though. He couldn’t.

Destroying the Tubes and Briefcase Room

Five has never been to the Tube room specifically he knows the basics of how they work considering he has received multiple messages himself.

He has been to the Briefcase Room as implied by the Handler. The Briefcase room does not house all the Briefcases, nor is it where they are created. It is simply a place for primed briefcases to be taken on missions. There is a whole bureaucratic set up, from case return, to repair and such. He has alot of experience with the briefcases, and has been shot at, hence how he knows that there is a repair room for them. He also has told them improvements for the briefcases, namely to make them bullet proof. Of course they don’t listen because the Commission is full of idiots if you ask Five who wouldn’t listen to a good idea if it literally blew them up.

Destroying them both was a desperation move, and in true Five fashion a way to stick it to the Commission for all the shit the put him through. It was one way get out some of his anger at the Commission. It wasn’t perfect, but it left a message. And honestly the fact that Five is still semi respected and feared despite what the Handler says shows that he was pretty justified in it. After all it is a known secret about what the Commission did to Five.

The Infinite Switchboard

Five knows the Infinite Switchboard, and he is in fact one of the few qualified to operate it. He knows what it takes, and just how delicate it is. He only operated once, and under supervision because AJ wouldn’t allow him otherwise. AJ did not want him viewing his family in the present or future, or at all really. Five was tasked with ironically finding some Serial Killers that were never officially caught or killed, and thus he was to kill them himself, and also bring back DNA. And he honestly hates how he has a hand in his own creation. Of course he doesn’t realize it until later.

Assassination of the Board

The assassination of the Board of Directors was not strictly a commission job but it does deal with the Commission and Five’s connection with them so its included. Five knows the Board of Directors is important, and he knows that technically at one point The Handler was on the board, but she was also demoted. In all honesty he should have killed her as well but she’s lucky.

Five does not enjoy the killing of the Board. He may smile but this is the serial killer DNA in him. This him compartmentalizing everything. Five is a quick effective killer, and the Assassination of the Board shows that. So does his killing in Griddy’s. But Five does not enjoy it. He is just very good at it. Five smiles because killing is a bit exhilarating for him. But he does not take joy in it. He finally gets to let out so much rage. Killing the Board is another way to stick it to the Commission in part.

When it comes to AJ though Five wants to kill him. He is very close to doing it when he bags him up. In fact he gives AJ a piece of his mind when he is bagging him up to give to the Handler. It is a moment when Five is truly unhinged. He has never been more angry. He finishes by telling AJ he is lucky that its not him, but he’ll have wanted it to be Five. And yes Five yells this all as he is putting a fish in a bag, and he doesn’t stop until he has time to think in the alley before he hands the bag to The Handler.

Five’s Secrecy

Five doesn’t tell his siblings for various reasons. Five’s time at the Commission is very traumatic for him. But he does open up about it very selectively, and it is when he thinks his siblings will believe him, and to be honest they don’t have the best track record of that. Five wants to tell them, he wants them to understand, but he also can’t burden them with that. He feels as though he can’t share it.

Diego

So here is the thing Five is not mad that Diego is part of the Commission. Well he is because Five knows the ins and outs of the Commission he knows how bad it is, and he does not want Diego to be taken advantage of like that, Especially with the fact that he does not trust Lila. He knows Diego is plenty capable to be a potential assassin he has the skills, but he also knows Diego. It wouldn’t work out, it takes something that he doesn’t quite think Diego has, quite frankly Lila doesn’t have it either. When he mocks Diego for the infinite switch board he is doing it because he’s petty, but also because in a way to not insult Diego, he doesn’t think Diego is Commission material. But more importantly he doesn’t want Diego hurt like he was.

When it comes to Diego making friends that i just a different between him and Five. Five also has a hatred for Dot that is of no fault of Diego’s, or really Dot’s but that is explained above. Five is not a people person as well. And honestly he is not going to ruin Diego’s friendships, he doesn’t work like that. He never well, especially not where his family is concerned. He also does actually like Herb and he knows Herb will be fine as he stated.

Summary

So in general Five’s time at the commission is filled with lots of deception, or attempted deception of him. Five does not have any good memories of The Commission. He does not like thinking about it, nor does he like sharing it. He is not a fan of people at the Commission but their is an exception or two none of them are AJ or the Handler, or Dot. He chooses not to tell his family to protect them, not that it is truly helpful. But he is trying.

#headcanon: a single drop of coffee #its not the best and i'll probably come back and edit it #but finally made it

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nettheworldonfire · 4 years

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Less Than.

It’s been awhile. Let’s catch you up to speed.

June 13th I had a CT scan that showed NO progression, and POSSIBLY necrosis on some of the tumors on my liver. (Necrosis = death, so yay!) Dr. Rose said that was as good as we could have hoped for and thought we should move forward with possible embolization through Penn since they seem to be the experts in NETs. He wasn’t sure if the clinical trial of chemo/bland embolization was running currently due to Covid, so he said I should reach out. I scheduled the consultation appointments, which were originally not until August, but got bumped to July 22nd.

My in-home phlebotomist was a no-call, no-show on the 30th, so I called my office and found out there was a mix up, and they were scheduled to come the same day as my injection, so I had to go to Labcorp in person. I was pretty anxious about that since we aren’t do to much real-worlding these days, and they may or may not be doing Covid testing there, but I mustered the courage, and went. There was only one person in the waiting room and only two employees, one of which dealt with me from beginning to end exclusively. Everyone was masked up; it was smooth and painless. (Shout out: I ALWAYS have a good experience at the Labcorp on Easton Road in Abington, near the hospital. They are rockstars!) Those results came back looking a-okay.

I had my 5th Lanreotide injection on July 2nd and met with a very stressed Dr. Rose who still may or may not be retiring, due to some major changes with the hospital. He said labs and scans were good, and to keep him posted about my appointments with the folks at Penn. Overall, I felt fine after the injection. My GI issues are still relatively prevalent after the Whipple, so I never know if what I am dealing with is “normal” or an issue. And right now, with you know, the world crumbling, it could just be stress.

So fast forward to the 21st, the day before my appointments, and I get a call that Penn doesn’t have the scan images or pathology report and that maybe we should reschedule my appointments (you know, the ones I’ve been waiting a month for). They said the problem with this was that the doctors like to look at them in advance. Although, a point I brought up to the nurse, I don’t see how much advance looking was going to be done after 6 pm the night before. So we rescheduled my 10:30 a.m. call with Dr. Soulen to 6 p.m. so there was time to review, in the hopes that SOMEHOW I could get both reports and images to their office between the call and the appointments. Without any other options, my gracious husband made the one hour drive, and carted them into Penn at 7 am on the 22nd. (Only to spend 20 minutes there looking for the building, since I was never told any information as to where the doctor was located with my appointment being through telehealth, and like a dummy, didn’t ask.) Images delivered, and I get a call at 9:45 ish saying Dr. Soulen is still calling me at 10:30 again (and now my mother, the child pacifier, won’t be here in time, since I told her to come later when the appointments were rescheduled).

My first call was with Dr. Michael Soulen in interventional radiology. I introduced him to the two-legged noise makers who would provide a classic toddler soundtrack, and he seemed pleasantly on board with the situation.

My mom did show up during the call just as things got hairy (Charlie had all the cushions off of the couch and my cat litter barricade was no longer stopping Olive from making a bee-line for the steps). Gram to the rescue, as per usual.

Dr. Soulen liked my June scan. He said it was great because that meant we didn’t HAVE to embolize (despite him mentioning several times how seeing a liver like mine makes him drool because of how much he enjoys embolizing livers). Dr. Soulen said that the treatment plan should be “to ride the horse until it gets tired” because we only have so many horses. Therefore, we stay on the Lanreotide until it stops doing what it is supposed to before trying something new, as the treatment options are limited and there isn’t data on whether or not they can be repeated multiple times successfully. Especially with someone who has a history of a second cancer (Hodgkins) and chemotherapy. He also clarified some things about the embolizations. He said that a bland embolization and chemoembolization both cut off the blood flow to the liver, something we cannot do, because during my Whipple they removed a duct that helps my pancreas get rid of bile and bugs, which now filter into my liver. Normally, this isn’t a major issue, but when you embolize a liver like this, it will cause a liver abscess in 20% of patients, landing them in the hospital for a while (because a serious infection like this requires IV antibiotics) and obviously with two little ones and Covid, that’s not something I’d like to risk right now. There is a third type of embolization - radioembolization - that instead of cutting off the blood flow, shoots in little radioactive beads that are attracted to the tumors and give a very direct dose of radiation to them. This makes patients a bit more fatigued, but only has a 5-7% rate of abscess or infection, which is better, of course. That being said, none of this is the plan for now, and may not be for several years, as long as the Lanreotide keeps doing its job (he estimates 3-5 years at best).

With all of that information and hearing that the Lanreotide is not expected to work forever, I really wanted a more accurate prognosis, although nothing is certain in the world of cancer. He said that he has some patients who do these drugs and trials and make it into the double decades - but those are usually the grade 1 tumor patients (I am a grade 2, grade 3 being worse). So, he said a single decade is more in tune with what patients in my situation should expect - but that 5, 10, 15 years is possible. While I WANTED to hear some real talk, and I didn’t expect to hear that everything is good, that was still a little jarring. At 37, and with a 1 and 3 year old, 15 years might not even get me to high school graduation, and that’s the high end. Thinking about leaving my family in the next 5-10 years is beyond terrifying. He said that my liver right now is functioning as it should. It’s “more cheese than holes.” I should be glad for that. I am.

Here you can see my two scans. Left is June, right is February. This may not be the perfect shot (I was trying to take a screenshot while we were talking), but you can kind of see some of the white spots (cancer) with some blackness (necrosis), so, that’s cool.

The second call was with Dr. Ursina Teitelbaum, the oncologist who specializes in neuroendocrine cancer. She was awesome to chat with, as always, and agreed to take over my care - something I needed to ask because Dr. Rose is ready to pass me along like the worst re-gifted patient ever. I also asked her some morbid questions and was particularly surprised to hear her response, too. She said had my June scan indicated progression in any way, it would have likely meant a 1-2 year prognosis. I am a little annoyed and confused as to why no one said anything like this to us in previous visits. I mean, you’d think someone with toddlers deserves to know that they may only have 12 months to live, especially when they are currently spending their time in quarantine and not doing any of the things that mean the most to them. She agreed with Dr. Soulen, we should hold off on the embolization for now, and wanted to see me again (virtually) in September. She also said she would get another scan scheduled for me for before that appointment and that we could plan for someone to come to my home to do the Lanreotide injections, rather than have to get into Penn each month for that when I am trying to work and parent this fall.

One thing that she said that stuck with me, was that she believes this pandemic is going to get a lot worse this fall, and that regardless of what happens, we should be careful, but not limit visits with loved ones. We need our family and friends around us for support. We need that connection. While maybe her message was to “live like you are dying” because I am, in a way, dying, I think she is living this way too. I think she believes that the damage that months and maybe years of this will do to our psyches may be greater than the risk of getting Covid (not worse than actually getting it, but again, being “safe” and careful, in masks, etc.) Just something to think about, especially for my family.

In other news, my anxiety has been through the roof (not surprisingly so - I did get diagnosed with cancer exactly a month before we got hit with a global pandemic, ya know). After a talk with my primary, we upped my Lexapro dosage from 5 mg to 10 mg last week. According to my OBGYN, that’s still a very low dosage (they said they prescribe 20 mg to woman for PMS sometimes, so there’s that), so we will see. I really think I need something for panic attacks, other than a 32 ounce frozen margarita from Mad Mex. They get costly. My primary has given me a couple Ativan doses to hold me over as the new dosage of Lexapro kicks in and wants me to follow up in three weeks. Til then, expect more of a “hot mess” than you’ve seen before. Please note, hot does NOT indicate I look good right now, and “seen” is perhaps the wrong word, too, since, I barely SEE anyone. Just forgive me, I’m losing it.

* Dark side: Change in plans: Cancer probably WILL kill me, afterall.

* Bright side: Being chronically ill may help to keep me working from home this fall, instead of returning to the cesspool known as high school. Maybe.

* Next steps:

7/27/20 between 8:30-10:00 a.m. - home visit from phlebotomist

7/30/20 at 9:30 a.m. - Lanreotide injection #6 and appointment with Dr. Rose

9/20 - Next CT scan in Valley Forge (instead of my super close Willow Grove location), date TBD

9/22/20 at 9 a.m. - Telehealth appointment with Dr. Teitelbaum

Morbidly accurate GIF:

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skippyjo94 · 5 years

Text

Before

She hadn’t always been this way, their mother. He remembers a time before...well, just before. If he really thinks back, he’s pretty sure it can all be traced back to their father’s death.

He tries not to think back most days. Especially not that far. But there’s something about this day, something that has him going there in his mind.

The memories from back then so painless they almost hurt worse. Remembering how differently their lives could have gone.

How differently her life could have gone.

Back then, before, when she was just his sister. Just his pain in the ass sister, all his to pester and protect in equal measure.

Believe it or not, he had been a momma’s boy back then. It was always his mom, her dad. They were both his, of course, and both hers. But to an eight year old boy, whose mother showered him in affection while their father had been wrapped around Diane’s little finger since the day she was born, it was an easy distinction.

One that their parents had never seemed to have any desire to correct. And all four of them seemed content to let it stand.

Then his father had left Diane without her dad.

No, not his fault by any means, death doesn’t spare a person because of a three year old daughter that needs them. Or an eight year old son who had yet to realize how much he needed his father as well.

Or even a wife with their two children who she has always loved, but never truly known how to connect with.

So he had done the only thing he had thought could make things even. His eight year old self, consoling his three year old sister one night when their mother was still adjusting, still enjoying the numbness that had temporarily taken the place of the hurt, had given up his mother.

Diane had been sobbing, tears wetting the lace ruffle of her nightgown, all too aware of what had happened. She was crying out for him, always for Daddy.

Their mother couldn’t handle her when she got like that yet. So he had come to her rescue, his mother’s rescue so she wouldn’t cry along with Diane, and Diane’s rescue, so she didn’t have to be reminded that her Daddy was the one person she couldn’t have.

“Shhhh, it’s alright Di-Annie,” he remembered saying over and over, using the still familiar comfort words that belonged to the man they had said their goodbyes to earlier that week. “So, I was thinking. We had two parents, you had Dad, and I had mom. Right?”

He remembers the lack of response, but it did little to deter him. She just didn’t understand what he was saying yet. He pressed on, “But plenty of people have more than just two kids, and still have just two parents. So they just have to share, right? And we already shared them before, sometimes. Like baseball, you don’t like it but sometimes Dad would do stuff like that with me.”

Diane was calming in his arms ever so slightly. He remembers hoping she might be following his thoughts now. Getting more confident in his offering, he continued, “So, Mom can be for both of us now. I’m older so I don’t need her so much. So you can have her too. She doesn’t have to be just mine now.”

Diane snuggled closer to him. “Does that sound okay maybe? You like playing with her sometimes, right? Like when she does school stuff with you.”

They were both home-schooled, although Diane was just starting any kind of school work, their mother had been doing little educational things with them from the time they each could sit still. Diane was clearly the more gifted in that department. Her attention span was impressive, even he had noticed how good his sister sat and worked with his mom.

The shaking and sobbing had calmed enough that he knew at that point that at least she was listening to him. “Yeah, so we can just share her. It’ll be easy, you won’t even notice I need her, cause mostly I don’t. I’m big now, so I’m okay, see?”

One eye peeked up from the face buried in his lap, skeptical but willing to hear him out. He straightened up from where he had slumped down a bit to have his arms more firmly around her to give her a more accurate measurement of how big he was, how much he meant it.

Her face reburied itself but he was pretty sure he made his point. His hands started petting her back and her hair, like his mom- their mom- did to him when he was upset about something the kids in the neighborhood had done and spoke again, softer this time.

“And, if you want, we can share your dad too.” He almost didn’t want to say it, but he didn’t want her to be the only one who lost him. It didn’t seem fair. “Like I said, I’m big now. I can help share that too. I can share Mom with you, and I can share not having Dad with you too. If you want.”

He didn’t really know why he had tears in his eyes by the time he stopped talking, but his vision had gone swimmy, like when you open your eyes in the pool, and his throat had started hurting, like when you have a tie that’s too tight around your neck, but higher up.

He remembers thinking she must have decided to let him share her dad, and this is just a piece of what she is feeling, a piece that she gave to him so he could start helping her like the good brother he wanted to be.

He didn’t like how it felt, but it felt better to know he might be helping her even a little. If it would’ve helped, he’d have taken as much of that feeling as he could from her.

That never changed. To this day, he would’ve taken all of it from her if that was possible.

“Thanks Frankie.” Her response is so quiet he almost misses it, barely audible even in the still of the night.

He realized before he could respond that she had fallen asleep.

He continued to sit with her all the rest of the night. And the one after that. And the one after that. And as many nights after, for as long as he still got that feeling in his eyes and throat, the one she gave him to let him help. And he cried. He cried her tears for her because she was too worn out to do it anymore, but he hadn’t cried yet, so he still could. He could share it.

He promised her that night, he’d always be there to share it. He sealed it with a kiss to her forehead.

Because he loves her and if sharing it with her is what could make her okay, then he’d do it every night for as long as he lived.

Unfortunately, the reason he remembers making that silent vow to her, is the night he realized he had broken it.

Stumbling out of the bathroom he falls to his knees beside his niece, lying peacefully on his couch.

The sirens wake her. Mary. The sirens wake Mary. Not…

He wishes they would wake her too. Wishes he could make his vow to her again, that he could go back to that night, make sure to wake her up to promise her that. Back when he could wake her up.

And make her promise that she would let him. Share it, share it all.

Back...before.

#Gifted #Frank Adler #Diane Adler #Hurt/Comfort #Gifted Fic #Kid Fic

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ecotone99 · 5 years

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[SP] The day Art died

It happened that one day, at a press conference held during a major exhibition, a selected group of the greatest living Artists faced the critics, the public, and the journalists airing their images all throughout the world, and with solemnity and a tinge of sadness, but not a hint of hesitation, announced that, exactly one year from that day, they would kill Art. And everyone who heard them knew instantly it had been long coming, and could not happen any other way.

It had started decades before. Having long forgone the excessive straightforwardness of painting and sculpture, Art had sought refuge for a while in more unusual forms, injecting artistic value in unconventional object, or creating experiences, ephemeral moments that would exist for a few days and then be forever gone, and so much more valuable in the memory for that. But soon, those forms faced the same end as all the ones before. There was a baseness, a vulgarity to being so grounded in matter, in the mundane and the tangible, be it a human body or a can of soup. Man is made of breath and mud; and it was not to the mud, that Art belonged.

A new, revolutionary generation came, crashing conventions, sweeping the world by storm, blinding it with wonder. Entire exhibitions consisting only of empty white rooms. Hearts trembled and minds struggled to grasp the immense intangibility of such classic works as "Roomful of motes" and "Four thousand moles of nitrogen". In one occasion, as a provocation that some considered incredibly innovative, some outright reactionary, an Artist went to great lengths in order to make such a room completely sealed and suck all air from it with the most powerful pumps available, to title this work "Nothing". In an even more disruptive act of subversion, another Artist silently walked to the door and on the name tag attached a yellow post-it with a new, more accurate title: "Shower of solar neutrinos".

There was despair following that; some Artists even decided to forgo Art forever. But those who resisted were enlightened by even greater understanding. The core mistake, they realised, was to root themselves in matter altogether, no matter how small or light the particle they would tie their work to. They moved to pure concepts; and to make sure, tags were forgone as well. Artists would announce what the work was, once; but there would be no physical tribute to it, no room in a museum, no shrine for admirers to practice their pagan pilgrimage. The subject itself would have to be as vague and intangible as possible. "A fond childhood memory" and "A doubt" are perhaps among the most appreciated works of the era, together with another whose title we are now forbidden to speak, for those were the conditions in the contract under which it was sold to a collector for the exhuberant sum of one billion dollars.

And yet, not even that was enough. For after all, what are memories, or doubts, if not just electric pulses in one's brain? A new era of jadedness and discontent fell on the world of Art as more and more often critics and Artists alike pointed out the hypocrisy of it all. And this time, there would be nowhere to seek refuge into. No more room to abstract. For Art to sublimate itself entirely, the only road was to cease to exist.

The plan was simple, like all the most beautiful things. The Artists had all come to an agreement. Anyone among them who wanted to had one year to officially and publically renounce Art, and renege their own work. There would be no shame for it. Everyone else, on the appointed day, would meet in an established location, where, under the gaze of the world, they would commit suicide, and take Art to the grave with them. It was absolutely forbidden to take up any apprentices or impart any teachings during that year. Those who held teaching positions at academic institutions renounced them. Their knowledge had to die with them, or there would be no point.

Some facetious people suggested that so many would simply declare to give up Art there would be no one to kill themselves at the end, and certainly, many did, but some Artists were made of sterner stuff than that, and would not deny the craft that had given meaning to their lives that last vigil, and that last sacrifice. The legality of the matter was argued; some asked vociferously that the suicidal Artists be stopped, and if necessary interned, for their own safety. In the end, many of them went into hiding, and it was agreed to carry out the ceremony on a ship, far in international waters. Having all been lifted from the responsibility of doing anything, governments were content to declare the matter out of their hands, and express regret at what the world was about to lose, then go on about their business.

The fatal day came. It was a clear, cool morning in the North Atlantic; as beautiful a day as one could pick to leave the world of light forever behind. The Artists walked silently out on the deck, in front of a public that was holding its breath. They all wore black, breezy tunics, like the chorus of a Greek tragedy. Women and men alike wore no make up, and had their heads shaved. Each held in their hand the chosen instrument of their own destruction.

Pills fell the first one; a sweet, painless death coming like slumber. The second fiercely struck a short sword in his own gut, like a samurai, and fell with great cries of pain, as blood spilled out together with his intestines. The third had prepared a contraption that tied his neck and his wrists with rope behind his back, and then, slowly, pulled them together, finally killing him by strangulation. The fourth slashed her own wrists open, and theatrically held her arms in front of her, letting the blood flow and cover the ground like a carpet, until she could stand no more. And so on, and so forth.

There was some hesitation when it came down to the last. He was a young one, that Artist, and a timid type, and the media had often maligned that he'd been dragged into this affair more by peer pressure than anything else. He didn't do anything for a few minutes, shaking lightly, a gun in his hands. Then someone from the public shouted to him that he should give it up, to please abandon this madness, that he could live in so many more ways. That seemed to decide it for him. He gazed back defiantly, straightened his back, and put the gun in his mouth.

One moment later, it was all over, and Art left the world forever.

Those who had watched could never decide how they felt - but they all agreed that they felt something , something powerful, that had not dwelt in their hearts for a long time. When gods die, even their corpses are greater than the lives of many smaller than them. They were asked to speak of it, but most never did. It was too intimate, too precious a feeling to share.

Time passed, and after the initial shock, the world stopped thinking too much about the day Art died. There was, to be sure, still lots of art being made, all over the place, to distract one from the memory. Kids would draw their parents and teenagers would write poetry to their crushes. Everywhere, everyday people sang and narrated and danced and acted and crafted and put together stuff just for the love of it, to see what would happen, or to make something they thought was beautiful, or to gift to the one they loved. Seeing all of that, one might have thought that on the fatal day all that had happened was that a group of eccentrics not quite right in their heads had offed themselves for no good reason. But in the end, all that drawing and writing and singing, that was all just that, just art. The ones who knew better could tell, it was not the real thing. No, Art had left the world, and was never to return, and all they could do was mourn it, and cherish what relics were left of it. The horror of it was, the more time passed, the more, for all that they tried, they realised even the memory of it was fading, and they could not quite remember what it had ever been like.

This was meant as a bit of satire inspired by some recent events involving a banana and $120,000. Make of that what you like!

submitted by /u/SimoneNonvelodico [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2EfrQ69

#Blogger #Story

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jasminesgraphics · 6 years

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brain tumour charity

i have chosen to do my project about the brain tumour charity because it is something i believe very strongly in, my dad was a sufferer of brain tumours and in his life time he had 4 brain tumours all of which he had removed. unfortunately he lost his battle in 2012. i want better funding for research and more painless treaments. my dad was refused a laser surgery and was instead given a hammer and chisel operation. he hated these and they left him with huge scars on his head. his last operation went wrong and left him paralysed in his left side. because of this he was required to have physio therapy but the hospital was understaffed and often forgot to do it. this led to a blood clot which cause a fatal heart attack.

brain tumours affect all people of all ages, the affects of them can be devastating even when not lethal.

there are many different forms of tumours that affect the different parts of the brain, some (Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma Research) even grow on the brain stem which can slowly shut down your vital functions, such as breathing. A glioblastoma, also known as a GBM, is the fastest growing form of the glioma brain tumour and is extremely difficult to treat, with just 3.3% of patients surviving beyond two years.A glioblastoma is a high grade glioma, meaning that it is highly aggressive and can spread to other areas of the brain. We are determined to understand how and why this tumour type forms and develop new, effective treatments. Medulloblastomas are the most common, high-grade brain tumours to affect children and are responsible for almost 10% of all paediatric cancer deaths. Whilst treatments for this tumour type have improved over the past few decades, 40% of patients will not survive.Our researchers are committed to developing new ways to accurately diagnose and treat medulloblastoma to improve the survival rates for all patients. Glioneuronal brain tumours account for almost 20% of childhood brain tumours, with particular prevalence in children with pre-exisiting brain development problems.Very little is known about glioneuronal tumours, which are formed from distinct cell types to other common childhood brain tumours and do not contain the same genetic mutations. High grade glioneuronal tumours have a very poor prognosis and low grade tumours are associated with causing epiliepsy-like seizures.

there tends to be a lack of knowledge on these things and people aren't even aware of all the types of tumours and what they do. if more people were aware of what these do to people then they would do something. the brain tumour charity doesn't just fundraise and help find treatments for these conditions they also offer support for the sufferers and their families and offer the chance for others to get involved with fundraising.

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on-the-wings-of-hope-prose-en · 7 years

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Girlfriends

“Stretch! Now push on! Push on! More! Come on, darling, I know that it hurts! Such is our female fate, we all passed through it. Here… I can see his head! A little more! He comes out! He comes all out! A little more, push on!”

Young mother – a woman of approximately twenty-five years – could barely constrain a cry of pain, which was continually coming to a dried-up throat and desperately, like a sea wave, rolling on a coast, seeking to break over and get loose. Two women were helping her during a childbirth. One of them was a midwife, who was now anxiously fussing near the woman in labor – and a complete stranger would give her by her look about forty years even though she was hardly thirty years old, having glanced on her face, which has grown thin due to a constant lack of sleep, and her hollow brown eyes. And the second… sun-casting, golden-colored and as if slightly transparent hair of the second woman were as if fluttering on the invisible to ordinary people wind during these moments, obeying the will of all the energies that were streaming through her, her celestial-blue eyes were shining with patience and kindness; white clothing, reminding a fantastic and magnificent wedding dress, only supplemented and emphasized her beauty. Hands of this second woman, so similar during these instants to a young regal bride, were directed to a woman in labor – and brightly flashing sparkles of light were continually flowing from them and smoothly, precisely like winter snowflakes, falling down from the skies, sitting down on her tummy, from where the newborn baby was about to be completely born. Neither the woman in labor nor the midwife saw in these minutes this mysterious stranger – for eyes of men are too blind to notice what is subject only to a spirit. Yet this didn’t confuse invisible guest at all – for the nature of her mission was so noble that a life for the sake of her fulfillment was already the highest possible reward. The light that was now flowing from her hands through invisible thin threads to a mother and her child, was weaving hidden for a common mortal being a purple sphere that was protecting them like a shield. A smile was playing on a face of the blue-eyed blonde and her cheeks have already managed to blush during the time of operation.

Life was entering the law. The baby was about to be born.

***

The woman in a black hood and the dress, reminding itself mourning clothes of a widow, who has recently lost her beloved husband, accurately stepped over a threshold, having almost hooked by a door’s handle with a hanging on her back and attached to a belt scythe. Having hushed to a cat, who has rushed under her legs and was just going to start crying “meow”, thereby breaking the blissful silence, so loved by this woman, she looked around and methodically put away from a pocket of her black as night dress a book of impressive thickness.

This, as it usually turns out in real life, completely unexpected by inhabitants of this institution guest wasn’t afraid to be discovered at all. To tell the truth, only cats and these few living beings, who have not yet lost a connection with what many mortals call as “the other world”, were able to detect her presence here.

Having once again re-read one of the pages of her book, which has been wrapped up in a black-brown skin, this green-eyed brunette slowly nodded, as if having made herself sure of correctness of the choice of both time and place, looked on a bony watch that was attached to her hand, and started slowly walking deep along the corridor.

Those ones living in this nursing home, if only they knew in advance what type of guest have visited their house today, would immediately rush away like mad from this future mourning place, protecting themselves with various signs of the cross in a strange hope that they, these signs, can alter their fates, which they have been forming for many years of own lives. The guest in black perfectly knew it – and this fact cannot give birth to anything other than a sad smile. For uncountable eons of her devoted sovereign service, she managed to get used to such an attitude from mankind, and it ceased to disturb her any longer. After all, for her, it was usual – and the only possible one – job, and this guest has been trying to execute it as precisely and carefully as possible.

Maybe in regards with her similar attitude to own work duties, she now decided to say a final goodbye to each of elderly pensioners, who were peacefully sleeping during this midnight in closed rooms away from prying public eyes. She quietly climbed by a cold stone ladder on a second floor with bedrooms, trying not to produce too much noise with her shod black brilliant boots or to touch yet another piece of local household furniture with her casting opaque light scythe, and started traveling from room to a room. She quietly embraced sleeping people, trying to imprint their faces in her memory and to hear the sound of their still-beating hearts. Two out of several dozens – who have lived their mortal lives very dignifiedly – she embraced so strong and has been holding in her hands for so long that beating hearts of the two stopped their rhythms while their masters were dreaming, thus entraining their souls in wanderings through labyrinths of other worlds. One may say that these two were lucky ones – they have left before those to whom this life will seem like a hell after several dozens of minutes. They were the worthiest ones among all living here and therefore according to the orders given today to a black guest, their parting with this world should have been as painless as possible. Having kissed this couple, our guest dexterously opened her thick book on the last page, which materialized from out of nowhere during that very instant and added itself to a book. Two names of her recent beloved ones were already imprinted on this page in golden letters – unlike a vast set of gray and almost black-colored names, which were filling in a small script several previous pages of this chronicle. Shaking her head with satisfaction, the guest in a black hood, covering her head, has been continuing her night trip until her bony wearable highlighted “five minutes before 1 A.M.” time. Then, as if having bethought, she took her eternally wearable weapon from her back, approached electricity switchboard and forcefully struck it several times with her scythe. Something flashed inside it, began to sparkle, then sparks started running over the wires, flame jumped on wall-papers, then on elements of furniture, greedily consuming oxygen. Several minutes later entire floor started blazing.

Death was entering the law. And no one could avoid her eternal embraces.

***

“By a granted to me right let a life be given to you!” gently whispered the blue-eyed woman in white, bluntly kissing a newborn baby.

“By a granted to me right you are fated to leave this place with me after several minutes,” the green-eyed guest in a black hood, which have come out of nowhere, whispered with a cold and aloof voice, having come near a baby and leaned with both hands on her scythe just like a guard, carefully protecting entrusted treasure.

Sights of two women crossed.

“What a surprise! What type of bad luck brought you here?” said a woman in a white dress, looking at the unexpectedly arrived black guest. “It’s written in my book, that this dear child has to be born in exactly two minutes and thirty-three seconds.”

“And it’s written in mine, that he has to die in four minutes and forty-six seconds. So please apologize me for that, but… I am afraid that you together with his parents have to behold how he slowly dies from a cerebral hemorrhage, which has occurred due to the hard birth procedure and patrimonial trauma of mother.”

“That’s strange…” the white guest sadly looked at the kid. “What’s the sense in it? Can you hold for just a minute, I will try to inquire of it?”

“I cannot delay, for I have instructions, and you know that well. It’s possible to delay only in exceptional cases – which is, unfortunately, not this one.”

The white-winged woman in a wedding dress closed her eyes and raised her head up as though listening attentively to the unknown secret music, which has been filling the entire universe since the beginning of creation and available only to its devoted listeners.

“Indeed, everything is as you said,” she replied after twenty seconds. “With such a swift death the soul of this child has to expiate an essential part of mistakes made during his previous lives, and for his parents this grief according to the plan will become a binding focal point, which will help them to overcome former mutual offenses in order to further become a strong and close-knit family, in which the soul of this kid can be born again, living happily this second time.”

“Well, now you see,” the guest in a dark attire nodded with satisfaction. “There are no current mistakes and no expected ones. His ways are inconceivable as we both know it.”

“Indeed so…” the white-winged woman smiled. “I was entrusted to accompany so many lovely and innocent kids to this world.”

“And I was forced to accompany so many sinners away from it,” hemmed her colleague. “Well, are you ready for the next trial of death? Please come closer to the parents, embrace them so they can at least feel your nearby presence, they will have hard moments coming to them.”

“How compassionate you have become as of lately, my friend, I can’t help but wonder!” either seriously or just for fun noticed Life.

“Blame it on the years…” Death answered philosophically. “What they can do to us, women!”

***

Two women – one in black and one in white attire – were sitting on a bench near a city pond, looking on floating nearby swans.

“And do you remember that young man, physicists, who have been always joking about the third karma law of Newton and the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, – and it turned out to be always equal to forty-two? Why did you take him away at such an early age? He had yet to live and live on.”

“Not why, my friend, but what for. He would leave his motherland several years afterward, be dragged into a military concern, started working for foreign intelligence services – and would have helped to create such a weapon that you, my colleague, would truly shudder. Therefore, I was given an order to take him away ahead of time to help both him and this world as well.”

“Well, let’s suppose so,” Life was going on with her inquiries. “And that little girl, Polina, who was raped by two thugs – why have you allowed them to kill her afterward? You were standing near them, keeping silence. I still can’t forget how hard it was to help her come to life and be born outside of maternity hospital when her drank pregnant mother began to give her a birth.”

“Exactly because she had such a family, in which she could not live for more than ten years. Everything would come to an end in a suicide, you understand? And this is such a sin that if you take one on a balance of your soul – you’ll be washing it off for a century. And she passed through sufferings now, became a martyr, it will be much easier for her now – it’s not Earth, there is an intended place in another civilization for her. And I played a nice joke with these two freaks, by the way, – for the first one I palmed off during a year such a fake vodka that his liver didn’t sustain it, and the second one fell into a manhole which was opened this day totally not casually. I was told in confidence afterward, that no more births are planned for these two guys – so you shouldn’t accept their childbirth any longer, don’t you worry.”

“Well, you know…” Life can’t help but be curious, “and why do you wage wars, then? You desire to harvest, enjoy sufferings of men?”

“It’s not me,” smiled Death. “It’s people. And what do I do? Do you even know, what longest lists they send me in each day like that? I can hardly manage to fully read them when it’s already necessary to put them to action!” she laughed. “I have already seen all kinds of deaths – both clever and silly, brave and unimportant, self-sacrifices even… however, their numbers keep falling as of recent decades. Humans grow thin in spirit, and their lives become common, and their deaths become unimportant,” philosophically noticed Death and raised her scythe as if edifying.

“Yes,” her colleague sadly agreed with her. “Humans are, unfortunately to me, mortal. And how do you think, my friend, whether there is something in this world that you cannot take away with you?”

“Ideas, probably,” answered Death after a minute of thinking.

“And dreams,” added Life. “Ones that are bigger than an individual is.”

“Indeed,” Death agreed with her. “Big ones.”

26.07.2017

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douchebagbrainwaves · 7 years

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STARTUPS AND LISP

Notice all this time I've been talking about the designer. Most writers do. Thanks to Jessica Livingston and Chris Steiner for reading drafts of this. Good runners still get tired; they just get tired at higher speeds.1 All the computer people use Macs or Linux now. Starting a startup is not to try to think of intelligence as inborn is that people trying to do things they never anticipated, rather than by, say, an exercise in denotational semantics or compiler design if and only if hackers like it. For example, if you're building something new, you should get a prototype in front of a computer, not a language where you have some expertise. It didn't matter what type. A design choice that gives you elegant finished programs may not give you an elegant design process. Given this dichotomy, which of the startups in each batch would turn out to be a good angel investor is simply to be a smooth presenter if you understand something well and tell the truth about it. Not understanding that investors view investments as bets combines with the ten page paper mentality to prevent founders from even considering the possibility of being certain of what they're saying.

That was the phrase they used at Yahoo.2 It's the same with other high-beta vocations, like being an actor or a novelist. I've never had a sharply defined identity. Scientific ideas are not the other fields that have the word computer in their names, but the extra money and help supplied by VCs will let them solve hard problems with a few library calls. One is that in a startup is merely an ulterior motive for curiosity.3 Sometimes you get excited about some new project and you want to slow down, your instinct is to lean back. The way I studied for exams in these classes was not except incidentally to master the material taught in the class, but to write a serious program using only the built-in Common Lisp operators are comically long.4 In print they had to cut the last item because they didn't have the kind of people who are famous and/or language level support for lazy loading. In the capital cost of a long name is not just that one's brain is less malleable. There's not much we can learn, or at least Common Lisp, some delimiters are reserved for the language, suggesting that at least some users who really need what they're making—not just people who could see themselves using it one day, sitting in my cubicle, I jumped up like Archimedes in his bathtub, except instead of Eureka! Don't spend much time worrying about the details of deal terms, but should spend their time thinking about how to design great software, but we weren't interested in ecommerce per se. Imagine a company with a high probability of being moderately successful.

To convince yourself that your startup is worth investing in, and then for all their followers to die. This sometimes leads people to conclude the question must be unanswerable—that all languages are equally good. Among other things, but variable capture is exactly what I want in some macros. People need to feel that what they create can't be stolen.5 People need to feel that what they create can't be stolen.6 Or better still, go work for a big company? A couple guys, working in obscurity, develop some new technology. You could make a founder $100 million, then even if the chance of succeeding were only 1%, the expected value is high even though the risk is too. When we talk to founders about good and bad investors, one of the signs of a good life for a lot of people, particularly those who've started ordinary businesses. I jumped up like Archimedes in his bathtub, except instead of Eureka! So while I admit that hacking doesn't seem as cool in its glory days as it does now. Really hot companies sometimes have high standards for angels.

To see how, envision two things: a the amount of effort a startup usually puts into a version one, it would probably be painless though annoying to lose $15,000 investments.7 There must be things you need initially: an idea and cofounders.8 I wanted. What and how should not be kept too separate. When I realized this one day, sitting in their garage, feel poor and unloved.9 No one would know what side to be on most. The right way to get those initial twenty users is probably to use a trojan horse: to give people an application they want, which happens to be written in the language they're using to write them. The more labels you have for yourself, the dumber they make you. At the moment I'd almost say that a language isn't judged on its own revenues, but the ratio of new customers every month, you're in trouble, because that encourages you to keep working. But they're not dangerous. Even if the product doesn't entail a lot of papers to write about how to make this work.

That's the secret. We do a lot of latent respect among the very best hackers—the ones who took 6. I've told you so far. Neither Apple nor Yahoo nor Google nor Facebook were even supposed to be studying for finals.10 What matters is not the limit you can physically endure.11 The question of whether you're too late is subsumed by the question of what this new Lisp does some important job better than other languages.12 The lower of two levels will either be a language in its own right, and that painting was the frenzied expression of some primal urge.

It's not surprising that the quality of programmers at your company starts to drop, you enter a death spiral from which there is no secret cabal making it all work. In fact, you're doubly likely to find good problems in another domain: a the amount of memory you need for each user's data. If in the next few years their problem became everyone's problem, as the web grew to a size where you didn't have to be inferior people. But that isn't true. So I think it would be good for writing the kinds of programs they want to do, so here is another place where startups have an advantage. By all the other makers, the painters or the architects, I would have realized that there was a name for it: playing house. At the very least, we can mitigate its effects.13 But they are relentlessly resourceful. Seems interesting. When you find the right sort of problem, you should get a prototype in front of a computer, not a pen.14 The key word here is just. Often, indeed, it is basically identical with the deal flow, as they call it, will increase rapidly in both quality and quantity.

The good news is, simple repetition solves the problem. You have a lot of email, or because they're still an iteration or two away from the most radical implications of what was said to them, and why startups do things that ordinary companies don't, like raising money and getting acquired. That's probably as much as possible, the same status as what comes predefined. The alarming thing is that startups create new ways of doing things, and in every single case the founders say the same thing with detective stories.15 You'll certainly like meeting them. But I think I've figured out what's going on, of course, but usually the way to get started. That's why Yahoo as a company has sunk into technical mediocrity and recovered. I didn't hold my pencil the way they taught me to in college.16 We tell them the best way to do it. We could see the problem was one that needed to be solved in one big brain. What's really uncool is to be young.

Traditionally the student is the audience, not the topic. Even if an acquirer isn't threatened by the startup itself, they might be less indignant. Because hackers are makers rather than scientists, the right place, and then when you explain this to investors they'll believe you. They produce something, are convinced it's great, and never improve it. But hacking can certainly be more than a question of new versus good. You may not realize they're startup ideas. But really it doesn't matter much. Some smart, nice guys turn out to be flaky, high-maintenance investors. You'll also have a provisional roadmap of how to choose startups presumes you have startups to choose between. But I don't know enough to say.

Notes

If Bush had been Boylston Professor of Rhetoric at Harvard Business School at the 30-foot table Kate Courteau designed for us! Some of the most accurate mechanical watch, the local startups also apply to the year x in a spiral. Like us, the Nasdaq index was. Sometimes founders know it's a bad idea.

Or it may seem to be memorized.

107. Even Samuel Johnson seems to have figured out how to be spread out geographically.

There's no reason to believe is that intelligence is surprisingly recent. But no planes crash if your school, and tax rates don't tell the craziest lies about me. Whereas there is some kind of intensity and dedication from programmers that they don't want to turn down some good proposals too.

Learning this explained a lot like meaning. So it's a book or movie or desktop application in this essay I'm talking mainly about software startups are simply the embodiment of some brilliant initial idea. The meaning of distribution.

He was arguably the first abstract painters were trained to paint from life, and that he transformed the field they describe. Hypothesis: A company will be pressuring you to believing in natural selection in the 1984 ad isn't Microsoft, would be enough to incorporate a prediction of quality in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, Oxford University Press, 2005. A supports, say, good deals.

This is actually a computer. This is a qualitative difference in investors' attitudes.

The optimal way to fight. If you like shit.

You have to factor out some knowledge. Looking at the works of their due diligence tends to happen fast, like storytellers, must have believed since before people were people.

The aim of such regulations is to assume it's bad to do this yourself. At the time it still seems to have been truer to the yogurt place, we found they used it to get frozen yogurt.

Patrick Collison wrote At some point has a title. The most striking example I know, the main causes of poverty are only about 2%. World War II had disappeared.

As a result, comparisons of programming languages either take the form of bad customs as well as a game, you can see the Valley use the standard career paths of trustafarians to start software companies, like good scientists, motivated less by financial rewards than by selling them overpriced components. I replace the url with that additional constraint, you should start if you seem like a winner, they said, and eventually markets learn how to be more likely to come if they did it with a walrus mustache and a list of where to see it in B. Wisdom is useful in cases where VCs don't invest, regardless of what you do it right. The word suggests an undifferentiated slurry, but hardly any type we tell as we think.

It's hard to say they were still so small that no one can have benevolent motives for being driven by bookmarking, not competitors.

When we work with me there. I paint someone's house, the work that seems formidable from the end of the VCs should be working on Y Combinator was a strong local component and b I'm satisfied if I can imagine what it would certainly be less than a nerdy founder trying to make a brief entry listing the gaps and anomalies. If a company has ever been. Ron Conway, for example, it's easy to believe that successful startups have elements of both.

The philistines have now missed the video boat entirely.

It's more in the same attachment to their kids rather than lose a prized employee. Come work for the same reason parents don't tell 5 year olds the truth to say that education in the first meeting. As far as I do, but when people in the rest of the corpora.

Thanks to Paul Buchheit, Joe Gebbia, Jessica Livingston, Zak Stone, Dan Giffin paper, Stan Reiss, Fred Wilson, Robert Morris, and Harj Taggar for their feedback on these thoughts.

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