#perhaps being the ones to draw out the diagram

[midavalanche]

Jazz was visiting her new niece when Jason walked in to complain about bats to his Scary Assassin Mom(TM) (as his goons call her). They hit it off without realizing any of the other connections between their families.

The web of relationships gets debated on when everyone ends up in the same room and start pointing fingers at each other. Danny’s rogue gallery is highly entertained and provide a chalk board for drawing the family tree out.

Batfamily is thrown off enough that it takes a few minutes for them to question the randomly appearing chalkboard.

DPxDC Prompt #7

Danny is a clone.

But not of Bruce. Nor Tim. Nor Damian, Jason, or Dick. Not Clark or Diana or any of those usual suspects.

No, no.

You see, when Ra's realized that he was running out of Pits to revive himself with, before he resorted to allowing Talia to give him a grandson with the Detective, Ra's tried to clone

Himself.

After all, who better to be his Heir(/Vessel to Possess) when this body ultimately fails him.

But he failed. Repeated use of the Lazarus Pits had done something to his DNA. Changed or degraded it. All of the clones were unstable from the start. None surviving past the embryonic stage.

All but one.

Ra's last attempt before deeming the project a failure developed all the way to standard 40 weeks before flatlining.

In a last ditch effort to salvage it, Ra's instructed for the clone to be dipped in the Pit. Only to have the Lazarus Waters rip the stillborn infant away and down down down into it's depths.

Immediately following that last failure, Ra's finally relented and gave Talia permission to inseminate herself and bear him an Heir of his and the Detective's blood.

.

Meanwhile, in the Infinite Realms, an Old Clock finds a mortal infant choking on his first living breaths through the Corrupted Ectoplasm in his lungs which gave him life and brought him here. The Ancient smiles. The Realms has chosen her next King. And what a Great One he shall be. Now the Time Keeper needs only deliver the infant where he needs to be to become who he must become.

[pin-k-ink]

peonies // narumi gen ft. hoshina soshiro

tw ⇢ jealous/possessive behavior, dry humping, making out, biting, highly suggestive overall

wc ⇢ 3.3k

a/n: ofc you already know that the reader is the vice captain

You sighed in exasperation as Narumi's grumbling about yet another lecture from Director Shinomiya filled the corridor. "If I have to endure one more lecture from that old fart, I might just let the next kaiju swallow me whole and put me out of my misery."

The captain's melodramatic slouch and petulant scowl were in stark contrast to your crisp, military bearing as the two of you made your way towards the officers' quarters. You stole a sidelong glance at your roguishly disheveled partner, aiming for a disapproving frown but unable to stop the wry smile from tugging at your lips.

"Perhaps if you paid attention during briefings instead of doodling those...highly scientific diagrams of yours, the meetings wouldn't drag on quite so long," you chided, arching a teasing brow.

Narumi's head whipped around, eyes flashing with playful defiance as he zeroed in on your taunting grin. "Hey, those doodles happen to be highly strategic logistical assessments for battlefield maneuvers! They require an impressive amount of...creativity on my part."

You barely stifled a snort at his transparently self-serving reasoning. "Mhmm, I'm sure. So the little heart you kept drawing beside my name was simply...battle strategies then?"

The words had the desired effect as Narumi's cheeks flooded with a fierce crimson, sputtering incoherently for a comeback. You allowed a soft peal of laughter to slip free, relishing the small victory of being able to fluster the normally unflappable captain so thoroughly.

Before Narumi could formulate a rebuttal, your shared laugh abruptly stuttered to a halt as you rounded the corner - coming face to face with a splash of vibrant colors in stark contrast to the bland, industrial hallway. An ostentatious bouquet of exotic blooms rested against your quarters' door, their heady floral perfume wafting through the stale air.

"What in the ever-loving...?" Narumi's voice trailed off as the playful atmosphere from moments ago evaporated, replaced by a suddenly tense silence.

You approached the ornate arrangement with slow, measured steps - all too aware of the tightly coiled energy radiating off your partner in pulsing waves. Up close, you could make out the gorgeous artistry that had been dedicated to the bouquet's construction: lush petals and emerald fronds interwoven together in an intricate spiral flourish, clearly the work of a master florist. And there, nestled amongst the lavish blooms, a small cream-colored envelope peeked out in invitation.

With slightly trembling fingers, you plucked the card free as Narumi shifted in closer until his firm chest was nearly brushing your back. You could feel the scorching heat of his gaze boring into you as his ragged breaths ghosted hot over the sensitive skin of your neck. Unable to resist the strange compulsion of the moment, you carefully cracked the envelope's wax seal and slowly read the neat handwriting etched across the card's plain surface:

"'To the most beautiful officer in the Defense Force. Happy belated birthday. Let's celebrate properly soon. Dinner?'" The final query left your lips in a barely audible rush of air, feeling lightheaded from the combined rush of Narumi's musk surrounding you and the shocking meaning behind the words. "'Soshiro.'"

A heavy, charged silence descended over the corridor once more, the unspoken tension between you and your partner becoming almost palpable in its ferocious intensity. Finally, you managed to tear your gaze from the offending card and turn to find Narumi's expression utterly unrecognizable. Gone were any traces of his usual easy grins and playful teasing - his strong features had contorted into the harsh lines of a man beset by scarcely restrained jealousy and territorial possession.

"Hoshina..." he ground out, the gravelly timbre of Narumi's normally smooth voice reverberating through you like a physical caress. "The smug, pretty-boy bastard with the stupid haircut sent you flowers? For your birthday?"

You could only offer a mute nod, rapidly becoming hyper-aware of just how intrusively close Narumi was looming over your personal space. His towering frame practically radiated waves of scorching dominance that had your instincts screaming in a heady mixture of fear and arousal you didn't dare examine too closely.

"It was...thoughtful of him to remember it was my birthday recently," you offered, the words catching in your dry throat as Narumi somehow leaned in even closer. The jealous fire blazing in the depths of his eyes made your breath hitch, suddenly glad for the support of the wall at your back.

"Thoughtful..." he echoed with a sardonic curl of his lips, teeth grazing his lower lip as his eyes drank in your every microexpression hungrily. When his gaze finally locked onto yours once more, you felt your pulse trip over itself at the undisguised lust and covetous need smoldering within those crimson depths.

"Didn't know you and Hoshina were so...close," Narumi growled, each word seeming to drip from his tongue like heated sin as he closed what little space remained between your bodies.

"We're...colleagues," you replied carefully, very aware of how Narumi's towering frame seemed to lean ever closer with each rasping inhalation. Your heart thundered traitorously against your ribcage as the heated weight of his stare bored into you. "We've worked joint operations together before. Is that...a problem, Captain?"

Narumi's nostrils flared infinitesimally as he drank in your admittance with a ferocious sort of focus. You could have sworn his irises darkened imperceptibly, a swirling vortex of jealousy and something far more primal that made your breath hitch.

"Problem?" He echoed the word almost dismissively before allowing a sardonic half-smirk to curl one corner of his lips. "No, no problem at all, Vice-Captain. Just didn't expect to see you getting so...cozy with the enemy, that's all."

Your brow furrowed slightly at his oblique accusation. "Hoshina isn't the enemy, sir. He's a respected member of the Defense Force, same as us."

The words slipped out in a hushed tone, almost involuntarily lowered in deference to the sudden, electrically-charged tension rapidly condensing the already scant space between your bodies. Narumi's smirk took on a sharper, more predatory edge as he leaned in infinitesimally closer - so near you could have counted the dusting of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose.

"Maybe not," he rumbled, lips barely brushing the shell of your ear with each meticulously enunciated syllable. The velveteen vibration of his voice raised exquisite gooseflesh along the line of your neck and shoulders. "But he'd better remember whose team you're on, Vice-Captain..."

A full-body shudder rippled through you at the unmistakable undercurrent of possession in Narumi's tone. You found yourself trapped, hypnotized by the heated promise blazing in his lidded gaze as he pulled back just enough to meet your stare fully. Without thought, you turned into him, bodies nearly flush as you willed yourself not to surrender to the dizzying temptation of his proximity.

"And whose team is that...exactly?" The whispered challenge emerged on a trembling exhalation, equal parts daring and entreaty.

For one suspended, incandescent moment, you could have sworn Narumi meant to close that last, infinitesimal span separating your lips. His gaze dropped meaningfully to your mouth, pupils dilating rapturously as you mirrored the unconscious motion - sharing the same rarified breath between parted lips that suddenly felt too warm, too desiccated by the raging tension.

But then, like a switch being flipped, Narumi's spine straightened as he forcibly increased the space between you. You watched the shutters descend over his expression, that familiar cocksure smirk slipping back into place - though this time, it lacked the usual sparkle of genuine levity.

"Mine, of course," he stated, tone carefully modulated into something lighter despite the undercurrent of banked intensity still thrumming through each word. "Can't exactly have my second-in-command getting...distracted by some bowl-cut pretty boy now, can I?"

Narumi's attempt at nonchalance rang hollow between you. You could only manage an eye roll and a fortifying inhalation before trusting your voice to respond.

"Don't worry, Captain. I'm not so easily distracted."

As you fumbled the key into the lock, arms laden with Hoshina's cumbersome bouquet, you couldn't help the pang of...disappointment? Brushing against your ribs like the bittersweet sting of yearning before you viciously stamped it down.

"Goodnight, Captain," you tossed over your shoulder, forcing a tone of airy indifference as you hovered in the open doorway. "Try not to stay up all night brooding, all right?"

The captain's laugh sounded equally hollow, devoid of true mirth as it gusted against the back of your neck. "No promises there, Vice-Captain. Don't let...Hoshina bite."

As the door hissed closed between you, you caught one final glimpse of Narumi - any traces of his usual insouciant cheer utterly extinguished. In its place was a look of simmering frustration and naked longing that made your heart lurch treacherously against its bony confines.

Slumping back against the solid bulkhead, you allowed the heady perfume of Hoshina's exotic blooms to envelop you in their cloying sweetness. But still, your mind reeled at the unexpectedly charged nature of your encounter with Narumi.

What had that been about? And why did the memory of his burning stare and possessive words fill you with such exhilarated turmoil?

The new day dawned thick with unresolved tension still crackling through the air between you and Narumi. As you made your way down the corridor towards his quarters, you could already feel arousal licking along your senses like sparks trailing naked skin.

The muffled sounds of videogame explosions spilled from behind his door, so familiar and yet this time they seemed to reverberate straight through to your core - beating in time with memories of Narumi's heated growls and bold insinuations.

You took a steadying breath before keying in the override, already knowing the sort of indecent tableau that awaited you on the other side. Sure enough, there was Narumi in all his disheveled, powerful glory - a lean stretch of corded muscle equally at home splayed across the rumpled sheets as stalking into battle.

Even in those ridiculous cartoon pajamas, he exuded the sort of roguish, chiseled appeal that left your mouth dry as you shamelessly drank in the tease of toned abdomen peeking out from beneath the rucked-up fabric.

"Rise and shine, Captain Lazy," you managed, giving yourself a mental shake to dispel the wanton path your thoughts had started down. Narumi responded with a low whine, never shifting that heated cobalt stare from the game in his hands.

"Five more minutes...gotta beat this level."

You rolled your eyes at the petulant excuse, fighting a smile at how perfectly Narumi it was - all self-indulgent impatience bent on pursuing his juvenile fixations, no matter how pressing the actual circumstances. As you approached the bunk, you couldn't resist allowing your gaze to roam openly over the delicious sprawl of his frame, taking guilty pleasure in the way you caught a glimpse of the faint trail of dark curls disappearing down the waistband of his pants.

"That's what you said yesterday," you chided, unable to disguise the slightly husky edge entering your tone as provocative images continued flooding your mind's eye. "And the day before that...and the day before that. I believe we actually have duties that need attending to occasionally."

"Tch, the Defense Force would crumble without me," Narumi scoffed, somehow making even the act of holding that gaming controller look utterly indecent. "They can hardly afford to take me off...active duty for too long if they know what's good for them."

The blatant innuendo was punctuated by Narumi allowing his eyes to slowly roam up and down the length of your body in a scorching inspection that raised prickles across your skin. By the time his darkening stare met yours again, his tongue darted out to trace his lips in an unconscious gesture that somehow felt far more lascivious than it had any right to.

You swallowed hard, struggling not to squirm under the undisguised heat of his regard. "Well in that case, Captain, I may need to take disciplinary measures into my own hands to...motivate you back into fighting shape."

The sudden grip of your fingers around Narumi's forearm was meant as a wordless command for him to relinquish the game entirely. But your captive made no move to surrender his distraction, regarding you with a look of smoldering challenge as he sat up - the motion causing the flimsy pajama fabric to strain dangerously against the evidence of his arousal tenting his pants.

"Make me...Vice-Captain," he rasped, the tip of his tongue tracing maddeningly along his lower lip again. When you failed to respond, rooted to the spot by the sheer indecency smoldering in Narumi's gaze and tone, he pulled you closer and allowed his hips to give the slightest upwards roll - pressing his trapped erection boldly against your hip in unspoken ultimatum.

"Well?" The gravelly purr seemed to bypass your ears entirely, reverberating straight to your core with delicious sin. "You gonna put that mouth to good use for once, recruit? Or am I gonna have to take this...disciplinary session into my own hands?"

With a fortifying breath, you managed to wrestle back some semblance of control - leaning down to rap your knuckles sharply against Narumi's forehead in a rare show of forcefulness.

"That's enough out of you, Captain," you stated in a tone that brokered no further argument, ignoring the way Narumi's eyes danced with dark amusement at your rebuke. "We have another briefing in twenty minutes, and I for one actually intend to be present and professional for it."

Narumi held your stern look for a few heartbeats longer before allowing a low, rumbling chuckle to spill forth. "Whatever you say, Vice-Captain. Don't mean I can't still enjoy the...view while we're there."

He punctuated the words with one final, searing look that allowed his eyes to roam insolently over every curve and plane of your frame. Fighting back a reflexive shiver, you merely rolled your eyes and turned on your heel, determined not to reward Narumi's provocations with any further reaction.

At least, not until the briefing had concluded...

several hours later

You had just waved off the last of the departing officers when the sudden grip of Narumi's hand around your arm had you instinctively stiffening in surprise. Before you could voice any sort of protest, he was pulling you along in his wake - headed back down the corridor at a pace that allowed no discussion or deviation.

"Captain?" The inquiry emerged laced with exasperation, though you admittedly made no move to extract yourself from his heated grasp. "What's gotten into you all of a sudden?"

Rather than responding with his usual teasing quips or salacious innuendos, Narumi merely shot you a look of smoldering intensity over his shoulder. A look that made something deep inside you go liquid with molten awareness of the sudden shift in mood.

By the time he hauled you both through the door of his quarters, any pretense at playing coy had been burned away beneath the raging wildfire in Narumi's gaze. You didn't even have a chance to catch your breath before his powerful frame was caging you against the wall, thick forearms braced on either side of your head as he loomed into your personal space.

The scorching heat of Narumi's arousal pressed shamelessly against your abdomen, leaving no confusion as to his singular intent. When his hooded eyes finally met yours again, you felt your breath stall at the familiar look of rapacious hunger and heady promise blazing there.

"No more teasing, no more games," he growled in a voice already roughened by restraint. "I've played nice and followed your rules for too damned long already, haven’t I? Now it's my turn to be calling the shots for a change..."

Any feeble protests you might have voiced withered on your tongue as Narumi closed the last few inches between your bodies. You could feel the thundering cadence of his heartbeat against your own ribcage, taste the whiskey and clove of his ravenous exhalations ghosting over your parted lips in anticipation.

This was really happening...

Just as Narumi's mouth descended towards yours with determined weight, your phone chose that inopportune moment to shrill out a jaunty ringtone - shattering the thick tension gripping the room. You felt the captain stiffen against you, a low rumbling growl vibrating between your fused bodies as he debated whether to finally claim your lips or allow the intrusion.

"Don't you dare," he bit out in dire warning when you made a reflexive move to check the caller ID. Instead, Narumi snatched the offending device and glared at the illuminated screen - only for his expression to rapidly contort into one of infuriated incredulity.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" He ground out through gritted teeth. "Hoshina? THAT'S who's been keeping you...distracted this whole time?"

Before you could open your mouth to defend or explain, Narumi was shoving the phone against your chest with just short of violent force. "Answer it," he demanded, the ferocity in those two words raising prickles of apprehension along your nape. "I want you to answer that son of a bitch's call."

You automatically shook your head in refusal, only to freeze at the blazing intensity of Narumi's stare as he moved in until your lips damn near brushed with every snarled word:

"Do it...or so help me I will make sure every miserable second of our 'private meeting' gets broadcasted loud enough for the entire base to hear when I'm done making you cum on my cock."

With trembling fingers, you brought the phone to your ear, shooting Narumi a pleading look that he utterly ignored - the blazing intensity in his gaze promised severe consequences if you didn't play along.

"H-Hello?" You fought to keep your voice steady despite your thunderous pulse.

"There ya are!" Hoshina's rich tones filled the line. "I was worried this might be a bad time. Everythin' okay over there?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words withered as Narumi deliberately invaded your space, allowing the undeniable ridge of his cock to grind against your abdomen. A tremor lanced through you when his mouth found the vulnerable column of your throat in a blazing path.

"Y-Yes, everything's...f-fine," you managed breathlessly as Narumi's tongue swirled insolently against your thundering pulse point. "Just...paperwork."

A low, rumbling chuckle reverberated through you as Narumi's hands roamed brazenly over your body. You fought not to squirm under his open claiming, fearful of revealing the truth to Hoshina.

"Well, I'll try to be brief then," he responded, blessedly oblivious. "I wanted to follow up on those revised protocols we discussed..."

Narumi growled against your skin, nipping at your earlobe harsh enough to wring a startled gasp as he rutted shamelessly. Concern threaded Hoshina's voice. "Everythin' all right there? Ya didn' hurt yerself, did you?"

"N-No! I'm okay," you lied raggedly, fighting back needy pants as Narumi thoroughly ravaged the sensitive hollow below your ear - his closeness overwhelming. "M-Maybe we could discuss another time? Things are...hectic."

There was a heavy pause before Hoshina spoke again, an unmistakable edge entering his tone. "Ya know, if I didn' know any better, I coulda sworn I jus' heard a very familiar voice in the background there..."

Your blood turned to ice in your veins as Narumi froze against you, eyes blazing a silent warning for you to deny, deny, deny. But Hoshina didn't allow you a chance to respond.

"In fact, I'm fairly certain that was the distinct sound of the esteemed captain Narumi being...overworked by his loyal vice once again," he stated matter-of-factly, seemingly undisturbed. "Do give him my regards when you have a moment to come up for air, won't ya?"

You damn near choked on your own tongue, face searing hotly as Hoshina's laughter filtered tinny through the speaker - rich and far too knowing.

"I'll let you two crazy kids get back to your...exercises then. Stay safe out there!"

The line went dead, leaving you adrift in a shocked silence quickly shattered by Narumi's scalding lips crashing over yours in a harsh, punishing kiss. When he at last allowed you to draw a shuddering breath, his growl of possession vibrated straight to your core:

"Well, it seems the bastard isn't quite as oblivious as we assumed..." Another searing kiss stole your ability to respond. "All the more reason to make sure I leave no doubt about precisely who you belong to when we're through here..."

[relaxxattack]

Hi i want to thank you for the QPR vs Moirail venn diagram. Its a rly excellent way of showing the difference. My gripe is about human romance, and how people will either 1- conflate it in a 1:1 ratio with Matesprit, or 2- claim it is “all the quadrants”. I personally feel both are false equivalency, and that the human romance is similar to both pale and red rom* and SO i was wondering if you agreed w that assessment, or if not, if you have the time to explain your thoughts on human traditional romance vs the quadrants (perhaps w another nifty graph)?

* which is why Rose’s destructive tendencies during sburb & her descent into addiction on the meteor were not addressed by kanaya, who feared palezoning herself like she did with vriska

OH MY GOD! YES!!!! why am i getting such great asks today?!

no, you're EXACTLY right. people are constantly conflating matespritship in those two ways; "all of the quadrants" being especially irritating (since Some humans occasionally argue, Occasionally in a kinky way, and i guess that means that they totally have all of kismesissitude covered?? :/).

matespritship is its very own thing. of the two interpretations above, i feel the idea that it's 1:1 to human romance is the closest to true. i mean, that's what they literally say in the comic, for gog's sake.

humans do not truly incorporate moirallegiance, kismesissitude, or auspisticism into their lives in any meaningful way. while it's possible for humans to sometimes have romances that might seem more like one of those than matespritship, they're considered abnormal or toxic-- and they often ARE, because humans do not have the same sort of biological drives or social understanding of these things that trolls do. humans do not understand the true needs and ramifications, or even the ROMANCE of moirallegiance. humans would be hard pressed to understand a kismesissitude in a 'healthy' way. i don't even need to mention how auspisticism flies over people's heads.

so, yes, humans only have the one quadrant. (and karkat vantas, i am sorry to say, is not going to "human date" anyone as the "solution to his quadrant problems". this would literally be the same as him trying to stick only to matespritship, and we all know exactly how that turned out.)

however! matespritship is not an exact 1:1 on human romance either. the direct quote from the comic is;

"[It's] the closest parallel to the human concept of romance trolls have." [x]

this is not really expanded on much in the text, honestly-- the intricacies of the social and biological traits of matespritship aren't shown enough for us to draw clear distinctions between them and human romance.

however, i think you're right that rose and kanaya are the best example we have of that-- despite them both aiming for matespritship, they have cultural misunderstanding quite often from some of rose's flirting, or even just her needs, crossing wires into a pale threshold that kanaya is weary of.

it's entirely possible that the differences between troll and human "hearts" might have made it difficult for kanaya to really connect with rose's problems and discuss them with her.

which might explain why when things go "better" for them in the retcon, they're portrayed reading a book on troll romance together:

it could be implied here that searching for a more in-depth understanding of quadrants actually helped rose with her ability to connect to kanaya-- and maybe, reading into it a little too hard here, this also could have been an opportunity for kanaya to work through her vriska-based hangups with the pale quadrant. that's entirely speculation on my part, though.

at the end of the day, we don't really KNOW enough about the details of quadrants for me to paint a clear picture of how matespritship differs from human romance. i mean, i could try, but it would certainly be more of a headcanon post than an analysis one!

[cosmerelists]

If Cosmere characters had mundane hobbies...

And by “mundane” I just mean “non-extreme” (aka, no base jumping, no paragliding); we’re talking, like, doing puzzles or going for a pleasant hike. If all these hobbies existed and Cosmere characters weren’t busy fending for their lives all the time, what might they get up to?

1. Szeth: Frisbee golf

We already know that Szeth is great at paintball; I just feel like he’d be weirdly good at frisbee golf as well.

2. Renarin: Speed Rubik’s Cube

Renarin likes to fiddle and have something for his hands to do--I think solving a Rubik’s Cube would be fun for him. And I threw in “speed” (aka, trying to do it as fast as possible) because Renarin loves to jump into things wholeheartedly.

3. Kaladin: Indoor Rock Climbing

Kaladin has already gone rock climbing in two books--he makes his own rock wall in the chasms in Book 1 and climbs down Urithiru in Book 4. He even knows that he should be using “rock dust” for his hands. I think some nice, non-extreme, indoor rock climbing would be good for Kaladin. Bonus: he’s not afraid of heights!

4. Shai: Stamp Collecting

(I’m sorry)

5. Eshonai: Hiking

Eshonai loves to go out into the woods and explore, see new places and people and things. I can see her getting into hiking.

6. Raoden: Coding

Before he even had powers, Raoden already liked to memorize Aons--and from what I understand, AonDor is basically coding. 

7. Tien: Rock Collecting

I mean, this is literally just canon. I have to imagine that he’d also enjoy whittling since that is again, simply canon. 

8. Shallan: Crochet

Okay, so Shallan does already have hobbies in canon: like drawing, for example. But I think she’d also enjoy crochet--all those patterns coming together, her Spren humming excitedly...

9. Adolin: Sewing

Even while trapped in Shadesmar, Adolin is able to sew himself a new outfit. If he had time and materials, he could definitely make some cool clothing. 

10. Mare: Gardening

I mean, she loves flowers. If she were alive when her planet could support flowers, I think she’d love to grow some.

11. Sixth of the Dusk: Birdwatching

If he wasn’t, you know, desperately trying to survive at all times, I feel like Sixth of the Dusk might enjoy some nice, relaxed birdwatching. 

12. Wax: Puzzling

Normally Wax is putting together the pieces of deadly mysteries that will impact the fate of his planet. Maybe he’d find it a nice change of pace to just put together colorful cardboard instead!

13. Rysn: Extreme Couponing

Listen, Rysn once leapt off of a cliff to talk to a god to make a deal. Clipping coupons would at least have the advantage of being safer than that, no matter how “extreme” she gets.

14. Rlain: Amateur Radio

Amateur radio tends to use morse code, which is a form of communication Rlain might find comfortingly rhythmic. Plus, amateur radio lets you connect with people, but no one can see you or judge you for being a crab person. 

15. Vin: Parkour

Even without powers, I can see Vin running across buildings and climbing things she’s not supposed to climb. I think she’d have a good time.

16. Jasnah: Crossword puzzles

Yes, I am basically calling Jasnah a nerd here, but also, I think she’d probably really like crossword puzzles--knowing things, understanding obscure trivia, solving puzzles that aren’t about the end of the world...

17. Dalinar: Tunnelling

I dunno if this is just a Reddit phenomenon, but apparently some people just really like to dig long tunnels underground? And Dalinar sure had a great time digging out that latrine that one time. Perhaps that was a sign that his true love is burrowing deep, deep underground.

18. Taravangian: Fantasy Football

I don’t know a whole lot about Fantasy Football, but I believe it involves creating your own imaginary team of players and then using their actual, real-life performance to get points. So you have to be good at predicting how people will act, skilled at long-term planning, and have a deep desire to win. It’s like Taravangian’s diagram, only nobody (hopefully) dies!

[hannahssimblr]

And so, begins an intense drive for work like I have never experienced. Perhaps work is the wrong word, as not much about creating art feels that way. Never before with ordinary, academically focussed work have I adopted this kind of extraordinary discipline to the point that I simply get through the motions of the ins and outs of my ordinary days, looking forward to the moment that I can lock myself away in my bedroom and draw for the evenings and into the night.

I draw everything in sight. I study fabric; the crinkle of the duvet, the crease in my pillows and the piles of discarded clothing on my bedroom floor. I draw the curtains from ten positions, then ten more. I study the exacting edges of man made objects. The hard, smooth ceramic of the mugs I should have brought back to the kitchen days ago, the individual keys of my laptop, a tastefully arranged stack of books from dad’s library that he surely won’t notice are missing unless he has a sudden urge to read about the battle of the bulge or Haguenau for the thousandth time. 

Mostly I study myself, my own anatomy, feet, legs, arms and fingers and all of the weird little bits of me that move about beneath the skin. I fill pages and pages this way, so many that I run out of paper and start drawing in between all of the drawings I’ve already done, overlapping like the work of an obsessed madman. Maybe I am. 

Have I eaten today? 

Often I pull up a mirror and study my own face in different ways. I pull different expressions or control the lighting so that I can create soft, diffused light in the early morning, or cast angular shadows over my cheek with the artificial glow of a desk light when the sun sets and the room around me is black like spilled ink. 

At school when I lay my work on the table for Miss O’Reilly I’m embarrassed by how many drawings of my own likeness cram the bursting pages of my sketchbooks. They look like the journals of a raving egomaniac to me, but to her it resembles art. She tells me that I show a lot of real promise, and that I have more to learn. I agree with her, and spend lunchtime in the library.

Art and science, it seems, go hand in hand. Hunched in a dark corner where nobody can see how uncool I have become, I pore over anatomy diagrams and look at muscles and tendons and bones. I learn what everything is called and the shape it makes when the skin is pulled taut over it. 

When it is curved on one side, it’s straight on the other, I observe, as I draw my finger down the length of an illustrated thigh on page sixty four of Biology Plus for Leaving Cert, trying not to think about how this is probably the closest I’ve come to intimacy with another human being in months, and as someone as uncontrollably and constantly horny as I am it’s becoming difficult to ignore. Maybe I should text Tara Neary and ask if she’ll help me study biology…

No.

I hastily skip over the pages about reproduction and start reading about something called the Cephalic vein instead. Sexy. 

I even log into the library computers and watch disgusting medical videos of dissections which make me feel so ill that I think I might lose my lunch, but they are informative as much as they make me feel like I am displaying psychopathic behaviour and worry that I am on a slippery slope towards becoming one of those people that murders cats and rabbits just so that he can cut them up and peer at their insides. What’s next? Robbing graves?

“Look up blue waffle next.”

I jump, and spin around to Jen who is leaning over my shoulder, and I quickly close all windows from the Video Atlas of Human Anatomy website. “And that’s fucking sick, whatever that is.” 

“Jesus, Jen, you scared me.”

“Only because I caught you looking at something you shouldn’t.” 

“It’s just biology,” I grumble, and she pinches my arm before pulling up a seat and slumping into it, “I didn’t think I’d find you here of all places. The elusive Jude Turner.”

“Is that what they call me now?”

“I’m afraid so. But honestly I thought you were doing something way more interesting with all your alone time these days.”

“I’m studying.”

“Do you know how to study?”

“Clearly.” 

She sighs, “Well can you give it a rest? I miss you. We don’t hang out enough lately.”

“It’s not because I hate you or something…”

“I know, you’re busy, busy, busy, drawing all the time. Ugh. I get it. Is this how you’re going to be all summer too? Down on the beach in Wexford drawing scabby seagulls?”

“If you wanted to hang out you could always come over to my house and let me draw you again, as long as you won’t move around so much this time.”

“I can’t not move!” She says in outrage, and as the librarian promptly shushes her she lowers the volume, “It’s so boring just to sit there and do nothing, I can’t think of anything worse. Oh no wait, I can, it’s hanging out with Michelle and Evan without you there to laugh at them with me. And now that it’s getting warmer and the days are longer I just want to be outside, but my only options are to sit in the park and watch them kiss or go for a sad walk all on my own, Judie,” she takes my hands, “Please, give it a rest. Down the pencils, I’m begging you.”

“I just really like learning about this.”

“Yes, but can you like it six days a week instead of seven? Can you give me a day? A measly day for old Jenny?”

“I see you Tuesdays still,” I point out, though I know that grilling her with maths questions while she groans in despair into her pillow isn’t exactly her definition of fun, but can’t she see that this is important to me? I can’t forgo my Ivy duties or rugby, so I must forgo my social evenings instead. Something's got to give, and now it has, and for the good of my future I have stopped texting everyone back. 

“We’re having a bonfire night at the weekend, will you come?”

“Who is?”

“Me and my friends.”

“The emos.”

“Yeah, the emos. What other friends do I have? Now that it’s finally semi-warm-ish we thought we’d have a fun night up by the beach and just sit around and chat by the fire. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Well, yeah,” I admit reluctantly. “I do like a bonfire.”

“Of course you do, my little arsonist. So come. It’ll be good for you to get out and do something. You’re an extrovert, you’re not meant to be so cooped up.”

I begin to protest that I don’t feel cooped up, even, astoundingly, when I’m at home with my family. I feel alive and free in my artistic pursuits since I’ve unlocked this new exciting part of myself. I’m capable of focussing on something, doesn’t Jen understand how significant that is? But then again,  maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s abnormal not to socialise with other teenagers for three weeks in a row. 

“Alright, I’ll come then.”

“That’s more like it,” Jen ruffles my hair, no doubt getting it all out of place, but it’s fine, I’ll fix it later in the mirror when I’m back drawing my nose or my chin for the umpteenth time. “We’ll have a lovely time! I’m excited now!”

“Yeah, don’t get too excited, I feel like the librarian might have something to say about that.”

Jen peers around to see the daggers being shot her way, “Okay, fine. I’ll leave you alone.”

“You promise?”

“Yes! Look, I’m going!” She untangles her legs from the chair and does a whole show of sneaking away as quietly as humanly possible while watching the librarian with performative caution, “Hey,” She hisses from the door, just when I had started to believe she was truly gone, “Don't forget to look up blue waffle. Trust me.”

“Get out of here!”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[chaoswalkingsblog]

It's September 1st 1991, and Regulus has been washing the same dish over and over. James walks toward him, takes the plate off his hands, and sets it down."I think it's clean enough, love." He kisses Regulus' cheek.

Regulus turns his body towards James and hugs him. "The house has never been so quiet." To Regulus, it feels almost painfully quiet. It hurts to know that things for their three-person family would never be the same. They had not been ready to be parents when Harry was born, and now they are not ready to watch their son grow up. Regulus worries for Harry's well-being. Was he eating enough? Was he going to sleep at a good time? Would he do well in his classes? Would he be bullied? Would he be the bully?

James feels the emptiness of Harry's absence differently. They had raised such a wonderful child, and he knew Harry would be okay, whoever he became, wherever he ended up. He knows in his bones that Harry would do well. Perhaps he would turn into the youngest Quidditch player ever. Perhaps he would be at the top of his class.

James thinks they did such a great job with Harry that they could do it again. They are young enough for it, the baby food on their clothes, the accidental magic, the late nights. And so why not do it again? "What if we have another baby?"

Regulus feels like he was too busy worrying over Harry to have heard James right. "Have what?" He asks, pushing James enough to look at his beautiful brown eyes.

James smiles. "We could do it again, Reg. We could raise another wonderful child together."

"A— a baby?" Regulus asks. Coming to the realization that three was not as nice of a number as four, how he could retire from his job at the Ministry and be a stay at home father this time around. How they could turn the one empty room they had never had anything to do with into a nursery. It was the perfect room for a nursery, really.

"Yes, Reg a baby." James could not contain his excitement. He recognized the look on his husband's face. He knew Regulus was already planning the adjustments they would have to make to welcome in their baby into the world.

"Okay," Regulus says carefully. If there was any hesitation, it was gone as soon as it came.

"Okay?"

Regulus smiles. "Yes, okay! Let's have a baby!"

James hugs Regulus and starts to laugh. "We are having a baby!" He says excitedly, almost as if it wasn't he who suggested it.

Both laugh and kiss and exchange words of love and support. They talk about their hopes for the future and can't stop smiling at the idea of raising another child. They spend hours talking about the nursery, and they argue over wallpaper. At some point, Regulus fetches a pen and paper and starts to draw a diagram of the nursery. James starts to make suggestions that Regulus writes down and implements into the already formed vision he had for the nursery. They talk about buying toys and clothes. They argue over who will teach their child to fly, Jame, who had thought Harry and had experience? Or Regulus, who had not been present when Harry learned? But most importantly, they talk about how loved their baby will be. How this baby is going to be born into a large and wonderful family, with aunts and uncles and cousins. How their child would be born into a world of peace and kindness.

Hours go by.

They don't notice the time go by so quickly.

They don't notice the beautiful snowy white owl come into the house through the window until she's standing right in front of them and, taps her foot onto the wood hard enough to get James' attention.

"Oh! Hello beautiful girl, did you bring a letter from Harry?" Asks James, while Regulus mutters under his breath the books, he must buy their baby before they are born and furiously writes the titles down.

The owl nods and offers her leg to James to take the letter. And he gives her a few treats then thanks her for the letter before she goes. "Reg, Harry sent a letter. Would you like to read it out loud for us?"

"Shhhhh, I'm making a very important list for our child's development. They must read all the classics before they turn eleven!" Regulus exclaims, looking up briefly to scold his husband for interrupting.

James laughs and opens the letter. He quickly reads about the smart, muggle-born girl he met on the train. About the candies he purchased for his friends. James feels like crying of happiness. Harry's letter makes him nostalgic for his years at school. When he reaches the last few lines, he smiles victoriously. He knew since Harry was but a toddler what house he would be sorted into.

"You owe me 50 galleons!" James points at Regulus.

"James, I can't plan our child's upbringing if you continue to��" Regulus looks from his husband to the letter and then to James again. And the horrible realization dawns upon him. "Oh, no," he whispers under his breath.

James smiles maniacally and nods. "Oh, yeah, I won!"

"But, but—" Regulus does not know what to say. He has done everything right to ensure his child would sort into the right house!

"You were so stubborn too, I had told you so since that child was a toddler, and you wouldn't believe me. You have nothing to say now, do you!"James says, feeling vindicated.

Regulus glares at James, unable to admit defeat. "Double or nothing."

[endwithajadestrick]

Who Is Fucking In Star Wars? A Non-Comprehensive List

So in honor(?) of the DDoS attack on Ao3 preventing us all from mainlining slash fic, I've decided to go horny on main and list off my opinion about 3 traits of all Star Wars characters. Our beloved Galaxy Far Far Away is a usually (tragically) chaste place, which may lead us to ponder about our faves:

Do they even know what sex is?

Have they ever actually HAD sex?

Are they any good at it?

We will not be including characters who are minors in this list. Obviously. Judgements are based somewhat on the lore, but really more on vibes. Perhaps it goes without saying, this will be lightly NSFW.

This is probably gonna take a while and stop feeling like a good idea halfway through. Which of your exes does that describe? Let's Go!!!

Starting with the big three:

Han Solo

Always begin with an easy one.

Does he even know what sex is? Yes, unlike a surprising number of people in this galaxy, Han knows how to do the do.

Has he ever had sex before? Sure (but not as often as he wants you to think). Do you, uh . . . maybe wanna get out of here and come back to his ship? She's called the Millenium Falcon.

Is he good at sex? Look. It's not going to be good the first time. He's gonna keep insisting that he "knows what he's doing," but you wish he would just let you explain what you like. He needs to be girlbossed around a little bit. And it is mostly girls for him, though the occasional guy and non-binary being has mounted that loading ramp too. His bedroom does smell kind of funny.

Luke Skywalker

This one may be controversial for some people.

Does he know what sex is? Nope. Farm boy didn't go to schmool. Skool? Am I saying that right? There were no copies of Our Bodies, Our Selves lying around the rebellion base, and you better believe the Sacred Jedi Texts did not include some kind of version of the Space Kama Sutra. Han wasn't gonna draw him a diagram either; that would be too embarrassing. This man is not learned in the pleasures of the flesh.

Has he ever had sex? Also no. He got into some light over-the-clothes action with Biggs Darklighter when they were teens, but nothing ever went any farther than that.

Is he good at sex? I'm sure a real earnest effort would be made, but we'll never know, will we. Because he DOES NOT KNOW what sex is.

Princess/General Leia Organa

Does she even know what sex is? Oh, absolutely. This woman was treated to an actual formal education. She probably even got a nice, progressive version of SexEd that talked about pleasure and consent and not just all the weird diseases you could get--assuming the Empire didn't nix that sort of thing on Alderaan, which, honestly, they might have.

Has she ever had sex? Of course. And despite being a princess, she's not that precious about courtship either. Casual flings are totally fine and normal.

Is she good at sex? Leia is mature but, like her hairstyles, can be a little tightly wound. Once you get over any initial awkwardness, though, it's sure to be a fun flirty time.

And this is Star Wars, so sooner or later we have to address--

Chewbacca

--the aliens of it all. Welcome, monster fuckers! It's not even weird in this universe!

Does he know what sex is? Chewy is canonically 234 years old as of TLJ, so I'm going to give this a definite yes. Also, he hangs out with Han Solo and all the doors in this universe appear to be panel-controlled. There are no door knobs to stick a sock on; he's SEEN some things.

Has he ever had sex? Again, 234 years old, and Chewy has never seemed like a wallflower. This is also a yes.

Is he good at it? Maz Kanata seems to think so? I don't pretend I have the predilections/imagination to get the appeal (though I honor those that do), but I'm gonna take a swing and say, yes, Chewbacca is a good lover. Solid stamina, surprisingly tender after-care.

Lando Calrissian

Does he know what sex is? Yes, and not just on a mechanical level. If anyone in this universe HAS read the Space Kama Sutra, it's Lando.

Has he ever had sex? He has. And he doesn't keep a list of all his past sexual partners because that would be crass. But he COULD tell you about each of them, names, dates, locations. But he won't. But he could.

Is he good at it? Surprisingly, yes! He may come across as a guy who is all talk, but Lando is an artist at heart and the democratically elected President of Consent. He has mood lighting set up and a tastefully curated playlist. The atmosphere is fun, the oral is enthusiastic. When you're done--wow!--there's a mini bar right near the bed. And would you like to borrow a silk robe?

Your magical evening will not prevent him from cheating you at cards later, though.

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Does he know what sex is? No. He learned once, but has since memory-holed the information. Otherwise he might accidentally experience some pleasure from the stick up his bum.

Has he ever had sex? Many beings have made valiant efforts to claim this beautiful man as a conquest. All have failed, but there was much exquisite yearning along the way.

Is he good at it? Hypothetically? Alas, my heart wants to say yes, but my head says no.

Padmé Amidala

Does she know what sex is? Look at this dress. This dress is a CHOICE, a ruthless tactical decision made by someone who definitely knows what sex is.

Has she ever had sex? Yes, but her taste in men--oh, honey.

Is she good at it? A pillow princess if there ever was one. You will be doing all the work.

Anakin Skywalker

Does he know what sex is? No.

Has he ever had sex? Yes.

Is he good at it? . . . and I know those answers seem contradictory, but it's true. This is a man who has had normal, consensual adult sex. However, baby boy's brain is full of more holes than a colander. He is dummy thick actually in the head region. He is incapable of retaining complex thoughts such as the nuances of sexuality.

That said, he is a creature of pure instinct and, like, yeah, the lovemaking is pretty hot.

Mace Windu

Does he know what sex is? Yes.

Has he ever had sex? No.

Is he good at it? If it ever happened, which it won't? No, and Mace is possibly the only Sammy J character for whom this holds true. It would be strictly procreative missionary. No fun allowed.

Yoda

Does he know what sex is? Yes, he is aware. Knowledge is this little frog man's burden; Yoda is too in touch with the Force, the life energy of the universe, not to know. He WOULD not know if he could, but he has had to settle for just ignoring the information.

Has he ever had sex? You know I am genuinely stumped on this one. On one hand, he is the perfect ascetic Jedi sage. On the other hand, a nine hundred year lifespan is a long time . . . anything could have happened to this lilliputian enigma.

Is he good at it? Size matters not.

The Mandalorian

Yeah I know his name is "Din Djarin." Shush.

Does he know what sex is? I'm pretty sure this guy thinks that babies are found, not made. He does not know what sex is.

Has he ever had sex? I don't care what season one implied about Mando and that toothsome twi'lek, it's never happened. The helmet doesn't come off and the trousers don't drop.

Is he good at it? And here's the tragedy of it all, right? Because we know that underneath that impenetrable layer of beskar lies such a man. I don't even care if he's an ace, as seems plausible. Just the chance to look him in the eye would mean worlds.

Finn

Does he know what sex is? Negative, Ghost Rider. It's not something the First Order teaches their child soldiers, and the Resistance, like the rebellion of old, has bigger fish to fry. Poe wants to explain it to him, but feels like he has a dog in that race and it wouldn't be right.

Has he ever had sex? Men, women, and other beings are lining up around the corner for a shot at this man, but he only has eyes for one woman, and she in turn may be legitimately the only person in the galaxy who does not pine for him. Hang in there, Finn! Maybe one day she'll become emotionally available.

Is he good at it? While we have seen Finn makes some selfish moves along his journey--mainly because of, y'know, all the trauma--he has done a lot of growing and is an essentially generous spirit. This gets a yes.

Rey Skywalker

Does she know what sex is? Not in either The Force Awakens or The Last Jedi, but before Rise of Skywalker Leia explained it to her. She's the future of the Jedi after all, and this is basic stuff, goddammit Luke!

Has she ever had sex? Hmm, what's that? Sorry, she's super busy right now with, like, destiny and stuff.

Is she good at it? Rey seems to pick most things up fairly quickly, so you have to imagine that would hold true for l'amour as well, except that she'll also be a bit of a try-hard. Do less, sweety. Really, it's fine.

Lightning Round

Asajj Ventress

Yes, yes, and it depends on the answer to one question: do you enjoy pain?

L3-37

It Works.

Cinta Kaz

Yes, yes, and not just good but so good it will politically radicalize you.

Karis Nemik

No, which is a shame because you know that he would have made sex-positive feminism and queer theory a huge part of his manifesto.

Count Dooku

Gay, and pulled legendary numbers of exquisite vintage ass across the galaxy. It's the real reason Sidious traded him in for simple, pussy-whipped Anakin. He just couldn't take it anymore.

Luthen Rael

Hope you like role-play.

Armitage Hux

Yes, it's true; this man has no dick.

Qi'ra

Yes, yes, and good but maybe in a dangerous way? Like drugs, it's possible that you--maybe even most people--could have a healthy, well-adjusted relationship to it. But there's a chance also that it will alter your brain chemistry, fundamentally shift your priorities, and ruin your life. The only way for sure to be safe is not to try it, not even once!

The Bendu

The One in the Middle. So in this case, would that be, like, the taint?

Reva Sevander

I mean, do you like it freaky? How freaky do you like it? There are levels to this sort of thing, and you, through no fault of your own, may not be ready for this ride.

Cassian Andor

Cassian Andor fucks.

The Armorer

I tried to get a read on this one, and all I picked up was radio static. We'll never know. We'll just never know.

Rose Tico

Rose appears naive at first, but she's actually quite worldly and will rock yours.

Bo-Katan Kryze

I daresay more than 2% of us want her to sit on our face. Ms. Sackoff was really lowballing it. Bo does not know what sex is, however, and is rarely in listening-mode, so that's a hurdle we'll have to overcome.

But it's more than 2%.

Poe Dameron

Yes, yes, and does it even matter? It would be an honor just to be considered, sir.

Hera Syndulla

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets. Apparently what Lola wants is an inexperienced, sexually repressed Jedi hotty. In this way, she is the true queen of Star Wars fandom. Captain our ship, Hera!

And Finally:

Kylo Ren

I do not understand the hold this man has on some of you--which is fine; you don't need me to understand it. He does not know what sex is, he is so horny and angry all the time. And sure, maybe you CAN fix him by completing his education. Blessings, angels. Live your fantasy.

Just promise me you'll use protection? And I don't mean a condom, I mean body armor.

[talonabraxas]

A Color Diagram

(From book, "The Anatomy of the Body of God")

The Geometry of the Tree

The drawing itself is a meditation, as anyone who has experimented with the quasi-spiritual exercise of exploring the results of drawing with a compass and a straight edge. These are the tools of Euclid and Pythagoras, the early Greek mathematicians, and also probably were used much earlier by the unnamed architects who built the pyramids and other structures. The game here is to intuitively contemplate the analogies–remembering that what's at stake is also the frontier of in here and out there, of mind and so-called objective reality.

It begins with a contemplation of the empty page. Yet there is the contemplator, who is also the potential artist. There is the idea of doing something–perhaps not even clear what–just something, of drawing. There is the idea of making a mark, of having a mark-maker, a pencil or its equivalent, a finger on sand. Not in the air–part of this paper-and-pencil idea has to do with a mark that will stay still, that will sit there, an extension of mind, an expression of will, a putting out there so that it sticks what is only glimmeringly becoming in the mind. So a toddler may experience the miracle of a crayon and paper–or before that, what? His own poop and a wall?

What if, as the esoteric students of many millennia suggested, what we do is in the "image of God," not just humans, but actions, and all the world. What exists in the divine milieu, the essential underlying principles, is manifested in what we call reality–even if that manifestation is only partial, only a tiny shadow of the greatness that expresses us. Thus, artists are known to express their frustration that their best efforts are only incomplete gestures, mere efforts at capturing the magnificence, the numinosity, of their mystical experience.

What if, speaking poetically, God wanted to express in a relatively static, dense context, in a form that wouldn't dissolve, like dreams, like water, a creative inspiration. She might begin by making a figurative mark on a figurative piece of paper. The paper is space-time, the mark is–well, we call it the "big bang." But at first it was just a mark, a gesture of God.

By the way, this initial point is the beginning of drawing the tree of life diagram. It is the first sphere, a radiating sphere–like a very dense ink on a very absorbent paper–starting infinitely small, but being Divine, almost infinitely energetic, and spreading over a billion or more years.

Becoming, yet going nowhere. That calls for a second geometric event: the extension of a point as a line. In geometry, this moves from zero dimensions to one dimension. A line–but a line can be of any length, it can be infinitely long. There is no defined space yet. There's a sort of direction, but no form. It's perhaps poetically related to the light in the darkness described in the first chapter of Genesis in the Bible, or that wonderfully ambiguous word, "firmament." The kabbalists really contemplated this creation story, seeking the deepest meanings, including the ingenious idea that we are constantly, every moment, creating and being re-created as part of this divine process. It didn't just happen then. Like here and there, then and now may be equally an expression of our deepest habits of thought.

We don't even begin to have a diagram yet, we're just setting the stage for a process of diagraming, but pausing to contemplate how necessary it is to set this stage, to have a pen, a piece of paper, one who makes the mark, who moves, who stays involved in the creative process, proceeding from one step to the next. Each of these elements may have metaphysical meanings, equivalents.

(What have I been smoking? Naw. You see, when you really think about it, you don't need to alter your state of consciousness; the science-fiction / poetry activity is a stretching agent enough.)

Okay, so you point, line, and at some point, you say–wait, something else is needed. At least let's pick another point so that the line has a limit. A limit? Well, if you want to draw anything, you've got to have a limit. Two points. A beginning and an end. Oooh. Okay, let's stop this line...here. Wow, in all the time we've been talking, you've made the line really, really long. Depending on divine perspective and your belief in the limitations of the speed of light, let's just say that this line is... well, what? Several billions of miles long? Whatever, it won't fit on the paper. So let's have just you make it, not God, and let it be, say, four or five inches. We can work with that. Two parts of a line–pen, straight edge. Now what. Well, pick up the compass. A new tool–really, it could even be just the straight edge, the line itself, only able to move in a new way, in another dimension, off of the line. The line makes an angle, and fools around. A little angle, a bigger angle, a 90 degree angle, hey, why not go all around.... oooh, look what you made, a circle.

Circles are very heavy, very primal, very magical. People have written a lot just about the circle. It's one of the first designs kids make as they learn to draw. And it defines a space. It's very two-dimensional. No longer just a one-dimensional line. It's got two dimensions. A little bending here and there and you could make a triangle, a square, a figure with all kinds of edges and curves. But let's stay with the circle.

For now, we'll stop. The construction of the diagram deserves a separate paper from here, the compounding of circles, edges, angles, triangles, cross-connections. But it's very elegant, and its construction partakes of what the ancient yogis called the making of mainly circular (sometimes square or triangular) diagrams for meditation called "yantras." The point is to contemplate the "deeper"meanings of such configurations, what dimensionality, space, regularity, symmetry, and other fairly basic categories mean, and why, in a world suffused with chaos, we nevertheless also find amazingly widespread evidences of the operations of mathematical expressions in space–i.e., geometry.

[ripplingcurrent]

RC is researching, perhaps poorly, but they’re trying. 

Papers are strewn over the floor; it’s messy, but a conscious choice. They had drawn the line and moved operations to the floor after the hole in the table had swallowed two important notes and a pen. By now, after a good few hours of kneeling, jotting notes, and searching through blogs, an ache thrums up their tingling legs and sits in their lower back. Nearby on the floor is a plastic water bottle, half drained. They’d considered getting a drink from the tap, but after it spat out rust-coloured water for a solid thirty seconds, they’d decided to simply drink out of their supplies. They should have a few days worth still, and that should be more than plenty to wait until Webby gets back from wherever he’s gone. 

If they get really desperate, they could always break out the water purification tablets. Or the life straw. Though as much as the emergency supplies could do for turning water drinkable, they didn’t exactly clear it of bad taste. At the time of packing, it felt a little excessive. However, now they’re just glad to have brought it as an option.

They hadn’t exactly planned or anticipated this when packing supplies. They’d prepared for human threats. Even some robotics, seeing how much Showfall Media seemed to invest into electronics. But a time-travel vehicle? A deal with an entity that was reminiscent of ancient gods? RC hasn’t planned for that. Even the hatchet in the dufflebag is unlikely to help much with that. 

So it’s back to the drawing board. Or well, their drawing board is still at home, thousands of kilometres away. They’d taken pictures of it, those pictures now transcribed onto the papers or simply on the phone, which lay open next to them. Now they’re surrounded by what feels like a sea of notes. 

Webby’s words echo in their skull. He wasn’t wrong when he pointed out that RC liked their plans. They liked having failsafes, contingencies, and worst-case scenarios ready to be tackled. They wanted a manual, but unfortunately, no one had seemed to have gotten around to write one yet. And so, it was up to them, it seemed. 

They have a list of leads. Or potential leads. There are too many blogs to sift through, and many of them are patchworks of information. There’s a few from people inside the facility, and already they have noted a few potential candidates to contact. Many of the actors and former actors seem to have escaped. At least, their blogs imply so; seemingly they now reside at the hospital Webby and RC first found themselves at. Again, they will have to sort through to find the most stable and suitable for their cause. 

Finally, there’s the others. People who were not quite actors but have ties to Showfall regardless. Some seem to be like Webby. Other beings. And yet more seem to be at least human adjacent. But RC can’t really be certain, not anymore. One, seemingly the sibling to a former actor, has an aching familiarity with RC’s own situation, and that lead is promptly noted down. It looks promising. Another potential person often speaks in code, and while they can indeed understand the sentiment, it’s extremely time-consuming to break them. Especially if it’s simply in the hope it will be something relevant. 

It gives RC a headache that they’re doing their best to ignore. The thin plastic of the water bottle crinkles as they unscrew the cap and take a sip. It’s a thin hope that hydrating will help ease the pain. 

Then it’s back to the grind, so to speak. They have yet to sort importance and who to contact first, but they have a growing list of names. More notes are grouped into rough sections of "anons," "actors," and "people." A frown lines their brow as they look at it. The lines are infuriatingly blurry between the three, feeling more like a Venn diagram than three distinct categories. They try not to think about how Webby doesn’t simply fit in any one of the categories. 

Apart from the current anomaly they’re sharing a house with, a few others have caught their eye. There’s the rope or knot entity who was at least helpful. They seemed nice enough, apart from the fake snake that had given them a minor scare. Perhaps if they can find a way to contact them, they may be of help in their goal. 

Otherwise, it’s been quiet. A few messages had come in at the start, with the masked anon and the others who had left vague and unsettling messages. But for the most part it’s quieted down; apart from the most recent one, an anon who spoke of lasagne, and who RC had dubbed "Garfield." 

It felt a little like being on a screen, and to be honest, RC kinda hated the nagging feeling of being watched. A "show,” some of them had said. Even Webby had made comparisons to that, with his nickname of “Spots” or “spotlight” for them. 

A groan falls from their lips. They scrub their eyes. RC has slowly adjusted to the blurriness of their surroundings, but it’s still prevalent. Notes they could once skim over quickly have to be written larger or held up to their face to be properly seen. 

It’s frustrating, it’s tiresome, it’s too much right now. 

Their legs move automatically, pushing them up and out of the crouched goblin position they’d slipped into at some point. Joints crackle and pop as they straighten and stretch out. For a brief moment, their head tingles and they sway, and instinctively, they brace themselves on the coffee table nearby. As they wait for the dizziness to pass, they stare at the hole on the table. The faintest of noises seem to come from it. 

A shudder and RC drags themself away from the table. They begin to walk, grimacing at the pins and needles running through their legs at the blood returning to normal. They need a break. While they’ve been napping on and off for the past day, they’ve been up working on this nonstop in the time they’ve been awake. 

They’ve gotten more accustomed to the constant blue of their vision. They’re not fumbling over their own hands anymore, but they still occasionally bump into furniture. The lost pile in the corner isn’t helping. It grows and shrinks in size, never when RC is looking at it, but undoubtedly it shifts and changes between glances at it. They’re still not exactly sure how it operates, but they do keep an eye on it for anything that seems like it may be useful. 

Their gaze falls from the pile to the papers on the floor. They need a break. Desperately.

It is about time they’ve explored a little more. 

[anthrofreshtodeath]

More Crossover Business

Will this fic actually ever materialize in chapter format? who knows. Find previous snippets here and here.

Booth checks his watch for the third time since the four of them arrived at the scene. The man whose dog had found the shallow grave Doctors Brennan and Isles kneel in now is long gone, and the clearing crawls with scene techs and uniforms. Booth licks his lips, taps his pen on the tops of his index cards and straightens his tie.

“Don’t rush the science,” Brennan calls over her shoulder, waving her brush in his direction even though she’s not looking at him. She doesn’t have to.

“I didn’t say anything!” Booth hangs his arms out like making himself bigger will prove his point. 

Brennan shrugs. “You didn’t have to,” she says when she hands a magnifying glass to Maura, who has brushed away the soil covering what looks like a second femoral head. “Your psychomotor agitation says it all.”

“We’re uh, we’re not rushing,” Booth argues, though apparently he’s willing to concede the point that he was in fact motoring in some kind of way. It’s late morning, which will fly right into early afternoon, which is cutting it real close… “We’d just like to, you know, expedite things as much as they can be expedited.”

Jane snickers from where she stands, drawing a little diagram on her notepad to remind herself how exactly they found the body, its bones, while she waits for developed scene photos. She’s just finished questioning the state police, too, those first on scene when the body was called in, so she’s operating on the high that comes from a plethora of initial information. When Booth throws up his hands, she clears her throat. “It’s just that the Sixers are in town, and we may or may not have tickets.”

“No may or may not about it,” Booth says, stepping forward. “We definitely have tickets. So, the quicker the better.”

“You should not have done that,” Maura, in heels and a black trench coat over a navy dress, raises her eyebrow. She runs a gloved finger over the fabric of the decedent’s shirt sleeve, a blouse in a rich purple color she perhaps would have picked for herself, now stained and torn by the elements. “Not when we’re in the middle of all this.”

“This is about sports?” Brennan is flabbergasted, though by all accounts she should not be. “I’m not rushing the science for sports.”

Jane, in the middle of her sketch, her visual brain whirring, snaps her head up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She says, just a little louder than she should be. 

Brennan looks up, eyes right on Jane’s, blinking. Her throat is long and that deepens her voice when she asks, “What?”

“You said that kinda funny,” Jane curls one brow up and snarls. She blows right through Booth’s stop sign, the waving of his fingers under his chin. The shaking of his head and the forward press of his lips. “Why you gotta say sports like that?”

Maura bolts up. “I- I’m sure Doctor Brennan means that it’s hard to imagine sports being more important than this case,” she says diplomatically to Booth. When she turns to Jane, the diplomacy dwindles into passive aggression. “It’s hard to imagine anything being more important than this case; I’m sure you’d agree.”

Jane also blows right through the insinuation that she’s put this case above their relationship and waves Maura off. “No, no, wait a minute, here-”

Brennan dusts off her coveralls at the knee. She doesn’t give Jane’s venom a chance, and supplies some of her own instead. “Oh no, I meant that sports in general are a waste of time.”

“Oh man,” Booth mumbles. “Bones, don’t-”

Brennan does wait for him, either. “Sports shouldn’t have the importance it does to society, let alone the importance it apparently has to this unit right now,” she starts. Maura sucks her teeth and smirks. It is the first, albeit tiny, sign that Brennan views this budding crime-fighting enterprise as a team. Not a consult, not a service to be provided, but a team. Well, maybe all of the above, but most definitely the latter. 

Jane is going to explode. 

“Rizzoli-” Booth taps her elbow and Jane yanks away. 

“Are you kiddin’ me? You get trash canned by some jocks in high school? You think you’re some kinda evolved being because you don’t like sports?”

“No, no, and exactl-”

This time, it’s Booth that cuts in on his partner. “Bones, she, y’know, she has this thing. This… she thinks sports are…” he wiggles his fingers in front of his mouth, “for kids. And that the people who play them are basically, well, overgrown kids.”

“Again, are you serious?! Didn’t you-? I-” Jane flails, going red, unable to complete a damn sentence. 

Booth doesn’t need her to. “Yeah, I did. Football. Trust me, I’ve registered my complaints with the whole idea.”

“But anthropologically speaking, it’s true!” as distanced from emotion as she boasts about being, Brennan registers the heat of an argument and latches onto it. And Jane, well, she fights fire with fire. They face off close enough to share air. “Not only are athletes arrested developmentally, but so are the adults that watch them. In fact, I find that even worse.”

“Well, let me talk in a way you’ll understand: anthropologically speaking, sports are the entire skeleton of the city of Boston. Peel back the superficial layers, and the backbone looks a whole hell of a lot like the iron of Fenway,” Jane pushes her index finger in the air like she’s threatening to use it against the shoulder of the world’s foremost anthropologist, forensic or otherwise.

“That makes no sense,” Brennan posits. Maura blinks. There’s more finesse, more bite to Brennan than she originally thought. To wield passion and cold disinterest with such oscillation, such ease, requires knowledge. Intent. Despite her best intentions, Maura’s heart begins to thump for Jane. 

“Maybe not in the strictest of terms, but it’s true,” Maura tells her counterpart. “Boston makes sports a religion. Anthropologically, you can understand that, surely.”

“I’m not sure that makes it any better,” Brennan chides. 

Booth blinks, unsure what to be offended at more. “Listen, Doctor Burn-in-hell, some of us actually care about this stuff-”

“You’re comin’ for God, too?! Who pissed in your-” Jane is about to lunge, but Booth pulls her towards him.

“Ok, ok, you know what? We’re gonna go. We’re gonna go back to the city, and we’re gonna take a little break, from all the crime fighting here. You two are gonna get things ok’d to go back to the lab, and well, we’ll maybe see you before we head out. Game’s at 7:30,” says Booth, pushing Jane’s shoulders toward his car up the hill.

“I’m gonna go postal, kid, she says one more thing,” Jane growls just for him to hear, and Booth sighs, big and airy out of his rib cage.

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbles. “Just trust the process. Trust my process.”

“Really? She shits all over our entire lives and you’re gonna give me the sixer’s mantra?”

“Keep walkin’.”

—-

Maura stands over the bones they discovered this morning, having beat them to the morgue by just minutes. Now, she’s scrubbed up, with her hair pulled back with a clip, and she wears her white coat.

It is her clinician’s ensemble. 

Brennan wears loaner blue scrubs because she cares about the integrity of evidence, and because even though Maura has offered her one of the blue coats of the crime lab, it’s not her blue coat. Not the one from the Jeffersonian.

Maura supposes she understands that. 

She’s not even sure how she’d feel in Brennan’s shoes at the moment. She’s consulted, practiced medicine in corners of the world very near to the ones Brennan’s practiced forensic anthropology in. And yet, she sees how dogged Brennan is, how committed to both her cases and the pursuit of her scholarship, and she doesn’t know if she could keep up. Could she leave Boston for months at a time to consult on a case for the FBI, seeing her friends and loved ones only sporadically, if ever? Could she just up and go, pack all her belongings and live out of a suitcase in a motel for weeks at a time? Maura doesn’t have to, but in Brennan she sees a person she once was and needs to conjure up wisps of again. “I admire you,” she says nakedly as Brennan readies her station.

“Thank you,” says Brennan with the utmost confidence, looking not at Maura but at her array of instruments. Then she falters with a smile. “Why is that?”

“Well, you can uproot your life for the cause, if that makes sense,” Maura tells her. “Your commitment to the truth and to the science is… unmatched and you are the best at what you do.”

“I agree with that assessment,” Brennan says, back to her task. She snaps on a pair of purple gloves and puts on her protective eyewear. There is a long pause. “And I admire you, too.”

Maura brightens considerably, a blush spreading over her tight, grinning cheeks. “Really?”

“Yes,” Brennan says like it’s obvious, especially for two geniuses in the room. “Your position is a political one. You could let the powers that be sway you, but you make decisions based solely on the evidence in front of you and your clinical expertise. That call with the governor? I’ve seen men twice your size crumble under that kind of pressure.”

Maura thinks maybe Brennan is right. At least, it may do her well to think about herself more like Brennan does, with assuredness in her ability and a fuck-everyone-else-because-their-IQ-is-lower attitude. “I try. I can’t say I always succeed, but I do try. Working with Jane and her brother helps. Everything is like an honor competition with them,” she says, then she picks up a phalanx and arranges it on the right hand. “I’m going to have to talk about Criminalist Roberts about his eye for detail. This is unacceptable.” 

Brennan peers over Maura’s shoulder and nods in approval even though Maura can’t see her. “I usually have interns to do it, and even then I have to run through the bones again,” she tells Maura. “So this is… to be expected. Or at least, easily remedied.” She walks back to the left foot, makes another couple of changes, and sighs, picking up the fibula and staring down it like the barrel of a rifle. “Just two more. Not bad. There’s something here,” she comments, eyes zeroed in. “Booth thinks you’re sleeping together.”

Maura chokes. She sputters, with barely enough wherewithal to turn away from the bones. 

“Doctor Isles? Are - are you alright? Are you choking? Let me-” Brennan crosses the distance between them in a flash, but by then Maura has stiff-armed her.

“No no,” Maura wheezes. Then, she regains a little bit of breath. “I’m fine. I’m sorry - Booth thinks what?”

“He thinks that you and Jane are sleeping together. I told him that you were divorced,” Brennan states. 

“Well…” Maura pauses. Were they that obvious? Their private moments had been very private, and she’d been especially caustic with Jane recently. The sex brought out the bitterness. How could he…? “Agent Booth should mind his own business,” she settles on, though she knows it sounds weak off her lips.

Brennan thankfully turns back to their work. She speaks a note into her recorder then sets it back down on her work station. “He’s incapable. You know, speaking of sports, looking at this irregularity and the wear and tear on her other ankle, I’d posit she received an ORIF for this break. Booth and I have had this conversation before.”

Maura walks over to see exactly what Brennan has seen, and leans in close. “You’ve had this conversation about my marriage? Oh yes. Basketball injury almost certainly. The wire is gone, but the hole is definitely there.”

“What? No, about sports. And you aren’t married,” Brennan says.

“My previous marriage, then,” Maura tells her. “And I think it’s a right of passage between partners to argue about sports.”

Before Brennan can comment further, the doors to the autopsy suite burst open to reveal Jane. “Hey,” Jane breathes out, like every moment is of the utmost importance. She adjusts her belt around her tucked-in shirt and leans on the table closest to the door, the one next to the one occupied by their victim. “Anything yet?”

“Do you often interrupt the autopsy process?” Brennan, face schooled into cold curiosity, cocks her head at Jane when she asks.

Jane stops. She had crossed her arms, but drops them at the question. She knows her arms are long and that they’re intimidating when they’re left to rest by her sides. “You and me got a problem?” she responds, one foot forward.

Maura cuts in. “Well, Doctor Brennan found evidence of a repaired broken ankle,” she tells Jane. “And based on healed injuries on the left ankle, we’re looking at a sports injury. Probably basketball.”

“That, that girl,” Jane, suddenly uninterested in Brennan, taps her mouth with her knuckle when she turns to Maura. “The college hoops player - what was her name? The one that went missing in Amherst? Charlotte Strand. This has gotta be her.”

“Well-” starts Maura, though Brennan finishes.

“Conjecture at the table can cloud objectivity and bias the mind toward desired conclusions, not accurate ones,” she says. “We have no idea who this is yet.”

“Oh, so we do have a problem,” Jane growls. “You know, you-”

Brennan stands, unphased, unafraid, with a long bone in her hands. 

“It’s ok,” Maura literally gets between them. Jane runs extra hot, and Maura curls an eyebrow. “She’s merely pointing out what I’ve always told you. So, you can either stay objective, or stay quiet. But you are allowed to stay.” And apparently, Booth and Brennan know about the current status of their relations, so she straightens the buttons on Jane’s shirt. “If you’re good.”

Jane gives Maura a dark stare, one that Maura knows as lustful, appreciative, and angry all at once. Then, she turns that stare on Brennan. “I’m gonna go back upstairs. Please call me to discuss your pathology findings as soon as you can. I know when the hell I’m not wanted.”

And with that, Jane leaves, Maura assuming it will be the last time they see each other until the morning. There are those tickets she and Booth have. Maura checks her watch. They’ll be leaving in an hour or two. 

The door slams with as much clamor as it opened.

“She’s quite abrasive,” says Brennan.

Maura smirks, shaking her head softly as if to say really? “She’s… dedicated. As dedicated as you or me. She wants to find the answers as much as we do.”

“So I shouldn’t take it personally?”

“Oh, she means it very personally,” Maura counters. When Brennan grows quiet, grows pensive, looks at the ground when she thinks Maura doesn’t see her, Maura softens. “It doesn’t mean that she doesn’t like you.”

“I upset her,” says Brennan finally. “Even if I think what I do about athletes. And conjecture.”

Maura chuckles. “Yes, you did,” she says. “But it doesn’t take much, Doctor Brennan. You’ll probably do it again.”

___

Brennan has snapped off her gloves and changed out of her loaner scrubs, back into her jeans and blouse. She buttons her blazer at the middle, and pushes the number 3 on the elevator, instead of the 1, which would have taken her to the parking garage where her rental car was housed.

She is not… unfeeling. She also is not stupid. And a rift in the fabric of the team, of any team, doesn’t bode well for results. She knows this from her time at the Jeffersonian, she knows it from her time in Guatemala, and she knows it will apply now. Booth is here to assist, and so is she, but Jane leads this case. And, Brennan has to admit, Jane is good at leading the case. Just like Maura had said, she shows a singular dedication, a competence for procedural work that Brennan admires even if it’s based on speculation and law enforcement’s seeming obsession with the gut. 

So, Brennan must find Jane.

Luckily, Jane sits at her desk, poring over those now-developed photographs from the morning. Even more luckily, so that he doesn’t have to see this, Booth isn’t anywhere to be found in the bullpen. She pulls open the glass door quickly, hoping that she can be done before he returns. 

Jane looks up. “Hey, you uh, you here to shit on paper football next? Because Booth and I are probably going to start that up when he gets back. Kill time before we Uber to the Garden,” she grouses when she sees Brennan.

Brennan pulls her lips into a flat line and one hand fiddles with the strap of the bag over her shoulder. “I don’t know what that is. You shouldn’t play football though. Your brain-“

“Yeah yeah, the CTE. Preachin’ to the choir, here, but paper football doesn’t even require gettin’ up from your desk,” Jane says. And when Brennan stands there, all unsure and, well, fidgety, she drops the file on her desk and motions over to the chair next to it. “C’mere, I’ll show ya.”

Brennan keeps the original purpose of her visit in mind, and then takes the seat. She sets her bag on the floor when Jane brandishes the paper triangle. “This - is the football,” she announces.

“It’s a piece of paper,” Brennan curls a brow - she may have in fact overestimated Jane.

“Yes. That has been folded into a football. So, the goal here is a touchdown. And how you do that is you prop it up like this…” Jane pauses, sets up her attempt, “and bam! You flick it…” she does, and watches where it goes. “And if it gets to the edge without going over, that’s a touchdown. Wanna try?”

Jane is asking because Jane got a touchdown on her first attempt. Suddenly, Brennan is giggly and a little nervous. “Just… ok,” she thinks through it, taking the football and holding it with her index finger on the table. “Like this?”

“Somethin’ like that, yeah,” Jane tells her. “Don’t think about it, just go for it.”

“That’s impossible. I-“ 

“Just do it, Doc,” Jane orders.

Something about the authority in Jane’s register spurs Brennan forward. She does it, and flicks it right over the desk on the other side of them. “Hey! Wow! That’s good, right? It went way over!”

Jane shakes her head, but she’s laughing. Smiling. “No, kid, no points. Part of the skill is the finesse. You put too much on it. But hey, pretty good for your first try.”

Brennan licks her lips. Jane has called Booth kid several times, even though he is not a child. It appears endearing? Her stomach churns, flutters in response. “I… I came up here to apologize,” she says so she doesn’t have to pay attention to the feeling.

Jane leans back, but drops her clasped hands between her spread knees. She taps one toe on the linoleum. “Oh?”

“I find that, even if I don’t regret the content of what I said, I do regret that things feel contentious between us,” continues Brennan.

“Contentious, huh?” Jane prods.

Brennan chuckles once. “You sound like my psychologist. Well, a psychologist who is my friend. Who I suppose is also my psychologist. But yes, contentious. It isn’t conducive to teamwork.”  

“I think it can be, sometimes,” Jane counters. “Gets the blood boiling, the wheels turning.”

“I know that sports are important to you. And while I don’t understand why, I can understand that it might hurt your feelings for me to constantly dismantle their merits,” says Brennan.

Jane’s mouth drops open just a bit. “That’s a little far… but you know what? Apology accepted. Things are good.”

“They’re good?” Asks Brennan, more relieved than she thought she’d be.

Jane puts her hands up in a ceasefire. “All good,” she says.

It is then that Brennan sees the scars, reminded of the wounds that must have caused them. Her face narrows into clinical concentration. “It must have been very painful,” she says, softly and with authority. She had read about Charles Hoyt and the detective who ended him. “The number of transected nerves. You seem to carry tightness even now.”

Jane’s hands drop down again. There is less shame now, but not none. “Uh, you know, I hardly think about it anymore,” she lies.

Brennan reaches for a hand anyway. “Can I see?”

Jane folds her hands in her lap and scoots back her chair. When Brennan looks up, she sees that Boothian smile, extra handsome because it hides a lot of pain for her benefit. “No can do, Doctor Brennan.”

“Why? I can help,” Brennan reasons.

Jane sighs. She crosses her arms and leans her elbows on her desk to get closer to Brennan. “No, thank you. The last forensic scientist I let touch my hands, I ended up marryin’ ‘em. And look how well that turned out.”

Brennan laughs quietly. “Well, I can assure you we won’t be getting married. I won’t be marrying anyone,” she says.

“Oh yeah?” Asks Jane. She looks over at the desk across from her because Booth flashes in her mind and she frowns. “Why’s that?”

“Marriage is an antiquated social contract that operates on the principle that women are property, not people. I don’t need marriage to prove my love for someone,” Brennan answers with a straight spine and some conviction. 

Jane shrugs. “To each their own, I guess. I can see why Maura likes you. You have the same way of thinking about a lot of things.”

“But she married you,” Brennan counters, but it is almost kind. Caring.

“She did. Think she regrets that one, though,” Jane smirks. Brennan hears the bitterness in the vowel formants. Jane is burdened by a sadness that looks old on her. She hunches when she reads her file because it is heavy - not the information, but the melancholy. It doesn’t make empirical sense, but Brennan knows it because it’s not the first pair of strong shoulders she has watched round before her in brokenness. A few seconds of silence pass, and Jane wakes up her computer again. “Booth and Korsak are out talking to potential witnesses, but they should be back soon, if you wanna wait here for him.”

Brennan nods, but blows past it. “You know, I’ve kissed several women before.”

Jane drops the file to her desk, but recovers with just a cough or two. “Hmm, me too,” she says.

Brennan smiles wryly. “Oh, that’s funny, because you’re out and you were married to a woman.”

“You got it,” laughs Jane, who cannot help but think of Maura, “even if the past tense hurts me a little bit.”

“While I overall prefer sex with men almost exclusively, I can admit there was certain appeal in the touch of a woman. More tender. There’s more understanding,” Brennan continues.

“Sometimes,” says Jane. At that moment, the elevator doors open and she can see Booth and Korsak emerging. She tosses a glance in that direction. “Hey look, there they are. Good chat, huh? Thanks for comin’ up here. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I think I did,” Brennan says when they both stand. She touches Jane’s elbow and Jane nods. 

“Fair enough. Take this,” Jane says when she produces the paper football. “When we get back from the game tonight, make Booth teach you the rest of the rules.”

Brennan takes the paper, turning it between her fingers, surprised by the sturdiness of the simple design. “Ok,” she says, “I will.”

[thelavenderelf]

Unstable Chapter 7 WIP

This chapter is taking SO LONG to write, and it's even more monstrous than the last one (currently looking at over 8500 words and I'm still not done writing). There is also a hint of what the sequel to Unstable will entail ;D So please enjoy the unedited part 1 of this chapter:

The first time Sylvana visited Nightingale Hall, it was dilapidated and cold. Memories that weren’t hers seeped from every crack in the stone walls, reaching out to her like the frail hands of a beggar, yet she was the desperate one. It feels like every time she’s here, she’s desperate; ready to sign her soul away just to get through the situation she is in. And here she is once again, sitting in the hall desperate for a solution, but at least she is in much cozier surroundings. It now feels like a proper home with the candle light and much cushier furnishings. 

“I can't thank you enough for doing this,” Sylvana says as she watches Karliah flip open a journal filled with sketches and notes on botany and potions. Each diagram is meticulously detailed with curly handwriting, explaining alchemical knowledge far beyond her simple understanding. What little she knows is from Karliah herself, the amazing woman she looks up to for so much. She’s able to pick out a few words as she props her head up on the table they sit at in Nightingale Hall. 

“You don’t have to. Kaidan is a friend,” Karliah states as she sets the journal open on a page of anatomical drawings of the effects of a type of poison on the body. “I won't be able to concoct a true antidote without knowing the exact ingredients, but I may be able to make something that will help based on his symptoms. Now, was his tongue blue?”

“Um, not that I saw,” Sylvana answers as she twirls a strand of hair around her finger, slightly tugging at it.  

“Okay, any purple crust around the entrance wound?” 

“No.” 

“Spots on the back of his neck?” 

Sylvana shakes her head. She can barely remember anything peculiar about Kaidan, but she chalks it up to being too distracted by the fact that he wasn’t waking up. 

“Is there anything you can tell me?”

“This may be a bit of a stretch, but I think I may have been struck with a similar knockout poison. The only thing that really stood out to me was that I dreamed.” 

“You dreamed?” Karliah raises a brow as she shuts her journal. “Are you sure you were poisoned?”

“I’m certain. I even found the bottle.” Sylvana pulls it out of her pouch and hands it over. 

Karliah uncorks it before taking a sniff, instantly recoiling from it. “Ugh, imp stool.”

“Yeah, it’s nasty.” 

“Hmm, I think there is a hint of mugwort which is strange, but it could explain the dreaming. An odd choice for a coma poison though.”

Sylvana’s eyes drift to the side, thinking of the strange Dunmer she met in Dawnstar. If anyone were to know a thing or two about dreams, it would be an ex-priest of Vaermina. Perhaps she should send Erandur a letter. “If only we could ask who made it.”

“Well, most alchemists add a hidden signature onto the bottle as a way to track them. If we’re lucky, we might be able to tell if this was bought at a shop or not.”  Karliah says before holding the small bottle up to a torch. “Ah, see! There is a bee scratched onto the bottom of the bottle.”

“A bee? As in the letter or the insect?” 

“The insect! Look!” Karliah passes the bottle back and Sylvana holds it up, scanning the crudely drawn bumblebee scratched onto it. 

“Do you recognize it?” 

“I don't, but it is a bit of a lead. Where did you get this?” 

“Silverhand,” Sylvana sighs. 

“Silverhand? What are they doing going after you?”

“I’ll spare you the gory details, but I raided a base of theirs, and turns out they all got sticks up their ass.”

“Was it at least worth it?” 

“As long as Kaidan lives? Yes.”

“I will do what I can to make sure of that, but I do want to examine him myself before attempting to make an antidote. I’ll head out in the morning, but there are a few stops I need to make before I go to Whiterun.” 

“Again, thank you. This means a lot.”

“Of course! And it’s good to see you again, even if it’s due to unfortunate circumstances.” Karliah smiles and grabs Sylvana’s shoulders before pulling her into a hug. 

“I know, I’m sorry it’s been so long. Everything has just been crazy, I can hardly keep up myself.” Sylvi relaxes in the embrace of her friend, letting everything go for just a moment. 

Karliah pulls back, only to cup Sylvana’s face to examine it like a doting mother. “I see that. You look tired, my dear. Have you been taking care of yourself?” 

“I’m alive, aren't I?” She offers a tired smile, but it only makes Karliah tut and shake her head. 

“Well, that is better than dead,” Karliah says as she pats Sylvana’s cheek. She moves to the other side of the room where she grabs a rucksack and begins to pack it. “Have you spoken to Brynjolf yet?” 

“Karliah!” 

“What? He’s been a mopey, neurotic mess who won't leave me alone since you’ve left. I’m surprised he didn't follow you out here.”

“I’m sure he’s not far behind,” Sylvana groans, plopping her head onto the table. She shouldn’t be surprised he’s acting this way despite the way they left things. He may present himself as this carefree man, but underneath is a graveyard of memories buried under mounds of anxiety that make him believe everything can fall apart in a moment. It’s been especially bad ever since Mercer betrayed the guild. The worst part is that she only adds to it. 

“He told me what happened, and I let him know what a fucking s’wit he is.” Karliah puts her journal into her bag, closes it up, and places the whole thing carefully near her bed. “I just don't understand what that boy was thinking, but that’s not why I ask. Maven’s been trying to move in since your disappearance, claiming that your absence nulls the contract.” 

“That contract has been nulled since we repaid our debt.” 

“She claims we still owe her, and I fear that she will continue to do so until she owns the entire guild.” 

“I won’t let that happen.”

“Sylvi, it was Maven who set you and your friends up on that job. She’s going to do everything she can to make sure it does happen. Look, I know you have a lot on your plate, but don’t forget about the responsibility you have to the guild.  And don’t forget that the guild is here to help you too. You’re not alone in this.”

Sylvana rubs her brow, attempting to soothe the headache starting to bloom. Of course, it was Maven, she should have known. This is perfect, just another problem to deal with. 

Fuck, she needs a drink. 

[aerodaltonimperial]

The best friends being possibly taken out from the tag team battle royal by the ass boys and the firm, danhausen would want revenge, hooks feuding with the firm and stokely, if only there was some way they could team up due to having mutual interests 🧐🧐🧐

It's 7:15 AM, so bear with me: yes, anon, if only there was some way.

The Ass Boys officially slotting in with the Firm last night was the last piece needed to complete this weird bridge we've been building the past month. Right now, the Venn diagram of the Best Friends, the Firm, the Acclaimed, and JJ/Lethal is a series of overlapping circles. The only outlier is Hook. The entire diagram, with the exception of the Best Friends, are facing off against each other in Revolution. Given the time they've used to build this up the way it is, I would be disappointed (but perhaps not surprised) if the last tag team in that 4-team Revolution match up was someone unrelated. Which gives us really only three options:

1) The Best Friends earn their spot in the match at the Casino Battle Royale, which they already should have gotten after this week and the rampant cheating. Also, they should just be in it because they deserve a run at the belts. And also because I love them. Likelihood? I don't know. The BF are "non-serious" wrestlers, and we know how those names rarely get to win.

2) Orangehausen: the teased BF split has never materialized; neither has the Evilhausen reappearance that should, by all rights, have happened a few weeks ago following all those obvious head bumps. OC and Danhausen have been together for a lot of these past few weeks, even when the BF were suspiciously absent. We could see them coming in if the BF are indeed taken out through nefarious means.

3) Hookhausen reunion: Hook is the outlier in this mess, and also, possibly, the dead center (depending on how you draw it). Hook is currently stable-less and partnerless, with literally no one in his corner. We have watched Danhausen steadily increase his mentions of Hook in the past 2 months, to the point where we have finally got a canon connection on TV. It's weird, actually, that they are currently circling each other so closely but have yet to actually collide. Their story lines are pretty much stacked on top of each other. Danhausen is also the only person not to be scheduled for something next Wednesday. I had my bets on a Hookhausen reunion beginning of April (Long Island), but I would be happy to be wrong. This is largely the only option to fully pull Hook into the diagram, rather than leaving him as a strange question mark at the sides (JB, at this point, should probably be considered to have left the storyline with the return of Cage). Also, given the way next week's match is set up, it would be dumb (but not impossible, we have seen) not to have something substantial happen with the fact that Hook will face ringside antics with no one to back him up: the perfect opportunity.

I'll add the caveat that while all of these make the most sense LOGICALLY, nothing ever seems to play out the way I think it will, so we may in fact have another month to wait for a Hookhausen reunion while, say, Top Flight wins the Royale and goes into the Revolution match LOL. I mean. Narratively it would be so unfulfilling!!! But this is wrestling. They may not care. 🤣

[starleska]

Zundapp anon here: maybe a Zündapp x car!Reader one or make ‘em both human. Aaaa I can’t choose lol

hahaha fantastic!! 🔥

tell you what, how about we split the difference? let's make an originally human Reader who has, by some impossible plot point i will not discern, become a car...and is not coping with it well. i'm not sure anyone would 😂

Professor Zündapp x Originally Human, now Car!Reader headcanons

🚘 when first confronted with you - a so-called 'human', unable to come to terms with your new form, Professor Zündapp is exasperated. it isn't that he doesn't believe your story: a vehicle of his intelligence has long contemplated the possibility of a world inhabited by creatures quite unlike the cars and trucks and planes he knows so well. it's that you are new territory: a scared, vulnerable creature who barely knows how to operate their windshield wipers, let alone serve a purpose in his grandiose schemes. Professor Zündapp agrees to house you, sheltering you from the outside world and allowing you access to a variety of books, journals and documentaries to bring you up to speed on a car-dominated world. in those early days, he takes to calling you, "Einfaltspinsel," - the delightfully German way of calling you a simpleton. it isn't until you bite back with a, "Spaßbremse," - technically killjoy, but literally, 'fun-brake' - that the Professor realises you are not as dense as you seem...and you have a wicked sense of humour.

🚘 against his better judgement, it doesn't take long for Professor Zündapp to become attached. as you learn about his world and your car-body (or would that be chassis?), you draw crude diagrams of your human self with a pen clutched between your new, metallic 'lips'. the Professor observes your tenacity and resolve, and admires it quietly - how, despite your being thrust into this impossible situation, you have jumped into action, ready to learn and problem-solve. in time, the Professor is presented with a fascinating conundrum: although you may not be from this world, you will be a Lemon in the eyes of all who know the truth about your origins. outside of Professor Zündapp's bubble of protection, you would be helpless - left to the whims of able-bodied cars who may or may not decide you pose a threat to international security, and not least because you have unwittingly become involved with a wanted weapons designer. not only does Zündapp want to protect you - he feels it's his responsibility to protect you.

🚘 in no time at all, you are elevated from a burden, to Professor Zündapp's protégé. you start by asking questions about Zündapp's plans, and realise his ideals align with yours: he's fighting against an inequality inherent in this society, using force where necessary. at first you just listen - but then, you end up providing suggestions to his schematics. you are a fast learner, and it turns out that having a human perspective on car-built weaponry provides Zündapp's designs with a new, unexpected edge. whilst as a human your knowledge of weaponry, international politics and espionage was slim to none, you have a talent for spotting design flaws and developing theoretical covert operations. Professor Zündapp is floored when you identify a dangerous fault in the chamber of a gun to be hidden in a Lemon operative's number plate. "Du bist sehr intelligent," Zündapp chuckles. "Perhaps I shall have some use for you after all."

i hope this was what you were looking for, anon - i certainly had fun writing it! 🙈💖 honestly, this should be a full fic...👀

[sanddusted-wisteria]

A Builder, a Researcher, and a Rooftop, Ch. 16: The Perseids

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The builder stared down at the hardwood log slowly being taken in by the processor’s saw, the sound of its buzzing only barely louder than the buzzing of their thoughts.

It had been several weeks already since that night, but memories of it still flashed across their mind whenever they were left idle. The bags under Qi’s eyes… Qi’s sleeping face…  Pressing a kiss to Qi’s forehead…

They furiously shook their head, focusing extra hard on the board taking shape on the other side of the saw.

Everything had been…weird since that night. Usually, they’d go up to the research center almost every day, either to get a new diagram or just to say hi to Qi. But now, the thought made them feel almost sick, in a way. They still kept showing up to stargaze on Saturdays, but the once-peaceful mood was now replaced by something else. Silence on the rooftop wasn’t unusual, even after they’d gotten closer, but it wasn't the calm and soothing silence that let them unravel after a busy week. It was…tense. Both from them and from Qi. They could feel it. They briefly considered not coming, but decided to do it anyway. It was better to stomach the tension than the possibility of a concerned Qi showing up on their doorstep again, wondering where they were. And then having to explain themself.

He didn’t…know…did he? He had to have been knocked out after that…

Their thoughts were cut off by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind them. They whirled around to find…Qi? At their gate? Their heart suddenly jumped.

“Builder,” he said plainly. “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”

They padded over to the gate. “Um, no, you’re fine. Why, uh…why are you here?”

“Erm,” he mumbled, eyes darting around at anything but the builder. They frowned a little. “There…is a meteor shower.”

The builder blinked. “Oookay…?”

“Um. What I meant was, there is a meteor shower peaking tomorrow night.” Despite the uncertainty in his voice, his face was as flat as ever. But looking close enough, the builder could see every muscle in his face straining to keep it that way. “I was w—er, perhaps…” He swallowed, trying to regain his bearings. “I…believe you might be interested in observing it. It’s not our usual time, and it’ll be very late into the night, but I just thought I’d let you know.”

The builder was silent, mind completely drawing a blank. Was he…?

“I-if it’s too inconvenient for you, I understand,” Qi babbled, his composure breaking for a split second. “Perhaps I can find another way for you to see it. Hopefully a camera will work, or maybe I can fashion it to the telescope somehow and—”

“No, no! It’s fine!” the builder yelped instinctively. “I…I’ll go. That sounds pretty cool, actually.”

Qi’s eyes widened, his lips fighting a smile. “Excellent! Not tonight, but tomorrow night starting around 1 AM. That is the earliest optimal time for viewing.”

The builder let out a low whistle. “Wow, 1 AM… looks like I’ll have to get some early sleep.”

Qi nodded stiffly. “I will be on the rooftop all night. Come at your earliest convenience.” And with that, he spun on his heel fast enough to dig a clean circle in the sand under his shoe, and set off back to his lab without waiting for an answer. Not that the builder had one in mind.

They blinked incredulously at the retreating form of Qi’s back.

What…just happened?

After Qi disappeared back into the tunnel next to the ranch, they went back to their processor, picking up the now-completed board and blowing the sawdust off.

This definitely sounded like a date… Well, more of a date than stargazing alone together every single weekend, anyway. At that thought, the stupid, irrational part of their brain suddenly thought about bringing the blanket again. They sighed. Might as well, honestly. After tomorrow night, they might get a whole lot more chances to bring it in the future…or never again.

They set the board aside and looked out at the research center, its telescope breaching the town’s humble skyline.

Fortune favors the bold…right?

------------

12:45 AM.

The builder yawned, still trying to wake themselves up from their nap. They looked out to the sleeping town, streets barren and windows darkened. Up on the slanted roof of the research center, they could see a blip of movement, only barely visible with the dim moonlight. That could only be Qi. Maybe he was looking right back at them with that lightly curious gaze of his.

They gulped. Now or never…

They left their yard and slowly made their way into town, eyes on the ground to make sure they didn’t trip over anything. The unease in their stomach twisted in every step up the stairs to the rooftop, their scattered thoughts trying to solidify to tell them that—

“Shit.”

“Hm? Is everything alright?”

They looked over from where they were frozen on the landing to see Qi glancing at them with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, um. Yeah, I just realized that I forgot to bring my blanket with me. Thought it would make the experience better, but…oh well.”

“Ah. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem. We’ll be looking at around 40 degrees above the horizon anyway. It’s best if we keep sitting.”

Maybe that was for the best.

The builder nodded, not sure what else to say. They made their way over to where Qi was, sitting down close to his side, but not too close. Not close enough to risk an accidental hand bump. Meanwhile, Qi turned and messed with something on his other side.

“Oh no…” they heard him mutter.

They leaned over to see the tiny table over there, two cups sitting on top. The tea thermos was in Qi’s hand, turned completely upside-down over one of the cups, with only a drop or two coming out.

“Er… I thought I had more than that,” Qi said. “I know I drank a cup a little earlier…but I must’ve drunk more without realizing it. My apologies.”

“Oh…that’s fine. I already took a nap, so I’m wide awake now.”

Qi only nodded, an uncertain look on his face as he screwed the lid of the thermos back on.

They both looked out towards the sky, trying to spot any telltale flashes of meteors. The builder felt their muscles go stiff. That tension was still there. They took a couple silent, deep breaths, trying to let it pass over them. But it refused to budge, hanging stubbornly over them both like the looming shadow of the telescope.

A flash of movement suddenly caught the corner of their eye. They gasped, trying to focus on precisely where it was. But there were nothing except static stars. Was that a hallucination, or…?

“Did you spot one?” Qi asked in a hushed voice.

“Maybe…?” The builder frowned. “Thought I saw something move, but maybe my eyes are tricking me.”

“That happens sometimes when you’re observing meteor showers. They pass incredibly quickly, so sometimes you can’t quite catch them. Where are you looking?”

They pointed up at the sky directly in their line of sight.

Qi shook his head. “Try focusing over there,” he said, pointing to a spot a bit down and left. “That’s the radiant point.”

“Radiant point…?”

Qi suddenly snapped to attention. “Ah. Yes. The radiant point is the region where meteors appear to travel from,” he explained in his stuffy lecturer voice. “Obviously, they don’t actually come from there, but that’s just where they seem to come from based on our point of view. For this shower, it happens to be positioned right around the constellation Perseus, hence its name: the Perseids. Oh. Maybe…I should have explained that first.”

“Uh-huh…?”

“Right. The Perseids. Observed since ancient times. The result of Earth’s annual crossing into a debris cloud left behind by the comet Swift-Tuttle.” His words were speeding up. “It has an orbital period of 133 years. Unfortunately, the last time the comet passed over was during the early Age of Peach, so no one of our generation has ever witnessed it—”

The builder looked over at Qi. He was insistently staring out at the sky with a strained look on his face. They could see his hands clenching, bunching the fabric of his pants.

He was speaking at a feverish pace now. “—and usually the zenithal hourly rate is around 100 or so but I’ve read some records that said that it can get up to about 200 some years. But even with that the main problem is always the moon half the time it’ll be full right at the peak so you wouldn’t be able to observe the smaller ones—”

They frowned. Usually when Qi got into one of his hyper-thorough explanations, he was…brighter than this. He’d gesticulate excitedly, his voice would soar, he’d look back at them with a glint in his eye to try and get them excited too. Something was wrong.

“—the Perseids are alright and all but they can’t really compare to the Leonids at their most brilliant with their meteor storms unfortunately the last one happened when I was only 2 so I have to wait until I’m 35 to see the next one and—” Qi suddenly spotted their blank stare out of the corner of his eye and froze. “Um…have you…been listening?” he panted, trying to catch his breath.

The builder jolted, their stomach suddenly going into free-fall. “U-uh… Sorry, but uh… I kinda…lost you for the last couple…minutes.” They shrunk into their shoulders, bracing for the inevitable chastising for being supposedly uninterested in such wonderful science.

But Qi only stared at them, something between shame and nervousness in his flickering gaze. Then he turned away, shoulders sagging with a quiet sigh. “...Sorry.”

In the silence that fell, the builder’s brow furrowed. Something tugged at their heart. That wasn’t like Qi at all.

“Hey…” They cautiously raised a hand, hovering over his shoulder for a moment, before setting it down gently. They felt him flinch. “You feeling okay? You’ve been kinda…off tonight.”

Qi’s shoulder tensed under their hand. “I…” He took a deep breath. “I admit that I wasn’t entirely truthful with you.”

“About…what?”

“I invited you on the pretense of simply observing an interesting astronomical event, but…” His shoulders were so tense that their hand was almost touching his cheek. “I…wanted this to be…um. No, I wanted this to have…ugh.” He brought his other hand to his forehead. He took another deep breath before turning back towards them, meeting their eyes as firmly as he could.

“I…have romantic feelings for you.”

His words were only barely louder than the breeze that swirled past them. The builder swore that they flatlined for a second.

Qi couldn’t hold their gaze any longer. “I only realized recently,” he whispered. “But I highly suspect that they started developing much earlier. After I came to that conclusion, I poured so much time into researching how best to convey that to you, how to…how to confess.” His hands clenched. “But I’ve completely neglected everything I researched from start to finish. I’ve done everything wrong. Dominating the conversation, inducing boredom, poor preparation…”

He glanced back at them, and the builder felt a stab through their heart at the dejected look in his eyes. “I’m not sure if it’s my inexperience, or if I’m just naturally inept with romantic affairs, but regardless, I can’t apologize enough. I understand if this has all been deeply underwhelming for you.”

The builder was stunned. Underwhelming?! A single sentence was completely derailing their train of thought, and Qi thought that he was being a disappointment?

At their continued silence, Qi’s face twisted with fear. “A-And of course, if you–if you don’t reciprocate my feelings, then I’m more than willing to forget that any of this ever happened and—”

The sudden rise in his voice shocked the builder back into focus. They shook their head while frantically waggling their hands. “Hey, no no no no! I–I do! I do…reciprocate. It’s okay!”

Qi’s eyes widened even more. “You…You do?!”

The builder couldn’t help but laugh, their face heating and their heart singing. “Of course I do! Why do you think I come here so often?”

“Um, well, I assume for diagrams…and out of…habit?”

“No, silly! Because you’re here!” They playfully poked his cheek. “I can look at the stars from anywhere, but up here, I get to look at them with you. Hearing you talk about what’s up there… Sharing tea and dinner and everything… It makes it so much better.”

Qi flushed. “I…could say the same to you. At first it was strange, having you up here with me. But I’ve come to enjoy your presence…a lot. I’m all too happy to share the stars and all this knowledge with you.” Uncertainty grew on his face again. “My statement from before still stands, though. The last thing I want to do is set a false pretense for how I'll act in a relationship. So, if you’re not satisfied with this, then…”

The builder squeezed his shoulder. “Qi, it’s okay. I’m serious. You don’t need to do anything so elaborate for me. I know the kind of person you are. You always get straight to the point, nice and clean. …Sometimes a little too straight, but still. That’s…part of why I like you.”

“Is that so…?” Qi’s expression lightened. “That’s…a relief. I still have much to learn about what it’ll mean to be your…your partner…but I’d say this is a good place to start.”

The builder smiled and nodded. “An excellent place to start.”

Silence fell again, neither sure what to say after all of that. The builder could still hear their pulse thrumming.

“Well, um,” said Qi after a minute or two. “What…happens now? I never exactly planned this far…”

The builder hummed. “Well, why not this…?” They scooted closer and wrapped their arms around him, pulling them as close together as they could. They heard a gasp, before warm arms encircled around them in return. They giggled, while Qi let out a blissful sigh.

Their arms fit so perfectly around each other, the warmth outshining even what had been simmering deep inside them for weeks, when their thoughts were mired with nothing but Qi. They could feel his heartbeat against their chest, solid and quick. He smelled faintly of tea, earthy and grassy.

“This sense of ease…” Qi whispered as the builder rubbed slow circles into his back. “…I only ever feel it when I’m around you. It’s never a struggle to work with you, or to talk to you, or to just…be with you.”

“I…I’m glad,” the builder whispered back. “I always liked seeing you happy. Whenever you talk about science or space, you always get so excited… I don’t get like half of the things you say, but I just love seeing you smile. And…if I’m able to make you that happy…that just makes it all the better.”

They slowly pulled away, already missing the warmth of Qi’s arms. That rare, soft smile lifted Qi’s lips once again. Their heart fluttered at the sight. “You’re so cute.”

Qi grimaced, instantly wiping the smile off his face. “I am not.”

They snorted. “Yes you are.”

Qi just let out a light huff. His expression slowly eased into a shier one, almost as unsure as it was a few minutes ago. “Right, um…” He cleared his throat. “There is one last thing I researched about this whole ‘confession’ business. Perhaps I can at least give it a try as well…”

The builder raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

Qi swallowed, hesitant. “May…may I kiss you? I-if you’re comfortable, of course.”

The builder silently nodded, their smile softening.

Qi’s eyes flitted around their face for a bit, looking almost a bit lost. He raised a cautious hand up to their cheek, his eyes silently asking if that was alright. They answered by leaning into his touch, and gently placing their own hand over his.

He leaned in, the lostness in his eyes only deepening as they grew closer. The builder moved to meet him halfway, their eyes slowly closing as their lips finally met his.

It didn’t feel explosive or bombastic. Not like what all those love stories made it out to be. But it did feel like a bunch of little things.

A little klutzy, a little misaligned, a little shy.

A little curious, a little unsure, a little skittish.

And so, so right.

They pulled away when their lungs started hurting, eyes fluttering open to see Qi gazing back at them with more awe and wonder than any relic they gave him. Their body tingled from their face to their fingertips, almost electric. The stars seemed to glow brighter in the aftermath, both in the sky above and in the depths of Qi’s eyes.

“I…hope I did that correctly,” Qi murmured. “There wasn’t any way for me to rehearse that…”

The builder giggled. “Who cares if it’s wrong? We can work on making it better.” They winked.

Qi’s entire face was red now. “Ehm. Indeed we can. But maybe that’s a…future goal. For now, I think…this will make a suitable control. Yes.”

They laughed again. “Well, whenever you need another data point, all you need to do is ask.”

“G-good. We’ll…need a large sample size, after all.”

They both chuckled, feeling the nerves and the electricity in their veins dissipate until they were only left with that familiar, mutual ease. The builder turned back to the sky, leaning their head against Qi’s shoulder. They felt him lean back into them, tickling their hair.

“What say we watch this meteor shower properly now?” the builder murmured.

“Indeed. And I will…refrain from overloading you with information this time.”

They let out a short, soft laugh. “You can tell me again some other time.”

Qi hummed. A simple sound, but the builder could still hear the smile behind it.

Their eyes scanned the skies once more for shooting stars, as the two of them basked under the stars, in the silence, in each other.

An especially bright one shot across the sky, fully in the builder’s line of sight this time. They gasped, and felt Qi do the same against their side. “Did you make a wish?” they asked.

They felt him sigh. “I never understood why people decide to ‘wish’ on meteors. It all seems a bit ridiculous to me. Absolutely unscientific.”

They lightly elbowed his side. “Oh, come on. There’s no harm in it.”

“Alright, alright, I suppose that’s true. What…did you wish for, then?”

They closed their eyes and smiled. “I wished for more nights just like this. With you. On this roof.”

Qi’s hand found theirs, clasping it with a gentle squeeze.

“I…believe that is my wish as well.”

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A/N: And that'll wrap up Act 1! Yes, Act 1. This fic has become so lengthy at this point that I had to split it into acts in order to keep things organized. Thank you all for the incredible support for this fic so far. All of your kudos and comments are wonderful and I rotate them in my head on a daily basis.

With the end of this act, this fic will be going on hiatus for a bit (at least a month) so I can take a break from it, pull out some of the ideas/outlines/drafts I've had on the back burner, and get a head start on Act 2! In which the game's main story will catch up with our two dorks...and very quickly.

And with the upcoming release of MTAS 1.0 in a little under 2 months, let's quickly talk the future of this fic and canon compliance. At the moment, I have *a* plan for the plot outlined from start to finish, with some gaps in between. Depending on the new content with the release, those plans could potentially change. If something new/different in the game comes up in the future, if I can work it in smoothly, then I'll add it. So for example, if Qi ends up getting a reverse confession quest, obviously, I can't implement that. I'll add tags to the work to indicate when/where I'll be deviating from canon. In general, just keep in mind that this fic was mostly outlined with the EA versions in mind. I started planning this fic pre-Knives Out!

...Oh, and one last thing. If you're reading this as it's coming out, the Perseids are actually peaking right around now! If you're in the northern hemisphere, it's definitely worth staying up late to watch. Go out and look at the stars, why doncha? 💖

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[autumnalwalker]

Empty Names - 15 - Matters of Technique

Author's Note: I'd say something about Ashan's chapters always taking me forever to write, but this also ended up being the longest chapter yet by a wide margin. Maybe its because I tried to fit three separate action scenes? Barely finished in time to post for the "every other week" schedule I've tried setting for myself. This one also ended up being less "monster of the week" and more "villain of the week". Anyway, time for Ashan experimenting with casting from other magic systems and getting in fights with opponents who actually know what they're doing. Hope you like haikus. See the tags for more spoiler-y commentary in the tags. Word Count: 13,075 Content Warnings: "Genre-typical violence" in the form of a sparring match and a wizard duel. Magic mind control. Fantasy parallels to human trafficking. Mild swearing. Blood. A leg impaled by a spear. Mention of a character lit on fire. Implied but undescribed gore.

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Ashan holds his wand upright before him, concentrating on willing an uncooperative flame into existence above its tip.

Eris paces the confines of the transparent dome holding her trapped, periodically striking out at the conjuration with a glyph-inscribed spear that leaves trails of frost wherever it makes contact.

Lacuna stands in her labcoat on the sidelines of the gym’s sparring ring, note-taking momentarily forgotten in the building anticipation of the duel’s tense lull.

Both combatants are trying something new this bout.  For Eris, it is the test run of Lacuna’s first enchanted weapon.  For Ashan, it is attempting a technique from Whispers of the Sun that he had found to be of particular interest whose mastery has so far eluded him.

For all that he has kept his frustration in check up until now, his repeated failures to replicate any of that tome’s spells has begun to gall.  Any magic originating from a world operating on a similar conceptual schema to the one he trained with on Orthon inevitably manifests as one of that world’s purely destructive pyromantic evocations instead of the intended effect.  Meanwhile, attempts at spells built around further-removed systems of rules simply sputter out and die no matter how much energy he draws upon to power them.

Hopefully the stress of battle - if only a mock one - will be the push he needs.  His opponent’s confinement is merely buying him a moment of breathing room.  Thus far in prior matches Eris has displayed a startling - if inconsistent - propensity for breaking through his conjurations with nothing but brute force.  Even without the gloves she employed on the Culescun ship it is only a matter of time until she is on him again.

Curious then that now she is only making quick, light prods and slashes that never land in the same place twice.

Ashan reins his focus back to the flame; it is already split enough between that and keeping the barrier reinforced.  Attempting to ‘draw out the fire from within’ as instructed has so far produced only the briefest of sparks, but what about a hybridized approach?  Perhaps if he conjures the flame in a familiar way, combusting a point in the air and then feeding it ambient energy the same way he would his barriers, and then attempts to manipulate it the way the text said.

The air above the tip of Ashan’s wand catches alight like a candle.  He directs more energy into the fire and the candle becomes a torch.  The growing warmth on his face and hands contrasts sharply with the sudden chill at his back.  While the office facilities are not without their own permeating aether field that he could be drawing from, best to focus these sparring matches on practicing with the power source guaranteed to be available wherever he goes.

With effort, he manages to tame the flame’s flickers into the pattern he memorized from studied diagrams.  Pattern stabilized, he moves on to the step of ‘pouring his will into the fire’.  The point of this spell is not to burn, but to entrance, capturing and drawing in the attention of onlookers like moths to a lantern.  Not true mind-altering magic that would send the spell into the realm of sorcery by issuing commands or stripping a target of autonomy, but merely inducing a brief but intense calm to stop an attacker in their tracks until acted upon or line of sight is lost.  Like any mage with a sense of ethics, the only time Ashan has ever broken that taboo is for the generally-accepted exception of Masquerade-preserving amnestic magic.  Even with so unintrusive an effect as this one, Ashan warned Eris and Lacuna what he intended to attempt ahead of time despite the opportunity it would give Eris to steel her mind for resistance.

Staring into the fire before him Ashan admits to himself that there is an undeniable allure to the flame’s dance, but not one he would go so far as to call truly magical.  Then again, it would be a poor spell unworthy of the Bridgewood library if it affected the caster.  Only one true way to test.

Just then Ashan feels his barrier around Eris fail.  The failure is not the shattering under pressure from raw force that she has accomplished before, the flicker of his own broken concentration, the fading of exhaustion, nor even the shredding or melting of dispelling countermagic.  It is a sudden pinprick puncture followed by an unraveling that collapses the multiple reinforced layers from the inside out and makes him dizzy with the sensory backlash.  The shock of the novel sensation is nearly enough to cause the fire above Ashan’s wand to go out.

The shattering cascade of ice falling without an invisible wall to hold it up snaps Ashan back to awareness just in time to sidestep the fist-sized chunk of ice that Eris kicked in his direction before it could hit the ground.  The unsettling thought that there shouldn’t be enough humidity in this room for anything more than a thin dusting of frost to form crosses the wizard’s mind and then the warrior is upon him.

Even after four duels with her prior to this one, the speed and precision with which Eris moves for a combatant of her size and build continues to catch Ashan off guard, especially now that she is wielding a weapon to further leverage those qualities.  Thrust after thrust after slash, it is all Ashan can do to dodge the strikes while simultaneously maintaining his concentration on unfamiliar magic.  It has been a long time since he last found himself dancing with an opponent rather than around them.

He does indeed however manage to keep that flame burning bright and steady while he holds it between himself and Eris.  So far however, it seems to be failing at its purpose; instead of becoming entranced and slowing - much less stopping - her assault, she just keeps looking straight through the flame and into Ashan’s eyes, predatory grin across her face all the while. 

Ashan tries to alter the conjured fire on the fly as variables come to mind.  Color, brightness, size, pattern, flicker frequency, aetherial composition; none of it produces the desired hypnotic effect.  He is just about to give up on the experiment in favor of focusing on reclaiming a chance at winning the duel when Eris shifts the grip on her weapon and changes up her style of attack, abandoning the spear thrusts in favor of flowing swings as if she were wielding a staff.

Against anyone else the sudden stylistic shift might have had the desired effect of unbalancing Eris’s opponent, but for Ashan it simply kicks a long-dormant set of reflexes into play.  His mentor favored staves over wands for spellcasting implements and melee combat with them had been a persistent, if relatively minor, part of his training even after he switched to a wand for casting.  This is a dance whose steps are well known to Ashan Glassheart, and for all Eris’s strength and speed, she is not half the accomplished staff fighter that Aliana Glassgaze is.

The styles may not be identical, but there is enough similarity that Ashan finds himself slipping back into the old, unthinking rhythm easily enough that he can manage to conjure short-lived shields to parry strikes away from him into the ground and nimbly leap over the follow-up sweeps at his legs.  Despite this, Eris’s grin only grows wider, showing ever more teeth.  Their dance sends Ashan’s mind’s eye back to his mentor’s expressions at times like this.  In most fights, she would seem to enjoy them much as Eris does now, but perhaps without the feral tinge.  The laughing banter that infuriated most of her foes made it all seem like one big fun game to her, and by extension to Ashan.  It was only when against the truly dangerous adversaries when stakes were high or on the rare occasions that Ashan got hurt that Aliana’s face took on the intensely cold and faraway look that was half the reason for her epithet of Glassgaze.

Ashan is picturing that expression, single-minded and unfocused all at once, when something about the flame he has been carrying changes in a way he cannot identify.  Eris slows to a stop, staring into the fire as tension drains from her face.  Ashan fails to suppress a shiver from the precipitous drop in temperature.  Ambient heat energy flows through and out of Ashan as magic, building in power to something new and grand.

The flame above the tip of Ashan’s wand flickers and goes out.

The moment of near-revelation lasted less than a second before ending in anticlimax.

The shaft of Eris’s spear cracks into the upper part of Ashan’s off arm, encasing it in ice and knocking him to the ground.

Ashan mentally scrambles, trying to get the flame back as it was right before it disappeared.  It returns as a roaring jet of fire that engulfs Eris and momentarily blinds Ashan from the unexpected brightness.  He barely sees the spear swinging down at him in time to roll out of the way.  Now held with its full length flat against the floor by a notably unburnt Eris, the glyphs lining the spear pulse with a chilly blue light.  Mist condenses in the air.  Ice spreads across the ground, bulging up into low walls in the spots where earlier deflected blows previously left trails of frost.

Ashan attempts to stand up, slips, and attempts to conjure a support to catch himself on.  A cold pain shoots through his arm in absence of sufficient surrounding air and ground temperature for the spell to draw from.  He gasps and the conjuration flickers out, dropping him back to the frozen floor.  The cold sharp point of a spear presses against his neck without breaking the skin.

“That makes three to two,” Eris says, “my favor.”

She pulls the spear away and offers a hand to pull Ashan to his feet.

The next several minutes are spent cleaning up the generated ice and moving it from the gym’s sparring ring to the lab’s testing chamber for disposal.  All the while, Lacuna chatters excitedly, going back and forth between commenting on how ‘cool’ it is to watch her teammates go at it and asking Eris questions about how well the spear performed.  Apparently the whole length of the spear being able to freeze on contact rather than just the spearhead was an unintended side effect rather than a designed feature.

“Where does all the ice come from?” Ashan asks as the testing chambers close, leaving said ice to safely melt into the chamber’s cleaning system.

Lacuna tilts her head to the side.  “What do you mean?  It’s an enchanted ice spear; it freezes things and makes ice.  Well, maybe more like it manifests the idea of freezing things?  In theory, based on the simulation results it should be able to totally encase someone and just put them in stasis to be thawed out later no worse for the wear, unlike normal ice.  Haven’t figured out an ethical way to actually test that though, so probably best not to try it.”

“But where is the water for all that ice coming from?”

Lacuna shrugs.  “I don’t know, same place as your barriers and fire?”

“My conjurations are all simply energy manipulation,” Ashan corrects that terrifying answer.  “The barriers are pure impartations of kinetic friction onto an area of space with no material component.  The fire is the controlled ignition of the oxygen in the air.  The frost and mist that often forms around me is merely a side effect of rapidly lowering the ambient temperature to fuel those other processes causing the same changes on humidity the same as any mundane overnight cold front would.  What it is not is a violation of the conservation of mass.  Or at least, not beyond the limits of an anchor world’s ability to stretch.”

“Ooohhh, so that’s the difference between conjuring and summoning,” Lacuna says.  “Fascinating.  I’ll need to go take a look at some of the source rituals the program drew from for the enchantment sequence later.”

Ashan dearly hopes that whatever that spear is doing is only a variation of summoning.  But even then, where is that water being summoned from?  An elemental plane?  The nearest ocean?  A random comet orbiting the solar system?  For all any of them know it could be ripping the bodily fluids from some unknown, distant victim, killing someone every time the spear’s magic is used.  That last one is highly unlikely with the Autogenesis Principle in play, but the point is that Lacuna is casually experimenting with magic that would normally take experienced mages and enchanters decades to master without even knowing the answers to such basic questions about how it works.  When Ashan asked her several days ago what such complex, high-output rituals use as a power source for their casting without a strong ambient aether field, ley lines, or other such element lacking from an anchor world (even a pocket dimension with loosened anchoring such as this), she had given the frankly horrifying answer that the power generation issue had been solved before she joined the project and she had never gotten around to reviewing that part of the legacy code so she just took it as a given that it worked safely and stably.

Ashan is just about to bring the matter up again when Lacuna takes a seat in front of her workstation and says “I actually got the idea for the ice spear from you.”

“From me?” Ashan asks.

Lacuna nods.  “Well, that is, partly from you and partly from…” The last half of her sentence trails off into unintelligibility.

“Sis,” Eris prompts, “you’re mumbling again.”

“Sorry!” Lacuna not-quite-shouts.  “It’s just that you and Road both have magic ways to easily subdue people without hurting them and I wanted to help Eris have a way to do the same, and then I got to thinking about something your outfit sort of reminded me of and looked up where I’d seen something similar and…”

Lacuna hands Ashan her phone, face blushing and not making eye contact.  On the screen is a manga cover with the title Crystal Witch Arya.  There, floating in the center of the screen with white staff pointed dramatically and a wry smile on her face is Ashan’s mentor.  The face is artistically stylized and the real Aliana was never so well-endowed as this fictional “Arya” character, but otherwise the resemblance is uncanny.  The midnight blue hair, the robe Ashan’s own was patterned after, the broad-brimmed white hat he had never incorporated into his own style, even the patterns carved into the staff; all of it certainly drawn by someone who met her.

Ashan thinks back to all the cases of mistaken cosplay identity this past convention season and groans.

“Sorry, I know it’s kind of cringe, copying from something like this,” Lacuna says.  “I shouldn’t have made the comparison to you.”

“No it is not that,” Ashan assures her.  “My mentor never was any good at amnestic spells.  It would seem that someone she rescued remembered well enough to capture her likeness.”  He taps on the phone, skimming through questionably scanned and fan-translated pages and cringing at the inaccuracies in personality and magic.  “Albeit not well enough to be accurate about much of anything else.”

Eris laughs.  “So you’re telling me that Crystal Witch Arya is a real person and you trained under her?”

“Her name is Aliana Glassgaze, but yes, this character does appear to be based on her.”  Ashan glances down at a panel of Arya intoxicated at a bar and flirting with a witch dressed all in black.  “Very, very loosely based.”

Knowing his mentor, she probably reads every issue and laughs the whole time.  The more uncomfortable implication is that she came back to this world after he left her on Orthon.

“Oh this is just too perfect,” Eris says with barely contained mirth, looking back and forth between Ashan and Lacuna.

“And why is that?” Ashan asks.

“Oh, no reason.”

Lacuna sinks into her chair, drawing her feet up onto the seat with her, red faced, and muttering something about “ruined cosplay plans.”  She bolts upright at the sound of the lab door opening.

“These are my friends I told you about,” Road says from the doorway.  “You’ll be safe here.”

Out in the hallway a beautiful young man nervously clutches subtly webbed fingers around the edge of the sealskin draped over his shoulders.

*******

Four hours later Ashan stands at the edge of a west-coast forest looking down a hill at a mansion.  With the timezone difference it is still only mid afternoon here.  The mansion is of a modern design and after Bridgewood Manor looks almost quaint by comparison with its mere two floors and swimming pool.  As expected, no one stirs on the property, for the inhabitants, staff, and prisoners are all in the phase-shifted pocket dimension mirroring mundane space but invisible to normal means of detection.

Road and Eris flank him, both fully armored, Road in their uncanny symbiote that’s taken on an almost mechanical look with a metallic sheen and overlapping geometric plates of green and purple, and Eris in her freshly crimson-painted tactical gear.  Unlike Road, her face is still visible through her visor and she looks about ready to do murder as she sets down the knee-high drone sent by Lacuna and unslings the spear from her back.  To Ashan’s eyes, the drone looks like nothing so much as a blocky, headless parody of black dog.

On the other side of Road is the dryad-turned-minor-harvest-goddess that brought them here and will soon be piercing the phase-shifted veil for their party.  From what Ashan has gathered over the past few hours, she was once in a similar situation to the poor souls they are here to save before Road and the Bridgewoods rescued her some years back and is more than eager to repay the favor.   She is yet to speak her name and if Road knows it they are not sharing.

“Let’s review the plan one more time before we head in,” Road’s voice resonates from their helmet.  “Down there is the home of a wizard going by the alias of Logos.  Once our fair lady of the green shifts us over to the true mansion our job is first to retrieve the various items binding the house servants to his will and then to escort them back here where they can be spirited away to safety.”

Mellírd, the selkie Road brought into the office, had recounted a tale that neither Eris nor Road were willing forestall acting upon for more than the minimal amount of time it took to throw a rough plan together.  According to him, this Logos individual has amassed a fortune over the years through bargaining, tricking, coercing, and stealing his way into the possession of objects that would grant him power over the beings they were bound to and then selling those objects - and by extension the people - to wealthy buyers.  Mostly it was selkies like Mellírd, swan maidens, and other shapeshifters who had animal skins to step in and out of to change, but from time to time others with more esoteric tokens would be captured and bound as well.  In every case, these tokens were no mere items but part of their rightful owners just as much as their hearts or brains.  Those still waiting to be sold were made to serve in Logos’s home, or worse, sent out to lure in others of their kind.

Mellírd managed to steal back his skin and escape while in transit to a buyer and in the following days was spotted mid-shapeshift by a photographer who posted his image on an on set forum for cryptid sightings.  Lacuna tagged the story as a potential Masquerade breach, and passed it to Road who followed it up after noting that Mellírd looked distressed in the photo.  As soon as they got him to safety and filled in the rest of the team, preparations of the now-imminent infiltration and extraction commenced.

“Thanks to Mellírd,” Road continues, “we know that Logos keeps the binding items in a display case on the second floor and we have a headcount of everyone that we’ll need to return those items to so they can leave.  For the safety of the people we’re rescuing, we’ll be doing this as stealthily as possible.  Or priority is getting them out; dealing with Logos can come later.  Now then, does everyone remember their roles?”

Eris speaks up first.  “Rescuee escort and protection.  And subdual if required.”

“Detecting and disabling wards,” Ashan says, “in addition to running interference if Logos catches on.”

“Remember,” Road says, “if it comes to a fight just play for time until we give the signal that everyone is out.  We can’t risk him feeling threatened enough to start using prisoners as shields.  Lacuna?”

“Right!  Sorry.  Was running last-minute checks on my end.  The remote mobile concealment rituals should be good to go.  Also, I’ve got Mellírd set up in the testing chamber for observation with cleansing rituals queued up in case any lingering linkage back to Logos flares up.”

“And I shall be ensuring your way out and ferrying any who escape to my demesne.” The trees shake in time with the cadence of each word spoken by the fair lady of the green.  “As much as I would prefer to do more to make this mortal pay, you are correct that rescue must come before retribution, but tarry not in this foul place lest you still be here when that hour of vengeance comes.”

Road nods.  “Consider that warning heeded.”  They turn to look down at the drone.  “Everyone gather in close.  Lacuna, show us what you can do.”

A screen on the drone’s back lights up with the most horrendous mess of a glyph circle that Ashan has ever seen.  To even call the tangled, spiraling mess of overlapping arcane symbols a circle is generous.  To his trained wizard’s eye there are a few scattered and warped fragments that look as if they belong in a visual concealment ritual, but much of the rest that is not gibberish looks to be warped pieces of unrelated functionality.  At a glance he can make out an arc from the start of most divination drawings there, a temperature modulation glyph there, and what looks like a complete miniaturized pattern for a common housecleaning ritual embedded in the middle of a spiral in the corner of the screen.  When what sounds like Lacuna’s voice speaking in an untranslatable tongue starts playing from a speaker and then speeds up into a high-pitched electronic buzz, Ashan is convinced that the whole thing is going to explode and take them with it.  His head certainly feels like it is about to.

“Is it working?” Eris asks.

Ashan focuses his sense for magic and the ensuing nausea from trying to perceive the incomprehensible mess of warped reality flowing from the drone sends him staggering backwards.  And then the noise - audio, mental, spiritual, and aetherial - is gone, along with his companions.  The buzz of the accelerated chant has stopped, ambient magical fields are normal, and the grass everyone should be standing on does not even appear to be bent.  He puts a hand forward to where he had just been standing and the hand stays visible, the shadow cast by the afternoon sun that should be falling across a presumably invisible Eris’s knees projects onto the ground unobstructed.

Ashan steps back into position and suppresses a gasp as everyone, the noise, and the headache all snap back into existence without transition.

“It works,” he confirms, “however unorthodox it may be.”

“Here we go then,” Road says.  “And remember, no names once we’re in.  Mellírd implied that Logos has at least some experience with nominal magic for exerting further control over those already in his clutches and we don’t know what else he can do with it.”

Their fair lady of the green raises her arms, puts the backs of her hands together, and then flings them apart as if throwing wide unseen gates.  The trees behind them shake, the air before them trembles, and the mansion down below appears in misaligned, translucent double.  Her hands drop to her sides and everything stills.  The double image of the mansion snaps into alignment.  Figures now move in the windows and mill about the poolside patio while a  lone gardener trims topiary at the front of the house that had not been there a moment ago and two figures in antique metal armor stand flanking the front door.

The drone begins loping down the hill toward the manor at a pace just slightly too fast for comfortable walking and much too fast for comfortable sneaking while Ashan, Road, and Eris try to stick close to it.  Halfway to the mansion the drone comes to an abrupt halt that causes Ashan to bump into it and Eris to nearly walk out of the range of its veil.  The pulsating buzz of the accelerated chant changes subtly and the glyph circle loses all claim to calling itself that shape as it begins growing new branches of symbols and folding in on itself.

“What’s it doing?” Road asks.

“Sorry.  Hit a ward.  Adapting,”  Lacuna’s voice comes over the line in clipped tones.  “Okay.  We’re good.”

The drone starts walking again.  Ashan takes a step forward and feels the ward that he should have sensed far sooner.  Would have sensed were it not for the horrid metaphysical noise surrounding him.  In any other circumstance he would be worried about having tripped it and chiding himself for not being more aware of his surroundings, but here and now he is too busy being torn between awe, disgust, and horror at the way the glyphs shifted.  One does not simply change a ritual in progress!  And to do so on one so chaotically complex…  Gods, is she trying to kill them all?

Road’s face is still hidden beneath their helmet so Ashan cannot get a read on their reaction to what just happened.  The concerned expression on Eris’s face gives him some hope that she at least might have picked up on how utterly reckless that maneuver was, but her words quickly bury that possibility.

“Nice job.  How you holding up sis?”

“Thanks.  Fine.  Shush.  Concentrating.”

Approaching the front door, it becomes apparent that the armored figures are in fact empty suits of armor.  In Ashan’s experience that is a sign that they are more of a threat, not less, particularly given that they are in front of the main entrance to a wizard’s abode and clashing with the decor.

“Move us to the back,” Road says.  “Might be an already open door if the pool is in use.”

“Okay.  Please shush.”

To call the pool “in use” proves to only be partially accurate in the sense that it is occupied by two mermaids that appear to be twins, one consoling the other at the edge of the water as she cries.  A man in a servant’s uniform with a selkie’s webbed hands scrubs the other end of the patio deck next to another suit of armor, pointedly looking in any other direction.  The drone is halfway across the patio when another uniformed man, this one with fox-red hair and yellow eyes, exits the sliding glass doors on the backside of the mansion carrying a tray of raw fish filets.  Ashan and the others follow the drone through the open door as the man sets the tray down and joins in consoling his fellow prisoner.

None of these people pay the intruding party the slightest notice.

Once inside the only other person they encounter on their way upstairs to the display case is a selkie woman at a bar furiously muttering about “polishing the same sun-blasted clean cups every drowned day.”  That makes all but one target accounted for and still no sign of Logos.  With any luck, he will hold to the routine Mellírd indicated and not wake up until an hour or so before sundown.

Upstairs, the door to the second-floor study is wide open, providing unobstructed passage into a room flooded by sunlight from a wall-wide window silhouetting a stout mahogany desk with bookshelves to its right and a glass display case to its left.  A fox’s pelt, two seal skins, a gown of swan’s feathers, paired driftwood carvings of a human and a mermaid, and a torc of woven grass.  In most folk stories, such treasures would be carefully hidden away from their rightful owners who spend years searching for them to regain their freedom.  It would take both arrogance and cruelty to display them openly like this, easily found but impossible to touch behind magical defenses.

Crossing the threshold causes the glyph pattern on the drone to shift for the seventh time since beginning the infiltration.

“We’re good.  Close door,”  Lacuna’s voice says once the drone reaches the center of the room.  

Ashan waves a hand and the door swings shut.  

“Thanks.  Dropping veil ward.”  The pattern goes dark and the noise stops, taking Ashan’s headache along with it.  Lacuna’s long sigh sounds in his ear.  “Sorry about that.  For getting snippy earlier.  Harder to concentrate on than expected with all the adjustments.  Lot of concepts to hold in my head at once.  Gonna need a minute before I do much else.  Sorry.”

“It’s fine, you did great,” Road says and then turns to Ashan.  “You’re up for getting the protections off the case.”

Ashan steps forward, wand drawn and holds it half an inch off the glass of the case.  He blinks in surprise and then slowly traces a looping pattern back and forth along the length of the case.

“There is nothing there,” he says slowly.

“That was fast,” Eris says.

“No, I mean there is nothing there.  The tokens are real so far as I can tell, but there is no warding on them.”

“A trap then,” Road says.

“No,” Eris growls.  “It’s a flex.  The bastard’s saying ‘Look all you want, but I don’t even need to lock it up because I’ve got your leash so tight.’  Mages.  Probably didn’t even cross his mind that anyone else would even get this far.”  She shoulders Ashan aside and slides the glass open.  “Arrogant prick.  It isn’t even locked.”  She reaches inside and pulls out one of the driftwood carvings.

Ashan flinches, but detects no indication of a tripped ward.  A quick divination spell fails to pick up any signal from a mundane electronic alarm either.

“We are clear,” he confirms.

Road nods and joins Eris in retrieving the items, taking the feather gown and the torc.  “I’ve got my own ways to avoid detection so we’ll split these up.  Eris, you and Ashan stick with the drone, get the people by the pool and head for the extraction point.  I’ll track down -”

“I could have sworn I left this door open earlier.”

Everyone goes still at the sound of the voice outside and the turning doorknob.  The drone lopes over to where they are standing and restarts the veiling ritual just in time for the door to open and give the feather-duster-carrying maid with pale hair a clear view of an empty room.  She looks around for a moment in confusion before her gaze lands on the empty display case and her eyes go wide.

“Ma’am,” Road says, stepping into visibility with helmet retracted and proffering the swan gown, “I believe this belongs to you.”  They give a soft, warm smile of reassurance.  “You’re free now.”

The handle of the feather duster clatters on the floor.  The swan maiden gasps, hesitates, and takes a shaky step toward Road with tears welling up in her eyes.  She closes the distance and reaches a tentative hand for the feathered gown.  For her true skin.  For the stolen part of her self.

She pulls her hand back as if burned and clasps it over her mouth.  She falls to her knees, sobbing.  Now with both hands over her mouth she chokes back muffled words as well as tears.  Road leans down close to her.

“What’s wrong?” they whisper.  “How can I help?”

The swan maiden just shakes her head, hands still over her mouth, doubled over now and rocking with effort until her forehead nearly touches the floor.  Road moves to drape the feather gown over her and she screams a cry more bird than human as she skitters away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers before throwing her head back and screeching “THIEF! INTRUDER!  HERE TO STEAL MASTER’S TREASURES!”

Three flicks of Ashan’s wand and the poor woman is gagged and bound before she can keep being used as a living alarum against her will.  There was magic in those words tied back to the one who planted them in her.  Even if the master of the house somehow failed to hear he still certainly knows.

Even restrained, the swan maiden struggles against Road’s attempt to return her skin until it is fully around her shoulders.  She goes limp, eyes suddenly less frantic but still breathing hard.  Ashan releases her bindings and she pulls the gown tighter around her.  Into her.  Before his still-hidden eyes she shrinks into a ball of white feathers until wings unfurl and a long, graceful neck rises up, proud and free, a swan once more.  She looks back to Road and gives a snort of thanks.

“You’re welcome,” they reply with a nod.

Just as they finish hastily explaining the situation to the once-again-swan and shepherding her into the concealing veil around the drone, a sourceless masculine voice echoes throughout the mansion.

“It has come to my attention that we have an intruder in our lovely home.  I’m afraid you all know what this means.  I’m sorry, but you brought this on yourselves by allowing this miscreant to get this far.”

Servants by Token, Your very selves in my hands, Be as puppets now.

Servants bound by Name, Hearken to your master’s will. My word is your truth.

Servants and naught else, As the sun rises, my will, As sets, your action.

HEED!

“Now, defend your master’s home!  To the death, if need be!  Resist any attempts to take you away as if they were attempts on your life!”

The swan puffs up her feathers and shudders, but otherwise does not react to the spell and subsequent commands.  Ashan takes that as a welcome sign that Logos’s mastery of nominal magic is not so much that he can command others by Name alone.  It makes him feel a little bit better about what is about to come.  He and Road look at one another and nod in unison.

“Please allow me time to engage this Logos before leaving this room,” Ashan says.

“Of course,” Road says.  “The plan still holds.  I’ll signal when everyone is clear.”

“Make him hurt for me,” Eris growls.

With one last nod of acknowledgment to the swan, Ashan steps out of the drone’s veil, slips his earpiece off and into his sleeve, and draws a barrier around himself.  His next breath mists in the air.  There is even less of an ambient field to draw from here than in the basement office, and if Logos is employing the system of magic that Ashan suspects after that incantation then that makes for an even larger home turf advantage than normal.

The doorway ward crackles with electricity at Ashan’s unveiled approach and he raises a second barrier behind him to shield the others before stepping through.  Lightning meets forcefield and turns back on its source.  With senses no longer awash with the noise of Lacuna’s travesty of a ritual, he picks out the weakest points of the ward, flicks his wand with a hooking motion and pulls.  Safely unpicking a ward like this might take the better part of an hour but - as Eris is so apt at demonstrating - destroying one can be done in seconds, with one important caveat.

One must needs be prepared for the backlash.

A burst of light and noise leaves a ragged, scorched hole in the wall twice as wide as the erstwhile doorway.  What parts of the room and outside hall are not burnt are covered in frost, and debris lays in a neat line halfway across the room where it collided with Ashan’s second barrier.  The ring of carpet around Ashan’s feet is pristine.  He drops the barriers and glides out into the hallway.

All starts with a spark. Grow it, nurture it, feed it, Send it blazing forth.

FIREBALL!

The roar of the flame hurtling toward Ashan is almost enough to cover the clang of metal footsteps behind it.  He syphons the fireball down to a puff of hot air and repurposes the energy to lashing the charging suit of armor into place.  Gauntlets to wall, greaves to corners of the floor, chestplate to the ceiling behind.   He puts forward a clenched fist and then snaps it open, ripping the empty construct to pieces.  A dismissive wave of that same hand sends the falling helmet crashing out the window and into the topiary before it can hit the carpet. 

“That style,” says a blonde-bearded man in a knee-length maroon dressing gown at the other end of the hall, “so much flashy yet effective gesturing.  Orthonian in origin is it not?  Dancing Dream Paints I’ve heard the technique called.”  He strokes his beard.  “Yes, you must be the young Ashan Glassheart who’s been making waves lately.”

“You must be Logos,” Ashan says.  A statement, not an answer.  To answer would be to acknowledge his name to one who might wield it as his Name.  “Was that Dorbreithan Long Chant just now?  I have always heard it lauded for its power draw to output efficiency ratio but have never seen it in action until now.”

“At last, a proper connoisseur of mystic arts,” Logos laughs.  “Why, I’m almost glad I didn’t kill you for trespassing already.”

Ashan allows himself the faintest of smiles.  It seems like Logos is just like nearly every wizard he has ever met.  The slightest bit of flattery and acknowledgment of their craft and they become all too eager to stop what they are doing and start talking shop.  It was always one of his mentor’s favorite diversionary tactics.  As much as she claimed to be immune to it herself, even she was nearly as easy to talk into showing off with a demonstration rather than an explanation.

“And fair passing glad am I to still be alive.  Tell me though, is the use of nominal magic a native part of the tradition or your own hybrid innovation?”

“Caught that did you?  As keen as the rumors say, I see.  No, we can’t all be so lucky as to be born on an anchor world.  But oh the wonders I could achieve if I were.  Still, I think I do well enough for myself, mastering obscure branches of my home world’s traditions.  And besides, what other style can match its raw poetic beauty?”

“What other indeed?  I only lament that so much of that poeticism is lost in translation for me.  I am told that even the name of the style is a lyric unto itself in its native tongue.”

“Such is ever the plight of interworld travel.  But alas, as much as I would love a peer to speak of lofty arts into the small hours with, you are a thief and a vandal in my home and I have had my fill of stalling for time.”

“You think I would stoop to stalling?”

“No, but I would.  Now let’s cut to the chase.”

A quick rotation on his heel and a spiraling conjuration sends Ashan to the ceiling just in time for three blades to pierce the empty air where he had been standing.  He cups his hands and the three suits of armor that had tried to sneak up behind him are trapped in a dome.  Three less guards to cause problems for the others.  In the seconds it takes him to neutralize the one threat and then slide down a conjured rail toward Logo’s end of the hall another incantation is nearly complete.

Storm's wrath gathering, Glistening blades fall and scourge Earth lies bare, burnt clean.

LIGHTNING!

The air takes on an acrid reek of ozone and Ashan’s few unbound hairs raise from the gathering static.  He drops the prior conjurations to wrap himself in an opaque cocoon that slams into Logo’s evocation.   He skids to a stop a mere yard from Logos and unspins himself from the cocoon, wand pointed at the enemy wizard and empty hand up and blocking off the corridor behind him.  From here, the edge of a most-likely-enchanted-tattoo on Logos’s chest peeking out from beneath his robe is visible.

“One who goes by Logos,” Ashan says with a voice flat as a frozen lake.  “For breaking the taboo of stealing autonomy I name you sorcerer.  Surrender now and submit to your judgment.”

Logo’s expression does an impressively fast shift from shocked to smug.  “By whose authority?  This is an anchor world and I have not torn the Veil or broken the Masquerade or whatever silly term for secrecy you like.  Nor have I committed a crime within the jurisdiction of any of the hidden city states.”

“By the code of honor amongst mages shared by all civilized peoples, including those of your homeworld.  And on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves.”

“Hah!  Just a child playing hero then.”  Logos shakes his head.  “Given all I’ve heard about you, I suppose it was only a matter of time until it came to this.  And if it wasn’t you it would have been that Road boy.  Very well then.  I suppose you’ll be wanting a formal duel?”

The idea truthfully had not crossed Ashan’s mind, but it works all too well for his role here.

“Indeed.”

“Stakes?”

“Upon my victory, you release all people, beings, and entities currently bound to you by magical means.”

“I figured as much.  Stake accepted.  Upon my victory, you speak to me your Name and allow me to bind you to my service.”

“Stake denied.  Counteroffer: Upon your victory, I surrender unto you a book of spells taken from the private library of the sorceress Bridgewood.”

Logos’s eyes narrow.  “You’re lying.  Carnette Bridgewood never parted with the slightest morsel of her hoard during her life and the library’s been locked since her death.”

Keeping his wand still pointed at Logos, Ashan slowly reaches into his sleeve with his free hand and produces Whispers of the Sun.

“I swear on the Name of my teacher who named me, I speak the truth about the origin of this tome.  Furthermore, I have read it and it contains at least one spell compatible with Dorbreithan magic.”  Ashan returns the book to the safety of his robe’s sleeve.  “Do you accept this stake?”

If the look on Logos’s face were any hungrier he would be slavering.  Whatever price he is getting from trading in sapient flesh, this is knowledge money could never buy him.  “Stake accepted.  But first I must know how you came by it.  Better to die than to inherit one of her curses from beyond the grave.”

“I have reached a mutually beneficial arrangement with the current Bridgewood and this tome is not cursed.  That is more than you need to know.”

“Oh what dark secrets the little wizard in white hides,” Logos mocks.  “Who would have thought Ashan Glassheart, the young wannabe hero, would be so close with the wife-killer?”

“As the challenged, you have the right to set the terms of the duel,” Ashan says, once again ignoring his name.

“Victory by forcing submission or incapacitation.  Anything goes on magic forms.  Retreat is forfeit.  To be held outside my house.  I’d rather avoid yet more property damage.  And partisan outside interference is forfeit, while neutral is annulment.  If the Golden Death is involved in any way, I’d just as soon not have a knife in my back mid duel.  Do you accept these terms?”

“Terms accepted.”

Channeling power into their words to complete the specialized ritual, Ashan and Logos speak in unison.

“Stakes and terms agreed upon, I enter this duel of my own free will.  Upon my magic, may this rite be upheld until a victor is found.”

*******

Several minutes later Ashan is standing halfway to the edge of the mansion’s phase shift border staring down Logos.  Or perhaps staring up, given that the man is head and shoulders taller than him.  And up close it is apparent just how well-toned the muscles beneath that ridiculous excuse for a robe are.  A sign of another wizard who understands the importance of keeping the body in shape for a sharp mind, with none of the exaggerated bulk of novices attempting to shortcut transmutation enhancements on themselves.

The two duelists nod and take seven paces backwards without breaking eye contact.  At the edge of the designated dueling field the intact three suits of armor from the hallway now stand at the ready.  Laughable substitutes for witnesses, but not a technicality of dueling etiquette that Ashan is keen to point out right now with the alternative being one or more of the people the others should even now be spiriting away to safety.  When Logos sent his dragonfly-winged gardener to wait in the house to avoid “collateral property damage” Ashan could not believe his luck.

The casual confidence that Logos is comporting himself with does little to make that luck any more credible.  It is hardly the look of a man who just failed twice in a row at murder.  Tranquil as his own face is, Ashan’s own confidence is still shaken by this morning’s sparring match with Eris.  If she, with no arcane training, could pick out flaws in his barriers that neither he nor his mentor had ever noticed simply by examining the reactions different portions had to the ice spear’s enchantment - or so she explained to him - then what might Logos, a master of a notoriously difficult spellcasting discipline, have already picked out with properly attuned senses when their magic collided in the hallway?

Not to mention the well-known folly of facing a mage in his own domain.  That there will be some manner of trap or hidden resource in play for Logos to draw on is a given.  The most likely such play would be to rescind the temporary guest access that prevented Ashan from triggering the defensive wards on the way out of the house, but that seems almost too obvious.  A distraction then from whatever the real trick Logos has planned is?

Stop thinking and start doing.

His mentor’s words ring in Ashan’s mind.  The corner of his lip creeps upward.  For all that she drilled that advice into him in his youth, it has been many a year since he last needed it.  What would she do in this situation?  How would Aliana Glassgaze continue buying time while putting her opponent off balance?

“You know, when I heard about the great wizard Logos, I was expecting something more than an old man in his pyjamas,” Ashan says with an imitation of his mentor’s smirk.  “I shall see what I can do to be gentle about this.”

She always did enjoy treating the challenger’s call marking the start of formal duels with irreverence.

“Pajamas!?” Logos sputters.  “Are novices taught no respect at all these days?  These are the traditional vestments of the Mystics of the Unending Word!”

“You might have the color right, but the vestments of the Mystics of the Unending Word are floor-brushing robes of heavy wool to endure the climate of mountaintop temples.  That is a thin silk dressing gown short enough to be daring in a light breeze that you tossed on in a hurry after waking up to the sound of your house exploding.”

“You bottom-feeding anchor mage.  I will not abide such disrespect from a man in a dress.”

“Says the man still wearing fuzzy bedroom slippers.”

“Enough!  If you cannot recognize peak performance when you see it, then you must be -”

BLIND!

Ashan’s vision blurs.  Spots of black limned with chimerical colors bloom and spread like holes burnt in a page.  He wraps a barrier around himself by reflex, the motion rote enough to only need be seen in his mind’s eye.  He hunkers down, listening for the attack to come while he is vulnerable.

Hunter in the night, A flash of claws then stillness. Once were two, now none.

Mist upon the ground, Such an ephemeral thing, Gone with the sunrise.

VANISH!

Ashan’s eyes clear just in time to see Logos flicker into invisibility.  

“I understand your technique relies heavily on visualization,” Logos’s voice echoes from everywhere at once.  “Such an eminently exploitable weakness.”

As if any wizard worth their robes could not sense the aetherial hotspot of an active tactical-scale invisibility spell.  Ashan drops his barrier to keep its own signature from interfering as he quickly gauges the hotspot's speed and direction then begins visualizing the arc of a dome.

“What, all out of witty retorts already?”

Splitting his own concentration between banter and spellcasting was one skill that Ashan’s mentor never had been able to properly teach him, albeit not for lack of trying.  Just as well; he has come to find ethereally silent tranquility to carry its own intimidation factor.

“Or are you just now realizing how far you are outclassed, boy?”

The drunkard stumbles. Streets leading home twist strangely. The lantern smashes.

The hotspot is still on course toward where Ashan imagines the dome will be.  Impressive that the sorcerer can still chant while running at that speed.

Smoke reaches the peak, The mountain cannot see past. Its neighbors are lost.

Just a moment more…

HAZE!

A buzzing fills Ashan’s ears and the aetherial signature of the “Vanish” spell’s hotspot begins distorting and bleeding out across the dueling field.  As do any signs of the property’s wards.  Not a second later and Ashan’s magic sensitivity detects little more than a vague static.  While not as utterly overwhelming as Lacuna’s abomination of a ritual, it is still more than enough to keep him from picking out anything useful from the noise.

He flicks his wand in a key-turning motion and the glassy barrier of his trap arcs from the ground and snaps back down in a dome.  A muffled thump and an echoing projected grumble of “Nine hells!” soon follows.

His sense of timing, it would seem, is still as strong as ever.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

DISPEL!

Ashan’s conjuration barely wavers at the attempt.  He points the wand at the apex of the dome and then begins lowering his arm, slowly so as to not destabilize the spell too much while he shrinks it.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

One will against all, A comforting lie you tell, Doomed to fall apart.

DISPEL!

The dome begins to lose cohesion, bulging and sagging like a soap bubble in the breeze.  Irritating but nothing he cannot handle.  He cups his free hand so that distance and perspective give the illusion of gripping the conjuration to stabilize it.  It stabilizes and continues to shrink.  Half the original diameter now.  Ashan continues to look through his cupped hand while moving to a warmer spot, crunching frozen grass beneath his feet.

The tortured earth groans, Writhing for its skin fits not, Never shall it sleep.

We build on a shell. Solidity is a myth. The beast beneath stirs.

QUAKE!

The ground beneath Ashan’s feet trembles, but he has trained with far greater threats to his footing.  The earth roils in waves, but he has danced on the decks of storm-tossed ships.  The land splinters and cracks, vomiting up stones and leaving ragged pits behind, but he simply conjures a platform to stand on and leaves the attempt to break his concentration beneath him.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

One will against all, A comforting lie you tell, Doomed to fall apart.

Fool who would be god Your will does not shape the truth. Behold your folly.

DISPEL!

Ashan’s dome is multilayered and near small enough to crush the sorcerer with it when it flies apart like water from a spun goblet.  He falls through his platform onto the still ground and lands lightly on his feet.  Logos’s spells of concealment are still very much in effect when the next incantation begins echoing from all around.  Ashan makes a tapping gesture with his wand, leaving behind a formless invisible marker that he can only just sense through the “Haze.”  He starts moving.

The scream and the crash from the direction of the mansion is enough to get Logos to break off his incantation without locking in the command word.  Ashan’s misting breath hitches.  Road’s promised signal?  No, that scream is not a voice he recognizes.  A complication with resisting rescue then.

“What infernal trickery is this?”  Logos’s shout rings throughout the phase-shifted mansion grounds.  “Call off your thieving accomplices Glassheart.  This duel is annulled!”

“It is no such thing,” Ashan replies cooly.  “The duel itself has yet not been affected, the terms still stand.  And my companions are not thieves for people cannot be stolen, only captured and forced into bondage or liberated.”  He places another marker.

“Hells take you!”

“You could try to stop them, but you and I both know that would count as a forfeit by retreat.”

The sorcerer’s sourceless growl of frustration is loud and low enough to be felt in Ashan’s bones more than heard.  

“Activate procedure twenty-two.”

The three suits of animated armor that had been watching the duel turn around and begin running toward the mansion to engage the still-unseen-from-here Road and Eris.  Ashan places another marker.

“As for you,” Logo’s voice says, “Enough playing around.  You’ll be incapacitated enough for the duel when you’re dead!”

All starts with a spark Grow it, nurture it, feed it Send it blazing forth.

Flame calls to us all, We answer once and again, In timeless cleansing.

Gift of the dragons Raining down to cry out doom, All before you burns.

FIREBALL!

A floating circle of flame appears yards in the air above the dueling field and dozens of balls of flame like the one Ashan stopped in the hallway begin raining down from its circumference.  Some seem to be aimed at him but most seem to scatter randomly.  With the “Haze” still in effect and preventing Ashan from sensing them without looking, not dodging out of the way of one fireball and into another is harder than it would normally be for him.

And yet it is still easier than keeping up with Eris’s spearwork, and hardly holds a candle to Road’s swordplay.  That had been enough to overcome both him and Eris at once.

More offensive spells come, all of a similar caliber with two and three verse incantations.  Writhing and persistent arcs of lighting.  Erupting stone spikes.  Spinning blades of light.  Throughout it all Ashan stays purely on the defensive.  Converting the heat from fireballs into conjured lightning rods and shields to stay the blades.  Balancing on the tips of the spikes.  Laying more markers in the air.  

There are strings between the markers now; a variation on the wayfinding spell he used on the cave mission.  They are not true conjurations, not yet, and should be invisible even to Logos.

Meanwhile, the sounds of fighting continue from the other side of the mansion.  Ashan has not seen anyone leave yet, but that could just mean Eris is keeping the guardian armors busy while Road smuggles everyone out with Lacuna’s drone.  Best to keep Logos thinking he has him on the run until Road gives the signal that everyone is out and the duel is void due to Logos no longer being able to fulfill his stake by freeing those who are already free.

Or until Ashan can wrap things up in a single move.

The sound of shattering glass, splintering wood, and tearing metal is not the signal Ashan has been waiting for, but signals an opportunity all the same when a giant metal knight formed from the composited and rearranged components of half a dozen suits of animated armor bursts backwards from the front wall of the mansion pursued by a gleefully howling Eris.  The sight and sound of this second duel destroying his house is enough of a distraction for Logos to momentarily cease his chanting attacks.

That is all the opening Ashan needs to trace the lines between his markers and spin a shining web that would make any spider proud, with himself at the center.  He raises his wand to the sky and spins in place, swirling the web into a contracting spiral and sweeping up anything caught between the gaps.  A strand whips around something unseen, dragging it along.  Logos’s shouted curse begins to transition into another incantation.  The rest of the web’s strands continue their path around until they too collide with the invisible sorcerer, wrapping around him and cutting off his words of power.

In the background, a corner of the mansion’s upper level, now bereft of support, crashes to the ground.

The strands of the web weave into a braided rope, neatly outlining the cocooned Logos and leashing him to the tip of Ashan’s wand.  Ashan jerks on the conjuration and his bound opponent flies over the half dozen intervening yards of broken, burnt, and frosted-over earth and grass to come to an abrupt stop within arm’s reach, still held upright.  Ashan stabs his wand into the cocoon and elicits a muffled grunt of pain.  With direct contact, the “Vanish” and “Haze” spells are no longer enough to conceal their source.  He rips the wand away and the concealing spells with it, revealing Logos struggling to open his mouth beneath Ashan’s transparent conjuration.  The front of his dressing gown has fallen partly open, revealing the geometric tattoos on his chest.

Behind them, Eris - now on top of the conglomerate knight - whoops with excitement as she repeatedly stabs into it with her new spear, freezing component pieces together for her to violently rip away from the central mass.

Ashan allows himself to shiver and flexes his numb fingers.

“By the terms of the duel,” Ashan begins, “you have lost by incapa-”

Logos’s tattoo flashes and the strands around his neck shatter.

“You are no longer welcome in my home.”

It is then that Ashan realizes he is standing on top of one of the ward lines he had lost track of in the “Haze.”

The ward abruptly and roughly lifts the young wizard into the air and begins violently shaking him.  Short, shallow, stinging cuts begin appearing across his skin, growing deeper every time they overlap.  Unable to stain his enchanted robes, his blood begins trickling out of his sleeves and around a ring at the hem near his ankles before being flung out in scattered droplets by the shaking.

Ashan drops his wand.  The conjuration binding Logos flickers out.

Unable to move properly to draw a conjuration, unable to concentrate enough to envision one through the pain, true, genuine fear steals into Ashan for the first time in a very long time.  His thoughts race.  Where is Road?  Was that flash just now the signal?  Why isn’t Eris helping him?  What would Aliana do now?  Is he really going to die to this ridiculous, arrogant, monster of a man?  Did they rescue everyone?  Did he buy enough time?  Why didn’t he see that coming with the tattoo?  How could he have been so careless with the ward?  What is Logos chanting now?  If he had forgiven Aliana, would he be in this mess now?  Why could he not bring himself to confront his true parents after returning home?

If he can convert the heat from another mage’s conjured fireball into energy for his own spell, what is stopping him from doing the same for a passive kinetic ward with no directing will behind it?

In any less desperate circumstance the idea would be absurd.  At any other time he would be able to recite eight different theorems on why it should not work.  At the moment he cannot recall any of them and the idea makes perfect, simple, elegant sense.

Ashan’s gaze goes glassy and distant as the shaking on his body lessens and a spark flickers to life in the air before him.  New cuts stop appearing on his skin and the spark grows into a candle flame.  The shaking stops altogether and the candle grows into a torch. He lowers until his toes just brush the ground and he cups his hands around the flame he has poured his will into.  It is warm, but does not burn.

Dimly he realizes that Logos’s chanting has trailed off and the sorcerer is now staring into the flame with a contented expression and glazed eyes that reflect the dancing fire.  Ashan moves the flame in his hands back and forth, still keeping his own gaze fixed at nothing, and the sorcerer wavers back and forth in place to follow it.

“By the terms of the duel,” Ashan begins again.

The last of the imbued power forming the ward runs out.

Ashan drops to his knees on the ground.

The fire in his hands flickers and dies.

The look on Logos’s face contorts into rage.

Ashan scrambles to coax the flame back to life.  Frost blankets the ground, rapidly spreading out from around him.  Grass freezes and audibly cracks.  Mist condenses and blankets the dueling field.  Ashan’s cuts from the ward flare with pins and needles.  The back of his neck burns.

The flame comes back, no more than a sputtering match.

Logos becomes enraptured once more, nonetheless.

Ashan tries to force the words to end the duel out through chattering teeth.  It makes no sense.  So much energy flowing through him, from him, out of him, exhausting him, but the flame is still so small.  Where is it all going?

The flame goes out.

BIND!

Ashan feels a tugging sensation on his numb arms, urging them to his sides

BIND!

BIND!

BIND!

BIND!

Ashan’s limbs snap together.  Not that he had much strength left to move them anyway.

He looks up.  Logos is standing over him, breathing hard.  He has Ashan’s blood on his hands.

No chains so tight as Those in the prisoner's mind Waiting for the rope.

The muscles grow stiff, Blood congeals, breath halts, eyes glaze. In death all is still.

BIND!

Ashan’s posture snaps upright, face forward, neck stiff and unable to turn, shoulders thrown back, arms and legs pressed in tight enough to be painful.

“Amazing isn’t it?” Logos pants.  “As worthlessly inefficiently taxing as chant discarding normally is, you can get so much extra oomph with just a little bit of blood to strengthen the targeting.

Winter's lash falls harsh. Wind bites, snow cuts, frostbite gnaws, Scouring flesh and soul.

The storm drowns voices, Blinds the eye, and steals all warmth. Nothing left but white.

BLIZZARD!

A cold wind blows, stealing the last remnants of warmth from Ashan’s skin.  Unseasonal flakes begin to fall from the sky.

“The thermodynamic twisting was clever, I admit,” Logos says, “but I’ve had just about enough of that.  Now then, by the terms of this duel, you have lost by -”

“I do not yield.”

“Yield or not, there is no more you can do, boy.”

In the Beginning There was the Word, and the Word, The Word was Fire.

“Oh, this should be amusing.  Go ahead boy, knock yourself out.”

From stars worlds are born. Is it any wonder then They embrace in death?

Unable to move, but still able to speak, there’s one more desperate gambit from Whispers of the Sun to call on.  The author’s analysis of the spell’s poetry had been compelling enough for Ashan to read it all, despite the pure destruction of it.

Ashes to ashes, Stardust to stardust. But lo! In between is life.

Dorbreithan Long Chant.  The Unending Word.  The primary strength of the style has always been lauded as its efficiency in taking a small power draw and producing outsized effects.  The unwieldiness of its long cast times are supposedly made up for by the end effect increasing nearly exponentially compared to power input the longer an incantation goes, allowing dramatic end results for the price of what most other styles would expend on simple cantrips.  A midpoint between rituals and pure spellcasting.

Fire we all are. From fire we all sprang forth. In fire all end.

Ashan draws on the thin ambient magic, marginally thicker now in the wake of the duel.  He draws on heat as much as he dares and feels his body wrack with freezing pain and then go numb.  He draws on his own metabolism.  He feels a warmth inside.

Hark! I am flame and flame is light.  I am fire and fire is sun.

Five verses of chant.  The full spell has hundreds, ever increasing in structural complexity and conceptual density, but any more now would risk unacceptable collateral damage, even in his weakened state.  Even incomplete, the air is already growing hot.  What was moments ago frost and mist on the ground begins rising back up as steam.  Feeling creeps back in and sweat runs down Ashan’s face.  Something, somewhere begins to smell burnt.  Logos’s gloating face gives way to fear.

NOVA!

The back of Ashan’s neck burns.

The rising steam flash-freezes into particulate ice.

Ashan goes as limp as his bindings will allow.

Nothing happens.

Logos laughs.  Nervously at first, then mockingly, then victoriously.

“An admirable try boy, I’ll give you that much.  A shame to waste such talent so young.  But, let me show you how a real wizard does it.  Now how did that go again?”

In the Beginning There was the Word, and the Word, The Word was Fire.

From stars worlds are born. Is it any wonder then They embrace in death?

Ashes to ashes, Stardust to stardust. But lo! In between is life.

Fire we all are. From fire we all sprang forth. In fire all end.

Hark! I am flame and flame is light.  I am fire and fire is sun.

NOVA!

A pinprick mote of light appears in the air between the two mages.  It grows in size and intensity to the size of a heart and so bright that it pierces Ashan’s closed eyes.

A miniature sun.

The bonds holding Ashan vanish and he falls forward onto the ground.  He struggles to push himself up onto hands and knees, cracks his eyes open, and glimpses Logos fleeing the bright and still-growing thing he just created.  The thought crosses Ashan’s mind to start syphoning what surely must be abundant energy off of the working before him and converting it into a self-reinforcing bubble to contain the coming blast.

If he were in a better shape, that might be viable.  Funny, the second and third times in his life he has burnt out happening within a month of one another.   If Aliana were here she would lay into him for not being more careful.  And then hug him, cry, and promise to do better protecting him while she nurses him back to health.  Maybe buy him sweets that she knows he is too old for but that will somehow make him feel better anyway.

His leg is numb enough that he barely feels it when the spear pierces his calf and pins it to the ground.  It is more with curiosity than anything else that he watches the thick sheet of ice spread from the point of impact and crawl up his leg to engulf his body.  Where is it all coming from?

A crimson blur brushes past him and the light from the miniature sun dims.  He looks back up to see Eris eclipsing it.

The last thing Ashan sees before the ice reaches his face and he figures it would be best to close his eyes is Eris’s silhouette with her back to him and light streaming from between her fingers as she holds back the sun.

*******

The first thing Ashan hears upon regaining a tenuous consciousness is a repeating heavy, wet, crunching sound.

The ground he is lying on is warm and slightly damp, and after a struggle to open leaden eyelids he sees vapor rising up from the earth around him.  A white flake floats down and lands on the back of his hand.  He forces a blink, trying to focus.  It is ash.

There is a voice accompanying those wet, thudding, crunches.  He cannot quite make out the words.  Or is it only growling?

He tries to shift his position but finds the calf of one cold, numb, and immovable.  Oh right, the spear.  He stretches out an arm to find that the ground mere inches further away from where the hand had lain is intolerably hot.  The reflex of jerking his hand back is enough to tire him.

The sound continues.  He smells something burning.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows is a trial that he surprises himself in passing.  Lifting his head enough to look forward while keeping his fully unbound hair out of his eyes is hardly easier.  The urge to go back to sleep is treacherous and so he quashes it.

He is lying at the edge of a small crater, maybe about as wide across as he is tall.  Hard to judge with the smoke, ash, dust, and steam all swirling together in and around it.  On the other side of that blasted pit a hulking, demonic figure with fire for hair that flows down over the black-and-red carapace of its shoulders and back is repeatedly stomping something obscured by the low-hanging steam.  Its lips are pulled back nearly to its ears is what might just as easily be a snarl or a grin but either way is all teeth.

Amidst the creature’s slew of invectives and vocalizations more beast than human, Ashan manages to pick out the phrase “slaving piece of human garbage,” as one of the few intelligible mutterings directed at whatever it is crushing.

“Eris!”  A voice calls from off to the side.  Road, still armored and running at a full tilt, emerges from the smoke and dust.  They throw something small, round, and blue that bursts over top of the hellish creature, showing it with water and dousing its flames.  The monster does not seem to notice.

“Eris, stop!” Road shouts again, coming to a stop next to the stomping thing.  Their blade of orange light is drawn and lit.  It does not look at them.  It keeps stomping.

Road’s helmet retracts back into their armor and they gently place their free hand on the monster’s shoulder.  “You can stop,” they say softly enough that Ashan has to strain to hear.  It stops.  Their blade is still drawn and positioned at the ready.

A mechanical whir heralds the arrival of the headless black drone through the haze.  It nudges the looming creature’s leg, at last eliciting a reaction.  Its face softens as it turns to look down into the drone’s camera.  Road extinguishes and holsters their sword before it turns around all the way.

“Yo, sis,” Eris says.  “Don’t worry, I’m fine.  Ashan over there prolly needs one of those healing rituals you said you had.”  She cocks a thumb over in Ashan’s direction and then promptly falls over.  Road catches her.

The acknowledgement snaps Ashan from his surreal daze enough that he finally thinks to call out.  All that escapes his throat is a dry coughing fit that sends his face back to the ground.

*******

The first thing Ashan hears upon regaining a comfortable, if drowsy, consciousness is birdsong and the wall-muffled ticking of grandfather clock.

It occurs to him that he is alive, awake, and in a different place.  This revelation causes him to sit bolt upright and begin conjuring a shield.  The former makes his vision swim and the latter elicits a sharp pain in the back of his neck.  He gasps and falls back into the pillow of the bed of one of the guest bedrooms of the bed and breakfast above the office.  He tries again, more slowly this time and without doing anything to aggravate the burnout.  Scanning the room, he locates his wand on the bedside table next to an untouched water glass and his robes hanging in an open wardrobe.  The sight of them both intact and accounted for calms him.

More belatedly, he realizes that his arms are free of any sign of the myriad cuts inflicted by the tripped ward.  Lifting the bedsheets finds his legs similarly unblemished.  At the lack of scar or even bandages, he begins to wonder if he only dreamt the spear and everything else that happened after tripping the ward.

He is still pondering the possibility when a gentle knocking at the door arrives, followed by a “Do you mind if I come in?”

“You may enter,” Ashan answers, realizing his mistake too late.  Glancing furtively from the turning doorknob to his hanging robes and back again, he pulls the bedsheets higher and tighter up around himself.

“I thought I heard you moving in here,” Road says, entering with a soft smile and a tea tray.  Their armor is an unassuming, if distinctively colored, jacket once more.  “You want the door open or closed?”  

It takes Ashan a moment to process the unexpected question.  “Open, please.”  The soothing, regular tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway is louder with the door open.

Road nods, sets the tray on the bed next to Ashan, pulls a wooden chair out from the room’s desk, spins it on one leg to face him and takes a seat.

The smell of steeped herbs and warm toast serves as a powerful reminder to Ashan that it has been at least a day since he last ate.  He resists the urge to indulge just yet and asks “How long?”

“Just under a day,” Road replies.  “You were in and out of it a few times but I’m not surprised you don’t remember it.  After we got everyone out safely Lacuna and I went back for you and Eris.  By that time you’d already beaten Logos, but it looked like that last big blast had just about done all three of you in.  Lacuna did some emergency triage and our fair lady of the green healed you up more thoroughly afterwards.  She doesn’t mix well with burns though and Eris had a few of those despite the fireproofing charm she had on her, so we had to get her back here for the autodoc to deal with the worst of it.  “I handed him over to Sullivan,” they say plainly.

“And Logos?”  As much as Ashan fears the answer, he has to know.

The characteristic warmth of Road’s expression disappears as abruptly as any Ashan has drained from the air for a spell.  “I handed him over to Sullivan,” they say plainly.

A chill unrelated to magic runs down Ashan’s spine.  “I thought he was still out on the lighthouse keeper investigation,” he says.

“Following up on Logos’s past clients was higher priority, and between Eris and our fair lady of the green there wasn’t anything left of his house to search for records.”

“So you are leaving Sullivan to interrogate him?”  Torture him, he almost says.

The look on Road’s face seems almost hurt at the suggestion.  “No, he and Carnette had their own more effective and humane ways of information gathering, along with ways to hold beings like Logos in stasis, seeing as the powers that be in Crossherd won’t take him on account of it not being a Masquerade breach or in their jurisdiction.”  They pause and a measure of warmth returns.  “I can understand why you would think that though.  Sullivan does have a certain reputation in some circles and he loves little more than fanning the flames on rumors about himself.”

“So he did not…”

Road shakes their head.  “Sullivan didn’t murder Carnette, no.  More detail than that about what happened to her isn’t my place to say, but I can assure you, while their marriage did start out strictly as a business arrangement, they wound up loving one another in a way that I don’t think either of them ever had thought themselves capable of before.  Even if they were unorthodox with their displays of affection.  Don’t ever let him hear you say it, but he’s got a more tender heart than you’d think, underneath all the knives and gilt.”

“I shall… I shall take that under consideration.”  Truthfully he had not given much thought to their relationship.  To Ashan, the sorceress Bridgewood was the most famous mage of his time, pushing the boundaries of mortal magic while maintaining the will to refrain from abusing that which most considered taboo to even study due to the inherent temptations.  Sullivan was just an odd, obscure, off-putting, caretaker to her legacy.  To think of either of them in a romantic capacity with anyone, much less each other feels somehow wrong to him to contemplate too closely.

“Anywho,” Road says, brightly as ever, “I’ll not keep you from eating any longer.  I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything.”

Ashan blushes at the realization of how much his gaze has been wandering to the nearby tray instead of making eye contact.  “Thank you.

“Anytime.  Oh, and one more thing,” Road adds, pausing halfway out the door with one hand on the frame.  “If it’s not too personal, I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with the tattoo on the back of your neck?”

Ashan blinks at them, uncomprehending.

“What tattoo?”

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[chaoscrawls]

@phantasmaw continued from [here]

〈 ♕ * 〉 ┊  A shiver runs down the prince’s spine as ebony teeth brush against prickling skin. How traitorous his mind is, to conjure up sensations that prey on his yearning for something aside his own company. His body, though, is even more traitorous, with how it leans in, unbidden, to chase the infinitesimal contact. The frown on his lips deepens.       “On my mind…” he repeats, a whisper almost lost to the crackling of the fire in the hearth across the room– fire that does nothing to stave off the chill that’s been draped over his shoulders ever since he had acknowledged this most insistent hallucination. A humorless chuckle falls from his lips. “Wouldn’t you already know?” 

      With this, he turns in his chair to fully face the apparition. Long lashes hang low over half-closed eyes, giving off a sleepy, perhaps even bored countenance. But inside Visal’s chest, his heart trips and falls somewhere down into the very dredges of his ribcage. What a monstrous thing. All dark coils and smoky edges, he’s not entirely sure where they begin and where the smudged shadows of the study end. His gaze flicks up towards the the twin flames of violet sitting far back in the skull’s eye sockets. Once long ago, during the earliest days following his conception, an elder of the Qwythaerian courts had told him stories about the long-lost sun. Her words had painted a vivid picture of a light so bright it would burn its image into the eyes of whoever looked directly into it. At the time, he hadn’t understood. After all, he had nothing to draw comparison to in this dying world swaddled by eternal dusk. But now? Now he thinks, as he stares into the violet light, he might finally understand what that long-dead elder was talking about. 

       The longer he stares, the more his eyes sting. The corners of his vision waver. Another voice murmurs urgently into his ear, begging the chimerical prince to be cautious and clever. His jaw tightens.“I won’t believe a word of it. I can’t believe a word of it.” Visal sets the pen down on the now-forgotten diagram he had been in the middle of inking in. He pushes the chair back, stands, and steps forward. Just one step, and it’s still far closer than he’s ever willingly gotten to the being. He redirects his heavy-lidded gaze to the creature’s row of teeth. “…How about this, then. I’ll tell you something, you tell me something. Anything. Frankly, I’m tired of what I already know.”

Well, well, well weren't they being thoroughly spoilt tonight. Not only was the prince speaking to the god, but now they were getting full-on acknowledgement, with eye contact! Even the usual fight he had in him seemed to be dwindling. It amused the entity greatly.

"Ah, you humour me."

If their skull had allowed them to smile, they would have been positively beaming, instead those glowing orbs scrunched up into crescents, showing their companion just how pleased they were at this turn of events.

"Alright, tell me one of your secrets and in return, I will tell you one of my own. It is a good, fair trade."

With the man now closer than he had ever been before the creature finds themselves gravitating towards him, their clawed hands reaching out to cup his cheek. Instead of a kind gesture though it comes off much more alarming. Their flesh not meeting his own but their claws curling around him like harsh bars on a cage.

"In fact, if you tell me something I deem interesting I shall tell you a story, doesn't that sweeten things?"